Chapter 9: The Supplement Plan
The silence after wasn’t silence at all. It was the ragged sound of Ben’s breathing, the hum of distant treadmills, the drip of a leaky pipe somewhere in the ceiling. Stu sat back on his heels, the taste still on his tongue, metallic and alien. Ben had one arm thrown over his face, his chest heaving. He wasn’t looking at him.
Stu’s mind was a white, staticky blank. Then the thoughts crashed in, cold and sharp. What did you just do? This wasn’t the massage. This wasn’t ambiguity. This was a line, vaporized. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, the gesture feeling grotesque and amateurish.
“Ben,” he said, his voice hoarse.
“Don’t.” The word was muffled by Ben’s arm. He shifted, pulling his shorts back into place with a frantic, clumsy motion. He sat up, turning away, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Just… don’t, okay?”
“I’m sorry.” The apology was automatic, hollow.
“Are you?” Ben stood, his legs unsteady. He grabbed his water bottle, his gym bag, not meeting Stu’s eyes. His face was flushed, a mixture of shame and something else—confusion, maybe even anger. “I have to go.”
“Your cool-down. You need to stretch—”
“I’m fine.” The word was a dart. Ben shouldered his bag and walked out of the private bay, his gait stiff. Stu watched him vanish around the corner toward the lockers. He didn’t follow.
The next few days were a tense, brittle dance. Ben showed up for his sessions, but he was a ghost of the eager client he’d been. He arrived exactly on time, spoke in monosyllables, and kept his gaze fixed on the equipment or the floor. His form was perfect, robotic. He flinched, just slightly, every time Stu’s hands approached him for a correction.
“You’re tightening up,” Stu said during a lat pulldown, his finger hovering near Ben’s tensed shoulder. “You need to relax the traps.”
Ben just nodded, jaw clenched, and performed the rep with rigid precision. The hunger in Stu’s gut, momentarily sated, had returned as a gnawing, anxious void. He’d gotten what he wanted, and now it was slipping through his fingers, replaced by this icy formality. The power had inverted. Ben’s silence was a judgment, a wall.
James observed all of this from a distance, a faint, knowing smile playing on his lips. He said nothing, which was worse.
It was a Thursday, rain sheeting against the gym’s front windows, when James finally made his move. The gym was quiet, the post-work rush dissolved into a few dedicated stragglers. Stu was refilling the sanitizer spray bottles, the chemical smell sharp in his nose.
“Your project’s looking a little skittish,” James said, materializing beside the supply closet. He leaned against the doorjamb, arms crossed. “Did you frighten him?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Stu muttered, focusing on the bottle in his hand.
“Sure you don’t.” James pushed off the frame and stepped closer, his voice dropping. “You went for it. I can tell. The whole ‘deer in headlights’ routine he’s got going is a dead giveaway. First-timer panic.” He chuckled. “They either lean in or they lock up. He locked up.”
Stu didn’t confirm or deny. He screwed the cap on the spray bottle with a hard click.
“The problem,” James continued, as if diagnosing a faulty piece of equipment, “is that you showed your hand. Now he’s got the ick. The moral hangover. He’s sitting in his apartment right now, convincing himself he’s straight and you’re a predator.”
“What do you want, James?”
“To help.” James reached into the pocket of his tight training shorts and pulled out a small, clear glass vial. It contained maybe an ounce of colorless liquid. He held it up between his thumb and forefinger, where it caught the fluorescent light. “This is a solution. Literally.”
Stu stared at it. “What is it?”
“A little chemist friend of mine cooks it up. Think of it as a… recovery supplement.” James’s green eyes were bright with mischief. “It supercharges the lymphatic system. Gets everything flowing. Only one real side effect.” He leaned in. “It increases production. Drastically. By, like, hour three after ingestion, the pressure is unreal. The need to… unload… becomes all-consuming. Physical agony if you don’t. Makes them desperate for it.”
Stu’s mouth went dry. He looked from the vial to James’s face. “You’re insane.”
“Am I? You want him coming back to you, begging for it? Not shrinking away like a scared rabbit?” James pressed the vial into Stu’s palm. His fingers were warm, dry. “You put three drops in his post-workout shake. Tasteless. Odorless. He’ll drink it down, grateful you’re still being so professional. Then you watch. The clock ticks. He’ll get fidgety. Warm. He won’t understand why. He’ll just know he needs something only you can provide. It bypasses the brain entirely. Goes straight to the body. The body never lies, Stu.”
Stu curled his fingers around the cool glass. It felt heavier than it looked. “This is…”
“What? A step too far?” James smirked. “You passed ‘too far’ when you knelt on that mat. This is just logistics. This is ensuring your investment pays off.” He patted Stu’s shoulder. “His session is tomorrow, right? Think about it. Or don’t. Just do it.”
James walked away, leaving Stu alone in the harsh light of the utility alcove. He looked down at the vial. It was innocuous, like something that would hold essential oils. He thought of Ben’s averted eyes, the flinch, the wall of silence. He thought of the profound, wordless power he’d felt in that private bay, a power that was now evaporating.
He thought of the hunger, a constant, grinding ache in the center of him.
Later, in his apartment, he set the vial on his kitchen counter next to his protein powder. He made dinner, watched the lights of the city blur through the rain-washed window, tried to read an article on his phone. The words blurred. All he saw was the vial.
He picked it up, held it to the light. Clear. Innocent.
It bypasses the brain. The body never lies.
His own body was thrumming with a low-grade current of anticipation. This wasn't obsession anymore. It was an experiment. It was control, refined to a chemical essence. Ben’s hesitation, his moral confusion—that was just noise. The supplement would silence the noise. It would simplify everything.
Stu placed the vial carefully in the front zip-pocket of his gym bag. He zipped it shut. The sound was final.
He stood at his window, watching the rain streak the glass. Tomorrow. He would mix the drops into the chocolate-flavored shake Ben always drank after legs day. He would hand it to him with a friendly, professional smile. And then he would watch. He would observe the descent into need with the meticulous attention of a scientist.
The hunger approved. It uncoiled in his gut, warm and patient. It whispered that this was just another rep. Another step toward a different kind of peak. He went to bed, and for the first time in weeks, he did not dream of plateaued muscles or missed gains. He dreamed of a ticking clock, and of a door he himself had locked, waiting for the handle to rattle from the other side.
The dream clung to him through his morning routine, a phantom pressure behind his eyes. The vial felt like a live coal in his gym bag as he packed it. His hands were steady as he pre-mixed the chocolate protein powder and water into a shaker bottle, setting it aside in the staff fridge.He practiced his smile in the mirror. It looked friendly, concerned, normal.Ben arrived for his session with a hesitant smile. “Hey, Stu.”
“Hey, man. You good?” Stu kept his tone light, clipping his workout board.“Yeah. I am.” Ben rubbed the back of his neck, a flicker of the old openness returning.“Look, about the other night… I freaked out a little. It was a lot.”
“Hey,” Stu said, meeting his eyes with practiced ease. “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.Ever. This is about your fitness.Clear?” He saw the relief wash over Ben’s face, softening his shoulders.
“Clear.Thanks.”
“Good. Then let’s murder some legs.” The session was a return to form, almost.Ben pushed hard, the psychological weight seemingly lifted. He joked between sets on the squat rack.He accepted pointers without flinching. Stu was the picture of professionalism, his focus impeccable, his encouragement booming.Inside, he was a stopwatch. After the final brutal set of walking lunges, Ben was drenched, his legs trembling. Stu fetched the shaker bottle from the fridge. With his back turned, he uncapped it and added three drops from the vial.They vanished without a trace.“Here.For recovery.” He handed Ben the bottle.
Ben took it gratefully, gulping it down. “Tastes a little… bitter?”
“That’s the new amino blend. More potent.” Stu watched his Adam’s apple bob with each swallow.“You’ll feel the difference.”
An hour passed. They moved to accessory work—leg extensions, hamstring curls.Ben’s banter began to thin. A fine sheen of new sweat bloomed on his skin, different from the workout’s effort. He shifted his weight from foot to foot between sets, adjusting his shorts subtly.
“Everything okay?” Stu asked, noting the faint flush creeping up Ben’s neck.
“Yeah, just… really warm all of a sudden.” Ben’s voice was tight. He reracked the weight on the leg press machine with a loud clang, his movements becoming jerky. His focus had dissolved, his eyes darting around the gym without seeing.By the cool-down area, Ben was visibly struggling. He couldn’t sit still on the mat.His breaths were shallow, his knuckles white where he gripped his own thighs. The fabric of his shorts was strained, visibly tented, the material twitching with a frantic, urgent rhythm all its own.Stu observed it all, a quiet scientist logged the data.
Ben looked up, his eyes wide and glassy with a confused, physical agony. His voice was a strained whisper, cracked and desperate.“Stu. Can we… please, can we just go to the cool down area to stretch? Right now?”