A/N: This is the final part of the Wimbledon chapter. Good luck, Fabio!

✰

Fabio ties his lucky shoes and bounds onto the practice court.

One look at him, and Julian can immediately tell that this is about to go down like a lead balloon. Fabio is wired up and tense, wound too tight. His serve motion jerky as he tosses up the ball and chases it down with his racquet, his timing is completely off.

Julian hopes to God it's not his fault.

But Fabio hasn't mentioned what's happened between them. He was chipper at breakfast and made fun of a hungover Adi relentlessly and smiled at Julian softly, as always. So why is he so jittery right now?

Julian follows the rally between Jasper and Fabio. Jasper is carrying it for the both of them, trying to dictate a steady pace, but Fabio is too impatient to settle into it. He strikes the ball too hard, all force and no precision, and the forehand keeps slipping. The ball is either going too long or crashing angrily into the net. The errors keep stacking up, and Fabio is unable to reset, an unbroken string of Italian curses flowing from his lips.

"Fabio," Julian calls out, stopping them both. "Let's switch to backhands. That okay with you, Jasper?"

On the other side of the court, Jasper nods, patient as ever, and Fabio skips to the other corner without a word. He gets into returning position, the muscles in his calves flexing as he shifts his weight.

"Close that stance a little," Julian instructs, and Fabio turns back at him and gives him the look, the one that means, show me.

Julian steps closer and touches the head of his racquet to the outside of Fabio's calf. The pressure, the angle tells Fabio everything he needs to know. He slides his right foot in just the right amount.

From the sidelines, Adi makes an irritated noise. "I'll never understand your weird conjoined-twin telepathy."

"I think it's for the better," Carmen says drily, barely glancing up from her phone.

She half-watches the practice with no expression, her email inbox reflected in her oversized sunglasses. Afterwards, as a furious Fabio heads to the locker room, she grabs Julian's elbow and pulls him aside.

"He wants it too much," she says in a whisper. "But he's not ready."

"I agree," Julian whispers back. "But you can't say that when he's around. You can't even think it, because he will read your body language, and he will believe it."

"So what do we do?" Carmen asks, glancing past her shoulder towards the locker rooms. "We pretend?"

Julian nods. "For now."

✰

The first round match is a four-setter for no reason. Fabio should be able to beat this poor qualifier with a hand tied behind his back, but his shoulders are hunched up with tension and so his forehand is janky as fuck.

Relax, Julian mouths from the box a million times, and Fabio, finally getting it together, pulls through on the power of his backhand, like they had practiced.

"Do you want to talk?" Julian asks him that night, setting down his cup of tea on the coffee table. The living room is lit low and dim by the light of just one floor lamp.

Fabio is sprawled out flat on the sofa, all long limbs, Julian's laptop balanced on his stomach.

"No," he replies breezily, his eyes fixed on the chess video he's watching. The host is providing a match analysis in an over-the-top voice, grating even from afar.

Well, that's that then, Julian sighs. He reaches out to touch Fabio's shin lightly, and Fabio lifts his legs like a railway barrier to make space. Julian sits down, and Fabio lowers his feet back again, into Julian's lap.

"Do you think we can get through practice tomorrow without any meltdowns?" Julian asks anyway. He means it as a joke, teasing, but it comes out flatter than he'd intended. He doesn't have the patience tonight. The bad practice sessions, the frustrating match wore him down. He drops his hand on the back of the sofa instead of the top of Fabio's foot, like he would on any other night.

Fabio stretches out his arms and wedges them under his head, still not looking up at Julian. "I didn't have a meltdown today," he protests in a light tone.

"You were one bad line call away from breaking a racquet," Julian notes. "I want you to relax. You play better when you're loose, you know that."

Fabio folds Julian's laptop closed. He puts it down on the coffee table, and it makes a noise louder than either of them had expected.

"Relax?" Fabio asks, an eyebrow raised. There's something sharp in his voice that Julian doesn't hear often. "You want me to relax?"

"Yes," Julian says evenly. He can already tell a fight is coming, that Fabio is about to go off. But it's the sarcasm, low and cutting, that takes him aback.

"How long did it take you to think of that brilliant advice?"

Julian huffs, looking away, although he's not not hurt. "That's fair."

But Fabio pushes on. "Can you give me anything else?" His voice is light, but there's something underneath it that makes Julian's nerves gear up for danger. "Something I can't read in a self help book?"

Julian blinks at him, his patience thinning further. "Christ, Fabio, what's your problem tonight? I'm just trying to help."

"Then help," Fabio shoots back. His foot bounces against Julian's thigh as his entire body starts vibrating with anger. "Unless I'm a lost cause. Too much of a head case to play."

Julian is fighting against himself to keep his voice level. "I didn't say anything even remotely close to that."

"But you've thought it," Fabio accuses immediately, raising his voice. "Everyone thinks that. I'm too emotional, too impulsive, can't keep it together. Well, I'm not like you. I can't just stand there like a fucking robot and not feel anything."

That one really stings. It catches on something bruised and sensitive inside him, and the first instinct is to lash out, to protect. The frustration bubbles up from Julian's chest, a helpless, disbelieving laugh. "Is that how you really see me? A fucking robot?"

Fabio looks at him, wide eyed. Then he sits up, removes his feet from Julian's lap, tucks them under himself to take up less space. "I'm sorry," he says, looking away. "It was a stupid thing to say. I didn't mean to hurt you."

"You can't hurt me if I've got no feelings," Julian shoots back before he can think. He regrets it immediately.

Fabio is still staring at him, his eyes huge. They both want to stop this, but neither of them is sure who should apologise. Pain wells up in Julian's throat, as if someone was holding a knife to it from the inside. The silence stretches between them, cold.

Julian breathes in. He knows, in his heart, that Fabio didn't mean it. He was just acting out, his frustration about the tournament boiling over. But he also knows he's right. Fabio wears his heart on his sleeve. Julian hides and deflects like he's hunted for sport. And Fabio sits there, putting up with it day after day, and doesn't say a thing, doesn't push, doesn't call him out. But the apology is still stuck in his throat, and Fabio feels so far away, impossible to reach.

They've had fights before, proper shouting matches in practice when Fabio raised his voice at him and Julian inadvertently responded in kind. They would always laugh it off. But this one is different. This is the first time they've ever traded words that actually cut.

Fabio looks up at him, questioning, almost curious. His lips twitch, and his eyes soften suddenly. As if reading his mind, he says,

"I really hurt you, didn't I?"

Julian has the urge to deny, brush it off, say Don't worry about it, it's fine. But then he would be repeating the same pattern, wouldn't he? Pretending he doesn't feel anything.

"I've hurt you too," he says softly instead. "I'm sorry."

Fabio reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind Julian's ear. "I don't like it when we fight," he says, his voice impossibly soft and tender, his accent suddenly thick. "We should always be a team."

Julian's chest tightens. "We are a team," he says quietly, still fighting against the feeling lodged in his throat. Fabio reaches out and pulls him in.

They hold on for a long time, their hands rubbing soothing circles into each other's back. Julian feels Fabio's fingers in his hair, a lightest touch, allows the heat of Fabio's cheek against him soften him up. He leans into it. He lets himself be comforted.

"You're so important to me," Fabio mutters into Julian's shoulder, muffled. "I don't want to–" he starts, but the sentence gets caught in his throat. He drops a kiss onto Julian's shoulder, buries his face in it. 

"I know," Julian whispers, the heel of his palm digging into Fabio's back. "I'm here. Always."

They stay like that until their breathing syncs up, as if their bodies were working in unison to calm them both down. Finally, Julian feels like he can pack the pain safely back into his chest, that he'll survive. He pulls back and looks Fabio in the eye.

"Wanna talk strategy?"

Fabio smiles at him. "Yes, please."

✰

In the end, it's all about bad luck.

A bad line call on break point, new balls entering the rotation too early, Fabio's shoelaces untying as he sprints for a ball. A pigeon landing on the court and refusing to leave, like a bad omen, flapping its wings around helplessly.

Fabio can't implement the strategy because he can't get any rhythm in, not for a single second. The little annoyances keep adding up, throwing him off, until the match slips completely out of reach.

By the final game, he's vibrating with fury.

He watches the match point bounce past him, unimpressed, not even pretending to take a swing at it. He can barely force a smile out at the net. He leaves the court with the red racquet bag hanging limply from his white-clad frame.

The press conference is short and clipped. There's no real story in a top 30 player crashing out in Round 2. Fabio confirms coldly that he's had a bad day, and off he goes to the locker room, without as much as a glance at Julian and Carmen hovering in the back.

"You deal with him," Carmen says coolly, although not unkindly. Julian sighs. He leaves to find Adi for moral support, looks for him up and down.

"Have you seen Adi anywhere?" he asks Ingrid, milling about in the players lounge.

"Off somewhere with Jasper," she shrugs, taking a sip from her cup.

So it's a solo mission then. Julian runs a hand through his hair, braces himself to face Fabio's fury alone.

He opens the door. Inside, the wooden lockers, dark and polished, line the walls like the shelves of an ancient library. This room has really seen it all, an archive of all emotions humanly possible, the heartbreak of a crushed career, the absolute bliss of victory.

And burning rage.

Fabio is alone. He has already changed his shirt, the sweat-soaked one dropped to the floor in a lifeless heap. He has a light jacket on over the fresh one, Wimbledon white, halfway zipped up at his chest. The sleeves are pushed up to his elbows, his olive tan contrasting against the crisp white. He looks beautiful, he always does, but there's something different about him, too.

His whole presence is exuding pure fury. He looks like an angry god. A racquet lies limply on the floor, its rim cracked in half, the strings broken and frayed, the main casualty of his rampage.

Fabio mutters to himself in Italian, cursing on all the saints he can think of, as he packs his things up with an almost violent intensity.

Julian watches him, transfixed.

Finally, Fabio picks up the dead racquet from the floor and, without giving it a second look, shoves it into his bag.

"Fabio," Julian says softly, stepping closer. The door closes behind him with a click. Fabio freezes, then looks up at him. His eyes are blazing. Julian has seen him angry countless times, but never like this. "What's going on?"

It spills out of Fabio immediately, as if he'd been waiting for someone, anyone to unload these words on.

"I was shit. Everything I did was shit."

Julian takes a step closer, lowering his voice. "We don't talk about ourselves like that. You did well. You were unlucky. It was just a match."

Fabio shoots him a murderous look. "Spare me the positivity bullshit," he snaps. "It's fucking Wimbledon."

"So what? We'll try again next year." One step closer still, as if he was approaching a skittish horse. They're standing face to face now. "You've got plenty of time. Why do you feel like this was your only chance?"

"It's not that." Fabio's gaze drops, stays fixed on his shoes, the ones that didn't bring what they had promised. His cheeks are flushed and his voice is barely audible when he speaks. "I just wanted to make you proud."

A surge of emotion goes through Julian like a sudden gust of wind scattering a pile of leaves in the air. He's never felt anything like this. He couldn't name it if he tried.

He moves his hands to cup Fabio's jaw, hot to the touch, and his fingers brush the back of Fabio's neck. Fabio's eyes immediately flutter closed.

"I am proud of you," Julian murmurs, the words flowing from him unfiltered. "No matter what. Do you know that? Do you know how much I love seeing you play? Even on your bad days, it's just—" he pauses, searching his mind for the word, but nothing can measure up. "Gorgeous. You've got the most beautiful game."

Fabio sighs, something caught in his throat. He tips his head back into Julian's hand for a second, as if chasing his touch.

"You're my favourite player," Julian continues, and Fabio shivers, curls his arm around Julian's waist, his fists gripping into his white sweatshirt. Then, slowly and gradually, a smile starts spreading on his face, like sunshine after rain, and something strange happens to Julian. It's as if he takes a direct hit of Fabio's baseline happiness, now that it is restored. Like Fabio's touch has closed the circuit, and now the same electricity flows through them, buzzing, as if they were the same person.

Fabio tilts his head into Julian's palm, and Julian, dazed, runs a thumb across his full, pink lower lip. Fabio's lashes flutter downwards, then up again, and his eyes look like sunlight catching on glass. Julian is completely floored by his sheer beauty up close, as if he was seeing it all for the first time.

He doesn't know who started it. It barely even registers to him when it begins.

The first touch of lips is like when the first raindrop lands on your skin and you're not sure if what you felt was real at all. It's barely a brush, a breath. But then the second, the third drop falls, and Julian suddenly knows he's getting caught in a downpour.

They pepper each other's lips with kisses, slow, soft, barely there. But then their lips stop, they press against each other, and the pressure remains. They tilt their heads, synchronised, and Julian can feel Fabio's lips part, give way under his. He gets his first taste, the first slow slide of Fabio's tongue against his. He's gone.

Julian dissolves in the kiss, stops being himself entirely. He's carried in it as if he was caught in a riptide, floating, swirling with the rhythm, completely absorbed. Fabio's heat, his touch doesn't anchor him, it pulls him further and further in, unavoidable like gravity. No more thoughts in his head, nothing to stop him.

It's not a normal kiss. Julian had kissed plenty of people in his life, and they all were about the same thing: acknowledging the boundary between two separate bodies, opening it up briefly to let the other one in. A controlled dose of intimacy contained between a beginning and an end.

But here, there is no boundary, no separation. The points of contact between them barely register as touches. His nose bumping into Fabio's cheek, Fabio's fingertips pressed into his lower back. They're not meeting points between two separate bodies. They're all part of the same thing now that is just them.

They take a break for breath, reluctantly. Julian runs a hand across the back of Fabio neck, and Fabio smiles at the touch with his gaze turned downwards under his long lashes. Julian feels insane, sick with his beauty. So he goes back in. He drags his lips across Fabio's, pink and glistening, kisses him slow and deep. Fabio, impatient, tilts his chin up to get a deeper hit, and the kiss suddenly has teeth, it has bite, it has want in it. Fabio's hand tightens around Julian's waist, and they pull each other further in, further down the spiral.

They hear it at the same time, then, the footsteps, the laughter at the end of the corridor. They break apart with a gasp.

The alarm bells go off, full force — Julian's brain immediately supplies the running list, all the reasons they can't, not here, not now, maybe not ever. They're in the Wimbledon locker rooms, for fuck's sake. They should talk about it, get ahead of it before it spirals further, put it so far out of their minds as if it had never even happened.

But then he takes one look at Fabio, eyes half-lidded and happy, his smile radiant, so so bright.

And he knows then, that he will not say anything, not like this, not tonight. He doesn't want to ruin it. Not for himself, but especially not for Fabio. He smooths a curl out of Fabio's face. He smiles.

The footsteps get closer.

They both lean in, meeting halfway, sneak in one more kiss before the door slams open.