The next couple minutes disappeared into the kind of scattered efficiency Jason usually associated with people who actually had their lives together.
He showered fast, still faintly amused every time the water hit his shoulders without a single knot of tension waiting to complain about it.
He dug through his drawer for gym clothes, checked that the shirt still fit the newly upgraded version of his own shoulders, and found, with some relief, that it did.
He packed a bag without really needing to think about what went in it. Water bottle. A towel. His wallet, in case Ben decided today was the day he finally stopped mooching off Jason’s protein shakes and started buying his own.
Phone, obviously, though when he checked the time on it, 7:55, he allowed himself a small, private moment of pride.
Ready with five minutes to spare. Look at that. Look at who’s early today.
He opened his messages, planning to send the first text for once in the history of their friendship, something appropriately smug, maybe on my way, try to keep up, and stopped cold at what was already sitting in the thread.
Ben, 7:45: you up
Ben, 7:47: bro
Ben, 7:49: it’s been literally two minutes and i already regret this
Ben, 7:51: where the hell are you
Ben, 7:52: did you die
Ben, 7:53: if you died i need to know now so i can go back to sleep with a clear conscience
How can I let you if I’m already dead Jason thought and kept on reading
Ben, 7:55: JASON
Jason stared at the screen for a solid three seconds, genuinely stunned.
"I’m 5 minutes early," he said out loud, to absolutely nobody, "and he’s acting like I ghosted him for a decade."
Some things never change, apparently. Not even a system that rewrites my entire body could touch Ben’s ability to panic on a four-minute delay.
He typed back quickly.
Jason: relax. coming now
He shouldered his bag, grabbed his keys off the counter, and headed out, locking the door behind him with the specific satisfaction of a man who had, for once, actually been the more prepared party in this friendship.
The walk to the intersection took a few minutes, the same intersection they’d been meeting at since college, back when neither of them owned a car worth trusting and this had just been the fair midpoint between two dorm buildings. Some habits outlived the reasons for them.
Ben was already there when Jason turned the corner, arms crossed, standing like a man personally wronged by the concept of mornings, and Jason took a second, walking closer, to actually look at him properly.
Ben had somehow found a gym outfit that looked less like workout clothes and more like something a magazine would photograph a man wearing while standing dramatically in front of a gym mirror.
Black compression shirt, fitted just enough to make a point, shorts that had clearly been chosen with intention rather than convenience, and the kind of easy, broad-shouldered posture that made regular people quietly reconsider their own life choices standing next to him.
Six foot four demon
Jason thought, not for the first time in their friendship.
How does he wake up looking like that at eight in the morning. I genuinely want to know what he did in a past life to earn this.
"You’re one minute early," Ben said, the second Jason was in earshot, "and somehow that’s still worse than being late, because now I have to sit here wondering what’s wrong with you."
"Nothing’s wrong with me."
"Something’s wrong with you. You’ve never been early for anything in your life. Not once. I have receipts."
"You don’t have receipts."
"I have a mental folder labeled Jason Is Always Late, and it is extensive."
Jason let that one slide past him without engaging, mostly because arguing the point would’ve required admitting that Ben wasn’t technically wrong, and he wasn’t in the mood to hand over that particular win before eight in the morning.
"You gonna stand there complaining, or are we going to the gym."
Ben squinted at him, the specific squint of a man deciding whether a joke was worth the effort of making, then apparently decided it was.
"Something’s different about you," he said, tilting his head slightly, studying Jason with more attention than Jason was comfortable receiving before caffeine. "Can’t place it. You seem taller. Or maybe just less sad. Hard to tell this early."
"I’m always this tall."
"Debatable." Ben clapped a hand on his shoulder, already turning toward the gym. "Come on. Let’s go before I lose the will to be here."
Jason fell into step beside him, saying nothing about the fingers, the fatigue, the purple pill, or any of the last ten hours, and let the walk to the gym be, for a few minutes at least, refreshingly normal.
They pushed through the gym’s glass doors into the familiar wash of cold air and faint rubber and sweat smell, the kind that always hit Jason first, before the noise of clanging weights and the low thump of whatever playlist the front desk had decided the entire building needed to suffer through today.
"So," Ben said, as they walked past the row of treadmills toward the lockers, tone shifting into something quieter, more genuinely curious than the usual bit. "What actually got you out here. And don’t say ’health,’ because you’ve said health for years running and never once shown up."
Jason kept walking, buying himself a second. "Just felt like it was time."
"That’s not an answer."
"It’s an answer. You just don’t like it."
Ben glanced sideways at him, not letting it go the way Jason had hoped he might. "You hate this place. You’ve told me, specifically, multiple times, that gyms are ’a subscription model for guilt.’ Your words. I remember because I thought it was funny."
Right. Because I can’t exactly say a floating pink notification screen gave me free abs last night and now wants me to maintain them or it’s revoking the warranty.
Jason ran through, and discarded, three different half-truths in the two seconds it took to reach his locker. "Had kind of a rough night," he settled on, which wasn’t technically a lie, just an extremely generous edit of one. "Figured doing something productive would help. Get my head straight."
Ben studied him for a beat, and Jason braced for another round of questions, but something in his face must have looked convincing enough, because Ben just nodded slowly, accepting it the way you accept a friend’s vague explanation when you can tell there’s more underneath it but also know pushing won’t get you there any faster.
"Fair enough," Ben said, dropping his own bag onto the bench. "Rough night, gym therapy. I respect it. Wish you’d picked a saner hour, but I respect it."
That was close. Note to self, workshop a better lie before he asks again, because he will ask again.
They changed quickly, and Ben led the way out onto the floor with the easy familiarity of someone who’d clearly spent enough hours here to have a mental map of every machine and its personality.
Jason trailed behind, feeling distinctly like a tourist in a country whose language he technically spoke but had never actually practiced.
"Okay," Ben said, turning to face him, arms crossed, doing his best impression of a man taking this seriously. "First day. We gotta figure out what we’re working. Arms, shoulders, back, abs, legs. Pick your poison."
"I don’t know. What do people normally start with?"
"Depends what you’re trying to fix." Ben held up a finger for each option, counting them off like a waiter reciting specials. "Arms, if you want people to notice you in a t-shirt but also want to explain to everyone why you can’t open jars anymore for a week. Shoulders, if you enjoy pain shaped like triangles. Back, if you’re the type who likes suffering in silence and calling it discipline. Abs, if you’re chasing a six-pack you will not see for at least four months, so manage your expectations. Or legs." He paused for effect.
"Nobody picks legs. Ever. It’s the gym’s best kept secret. Everyone skips leg day and then acts shocked when they look like a lollipop."
Jason stared at him. "That was a surprisingly detailed pitch for something you clearly didn’t prepare."
"I prepare all my bits in advance. I’m always ready."
"Fine. Arms, then."
"Solid choice. Respectable. Beginner-friendly." Ben clapped his hands together, already walking toward the free weights section like a man who’d been waiting all morning for permission. "Just know, day one is gonna lie to you. You’re gonna feel great, think you’re built different, and then tomorrow your own arms are gonna file a formal complaint against you for crimes committed today."
"Noted."
"I mean it. You will not be able to lift a fork tomorrow. Prepare accordingly."
Jason followed him toward the rack, already turning that particular warning over in his head with more amusement than concern than he probably should have.
"Grab a bar," Ben said, gesturing at the rack like a man presenting a menu. "We’ll start light. Ego lifting is how people end up crying in the parking lot."
"You’ve seen someone cry in the parking lot?"
"I’ve been the someone who cried in the parking lot." Ben said it with total, unbothered sincerity. "Grab the bar, Jason."
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