Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It’s a cold day in Monte Carlo. The clouds behind which hides the same sun that gave him a sunburn just a month ago in Miami cover the entire expanse of the city’s skyline. Gentle wind caresses his overheated body, and it seems to be the only relief he’s allowed. 

He wasn’t expecting to be so tired already, or more accurately, he wasn’t expecting the match to take as long as it was. They’re in their third set, though he’s not sure how long it’s been. It’s like his body’s on autopilot with only one goal in mind, to win.

The ball is served, his eyes follow its trajectory, his legs start moving, he reaches the net, and jumps. His racket hits the ball with all the strength of a man delivering a fatal blow. His feet hit the ground, this is it. Finally, the match point.

“Out”

Kon’s head whips up to look at the chair umpire, then at his coach, who simply grimaces, like what happened, though embarrassing, was simply inevitable. He supposes that’s his own fault. He’s been getting more and more sloppy the longer the match has been dragging on. 

It’s like he’s broken out of a trance. Suddenly, he’s aware of the hundreds of eyes trained on him, of the smiling man on the other side of the net, of a familiar gaze set on him that raises goosebumps all over his body.

At first, he’s humiliated, he can’t believe he’s let this match against Taylor drag on for so long, not in front of all these people, not in front of him. Then comes the so familiar, most welcome, anger. It burns through every vein in his body and pumps his heart with determination.

He takes a breath. He’ll show that old fuck Taylor why he should have retired three season ago. He’ll show everyone why the number two spot is Kons' and his alone. He’ll show him why it’s only a matter of time before Kon becomes number one. He’ll show them all.

The ball is served. A force now so familiar pulls him forwards, and he goes with it, powerless to resist. 

“Game.”

Cheers erupt all around him. His body sags to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut. His eyes scan the arena, but there’s no trace of him. He smiles. He won.

==========

His forehead is pressed up against the cool metal of his locker. He pants as his body fights through the last drops of adrenaline. It was a close match. Too close.

Small droplets of water drip down his body and fall to the floor in a puddle. The shower did nothing to help his racing thoughts. He won, dammit! So, why is he feeling like this?

He hears a door open, and he can’t decide what he hates more, that he already knows who it is, or that he was unconsciously waiting for his arrival.

“What an exciting match, huh?” That voice, the mocking words, that inflection, the arrogance clear in the tone alone. 

“Four sets, each point fought for harder than the last, and a win secured by the skin of your teeth. ‘The fight for the world's second place’, ‘a battle between the past and future of tennis’, that's what they’re calling it.” Footsteps echo through the small room. 

“It’s enough to make a man jealous. I mean, I thought our rivalry was something special, and here you are stooping to the level of Lee Taylor.” The name he spits with disgust, but he’s smiling like he was the one who won on the court today.

“What do you want Drake?”

Kon lifts his head and hopes the fact that he’s dressed in nothing but briefs makes Tim more uncomfortable than it does him. He’s standing there, with his signature smirk, like he knows every one of your thoughts and finds the fact deeply amusing. Maybe the man is incapable of feeling shame. 

“I came to give my congratulations. Though I admit I enjoy your matches even more when you’re not making the mistakes of a monkey who’s never held a racket in its life before.”

It’s like always, he keeps pushing and smiling, and Kon is helpless but to lash out.

“Fuck off. You can say whatever you want, but I’m the one who beat your ass the last time we played together. Remember that.” He sneers. And like always, it seems to ignite a fire in Tim that only tennis and Kon seemingly can.

“See, this is typical of you. One word is all it takes, and you just blow up. It’s the same as how you play. No thoughts, simply impulses you follow like a dog. Maybe if you had any control over yourself whatsoever, your balls would hit the court and not the audience." Tim says, and Kon steps closer towards him, a magnetic pull.

“And you think tennis is standing on the edge of the court and doing fucking equations in your head. Newsflash dumbass, by the time you calculate the fucking angle at which the ball is falling, you’re already too late and I’ve won the match.” One more step forward, and he can almost see each flame and speck of light that makes up that unique fire in Tim’s eyes. Now, in the locker rooms' dim light, they look almost grey compared to their typical baby blue.

“Tennis isn’t math or physics. It’s motion, it’s fluidity. You’re stripped down to only your instincts, and you flow with the movements your body decides to make. You make it sound like it’s some complex problem, but it’s really just raw human passion.” Kon continues. 

“Maybe, but I’m still the world's number one while you’re fighting for second place with a 38 year old Lee Taylor on the edge of retirement. So, who should we be really listening to?” And Kon can’t find any anger in his body left to respond to those words, at least not anger directed at Tim. Because at the end of the day, he’s right. How can he be number one when he’s losing against a man twice his age? 

“I don’t need you to coach me through my failures, I have enough people employed for that.” Kon’s words are empty of any real passion, and he turns to shuffle through his locker to hide the shame that must be evident on his face. Tim seems to sense it anyway because he goes quiet for a moment.

It’s like he can physically feel Tim’s gaze on his back, powerful and unrelenting. He’s trying to fit together a puzzle, but a few pieces are missing. Kon hears a door open, but those eyes don’t leave him.

“I’ll see you in the final.” Tim says.

Kon looks back at him, confused. “I still have two matches to play before that.” Two matches he somehow has to win, and that seems impossible after today's performance.

“I said, I’ll see you in the final.” Tim repeats, and there’s a finality to his words, some great truth. Kon supposes, for a man like Tim who believes every word he says is the truth, that shouldn’t be weird. Still, there’s a certain weight to the statement.

Before Kon can reply, the door closes. Tim is gone, and Kon is left feeling decidedly naked in a way that has nothing to do with his lack of clothing.

==========

A never-ending blue as far as the eye can see. The sea and sky blend into one in the far horizon ahead. A sight so similar yet in every way different from California. He thinks maybe he could get used to this.

“I really wouldn’t worry so much if I were you. You’re the second best in the world, you won the last tournament in Miami, and you beat Taylor, who is practically your only rival in your draw.” Cassie says as she sips on her coffee.

They’re sitting on the patio of their hotel's cafe, taking a break from Kon’s training. Cassie has been many things in his life so far, a classmate, a girlfriend, an ex, and currently a media manager. Through it all, one thing stayed consistent, she’s his best friend. Despite that, her words, like those of all his staff, feel empty.

“He's not my rival.” Kon mutters and finally looks away from the sea. Cassie is already staring at him, her eyebrows furrowed.

“Whatever you say. Anyways, you’re gonna beat that french asshole Simon today, I’m sure of that. He doesn’t stand a chance against you.”  She winks, and he gently smiles. There’s silence for a moment as he debates with himself, and Cassie watches him patiently.

“I spoke to Drake yesterday, and I can't get his words out of my head.” Kon finally admits.

“Hold on, since when do you and Drake speak to each other?” Cassie looks bewildered, but more importantly than not, very intrigued. 

“We are capable of civil conversation, you know that, right?” Kon rolls his eyes. Cassie just raises an eyebrow, but puts her hands up in defeat.

“So what did he say to you that has you freaking out.”

“He said ‘I’ll see you in the final, but he knows I have two more matches to play till then.”

“See, so even Tim fucking Drake believes in you and you’re still doubting yourself. I’m kind of glad to hear it’s not only you who’s obsessed with playing against him.” Kon bristles at her words.

“Obsessed, what is that supposed to mean?” He asks vindicated. 

“Every time you guys play a match together, you train like you’re preparing for war. You don’t shut up about him for days. His form, his backhand, his stamina, I’d rather not go on. And then you’re on the court and no matter if you’re winning or losing, you somehow both look like you’re going through some divine experience.” Cassie talks, and Kon is helpless to find words to deny her claims. Her gaze softens.

“But can I really blame you? ‘Pure magic’ is what they call your game on the court. Yin and yang, calm calculation against raw energy fighting for dominance. Hiding behind all those metaphors though, is just good fucking tennis.” She sips on her coffee and looks at him. 

Kon is once again left speechless. He knows the excitement playing against Tim makes him feel. Because no matter how much he hates the guy, the sensation of standing before each other with only a net in between is like nothing he’s ever felt before. 

“You know what, here’s the plan. You’re going to take his words for what they are, some weird form of encouragement, stop thinking so much, get to that final and give all of us watching some good fucking tennis. How does that sound?” Cassie stands up, and Kon can feel her words reverberating through him.

“Like a very good plan.”

==========

He will lose this match. The fact becomes crystal clear now as he sits on the bench and pours cold water over his head to clear his mind. 

He’s barely keeping up. The match is going on too fast. The ball flies, his mind races, but his body stays rooted in one place. 

He’s losing, which makes him nervous and causes him to play even worse, which just results in him losing more. It’s a vicious cycle, and by now, he knows there’s no getting out of it, at least not in this match. 

He will lose, and he won’t even make it to the quarterfinal. 

He grips his racket and imagines smashing it to the ground repeatedly with all his strength. As satisfying as that would be, he already knows the repercussions from the numerous times he’s done it before.

The break is over, and he stands up on shaky legs.

He will lose this match, and there will be no one to blame but himself.

==========

The waves are wild and unrelenting. They crash loudly against the rocks he’s sitting on. Droplets of water cascade through the air, which, if he squints his eyes enough, look like miniature stars falling from the sky into the sea. 

Around him, somewhere far in the distance, he can see tiny lights which bleed through the pitch-dark night. The waves drown out any noise that might come from the hotel the beach belongs to and protect his bubble of isolation.

He’s on the verge of tears that seem impossible to shed. His shoulders are tense, his palms are bruised from holding the racket in a death grip the entire match, and there must be a hand slowly squeezing his heart, because there is simply no other explanation for the pain he’s feeling.

He picks up a rock and throws it. Kon watches as it flies high, then quickly gets swallowed by the waves and sinks deeper and deeper into the sea. He’s transfixed.

Kon wonders where it all went wrong. Did he not practice enough? Was his heart not in the game? Did he lose his passion? Was he simply not good enough? Mostly, he wonders how he can make this all-encompassing pain go away.

He hears loud footsteps behind him. Is being on the verge of a mental breakdown a good enough excuse to ignore everybody around you, he wonders for a moment, then turns around.

“Hey.” Tim’s voice, though no louder than a whisper, quieted every other sound around Kon.

He’s standing there in a simple shirt and shorts, and Kon distantly wonders if he’s ever seen him in clothes not belonging to one of his endless sponsors. His hair is being swept into all different directions by the wind, and he uses a hand to pull it back so he can look at Kon properly.

It seems like a waste to wonder how he found Kon here because there’s little to nothing Tim is incapable of doing when he puts his mind to it.

Tim’s eyes pierce into him like they always do. Kon’s body burns so hot with shame that it’s almost like every single cell in his body is lit on fire. He wants to look away, but finds a twisted form of punishment he feels he deserves in letting that gaze dissect him.

“I lost. I couldn’t do it.” I couldn’t win for you, Kon wants to say. I’m not good enough, you know that, so why would you put that kind of hope in me? He wants to shout the words angrily, because it’s Tim’s fault he now feels like he’s betrayed him, despite not making any kind of promise whatsoever.

Then Tim comes closer and sits down beside him, his gaze falls to the sea. Kon can’t look away from him.

“You know, when you beat me in Miami, I was devastated.”

Miami will be imprinted in his mind forever. He was exhausted, sweaty, and injured, but none of that mattered when he was the winner. The crowd was clapping and shouting his name. He stepped towards the net where Tim was already waiting with a small, barely there smile on his face. Then Tim pulled him into a hug, and Kon imagined that there was no net, no cameras, no crowds, only them. “Good job, champion.” Tim whispered the words for him only. He never wanted to let go.

Kon thinks they had a very different experience that day.

“It all seems so stupid now, but for days afterwards, I felt like a fraud. Like I was unworthy of my rank, of my trophies, of the praise people showered me with.” Tim smiles, but it’s self deprecating. “I genuinely thought that the next time I’d pick up a racket, I wouldn’t know how to play.”

“So I trained like a madman. My first and last thought of the day would be tennis. It would be you. How can I beat you? How can I be better? How can I outsmart you? I was driving myself crazy, and nothing anybody said helped, because they didn’t get it.” He continues.

“I’m sorry.” Kon says, because if Tim experienced half of what he’s feeling now, then he feels he has to apologize. Tim finally looks at him, expression bewildered.

“Never apologize for winning. If it’s not me, I want it to be you.” 

The confession hangs between them. Kon doesn’t know how he can possibly make up a reply that captures the vast array of feelings the words bring up in him. He decides to smile like an idiot.

“Anyway, what I meant to say is that I understand how you feel right now.”

Tim's eyes are the darkest he’s ever seen them, deeper than even the sea that’s still running wildly around them. He wonders which would suck him in and drown him quicker.

“I think you’re the only one who does.” The hand around his heart slowly lets go of its death grip. The smile from before hasn’t left his face, and he’s in wonder at how only one conversation with Tim could change his mood so drastically. He supposes that every emotion Tim makes him feel is a little bit extreme.

Tim stands up and extends a hand to Kon. He takes it.

“I’ll win this tournament, so don’t fly home tomorrow.” That’s a hard thing to convince his management of, but right now he’s prepared to do just about anything Tim asks of him.

“And miss you destroying that french asshole at basically his home match, never.”

Tim laughs and rolls his eyes, and Kon feels so proud of himself. By now, they’re walking away from the sea and towards the hotel.

“Hey, I’ve lived in Monaco permanently for the past 5 years, I feel like that makes it more my home match than his.”

“Yes, because people love rich assholes who move here to pay lower taxes.” At those words, Tim shoves him away, but they’re both laughing.

“Have I mentioned I really, really hate you?”

Kon feels like he won something much more important than a match today.

==========

The bed in his hotel room is so soft he feels like he’ll sink into it and never get out. Last night still feels sort of like a weird fewer dream. It’s 11 am and he’s just woken up from what might have been the best sleep of his life. 

Kon fiddles with the remote, searching for something to pass the time.

“Tim, your performance this tournament has been nothing short of amazing. After your unpredictable loss in Miami, were you forced to change your approach to tennis for Monte Carlo?”

Vicky Vale’s insufferable voice would usually make him turn off the TV as fast as possible, her tendency to overdramatize, and a complete lack of respect for personal boundaries being the main reasons he doesn’t give her reporting the time of day. The person standing next to her makes him pause, though.

“Absolutely. Miami was unacceptable for me. I know I’m capable of so much more, and the mistakes I was making were simply stupid. It made me realise that I needed a change of mindset for how I was playing, especially against opponents like Kent.”

The mention of his name grabs his attention.

“Connor Kent, who took home the trophy the last time you played, lost in the quarter finals here in Monte Carlo against Simon. Being your biggest rival, does Kent’s early exit in the tournament present you with the idea that the current rankings might change in the near future?” 

Contrary to popular belief, Kon isn’t stupid. At least that’s what he’d like to believe since he can easily read between the lines and gather the true question; Do you think Kon has gotten so bad he’s not even worth his place on the leader board? 

Better yet, in a few months of terrible performance, he’ll probably become irrelevant altogether and make way for a new, better rival for Tim. Maybe Taylor or Simon, or some other top 10 player people have been promising greatness to. And what is greater in tennis than being Tim Drake’s rival? The only one who can challenge god’s gift to the sport? In Kon’s personal experience, he’d say nothing, though his judgment may be clouded by other matters in regards to Tim.

“I’ve played against Conner since we were kids. In that time, we’ve had our differences, though that might be an understatement.” Tim and Vicky both laugh at that. Then he turns serious again.

“That being said, one bad performance doesn’t define a career. All of the greats in tennis have had not just bad matches, but terrible seasons. Taylor didn’t win a tournament for two years, and he’s considered one of the best there ever was.”

“Connor will bounce back from this, and he’ll continue being my biggest competition. He’s a generational talent and I truly believe there will never be another player with the kind of raw intuition he has when it comes to Tennis.”

Vicky says something in response, and the interview continues, but Kon doesn’t hear any of it. Not when he’s still trying to wrap his head around Tim defending him in front of the entire world. His heart races about a hundred miles an hour.

He’s suddenly overcome with an urge to shout to the entire world that his place is and will always be next to Tim. On the leader board, on the opposite sides of a net, in articles, and in ad campaigns. He could go on forever. 

He wonders who will take longer to recover from this, him or the internet, after they get hold of the interview.

==========

The thing is, Kon really did hate Tim. Admittedly, maybe not currently or even in the past couple of years, but there was a time when he truly did.

Back then, they were both so young, still competing in junior tournaments, but the tennis circle was fairly small, and being the two most talented kids there didn’t help.

They would be compared constantly. 

Every single thing about them, from their background (Tim’s parents were filthy rich and able to buy him the best coaches and equipment), to their play style (Kon was reckless and Tim precise) and achievements (Tim had more gold metals than all the rest of them combined) and manners (he came from practically socialite nobility, Kon didn’t stand a chance), every minute detail about them was examined and displayed for the world to see. 

And Tim was always better. Always. 

Yes, Kon had the talent, strength, and physical form, but he was lazy and unmotivated and throwing his career away on stupid things like being a kid. Compared to Tim, who would obsessively train for hours on end until he practically collapsed from exhaustion. That was admirable. Because being prepared to shed blood means you care.

So, of course Kon hated him. He hated his smirk and how, without even saying a word, with just those knowing eyes alone, he could push Kon into an inferno of emotions he didn’t want to feel.

How he was always just a step ahead. Sprinting away while Kon limps behind to keep up.

But somewhere along the line, and he’s powerless to try to find when things changed. The burning in his chest he always correlated with hate, started to intertwine with a different emotion he couldn’t quite place.

It was all-consuming. The two emotions seemed to bleed into one, something so deep it scared him to his very core. Confusion blurred most of his days into a constant state of questioning. 

What was it he felt? Why did he crave Tim’s attention even when he would only receive ridicule? Why did every word out of Tim’s mouth seem to ignite something inside him? Why couldn’t things just be straightforward and easy? 

Why did it make him irrationally angry when other people played duos with or finals against Tim? When they were friends of his or his rivals?

Why has Tim been driving him crazy for the past decade, and when did his feelings turn from hate to whatever this is that he’s scared to death to label?

So things changed. And Kon ran into a dead end. There was nothing left but to admit, though unhappily, that he didn’t hate Tim and that he probably hasn’t since he was a stupid teenager.

But the alternative to that would be something so laughably impossible that it wasn’t even worth mentioning. More dangerous than the sports cars Tim was so fond of drag racing.

So seeing no light in the dark, Kon stayed loyal to the only thing he knew, hate (even if the world had already lost all its meaning).

==========

If stares could kill, Kon would be nothing but a pile of ash by now. He’s sitting in the players' lounge looking very much out of place. He’s sitting on a couch in regular clothes, pretending he doesn’t see every single person who passes through the room looking at him like he’s grown a second head.

However, he can’t blame them. Why would a player who has already been eliminated be sitting in the players' lounge before the final? Kon has his reasons.

Like a crack of thunder, his reason enters the room. He moves with haste until he spots Kon, then freezes before him in confusion.

Tim’s wearing a deep navy Nike set with matching shoes, and Kon is powerless but to admit he pulls off the look even better than he does, which would otherwise seem impossible. Curse them for having the same sponsor. His messy hair is kept at bay by a white headband. On his wrist is a silver Rolex, the one he’s seen wearing on every single billboard across Monaco. 

He looks good, though something isn’t quite right. 

“Came to wish me luck? I’m flattered really, but I don’t need it.” Tim smirks, and that’s when Kon sees it. The necklace that Tim never takes off, which is in Kon’s eyes just as much a part of Tim as his eyes or hair, is covered up by his t-shirt. That’s not right. That’s not how Tim would want it.

Kon walks up to Tim. “You never have.” 

Tim’s eyes are searching for something, maybe that missing puzzle piece, but Kon is laser focused on fixing what’s been done wrong. With one finger, he delicately picks up the edge of Tim’s necklace, which hangs visible around the back of his neck. 

He runs a finger over the simple silver chain in doing so exposing it from under Tim’s shirt. He marvels at how the metal burns hot under his touch. He lets go of it and lets it hang freely around Tim’s throat, now back in its rightful place.

Kon looks up at Tim’s face, who’s already staring at him in complete astonishment, his mouth slightly open. This close, Kon can see a faint pink ghosting over his cheeks.

“A generational talent, huh?” Kon asks and steps back, wondering just how far he can take this.

In a blink, Tim’s expression goes carefully neutral and then breaks out into a smile. “Don’t push it.”

He then turns around and, like nothing happened at all, walks away towards victory.

Kon notes that Tim doesn’t tuck the necklace back behind his shirt again.

==========

A mix of flashing lights and one drink too many blur his vision. He blinks repeatedly and once again surveys the club. He debates letting himself be pulled onto the dance floor in the hope of finding Tim there, but quickly changes his mind. There are simply too many people.

Sitting at the bar, observing the people, he very quickly realized he wasn’t the only one here waiting for Tim.

This is all Tim's after all. The sport, the victory, the club, the city, the people. Kon was Tim's too, he just didn’t know it.

Kon sighs. He needs to clear his head, and he needs to sober up. He stands up from the bar and starts making his way towards the exit for a breath of fresh air.

He pushes his way through the crowd and prays he won’t get recognised. Then a new song starts playing, a low bass and a fast beat reverberate through the club. It’s a song Tim would like, he notes offhandedly. 

People react immediately. Suddenly, he’s surrounded on all sides. He’s lost in a sea of bodies, all sweaty and drunk. He looks around and realises he has no idea in which direction he’s supposed to go.

The overwhelming smell of alcohol rushes to his head and leaves him feeling slightly nauseous. “Excuse me!” He yells over the noise. A few people slowly move and create a path for him.

He squints his eyes to look at where it leads and finds himself at a loss for words. No more than a few feet in front of him stands Tim. He’s wearing a white tee and dark jeans with a pair of sunglasses holding his hair away from his forehead. His face glistens with a faint layer of sweat, and his necklace glows in tandem with the club lights.

Kon feels distinctly overdressed in a dress shirt, as Tim finally notices him. Like there was an invisible string attached to both of them, Kon gets pulled closer towards Tim.

Hands reach out to him, voices shout his name, but none of that matters, not when Kon only has eyes on him. The gaze imprisons him. There is nothing around him, no people, no music, just Tim.

So he’s pulled closer until they’re standing only a breath apart. To hear each other better over the noise, Kon reasons with himself in his mind.

“I won.” Tim says with the smile of a thousand suns on his face. He looks happy. Everything looks good on Tim, but he wears victory the best. 

“I knew you would.” Kon responds and finds he’s also happy. In himself, he can’t find jealousy or anger or even the need to feel disappointed with himself. He’s just so fucking happy to see that smile on Tim’s face.

Tim’s eyes, though slightly clouded, like he too had one drink too many tonight, still pierce into him. He’s picking up puzzle pieces and turning them over in his head, carefully searching for their rightful place in the puzzle that makes up Kon.

“You think too much.” Kon says, because he sort of feels like he’s being examined under a microscope. Tim seems to be broken from a daze.

“Maybe you can help me with that. It’s like every time we're together, my thoughts turn to mush.” Tim laughs slightly, and his cheeks are flushed, much like when he’s in the middle of a gruelling match.

His heart beats violently against his rib cage, begging to be let out and laid bare in front of Tim. Is it quick enough? Is it devoted enough to deserve his affections?

“Huh, every time I see you, my thoughts race a thousand miles an hour.” Kon says, but forgets to laugh or put any kind of inflections in his tone that might indicate to Tim that what he said is just another joke in this weird game they’re playing. Instead, it sounds dangerously real.

Tim raises his arm and hooks it across Kon’s neck to pull him closer to himself. 

Tim smells like alcohol, cologne, and something that is so closely connected with tennis in his mind that it’s the first thing he thinks of in connection with the word, even before a racket or a tennis ball. Though the scent may just be pure Tim.

“Barcelona’s mine. Maybe you should go to Munich.” He can distinctly feel Tim’s breath as he mutters those words into his neck. 

He can hear puzzle pieces clicking into place.

“In your fucking dreams.”

Winning or losing, there is no way for Tim to get rid of him now.

Chapter Text

Their eyes are locked in a match of their own. In Tim’s iris, Kon can see his own expression reflected back. He’s startled to see that in it, all is laid bare. His face is a canvas painted in yearning, worship, and most striking of all, pure need.

Every mask is stripped bare, and every wall is torn down. Behind it plays every match and moment in between since they were children that have led them here.

And then, before he can decipher the never-ending mystery that are Tim’s emotions, Kon’s attention is stolen away. Tim’s lips part, and Kon feels as if he’s stuck in slow motion. The words that are about to leave Tim’s mouth will change everything Kon’s ever known, he’s sure of that. 

“Do you want me to–” Before Tim can finish his sentence, he’s ripped out of Kon’s arms.

His body freezes for a second, as a mantra of ‘no’ plays inside his head. What was Tim about to say? 

When he looks up, he sees a man with obnoxiously big sunglasses (what kind of asshole even wears sunglasses inside a club?) putting an arm around Tim’s shoulder and whispering in his ear in rapid French. Kon feels distinctly angry that he never bothered to learn another language. Fucking American exceptionalism. 

All the while, Tim never stops looking at him. At first, Kon can read surprise, annoyance, maybe even something very tender that he saw in his own eyes only moments ago. It’s all wiped into neutrality in a matter of seconds. Back to stoicism, as always.

Then Kon feels a different gaze on him. Another string of French, and finally, it seems he’s not invisible anymore. “This is Conner Kent, he um, plays tennis, like me.” Tim mutters and finally turns to face his friend.

The asshole lifts the sunglasses off his face and breaks out into a smile. “Of course, I could not see you with the glasses, I’m sorry.” His French accent curls around every word and syllable. It makes him irrationally irritated.

“My name is Louis. It is very nice to meet you, Kent.” He extends a hand forward, which Kon takes, and squeezes a little harder than he usually would in a handshake. He can’t help himself.

Still, he smiles in the way Cassie would call his typical All-American farm boy.  He can be charming, even when he would rather deck someone across the face. “Please, call me Kon.”

“Louis is actually the owner here. He invited me.” A small smile slips past Tim’s lips, yet his shoulders remain tense. “I mean, who was I to say no to free drinks?” 

“Winners drink on the house. We always throw a party for Tim. He’s worth celebrating. Besides, the club is always packed when he’s here. People love him.”

Louis’s eyes slip down Kon’s form as if analyzing every single detail of him. When he’s done, the smile that has not left his lips for the entirety of the conversation grows impossibly bigger, showing blindingly white teeth on display.

“Not to be rude, but I thought you guys hated each other.” He laughs, and both Tim and Kon follow after with forced chuckles of their own.

“No, it’s not like that. We’re um…” Tim trails off and looks back over his shoulder as if the words will somehow appear written in the air behind him. “...friends now, everything’s cool between us.” He finally finishes.

Kon feels the need to point out that everything is decidedly not cool between them and that the word friends leaves a nasty stinging feeling in his chest. Instead, he only smiles in response. “We’ve made up.”

“Good, that’s good. Next thing I know, you guys will be wearing friendship bracelets and playing doubles together.” There goes that stupid laugh. Seriously, is that all this guy does? He’s really not all that funny.

“Well, Kon, if you need anything, just tell me, a friend of Tim’s is a friend of mine. Now I know I don’t have to kick you out of here on sight anymore.” Louis winks, and Kon’s stomach turns, because he knows the last part was meant as a joke, but did Tim really, at some point in his life, hate him that much?

Tim steps forward like he’s about to say goodbye to Loius, when they once again begin talking in French. When they’re done, Tim turns to him. “I’m sorry, I need to go, Louis wants me to say hello to the crowd. He has a flair for the dramatics.” He rolls his eyes, but there’s fondness underneath.

“It was nice talking to you. We should do it again sometime. Perhaps somewhere quieter.” Tim looks hopeful, and the emotional rollercoaster that he has put Kon through over the last few minutes is suddenly forgotten in a heartbeat.

“Sure, whatever you want.”

Though the words were meant as a goodbye, their gazes stay locked for a few moments too many to be casual. Then Tim is dragged away into the crowd of people. Kon returns to reality just to hear the music slowly winding down.

Tim, Louis, and a couple of other people, who are probably their friends, step out on stage, where the DJ was only moments before. They take turns embracing and congratulating Tim, screaming into the microphone things Kon can’t understand. Though judging by the high blush on Tim’s cheeks, they are most likely compliments. 

The crowd goes wild with applause, and some start chanting his name. Tim stands in the middle of it all, laughing, waving, and thanking them. He basks in the adoring gazes like it’s instinct, like fame was imprinted into his DNA. He’s the sun, lighting up the room, and you can’t help but be drawn into his warmth, even with the knowledge that his touch burns.

He shines bright, and Kon stands there in his shadow, slowly realizing that Tim belongs here. He was made by god to be adored, that much is clear to everyone. But it's more than that. He belongs to these people, the ones who worship and love him as plainly as breathing. 

He doesn’t belong to Kon, though. He never would. Not as naturally as he does to the rest of the world. He swims in other people’s love like it’s an ocean, and he was born with gills, while Kon drowns in inch-deep water. 

That’s okay, Kon is used to dreaming farther than he can reach.

Music starts back up again. He leaves without another glance at the stage. The dark embrace of the night slowly envelops him, and with it so does the cold. He’s left shivering on his way back to the hotel room.

==========

Kon wakes up hungover, heartbroken, and with about a thousand missed calls from his team. That’s how he spends his entire morning apologising, making excuses, and bullshiting his way to a few more days in Monaco. 

Of course, he should be on the first flight home. His performance in this tournament was abysmal. He has photoshoots, sponsorships, and interviews lined up for the entire week. There are physio appointments and plans with friends he can’t miss. 

Still, he stays. And for that, he’s rewarded with a text. That’s how he finds himself at some ludicrously expensive French restaurant in the heart of Monaco.

“So what are you getting?” Tim looks up from his menu. 

A few strands of hair fall over his eyes, and he slicks them back with his hand. His hair is longer than it’s ever been. Over the years, Kon has seen him with almost every haircut imaginable. There has yet to be one he can’t pull off, but Kon finds there’s a certain softness in his chest reserved for whatever artfully messy thing he has going on now.

“What, are you gonna order for me?” Kon raises an eyebrow.

“Do you speak French?” Tim asks, teasing.

“First of all, you’re a show off. Second of all, the only official language spoken in Monaco is money, and I happen to have a hell of a lot of that.” Kon looks over the restaurant in an exaggerated manner, as if to point out that the combined value of every watch in the place is worth more than a regular person's annual salary.

Tim laughs quietly. “Sue me for trying to be a gentleman, I guess. I was the one who invited you here, after all. I should get to spoil you.”

Even though it’s clearly meant as a joke, Kon can feel his cheeks turning pink, which he covers up by taking a sip of wine. Tim does end up ordering for both, all the while wearing an infuriatingly smug smile. 

“Where did you learn French anyway? You’re completely fluent.” Kon asks to change the subject.

“Well, my mom was born in France. She grew up in Paris then then moved to New York for college. There she met my dad and never looked back. Still, she insisted I learned French growing up. I hated it. I absolutely despised it. I would fight her at every corner, but she made sure I never gave up. I’m thankful for that now.” Tim explains, his expression soft.

Kon unconsciously leans in closer. He’s hungry for more. For any and all information, Tim is willing to give. He wants to know everything there is that makes up the person he is.

“I’m sure she would be really proud of you if she could see you now.” Kon whispers to him, hoping he isn’t stepping over some invisible line. Of course, he doesn’t mean just the language. He means Tim’s career, his philanthropic endeavors, his infinite kindness, and unbelievable talent. He means all of Tim.

“She always wanted us to move back to France. Every year, she and dad would look at French chateaus they could renovate and tennis clubs they could sign me up for, but I steadily refused. I was baffled at the idea that they wanted me to leave behind my entire life, all my friends, and move to the other side of the world.” Tim begins.

“Of course, then my career blew up, and before long, we were traveling so much it didn’t matter where we lived.” 

“I can’t imagine. Before I turned pro, my Ma and Pa only let me go to the US competitions.”

“And that’s why I tried signing up for as many international tournaments as possible, it meant you wouldn’t be there.” Tim grins.

“Asshole.” Kon laughs.

“Hey, it was a strategic move. You know you were the only one who could beat me back then. If you weren’t there, I was guaranteed a smooth path to the trophy.” 

Tim jokes, because now they’re friends and they can say things like this to each other, without it being a big deal. Still, Kon’s heart does something that should probably automatically put him on a cardiologist’s waitlist.

“And it seems I’m still the only one who can beat you now.” Kon says softly, praying his eyes don’t betray every single thought and emotion hiding behind that statement.

“I guess it does.” Tim’s words are equally as soft, as if to say ‘I understand’. The moment is broken with the arrival of food.

“You were so against moving to France, but you lived in Nice, didn’t you? You stopped playing for like a year to move there.” Kon asks.

“When my parents died, so did my career. I decided I would never pick up a racket again. With them gone, what was the point? So with all my ties severed, I moved to Nice. I wanted to get away from everybody and everything, somewhere where nobody would find me. To isolate myself completely.” As he speaks, his mind seems to drift off somewhere far away.

“I was in Nice for a month before Bruce found me. I never told him I was leaving. I just quit one day over the phone and then never came to practice again. He was furious with me, and I sort of hated him for caring. So I did the only logical thing I could think of, I locked my door and refused to speak to him.” Tim makes eye contact again.

“You ignored Bruce Wayne?” Kon asks, his jaw basically hanging on the floor. Tim takes a sip of his drink to hide his smile, then continues, clearly amused.

“For three weeks, he was there every single day. Sometimes in front of my door, and sometimes on the tennis court, which was coincidentally right beside my apartment building. I would just flip him off and roll down my blinds, but it was like I could feel his judgment through my fucking walls.”

“One day, I had had enough. I stormed down to the tennis court, prepared to curse him out and never see him again.” Tim pauses. “We ended up playing for three hours. Neither of us said a word the entire time. Then I started training with him again.”

“If it wasn’t for him, I don’t think I would have ever played a game of tennis again. He saved my career that day. Probably saved me, too.”

“I can't imagine what having an 8-time Wimbledon winner waiting for you outside your door must feel like.” Kon says in wonder.

“I guess I never thought about it that way before. For me, Bruce is just…Bruce. I don't really know how to describe it. He’s my coach, but he’s also family.” That’s probably the most personal thing he’s ever shared with Kon.

“Don’t tell him I said that, though. I’m pretty sure he’d have a stroke.” They both laugh, and Kon ignores the judgmental gazes the rest of the restaurant is sending their way.

Suddenly, Tim stops, looking worried. “God, I’m such an asshole, I’ve been the only one talking this entire time. Have I even asked you a single question?” 

“It’s fine, I like to hear you talk. I’m pretty sure I’d listen to you argue that the sky is green and I’d just nod along.” They both burst out into chuckles, and Kon will later blame the wine on his mortifying truthfulness.

==========

The air outside the restaurant was biting cold and smelled faintly of sea salt and gasoline. It smelled like Monaco. Like something he could get used to, if not careful.

He and Tim now walk side by side, talking all the while. It seems that even though they’ve known each other their entire lives and were enemies for the better part of them, they simply couldn’t stop talking. 

The conversation flew everywhere from childhood stories to opinions on sports to secrets Kon definitely should not be sharing, let alone with Tim. Kon would blame his callousness on the alcohol if he were a better liar

“You know, I had a really great time tonight. It helped take my mind off of everything that happened this week.” Kon stops, and so does Tim. The moon shines behind him, leaving him glowing in its light.

“I had a great time too. It’s a shame we wasted so many years in petty fights, instead of just manning up and facing our feelings.” Tim says. 

Kon thinks Tim can’t even begin to imagine how many deeper feelings he’s not man enough to face that dwell inside him like a rot slowly consuming more and more of his heart until there is no part of it left untouched. 

“And thank you again for paying.”

“Please, you’re saying it like we’re not both multi-millionaires.”

“Well, it’s the thought that counts, right?” To that, Tim simply hums. He turns around to admire the faint trace of stars that litter the skyline. 

“Listen, I should probably fly back to California somewhere in the next few days. God knows I’ve been here long enough. So, would you mind grabbing dinner again tomorrow before I leave? My treat this time.” Kon holds his breath. Tim made asking somebody out seem so easy. Maybe because he didn’t really care if Kon agreed to go or not. 

“I’d love to, but I actually have plans already.” Without looking back at Kon, he continues talking.

“You know this DJ I'm friends with decided to rent a mega yacht for the summer, so he’s throwing a huge party on it tomorrow to celebrate. It’s black tie, and every single person who means something in Monaco is invited, so I can’t really miss it.” Tim says. 

Kon feels embarrassment well up inside him. Obviously, Tim doesn’t have time to spend every waking moment with him.

“Oh, of course. I mean, I’ve honestly taken up enough of your time as it is.” Kon laughs awkwardly.

“Actually, I was wondering if you wanted to be my plus one? I was planning to go alone, but now that you’re here, it seems a no-brainer to take you with me. Besides, everybody would love you there.” Tim winks. 

“That sounds awesome, but I have nothing to wear.” And it’s the truth. Kon can’t imagine anything better than arriving somewhere so public, shoulder to shoulder with Tim. Screaming to the entire world that, despite the list of models, athletes, and celebrities Tim is friends with, tonight he chose Kon.

Still, there is no way Kon is putting himself through the embarrassment of arriving in stained jeans and a wrinkled Nike t-shirt, which are basically the only things he’s got left in his suitcase.

“Okay, then we'll go and buy you a suit tomorrow morning.” Tim waves him off, and he’s already tapping away at his phone.

“They’ll never be able to tailor it in time, and you know I can’t be seen in an unflattering suit. I have standards.” He has learned that in high society, there is no greater crime than arriving at an event in an ill-fitting suit. It’s like spitting in the host's face, before calling their mother a bitch, worse even.

“Then you can borrow one of mine, we’re about the same size anyway.” Tim looks up from his phone, eyebrow raised and gaze gently traveling over his form. 

“Careful, though, if you make another excuse, I’ll start thinking you’re making shit up because you don’t want to come with me.” Tim’s eyes sparkle with mischief.

“What, no! I really do want to go. I just don’t want to embarrass myself in front of everybody. I already did enough of that this tournament. The last thing I need is people shitting on me for what I wear online as well.” Kon laughs it off as a joke, but Tim’s face turns serious.

“Kon, you’re the second best player in the world, you are the youngest Roland Garros winner ever, you have undeniably the strongest forehand on this tour, and you’re calling yourself an embarrassment? Fuck that!” 

Tim’s hands grip his shoulders. They stare at each other, flames burning bright in Tim’s eyes. “You tried, and maybe this time that wasn’t enough. But trying can never be embarrassing. I think it’s better to try and fail than to be a pussy and not try at all.”

Passionate would be the word best used to describe Tim, not just in this moment, but always. Tim is calm and composed and the epitome of perfection. But inside, he cares so deeply, Kon sees that now.

It’s probably why Tim is the world’s number one and Kon is always left just a step behind in second place. He doesn’t feel that all-consuming love and endless respect for the game the way Tim does. He loves tennis, so tennis loves him back. 

“You’re right. You always say just what I need to hear. Maybe you should consider becoming a therapist.” A grateful smile slips past Kon’s lips.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? It’d clean up the competition for you.” Tim laughs, and the air feels light again.

They stop in front of a silver Porsche, and the doors unlock in front of them. “I’ll call you tomorrow.” Tim promises with one last look. He steps inside.

Kon nods, but as he turns away, he’s left contemplating whether he’s walking into the heavenly gates or the deepest pits of hell tomorrow.

Maybe he should just fly home, he thinks briefly. As fast as the thought comes, it leaves and is replaced by the sinking feeling that he might never be able to say no to Tim again. Maybe he should really go see a therapist.

Chapter Text

Tim’s home is as sleek and expensive as he is. Would it be crazy to call a house sexy? He finds no other word to describe the clean edges and never-ending floor-to-ceiling windows that cover its walls. 

Tim walks through it’s halls like a man on a mission, every now and then pointing to a room and making a brief comment like ‘the bathroom’ or ‘it’s under renovation because of a house party, you don’t want to know, trust me.’ and ‘that’s the garage, but I’m building a new one since it only fits five cars and I’m running out of space.”

Kon simultaneously tries to keep up pace while also viewing as much of the mansion as possible. He looks at random paintings that cover the plain white walls and takes notice of trinkets that decorate random shelves. Anything that might give him a look at who Tim is outside of tennis matches and dark, stuffy clubs.

Besides, this is probably the first and only time he’ll be able to glimpse into Tim’s most personal space. He might as well make the most of it.

What will happen after he leaves is a question with a very obvious answer that he keeps ignoring to save his sanity. Kon is painfully aware that once he leaves, this bubble of camaraderie they’ve built in Monaco will promptly burst.

Will they go back to heated glares and snide remarks during press conferences, or will it be replaced by another form of venom, this one more painful than the last? Cold indifference and forced neutrality, mixed with fake compliments and avoiding saying each other's names like the plague.

Either way, Kon doesn’t want to leave for California. He wants to stay here, in Tim’s ridiculously expensive home, hidden away from the world. Away from judgment and anything that could keep them away from each other. 

Alas, even with millions of dollars to their names, dozens of properties across the globe, and endless respect from people, they are still locked in the restraints of fame and legacy. Freedom for them only goes as far as tradition and sponsors will allow them.

Kon can buy any car or house, or watch he could want, yet the man in front of him costs too much. It costs everything he’s built for himself and everything he’s yet to achieve in life.

Not like it matters anyway, when feelings are so clearly one-sided. Kon just wishes that Tim would stop sending him those glances that make him fall so deeply and suddenly down a deep, dark hole that he’s just spent ages climbing out of. Who knew hope could sting so much?

“Kon?”

He looks up and realizes they’ve made their way up the stairs and into Tim’s bedroom. The room is huge, and so is the bed that sits backed up against the wall, serving as the centerpiece. Kon always imagined that if he somehow found himself in front of Tim’s bed, it would be under vastly different circumstances.

“Sorry, I got distracted.” Kon smiles apologetically.

“It’s all good. Hey, come look at this view.” 

Tim opens up a pair of doors that lead to a balcony. They step into the cool morning together. Before them sprawl the Monaco hills, decorated by houses that from so high up look almost microscopic, though that would be laughable to say. The green slowly fades into apartments and shops that line the seaside and then into a deep blue spanning into what seems like forever.

It’s beautiful, but Kon has never expected anything less with anything regarding Tim.

“This is insane, Tim.”

“I know. Sometimes when I feel like shit, I’ll come out here and just stare down at the city. It helps me to remember how far I’ve come and how small and inconsequential we all are in the long run.”

“That doesn’t seem like a comforting thought to me.”

“I like it, because it means that no matter how much you mess up, one day none of it will matter, not when we’ll all be long gone. The mountains and oceans and trees aren’t going to care about grand slams and rankings. So we should all just make the most of it while we’re here.”

“Do you think you’re living life the way you truly want, to the fullest potential?”

Tim’s eyes bear into him, but Kon refuses to back down. The question almost seems to physically pain Tim. Like a bruise staining his skin that, despite his best efforts at leaving alone, continues turning darker. Like Kon is holding his finger down on it, relentlessly. 

He’s silent for a few heartbeats, gaze focused entirely on Kon all the while. He gulps.

“No, not truly. But is anybody? We don’t always get everything we want.”

Tim goes back to admiring the view, as if his words were as of little importance as small talk about the weather. As if they didn’t hit Kon like a freight train. Silence stretches between them. 

Kon wonders for a moment what Tim could possibly want that he can’t have. Kon could start his list with the number one spot on the men’s rankings, then add a few grand slams, and finally finish off with Tim’s name at the bottom to cement the impossibility of it all.

Kon understands anyway, of course, he does. The best things in life are unreachable, even to people like them, who seem to have everything. 

A strong hand squeezes his shoulder. “Maybe there are things in life that we’re just not meant to have. We need something to yearn for in life, I think. Otherwise we’d die of boredom, right?.” 

Kon stays silent, even though he wants to argue. So what’s the alternative, lying down and giving up? Accepting everything as unreachable so you don’t have to deal with the pain of fighting for something you’re not sure you’re capable of reaching.

To accept pain without a second thought, in the fear that trying will lead to rejection. Kon doesn’t accept that. He can’t.

“So where’s that hunger the media always talks about? The one that made you the best player in the world?”

“I know how to choose my battles. If you never get a taste of something, you can’t be hungry for it.”

“So, we should all just starve ourselves in fear that all we’ll get in life is a taste? But if there’s a chance we can have it all, even a slim one, why not take it?” Kon steps closer to Tim, unyielding.

Eyes narrow, tensions rise, postures stiffen, and suddenly it’s a fight. Who will back down first?

“I think we need to find you a suit right now.” Tim turns away and, with quick steps, leaves Kon standing alone on the balcony. Kon won, though he feels distinctly defeated.

“What’s your shoe size by the way?” Tim’s voice calls out from inside, like the previous conversation never happened at all. 

He looks back down at the trees and the sea, shining in the distance, and thinks if it will all truly mean nothing one day, what is it that Tim is so fucking scared of that keeps him so hell bent on being miserable.

Without another look back, Kon makes his way inside.

==========

Later, as Kon is leaving with a borrowed suit in his hands and phantom touches along his body replaying in his mind like a very sadistic film, a thought crosses his mind.

“So how am I supposed to get there?” He can’t arrive in a taxi, call him a narcissist all you want. He’s classy.

“You can borrow one of my cars.” 

“Can I take the Ferrari?” The one-of-a-kind, professionally wrapped, modified to perfection vintage Ferrari, that brings out a special type of jealousy in all who see it. The car may be more famous than half of the players on the ATP tour combined.

“Lucky for me, it’s not here right now.” 

“Don’t tell me you crashed it!” Now that would be truly devastating. Kon isn’t dying without driving the car at least once.

“I’m actually lending it to a friend.” Tim smiles as if to say, ‘I know how crazy that sounds. ’

“That’s a very good friend you must have.” He raises an eyebrow.

“You could say that.” Tim laughs to himself, as if he’s in on some private joke, Kon’s not privy to. “Besides, you know the rule. If you break it, you buy a new one.”

Kon hums. They stop outside the gate of Tim's house, a conspicuous black car already waiting for Kon.

“I’ll drive that car one day, trust me.” 

“Sure you will.” Tim smiles, and it’s hard to make out what exactly that means.

“Maybe this is all a ploy by me to manipulate you into trusting me to drive it.” The joke lands, and Tim quietly snickers, shaking his head.

“I couldn’t even blame you. I own it and I've had wet dreams about that car.” Tim winks.

And Kon’s had wet dreams about both of them inside the Ferrari, but some things are better left unsaid.

==========

Truly, Kon doesn’t know how to be wealthy. It sounds like a very good problem to have, but alas, it seems to sort of be destroying his life.

It is the consequence of seemingly waking up one day and going from a nobody in Kansas to a multi-millionaire with dozens of sponsorships to his name.

Kon grew up on a farm. He cleaned stables and worked the field between school and practice. He helped Ma with baking her famous apple pie to share with the neighbors and wore his Pa’s old boots before they physically broke down off his feet.

Money has never been his priority or his goal. He loved tennis, and he was good at it, so it seemed like a no-brainer to do it for the rest of his life. 

Now, with millions to his name, he doesn’t know what to do with the money. Sure, he donates to charity and invests in his community. He sponsors young tennis players from impoverished backgrounds and hosts giveaways, but the cash keeps flowing, and he remains without any taste whatsoever.

A part of him loves the luxury, of course. He likes well-fitting Armani suits, 100.000 dollar watches, and million dollar mansions in Turks and Caicos. Young Kon would hate him for it, but how could you not love your own success? To feel the need to show it off? To shout, I made it, and I love it?

Kon would love to, if it didn’t make him feel like a fraud. He’s not like Tim, born into money, wearing wealth like a second skin. He’s not one of those people who can read everything about you by the car you drive or where you vacation. He wasn’t raised with that sixth sense.

And never has he felt like as much of a fake as he does now, standing at the edge of the party in a thousand-dollar suit that doesn’t even belong to him. Tim has good taste, and it’s shown in how the navy fabric fits around every single curve of his body like the wrapping of his cars.

They’re roughly the same size. Tim’s waist is smaller and Kon’s thighs are bigger, but with only a glance, you’d think Kon was born in the suit.

His skin burns with every inch it covers in a way that feels too much like a branding and a little too perverse to feel truly good. Tim is doing him a favor, and he can’t let his mind delude him into believing things that aren’t true.

Kon looks around as he sips champagne. The yacht is huge. Dark black with grey accents, which makes it look like it belongs more so to a Bond villain than to a DJ.

He made his grand entrance in Tim’s blue McLaren, which glowed like a sapphire under the paparazzi's flashing lights. Driving it around Monaco was almost surreal. Sure, he’s driven his fair share of luxury cars, owned some as well. 

But it was special, because if you knew Tim, you knew his love of cars. You knew his McLaren, and you certainly knew that Conner Kent stepping out of it is beyond a big deal. At least it felt monumental to Kon.

He gave the keys to the valet, then made his way on board. Around him were actors and athletes, DJs and CEO’s. He shook hands and waved as he made his way through the crowd. Everybody loved him, like Tim said they would. He was the world’s number two after all, and rich people love tennis, even the ones who’ve never watched a game in their lives.

He reveled in it and tried not to feel overwhelmed by all the gazes on him. There was admiration, curiosity, and confusion. None of them were right, though. There was only one pair of eyes he wanted on him.

Other tennis players passed him by. Some he’s close to, some he’s not, some probably hate his guts. It’s part of the sport, the burning hatred, the stinging jealousy, and the overwhelming insecurity. He doesn’t judge them, he’s much the same after all.

He made small talk and ignored the “sorry about the tournament”, “you’ll do better next time,” and “we’ve all been there”. It all makes his skin crawl. He knows they’re supposed to be encouragements, but Kon prefers licking his wounds better than positive affirmations. It’s what he would have been doing in California if not for Tim.

It just so happens Tim’s words have a special effect on him. He’s certainly the most convincing person Kon’s ever met. Which is why he now stands here gripping the railing of the yacht with one hand, drinking to subdue the nerves with the other, and trying his hardest to refrain from checking his watch every two minutes.

Tim does seem to be taking his sweet time, though. Especially considering he was the one who invited Kon in the first place. It’s not like he has a problem with it or anything. Tim’s popular, he probably has half the people here fighting amongst themselves to get a breath of his attention.

Maybe he’s already forgotten he invited Kon to the event, distracted by a pretty model hanging from his arm, or some Formula 1 driver worth half a billion dollars whispering in his ear. But that’s fine with Kon. It’s not like he’s Tim’s little bitch, waiting on call for whenever it’s convenient for him.

That’s how Tim’s always been, jumping from one person to another, staying for only as long as his attention is kept. Selfish to his core, following only his wants and disregarding the feelings of anybody else. He will be the greatest tennis player there ever was for it.

Tennis is a sport that rewards selfishness. It’s every man for himself. If you lack skill, there are always mind games on the table. Are you having the best performance of your career? Tim will fake an injury for a medical timeout to ruin your rhythm and win two straight sets immediately after.

Kon is sure Tim would let this entire boat sink, with everybody on board, if you asked him to choose between all their lives or tennis. The past two days have made him forget he’s probably hanging out with the biggest asshole who's ever lived.

That’s why Tim is number one and Kon never will be. That’s why Kon is standing at a random party in a foreign country like a fucking loser while Tim is probably fucking some influencer in one of the ten bedrooms in the cabin below deck.

Fucking idiot, that’s all Kon is. His head swims with a mixture of anger and alcohol.

“Damn, what did the champagne do to you?”

That snaps his attention away from the glass in his hand, where his gaze has been lost for the past five minutes.

“Bart?” There he is, Bart Allen, right in the flesh. The world’s current number eight, nicknamed ‘Impulse’ due to having the quickest reaction time on tour, about as fast as a bullet. He’s also one of Kon’s dearest friends.

“Hey, man.” The easy smile gracing his lips is like cold water being poured over Kon’s overheating body. He extends his arms and pulls Bart into an easy embrace, exhaling a shaky breath of relief into his shoulder.

“You alright?” Concern morphs Bart’s face into a frown. He’s always worn his heart on his sleeve, and it’s a welcome change to the ever stoic nature of Tim he’s had to deal with for the past week.

“I think I’ve had a little too much to drink.” But what else was there to do, after being left alone at this shitty party, alcohol as his only companion?

Bart laughs easily in understanding. “Well, what are you doing here anyway? Why aren’t you at home?”

If only he knew. “Tim invited me.” 

“So that explains you arriving in his McLaren. I mean, that was quite the entrance you made.” Bart’s eyes twinkle with mirth. Kon pulls a face.

“How do you even know about that?”

“Oh, everybody’s talking about it. This is going to be all over social media by tomorrow.” There isn’t even a trace of sympathy in his tone, the bastard. 

Kon feels something akin to excitement at the thought of the headlines that will follow, but stuffs the emotion deep down, before it does something stupid like show on Kon’s face now that his defenses are down due to alcohol. Didn’t he hate Tim just a minute ago? He’s giving himself whiplash.

“Wait, are you wearing his suit?” 

“We’re sort of friends now.” Bart raises an eyebrow in disbelief, and the absurdity of the entire week isn’t lost on Kon.

“Kon, we talked on Monday before the tournament started, and you spent thirty minutes telling me how much of an entitled asshole Tim is. What the fuck happened in the past week?”

Kon’s sort of wondering that himself. “We made up.”

“I never in my entire life thought I’d hear that sentence from either of you.” Bart looks truly and utterly astounded. “I don’t really know what to say.”

“Me neither, believe me, man. I’m trying to process it myself.” 

Bart blinks a few times, then shakes his head. His face lights up with a huge grin, his typical hundred-watt smile filling the small distance between them with familiar warmth.

“You know what, you don’t have to explain anything. I don’t care. I have been waiting for this moment for so long. I have two of my best friends finally together, I am never letting this go.”

Suddenly, they’re embracing. Bart squeezes him close and presses an exaggerated kiss to the side of Kon’s head. Kon shoves him away in mock disgust, and Bart moves out of reach before Kon can smack him.

“Fuck off, man.” Kon tries to threaten, but a laugh breaks out of him without his control.

“See, you liked it, I know you did.” Bart is giggling like an eight year old girl, and Kon loves him so much, his heart just might burst.

“I’m drunk.” 

Bart hums. “Of course. I mean, we wouldn’t want to offend your new friend.” There’s a pointed way in which he says the word friend, exaggerated, almost flirtatious. Kon doesn’t like it one bit.

“Bart.” A warning.

Then Bart’s face softens, turning almost serious. They’ve known each other their whole lives, kon can read Bart like a book, but so goes the other way.

“Hey, I know I’m not usually the guy who gives advice, but I’ve been friends with both of you for about an eternity, so please just don’t freak out on each other. It’s okay to feel things.” 

A squeeze on the shoulder, and Bart is gone, lost in the crowd. Kon is left bewildered. What did he mean? A wave of nausea runs through him, it's either alcohol or the unsettling feeling of being seen through.

The air outside is suddenly too hot, despite it still being spring, and Kon rushes to find a way inside. He needs another drink. Whether that is water or champagne, or perhaps something even stronger, is yet to be decided.

As he pushes through the sea of velvet, diamond earrings, and gold watches, a familiar laugh catches his attention.

Standing a few feet away is Tim. In his black suit, he should look mundane, boring even. But no, he shines in it, his presence like a pair of headlights in the dark night, while you stand before them blinded in their brightness. 

He looks good, but he always looks good, so by now the word is meaningless in Kon’s eyes. If he were a little more creative, he’d probably call him mesmerizing. Soft hair, sharp features, even sharper eyes. The ones who are currently staring deeply into another man’s eyes.

He’s about the same height as Tim, dressed in all black like some wannabe mafia, with white Jordans on his feet. He looks like shit, if Kon has any say in it. He’s laughing and throwing his arm across Tim’s shoulder, pulling him closer and closer. All the while, his eyes are caught in Tim’s, so dark, they almost look pitch black with the low lighting.

Kon doesn’t know who he is, has never seen him before, to be honest, but he feels irritation bubble up low in his stomach. The feeling makes its way up his throat, and Kon chokes on his next breath.

Fuck, why is he feeling this way? Why is Tim making him feel this way? Why did Kon even show up? He’s not ready. 

There are too many feelings that are better left buried in the hole where he’s kept them for the past ten years, resurfacing, in front of hundreds of hungry eyes. And then in his mind is Bart’s face, looking as if he knows. Knows every single emotion and thought Kon has ever had. 

It’s all too much, and he should never have come here to begin with. Not to this party, not to Tim’s house, and not to fucking Monaco, where he’s had one of the worst runs in his career. Or maybe this is the start of the end. An introduction into the new, winless era of his life, where he slowly falls deeper and deeper down the leader board, until he’s not even top 200 anymore.

He’s sure Tim would love that. 

A hand lands low on his back, his thoughts quiet in an instant

“You look a little lost. Let me help you?” Electric blue stares into Kon’s soul. His shoulders fall in relief. Kon doesn’t get a chance to reply, it was probably never even a question, since Kon must look awfully pathetic standing clueless in the middle of what is likely meant to be the dancefloor.

“Where have you been, man? I've been looking for you.” Tim says, his tone soft and the words concerned, as he leads them through the crowd. Fuck that. No, you haven't, Kon wants to say. You’ve been chatting up some asshole in an ugly suit, while Kon was left wandering a party full of people he barely knows and has zero interest in talking to.

“Around.” Kon mumbles, and he’s sure Tim only hears him because of how close to each other they’re walking. “Who were you talking to back there?”

“A football player. He plays for AS Monaco, practically a national hero.” Kon holds his breath, and Tim continues.

“We’re doing this Nike campaign together, so he’s been complaining to me. Apparently, his fiancée is tired of his whining.” Tim laughs, and Kon breathes out.

“Football. How very European of you.” He laughs, but his chest suddenly feels lighter than it has all night. Tim gently pushes him forward with the hand still on Kon’s lower back, but it’s light, obviously teasing. The hand doesn’t leave after.

“Are you okay? You looked a little…” Tim trails off as if trying to find the right word but failing. “...upset over there.”

Kon swallows and hopes his words don’t shake as they leave his mouth, he’s never been much of a liar. “I’m fine.”

They’ve slowly made their way to a quieter corner of the yacht, where the lights are softer and the music less deafening. People are few and far between, and the air is colder. Still, Tim continues to stay close when he speaks again in whispers.

“I know you’ve had a rough week, so I just wanted to make sure.” Anxiously, Tim looks around, avoiding eye contact. Kon’s heart stutters, and he couldn’t lie again even if he wanted to.

“My mind’s been spiraling. It’s going from one thing to another so fast, and I can barely keep up.” Kon steps away from Tim’s touch and leans back against the railing. “It’s just all too much.”

“I get it.”

“I shouldn't have drank anything.” He runs a hand over his face in frustration with himself.

“Hey, we’ll sober you up. It’s okay. I’ll get you a glass of water or maybe you can lie down in a bed for a couple of minutes, I can ask–” 

“I think just standing here for a moment will help, but thanks.” And he means it. He’s already feeling better just staring at Tim, whose entire attention is directed at Kon and him alone. Why the hell does that make him feel so good?

Kon calms down slowly, taking deep breaths. The world steadies in front of him. Tim eyes him cautiously, as if waiting for any sign that Kon might collapse on the floor in front of him. It’s touching, really. They’re in a bubble of comfort Kon has no choice but to break.

“I'm going back home tomorrow. I have an early morning flight to LA.”

Tim’s brows furrow, as if in bemusement. “What?”

“I need to get ready for Barcelona. Besides, not all of us have our coach wrapped around our finger. Some of us actually have to listen to our team.” Kon says, just to fire the other up a little.

“Fuck off. I think a lot of people underestimate just how stubborn Bruce can be.” Tim rolls his eyes just saying it, like he’s talking about a spoiled child rather than a grown man, considered a tennis superstar.

“He can hardly be more stubborn than you.”

“You’re saying it like it’s a bad thing.” Tim says, with his trademark arrogance.

“It is when you’re forcing an entire tournament to be postponed due to a few drops of rain.”

“Cincinnati last year, huh? Playing on wet concrete can be seriously dangerous. You all should have been thanking me.”

“Right, says the guy who once said that there should never, ever be an excuse not to play tennis and who just so happened to have a slight injury that would only take a few days to heal, coinciding perfectly with the changed schedule.”

“We’ll I won the tournament, didn’t I? In tennis, the game doesn’t end on the court.” This time, there seems to be something like annoyance behind Tim’s teasing voice. Like he was explaining a simple concept to a small child. Or like somebody tired of repeating and defending himself over and over again.  

“I should practice for Barcelona, too. I’ve been lenient with myself over the last couple of days.” Tim sends a pointed look at Kon like it’s somehow all his fault.

“You’re saying it like it’s oh so hard for you. You literally have a tennis court in your backyard.” Which Kon can barely still believe. He wouldn’t if he didn’t see it with his own eyes. A red clay rectangle stain on Tim’s perfect green lawn, lined with cypress trees and stone paths.

“You don’t?” Kon can’t tell if the question is genuine or not. That concerns him a little bit.

“I like to have a work-life balance. There’s a line you need to draw.”

“Well, tennis is my life, there’s no line for me.” And if that isn’t the most Tim statement there’s ever been said. Tim lives, breathes, and eats tennis. He probably wakes up dressed in his Nike set, matching headband, sneakers, and all. Probably clutching his racket too.

“Listen, I’ll drive you to your hotel tonight in the McLaren. I’ll get someone to pick up my Porsche tomorrow.” Tim says, and Kon has somehow forgotten he was supposed to drive himself home tonight, in a quarter million dollar car, no less. Just another reason why he should have never touched the champagne.

“Look at that, my own personal driver. I’m starting to think this is some kind of strategy to spoil me so much, I’ll never want to leave.” And if that was true, Tim would be doing an absolutely perfect job at it. For the most part, though, Kon should probably blame himself slightly for his emotional instability.

“Is it working?” 

When has Tim got so close again? Wasn’t Kon just putting space in between them? Why is Kon’s heart about to jump out of his throat? Kon can already feel the word yes forming on his tongue, heavy with meaning.

“Tim, mate!” A posh British accent yells out.

They both turn towards the voice in sync. He squints at the spotlight shining right at them from the direction of the voice. On the balcony above them, a few feet away, stands a group of men. He can see Louis, a couple of other guys from that night at the club, and someone irritatingly blond.

“Your friends are waiting for you.” The bitterness is hard to keep out of Kon’s voice. Is Tim ever alone? 

“Well, I don’t care about that. I'd rather be here with you. ” The words aren’t that special. They would be nothing to write home about if said by a different person. Yet they weren’t. Saying them was Tim Drake in a voice that carried more weight than the words themselves.

They reverberate through his mind like an echo, digging deeper into his brain each time and making a home they will not leave for what Kon can already imagine as a few long, painful months. He thinks about it his entire way back to his hotel room and later on the plane to America.

Tim said it’s better to fight for something and fail than to be a pussy and never try at all. But Tim also refuses to fight for what he wants for fear of failure. So perhaps it’s all up to Kon.

He’s always been a fighter, for better or for worse. What’s one more thing to fight for? At least at the end of the day, Kon can say he’s tried his hardest. Even if only one of them can say that.

Chapter Text

The LAX is as lively as ever when Kon steps off the plane. It’s a living organism, breathing, consuming, multiplying. Alive in every way that only irritates his already poor mood further. He walks towards the exit, his head held low, with his hood up, trying to maintain a semblance of anonymity. 

Colours pass him by in blurs, and he catches whisps of mindless chatter from the people around him. They’re all loud, almost like every person here is screaming into his ear. Every sound and accidental touch is an unwelcome stimulant to his growing anxiety, and his skin itches with the need to leave.

He’s exhausted, every step a fight with himself, to keep pushing forward. He feels quite ridiculous, all things considered. He shouldn’t stew in his own self-pity, but the entire week has drained him of all energy. He’s felt about a hundred different emotions in the past week, all of them as intensely as it seems humanly possible. Now he only wishes to be numb.

Outside the airport, parked is his matte black Urus, its size making Cassie, who stands beside it, almost laughably small in comparison. It makes Kon smile for the first time all day. She steps forward, and Kon’s luggage is forgotten in favor of landing in her arms.

She grunts dramatically at the impact of Kon’s entire weight pressed onto her, and he laughs into her shoulder. It’s only been a few days, but he’s missed Cassie. Can you blame him, when regulating Kon’s emotions for him is practically a part of her job description?

Her sharp nails draw circles across his back, and suddenly they're both 15 again, stupidly in love and Kon has no idea how to differentiate between friendship and bone-deep infatuation. Still, they have each other, so none of it really matters.

Besides the expected greeting, Cassie stays suspiciously quiet while they pack Kon’s luggage inside the car. It continues as they finally leave the LAX behind. He feels physical relief seeing it growing smaller in his rearview mirror.

Cassie’s refusal to speak is typical of her when she’s trying to hold herself back from speaking on something she knows she shouldn’t. It’s odd in a way, because Cassie has never been shy of inserting herself into any situation she can.

Kon grips the steering wheel. On one hand, he wants nothing more than to ignore his trip to Monaco and never speak of it again. On the other hand, he can barely breathe with the thick tension occupying the space between them in the car. 

He looks away from the road and towards Cassie. She’s acting unbothered for his sake, like he hasn’t taken a three-day unplanned vacation with the man he hates most in the world and has refused to speak about it to anyone. Cassie is many things, being considered and nice would be two of them, but a good actress would not be. She’s dying to speak, and he might as well let her.

“Just say it. Ask what you want to ask.”

Cassie winces and looks at him, then away, over and over again, as if trying to figure out if she should really speak up or not. “Do you really want me to? 

“Not really, but you’re about the nosiest person I know, and it’s clear it’s killing you not to.”

Slowly, a grin spreads across Cassie’s face, her eyes sparkle with mischief, and Kon knows then he’s handed her the best opportunity available to make fun of him. He has no time to regret it as she quickly speaks up.

“How was the honeymoon? I’ve seen the photos. Sharing clothes, sharing cars, I mean, might as well share a last name at this point.” Cassie giggles to herself.

“Very funny.” He rolls his eyes, but there’s bitterness in his tone that is hard to hide. Cassie turns serious.

“No, but seriously, what happened? You’ve been so vague over the phone. Is everything okay?” Her stare burns holes into the side of his head where he’s staring at the highway sprawling before him. 

“Are you okay?” Cassie asks, her voice now quiet, soft, almost nurturing, as if she knows the topic might break Kon.

And because the feelings he’s been keeping buried inside him have been steadily boiling over, on the verge of spilling out for the past two weeks, or maybe even longer, and because it’s Cassie who’s sitting here and there’s only one secret he’s ever hidden from her, he tells her everything. 

Except for the secret, of course. That being his feelings towards Tim. He keeps those conveniently to himself. 

When he finishes the story, or a summary of it, Cassie is looking at him, eyes soft, knowing. 

“What are you smiling about?”

“I don’t know. From your stories, he just sounds so…sweet.” The word sounds weird on Cassie’s tongue. Wrong in relation to Tim, but undeniably fitting for the situation.

“He was.” Kon admits, because it’s true.

“So why do you look sad then?” It’s not as if Kon was necessarily trying to hide his foul mood. He’s sure they both feel his melancholy like a physical weight between them. Still, it throws him off a little to have someone read him so easily.

“I’m not sad. I don’t even care, really. Not about any of it.” But they both know it’s a lie, so he doesn’t even know why he bothers saying it. Kon cares deeply, he always has. He’s a slave to his emotions. Ma used to call it a gift, that the world needs more people like him. He just feels burdened.

Cassie is quiet for so long that Kon thinks it might be the end of the conversation. She speaks again, suddenly. “Do you remember when we were about 16, and you took me to this junior tennis gala, in New York, I think?” Her tone is forcefully light.

“Yeah, of course. Everybody was there.” Everybody means about the whole ATP leader board as it is today. Once a year, there would be a gala for junior tennis players. All you needed to do to get on the invite list was be better than the other 99% of your competition. Simple. No pressure at all.

“You invited me as your plus one. I remember, because I wanted so badly to impress you. I went shopping with my friends and I bought this skin-tight black gown. Which I thought was so sexy.” Cassie laughs to herself. 

“I’d never worn anything like it before, but I wanted that night to be special. I spent hours curling my hair and doing my makeup, because I wanted you to see me and lose your breath. I wanted you to want me, fully and completely.” Her tone is wistful.

She continues before Kon can comment. “Then I show up, in full glam with heels so high I couldn’t walk properly for weeks because of the blisters they gave me, high on this thought of you seeing me and the world shrinking so there’s only us. And then you spent the entire evening ignoring me.”

“It’s not like you didn’t care, you were just too busy staring at Tim. He had a date with him, some blond girl that he dated for like three weeks, and you couldn’t shut up about them. How, even though you hate Tim, he’s too good for her. I still remember how you said her name, with complete and utter hate, which I’d never heard from you before.” She speaks bitterly, but it feels like it’s more for the sake of the story than any real offence.

“You said to me something along the lines of Why does he even care about her? She knows nothing about tennis. And I looked at you oddly, then asked Is that what you think attracts him to her? You were so confused, like I was speaking in a foreign language. What else would he care about?” She finishes, emphasizing the last sentence, as if it explained it all.

“I cried the entire way home, wondering why I wasn’t good enough for you.” Cassie finishes, and there’s a tight knot in Kon’s stomach, a mix of regret for the past and a fear of what exactly the story says about him.

“I remember that night. You looked beautiful.” Kon says, and he truly means it.

He remembers her walking into the ballroom, her blonde hair almost white under the pale lights, the low cut back of her dress exposing her skin, smooth and tanned. She was breathtaking. 

But then he spotted Tim on the other side of the room, a stranger whispering in his ear, up close, intimate, and everything else around him became white noise.

“It would have been nice to hear that back then.” 

“I wasn't always the best boyfriend.” Which is quite the understatement, but he was also 16 and completely and utterly lost in any and every aspect of his life. He’d like to think he’s doing a better job as a friend now.

“And I wasn't the best girlfriend.” Cassie spoke with warmth in her voice. They’ve both messed up in the past, so it seems like a waste to reminisce over past mistakes.

“Is that why we broke up like a week later?”

“And the fact that you weren't even attracted to me.” Cassie laughs to herself, and there’s a grain of truth behind every joke. 

“Cassie…” Kon finds it hard to argue with her.

“It’s okay. We can laugh about it now.” She says and rolls her eyes playfully.

Cassie sobers up and continues, her words slow and precise. “The point is that it's okay to care when it comes to Tim. You’ve been caring for a long time.”

The car is quiet, save for the faint sound of tires against concrete. Even the radio is turned off. Kon wishes it weren’t. That there was some kind of barrier between him and Cassie’s words. So he could maybe pretend he didn’t hear them.

He’s good at pretending things aren’t there, even when they’re right in front of him, screaming and flashing in his face. Still, he stays quiet, less out of the fact that he has nothing to say, but because he’s having trouble with predicting what he’ll say if he does speak.

“I think that's when I realized.” Cassie then continues.

“Realized what?” Kon gulps.

“That your feelings towards him weren’t hate, at least not completely. But you were so clueless to it, and I didn’t want you to freak out.” Cassie seems to be getting nervous as well, the more she speaks. “I thought it would be better if you figured it out yourself, so that you could process it in your own way.”

“Perhaps I should have told you back then, maybe I owed you that. It was kind of selfish of me that I didn’t, wasn’t it? I just couldn’t bear the thought of you hating yourself for having regular human emotions, like you always do. That it would destroy your career, and it would be my fault. I couldn’t live with that.” Cassie seems guilty, unsure.

“I don’t think I would have accepted it back then if you told me.”

“Do you accept it now?”

“It doesn’t really matter, does it? He’s probably straight anyway.” Kon tries his hardest not to sound bitter or, even worse, sad.

“Even if he is, I don't think that will stop you. You guys are inevitable. In every room you're in, you gravitate towards one another. Every press conference and interview starts and ends with each other's names on your tongue. Every conversation turns into a ten-minute monologue on Tim. Every final leads to the two of you playing together.” 

Throughout Cassie’s entire monologue, he firmly keeps his eyes on the road. His hands grip the steering wheel impossibly tighter, like that might keep them from shaking, and Kon hates himself for the way there’s a tiny speck of hope in the anxiety he’s drowning in.

“You’re tied to each other, like it or not. It’s fate, if you ask me.” Cassie says.

“That’s bullshit.” Kon hates how his words sound like he’s trying to convince himself of them.

“I don’t know, with how you look at him, I can’t imagine anything else as possible.”

Kon turns on the radio. They’re quiet for the rest of the car ride.

==========

The next days are spent training. He pushes his body as hard as he physically can, to the point of near exhaustion. He thinks the strain of his muscles and the pain in his overworked body will somehow punish him for his failures. That the sweat pouring down his body will purify him. 

When he dipped his head below the surface during ice baths, he imagined a baptism, some form of rebirth. That the man submerged in the ice-cold hell was not the same one who stepped out. 

Every missed shot and every failed serve during practice is like a physical weight on his shoulders, pushing him down, making it harder to move, to go about his daily life. His mistakes play on repeat in his mind, screaming at him, overwhelming any other thought in his head.

Kon doesn’t want coaches analyzing his every move and dissecting every one of his failures. He just wants comfort in a way he hasn’t since he was a kid traveling all across the country, homesick to his very core. So for the last days before the tournament, he goes to the only place he ever really called home.

The Kansas sun caresses his skin, and though it’s the same as the one in LA, the sun rays feel just a bit gentler on his skin. Here, the air is clearer and so is his head. Here he can breathe without choking on every one of his mistakes.

Here, he’s not a top two tennis player, not a professional athlete, or a celebrity or a Nike spokesperson. He’s just Kon. And it feels good.

He sits on the front porch with a cup of hot tea warming his hands. Beside him is Ma, her presence is enough of a comfort in itself. There is no need for any words exchanged between them.

Still, there’s something Kon hasn’t been able to get out of his head. “Ma, do you believe in fate?” 

She looks at him questioningly, but still kindly. 

He tries to explain himself further. “I mean that some things are out of your control. That they’re destined.”

She thinks for a moment. “I think we all make our own choices. We forge our own paths.”

She pauses as she looks over him. He thinks of how much of a mess he must look right now. Dark circles and puffy eyes are a product of his sleepless nights, bruises covering his body from where he’s thrown himself against the ground to hit impossible shots, and his hair flat and lifeless, because he’s had no time to actually take care of himself.

“Everything you’ve achieved has happened because of you and how hard you’ve worked. Don't let anybody make you think otherwise.” She repeats the words he’s heard about a hundred times from her, but still has a hard time fully believing. They still make his chest warm.

“I don’t believe in fate either.” He says.

“Well, to be fair, the only time I ever believed in fate was when I first met your Pa. It didn’t matter that we had just met, it felt like I’d known him a lifetime. That's when I thought some things are maybe simply meant to be. Or what’s a better word for it?” She smiles softly to herself as she recounts the memories of her youth.

“Inevitable.” The word sits heavy with meaning on Kon’s tongue.

“Yes. I felt as though we were inevitable.”

==========

Later, he’s sitting in his childhood bedroom. The bed is too small, and so are the clothes left in the closet. The posters on his walls are filled with retired athletes he now hangs out with regularly, the realisation of which caused him to have a small crisis when he first stepped inside after such a long time away.

He stared at a picture of Bruce Wayne that hung above his desk. In it, he was 15 years younger, decked out in a fully white Nike kit, having just won his fifth Wimbledon final, crowned as the best player in the world, and young Kon’s idol.

He tries to compute the image with the Bruce Wayne he now sees weakly across tournaments all over the world. His hair slightly grey, face wrinkled, and undeniably content with his life as Tim’s coach. 

Kon imagines himself retired, with a legacy now beyond changing, training a kid who will one day surpass all his accomplishments, and wonders how that can lead to any emotion close to happiness. Maybe he’s immature, or maybe he’s a bad person. He doesn’t quite know.

A sharp ringing breaks him out of his thoughts. His phone vibrates on the bed where he’s just plugged it in after who knows how long of it being dead. He picks it up with dread in his stomach, with the knowledge that he can’t ignore the outside world forever. 

The caller ID gives him pause. With a press of his finger, he answers, and a voice he’s missed a little too much to be normal comes out the other side.

“Hey, man.” Tim sounds slightly surprised, but mostly happy.

“Hey.” Kon’s heart definitely shouldn’t be doing acrobatics at something as mundane as a phone call, but it does anyway.

“You haven't been answering your phone lately. Everything okay?” Tim says casually, even though the meaning behind the words is anything but.

“I’m fine. I’m at home with my family, so I’ve been on a bit of a break.” A break he possibly doesn’t deserve after his performance in Monte-Carlo.

“That’s good. I was a little worried about the radio silence with how you were the last time we saw each other.” Tim says, and Kon can almost delude himself into thinking that Tim actually cares.

“I’ve been thinking a lot.” Says Kon as if that explains every single one of his issues during the past week. Maybe it does. All his problems lead back to overthinking.

“About what?”

“My life, my career.” About you, Kon doesn’t say.

“Yeah? Tell me what’s on your mind.” 

“Just, does it ever get better?” Kon begins, and after he does, he can’t seem to be able to stop himself. “When I was young, I thought if I could play tennis for a living, in any way, even as a coach, I’d be happy. Then I started playing professionally, and I said to myself that if I reach the top 100, I’ll be happy. Then that turned into 50, and then into an ATP win, which turned into a Grand Slam win.” 

“And here I am now, second in the world, and I’m not content, Tim. I want more.” Kon’s voice grows frantic the more he speaks.

“I can’t help but think about how much young Kon would hate me right now. I hate me. I hate my greed, how nothing is ever enough, even though I’ve reached more than I could ever imagine.” Kon says, emotion seeping into every word and syllable, making his voice shaky and unsure.

“Tell me, does it get better? When you reach number one? When you win it all? Are you content?” Kon almost begs for the answers.

There’s silence on the other side of the line. Kon takes shuddering breaths, trying to keep himself from breaking down in tears, and it’s the only sound between them.

“No, I’m not. But I haven’t reached everything I want yet.” Tim finally speaks, his tone somber.

“I remember when we were young, no older than 12, and you beat me at some tournament. I was screaming, crying, and throwing rackets. My dad was there, trying to calm me down. He said something like It’s okay, you tried your hardest. Second place is an amazing result, you should be proud of yourself. I looked at him, completely dumbfounded, and replied If I were content with second place, I wouldn’t bother playing at all.”  Tim says.

“I never wanted to settle. That was never the plan. It was always winning or nothing. When I was a kid, all I dreamed of was number one.” He continues. “So, no, I’m not happy. Number one in the world isn’t good enough for me. I want to be the best there ever was.“

They’re silent for a few seconds, as Kon takes in the words. “I won’t settle for less. I won’t.” Tim repeats.

“I know you won’t. But I won’t make it easy for you.” Kon says, and his voice chokes up with emotion. Maybe it wasn’t the answer he wanted, but he finds Tim’s raw determination hard to be mad at.

“I'd expect nothing less. I don’t want easy.” Tim says with conviction. It almost sounds like he’s proud of Kon.

“But should I really be letting it kill me like this? Tennis isn’t everything. There’s a life outside it.” Kon says, and maybe he’s trying to convince himself more than Tim, but it’s a question he desperately wants an answer to.

A ringing sound coming from Tim’s side breaks the illusion Kon has built for himself. In the few minutes they’ve been talking, the world has shrunk down to only them. Tim’s soothing, slightly raspy voice right in Kon’s ear, more intimate than some of the sex Kon has had.

Tim’s stupid voice hypnotized him, making him spill out his guts once again. Though Kon can hardly be mad, not with the sickly sweet feeling running through his veins and making his head spin.

“Shit, I’m sorry. I forgot to tell Bruce about something, and he’s freaking out.” Tim seems apologetic. 

“It’s fine.”

There’s shuffling on the other end and then the sound of Tim’s balcony doors sliding shut. Footsteps echo through the call before Tim seemingly sits down and starts typing rapidly.

“It’s something about Barcelona, no big deal. Bruce is just a control freak and tends to lose it when any sort of decision is made without his approval.” Tim says with annoyance, like he’s not talking about arguably the best tennis player to ever compete. No big deal.

Kon thinks about the fact that while he’s looking at the sun, Tim is standing on the other side of the globe on his balcony, staring at a full moon that Kon won’t see for another five hours. Yet they’re still here talking, laughing, pouring their emotions out, time zones apart. Despite all the differences, they’re looking at the same sky.

The typing stops, and Kon once again has Tim’s full attention.

“I think that only things that you really love can kill you in this way. I think that’s a good thing. To love something so much, you’ll let it kill you.” Tim says with conviction. Like he truly believes in the words, like he lives by them.

“I didn’t know you were a masochist.” Kon jokes, hoping to lighten the mood.

“Aren’t all tennis players?” Tim replies with a laugh. Kon thinks back to his training sessions and finds it impossible to argue.

After Tim hangs up, Kon is left staring at the ceiling, wondering how he’s let himself get this far gone.

==========

The great thing about having LexCorp as your sponsor is that you don’t ever really have to fly commercial. As amazing as that sounds, Kon tends to avoid calling on this luxury for the very simple reason that every second he needs to spend asking Lex Luthor for favors is a second comparable to his own personal hell.

Billionaire egomaniacs aren’t particularly his favourite types of people to keep as company, but the money for his team is simply too good. So what if he has to wear the ugly LexCorp logo on his kits and endure phone calls that make him suicidal every once in a while?

So to make up for his absence for the past few days up to his team who were waiting for him in LA, he swallowed his pride and called Lex. Two gruelling hours of being talked down to later, he’s now sitting on one of Lex Luthor’s many private planes, flying straight to Barcelona.

To his left is Cassie, typing away on her phone, and parallel to him sit his coach and agent, going over strategy. He’s only half listening to the conversation going on around him, too busy staring out at the ocean that spans out under them through his window.

“I guess I just find it interesting. Drake doesn’t usually play doubles.” His agent’s voice cuts through his daydreams, and suddenly he’s very aware of the conversation going on around him.

“I mean, Wayne wasn’t ever much of a doubles player either, I guess it makes sense. They’re probably trying something new, figuring out his weak spots. Drake needs to be the best at everything, after all.” Says his coach, analytical as ever.

“Tim’s playing doubles?” Kon asks. The others around him look at him in surprise that he’s decided to speak up.

“Yes, they’ve just announced it.” Says his agent.

“That’s weird, Bart didn’t mention anything to me.” Or Tim, for that matter, he thinks. Kon’s brow furrows.

“He’s not playing with Allen, actually.” His coach explains. He turns back towards Kon’s agent, prepared to start up another topic, when Kon interrupts him.

“Who then?” Kon asks, and for some inexplicable reason, he’s beginning to feel nervous.

His coach reads over something on his laptop. “Bernard Dowd, apparently.”

“What?” Kon spits out the word with much more anger in it than surprise. Cassie, who has up to this point only been glancing at them every once in a while in curiosity, raises an eyebrow at his outburst.

“You know, British, 45th in the World, about the same age as you–” His coach begins, and Kon cuts him off before he can finish.

“I know who he is, but why the fuck would he be playing with Tim?” And Kon knows that it doesn’t matter who Tim decides to play doubles with. And that Tim has no obligation to tell him about this kind of thing. But still, he can’t let it go.

His coach and agent exchange looks at his outburst. “Well, they’re friends, aren’t they? I thought they’ve known each other since childhood or something.”

“Friends mean nothing in tennis, especially not to Tim Drake.”

“Maybe they’re playing for fun?” His agent asks, but seems unsure of himself. As if he doesn’t want to offend Kon, but has no idea why exactly he’s even upset in the first place. Kon can’t blame him, because he’s not quite sure himself why he’s feeling like this.

“What’s fun about playing with a guy that can barely break the top 50. Has he ever even won a match? Can he even hit a backhand?” Kon rambles, his anger steadily growing with each sentence.

“You’re being mean, Kon.” Says Cassie, more as if she’s stating a simple fact, than actually defending anybody.

“I’m genuinely confused, I mean, who the fuck has ever said ‘I want to play doubles with Bernard Dowd’?” Kon continues, as if he didn’t hear her.

“Tim apparently.” Cassie says, and Kon sends her a venomous glare. She’s egging him on on purpose, and it’s working. “Why is this pissing you off so much anyway?” She asks.

“Cassie’s right, this works in our favour. The more matches he plays, the more tired he’ll be, so you’ll have an advantage over him.” His coach hurries to agree, trying in vain to comfort him.

“Sure, he’ll be tired since he’ll be the only one playing. It’s not like they’ll make it past the first round anyway.” Kon mutters.

“Well, let’s just focus on you for right now, yeah? Should we go over the strategy again?” His coach and agent get lost in conversation again, their topic doing a 180. Kon can’t move on so easily, but Cassie only spares him another glance before turning back to her phone.

He spends the rest of the flight silent, decidedly not sulking, despite what Cassie may say. As a familiar irritation burns under his skin, one question keeps spinning in his head. Why wouldn’t Tim ask Kon to play doubles with him instead?

Chapter Text

It feels odd to be on the court again. He’s played hundreds of matches in his life, but this one feels distinctly different in all the wrong ways. The feeling of doom begins as he walks out to a roaring crowd, and instead of the usual infectious excitement the noise brings him, he just feels anxious.

His heart beats a million miles an hour with no apparent intention of calming down. Kon thinks back to the conversation he had with Tim in Monaco all those days ago. I genuinely thought that the next time I’d pick up a racket, I wouldn’t know how to play, he’d said. Kon understands those words now more than ever.

Every step towards the court feels like walking a path to his execution. He needs to win this match, there is no room for failure. He owes it to his fans, his team, but most of all, to himself. He has to prove he deserves to stand where he does today

Kon takes deep breaths until the sound of the crowd becomes a distant noise. He grabs his racket and lets his instincts take over. His mind and body connect until there is only the lines, net, and ball. 

He’s the first to serve, and with a motion as easy to him as breathing, he serves the ball across the net in a perfect arch. It’s a great start to what, despite all his worrying, unravels to be a beautiful match.

Suddenly, it’s like he’s not in control of his body anymore, there are no thoughts, only the complete focus of returning any and every shot that comes his way. He’s missed this, playing good tennis. Playing tennis on a level he fought with blood, sweat, and tears to reach.

The match is over in two simple sets, but Kon almost wished it had gone on for longer, as counterintuitive as that sounds. Tennis is a sport that shows you the highest of highs and the lowest of lows a human can reach. 

The lows are brutal, like you’re bleeding out in front of an audience of thousands, all calling for your demise, and you are helpless but to play through the agony. But the highs make it worth it. When everything is in perfect balance, every serve is flawless, and every impossible shot is saved. 

That’s what made him fall in love with tennis all those years ago and what, despite the occasional emotional crisis, keeps him coming back to it. Tennis is vicious and spiteful and waits for no one. Kon loves it all the more for it. 

Maybe Tim was right about tennis players being masochists.

As the crowd shouts his name and his team looks on at him in adoration, there’s only one thing on his mind. Fuck, it feels good to be winning again.

==========

Later, Kon sits in his hotel room. Through his bloodstream run the last drops of adrenaline still leftover from his match. He’s restless and dangerously alone with his thoughts. 

He paces up and down his room, then goes from meditating to doing push-ups to taking a cold shower. Nothing helps. He ends up sprawled across his bed, scrolling through his emails. Kon tries his best to stay productive and not let his mind wander, he really does. 

In the end, he’s powerless to his own impulses. With a tap of his finger, Instagram opens before him. In the search bar, he types in a name that’s been haunting him for days.

Kon scrolls through Bernard Dowd’s Instagram, one picture after another. There’s one of him sitting in a cafe in London, turned away from the camera with a soft smile. In one, he’s lying on a yacht somewhere in Croatia, skin tanned and body lithe, looking at the camera like he knows exactly what he’s doing.

The posts continue, each thirst trap more ridiculous than the last, though undeniably effective in their goal.

The thing is, Kon knows he’s attractive. He’s hot, he’s handsome, he’s even heard the word sexy thrown around. At least so he’s been told by numerous fans and reporters over the years. Cassie once said to him that it’s not his tennis they need to sell but his sex appeal.

His own appearance has never been a big deal to him. Towards his attractiveness, he’s stayed slightly pleased but mostly indifferent. He’s never thought about it as much as he has today, because one thing Kon has never been is pretty.

And Bernard is undeniably, and to Kon, frustratingly pretty. His face is defined, but still soft. He has big blue eyes, an upturned nose, and blindingly blonde hair. His body is small and muscled, his waist slender. He’s everything Kon isn’t, and he kind of hates him for it.

Kon remembers watching a viral marketing video that Tim was featured in. He barely remembers the premise of the game they were made to play, but like always, Tim hit a perfect serve. The camera follows the ball as it falls in a curve, and then cuts back to Tim’s satisfied face. Now that’s pretty says someone behind the camera. What can I say, I like pretty things, replies Tim and winks.

With slightly shaky hands, Kon continues scrolling. The posts display a type of lifestyle only generational wealth can get you, not a half assed tennis career, he thinks in slight pettiness.

Then he opens a carousel of photos, all set in Monaco, posted only a day ago. He swipes through them, and momentarily stills at a picture of Bernard and Tim, their arms wrapped around each other, smiling and sweaty after a practice season. 

His stomach twists unpleasantly, so he continues along. What he sees next is a cool photo, all things considered. Bernard sits on top of a luxury car. Behind him, the sky is painted in a sunset, colors bleeding seamlessly into one another. Bernard’s expression is soft as he stares at the person behind the camera. The shot is candid, intimate.

The problem comes when the car he’s sitting on happens to be not just one of Tim’s many in his collection, but The Ferrari. The one Kon couldn’t drive because Bernard apparently already had it. For some irrational reason, out of all the photos on display, this one makes his heart stutter more than all the half hugs and embraces he’s seen Tim and Bernard in across the entire Instagram page combined.

What kind of overwhelming trust would it take to let someone borrow that kind of car? Not just nauseatingly expensive, but priceless in its meaning to Tim. And Tim trusted it with Berard, fully and with a smile on his face. Then let him post it for the whole world to see, like a trophy of their bond.

Would he ever trust Kon to drive it now that they’re somewhat friends, or is it an exclusive privilege only Bernard gets? Mostly, he wonders what it means that Bernard is driving Tim’s favorite car and playing doubles with him, while Kon suffocates in his own jealousy alone in a hotel room.

Kon abruptly turns off his phone and places it away on his bedside table. He goes to take another shower, thinking in vain that it could cool the blood boiling beneath his skin.

==========

Walking the streets of Barcelona, Kon can almost feel the city alive beneath his feet. In tandem with his steps beats its heart. The air is full of energy as spring slowly bleeds into summer. The sun shines upon the trees and buildings around him, making the already colorful city feel all the more vibrant.

Every corner and building is a standing art piece. He briefly wonders how many people walk past the residential buildings and shops that line the streets every day without a spared glance, blind to their beauty.

Kon walks with no real plan or destination in mind. His feet carry him along until he finds streets that start to feel familiar. Eventually, while lost in his head, his feet carry him subconsciously to a few designated training courts at the Real Club de Tenis.

He looks at the people playing. He waves and smiles at them as he goes along. He’s stopped along the way a few times by fans and goes through the motions of signing autographs and taking pictures without really thinking about it.

He has no real clue how he’s found himself here, only that he woke up in desperate need to reconnect with society, without bodyguards or assistants dictating his every step and interaction. He needed to walk around, people watch, and observe the normality of a regular life, he has the privilege not to live.

On one of the courts, he sees a familiar figure that makes him stop in his place for the first time all day. Tim stands on the edge of the court, shirt seemingly long forgotten on the bench beside him. The Spanish sun glows over him, his pale skin, now lightly dotted pink with overexertion, shines with sweat under it. He’s eye-catching, standing out in contrast to the clay underneath him.

Kon can’t look away. He watches the way Tim’s muscles flex as he extends his body to hit a serve, then lets out a faint groan as he swings the racket through the air. The way he smiles, all self-satisfied and cocky after saving a difficult shot. The way his chest rises and falls with exhaustion. 

He’s so transfixed he almost doesn’t notice the person on the other side of the court, saving all of Tim’s impossible shots. The sight of Bernard makes that all-familiar annoyance rise inside him again. 

It’s not the first time Kon’s observed the pair’s interaction and felt anxiety buzz under his skin, that has happened many times over their shared time playing the same tournaments. He just might be paying special attention to it now. 

It’s the way Bernard looks at Tim that really drives Kon crazy. Bernard stares at Tim like he’s the sun, the thing that keeps him warm in the freezing winters and gives him light in the darkest nights. Like he’s powerless but to orbit around him, his every step in life depended on Tim and Tim alone.

It makes Kon’s skin itch and leaves him feeling wrong in a way that’s hard to describe. Maybe because it’s like looking at a reflection you were never meant to see.

“Can I help you?” A voice, gruff, unfriendly, and familiar.

Kon turns around and finds none other than Jason Todd standing only a few feet away. His demeanor is as cold and standoffish as always. His arms are crossed in a way that tells him the following conversation isn’t being started in search of small talk. The raised eyebrow, however, tells him that Jason seems above all else, intrigued.

“I didn’t know you would be here.”

Jason and Kon aren’t friends, but to his knowledge, neither are he and Tim. Jason is Bruce’s adopted son, and someone with whom Tim has had a very publicly difficult relationship. Kon isn’t even really sure what happened between them, but nobody really does.

The story, as Kon knows it, however, goes like this. Shortly after adopting him, Bruce Wayne becomes the coach of Jason, who is not only a tennis prodigy but an expected future top player. Then an injury happens, and after numerous surgeries, a fact becomes clear, Jason Todd will never play tennis again.

Then he seemingly disappears off the face of the earth, leaving the tennis world and media in complete shock. Bruce returns a year later as Tim’s coach. After that, there’s silence until Jason returns with one opinion he wants to make clear. Tim Drake will never succeed and will never be better than him.

What follows are years of petty interviews and nasty words from both sides. Now they have seemingly made up, at least so they claim to the media. It’s still a shock to see Jason at one of Tim’s tournaments, though.

“Checking out the competition?” Jason asks, but the words are mocking, like he’s in on some inside joke only he understands.

“You could say that.” Kon answers, trying to keep the discomfort out of his voice.

He’s never particularly liked Jason. Kon’s always felt he’s a man who can’t seem to let go of a dream that has slipped through his fingers long ago. The feeling does seem to be mutual, looking at how Jason has talked about him to the press over the years.

“Tim’s playing doubles with Bernard anyway, so you shouldn't worry about him being too much of an issue. It’ll take up a lot of his energy.” Jason comments, almost absentmindedly, but the way he looks at Kon when he says it makes it clear he wants a reaction.

Something about the words makes Kon snap in a way he’s been keeping himself from doing since he landed in Barcelona.

“I know that! I know he’s playing doubles with Bernard. Why does everybody need to keep fucking reminding me? I don’t care.” Kon half-shouts at him, fed up with how every single thing leads back to the two playing doubles together. How every single thing leads back to Tim.

Jason stares at him for a few seconds, taking in the scene of Kon, pent up and angry. Then he smiles, like he got exactly what he came here for.

“You hate him.” Jason comments.

“Tim?” Kon asks, now more confused than angry. Hasn’t that fact been obvious to everyone for their entire lives?

“Bernard.” Jason corrects him, like he’s speaking a complete and absolute fact.

Kon is left speechless for a moment, left without a clue on how to defend himself against something that might just be true.

“You’re crazy.” Kon says instead.

“No, but I'm starting to think you are.” Jason says half mockingly and half genuinely.

“Whatever man.” Kon mutters as he walks away as fast as his feet will carry him. 

For an uncomfortably long time, he feels a gaze on his back, heavy with the promise that the conversation is far from over.

==========

Hours later, he’s in the middle of practice with his team. He’s stretching on a mat in light conversation with his personal trainer. His coach stands to the side, flipping through the programs of the small TV that hangs on the wall of the gym.

He stops when he finds what he’s been seemingly looking for. “Kon, look.”

Which Kon does, just to be met with the last two faces he wants to see. It’s Bernard and Tim in the middle of a post-match interview, apparently the day’s winners. Their voices gradually fill the rooms as his coach turns up the volume.

“Can you tell us what it’s like playing doubles with each other? Is it as fun as it is for us to watch you two together?” The interviewer asks.

“It’s terrible, I bloody hate the guy.” Bernard replies with a grin, and they both break out into light chuckles. “But to be serious for a second, it's great. Playing at the net has never been my best position, but when he’s behind me, I know I’m safe.” 

“Safe? What do you mean by that?”

“Like, I know that he won’t hit me by accident.” Bernard replies, which earns him another laugh from both Tim and the interviewer. 

“Oh dear, does that happen often with others?” 

“You’d be surprised, actually.” Says Bernard with a light-hearted smile. 

“But Tim makes you feel safe?”

“I mean, he’s Tim Drake, you can’t really expect an accident from him.” Bernard sends a pointed look at Tim, who pushes his shoulder lightly in protest.

“But more than that, I just know he has my back covered. We’re in this together, winning or losing. He reminds me of that.” Bernard continues, and even though he’s speaking to the interviewer, his eyes are locked into Tim’s as he speaks.

“Obviously, everybody’s goal here is to win, but what do you feel are your chances at that, looking at how many amazing seasoned doubles players you’re going up against?”

“Like you said, the goal is to win. But we’re also not trying to take it too seriously.” Says Bernard.

“Yeah, we’ll see how far we can go, but we’re mostly just focused on having fun honestly.” Tim speaks, then adds in a softer tone. “It’s always fun playing with Bernard.”

“Tim, some people have expressed confusion with you choosing such a low-ranking player to pair up with? What do you say to that? Is it a way to help him gain points on the leaderboard?”

The question causes the entire room to still. Bernard’s face falls from the easy smile it was in moments ago, replaced with something awkward and bordering on hurt. Tim suddenly turns serious, guarded.

“I don't like what you’re implying there. Like I'm doing charity or something. He's my friend, but also an amazing player in his own right.” Tim says, defensive but seemingly honest in his praise for his friend. 

“I wouldn't want to be playing with anyone else.” Tim finishes and places a hand on Bernard’s shoulder, like a physical show of support. Bernard smiles, bright enough to blind a man.

Tim continues, answering the next question, but Bernard doesn’t look away. He stays lost, looking at Tim with such complete focus and adoration, there might as well be no one else in the room but them. No camera, no interviewer, no packed stadium. Just them.

Kon turns off the TV before the interview ends.