He snaps awake, unsure of where he is for a second. Then he remembers the art class, the sketchbook. The drawing.

He scoffs and stands up. His back aches from falling asleep in such an awkward position, so he stretches until his joints pop, and then flops back onto the bed. The sun has risen and he's probably already late, but when has he ever cared about school?

The reverie he slips into doesn't last very long. Brick opens the door just as his eyes close. Butch doesn't even have to look at his brother to feel the frosty glare directed at him.

"We're going," is all he says. Butch shrugs and flips over, to which the redhead responds with, "I'm not gonna say it again."

He waits for a few seconds, but before Brick can leave, he speaks. "I know you don't give a shit about it. High school." He turns to look at him. "Why do you power through it, then?"

The redhead doesn't answer, instead giving his brother a glare that puts forth his order perfectly, yet still passes Butch's point across. Brick hates high school. Probably as much as Butch finds it amusing.

Still, he conforms.

Once the door closes, he sighs, and after a few minutes of debating with himself, he gets up.

Might as well.

He notices that something's off the moment he sets foot on the school grounds. There are eyes on him—which isn't surprising. He basks in it, even. But today the expressions on their faces are different. Not the usual mix of fear and awe that he's gotten used to.

The stares are scrutinizing, like they're trying to figure him out.

He wants to dismiss it as him just feeling crappy because of the drawing, or the impending art class, but he can't.

It doesn't take him long to figure it out—the crowd gathered around the noticeboard is big enough to see from across the building. As he approaches, he notices their stares again. Even the silence has a different atmosphere to it, the whispers sounding odd and unfamiliar.

He pushes past bodies even though he knows he can see it from here. He knows, but he doesn't want to look up until there's nothing else standing between him and it. He's so adamant to follow this decision that he almost headbutts the board, and even then he's reluctant. But he has to know. He hates the unfamiliarity, so he needs to eradicate it.

His gaze slowly shifts upward, and as soon as he registers the paper he knows.

The incredulous oath tumbles from his lips at the exact same time Buttercup's confused one echoes from behind the crowd.

"What the fuck?"

He reaches out for the paper, but her bandaged fingers get to it first. He grits his teeth as she stares at the drawing, her expression shifting from confusion, to realization.

To anger.

"What the fuck." Her eyes are hard now. Her clenched fist crumples the paper, and he grits his teeth.

Boomer, he thinks. It's way too early for this shit.

He shakes his head; he can't even bring himself to grin at this point. "So you found out my dirty little secret," he says flatly. "I'm a cartoonist. 'Cause you obviously can't look that hot in real—"

He cuts off at the blinding pain in his nose that knocks him off his feet and sends him flying backward. He finds himself sprawled out in the grass outside the building, and he sighs, muttering a small "Here we go."

He can practically taste her fury from where he is.

"You. Piece. Of shit." She snarls. "You fucking scumbag."

"If you're just gonna go on, I'll just leave—" He cuts off with a choke as she yanks him up by the collar. His eyes narrow. "Seriously, I can go."

Her enraged expression doesn't waver, and he sighs once again. This is the first time he's ever been conflicted about riling her up even more. Her anger is extremely gratifying, but he kinda gets it. Why she's angry.

He never thought he'd ever reach such a conclusion.

She punches him again. Backs it up with a kick to his chest. He takes it in good stride, but the usual humour he derives from their scuffles is absent.

"You saw the whole thing, didn't you?" she growls down at him. He nods.

"Yup. But in my defense, you were really loud—ow," he winces unconvincingly after she kicks him once more. He wants to feel the laughter erupt from his chest as her face contorts with anger.

But it still isn't there.

He's irritated now. He just wants this to be over so he can go kill Boomer, but it's dragging on for far longer than he thought it would, and he obviously isn't enjoying any part of it. So he decides to go with his other way of coping with Buttercup's Psycho phase: fleeing the scene.

He takes off so fast that he's not really sure where he's going for a couple of seconds. He recovers quickly though, and he can already feel Buttercup's burning glare boring into his back as she gives chase. He takes the liberty of tuning out the endless string of insults being hurled his way because, honestly, he can think of far worse ones. She's overreacting, anyway; he can't see any reason why she's getting so worked up over a freaking drawing. It sounds like way too much of a girl thing to do, and Buttercup doesn't really count as female, at least not in his eyes.

"You're way more volatile today, y'know that?" He calls out. "But I know you can't help it now. I can feel you PMSing from here."

The furious roar she lets out seems to throw her forward, because she slams violently into him and they go down fast, blowing a gigantic hole into the side of an apartment complex with their landing and burrowing right down to the ground floor. He's too winded to fully recover before she descends on him, attacks coming from every possible direction. Her knee connects with his groin and he wheezes, and then there's adrenaline surging through his body and he kicks her in the stomach. She backpedals, and he sends her flying backward with a punch to the jaw.

There it is. That feeling he always gets when this happens. The burning desire to break, to destroy, that only manifests when he fights her. It's like a drug, and he's finally gotten his fix. Sure, he still can't derive any sort of thrill from getting her worked up, but he can fight back, and that's enough exhilaration for him.

She launches for him again, but he's ready this time. He grabs her arm and twists it behind her until she grunts. She knees him in the stomach, and he crumples, but grabs her arm again and pulls her into a tight headlock.

Her frenzied thrashing is akin to that of a rabid dog. Butch laughs at the fact that she can't break his hold.

"Seriously? A headlock, and you can't break free?" he snorts. "Guess all that snivelling made you weak, crybaby."

He knows he's struck a nerve. Hell, he struck a nerve the moment she saw the sketch, but now he's done it.

Now she's mad as hell.

Her head does this weird jerking thing, and he's confused for a second—until there's a snap and his arm burns with pain. He recoils and propels himself back into the air.

He spirals out of control, too preoccupied with the pain in his arm, and he loses altitude once again. The pain is already ebbing away, though, so as soon as he hits the ground, he shoots back up again.

"I'm gonna fucking break you, Butch!" She screams after him. She's gaining fast. Her voice is crazed, but there's something else he can hear, just an inkling, and once again there's that feeling he hates, the absence of the humour he's supposed to derive from this.

He feels like the bad guy; a fact that doesn't faze him per se, but in this situation—which was caused by an earlier, more problematic situation that he now wishes he hadn't been around to witness—it's gnawing at him, distracting him.

It feels way too much like guilt.

Buttercup crashes into him again, the force powerful enough for his organs to shudder inside his body, but this time he manages to stay airborne. His hands reach for her hair, yank on it. She hisses and lashes out with her limbs.

They're literally darting all over the place now, and Butch is torn between avoiding her hits, landing his own, and trying to figure out which way is up or down. Their movements blur until Butch isn't sure if he's hitting her or himself.

And then her head smashes against his, hard. His brain sort of vibrates against his skull, and his body goes limp and heavy as he tries to reboot.

Fuck, he hisses mentally as he begins to fall. All he can see is Buttercup's contorted expression—which only adds to the discomfort he feels as gravity pushes against his body. Somewhere along the descent he faces downward to not have to look at her face, instead preferring to watch the ground as it rushes to meet him.

Not even his epic faceplant into the gravel of the street deters Buttercup. Before he can even taste the ground she flips him over, which he's thankful for—until she starts punching him.

"Looks like this is—hurting you more—than it is—me," he splutters between each hit. He forces a lopsided grin onto his lips. "You can stop, y'know."

"Shut the hell up!" she bellows, and for the first time ever, he's actually stunned into silence. "Shut up!"

Her fist connects with his jaw again and again, blowing an ever-widening crater into the ground. Eventually she's striking him faster than the Chemical-X can fix, but she doesn't stop. Now his head is pounding like a bass drum and his nose is definitely broken and his vison is blurry, but she doesn't stop.

"Okay—stop—" he cuts off with a hiss of pain as she punches his nose again. "Fu—STOP!"

He's starting to feel it now. The pain that comes with receiving way too many hits. She knows it too: he can see it in her eyes. But she looks pretty screwloose now, and it's just making him feel worse.

Not pain-worse. Guilt-worse.

"What the fuck is wrong with you!? Huh!?" she screams. "Do you—do you get off on it or something? Are you so fucking insane that you like that kind of stuff?" Another punch. "You just—you just sat and watched that shit like a movie!"

"I didn't want to see you fucking cry, okay!?" he roars, and then it's her turn to fall silent. He uses her lack of attack to spit blood, take a deep breath, and continue. "I was just there, alright? Jesus..."

She stares at him for a few seconds. And then, "So then you just decided that that was the perfect time to hone your art skills, huh?"

"That was..." he sighs. "That was a mistake. I didn't even have any control over it."

She frowns. "You expect me to believe that?"

"...Pretty much, yeah."

"Tch." She raises a fist again, but he's recovered enough to be able to grab her hand mid-punch.

"Can you just calm the hell down and listen?" He catches her glare, levels it with his own. "When I draw, it's...it's like I'm just watching the pencil move. I didn't even realize I was drawing you yesterday."

She narrows her eyes at him, and he lifts up his free hand in surrender.

"I know it sounds like bullshit, alright?" he says. "But I'm serious. I didn't even like to draw until two days ago, and ever since then it's just been getting me into terrible situations." He pauses. "Like this one, for example." He stares pointedly at her face, knowing that his probably looks like a plate of ketchup.

She sneers at him, and he thinks she's gonna go crazy again, but she simply gets up and dusts herself off.

"So...why were you crying?" he asks her.

She sends him a withering glare. "It's none of your goddamn business."

He raises his hands again. "My bad." And then, with a smirk playing on his lips, he adds, "But you're sure it wasn't just you PMSing?"

"Fuck you, Butch."

"Heh, trust me, you can."

She gives an incredulous scoff and takes off. He watches her fly until all he can see is the faint green trail she leaves in her wake.

He decides not to move until his wounds close. He closes his eyes, almost feeling the Chemical-X heal the cuts on his face. Still, when he's all healed up, he doesn't move. He's not sure why, until anger slowly wells up inside him, increasing until he starts to shake.

He hates art. Hates. It. In the space of two days he's gone through more inconveniences than he cares to endure.

With an aggravated hiss, he gets to his feet and starts walking. He can't risk flying in case somebody sees him, which would ultimately lead to either Blossom or Brick forcing him to clean up the damage he and Buttercup caused.

He spits blood onto the road. Hisses again.

He's definitely ditching that art class. It's brought him enough trouble as is.