The next thing Elliot knew, they were being let into the corral, and ninety men from all over the world were jockeying for position. Jackson and Darius hugged—one of those awkward one-armed back-slapping ones. Then Darius was heading to the front, taking his position among those with the fastest qualifying times, while Jackson and Elliot drifted into their preferred zones, Jackson right in the middle of the pack, and Elliot a bit ahead of him and off to the side.
The gun went off, and they ran.
The start was slightly chaotic, with everyone trying to find their lane, but Elliot loved this part. You could feel the energy crackling in the air, and it drove him forward.
When they hit mile ten, he did a quick mental scan of his body and, feeling good, he let his turnover pick up. It put him closer to the front of the main group. About eight lead runners had broken away early, Darius among them, but Elliot was here to run his own race. He’d come up with a plan, it was a good one, and he was going to follow it.
A marathon was never only a physical challenge. It was mental, emotional. Elliot used to thrive on his ability to lock down his emotions and focus, but the chaos of the day was beyond even his ability to compartmentalise.
As his muscles burned, he felt everything bubble up inside of him, not just the unearned guilt over taking Chris’s spot. Chris had done this to himself. Even through the haze of self-reproach Elliot had wrapped himself in, he could see that. But he knew this sport could bring out the worst in people. Look what it had done to his own family.
As Elliot pushed himself forward, he thought of Jackson’s family and their unconditional acceptance. How they were here today, excited to see their son compete, and he hoped cheering him on as well. He narrowed his eyes on the road, unwilling to let tears fall as he found himself wishing his own parents could cheer him on like that—no expectations, just pride that he was doing his best at something he loved.
Jackson had been so supportive when Elliot had turned up in his kit, ready to race. Like he was excited that his boyfriend would get this chance, even though it put them back in competition with each other. Elliot couldn’t help but wonder if he’d have felt the same were the roles reversed. He liked to think so; he bloody loved Jackson Jennings.
The main group splintered, and Elliot caught sight of Jackson overtaking him on his left as they approached twenty miles. Nothing but pride swelled in his chest at the sight of his gorgeous boyfriend owning the road. The expected envy didn’t come, just certainty that Jackson deserved this. Deserved everything. Elliot didn’t have time to muse on what that meant. Everyone knew this was where the real race began. This was his moment. He sucked down a caffeinated gel and went for it.
A runner ahead of him stumbled, then collapsed, his race ending as officials bundled him off the course. Elliot winced. That was not how you wanted this race to end, especially this far into it.
With five miles to go, Elliot was pulling up closer to the leaders, but he could feel himself fading fast. He hadn’t had anywhere close to a proper training block, and pushing too much now could risk re-injury. It was disappointing, but he knew he had to ease off on his pace. He could still see Jackson, very nearly pushing into medal position.
It was a fast course. Not as fast as Valencia or London, but fast. And he knew Jackson’s strategy like the back of his hand. It was a solid plan that they’d worked on together, calling for a sustained push in the final three miles, then an epic finishing kick if he still had it in him once the finish line came into sight.
Elliot lost sight of Jackson as he rounded the final bend. He focused on himself, on getting over the line without further injury, and in that final five hundred metres, he let himself fall into his favourite moment to give it a strong finish. He barely clocked the other runners as he went into a full sprint, crossing the line, then stumbling to slow himself.
His father was there immediately, wrapping him in a foil blanket and handing him a sports drink. He let him fuss. He probably would have allowed anyone to manhandle him over to the recovery tent with the state he was in. He tried to askafter Jackson, but he was too exhausted; nothing came out as he choked down the lurid concoction.
Before he could crash into the recovery tent, a blur of ginger hair and freckles was on him, lifting him into the air with strength he should not have possessed after running 26.2 miles. It was his boyfriend, the fucking love of his life. Jackson Jennings.
“You did so well. Top eight, Princess,” Jackson whispered in his ear as he lowered him to the ground.
In that moment, nothing else mattered.
It didn’t matter that he hadn’t run his best race, that maybe he could have pushed harder. It didn’t matter that he was only here on a technicality. It sure as shit didn’t matter what his parents, or the press, or anyone else thought.
Elliot yanked Jackson towards him and kissed him.
Cameras flashed around them as they pulled apart. Jackson drew back and looked at him, searching for something. Elliot grinned, clasped their hands, and kissed him again.
“Good race?” Elliot asked.
“Not as good as this,” Jackson replied, pecking Elliot on the cheek.
Elliot took a moment to glance at the leaderboard. Dimly, he registered that Hewitt had taken silver and Mekonnen, an Ethiopian star of the marathon, had clinched gold. But the name he was focused on was Jackson Jennings. There in black and white he saw Jackson’s name, in fourth place, right behind the bronze medallist, Julien Dubois of France.
“Holy shit, Jennings. That’s epic,” he said.
Jackson buried his head in Elliot’s shoulder. “It’s not a medal.”
“Jackson, it doesn’t matter. You know that, right? Look at your time! You killed it.”
“Julien used the exact strategy you said he would. I should have anticipated it; kept more in the tank for a final surge.”
Elliot laced his fingers through Jackson’s and kissed him again. “Jennings. Stop.”
He understood where Jackson was coming from. It was the Olympics, and he’d come so close. He’d felt it himself. Hell, he’d felt it because of Jackson. How many races had he nudged Elliot off the podium for? But this was the Olympic Games, and he’d finished fourth, seconds behind the bronze medallist. It would probably be impossible for him not to overanalyse it all. Every corner taken too wide. Every second wasted getting out of the crowd at the start.
“What if I’d just—”
