Chapter Four
Giles
“Looking good, Marcello... Yeah! Like that... Hold it. Tight. Yes... See! You've got this, now give me three more reps.”
“You said I'd be done at twelve!” Marcello pants and gives me a desperate look as he lies on the bench in front of me. My hands are poised, ready to catch the bar in his hands.
“But you're not even struggling," I tell him.
Marcello grits out what I assume is a string of Italian curse words and I smile as he pushes himself through three more reps.
“I didn't know you actually spoke Italian,” I say as I help him hook the bar back on the stand.
“I'm fluent in swearing in both Italian and Sardo... but yeah," he pauses, catches his breath, "I can get by. Spending all my childhood summers in Sardinia helped a lot.”
“That doesn't sound awful at all.”
“It wasn't,” Marcello says and his smile is wistful as he sits up.
Something inside me wants to ask him more questions, about his ability to speak Italian, about those summers on a Mediterranean island, about what kind of memories he has, but I'm quick to quash the urge.
I'm not here to be nosey. I'm here to ensure Marcello realises that the gym can be a fun place to be.
And I didn’t suggest that I become his training buddy so I could interrogate him about his childhood.
I suggested it because it sounded like a good way for me to bring a new purpose to my gym sessions.
Furthermore, I wanted to help. It may have been a long time ago but I still remember what it was like walking into a gym for the first time and how terrifying that was.
It’s also true what I said; if he’s also able to deter Tony from approaching me, that wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.
“So, let's move on to your lats,” I say, wiping down the bench where he was just lying with three thorough swipes of my towel.
“My what?”
“Your lats," I say and I poke him gently in the side of his back. “These muscles.”
Marcello rubs his side where I just poked him. “I have to work them out too?”
“You don't have to do anything,” I remind him. “But I was reading about how much of an all-over-body endurance event triathlon is last night so it makes sense to me to ensure our strength training programme is as all-encompassing as possible.”
Marcello blinks. “You were reading about triathlons? Last night?”
I lead us to the pull-down lat machine. “I didn't know much about them. Still don't really, but I found some amateur training schedules online.”
“Well you officially know more than me.” Marcello snorts.
“I'll send the links to you later. Then you'll know just as much.”
I feel Marcello's eyes on me as I move to connect the rope attachment to the machine. “You'll like this one. You have to sit down to do it.”
I move out of the way so Marcello can step in position.
“You expect me to hold... that.” He points up at the rope attachment, two short lengths of twisted black rope with two plastic balls on either end.
“Yep, one hand on each, near the handles,” I say but Marcello doesn't move. “What's wrong?”
“They... they look like...” Marcello begins but then descends into a fit of giggles.
“They look like what?”
“Oh, come on.” Marcello whacks the back of his hand against my chest. “You're gay, you must see it.”
“See what?" I frown at the tricep rope. “And also I'm pansexual. Not gay.”
“Oh.” Marcello's laughter halts abruptly. “Sorry I got that wrong.”
“You're not the first and won't be the last. But also, what am I not seeing?” I point at the rope.
“They look like... dicks.” Marcello swallows another mouthful of giggles.
I look at the tricep rope. “I mean... kinda," I admit. “If your penis has a very large head and a very elaborate display of twisted veins.”
For some reason that shuts up Marcello and when I look up at him, his cheeks look a little flushed and it's not because of the exercise. He's long recovered from the last set he just did.
“I'm being immature, aren't I?” he asks and his voice is quieter than a moment ago.
“I'm just happy you're laughing and smiling. In the gym. I bet you didn't think that was possible.”
Marcello's face relaxes as he replies, “I honestly didn't, but I have to admit, this is not as awful as I thought it was going to be. No offence.”
“None taken,” I say and then I gesture to the tricep rope, which now I'm looking at it with a new perspective, there are slightly phallic vibes. “Grab hold of your penises please, Marcello.”
With another snort of brief laughter, Marcello moves and obeys my order, grabbing hold of the rope's middle with each hand. “Like this?”
“No, actually you need to hold the... bell-end part,” I say somewhat slyly.
“Ha!” Marcello says with another burst of giggles but he does move his hands down and grip the round handles.
“And now pull your arms back, keeping your elbows close to your body.” I watch as Marcello does as I ask. “That's how you would work your triceps, by the way, which is why it's called a tricep rope.”
“And not a couple of cocks?” he jokes.
“Indeed,” I say with a slow smile. “But we want to work your lats so I'm going to get you to sit down, still holding onto the—”
“The two glanses,” he says. “Is that even the plural for glans?”
I can't help it. A small bubble of laughter makes it way out of my mouth. “I have no idea.”
As Marcello sits a flash of colour invades my vision.
“What's so funny over here?” Tony asks as he pops up from seemingly nowhere on the other side of the pull-down machine.
“Oh, Tony, hi,” I say and my laughing halts.
“How are you, Giles?” he asks, and while the question is innocent, his tone is not.
“I'm... I'm fine. You?” I ask but Tony doesn't reply. Instead, he looks down at Marcello who is sitting on the floor between us holding onto the couple of cocks, I mean, tricep rope with his arms extended, almost like he's jet-skiing.
“Hi, I'm Marcello,” he says. “I'm not going to get up and shake your hand because I'm new here and I don't know what is going to happen if I let go of these rope dicks, but it's nice to meet you.”
Tony's eyes narrow slightly on Marcello and they practically become coin-thin slits when his gaze returns to me. “New gym buddy?”
“Yes, I'm helping Marcello train for a triathlon.”
I didn't know how closely related a pout and a scowl were until I see the look that Tony gives me as he says, “Cute.” Then he turns and leaves, throwing his towel over his shoulder and lifting his chin to the ceiling.
I watch him go and realise I've achieved exactly what I wanted by having him see me working out with Marcello.
He certainly doesn't seem interested anymore.
“So, that's the guy,” Marcello asks from the floor.
“Yeah,” I say and I don't know why I'm still watching Tony head to the short row of Stairmasters but I am.
I thought I'd feel relieved to no longer have to worry about his attention and approaches, but I don't feel that at all.
I almost feel sad, like maybe I just put off the only person in the world who was actually interested in me.
“Well, I think he's got the message now,” Marcello says.
“Looks like it,” I say and force a smile on my face.
“You're not pleased about it?”
“Yeah, I am. Of course, I am. I just...”
“It was nice having someone fancy you?” Marcello offers.
I look down at him and realise then that his eyes are a very unusual shade of brown, like caramel or whiskey. There must be a spotlight directly on him because I can even see the swirls of gold that make them look liquid, like honey.
“Yeah, it was,” I admit and feel my shoulders sink.
“Well, he can't be the only one.”
“What?”
“I mean, look at you.” Marcello nods at me and his eyes drop down my body. “You're fucking stacked.”
Having had its way with my shoulders, it feels like gravity now pulls down on my face and I look down at my feet.
“Did I say the wrong thing? I just thought I was pointing out the obvious and clearly, you work fucking hard at your body so I thought me admiring it – in a completely straight guy way, I hasten to add – and complimenting you would be a nice thing to do, but if it wasn't then I'm—”
“It's fine,” I say and I give him another forced smile.
“It's clearly not,” Marcello says. "Your moustache isn't bouncing.”
“What?” I blink at him.
“When you smile properly, your moustache bounces. Those curled ends, they kind of wiggle.”
I feel my cheeks move as a grin takes over, a real grin.
“Yeah, like that!” He nods at me and mirrors my smile.
“Enough of this chit-chat,” I say, happy to be ending this conversation on a better note. “Can't have your body cooling down too much. I'm about to introduce you to your lats, remember?”
As I kneel down next to Marcello, he pulls back on the ropes and immediately mutters another string of Italian words.
And I like it. I like it so much it feels like my breath stutters and my body temperature heats up a little. I always have found Italian a beautiful language. It doesn't hurt that an attractive man is speaking it almost close enough to be directly into my ear.
The image of Marcello whispering more Italian into my ear threatens to take over my mind so I'm quick to shake it off.
The last thing I need right now in my life is developing a crush on a straight guy who I've promised to work out with multiple times a week. That would be one sure fire way to make the disaster that is my romantic life get even worse.
“Is this right?” Marcello asks, and I am grateful to him for pulling me out of both my daydream and my catastrophising.
I study him for a few reps, while keeping up the count.
“Yes, nearly. As you pull your arms back let your elbows stick out. Yes, like that. And then… Do you mind if I touch you?”
“Knock yourself out,” Marcello says. “Feel like I should have probably asked the rope the same question.”
I huff out a quick laugh and then hold his arms so that when he releases the pull, he does so slowly, resisting it a little. When I'm confident he's got the action, I take my hands off his elbows and try not to think about how soft and warm his skin felt.
It's only because I haven't touched anyone else's skin other than my clients or an accidental knock or brush against Radia at work.
It has nothing to do with how I can't stop thinking about how like liquid gold his eyes are.
Not to mention how when I'm not thinking about it, I'm seeking his eyes out, wanting to feel them on me, wanting to catch another glimpse of the caramel swirl that are his irises.
“Figlio di puttana!” He exclaims, and I realise I've stopped counting. An ice-cold rush of panic floods me.
“What number are you on?”
“Twenty-two,” he grits out, barely.
“Shit. Sorry. Give me two more.”
“Two more?” Marcello practically whimpers.
“You can do it!” I pat him on the shoulder and hope he doesn't ask why I insist on him reaching twenty-four. “Inhale and then exhale slowly as you resist and release the hold.”
Marcello extends his arms and they start to shake.
“Fuck!” he swears again. He’s very… vocal.
I swallow. “That's it. Last one!”
Marcello trembles his way through one more pull and then he releases suddenly and noisily, the weights clanging back into place.
“Fuck me!” he says, loudly.
So loudly, I find myself chuckling.
“I swear, if you tell me I need to do two more sets of twenty-four of those bastards I will leave right this minute and go and eat a kebab, with fries, just to spite you.”
I pat Marcello on the back then stand up. As I hold out my hand to pull him up, I give him what I hope is a moustache-bouncing smile.
“You can't afford that surely now you've paid for six months up front. This isn't exactly the cheapest gym in the area.”
Marcello takes a generous swig of water from his bottle. “To be honest, they had me at sauna and steam room.”
I laugh at that. “Well, just a few more sets and you can be sitting smug in that steam room in no time. Let's do some of those tricep pulls I showed you a moment ago.”
I reach out for the rope and place it in his hands again.
“Why do I feel like masturbating is going to hurt the next time I try,” Marcello mumbles. Maybe it wasn’t for me to hear, but I can’t resist replying.
I lean in a little so only he can hear me. “But just wait until we start working your forearms. Those are some serious gains in the wanking department.”
“Facciamolo! Who knew that was the motivation I needed all along!” he says, and he does indeed tackle his first set of twelve tricep pulls with new vigour.