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2022
Morning. A glass of water on the bedside table catches the sunlight. Next to it is a blister pack of paracetamol.
Jonas is led into the waking world by a headache, the remnants of drinks at an afterparty he couldn't escape. Add to that the physical exhaustion, the schedule, the relentless requirement to smile… It makes sense that his body feels like lead on the hotel bed.
The glass of water doesn’t make sense. Jonas wouldn’t have thought to put it there. Blurry memories offer no answer. Not yet.
2023
The first thing they do when they see each other is laugh at how terrible they both look. Wout’s hair is a mess, which is a rare sight, dark circles under his eyes. Jonas is tired out from travel and everything that comes with winning the tour, almost coming off-balance as he’s pulled into a quick, one-armed hug. Wout leads him in, a hand on his shoulder, pushing him towards the kitchen. "Can I get you anything for the hangover? Coffee?"
"Is that what you've been living on?" Jonas asks, leaning on a counter.
"More or less. Energy drinks, for variety." Wout grins and sets the coffee maker buzzing. "And champagne for you?”
Jonas nods. The smell of fresh-ground coffee fills the room. Beneath it, beside him, Jonas can recognize the scent of Wout’s sweat, so familiar as to be strangely comforting. Maybe it’s him misinterpreting the situation, but it feels... intimate to see Wout disheveled like this. He’s seen Wout worse, absolutely wrecked, even, but that was on the road.
"You’re still a lightweight,” Wout says. "I'm glad you dragged yourself out here anyway.”
"I wanted to see how you were holding up. And say thank you, and so on. I felt I should." It's not the whole truth, but it is enough for now. Jonas clears his throat. “We were all missing you.”
“I know. I saw.”
Quickly, Jonas adds, “I didn’t mean to imply - I didn't mean that you should have been there. Nobody could have asked you to stay in the race.”
“Some people would,” Wout says, casually.
He places the cup in front of Jonas. Despite the favor, Jonas doesn’t feel like a guest. He’s not sure what to do with himself. He takes a sip of coffee, averting his eyes.
Wout asks, "Is there anything else I can give you?"
"Milk?"
2022
It’s not like Jonas drank that much. It just takes very little for him to feel the effects of alcohol. Low body weight. No built-up tolerance.
An old coach once told him to think of it as poison. You’re better than that. It’d be weak to give in to peer pressure and risk his ability to perform. But every male above the age of 13 in Jonas’ hometown would beg to differ. Danish teens, European champions in alcohol consumption – never backing down from a challenge, 18 shots on your 18th birthday, proving yourself permille. Always pushing drinks into the hands of the abstainers. In a way, they’ve tried to prepare him well for Paris, which was so busy and bright and -
2023
Wout walks beside him through the sparse landscape. The fields shiver in the breeze. The grey sky is a kindness at first, heavy clouds withholding the sunshine that would have been too bright while Jonas’ headache fades. They only have the rooks for company. Jonas didn’t bring his jacket – they weren’t supposed to be out for long – but before he knows it, even their leisurely pace has brought them far. The conversation flows easily past the inevitable comparisons: This year, last year, children, titles, everything changing around them.
“I still can’t believe it,” Jonas says.
“You shouldn’t sound surprised that we do well. It’s us.”
“It’s just how I talk.” Jonas shrugs. “You know, where I’m from, we rarely say that something is good. We say it's not bad, or it’s not the worst. Between that and janteloven, it's a hard habit to break.”
“But for my sake, okay? Don’t talk yourself down while I’m out there supporting you. I only want to support the best." He pauses. "Though I have to give it to you that you’re better at it this year.“
The wind picks up.
Jonas pauses a moment, shivering. He falls into step behind Wout, whose larger body shields Jonas from the worst of the wind. A little more than twenty centimeters, a little less than twenty kilos makes all the difference between them. If Jonas is the outlier because he's light, Wout is the opposite, with a heft to him that some call a liability and Jonas considers beautiful. To him, Wout seems comfortable with his bones, settled into his shape. He knows what he is, only seeking to become it more fully when he pushes his limits.
Over and over Wout’s been asked to push, over and over he says yes. For Jonas’ sake, but also for his own. There’s a balance to be struck. At first, Jonas would spend a season wondering if Wout might suddenly rush ahead in search of his own glory. He thought it was a matter of numbers, getting Wout wins to even the score between them as much as possible. Now, he knows better. He doesn't hold the reins, but trusts Wout to rein himself in.
"Maybe we should turn back," Jonas says.
"Or keep going and see where this takes us. It's kind of peaceful out here, isn't it?"
He's right. It is.
Jonas follows, watching the tense line of Wout’s shoulders under the thin fleece.
He has spent enough hours watching Wout’s back as the other man takes the wind for him or leads a breakaway up yet another mountain. He’s learned to tell when Wout is struggling – and how Wout can somehow always push a little further past the point Jonas expects him to break.
He does break eventually. Then he finds the strength to do it again the day after. And the year after. They both do, but only Wout does it knowing that though he’s a league above everyone else, Jonas is a league above even him. And so, he has to serve - spend all his power, fall back, limp along, and cross the finish line later if that's what's he's being asked to do.
Sometimes, Jonas can get a bit jealous of the freedom Wout has to wreck himself while still inspiring so much awe. Other times, he thinks more about how every effort of Wout’s pushes Jonas forward, too. The knowledge that he can't let it go to waste weighs on his own, slimmer shoulders.
There are rain clouds on the horizon as he follows.
2022
The sunlight sharpens. There are footsteps in the hallway. Someone talking outside his room. Sponsors and journalists await, and he’s not sure what they expect now. He’s not sure he managed to live up to their expectations last night. Maybe he was too introverted, maybe he accidentally bragged. Every little thing seems so important. Then there’s his teammates, too. The end of a long balancing act keeping all the egos in check. When he slips into sleep again, he’s dreaming of the open road near Glyngøre, the view of the fjord and its inlets, the flighty pheasants in the tall grass.
2023
The rain comes like a sigh released. It quickly gains in strength, a summer storm. It takes seconds before Jonas’ hair sticks to his forehead and water runs in rivulets down his bare arms.
“Aj for fanden...”
A copse of trees offers some cover from the rain, but they’re still half a field away.
Wout looks back, brows furrowed. It takes very little for him to seem angry. He reacts to something in Jonas’ expression, asking, "What is it?"
"You looked annoyed.”
“…You look cold.”
“Don’t worry about it." Jonas forces a smile. “I’m the one who was too stupid to remember a jacket.”
“Hey. Here.” Wout unzips his fleece and takes it off in one smooth motion. “I can take a bit of rain."
Jonas knows he could, too, but with Wout, it’s sometimes best not to start a competition. In any race, he as good as dares Jonas to push him to the breaking point.
The jacket settles soft on Jonas’ shoulders, warm already. He gathers the ends of the slightly too-long sleeves around his cold hands as they resume walking.
They reach the trees. Some sort of shelter, even if it’s only slightly drier. Wout stops in front of Jonas, watching the rainfall; droplets run along the line of his jaw and paint his shirt a deeper shade of gray. He runs his fingers through his wet hair, a bit of vanity.
He asks, “What happens now?”
“What, right now and here or in general?”
“Your pick.”
Jonas doesn't want to think about later. He knows what he wants, but does not voice it.
He just rests his forehead against Wout’s back, the hollow between his shoulder blades. He fits in the lee of the other man’s body as Wout tenses, softens, waits. Then, without pushing Jonas away, he turns and makes it a proper, if hesitant hug, letting Jonas’ face find the crook of his shoulder. Closing his eyes, Jonas allows himself to be held, hoping that he's proved himself worth it. He remembers last year.
2022
He remembers last night – a fuzzy memory of praise and levity, lights. Everybody loves him, or at least pretends to. There’s nothing inside him but nerves. He then remembers the relief of the hotel, though he was still not alone there. Part of the relief was that he wasn't alone, which was strange. So, too, was the familiar hand resting on his shoulder in an unfamiliar way. Too firm and slow, not a hurried, celebratory squeeze like the others. Something else.
Wout was so close. The slightest movement would have brought their lips together.
Wout’s voice, low, saying I would, if you asked me to.
2023
Wout’s fingers trace the edge of Jonas' collar, the nape of his neck. Jonas' body may be light, but his limbs feel like lead.
Just one last push is all it will take. Jonas dares Wout to go on, knowing full and well that this is what they've both been waiting for. Crossing the line, allowing the collapse.
Jonas wants to hide in Wout’s shadow, draft in his slipstream all the way to the soft ground, all the way until Wout is sitting with his back to the tree, Jonas still in his arms. Caught between the curves of his thighs, Jonas feels Wout’s chest expand in a breath of relief despite everything around them. Wout no longer seems to feel the mud, the wind, the rain.
The look in his eyes says Jonas can have all of him if only he asks.
Because Jonas is a league above him, but Wout doesn't let that make for any bitterness. He makes it sweet. His ambition was going to demand that he push himself anyway. The shape of him would always shape how - and he fits together with Jonas, part of something bigger.
Wout offers himself up, knowing that in the end Jonas won't ask for more than he's willing to give. Like that kiss under the trees, smiling as he leans in.
2022
The first thing he does when he sees Wout later in the day is to say thank you for the glass of water, though that's only scratching the surface.
Then he says sorry. There’s too much happening around him. Though Wout is ready to rush ahead and see where that might take him, Jonas isn’t. Not yet.
When he doesn’t say anything more, he is asking Wout to suffer the wait. But he knows Wout can take it. Love is an endurance sport.
2023
When they come back, Jonas doesn't ask for the towel or the dry t-shirt or the second cup of coffee. To others, it might look like he's used to being waited on, but Wout knows that it is that jutlandic reservedness holding him back. Nothing seems terribly important to take care of here. All that matters is that they make the coffee together, dripping rainwater on the floor. Leaning on each other as Jonas allows himself to think about the future in more detail.
Eventually he says thank you, then sorry for having to leave so soon.
He would never ask Wout for the fleece, but Wout doesn't ask for it back. It is still on Jonas' shoulders when he leaves, a small comfort in the coming days.