Chapter Text
Working out ranked high on Dylan's list of things he hated but had to do nonetheless. Sweating under stage lights while the crowd roared? Fine—he was performing, alive, electric. Sweating during sex with hands gripping his hips and breath hot against his neck? Even better. But sweating at the gym, surrounded by the metallic clang of weights and the rhythmic thud of feet on treadmills, while lifting and pushing and pulling until his muscles burned with nothing to show for it but exhaustion? He despised it with every fiber of his being, loathed it down to his bones.
Unfortunately, it came with the territory. Building the stamina and strength to endure two or three hours of dancing on stage—spinning, dropping, jumping, never missing a beat—wasn't optional in his line of work. With gritted teeth and a playlist loud enough to drown out his resentment, he endured the workout three to four times a week, each session feeling like a prison sentence he had to serve.
The one boundary he refused to cross was working out in public during peak hours. Doing it was bad enough without an audience—without facing people whose eyes would drag over his body like hands, ogling him or worse, judging him with that particular brand of gym-bro assessment. There was a reason Dylan lived in baggy jeans that hung low on his hips and hoodies at least one size too big that swallowed his frame. Ranking higher than working out in the list of things he hated was feeling like a piece of meat under people's scrutiny, like something to be appraised and assessed. It wasn't his fault he was attractive, that he'd won some genetic lottery he never asked to enter. That didn't give people the right to undress him with their eyes, to stare at him like he was something to consume.
To avoid lingering looks and unwanted attention, he strategically chose his gym hours: very late at night when the world was quiet and still, or extremely early in the morning when the sky was still dark and most people were still tangled in their sheets. He was rarely entirely alone, but at least there were few enough people for each of them to have a corner of the room in peace, everyone respecting the unspoken rule of solitary suffering.
That had worked well for years.
Until Jun decided to do the same.
The first time Dylan walked into the gym at two in the morning and spotted Jun's familiar silhouette across the room, he'd felt his stomach drop. He dismissed it as unfortunate timing, cosmic bad luck. He groaned audibly, rolled his eyes hard enough that it almost hurt, and made sure to stay as far from his bandmate as possible. He'd claimed the opposite corner, hiding himself behind equipment and keeping Jun firmly out of his line of sight, pretending he didn't exist.
The second time, Dylan gave Jun the grace of thinking it was a mere coincidence. Surely, it wasn't to become a recurring occurrence. Lightning didn't strike twice, right? His jaw had clenched so hard his teeth ached, but he simply walked past Jun with barely concealed disdain, every line of his body radiating annoyance, and buried his frustration in drills that left his muscles screaming in protest, pushing himself harder than necessary just to channel the irritation somewhere productive.
The third time though… the third time Dylan hadn't been able to let it go.The spike of anger that shot through him when he saw Jun already there, calmly stretching like he owned the place, was volcanic. He'd marched right up to him, invading his space, and confronted him point-blank, demanding to know what the hell he was doing here. The casual shrug he got in reply—so dismissive, so unbothered—paired with a mumbled "less crowded" made him see red, hot and blinding. How dare Jun use the same excuse and ruin Dylan's peaceful workout with his stupid face, his stupid perfectly-styled hair, his stupid casual confidence?
This time, Dylan decided not to hide himself. This time, he would make Jun regret ever setting foot in that gym at the same time. So he did the one thing that bothered him to no end when others did it to him: he watched Jun work out. On purpose. Deliberately. With the full weight of his attention.
He barely went through his own routine, half-assing his way through sets while favoring instead the idea of making Jun uncomfortable by latching his eyes onto him and never looking away, burning holes into him with his stare. The bastard didn't even look the slightest bit fazed, didn't squirm or glance over nervously or show any sign that he felt Dylan's eyes on him.
The stretching was fine. Dylan had seen Jun do it countless times before dance rehearsals—the same methodical routine, the same measured breathing—nothing new or surprising. Besides, Dylan was much more flexible than Jun, could bend himself into shapes that Jun could only dream of, and it gave him petty, vindictive pleasure to be better at something, to have this one small victory. So watching him stretch was almost enjoyable, a reminder of his own superiority.
Then Jun moved on to squats, and something shifted.
Starting simple, bodyweight only, before gradually adding weights to the routine—first the bar, then plates on either side—bending his arms at the elbows as he bent his knees, maintaining perfect form. His shorts rode up with every repetition, the fabric clinging and sliding against his skin, revealing more of his thighs with each descent. Muscles strained and flexed with the movement, the quadriceps standing out in sharp definition, and Dylan realized with a start that he was staring at Jun's thighs, mesmerized by the shift and play of muscle beneath tanned skin, the way they tensed and released, powerful and controlled.
Fuck!
Sometimes Dylan forgot that Jun was hot. It was easy to forget when Jun's smugness was so overwhelming, when his cocky confidence filled every room he entered and made Dylan want to throttle him. Jun's handsomeness got overridden by his personality, buried beneath the irritation Dylan felt whenever he opened his mouth. But here, now, with sweat beginning to dampen Jun's hair and his body moving obscenely, Dylan couldn't ignore it. Couldn't pretend that Jun wasn't objectively, frustratingly attractive.
When Jun moved to the bench, Dylan released a small breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, grateful for the reprieve, for a chance to redirect his attention somewhere safer.
But what came after was worse. So much worse.
Lying back against the bench with his arms braced overhead, gripping the sides for stability, Jun began a series of leg raises that transitioned seamlessly into hip lifts. His legs extended straight up toward the ceiling, toes pointed like a dancer's, before he slowly began to elevate his hips off the bench. Higher and higher with every controlled movement, his core visibly engaged, abs contracting with the effort, until he was nearly in a headstand position, his entire lower body suspended in the air, before lowering back down with the same deliberate control. The movement was fluid, graceful, almost hypnotic—and absolutely sinful.
What the hell?
Dylan's own core strength was impressive—he could hold a plank for minutes, could execute the most demanding choreography without breaking form—but he didn't think he could pull that off. The control it required, the sheer strength, was incredible. The movements looked sinful, almost obscene in their controlled power. His mind immediately, traitorously supplied a thousand scenarios in which they could make use of this flexibility, this strength, this control—most of which involved Jun's shorts and underwear being gone, discarded on the floor in a heap.
Dylan's jaw went slack, his mouth falling open as the image seared itself into his brain: himself straddling the bench, standing at just the right height, hands gripping Jun's thighs for leverage while Jun's hips lifted to meet him, that same fluid control applied to an entirely different activity. He could almost feel it, the stretch and burn, the way Jun would look up at him with those dark eyes—
Oh.
OH!
Heat flooded through him, sudden and intense, pooling low in his belly and spreading outward like wildfire. His workout shorts suddenly felt too tight, too constricting, and he had to fight the urge to adjust himself.
Thankfully, mercifully, it ended soon enough—Jun only did three reps before moving on, seemingly unaware of the crisis he'd just triggered. Dylan forced himself to look away, tearing his gaze away like ripping off a bandage, struggling to get his breathing under control. His heart was racing, pounding against his ribs, and he willed the warmth pooling low in his stomach to subside, to dissipate, to go literally anywhere else. He grabbed his water bottle with shaking hands and took a long drink, the cold liquid doing nothing to cool the heat building inside him.
Jun moved around the room, focused, determined, completely in his own world. Dylan did his best to look away, to focus on his own workout, to think about literally anything else—his grocery list, the new choreography they were learning, the plot of the last movie he'd watched—but he was glancing over every few seconds, unable to stop himself, drawn back like a magnet.
He watched as Jun went through reps of push-ups, each variation more challenging than the last. First normal ones, his body moving up and down in perfect alignment, chest nearly touching the floor before pressing back up. Then with a kettlebell balanced on his back, the added weight making his arms tremble slightly with the effort but never breaking form. Ending with his feet elevated and barely touching a bench, the increased difficulty making the muscles in his shoulders and arms stand out even more prominently, sweat dripping down his temples and along his jaw.
Since when had Jun become such a gym rat? Dylan had never seen this side of him, had never paid attention during those rare instances when their gym schedules might have overlapped. Jun wasn't even particularly bulky or massive. He had good shoulders, broad and defined, and was well-built with lean muscle, but he wasn't one of those huge guys with extreme definition and veins popping out everywhere. Jun was muscular but lean, fit and graceful enough for dancing, his body built for movement and endurance rather than show. Dylan really hadn't expected this level of intensity, this dedication, this casual display of strength that seemed so at odds with Jun's usual easy-going demeanor.
At least he was quiet. He wasn't one of those guys who grunted and groaned with every rep, making exaggerated sounds of effort that echoed through the gym. Jun worked in near silence, just the sound of his breathing—steady, controlled—and the occasional clink of equipment. That was safer for Dylan's sanity, which was already hanging by a thread.
Dylan was slowly, painstakingly erasing impure thoughts from his mind, scrubbing them away like stains, finding his footing again and rebuilding his mental defenses. He was almost there, almost back to normal, back to simply tolerating Jun's presence with his usual disdain.
Until Jun moved to the pull-down machine.
It wasn't the machine itself or the exercise that derailed Dylan's train of thought. Pull-downs were normal, standard, nothing he hadn't seen a hundred times before. No, it was the way Jun peeled off his damp t-shirt beforehand—grabbing the back of the collar and pulling it over his head in one smooth motion before tossing it aside carelessly—that made Dylan's brain short-circuit completely.
Miles and miles of tanned skin that looked soft, smooth, touchable. The expanse of Jun's back was a masterpiece Dylan had never properly appreciated, had never allowed himself to look at. Dylan was too far to see every detail clearly, but he found himself wondering how many moles dotted that canvas, imagining them like constellations he could trace with his fingertips. He could picture the ones on Jun's face with surprising, alarming accuracy—the one near his eye, on the bridge of his nose, the slightly larger one on his cheekbone—and his mind helpfully supplied the idea that he could map all of them the same way, with his mouth.
When Jun settled onto the machine and started his set, Dylan had to stop what he was doing entirely. He forgot to breathe, forgot to move, forgot everything except the sight before him. He could only stare, completely transfixed, admiring, drinking in every detail of the spectacle unfolding across the room.
Jun's back muscles were moving with every pull, rippling beneath the skin. His shoulder blades moved like wings, the trapezius muscles standing out in sharp relief. Every curve, every dip, every line was highlighted by the overhead lights and the sweat making his skin glow, making Dylan's mouth go completely dry, making him forget how to swallow.
Dylan had never noticed—had actively avoided noticing—how small Jun's waist was in comparison to his shoulders. The ratio was striking, almost unfair, creating lines and proportions that made Dylan's head spin and his fingers physically itch with the need to touch, to grab, to hold that narrow waist while—
He cut that thought off before it could fully form, but it was too late. The damage was done.
Jun's posture was perfect, textbook form, his back straight and controlled, movements smooth and measured. He pulled the weight with seeming ease, though Dylan could see the muscles working, could see the effort beneath the control. Every motion accentuated every curve of his body, and Dylan's gaze traveled downward almost against his will, following the path of Jun's spine down, down, down.
Jun's shorts had ridden low on his hips, the waistband slipping down to reveal the band of his underwear—black, simple—and Dylan's eyes caught and lingered on the swell of his ass. The angle was devastating, the position on the machine making it look full and round and absolutely perfect, Jun's thighs braced against the pad, muscles flexed. Dylan could see the way the fabric of his shorts stretched tight across the curve, could imagine peeling them down, could picture his hands gripping that flesh, his fingers digging in hard. Could picture his teeth scraping along the curve of Jun's hip where the shorts had slipped, biting down on that sensitive skin just to hear what sound Jun would make, to leave evidence of his claim.
Dylan's entire body was on fire, flames licking up his spine and spreading outward. Heat crept from his hairline, burning across his cheeks, all the way down his neck, across his chest, settling low in his groin where it pulsed and throbbed, making him shift uncomfortably on the bench where he'd stopped pretending to work out. His shorts were definitely too tight now, unmistakably so, and he was grateful for the relative darkness of his corner, grateful that no one else was close enough to notice his state.
He couldn't take his eyes off Jun's back, physically couldn't tear his gaze away even though he knew he should. Couldn't stop the thoughts spiraling through his mind, spinning faster and wilder, completely out of control. Couldn't help picturing himself marching across the room, closing that distance between them, and just—
The image hit him with crystal clarity: straddling Jun's lap on that machine, letting Jun use Dylan's weight for his workout instead of the machine's resistance. Dylan could almost feel it—Jun's hands on his hips, gripping tight, pulling him down with each rep. Jun's face would be so close, breath hot against Dylan's neck, and Dylan could wrap his legs around him, could feel every muscle working beneath him, could tangle his hands in Jun's sweat-damp hair.
There were no coherent thoughts left in Dylan's mind, just fragments and images and sensations. No reasonable voice screaming about how wrong it was to think of his bandmate, his friend, his rival like this. No one left to remind him that he supposedly hated Jun, that he couldn't stand his cocky grin and his smug voice and the way he always seemed so unbothered by everything.
All that remained was desire. Pure, undiluted, overwhelming desire that crashed over him like a wave, dragging him under. A deep-rooted want that he could feel in his bones, in his blood, pulsing through him with every heartbeat. The need to see more, to close the distance, to remove the last scraps of clothing hiding what was left of Jun's body. To touch all that skin, to feel it hot beneath his palms, to map every muscle and curve and dip with his hands and mouth until he'd memorized every inch.
Jun finished his set and got up, the movement fluid and easy despite the workout he'd just completed.The shift in position gave Dylan an unobstructed view of his chest, and Dylan's brain promptly short-circuited all over again.
Jun's pectorals were defined without being bulky, the kind of natural muscle that came from years of dance training rather than hours pumping iron. His abs were visible but not ostentatiously so, a subtle six-pack that flexed with each breath. A light trail of hair started just below his navel, drawing Dylan's eye downward like an arrow, disappearing teasingly beneath the waistband of those sinful shorts that had tortured Dylan for the past twenty minutes.
Jun reached for his water bottle with one hand, tipping his head back to drink, and Dylan couldn't look away. His throat worked as he swallowed, Adam's apple bobbing in a way that should not have been as attractive as it was, shouldn't have made Dylan want to press his mouth there, to feel the movement against his lips. Dylan watched with hungry, eager eyes as a single drop escaped Jun's mouth, trailing down his chin in a glistening path before continuing its journey down his neck, over his collarbone, down the center of his chest. The drop's descent was stopped by a perked nipple, and Dylan's mouth went dry imagining what it would taste like—salt and sweat and skin—imagining the texture against his tongue, the sound Jun would make if Dylan closed his teeth around it gently, if he sucked and licked until Jun was squirming.
This was a problem.
This was a very serious problem.
This was potentially a catastrophic, life-altering, friendship-ending, career-ruining problem that Dylan had absolutely no idea how to handle.
Dylan was rooted to the spot, unable to move, paralyzed, frozen with his eyes locked on Jun's body like he'd been turned to stone by some modern-day Medusa. His mind was spiraling completely out of control, each thought dirtier than the previous one, each image more explicit and detailed than the last. His very interested dick was straining painfully against his workout shorts, an unmistakable bulge that would be obvious to anyone who so much as glanced in his direction.
Of course—of fucking course—it was at this exact moment, when Dylan was overwhelmed and drowning in his own unexpected, inconvenient lust, that Jun's gaze finally landed on him.
Those dark brown eyes, so deep and endlessly rich and beautiful like melted chocolate or expensive whiskey or every other cliché comparison Dylan's scrambled brain could conjure, found him across the room. Like Jun had known exactly where Dylan was the entire time. Like he'd been aware of Dylan's stare for the past twenty minutes and had simply been biding his time, letting Dylan dig his own grave deeper and deeper.
A slow smile spread across Jun's lips, cocky as usual, self-satisfied in that infuriating way that normally made Dylan want to punch him square in his perfect face. But there was also something else there: a slight bashfulness, a faint color rising in Jun's cheeks. The sight was doing terrible, terrible things to Dylan's already compromised self-control, because wanting to wipe that grin off Jun's face meant either kissing him breathless until he forgot his own name, or forcing him down on his knees to make him too busy to smile, to put that smart mouth to much, much better use.
Fuck.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Jun grabbed his t-shirt from where he'd discarded it earlier, but he didn't put it back on—of course he didn't, because apparently the universe had decided that Dylan hadn't suffered enough tonight. He just held it loosely in one hand, letting it dangle from his fingers as he started moving. Jogging across the gym toward Dylan's corner as if he somehow still had energy to spare.
Dylan felt cornered, trapped like prey being stalked by a predator who was taking his sweet time closing in for the kill. His heart hammered against his ribs, fight-or-flight response kicking in hard, and he couldn't help the few steps backward he took, desperately trying to put some distance between them, to get some breathing room. His back hit the wall sooner than he expected, the cool concrete a shock against his overheated skin, and he realized with dawning horror that he'd just backed himself into a corner with nowhere left to go.
With every step back Dylan took, Jun took a step forward, matching him stride for stride. His smile widened with each advance, predatory and pleased, his eyes sparkling with something that looked dangerously like amusement mixed with something darker, something heated that made Dylan's stomach flip and drop, made his pulse race even faster.
"Enjoying the sight?" Jun asked, his voice pitched low and smooth, dripping with his most arrogant tone. Smugness coated every syllable like honey, thick and sweet and infuriating, like he knew exactly what effect he was having and was relishing every second of Dylan's obvious discomfort, every sign of Dylan's barely controlled desire.
Dylan's response was automatic, instinctive, a defense mechanism he'd relied on for years when Jun got too close, too knowing, too much: "Ew."
The last time Dylan had said it—after Nano had suggested they go on a date—the word had hit its mark perfectly. Jun had looked genuinely affronted, his eyebrows shooting up in surprise at the mere idea that someone could refuse him, could find him anything less than completely desirable. His ego had visibly taken a hit, and Dylan had felt a savage satisfaction at managing to knock him down a peg.
This time, though, the word had the opposite effect. It only made Jun's eyes sparkle more, made his smile turn knowing and dangerous and far too confident. Because this time, the answer was clearly, obviously a lie, and they both knew it. No matter how good Dylan's poker face usually was, how well he could typically school his features into careful indifference or casual disdain, he couldn't stop his eyes from betraying him. They dropped from Jun's face, following the path of a bead of sweat that was rolling slowly down Jun's chest, tracking its journey with hungry, undisguised focus as it carved a glistening trail through the light sheen covering his skin, dying against the hem of his waistband where Dylan desperately, viscerally wanted to follow with his tongue.
Dylan only realized he was biting his lip, worrying the flesh between his teeth hard enough to hurt, hard enough that he'd probably leave marks, when Jun's hand moved. Those long fingers came up to touch Dylan's face with shocking gentleness, such a contrast to the cockiness of his expression. His fingertips brushed against Dylan's jaw, a feather-light touch that sent electricity racing across Dylan's skin, before his thumb pressed against Dylan's lower lip, tugging it free from between his teeth with careful pressure.
The contact made Dylan jump like he'd been struck by lightning, his entire nervous system lighting up and going haywire from the simple touch. His skin burned where Jun's fingers had been, the sensation spreading outward in waves, and he could feel his pulse throbbing in his lip where Jun had touched him, hypersensitive and aching.
Jun didn't say a word, didn't gloat or tease or call Dylan out on his obvious lie. He just looked at him for a long moment, his expression soft and pleased and far too knowing, his eyes crinkling at the corners in that way that usually annoyed Dylan to no end but now just made him look unfairly, devastatingly attractive. Made Dylan want to kiss those laugh lines, to feel them move and shift beneath his lips, to learn the texture of Jun's skin with his mouth.
Then, seemingly satisfied with whatever he'd seen in Dylan's face, Jun stepped back. He turned and walked away, still shirtless, still holding his discarded t-shirt in one hand, heading toward the changing rooms. But not without laughing—a low, rich sound that echoed in the empty gym and reverberated in Dylan's chest, in his bones, imprinting itself in his memory where he knew with absolute certainty it would replay on an endless loop for days, weeks, maybe forever.
Dylan stayed pressed against the wall, unable to move, unable to think, barely able to breathe. His heart was still racing, his skin still tingling where Jun had touched him, his shorts still uncomfortably tight.
He was done for.
Completely, utterly, irrevocably done for.
And the worst part? Jun knew it.