It felt odd, somehow to see Mathieu win his record eight's world title without Wout there. And I guess I'm not the only one. So yeah, I wrote some fic to make it better. Pure self-indulgence nothing else.
This is straight from the doc, no beta no proof riding we die like tn.
It's seven in the evening when the door rings. Wout is expecting nobody and is tempted to just ignore it, but Sarah gives him a look, and he opens his phone to check who might bother him on this day of all days. It's a dark figure, face hidden under a hood, but Wout would recognize that silhouette anywhere. It's Mathieu.
He jumps up from the couch and hurries to the door, and he knows he will have to explain that to Sarah later. But that's for later. Now he opens the door wide, just for the man in front of it to step back as the light hits his face.
"Mathieu!" says Wout. "What are you doing here today? Aren't you off celebrating with the team, or your family, or something?"
Mathieu doesn't look up, but Wout can see the blush on his face.
"Yeah," he says. "There's this big official thing, and the king is there, and all, but, yeah, I kind of managed to sneak away, finally."
Wout does not know what to say, so he just nods and steps back a bit.
"Anyway, sorry, I'm keeping you out in the rain. Come in, let me have your coat. You want something to drink? Too late for a coffee, I guess."
Mathieu just shakes his head. He steps under the porch, but does not cross the threshold into the house.
"Nah," he says. "I don't want to disturb, and I need to head back again in a minute anyway."
Wout nods again. And waits. And then it's his turn to blush, because fuck, how could he forget?
"And congratulations, man. Eight-time world champion, you really did it eh? Legend for the history books and all that?"
He smiles and offers his hand, and Mathieu looks at him as if Wout had slapped him in the face.
Wout thinks if he said something stupid by accident, but he can't find anything that would justify an expression like that on Matih's faeuce.
"They don't even dare to touch me!" Mathieu finally blurts out. "They stand there next to me, arms on their body, or hands hovering five centimeters over my back. Like I'm a relic or something. Or cursed. Like I'm not even real!"
There is a tear running down his face, and Wout is instantly back in Bieles, in 2017, when nobody knew how all of this would play out, and Mathieu cried, and Wout stood awkwardly next to him. Annoyed with himself for doing nothing, and annoyed with Mathieu for spoiling his one day of glory. This time, it's not going to be like that.
So Wout steps forward and draws Mathieu into his arms. Mathieu is shaking, and he clings to Wout, face buried into Wout's neck and arms locked around Wout's torso.
Wout just holds him. He slowly moves his hand under Mathieu's jacket and lets it rest on the other man's lower back. It's a bit awkward because they usually do this standing next to each other, and the angle is all wrong at first.
But then Wout's hand finds its usual spot, and his thumb slowly strokes over the soft dip, and Mathieu starts to relax. He loosens his grip, and he stops shaking, and finally, he speaks.
"It's not even true, you know?" he whispers against Wout's neck. This time does not count, and neither does Tabor, six times only, not even equalling the record."
Wout wants to tell him that that's nonsense, and that Mathie has a massive rainbow shirt, a handshake from the king, and even a hug from Adri van der Poel to prove it. But Mathieu does not let him speak.
"No, let me finish," he says. "Because I could still do it, you know? I have at least one more year, probably two, before I'm too old and the kids will take over. So it can still be done. But. You need to be there."
Mathieu steps back, just a bit, enough so he can look at Wout.
"I know you stopped caring, that this," he points his face towards the dark corridor, to the light and the noise of children in the living room, "is more important to you than racing."
Mathieu lifts a hand and cups Wout's face. It's cool from the outside, but it makes Wout's face burn hot. They have known each other more than half their lives. They have shared everything you can on a bike, and most things off a bike. They shared awkward handshakes and real hugs, but never something like that.
"Please, Wout," Matiheu says, and his eyes are back at the floor, but his hand is steady against Wout's cheek. "Please. I would never have asked, but you came back last year, and you said you wanted to be there. Come back."
In his mind, Wout apologizes to his younger self. Because Wout should want to beat Mathieu. Kick his ass. Or tell him to fuck off. He should not be available to make Mathieu's victories more meaningful. That's just absurd. But it is what it is.
And so he nods softly into Mathieu's hand. "Yeah," he says. "Two more years seems about right. I'll be there."
Mathieu looks at him doubtfully. "Promise? he asks.
"I promise," Wout says with all the best intentions, looking into Mathieu’s eyes.
They both know it's a lie, of course. Wout will be there. As long as there is no family emergency. And if it's ok with the team. And if his aging body lets him go on for two more good years.
But it's all Wout can do, and Mathieu knows that. His hand lets go of Wout's face, and suddenly Wout feels cold with only a t-shirt next to the open door. The silence stretches, and Wout is about to ask Mathieu to come inside again when the other man steps outside of the porch light and into the rain.
"Sorry, but I have to go back to the party," Mathieu mutters.
"Sure," Wout says. "And again congratulations."
Mathieu nods and turns around, a dark figure vanishing into the rain.
Wout opens his phone and takes a screenshot of the doorbell app with the blurry photo. Just in case tomorrow, he needs proof that this was real.
Then Jerome starts crying, and he closes the front door and hurries inside.
