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Mathieu van der Poel is definitely weird, Tadej thinks.
For starters, he doesn’t smile with his eyes. Tadej isn’t sure how - the smile makes it all the way up to his forehead, involving his eyebrows, but the eyes remain cool.
He also doesn’t ride with gloves on, but that’s something Tadej feels he can ignore.
Tadej tries to be friendly - he makes an effort with everyone in the peloton, he knows he’s liked by a lot of the guys - but it feels like Mathieu is really making him work for it.
The thing is, the difficulty is alluring. The more it seems like Mathieu is only interested in being acquaintances, and disinterested in anything more, the harder Tadej tries.
Winning the Tour certainly helps, gives him a bit of weight in the hierarchy, and this means that Mathieu does at least acknowledge him. Slowly, but surely, they exchange pleasantries, words, phrases, Instagram comments, Tadej polite and starstruck, and Mathieu amused at best.
By the time they line up to sign on for the next edition of the Tour, they’ve shared enough words to make up one and a half conversations. This is enough.
“Are you planning on winning again?” Mathieu asks as they navigate their way out of the mixed zone.
The answer is obviously yes, but Tadej doesn’t like to say it so plainly. “We’ll see how the legs feel. You are here for stages?”
Mathieu fidgets with his left sleeve, and Tadej would hate the yellow and purple if not for its sentimental value. “Stages, yes. Yellow - well, we’ll see, eh? Good luck.”
Tadej nods. “You too.”
Mathieu exhales, short and sharp out of his nose, as if to say I don’t need luck.
Which, well, he doesn’t, really.
“So, yellow, eh?”
It’s the only time Mathieu has ever seemed off-guard - scrambling up off the ground to let Tadej congratulate him, hugging back tighter than expected, jaw dropping at the words like nobody had told him yet. He’s giddy, face contorted between laughter and crying before settling on the latter, and Tadej watches the first tears fall.
Maybe he isn’t so weird after all.
They talk more after this, probably by virtue of being at the front of the race together. Small talk, mainly, drip-fed to Tadej slowly at starts and within the peloton during boring parts of the stage, but it’s enough to keep Tadej’s interest piqued.
One day, Mathieu even laughs at something Tadej says, and the feeling of validation and pride sticks to him all day. His heart rate is odd that day, odd enough for his director to ask him if he felt okay during the stage.
Are they friends? They’re definitely getting there. If Mathieu spends a few more days in yellow, maybe they will be by the end of the Tour. The hugs after each stage are nice, at least.
A few days before the rest day, Mathieu weaves his way up to his starting position and sits on his bike, commanding in yellow. Tadej leans forward on his handlebars, waiting for the last few riders to find their positions. Mathieu twists around and looks at him, totally unreadable.
“We should hang out on the rest day, Tadej.”
That's the phrase he uses - hang out. It just reeks of machismo, manliness, pure platonics. It's cool.
“Yeah, we should,” Tadej answers, sitting up and trying to maintain whatever shred of his own cool is left. “You and I, we do not really know each other so well, eh?”
Mathieu smiles. “Then we should get to know each other better, yeah?”
The delivery of the statement unsettles Tadej in a way he can’t put his finger on, but he shakes the feeling off, beginning to form a yeah in response when the neutral start is called and Mathieu slides his glasses on and rolls off, leaving Tadej to stare at the 101 on his back until someone or something more interesting comes along.
It’s midway through the stage when Tadej realises that the smile had reached Mathieu's eyes.
The first thing Tadej sees when Mathieu lets him into his hotel room is a laptop on the floor playing pause screen music quietly, with two controllers beside it, one glowing blue.
“Sorry, I started playing before you got here,” Mathieu apologises, but it doesn’t sound like an apology. “Do you play?”
“Not well,” Tadej admits - a white lie, because he’s worse than bad, but hopefully Mathieu doesn’t mind.
Mathieu shrugs, half-smiling. “That's okay. I might let you win.”
The second controller flashes red a couple of times before glowing steadily, and Mathieu hands it over to Tadej as he quits back through the start menu to his Steam library. The plastic is smooth, but not slippery under Tadej’s hands, and he taps over the buttons with his thumbs in an effort to familiarise himself.
“The internet is shit here. We’ll play local, yeah?”
Tadej nods, annoyed that he can’t hide behind other players. Mathieu flicks through a list of games and picks one called Rocket League. Tadej has never heard of it, but Mathieu promises it’s easy.
It is not easy.
Mathieu is dead silent as he plays, intently focused on the small screen in front of him, scoring quickly as Tadej tries to figure out the controls. He scores again as Tadej turns too sharply towards the ball, ramming himself into the side of the arena.
By Mathieu’s third goal, Tadej is no longer enjoying himself. He's stuck in a corner of his own goal, unable to quite move fast enough to get himself out. Mathieu frowns, and puts his own controller down.
“Here,” Mathieu says, scooting across the floor to be closer, and takes Tadej’s hands and the controller in his own. “Like this.”
Mathieu guides his fingers over the buttons, hits the D-pad at the same time as the joystick, and Tadej’s out in the arena again. His hands are warm, slightly calloused, slight indents from the controller in his thumbs, and the warmth lingers after he’s withdrawn.
“Not so hard, eh?” Mathieu says, grinning.
Tadej chooses to ignore that, finally managing to get a tap on the ball. Mathieu circles him like a shark, not intervening, just watching, as Tadej misjudges the final edge of the arena and misses the goal.
“Fuck!”
Mathieu snickers. “One more round?”
“Do you have something else we can play?” Tadej groans, dropping the controller into his lap and leaning his face in his hands.
“I have a lot, but I don’t think you’d do better. You’re pretty shit at this, you know.”
It irks Tadej slightly to have this told to him so bluntly, and he tries to formulate a response, but Mathieu is suddenly very close to him, eyes darting across Tadej’s face until they settle and meet his gaze.
“I don't really mind. I didn't invite you here just to play video games.”
“Oh?” Tadej says nervously, unsure whether the events he wants to happen and what will happen are one and the same. “What did you invite me here to do?”
Mathieu doesn’t answer. The eye contact is unfaltering, unbearable, but Tadej isn’t sure where to look aside from the grey-blue irises that are now centimetres away from him.
Mathieu flicks out his tongue to nudge the corner of his lower lip, and Tadej's gaze flicks to the movement, drawn there for just a second, snagging on the sharp edge of Mathieu’s jaw, and that is all it takes to lose.
Mathieu has won - they both know it. Tadej looks back into Mathieu's eyes, and as Mathieu's knee bumps against his own, he shuts his eyes in anticipation, feels breath on his lips, they make contact. The kiss isn’t rough, but there is force behind it - whether that’s from the momentum of Mathieu's body or intentional, Tadej doesn’t know, but he submits to the pressure anyway.
The controller slips off Tadej’s thigh as he moves towards Mathieu, trying for some more enthusiasm, and Mathieu responds in kind, tossing his own controller to the floor and pulling Tadej into his lap. It’s not really a position Tadej is familiar with, but he likes it, shifting around on top of Mathieu until he’s as comfortable as he can be. Mathieu's hands are everywhere - one slipping down from cupping Tadej's face, resting on the back of his neck, fingers sliding up to comb into his hair, the other dallying between his hip and lower back.
"This is what you wanted, hm?" Mathieu murmurs against Tadej's lips, and Tadej hesitates, resting his forehead against Mathieu's as he catches his breath.
"Uh-huh," Tadej replies, and feels Mathieu smile.
"Good," Mathieu hums, and before he can blink, Tadej is on his back on the floor, with Mathieu on top of him, hips pressing close and searching for contact.
Tadej isn't really sure what to do with his hands, hovering awkwardly around Mathieu's waist and shoulder, gripping Mathieu's shirt and rucking it up to reveal a slice of pale skin. Mathieu is dishevelled, and Tadej is sure he looks much the same as Mathieu sits up and pulls off his shirt, indicating for Tadej to do the same. Tadej props himself up on his elbows, then one hand, and Mathieu helps him pull the shirt off over his free arm, lets him swap to toss it aside.
Mathieu is, simply put, gorgeous - every inch of his body has been worked hard for, crafted, and Tadej is torn between wanting to continue looking at him and wanting to put his mouth on him. Mathieu makes the decision for him, coming back in to kiss him, all sloppy and rough and open-mouthed. It’s thrilling, it’s delightful, and oh, he can feel Mathieu’s cock against his leg, and Tadej’s curiosity gets the better of him.
Mathieu doesn’t object to Tadej’s hands at the waistband of his sweatpants, lifting his hips slightly so Tadej can tug them down, letting his cock curve upwards and the tip graze his stomach. At first, Tadej thinks he’s accidentally taken Mathieu’s underwear down in the same fell swoop, but a quick glance downward shows that Mathieu was banking on getting Tadej’s hands down his pants at the very least, with no underwear to inconvenience him on the way. As he shirks the last of the warm fabric from his calves, Mathieu undoes the fly of Tadej’s jeans, quickly and easily, tugging them down and letting Tadej finish the job, until they reconnect, each as naked as the other will let them be.
Mathieu doesn’t kiss him again - not just yet. Instead, he just looks. The palm of one of his hands settles on Tadej’s hip, then, as if deciding that’s not where it should be, it glides upwards, pausing at stomach, chest, pectoral, shoulder, neck, and settling at his face, fingers cupping his cheek and thumb caressing over his lips and jaw. Tadej thinks about meeting the thumb tip with the tip of his own tongue, gathers the saliva in his mouth and darts it out, just a peek, but enough to leave a shiny streak behind. Mathieu exhales, and the hand drops again, settling on Tadej’s neck. Not applying pressure, just resting there, thumb above clavicles and palm smothering the thick arterial pulse.
This gentle touch is maddening - he wants Mathieu to touch him, tease him, do terrible things to him, but he doesn’t know how to ask for them, nor if Mathieu will actually do them to him.
"You're so pretty, Tadej," Mathieu says in a tone that makes Tadej shiver in a delightful way. "You want me to make you come?"
Tadej nods up at him, aware of how the tip of his cock is sticking to his underwear.
"You want me to use my hands?" Mathieu continues, thumb resting in the divot below Tadej's throat, pressing against his quickening pulse. "I'll touch your cock, just like you want, yeah?"
Tadej looks up at Mathieu, sitting between his legs, feels the weight of the hand on his neck, and considers what he wants.
"No."
Mathieu pulls his hand away like he's been burned, but doesn't move from his place. "No?"
"I want you to be inside of me."
Mathieu looks winded, exhales sharply. "Fuck, Tadej. you're sure?"
Truth be told, Tadej isn't sure, as he doesn't really know what it involves. He knows it can feel good, but not how. However, he's heard the rumours about Mathieu, about the things he's done with Wout van Aert, so he figures that Mathieu will know what he's doing. At least Tadej will learn something from Mathieu.
"Yeah. I'm sure."
Mathieu stands up, and Tadej gets a good look at his hard-on before he pokes around in his suitcase, muttering swear words to himself. He doesn't look much bigger than Tadej, curved slightly, the tip bobbing as he moves from suitcase to bathroom.
He looks slightly agitated as he returns to Tadej on the floor, shows him a bottle of lube. "I don't have, uh, protection-"
"It's fine," Tadej cuts him off hurriedly. "Please, Mathieu."
Mathieu exhales again, and tugs on the waistband of Tadej's underwear. Tadej helps, canting his hips upwards to allow them to come down over his thighs and kicking them off once they’re at his feet. He realises they’re both still wearing socks, grimaces inwardly, and lets it slide.
Mathieu squeezes lube messily onto one of his hands, and Tadej watches it drip onto one of those powerful thighs, once, twice, before he spreads it over his fingers and begins to press one in.
This is somewhat familiar territory - Tadej knows this feels nice, the careful movement of one finger inside him, hinting at pleasure, but nothing more. He’s tried it a few times, but hasn’t everyone?
Mathieu’s eyes are keen, watching Tadej as he tries to hold himself still, and he slides in a second finger. That feels different, more like an intrusion than before, but soon he’s comfortable with it.
“Am I ready?” he asks, hoping Mathieu has an answer.
Mathieu’s mouth twitches, holding back a grin or a laugh or both. “It always feels bigger than it looks. Not yet.”
Tadej can’t hold in the gasp he lets out as Mathieu spreads his fingers out with a wet sound. He tries to let himself be stretched, then relax back around the two fingers together, stretch and relax, “that’s it, good boy,” Mathieu praises as Tadej pants, feeling the blood rush in his cheeks.
“Mathieu, please,” Tadej whispers, too much breath in his mouth for the words to come out as anything but.
Mathieu grins. “Sorry? You’ll have to speak up.”
The instruction comes with a change in Mathieu’s movements, fingers sliding messier and rougher inside him, forcing a moan out along with the repeated words. Mathieu deems this satisfactory, pulls his fingers out, and squeezes more lube over them, smearing it over the length of his cock with a slick sound. He nudges Tadej’s knee, and Tadej spreads his legs wider to accommodate his body between them, feeling the gentle pressure of the tip against him.
Mathieu braces himself with an arm beside Tadej's head, and begins to slide in.
It's…oh. It's an interesting feeling. The head is somewhat soft inside him, but the shaft feels stiff, resisting the tightness of his own muscles and opening him up. It's kind of uncomfortable, actually, and he squirms a little, trying to see if any position feels good.
Mathieu holds Tadej's hips firmly with his other hand, stilling him, wordlessly telling him to be patient, and the last centimetres of his cock fill Tadej. It feels nearly right, warm where their hips make contact, and then Mathieu shifts slightly, and suddenly it feels very right.
"Oh, fuck, there," Tadej breathes, though he isn't quite sure where there is - just that it feels really good.
“Where?” Mathieu asks, pulling back slightly, and this time the teeth in the smile are hungry.
The first rough thrust back in makes Tadej squeal, as does the second, as does the third. Mathieu is fast and strong and measured, much as he is on the bike, and Tadej tries a few bucks of his own hips, but matching the rhythm is difficult, so he remains still on the floor and lets Mathieu have it his way.
That very good feeling is still there, an undercurrent washing just below the movements, and Tadej takes himself in hand, hoping he can help bring himself up to climax. Mathieu sees this, acknowledges it, and carries on, letting Tadej fuck himself with his hand, watching as he learns where on his body he can touch himself, where is too little and too much and so much that it forces tears to prick at his eyes and slip out through his eyelashes.
Tadej whimpers, tugging more than stroking himself now, tears carving wet sluices down his cheeks, hoping desperately he can finish like this. Mathieu leans in close, and says in a deep voice, in a growl, “That’s right, fucking come for me.”
Tadej does so, eyes squeezed shut, quivering through the sensation of his own come coating his hand and his abdomen, any sound stuck in his throat. Mathieu doesn’t relent, seemingly uncaring that Tadej is coming, focused on getting himself off with the body underneath him.
It doesn’t take too long, but it takes a bit longer than Tadej would have liked - he’s starting to feel a little sore. Mathieu grunts, pulling out roughly and jerking off quickly over Tadej’s stomach, teeth gritted as he swears quietly, over and over, “fuck, fuck, fuck”.
Tadej watches, wide-eyed, as Mathieu’s cock twitches in his hand and he comes over Tadej’s stomach, the warm liquid mingling with what’s cooling there already. Mathieu sits back on his knees, still holding himself, the flush beginning to dissipate from his chest already.
Tadej looks up at Mathieu, giddy with excitement and afterglow. “That was wonderful.”
Mathieu frowns slightly. "You're a mess. Do you want to shower?"
Tadej shakes his head, looks around for the box of tissues and points. "Can you pass me that?"
Mathieu does, and watches Tadej pull a few out of the box and begin to wipe his stomach down.
"I wasn't planning on fucking you," Mathieu says plainly.
"I know," Tadej replies, balling the tissues up in his hands. "I also was not expecting that."
Mathieu smiles. There's something in his eyes - mirth, perhaps. Tadej can’t tell.
"I'm sorry."
Tadej doesn't know what Mathieu's apologising for, nor why he's apologising with that smile not budging. As far as Tadej's concerned, they both had fun - there's nothing for Mathieu to apologise about.
Mathieu tosses Tadej's clothes at him - there’ll be no sharing the afterglow, not today - and Tadej begins to get dressed, shirt first, then standing to pull on his underwear and jeans. He's a little uncomfortable, but he brushes it off.
"Text me if you ever want to play another game," Mathieu says, standing by the door to let Tadej out.
Tadej thinks that would be the last possible reason he would text Mathieu.
It's unceremonious, the way he leaves - a nod of acknowledgement both ways, a disarming smile from Mathieu, the door opening into liminal hotel corridor space.
"See you, Tadej."
"Bye, Mathieu."
The door is shut, and Tadej limps towards the elevator. His thighs ache, a sensation he's used to, albeit not in the context of sex.
The next day, sitting on his bike in as many uncomfortable positions as his body will allow, Tadej realises what Mathieu was apologising for, and permits himself to inwardly curse the man.