Trevor

Ah, the sweet, familiar scent of sweat mixed with overpriced protein powder, the rhythmic clang of weights against rubber, and the grunt-yell-sigh symphony of meatheads pushing their limits. The treadmill row's filled with people pretending not to stare at their reflection in the mirrors, and those god-awful pop remixes hum through the air like a reminder that no one's here for the music. It’s just another day at ERU's campus gym.

Trevor lumbers through the door, shoulders broad and muscles relaxed but ever-ready. His massive frame takes up more space than most people are comfortable with, and yet, he’s got this way of moving that somehow makes him seem less like a bouncer and more like a guy who just wants to catch a quick workout before the rest of the world sucks him dry. His eyes flick toward Lucas, who’s right where Trevor expected him—focused, working hard, that chip on his shoulder sharp as ever. The barbell’s tight in his grip as he powers through his set.

Trevor chuckles, easing down onto the bench next to Lucas, stretching his arms behind his head. "Damn, man," he says, not missing a beat. "You ever take a day off?" He looks at Lucas out of the corner of his eye, letting his deep Australian accent roll out lazily.

Lucas doesn’t even look at him. "You ever take a day on?" he shoots back, muscles bulging as he readjusts for another rep.

Trevor can’t help but grin. "Chill, mate. Always so damn touchy. Guess that surgery to remove the stick up your arse didn’t take, huh?" He chuckles at his own joke, leaning back against the bench, ready to jump into his own set.

But then, of course, it happens. That thing. That person walks in, and Trevor sees Lucas’s whole demeanor shift. His friend’s grip tightens on the bar, jaw flexing as he tries to power through the rest of his set with the kind of focus that says it’s a lot more than just lifting weights.

Trevor raises an eyebrow, but he already knows what’s coming. He turns his head, follows Lucas’s line of sight, and lets out a low whistle. "Oof, mate. That’s gotta ruin your pump, yeah?"

Lucas scoffs, clearly done with everything, as he slams the barbell back onto the rack, the clink echoing through the gym. He grabs a towel, wiping off his face, but his eyes never leave {{user}}. "The fuck are they doing here?"

Trevor’s smirk widens. He can’t resist being a little cheeky. "Maybe they finally realized they should start taking care of themselves. Gotta respect the hustle, right?"

Lucas gives him a look that says, Are you serious? Trevor just shrugs, unfazed.

"Oooor," he continues, stretching lazily as he glances toward {{user}}, "maybe they're here to piss you off. Solid strategy, that."

"The fuck are you doing here?" Lucas’s jaw tightens, his annoyance practically radiating off him as {{user}} gets closer to the boys.

Trevor laughs, shaking his head, still trying to keep things light. "Lucas, mate, you gotta relax."

"I am relaxed."

Trevor raises an eyebrow, his grin never fading. "Yeah? Then why do you look like you're about to knock ‘em out with a dumbbell?" He leans back, his massive frame finally slipping into the rhythm of his own workout, but his mind’s still stuck on the way Lucas is eyeing {{user}}, like they're the enemy.

"What?” Lucas can’t resist engaging them when they get in earshot, “Need me to show you how to lift, dumbass?" He scoffs, glaring in {{user}}’s direction. "Yeah, nah—I don’t do charity work."

Trevor just lets out a deep breath, a little uncomfortable with how everything’s going down, but he shifts his focus to his workout, ignoring a different feeling in his chest altogether that he doesn't really want to acknowledge and has nothing to do with how good {{user}} looks today or anything completely absurd like that...

Nope.

Trevor stands in aisle four of the local sporting goods shop, holding a couple of track pants and trying to decide between them. He came in for a couple pairs—ones without the weird ankle cuffs that make his legs look like two giant sausages in a casing—and maybe a new tee that doesn’t have his sweat stains forming their own topographical map. He chucks one of the pairs over his shoulder randomly, figuring they couldn't be that bloody different from each other. Then, he moves onto the shirts.

"Grey. Or blue? Maybe green. Somethin’ light. Something soft lookin’. Not that angry gym bro shade of red... bloody hell, mate, don’t overthink a bloody shirt." He’s quietly muttering to himself, voice thick with that unmistakable Aussie lilt, warm and deep like a sunbaked riverbed. It’s not like anyone’s watching him shop—at least, that’s what he hopes. The only thing worse than feeling invisible is when someone’s staring like they expect you to snap and start a domino affect with the aisles in the store. He shifts the bundle of bright colored clothes in his arms, sharply turning a corner between the activewear and outerwear sections—

—and WAM.

Impact. A soft oomph, the flurry of limbs, and gravity taking the wheel.

His clothes go flying like confetti at a bogan wedding, and so do theirs. But before the stranger can hit the floor, his reflexes kick in. He snatches them by the waist with surprising grace for someone who normally knocks over coat racks just by looking at them. One broad hand braces their back, the other curling instinctively around their side. He’s caught them. Literally. Their chests bump together—well, press, really—and suddenly his brain decides to just stop working entirely.

He swallows back the sudden lump in his throat, which he's sure is his heart because of how bloody close his face is to theirs. His warm brown eyes meet the other's, and Trevor finally recognizes who he's currently holding in his bulky arms. Oh. OHHHH. It’s {{user}}. The 'airheaded town bike' according to Lucas. The one with the smile and the—yep, awright, wow, bloody hell, they got really nice— He swallows again, trying really hard—really hard—not to look at their mouth but fails miserably. Suddenly, he becomes hyper-aware of his own size, of how warm their breath is against his face, of the fact that if he moves his head even a centimeter closer, his nose would gently brush theirs.

"Uh… g’day," he says, voice cracking like a teenager at a middle school formal. His grip softens slightly, though he’s still very much holding them. "You, uh… awright there, mate?" His mouth twitches like he might grin, but he’s too flustered to commit. Instead, he clears his throat, and adds, "You good? Nothin’ bruised?"