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The Blue Mountain Gym in Ard Carragh wasn’t exactly Jaskier’s typical sort of fitness club. It didn’t offer hot yoga, or towel service, or 24 keycard access. There were no sleek, expensive top-of-the-line treadmills or big-screen TVs or spin classrooms. In fact, the fitness club looked exactly like the sort of gym Jaskier’s great uncle (the Continental Bareknuckle Boxing Champion of 1923) would have loved.
There was an honest-to-gods raised boxing ring in the middle of the gym, although it had seen better days. The ropes were sagging, and the springy canvas floor was discoloured from many decades’ worth of blood, spit and sweat. What little gym equipment Jaskier could identify in the cavernous space (rusty kettlebells, three or four incomplete sets of free weights, an ancient power rack, a broken rowing machine) looked just as old and worn-out as the boxing ring.
It was a shame, because the Blue Mountain had apparently been the home of champions. The club’s dingy grey walls were covered with curling yellowed posters and faded newspaper clippings heralding major title fights. A dusty trophy case parked just inside the entrance held three honest-to-gods Olympic medals (two gold, one silver), several gleaming gold powerlifting belts, and a handful of newer CrossFit awards.
There was no one at the front desk. There wasn’t even a front desk, per se, just a folding card table with a sign-in/sign out sheet and a handful of flyers offering ‘Personal Training Sessions – First Class is Free!’
“Uh, hello?” Jaskier called out. He’d thought the gym was open late, but then most businesses in the little mountain village of Ard Carragh kept irregular hours, and no one seemed to lock their doors at night.
Jaskier’s voice echoed inside the huge, apparently empty building. He was just about to shoulder his gym bag and head back out to his car when he heard a faint clang and a dull thud, and the soft creak of a door opening. A bright wedge of golden light split the shadows near the back, and a tall, broad-shouldered man stepped out of what had to be a utility room. He was pushing a mop bucket.
The door slammed shut behind him, throwing the gym back into inky blue shadows. Jaskier could hear the squeaky wheel of the mop bucket and the ring of the man’s footsteps on the concrete floor, and then a moment later the swish of the mop in the bucket, and then a wet splatter against the floor. The man didn’t seem to realise Jaskier was in the gym.
“Ah, hello?” he called out again, not wanting to startle the gym attendant. It was after 9pm; the gym must indeed be closed for the evening.
The man went still, and Jaskier saw that he had white shoulder-length hair. An old man, then; he must be the owner. It made sense that an octogenarian ran the Blue Mountain. The gym shunned every single modern fitness trend.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t realise you were closed. The door was unlocked, and I thought—” Jaskier rambled, trailing off as the man stalked forward through the shadows and stepped into the ambient light of the entryway.
He’d been correct about the white hair, but wrong about almost everything else. The man was perhaps only thirty-five or forty years old at the most. Far from the wrinkled old proprietor Jaskier had imagined. He was also in prime physical condition, with the lean, muscular build of a seasoned fighter, and several scars to match.
“No, we’re open.” His voice was a distinctly low, rumbling baritone. “Looking for a workout?”
Jaskier knew the man wasn’t trying to sound flirtatious, but he couldn’t quite help wishing.
“I’m afraid I’m not yet a member.” He held out his hand. “I’m Jaskier.”
The man stared at his outstretched hand for a long moment, and Jaskier realised it was probably a bit odd to introduce himself so formally. But the man finally gave him a very brief, very firm handshake in return.
“Geralt,” he said. His eyes were beautiful shade of light golden brown that might look citrine in bright light.
Jaskier realised he’d been holding the man’s hand hostage. He dropped his hand and stepped back, but not before he saw Geralt give him a quick once-over.
Interesting. Jaskier hadn’t run across any other gay men in the three weeks since he’d moved to the little mountain town, and he was starting to feel a bit isolated. And while he’d moved to Ard Carragh to escape the hard-partying club culture back in Novigrad, Jaskier hadn’t wanted to live like a monk, either.
“Need to change first?” Geralt asked. “Or are those your workout clothes?”
Jaskier might have been imagining Geralt’s subtle vocal stress in the question. He was instantly glad he’d decided to wear his favourite workout outfit: a low-cut black tank top that showed off both the tops and the sides of his toned pecs, along with his neon pink high-cut running shorts and a matching pink sweatband.
He’d worried it might be a bit too flamboyant for a small-town gym, particularly one that screamed OLD-FASHIONED MASCULINITY! like the Blue Mountain, but now he was glad he was letting it all hang out. Metaphorically.
“Oh no. I’m all set and ready to sweat!”
Geralt gave him an adorably bemused nod and smacked at the overhead light switch on the wall. Half of the large room’s overhead fluorescents flickered on. At least one-quarter of them were burnt out, much to Jaskier’s relief. He never looked cute under fluorescents. No one did, except possibly Geralt, because he looked like a snack as he led Jaskier around the gym, pointing out various pieces of old, dilapidated, and/or broken equipment that Jaskier had no idea how to use.
Jaskier was only half-listening. He was too busy ogling Geralt, as Geralt was wearing a black tank top (far more modestly cut than Jaskier’s, unfortunately) and a pair of slightly-too-tight grey sweatpants that hugged his (truly) remarkable ass.
Jaskier missed Geralt’s explanation of how to use the gym’s only functional rowing machine because he was so focused on figuring out if Geralt was wearing boxers or briefs under those sweats. They rode a little too low on his hips for boxers, and—
“Jaskier,” Geralt interrupted his unapologetic ogling. “You want to see the CrossFit stuff?”
“Could you show me the free weights instead?” Jaskier asked, mainly because getting Geralt to lie down on the workout bench and demonstrate how to lift heavy things was much more appealing than watching him do box-jumps.
Geralt gave him a serious nod and took him over to the weightlifting section.
The free weights, kettlebells and individual plates were all as dingy and neglected as the rest of the club’s equipment. Geralt reminded him to, “Always put everything back on the rack”—of course he would, Jaskier wasn’t an animal—while Jaskier hunted around for two hundred-pound plates weights.
“You want a bar for that?” Geralt asked, and Jaskier nodded.
Geralt shrugged and dug out the weight bar and barbell collars from a haphazard pile on the mat. Jaskier settled onto the workout bench, but when Geralt went to hand him the loaded bar, he held up a hand, and then walked himself down into a backbend, with his shoulders braced on the bench.
“You sure? This is a lot of weight to lift cold.”
Jaskier nodded and winked at Geralt. “Not my first rodeo, darling,” he said.
He braced his shoulders and rolled the bar down over his lap, evened out his breath, and thrust up with the 400lb weighted bar resting comfortably across his pelvis.
Geralt had been right: it was a lot of weight, but then Jaskier probably spent as much time in the gym as Geralt did. He made it through his first set, very aware the whole time of the intense way Geralt was watching him. When he finally let his ass touch the floor for an in-between-sets rest, it didn’t surprise him when Geralt stepped into the open V of his legs and easily lifted the barbell away.
“Stronger than you look,” Geralt admitted.
Jaskier grinned up at him. His heart rate was a little elevated—that had been a lot of weight—and he knew he probably looked a little flushed. Pink-cheeked and rose-lipped, like he’d just been kissed.
“It’s more fun with a spotter,” he panted, playing up his exertion. “Although…what do you weigh? 200? 225? Think I could do it with you sitting in my lap?”
Geralt gave him another serious, bemused frown, but Jaskier could see he was fighting a smile.
“Want to finish your set?” Geralt prompted. “Or…I could show you the showers.”
Now that was an offer. Jaskier rose smoothly to his feet. Geralt, the hypocrite, didn’t even stop to unclip the plates and put them back on the stack before he led Jaskier into the unisex change room.
Jaskier stopped just before they went inside together. “Shouldn’t you lock the front door?”
Geralt shrugged again, those beautiful yellow eyes dancing. “Everyone in town knows that we close at 9pm. Except maybe the newcomers.” He leaned in to brush his lips over Jaskier’s before leading him into the showers.
“Besides,” Geralt added, “I don’t mind taking care of a walk-in.”
THE END