Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Bieles, Luxembourg. January 2017.

He does not remember the first time he met Wout van Aert.

One day he was not there, and then the next he was. Now life, cycling, is unfathomable without him there. They have been doing this for a long time, Mathieu knows. Children when they started, the thrill of racing and winning had pulled Mathieu to Wout like a magnet, as if he was a lost boat at sea and Wout was the sole beacon on a lonely island, calling him home.

The child-like wonder of finding someone like him had morphed into something else as he grew. As they both grew. They had never been friends, too competitive, too selfish, too talented, to be able to coexist. But one day, while basking in the glory of their teenage days, when they both knew it was a matter of time before a big team called them up for a professional career, Mathieu had glanced at Wout, and he had seen it. He recognized it well enough, because he had seen it in the mirror, when his own reflection stared back at him.

The chase. The thrill. The understanding. The knowledge that, no matter what, he had found someone like him.

Mathieu met his equal that day.

Naturally, he had to beat him. No, not beat him. He had to crush him; he had to destroy him. There is only one step at the top of the podium, and it had to be Mathieu’s. Balance and life depend on it.

That’s the way that he was brought up. His father, a fierce competitor who took losing as failure. His brother, who had fallen short of those expectations more times than Mathieu cared to admit. He had seen it; he had held him as he broke apart. And as David stifled ugly sobs between muffled breaths in the back seat of the car while they drove home, his parents in the front seat. Corinne shooting concerned looks through the mirror, and Adri, with a set jaw, eyes furious, refusing to acknowledge the failure, the stain on the family name. Mathieu had known.

He was not cut from the same cloth as his brother. Mathieu was faster, more strategic, even though they both could have been made in a cycling genetics lab, he was better.

It twisted in him. Coiled deep. So merged with who Mathieu is as a person, that he does not know who he is without it. Without winning, without cycling, without the smug satisfaction that he is on the top of the podium, glancing down at them all, like a king to his subjects. Feeling at home, because that’s where he belongs. It’s his birthright, his sole purpose, what he had been born for and raised for and trained for.

He wins a lot, and the thrill that comes with being one step above Wout. Wout who is older, even if it is only months. The thrill is something else entirely.

It makes him hard, most of the time. Pressing uncomfortably against his bibs. He has left more podium ceremonies than he can count flustered, quickly rushing to the nearest bathroom to manage his business. And more times than not, the only way relief finds him, is when he shuts his eyes, and lets his mind drift off to Wout.

Mathieu doesn’t understand when he loses.

The whirlwind on his mind, going a million miles per hour. Replaying the entire race in his head, how he had taken the corners, where he had botched the acceleration at the exit. Where he had gotten off the bike when he could have pushed, when he pushed when he could have gotten off the bike. The mud, covering his entire body, taking two or sometimes three showers to completely wash off his body.

It is even more confusing when it is Wout he loses to.

Confusion overwhelms him, frustration as well. A deep rage at having been bested, and a terrible fear of being ordinary, of being like the rest. Of Wout looking at him and Mathieu not recognizing the look in his eyes, because they are not equal. Eyes that say, you need to train harder, if you want to beat me. You have to be a lot better than that.

He leaves those podiums half hard too. But those times, when his hand wanders to his shorts, to his terribly tight shorts, he shuts his eyes close, and big brown eyes appear before him, a single blond strand falling over them. The eyes are cold, and mean and smug. Cruel. And he comes with a gasp, a high pitch sound that struggles to come out of his throat. It burns him, and he feels whole.

He has danced on this line for years now, it suffocates him.

The only time Mathieu can come up for air is on the track, when they are racing against each other. They settle into each other, with a burning fire, a flame so bright that everyone else disappears, and then it’s just them. A true dance now, since before Mathieu was dancing alone, and now Wout joins him on the center stage, swaying together in a beautiful motion. Each move is calculated, each move is analyzed; for every lunge Wout does, Mathieu responds with his own attack. And when Mathieu leads, he feels the presence of the other man behind him. Scalding. It burns through him until there is no more Mathieu left. He is not even human; he is something else. Elevated.

Wout rises with him. He always will.

He often wonders what it must look like, from the outside. If the people who line up the track know, if they can see it. They are witnessing greatness. At times Mathieu thinks he must look insane, and he would let that feeling run him to the ground, he would let the weird glances from people get to him, shatter the armor and make him question the very foundations of who he is. But he looks at Wout and he knows.

They are madmen together. Bound forever to each other, by an invisible string, coated in steel. It pulls and pulls them, bringing them together over and over again. Written in the stars, Mathieu thinks, that’s why we were always meant to clash.

Mathieu and Wout are clashing again. On a cold, bright January day. Only this time, Mathieu loses.

Wout crosses the finish line, well ahead.

Mathieu feels the cold air, biting at his skin, burning his eyes. The sun beats down on his body, a feeling he is very familiar with. A cheer goes through the crowd, they bang their hands against the barricades in support, but to Mathieu they sound like gunshots, every single one a bullet, coming for him, waiting. To knock him off the bike, to make him lose, to take from him his birthright. He can’t let that happen, he won’t let that happen.

He pushes through, his legs burning and aching, yelling at him to stop the abuse. His back bent in an uncomfortable position, his neck in pain from the single task of having to hold his own head up. And his eyes. God, his eyes. It burns, with or without the glasses, the sun reflecting on the mud, blinding him. The hot sweat rolling off his head, through his hair, through his helmet. His hands cramped, from holding onto the handlebars for an hour. He brings it home. He comes in second.

First loser, Mathieu thinks, as the organizers usher him to the back. I am not the world champion, he thinks bitterly, and turns to see the man who is.

He glows; that’s the worst part.

Wout is ahead, surrounded by his coaches and his family. Through the chaos and aftermath of finishing a race, Mathieu sees Ivonne press a big, sloppy kiss to his cheek, while Henk tugs him into his chest, talking into Wout’s black curls of hair. He tries to picture Adri and Corinne doing that with him.

He can’t.

Mathieu moves through the motions, letting himself be guided through the protocols, and the interviews, and the podium. Even as he thinks of it, many years later, he can’t say what he was asked, or what he responded. Only when he is sitting alone on the team bus does he feel it. His face is wet, his shirt and shorts, and his eyes sting and oh shit I’m crying.

He doesn’t even know why.

But it pours out of him, ugly, broken sobs and high-pitched whimpers and a part of him worries that he had cried on camera, but the other part of him does not care. He blows his nose, forcing himself to stare ahead at the black fabric of the seats. Don’t cry, don’t cry, you don’t cry so stop crying.

There is no strength left in him to fight it, the more Mathieu thinks about it, the stronger the urge to curl up into a ball and hide from the world gets. He wants to crawl into his bed, pull the covers over his head and just stay there. Not even sleep, not even resting, just hiding.

Hours pass, or maybe minutes, perhaps seconds pass.

“Mathieu?” David’s voice breaks him from the numb, catatonic state that losing has sent him into. “How long have you been here?”

He laughs a humorless laugh. “Since I left the podium.”

Hey, he should be proud of himself, at the very least. There was no shameful orgasm today, for which he will scold and hate himself and then release all his embarrassment on Wout on some other race.

“Do you think he’s better than me?”

David sighs. “So that’s where you went.” He sits down next to Mathieu, placing a reassuring hand on his thigh. The touch makes Mathieu flinch, and he vaguely wonders if his shorts are still wet from where he had wiped his tears in anger. “You just had a bad day, boefje, the world is not ending and Wout van Aert is not better than you.”

He knows, deep down he knows. Mathieu can almost hear it, you are being dramatic, tomorrow you’ll just train harder. For some reason the voice sounds a lot like Adri. And he also does not want to train tomorrow, thank you very much. Mathieu came in second, he thinks that that warrants at least a day where he can wallow in self-pity and be dramatic.

His tears have dried on his face, and Mathieu is sure they have made an ugly trail down his face where they washed away the dirt and the mud. And now that he thinks about it, his bibs have dried uncomfortably on his body, sweaty Lycra clinging to him, and he has passed to that point where the sweat makes him cold and-

“I need to shower,” Mathieu says, standing up as finally the world comes back. He can already feel the little mocking voice at the back of his head coming back. Lecturing him for crying over such a little, silly thing. Stupid Mathieu, always crying.

David looks like he has something on his mind. He has that wide-eyed expression on him that Mathieu often sees but almost always ignores, because his brother might not be better than him on a bike around a track, but he is better at everything else. A knock on the door saves him from the deep conversation they would’ve surely had.

They can have that later, when Mathieu is not tired, and strong and can fight back. Right now, he would probably only end up admitting to things he’ll regret later.

Mathieu points at the door. “Can you get that, I can’t go around walking like this,” he walks down the hall to the bathroom, promptly locking the door.

The water feels cold against his face. To Mathieu’s disgrace, he has a face that reddens quickly, and he must’ve cried a lot because his nose is still red. He kind of gives up trying to get rid of the color. His blue eyes are also red and bloodshot, and they will probably hurt him later, judging by the puffiness around them already.

Another thing to add to the long list that will hurt his body tomorrow.

He rips the dirty Lycra off his body, longing for the shower he’ll have later when he stumbles into his hotel room, and changes into comfortable grey sweatpants and a sweatshirt. For the sake of feeling cleaner, he brushes his teeth as well.

He takes quite a while on the bathroom, and any hopes that whoever knocked on the door is gone are dashed when he closes the tap and hears whispers. Shit. At least he knows it’s not Adrie or Corinne, he would’ve been dragged out of the bathroom already. But still, he’s not in the mood to be scolded right now.

Bracing himself with a deep breath, he unlocks the door and steps out, steeling himself for battle.

“I don’t really want to hear it, I’m already having a bad day and am in a poor mood, you can scold at me tomorrow if you want, but I should let you know that tomorrow I plan on- “he gasps, and he hates himself the moment the noise leaves his mouth. “Oh.”

“Hi.”

Wout van Aert stands in front of him, by the seat that Mathieu had been occupying, almost as if he knew. David is nowhere to be found, and Mathieu wants to curse his older brother for leaving him alone with Wout. Wout who won and is standing there with unreadable brown eyes. He’s not wearing his cycling kit anymore, having changed into his normal clothes, jeans and a puffy jacket, no doubt he was already leaving, but he decided to make one final stop.

One final stop at Mathieu’s bus.

He has seen him so many times, he could probably draw him in his sleep. The curve of his throat, the defined line of his jaw, the pretty bow of his lips. And his eyes, God his eyes. They fix on Mathieu and draw him in, locked inside and trapped away. Mathieu can never look away. He hates it. He hates his unruly hair and that stupid blond streak at the front of his head that is not natural, no matter how much Wout claims it is.

He hates him.

Mathieu cocks his head to the side. “Gloating isn’t really your style, Wout. What are you doing here?” his voice sounds rude and snappy, and exactly the way Mathieu intended. His common sense seems to go out the window when the other man is around, and he really can’t have that now.

Not when he was weak and probably cried on television. Make him leave, a voice that doesn’t sound like him whispers, and you’ll be in control again.

“You’re right, gloating is more your style,” Wout’s voice is deep, a dark look settles in his eyes. “And yet I’m here anyway and all you want to do is fight.”

I don’t want to fight, the logical part of him says. Mathieu shushes that part.

“Do we ever do anything other than fight?”

Wout’s eyes narrow. We fuck, they scream at him. But then he sighs, dropping down to Mathieu’s seat, as if he had come in second instead. “You cried, you don’t really do that, Mathieu.”

The bus is suddenly way too small, and it suffocates him. And is it just him, or is the ceiling of the bus getting closer and the floor is rising and-

“I don’t know what came over me,” he admits, walking down the length of the hall. “But I think you should leave.”

He is now standing in front of Wout, who is seated. It does not help that his face is directly to his crotch.

Wout tsks. “Already ordering me away and we haven’t even done anything,” his hands wrap around Mathieu’s hips, strong and firm, and pull him in. He turns his head to the side and hums into his stomach.

They must make quite the picture, he thinks. They probably even look like a couple. But there’s no love there, Mathieu knows, not anymore. They could never work because they are both awful, hateful men when it comes to each other. He never loved Wout more than he did when the other man was one step below him on the podium.

“You know me, I like to plan ahead.”

Mathieu’s fingers tangle themselves on Wout’s hair, and it is so soft and silky, Mathieu hates it. He feels the corners of Wout’s mouth tug into a smile against his stomach, and he nearly shudders at the touch.

“You are probably right,” and he is pushing him away and every part of Mathieu wants to protest, but he doesn’t. He already lost once today, he will not lose again. “I do have a championship to celebrate.”

Wout stands, and in his eyes is something mean and deep that Mathieu knows so well. He feels the anger from the other man and lets it fuel him, hell, maybe he will train tomorrow. It elevates him, swirls around the bus and presses into Mathieu with such intensity. It’s a thrill to be hated by Wout. The horny part of Mathieu whispers that maybe the sex will be worth it to make him stay.

Mathieu steps back, tilting his head to the door, not missing the way Wout follows his every move. His eyes settle on Mathieu’s throat and something funny flashes in them. Mathieu ignores it.

“They must be missing you already,” he says sweetly and knowingly. See? I know you are only trying to hurt me. But I have teeth too. “You are being a bad host, making everyone wait for you like that.”

Making them wait because of me.

Wout is already opening the door. “Ah, always so proud,” he turns, flashing him a wicked grin that scrunches his features and wrinkles his eyes. He looks pretty like that, not like the cut-throat creature that Mathieu knows so well. “I’ll talk to you later, Matje.”

Mathieu hates that the nickname goes straight to his cock. He opens his mouth to speak, because he’ll be damned if he lets Wout van Aert have the final word, but the man is already gone, the air has returned to the room and the bus no longer feels like it is trapping him in.

David is back, talking about getting up early tomorrow and traveling back and resuming training. Mathieu barely hears it, because he hates it. He hates Wout. Mathieu made him leave, when he had very clearly walked into his bus with one purpose in mind.

He had felt powerful as he had done it, in control and in charge. But Matje. It is still so early in the day, and he already knows that he has lost twice today.

The drive to the hotel passes him by, exhaustion takes over his body, and even though the drive is short, by the time they arrive Mathieu is closer to drifting to sleep than he is to being wide awake.

They have dinner that day, the team and the families. Corinne gives him a hug, whispers that he did a good job and that she is proud. Mathieu lets her smell flood his senses, loses himself in her arms. Adri has a tight-lipped smile, and a pat on the back. He shrugs in a way that says “ehh, we win some, we lose some”, but his eyes blaze through Mathieu, making him feel like a kid that wants to hide away behind his mother.

Maybe he doesn’t want to train tomorrow, after all.

In the privacy of his hotel room, which thankfully he doesn’t have to share with David, he calls Wout, getting a sense of control back when he realizes the other man had answered on the first ring. Still, Mathieu feels the shame wash over him again as his hands travel further and further down, slipping into his underwear.

They do this dance often, the tug and pull. Magnets, stuck in their loop, orbiting around each other. They reach their release together, and Mathieu knows, with a certainty that had never been there before, you’ll always come back to me.

It almost feels like winning.

Chapter Text

2017

The year seems to go on forever.

Once the cyclocross season concludes over the winter, Wout’s focus goes into bettering his skills on the road. It’s not as hard as you would think, but by no means is it easy. Days upon days of his life gone as he perfects the adjustments to correct the years-long habits that racing in mud has left behind.

He races very little on the road, at least not as much as he would like to, but enough to get accustomed to the traveling circus – as his parents call it – that is the peloton of cycling. Wout is nowhere near a good shape for monuments, or, God forbid, grand tours. But he can feel it building, knows that with perseverance he’ll get there. Maybe a year or two.

It’s a bright, cool morning in late September, and Wout finds himself riding in the local mud track. He has raced in a lot of places, travelling through most of Europe, but the tracks at Herentals have his heart and his love. They are where he first fell in love with cycling, where he took his first falls, and where he learned to push to the limit, fearless and free.

Wout had agreed to ride with some of his friends – his non-cycling friends, thank you very much – in the afternoon. It was his rest day, after all. But he had woken up as the first rays of sun streamed through his window, and really, he had nothing else to do. He had cleaned his house, having decided he needed the independence of not living with his parents anymore (ignoring the fact that his parents lived 5 minutes away, and Wout spent a great amount of his time there), had gone through his pending emails (they piled up after hectic weeks of racing), and had thoroughly checked his social media.

Besides, a few years ago his friends had banned him from racing against them in a competitive manner. More like they would attempt to race each other and Wout would hang back, laughing at the careless way they rode, and jealous that they didn’t feel a burning need to be the best at everything.

He thinks it’s hard to understand, imagining the confused faces that had met him when he attempted to explain how cycling at a professional level worked. Even his parents, bless them, could not wrap their heads around the desperate way he needed to push through the pain and keep pedaling.

Wout had only ever found understanding on Mathieu Van der Poel’s blue eyes.

Looking back on it, he never stood a chance against him, not really. They had been racing with each other since they were like 8 years old, and Wout remembers every single one. Around the teenage years, when he was 12, he saw understanding flashing on Mathieu’s eyes and clung on to that like he was drowning, as if he was lost and Mathieu had found him, taken his hand and led him back home.

When he was 14, he realized that this isn’t really normal, and I’ll probably never be normal about him. But in his defense, he accepted it fairly quickly and just kept pedaling. It’s something his coaches love about Wout, he just shrugs and goes on, he rolls with the punches. Does it, more often than not, explode in a massive blowout of anger and panic and fear? Sure, but that happens after the races, and as long as he brings in the results, they don’t care how Wout does it.

But when he was 16 it crashed down on him, and he horrifyingly thought, for the very first time but not for the last, oh my God, I have a crush on Mathieu Van der Poel. It had left him distracted and flustered, blushing every time Mathieu so much as glanced at him, feeling a red flush travelling through his body and settling on his cheeks. Never was he as grateful for the cold, Belgian weather as he was during those days.

Naturally, being a hormonal, horny teenager, Mathieu soon became the main protagonist of any fantasies. He woke up hard, went to sleep hard, and only found release picturing blue eyes staring up at him, or staring down, or scrunching shut, lost in pleasure and-

Wout’s mind had always worked like that.

Finding out Mathieu had liked him had been a wonderful revelation, and Wout took whatever the dutchman offered. Even though Mathieu probably saw it as physical relief, and that he had never thought about Mathieu that way. That’s just the way Wout is, he gives, and he gives, and he gives until there is none of him left. His coaches don’t like that very much.

And this thing with Mathieu, it’s the furthest thing from smart that Wout could’ve ever done. Because Mathieu takes and he takes, and he takes, and nothing is ever enough for him.

Wout is not stupid, he has seen the expression on Mathieu’s face as Wout begs for release. In control, and powerful, and that’s all that will ever be between them. And when that expression builds too much, Wout sees it twist into disdain and disappointment, and it is wrong, wrong, wrong.

That’s usually when the dam breaks.

Wout snaps back, he bares Mathieu’s neck and sinks his teeth in, slashing and scratching to draw blood, and smirking when he tastes metal. When he pictures it, Mathieu is always a devil, a demonic figure with contorted human features, the beast comes out, and Wout sticks his own claws in until he tears him apart.

So yeah, they’ll probably never work.

But God, the sex is great.

The distant sound of laughter snaps him from his thoughts. At the entrance of the track, Wout can spot the mop of blonde hair of Niels and Dylan, friends he had met when he had attempted to have a life outside of cycling. Computer science, of all things. Boring as hell, but Wout enjoyed it, and he had gotten really good friends out of it, even if he will never tell them out loud.

Nerd, a snickering voice in his head whispers. It sounds terribly like Mathieu.

He shushes it.

“I thought we were racing in the afternoon,” he says, voice tilting at the end.

Niels shrugs. “We knew you would be here since like, the crack of dawn.”

“Besides, we can’t let you have all the track to yourself, you need competition if you want to stay sharp,” Dylan’s hand reaches out and pinches his cheek.

Wout swats him away. “Oh, you invited more people over, then?”

“Ha-ha. Asshole.”

“You love me.”

“Only because you are teaching me how to ride in the mud,” Dylan sniffles. “You are a terrible teacher, by the way.”

“You are a terrible student.”

“Okay, knock it off, you can go on for days like that and it’s very annoying,” with that, Niels clicks his pedals in and is off.

Wout and Dylan stare at each other, before bursting into laughter. Then they are off as well, chasing each other with yells and laughs, and the boyish easiness of friendship that Wout always finds with them.

It makes his heart swell.

***

By late afternoon, they are dirty and sweaty, sitting on the outside tables of a local café after the owner of the shop had scowled at them for dirtying up her local. Wout can’t blame her really, often having to throw his bibs away after he rides in cross. It’s not worth putting his washer through the effort of attempting to clean that up.

They do these catching up sessions whenever Wout has time, and a part of him feels bad, feeling like he seems like a big shot, hot stuff that doesn’t even have time for his friends. But the other part of him remembers the bone-deep exhaustion that washes over him after each race, and he can’t find it in himself to feel guilty.

“And now she has left me on read,” Dylan concludes sadly, mouth pouting like a child. “It’s like, at least say it to my face you want nothing to do with me anymore, you know?”

Wout sips his coffee. “Dyl, you started dating another girl before breaking things off with her.”

“Fair enough.”

Niels snickers, taking a bite from the chocolate pastry he had ordered. That is perhaps the biggest downside to cycling. Wout loves food, but unfortunately cycling does not. He is on a strict diet year-round, and only in small windows of time when he’s not closely monitored can he sneak around and eat whatever he wants. His personal record is two glorious weeks. He had gained like 3 kilos.

“Enough of your tragic love life,” he chews. “It’s time for Wout to talk about his.”

“My love life is even more pathetic than his,” Dylan gasps, offended. “Besides, you haven’t said anything about yours.”

“Mine is the same,” Niels shrugs. “Sarah and I will celebrate this year our 8^th anniversary, we have talked about getting married but we both feel like we are too young, it’ll probably happen after we are 25, though.”

A pang goes through Wout’s chest. His friends’ lives are easy, although Dylan’s is a bit disturbing, but there’s no burning fire to their relationships, no biting and snarking and drawing blood, seeing who will flinch first and lose the battle. That’s the thing, he assumes, their relationships are not a battlefield that has been going on for years.

Wout doesn’t know if he envies it or not.

Sure, he would love the simplicity of it all. Not being in a burning house, but instead out on a tranquil sea that just carries you through life. But the deep, dark part of him knows that the sea will never satisfy him. He wants to be burned, to be tugged and pulled and bruised. He loves the thrill of it, and imagining Mathieu ever subdued to him is wrong and fills him with anger.

“You are thinking about him, aren’t you?” Niels asks, not unkindly. Wout pulls a face. “You always get this expression when you think about him, half angry and half turned on. It’s very disturbing.”

Many years ago, Wout had made the – drunkenly – mistake of admitting his weird, psychosexual relationship with Mathieu to them. To say they were perturbed would be an understatement, it always came out like this, the worry spilling out of their words whenever the topic gets discussed. Wout thinks it must be hard, to know better than your adrenaline-junkie friend who refuses to listen to good advice and keeps fucking a guy so confusing that it ruins Wout’s entire conviction.

“I envy the simplicity with which you speak, truly I do,” he finally says, when the silence that settled over them begins to choke him. “But I don’t think that would ever be satisfying, not for me and certainly not for him.”

Dylan sighs. “Then maybe that isn’t where you are meant to be, liefste,” he puts a hand on Wout’s arm, patting him twice. “Sure, my girls ignore my messages, but have you ever felt that you can even talk to him?”

And Wout doesn’t like where this conversation has turned.

It feels too real, too fast, too soon. He feels close to doing something stupid, like fighting with his friends to defend Mathieu, of all people. It’ll probably be worth it, if he tells Mathieu, who’ll get a thrill at Wout fighting those closest to him in his honor, and then they’ll resort to sex. Or Mathieu will find a humiliating way to make him cum. It’s happened before, and Wout really wishes he hated it.

“No, I don’t talk to him because that’s not the nature of our relationship,” he argues, struggling to keep his voice calm. “You two talk about Mathieu as if he is the devil, but trust me, I get some licks in too. I’m not his victim in this situation.”

Niels and Dylan glance at each other. Wout can almost recognize the desperation in their eyes, but it makes him confused. It’s not like they’ve had this conversation a million times or something, and sure, Wout can be stubborn, but they are acting as if he is stupid.

“I’ll only say this, before we drop the topic,” Niels, says, holding out a hand after the first sentence when Wout rolls his eyes, annoyed. “The simplicity you envy will never come without talking, properly, to him.”

This time, Wout stands up and promptly throws his trash away.

***

At late afternoon, Wout heads back home, feeling annoyed but also pensive. He was supposed to have dinner with his parents, but after a whole day of taking an emotional toll on him, he doesn’t think he could bear it. He’s always been spoiled; his parents would see right through him and then he’ll probably end up confessing every embarrassing detail of his private life.

His parents most definitely don’t need to know any of that.

He has dinner at his own house, instead. Ordering take-out and stuffing himself full of food. Whatever, he’s been good the entire week, he deserves a little slip. He goes on social media again, and the moment he opens his feed he regrets it, because nothing good ever comes out of him and Mathieu.

The first picture he sees was published a couple of hours ago, in it, Mathieu smiles widely at the camera, bike between his legs, arm thrown carelessly around David, who is rolling his eyes and shoving his brother away. The caption reads racing back at home, and Wout feels his heart skip a beat.

Because oh. Mathieu is home.

Mathieu is less than an hour away.

He must have a rest week as well. And Wout really wishes he didn’t feel a thrill down his body at the thought, but then his fingers are itching, like a drug addict, and he swears he is cold sweating just at the thought of the proximity between them. The rational part of his brain tries to reel in the twitches he makes towards his phone, warning him that not only is this a bad idea, but it’s also probably a terrible one.

But the other part of him wants nothing more than to be intoxicated by Mathieu’s presence. His heroin. And wow he can’t believe he just compared Mathieu to heroin, but that’s what the blonde man feels like, most of the time. The highest of highs that Wout can’t get enough of.

It’s why he grips the blonde’s hips so tightly that they bruise, it’s why he plows into him again and again and again, until he doesn’t know where Wout ends and Mathieu begins. It’s why he has a folder full of Mathieu-related information in his head, tucked away for whenever it’s convenient. One time, a painful, deep cut sliced through Mathieu’s thigh, and Wout had gotten hard just by thinking of digging his fingers in, pulling apart the skin and seeing the muscle underneath.

Maybe then he could understand Mathieu.

“Fuck it,” he says, and then his fingers are typing away on the keyboard.

Matjeeee, they write. Come play.

Wout doesn’t even have to wait longer than a beat.

Mathieu is typing back.

Chapter Text

Valkenburg, Netherlands. February, 2018.

A year later it happens again.

This time his meltdown on the podium and the interviews would’ve been justified, but Mathieu feels oddly at peace with the result. The competitive fire still burns in him, of course, a part of him feels like that will burn for as long as he lives, but there is no rage, no crazy strings of thoughts that drive him insane.

And he had come in third of all places. Wout was two steps above him on the podium.

But Mathieu cannot find it in himself to care.

He had dominated the entire cyclo-cross season. Riding through the field, pulling away, winning with ridiculous margins. Mathieu had seen it, in the eyes of his opponents, reconciled with the fact that as long as Mathieu raced, they were all fighting for second place.

By all accounts, Wout didn’t have the most impressive season, racing very little, having focused more intently on perfecting his skills on the road. Which is… a thing that Mathieu wants to worry about later, because right now he wants to enjoy that Wout won, and he doesn’t feel the steaming resentment and jealousy at the fact.

Wout is once more the world champion. He had beaten Mathieu by like 2 minutes. A personal record.

Mathieu feels the cameras trained on him as he goes to be interviewed. He knows they are waiting for the emotional outburst to film him. Last year still haunts him, he had lost control and been emotional, too emotional, and too honest as well. If Mathieu had learned anything from cycling is that you can never be too honest.

Today the public will not get the satisfaction.

He sits on the chair and the round of questions begin. Mathieu, are you disappointed? Were you on the limit? How do you feel about losing the championship one more year? But you dominated the season, how does it feel to lose the one important race?

He replays the videos in his hotel room, and wow someone should really get him an award because, not to be cocky, but he handled the entire situation really well. The Mathieu on his phone smiles, blue eyes glistening, slightly out of breath from the massive effort he had put in for an entire hour.

“I didn’t make many mistakes,” he says, eyebrows shooting upwards. “Wout was far above the others today.”

The public loves it, because of course they do. How they love a good loser.

Mathieu lounges on the bed in sweatpants, wrapped in warm blankets as he scrolls through his phone. He yawns, stretching his hands above his head and relishing in the pull of his sore muscles, the action causes him to move his position, and a pain shoots from his hips.

Cycling sort of comes with the pain. You cannot be a cyclist if you fear the pain, if you cannot push through it and keep going, because if you don’t keep going, you’ll never win. Cycling, in so many ways, instead of being a physical game, is a mental one. Survival of the strongest. Your body will crack before your mind does, but you can keep going. But once your mind cracks, you are gone, never the same as before.

But the pain in his hips is different.

It’s a pain he enjoys, a pain he has felt many times before, and one that he will feel many times in the future. Mathieu does not have to strip in front of the mirror to see the hand-shaped bruises on his hips. A striking contrast, the ugly purple blotch against his tanned skin.

Without having to measure the bruise, he also knows Wout’s hands will fit in them perfectly.

Perhaps that’s why he had been okay with losing. It was hard to be angry about losing when the winner had pressed him so intently onto the mattress the night before. When he could still feel Wout inside of him. Wout still smelled of him, and when they had parted in the morning, Mathieu had pulled him close and kissed him, and he swore he could still taste himself on the other man’s mouth.

That way, it was almost like they had won together.

A knock on the door pulls him from the thought.

Mathieu stands, stretching his arms above his head, and takes his sweet time opening the door. Mathieu could take ten minutes to open the door; his guest is not leaving.

Wout stands on the other side of the door, dressed in simple clothes, a lazy smile thrown on his face. He grins at Mathieu, but as his eyes settle on him, Mathieu shivers. Wout looks like he wants to eat him.

The stupid blonde streak falls over his forehead. Mathieu wants to rip it off the other man’s scalp.

“Are you gonna leave me standing outside all night or?” Wout teases, lip tugging into a self-satisfied smirk.

Mathieu wants to hit him.

Instead, he reaches out a hand, grasping Wout’s shirt between his fingers, and pulls him inside the room, promptly shutting the door closed.

*****

Mathieu has not spoken for about an hour.

Not anything coherent, at least. Just a string of pathetic whimpers and pleas and moans and orders. It’s not his fault really, Wout is just that amazing at giving head. If anything, he blames 17-year-old Mathieu, who was the first to drag the other man to his bedroom, dropped to his knees, and began this never-ending story.

After that, Wout had returned the favor, he was never one to back away from a challenge, after all. It did not take that long for two horny, hormonal teenage boys to up the antics and escalate the relationship.

He doesn’t know if this is how normal rivals behave, he’s always been too embarrassed to ask David, or really anyone else, for that matter. They didn’t need to imagine Mathieu lost in throes of pleasure (especially David), and the thought of anyone imagining Wout in that situation – let alone seeing him – made Mathieu burn with this inexplicable rage and something else, a feeling that he can’t quite place so he decides to ignore.

Tonight, he’s been close to coming two times, but each time Wout had stopped his ministrations. First it had been his mouth, then his fingers. Each time Mathieu had been close to hitting him, but they had done this enough time for him to know what it was about. Wout had beaten him for two minutes, this was his reward.

“Fuck, Woutje,” he gasps, eyes flying shut to stop tears from falling. His hands grip the bedsheets, and his body twitches in ways he can’t really control. “You have to stop or I’ll- fuck, I’ll come.”

Wout buries his face further into his ass and hums. The vibrations make Mathieu slam his head against the pillow. One of Wout’s hands grips his thigh, thrown over his shoulder, pushing his legs open, the other is wrapped around Mathieu’s cock, preventing him from coming.

He’s lapping at his hole, he licks around the muscle, pushes his tongue in, then stops. Then the process repeats all over again. It’s driving Mathieu insane, and if he doesn’t come soon, he might actually start crying.

The pleasure builds in Mathieu, making his toes curl, and he is sure he is crushing Wout’s head between his thighs, but if the other man minds, he doesn’t show it. His hand flies out to grip Wout’s dark, silky hair, and he tugs, harshly.

Wout comes up, laying over his body, and the contact sends tingles down his spine. Wout is shirtless, but still very dressed below the waist. His erection presses against Mathieu’s stomach and suddenly he can’t take it anymore.

Mathieu whines. “You are wearing too many clothes,” he says, gripping the back of Wout’s neck and kissing him. It’s dirty and harsh, and Wout’s teeth knock against his painfully but if he doesn’t kiss Wout right now he might die so who cares.

His cock is trapped between their bodies, and the friction is pushing him closer and closer to the edge. But he can’t come now, he has other plans for the evening.

Wout pulls his bottom lip with his teeth. “Yeah?” he asks, voice deep. “What are you gonna do about it?”

And well, as established before, Mathieu is not one to back away from a challenge.

He pushes Wout off, so that he’s standing at the edge of the bed, Mathieu leaning on his forearms. He bats his eyes, staring up at the brunette through his eyelashes, in the way he knows Wout likes, and takes his time to admire him.

The amber glow of the room contrasts against Wout’s pale skin, it almost makes him shine with golden light. It settles on the lines of his upper body, defined muscles after years of training at the highest possible level. His mane of dark, unruly curls sticks out in a million different directions, Mathieu longs to bury his hands in them again and tug and pull and never let go.

There is a very interesting bulge protruding from Wout’s pants.

Mathieu scoots on the bed, sitting at the edge and wrapping his arms around Wout’s waist. He lets his hands roam freely, pressing his palm against Wout’s abdomen, relishing in the shaky breath the other man lets out. He presses his mouth to Wout’s happy trail, leaving open mouthed kisses, tongue lapping softly.

A hand settles on his hair, not tugging, just there. A moan gets punched out of Wout’s throat.

“I won today, Matje.”

“I know, I was there,” Mathieu responds, an amused smile tugging at his lips.

“I won today.”

Mathieu tsks. “Yes, you did, and you want your reward, no?” he settles his chin on the brim of Wout’s pants, staring up at the other man. Wout nods frantically. “You have to be good then, Woutje.”

He stands then, encouraged by the lustful look that settles on Wout’s brown eyes. They are big, and round, and dark. Mathieu often feels like he drowns on them, but he loves them and hates them in equal measures.

“Can you be good for me?”

The desperate way Wout says yes would be pathetic if Mathieu wasn’t so turned on. But God, he is so close to the edge already, it takes an insane amount of will power to keep going. But he knows the reward will be worth it.

It always is.

He kisses Wout, shoving his tongue down the other man’s throat in a euphoric way, memorizing how he tastes, how he immediately responds, how hands fly out to his hips, pressing on the bruises just right, making him gasp. Mathieu’s hands travel to Wout’s pants, teasing and playful, until Wout lets out a whine.

“Please, please, I’ll be good, just- please.”

Mathieu can be cruel, but he is not evil.

“Ahh, Wout, when you beg so sweetly, how can I not?”

In one flail swoop, he tugs Wout’s pants and underwear, and now they are both naked, standing in front of each other. Pre come has gather on the tip of Wout’s cock, Mathieu’s mouth waters at the sight.

He connects their mouths again, hissing at the friction when their crotches rub against one another. He usually hates that Wout is taller than him, but right now he is thankful for it, because if Mathieu had felt Wout’s length press against him, he would’ve probably come without making Wout suffer a little.

He wraps his hands around Wout’s waist, letting them drop lower and lower, until they grip his ass. Firm and round and perfect. He decides to keep his hands there. In a fluid motion, Mathieu flips them over, sending Wout tumbling into the bed with Mathieu on top of him.

“Go up, against the headboard,” he orders.

Wout obeys.

His eyes trained on Mathieu the entire time. Locked. Trapped. Like Mathieu will disappear if Wout is not watching him. It makes Mathieu fill with arousal, pride, and giddiness, and possessiveness. God, his orgasm will be so worth it.

“You can’t cum until I do,” he says, climbing over Wout’s lap, settling his legs on either side. Wout’s thighs are monstrous, Mathieu wants to bite them. He has done it before.

Wout whines. “But I woooon today.”

His tantrum is too delicious.

“And I came in third, you owe me that,” Mathieu counters. “At least here, you need to let me come first.”

They do this battle often, Wout complaining about Mathieu ordering him around, like every command that comes out of the blonde doesn’t go straight to his cock. Mathieu thinks that’s what it must look like, when they race against each other.

A thrill runs through his body.

He sees the moment Wout loses the battle. At times he fights him, knowing they both get off from the power loss, and the power gain. It just makes it all the better.

Mathieu grips Wout’s cock, tugging in the ways only he knows how. Years and years of knowing Wout’s body like his own. The pace, the pressure, the flicking his wrist and running his finger over Wout’s tip every other stroke. The noise Wout lets out is so loud, Mathieu is sure the neighbors heard it, throwing his head back as he does it.

The motion exposes his throat, like prey. Mathieu fixes on the movement of his Adam’s apple. On the line of sweat that runs to his collarbones, the muscles flexing and letting out sounds. He wants to lick it, he wants to taste him, he wants to bite him.

So, he does.

He surges forward, mouth latching to Wout’s throat, leaving love bites and bruises as Wout falls apart beneath him. It’s perfect, Mathieu thinks, not for the first time. It’s perfect, and right and exactly how things are meant to be.

Wout, in his bed. Naked and expecting. Wout, open and how nobody else gets to see him, just Mathieu, always Mathieu. Wout and Mathieu, Mathieu and Wout. Woutje and Matje. His, his, his.

“Fuck, I’m gonna come,” Wout pants, breathless. “God Matje, please.”

“Please what?”

There’s spit running down from Wout’s mouth, and Mathieu’s hands are so wet with pre come, he doesn’t even know if it is his or Wout’s, but he knows he enjoys the thought when he realizes it’s both.

Wout bites his earlobe. “Please make me cum.”

Mathieu stops, devilish smile on his face when Wout pulls back, brows furrowed, eyes confused. He drops down lazily on Wout’s thighs. God, they are perfect, almost like pillows.

“I’m tired, Woutje,” he says. “Can you finish me off?”

He does.

Wout lunges forward, and thank heavens his hands are so big, because he wraps Mathieu’s cock, pressing it against his, and begins to jerk them off together. Mathieu is not going to last much longer, having been pushed to the edge twice already tonight. Sure, they go multiple times in one night sometimes but today they are both tired. Wout probably came in here today looking for a tight ass after destroying his competition and Mathieu is making him work for it.

It's only right, Mathieu thinks. He got nuked today on the track, and this, the winner, falling apart because of him. The winner, waiting for Mathieu’s permission to come himself. It’s right and in control, and everything Mathieu ever wants.

It’s the thought of it that does him in. His orgasm shuddering through him in high pitched whimpers, it rocks through his body, toes curling and eyes shutting so hard he sees stars. His hearing muffles, and the only thing he can do to ground himself is lean down, settle into Wout’s neck, and bite.

Come spurts from his cock, coating their abdomens and Wout’s cock. The brunette’s hand is unforgiving; he keeps going at a delicious pace that convinces Mathieu he’ll come dry. He feels Wout’s free hand pinching at the skin of his hips, his mouth pressing wet kisses to Mathieu’s broad shoulders.

“Mathieu, Mathieu, Matje,” Wout chants, voice even deeper, and hoarse and desperate.

The overstimulation on his cock is starting to get to Mathieu.

“You can come, Woutje,” he allows. “You were so good, always so good. So good for me, aren’t you? Come on champ, go get it.”

Wout comes, long and drawn out. His head slams painfully against the headboard, his hand tugging brokenly, tears falling from his eyes. When Wout comes, his mouth forms a wonderful ‘o’ shape, his pretty, pink lips pull open, and his usually raspy voice comes out in high pitched moans.

Mathieu pulls his hand away when the overstimulation gets too much. His head collapses on Wout’s chest, who is panting and regaining his breath. Wout’s hands fly to his waist, wrapping strongly, and God Mathieu could stay there forever.

He glances down at Wout’s belly, coated with cum. His cum, he thinks possessively, his cum mixing with Wout’s.

Without thinking, he runs his fingers through it, lifting his head, pressing a kiss to the corner of Wout’s mouth, before offering him his fingers.

“Taste.”

***

He is half asleep on Wout’s chest when a phone begins to buzz.

After their endeavors, they had cleaned themselves in the shower, where they proceeded to have sex again, and then they had cleaned themselves from the shower. Sure, the bed was still dirty, but that’s the hotel’s problem.

Sleepy and tired, Wout stayed. It wouldn’t be the first time it had happened. Mathieu was a heavy sleeper, and the other man usually slipped out before the sun was even out. It thrilled Mathieu a bit, making him feel like a secret, locked away and kept in the shadows.

Wout had laid back on the pillows, because he insisted that a million pillows were required for ‘proper back alignment’ in your sleep, and Mathieu had shrugged and decided to use Wout as a pillow. It was wide, soft and warm, and Mathieu could lay down and feel the drum of Wout’s heart in his ear.

He cannot be blamed if it lulled him to sleep.

The phone rings again, persistent and stubborn, and he hears Wout let out an annoyed huff. His arms wrap more tightly around Mathieu, flushing their bodies together. Mathieu’s leg, hooked around Wout’s hips, tightens.

“Oh, for God’s sake answer that phone,” Mathieu exclaims when the phone rings once more, lifting his head from Wout’s chest and putting his most annoyed look on his face.

Wout reaches out a hand to the bedside table, takes the phone, and begins tapping away. Mathieu settles on his chest once more. Hmm, soft pillow. The soft noises of Wout’s fingers on the screen, the heat his body is radiation, and the warmth of the entire thing begin to drift him back to sleep.

His peace is interrupted by the sound of a video, an interview, cutting through the silence of the hotel room, and Mathieu is about to hit Wout’s stomach with his fist when the voices in the video make him freeze.

“What are your thoughts on a, shall we say, disappointing race?” an interviewer asks, Mathieu could probably place him, if he had half a mind to do it.

There is a long silence from whomever he is interviewing, before they take a deep breath. ““If the difference is two minutes, that is not normal,” and if that voice is not enough to snap Mathieu from his sleep, he doesn’t know what is.

Because the video Wout is playing, for some reason, is an interview of Mathieu’s father, Adrie.

“He rides around, but he does not breathe,” he goes on, and Mathieu can almost picture him. Voice indifferent, expression impatient, but eyes blazing with anger and disappointment, all directed at Mathieu.

Mathieu slowly lifts his head from Wout’s chest, who had taken in a sharp breath. Mathieu cannot turn to look at him.

But Adrie is unforgiving, and unfortunately, he goes on.

“With all due respect, Wout does not stand in the shadow of Mathieu in terms of victories this season.”

The video cuts off after that, but the damage has been done. It settles over the hotel room in waves. There is no more warmth radiating from Wout, his touch feels cold and distant. Empty. And Mathieu hasn’t even seen him.

He shuts his eyes, cursing his dad and his big mouth that can’t hold any comment in, and takes a deep breath. He steels himself, because neither him nor Wout will come out unscathed from the battle that is about to take place.

The room is silent.

Too silent for Mathieu’s liking. He feels winded all of a sudden, suffocated. He never really could stand the silence, it reminded him too much of Adrie (damn him, again), and his disappointed looks every time Mathieu failed to measure up to the impossible standard that had been set on him. Of the uncomfortable look on David’s eyes, when he would slip into Mathieu’s room in the dead of night and try to comfort him. Of the sadness on Corinne’s face as she held him in her arms, and he broke apart.

He hates it.

“I didn’t ask him to say all that,” he defends, when the silence becomes too much.

Mathieu focuses on the boring wallpaper of the hotel room, on the modern, lifeless furniture. He crosses his arms on his lap, spots an unhealed scab on his forearm and tears at it nervously, an old habit he can never kick. I never could see a wound without pressing my fingers over it.

Wout places his phone on the bedside table. “But you knew about it, no?”

And that- that’s unfair, really.

Mathieu turns, meeting Wout’s eyes. They are big, round and brown. But the look that settles over them is familiar. A blaze, a fire so familiar that Mathieu can’t do anything but embrace it, because it is Wout. It is so him, in fact, that the familiarity of it all comes from the number of times Mathieu has seen that look reflected back in the mirror, as they sharpen his own blue eyes and burn everything in his path.

Rage.

“I can’t control what my father says, Wout,” Mathieu allows. It must’ve been the wrong thing to say, because the other man blinks, taken aback.

He probably thought that Mathieu would try to lie his way out of it, but he has done that before. It gets him absolutely nothing, sure the sex when they make up is worth it, but Wout can be incredibly cruel. He had once gone 2 months without touching Mathieu.

“You just tell him what to say,” he accuses, sitting up and resting against the headboard. The sheets fall around his lap, and Mathieu catches a glimpse of Wout’s soft cock. “The press will love you, for being a graceful loser, and they will hate Adrie, for being a bad one. But in the end is all you.”

Wout laughs, a piercing, sarcastic sound that cuts right through Mathieu.

“Ladies and gentlemen, the Van der Poels.”

He claps, running his hands through his dark hair and tugging painfully at the strands. He looks maniac, agitated and breathing heavily. So far removed from the Wout that presses Mathieu onto the mattress. Hell, so different from the Wout that was begging Mathieu for release not even two hours ago. Mathieu surges forward, attempting to lay a hand on Wout’s calf, but the way the brunette flinches away makes him stop.

Mathieu thinks back to Adrie’s words, and while he does not condone them, and he truly had not known what his father would say, he can’t say he is exactly surprised. When they had met on the team bus, after the podium, Adrie had been cold. He clapped Mathieu on the back and pressed his hand painfully into his shoulder.

“What happened today?” he asked. “You weren’t yourself.”

Mathieu knew what that meant, the implication of it. He had dominated the entire cyclo-cross season, why couldn’t he dominate the one race that mattered. The race that would give him the rainbow jersey and name him the world champion. Perhaps it was because he had been tired after an hour of hard racing, coming off an entire winter of pushing himself to the limit every other day, between races and training. Maybe it was because even though it had been almost a day, he could still feel Wout inside whenever he sat down.

But he had been honest.

“I was myself today,” he corrected. “There was just someone out there who was better.”

It happens to Mathieu often, realizing he has said the wrong thing as soon as he hears them echoing back to him. But it is already too late, the words have been whispered, they have been listened to. They just haven’t been heard.

That happens often too.

He points an angry finger at Wout. “Do not compare me to my father.”

A mistake, his voice cracks at the last word even though he had put his entire anger behind it. He blinks away the tears building in his eyes because he won’t cry right now. A flash of recognition passes on Wout’s expression, and in the amber glow of the hotel room it curls over his face and contorts it. He doesn’t look human anymore.

The shadows that fall over his face sharpen his cheekbones. They frame his forehead and amplify the line of his defined jaw. Wout’s eyes are no longer brown, but black. Empty pits of nothingness. A blonde streak of hair crowns his head. A king scolds a disgraced knight, banishing him forever.

“He must be proud, Mathieu,” Wout snarls, “carelessly living through his more successful son because he couldn’t hack it. How it must hurt then, that even you can be beaten.”

“But I wasn’t beaten. Look at the stats, Wout, I cleaned the floor with everyone this year, win after win after win. You took your consolation prize, but I have everything else.”

“You lost, asshole.”

Wout stands, angrily grabbing his clothes from where they were scattered across the hotel room.

“You couldn’t win the one race that mattered. All your race wins, all the cleaning you did with everyone else, and yet all people will remember is who was the world champion that year.”

He marches angrily towards Mathieu until he is standing in front of him. Mathieu has to tilt his head up to meet his eyes. It makes him feel cold all over, the demon that stares back at him. Wout’s hand clutches Mathieu painfully by the face, fingers clasping on his cheeks, pulling him close, so close that they are almost kissing.

Mathieu feels a little insane.

His heart hammers against his chest, and Wout must hear it. He can see how easily he has flustered Mathieu. He feels a blush traveling through him, and Mathieu is suddenly very much aware of his own nakedness.

“And that, liefje, is me.”

He shoves Mathieu back on the bed, and he holds himself on his forearms to not fall pathetically. Mathieu feels Wout’s breath on his face as he spits his poison, ugly and mean and familiar. Without thinking, Mathieu grips Wout’s arm, using all his strength to pull him around, startling the Belgian.

“And yet my father has marred your win,” Mathieu’s fingers are digging painfully into the skin of Wout’s arm. “When they mention you, liefje, they will always mention me. You don’t exist without me.”

Wout’s face twists. Brows furrow, the pretty bow of his lip curls into an angry, maniac expression. It makes Mathieu’s cock perk a little with interest, but he shoves that aside, he can’t get hard now, not right now. Not when he is so close to winning.

“I hate you.”

It hits Mathieu like a crash. He can almost picture it, the chaotic, frenetic feeling of the peloton, riders in front of him, next to him and behind him. It’s like drowning, getting swallowed by an unforgiving force that just keeps on moving, not caring if it runs you over. He sees it, Wout running him over, smiling as he does, relishing on Mathieu’s pained screams as he lays on the floor, broken and torn. Wout running away from him, leaving him behind, a world where they are no longer equal.

That’s the exact moment that his heart breaks.

“Then leave.”

Wout is out the door before Mathieu can let out his breath. The slam of the door echoes around the hotel room, and a chill settles around Mathieu. He grabs a pillow, buries his face into it and screams, he screams for so long that his throat burns and feels scratchy.

He doesn’t fall asleep that night.

Chapter Text

2018

The rest of 2018 is weird.

By the time the road season rounds to an end, Wout feels old. He is, by no means, old, he isn’t even cycling old, but the distress of performing at a high level has been taking a toll on him, not to mention the sleepless nights of insomnia where he is troubled by his team, his future, betrayals and heartbreaks and cold, blue eyes glaring at him.

So yeah, 2018 is weird.

It started out really good, which makes the twist even more souring. Cyclo-cross world champion, a highlight of his career, but then the fight which had marred all memories from that day. Then he had done excellent at Strade, for a moment there he almost thought he could win it, it had given Wout motivation and confidence on the road that he hoped would only grow.

Then there was the whole Verandas-Crelan situation.

Wout likes to think of himself as a fairly loyal guy. He certainly feels that way towards his cycling teams. The team had taken a chance on him, and it is up to Wout to live up to that expectation every single time he competes. To make them proud and put their name on the map.

But the merger.

Well, Wout does not agree with it. It doesn’t sit right with him, and the heated arguments he’s had on the team bus with Nick Nuyens, the team manager, have only made things worse.

But still, Wout is a loyal guy.

It’s why he feels so guilty to be sitting in a fancy restaurant in France with Richard Plugge and Merijn Zeeman, and some other of the Jumbo guys. Wout’s manager, Jef, is also there.

Strictly speaking, there has been no betrayal still. Wout had been making waves since his performances this year got better, and many team principals had reached out, or had spoken to him in races. Is this perhaps crossing the line a little? No, because he still hasn’t done anything. He’s just getting a free dinner out of the whole situation.

Did Jef have to talk him down from wearing a hat to be as incognito as possible? Absolutely.

The restaurant is nice. Wout feels as if he’s on a date and they are trying to impress him. So far it has worked, we got a good meal and an expensive wine – his coach said it was ok – and he seems to click with them.

He sits back and observes, mostly. He and Jef had discussed the terms beforehand. But Jef had presented a difficult question, to which, hours later, Wout still had no answer. What do you want, Wout? As if that was easy to know.

“So, you would have no problem with cyclo-cross?” Jef is asking.

Merjin shrugs. “We would obviously need to shorten the calendar, we are a bigger team after all,” he says. “But any cyclo-cross victory adds to our stats.”

Any cyclo-cross victory? Wout thinks. I’m a three-time world champion, for crying out loud. Those championships didn’t win themselves.

A look must flash in his eyes, because Merjin tsks.

“Jumbo is, after all, a road cycling team. That will always be out focus.”

Wout knows what that means. A road cycling team will only want one thing. The Tour. A road cycling team that’s investing as much as Jumbo is, will only want one thing. A GC win. The last one, Wout can never give them.

“If you want me to suffer my way through the French mountains, you need to do a lot better than that,” Wout says plainly, taking a sip of his wine and setting the glass down on the table.

It sends out a ding.

For the first time at dinner, Richard Plugge laughs, eyes twinkling with amusement. Wout feels like he has lost a battle somehow, with his outburst. Jef softly elbows him on the side.

“Everyone on this table knows you have potential,” Merjin starts, “but what you don’t have is a strong team. You have been loyal to them, all cyclists are like that, many of the guys on the team are your friends, and if you could, you would retire with them and retire as a happy man.”

“But if you do that, there’ll be no palmares, no long list on wins. A “b” team can only get you so far. You’ll get swallowed up by the peloton, by statistics, by history.”

The offer is tempting, how could it not be?

But still.

To jump ship, to abandon his team and his teammates and the structure he is so familiar with. A part of him hates the thought, but a bigger, more daring part of him thrills for it. Wout loves the push of cycling, destroying himself and building himself back together. The ache of his legs when he can’t pedal anymore, and the contradicting order his brain sends out, screaming at him to keep going. Everything whites out, and there is only the bike and his legs. He doesn’t recognize anyone else; worries slip from his mind and the world only rushes back when he crosses the finish line.

Richard watches him closely, and Wout desperately tries to pull his best poker face, trying to give nothing away. But the other man had been watching too intently, the maniac look on Wout’s eye is impossible to miss.

He mirrors Wout’s actions, sipping from his glass. “The Corendon team has been heavily investing in trainers and development,” he says casually, knowing exactly the effect his words are going have.

Mathieu, Wout thinks hungrily. You bought yourself a team, but this one wants to buy me.

Jef’s words from earlier come back to him. What do you want, Wout? But it is no longer Jef’s voice asking, the words twist, the Dutch accent slipping by, curling towards the end. Blue eyes stare at him, amused. They stare up and they stare down, settling on his face and trapping him in.

“I want to win,” Wout says suddenly. “I want to win everything, I want my name to come up in every race, every classic, every monument, every grand tour. I want it all.”

He doesn’t need to finish the end of that thought. The way Richard and Merjin stare at each other tells him everything he needs to know.

Can you give me that?

And then, a promise.

Yes.

Wout knows, when he leaves dinner, that perhaps he is not as loyal as he had thought.

***

When the announcement breaks, people are shocked.

From the outside, it must look like a surprise. After all, Wout’s results had been drastically improving, and while he was not considered as a favorite to win – his team could not afford a full-blown camp, and his team was not the strongest – people were starting to take notice of him, more importantly, cyclists were beginning to take notice of him.

In interviews, they would mention him as someone to look out for, a guy they could mark and not let him get away. The world now knows that Wout will fight down to the wire. He tries not to feel too smug about it, but he can’t help the satisfied smile that often tugs at his lips when the team discusses strategy, and the pride that washes over him as he sees those interviews later on Twitter.

Still, anyone who had closely followed cycling would know.

The rising tensions between Wout and his team had become too much.

At best, there was a cold, distant courtesy with each other. Wout now held the team at length, and the team in turn did the same. With team management, the relationship was strained at best, at worst, Wout and the team principal had screamed at each other in disagreement on the team bus.

Luckily, the bus muffled out the actual words, but for days he heard the whispered rumors of a fighting match on the team bus, he felt the way eyes would curiously follow him as he walked. The pointing and the staring.

It had all gone a little bit too much.

But now, the move presented a new beginning. A new dawn on his career, by which he often felt suffocated by, and it filled him with glee. Most days, Wout imagined he looked like a giddy child, kicking his legs and twirling his feet.

A little bit pathetic, but what can you really do about it, right?

He’s on the couch at his home when it happens. Niels and Dylan had come over after work to hang out. They were lazily playing a videogame. Wout had broken the news to them personally, and had watched in awe as happiness settled in his friends’ eyes and they wrapped him in hugs and showered him with praise.

Wout lived for it.

To celebrate, Dylan had declared with a wicked smile, they would go out to a club, just the three of them. Wout isn’t exactly against clubbing, but that’s not a sure place where you’ll find him either. He is much more of a homebody, choosing to stay in local places where he can easily hide and not be bothered by people.

“That’s why it’s perfect,” Dylan argues, tongue sticking out of his mouth in focus. “At a club everyone is drunk, you’ll blend right in.”

“I’ll only blend in if I’m drunk too,” Wout counters.

“Well then you’ll need to get drunk,” he says, as if the solution is so obvious it’s painful.

Niels lifts his hands up in victory, grinning widely. “Wout can’t get drunk, Dyl, you know this.”

“Hey, I’m not a child.”

“Please,” Niels dismisses, waving a hand. “You make even more terribly wrong decisions; it’s kind of impressive.”

“Well, it would be impressive if it wasn’t a little bit pathetic.”

Wout gasps. “Now I don’t want to go anywhere with you,” he sniffles, “you are very mean to me.”

“He has a point, though. Chances are you’ll end up doing something stupid. But the story afterwards is worth it.”

“How’s this,” he proposes, tired with his friends’ constant knowledge of his drunk decisions. He’s aware of them, thank you very much. “You can take my phone to ensure I don’t do something stupid.”

Like calling Mathieu.

His tone implies it, even if his voice will never make those sounds.

A glance passes between Dylan and Niels, and Wout swears he can almost identify it as concern. But that can’t be right, what could they possibly have to be concerned about? Wout’s not a child, he’s a big boy and he can take care of himself. He is careless at times, but never has he done something so incredibly stupid that warrants this reaction.

“Fine,” they agree. “But the minute we get into the club you are handing over your phone.”

Wout grins.

***

So, he’s done something stupid.

It’s not really his fault, Dylan and Niels should’ve foreseen that getting Wout drunk was a terrible idea. The only time his diet is not restrictive is when he breaks it, for crying out loud. It’s really not Wout’s fault that he can’t hold his alcohol.

He blames his friends, for the most part.

Cycling is also to blame, he guesses.

Not only had Dylan and Niels continuously poured alcohol down his throat, then they proceeded to leave him alone.

So really, he can’t be blamed.

A blonde man with short hair presses to his chest, dancing to the beat of the music. At least, Wout thinks the man is dancing, he himself is more jumping than anything. And running his hands over the blonde man’s body.

He’s a good-looking guy, lean and small. Well, smaller than Wout usually goes for. But he had flashed Wout a wicked smile with gleaming blue eyes and well, Wout can’t be blamed. So, he had thought fuck it, drowned down his drink, and sauntered his way to the bar where the man was sitting.

Up close with him, Wout heard his name being something close to Nathan, or something like that. The music was pounding way too loud, and the guy – Nathan, he has decided – had already yelled his name at Wout twice, and he felt too embarrassed to ask him to yell again.

And now they were dancing.

Well, grinding on each other might be more appropriate.

Nathan smells of sweat, and alcohol and cologne, and the smell is starting to get to Wout, more specifically his cock. So, he wraps his arms around Nathan tighter, pulls him closer and lets the man feel him. Nathan’s arms lift, and Wout’s eyes follow the movement as he throws them back, rests his head on Wout’s chest and hums to the rhythm of the music.

God, he hopes Nathan doesn’t have roommates.

He doesn’t really want to take Nathan to his house, and he doesn’t want the trouble of getting a hotel room.

He might be horny, but he is not fucking in the public bathroom of a club, no matter how nice the club is.

Wout still has dignity, thank you very much.

“Do you want to get out of here?” he yells in the blonde’s ear.

Nathan stops dancing, turns around and pulls Wout towards his lips. They kiss, and don’t stop until Wout has to pull away to breathe. He definitely doesn’t pull away because there’s no danger to the kiss, because he likes to feel like he walks a tightrope most of the time and the high he gets from the feeling of falling is the only thing that’ll get him off.

Adrenaline junkie, a mocking Dutch voice teases.

Wout shuts it up with a scowl.

“Your place or mine?” Nathan asks, mouthing at Wout’s neck and God he hopes he won’t leave a mark.

He has exasperatedly tried to cover hickeys with his cycling kit in the past, only to realize it doesn’t really work, not when they are on the neck. If it’s on his body then he can play it off as a scratch or a bruise, being a cyclist means his body is often littered with those.

“Mine,” Wout decides, surprising even himself.

What happened to not wanting to take this guy back to his place?

They leave the club, between kisses and gropes. As they wait for the uber (Wout might be irresponsible, but he knows better than driving drunk), he types out a text for Niels and Dylan, informing them of his whereabouts. Dylan answers back with a long list of innuendos and dirty emojis. Wout ignores him.

The drive to his house is short and thank God the property is big, and his neighbors can’t see him stumbling drunk with a blonde man hanging off him as he fumbles to open the front door. He pushes Nathan into his bedroom, pushing down the disappointment that rises every time the blonde does as Wout asks without fighting, as he bends to his will, as Wout has to practically order him to pull his hair more sharply.

Once the waves of pleasure have washed over him, and he lays on his bed staring at the ceiling while Nathan breathes quietly, drifting off to sleep, the realization of why he invited the blonde back to his house hits him.

To watch the arrogant smirk wipe off the cruel lips that produce the annoying little Dutch voice in the back of his mind.

As Wout falls asleep, blonde hair and blue eyes come back to him, but this time, they’re the right shade, and they tease and frown and fight.

***

The next morning washes over him with regret.

With a pounding head, he sits up on his bed, frowning at the sunlight streaming in from his open blinds. He really should’ve closed them, Wout is not into exhibitionism, and he and Nathan definitely put on a show.

He checks his phone, verifying that both Dylan and Niels are alive and safe in their homes (Niels with his girlfriend, Dylan with a girl from the club), and then checks his socials. He sees that he had apparently shared a story on Instagram, a very blurry video of the dance floor of the club, with pounding music as the background and a very high-pitched yell.

His cheeks flush.

The next story was taken in a booth, it’s blurry as well. It’s him and Nathan, Wout’s arm around the blonde’s shoulders, while Nathan’s hand rests on Wout’s stomach. Okay, he thinks, it’s not too compromising. Should he have shared it? No. But with the dazed look in his eyes he can play it off as some drunk folly with some friends. He’ll just need to post stories with Niels and Dylan over the course of the next few days and everything will be fine.

He glances at the side, envying the peaceful look Nathan has as he sleeps. Wout almost wishes he didn’t have to wake him up. But still, his day needs to start, and the blonde man on his bed was a distraction for a night, Wout is certain he won’t be a morning distraction.

Wout reaches out an arm and gently shakes Nathan’s shoulder, who mumbles something into a pillow.

Wout sighs. “Morning, sunshine,” he says, sensing that kindness will probably be the way to go with Nathan.

The blonde slowly begins to come to. “Good morning,” he says in a raspy, morning voice. “What time is it?” Nathan asks as he sits up.

“Just past nine.”

“Shit, I have an appointment at ten,” Nathan curses, scrambling to his feet and picking up scattered clothes thrown on the floor.

“Do you need a ride?” Wout offers. “I don’t know how you got to the club, but if you need one, I’ll do it.”

Nathan smiles, he crosses the room and presses a kiss on Wout’s lips. He tastes like morning breath. “That’s nice, but I can get a friend to pick me up, I kinda disappeared last night so a sign of life will probably be welcomed.”

Wout shrugs.

The blonde man darts from left to right, typing away messages on his phone. Wout feels his gaze and lets his eyes drift towards him with a confused look.

“What? Is there something on my face?”

“No,” Nathan responds, smiling. “I just- I hope I’m not overstepping or anything, but it’s been on my mind since last night and I just- Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“Who is Matje?”

Wout freezes. Blood leaves his body, and the air is knocked out of him. He hates that it feels like a punch, and that he can’t hear the name without flinching. He has no clue what the expression on his face is, but he assumes it must be hostile, because Nathan throws up his hands.

“You called me that, last night,” he explains. “I don’t really care, but I just need to know if that’s an old boyfriend or a current one. If it’s a current one, I’m gonna have to burn you on Facebook as a cheater or something.”

Wout cringes.

Oh god.

If the angels came down right now to take him, Wout would go willingly. Jesus, he has outdone himself. Matje. What were you thinking?

He wasn’t, not really.

It’s the only explanation.

He waves a hand, hoping it comes off as dismissive. “Ah, it’s not a current boyfriend, don’t worry,” Wout says. “It’s not an old boyfriend exactly, just a really complicated situation from some months ago.”

Nathan nods. “Good, you don’t seem like the cheating type,” he says, “but…”

Wout raises his eyebrows, urging him to go on.

“You don’t really call someone by the wrong name during sex unless your mind is already on them. You say it’s a complicated thing from some months ago, but it’s still in your mind today. It might be worth getting some closure on it, no?”

The way he ways it is so simple that it makes Wout frown. On paper? Yes. But in real life, when have Wout and Mathieu ever sat down to just talk about something? What, chat about the weather? He is almost positive that if the asked Mathieu what he was binging these days, the other man would strangle him, and he would probably be in the right.

But he’s not about to have a heart to heart with his one-night stand.

“Yeah, you might be right,” he concedes. “I’ll let you know how that one turns out.”

He watches as Nathan dresses, fixing his clothes on the floor-length mirror on the wall, and then he goes out of the door, not before pressing another kiss, and writing his number on Wout’s arm. The ink will wash off in the shower.

Wout throws himself back on the bed, cursing himself because now he has to do laundry, and wonders when was the last time he made bad decisions. A very loud part of him whispers Valkenburg, but that wasn’t really his fault. Some other parts yell different locations, places where him and Mathieu had torn and bitten off of each other. But the sentimental part of him knows that trying to unravel that knot is impossible, he could piece apart his entire childhood trying to build it back together without the Dutchman, but it will never be built back the same.

Something will always be missing.

The thought lingers on his mind the entire day, as he eats breakfast, washes the sheets and cooks his lunch. Today, he decides, he’ll go to dinner with his parents. Perhaps they can provide some insight into the situation. There’s a knock on his door and he frowns, looking around confused.

He’s not expecting company.

Wout grumbles on his way over to the door, cursing Dylan and his clinginess, he was probably dying to tell him of his newest conquest in the grossest, most explicit details as possible. He almost wishes he could slam the door on his stupid face.

But Dylan’s stupid face is not what he sees when he opens the door.

Standing on the other side is Mathieu, cheeks red from the morning cold. The tip of his nose has flushed adorably, and he has an abashed look on his blue eyes as he glances at Wout.

Wout can almost swear he sees Mathieu’s eyes light up.

“Hey,” he whispers, when he feels like they have been standing in the door forever.

Mathieu smiles. “Hi.”

Wout opens the door and ushers Mathieu in. It feels right, right, right.

At last.

Chapter Text

Late 2018

His mind is in a lot of places for the rest of 2018.

The high he had felt in Valkenburg vanished, and soon it almost felt as if it had never really existed. Mathieu watches the sunrise in a cold hotel room with the tiredness of having tossed and turned on his bed all night. When he steps into the shower that day, he does his best to ignore the bruise on his hip, the love bites scattered over his body and instead decides to focus solely on the nasty purple blotch on his face.

He also tries to ignore the fact that the bruise matches Wout’s long, elegant fingers.

Mathieu fails miserably.

In the privacy of his shower, as scalding hot water burns his back and reddens his skin, he allows himself to drift back to last night. To the betrayal of Adrie babbling in the press with opinions that Mathieu did not share. He meant what he had said in his own interview, and his feelings, until he had been confronted by Wout, were true. Mathieu had been happy. But there was also the twisted thrill that settled on him whenever he fought with Wout, the sick satisfaction that came with it, and the knowledge that it both aroused and frightened Mathieu. But then, Wout hurt him.

Sure, Mathieu was used to the violent words the two had exchanged, and he also used everything in his power to twist the knife just as much as Wout did. But when he had grabbed his face, for perhaps the first time in his entire life, Mathieu had been scared of Wout.

Not that he would hurt him, Wout may be taller than him, but Mathieu is by no means small, but the wild look on his face had morphed into something else entirely. Wout had stared at him like Mathieu was not human, as if he were some beast that Wout had found and that needed to be put down.

It felt like they were not equals.

And that, Mathieu cannot bear.

The tears come freely after that, and he sobs loudly at an empty bathroom, shakes racking through his entire body and when he comes out of his shower, he feels rejuvenated. Is he also dehydrated from all the crying? Probably, but for once he chooses to focus on the positive and not the negative.

Because honestly, fuck Wout van Aert.

He knows perfectly well that Mathieu and Adrie have, at best, a complicated relationship, and that more times than not Mathieu has to pick up the pieces that Adrie presents to the press and to the peloton for the sake of keeping a united front, so journalists don’t go digging into the fucked-up family dynamic that cycling had put on them.

And fuck Wout, because he knows Mathieu had the better cyclocross season. He absolutely dominated the entire thing, dog-walking the competition, and here saunters in Wout van Aert trying to diminish everything simply because Mathieu didn’t win the world championship? How dare he. Mathieu knows, if you stack the two of them against each other, Mathieu’s record beats Wout’s. More than that, he knows Wout knows that as well.

It's why he had said what he did.

He knew exactly where the wound was on Mathieu, and he knew exactly what poison to put on the knife to make it hurt even more.

So yeah, fuck Wout van Aert with his fucking championships and his fucking blonde streak of hair – which is NOT natural – and Mathieu decides right there he won’t waste another minute thinking about the Belgian man.

He’s from Herentals, for crying out loud.

David sighs tiredly when he sees Mathieu’s face later, and Mathieu does his best to ignore the disappointed look on his brother’s eyes. He’s too tired to deal with it anyway. Adrie glares at him with confused eyes, and at times Mathieu is struck by how much he looks like his father. He wonders if that’s what Wout saw, when he glared at Mathieu as if he were inferior.

Well, there goes his resolution of not thinking about Wout.

“Did you really have to say that?” Mathieu blurts out, unable to control himself.

He regrets it as soon as he says it.

Adrie’s brows pull in together. “Yes, I did,” he says in a strained voice. “You were so content to lose, so settled. You need to be reminded that you are here to win, not to come in second or third.”

David holds his hands up. “Can we not do this right now?” he asks, and the exhaustion on his voice breaks Mathieu’s heart.

But no, for once, Mathieu will be heard by Adrie. He needs to be heard.

“Why not? Seems as good a time as any,” Mathieu shrugs in a way he hopes comes off as casually. “Yes, I am here to win, but in cycling you lose more than you win. You know this, dad. I get being angry at not winning after a dominant season, I am upset about that myself, but to go around invalidating the wins of my opponents makes me seem petty and unlikeable.”

“Please, you all but put the medal on him yourself,” Adrie scoffs.

“It’s called being a good sportsman,” Mathieu defends weakly.

His father shakes his head. “It’s not, Mathieu,” he says, looking at him with his big, blue eyes and Mathieu feels very much like a child being told how to feel and what to say. “And one day, when you are very successful and have broken every record, you will thank me for this.”

Adrie turns around, finishes packing the bags and putting them in the back of the car.

***

Several months later, he’s on a rare afternoon ride with David.

Mathieu had a rare break from cycling, having just finished the road season, and before the preparations for the cyclocross season began. With nothing else to do, he had reluctantly gone back home, because there is truly nothing like the overwhelming feeling that he’s being waterboarded every time he sits down on the dining table to eat a meal.

He has begun to feel like a war survivor or something. Mathieu flinches every time the doors slam, and he is quite sure he’s beginning to go insane because he starts to recognize who is slamming the door based on the sound. And wow maybe he really does need the cyclocross season to begin again.

But then again, he dreads it.

It’ll be harder to avoid Wout in cyclocross. The venues are a lot smaller, as are the crowds. Everything feels more local, more reduced. It also doesn’t help his chances that the two of them are the big names that the press heavily follows from cyclocross.

Things have been uncomfortable between them.

They aren’t yelling and snapping at each other, like Mathieu had expected. At this point it’s become very clear that they are both running away from each other. One time, Mathieu had quite literally sprinted back to his team bus when he realized their paths were gonna cross if neither of them moved. He had dropped the bike and everything, leaving his team incredibly confused.

Wout probably thought he had a bathroom emergency or something.

Mathieu is quite happy to let him think that.

It would be easy to be embarrassed, but on more than one occasion, Mathieu had made Wout run away from him. The sick, twisted part of him smiled in glee when he saw that Wout could not stand unaffected by him. Mathieu is dug in deep in his brain, just as deep as Wout is in his.

That’s also the new development in his life. After the initial reaction had been to just say fuck Wout van Aert, He has now decided that yeah, Wout is a massive part of his life, but that also means Mathieu is a massive part of his life. And that gives the power back to Mathieu. Because really, how could he ever think that they were anything other than equals?

Stupid.

“Why do you have that weird look on your face?” David asks, as they have stopped for a café break.

Mathieu shrugs. “Your father is driving me insane.”

David finishes ordering before resuming their conversation. “You should just move out, boefje. You make a nice living; you could get a nice house and be done with all of that”

Mathieu knows, he might act stupid but he’s not actually stupid. But at the same time, there is a simplicity that comes from living at home. Sure, Adrie is unbearable a lot of the time, breathing down Mathieu’s neck, pressuring him to train, to eat properly, to train again. But it’s all Mathieu had known since he was eight years old. And his hectic cycling schedule meant that he was home only for a few days at a time, and the maintenance he would have to do to take care of a house of his own. There was also his dog. She would have to be moved around constantly, and Mathieu doesn’t think it’s fair to her at all.

“It’ll be more of a hassle, at this point,” Mathieu says, “besides, it’s only for a few days of the year, I can stick it out.”

They sit in silence for minutes, both drinking their coffees. Mathieu settles on watching the sunset, the way the colors blend on the horizon. Yellow becomes pink, and pink blends into purple, which in turn transforms into blue. It’s peaceful, Mathieu thinks, he feels more at peace than he has felt in a long, long time. He could sit there forever and be content.

“He does want the best for you, Mathieu,” David breaks the silence, speaking the words into the sunset. The leaves carry the sound over to Mathieu, and he feels them wash over him, they settle on his bone and flow through his veins.

“I know,” he says eventually. “I know that he loves me, David, I’m his son, of course he does. I just don’t think he likes me very much.”

The words are almost too much to admit. He feels insecurity and vulnerability pour out of him, and the thought that he had always known comes out shy, afraid and trembling. Because Mathieu knows them to be true. He’s more trophy than son, more experiment than child. He could never be just Mathieu, he always had the immense weight of having to be more, of needing to be more. Mathieu closes his eyes and waits.

“I’m sorry, Matje,” David whispers. “I know that he turned you into this because of my own failures,” Mathieu opens his mouth to protest what they both know to be true, but David waves him off.

“The two of us know that’s the truth. And that truth in particular, stopped stinging me a long time ago. And I know you probably won’t believe me but trust me in this: it is absolutely possible to look at you and not see the trophy, but to see the person. You are so young, Mathieu, to be this lonely.”

I am not lonely, Mathieu thinks desperately. But when he opens his mouth a knot forms at his throat, his stomach drops and the incessant drumming of his heart pounding against his ribcage is so uncomfortable that he can’t bear it. He feels the tears forming in his eyes, but he’s not going to cry in a café for god’s sake.

His throat lets out a sob.

David’s arms wrap around him in an instant, he feels familiar and comfortable. Mathieu lets his head drop to his brother’s chest, relishing in the heat that he radiates, it warms Mathieu in a way he had not realized he needed. He feels like a child again, he feels like the little kid that would run to David after Adrie had yelled at him for coming in anything other than first. He clings to his brother pathetically, but he is too exhausted to care about it. So, what if he is pathetic? He is allowed to be, for at least once in his life.

The world passes him by in that café.

***

It’s dark outside by the time they make it back home.

They don’t even ride their bikes, racing against each other in the childish manner that they usually do. Mathieu stands next to his bike, pushing it along the trail that leads back home, but the dread of being in the house refuses to find him. He feels light, lighter than he had felt in a very long time, and at peace.

Mathieu doesn’t forget the last time he felt at peace, and it had been ruined.

He had been comfortably drifting off to sleep on Wout’s chest and the phone rang.

While he had cried and cried with David and had let out the confused feelings of his complex relationship with his father out, it felt a bit too much to air out the entire situation with Wout, all in the same day. Especially because so much of their relationship was sexual, but Mathieu couldn’t really help it that he ended up in Wout’s bed most times than not. Maybe one day he’ll be able to tell him, but not today.

Still, Mathieu felt like he had taken a step forward.

Communicating wasn’t where he was the strongest. He preferred to bottle everything inside, hating the way all his emotions blew up on his face in a cloud of frustration and resentment and anger. And because it blew up on him, Mathieu often felt the need to lash out, it made him feel like he could grab all the anger in his hands, tear it apart and shape it into knives, and throw it at whoever came across his path first. Sometimes it was David, or his mom – which led to Mathieu feeling incredibly guilty and ashamed – even at times it was directed at Adrie. Most times it was Wout who got the worst of it.

“What are you thinking about?” David asks, as their house comes to view. The lights of the common areas are on, but Mathieu knows that by now his parents have retired to sleep, keeping the lights on for them.

“Not anything in particular,” Mathieu answers.

He feels the need to explain himself when David glances at him, confused. “I feel lighter than I have felt in a very long time,” he bumps his brother with his shoulder, “we should do those heart-to-heart conversations more often.”

David smiles, the wide smile of his he saves only for Mathieu. “My door’s open whenever you want, boefje.”

Mathieu throws a hand up, keeping the other on the bike. “Oh my God, I stole your bike one time, ages ago.”

The sound of their laughs mixing lights up the driveway all the way to the door.

As he gets ready to finally go to bed, Mathieu goes through his phone after an entire afternoon where he had neglected it. Sure, he had taken some pictures to later post on Instagram because the sponsors were expecting it, but the camera app was the closest thing to social media he had touched all day. He answers a few texts, replies to some stories, and then a particular story knocks the wind out of him.

It was posted some 30 minutes ago, featuring a very drunk Belgian man hanging on to some blonde guy Mathieu doesn’t recognize, but that he decides that very moment is a very ugly man. Worse than that, he looks old. Why is Wout with some old man? On second thought, where even is he? Herentals doesn’t have any good clubs, it’s Herentals, for crying out loud.

Why do you care so much? A Belgian voice whispers at the back of his mind, and Mathieu half wishes Wout was there so he could punch him on his very stupid face, so he could yank out the very idiotic blonde streak – which is NOT natural – of hair off his scalp.

And well his night is very much ruined now.

It’s typical Wout van Aert fashion, to spoil Mathieu’s good mood without even having to be there. It’s not that Mathieu is mad Wout is plowing some blonde old man into the mattress, he is a big boy, and he can do whatever the hell he wants, Mathieu doesn’t care. It’s more that he hates the fact that it gets him so riled up with anger and jealousy. What is that about? He had already decided that fuck Wout, his opinion doesn’t matter.

His mind is betraying him, and wow he really needs to get off his phone before he throws it against a wall and wakes up the house. Or worse, that he ends up replying to the story or something. Or even worse, that he marches himself to a proper club in Antwerp and gets an old man with dark hair that can plow him into the mattress.

He spits the toothpaste on the sink, glaring at his reflection and angrily prying the door open. On the hallway he finds Corrine, staring curiously at him. Mathieu promptly shuts his phone off, but he is too slow, Corrine takes his arm and pushes him out of the bathroom and into the living room and okay they are doing this.

“Who was that?” she asks, sitting down on the couch and patting the spot next to her.

“No one,” Mathieu answers quickly, way too quickly. Fuck.

Corrine smiles. “Are you gonna make me guess who it is, then?” she teases, a glint in her eyes.

Mathieu debates his options. Sure, his family knows there is a weird relationship between him and Wout, and he is pretty sure they suspect it is sexual, but the thought of sitting with his mother and telling her exactly how sexual the relationship is is not only uncomfortable, but gross and ew, ew, ew. That’s not happening. Next thing he’ll know, Corrine will be opening up about her sex life and oh my god, Mathieu would rather eat his own vomit.

Against his better judgement, he sits down next to her. And because hey, he already made bad decisions, he might as well go to hell, right? He curls up next to Corrine, much like he did as a child, and reopens the phone.

“Who is that next to Wout?” Corrine asks.

God, does it take all of Mathieu’s strength to not curse the old, blonde man out in front of his mom.

Instead, he shrugs. “I don’t know, I think they met at the club tonight.” Man, he hopes they met tonight. The thought of the old man not being a casual hook up but being a serious relationship makes his blood boil.

“Why is he at the club without you?” she asks, and Mathieu finds her tone of voice a little funny. It’s not quite amused, but something else that he can’t quite place. He decides to ignore it.

“Why would we go to the club together?”

Corrine shrugs. “I just don’t think that your father would ever go to a club without me,” she says, as if it were obvious. It only makes Mathieu more confused.

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“Well, I didn’t think you would be so comfortable with your boyfriend posing with other guys on clubs when you are not there, but then again you always love to surprise me, Mathieu.”

And that.

Oh no.

Mathieu chokes.

He blinks. “What did you call Wout?” he asks, his mind running a million kilometers per hour. “I mean that-that-that’s not what this – what we – “

“I don’t understand why you would say that I mean that’s not what any of this is,” he continues to ramble. “Wout is certainly not my boyfriend.”

Corrine frowns at him. “Are you sure?”

“I think I would know if I had a boyfriend, mom.”

He sees emotions flash through Corrine’s eyes. Confusion, frustration, a little bit of sadness. Mathieu can feel his heartbeat on his ears. Because why would his mom think that? Even worse, is that what his entire family thinks about his relationship with Wout?

As if she can hear Mathieu’s thoughts, Corrine grabs his hand. “Well, that complicates a lot of things. We all thought the two of you were in a relationship, Mathieu,” she explains. “A very unconventional, intense relationship, but a relationship nonetheless.”

Oh god, he feels sick. “We? Who is we?”

“Oh, you know. Just us,” she begins to brush Mathieu’s blonde strands of hair back. “Wout’s parents too.”

“What.”

“Oh, honey, what do you think I talk about to with them all the time?”

Mathieu waves his hands desperately. “About the weather?” he tries weakly.

 Corrine deadpans. “Mathieu, be serious,” she says, and he doesn’t know what the expression on his face must be, because Corrine’s face shifts, suddenly uncomfortable. “You really didn’t know?”

He shakes his head.

Sure, Mathieu knew that, at the very least, David definitely understood the nature of the entire mess he had going on with Wout. And sure, Mathieu is absolutely attracted to Wout, and drawn to the Belgian, and it fills him with pride whenever he wins and Wout is there. And every time their eyes meet a rush of heat travels down south, and sometimes his hear breaks a little when they part after their amazing fucks. But that’s just how people feel around their lifelong rival.

The thought that other people had perceived the situation makes him feel sick. He feels sick and exposed and vulnerable, and thank God Wout is not here because then he would’ve lashed out at him already. But coiled deep in him, Mathieu still feels a desperate need to know what exactly do other people see, when they look at them? Do they see a relationship? Do they see the underlaying madness shared between them? The obvious bond they share but the need to be above the other? Do they see all of it or nothing at all?

“I don’t think it matters,” Mathieu says finally to the silence of the night. “You saw the picture; he’s probably with that man right now.”

Corrine’s warm hands run down his back in a comforting motion.

“Oh Mathieu, you really are stupid, sweetheart.”

And wow, that’s really mean. He should’ve seen it coming, really. The one time he is vulnerable with either of his parents and they resort to putting him down and making fun of him, but at the end of the day, they raised him, didn’t they? If anything, it’s their fault he is terrible at communicating.

Mathieu sighs and goes to stand up.

With a physical strength Mathieu didn’t know she had, Corrine tugs him back on the couch. He lands uncomfortably, not on top of Corrine, but rather next to her.

“I didn’t mean it like that, Mathieu,” she explains. She seems to struggle to finish finding the right words to go on. “I remember when you came back one day from a race, and there was this look to you, I had not seen it before. You didn’t look lost, for once, you looked found. And I wondered who could have possibly done that to my son, so I went to your next race and kept an eye out for everyone. I was startled to realize Wout van Aert had the same look on his face, when he looked at you.”

“You’ll probably deny it, but you love that man, Mathieu. I know you do. It’s why you lash out at him, and at us, and at everything. It’s probably why your father hates him.”

“And yet I think he feels the same way.”

And no.

No, no, no.

Corrine can’t do that to him, she can’t give him hope, not when she doesn’t know Wout the way Mathieu does.

“You can’t say that” Mathieu says, and suddenly he is tasting salt on his mouth. “Don’t do that to me.”

Corrine runs the pads of her thumbs on his cheeks. “I know I probably sound insane, but I can assure you that to us on the outside, that feeling of madness you feel, he feels it too.”

“I think you should go talk to him, sweetheart.”

The idea is tempting. To finally know, to reduce all the years of tension and half met glances. The years of hotel hook-ups, and the angry words spat at each other whenever their relationship resembled anything other than the world’s longest booty call. And the thought that maybe, just maybe, Wout feels as deranged about the whole situation as Mathieu is. Well. That sends a shiver down his spine, and a twisted, wicked glee, knowing that no matter how hard he tries, Wout cannot erase him from his life. They are tied, together.

The red string of fate.

But there is also danger.

Sure, Mathieu has more than once thought that Wout matched his feelings, he got the sense whenever the brunette’s eyes lingered on him, on the desperate way he kissed Mathieu after the weeks where they had not seen each other, on the gasps and moans whispered into his ear when he lost himself in pleasure. And maybe one time Mathieu had hooked up with a girl – who, no matter how much David liked to bother him with it, most certainly did NOT look like Wout – the Belgian had been prissy and snippy, and it had led to their riskiest fuck yet, but still.

The fear that Wout would not feel the same way. That he would see Mathieu, truly see him, and reject all of it. Laugh in his face. The idea that he would not be understood.

Why do you care so much? A deep voice whispers. And Mathieu knows, he knows but he can’t say it, because then it’ll be too real.

He doesn’t sleep that night.

Not that he does much these days. Sleep evades him, he tosses and turns, wrangling every single scenario in his head. They all end in disaster. From Wout saying he’s never felt that way, to Wout laughing and his eyes glinting with that cruel look Mathieu knows too well. To Mathieu reacting poorly to the rejection and straight up murdering the Belgian. He sees it clearly too; that’s the scary part. Sees his tanned hands wrap around Wout’s pale, elegant throat. It’d be hard, Wout is a big guy who would not go down without a fight, but Mathieu’d have the element of surprise. And he would have Wout’s last moments as well. The gasps, the shock. His, his, his.

Fuck it.

When the first rays of light hit his bed, Mathieu stands with methodical precision. Goes through the motions of looking presentable, grabs his bike from the garage, and pedals.

He feels as if he is racing. Heart pounding, legs aching, back burning. In a way he is. But towards what, Mathieu doesn’t know.

To victory, or to defeat?

Does he care at all?

Chapter Text

Late 2018

Wout has seen a lot of crazy things in his life.

That’s sort of the name of the game, in cycling. Crashes, injuries, broken bones, gnarly cuts, deep scars, terrible bruises. You name it, Wout has seen it. He has felt it too, unfortunately. At times he feels horribly older than his actual age, like an old man who just wants his rest. But when he sprints, when he races and races and pushes his body to the absolute edge, to that part where every single cell on his body is screaming at him to stop, but his mind still has enough will to say keep going, and his legs have no choice but to obey, like mindless vessels, well. Wout cannot remember a time when he feels more alive, more deranged. Crazy, crazy, crazy.

But this.

Mathieu on his home, eyes darting nervously around the living room as Wout hands him a glass of water.

That might be the craziest thing he’s ever seen.

It’s not like Mathieu has never been in his home before. Wout is a little ashamed to admit they’d even had sex in their parents’ homes before. Not only on Wout’s, but on Mathieu’s too. Sue them. It’s the price to pay when you have two horny, pent-up teenagers with a psycho-sexual relationship between them that develops into adulthood.

But the air of nervousness around Mathieu, the uneasiness, and the panicked way he stares at Wout when the brunette is not looking, that’s a new one. There’s something else in his expression, Wout can’t quite place it.

He decides to ignore it.

“Thanks,” Mathieu says, taking the glass from Wout’s hand.

He also ignores the way their fingers graze each other’s.

Mathieu raises the glass, almost as if toasting Wout. It makes Wout blink. The blonde snaps his eyes shuts, blushing red with embarrassment, shakes his head and downs the drink in one go. Wout stares at how he tilts his head backwards, the elegant curve of his throat, and how exposed his neck is. As if Mathieu was prey. Wout wants to sink his teeth into it.

He clears his throat.

Stop it, he scolds himself, don’t let any of this turn into something sexual and you’ll be fine.

“Thirsty, huh,” Wout says instead, attempting to break the ice. And wow, does he fail at that. It comes out flirty and teasing and not at all like Wout intended it. He was just making a statement.

Mathieu chokes.

Wout clicks his tongue.

“Yeah, I guess,” Mathieu replies, hiding behind a cough.

There’s a long beat of silence that stretches out for way too long. Wout feels compelled to break it, but incapable of finding the right words. It happens to him often, with Mathieu. He’s always at the brink of finding the right thread, the proper way to react, and when his hands grasp it, the thread slips away, vanishing in an instant. He is left floundering and scrambling.

It's why they end up fighting so much.

“Why are you here?” Wout asks.

“Did you have fun last night?” Mathieu asks at the same time.

Wout startles, then curses. The stupid Instagram story. Stupid Nathan with his stupid pictures. It’s all his fault anyway.

“I had fun last night,” Wout answers, while Mathieu decides that’s the best moment to speak as well. “I wanted to see you,” the blonde admits and Wout’s mind blanks out for a moment.

He sighs.

“I’m sorry,” he starts, rushing through the phrase when he sees Mathieu is opening his mouth to speak again. “You go first.”

Mathieu fiddles nervously with the glass. “I wanted to see you,” he repeats. “I saw your story; did you have fun last night?”

When Wout imagined this conversation with the Dutch man, he always pictured the possessive pitch that Mathieu’s voice gets whenever a situation involves Wout being with someone else. Most of the time, Wout doesn’t really know what to think of it. He would call it jealousy, if it were anything else, but with Mathieu his guess was as good as any. They were not in a relationship, neither willing to put in the work to make it work between them. Sure, there was a time Mathieu showed up to a race with a cute brunette with long hair and pretty brown eyes, and Wout maybe spent hours staring at her profile picture on her private account, wondering what Mathieu saw in her. But, at the end of that day he had roughly pressed Mathieu against the back wall of a building, scattering his neck with marks as Mathieu pretended to be angry about it.

He often wonders what Mathieu told the brunette about them. Did he tell her who had made those? Or was she done with him the minute she saw them? Did she wonder why her boyfriend couldn’t walk properly?

Wout hopes she did.

The curious tone in Mathieu’s voice throws him off. He sounds genuine. The way he would ask any other friend if they had fun on their night out. It gets the message across that, after months and months of distance between them, Mathieu sees him just as a quick, constant fuck.

“I did, thanks,” the mask of politeness slides back on. It’s the only way that Wout will bear this conversation.

Mathieu nods, setting the glass down at the center table in the living room.

“That’s nice. I’m glad you did,” he says, standing in the middle of the room awkwardly. Mathieu’s mouth opens again, ready to begin again, but Wout beats him to the punch.

“I’m surprised you didn’t run into Nathan on your way in.”

Mathieu freezes. His back, straight as an arrow, stiffens. Wout sees his blue eyes flash, first in surprise, then in anger and they finally settle in something that closely resembles sadness, Wout feels a pang go through his chest, tugging at his heart.

He had said it to be mean, truthfully. To fall back on the same familiar pattern that is Mathieu lashing out, and Wout drawing blood. He hates the pattern, but he hates even more how he sickeningly craves for it, manipulating every interaction so that it has the same outcome, so that he can keep some semblance of control over the blonde man, who sends him reeling and spiraling into madness.

“Oh, that’s nice, I guess,” Mathieu says painfully. “Is that a new thing?”

And the worst part is that Wout knows him, he recognizes the desperate curiosity curling at the edge of Mathieu’s voice as he asks the question. Wout is torn between wanting to be honest and needing to lie. The accusatory tone, his sad eyes, the nervous stance and wandering eyes, it’s slowly becoming a bit too much for Wout, and he slowly feels himself lose all resolutions of battle.

He is so tired.

“Painfully new,” Wout snorts. “I only brought him up to be mean to you.”

And oh God, the honesty could absolutely backfire on him right now, but he can’t find it in himself to care. He chances a glance at Mathieu and is overcome with the feeling that the Dutchman doesn’t care either.

Maybe this way there can be actual progress between them.

Mathieu’s smile is sad. “I only raced here in the dead of morning because of that, to be honest,” he sighs as he sits. “And because my mom knocked some sense into me last night.”

Oh.

That’s new.

Wout was not expecting new.

“What do you mean?”

“She thought we were dating,” the blonde informs him, “your parents do too, by the way. She said they talk about it constantly, and she was curious why, if you are with me, you were with some guy at a bar last night.”

Oh.

Oh no, no, no.

Wout flushes.

Because he has been so pathetically in love with Mathieu since he was a teenager, of course their parents noticed. It must be what everyone sees when they look at him. The rider with the crush on his rival, so desperately weak to his every whim and desire. Like a pet, waiting to be told he was a good boy and that he’ll have his reward. Praying like an idiot that the day will one day come where Mathieu feels the same way.

The worst part is that it’s not even Mathieu’s fault. It’s his own, for allowing it to happen repeatedly, for setting boundaries that he does not respect. For crawling back to someone who has not once promised him anything close to commitment. For loving someone who fucks with him almost as much as Wout fucks him. It’s sad, and pathetic and it fills Wout with rage that the image people have of him has been torn and twisted to the fancy of Mathieu.

We really are tied together, he thinks bitterly. The red string of fate.

Mathieu is not done rambling.

“And you know what I realized? That they are not wrong. They’re not fucking wrong. I thought about how this looks like, to everyone on the outside and the answer was so painfully obvious, I’m shocked it took someone else quite literally spelling it out for me to notice. How did I not know? And then I thought that yes, you may be smarter than me in some things, but by no means am I stupid. I’ve always known. Always. I was just blind and proud and afraid.”

He gasps, taking Wout’s hands into his own, grasping with a strength Wout didn’t know was there. Mathieu fiddles his thumb until it rests on Wout’s pulse point on his wrist. He wonders if the dutchman can feel his pounding heart. Wout can, it hammers into his ribcage uncomfortably, and the air has been sucked out his lungs and out of the room, and maybe even the planet.

They stare at each other for a beat. Mathieu’s blue eyes are red, filled with water. He blinks rapidly to keep the tears from falling.

“I was so afraid, Woutje,” he whispers. “But I’ve always known why I cling to you, why I keep coming back. It’s why I’m mean and cruel, and God, you just take it. You see that and you don’t flinch away, and I feel so seen it makes me scared, but it would be even more scary to live in a world where I’m not seen.”

Wout tastes salt, and it slowly dawns on him that he is crying. He knows what’s coming. He knows because it’s what he screams helplessly into the void, when it all gets too much. It’s his truth, his curse and his prayer.

“It’s because I love you,” Wout snaps his eyes shut. “I do, in a shitty, twisted way I love you, and it might never be enough for you, but I swear that it is the only way I know how to.”

He is tugged into Mathieu, who curls his head on Wout’s chest, and wraps his arms around his body. It’s painful, the way they fit together. Wout’s arms curl around the blonde’s waist, pressing him close, until it is warm and uncomfortable, and Wout’s shirt is getting stained, but so is Mathieu’s.

The dutchman lifts his head, staring dead into Wout’s eyes. Blue, so, so blue. Blue and sad and hopeful and afraid. “But if you let me, I’ll spend my life trying to love you in the way you deserve.”

And that.

Well, that’s everything Wout’s ever wanted to hear.

He’s just a man, after all. He’s weak, and tired. A part of him can’t believe it, the smart part of him screams and tells him to run, it says that Mathieu is just messing with him, and this is just a new way to fuck Wout over, and when he least expects it, Mathieu will pull out a knife and kill him. The part of him that’s still smart says no, because he still feels that curling jealousy when the blonde is on top of him on the podium, and it’ll never work, and their careers will never survive this, but at the same time, there is a very stupid part of him that just wants to trust everything blindly.

Wout sees the ending, clear as day. Either he consumes Mathieu, or Mathieu consumes him. They end up the same way, resentful towards one another, with an icy ocean between them, and a string that binds them together that cannot be severed. And still.

Fuck it.

“Okay,” Wout whispers, relishing in the way Mathieu lights up like a Christmas tree. Wout feels the word echo in his heart, and he knows he has found a new one.

A prayer. A curse.

A promise.

***

Mathieu does not leave, after that.

They sit and talk until the sun sets on the horizon. He stays over for dinner, eating a pizza that has way too many carbs that either of them should be eating but that neither of them cares. And he stays after that. He stays and stays and stays and stays and stays.

Slowly learning to be around each other, in a way that’s gentle and not violent. They sleep in the same bed, but they do not fuck, and when Mathieu wakes up the next morning, absolutely surprised that he slept through the entire night, he confesses that since their fight he’s had a terrible time sleeping.

Wout feels a small pang because he has not had any noticeable symptoms, but then again, he thinks of his tiredness, and his exhaustion. Maybe that’s how heartbreak manifests on him.

Things are not perfect, far from it really. But something is there that wasn’t before. A willingness, from both of them, to express their thoughts and to listen. A minute after Wout decides he’ll take everything one day at a time, he contradicts himself and decides he needs more. So, he asks Mathieu for more.

“If this is going to work,” he starts, as Mathieu takes a bite from his food. “I need it to be exclusive; I want it to be exclusive.”

The dutchman nods. “Okay,” he says, “then this is exclusive.”

He gets the same rush from Mathieu saying yes that he gets from Mathieu saying no. Wout seriously believes he needs to be studied or hospitalized or something. There is something incredibly wrong with him, and yet there is Mathieu, seeing that, recognizing it, and choosing to show him the things that are incredibly wrong with the blonde.

The days are blissful. As blissful as they can be with being torturous. Wout is very much proud of the fact that he has restrained for so long from sleeping with Mathieu, but at the same time he has restrained for so long from sleeping with Mathieu. He’s only a man, after all, and he has needs. Masturbating in the shower as his mouth forms Mathieu’s name isn’t really working for him, and neither is the domestic proximity between them.

They have always been intense, going a million miles per hour. But now, everything is amplified because of the abstinence. Mathieu brushes against him in his sleep and it sends an electric shock through Wout. Mathieu presses a hand against his waist to pass behind him, and Wout has to restrain himself from pushing back into him. One time, Mathieu laughs so loudly at a joke, that he repeatedly slaps Wout’s thigh and he actually has to excuse himself from the room. On a bike ride in the morning, after pushing themselves to the point of exhaustion, Mathieu pants and gasps, breathless, and Wout very much decides in that moment that he is done, he has to sleep with that man yesterday or he’ll combust.

He enters the house with that purpose, wondering if Mathieu can feel it in the air. He likes to think that they are so in tune, that he does. Apparently, Wout is wrong.

“The coffee on that café was disgusting,” he complains. “We are never going to that place again, I would rather eat my own vomit.”

Ah.

He paints with words, doesn’t he? Wout thinks fondly, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Mathieu continues “and the muffin was so dry, it felt like a trick to get me to drink more coffee,” he shuffles around as he removes his shoes and places them by the entrance. After, he begins to tug his skintight jacket off. “I don’t know where you found that café, but we are definitely deleting that location from the rotation, ugh, I was even scared to lean back on the chair, it was sticky and s-“

Wout can’t take his rambling anymore.

He carelessly throws his shoes to the side, grips the blonde man roughly by the hips, and presses him flush against his own body. Wout grins when Mathieu’s blue eyes go wide, his mouth opens and he lets out an “oh”, before Wout presses their lips together.

It never gets old, the taste of Mathieu’s mouth on his. His lips are soft, and they fit perfectly against Wout’s. He likes to think that Mathieu was born specifically for this, for Wout to kiss him. The kiss is by no means sweet, Wout pushes into him with desperation, slipping his tongue in when Mathieu lets out a small moan that vibrates onto Wout.

They’ll run out of breath soon, but all Mathieu does is wrap his arms around Wout’s neck, softly running his hands through the dark strands of hair. And God, Wout loves it. The way they match each other, the way they compete. It’s a dance, it’s a show, it’s almost like riding together in the morning and as high as everyone else fading into the background except for them. Them, them, them.

It's a bit uncomfortable to touch Mathieu with their kit still on, but Wout manages. The Lycra clings to their skin, so Wout allows his hand wander to the curve of Mathieu’s back, right above his ass, and press his fingers in, the other slips up to the blonde’s chest, tugging at the zipper and sliding his hand over the blonde’s smooth chest.

God, his skin suit can’t get any tighter than it already is, but he is already feeling blood rush south and it’s making his head spin. Months and months of not getting any are finally getting to him and Wout will probably burst at any second.

Mathieu bites his lip and pulls away.

“Wout, if we are not going to fuck, we really need to stop.”

He needs no further instructions.

Wout surges forward, capturing Mathieu’s lips again, but this time the desperation is so palpable, Wout can almost taste it on his tongue. Their teeth clash, and the impact is painful, but Wout is already so hard he doesn’t really care at all.

Mathieu’s hands begin to grasp Wout as well. He settles on his ass, kneading the muscle and sighing in contempt. After a particular squeeze, Wout lets out a loud moan.

“Wait, wait,” Wout says, pawing at Mathieu’s bare chest like an annoyed kitten. “The room, let’s go to the room.”

Even though the sun has been up for hours, Wout’s room is dark. Neither of them had bothered to open the curtains before they left, and Wout is certainly not about to open them now. Sure, he and Mathieu have had sex before in semi-public spaces, but he is not into exhibitionism. He has no intention of putting on a show for his neighbors.

They fall into a pattern, roaming hands and lingering tugs and kisses. Wout’s bibs are scattered on the floor, and he is sure he accidentally tore Mathieu’s. Whatever. He can get more. The back of his knees hit the edge of the bed, and the impact sends him tumbling down, with the blonde’s full weight on top of him.

It knocks the air out of him.

Mathieu spreads his legs, revealing a very interesting bulge, and straddles Wout’s abdomen. He sits, grinning down at him. Victorious. A king on his throne. It makes Wout’s cock perk with incredible interest.

He leans down, mouthing at Wout’s neck, pressing open-mouthed kisses, trailing his way slowly up to Wout’s jaw. Mathieu nibbles at his earlobe, tugging painfully.

Wout moans.

“What do you want, Woutje?” he asks, breath tickling Wout’s ear.

And God, he wants everything.

He wants Mathieu on top of him, but he wants him underneath. He wants to feel him, to fill him, and to see the way his face crunches up in delight, the noises he lets out in pleasure. He wants Mathieu, raw and honest and lost in the way only Wout can make him feel. He wants to hear it too; he needs the rambling and the knowledge that Mathieu will always come back because no one will ever fuck him as good as Wout does. And then, when Wout has done such a good job that Mathieu is overstimulated and he can’t take it anymore, he wants him to order Wout to cum. Until he is more Wout than he is Mathieu.

Wout grips Mathieu’s hip, pinching at his side. “I want you to ride me, Matje.”

Mathieu van der Poel may be lots of things, but he has never once backed away when he is faced with a challenge.

His face twists, no longer human but not demon-like, the way it turns when they argue. No, his face twists into something purer, like a God. Wout feels it then, what’s about to happen tonight is different from the other times. Sure, he has fucked Mathieu more times than he can count, and he can count on one hand the number of times that they have made love. But this. This is worshipping, almost.

It's a battle still, because they are still them and really, how could it not be? But there is no winning and no losing. Mathieu is grinding down on his crotch, wicked and teasing, and the way Wout is running his nails over his back will leave scratches in the morning that he can trace over and over with his hands. A part of him wishes they’ll scar.

They kiss, and Mathieu tastes of chocolate and coffee and Matje, a taste that is so addicting that Wout thinks they should make candles out of it, so that he can blow all his money buying them and keep them forever. His tongue is incredibly talented and the thought that he must’ve had practice with other people makes Wout grip him by the waist possessively, but then again, he is the one reaping the rewards so maybe it’s not so bad.

Wout presses a finger to Mathieu’s entrance, surprised to find him wet and loose. He pulls away from the kisses. Mathieu cranes his face in Wout’s neck, teasing his throat and biting at his pulse point.

“Did you…” he trails off, circling his finger as the blonde hums into his chest.

He grins. “You lasted way longer than I anticipated,” he says, rolling his hips to press Wout’s finger further in. Mathieu pouts when Wout doesn’t move his finger.

“Whore,” Wout says, tone light and no bite behind it.

Mathieu shrugs. “I’m not the one who’s going to be begging to cum in some minutes.”

They fall into a rhythm, Mathieu rolling his hips when finally, Wout fingers him, the blonde’s cock leaking between them. The noises he makes are close to pornographic, and Wout commits the sound to his memory, locking in on his mental folder of the other man. Wout is sure his neck and chest are more purple and red right now than they are skin toned.

The blonde paws at him. “Woutje, I need-God, fuck,” he gasps, brows furrowing as he snaps his eyes shut. “Need you in me now.”

“Yeah, Matje? You need to be stuffed by my cock,” he teases, fingers digging further and further in. He knows he’s hit Mathieu’s prostate when the blonde screams, biting his teeth into Wout’s shoulder. “You are such a slut, aren’t you? You love my cock in you. You love it and you need it.”

Mathieu nods desperately into his neck. “Wout, I swear if you don’t fuck me in the next minute I will go and find-“

“Ah-ha no. No threats, Matje,” Wout tsks. “You want my cock in you; you have to take it. I told you what I wanted, I want you to ride me. Exhaust yourself, Mathieu. Or can’t you even give me that?”

With new-found purpose, Mathieu pushes himself off Wout’s chest, leaning back until he is seating. Wout sends a big thank you to whoever invented cycling, because the lines of Mathieu’s body are delicious, and he is so handsome. Toned body, tanned skin, the elegant frame of his massive shoulders, and the slenderness of his waist. The defined muscles of his thighs, shaking and straining as finally, he takes Wout in with a hiss, making the Belgian gasp when his cock catches on Mathieu’s rim.

And he is so warm, and tight, and Wout’s cock fits him perfectly, he swears they were made for each other. Wout’s hands grip his hips, but the blonde takes them into his own with a mischievous grin before pressing them over his head.

He kisses Wout, nibbling on his lip but still not fucking moving and Wout is so close to flipping them around and fucking Mathieu into the mattress.

“Keep your hands there, Woutje,” Mathieu whispers, “if you want me to do all the work, you don’t get to cum if you move your hands.”

Wout whines.

It’s hard to pretend it bothers him to be bossed around. It sends an arousal through him, and it makes him twitch with anticipation. But it’ll be even harder to keep his hands from touching Matje, but the pleasure when he finally has his release. Wout knows it’ll be worth it.

Mathieu settles into the pace on which he likes to be fucked. Fast and relentless, quick paced and rhythmic. He uses his arms as support, pressing them into Wout’s chest and Wout swears he’ll have burn marks tomorrow or something. He throws his head back, letting out a long, drawn-out whine. He’s always been very vocal.

The motion bares his neck, and Wout wants to reach out and wrap his hands around it but not getting to cum after all of this will quite literally be hell, and if he knows one thing is that Mathieu follows through on his threats, especially when it comes to the bedroom. He entertains himself instead with watching the gleam of Mathieu’s throat, and how sweat makes him glow in the dim light of the room.

“So good,” he gasps, “you fill me up so good, Woutje.”

He keeps pressing and squirming, trying to find just the right angle that makes Wout’s cock press into his prostate over and over again. When he does, Wout begins to match Mathieu’s thrusts with his hips. It’s what sends the blonde over, his face scrunches, his mouth forms a perfect ‘o’, and his whines and moans are so high pitched, no one would ever think Mathieu was making those noises.

His cum coats his abdomen, some of it dripping on Wout’s belly. Wout knows that what comes next is the hardest part of the entire affair, but also the most pleasurable. For both.

Mathieu keeps rocking, he loves the overstimulation. When the pleasure of his release twists into something uncomfortable and painful. On his best day, he can cum again, getting off on the feeling. Wout is bucking wildly now, hips not even meeting Mathieu’s thrusts. The feeling tingles in his stomach, overriding his other senses, until all there’s on his mind is Matje, Matje, Matje, and the smell of him and the feeling of him.

“Matje,” he moans. Mathieu pinches Wout’s nipple between his fingers. “Please, please, please.”

It’s the begging that does it. It always has been. Mathieu snaps his eyes open, meeting Wout’s brown eyes. There’s softness in his expression, tenderness and a tranquility that has never been there before.

Mathieu’s hands wrap around his neck, squeezing gently. It makes it harder to breathe and impossible not to cum. He whines, and trashes and grunts, shutting his eyes closed praying that he’ll last for however long Mathieu wants.

“Say my name again.”

“Matje, Matje, Matje,” Wout rambles. “You feel so good, always so good. God, please, please please.”

“Say it again.”

“Mathieu, Mathieu, Matje.”

A laugh makes him open his eyes. Mathieu is a god, omnipotent and all-powerful. Wout begs and begs for mercy, and like a god, Mathieu grants it.

“You can cum, Woutje,” he whispers. “Fill me up, you always fill me up. Fill me up until there’s more of you in me than me. Come on, I need it, I love it.”

Wout cums, gasping and screaming. Mathieu falls into his chest again, and he licks the side of his face. Wout pants, trying to catch his breath. He taps Mathieu on the hip several times when he can’t take it anymore. The dutchman may love being overstimulated, but Wout certainly does not. He is soaked in sweat and cum, and drunk on Mathieu, and he had been so hard that he just wants to drift off to sleep.

“You are heavy,” he mumbles, Mathieu’s laugh rumbles through his chest, but he rolls off. Wout sees the way his cum drips out of him, but if that bothers Mathieu, he shows no sign of it.

“Don’t sleep yet, we have to clean ourselves up,” Mathieu says, attempting to sit up, but being pulled down by Wout. “Woutje, we’ll be all sticky.”

Wout traps Mathieu in his arms, pressing his face into his chest, feeling his heartbeat underneath. “We are already sticky,” he points out, “and I’m tired.”

“Huh, I wore you out old man?”

“Months! I am months older than you.”

Their laughter mixes, filling the room. They spend hours like that, bickering back and forth, until they both begin to drift off, Wout with his ear to Mathieu’s heart, and Mathieu with his hands pressed to the Belgian’s chest.

It’s the best sleep they’ve had in months

Chapter Text

February, 2019

Although he didn’t take a massive break before starting the cyclocross season again, Mathieu feels rested in ways he hasn’t felt in years.

At times he thinks that if he looks in the mirror, his skin will glow, the blue eyes will seem livelier than ever. His expression is even softer, he realizes. It spooks some of the other riders when the first race arrives, and it sends curious and careful glances his way when he loudly greets everyone at the start line, shaking hands and patting the riders’ ass in a playful way.

David takes him aside after the race is over, and whispers hurriedly on his ear, “Stop it, boefje. It’s getting creepy.” But Mathieu just grins at him. “I know.”

Because, for the first time in his life, he does.

Mathieu knows.

It has all been brought forth by Wout. The tranquility, the peace, the ease that follows him around these days. It’s all because of him. Mathieu is seen, appreciated and understood, a far cry from the hostile environment of his home where more often than not he feels tolerated, at best. But now, in the quiet sanctuary that has become of Wout’s house, well. Life is bliss.

Unfortunately, their days could not all be spent in bed together, after 3 days when neither had answered the phone, Wout’s parents showed up unannounced to his house, and were tragically met with the image of their son pounding his life-long rival into the mattress. The screaming that had happened after was terribly amusing, Henk and Ivonne had stumbled out of the room with shocked faces, Wout looked like he wanted to combust on the spot, and Mathieu couldn’t wipe the satisfied smirk off his face.

It earned him a kick to the shoulder.

When the initial shock had worn off, Wout sat his parents down in the living room and explained the entire thing. Well, not really the entire thing, that would’ve made Henk and Ivonne hate Mathieu or something. But enough for them to get the gist of it.

Yes, we are in a relationship.

Yes, this has been going on for a while.

No, it became official only recently.

No, they have no clue what the impact on their careers would be.

After that, Alpecin had sent some poor management personnel to Mathieu’s parent’s house. Adrie had called him, very angrily, and demanded he come back and get in contact with the team. And to, for the love of God, resume training. Mathieu had been tempted to ignore him, just to get a thrill over the tantrum Adrie would throw.

But Wout had talked him out of it.

Finally, he relented and went to his parents’ house.

Although he was at Wout’s house maybe for an entire week. A long, beautiful week, coming back to the house still felt strange. Everything is the same, nothing changes, and yet everything was not the same. And the deep, and leering knowledge that it was him who had changed coiled in Mathieu as he walked through the door, once again armoring himself for a battle.

The hallway is empty and quiet, rare, for a house where Mathieu is so used to screaming and fighting. Angry words and doors slamming. Faintly, from the living room, noises are coming. He takes a deep breath and walks to where his parents are.

They sit together, Corinne and Adrie, on the couch, watching an old movie. Adrie notices him first, head snapping up, blue eyes distant. Corinne notices and glances backwards, flashing Mathieu a smile that makes his heart swell and guilt rise up. They are his parents, after all, and the last time they spoke was when Corinne got it on his head that he needed to talk to Wout.

Sure, they could be better parents.

But he could also be a better son.

“Hi,” he greets, waving an awkward hand.

Adrie nods. “Took you long enough to come back,” he says, letting out an ‘oof’ when Corinne slaps his arm.

“Hello, sweetheart,” his mom greets. “Come sit down.”

And man, Mathieu really wishes he could just run away and not have to tell them anything, especially to Corinne who is grinning widely because she just knows. Mathieu feels suddenly embarrassed that he didn’t wear a turtleneck, considering the little number Wout had done on him last night. He is pretty sure the purple and black splotches on his neck are very visible.

“Ah, I actually have something important to tell you guys.”

Corinne blinks. “Was I right, after all?”

“Yup.”

She nods, looking terribly amused and satisfied with herself. Mothers, Mathieu figures. She stands, closing the distance to him. She is small, but when she reaches her hands to his cheeks, Mathieu closes his eyes and leans into her touch with a sigh. He feels like a kid again, who would run to his mom and be cuddled and protected.

He missed it.

They stand there for a couple minutes, swaying back and forth. Comfort and warmth radiate from Corinne, filling Mathieu with peace. A strange sensation, especially in this house, but as he opens his eyes, his gaze finds Adrie, standing awkwardly behind them. He seems different, somehow. Not understanding, Mathieu knows it will never come to that, but rather tired. For the first time in his life, Mathieu looks at his father and sees someone old. Exhausted.

He recognizes the expression. He’s seen it enough times in the mirror.

“Oh, Mathieu,” Adrie sighs, voice sad. “You’ve always done what you wanted, but I hope you understand you are throwing your career away. And when you realize this…”

Mathieu knows the end of the phrase. Don’t come crying to me. I don’t wat to hear it and you don’t want to give me the satisfaction of being right.

Threaten me all you want, Mathieu thinks, I still did something out of my own free will, not just because you said so. And that, he guesses, is what Adrie cannot stand. It’s easier that way, rather than to scramble his brain looking for why his father would be so against Wout.

***

They go to Denmark together, in February, for the world championships.

The hotel they stay at is nice, a pleasant change from the maddening repetition that was becoming of Wout’s home. Don’t get him wrong, Mathieu likes the place, he really, really likes it. There is a big garden at the back, where, after Wout’s insistence, Mathieu finally brings his dog, and the three of them play there for an entire afternoon. And maybe Mathieu pretends to be really thirsty just to go into the kitchen and blink his tears away because the entire thing is terribly domestic and it’s pulling at his heart strings, because what did he ever do to deserve it?

He's been nothing but cruel and calculated, most times directed at Wout. And yet the Belgian just sees right past it. He bites back and lets it roll off his back.

It makes his heart swell.

So yes, he really loves Wout’s place, and he loves how his things are slowly filling it. His clothes in the closet, his shoes scattered around the house. Mathieu’s jacket hangs from the shelf on the hallway, and two of his bikes are already in the garage.

But it’s still Wout’s place. Not theirs.

As much as he knows the brunette wants him there, and welcomes him there, he can’t help the little cruel, whispering voice in the back of his mind that reminds him no place is ever his. The house is his parents’, or Wout’s, or David’s.

But things are hardly ever Mathieu’s.

Except for Wout.

There is no doubt on his mind that Wout’s his.

From the lustful, desperate way they fuck these days, to the simplicity with which Wout curls around him on the couch as they watch television. To Mathieu rumbling through the drawers in the kitchen, scrambling to make breakfast. And the racing.

God, the racing.

Every morning at dawn they ride together. Pushing each other to the absolute limit, pushing and pulling to find the exact place where the other man breaks, and how the other can put him back together again. It’s a thrill, and a chase, and it feels like sex sometimes but better. They are truly equals, and for the sake of not fighting they both agree to not keep track of who wins when they race.

It's so enjoyable, it’s everything he missed from racing. For the first time in some months, Mathieu is actually excited to start the road season, feeling like this new-found delight for cycling will finally translate into big achievements on the road. Sure, his cyclocross palmarés is as long as his arm, but it’s still a bit of a sore spot for him that he hasn’t been able to perform at that same level on both disciplines.

“When I win,” Wout says, coming out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist. He looks beautiful, and Mathieu thinks that he should just be allowed to lounge around naked all day. “I want to try the rope thing.”

Mathieu quirks an eyebrow. “When you win, Woutje?” he asks sarcastically. “I told you we would do the rope thing later, besides, what will I get when I win?”

“Whatever you want, I guess,” he says distractedly. “We did agree that the winner could get what he wanted, no questions asked.”

That’s also half the motivation for Mathieu, this race. The thought of having Wout completely at his disposal, unable to refuse him – not that Mathieu would ever overstep a boundary, to be clear – well, it sends tingles down his body, and makes a heat settle on his belly, threatening to spill out if startled.

It doesn’t come as a surprise later.

He wins.

Mathieu fucking wins.

His heart pounds in his ribcage, threatening to burst out at any moment, because he won. It’s thrilling and accelerating, and his legs are so tired the entire final lap, but he can’t let up because victory is so close he can almost taste it. It’s euphoric, they have injected the world’s best drug on his system, after a long withdrawal, and he is pumping with energy and excitement.

The crowd cheers, banging the barriers and yelling and shouting, but Mathieu finds that, at times, he enters this state where everything blurs. There is only the road ahead, the bike beneath him, and his legs, pedaling and pedaling without mercy, ignoring all the signals sent from a body that is so young to have been so abused. He always races his best then, when he is no longer human, but instead some cycling monster only focused on winning.

He pants and gasps as he makes it to the cooldown area. In the background, Mathieu hears them announce the official order. He finished ahead of Wout, by some 16 seconds. Belgian rider Toon Aerts completes the podium. He stops paying attention after Wout’s name is announced, only catching 3^rd place by chance.

Another podium he’ll share with Wout.

But for what feels like the first time, he is sharing it with his Wout.

The feeling curls around inside of him, petty and possessive and jealous, but he can’t help it. Lately, Mathieu has stopped trying to fight it, reasoning that if Wout can see it and still be with him, it clearly doesn’t matter.

It makes the fact that Wout still hasn’t said he loves him sting less.

Mathieu isn’t clingy, or pushy in that respect really. He tries to let it roll off him, to smile in understanding every time he says in and Wout only squeezes his hand a little tighter. But the desperate part of him aches to tear the brunette apart, to claw at his throat until his vocal cords are exposed and he can feel the vibrations with his fingers as Wout says the words and Mathieu commits the feeling to his memory.

So yes, Wout is his, even if the older man is still reluctant to admit it.

And so is the championship.

Mathieu allows himself to relish the fact. He had gone without a championship for years, and now the next time he takes the starting line, he’ll do it wearing the rainbow jersey.

By the time he sees Wout again, they are almost being called to the podium.

They had agreed to be professional in public and keep their relationship on the downlow. It’s not that they are going out of their way to hide it, but they are not exactly going out of their way to show it. The relationship belongs to them, and it’s really no one else’s business.

Wout’s hand curls around his shoulder, sending tingles down his spine. “Congratulations, champ,” he says with a smile, eyes wrinkly and happy. He pats Mathieu twice, then he lets go, his fingers grazing Mathieu’s nipple, as if by accident.

The bastard has a shit-eating grin on his face.

“Thanks, champ,” Mathieu murmurs, flushing red. He turns to Toon awkwardly, who also claps him twice and says his congratulations. The man has a confused expression on his face, and Mathieu is pretty sure he saw – and understood – the entire interaction.

But he feels like he naturally gravitates towards Wout, and God he wishes they were alone right now. The podium ceremony feels like torture. It’s impressive, the hold the Belgian man has over him. Wout only touched him once and Mathieu feels like he can cum on the spot. He needs to get a grip.

“Seems like the ropes are going to have to wait,” Wout whispers hotly into his ear as they hug on the podium. Mathieu feels the flashes of cameras on the side of his face, and he hopes they assume the pink tinge to his cheeks is from the cold and the exercise, and not from being teased and pushed.

“Meet me in the team bus later.”

“Please stop it,” Toon says quietly, looking incredibly uncomfortable. It’s amusing.

But, because Mathieu is a respectful man, he stops flirting with Wout and instead begins to come up with ideas for his prize, later on. He’s had thoughts, some cruel and twisted, like making Wout cum by fucking the air or something, or not even giving him release. But he did all the work today, he deserves to be stuffed and properly fucked, until there is not a single thought on his head other than I won.

Wout does come over to the team bus, when the staff has cleared away and the riders have gone to their hotel room. He has slipped out of his kit, dressed in sweatpants and a hoodie, kept warm by a massive puffy jacket that is probably way too warm. His cheeks are flushed pink, and the tip of his nose is cold.

Mathieu wants to devour him.

He shakes the jacket off as soon as the door closes behind him. “Shit, I thought it was colder, but I was burning up inside that jacket.”

Mathieu walks towards him, wrapping his arms around his waist. Wout’s hands grip the back of his neck.

“Your hands are cold.”

The Belgian surges forward, capturing his lips. His mouth is hot against Mathieu’s, and when he pushes deep and Mathieu gasps, the kiss intensifies as Wout slips his tongue in. Mathieu presses a hand against his abdomen, lifting his hoodie and feeling the goosebumps that rise on Wout’s pale skin as his hand slips higher and higher.

Wout pulls away, mouthing at Mathieu’s neck. “You won today, Matje,” he nibbles on the sensitive skin of his collarbone. “What do you want, champ?”

A million things go through his head. Mixed thoughts of skin on skin, moans and pants, dried cum on his abdomen, being filled, ropes. The images flash but before he can grab one and settle on it, they slip away. His brain short-circuits.

He pushes Wout to one of the chairs of the bus and sits him down. The bus is suddenly way too warm, and Mathieu feels desperate to tear all his clothes off, but his mind has decided on some other things. Wout’s legs are spread open, and he very much wants the Belgian to suffocate him with his thighs. God, they are massive. The position reveals the bulge on his crotch, pressing against his sweatpants, and he really is the most perfect, enticing chair, Mathieu wants to crawl on his lap and never stand up again. They’ll merge together then, not one individual person, but forever the two of them.

Mathieu drops to his knees.

He presses a kiss to Wout’s clothed cock, mouthing and licking. Loving the way Wout drops a hand to his hair, and maybe Mathieu shouldn’t buzz his head as often as he does. Wout loves tugging on his hair. He does it until there is now a stain on his sweatpants, and Wout has begun to roll his hips into the motion, letting out small whines every time Mathieu flashes his lashes at him.

When he finally unclothes his lower half and takes him into his mouth, Wout curses loudly, bucking his hips and grazing the back of Mathieu’s throat. It makes him choke, but Mathieu does not pull away. He runs his teeth through the underside of Wout’s cock, humming when the other man gasps, but the order is understood by the Belgian. Behave.

He bobs his head up and down, pumping his fist at the base in a way he knows always sends Wout over the edge. His other hand fondles his balls. Mathieu’s spit and Wout’s pre mix together, the perfect lube, and it only makes everything more slippery and wetter and louder. It drips out of his mouth and onto the brunette’s thighs. When he pulls away, he licks at the slit, blowing hot air out of his mouth.

Wout moans. “Fuck, why did you stop?”

“You know why I stopped.”

His hair is tugged painfully.

“Bastard.”

Mathieu shrugs. “You love me.”

He gets back to work, taking Wout’s cock again, and God is he big, Mathieu has no idea how he is able to take him. It sits heavily in Mathieu’s mouth, the weight of it terribly familiar. He feels every twitch, every moan, every painful tug to his hair, and he is so incredibly hard on his pants, he could come from just this.

“Mathieu, Mathieu, Matje,” Wout chants, rolling his hips faster. “You take me so well, Matje.”

“Fuck, you are so good.”

“Please make me cum.”

“God, you are going to make me cum.”

“Please, please, Mathieu.”

“Can I please cum, Matje?”

It’s on the last one, where Mathieu finally allows it. He nods, looking up to Wout’s eyes. Brown meets blue. Wout’s pupils are blown out, his eyes black and lustful and full of tenderness. Mathieu loves him like this, when he is a creature lost in pleasure, pleasure that only Mathieu can give him. It’s how he should always be.

And he begs so prettily too, Mathieu is so on the edge just from hearing it. He’s thrusting his own hips into the seat, trying to find his own release. Wout tenses around him, he shakes, and he screams, and hot cum is spurting down Mathieu’s throat, coating his mouth.

He swallows.

Wout is panting heavily, the grip of his hand on Mathieu’s hair has loosened, and his thighs shake with the aftermath of his orgasm. “I love you,” he murmurs lazily into the ceiling. Mathieu scrambles to sit on his thighs.

“Say it again,” he orders, tugging Wout towards him by his hair, rocking on his lap.

“I love you, Matje,” Wout says, pressing his hands on Mathieu’s face with love and understanding and affection. Mathieu almost can’t bear it. Then, “cum on my face.”

Mathieu grins, standing up and lowering his sweatpants in one go.

He doesn’t last long, exactly as he knew.

Later, in the hotel room, and epiphany hits Mathieu, almost at the same time as his second orgasm. Everything is right now. Because he has finally won. He won Wout and he won the championship and he and Wout will share every single podium from here on out, because it is finally right.

It’s why they couldn’t work out, before.

Because he hadn’t won. It imbalanced their entire relationship, and it made them lash out with cruel words at each other, attempting to bite and scratch and scar. But now, now that everything is perfect, he has won once more and all they are is falling into place, exactly as it should’ve always been. There is only them, and their sex and their bikes. And their love. The red string of fate. It’ll never be broken, they can never escape the chain.

As he thinks about Wout, sitting on the team bus, blissed out and with a doe-like expression, looking up at Mathieu as he waits for his cum. And then the image, so pornographic, so beautiful and terrifying. Wout, lazy smile on his face, thick, white cum on display on his face, in love with Mathieu. Branded, Mathieu had thought then. You are mine, and I am yours now. Forever.

They’ll have to pry that off Mathieu’s cold, dead hands.