“Fuck, Rambo,” Dylan said, spotting the barbell as Auggie lowered it. “You’re getting some legit guns.”
Auggie exhaled sharply, lifting the weights, ignoring how his arm screamed at him.
“Fuck yeah, Rambo.” Dylan held the other end of the bar, enabling Auggie to lift it one-handed without using his broken wrist. “Fucking get it.”
He made it through six reps before he grunted, and Dylan helped him rack the barbell.
“Ten more pounds this time,” Dylan said.
Groaning, Auggie wiped his face.
“Come on, Rambo. Don’t wimp out on me.”
“Let’s switch.”
“Not yet. Ten more. Last set.” Dylan straightened from where he had bent to pick up two five-pound weights, grinned, and said, “Let me see those weapons of mass destruction.”
Auggie flipped him off.
Dylan waited.
Grinning, Auggie flexed his arm.
“Fuck yeah.”
When Auggie flipped him off again, Dylan laughed and added the weights to the bar.
By the third rep, Auggie’s arms were shaking, and he was releasing tiny bursts of breath as he struggled to keep the barbell steady.
“Do it,” Dylan shouted down into his face. “Do it! Get that fucking bar up or quit wasting my fucking time!”
Somehow, Auggie did it.
“Fuck yes,” Dylan said. “You are a fucking stud!”
Workouts with Dylan were always intense—had been, even before Lender had broken Auggie’s wrist. Dylan knew exactly how far he could push Auggie. He knew how much he could ask of him. And Auggie gave it to him because of the way Dylan grinned at him, slapped him five, wrapped an arm around his neck, called him Rambo.
They mixed protein shakes in blender bottles, sitting at a table in the gym’s tiny recovery area. Auggie fumbled with the cap a few times; he was shaky, but the good kind of shaky, like he’d pushed himself just past where he thought his limits were. Dylan was sweaty and had gotten a good pump, but he hadn’t worked nearly as hard. He didn’t need to. He was already layered in muscle.
“How many grams of protein are you getting every day?” Dylan asked.
“This has sixty grams.”
“I’m talking total.”
Auggie shrugged.
“I told you to count your macros.”
“Right, I know. Sorry.”
“Your body is a temple, Auggie.”
“I know, I know. I just—I kind of fell off the wagon after I got hurt.”
Dylan grunted and looked away, watching other guys in the gym.
“I’m going to try that app you recommended,” Auggie said.
“Sure,” Dylan said. He was studying a twinkie blond who was standing in front of a mirrored wall, doing hammer curls with fifteen-pound dumbbells.
“And I did a lot of research,” Auggie said, rattling the blender ball in his bottle. “This is the best protein on the market. It’s whey, and it’s a protein isolate, so way less fat and stuff. They even blend in some creatine.” He didn’t add that the tub of powder had cost almost two hundred dollars.
“You’re probably not drinking enough water.”
“No, I’m going to start doing what you told me, about taking a gallon jug to class with me.”
“You’re going to start?”
“I mean,” Auggie said, “I was doing it, but—”
Dylan pushed back from the table, pounded the rest of his shake, and stood. He looked at Auggie, looked at Auggie’s blender bottle, and said, “I guess I just think you shouldn’t be violating your body with animal products. Sorry. That’s just me. I only do plant-based protein powders.”
“But I thought you told me—” He stopped because Dylan had already left, headed for the locker room. When he caught up, Dylan had stripped down to his compression shorts. His body was chiseled—he was a big guy without a trace of fat, every muscle crisply defined. A hint of stubble showed on his chest, and it was obvious Dylan had manscaped everywhere he could reach. The first few times they had worked out, Auggie had tried not to stare. Now he enjoyed looking, but only because it was just the two of them in the locker room.
“If you start doing what I tell you,” Dylan said, his gaze fixed on his shirt as he turned it right-side out. “And I’m saying if because you apparently think I’m full of crap—”
“No, I don’t. I must have missed when you told me—”
“—then I think you’re going to be a fucking beast by the time lacrosse season rolls around.”
Auggie was too surprised to say anything. Then he finally managed: “Really?”
With a tiny grin, Dylan looked up. “I know I’m intense. But I want what’s best for you, and I care about you because I know you’re special. I know you’ve got potential.”
“It’s ok,” Auggie said. Heat ran through him, and his heart hammered in his ears. He turned himself out of his shirt, the movement awkward because of his cast. “I can handle intense.”
“Holy shit,” Dylan said. He was staring at Auggie.
“I don’t really think I’ve gotten much bigger—”
“Auggie, I had no fucking idea.” He was staring at the bruises, mostly green and yellow now, some almost completely faded. “I thought—I mean, I knew you hurt your wrist, but I had no idea. Why didn’t you tell me?”
Auggie shrugged.
Coming closer, Dylan brought up a hand. His touch was light, slick with sweat, gliding along Auggie’s scapula, following the curve of his ribs, tightening around the swell of his bicep. They were alone, and Auggie’s dick hardened, his nipples hardened. Dylan’s erection was visible through the thin nylon of his shorts.
“Who the fuck did this?” he mumbled, seemingly to himself.
Covering one nipple with his hand, Auggie said, “I don’t know, I just—”
Dylan locked both hands around Auggie’s waist and steered him backward, guiding him down the length of the locker room. The showers were private here, individual rooms with long curtains. The air was humid and smelled like Zest soap. When Auggie pushed through the curtain, the wet vinyl clung to him, cold enough to make him shiver, and then it fell shut behind Dylan.
“Dylan,” Auggie said.
“Be quiet.” He shoved his shorts down. His dick was huge, bobbing out in front of him, and next he grabbed Auggie’s gym shorts and the compression shorts underneath, forcing them down past Auggie’s knees. Auggie was painfully hard, and he whimpered when Dylan grabbed him. He kissed Auggie once, their teeth clicking together, and then he forced Auggie’s head to the side, sucking hard on his neck. He moved down, bit Auggie’s collarbone, and whispered, “You are such a fucking man.” His hand tugged, and Auggie groaned. “You are my fucking man, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” Auggie whispered.
“You’re so goddamn special. You’re real.” His head came up, and he locked eyes with Auggie. “You’re real, and everybody else is so fucking fake. You’ve got an old soul, and God, you are so fucking beautiful.” He licked his lips. “Touch my dick.”
Auggie did. He was surprised, his mind already making comparisons, like mine, not like mine, gratified when Dylan moaned and thrust into his hand. He’d come close to this with Theo, once or twice, but that was all. And now it was happening, happening with someone who turned Auggie on, turned every light on and left it blazing.
Dylan pinched Auggie’s nipple using his nail, and Auggie let out a sharp noise. The pain was intense, but so was the electricity arcing to his dick.
“Be quiet,” Dylan growled again. He hoisted Auggie up, lifting him as though he weighed nothing. Auggie lost contact with Dylan’s dick, and for a moment, he wasn’t sure what was happening. Then his butt settled on the chrome safety bar, and Dylan hooked Auggie’s leg over his shoulder. The bar was wet and cold. The tile behind Auggie was wet and cold. Dylan was sweaty and hot, panting, his breath like steam on Auggie’s chest and shoulder. This new position made Auggie’s heartbeat accelerate. He was open. He was exposed.
“Dylan, I’m not sure I’m ready—”
“Relax; we’ll be safe.”
Then Dylan’s finger was there, prodding, pressing, and his other hand encircled Auggie’s dick again. Sweat eased some of the friction, but when his finger popped through, it burned.
“Ow,” Auggie said. He tried to reach for Dylan’s wrist, but Dylan’s other arm was in the way, still pumping. And Auggie was shaking, his muscles worn out from exercise, the rush of hormones making him drunk. He was nineteen, and in spite of the discomfort, he had another guy’s hand on him, and he was on the brink of orgasm.
Dylan worked his finger in and out. In and out.
“Ow, Dylan, hold on.” His tone changed. “Oh fuck. Oh fuck. Oh fuck.”
“I want your load all over me,” Dylan said. His eyes locked with Auggie’s, refusing to release him, and Dylan said, “Come for me.”
Auggie came. He was vaguely aware of gritting his teeth, trying not to make any noise, his head cracking once against the tile. Then the crest of the orgasm passed, and Auggie was shaking harder, his hip aching from having his leg forced up over Dylan’s shoulder. Dylan was staring at him, his gaze still holding Auggie’s as he jerked himself off. A moment later, hot wetness streaked across Auggie’s leg.
Outside, a couple of guys were talking—from their voices, older men, probably staff or faculty using the campus gym around their work schedule. Laughing. One of them talking about a bike ride from the weekend before. Auggie’s hip was on fire, and he slowly worked it down from Dylan’s shoulder. Dylan leaned against Auggie, the damp curls on Auggie’s chest, his hands tight on Auggie’s waist again. Tight enough to hurt. Auggie played with his curls.
Dylan lifted his head, kissed Auggie, and helped him down. Picking up Auggie’s compression shorts, he said, “Go grab my soap and towel, would you? You really hosed me down, and I want to get cleaned up.”
That night, washing his face, Auggie still felt the pain between his legs, still had one nipple throbbing. He looked in the glass. Dylan’s fingers had left faint purple marks on his hips. Water ran down to his jawline, beaded, dripped off. I guess it’s going to hurt, he thought. I guess it’s really going to hurt the first time.
The next day, when he tried to copy Dylan’s advances in the locker room, Dylan shook him off.
“Are you kidding me?”
“It was fun. I thought—”
“It was fun. Great. That was a transformational moment for me, Auggie. That was something special and serious when everything changed between us. But for you, it was fun. That’s great. I’m not interested in playing jerkoff games; sorry.”
He had to spend the rest of the day apologizing over text before Dylan forgave him.
The next day, he didn’t try anything. He just did what Dylan told him. He showed him the app where he was tracking macros. He asked about plant-based protein powders and ordered some while Dylan watched his phone screen. He displayed the gallon jug he was using to stay hydrated. And that day, everything went smoothly.
On Friday, though, he messed up again. It was the Sigma Sigma back-to-school party (the spring semester edition), and Auggie had gotten his cast off that morning. He snapped Dylan a picture of two outfits and the message, What should I wear to the party?
The snap back was just a black screen and the words, Whatever you want, I guess.
A snap of Auggie’s face, eyebrows raised—hopeful and curious was the expression he was going for. What time are you coming over?
The next message wasn’t a snap; it was a normal message. I can’t even believe you’d ask that.
I’m sorry. I did something wrong, and I don’t know what I did wrong. Will you please tell me so I can make it right?
I really expected better of you, Auggie. As a person, and also as someone I’m trying to build something unique with. How is this going to work between us if you don’t listen to me?
What did I forget? I’m sorry. I’m really sorry, D.
The demonstration for Deja.
But Auggie didn’t remember Dylan telling him anything about the demonstration. He composed a message saying that, and then he stood there, sweat prickling under his arms, and deleted it. Instead, he typed, I am so, so sorry. I didn’t realize that was tonight.
The composition bubble appeared, disappeared, appeared, disappeared. The message didn’t come through for five minutes, five minutes that Auggie spent perched on the edge of his bed, sick to his stomach, the smell of flop sweat building in the room.
I can’t even believe I have to say this, but I expect that the person I make my life with is going to care about social justice. Sorry if that’s not something you’re interested in. Have a great time at your party.
Auggie had to call three times before Dylan picked up.
“I was planning on going,” Auggie said. “I just got the days mixed up.”
Dylan’s breathing was slow and assured. “I feel like you’re telling me what I want to hear.”
“No. Dylan, you know that’s not who I am.”
“I’ve tried really hard to communicate with you. I’m worried that you’re too distracted with those people you call your friends. And all you care about is your social media stuff. You’re not listening to me, and I know it’s because you don’t have room in your life for anything else. You don’t have any place for stillness, inner peace, harmony. Those things are really important to me.”
“They’re important to me too,” Auggie said. “I want to have those things in my life. I want to have you in my life.”
Outside, Peter, a junior who lived a few rooms down, was singing Kesha, “Tik Tok.” Music thumped in the background.
“There’s room for you,” Auggie said. “In my life, I mean. I can—I can think about ways to spend less time on social media.”
“If you want to come with me,” Dylan said, “you need to be at my apartment in fifteen minutes. If you’re not here, I’ll know why.”
Auggie pulled on clothes. The Civic was still at the mechanic’s, so he sprinted out into the cold and snow and ran.