Sweat Read online

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  Torquere Press

  www.torquerepress.com

  Copyright ©2007 by Torquere Press

  First published in www.torquerepress.com, 2007

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  NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

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  Twenty-Four by AJ Wilde

  Athletic Shorts by Anfernee Williamson

  Touché by James Buchanan

  Contributors

  Twenty Four by A.J. Wilde

  One

  Ryan wakes. The bed is warm, and Daniel's arm is outside the covers, draped across his face like a mask. Ryan moves closer, and breathes in Daniel's scent. It rises with the warmth from their bodies; the mingled heat of a night's sleep. Daniel's arm flops down, and he mumbles something indistinct. Ryan smiles. The fair hairs on Daniel's forearm contrast with the tanned skin; the long, slender fingers clutching the covers to his chest. Ryan studies Daniel's face for a moment: fine jawline, high cheekbones, perfectly straight nose, full lips. Ryan leans down and plants a soft kiss on Daniel's bare shoulder, then watches as his lover huffs and turns toward him, sliding into his arms, so familiar. Daniel's blond slenderness wrapped in Ryan's strong arms; Ryan carved in muscle like a Greek statue, dark-haired, blue-eyed, a young god in training. Outside, the Wellesley streetcar clatters past. The city below their window is waking; another Toronto morning.

  Daniel nuzzles Ryan's shoulder, his shock of sunbleached hair soft against Ryan's chin. Too long as usual, it grows so quick: need a haircut again baby. Their mutual safety closes around them like an extra blanket, and Ryan closes his eyes again. Daniel, my Daniel. Ryan holds on tight, the sudden fear sharp and unexpected, like a cold spot in bed. Ryan breathes it away.

  Two

  The row of pill bottles is lined up on the bathroom counter like a column of soldiers. Ryan steps out of the shower, risks a quick kiss on Daniel's cheek.

  Daniel flinches. “You're wet."

  "Yeah. Sorry.” Should have known better. Ryan wraps a towel around his hips, and goes to get dressed. “Do you want to go out later?” Ryan tests the day. Is it a good day, or a bad day? He already knows the answer. Clinical depression is a tricky bedfellow; the good days are rare even with all the medications that are supposed to help. Daniel has become increasingly numb to the world and, it seems, to Ryan as well.

  "Uh, don't know. Whatever you want, I guess.” Daniel shrugs, espresso-brown eyes dulled, impassive. Absent.

  Whatever I want, Ryan thinks as he gets dressed. What I want is for you to be well and for the endless doctor's appointments to stop: the multiple prescriptions to be gone. I want my Daniel back, that's all—back to before the gray cloud descended. It's hereditary, they said. Genetic. All it needs is a trigger—job loss, car accident, bereavement. In Daniel's case, the latter: his grandma, the only member of his family he had trusted enough to come out to. Her death was like the removal of a lifeline—and Daniel had simply shut down.

  "All right, baby. We'll decide when I get home, okay? I have to go to work. Take care, k?"

  Daniel turns away.

  Three

  Ryan shoots a look in the mirror as he arrives at work, runs a hand through his short dark hair, frowns at the pool-blue eyes staring back at him. At least here, he can stop being an unpaid nurse, amateur psychiatrist, and housekeeper. Sometimes it seems like the Church Street Clinic is Daniel's second home. Ryan shakes his head at the image in the mirror. The sooty black lashes dip, dimming the light in his eyes, and the broad shoulders sag a little. You shouldn't think that way, it's not fair. It's Daniel who's sick, not you. It's not his fault.

  It's not your fault either, answers the reflection. You can't keep putting your life on hold.

  Ryan takes a deep breath, straightens up, walks to the locker room and throws his bag on the bench.

  "Hey, Collier.” The soft Irish voice of Patrick Devlin cuts through Ryan's thoughts.

  "Hey, Pat,” Ryan replies as he pulls a spare t-shirt emblazoned with the gym logo out of his locker. How did he manage to spill coffee this early in the day?

  "Decaf, I hope?’ Patrick answers Ryan's thoughts.

  How does he do that? Ryan thinks, not without a little irritation, as he peels off the offending article of clothing and tosses it in the gym staff laundry hamper. He feels Patrick's eyes on him, checking him out. It's a bit of a contest between the personal trainers: who's put on the most muscle, who's ripped their abs a bit more this week. Of course, Patrick is usually the winner. Ryan glances down at his own chest, mentally calculating his bench press target. Out of the corner of his eye, Ryan sees Patrick run his fingers through his long ebony-dark hair, then stare at Ryan, blatantly undressing him with hungry hazel eyes.

  "How's Daniel?” Patrick asks. It's hard to get away from, working at a health club in the Village; everyone knows who's dating who, who is long-term, who's a player. But it's what they don't know that takes the toll. Men are not like women: they don't dish their problems over cocktails and chocolate fondue. Not even gay men.

  "Fine,” replies Ryan, diffidently. He's spoken the lie so often, it feels true.

  "Well, if you ever need to chat about anything, you know where to find me."

  How does he do that?

  A disembodied voice sounds over the P.A. system. Paging Ryan Collier, would Ryan Collier please come to the front desk.

  "Damn,” Ryan says, pulling on the clean t-shirt, stretched too tight over his sculpted pecs. “My nine o'clock must be here."

  Saved by the bell.

  Four

  Alan Tenshall is a good client: four days a week, regular as clockwork, never late, paid up six months in advance. At forty, he's in good shape.

  "Pushing the envelope today, Alan,” Ryan says, smiling. He always knows when the time is right to stretch them to the next rung on the potential ladder.

  "You're the boss,” Alan replies calmly, but Ryan sees the glint in his eye. Corporate lawyers, Bay Street brokers, type A, they all respond well to pressure. Ryan doesn't know what Alan does for a living and he doesn't ask. Men who come to the Village Healthworks don't want their membership announced to the business world.

  "Right. Five minute warm-up on the bike, crank it up two levels from last week.” Ryan watches. As a personal trainer, Ryan knows every muscle and tendon in the human body. He knows how far he can push. “Okay good, Alan, let's hit those quads now.” Move through the routine, ramp it up gradually, don't let them get away with anything. Keep the pressure on.

  Ryan notices Patrick out of the corner of his eye, giving a new client the tour. Patrick is wearing his white tank, showing off his ripped, bulked-up arms and sunbed tan to full advantage. Always flirting, is Patrick. The standing joke at the gym is that Devlin had to have a revolving door installed in his bedroom. Ryan can believe it. Patrick winks, and Ryan turns away.

  Five

  Ryan watches Alan sweat as he reaches out of his comfort zone. Muscles don't grow unless you reach that burn; Ryan's job is to motivate the client to maintain that burn long enough to make a difference. It's all about stimulating the right synapses: proper training creates new neural pathways which trigger muscle growth. “Three more ... come on, push through it ... two more ... last one, Alan come on!"

  Alan grits his teeth and growls through the last set of bench presses. He pays good money for this, and the results speak for themselves. Ryan always gets a bonus at the end of the month. Speaking of bonuses, Devlin is demonstrating the lat pulldown ma
chine for the new client. Ryan can't help but look. He knows Patrick sees him looking—checking out the strong traps, the lean, defined deltoids. They've come to a kind of gentlemen's understanding about the whole Patrick/Ryan thing.

  "Wow, look at that!” Alan cuts into Ryan's thoughts.

  "What?” Ryan shakes himself. Talk about unprofessional: he'd completely forgotten about Alan.

  "The rain! Good job I brought an umbrella.” Outside the large gym window it's dark as night, and rain slashes sideways onto the glass in great drenching sheets. Somewhere lightning flashes, followed closely by the throaty roar of thunder: Toronto in September. Ryan glances over at Patrick—but he is gone.

  Six

  Two more clients done, and Ryan takes an hour for his own workout. The gym is always quiet on a Monday, as people recover from the weekend. He winces as the butterfly press aggravates his old shoulder injury. Then from out of nowhere, Patrick is at his elbow, tutting, hazel eyes sparkling with mischief. Patrick grins.

  "You're going to hurt yourself, Collier,” Patrick says, matter-of-factly. “There's no way you can press as much as me on the fly."

  "Just watch me,” Ryan replies, grimacing as he squeezes the pads together. His heart is hammering against his ribcage and his shoulder feels like it's ripping apart. “Seven ... eight..."

  "Collier!” Patrick shakes his head.

  "Nine ... ahhh, fuck!” Ryan grits his teeth, sweat stinging his eyes.

  "Here, let me spot you. Take it down one.” Patrick is persistent, and about as annoying as a piece of driveway gravel in your shoe. But his very presence does things to Ryan that Ryan would rather not acknowledge.

  Seven

  "Lie down,” Patrick says, in a tone which brooks no argument.

  "I'm all right,” Ryan insists. He doesn't want to be in Patrick's treatment room—not the way he's feeling. And he's not talking about his aching shoulder.

  "No, you're not. Come on, let me take a look.” Patrick closes the door and flicks on the dim recessed lighting. Somewhere, soft music is playing. It sounds like one of those Celtic instrumentals. Ryan stands meekly, and lets Patrick pull his t-shirt over his head as though he was a child. Ryan lies down obediently on the sturdy massage table; even just lying flat feels good. The warmth of the room settles over Ryan like a comforter.

  "Jesus, Ry, you're tense,” Patrick declares, shaking his head as he runs exploratory hands up Ryan's back. He doesn't use the regular massage oil, but a greaseless lotion which leaves no residue. It feels silky and smells like honey. Ryan closes his eyes. Patrick traces out Ryan's latissimus dorsi, sliding strong hands up either side of Ryan's spine, stopping when he reaches the shoulders. Ryan winces. “Right there, yeah?” Patrick says, probing the spot where the trapezoid muscle connects to the deltoid.

  "Yeah. Why do I keep pulling the same muscle?” Ryan knows the answer—he has a degree in kinesiology after all—but he defers to Patrick.

  "Because, Collier, you're an idiot. But you don't need me to tell you that.” Patrick ruffles Ryan's hair playfully, but there is an unspoken desire darkening Patrick's eyes. Ryan wills away the instinct to just turn over, pull Pat down and kiss him breathless.

  Eight

  "Relax, Ry, come on,” Patrick coaxes as he works Ryan's seized-up muscles, his expert fingers kneading the fibers. Ryan lets out a breath. Patrick maintains the pressure on the stubborn shoulder, coaxing it to release. He shifts his weight a little, and Ryan groans. “Sorry, man. This is going to take a bit of work."

  "It's all right. I've got time."

  "Good boy. Now, lie still."

  Ryan lets Patrick get a good grip on his arm, pulling it straight, rotating his shoulder this way and that, testing the range of motion, trying to find the root of the problem. It feels good to let someone else take charge. Ryan allows his mind to drift as Patrick runs his hands up and down his back. Deep breaths, in and out: so good. In a waking dream, Ryan swears he feels gentle fingers stroking his hair, the warmth of breath against his cheek, soft lips planting a kiss on his earlobe.

  Nine

  "Turn over,” Patrick says, in a voice which lets Ryan know that ‘no’ will not serve as an answer.

  Ryan sighs. Truth be told, he was almost asleep. He mumbles a protest, and struggles slowly onto his back. Ryan opens his eyes to find Patrick smirking at him.

  "Sleepy?"

  "Mmm, yeah. Sorry, it's warm in here.” Ryan blinks. Did Pat really kiss him?

  "You want to be careful. You could be taken advantage of.” The slight Irish lilt is mocking.

  "By you, presumably?” Ryan counters.

  "Hey. You're the one lying on my table in your boxers."

  "Watch it, Devlin.” Ryan tries to keep the banter light. But when Patrick looks at him, Ryan knows what he sees in those unguarded hazel eyes. He sees it now.

  "Ry...” Patrick begins.

  "Don't, Pat.” Ryan shakes his head, although every nerve in his body is screaming the opposite.

  "Ryan—you can't go on like this,” Patrick says, gently. He touches Ryan's shoulder, gingerly, testing the waters. Ryan doesn't pull away. “You deserve to be happy."

  Ryan swallows hard. He knows Patrick is right.

  Ten

  Ryan sits up, testing his shoulder. He can't stay here any longer, because if he does...

  "Better?” Patrick arches an eyebrow.

  "Much, thanks,” Ryan lies, pulling on his t-shirt. He wants to stay. God, he wants to. If only Patrick could read his mind. The soft music tugs at him, an Irish flute washing him away, across an ocean of sound.

  "Ryan?” Patrick says, wiping off his hands.

  "Yeah, Pat?” Ryan can't meet Patrick's eyes.

  "Ryan, look at me.” Patrick's voice is ragged. Ryan looks, and his heart thumps in his throat. How does he do that?

  Eleven

  Ryan holds his breath. The hush in the room is broken only by the steady hammering of his blood in his ears. Ryan watches as Patrick sits down next to him on the massage table, and covers Ryan's hand with his own. Ryan begins to feel a little dizzy. He knows he should get up, tell Patrick to back off, walk out the door; but there seems to be some kind of disconnect between his muscles and his brain. Ryan sits, frozen, as Patrick's lips touch his.

  Ryan closes his eyes. A need so deep, so raw, it's like a fire slowly burning away his insides. Patrick's lips, soft and warm, insistent. Ryan opens his mouth and gives back the kiss. Patrick's arms slide around Ryan's waist, strong and assured, protective. Comforting. Ryan pulls Patrick closer, clutching at his shoulders. Ryan takes a breath and Patrick's tongue is in his mouth, warm and wet, tasting, exploring. A spike of desire tears through Ryan's body. Patrick's scent is on him, Patrick's flavor is in his mouth, Patrick's hands are sliding up inside his t-shirt, stroking his skin. Ryan moans softly.

  Twelve

  Ryan lets Patrick pull off his t-shirt. Didn't we just do this?

  "Oh, Ryan...” Patrick murmurs. Ryan bites his lip as Patrick runs his palm over Ryan's stomach, across the defined abs, and down. Ryan draws in a sharp breath as Patrick's exploring hand finds the hardening bulge between his legs, and then somehow Ryan is on his back on the table. Ryan opens his thighs and allows Patrick's weight to sink down onto him, sliding his arms around Patrick's waist. Ryan lets out a moan of surrender into Patrick's mouth, and abandons himself to the kiss.

  Ryan feels the bulk inside Patrick's track pants hard along his thigh, and pushes his hips up toward it. Lost in the slip and slide of tongue on tongue, Ryan lets Patrick pull down his boxers. The touch of Patrick's hand is like electricity, and Ryan arches his back and cries out. An almost forgotten sensation surges through his body. How long has it been? Patrick's palm is cool against the hot skin of Ryan's shaft, and Ryan pants softly as his cock pulses, alive with pleasure for the first time in months.

  "Let me be with you, Ryan, please...” Patrick whispers, between kisses. He moves downward, nipping at Ryan's ear, mouthing his throat. “Let me make you hap
py.” Ryan sucks in a breath as Patrick's lips track across his chest, pause to lick a nipple, then continue their southward course over his stomach, a kiss to the navel, then open-mouthed down the line of dark hair to the full head of Ryan's cock. Ryan gasps as Patrick takes the pearl of pre-come onto his lips and slicks it around Ryan's proud crown, then opens his mouth and sucks it down.

  Ryan moans.

  Thirteen

  Ryan's eyes are closed. Patrick's mouth has Ryan's cock, the man sucking slowly, making humming sounds in his throat, his fingers caressing Ryan's balls, his other hand roving over Ryan's stomach. Ryan's heart is pounding. It's hot in the room, and Ryan feels sweat trickling down his face. His cock rears in Patrick's mouth, and Patrick sucks harder. Ryan cards his fingers through Patrick's long dark hair. “Ohh, Pat, oh, God..."

  Paging Ryan Collier. Ryan Collier, please come to the front desk immediately for Daniel Anderson.

  Ryan cries out.

  "Stop, Patrick, please stop,” Ryan groans, sits up quickly and pushes Patrick away. Ryan pulls on his boxers and track pants, and fumbles for his t-shirt. In the corner, Patrick rubs his hand over his face; a look of agony creases his features.

  "Ry...” Patrick begins, his voice fractured, indistinct.

  "Don't,” Ryan snaps. He can't look at Patrick. A Celtic fiddle plays maddeningly in the background, the same phrase repeated over and over. Suddenly Ryan hates the music.

  "You know how I feel about you,” Patrick mumbles, straightening his clothes and staring at the floor.

  Ryan rakes his hands through his hair. His softening cock aches. He shakes his head. “I can't, Pat. I just can't."

  "I love you,” Patrick murmurs, unnecessarily.

  Ryan opens the door. Avril Lavigne's lyrics hit his ears. 'Why d'you have to go and make things so complicated?'

  Ryan walks away.

  Fourteen

  "Hey,” says Daniel, shifting from one foot to the other. Kevin, the receptionist, excuses himself and goes to get a latte.

  "Baby, what's wrong? What are you doing here?” Ryan asks, forcing his voice to sound normal and hoping he doesn't still show a hard-on. The reception area feels chilly after the womb-like warmth of the treatment room, and Ryan shivers a little.