Worth it

Pear Tree

Ronaldo was impressed. For so many years, he'd always teased Lars about his inability to garden. Being a chef, and in the phase of being frugal, Lars had always insisted on growing his own food for cooking. But eventually, after so many dishes he could do in his sleep were hindered by shoddy fruits and veggies, Lars had given up.

It was only when, during a party, Buck Dewey had told Lars he needed to 'grow a pair', and Lars, absolutely fuming and upset, had decided he would take those words to heart. And grow a pear. He planted a pear tree sapling up by Ronaldo's 'brooding hill', and was dead serious in his attempts to have it grow. Everyone, even Ronaldo, had suspected it was going to die within a year, either from Lars over caring or under caring for it, the cold winter coming up, or the streak of bad luck Lars had with making anything grow. But come four years later, and the tree was still standing tall, tall enough for Ronaldo to climb sometimes, and look over Beach City.

It was rather humorous, to see such a surly punk like Lars so invested in something as simple as a pear tree. He had been pretty diligent in caring for it, watering it daily, making sure the soil wasn't too dry or too moist, and made sure the tree was free of bugs and infection. When winter came around, a good amount of time was spent making sure it was protected from the cold weather, in spite of Lars' own unstable health.

"How are you feeling today, my liege?", Ronaldo teased softly as he sat by Lars under the tree, overlooking the hill.

"I'm feeling fine," Lars had responded casually, "The fresh air's doing me pretty good up here."

"That's good. You know I worry about you sometimes," Ronaldo had softly admitted.

"You worry too much, lunkhead. I'm fine, promise."

Lars had always been ill. Born weak and sickly with highly underdeveloped lungs, doctors had warned his parents that he would probably not live past three months. He lived. And he had seemingly thrived for a handful of years until he'd had what was supposedly an asthma attack in his and Ronaldo's tree house one afternoon and was rushed to the hospital. While being examined, he developed a fever and grew pale. Multiple medical exams were taken, multiple medicines administered, a few operations suggested but not affordable for his parents, even with insurance. They said with measures of precaution, Lars' constitution might possibly strengthen, but more than likely, by age eighteen, he would need a complete lung transplant or face respiratory failure. Lars' mother had cried, but any of Lars' potential worries had faded away when Ronaldo had visited him in the hospital with flowers and comic books.

Finding the measures of precaution to be all too stifling, especially with such a young wild spirit as his own, Lars ignored them. He'd take his medicines if it meant he'd be able to go play outside with Ronaldo and explore Beach City as hunters for the strange and unusual, but he sure as hell wasn't going to stay cooped up inside during the summer days. But the only thing shakier than Lars' health was his self esteem and his image. Eventually he grew fearful of what other people said about him, and his friend, and one day, at the age of eleven, their friendship ended over a ripped up photograph.

After that, Ronaldo had no awareness as to how Lars was doing, if he was still taking medicines, or taking trips to the hospital. He didn't worry too much, Lars had always told him that he'd be fine when he got older, and that he'd be well enough to try out for the baseball team at their school.

Not that Ronaldo really cared much about what happened him. After all, they weren't friends anymore.

"I took some pictures of this place the other day, I'll bring them up to show you sometime," Ronaldo had offered his friend while they sat under that tree.