Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

(Jonas)

The water scalded his skin in exactly the right way - just shy of burning, hot enough to remind him he was alive. Jonas stood motionless under the stream, forehead pressed to the cool tile, arms braced on either side of his head.

His muscles screamed. He let them.

Every inch of his body felt like it had been spun in a washing machine, then run over by a team car. He couldn’t remember which town they were in - maybe somewhere near Nîmes? Avignon? It didn’t matter. The stages were starting to blend together in his mind, one endless blur of heat, climbs, and press conferences that made him want to set microphones on fire.

And now - this.

“I’m good, yeah I’m feelin’ alright- baby I’ma have the best freakin’ night of my liiiife…”

Jonas opened his eyes, very slowly, and stared down at the water swirling around the drain.

It was back.
That song.

It had started the night before last. Out of nowhere. A single line - loud, obnoxious, so sugary it gave him a mental toothache. Some aggressively upbeat club track that sounded like something you’d hear blasting from a teenager’s phone speaker on a Ryanair flight.

He didn’t even listen to this kind of music. His playlists were mostly instrumental - quiet things, background noise for stretching, something to drown out the stress of being a national hope and a Tour de France winner. He didn’t do party music. He didn’t do feelin’ alright.

Jonas exhaled through his nose. The song looped.

“As long as I’m with you, I’m gonna be all riiiiight-”

It felt…wrong. Not just because it was annoying (though it was), not just because the lyrics were offensively optimistic for a man whose legs had been cramping since the neutral zone - but because it didn’t feel like his thought. It wasn’t like a normal song stuck in his head, something he’d half-heard and forgot. There was no traceable origin. No memory. Just - suddenly - this overproduced, club-trash chorus lodged in his brain like shrapnel.

He slammed a palm against the shower wall.

“Get out of my head.”

No luck.

“Feelin’ alriiiight-”

“Shut up.”

He nearly slipped.

He swore, loudly, as the rest of his body tried to follow but got wedged in place by sheer stubbornness.
Fantastic. He was going to die in a team hotel bathroom, naked and humming David fucking Guetta.

Back in the room, Jonas dried off in silence. Victor was already asleep - flat on his back, mouth open, blanket pulled halfway off. One sock on. One off. It was like sharing a room with a corpse and a toddler simultaneously.

Jonas pulled on a hoodie and sat at the little plastic desk by the window, dripping water onto the carpet.

He opened his team-issue notebook - meant for route notes, elevation profiles, equipment feedback - and flipped to the back. Blank pages.
He hesitated for a second. Then, in neat handwriting:

6th July – Stage 5

Unfamiliar song. David Guetta? Horrible. Didn’t choose it. Didn't hear it anywhere that I can remember. It started two days ago. Keeps repeating. Not like a normal song stuck in my head. Feels like it’s not… mine.

He underlined not mine four times.

Then he sat back in the chair and stared at the page for a long time, listening to the silence in his skull. The silence that felt like it was waiting.

— · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · · — · — 

Jonas slumped into his usual seat near the front of the bus and closed his eyes. His legs ached in the way they always did now - constantly. As if his muscles were quietly begging for a mercy he had no intention of giving them.

“Good morning, sunshine,” Wout said, sliding into the seat opposite with the energy of someone who'd been awake for hours and resented it deeply.

Jonas didn’t open his eyes. “Don’t.”

“I mean it. You look like a crypt keeper who skipped skincare.”

“I said don’t.”

Wout unwrapped a protein bar with surgical precision. “Did you sleep? Or did you just stare into the abyss again until it started to hum?”

Jonas opened one eye, slow and with great effort. “I slept.”

Wout took a bite. “Define ‘slept.’”

Jonas sighed. “My eyes were closed.”

“For how long?”

Jonas considered. “Unclear.”

Wout made a sound like a disappointed father. “So, no.”

Silence. The bus hummed around them. Outside the window, fans had already started to gather - flags, cowbells, signs with slogans they’d been shouting for years. Jonas pressed his forehead to the glass for a moment, then sat back, arms crossed.

“I keep getting this song stuck in my head,” he muttered.

Wout chewed, unimpressed. “Wow. So rare. Almost unheard of in the human experience.”

“No,” Jonas said, sharper. “Like - one I don’t know. I’ve never heard it before. It just... showed up.”

Wout gave him a long, unreadable look. “Right. So the Guetta Ghost strikes again.”

Jonas blinked. “What?”

“Nothing,” Wout said, with a completely straight face. “Continue telling me how your mysterious invisible pop DJ is haunting you.”

Jonas exhaled, annoyed. “It’s been looping for two days. It’s not mine. I didn’t hear it anywhere. It just keeps coming back.”

“Do you want me to write to ASO and report a supernatural interference in your Tour de France performance?”

“I’m serious.”

“That’s what makes this so good.”

Jonas glared at him. “It’s like - it doesn’t feel like it’s from me. I didn’t put it there. It’s just… there.”

Wout nodded solemnly. “Right. That tracks. Because if I were a sentient disco chorus, I too would choose your brain to inhabit. Warm, welcoming, famously fun place.”

Jonas stared.

“Maybe it’s a cosmic sign,” Wout added. “From the universe. Telling you to lighten up before your entire personality calcifies.”

Jonas slumped lower in his seat.

Wout took another bite and said, completely deadpan, “Tell your imaginary friend I said hi. And if they start playing ABBA, I’m calling the priest.”

Chapter Text

(Tadej)

Tadej woke up smiling.

Not a small, peaceful kind of smile. This was a gremlin smile. The kind of grin you wear after having a dream where you won the Tour de France and then made out with your worst enemy. Blissfully chaotic. Sleep-warm and smug.

The hotel room was dim, curtains half-drawn, and his roommate was still snoring softly in the other bed like someone trying to play a trombone in their sleep. But Tadej didn’t care. He was focused on the memory still echoing in his skull.

Just before waking, something had slotted into his head like a surprise text message from the universe. Not an emotion this time. Not a vague impression.
A full sentence. Clear. Irritated.

“This is a nightmare. I hope I wake up dead.”

It had snapped into his mind like a rubber band, unprompted, and he'd burst into laughter before he was even fully conscious.

Who was that? Who thought like that?

Tadej didn’t know, but he already liked them.
He rolled over and grabbed his phone from the floor, thumbed to voice memos, and hit record.

[Voice memo to Bling – 7:34 AM]

“Bro. Okay. I think - maybe - I’m like, uh. Psychic?”
“Or maybe I’m… soul-cursed? Is that a thing? I don’t know. I think I have… a person in my head. Sometimes.”

“Like, a voice. But not crazy voice. Not like ‘go kill the president’ voice. Just - some guy. And he’s so sad, oh my god. He said he want to wake up dead today. I laugh so hard I woke up.”

“Anyway, if I fall in love with mystery brain voice, don’t be surprised. Tell your wife she has competition.”

“Okay. Bye.”

Satisfied, he flopped back onto the mattress and stretched like a content cat. The Tour was exhausting, yes. But it was also fun. Especially now that he had a mystery emo roommate in his head.

By the time he reached breakfast, hair a mess and socks mismatched, he was still smiling.

Felix was already there, yawning over a bowl of muesli. Vegard stood by the coffee machine, looking like a man who wanted to be anywhere else.

“You look... suspiciously happy,” Vegard said, handing Tadej a cup of coffee.

“I had a visitor,” Tadej said, taking it and sitting down.

Felix blinked. “What kind of visitor?”

“Brain visitor,” Tadej said, loading his plate with pancakes. “A voice. In my sleep.”

Vegard gave him a long, blank stare.

Felix blinked twice. “Did you hit your head yesterday?”

“Maybe,” Tadej said cheerfully. “But also maybe I have a soulmate now.”

Felix looked at Vegard. Vegard looked at his coffee. No one said anything for a solid five seconds.

“Okay,” Vegard said eventually. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that.”

On the bus, Tadej took his usual window seat, headphones in, music low. He watched the countryside blur by, still smiling to himself. He was hoping the voice might come back today. Maybe during the neutral. Or up a climb.

It had a nice tone, really. Sharp, a little annoyed. The kind of voice that would say things like “this is idiotic” while fixing your flat tire for you anyway.

Tadej closed his eyes and thought:
Hello? Mystery man? It’s me. Again. I missed you. Say something angry.

Nothing.
He waited. Nothing still.

Tadej sighed, opened one eye, and muttered under his breath, “Play hard to get then, huh?”

Felix, across the aisle, looked up. “What?”

“Talking to the universe,” Tadej said, and smiled again.

Chapter Text

(Jonas)

Stage 6 had been brutal.

Not catastrophic - just long, hot, and full of the kind of rolling terrain that never looked like much on paper but felt like slow death in the legs. By the time Jonas made it back to the bus, his jersey was stuck to his skin with a mix of sweat and half a dozen sponsor logos. His back ached. His face felt sunburnt despite the sunscreen. His eyelids were heavy, like they were considering unionizing.

He collapsed into his seat, blinked twice, and decided not to move again until someone physically made him.

Across the aisle, Wout handed him a recovery shake without looking up from his phone.

“Dead?” Wout asked.

“Deceased,” Jonas muttered, peeling open the lid.
They sat in silence for a while, the hum of the bus and the clicking of cleats echoing around them.

Other riders climbed aboard in waves, some chatting, some too destroyed to speak. Someone - Sepp, probably - was already playing something tinny and offensive through a Bluetooth speaker. Jonas didn’t care enough to glare at him today.

He leaned his head against the window and let his eyes slip shut, just for a second.

That’s when it came.

Soft. Quick. Like a feather dropped into his brain.

“Oh, I really want orange right now.”

Jonas blinked.

His heart didn’t jump this time, but his stomach did a weird little flip, like a bird trying to take off mid-crash. It had been over a day since the voice last came through. He’d almost convinced himself it was gone - maybe just a stress thing, something his overworked brain had made up in the dark.

But this wasn’t a memory. It was now. And it was - cheerful.

He frowned.

“Really juicy one. Not the sad hotel kind. The good kind. Italian supermarket good.”

Jonas exhaled sharply through his nose. Not a laugh. Definitely not.

He glanced at Wout, who was still scrolling through something on his phone. Probably photos of his kid or reviews of compression boots.

Jonas turned his head away, rubbed the bridge of his nose, and whispered, “No. Not now. Go away.”

But there it was again. One last flicker:

“Maybe I’ll ask for orange after dinner. If not weird.”

He dropped his head into his hands.

It wasn’t the song this time. It wasn’t dread or panic. It wasn’t even annoying.
It was just… there. Light. Breezy. Like someone was narrating the inside of their skull with absolutely no filter.

Jonas muttered, “This is actually getting worse.”

Across the aisle, Wout finally looked up. “What is?”

Jonas stared at him. “Do I look like I’m craving citrus?”

Wout blinked once. “Do you want me to answer that honestly?”

Jonas leaned back in his seat and groaned.

— · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · · — · — 

He should’ve been asleep.

He wasn’t.

Jonas laid flat on his back in the dark hotel room, staring at the ceiling. The air conditioner buzzed faintly. The sheets were too stiff, the mattress too soft, and every inch of his body pulsed with a dull ache. Standard post-stage discomfort. He was used to it. What he wasn’t used to was the running commentary in his head that didn’t belong to him.

“Maybe I’ll ask for orange after dinner. If not  weird.”

He kept hearing it. Not like an echo - more like a memory that wouldn’t sit still. He’d gotten through dinner fine. Hadn’t thrown anything. Hadn’t demanded oranges. Had barely spoken at all, really. The team was too tired to notice.

But now, in the quiet, with no one around to distract him, the thought looped.

The tone of it grated at him. Not because it was annoying. It wasn’t. It was-

Light. Warm.

Like someone stretching out across a couch somewhere, kicking their feet up and talking to themself without expecting an answer. Like a voice used to company.

Jonas hated it.

He didn’t want to find it… familiar.

And yet.

He sat up, shoved the blankets aside, and padded barefoot to his bag. Dug out the notebook. Flipped past route maps and climbing profiles until he found the blank pages at the back.

He stared at the last entry:
Unfamiliar song. David Guetta? Horrible. Didn’t choose it. Didn't hear it anywhere that I can remember. It started two days ago. Keeps repeating. Not like a normal song stuck in my head. Feels like it’s not… mine.

He read it twice. Then turned the page and began to write.

7th July – Stage 6
No music this time. A voice instead. Soft. Casual. Said something about oranges. Italian supermarket kind. Not hotel kind. Sounded almost…

He hesitated.

…happy?

He underlined it, then scribbled it out. Wrote normal, paused, and changed it to comfortable.

Then stared at it.

He hated this.

It felt like prying. Like listening in on a phone call he had no business hearing. The voice wasn’t talking to him. It was talking to itself. And somehow that was worse. Because it meant someone else was just… leaking. Bleeding thoughts into his head. Like a leak in the roof he couldn’t find, just the steady drip drip drip of someone else’s existence soaking into him.

Jonas closed the notebook gently and sat in the dark, elbows on his knees.

What the hell was happening to him?

Was he losing it?

He should tell someone.

He wouldn’t.

Wout would laugh. Or worse, not laugh. Wout might take it seriously in that slow, quiet way of his that made everything feel heavier. Like, “well, maybe we need to talk to the team doctor,” kind of serious. Jonas didn’t want that.

He didn’t want this to be real.

But it was. He could still feel the thought in his head. Not like a word anymore, but a shape. A warmth. A ripple in still water.

He dragged a hand over his face and laid back down.

Maybe tomorrow it would stop.

Maybe it wouldn’t.

He wasn’t sure which option scared him more.

Chapter Text

(Tadej)

It was late. The kind of late where even the staff had stopped talking in the hallways and the hotel’s cheap overhead lights buzzed faintly like they were trying to fall asleep, too.

Tadej was not asleep.

He laid sprawled on his bed, face lit by the glow of his phone screen, blanket kicked off, one sock missing. He’d tried sleeping, but his brain wouldn’t cooperate. It was too busy doing… things.

Specifically, thinking.

Out loud.

To someone who wasn’t there.

“Okay,” he said into the dark, voice low and conspiratorial, “I think… I will say your name is Erik.”

Felix stirred in the other bed. Tadej didn’t notice.
“Because you sound like an Erik,” he continued, very seriously. “Or maybe Daniel. Or Max. Mmm. No. You are Erik now.”

Silence.

Felix slowly turned his head. Eyes wide. Mouth a little open.

Tadej was still talking.

“Today I think you were sad,” he said to the ceiling. “You had that kind of… what is the word... not sighy, but like... when you want to scream into a hole and then nap. That feeling.”

Felix blinked.

“I hope you eat dinner,” Tadej said earnestly. “You feel like the kind of guy who forget to eat. Or who say, ‘No thank you,’ and then go into a corner and die quietly.”

A beat.

Then, very softly: “Don't do that. Please eat.”

Felix sat up slowly. Still silent. He looked at Tadej like he was witnessing a man levitate.

Tadej finally noticed him.

“Oh, you are awake!” he said cheerfully, like he hadn’t just been trying to telepathically soothe a ghost.

Felix didn’t answer right away. He just stared. Wide-eyed. Mouth still open. Like he’d forgotten how to speak. Or breathe.

“Felix?” Tadej tilted his head. “Are you good?”

Felix blinked once. “I- I don’t- what? Who is Erik?”

“My brain friend,” Tadej said.

Felix looked like he was seeing his whole life flash before his eyes.

Tadej sat up, cross-legged, completely serious. “He is new. I think we are bonded. Psychically. Maybe spiritually. I hear him sometimes.”

“You hear him?”

“No,” Tadej said, frowning a little. “I mean- I think he hears me. Sometimes. When I think hard. Like this-”

He shut his eyes and thought very loudly: Don’t be sad, Erik. You are doing very great.

Felix just kept staring.

Tadej peeked open one eye. “Did it work?”

“You are not okay,” Felix said.

Tadej beamed. “But I feel great!”

“That’s worse.”

“No!” Tadej reached over and grabbed his water bottle. “I feel like... like when you open the window and wind come in and it’s very nice. That is how it feel in my head.”

Felix shook his head slowly. “That doesn’t mean it’s real, man.”

Tadej paused, considering that.
“Well… maybe it is not. But maybe it is. And if it is, I don’t want to scare him away.”

Felix looked at the door like he was strongly considering sleeping in the hallway.

— · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · · — · — 

(Jonas)

It was almost midnight. The hotel room was still, washed in the dim blue light of the standby screen on the TV. The air conditioning buzzed softly, rhythmic enough that Jonas’s thoughts had finally begun to slow, folding into the edges of sleep.

He laid on his side, one arm tucked under the pillow, the other curled against his chest. The ache in his legs had dulled to something manageable. His mind had started to float.

Drift.

Sink.

Then-

“Don’t be sad, Erik. You are doing very great.”

Jonas sat up like he’d been struck by lightning.
His breath caught in his throat, sharp and involuntary.

That- what- what?

He looked around the room like someone might be standing in the corner, holding a megaphone and a pineapple. But there was no one. Just the shadows. Just the sound of Victor snoring gently across the room.

Jonas’ hands shook slightly as he pulled the covers tighter around himself.

That hadn’t been random. That hadn’t been a stray thought or a half-memory. That hadn’t even been one of the strange, emotionally charged echoes from earlier in the week.

That had been a message.

To him.

To Erik.

He felt like the floor had dropped out from under him.

His name wasn’t Erik. But something in the tone - soft, coaxing, hopeful - had been meant for him. He knew it in the same way you know a dream is real when it’s happening, even when the sky is purple and your grandmother is a traffic cone.

His heart thudded in his chest. His stomach flipped. His skin buzzed.

Jonas swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood, pacing to the window and back. Then to the desk. Then to his bag. He yanked out the notebook, flipped to a fresh page with shaking fingers, and wrote:

7th July – Midnight
He spoke to me.
It wasn’t random. He said don’t be sad. He said “Erik.” I’m not Erik. But it was for me. I know it was for me.
What the fuck is happening to me.

He pressed the pen harder into the page with each word. The last three letters of happening bled through.

He didn’t know what was worse: the idea that someone was speaking directly into his mind…
Or the fact that, for just a split second, it had made him want to cry.

Not because it was scary.

Because it was… kind.

He slammed the notebook shut and dropped it onto the desk. Took a breath. Then another.

No more thinking.

No more messages.

No more Erik.

He climbed back into bed, rolled onto his side, and pulled the blanket over his head like it could block out the world.

It didn’t.

— · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · · — · — 

(Tadej)

Tadej showed up to breakfast glowing.

Not just “slept well” glowing. Not “legs feel great today” glowing. This was the kind of glow that came from vibes. From the soul.

He dropped into the seat across from Felix with a tray with two pancakes, one banana, and one extremely suspicious granola bar. His smile was crooked. Dreamy. Dangerous.

Felix looked up slowly, like someone bracing for bad weather. “Why do you look like that.”

Tadej leaned in. “Because,” he whispered, like it was sacred, “I think he hear me.”

Felix blinked once. “Who.”

Tadej blinked back, scandalized. “Erik.”

Felix closed his eyes. “I’m not awake enough for this.”

Tadej stabbed a pancake with romantic purpose. “No, listen. Last night, before I sleep, I say to him something very soft. Very emotional. I say: ‘Don’t be sad, Erik. You are doing very great.’”

Felix slowly lowered his coffee cup. “You said that.”

“In my brain, yes,” Tadej nodded. “Very strong thinking. Very clear. Like... meditation. But with feelings.”

“You talked to an imaginary man in your head and gave him a pep talk?”

“He is not imaginary!” Tadej said, outraged. “He is real. He is in my thoughts. And he is very emo. I feel like... like maybe he plays piano in the dark.”

Felix stared at him like he was witnessing a psychological break unfold in real time.

“But it worked,” Tadej continued, entirely unfazed. “After I say the words, I feel... warm in the chest. Like... when you wear a hoodie from someone you like.”

“That’s indigestion,” Felix muttered.

At that exact moment, João Almeida - quiet, tired, sleepy João - sat down with his eggs and a single piece of toast, like a man just trying to survive.

Tadej turned to him immediately.

“João,” he said with wide eyes. “You believe in... telepathetics?”

João looked up mid-chew. “In what?”

“Telepathetics,” Tadej repeated. “Like brain love. When someone is talking in their mind and other person hears. Because the soul is... connected.”

João blinked. “Do you mean telepathy?”

“Yes! That one. The magic brain talk.”

Felix held up a hand. “João. Run. It’s too late for me, but you can still save yourself.”

João looked between them. “What is going on.”

Tadej smiled, soft and dangerous. “I think I have a soulmate.”

“In your head.”

“Yes.”

Felix pointed a finger dramatically. “I told him he was insane. Don’t look at me like this. I tried.”

João nodded very slowly, like he was filing this all away for the team therapist.

Tadej popped a piece of pancake in his mouth, chewed thoughtfully, and said, “Also I name him Erik.”

João stared. “Who is Erik.”

Felix answered before Tadej could. “Nobody. He’s nobody. That’s the point.”

Tadej beamed. “He is mystery brain man. But I think he’s getting braver. Maybe soon he answer.”

João stood up with his toast still in hand and walked away without a word.

Tadej turned back to Felix, delighted. “He didn’t say no!”

Felix just dropped his head into his hands and whispered, “I’m trapped here for two more weeks.”

Chapter Text

(Jonas)

It started with the song.

Then the orange.

Then the message.

And now? Now Jonas was sitting in the back of the team bus with a recovery shake in one hand, a protein bar in the other, and the very real feeling that he was about three thoughts away from losing his grip on reality.

Wout was across from him, scrolling through his phone with one foot up on the seat like he owned the place. Matteo sat beside him, sipping from his own bottle, legs stretched out, listening to something soft through a single earbud.

Jonas had been staring out the window for ten minutes when he said, quietly:
“I think there’s someone in my head.”

Both heads turned.

Matteo paused his music. Wout didn’t even look up. “Is this a metaphor? Or should I be worried?”

Jonas hesitated. “No. I mean - yes. I think there’s... another person. In my head. Sometimes.”

Matteo blinked, turning slightly toward him. “Like... voices?”

Jonas shook his head quickly. “Not like that. Not plural. Just one. And not talking, exactly. Not to me. Just... thinking. And I hear it. Randomly. Sometimes it’s music. Sometimes it’s... other stuff. Personal stuff.”

There was a short pause.

Then Wout said, bone-dry: “If it starts telling you to murder me, I’d appreciate a heads-up.”

Matteo shot him a look. “Jesus, Wout.”

Jonas ran a hand through his hair. “It’s not like that. It’s not dangerous. It’s just... weird. It feels like... like someone left a door open. And now they’re leaking into me.”

Matteo nodded slowly, thoughtful. “Do you feel scared?”

Jonas was quiet for a beat. “...Not exactly. Confused, mostly. A little freaked out. But also...”

He didn’t finish the sentence.

Wout raised an eyebrow. “You’re not gonna say comforted, are you. Because that’s how cults start.”

Jonas sighed, leaning back against the window. “He called me Erik.”

Silence.

Wout finally looked up. “Sorry, what?”

Jonas nodded. “He said, ‘Don’t be sad, Erik. You are doing very great.’ Last night. Clear as day. I almost threw my notebook across the room.”

Matteo looked deeply concerned. “Do you know an Erik?”

“Not really. That’s the point. It was directed. Like he knew I was listening, but didn’t know who I was.”

Wout blinked. “So we’ve reached the stage of the Tour where you’ve developed a ghost boyfriend. Cool.”

“It’s not funny,” Jonas snapped.

Wout held up his hands, expression unreadable. “I’m not laughing. I’m terrified. Obviously.”

Jonas slumped forward, elbows on knees. “I don’t even know if it’s real.”

Matteo’s voice was soft. “But it feels real.”

Jonas nodded once.

Matteo leaned forward, thoughtful. “Okay. Let’s assume it is. Hypothetically. Then the question is... do you want it to keep happening?”

Jonas looked up sharply. “I don’t know.”

He did.

But he didn’t want to say it.

Wout stood and stretched, yawning. “Alright, I’m gonna go fill my bottle before this conversation gets any more emotionally revealing.”
As he passed Jonas, he paused just long enough to say, “If Erik sends nudes, I want that chapter censored.”

Then he was gone.

Jonas buried his face in his hands.

Matteo, bless him, waited a few seconds. Then said, quietly:
“You want to talk more about it later, you know where I am.”

Jonas didn’t answer.

But the voice in his head was quiet tonight.

And he wasn’t sure if that was a relief - or a loss.

— · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · · — · — 

Jonas couldn’t sleep.

Again.

He hadn’t even tried, really. He’d showered. Done his stretches. Stared at his compression socks for a while like they might explain the universe to him. And now he was sitting on the edge of his hotel bed in the dark, notebook open on his knees, pen poised like it was a weapon.

He didn’t know what he was going to write. He just knew he had to.

The pages had started to fill. Slowly, at first. Random sentences. Lyrics. Snippets. Now there were full paragraphs. Dates. Times. Emotional states. Theories. And at the center of it all: him.

The voice.

Erik.

Jonas hated that he’d started calling him that in his head. The name clung to him like static. He didn’t even know if it was real. But somehow, it fit. A placeholder for something that had no business being this familiar.

He scribbled without thinking:

July 8 – Night
Still nothing today. Silence. It feels like waiting for a text from someone you’re not supposed to miss.

He paused. Stared at it.

Then crossed it out so hard the page nearly tore.
God, what was happening to him?

He stood, paced a tight circle around the room. Restless. Overwarm. His brain felt like a scratched CD, skipping back to the same three lines over and over:
Don’t be sad, Erik. You are doing very great.

Who says things like that?

Who thinks them, with that much softness?

And why the hell had it made something in Jonas’s chest pull tight, like a wire yanked taut?

He wanted to be angry. Wanted to feel invaded. Violated.

But mostly, he just felt exposed.

Like someone had peeled back a layer of his mind and left it open to the air. And now all he could do was wait. For the next leak. The next thought. The next clue.

He sat back down and wrote again:

Who are you.
Why me.
Why now.
What do you want.

And, finally, in smaller, tighter handwriting:

Please say something again.

The pen stilled.

Jonas sat there in the dark, hunched over the page, breathing shallow, heart beating too loud.
But the voice didn’t come.

Only silence.

And for the first time, he realized just how loud silence could be.

Chapter Text

(Tadej)

It was hot.

Like Tour-stage-in-July, helmet-melting, salt-sticking-to-your-eyelashes hot.

Tadej had been tucked mid-pack for the last twenty minutes, legs spinning easy, brain drifting in and out of idle thoughts. He was humming under his breath - some bastardized version of a Dua Lipa song that had fused with jingle music in his head. Not thinking about the GC. Not thinking about splits. Definitely not thinking about hydration like he was supposed to.

And then it happened.

The voice came back.

“I hate this stage. I hate this sun. I hate this stupid helmet and I hate every molecule of wind hitting my face right now.”

Tadej nearly swerved off the road.

His handlebars wobbled. His wheel caught the lip of the pavement. For one long, horrifying second he was about three centimeters from ending up in a roadside ditch full of weeds and god-knows-what.

“Shit!” he hissed, yanking himself back onto the line.

Mikkel Bjerg, just ahead of him, twisted around with a very expressive what the hell was that look.

Tadej grinned back, wide-eyed, heart pounding - not from adrenaline, but from recognition.

He was back.

The voice. The emo ghost of his dreams.

And he was complaining. Furiously. Beautifully.

Tadej was practically vibrating with excitement.

“He is real,” he whispered under his breath. “He is back!”

Mikkel’s eyebrows went up another two notches. His expression said, clearly: You’re talking to yourself. Out loud. While descending at 65kph.

Tadej didn’t notice.

He was too busy trying to remember every word. Every syllable. The voice had sounded closer this time. Sharper. Like someone whispering right behind his ear.

He didn’t think about why it sounded closer.
Didn’t connect the dots. The cadence. The breathlessness. The distinct cycling-specific suffering energy of the entire internal monologue.

No. His brain was doing backflips in confetti.
He was too busy being giddy.

“Mikkel,” he shouted, half-laughing, “I heard him again!”

Mikkel gave him a long look that said, What kind of concussion do you have and why haven’t you told medical.

Tadej grinned like a lunatic. “He hates the wind!”

Then he dropped back into the group, humming again - this time happily, like he had a secret love letter tucked into his jersey pocket.

— · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · · — · — 

It was barely an hour after the stage ended when Tadej finally got a quiet moment to call Bling. He was lying on his back in the hotel room, legs up against the wall, phone balanced on his chest, hair still damp from the shower. His face was lit up like a child on Christmas morning.

The call connected.

“Okay,” he said immediately. “Listen. LISTEN. He is back. He was gone, but now he is BACK.”

There was a rustle on the other end, then Michael Matthews’s familiar, slightly-too-loud voice:
“Oh god. What did he say? Is he still sad? Did you hear a poem this time?”

“No, no, better,” Tadej said, beaming. “He said he hates everything. The sun. The wind. The helmet. So dramatic.”

“Oh my god, he’s still emo. You’re so lucky.”

“I almost die!” Tadej added brightly. “He came into my head during a downhill. I almost go into the bush.”

Bling snorted. “That’s romantic.”

“It is!” Tadej laughed. “It was like... you know, when the person you like walks into the room, and your brain stop working? That. But with wind.”

There was a pause. Then, Bling said: “Wait. He was complaining about the sun? And the wind?”

“Yes,” Tadej said. “Very angry voice. Like - burning. You know. Like someone punch a cloud.”

Another pause.

“Tadej.”

“What?”

“Babe. I don’t think he’s in your head. I think he’s in the peloton.”

Tadej blinked at the ceiling. “What?”

“Who else is mad about wind and helmets during a race? That’s not emotional metaphor stuff. That’s ‘I am on a bike right now and everything sucks’ stuff.”

There was a long silence.

Tadej sat up slowly.
“Oh no.”

Bling cackled.

“Oh no no no!” Tadej said again, now flailing slightly. “You are saying - he is - he is HERE?!?”

“I’m saying,” Bling replied, “you’re probably getting a live stream of someone suffering within twenty meters of you. Congrats.”

Tadej leapt off the bed, pacing in tight circles. “Oh my god. I say weird things all the time! What if he hear me too?!”

Bling was full-on howling now. “He definitely hears you. You named him Erik. You gave him brain cuddles. You called him a sad piano man!”

“I told him I hope he eat food!” Tadej wailed. “That’s too much! I sound like mother!”

“Too late now,” Bling wheezed.

Tadej stopped in the middle of the room, hand on his chest like he was in a telenovela. “I am sharing race brain with someone. Maybe with... with a rival.”

“Do you feel betrayed?” Bling asked, delighted.

“I feel like... like I am naked,” Tadej whispered. “But inside my head.”

There was a long pause. Then Bling, with the gentleness of a true friend, said: “I’m so proud of you.”

Tadej flopped back onto the bed, staring at the ceiling.

“Do I tell him?” he asked quietly.

Bling exhaled, dramatic. “Not yet. Make him fall in love with your inner monologue first.”

— · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · · — · — 

(Jonas)

Dinner was loud. The clatter of cutlery. Laughter. The thud of team staff walking past. Someone had music playing from a phone speaker down the table, something upbeat and forgettable.
Jonas sat between Wout and Matteo, poking at his food like it might bite him back.

He should’ve felt better today. His legs hadn’t been awful. The stage had gone fine. No crashes, no mechanicals, no drama. Wout had even given him a weirdly sincere high-five when they rolled back into the bus.

But everything felt wrong.

Not externally. Internally.

Quiet.

Too quiet.

There had been nothing all day. Not a flicker. Not a word. Not a too-happy song. Not a craving for citrus. Not even one single weird metaphor.

It was like someone had turned off a radio he didn’t realize he needed.

And now? All he felt was static.

He took another bite, barely tasting it.

Across the table, Matteo was explaining something about recovery boots to someone else, animated and smiling. Wout was scrolling through his phone again, shoulders relaxed.

Jonas felt like he was watching the room through glass.

That’s when it hit him: the panic.

Not his.

Sharp. Immediate. Not directed. Just a pulse. Like a flare shot into the sky.

It lasted maybe two seconds.

Then it was gone.

Jonas dropped his fork.

Wout looked over. “You okay?”

Jonas nodded once. “Yeah. Just - hot.”

Wout gave him a sure look but didn’t push.

Jonas sat very still. His skin prickled.

Something had happened.

The voice - the person - it had panicked. Just for a moment. Like a reflex. Like someone touched a hot stove.

And now they were gone.

He wiped his hands on a napkin and stood up. “I’m gonna step out,” he said, barely loud enough for Matteo to hear.

He didn’t wait for a response.

The hallway outside the dining room was quiet. Dim. Jonas leaned against the wall and closed his eyes.

And - for the first time - he tried.

Not out loud.

Not even with words.

He just... thought.

Hey.

Silence.

I don’t know if this works both ways. Or if you can hear me. Or if you’re real.

He swallowed hard.

But I think something scared you today. And I don’t know why that’s making me feel scared, but it is.

Still nothing.

Jonas let his head fall back against the wall. His heart was hammering.

You don’t have to say anything. But maybe just... stay. Please.

He waited.

No answer came.

But for a second - just one - he felt the silence shift. Not fill. Not speak.

Just... shift.

And Jonas whispered, so softly even he barely heard it:
"Please come back."

— · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · · — · — 

(Tadej)

Tadej laid curled on his side in the dark, blankets twisted around his legs, eyes wide open.

He hadn’t broadcasted all day.

Not one stray thought. Not one humming line of a song. He’d kept everything locked down tight, like sealing a letter he’d never meant to write in the first place.

What if the voice didn’t want to hear him?

What if he’d been too much?

He gripped the edge of the pillow tighter.

And then - like wind through a cracked window:
Please come back.

Soft. Barely there.

But real.

Tadej sat up, breath caught in his throat.

He was still there.

Whoever he was.

And Tadej - finally - exhaled.

Chapter Text

By the time UAE rolled into the start zone, it was already happening.

Tadej Pogacar had become… possessed.

No one quite knew when it started. Maybe it was the moment he stepped off the bus, helmet only halfway clipped, jersey askew like he’d put it on backwards and fixed it at the last second.

Maybe it was when he paused on the sidewalk and made direct eye contact with a Cofidis mechanic for seven full seconds.

Either way, it was clear something was off.

He wasn’t walking.

He was hunting.

Face serious. Eyes scanning. A slow pivot of his head, like a hawk with a PhD in overthinking. No one was safe - not riders, not staff, not journalists, not volunteers handing out bottles of water. He looked through people. Past them.

Into their very souls.

And if their soul didn’t match whatever strange chart Tadej had constructed in his head?

Dismissed.

One DSM rider - young, wide-eyed, barely surviving his first Tour - yelped audibly when Tadej rounded a corner and looked directly at him. He dropped his banana.

Tadej stared.

Paused.

Shook his head.

Too tall.

He moved on.

Felix jogged to catch up to him, looking genuinely concerned. “Tadej, what are you doing?”

“Looking,” Tadej said, completely serious.

“For what?”

He turned, deadly serious. “For Erik.”

Felix blessed himself. Full forehead-chest-left-right.

Behind the Soudal Quick-Step bus, someone whispered, “Is he okay?”

No one had an answer.

From a safe distance, Wout observed the scene with a level of amused disbelief that could’ve powered a small city. He stood leaning against a railing, arms folded, mouth twitching.

“Well,” he said flatly, “someone didn’t take their medication this morning.”

Next to him, Matteo's brow furrowed. “He looks like he’s lost his dog. But in, like… a spiritual way.”

Jonas didn’t say anything. He just watched.

Tadej had now moved on to full eye contact with the Groupama-FDJ team bus. Not the riders. The driver.

The driver looked back in alarm, shifted awkwardly behind the windshield, and pulled the curtain closed.

Tadej exhaled. Disappointed. Still not him.

The Arkéa team captain gave him a wide berth.

Two staffers from Alpecin passed him and murmured something in Dutch. Tadej didn’t react. Just nodded to himself. Possibly. Maybe. He wore gloves. Was that meaningful?

He made another slow circle, muttering to himself, hands half-raised like he was divining energy from the pavement.

Jonas had started to lean forward a little.

Wout squinted at him. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing- no, nothing..” Jonas started, then stopped.

Wout shot him a judging look. "I told you. That's how cults start."

Matteo, ever the diplomat, worried, “He looks like he’s on the verge of licking someone’s forehead. Should we stop him?”

“No,” Wout said. “This is too good. Let him burn.”

That’s when it happened.

Tadej turned the corner again, eyes wide, shoulders set - and walked straight into Mathieu van der Poel.

The two locked eyes.

The air changed.

Mathieu took one look at Tadej’s face and said, “What kind of crisis is this, exactly?”

Tadej blinked. “I am looking for something.”

“Your brain?”

“No. A person.”

Mathieu crossed his arms. “Did you lose them under a team car?”

“I don’t know who they are,” Tadej said seriously. “But I will know when I see.”

Mathieu’s left eyebrow rose. “And until then, you’re staring into everyone like you’re casting a spell on them?”

“I am checking,” Tadej said, like that explained everything. “I have a feeling. A... a soul pull.”

Mathieu’s mouth opened. Closed. Then he leaned forward slightly and asked, deadpan:
“Is it contagious?”

Tadej tilted his head. “You don’t feel... called today?”

Mathieu looked at the camera crew nearby and said, without blinking, “I feel deeply uncomfortable, thanks.”

“You’re not him,” Tadej declared finally, stepping back and pointing accusingly. “You are too sarcastic. Too smug.”

“I accept that,” Mathieu said calmly. “Have a good ritual, or whatever this is.”

He walked away.

Tadej stood very still.

Then turned to face a Bora rider like he hadn’t just been spiritually slapped by a Dutch demigod.

“Mathieu is kind of funny, though,” Matteo said, watching Tadej spin in a slow circle again like a WiFi antenna.

Wout turned slowly. “You did not just say that.”

Jonas looked over. “Why? What’s wrong?”

“Don’t you start,” Wout snapped. "We won't start discussing again if van der Poel is just me with an overpriced sunglasses addiction.”

Matteo smiled gently. “He’s you, but unbothered.”

“I will literally throw my helmet at you.”

By the time riders were called to the line, Tadej had slowed down. A little.

He stood near the front, breathing heavy, hair sticking to his forehead, face flushed from adrenaline or emotion or both.

Felix passed him his radio and muttered, “Please stop emotionally interrogating strangers.”

“I will try,” Tadej said, but he wasn’t sure he meant it.

Because he hadn’t found him.

Not yet.

But he would.

He had to be here.
Somewhere.

Watching.
Listening.
Waiting.

Chapter Text

(Jonas)

Stage 9 had teeth.

The pace had been brutal from the start - nervous GC energy, crosswinds, too many roundabouts, and not enough calm. The peloton was twitchy. Aggressive. Hungry in that silent, dangerous way that made Jonas’ stomach twist long before anything actually happened.

He didn’t see the crash happen. Just felt it. A ripple in the group. A tire scream. Shouts. Metal hitting asphalt.

Then-
Impact.

His wheel clipped someone’s leg. His handlebars twisted. The world tilted.

He hit the ground hard, shoulder first, then hip. A second later, a bike rolled over his foot, and then silence - the kind that only comes right after a crash, sharp and heavy.

Jonas didn’t move right away. Not from pain - he was mostly fine. Bruised, probably. But not broken.

He was just stunned.

He blinked up at the sky. Then, slowly, sat up.
Someone yelled his name. A mechanic ran over. Wout’s voice was shouting somewhere in the distance.

His bike was brought back. He got up. Got back on.

He was riding again within seconds.

Adrenaline still in his blood, mouth dry, heart thumping. The sting in his hip was manageable. His jersey was torn. His pride -slightly dented.

And then-

“Did you crash?”

The voice didn’t scream. It didn’t panic. It just - was.

Immediate. Direct. Clear.

Jonas nearly swerved.

His breath caught.

“Are you okay?”

He didn’t answer. Couldn’t. His throat closed. His fingers tightened on the bars.

The voice - his voice - never initiated. Not once. It was always passive. Background noise. A song. A craving. A late-night thought.

But this was now.

And this - this meant he had seen it.

Jonas looked around wildly. The peloton had re-formed. Riders passed him. Faces blurred. Nothing made sense.

The voice didn’t come again.

But the implication hit him like a second crash.

He’s here.

The voice - Erik, whoever he was - wasn’t a dream. Or a ghost. Or a Tour-induced hallucination.

He was someone. In the race. Wearing a kit. Breathing the same hot wind. Close enough to see the peloton fall.

Jonas’s heart pounded in his chest.

And for the first time since this started, it wasn’t fear that filled him.

It was something sharper.

Something real.

— · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · · — · — 

The race was over. The stage had been long, hot, and vicious.

Jonas didn’t care.

He wasn’t thinking about results. Or pain. Or the fact that he was still partially covered in road dust and dried sweat and had a tear down the side of his jersey that made him look like he’d fought a bear mid-stage.

He didn’t even knock.

The door to Wout and Matteo’s room slammed open with a bang.

Wout looked up from his spot on the bed, towel around his neck, half a protein bar in his hand. Matteo was on the floor, stretching.

Both froze.

Jonas stood in the doorway, breathing hard, face flushed from more than just effort. His kit was wrinkled and crusted with dust. His hair stuck to his forehead. He looked like a man who’d just had a religious vision and wasn’t quite sure how to process it.

“I was right,” he said, voice hoarse. “He’s real.”

Wout blinked. “Good evening to you too, sir.”

“He spoke to me.” Jonas stepped into the room. “He asked if I was okay. After the crash.”

Matteo sat up straighter, concerned. “What?”

“In my head. The voice. He saw me fall. He knew. He said, ‘Did you crash?’ Then, ‘Are you okay?’”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Wout said, calmly, “So he’s your ghost boyfriend and a race radio now. Impressive.”

Jonas glared. “I’m serious.”

“I believe you,” Wout said, tossing the protein bar onto the side table and sitting forward. “It’s just that my coping mechanism for this entire psychic soulmate situation is sarcasm.”

Matteo stood up, wide-eyed. “Wait, hold on. He knew about the crash? Like… in real time?”

“Yes!” Jonas gestured wildly. “It wasn’t a memory or a delayed emotion or something vague. He knew. And he spoke. First. That’s never happened before.”

Wout crossed his arms, considering. “Okay. So either you’ve got a stalker with extremely advanced emotional GPS, or... he’s in the peloton.”

Jonas pointed dramatically. “Thank you. That’s what I said to myself. He’s one of us. He has to be.”

Matteo sat back on the bed, hands on his knees. “That narrows it down to, what, 170 guys?”

“Better than seven billion,” Jonas muttered.

Wout looked at him, eyebrows raised. “So. What’s the plan, Casanova? Ride next to everyone until you hear someone thinking about breakfast in your brain?”

“I” Jonas paused. “I don’t know. I didn’t think that far.”

Wout nodded. “That tracks.”

Matteo gave Jonas a worried look. “How do you feel?”

Jonas hesitated.

Then: “Like I’m going to explode.”

“Cool,” Wout said. “Maybe do that after dinner.”

Jonas sat down hard in the nearest chair. The silence settled thick for a moment.

Then Wout, quieter this time:
“You know this means he heard you, too. Right? That message you sent?”

Jonas looked up.

And didn’t say anything.

— · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · · — · — 

It was nearly 10pm. The lobby was mostly empty - just one intern trying to fix a vending machine and a tired journalist half-asleep with a laptop open on her knees.

But in a corner, on mismatched hotel chairs pulled into a haphazard triangle, sat three men.

Their mission?

Figure out who the hell was living inside Jonas’s skull.

Matteo set his iPad down with reverence, like he was unveiling a sacred text.

“Okay,” he said. “I’ve made a shortlist. 2025 Tour starters only. We’re going to go through them based on the clues.”

Jonas blinked. “There’s a list.”

“There’s a mindmap,” Matteo corrected. “This is science.”

He turned the screen toward them. In the middle was one box:
‘Mystery Soulmate (Erik?)’
Around it: empty bubbles waiting to be filled.

Wout leaned back, arms crossed. “God, I love this already.”

Matteo tapped the screen. “Okay. What do we know?”

Jonas, exhausted but hyper-aware, held up a finger. “He doesn’t speak perfect English.”

“Confident, though,” Matteo added. “Doesn’t hedge.”

“Pop music,” Jonas said, grimacing.

“Specifically trashy remix energy,” Wout added helpfully. “Like, dancing-at-the-Euros-afterparty music.”

Jonas nodded. “Craved oranges once.”

Matteo typed rapidly. “Got it. Now - one incident of emotional panic. Cause unknown.”

“AND,” Wout said, pointing a finger, “he cares about Jonas. Which is frankly suspicious.”

Jonas glared. Wout grinned.

“All right,” Matteo said. “First suspect: Mikkel Bjerg.”

Wout snorted. “Come on. Mikkel? He’s way too married to be emotionally available.”

“Yeah, but,” Matteo argued, “he’s got that secret chaos energy. And he’s Danish.”

“I would know if it was Mikkel,” Jonas muttered. “His thoughts would be about torque ratios.”

“Fair,” Matteo said, crossing him off. “Okay. Next: Romain Bardet.”

Wout let out a horrified gasp. “Absolutely not. Bardet doesn’t listen to pop. He listens to sad post-rock and cries about literature.”

“He does wear scarves in July,” Matteo noted.

Wout: “So do I. Shut up.”

Matteo: “Exactly.”

Wout turned to Jonas. “If your soulmate is Bardet, I will personally unclip and throw myself off the nearest viaduct.”

“Duly noted,” Jonas said.

“Next: Tiesj Benoot.”

Jonas blinked. “Tiesj is on our team.”

“Yeah, and?” Wout said. “But do you think Tiesj’s ever thought about an orange in his life? The man doesn't eat anything that's been on a tree once.”

Matteo tilted his head. “I don’t know, he is very polite.”

“Exactly,” Wout said. “Too polite. This guy asked Jonas if he was okay. That’s romance. Tiesj wouldn’t say that if you were laying in a ditch”

Matteo sighed and swiped. “Okay. Thomas Pidcock?”

Jonas rubbed his eyes. “His soul would be too loud. And British.”

“Agreed,” Wout said. “Too much banter. Not enough brooding.”

“Alaphilippe?”
Wout’s face lit up. “Now that I’d pay to see. You’d have the Frenchest mid-race inner monologue of all time.”

Jonas frowned. “I think I’d know if it was Alaphilippe. There’d be more yelling.”

“True.”

Matteo paused. “What about Mathieu?”

The silence was instant.

Jonas froze. Wout blinked.

Then-

“Nope,” Wout said, way too fast.

Matteo tilted his head. “Why not?”

“He’s not... that type.”

Matteo raised an eyebrow. “He’s passionate. Intense. Weirdly poetic in interviews.”

“He’s also a menace,” Wout muttered.

Jonas looked between them. “You know him well.”

Wout scoffed. “We’ve raced together for years.”

“Would he do something like this?”

“No.” Sharp. Firm.

Matteo narrowed his eyes. “That was very quick.”

Wout shifted in his seat. “It’s not him.”

Jonas watched him, suspicion blooming.

Wout met his gaze, expression unreadable.

“Okay,” Matteo said slowly. “But... if it was?”

“It’s not,” Wout snapped and stood up. “I’m getting a Coke.”

“You want me to add Mathieu to the Maybe List?” Matteo asked innocently.

“If you do,” Wout said, walking away, “I’m sabotaging your iPad.”

Jonas leaned back in his chair, watching Wout go.

Matteo nodded thoughtfully. “So not Mathieu.”

“Exactly.”

They sat in silence for a moment.

Then Matteo tapped another box.

“Next up: Michael Matthews.”

Jonas blinked. “Is he even capable of silence?”

“No,” Matteo said. “But imagine the chaos.”

Chapter Text

(Tadej)

The recovery tent smelled like menthol, damp towels, and tired breathing.

Tadej sat in one of the folding chairs, legs stretched out, socks half-off, a sports drink sweating in his hand. The stage had been long, but manageable. His legs were tired. His chest still buzzing.

Not from the race.

From what was about to happen.

Because Jonas was walking toward him.

Tadej looked up.
Then immediately looked away.
Then looked up again, but cooler. Casual. Totally normal.

Jonas had his recovery towel slung around his neck, his jersey unzipped halfway, exposing a line of pale, sharp collarbone that made Tadej forget what electrolytes were. His hair was  clinging to his forehead. His expression - confused, cautious, unreadable. Jonas in a nutshell.

Tadej was smiling before he even realized it.

“Hey,” Jonas said, stopping just in front of him.

“Hi,” Tadej replied, then immediately cleared his throat and tried again. “Hi.”

Great. Nailed it.

Jonas shifted his weight slightly. “You rode well today.”

Tadej’s face felt like it was on fire. “Thank you. You, too. You always ride... like... um. Efficient.”

“Efficient,” Jonas echoed.

Tadej wanted to walk into a bush.

They stared at each other for a second too long.
Jonas looked like he wanted to say something. Tadej definitely wanted to say something. Something cool. Or funny. Or poetic.

Instead, silence.

Their teammates were filtering around them, flopping onto chairs, peeling off socks, talking recovery, legs, massage times. But in this tiny corner of the tent, it was like someone had pressed pause on everything else.

Jonas looked down. Then back up. Then, very awkwardly, held out a hand. “Good race.”

Tadej stared at it.

Then, with a bashful grin, raised his own.

Their fists met in a soft, clumsy bump.

ZAP.

A sudden crack of static between their knuckles.

They both jerked slightly. Tadej yelped.

“Ouch-” Jonas hissed, shaking his hand.

Tadej blinked. “Was that...?”

They stared at each other.

Then - simultaneously - they started laughing.
Not huge, dramatic laughter. Just little, startled, breathy ones. The kind you try to hide and fail.

“I guess the... um. Tent hates us,” Tadej said, voice too high.

“Or the universe,” Jonas muttered.

Their eyes met again.

And for one perfect second, the air between them felt like something new.

Soft. Charged. Not scary. Just... open.

Tadej grinned, teeth showing. “You are very good at static electricity.”

Jonas looked away, but he was smiling too.

He didn’t say anything else. Just nodded, shy and unreadable as ever, and walked toward the massage tables.

Tadej watched him go.

And whispered, to no one in particular:
“Oh my god.”

— · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · · — · — 

(Jonas)

The massage table paper crinkled under Jonas’s face as he let out a long, quiet exhale.
His back ached. His legs ached. His brain, somehow, ached.

There was music playing from a speaker. Jonas couldn’t tell what it was. Something melodic. Mindfulness. Meditation. A lot better than David Guetta for sure.

Reminded him of that voice again. The one in his head.

The one who’d spoken first.
The one who cared if he crashed.

He closed his eyes tighter.

Jules, the team physio, hummed softly as he worked his way down Jonas’s calf with firm, practiced pressure.

Jonas was quiet for a moment. Then: “Jules?”

“Ah oui?” Jules answered, voice gentle and vaguely suspicious.

“If you were writing a... fantasy book,” Jonas said slowly, “about two people. Who, um. Shared thoughts.”

“Mhm,” Jules said, like he absolutely did not want to be part of this but had no choice.

“But they didn’t know each other,” Jonas continued. “Not really. Just... heard things. In their heads. Sometimes emotional. Sometimes weird. Sometimes pop music.”

There was a pause. Jules’ hands didn’t stop moving.

“What would the point of that be?” Jonas asked.

Jules blinked. “The point?”

“Of the bond.”

Jules considered this. “Plot device?”

Jonas frowned. “No, I mean, like. Narratively. Emotionally.”

“Oh,” Jules said. “I suppose... connection? Or fate. Or destiny. Maybe they are meant to help each other. Save the world. Fall in love. Or learn a lesson.”

Jonas made a noise like he was dying inside. “Right. Cool. Yeah. That makes sense.”

Jules paused. “Are you writing a book?”

“No.”

Jonas turned his head slightly, still face-down. “What would you say to the other person? If you could. If you knew they were listening?”

Jules raised his eyebrows. “In this... fictional story?”

“Yes.”

Jules shrugged. “Depends. What do you want them to hear?”

Jonas opened his mouth. Closed it.

Then: “That they don’t have to be alone.”

Silence.

Jules’ hands softened slightly, more gentle now.
“Also maybe...” Jonas added quietly, “that they have a very funny brain. And I like it.”

Jules gave him a look that could only be described as so very French.

Jonas buried his face into the table paper.
“And how,” he mumbled, “would you figure out who they are?”

Jules thought about it. “I would listen. To what they say. Or don’t say. People can’t lie in their head, no?”

Jonas blinked.

Then muttered, “Unless they’re very annoying and mysterious and only talk about oranges.”
Jules chuckled.

“You are very stressed, Jonas,” he said kindly. “You need more sleep. Less fantasy.”

Jonas sighed into the table. “Tell that to my brain.”

He didn’t see Jules smile, just a little.

Chapter Text

(Jonas)

The sun had started to dip by the time Jonas and Matteo made it to the supermarket.

It was supposed to be a normal walk. A nice stretch of the legs. Some bananas, electrolyte drinks, and whatever Matteo claimed he needed to “spiritually cleanse” after spending another stage rooming next to Wout.

“I know he used it,” Matteo was saying, arms crossed as he stomped across the car park. “I take care of my toothbrush! I leave the bristles dry. And this morning? It was damp. And it has teeth marks.”

“You think Wout broke into your dopp kit and chewed on your toothbrush?”

“Wouldn’t be the weirdest thing he’s done.”

Jonas half-listened, the way someone listens during small talk when their brain is doing twelve things at once. The wind was soft. His legs were still sore. And the voice - the voice - had been quiet again.

Two days.

He hadn’t heard anything since the crash.

And then it happened.

Out of nowhere.

Mid-step.

Mid-vacuum display.

“You really think Vingegaard is…?”

Jonas stopped walking.

It hit him like a shove between the shoulder blades.

Not a feeling.
Not a whisper.
Not a song lyric.

His name.

Spoken. Clear. With that now unmistakable tone - bright, casual, amused.

The voice was talking about him.

Matteo noticed the shift instantly. “What’s wrong?”

Jonas turned to him slowly, eyes wide. “He said my name.”

“Who?”

“The voice.”

Matteo blinked. “Wait - like, literally?”

Jonas nodded. “Vingegaard. That’s what he said. He’s talking about me. Somewhere. Right now.”

Matteo looked around the parking lot like the voice might be hiding in the produce aisle.

Jonas felt dizzy.

The voice hadn’t said anything else. No context. No tone. Just- “you really think Vingegaard is…?” and then it was gone. Like the end of a sentence left hanging in the air.

“Okay,” Matteo said, guiding him toward the fruit like they were undercover. “Breathe. Did it sound bad? Good? Is he mad at you?”

Jonas shook his head. “No. Just curious. Maybe joking. It wasn’t mean.”

“But your name. That’s huge.”

“I know.”

“Congratulations. You’ve achieved telepathic name-dropping.”

Jonas stared into the cold glow of the fridge full of overpriced yogurt drinks.

Matteo leaned in closer. “So what now? You message back? Ask for context? Drop a little ‘lol what do u mean’ into the soul void?”

“I don’t know,” Jonas whispered.

But he did.

He wanted to know what came next.

Wanted the rest of the sentence. The end of the thought. The reason his name had left someone else’s brain and landed directly in his heart like a thunderclap.

“I think,” Matteo said, handing him a juice bottle, “you’re officially doomed.”

“You really think Vingegaard is…?”

The voice echoed once more as Jonas stared into the supermarket fridge.

Matteo watched him closely. “Do it,” he whispered. “Say something. Now.”

Jonas didn’t hesitate. He thought, clear and sharp:

“What do you mean?”

And then - a beat.

One breath.

And the voice answered.

“Wait  - no, what? You heard that? Just now??”

There it was again. Scrambled. Stunned. Slightly high-pitched in a way Jonas had never imagined a thought could be.

Then, like lightning across a cloudless sky:
“Oh god, you are real person. Real brain. Real guy. Oh no.”

Jonas almost dropped his juice bottle.

Matteo leaned in. “Is it working?”

Jonas just stood there, jaw slightly open, brain whirring.

Because the voice was talking back.

Actually talking.

No longer floating thoughts or random sighs or emotional echoes.

This was a person.

A rambling, nervous, ridiculous person who had just - out of nowhere - referred to their own thoughts as “cheese brain.”

Jonas fought the urge to laugh.

His heart was hammering.

“Can you ask another thing?” Matteo whispered, barely breathing.

But before Jonas could think anything else-
The line died.

Silence.

Not the soft kind.

The sharp kind. Like a door slamming shut on your fingers.

Jonas flinched.

The connection was gone.

Matteo watched his face carefully. “What happened?”

“He panicked,” Jonas said softly. “And then… nothing.”

Matteo frowned. “Gone?”

“Gone.”

They stood in the juice aisle in total silence for a moment.

Then Jonas murmured, half to himself, half to the cold universe: “I like the way he thinks.”

— · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · · — · — 

The first thought came somewhere in the middle of a rest day afternoon.

It wasn’t emotional. Wasn’t dramatic.

“Hello...?”

Jonas froze mid-stretch, lying on the floor of his hotel room, foam roller under his calves. He blinked at the ceiling. The voice was shy. Familiar. Unmistakably real.
He smiled before he could stop himself.

“Uh. Hi?”

Across France, in a room littered with laundry and snack wrappers, Tadej kicked his heels against the edge of the bed and buried his face in a pillow, already vibrating with panic and excitement.

It had worked. Again.

They were talking.

For real.

They said nothing for a moment. Just… existed. Together, invisibly, unbelievably. Both of them half-convinced it was about to get shut down again.

When it didn’t, Tadej took the plunge. “So... important question.”

“Okay. Go on.” Jonas was already smiling again.

“Cookies. Raisin or chocolate chips?”

Jonas let out a short breath. A laugh.

“You’re really going for the big topics first.”

“Very important!” Tadej insisted. “You learn much about someone from cookie opinion.”

Jonas thought about it.
“Raisins are betrayal. They look like chocolate but taste like sadness.”

Across the bond, a dramatic gasp.

“What? No! Raisins are elite fruit! Full of... soul!”

“They’re wrinkly lies.”

“You are a cookie coward,” Tadej replied, matter-of-fact.

Jonas pressed the back of his hand to his mouth, laughing quietly into it.

“Okay. What about oatmeal cookies?”

“Hmm. Dangerous. You think: ‘oatmeal, nice, healthy.’ But then they attack your teeth. Like rocks.”

“You’ve been hurt before.”

“Yes,” Tadej said solemnly. “By oat.”

They paused. Let the laughter in the connection settle. The weird buzz of it, the joy.

Then Tadej again, a little quieter now.

“Are you always funny like this?”

Jonas blinked.

“Oh.. People.. don't usually think that.”

There was a small silence. Not awkward. Just warm.

Jonas let it stretch. “What else can I learn about you? If not from cookies?”

“You want to know me?”

Jonas didn’t answer right away. “Yeah. I think I do.”

Tadej’s heart thudded. He kicked his foot a little harder against the bed frame. Too much energy. Too much feeling. He wanted to say something clever. Something cool.

Instead, he said: “Do you like frogs?”

Jonas laughed again. A quiet, bright laugh.
“...Sure?”

“Okay. Good. You may continue.”

Jonas closed his eyes. God. What was this. It felt unreal. He wanted to bottle it, this closeness. This strange, stupid joy. This voice in his head that made him feel seen in the exact right way.
He didn’t know how long it would last, but he wasn’t going to waste it.

He let his thoughts drift, casual, free.

“Okay. My turn.”

“Mhm?”

“Pineapple on pizza?”

A pause.

“Depends how much I hate myself that day.”

Jonas grinned. “Fair.”

Another pause. Deeper now. The giggles settling. The bond stretching. Still soft. Still open.
Tadej felt bold. Nervous. Dizzy with it.

And he thought:
“Have you ever been in lo—”

The line dropped.

Cut.
Sharp.
Gone.

Jonas sat up straight.

Tadej flopped onto his back and groaned.

"Ahh, of course! Fuck you universe!"

The universe has had enough.

Chapter Text

(Jonas)

The elevator ride was supposed to be short and uneventful.

Just Jonas, Wout, and Matteo. Fresh out of the sauna, towels slung around their necks, skin still damp and pink and smelling vaguely of eucalyptus.

They were half-laughing, mid-Wout story - something about Sepp getting locked out of his hotel room in boxer briefs - when the elevator dinged at the third floor.

And in stepped Felix Großschartner.

Jonas blinked. Felix looked… bad.

Sweater on backward. Expressionless gaze. The kind of guy who’d been woken up by a ghost and then argued with it.

“Evening,” Matteo said, cheerful.

Felix grunted. “Barely.”

The door slid shut. Silence settled.

And then, out of absolutely nowhere, Felix muttered - loudly, angrily:
“I hate him.”

The others blinked.

Wout raised an eyebrow. “Who?”

Felix glared at the numbers on the elevator panel like they’d personally wronged him.
Then spat: “Erik.”

Jonas physically recoiled.

Matteo blinked. “I’m sorry - what?”

“Erik keeps me up,” Felix said. “Stupid little brain whisperer.”

The elevator was suddenly very quiet.

Jonas stared ahead, heart pounding.

Was it - was it Felix?

Was he the voice?

Wout’s eyes lit up like someone had handed him a front-row ticket to a soap opera.

The doors opened on the fifth floor. Felix stormed out without saying another word.
The moment he disappeared, Wout burst out laughing.

“Felix?!” he wheezed. “There’s no way.”.

“Don’t laugh,” Jonas said, frozen. “It… could be.”

“Nooo,” Matteo said, thoughtful now. “No. No offense, but... Felix isn't that funny.”

“He definitely doesn’t listen to disco music religiously,” Wout added.

“But he knows the name Erik,” Jonas said, voice too soft.

Matteo rubbed his jaw. “Maybe it’s someone Felix hears talking about Erik. Someone close to him. Someone he's on a team with with?”

They all paused.

Wout’s smile turned evil.

“Oh my god,” he said. “It IS Mikkel Bjerg.”

Matteo nodded slowly. “Yeah shit. That… could make sense.”

“I need this to be true,” Wout said, now nearly doubled over. “Jonas, you and Mikkel soulbonding through the Tour while he yells about chainrings would be the best thing to ever happen to cycling.”

Jonas didn’t answer.

He was thinking. Fast.

Yesterday. The cookie talk. The frogs. The pineapple thing.

He had fun. More fun than he’d had in days.

But the realization hit like a cold splash of water:
He didn’t even know who he’d been talking to.

His heartbeat kicked into his throat.

Who had called him funny?
Who had joked about raisins?
Who had almost asked if he’d ever been in love?

He didn’t know.

And that, somehow, made everything worse.

— · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · · — · — 

It had been a shit day.

Not in the catastrophic way. No crashes, no punctures, no GC time lost. Just one of those long, flat, miserable stages designed to drain the soul out through the soles of your shoes. Crosswinds. Screaming radios. Endless tension. And then a chaotic, crash-stained sprint that neither of them were part of.

By the time Tadej slumped into the recovery chair, he didn’t even bother unzipping his jersey. Just dumped a bottle of lukewarm water over his head and leaned back, eyes closed.

God, he thought. I hate days like this.

“Yeah. Me too.”

He blinked.

A pause

Then, softly:
“You’re here.”

Across the field - in a different folding chair, in a different corner of the same Tour - Jonas sat with his head in his hands. Legs humming with fatigue. Shoulders tight. Dirt streaked up his shin.

“Still here,” he thought.

A beat.

“I knew you’re in the peloton.”

Tadej’s voice in his mind wasn’t surprised anymore. Just tired.

Jonas didn’t reply right away.
“I’ve known for a while.”

Tadej smiled, just barely.

Let his fingers flex over the armrest.

Somewhere out there - maybe two meters away, maybe two hundred - the person who understood this specific type of suffering better than anyone was sitting in the same post-stage haze.

Not alone.

Not anymore.

“Did you also want to quit today?” Jonas asked.

“Yes,” Tadej answered. “At least three times.”

Jonas let out a breath. A tiny laugh. It shook something loose in his chest.

“And then I thought,” Tadej added, “what if you are there. Also hating this. Also wanting chocolate milk.”

Jonas smiled. His forehead dropped against the edge of the massage table.

“I did,” he said.
“I really, really did.”

They didn’t say much after that.

But the silence felt warmer. Lighter.

Somewhere in the distance, a mechanic dropped a wrench. A staff member laughed. Riders limped past in flip flops.

But in that small, private space inside their heads, two tired minds leaned against each other.

Not knowing who.

Just knowing someone was still there.

— · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · · — · —  

Jonas laid on top of the hotel bed, legs stretched out, arms crossed behind his head, staring at the water stain on the ceiling like it might answer all of life’s questions.

It didn’t.

In the bathroom, Victor was singing softly under the shower. Something French and mostly off-key.

Jonas wasn’t listening.

He was thinking.

What if it is Mikkel?

The thought had wormed its way in after the elevator incident and refused to leave. It was absurd. Of course it was. Mikkel was a good guy. Good cyclist. But his brain was... practical. Straight lines and watts and gear ratios.
Not Erik. Not the voice that argued about raisins and frogs and laughed at his jokes mid-stage.

Still...

Jonas sat up, reached for his phone, and opened Instagram for the first time in his life.

Search bar.

Typed: Mikkel Bjerg.

Found him.

Paused.

Then - against all instinct and judgment - tapped Message.

His fingers hovered.

“Hello Mikkel, I hope you are well. I wanted to ask something slightly strange.”

He stared at it. Sent it.

“hey man! all good. what’s up?”

Jonas stared at the blinking cursor. Then typed:
“Are you... by any chance... the one I’ve been speaking to? In my head?”

Pause. Regret. Regret. Regret.

Then Mikkel replied:
“??”
“like. telepathy?”
“bro are u okay”

Jonas let out a breath so shaky he startled himself.

“No worries. Just ignore that. Sorry. Sleep-deprived.”

“lol all good”
“get some rest man”

He dropped the phone beside him, eyes closing.

It wasn’t Mikkel.

Thank god.

Ten minutes later, he opened his notebook.

No stats. No tactics. Just ink.

11th July – Evening – post-elevator, post-crisis, post-non-Mikkel
Okay. So it’s not Mikkel. Or Felix. Or probably anyone on my team. Which means someone else. Still nearby. Still here. Still... Erik.
You said you liked raisins. You called me a cookie coward. You made me laugh.
Whoever you are...
I liked talking yesterday. I liked your weird brain.
A lot.
It’s terrifying, isn’t it? How much comfort can come from someone you don’t know. Not really.
But you felt close. I felt less alone.
And then Felix said he hated you. And I didn’t. Not even a little bit.
What if I don't like you in real life?
What if you're someone like Remco. Or Mads. Or Mathieu.
God, what if it’s Tadej.
No. That would be...
I don’t even know. Too much.
He smiled at me. in the recovery tent again and I nearly passed out.
Anyway. You’re not Tadej.

— · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · · — · — 

(Tadej)

The sun was merciless.

Stage 14 had been hot and dry and dragging, one of those cruel days that sat just on the edge of miserable - fast enough to burn the legs, but not fast enough to be over quickly.

Tadej sat tucked into the group, spinning his legs, squinting through his glasses.

He’d been riding behind Jonas for most of the last hour. Not on purpose. Just... luck of the pace line.

He wasn’t complaining.

Jonas rode like someone who carried every responsibility on his shoulders. Neat. Measured. Focused. Even in the sloppier sections of the road, his posture never dipped. His legs never flailed.

But today - something was off.

Tadej watched as they rolled through the feed zone, musettes swinging, hands reaching.

Jonas reached out - too late.

Missed the handoff.

He tried again. Still missed.

The third time, a soft graze, the bottle slipping from his fingers, skittering across the road.

Tadej winced.

Jonas didn’t look back. Just let out a sharp breath, shoulders tightening. He looked like he wanted to curse but didn’t have the energy to spare.

Tadej hesitated only a second.

Then shifted gears, pulled out from behind the wheel ahead of him, and rolled up next to Jonas.
Without a word, he reached into the back pocket of his jersey and handed over one of his extra bottles. Cold. Still full. Beaded with condensation.

Jonas looked over, startled.

Their eyes met, both behind mirrored glasses.

Tadej didn’t say anything. Just offered the bottle.

Jonas hesitated. Then nodded, quiet, and took it. His fingers brushed Tadej’s wrist.

“Thanks,” he muttered.

Tadej smiled, even though Jonas couldn’t see it.

Then dropped back into the line.

The stage ended in chaos. Just the usual mess - sprinting teams scrambling, GC guys holding position, bikes flung in every direction at the finish.

Tadej rolled to a stop, legs jelly, lungs full of hot air.

He handed off his bike, peeled off his helmet, and walked slowly toward the tents.

Jonas passed by, walking in the opposite direction, towel over his shoulders, cheeks flushed.

Their eyes met again.

Jonas slowed.
So did Tadej.

They stopped next to each other, out of the way of cameras and staff.

Jonas looked at him. Really looked.

Then held out a fist.

Tadej blinked, just for a second.

Then smiled and bumped it.

The contact was brief, but something about it - familiar. Warm. Electric in a quiet way.

Jonas cleared his throat.

“That was... kind of you,” he said. “Back there.”

Tadej shrugged, suddenly very aware of how warm his own face felt. “You look... uh. Like you need one.”

Jonas huffed a small breath. Might’ve been a laugh.

“I did.”

They stood for a second. Nothing else to say, but neither walking away.

“See you tomorrow,” Jonas said.

Tadej nodded. “Yes.”

Jonas turned. Walked.

Tadej watched him go.

And thought, not for the first time:
I hope it’s you.

Chapter Text

(Jonas)

The press conference had started late.

Which was fine, because UAE was late. Again.

Jonas sat on the end of the table, Matteo next to him, one seat down from Wout. Photographers milled about. Reporters rustled papers. The stage backdrop looked like it had been folded too many times.

Jonas adjusted the mic in front of him. His hands were slightly clammy. He told himself it was just the lights. Or the stress. Or the fact that he hadn’t been able to stop thinking since Stage 14. Since the bottle.

Since the voice that laughed about raisins had handed him real water in real life.

He still didn’t know.

He wanted to.

But wanting felt dangerous.

And then-

The back door opened.

Team UAE spilled in.

A bit chaotic. A bit wrinkled. A mix of apologies and grins.

And then - Tadej.

Hair slightly damp. Jersey half-zipped. A little out of breath. Eyes bright.

He walked straight to the snack table in the back, bypassing everyone and everything, and scanned the spread like a man on a mission.

Jonas glanced up, distracted.

And watched.

As Tadej’s face lit up - eyes wide, delighted - and he said, to no one in particular:
“Oh, finally. An orange!”

Jonas didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

Didn’t blink.

He just - froze.

The room kept going. Reporters kept talking. A mic squealed.

But in Jonas’s mind, the words echoed like a dropped glass:
“Oh, finally. An orange!”

There was no mistaking it. Not a coincidence. Not a maybe.

That voice.
That sentence.
The one that haunted him, days ago. “I want an orange.”

The first real thought he heard.

Tadej.

It was Tadej.

Jonas stared. His heart beat somewhere in his throat.

His hands gripped the edge of the table.

Wout glanced over, brows furrowed.

Matteo looked between Jonas and the snack table once - then twice.

Realization hit Matteo like a wave.

He leaned in. Whispered:
“Oh my god.”

Jonas stood up.

He couldn’t think. Couldn’t sit there while his brain tore itself in half. The air felt thick. His pulse too loud.

He stepped back from the table.

“Jonas?” Matteo asked worried, standing too.

Jonas just shook his head.

“Come on,” Matteo said gently, already moving toward the exit with him. “Let’s go.”

They slipped out a side door, unnoticed in the buzz of cameras and athletes.

The hallway was quiet. Dim. Some fluorescent lights flickered overhead.

Jonas leaned back against the wall. Pressed a palm over his face.

“God,” he whispered. “It’s Tadej.”

Matteo didn’t say anything at first.
Then:
“But that’s… good, right?”

Jonas shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“Jonas.”

“I don’t-” his voice cracked. “What am I supposed to do with that?”

Matteo stayed silent. Let the words settle.

Jonas exhaled slowly. Shakily. Pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes.

He could still hear it. Tadej’s voice. Bright. Happy. Thoughtless.

An orange.

His whole world - wrapped in citrus.

Matteo leaned beside him against the wall. Quiet for a moment.

Then, softly:
“Maybe start with ‘hi.’”

— · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · · — · — 

(Tadej)

It was just before dinner.

The hotel balcony creaked slightly beneath Tadej as he shifted in the plastic chair, one leg tucked beneath him, a blanket draped lazily over his shoulders even though the evening was still warm.

The sun hung low. Peach-colored. The kind of soft light that made the sky feel like a held breath.

For the first time all day, everything felt... still.
He took a slow sip of water. Let his eyes drift to the horizon. Let his thoughts relax.

And then-
“Tadej?”

The glass nearly slipped from his hand.

He froze.

Not a thought. Not a feeling. Not a banter about frogs or cookies.

A name.

His name.

Spoken soft. Like a prayer.

Tadej’s breath caught in his throat.

He waited. The silence stretched for a second. Two. Then-

“You know,” he whispered.

There was a long pause.

Then, so quiet it barely formed:
“Yeah..”

Tadej’s heart hammered. He pulled the blanket closer around his shoulders, fingers tight.

He had dreamed of this moment.

And now that it was here-

He was terrified.

“Are you... are you disappointed it’s me?” he asked, barely audible even in his own head.

The response came instantly.
“I hoped it’s you.”

Tadej’s chest pulled tight.

He didn’t know what to say.
So he just breathed. Let it be real.
He swallowed.

“Can I... know also?” he asked.
“Can you tell me who you are?”

Silence.

Then a flicker.

Not a voice. A feeling.

And then-
“I want to.”
“But I can’t.”
“I’m scared Tadej...”

His name again. And it sounded broken this time. Like something too fragile to touch.

Tadej closed his eyes.

“Of what?” he asked softly.

The pause was long.

“That you’ll look at me different.”
“That it won’t feel the same.”
“That I’ve ruined something good.”

Tadej bit his lip.

His heart was a thunderstorm.

He didn’t know who was saying this. Not yet.

But he knew him.
He knew the voice of him.
The feel.
The way his thoughts moved. The way he hid behind half-jokes and quiet honesty.

He exhaled slowly.

“You don’t ruin.”
“You... you are very kind. And I think...”

He smiled, just a little. Voice shaky but sure.
“I think I like you already.”

Silence.

But not the scary kind.

The kind that feels like a hand resting gently over yours. Still. Steady. Real.

And from somewhere deep inside his own chest, Tadej whispered aloud-
“Don’t be scared.”

The sky had shifted from orange to lavender.

Tadej didn’t move.

He sat curled in the chair, blanket sliding from one shoulder, water bottle forgotten at his side.
His heart felt like it was made of wings.

And the voice in his mind - not just a voice now, a person - was still there.

Still with him.

He didn’t dare speak too loud in his thoughts. Didn’t want to scare him off. Whoever he was. Wherever he sat. Probably also on a hotel balcony, or a bed, or the floor with his knees tucked to his chest, unraveling like Tadej was.

He breathed in.

“You’re really here.”

A pause.

Then - soft, shy:
“I can’t believe it’s you.”

Tadej laughed, barely. A small puff of air, almost startled.
“Why not?”

“You’re... you’re you.”

“That is true,” Tadej replied, a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth.
“I am me. And you are... mystery. Very poetic. Also, wrong about raisins.”

There was a laugh, light in his mind.

Then:
“I’m sorry I can’t tell you.”

“You are scared.”

“I still am.”

Tadej nodded to no one. Let his chin drop to his knees.

“Okay. I wait.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I want to.”

The silence this time was sweet. Settling. Not empty.

He let his thoughts loosen. Just a little.

“I was scared also,” Tadej whispered, blanket drawn back over his shoulder.
“To know who. To be wrong. To be... not wanted.”

“You are.”

“Wanted?”

“Yes.”

A pause.

Then, even softer:
“So much.”

Tadej closed his eyes. Let the words echo.
The sky deepened. One bird chirped once from somewhere under a roof. A door slammed gently in the hallway beyond.
But here - on this little balcony, with this invisible thread stretched across time and miles and silence - there was stillness.

“You make me feel warm,” he thought.
“Like orange in the sun.”

There was no answer to that.

But Tadej didn’t need one.

— · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · · — · — 

(Jonas)

Jonas sat on the edge of his bed, back to the wall, one leg pulled up, forehead resting on his knee.
The lights were off. The room was dim, only the sliver of streetlight slicing through the curtain.
He’d barely spoken since dinner.

Matteo had given him a look - curious, gentle - but hadn’t pushed. Wout had smirked like he knew everything already. Jonas had said nothing.

Because what could he say?

It’s Tadej.

Tadej.

The name sat in his chest like something glowing and fragile. It pulsed. It hummed.
The voice in his head - his voice, the one that joked and stumbled over English, who said he liked raisins and wanted to know his opinion on frogs - was him.

And now Jonas couldn’t stop thinking about what that meant.

He had imagined this moment. Fantasized about it in the safe, vague way you think about soulmate stories. About what ifs and maybe one days.

But he hadn’t expected the answer to be someone who made his heart stutter when he walked into a room. Someone whose face made him feel small and sun-drenched. Someone who - when he handed Jonas a water bottle two stages ago - had almost made him cry.

He was real.

And Jonas didn’t know what to do with that.

He didn’t know how to hold it without dropping it.

He tilted his head back against the wall and stared at the ceiling.

It could go lovely.
It could go like a fairytale.
He could say something tomorrow. Something small and smiling and certain.
And maybe Tadej would smile back.
Maybe they’d meet behind the buses and laugh about it.
Maybe this was the start of something that wasn’t a bond but a life.

But it could also go wrong.
He could say too much.
Tadej could get scared. Could pull away. Could laugh.
Could say: “I liked the voice. I don’t like you.”

Jonas swallowed hard.

He wasn’t sure which scared him more: the hope, or the risk.

He thought back to the balcony - Tadej’s voice, soft and slow.

“I think I like you already.”

Jonas closed his eyes.

What if it could be real?
What if this wasn’t just magic.
What if this - this voice, this person, this soft strange thing growing inside his chest - was the start of being known.
He didn’t know.
He couldn’t know.

But he thought, quietly-
“Don’t stop talking to me.”

Chapter Text

(Tadej)

Stage 16.
Somewhere on a long, rolling road under a sky that couldn’t decide if it wanted to be blue or grey.

Tadej was floating mid-peloton, legs warm, head clearer than usual.
The bond - the voice - had been quiet that morning. Still there, but gentle. Resting. Waiting.
He’d wanted to say something. Anything. But his thoughts had felt clumsy.

Tadej... it’s Tadej.

That’s what the voice had said the night before.

Tadej had barely slept.

Not from fear.

From feeling.

He kept remembering that whisper. The way the voice had sounded scared. Like it was too much.

And all Tadej had wanted to do was say no, no - it’s okay. You’re okay. We’re okay.

He still hadn’t figured out how to say that.

What do you say when you’ve just found out that the person who’s been quietly curling around your thoughts for weeks... is real?

Has a name. Has a face. Somewhere.

Tadej had been riding steady. Focused. Quiet.

He told himself that he was okay.
That he could wait.
That he could be patient.

And then, suddenly-
“Catch me, Tadej.”

He blinked.

And then - up ahead - a flash of black and yellow. A rider slipping out of the line. Picking up speed.

Jonas.

Grinning.
Just once, over his shoulder.

And he was gone.

Tadej’s brain short-circuited.
He forgot how to breathe.
He forgot how to be casual. How to pace. How to be.

All that existed was the sound of his name in someone else’s voice.
And the shape of that grin.

Oh.

He felt it like lightning in his chest.

Oh, it’s him.

The voice. The sad thoughts. The stupid cookie arguments. The everything.

It had always been Jonas.

And now he was riding away, legs strong, smile wide, like he hadn’t just broken the world open.

Tadej snapped out of it.

Shifted gears.
And went.
Not an attack. Not a lunge. Just speed. Smooth and rising.
He chased.

And with every pedal stroke, something bloomed in him.

Joy.
Awe.
Fear.
Need.
Hope.
Something like love.

He caught Jonas two minutes later.
Slowed beside him. Couldn’t even speak.

Jonas looked over, still grinning.

Tadej thought, wildly:
You are going to ruin me.

But out loud, he only said-
“Hi.”

Jonas laughed, breathless. “Took you long enough.”

Tadej smiled.

And for once, he didn’t worry if it was too much.

— · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · · — · — 

They found each other behind the cool-down tent.

The air was still heavy with the heat of the stage, thick with sweat and dust and the faint hum of cooling fans. Somewhere nearby, someone laughed. Someone else coughed. Team staff passed by with water bottles and towels, too busy to notice the two riders standing frozen just behind the partition.

Tadej was the first to speak.
“Hi.”

Jonas looked up. His helmet was already off, curls damp, cheeks still flushed.
“Hi,” he said, quiet and breathless.

A pause.

They just stared at each other for a moment. Wide-eyed. Wordless. Buzzing.

It was real now. No filters. No fog of thoughts or timing or fate. Just them.

Jonas shifted slightly on his feet, bouncing one heel. He smiled, sort of sideways. “That was... something.”

Tadej let out a short, startled laugh. “Yes. You say... catch me, Tadej and then go away like rocket.”

“I wasn’t sure it would work,” Jonas admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. “I wasn’t sure you’d hear me.”

“I hear everything,” Tadej said, suddenly serious. “Everything you think... I always want to hear.”

That made Jonas’ heart do something stupid.
He cleared his throat. “You okay?”

Tadej nodded quickly. “Yes. I-” He took a breath. “I was scared. Before. But now, I feel like... like I can breathe. You are you. You are... not wrong person. Not disappointment.”

Jonas looked away, his smile flickering like it wasn’t sure if it was allowed.
“I was scared too,” he said. “Still am. Kind of.”

Tadej’s voice was soft. “Why?”

“I don’t want to ruin it.”

“You don’t.”

“I might.”

Tadej took a slow step closer. Not enough to touch, just enough to share space.
“You are here,” he said. “That is already good.”

Jonas nodded, eyes down.
“I’m still not used to... talking like this. Out loud.”

Tadej laughed again. “Yes. Your mouth moves now. It’s very strange.”

Jonas looked up, grinning helplessly. “Yeah. Yours too.”

They both laughed.

And then just... stood there.
Breathing.

Okay, Jonas thought.
Okay.

Tadej tilted his head. “So now what?”

Jonas shrugged. “I don’t know. I think... we keep talking. But, like... for real now.”

Tadej nodded.

Another pause.

Then he whispered, “I am very glad it is you.”

Jonas looked at him for a long, long moment.
Then:
“Me too.”

— · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · · — · — 

(Jonas)

It was late when Jonas knocked on Matteo’s door.
Not emergency-late. Not drama-late. Just... too quiet in his own room. Too many thoughts. Not enough space to hold them.

Matteo answered in sweatpants and an oversized hoodie, hair damp, expression already soft.
He didn’t ask questions. Just stepped aside and let Jonas in.

They ended up sitting on the floor, backs against the bed frame, sharing a bottle of water and not much else.

For a while, they didn’t talk.
Then, Jonas exhaled. Rubbed his hands over his face.
“I don’t know where to start.”

Matteo smiled. “Then don’t. Just say something.”
Jonas stared at the floor.

“I had a crush on Tadej,” he said quietly.

Matteo blinked. “Yes, I know.”

“Like... way before any of this. The voice stuff.”
A pause.
“And then the voice happened. Erik. And I started falling for him too. Because he was... funny. And kind. And weird in a way that made me feel okay being weird.”

Matteo nodded, listening.

“And now,” Jonas said, voice lower, slower, “the voice is Tadej. And I don’t know what to do with that.”

Matteo didn’t speak.

Jonas laughed, just once. “It’s not even that I’m confused. I’m not. I’m... I think I’m just overwhelmed. Like my brain can’t hold both things at once. Like- how do I deal with having a crush on Tadej, and also being in love with his soul?”

That word sat there for a moment.

Jonas let it hang.
Then: “I think I’m falling.”

He closed his eyes.
“I think I’m already gone.”

Matteo took a sip of water. Passed it back.
“I think,” he said finally, “you’ve been gone for a while.”

Jonas laughed again, shakier this time.
“Yeah.”

“You’re not scared?”

Jonas hesitated.
Then: “Less than I thought I’d be.”

Matteo smiled. Nudged his shoulder.
“Good.”

They sat there in the dark, quiet together.
And for the first time in weeks, Jonas felt still.
He leaned his head back against the bed frame.
Then, quietly:
“…But what if he doesn’t feel the same?”

Matteo glanced over. Not surprised. Not dismissive.
“Do you think he doesn’t?”

Jonas shrugged, eyes on the floor. “He’s nice. Kind. Warm. That doesn’t mean he… you know.”

Matteo tilted his head. Thought for a moment.
Then said, simply:
“What if that was the whole deal?”

Jonas looked over.

“What if the universe didn’t put you in each other’s heads just to be dramatic?” Matteo said. “What if it just… helped two people who liked each other say something they were too scared to say?”

Jonas blinked.

Matteo smiled, soft and sure.
“Maybe the bond didn’t make you fall for him. Maybe it just made it okay.”

Jonas didn’t reply.
He didn’t need to.

Chapter Text

They sat on the pavement behind the hotel, near the staff parking lot.

It was quiet. Not silent - there were soft voices drifting from a nearby open window, the buzz of a vending machine kicking on - but quiet in the way only evening could be. Dim sky. Cooling asphalt. The Tour still happening all around them, but far enough away it didn’t matter.

Jonas sat with his arms around his knees, chin resting on his forearm. His legs ached. His chest ached worse.
Tadej sat beside him. Cross-legged. Elbows on his thighs, hands dangling loose between his knees.

Neither of them spoke for a while.

Then Jonas said, not quite looking over:
“I think the bond’s gone.”

Tadej nodded slowly. “Yes. I feel… very normal.”

Jonas huffed a laugh. “I feel like I’ve been unplugged.”

Tadej smiled at the ground. “Maybe that is good.”
“Yeah.”

Another beat of silence.

Jonas shifted, fingers fiddling with the edge of his sock.
“I was talking to Matteo,” he said softly. “Earlier. About all of this.”

Tadej looked over, gentle and open.

Jonas kept his eyes forward.
“He said maybe the whole thing was just… helping us say something we were too scared to say.”

A breath.

“I thought that was nice.”

Tadej tilted his head. “And... is there something you want to say?”

Jonas laughed once, under his breath. Sharp. Nervous.
“I don’t know. Maybe.”

He finally looked at him.
His voice was quiet.
“I liked you. Before.”

Tadej blinked.

Jonas shrugged. “Before the voice. I had a crush. A stupid one. And then the voice was you, and now I can’t tell what was what anymore. And I keep thinking if I say something, I’ll break it. That maybe you liked Erik, but not me. And maybe the universe tricked me. And-”

Tadej’s hand bumped his.

Jonas stopped.

Tadej’s voice was quiet and stunned and smiling:
“You liked me?”

Jonas hesitated.
“…Yeah.”

Tadej made a soft, breathy sound - like someone trying not to laugh mid-tears.
“How funny,” he said.

Jonas blinked, bracing himself.

Then Tadej turned toward him, eyes wide and so full of light, and said:
“I like you too.”

Jonas stared.

Tadej grinned. “Since before! Also before. A long time before.”

Jonas let out a stunned breath.

They looked at each other, the way people do when they’ve finally reached the last page of a story and found out it wasn’t sad after all.

And Tadej said, like it was the easiest truth in the world:
“I think we did not need the magic. I think we just needed time.”

They stayed sitting on the pavement.

The sky had slipped fully into dusk now, streetlights flickering on one by one like a slow applause. Cars whispered past in the distance. Somewhere two older women were arguing loudly.
But in this little corner of parking-lot dusk, it was just them.

Jonas let his hand drift a little closer. Not enough to grab. Just near.
Tadej nudged it lightly with his pinky.

“You have freckles,” Tadej said, very seriously.

Jonas looked over, raising one eyebrow. “I know.”

Tadej leaned in a little, studying him like he was a painting under the wrong kind of light. “But so many.”

“That’s how they work.”

“Maybe I count them later.”

Jonas snorted. “Maybe I charge per freckle.”

Tadej grinned. “That is okay. I am a millionaire.”

Jonas tilted his head. “Do you just carry cash for spontaneous freckle purchases?”

“I carry dreams.”

Jonas looked at him for a moment - really looked at him - and then laughed, too loud and too full of affection.
“You’re ridiculous.”

“You are the one with sprinkle face.”

Jonas made a noise like a dying bird and dropped his head into his hands.

Tadej sat beside him, very pleased with himself.
There was a pause. Their knees bumped lightly. Neither moved.

Then Jonas peeked out from behind his hands.
“You’re really staring.”

Tadej didn’t even pretend to look away. “Yes.”

“Why.”

“Because now you are real.”

Jonas blinked.
And just like that, the laughter softened. The moment shifted.

Tadej kept going, voice low, still smiling.
“You were words. For so long. Sounds. Feelings. Silly questions about cookies and sad songs and little jokes in my brain. And now you are here. With nose. And knees.”

Jonas looked down at his knees like they were going to misbehave.
“I don’t know how to be normal about this,” he admitted.

“That is okay,” Tadej said. “You do not need to be normal.”

They sat in the quiet of the parking lot, warmth still lingering on the pavement beneath them, and let the hush settle between their shoulders.

Jonas picked at the hem of his sock.

Tadej leaned his chin on one knee and watched him. He hesitated. Then reached out, fingers brushing gently against Jonas’s wrist. Just a second. Just a touch.

Then he pulled back, flustered.
“Sorry. I keep doing that.”

“Doing what?”

“Touching you.” He looked down at his own hands. “I always touch people when I talk. It is not... polite. I try to stop.”

Jonas blinked. Then leaned in slightly.
“You’re allowed to touch me,” he said, quiet and certain.
“You know that, right?”

Tadej looked up.
Their eyes met.
“Oh,” he said, voice small. “Okay.”

And then he reached out again - this time slower - and let his fingers rest against Jonas’s hand. Not laced. Not grabbing. Just there.

Jonas flipped his hand over. Held it back.

They sat like that.
Still.
Warm.

Tadej sighed, smiling down at their hands.
“I was scared this would be strange. You know? That talking would feel too big. Or the words would not come.”

“Yeah,” Jonas said. “Same.”

“But now it is just... nice.”

“Yeah.”

Jonas had stopped fidgeting. Tadej hadn’t.
He was playing with the edge of his sleeve, fingers twitching like they didn’t know what to do with themselves.

Jonas looked over.
“You okay?”

“Yes,” Tadej said too quickly. “I mean. Yes. But also. You know. Maybe.”

Jonas smiled. “No, actually.”

Tadej blew out a breath, puffing his cheeks. “You are very calm.”

“You’re very not.”

Tadej groaned and flopped sideways against Jonas’s shoulder. “I hate this.”

Jonas snorted. “You don’t.”

“I don’t. But I hate how much I feel.”
He sat up again, too fast. “I say too much. I always say too much. I get excited and then words fall out and I-” He gestured wildly at the air between them. “I ruin it.”

Jonas just watched him, amused.

“What if I say something stupid?” Tadej asked.

“You already did.”

Tadej gave him an outraged look. “You are rude. You are cute, but rude.”

Jonas grinned. “Go on then. Say something stupid.”

Tadej narrowed his eyes. “No.”

Jonas tilted his head. “Coward.”

“I am romantic.”

Jonas laughed, warm and bright. “Prove it.”

Tadej opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
Then:
“I think I love you.”

And then-
Immediate panic.
Eyes wide. Ears red. Fingers scrambling to backpedal through thin air.
“Oh god. I didn’t mean that. I mean I did. But not like now. I mean now but not like in a scary way. I mean I am scared. But also not! But I- what is wrong with me. I should stop talking-”

Jonas reached out and covered Tadej’s hand.

Firm.
Gentle.

Tadej stopped.

Jonas was looking at him, something quiet and bright in his eyes.
“God,” Jonas said softly. “Tadej.”

Tadej’s heart was beating so loud he thought it might echo.

“I love you too.”

Silence.

Tadej stared.

Then made a tiny noise in the back of his throat. Somewhere between a squeak and a breath of relief.
He dropped his head into Jonas’s shoulder again. “You are unfair.”

“I’m honest.”

“You are evil man who says nice things and makes me feel like puddle.”

Jonas laughed.

They didn’t move. Just leaned into each other, smiling like idiots.

Tadej turned his head, nose bumping lightly against Jonas’s jaw.

Jonas tilted his a little too.

They didn’t kiss.

But their cheeks brushed. And then noses. And then foreheads rested for just a second, the closeness so much softer than anything a kiss could have been.

Tadej giggled. Quiet. Shy.

Jonas let out a breath that was almost a laugh. Almost a sigh.

The bond was gone.

But this?

This was everything.

This was staying.