Chapter Text
It’s been a long road leading up to this point. It’s been years of offhand comments about how much he eats, open grimaces when he undresses, and an endless line of backhanded compliments that land him here- his gym pass clutched tightly in one hand, a water bottle in the other, and a prominent frown etched onto his face.
Pete’s always been confident, usually the first one to flaunt his body or flirt with someone he finds attractive. But lately, he’s been different. He averts his eyes each time he passes a mirror. He turns down the appetizers when he goes out to eat with friends. Just last week he’d even had to throw out some of his old favorite shirts because they didn’t fit anymore. While he’s never minded having a bit of extra skin on his hips, thighs, and everywhere in between, other people didn’t feel the same way.
Being freshly out of a two-and-a-half-year relationship with who he’d thought was the love of his life, Pete’s determined to make a change. For himself, for others, he’d figure it out as he went. There’d been a time when he loved his body, when he’d stand nude after a shower and admire his curves with a dimply smile. He hates, more than anything else, that his self-confidence had been taken away from him. Stripped from his essence. The countless boxes of chocolate and ice cream he’d eaten after the breakup had done little to encourage a positive mindset.
The first step had been admitting he needed to change. But step two, admittedly harder, is actively making the decision to do something. But he’s very blessed with supportive friends like Porsche who referred this gym to him. He worked his normal Porsche magic and handed him a free month for his membership.
Several people passed by him awkwardly to open the door, glancing at him with judgmental eyes. Then again, Pete thinks he probably shouldn’t be blocking the entrance with his existential crisis. He stares wide-eyed at the door handle, before catching his own reflection in the glass.
Seeing his reflection made his decision for him, giving him a rush of determination. He wanted to change his reaction when he saw himself, disgust shouldn’t be the first thought. He misses being proud of how he looks. Bitter nostalgia settles heavy in his chest, his stomach swirling with nerves as he keeps his head down.
He hears a voice in front of him, dragging his attention away, “Hi! How can we help you today?”
The woman behind the front counter is too much, her blonde hair pulled back into a tight ponytail. She’s wearing a sports bra and yoga pants that fit her body so well, they look like they could’ve been custom. Pete can’t help but second-guess his decision to come, feeling inadequate looking at how pretty this woman was.
“Uhm, I just got my membership,” he waves his card at her awkwardly, then struggles to find something else to say. Words never came to him easily, not anymore. He always thought he would be judged, or yelled at and the resulting anxiety from the thought usually made him decide against his thoughts of speaking.
“Oh, you’re a gym baby,” she grins. “Come, I’ll show you around.”
Glancing down at his own outfit, Pete’s plain gray jogging pants and t-shirt stand out like a sore thumb. He couldn’t help but feel severely underdressed, surrounded by people who seem to do this regularly. It is the middle of the year now, though, and he figures everyone’s resolutions have been abandoned, leaving only the truly pathetically determined ones or the healthy ones who this is an everyday lifestyle for.
She takes him through several different floors of amenities while he tries to hide the fact that he’s out of breath already, barely able to understand what she’s saying before she’s moving on to the next room. In true gym fashion, he can't spot an elevator anywhere, only multi-level staircases that taunt him with every other step. There’s a spa and a snack bar somewhere in there, but he can’t even remember where they were by the end.
“And we’re back at the main level,” she gestures to the open floor, intimidating workout equipment Pete’ never seen before staring at him as he wheezes. “You can find almost everything you’re looking for down here on the map, but let me know if you have any trouble, okay?”
“Yeah, thanks,” he nods, exhaling dramatically after she walks away to release where he’d been sucking in his abdomen. Flicking his eyes away from the sharp inward curve of her waist, Pete shakes his head and turns back to the map in front of him.
He scans over the information again to determine where he’s going to start, his gaze flicking between the main floor and the pool. A swim sounds nice, but he hadn’t brought a bathing suit, and the idea of showing his body in front of toned should-be-in-the-Olympics swimmers makes his stomach hurt.
Before he can visualize the layout enough to figure out which direction to go in, there’s someone sliding past him from behind, warm body heat tracing the length of his back and shoulders for a few seconds in between. When Pete looks over to see who’d invaded his personal space, he can’t help but gawk.
The guy’s-buff. There’s not another explanation, thick arms stretching out the thin shirt he’s got on. Tattoos run the length of his arm and over his chest and Pete can see them (and his pecs) through the material. All broad shouldered and well, Pete thinks he’s a walking wet dream. He’s firm and muscled and aloof and he’s-
He’s exactly the kind of guy Pete’d been hoping to avoid.
While he’s easy on his eyes, Pete knows he’s the type that would completely make fun of him if he ever saw him working out on any of the equipment. He’d probably laugh and flex his ridiculously large biceps while Pete struggled to work the elliptical - one of the only things in the gym he already knows the name of.
“First time?” The guy asks, glancing at Pete from the corner of his eye while he fills up his water at the fountain next to the map.
“Uh, yeah,” Pete nods, clearing his throat and averting his gaze. “Is it that obvious?”
“No, no. I’m just - experienced, you could say.” He grins cheekily, and Pete’ left with his mouth half open as he screws the cap back onto his water, reeling from the slight suggestiveness of his smirk. Slowly, he glances up and down the length of Pete’ body. “Feel free to let me know if you need anything.”
And, just like that, he’s sauntering off again toward the other end of the gym. Pete gets dizzy from the short conversation, blinking harshly to clear it from his mind in an effort to maintain his focus. Seeing someone so fit should have made him inspired, but as he catches sight of his loose tee and sweatpants in the mirror again, all he feels is dejected; unsure of whether he’d been flirting or pointing out the obvious - that Pete looks nothing like the athletic people lingering around the gym. That he has no place here, not someone like him.
Doing his best to shake off the strange interaction, he walks in the direction of the machines, looking for the simplest one that doesn’t make him feel like crying. He feels more self-conscious than he’d like to admit when he sees what options are on the screen in front of him. Standing with his legs spread on either side of it, Pete pokes his tongue out while he tries several buttons until the grey mat underneath him begins to move. Hesitantly, he steps one foot on it and then the other, working up to a mild speed and grabbing onto the handles on the sides.
For today, he leaves his headphones off, unsure of what to expect from the people here. Some tween psychedelic American pop song is playing over the loudspeaker and Pete tries to get into it, to follow any sort of rhytem but it only overstimulates him further, making him want to peel his skin from his body.
Everyone else seems to know what they’re doing. Looking around, everyone seems to know what they’re doing, sweating with confidence. Pete feels stupid, having a hard time doing more than simple walking. He feels scared, so out of his realm, it should be embarrassing.
Pete gets off the treadmill, unsure why it’s making blinking signals. Pete approaches the shelf of weights on the far wall, one of the few things here that doesn’t scare him. He notices the weight area is a little more secluded, giving him a moment of relief from his anxiety. He still looks over his shoulder, hoping no one is staring at his form or just himself in general. He doesn’t want anyone to know he’s lifting the lightest weights possible. Nothing feels right, skin too tight and unsettling so he moves to the elliptical, hoping anything will make him feel better.
It doesn’t end up getting better but Pete feels more like he blends in when he’s on the elliptical, so he stays there for fifteen minutes, slowly. It raises his heart rate but not much else. Frustrated, Pete stops the machine and prepares to leave, feeling wonderfully unproductive.
Grabbing his few things he’d brought with him, he cradles the water bottle to his chest as if it could hide him from the inside of himself, speeding toward the closest exit without a thought to where he came in.
He ends up walking in a gigantic circle around the back of the gym, passing the other areas she’d showed him on the tour. His feet begin to drag the patterned carpet, his disappointment and fatigue getting to him quicker than he’d thought it would. Just as he’s about to reach the front desk again, he passes a room with glass walls. Curious, Pete glances inside when he catches sight of a familiar body.
From the other side of the hall, he stares openly as the same guy he’d talked to earlier at the water fountain aims his aggression at the punching bag. His face set firmly, and his muscles drawn tight, Pete isn’t sure whether to ogle him or feel even more insecure. It’s not that Pete wants to look like him necessarily, but he thinks it’d be nice if he could go up a flight of stairs without hyperventilating. This guy looks like he could go up twenty and not bat an eye.
He’s trying to snap himself out of his gawking when the guy looks over at him, registering someone’s eyes on him. He fully turns, his eyes locking with Pete, but he doesn’t seem angry. Slowly and with a raised brow, he waves toward Pete again, a small smile on his lips. Face flushing, Pete shuts his mouth abruptly, walking quickly to the exit, praying to Buddha the ground would swallow him whole.
***
Porsche’s last-minute invitation to go out tonight is still on his screen, phone resting on the counter. Pete’s been eyeing it for the last hour, unsure if he wants to leave the safety of his apartment. He doesn’t, but he can’t just wallow in his grief. It’s been several months, months of anxiety and feeling as horrible as the day he left him. Ultimately, Pete decides to go, wanting more company than his books.
His favorite club outfit still hangs where he left it, when he used to feel good about himself. He enjoyed showing off his body then, the sheer black top and the skinny jeans working wonders for his body. But his ex-boyfriend hadn’t liked something about it, either the outfit or his body and it’s been collecting dust since that day. Running a fingertip over the familiar material, Pete pulls it off the hanger and grabs the jeans from his drawer.
He undresses quickly without looking in the mirror. He doesn’t need to see his reflection; he can already feel the excess skin on his bones. There’d been a time he stood in this very spot and admired himself. Now, disgust prickles under his skin and he thinks he could vomit at the feeling of the fat spilling between his fingers.
In only his boxers, Pete tugs on the shirt first because it seems less intimidating. It’s flowy but clings to the outline of his hips, allowing more give in the front should he need it, and now he’s grateful for it. It slips on easily enough but doesn’t necessarily feel like it used to, doesn’t give him the same twinge of excitement it once did.
Keeping his gaze on the ground, he reaches for the jeans. They make it just over his knees before he has to pull harder over his thighs. He tries to tell himself ths is how they’re supposed to feel, but he isn’t convincing himself, his own voice in his head falling flat.
The button on the front won’t meet the other side of the jeans, a small gap between it and the hole that won’t close. Pete bites his lip to keep from crying, shutting his eyes determinedly. He shuffles backwards and falls onto the bed until he’s flat on his back, sucking in as hard as he can to see if it will help.
The button still doesn’t reach, and Pete loudly starts to sob. When did this happen? He didn’t think it was this bad, that his ex wasn’t right. He wonders if he’d somehow missed it, hidden underneath all of the oversized hoodies.
His phone rings loudly, vibrating from the kitchen but he ignores it, unwilling to deal with whomever was on the other end. Pete strips, throwing his clothes onto the floor. When he’s naked, he curls up into the fetal position and tries to ignore the way his stomach folds with him.
***
Going back to the gym had been a conflicting decision. He spent hours wallowing, anger and self-pity building. He had had his party of self-loathing, and the gym membership wasn’t useful sitting in his wallet. The tough love only made him even more upset, his lips still quivering as he slid on his workout clothes, but he tries to reign it in to preserve any shred of dignity he had left. He still feels unattractive and bloated when he pulls up to the gym, sighing at the daunting building.
Acting like they’re somehow friends now, the woman behind the front desk beams and waves at him when she sees him in the doorway. His lips curl up awkwardly in response, even as he tries to return the gesture.
Pete’d made a list of exercises to try when he could work up the courage to go to the gym. When the list was created, he had been remarkebly more confident. Disregarding his feelings, he pulls his phone from his pocket and scrolls back through his notes as he finds an unoccupied corner, as secluded as possible. He didn’t feel any equipment he used last time had been highly effective, so he opted to try something else. It’s not like it could get any worse.
Raising his arms high above his head, Pete stretches the muscles in his back and neck, twisting side to side. Then he drops down to try to touch his toes, his fingertips only reaching to right above his ankles. He stretches both arms in front of his chest once more before he attempts the first written thing on his ambitious list.
Surrounded by two of Pete’s least favorite things; people and mirrors, the thought of doing a squat sounds like the worst idea in the world. It also seems like one of the easiest things to do, though, compared to sit ups, push-ups, and planks, so he settles for it anyway.
Hands braced, Pete glances around, takes a deep breath, then shakily lowers his body to the ground until his body is in a squat position. Testing the stance a few times with a careful bounce on his toes, he winces as he lifts himself again. It’d been much easier going down.
He turns his head both ways determinedly and drops down again. He ends up just sitting there after a few repetitions, all too easy to get in the pose but difficult to stand up again afterward. Huffing, he puts his hands on his knees to stand.
“Need some help with that?”
The deep voice startles him, his eyes snapping up to see the same man from the first day. He regards him with a furrowed brow without responding.
“I work here,” the guy says, offering a hand along with a throaty laugh. “I’m Vegas. I’m a trainer, I promise I’m not stalking you.”
Pete notices the name tag pinned to the front of his shirt, having swapped out the workout wear yesterday for a uniform. Pete hates that he looks just as good in that as he did the day before, arms and chest still obviously straining the tacky shirt. He can only picture the rippling muscles underneath.
“Do I- was I doing it wrong?” He’s already flushed and panting from the squats, so he doesn’t think (he hopes) it’s noticeable when he blushes, worried he’s managed to embarrass himself on his second day. He hadn’t been aware there was a wrong way to squat, but he wouldn’t be surprised if he were the one who managed to figure out how to fuck it up.
“Not wrong,” Vegas offers, “You just need to hold yourself up a bit more.” And then, like something out of Pete’ fantasies, he steps beside him and drops down into his own squat, his hands out in front of him, showing him what it should look like. “Try it like this,” he says.
Pete breathes in through his nose and mirrors his position, a burning sensation spreading in his thighs without his calves holding up his weight. Vegas looks like he’s sitting in an invisible chair without so much as a wince, thighs bulging in his tights shorts.
“Oh,” Pete frowns. “Ow.”
“If it’s burning, you’re doing it right,” Vegas chuckles. “Try again.”
Glancing over, Pete gets momentarily distracted by the muscles in Vegas’s thigh that tense when he moves to stand before he shakes his head. As if he hadn’t been ashamed enough, he has to put a hand down to push himself up while Vegas’ pose had all been one fluid motion.
After doing some earlier, even if they’d been incorrect, Pete’ body is protesting. But, to avoid the judgment, he gets into position once again and drops down. His limbs quite literally quiver as he fights to hold himself off of the ground, only able to hold it for a second or two before he has to stand up.
“You should try boxing,” Vegas suggests after a moment.
Pete heaves a dry, tired laugh, bitterly amused that Vegas’s managed to realize already just how out of shape he is.
“Not because you’re bad at this,” he rushes. “Just because everyone has their strengths. If you think you might have more power in your arms, then you should try it.”
I don’t have power anywhere, Pete hears resounding in his head. But he nods toward Vegas anyway, standing and grabbing his water bottle to head to the ring he’d seen him in before.
“Oh, I didn’t mean today,” he says, eyes meeting Pete’s.
“Why not?”
” You’ll be sore tomorrow and I don’t think you should push yourself quite so hard yet. But we can build you up to it,” Vegas assures him. He hands Pete a clean towel to dry his forehead, smiling. “Meet me at the ring tomorrow, same time?”
“Sure,” Pete sighs. Why not, it can’t get any more embarassing he figures demurely.
He still isn’t sure Vegas isn’t doing this to make fun of him, but it’s the most attention he’s gotten in weeks and he’s growing desperate at this point. The fact that he doesn’t look disgusted yet is a bonus. He’ll see soon enough just how pathetic Pete is at, well, anything and he’ll regret offering his help. But for now, Pete will take it.
He leaves, saying goodbye to Vegas, grimacing at the feel of his sweat-soaked shirt against his car seat. He’d like to shower at the gym but he’s afraid. Pete hates the thought of being so publicly nude, vulnerable to anyone who might accidentally pull the curtain open or try to watch him while he changes.
He shakes his head and starts the car, blasting the air-conditioning over his face while he pulls out of the parking lot. He hadn’t even been there for more than an hour and yet he feels simultaneously more lost and productive than he has since he decided to go in the first place.
Porsche texts him as he’s about to pull away.
want to grab coffee?
Pete knows what he means. He means that he knows something’s wrong, probably has known for a while now, and he wants to give Pete a chance to vent. But he doesn’t feel like he’s ready. Porsche is his closest friend, but that’s all the more reason Pete wants to spare him his pathetic sob story.
can’t tonight, Pete types back. sorry .
Porsche reads it, but he doesn’t say anything else.
***
Pete decided he doesn’t like the gym.
He’d shown up early, just in time to catch the end of Vegas’s own boxing session before starting Pete’s. It even inspired him just a bit, watching how smooth his movements were and the satisfying sound that shook the room when his glove hit the bag. If he’s honest, he had been more focused on the intimidating scowl on his face the entire time. Pete should not have found it as attractive as he had.
It’d all gone downhill from there. As soon as Vegas noticed him standing there, he came over to say hello, slipping off his own gloves to find some for Pete to wear. In shorts that fall just below his knees and another t-shirt, Pete ogles Vegas’s tank top and wonders if he’ll ever be brave enough to wear something that revealing.
“Alright, c’mon,” Vegas says, offering a hand.
Vegas’d been right when he said Pete would be sore. His thighs are burning making him wince each time he takes a step. It takes everything in him not to groan openly when he helps Pete up into the empty ring, strapping a black mitt onto his hand while Pete’ eyes stray off to the side to the black punching bag on the floor.
“Wait a second-I’m not fighting you,” Pete says with a horror-stricken look on his face, refusal on the tip of his tongue.
Vegas laughs openly, “No, you aren’t fighting me. We’re just practicing for now. You’re going to punch my hand until we get your form right.”
“But you were using the punching bag,” Pete frowns. He might have the athleticism of a newborn foul but he thinks he could handle hitting a stationary bag.
“Do you know how to punch already?” He asks, strapping thick gloves onto Pete’ smaller hands. The smallest size still engulfs them with room to spare. Vegas adjusts the velcro as tight as he can, waiting for his answer with a slight smirk on his face that Pete feels the urge to smack off of his beautiful chin.
Pete bites his lip, glancing between him and the bag off to the side before staring down at his socked feet, “No,”
Smiling, Vegas just raises his hands and refocuses. Positioning them in the middle of the ring, he raises his hands up in front of him. It’s intimidating on its own, and even just pretending to fight him gets his blood pumping harder in his ears.
“Stand like this, yeah?”
He nudges Pete’s feet apart slightly, adjsuting his body into the correct form. “You’ll want to do it like this,” Vegas says, mimicking a perfectly structured slow-motion punch for Pete to recreate.
They repeat the motions while Pete asks questions, punching a hypothetical bag. After a few minutes he feels like it’s not so terrible anymore and maybe, just maybe, he won’t make an ass out of himself. He’s not close to Vegas’ abilities but he seems like a God amongst men, no one can be like him.
“Now, hit me right here, as hard as you can.”
Pete feels like there’d been enough buildup for it to be at least somewhat good his arm tensing up for the impact. He focuses his eyes where Vegas told him to hit with a determined glance. Rearing his arm backward, he inhales and braces himself.
His fist collides with the mitt with nothing more than a blunt, quiet pat. Pete thinks he might start crying.
Quickly stifling his laugh, Vegas purses his lips until he can control his facial expressions. It takes a minute before his face remains neutral, “That-that was good.”
“I’m quitting,” Pete says seriously, trying to rip the gloves off without his fingers to no avail.
“You’re not quitting,” Vegas rolls his eyes. “Everyone starts somewhere, you just need some more practice.”
He must not understand, Pete imagines. Fighting with the strap until it finally loosens, Pete slips them off and hands them back to Vegas more forcefully than necessary, crossing back over to the side of the ring and ducking underneath the wires to step down.
Breathing picking up, he stumbles on his untied shoelace and unintentionally adds salt to his proverbial wound. With flaming cheeks, he stomps over to the wall to lean on while he bends down to re-tie it. He’s doing his best to not make eye contact yet feeling creepily perceived, raising the cortisol in his body, anxiety taking over. It’s almost unmanageable. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Vegas jump over the side of the ring and walk over.
“Look, Vegas, you’re very nice and I-I do appreciate that you’re trying to help me, but I’m never going to be good at this. I’m just not made for this kind of thing. It was stupid of me to think that I was. I should go cancel my membership,” Pete rattles off his rant, mumbling the end of it while yanking on the loose lace of his shoe. He’s trying so hard to save face, but he can feel his eyelids burning from the burning tears.
“Hey, hey, enough of that,” Vegas stops him, gently pushing him back down onto the chair behind him. Already feeling defeated, Pete goes down easily. “The point of coming here isn’t to be good at something,” he says. Kneeling, he pulls Pete’s foot onto his lap and untangles the loose laces. “You obviously got the membership for a reason. There’s some reason you wanted to come here.” Lowering it back to the ground after he’s tied a very neat, albeit cute, bow, he glances back up to Pete, “Don’t give up so easily. We’ll find something you can do - something you can enjoy.”
“We?” Pete asks, a bitter laugh escaping his throat as he wipes at his eyes with the back of his hand.
“Yes, we. I help people figure out these kinds of things all the time. Trust me, you’re not alone. And you aren’t doing as horribly as you think you are.”
Pete’s frustrated expression softens, his back sagging against the chair like a puppet with it’s string’s cut. His ability to pretend was losing it’s mobility, quickly.
“If you feel comfortable telling me, why did you get your membership?”
Pausing to reflect how best to explain it, Pete purses his lips. “I miss when people told me they liked the way I looked. Now people just say that I’m too fat and I didn’t think that at first but-but now none of my clothes fit anymore,” he ends on an embarrassing whine, suddenly too overwhelmed to speak, the emotions flooding his senses.
Porsche and his other friends are supportive but they didn’t offer much more than halfhearted dismissals. Every time Pete mentions his weight, they would wave him off, telling him not to worry about it, that he looks great and it’s all in his head.
He knows having kind friends like that is a good thing but it’s not honest. It would be nice to talk openly with someone who would tell him the truth, to offer advice that he can choose to take but would leave it up to his decision.
“Your body changes all the time, Pete. Everyone’s does. You have to pay attention to hormones and diet changes, anything could cause a fluctuation. Even stress or sleep.” Vegas shrugs like it’s simple. “It’s not a terrible thing. If you’re happy and healthy it shouldn’t affect anything else. Gaining weight is normal, you can gain weight from drinking a lot of water one day and the next day pee it off. It doesn’t mean anything.”
“I used to like the way I look,” he mutters, not ready to let go of his bad mood so easily just yet.
“What did you like most about yourself?”
“My, uhm, my waist, I guess. My legs,” Pete shrugs.
“What else?”
Huffing, Pete sags as he tries to think back to what he used to like. “I used to be, like, firm, I guess. Not-not as soft as I am now. Which isn’t bad, but I like knowing I could defend myself if I needed to.” He pauses, his lower lip jutting out. “I can’t think of anything else.”
Vegas stands and crosses over to the other corner of the room, grabbing his phone from underneath his change of clothes. He stands there for a minute, typing away at the screen, before nodding to himself and walking back over to Pete without looking up.
Confused, he stares at Vegas, not sure why he abruptly stood up, “What are you doing?”
“I’m going to make you a workout plan,” Vegas tells him.
“No - you don’t have to do that, Vegas. I’m not even paying you,” Pete hesitates, shaking his head. He feels guilty enough that he’s taking time away from Vegas’s other paying clients without him making a personalized workout plan for him.
“Don’t worry about it,” he soothes, still typing. “I’ll send it to you and that way you’ll have it even when I’m busy. It’s not a big deal.”
Pete tries to focus on the fact that he’ll have a good workout and less on the fact that he’s going to get Vegas’s phone number. “I-okay, thank you,” he sighs.
He stays for a few minutes longer while Vegas asks him a few more questions, then grabs his bag and stands to leave. He throws one last smile and thank you over his shoulder, hoping Vegas hadn’t seen him walk straight into the glass door on his way out.
***
To his surprise, Vegas’ workout plan is perfect for him. It doesn’t go without hic-ups, but it helps to go in with some sort of plan instead of just trying random stretches and hoping there’s a difference when he looks in the mirror.
It’s obvious just how much time and effort Vegas dedicated to it. He wrote the names and examples for each machine and exercise, and how to use each machine. He even made little notes about how it fits Pete’s goals as well. Looking at it makes his heart soar in his chest when his phone pings with it the next afternoon, texting back a simple thank you because he’s unsure how to say it enough.
Pete’s so anxious to see if the plan will work for him that he goes to his bedroom to get dressed, even though he hadn’t planned on leaving today. He tells himself it’s because of the new workout and not because he wants to see Vegas. And if he drove a little faster than normal, no one has to know.
Each of his recommendations are self-explanatory when he reads over them, and they seem doable for someone of his abilities. Vegas works with him from stretches to the eliptical, weights, and even new exercises he could only believe a sadist (or Satan, his mind supplies) would design. It requires an extreme amount of energy, and it is a lot for him especially being so new.
He’s finishing his last set as Vegas appears from the offices, face lightint up in a grin when he sees Pete.
“How’s the routine?” He asks, coming up to lean against the machine next to Pete with his arms crossed, biceps bulging like always.
“It’s perfect,” Pete tells him. “Thank you, Vegas.” He smiles softly at him, stomach buzzing with nervousness, but Pete can’t place why.
“I told you, you just need to find what your body is capable of. There’s no right or wrong, but it’s good to push yourself.”
Seeing his smile makes Pete’s smile bigger, and then they’re both just standing there with goofy grins on their faces until Pete clears his throat with a blush, eyes widening before his phone rings.
“Well, thank you,” he says again. “I’m just about to head out, I know you just closed. I’ll get my things and let you lock up.”
Vegas nods but pauses when Pete steps off the machine who makes a noise at his wet shirt, peeling it off of his stomach quickly with two fingers so it won’t cling to his overheated and sweaty skin. “You can go and shower, if you want,” Vegas tells him. “I’ve got the key to lock up and I usually stay late anyway.”
“Really?” Pete asks, “Are you sure?”
He nods again in Pete’ direction. “Take your time and I’m in the room next door if you need anything.”
Sighing gratefully, Pete takes him up on the offer, rounding the corner into the locker room to get to the showers once Vegas left. It all feels too open like he’d been afraid of, but the knowledge that the gym is closed relieves some of the anxiety pooled in his stomach. Even if the most attractive man he’s ever seen is on the other side of the wall.
He tries to avoid that thought as he pulls the curtain shut in one of the stalls before he undresses. Clothes in a small pile right outside of the cubicle, he stands back with a hand to his chest as he turns on the water and waits for it to warm. He’s grateful he paid for one of the nicer gyms, tiny complimentary shampoos and body washes available at his leisure. He chooses the sweetest smelling one and washes his hair quickly, soaping up the rest of his body.
It feels amazing to wash off directly afterward instead of driving home filthy, sweat-soaked and uncomfortable. Maybe if he sweet talks Vegas enough, he can work something out to allow him to work out and then use their showers here.
He snickers at himself in his head. He’s going to have to get over his little crush, hopefully soon, although the end doesn’t seem to be anywhere. The attention feels wonderful, but Pete knows it won’t last much longer. Vegas is probably one of those men that gets off on knowing he had a hand in making other people look better, and helping the people that come in and seem helpless, like Pete. That doesn’t stop Pete from wanting him to rip his clothes from his body while fucking him in the boxing ring while they create a different kind of sweat. He really is stupidly hot all sweaty.
It also doesn’t change the fact that Pete’s not that confident in himself yet. Slowly, there is progress being made (which Vegas is to thank for), but there’s still a very long way to go. Not that Vegas would want him anyway, he muses. He figured he wouldn’t have wanted him even when he was skinnier.
Shaking his head under the spray to clear his messy thoughts, he rinses the rest of the soap from his body and shoulders before turning the water off and reaching outside of the cubicle for a fresh towel off the table.
Only when the towel is wrapped around him does he realize that he hadn’t brought extra clothes with him. And unfortunately, that isn’t one of the things the gym provides.
Panicking, Pete glances helplessly at the pile of sweaty clothes on the tile below him. He bites his lip. He could just put those back on, but they’d be filthy, and he doesn’t really fancy the idea of getting so dirty again right after showering.
Letting his forehead thunk against the ceramic divider, he clenches his jaw with his eyes pinched shut. Pete sucks in a deep breath and brings the towel up until it's wrapped around his chest, covering him from his collar bones to thigh.
“Vegas?” He calls, slightly poking his head out of the curtain.
It isn’t loud enough, and he knows it, but he’s still hoping for a miracle where Vegas won’t have to come in here and see him half naked. Pete doesn’t want to scare the poor man into never speaking to him again. But he doesn’t show up even after a few minutes pass, he steps right outside of the shower cubicle and tries again.
“Vegas?”
When he gets no response from his second attempt, Pete sighs and fully steps outside, yanking the curtain to the side. Maybe if he stands at the edge of the open archway of the bathrooms, he’ll be able to tell Vegas not to come inside. He can just ask for clothes and no trauma will occur. Pete won’t have to move or dig a grave and pass away.
He tiptoes across the bathroom floor barefoot, dripping water onto the tile. Staring at his body instead of where he’s going, he starts to say Vegas’ name but stops abruptly when he bumps into a hard chest.
“Veg-oh, shit. I-” he cuts himself off before he can make it worse, his fist clenched so hard in the material of the towel that his knuckles turn white from the pressure.
Vegas’ eyes fall from his eyes to his lips before his gaze lowers where droplets of water slide across his skin. Embarassment causes heat to flush over his face, ears tinging bright red. He notices Vegas’ breath quickening, glancing down at Pete’s body like he’s trying to be subtle but failing. He can hear the self-deprecating voice in his head telling him if he thought he never had a chance before, he definitely doesn’t now.
Years before, Pete might’ve recognized the look in Vegas’s eyes. If they’d been in a bar, he would’ve teased him a bit, flirted and taken him up on a drink and the possibility of a date. Now, he just feels inadequate. He no longer trusts simple words, no one can assure him, and Pete feels too out-of-place to interpret words, feeling like it’s always a lie.
His gaze falls to Vegas’ chest to avoid his eyes, swallowing thickly. He tries to make his mouth function but it just won’t, his throat dry and he feels extremely overwhelmed at being caught in front of the one person he’d felt something for after everything that happened.
“Did-did you need something?” Vegas asks, less than a breath away from him since neither of them have tried to move.
“I don’t, uhm, I haven’t got any clothes with me,” he whispers. “Sorry.”
Vegas leans in the slightest bit and inhales so quickly Pete thinks he imagined it, then turns on his heel and leaves the room. Slumping sideways against the wall, Pete blinks a few times to get rid of the haze. He’s so confused .
But he doesn’t have time to think about that either because Vegas returns, a clean change of clothes in his hands. “Here you go,” he says, voice deep and words deliberately slow.
“Thanks,” Pete says quietly, refusing to meet his eyes.
He waits while Vegas looks at him, his teeth sliding over his bottom lip, bruising the flesh as it turns a deep pink. He awkwardly stands there until Vegas gingerly turns around to give him privacy.
Stuttering, Pete hesitates. He didn’t think he’d have to change with him in the room. Pete has a strange feeling but he realizes he trusts Vegas not to turn around, even though there might always be a chance.
Pete’s hand tightens on the towel once more before he drops it altogether, the sound of the sopping material hitting the floor all too loud in the large, barren room. He freezes, petrified that Vegas will turn around and laugh, but it never happens. His broad back never turns, his arms crossed over his chest and his head kept respectfully down.
He rushes to pull Vegas’s clothes on. He realizes the shirt hangs off of him and the pants have to be rolled once to stay on his body. Vegas brought him boxers as well which Pete definetly is not imagining being on his body or his dick. He’s not thinking about giving these back with Vegas knowing where they had been. It felt like an indirect kiss of some sort.
He clears his throat before throwing the towel in the bin. He latches his hands in front of him, waiting for Vegas.
“I’m finished,”
Vegas’ no better when he drinks in the sight of Pete. He can’t tell if he’s angry or something else, but his brow is furrowed and his jaw is set to the side, his eyes no more than halfway open where they’re focused below Pete’s chin.
“Are, uhm, are you ready to lock up?”
Vegas nods, speaking gruffly. “Yeah.”
Though his mouth says yes, his body doesn’t move. He just stares at him, eyes running down the length of him. Somehow the entire exchange is the most erotic thing he’s ever experienced, his heart beating faster than it ever had over the course of his last relationship. Mouth dry, he runs his tongue over his bottom lip.
Seeing that, Vegas seems to snap out of his trance, blinking harshly and spinning toward the door. But instead of going through it himself, he only stands in the doorway with an arm stretched outwards, motioning for Pete to go in front of him.
With burning cheeks and his take home bag held tightly to his chest, Pete steps forward. He passes Vegas slowly and too quickly all at once, momentarily encompassed by his scent and the warm feeling of his body. It’s over as soon as it begins, and he falls beside Pete as they walk back through the dark gym to the entrance.
During the day it seems completely different than it does now. After hours, the gym is much more private, seeming intimate even, as they pass the boxing ring near the exit. When he glances over it’s difficult to make out much of anything, but he can see a streak of moonlight across Vegas’s face. He follows it with his eyes until they make it outside.
He remains silent while Vegas locks the building and tests it afterward, making sure the security system is enabled. Their bags make identical noises as they bounce against their hips and Pete hopes it's enough to fill up the awkward silence because he doesn’t know what to say to make the situation any better, if he even has to. It could just be in his head, just his anxiety again.
“I’ll give you the clothes back tomorrow,” Pete tells him, feeling off-kilter and confused.
“No-” Vegas snaps, then softens, “I mean, no. Just keep them, please.”
Vegas’ still fidgety when he stops behind the trunk of Pete’ car, his knuckles gripping the strap of his bag tightly. When he turns, Pete realizes he’s got it positioned conveniently over the front of his sweatpants.
“Okay,” he relents softly, unable to take his eyes off of Vegas’s face even as he stupidly fumbles with his keys. “I’ll-I’ll see you tomorrow?”
“Yes,” Vegas nods again.
Eventually he manages to unlock his car under the tight gaze, tossing his own bag to the passenger side and waving to Vegas where he still hasn’t moved.
“Goodnight, Vegas,” he tries.
It finally seems to do the trick, Vegas shaking his head and repeating his words, “Goodnight, Pete.”
Ever his own worst critic, Pete slips into his car and slams the door shut, but he doesn’t take his eyes off of Vegas until he’s gotten into his own car at the other end of the lot. He can’t seem to shake off the feeling in his chest, knowing he’s doesn’t have any right to be feeling this way. He’s flustered and hot and anxious all because of - what, a bit of eye contact?
In the rear view mirror he can see Vegas pull out and drive past him to the street. Figuring he’s stayed here long enough as it is, he turns the key and backs out, falling into line behind Vegas to turn out of the parking lot. He stays behind him until they reach the nearest light, Vegas turning left while he goes right. Just before he does, Vegas turns to him and waves one last time. Pete’ heart flutters in his chest.
Yeah, he’s fucked.