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Tom can see his breath in the cold air, exerting his lungs with each pedal stroke, sprint and hoist of his bike over his own shoulder. The UCI World Cup in Gavere is part of the second half of his annual cyclocross season and a new opportunity to win, unlike most of the previous races this month.
He is hopeful, of course. But there is only so much time he can try not to lose in the wheel of Mathieu van der Poel. The Dutchman had undeniably been a favourite on such terrain and Tom cursed his physiology at times for not being able to perform at the same levels due to his weight and absolute power.
From lap one onwards he was met with the sight of Mathieu’s back, and had to vigorously attempt to close the gap.
Even being in the lead during the pitstops does not suffice for enough time gained. It’s halfway through the race and Tom can feel every push of his pedals burning through his quads, desperate in getting through the endless onslaught of muddy ruts. To make matters worse, once being overtaken by his Dutch rival, he loses sight of him entirely for an array of turns. Those certainly aren't the most motivated turns he had taken on a bike.
The thought of a warm shower and falling into the duvets of his bed entices Tom so much he nearly slips out of a sharp corner, having to unclip his shoe and balance himself with his leg as counterweight. Refocused with a renewed drive after a bit of an adrenaline high, the Briton closes the gap in the pitlane and attacks, leading the race again.
However, his moment of victory isn’t long-lasting and instead he narrowly avoids his focus leaving him once more due to the sheer strength of Mathieu powering back in front of him, dropping him in the process.
And suddenly Wout van Aert is hellbent on getting past him as well.
Tom wants to scream, as ridiculous as it may seem on second thought. He isn’t necessarily one to get angry, to hold a grudge against one of his opponents. But this is Mathieu; the playing field had never truly been level. Whether in terms of pure force in these cyclocross seasons or simply in the way Tom wishes he could ride to victory and actually impress the Dutchman.
Sure, he had won in Boom a few weeks ago and was wearing the rainbow jersey of a world champion, yet this gnawing feeling that he still had to prove himself to his competitor wouldn't let him go. Perhaps his feelings stretch a bit more to adoration. Or attraction.
Tom is suddenly thankful for the cold and exhaustion bringing out a red hue to his cheeks, masking the thoughts racing through his mind. For a split second, he thinks he should simply stand still and wait an entire minute for the next person behind him just to have someone to race, someone to take his mind off the embarrassing torrent of thoughts about a certain cyclist. Wout is too far in front anyways.
The rational part of his brain fortunately takes over. And so he finishes the race, in third, securing himself a spot on the podium, impossibly far from the top step he so wishes to claim.
The celebrations on stage are somewhat ambivalent. Congratulations, trophies, flowers, some words cueing applause and reciting individual achievements in Dutch (he doesn’t understand the words, it’s simply become a common experience in enough languages) and cheers from the lively audience. Being the second loser for these celebrations is something Tom doesn’t particularly enjoy, he’d much rather just win. Easier said than done though.
Mathieu enters last, the spectators scream their merriment at the top of their lungs, and Tom feels the air knocked out of his own ones when the Dutchman gives him what he can only describe as the standard half-hug. Had his eyes always been so blue? And why is he enjoying how tall Mathieu looks on the top step next to him? He wishes, again, he could just stop his thoughts.
“Well done, I thought you had me again with the pitstop!” Mathieu quips with a grin, wrapping his arm around Tom’s waist (presumably around Wout’s as well, but Tom naturally gives that thought no mind) to pull him closer for the mandatory pictures. The sound of the lenses shuttering snaps him out of his somewhat humiliating daze.
“Thanks, man,” he replies honestly, hoping his opposite hasn’t noticed anything off about their interaction, “you were just too strong today.”
Tom might be hallucinating but he swears Mathieu winks at him cheekily before turning back to the cameras. Like really winks. What the hell.
The moment passes, albeit not leaving his mind, and after interviews and a cold shower in one of the tents designated for the riders to remove all the dirt and muck, Tom is in the car being driven to the hotel. And if there’s anything he has got his sights on during the transfer back, half curled up in the back seat, it is another shower; a very warm one. The cold had seeped into his bones, goosebumps following in the wake of his shivering body. He couldn’t wait to sleep this day off.
However, as though his third place hadn’t been enough of a punishment today, after he has stripped down his clothes in the bathroom, the fucking shower won’t turn on. Tom takes a couple of deep breaths, grounding himself. It’s just a shower, no need to get upset, he tells himself. He still takes a considerable amount of time to wallow in self-pity, enviously scanning the hotel-inclusive shower gel and shampoo, staring at the various settings offered by the jet streams, before moving on.
Tom accepts defeat, wrapping his towel around his waist. He knows the whole floor is pretty much filled with cyclocross riders and, logically, there should be a guy he also knows next door. And to not look completely desperate in his attempt to finally just get a warm shower, he quickly puts on some sweatpants and a team crewneck, tucking his towel beneath his arm.
Standing in the hallway, he doesn’t spare his doubts another thought and instead balls his fist and knocks on the door. What he certainly doesn’t expect is Mathieu fucking van der Poel to be stood in front of him, towel wrapped lowly around his waist. Tom’s breath hitches slightly at the sight of the water droplets running down his torso, letting his eyes wander down across his v-line.
“Can I help you?” Mathieu asks, raising an eyebrow.
“Uh, I was just wondering if your shower works?” he replies, avoiding looking at the Dutchman across him at all costs, “Mine’s broken.”
Mathieu beckons him in and closes the door. “Warming up after those temperatures as well?” he asks, gesturing at himself being evidently freshly showered. Tom can’t help but think that his opposite is doing this on purpose, making him look down at his body again.
“Yeah, I’m still kind of freezing,” Tom admits, willing to stay composed.
There’s something flashing in Mathieu’s eyes. “I can help you with that, hm?” he suggests. Tom’s brows furrow and his lips part ever so slightly.
“...Help me?” The Briton questions on the exhale of his breath, not sure whether Mathieu is insinuating what he thinks he is. A flush takes place on his cheeks again and the Dutchman is grinning at him.
Before any more doubts can fester in his mind, Tom realises he's being crowded against the door. He has to crane his neck to properly see Mathieu and feels his heart fluttering against his ribcage. The air is charged with a mixture of anticipation and desire on both ends.
“You sure you just wanted a shower, Pidcock?” he murmurs, and the tone of his voice sends him back to the podium, reigniting his emotions. “You seemed pretty eager earlier.”
Tom’s mind is blank, his shower long-forgotten with the heat rising through his body. “I, uhm, I’m not really sure if you–”
“I want you, Tom,” Mathieu breathes out, mere inches away from his face. “How does that sound?”
Tom’s hands come to the Dutchman’s side, drawing him closer. With bated breaths, he can somehow still form a coherent sentence: “I want you too.”
Mathieu’s face breaks into a smile and he wishes he could capture this moment forever, enraptured by him as he leans in and presses their lips together, slowly moving together. They move in unison and Tom gasps as Mathieu breaks apart to pull off his Ineos crewneck, holding his waist and promptly kissing him again, chest-to-chest, both heaving.
The taller man is palming Tom’s obvious erection over his sweatpants, and Tom swears he could die happily right there and then. His breath hitches but there’s a sense of comfort in the way he can see his counterpart being equally as affected, hair slightly tousled and pupils blown wide.
They move to the bed, eager and unable to keep their hands off each other. Mathieu is already a step ahead of him and while he just got accustomed to lying against the inviting pillows, the former is already on his way trailing kisses down his neck and chest, his hands all-encompassing.
Mathieu removes Tom's sweatpants in a single motion. His teasing words about the Briton's lack of underwear die on the tip of his tongue as he properly looks at Tom properly, naked, flushed, on his white sheets.
Tom can’t help but whine and Mathieu groans at the noise, lightly grazing his collarbone with his teeth before decidedly marking his skin with a bruising kiss. He couldn’t help himself, not with Tom underneath him like this. He keeps on wandering south, keen on exploring every centimetre of his body, evoking those pretty sounds from him.
The Dutchman relishes in Tom’s immediate reaction to him firmly taking his cock in his hand again, leisurely moving up and down at a languid pace. “You look so pretty,” he whispers against his pelvis, lips working against the soft skin.
Tom cards one of his hands through Mathieu’s short hair, the other burying itself into the pillow, in search of something to ground himself with. Mathieu licks a broad stripe up Tom and he could cry. Instead, he lets out an embarrassing sound that makes Mathieu chuckle, but he has no time to grumble something at him; not with the heat of Mathieu’s mouth enclosing the tip of his cock.
He lets out a broken fuck, covers his face with the hand closer to him and submits to the endless waves of lust. Once he finds it in himself to uncover his eyes, glancing down, Tom thinks he’s never seen a sight sexier than the man above him continuing his kisses and licks, moving down to his balls and back up again. Mathieu’s eyes are closed, fully immersed and the pure want is written in his face.
Noticing Tom’s observative silence, he likewise opens his eyes, piercing the Briton with his heated gaze.
“Is this okay?” he asks, gently, the heat in his blue eyes turning into concern, misinterpreting the momentary quietude.
“Yes, fucking hell, yeah,” Tom rushes out, his fingers tightening their hold in the blonde strands of hair, “This is incredible.”
The corners of Mathieu’s mouth quirk upwards, a familiar playfulness taking over his face once more. Tom doesn’t have time to say much more before Mathieu takes his dick in his mouth, massaging the underside of it with his tongue. His hips tilt upwards ever so slightly and the Dutchman firmly grips his hips, pinning him down as he swallows around him.
“I’m close…” he grits out. It hasn’t been long but this is as though a majority of his fantasies have materialised into actuality before his very eyes, and he’s still in dire need of a pinch to remind himself whether this is real or not.
Mathieu slowly pulls off him with a sinful sound and makes a displeased noise when Tom’s hips chase the warmth of his mouth, hitting his lips with the tip of his cock.
“Behave,” Mathieu rasps in a low tone, however there’s a lightheartedness in his voice that Tom finds himself getting lost in. He places a few kisses on the inside of Tom’s thighs and his pelvis, which makes the younger man’s abs flex in response.
Tom’s arms wrap around Mathieu’s ascending figure covering him, letting his fingers wander over the toned muscle and warm skin. “Fuck me, please,” he pleads, soliciting a quiet moan from him.
Mathieu nuzzles his nose into the crook of Tom’s neck, breaths in his scent. “You sure?”
“Yes, come on Mathieu,” How much more willing and yearning does he have to look for this man? “I need you inside of me.”
That’s all the answer he needs and he gets the lube and a condom from the depths of his nightstand’s drawer; Tom doesn’t bother questioning it.
Mathieu presses a firm, heated kiss against Tom’s lips and caresses his chest, fingers teasing his nipples. “Spread your legs a bit more for me,” he whispers huskily.
Tom follows his lead, intertwines his right hand with Mathieu’s left loosely before the hold is reciprocated with vigour and he lets out a tiny smile. Mathieu’s other hand is busy elsewhere and the man below him squirms at the cool sensation around his rim.
He lets out a gasp when Mathieu tentatively pushes a finger into him, slowly stretching him out. Tom feels tears prick in the corners of his eyes, overwhelmed not by the sensation but rather the intimacy he could feel in the air. “I can take it,” he shyly mumbles, and is met with a cheeky smile.
Mathieu adds in another finger, brushing against his prostate and Tom’s hips jerk up, his tip leaking precome against his stomach. The Dutchman continues to finger him, stretching him determinedly while kissing his slender frame.
Tom feels as though there’s fire coursing through his veins, the flames amplifying his desire. He reluctantly lets go of Mathieu’s hand to grip the base of his own cock in hopes of controlling himself and said man uses the opportunity to finally rid himself of the towel securely wrapped around his hips. Tom’s mouth waters at the sight and his hips buck again at the thought of being fucked.
He watches, mesmerised, as Mathieu strokes himself with a slow pace, curls his fingers inside of Tom quicker.
“I’m ready,” Tom pants, moving in time with Mathieu's hand subconsciously in an effort to get the stimulation he so craves. Mathieu nods, unrolling the condom on his dick and generously applying some lube before disregarding it.
His fingers slip out of Tom, instead gripping the back of his thigh, pushing it to Tom's waist to make more space for his own hips. Tom wants to sigh at the temporary emptiness, but finds he doesn't have the time when Mathieu's tip is applying pressure to his rim.
Mathieu changes the angle slightly, lines up again and pushes himself in slowly until his thighs meet those of Tom. Mathieu moans at the heat around his cock, grinding against Tom. Tom shivers under him, clenches, and Mathieu hisses at the tightness.
"You're fucking amazing," Mathieu grits out, pulling out until only the head of his cock is inside and rolling his hips back into him. His thrusts intensify as he leans forward, placing his elbows on either side of Tom's head, impossibly close to the Briton.
Tom can't keep his eyes open at the proximity, tightly screwing them shut but he cannot help the way his hands reach for Mathieu; one around his torso, one in his blond hair. He's moaning, he realises, squirming on the mattress beneath him.
Mathieu dips down lower to continue mouthing at Tom's neck, kissing over the delicate skin while a sheen layer of sweat perspires on their bodies. His thrusts are precise, driving their point home, and he's so grateful Tom is here, under him, in his arms. He should be tired after today's exertion but the rush of adrenaline has set him on course to cherish this time with Tom – hell, he could probably do another hour of laps with the invigorating and energising effect Tom has on him.
"Harder, please," Tom says quietly, unable to steady his voice, unable to hide the shake in it. He's begging and usually he would be more shameful, but Mathieu is fucking him so good he doesn't have a care in the world. He grabs Mathieu's hair with more strength and pulls him upwards, smashing their lips together in a searing kiss.
Mathieu knows; knows that Tom wants more roughness and yet, one day, he wishes he could take him apart gently, bit by bit. With more time. However, Mathieu is also aware of the Briton panting beneath him, presently, his hard cock trapped between their abdomens. And so he kisses him once more, with sincerity, tenderness, and pulls back slowly.
Tom whimpers, the intensity getting to him and his mind is going haywire with a frenzy of emotions washing over him like tidal waves on a shore; they break against him and cleanse the worries carved in his conscience, replacing them with affection and intimacy.
Mathieu wastes no further time, wraps a firm hand below Tom's jaw in order to have a hold on Tom's neck. Not necessarily controlling, but a reminder that he is there. Tom lets out a groan when Mathieu changes the angle of his hips, reaching deeper, stretching him even further.
He gains pace and although Tom would usually feel embarrassed at how desperately close he is, he is somewhat reassured by the laboured breathing of Mathieu and his less-meticulous, rather urgent thrusts. Tom runs his fingers over the Dutchman's back, memorising the way the muscles move under his hand.
"Touch yourself for me, Tom," Mathieu commands, "I want to see you come."
There's not a second he thinks twice for. His hand moves from Mathieu's working muscles to his own dick and he sighs again, rock hard and pulsing in his hand, still wet from Mathieu's mouth. The relief is nearly instant and his entire body is shaking from the pleasure and the force with which Mathieu is rocking into him.
Mathieu lets his head fall next to Tom's head. "I'm close as well, come for me," he says, so close to Tom's ear that Tom could come solely from his low, raspy voice, regardless of the heavenly stimulation.
"Please," Mathieu whispers at last and Tom's world goes blurry. He comes the hardest he ever has within the next stroke of his own hand and Mathieu inside of him, spurting his cum onto his and Mathieu's abs and chests.
Mathieu comes to a standstill, lets his weight fall onto Tom and shudders as he simultaneously climaxes with a loud moan. Tom comes to his senses first, whimpering at the earth-shattering orgasm he just had, and runs his fingers through Mathieu's hair.
After a couple of moments in a comfortable silence, Tom asks: "How about a shower now?"
"A warm one?" the Dutchman replies cheekily, voice muffled and his lips tickle Tom slightly as they brush against his collarbone.
"You might have to carry me there, I can't fucking move," Tom laughs, barely concealing his giddy contentedness.
Mathieu moves up onto his elbows again and flashes Tom a grin that sends the butterflies in his stomach into a fluttering mess.
"That can be arranged."