A/N: This book is now marked as Mature, since from a certain point onwards, the story will contain a couple of steamy scenes. You will always be warned if things get explicit and will always have the option to skip. Nothing too bad in this chapter though. 

✰

– Roland Garros 2021 –

The two of them are hurtling towards Paris on the Eurostar. They will meet the rest of the team there; for now, they're alone. First class is nearly empty, there's no chatter, no human sounds in the coach, just the mechanical hum of the train. Fabio's red racquet bag sits across from them like another person.

Fabio is pretending to sleep. Julian knows this because he can feel the subtle tension in his muscles, the way he's holding himself up. His breaths are even, too even, as if he's counting. He's pressed up against Julian, head on Julian's shoulder, the back of his hand brushing up against Julian's where it rests on his knee.

Julian watches the absolute darkness of the tunnel stretch on endlessly. Then he shifts his focus to see their reflection in the glass.

The contrast between them is striking. Fabio's olive tan against Julian's fair skin, his own blonde hair against Fabio's dark curls. Fabio's head is tipped onto Julian's shoulder, fitting like it belongs there, and where their heads are pressed up, their hair tousles and blends together, golden strands swirling into the deep brown curls. For a split second, it looks to Julian like he's not seeing two separate people, but a single strange creature, out of this world.

Julian is aware of two things. First, that Fabio is pushing some sort of boundary between them. This, in an of itself, is not that alarming. This is the way Fabio is. He throws himself into everything with full force, he wants to experience life so fully, with everything and everyone in it. Yes, he's pushing Julian's buttons, pushing their friendship into blatant flirtation sometimes. But Julian knows it's not about him, or at least not fully. He's on the receiving end of it because he's the one who's there, and he's stupid enough to let him. One day, it will be someone else. Fabio will see someone more interesting and less complicated, and he will throw himself at them with the same relentless energy.

Which leads him into the second thing: that he enjoys it, and he doesn't want it to end. He's not entirely stupid and oblivious. He can fully feel it when Fabio kicks off his shoes at a hotel breakfast and trails up his toes along Julian's ankle. He can feel Fabio place a ghost of a kiss on his jaw when they hug good night. He plays stupid, pretends he doesn't notice, but he does, acutely. And he likes it, so much. What's not to like, this gorgeous, magnetic man teasing him, grinning at him like that, trailing his fingers through Julian's hair, trying to sneak in a caress across his cheek when he thinks no one's watching?

"Fuck off," Julian says now. "You're not even asleep."

Fabio snorts softly but doesn't move, only subtly shifts the hand on his knee. This is Julian's chance to draw a boundary, pull away. Instead, he reaches out and drags his finger across the back of Fabio's hand.

Having a team has made things easier, in terms of having his guards up. He can dodge Fabio easier; he can trust him to not push it too far in front of Adi or Carmen, to keep his hands to himself when there are people around. But when it's just the two of them, at home, things get harder. Julian forgets himself in the casual intimacy of it, the way they automatically curl up together on the sofa, arms around each other, legs tangled, Fabio half on top of him. Whenever Julian is cooking, Fabio will corner him in the kitchen, plant his hands on either side of him on the counter, effectively boxing him in. Without fail, he will bury his face into Julian's back between his shoulder blades, and rest there until he gets bored or Julian moves away. 

Julian keeps letting him get away with it.

Like yesterday. When Fabio stood behind him in the kitchen while Julian chopped vegetables for their dinner, hovering just a few inches behind him, so close that Julian felt his body heat before the touch he knew was imminent. And then Fabio reached out and ran his hand up and down Julian's spine in long, smooth movements, and Julian didn't stop him because he understood why Fabio needed it.

"Are you nervous about Paris?" Julian had asked carefully, the knife slowing in his hands.

Fabio didn't respond for a long moment. "Yes," he had admitted finally, sounding almost shy. And Julian set the knife down, turned around to pull him into a proper hug, rested his chin on Fabio's head.

"Don't put too much importance on Slams," he said. "It's just a tournament. You'll do great." And Fabio tipped his head down and sighed into Julian's chest.

Then, afterwards, Julian opened them a bottle of white with the dinner, and Fabio, back to himself, talked and talked absolute shit until Julian doubled over with laughter on the kitchen stool, completely helpless.

So no. Julian doesn't know where to draw the line. Because Fabio's friendship is the most joyful, most alive thing in his life, and he would not be able to give it up anymore. But he's also not as fluent in human interaction as Fabio. He can't feel the nuances so clearly, he doesn't know when it's on the brink of crossing over to something more. So he tries to go with it, as best as he can. He will pull back when he feels the vertigo, the heat inching up his spine. He'll keep the hard lines in mind, very clear — don't kiss him, don't have sex. Should be easy enough.

The train emerges from the tunnel, into a burst of bright sunlight. Julian looks down at their hands. At some point, he doesn't know when, their fingers have intertwined. He brushes his thumb across Fabio's knuckle, and Fabio presses further into his side. In an hour and a half, they'll be in the back of a black tournament car, and for God knows how long after that, they won't have a single moment alone.

✰

Julian is dozing off in the quiet hotel room, in the pleasant half-dark. Adi is off somewhere, him and Jasper probably caught in the wake of Fabio's chaos. Julian is spread out on the bed, on the top of his cool sheets, half asleep with a podcast on. And then he hears a single knock on the door, verging on a bang. It could only ever be one person. He sighs, rubbing a hand over his face as he slides off the bed to open the door. He's only in boxer shorts and a t-shirt, and when he swings the door open, Fabio looks him up and down in a way that makes something under Julian's skin prickle.

"Did I wake you up?" Fabio asks, and Julian shrugs as he steps aside to let him in. 

"I wasn't asleep yet," he replies groggily. "Why are you here?"

"Adi and Jasper are being insufferable," Fabio complains, already toeing off his shoes.

"Let me guess," Julian smirks, "they beat you at FIFA again."

"They were cheating!" Fabio shouts, gesturing with his hand.

"I'm sure," Julian deadpans, climbing back into bed. He's too drained, too exhausted for whatever chaos Fabio is expecting to cause in his room tonight.

"Everyone is so mean to me," Fabio complains, throwing himself onto the bed face down.

He lies there in blissful silence for just a moment, then raises his head.

"What the fuck is this shit?"

He picks up Julian's phone and presses pause on the podcast, cutting off Ira Glass mid-sentence. He types in Julian's password, unlocking the phone as if it was his own, and goes into Julian's Spotify without asking.

"Fabio, give it back," Julian protests weakly, but Fabio physically pushes him away.

"You should only listen to happy stuff before you sleep," Fabio half-shouts as if this was obvious and Julian was thick for not knowing it. Julian laughs helplessly, too tired to argue.

"I'll fix it," Fabio says, and suddenly Julian is aware of the hand on his chest that Fabio has forgotten to remove. His breath catches in his throat when the hand starts moving in small circles over his sternum. Fabio queues up an album on Julian's phone, something halfway between jazz and hip-hop, melodic and not unpleasant. He's still rubbing circles into Julian's chest, and his eyelids flutter closed.

Julian sighs, a long, painful exhale from his chest, as if he's trying to free, in vain, something stuck in there. He sees the two choices before him clearly. He can either tell Fabio to get off his bed and leave him alone. Or he can reach out and touch him, the same slow, languid kind touch that Fabio is doing to him right now.

His hand moves before his brain can override the command, pressing into Fabio's lower back. There's distance between them on the bed, plenty of it, which makes the whole thing feel less dangerous than it is. Their hands slide slowly over each other's arms, chests, backs, shoulders, as if mapping out, learning what's there. Their thumbs, their fingertips press down, grounding.  Fabio has his eyes closed, completely relaxed. Julian is hyper-alert.

"Can I sleep here?" Fabio asks after a while, eyes still shut, hand slowing to a halt across the base of Julian's spine. "I'll be good" he promises, and his tone makes it sound like it's a joke, but Julian can swear he can hear another meaning behind it, the real one.

"Good?" he echoes, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Yeah." Fabio's hand starts its journey again, up Julian's spine. "I'll let you sleep." Then he adds, after a little hesitation, his voice careful, as if testing the waters, "But can you hold me?"

Julian sighs again. His eyelids are burning, fighting to stay awake until the danger has passed. He can barely breathe. Whatever Fabio has done to him, with his careless, lazy touches, has made his brain hit a wall completely.

"Sure," he says roughly, barely able to get the words out. "Of course."

Fabio hums, pleased, and flips to his side dramatically. They drag the blanket over themselves ungracefully and Fabio fits his back against Julian's chest. On instinct, Julian drapes a loose arm around his waist, as if they'd done this a thousand times before. He waits for Fabio to still.

But Fabio is restless. His fingers trail across Julian's wrist, the back of his hand. Then he splays his palm over Julian's entire hand and guides it, presses it onto his own stomach.

Of course he has to push it further, test Julian again, see how much he can get away with. He presses down on Julian's hand and drags it, slowly, across the taut line of his abs, to make him feel the shape of the muscle, the heat seeping through his t-shirt, all of it.

Julian's heart hammers in his throat. "You said you'd let me sleep," he murmurs, clinging to the easy out.

Fabio laughs a sleepy, muffled laugh into the pillow.

"You're right. Sorry," he says softly, cheerfully, as if it was just a tiny, careless mistake. Instead, he intertwines their fingers and within minutes, he's asleep. Julian is too tired to stay awake, despite his brain running at a hundred miles per hour, trying to catch up with what just happened. His head tips into the back of Fabio's shoulder, and his consciousness starts floating away on the soft beat of the music. He falls asleep.

✰

They stay on for a few days, even after Fabio is out of the tournament. A respectable third-round exit, a decent paycheck, nothing to be ashamed of. Now it's quarterfinals day, and they're sitting high up in the stands of Philippe Chatrier, watching Thiago Navarro's match. The stadium is packed, humming with an energy that is almost delirious, the kind that tends to take over people when they see a living legend play. This is Thiago's tournament, always has been.

It's Fabio's first time in the stadium. His first time seeing his childhood idol live.

Thiago, past his prime, still looks formidable. On court, he's like a whirlwind, speedy and dangerous. He's limber and wiry, his skin deeply tanned from years and years in the sun. His jet-black curls, shoulder length, are tied behind his head in a ponytail.

Fabio watches transfixed, lips parted. Julian nudges him with his knee, grinning.

"You look like you're a kid again."

"He's amazing," Fabio says, but then he hesitates and frowns. "But he's struggling."

It sure looks like it. Navarro is a set down and fighting for his life to hold serve right now. His opponent is walking him constantly between the two corners. Julian takes a look with his eyebrows drawn, considers it for a second.

"He will still win."

Fabio's eyes go wide as he turns to Julian. "How do you know?"

He knows because he knows. In his best days, only two men could ever beat Navarro. One of them was the legendary Viktor Ivanov. The other one was Julian. He has played him, studied him so much, he can read him like an open book.

So he explains.

"Well, look. He knows he tires quicker now, so he can't outrun his opponent. So in approximately five minutes, he'll start conserving energy, shortening the points. He will keep going to the net because the other guy can't volley. He has it in the bag."

True enough. In a few minutes, Navarro cuts a point in half by materialising at the net like a phantom and slamming the ball down with a clean stroke. Fabio glances at Julian.

"You're so clever," he says, his voice teasing but his eyes soft. Julian allows himself to crack a smile.

The match ticks on. Navarro claws back the next set and dominates in the third. He's in the lead now. They both watch, transfixed, until Fabio breaks the silence.

"Will I ever win a Slam?" he asks, still leaning forward, elbows on his knees, his fingertips wedged between his slightly parted lips.

Julian exhales a quiet laugh. "One?" He touches Fabio's back for just a second. "You will win so many."

Fabio glances up at him, wide-eyed. "You think?"

"I know it," Julian says, his voice steady with the certainty. "That's what we're working towards."

They watch a rally in silence for a while, following the ball back and forth with their eyes as it bounces off the red clay at an even rhythm. Then Fabio speaks again, his voice too soft, too quiet.

"Will all of them be with you?" he asks, but Julian doesn't fully catch it through the roar of the crowd as Thiago wins the point.

"What?" he asks back.

Fabio's eyes are still fixed on the court, but he raises his voice slightly, his voice clearer now.

"Every Slam I win... will you be there? Sitting in my box?"

The question combusts in Julian's chest, setting everything inside him on fire.

"Of course," he replies quietly. "Where else would I be?"

Fabio turns his head fully then, and they look at each other for a long time. Fabio's eyes are searching, as if they were looking for something important in Julian's face.

"Promise?"

Julian exhales softly. The crowd is deafening, and yet he feels like they're the only two people in the stadium.

"Always."

Fabio grins at him, bright and brilliant, and turns his attention back to the court.