RATED M just in case (there's swearing and maybe violence, but I read FFN's rating system and still don't understand it completely/ oops.)
WORD COUNT (ignoring author's notes, etc.): 14,725
no beta we go down like men (sorry.) also the chapter titles are probably gonna stay stupidly long (hey, look, the only thing i will be consistent about with this fic.)
this fic is mainly oriented around the 'GREENS' ship (butch/buttercup, butchercup, whatever other name they go by,) but there might be some background REDS and BLUES if i care enough to pay attention to them. the fic will most likely just be told from butch's POV, but it could switch every now and then - i'm still not sure, so.
CHAPTER TITLE: stealing the hotel shower gel isn't the worst crime committed /or/ sometimes 'I was jerking off' just doesn't cut it
Coming back to Townsville is like, well, coming back to Townsville. Underwhelmed, unimpressed, unsettling. Mainly because it's Townsville, and it's never been much of an extravagant place to begin with. A little town somehow pinned on the map, backed up against a beach and a whole lot of desert. The population's never reached above five thousand or so. That's with the tourist attractions.
Though, having said that, the tourist attractions are pretty crap as well. A measly boardwalk with an arcade den nearby doesn't really amount to much entertainment. Really, the boardwalk is just there for teens to scamper off too at night and have bonfires when the tide is low.
So yeah. The most of a rise he gets out of returning to this hellhole is the memories. Mostly unpleasant, but they get sweeter each time he thinks about them.
And who is he, to be exact? Well, none other than Butch Jojo, of course. Y'know – daring, dashing, debonair. Or, better known as 'douchebag'. As in the insult. It doesn't really matter if he's remembered or not, to be honest, he's not back in this jerkwater town to cause trouble. Mostly. As long as he's in Red's (uh, that's Brick's) supervision, anyways. Other than that, his actions cannot be held accountable. That being said, his older brother would probably skin him alive if he stirred up too much commotion.
Butch has been struck with bouts of nostalgia since the plane started flying over the familiar scene below. The coastline was the most obvious thing from this high up. Deep blue waters along the shore, the Pacific ocean glittering in the sunlight from this far up. He could make out a few surfers among the waves. The second thing had been the long backroads; much more lengthy and...desolate, distant from the rest of Townsville. They look like they haven't been used in a while. Endless stretches of asphalt, driving away from the town.
Almost as if by compulsion, his eyes wandered to the general area of the Utonium household. Too far up to see the exact house from the plane window, and his enhanced vision only let him squint so far. He made out the neighborhood – blurry at most. Terracotta roof tiles, stretches of green lawns and gravel drives. Butch couldn't make out any other details. Or which house was specifically the Utoniums'. Not that it matters, to be honest. Red already made it clear that they weren't going to go purposely finding the girls at any rate. "We're here to finish highschool. After that, I don't give a fuck what you two get up to," Had been his exact words.
Okay, maybe not his exact words, but just about.
Butch didn't really care for specifics anyways.
Then the plane had landed. Something about exiting the plane in an orderly fashion, grabbing luggage from the overhead carriers, blah blah blah. Butch had spent roughly nine hours on this damn flight from Havana with both screaming children and Boomer in his ear (though those two are both one in the same, he supposed.) Like hell was Butch getting off this plane in an 'orderly fashion'. He grabbed his carry-on luggage and shouldered through the mass of passengers. First Class wasn't too happy when he ducked in and stole a handful of those tiny tequila bottles, but fuck them.
Red hadn't been too happy to find Butch already off at the baggage carousel. Effectively abandoning his older brother with the youngest is never the most pleasant surprise. Boomer can talk up a storm when he wants to. And when he isn't? Singing or snoring. It was a deafening, dizzing, detestable on-repeat playlist of all three. For nine hours. Turns out Red had booked himself a seat away from his two younger brothers. This left Butch with Boomer and a single mother with an upset child. Apparently it was the brat's first plane ride, but what does that matter?
So yeah. Airport hadn't been the greatest time of his life. Especially when they found out the hotel they were planning on crashing at for the night had to cancel their booking due to a wedding. Cash whores. Butch would bet money on the fact that the hotel canceled them in turn for the wedding simply because they were willing to pay more to rent out the entire establishment.
And that leaves us here, now. Butch stares at the receptionist. She looks a lot like the hostess women on the plane. Blonde hair pinned back into a bun, near immaculate uniform, shiny name-tag: from the perfect makeup to the form-fitting clothing. Even her smile was the same. Big, white, customer-service levels of 'I'm ready to die now, somebody please end me'. The receptionist's voice is patronizing as she repeats, very clearly, very slowly, "So sorry boys. You'll have to find someplace else for the night." Dammit.
A glance to Brick says he's still struggling to come to terms with this sudden development. The only silver-lining to all of this is that Boomer passed out on one of the lounge chairs in the lobby. Downside to that is that Butch knows he's going to be the one to drag him around after this. "Cool," Butch drawls, craning his neck at the ceiling. Maybe God is smirking down at them right now. A huge 'fuck you' for being shitty kids in the past.
Brick sighs heavily, wiping a hand down his face. His expression is eerily blank, like it always is when he's both frustrated and calculating. Butch isn't sure if his older brother is calculating how easily he could get away with the murder of some nobody receptionist, or if he's actually trying to figure out where they'll be sleeping tonight.
Probably murder, huh?
Butch strolls over to the vending machine, shoves a couple quarters into the slot. There isn't much option. Bottled water, canned sodas, crappy granola bars. All of it's overpriced. Then again, he doesn't know what he's expecting from a hotel. "Red, you want anything?" Before Brick can answer the receptionist clears her throat politely, "You're not actually allowed to use the vending machine unless you're staying here." Brick answers anyways, "Get me a Dr Pepper." Nodding, Butch jams in the buttons for a Dr Pepper and a Sprite. The cans fall heavily into the tray at the bottom.
Grabbing them, he shoves his can into his pocket, throwing the other one to Brick. He doesn't care if Brick catches it or not. Butch sighs, bending down to throw Boomer over his shoulder. The younger brother groans in his sleep. "C'mon Red," He calls.
Brick sighs noisily. There's shuffling. He's probably picking up his luggage. They didn't bring much. Clothes, odd bits and pieces, electronics that were smaller than a desk monitor and computer. Butch carts his and Boomer's suitcases behind him, shouldering his gymbag onto his other shoulder. He dangles Boomer's backpack over his head; the blond's neck makes a good holder. They hang around outside the hotel.
The night is...relatively young. Nine-ish, now, but hopefully that's not too late to try and book someplace else for the night. Brick raises an eyebrow at him, "Where are we going?" Butch shifts Boomer's weight on his shoulder. Grunting, he answers, "We're calling a damn taxi for where we're going." Brick raises both eyebrows this time, "Got another hotel in mind?" Butch nods his head, "Just get a damn taxi. Or an Uber. Something." He's tired. He kinda wants to take Boomer's lead and just pass out, but with Brick, it's hard to figure out if he'd just leave them or actually give a shit for once.
The only response he gets is, "I doubt this shithole does Uber." The pale glow of Brick's phone reassures him somewhat. It's not often that he and Brick actually get along. Usually it's either Butch making fun of whatever plans Brick has in mind, and, well, Brick being reasonably dubious to go along with any of Butch's ideas. Still, this is nice.
Fresh air, though slightly briny from the not-so faraway sea, it soothing. A refreshing breeze. This town is in the middle of a desert, after all. It's bound to be hot. The nights are cool, though. With such little cloud cover, the stars are like bright pinpricks in an expanse of dark blue. Not black, like an any other populated city. Sometimes you'd get stars, back in Havana, but not many. With Havana being Cuba's capital, it's a pretty big tourist trap.
A few minutes pass. Probably longer than that, but there's little probing from Brick. Maybe he's just as tired as Butch is. He glances over, teasing smirk at the ready, "So, did you enjoy a whole nine hours away from your annoying brothers?" Brick scrubs a hand over his face, "Ugh, I wish." Butch raises a brow, "Huh?"
"There was a woman who just wouldn't shut up. And then her kid kept having to get up to go to the bathroom every ten minutes." Butch snorts at him, "Welcome to my world, man." He gets no reply.
A car pulls up onto the curb. "Taxi?" Brick nods, tapping on the driver's window. It rolls down. There's a brief chat between them. The guy driving is way too chirpy for this time, but Townsville's always been weird like that. "Oh sure," The driver says, "The boot should be open!" Butch drags his and Boomer's luggage into the boot, opting to keep his gymbag with him. He and Brick awkwardly maneuver the youngest brother into the back, buckling him in. He gets in on the other side, Brick already in the passenger seat.
"So, where to, guys?" The driver asks. Butch rattles off the name as if it was just waiting to be said, "You got any idea where West Boulevard is?" The driver nods, "Sure do. Anywhere specific, or just West Boulevard?" Butch hums, "Just Boulevard." Nodding once more, the driver takes them away. He catches Brick's eye in the mirror. There's no hint of recognition in those eyes, but there's definitely curiosity. Vicious, but curious.
Butch just smiles back. As reassuring as he can, but he's been told his smiles always look a little too mischievous for his own good. So it probably doesn't help that much. 'Trust me' must not be the impression Brick gets – not today, not ever.
So he has a feeling he fell asleep somewhere along the line.
He wakes up blearily to Brick roughly shoving him out of the car, grumbling, "You owe me twenty bucks, you dick." Butch mumbles around a yawn, "Yeah, whatever." Boomer, along with their piled luggage, sits on the sidewalk. At least the blond's awake this time. He grins, curious in a more eager way than Brick was, "Where are we going, dude?"
Butch scratches at his jaw, "You'll see." He's honestly sorta dreading to get there. Only a couple buildings down the street. He doesn't remember the address exactly, but that's not his biggest issue. It's whether they can still get that damn 'friends-only' discount that the hotel offered back when they used to still live here. Though, he has a vague suspicion that his (forged) membership card might have expired by now. Dammit.
So off they go. Boomer's actually carrying his own shit this time, which is nice. They both lag behind him. It's beginning to dawn on Butch that, no, they really don't remember this place. All the nice glossy windows, with their white-wash walls, the shop signs. It's a lot more rundown than he remembers. Loose brickwork, chipping paint on the side of buildings, foggy windows. Huh. It doesn't look so welcoming in the nighttime.
After a few more minutes of walking, Butch stops in front of the familiar hotel. More like a shitty motel, except that it's in the center of town instead of on the outskirts like a motel actually would be. Butch waits for recognition to settle in. His brothers are silent behind him.
Until Boomer groans, "Oh god, not this trash heap."
Butch shrugs, "Hey, this trash heap is cheap, a'ight, and their room service is actually decent, so quit complaining." Then, in true Butch fashion, he puffs up his chest and smirks, "'sides, you should be thanking me. Your big brother Butch here -" He grins for effect, leaning into Boomer's space - "Just banked us beds for the night." Somewhere still behind them, Brick mutters, "It's not that big of an achievement." Butch raises an eyebrow, scowling, "What, and you could do better? Like you could've gotten us a night lower than a hundo bucks." The oldest brother rolls his eyes, sliding his phone back into his pocket.
They share a look. Sternly, Brick states, "You're paying." Butch nods, waving him off. He grabs his suitcase before pushing through the doors of the hotel. It's a little stingier than he remembered it being. The carpet feels stiff under his feet – like dust, or grime. A weird stain here or there, the walls more yellowed and the light flickers in the lobby.
The receptionist startles in his seat. Like he's surprised somebody actually came to stop by. He glances them up and down, frowning some, "Oh...hello?" Not the most welcoming response. Butch shrugs either way, but ultimately lets Boomer do the talking. He's good at that, the fucking chatterbox.
Details are shared – "Yes sir, there's a double twin room available." – yadda yadda yadda. Butch scratches his cheek, before handing his card over to Boomer. Swipe; beep, something else about transaction. His card gets handed back to him, wedged back into his wallet, and then the wallet dropped into his pocket. Boomer takes the keycard, before turning to the older siblings with a grin, "Let's go. I'm tired, man."
The room is relatively easy to find. Not the most impressive thing ever, either. Butch also isn't impressed with the fact that it becomes immediately apparent that one of them would most likely be sleeping on the uncomfortable loveseat in the corner (or the floor.) Brick wordlessly raises an eyebrow at Boomer. The youngest brother squirms under the scrutiny, "He said there was a double-twin available -"
Butch snorts, moving quickly towards one of the beds, "Did you happen to mention that we were going to need three beds with that?" There's scuffling behind him, but he doesn't turn to look. Instead, Butch starts getting changed into his pajamas. It's relatively quick, considering all he needed to do was shuck off his jeans.
There's a brief pause as he lifts the comforter of his bed. No weird stains, or bed bugs. Well, okay – one weird stain on the corner of the mattress that looks like some sort of salad dressing, but nothing inherently disturbing. He climbs into bed without preamble. When he turns over, Boomer is squinting at him, "What, you're not gonna brush your teeth or anything?"
He glowers at the blond, "And risk you stealing my bed? Get lost." Brick's already taken the other bed in the room. That goes unsaid. It also goes unsaid that Boomer doesn't dare try and steal it from Brick. That's why the oldest brother can freely stroll into the bathroom without fear of resorting to the floor for the night.
Butch has no such luxury.
Boomer's icy blues stare at him. Kind of like those pug-dogs that look like they're trying to resist biting your face off instead of that cute begging face. Needless to say, it does little to ramp up Butch's sympathy. "Fuck off, lil' bro," He warns, rolling over to face the wall. A whiny groan makes him pull the comforter tighter around himself. Though truth be told, he doesn't feel that tired anymore.
Maybe it's being back in this dump. With the gormless people of Townsville – damn near oblivious to all the dangers that went on around them until it was in their face. It doesn't seem like there's much of a danger anymore, but the stupidity is still there. Naïve is something Butch can understand coming from the children, and, well, maybe the senile elderly. But he remembers being thrown through a loop every time something bad happened (whether it was caused by the brothers or some weird ass monster. Or robots. It was always one of the three.) Townsville is way more lackluster than it used to be. At least when they were kids, the shitty boardwalk was quasi-fun.
Things change, he guesses.
Usually when things change, it's for the better.
He frowns at the wall, listening to the bickering behind him. The light is still on; a sickly light cast onto the room. Brick's just emerged from the shower, no doubt in his pajamas – the guy doesn't ever change in front of his brothers. Mainly because Butch would probably make a bunch of jokes. That's besides the point.
A creak comes from the loveseat. Boomer must have finally given up. But if that thing keeps squeaking all night, Butch is going to kick the blond to the floor.
A huff. Sighs, another bitter grumble from the youngest brother. "Shut the fuck up, Boomer." That's Brick; voice low, somewhat slurred. Is he seriously drifting off already? Bitterly, Butch gripes to himself: first class flight too much stress for you, Red? Then again, Butch can fully understand why Brick would take first class. Even if it was abandoning his brothers to the horrors of regular plane travel. (It meant Butch could steal the tiny tequila bottles on the way out.)
"Somebody turn out the damn light," Butch yawns, yanking his pillow over his head. What a mistake that was. It smells like sweaty gym socks and his hand is clutched to a part that's suspiciously crusty. He throws the pillow at Boomer. The younger boy yelps, before sniffing loudly. "What the fuck – ew. Bro, why does this smell like week-old jizz?" Oh. Yeah, that makes sense. He yawns, shifting on the bed, "Probably because it is week-old jizz?"
Brick snorts from his side of the room, "Boomer turn the light out." The blond sprawls out on the loveseat, his head hanging at an uncomfortable angle, "But you're closer -"
"Boomer. Turn the light out."
There's a dangerous edge to Brick's voice. Butch is just glad he doesn't have to forfeit the bed to get up. It's kinda funny watching Boomer spring up from the uncomfortable loveseat across the room. It's even funnier when he trips over something in the dark once the light's off. He can't contain his snickering. "Fuck you, asshole," Boomer grouches. Very sweetly, Butch hums, "Nighty-night, lil' bro."
A couple minutes pass. He's not sure how many, but it's long enough that Brick's deep breathing fills the room. He doesn't snore per se, but it's loud. Butch stares up at the ceiling. The streetlights from outside cast orangy-red stripes across the ceiling and floor at odd angles. Maybe it's because of how the blinds are settled. Still, it creates a weird ambiance in the room. Stiff air, an unreleased tension.
It could just be because Butch is sleeping in a hotel room. With a jizz-pillow now shoved behind the loveseat. He's not quite sure what the feeling is. Just because they haven't been here for a while – ah. That's probably it. Just some unfamiliarity setting him on edge, that's all. It'll wear off eventually, and Butch can go to fucking sleep.
Another few minutes pass. Maybe half an hour this time, since the moon's moved in the sky to a point where Butch can see it through the blinds. Half-moon. Obscured by a few dark clouds, but the stars are still persistent as they shine. Twinkle in an oddly abrasive way. Not delicate, like you'd think. Man, Townsville is still uncanny. At least that hasn't changed.
When his eyes finally start getting heavy, a breathy whisper fills the room. "Butch? You still awake?" Goddammit Boomer. Instead of snapping – or better yet, ignoring him – Butch sighs heavily, "What do you want." There's shuffling from the end of the bed. It dips a little. Boomer's sitting by his feet, then. Double dammit. "It's...crazy being back here," The blond whispers. He can make out the boy's silhouette in the stripes of streetlight. Orange doesn't exactly look good on him, but it's not bad, either. Still, he looks a lot more daunting in the dark. The illusion is broken when Boomer curls his knees to his chest. Nope; still an annoying pussy.
Still, Boomer has a point. "Tell me about it." Butch runs a hand through his hair. He doesn't sit up. "Any reason you're trying to have a heart-to-heart with me right now?" Boomer shrugs, "Well, Brick would probably slap me and tell me to grow a pair." He raises an eyebrow, "Annnnnd I wouldn't do the same thing?"
His younger brother shrugs, "You haven't yet." True. He waves a lazy hand, a motion for Boomer to continue. The boy fiddles with his shorts for a moment, "Do you think people will recognize us?" Butch blinks slowly at the ceiling. Then he yawns, "Dunno. Maybe, maybe not. These people are fuckin' weird, lil' bro." There's an agreeing hum. Then more fidgeting. Butch rolls his eyes, "What's eating at you? Who cares if they know us?" Boomer shrugs this time, turning to stare out the window, "I just – we're here for a fresh start, yeah? How are we going to do that if people looks at us and go 'oh look, it's the kids who tried to kill us a shit ton?'" Butch wipes a hand down his face, "We didn't try to kill them, we tried to kill the girls." Girls that they aren't allowed to go near, per Brick's strict orders.
The blond sighs, leaning back against Butch's legs. He's half tempted to kick the idiot to the floor and call it a night. "That's still enough to get us wanted, y'know? Like, what if we show up at school and then the girls are there and then it's this whole huge deal and we get in trouble so then -"
"Shut up, will you?" Sitting up, Butch jerks another hand through his hair. He needs a smoke. "Chill out, that ain't gonna happen." Butch mutters the second part under his breath, "You'd think we've all grown up a little by now." Though it sounds dubious, even to his own ears.
He swings his legs over the side of his bed, kicking Boomer in the process. Standing, he stretches his arms above his bed. Then he leans over and takes the keycard from Brick's nightstand. At Boomer's cocked head (and presumably bemused expression,) Butch explains, "I'm going for a smoke. Don't take my bed." He grabs his cigarettes and lighter on the way to the door.
He knows for a fact Boomer is going to take his bed. Not that he really cares at this point. Boomer can place his pretty little head down where the jizz stain is and wake up with crusty hair in the morning, Butch doesn't care. He'll just crash on the floor. It'll be fine. When he shuts the room door behind him, he shoves the keycard into his pocket. It probably would've been better to put his jeans back on before he left the room. Oh well. He's got a nice ass, it'll be fine. Black boxer shorts can't be that offensive. Boomer's cotton briefs on the other hand...well.
Butch rolls his eyes before strolling down the hall to the end window. It's big enough that he can sit on the windowsill. He props it open whilst he shakes his cigarette pack. He shoves one of the fags into his mouth, lighting it quickly. Butch leans against the windowsill, smoking quietly.
It's not often that it's this quiet between the three brothers. Fuck, it's not often that it's this quiet. Back in Havana, shit was loud – tourists, parties, etc. No time to really just breathe. He left a lot of friends behind, though. Well – alleged friends. Butch was never particularly close to any of them, and they seemed to like him around because he managed to scare off any immediate threats.
There had been Rosa, though. She'd been...nice. Ish. Kinda clingy, though, and sort of annoying most of the time. Frowning, he takes another smoke. The ash trickles out of the window, caught in the cross breeze. Butch watches it float down into the street below.
He strokes his thumb over the keycard. The laminated card gleams glossily. It's crusted around the edge, worn out and crinkled a little. It's been a while since he came to this trash heap hotel. Everything's different, but in a sense still the same. So maybe he's having some trouble readjusting. (Especially without a routine to go by anymore.) Maybe he feels a little apart from everything, so what? That's not – there's no problem with that, right? That's totally normal. (Man, Butch wishes he had somebody to talk to right now. Like Boomer said – Brick definitely wont want to listen, and...well, Boomer isn't that great either.) It's fine, really. Something old, something new, right? Yeah, and he'll get through this weird funk. He'll be totally chill come tomorrow morning. It's just been a while.
Yeah. Just a while.
Seven damn years.
That's why Boomer's being a stupid worrywart. Nobody remembers anybody after seven years. Nobody. It's like how you see a face in the street. You're not gonna remember that random dude by the time you go the sleep, right? It'll be exactly the same for the RowdyRuffs. Sure, they (tried to) smack around the PowerPuffs every now and again, but the news died down when they made a 'truce'. A half-assed truce made by seven year olds, sure, but a truce nonetheless. And those three years before they left Townsville had been – they'd been...good.
(What Butch avoids thinking about is him, his brothers, and the girls crowding around a table at the In-N-Out joint, laughing about whatever it is seven year olds found funny. Seven year olds, to eight year olds, nine. Ten. By ten years old, Butch remembers a lot of awkward staring contests with the girls' Professor whenever the boys were over for dinner and getting whacked in the back of the head by Brick or Buttercup. Sometimes both. Good times. He tries to avoid thinking about those times. Brick said they weren't meant to try and attract attention, anyways.) He wonders what the girls are up to nowadays.
Do they think of them?
Do they stare at old newspaper clippings and grin dumbly? Or maybe just look at something and be thrown back into a memory? (Last day of school in third grade – crushed soda cans and wads of apple-cherry bubblegum stuck under a park bench. Lime and lemon popsicles – green eyes mirroring the beachside and choppy black hair getting whipped around in the wind.) Maybe the girls don't think of them anymore. Maybe the boys are nothing more than a repressed memory now, their absence leaving little reason to bother remembering.
Butch remembers. He tried to forget it all, y'know. Mojo shipped them off to Havana – something about trying for a fresh start, trying to actually put them through school this time. Time to act like kids, not worry with the distraction of their 'rivals' to keep them from their education. All Butch got out of Havana had been a lot of exposure to strip clubs and how to speak Spanish. So. Fat lotta good that did.
Frowning, he takes the last hit from his cigarette before crushing the butt into the windowsill. He damn near jumps out of his skin when a hand lands on his shoulder. Except he doesn't, because Butch has gotten good at hiding reactions like that. "The fuck're you doin' 'wake righ' now?" Brick. Tired, slurring, grumpy and squinting in the bright streetlights. Butch shrugs, raising his lighter, "Taking a smoke."
Brick drags a hand through his hair. It's silky from his shower, though tousled from sleep. His cap is absent. Despite the haze of sleep, his older brother looks up at him with keen eyes, "Come back to the room. I don't want to go on a hunt for you in the morning." Rolling his eyes, Butch pushes himself from the window, "Alright, Red, I'm comin'." This is as close to caring as Brick will ever get, he thinks. Over his shoulder, Brick gripes, "Don't call me that."
Butch shrugs as they creep back down the hall to their room, "Sure thing, Red." Brick doesn't deign him with a response. Understandable, he supposes.
Brick moves aside to let him press the keycard to the slot, before he moves to open the door. Just as Butch expected, the youngest brother has stolen his bed. Curled up in the rumpled comforter, haloed in the streetlights streaking through the blinds. Butch scratches his cheek, "Don't s'pose there are any spare blankets in the cupboard?" Brick shrugs, "Towels, douvet covers." Great. Humming, Butch starts towards the loveseat. A doubtful scoff comes from his brother, "Are you really trying to sleep on that thing?"
He shrugs again, "There's a draft on the floor." An answering shift of comforters, a weak groan of Brick getting back onto his bed, "If you say so." That's that.
Butch drags a hand through his hair, letting his legs bend over the arm of the loveseat. Stupid thing. It's faux leather, it squeaks every time he breathes and his head lolls awkwardly over the other armrest. Now, if Boomer was having trouble getting comfortable, Butch has no chance. Butch is considerably taller and bigger than Boomer (in every way, if you catch his drift.) He's too big for this glorified armchair.
Still, his eyes start to get heavy. This time, there's no worried little brother interrupting his sleep. Soon, he starts to hear Brick's deep breaths again, over Boomer's snoring. Butch lets his eyes close.
When he wakes up, it's to somebody's phone ringing. Ringing – as in a phone call. Butch doesn't immediately recognize it, but he knows it's not his phone. His ring tone is actual music, not that damn factory setting. Huffing, he rolls onto his side. The loveseat is cold and hard under him – except it's not the loveseat, but a cold, wooden floor. God. Fucking. Dammit.
A loud groan fills the air, and grumbling between his two older brothers. While they bicker, Butch gropes around under the loveseat for the jizz-pillow. He listens a second longer. They still haven't answered the phone. And by now, he's realized that it's Brick's. He knows Boomer's ring tone (he changed it to some shitty sitcom soundtrack, because of how much the blond hates it.) Once getting a hold of the jizz-pillow, he throws it towards Brick's corner of the room. "Answer your damn phone." He talks more to the floorboards than his brother though, and it doesn't sound all that audible in the first place.
Boomer snickers loudly, "Ha – you get the jizz-pillow." The ringing finally stops. Butch's head feels less like it's going to explode now. Unfortunately, there's no chance that he's getting back to sleep. Brick grabs the keycard and exits the room, mumbling grouchily into the phone.
Butch meets Boomer's eyes. The blond is already half way across the room, creeping closer and closer to the bathroom. "Don't you fucking dare, Bu -" Butch is on his feet almost immediately, wrestling Boomer away from the bathroom door. The blond scrabbles against him (like a cat with its tail stepped on) "Hey no fair! I was getting there first!" Butch rolls his eyes, though still heavy with weariness, "Can it, curly fries, that hot water's mine." He chucks Boomer across the room before locking the bathroom door behind him.
There's loud pounding; fists battering the door as complaints trickle through. Butch rolls his eyes, opening the towel cabinet. He grabs one of the towels – not as fluffy or as white as he'd like, but they looked clean. Then he climbs into the shower, closing the glass door. (No he doesn't yelp when cold water hits him.)
After the water's warmed up, things go a lot better from there. The complimentary shampoos and shower gels; they all smell nice, they all do their jobs, he may or may not take the neat 'infused with citrus wood' semi-pricey looking shower gel and shove it into his backpack once he reenters the bedroom. Boomer gives him an unimpressed look, "Can't you buy your own shower gel?" Then, "Don't you have your own shower gel?" Butch nods, waving him off, "Yeah, but the stuff from the hotels is always better." That's why Butch also helped himself to the crappy mini-fridge in the other corner of the room. The champagne looks mediocre at best, but booze is booze. Boomer grins, "The alcohol I can understand."
Butch throws a smirk at him, "Hey, as long as you don't tell Red about the shower gel, I wont tell him about the fashion magazines." His brother turns pink, but doesn't deny it. He only asks, "H-How did you know about tha-" Butch raises an eyebrow, "Because you have two older brothers that don't know fashion trends whatsoever, yet you are somehow up to date with the newest whatever that comes along?" Boomer chuckles, "Guess you got a point there." But then he tries to look menacing, eyes narrows sternly, "You better not tell Brick." Butch shrugs, "Whatever." Just to rile him up more, he grins, "You look like an angry poodle when you do that."
Brick reenters the room. There's a metaphorical storm cloud over his head, but he also looks...lightened. "Good news," The redhead drawls, "Mojo called." Butch furrows his eyebrows. What? How is Mojo calling good news? "Bad news," Brick sighs, "Mojo called." Ah. "So...?" Butch trails off, waiting for the older boy to fill in. "The place he had renovated for us is ready for us to move into now." Boomer whoops loudly, bouncing off of Brick's bed, "Hell yeah! I can actually have my own space away from you jerks." Butch flops onto the loveseat, stretching, "What's the bad part?"
"I woke up to a monkey man shrieking in my face about how our 'mighty creator' has once again saved our asses." Brick scrubs his face with his hands, dragging his features downward when he pulls away. Butch nods, as sympathetic as he can be, "Ouch." Now that he thinks about it, that's not very sympathetic.
Brick sighs heavily, moving to grab some spare clothes from his suitcase. He disappears into the bathroom. Boomer groans again, "Dammit, I was just about to go in there." Butch raises an eyebrow, "You barely moved from the bed." He throws the jizz-pillow at the blond for good measure. "Ack – ew, no. Why?" Coherent. Boomer's accusing glower hits the back of his head, to little avail.
They don't stay for breakfast, no matter how much Boomer whines and Butch throws Brick pleading looks. Brick, hair tied up in those weird towel-hats and clenching a fluffy slipper, had put his foot down: "We're going to the new place. Mojo's sent a taxi, it'll be here soon." And Butch decided that he didn't want to know how Mojo knew where the fuck they are, so he dropped the topic all together.
Now they're piled into an unassuming mazda in Monday morning traffic. Thank god there's still a week of vacation left before school starts up again. Butch doesn't know what he'd do if it turned out they'd have to go to school after a nine-hour flight, jetlag, and then a night sleeping on the floor. "Man, what I would do for coffee."
Boomer snorts at him, rolling his eyes, "Murder? I think you've already done that, actually." The blond looks out the window, lost in thought. Butch furrows his eyebrows, "I'm pretty sure I haven't murdered for coffee." Brick, from the front, scoffs, "Pretty sure isn't the most reassuring." Shrugging, Butch glances at the driver. He's a man with a forgettable face, maybe some kind of lackey that Mojo has on hand (if he even has lackies/minions. Butch is pretty sure he doesn't and that this man was probably some scrub off the street that got bribed finely.) Still, Butch is compelled to ask, "Hey, you mind if I light up in here?"
The man glances at him in the rear-view mirror before shaking his head. Nodding, Butch rolls down the window. Cigarette lit, he leans closer to the window. The breeze messes up his hair, but it's a good kind of messy. If that makes sense. Sure, it's not the 'just had sex' kind of mess, but the 'windswept' looks is always a good one. Though it is more of Boomer's style. Again, it's not 'just had sex', but it's good enough.
At least it's not Brick's damn shoulder-length hippie look.
His chuckle escapes with a plume of smoke. It's quickly whisked away in the wind. "So what's this new place the monkey's got set up for us, anyways?" He asks. Brick shrugs, fiddling with his phone. Judging from the twitch in his jaw and the knitted eyebrows, Butch has two guesses who he's texting: Mojo himself or Wendy, the woman that acts sort of like their caretaker/agent. Which is sort of weird to think about. Butch is glad they never fucking see her; she's more of an over-the-phone kind of gal. Thank fuck. (She's shrewdly intimidating. Maybe that's what having a mother feels like. It only makes him shudder.)
Boomer perks up at the change in topic. He nods excitedly, "Yeah! I hope it's got soundproof rooms." The second part is paired with a blue-eyed sideways glance in Butch's direction. Who, in turn, raises a daring eyebrow, "Oh yeah? So we don't have to listen to your crap guitar?" It gets the reaction he wanted. Boomer's eyes widen, indignant; his face flushes red. Out of anger or embarrassment at being singled out, he's not sure.
"Hey! That's not true, I'm better at guitar than you are!" Both younger siblings look expectantly at Brick. "Red," Butch starts, "I'm better at guitar." Boomer huffs, "Guitar Hero, maybe." Brick hums; long, deliberate, almost teasing with how long it takes for him to come up with an answer.
"Butch does play a mean bass..." He drawls.
He feels a grin split his face. "I always knew I was your favorite brother," He gasps, proudly sneering in Boomer's direction. The blond deflates into the seat, butthurt. Sourly, he defends, "Brick just doesn't want to hurt your feelings, that's all." At that, Butch raises an eyebrow, "...So he hurt yours instead?" The blond squawks, "He didn't hurt my feelings!" Almost petulantly, he tacks on, "I don't even have feelings."
"Uh huh, that's definitely true." Butch leans into his personal space, shoving him against the car door, "That's why you cried during Titanic." A grueling two hours. Ugggh. More yelling ensues, and Butch catches sight of the driver looking ready to slam his head into the steering wheel. Good. Somebody else needs to understand how much Butch is suffering here.
Eventually Boomer simmers, pouting with his arms crossed. He looks like he's hugging himself. Pathetic little brat. Butch crushes his cigarette butt on the side of the car before letting the litter slip from his hand. Brick catches his eye in the side-mirror, but says nothing.
The car ride is uneventful after that. Butch makes it through two more cigarettes before they come to a stop. It's in the nicer side of Townsville. Near all the Beverly Hills levels of pricey living. Except if you downgraded Beverly Hills to a moderate livingstyle without all the flashy superstars and their dolled-up pets that look ready to chew their expensive collars and run feral. So, like if Beverly Hills got rebooted for the more affordable version. Still – it's nice for Townsville. And Townsville is nothing more than a crappy waterhole stuck between the coast and the desert.
The block is mostly apartment buildings. Now this is what Butch remembers as a kid. The big glossy windows – damn near floor to ceiling from the looks of it – and the fresh coats of paint on the walls. The skies are blue this morning, with the sun shining heavily into the glass. Boomer whistles lowly, dragging his luggage from the boot, "Shit, are we living there?" He glances at Brick for effect, "Because I'm totally cool with living here." Butch nods, shouldering his gym bag, suitcase in the other hand.
Brick glances down at his phone, before talking to the taxi driver, "Twenty-eight, West Boulevard, right?" The man nods. Brick then also nods, fully stepping away from the car. It drives away without a hitch, disappearing around the corner. Butch cranes his neck back up to the building, "So...keys? Or...?" Brick holds up his hand, where a note hangs from his pinched fingers. On the back, in practiced writing, is 'this explains everything to the lobbyist'. So that's that covered, then.
The trio step up towards the door, where a lady pulls it open for them. Oh. Okay. Butch glances at her nametag; Debby. "Thanks...Debby." Nodding, Debby pulls away once they've all stepped in, "Hello! I've been told to be expecting you three." Butch runs a hand through his hair, flashing a smile, "Have you now?" It's moderately polite. Also a quiet warning.
Brick clears his throat, handing over the note, "I've been told to give this to you." Debby nods, delicately taking it and briefly reading through. She nods again, smiling brightly, "Yes, yes, Ms Wendy explained something like this on the phone." Butch can't help but note that her voice wavered slightly upon the mention of Wendy. He can't blame her. Wendy is a piece of work. Boomer smoothly takes the wheel, talking back and forth with minimal input from Brick. Butch lets himself look around the lobby.
White walls, accented colors, nice carpet. An abstract painting is hung above an artfully clustered sitting area. A doorway next to the stairwell that probably leads to the communal laundry room. Then his eyes land on the lift. No out of order sign, nothing alluding to the idea that it's broken. Holy shit. Are they in an apartment building with – dare he say – a functioning elevator? "Fuck yeah," He murmurs to himself. He's totally cool with living here.
Suddenly there's a hand on his elbow dragging him towards it, "Quit drooling, let's get moving." Butch nods, "Yeah sure. Whatever you say, Red." Brick huffs, shoving him into the elevator when it hisses open. "I hope you boys settle in okay!" Debby calls. Butch winks at her, "Thanks, muñeca (doll)." The lady stutters a little, her face turning pink. She smiles sweetly, waving as the elevator doors close.
Then Boomer snorts unattractively, "Did you really just whip out the Spanish to impress some woman you have no interest in?" Butch catches Boomer reflection in the doors. He looks unimpressed. Butch shrugs, smirking, "What can I say? She had a some beunas tetas (nice tits)." Boomer raises an eyebrow, "That's not your type." Got him there, goddamn. Instead, he glances at Brick over Boomer's head, "Do you know which floor we're on?" Because he remembers Brick jabbing a button, but he doesn't know if it was the right one. Brick has a habit of just pressing shit and acting like he has some semblance of a clue as to what the fuck he's doing.
This time, Brick nods, "Fifth floor. Top." Ohh, that sounds nice. Fuck yeah. Butch nods, rocking back and forth on his heels. Trying to ignore the creaking of the elevator. He must not be doing a good job of keeping still, now that nobody's talking. Boomer shoots him repeated looks before finally groaning allowed, "Butch, the elevator isn't gonna get stuck, okay? Or fall, or blow up, okay? We're good. The elevator's fine."
Before he can keep it in, he hisses, "Boomer don't you fucking jinx it, I swear to god -"
"I'm not jinxing it!"
"You just did!"
"Enough," Brick says cooly. Both boys snap their mouths shut. At that moment, the elevator came to a stop, the doors hissing open. Butch all but shoulders Boomer out of the way, carting out his suitcase and gym bag. He looks along the hall: that same fluffy carpet, the white walls with accented colors. The framed pictures are all geometrically designed this time, bright shades of color that makes him frown, trying to figure out just what the fuck the picture is trying to be.
Brick leads them down to the end door, jamming the key into the lock and twisting. The door pops open. For a second, they tall tense, before awkwardly creeping into the apartment. One word: huge.
They step into what appears to be the living-room area; spacious, the layout accommodating the fact that more than one person would be living here. An L-shaped couch in the center of the room, flatscreen television mounted on the opposite wall (couch facing away from the entrance,) with some sort of round coffee table. The windows let in so much light, and there's a bookcase along the back wall with two beanbags, plus a game console hooked up on the unit below the television.
Butch picks his jaw up from the floor. This place is great, and they've only just seen the living-room. He wanders into the kitchenette – moderately sized, nothing too big, but it's damn near open-plan. The counters round off in a sort of square shape, neatly separated from the lounge by a half-wall. Fitted up against the half-wall is...boxes. A bunch of boxes. Huh. Labeled neatly, in that too-neat, professional cursive writing. Wendy's handwriting.
An envelope waits innocently on top of the boxes. Butch leaves his luggage by the couch, wandering back into the kitchen. He hears Boomer enthuse about how big the television is, already gushing about the sound system. Whether it's surround-sound, if the walls are soundproof, blah blah blah. He has a feeling Brick is busy examining all the books on the bookcase to bother appreciating anything else. For now, he looks around in the kitchen. When he opens the cupboards, they are already filled with crockery: plates and bowls of varying size (small to medium, there appears to be nothing in the 'large' category but that's fine by him.) There are a few casserole dishes that Butch isn't really sure what to do with. He kinda wants to smash them.
The drawers, when yanked open, are full of cutlery and silverware. Spoons, forks, knives (though he's more interested in the big meat knife than any of the other ones. It gleams menacingly in the light.) There are a few post-it notes stuck around. All from Wendy. Varying shades of condescending:
"Don't let the milk go bad, boys"
"Don't let Boomer near the microwave, boys"
"Don't try to make grilled cheese in the toaster, boys,"
And so on. Butch pointedly crumples up the post-it note on the cutlery ("Don't let Butch play with the knives, boys".) Stupid Wendy, thinking he doesn't know how to handle some forks. God, that woman. Sighing, Butch loses interest in the kitchenette and finally returns to the main communal area. Brick is reading through the envelope left on the boxes. He hums; somewhat appreciative, but it sounds dull.
"Wendy's got all of our stuff in these boxes," He announces. Though, the part Butch cares more about is: "Also, Mojo's paying for the place, so we're fine." Fuck yeah. Free living. Kind of. "Does that mean we have to pay for food and shit?" Brick nods, then shrugs, "Well, technically the monkey's paying for that too." He pulls shiny credit cards out of the envelope. Three of them to be exact; customized in blue, red and green. Hell yeah. Butch can get used to this. (Havana was a little more difficult.)
Butch takes the green credit card from Brick, wedging it in his wallet before stretching. "What'd she say about the rooms? First pick, or...?" Because if it's first pick, Butch wants the room with the best air conditioning. Brick shakes his head, "Apparently the rooms have been picked...'according to our individual tastes'." Butch wrinkles his nose, "If that's what she's gone by, I better not find a bunch of Playboy magazines in my room." The woman knew nothing when it came to decorating a teenage boy's bedroom. Specifically his bedroom.
Brick shrugs, though he fails to smother the amused look on his face. Sighing, Butch wanders down the hall that holds the doors to their rooms. The one closest is the bathroom, as seen by how it's still ajar and he can see inside. Also that Boomer's humming in there pretty loudly. Butch stalks away from the bathroom, peeking into each room before coming to his. He knows it's his, because there's a manila package sitting on the bed with his name in big, messy, scrawled letters that are heart-achingly familiar.
It's not Mojo's handwriting.
It's not Wendy's handwriting.
It's Buttercup's.
Quietly, he stumbles into the room. The air is suddenly thicker – heavier as he takes steps closer towards the bed. He takes notice of the white sheets; almost nothing in this room resembles him at all. Untouched; ready for him to put his mark on, his own twist to make it feel like home. The only reason he knows this room is his is because of this damn package. It's not a box, really, but more like those really big thick envelopes that you just know is going to be full of possible crap (except Buttercup's never wasted her time with stupid crap, just the stuff she thinks is important. Fuck.) Why can't he think straight?
Oh. right. Maybe because his kinda sorta best friend from seven years ago suddenly has a package for him? They haven't talked. In seven years. Butch wonders idly when this was sent, since when he gets a closer look at the address, it's of his old one when the boys still lived in Mojo's weird second-base warehouse. So a while ago – that's when this was sent. Why was he only now getting it?
Something hot burns in his gut. Why is he only now just getting this? Butch picks up the package; weighty. He sighs, moving to rest it on the nightstand before glancing behind him. The door is still wide open, so he kicks it shut. Avoiding the package, Butch takes a look at his bedroom. One window takes up nearly the entire far wall, but there are blinds (thank god; he didn't really feel like having somebody able to watch him jerk off at night.) There's a closet up against the back wall, and there's a desk that he just knows is going to have so much clutter by the end of this evening.
Scratching his cheek, Butch cranes his neck to look around some more. Light switch by the door, plug-socket just between the desk and the nightstand, in reach of charging a phone. Which he will be doing. All's good. All is okay with the world. Except for the oversized envelope looming on the nightstand.
Butch quickly leaves his room, heading for the pile of boxes sitting in the living-room. "Found my room, dunno 'bout you guys." Brick hums, already starting to divide his own boxes from the rest. Butch starts following his lead, looking around, "Where's Boomer?" Brick shrugs, "Something about the cafe across the street." Right. Coffee sounds nice. It's only – he glances at the clock above the fridge – ten in the morning. Jesus.
He mutters under his breath, "God, I could still be asleep right now." Brick snorts, stepping back to retie his hair before shoving his cap back on, "Tell me about it." Butch struggles to read Wendy's writing; that's why he just stares at the labels that are the shortest and stacks them. He ends up with roughly the same amount of boxes as Brick, it not a few less. Then again, Butch did manage to pack a lot more in his gym bag than Boomer could in his backpack. Huffing, Butch crouches and takes three boxes up with him. "Lift with your legs," Brick chides lightly before wandering into the kitchenette. Butch scoffs, strolling towards his room, "Yes mom."
Two more trips and a pause to swipe the coffee Boomer brought back from the cafe later, Butch narrows his eyes at the boxes in the middle of his room. Ugh. He'll...he'll unpack them later. Leaving his room, Butch returns to the couch. Boomer is there, rummaging through the left over boxes that are now...taking up more space than they had been originally. "Desordenado (messy)," He tuts, making his way through the maze of boxes. He makes out the shape of Boomer's guitar disregarded on the floor.
Butch takes the opportunity to pick up the guitar and hop over the back of the couch. Boomer squawks, dropping whatever he'd been holding, "Hey!" Butch sticks his tongue out, shifting around to get comfortable in the corner of the couch. Then he starts plucking, wincing when the chords come out wrong, "Aw, dude, when was the last time you tuned this thing?" No response. Great. Boomer's probably sulking.
It busies him for the next ten minutes or so; trying to tune to guitar by ear alone. It sounds pretty decent when he's done. Decent enough that he starts strumming Simple Plan, so that's something. He hears no complaints. Brick definitely doesn't complain (the redhead can deny it all he wants, but Butch can see him nodding his head along in the kitchen. Whatever he's doing in there.)
Finally, Boomer speaks up, "Want to play some actual music?" And it's not in an insulting way, if the way he brandishes the CD case is anything to go by. Their old roadtrip mixtapes. Jesus Christ. Butch rests the guitar on the couch, reaching for his coffee on the table. It's probably cold by now, "Go ham." Boomer's been rearing to try out the new sound system since they arrived.
Butch finds himself roaming the kitchen. "There any actual food in here, or...?" Brick nods, sitting at the little table tucked up by the window. Ah; that's what he's doing. Drinking his morning coffee with a book by the window. How...domestic. Butch scrunches his nose at the sight, turning to the fridge. "I have tiny tequila bottles I need to chill, by the way." Brick waves with his hand vaguely, "There's probably a shelf in there or something." Neat. Nodding, Butch saunters to his gym bag and drags it into the kitchen, resting it by his feet whilst he digs around for the bottles and gently lining them up in the fridge. "Also champagne," He adds, wedging the bottle on one of the shelves on the inside of the fridge door. At that, Brick raises an eyebrow, "Where'd you get that?"
Exiting the kitchen, he shrugs, "Was in the cooler at the hotel. It ain't fancy." There's nothing to do. "Aha!" Boomer chirps from the stereo, "Oh – wait, nope. Never mind." Butch rolls his eyes, strolling down the hall with his gym bag on his shoulder. He turns into the bathroom, dropping his bag on the toilet seat.
His toothbrush is dropped lazily into the cup-holder, toothpaste left on the sink because he couldn't be bothered to put it in the cabinet behind the mirror. He leaves the nice shower gel he stole on one of the shelves in the shower box. Then he leaves the bathroom with his bag, staring at the wall. There is nothing else to do. Ugh.
Back in the living-room, a paper bag from the cafe waits innocently on the coffee table. Boomer will probably hate him if Butch ate anything from the bag. Oh well. Butch has been hated for less.
His thievery results in an indignant gasp from Boomer and a blond boy on his heels as he books it for his bedroom, a buttery croissant in his hand. He slams the door shut behind him, ignoring Boomer cursing him from behind the wood. The lock is convenient. Stepping away from the door, Butch shoves the croissant in his mouth and chews around it. He may or may not choke a little.
The boxes stare at him menacingly. Goddammit.
UNPACKED! Now there is even less for Butch to do. He's sprawled on the floor of his bedroom, staring proudly at his walls. Tacked up are a mixture of things; posters of bands, sport stars, some fine looking women. Mainly band posters, though. Album covers, that kind of stuff. Of course, there are a few photos in the mix. Photos that are old and creased around the corners, faded with how long he's held onto them (a lot of them feature a girl with green eyes; bright like lime and lemon popsicles. Not that Butch will ever admit to that.)
His desk, as predicted, is now heavy with loose papers and other discarded sheets that he's...honestly not sure what they're for. They just accumulate without any sense or reason. But they're there now. On his desk. Unlikely to move for a while. Among the papers are CD cases, burned discs, a couple comic books and at least one Playboy magazine. Damn Wendy.
His laptop is resting on the center of his desk, plugged in and charging, along with his phone. Clothes are hazardously thrown into his closet, though a jacket made it onto the floor, along with a pair of headphones and the keychain he's been looking for all week.
But he's unpacked now. Bored. With nothing to do. Nothing to really say to his brothers, since they're both preoccupied, and it's not like there's really any form of entertainment in Townsville. Well – there's the mall, he supposes. Thriftshops, too. Get a shirt or something for maybe a dollar, if that. Just as he's ready to turn into his pillow and scream, his door creaks open.
"I'm getting some bedsheets I actually like, you coming?" Leave it to Brick to save him from boredom. "Sure," Butch says, sitting up, "Yeah, I'll come. Give me a sec." Brick leaves his room, though there's a distasteful glance at the mess he's already made. Butch tugs his sneakers back on, lacing them loosely before shucking on his jacket. Wallet, phone, keychain without the keys...check. All's good.
Boomer looks ready to go as well. "Maybe we can order pizza or something when we get back." Brick looks ready to smack him 'round the head and say 'we've got food already' but then he pauses. "If it's meatlovers, then sure." Fuck yeah, pizza for dinner. Or lunch. What time is it again?
The trip out of the building is short. Another dreadful trip in the elevator and more nattering from Boomer, but nothing majorly eventful. The streets are more lively when they step out, now. People with their own lives, their own schedules and goals. Butch shoulders his way through most of them, since none of them even seem to care that they're walking here. Every person he bumps into gives him a flustered look before continuing about their day. Butch rolls his eyes. Brick doesn't seem that happy either. Maybe even regretting that he suggested to leave their sanctuary.
At least the sun is warm. Shining down, huge plains of it through the gaps between the taller buildings. Boomer jostles against him in an attempt to sidestep around another person bustling past. For a second, Butch thinks that he recognizes the woman's face, but she's too quick for him to get a proper look.
It goes like this for a while as they roam Townsville. A few times, Butch finds himself staring into shop windows – especially the bars and nightclubs. Obviously most of them are closed at this time, but it's nice to get himself acquainted with the important things. When they get to the mall, Butch feels nostalgia churn in his gut. Ugh, the mall. The mall cop resides by the entrance, unassuming and polite as he greets a few people.
Townsville's mall hasn't changed much since they left. Still three floors; escalators and linoleum floors. Bleach still underlines the choking scents of the perfume and bodywork shops, mingled strangely with the aromas from the food court. It's nauseating. Butch feels nauseous. Brick looks at him, "You better not get nauseous." Maybe it was on his face, or in the way he visibly shuddered upon entry, but Butch clenches his jaw and shakes his head, "Me? Nauseous? No way. Definitely not." He moves to say more, but as they start walking further into the building, Butch gags. He's always had a sensitive sense of smell.
He resorts to breathing through is mouth. It doesn't help as much as he hoped. Boomer throws him a somewhat pitying look. The pity is gone when he announces, "I'm going to music department upstairs, later." Great. Boomer is abandoning him with their less understanding brother. Ugh. "How could you do this to me?" Butch hisses, catching the sleeve of the blond's jacket. The blond shakes him off, "Hey, you're welcome to do what you want, man."
Huffing, Butch looks around. Brick's gravitating towards one of the tech department. In the window, there are different models of second-hand phones lined up, ipads and whatever else. Yeah. Butch doesn't feel like staring at computer mice for twenty minutes and listening to the clerk go on about which model is better.
He starts towards the video game store on the second floor. Away from this gross amalgamation of smells. Butch bites back frustration at the annoying people that get in his way – walking too slow, not letting him walk past because they're in a big clump, that kind of thing. Annoying as fuck. He finally makes it to the escalators, waiting impatiently to get to the second floor. He hears a lot of whispering, especially from the group of girls just to his right. Also irritating, but also flattering. (They're gushing – muscles, chiseled jaw, nice hair – and that's always a nice little boost to his ego. Though he is a little dubious about the hair, because he didn't manage to style it before they left. Which kinda sucks.)
The only pleasing thing about being on the second floor of the mall is that he's further away from the gross smell. Seriously; just sickening. Up here, his head feels a little clearer. The department he has in mind is nestled nicely between a movie store and some kind of off-brand hot topic. Sweet. Maybe they'll have something Butch can spice up his closet with. Like his own 'welcome back' present.
Since nobody else seems to be aware that they're back.
Well guess who's back! (back again. Shady's back, tell a friend – except Butch apparently doesn't have any friends. That's sorta sad, really.) And it's not like his brother's really care whether he's back or not. They're permanently stuck with him everyday, he's pretty sure they're willing to sacrifice him to a certain crabby, cross-dressing Satan if it means a few minutes of quiet.
He frowns, stepping into the game store. There's a layer of dust in the air, disturbed as he steps in. There's a pair of kids at the front of the place; gushing over some of the Halo franchise. Butch has never really liked Halo, to be honest. He wanders through the aisles, running his fingers over some of the game cases. There's nothing that immediately stands out – but then, there it is. Rayman. Stupid fucking platformer game. Out of the blue, he thinks: Buttercup liked Rayman. But she also liked Bioshock and then GTA V, so there's not really a certain style of game Butch can go off.
With that in mind, Butch grabs State of Decay 2 off the shelf and stalks to the front of the store. The cashier is bored, unabashedly flipping through a porno mag. He doesn't look up until Butch rudely drops the game case on the counter. The kid startles, clearing his throat as he snaps his magazine shut and slides it to the side. "This it?" He asks. Butch nods. It takes too long for the kid to scan the damn thing and take his money. Long enough that Butch starts to stare at the spotty patches of acne the kid has on his forehead and his left cheek.
God, he's so fucking lucky to not suffer that cruel fate. Acne would totally ruin his looks. "That's ten ninety-five, man," The cashier croaks. Butch glowers a little – damn near eleven dollars for a video game? - but forks over the cash, shoving the game into the inside-pocket of his jacket and leaving the store. The two boys staring at Halo jump out of his way, weary.
Good. Maybe they'll finally recognize him.
Then again, they look too young. No older than nine, maybe. They only would've been toddlers when the RowdyRuffs were around. Too young to remember. Dammit. (Why does he care so much?)
He needs another smoke. Butch runs a hand through his hair, smiling briefly at a pair of girls that catch his eyes. They smile back, giggling their hellos before trotting off. Perhaps he's just feeling out of place because they're not in a social setting. He's...by himself, which wouldn't be much of an issue normally. They'll be starting school next week, and he'll be able to progress the social ladder like he usually does. He'll be surrounded in people, and everything will fall into place. Like it always does. He's probably just bored – this out of place feeling is just boredom, a mix of jetlag and boredom (and loneliness.) It'll be fine when school starts for the year.
It doesn't make him feel any better.
Hands stuffed into his pockets, Butch moves to check out the movie shop. There might be something cool for him to watch later this evening. Music is playing from one of the speakers in the corner. Butch smiles to himself; he's more familiar with this shop, came in here a lot when he was younger. The walls are still pockmarked and the movies are still displayed without categories like you'd think they'd be.
He nods along quietly to the music quietly streaming through the shop, once again brushing his fingers carefully over the movie cases. Some are old, some are new – mostly in good condition. There are a few CD cases, too, of different singers and bands, plus a magazine stand full of comic books.
By instinct alone, Butch gravitates to the cluster of action-comedy movies sitting on a shelf. They're all stuff he's seen before – Johnny English to Hancock, but he still picks up and looks over Bad Boys II just for the hell of it. Something else catches his eye though – it's not a movie, but a person.
She's perusing the stack of horror movies awfully arranged on a table in the center of the shop. Butch finds his eyes glued to her. Pale, slim, tall; stature swamped by a bomber jacket (an ugly shade of olive-green,) with cuffed sleeves. Denim shorts, big clunky boots and hair sticking out at wild angles from beneath a baseball cap. Butch wants to call her name. He really does, because he can't even see her face, but he knows who it is.
His excuse for turning around and walking out of the shop is exactly this: Brick said no. it's not common for Butch to actually follow orders, but something is conflicting inside him. It's enough to make him feel lightheaded, and before he knows it, his feet have carried him out of the mall all together.
He's stranded himself in the parking lot. Fumbling, he lights a cigarette and stick it in his mouth. Damn near chokes, but plays it off easily enough. Nobody is giving him a second glance. Thank god.
With a stuttered breath, he exhales smoke and ashes his cigarette. He leans back against the wall, knocking his head a few times for good measure. What to do, what to do... Then again, there's always the option of nothing. She hadn't seen him, doesn't know he's back, doesn't know if he's still alive – doesn't know anything, because that's how Mojo wanted to keep it. No kept connections, nothing. So she doesn't know. Doesn't know a single damn thing.
Brick said no. Butch's head says no, but his gut says 'yes, go talk and catch up you dumb fuck'. Butch doesn't know what to do. There's this fierce fight inside him; it's hard to explain, because both sides are struggling between the right thing and the wrong thing, but don't actually know what the right or wrong thing is?
Forcing out a sigh, Butch takes another smoke. His eyes draw skyward. He can see the sun from this side of town; less towering buildings and more low-level structures, the sun easily shining over most of it.
He feels like going home now. Preferably to his bedroom, where he can mope and mull over everything. And maybe just sleep off the jetlag. That would be nice. He scuffs his sneakers on the sidewalk, glowering down at his laces. They're ratty, not as white as they used to be.
A hand on his shoulder drags him out of his brooding. He looks up to find Brick staring up at him, "I saw you storm out." Butch shrugs, ashing his cigarette once more before dropping it and crushing it with his foot, "Yeah." He decides that telling Brick would be a bad idea. So he doesn't. The silence is heavy with expectation; Brick waiting for an explanation. Butch doesn't give him one. He stares down at the crushed cigarette butt for a second. Then he bends low, picking it up and strolling towards the trash can and dropping it.
After there's no answer, Brick grabs Butch by his hood and drags him back into the mall. Butch doesn't ask where they're going, lumbering along after. The strong smell is still enough to make him scrunch his nose, but they're not on the first floor for long. Brick tugs him along both sets of escalators, up to the third floor.
At one point, Butch had tensed up when he saw the the back of an olive-green bomber jacket, but they swerved around a corner before he could embarrass himself. Fuck.
To nobody's surprise, but slight confusion, Bricks stops in front of the mattress department. Butch raises an eyebrow, "We have beds." Brick rolls his bright eyes, trudging into the store with his signature 'don't talk to me' aura. Without anything better to do, Butch trails the redhead. He pulls out his phone at one point, just to look preoccupied, but the only texts waiting for him are from Rosa – and he really doesn't want to talk to Rosa, so.
They walk past all the cozy, memory-foam, expensive mattresses and further into the back of the store. Fabrics. Design swatches, pamphlets in leaflet holders, showing different bedspread decorations, blah blah blah, something about frilly pillows. Yeugh. Butch scratches his cheek, staring down at the different swatches.
He just wants some fucking bedsheets, man. Brick clears his throat, before nodding his head in a 'follow me' motion. Butch drags his feet.
Ten minutes of bickering with Brick about the two different shades of red that he wants, finally finding his own bedsheets (gray, with little green toxic symbols. So what if it was in the kids section?) they finally leave with their stuff being delivered tomorrow. Butch is ready to sleep off today, yesterday, the day before that and the entire seven years they've been gone now. Ready to sleep for millennia, then upon awakening, go back to sleep.
"What kind of pizza do you want?" Brick asks. It's as close to conversational as the redhead can get. He only ever tries it when there's something off. Fuck, is Butch being that obvious? Shrugging, he shoves his hands in his pockets, "Meatlovers pizza. With mushrooms." Brick scrunches his nose, "Half mushrooms." Butch shrugs, "Okay." Brick raises an eyebrow at him inquisitively, fiddling with his cap. He wedges the rim between his teeth to untie and retie his hair, before shoving the cap back on backwards. Goddamn hippie and his long hair. And no, Butch isn't jealous of how silky-soft it looks or anything. That'd be stupid.
"How much do I need to chip in?" Brick shakes his head, "I made you pay for the hotel room, it's fine." Uh...what? Butch narrows his eyes, hesitant, "...Sure. Okay?" His older brother shrugs, "You'll be ordering." There it is. Butch groans, "Really? Make Boomer pay or something." Brick shakes his head, "Penalty for not paying. You have to order the pizza." Butch frowns for a moment before sighing, "Whatever, Red."
"Don't call met that."
"Sure thing, Red."
Brick punches Butch's arm. Hard.
Stepping through the threshold of their apartment brings immediate ease. Whilst still slightly unfamiliar, Butch feels more at home in here than out there. His shoulders slump with relief; he kicks his sneakers off by the door. "Home sweet home, boys," Boomer murmurs, making an immediate B-line for the couch. He sprawls gracelessly. From where his face is buried in the couch cushions, he muffles, "Somebody call the pizza."
Brick immediate glances at Butch. Dammit. Groaning with dismay, he struggles his phone out of his pocket, "Fine." It's always so uncomfortable talking to the pizza delivery service. You have to rattle the order off the top of your head, and then there's the whole feeling of judgment on the other end, and you can just hear their disgust over the line. The skeptical, "Large meatlovers pizza, half mushroom?" And then he has to grit out, "Uh-huh, yup." And then there's that weird moment of silence whilst his order is put into the machine, "Your pizza will arrive shortly. Half an hour or your money back." Then the second where they both just breathe for a second before Butch just grunts, "Thanks," Then hangs up.
He stares down at his phone. The grimace on his face feels immense. Boomer cackles at him from over the couch, "Man, that sounded awkward as fuck." Butch rests his phone on the coffee table, jerking a hand through his hair, "I hate ordering pizza." Brick hums from the bookshelf, "Isn't it worth it, though?" Y'know, Butch isn't so sure. If giving up pizza meant avoiding that horrible interaction that happens every time, then...he'd probably go through with it. Goodbye pizza: goodbye awful social interaction.
Feeling like his feet are cement, Butch starts shuffling to his room, "We don't have to go anywhere else for tonight, right?" Negative hums confirm his assumption. "Cool." Pajama time. Sweats and some old tank-top, if that. He starts shucking off his jacket once he enters his room.
Buttercup's package still looms on his nightstand. Dammit. He'd forgotten about that. There's a brief staring contest between him and the package. It ends with him losing, looking away and turning his back to it. He unbuckles his belt, takes his jeans off and tugs on a pair of worn gray sweatpants. His shirt comes off over his head, and he hesitates before just going shirtless. Whatever. It's just his brothers, and it's not like he has anything to really be embarrassed about. A few scars, sure, maybe some freckles but that's about it (also abs, but that goes unspoken for.) Butch smirks at the mirror on the inside of his closet door.
His eyes are drawn back to the package.
Brick said to not actively seek out the girls. To leave them to their business and mind his own. This...the package – if he opens it, he's not technically interacting with the girls whatsoever. Buttercup wont know if he opens it or not. She wont know a damn thing, just like she doesn't even know the boys are back in town. This damn jerkwater town that she's always wanted to escape. The bitter reminder has his gut churning.
He left without wanting to.
She's here against her will.
God, they'd always contradicted each other like that, huh? He liked modern rock, she liked the classics. He loved crunching gobstoppers, she was a sucker for bubblegum. In the winter, she liked stomping on the iced-over lake, he liked watching somebody slip over. They always contradicted each other. He was bad; she was good. Now, he's mellowed to a more chaotic neutral, and he has no idea how she turned out.
The package awaits him; unopened.
Fuck it. Fuck it, fuck it – FUCK IT! Butch slams his bedroom door shut, turns the lock and pulls the blinds shut over the window. The most secluded privacy he'll get. Even then, his brothers could just knock the door down any second. Not that it matters right now, really. It's just Butch and the package.
He tears into it; maybe an expression of his pent up frustration or his eagerness to see something from the girls, he's not sure. The paper tears easily, giving way under his prying fingers. He turns the package upside-down, shaking out the contents. They fall to the floor with a thump. A bundle of papers; letters, pictures, post-cards. All held together with string tied around them.
For a minute, he just stares down at the bundle. He doesn't know what they are. What they say, what they mean, who they're from. But they're for him. He glances back at the manilla package-wrapping in his hand. Crumpled now, from his tight grip. His name is scrawled there, clear as day. In that god-awful, chicken-scratch handwriting. The 'c' the wrong way 'round and that wobbly smiley face next to it. Buttercup always had trouble writing when she was younger. Too busy with more interesting things than reading and writing. Like fighting.
This is from Buttercup. This is her handwriting, he knows, because he's seen it enough times for it to be nobody else's. A sigh heaves from his lungs. He feels like he's just chainsmoked two packs of cigarettes, then tried to swallow the ashes. A shudder runs through him.
All these letters. They're for him. From her.
Almost tentatively, he sits down on the floor. On top of all the papers (he sees now, that they're all yellowed or dusty, some of them creased around the edges. Old. Aged. Unsent until now,) there is a note. It's folded in half, caught under the string that's banding it all together. The most recent paper. The letters in the pile start off the most worn out, but gradually appear more recent until the bottom of the stack. The oldest letters to the newest.
His throat is taught; raw, like when you've ran for too long and struggling to breathe right. (Or like when you're trying to not cry, but Butch doesn't acknowledge that part. Butch Jojo, the wild card of the RowdyRuffs, does not cry.) He tugs the note out from under the string. There it is again – her scruffy handwriting. Endearing, in a way.
hey butch
long time no see right
well here's a bunch of crap i've been
meaning to send you so
here you go i guess
- bc
And that's it. No heartfelt 'I miss you and wish you were here!' bullshit, but just. This. 'well here's a bunch of crap I've been meaning to send you'. God, that's so like her. Impersonal and distant in a way that says she doesn't really grasp the concept of intimacy. A disbelieving laugh falls from his mouth. Butch doesn't even feel it.
It's like he's having an out of body experience. That's the closest equivalent he can think of. He doesn't feel like he's in control of his next movements. He's ever so gently placing the note aside and untying the string keeping all the letters together. When he reaches for the very first letter, it feels fragile in his hands. But so fucking heavy. The unspoken weight of whatever those words are going to put on him. In her damn ugly-ass fucking scribbles.
The envelope tears easily as he rips the top of it, about to shake out the contents into his hand – "Pizza's here!" Shit. He blinks rapidly. A rush of air fills his lungs (a startled gasp, one could say, but not Butch.) He waits a minute; two, three. Maybe he can just go back to reading the letters... "Bro, it's gonna go cold! Get your ass in here!" Dammit. "No guarantee there'll be any left for yooou!" Boomer coaxes. Double dammit.
Shakily rising to his feet, Butch orientates himself briefly. Right. His bedroom; posters on the walls, desk cluttered, carpet under his feet. Clothes on the floor. Along with a stack of letters, but he ignores that last detail.
Pizza is waiting for him. Delicious, greasy, meaty and mushroomy pizza. Well, half-mushroom. Since Brick doesn't like mushrooms. Pizza; that really nice junk food that Butch could eat any day of the week. Yeah. Y'know, one of his favorite pass-times: eating pizza. Specifically this type of pizza. That he should be moving to go chow down on before Boomer eats it all. Any minute now, he'll start moving. Butch can smell it from here, can almost imagine how big it is, the stringy cheese, the grayish mushrooms on it, the beef chunks... A real delicious pizza waiting for him.
But what about the letters?
Buttercup's letters?
There's that vicious conflict again, churning his gut and knotting his stomach. A deep discomfort settled in his bones; it feels like an injustice, to just leave them on the floor like that. "Butch, seriously! Come get your pizza or I'm gonna eat it all!"
Swallowing thickly, Butch reties the string around the stack of worn papers, gently transferring them into the top drawer of his nightstand. They'll be somewhat safe in there. For now. Until he finds a better place to hide them -
"Fine!" Boomer yells, "I'm eating all your damn pizza and you'll get nothing!"
Butch bursts out of his room, racing down the hall and leaping over the back of the couch. He collides messily with Boomer, who's trying to fit the entire mushroom-covered half of pizza onto his plate. Taking the empty plate from the coffee table, he tears the pizza from Boomer's hands, taking a huge chomp out of it. In an attempt to say 'fuck you lil bro', he chokes on his mouthful. Brick murmurs, "Karma." That appears to be his only response to the situation.
Boomer groans about Butch's elbow digging into his side, but he doesn't care. The pizza's still warm, thank god. Sure, cold pizza's good too, but there's just something slightly better about when it's fresh. "What took you so long, anyway?" The youngest brother finally asks.
Nearly choking again, Butch shrugs it off. He doesn't have an excuse that wont get him slapped or punched. 'Jerking off' is an excuse he uses often but in this scenario he has a feeling neither of them would believe him. Or appreciate him bringing it up while they're eating. So he just munches through his pizza in silence. Brick's intense gaze burns holes into the side of his head.
What his brothers don't know wont hurt them.
