Work Text:
“Tim! Tim you got a… you gotta message from… huh. From the Belgian flag emoji? It says ‘congrats I knew you could do it’, is that the government texting you or something?”
Tim hears himself murmur “something like that,” as he catches his phone from midair, and then, shouting out loud: “Dries, for the last time! I don’t want a new phone, so stop tossing this one in a way that’ll make me need one!”
His teammate doesn’t react, everything else already forgotten over his quest to find more champagne. Tim can hear him mutter to himself, something along the lines of “Dammit, Mathieu will be here soon and we’re almost out of champagne. Crap, this can’t be. I know there’s more. Where the fuck is the stack. Shit,” as he rummages through every corner of the room.
He tells Dries to go ask Silvan, settles down on the sofa and finally takes a look at his phone.
The screen reads:
“New Messages from 🇧🇪:
‘Congrats. I knew you could do it.’
‘Proud of you. Told you we were going to be great.’”
Tim can’t help but smile. And old, long forgotten warmth creeps into his chest. He had stopped trying to suppress the memories a long time ago. Nowadays he just tries not to be caught too off guard by them.
He leans back into the sofa and absentmindedly tucks at the new jersey he’s still wearing. It smells so fresh.
Yet he can imagine it having a different smell. A smell of sweat and salt and sport. An earthy, rich, intoxicating smell. A lingering taste of aftershave, so common yet so special in this mix.
A smell he knows can’t possibly be there, because this jersey is new and doesn’t carry any memory of its previous owner.
He opens the message, hesitating. He types “thanks”, then “thank you”, then “thanks” again. Hit send. Put the phone away. Stop thinking about it.
The “ping” sound almost has him jumping off the sofa. His first thought is Shit, I should've said more.
His phone screen reads “Instagram: you’ve been tagged in a story by…”, cutting off the message because it’s too long.
He opens the phone. Maybe it’s not too late to say more. He quickly types “it’ll be an honor to wear it ;)” and hits send before he can think about it for too long.
Somewhere next to him, a door opens and sudden music and loud voices wash into the room.
“Heyy your majesty!”
That’s Dries, welcoming the newcomers.
“Please don’t call me that until I’m at least as drunk as you!”
Laughter. Shuffling from jackets being removed and the popping sound of bottles being opened.
“Yeah damn right you shouldn’t do this. Remember what happened last time?” “Please, I can open a bottle!” “The pictures say otherwise!”
Tim has to chuckle at the friendly banter between his teammates. He looks at his phone again.
Nothing.
The others are still at the door. Tim turns his head, looks around, but he’s alone in the living room.
He lets his head fall back and for a moment, gives in to the feelings flooding his mind.
He remembers fingers, entwined. Hands bigger than his, but so soft, so gentle. Thirsty lips on a hungry mouth, careful first kisses. Young bodies burning with desire, younger minds hesitantly exploring. He felt high, flying.
“I trust you”, he remembers the words so clearly. And the voice issuing them, deep and warm, despite its youth.
The feeling of skin on skin, his nails digging into strong muscles, thighs, back, neck. Sweat pearling off damp, brown and blond hair, running down his face. Dark eyes, so focused and unfocused at the same time.
Afterwards, neck hair tickling his nose. A strong back to his chest. Cuddling even in the hottest of summer days. He doesn’t know if his imagination added the ice cubes later on or if they were really there.
Tim shakes his head. Now really isn’t the time, he should be celebrating. One last look at his phone tells him his messages have been read 2 minutes ago. Fuck you too, he thinks.
“Tim! Hey, Tim!” a familiar voice calls him. It’s not deep, on the contrary. It’s light, happy, playful.
Tim looks up overhead and straight into the startling blue eyes of Mathieu van der Poel.
“Hey Matje,” he grins. Mathieu jumps over the back of the sofa and tackles him down in a hug.
“Congrats Timmy! You were great today. Are you alright? You look a little lost here. Who were you texting?” He graciously folds his legs, his favourite seating position.
Tim puts his phone down.
“Just an old… friend. I can’t save myself from the congratulations texts, you know how it goes.”
Mathieu, now sitting cross-legged right next to him, nods knowingly, grabs Tim’s phone, and tosses it on the floor.
“There you go,” he smiles as Tim sighs and follows his now probably broken phone with a resigned look in his eyes.
Mathieu distracts him by putting a hand in his neck and pulling him into a tight hug.
He kisses his ear, bites it playfully.
Tim groans.
“Matje, are you drunk? You usually only do this at night, when we’re alone.”
The light breeze of Mathieu’s whisper tickles him.
“I might be a little tipsy. Who cares? They all have their suspicions anyway. You’re not the first guy on this team I’ve slept with, and you won’t be the last,” Gee, thanks. You really know how to turn a guy on. “…besides, we’re two consenting adults, but more importantly, friends. What does it matter what the others think as long as we’re cool with it?”
“I guess… you’re right.” Tim gives into the hug and let’s his lips touch Mathieu’s neck. I never could bring myself to say no to you.
“I know I am. And I’m just so proud of you! Good job snatching that jersey off Wout’s shoulders. I bet he’s furious!”
It would sound mean if he didn’t say in such a delighted tone.
If only you knew.
It is beyond Tim to figure out whatever Mathieu thinks he has going on with Wout. Mathieu likes to make it a big deal whenever he wins over Wout and remind everyone that they’re rivals and that he is clearly the better one and Wout is clearly just a Belgian peasant, but Tim has never seen him care this much about anyone.
He’s obsessed with him and with the way he challenges him. They mostly treat each other with respect, but sometimes, it brings out the dirty sides in them.
Tim tries not to compare their dirty sides. They’re similar in the way two competing animals are similar, fighting over the same food or territory or mate.
Now which of these am I? I hope I’m not the food.
He laughs at himself, and is glad Mathieu doesn’t know about all the things he’s competing over with Wout.
He would give me hell.
Mathieu has left him sitting on the sofa to go wherever, and Tim tries to assess the situation, to collect himself.
I am the Belgian champion.
I took this jersey off Wout’s shoulders.
Lucky me he wasn’t there. I never would have won.
But I did. And he’s proud of me.
Clanking sounds from the kitchen.
The team is proud of me. That’s what is important. Mathieu says he is proud. Let’s focus on that.
Laughter, a high pitched “hey!”.
Still. I’m sitting alone on the sofa in the living room.
Breathe in, breathe out.
I’m not the only one we’re celebrating. Get a hold of yourself, Tim.
Steps are coming towards him. As Tim looks up, he recognizes the young face of Jasper.
Jasper reaches out and pulls him off of the sofa with one strong arm. He hugs him in silence.
This kid sees more than he lets on.
In his still young voice, Jasper says “Congrats”, mustering Tim with a careful smile. In his eyes is a question concerning this day, this win, this jersey.
“Will you tell him I said hi? When you see him at the Tour?”
Tim can’t believe he said it out loud. It sounded like it was just in his head.
Jasper looks deep into his eyes, considers what he finds there, and nods. Tim sighs, only now noticing that he had held his breath.
Jasper nods, takes his hand and leads him towards the kitchen.
I’m glad we don’t always need words.
Tim can make out the shape of Mathieu on the counter, a pre-opened champagne bottle in his hands. He’s been banned from opening bottles.
Dries is poking his chest, probably hoping for a chance to get lucky tonight.
Silvan is showing Edward something on his phone.
Jasper’s hand is warm and dry.
Tim squeezes it to say thanks for taking me back to reality before letting go and joining his team, his family, in the kitchen.
He’s alright. It’s a good Sunday night, the weather is warm but not hot, the summer is coming, he’s in good shape.
We’re going to be great, he reminds himself.