Rarepair hell

For a few seconds, they just stared at each other. Greaseball was entranced, as he often was, by the way Rusty’s eyes sparkled.

Greaseball might have stood there like that all night if Rusty hadn’t gotten him back on track. “Are those for me?” he asked, gesturing to the flowers in Greaseball’s hands.

“Oh, yeah,” Greaseball said, snapping himself out of his reverie. “Here.”

Gingerly, Rusty took the flowers out of Greaseball’s hands. Looking at the bouquet in Rusty’s arms, all Greaseball could see was how his iron grasp had crushed it at the bottom. But if Rusty noticed that, it didn’t bother him. He ran a gentle finger along one of the petals with a growing smile. “Thanks.”

A light heat rose to Greaseball’s cheeks, and he really hoped he wasn’t blushing. “Yeah,” he said dumbly. A second later, he realized that that wasn’t what he was supposed to say and quickly corrected himself. “I mean, yeah, you’re welcome.”

Rusty glanced up at him, his eyes twinkling. “I’m going to go put these in water, then we can head out.”

Greaseball nodded. “Okay. Yeah, sure.”

With that, Rusty disappeared back inside. Greaseball hovered on the doorstep, wondering if he should follow him. He hadn’t been invited in, but wasn’t it rude to just be standing here while his date went and worked on something? Greaseball didn’t know. He’d have to ask Dinah for a few more lessons on manners after this.

Before Greaseball was able to come to a conclusion on his internal debate, Rusty was back, his hands empty. “Ready to go?” he asked with a bright smile.

Greaseball’s breath caught in his throat for a moment. All he could think was, beautiful. He bit his tongue to stop himself from saying anything out loud. He knew the coaches liked it if you called them pretty, but he wasn’t sure how Rusty would feel about it. Maybe he should just stick with handsome? He didn’t know. It was another thing he would have to ask Dinah about.

Rather than say something that might ruin the date, Greaseball nodded silently. He went to take a step away from the door, then stopped himself. He wasn’t sure how to do this, either. All of his previous partners had been coaches, and whenever they went out on dates, he always pulled them. But was he supposed to pull Rusty? Would Rusty be offended if he offered?

This whole situation was uncharted territory for Greaseball, but Rusty seemed to know what he was doing. He slipped his hand into Greaseball’s and laced their fingers with a reassuring squeeze.

Greaseball glanced over Rusty’s position on the bench and nodded. “Not bad,” he said, though he refrained from adding that it was hard to mess up just getting onto the bench. “But you want to be a little lower down. You have to have your eyes lust below the bar.”

“Like this?” Rusty scooted down to follow Greaseball’s advice. Adorable, Greaseball’s mind supplied as he watched.

He forcefully shoved the thought down. There’d be time enough later to follow through on thoughts like that, but right now, Rusty had asked him to teach him how to bench press, and nothing was going to stop him from teaching Rusty the joys of working out.

He took another look at Rusty’s position on the bench and nodded approvingly. “Good. Wanna show me how you’re going to hold the bar?”

“Can’t I just hold it however?”

“You need to hold it right,” Greaseball told him. “Otherwise, you could mess up your arms or your wrists or maybe even drop it, and trust me, you don’t want that.”

There was a look on Rusty’s face that told Greaseball that he thought he was going a little overboard, but he kept his mouth shut, reaching up to grab the bar. He readjusted his grip a few times before he seemed to settle into his preferred position.

“Comfortable?” Greaseball asked.

Rusty adjusted his grip once more. “Comfortable enough.”

“Alright. Now, squeeze your shoulders back and arch your back.”

Rusty did.

Greaseball nodded to himself, carefully checking over Rusty’s body to make sure he was in the right position. When he was satisfied, he moved back to his spot behind Rusty and said, “Good. Now, take a deep breath in, and we’re gonna pick up the bar, okay?”

Rusty arched a brow at him. “We?” he echoed.

“Yeah, we,” Greaseball said, grabbing onto the bar as well. “I’m gonna help you.”

“I don’t think I really need help,” Rusty said. “There aren’t even any weights on this thing.”

“The bar is plenty heavy on its own, especially if you’re just starting out,” Greaseball told him. “Besides, you’ve always got to have a spotter. I do.”

“Really?”

“Of course! Do you want to risk dropping a couple hundred pounds straight onto your neck?”

Rusty laughed a little sheepishly. “No, I guess not. I just always thought you worked out alone.”

Greaseball shrugged. His work out sessions were pretty important to him, and it was true that he sometimes used them as alone time to re-center himself. But that only applied to exercises he could do on his own. “Not when I’m benching. I’ll usually bring one of the gang over to spot me if I’m in the mood for something like that.”

Rusty’s face got that look it always did when he was thinking something over. After a couple of seconds of silence, he said, “If you wanted, I could spot you next time.”

Greaseball couldn’t help but smile at the offer, even though he had to turn it down. “No offense,” he said, trying his hardest not to sound mean, “but I don’t think you’re strong enough.” After all, he benched hundreds of pounds; as happy as having Rusty there would make him, he could do him no good if he couldn’t pick the bar up if Greaseball needed help.

Rusty, however, was not to be deterred. “When I’m stronger, then. When I’m stronger, I’ll spot you.”