diff --git a/backup/content/posts/10605579.md b/backup/content/posts/10605579.md index f41b34e..9b38564 100644 --- a/backup/content/posts/10605579.md +++ b/backup/content/posts/10605579.md @@ -6,7 +6,7 @@ characters: - Mike Richards date: '2017-04-12' fandom: -- Hockey RPF +- Men's Hockey RPF notes: 'Unbetaed. diff --git a/backup/content/posts/12993741.md b/backup/content/posts/12993741.md index 2e20fe0..55654ce 100644 --- a/backup/content/posts/12993741.md +++ b/backup/content/posts/12993741.md @@ -6,7 +6,7 @@ characters: - Brendan Gallagher date: '2017-12-12' fandom: -- Hockey RPF +- Men's Hockey RPF notes: 'Takes place during a fictional end to the 2017-2018 season and is going to get contradicted by the actual end of the season eventually. I look forward to it. diff --git a/backup/content/posts/17311418.md b/backup/content/posts/17311418.md index 92d1dbb..0b5fc57 100644 --- a/backup/content/posts/17311418.md +++ b/backup/content/posts/17311418.md @@ -76,7 +76,7 @@ Harry raised his eyebrows. He'd heard the old Merlin had retired, but he hadn't "Lucky for me," Harry said. He smiled, because it always set people on edge when their disparaging remarks were met with smile, and also because it was lucky that he would spend time with the newly appointed Merlin. Harry had been a Kingsman agent for ten years now, and as much as the job was about knowing ten ways to disarm an assailant with only a toothpick, it was also about knowing where the real power lay in any organization. Merlin, who oversaw much of the support staff -- most importantly, the R&D division -- would be a far more useful ally than even Arthur. -Merlin shot Harry a scrutinizing look, eyes narrowed. Harry met his gaze and didn't let his smile slip, not even for a moment. Something passed over Merlin's face. A reassessment, perhaps. Good. Trust was not easily earned in their profession, but Harry believe he was more than up for the challenge. +Merlin shot Harry a scrutinizing look, eyes narrowed. Harry met his gaze and didn't let his smile slip, not even for a moment. Something passed over Merlin's face. A reassessment, perhaps. Good. Trust was not easily earned in their profession, but Harry believed he was more than up for the challenge. Harry fiddled with the car radio until he found a station that was reporting the news, something about a speech that Chancellor Kohl gave earlier in the week. Harry's German was shaky, atrophied after years of disuse. He would have to get some practice in while the stakes were still relatively low. diff --git a/backup/content/posts/50190073.md b/backup/content/posts/50190073.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..57b48ff --- /dev/null +++ b/backup/content/posts/50190073.md @@ -0,0 +1,464 @@ +--- +ao3_url: https://archiveofourown.org/works/50190073 +author: thedeadparrot +characters: +- Wout van Aert +- Mathieu van der Poel +- Sarah De Bie +date: '2023-09-19' +fandom: +- Cycling RPF +notes: Thanks to Dark\_Eyed\_Junco and manybumblebees for audiencing and listening + to me ramble about this. +rating: Explicit +relationship: +- Wout van Aert/Mathieu van der Poel +- Wout van Aert/Sarah De Bie +summary: Wout was seventeen when the name first appeared on his body. +tags: +- Soulmate-Identifying Marks +- Alternate Universe - Soulmates +title: The Fault in Ourselves (Not Our Stars) +warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply +--- + +### Chapter 1 + + +#### Chapter Summary + + + +#### Chapter Notes + + + + +*October 2011* + + +Wout was seventeen when the name first appeared on his body. It had happened overnight while he was asleep, so he didn’t even notice it until he dragged himself out of bed and stumbled into the bathroom for a morning piss, catching sight of the words in the large mirror above the sink. They were written under his left pectoral muscle, on the still-skinny expanse of his ribs. The letters were backwards, caught as they were in the mirror’s reflection, but Wout didn’t have to put much effort into deciphering them. The individual components of the name were simple enough, and Wout was familiar with them from reading lineup rosters, from race results, from the printed numbers they affixed to their bibs: Mathieu van der Poel. + +The surprise Wout felt at seeing it had more to do with the fact that it had taken so long for it to appear than anything else. Soulmarks tended to appear early on in puberty, and many of Wout’s friends and classmates had already had theirs for years. Wout was only just beginning to deal with all the messy parts of puberty. His voice had cracked awkwardly twice in the last week. Once a month, his mechanics demanded that they re-adjust and re-fit his cyclocross bike with his legs and arms and the rest of him growing longer. Getting his soulmark didn’t feel any different from those things, except maybe less embarrassing and annoying. + +Wout had never considered whose name he would get beyond the most cursory of thoughts. Wout’s mind had been taken up by other things for his teenage years: school, cycling, and some of the cuter girls in his class (some of the cuter guys, too). Adults were always saying that they shouldn’t worry about the names, that statistically, people were meeting their soulmates later in life, and Wout had believed them. + +He squinted at the name in the mirror, trying to work out how he felt about it. Wout was good at cyclocross – he had won plenty of races – but he wasn’t the boy wonder of the discipline, the anointed heir of Adrie van der Poel, the prodigy capable of clobbering even the older kids in their divisions. Mathieu had just moved up into the juniors along with Wout, and Wout could hang in there okay, but his coaches still frowned at every weigh-in, reminding him that he was small for his age and that there were no guarantees that he would get markedly bigger. It was a foregone conclusion that Mathieu would go pro once he graduated and joined the elite category. Wout’s parents were gentle and persistent in their reminders that he should plan on going to university so he would have a backup plan in case he wasn’t able to hang on when his competition got older and bigger. + +Wout had barely spoken to Mathieu. They trained separately with their own sets of training buddies, and if you could have a conversation during a race, you weren’t pedaling hard enough. Wout considered bringing up the topic the next time they saw each other before their next race – was it next week? Next month? But when Wout looked, bleary-eyed, at his own reflection – still too skinny, too short, and with teeth too big for his face – the idea felt ridiculous. It was possible that Mathieu hadn’t even gotten his own soulmark yet. Most soulmates didn’t get their soulmarks at the same time anyway. Wout had enough trouble talking to any of the girls in his class without tripping over all his words. + +“Wout!” his father called from downstairs, interrupting his reverie. “If you’re still sleeping, you’re going to be late for school!” Wout shook away the rest of his thoughts. His parents had already threatened to keep him from racing if he kept showing up late, and really, that was the most important thing he had to worry about this morning. + + + +--- + +Wout didn’t talk to Mathieu after their next race. It was a disgusting, sandy course, made more disgusting by the heavy rains the night before. Mathieu managed a convincing win, while Wout only managed to scrape his way into the top five because one of the boys ahead of him skidded into a barrier on the last lap, and the boy on his wheel got caught up in the mess, giving Wout the time and space to pull ahead. + +They didn’t talk at the next race either, when Mathieu took home another win, and Wout only managed seventh. + +Or the race after that. + +After a while, Wout mostly forgot the soulmark was even there. It became just another part of his body, like the mole on his back, the tiny scar on his right elbow, and the weird streak of blond hair that Wout never knew what to do with. + +His coaches saw it too, but they were professional enough not to say anything about it. In general, it was considered uncouth, impolite to mention someone else’s soulmark unless they brought it up first. At least in Europe. From the American movies Wout saw, it seemed like Americans might have a different concept of boundaries. + +Maybe there was gossip between his support staff, but Wout was only seventeen, still a child in their eyes. Once during a training cool down, while Wout was still catching his breath and focused on keeping his legs moving in the chilling autumn air, one of his coach asked him obliquely if he had spoken to Mathieu in the past few months. His expression was paternal, concerned, but maybe he was just curious. + +Wout wasn’t even lying when he said he hadn’t. + + + +--- + +The race should have been like any other race. Maybe it was a little less muddy, since it hadn’t rained in the past week. A gray, cloudy day. A chilly breeze. Autumn was fading into winter. Wout had caught Mathieu’s wheel, was doing his best to hang on, to follow Mathieu’s line. It was maybe the light-headedness that came from racing, but as Wout chased Mathieu up a ramp, he caught sight of the shape of an ankle, the defined lines of calf muscles taut and working, and some part of his brain that wasn’t starving for oxygen registered it as beautiful. He kept noticing it for the rest of the race. The graceful sweep of Mathieu’s corners. The effortless push of his bike through the rutted dirt, so smooth it looked like he was riding on tarmac. The growing breadth of his shoulders, the tilt of his head. + +Maybe Wout should have said something after that race, but he only just managed to push himself across the finish line for second place, edging out the third place finisher by half a wheel. He let himself collapse on the ground afterwards, chest heaving as he gasped for air. All he could do was give an awkward half-nod when Mathieu came by for a perfunctory post-race handshake. + +“Good race,” Mathieu said on autopilot, and even from where Wout was slumped against a barricade, face still covered in snot, stomach roiling with nausea, he couldn’t stop himself from noticing the clear blue of Mathieu’s eyes. + + + +--- + +It probably shouldn’t have felt so strange to be attracted to his soulmate. Somehow, it still managed to take Wout by surprise every time. At least it was less distracting and more just generally confusing. + +During a race it was easy to tune it out, to make everything about the movement of the bikes – the turn of the pedals, the spin of the wheels. It was off the bike – when Mathieu would tilt his head back to take deep gulps from his water bottle, exposing the long line of his throat, or when he would do some warm up or cool down stretches, pulling the thin lyrca of his skinsuit over the flex of his muscles – that Wout felt like he was losing his mind. He was seventeen, and he was horny all the time about everything. Even a shiny new paint-job on a sleek, beautiful bike could make him hard. But something about feeling that way about Mathieu never sat quite right. It always made Wout feel that slightest bit off-kilter. + +If Mathieu noticed, he never confronted Wout about it. When he did glance in Wout’s direction from time to time, his expression was always unreadable. + +Wout did his best to push it out of his mind. He had to focus on his season, because his results this year would have implications for what his team status would look like next year and the year after that. He could put this off until the off-season, until the long, lazy days of summer. + +Besides, one of the cute girls in Wout’s class had pulled him aside after school and told him that she was sick of waiting for him to notice that she was flirting with him and would he like to go out on a date with her. + +Wout had blinked in surprise at her, tongue-tied and startled, but he did manage to stutter out a ‘yes,’ which made her laugh. He had noticed her in class before, because she had pretty blond hair and she had a sweet smile and she would try to talk to him about their homework sometimes without any pressure or prompting from the teachers. He never knew what to say back, so he had been fairly certain that she thought he was just an idiot who needed extra help at school. Apparently, that wasn’t the case. Her name was Sarah, and she smelled faintly of lilacs, and Wout didn’t feel confused about her at all. + + + +--- + +The months passed. Wout got a little bit taller, a little bit stronger. He won more races again – always when Mathieu wasn’t competing – and maybe Wout shouldn’t feel proud of being able to trounce sixteen-year-olds, but when the other riders his age were a head taller and ten kilos heavier than him, he felt like the pride was still justified. He spent a lot of time with his coaches drilling technique and bike handling, trying to make up for whatever power he was lacking with skill. And then they made him do resistance training and eat massive amounts of protein in an attempt to build that power, too. + +The vast majority of Wout’s life was dedicated to cyclocross, but he did find time for some other things. He kept dating Sarah, because on top of being pretty, she was also sharp and capable of telling him when he was being a moron. When they were apart – usually because Wout had to travel for a race – he thought about her all the time. + +They knew they weren’t soulmates. Sarah’s soulmark was etched in a line up her shin, ending just before her kneecap. Wout had spotted it when she wore dresses, though it was harder to read it through the pantyhose. It probably helped that Wout really liked to stare at her legs. The name was written in Cyrillic, and Sarah confessed that she had never translated it, that she hadn’t gone looking on Facebook or Instagram or one of the soulmate search apps out there, because she was a little bit of a romantic and hoped that whatever happened would happen naturally. + +She found out about Wout’s soulmark during a heavy makeout session after she pulled Wout’s t-shirt over his head and saw his naked chest for the first time. Wout had felt his heart climb into his throat in that moment, his nerves icing over at what she might say or do. + +“Huh,” she said. She wore a half-smile on her face, and she ran her fingers over the letters, the touch delicate and careful. She knew who Mathieu was, of course. She had gone to Wout’s races and seen Mathieu get up onto the top step time and time again. + +“Are you…” she asked, her eyebrows pulling together. + +“No,” Wout said, and it was still the truth. He still looked at Mathieu out of the corner of his eye, but that was all it was. A glance from time to time. A fleeting consideration of *what if*. But it never amounted to anything more than that. They got on their bikes, raced each other around a field, and then they got off their bikes and didn’t say a word to each other beyond what was required for politeness’ sake. + +“Okay,” Sarah said without a hint of doubt or hesitation, and it was possible that was the moment that Wout fell in love with her. + +The two of them were young, probably too young and too early in their relationship to really be considering it, but Wout could see himself marrying her. When Wout thought about his future beyond his overwhelming desire to be paid to ride his bike all day, he wanted a family. A house, kids, a dog or two. He wanted what his parents had, what his parents had given him. He’d grown up with their gentle, unwavering stability, and Wout wanted to be able to provide that for his own children as well. + +His parents had never discussed it with him, but they weren’t soulmates. It was obvious enough from the names that curled around his father’s forearm and across the back of his mother’s neck. They still loved each other in a way that felt absolute and unshakable. They were happy together. + +Try as he might, Wouldn’t couldn’t imagine a life that looked like that while he was tied down to Mathieu van der Poel of all people. Their lives were too similar, their career trajectories too parallel. If they were to have anything like that, one of them would have to give it all up, and it sure as hell wouldn’t be Wout. + +No matter how much he might wonder what Mathieu’s thin lips tasted like. + +Wout reached up to touch Sarah’s cheek. She smiled at him, her eyes soft, when he pulled her in closer so that he could kiss her again. She laughed into his mouth when he skimmed his hands down her sides and found out she was ticklish. And really, it was all a perfect reminder that they had better things to think about than a name written on Wout’s skin. + + + +--- + +More races. A couple wins. More losses. Wout was working hard. He was good and getting better. Still, Wout was pretty sure he took everyone by surprise (including himself) when he ran past Mathieu on the last lap of a race while Mathieu was recovering from getting his wheel caught in a bad line. Wout put down his bike when the mud cleared, and he mounted it with such textbook precision he didn’t lose any time at all when they hit the final stretch. He thought he had a few other people just on his wheel, but he couldn’t bring himself to look behind him when the finish line was right fucking there, wide and open and empty. He found a final kick, dumping every last bit of himself into his legs, so that he was sprinting for the line. He crossed it first, and the rush of victory was so sweet his head spun with it. + +He was covered in mud. It had splattered all over his jersey, his legs. He had spit out as much as he could, but he was sure there was still some mud stuck between his teeth. Some of it had gone up his nose. It was hard to care about any of that when he was smiling so hard his face hurt. + +When he pulled over to his section of the pit afterwards, he was swarmed by congratulations from all sides: from his coach, from his mechanic, from Sarah – who gave him a celebratory kiss – from the other riders, from some well-meaning fans who had been watching from the crowd. Quentin, who had pulled into second behind Wout while following Wout’s wheel, gave him a handshake and a few congratulatory words in French. There was no better feeling in the world than winning a bike race, and there was something particularly delicious about being able to prove that he could beat Mathieu, too. + +Wout didn’t see Mathieu again until just before the podium ceremony. Mathieu was stony-faced and gloomy, the way he usually was when he made the podium but not the top spot. Wout hadn’t seen that look in months. That part was normal enough, even expected. None of them liked to lose, even if the podium was still an impressive achievement in its own right. What Wout wasn’t expecting was the look of anger, dark and accusatory, that he shot in Wout’s direction, as if Wout winning the race had been a personal act of betrayal. Wout had no idea what to make of it, because Mathieu’s annoyance and anger after losses were usually turned inwards instead of outwards. He glared back, not backing down from the challenge until Mathieu turned and looked away. + +It was in that moment that Wout realized what it was: Wout had known they were soulmates for months, and maybe Mathieu knew they were soulmates, too. + +The small, vicious, petty part of Wout that he tried to keep bottled up until the starting whistle of a race wondered if Mathieu had expected him, as his soulmate, to meekly accept Mathieu’s superiority on the bike, to never push or challenge him, to retire early and and stay at home, cheering for him from the sidelines while he raced for gold and glory. Maybe the fact that Wout had raced himself was just a nice little perk, a thing that made it so that he could have a sympathetic ear for all of Mathieu’s complaints without the need for any complicated explanations. + +Wout snorted, the sound of it loud enough to draw a confused look from Quentin, who was also standing there waiting for the ceremony to begin. Wout shook his head, partly to tell Quentin to mind his own business and partly out of the sheer absurdity of it all. He and Mathieu had been racing against each other for years. Wout had no idea how Mathieu could have gotten it into his head that Wout would ever be content to sit back and let him win everything. + +One of the organizers passed by, letting them know that the podium ceremony was going to start in the next five minutes. Mathieu, as the third place finisher, would be brought out first. Wout schooled his face into a politely neutral smile, doing his best to smooth away any signs of what he had just been thinking. He had left the potential for a relationship with Mathieu open for a while now. Not thrown fully open or anything like that, but just cracked open, enough to let a little bit of air, a little bit of light through. But maybe he had just been stupid, naive, hoping against hope that there was any space for gentleness between them. + +Wout wanted to race his bike for a living, and if he wanted to do that, he couldn’t let himself get confused or distracted. He had to focus. He had to slam that door shut. + +And so he did. + + +### Chapter 2 + + +#### Chapter Summary + + + +#### Chapter Notes + + + +> Many thanks once again to Dark\_Eyed\_Junco and manybumblebees for all their betaing/editing help. +> +> + + + +*August 2023* + + +The disappointment burned in Wout’s chest, a harsh, throbbing ache. It felt worse than going into the red for hours on end, worse than lactic acid burning through every muscle in his lower body, worse than crashing face first into tarmac. He was still slightly damp. Lycra dried quickly, but the air was thick with humidity after all the rain and Wout’s skin still prickled with sweat, even after he’d tried to mop up the worst of it with a towel he’d gotten at the finish line. + +Tadej was leaning against one of the poles of their tent as they waited for the rest of the race to finish. His eyes were closed, body sagging, and it was obvious that he was feeling the effects of the day’s racing. Wout had some idea of how much the GC competition during the Tour must have taken out of him, and the fact that he was even here was impressive. + +Mathieu, on the other hand, was standing only two steps away to Wout’s left. His expression was smooth and blank. His head was somewhere else. Wout had no idea what he was thinking, and he wasn’t going to ask. + +For Wout, it was another frustrating result after a year of frustrating results. This one smarted worse after the Tour de France he’d had. He had done his job. He had given everything he could to ensure Jonas took the yellow jersey into Paris, but every time he challenged a stage for himself, he came up short. And now it had happened again. He could hear the second place jokes writing themselves. + +The fatigue had begun to creep up on him now that the adrenaline was wearing off, so he found himself a curb and sat down on it, letting his body hunch over. He pressed a hand to his sternum, rubbing at it in an attempt to get the disappointment to dissipate before the press were allowed in and Wout would have to give polite, honest, and reasonable answers in a mixture of languages when all he wanted to do was disappear for a while and never have to speak to anyone ever again. + +A pair of long legs came into view as he was sitting there, just barely visible out of the corner of his eye. Wout looked up. It was Mathieu. Wout had no idea why he was standing there, looming over Wout. + +“Are we ever going to talk about it?” Mathieu asked. + +Wout squinted up at him in confusion, unclear on what the topic of conversation was. There was nothing to say. Mathieu had won (again), and Wout had lost (again). + +Mathieu’s lips twisted, and his throat bobbed as he swallowed, and if Wout didn’t know any better, he would think Mathieu was working up some courage. “I know that it’s complicated because you’re married, and you’re happy with your son – sons – but I think we need to talk about it eventually.” He made a vague gesture at his hip, where the fabric of his shorts had been ripped up in the crash. There were still red scratches there, scabbed over with blood, but parts of the letters “Ae” peeked out through the tear. Wout’s name. Mathieu’s soulmark. Wout had never wondered where it was before, and now, after a decade, he knew. It felt disorienting, like vertigo, his whole world tipping on its side. + +But the bitterness was still there, still sharp and poisonous. Wout loved Sarah. He loved his sons. When Wout had been allowed to hold Jerome for the first time, his eyes had started to leak at the corners just from all the feelings that had swelled up inside of him. That had only been two weeks ago. Wout did not want to talk about this right now, this weight he had been carrying around since he was seventeen. He wanted to sit here and lick his wounds and then go hide in his hotel room until tomorrow, when he would shake off this miserable day in the middle of a miserable season and start preparing for his next race. + +“No,” he said. + +He watched as Mathieu’s face twisted up, the disappointment written clear across his features. Part of Wout was viciously glad that he wasn’t the only one feeling disappointed in this moment. + +“We’re not talking about this now,” Wout continued. He stood up, and it felt good to be looking down at Mathieu again instead of craning his head up. It felt like he was reasserting some control over the situation. He was angry that Mathieu had beaten him in the race, that Mathieu had been better than him in the race, but he was also angry that Mathieu had picked today of all days to disrupt their status quo. They’d already spent over a decade battling each other at the highest levels of their sports. They had never needed to talk about it before, and Wout didn’t see why they needed to talk about it now. + +Mathieu pursed his lips, and Wout couldn’t tell if that was in acquiescence to Wout’s point or if he was gearing up for an argument. Thankfully, one of the various assistants took that moment to step in, to tell them that they were going to be moved to a new location to talk to the press in preparation for the podium ceremony, and Wout didn’t have to find out. Whatever fragile truce that held between them could last a little bit longer. + + + +--- + +Wout knew he was distracted and out of sorts when he finally did make it back to his hotel room. There were still afterimages behind his eyelids from the flash of all the cameras. His face still ached from trying to hold a smile. It was a relief to finally get away from it all. + +Sarah was sitting on the hotel bed with Jerome tucked against her chest as she watched some sort of British talk show with the volume turned low. Jerome was silent and sleeping. Wout could feel the slow, steady thump of his heart in his chest as he watched them together, that sweet, familiar ache of love. Georges was being looked after by Wout’s parents for the night, so they only had one child to deal with at the time, and Wout was so grateful for all that he had, all that he had been given. Sarah looked up, catching sight of Wout where he was standing in the entryway, and she smiled, eyes crinkling at the corners. She had washed her makeup off for the day, so the dark bags under her eyes were just as visible on her as they were on Wout. + +“Hey,” she said. She didn’t ask him how he was doing, and it was just another reminder of why he loved her. + +He let himself collapse on the bed, though he was careful not to jostle her or Jerome. She wrapped her one free arm around his shoulders, and he rolled in closer so that he could press his face into the curve of her neck. Her hair smelled familiar, like hotel shampoo and baby spit and still, as always, a little bit of lilacs from her moisturizer. Wout closed his eyes and let himself enjoy it. Here was a place where no one needed him to be anything other than himself, and all the almost-was’s and could-have-been’s of his entire fucking career fell away. + +The full force of his exhaustion, kept at bay by the crowds, the media, the team meetings, crept back in, spreading through his muscles. He ended up sagging into Sarah’s side. She could tell that he was upset, and her hand came up to pet his hair in a way that he’d always found soothing. He liked this, the gentle, wordless comfort shared between them. He could leave all of cycling behind for now and just appreciate all the things he did have instead of being plagued by all the things he didn’t. + +“I love you,” Wout murmured against her skin. He didn’t have any other words for what he was feeling, that bone-deep gratitude. + +Sarah smiled. Wout couldn’t see it, but he knew the smile was there just from the soft scrape of her fingers on his scalp. “I love you, too,” she said. She didn’t need to say anything else, either. + +Wout let himself drift for a moment, but there was still a niggle at the back of his mind. Not just the new silver medal – shoved into a bag somewhere, to be taken home and hung up next to his other silver medals – but the conversation with Mathieu afterwards, the one where Mathieu tried to dig up ancient history and fracture their fragile detente. + +He must have tensed up or twitched, or shown some other physical tell that Sarah could read, because she asked, “Do you want to talk about it?” Her voice was low and soothing. “Not the race if that’s what’s bothering you, but you seem more upset than usual. I know you were hoping that this year–” + +Wout shook his head. He had already spent too much time rehashing the race with reporters, with coaches. To go over it again would just be picking at it like a scab. “After the race, Mathieu tried to talk to me. About our–” He gestured to his chest where the name lay hidden underneath his t-shirt. Maybe it wasn’t worth bringing it up. Maybe it wouldn’t amount to anything. But Sarah was his wife, and Wout still wanted to share his whole life with her. + +“Oh, after a decade, he finally decided to stop waiting around for you to make a move, huh?” she said. Her amusement was evident in her voice. + +“I wouldn’t call it ‘making a move,’” Wout explained, pulling back enough so that he could look up at her face. “He just wanted to talk about it.” + +Sarah actually started to snicker after he said that. She muffled the sound with the back of her hand in an attempt not to disturb Jerome, but her shoulders still shook from the effort to keep it in. “Oh, honey,” she said once she got her giggles under control. “I’ve seen the way he looks at your ass.” + +Wout made a face at her. Wout was certain that Mathieu saw Wout as nothing more than a minor inconvenience, and the idea that he might be attracted to Wout in any way felt laughable. Wout’s own feelings in that direction had been bundled up, shoved into the furthest back corner of his mind. Compartmentalization was what allowed him to focus during his races, to tune out the weight of expectations on him, the constant awareness that no matter how good he was, so very often he wasn’t good enough. “He just wanted to talk,” Wout reiterated. “I didn’t want to talk to him.” + +Sarah let out a thoughtful hum. She started to pet Wout’s hair again. “But you’re thinking you might want to talk to him in the future?” + +Wout shrugged. Would it be safe to pull those feelings out of storage, to dust them off, see how they fared after years and years of pitched battles fueled by their long-simmering resentment? He didn’t know. “I can’t tell right now, not with all of this–” + +“But it’s an option you’re willing to keep open,” Sarah guessed. + +“I’m not leaving you,” Wout said. “I’m not leaving the boys.” It felt important to put the words out there, to make sure she knew that they were first and foremost on Wout’s mind. + +“I know that,” she said. “We could make it work, like me and Natalia.” Natalia was Sarah’s soulmate. They had connected via Instagram a few years ago while Natalia was doing a doctoral program in chemical engineering at the University of Antwerp. It had started out as a casual friendship, mostly just chats back and forth for a while, until the relationship had blossomed into something more. Wout had been almost sick with nerves and jealousy at the time, uncertain as to where he would stand when it all finally played out. But he and Sarah had talked it out for months, squeezed in grueling emotional conversations around Wout’s hectic training and racing schedule, and in the end, they figured out how to put the right feelings into the right words. Now Wout included Natalia in the list of things he was grateful for, since she was someone who could be with Sarah and the boys when Wout’s job so often took him away from home. + +“I guess,” Wout said. Natalia was almost unnaturally relaxed as a person, someone who let the world take her where it took her, and she was happy to adapt to almost any situation. Wout had no idea what Mathieu even wanted out of a conversation, much less out of a relationship. But that was thinking too far ahead. Wout couldn’t let himself consider it. + +“A matched set,” Sarah said. “I get a home wife, and you get a work husband.” + +“You know Christophe is already my work husband,” Wout said loyally. Not in any romantic way, but Christophe was strong, and he was tough, and he was brilliant, and he could always make Wout smile when Wout was feeling tired and stressed out. + +Sarah laughed again, but it was gentle this time, soft and soundless. “For what it’s worth, I do think you should talk about it with Mathieu. It’ll help clear the air.” + +“We don’t have any air that needs to be cleared,” Wout grumbled. They were fine. They had always been fine, no matter what sort of drama the press tried to cook up. + +She pressed a kiss to his hair. “We both know that isn’t true.” + +Wout was considering putting up more of a fight, but it felt more out of habit than anything else. He had been dealing with intrusive questions about his relationship with Mathieu for most of his career, and he had taken to shutting down that avenue of inquiry as quickly as possible. But Sarah was his wife, and she had an irritating habit of being right about most things. He probably did need to talk to Mathieu, but that would have to wait until after the ITT competition. And until the sting of another runner-up spot wore off. + +Jerome chose that moment to wake up and start screaming for attention, and then they both had other, more important things to worry about. + + + +--- + +Wout had Mathieu’s number. He had never used it, not even to send bland birthday messages. What would they even text each other about, anyway? *I’m looking forward to trying to rip your legs off at Roubaix this week. Good luck.* + +But now that it was October, the road season was winding down and the cyclocross season was coming up. They wouldn’t be competing against each other again for months, enough time for their competitive instincts to simmer in a way that wouldn’t threaten to boil over. If they were going to talk this year, there wouldn’t be a better time. + +Wout chose a quiet Wednesday, after he had sent Georges off to school and put Jerome down for a nap, to pull out his phone and shoot Mathieu a text message saying that he was ready to talk and could they get coffee sometime. Mathieu made the last attempt. Now it was Wout’s turn. + +Mathieu replied with a simple, *sure*, and then he sent over the address for a coffee place in Antwerp and told Wout he could pick the time. + +The day of their coffee meeting (Wout could not bring himself to consider it a date) was brisk and sunny. Autumn was beginning to fully assert itself, and there was a welcome chill after the stifling heat of the summer. Wout made sure to bundle himself up in a nondescript hoodie and hat, leaving his Jumbo gear at home. The last thing he wanted was an eager fan barging into their conversation asking for autographs. + +When Wout arrived at the coffee shop, he saw Mathieu waiting outside, leaning against the brick of the wall. He had a cap pulled low over his eyes as he fiddled with his phone, plain jeans and a long-sleeved t-shirt, looking like any other passing pedestrian. Even with his face hidden, Wout could still pick him out from the middle of a crowd, just from the familiar shape of his body. + +Wout walked up to him. “Hey,” he said. + +Mathieu looked up. “Hey,” he said back. + +They stared at each other for a moment, the silence stretched between them, awkward and uncomfortable. The connection between them had always been magnetic, but in that science class experiment sort of way where the same polarities lined up, and the more they were pushed together, the harder they pushed each other away. + +Wout said eventually, “We should probably go inside, put in our orders.” + +Mathieu gave him a half-nod and followed him in. Thankfully, the barista at the counter didn’t seem to recognize either of them, so Wout relaxed a bit as he ordered himself some sort of fancy chai thing and a croissant. Mathieu just got a cappuccino. Wout knew the coffee orders of most of his teammates and training buddies already, but he had no idea what Mathieu liked despite the long years they’d known each other. It felt strange to learn it now. + +They grabbed a small table off to the side, but near the large front windows. It was out of the way enough that it would be more effort to bother them, but still bright enough that Wout wouldn’t feel boxed in by the walls. + +“So,” Wout said after they settled down with their food and drinks, “You wanted to talk about it.” + +Mathieu turned his head to look out the window. His jaw clenched. Wout knew so many of his tells. The sag of his shoulders when he had nothing else left in his legs. The tension in his back when he was about to launch an attack. The shift of his weight as he was about to take a corner. Wout had no idea what this expression meant, though. Mathieu said, “How are Sarah and the kids?” He sounded like he was talking through gritted teeth. + +“They’re fine,” Wout said, “but if you wanted to know about them, I could have told you that over a text message.” + +Mathieu didn’t say anything for a moment. Wout had always gotten the impression he had embraced the rock star swagger of a pro athlete, fond of fast cars and faster lovers, but here, he had none of that. Just discomfort and hesitation. Eventually, Mathieu asked, “Did we ever have a chance?” + +Wout felt his face scrunch up in confusion. “What?” + +Mathieu continued, his voice a little raw with a hardened edge. “The two of us, as– as soulmates. Did we ever have a chance? I know you have your perfect fucking family and your perfect fucking life, but I just wanted to know if I– if you had ever thought that maybe we could– if you ever considered me an option.” + +Wout resisted the urge to say “What?” again, because it didn’t seem useful in this particular situation. This was not how he had expected this to go at all. Before he showed up, he couldn’t have told anyone what he had been expecting, but this wasn’t it. Despite Sarah’s teasing, he had supposed that Mathieu had been content to accept their soulmate status as an unfortunate fact of life, a weird quirk of fate. The idea that Mathieu had even considered Wout in any sort of romantic sense had never crossed Wout’s mind. The idea that Mathieu could ever – had ever – consider Wout attractive was even more mind-boggling. For Wout, those old teenage desires still sparked from time to time, much to his own dismay, but they tended to flicker and fade as soon as the adrenaline wore off. Wout pressed his tongue against his teeth as he considered his answer. “I did for a bit when we were younger,” he confessed, “but it always– it just felt impossible given who we are and what we do. We were always at each other’s throats. We had to be.” + +Mathieu swallowed and nodded, not quite willing to meet Wout’s eyes. Wout was so used to his face being hidden behind the mirrored lenses of his sunglasses. He didn’t know how to process each minute shift of Mathieu’s expression. Mathieu said, “I had thought that maybe– that it could be something we figure out after we retired.” + +“After we retired?” Wout blurted out before he could stop himself. “Fuck, that could still be another decade from now.” + +Mathieu shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess I hoped that since it was supposed to happen, everything would work itself out in the end. Retirement was just– it was something to look forward to for a while I guess.” There was something in his wistful tone of voice that reminded Wout of the fairy-tale cycling romance that had defined Mathieu’s parents and their marriage, how the cycling media had fawned over the daughter of the great Raymond Poulidor being the soulmate of the dashing young cycling star, Adrie van der Poel. A beautiful, inevitable, fated union that had produced Mathieu himself, a generational talent who would also go down in the history books. In this story, of course, Mathieu got to be the hero, and Wout was merely a footnote. Maybe this was all it was for Mathieu, trying to play the role that had been assigned to him, and in whatever story they were playing out, Wout was his soulmate, so of course they were meant for each other. Whether or not Mathieu had any interest in Wout as a person was beside the point. + +Wout said, “I wanted a family, and I wanted to have kids while I was still young enough to chase after them. I didn’t want to wait.” And he’d fallen in love with Sarah, a love that had felt all the sweeter because the heavy hand of fate hadn’t been involved. + +“I didn’t know that.” Mathieu was looking straight at Wout again now, and his eyes were bitter, laced through with hurt. + +It was Wout’s turn to shrug. “You never asked.” + +That shut the conversation down. Wout sipped his drink, nibbled at his croissant, did a little bit of people watching through the window. This whole thing was excruciating, like being stuck in a dentist’s chair while his gums and teeth were poked and prodded by sharp metal instruments. No wonder they’d avoided it for so long. + +Eventually, Wout said, “I didn’t even know you wanted that from me.” Mathieu hadn’t been exactly waiting around. Wout hadn’t kept track or anything like that, but he had seen some of the people Mathieu had dated over the years. Wout did pretty well with the right lighting and camera angles, and he’d been told he was attractive ‘for a cyclist,’ but he wasn’t a model. He had assumed Mathieu was much happier with someone who actually enjoyed clubs and parties and loud music. Wout knew he was stodgy and boring, and he preferred it that way. + +Mathieu shot Wout a sharp look, this time tinged with what might be condescension. “I’ve had a crush on you since we were fourteen,” Mathieu said, and the *you fucking moron* he had mentally tacked onto that statement was clear from his tone of voice. + +Wout blinked in surprise. When he was fourteen, he got a lot of pointed questions from adults about if he was meant to be gathering with this age group and did he know that the ten-year-olds were meeting over there. + +“I was *really fucking* excited when your name came in,” Mathieu continued. “I wanted to talk to you about it, but we were in different divisions at the time and never saw each other, and then when we were racing each other again, you just looked annoyed all the time, and I felt like throwing up every time I thought about talking to you.” Wout had gained a reputation for a resting bitch face when he was fifteen. He was losing all the time, and he hated being smaller than everyone else, and being a teenager was just awful in general, so it was just easier to scowl at everyone and live in a permanent sulk. He did grow out of it eventually, but it took a while. This revelation did put all the stilted non-conversations they had had into context, though, the way Mathieu never quite seemed to be able to look Wout in the eye. “I thought that maybe, you know, we were soulmates, and if we kept spending time around each other, you would fall in love with me eventually. Maybe I just kept waiting around too long. I don’t know. And then you got married.” + +It was kind of stupidly romantic, some real Hollywood romcom shit. Wout thought of that younger Mathieu, somehow excited at the prospect of getting Wout’s name on his body, hoping for and dreaming of his own fairy-tale ending. It was so very different from Wout’s own disinterested reaction. On instinct, he reached up to touch his chest, brushing against his hoodie where Mathieu’s name was hidden under layers of fabric. + +Mathieu noticed, of course. His eyes zeroed in on the position of Wout’s hand. “Is that where yours is?” he asked. + +Wout nodded. “Yeah, it’s usually hidden by the strap of my heart rate monitor.” He’d been naked in front of countless teammates, coaches, swannies, and even some of the team’s media people, the soulmark open and obvious where anyone could see, but around Mathieu or the general press or television cameras, he’d always been a bit more careful to turn away, to keep his chest shielded. He hadn’t even thought about why that might be. Once, one of the cameramen had asked Wout to review some footage of the team on the bus. In it, the monitor strap had shifted while Wout was peeling off his TT skinsuit, and parts of the letters “oel” were visible on his chest. The cameraman had looked embarrassed as he asked Wout if he should delete it, almost as if he had accidentally caught Wout’s penis on camera. Many of the other riders on the team had public, visible soulmarks – Jonas’ was written along his jawline – but unlike them, Wout wasn’t single or partnered with his soulmate. The fact that it was Mathieu would bring plenty of unwelcome attention with it. Wout had told the cameraman that yeah, he would prefer it deleted. He didn’t want to deal with it if the footage did make its way into the public, this new invasion of his privacy. He could already imagine the rude speculation from fans, the questions from nosy journalists that would toe the line of propriety as they asked him about his relationship to his biggest rival. + +“Ah,” Mathieu said. His face made another complicated expression that Wout didn’t know how to interpret. Wout got the impression that he was fucking up this entire conversation, and he didn’t even know what he was doing wrong. + +“Why now?” Wout asked, because it was a question that had burned in the back of his mind. “Why, after all this time, did you have choose after fucking Worlds to say something?” + +Mathieu rubbed at his forehead. “I just– it was this really huge, career-defining achievement, and it just felt like– I wasn’t– I wanted to be able to share it with my soulmate.” + +“Yeah, I’m sure that day was really fucking difficult for *you*,” Wout said. He tried to keep his voice dry and steady and even, and he thought he even mostly succeeded. + +At least Mathieu had the sense to look abashed at that. + +Another stretch of silence. Mathieu’s fingers twitched against his coffee cup. Wout took another bite of his croissant. All around them, the sounds of the cafe hummed along, from the chatter of the other tables to the hiss of the espresso machine. + +Wout wished he knew what Mathieu had wanted out of this conversation. His own expectations had been low. He had just wanted to hear Mathieu out, to satisfy some of his curiosity about the other half of this equation, and what he’d gotten out of it was that Mathieu had a crush on him when they were too young and too stupid to know any better and that Mathieu was annoyed at him for going off the soulmate script and making his own life for himself. “Mathieu,” Wout said with a heavy sigh, “what do you *want*?” He could hear how tired he sounded. + +He watched as Mathieu’s throat worked, his jaw clenching and unclenching. He was choosing his words carefully, putting all those years of media training to use. When he made up his mind, he met Wout’s gaze head-on, and the blue of his eyes was startling in its intensity. + +“You,” he said simply. + +It was as if the whole cafe had gone silent at that moment, drowned out by the ringing in Wout’s ears. Wout felt his mouth go dry, his body suddenly aware of their proximity, even if there was an entire table in between them. Their knees were almost touching. Those old feelings bubbled up again, dredged up from their old, forgotten hiding places, ready to spill out into the light. It had been easier to bury them when he had thought there wasn’t a chance of them being reciprocated, layers of as much protective covering as he could manage, all that anger and bitterness and hurt. Yeah, this year had been tough and frustrating, but as much as Mathieu was a source of that frustration, the fact that Wout hadn’t been good enough wasn’t his fault. Desire curled in Wout’s chest, and on instinct, he wanted to push it away, to dig a deeper hole so he could bury it again, but Mathieu was being honest and straightforward and unambiguous now, and he deserved Wout’s honesty in return. + +“Okay,” Wout said. “We can do that.” + +Now it was Mathieu’s turn to rear back in confusion. “What? That’s it?” + +“That’s it,” Wout said. He felt a flutter of nerves in the pit of his stomach, the kind he always got before big races, that potential that lingered in the air and had a physical weight. When he looked at Mathieu, he wanted to kiss that stunned expression off his face. That wasn’t an old feeling, but it wasn’t brand new either. Wout had left the Tour de France early because there were more important things in life than cycling, and this thing that he’d only let himself want briefly, that he’d resented and feared for so long after that, maybe this was more important than cycling, too. “I’m not leaving Sarah or the kids. That’s not negotiable. We’re not doing anything behind her back, either. But if you want to give it a try, I’m willing to try.” + +Mathieu’s hand shot forward and settled on top of Wout’s, fingers tightening around the back of Wout’s hand. Somehow, his expression had only gotten more intense. It was the first time they had touched today, skin on skin, and it felt bright, electric, charged with potential. “Do you really mean that?” Mathieu asked. His voice had gone low and soft, scraped raw with emotion. The sunlight from the window was stark, and Wout saw in Mathieu’s face the lines of the boy he had raced against his entire life overlaid on top of the man he had become. + +Wout twisted his hand in Mathieu’s grip until they were palm-to-palm. He gave Mathieu’s hand a squeeze back. It was an odd imitation of their usual post-race handshakes, except this one marked a beginning instead of an ending. + +“Yeah, I do.” + + + +--- + +The door swung open with enough force that it smacked into the wall behind it. Wout took a moment to worry about the damage that could do and the cost it would take to repair it, but this was Mathieu’s house. It was his problem to deal with, not Wout’s. + +It was November now. The road season was well and truly over, and they were reshaping their training around their return to cyclocross. They weren’t preparing together, because that would probably be too much for the new and delicate state of their relationship, and it was safer for their old habits to take precedence. + +The sky outside the bedroom windows was a wash of purples and pinks. They’d had an early dinner at one of the fancy places Mathieu liked, and while they were hidden away at a private table, they’d held hands and gossiped about the latest moves and signings in the peloton. Mathieu seemed to have all the best dish on everyone, and he gave Wout all the best scoops with undisguised glee. But outside of that, Mathieu had been sweet, attentive, nervously glancing in Wout’s direction like he was worried Wout could disappear at any second. Wout had been charmed by it, seeing this version of him, so different from his usual confident swagger, and knowing Mathieu had also been anxious about this had helped Wout relax, too. + +(Sarah had done her best to calm his nerves beforehand. “Yes, you can have dinner and a sleepover with your boytoy, but don’t forget that you’re on diaper duty for all of next week, okay?” she’d told him as she straightened the collar of Wout’s shirt. + +Wout had sputtered out, “He’s not my *boytoy*,” in protest. + +Natalia, who had been watching the whole thing from the kitchen table, had giggled into her wine glass.) + +And now they were here, in Mathieu’s bedroom. Wout’s nerves attempted to make a reappearance, an uncertainty creeping into the back of his mind, but then Mathieu shoved him against the nearest wall and kissed him. Mathieu’s hands cupped the back of Wout’s head, pulling down the few centimeters between them so he didn’t have to reach up. Mathieu’s mouth tasted like the after-dinner mints, but there was still a hint of garlic underneath. + +“Fuck,” Mathieu said against Wout’s lips, “you have no idea how many times I’ve thought about messing up your stupid fucking hair.” He dug his fingers into Wout’s scalp, making good on his promise. Well, until he yanked both himself and his hand back. “Fucking hell, how much gel did you put in there?” He wiped his fingers on his nice dress pants in a way that made Wout cringe. + +“Fuck off,” Wout shot back. “Some of us actually like to give a shit beyond getting a buzz cut every three months. I cannot believe you managed to get a shampoo to sponsor you when you have the most boring haircut in the world.” + +Mathieu smirked at him, and there was something in his expression that Wout wasn’t sure he trusted. + +“What?” Wout asked, preparing himself for a lecture on hair care or sponsorships or something in between. + +“I love it when you’re an asshole. Reminds me that your whole calm, polite, level-headed nice guy thing is just a facade.” + +“Hey!” Wout said, though he could feel himself flushing, startled as he always was when Mathieu was easy and generous with his affection. “I am nice. And there’s nothing wrong with being polite.” + +Mathieu rolled his eyes and grabbed a fistful of Wout’s shirt. Wout could hear Sarah in the back of his mind complaining about getting wrinkles out of his clothes. “I’m going to stick my tongue in your mouth again,” Mathieu said. And then he did. + +Wout’s hands came up to grip Mathieu’s shoulders. It still surprised Wout how much bigger Mathieu was than Sarah, who was the only person Wout had kissed for over a decade. Wout didn’t have to lean over quite as far, and Mathieu didn’t settle quite as easily in the circle of Wout’s arms. Wout had always liked kissing, and even though he hadn’t had any alcohol with dinner, he still felt buzzed, fuzzy and clumsy and joyful. + +Mathieu’s fingers fumbled with the buttons of Wout’s shirt, and when he got frustrated with how long that was taking, he went straight for pulling Wout’s shirt from where it was tucked into his pants. He snaked his hands underneath the fabric when it finally came loose, getting his hands on the bare skin of Wout’s stomach. Wout shivered, partly because Mathieu’s fingers were still a little cold from the chilly night air and partly because it was Mathieu touching him. + +“Come on,” Mathieu said. “I want us both naked.” He drew back again, this time trying to get out of his own shirt. He half-unbuttoned it before trying to yank it over his head. It was not at all graceful, and Wout liked being able to see him like this, a little stupid and a little silly, without any of their usual public self-consciousness. + +Wout finished unbuttoning his shirt, peeling it off, shucked his pants and boxers, pulled his socks off his feet. When he finished with that, he looked up and caught Mathieu staring at him. Mathieu had only managed to get down to his boxers. One of his socks was still on. It had been a long time since Wout had felt any particular self-consciousness over his body. Constantly dressing and undressing around other people had become a routine part of his life. And Sarah had experienced pretty much every good, bad, and weird variation of Wout’s body that it was possible to experience over the last decade. But Wout still felt a little shy underneath Mathieu’s attention. Mathieu’s body had always been so beautiful, and Wout wanted Mathieu to find his body beautiful, too. + +He got his answer when Mathieu lunged forward, grabbing hold of Wout’s hips to reel him in closer. After he decided Wout was close enough, his hands roamed over Wout’s back, his side, his chest, like he wanted to touch every part of Wout at once as he placed biting, stinging kisses along Wout’s neck, collarbone, shoulders. Wout used the proximity to explore as well. It was a little surprising, but it felt less like an expedition into new and unfamiliar territory and more like a remapping, a reacquaintance, of a place he knew by heart. He knew the planes of Mathieu’s chest, the width of his hips, the corded power of his thighs. All of it was still lean and narrow right now, but it would take on new bulk for the cross season. + +Mathieu’s hands found their way to Wout’s ass and gave it one good grope as he yanked Wout even closer, so that they were pressed together, shoulder to hip. Wout could feel Mathieu’s hard cock through the thin fabric of his boxers, and it made him hungry, greedy for skin. “I shouldn’t be the only one naked here,” he said into Mathieu’s mouth. It was hard to stop kissing Mathieu when his lips were *right there*. + +“Bossy,” Mathieu said, teasing, but he still wiggled out of his boxers and kicked off his last sock before herding Wout over to the bed. + +It was made, the sheets lined up in crisp, neat corners, like maybe someone had come by to clean today. Wout was flattered. When Natalia visited, the floors of their house were usually littered with Georges’ toys, and the sink was always a mess of partially rinsed bottles and dirty dishes waiting to be loaded into the dishwasher. Mathieu gave Wout a shove, and Wout let himself fall back onto the bed. It startled a laugh out of him, a giddy, fizzy feeling bubbling up. + +Mathieu climbed onto the bed after him and straddled Wout’s hips, looking down at him with hooded eyes. His gaze was fixed on Wout’s chest where the soulmark was, and he reached out to trace the letters of his own name with careful fingers. He licked his lips, but he didn’t say anything. He seemed shy again, wordless, that teenage kid who felt like throwing up every time he thought about talking to his soulmate. + +“Hey,” Wout said. He settled his hands on Mathieu’s hips, brushing his thumb against Mathieu’s soulmark, where “Wout van Aert” was written in a clean, clear hand. “We got here, didn’t we?” Maybe it wasn’t what Mathieu had fantasized about back then, having to share Wout with another person, another life, but they had always been intertwined, bound up in each other. They were just giving it a shot off the bike as well. + +Mathieu’s face scrunched up. He turned his head to the side, but Wout still caught sight of the shine of unshed tears in his eyes. “Fuck,” Mathieu said as he brought one hand up to rub at his nose. “You’re such a sap. No wonder you got married and started popping out babies as soon as you could.” + +“You like it though,” Wout replied. It amazed him that even just a month ago, he would have taken the bullshit that came out of Mathieu’s mouth at face value. + +Mathieu didn’t say anything in response to that, but he did lean over to kiss Wout again, settling his weight on top of Wout’s, blanketing Wout’s body with his own. He was heavier than Sarah, unsurprisingly, but he was also warmer, radiating nothing but heat. Sarah always complained about the cold and would cling to Wout on winter nights to leech the warmth from his body. + +“So,” Mathieu said when he recovered his composure again. “Have you ever fucked a guy before?” His eyes were dry, and they twinkled with mischief. + +Wout shrugged. “Do handjobs count?” That had happened when he was fifteen, just stupid messing around with one of his training buddies while they were trying to figure out what to do with their new and confusing hormones. + +Mathieu’s grin, already far too smug, somehow managed to get more smug. “Does this mean I get to take your ass virginity? That’s pretty hot.” + +Wout rolled his eyes and smacked Mathieu in the thigh. “I never said that.” + +Mathieu’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “You and Sarah – wow, I never thought you were that kinky.” + +“Are we going to keep talking about my ass or are we going to do something about it?” Wout asked. He bucked his hips up, grinding his cock against the place where Mathieu’s cock met his balls, enjoying the friction of pubic hair against his sensitive skin. + +Mathieu made a hissing noise, eyelids falling closed. + +“You talk a big game, but you can’t back it up,” Wout continued. He reached between them to give Mathieu’s cock a squeeze, just to see if he could make Mathieu make that sound again. + +Mathieu obliged, but then he smacked Wout’s hand away. “Shut up,” he said. “I’m going to blow your mind.” He pushed himself down the bed until his face was level with Wout’s hard cock. + +“I’ll believe it when I see it,” Wout shot back. + +Mathieu snorted, but he didn’t say anything. He let his mouth do the talking, which, okay, wasn’t the coherent turn of phrase, but Wout was finding it difficult to be coherent when Mathieu van der Poel was sucking his cock. + +The feel of it was hot, wet, soaked in spit. Mathieu had obviously done this before and really fucking liked it, because he was eager and focused and more than a little reckless, not so different from how he was during a race. He lapped at the head, pushed down as far as his throat would let him, and he made the same pleased noises at the back of his throat that he did when he was eating a fancy dessert. Wout’s hands came up to tangle in Mathieu’s hair, which was, despite the short length of it, soft to the touch. Maybe Wout shouldn’t have given him so much shit about the Alpecin endorsement earlier. + +The sight of Mathieu between Wout’s legs with Wout’s cock between his lips was maddening, both disorientingly wrong and perfectly right at the same time. Wout had never let himself imagine that they would ever end up here, like this, but now the image was seared into his brain. + +It didn’t take much for Wout to come given the circumstances. There had been a lot of touching and kissing tonight, and Mathieu was as good as he promised he would be. Wout’s hips jerked, and he let out a loud moan, eyes squeezed shut, fingers tightening in Mathieu’s hair, as he spilled into Mathieu’s mouth. + +“Fuck,” Wout said as he caught his breath. His body hummed with the pleasure. Not quite the same thing as winning a bike race, but not entirely different, either. + +Mathieu licked his lips and smirked as he crawled up Wout’s body. “Good enough for you?” he asked, but he didn’t wait for an answer before putting his mouth on Wout’s again. The kiss was salty, filthy with come. + +Wout used his leverage to roll them over, so that Mathieu was on his back, sprawled out, languid on the bed sheets. His cock, hard and red, lay against his belly. His grin was bright and sharp. He raised his eyebrows. Wout wanted nothing more than to wipe that expression off Mathieu’s face, to meet Mathieu’s challenge and even beat it. + +That was probably easier said than done, though, because Wout had never put a cock in his mouth before. And while he didn’t think it was exactly rocket science, the prospect felt even more intimidating when he slid down the bed and saw Mathieu’s cock up close. It seemed bigger here than it did in Wout’s hand. But Wout hadn’t gotten to this point in his career by backing down from new and interesting challenges. He started with a tentative brush of his lips against the head, where Mathieu had already started to leak pre-come. Mathieu smelled musky and male here, both alien and familiar, maybe with a hint of the cologne he wore to dinner. Wout glanced up so that he could gauge Mathieu’s reaction. + +Mathieu was staring at him, his eyes heavy and dark. His lips were parted, and his breath came short, and his hands were clenched in the sheets at his sides. Wout could tell he was wound tight, and it was all from this, the barest of touches. He did it again, flicking his tongue out this time so that he could taste skin. He felt the jerk of Mathieu’s hips against his hands, heard the low groan that escaped Mathieu’s throat, and he realized something important. Wout was still learning how to read the expressions of Mathieu’s face and how to hear all the things Mathieu wasn’t saying, but he was already fluent in the language of Mathieu’s body. + +Wout tried a few different things with his tongue, his teeth, his hands, trying to see what made Mathieu make the best noises, attempting to build up some skills in this department. In the end, he didn’t need much in the way of expertise, because all it took was him wrapping his lips around the head of Mathieu’s cock and giving it a careful suck before Mathieu’s orgasm hit. Wout wasn’t ready for it, and the come flooded his mouth, spilling out over his lips, dripping down his chin. It was a little gross, but it was a little hot, too, being able to make Mathieu come his brains out without much effort at all. He grabbed a tissue so he could spit out most of it and mop up the rest. He let himself enjoy the sight of Mathieu with his chest and neck flushed, an arm thrown over his eyes, lips bitten red. Wout could feel his heart clench, a seeping tenderness for this man leaking through his limbs. + +He crawled back onto the bed, laying down next to Mathieu. Mathieu rolled onto his side to face him, and he was smiling. His body was loose-limbed and relaxed. It was the happiest Wout had ever seen him. + +“I’m glad you’re my soulmate,” Wout confessed. He settled one hand on Mathieu’s hip, right over Mathieu’s soulmark. It hadn’t always been true. Hell, for most of their careers, it hadn’t been true. But in this moment, Wout felt nothing but gratitude for all that they’d shared, all that they could and would share. As a sport, cycling was all about pushing yourself to the limit of what you were capable of and then pushing yourself just a little bit further than that. And Wout was learning that maybe– maybe love was a little like that, too. + +“Such a goddamn sap,” Mathieu said, but he placed his hand on Wout’s chest right over his soulmark, and he didn’t take it away for the rest of the night. + +FIN. +