Green is the color most commonly associated in with youth, also often is used to describe anyone young, inexperienced, probably by the analogy to immature and unripe fruit.
Some days he suspected that she, well… suspected. That she knew about the change. But whenever he stopped to give that serious thought, he decided that would be giving her too much credit. Buttercup preferred to keep things simple, black and white: it was a good day, or a bad day. I hurt you, or you surrender. I trust you with my life, or I'm going to fucking kill you the next time you show your face. Hers was a world of simple binaries. Moreover, she hated change. So, unless someone had told her (impossible, because even he hadn't fucking told anyone about the change) she would never come to the conclusion on her own. That just wasn't the way Buttercup's mind worked. She wasn't into that girly, over-thinking shit. It was one of the reasons they got along so well.
But he'd been noticing her giving him strange looks for the past month, and she was installing tiny amounts of distance between them: both physically and… not. Where his dirty jokes usually earned eye rolls or half-heartedly masked snickers, now they were falling flat around her. Where the two of them used to make jeering remarks and knock each other bodily in the hallways – denting lockers in their destructive wake and sending normal students scrambling for cover, recently it felt like she'd been careful not to touch him at all. Butch couldn't make heads or tails of it. Buttercup was usually game for all that jerky, horse-shitting play.
It wasn't until one Autumn day at soccer practice that everything became agonizingly clear. Mitch was following Buttercup around like a nervous dog, not even pretending to play the game, guarding her like she was his fucking prize to keep from the world.
Buttercup's best-friend-turned-ex, Mitch had spent the last six months doing nothing as far as Butch could tell but trying to convince Buttercup to give their relationship a second try. Butch had never really liked Mitch to begin with, with his gangly angled limbs and his fifty-year-old sailor's voice, aggravated by the cigarette that was always hanging out of his mouth (he'd even gotten Buttercup to try a few when they dated, but she didn't like it for the smell) his shaggy skater-boy hair. Butch had never really liked him. The same way he didn't like most normal boys who put on tough-guy attitudes; they always seemed so pathetic and comical. But ever since the change happened, it felt like every day was like a contest to see how long he could go without caving Mitch's face in with whatever happened to be on hand: A baseball bat. His fist. An algebra textbook.
Butch tried to distract himself with the game. The two super-humans were always put on different teams, for obvious reasons. And they both played with special rules. In other words, they were kept from killing the other players. They couldn't tackle anyone, and they could only kick the ball so hard – a fucking radar speedometer had even been installed on the field to test them, the kind that was used for bridges and highways. And they were both playing under strict limits on how much game-time they were allowed to spend directly handling the ball, otherwise it quickly devolved into a two-(superhu)man game between the two of them, and 'there was no need to waste all your teammates' time just because you two have superpowers' as Coach had put it.
But Butch's team was down in this game, so he tried to get away with participating a little more than he was allowed. Coach didn't bark out any punishments, in fact he seemed to be turning a blind eye to the whole thing - in the spirit of keeping the game going and interesting.
And Mitch was still guarding Buttercup.
Butch slid his foot beneath an opponent's cleat, smoothly snatching the ball away just as the other kid was leaning in to drive it into Butch's goal. Finding air and no ball, the student kicked himself flat onto his back. Butch took a moment to sneer down at the shocked face, and then kicked the ball straight across the field and into the other side's goal. Students, including the goalie, dove out of the way rather than trying to block it, for fear of bodily harm. The speedometer blinked rapidly on an obnoxious number, something like 85 mph which was well over the limit. Coach frowned slightly, but said nothing. Buttercup would have been the only one who could have contested it. But she hadn't, of course. Because she was still on the other side of Mitch.
The goalie kicked the ball out, and the opposition started to run with it. Butch jogged casually down the field, trying to ignore the creeping inkling from behind his back that Mitch was standing closer to her. He pivoted around a teammate, threatening to come in and intercept a pass before weaving out at the last second (just to fuck with the opponent, who jerked back in fear). Butch stole a glance in their direction. And Mitch was still guarding her.
Buttercup's team scored a goal.
And Mitch was still guarding her.
Their goalie kicked the ball out. One of Butch's teammates, a reedy boy with a mop of blond hair, who was actually not-terrible kicked down the field for a pace or two.
And Mitch was still guarding Buttercup.
His blonde teammate – Butch never could be bothered to remember his name – caught sight of Butch and, after a moment's hesitation, decided to take a chance at teamwork with the Superhuman. He kicked the ball over.
Butch stopped it almost instinctively, receiving the pass. He tried to train his eyes on the black and white pattern, to think about this stupid game that didn't even take a hint of exertion because Buttercup wasn't playing. Because Mitch was still – fucking – guarding her.
"Butch!" Tom yells from downfield, "over here! I'm open!" Tom stood waving his arms in a wide arc, just behind and a bit to the left of where Buttercup and Mitch were lightheartedly trying to shake and cover each other, respectively. (And it irks Butch endlessly that today she didn't even truly try).
Tom kept yelling, thinking Butch was gonig to make the pass. After all, from where he stood it looked like the RowdyRuff's vibrant gaze was boring straight into him.
Butch made a sudden decision, stopping the ball mid-field. Several teammates skid past him with confused faces. He drove his foot as far back as he could, and shot the ball downfield. Straight into Mitch's ass.
He was gratified by a surprised, pain-laced cry. Mitch crumpled to the ground, cupping his rear. A couple teammates snickered involuntarily. Mostly though, they stopped to stare at Butch. The coach's eyes locked on him like a fly to dead meat.
Butch shrugged, not bothering to hide his mile-wide smirk. "Oops. Guess I missed."
Before the Coach could even open his mouth, Buttercup is on him, moving faster than he'd seen her do in a while. And when her hand closed on the collar of his shirt, his first thought was actually a flare of surprise. It's the closest she'd been to him in a month.
"Are you fucking kidding me," she snarled.
Butch gave her one of his best smirks. "S'wrong, Princess? Twisted up that someone put a scratch on your little lap dog?" He taunted her, but mostly he was still crowing over the fact that Mitch is rolling in the dirt, trying not to cry.
Buttercup glanced back, just a casual little toss of her eyes, before she locked her heated gaze back on Butch. She seemed angrier that Butch hurt him than the fact that Mitch had been hurt. After all, it wasn't like she was standing over the would be tough-guy, making sure his tailbone wasn't fractured. She was here, with her hands around Butch's neck. And Butch took some pride in that too.
"Come with me," she bit out, and then proceeded to not give him much of a choice about it. Her fist tightened on his collar, she yanked him straight through the cloud line. By the time she let go, he was still just catching his breath. Butch coughed dramatically, already grinning – his mouth a violent, jagged line across his face. He rubbed at his neck where the fabric had rendered his skin raw - more for show than anything else. It wasn't as if that could actually hurt him.
"Geez, Buttercup. If you wanted to be alone with me, all you had to do was ask."
"Shut the fuck up."
Something about her voice raised the air on his arms. Butch dropped the grin and took a good look at her. Buttercup looked angry. Upset. She dragged her hand through her inky bob and made a fist in it, taking a long, deep breath.
Butch frowned, realizing that he was watching something rare: Buttercup thinking. Not to say that Buttercup was dumb. Usually she just knew exactly how she felt and what she had to say about it. Buttercup-at-a-loss was a strange, almost disturbing sight. Butch was about to ask her if she needed some time alone when she looked up sharply, her expression a mix of suspicion, anger, and maybe a shadow of fear.
"Are you in love with me?"
Butch stared. His body went numb. After a long moment, his mouth finally found his tongue again. "Wuh - the fuck? What kind of fucking question is that?"
"Just. Answer." Buttercup ground out. And yes, that was fear behind her ire, and if Butch had been unsure what answer she'd wanted to hear from him, that glimpse removed all doubt.
Instead, he stayed silent. Somehow, the lie that should have come as easily as a Labrador to a fucking bone wouldn't come. What should he say? No, of course. Tell her 'no' you fucking twit. But what if - a tiny part of his brain kept nagging – what if…?
Buttercup decked him in the eye. Hard. Butch reeled back.
"The fuck! I didn't say anything yet, you crazy bitch!"
"Exactly. Which means the answer isn't no!" Buttercup cried. "If it's fucking 'no' then just say it! Say it, Butch!"
"You're insane," Butch snarled. "I don't fucking need this." But he didn't leave.
"God damn it, you fucking A." Buttercup hissed. "After all these –! I can't believe I -! You! How could you?"
Butch spreads his hands, "I don't know, alright?" Realizing belatedly that he was supposed to be keeping up the pretense of denial. But who was he kidding? He'd been trying to deny it to himself for months, the change, but there wasn't anything for it. He was in love with Buttercup. And apparently, now everyone knew it – even her.
"No, it's really not." Buttercup snapped. "And fuck you for not being able to lie to me."
Butch laughed, a deep, barking sound that he set off right in her face. "You're one fucked up bitch, you know that Buttercup? So I am - so what? Don't ask me how I ever got to feel this way about a twisted girl like you."
She punched him, again. This time, Butch punched her back. They got into a fight. Not one of their playful brawls, but a real, true fight like they hadn't had since they were children. She left Butch with a bloody eye, torn rotator cuff, and a slightly broken heart. He was pretty sure he'd fractured her wrist, and torn a few crucial tendons in her left knee. As for her heart, he had no fucking idea. Except for the fact that as she'd slammed bodily into him to drive a fist up and under his ribs, he'd felt a hot, salty wetness smear from her cheek onto his lips. But it could have been blood, or spit for all he knew. (He'd wiped his hand against the taste of it, but the inside of his palm hadn't come back red. And after that, she'd been too busy trying to beat the crap out of him for him to remember anything else).