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Mathieu’s mouth is slightly open. He’s not sure for how long it’s been like that, only that he’s just now aware of it. He closes it. Opens it again. Says nothing.
What the fuck.
He's sitting in a room he’s never seen before. Or maybe he has - parts of it look vaguely familiar, like a Netflix therapist’s office that’s been mashed together with his childhood piano teacher’s living room. The couch under him is some kind of forest green velvet, soft in a way that makes his skin crawl. There’s a plant in the corner. A bookshelf full of titles he can’t focus on. One of those little tabletop fountains that’s bubbling quietly, like it's trying to hypnotize him.
And across from him, behind a small desk, sits Wout van Aert.
Wearing glasses.
Not sunglasses. Not race-day lenses. Actual glasses. The kind people wear when they want to look intelligent and approachable. He’s got a pen in one hand and a yellow legal pad in the other. A cardigan, beige and cable-knit, sits too comfortably on his shoulders. There’s a nameplate on the desk that reads: Dr. W. van Aert, PhD.
“What,” Mathieu says, hoarse, “the fuck.”
Wout doesn’t flinch. Just blinks behind the glasses and offers a smile so calm it makes Mathieu want to scream.
“Whenever you’re ready,” he says, gesturing with the pen. “We can begin.”
Begin what? Mathieu looks down at his hands, as if they might be holding a script or some kind of clue. Nothing. He looks at the door behind Wout - it doesn’t exist. Just smooth wood paneling. No windows either.
“Am I-” he starts, then stops. “Where am I?”
“You’re in my office,” Wout says evenly, like this is obvious. “You booked a session.”
“Did I?”
“You did.”
Mathieu stares at him. Stares hard. This is wrong. All of this is wrong. Wout’s voice sounds like Wout’s voice, but the cadence is off - too professional, too gentle. Like he read a manual about how to be reassuring.
“Okay,” Mathieu says slowly, blinking again. “I’m dreaming.”
He doesn’t mean to say it out loud, but there it is, hanging in the room like smoke.
Wout doesn’t respond at first. Just writes something down, nods slightly to himself, and then looks up.
“Interesting. What makes you say that?”
Mathieu gestures wildly at him. “You’re - you’re a therapist.”
“Yes.”
“You are not a therapist.”
“In this context, I am.”
“You’re not real.”
“That might be true.”
Mathieu slumps back into the couch and immediately regrets it. The cushions swallow him like memory foam laced with intent. He groans.
“This is so fucked,” he mutters.
“Why do you think your mind brought you here?” Wout asks.
Mathieu glares at him. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“That smug therapist thing. The answering-a-question-with-a-question thing. You’re not even a real-”
“I’m as real as you need me to be,” Wout says calmly.
Mathieu throws his hands up. “Jesus Christ.”
Silence stretches again. The fountain bubbles in the background like it’s trying to soothe him. It’s failing.
Eventually, Wout speaks again.
“Would it help if we talked about why you’re here?”
Mathieu laughs, loud and involuntary. “No? Because I don’t know why I’m here? Or what this is? Or why your glasses are sitting so crooked on your face and it’s making me feel physically ill?”
Wout gently adjusts the glasses.
“Better?” he asks.
“No.”
Another pause. Mathieu exhales through his nose and sinks further into the green void of the couch.
“And this is definitely a dream?” he asks, quieter now.
“I think you already know the answer.”
“Right.” He presses a hand to his face. “Okay. Fuck it. Let’s pretend this is real. Hypothetically. What would I - what would I even talk about?”
“You tell me.”
Mathieu lowers his hand. Looks up. Wout is still watching him, patient and unreadable.
Mathieu squints at him. “No.”
“No?”
“I’m not doing this,” he says, sitting up straighter. “I’m not unpacking childhood trauma or journaling my feelings or whatever the hell this is supposed to be. I’m going to wake up in, like, thirty seconds. You’ll turn into a lizard or the couch will start burning or I’ll be naked in a Carrefour. That’s how this goes.”
Wout doesn’t seem offended. He writes something down on his pad. “You’ve had dreams like this before?”
“Not this,” Mathieu mutters. “This is new. This is aggressively new.”
“I see.” Wout adjusts his glasses again, even though they’re not crooked anymore. “Well, since you’re here, and lucid, we can still make use of the time. Would you say you struggle with emotional regulation?”
Mathieu throws his head back and groans. “I race bikes for a living. I scream when I win. I scream when I lose. I once kicked a trash can because someone took the last bottle of Maurten. What do you think?”
Wout nods like that was profound. “Let’s talk about control.”
“Oh my God,” Mathieu mutters into the ceiling.
“What does control mean to you?” Wout asks, undeterred.
Mathieu crosses his arms. “Not this.”
“Can you elaborate?”
“No.”
A pause. The fountain burbles. The room feels warmer now, somehow. Or maybe just smaller.
Wout tries again. “Do you ever feel disconnected from your sense of self?”
“Sometimes I wake up and forget what country I’m in. Does that count?”
“Yes.”
“Oh. Cool.”
Wout scribbles something. The pen makes no sound on the paper.
Mathieu narrows his eyes. “Are you even writing anything?”
“I am.”
“What’s it say?”
Wout turns the notepad slightly, revealing a single line of looping cursive that reads: He’s not ready yet.
Mathieu stares at it. “That’s creepy as hell.”
Wout flips the pad back without comment. “Let’s try a different approach. On a scale of one to ten, how fulfilled do you feel in your personal relationships?”
Mathieu considers the question for a long moment. Then he shrugs. “Like a five.”
“Why a five?”
“Because six would be lying and four would be dramatic.”
Wout tilts his head thoughtfully. “Do you often feel like you’re too much?”
Mathieu shoots him a look. “Do you?”
Wout smiles. “Sometimes.”
Mathieu slumps deeper into the couch again. “This is so fucking weird.”
“It’s just a conversation.”
“With a hallucination.”
“Perhaps. But you’re still responding. That’s something.”
Mathieu closes his eyes. Tries to focus. If he can just force himself awake, this will all vanish. He’s probably on a plane. Or in a hotel room. Or mid-nap on the bus and someone’s about to slap him with a chamois. That would be better than this.
He opens one eye. Still here.
Wout is watching him like a hawk. Or a very chill hawk with a psychotherapy license.
“Would you like to do a breathing exercise?” he offers.
Mathieu groans again. “No. I want to wake up.”
“Sometimes the only way out is through.”
“Oh, that’s good,” Mathieu snaps. “Did you read that off a tea bag?”
“I can get one if it helps.”
“Please don’t.”
Wout nods, still patient. “Okay. No breathing. We can try grounding techniques. Name five things you can see.”
“Your stupid sweater. The world’s fakest plant. A bookshelf full of IKEA prop books. That terrible painting. And - God, what is that - an actual lava lamp?”
“You’re doing great,” Wout says, like he means it.
Mathieu throws his head back again. “I hate this dream. I hate you.”
“That’s perfectly valid.”
“Stop being so agreeable.”
“You’re doing the best you can.”
“Shut up.”
Wout smiles kindly. “You’re safe here.”
Mathieu doesn’t respond. He stares up at the ceiling, trying to will it to melt or crack or explode into stars.
Nothing happens.
Just the sound of the fountain. The scratch of a pen. And Wout, waiting, endlessly patient, as if they’ve got all the time in the world.
Mathieu stares at the ceiling so long he starts to see shapes in the plaster. A dog. A hand. A graph of his declining patience. He doesn’t move.
Wout hasn’t spoken in a while. He’s just sitting there, quietly, like a human version of a screensaver. Not fidgeting. Not adjusting his glasses again. Just watching. Like he knows Mathieu’s going to break eventually.
He hates that Wout might be right.
“This isn’t helping,” Mathieu says finally.
Wout doesn’t argue.
“I’m not actually getting anything out of this.”
Still, no argument.
“I’m just talking to myself. Like a lunatic.”
Wout offers a small shrug. “That’s not always a bad thing.”
Mathieu exhales sharply through his nose. “Great. Now we’re doing dream therapy and fortune cookie wisdom.”
More silence. The room hums with it.
Mathieu rubs his face with both hands, pressing hard at his temples. He’s still trying to wake up, but less intensely now. Some part of him is beginning to suspect that if he hasn’t snapped out of it yet, he’s probably not going to. Not soon, anyway.
It’s not a nightmare. But it’s starting to feel worse than one.
His voice is quieter when he speaks again. “I’ve had a lot of weird dreams.”
Wout nods.
“In one of them I was married to Remco and we lived on a boat.”
“Was it a happy marriage?”
“No,” Mathieu says, frowning. “I think he was cheating on me with my sister.”
Wout doesn’t even blink. “And how did that make you feel?”
Mathieu glares at him.
Wout smiles. “Sorry. Reflex.”
They fall back into silence, but this time it’s different. He’s not trying to escape anymore. He’s still not ready to participate, not really, but he isn’t fighting it the way he was before.
Wout leans forward slightly. Not enough to be invasive - just enough to signal that he’s listening.
Mathieu watches him for a long moment, then looks away. His hands are clasped in his lap now, fingers digging into each other without meaning to.
“Do you know why I’m here?” he asks suddenly. It comes out small. Uncertain.
Wout tilts his head, thoughtful. “I might. But it would matter more if you did.”
Mathieu huffs out a laugh. “That’s such a therapist thing to say.”
“Comes with the dreamscape.”
Another pause. Mathieu chews on the inside of his cheek.
“I didn’t mean to end up here,” he says eventually. “Like - I wasn’t thinking about you. Not consciously.”
Wout doesn’t interrupt.
“I wasn’t even asleep, I don’t think. I was in a hotel room. And then I blinked, and now I’m here. With you. In... whatever this is.”
“You’re still in the hotel room,” Wout says gently. “This is just a detour.”
“I didn’t ask for it.”
“No,” Wout agrees. “But maybe you needed it.”
Mathieu doesn’t like how that makes his chest feel.
He shifts on the couch. Looks at the bookshelf again. Still full of unreadable books. Still too perfect, like someone built a therapy office out of stock photos and hopeful guesses. It’s like his brain Googled “safe space” and half-remembered an episode of In Treatment.
“I don’t know what you want me to say,” he mutters.
“You don’t have to say anything.”
“You’re asking me things.”
“I’m giving you space.”
Mathieu grimaces. “You’re very calm for someone who looks exactly like the guy I want to scream at half the time.”
“Maybe that’s the point.”
He doesn’t respond. He doesn’t know how.
Wout sits back again, folding his hands in his lap. “You could tell me how he makes you feel.”
“I could.”
“But you won’t.”
“Not yet.”
“That’s okay.”
And it is. Somehow, in that moment, it actually is.
Mathieu leans forward, elbows on his knees, staring down at the floor. The carpet is a weird, swirly brown pattern. He wonders if that means something, or if his brain just ran out of texture memory.
He breathes in. Breathes out.
Still here.
Still dreaming.
Still talking to Wout.
Maybe, he thinks distantly, he’ll try again in a minute.
Wout doesn’t push him.
Mathieu’s not used to that. He’s used to pressure - training blocks, press conferences, start lines buzzing with nerves and caffeine and everyone pretending they don’t care. He’s used to people waiting for him to do something. Say something. Win something.
But Wout just waits.
Not real Wout. Dream Wout. Therapist Wout. But still - it feels like him. Like something adjacent to him, warped through sleep.
Mathieu hates how much comfort he finds in it.
“I don’t even know what version of you this is,” he says eventually, not looking up.
“What do you mean?”
“You’re not him,” Mathieu says. “But you’re not not him, either. You talk like him. Sometimes. You listen like him. But you’re not real.”
“I’m a reflection,” Wout says gently.
“Of what?”
“You tell me.”
Mathieu exhales through his nose again. His default defense mechanism in this place, apparently.
“I guess I didn’t expect it to feel like this.”
Wout raises an eyebrow. “Like what?”
“Safe.” He says it before he means to. Flinches slightly after it leaves his mouth.
But Wout doesn’t react with anything but quiet understanding. “That’s good.”
“I don’t think it is,” Mathieu says. “It makes it harder to pretend I don’t care.”
There’s a beat of silence.
“You care a lot,” Wout says, not even asking. Just stating.
Mathieu finally looks up.
He nods, once. Just enough to register.
“I think about him all the time,” he admits, and it feels like opening a floodgate he didn’t realize he’d been holding shut with his entire body. “I tell myself it’s just racing stuff. Rivals. Tactics. Whatever. But it’s more than that. It’s always more than that.”
Wout doesn’t interrupt.
“It’s like - he’s everywhere. I can’t stop watching him. I know how he moves. I know when he’s going to attack before he does. I know what he looks like when he’s about to break. And I know what it does to me when he wins.”
He swallows. His throat is tight again.
“I hate him. And I don’t. And I don’t know which part of that is worse.”
Still, Wout doesn’t speak.
“I feel like I’m split in half. And I keep thinking if I win enough, or lose enough, or just stop thinking about him, it’ll fix itself. But it doesn’t. He just - stays. In here.”
Mathieu taps a knuckle against his temple.
Wout finally speaks. “Have you ever told him any of this?”
Mathieu laughs, a hollow sound. “What, in real life? No. Christ, no.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t even know what this is,” Mathieu says, voice rising. “This isn’t normal. This isn’t something you say to someone. Especially not someone like him.”
“Someone like him?”
“Perfect,” Mathieu spits. “Polite. Controlled. Belgian fucking robot man. He’d just look at me with that face - you know the one - and go, ‘That’s unfortunate,’ and then go back to making oatmeal or something.”
“He’s human too.”
“Yeah, well,” Mathieu mutters, “I forget that sometimes.”
Wout leans forward again. “Do you want him to know?”
Mathieu’s heart skips a beat.
That wasn’t a gentle question. That was a scalpel.
“I don’t know,” he says, voice soft. “Sometimes I think I do. And sometimes I think I just want him to stay exactly where he is - in my head. Where he can’t tell me I’m wrong.”
The room goes quiet again. Even the fountain sounds softer now, like it’s listening.
“Would you be relieved if this was just a dream?” Wout asks.
“I was, at first.”
“And now?”
Mathieu closes his eyes.
“I don’t know,” he says again. “Maybe I don’t want to wake up just yet.”
Wout doesn’t press him.
Just lets the silence sit there, light as mist, until it starts to feel like gravity.
Mathieu shifts on the couch again. He’s restless now, jittery in a way that doesn’t make sense - like he’s about to start a sprint but the road won’t appear under his wheels.
“I think he’d hate me if he knew,” Mathieu says, staring at his knees.
“Why?”
“Because it’s pathetic.”
Wout frowns slightly. “What is?”
“All of this.” Mathieu gestures to the air like it’s a joke, but his voice is brittle. “This… dream version of him I keep building. This stupid imaginary relationship with a guy who probably thinks about me for five seconds a week, if that.”
“I doubt that.”
“You would,” Mathieu snaps. “You’re him. Kind of. You’re not going to tell me I’m delusional because you’re in my brain and this is some fucked-up coping exercise.”
He’s getting louder now, posture coiled tight.
“And what if he did know?” he demands. “What if I told him everything - every messed-up, obsessive, twisted thought—and he looked at me like I was diseased? What if he never looked at me the same again? What if I ruined it?”
He stops. Breathing hard.
The silence that follows isn’t gentle.
It’s sharp. Cold. A vacuum.
Wout doesn’t react.
He just folds his hands, calm as ever. “That sounds like fear.”
Mathieu barks a laugh. “No shit.”
“Fear isn’t shameful.”
“It is when it looks like this.” Mathieu shoves himself to his feet without thinking, pacing now. “I can win Flanders, I can fly down descents at eighty k an hour, I can drag my body through mud and snow and come out bloody and smiling. But I can’t tell one guy I think about him when I go to sleep? That I can’t stop comparing everyone to him? That I don’t even know if I want him or if I want to be him?”
His hands are fists now.
“I hate that I feel this way,” he growls. “I hate that I care this much. I hate that it makes me small.”
“It doesn’t,” Wout says, firm.
Mathieu whips around. “Yes, it does! Look at me! I’m yelling at a fake version of him in a dream because I’m too much of a coward to say anything in real life.”
Wout stands, finally. Not fast. Not dramatic. Just enough to match Mathieu’s energy, meet him on level ground.
“You are not small,” he says, voice steady. “You are scared.”
Mathieu’s breathing is ragged now. His hands are shaking. He feels stupid. Vulnerable. Exposed.
He backs away a step. “This was a mistake.”
“You’re allowed to feel overwhelmed.”
“I’m not overwhelmed,” he snaps. “I’m done. I want to wake up. I want this to stop.”
Wout takes a single step forward. Not close enough to touch. Just enough to anchor.
“I know it hurts,” he says gently. “I know it feels like there’s something broken inside you for caring the way you do. But it isn’t broken. It’s human.”
Mathieu stares at him. His face crumples, just for a second, before he smooths it out again.
“I don’t want to be this version of me,” he whispers.
Wout’s voice is soft. “Then tell me about him.”
Mathieu blinks.
“Not the dream. Not the fear,” Wout continues. “Just… him. The real one.”
Mathieu doesn’t answer right away. He looks down at his feet. At the couch. At the desk. Anything but Wout’s face.
When he speaks again, his voice is smaller. Raw.
“He’s so good,” he says. “It pisses me off. He’s kind when he doesn’t have to be. He’s strong in a way that looks effortless. He says the right thing even when I want him to say the wrong one. And he works - God, he works like he’s afraid of being ordinary. Like I do.”
Wout nods, once.
Mathieu exhales shakily. “I can’t tell him any of this.”
“You just did,” Wout says.
Mathieu’s head jerks up. “But you’re not-”
“I’m close enough,” Wout says. “For now.”
And something in Mathieu unclenches - just a little.
Wout hasn’t sat back down. He stays where he is - steady, grounded, soft in a way that makes Mathieu feel both seen and pinned.
There’s a pause. Then:
“You said something earlier,” Wout says. “About not knowing whether you want to be with him, or be him.”
Mathieu groans. “Of course you’re circling back to that.”
“It matters.”
“Everything matters to you,” he mutters.
“That’s my job.”
Mathieu slumps back onto the couch with a dramatic sigh. He presses the heels of his palms into his eyes until stars bloom behind his lids.
“I don’t even know how to explain it,” he says. “It sounds pathetic no matter how I say it.”
“Try anyway.”
He lets his hands fall. Stares at the ceiling again.
“He’s everything I’m not,” he says quietly. “But also - he’s everything I am, just… put together. He’s the clean version. The version people root for. The one who always does the right thing, even when it hurts. And I’m the chaotic one. The one who’s messy and loud and always getting in his own way.”
“You think people don’t root for you?”
Mathieu shrugs. “They root for the wins. Not the person.”
“You don’t think he’s messy?”
“Not like me.”
Wout sits again, finally, but leans forward this time - closer than before. Elbows on his knees. Patient, but precise.
“And how do you know the difference between wanting to be with someone and wanting to be them?”
Mathieu is quiet.
“I don’t,” he admits. “That’s the problem.”
He fidgets with a thread on the hem of his sleeve, winding it around his finger until the tip turns pink.
“When I think about him,” he says, “it’s not just attraction. It’s… it’s this pull. Like gravity. Like I want to stand where he stands, breathe where he breathes. Like if I could just get close enough, maybe I’d be better, too.”
Wout’s voice is calm. “That sounds like admiration. Maybe longing. But not envy.”
Mathieu looks over. “There’s a difference?”
“Big one.”
Mathieu’s voice is rough. “I don’t know how to separate them.”
“You don’t have to,” Wout says. “They’re tangled. That’s okay. But one doesn’t cancel the other out. You can want to be next to someone without needing to become them.”
Mathieu exhales, long and quiet.
“And if I do want to be with him?” he says, not looking at Wout. “What then?”
“You tell him.”
Mathieu laughs once. No humor in it. “Right. Sure. Easy.”
Wout doesn’t flinch. “What’s the worst thing that could happen if you did?”
Mathieu opens his mouth, closes it. Tries again. “He’d say no.”
“And?”
“He’d think I’m insane.”
“And?”
“He’d avoid me.”
Wout leans back. “And now I want an honest answer.”
Mathieu looks at him, brow furrowed.
“What do you really think is the worst that could happen?” Wout asks again, and this time his voice is quieter. More direct. “Not the easy answers. Not the fear-dressed-as-logic. What’s the thing you haven’t said yet?”
Mathieu’s chest tightens. He shifts again, curling slightly into himself like he wants to shrink.
“I think he’d look at me,” he says slowly, “and not see me anymore.”
Wout says nothing. Just waits.
Mathieu keeps going, words picking up momentum like a storm rolling in.
“I think he’d smile and be nice about it and then stop looking me in the eye. I think everything we are - whatever it is - would disappear. And I’d never be able to get it back. Not the rivalry, not the tension, not the weird little moments where it feels like we’re almost something. It would all just… vanish. Because I crossed a line and made it real.”
His hands are clenched again. His voice is shaking.
“I don’t want to lose what little I already have.”
Wout’s voice is soft. “So instead, you live here. In your head. Where it’s safe.”
“Exactly,” Mathieu says. “In here, he can’t leave.”
“But in here, he can’t choose you, either.”
Mathieu freezes.
He hadn’t thought about that.
He stares at Wout like he’s just been struck. His mouth opens, then shuts. No words.
“You’ve given him no choice,” Wout continues, gently. “He’s perfect in your mind because he doesn’t get to be anything else.”
Mathieu swallows hard. “You’re really good at this.”
“I’m you.”
That should be comforting. It isn’t.
Mathieu stares down at his hands. “I want him to know,” he says. “I do.”
“Then tell him.”
“I don’t know if I’m strong enough.”
Wout’s voice is firmer now. “You’re one of the strongest people I’ve ever met. And that includes myself.”
Mathieu huffs a broken laugh. “You’re such an asshole sometimes.”
“Thank you.”
They sit there in silence. For once, it’s not heavy.
Mathieu breathes. The tightness in his chest is still there, but it’s no longer suffocating. More like a bruise. A tender spot he can live with.
“I don’t think I’m ready,” he says.
Wout nods. “Then don’t rush.”
Mathieu glances sideways. “But I should, right?”
Wout shrugs. “Only you can know when.”
Mathieu looks around the room again. Everything’s softened. The corners of the office are blurry now, like fog rolling in over something he’s not meant to hold onto much longer.
He knows it’s almost time to wake up.
— · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · —
Mathieu wakes up with a bang.
There’s a beat of disorientation - hotel ceiling, low lamp still on, sheets twisted around his legs like he fought them in his sleep. His heart is pounding. His mouth is dry. And there’s an ache behind his eyes like he’s been crying for hours, though he doesn’t remember if he did.
He remembers the dream, though. Every word of it. Every look. Every breath.
He sits up slowly, pushing the covers off, and stares at the floor like it might offer some instruction. It doesn’t. It just exists, quietly, under his bare feet. The room is dim, the kind of early morning gray that belongs to airport parking lots and regrets.
His phone is on the nightstand. Glowing faintly with the time.
04:43.
Too late to be night. Too early to be morning.
He stares at it. He doesn’t move.
He could wait. Pretend the dream didn’t happen. Go back to sleep, bury it. He’s done it before.
But something’s different now.
Something broke open.
His fingers move before he can stop them. He unlocks the screen, goes to contacts, scrolls down to Wout - no last name needed - and hovers. His thumb shakes.
He taps.
It rings once. Twice.
The third time, it picks up.
“…Mathieu?”
His voice is thick with sleep, confused but soft. Gentle in a way that makes Mathieu’s throat seize.
He swallows. He can’t speak yet.
There’s a pause.
“Are you okay?” Wout asks, more alert now. “Did something happen?”
Mathieu opens his mouth. Closes it. Breathes.
Then, quietly: “I had a dream.”
Another pause.
Wout doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t make a joke.
“Okay,” he says. “Do you want to talk about it?”
Mathieu lets out a small, broken sound. Half a laugh, half a breath. “You were in it.”
“I figured.”
“You were… a therapist.”
He can hear the smile in Wout’s voice, even though it’s cautious. “Sounds accurate.”
Mathieu presses a hand to his face. “God, I’m losing my mind.”
“No, you’re not,” Wout says immediately. “You wouldn’t have called me if you were.”
“I wasn’t going to.” His voice cracks. “I didn’t want to.”
“But you did.”
Mathieu doesn’t respond.
Wout waits.
Eventually, he says, “Where are you?”
“Hotel. In Girona. I was supposed to sleep another four hours.”
“Do you want me to hang up?”
Mathieu’s answer is too fast. “No.”
“Okay.”
It’s quiet again.
“I don’t even know what I’m doing,” Mathieu says, voice low and hoarse. “I don’t know why I called. I don’t even know if this makes sense outside the dream.”
“Try me,” Wout says, no hesitation.
Mathieu rubs at his eyes. They’re wet. He hadn’t noticed.
“In the dream, I was talking to you. You were… calm. And annoying. And you kept asking questions I didn’t want to answer. But I answered them anyway.”
“That tracks.”
“I said some things.”
“Like what?”
Mathieu breathes through his nose. In. Out.
“I said I didn’t know if I wanted to be with you or be you,” he admits. “And that I hated how much I think about you. And how close you are without ever actually being mine.”
He expects silence.
He gets Wout’s voice, warm and steady: “That’s a lot.”
“I know.”
“How did it feel to say it?”
“Awful.”
“But you still said it.”
Mathieu’s breath stutters. “Yeah.”
There’s a sound on the other end, like Wout shifting in bed. The rustle of sheets. The quiet, domestic sound of someone taking him seriously.
“Mathieu,” he says gently. “Is that what this is? Are you calling to tell me how you feel?”
Mathieu doesn’t answer.
He can’t. Not yet.
“I’m not asking to pressure you,” Wout adds. “You don’t owe me anything. But if you’re hurting, I want to know. Not because I’m a therapist. Because I’m me.”
That’s what does it.
Mathieu curls in on himself, forearm across his eyes, and finally says, raw and trembling, “I don’t know how to stop wanting you.”
Wout doesn’t gasp. Doesn’t freak out. Just - pauses. Takes it in.
Then, softly: “You don’t have to stop.”
Mathieu sits very still.
“I don’t?” he echoes.
“No.”
“But I should.”
“Why?”
“Because this is messy,” Mathieu says, voice strained. “Because I’m a disaster and you’re - you. You’re always steady. You’re always good. And I’m just this emotional car crash who can’t decide if he wants to beat you or kiss you.”
Wout’s voice is firm. “Don’t talk about yourself like that.”
“It’s true.”
“It’s fear.”
Mathieu huffs. “You’re not allowed to therapize me in real life.”
“I’m not. I’m being honest.”
There’s another pause. Wout’s breathing is soft through the line. Grounding.
Then he says, “You’re right. I am steady. But that doesn’t mean I don’t feel things. Or that I don’t want things I’m not sure I’m allowed to want.”
Mathieu’s heart thuds.
“I’ve thought about this too,” Wout admits. “You. Us. I’ve never said anything because I didn’t want to mess up what we have.”
Mathieu exhales like he’s been punched in the ribs.
“You - wait. Really?”
“Yes.”
Mathieu pulls the phone away for a second. Stares at it like it might turn into something else. Then brings it back to his ear.
“This doesn’t feel real.”
“I know.”
“I’m still half in the dream.”
“You’re not,” Wout says. “You’re here. With me.”
The tears start for real then. Quiet, stubborn ones that slide down his face while he presses the heel of his hand into his eye like it’ll stop them.
“I’m scared,” he admits. “I’ve never said any of this out loud. Not to anyone.”
“You’re doing it now.”
“I don’t know how to be around you after this.”
“You don’t have to know. We’ll figure it out.”
Mathieu bites his lip hard enough to sting. “What if I ruin it?”
“You won’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I trust you.”
That shuts him up.
They stay on the line for a while, not speaking. Just breathing together, a continent apart, listening to the quiet space between words.
Then, Wout says, “Can I come to you?”
Mathieu blinks. “Now?”
“If you want.”
Mathieu looks around the hotel room like it has an answer.
Then: “Yeah. I think I do.”
“I’ll book a flight.”
Mathieu’s heart thuds again, but this time it feels different. Not panic. Not shame.
Something else.
“Okay,” he whispers.
“I’ll see you soon.”
“Yeah,” Mathieu says. “Soon.”
— · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · —
The sun starts bleeding into the room around 7:00. He pulls the curtains shut and sits in the dark. Just sits.
He doesn’t eat. Doesn’t move much. Just thinks. And feels. And waits.
At 10:13 a.m., there's soft knock on his door.
When Wout walks into the hotel room, Mathieu is already halfway gone.
He’s pacing fast, like the floor might collapse if he stops moving. His shirt’s wrinkled, his hair’s a mess, and there’s something in his eyes that looks like fear wearing anger like a mask. He doesn't even look at Wout when the door clicks shut. Just keeps pacing. Keeps burning.
Wout stays by the wall. Doesn’t speak yet. He knows enough to wait.
“I shouldn’t have called you,” Mathieu snaps, words slurred from how fast he’s speaking. “This was a mistake. You didn’t need to come. You shouldn’t have come.”
Wout says nothing.
Mathieu rubs at his face, fast and hard. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, I’m so fucking stupid. I should’ve kept my mouth shut. It was a fucking dream. Who the fuck says things like that over the phone?”
“You were hurting.”
“I’m always hurting!” Mathieu yells. “And I keep it to myself like a fucking grown-up, but the one time I don’t, I decide to trauma-dump the most embarrassing, horny, codependent fever dream of my life on you.”
He’s breathing hard now. His chest heaves like he’s been running for hours. His hands are shaking. His knees look unsteady.
“I’ve lost my fucking mind,” he mutters. “I think about you constantly. I see your name and I react, like I’ve been trained to. I hear your voice and I get dizzy. And don’t even get me started on my fucking dreams - Jesus fucking Christ.”
Wout’s voice is soft. “Tell me.”
“No.”
“Please.”
Mathieu lets out a sound - half-choke, half-laugh.
“You want to know?” he says, breathless. “I imagine you in my kitchen. Making coffee. Wearing one of my shirts. I imagine your hands. Your fucking hands. I imagine touching you. Needing you. I dream about you coming home to me. About you in my bed. On me. In me.”
He runs both hands through his hair, yanking hard at the roots. “I wake up so hard I could cry. And then I hate myself for it. I hate myself.”
“Mathieu-”
“Don’t,” he rasps. “Don’t say anything nice. You don’t know what it’s like in here.”
He taps the side of his head hard-too hard.
“You don’t know how fucking wrong I am. Wanting you like this. Thinking about you like this. It’s disgusting. I’m disgusting. I’m not normal. I’m not-” he coughs, chokes, bends at the waist suddenly like he might throw up. “I’m so fucked up.”
Wout’s moving before he realizes it. “Mathieu.”
“Don’t look at me like that,” Mathieu gasps. “Like I’m still worth - anything. I want to fucking break something. I want to break myself. Because I can’t stand feeling like this and not doing anything about it.”
Wout reaches, slowly. Places a hand against his arm.
Mathieu flinches hard but doesn’t pull away.
“I want to scratch your name out of me,” he whispers. “I want to forget what it feels like to hope you’d ever want me.”
Wout’s voice shakes - just slightly. “I do want you.”
Mathieu finally looks at him. His face is wild - flushed, jaw clenched, skin pale with panic.
“You’re fucking lying.”
“I’m not.”
“You have to be. You should hate me. You should’ve stayed away.”
“I couldn’t.”
Mathieu shakes his head so hard it looks painful. “You’re everything good and I’m just - this. This fucking mess of need and shame and obsession. I’m not safe. I’m not right.”
“You’re not wrong,” Wout says, voice low, rough, hurting. “You’re mine, if you want to be.”
Mathieu goes still.
Completely, utterly still.
He stares at Wout like he’s hearing his name for the first time. Like the words don’t register. Like they can’t.
Then - his breath catches.
He coughs again. Gags once. Fists both hands in his hair and rocks forward on the carpet like he’s going to crack open.
Wout moves in closer, kneels across from him, hands now gentle at his elbows. “Breathe. Please, just breathe.”
Mathieu is trembling so hard he can barely sit up. “I don't believe you.”
“You can.”
“I can’t.”
“Then let me help you.”
Mathieu finally, finally looks at him. His face is pale, mouth parted, pupils blown wide with something between panic and longing.
“I don’t deserve you,” he whispers.
Wout’s voice breaks on the reply. “That’s not your choice to make.”
They sit there, too close, breathing in each other’s pain.
“I feel like I’m going to explode,” Mathieu says. “Like there’s no room in me for anything except you.”
“I know.”
“I want you so bad it makes me want to scream.”
“You can have me,” Wout says. “You always could.”
And that’s what starts to crack something open. Not all the way. Not yet. But the possibility of it.
Mathieu presses his forehead against Wout’s shoulder. His breath still stutters, but the shaking starts to ease.
“I don’t know how to do this,” he says. “I don’t know how to be soft.”
“You don’t have to be soft right now.”
Mathieu’s fingers twitch near Wout’s knee. He doesn’t touch him - can’t. But it’s close. A gesture toward trying.
“You don’t have to say anything else,” Wout adds. “Not now.”
Mathieu nods into his shoulder.
Wout keeps his voice low. “We’re okay. I’m here. You’re not too much. You’re not disgusting. You’re not wrong.”
Mathieu breathes.
It’s not even. It’s not calm. But it’s breathing.
“I feel like if I start crying I won’t stop,” he murmurs.
“Then don’t cry. Just stay here.”
And they do.
For a long, long time.
Two bodies on the floor. One finally starting to believe that maybe - just maybe - he doesn’t have to suffer alone.
— · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · —
The room is quiet when Mathieu wakes up.
Too quiet.
No traffic, no early morning drills, no knock on the door from a teammate. Just a dim, static hush that makes the air feel thick.
He blinks into the pillows. His body aches like he’s been dragged behind a car. Every muscle stiff. His throat dry. His head - foggy, full of static. There’s a pounding behind his eyes that suggests crying, even though he didn’t cry. Not technically. Just… everything else.
He groans quietly and shifts onto his back.
That’s when he sees Wout.
He’s slumped in the armchair in the corner of the room, legs folded awkwardly, arms crossed over his chest, head tilted sideways like his neck gave up halfway through the night. His back must be killing him. He hasn’t moved. But his eyes are slightly open now, soft and tired and already focused on Mathieu.
“You should’ve taken the bed,” Mathieu mutters, voice raspy.
Wout smiles, just a little. “You needed it more.”
Mathieu looks away immediately. The shame floods back so fast it makes his stomach flip.
“I can’t believe you stayed.”
“I told you I would.”
“You’re stupid,” he says, trying for a joke but it lands flat, bitter.
Wout doesn’t flinch. “Still here, though.”
Mathieu pushes himself up slowly, like every limb weighs double. He sits on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, and buries his face in his hands.
“Fuck,” he whispers into his palms.
Wout unfolds his legs with a wince. His back cracks audibly as he stands.
He stretches once, then walks to the bed - slowly, so Mathieu can hear him coming.
He doesn’t touch him. Just sits on the floor beside him like last night. Like that’s where they belong now.
“I still feel like shit,” Mathieu says into his hands.
“I’d be surprised if you didn’t.”
“I thought it would go away after a nap."
“Feelings don’t work like that.”
Mathieu lets his hands fall. He doesn’t look at Wout. He stares at the floor. “This is real, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“I didn’t imagine it?”
“No.”
Mathieu shakes his head slowly. “I don’t believe you.”
“I know.”
“It’s like - the universe is playing a joke on me. Like any second you’ll get a phone call and remember you have a girlfriend, or that you hate me, or that this was some performance art experiment for a documentary.”
Wout huffs a laugh. “Still creative, even in a spiral.”
Mathieu finally looks at him, just barely. “Why are you being so nice to me?”
“Because I love you.”
Mathieu doesn’t flinch this time, but his throat bobs. “You shouldn’t.”
“Too late.”
Mathieu breathes out, slow. “I don’t know what to do with that.”
“You don’t have to do anything right now. Just… let me be here.”
He nods, tired. Still not convinced. Still aching everywhere. But he’s not angry anymore. He just feels hollow. Dull. Like his brain is full of fog and his chest is packed with cotton.
“I should shower,” he mutters.
“Good idea.”
“I probably stink.”
“You smell like hotel sheets and shame,” Wout says, too gently for it to sting.
Mathieu snorts, but it’s faint. He stands slowly and disappears into the bathroom.
Wout hears the water turn on.
He exhales and leans back against the bed.
They’re not okay yet. Not really. But they’re getting there.
Twenty minutes later, Mathieu comes out wearing clean clothes and damp hair. He looks slightly more human. Still pale, still quiet, but not vibrating with panic.
Wout stands. “You should eat.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
Mathieu doesn’t argue. Just sits back on the bed and pulls his knees up. He watches Wout with something halfway between disbelief and awe as he quietly picks up the hotel phone, orders something simple - pasta, tomatoes, mozzarella.
“You’re really staying?” Mathieu asks.
“Yes.”
“What about training?”
Wout tilts his head. “It’s the off-season.”
“Still.”
“I called the team this morning.”
Mathieu frowns. “You did?”
“Told them I needed a few days. Told them you did, too.”
“You-” Mathieu blinks. “You called my team?”
“You’re allowed to call in sick,” Wout says softly. “Even if it’s not your leg. Even if it’s just your heart. Or your head.”
Mathieu stares at him, stunned.
“I told them I’d stay here with you,” Wout adds. “Make sure you’re okay. They said to take the time.”
“I didn’t ask you to do that.”
“I know. I did it anyway.”
Mathieu’s face twists. Not toward panic - toward something quieter. Sadder.
“You’re going to get tired of this,” he says. “Of me. I’m a lot.”
“I know.”
“And you still want to stay?”
Wout nods. “I’ll keep staying until you believe I want to.”
Mathieu’s lip twitches like it wants to wobble but he clamps his jaw shut and just nods once. He hugs his knees to his chest and rests his chin there, small and quiet and still hurting.
The knock comes a few minutes later. Wout grabs the food, thanks the staff, and sets it down on the table.
“Come eat,” he says gently.
Mathieu doesn’t move for a second. Then he unfolds himself and walks over.
They eat in silence.
Wout doesn’t push. He just sits there, steady. Warm. Real.
And eventually, Mathieu reaches out. Not for Wout’s hand - just his sleeve.
Two fingers, resting there.
Like he’s anchoring himself.
Like he wants to believe.
— · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · —
The sun is low when they finally leave the hotel.
Mathieu’s legs are stiff. His body aches - not from training, not from racing. From surviving his own mind. Everything feels slow. Quiet. Like the world’s been turned down a few notches, and he’s walking through fog he can’t clear.
He doesn’t remember deciding to go out. Just Wout saying, “Let’s use our legs a bit. Breathe some fresh air.” And Mathieu not saying no.
He pulls on a hoodie and sunglasses even though it’s not bright. Pockets his hands. Wout holds the door for him like it’s something sacred.
They don’t talk at first. Just walk.
Girona is soft around them. Evening settling in gently, as if the whole city agreed to give him a break today. The streets are quiet, warm with gold light. The breeze is cool enough to feel clean. It makes Mathieu feel almost human.
Almost.
Wout walks beside him, not too close, not too far. Enough that Mathieu can feel him there - his shape, his warmth. The sound of his footsteps. It’s not comforting, not yet. But it’s something. Something to lean toward without thinking.
They don’t have a route. They just move.
Past shuttered cafés, low conversation from terraces, the occasional clatter of a bike against cobblestone. Mathieu breathes it in but doesn’t feel any of it settle. It just passes through him.
“You don’t have to talk,” Wout says eventually, voice low. “But if you want to, I’m here.”
Mathieu doesn’t answer.
He keeps walking.
They reach a small park. A bench under a tree. Wout pauses, looks at him.
Mathieu just shakes his head. Not yet.
So they keep going.
He doesn’t realize how close he’s moved until their arms brush. Once, twice. And the third time, he doesn’t shift away.
Wout notices. Doesn’t comment. Just lets the contact stay.
Mathieu wants to crawl out of his own skin, but he also wants to crawl into Wout’s. Be held. Be believed. Be safe.
He still doesn’t believe Wout loves him. Can’t. Not really. The idea buzzes in his brain like a gnat - annoying, impossible, persistent. Every time he tries to look at it, it dissolves.
But he believes this: Wout is here.
Wout is real.
Wout is warm beside him on this quiet street.
He can’t keep fighting that.
So he moves just a little closer.
Their shoulders touch.
Wout exhales like it’s a relief.
And for a moment - one breath, maybe two - Mathieu lets himself feel it.
Not happiness. Not peace. But comfort. Small, trembling, bone-deep comfort. The kind you find only after everything else has been stripped away.
They stop at a corner. Wout points at something across the street - some dog with a ridiculous haircut, waddling like it owns the place.
Mathieu barely registers it.
But Wout laughs.
It’s a soft sound. Unforced. Natural. Like air.
And Mathieu looks at him, startled.
He hasn't heard laughter in what feels like forever. Not real laughter. Not from someone who knows everything.
Wout glances at him, sees the look, and smiles a little wider. “Someone’s gotta do it.”
“What?” Mathieu asks.
“Laugh,” Wout says. “You’re not ready, so I’ll do it for both of us.”
Mathieu swallows, throat tight.
He looks away, ashamed of how much that line makes him want to cry. Still doesn’t.
But he nods.
They start walking again.
They cross a quiet bridge, the river below reflecting the darkening sky. A few tourists pass them, a cyclist rides by with music playing faintly from a speaker.
And Mathieu - finally, finally - moves closer.
He brushes Wout’s hand with his. Not accidental. Not casual.
Wout looks over. Doesn’t say anything.
So Mathieu does it again.
This time, Wout’s fingers curl around his. Gentle. Solid. Like he’s been waiting for the permission to hold him this way all along.
Mathieu doesn’t look at him.
Can’t.
But he doesn’t pull away.
They walk like that for a while. No one says a word. No one has to.
He still doesn’t believe Wout loves him. Not fully. Not yet.
But he wants to.
And right now, for the first time since this all began, wanting feels like enough.
— · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · —
By the time they get back to the hotel, the sun’s gone and the sky’s all soft navy and gold. Streetlights flicker on. The air is cooler now, and Girona hums with evening life - a quiet rhythm of footsteps and conversations Mathieu can’t quite make out.
He’s tired.
Not only physically, not in the way he knows how to manage - this is different. Deeper. A kind of tiredness that lives under the skin. Every step feels like it echoes through something hollow.
Wout walks beside him, never leading. He’s let Mathieu set the pace since the moment they left the room. And now, as they step back into the hotel, Mathieu slows even more. His chest feels tight.
The quiet lifts a little when the elevator doors close. Just the two of them inside.
And then Wout says, gently, “I was thinking. I should probably book myself a room for tonight.”
The words hit harder than they should. Mathieu stiffens instantly, blinking like he misheard.
“Oh,” he says.
“It’s just-” Wout rubs the back of his neck. “You need space. You’ve been through a lot. I don’t want to- make things harder.”
Mathieu swallows, eyes fixed on the elevator numbers climbing. His throat aches suddenly.
“I can’t do that,” he says.
Wout looks over. “Do what?”
“Have you in another room.”
Wout is quiet.
Mathieu doesn’t turn his head, doesn’t explain further. He feels his pulse in his temples.
“I know it’s stupid,” he mutters. “But I just - don’t want to wake up alone again.”
Wout exhales softly. “Okay.”
“That’s not weird?”
“No.”
“You’re not just saying that?”
“I’d sleep on the floor if it meant being near you.”
Mathieu glances at him then, briefly, eyes sharp and tired.
“You’re so fucking good,” he mutters.
Wout smiles, soft and crooked. “That’s the plan.”
The bed doesn’t look any bigger when they walk back into the room.
Mathieu stands there awkwardly, like he doesn’t know what to do with himself. The lights are dim. The air smells faintly of soap from the shower he took earlier. His hoodie’s already been flung over the chair, his water bottle half-full on the nightstand.
One bed.
He gets in first, rolling toward the wall, spine stiff.
Wout changes in the bathroom, quiet.
When he comes back, Mathieu is still curled up like a comma, his hands tucked under his chin, eyes open.
“You sure?” Wout asks.
Mathieu nods.
So Wout climbs in, careful, slow, settling with exaggerated distance between them - maybe half a meter, enough to prove he respects Mathieu’s space.
Too much space.
The mattress dips with his weight. The sheets are cool.
They lie in silence.
And then, Wout shifts.
Only slightly, trying to get comfortable, but the balance is off. His hip slides too close to the edge. There’s a soft, startled sound as his foot loses contact, and then- “Shit-”
Mathieu flings an arm out. “Don’t fall.”
Wout catches himself, barely. A breathless laugh escapes him.
“Sorry,” he says. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”
“I wasn’t asleep.”
“Still too much room,” Wout mutters, more to himself.
Mathieu turns over.
He looks at Wout - really looks at him.
“You don’t have to do that.”
“Do what?”
“Pretend I want distance.”
Wout hesitates. “I just don’t want to crowd you.”
“I can’t do space,” Mathieu says, voice low, wrecked. “Not with you.”
And that’s it. That’s all he has left.
Wout doesn’t answer right away. He just reaches out - slow and open. An offer.
Mathieu exhales shakily and folds himself into the space Wout gives him. One arm under, one around. Forehead tucked in near Wout’s neck. No hesitation now. Just gravity.
The kind that’s been pulling him here forever.
Wout wraps his arms around him like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like he’s been practicing it in silence.
“You okay?” he murmurs.
“No,” Mathieu says. “But this helps.”
They lie there for a while. Warm. Still. The only sound is the low hum of the air vent, and the subtle rhythm of Wout’s breathing.
Then, quiet, ashamed:
“I dreamed of this so many times.”
Mathieu regrets it instantly. His face burns. He shifts to pull back.
Wout’s hand presses softly to his back. “Of what?”
Mathieu shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter.”
“Mathieu.”
He’s too tired to keep it in. “Of you holding me. Talking to me like this. Of falling asleep next to you.”
There’s a pause.
Then Wout whispers, “I did too.”
Mathieu stills.
“You-”
“All of it,” Wout says. “I imagined it more times than I can count. Not like this - hurting. But just… being with you. Getting to stay.”
Mathieu presses his forehead into Wout’s collarbone. “It doesn’t feel real.”
“It is.”
“I’m still scared.”
“I know.”
“But I want this.”
Wout kisses the top of his head - light, reverent. “Me too.”
And Mathieu lets himself believe it. Just for now. Just long enough to close his eyes and let Wout’s heartbeat steady his own.
He’s not fixed.
But he’s not alone.
— · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — ·
When Mathieu wakes, he isn’t sure what time it is. The curtains are still drawn, and the room has that slow, silver-blue hush of late morning, the kind of light that asks nothing of you.
Wout is still asleep.
He’s facing Mathieu, arm tucked under his head, mouth slightly open, hair flattened awkwardly on one side. His body is warm along the length of Mathieu’s, their legs tangled, their chests close enough that Mathieu can feel every breath he takes.
He should move. He knows that.
But he doesn’t.
He stays. Breathes.
His chest still aches, but not with panic this time. With something smaller. Something worn.
Wout shifts in his sleep, nose twitching slightly like he’s about to wake. Mathieu watches the exact moment his eyes open - slow, soft, unfocused at first - and the way they light up when they settle on Mathieu.
“Hi,” Wout mumbles.
“Hi,” Mathieu says, voice hoarse.
They stay like that for a second.
Then Mathieu whispers, “Thank you.”
Wout blinks. “For what?”
“For last night. For staying. For not running away. For everything.”
Wout groans and drops his head back onto the pillow. “Oh my God, stop thanking me.”
Mathieu actually huffs. It’s the smallest, tiniest thing - but it’s there. A breath of something almost like a laugh.
Wout grins into the pillow. “Did you just laugh at me?”
“Barely.”
“I’ll take it.”
They move slowly. Not because they’re lazy, but because everything still feels delicate. Like waking up in a glass box, afraid to move too fast in case something breaks.
Mathieu slides out of bed first, stretching his arms overhead and making a quiet sound of protest when his back cracks.
“I need a shower,” he says, running a hand through his hair.
“Go ahead,” Wout says, still in bed.
Mathieu grabs his clothes and disappears into the bathroom.
Two minutes later, Wout knocks gently. “I need to grab my toothbrush.”
The water’s already running.
“You can come in,” Mathieu calls through the door. “I’m behind the curtain.”
“You sure?”
“Bro, yes, I’m sure. I’m in love with you, not scared of you brushing your teeth.”
There’s a beat of silence.
Then Wout says, way too casual, “Okay, but you said ‘I’m in love with you.’ Just want to point that out.”
Mathieu, from behind the curtain: “Fuck off.”
Wout laughs, full-bodied now, and pushes the door open.
The sound of the tap running. A toothbrush against teeth. Mathieu humming a little under the water, embarrassed and trying to pretend he’s not. It’s so domestic it almost hurts.
Back in the room, they get dressed with the easy rhythm of two people who don’t need to ask where their things are anymore. Wout keeps stealing glances at Mathieu - checking, maybe, that he’s still okay. That he’s still here.
Mathieu catches him once. Raises an eyebrow.
Wout smiles, caught. “Wanna do something today? Wanna go somewhere?”
Mathieu thinks for a second. Then shrugs. “Breakfast?”
“Good start.”
“Somewhere outside. Café or something.”
Wout grins. “Sunshine and caffeine. Revolutionary.”
Mathieu gives him a look. But it’s soft.
It’s softer.
They walk quietly through the streets. It’s late enough that the town’s awake now - cyclists spinning lazily through the alleys, locals chatting on balconies, cafés laying out their morning tables. It’s peaceful in a way cities rarely are.
Mathieu’s still quiet. But not shut down. He walks close to Wout - not quite touching, but letting their shoulders brush every few minutes. Each time it happens, it feels more intentional.
Halfway to the café, a little orange cat darts across their path and pauses on the sun-warmed sidewalk.
Wout slows. Crouches. “Hello, señor.”
The cat blinks lazily, then walks straight to him, tail high.
Wout holds out a hand. The cat headbutts it immediately.
Mathieu watches them - Wout kneeling in the morning light, cooing at a street cat in half-Dutch, half-Spanish - and something in his chest clenches.
Not painfully. Just deeply.
“Of course you’re good with animals,” he says.
“They know I’m harmless.”
Mathieu doesn’t respond.
But when another smaller cat appears from under a parked scooter, he crouches too.
The smaller one comes to him.
And Wout watches him gently stroke its head, watches Mathieu’s face soften - just slightly, but undeniably.
And then - there it is.
The smile.
Faint. Crooked. Barely more than a lift at the corner of his mouth.
But real.
Wout feels something sharp and warm bloom in his chest. He doesn’t say anything.
He doesn’t want to scare it away.
— · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · —
The café is tucked into a narrow side street, tables just catching the edge of the sun. They sit outside. Mathieu orders café con leche and toast with tomato. Wout gets orange juice and a croissant and grins when Mathieu side-eyes the sugar content.
They eat slowly. The kind of slow that isn’t about food, but about being. About letting the day happen without forcing it to be anything.
At one point, Wout rests his chin on his hand and watches Mathieu sip his coffee.
Mathieu catches him. Puts his mug down.
“What?”
“Nothing,” Wout says. “You just look like someone I love.”
Mathieu groans, flushing, but doesn’t look away.
“I still don’t believe you,” he mutters.
“I know.”
“But I’m trying.”
“That’s all I want.”
And Mathieu nods.
Just once.
But it’s the kind of nod that means something.
They walk back slowly, side by side again. Their hands brush.
Mathieu reaches out this time.
His fingers loop around Wout’s.
And he doesn’t let go.
— · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · —
The café had been warm and golden, but the late afternoon sun brings a chill with it. The breeze off the stone streets in Girona whispers that winter’s coming, even here.
Mathieu pulls his hoodie tighter around himself as they walk back toward the hotel. Wout walks next to him, sunglasses pushed up into his hair, hands in his pockets. Every few steps, their arms brush. Neither of them moves away.
They don’t talk much. Not yet. But there’s a different kind of silence between them now. Not tension. Not fog. Just… breath. Time. Space that feels like it belongs to both of them.
Still, it doesn’t last forever.
Back in the room, Mathieu sinks onto the bed, legs stretched out, head tilted back against the wall. The light is fading behind the curtains. He hasn’t spoken in a while.
Wout sits beside him, quietly watching.
Then, softly: “You’re thinking about it, aren’t you?”
Mathieu doesn’t answer. But he doesn’t need to.
“Training,” Wout says. “The off-season ending. Going back to normal.”
Mathieu closes his eyes.
“I don’t want this to be temporary,” he admits. “I don’t want this to be the thing that helped me through a bad week and then disappears when I have to ride solo again.”
Wout shifts closer. “It doesn’t have to be.”
“I don’t know how to do long distance,” Mathieu says. “I don’t know how to miss you without losing my mind.”
Wout is quiet for a second. Then: “Then don’t.”
Mathieu blinks. Turns his head. “What?”
“Don’t miss me,” Wout says simply. “Let me stay.”
Mathieu stares at him. “What are you talking about?”
“You have that place in Alicante. It’s perfect for training. You’ve got space. Sunshine. I’m not doing winter camp in Belgium if I can help it.”
“You-” Mathieu shakes his head. “Wout. You can’t just move in with me.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s… big. Because it’s me. Because you have a whole life, and a home, and routines and people-”
“And I want you,” Wout interrupts gently. “That’s what I want.”
Mathieu’s heart is thudding too fast.
“I’m serious,” Wout says. “I’ll go home for a couple of days. Pack my things. My bike. Bring some training gear. Move into your apartment between camps. We can train together, eat together, live together. We’ll make it work.”
Mathieu is speechless.
No one has ever said something like that to him.
No one has meant it.
“I don’t-” His voice catches. “I don’t know what to say.”
“You don’t have to say anything,” Wout says softly. “Just know it’s already in motion.”
Mathieu blinks. “What do you mean?”
“I talked to my team yesterday,” Wout says. “Told them I was shifting my base for the winter. Told them I’d be training with you.”
“You already did that?”
Wout shrugs. “I meant it when I said I was staying.”
Mathieu’s whole body goes still.
Then - slowly - something breaks across his face.
A real smile.
Not a huff. Not a smirk. Not the faint tug he gave the cat.
A bright, heart-twisting, cheek-hurting smile.
His whole face lights up with it. It hits like sun through fog.
And Wout crumbles.
He laughs, stunned by the force of it, and then reaches for Mathieu without thinking - hand sliding up his jaw, into his hair, the way you touch something holy.
“God,” he whispers. “That smile.”
Mathieu leans into the touch like it’s gravity.
“No one’s ever wanted to stay,” he says. “Not like this.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Wout says.
“You’re really going to live with me?”
“Yeah,” Wout murmurs. “I am.”
“You’re not going to get sick of me?”
“I’ve been in love with you for months. I think I can survive some coffee cups in the sink.”
Mathieu laughs again, softer this time, almost disbelieving.
“I’m terrified,” he admits.
“I know,” Wout says, forehead resting against his. “But I’m not.”
They sit like that, nose to nose, for a long moment. Breathing the same air.
And then Mathieu whispers, “Kiss me.”
And Wout does.
It’s not frantic. Not desperate. It’s careful. Intentional. The way you kiss someone when you mean it.
When you’re home.
— · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — · —
The apartment is nothing special on paper.
Two bedrooms, pale tile floors, walls that catch the sun too easily in the afternoon. The windows rattle a little when the wind pushes in off the coast. The balcony is narrow, the kitchen is barely wide enough for two, and the living room couch sinks unevenly when you sit on the left side.
But the door clicks open with the sound of a key turning, and inside - it’s home.
There are two pairs of slippers by the door. One black, slightly worn on the heel, soles flattened from years of pacing. The other brand new, obnoxiously white, left too close to the edge like they’re always in danger of being tripped over.
Two helmets hang by the coat rack, two rain jackets crammed onto a single hook.
In the kitchen, two coffee mugs rest side by side on the table. One says #1 Puncheur in chipped letters. The other’s plain blue with a hairline crack near the handle. Both are full. Still steaming. Someone made the coffee just before they left.
There are crumbs on the counter. Someone was in a hurry.
In the bathroom: two towels, one dark gray, one striped. Hung unevenly on the rail. A second toothbrush in the ceramic cup. Shaving cream neither of them use but bought anyway. A bottle of shampoo with the label peeled off halfway - someone’s fidgeting habit left behind in plastic.
The bed is unmade. Sunlight spills across it anyway.
On the fridge, a printout of a training schedule, magnets in each corner. Someone’s written REST DAY = ICE CREAM in block letters with a red pen. Underneath, in different handwriting: you’re just saying that to justify the Nutella again.
Someone else has added a wobbly heart.
There are bike shoes by the sofa. A pair of socks that didn’t quite make it into the laundry basket. A paperback novel spine-down on the coffee table. A tube of embrocation left uncapped. A handwritten shopping list on a napkin that just says:
• oats
• bananas
• your dumb brand of almond milk
• i love you
The silence in the room is comfortable.
And then the door opens again.
Laughter tumbles in first - low and breathless. The kind that only happens when someone’s trying to stay quiet and failing.
Shoes come off, dropped carelessly. Socks, too.
Someone pads barefoot to the kitchen. One voice says, “I’m starving.”
Another answers, “You didn’t even finish your croissant.”
The first voice says, “I was distracted. You kept smiling at me like that.”
The fridge opens. Closes.
Then quiet again - until someone presses someone else against the counter, and breathes a “hey” into the space between.
No rush.
Just this.
Two people tangled together in the middle of a kitchen with bad lighting and coffee-stained counters. Foreheads pressed close. Hands on hips. That kind of stillness that isn’t really still at all.
Someone whispers, “I love you.”
And this time, it’s not scared.
This time, it’s believed.
They don’t sleep in opposite corners of the bed anymore. They don’t pretend to need space. Now, they sleep close - always touching. Feet tangled. Arms draped without thinking. It’s not about heat. It’s about presence.
In the morning, someone always makes coffee. Usually Wout. Sometimes Mathieu.
They train together. Not always side by side. Not always in sync. But they come home to the same place. The same walls. The same toothbrushes and mugs and laundry that never gets folded on the first try.
They argue about dinner. They bicker over who left the gate unlocked. They laugh, loud and messy, and sometimes kiss in the hallway because the light there is always golden.
It isn’t perfect. Nothing is.
But it’s theirs.
And they believe in it now.
They believe in each other.
They believe that this - this quiet, daily, aching, beautiful thing - isn’t just real. It’s good.
And every night, without fail, when the lights go out and the world narrows to breath and warmth and fingers brushing under the blankets, someone whispers, “You stayed.”
And someone else always answers, “I’m never leaving.”