Repetition Builds Structure
Gyms are honest places.
Not morally.
Not socially.
Physically.
They strip people down to effort and repetition. No excuses survive long under weight and time. Either something improves, or it fails and is discarded.
I liked that
The gym near my apartment was old—no neon branding, no music loud enough to mask insecurity. Just metal, rubber flooring, mirrors dulled by years of breath and sweat. People came here to change, not to be seen changing.
That mattered.
I started going every evening.
Not for appearance.
For calibration.
The First Week
My body adapted faster than expected.
That wasn't arrogance—it was data. Neural response improved. Coordination refined. Recovery stabilized. The numbers adjusted upward quietly, without ceremony.
I didn't chase exhaustion.
I chased consistency.
Most people burned themselves out trying to become something else overnight. I didn't want transformation.
I wanted control.
I went at the same time each day. Used the same corner. Followed the same order. Machines became familiar, predictable. Mirrors stopped reflecting a stranger and began reflecting a system in progress.
No one talked to me.
Perfect.
Peter Notices
Peter Parker noticed anyway.
He always did.
"You're… bigger," he said one afternoon in physics, sounding embarrassed by the observation.
I looked down at my notebook.
"Yes."
He hesitated, then leaned closer.
"You working out?"
"Yes."
Another pause.
"…Can I come with you sometime?"
The question wasn't about fitness.
It was about permission.
The First Visit Together
Peter arrived late the first time.
Apologized twice before he even finished opening the door.
The gym swallowed him whole—its sounds sharper than the school hallways, its mirrors less forgiving. He stood awkwardly beside me, bag slung too high on one shoulder, eyes darting like he expected someone to accuse him of trespassing.
"You don't have to stay long," he said. "I mean—I don't really know what I'm doing, I just thought—"
"You'll adapt," I said.
He blinked.
Then smiled.
Different Approaches
We trained differently.
I moved with intent, minimal wasted motion. Every action had purpose, even when resting. Peter, on the other hand, approached everything like a puzzle—testing angles, adjusting posture, thinking constantly.
He asked questions.
Not how questions.
Why questions.
Why this movement stressed one area more than another. Why balance mattered. Why the body compensated the way it did.
I answered selectively.
Not withholding.
Curating.
His curiosity wasn't annoying.
It was efficient.
Silence That Works
We didn't talk much during sessions.
That was unusual for Peter. At school, his mouth filled space when his nerves activated. Here, something about the environment quieted him. He focused. Counted. Adjusted.
Watched me when he thought I wasn't looking.
Not with envy.
With analysis.
Good.
Silence settled between us—not awkward, not heavy. Just present. Shared.
People mistake silence for distance.
They're wrong.
Incremental Trust
After the gym, we sometimes sat outside on the concrete steps, cooling down. The city hummed faintly around us. Cars passed. Somewhere, sirens wailed and faded.
Peter talked then.
About Aunt May.
About money.
About feeling like he was always behind something he couldn't see.
I didn't interrupt.
I didn't reassure.
I listened.
That, I had learned, was more valuable.
"You don't talk about yourself much," he said once.
"I don't need to," I replied.
He nodded slowly.
Didn't press.
Trust increased.
Changes, Noticed
Weeks passed.
Peter grew stronger—not dramatically, but measurably. His posture improved. His movements became more confident, less apologetic. He still stumbled socially, still second-guessed himself—but his body no longer reinforced that uncertainty.
I observed this with interest.
The mind followed the body more often than people realized.
He laughed more easily now.
Not loudly.
Freely.
A Subtle Shift
One evening, while reracking weights, Peter spoke quietly.
"You know… I don't really get picked for things," he said.
I looked at him.
"You were picked today," I said. "You came back."
He frowned slightly, processing.
Then smiled.
"Yeah," he said. "I guess I did."
That moment mattered more than he understood.
No Masks Here
The gym became neutral territory.
Not school.
Not home.
Not future.
Just now.
Peter wasn't trying to impress me there. I wasn't observing him as a variable tied to potential power. We existed side by side, working toward different goals that happened to overlap.
That overlap was… stabilizing.
I hadn't anticipated that.
Internal State: Jake
No emotional dependency detected.
No protective instinct.
No fear of loss.
But—
Increased tolerance for unpredictability.
Reduced urge to isolate.
Sustained cooperative behavior.
Anomalies persisted.
Logged.
The Spider, Still Absent
The spider still hadn't appeared.
And for the first time, that delay didn't frustrate me.
Peter was changing anyway.
Not superhuman.
Just… steadier.
I wondered briefly whether the spider was even necessary.
Then dismissed the thought.
The universe rarely skipped steps.
An Unspoken Agreement
One night, as we left the gym, Peter stopped at the door.
"Hey," he said. "Thanks. For letting me tag along."
"You don't tag along," I replied. "You participate."
He smiled—really smiled.
"Yeah," he said. "I like that."
So did I.
End State
We walked home in opposite directions.
No promises.
No dramatic declarations.
Just the understanding that tomorrow, we would both return to the same place, at the same time, to continue improving systems that responded honestly to effort.
Friendship, it turned out, wasn't built on emotion.
It was built on shared repetition.
Status Update
Physical condition: Improving
Routine: Established
Relationship: Peter Parker — Strengthened
Emotional deviation: Stable, monitored
Spider event: