Two chapters in 24 hours? Am I really going back to my days of being an OCD poster? There's a good chance I am because the more I write this story, the more I love it. Rise of Green Street didn't have the heart that WCHB and Intervals had and I think you guys knew that as much as I did, hence why I've put it on hiatus until further notice. This story on the other hand has got me going again and I'm seriously excited about it. Thank you for your kind words via PM, those who sent them and to Paratrooper56 who has read and reviewed so faithfully for FOUR BLOODY YEARS.

This chapter is for you and all the 90' kids who will hopefully get the references to our fallen youth. And those of you who spot the Intervals references (I'm linking the universes), win a prize ;)

Pete Dunham took a deep breath, his sapphire hued eyes focused hard on the stairs before him and the front door just ahead of them. All he had to do was run, get down there as fast as he could before his father or his brother saw him. He'd almost been glad of the pouring rain this morning, whilst it meant that football at lunch would be a no go, it did mean he could justify wearing his oversized hoodie which from the side concealed his bruised and sore looking lip.

His mother wasn't back from her night shift at the hospital left and he knew his dad wouldn't bother making breakfast for them so he was leaving early enough to stop by Bovver's and hopefully swipe a bacon sandwich.

"Pete!"

His father's voice boomed through the house and he flinched, his breath coming faster as his fist tightened on the stair rail.

Please stay in the kitchen, please stay in the kitchen, please stay in the kitchen.

"Don't miss that fuckin' bus, son because I ain't driving you to school," Michael Dunham barked. "I've got work to do around 'ere after you went and fucked up the radiator."

Not bothering to answer him, Pete simply took a deep breath as though he were about to dive to the depths of the ocean and ran full pelt down the stairs and out through the front door, his father's voice carrying after him. He didn't bother trying to decipher his message through the obscenities, he just wanted out of that house.

He kept running until he reached the corner, slowing down enough to catch his breath and hike his backpack father up onto his shoulder, his body finally relaxing. That was until a hand shot out from behind the old oak tree to his left and dragged him under it.

"I fuckin' knew it,"

Steve stared down at him, his eyes a fiercer more arctic blue than his own. Grasping his younger brother's chin, Steve gritted his teeth as he stared at the bruise on his lower lip.

"Who did this?" he growled, his eyes never leaving Pete's. "Don't tell me it was the old man?"

He swallowed hard, trying not to let Pete see the rage in his eyes; he knew that their father favoured him and truth be told he fucking hated it but he couldn't say anything. No one could say anything to Michael Dunham.

"Nah," Pete shrugged him off. "Just some tossers from year 9. I'm dandy,"

"Who?" Steve pressed.

"Piss off, Stevie," the younger man grinned, shoving him playfully. "If mum wasn't with me, you know they would 'ave come off a lot worse than I did,"

"Well that ain't the point is it?" Steve shot back, falling into step beside him. "And shove me again and see what 'appens, you little shit,"

He smirked and pulled Pete into a headlock, ruffling his hair as they dragged themselves to school, past the pool halls and the Lido which for some reason was still open in mid-September. Like anyone would swim in there anyway, it was basically a one stop shop for all your STI needs.

"Aye, aye," Steve called, squinting through the drizzling rain to the figure a few paces ahead of them. "Here's trouble,"

Bovver scowled at them, yanking a foil package from his pocket and chucking it at Pete who managed to catch it despite still being held under Steve's arm.

"Extra brown sauce," the brown haired boy muttered, nodding to his friend.

"How is it your mum makes me little brother a bacon sandwich every morning?" Steve raised an eyebrow. "What exactly do you have to do to get that kind of treatment?"

"A gentleman never tells," Pete smirked, taking a huge bite as Steve laughed loudly and Bovver flipped him the middle finger.

"Speaking of bacon," Bovver sniffed. "I ain't up for maths with Miss Shelly this morning, fancy headin' down the rec instead?"

"It's raining," Steve shot at him, narrowing his eyes. "And as if you do fuck all in her lessons anyway, just sit there and look pretty. I ain't having mum giving me shit for him skiving on the second week of term,"

Truth be told, Steve was more afraid of their father; despite taking little to no interest in Pete, the last time a school report had come through which sited Pete and Bovver had skipped school one day, Michael had suddenly become quite the disciplinarian. Closing his eyes for a short moment, Steve cringed, still able to hear the noise of the belt buckle hitting his brother's back.

"Alright, don't get your tits in a twist," Bovver shrugged. "I'll see what Ike is doing instead,"

"Oh don't be like that, you moody prick," Pete protested, his mouth full. "He was just…"

"I'll catch you at lunch," Bovver nodded, crossing the road and slipping into the woodland behind the bus stop.

Pete watched him go and then turned to his brother who was busy trying to shield his cigarette from the rain.

"What'd you do that for?" he shook his head.

"What?" Steve frowned, patting his pockets in search of a lighter. "Bovver?" he snorted. "Mate, he'll be fine. I don't know why you waste your time with him anyway, right moody little shit."

"He's my mate," the blonde protested. "I don't take the piss out of Terry,"

"Because Terry is a fucking top notch lad," Steve shrugged as though it was the simplest thing in the world. "He don't give me grief and he ain't trying to fuck me up,"

"How is Bovver-…"

"Mate, you're a smart fucker. I know it, you know it, like it or not the old man knows it and so does Bovver," he tapped Pete's temple lightly. "So despite breaking the Dunham mould and being born with more than 5 brain cells, you're going to fuck it up to stand around the park throwing rocks at walls with little Stewie Boverington? Fuck off,"

Pete blinked, apparently too blindsided by the compliment to jump to Bovver's defence a second time. Since when did Steve think he was smart or give a shit about his education? As far as Pete knew his brother was far from being a poster child for the British education system, so why should Pete be any different?

"Aye, aye!"

Both Dunham's turned to the sound of the all too familiar voice, both of them grinning when they spotted Terry Broughton, Steve's best friend, crossing the road with a large bundle over his shoulder.

"Put me down, you queer!" came a muffled voice. "I ain't Steve, you know."

"Yeah, put him down mate," Steve smirked, giving the younger, chubbier boy a quick swat across the behind. "You don't know where he's been,"

Crouching down in front of Pete, Terry winked at the blonde and cocked his head in Swill's direction.

"This yours?" he raised an eyebrow, grinning as Pete laughed before dropping his captive down onto the pavement.

"That was fucking uncalled for," Swill pointed at him, fighting to stand up with his bag strap around his neck.

"Yeah, well so is your porky little mug peeking through my sister's window every night, but here we are," Terry slapped him playfully around the head and fell into line with Steve.

"'ere give us a bite," Swill reached for what was left of Pete's bacon sandwich, grinning when he handed it over with a roll of his eyes.

"Every fucking morning," Pete shook his head.

"Every fucking morning," Terry and Steve chimed in unison behind them.

"I tell you something, Swilliam." Terry laughed. "You're getting a right fucking gut on you. Maybe stick to two breakfasts and not three, eh?"

"Three?" Steve raised an eyebrow.

"Fucker ate my cereal bar out of my bag," his friend gestured to his open back pack and laughed. They fell into comfortable conversation as they always did, Terry delivering the odd kick to Swill's backpack and sending him flying a few steps ahead.

"What 'appened?"

Terry spoke so quietly, Steve almost missed it, too busy dusting the cigarette ash from his clothes before Mr Spinks spotted it and chucked him in an after school again.

"Our boys new look," Terry explain, gesturing to Pete who was busy swapping football stickers with Swill.

"He won't give up any names," Steve let out a long breath. "All I know is whoever it was smacked him one, took his fiver and left him on his jack for someone to find."

"Esdon?" Terry offered.

"Nah, not his style," Steve shook his head. "Marky ain't the brightest lightbulb but even he knows not to go after Pete,"

"So that leaves…"

"Courden," Steve grabbed his friend's arm and pulled him to a stop. "I know. But mate, we open this can of worms…" he trailed off and shuffled his feet, slinging his bag farther up onto his shoulder. "I know my old man already has it in with his old man…if I touch a hair on his head, I may as well light a fire under my own roof, drink some petrol and piss on the flames,"

"Colourful," Terry pursed his lips. "And yet you're failing English,"

"What can I say?" Steve smirked. "I save my poetics for the pitch and the ladies,"

"So what, we do nothing?" the brown haired boy shook his head, nodding to a few friends who were stood outside the gates as they entered the formidable St Marks playground. "Just let him knock Pete about and fucking smile at him?"

Steve stopped, spotting Mark Courden across the playground; he was the exact image of his father, his head shaved shorter than the school would allow, his dark eyes flitting menacingly about the yard until he spotted Pete and Swill and gave them a wave and a sickly smile.

Feeling his blood pressure spike a few notches, Steve smirked, slinging an arm around Terry's shoulders and pulling his head closer.

"Now I didn't quite say that, did I?" he nodded to himself. "Get the lads round the PE block at lunch, we'll work something out."

He eyed Mark dangerously, his fists clenching at his sides as he cast another look at his younger brother, the cut on his lip looking sore in the frosty morning light.

"He might be his father's son," Steve sniffed, raising his chin. "But then again, so am I."

"Do I 'ave to?"

Moira stared at her son as he sat on his bedroom floor surrounded by sticker books, football trading cards all of which had seen better days strewn about carelessly.

"Do you have to come with me to see the woman who picked your sorry arse off of the pavement and offered me a job without meeting me?" she raised an eyebrow. "Yes, you bloody do,"

Pete rolled his eyes, slamming his book closed and clambering to his feet, reaching for his trainers and freezing only when his mother let out a laugh.

"Oh no you bloody don't," she pointed at him. "Change out of that, there's no way I'm taking you to bleedin' Kensington looking like something from Oliver Twist,"

"What's wrong with these?" Pete cried, gesturing down to his West Ham tracksuit bottoms. "I wore 'em to the doctors the other week,"

"And I doubt you've taken 'em off since then," Moira wrinkled her nose in disgust. "School trousers and a nice jumper. Come on,"

"Wait a second," Pete laughed. "You want me to go to some posh bird's house in my school uniform out of school hours and not look like a tit?"

"Lord, give me strength," Moira cast her eyes to the heavens and tried not to laugh. "Just put on some jeans then, will you? Just something that don't scream bread line,"

"Do I bow or courtesy?" Pete shot back, reaching down and snagging his jeans from the floor.

"In this instance, I'd say both," his mum dead panned, causing him to crack a grin.

He yanked the jeans on, freezing when something occurred to him.

"I ain't drinking no weird tea," he told her, his eyes serious. "And I ain't eating anything with fish in it."

"Right," Moira chuckled under her breath, straightening the navy blue blouse she was wearing, the one that had only seen the light of day at Christmas and the odd dinner out. Maybe it was too much? Jesus, Christ. She thought, touching her hair and wondering if she was going overboard. Chances are once this woman who had been lovely on the phone actually met her, there was no way in hell she would-

"You look well nice," Pete's voice broke her from her self-destructive reverie and she blinked, watching as he pulled a grey sweater over his head and ruffled his hair. "Blue is nice on you. Makes our eyes look the same,"

Feeling tears sting her eyes, Moira dropped down onto his bed and patted the mattress next to her, wrapping her arm around him when he bounded over and sat down next to her. Kissing the top of his head, she rested her cheek there and sighed, wishing that things were different. Wishing she had stayed in college and become a doctor instead of a nurse. Wishing she had perhaps married a different man so that Pete and Steve would be happy, living in a neighbourhood without a curfew or police tape around every other corner.

"This lady seemed sound," Pete told her. "I reckon we could be onto something with her."

"You think?" Moira asked him, hating the way her voice wavered.

"Yeah," he nodded, pulling back and grinning at his mum. "She seemed like someone who gave a proper crap, you know. I reckon she could help you out."

"Maybe," his mother straightened his hair and grinned, her eyes twinkling mischievously. "And she tells me she's got three kids of her own, so you never know…you might make some friends n'all."

Pete snorted, regarding her as though she were crazy as he bent down to yank on his trainers, determined that the trousers were enough. He wasn't going to meet the bloody Queen.

"Me hanging out with some posh kids? Sitting around reading Dickens for fun and trading polo stories?" he laughed. "Tell you what, if I end up so much as not hating any of 'em, I'll buy you a McDonalds on the way home,"

"Deal," Moira laughed, following him down the stairs and out into the cold, her heart racing as she wondered if her son was onto something and this really was the evening that would change things for the better.

"Do I have to?"

Poppy glanced across the table, her forkful of roast lamb coming to a stop just before it hit her lips. Resting it back down, she set her eyes on the blonde halo of hair spilling out all over the oak table top and bit her lip to keep from grinning.

"Yes, you do," she took a sip of her wine, winking at her husband across the table. "Moira is coming over in an hour and I think it would be nice if you spent some time with-…"

"But he's a boy!" Allie Harding grumbled, lifting her head just enough to glare at her parents. "What am I supposed to talk to him about? Training bras or tampons?"

"Oh, Christ," Harry recoiled from his plate in disgust, throwing his cutlery onto the table. "If I have to have a swear jar, can't we get her something for that?"

"All those in favour of a bra jar?" Richard raised an eyebrow at his children, noting the scowl from his daughter and laughing.

"Darling, I'm sure he's lovely," Poppy placed her hands on the table and met her daughter's eyes. "His mother is such a wonderful woman and the apple never falls far from the tree,"

"EuuruRichardhmmm," Harry coughed, causing Allie to laugh and his older brother to glare at him across the table. "Oh don't pout," he grinned. "Allie gets jealous that you're prettier when you do that,"

"You know what?" Allie cried, pushing her chair back and shaking her head. "Why can't I have a normal family?"

"Definition, please," Richard coaxed, leaning back in his chair with his wine glass against his lips to conceal his smile.

"A brother who isn't an arse, another brother who isn't an arse, a father who doesn't side with the arses and a mother who doesn't bring home street urchins," Allie shrugged, ignoring her mother's laughter.

"Urchins?" she raised an eyebrow.

"Word of the day toilet paper," Harry winked, popping a roast potato into his mouth. "Got to be,"

"You're all sods," Allie giggled, despite herself, not in the least bit surprised when her father and brother began thumping on the table and chanting "SWEAR JAR!" at her.

"We'll have enough money to travel the world at this rate," Richard chuckled, reaching across for his wife's hand. "Just think, we could leave them here. A few tins of beans and some water. They'd be fine,"

"Mmmmm, Mexico," Poppy sighed wistfully.

"Tequila for breakfast, lunch and dinner," Richard agreed. "Balls to you lot, you can stay here. Form a gang with Allie's street urchin friend,"

"I'm too pretty for the streets," the junior of the two Richards muttered through a mouthful of carrots.

"Good lord," his father sat back in his chair. "Was that a joke?"

"Buddy Holly made a funny," Harry nodded.

"I demand another jar for such occasions," their father slammed his fist down on the table, coaxing a laugh out of all of them.

"Right, enough!" Poppy shook her head. "They'll be here in an hour and I want them thinking we're mildly normal."

"If it's normal you're going for then throwing your ten year old daughter at her son like some bizarre arranged marriage meeting probably isn't the way to go," Allie stabbed at her food.

"Oh darling, no one is asking you to marry him," Poppy soothed. "From what I saw, the poor boy has been through enough,"

"Oooooh!" Harry jumped out of his chair and placed a hand on his sister's forehead. "Just what I thought…burned. From the rarest of all burns…the mother burn,"

"A-thank you," Poppy bowed, pushing her plate away and resting her chin on her hands. "Allie, darling please?"

The blonde took a deep breath; her ivy green eyes focused unwaveringly on the table before her. Not for the first time, Poppy noted how gorgeous her girl was. Even now at just ten, you could tell she was going to be a knockout; her honey blonde hair framed her face which was changing every day, a few tiny freckles scattered across her delicate nose, her eyes which were ivy and then lighter green towards the iris as spirited as her mothers.

"Please?" she pressed.

"Yeah, come on, Allie-cat," Harry pouted, resting his head on her shoulder. "I've got rugby, Buddy Holly has chess club…"

"I'm going to running practice, you git," his brother barked.

"So that only leaves you to take poor Oliver under your wing," he carried on.

"Alright!" she cried, shoving him away. "Fine, I'll stay here and play with the boy I've never met,"

"Bit of trivia for you," her father leaned forward. "This is probably the second to last year of your life when you can says those words in front of your father and brothers and we won't all have coronaries."

"I sense another jar developing," Harry pursed his lips.

"Enough with the shitting jars!" Poppy burst out, closing her eyes when she felt them all turn to look at her. Opening them again, she caught their grins and sighed, dropping her chin down to her chest before standing from the table and collecting her plate. "Will a fiver do it?"

"Better make it ten," Allie told her, their laughter following her all the way into the kitchen.

When Pete was seven, he had "accidentally" stayed up late with Steve one night and watched Bram Stoker's Dracula. He didn't remember much beyond it being the first time he had seen a girl naked from the waist up and the doors on Dracula's house were these huge, oak monstrosities with lion crests on them.

Just like the doors to this house.

House didn't seem like the right term, however; as far as Pete was concerned, he lived in a house. This was a small city. Two gargantuan iron gates led up a paved driveway, a fountain sat in the middle, the finest layer of ice on its surface as it was dwarfed by the Tudor mansion behind it. It was covered in ivy, the chequered window panes peeking through into the bleak misty evening. But unlike Dracula's castle, there was a warmth about this place. Something that made it different from the other mansions along the road.

"Blimey," Moira breathed, coming to a stop in front of the door. "You reckon we've got the right place?"

"It can't be," Pete scoffed, rocking back on his heels and staring up at the Victorian lantern above them. "All I know is we should ring the bell before someone thinks we're casing the joint and calls the filth,"

"Don't be so stupid," Moira laughed, playfully clipping him on the side of the head.

Taking a deep breath, she rang the bell, her heart faltering and then going into overdrive when she heard footsteps approaching, the lanterns either side of the door flickering to life as she heard the lock twist.

The door opened slowly and with a creek, a hunched and hooded figure coming into view as it leaned against the doorframe.

"Come in…." it coaxed, its voice warbled and off key. "What brings thee here on this terrible ni-…oh bugger!"

"Crying out loud," Poppy frowned as she lowered the magazine she had used to bash Harry with, pulling the hood of his school hoodie down and glaring at him. "I knew we should have adopted,"

Casting her eyes to the shocked looking woman and smirking young boy on the porch, she straightened her sweater and rolled her eyes.

"Please forgive the offspring, Harry was born in the year of the great storm and I strongly suspect has some association with Satan,"

"She says that like it's a bad thing," he quipped, pulling the door open further. "Come on in,"

"Moira, so lovely to meet you," Poppy shook her hand with both of hers and smiled warmly. "Sorry to drag you out here,"

"Its um…not a bother…please don't..um," Moira stumbled over her words. What the hell was happening? Twenty minutes ago she'd been driving down Selsdon Road, shouting out of her window at the kids playing football in the street and now here she was in a house that looked like something from a bloody Austen novel with a Princess Di lookalike shaking her hand.

"Here, let me take your coat," Poppy held out her hand and Moira handed it to her, praying she didn't see the label or the missing top button. "I've got the kettle on and Eastenders is just about to start,"

"Don't tell me you watch Eastenders?" Moira laughed, feeling more relaxed by the moment as she followed the blonde down a corridor lined with photos and framed finger paintings.

"Don't tell me you don't," Poppy gasped. "That Grant Mitchell is to die for,"

Laughing louder, Moira turned to Pete and smiled broadly reassuring him that this wasn't what either of them thought it would be.

"So you play rugby?" Pete cleared his throat and gestured to the mousy haired boy next to him; Pete had to guess he was around 14 at most. Typical posh boy hair cut but time would tell.

"Only when I'm not on the yacht or playing water polo with Prince William," he deadpanned.

Pete met his gaze and smirked, shaking his head.

"Oh as if you weren't thinking it," Harry laughed, shoving him forward into a separate hallway. Pete lost sight of his mother and panicked momentarily, unsure of how to behave in this kind of situation. If this was Bovver's house, he'd have flung his shoes off and would be wrestling for the remote by now.

"Truth be told, yes, I play rugby and yes, it makes me a slight bellend, BUT…" He turned to Pete and raised a finger in the laughing boys face. "I also happen to be N64 champion of the universe and we have ten minutes before I have to go to game practice and you're stuck with my arse of a baby sister so I vote we take this chance to divide the men from the mice,"

"Golden Eye?" Pete narrowed his eyes; truth be told it was the only game he had played on an N64. They didn't come cheap and when you lived in a house where you had to defrost the bathroom mirror before brushing your teeth in the morning, things like that weren't deemed a necessity.

"We're going to get along fine," Harry grinned, holding out his hand. "Harry Harding,"

"Pete Dunham," the blonde nodded, following him down a smaller corridor where he threw open a door to reveal what looked like every kids dream.

It was a den, the walls oak and ivy green, the ceiling decorated with glow in the dark stars. The divide was clear, posters for Blur and English rugby on one side, the other adorned with an Oasis poster as well as one for All Saints and…

"Spice Girls?" Pete raised an eyebrow.

"My sisters," Harry explained, rolling his eyes.

"What he doesn't want you to know is that it's actually his," something breezed past him, all flowers and body spray. He caught a flash of blonde and turned, his jaw going slack as he spotted her.

"I'm just borrowing it," Allie grinned, flopping down into a beanbag and reaching for a magazine.

Fuck. Me.

Pete had had crushes before; he might be eleven but he wasn't retarded, he knew what girls were. He'd even noticed a few of the ones at school, dedicating entire lunch hours to spotting training bra straps with the boys. But none of those girls looked like this.

"That," Harry pointed blindly from where he was crouched in front of the TV, sifting through the box of games. "Is my aforementioned arse of a little sister,"

Allie stood up, her legs shaky for some reason as she took a step forward and smiled. No one had warned her the boy would be in any way cute. Thankfully the fates had pushed her to throw on her pale pink spaghetti strap top and her favourite chequered trousers, the ones Harry always told her looked like pyjamas but what the hell did he know? He hadn't even watched Clueless.

"I tend to go by Allie," she nodded, unsure of whether she should shake his hand. What was the protocol here? Going to an all girls' school didn't make her the savviest when it came to boys. The only ones she ever met where her brothers' friends who were at best atrocious mongrels.

"Pete," he choked out, shoving his hands in his pockets and then removing them again.

Don't look to see if she's wearing a bra. He told himself. Keep your fucking eyes on her face…do not check to see if…

His eyes disobeyed and darted down to where he could clearly see a purple strap peeking out from beneath her vest and bit the inside of his cheek. Fucking hell. Someone was trying to kill him.

"Game on, Pedro," Harry called, barely giving the younger boy time to react before he tossed a controller his way. "Allie, be a doll and grab us some cookies would you?"

"Here's something you can grab," Allie smiled sweetly, holding up her middle finger and coaxing a surprised laugh from Pete. Yep, she definitely wasn't like any of the girls he had met before.

"But um…" she turned back to Pete, trying not to notice how blue his eyes were. Oh God, she needed Lara here. Lara was Zsa Zsa Gabor reincarnate according to her mother and whatever that meant, she was good with people and great with talking to boys. "If you're hungry, I'm pretty sure we have some pudding left. It was sticky toffee, I can heat it up if you like?"

"Sounds blindin', it was brass monkeys out there," Pete smiled then cringed when she gave him a frown.

What was rule number 3 his mum had laid down on the way here? No Cockney.

"Um…right," Allie turned away from him slightly, her eyes wide. "Gotcha,"

"Oi, Dick Van Dyke," Harry laughed. "If you're through confusing Mary Poppins over there, player two needs to check in,"

Pete nodded, giving the blonde girl one last apologetic smile before jumping over the sofa and landing on the floor next to Harry, taking the pad from him and selecting his character. Pressing as many buttons as he could to stop himself thinking about the girl behind him and the fact he'd taken all but 5 seconds to make an arse of himself.

Brilliant.

I loved writing this chapter, it was so much fun so I can only hope you enjoyed reading it. The next chapter has Allie and Pete actually talking to one another properly AND the trademark all important time jump so keep your eyes pealed for updates and as always if you could leave a review it would make a gals day :) love, el xx