Ritual

Sepp finds Wout’s eyes during team dinner.

The hotel conference room is filled with a sea yellow and black — team shirts, team gear. Wout himself is wearing a black t-shirt that hangs loose over his tall, lanky frame, with the yellow Visma-Lease a Bike logo stamped in the left corner. Sepp grabs the seat across from him.

On the table, next to Wout’s dinner plate, are two wadded up scraps of fabric — one green, one mixed whites and blues. Sepp didn’t get to see him wearing those jerseys today. The podium ceremonies are for the spectators, not anybody in the peloton, and Wout usually sheds his special jerseys before coming back to the hotel. Sepp remembers all those podium celebrations from last year, switching out of his sweaty red jersey and into a fresh team one, just to be dressed up in a new red one again in front of the cheering crowd. They’re good memories.

He doesn’t think there’s much of a chance for a repeat this year. Some people might approach that with frustration and bitterness, but Sepp doesn’t. The situation was so improbable in the first place that he just feels grateful that he got to experience it at all.

He’s watched Wout smile all through dinner. His eyes have that same bright sheer they did back in 2022. That Tour had been magical for the whole team, Sepp included (and Primož excepted), win after win for all of them. This Vuelta has a somewhat dimmer sparkle to it.

Wout meets Sepp’s eyes, and then he tilts his head to the side. His neck is long and lean. Sepp wants to put his teeth on it.

“Tonight, yeah?” Sepp asks.

Wout’s already-broad smile curls into something knowing and sly. “Okay,” he says.

Anticipation prickles underneath Sepp’s skin. He is tired, ground down by that last, brutal climb of the day. Despite all that, he’s still looking forward to this.

Wout’s already in Sepp’s hotel room when Sepp gets up there after a quick meeting with Grischa and Marc about how he might be able to claw back some time and sneak into the top ten, top five if he’s lucky. Sepp has no idea how Wout managed to get a key to the room, but he does know the team’s staff members adore him, and he can be dangerously charming when he wants to be.

He’s sitting on the bed, back against the headboard, flipping through his phone. His shoes and socks are off, leaving just his bare, pale feet. Sepp takes a moment to appreciate the sock tan line on his smooth, shaved legs.

“Hey,” Sepp says as Wout looks up.

“Hey, Seppie,” Wout says. He stands up, leaving the phone on the bedside table. “How do you want this?”

Sepp takes a deep breath, then lets it out again. He toes off his sandals and strips off his compression socks. He shrugs. “Same way as usual, I guess,” he says.

Wout nods. He strips off his shirt, then his sweats and boxers. Sepp finds the collar on the bedside table, right next to Wout’s phone. The collar itself is plain brown leather, supple and worn after years of handling. On it, though, are thin lines of colored tape. Most of them are a dark green, but there’s a couple strips of red, and today, half-width blue and white strips have been added.

Sepp plops himself onto the bed. He gives his shoulders and neck a little roll. Wout folds onto his knees in front of him, tucking himself between Sepp’s legs. He tilts his head up, meeting Sepp’s eyes.

“Polka dots today, huh?” Sepp says. “That’s awesome.” He wraps the collar around Wout’s neck, tightens it to the most worn-in latch hole and slides the remaining slack through the keeper loop, which is currently also decorated with green tape.

Sepp can kind of remember when they first started doing this for Wout. The chaos of a grand tour was rough on everyone, and since that first, miserable Tour when he tore open his leg, Wout has always needed extra grounding to deal with the pressure of it all.

It’s not always on Sepp to handle this, but as leader, or at least a leader, he tries to take it on more often than not. Edo is the one who keeps track of the tape, for example, and Attila keeps at least one ball gag in his luggage. Jonas, Sepp knows, has a lot of opinions on how best to handle Wout like this, though Sepp has been with Wout to more tours than he has and has developed his own kind of expertise.

“That good?” Sepp asks. He traces his finger along the leather of the collar and feels Wout swallow underneath his touch.

Wout nods. His eyes have already gone half lidded. He’s sinking into that place where he doesn’t have to think anymore, and he’s doing it for Sepp.

“Good,” Sepp says. He curls two fingers underneath the collar and gives it a good tug. Wout leans into the touch, easy and pliant. Sepp only knows the bits and pieces he heard on the team radio about Wout’s antics today, but it sounds like he was strong, beastly even, and now he’s here, kneeling at Sepp’s feet.

Sepp doesn’t think this will amount to sex tonight, at least on his part. His body has been worn thin by the day to day efforts. He still feels a frisson of pleasure at Wout’s naked body and Wout’s eager compliance.

He pets Wout’s hair, which has been washed clean of gel. Wout arches into it, not so different from any other furry creature eager for attention and love. He ends up slumped against Sepp’s thigh, his body solid and warm. “Seems like you had a good day today,” Sepp says. He gets asked a lot about how it feels to have Wout’s goals and achievements outshining his own at this Vuelta. He means it when he says it’s a relief, that he’s happy just to be here and to wear the number one. After missing the Tour this year and seeing Cian struggle, he’s grateful for what Wout has achieved.

Wout nods against Sepp’s thigh. He doesn’t like to talk like this, but he does like being talked to. Doesn’t really matter what — he’s just as happy with Sepp rambling on about the weather or their meal plans as he is about his cycling.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” Sepp says. Wout, when he’s in this headspace, is just as willing to be a recepticle for secrets as he is for body parts. He probably has blackmail material on the whole team, but he won’t ever spill any of them. That’s why people trust him with the rawest versions of themselves. “I was– I thought it might get lonely.” Sepp has known Stevie and Robert forever, worked with them, admired their tireless willingness to grind day in and day out. They understood each others’ roles on the team. And Sepp likes Cian, who is young and hungry and working through the frustration of his body betraying him right now. But Sepp doesn’t want to admit to any of them that he was dreading the weight of leadership without Primož and Jonas around to draw that attention away from him.

Wout being a wrecking ball through this Vuelta, with a procession of different jerseys to match, has taken most of that pressure off. He can draw the eyes and the cameras, and Sepp can focus on racing.

The room lapses into silence. Wout’s eyes have drifted closed. Sepp draws his fingers over Wout’s shoulders and up the side of Wout’s neck. He tucks his fingers there - not to pull or to yank, just to sit there, between the taped-over leather and Wout’s skin.

Wout blinks his eyes open. His irises are wide and dark. He turns his head just enough so that he can press a kiss to the inside of Sepp’s wrist. It could mean he understands how heavy the weight of expectations are. It could mean he’s missing Jonas and Primož, too. Or it could be as simple as what he shouted over the radio on the day Sepp pulled hard for his win: I love you.

Sepp decides not to question it. The truth is, it doesn’t really matter either way. Sepp is here, and Wout is here, and all they can do is give their best.

He tugs on Wout’s collar, gently, drawing Wout up so that he can press a kiss to Wout’s forehead. “Yeah?” Sepp asks. He’s not sure what he’s asking, but it feels important to ask it anyway.

A smile breaks out across Wout’s face. “Yeah,” he says.