ruru-professional-fool

[ruru-professional-fool]

2005

On a sunny Wednesday afternoon in the park, seven year old Antonio is currently running for his life in a heated game of tag. He pants for breath, grinning as he makes a sharp turn towards the playground and ducks under the slide. His pursuer, Feliciano, shrieks in surprise, stumbling over his own feet as he hurries to catch up. Their laughter rings out across the park, breathy and stolen between gasps and playful shouts.

As they round the playground, the small rock wall that leads up onto the play structure comes into view. Antonio, being slightly older than Feliciano, uses his extra strength and courage to his advantage and throws himself up the rock wall. Small fingers claw at the grips as he scrambles to the top, leaving Feliciano whining at the bottom. Antonio takes a moment to pause and catch his breath, peering down at Feliciano with a triumphant grin. Feliciano scowls at him, crossing his arms and sticking his lip out like he always does when things don’t go his way.

“Toni, that’s not fair!” he whines, “I can’t climb the rock wall!”

“It is so fair, you just have to go that way to get up,” Antonio retorts, pointing towards the ramps leading up to the platform he’s standing on.

“But that’ll take a long time! You’ll be too far away by then,” Feliciano says.

“That’s the point, it’s my strategy to win,” Antonio says, then sighs when Feliciano’s pout doesn’t let up. “It would be better with more people,” he mutters as he reluctantly starts shimmying back down the rock wall.

“Maybe if we ask Lovi again, he’ll play,” Feliciano says, scuffing the ground with a shoe. Antonio drops to the ground, straightening up and following Feliciano’s gaze to where Lovino is sitting beneath a tree, his brow furrowed as he stares at the notebook that lays open on his lap.

“You can try, I guess,” Antonio shrugs. He doesn’t imagine Lovino will take to the suggestion any more enthusiastically than he usually does when Feliciano pesters him to play, but he doesn’t voice these thoughts. He just follows behind as Feliciano starts marching towards is older brother.

“Hey, Lovi!” Feliciano calls when they’re near enough to be heard, “Play tag with us!”

Lovino, who had been too absorbed in his scribbling to notice them approach, visibly jumps, slamming the notebook shut. He hugs it to his chest and glares at Feliciano, cheeks reddening.

“No, stupid! I already told you I’m not playing!” he snaps, “I’m busy.”

“Ugh, you’re so annoying,” Feliciano huffs, “What are you even doing, anyway?”

“None of your business,” is the curt response, and Lovino hugs the notebook tighter to his chest.

“C’mon, I wanna see!” Feliciano whines.

“It’s private! I’m not letting you see!” Lovino says, “Besides, you wouldn’t understand it anyway. Not until you go to real school like us.”

“I do too go to school!” Feliciano argues, arms crossed indignantly over his chest, “Antonio, don’t I go to school?” Antonio startles a little at being addressed, but before he can answer, Lovino beats him to it.

“Kindergarten isn’t real school, dummy,” he says, rolling his eyes as if he’s explained this a thousand times before.

“Is too real! You’re just mean,” Feliciano retorts, stomping once for emphasis, “I don’t wanna play with you anyway, I’m gonna go find Ludwig and play with him instead.”

Turning away from them, he stalks (as much as a five year old can stalk) back towards the Vargas brothers’ mom, likely planning on nagging her to take him by Ludwig’s house. Lovino sticks his tongue out after him, though the gesture is wasted on Feliciano’s retreating backside.

Antonio looks between them for a moment, before sitting down next to Lovino. The grass is cool as it tickles his bare legs, and he welcomes the sensation, still worn out and sweaty from running around in the sun.

“You know, Lovi... you could be a little nicer,” he says, “Feli’s littler than us.”

Lovino rolls his eyes again, flicking a strand of hair out of his face, “You don’t get it. You don’t have little siblings. When you have little siblings, you have to remind them who’s in charge, or else they’ll get to confident. And if that happens, you’re doomed.”

Antonio snickers. “Yeah... I guess I don’t,” he acquiesces, leaning back on his hands and letting his head tip back to gaze at the branches that stretch out above them, “You could still be nicer, though. Just a bit.”

“I guess I’ll think about it,” Lovino says. They both fall silent.

In the absence of conversation, Lovino opens his notebook again, keeping it angled sharply away from his friend. Antonio hears the rustle of pages and sees the movement in the corner of his eyes. Curiosity tugs at him, forcing his eyes over to Lovino in what are, despite his best efforts, probably extremely unsubtle glances.

“How come we can’t see what you’re writing?” he ventures.

Lovino blushes, hiding his face further into the notebook. “‘Cuz it’s embarrassing,” he mumbles.

“Why?” Antonio asks, “What is it, your diary or something?”

“No! I don’t have a stupid diary!” Lovino yelps, affronted. He glances away, hunching his shoulders a little, and mutters, “It’s just... a poem.”

“Ooh, a poem?” Antonio says, eyes widening, “That’s not embarrassing, it’s cool!” He can’t stop himself from leaning closer, making Lovino glare and turn away, shielding the notebook with his shoulder.

“Well, mine is embarrassing.”

“Why?”

Lovino huffs, hugging his knees to his chest and resting his chin on them. “Because it sucks,” he says, ripping up blades of grass and twirling them between his fingers, “I wanted to write a poem like the ones Mrs. Héderváry showed us at school, but it won’t work. Nothing I write sounds like that, it just sounds stupid.”

Antonio watches him, chewing his lip as he considers Lovino’s words. “Well...” he starts, “Just ‘cuz it doesn’t sound like that one doesn’t mean it’s stupid. Maybe it can be your own kind of poem.”

“Maybe,” Lovino mutters.

Antonio sighs. He stares across the playground for a moment as he thinks to himself, then turns back to Lovino. “Can I see it? Please? I pinkie promise I won’t think it’s stupid.”

Lovino picks his head up from his knees and looks at Antonio like he thinks he’s stupid. “How can you promise what you’ll think? That’s not how thinking works, dummy,” he scoffs, “Why do you wanna so bad, anyway?”

“‘Cuz you’re my friend, dummy!” Antonio says, rolling his eyes.

Lovino eyes him suspiciously, but slowly picks up his notebook. He flips it to the right page and shoves it at Antonio. “Fine, take it,” he huffs, looking away.

Antonio grins, feeling triumphant as he grabs it. Settling it in his lap, he examines the words scrawled in sloppy handwriting across the page. Many places having evidently been erased and written over several times. As he’s reading, he hears Lovino’s voice, hesitant and quiet.

“...Mrs. Héderváry said poems should be about what makes you feel stuff, like what makes you happy or whatever. So I wrote about cooking with Nonno and Feli.”

“I think it’s good,” Antonio says, “It’s not stupid. And I think it’s really cool you wrote a poem.”

“Really?” Lovino asks.

“Really, really. ‘Cuz if you write poems, I’m pretty sure that makes you a poet now. And being a poet is definitely cool,” Antonio says. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Lovino raise his head from his arms and sit up a little straighter, and he smiles.

“...I’m a poet?” Lovino says, slowly as if he’s testing the words out, “I guess that is pretty cool.”

“Yep! And I get to be friends with a poet,” Antonio says, his grin widening, “So that makes me cool too!”

“Nuh uh, nothing could make you cool,” Lovino scoffs with a grin of his own.

“Hey!” Antonio laughs, shoving Lovino over into the grass. Lovino shrieks and tackles him back. Antonio squirms away and sets off towards the playground, Lovino hot on his heels and both of them giggling madly. The notebook lies open in the grass, forgotten.