Chapter Text
Bieles, Luxembourg. January 2017.
He does not remember the first time he met Wout van Aert.
One day he was not there, and then the next he was. Now life, cycling, is unfathomable without him there. They have been doing this for a long time, Mathieu knows. Children when they started, the thrill of racing and winning had pulled Mathieu to Wout like a magnet, as if he was a lost boat at sea and Wout was the sole beacon on a lonely island, calling him home.
The child-like wonder of finding someone like him had morphed into something else as he grew. As they both grew. They had never been friends, too competitive, too selfish, too talented, to be able to coexist. But one day, while basking in the glory of their teenage days, when they both knew it was a matter of time before a big team called them up for a professional career, Mathieu had glanced at Wout, and he had seen it. He recognized it well enough, because he had seen it in the mirror, when his own reflection stared back at him.
The chase. The thrill. The understanding. The knowledge that, no matter what, he had found someone like him.
Mathieu met his equal that day.
Naturally, he had to beat him. No, not beat him. He had to crush him; he had to destroy him. There is only one step at the top of the podium, and it had to be Mathieu’s. Balance and life depend on it.
That’s the way that he was brought up. His father, a fierce competitor who took losing as failure. His brother, who had fallen short of those expectations more times than Mathieu cared to admit. He had seen it; he had held him as he broke apart. And as David stifled ugly sobs between muffled breaths in the back seat of the car while they drove home, his parents in the front seat. Corinne shooting concerned looks through the mirror, and Adri, with a set jaw, eyes furious, refusing to acknowledge the failure, the stain on the family name. Mathieu had known.
He was not cut from the same cloth as his brother. Mathieu was faster, more strategic, even though they both could have been made in a cycling genetics lab, he was better.
It twisted in him. Coiled deep. So merged with who Mathieu is as a person, that he does not know who he is without it. Without winning, without cycling, without the smug satisfaction that he is on the top of the podium, glancing down at them all, like a king to his subjects. Feeling at home, because that’s where he belongs. It’s his birthright, his sole purpose, what he had been born for and raised for and trained for.
He wins a lot, and the thrill that comes with being one step above Wout. Wout who is older, even if it is only months. The thrill is something else entirely.
It makes him hard, most of the time. Pressing uncomfortably against his bibs. He has left more podium ceremonies than he can count flustered, quickly rushing to the nearest bathroom to manage his business. And more times than not, the only way relief finds him, is when he shuts his eyes, and lets his mind drift off to Wout.
Mathieu doesn’t understand when he loses.
The whirlwind on his mind, going a million miles per hour. Replaying the entire race in his head, how he had taken the corners, where he had botched the acceleration at the exit. Where he had gotten off the bike when he could have pushed, when he pushed when he could have gotten off the bike. The mud, covering his entire body, taking two or sometimes three showers to completely wash off his body.
It is even more confusing when it is Wout he loses to.
Confusion overwhelms him, frustration as well. A deep rage at having been bested, and a terrible fear of being ordinary, of being like the rest. Of Wout looking at him and Mathieu not recognizing the look in his eyes, because they are not equal. Eyes that say, you need to train harder, if you want to beat me. You have to be a lot better than that.
He leaves those podiums half hard too. But those times, when his hand wanders to his shorts, to his terribly tight shorts, he shuts his eyes close, and big brown eyes appear before him, a single blond strand falling over them. The eyes are cold, and mean and smug. Cruel. And he comes with a gasp, a high pitch sound that struggles to come out of his throat. It burns him, and he feels whole.
He has danced on this line for years now, it suffocates him.
The only time Mathieu can come up for air is on the track, when they are racing against each other. They settle into each other, with a burning fire, a flame so bright that everyone else disappears, and then it’s just them. A true dance now, since before Mathieu was dancing alone, and now Wout joins him on the center stage, swaying together in a beautiful motion. Each move is calculated, each move is analyzed; for every lunge Wout does, Mathieu responds with his own attack. And when Mathieu leads, he feels the presence of the other man behind him. Scalding. It burns through him until there is no more Mathieu left. He is not even human; he is something else. Elevated.
Wout rises with him. He always will.
He often wonders what it must look like, from the outside. If the people who line up the track know, if they can see it. They are witnessing greatness. At times Mathieu thinks he must look insane, and he would let that feeling run him to the ground, he would let the weird glances from people get to him, shatter the armor and make him question the very foundations of who he is. But he looks at Wout and he knows.
They are madmen together. Bound forever to each other, by an invisible string, coated in steel. It pulls and pulls them, bringing them together over and over again. Written in the stars, Mathieu thinks, that’s why we were always meant to clash.
Mathieu and Wout are clashing again. On a cold, bright January day. Only this time, Mathieu loses.
Wout crosses the finish line, well ahead.
Mathieu feels the cold air, biting at his skin, burning his eyes. The sun beats down on his body, a feeling he is very familiar with. A cheer goes through the crowd, they bang their hands against the barricades in support, but to Mathieu they sound like gunshots, every single one a bullet, coming for him, waiting. To knock him off the bike, to make him lose, to take from him his birthright. He can’t let that happen, he won’t let that happen.
He pushes through, his legs burning and aching, yelling at him to stop the abuse. His back bent in an uncomfortable position, his neck in pain from the single task of having to hold his own head up. And his eyes. God, his eyes. It burns, with or without the glasses, the sun reflecting on the mud, blinding him. The hot sweat rolling off his head, through his hair, through his helmet. His hands cramped, from holding onto the handlebars for an hour. He brings it home. He comes in second.
First loser, Mathieu thinks, as the organizers usher him to the back. I am not the world champion, he thinks bitterly, and turns to see the man who is.
He glows; that’s the worst part.
Wout is ahead, surrounded by his coaches and his family. Through the chaos and aftermath of finishing a race, Mathieu sees Ivonne press a big, sloppy kiss to his cheek, while Henk tugs him into his chest, talking into Wout’s black curls of hair. He tries to picture Adri and Corinne doing that with him.
He can’t.
Mathieu moves through the motions, letting himself be guided through the protocols, and the interviews, and the podium. Even as he thinks of it, many years later, he can’t say what he was asked, or what he responded. Only when he is sitting alone on the team bus does he feel it. His face is wet, his shirt and shorts, and his eyes sting and oh shit I’m crying.
He doesn’t even know why.
But it pours out of him, ugly, broken sobs and high-pitched whimpers and a part of him worries that he had cried on camera, but the other part of him does not care. He blows his nose, forcing himself to stare ahead at the black fabric of the seats. Don’t cry, don’t cry, you don’t cry so stop crying.
There is no strength left in him to fight it, the more Mathieu thinks about it, the stronger the urge to curl up into a ball and hide from the world gets. He wants to crawl into his bed, pull the covers over his head and just stay there. Not even sleep, not even resting, just hiding.
Hours pass, or maybe minutes, perhaps seconds pass.
“Mathieu?” David’s voice breaks him from the numb, catatonic state that losing has sent him into. “How long have you been here?”
He laughs a humorless laugh. “Since I left the podium.”
Hey, he should be proud of himself, at the very least. There was no shameful orgasm today, for which he will scold and hate himself and then release all his embarrassment on Wout on some other race.
“Do you think he’s better than me?”
David sighs. “So that’s where you went.” He sits down next to Mathieu, placing a reassuring hand on his thigh. The touch makes Mathieu flinch, and he vaguely wonders if his shorts are still wet from where he had wiped his tears in anger. “You just had a bad day, boefje, the world is not ending and Wout van Aert is not better than you.”
He knows, deep down he knows. Mathieu can almost hear it, you are being dramatic, tomorrow you’ll just train harder. For some reason the voice sounds a lot like Adri. And he also does not want to train tomorrow, thank you very much. Mathieu came in second, he thinks that that warrants at least a day where he can wallow in self-pity and be dramatic.
His tears have dried on his face, and Mathieu is sure they have made an ugly trail down his face where they washed away the dirt and the mud. And now that he thinks about it, his bibs have dried uncomfortably on his body, sweaty Lycra clinging to him, and he has passed to that point where the sweat makes him cold and-
“I need to shower,” Mathieu says, standing up as finally the world comes back. He can already feel the little mocking voice at the back of his head coming back. Lecturing him for crying over such a little, silly thing. Stupid Mathieu, always crying.
David looks like he has something on his mind. He has that wide-eyed expression on him that Mathieu often sees but almost always ignores, because his brother might not be better than him on a bike around a track, but he is better at everything else. A knock on the door saves him from the deep conversation they would’ve surely had.
They can have that later, when Mathieu is not tired, and strong and can fight back. Right now, he would probably only end up admitting to things he’ll regret later.
Mathieu points at the door. “Can you get that, I can’t go around walking like this,” he walks down the hall to the bathroom, promptly locking the door.
The water feels cold against his face. To Mathieu’s disgrace, he has a face that reddens quickly, and he must’ve cried a lot because his nose is still red. He kind of gives up trying to get rid of the color. His blue eyes are also red and bloodshot, and they will probably hurt him later, judging by the puffiness around them already.
Another thing to add to the long list that will hurt his body tomorrow.
He rips the dirty Lycra off his body, longing for the shower he’ll have later when he stumbles into his hotel room, and changes into comfortable grey sweatpants and a sweatshirt. For the sake of feeling cleaner, he brushes his teeth as well.
He takes quite a while on the bathroom, and any hopes that whoever knocked on the door is gone are dashed when he closes the tap and hears whispers. Shit. At least he knows it’s not Adrie or Corinne, he would’ve been dragged out of the bathroom already. But still, he’s not in the mood to be scolded right now.
Bracing himself with a deep breath, he unlocks the door and steps out, steeling himself for battle.
“I don’t really want to hear it, I’m already having a bad day and am in a poor mood, you can scold at me tomorrow if you want, but I should let you know that tomorrow I plan on- “he gasps, and he hates himself the moment the noise leaves his mouth. “Oh.”
“Hi.”
Wout van Aert stands in front of him, by the seat that Mathieu had been occupying, almost as if he knew. David is nowhere to be found, and Mathieu wants to curse his older brother for leaving him alone with Wout. Wout who won and is standing there with unreadable brown eyes. He’s not wearing his cycling kit anymore, having changed into his normal clothes, jeans and a puffy jacket, no doubt he was already leaving, but he decided to make one final stop.
One final stop at Mathieu’s bus.
He has seen him so many times, he could probably draw him in his sleep. The curve of his throat, the defined line of his jaw, the pretty bow of his lips. And his eyes, God his eyes. They fix on Mathieu and draw him in, locked inside and trapped away. Mathieu can never look away. He hates it. He hates his unruly hair and that stupid blond streak at the front of his head that is not natural, no matter how much Wout claims it is.
He hates him.
Mathieu cocks his head to the side. “Gloating isn’t really your style, Wout. What are you doing here?” his voice sounds rude and snappy, and exactly the way Mathieu intended. His common sense seems to go out the window when the other man is around, and he really can’t have that now.
Not when he was weak and probably cried on television. Make him leave, a voice that doesn’t sound like him whispers, and you’ll be in control again.
“You’re right, gloating is more your style,” Wout’s voice is deep, a dark look settles in his eyes. “And yet I’m here anyway and all you want to do is fight.”
I don’t want to fight, the logical part of him says. Mathieu shushes that part.
“Do we ever do anything other than fight?”
Wout’s eyes narrow. We fuck, they scream at him. But then he sighs, dropping down to Mathieu’s seat, as if he had come in second instead. “You cried, you don’t really do that, Mathieu.”
The bus is suddenly way too small, and it suffocates him. And is it just him, or is the ceiling of the bus getting closer and the floor is rising and-
“I don’t know what came over me,” he admits, walking down the length of the hall. “But I think you should leave.”
He is now standing in front of Wout, who is seated. It does not help that his face is directly to his crotch.
Wout tsks. “Already ordering me away and we haven’t even done anything,” his hands wrap around Mathieu’s hips, strong and firm, and pull him in. He turns his head to the side and hums into his stomach.
They must make quite the picture, he thinks. They probably even look like a couple. But there’s no love there, Mathieu knows, not anymore. They could never work because they are both awful, hateful men when it comes to each other. He never loved Wout more than he did when the other man was one step below him on the podium.
“You know me, I like to plan ahead.”
Mathieu’s fingers tangle themselves on Wout’s hair, and it is so soft and silky, Mathieu hates it. He feels the corners of Wout’s mouth tug into a smile against his stomach, and he nearly shudders at the touch.
“You are probably right,” and he is pushing him away and every part of Mathieu wants to protest, but he doesn’t. He already lost once today, he will not lose again. “I do have a championship to celebrate.”
Wout stands, and in his eyes is something mean and deep that Mathieu knows so well. He feels the anger from the other man and lets it fuel him, hell, maybe he will train tomorrow. It elevates him, swirls around the bus and presses into Mathieu with such intensity. It’s a thrill to be hated by Wout. The horny part of Mathieu whispers that maybe the sex will be worth it to make him stay.
Mathieu steps back, tilting his head to the door, not missing the way Wout follows his every move. His eyes settle on Mathieu’s throat and something funny flashes in them. Mathieu ignores it.
“They must be missing you already,” he says sweetly and knowingly. See? I know you are only trying to hurt me. But I have teeth too. “You are being a bad host, making everyone wait for you like that.”
Making them wait because of me.
Wout is already opening the door. “Ah, always so proud,” he turns, flashing him a wicked grin that scrunches his features and wrinkles his eyes. He looks pretty like that, not like the cut-throat creature that Mathieu knows so well. “I’ll talk to you later, Matje.”
Mathieu hates that the nickname goes straight to his cock. He opens his mouth to speak, because he’ll be damned if he lets Wout van Aert have the final word, but the man is already gone, the air has returned to the room and the bus no longer feels like it is trapping him in.
David is back, talking about getting up early tomorrow and traveling back and resuming training. Mathieu barely hears it, because he hates it. He hates Wout. Mathieu made him leave, when he had very clearly walked into his bus with one purpose in mind.
He had felt powerful as he had done it, in control and in charge. But Matje. It is still so early in the day, and he already knows that he has lost twice today.
The drive to the hotel passes him by, exhaustion takes over his body, and even though the drive is short, by the time they arrive Mathieu is closer to drifting to sleep than he is to being wide awake.
They have dinner that day, the team and the families. Corinne gives him a hug, whispers that he did a good job and that she is proud. Mathieu lets her smell flood his senses, loses himself in her arms. Adri has a tight-lipped smile, and a pat on the back. He shrugs in a way that says “ehh, we win some, we lose some”, but his eyes blaze through Mathieu, making him feel like a kid that wants to hide away behind his mother.
Maybe he doesn’t want to train tomorrow, after all.
In the privacy of his hotel room, which thankfully he doesn’t have to share with David, he calls Wout, getting a sense of control back when he realizes the other man had answered on the first ring. Still, Mathieu feels the shame wash over him again as his hands travel further and further down, slipping into his underwear.
They do this dance often, the tug and pull. Magnets, stuck in their loop, orbiting around each other. They reach their release together, and Mathieu knows, with a certainty that had never been there before, you’ll always come back to me.
It almost feels like winning.