The sun is shining in the sapphire sky above, surprisingly warm for Autumn – rare for the famous British weather, although not as rare as expected – birds are singing, there's a reassuring hum from the beehives Mrs Fernandez-Carriedo so lovingly tends, and all that Lovino can think is that he really should have bought that suncream he was considering yesterday.
He huffs, and digs the shovel further into the sunbaked earth. They're supposed to be building a fence around the tomato garden, he and Isabella, but so far, Lovino has been doing the digging, while Isabella chases of the inquisitive chickens intent on declaring the tomato garden Chickenopolis, the newest addition to the Avian Empire.
A hand claps him on the shoulder, and he spins around (no, he does not squeak), brandishing the shovel as a weapon. Those things can be dangerous in the right hands.
"Whoever that is, I'm armed, dammit! Try anything and I'll –"
If he was being murdered, he's sure that would have made the right impression. Unfortunately (or fortunately, depending how you look at it), he isn't.
Arms raised in surrender, Isabella hastily steps backwards, almost tripping over Tomatita III who had been scraping at the ground by the coop. Lovino lowers the shovel guiltily, quickly recovering his composure.
"I'm trying to sort out your garden here – the least you can do is not attempt to decapitate me." He ignores the sharp edge of the shovel, digging into his shin, and reminding him that Isabella was the one who was almost decapitated.
She isn't bothered by his harsh tone, and instead produces an absolutely enormous sun-hat from behind her back. The faded cloth had been dyed a garish red at some point, the green band looked like it had originally been part of someone's favourite scarf, and, to top it all off, the entire monstrosity was dotted with plastic tomatoes, each roughly the size of a golf ball. Lovino squinted. Were the "tomatoes" glowing?
Isabella frowned momentarily, and hit the hat against the only fencepost he had managed to knock in after half an hour. No, the tomatoes weren't glowing. They were flashing.
"What do you think?"
He didn't answer. What did he think? Well, he thought it would be nice to know what that thing was supposed to be, because it definitely wasn't a hat. No hat should look like that, and if it did, it should be put out of its misery. Preferably with fire.
Without warning, she rammed the hat down over his ears. He briefly noticed it smelt of something peppery – watercress? Mustard? Pepper? – before the itching in his ears became unbearable, and he had to fling it off.
"Where the hell –" he starts off.
She's laughing, doubled over with her own cap (yellow, with España embroidered on the front in a red that matched the brim) only held on by her ponytail, and holds up a hand to stop him while she catches her breath.
"You – you looked ridiculous!" Isabella gasps.
"I'm not the one in the bull print shorts," he scowls back. "Where did you even get those?"
"The Running of the Bulls Festival!" Now she's fishing in her pocket for her mobile, dropping the bundle of stakes she was holding in favour of clinging onto the chicken coop. "It was on while I visited my…" she blinks, but seems to regain her train of thought quickly enough. "My, er, uncle a few years ago."
The next question is unavoidable, drawing him in. "Please tell me you didn't participate."
She pouts. "Mamá wouldn't let me. But I did get some really good pictures from the balcony!"
She's found her mobile now, and is flicking through her photos.
"Look, this is, uh, Tío Toni's house."
She almost drops her 'phone, but shows him a picture of a quaint Spanish café – window boxes creaking under the weight of flowers and wrought iron furniture, slightly rusted, outside – where a much younger Isabella stands in the doorway, next to a man in his late thirties with the same tousled brown hair and green eyes as Isabella. She must only be about nine in the picture, but is still the lanky beanpole Lovino knows and loves.
"There's Mamá falling off a donkey."
That does seem to be what's happening – slightly blurred, Mrs Fernandez-Carriedo does have one leg over the donkey's back, but both arms pinwheeling and a shocked expression. In the background, Isabella's uncle is bent over laughing the same way she had been earlier.
"Tío Toni showed me how to take a selfie."
Isabella and her uncle, laughing with uncannily similar expressions, on a bench somewhere in Spain.
"I had to take this one."
A fountain, lit up by a nearby street lamp, looks like it's filled with diamonds instead of water.
"And –"
"Isabella! Are you leaving your friend to do all the work?" Mrs Fernandez-Carriedo bustles out, a plastic water bottle in each hand.
"No, Mamá!" She quickly pockets her 'phone, and holds the fencepost steady for Lovino to knock it into the ground.
"Fantastico! Make sure it stays that way!" She doesn't seem too angry, but that puts a stop to that conversation.
A/N: At over eight hundred words, this chapter is as long as the first three put together! I think we can all agree that Isabella has an awful dress sense (I'm ashamed to say that mine's just as bad).
I'd like to know what you would like to have more of – Feli and Lovi, Lovi and Isabella, the Vargases, anyone! I'll even add a few extra characters if asked – I've almost finished all the plot relevant chapters, so updates will be on a schedule starting this January.
