sincaraz wip below the cut
He unlatched the door and stilled.
“Jannik,” Carlos said, relieved and terrible all at once. He had a bag slung over one shoulder and was squinting against the sunlight, one hand shielding his face. “You are here.”
“What,” Jannik started, and stopped, catalogued the rush of emotions that surged up at that, at seeing him wear something that wasn’t the fucking striped kit, say something that wasn’t a variation on You played well. The irrational urge to reach out and pinch him flared; he stamped it out with about as much calm as he could muster. “This is my house.”
“Yes, I mean—“ Carlos frowned. “I just mean, like, you come to the door— you answer — I thought, you know, your mom—“ He cut himself off then, frowned a little harder at Jannik. “You’re joking.”
“Yes,” Jannik said. He could feel himself smiling, just a little; he couldn’t help it.
Carlos was watching him. For a moment they stood there in silence. Jannik took him in properly as the amusement ebbed: the way his hand cast shadows on his face, the motion of his throat as he swallowed. He hadn’t shaved in a few days. In the distance a car honked loudly, set off a flock of birds.
“Tell me to go,” Carlos said, his mouth set in a stubborn twist, “and I go.”
