Alpine Brothers – A week of snow, turns and true friendship
- xero-one
- Jan 20
- 4 min read
The five of us return to the same small ski resort in the Western Alps every year. The mountains rise ruggedly and majestically, the snow crunches under our skis, and the air smells of cold and pine resin. Our ski instructor, Alex, has been with us for three years – calm, humorous, and always ready with a witty remark when one of us takes a spectacular tumble down the slope. During the day, we carve our turns, battle the steep mogul runs, and warm up with hot chocolate in the small hut at 2,200 meters. In the evenings, we sit together in the wood-paneled living room of our holiday apartment, play cards, reminisce about old times, and laugh about the day's most embarrassing falls. It's simply this pure, uncomplicated time with the guys – mountains, snow, friendship. Nothing more is needed.
Sometime during the week, you notice a change. Alex looks at you longer, smiles softer when he talks to you. I find myself observing his calm demeanor—the way he shows the others how to shift their pressure to the front ski, the deep, confident sound of his voice. In the evenings, we sit side by side on the couch, our thighs accidentally touching, but staying put. Neither of us moves away. After the others have gone to bed, we talk for hours—about dreams, fears, what's truly important to us in life. At some point, he places his hand on mine, just like that, completely silently. No kiss, no hug, just this warmth and the knowledge: something real is happening here. For the first time in years, I feel that gentle, deep pull in my chest—not lust, but love.
The next day, everything feels a bit electric. Alex corrects my stance on the slope, his gloved hands briefly resting on my hips, adjusting me. "More weight forward," he murmurs close to my ear—and I can feel his breath through his cap. My pulse quickens, even though we're only talking about edges and pressure distribution. That evening in the sauna, we all sit together, towels around our hips. The heat makes our skin rosy. Alex's gaze briefly flicks over my chest, my shoulders—just a fraction of a second, but long enough for my stomach to clench. Later, as we change side by side, his bare arm brushes against mine. Neither of us says anything. We just look at each other—and suddenly there's this silent understanding, this barely perceptible tingling beneath the skin that says: It could happen. Soon.
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