A new year brings another four majors. The gap between the US Open and the Australian is filled with smaller tournaments, or for some, like Julien Enjolras, a chance to figure out where they are going wrong.

Enjolras, despite reaching the finals of all four slams so far, is yet to actually win one. If he had to be honest, he has his heart set on Wimbledon. There's something about the glory of lifting that golden trophy, clothed head to toe in white, and the British crowd is always his favourite. But he's not as fit as he should be; he's slow and gets tired too easily, and especially in the winter months, his immune system can often be compromised. He only attends one tournament in the space between the two majors, but comes down with the flu just hours before he's due to go on court for the semi-final(so does his opponent, Combeferre, but Enjolras has already pulled out). He knows that his current strategy isn't working; his fitness just doesn't match his style of play.

As he considers things, he realises that the one link that doesn't quite fit is his coach. He's been working with Javert, once one of the top players, but even he knows it's not working out. He's strict, doesn't let Enjolras rest through illness or injury unless it's desperate(his shoulder was still acting up when he was pushed to play the US open), and honestly, isn't as good a coach as he's made out to be. It takes a lot of courage, but finally Enjolras makes the decision to let him go. Initially, Javert is angry, shouting and swearing about how he is the one responsible for his successful career, but eventually he gives up on trying to save his job.

In between trying to find a new coach, he seeks solace in his close friend and fellow player Combeferre. Combeferre may be one of his biggest rivals, but they trained together when they were teenagers and share a special bond. They talk a lot, about everything and anything. Enjolras isn't the most open of people when it comes to emotions, but somehow Adam Combeferre has the bizarre talent of getting him to talk. This particular conversation, however, it's Enjolras providing the advice.

Combeferre's getting older(okay, mid thirties isn't exactly old but still), and his style of play just isn't working any more. He's slowing down, which means he's struggling against the other players and their strong backhands and forehands. Immaculate technique is great, but without speed it's useless. He isn't making the impossible shots he used to be able to make. He isn't able to make it into the net when the other player hits a surprise drop shot. He struggles with five set matches. He doesn't want to retire from the sport, but he knows he doesn't really have another win inside of him. He's just delaying the inevitable.

"I'm retiring," he flings his hands in the air.

"That's a little hasty, don't you think?" Enjolras' eyes widen with shock at Combeferre's announcement. "One more year, Combeferre."

"The new players are too good. They have my good technique, Enjolras, yet they also have the speed to match it. That... what's his name? Jehan... He's amazing. And Courfeyrac, the young Irish kid; he's going to win all four slams someday. I'm just making myself look stupid out there."

"You're still world number two. You're last major win was this 're just angry because you haven't won one since."

"Second round at the US Open; and that's my court... that's the one I always win."

"And you'll win it this year, you stupid man! That tournament was hell; Grantaire out for at least this year, Feuilly losing his grand slam bid... Bahorel won for goodness sake."

"I know myself, Enjolras," Combeferre finally sighs. "It's time."

"I don't know what I would do without you on the tour, Combeferre."

And then the idea hits him; Combeferre could be his new coach. It had been a long search to find someone suitable, and now the idea has found a home in his brain he finds it difficult to shake off. They're similar in terms of attitude on court and style of play, and he's often the only one able to get through to the stubborn blond. He doesn't want Combeferre to retire in the first place, so he saves the question just in case he manages to get through to his friend.

With another hour of talking, Enjolras finally manages to get Combeferre to agree to play the Australian Open and think about it before he makes any rash decisions. He knows his friend's retirement will be within the next few years, but he really doesn't want it to happen. He's not particularly close with any of his other competitors, at least not as close as he is with Combeferre, and he doesn't want to have to face the loneliness when he's not on the court during tournaments.

He breaks the news to Combeferre after the new year begins, with two weeks to go until the Australian Open. He's extremely open to the idea, knowing that he'll drop into a miserable state of boredom without his beloved sport, although his main priority has become making possibly his last grand slam a celebration to go out on.

He and Enjolras are on opposite sides of the draw, which is just how they like it. If they both play their cards right, it will be a Combeferre/Enjolras final, which is exactly how they want it to turn out.

Combeferre- running on the adrenaline of his prospective last grand slam- is on fire, getting to round three with ease. Almost all of his first serves make it in, and even his few second serves end up with him winning the point, and he valiantly defeats an angry Bahorel, and a strangely on-form Joly. His next round is a little more difficult(mostly because his opponent Marius' serve and volley style is something he doesn't experience often, with modern tennis players preferring to stay on the baseline) but he manages to beat him within four sets.

He feels sort of guilty for his win in the quarter final, narrowly edging through past rising newcomer Brian Courfeyrac after five long sets. The twenty-one year old is only just starting out in his bid to rise through the rankings, but it's clear that the boy has an immense amount of skill to have already reached his first quarter final of a major. He's one of the fastest players on the tour, darting about with an infectious energy that forces Combeferre to pick up the pace. It's the first time Combeferre has properly got to meet the other man, and after technical issues delay the match and give them ten minutes to speak, they become quick friends. After a long concession of deuces, the Irish boy is just beaten by the Dutch man.

He gets past Jean Prouvaire in straight sets, the young Frenchman struggling after a particularly strenuous quarter final, to find later on that day that his opponent in the final will be none other than his best friend, Julien Enjolras.

Enjolras is on top form despite the absence of a coach, his shoulder injury from the previous year having completely cleared up. He sails into the final having only lost one set. Despite his friend's bid for a win, Enjolras has promised not to go easy on Combeferre. He takes the first set, firing his strong forehand into the corners of the court. Combeferre fights back and wins the next two, a smile spreading across his face as it looks as if he's going to win the fourth set too and take the match.

He's serving for the match. He's up forty love. He chucks the ball into the air. Time seems to move slow, as if the ball hovering in the air instead of going in a parabolic curve. His racket collides with the ball and time seems to move at light speed, the ball crashing against the 'T' with such a velocity that Enjolras fails to return it.

Combeferre's legs give in and he collapses onto his back, his hands covering his face. He lifts his fist in celebration and runs up to the net to hug Enjolras. The crowd are a little confused; he's never been the kind to celebrate with so much excitement.

Everything is just a blur. He assumed he'd never win another grand slam, thinking the other players were too good and his skill was slipping. He has played some of the best tennis of his career during this particular tournament, yet his mind is still made up; he's going to retire and become Enjolras' coach. He's ushered over to the a camera for an interview before he can get a chance to process what he's going to say.

"You seem very emotional," the woman smiles. "Would you like a minute to take it all in?"

"I'm fine," he grins, an awkward laugh forming in his throat.

"Well, congratulations! You've already won fifteen grand slams; what is so special about this one?"

"Well, it's my last."

The crowd, initially wild with celebration, are silenced. The interviewer takes a second to register the information, not moving the microphone from Combeferre's face.

"It's time for me to retire," he finally speaks. "I came here today knowing that it would be my last final. Enjolras played so well, and I just know he's going to win his first major this year. He put up a good fight, and I'm just so happy that today was a success and I can go out on a high note. I've loved every minute of my career, and I just want to thank everyone who has supported me and got me to where I am today."

"So what's next for you?" the woman's interview has taken a turn, but she handles it well.

"Well," he grins over towards Enjolras. "I'm going to try my hand at coaching."