Spring is coming, which can only mean one thing: clay season. Since Julian's club doesn't have a clay court, they have to make the slightly longer drive to Duke's every morning. Fabio, spread out on the passenger seat like a prince, complains about it incessantly as if he was the one driving through London traffic.

"Shut up," Julian tells him one morning. "We've only added like ten minutes to our travel time."

"Then why do we have to wake up so early?" Fabio protests.

"Because it's so busy. This is the only slot I could book us. It's a famous club, all the big names train here," he adds, hoping it will placate. But Fabio is having none of it.

"Why can't we just go back to Sicily? To use Luca's courts?" He sinks further into the beige leather seat.

Julian laughs. "What, you'd rather fly across Europe than wake up at six in the morning? You hate flying."

Fabio crosses his arms. "We've been waking up at half past four and you know it. I never agreed to this."

Julian laughs under his breath. That's fair, he thinks. The early mornings have been getting to him too. He's been mainlining espresso just to keep his eyes open for the short drive, but the caffeine is barely enough to take the edge off anymore.

He pulls into the parking lot, cutting the engine with a sleepy sigh. The car goes quiet and still with a soft hum as if closing her eyes. He fumbles with his key slightly as he steps out of the car. On the passenger side Fabio climbs out too, yawns dramatically, stretches his arms up, arching his back. Something catches Julian's eyes.

The navy blue hoodie Fabio's wearing doesn't fit right. It's too long in the sleeves, covering his knuckles where Fabio's fists are curled around the edge of the fabric, and it hangs slightly loose in the shoulders. Julian is used to seeing him in oversized sweatshirts, spacious and blocky things purposefully made so, but there's something odd about this one. 

"Is that... mine?" he asks, narrowing his eyes. Fabio squints back at him like they're cowboys in a duel.

"I found it in the car," he says defensively, raising his voice at the end of a sentence. Julian is unsure if he is about to start an argument or if he's just being Italian. As if to make his claim on it, Fabio lifts the sleeves to his face and... takes a sniff? Julian stares at him, aghast.

"I can give it back," Fabio says, his voice suddenly hurt.

"Keep it," Julian shrugs. 

"I don't want to keep it," Fabio protests immediately, and Julian doesn't understand why his reaction was the wrong one. They lift the bags out of the boot, and Julian locks the car with a beep that echoes in the empty parking lot. "I just want to wear it sometimes."

"Wear it then," Julian laughs softly, hoping to smooth things over. What a ridiculous, stubborn man, he thinks. "Come on." 

The gravel crunches under their trainers as they make their way towards the court. It's still empty and silent, the red clay glistening like ruby in the slanted light of the early morning sun.

But Julian can't stop himself from circling back to the topic. "It's not even that nice of a hoodie." There's something about the situation that he feels like he's missing, and his brain is desperately trying to solve the puzzle. "It's so old. You have better ones."

Fabio adjusts the strap of the Wilson bag over his shoulder, then stuffs his hands deep into the front pocket.

"I like this one." He is still glowering at Julian. "It's warm. It smells nice. If you want it back, just say it."

"I don't want it back," Julian sighs, exasperated. They're at an impasse. They drop their bags on the side of the court.

"Do your stretches," Julian instructs gruffly. "Then your sprints, okay?"

Fabio holds on to the net post for balance as he swings his leg back and forth, and then Julian watches his back retreat as he steps into a forward lunge. He hugs himself against the cold of the dawn, his breath swirling in the air. He should be warming up, too, and yet all he can think of is sleep.

Fabio sprints back and forth along the baseline a handful of times, then returns to grab a racquet with his cheeks flushed, the sleeves of the hoodie pushed past his elbows.

"Take that wretched thing off," Julian tells him, fighting back laughter.

Fabio grabs a second racquet and shoves it at Julian. "Why are you so obsessed with it?"

"You started it," Julian shoots back, exasperated. Their raised voices ring too loudly in the empty court. This is easily the most ridiculous conversation he's had in his life, and it's been going on for nearly twenty minutes. He's starting to feel like this is not about the hoodie anymore.

Another team arrives at the neighbouring court, familiar faces. Julian waves at them with his racquet in greeting, and they mirror the gesture. Fabio grabs his water bottle for a quick drink and tilts it up to his mouth, but as his gaze drifts over to the other court, he misses completely. Half the water spills out, trickling down his chest, soaking through the fabric. 

"Cazzo," he swears, wiping at it helplessly with his sleeve.

Julian bites his lip, fighting back a laugh. 

"What's gotten into you?" he teases, stepping closer to investigate the damage.

Fabio jerks his head towards the tall player gearing up to serve on the other court. "That guy was in the Wimbledon semifinal last year."

Julian glances over. "He was, yeah."

Fabio presses his lips together, but he's physically incapable of holding back, it tumbles out of him immediately,

"I don't belong here."

Julian's stomach drops. "What the fuck do you mean?"

"You said it," Fabio snaps. "It's a famous club. Top players train here. I'm not a top player."

"You will be." Julian reaches out and tugs at the hoodie, drenched at Fabio's chest. "That's why we're here. But you have to stop standing around soaking yourself like a fucking idiot and start believing in it." He hopes the joke will lighten Fabio's mood, but it doesn't land. Fabio is still glowering at him, his eyes throwing sparks.

"I know you booked the practice court on your own money, Julian. I'm not stupid."

Julian blinks, caught completely off-guard. "So what?"

"So," Fabio's jaw tightens, "It's like you're betting on me." He bites down hard on his lower lip, looking down under his lashes. "What if you lose?"

"Jesus Christ," Julian sighs, running a hand through his hair. He steps up even closer and slides a hand up to cup the back of Fabio's neck, a familiar gesture by now. He presses his palm firmly into the muscle, his thumb rubbing soothing circles into Fabio's hairline. He waits until he can feel Fabio relax under the touch, just a bit, before he continues.

"You've got it so wrong," he begins. "You really think this is a gamble for me? Or fucking charity? I'm here because I've seen what you're capable of, because I've seen how you work. If I needed to sink my life's savings into this, I'd do it in a heartbeat. Because I believe in you. But I need you to believe in yourself too. I need you to at least believe that you deserve to be where you are right now. Okay?"

Fabio's gaze darts back to Julian, and there's a trace of life in it. "You're such a fucking arsehole," he says unexpectedly, and it sounds almost comical in his accent.

"Excuse me?" Julian sputters a laugh.

"You always have to be right. Think you're so clever." But he's only teasing now, the tension melting from him. He's back.

"You're gonna give me twenty clean cross-court for that attitude," Julian teases back, giving the back of his neck one more squeeze. "And I'm begging you, take that fucking hoodie off."

Spring turns into summer, clay season into grass. Fabio is so buzzed about it that not even the lacklustre London weather has the power to dampen his spirits. Julian has notions to channel that energy into something productive, so he decides to bait him by breaking out his old chess set one night and setting up a game for himself on the coffee table. Fabio, fresh from a shower, vaults himself across the back of the sofa and lands with a bounce, sending the cushions flying.

"Ivanov played chess," he proclaims. "I saw it in the film."

"It's a good skill for a tennis player to have," Julian agrees. "Do you know how to play?"

Fabio shrugs. "I know some of the rules."

"Do you want to have a go?"

Fabio leans forward, propping an elbow on his knee. He listens to his eyebrows drawn together as Julian explains the basics, the point of certain openings, controlling the centre, pins and skewers. To make him smile, he shows him the Italian game, the Sicilian defence. Julian can see the confusion lift gradually, being replaced with delight as Fabio suddenly understands the logic of it. He reaches out and his fingers close around a black pawn, and they're off.

It quickly becomes their ritual, playing while talking quietly. At first, it's about tennis, about practice, things of no consequence. But with the board as a buffer between them, their attention fixed on the pieces, an excuse not to make eye contact, heavier things slowly start to creep in.

Fabio goes first.

He talks about his childhood, offering up small details and memories with a lazy smile, and they sound almost whimsical, sun-drenched like the Sicilian coast.

The first time he talks about the not-so-nice parts, Julian feels like he has just taken a punch to the chest. Fabio tells him about going hungry, how he has learned to go to sleep with the dull burn under his ribs. About how he's had jobs since he was a literal child, anything to help his parents out – washing cars, carrying luggage for rich tourists, stringing racquets at the academy, then building hotels with his dad so more rich tourists could come to the island. About how all of this still wasn't enough.

"Tennis is for rich people," Fabio says, laughing lightly as if this was funny in any way. "Not for people like me."

Julian is well aware that tennis is a privilege, it's a sport for the well-off, and Fabio tells him that he needed fuel and gear for his trainings, so he did what he had to do.

"So I used to shoplift," he says, pausing after the word as if to test Julian's reaction. His gaze flits up at Julian for just a split second, looking out for any sign of disappointment or dismay. Julian hesitates, then taps his fingertips against the back of Fabio's hand, I'm listening, go on.

He would steal food mostly, sandwiches and protein bars, small things to keep him going through practice. And then, gradually, clothes too.

"I was outgrowing everything so fast. I needed kit, t-shirts, shoes, socks... all the other kids just had them, you know, and I just couldn't ask my dad anymore. He was already working so fucking hard. Where was he supposed to–" His voice drifts away as he considers a move. "So I started... taking stuff. I walked into this shoe shop once, put on a pair of Nikes, walked out. My dad asked about them that night, and I told him they were from Luca, a gift."

He talks about the thrill of it, the adrenaline running high, not because he was afraid of the police, but because of the shame it would bring on his family, how it would mire the image of their good, hardworking son forever.

At first, Julian just listens. Something tightens unpleasantly in his chest. What the fuck could he even say to all this that wouldn't sound hollow? He touches Fabio's knuckles lightly over the board.

"Don't move another pawn. Try to develop the knight."

He doesn't want to talk about his own life, not in the beginning. It wouldn't be professional, he thinks. But after a while, the more Fabio shares, the more he trusts Julian with his own things, the more unbalanced it's starting to feel. Only fair, Julian thinks.

Tentatively, he starts telling Fabio about the relentless hazing culture of the posh tennis academy he went to, how he learned to keep his head down, fade into the background as a teenager just to survive. About the way his coach would go off on him when he did poorly, never missing a chance to knock him down, how even the praise felt condescending, mocking somehow.

About his first time on the practice court a few months after the surgery. 

"The brace was off, I've done the rehab, worked through the pain, did everything as they had told me," he begins, eyes fixed firmly on the board, the pieces between them. "So I thought I was ready." He pushes his bishop along the dark diagonal.

"I was hitting with a friend," he continues. "At first I was annoyed that he was going easy on me. But then three shots in I realised even this was too much. I just couldn't get to the balls. Do you have those nightmares where you're trying to run but your legs just won't move, as if they're stuck? It was like that. My brain was screaming at my knee to move, but it just wasn't... there."

Fabio acknowledges it by reaching out and squeezing his knee firmly. He leaves his hand there until it's his turn to move. 

Julian steps forward with his queen. "Checkmate in two, do you see it?"

The chessboard is packed away, and they are back to their normal selves, banter and chaos. 

"You never let me win," Fabio shouts at him, mock-scandalised, and punches him jokingly on the shoulder, then curls into his side as he turns the TV on. They never mention the things they've talked about.