"There's been an accident," Roberto says in his rolling, languid Spanish. The words come in sharp pants, harsh but controlled; he is pacing himself, ignoring both the urge to sprint until his lungs give out and to fall over and die. It if he has enough breath for spech, he is in good shape.

"Who?" Lance asks. Only the one word, but spoken so carefully, with so much stubborn control, that you wouldn't know there is already 90k behind him. He isn't even breathing hard, Roberto notes with disgust; his own breath rasps in and out with the smoothness of sawdust, burning his lungs.

"Tyler," Roberto answers. There is no need for last names; there is only one Tyler, as far as either of them are concerned. "Two minutes back. I heard it through the relay. His tire blew."

"How much damage?"

Was the tremor in his voice emotion, or merely exhaustion? Perhaps Roberto had only imagined it.

"His collarbone," Roberto says, struggling to keep the words even. His body is in agony; greedily he longs to conserve his precious air, to send the energy into his aching legs instead of words. He forces the desire down. "He might be out of the race."

He watches Lance's face from the periphery, searching for a sign. Exhaustion, concern, satisfaction, guilt; anything that breaks the calm exterior. Lance gives him nothing. "Good," he says, and then he stands up in the pedals and breaks away.

***

Roberto likes to dance. He is a Spaniard; the rhythm is in his blood, instinctual, as easy as breathing-- or bicycling. His mother often jokes that he never took the first awkward, stumbling steps of a baby; he went straight from crawling to dancing, and his first step was the tango.

Roberto likes to watch this dance. The rules are complex, often changing; one is never sure where he stands. In Roberto's experience there are two kinds of dances: there are duels, and there are seductions. He has not yet figured out which type this is.

He watches from the fire as Lance scratches softly at the flap of the tent; he makes the first move in this dance. Something is spoken, some sign given, because he pulls the flap back and ducks inside. If Roberto were to move to the little picnic table behind the tent he could hear what is said.

He moves to the picnic table. He hears what is said. This is what he hears:

"I was wondering when you'd show up."

That's Tyler, sounding as if he is uncomfortable and slightly drugged. Roberto tries to imagine riding with a broken collarbone, and shudders. He hopes Tyler is drugged.

"I might not have. It's not my responsibility anymore."

That's Lance; the soft Texan accent is unmistakeable. He is quiet, perhaps because it is late, perhaps because it merely seems to suit the mood. He does not sound angry. He does not even sound tired. He is giving Tyler what he gives everyone: nothing.

It was different, once, a long time ago. This is not a long time ago.

"It was never your responsibility."

Tyler sounds defensive, almost angry: he is not. He is protecting himself from Lance's coldness.

"I guess not." A pause. The Texan is choosing his words carefully. "Maybe," he says at length, "I wasn't sure it was my right anymore."

This is a new step. Roberto holds his breath, ears straining for Tyler's response. How will he react? Will he counter-attack, will he follow Lance's lead? Or will he change the dance entirely?

A breath, dizzying. Then: a sigh. Tyler is about to do something unexpected.

"I'm glad you came."

Such an admission should be whispered, to soften the impact, to save face; Tyler will have none of it. If it is to be said, it will be said with conviction. They are a matched pair in their pride. When they were friends, it was often the catalyst for fighting. Now they are not friends, but they are not unfriendly, and it is merely another knot in the skein between them.

If Lance acknowledges the admission, it is not verbal, for Roberto hears nothing. Instead he asks, "How is it?"

He means Tyler's injury. This is a safe topic; it is a retreat. Tyler has taken the dance in a new direction, and Lance has acknowledged it, but he is not ready to follow. It is a rest, for both of them, before the tempo increases.

"It feels like a broken collarbone," Tyler says. He takes a risk, letting the pain color his voice. Lance is not unkind.

"I'm sorry," the Texan replies. A pause; he is searching for ways to prolong this brief truce. "What do the doctors say?"

Tyler laughs, and Roberto is surprised by how much he has missed the sound. Tyler was always laughing. "They think I should be in bed," Tyler admits. "But they also say that I won't do any permanent damage if I keep riding."

"You're finishing the tour." It is an almost-question, open to interpretation. Tyler could say yes. He could say of course; there is no doubt. He could say nothing.

What he says is much more honest. "You never doubted it."

Another pause; he is giving Lance a choice. A chance. There's not that much difference between them.

"No," Lance says, "I never doubted it."

Roberto sighs. Something has been released, it is easier to breath, now; something heavy and choking has been eased. The voices inside the tent soften, so that Roberto must lean forward to hear. The tempo has slowed, but Roberto knows it is only temporary; this dance is not done.

"The boys look good," Tyler says. There is a wistfulness in his voice that cannot be mistaken. "Roberto has been amazing."

Roberto feels himself flush with unexpected pleasure at the praise. Tyler is watching. Tyler noticed. It makes him warm inside.

"Yes," Lance answers coolly. "He has. I've made him my alternate."

He does not say it unkindly; he does not say, he has replaced you. But that is the implication, and Roberto can hear the surprise in Tyler's voice, hidden, but not quite well enough. "Oh," he says. His tone is guarded, hurt, but shaded with the knowledge that he has no right to be. He is, after all, the one who wanted things this way.

Roberto remembers him talking about it, not long before he announced his decision. It was late at night, over coffee, as all important conversations are.

Don't you ever get tired of it, Roberto? Tyler had asked, his eyes darkly serious. Don't you ever get sick of him taking all the glory? Don't you ever wish it was you up there?

No. Roberto has told him no, and it was true. He had known for a long time that he didn't have what it took to win the tour. He was a climber; that was his gift. He didn't have Lance's strength, his stubborness, his pride: he didn't have his need to be the best. He just liked to climb.

The team had been stunned when Tyler made his decision to leave. Chechu had gone as far as to call Tyler a dirty bastard, in his broken but impassioned English. There was a feeling of betrayal. Roberto did not feel betrayed; he felt sad. And Lance, well. Who ever knew what Lance felt?

Inside the tent Lance and Tyler are still talking. Roberto has missed some of it, lost in his own memories. Tyler is saying something about the next stage. He is trying to bait Lance, to draw him into the old way of speaking, before they were rivals, but Lance isn't fooled. He won't say anything, so Tyler talks, talking to fill the silence, talking about anything, until at last Lance interrupts him.

"You won't beat me."

The music stops; the dancers freeze, suspended in mid-step. It is a silence usually reserved for deaths.

Roberto would be surprised; he is surprised. He would question, what?, clumsily, as if he had not heard correctly. Tyler does not. He knows he has heard correctly. He knows now why Lance came here, even if Lance himself doesn't. This is familiar to him, bitterly so. More than anything--more than his country, more than his family, more than staying free of cancer--Lance loves to win. It has always been this way. It will never be any different.

Roberto contemplates the millions of things Tyler could say; his mind spins with the posibilities, the different directions this dance could take. But in the end, Tyler only says, "We'll see." Lance has given him nothing; he gives nothing in return.

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