Dedicated to Car, for her inspiration.
An anxious and excited buzz swept the crowd just moments before the start the marathon. Runners stretched and chatted and drank small, measured amounts of water so as to not weigh them down or run out of water later on. Farther down the course argued an Englishman, a Frenchman, a German, and a Spaniard.
"But what if someone actually kisses me?" asked a flustered and irritated Arthur holding a rainbow sign saying "Kiss me, I'm English!".
"You stand there and take it. Maybe even kiss back?" Francis suggested, wiggling his eyebrows.
"There is absolutely no way I would kiss ba—"
"But listen Eyebrows, it's a marathon. This is the type of event that assembles well-toned guys. One of them is bound to suit your taste."
Arthur just 'hmph-ed' and was cut off by the overly-enthusiastic announcer who blared the starting horn and the runners came hurtling forward. In a sea of soon-to-be-sweaty heads, a blond strand of hair was jumping up and down. The blond, Alfred, had his lips parted with a tongue peeking out, arms swinging back and forth and feet lightly tapping the ground. Every marathon start was like this, people squeezed together like penguins, but then a kilometer or two in, people started getting filtered, the best coming forward and the slower staying behind. Alfred hoped to land himself in the faster group — as did every other runner. Squinting his eyes and squeezing his hands tighter, he held his head high as he picked up his pace.
Turning a corner, Alfred narrowed his eyes in annoyance at the hill coming up. San Francisco was always such a hard place to run. Hills at every corner and the air was always so chilly. But what truly kept him in the city was the acceptance of gays. It made him feel more accepted seeing the rainbow flags hanging precariously on windows during his track to work.
Kicking his knees up not unlike a mountain climber would, he braced himself for the seemly never ending uphill climb. Sweat was starting to bead on his forehead and he cursed himself for not training harder.
21 kilometers was a long time to be flailing his limbs about in an effort to get to the finish line faster, so he liked to entertain himself by people-watching. One of his favorite things to do while people watching was reading the signs that people were holding. The enthusiasm of the onlookers was a precious thing to experience and so were the crazy signs they carried with them.
Turning the corner into Embarcadero, to his pleasant surprise, he spotted his white haired drinking buddy… along with a very cute blond… who was quite noticeably holding onto a showy, color-clashing sign that was ordering him to…kiss him, because he was apparently English. Funny, wasn't it the Irish who normally said that?
But traditions didn't matter once he actually saw the Briton. His eyes trailed up the other's figure, finding khaki pants which didn't quite fit in with the rest of the short shorts. Eyes advancing upwards, Alfred saw a white button up shirt that most definitely didn't belong in a marathon. Glasses-covered eyes slithered further north and noticed a pale face, puckered pink lips and green, green eyes.
Looking back on it, Alfred didn't really have time to do an internal debate on whether to kiss the guy or not. Given that they were in San Francisco and the sign was rainbow, there wasn't much debate to do.
With a straight face, he turned his sprint into a light jog and approached the white shirted man very delicately, as if the other would try to flee.
Their eyes locked for less than a split second before the self-proclaimed Englishman averted his eyes with rosy cheeks and tightened his hold on his sign. But that didn't stop Alfred from standing in front of him, mumbling some incoherent form of "Okay, but only 'cause you asked so nicely" and kissing him.
Alfred didn't waste time chaste kissing him, after all the guy had asked for it. No, Alfred went in for the kill and dipped him causing the Briton to flap his arms until they came to nestle themselves in the gentle dip of Alfred's collarbone. Their bodies were pressed together and Alfred wasn't the only one enjoying the feel of a very attractive stranger against him. The American's hands holding his neck slowly moved up to weave his fingers in the soft blond hair.
Alfred finished the kiss with a pop and moved to straighten himself. He then cleared his throat and dusted himself off — acting as if he was in the middle of a business conference. With a very even voice, he said " I'm Alfred, and you're a good kisser." He then proceeded to turn around and fall into a brisk jog, as if he didn't had just French kissed a stranger.
Gilbert had filmed the kiss, too bad it didn't fit into Vine's six second time slot. Oh well, he'd just post it on YouTube later.
Half a marathon later, a certain Arthur was leaning against a street light with his ears perked for the speakers to announce the arrival of a certain Alfred. When the runner finally arrived, the Briton could feel this face broiling —and he didn't even run!— while he and Alfred exchanged phone numbers by the finish line.
