RATED M because ffn is still unhappy with whatever the fuck i rate my stories as and i literally dont care at this point

WORD COUNT (excluding author's note): 4, 564

nooooooooooooot beta'd lol

uhhhhh so ik i said i'd do a buttercup-pov sequel to 'heartsickness' but i got an idea for this instead. for those of you who still want that buttercup-pov sequel, it is coming, i just wanted to get this quickie up, since i have a feeling the buttercup-pov is probably gonna be a lot longer than this. kinda greens? but mostly brick-centric, greens can be read platonically if you want tbh

Brick has always prided himself in being perceptive.

It comes with the territory. Growing up on streets with deceitful strangers always meant they were a default danger until Brick could sus out intent – malicious or not. Wrangling two feral boys alongside that meant Brick needed to be smart: streetwise, not necessarily good or bad with people but knowing enough to find what makes the addicts tick, what attracts the keen-eyed miscreants, what wards off the wayward gangs.

But what do children do when they grow up in that kind of environment? Glass-shard carpets, abandoned warehouses, surrounded by ghosts. The same thing children do in any kind of environment: they learn. They copy. They develop. For Butch and Boomer, they were quick to keep their mouths shut and lips sealed tight. Secretive as can be. Thick as thieves.

For a while, Brick didn't understand why. Still sort of doesn't – without it simply being chalked up to the street-rat culture, sticking to yourself, trusting nobody else. That never made Brick an enemy to his brothers, he knows, but the distance had been a cause for concern in Brick's ten-year-old mind. Why be distant? Why be so far away? Don't you trust me? They did and do, but secrets always hold purpose.

How Butch started reeling in wads of cash was one secret. How Boomer got ahold of a guitar to start busking was another. How Brick woke up with money for dinner in his pocket was a third. There are many, many secrets that Brick isn't privy to between his brothers; it doesn't bother him as much as it used to. That reserved nature is not something he is a stranger to, after all (it's not like Brick doesn't have his own closet of skeletons, gnawed-on bones, scraps. Though, being ten and in charge, it made it harder to accept the fact that his brothers were managing a little without him.)

But being observant has its perks.

Insightfulness is something Brick will always pride himself on. Especially as he gets older, smarter academically, in a problem-solving way rather than a simple kneejerk skepticism of the world ingrained into his amygdala. In regard to his relationship with his brothers, most days he likes to believe that his particular set of people-skills has helped in his understanding, bonding, and support he can give. Other days, not so much. It's a back and forth kind of issue, really, because while Brick can be good at reading people all he wants it doesn't mean he's any good at responding.

Empathy is an entirely different skillset. One that Brick does not have. One that Brick doesn't think he can learn. Any kind of reciprocation is difficult; particularly when it comes to his brothers, never mind anybody beyond his close-kept ties. Emotions in general are obnoxious obstacles – maybe that's got something to do with trying to survive on the streets after being discarded trash, puppies left in an alley in a box in the rain, but realistically Brick knows it's not just tough on his part.

So Brick relies on observation. Simple enough. There is so much one can learn from simply watching, and Brick has lots of knows and tells as the fruit of his endeavors.

His brothers have tells. Obviously. Everybody does. It'd be absurd not to, he reckons. Brick knows most of the general tells for behaviors and emotions, like fiddling with your hands if you're nervous or talking faster as you become more passionate about a topic. Those are easy things. Everybody knows those things, or at the very least responds to them naturally.

His brothers are a little more distinct than that.

For example: Boomer likes music. He has an electronic keyboard in his room, along with three different ukuleles, a viola, that beat-up acoustic guitar he's had since they were kids, the other guitar that plugs into the amp, as well as fucking trumpet. Music is an outlet Boomer took to like a moth to a flame; eyes bright and smile brighter, hands itching for anything he could get his hands on. Avidly teaching himself by ear and YouTube tutorials until he could make pieces by himself.

Brick is usually home a little later than his brothers – from whatever the day's events have been (he's prone to losing the hours in the library, both for recreational time and for the benefit of his online classes.) There's a 75% guarantee that Boomer will be playing some kind of music. Major or minor chords are a broad indicator of his overall mood; major if it's positive, minor if it's negative. Tempo and pace of the sound give clues to whether he's angry or excited, sad or tired.

Certain instruments have certain meanings. Acoustic guitar – reminiscing, though not always specifically his childhood spent busking on the street corner. Ukuleles – usually flirtatious or gooey-soft and in love or plain amicable, and if it's the blue one with the pink hearts on the side, then it's most certainly about his 'little love', Bubbles. The electric guitar is usually the one Boomer strums his anger into, wicked shrills and fingers flying fast (though there are exceptions, when Butch is the one playing it, on the increasingly rare occasions he ever leaves his room. Brick doesn't know when Butch learned to play. Another mystery.) Boomer's viola and piano can be for various different things, told mostly by how he plays them.

The fucking trumpet is a joke. Boomer whips it out at parties because he's anything but sensible, and apparently enjoys sounding like he's playing a brass kazoo rather than being taken seriously as a proper musician, and the day Brick gets his hands on the fucking thing, it's going in the trash. That damned. Fucking. TRUMPET.

Another one of Boomer's tells is linked to his interactions with Butch, funnily enough. He's not nearly as good at keeping secrets as his older brothers. His eyes are innocent-lamb kind of wide whenever he's fucked up something; 'casually' leaning himself against surfaces as he drums fretful beats onto his hand. That in itself is pathetic. When he's hiding a secret with Butch, however, things tend to take a turn for the worse. The nicknames slip out.

Boss in itself is one of the usual titles Brick is accustomed to. There's no definite origin, nor enough sentiment behind it for Brick to bother looking for one. It's fine. The nickname is fine. Flattering, even. A notion of respect that Boomer puts into his everyday vocabulary the same way he puts love into every fresh cup of coffee left for Brick in the morning and the same way he puts care into the packed lunch he leaves for Butch in the fridge (for whenever Butch…hopefully…leaves his room that day.)

Now, when Boomer calls Brick boss, brickhead, pal, buddy, boss, uh, boss, you see – in a stammering attempt to cover his own ass, there is quite obviously something amiss. Then with the wayward glances to Butch's room. Then that panicked gaze down to his shoes. To Brick, to the wall, to the floor, to Brick once more, and finally resting on Butch's bedroom door.

Brick quietly raises an eyebrow.

He's just stepped through the door. The wind is still red on his face, cheeks and ears cold as he lets his messenger bag slip onto the little cubby under the coatrack. There's not even time to take off his windbreaker before Boomer is stuttering out a greeting from his beanbag in front of the television.

The picture of apprehension; bowed to peer up at Brick upside down, his eyes are flared wide and flickering, mouth gaping a little and blond curls laid over the back of the 90s-patterned beanbag. "Boss! Uh – Brick, pal, my man – you're home…early."

Those blue eyes keep pulling their agitated circuit: Brick, ceiling, the hall to their bedrooms, Brick, ceiling, the hall to their bedrooms. More notably, Butch's bedroom door. The door closest to the communal area. The door that is closed.

This is important, because the door is open when Butch isn't in that room. Right now, Butch shouldn't be in his room. Butch should be out with Buttercup or Harry, for his weekly appointment with his psychiatrist. His third appointment. Ever.

Brick even checks his phone for the time just in case he's wrong; but no, it's there in acute white lettering on his lockscreen. February 10th 2020 03:55pm. He feels a frown settle on his face before he can stop it. Brick narrows his eyes at Boomer, unmoving from his spot before the front door, "I am. Library gets busy on Mondays after school's are out." The unspoken you know this, Boomer, burns out before it reaches his teeth. He lets the ashes sit on his tongue, chalky and dry. "Butch isn't back from his session yet, I assume?"

Boomer chokes a little as he twists to look at Brick upright. His mouth snaps shut. Eyes one again panicked as they dart to Butch's closed bedroom door. "Nope," He peeps. The boy tries to take an unassuming pose, chin propped up in his palm as he pointedly looks anywhere but Brick. He's teeming with nervous energy. The fizzle of it is tangent in the air.

"Right," Brick intones. He doesn't bother peeling off his windbreaker, instead taking smooth strides for the kitchenette and grabbing a glass from the cupboard. He stares at the five pint-glasses staring back at him. They had six, he thinks wistfully. They had six pint-glasses.

With a hard swallow, Brick takes a glass and fills it with water. The feel of it down his wind-sore throat is a biting refresher. He clears his throat after draining the glass. "Well I need to grab something, anyway. Gonna do some studying in my room." His eyes never leave Boomer, still curled up in the living room.

He's twisting knots into the hem of his sweater. Bullets of sweat down his forehead. "Okay boss," He acquiesces hastily, nodding hard enough that his curls bounce, "That's cool, smart man, huh, doin' all that school work. Good on ya." The boy makes a reach for the remote to resume his cartoons.

The quiet dip in tone doesn't go amiss. Boomer's always been a little conscious about school – or lack of it, in his and Butch's case – and it's always made Brick wonder if maybe Boomer feels as though his lack of education makes him inadequate. A topic for another day, he supposes.

"You know where I am if you need me," Brick clarifies. He pivots from the kitchenette, and makes towards the little hall to their bedrooms. It's more a nook than a hallway: four doors – two on the right, one on the left, one at the end. Brick's is the one at the end. The furthest from the common area. The bathroom is on the left. Butch's is the closest one on the right, and coincide the one Brick walks past first on his way to his own bedroom. The closed door is heavy in his peripheral.

Muffled sobbing sounds through the wood.

Brick pauses outside the door. Initially, he'd been willing to give it half an hour before he tries anything – debrief in his own room, destress, consider his options in confronting Butch – but now?

Butch is crying. Has been crying for…god knows how long, only heard after being this close – inaudible over the television, even to Brick's trained ears unless he was specifically searching for that sound.

But now he's here. Outside the door. Each choked sob makes something awfully clammy and guilt-ridden slink down Brick's spine. How long has he been like this? Inconsolable. Isolated. In his room, with seemingly nobody to sit with him (though he doesn't put that against Boomer; no doubt the boy has already tried, only to be forced out.) Brick raises his hand to the doorknob, feeling Boomer's worried gaze on his back. "Butch?" He calls steadily.

The miserable sounds quickly quieten to half-abated hiccups.

Frowning, he pushes the door open. Brick surveys Butch's room. Dark. Butch's draped his jackets over the window again, because the blinds aren't thick enough to keep the daylight out. It smells like ashed cigarettes and sweat; it only confirms Bricks' thoughts of Butch having not left his room at all this weekend, and furthering the fact that Butch didn't get up to have a shower and get ready for his session with the psychiatrist like he was supposed to. Brick knows for a fact Butch has a reminder on his phone.

It's written on the fridge's calendar. BUTCH'S APPOINTMENT: 3:35PM (1HR) MONDAYS in bold, red marker wherever Brick can put up notes. Butch had stared at them in blank-faced detachment for the first few days. Whenever he'd stumble into the kitchen when he felt like appeasing his empty stomach, he'd give the calendar a displeased grimace. The little post-it note on the corkboard by the door, the reminder-alarm on his phone, on Boomer's phone – just to make sure he couldn't just ignore it, since Brick isn't usually home around the time Butch needs to get ready.

Which is fucking comical, considering Butch has somehow squirmed his way out of it today. Boomer's always home on Mondays; his Little Miss Sunshine is at school until, well, about twenty minutes ago, and he's claimed Mondays to be his 'rest days' on his own schedule. So why didn't Boomer help Butch get ready?

They're a team. They work with each other, not against each other. Brick bites his lip as he shuts the door behind him. "Butch," He calls again, forcing himself to sound softer. A sigh. No matter how dismayed he is by Butch's behavior. Brick presses himself against Butch's door in the dark; watching the slump of his comforter dragged to the floor.

The boy won't look at him the dark. He's what Brick has taken to call 'corpsing'. Lumber body sprawled lifeless on his bed, not even any move to pull his blanket back up or wipe his face. Breathing harsh as he tries to shut himself up. The sharp rise and fall of his chest combined with his trembling stomach only make Brick feel colder and colder inside.

When they were kids, Brick used to be able to manhandle Butch around a little easier. But then they turned twelve and Butch hit six growth spurts in one summer; Brick and Boomer never had a chance of catching up. Brick's filled out, don't get him wrong (Boomer has the body of a twink and Brick will not be convinced otherwise,) but Butch has filled out…more, somehow, considering he doesn't leave his fucking bedroom anymore. Whatever gym-fanatic phase Butch had when he was fourteen was drowned by this sadder, more exhausted existence.

But that's not the point. The point is, if Brick was confident that he could rearrange Butch without bruising him with the force needed to ragdoll the boy around, he'd do it. Unfortunately, there's no guarantee. So, Brick just slinks a little closer to the bed, pulling the comforter from the floor and folding it up to rest on the stray desk chair.

Here's where the observation skills come in.

A more in-depth look of the room reveals that nothing is misplaced. Nothing has been knocked in a fit of anger, nothing thrown or strewn or discarded. It actually looks like Butch was more productive at some point, cleaning up a little. That in itself deserves a little praise.

Lunch is still sitting on his nightstand. A simple ham sandwich, a packet of salt and vinegar chips, a plastic bottle of orange juice. (A plastic bottle, because Butch can't space out and cut himself if he breaks it.) Untouched. Chips unopened. Bottle left to sit in the slightest ray of sun that peaks through the jacket-smothered window.

Brick stuffs his hands in his pockets, eventually turning his gaze back to Butch. His heart does this – this thing, it feels like it's twisting, disintegrating, up in flames all at once and then only in increments. The sight of his brother is nothing if not pitiful. Still with hitched breaths and this kicked-dog quality to his submissive lack of eye-contact. But he doesn't move. Doesn't twist to hide himself, doesn't seem to have the energy to. He just…lays there. In a heap of miserable, neglectful loathing. Another slick of clammy-discomfiture slithers down his vertebrae: sloppy with the sudden surge of it.

Contrary to the need for action kindling in his chest, Brick tentatively sits down beside Butch on the bed. He sits there. Lets the silence ruminate until it is heavy with his disappointment, heat rising in tandem with the bit-back litany of things Brick wants to ask. What made you like this? Where did I go wrong? Why can't I fix it? All of them sit in the back of his mouth, heavy smoke that makes his esophagus burn.

Butch sniffles. It snicks through the room like a pair of scissors scouring paper, quick and sharp, almost too loud against the muffled fumbling of Butch's heartbeat. "M'sorry, Red," The boy croaks. Another sniff – the jarring movement of Butch bringing an arm to wipe his tears finally, conserved effort to not be so pathetic (honestly, Brick could never believe Butch to be as feeble as that. He's beginning to wonder if he truly thinks Butch is a disaster, or if Butch's opinions have rubbed off on him.)

It's an effort to rein in the usual 'don't call me that' that simmers against his teeth; it'd be too callous for this, too deterring. As normal as it is, Butch doesn't need Brick's banality right now. Butch needs a brother. "Why are you sorry?" He asks, in that same soft-probing voice he knows will drive Butch up the wall – because his new psychiatrist uses this tone, asks the same vague questions, gets under Butch's skin because it works, it pries him out like nothing else does, and Brick knows he's already succeeded when he hears the stutter of breath and the irritated clack of teeth when he snaps his jaws together.

Instead of responding, Butch sniffles again, rolling onto his side to hide his face in his pillow. The strain of such a simple movement makes it appear herculean; darkness weighing Butch down the same way the world weighs down Atlas.

So clearly hearing that tone from anybody but his psychiatrist isn't the way to go. Brick curls his fingers into the bedsheets, ducking his head a little. Think. Think. Think! He's supposed to be good at this. So why does it feel like he's just digging a deeper hole for them both?

"How about," Brick reproaches, twisting until he can just about catch Butch hurriedly wiping more tears from his face, "You tell me why you're not at your appointment right now?"

Butch's face crumples. His mouth pulls awfully, eyebrows furrowing and eyes squeezing shut. As if blocking him out will make him disappear. The barest whimper climbs up the boy's throat, but falls flat when it should be released into the quietude. Butch shakes his head. He curls up tighter. Making himself smaller. Wanting to disappear too, maybe, or perhaps trying to make Brick relent by becoming unnoticeable.

He jumps when Brick places his hand on Butch's shoulder. "Butch," Brick urges. When all that is returned is this cloying silence, the uneven fluttering of his brother's heart, and the heavy breathing, Brick grits his teeth. This is not how this is meant to go. Think. Think. Think!

He's looking, and there is nothing – just this godawful sadness, drenching everything sodden and heavy. Brick's flames are swallowed by the drowning desolation; it's as if it's the only thing Butch knows anymore. What a sad thought that is.

Butch is sad. That is obvious. Butch is always sad, and there should be something to it, some reason, some cause, and this is where Brick comes up short. All the visible cues lead to the same blatant fucking conclusion: Butch is sad. So where's the root-cause of the problem? Brick can't find it. He can't. Is there a root-cause? It's not as if it just comes from nowhere, surely. It can't. Nothing does. You can't have something from nothing; it just doesn't work.

"I just."

The faltering has Brick's attention back to Butch, quicker than a hawk. The boy is slowly shifting around, shuffling to sit up on his elbows. It's still dark, but from what he can see, his brother is a wreck. Inadequacy churns uneasily in his stomach.

"Couldn't," Chokes out of him; a herculean effort to even speak, to even drag his glassy eyes from the bedding to look at Brick properly.

"Why not?" That seems to be all Butch needed to be tipped over the edge.

Something breaks in Butch's eyes, and then he's swallowing harshly, voice creaking as he rushes: "I just – I don't know, Red, okay? I don't fucking. Know. I – I – sunshine, she couldn't – uh, Buttercup couldn't… come. With me. And – and then, I don't fucking know, I just. Started." His hand twitches. The briefest of gestures.

"Crying," Butch spits out. His voice is growing louder – not by much, but enough. He's upset with himself too. "I just…couldn't. Didn't want to. So I stayed here. In bed. I just – haven't…it's this –" Butch pats his chest roughly – "feeling. It's…everywhere." He stops short after that. Eyes widening in what Brick can guess to be disgust and shock, though at what is a mystery. Butch pushes himself up a little more (straining, a tremor that builds up from the boy's core and spreads along his arms,) and shakes his head curtly. Then he's sighing, eyes downcast in that weary way he gets, "Look, Red. I – I'll go next week. I swear. Today…was just. A one-off."

They both pretend there isn't a pleading quality to it.

Before Brick can reply, there's a knock on the window. It's mute through the glass and two layers of jackets, but for some reason, Butch is standing up for the first time all day and staggering his way across the room to clumsily tug down each layer. Brick watches, affronted. What could make his bed-bound brother jump up like that –

As Butch pulls up the blinds, Buttercup peers through the largening gap. She's the picture of gentle commiseration; from the pinch between her eyebrows to the general wide-worriedness of her eyes, the way she springs up impatiently as Butch finally props his window open. She slips in with brusque urgency, giving no time for anybody to breathe – she's pressing herself into Butch's space until they're touching, until she's got his arms around him in a boa-constriction of sorts, until her shoulders are slumping in relief with Butch's.

It's a strange thing to watch. There's a desperation on both parts; with how hard Buttercup is clutching him, Butch is equally as grappling, arms around her neck as her claws dig into his shoulder blades. "Hey, big guy," The girl murmurs. Butch sags further into her clutches.

They work in tandem. She resists when he relents (locking her legs to support his weight,) she presses when he pulls (that needful scrabbling for purchase,) Butch shies away and she ventures forward.

Too long passes – too long for friends, Brick figures, but then again, have they ever really been friends? It's always felt like they were something more – before Buttercup reluctantly pulls back. She slips a hand to the side of his neck when Butch looks ready to fall apart right then and there at the retreat. He settles soon after. (Butch's face does this…thing; it softens, flushes pink, mouth parting in attempt to breathe after glimpsing something so breathtaking.) "Hey sunshine," Butch mutters. Dumbstruck. In-love. Vulnerable.

Brick finds himself forced out of the picture. In increments; first Buttercup herds Butch back to bed, giving Brick a brief smile as she does but no further explanation. Second, Butch doesn't even look at him: eyes only for the girl in front of him. They're in their own world – or rather, Butch is orbiting around a planet that isn't Brick.

He stands from the bed to make room for Buttercup. She sits at the head of the bed, rubbing Butch's shoulder with patience Brick didn't think she had, content to just sit in companionable silence. A companionship that Brick is not included in.

Obviously, they're not to blame. They're two (hurt children, struggling teenagers, lovers) and it's natural to enjoy each other's company more than anybody else's. Above all, they're best friends. Brick knows this. Knows that Butch would rather open up to a girl who has dexterous fingers and that special connection, rather than to a brother that doesn't understand and isn't sure how to be gentle.

It's when Butch's eyes well up again that Brick leaves the room.

It took seeing his brother in the afternoon daylight to understand that there are simply some things that Brick isn't meant to see. So he leaves. This tight bundle of hurtjealouscold in his chest, smothered down in an attempt to understand the difference between himself and Buttercup and how Butch values them both differently, he feels weighed down by this revelation.

Boomer is still sprawled in the living room. Eyes split between the television and the room of which Brick emerges from, phone in his lap. The boy doesn't say anything, just keeps with the discomforted look. He puts his gaze back to the television.

Brick makes his way over. Equally as wordless. He sidles down onto the beanbag with Boomer, jostling the boy until they both sit comfortably, pressed against each other. Shoulder to shoulder. Brick closes his eyes and leans back, taking his cap off to let his hair out. A sigh tumbles out of him. Involuntarily, Brick focuses on the sounds from Butch's room. Easier, now, as Boomer has turned down the volume since Brick was last in the living room. Probably to do the same thing Brick is doing now: eavesdropping.

A drag of ceramic on wood as Buttercup picks up the plate of untouched lunch. You should eat, Butch. The disagreeing mumble of Butch, before there's a barely audible agreeance. The mattress springs creaking, Buttercup (presumably) climbing up better onto the bed with him. Butch huffing a little as he takes the plate from her.

Brick opens his eyes again. Boomer is still watching the television. His hand comes up to pat Brick's shoulder in silent easement. "Buttercup's got this, boss," The blond assures. Brick feels a little more useless than he had before. He looks down at the phone in Boomer's lap, mildly curious to find Buttercup's contact open on his messages.

buttercup: u seen butch?

boomer: home

boomer: come over

Brick exhales through his nose, and ruffles his hair out. He struggles to pinpoint when Buttercup had become such a big part of Butch's life, or when Buttercup had been there at all. Nowadays, it's more like she'd never been absent. Not that it's a bad thing. Brick is happy Butch has support, after all. God knows he needs it.

Brick always prided himself in being perceptive.

God knows how he missed this.