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Today was the big day.
The day that Alfred had been training for months for.
The Washington DC marathon.
He was standing at the starting line with all the other runners, stretching his leg out at the side, reaching down as if to touch his toes and then alternating to the next one. This was a major accomplishment on his part. He was more than eager to do this and to prove all of those that were calling him chubby – which were actually very few, but it felt like so much more to his weight-conscious mind – that he was so muscular and heroic. Not to mention that he could outrun even the most terrified of Italians! A grin had spread across his face before he even knew it as he began to lightly bounce on his heels, getting pumped up for the race before it even began.
Just then, however, a familiar voice called out from the sidelines.
“Fredka!”
Alfred turned his head, eyes wide – and then he let out a groan as a face that he recognized all-too-well emerge from the throng of onlookers. “Ivan? What the hell, man?” The blond asked, ceasing his eager bouncing and turning his body to completely face the taller, bulkier man approaching. “Why are you here?”
“Why, to cheer you on, of course!” Ivan replied, smiling sweetly and fiddling with the ends of his scarf. The weather was chilly, with autumn just around the corner, and all the people that weren't running that day were similarly dressed to the Russian in hopes of keeping warm. That smile melted into a hurt pout, and he went on to say, “You did not tell me you were going to be running in a race today. I only heard about it from Matvey this morning, and only just made it in time!”
Of course. Alfred had to suppress a groan; his brother just had to call the Russian. Or did he even call? Hell, he didn't know, and really, he didn't care all that much. “Why do you care, dude?” He asked, opening his eyes after having shut them out of exasperation, and frowned at the paler man standing before him.
“I am wanting to see if all the training that you must have done paid off!” Ivan replied immediately, that smile of his bouncing back onto his face even though he hadn't gotten an answer regarding why he hadn't been told about this event until now. It wouldn't be the first time that this had happened – so no longer did he allow it to faze him. A twinkle suddenly shone in his eyes, and he reached a hand out for his friend's stomach. “It even looks like you have lost weight!” He exclaimed, pinching at the healthy amount of chub beneath his shirt.
Alfred yelped, slapping at the Russian's hand as his cheeks flushed with embarrassment. “Fuck! Don't do that, dammit!” His only response was a laugh on Ivan's part.
“You are not as squishy anymore, Fredka!”
“What?! I-I've never been squishy, you communist asshole!”
Ivan simply laughed again out of amusement, watching the other's face continue to redden out of both frustration and embarrassment. It was too adorable, in a sense, how easy it was to agitate Alfred. “On the contrary, you used to be very squishy. But it seems that you have trimmed down. Congratulations!”
“Oh, fuck you.” The blond American could only glare at Ivan for a moment longer before the sudden sound of an airhorn rang out. “Shit! The race is about to start!” Abruptly shoving his embarrassment off into the corner of his mind, he placed his hands on Ivan's arms to spin him around and start pushing him in the direction of the crowd of on-lookers. “Come on, big guy, you gotta get out of here. If you're going to cheer me on or whatever, do it with everyone else.”
Not budging except for a few slow steps, the violet-hued young man glanced over his shoulder at Alfred for a few seconds with big eyes – only to then smile all over again and chirp out, “Да! I will do that, Fredka!” With that agreed upon, the American no longer needed to shove at Ivan as he walked all on his own and was quick to vanish once more into the crowd.
Sighing with relief, Alfred turned back to the starting line a few meters away and went to get in his position. He adjusted the piece of paper pinned to his shirt with his runner's number – fifty, the luckiest one in his opinion – and got to his spot, double-checking his shoelaces as well before getting into his about-to-run-for-three-fucking-hours pose.
A gunshot rang out not even a minute or two later, and thus, the marathon began.
Alfred had taken off at a pretty decent pace, more at the halfway point between jogging and running at this rate. He didn't want to wear himself out right away, after all! Although, given how he had undergone so much training for this, the odds of that happening any time soon were unlikely.
He stuck towards the sides of the mass of other marathoners, wanting to be closer to the water stations for whenever they passed by. Every now and then, he would scan over the people cheering in search of the people that he had invited to show up. He knew that Matthew would definitely be there, and maybe even Arthur – and if his British friend was here, then Francis probably would have tagged along. Kiku said he would try to show up, but he told him that he was so swamped at work lately that he shouldn't count on it. Add in an unanticipated Ivan to the mix, and Alfred had a pretty decent group of people here to cheer him on.
Although, it was a rather amusing thought to think of a somewhat intimidating Russian crying out peppy cheers from the sidelines. Snorting at the mental image, the blond almost missed his twin brother in the crowd. But a waving arm caught his eye, and he found himself beaming at the sight of his brother standing as close to the paved running-way as he could. “Hey! Mattie!” He called out, waving to show that he had seen him, and jogged at an angle in order to get closer to the sidelines. He slowed down, but didn't go to a complete stop. Seeing that the other blond was alone, Alfred frowned. “Where's everyone else?”
“Arthur and Francis decided to head over to the finish line,” Matthew called over the din of other people shouting and cheering. “They told me to wait here to let you know!” He was wearing a smile, and adjusted the mittens that his hands were cozily tucked in. “Are you cold at all?”
“Nah! I'm actually sweating!” The American smirked, gesturing at the soaked collar of his T-shirt, and then went on: “Speaking of cold, isn't Ivan with you?”
A concerned and nervous look briefly flashed across Matthew's face. Yet it was quick to pass as he shakily laughed and simply replied, “He went up a little ways more! Believe me, you'll spot him right away!”
At this Alfred frowned once more, but he didn't get the chance to question it, already starting to jog past where his brother stood. “Alright,” he finally said, and then waved at his twin. “I'll see you at the finish line, dude!”
And so, for awhile, Alfred simply ran, stealing occasional glances at the crowd – looking for his Russian friend, although he wouldn't ever admit to that – but for the most part simply focused on keeping a good pace. A good half an hour passed when he suddenly noticed a faint commotion amongst the runners ahead of him. It sounded like they were laughing at something. His brows knitted together as he got closer. Within seconds, though, it became apparent what everyone was chuckling at.
“Ivan!” Alfred shouted, his eyes going wide with both shock and embarrassment as he spotted his scarf-clad friend standing on the sidewalk, holding up a colorful tagboard sign that read:
You all run better than the government!
Talk about a low blow.
The closer he got, the wider the Russian seemed to smile, and once he was within hearing range, he lowered the sign slightly to chirp: “It is about time that you got here, Fredka! I have been holding this sign ever since I saw the first runner, and my arms are getting tired.” That was a lie; he could have held that sign for hours and not have gotten bored at the amused way people had reacted when they saw the message on his giant piece of tagboard.
“The hell?” Alfred had to stop in front of the man, frowning heavily before pushing at the top of the sign so that it wouldn't be as visible anymore. A couple of women that jogged behind him giggled, and he could feel his ears turn a bit red. “Are you trying to embarrass me or something?!”
“Embarrass?” Ivan merely smiled, having recovered from the surprise of having the American actually come over to him. “Нет. Had I wanted to do that, I would have held up a picture of you drooling over your paperwork while sound asleep at one of the past meetings!”
His face turned firetruck red in an instant. “You swore that you deleted all the copies of that, you lying bastard!” Alfred choked out, before quickly shaking his head and pressing on with the matter currently at hand. “Put away the goddamn sign. Someone could get distracted by it or trip, or whatever.”
Ivan blinked in surprise at that idea and then after a moment, he looked a bit sadly down at his bright orange tagboard before bringing his eyes back up to the blond in front of him. “So no sign, Fredka?”
“No sign.”
There was an obvious pout on the larger man's face, but nevertheless, he agreed, and turned the tagboard over so that the written side was now facing his legs. “I will not use another sign, Fredka.”
“Good.” Alfred sighed in relief, and then slapped a hand lightly at the Russian's upper arm. “I'm gonna get going now, big guy. Go join Matthew or something at the finish line.” Not giving the other a chance to respond, he turn back to the marathon and started off at a quick run. He had a lot of ground to make up now!
It didn't take long at all for Alfred to catch up to where he had been – near the front with all the other faster runners – and was able to resume his steady pace once more. All of that training really paid off! Although, he wasn't nearly as exhausted as the other runners, this was still quite an exhilarating workout for him! Around two hours passed of him making his way along with the other marathon runners. The whir of bicycle tires sounded out from behind him, approaching fast, and he moved a bit further away from the edge of the street to make room for the cyclist that he was assuming wanted to pass. But the last thing he expected was to hear a happy chirp of...
“Fredka! I have caught up to you!”
Immediately Alfred whipped his head around and felt them almost pop out of his head for a second. Ivan was riding on a bike right along side of him, a bright smile on his face and not even a bead of sweat on his forehead, despite the fact that it must have taken a lot of speed and exertion to get to this point from where they had last seen each other. “What the flying fuck, Ivan?!” He exclaimed, looking just as shocked as he felt, and he had to resist the urge to come to a complete stop. “What are you doing?!”
“Cheering you on!” Ivan exclaimed, and then, keeping the bicycle steady with one hand, he used the other to start searching through his pockets. The bike didn't even wobble as he mumbled, “Now where did I put that...”
Meanwhile, the American was more than weirded out by this. “Jesus fucking Christ, Ivan, use both hands!” He shouted, worried that the Russian would go out of control and crash into some poor, innocent pedestrians. There was a pause, and then he added, “Where the fuck did you even get this bike?!"
His words were ignored. Ivan produced a small book from the third pocket that he checked, and he beamed in triumph. “Aha! I have found it!” As he glided along on the bike – having no need to pedal, surprisingly, as the wheels were turning at a rather fast speed that was enough to even keep up with the quick-paced marathoners – he used one hand to open up the book that he had pulled out. “Now let me see... What is a good one...?”
“Ivan, for fuck's sake, you're going to kill someone!”
“Ah! Fredka,” Ivan acknowledged the American for the first time in a few minutes and smiled knowingly. “What kind of running shoes are made from banana peels?” He gave a moment for that to sink in, and then chirped: “Slippers!”
Alfred deadpanned. There was no way that this crazy Russian had stolen a bike and caught up to him while he was running a marathon just so he could read him jokes for motivation. “You're insane.”
“Oh, I found another one! What do runners do when they forget something?”
“Ivan, are you fucking with me right now?”
“They jog their memory!”
“You are so fucking with me right now.”
Ivan merely chuckled, not caring that the American wasn't appreciating his lovely joke book, and then turned his attention back to it – somehow managing to scan for good jokes and not crash into anything at the same time. “Oh! Here is an even better one, Fredka!”
“Oh my fucking god, I don't even want to hear it."
“Did you hear about the race between the lettuce and the tomato?” The Russian inquired anyway, looking up from the book and grinning over at the man running beside him. “The lettuce was ahead and the tomato wanted to ketchup.”
“I'm so done with this shit,” Alfred replied, and started to run a little bit faster. Of all the weird things that Ivan decided to do, it had to involve humiliating him in public! All the other marathoners were either shooting weird looks in his direction or laughing at his plight. He focused ahead of him, even though right next to him Ivan was speeding up as well.
“Eh~? Fredka, are you saying you do not like my jokes?” Ivan called out after him, sounding more amused by the fact that Alfred was trying to get away than anything else. “I am thinking that they are hilarious!”
In response, the blond started to sprint. Not run, but sprint, in an attempt at escaping Ivan and his utter weirdness. Unfortunately, it was a known fact that outrunning someone on foot while they were on a bike is close to impossible. Especially when the one being run from is scarily fast and determined.
“Ivan, what the hell?! Are you chasing me now?!” Alfred's shout was panicked as he stole a glance over his shoulder only to spy the Russian approaching fast directly behind him. It was a terrifying sight, considering that the other was wearing an eerily cheerful smile and was pumping his legs in a way that didn't even seem humanly possible.
“Of course not!” Ivan replied, although that was obviously a lie. Whenever his friend sped up, so did he, and it wasn't long before they were passing all the other marathon runners in some sort of insane Tom and Jerry chase routine.
“Dude! Stop! Holy shit, you're trying to kill me!” If it weren't for how flushed his cheeks were from the exertion of running, the poor American would probably be as white as a sheet. Ivan was seriously going to run him over! Not cool! He was sprinting as fast as his legs could carry him, but it obviously wouldn't be enough to escape that maniac and his bicycle.
Such a reaction got Ivan to laugh once more, gleefully, as if the accusation that he was trying to kill him was completely comical and not totally plausible in the American's mind. “Ufu! Silly Fredka!” It wasn't long before he was close enough to the point where if he had wanted to grab Alfred by the back of his shirt, he could have – but he wouldn't, and didn't. “You should keep your attention on where you are going!”
“Fuck that! No way am I going to take my eyes off of you! Slow down!”
“Fredka...~!”
“Stop chasing me!”
“Fredka!”
“You're going to run me down!”
“Fredka – in front of you!”
On a reflex, the American finally looked forward – and his eyes widened. There was a roar of peoples cheers around him, and before Alfred even knew it, he was dashing right across the finish line of the marathon. He stumbled into a slower pace while the sound of bike tires wiring slowed as well. It wasn't long before Alfred had jogged to a stop, still in shock, and glanced behind him to see that the rest of the marathoners were close behind. Somehow, he had managed to be the first to cross – he had just been too engrossed by the fact that Ivan had been attempting to run him over to notice.
Footsteps quickly approached from the side, and a familiar British voice rang out in Alfred's ear. “Good heavens, Alfred! What was that all about?” He sounded probably as shocked as everyone else that had witness that strange event. “Why was Ivan chasing you? You didn't do anything to provoke him, did you?”
Turning his head and gasping softly, his body finally seeming to realize that it had exerted way too much energy just then, Alfred shook his head. “No... No, he... Fuck, I don't even know what he was doing!”
“I was cheering you on, Fredka!” Ivan's voice came from behind the two, and they both turned to stare at him as he approached. He was smiling, his cheeks rosy and his scarf loosened slightly around his neck to keep him from overheating. There was a faint sheen of cooling sweat on his forehead, and he was dabbing at it with a handkerchief as he chuckled.
Alfred felt his eyes widen all over again out of disbelief. “What the hell?!” He asked incredulously, and when Matthew came up to them with a towel in hand for him to use to wipe his face with, he gratefully took it. As he rubbed away the sweat gathering on his forehead, neck and all other parts he could feel, he went on to say: “I thought you were going to run me over!”
“What better way to motivate someone than with sheer terror?”
Pulling away the towel, Alfred was met with Ivan smiling at him even wider, and he felt himself flush with agitation. “Don't ever fucking do that again!”
That smile softened for a split second, staring at the American in front of him, and then Ivan chuckled. “I cannot make such a promise, Fredka,” he replied, and when the other looked about ready to slug him – not ready to ever experience that sort of thing ever again – he then said, “But I can promise you that I will make sure to cheer you on the next time you enter a race like this.”
There was a pause as the American digested this. He had gotten first place, and no harm had really been done – except for maybe the few gray hairs he had gotten from the scare. Furrowing his brows at his Russian friend, Alfred eventually grumbled something under his breath and turned away, resuming wiping his face with the towel. “Whatever, dude,” he said, and then, he hesitated a second right before adding:
“Next time, though, I'll invite you.”