#gremco

“Ready for your massage, Mr. Evenepoel?”

“Ah, just Remco.”

He doesn’t react much when Geraint touches him for the first time.

(“So what, you want me to just…?” Geraint had tightened his grip around Remco’s leg, suggesting some uncertain appliance of force in other ways. “I don’t think I could.”

“No?”

“Yeah, nah, not if you start saying no and stuff. That’d be bad. I’d worry.”

“Maybe it could be like, roleplay or something. So it’s not you. Sometimes, when I imagine it, it’s like – it’s a Grand Tour, and I’m tired, and while I’m there on the table, you know… Haven’t you had a fantasy like that?”)

It’s simple, the flat of Geraint’s palm to the back of Remco’s shoulder. There can be weight behind it – a swannie is allowed to touch the rider in their care. As Geraint’s hand moves down across Remco’s back, he thinks he should say something more and realizes he has suddenly forgotten everything any swannie ever said to him.

He needs to decide how much to do and when. How long to leave Remco waiting for something more to happen. Maybe it’d be fun to draw it out. Let the lad wait for it, knowing that it’s coming. Remco hates the wait before the bad thing, but he's good at it, trained by time trials to last under tension.

“Would you mind lying on your stomach for me?” Geraint asks.

Remco turns and Geraint makes sure to keep the towel where it should be. Nothing improper yet. He’s got to be careful, too; he can’t look at Remco’s back without thinking about how that shoulder blade was broken, and his ribs, and is that a new scar? That fucking post van, that fucking bridge. It almost takes Geraint out of the mood. Better to start further down, then. He places a hand on Remco’s left calf, pressing his thumb into the muscle and drawing a line from the hollow of a knee down to the Achilles tendon. It’s almost a caress with the way his fingers slide across the skin, but only almost. There is first and foremost another purpose to it.

“Did you have any issues during the ride?” Geraint asks. “Was anything tight or hurting?”

“No,” Remco says.

With great willpower, Geraint resists the urge to say that he can change that. Instead he asks, “Was it a hard ride?”

Remco folds his arms under his head and makes a noncommittal noise. “Just alright.”

He’s ignoring Geraint a little, trying to get something to happen. He knows what he’s doing. Geraint massage Remco’s calves in earnest, pretending to not be himself. He has to find something cruel in himself, doesn’t he, if he’s going to do what Remco asked of him?

(“I want you to force me.”)

Geraint can’t get to that just yet. The massage stuff is fun, anyway. Even though he’s never done it before, Geraint has been on the receiving end so many times that the slow movement still feels like muscle memory. Relatively gentle stuff to serve the surface first. Only after enough warming up does he start to add some pressure, a kneading movement to reach deeper layers of tissue. He makes sure it’s not enough to hurt, though Remco’s surely expecting it. And when Geraint hits a sore spot, Remco twitches -  there’s a little gasp – and Geraint immediately feels his own body’s reaction, the blood rushing south at the vulnerable sound. Trying to hear it again, he slides his hands slowly up along Remco’s hamstrings towards his glutes. Or his ass, if you’d like. There’s a bruise on the back of Remco’s left thigh, and when Geraint’s thumb pushes against it, he’s rewarded with another sharp breath.

“Sorry,” Geraint says, not sorry at all.

“That happens,” Remco says, and he knows why it happened.

It feels like a game in the good way, now. Something sparks, catches fire, and Geraint suddenly knows that he wants Remco too worked up to even speak by the end of this. Subtle heat spreads from his center to his fingertips. Even so, it’s still decent, what he’s doing, nothing his swannie wouldn’t do to him, still drawing it out. He can stand to do it a little longer – just a bit – just to see what Remco will do. He tries not to think about why Remco's little sounds have that effect on him. Or is it maybe being able to look down on Remco? The power inherent in being trusted to take care of Remco's relaxed body like this?

Geraint can just about remember how to treat the thigh muscles by using his forearm to smooth them over, spreading the pressure over a larger area. Then he uses the heel of his hand to push deeper and works his way up like that, getting hot under his shirt. Someone’s going to wash this shirt after – little Remco, kneeling on the floor of the laundry room with the sordid evidence. Clutching it to take in the scent. A nice picture even if that's not how it's going to go in real life. But fantasy-Remco... And now Geraint has reached Remco’s glutes and moves the towel up to press down on his right buttock. Remco shifts a bit, tensing. Geraint wonders if he’s getting hard, his cock caught between his stomach and the mattress. Just a little more, and Geraint will know for sure.

For now, he keeps his hands off to the side drawing figure-eights. He can feel the bone in places. He kneads the muscle, momentarily managing to think of it as just a practical matter. He could get lost in the thought that it’s sort of nice to take care of Remco this way, even if he’s probably not doing a bang-up job of it. But then he hears Remco give a little sigh and it’s his lover’s body again. He has touched Remco too much without really touching him and it’s getting hard to bear. Another quick press with his thumb -

“That hurts,” Remco says.

“It’s supposed to. Wait a little and it’ll feel better.”

There’s a knot there - even Geraint can tell. He’s not sure what to do to loosen it up, so he just does his best, mimicking how he remembers a swannie’s hands pressing down on his own old aches. Rubbing little circles, he eventually feels a change. Something softening, skin warming, blood flowing. Remco swallows a moan of pain – Geraint prides himself on knowing the difference between that and moans of pleasure – and then a push from Geraint’s thumb makes the muscle pliant and the knot is gone.

“Better, right?” he asks.

Remco nods. “Yeah.”

“Just like I told you.” Geraint moves to the other side of Remco’s body. So much smooth skin. Geraint isn’t cut out to be a swannie for someone like him, too easily distracted by it all. He runs his hand along Remco’s thigh in a way that could just be coaxing the blood flow along. Plausible deniability as he says, “If you get knots there, it’s usually because of saddle height or a misaligned cleat. Nothing serious, but maybe you should look into that.”

He at least remembers that advice from when he was on the table. He repeats the motions from before, aware of how Remco’s shoulders settle. It’s been so long without something happening except for brief, excusable pain that even if some part of Remco knows that’s not what he’s here for, he slips into relaxation. His body is familiar with firm hands and the knots in his muscles being worked out; it lets itself be lulled into a false sense of security. As Geraint moves to treat his lower back, it gets more pronounced with Remco's breathing slowing. Geraint still doesn’t feel cruel, but he does want to punctuate the quiet waiting. He should give Remco what he wants. Remco breathes in time with Geraint’s pulls and pushes, but now Geraint’s got this beautiful view of Remco’s backside glistening with oil, the sound of his sighs, and it’s getting too much. His dick is twitching in his pants. No swannie would react like this, think what he thinks. Nothing professional about him anymore. His mouth has gone dry when he says, “Turn back around.”

Remco does, lying on his side at first, pulling the towel back across his lap. Covering up like he doesn’t want to be revealed for what he is. Geraint places his hand just above Remco’s knee – what’s it called, that muscle, the quadri-something? Geraint’s scared to massage Remco anywhere close to that with so many tendons he shouldn’t fuck up. Better to focus on the thigh. He simply holds it at first, thinking back on last time he pried Remco’s legs apart. His thumb draws a small circle, lingers, and then he remembers Remco’s cute expression when he was asking for this earlier, the way he put his head in Geraint’s lap as they lay on the couch and looked up at him.

(“I just want to know what it’d feel like.”)

Further up, then. Fingertips sliding under the edge of the towel.

“Hey,” Remco says. “Maybe not that far, eh?”

Geraint holds his gaze. Remco gives a nervous smile, those little crinkles at the corners of his eyes – gone as quickly as they came.

Then, centimeter by centimeter, Geraint moves further up anyways.

It is sacrilege, this. It’s the sacred bloody bond between athlete and swannie, the man you entrust your body to, the guy who talks you down and cheers you up, the warm hands when you’re away from home. It feels deeply wrong to Geraint to imagine that anyone in his current position would ever dare to do what he does now, getting his hands all the way under the towel, no longer caring for hip flexors or tendons, just the heat between Remco’s thighs.

“Stop,” Remco says, his voice cold. Captain-voice as if he’s in charge of anything.

“Are you sure?” Geraint asks. His fingers, slippery with oil, trace the length of Remco’s hardening cock. “I think you like it.”

“I said fucking stop it,” Remco continues, agitated now as his shoulders tense again. He looks surprised. Maybe he is, somehow. His body, his nervous system, those parts of him don’t know fake danger from real. He tries to push himself up on his elbows, but Geraint places his free hand on Remco’s chest to force him down.

Geraint feels shallow breaths in a long, tense moment while his other hand traces Remco’s hard cock. His pulse beats loud in his ears. He's bigger than Remco. He's safe when Remco isn't. Remco should just...

“Lie still,” Geraint says, his voice gone breathy. “And it’ll feel better. Just like before.”

“I’ll shout for someone,” Remco insists, as if he could stare Geraint down and make him change his mind.  

Like during the massage, Geraint presses down with his forearm, this time putting real weight behind it. He tries to make his voice steady as he says, “You won’t. You want it. You're desperate, even.”  

Remco’s jaw shifts. He pushes against Geraint, but not with his full strength. He’s weak to this, his head starting to swim with the sensation of being overpowered and belittled; Geraint can see it happen by the way his eyes change. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” Geraint says, eliciting a reaction from the first proper strokes, the full-body shiver that means Remco’s been aching for it for a while. A slow squeeze and fingers lingering where he’s the most sensitive makes him helpless. When Remco opens his mouth to speak, Geraint shuts him up with a kiss, leaning over him, pressing him into the mattress, keeping him caught.

Blunt fingernails scrabble against Geraint’s chest. A muffled protest falls on deaf ears. Geraint feels invincible, proud that there is nothing Remco wants that Geraint won’t give him. He can give everything, anything. He hides his face in the crook of Remco’s neck, kissing the tender skin there between whispers.   

“If you won’t be honest with yourself, I’ve got some of your sports tape lying around,” Geraint says.

His breath must be warm on Remco’s neck; maybe that’s what provokes that shiver. The moment Geraint sits up to reach the bag, Remco moves back until he hits the headboard, but no further; Geraint’s hand on his thigh is enough to make him stop. Wide-eyed, he succumbs to surprise or fear or a secret willingness to go on, whatever it is that makes it easy for Geraint to get the tape around his wrists. It’s not half as easy easy to get on Remco’s mouth, but that’s alright when it’s part of the fantasy that it’s these clumsy hands doing it, Geraint being someone so taken by want that he’s got to have Remco here and now, violently, no matter what. It isn’t really sports tape, of course, but something made for this purpose; Geraint triple-checked it was the right roll in the bag before he went here, paranoid about a nightmare scenario of one of the mechanics suddenly standing in a van with a bunch of bondage tape.

Remco strains against it. It holds, thank heavens.

(“I still don’t think I have it in me, Remco. If you started saying ‘no’ and all that – it’d feel wrong. Don’t want to treat you like that.”

 “You don’t understand,” Remco had said, reaching up to grab Geraint’s curls and pull him closer. “I’m not asking you to love me less -” and then, with a smile, those soft eyes – “more the opposite, really.”)

Remco gets a different look in his eyes when he’s gagged. It’s a different sort of surrender, giving up his voice. He’s freed from his need to have an opinion on everything and any concerns about whether he’s saying something wrong. Geraint gets up on the mattress, on his knees, able to loom over Remco now as he strokes his hair, ignores the tied hands trying to push him off.

“Don’t have to do more, do I? You can lie still now?”

Remco doesn’t nod, but he doesn’t shake his head either. He stares, breathes.  

“Good. Don’t be scared.”

Which means: Be scared. Be small. Geraint feels the opposite, sinking into their delusion of choice. He’s enjoying himself as he runs his hands freely over Remco’s body in a way that’s all hunger. Remco tries to pull away, yet lets himself be pulled back by Geraint’s hands on his hips.

“You’re just too perfect to resist.” 

So loved.

Remco lays his head back and Geraint can imagine the sort of feeling, like when you let the soigneur do whatever he wants with your tired body taken to its most extreme; he can only lie there waiting for Geraint to be done with him.

Sometimes Geraint wonders why Remco wants this sort of treatment from him of all people – he's no expert, but the peloton’s got guys that give off far more of a domineering aura, doesn't it - and other times, like now, he feels closer to an answer. It’s something about shame, about Geraint knowing it well, how it works and overwhelms. Carrying it together and letting it crash over them. Remco’s blushing hard and he mumbles something unintelligible as Geraint’s fingertips caress the head of his rock, precome pearling there as proof of the way he gives in.

“I just want you so much,” Geraint tells him.

Geraint’s some sleazy older man with his hands on the white jersey rider. It’s wrong, so wrong, but at the same time he feels a serene sort of clarity he usually thinks of as reserved for races; he’s flowing from action to action, aware of what the right thing to do is each time he has to make a choice. He knows what Remco likes and that it’ll be better if Geraint straddles his waist to keep him down. That these are the places to touch. This is the tempo, the right way to hold his hand. Their rhythm of twitching hips and mumbled pleas. For a little while, Geraint is not afraid of not being enough. He strokes Remco until he’s at the point where his legs start to tremble.

“Maybe I should keep you here for a while, eh?” Geraint suggests, placing his oiled hand on Remco’s thigh. This time, he can grab it properly. Squeeze and release, watching red marks fade. “Maybe a long while.”  

Remco’s mumbled protest means nothing. A minute more of Geraint’s hand on his cock and he’s whining into the gag. Meanwhie, Geraint once again has to face he’s just not cut out for edging. He already has to keep away from what feels immediately good everywhere else in his life, forcing himself to abstain and suffer, so just here, he wants he wants relief with eager greed, wants it now. He fears it, too – the end is when he’ll ask himself what the fuck he was just doing, pretending to be a rapist – enough of a pervert to do that – to let himself stray from what’s normal for Remco’s sake. His wonderful Remco writhing underneath him, proving to himself over and over that he really can’t get away. Straining again and again, a tear at the corner of his eye. He always cries easily.

“Just let it happen,” Geraint says, unsure of who he’s talking to. He lets himself be caught in a slipstream, does not try to stave anything off. He wants to see Remco happy, for a certain definition of that word. Remco’s groans rise in pitch, his hands tense and then his whole body follows, his head falling to one side as he comes.

Geraint knows how he gets now, tired and heavy, so he lets Remco lie like that, brushing his sweaty hair out of his face. And then he gets himself off, which is easy as anything with that view and all the waiting. Remco barely moves at all. His chest rises and falls and he wiggles his hands a little, but apart form that, he’s just helplessly there – and he opens his eyes just a little bit, watching – and Geraint gets a stray thought about how strange it is to feel so dirty and so clean at once. The fire has burned through him and there’s nothing left but the knowledge that he loves Remco deeply and wants to join him in the haze of the after. He paints Remco’s stomach with his come, adding to what’s already there, before letting himself lie down next to his boy.

Geraint drapes one arm over Remco’s chest and catches one of Remco’s legs between his own, holding him down. Even after the gag comes off, they still don’t speak for a long time.

Geraint thinks that he's got a pit in his stomach where there's something very mean and Remco shines a light there, makes it a good thing. And the shame will come back, but it's sometimes a friend now, something to play with. And it's good enough. And he was good enough.

Remco wiggles closer. Eventually, he looks up and says, “It was a good idea, yes?"

Geraint searches his suitcase for the pillow and puts it on the bed. Stands there for a moment, searching himself for the nostalgia that sometimes comes over him. He feels some sort of duty to note how he feels ahead of his last Tour, but there’s not really anything. A sort of lightness in his stomach, which isn’t quite nervousness, but isn’t comfortable either. He tries to remember how he felt checking into his room before the first stage last year, or the year before that, or ten years ago, but it all blends together.

He feels some way about something, but he isn’t really sure about what or why.

He puts on the kettle, then. Inspects the provisions as far as coffee and tea goes. And there’s the writing desk, which is a good height for a laptop if he wants to watch a movie later, though he doesn’t think he will. He’s in the mood for wandering down the hall and knocking on doors until he finds someone who’ll keep him company. One last time he’s going to see all his teammates’ faces change across three weeks, gazes getting duller and cheeks more hollow, maybe a few more smiles if all goes well. Some of them are all fired up already. Geraint just can’t get himself there. There are no GC-hopes pinned on his back. He can’ t push himself that little extra bit to where it feels like a bike race is a matter of life and death and glory and honor. He keeps thinking about whether he’ll go on holiday after.

And then there’s a knock on the door.

Geraint left it ajar, so it’s only for politeness’ sake that Remco makes any sound before shouldering inside. He probably should be at his own hotel right now, but that hoodie says he’s been sneaking around incognito. He grins, knowing what Geraint thinks.

“Surprised?”

“Yes,” Geraint answers truthfully, setting aside the mug he had just picked up. “I thought since you had a big day today, you wouldn’t really be - ”

Remco lets the door fall shut behind him. “It was a big day for sure! All day media, and then the team after… And it’s nice to be with the team, but – you know what I mean, right?”

Remco holds out his arms, and Geraint forgets everything about tea. He hugs Remco, and it’s one of those long ones where Remco lets it start out light and then tightens his grip. He steers Geraint back until they’re at the bed where he finally let go so that he can fall down on his back, splayed across the duvet. Geraint opts to just sit on the bed for now, admiring Remco’s tired little smile.

He knows what Remco means. Teammates are nice, but if any of them are going to be riding for you all three weeks, you have to start the Tour showing them nothing but confidence. That’s a tough job. Here, Remco doesn’t have to think about that; playfully, he reaches for Geraint’s curls and messes them up.

“Not too short this time,” he comments. “I like it.”

Geraint takes hold of Remco’s hand and kisses his stupid boyfriend’s palm. “It was so it won’t get in the way under the helmet. And I have to look good in the pictures.”

Remco closes his eyes. “The pictures were good. There were just a lot of them, though. Cameras everywhere you looked.”

“And that’s just the beginning.” Geraint pauses. “It’s a hard job, being captain.”

 “It must be nice for you to just have to worry about a stage win, maybe.”  

“It is, actually.”

Opening one eye, Remco says, “But less responsibility with that means you have no excuse to not answer when I call. Or text. Maybe texting will be easier.”

Geraint swats Remco’s thigh lightly. “Sure. I expect you’ll be too busy to find me in the bunch and talk there, anyway.”

“And maybe I wanna talk about things the bunch shouldn’t hear.” Remco sighs. “Not that I think we have much time for the next weeks. Even today, ten minutes more and I have to go.”

“Then c’mere and we’ll make them good,” Geraint says, laying down beside Remco with his head propped up on one arm. Remco rolls over to move closer. With Geraint’s free arm around him, he seems content.

Geraint knows the thoughts whirling around in Remco’s head right now, but also that he will, at some point during this night, find that solid core of belief that will carry him through. He’ll force himself to believe deluded scenarios of taking the top step on the podium. He has to. And he’ll be nervous, but then all those expectations and fears will congeal into a number, his result.

It hits him then, as Remco captures his lips, why he’s felt so odd all evening. He’s worried about the Tour, yes, but not for his own sake. It’s all about Remco now. Small, determined Remco who has stolen a bit of Geraint’s peace of mind as well as these kisses. He could achieve so much or crash out or lose an ocean of time. And he's here again, with Geraint before it all. It's life and death, honor and glory, for him.

“What’s wrong?” Remco asks, always able to tell when Geraint’s having one of those moments of belated realization.

“Nothing,” Geraint says. “How do you feel, being back at this race?”

“That sounds like a another press conference question,” Remco says, smiling. “It’s fine. It’s big. I’m glad I get to share it with you.”

Geraint first takes it to mean that Remco looks forward to his lover witnessing his victory – then that it’s Remco talking around what he truly feels. Either way, it’s because he can’t let himself even think of failure now.

[...] “I bought some beer,” Remco then says. “Fancy bottled stuff. I’m not training anyway. I can skip a meal and spend the calories on beer. What’s the point, right?”

“You get tired of that, too," Geraint points out.

Remco sighs, laying his head back. “But maybe we could make an evening out of it.”

“Night on the town?”

"Don’t want to risk pictures. No, just in here. I know the season’s starting for you ,so I bought some nonalcoholic stuff too. Kitchen, first cupboard on the right.” A pause. “Give me what I want.”

Geraint hums in understanding.

The sun sets while he takes care of the drinks. He pours the beer into tall glasses. It's a sound he hasn't heard in a while, but instead of thinking about bars and past parties, he thinks of the sound it makes when the air rushes out of a tire, when a rider hits the asphalt. This last year, he finds himself more afraid than usually. He’d like to decide how he ends his career, not leave it to chance and some neopro who doesn’t spot a speed bump in time.

He returns to Remco, who has put on a TV show. As per usual, they start necking halfway through it. Remco’s tense under Geraint’s arm, though, and then he reaches for the beer. He compliments it and empties the glass quickly. He relaxes into Geraint.

“It’s not very strong,” Remco says.

Geraint squeezes him. “You’re a lightweight.”

“More?” Remco then asks, and Geraint will not deny him. He gives Remco another glass and another kiss and they watch another episode of the show Geraint started in Australia. Remco doesn't slow down. Having zero built up tolerance and drinking on an empty stomach doesn't faze him. Another glass, another.

“What happens at the end of the episode?” Geraint eventually asks. “Can you still have sex when you’re all torn up like that?”

“Would like to,” Remco mumbles. “With my shoulder fucked up I have not been able to use my best hand:” He looks up. “I’ve been sober the whole time I’ve known you, you know. I’ve thought about getting drunk with you. I wonder if you would think it was hot.” His hand is on Geraint’s thigh. “Just… loose and easy. While you are clean and strong and able to do what you want with me.”

“I… don’t really know what I think.”

“A little bit, you like it.”

“Maybe a little,” Geraint relents. Being in charge like that, taking care of Remco when he needs it, being relied on, yes.

“You can,” Remco says, and this time, the kiss he offers is deeper, longer. “But you have to talk really nice to me while you do it.”

He’s slurring his words. He’s holding on tight to Geraint’s T-shirt like he’ll pull it off any moment. When Geraint pulls him to his feet, his movement his clumsy and uncoordinated.

They get into the bedroom.

Soon,Remco is splayed out on top of the covers, shirt riding up. He’s a vulnerable, sad little thing, but also getting what he wants at least tonight. Geraint leans over him and Remco grabs his collar, pulling him closer.

“Tell me if I hurt you,” Geraint says, sliding his hands under Remco’s shirt. “All those bruises…”

"Let’s not talk about them. It feels good. Want more.”

“How drunk are you?”

Remco giggles. “I guess I really am a lightweight. I can barely lift my arms – you’ve got to help me with the clothes - I don’t know what’s happening…”

He just lies there to let Geraint decide what to do with him. Buttons are quickly undone, the shirt disposed off. Geraint doesn’t ask Remco to get on his stomach, he just starts moving Remco’s limp body for him, and Remco cooperates as if in a daze. Geraint knees beside him, lowering himself to kiss Remco’s shoulder.

“By the way,” Remco whispers, “I know those beers were all non-alc.”

“Sorry ‘bout that,” Geraint whispers back, as if there was an audience that might hear them. “I didnt want you to hate yourself tomorrow.”