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ambiguous djokcaraz … I need that We Need That

bet. so context, this is an aside of a section, giving carlos a pov during wimbledon and a potential conversation post novak's semifinals loss to jannik, and then leading into his semifinals with carlos at the uso. there's a lot of weird time stuff happening through this section in the name of character study and bringing it all back to the metaphor of mythology and storytelling.

"You always say this. Careful, careful," Carlos said with a half-smile. This time, Novak had no smiles for him. He meant it, then. Of course, he meant it. This was Wimbledon. Wimbledon was special to him. To them. To everyone, but especially to Novak. To Carlos. "I worry," Novak admitted. "You worry for all your rivals?" Carlos asked. "I try not make a habit of it, no," Novak said earnestly. Carlos laughed. "Glad I am special, then, man," he said, clapping Novak on the shoulder, as he went past his locker. Novak turned, stopping his packing, tracking him with his eyes, and then, caught him gently by the elbow. "What?" "I do not make a habit of rooting for someone either. But, you," Novak said. "You…" he trails off. "Me?" "Watch your pacing. Do not let him rush you," Novak said carefully. "He will try." Carlos could feel his smile slipping, oil and sweat, beading on his chest. He could not keep up the hollowness of it. "What do you know? You are not—" Carlos stopped. He knew what everyone said about them and the shape of their game. "I would try," Novak said firmly. "I have before." Carlos sniffed. "Yes," he agreed, the Australian Open quarterfinal still sitting sour at the back of his tongue. "You're not my coach, Novak." "Don't cry when you lose, chiquito, because you won't listen. Save those tears for me." He tapped Carlos under his chin, his fingers lingering as he pat him and then he stepped around him, going past as if his touch didn't leave a heat map. Put Carlos under ultraviolet, and there would be fingerpints painted along his jawline, the fading memories of another set of hands on his hips. Carlos shrugged the weight away. He looked away, buried the feelings and tucked away that question, You are close. Just, you and Novak, are you—no, Carlos answered to himself, yes. Novak and Carlos were close in the way that one could be, when forging a tepid intimacy with the man that had been the source of forced but earned humility and too many heartbreaks. Now, it is another semifinal. Another time. Another part of the very long story of a man rich with talent, rich with need, rich with loneliness, and here they are again. Intimacy demanded. This time there are no tears. There is no humility. This is a case of deicide and the aftermath. Carlos looks across the net, where Novak waits for him with a half-smile on his face, and it is the first time that Carlos realizes that maybe he is not a shadow of someone else in Novak's story. Carlos is not a ghost at all. Not to Novak, at least. He is something to be dragged down into the dark. Rich with talent. Rich with need. Rich. Carlos claws his way to the light.

#modern mythmaking #wip snippet #novaklitos #djokcaraz #tennis rpf #so like in short...was jannik wrong when he asked that question??#was he WRONG?#...*whispers*...no he was not