The emails send off with a soft whoosh, one after another, and Julian closes his laptop with a sigh. It's the run-up to grass season, and every time this year, his relevance briefly spikes, wily sports journalists coming out of the woodwork to snag a vacuous interview about his Wimbledon titles and his unsubstantial opinions about the current British tennis scene that they can then sell as an "Exclusive". This year, with Fabio rising fast through the rankings, they come in double the numbers, and Carmen has told him, in no uncertain terms, that he needs to agree to every single one.

He checks his watch, only 8 pm. Still time for a cup of tea. He makes his way downstairs. He finds Fabio in the kitchen, snacking on some dark chocolate with a frown.

"Don't we have anything sweet in this house?" Fabio asks, voice full of betrayal, and Julian scoffs.

"If we had any, you would've eaten it already." He clicks the kettle on. He can feel Fabio's eyes follow him around the kitchen as he goes through the motions of making tea, the rhythm of mug, bag, water, milk. He gives up.

"What?"

Fabio leans across the kitchen island, something odd about his smile. "Do you want to watch something? I'm bored."

"We can watch something stupid," Julian concedes. His brain could use a break.

"I was thinking something educational," Fabio smirks, and Julian immediately recognises it as a trap.

"What's on your mind?" He asks, narrowing his eyes.

"Just some tennis," Fabio shrugs, feigning innocence. "We could watch a grass court match, to prepare."

Julian rubs a hand across his face. "My brain is fried. But it wouldn't hurt, I suppose."

Animated by the small victory, Fabio takes a sports drink out of the fridge, grabs a packet of cashews, and follows Julian to the living room happily. He commandeers the remote and pulls up YouTube on the TV screen while Julian settles in with his tea. He starts inputting the letters into the search with a deft ease, and Julian, distracted, realises way too late what's going on. Fabio presses the magnifying glass on "wimbledon final 2013".

"Fabio, no," he protests, his voice coming out sharper than intended.

"Why not? It's a classic and you know it. What reason can you give me other than not wanting to watch yourself?"

It is a trap, Julian realises. Fabio must have worked all day on that bulletproof argument.

"It's not my best match," he says morosely, for lack of a better excuse. "You could've chosen the three-setter."

"That's why I want to watch it," Fabio replies, suddenly all business . "I want to see how you fight."

"Well, go on then," Julian sighs, and Fabio grins, getting comfortable next to him. He grabs Julian's wrist and lifts his arm so he can slip under it, his hair brushing Julian's cheek.

He extends his left leg in front of him, the hem of his joggers hitched up on his calf, and underneath, his ankle wrapped in clear foil. The ink is still fresh on his brand new tattoo, two tennis racquets crossed over on the outside of his ankle.

Julian lets his fingertips brush over the soft material of Fabio's hoodie, presses his cheek against the top of Fabio's head. Why is he so warm? he thinks absentmindedly, as if that was the biggest issue around this whole situation.

The familiar sounds of Wimbledon chime to life on the TV, sending a shiver through Julian. It's his home Slam. It belongs to him like a body part, a limb.

They watch quietly for a while. Fabio is completely transfixed, as if he was seeing it all for the first time. His fingers are loosely curled around Julian's wrist.

"You look like you're going to war here or something," Fabio notes, gesturing with the remote. Julian from the past is wound tight with tension, gripping the racquet with two hands as if it was a longsword. His hair, longer than now, falling to his shoulders, is held in place by a white cap. He has a hint of stubble and his grey eyes are shooting sparks. "Ivanov must have been scared."

"It felt like that," Julian admits, thinking back. "Like going into battle. He was the best player in the world, and I knew he would throw everything at it. I didn't even have time to breathe in that match," he laughs. "I had to fight for every single point for three hours straight."

"That must have been brutal," Fabio sighs. "How did you keep it up for so long?"

Julian makes a face and shrugs. "I went in knowing that I don't have all the answers, that he was gonna surprise me, no matter how much I prepared." He pauses, watches his past self lunge to the net in one fluid motion, scraping a drop shot back up from the ground just in the nick of time. In the present, Fabio's fingers tighten around his wrist for a second.

"So every point I lost," he continues, "I didn't get upset. I was thinking, what does this teach me? How can I use it against him? Just... adaptability."

Fabio sounds thoughtful. "Can you teach me to do that?"

Julian pulls back so he can look at him properly. He feels soft and warm suddenly, full of pride and something else he couldn't name, something thick in his chest. "You're already doing it, even if you don't realise."

Fabio grins back at him, glowing at the praise. Then something tumbles out of him, surprising them both.

"I think you're the best grass player ever. I'm so lucky to learn from you."

Julian is taken aback. His arm falls away from Fabio's shoulder and comes to rest on the back of the sofa. "That's high praise, Fabio. Much too high. I'm not sure it's true."

Fabio stares at him for a moment in shocked silence, then goes off.

"What's in your head, Julian?" his voice raises at the end of the sentence but doesn't stop until it's a full shout, his accent thickening with anger. "You're so weird! You must know you're good, and yet you walk around acting like you're just some guy." He crosses his arms and looks away.

Julian huffs out a soft laugh. "Fabio. I am just some guy."

"Not to me," Fabio says immediately. Then he adds, after a beat, "Not to anyone who was watching you back then."

"Sure," Julian scoffs, doubtful, and reluctantly turns his attention back to the TV screen.

"God, you piss me off," Fabio sulks, and Julian doesn't understand why they are suddenly fighting. They watch in silence for a while, and when Fabio speaks again, it gives Julian a start.

"I wish you could see yourself the way I see you." Julian can feel his gaze on him, too intense, as if looking straight through him. He refuses to meet it. "But you're so stubborn," Fabio continues, sounding irritated. "I never know how to change your mind."

Julian knows he's not wrong. He's been right about a lot of things lately, more often than Julian would care to admit. Whenever he's around, the truth has a tendency to slip past Julian's defences, as if somebody had lulled the guard dog to sleep. He can feel the blood rising to his cheeks from the attention, from the embarrassment of being seen. To deflect, he reaches out and digs his thumb under Fabio's ribcage.

"I'm the stubborn one?" he teases, twisting his thumb to make Fabio squirm. "What does that make you? You argue with the umpires as if you're paid by the hour."

"Stop it!" Fabio wheezes, his entire body folded over and shaking with laughter. "You're just doing this because you know I'm right!"

Fighting for his life, Fabio grabs both of Julian's hands, clamping down on them like a vice to stop him from causing further damage. His chest is heaving and his eyes are huge, but what Julian can't seem to look away from are his slightly parted lips, pink and full. He freezes.

Fabio waits. And waits. He's looking at Julian with a soft look in his eyes, as if giving him all the time in the world to get his brain going again, do something, anything. But Julian doesn't move.

Fabio gives up and sighs, frustrated. He drops Julian's hands and with the same momentum, he picks up a cushion.

"You're a stupid fucking idiot," he announces and smacks Julian with it.

"Language, Fabio", Julian warns, but the laughter slips out nonetheless.

"Shut up," Fabio says, his expression dark. "I'm trying to watch my favourite tournament."

With that, he throws the cushion down onto Julian's lap and curls up on it as if Julian was merely furniture.

Julian rolls his eyes. His fingers start their journey through Fabio's hair, smoothing it away from his face. He couldn't care less about his own match on the TV screen anymore.

✰

Julian gets to the tennis club late. His jacket is damp, clinging to him unpleasantly, the chill seeping into his bones. He got soaked all the way through from the parking lot to here. It's been raining relentlessly for weeks. So much for grass season. They should be out there, practising, Fabio getting a feel for the low bounce, the bite of the lawn. But not even Carmen has the power to change the weather. So indoor it is, for now.

He's fuming. It's not been a good day.

Inside, he finds Adi and Fabio lounging on the stands, Fabio spread out, all limbs, Adi's arms crossed over on the seat in front of him. They begin the bullying the moment he steps through the door.

"Julian went on a podcast?" Adi marvels. "It must be the end times."

"Carmen only had to use blackmail once," Fabio says, all too pleased.

"Shut up," Julian tells them both. "You know full well how much this hurts me."

He unzips his jacket and drops it onto the bench. It lands with a wet thud. He tugs a racquet free from Fabio's bag, irritated.

"Get a move on, Costa. We haven't got all day."

"Did they ask you about me?" Fabio prods, grinning, as he vaults himself across the barrier, racquet already in hand. "Did you say nice things?"

"I told them you were gonna be the end of me."

Still, they knock their fists together as they cross each other's paths on their way to the separate sides of the court.

"Come on, Julian," Fabio teases. "Think you can take me down?"

"Fabio, this is practice," Julian says with a long-suffering sigh. But then he narrows his eyes. "But yes, I think I can."

He takes a ball out of the hopper and bounces it on the floor. On the other side of the court, Fabio grins and gets into returning position.

Seeing him like this is as if someone turned the focus on the camera. Everything clicks into place and becomes sharp. His body stills and his muscles tighten, primed and poised to lunge. His eyes darken with focus. Julian can see the exact moment he transforms into something dangerous.

Julian has been seeing things about him lately he cannot unsee. On the practice court, he's free to notice all the little details about Fabio. The way his foot pivots, like a figure skater braking, to cut short a dangerous skid. The way his wrist flicks when he tries to dial in a forehand for precision instead of force. The way he pushes his hair back after a rally and then inevitably smiles, regardless of whether he won or lost the point.

What bothers him, and what makes him feel like he's slowly losing his mind, is the non-tennis things that add up day by day, as a drawn-out siege over the last bits of his sanity.

Like the way Fabio's right canine, sharp and white, is the first to show when his face opens up into that lopsided grin. The proportions between his slender fingers and his long palm, and how his hand is still smaller than Julian's, so obvious when Fabio absentmindedly slides their palms together to compare them. The curve of his hip which Julian has memorised by now, the way his white t-shirt drapes over it in a wave, merely suggesting the shape underneath.

How his smile always starts in his eyes, just the gentlest, warmest squeeze of them before his whole face opens up in a grin.

"Are you gonna serve or what?" Fabio reminds from the other side of the court.

As revenge, Julian sends out a bullet of a serve that should be impossible to return. But Fabio lunges to the side and his racquet meets the ball cleanly, and off they go, locked into a rally with a hypnotic rhythm. The world ceases to exist for Julian — he's playing tennis with Fabio.

Afterwards, they collapse on the bench side by side, their breathing laboured, the adrenaline buzzing between them.

"Nice work today," Julian says in a rough voice, handing Fabio the water bottle. "Well done."

Fabio drinks deep and sighs as he wipes his mouth with the back of his wristband. "Did you like my backhand down the line?" he asks, his voice barely above a murmur, teasing for no reason.

"It was alright," Julian shrugs, trying to keep it cool, but he can't help the smile tugging at his lips. "Nice and clean."

Fabio nudges him with his shoulder, and Julian pushes back. They're in no hurry to pull away. 

"Guys," Adi reminds, impatience creeping into his voice. "I'm still here. We need to do cooldown."

"I was thinking," Fabio starts after taking another quick drink, his leg bouncing up and down, "for Wimbledon we could—"

Julian stills him with a hand on his knee.

"Fabio," he says softly. "Shut up about Wimbledon. You're putting too much importance on it. Of course, we're gonna prepare, but a Slam is like any other tournament"

"This one's different," Fabio says, his expression darkening. "You don't understand."

"I think if anyone understands, it's me," Julian says, giving his knee a squeeze before removing his hand. "But humour me. Why is it so different?"

Fabio looks away, and Julian can see his jaw tighten. He hesitates for a second before answering, "It's home."

Behind them, Adi makes a pained noise. "I'll just wait at the front desk," he announces as he stands up. Julian barely registers him leaving. 

He reaches out and tips Fabio's chin towards himself. They look at each other quietly, a full conversation without words unfolding in seconds between them.

Julian sees then, clear as if it was happening right now, that Fabio, beautiful, merciless, clad in white, will lift that trophy on Centre Court again and again and again, far outshining everything Julian has ever done. And he doesn't mind. There's no trace of resentment, no jealousy. This is how it was always supposed to be. But he can't say this, he feels like the words for the kind of certainty he's feeling haven't been invented yet.

So he runs a thumb across Fabio's jaw, then slides his hand onto the back of his neck, his fingers lingering under Fabio's hair. He exhales softly and drops his forehead onto Fabio's shoulder, and Fabio's arms curl around him immediately, pulling him close. They don't let go for a long time.

✰

This is the first part of a three-part chapter. Will Fabio get what he want, even if he wants it too much?