"In trouble?" he demanded, clenching his jaw as quick flashes of his mother ran through his head. His father was too professional to take anything out of the house—well, at least hopefully he would still be professional at this hour. Unless he had already managed to get himself terminated. "Where? How? What—"

Laura pointed in the direction of the elementary building. "My younger sister said the new kid's in trouble on the playground. I got worried that he was—"

He didn't wait for her to finish or for the weird kid's voice to cross the threshold of his opening mouth. The metal fence rattled violently, his bag pressing and scarping against it as he squeezed himself in between it and the elementary building. The dirt track picked up the second he reached it.

The playground was poorly financed. Perhaps even dangerous in the way rusted edges stuck out around the old metal slide and rickety structure; the way swing chains seemed to creak, even under the weight of gravity and nothing but. Lovino's eyes fell over them quickly, suddenly aware that not all trouble included people, and that his brother may have been stuck somewhere his fat ass couldn't get out of. It was almost a comforting thought, that.

Alas, the football field failed to end before the world proved him wrong.

Three goons and his brother. The sight twisted his stomach horribly. The lot of three were considerably older than Feliciano, more-than-likely high schoolers. Two of them Lovino didn't recognize at all, the third he identified as the girl that lived in the house by the fence. She stood back, her arms crossed over her chest moodily.

"He's just a kid—" she complained, though her tone was bored.

Feliciano stood in the middle of it all. He boasted a fresh bleeding scuff on his cheek, his olive skin flushed. He shook his head, hands outwards, chubby fingers flinging themselves about dramatically. One of the boys had him by his backpack, the other stood in front of him, stooping low to get in his face.

"He's a snitch is what he is."

Lovino swallowed, his nerves in his stomach and his mind steeling with anger. "Hey, coward shits!" He knew how to fight. Well, he knew how to punch. Well, he knew that if you punched just right you could cause a bruise within minutes, and if you punched wrong the bruise wouldn't form. Or maybe it was the other way around.

He dropped his bag, tensing his fists into balls, trying to quickly determine how the angle would work and where to punch to cause the most damage. The face would be a staple, but if he was able to get at least one of them winded maybe he could grab Feliciano and run.

The boy holding Feliciano looked up at him, the other one didn't even bother. "Piss off."

"Picking on a fucking fourth grader? I understand that you're planning on being degenerates when you grow up, but at least try to consider the grow up part of that equation."

The other boy stood and the two of them shared a laugh, mockery. He had both of their attention now. Feliciano wriggled, but just as it seemed he would make his way out of his bag the older kid grabbed the nest of hair on his head.

"Funny. Real funny."

"Yeah, and who are you?"

The girl groaned with a roll of her eyes. "I'm leaving, Trev, don't bother coming by after you're done." She stalked off, pulling the long braid she wore over her shoulder.

"Dude, I think she just broke up with you."

"What? No she didn't. She's just hanging out with Stacy tonight."

"No, dude, Stac and Marco are hitting the overpass."

Lovnio stared, heart thundering, head wondering what was happening. Feliciano whimpered, his face scrunching up as the boy's grip tightened. Over the course of the conversation, Trev, short for Trevoli, Lovino decided inappropriately, was getting more and more worked up. Lovino held a private hope that he would run after her.

"Fuck!" he shouted.

In what Lovino could only describe as a paroxysm of anguish, the boy turned around, catching Feliciano on the side of the head with a boxed palm. "This is all your fucking fault, you rat!" he screamed.

"Get the fuck off of him, bastard!" Lovino screamed, grabbing a fist full of the boy's hair, pulling as hard as he could. Before he knew it, the world was in stars, a new smarting pain blinking around the base of his nose.

"Hey!" The sound of relief. A woman's voice, followed by a woman's plump frame and gray hair, caused the two older boys to jump, muttering amongst themselves. Feliciano fell into sobs. Lovino blinked, cursed, and picked up his bag. "You two better run off," the woman said sternly.

Lovino grabbed Feliciano's arm harshly, pulling him towards their house.

"What the fuck did you do?" he demanded as they made their way up the small hill, checking over his shoulder and around every crevice of blindness to make sure they weren't about to be jumped.

"You—They—It's against—" he hiccupped through tears.

"Calm down and use your words, damn it!"

Feliciano balled his fists into his eyes, shaking his head. Lovino just openly growled, frustration mixing with the pain to concoct a gross mixture of tension.


"You're nothing but a useless piece of shit!"

Lovino slammed the door shut. The night air was a blessing, kissing his eyelids in a manner he imagined a lethargic flower petal would a settled pond. He drew the January air in desperately.

He hadn't exactly planned to come outside, but the best people were the kind that could adapt. Easily he picked his way across the yard and the street. Vined fences led him along a similar, secure path. This late at night he had to trust his feet and their direction. It was too early in the year for bugs or snow.

He found himself at the Elementary playground. Not a single sound offered him company. Lovino frowned deeply, his feet continuing to the dirt track. Alone he walked a while, his head picking itself apart from the shambles of anxiety his parents' fighting had put him it. It was troublesome to say the least.

Before long, shambles became patterns and organization, and Lovino's eyes were able to acclimate to the meager lighting, allowing him to watch his feet. Shoeless.

The last few days he had decided himself weak. There were lots of things that he decided about himself, so adding another thing to the list wasn't so appalling; but discovering that his weakness had not only put himself in trouble, but also his brother, made his head reel like very little else.

He was a man of action. At least, he wanted to be. He decided this a long time ago. Yet, in the face of engagement he had been weak. Unable to do anything against the likes of a couple of idiots. It made him question what else he was helpless against. The long list that awaited his head the nights prior was enough to form an encyclopedia.

So, he searched for a solution. It was an obvious one, he wasn't dull. He needed to get stronger. He was equipped mentally. At least, he was pretty sure he was. He had no qualms punching someone out if it meant protecting his family—and he would be lying if he were to say that his best dreams weren't steeped in the intelligent design of murdering some of said family—and he knew that everything held a consequence. Unlike the idiots he faced, he understood that the real world existed.

That left the hard part of the solution to be dealt with. The physical part. He wasn't sure if it was his genes or his awareness that kept his knees knobby and his biceps flat, but he was sure that neither of these things were helping his case. He was too skinny and weak to punch out anything but a pillow. His stamina was something from a horror story, and he had very little ability to do much aside from think on the day following the nights of sleeplessness.

The conclusion was drawn. Lovino drew one last comforting breath before his pace picked up into a jog.

He needed to get stronger.

Intelligence really didn't work with exercising well. As soon as his body flushed and his pulse accelerated, his mind was screaming at him to slow down. He ignored it. Well—he ignored it. Slow down became splinters that were most definitely on the bottom of his feet which morphed into a sudden realism of how the cold air made the back of his nose painfully dry. It asked questions and made statements all set to convince and contrive.

Needless to go on, Lovino slowed half a mile in, cursing the salted taste of mucus that flooded the back of his throat. His feet throbbed, but he didn't want to go home just yet. He made his way over to the swing set. Sitting caused the loudest whine, shocking the silent air, and it did no stilling as Lovino gently kicked his heels against the bark chips.

Higher and higher he went until air streamed past his ears, causing the whines of the swing to only reach him when he was high enough to feel the structure of the swing-set wain forward or his body to violently rise from the seat, only to crash back into it.

It was a thoughtless sort of motion. He stared at the clouds above, pinpointed where the moon was hiding, a pewter halo and yellow center, his neck cramping upwards as he refused to look down and remind himself of reality. If only for a moment.

But, as all things do, all moments and happenings, the time passed and Lovino was sent back on his way home. All seemed quiet. He wondered how long he had been gone. The door was unlocked. Had they even heard it closed?

Feliciano was asleep, curled up in the comforter, still sniffling as if his dreams were harassed by the tension of the day.

Lovino sighed and laid down.

He was weak, but so was Feliciano. The best thing he could do to help his brother was to help his brother help himself. Men and fish.


"Uh—Hi, are you Mr. Mantee?"

The man turned from his chore on a dusted chalk board. "Yes."

Lovino cleared his throat. "My name is Lovino Vargas, you have my brother in your class according to the front office."

"Ah, yes, Feliciano."

"That's the one." He offered the man a tick of a smile, dimples barely encaged as he opened the binder he had come prepared with. "It seems that he has been having some issues in your class. I ran over some spelling and math with him yesterday after school, but he didn't seem to know what I was talking about. And he's never come home with homework."

The man seemed taken aback. Lovino blinked up at him. He flicked his gaze to the board. It looked to be a notes diagram. "I don't usually assign homework," he said simply.

"I think you should."

"I will take that into consideration."

Lovino nodded, finding the bit of the binder that he had decided to show off. Two pages stood side-by-side, one was a beautiful drawing of Lovino's house, the other was a written story about it. The grammar and spelling were beyond atrocious. "I'm sure you'll be able to find the issue here." Lovino said, handing it over. "You are allowing your students to spend too much time working on their art skills rather than encaging them in the lesson. Unless you teach them to spell house like that?"

The man sighed, barely glancing at the page before handing it back. "Your brother is a peculiar case. It's hard to teach him with his anger issues."

"His what?"

"I've had to put him in the back corner of the room facing the wall as his permanent seat. It seems that quiet is the only way I can get him to concentrate long enough to finish his assignments."

"You've had him for three weeks now!" Lovino yelled. "Did you not think about telling—" he cut himself off with a deep scowl. No, that wouldn't be a good idea. He shook his head. "Well, I'm very worried about his foundations." He tried to sound calm. No need to convince this man that anger issues ran in the family. "May I ask that you send him home with his assignments so that I may help him work through them? And can I get a copy of your year's lesson plan?"

"I plan by week."

"Can I get that then?"

There was a short pause. Lovino felt scrutinized. In the end, the man agreed. Lovino thanked him.


"Come on, Feliciano." Lovino bit. His hands were frozen to the point that they burned, stinging tears pricking his eyes as he jogged at a calf-killing pace. Feliciano wore the only gloves that they could find, and the red matched perfectly with his frozen cheeks.

"I can't breathe," he practically wheezed.

"You gotta just push through it."

"But—"

"No but's, Feliciano. At least try keeping this pace."

"It's too cold."

"It'd be warmer if you were moving faster. Come on!" Lovino was growing frustrated. He decided that this frustration was a part of his own workout. It helped put things into perspective of now. Which, was a good thing seeing that they were on break from school for the next two weeks before second semester started up. Now kept his head busy.

They made it a whole mile—though Lovino knew it was nothing short of an eighteen-minute mile at Feliciano's pace—before Lovino finally allowed a break.

"When we get home we'll go over your times table again."

"No! Can't we just play a game?"

"Not until you have the whole list of threes memorized."

"And then we can?"

Lovino groaned. He already had to water down his workout, and now it seemed that all the time he would have put aside for his own studying or recreational reading would be spent watered down as well. Nevertheless, he permitted to the compromise.

The day was quickly fading. The two boys picked up from the dry park and headed back home. Their mother sat in the den with today's entourage. Their father wasn't home. Together they sat down at the table. Lovino held a dwindling pencil over the chart Mr. Mantee had provided in a folder for things Feliciano could go over during the break.

"Three times one?"

"Three!"

Lovino nodded.

"Three times eight."

There was too long of a pause. Lovino slowly took his pencil down the chart until he landed on the number he wanted Feliciano to shout out. "Twenty-Four!"

"Remember how I got that?"

"Got what?"

"The answer."

"Oh, uh, yeah?"

Lovino sighed. The kid wasn't letting anything stick! "It's like—drawing a rectangle, okay? You start here, in the blank corner. You go three on the top—like this—and eight on the side. See? Now, go eight down with—"

"Oh, yeah! And then right here they meet. Like a gate. Have you seen the gate in front of that yellow house down the road, Lovi? The white one? Image how pretty it would be if the whole fence was that shade of white. Oh, and I was thinking, what if they put a garden—"

"Feliciano, we're talking about multiplication right now."

The boy frowned, closing his mouth. Lovino started again, but it seemed that he had lost the boy's willingness of attention.

He left before he started yelling.


Lovino scrubbed at his eyes. He was so tired. The den light was shut off above him. The wooden table was scratched terribly so. It looked like it could have even been caused by a dull knife or something of the sorts. He ran his fingers across every diversion to his fatigue, realizing his mistake only moments in when he began to understand that he wouldn't be able to stop until he had touched every scratch—but only once. If he touched one twice then he would have to touch them all twice.

It was late and he was tired.

His head swam with something of a poem to assess his situation of madness—as if a way to explain away his actions, excuse him of any fault. He would start it off with a sensory detail, perhaps. An introduction to the situation? Perhaps with the action in point-blank. The color of the wood in the poor lighting, the age of the wood, the trembling of his fingers and the dizziness of a blurring vision as exhaust attempted to find solace or remorse in the ceasing of the strings that carried his limbs forward and tied around his heart when he thought of a premature stop. Like leaving out a friend. A guilt.

He was tired and it was late.


Second semester couldn't have stared any sooner. Lovino packed his bag quickly, glancing over to make sure Feliciano hadn't fallen back asleep before leaving his room. It was dark outside, the winter growing harsher, grayer. He set his bag on the couch, taking in the comfort of the quiet and the chilliness as his coat lay on the floor at the backdoor and the fire had yet to be lit. The willow tree danced in the breeze.

"I wonder if we'll get an early snow." Lovino loved snow. Summer was grand, but there was something about the winter months that filled him with a different type of serenity. It was still and beautiful. Summer was a fever in comparison.

His mother and father still lay fast asleep. He had made sure to turn off the alarm a few minutes before it went off. He didn't need a morning he had yearned over the past two weeks to be ruined so quickly thanks to a few annoying beeps.

Feliciano sniffed as he made his way out of the room.

"You sound congested," Lovino said.

"I think I'm sick."

Lovino shook his head. "No, you're not sick. It's just a cold morning is all. You'll feel better after you walk around some more."

He sniffed again, this time a bit more dramatically. "I think all that running made me sick," he continued to press.

"Exercise actually helps the immune system."

"Not in the middle of winter."

Lovino frowned at him pointedly. "No, Feliciano. You are not staying home from school."

"But I'm sick!"

A flash of trepidation. "Keep your voice down, idiot!" he hissed.

"I'm going to go ask Mom if I can stay home from school."

The declaration felt more like a threat. "Feliciano. No! She's going to be mad!"

"At you. She keeps telling you that you're not the boss of me, Lovino. So stop bossing me around."

"You're being a fucking retard!"

"Mom said to stop calling names!"

"Stop fucking crying! You're going to school whether you like it or not, Feliciano. You need to focus on your god damn education! Do you want to be stupid for the rest of your life?"

"I'm not stupid!"

"Being aware of your ignorance and refusing to fix it is practically the definition of stupid, stupid."

"Mom!"

Lovino bit down on the fear that flashed through his chest. "Yeah," he muttered under his breath, not brave enough to say it much louder. "Go cry to the stupidest one of fucking all. Have fun being fucking homeless."

"Mom!"

Lovino clenched his jaw and grabbed his bag, quickly busying himself with re-getting ready. The younger boy disappeared with his tears and his qualms and his desperate cries for attention. Lovino quickly readied his defiance. His mother always took Feliciano's side. He was sweet or what the fuck ever people saw in fucking idiots.

Only, it wasn't his mother that appeared in the doorway.

"Do you need the fucking belt?" His father yelled, striding across the living room and hitting him across the face. Lovino fell to the couch, digging his nails into the cushion. His heart skipped and stopped, his throat keeping away his cries like a trusted safe. "We have told you not to talk to your brother like that! Now you have him in tears this early in the morning!"

"He's trying to—"

"Don't argue with me."

The fear wasn't enough to keep back the inner comments. It never was. Lovino was a man of action, even if the action was coming up with something to say, and even if he kept the words locked away in his head as a form of self-preservation.

"Your mother and I don't need to be woken up because you're being a bully, do you understand? I said, do you understand?"

Lovino grit his teeth. His pride, or maybe his anger, played at the base of his collarbone a mighty tune of tension and defiance, but he knew none of those words could come out without the angry waterworks flowing along. "—Yes—" he finally choked.

His father was up and gone. Lovino grabbed up with bag, blinking furiously as he threw it over his shoulder. Feliciano stood in the passage way pensively. He took no issue with crying. "I—I'm sorry, Lovi. I didn't mean—"

"Shut up, idiot," Lovino growled under his breath.

"That's it, boy!" His father hollered, coming back from out of his room, leather strap in hand.


Lovino set his head down on his desk. Today would be obnoxiously slow. First days back always were. His education wouldn't be tarnished by a short nap.

"Morning!" someone said from above him. Lovino recognized the voice and decided to pretend like he was already asleep. The kid, soon enough, left Lovino alone to his own devices. He sighed into the table thankfully.

Class started. The droning of his teacher's voice was wonderful, and then it was gone, and then it was harshly in his ear.

"Mr. Vargas. We do not sleep in this classroom."

Lovino lifted his head, scrubbing at his eye. "Sorry," he muttered, not at all apologetic.

Class continued. He stayed tired.

When he looked back to see that Laura hadn't managed to make it to school, the part of his mood that had stayed high diminished.

Over the course of the first few hours, nonetheless, his body found a way to kick into that dazing energy that it seemed to always find a way to boot up. By lunch he was ready to hit the dirt track and continue his training.

"Vargas," his teacher called.

Lovino made his way to her desk, a ready excuse to why he had been sleeping at first ready. Though, she didn't ask. "So, I put in your paper for review."

Lovino blinked. "Huh?" he asked incredulously.

She smiled at him, small. "Your paper, the one you wrote before break?"

"Yeah, I remember that. What do you mean you put it in for review?"

"When your transcripts from your last school came in, I get a personal call from your last teacher—" Mr. Sweeny. He was kind of a ditz. "He had only good things to say about you."

"So, you sent him my paper?"

"Have you ever heard of the Centura, Lovino?"

Lovino responded with a shake of his head. "No."

"It's a private school in the UK. Very hard to get into. I have a friend who works on the board, and after the reference your last teacher provided I thought that I would send in an application for you. Now, I'm not sure what the rest of the board will think of you, but she wanted me to send you her praise—and with your grades as they are I don't see why you wouldn't be at least considered."

Lovino blinked. This was—It was news. "Are you allowed to do that? Take my work and just send it off like that? Don't you need a parent's signature or something?"

She chuckled. "If you get accepted, of course your parents will have to consent. But we're not there yet."

"We're not really much of—why didn't you tell me this would be for something so serious? I—I would have spent a lot more time on it." He furrowed his brows at her. Had she been hoping he would mishap his way to failure? No, that made no sense.

"If I didn't feel it was of a high enough quality, I would have given it back to you."

Lovino bit back a comment on the fact that her standards had to have been reduced after teaching year eight for so many years. Instead he just agreed.

The day continued, and Lovino found himself leaning into the palm of his hand for the majority of it. A private school in the UK? No doubt he would need to learn English. And didn't private schools cost a shitton of money? There was no way he was going to be pulling those types of funds out of his ass.

Nevertheless, it was a nice thought.


AUTHOR'S NOTES

There are two types of readers that will pick this up, and one type will understand why writing this is so fucking hard

Fun fact, I started a side story to help me get through this one! It is called Bury Me Alive and it, too, features Lovino as the protagonist. Because that's what we all need more of: Lovino.

COMMENT! Are you guys for or against the idea of people using fanfiction as a way to write out first drafts? I mean, as long as the OOC warning is given, of course.