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niemernuet · 5 days

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5 Times Arnaud Wanted to Kiss Franjo

And 1 Time Franjo Took Matters In His Own Hands

Rating: M pairing: Arnaud Boisset/Franjo von Allmen characters: Arnaud Boisset, Franjo v. Allmen, Alexis Monney, Elian Lehto, Gilles Roulin, Marco Kohler, Ralph Weber, Lars Rösti, Tanguy Nef, Justin Murisier, Loïc Meillard words: 7'500 tw for: emetophobia (skip part 2 in that case. the parts are mostly stand-alone anyway)

Lodgings for the second groups, with the athletes not part of the national team yet, usually have to do with less.

“But this is a new low,” Arnaud mutters to himself as he leans deep into the closet, one of the shelves wedged between his foot and the wall, and pulls at the rusty bracket. The musty smell that lingers in the entire room fills his nose to the brim in there, and he can feel the dust bunnies under his fingers as they press against the wood.

“FUCK!” he yells when he slips off the bracket again. He pulls out his head, and inspects the damage to his skin. A short knock to the door is the only warning he gets before it bursts open, and a mountain of bags tumble inside.

“Sorry, this stuff is killing me,” the guy following behind pants as he pushes through the door, and drops his things at the foot of Arnaud’s bed. He puts his hands on his hips to catch his breath. A few strands of his long bangs cling to his sweaty forehead.

“Third floor without a bloody elevator, are you kidding me? We really have to make it into the national team this season, this is unacceptable. Hi, I’m Franjo.” His eyes turn into two narrow crescents as a big smile spreads over his face. He holds out his hand, and Arnaud only has to extend his because the room is not big enough to keep a reasonable distance anyway.

“Arnaud,” Arnaud says after a moment that is just a tad too long.

“I know,” Franjo says, still smiling, and begins to kick his suitcase and bags towards the other bed.

Arnaud blinks at him. He is wearing shorts, and the shirt with their organisation’s logo has wrinkles where the backpack pulled it up.

“I’m sorry, I thought I’d be with Lars again?”

Franjo looks over his shoulder. “There was…a change of plans…as I understand it.”

Arnaud frowns, and Franjo rolls his eyes.

“Don’t tell him I told you but he doesn’t want to bunk with you anymore because you talk too much. He’d rather be with Ralph because he says he talks a lot too but only to his phone…or the kids in his phone, I don’t know.”

“Okay,” Arnaud snorts. It is as good an excuse as any. He wonders how much Franjo really knows.

“Though I can’t say that you do, at least so far.”

Arnaud blinks again. “You’ve been in here one minute.”.

Franjo stops kicking his bags, and opens the zipper of the biggest one. “True, I give you that,” he concedes. “Also I’ve heard you yell ‘fuck’ out in the hallway so I guess I’ve interrupted at a very inconvenient time. Sorry about that.”

“I did not…,” Arnaud exclaims, sputtering indignantly until he realises that Franjo is laughing.

“Very funny,” he mutters, and hopes that the ancient, unsightly drapes keep enough of the sunlight out so his burning cheeks are not too visible. His hopes at his embarrassment staying hidden shatter though when Franjo turns around, and steps right next to him.

“Thanks,” he smiles, and takes in the large gap between the shelves in the closet. “Is there something wrong with it?”

The faint smell of his aftershave cuts through the mustiness emanating from the closet, and it takes all of Arnaud’s self-control to answer within a socially acceptable time. “It wobbles and tilts back as soon as I put a stack of clothes on it. I think the brackets aren’t on the same height but I can’t get them out.” He looks at the superficial scratches along his index finger, and the small scab that is already forming over it.

“Oh no, what happened to your dainty fingers?” Franjo asks, and again Arnaud sucks in air before he recognises the wide grin on Franjo’s face. “Let me try, this looks like a job for a pro.”

“Of course, as soon as I find one,” Arnaud snorts, though he does take a step back until he bumps against the nightstand.

“Ha ha,” Franjo says, his head stuck into the closet. “I’ll have you know you’re…come on you little bugger…aha!” With a triumphant laugh he stands up straight again, and holds up the rusty piece of metal that used to carry one corner of the shelf for the last few decades.

“See?” he says, and holds out his hand towards Arnaud. “That’s why you need a carpenter for a job like this. Though I don’t think we can put this back in, it is totally rusted…” He sticks his head back into the wardrobe, and examines the other three brackets. “I’m sure one of the service men will have a pair of pliers to get the rest out. And the supermarket’s still open, if we’re lucky they’re carrying a box of those…and if not we could go to Sion tomorrow after the training…”

“You really are one?”

Franjo break off, and tilts his head until he can look at Arnaud from the inside of the closet. The hair on top of his head is longer than the rest, and falls over his eyes.

“A carpenter?” Arnaud adds.

“Of course,” Franjo answers. “And what are you? Other than a fast skier.”

Arnaud shrugs, and awkwardly crosses his arms in front of his chest. “I work in a bank in spring and summer.”

“A banker?” Franjo laughs, and takes a step back. “That’s good, you can calculate the depreciation of the new brackets, and whether they fit in our budget while we go to the supermarket.”

Arnaud laughs, staring at the rusty piece of metal in Franjo’s palm. For a second he wonders what it would feel like if he put his own hand in his, and again takes too long to realise that Franjo is staring at him.

“Unless you want to stay here?” Franjo asks. “But it’s not like we have to be anywhere until dinner.”

“No, no!” Arnaud hurries to say. “I’d love to come along.”

With a grin, Franjo turns around, and tears the door open. “Cool.”

The journey from their house to the top of the only mountain where they can practice halfway decently during the summer months is not only long but made even more arduous by the baggage and the masses of tourists slowly waking up for the day. The three pairs of skis slowly slip out of Franjo’s grasp as he waits for the man ahead of him to untangle his photography equipment from the bars of the turnstiles. Arnaud catches up to him just as the path clears, and can just barely hold him back by the shoulder.

“Don’t sit on the opposite side of Elian in the next gondola,” he mutters in his ear before he pushes him forwards. Franjo does not even have time to look at him, the barrage of people pressing against them is simply too strong, and all he can do is go with the current. It is the very last stretch of the journey, and they watch as the giant gondolas file in and out of the station one after the other. The snow is close now, already visible through the gap in the building where the gondolas enter and leave. Arnaud does not know whether he even understood him, and when the time comes, he pushes past Franjo, and deftly loads both their skis into the quivers attached to the outside of the door. Franjo has no time to thank him as he is pulled inside, and jostled across the wobbling cabin so he lands on the bench across from Arnaud, the small space between them filled with their heavy backpacks. Arnaud stares at the small bead of sweat rolling down Franjo’s temple, his face almost as red as his jacket but Franjo’s attention is only on the three other people piling into the cabin. There would be space for more but both Ralph and Marco wait as the gondola ambles out of their reach, using their equipment as defense against the onslaught of the tourists behind them. Their grinning faces are the last thing Arnaud sees before the doors shut, and the cabin tumbles out of the building into the early morning. For a while nobody says anything as Gilles and Alexis sort their limbs and bags while next to them, Elian sits with his eyes closed, his face almost as white as the snow. Franjo throws a glance at Arnaud who answers with a barely visible shrug and a lopsided smile.

“Is everything…okay?” Franjo eventually asks when he can no longer hold back.

Elian snorts. “Obviously! Everything’s peachy.” There is no joy in his words, and certainly none of the good humor he showed yesterday during their first dinner.

“It’s just the first two days,” Alexis says, softly patting Elian’s leg. “And we already went up yesterday, so really it’s only today and then it’ll be okay.”

“Moose sometimes have trouble with heights,” Gilles adds, and laughs as Elian’s weak kicks miss his shins. His laughter dies though when Elian stops abruptly, and shoots up.

“Shit!” Alexis mutters when the colour of Elian’s face changes to an unhealthy grey, and his shoulders start to heave.

“Keep it back another second!” he yells as he pulls a plastic bag out of a pocket somewhere and holds it under Elian’s chin just in time.

Franjo’s eyes have the size of saucers, and his shoulder is pressed flush against the glass of the gondola as if he wanted to pop it out of the frame. When his helpless gaze lands on Arnaud, he cannot hold back any longer.

“Oh, chill it!” Arnaud giggles when Gilles’ warning look lands on him. “You have to admit it’s pretty funny.”

“Can’t stop laughing,” Elian pants, hunched over and resting his elbows on his thighs, his head wedged between his and Gilles’ legs with the drooping plastic bag dangling underneath.

Gilles rolls his eyes but a fond smile washes over his face, and he strokes calming circles over Elian’s arched back.

“Happens every time we come back from the summer break,” Arnaud explains to Franjo who still looks like his mother abandoned him in the queue to the checkout at the supermarket.

“It’s my second year with you losers,” Elian mumbles into the plastic bag. “Get out of here with your ‘every time’!”

“And I can’t wait for the next one,” Arnaud smiles, and his heart skips a beat when Franjo bursts out laughing.

“Sorry,” Franjo mutters as all eyes land on him, even Elian’s who turns his head up to glare at him. “I’m sure that sucks…or, pukes.”

Again Arnaud howls with laughter, and he is only saved by the gondola shooting into the mountain station and everyone scrambling to get out before the doors close again. They take a little bit of pity on Elian, at least, and lug his things through the turnstiles while he ties the handles of the bag together in a knot and shoves it into the nearest bin.

The air outside is crips from the cold, and a sharp wind shoots around the corners of the building. Arnaud is the fastest, and he leans on his poles, his head feeling light from the thin air up here while he waits for the rest to get ready. In his back, a pair of skis slowly glides over the icy surface, and comes to a halt just underneath him. Franjo also stands on a pair of short slats, far from the usual length they use to practice downhill. Today they will only do free skiing to get accustomed to the height and the feeling of the snow under their feet.

“You’re my guardian angel,” Franjo grins, his eyes once again two crescents. “I would have walked right into the trap.”

Arnaud laughs at him. They are the only ones around, with the rest of the team still getting dressed in the shade of the building, and the coaches halfway down the first turn. Franjo’s head reaches just to Arnaud’s shoulder, and all he would have to do was bend his knees slightly…

“I owe you one,” Franjo adds, and pushes away from Arnaud with his poles.

“Absolutely, you do!” Arnaud yells after him, and follows as fast as his trembling fingers and beating heart allow. “I know a place.”

“Uh-uh!” Franjo shouts back. “No place around here has the stuff you deserve.”

“It’s Zermatt!” Arnaud laughs. “You can find everything here!”

“Everything except my specialty!” Franjo says, and with one last wink disappears around the first bend.

What turns their daily commute into an intensive workout, the elevated site of their house at the very edge of the town, becomes an invaluable gain once the sun starts to set behind the mountains and douses the valley below them into the warmest red.

“The guys in Chile had a steak the size of their thighs yesterday but I think we win with our homemade smoked sausages,” Marco says from the depths of a worn-out lawn chair.

“It will go away soon,” Lars snaps, and tries to wave away the billowing clouds rising up from the rickety barbecue with the tongs.

“Yeah, because the neighbours are going to call the fire brigade,” Elian says as he drops another beer in Alexis’ lap, and wraps him in a hug from behind.

Alexis’ deep laugh rumbles into the kitchen where Arnaud is almost done chopping another carrot into the giant plastic bowl of pasta salad.

“And?” he asks, and throws a glance over his shoulder. “What’s the judgment of your first week in the new team?”

Franjo purses his lips. He closes the fridge, and dumps the bag of tomatoes into the sink. “Survivable,” he says, and begins to wash one after the other.

Arnaud laughs, and Franjo throws him a grin, his bangs falling over his eyes, and Arnaud hastily turns his attention to the next carrot.

“I think I got quite the hang of it,” Franjo adds. “Well…mostly.” He grabs a knife, and begins to dice the first tomato. For a while he chews on his lower lip, deeply lost in thoughts.

“The thing between Alexis, Elian and Gilles is a bit…confusing?”

Arnaud snorts. “Right.”

“And of course I’d totally get it if you wanted to swap rooms once the season begins…maybe with Marco or Ralph, or someone from the world cup team. But all in all I’m sure it’ll be great.”

Arnaud pauses in his chopping. He frowns. “Why would I want to swap rooms?”

Franjo shrugs, his gaze pinned on the half-diced tomato on the chopping board in front of him. “I know why Lars jumped at the chance to switch…though, if things were fair you’d have to room with neither of us.”

Arnaud shakes his head. “Don’t be daft! The past is in the past, and I’m fine with both of you, really. You barely snore at all.”

Franjo laughs, and Arnaud drops the last carrot into the bowl. He grabs a tomato from the sink next, cuts it in half, and is almost done with it before he realises that Franjo’s eyes are resting on him.

His shoulders slump. “Okay, maybe I do think about the past…sometimes. But I mean, it wasn’t his decision. And I would have done the same.” If the head coach were from Valais, he adds in his head. But he is not, he is from Berne like Lars, and gave him a starting place in Wengen last year even though Arnaud had beaten him in the tryouts.

Franjo puts his knife down. “This time you’ll start,” he says, and raises his fist. “We both will.”

Arnaud smiles, and bumps his fist against Franjo’s. “Fuck yeah we will!”

The bowl is almost full now, and Arnaud begins to mix the vegetables with the pasta. Next to him, Franjo has put his knife down, and stares out into the garden. Elian and Alexis are still cuddling, Marco is typing away on his phone, and Gilles has joined Lars at the barbecue.

“Have you seen Ralph?” Franjo asks, and cranes his head.

“Probably videocalling his kids again,” Arnaud answers. “Why?”

His breath hitches when Franjo grabs him by the wrist, and pulls him further down the kitchen until they are out of view of the window.

“Because I don’t want anyone to see this,” Franjo whispers, his face suddenly so close that Arnaud can see the thin lines around his mouth that were carved there by his smile.

“Wha…see?” Arnaud babbles, cold showers racing up and down his spine.

Before he can move, Franjo opens one of the cupboards, and retrieves a small bottle filled with a bright blue liquid from behind a stack of chipped soup plates. He grabs two glasses, both milky from the many scratches acquired over the years, and with a beam hands one of them to Arnaud.

“Don’t think I forgot my promise from the first day on snow,” he says, and fills two fingers’ breadth into the glasses. “But I was just waiting for the right time.”

With a bright smile he waits expectantly as Arnaud eyes his glass, and takes a sniff.

“Minty,” he coughs. “And…uh, strong.”

“I invented it myself,” Franjo explains, and Arnaud bursts out laughing at the sight of his proud smile. He waits while Franjo hides the bottle again.

“Of course I’ll let the others have some too…eventually. But I wanted you to have it first.” He clinks his glass against Arnaud’s, and it takes all of Arnaud’s self-restraint not to lean over and close the last gap between them.

“I appreciate the honour,” he smiles instead, and throws the drink back.

Franjo giggles while Arnaud fights for composure and against the next coughing fit. They stand still close, so close Arnaud can observe Franjo’s cheeks blush from the alcohol once the burning sensation in his throat has died down, and the fluttering lashes as his gaze darts between Arnaud’s eyes and lips. Time stops, or maybe only Arnaud’s breath, and picks up again when Marco’s voice booms through the kitchen.

“Sausages are almost done!”

They shoot apart in opposite directions, and Arnaud is back at the bowl and Franjo by the fridge when a shock of brown hair pokes through the open door.

“And by done I mean burnt,” Marco adds. Then, he pauses, and a frown washes over his face. “What?”

Arnaud glares at him, distinctly aware of his burning cheeks, and picks up the pasta salad. “What what?” he snaps back. “Not used to seeing people work?”

“Work, huh?” Marco grins, and hurries out of Arnaud’s reach.

In the brochures on the counter at the reception, every picture of Val Gardena is shot from high above, with the sun shining down on the snow-white peaks and dark green forests. The truth is that a sizable part of the valley, mostly the inhabited one, spends most of the winter in the icy shadow of said peaks, with parts of the town never seeing one ray of sunshine between November and March. Arnaud bears the inspection as best as he can, his entire face hidden behind ski goggles and a scarf to fight the cold, barely listening as the coach explains the turns and how to best move over the frozen solid snow. His ears only start to burn when one of the assistant coaches realises that he is there too, and tries to give him helpful advice for the Super-G tomorrow. The others from the team barely register him, too focused on the upcoming race, only Franjo glances at him from time to time as they slowly make their way through the blue shadow of the steep mountain. Arnaud makes sure he stays close to the other Romands and on the opposite side of the track as Franjo, and once they reach the finish area he hands his skis over to his service man, and slips away unseen. Only Meillard almost walks into Arnaud when he makes his way across the lobby in a tracksuit but luckily he is too focused on the camera in his hands to recognise him. Arnaud spends the rest of the morning trying to forget that he is the only athlete not nominated for the downhill by first running on the treadmill until his lungs threaten to give out and then by cooking himself to death in the sauna. Neither works, and after a lonely lunch he ends up in the small library of the hotel, shielded from the prying eyes of everyone going through the lobby by a row of bookshelves. He does not check his phone but of course he cannot evade the results of the race as they get discussed and commented by patrons and staff passing by, from Odermatt’s splendid run to Kilde’s that is just a hair’s breadth better and then the great upset when Bennett passes both of them from behind. The crime novel he picked from the nearest shelf barely holds Arnaud’s attention but he does not put it down once the team trickles back. First arrive the ones who missed the points, most audible of all Justin who gripes at his bad luck and the unfortunate circumstances to someone Arnaud cannot hear. The coaches follow later, their loud voices carrying through the cracks in the shelves as they discuss tomorrow’s plans. Odermatt is last, arriving with the last stragglers and the rest of the staff. Zoé’s high voice floats above all the others, listing his schedule for the evening with a long list of papers and tv stations. Arnaud is turning the page to the third-last chapter, with the protagonist coming closer to the murderer that Arnaud has known for the last 75 pages, when a new voice stops him in his tracks. It also hovers above the constant hum in the lobby, as clear as if he was standing next to Arnaud’s armchair.

“Did you see Arnaud anywhere?” Franjo asks. “He’s not in our room.”

Gilles answers, his voice too soft to reach the library.

“Okay,” Franjo says. “If you see him, tell him…” His voice dies down and disappears, only to return a few pages later.

“Hey, Loïc! Sorry, Gino told me I’d probably find you here. Do you know where Arnaud is?”

“No idea, I didn’t meet him,” Loïc answers. “I was out all afternoon to catch the light. It was just perfect for a few pictures.”

Franjo’s answer is delayed, as if he first has to dodge a camera put in front of his nose. “Cool. But if you see him, could you tell him I’m looking for him?”

“Sure. Have you checked the gym?”

“I did, he’s not there.”

“How about the sauna? Or the pool?”

Whatever Franjo answers does not make it to Arnaud’s corner. He reads the next few pages, and is almost at the reveal when all of a sudden, someone rounds the corner, and stops in front of him.

Justin puts his hands on his hips, and stares at him with an accusing glare. “What are you doing here?”

Arnaud blinks up at him. “I know you’re not the…scholarly type but even you must recognise this,” he says, and waves with the book in his hands. Laughter erupts from somewhere around Justin’s hip.

“Is that coming from your pocket?”

With a sigh, Justin raises his phone, and reveals the head of Tanguy on the screen.

“I was asking myself, where would I hide if I was a pouting nerd, and when I couldn’t think of anything I called one,” Justin explains, and falls down in the other armchair.

“I’m not pouting!” Arnaud sighs the same moment that Tanguy erupts in protests.

“You didn’t answer my texts either,” Tanguy says, his voice full of accusation. “All afternoon long.”

“The book was very interesting,” Arnaud answers defensively, and both Tanguy and Daniel laugh again.

“But you must have heard the abandoned puppy looking for you in the entire hotel,” Justin says.

“Not the entire hotel, obviously,” Arnaud mutters, and tries to go back to his book. Before he can open it fully though, Justin picks it out of his hands.

“Don’t do this, man!” Tanguy says. “You can’t get bitter, not today of all days when you finally get your chance.”

“I’m not bitter!” Arnaud lies, and realises how silly he looks as soon as he crosses his arms in front of his chest. He still leaves them there.

“You don’t need to be nervous then,” Justin adds. “You’ve got this, and you know it!”

With a heavy sigh, Arnaud drops his head against the back of the overpadded armchair. Three pairs of expecting eyes stare at him, waiting for him to say something.

“I just wanted to be alone for one afternoon,” he eventually says. “Is that forbidden?”

“It is if you’re hiding,” Justin says.

“Especially hiding from someone in particular,” Tanguy adds.

“I’m not hiding from anyone!” Arnaud protests, emphasising each word.

“Right,” Tanguy laughs. “That’s not what a little birdie told me.”

Arnaud stares at him with a dumbfounded look before he turns his attention on Justin. “What the hell are you gossipping? You don’t know anything!”

“Of course I do!” Justin shoots back. “I also have my little birdie. Technically it told the news to his best friend but I was sitting on the same branch and…” He shrugs, and grins at him.

“Marco…,” Arnaud snarls, and to his friends: “If you spent as much time practicing as you waste on gossip you’d both have three globes by now.”

“We’re versatile,” Tanguy answers light-heartedly. “Justin says he’s cute?”

Arnaud jumps out of his chair. “Sorry, we have to go to dinner,” he announces.

Justin laughs, and stands up too. “He is,” he says to his phone. “And we do have to go.”

“Come on, I need details!" Tanguy yells out of the phone. It is the last thing Arnaud hears from him as he walks away. Justin follows slowly, his focus fully on his phone, unaware of the turmoil he caused in Arnaud. The dinner only just started, with the buffet only halfway assembled and the hall almost completely empty. Usually, Arnaud would never eat that early, and he hesitates in the door, pondering where he should go. He does not get to decide.

“There you are!” Franjo laughs, and runs the last stretch between the stairs and the hall. Arnaud’s heart skips a beat when Franjo pulls him into a short hug.

“I’ve been looking all over for you,” he says, and punches Arnaud lightly in the arm. “Where the hell were you?”

“I was reading in the library,” Arnaud answers. In Franjo’s back, Justin walks towards the elevators and winks at him with his dirtiest grin. Arnaud hastily puts his arm around Franjo, and pulls him into the hall.

“I was all alone today, what was I supposed to do? Watch the race?”

“For example!” Franjo laughs. “You missed a real doozy.”

They grab a plate, and slowly amble along the buffet tables as servers bring out the last steaming pots and bowls. Luckily, Franjo is more than willing to recap the race, and spare Arnaud from talking. He is too busy to talk anyway, staring at Franjo between piling spoons full of food on his plate, at the long strands of hair almost hiding his beaming eyes, and the red cheeks still flushed from the biting cold outside.

“At first I was annoyed,” Franjo confesses when they reach the salad bar, and piles two bread buns on top of his noodles. “But in other races I’d be like twentieth with today’s margin, so it wasn’t too bad either. It was just really tight today.”

“You’ve still got tomorrow,” Arnaud says. “And the day after tomorrow.”

“Exactly!”

The older coaches file into the hall as they take their seats at a free table but still no trace of their colleagues. Slowly, Franjo’s monologue dies down, and Arnaud is wiping up the last remains on his plate with a piece of bread before he speaks again.

“I know why you hid.”

“I wasn’t hiding,” Arnaud retorts quickly without looking up from his plate.

“Justin said you are,” Franjo continues unperturbed. “He said he’d find you. But I don’t think he gets it.”

Arnaud pauses, and looks up. He is no longer smiling, and Franjo’s laughter seems a bit lopsided too.

“I saw your post. From back in Beaver Creek, I mean. I guess it doesn’t sound like much unless you…know from experience.”

Arnaud has put down the remains of his bun but now picks them up again, and starts to soak up the last drops of the salad sauce.

“I get it,” Franjo adds. “Sometimes you just want to be alone.”

Arnaud attempts a nod that ends in a half-shrug, and between bites of his bread throws a quick glance over the table. The irony is not lost on him that he can write about his father where the whole world can see it but not manage one word to the one who understands him most. Franjo’s shoulders are slumped. He looks too young without the laugh lines carved around his cheeks.

“I know he would be proud,” he says softly. “Really.”

Arnaud swallows the last piece of his bread. Maybe time plays a role too. Maybe in a few years he can talk about it like Franjo. Now, though, all he wants to do is lean over the table and melt into his touch again, even for only a second.

The moment passes before Arnaud can move.

“Don’t tell me you already ate!” Elian exclaims as he steps to their table. “Jesus, guys, you are spending way too much time with Grandpa Ralph. I hope the prostate’s not bothering you too much. Can I bring you a decaf before bed?”

Suddenly, Arnaud can bear Franjo’s eyes again. They grin at each other.

“We’re just getting a headstart for the dessert,” he says, and throws his crumpled napkin at Elian.

Through the artfully wavy glass separating the dinner hall from the reception, Arnaud watches as the distorted silhouettes of the GS team walk towards the exit. Nobody else at the table is looking up from their meal, their own thoughts too heavy to perceive much of the rest of the world. Arnaud wonders whether the mood in the other team sometimes is the same. That is, Justin's and Gino's mood; Odermatt of course does not have much in his life to be moody about. He glances down the table. Elian throws in a remark from time to time but other than a weak smile from Alexis he barely elicits a response, and Arnaud has learnt over the past year that his sarcasm is not well received in times like this.

Franjo always manages to lift the atmosphere but his thoughts are still up at the Hausbergkante where he missed the gate, and is of no help. Warm fondness spreads through Arnaud's chest as he looks at Franjo's scowl, the deep crease between his brows and the glare at his cutlery as if it was responsible for his misery. Eventually, Arnaud cannot contain himself any longer.

"Ow! What the hell?" Franjo flinches and bends over to rub his shin while glaring at Arnaud.

"Stop being such a sourpuss," Arnaud says.

Franjo keeps staring at Arnaud, one shoulder still almost touching the edge of the table, his mouth hanging open as if he is still struggling to grasp what just happened. Usually, they do not touch, the big exception being the short hug last year in Val Gardena, half a season and lifetime ago. Franjo probably regretted that outburst, or at least Arnaud assumes that he did because he has made sure to keep the appropriate distance since. If Tanguy were here he would probably laugh at Arnaud, maybe compare him to a boy pulling a girl's pigtails. Arnaud counts himself lucky that the slalom coach called a last meeting before the race tomorrow. Marco would for sure tell them to get a room, if he were here and not in the hospital tending to his broken knee.

"'m not a sourpuss," Franjo grumbles, and spears another piece of meat on his fork.

"Well you're not exactly spreading cheer either."

"There's not much to cheer about."

Arnaud sighs. "You can't win shit without taking a risk. Today it didn't pay off but next time it will."

Franjo snorts, shakes his head. "Great, thanks. I'll keep that in mind for the coming year."

"You'll be plenty of times on the Streif," Arnaud retorts, "but I'm not talking about that. I mean the next race."

Further down the table, Ralph laughs joylessly. "Right. Enough time for another chance, and another, and another…,” he mutters.

Arnaud grimaces as the temperature in the hall instantly drops a few degrees. Franjo stares at his plate as if it was the most fascinating thing on earth all of a sudden.

"Just always another chance, 'ok, this time you get a pass but I need to see results', and another chance, and another reason to be grateful…"

"But he has!" Gilles interrupts Ralph, his tone sharper than anything Arnaud has ever heard from him. The warning is unmistakable. "He's not an oldie like us. He has more than enough time, and every right to try again."

Ralph's shoulders slump, his entire form seemingly withering under Gilles' glare. After a second he pushes his shoulders back, grabs his empty plate, and stands up.

"Who do I have to fellate to get a fucking beer around here?" he mutters, and trudges away.

His leave prompts a frenzied bustling around the table, as the others grab their things, and prepare to leave. Arnaud keeps still, staring at a speck of dirt on the table, and only looks up when Franjo leans over. His eyebrows disappear underneath his bangs hanging over his forehead. He washed his hair before coming to dinner and forgot to put gel in it. Arnaud grabs the fork from his empty plate to fill his hand with something.

His voice is barely louder than a whisper, only intended for Arnaud. "You mean Garmisch?"

The heavy embarrassment lifts from Arnaud's chest. He smiles. "Exactly."

A soft grin spreads over Franjo's face. "And what makes you so sure?"

Arnaud shrugs. "I just know. Next weekend, podium for Franjo von Allmen."

Franjo laughs softly. They are alone now, Alexis being the last who leaves with a little wave.

"Well, if I do, prepare to get it all back."

"All?"

"Your kick!"

"That was one little nudge!"

Franjo giggles at Arnaud's exaggerated outrage, and Arnaud's heart picks up a little bit of speed.

"Just be prepared," Franjo warns, and starts to stack up the empty plates.

He has all but forgotten about Franjo’s promise, the week full with practice and preparations. The first race is too warm, the snow in Germany too soft but over night the cold returned. Arnaud is jumping up and down, his hands hidden inside the sleeves of his jacket, when Niels crosses the finish line as the thirtieth racer and everyone realises that the podium is as good as settled. Franjo’s laugh appears on the giant screens overlooking the arena, his narrow crescent-eyes and glowing cheeks competing with Odermatt’s beam. They pose for another slew of pictures and shots before the intermission ends, and the race picks up for the next set of starters when Franjo finally walks towards the baggage area. Arnaud’s heart starts beating even more furiously when the laugh lands on him and Franjo falls into a jog, and stops beating at once when he recognises that he is spreading his arms. At the last second though he dodges to Arnaud’s left, and delivers a punch to his arm that makes him double over.

“What the fuck!” Arnaud groans, clutching his upper arm with his right hand, barely audible over the murmur springing up around them.

“Umm…everything okay?” Loïc pipes up in his back.

“He probably deserves it,” Justin says.

“See?” Franjo laughs, and bends over so he can look in Arnaud’s face. “I told you I’d get you back for that kick in Kitzbühel.”

“But did it have to be that side?” Arnaud gasps as he blinks away tears.

Franjo flinches, and drops to his knee. “Oh fuck!” he breathes as the realisation hits him like a truck. “Oh god! I am so sorry! Fuck!”

Arnaud bursts out laughing, or maybe sobbing, he is not quite sure himself. Slowly, the shooting pain in the bone that he broke last season when he clipped a gate at a hundred kilometres per hour simmers down to the well-known throbbing ache that used to follow him for months.

“It’s okay,” he says, mostly because Franjo’s hands rest on his shoulders, and Franjo’s worried face is right in front of him as he slowly rises from the ground and he can see the anguish in his hazel eyes and he needs it to go away right this moment.

“I’m such an idiot!” Franjo babbles, “I completely forgot about your arm, I’m so sorry.”

Before Arnaud can assure him that he will not die quite yet, Zoé suddenly materialises by their side, and practically throws herself in the tiny gap between Arnaud and Franjo.

“You stop that at once! Guys, what the hell?” she scolds them, and shoves Franjo back with her shoulder. “I expect better of you! This will…”

Franjo and Arnaud stare at her with blank looks, and it is Loïc who interrupts her tirade. “They’re not fighting, love! Well, not for real, at least.”

Zoé stops, and glares between the two of them. “Oh?”

Arnaud nods. “Really! It’s just fun,” he assures, though Franjo’s contrite face does not seem to convince her yet.

“From back there it looked as if it was serious. If it is, I expect you to behave yourself like adults! We can solve this tonight, whatever you…”

“It’s nothing!” Arnaud says. “I swear, I deserved it.”

“Told you!” Justin sings.

Zoé rolls her eyes. “Well, can you please keep it down? I don’t want to spend the evening squashing rumours about the atmosphere in the team.”

“Sorry,” Franjo mutters, and Arnaud nods.

She stares at them for a moment longer and finally, her expression softens. “Fine, then. But you better get a move on, Franjo. They need you for interviews.”

She waits by his side, her foot tapping, while Franjo hastily packs all the things he needs to hold into the camera, and follows her towards the media corner. Arnaud’s fingers have started to go numb again, and he starts to jump on his feet again to stay warm.

Justin’s breath is revoltingly close when his head suddenly peaks over his shoulder. “So, you two like to touch each other?” he asks innocently. “And before you do anything remember that Zoé said we’re supposed to play nice.”

Arnaud lowers his elbow. “It’s fine, I’ll postpone it until the club championships.”

Justin grins. “Can’t wait.”

+1:

Arnaud’s heart beats in his throat, both from the number flashing up on the screen and the bumpy ride through the heavy snow of Saalbach. The searing pain in his thighs and calves slowly dies down as he comes to a halt in front of the rubber fences. Before he can fully comprehend the meaning of the numbers on the screen the image changes and now broadcasts a full-body shot of himself staring up into the air. He turns around just to come face to face with the camera man who tapes every awkward movement of Arnaud as he tries to gather his things with trembling fingers. Sheepishly he waves, and staggers out of the arena. People talk at him from all sides, somebody takes his skis out of his hands and leaves him with nothing but his poles. Loïc is still catching his breath when he pulls him into a hug, and still Arnaud does not understand.

“Well done,” Loïc mutters.

He is still hanging over the railing fencing in the victor’s chair and gasping for air when Rogentin crosses the finish line, and takes Loïc’s spot. Slowly he begins to peel out of his sweaty race suit, and he laughs when Zoé urges him to hurry up.

“They need you for interviews in the tv break,” she says, and is halfway across the grandstands before he can remind her that only the three guys on the podium have to step in front of the cameras.

He is closing the zipper of his backpack when Franjo shoots across the finish line, and Arnaud blinks in amazement when he sees the number flash up.

“But he didn’t make any mistake,” he says to himself, and both Loïc and Rogentin burst out laughing.

“It’s not about mistakes now,” Stefan answers, and throws his arm around his shoulder. “You better get comfortable here.”

Arnaud stares at him, then back towards the race course, and ever so slowly the reality settles in his chest.

“Fuck…,” he mutters to himself.

“Exactly,” Rogentin says.

His heart keeps beating an insane rhythm, and almost jumps out of his chest whenever another racer crosses the finish line, or when Franjo eventually approaches, his poles dangling from his wrists.

“You did it!” he pants, and underlines his hug with two rough pats on Arnaud’s back.

“Not yet,” Arnaud answers, and it takes all of his composure to let go of him again.

Franjo laughs. “You’ll see,” he says, and leaves.

Odermatt’s expression is rather surly when he comes to a halt and recognises the unusually high number flashing up on the screen. Arnaud sinks against Rogentin’s chair but flinches when someone grabs his hand all of a sudden.

Franjo is leaning over the railing. This time he is halfway out of his race suit and in sneakers instead of the unwieldy ski boots. His bangs are glued to his forehead by the sweat, and his cheeks are still glowing from the run across the wet snow of Saalbach.

“Come! I need to show you something!” he urges, and waves at Arnaud to follow him. Arnaud throws a glance across the arena; Zoé is distracted with the radio, and does not realise that one third of her charge is suddenly missing from the most important spot in this entire place. The medical tent is abandoned, the medic following the race outside in the sun. Arnaud laughs when he slips through the flaps and joins Franjo. It is hot inside, though only a few rays of sunshine manage to shine through the gaps and illuminate the small cot waiting for an injured athlete.

“Let me guess: your specialty,” Arnaud grins. “I’m not sure I should have some of that before the last interv…”

He cannot finish his sentence, only just realises that Franjo’s hands are completely empty when he closes the gap between him and Arnaud, and pulls him in a lingering kiss. The world slows down, and for a moment there are only Franjo’s lips on Arnaud’s, and his calloused fingers on Arnaud’s cheeks. The typical smell of Franjo, aftershave and sunblocker and something Arnaud has not identified yet even after all these months together, that has lingered faintly in every hotel room of the past season, suddenly is all around him; almost more tangible than Franjo himself. He breaks the kiss first, leans back and stares wide-eyed at Arnaud. His eyes are round, not the usual crescents, searching for a reaction across Arnaud’s stunned expression. Arnaud only finds out of his stupor once his body forces new breath into his lungs, and like a drowning man he throws his arms around Franjo, and kisses him again. Franjo mewls, sinking easily into Arnaud’s touch. Arnaud cannot keep his hands from wandering all over Franjo, not after the barrier has finally broken down, stroking through his hair the way he has wanted to all these months, feeling his muscles underneath the tight undershirt.

This time they only break apart to catch their breath. “I’ve promised myself I’d do it before the end of the season,” Franjo whispers against Arnaud’s lips. “I wanted to do it after Kitzbühel but…”

Arnaud snorts. “And then that…unfair retribution got in the way?”

Franjo laughs against Arnaud’s cheek. “I felt really bad and…kinda didn’t dare anymore.”

“You should have kissed it better.”

Franjo’s laughter rumbles through his chest, and Arnaud gasps when he licks and kisses a trail down his throat and across his clavicle. Franjo’s hands are dangerously low now, moving over his hips and the button of his ski trousers.

Zoé’s bright voice pulls Arnaud back to reality, and with a pained groan he pulls away from Franjo.

“Has anyone seen Arnaud? God damn it, where did he go now?”

Franjo grins, his hazel eyes sparkling even in the dim twilight of the tent. “Tonight,” he whispers.

#not quite the rhythm i wanted but we move #text #rpf #alpine skiing #franjo von allmen #arnaud boisset #mine

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