Chapter Seventeen
Marcello
Thank God this isn’t weird. Not that I’d been worried it would be, but Giles has every right to act a little strangely with me after I basically propositioned him in the rudest, most impersonal of ways.
I think we should fuck…
There’s this guy…
At swimming training…
I cringe at myself and I’m lucky that I’m reaching the end of my reps so Giles won’t even think anything of it.
I’ve been cringing all week. Cringing and hoping it wouldn't be weird once Giles and I went training again. And it’s not weird. I’m relieved about that.
And yet I’m not completely at peace with the situation either.
Because I still have a problem I need to solve.
A problem that only gets bigger, literally, as I feel Giles step closer to me as he spots my weighted squats, which are getting increasingly wobblier.
The front of his legs and torso don’t quite touch mine, but I can feel him all the same.
My body temperature increases. My pulse pounds harder in my ears.
Which makes no sense because I’m also aware of blood rushing away from my head and to my…
“Cazzo,” I grit out as I push up against what feels like all the weight in the world.
“Fifteen!” Giles counts and he brings his hands to the bar next to mine and helps me rack it up. I then expect him to step back, maybe move to the front of me, either way to give me space, but he doesn’t. He lingers behind me and pats me on the back.
“Well done,” he says. “That was impressive, especially after being sick this week.”
“It was just some food poisoning,” I say and decide the best thing I can do is move myself so I duck under the bar and then turn back to face Giles. I pat my stomach. “That will teach me for ordering a dodgy kebab after swimming training.”
“Ah, yes, swimming training,” he says as he keeps his hands on the bar and leans towards me.
This position emphasises every single swell of every single muscle in his arms. And it makes me realise Giles doesn’t have any under arm hair and I find myself inexplicably drawn to that, to wondering what he smells like there, what he even tastes like. “How’s that going?”
I’m relieved I can answer this honestly, because I did at least start swimming training this week.
“It was… okay,” I reply. “As I expected, I’m the worst in the group by a long shot, but nobody laughed at me and I didn’t drown so I will take that as a positive.”
“You didn’t know this last week?”
I stop blinking, realising how badly I just put my foot in it. “That was my trial lesson. I wasn’t with the group I’m in now.”
“Ah, I see,” he nods, “and does that mean you’re not in the same group as Mr Speedos?”
He winks at me and I’m completely flummoxed. Mr Speedos?
“The guy you think you have a possible thing for,” he prompts in a lowered voice.
“Oh, yeah, him,” I say and while I fight the grimace I want to make, I don’t fight the internal berating I give myself. All these lies. It’s not easy to keep on top of them. Especially not with my brain. “He’s still there, but not in my group, no.”
“And you still…” Giles releases the bar, dips under it and steps in front of me. “You still think you feel something for him?”
I hold Giles’ gaze so I don’t drop my eyes down his body, taking in his sculpted shoulders, the way his vest clings to his pectorals, the stretch of his shorts over his thick quads and the inviting smoothness of his hairless legs.
Hmm, turns out I didn’t need to look at it.
It’s all stored in 4-fucking-D in my mind’s eye.
“Yeah, I think so,” I answer, the note of defeat audible in my voice.
Giles’ eyes dart left and right, as if checking who’s close by, and then he takes a half-step closer. “I’ve been thinking about that.”
“About Mr Speedos?”
“Yes, well, no. Not him specifically, more about your… situation.”
Oh God, no. I don’t want to talk about this with Giles again. It was mortifying enough the first time. I’ve only just recovered. I can’t face another week or more of cringing every time I remember what I said.
“Oh, forget it!” I say, waving my hand around. “I was an idiot. I thought we established that?”
“We did?”
“Yeah,” I say and take a drink from my bottle of water. “And if we didn’t then, I am reiterating it now.”
Giles’ face changes from something teasing and playful and possibly a little bit confident, to crestfallen, which takes me completely by surprise. Surely he can’t be disappointed that I’m withdrawing my offer, which wasn’t actually an offer but more an order.
I’m such a fucking idiot.
“I don’t know what I was thinking. I should never have assumed that just because you’re a queer man and I’m questioning whether I’m a queer man, that we should fuck.”
Giles’ mouth quirks when I say the word fuck and I can’t tell if it’s with interest or disgust. I tell myself it’s the latter.
“I wasn’t offended,” he says in a quiet voice. “If anything, I was flattered.”
“Well, that’s cool,” I say. Because it is. If we can get past this weird blip with our friendship intact, I will be happy. “But regardless, I’m sorry.”
“Apology accepted,” he says with an affirmative nod.
My exhale is long and loud. “Phew. So what’s next? My legs have stopped shaking which I’m pretty sure means we’re not doing leg day properly at all.”
Giles’ short laugh is full of heart and it has me grinning with him. “You shouldn’t be so honest with me.”
“Didn’t our last conversation just confirm, I have no filter and am prone to saying things I shouldn’t?”
“Better to be honest than live a lie,” Giles says and when I glance over at him, his smile has completely gone. As if he notices me observing this, he scrunches up his features quickly, eyes squeezing shut, and then he claps his hands and a strained smile appears. “Time for weighted bridge lifts.”
I groan like he expects and also because it’s the only rational response anyone should have after being told they have to do weighted bridge lifts.
“I’ll rack you up,” he says, pointing at a free mat in front of the mirror. “Go get comfortable and give me eighteen lifts without weights to warm-up.”
“Yes, sir,” I say, giving him a quick salute and his eyes stay on me as I walk away. I know this because I feel it. I tell myself he’s checking I get a good spot and that my feet are in the right position once I start to thrust up.
I must be doing it acceptably because when he returns with a bar and circular weights, he doesn’t say anything about my form.
“Twenty,” I say, informing him that I’ve done two more than what he asked for.
“Oh, well, if you’re trying to show off,” he says, “go all the way to twenty-four.”
I groan again, but I do it.
“Twenty-four!” I declare and then lie back down on the mat.
“Legs down and keep still,” Giles says from above me and then he rolls the bar up my legs and up to my hips.
He’s already applied the foam pads to the bar and I look down my body to see him tentatively adjusting them so they’re on my hip bones.
Holding my breath, I’m suddenly very aware of how close my hip bones, and therefore his hands, are to… other parts of my body.
Cazzo di puta. Do not get an erection now.
I close my eyes and think about my mother’s ravioli, about how she makes it from scratch, about how she sings opera out-of-key while she rolls out the dough and cooks the filling.
“What are you waiting for?” Giles taps the side of my thigh with his foot. I open my eyes and can tell that’s not the first thing he’s said to me.
“Sorry,” I say. “Mentally preparing myself… for hell!”
He rolls his eyes but his moustache lifts with a smile.
“Get on with it,” he says and I can’t help but feel another wave of relief that we’re back to bantering and teasing and just being two guys who train together. Two guys who are fast becoming good friends. Two friends, absolutely zero erections.
“One,” I lift up and then lower.
I push up eleven more times and then stop at twelve, knowing Giles wants me to hold this rep.
He nods approvingly as I keep my hips in the air and engage my glutes. “Let’s count down from six,” he suggests and I nod, teeth gritted as I start to shake.
“Six, five, good! Four. Three, two…” His voice gets slower and slower.
“For fuck’s—”
“One!”
I drop my arse to the mat and exhale raggedly. “That was cruel.”
“I don’t know.” Giles crosses his arms. “Was a lot of fun from where I’m standing.”
I look up at him again, standing by my side looking down at me with a smug, I’m-in-control look, and I immediately have to close my eyes and start thinking of my mother’s ravioli again.
Two friends, no erections. Absolutely no erections.
If he’s surprised that I start my second set of reps so quickly, I’m unaware because I keep my eyes closed and I keep my thoughts on anything but wondering if Giles likes to take control in the bedroom or not.
“Twelve,” I grit out and hold the thrust while it’s elevated.
“Open your eyes, Marcello.” Giles voice is much closer to my ear than I expect. Opening my eyes, I see he’s crouching next to me, his face only a few inches from mine and his gaze on my lifted hips.
“Let’s hold it for nine,” he says.
“Fuck you!” I gasp.
“Nine, eight, seven,” he counts down.
“Seriously. Fuck you hard!” I grit out.
He moves his eyes from my hips to my face. “Six, five, four.”
“With a spiked dildo!” I call out.
“Three, two…” his voice slows again and he gives me his most shit-eating grin.
“Porto cane, Giles!”
His eyes glaze over a little and I notice they’re not holding my gaze but rather they’ve dropped to my lips.
I find this instantly fascinating and flattering and so many other adjectives I want to feel but my whole body is trembling as I try to maintain my lift.
And he’s still not counted all the way down.
“Seriously, mate,” I plead.
He blinks quickly and it snaps his eyes back to my form. “One,” he finally says.
I sink back to the mat and offer up another string of my finest Italian and Sardo expletives.
“Are you trying to kill me?”