Chapter Text
Chapter 1: Trouble
Charlie
I prefer running outside. Pounding away on a treadmill, obsessively watching the seconds tick by and the miles mount, with the scent of other people’s sweat in my nostrils doesn’t really do it for me. It certainly doesn’t compare to hitting a woodland trail or even nipping through quiet streets. Somewhere where the view is ever changing, and I can let my brain switch off; my mind wander. Where I can get lost in my music and the steady rhythm of my stride, while views of ever-changing scenery fill my senses. But this winter has been pretty brutal. I don’t mind running in a little rain. On longer routes it can even be kind of refreshing. But torrential downpours or ice underfoot has seen me retreat to my local gym more often than I’d ideally like over the last few months.
I look out on to the rain-soaked car park. Pools of water form in potholes and run in newly formed streams into drains that I predict might overflow if this keeps up for much longer. I glance down at again at the numbers on the treadmill, just another couple of kilometres to go, but this rain doesn’t look like it’s going to ease off for a while yet. I might stick around and do some strength training in the hope that I can find a window of slightly lighter horrendous hammering in which to escape to my car. Stupidly, I parked in one of the furthest spaces from the entrance.
A Vauxhall Corsa speeds probably a little too quickly through one of the gathering puddles by the window, and the resulting spray obscures the view on the lower half of the glass for a moment or two. The car parks up and a large man, really not dressed for the weather, exits and sprints toward the gym. His little teal rucksack, his only protection from the heavens. Did he not look at the weather before he left the house?
Idiot.
I check my numbers again; I’ve probably got just over 6 minutes left. I resist the urge to start counting down. It doesn’t help me to be so concerned with exactly how long there is left. I want to let my mind free. I turn up the volume on my phone. There may be very little in the way of visual stimulation, but I can still focus on the music pumping through my headphones. I risk letting my eyes glaze over and the beats fill my brain, so I’m no longer concerned with my surroundings.
I suppose that’s why I don’t hear him approach. I was not aware of the door opening behind me or any shuffled footsteps at my back. My peripheral vision apparently also didn’t alert me to his presence till he was already at the adjacent treadmill and tapping away at the buttons. Honestly, I nearly lose my footing when I notice him, and I turn my music down. While it’s good to get lost in it, it’s not a good idea to left myself be so entirely unaware of what’s going on around me.
I hadn’t got a good look at him in the car park, but this is obviously the Corsa driver. His little grey sleeveless vest is drenched, and rivulets of water trail down his neck from his soaking hair. His canvas backpack apparently proved an ineffective method of defence against the sideways driving rain. I follow one of those trails of water with my eye and take in the man next to me.
He’s clearly no stranger to the inside of a gym. He’s taller than me by a few inches and with a naturally much broader frame, but he’s built too. I shouldn’t be staring so openly, but I can take in quite a lot with a quick appraisal and the followings things are of immediate note:
1. Beautifully sculpted, large biceps
2. A perfectly round and frankly juicy arse
3. Thighs that could probably crush the air right out of me if he were so inclined...
Not that that’s likely.
I look back at my numbers and figure I’m so close to the end that if I start counting now it’s not going to do any harm, and at least it’s better than actively perving over an unsuspecting gym go-er. I watch the seconds tick on, the distance increase. I make sure my phone still covers the estimated calorie counter. That information is not remotely relevant and it’s important that it never becomes a motivating factor. Even though, if I thought about it, those rough calculations are still somewhere in my memory.
I feel his eyes on me now.
I wonder what part of our primitive brain makes that possible, but it’s definitely a thing; that feeling of being watched. I also wonder, the way in which I’m being observed. Am I being judged? I certainly don’t have his physique and a lot of gym bros I come across insist that I need to start upping my protein and how much I’m lifting if I want to see results. I’m not sure what results they want from me? I’m running a consistent 38min 10k, I feel healthy physically and, more importantly for me, mentally. Just because I’m not benching, I don’t even know what these guys bench, doesn’t mean....
But I’m getting ahead of myself. Maybe he was just giving me a cursory glance. Maybe I imagined it to begin with. Maybe he even liked what he saw, though that feels like a stretch. This is just a local council facility in a small town in Kent. I don’t go to the gym to pick up guys – I’ve got apps for that if I need it.
I chance a look in his direction and see his head snap forward. He’s staring studiously out of the window, and it’s the first time I’m really taking in his face. My already risen heart rate increases. His hair is darker than I remember, but then, I suppose that’s just because It's wet. From this angle I can’t quite make out his eyes, but I can see a smattering of freckles on his pale but rosy complexion. His jaw is stronger and certainly more covered in stubble. There’s less of that soft baby roundness to his face, but his profile is the same, his nose straight with maybe the slightest hint of cute button lift at the end. God, I’m properly staring now.
Too late, I realise that whatever spidey senses he set off in me, I’ve just done the very same thing, and he turns. And fuck; I was right.
He’s 10 years older, but his eyes are still like little amber magnets, and I feel like he’s piercing my soul with his stare. He hits the stop button on his treadmill and takes the weight of his body on his substantial arms, jumping his legs out to balance at either side, so he can really stop and stare at me and a grin breaks out across his face.
“It is you!”
“You... you remember me?”
I can’t bring myself to stop my run before I hit the targeted 10k, but I don’t need to bring it in quite so fast. I slow my pace to more of a jog so I can chat without sounding like an asthmatic pensioner.
“Charlie Spring! We sat together in form for like 3 months. Of course I remember you.”
“Oh.”
I’m already flushed from exertion, but I feel my temperature rise further, and I’m a little lost for words, so I just stare at him.
“It’s Nick, Nick Nelson. It's OK if you don’t remember my name. I know it’s probably been about a decade or something.”
“I remember your name, Nick.”
“Yeah?”
“You were pretty hard to forget.”
“Is that so?”
Fuck. Why on God’s green earth did I let that sentence leave the confines of my brain? He beams at me, and I’m relieved to see he’s not offended by the implication that the only out gay kid in school probably harboured a secret crush on the hot rugby lad from the year above. Especially, since he only happened to sit next to me for a few months. The fact that it was more of an all-out obsession, a full-blown gut-wrenching fantasy, is neither here nor there.
Still, I feel awkward with the suggestion left hanging there.
“I mean, from memory you tried to get me to join the rugby team? That’s not the sort of suggestion a skinny nerd forgets in a hurry.”
Nick shakes his head and looks over at the screens displaying my speed, distance and time and cocks an eyebrow at me. “I maintain it was a good suggestion. Considering you’re holding a conversation with me while approaching what looks like was going to be a sub 40 10k, until you decided to chat to me, that is.”
I shake my head, and I can feel a smile tug at my lips at the memory.
“Well, maybe, but I’m not exactly the build!” I glance down at the top of his exposed pec where it sneaks out from his vest and immediately regret it, as he flushes in response to my obvious peeking. I dart my head back forward and start examining a very interesting smudge on the window as though my life depends on it and cough awkwardly.
“Well, if it helps, no one really had the build, at least not in year 10 or 11.”
You did.
Thank fuck that I keep that particular thought internal and check my numbers again. He obviously thinks he’s bothering me when I don’t respond.
“Anyway, sorry, I’ll shut up. I’ve already interrupted your workout long enough.”
“It’s fine. It was nice talking to you, Nick.”
“Yeah, you too, Charlie.”
My gut falls at the obvious full stop in the conversation, though hearing him say my name still does things to me it probably shouldn’t. Still, it was nothing more than a brief, polite exchange. A shared story from those days and then back to our own lives.
What was I thinking would happen?
We’d just pick up where we left off, from back when I wasn’t even 15, and strike up some unlikely friendship?
He starts his own machine back up, and I try very hard not to look at him. I clench my jaw, I stare ahead, I count my seconds. It’s no good, I make the mistake of giving in to temptation and find he’s already looking in my direction. We both quickly turn our heads to the front.
I cringe at being caught again.
I decide to sprint my final 300 meters. My legs start to burn, and my chest is tight when I finally pass my goal. I lower my speed gradually; I should probably jog for a few minutes but now I’ve done the distance I set out to, I don’t think I can handle the proximity any longer.
It’s so stupid.
I haven’t seen him for 10 years. I’m not the shy awkward teenager I once was, crippled with self-doubt and afraid to take up too much space. I’ve come across plenty of attractive men since then (and I mean that quite literally). He really shouldn’t still have this effect on me. I think I’ve just been thrown back into the recollection of a feeling. That first big crush, when your hormones are off the charts, and every emotion is amplified as you experience it all for the first time. Where heartache is assumed never ending and lust is a newly discovered country to explore.
He always gave me butterflies.
I think I read somewhere that’s a bad sign. That you want your partner to put you at ease, not to make you feel flustered. That those butterflies are your body’s stress response, and your gut is sort of shutting down in order to prepare you for fight or flight or something. But I kind of feel like that’s bullshit. Of course, you don’t want to be constantly on edge in someone’s presence, that sounds exhausting, but surely a little flutter of excitement can be welcomed?
And looking back despite that flurry of tingles whenever he appeared at the door in form, or I saw him sat, exposed forearms rested on our little shared desk, he somehow managed to calm me too. People can be more than one thing. He could both excite me and put me at ease, make me feel exhilarated and safe all at once. His smile was warm, and his chat was open and friendly. He was not at all what I’d expected from one of the most popular boys in school. He was kind, gentle, maybe even a little shy himself at times.
I get down into my plank, determined not to leave early just because someone I used to fancy has shown up. That would be ridiculous behaviour.
God, I actually had nearly agreed to join the rugby team back then. What was I thinking even considering it? I was so pitifully besotted, and the idea that maybe he’d give me a few extra lessons after school was stupidly tempting. But the prospect of spending more time in the PE changing rooms than was strictly necessary and in the company of some of the other ‘rugby lads’ at our school was a stretch too far. I wonder if we’d have become better friends, closer, if I’d agreed.
Not that it would have mattered, he left a few months after that to go to some specialist sports academy near Bath, so I very much doubt we’d have kept in touch. Even if we’d formed a real friendship, it would have been so short lived when he moved and probably wouldn’t have lasted. I’ve got to stop thinking about what-ifs, and might have beens about my high school straight boy crush.
It’s pathetic.
“Hey, don’t be lazy! Your form’s slipping, you’ll hurt your back.”
I look to the side and fix Nick with a jokingly evil stare.
“Sorry, sorry, unsolicited gym advice is shit, but you’re just putting a lot of pressure on your lower back. Can I...”
He crouches beside me and his hand hovers by my hip. My breath hitches and I think I manage to nod. He tilts my hips back up and God damn it, he was right. I was being lazy and this does feel like the right position.
“There, much better.”
His hand lingers on my hip a fraction longer, the gentle pressure of his thumb warm against a small portion of exposed skin there. Then he clears his throat and shoots over to the free weights in the corner like he’s been burned. I hold out for another 20 seconds or so then let my knees drop. When I look up, Nick is wide-eyed and curiously pink. I suppose, it’s hardly a surprise, those dumbbells are bigger than my head.
I get up from my position on all fours and he shuts his eyes, then lets out a low breath. I hope he’s not pushing himself too much. If he drops those things on his foot, he’ll surely get a broken toe and then I’d probably feel obliged to drive him up to A&E.
He opens his eyes and starts performing a seemingly effortless set of shoulder presses, so maybe it was just a little breathing exercise. God, why am I obsessing about Nick Nelson’s breathing? I go over to the weights and refuse to be embarrassed at the fact that the set I pick are less than half the size of his.
Why am I even worried that he’s judging me? God.
I stand in front of the mirror and begin a set of bicep curls. I move on to hammer lifts and then on to overhead triceps extensions. My running vest wasn’t really designed with this in mind, and I feel a little conscious as the strip of skin at my abdomen is exposed. No doubt Nick’s probably sporting some 6 pack and while I know my toned but narrow waist is appealing to some, I suddenly do feel a bit inadequate and can’t wait to finish up.
I risk a look at his reflection as he moves into his lateral raises. Christ, those arms.
He catches my eye in the mirror, and I swear he’s smirking. So, he knows he’s hot and doesn’t mind my noticing.
I see how it is.
His eyes drift to my exposed stomach and the smirk leaves his face. His jaw locks suddenly and he looks almost angry, and I just have to get out of here.
Even if every perceived slight is entirely in my own brain, I can’t handle the idea that he’s displeased with what he sees. Let me live in the fantasy that was the cute boy in form who was always kind and sweet (all be it unattainable and unbearably hot).
I replace the weights and consider heading to the showers without stretching, but I don’t want to seize up before my long run tomorrow. I head a little out of sight so I can start my cooldown away from his watchful gaze, but next thing he’s moved across to the bench next to me.
“Sorry, I’m not following you. It’s just time for this set.”
I can’t help noticing the empty bench on the other side of the gym, but this is a free country and he can work out where he wants. It would seem churlish of me to move away now, so I give him a half smile and decide to just keep going. I fold over, my legs spread so I can take hold of my ankles, and I hear some sort of squeak over my shoulder. I hold for a while then spread my legs further and lean to one side so I can feel the lengthening of my inner thigh. I look up and notice Nick is no longer lying back but sitting with his face in his hands.
He’s not crying, is he?
When he moves his fingers, he’s definitely not in tears but he does look weirdly pained.
I stare at him, “You OK there, Nick? Did you want me to spot you or...”
“NO! No. I mean no, thank you, though. Sorry I’m fine, I just, my focus is all over the place today.”
“OK, well, if you’re sure. I mean, obviously that’s more than I could bench but I’m sure I’d be able to help you if needed, like, a little assist.”
“I’m sure you could too, but I’m not pushing myself today. You’re fine, I just need to get my head in the game.”
“Cool.” I stand up straight and pull my arms over my head, reaching for my elbow so I can loosen of the triceps after earlier. and I swear I hear Nick mumble something that sounded curiously like “Christ,” but I can’t be certain. I try to ignore him and go through the rest of my arm stretches.
I finish up with hip rotations, just to loosen up my groin and I honestly think I hear, a whispered you’re just taking the piss now at my back, but when I look over Nick is grasping for his phone like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t.
“What was that?”
“Oh, nothing, sorry.”
“Did you say something or...”
“What? Um, no, nothing.”
I wonder if I’m now experiencing some sort of auditory hallucination and my expression must betray my confusion because he quickly follows up with,
“That is, I mean, I did.. I did say something, but it was just under my breath. That is I, em, I got a message from my brother. I didn’t mean to say it out loud.”
“Okay fine. I thought you were complaining about my cooldown or something.”
“Fuck no!”
“Huh?”
“I mean, no, of course not, I would never comment or... I mean obviously I suppose I did comment with the plank, but I was just trying to be helpful. Em, I wasn’t, I’m not complaining.”
He smiles again but he seems really agitated now. I seriously can’t work him out. He appeared genuinely happy to see me when he first arrived and while I didn’t expect us to suddenly become best buddies, he now looks as though he’s a nervous wreck, a ball of pent up energy. He’s flexing his fingers and taking deep steadying breaths. I thought exercise was meant to ease the brain, but if anything, he’s getting more and more wound up.
And... I’m obsessing about Nick fucking Nelson again. I need to leave this room.
“Well, anyway, it was nice running into you Nick. I’ll maybe see you around.”
I reach the door and take a deep breath, thoroughly rung out by the sudden appearance of the ghost of unrequited crushes past, when I hear him yell out across the length of the gym.
“Coffee!”
I spin around and he’s sprinting toward me.
“I mean, we should get coffee sometime – you and me?”
“Oh.”
“I’ve just moved back to the area, and it was good to see a friendly face so, em, can I like get your number or...”
He’s pulling out his phone and looking at me expectantly. I think if I give him mine then I’ll just obsess about why he hasn’t text me. Old acquaintances always say let’s catch up or we should have a drink sometime, but they seldom actually mean it, and I don’t think I could take the disappointment if no message appeared. I can take his number to be polite, and I don’t ever have to use it. If I see him around, we can go through the same charade a second time, of Oh yeah we should really get that coffee safe in the knowledge that neither of us will actually follow through.
Then again... he did run across the gym to me when I was on my way to the changing rooms...
“Charlie?”
“Oh em, yeah sorry – here.”
I hand him my unlocked phone on the contact page so he can enter his details.
“Cool, I’ll just dial it and make sure I put in right.” He says and passes it back to me as his phone lights up in his other hand and he saves my number.
I feel like it was some neat magic trick and I’m kind of impressed. I just hope he never is moved to use his powers for ill.
“That’s a smooth move Nick.”
He furrows his brow. “What do you mean?”
“Well, entering your number and then calling it like that. I guess it stops you getting fobbed off with a fake.”
“Oh my god! You didn’t want to give me your number, and I just stole it.”
“No, no I’m teasing.”
“I seriously didn’t mean to trick you. I can delete it. I wasn’t thinking.”
I place my hand on his elbow and ignore the reignited flames in the depth of my gut and the tingles currently shooting up my arm.
“Nick it’s fine. I obviously know, it’s not like you’ve got an ulterior motive. It was just a bit of a player move, but like obviously not in this context.”
He still looks concerned.
“Nick, I want you to have my number. It is good to see you. We should go for coffee.”
“You’re not just saying that to be polite?”
“I’m not.”
Despite my earlier thoughts, I’m really not. I think even with his weird earlier distress, maybe he is still the sweet, gentle boy, from all those years ago. All be it wrapped up in the sex god of the man I see before me. Why shouldn’t we catch up? I don’t think he’s paying lip service to it. So, neither will I.
He nods and smiles and looks down where my hand is still touching the bare skin of his arm. His grin grows a little wider, and I feel my stomach actually flip. Without permission, my body reads into his expression things my mind knows are untrue.
I withdraw my hand and move to really leave this time. I turn back to say goodbye, and he’s clutching his phone to his chest and biting his lip a little. He holds up his hand and waves at me grinning, and I don’t understand how I’m already in this much trouble.