Next chapter, up and ready! Hope it's worth the wait :)

Chapter 2 Ice Creams In The Park

The funeral was short and consisted of most of the school. It was Amelia who convinced Maddie to walk up to Clara's parents who stood, dejectedly, by the tombstone of their only daughter. Though their eyes were bloodshot and their faces haggard, they gave a small smile at the sight of them. When they embraced them, Amelia could take in the stench of mourning alcohol and depression off their skins.

Clara hadn't been close to anyone else for, after the burial, people started to disperse. It made Amelia think how, after a few days, people would stop crying for Clara. It made her think how, after a few months, people would forget about her. In a few years her name would be nothing but evidence of a person who was once living and breathing, nothing more, nothing less. It was a harsh reality, but a true one nonetheless.

And it would happen to all of them.

Arthur was already by the gate, his stiff back and hunched shoulders tense, and Amelia immediately quickened her pace.

"Hey!"

"Wha- Oh, it's just you."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Amelia grabbed his arm, "what's with the sprint out the cemetery?"

"I just… don't like cemeteries.

He was looking at the longhaired Frenchman who stood by the head of another grave not too far from Clara's. Francis looked up and the two locked eyes. Arthur winced. Francis scowled. He immediately turned away. Amelia could feel Arthur bristle and the muscles of his arm tighten, his fingers clenching and his nails digging into his palm.

"Still don't get along with him?"

It looked much more than a childhood dislike, thought Amelia. Arthur looked haggard and Francis looked angry and the tension wrought between them tasted like loathing- so thick and pungent she could feel it stretch across the distance. She tugged at him slightly and he subconsciously began to walk away- not before noticing her arm in his and immediately pulling away.

"Stop with the whole arm-grabbing thing, will you?"

"Stop with the yanking-the-arm away thing, then!" she grabbed his arm once more and pulled him. "You never used be this annoyed before-"

"Exactly, before-" he bit his lip and stopped himself. He gave a heavy, irate sigh and took her arm, pulling her down the sidewalk, "for heaven's sake, just keep walking, will you."

"Poor Clara, she was a nice girl," said Feliciano sadly.

"Nice girl? She fucking punched you in the face," Lovino scoffed. "Twice."

"Oh, you're right… she wasn't that nice then," Feliciano let his cigarette dangle from his lips languidly. "Hey, Monika! Look, I can make squares out of the smoke! Want to see?"

"Spit that cancer-stick from you mouth before I punch it out," glowered Monika.

"But, Monika, I'm Italian! Smoking, flirting and eating are things I have to do in my life! Also, stripping under the sun, driving a Vespa, drinking bottles of wine, taking long siestas-"

"Spit the cigarette!"

"Fine! I'm sorry!" Feliciano threw it into the ashtray while Lovino merely scoffed.

They were in his grandfather's restaurant- Casa Vargas- that was currently closed for maintenance. Their bedrooms were atop of the restaurant and, on certain days, Roma forced his grandsons to do their fair share of work waiting tables and helping out in the kitchens. Lovino made his way upstairs, a train of smoke following his every step, leaving his brother and the German girl in the resounding emptiness of the once bustling-restaurant. The sun shone, sending sudden rays against the mahogany and dark wood of the tables, chairs and the frames of the Mediterranean paintings.

With no cigarette, Feliciano fiddled with his fingers before fiddling with the lighter.

"Hey Monika, want to go play football in the park?"

"No."

"Why not? Let's go play football!"

"No. If anything, we have a to study for-"

"We can study after football! We'll take our papers with us and we can study in that cute little café that has all the pretty waitresses! Come on, Monika! Football!" he was already standing, his hands patting her broad shoulders enthusiastically, "football, Monika, football-" his lips were brushing her ears and she immediately pushed him away.

"Fine!"

"Yay! I'll put on my shoes- uno momento!"

Monika knew Feliciano for decades. Not exactly, but long enough to not exactly remember how they ever became friends. He was annoying, whiny, energetic, spineless, spoiled and didn't even know how to tie his shoelaces- the qualities she never imagined she'd ever be able to stomach in a person let alone be best friends with. But, time had worked its mysterious ways and, as much as she hated to admit it, she was attached to him.

Which was bad.

Especially bad when she started bristle and seethe when she caught him flirting with random girls in restaurants, shops, parks and down the street. Especially when she started flushing and blushing and sputtered like some silly schoolgirl whenever he took her hand, hugged her or gave her a joyous kiss on her cheek; because he wasn't ten years old anymore and cute and bubbly and small, he was seventeen.

"Off we go! Let's get some ice-cream later on," football in hand, he grabbed her arm and enthusiastically led her outside in a chorus of bubbling, animated chatter.

She bought a book- embarrassingly- 'Communicating with your partner: Italians' when it offered to tell her what was going on through his irritating head and another book, 'What to do when you think you like your childhood best friend: Germans' when it offered to tell her what was going on through her own head, until she swallowed her pride and humiliatingly admitted to herself that she had started to like him. As in… really like him. As in... really really really like him in a way that was not best-friendish anymore.

"Alright, you'll be the goalie and I'll shoot the ball- because you'd end up killing me if you were shooting and my face is too pretty to get beaten!"

"Whatever."

What kind of idiot was she, falling for this idiot? she wondered as she stood between two guarding oaks, their makeshift goalposts. Feliciano hopped from side-to-side with exuberant energy, balancing and hitting the ball with his knees before throwing her another one of his winks. He shot the football expertly and she missed each and every one of his aims.

"You're not really good at this, are you Monika?" he laughed.

"How about you stand goalie," she yelled.

"Of course not! You'll hurt me that way! Come on- at least one save?"

She could feel her blood bubbling. But, the cheery sound of the ice-cream truck on the outskirts of Middle Park made Feliciano dash away- I'll get us ice-creams!- leaving her with an abandoned football and two ancient, scrutinizing oaks. Monika threw herself onto the grass and leant against the bark, looking around the sunlit park. Earlier this noon they had been at a funeral… now they were at a park. Life continued whilst life ended. Would people recuperate that fast after she had died? Or Feliciano? It felt odd and wrong to think that the sun would still shine, ice-cream trucks would still roam and laughter would still sound if Feliciano stopped living.

Arthur was walking down the opposite path and, surprisingly, he wasn't alone. Clutching his arm and chattering away was Amelia. Monika cringed. The girl meant well but she was naïve to think the Arthur she had left behind was the Arthur she had come back to.

"Here you go," Feliciano materialized beside her, handing her a chocolate ice-cream.

"Danke."

"Bitte schon! Ooh- there's Arthur! Amelia's really nice, right? I was talking to her by the ice-cream truck. They're living in their old house again."

"A bit too nice," commented Monika, licking the stray droplets of melting ice cream.

"I think it's good she's friends with Arthur again," he continued cheerily. "He's really lonely after all the crazy stuff he did. He's scary too, so I wouldn't be friends with him- then again, if you're with me he can't do anything- but I don't think I'd like to be friends with him. But it's good Amelia's friends with him, right?"

"I don't even know what you're talking about."

"Yeah, me too," he chirped, leaning against the bark with her, his legs crossed at his ankles. "Feels like when we were children, right? We used to play football a lot."

"And some of us never grow up," she nudged him forcefully. He just laughed. It was a warm sound. She secretly relished it. "Did you get napkins?"

"What?"

She felt something stain the side of her cheek. Of course careless Feliciano wouldn't have taken some napkins. He blinked at her then looked at the presumed stain on her cheek. To her utter surprise- and horror- he leaned towards her and kissed her cheek, the stray cream smudging against his lips, then beamed at her.

"You smell really nice, Monika."

Her heart flamed.

"What do you think you're doing?!"

She smashed her ice-cream cone against his face.

"Lovinito!"

Antonio grinned at him as he lounged against an empty table.

"Call me that again bastard and I'll fucking castrate you."

Though Antonio laughed, his grandfather gave him a harsh whack on the back of his neck, "swear again and I'll fucking cut that tongue, Lovino!" as he made his way upstairs.

Lovino glared at the back of his retreating grandfather, stuck out his tongue and threw himself onto the chair next to Antonio. He pulled out his cigarette and dangled it languidly from his lips as he searched for his lighter.

"Where the fuck were you all day?"

"LOVINO!"

"What the hell's your problems, eh?!" he shouted at the empty staircase. "I can swear as much as I want to!"

His grandfather's angry footsteps made their way downstairs and Lovino bristled. Antonio yanked the cigarette from the Italian's lips and hid it under the ashtray with an apologetic smile.

"Wha- oh yeah, you go ahead because when Feliciano does something, no one gives a fuck but when I do something, it's always wrong!" Lovino swirled in time to see his panting grandfather standing by the staircase, "you're always fucking yelling at me for everything!"

"Because everything you do is wrong! I've lost customers- customers in plural- because of your damn mouth-"

"Not my fault everyone here has shit for brains!"

"For the last time, if you don't wash that mouth Lovino-"

"What? You'll do what? Compare me to perfect Feli? He's not a fucking angel!"

"Compared to you, he's a godsend-"

Lovino's face turned red. First, it was from anger. Then, it was from utter humiliation. He had to push his grandfather's buttons and had to come to the bitter conclusion where the old man would always end up admitting how much better- how much easier- how much bearable Feliciano was. So, Lovino stood, ignoring Antonio's hand that was latched to his shoulder. He wanted to contain himself and say, with bitter coldness, something that would slice at his grandfather as painfully as his brother's presence did to him. But, he had no self-control.

"I fucking hate you!"

And he stormed out.

That tirade had to happen at least- at least- twice a week. His departing lines were usually different (I wish I were dead instead of my fucking parents- then send me away if you're so damn sick of me- you're both so fucking useless- die already, will you) but the outcome was usually the same. He'd storm out, Antonio would follow, he'd sit on the aged stump behind the house, Antonio would follow, and he'd cry.

"Maybe if you stop pushing for an argument, Lovino, this wouldn't happen-"

"Shut up! I don't fucking want to hear it!"

But he always ended up grabbing Antonio's arm and forcing him back, telling him with a shuddering whisper to stay and wait because he'd be alright and he'd stop crying.

"I'm a terrible brother."

"You're not."

"I fucking am. I'd hate being my brother. God, if I just die-"

"Don't think like that!" Antonio shoved him harshly, his voice simmering. "Don't think like that," Lovino trembled slightly. Antonio's eyes were livid. "Lovino- I don't want to hear you saying that again, do you understand?"

He stared at the Spaniard's open face, his set jaw and his green, green eyes that were alive with such intensity before feeling something inside him break. He cried and he felt pathetic for it. He pushed Antonio's hand away and hastily tried to rub the tears from his eyes.

But they kept flowing.

He felt so sick of himself. He felt pathetic. He felt ridiculous. He was this sick shadow that fed his sick heart on sick, jealous thoughts and sick, jealous feelings until he felt rotten, decayed and foul inside out. He could feel Antonio's arms around him and he suddenly felt like a child and he suddenly felt as if he had broken his favourite toy. Truth was, he was older now but he had broken his dignity ages ago.

So he gripped the older boy's shoulders in a feeble attempt to get some stability into himself. But even he knew that it was just as hapless.

She knew Arthur was different. She felt it when she was with him, which was all day.

After Clara's funeral and after he dragged her away from the cemetery they ended up walking around Middle Park (which, because of it's central position in the little town, was always in reach). She did most of the talking- about her past schools, past friends, past town, past shenanigans- while he listened. Or heard her really. She could see him zoning out more than once and he seemed quite tired of her instead of annoyed, as though she was an inevitable part of his day he had to face instead of a sudden irritancy.

He was there somewhere, the Arthur she knew. Somewhere inside this brooding boy was the Arthur who had water-fights with her during the summer and snowball battles with her during winter. Somewhere inside this miserable looking boy who couldn't even smile without looking guilty and pale.

Amelia wasn't going to give up hope. She couldn't. He had been her best friend.

"Can I ask you a question?" she said.

She was on a swing. He was sitting on the edge.

"You jabbered your head off all morning, now you ask for permission to speak?"

"I'll take that as a 'sure-Amelia-you-ask-and-I'll-dutifully-spill-my-guts," he grimaced but she laughed. "Um… are you ok?"

He cocked his head to the side. He looked younger, all of a sudden, and innocent. "I'm not coming down with a cold if that's what you're asking."

"No," she shook her head. She could feel her clips loosening. "I mean… are you alright? I mean… I thought you were just sad that first day when I first came- you know, bad day and all… but… you've been pretty down for more than a week. Like, is everything ok?"

He paled. "I'm fine," he said vehemently. "What are you saying?"

"Nothing," shrugged Amelia. "but you seem really depressed-"

"I'm not," he stood up. He looked as though she had insulted him. He muttered something, gave a scoff and turned on his heel.

"Hey! What gives- where are you going?"

"I'm not depressed- I'm not anything," he whirled to meet her. She came up to his chin. He looked furious. "So don't bother insinuating-"

"Dude, I just asked you a question-"

"I don't bloody care what you asked, just don't- I'm sick and tired of everyone- is that it, then? You've been hearing from people- they don't shut up about me in class, right?"

"What are you talking about!"

"Nothing!" he was almost shouting. "Listen to what they say just like everyone else because no one in this damn world makes a mistake other than me."

He stormed away and she was flabbergasted. She stood, the swing innocently swaying behind her, the skies darkening with the oncoming of dusk, completely confused. But, she was Amelia E Jones and she wasn't going to let him leave her, mind-blanched and perplexed, about something he was clearly keeping pent up for ages.

So, she went to his house.

"Hiya Mrs Kirkland," she walked straight into the house the moment the tired woman opened the door, "I know Arthur's here so I'm just-"

"What the hell are you doing here?" he exclaimed. He halfway up the staircase. "Bloody hell you're mental!"

"Arthur-" his mother began warningly. But, he sent her a bitter glance.

Mrs Kirkland pursed her lips and looked away. She looked on the verge of tears. What was wrong with them? When were they like this? She watched as Arthur stormed down the staircase with a fury that completely contrasted to his eight-year old tantrums. She watched his mother amble away to the living room like a fading ghost that completely contrasted with the woman she once was.

"You should go home-"

"I'm not going home until you stop acting like the world's going to end!"

"What?!"

"You don't just randomly explode in the middle of the park and expect me to not-"

"I don't know you anymore, Amelia," he said bitingly. "I have no idea who the hell you are. You can't know everything about me in a fortnight because you're a complete stranger that I haven't seen in years. So, for God's sake, will you stop with the…"

She couldn't stop her tears. Amelia kept her eyes on him and kept her mouth tight and her jaw locked, but couldn't keep the tears from trickling down her plump cheeks. Before her sobs had the chance to leap out of her mouth, she turned around and walked towards the door, using all her willpower not to sprint home until after she was out the front door. She sprinted past the living room, past her questioning looking father, up the staircase, past Maddie and into her bedroom. She slammed the door, locked it and threw a chair against it for good measure. She settled into a little corner, her blurry eyes scanning her redecorated room before she put her head into her arms.

She had dreamt of coming back. She had wasted those years with that thought.

She was clad in her superwoman pajamas, her hair an absolute frizz around her head, her glasses perched on her nose, her face drained from just waking up. So, when she opened the front door, expecting the milkman or something random like that, she saw Arthur.

He was taken aback by her- probably a bit scared- but quickly masked the surprise. Amelia, on the other hand, immediately saw flashes of last night, her crying and him yelling at her in his house. Then, she could see her dry knees, her fluffy slippers and her huge printed shirt that was washed too often and stained too frequently.

"Uhh…"

"I wanted to…" he fidgeted. He winced. "I was… last night was uncalled for."

Should she tell him good morning? Or maybe she should tell him to wait so she could change into something a bit more decent. She should've worn a dressing gown. Even though it was childish- and the star prints were blinding- it was something to put over her age-old pajamas.

"What? I wasn't… I wasn't listening. Do you wanna come in?"

He gave her a flat, deadpanned look. "Last night? Remember?"

"When you yelled at me and said really mean things," she liked the way he cringed. It meant the message flew home. "Yeah, I remember. Oh right, we're strangers now, so I shouldn't answer the door for you now that I think about it-"

He wedged his shoe before she could shut the door and Amelia suddenly felt like laughing. It was fun. Even if it seemed to fluster him and made a permanent pink tinge bloom across his cheeks, it showed her that he felt just as guilty as she had felt miserable.

"I shouldn't have said what I said. It was rude-"

"Rude?" she gaped. "Just rude?"

"And…"

"Painful? Hell yes. Dream-shattering? Definitely. Heart-breaking-"

"Not true. What I said… it wasn't true," he scuffed at his shoe. He suddenly looked nine and he had just broken one of the stupid garden gnomes her father had placed around the garden with his football. "I… It's just that…"

She felt slightly cruel, watching him try to explain something that he had kept buried deep inside him. Something painful. It was like watching someone wretch blood.

"Did you miss me, Arthur?"

"Of course."

"And you're happy I'm back?"

He looked at her and, for the first time since she had come, he looked honest. "Relieved."

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