Mathieu had held back his anger as he stood on the podium, but now, in the comfort of his own car, he smacked his hands against the steering wheel and cursed. He had won the World Cup, sure, but he had so desperately wanted to wear the rainbow jersey this year. Instead, Wout f*cking van Aert had shot ahead of the rest of the field at the beginning of the race, while Mathieu had had to slog through the bunch and fight off a slew of Belgians to secure a measly third place.
He was sure that the pictures of the podium were terrible, as he couldn’t really hold in his emotions to save his life, but at least he had avoided doing something drastic, like pushing Van Aert off the top step or punching him or something.
Mathieu banged his head into the steering wheel, but started cursing violently as he realized that he had already started the car and so he had just loudly honked the horn a few times. He got some nasty glares from people walking back to their own cars, and he painfully managed a small pathetic smile and wave to get them to move on.
f*ck, he was so upset. Bronze was so sh*t. Wout had gotten silver at the World Cup — and Mathieu got gold! — but now he was wearing the f*cking rainbows.
As he raged silently in his car before preparing to drive home, Mathieu avoided looking at his passenger seat. Several crumpled sheets of paper were strewn over the seat and the floor, but Mathieu stared ahead resolutely, determined not to look at them. If he looked at them, he would be forced to confront all those feelings he had been trying to deal with before the race — before his father had fetched him to get ready, since he was always micromanaging him. Adrie had already given him his routine, but still hurtful, dressing down for his poor performance today, and the last thing Mathieu needed was for his father to see these papers. If he did, Mathieu feared that he would be tossed into a psychiatric hospital or something. He still wanted to race, even if he had some feelings that were distracting him a little. And it was just a little!
But f*ck, Wout looked so good in the rainbow jersey. Mathieu had already guiltily fired up Instagram and searched up and drooled over the pictures from the race. First, the one of Wout with tears in his eyes and his hand over his mouth as he realized he had won the race. Then, the one of him with his arms in the air. Finally, he had even secretly watched the video of Wout shouting into the air in victory.
Sue him, okay? It was hot. Seeing Wout win — seeing him happy — was hot and that was Mathieu’s latest (not really) problem. He was 19, he was horny as hell ALL THE TIME, and he couldn’t help but get a little hard as he watched the replay of Wout absolutely dominating the field, including Mathieu himself.
Wout had cried on the podium, too, a few joyous tears sliding down his face as that damned Belgium anthem had rung out across the course. Mathieu, face stony and eyes staring straight ahead, had completely ignored him. What he had wanted to do was forbidden. It just couldn’t happen. If he had even glanced at Wout, then everyone would see the ridiculously huge hearts in his eyes reserved only for the Belgian who had beaten him. Mathieu was pretty sure once they noticed the Looney-Tunes style beating of his heart, then they would probably put two and two together and realize that he was the one that had been writing the love poems to Wout.
God, he couldn’t believe that he had been stupid enough to toss them in a trash can near the pre-race zone, where some of the other riders had quickly stumbled across them. The sound of their laughter still haunted his ears, and they hadn’t even known it was him! Mathieu knew he wasn’t a first-rate poet — or second, or third… — but he was trying, damnit. He needed an outlet for all these weird, gooey feelings about Wout that were taking up so much space in his mind and his heart.
When he had seen Wout today looking fit and ready to race in his light blue kit with the Belgian flag across the middle, he had felt as if he could hardly breathe. Even with all the other riders crowded in around them, it felt like the only one he could really see was Wout.
Each time he saw the other man, it felt as if his feelings had doubled in size. They were close to bowling him over every time he even looked at something as simple as a picture of him. And so, he had searched on Google for “ways to deal with liking someone” and one of the articles had recommended poetry. Mathieu’s mother had had a small book of poetry when he was little that she had used as bedtime stories for him when he couldn’t sleep. So, he figured he might as well take a shot and try his own hand at it. Better than the number one suggestion on every website: just tell him.
Yeah, right. Mathieu would try that if ever wanted to off himself one day; he thinks the rejection alone would be more than enough motivation to throw himself off a bridge. For god’s sake, he lived in the Netherlands. He had his pick of them to choose from.
He still perfectly remembered Wout’s curious reaction to the poems. The Belgian had wandered over, wondering what all the ruckus was, and once the guys had seen him, it had only sent them into further hysterics. Mathieu had stood in a corner with his hands balled into fists and his arms awkwardly hanging down at his sides while his shoulders heaved up and down with his half-terrified, and half-angry, breaths. How dare they? How dare they make fun of his earnest attempts at trying to say something nice?
Wout had snatched one of the sheets out of their hands and read it quickly. His face soon burned with a bright red blush, and he didn't say a word. But, when one of the guys tried to grab it back, Wout had torn it from his grasp and turned on his heel, stalking away to wherever he spent his time before the race. Mathieu had left soon after that, in fear that he might have broken out into fat, angry tears and been forced to start the race with splotches on his face.
Mathieu glanced tentatively at the papers on the passenger seat. They were laying face down, but he could see the pen marks through them. He knew only too well what they said. They were absolutely covered in his scratchy handwriting. He reached out slowly and flipped one of them over.
There, in the top left corner, surrounded by scratched out poems, stood one that he’d deemed okay enough to keep.
“Roses are red / Wout’s shirt is blue / Sometimes I think I love you.”
He didn’t think it was half bad, but he was sure the rest of the guys would disagree. Mathieu felt like a shameful little gremlin with the way he kept this secret hidden close to his chest. He enjoyed writing them; they gave him permission to think about Wout in a different way than he was always forced to. It was a far cry from his father’s near-military insistence on “studying the enemy” and from the way he was forced to watch Wout for any little sign of weakness during a race.
Instead, his poems let him think about all the things about Wout that he liked the best. Of course, there was the obvious stuff: his thighs, the way he poured water over himself during a race, and his face when he was laying on the ground after a tough ride. But, there was also all the other stuff he appreciated that only a true rival would know: Wout’s unending determination, his graciousness in the face of defeat, and his predator-like instincts on the bike that paired so well with his patience.
Mathieu had learned a lot from competing against Wout. He admired and respected the other man. And if that admiration had turned into something else, well, he was helpless to fight it.
He reached out and grabbed the paper from the seat before he brushed the other ones off to join their companions on the floor. This had been the sheet he had been the most proud of before the race, anyways.
His eyes scanned it, taking in poem after poem. His muscles loosened as he released the tension in his body, anger dissipating as he reflected on all the things he admired about Wout.
That’s precisely the reason why he missed the person who had walked up to his car window. He did not, however, miss the accompanying knock.
Embarrassingly, he shrieked and nearly dropped the paper, but held onto it with one hand as he reached for the button with his other.
“What do you want? Leave me alone,” he said without glancing outside.
“Okay, well, I just wanted to congratulate you and say good race.”
Mathieu’s eyes snapped to the window. There, in all his victory-flushed glory, stood Wout f*cking van Aert himself. Mathieu swallowed heavily. Uh oh. This was not good. Not good at all . He was distantly aware that he was still holding his poem drafts, but he figured that any rash move to hide it would just draw attention to it. Instead, he opted to play it casual.
“Yeah, good race, Van Aert. Congrats, man.”
Then, he shot him a look as if to say “Is that all?.” Unfortunately, Wout didn’t get the hint.
“Uh, thanks, Mathieu. You were the only today who could give us a good fight.”
Mathieu snorted.
“I always give you a good fight, Wout. Don’t patronize me.”
He turned toward him, ready for an argument, but realized a second too late that the motion made the paper in his hand crinkle as it pushed against the steering wheel. Immediately, Wout’s eyes zeroed in on the paper and Mathieu cringed. He tried to shove it away but Wout’s arm flew through the window and grabbed his wrist. Startled, Mathieu froze.
“What’s that?” Wout asked slowly, a weird expression on his face.
“Um, nothing. Just, um, some notes from before the race.”
Wout tugged his arm closer and Mathieu felt like he couldn’t help but oblige him. Everything seemed as if it was happening in a hazy, distant universe. It was like watching a car wreck from the sidewalk: unable to do anything but stare as the car was destroyed.
“I know this handwriting,” Wout whispered under his breath.
It was as if he didn’t even realize Mathieu was still there. Mathieu tried weakly to pull his arm from Wout’s grasp, but the Belgian only held on tighter.
“To win this race we are both keen,” Wout read out loud, “Wout is a cycling machine / What’s his phone number / He’s the cutest I’ve seen.”
Mathieu felt like his entire body was on fire. He was sure that his face and neck, hell, even his arms and legs were as red as a tomato. He wasn’t sure how he was going to come back from this one; maybe he wouldn’t even have to jump off a bridge. Maybe the embarrassment alone would be enough to kill him. A stress-induced heart attack. At least then Wout would feel obligated to go to his funeral.
Wout opened his mouth to speak and Mathieu blanched, ready for the worst.
“Did you write this?” Wout demanded.
There was a weird desperation in his tone that Mathieu couldn’t place. Stupidly, he glanced at the rest of the papers lying on the floor out of the corner of his eye, and since Wout was watching him so closely, the other man followed his gaze. f*ck. No talking his way out of this one.
All Mathieu could do was nod weakly.
“Did you really?”
Wout sounded almost breathless.
“Yes,” Mathieu croaked out, ready for the heart attack; he was nearly ready to start praying for it to strike.
Suddenly, Wout sighed in relief and released Mathieu’s hand. The Dutchman scrambled for the button to close the window but Wout shouted out as he dug around in his pockets.
“No! Don’t!”
Mathieu froze again, mentally cursing himself for being so acquiescent to Wout’s frankly confusing demands.
Finally, after what seemed like ages, where Mathieu was internally warring between hearing out whatever wacky thing Wout needed to say or screaming f*ck that and peeling out of the parking lot to never return to cycling, Wout found what he was searching for in his pocket.
He pulled it out with a triumphant cry and shoved it in Mathieu’s face. It was a… crumpled piece of paper?
“Um,” Mathieu said intelligently.
Wout waved it insistently in front of his face.
“Open it!”
Mathieu grabbed it. It looked — and felt — as if it had been folded and re-folded hundreds of times. He opened it and smoothed it out on his wheel then felt as if he had been hit by a truck as he realized what it was. His old poems . The ones he had thrown away . That Wout had, apparently, held on to this entire time . For months !
His head was going to explode. His heart was going to burst. He was going to disintegrate into a billion little pieces. But then at least Wout would have to clean him up (and maybe attend his funeral. Probably).
“There,” Wout pointed, suddenly a little shy.
Mathieu’s eyes focused on the writing in the bottom right corner that definitely hadn’t been there before.
“We both love to ride a bike,” he read out slowly, still feeling as if he was being pranked. “In that way we are a lot alike / When I am chasing you around a bend / I think to myself that you would be a good boyfriend.”
“To me,” Wout clarified instantly. “Boyfriend to me.”
Mathieu slowly lifted his eyes from the paper to Wout, who was smiling at him with a big, if shaky, grin. His eyes were wide and his gaze was earnest.
“You…” Mathieu stuttered out. “You kept this the whole time?”
“Yup,” Wout replied.
“But why?” He asked.
“I recognized your handwriting from the sign-in sheet.”
“So you knew it was me the whole time?!” Mathieu practically shouted.
“Well, I wasn’t sure, because maybe you wrote it as a joke. But then, now, I realize that it is not a joke.”
He paused for a second.
“And sometimes I can see you checking me out on the podium.”
Mathieu spluttered and Wout laughed at him. Slowly, Mathieu’s face broke into an easy, genuine smile as he watched Wout laugh. If he had had to be humiliated to find out Wout liked him, too, well, then so be it.
He dropped both of the papers on his passenger seat and reached for the door handle.
“Step back.”
He clambered out of the car quickly and soon he was standing in front of Wout. The other man was just a little bit taller than him now and Mathieu irrationally wished for the time when he was the tall one. Wout took a step closer to him. They both glanced around and realized that the parking lot had thinned out significantly since they had started talking. There was no one around.
“Is this okay?” Wout whispered as he reached up a gentle hand to cup Mathieu’s jaw.
“Yes,” Mathieu breathed out as leaned forward.
Wout kissed with a passionate, but loving, force. Mathieu felt as if his legs were going to buckle under him as he finally got what he had wanted after so long. f*ck the race, f*ck the results, f*ck everything that wasn’t Wout’s lips on his.
Even when Wout pulled away, Mathieu chased his lips slightly. The other man smiled and Mathieu melted as the skin around his eyes crinkled. He’d always loved Wout’s smile, and here it was, ten million megawatts of happiness, directed right at him.
Suddenly, another poem popped into Mathieu’s head.
We both love to win
But there’s nothing better than your grin
It makes my heart spin
More than any win
(Okay, so he still needed to work on his poetry skills. So what? Wout was kissing the ever-loving life out of him again, and really, that was all he had ever needed.)
