Work Text:
Jonas opens his phone because it vibrates, short and unfamiliar in his hand.
An unknown number. No name. No message preview, just a single attachment.
A voice memo.
For a moment he thinks it must be wrong. A pocket send. Someone else’s life crossing his by accident. He almost locks the screen again, but then he presses play, because he always presses play.
At first there’s only sound.
Footsteps. Not fast. Not slow either. The uneven rhythm of someone walking on a pavement that isn’t smooth. Cars passing, close enough that the air shifts, further away again. A faint echo, like buildings on both sides. Winter outside, even without seeing it.
Then breathing. A little too loud to be accidental. Someone holding the phone too close.
There’s a pause. Another. Fabric rustling. A sniff, unguarded.
Then:
“Hi, Jonas.”
The voice is warm and careful at the same time, like it’s being placed gently into the space between them.
“I - uh. Hi. Sorry. I’m walking. I didn’t want to sit down for this. I thought if I sit, I maybe won’t do it at all.”
A car passes, louder than the others. He waits for it to go.
“So. This is already strange. I know. I promise I’ll explain.”
Another pause. He breathes in, deep enough that it crackles faintly in the microphone.
“My day was… normal, I guess. Training in the morning. Easy. Too easy, maybe. You know when it’s so easy that your head starts doing stupid things? That kind of day. Coffee after. I stood there longer than I needed to. I kept thinking I forgot something. I didn’t. I just didn’t want to go.”
Footsteps again. The rhythm steadies, like he’s found a pace he can keep.
“I thought of you this morning. Not in a dramatic way. Just - there was this hill, not even a real one, and I remembered how you always say it doesn’t matter what it looks like from the bottom, it only matters what your legs do when you’re already on it. And I thought that was… yeah. I thought of that.”
A soft exhale, almost a laugh, but it doesn’t quite make it.
“Okay. So. The number. I didn’t just get it. I didn’t steal it. I asked. I was very normal about it, I think. I asked Mikkel. You know, Mikkel. We talked about something else first. He told me about his kid. And then I asked, and he asked why, and I said it was your birthday, and then we both stood there like idiots for a second. He said you probably wouldn’t mind. He said he’d ask you, but then he didn’t, because I said I didn’t want this to be a whole thing. So. If this is not okay, I’m sorry. You don’t have to - yeah. You don’t have to listen.”
He stops walking. The background quiets, not completely, but enough that the city feels further away. There’s a long silence. Jonas almost checks if the memo is still playing.
“It was your birthday. Or - recently. I’m late. I know the date. I’ve always known the date. I’m bad with birthdays that don’t matter to me. Yours always did.”
The sentence hangs there, heavier than the ones before it. He clears his throat.
“I didn’t know what to say, because everything I thought of sounded like an interview answer. And this isn’t that. This is just me talking, which is already dangerous. So I’m going to talk about things that are easy first.”
He starts walking again. The steps sound different now, slower, like he’s not paying attention to where he’s going.
“We had good years. That’s easy to say. Great ones, even. Big races, big fights, all that. People always ask about that, and it’s fine, because it was true. It was good. It was more than good. It was - yeah. I don’t need to explain that part to you.”
A car honks somewhere far away. He flinches anyway.
“But there were also the small things. And I don’t know why I remember those more. Like that one time you came over after a stage and you smelled like sunscreen and something sweet, and I asked if you changed your gel brand, and you looked at me like I was insane and said no, it was the hotel soap. Or when we were both sick, different races, same week, and somehow knew it without texting, just from how the other one rode.”
He sniffs again. Quieter this time.
“Or that stupid joke you kept making about my helmet sitting too low, and I told you it was aerodynamic, and you said my face wasn’t. That was… yeah. That was funny.”
There’s a brief, real laugh now. It fades quickly.
“These are not important things. I know that. But they’re the things that come back when I’m alone on a road that doesn’t matter. Not the trophies. Not the numbers. Just - how it felt to exist next to you in all of that.”
He goes quiet for a few seconds. The footsteps continue, but the voice doesn’t.
“When people talk to you now,” he says finally, and his tone has shifted, barely, but enough to feel it, “they ask about stopping. About when. About how long you still want to do this. They talk like it’s already decided, like it’s something that’s just waiting politely at the edge of the conversation.”
His breathing is louder again.
“And when they talk to me, they ask why I won’t ride this, why I won’t ride that. They say classics like it’s a consolation prize. Like it’s a smaller dream. Like it’s already a narrowing, not a choice.”
He stops walking again. This time the silence is sharper.
“I know that’s how it works. I know careers end. I’m not stupid. I just - sometimes it feels too close. Like we blinked and suddenly we’re at the part where everyone wants to write the ending before we’re done living the middle.”
The words start coming faster now, less spaced, the accent stronger, the sentences stretching and folding into each other.
“I start thinking, did I enjoy it enough, did I really feel it when it was happening or was I already worried about the next thing, the next season, the next question, and did I ever stop and think that this - us racing each other, talking after, knowing each other without trying - was something that wouldn’t always be there, and I hate that this is where my head goes because it feels ungrateful, but it also feels honest.”
There’s a sound like he turns his head away from the phone. The wind brushes the microphone.
“I said once, somewhere, that when I stop, I won’t talk to most of the peloton anymore. Ninety-nine percent, I think. People laughed. I laughed too. It sounded clean. Simple.”
He swallows. You can hear it.
“But that sentence was never about you. It never included you. I didn’t think I had to say that out loud. I thought it was obvious. And now I’m standing here talking into my phone like this, and I realize maybe nothing is obvious if you don’t say it.”
His voice wavers, just once. He clears his throat again, sharper now, embarrassed.
“I don’t know how to imagine a version of my life where you are not somewhere in it. Not necessarily every day. Not like-” He stops himself. Breathes in. “Not like people assume. Just… there. Existing. Someone I can still recognize myself next to.”
Another pause. Longer than the others. The city noise fills the space, indifferent, patient.
“I’m sorry. This went too far. I didn’t mean to make this heavy. This was supposed to be simple. A message. A normal thing. I’m walking myself into a corner here.”
He takes a deep breath, the kind that lifts the chest and takes a second to let go.
“You’re allowed to do whatever you want. You always were. You don’t owe anyone anything. I know that. I just - needed you to know that you mattered to me in ways that don’t fit into answers or headlines. That’s all.”
The footsteps slow, then stop completely. There’s a faint sound like he leans against something. A wall. A railing.
“So. Yeah.”
A small, careful exhale.
“Happy birthday, Jonas.”
The last words are quiet. Almost ordinary. The way you’d say them if you were standing next to someone and didn’t want to draw attention.
“I hope you had a good day. I hope you felt… held. In whatever way that looks like for you.”
There’s a final pause. Fabric rustling again.
“That’s it. Sorry for the length.”
A soft click. The memo ends.
Jonas keeps the phone in his hand for a long time after the screen goes dark.