Chapter Text
Grand Départ
French for “great departure”, it’s the start of the Tour de France.
Team presentation
Two days before the start of the Tour de France, and Ed is already done with this circus. He remembers the first time he made it to the Tour, walking into the fancy room with chandeliers and spotlights, journalists, TV crews, and cameras everywhere. Then, he was awed by the sense of occasion, all the focus on the big contenders for the General Classification. There had been hardly anyone in the room even remotely interested in the scrawny brown kid from Aotearoa; a couple of Australian journos had snapped his picture and half-heartedly taken down his name in a vague, neighbourly sort of way. Those pictures are iconic now — Edward Teach before he was famous, before he won four stages in his first Tour, before he won the General Classification in his second. He’s got a pile of yellow jerseys in his spare room, the cuddly lions awarded alongside them mouldering on the floor of his garage. When had the starry-eyed awe disappeared? Maybe after driving himself into the ground so his team captain could win the Tour of Flanders, he’d puked it up with the rest of his guts. Left it steaming at the side of the road bare inches after the finish line, while their Directeur Sportif Ben Hornigold had reamed him out for his “lack of commitment”.
Commitment, fuck. He was committed then, but he’s not sure he is any more. And yet here he is, five Grand Tour wins under his belt, captain of his team and with seven men riding as his domestiques, there to help him get the win. It’s a funny old sport, cycling. Twenty-odd teams of (usually) eight members race, but only a handful of the riders are expected to have any chance of winning.
It’s like chess on wheels, a tactical campaign enacted over hundreds of kilometres and three weeks of exhaustion. The domestiques try to protect their captain, keep him out of trouble, let him sit in their slipstream, so he can complete each of the 21 stages in as short a time as possible. They use themselves up, wear themselves out, drop back and hand over to the next guy, just to let the captain coast as much as possible. It’s a true demonstration of loyalty, but sometimes it’s wearing, having all the expectation that goes with it. How can he possibly say he’s just not feeling it any more, when Izzy and the boys will grind themselves into the floor for him? He’s just treading water, letting it happen to him. Waiting to drown.
Today it’s even more of a spectacle, there’s music, lights, and a stage so that the riders can be gawked at like animals in a zoo. Izzy’s over in the wings beside the stage now, barking the team into order, waiting for Ed to arrive so their team can be presented to the organisational bigwigs and the media can get their pound of flesh. He takes a deep breath and shifts out of the shadowy corner he’s been lurking in, and steps over to Izzy, trying to ignore the way the camera flashes make him twitch. Heads turn and murmurs filter through the air, his name repeated in half a dozen languages — hey, it’s Teach, c’est Teach, es Barbanegra, there’s Blackbeard, Blackbeard, Blackbeard — slipping over him like a second skin, one that’s not felt the right size for years. The idea of Blackbeard squeezes him like a grape in a press, and he wonders idly when he’ll break under the pressure, and what will happen when he does.
“About fucking time,” grouses Izzy, when he gets to the team. He’s scowling, as usual, and unimpressed with his team mates. They’ve got Fang and Ivan with them — good solid riders, they’ve been together for years — but the rest of the team is a bit of a mystery. Ed’s somehow ended up with a new medley of sponsors this year thanks to some vagaries of contractual obligations. It’s Team BonnetBank's first year, the owners far too pleased to have scored Blackbeard for his swansong Tour. It sticks in his throat, having so little control, but the thought of all the paperwork necessary to a pro cyclist’s life makes him want to scream. It’s all so fucking boring, and signing up to a faceless corporate entity like BonnetBank is worth not having to engage.
He doesn’t really look at the others in his team beyond a quick glance. They’re all wearing the same soulless team kit, that’s enough. Black on black on black — of course, nothing else for a brand new team with Blackbeard at the helm. His own is slightly different to the others’ — the rainbow stripes of a former world champion on one sleeve cuff, and the silver-fern-on-black of a former AoNZ national champion on the other. Otherwise they’re all the same. There’s a stylised sail on their backs; white triangles which will probably look pretty cool from the helicopter cameras, to be fair. Sails again on the little ship logo on the sleeves and a big fat “BonnetBank” on their chests, the twin capital Bs accentuated. It’s as much “Blackbeard” as it is “BonnetBank”, and again he feels that squeeze, his skin tightening.
Ed climbs on his bike and rolls on to the podium with Izzy ahead of him and Fang behind. He glares at the array of cameras — that’s what they expect from Blackbeard, after all — and waits impatiently as the stuffed suit repeats all their names in French, then English, and with far too much clapping. No-one’s even done anything yet. He disappears back to his hotel room as quickly as he can. One more day, and then the countdown to the end of his career can really start.
The day before the start
Say what you like about the French, but they’re fucking great at breakfast. He likes crispy American bacon and Italian fruit-salads-with-ham as much as the next guy, even a stodgy bowl of English porridge with honey on a cold morning, but there’s something special about French patisserie. Fiddly little pastries, jams, custards, fruit and sugar: what mad fool thought of rolling butter and dough in the middle of the night for a barely-there moment of perfection first thing in the morning? The French, that’s who. Ed loves it. Their Directeur Sportif is another face Ed knows, though he’s never worked with him before, but if Oluwande Boodhari is the sort of man to organise pretty little boutique hotels and fresh croissants every morning of the Tour he’s sorry it’s taken so long.
There’ll be a couple of hours of peace this morning, enough to enjoy his breakfast in the early-morning sunshine and take his bike out for a spin before they have to climb on the team bus and get to Saint-Étienne for the start tomorrow. First light always makes him feel positive, and he stretches out his legs, crosses his ankles, and enjoys the sun on his closed eyes for half a heartbeat before the peace is shattered by what sounds like an orchestra falling down a flight of stairs.
Ed’s eyes fly open and he’s on his feet immediately. Where there had been a neat little row of cafe-style tables with curly-legged chairs (there’s the French love for fiddliness again), there’s now a spreading pool of coffee, approximately fifty million shards of fine bone china, and, saddest of all, a coffee-covered pain au chocolat going soggy in the middle of it all. There’s a long body stretched full-length and groaning among the mess too. A pair of pale calves is tangled up with an overturned chair at one end, and a mop of golden hair at the other. He’s dressed in BonnetBank kit, but he’s too tall to be Pete Black, too white — and too clumsy — to be Samba Roach, and his blond hair altogether too luxurious to be the Swedish dude whose name temporarily escapes him. Which means he must be—
“Stede Bonnet, I presume,” Ed says, leaning under the table and holding out a hand.
The groaning stops abruptly, and Stede Bonnet sits up, cracks his head on the underside of the table, and flops back on to one elbow propped in the coffee puddle. Despite the inauspicious start to his day, the smile he turns Ed’s way is dazzling. “You’ve heard of me?”
The openly delighted look on his face and the warmth of his hand in Ed’s is enough to draw an answering grin out of Ed. He squeezes Stede’s hand a little and chuckles. “Yeah, mate, I’ve heard of you. I’ve heard all about you.” Most of it via Izzy, true, and very little of it flattering, but with a beautiful golden heap of a man at his feet, perhaps it’s worth forming his own opinion.
“I’m Ed,” he says, helping Stede to his feet. “Nice to meet you.”
Stede flushes, brushing stray crumbs off himself. “Yes,” he replies, eyes flickering to Ed’s for a moment, then darting away. “The honour’s all mine. Riding the Tour with Blackbeard, I keep having to pinch myself to be sure it’s real.”
“Just Ed’s fine, mate,” Ed says, sighing a little.
“Oh! Oh well,” Stede beams. “Ed, then. Hello.”
Ed chuckles. “Hello Stede. Let’s get you some replacement brekky, hmm?” He steps back inside, finds Madame Dubois, lays on the charm and drops into French. “I’m sorry, my friend has dropped everything on the floor. Any chance of some more coffee and croissants?”
Mme. Dubois shoos them both back outside with a friendly sort of frown and a tray of coffee and pastries. He can manage another coffee, but it’s probably not going to do him any favours to have another croissant, much as he’d love to.
Stede, his first breakfast still swimming in cold coffee on the floor, has no such worries. He bites into the warm pain au chocolat and groans. “Gosh, that’s good.” He glances over at Ed. “I didn’t know you spoke French.”
“French is the language of cycling,” Ed shrugs. “Speak French and you’ll have an easier time. Sure, probably more guys have English, but French has more history in the sport. And,” he says, waving a hand vaguely around them, “we’re in France. Seems reasonable.”
“I suppose so,” Stede sighs. “I don’t think I can learn a whole new language in three weeks though.”
“There’s always next year? Come to your next Tour all fancy and multilingual. Why not do the Giro and the Vuelta and pick up Italian and Spanish while you’re at it.” He takes a gulp of his coffee, tilts his cup at Stede. “Collect the whole set.”
“I don’t think so.” What’s left of the pastry is rapidly becoming crumbs, shredded in Stede’s restless fingers. He glances up at Ed and stills, eyes rather wistful. “This is my first Tour, but it’s also my last. I’m here by luck. It won’t happen again.”
“Hmm. I might have heard something along those lines.”
Ed has, in fact, heard a lot of it, mostly in Izzy’s outraged voice. You know that twat hasn’t even raced a one-day Classic? No real road experience at all, just a handful of time trials. He’s a rower, for fuck’s sake, he’s not got the first idea how to handle himself in a group. He’s only here because his daddy owns the team. Totally unprofessional. Stupid fucking Stede Bonnet.
“So why are you here now, then?” he asks. “What did you do to get Fortune to smile on you so beautifully?”
“It’s a long story,” Stede replies.
“I’ve got all day. Come on, get your bike. We’ll go for a ride and you can tell me all about it.”
They head out into the glorious French countryside, rolling side by side at a comfortable pace for several miles before Stede warms up to the tale. They go over a pretty little bridge overhung with trees and the sight of the water seems to crack something inside him.
“My family,” Stede begins, “have always been wealthy. Doing things the right way for the right people. Or at least, being seen to do so. I was shipped off to boarding school as a small boy, another one as a teenager, and then shuffled off to Cambridge. I’ve always liked riding bikes, but it wasn’t an option for me to take seriously.”
“Cambridge, eh? What did you study?”
“Classics. I may not speak French, but if you need anything written in Ecclesiastical Latin, I’m your man.”
Ed snorts. “Noted. And you’re telling me they don’t have a cycling club in Cambridge?”
“No, no, they do. But it wasn’t an ‘acceptable choice of sport’ for me.” Stede sits up on his bike, does air quotes and scowls. “When my father was young, he was a ‘boatie’: a rower for Cambridge. So, when I went there too I was given the choice of rowing or rowing, so rowing it was. I was pretty good at it, but I never really loved it.”
The only thing Ed knows about rowing is the existence of the annual Oxford-Cambridge grudge match. “Did you row in the Boat Race?”
Stede chuckles. “Not quite. I was on the reserve team, racing in Goldie rather than for the real Light Blues. And we lost. My father was furious.”
Ed barks a laugh. “Oh, that’s great. Real sticking it to the man.”
“I didn’t lose on purpose!” Stede is indignant for a moment, then spots Ed’s grin. “I was probably the happiest man ever to be on the losing team though. It felt gloriously passive-aggressive.”
“I bet it did. Still doesn’t explain why you’re riding in the Tour de France, though. No boats here.”
“Oh yes. Well, I cycled in my spare time, as much as I could. Rode some sportives for fun, joined a local club without telling my family and did a few time trials here and there.”
“You sneaky little menace,” remarks Ed.
“Polite menace,” retorts Stede. “Anyway, when my father had an opportunity to acquire a professional cycling team, get his name all over European media, cycling suddenly seemed a lot more acceptable, and having me in the team — well, having his name in the team — made it even more noticeable. So he put it in the contract that I had to have a place.”
Stede puts his head down, powers ahead of Ed for a few miles of narrow country roads. He’s got lovely form, a more balanced physique than many road racers. He looks built more for sprinting than endurance, probably, but perhaps he’s got the legs to be an all-rounder; to put in decent times in the mountains.
As the road starts to open up a little more Ed changes gear, surges past Stede in a brief sprint, stretching his legs until he starts to feel a satisfying hint of a burn. He sits up and spins easily, giving Stede the chance to catch up and come alongside him again.
“So, you see, I don’t really have any right to be here at all,” Stede continues, as if there hadn’t been the slightest pause. “I haven’t even had the experience of riding in a big group before.”
Holy shit. “Your first ever road race is the Tour de France?” Ed asks, incredulous.
“Mmmhmm.” Stede’s eyes are firmly fixed on the road ahead.
“Fucking hell.” This is insane. Probably dangerous. Quite possibly against the rules of the Tour, but the powers that be in cycling have been known to bend the rules to suit themselves before. Ed reaches over and grips his shoulder. “You’re a fucking lunatic, mate. I like it.”
A shaky little laugh escapes Stede. “You don’t think I should pack up and go home?”
“No way, not a chance. Stay. Enjoy yourself. Stick with me and I’ll teach you the important bits.” He digs his fingers a little harder into the meat of the other man’s shoulder. “Mostly you just need to keep the bike between you and the ground. Simple.”
Stage One: Saint-Étienne to Mende, 192.5 km (119.6 mi)
The first day of the Tour is always strange. There’s a carnival atmosphere outside, music playing loud enough Ed can feel the bass coming up through his feet, spectators lining the streets around the start, crowding around hotels and team buses, race representatives throwing pieces of memorabilia to the crowd, and journalists everywhere. It sets his head spinning, his jaw tight, and the only thing he can do to ease the tension is move.
He’d love nothing more than to get on the turbo trainer — essentially just a bike with the rear wheel removed to turn it into an exercise bike, though the cost of the set-up is probably astronomical — with some good tunes playing through his earbuds and let the familiar warm-up work his anxiety away. As the returning champion though, he’s got to show his face, do the rounds, interview after interview with the world’s press. He keeps it short, not all that sweet, and thanks his past self for giving Blackbeard the surly persona that lets him escape with the bare minimum of press engagement.
It doesn’t seem to be so tricky for the rest of Team BonnetBank though. Sure, Izzy answers questions in much the same gruff manner as Ed himself, as does Pete, who seems to want to model himself after Blackbeard as much as possible. Stede, though, has a sunny expression and is merrily chatting with journalists and fans alike. Ed, walking away from some German TV presenters, stifles a smile as he spots Stede shaking hands very seriously with a child who can’t be more than five years old, taking selfies with giggling teenagers and men old enough to be his father alike. Such is his infectious enthusiasm that Ed’s feet carry him his way without any recourse to his brain. All of a sudden he’s near enough to hear a cheerful-looking middle-aged man (dressed head to foot in Ed’s team kit from the previous year, but no bike in sight) ask “what’s he like? Blackbeard?”
The reply is immediate. Without a moment’s hesitation, Stede offers “oh, he’s absolutely lovely,” as if Ed hasn’t spent years telling TV crews to fuck off, throwing dramatic tantrums, and generally cultivating an air of unapproachability. He looms over Stede’s shoulder and fixes the fan with a level stare.
“Is that right?” he murmurs, close enough to Stede’s ear that he can feel the other man shiver with ticklish surprise. The fan straightens up and begins stammering apologies. Stede, on the other hand, is not intimidated for a moment.
“Oh hello,” he says, looking round at him so delightedly that Ed feels temporarily dazzled by his smile. “Of course that’s right.” Ed is stunned at the double-down. That must be why he lets himself be manoeuvred into doing autographs and selfies with Stede; something Blackbeard hasn’t done for years, and never with this sort of friendly attitude of camaraderie with the fans.
It’s only when Olu herds them to the team bus for warm-up that he realises his earlier tension has vanished entirely, the warm-up relegated to merely readying his body and not focussing his mind.
When they line up at the start it’s like everything settles into place. Team BonnetBank is line abreast at the front of the peloton, a standard courtesy to last year’s winner, if he’s present. He knows this, knows the gentle chatter of his colleagues around him, the last-minute checking of bikes and pockets. Ed puts on his sunglasses — black Oakleys with a custom design; stylised tentacles curling around the arms in a nod to his other nickname, The Kraken — and feels the calm wash through him.
Here we go. Game on.
The race director climbs into her car — she’s known as Spanish Jackie to the press, though as far as Ed knows the only connection she has to Spain is a great-grandparent and a second husband — and they move off slowly with the riders close together in a big pack: a peloton. He loves the neutralised rollout starts of road racing, the way everyone can find their place alongside their fellow racers, get the feel for how this group moves together. A peloton is like a living creature, a shapeshifting organism that stretches and squeezes, ebbs and flows, and being part of one makes his blood sing. Perhaps this is how ants feel, he muses.
For once, he lets his whimsy get the better of him. “Hey, Iz,” he says, “d’you reckon this is what ants feel like?” Izzy Hands, possibly the least whimsical man he’s ever met, stares at him. “Or— I dunno, termites? Bees?” Izzy’s still staring at him, apparently lost for words.
“Being a small part of a larger whole, you mean?” chirps Stede, from his other side, and Ed turns his head delightedly.
“Yeah man, that’s exactly it. Lots of little creatures all scurrying about but with the same goal, or whatever.”
“Did you know,” says Stede, the waggle of eyebrows visible despite the sunglasses obscuring a significant part of his face, “that ants measure how far they need to travel by knowing how many steps they’ve taken?”
“What, no? Fuck off, that’s not true.”
“It is,” insists Stede. “Scientists put ants on stilts and measured how far they walked, and the distance was proportionate to how far the normal-legged ants went.”
“Stilts?” Ed’s eyes feel the size of saucers. “They put ants on stilts?”
“Yep. Little tiny stilts made of bristles, so they could stomp about like clowns entertaining the other ants. Except actually they just walked too far and then got confused as to why they were in the wrong place.”
“And here I was thinking ants were just ants,” remarks Ed. “Turns out they’re pretty interesting, for insects.” He shakes his head, takes a swig from his water bottle, and grins at Stede. “Got any more fascinating insect facts?”
:::::
It’s a glorious start to the Tour. It’s beautifully sunny, there’s no crashes beyond a couple of clipped wheels and grazed knees, and Ed pushes through to the finish with a group of five or six other riders. He finishes the stage third overall, and about 30 seconds behind the guy in yellow. Perfect. He’s at the top of the leaderboard, he doesn’t have the media circus attached to the maillot jaune — the yellow jersey worn by the current race leader —, none of the team are injured, and he’s feeling great. The buzz of the Tour is starting to remind him why he fell in love with the sport in the first place.
He hops on to the turbo set up outside the bus again for the standard cool-down ride, alongside Izzy just like a thousand other times. And just like those thousand other times, Iz is scowling.
“You better watch out,” Ed says, nudging him. “The wind’ll change and your face’ll be stuck like that.”
“Fuck off.” Izzy’s scowl deepens.
“What’s up with you? Pretty nice day, I thought.” He knows better than to ask, really, there’s nothing Izzy likes more than complaining. He’s one of Ed’s oldest friends though, one of the few he had when he was still Edward, one who isn’t awed by Blackbeard. Every year there are fewer and fewer riders in the bunch who can see past the Blackbeard mask, but Izzy is a constant.
“Oh yes , it was a wonderful day.” Izzy leans to one side and gestures expansively, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “There’s nothing I like more than to listen to you twittering about with some no-name ponce all day instead of keeping your mind on the job.”
Ed pulls his hair free of its loosening braid, shakes it out, rebraids it. “Hmm. Sounds stressful.”
“It is,” he hisses, low and fierce, “it is stressful, because this is your last chance — our last chance to win stages, last chance to win the whole fucking Tour, and we can’t do that if the fucking captain of the fucking team spends all his energy helping out his own domestiques.”
Ed sighs. “It may have escaped your notice, Iz, but I’m not the only one in the team. We’ll do better if we’re working together.”
“We’d do better if you stuck to the fucking plan,” argues Izzy. “You, me, and the boys, that’s all we need.” He turns away from Ed and spits on the ground. “This crowd of useless fucking fuckers are going to ruin our chances. Did you not see Bonnet bouncing off pretty much every rider in the group? That Swedish fucking idiot singing instead of saving his breath for the actual work? We don’t need them.”
“For fuck’s sake man, it’s always plans with you,” Ed begins, scrubbing his fingers into his eyebrows as if he could push Izzy’s words out of his brain. “Make the plan, execute the plan. No chance for taking the initiative. We barely know them, give them a chance. You never know, you might start to enjoy yourself.”
Izzy’s incredulous reply is cut off by Stede strolling around the side of the team bus and climbing aboard his own cool-down bike with his face wreathed in smiles. “Hello, Ed!”
“His name is Blackbeard, as far as you’re concerned,” growls Izzy, vibrating with indignance.
Stede’s cheerful expression melts away, replaced with something both harder and less open. “Oh, it’s you.”
“Can you please just shut up? All day it’s been ‘oh Ed, look at those flags’, ‘oh Ed, let’s wave at a load of French schoolkids’, ‘oh Ed, I can see cows’. Saying any old fucking nonsense that comes into your head like the absolute waste of space that you are. Just shut up, and fuck off.”
“Iz, mate, please,” Ed tries, but Izzy’s well into his stride bitching away as per uzhe and Stede is sniping back at him with a scrunched-up expression that should probably be less charming. It probably is to Iz, immune to charm as he is. And fun. All of a sudden Ed’s light mood is gone, and he can feel the beginnings of a headache pulsing in his temples.
He slides off the bike and slips away, looking for a quiet spot. It’s always a madhouse at the end of a stage, people everywhere, but there’s a sort of logic to how the team buses and support vehicles are laid out, to those who’ve spent as much time in these situations as he has. He can’t remember if he’s ever finished a race in this town before, but his feet carry him unerringly to the BonnetBank mechanics’ workspace.
Jim is another one who he’s known for years, grown up with, almost. They’ve relied on each other, had each other’s backs, lent a hand at crucial moments. They’re like siblings, sort of, in a ‘don’t actually keep in contact all that much, but it doesn’t seem to matter’ sort of way.
For one thing, Jim always seems to know when Ed will arrive. The mechanics’ bus has the canopies extended, workbenches set up in their shade, lockers open and displaying a dazzling array of tools and spare parts.
It’s uncanny, the way Jim says “Hey, if isn’t Blackbeard,” without turning away from the bike set up on the stand, washing it down with ruthless efficiency. “How was your day?”
Ed perches on the fold-out steps protruding from the side of the bus. “Not too bad, until Izzy started talking.”
“Shame you can’t gag him,” remarks Jim, carefully degreasing the drivetrain. “What’s got under his skin this time?”
“The new guy,” sighs Ed, picking at the skin around his fingernails. “Stede.”
“What’s he done?”
“Izzy’s just pissed off because Stede has next to no experience. Thinks he’s a liability, that he doesn’t deserve a place on the team and we should carry on as if he’s not a part of it.”
“He might have a point,” grunts Jim, tightening a bolt with a practised hand.
“Yeah,” concedes Ed, pulling the band from the end of his braid and snapping it over his wrist. “He probably does. No, he definitely does, but—”
Jim looks over, slaps the wrench in their hand into the opposite palm thoughtfully. “But you like him. Stede.”
“Yeah, I think I do.” Ed grins to himself, snaps the band against his wrist again, glances up at Jim. “Yeah, I really do.”
“So tell Izzy to get his shit together and stop being the grit in the gears.”
:::::
When Ed's done all the post-race usual: had his massage, eaten whatever the team chef deems appropriate, and made his way to the pretty little hotel that’s their home for the night, the rest of the team are already there. Oluwande has a handful of room keys and starts handing them out the moment Ed joins them.
“Alright, so, it’s two to a room as per usual,” says Olu, scrolling through his phone. “Where’s my list… okay, there we go. Jonas and Pete, you’ve got Room One.” He hands the key to Pete and goes back to his list. “Fang and Ivan, Room Two.”
As Fang trails Ivan into the building Ed glances around at the others. Roach is sprawled against the wall and seems faintly amused by the whole business, his relaxed attitude a stark contrast to Izzy, who’s tense to the point that he’s almost vibrating. He’s glaring at Stede, who’s doing his best to look like he hasn’t noticed, staring unblinkingly at Oluwande.
Olu scrolls through his list a little more. “Okay, Room Three, that’s Ed and—”
“Stede,” chips in Ed, plucking the key from his hand. “I’m sharing with Stede.”
Izzy groans. “Edward, what the actual—” he begins, but he’s cut off by Oluwande before Ed can do more than turn to him with a warning look in his eye.
“Yes, okay, that works,” says Olu, nodding to Ed after a shrewd glance between Stede and Izzy. “You two have Room Three, and then Roach and Izzy have Room Four.” He tosses the final key to Roach, who catches it easily.
“Yes? Yes!” Ed triumphantly waves the key on the end of the huge wooden keyring at Stede, who’s looking at him with delighted confusion all over his face.
“C’mon then, my friend,” drawls Roach, pushing off the wall and draping himself over Izzy’s shoulders. “Let’s go get settled in.” The sounds of Izzy’s irritated protests dwindle as the door closes behind them.
Oluwande shoves his phone back in his pocket. “Alright, lads?” Met with silence, he gives a sharp nod. “Okay then. Find me if you need me.”
Ed leads the way indoors, Stede hot on his heels. The hotel is a slightly odd but charming mixture of styles — crisp modern mirrors and picture frames contrasting with frilly and floral vintage lampshades. They find Room Three at the end of the narrow corridor.
“I do like proper locks,” says Stede, as Ed fits the key into the keyhole. “Can never quite get those keycard thingies to work properly. Not on the first go, anyway.”
“Me neither,” Ed replies, pushing the door open. “Love a real key. And a stupidly massive hotel keyring so you can't lose the damn thing.”
The room itself is small but neat, two armchairs by the window and a pair of single beds draped in chintzy bedspreads. Ed drops the key on a small sideboard and flops on to the first bed.
Stede walks past him, takes a glance out of the window, and whirls to a knock on the door.
“Hey man.” Ed sits up cross-legged as Stede opens the door and one of the team soigneurs hauls their luggage into the room. “Lucius, right?”
“Guilty.” The young man smirks, cocks one shoulder back and flutters his hands out as if putting himself on display. “Lucius Spriggs, soigneur to Team BonnetBank. Or masseuse, valet, general dogsbody, if you prefer. Your wish is my command.”
“A bit of peace to unpack would be wonderful, thank you,” says Stede, not quite shooing him out of the door but closing it firmly behind him as soon as possible.
“Unpack?” Ed eyes the hotel’s rather small wardrobe and Stede’s enormous suitcase doubtfully. “Make your life easier, mate, and live out of your suitcase like the rest of us.” His own suitcase is barely plane carry-on size, just a handful of clean t-shirts and underwear. He spends almost all his time wearing bike gear anyway, and he prefers to travel light.
“Well, yes, I suppose that is the more practical choice,” Stede replies, glancing from Ed’s suitcase to his own. “The essentials, though, must have a chance to breathe.” He unfastens the catches on the case, the top springing open to reveal—
“Stede, mate, is that a blanket?” Ed raises an eyebrow. “Your essential packing for competing in the Tour de France, is a blanket?”
“It’s a cashmere blanket,” defends Stede, as if that makes any more sense.
“You’re in the south of France, Stede, in summertime. Even if it gets unseasonably chilly you’re not likely to need extra blankets on your bed.”
“No, I suppose not. But… look, just have a feel of that.” Stede pushes the blanket into Ed’s hands, the fabric almost flowing through his hands like water. It’s so soft it doesn’t even feel like it’s really there, and it makes him want to shove his whole face into it. He just about resists the urge, and strokes a corner over his cheekbone instead.
He glances over at Stede and finds the other man watching him with a curious, gentle sort of expression that makes his face heat. “See what I mean?”
Ed coughs, looks away. “Yeah. Yeah, I do. Not sure I want to give it back.” His gaze creeps back to Stede.
“Oh, you keep that one,” enthuses Stede, a delighted grin spreading all the way from his lips to his eyes. “I’ve got a spare.”
“A spare? You brought two blankets to the south of France in July?” Ed shakes his head. “Lunatic.”
Stede’s grin softens as he watches Ed gently smooths his hands over the blanket. “Worked out nicely, though, hasn’t it?”
“Hmm. Yeah, I guess it has.”
Stage Two: Millau to Carcassonne, 181 km (112 mi)
It’s another day of hills — the sort of ride that non-professionals would consider a hard day, or even two. The most challenging gradients in the Tour are designated as “categorised climbs”; ranked on a scale from the smallest or shortest category four climbs to the most severe efforts at category one. Today there are three hills that are a steep enough test to be designated as categorised climbs, and it feels like they’re going either up or down for the whole time.
There’s a moment of levity when they sweep through the feed zone and grab their lunches from Lucius and the other soigneurs. “What’ve you got in your musette, Stede? Anything good?” Ed had asked. “Marmalade sandwiches! Fab! I brought my own supply, you know.” Stede’s cheeky expression had made Ed laugh. “Essential packing again, huh?” “Of course!” Ed’s own lunch is incredibly boring by comparison. Energy bars, sachets of energy gel, all carefully calibrated for maximum efficiency and minimum enjoyment, barring the occasional accident. “One of these gels burst in Iz’s hand once. Looked like he’d come all over himself. Rest of the guys have called him Jizzy Hands ever since.”
Beyond that, it’s something of a grind. A breakaway forms — a handful of guys who get away from the main bunch — but none of them are likely to be serious contenders for the General Classification. One of them can take the stage, take the yellow jersey for a few days, it’s no skin off Ed’s nose. He’s busy keeping an eye on the big names, the young upstarts, and his greatest rival: Alfeo de la Vaca. Captain of team Siete Gallos, sponsored by the biggest gambling organisation in South America, de la Vaca has a reputation for riding hard and nasty, and has been embroiled in more controversies and race investigations than most riders.
Today, though, de la Vaca is no threat, rolling easily in the peloton with the rest of his team. Like Ed, he’ll be conserving energy, saving himself for the real mountains, not willing to show his hand this early on. Ed slides down the final descent into Carcassonne with an almost-smile on his face, the wind catching the loose strands of his hair and carelessly knotting them. The satisfaction of this sort of riding rolls through him, not really pushing too hard yet, but precision and concentration needed to navigate every twist, turn, and bump in the road. There’s a moment where he glances over at Stede alongside him, crouched low over the handlebars, frowning in concentration until he catches Ed’s eye and flashes a grin and a “wheee!” before sitting up a little, dropping back to give Ed space to move around the next bend.
Ed sweeps over the finish line with Izzy at his side, Stede behind him — on Ed’s wheel and riding easy in the slipstream — and the rest of the team scattered through the main bunch, all given the same finish time. Pete chatters excitedly with Roach about tomorrow’s stage: a flat stage that looks tailor-made for the sprinters, but that may prove to be trickier than it looks, depending on what the wind off the Mediterranean decides to do. Headwinds and a nasty little sharp climb towards the end could make the first big impact on the race. He leaves Pete to his speculation and heads off for cool-down and a massage.
The hotel this evening is gorgeous; every surface seems decorative, from the bathroom tiles covered in delicate floral patterns to the blue-painted shutters over the windows. The room he shares with Stede is generous, with two double beds and a small sofa.
“Oluwande’s played a blinder with this one,” Ed remarks, as he stretches out on the sofa, bare feet propped on the arm and eyes closed.
“Hasn’t he just?” Stede settles cross-legged on the floor and throws the lid of his suitcase open and lifts out the cashmere blankets, pulls them over his lap. “Ed,” he begins, smoothing the wrinkles out of the blanket with deliberate precision. “I’ve been meaning to ask — why is it that we’re roommates?”
“I bagsied you,” says Ed, eyes still closed.
There’s a moment of absolute quiet, only broken by the hum of traffic somewhere in the town.
“Did you not want your own room?” There’s no inflection in Stede’s voice, a carefully measured response: one level teaspoon of calm.
Ed’s never really been one to stop at one spoon, level or otherwise. “No, mate. Everyone shares in a stage race, it’s good for morale. Stops you getting lonely, or anxious.” He opens one eye, catches Stede looking at him like a rabbit in the headlights.
“You wouldn’t rather have shared with one of your friends?”
Ed opens both eyes. “Stede. I chose you on purpose. You are one of my friends.”
“Really? Already?” Stede raises a sceptical eyebrow, but it’s not quite enough to offset the smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
“Yes. Unless you’d rather—?”
“No! No. I’m very happy, if you are.” The smile spreads, forms an inviting dimple in his cheek.
Ed blinks, coughs, and looks away. He picks up the TV remote and starts blindly flicking through the channels. Stede gets to his feet and shakes out the cashmere blankets; first over Ed’s and then his own bed.
“Oh!” he says, walking over to the far side of the room and pushing the curtain aside. “Look at this, Ed, it’s not a window, it’s a door. And, oh, look.” He slides it open and ventures out.
“Fuck’s sake, man,” mutters Ed, as the hot outdoor air blows in. He gets up, irritated, to shut the door on his nice cool air-conditioned space, and then stops dead at what he sees. He’d expected maybe a tiny courtyard, but instead there’s a beautiful little patio, with several doors opening on to it. There are orange trees growing in pots, a couple of sun loungers in a patch of shade, and a swimming pool. It’s not a big pool; one good push would let him glide from one end to the other, but it looks incredibly inviting after a hard day in the saddle.
The pool, of itself, is not what his gaze catches on, though. No, that’s Stede, half dressed and hopping as he pulls off a sock. His bare back is shockingly white, even more so against the deep tan of his forearms and legs, and all Ed can do is stare at him. It doesn’t make any sense, he tells himself. He sees teammates in various states of undress regularly, he’s seen Stede himself getting dressed for racing and ready for bed.
This is different. This is evening sunlight, dappled shade and the scent of oranges, with Stede shining golden and smiling at him. When was the last time he’d had the chance to stop and just appreciate something — someone — for its own sake, with no expectations weighing on him? Stroking Stede’s cashmere blankets, yes, but before then? It feels like he’s not enjoyed anything truly for years. Now here is a man made of softness and strength, kindness and mischief all wrapped up together, and he looks at Ed like Blackbeard doesn’t exist. Something in Ed’s chest stutters.
Stede jumps into the pool wearing nothing but his underpants, pushes off and swims leisurely. “You coming in?” He flicks a little water in Ed’s direction. “It’s lovely.” He turns easily, swims slowly away. Ed slides the door closed and sits at the edge of the pool, dangling his legs into the water, and watches Stede.
It doesn’t make much sense, really, to swim when he could be resting for tomorrow’s stage, but Stede’s an accomplished swimmer. It’s clearly next to no effort to glide from one end to the other and back again, barely a couple of strokes required before each turn. His hair is darker when it’s wet like this, flowing back right to the tan line on his neck, sitting neatly in between strong shoulders. Coming back towards him, this time Stede stops beside Ed, leans on one elbow and looks up at him. The small wave of his progress slaps into the side of the pool, splashes the back of Ed’s knees.
“You don’t need shoulders like that for cycling,” Ed says inanely, and immediately wants to punch himself in the face.
Stede glances down at himself, half-shrugs. “A hangover from all that rowing, I suppose. Not much I can do about it.”
“Please don’t,” Ed murmurs. The sun is sinking fast and the light is growing pink and muted. It drapes itself over Stede, making him peach-soft and beguiling. It feels like sleepwalking, like Ed’s mind is full of cotton wool and the world only half-there.
Stede’s eyes are wide as he looks up at Ed, flickering to his lips so briefly it may not have happened at all. “Well, I—”
“What the fuck?” The dreamlike peace shatters in a heartbeat. Izzy’s voice is harsh, discordant, and uncomfortably real. “Stop wasting your energy pretending to be a fucking mermaid, Bonnet, and prepare for tomorrow.” The glare he turns on Stede is so fierce it’s a wonder the water doesn’t start boiling there and then.
“You don’t fancy a dip, Iggy?” Stede is waspish as he turns to Izzy, less peachy and more lemon.
“Of course not, you twat. We’re professional cyclists: we eat, we ride, we sleep. We endure, we don’t dick about. You’re not on a pleasure cruise, for fuck’s sake.” Izzy turns his eyes to Ed. “Get some fucking sleep.” He turns on his heel, walks away without waiting for a response.
Stede visibly deflates, sinking lower in the water. “I’m sorry, Ed.” His voice is small. “I’ll get out.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Ed says quietly. “He’s right, but there’s no reason you can’t find a moment to enjoy yourself when you can.” He gets to his feet, leaves wet footprints across the patio. Pauses at the door and speaks over his shoulder without looking at Stede. “I can’t though. Blackbeard doesn’t swim in his downtime. I’m a cyclist. That’s all I am.”
Late that night, with all the lights off and Ed almost asleep, Stede’s voice drifts through the darkness. “There’s more to you than just endurance. Blackbeard may only be a cyclist, but Ed is all sorts of things.”
Ed dreams that night. He’s on his bike, bare arms stretched forward, the winding snake tattoo black and stark against his skin. The focus switches, the snake shifts, until instead of it being on his skin, he’s looking out of its eyes, confined and desperate. He itches all over, squirms and writhes and twists, until a gentle golden hand reaches for him. There’s a quiet ripping sound, like a long zipper slowly unfastened. Ed twists one last time, slides free, sheds Blackbeard’s skin and is left soft and vulnerable, just Ed alone.
Stage Three: Saint-Paul-Trois-Châteaux to Cap d'Agde, 217 km (134.8 mi)
The morning of the third stage of the Tour dawns sunny and cheerful, too bright to have any chance of regaining the nebulous almost-something of the night before. In any case, Stede is up, dressed and sweeping out of the room seeking breakfast before Ed has even found a clean pair of socks.
The stage profile is flat, by Tour standards. There are a few rolling slopes, a nasty little short-and-sharp hill close to the end. On paper, it’s a day for the sprinters, but heading towards the Mediterranean could come with some brutal headwinds. The BonnetBank plan is to stay up in the front third of the peloton as much as they can — staying out of trouble, keeping an eye on anyone getting away in the break, and perhaps sending someone up the road to contest the stage win if the chips fall happily.
Ed spends the first half of the stage rolling easily, chatting with guys he’s known for years, sizing up the younger riders, trying to figure who’s got the legs — and more importantly, the mind — to be a champion. Knowing the capabilities and weaknesses of his opponents has always come naturally to Ed — always planning ahead, always calculating. He’s half-listening to a conversation between a couple of promising young guys when there’s a commotion behind him.
“Oh whoops! Sorry, you guys!” Stede’s voice is high, panicked, and quickly drowned out by the unmistakable swearing, clattering, crunching sound of a crash. Ed takes a glance behind, spots Stede, Roach, and Fang a few wheels back, and Ivan is still ahead. Pete, Izzy, and the Swede (however much Ed tries, he can’t seem to hold the Swede’s name in his mind) are nowhere to be seen, presumably caught up in the carnage.
Ed’s straight on the radio. “Everyone alright?” There’s a cacophony of replies, ranging from a calm “Yes” from Oluwande to a furious tirade from Izzy. Piecing it all together over the next few kilometres, it sounds like there’s been a fairly big crash, plenty of road rash, but nobody seriously injured. The Swede’s bike is too damaged to ride; he has to wait for the team car to catch up so Jim can run out to give him a replacement, but with any luck he’ll be able to make his way back to the main bunch.
Ed shrugs, rides on, grateful that his team are okay and he himself was well out of it. A few kilometres later the grumbling has died down a little, and the shifting braid of the peloton brings him alongside Stede. He’s quiet, much more so than usual, but they’re spinning along at a fair lick and perhaps he’s just concentrating. The silence stretches, Ed occasionally glancing over at him, Stede keeping his eyes fixed forward and maintaining his position without any of the usual chit-chat or even interest in the fans lining the route waving flags and cheering.
There’s clearly something unsettling him, and it’s also clear that he’s not going to share. Not now, anyway. Not here. Ed weaves his way gently through the riders — de la Vaca’s still here, more’s the pity — and comes up to Izzy. “Bit of a mess back there, huh,” he says, nudging the other man with an elbow.
Izzy grabs his bidon, takes a swig of water, pours some over the back of his neck and shoves it back in the bottle cage with more force than necessary. “Your roommate is a fucking liability,” he hisses, keeping his voice low. “Dropped a bottle right in the middle of the bunch and they all went down like ninepins. More bollocks like that and the team’ll be under investigation.”
“Sounds like an accident, Iz.”
Izzy scowls. “Yeah, but that doesn’t matter, does it? You can’t just wipe out half the competition and expect to get away with it. It’d be different if he’d gone down as well, but no, your pretty boy didn’t even drop his chain.”
“Chill out, Iz.” Ed gives him a placating pat on the back. “It’ll all be forgotten tomorrow.” He hopes, anyway. Crashes are common, but if the other riders feel it was more than a simple accidental cause — a racing incident — then Stede could be on the receiving end of a few angry words from other riders.
Pushing the drama aside, Ed focusses, knuckles down to the job at hand. The punchy climb up Mont-Saint-Clair in the last 20km splits the peloton even further and in the end Ed crosses the line in the first group of several. His overall time is still within a minute of the lead, a few seconds ahead of de la Vaca, and the yellow jersey well within his grasp.
He’s feeling pretty good, pretty relaxed, until he wanders into tonight’s hotel room and finds Stede spreadeagled face down on his bed.
“You okay?”
Stede’s response is mumbled directly into the pillow, and Ed can’t make out a single word. He sits down on the edge of the bed, hands in his lap and fingers interlaced, the freckles scattered up the inside of Stede’s thigh far too inviting.
“Say again, mate?”
Stede rolls on to his back, knees bent and hands covering his face. “I shouldn’t be here.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m a dangerous and irresponsible liability.” Stede peeks out from behind his fingers.
“Hmm.” Ed leans forward, pinning Stede in place with one raised eyebrow. “Those don’t sound like your words. Those sound like someone else’s.”
“I was careless! I caused a huge crash!” Stede looks horrifyingly near to tears, and his voice drops to almost a whisper. “I’m not a professional cyclist. I’m an idiot.” Rage floods through Ed, so hot and so fast that he has to take a deep breath and close his eyes. Damn Izzy.
“Not so huge. And in any case, that’s bike racing. Anyone who tells you different is wrong.” He tilts his head, smiles. “There are always crashes, there are always accidents, there are always injuries.”
Stede’s voice is smaller than he’s ever heard it, his eyes large and dark. “I didn’t mean for it to happen.”
“Like I said, mate, that’s bike racing. Shit happens.” He leans over Stede, snags his phone from the opposite pillow and drops it on his chest. “Go on, have a google for my name along with ‘crash’ or ‘controversy’ — there’ll be pages of results, I guarantee it. You’ve got to let it slide off you, it happens to everyone.” He gives Stede’s shoulder a gentle squeeze and tries his damndest not to let his fingers trail down his arm as he sits back. “It doesn’t make you a bad person.”
The smile Stede gives him is small, tight, and a long way from reaching his eyes. “My father’s going to be furious.”
“Oh, mate.” Ed gives up trying to keep his hands to himself, wraps his fingers around Stede’s calf, strokes his thumb slowly up the stubbly regrowth of Stede’s shin. “For this? If he gives you shit for this then your dad is a dick, you know that, right?”
“Mmm. I mean, it’s true.” Stede’s gaze flickers to him, and away. “And yet.”
And yet, Ed mentally fills in, Stede still cares what his father thinks. “Mine was a dick too, you know,” he offers. “That’s how I got into cycling in the first place; it kept me out of the house for hours, away from him.” Though he’s looking down at his hands on Stede’s leg, still scraping short, stiff blond hairs the wrong way until they start to poke at the sensitive skin under his thumbnail, he can feel Stede’s eyes on him. He shrugs a little. “Was harsh on my mum, though. Left her alone with him too much.”
“Oh, Ed,” Stede breathes.
“Yeah, so,” Ed says, blinking back the memories of coming home to a house full of noise; yelling, broken crockery, police sirens. They’re still better than the memories of coming home to a quiet house, his mother on her knees cleaning the dinner off the floor, neither of them acknowledging the bruises blooming on her arms, shoulders, cheekbones. “Fuck what shit dads think. About anything.”
“He owns the team, though.”
Ed grins at him, lets a bit of Blackbeard ferocity come into it. “He’s not the manager, though, is he? It doesn’t matter what he thinks. Let him be furious. That’s an issue for him, not an issue for you.”
Stede takes a deep breath, nods slowly. “Okay. Okay. Thanks, Ed.” Finally, a smile that looks like it might be genuine.
Ed strokes Stede’s leg from knee to ankle, gives his calf a gentle pat before getting to his feet. “Come on. Let’s go get dinner.”
Stage Four: Narbonne to Toulouse, 153.5 km (95.4 mi)
The run to Toulouse is flat, near enough. It’s an ideal day for the sprint specialists — those riders who can ride all day and then dig deep for a burst of speed at the end, but who tend to be left behind in the mountain stages. The peloton ribbons through a series of small towns, and around halfway a breakaway group of five or six guys forms, accelerates away from the main bunch. They ride well, maintain the small time gap they’ve created, and the peloton never quite gains enough speed to reel them back in. The sprinters’ teams are absolutely spitting feathers, furious that the other teams don’t want to put in the work to pull the peloton up to top speed.
Ed lets it wash over him, meets the ire with a rueful half-shrug and a smile. It’s not wise to make yourself disliked — you never know when you might need riders from other teams to work with you — but when push comes to shove everyone knows you ride to your own team’s plan.
The BonnetBank plan today has been very much to conserve energy, and it seems that’s the same for most of the other teams, all of them acutely aware that they’ll be in the Pyrenees the next day. The cool-down on the turbo set up outside the bus and under the shade-canopies alongside the other guys feels comfortable; they’re starting to really gel as a team, and even Izzy is starting to relax.
Ed’s sitting on the steps of the team bus, chatting to Jim in the sunshine, when Stede appears around the corner.
“Hey man,” says Jim, pausing work on Pete’s bike for a moment. “Everything okay?”
“Oh, actually, not quite,” Stede replies. “In the last three, maybe two kilometres, I was getting a strange little wobble through the handlebars. Any chance you could have a look?”
Jim raises an eyebrow. “That is literally my job, so yeah. Anything to prevent any more, uh, accidents.”
“Oh, no, absolutely, of course,” Stede stammers. “Thank you.”
“This guy doesn’t need distractions, or injuries, understand?” Jim stabs a pointed finger at Ed while fixing Stede with a not-quite glare. “No accidents, no crashes, no bullshit. This year de la Vaca is getting crushed, and Blackbeard here is going to do it.” Jim sniffs, scowls, takes Stede’s bike and starts lifting it on to a stand.
Stede frowns, then settles on to the bottom step of the team bus, beside Ed’s feet. “Why do you care so much about de la Vaca? He’s just one of several General Classification contenders, isn’t he?”
Jim pulls the front wheel off the bike with a grunt. “De la Vaca is the biggest threat.”
Stede frowns, looks up over his shoulder to catch Ed’s eye and purses his lips. “Seemed like it was more than that. Something more personal, maybe?”
Ed sighs. “Look man, it’s not really my place to gossip.”
Stede looks pleadingly up at Ed, eyes wide, glances furtively at Jim and shuffles a little closer to Ed. “Please? I’ll only put my foot in it otherwise.”
Who is Ed to resist such puppy-dog tactics? “Jim’s dad, Abran Jiménez, used to be a pro cyclist. He and de la Vaca were both in the same team de la Vaca is now, Siete Gallos. That’s all just fact, all fair enough.”
Ed stretches out his bad leg, leans back with his elbows on the next step up. “Then it gets messy. Nothing has ever been proven, alright? There’s no evidence, but the rumour is that the team were all doping, that de la Vaca tried to pressure Abran to take all sorts, and Abran always refused.”
He looks over at Jim for a long moment, until he’s given a terse nod. “Alright, so over and over again, Abran refused, didn’t want to cheat, didn’t want any kind of unfair advantage.” He pauses, glances at Stede’s mesmerised expression as he gazes up at Ed. “And then Abran failed a drugs test. Got thrown out of the team, and banned from professional racing.”
Stede gasps. “What happened, to have made him take something, then?”
Jim growls, turns away from Stede’s bike and stalks towards them, wrench in hand. “No, don't you see? He was clean, he was always clean.”
“But then why did he fail the test?”
Jim slaps the side of the wrench against their thigh, paces away to the bike stand, and whirls back with a furious whisper. “He was fucking framed, pendejo. De la Vaca switched their samples.”
“No! Really?” Stede looks up at Ed for confirmation, scandalised.
Ed knocks his knee into Stede’s shoulder and shrugs. “Again, there’s no evidence. But every sample before and after was completely clean, and he’d been so vocal about racing clean. It doesn’t make sense that he failed the test.”
Jim scoffs. “The only thing that makes sense is that de la Vaca framed him as a doper so that Siete Gallos could get someone with fewer morals in his place, without having to pay him off for terminating his contract early.”
“Hang on,” Stede says, doubtfully. “If this is all true, how is it that de la Vaca is still racing? That doesn’t make sense. Does it?”
Ed shrugs again, gestures to Jim. “Yeah, well, it’s all hearsay and rumour, mate. Jim’s been looking for years for evidence, but coming up with nothing.”
“I’ve got evidence,” Jim says, turning back to Stede’s bike and wiggling the headset with strong fingers. “Just can’t get anyone to pay any attention.”
“Oh, well,” says Stede, eyes suddenly bright with intrigue. “So if the powers that be could be persuaded to look at your dossier of information, Siete Gallos and de la Vaca might come under investigation?”
“Could be,” Jim replies. “Now fuck off, the pair of you, I got bikes to fix.”
“Thanks, Jim,” Ed says, pushing himself to his feet. “Catch you later.”
“Yeah, yeah. Whatever.” Jim dismisses them with a wave.
All the way back to the hotel Stede seems to be vibrating with silent curiosity, and as soon as their bedroom door closes behind them, it all comes bursting out.
“This is outrageous, Ed, it really is. Everyone knows that professional cycling has had its issues with performance-enhancing drugs, but this is something else.” Stede’s pacing up and down the room, turning neatly on the balls of his feet every time he changes direction, a lock of hair curling over his forehead bouncing with every step. “When will Abran be back to racing? Surely it can’t be a lifetime ban for one failed test?”
That bouncing curl seems to call to Ed, just asking to be pulled out straight, so he can watch it spring back. He wants to slide his fingers all the way into Stede’s hair, find out if it’s as silky-soft as it looks.
Instead Ed drops on to his bed, shuffles back until he’s sitting butterfly-fashion with his back right up against the headboard and his heels pressed together. He traps his hands between his feet and sighs. “It was a two-year ban, and that was over a long time ago.”
“Well, then!” Stede looks triumphant, but the expression fades as Ed shakes his head.
“He’ll never be back to racing. Eighteen months or so after his ban, Abran died.”
“What?!” Stede’s eyes are round as saucers. He perches on the edge of the bed next to Ed, close enough that Ed could reach out and touch him, tangle their fingers together and pull him close.
Ed shuts his eyes, presses his fingertips one by one into the soles of his feet, counts slowly to ten, opens his eyes again. “Yeah. Abran had been working driving taxis; there was a crash. Jim was about ten at the time, I think. So then Jim was brought up by their grandmother — Abran’s mum; she’s an interesting one — obsessed with bike racing, determined to find the truth. The less that seems possible, the more Jim seems to want to get revenge somehow. Or maybe it’s all coming from Nana. I don’t know.”
Stede leans forward, transfixed and silent, and that devilish little forehead curl bounces all too invitingly again.
Ed straightens his legs out, folds forward until he can feel the stretch pulling at his hamstrings. “This is all very personal, obviously,” he says, talking into his knees. “Don’t spread it about.” He turns his head, looking up at Stede with a wink and putting a finger to his lips. “Shhh.”
Stede’s face is delightful, all wide eyes and a small smile.
“I mean it, man. Not a word.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Stede murmurs.
There’s something in his tone, something warm and not-at-all flustered that sends a jolt right through Ed, heat snaking down his spine and the sudden question of “what does Stede dream about” pulsing so insistently in his mind that he can hardly think of anything else.
Stage Five: Toulouse to Bagnères-de-Bigorre, 209.5 km (130 mi)
The best thing about Toulouse is leaving it, as far as Ed’s concerned. Yes, it’s probably got its charms, but as far as he’s concerned they’re buried pretty deep, under his memories of a bout of food poisoning that don’t make him any more enamoured of the place.
It’s a grinder of a day, a constant slight uphill gradient for over a hundred kilometres, and then turning at Bagnères-de-Luchon smack into a category one climb. There’s a breakaway group of about forty riders including most of team BonnetBank — only the Swede left languishing behind. It doesn’t matter. The guys take turns sheltering Ed from the wind where necessary, and it’s while he’s pushing up this first serious mountain that everything seems to click perfectly into place. The world shrinks to the air in his lungs, the road ahead, his hands up on the hoods, and his legs, turning as if they could do it forever.
Izzy, sharp-eyed and masochistic enough to love climbing so much that he’s a mountain specialist, clocks it almost at the same time as Ed. “Blackbeard’s on a good one,” he radios. “We’re in with a chance to make some time here.”
“Yeah, yeah, go for it,” comes Oluwande’s reply, crackling through Ed’s ears. “De la Vaca only has a couple of guys with him, the rest of his team are distanced.”
Alright then. They move to the front of the break, push hard, and by the time they’re halfway down the descent on the other side of the mountain they’ve used up and spat out half their own team and the breakaway has been blown to pieces.
The second mountain — La Hourquette d'Ancizan — appears in a heartbeat, and every turn of the pedals pushes them higher, more of the road behind them. The noise from the fans lining the side of the road blends with the ever-present throbbing of helicopter and motorcycle engines, screaming and flag-waving. One huge guy with a handful of flares in a whole rainbow of colours roars his approval as Ed passes by.
There’s always someone on the windward side of Ed, shielding him with their bodies, making it as easy for him as it can possibly be. In the snatched glimpses he gets between breaths he spots his teammates, rotating by turns. Sometimes it’s Izzy, mouth open and snarling as if he can beat the mountain with aggression alone. Sometimes it’s Roach, lean and inscrutable, pushing steadily. Sometimes it’s Stede, shimmering golden, solid frame providing the perfect Ed-shaped shelter.
At the top, Roach has been dropped, Izzy and Stede are the last of his team with him. Ed tips over the summit and still his legs are coming up with the answers when he asks for more. He glances at his teammates, flashes a grin, and folds down low. Now it’s all on him. There’s a serene sort of madness in descending mountains, the knowledge that travelling at over eighty, ninety kilometres per hour with sheer drops on one side and cliff faces on the other is surely certifiably insane. Lycra is perfect clothing for the work, but no protection at all should something go wrong.
He glides through the switchbacks, hits the apex of every corner already preparing for the next, pedals hard on the straights, keeping his speed as high as he possibly can. It’s impossible — and unhelpful — to think. Hands on the drops, chest low, and constant pushing; it’s a fight against the wind. Whistling off the mountain he leaves the tight turns behind him, and it’s almost a dead-straight run to the finish. Push, push, push, and he feels invincible, like he could do this forever, like his body is a perfect machine made only for this.
Occasionally there’s buzzing in his ears, the radio sparking alive with encouragement, information, and all of it rolls over him, irrelevant. It’s impossible to lose on a day like this.
A few metres past the finish line Lucius is there to catch him, almost bowled over as Ed struggles to lose the speed he’s spent so many kilometres maintaining, hands fixed like claws on the grips, fingers so stiff he can hardly pull the brakes. It’s hard to breathe, the air uncomfortably warm after the wind whistling past, and his hands are shaking too much to hold a bottle. Lucius eases him to the ground, helps him drink, wraps a blanket around him.
He blinks hard, slowly, struggling to focus on the riders finishing behind him, sweeping in fast and racing to gain a few seconds over their own rivals. Stede and Izzy come in within a minute of each other, and Roach a minute or so behind them. They’re a sobbing, huddling mess of limbs — when did Oluwande get here? — and when de la Vaca crosses the line with a face like thunder he’s lost seventy-three seconds to Ed. A minute and three seconds to his closest rival, the yellow jersey on his back, and the great Blackbeard is at the top of the General Classification rankings and making headlines once again.
:::::
The rest of the afternoon is almost as much of a blur as the race itself. He does interviews, gets up on the podium in his first maillot jaune of this Tour, waves, goes through all the usual cool-down and massage, and a quick, fierce hug from Jim. He eats. The first few mouthfuls make him want to throw up, and then hunger comes screaming in, and a whole bowl of pasta disappears so quickly he’s not quite sure where it’s gone.
The feeling among the team is jubilant, everyone talking at once, clapping each other on the back, telling tales of the stage, things they’d seen, moments they’d struggled with, times they’d dropped other guys. Ed reclines on a sofa, hands loose in his lap, and lets it wash over him, soaking in the atmosphere with his eyes closed. When Stede joins him, squeezing in with Roach on his other side, knee pressing against his, Ed turns his head, opening his eyes with a lazy smile.
“Hey, Stede,” he says. “Good day, huh?”
He’s met with a grin that makes Stede’s eyes sparkle. “Yeah,” he breathes. “Pretty good day.” He shifts, turns a little more towards Ed, pressing their legs together a fraction more. “A real climbing day in the Tour, and our team won! Our captain won, my captain, my—, you—, you won.”
Ed’s own smile broadens. “Couldn’t have done it on my own,” he shrugs.
“No?” Stede raises a doubtful eyebrow. “I know we made it a little easier on the climb, but that descent was all you. I’ve never seen anything like it.” He leans forward to grab his drink, settles back again, a shade closer again. “I mean, one second you were there and the next you’d disappeared down the mountain. Just— wow.”
Ed hums. “Yeah, I’m pretty good at descending. Better at it when I’ve had an easier run to the top though.” He stretches out his little finger to prod Stede gently in the thigh. “Don’t sell yourself short. Thank you.”
“Well, that’s—” Stede blinks, looks away. Hooks his own little finger around Ed’s. “Thank you .”
“My pleasure,” Ed says. “It’s good to have you here.”
Stede’s soft smile fades, the light in his eyes dimming. He folds both his hands in his lap, rubbing his thumb knuckles together.
“What?” Ed sits up, turns to face him. “Stede?”
The look Stede sends his way is sour, lips twisting. “That’s very kind of you to say, Ed, but really? Is it? Good to have me here?” He’s quiet, hard to hear over the rumble of chatter around them.
“Yeah, man, ‘course it is.” Ed reaches out tentatively, rests his hand on Stede’s arm like he’s calming a skittish horse. He’s warm and solid, muscle definition obvious even through his shirt. “Why wouldn’t it be?”
“You remember the crash two days ago? The one where I dropped the bottle?”
“I remember.”
“Well, it turns out that there are a couple of guys in here who I was at boarding school with, and one of them went down in the crash. Went down hard, landed on his face and is currently in the hospital.” Stede sends a haunted glance Ed’s way. “They’re doing emergency surgery. He might lose his sight in one eye.”
“Oh, mate.” Ed squeezes Stede’s arm a little, ducks his head trying to catch Stede’s eye. “It’s not your fault. It’s shit, yeah, but it’s not on you.”
Stede just nods, jaw tight.
“You know him already from school? You want to send him a card, or a fruit basket or something?”
“No. I didn’t have the best time at school.” Stede’s mouth twists. “I doubt he’d be pleased to hear from me.”
“Wait a minute,” Ed says. “You went to school in England, yeah? These guys are Brits?”
“Yes,” confirms Stede. “Brothers. Twins, in fact.”
It clicks into place suddenly. “The Badminton brothers?” They’ve been racing for five years or so, a needle in Ed’s side the whole time. The pair of them are the epitome of the British class system at work, too loud, too self-satisfied, and without the talent to back up their attitude of superiority.
“That’s right,” Stede says. “Nigel. His team doesn’t have a sprinter any more, they’re rather adrift without him.”
“Shame you didn’t get them both,” Ed remarks. “Remind me who the other one is?”
The smile is creeping back on to Stede’s face, slow but steady. “Chauncey. He’s a sprinter too, riding for Astro-Squish Syndicate.”
Ed grins. “Oh yeah. Love that team name for him.”
“What?”
Laughter is bubbling up in Ed now. “Mate. Have you thought about the initials?”
“No?” Stede thinks, brow furrowed. “No, wait. Oh. Oh.” And the air clears, each of them leaning into the other and giggling like children.
Stage Six: Tarbes to Col du Tourmalet, 111 km (69 mi)
Maybe it’s the effort of the day before, maybe it’s the unpleasantly humid, hot and sticky night, maybe it was a bit too much pasta, but Ed wakes feeling like his legs and his mind alike are full of lead. It doesn’t bode well for the day ahead, as although it’s one of the shortest stages in this year’s Tour, it’s a brutal prospect, with a summit finish on one of the most famous mountains in the Pyrenees.
The most visited of any climb in the Tour, the Col du Tourmalet is classed as Hors Catégorie: such a severe effort required that it is literally beyond categorisation. 19km of climbing, with an average gradient of 7.4%, the Tourmalet is a huge undertaking. It gets steeper as it gets higher, a true test of mind over matter. As Izzy is fond of saying, cycling is about endurance — the ability to endure pain, to push your own body into and through pain, to keep going, and going, and going.
It’s their hardest day of the Tour so far, by a huge margin. The team close ranks around Ed, coaxing him over the halfway-point Col du Soulor — itself a category one climb — and constantly bringing him drinks, gels, calling encouragement and forcing space between the wheels of other riders for him. The keen eye of Alfeo de la Vaca spots him struggling, and the Siete Gallos capitalise on it. They pull hard at the front of the peloton, pressing their advantage, trying to break team BonnetBank, trying to defeat the great Blackbeard.
Ed, though, is nothing if not determined. He pushes through the mental haze, clings to the wheel ahead, and as they roll through Luz-Saint-Sauveur at the base of the Tourmalet, he’s still there. Nineteen kilometres of heart-bursting effort remain, they all know it, and de la Vaca most of all.
Ten kilometres to the finish; the gradient eases for a moment as the road weaves drunkenly across the face of the mountain. Six kilometres to go, and Stede empties a whole bidon of water over Ed’s neck and back, the cold a momentary relief, sparking his mind a little closer to alert. Three kilometres to go, and de la Vaca breaks off the front of the race, powering off the last of the switchbacks and pushing hard.
Izzy’s standing in his pedals, screaming at Ed to keep fucking moving. Stede throws water in Ed’s face. Pete sounds incredulous, Blackbeard doesn’t get left behind. The last kilometre is pain, a gradient of ten percent, eleven percent, the world shrinking to nothing but the metre of road ahead of him and the screaming pain in his legs.
When he finally crosses the finish line it’s with exhaustion colouring the edges of his vision. He loses control, almost collapsing and barely avoiding veering into the barriers. Lucius is there to catch him again, holding him up as he staggers off the bike, steering him away from the eyes of curious fans and predatory reporters alike.
It’s a minute later, an hour, who knows, when Ed starts to come back to himself. Still at the finish, on the turbo with his legs wheeling slowly, and listening to the presentations somewhere behind him. He’s lost the yellow jersey, coming in a minute and a half behind de la Vaca, and yesterday’s time advantage is eaten up and gone all at once. The General Classification rankings shift again, de la Vaca at the top, Ed in second place, his overall time seventeen seconds behind de la Vaca.
:::::
It could be a lot worse, but it’s still a subdued evening with team BonnetBank. Oluwande does his best to jolly everyone along, but it’s a difficult undertaking.
“Hey, it’s no big deal,” remarks Roach, casually waving a fork. “It’s a flat day tomorrow, nice and easy. A lovely day out in the countryside, yeah?”
Izzy looks at him incredulously. “Not a big deal? Did you see de la Vaca’s press interviews?”
He pulls his phone out of his pocket, scrolls for a few seconds, then props it up against his glass, and jabs it with a stiff forefinger. De la Vaca, looking triumphant in the yellow jersey, fills the screen. Off-camera, a voice asks him what he thinks of Blackbeard’s performance, and de la Vaca’s smirk is so wide it’s surprising it fits on his face. “I think he is a little—” he pauses, purses his lips while he thinks. “— distracted,” de la Vaca replies. “Spending a lot of time with his new teammates.”
Izzy silences his phone and glares around the room, landing on Stede. “We all know who he’s talking about.” His gaze shifts to Ed. “He’s not wrong, either.”
Ed pushes his chair back, walks away, the sound of arguments breaking out behind him. He stalks down the corridor, shoulders through a door and outside, leans against a railing and glares out across the Pyrenees. Can he see Spain from here? Fuck it, why not. That bit over there is probably Spain.
It’s staggeringly beautiful, whichever side of the border it is, the heat of the day leaching away, the lowering sun just starting to wear away all the visible sharp edges. As the shadows stretch longer, thinner, the door behind him creaks open, clicks closed. There’s a soft scuffing of footsteps, and then Stede joins him, folding his arms on the railing and looking over the landscape. He’s just close enough that Ed can feel the warmth of him, catch the scent of him, fresh and clean. He sneaks a glance sideways, at the light glinting off soft hair, the pale stripe of untanned skin poking out where the sleeves of his shirt are riding up over his biceps.
Stede doesn’t look round, but leans his way, just enough to bump their shoulders together, flooding warmth through Ed so immediately that goosebumps flash down his arm, down his spine. He just about controls the shiver as it spreads across his hips and down his thighs, and thank fuck he’s wearing jeans and not lycra.
“You alright?” Stede’s still not looking at him, still gazing out at the mountains, giving Ed enough room to share without any pressure.
Ed sighs. “Yeah, I’m alright. Just frustrated with myself.”
“Everyone has bad days. Tomorrow is a new day, fresh start, and all that.”
“You sound like a motivational poster. You going to tell me that life begins at forty, or to chase my dreams?”
Stede shrugs. “Could do worse. But life doesn’t begin at forty, life begins now. Always.” He looks round at Ed, meets his eye for the first time, grimaces a little. “When my wife and I were trying to save our marriage, she told me ‘we only have this one life’, and she’s right.” He looks away, watching cloud-shadows drift across the hillside, changing the colours of everything they touch.
“I didn’t know you were married.” The words are quiet, small, catching in Ed’s throat as if there isn’t enough room to push them out. Why would it matter if Stede was married? They’re brand-new teammates, and although they’ve been roommates for the best part of a week and on their way to being pretty friendly, he’s retiring at the end of this Tour. Three weeks isn’t long enough to establish the sort of friendship that’ll last beyond this forced proximity. Is it?
“I’m not married. Not any more. Not for a couple of years now,” Stede replies, and oh, how those words send those goosebumps shivering through Ed again.
“Sorry, mate.” He isn’t. Not in the slightest.
“It’s alright. It was mutual, really, in the end.” Stede sighs, looks round at Ed searchingly. “So, yes, she said ‘we only have this one life’. And really that was a wake-up call for me, not to waste my life in an unhappy marriage. Mary’s a good woman, and I love her, and our children, but we weren’t remotely suited to each other really. Got married too young, too desperate, too woefully inexperienced in life to have any idea what we were doing. I didn’t even realise how gay I was until it was too late.” His eyes flicker away from Ed, back, and away again.
“I’d been worried about what my family, my father, would think when I came out,” Stede continues, eyes fixed ahead of him. “But they didn’t care, really. My father was more bothered that the business had lost the family connection to the businesses on Mary’s side. If I was in a relationship with some city guy, a banker or a CEO of some faceless corporation maybe, he’d be quite happy, regardless of whether or not I was. Anyway.” Stede takes a deep breath, closes his eyes. “Mary’s much happier now.”
Ed leans in, bumps their shoulders together again. Stays there. “What about you?” He breathes in slowly, controlling the shake threatening his voice. “Are you happier now?”
Stede hums, presses minutely back into Ed. “Right now, I think this might be the happiest I’ve ever been.” He laughs a little, checks his watch. “Possibly the most tired I’ve ever been, too. Time for bed, I think. Oh!” His eyes light up, suddenly animated. “I’ve been practising my French over the last few days. I think I’ve got something for this.”
His expression goes a little unfocussed, lips silently moving as he tries to remember the phrase. “Okay, here we go: voulez-vous coucher avec moi?”
Ed inhales so fast he almost chokes on his own spit, coughs, thumps himself in the chest. “Who told you that one?” he asks, weakly.
Stede beams. “Our soigneur, Lucius! He’s been helping me. Said I should try that one out.”
“He said that, hmm? You sure he speaks French?”
“I think so? ‘Give it a whirl one evening’, he said, ‘Try it on Blackbeard.’ Now I come to think about it, it might have come from a song on the radio.” Stede falters, looking at Ed’s carefully blank expression. “Did I get it wrong?”
“No, no. Not wrong , pretty good accent, just— what do you think it means?”
“Lucius said it meant something along the lines of ‘will you go to sleep with me?’ Which makes sense, seeing as we’re roommates, and all.” Stede looks pleased, confident in his knowledge, and Ed can’t quite bring himself to explain the nuance — or the woeful inaccuracies — of the phrase.
“Near enough,” he says. “Don’t go saying it to anyone else though, hmm? Save it for me.”
“Of course!” Stede elbows him in the ribs, a broad smile on his face. “I’ve got no plans to be roommates with anyone else.”