Previously published on Tumblr, this is the 3 part saga of runner!Klaine, most notable in that it was written before the Boston Marathon this year (unlike the epilogue, which is about to follow).

Love you, love you.

Taking another sip of water and twisting the cap back onto the bottle, Kurt suppressed a yawn. Despite the nervous energy and excitement (and no small amount of dread) that was coursing through his system, 6:30 a.m. was still 6:30 a.m., and the small cup of coffee he'd sluggishly gulped down when his alarm had gone off two hours before wasn't doing much to wake him up.

Shivering as a chilly draft of air blew in through the open gymnasium doors, Kurt leaned over to pick up his duffel bag and moved further into the building, where the room was warmer. The temperature outside had been an unholy twenty-seven degrees when he'd left the house, according to the generally accurate gauge in the dashboard of his Navigator, and Kurt was stubbornly clinging to the hope that sunrise would burn off the frosty edge of the wind.

Sunrise. Because running 26.2 miles—a distance clearly better suited to driving or avoiding entirely—in a single day wasn't crazy enough; it had to begin at the crack of dawn.

Typical.

Dropping his bag onto an empty patch of floor, Kurt smoothed the race number pinned to his shirt absently, looking around the large gymnasium at all the other potentially (probably) insane people awaiting the 7:30 start time. The room was packed with runners: tall runners, short runners, some with necks thicker than Kurt's entire body, others so impossibly waifish it was a miracle they were standing.

Nearly all of them were clad in dangerously eye-smarting combinations of spandex, which was making Kurt's soul hurt just enough to keep him awake, at least.

Some were waiting by themselves, like Kurt, but most seemed to be in pairs or small groups, talking and stretching and laughing and waiting in the ridiculously long line for the bathrooms and—

Kurt paused, then took a second look at the curly-haired boy standing several feet in front of him.

The curly-haired boy, who had lifted his hideously orange shirt up to expose his toned stomach, and was happily slathering deodorant along the tanned skin above his running tights.

Huh.

Not sure if he was more mildly weirded out or curious, Kurt stared in fascination as the boy twisted in place, smearing his lower back with the deodorant stick as well. Apparently finished, he dropped the hem of his shirt and stuck the cap back on—and looked up, where he caught Kurt's gaze.

And smiled.

Embarrassed at being caught, Kurt smiled back reflexively and quickly looked away, taking another drink of water to make it look as if he hadn't been watching on purpose.

But not before noticing how ridiculously gorgeous the other boy was—way more attractive than was fair or necessary before 7a.m.—and how his eyes crinkled when he smiled.

It was really a shame that he had a weird deodorant fetish or something.

Fortunately—or maybe unfortunately—Kurt felt a tap on his shoulder, and a voice interrupted his train of thought before he could follow it to any twisted conclusions:

"Would you like some lubricant?"

Kurt spat out his water.

Coughing, he turned to see the boy in the orange shirt standing next to him, holding his deodorant stick and looking at Kurt's red face with concern. "…Excuse me?" he managed to choke out, taking another sip from his water bottle to clear the burning in his throat.

The boy's furrowed expression disappeared at the question—he apparently having decided that Kurt was fine—and was replaced with a sweetly open smile. "I saw you watching me before, and I thought maybe you needed some BodyGlide, to help keep your clothes from rubbing your skin during the race," he elaborated, wiggling the tube in his hand. "This one's brand new," he assured Kurt, "I bought it at the expo yesterday in case I ran out, but I haven't used it yet. In case you were worried about my germs or something."

His eyes were sparkling beautifully, and Kurt swallowed. "I wasn't," he replied, the tremor in his voice only slightly noticeable.

And if the boy did notice, he was nice enough not to mention it. "Can I get the back of your neck for you?" he offered instead, tilting his head almost shyly. "If there's a tag in your shirt, it might start to bother you after a while."

Kurt glanced around the room. Nobody seemed to be paying any attention to them, so it was unlikely that he was the unfortunate subject of a prank or an episode of Punk'd. The offer, if strange, at least seemed to be in earnest, and the boy probably wouldn't have rubbed the salve all over himself without a good reason—and honestly, after living in New York for over a year, it was hardly the most bizarre thing that someone had offered to do for him.

Plus, the more Kurt looked at him, the more obvious it became that underneath all the earnest charm and semi-inappropriate questions and off-putting clothing choices? The boy was really cute.

Also, toned, tanned abs.

Kurt smiled back. "Yeah, okay," he agreed. "A bit weird, but I guess you'd hardly ask me to 'put the lotion in the basket' in front of this many potential witnesses."

As soon as the words flew out of his mouth, Kurt regretted them, and he cringed inwardly at his complete social awkwardness in the face of attractive guys around his age. Surprisingly, though, the boy's eyes crinkled again as he let out a delighted laugh.

"I would never," he promised, uncapping the tube and stepping closer to Kurt. "Can you imagine trying to drag a hose through this crowd? Impossible."

His fingers trailed lightly down the back of Kurt's neck as he gently pulled the collar of his t-shirt down, and their unexpected warmth as they lingered on his skin made Kurt's stomach twist pleasantly.

He swallowed again as Blaine rubbed the balm into his neck. "Saved by the power of logistics," he quipped breathlessly, making the boy laugh again. "Unless you're lying about what's in that container, and your real diabolical plan is to make innocent young men look stupid by rubbing deodorant all over them."

The boy smoothed Kurt's shirt back into place with both hands. "You caught me," he admitted, grinning at Kurt. "I got stuck wearing an orange shirt with pink sneakers, and now I'm bent on making everyone suffer with me."

He held out his hand. "I'm Blaine, by the way," he added, eyelashes fluttering slightly as he gazed at Kurt. "I probably should have introduced myself before touching you, but my manners are terrible at the crack of dawn, I guess."

Kurt took Blaine's warm hand in his own. "I thought you were doing fine," he offered kindly, smiling inwardly at Blaine's suddenly bashful expression. "I'm Kurt."

Blaine squeezed his hand. "Nice to meet you, Kurt," he replied, leaning forward into their handshake. "And in all seriousness, the balm is a good idea. You would think that your clothes would be the least of your worries out on the course, but some of the places they end up rubbing…"

He shuddered, gesturing meaningfully at his chest, and Kurt felt his face flush as his eyes involuntarily followed Blaine's hand. Blaine's shirt was thin and tight, showing off his compact muscles and leaving little to the imagination—including the slight outlines of two strategically placed band-aids. "Uh, yeah," Kurt admitted, cheeks flaming. "That may have come up during one of our training sessions. Not, like, personally," he clarified hastily, as Blaine's expression grew sympathetic, "but Coach Beiste was fairly graphic in her warnings."

Which was the understatement of the year. "Bleeding like a stuck pig" was an expression that Kurt could happily go the rest of his life without ever hearing again, particularly from anyone who was also eating a pulled pork sandwich at the time, as Coach Beiste had been doing.

"I did notice that you were running with a charity team," Blaine acknowledged, nodding at the sky blue singlet that Kurt was wearing over his t-shirt. "That's really awesome, Kurt. How did you get started with them?"

Kurt rubbed a hand over the singlet, absentmindedly straightening the wrinkles that had formed when Blaine had pulled his collar out of place. "My dad was diagnosed with cancer last year," he explained, letting his gaze fall to the floor briefly before looking back up at Blaine. "He's fine now," he added quickly, seeing Blaine's sudden look of dismay, "he had a great doctor and he's in remission. But I wanted to do something to show my support, and after spending my last ten years of public school running away from bullies, this was something I knew I was good at, at least." Kurt shrugged, rolling his eyes self-deprecatingly.

For a moment, Blaine looked torn between concern and amusement, but his smile won out. "Your dad must be really proud of you," he offered, tilting his head slightly to meet Kurt's eyes. "Are you running with some of your teammates, then?"

Kurt made a face. "No, they're all running a different race in New Jersey in two weeks," he sighed. "I was supposed to do that one as well, but I go to school in New York, and my department scheduled our big semester Showcase for that weekend, so I had to scramble to find a different marathon. This one turned out to be perfect, since I was planning on coming home this weekend anyway. My dad and stepmom are coming later this morning, to see me cross the finish line."

Blaine's face had lit up halfway through Kurt's explanation. "I live in New York too!" he told Kurt, practically bouncing in place. "I'm at Steinhart, at NYU. Hey, maybe we've passed each other while training—do you ever run in Central Park?"

Kurt couldn't help but grin at Blaine's enthusiasm—and wasn't entirely unmoved by the New York connection, either. "Sometimes," he replied, biting his lip just a little flirtatiously. "I usually spend most of those days trying not to trip over tourists and dogs, though."

Blaine laughed. "That sounds about right," he agreed. "I got tangled up in one of those cord leashes once, the almost invisible ones? I'm pretty sure I did a full somersault in the air before I landed right on my butt on the pavement. And then the dog tried to eat my shoe."

He shuddered dramatically. Kurt laughed, and Blaine smiled sweetly at him again. "So you're running by yourself today?" he asked, running a hand through his dark, curly hair.

Kurt nodded. "Unfortunately," he lamented. "This is my first marathon, so I was hoping to run with at least one other person that I know."

Blaine nodded back. "That does suck," he agreed sagely. "But there are going to be hundreds of people out on the road for hours, and headphones are banned. Trust me, you're going to have so many people to talk to.

"And for what it's worth," Blaine continued, his voice kind and reassuring, "this is a great course for beginners—there are a few hills toward the beginning, but the last ten miles are almost completely flat."

Kurt raised an eyebrow. "So just get through the first sixteen and I'll be fine, then?" he quipped dryly.

Blaine grinned in response. "Absolutely," he confirmed. "But I mean it; I run this race every year, and it's my favorite one. You'll be great—just run at your own pace, and try to suppress any murderous instincts that come up after five or six spectators wave their cowbells in your ear."

Kurt bit back his laughter. "I didn't realize spontaneous homicide was a potential side effect of distance running," he remarked, deliberately keeping a straight face. "Someone forgot to list that one on the waiver."

Blaine's eyes were warm with amusement. "How negligent of them," he agreed.

His gaze flickered briefly down to Kurt's mouth.

Kurt swallowed, feeling warmer than he had all morning.

"Seriously, though," he said softly, lacing his fingers behind his back and pushing down the sudden urge to run them through Blaine's hair, "thank you for the pep talk. And the advice. A few of us on the team finished our 20 mile long run in about three hours and fifteen minutes, and it felt surprisingly non-fatal, so I thought maybe I'd try to find the 4:30 pace group and stick with them."

Blaine folded his arms, rubbing absently at his bicep. "Really," he commented slowly, his smile taking on a mysterious—and if Kurt was being honest, hopelessly sexy—quality.

"I tried to find the booth to sign up yesterday," Kurt confirmed, wondering what it was that he'd said to garner such a reaction. "I couldn't find it, though, and I'd promised Dad my help out in the shop for a few hours in the afternoon, so I couldn't stick around." He tilted his head, matching Blaine's interested look with one of his own. "What about you?" he wanted to know. "You must be pretty fast, if you've done so many marathons. Are you running with anyone?"

Blaine's eyelashes fluttered again as he looked bashfully at the ground. "Actually, I—"

"Blaine Warbler!"

An excited shout swiftly cut Blaine off midsentence, startling them both. Stumbling slightly over his running shoes—Blaine's hand flew out to catch his arm, steadying him—Kurt turned to see a girl about their age weaving through the crowd toward them, her blonde hair in two bunches behind her ears and a yardstick with several pink and orange balloons taped to one end of it in her hand.

Seeing that she had caught their attention, she waved enthusiastically. "There you are," she declared, smiling dazzlingly. "You weren't where I left you, and since you're not wearing your hair gel, I couldn't follow the delicious smell of fresh raspberries. And you're small, so it took me a while to find you."

Blaine ducked his head, blushing adorably.

The girl didn't notice his embarrassment. "These are the last balloons that we have," she informed Blaine, cheerfully handing him the yardstick. "Coach Sylvester said to tell you that if you accidently pop them again, she's going to make you replace them with your freshly-starched jock strap as a warning to others, and would pay the track team from Carmel to follow you with a boom box playing music from the Chippendale's Vegas show."

Blaine winced, his eyes flitting briefly over at Kurt. "Thanks, Britt," he offered faintly, "I'll be more careful this time."

The girl smiled brightly. "No problem," she chirped. "I have to get back; Puck was trying to get Sam to see how many bagels from the finishers' tent he could fit in his mouth, and I want a chocolate chip one before they're all gone."

And before Kurt could work out if she was kidding or not, Britt scampered off, leaving Kurt, a red-faced Blaine, and a stick of balloons in her wake.

Blaine was still holding Kurt's arm, and he squeezed it gently before letting go and taking a step back. "Sorry about that," he apologized, his mouth twisting sheepishly. "They all mean well, really."

Kurt rubbed his arm lightly, feeling the loss of Blaine's warm hand. "No, it's fine," he assured him. "Although now I think maybe I'll skip the bagels after the race, if it's all the same to you."

Blaine took a deep breath. "Actually," he said slowly, rocking back and forth on his heels, "there's a place just a few blocks away that makes the best bagels in town. I know you'll want to see your family after the race and everything, but…maybe if you have a few minutes, I can buy you one? And a cup of coffee?"

Kurt felt his own cheeks starting to flush, the pleasant twist in his stomach back in full force. "I'd like that," he agreed shyly. "But, how will I find you after the race? Won't there be people everywhere?"

Blaine let out a small huff of laughter, and turned his yardstick around. On the side that had been facing away from Kurt, someone had scrawled a giant4:30 on each balloon with a black marker.

"I was going to tell you, before Brittany interrupted," Blaine explained, eyes sparkling. "I'm the leader for the 4:30 pace group."

He reached out again, giving Kurt's shoulder a light squeeze. "So it looks like you're stuck with me for a little while."