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The mirror fogs up when he comes too close. He bends over, panting with exertion, watching his reflection go soft and blurry.
Pulling up his t-shirt, he rubs furtively at the glass, but only manages to smudge it with sweat.
Ugh.
Maki looks over his shoulder. The employee is nowhere in sight.
Or he could just leave it alone…
A flash of blue snags his eye. When he looks up he sees--
Fuma senpai.
He's on another bench facing the mirror, further down the room. Like Maki, he's doing bicep curls. Unlike Maki, he's manhandling a 20kg dumbbell, barely breaking a sweat.
Maki's using half of that, and he's on the struggle bus, the back of his t-shirt soaking wet.
Meanwhile, Fuma does his reps without pause, breathing through his nose. He curls the dumbbell to his chest, then straightens his arm to lower it back down slowly. His pace is steady, unhurried. There is no change in his expression, just a small frown of concentration.
And he's been doing that for what, ten, fifteen minutes? Two sets of 30 reps?
Maki doesn't know anymore. He’s only halfway through his first set. And he lost count when he caught Fuma's bicep bulging like an ostrich egg. The sleeveless workout tee frames it nicely, each time he curls the weight.
It's driving Maki nuts. Of course, he could just not look, but…
"Need some help?"
While Maki fantasizes about his senpai's muscles, said senpai is now standing behind him, meeting his gaze square in the mirror.
Maki startles; the dumbbell slips through his fingers, and his heart plunges to his stomach.
Like a hawk, Fuma swoops in and snatches it out of the air.
“Watch it,” he frowns.
I was watching you, Maki yells in his mind. His heart is thudding harder than when he tried speeding through his reps, hands cold and clammy with nerves.
“Here. Scooch over.”
Fuma sits next to him on the bench. Their legs are pressed close enough that Maki feels the heat radiating from his thigh--whoa, thighs.
He gulps.
The skintight lining under Fuma's black microshorts is the only thing saving Maki from falling to pieces.
Fuma clears his throat; Maki's gaze shoots upwards. Holding the dumb-bell (how dare a piece of equipment show him up), Fuma shows him how he grips the metal bar.
“You want to tense your arm, here. Hold it closer to your body. No chicken wing,” Fuma explains, curling a few times and checking to see if Maki is watching.
And oh boy, is he watching. Wide-eyed and dry-mouthed, Maki nods rapidly and blinks several times, silently questioning his eyesight.
Side by side, through the mirror, every inch of Fuma looks sculpted by the gods. From each defined curve of his muscles, to the veins standing out on his forearm, to the strong thighs and sturdy calves... To that face.
How can someone as perfect as Fuma be real?
"Here, you try."
Screeching, Maki's thoughts grind to a halt. Fuma is holding out the dumb dumbbell, eyebrow lifting when Maki just stares.
Suddenly, he can't tell left from right as he awkwardly handles the weight.
"Uhm, so--hold it close..?"
"Like this."
Before he knows it, Fuma's shifted behind him on the narrow bench. He guides Maki's arm to curl up, then extends back down straight, not swinging the dumb bell and controlling its descent.
All Maki can think is oh gosh it's so warm our skin is touching--as he internally combusts.
"That's it. One more... there. Your first set is done."
Maki blinks. Has he been counting out loud? His eyes flicker up to catch Fuma's gaze in the mirror.
Was senpai watching me...?
Fuma's gaze is steady, giving nothing away. Too soon, he steps back and claps Maki on the shoulder.
"Take your time and finish your sets. I'm going to shower."
Fuma disappears into the locker rooms, but not before Maki catches another glimpse of his broad back.
Above the neckline of his t-shirt, the back of his neck is blushing a furious, brick red.
Huh.
What was that?!
Maki swears when his wrist twinges. He's been holding the dumbbell too long in one hand. He switches to his left hand, testing its weight, replaying the last couple of minutes in his mind.
Fuma senpai... was watching him, right? He's not just imagining it, is he?
Wow.
Is senpai taking a cold shower right about now?
Maki bites down a smirk, looking at his reflection to check out his form, if it's the way Fuma taught.
Not bad. Not bad at all.
The condensation on the mirror is gone. Maki can see crystal clear, now. He flexes his bicep; he swears it looks more defined.
"Damn, bruh."
***