Getting to Know Each Other
The weight room at the athletic center was noisy with loud music, grunts and banging metal. Rob arrived early, his stomach a tight knot of anxiety or anticipation – he wasn’t sure which- disguised as pre-workout focus. He’d chosen black compression shorts and a thin, sleeveless gray shirt that showed the definition in his shoulders. It was functional, but he knew it was also a statement. He wanted to look like he belonged there, like his body was a tool he knew how to use.
Charlie was already by the bench press, loading a barbell. He wore loose gym shorts and a faded t-shirt, but as he bent over to slide a plate onto the bar, the fabric pulled tight across his back, revealing the powerful lat muscles that swept down to a narrow waist. Rob’s mouth went a little dry.
“Hey,” Charlie said, straightening up. His voice was a low rumble under the gym’s noise.
“Hey. You’re early.”
“Could say the same.” Charlie offered a small, tentative smile. “You ready to get weak?”
Rob laughed, the tension loosening a fraction. “Fuck you, Andersen. Let’s see you keep up.”
The session was a serious workout. Charlie, it turned out, was a methodical, intense trainer. He corrected Rob’s grip once, his fingers brushing Rob’s knuckles. He stood close behind the bench, hands poised to catch the bar, his breath warm on the top of Rob’s head as he urged him for one more rep. The proximity was electrifying. Every spot, every adjustment, was a point of contact that sent a jolt through Rob’s system. He found himself pushing harder than he ever had, just to feel Charlie’s hands on the bar, to hear his low, “You got this, come on, push.”
Afterwards, dripping with sweat, they sat on a bench by the water fountain. Rob’s arms felt like wet noodles. “Christ,” he panted. “You weren’t kidding.”
Charlie took a long swig from his bottle, his throat working. “You’re strong. Just needed some fine-tuning.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “So, that decent meal?”
They went to a burger joint on the Corner. Over greasy food, the conversation drifted from workout routines to classes, to the bizarre personalities of their respective coaches. Rob found himself talking more than he intended, about the pressure of the soccer team, about his family back in Maryland expecting weekly updates on his “college experience.” Charlie listened, his dark eyes attentive. He talked less, but when he did, it was with a dry, self-deprecating humor Rob hadn’t expected.
“My dad asks if I’ve ‘joined any clubs’,” Charlie said, stabbing a fry. “I think he means like, investment club. Not the ‘constantly questioning your entire existence’ club.”
Rob snorted. “Yeah. That club doesn’t have a t-shirt. Thankfully.”
It was easy. It was normal. And underneath the normalcy, the current of something else hummed steadily.
A pattern began. Rob would text Charlie about a gym session. Sometimes Charlie would suggest a run instead. The first time Rob joined Charlie, Mark, and Nick for a run, he felt like an interloper. They met on the steps of the Rotunda as the early morning light painted the Lawn in gold and shadow.
Mark and Nick were friendly, a bit reserved. They were runners, lean and built for endurance, a different breed from Rob’s soccer-power physique. The conversation was light, teasing. They took off down McCormick Road, settling into a punishing pace.
Rob was fit, but running was a different kind of torture. Charlie, however, moved with a fluid, easy grace beside him. They were all in running gear—tight compression shorts and moisture-wicking shirts. On Rob, the shorts were functional. On Charlie, they were fucking hot. The dark fabric clung to every contour of his thighs and ass, shifting with each powerful stride. From behind, the shape was unmistakably male, full and rounded, tapering to his strong legs. Rob’s eyes kept getting dragged there, a magnetic pull he had to consciously fight. He’d stare ahead, at the back of Nick’s head, at the trees lining the road, only for his gaze to snap back, unbidden, to the rhythm of Charlie’s body in motion.
He’d catch a glimpse from the side, the outline of Charlie’s quadriceps bunching and releasing, or the way the thin fabric of his shirt stuck to the planes of his chest and stomach as sweat dampened it. It was torture. He’d push harder, trying to match Charlie’s pace, using the burn in his lungs to distract from the heat pooling low in his own belly.
Afterwards, stretching on the cool grass, Rob’s eyes were again treacherous. Charlie bent over to touch his toes, the compression shorts pulling even tighter, the curve of his ass presented unabashedly. Rob looked away quickly, his own face hot from more than the run.
“You’re fast for a foot guy,” Nick said, nudging Rob with his elbow.
“Gotta keep up with you gazelles,” Rob managed, grinning through his ragged breath. He caught Charlie’s eye. Charlie was watching him, a sheen of sweat on his forehead, his chest still rising and falling heavily. He didn’t smile, just held the look for a while before turning to grab his water bottle.
They started studying together sometimes. Or rather, they’d meet at a library carrel with textbooks, talk for forty-five minutes, and then get distracted. Rob learned Charlie was smarter than he let on, wryly cynical about his economics coursework. Charlie learned Rob had a taste for bizarre historical facts and could do dead-on impressions of their professors.
They were becoming friends. Real friends. And with every layer of familiarity, the underlying tension grew thicker, more complex. It wasn’t just physical now, though that was ever-present. It was the way Charlie’s guard would drop when he was tired, the vulnerability in his expression. It was the shared silence that felt comfortable, not empty. Rob would find himself making excuses to touch him—a clap on the shoulder, a nudge with his knee under the table. Each contact was a tiny explosion of sensation.
Another gym session. This time, Rob wore his shortest, tightest black compression shorts, the kind meant for heavy squatting. He knew what they showed. He’d checked in the mirror. He told himself it was for freedom of movement.
Charlie arrived in similar gear—dark blue compression shorts that were probably a size too small. As they warmed up, Rob was hyper-aware of every glance. When Charlie bent to tie his shoe, the shorts stretched across his backside. When he reached for a high bar to do pull-ups, the hem of his tank rode up, revealing a strip of his lower abdomen, a trail of dark hair leading down, disappearing into the waistband. Not to mention Rob could make out Charlie’s cock. He had to will himself not to stare at it.
Rob felt his own shorts becoming uncomfortably tight. He turned away, adjusting himself subtly, face burning. He caught his reflection in the mirror wall: his own body, flushed and pumped, his semi tenting the thin fabric. He saw Charlie looking at the reflection too, his eyes dropping for a fractured second before snapping up to meet Rob’s in the mirror.
Neither said anything. The air between them felt charged, like before a thunderstorm.
They moved to the squat rack. Rob loaded the bar, his heart pounding. Charlie positioned himself behind him to spot. As Rob descended into the squat, the strain immense, he felt Charlie’s hands hover just inches from his hips, ready to catch him. He could feel the heat radiating from Charlie’s body. On the ascent, grunting with effort, he imagined those hands closing on him, not to spot, but to pull him close.
After the set, Rob stood, the bar still on his back, breathing heavily. Charlie’s hand came up and clapped him firmly on the shoulder, a solid, congratulatory grip. But his thumb brushed the bare skin of Rob’s neck, just above the collar of his shirt. The touch was deliberate, fleeting. Rob nearly buckled.
“Good set,” Charlie murmured, his voice close to Rob’s ear.
All Rob could do was nod, his throat too tight for words.
They ran again, this time just the two of them, on a misty November morning. The world was gray and soft, the red brick buildings seeming to bleed into the fog. They ran in sync, their footfalls a matched rhythm on the wet pavement. Rob was wearing tight navy shorts; Charlie wore dark gray ones. In the diffuse light, the fabric appeared even darker, clinging like a second skin. Water droplets beaded on their legs.
There was no talking, just the sound of their breathing and the splash of their shoes. Rob let his eyes drift, taking in the powerful drive of Charlie’s legs, the shift of muscle in his calves, the way his ass flexed with each step. It was a pure, aesthetic appreciation that curdled swiftly into raw desire. His own body responded, a stirring he tried to ignore, made more difficult by the tight, damp confines of his own shorts.
They looped back toward the gym, slowing to a walk as they hit the parking lot, steam rising off their bodies in the chilly air.
“That was good,” Charlie said, bending over, hands on his knees.
“Yeah,” Rob agreed, his voice rough. He couldn’t stop looking at the curve of Charlie’s back, the sweat darkening the fabric between his shoulder blades. He wanted to put his hand there, to feel the heat and the vibration of Charlie’s labored breath.
Charlie straightened, turning to face him. His face was flushed, his lips parted as he gasped for air. Water or sweat dripped from his hairline. They stood like that for a moment, just looking at each other in the empty, fog-shrouded lot. The world had shrunk to this space between them, damp and intimate.
“We should do that again,” Charlie said finally.
“Definitely.”
The idea for the swim came from Rob. His coach had suggested cross-training, and the aquatic center had open lap swim in the evenings. He texted Charlie: Pool. Tomorrow. 7 PM. No wimping out.
Charlie’s reply was quick: You’re on. Prepare to drown.
The UVA Aquatic Center smelled of chlorine. The echo of voices and the crash of water bounced off the high ceiling. Rob felt a different kind of nervousness as he changed in the locker room. Swimming was revealing in a way the gym wasn’t. There was nowhere to hide.
He wore simple black swim trunks, fairly tight but not obscene. He showered quickly, the water shockingly cold, and walked out to the pool deck. The air was warm and humid. He dropped his towel on a bench and did some cursory stretches, trying to look nonchalant.
He saw Charlie emerge from the men’s locker room door. And then he stopped breathing.
Charlie was wearing a light blue Speedo.
It wasn’t a baggy swimsuit or modest trunks. It was a competitive-style brief, the color of a pale sky. It clung to him everywhere. The fabric was thin, the water already making it slightly translucent in places. It showcased the perfect, heavy curve of his ass, two rounded globes that flexed as he walked. The front left nothing to the imagination either, outlining the substantial swell of his cock and balls clearly against his thigh.
Rob’s brain short-circuited. He’d seen Charlie in compression shorts, but this was different. This was intentional. This was blatant. The suit was so blue against his tanned skin, so minimal, so shockingly revealing. He looked like a goddamn Olympic swimmer from some erotic daydream. Rob felt his own mouth go dry. He couldn’t look away. He took in the dusting of dark hair on Charlie’s chest that trailed down his stomach, the defined V of his hips leading into the suit, the powerful legs. It was too much. He was no longer questioning his attraction; he needed to figure how to deal with it.
Charlie walked toward him, his expression a mix of defiance and vulnerability. He seemed taller, more assured in this tiny scrap of fabric than he ever had in layers of clothes. “What?” he said, his chin lifting a fraction. “They’re better for laps.”
“Yeah,” Rob croaked, forcing his eyes up to Charlie’s face. “No, they’re… they’re good.” He was grateful for the loose fit of his own trunks. He could already feel himself hardening, a throbbing response that was completely beyond his control.
The swim was a blur of submerged torture. Rob swam lane next to Charlie, trying to focus on his stroke, his breathing, anything but the body slicing through the water beside him. Every time Charlie pushed off the wall, Rob got a perfect view of his back, the blue fabric cutting into the cleft of his ass. Every flip turn was a glimpse of his front, the water flattening the suit against his form, leaving even less to the imagination.
Rob’s own erection wouldn’t subside. It was half-hard, persistently present, a treacherous betrayal bobbing against the confines of his trunks with every kick. He was painfully aware of it, of what it meant, of what Charlie might see if he looked.
They finished a set and stood at the shallow end, chests heaving. Water sluiced off Charlie’s body. The pale blue fabric was now completely soaked, plastered to his skin. It was essentially see-through. The dark shadow of his pubic hair was visible, the outline of his soft cock unmistakable. Rob stared, his breath catching. Charlie noticed. He didn’t cover up. He just stood there, chest rising and falling, meeting Rob’s gaze with a challenge in his own.
“Last one?” Charlie asked, his voice echoing slightly off the water.
“Yeah,” Rob muttered, tearing his eyes away. “Race you.”
They swam the final lap neck and neck, Rob driven by a furious, desperate energy. He touched the wall a split second after Charlie. He came up gasping, the world reduced to the burning in his lungs and the pounding in his groin.
Back in the locker room, the air was thick with steam and the smell of soap and chlorine. It was late; the place was mostly empty, just the distant sound of showers running.
They walked to adjoining showerheads without speaking. Rob’s hands shook as he stripped off his trunks, hanging them on a hook. He was naked now, completely exposed. He turned on the water, hot and stinging, and stepped under the stream, letting it sluice over his head and down his back. He kept his eyes closed, trying to will his body back under control.
He heard the shower next to him start. He couldn’t help it. He looked.
Charlie was still in the Speedo. He was facing the wall, the blue fabric dark and wet, glued to the magnificent curves of his ass. The water cascaded over his shoulders, down the long line of his spine, into that tantalizing cleft. He was so close Rob could have reached out and touched him.
Rob soaped himself roughly, his movements frantic. He washed his chest, his arms, trying to be quick, trying to get out before he did something irrevocable. But his body was not listening. The sight of Charlie, just inches away, in that fucking suit, was too potent. He felt himself growing hard again, the blood rushing south, his cock thickening, lifting away from his body against the flow of the water.
He turned to rinse the soap from his back, and when he turned back, Charlie was facing him.
Charlie’s eyes were locked on Rob’s. They dropped, for one long, heart-stopping second, to Rob’s erection, which was now fully hard, standing thick and undeniable against his belly. Rob didn’t move. He couldn’t. He was pinned by that gaze.
Charlie’s own face was a mask of conflict. Desire, fear, confusion. The water poured over his hair, down his face, over the tight blue fabric of the Speedo. The outline of his own cock was clearly visible, stiffening now too, pressing against the wet, thin material. Rob could see the shape of the head, the bulge of his balls.
Rob’s brain screamed at him to move, to close the distance, to reach out and finally, finally touch what he had been obsessing over for weeks. His hand twitched at his side.
Charlie’s lips parted. He was going to speak. He was going to say something.
Then, from the entrance to the shower room, came the loud bang of a locker.
Rob’s mind was a white noise of panic and want. He utters, “I gotta go.”
He fled the shower, quickly dressed and went home.
The door to his single room slammed behind Rob, the sound too loud in the silent hallway. He leaned against the wood, his heart a frantic drum against his ribs. The smell of chlorine clung to his skin, a sour, chemical reminder. He could still see it: the water beading on Charlie’s shoulders, the pale blue fabric turning dark and transparent, the unmistakable outline of his cock.
He stripped his clothes off, letting them fall in a damp heap on the floor. His own erection hadn’t flagged; it ached, thick and full against his stomach. He didn’t even make it to the bed. He slid down the door until he sat on the floor, the cool wood against his back. The image was stuck, seared onto the back of his eyelids.
His hand wrapped around his shaft, his grip tight and desperate. He didn’t stroke gently. He fucked his fist, a brutal, driving rhythm. In his mind, he was back in that shower. He hadn’t run. He’d stepped forward. He saw himself closing the distance, the steam swirling around them. He imagined his hands gripping Charlie’s hips through that wet Speedo, feeling the solid flesh beneath. He’d turn him around, push him against the slick tile. He’d hook his fingers in the sides of that fucking suit and yank it down, exposing Charlie’s ass, pale and perfect and hairy.
“Fuck,” Rob grunted into the empty room. His hips pistoned up into his hand. In the fantasy, his cock wasn’t in his hand. It was pressed against that cleft, sliding through the heat and sweat. Charlie would be pushing back against him, a low moan echoing off the tiles. Rob’s thumb drove into his own slit, spreading the wetness down his length. He imagined spreading Charlie open, spitting on his hole, watching the tight pink furl glisten. He wouldn’t wait. He’d just shove inside, one brutal, claiming thrust, burying his dick in that incredible heat.
“Take it,” he whispered, his voice ragged. “Take my fucking cock, Charlie.” The fantasy was visceral, crude. He imagined the slap of his balls against Charlie’s ass, the raw, filthy sounds of the act. He imagined Charlie’s face contorted, not in pain, but in stunned, overwhelming pleasure. His own breathing became choked, ragged gasps. The climax hit him like a train, a white-hot detonation that ripped a strangled shout from his throat. Ropes of cum streaked across his stomach and the floorboards. He slumped, spent. He was ruined.
Charlie walked back to Hancock in a daze, the night air cold on his shower-damp hair. Every step felt uncoordinated, his body humming with a charge he didn’t know how to switch off. He saw it on a loop: Rob’s eyes, dark and hungry, dropping to his Speedo. Rob’s naked body under the shower spray. That thick, hard cock standing straight up, looking even bigger than he’d imagined. He’d wanted to taste it.
His room was dark and quiet. He locked the door. He didn’t turn on the light. He stood in the middle of the space, trembling. He could still feel the phantom heat of Rob’s gaze on his skin. He peeled off his jeans and shirt, but left on the blue Speedo. The damp fabric was cold now, clinging to him like a second skin. He lay back on his bed, the material tight across his groin.
His hand slid down his own stomach, over the Lycra. He was already hard, straining against the fabric. He grabbed himself, a rough groan escaping his lips. He didn’t take the suit off. He imagined Rob was here, that he’d followed him home. That Rob was standing over him, his eyes tracing Charlie’s body in the pale light from the window. In his mind, Rob didn’t say a word. He just looked, his expression fierce with want.
Charlie’s fingers slipped under the elastic waistband. He pushed it down just enough to free his aching cock. The air was cool on his wet skin. He spit into his hand, the sound obscenely loud. He fisted his dick, his thumb rubbing over the slick head. He imagined it was Rob’s spit, Rob’s hand. He arched his back, his other hand gripping the Speedo material still bundled at his hips. He imagined Rob kneeling between his legs, pushing them apart. Rob’s mouth, hot and demanding, swallowing him down to the root.
“Jesus,” Charlie choked out. His hips lifted off the bed, driving into his own grip. The fantasy shifted. Now Rob was above him, pinning his wrists, his dick nudging against his hole. Charlie’s legs fell open wider in the dark. He was panting. He wanted it. He wanted to feel that stretch, that burn, to be filled so completely he couldn’t think. He imagined the raw, grunting sounds Rob would make, the sweat dripping from his chin onto Charlie’s chest. He pictured Rob’s hairy ass clenching as he drove in deep.
“Fuck me,” Charlie whispered, the words a secret for the darkness. “Just fucking ruin me.” His hand moved faster, a slippery, frantic rhythm. He was so close. He saw the exact moment in the shower again—the decision in Rob’s eyes before he fled. But in this version, Rob stayed. He came with a broken cry, his release hot and sudden over his fist and the discarded blue fabric. He lay there, wrecked and gasping, the scent of the pool still on him. The hunger wasn’t gone. It was worse.
This really is a slow burn but, as you can imagine, they'll finally get together in a couple of chapters. Remember they are overcoming two decades of a straight life that is all they've known up to now.
