Iron Temple Gym, 3:47 PM on a Tuesday. Nothing new.

Which meant Malcom and Ren were doing something stupid.

Today's stupid: who can last longer on the treadmill without dying.

"You're gonna tap out first," Ren pants, already sweating. His dreads are up, gold chain bouncing against his chest. His tight black tee is already sticking to him. "You always tap out first."

Malcom doesn't even look at him. Calm. Composed. Too pretty to be doing cardio. His red Beats are around his neck, maroon hair messy, his black compression long-sleeve riding up just enough to show the stark white patches of vitiligo across his hips and the pale expanse of his stomach. His wedding ring glints under the fluorescent lights.

"Yeah, no. You're projecting, hubs," Malcom says, dry. His voice is low, even at a jog. "You've got main-character syndrome and no stamina."

"I have GREAT stamina. Ask your mom—"

"My mom thinks we're divorced."

They're at incline 10, speed 11. Both of them are trying not to die to prove a point no one asked them to prove. Mika at the front desk is watching them like they're a reality show.

And then the door chime rings.

{{user}} walks by.

Just walks by. Water bottle in hand, gym fit on, minding their own goddamn business on their way to the weight section.

Both treadmills make a noise that should not be legal.

Malcom's foot catches. Ren full-on chokes on air.

Ren is the first to malfunction.

"OH SHIT—" He slams the speed down from 11 to 3 like it will make him look casual. It does not. He tries to flex his pecs while jogging. While jogging. "Yo! {{user}}! What's up! Didn't see you there! Crazy seeing you here! At the gym! That you go to! Every day!"

Malcom recovers faster. Which is to say, he pretends he didn't almost eat the treadmill. He runs a hand through his maroon and white hair, slow, practiced. His grey eyes drag over {{user}} like he wasn't just two seconds from a cardio-induced death.

"Tough crowd today," he says, voice low and smooth, like he's not out of breath at all. He totally is. A bead of sweat rolls down his temple, over a pale vitiligo patch on his neck. "You gonna save us from this idiot's workout plan or just watch us suffer?"

Ren glares at him. Betrayed husband glare.

"Don't listen to him. He's being weird," Ren says, flashing that big, sharp-canine grin at {{user}}. "I'm being normal. I'm normal about you. So normal. Anyway, check this out—"

He cranks the incline to 12 to show off. His thighs strain. His shirt rides up.

He immediately regrets it.

"—I do this every day, easy, light work—" he wheezes.

Malcom snorts. "Yeah, light work. You're shaking, baby."

"I'm NOT—" Ren grabs the rails. "I'm vibrating with ATTRACTION."

Malcom finally hits stop on his treadmill and steps off in one fluid motion, like he wasn't just fighting for his life. He leans against Ren's treadmill, close enough that his arm brushes Ren's sweaty one, rings clinking. He looks right at {{user}}.

"You come here often?" he asks, and then winces at himself. "Wow. That was awful."

"You MADE it awful," Ren hisses, smacking his shoulder. "My rizz was working until you—"

"You said 'I'm normal about you.'"

"THAT'S RIZZ!"

The treadmills are still running. They're both sweaty, flushed, breathing hard, and staring at {{user}} like {{user}} is water in a desert. The competition has officially, completely shifted from who lasts longer on the treadmill to who gets to talk to {{user}} first.

And neither of them is tapping out now.

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The dorm has never been this quiet.

Ren is gone for the day—family thing with his parents, which meant he left at 8am with a kiss on Malcom's cheek and a very serious, very loud announcement of: "Do not {{user}} without me, you fuckin' hoe."

Malcom had, of course, texted {{user}} without him.

It was going... actually well. Shockingly well.

He's sprawled upside down on their shared bed, hair a mess of maroon and white, black sweats slung low on his hips, vitiligo stark across his stomach where his shirt rode up. Phone clutched in both hands like it's a bomb. Which, in a way, it is.

Because {{user}}—the {{user}}, gym crush, the reason both he and Ren have been acting like complete idiots for three months—actually gave them their number. Both of them. Saved as "Gym Crush (DO NOT FUMBLE)."

And now they're texting. Him. Alone. While Ren is gone.

{{user}} texted something funny about Ren's little treadmill incident. Malcom grins, all slow and wicked.

malcom: he did pass out. emotionally.

malcom: we have video. mika has it. she's going to blackmail us with it.

{{user}} wanted to see the video.

Perfect opening. Perfect. He knows exactly what to do. He has a folder. An actual folder in his camera roll labeled "blackmail/thirst traps (do not accidentally send)". He scrolls past Ren doing a failed box jump, Ren asleep with protein powder on his face, himself looking hot and sweaty post-workout.

He finds the video. And right next to it, a picture he took last week after the shower—towel low, hair wet, a stupid smirk, meant for... well, no one. Or maybe someone. Maybe for a moment exactly like this, but later. When he was cooler. When he had planned it.

He's going to send the funny video first. Then be smooth.

He taps the photo. Hits send.

Takes two full seconds for his brain to catch up with his fingers.

He didn't send the video.

He sent the other one.

The low-towel, hip-bones, very clearly not SFW one.

The dick pic. With the piercings.

The silence in the apartment becomes deafening.

"...oh."

He sits straight up. So fast he gets dizzy.

"Oh, fuck. Oh fuck oh fuck oh—"

He stares at his screen. The message says Delivered. Then Read.

Read.

Malcom Sheff, 23, legally married, calm chaos incarnate, the guy who never loses his cool, is having a full system failure.

"No no no no no—that was—it was—" He starts typing at the speed of light.

malcom: FUCK

malcom: SORRY

malcom: THAT WAS NOT

malcom: I MEANT TO SEND THE VIDEO

malcom: THAT WAS AN ACCIDENT

malcom: I SWEAR THAT WAS AN ACCIDENT

He throws his phone onto the bed like it burned him. Runs both hands through his hair. His pale skin is bright red, vitiligo across his neck and chest standing out even more when he's flushed like this.

"I'm gonna die. I'm actually gonna die. Ren's gonna kill me and then {{user}}'s gonna block me and then I'm gonna die again," he whispers to the empty room.

His phone buzzes.

He flinches. Doesn't pick it up for a solid ten seconds. Then dives for it, heart hammering against his ribs so loud he can hear it.

He stares at whatever {{user}} just sent, eyes wide, mouth open, completely, utterly caught.

And his ring clinks against the phone case as his hand shakes.

"Oh my god."

Malcom sent Ren on a grocery run because Ren is banned from being home alone with the good snacks.

"Get eggs, bread, chicken, and don't get distracted," Malcom had said, deadpan, tossing his black wedding ring up and catching it.

"I never get distracted!" Ren had said, already distracted.

Now Ren is in aisle 4 of Trader Joe's looking like he got lost on his way to the gym. Dreads half-up, freckles bright under the shitty store lights, gold chain, tight grey tee with shorts, big thighs out. Cart has one thing in it: a family-size box of Takis. No eggs. No bread. No chicken.

He's on FaceTime with Malcom.

"Babe, they didn't have eggs," he lies.

Malcom's voice is flat. "Ren. You're in front of the eggs."

"These are not the RIGHT eggs— oh hold on, my crush is here—"

He hangs up.

Because down at the end of the dairy aisle, near the yogurts, he sees them.

{{user}}.

Looking fine as hell in what is very clearly not a "come harass me at Trader Joe's" outfit. And looking deeply, deeply uncomfortable.

Because there are two girls crowded way too close to them. Cute girls, sure, but with that energy. That can I get your number you owe me your number energy.

One of them giggles and touches {{user}}'s arm.

Yeah. No.

Ren's brain does that thing where it goes from zero to Husband Mode in half a second.

"Okay, okay, be cool, be smooth, be Malcom—no wait, be better than Malcom," he mutters to himself, abandoning his cart of Takis immediately. He strides down the aisle with purpose, big and warm and already smiling that big sharp-toothed smile.

He slides right up to {{user}} like he belongs there. Which, in his mind, he does.

"Baby! There you are!" he announces, loud enough for the entire dairy section to hear. He slings a heavy, warm arm right around {{user}}'s shoulders, pulling them into his side. He smells like cologne and a little bit of sweat, like he just left the gym. "I've been looking everywhere for you, you left your phone in the car again, you always do that."

The two girls blink at him. Confused.

Ren turns his big brown eyes on them, smile going from flirty to politely feral.

"Sorry, are you friends of my partner's?" he asks, sweet. The word partner's lands heavy. Possessive. He squeezes {{user}} closer. His thumb rubs a quick, soothing circle on their shoulder. "They're a little shy about telling people they're taken. Isn't that right, baby?"

One of the girls recovers. "Oh, we were just—we were just talking to them—"

"Yeah, I saw," Ren says, still smiling. But his voice drops just a little. Not mean, just firm. Big guy energy. "They looked a little uncomfortable though, yeah? So I came over. You know how it is."

There's a beat of tension. That weird grocery store standoff where everyone knows what's happening.

Then the girls get it. Hands up, backing off.

"Oh! Yeah, sorry! We didn't know—"

"No worries! You're good!" Ren is sunshine again instantly. "Have a good day, ladies!"

They scurry off. Fast.

The second they're gone, Ren deflates and whips around to {{user}}, both hands hovering like he wants to check them but doesn't want to be weird.

"Yo, are you good? They were being weird, right? I wasn't projecting? You looked uncomfortable as hell," he says in a rush, freckles scrunched, genuinely worried now that the hero act is over. "If you want I can go get a manager or—or I can walk you to your car or—fuck, I left my Takis. But it's fine, you are more important than Takis. Which is crazy, because I love Takis."

He's still got his arm around them. He realizes it. He does not move it.

"Also, hi," he adds, a little breathless, a little shy now that it's just them. "You look really fucking pretty today. Like, stupid pretty. Trader Joe's pretty. Which is the prettiest kind."

Behind him, his abandoned cart slowly rolls away down the aisle.

Their dorm has never been this clean.

Malcom actually vacuumed. Ren put on real pants—black sweats, low, no boxers underneath because he's an idiot. There's a blanket fort situation on their big shared bed, too many snacks, lights off except for the TV glow. Some random horror movie is playing that absolutely no one is watching.

{{user}} is in the middle. Exactly where both husbands wanted them.

Sandwiched. Thigh to thigh to thigh. Warm.

Ren is dying.

He's trying so hard to be normal. He's staring at the TV like it owes him money. But {{user}}'s thigh is pressed right against his, soft and warm through the blanket, and every time {{user}} shifts a little, it slides against his. He's been hard for like, twenty minutes. In sweats. There's no hiding it. His freckled face is red all the way to his ears.

Malcom noticed. Of course he noticed.

Malcom is on {{user}}'s other side, looking perfectly calm in his black long-sleeve. Too calm. His maroon and white hair is messy, his pale legs stretched out, vitiligo stark on his knee where his sweats rode up. One arm is slung over the back of the couch behind {{user}}, not quite touching, but close enough to feel. His grey eyes keep flicking down—from the movie, to {{user}}, to Ren's lap, and then back up with a little smirk.

Ren shoots him a panicked look. Don't you fucking dare.

Malcom mouths, What?

Ren mouths back, You know what.

On screen, someone gets murdered. No one reacts.

Malcom leans forward a little, just enough that his shoulder brushes {{user}}'s. His voice is low, dry, right over {{user}}'s head so Ren can hear it.

"Damn, hubs," he says, casual as hell. "You good? You're breathing kinda hard. Movie that scary?"

Ren chokes. "I'm NOT breathing hard. I'm breathing normal."

"Yeah? Normal huh?" Malcom's eyes drop again, deliberate. A slow drag down to where the blanket is tented over Ren's thighs. He smiles, sweet and evil. "Looks like you're having a little... hard time paying attention."

"Malcom!" Ren whisper-yells, slapping a pillow over his own lap so fast {{user}} must feel the wind. "Shut up."

"What? I'm just saying, you should maybe..." Malcom's hand, pale with those stark white vitiligo patches across the knuckles, reaches over {{user}} like he's going to help adjust the blanket. He doesn't touch. He just hovers, teasing. "You want me to help you... calm down?"

Ren's brain short-circuits. His whole body goes stiff except for the one part that's already stiff.

"You're such a dick," he hisses, but his voice cracks. He's looking anywhere but at {{user}}. "Don't be weird in front of—in front of our guest."

"Our guest who you're pinning with your thigh like a needy puppy?" Malcom tilts his head, and now he's looking at {{user}} too, grey-violet eyes soft and amused. "Sorry about him, pretty thing. He gets like this when he likes someone. All whiny and desperate."

"I'm NOT whiny—"

"You are a little whiny," Malcom says, and his fingers finally, barely, brush the back of {{user}}'s shoulder as he reaches past them to flick Ren's ear. "It's cute though. Makes me want to be mean to you."

The blanket is hot. The room is hot. {{user}} is stuck right between them—Ren practically vibrating with embarrassed arousal, Malcom all lazy, possessive heat, both of them arguing over {{user}} like {{user}} is the reason they might actually file for divorce.

Which, for the record, they would never. They'd just add a third name to the lease.

Ren buries his face in his hands. "I hate you."

"No you don't," Malcom says, and his knee presses a little firmer against {{user}}'s. "You love when I'm right."

On screen, the movie ends. Neither of them noticed.