Alfred- Junior

Arthur- Senior

It was simultaneously the best and worst thing to happen to the World U track team since the great heat wave of April 2011, when the other girls convinced Katyusha to take off her shirt to combat the heat.

They lost a lot of good men that day, but by God, it was worth it.

Although, Alfred would argue that as great as that whole incident was, this discovery was even better.

It, like most things, began with an argument between Francis and Arthur during one windy afternoon practice.

"Oh please, get your arse up and run a few laps with the rest of us. Maybe you'll actually make it over the bar every once in a while if you lost some weight."

"Excusez moi?" Francis gasped. "But my event is one of fast-twitch muscles and grace! Not mindlessly running like a hamster on a wheel."

"A hamster?" Arthur exclaimed. "This is our cool-down, you git! It's about being a team! Though I understand how you wouldn't need a cool-down seeing as you have nothing to cool down from," he snapped, crossing his arms and sticking his nose into the air.

Francis was on his feet at that, tightening his ponytail and glaring straight into Arthur's eyes. "Pole vaulting is the act of defying the very laws of gravity, rosbif," he spat. "It is an event that if not done the correct, precise way, could send you falling to your death. It is much more taxing than simply jogging around in a circle."

"Jogging around in a circle?" Arthur seethed, his eyes flashing a dangerous green. "What part of working your body to the very brink of exhaustion in the most basic form of human competition is simply jogging around in a circle to you?"

"I could do it with my eyes closed, mon ami."

"Ha! I'd like to see you try!"

And so, at the next meet, Francis ran the 1500.

And he was good.

And Arthur was pissed.

Coach Rome, however, was absolutely ecstatic at the prospect of Arthur finally having a worthy adversary to push him at meets, and talked Francis into participating in the pole vault and 1500 from now on. As a result, the school won more points than it ever had before, and Arthur was breaking his old school records at almost every meet.

Everything was working out perfectly... save for one, tiny detail.

"Last call, 1500 meter run. Last call."

Alfred looked up and chuckled a Gilbert whooped and plopped down next to him, a dripping peanut better and jelly sandwich in his hands. He was confined to his (apparently totally manly and awesome) baby chick umbrella due to his pale complexion, but had a grin roughly the size of Texas on his face as he beckoned the other members of the team to sit down and enjoy the show.

"It's gonna be awesome!" he exclaimed, scooting closer to Alfred as Matthew joined them on the bleacher. "Frannie's been practically poking at Art with a stick all week to get him worked up for today!"

"Like he would have to try very hard," Matthew mumbled, popping one of his damn donuts in his mouth. Alfred still resented that he could eat those things all day without having to worry about other events. "After last week, I would be surprised if they get past the start line without incident."

Elizabeta elegantly threw herself down next to Alfred, stretching her arms over her head and tsking. "I still can't believe Rome is keeping this up," she said, shaking her head. "Innocent people are getting hurt."

Gilbert rolled his eyes. "Don't be such a buzz kill. The only ones getting hurt are Art and Fran and, let's just put it out there, they kinda deserve it."

They quieted down and clapped respectively as the last runner in the 5k panted his way down the last straightaway about four minutes after the runner before him had gone by. At the start line, the 1500 runners were going through the last motions of stretching and sprinting to stay loose, and the other members of the World U team were filing to the bleachers. No one wanted to miss a second of the excitement.

Now, as any frequent track and field observer could tell you, the 1500 meter run wasn't exactly the most exciting race in the entire meet. For most, watching a bunch of guys in short shorts run around the track for four laps, three of which they are usually clumped together in a skinny and sweaty mob, isn't exactly the best way to spend five minutes.

However, once Francis and Arthur started running against each other, the World U track team saw things differently.

The 1500 had turned from mild-mannered distance race to a fight to the death every Saturday.

"So who's it gonna be this week, boys?" Gilbert asked, earning a rather impressive glare from Elizabeta. "Eyebrows or French fry?"

Matthew chuckled, shaking his head with a small smile. "To win or to get disqualified?"

"Pfft, disqualified of course! Who cares who wins?"

"They do," Alfred chuckled, motioning to the start line with his head.

Arthur kneeled off to the right of Vash, Lili's older brother and the go-to starting gun guy for World U, on the grass, folding his warm ups into a perfectly neat little pile. Around him, the other athletes, Francis included, were running around him to tighten their spikes, set their watches, and get in last minute sprints before it was time to take to the waterfall start line. Among the chaos, the Brit looked extremely out of place.

Vash blew his whistle, signaling it was time to start the race, and the runner's rushed to their places. Arthur stood up and quickly brushed off his silky little shorts (emitting an appreciative whistle from Gilbert, who nudged the vibrantly blushing and stammering Alfred teasingly), and took his place between a red-headed boy from Clarke's Academy of the Arts, and Francis himself.

"My vote is on Arthur," Matt finally answered with a nod. "To win, I mean. Francis got him last time and I think he's been psyching himself up all week for this."

Alfred nodded. "Oh yeah, Artie's got it in the bag. He's been a freaking firecracker lately."

"Well of course Golden Boy's gonna go for his boyfriend." Gilbert laughed. Alfred flushed.

"Dude! He's not my boyfriend!"

"But you want him to be!" Elizabeta sang, ruffling his hair. Alfred blushed even deeper and swatted her hand away.

"Okay!" he exclaimed, "Enough with my non-existent love life, already! Sheesh. They're about to start." Elizabeta, Matthew, and Gilbert shared knowing looks behind the pouting boy's back, but turned to watch the track as the gun was lifted into the air.

"Runner's to your marks!" Vash exclaimed in that no nonsense voice of his. Instantly, the runners fell into line.

With the exception of the two World Academy students in lane five.

It started with a light shove from Arthur to get Francis out of his way. It was then followed by a light whack to the head from Francis because Arthur had shoved him. By the time the group of their teammates on the bleachers were alerted to any disturbances, it had escalated into a sudden audible exclamation of "bloody tossing sonofabitch" before Vash had to step in. Any normal runner would have been disqualified, but at World Academy, things like this had become the norm.

Once everything had been settled down, the gun was back up in the air.

"Well I don't know about you guys, but I think Francis is gonna win," Gilbert chimed in as the runners got to their mark once again. "Looks like little Crumpet down there is feeling especially bitchy today, he'll be DQed before the 800." He turned to Alfred with a smirk. "What'd you do to rile your roommate up so much, Al?"

Alfred blushed. "Go to Hell, Gil."

BANG!

The runners were off, Francis leading the pack as usual around the first curve, Arthur allowing him to set the pace and keeping a stride behind.

Gilbert tsked. "Fucking Francis always does this. Don't take the lead, ya asshole! You're just going to tire yourself- aw fuck. He can't hear me."

"And he wouldn't listen if he did," Matthew argued with a shrug. "He has natural talent so he doesn't feel like he needs to be strategic."

Elizabeta nodded as the pack rounded the second curve and made their way down the straightaway. "Come on Francis! Let's go Arthur!" she exclaimed as they ran by.

"You got this, Artie!" Alfred called as well. "Let him block the wind! Coast behind him!"

"Yo Francis! I got money on this race so you better not fuck it up!" Matt rolled his eyes and smacked Gilbert in the arm. "Hey!"

One lap down, and nothing much had changed. A few guys started to drop back towards the back of the pack, but the leaders remained on pace and strong. Unbeknownst to the competitors however, a heavy silence was starting to fall anxiously over the crowd.

"Someone better punch someone soon or I'm leaving," Gilbert grumbled.

"Really Gil? Really? No one is punching each other so you want to leave?" Elizabeta shook her head. "Why can't you just, I don't know, cheer on your friends? There's a thought!"

Gilbert pursed his lips, glaring at her around Alfred. "Um, maybe because this is the boringest fucking race in th- oh shit, here we go!"

All heads immediately turned back to the track, where the runners were coming around for the final straightaway in their second lap. Arthur was trying to make a move.

"Go Artie! Yeah!" Alfred exclaimed, hopping up to the railing along with everyone else. "Halfway there, man! You got this!"

"Elbow him in the face, Frannie!" Gilbert exclaimed, much to the annoyance of Matthew and Elizabeta.

"He'll never learn," Matthew sighed. Elizabeta nodded.

Down on the track, Arthur had successfully made it around Francis with exactly two laps to go, taking the lead. This was a bold and unusual act for the young man, who usually didn't make his move until they had one lap to go, and Francis was obviously feeling a bit put off by the change in routine.

Narrowing his eyes, Francis picked up his speed.

The group on the bleachers continued to cheer as they ran their third lap, seeming to switch off who was leading every 100 meters. Francis wasn't afraid to pass on the curve, and Arthur took full advantage of the straightaways to get around him. By the time they hit the bell lap, both boys were running neck and neck.

"Oh shit!" Gilbert exclaimed excitedly. "Oh fuck, this is gonna be so good!"

"Guys!" Alfred cried, looking up from his watch. "If they can finish without hurting each other, they'll both hit national qualifying time!""

Elizabeta gasped. "Really? Oh my- Go Arthur! Go Francis!"

"Don't kill each other!" Matthew finished.

Which was precisely when they turned the corner and landed on the ground in a screaming, punching heap.

Alfred was the first off his seat, leaping over the railing of the bleachers and sprinting out to the track, chanting a panicked mantra of "oh shit, oh shit, oh shit" as he ran. Gilbert, Matthew and Elizabeta followed close behind, Gilbert laughing his ass off and Elizabeta and Matthew scolding him for thinking it was so funny.

Alfred was beaten to the brawl only by Rome and Germania, who were desperately trying to move them out of the way of the confused yet pleasantly surprised athletes still running in the race. Alfred was finally able to yank Arthur into the infield as the smaller man thrashed around, yelling obscenities the whole way.

"Release me at once, you git!" Arthur exclaimed breathlessly, obviously still tired from the race. "He's a bloody lunatic! He tripped me and tried to smash my head into the ground!"

"That is a lie!" Francis yelled, now being dragged into the infield by Matthew and Elizabeta. "He is the one who elbowed me in the face! My beau face!"

The race official walked over and informed the group that both Francis and Arthur were disqualified, despite knowing as much already. They collectively sighed, Alfred still holding back a flailing Arthur, and Gilbert cackling about how much money he just made in bets, much to the annoyance of his father. Rome shrugged with a laid-back laugh.

"Ah, you win some, you lose some, sì?" he sang. Elizabeta, Matthew, and Germania rolled their eyes.

O

Alfred peaked his head into the athletic training room where Arthur and Francis were being held, noting that they had been moved to opposite sides of the room, and Francis was sporting a fresh looking black eye that had not been there when he checked on them before.

Arthur, however, looked extremely self-satisfied for someone suffering a minor concussion.

"Hey guys, we're about to head out," Alfred said with a grin. "Don't worry Artie, I grabbed your shit. And I think Antonio's got yours, Francis."

Francis sighed in relief, adjusting the ice packs on his ribs and eye and dragged himself out of the room, muttering something violent-sounding in French. Alfred shook his head with a chuckle as he passed.

"Ready, kiddo?"

"Don't call me that, you prat." Alfred laughed, throwing an arm around Arthur's shoulders and guiding him out to the parking lot. Despite himself, Arthur smiled. "So how did the 4x400 go?"

"Got second," Alfred boasted. "Someone's gotta score points when you and Francis beat the crap out of each other every other week."

Arthur whacked him lightly in the arm. "Piss off, I'll get him next week."

They boarded the bus together in comfortable silence, satisfied to put another (almost) successful meet behind them.

Inspired by an Irish teammate of mine who managed to get himself a concussion running the 1500 then he got in a shoving match with another runner. XD Not too much romance in this one, but we hadn't done anything track-like in a while, and this being a track AU, I thought I should probably write up one. XD

Can I just say I love the frenemies relationship Arthur and Francis have? I do. XD Just a reminder that if you have any questions about track lingo or anything, PM me or ask me on my tumblr! :D I love to talk to you guys!

Last thing, back on the subject of track, my first official practice as a coach is on Monday! :DDD I have no idea what they'll be doing, but I'm sure it's gonna be great! XD Thanks for reading guys! I love all of you!