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Wilbur spots him first before Mr. President did.
How can he not?
The guy is about to get hit by the frisbee Wilbur threw if he doesn’t duck away from the disc’s projectile or if his dog doesn’t catch it first. Both outcomes seemed to have equal chances of happening, so when he hollered “Look out!” in warning, he knew it’d be pointless and he just has to hope for the best as Mr. President outruns him.
In the span it took for Wilbur’s words to register for the guy, two things happened right before his eyes.
His predictions were at least somewhat correct; Mr. President managed to catch the frisbee with his mouth in the nick of time, but the effort it took to do so had forced his body’s momentum to crash against the poor guy sitting on the grass instead.
“Shit.” Wilbur can only mumble as he sprinted as fast as he could to the unfortunate scene he caused. “Mr. President!”
It was like watching a Monopoly game when you throw the dice and it knocks over the player pieces. He ran faster, as quick as his legs would allow until he’s panting and reaching out a hand to the guy.
“I’m so sorry! Are you okay?” Wilbur stupidly asks.
He examines him for injuries even when he doesn’t expect any blood or serious collateral damage. Just in case, y’know? He can’t afford paying for hospital bills right now.
When Wilbur helped the guy up with one swift pull, he watched as he dusted off his cream-colored jumper, similar to his own. Then, his dark washed jeans and his thick coat. A pained groan escapes him, at having to stand before looking up.
Dark pools reminiscent of black coffee regarded Wilbur with a glare that he thought he totally deserved.
“Am I okay? Do I seem okay to you?” The stranger scoffed, clearly annoyed as he finds the question just as stupid.
Wilbur outwardly winces. It’s just awkward right away and he has no idea how to diffuse the situation while they’re just standing there, recovering from the blow. It makes the skin of his neck quite itchy with discomfort as he relied on half-heartedly patting Mr. President’s head to occupy his empty hands.
“I’m so sorry. It’s my fault. I wasn’t expecting to throw the disc that hard.” His shoulders sagged, he genuinely felt bad because he didn’t mean to disrupt anyone’s afternoon. He just thought it was a nice day to have a walk outside.
He must have appeared like a wounded animal being reprimanded, anyone spectating would have thought it’s a comical sight for a 6’5 tall guy being timid and awkward in front of another guy who is significantly inches shorter and smaller than him.
The stranger takes mercy on him with a sigh that releases the tension between them. The intense look he had graciously wears off into something much kinder, softer and warm.
“It’s fine. Sorry for being rude, I was just not expecting something to land on me.”
Wilbur is admittedly still nervous when he lets out a soft chuckle. “Hopefully, Mr. President’s diet has been kind to you,”
“Mr. President?” The questioning, soft spoken call of his name easily grabbed his dog’s attention.
Surely enough, when Wilbur glanced down at him, he was tentatively sniffing the stranger’s fingers, tail wagging behind him with enthusiastic curiosity. Mr. President has always been quite sociable, his owner finds. So when he deems the stranger friendly enough, he softly stroked his fingertips with playful licks of his tongue.
“Looks like Mr. President is trying to say he’s sorry.” Wilbur remarked with an amusing smile. Sometimes, the mutt just seemed to scarily act way too human for his own good.
It doesn’t scare the stranger, thankfully.
Instead, he takes it as an invitation to crouch in front of him and accept the unconditional love and affection Mr. President could provide. It starts off with shy licks, easily turning open-mouthed as he giggled at being ticklish.
When Wilbur described Mr. President as sociable, he doesn’t mean it lightly. His dog is able to charm an entire room by himself, he is not new to the gushing attention. But what’s new is how strangely moved Wilbur felt. It startles him for a moment, just watching his best friend and this particular stranger interact.
“Aw, hello! Hello! You’re just a lovable fellow, aren’t you? You’re just a—you didn’t mean it. You didn’t mean to land on me. You’re a good boy!” His voice pitches higher, cooing and gushing and petting the dog’s good spot below the chin, and Mr. President loves all the attention.
Wilbur couldn’t find it ridiculous.
It’s something that happens way too often whenever they’re outside like this, but Wilbur’s brain somehow short circuits even further, the wires connecting cranial function disconnects and he’s left for dead to deal with what’s in front of him.
A certain warmth floods his cheeks. A fluster he has been quite familiar with since the age of five when he would get puppy crushes at kindergarten.
The stranger is just really, really, really cute.
They had no business tugging at Wilbur’s heartstrings like that as they kept going.
“Who’s a good boy? Who’s a good boy? You’re a good boy! The best boy! The most beautiful in the world!” The brunet gushed like he’s never getting over how much Mr. President is preening at the praise. “Isn’t that right? Aw, you’re so cute,”
“Thank you.”
And just like that, Wilbur makes himself known with more of his dumbassery.
Fuck.
Their eyes met and the mere contact is more severe at embarrassing Wilbur to oblivion.
He didn’t mean to say that! He wasn’t thinking at all when the words left his mouth! He had every plausible right to blame it on a brain fart. He wasn’t a willing participant in this!
Never has he been so petrified at watching someone slowly rise up to their feet while he kept himself from imploding.
“I was referring to your dog.”
No. Wilbur refuses to meet his gaze. He swallowed. “I knew that…”
“Then why did you say thank you?”
“… That was on behalf of Mr. President.”
He giggled. The stranger grabs his attention with a hearty giggle, the tinkering sound buzzing amicably in his ears. It lightly tugged on his lips upwards. That was a nice save.
“So you’re his translator. Dog whisperer.” He uncovers, like it’s a secret as gracious as the national treasure or the location of Atlantis.
“Pretty much.”
“Why did you name him Mr. President?” He looks down at his bulldog just panting by his side.
“Well, he’s the leader between the two of us.” It's silly but it’s more honest than he thinks. Wilbur turns to him with a question of his own. “What’s your name?”
“It’s George.” Fitting name. Cute name. “And yours?”
“Wilbur.”
Now that they exchanged for each other’s names, Wilbur wanted more; an explanation of what George is doing at a park, why he asked for his name, if he had a pet of his own… Is he a cat or a dog person? Something tells Wilbur that George is both, and he wanted a confirmation. Although the short brunet somehow reminds him of a cat, an orange tabby more than anything.
“What’s he saying now?” George asks before he could even begin. But he’s referring to Mr. President again and Wilbur thinks he could talk about his dog’s tragic life story some other time… Over dinner…
Still, George makes him want to indulge in his silly antics as he hums in thought.
“He’s asking if you forgive us,” Followed by another, a shot in the dark he’s willing to take. George did ask for his name “… Also if you’d like to come over for dinner sometime.”
“Is that right?” George is no less interested as he chuckled; amused, flirty and perfect.
He gains more confidence as he stands up straighter, a warmth in his chest.
“Yeah! As soon as possible, he might add.” Who knew his dog was just being a wingman all along? Mr. President definitely looked like he knows something more than he lets on.
“Is Mr. President in a hurry?”
“He has a pretty tight schedule. But he can squeeze you in by Saturday, 7PM sharp?” Wilbur asked, sounding hopeful. He has more than enough time to learn about Shubble’s pasta recipe by then if he asked her now…
George seems to entertain the time and day, crouching once more to cup Mr. President’s face with both hands. “I wouldn’t want to make Mr. President wait…” ‘I wouldn’t want to say no…’
Wilbur bites back an ear splitting grin. “… So?”
And George is a little bit coy when he says, “So you come pick me up here. On Saturday, 7PM sharp.”
“It’s a date!”
George surprisingly doesn’t protest. “It’s a date.”
After a bit of fumbling for each other’s phone numbers, Wilbur hesitantly bid farewell to let the other brunet do his thing before his harsh interruption. George easily gets back to lying on the grass while he went his separate way with a wide smile on his face.
He thinks Mr. President deserves a big treat after essentially scoring him an unexpected date.