The annual Spring Fling Festival was a tradition in Beacon Hills.
Every year both local businesses and out-of-town vendors set up stands, booths, and tents along the bike path in Beacon Memorial Park, the line of attractions stretching for at least two and a half miles. Local farmers would set up displays of fresh produce and local honey for sale, and the hospital offered free CPR training and Beacon Hills Memorial Hospital water bottles. The high school always had a dunk tank and the vet clinic brought in puppies and kittens that were up for adoption.
Every year almost all the money went to various charities, mostly local ones, or the hospital’s donation fund, occasionally a few dollars getting set aside for the sheriff’s department or the high school. The rest of the proceeds went to various other local businesses and services, the fire department receiving a large chunk and the farmers going home with heavy wallets.
And every year, without fail, Scott dragged Stiles to the festival when he would much rather be playing video games or watching TV or jerking off. Throughout high school, it was partially due to Scott always volunteering to work the vet clinic’s stand and wanting Stiles to hang out with him while he did, bribing him with promises of letting him play with the puppies and kitties. It worked every time.
Except, this year, it was Stiles who had dragged Scott to the festival, having missed town terribly while he was away at Princeton, wanting to make the most of his spring break. This time, it was Scott who had moaned and groaned about going, wanting to make the most of his spring break by staying home in his underwear or going out with Allison who had ended up tagging along with them to the festival.
For the first half hour, Stiles had made it his mission to soak up as much of Beacon Hills as he possibly could: he bought a funnel cake that was bigger than his head from his favorite local bakery, jokingly smacking Scott’s hand away when he tried to grab a piece. He tried his hand at the high school’s dunk tank as Coach berated him like old times, bringing back fond and embarrassing memories of lacrosse practice.
The look on Mr. Harris’ face when Stiles hit the bullseye dead on and sent him tumbling down into the ice cold water was absolutely priceless.
They were still laughing about it on their way to visit his dad at the sheriff’s department tent where they were selling t-shirts, baseball caps, and bumper stickers. That was when he saw it. The perfect tent.
The words kissing booth were sprawled in sloppy red letters on a huge white banner, another smaller sign declaring only one dollar! in dark pink. But it wasn’t wasn’t buxom blondes reapplying red lipstick or muscular shirtless men spritzing breath spray into their mouths nor any other cliche at the booth.
No, behind the counter was a pack of dogs, tongues lolling out in the warm breeze, tail wagging excitedly. He froze in his tracks, hand shooting out to grab Scott’s wrist, tugging him to a stop as he gazed longingly at the booth.
“Dude, what?” Scott asked, waving his hand in front of Stiles’ face when he didn’t answer immediately. Stiles swatted his hand away, emphatically pointing at the kissing booth, stunned silent. Scott turned his head, following where Stiles was pointing, “What, the kissing booth?”
Stiles nodded vigorously, already dragging Scott, and by extension Allison, over to the booth where the group of dogs was eagerly awaiting them, barking in greeting as they approached. Scott rolled his eyes as Stiles made a beeline to the booth, whining, “Dude, really?”
A tall dark haired man greeted them at the booth, smiling brightly as he politely asked, “Hey, how can I help you?”
Stiles’ jaw nearly hit the floor. The guy working behind the counter should have been on magazine covers, should have been on billboards in New York and LA, should have been in porn. Gay porn. The gayest porn.
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