you and i, there's air in between

The club is dark as Mathieu steps inside. The music is loud, booming. The beat rattles around in his chest. Mathieu has been in enough clubs that he knows what to expect, but there’s still something magic about it anyway. The pulse and sway of bodies. The smell of sweat and alcohol. Someone could lose themselves in it.

Shrouded in darkness, he feels pleasantly anonymous.

The bouncer at the door looked over his passport, checking Mathieu’s birthdate, but his face didn’t betray any recognition when he saw Mathieu’s name. That’s one of the nice things about America in general and New York City in particular. Mathieu can just let himself fade away, disappear. No one cares that he’s a world champion cyclist. No one cares that he’s visiting a gay club.

The lights are flashing, reds and greens, yellows and pinks. There’s a mass of people on the dance floor. Mathieu feels his pulse kick up as he sees it, so many male bodies pressed together. Uninhibited. Unconcerned. None of them are hiding, and Mathieu doesn’t have to either. He doesn’t let himself stare too long. He’s hardly a virgin, brand new to this sort of thing, but it’s still – it’s not something he could let himself do in Belgium. Maybe if he was with Jasper and some other teammates, something he could play off as a joke, a fun bonding experience. Not someplace he could go just because he was feeling lonely and wanted some company.

He ends up near the bar and orders himself a beer. The bartender hands it over without a second look. He’s just another guy here. No one stops him to ask for a selfie or an autograph. Bit by bit, he lets himself relax. He’s not going to get recognized. No one is going to take his picture and then plaster it all over Twitter. No one is going to try to out him.

Because the lighting is so dim, it’s difficult to distinguish much about the men around him. He gets glimpses. A shoulder, an arm, a smile. But right here, right now, he’s allowed to look, and he takes in his fill. Off to the side, a figure draws his eye. Tall and lean, not as built as some of the other men here. He’s standing at a table, watching the dance floor with a dispassionate curiosity. Mathieu can’t see much of the man’s face, but he likes something about the angle of the man’s jaw. He thinks about sinking his teeth into it.

Fuck it. If Mathieu were in Europe, he might be more inclined to stay on the sidelines, content to just watch. But he’s not. He’s only here for one night. He wants to make the most of it. He takes one long gulp of his beer, liquid courage, before walking over.

The man turns toward him as he approaches. His face is still cast in shadow, but the shifting lights catch a line of a cheekbone, the heaviness of his brow. Mathieu feels desire bloom in his chest. His pulse throbs in time with the beat. “Hello,” Mathieu says. He has to shout to be overheard.

The man’s lips curl into a wry smile. They’re lovely, full lips. Mathieu wants to kiss them. “Mathieu,” the man says.

Mathieu’s blood turns to ice. This man knows who he is. He could tell anyone, everyone. Mathieu is going to become front page news on some trashy gossip rag just because he was thinking with his dick and not his brain. This is– he’s going to need to talk to his agent, talk to the team, get ahead of this story. He jerks back, ready to make a hasty retreat.

Before he can do any of that, the man raises one eyebrow and says, “You don’t recognize me, do you?” He says it in Dutch, not English.

That’s enough to stop Mathieu in his tracks. He blinks at the man. There is something familiar about his eyes, maybe. Mathieu is sure they haven’t hooked up before. He has to be careful, after all, and the number of sex partners he’s had reflects that. Maybe a fan he met once? Mathieu shakes his head.

“It’s Wout. Wout van Aert.”

Mathieu blinks again. “Wout?” he asks. He hasn’t seen or heard of Wout in years, ever since Wout aged out of juniors and decided not to continue on into U23 and the elite categories. Back then, Wout had been small for their age but also skilled and scrappy, pulling into second place in the junior world championships after Mathieu. Now Wout is tall, taller than Mathieu even, and his face has lost its baby fat, sharpening into something that could be called handsome. Mathieu can still see traces of that boy on this Wout’s face, but he’s also grown up. A decade has passed. He isn’t a boy anymore. Mathieu isn’t either.

“It’s been a while,” Wout says. “You’ve been busy.”

Mathieu doesn’t know what to say to that. “Yeah,” he tries. He does– he did know this about Wout. He has a memory of a particular juniors race. In the tent afterwards, when he was sweaty and breathless and high on victory, Wout had approached him. There had been an uncertain twist to Wout’s mouth. Mathieu remembers his dark eyes and his voice, still in a high, uncertain register, asking if Mathieu would be interested in going to see a movie together. Wout hadn’t said anything explicitly, but it had been obvious what he meant. A date. Panic had crawled up Mathieu’s throat. He hadn’t known why at the time, still in denial about the way broad shoulders and hard dicks did it for him, but the fear had been sudden, immediate, and real. He brushed off Wout’s invitation with a few rude words and then hightailed it in the opposite direction as fast as he could.

Wout didn’t speak to him again after that. Mathieu told himself later that the feeling in his chest every time he looked in Wout’s direction and Wout didn’t look back was relief.

Now they’re here, in a club halfway around the world, and now, Mathieu can admit to himself that Wout had been cute then, even with a mouth full of braces and that gawky awkwardness that came with being a teenager. “Cute” isn’t the word Mathieu would use for this Wout, though. Not with that jaw and those cheekbones. Wout brings his drink to his lips. The motion gives Mathieu a good view of the dark hair lining his forearms.

“Don’t worry,” Wout says after taking a sip. “I won’t tell anyone I saw you.”

Mathieu nods, and the knot inside his chest loosens. “Thanks.” he says. He should probably move on, look for someone here who doesn’t actually know who he is, someone who doesn’t carry the complications and baggage that Wout does. But he’s hooked now. If he were a superstitious man, he would even call it fate. “What brings you here?” Mathieu asks.

Wout shrugs, “I was in town for a conference for work. I figured I would stick around for a couple more days, see the sights.”

“The local nightlife?” Mathieu asks. It strikes him then that Wout is probably here for the same reason Mathieu is: to find some company for the night. Maybe just some dancing, some kissing, but also maybe bringing someone back to his hotel for something more. Mathieu doesn’t know why that thought makes his stomach lurch, but it does.

Wout smiles. Mathieu can see the glint of white teeth in the darkness. “Yeah. I guess I’m not the only one who thought of that.”

Mathieu flushes, glad it’s not as obvious here as it would be in the light of day. “What was the work conference about?” he asks. It feels polite to do so, and also, he’s curious. He wants to know what Wout has been up to in the intervening years.

Wout says, “Something boring and technical. It was mostly big tech companies trying to sell things to other big tech companies. I did get a couple of free t-shirts, at least.” There’s something delightfully alien and foreign about that, a world so unlike Mathieu’s own. He wonders why Wout chose it. Mathieu can’t imagine anything better than cycling.

“Sounds fun,” he tries.

“No, it doesn’t.” Wout tosses back the rest of his drink. Mathieu stares at the long line of his neck. He wants to taste it with his tongue. Then Wout places the empty glass on the table. He gives Mathieu a significant look and tilts his head towards the dance floor. Another invitation.

Mathieu has no intention of turning this one down. He leaves his mostly full bottle on the table and follows Wout into the dense press of bodies. He doesn’t recognize this song. He can’t bring himself to care. Not when Wout slides in close, closer than is strictly necessary. Mathieu can smell his cologne and his sweat. The music hammers on, loud and relentless. Wout slots their hips together, and they rock back and forth in time with the beat. People press in close all around them, but Mathieu barely notices any of them.

As they move together, Mathieu feels his blood heat and his cock harden. Not a surprise, considering he hasn’t slept with anyone in months. His last boyfriend broke up with him in the spring, right after the classics. It hadn’t come as a surprise. Mathieu could feel the distance growing between them, and the most he could work up in reaction was a mild annoyance that he would have to go through the effort of finding someone new afterwards.

Mathieu wraps his arms around Wout’s shoulders, pulling them chest-to-chest. He had been reluctant about this trip at first, some corporate glad-handing thing out at Canyon corporate headquarters in California. But he’d been restless after the conclusion of the road season, after he claimed another rainbow jersey. He was eager for a change of scenery, someplace far away from the wreckage of his last relationship, far away from his family and his managers and the cycling press. Even the one night layover in New York hadn’t bothered him.

The music grinds on, each song flowing into the next. Mathieu thinks about asking Wout to come back to his hotel with him or even just the bathrooms for a quickie. He thinks of sliding his hands underneath Wout’s shirt, of pressing his palms against the bare skin of Wout’s back. But he also wants to stay within the fragile shell of this moment. In this moment, they’re safe. The real world can’t touch them here.

Their bodies are close. Mathieu wants to get closer. At some point, his hands find the back of Wout’s neck. He tilts Wout’s head down as he tilts his head up. His eyes drift closed as he leans in. His heart beats double-time in anticipation.

But his lips find empty air. Wout pulls away, shrugging off Mathieu’s arms before Mathieu can react. Mathieu blinks his eyes open only to catch a glimpse of Wout’s retreating back. Despite the warmth of the club, he feels the loss of Wout’s body heat. For a moment, he feels stuck, rooted in place, caught in his own indecision, but then he thinks of Wout disappearing into the shadows, disappearing from Mathieu’s life again, and he can’t– he pushes his way through the crowd.

He follows Wout outside into the cool night air. There’s a bite to the autumn breeze. He doesn’t know what he did wrong, but he must have done something. Whatever it is, Mathieu can fix it. He knows he’s an excellent cyclist and a mediocre boyfriend. But he’s– he’s capable of learning from his mistakes.

Wout stops underneath one of the street lights. His features get caught in the gold-orange glow, deep shadows cast along the angles of his face. Mathieu can’t read his expression. It’s not a happy one, though.

Mathieu approaches with careful steps. Wout stares at him, but he doesn’t make any attempt to stop him or run away again. After the cacophony of the club, the normal background buzz of Manhattan seems quiet. Mathieu thinks he can hear the ragged edge to Wout’s breath.

Wout speaks first. “Sorry. That wasn’t– that wasn’t fair to you.”

“No, it wasn’t,” Mathieu says. It doesn’t come out as bitter as he expected it to.

“I just–” Wout runs his fingers through his hair, and in this light, Mathieu can see that familiar, distinctive blond streak in the front. The sight of it brings a wave of warm, comfortable nostalgia. Even as different as they both are now, some things have stayed the same. “I’m not going to fuck you,” Wout finishes.

Mathieu’s stomach sinks. He tries to control the disappointment on his face, but he’s never been any good at that. “Okay,” he says. His voice shakes even with that simple word.

“If you want to go back in and find someone else, you should do that,” Wout continues. He sounds calm for someone who’s telling the guy he was just grinding up against to go find another person to fuck.

The idea does have merit, but Mathieu wants to know why Wout’s out here. He wants to know why Wout was dancing with him in one moment, then running away the next. He stays where he is. They’re facing each other, only half a meter between them. Mathieu could reach out to touch Wout. He doesn’t.

Wout sighs. “I guess it’s nice to know that my seventeen-year-old gaydar wasn’t completely defective.”

Mathieu winces. It was probably too much to hope that Wout had forgotten that whole incident. “I’m sorry,” he says. He remembers that terrified, uncomfortable version of himself. Mathieu isn’t proud of him. He covers over the shame with hurt and annoyance. “What is this, then? Some kind of revenge for shit that happened a decade ago?”

“No.” Wout shakes his head. He takes a deep breath. “You have no idea how massive my crush was back then. You were so fucking strong. So fucking good. And you never stopped being that good. Seeing you here, knowing you were interested, it felt like a teenage daydream come to life.” His expression has cracked open, raw and vulnerable underneath his surface calm, and Mathieu realizes with a lurch that he wasn’t the only scared boy that day. He has no idea where Wout found the courage to make the attempt in the first place.

“I’m sorry.” Mathieu says again, helplessly. “But we could still–”

One corner of Wout’s mouth curls upwards in a mockery of a smile. “The thing about dreams is that eventually you have to wake up.” He pauses, studying Mathieu’s face. “Do you know why I quit?”

Mathieu shakes his head, not trusting his voice in the moment.

“I had a choice to make. Did I want to come out publicly and be the gay cyclocross kid or did I want to spend the rest of my career in the closet? I decided that I wanted to take the third option, opt out of the whole thing entirely.”

Mathieu bristles. He doesn’t like the implicit judgment of that statement. So what if he loved cycling more than he hated having to hide? Did Wout think that just because he was a coward, everyone else should be, too? “I just wanted to fuck you.” he snarls. “It wasn’t a fucking marriage proposal.”

“I know,” Wout’s smile shifts into something more real. “But I don’t think– it wouldn’t have been a good idea for either of us.” He says it gently, without a trace of bitterness.

Mathieu’s anger bleeds out of him, leaving him helpless once again. He could take up Wout’s offer to go back inside and find a warm body who would offer up all the uncomplicated sex Mathieu could want. After all the emotional turmoil he’s been through tonight, it would feel even more hollow than usual. He licks his lips. “So what now?” he asks.

Wout tilts his head to the side. “I had a light dinner. I’m going to grab a snack.” It’s an abrupt shift from the heaviness of their previous conversational topics. He pauses. A new expression passes over his face. Mathieu can’t read this one either. “Do you want to go with me?”

It’s not what Mathieu wants to do with Wout, but he’s willing to take whatever he can get. There’s no reason why Wout should feel like a lifeline in this foreign city, and yet– “Sure,” he says.

They end up at a bodega a few blocks away from the club. Wout didn’t even look up anything on his phone. He just picked a direction and started walking. Mathieu couldn’t do anything else but follow him.

The bodega is brightly lit, warm and cheery, but it’s nearly empty of people. Food sits out, buffet-style in trays lit by warming lights. It smells like salt and grease. Even though he ate earlier, Mathieu’s stomach rumbles.

Wout grabs a container and starts loading it up with food. Mathieu follows. He’s not on a strict racing diet right, but he still tries to go for things that have vegetables and protein in them. Wout clearly has none of the same compunctions. They pay at the cash register. The bored clerk weighs their food, takes their money, and doesn’t give them a second look.

This bodega is large enough to have a seating area. It’s empty right now. The metal folding chairs squeak as they sit.

“So,” Mathieu says. He’s not sure what to do now that they’re here. In the clearer, harsher lights of the bodega, Wout looks even more handsome, which doesn’t seem fair. “You know what I’ve been up to. What about you?”

Wout shoves a forkful of noodles into his mouth. He shrugs. “It’s boring. I went to university. Got a degree in computer science. Went into the tech industry after I graduated.”

“Do you like it?” Mathieu asks.

“I do sometimes wonder what would have happened if I stuck with cycling if that’s what you’re really asking.” Wout says.

Mathieu isn’t sure if it was. “But not enough to regret it?”

“No,” Wout says with an easy finality.

Mathieu picks at his roasted vegetables. They are extremely salty, and it’s not enough to cover up how overcooked and mushy they are. “Are you– are you dating anyone?” He tries to pass it off as small talk, like he doesn’t care about the answer, but his voice catches halfway through.

Wout doesn’t seem to notice. “Not at the moment. Probably wouldn’t be grinding against strange men in a club if I were.”

“Some guys are okay with that,” Mathieu says. One ex had called him clingy, possessive, and controlling for objecting to him going out with friends, visiting clubs and bars. The accusation hadn’t felt cruel at the time, but also, it was true that Mathieu couldn’t go out with him, couldn’t be seen in public like that. But Mathieu also couldn’t help the burn of jealousy when he saw the pictures on social media later.

“I’m not,” Wout says, offhandedly. “How about you? Got a different boy in every port?”

Mathieu flushes and fiddles with his disgusting bodega coffee. “No. Nothing like that.” On instinct, he checks the space for eavesdroppers with their cellphones out, but there’s just the cashier who’s flipping through an American tabloid. They’re speaking in Dutch anyway, not exactly the most common language spoken around here. He says, “Broke up with my last boyfriend in May.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Wout says honestly.

They sit in silence for a bit after that. Wout eats his greasy Asian food and Mathieu takes careful bites of his dry, overcooked chicken. He thinks about asking Wout for more details, how many guys he’s dated and when. He feels all too aware that Wout might ask the same thing in return and force Mathieu to admit he’s only dated three guys in his life and none of those relationships lasted longer than a year.

Maybe the silence is a little bit awkward, but it’s also intimate, too. This meal, this bodega, exists in some sort of bubble, a world away from Mathieu’s real life. Wout’s practically a stranger now, but it’s still– Mathieu is still glad Wout’s here with him.

“A friend of mine actually told me to stick to Grindr while I’m here,” Wout says, “but I was thinking I wanted the full New York City experience. I’m not sure this was exactly what I meant by that.” He lets out a laugh. It’s a deep, rich sound in the otherwise quiet space.

Mathieu blinks at him. He’s never been willing to try Grindr. Too risky. One mistake would be all it would take. But now he’s wondering about what it would have been like if he had re-met Wout that way, through flirty texts and dirty pictures. Of the few men Mathieu has dated, Wout is the one who would best understand the grind and the pressure of high-level competition. He would understand Mathieu’s absences, his careful diet plans and long training sessions. Maybe a relationship with Wout could last in a way none of Mathieu’s other attempts did.

“I’m glad you went out tonight,” Mathieu says, “I don’t use Grindr. I barely know how it works.” He has a vague idea, at least, and it’s probably not so different from Tinder. Mathieu has plenty of teammates who will happily tell him about their misadventures on that platform.

Wout studies him for a moment. “You don’t have any gay friends, do you?” he asks.

“I’ve had boyfriends,” Mathieu grits out, feeling suddenly defensive. He’s had to be careful and deliberate about his hookups and relationships while Wout was fucking his way through wherever he lives now. The last thing Mathieu wants is Wout’s pity. And anyway, there’s one guy on the social media team with a husband who’s always joking that Mathieu needs to post more shirtless selfies to Instagram. That probably counts.

Wout says, “You know as well as I do that it’s not the same thing at all.”

He’s such a condescending dick. Mathieu has no idea why he decided to agree to this stupid field trip. “Oh, and you’re going to lecture me on how I’m a failure at being a gay man? Fuck you. You have no right to judge me.”

Wout snorts. “I’m not judging you. I just meant it as an observation, okay? I remember how it felt. I went through it, too.”

Mathieu forces his shoulders to relax, but his hackles are still raised. He’s out to most of the team and his parents and they’ve all been tolerant, even supportive, of him. He’s not some poor lonely orphan in need of Wout’s soft-eyed pity. “I have friends.”

“Friends you can talk to about this stuff?” Wout asks. His brows draw together in pure skepticism. “Like, really talk to about sex and dating?”

Mathieu has to concede that maybe Wout has a point. He’s surrounded by men day-in and day-out, and he’s listened to his teammates talk about girls, but he remembers those early teenage years, the crude jokes about taking it up the ass or sucking another guy’s dick. He knew none of them would want to know about the reality of it. “It’s not easy for me,” Mathieu says, because he isn’t going to admit Wout was right.

“I know,” Wout says kindly. He looks down at his food carton, which is only half-eaten. “Okay, this is disgusting. Want to get some pizza instead?”

Mathieu had been thinking about that for the last five minutes. Yeah, he’s used to swallowing down energy gels for fuel, but he expects better from his solid food. “Definitely.”

This time Wout takes out his phone and directs them towards a pizza place both open this late and with serviceable reviews about ten blocks away. The temperature outside is cool but pleasant, not bad for a walk.

After their slightly contentious discussion back in the bodega, they stick to easier topics. Wout still lives in Belgium, in his hometown, even. His job is fine. He likes the constant stream of technical challenges. He doesn’t like his boss. He still rides amateur cyclocross races for fun and has been undefeated for the last year.

Mathieu tells him about riding the Tour de France. The crush of people screaming, waving flags, carrying smoke flares. Messages etched in the street. The misery of a cat 4 climb after cat 4 climb day-in and day-out.

“God, that sounds so miserable. It never seemed fair that people had to give up cross to go ride the road full time,” Wout says. They’re at a traffic light waiting for the walk sign. It’s much quieter than it was earlier in the night, but there’s still a steady stream of cars. New York is the city that never sleeps, after all.

Not for the first time, Mathieu wonders what it would have been like if Wout had continued on. Would Mathieu’s stumbles towards self-acceptance been any smoother if he’d seen Wout doing it first, a rutted line carved through the mud Mathieu could follow? But it seems just as likely Wout would have also kept it secret and not said another word about it to Mathieu or anyone else. And maybe Mathieu would have known every time he looked at Wout, but he wouldn’t be able to say anything either. Thinking about that too hard makes his head hurt, so he decides to do the safer thing and talk about cobbles instead.

The pizza place is sparsely populated, and it smells of melted, greasy cheese and tomato sauce. Wout gets a slice of pepperoni for himself. Mathieu decides to say, fuck his diet, and gets two.

After their slices come out of the oven, they eat at the counter facing the street. Mathieu’s stool is uneven. It wobbles every time he shifts his weight.

“What were your plans in New York anyway?” Wout asks between mouthfuls of pizza.

“I’m only here for a night,” Mathieu says. “I have a flight back to Antwerp tomorrow morning.” He’s lost track of the time, but he figures that as long as the sun isn’t up, he has time to go back to the hotel to pick up his things before continuing on to the airport. His body clock is somehow both three hours ahead and seven hours behind.

Wout chews on his bottom lip as he stares out the large front window into the darkened street. “You could have done anything else tonight. Why did you decide to spend it with me?”

If he’s being honest, Mathieu doesn’t have a good answer for that. “I was curious,” he says, “I just–” He doesn’t know how to finish the rest of that sentence. “Why are you spending this time with me?”

Wout looks at him. His dark eyes are unreadable. “I guess I was curious too,” he says.

After they’ve finished their pizzas and mopped the grease off their mouths and downed a bottle of water each, they go walking through the streets again. Wout seems to have some sort of strategy, or at least a plan, and Mathieu follows along. Maybe he should be asking more questions, challenging Wout’s decisions, but he made a choice outside the club, and besides, he doesn’t care. He just– he wants to keep talking to Wout for as long as Wout will let him.

The stream of conversation between them doesn’t slow down or stop. Mathieu has never been the most talkative person around strangers, but Wout isn’t a stranger, is he? Wout tells him a little bit more about his life. He has a dog - a small one, who likes to sit on his lap during meals. His parents are looking after him while Wout is away. One of Wout’s hobbies is doing jigsaw puzzles. He’s in the middle of a 2000 piece puzzle right now. Mathieu gets little hints of Wout’s dating history in between the anecdotes. The guy who was allergic to animals and refused to stay over at Wout’s place. The doctor with the insane work hours. His first boyfriend in university, another computer science student who didn’t care about cycling at all.

Mathieu finds himself wondering what would have happened if he had been a little bit more self aware a little bit sooner — if he’d accepted Wout’s invitation to the movies back when they were seventeen. Maybe he would have held Wout’s hand while balancing a tub of popcorn precariously on his lap. Maybe he would have kissed Wout afterwards on his doorstep, blushing and young and innocent. Maybe Wout would have stayed by his side.

Eventually, they come to an area with stone walls. A park. Central Park. Mathieu turns to shoot Wout a questioning look, but Wout just shrugs, clearly unconcerned. Mathieu has a vague impression from American media that hanging out in Central Park at night is a good way to get mugged or roped into a drug deal, but maybe that’s all just exaggeration. The paths are lit by street lights.

Wout’s plan evidently involves going inside, and he pushes on ahead. As they head deeper, some of the ambient noise of the city recedes, though it doesn’t disappear entirely. Wout checks his phone for directions a few times, but he doesn’t tell Mathieu where they’re going. It’s easy to feel swallowed up by the night, just the two of them hidden away in the darkness.

Maybe that’s why Mathieu says, “I think the last guy I dated was more into the idea of me than the reality of me.” Mathieu met Damian because he was a marketing guy at Alpecin – the shampoo company, not the team. They met at some team party or another, and he’d flirted with Mathieu in a subtle way that could get passed off as just being friendly. Mathieu had been impressed. It was a skill he hadn’t mastered yet. They went home together that night. Damian had cooked breakfast for Mathieu in the morning, looking comfortable, cozy, and domestic in Mathieu’s kitchen, and for a moment, Mathieu had thought this one would stick.

“I’m sorry.” Wout’s voice is gentle. “I know it’s difficult to meet people in your position.”

Mathieu sucks in a deep breath of the night air, preparing to give voice to the things he’s only ever let lurk in the back of his mind. “Sometimes I wish I could just — just not be me for a while, not have to watch my back all the time, find someone nice and not worry they’re in it for the money or the fantasy version of me they have in their head. I think that’s why I - why I went to the club tonight. To see what it would be like,” Mathieu wouldn’t give up cycling, his jerseys and trophies and medals, for anything, but sometimes the loneliness gets the better of him.

“And you found me instead,” Wout jokes, keeping his tone light.

“I did,” Mathieu says, He doesn’t say out loud that this has been better than any anonymous fuck would have been.

They arrive at a stone terrace overlooking a fountain. A statue of an angel presides over it, lit from below, giving it a golden, ethereal glow. Wout stops there. He leans against the railing to look down on it. “I think in my last relationship, we were both just passing time, waiting for something better to come along. We broke up by mutual agreement, because we were both tired of pretending it was going somewhere. But he was obsessed with stories about the AIDS crisis. This statue shows up in Angels in America.”

Mathieu has never even heard of Angels in America, and the AIDS crisis feels ancient and far away. Maybe it should feel like a part of his history, but it doesn’t. His history is made up of gears and pedals and tires. The mountains of France. The fields of Flanders. “It’s a nice statue.”

Wout takes them down the steps from the terrace and finds a bench that they can sit on. The park is mostly empty at this time of night, but they aren’t entirely alone. A few other insomniacs wander by. A homeless man pushes his shopping cart past them without giving them a single look. The statue is even more beautiful, radiant and unearthly up close. Wout’s eyes are fixed on it as he says, “Maybe we would have stayed together if the sex was better.”

Mathieu had been trying not to think of Wout and sex at the same time since they left the club. It wasn’t going to happen. Why torture himself? Now those desires come rushing back: Wout’s hips and his hands on him and against him in the club, the heat and the smell of Wout’s body. Mathieu musters up a, “That bad?”

Wout shakes his head. “It wasn’t awful or anything, but we were just going through the motions.”

Well, if they were going to lay it all out there– Mathieu says, “My last boyfriend refused to top me. Said it would be a waste of my dick.” He’d never told anyone about that before. It’s not something he’d mention to David or his teammates. He’s always been aware that there’s a line between being gay and being too gay. He’s always been careful not to cross it.

Mathieu thinks he catches sight of a dark, hungry expression crossing Wout’s face, but it’s only there for a moment, and it could be a trick of the light. All Wout says is, “Yeah, it’s important to have the conversation about sexual preferences as soon as possible. Saves everyone time and headache later.”

They lapse into silence. Mathieu can feel the questions on the tip of his tongue. What about you? What do you like? He wants to know, but he also doesn’t think he could handle knowing. The answers would haunt him for months afterwards. He clenches his jaw instead, keeping the words behind the cage of his teeth.

Now that they’ve stopped moving, he feels the bite of the autumn air. He didn’t dress for outdoor activities tonight. He can hear Wout’s steady breaths beside him. “I don’t suppose this was what you were expecting tonight either,” Mathieu says.

He’s not sure what sort of reaction he was expecting, but Wout’s bright peel of laughter isn’t it. “No.” Wout says, “but I don’t regret it. Do you?” Wout’s smile is wide, and there’s a softness to his gaze.

“No,” Mathieu admits. “I don’t.” In this strange world they’ve constructed for themselves, it’s easier to tell the truth.

Another silence. The angel remains still as it looms above them. The fountain fills the gaps in their conversation with the sound of running water.

Then Wout says, “You were my first crush, you know. I knew I was gay because of how I felt about you.” He says it without embellishment, just a simple statement of fact.

Mathieu feels like a bomb has exploded in his chest. “I’m sorry I was a dick back then. I just– I wanted to be straight so badly I convinced myself I was.” He swallows around the lump in his throat. “I wish– I wish I’d said yes when you asked me on a date all those years ago.” Somehow after all the confessions they’ve shared tonight, this is the most difficult one to admit.

“I don’t,” Wout says. It’s the most devastating thing he’s said to Mathieu all night. “I said I didn’t have any regrets, and I meant it.” There’s no harshness to his voice, just a wistful softness. “But I am glad we could meet again like this. You– you’re sweeter than you pretend to be.”

Mathieu doesn’t know how to respond to that, but it does spark a warm, pleasant feeling in his belly. “You’ve been reading some of my press,” he says. He knows he has a reputation for being cool and distant. He doesn’t like reporters most days, and he knows he has a secret that they’d love to get their grubby little hands on.

Wout snorts out a laugh. “It’s been hard to miss.” He pauses, then says in a softer voice, “I have kept tabs on what you’ve been up to. You’ve always been beautiful on a bike.”

Before Mathieu can react to the second bombshell Wout’s dropped in quick succession, Wout stands up and checks his phone, tapping away at it. Mathieu wonders if he’s chatting to one of his Grindr hookups back in Belgium. It’s probably a reasonable time for flirty morning texts. Mathieu could pull out his own phone and text Jasper something inane, but he doesn’t want to look at his texts, his emails, or Instagram. He doesn’t want to re-enter the real world just yet. The night is still dark around them. They still have time.

Then Wout says, “Come on. Let’s get going or we’ll miss it.”

Mathieu blinks at him, confused. “Miss what?”

“The sunrise,” Wout says.

Even though Mathieu has been traversing New York City by cabs and using the corporate slush fund to pay for it, Wout insists on taking the subway. Mathieu also tries to cajole him into taking a pair of Citibikes — New York City’s bike share system — undoubtedly the fastest way to get there for the two of them. But Wout’s lips are pulled into a stubborn, flat line, and he won’t be swayed.

They find the correct subway station. Mathieu fumbles with the ticketing machine until it coughs up a MetroCard, and then they’re on the platform, waiting for the next train. The station isn’t packed, but they’re hardly alone.

Inside the train is more of the same. Bleary-eyed commuters staring at their phones or concentrating on their headphones. Wout is quiet, not chatty, but as the train rattles and rocks, their shoulders brush together. Mathieu tries to savor it. He can feel their time together slipping away from him, sand dripping through an hourglass.

He watches as the streets count down - 59th, 42nd, 33rd, 14th - until they disappear entirely to be replaced by names Mathieu doesn’t recognize - Bleecker, Spring, Canal. Then they arrive at their destination. As they emerge from the station, Mathieu can see that the sky has tightened from an inky black to a dark, velvety blue. More cars fill the streets. Despite the steady stream of activity overnight, it gives the impression of a city stumbling towards wakefulness.

The Brooklyn Bridge looks exactly like it does in the movies: a tall stone arch looming over the water. Wout leads them onto the pedestrian footpath, though his pace is slow, unhurried. Maybe the lack of sleep is catching up to him. It is for Mathieu. The world has taken on a slightly unreal sheen. His head feels fuzzy. He does his best to ignore it. He’ll have plenty of time to sleep on the plane.

As they walk, the sky lightens even further, streaks of purples and pinks overhead. They’re heading east. Hints of orange peek through the Brooklyn skyline.

Halfway over the bridge, they stop, shuffling to the side so that they don’t interrupt the flow of traffic, small clusters of pedestrians and cyclists trying to travel between Manhattan and Brooklyn. Mathieu glances over at Wout. Wout’s still looking ahead, towards the rising sun. His smile is small and soft and radiant in the morning light. Mathieu’s heart clenches at the sight of it.

Maybe that’s why he grabs hold of Wout’s hand and says, “When we’re– When we’re both back home, can I take you to dinner?” Maybe this feeling is just a fluke, a weird combination of sleep deprivation and nostalgia, but it could– it could also be so much more than that. He already missed his first chance with Wout over a decade ago. He would never forgive himself if he missed this one, too.

Wout stiffens under Mathieu’s touch. He sucks in a rough breath. Mathieu’s stomach sinks. He braces for impact. Wout says, “I don’t think that’s a good idea.” His voice is careful and measured.

Mathieu’s not pushy when it comes to these sorts of things. He doesn’t like hanging out where he isn’t wanted. But he also didn’t win his world championships by giving up at the first sign of difficulty. “Why?” he asks. “I think– I think we could be good together.”

“Look,” Wout says. “Tonight has been good. We don’t have to turn it into something it isn’t.” He refuses to meet Mathieu’s gaze. His eyes are fixed on the horizon.

“You don’t know that it couldn’t be more,” Mathieu says. His chest burns. He wants to throw up.

Wout grimaces. “What does that even look like for you? When we’re back in Belgium and people recognize you in public, what, am I supposed to pretend to be your new best friend? Disappear when the fans or the media is around? Sneak around and make sure we’re not seen leaving each other’s houses in the morning? I gave up cycling because I didn’t want to do any of that shit.” His voice isn’t harsh, but it does have a hard, unforgiving edge.

Mathieu looks behind him. The skyscrapers of Manhattan are bathed in golden light. “I could come out,” he says. He doesn’t remember making the decision to stay in the closet. It had been the default assumption when he’d told his parents, his agents. He’d been young at the time, just turned nineteen, and he’d trusted them all to steer him in the right direction. He knows they were just trying to protect him. But now he’s proved himself, both in cyclocross and on the road. It would be difficult and uncomfortable to be public about things he’d only ever kept private, but then he wouldn’t have to hide. He could be on Grindr, go to gay clubs, kiss his boyfriend out in the open as casual and unconcerned as any of the straight guys in the peloton. And maybe he’d have a chance to have, to keep Wout.

“Don’t,” Wout says. His voice cracks. He pulls his hand from Mathieu’s grip. “Don’t do it out of some stupid, romantic notion you got in your head. You barely know me. I’m not worth it.”

Maybe Wout’s right, but Mathieu knows deep down, in some instinctual part of him, Wout is worth everything. What he says is, “But if I did, would you?” He steps in front of Wout, forcing Wout to look at him.

Wout shakes his head. He stares out over the water of the river. The surface glitters in the morning rays. “That’s not a decision you make for another person, especially not one you just met.”

“We didn’t just meet,” Mathieu insists. “I’ve known you since we were eight.”

Wout rolls his eyes. “That’s not the point I’m trying to make, and you know it.” But one corner of his lips twitches upwards, like he’s trying not to smile.

“Can we at least try?” Mathieu asks. He knows he’s gone far past the point of being desperate and is now veering into pathetic. He thinks maybe Wout’s resolve is weakening. He needs to press every advantage he can get.

Wout sighs. He finally meets Mathieu’s gaze. “You need to figure your own shit out, Mathieu. I can’t do that for you. That’s not fair to me or to you.”

The sun has fully risen. Everything looks realer now, maybe too real. The edges are too sharp. The colors are too bold. Wout’s face looks even more sculpted. If Mathieu had ever wondered if these feelings would survive the harsh light of day, this is a definitive answer. “Look, you know I have to leave soon. Can we stay in touch?” He offers up his phone. He holds his breath.

He thinks he can see the indecision on Wout’s face. Wout’s hand twitches at his side. But then Wout shakes his head again. “When you go back to your real life and you’re winning everything in sight, think of me fondly, okay?” He brushes Mathieu’s phone aside to step in closer. Mathieu thinks for one long moment that Wout will slot their lips together, but Wout just presses a gentle kiss to his forehead instead.

“Wout–” Mathieu says. Foot traffic has picked up, now a steady stream of people going by them. His chest is packed full, a knot of emotions he can’t even begin to untangle.

“You have a plane to catch don’t you?” Wout says gently.

Mathieu nods. He thinks if he tries to formulate words, he might burst out in tears. Wout is right. He had glanced at his phone when he took it out. His flight takes off in two hours. Given the vagaries of New York City traffic, he’ll be cutting it close, but he should be able to make it in time.

“You don’t need to hear it from me, but I - I hope you have a nice life, Mathieu.” Wout smiles, small and sweet, and then he pulls away. He starts walking towards Brooklyn.

Mathieu wants to chase after him, but he knows a goodbye when he hears one. He watches Wout’s retreating back until he gets swallowed up by the crowd. Mathieu feels exhausted and achy all over. He closes his eyes and inhales a deep breath. Then he turns back to Manhattan and takes his first steps back home.

Mathieu’s trip back to the hotel to gather his luggage and then travel to the airport happens in a haze. He has spent enough of his life traveling that he can put himself on autopilot. Terminal, check-in, security. He thinks about Wout a lot. About the depth of his eyes and the warmth of his laugh. Mathieu tries to hold onto the way Wout made him feel: like a real, fully three-dimensional human, not some cardboard cutout of what someone else wants him to be.

Wout’s still in New York for a few more days. He could go back to the club, find some other guy, dance with him, kiss him the way he refused to do with Mathieu. Mathieu tastes bile in the back of his throat when he thinks of it, so he tries not to.

While he’s waiting for his flight to board, Mathieu checks his emails and catches up on his texts. The real world is reasserting itself. He plays the part. Makes jokes about Jasper forgetting his water bottle during training again. Assures his father that everything went well during his meetings with Canyon. Looks over his coaches’ training plan for the next few weeks. Maybe Wout is right, and there’s no place for him in Mathieu’s life as it is, but Mathieu is a star. He has a reputation and clout and an entire closet rack dedicated to his rainbow jerseys. Mathieu could– he could make room.

There’s enough to review that Mathieu doesn’t even open the Instagram app until he has boarded, tucked comfortably into business class. He hasn’t posted anything for a few days. No one seems to mind, as he’s still inundated with adoring comments from fans — men and women alike. How many of them would turn on him if he did come out as gay? He doesn’t know. Is he willing to find out? He doesn’t have an answer to that.

He’s absently scrolling through his feed, waiting as the rest of the plane boards, when the idea strikes him. What if– he opens the search page and types Wout van Aert into the box. Wout’s profile pops up. It’s marked as private, but that is definitely Wout in the profile picture. Mathieu stares at it for too long. In it, Wout is smiling so wide his eyes crinkle up, and deep creases have formed at the corners of his mouth. He looks happy. An uncomplicated sort of happiness.

Maybe it’s not fair to him. Maybe Mathieu is being greedy, being selfish. Maybe watching Wout go on with his everyday life will hurt more than the constant hoping and wishing and guessing. The longing wins out, though. He sends Wout a follow request.

The plane begins to taxi. Mathieu shuts off his phone, because he knows he will be compulsively refreshing the whole flight otherwise. He looks out the window at the sunny tarmac. He can see the New York City skyline in the distance. It’s faded from this distance, fuzzy and unreal. But it was real last night. He walked those streets and breathed that air. The feelings still linger, an afterimage imprinted on his chest. They’ll probably linger for a long time.

He shuts the window cover, closes his eyes. The last twenty hours of wakefulness catch up to him, and he falls into a deep, dreamless sleep.

FIN