Fast Times

by Animalcrunch12

When a core group of six friends are preparing for their last year of high school at Townsville Academy and their future beyond it, they must deal with the most difficult task they've ever faced―each other. In a year full of drama, heartbreak, betrayal, laughter, tears, romance, and most of all, friendship, these six friends will never be the same. *Currently Re-editing*

33. Bloom Later

It's well-known Brick's preferred coping mechanism was avoidance and avoiding he was.

He'd spent all of Sunday doing the most irrelevant tasks. Scrub the shower he shared with Butch until his fingers were close to bleeding on the glistening linoleum. Go for a morning run, and then an evening one despite Brick's visceral hatred for long-distance running. Sort out a bag of Skittles and M&M's by color before mixing the two together in matching shades. Anything he could think of. Whatever popped into his big, stupid brain to preoccupied him, Brick did. No questions or concerns, like an obedient dog.

Another day arrived, the sun rising in swirls of raspberry and orange, and Brick stuck to his strategy of avoiding. What's a better way to forget he may have, absolutely, fucked up things with—

No, no, nope!

Instead, Brick focused on something else.

He slashed sloppily through the warm water of the Academy's pool. His legs ached. His arms blazing from only a few laps against Boomer, who carved the water with such elegant efficiency. There's no chance Brick would ever beat Aquaman's illegitimate son, but he didn't care. This feeling of honed claws shredding through to his subcutaneous tissue was better.

Better than acknowledging what he's done after promising not to.

Brick sucked in a fresh breath. Water pooled in his poorly fitted goggles, his stupid hair dragged too much, and he almost choked in a mouth full of chlorine. Technical mistakes. All because he was distracted.

Okay, so maybe he's falsifying what's really going on. It wasn't avoiding. Sure, Brick was wickedly good at it, but when it came to his ugliest. How he coped with surviving and making it through his days, Brick didn't flinch at the choice of dishonesty.

The truth wasn't worth digging into. Brick knew better.

His hand brushed the tiled wall, his head surfacing. He hung onto the edge of the pool, feeling like he might cough up a whole chlorine-saturated lung. Boomer was already there, grinning. At this point, Brick decided he must have gills or something because there's no logical reason for why Boomer wasn't even the slightest bit winded.

"You inhaled at the wrong time," Boomer said. His goggles were already pushed up to his blue swim cap. His eyes bright, like the sunrise peeking over the ocean. "Rookie mistake."

Brick tore off his goggles, panting out, "I feel like I fucking died at some point there."

"I love that feeling." He floated into the green lane divider, crossing his arms. "Means you had a really hard swim."

"Right," Brick huffed out flatly. He wasn't anywhere close to normalcy with his respiration when they got out of the pool. But Boomer did most of the talking anyway, not knowing how overgrown Brick's mind was with other things.

He should do better. Brick was trying to. Hell, he was the one who'd hit Boomer up for a swim, knowing his body would feel like it'd been pushed through a meat shredder afterward. Mainly to have a distraction in the purest form Brick understood: testosterone-induced competition. But also because Brick wanted to hang out with Boomer.

"—you've been talking to her, right?"

They were in the locker room now, the residual sun sinking into their necks and scalps. Water droplets left a trail to them, and the tiled floor felt cool underneath Brick's bare feet. Boomer had his leg propped on the warped bench dividing them, using a crisp towel to dry off his right leg.

"I haven't spoken to Blossom in nearly a month," Brick muttered, automatic. Her name on his tongue tasted like sickening menthol. An icy gust comparable to a punishing winter shivered through his aching muscles, settling into his bones.

It was the first time he's thought about her since Saturday.

Boomer glanced up at Brick. His brows creased, shaking his head full of dry hair—Brick really should've been like him and wore a swimming cap.

He mussed a hand through his wet hair as Boomer clarified, "I meant Buttercup. You've been hanging out with her a lot."

Brick's already pulsing pulse tripled, the bone chill brought by the mention of Blossom thawed into something else.

He didn't think anyone noticed.

Not that there was anything to hide. They were friends—to be determined at this moment, but Brick still saw her as a real friend.

"We're cool," he said, turning the dial of his locker. Brick could've told a lie; it would've been safer. He should shut his big fucking mouth. "The last person I thought I could tolerate, but she grows on you."

Boomer let out a laugh, switching to his left leg. "Sure, dude."

"She's..." His voice grew quiet. "She's real, and," has the prettiest eyes and a calamitous smile and so, so warm and, "she doesn't put up with shit, you know? It's sort of nice to be around someone like that right now."

Boomer made a slight humming noise but neglected to elaborate. Brick grabbed his towel. The cheap scratchy fabric hung from his neck like Spanish moss, turning to Boomer.

A few tense seconds passed before Boomer looked up at him again. A lazy grin pulled at his lips.

"Have you ever thought about why bobcats circle each other?" Brick has never been more relieved for one of Boomer's irrelevant questions.

"Maul each other to death?"

"That answer sounds right for you," Boomer chuckled, standing straight now, pulling on a t-shirt patterned with palm leaves. Apparently, his black swim trunks were his choice of pants for the day. He raised his sandy brows, slinging on his tan backpack while Brick stood, soggy and bare-chested, in his red swim shorts. "What happened to you at prom, by the way?"

Brick's jaw twitched, goosebumps erupting as a spark of heat shot through him.

"I was there."

"Yeah, but did you leave early? I'd tried looking for you."

Brick wasn't sure, but there's this peculiar look Boomer was giving him. Like all the secrets Brick has ever kept were cascading like a waterfall, and Boomer was only waiting for him to acknowledge how they were pooling around their ankles.

But this was also Boomer. Good ol' Boomer. So easy and (mostly) harmless and impercipient. He wasn't setting him up for a gotcha moment. He was only a concerned and curious friend—nothing more, nothing less.

Brick rolled out the tension tightening his shoulders. "Got bored, went for a walk. That was about the highlight of my night." He shut his locker, turning away. "I'mma hit the showers," Brick said before Boomer asked anymore.

"I'll wait outside," Boomer called out, and from one of the celadon-tiled shower stalls, Brick heard the locker room door shut.

Brick took a cold shower.

Or, at least, he did for a second before nearly slipping and breaking a damn leg lunging away from the cold spray of water. How the fuck do people take cold showers? How sane are they?

He turned the faucet to a skin-blistering heat, fuming as he turned his back to the showerhead and rinsed out his hair.

Brick wanted to wash it all away. The memories from Saturday night. How they continued to flash across his mind, lucid and hot as fireworks on the fourth of July. The bursting sparks littered and seared him everywhere. His fingertips that pressed into Buttercup's thin frame with ease. His lips that could feel the phantom of her teeth scraping along them. The jolts struck their way into his bloodstream, fizzling a dangerous haze in his brain.

A cloud of steam surrounded him as Brick slicked back the wet hair from his forehead, feeling himself twitch. He turned around again, opening his mouth to rinse out the chlorine. And maybe to rinse out the acerbic taste of lying. One he was too familiar with but had been briefly cleansed of. It tried to corrode over the other palate he's recently discovered. The sweet red wine and insatiable warmth and looming summer air. That taste still lingered on his tongue.

Maybe he wanted to rinse that away too.

He spat out some water with no luck. Those sparks still popping on his splotchy skin, and if Brick dared to close his eyes for a second, he could see it all again. He can feel her hips grounded against his, the swell of him on his thigh. The way Buttercup had caught him in a viciously slow kiss. As if she struck a match in him, and now the darkened parts of him didn't know what the hell he's supposed to do with this brightness—this vigorous burning.

He felt himself stiffen, opening his eyes. God! No, fucking no!

He wasn't. He couldn't.

What the hell has he done? Brick should've known better—he liked to believe he does know better.

It didn't mean anything; it didn't have to mean anything. She used him to get over things. And he...

It wasn't because Brick wanted to kiss away the sadness in her, the emotion that shouldn't ever try to claim her. That'll be ridiculous.

No, Brick did it for the hell of it. He's gone through enough casual and forgettable hookups to know what they're like.

He just wishes it hadn't been Buttercup. Brick found a real friendship, someone he could talk to. Someone who appeared to, maybe, want to be around him as much as he wanted to be around her. And now, it's fucked up because they've kissed.

Brick didn't even like Buttercup in that way.

But he also didn't ever imagine they would make out.

He didn't think this pesky fucking monster would exist, lurching and gnawing at the back of his skull with the red-hot question of: are you going to do it again?

He didn't think Buttercup would be capable of getting him so hard.

Then. Yesterday. Right now.

He could wait, deny, avoid.

Brick knew he couldn't hide from the truth, but what's so wrong with not letting it find you? That it could be quite possible there's a difference between a liar (who he used to be) and someone who tells lies out of protection (who he could be).

Brick felt protective about this, not dishonest. He can create a frigid and solid fortress to block out the truth, just like he has before.

He just needed to get something out of the way first. It should only take about a minute—which Brick wasn't sure to classify as relieving or pathetic. And as he rubbed one out, deadening an undignified groan, Brick determined whatever truth does exist would be only known between him, this mildew-breeding shower stall, and whatever improbable God(s) there was.

---

"Buttercup, are you serious?" Bubbles exclaimed, incredulous. In a cherry-printed sundress, her eyes flared from across the picnic table. The sky was a bright blue, the air warm and soft.

Buttercup palmed at her forehead as she stared down at the fishnets wore underneath her ripped black jeans. "I know, I know. I fucked up."

"How? What have you been doing this whole time?"

"It never came to me," Buttercup confessed with a shrug, the loose sleeve of her lilac crop top slipping from her shoulder. "But whatever. It's not worth much."

Bubbles chewed on her bottom lip, hesitant to reveal, "It's thirty percent of our grades."

A beat passed, and Buttercup closed her eyes, pressing her face against the sun-bleached table, lightly pounding her head against it.

"Butter—"

"Just... Just give me a minute."

Buttercup wanted to scream. Why the fuck did it become unacceptable to throw tantrums? Petulant toddlers can do it in grocery store aisles all the damn time. Can't a bitch just scream at the top of her lungs and thrash around for a little? Would it be that uncivilized?

Because that's what Buttercup desperately needed. Of course, the one project she didn't do for Ms. Keane, it'll account for thirty percent of her grade. She'd been so earnest and proud for it too, and then... everything happened.

She lifted her head, letting out an exasperated breath. "Not a fan of that."

"Do you have any ideas to work with?" Bubbles asked, eager and too helpful. "You still have until Wednesday."

The only idea Buttercup had would be totally pathetic now. Because how can you, essentially, write a love letter to a guy who didn't pick you without it coming across as piteous and desperate?

"Zero thoughts, Bubs. Absolutely nothing."

"Oh, come on. You're smart enough to figure something out." Bubbles was too confident in Buttercup's intellect. Because if Buttercup was smart, she wouldn't have assumed the worse in Butch's intentions. She wouldn't have fallen like Icarus to reach him. She wouldn't have—

"Pretty lady," Boomer greeted with the biggest smile, seating himself and his breakfast beside Bubbles, kissing her cheek. Next to him, Brick placed down his own tray, his juniper t-shirt paired with mid-washed jeans. "What's going on?"

Buttercup swallowed at her dry throat, sneaking a glance at Brick as Bubbles answered Boomer. She hasn't seen him since Saturday. Not since the golf course's sprinklers doused them in retention pond scum and brought back their sanity.

Brick drank from a milk carton, his eyes finding hers with a slow head turn. His brows knitted with...

Regret? Hesitation? Resentment?

She wasn't sure.

He lightly wiped a hand over his mouth, and all Buttercup could think about was how she's kissed those lips.

They stared at each other like they have been lately. Which was assuaging, to say the least. She didn't know why it comforted her, why Brick's presence has the odd effect. Maybe because it meant they could be okay in spite of wandering down a forbidden path neither should've tempted.

But it also felt different this time.

Now, they know what the other tastes like.

"Keane's going to be so hurt, Buttercup."

She snapped her attention back to Boomer, an intense heat flaring in her cheeks. "She's hurting me. Just let me fail in peace."

Boomer gave her a two-finger salute. "Gotcha, comrade. I'm right with you."

"Didn't do your map either?"

"Duh." Boomer peeled and took a bite out of a banana, swallowing. "Morally, I don't believe in work assigned after finals week."

"I fuck with that philosophy."

"You both worry me so much," Bubbles said with a sigh. She turned her head, making contact with Brick. "Please tell me you've finished yours?"

"Yeah. I'm done." He looked Buttercup dead in the eyes for a moment. His mouth lifted—that evil fucking smirk. Such a silent yet sharp brag of his triumph over her.

She wanted to squash his perfect, sinister head like a rotten tomato.

"See. Now, if Brick can do it, why can't you, Buttercup?"

"I'm..." Brick blinked, his face twisting with confusion. "... I'm offended?"

"She's saying you're a shit writer," Buttercup explained, leaning into the table. "Be very offended."

His lip twitched slightly as Bubbles jumped to her own defense, "No! That's not-I wasn't—"

"Never knew you were such a bully, Bubs," Brick said, wry. "How will I ever emotionally recover from this?"

"No, I-"

"It's always the 'sweet' ones," added Buttercup sardonically.

"No, no. Stop that," Bubbles said. She elbowed Boomer's side, who'd been covering his mouth to hide the laughter threatening to leave his mouth. "Boomie, they're both horrible."

It took Boomer a little to straighten out his face, clearing his throat. "I can fight them for you?"

"Please, I would snap you like the beanpole you are, Boom," Buttercup said.

Boomer lifted a finger, nodding as the bell rang for first period. "You got me there."

Gathering their things, they each stood. Buttercup thought about walking with Bubbles and Boomer, but they were pressed together, whispering suspiciously—no, really. Both looked like they were conspiring to plot a murder, and knowing them, it either could be the killing of a buttercream cake or Elon Musk. Which, Buttercup would be down for both, in case they ever asked for her compliance.

She could walk by herself, but—

"So. How much have you jizzed over finishing your map before me?" She asked Brick, taking two steps at a time to catch up with him. Classmates brushed by. Bushy squirrels scavenged through overflowing garbage cans for food. Overhead, verdant leaves shadowed their path.

Brick bristled, keeping his eyes forward as Buttercup traced over his profile, his skin redder than a cardinal's feathers.

"Do you have to be so vulgar?"

Buttercup snorted, arching a brow. "Like you're the pinnacle of modesty?"

He flinched at that, and her stomach twisted, sweat prickling at the back of her neck.

Okay, so he's definitely going to make this weird. Great, great, great...

They were fine just a minute ago with Bubbles and Boomer. Why did he have to radiate so much fucking awkwardness now?

She should've walked alone. She—

Brick turned, meeting her eyes, and didn't look away. The sun peeked through the branches above, the light hitting his gaze. All Buttercup could see were flames sparking in them, then vanishing.

She tried to find something to say. Something to break this ridiculous tension that had no fucking business existing.

So what if they'd made out? So what if she felt his boner? So if what she—

It had been a one-time thing, a casual one-time thing. They were capable of moving on, to continue being friendish. They can still be able to hold a damn conversation.

She noticed the wet, russet hair underneath his hat curling over the shell of his ear. A light breeze perfume the scent of chlorine to her.

"You smell like Boomer," Buttercup said faintly. She didn't mean to say it out loud.

Brick tilted his head for a moment, a flicker of ease illuminating him. Even a brief glimpse of his evil smirk, except it didn't feel so evil.

"We swam this morning."

"You really woke up and chose to get your pasty ass handed to you?" They neared their building, and Brick reached for one of the double doors, holding it open for her. Chivalrous prick.

Buttercup turned away. The hallways were crowded, most moving with a lack of urgency. Conversations and laughter popped from every direction like oil in a pan.

"No, that's not what happened at all."

She glanced up at him again when feeling his gaze, and it became clear they were simultaneously having a different conversation. An accusing one. No, that's not what happened at all suddenly translated to him saying, you kissed me.

"Boomer practically drinks chlorine water to live." You leaned in! she fired back.

"He does. I have a theory he actually has gills." You also lied about being drunk to get on top of me.

"I have a theory that chlorine is what makes you and him sound like crackpot conspiracists." And you said I was the North fucking Star! What the fuck is that supposed to mean? "But it still doesn't change that you got your ass whooped."

"Eh." You tongued me first, so... "I'm not one to admit defeat."

"I'm aware." Yeah, well you—

They came to a halt at her classroom, stretching out a staring contest, waiting for the other to accept the blame. That discomforting comfortable silence behaving like the worst devil to shake off her back.

Why did he have to make things so awkward so damn quick? Why did she—

She took a step closer to him, touching his shoulder.

He flinched again, breaking eye contact in favor of her hand. All of the noise faded away for those abiding seconds until his blood-orange stare held onto hers once more.

"I'll see you later," Brick said. His voice was soft, as if he'd lost his ability to speak.

Her lips curved a little, leaving him with a "maybe," before walking into her class without a look back.

---

Instead of returning to the event, Butch and Blossom had done what any other high school student does after prom.

They made the perilous decision together. Hand-and-hand, making the walk down the street to the nearby Waffle House. Where they'd consumed soggy bacon and syrupy pancakes that may have been a pinch radioactive, talked until three in the morning, and witnessed a fistfight between a drunk guy and the fry cooks.

They'd laughed at how they shouldn't be this way but failed so miserably at it. There was the discussion of how college and the summer cruelly crept around the corner and what it'll mean. Shared the things they've wanted to say. All the mushy and gushy thoughts that'd grown in their heads like pesky weeds becoming a bouquet of pretty, sweet flowers for the other.

She told him about hungry ghosts. Her fear of him becoming one, and the revelation of how she was the one instead, but not anymore.

It wasn't a foreign concept to him. Butch has watched enough of Ichigo Kurosaki fighting the Hollows in Bleach to get the gist.

He didn't blame Blossom. He would have to dig and scrape the Earth's core to find a single thought considering resentment or bile towards her.

Same with Boomer.

Butch just wishes Boomer had said something.

Okay, okay. So Butch didn't talk to Boomer about said situation, but that's because he'd assumed Boomer only known. He didn't think Boomer knew more than he did.

Did Butch feel betrayed? No, he didn't.

Should he feel betrayed?

That question has been persistent as good rootstock. Even now, as Blossom and him lingered in the halls with a minute left in transition, Butch couldn't uproot it from the center of his thoughts.

There were others still straggling around like them. Conversations more muffled than the riotous form the hallway had been minutes ago. Blossom sorted through her locker, talking about her chemistry class as Butch pressed his side into the one next to hers, half-listening.

Boomer didn't have ill intentions, right? This wasn't going to be a rift between them?

Butch didn't want to decide between his best friend and the person he adores. The choice between the two would be like trekking through a thick and incessant swamp. Butch would have better luck being chomped up by an alligator or finding the mythical Skunk ape than to make it out with that choice.

But what if Boomer did? If he wouldn't change his mind about Blossom? Butch didn't—

"You look lost," Blossom said, chin tilted. Her sunset hair was loose, the satin of her ribbon knotted into a headband. Gorgeous and retro in high-waisted jeans and a billowed-sleeve blouse. And the generous neckline made her boobs look pretty fucking neato, Butch must add. For vital purposes, obviously.

He cocked his head, leaning more into the cool metal of the lockers. "You got me."

"I get it. Carbon isn't the most exciting topic—"

"No, I like when you talk your nerdy shit." Her lips curved into a smile, cheeks blooming into the same shade of dusty peach as her blouse. "I was just thinking about Boomer. That's all."

"Aw. That's adorable."

Butch shook his head, narrowing his eyes slightly despite his mouth lifting. "That's not why."

"Still doesn't change how cute he and you are." She shut her locker, leaning against it, aligning with Butch. "You know he was only looking out for you."

"I do."

The bell blared to inform them of the beginning of class. The halls now barren and silent. Both stayed, rooted to each other despite their tardiness.

"Just talk to him," Blossom encouraged gently. She took a step forward, reaching for him. Her thumb stroked small circles onto the inside of his wrist. Nearly two months ago, her touch would've been like poison ivy, but now, it felt like petals of precious daisies caressing his skin. "It's Boomer."

"I don't know. When you'd talked to him, he did pull a Jedi mind trick on you."

"It was actually a much-needed Buddhistic lesson," Blossom corrected with a small smile. "That Boomer and I both misinterpreted from caring too much."

Butch flitted his gaze, rushing out a breath. "I guess."

"You're not usually like this when it comes to Boom." She searched his face, finding all of the truth Butch didn't feel the need to obstruct from her. "You're scared," Blossom admitted softly for him.

"Shitless, yeah."

Butch stared down at his AF1 Low Utility blacks and Blossom's sandals. Like she said, it's Boomer. One of the few opinions Butch does care and value nowadays.

"He doesn't like the fucking thought of us," he whispered. "He's not going to get it."

"We are hard to understand." His eyes found hers again, a bulb of confidence shared with him through her rosy stare. "But he's your best friend. If there's anyone who's going to try and understand, it'll be him."

You'll eventually realize it.

And Butch has. Back when he did feel betrayed by Boomer, by his friends. By Blossom, the most.

But things have changed for him. Butch has come to know his friends' protection. To understand Boomer tries so fucking hard at palliating Butch's reckless nature. He may get it wrong, does it in the wrong way, but Boomer does care.

The blackened, rotten feeling of betrayal has decayed, and in its place, a bud of appreciation and love has flourished. For his friends, for Blossom. And for Boomer, because in all the changes, Boomer has always cared and tried. There's nothing Butch or anyone else could ever propagate to change the fact.

"Yeah." Butch took in and out a breath, letting go of the toxic barb steeping his brain with doubts. "I'll... I'll talk to him."

Blossom grinned at that, her lips shining a glossy pink. "Then maybe you should get to class."

"Maybe I should." His lips quirked into a smile as he reached out to brush her bangs. "Tell you how it goes."

"We could skip second period? Sit out in the courtyard, enjoy the beautiful weather?"

"Right, the weather." He playfully tugged on a strand of her hair. "You got it so bad."

Blossom hummed her agreement, no reason to deny. Her fingers ran up the worn fabric of his Smashing Pumpkins t-shirt, lingering on the back of his neck.

"Is that a yes or a no?"

"Oh, it's a yes," Butch answered, shamelessly ardent.

She laughed lightly. "And I've got it bad?"

"You got it so, so fucking bad." He tilted her chin up, finding her lips for an achingly sweet kiss.

---

Sitting in the darkness of her classroom, Steel Magnolias played on a projection screen since Bubbles' first-period teacher had given up on teaching a couple weeks ago. Now, Bubbles would usually love to watch the film, knowing a good amount of lines by heart. But Camille's message wouldn't stop springing back into her mind.

Bubbles has brothers. She'd been too busy with her dad and the disappointment of him to germinate the actual fact she has brothers.

Brothers who live a few hours away from her, who Camille encourages Bubbles to meet.

Brothers who knew about her. Knew who she was and how she came to be.

Camille had been mindful to inform her of such. Nothing had given Bubbles the indication of hostility. Nothing that worried her into believing Camille would be like an insectivorous plant about to swallow a defenseless fly if Bubbles did agree.

But how could she agree?

She'd asked Boomer. At prom, where her mouth had felt stuffed with cotton balls, and Boomer didn't have much to say. They'd decided to enjoy the rest of their night instead, and Bubbles did.

But the night was over, and Bubbles had a choice to make.

She had a feeling of what Boomer wanted to say.

That she shouldn't have to worry about this. To not follow the rabbit back down the same hole.

But, of course, Bubbles would worry about this. There may be a dichotomy between her and her brothers, so vast and distant, but they were connected by the same roots.

She didn't know what to do. To follow the rabbit and see the truth Camille has presented. Or will she trip and tumble down the same hole, the one that'd actually been a grave shallowed out by the grief and disillusion of her dad?

How could she want anything from her? Camille is still married to her dad. Forgiveness certainly had to be cultivated in a manner Bubbles will never have to endure. She had to have some sort of loyalty preserved for her husband. Maybe even love.

She doesn't know the circumstances. Their truth. How much it splinters off from her own.

Did she want to know? Did she want to hear?

Should I?

Bubbles chewed on her bottom lip. The projection screen flickered her face a bright silver, eyes becoming as blurry as her thoughts. She wished to turn to a classmate and ask for their opinion but didn't want to bother them.

Bubbles didn't know. What's right from wrong here. The boundaries crossed and the way to navigate them.

But she did know one thing.

Ever since she became ingrained in thoughts about her brothers and meeting them, she already has love for them. There was plenty of it, regardless if she agrees or not. And maybe she has some for Camille, too.

So then, if such love exists. Does that mean she should follow the rabbit in the hopes of a different tale? Or should Bubbles turn away?

---

Since it's the seniors' last week of classes, Boomer and Butch's biology teacher thought it would be "super-duper fun" to do some hands-on learning. Which actually meant forced child labor—okay, so maybe most were eighteen by now, but there had to be some unethical practices at work here. They were instructed to plant a community garden no one asked for, and no one in their class would get to enjoy. Because, you know, they'll be leaving the Academy before even a sprout broke through its seed coat.

Butch was pretty sure this was their teacher's punishment for them shitting the bed on their finals—Not him, though. He passed with an eighty-nine, thank you very much.

Due to his lateness, Butch hasn't been able to talk to Boomer yet. Their teacher had divided them into groups based on each section of the garden that'll grow near the abandoned agricultural building. Boomer had been designated to the troughs of vegetables, while Butch got stuck with the herbs group.

It did feel nice to be beneath the sun despite the morning heat. The air smelt of rich soil and citrusy cilantro. Butch's hands were coated in the color of the Earth. His shirt hung around his neck like a wreath, his taut abs and muscles slick with sweat. He was slightly pissed the day he chose to wear jeans (black, fitted, ripped at the knees) there had to be manual labor involved.

Halfway through, Butch noticed Boomer stretched out on the grass, uninvolved in the "miracle of plants," as their teacher called this "little project."

Butch surveyed his group. Watched them repot stocks of oblong basil, covering and patting soil into place.

They appeared to be doing fine. They didn't really need him, right?

Because, as dickish it may be, Butch didn't care to help anymore.

Looming over Boomer, who had his eyes shut, brows drawn apart in relaxation, Butch lightly kicked at his side.

"You dead?"

"That won't happen until I'm ninety-four," Boomer answered breezily, his blueberry eyes peeking open.

Butch furrowed his brows, sitting down on the grass beside Boomer, his arms resting on his knees. "I have so many questions."

"You're a new soul. You wouldn't understand."

"You know, sometimes I think you make this enlightenment shit up."

"That's exactly what a new soul would say."

Butch rolled his eyes and cocked his head to those panting over the garden. "Shouldn't you be all over this? As a tree hugger and all?"

"More of a "clean the oceans" type of guy. You know that," Boomer said with small offense to his tone, sitting up. He regarded him intently, lifting a hand and poking Butch's cheek. "That's a nice shade, dude."

Butch swatted his hand away, his face twisting with confusion. "What the fuck?"

"The lip gloss you're wearing."

Butch wiped at his mouth, a sheer pink staining the back of his hand where soil hadn't already. A rush of heat burned in his ears that wasn't caused by the sun above. "Oh."

"Not yours?"

"Not the lip gloss."

Boomer stared up at the few clouds drifting. His face inscrutable, but his voice was so soft. "So... Blossom."

"Yeah." He smiled, affection laced in his tone. "Blossom."

"I had the vibes," Boomer said after a beat. His hand mindlessly plucked at the grass between them. "After you didn't come back to our hotel room until after three, it became more obvious."

Butch pinched his brows together, snickering. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"You know."

"I don't know what you're talking about, Boom. I'm a child of God," Butch smirked, laying a hand over his chest. "I would never."

Boomer snorted. "Good luck convincing anyone that."

"No need. We just talked... and made out a couple times. But mostly, we'd talked."

There was a slight lull. Boomer continued to pull at the grass. Butch picked at dirt trapped underneath his nails, a light breeze cooling his exposed skin. Some of their classmates asked for more wind, complaining about the heat and fanning themselves.

"So, are you together together?" Boomer had finally asked.

Butch wasn't sure what to categorize Blossom and him. They haven't slapped on a label or made any promises.

Right now, they were enjoying the time they had before the summer. Where she'll be back in New York, and Butch would... well, he was supposed to stay with Buttercup in Austin until he starts at Berkeley in the end of June. It hadn't been set in stone, but her parents did reach out a few days ago under the impression he'll still be staying in their guest house.

But it was weird, to say. For the sun to come back up and get the chance to begin anew. To live and breathe, to love and to be alright. To be better. For themselves, for each other. Neither wanted to control the outcomes that could come about, to have everything figured out. The most important has already happened, and that's they both want this.

They could grow alone, at different lengths, in different places. But they could also be symbiotic, blooming together in this crazy world. In whatever way, no matter how long it'll take for them. They were going to stay.

So Butch tried to articulate that to Boomer the best he could.

Boomer tilted his head a little, a brow arching as he listened.

"Slow," he simply put it, a fond smile coming to him, and Butch nodded at his perfect word choice.

"So slow."

Boomer stayed quiet for a moment. His voice was low, almost to not offend. To not get on Butch's prickly side. "You know, I, uh..." He ran a hand through his sunshine waves. "I love Blossom. I do. I don't see her as a bad person."

"I know."

"It's just when I got those vibes. They were so strong and off-putting. Then I saw you and her together again, and all I could think about," Boomer paused, letting out a shaky breath. "All I could panic about was you getting hurt. Or that she or you were doing all of this for the wrong reasons. Coping for the wrong reasons."

"Hungry ghosts," Butch smiled faintly.

"Hungry ghosts," Boomer nodded. "I see now that wasn't the case for either of you, and I know I haven't been the best at getting you and Blossom, but I want to. If you're sure this is—"

"It is."

Boomer's lips curled for a second. "Okay." He lifted up pieces of grass, watching them be carried by the late spring wind. "So you trust her?"

It wasn't really a question, more of drawing a conclusion. Because Butch does trust Blossom. Currently, right at this moment.

The thick, black ash has settled. The roaring fire of the past no longer alight. Discovering the world hadn't been laid to rest to become a wasteland. They have fresh soil, fecund soil for the new. To allow the still-living roots to break through the Earth.

But Butch didn't know what would grow in the new, in where the old exists. It can become consumed by the flames again, the old fire Butch had fallen in love with long ago. There could be patches of green envy that'll need to be severed from the radicle or leaves that'll wilt when the distance and absence may feel too much.

It was going to be work. Hard and easy. Laborious and beautiful. Fulfilling, heart-wrenching, and, at times, tiresome work. To maintain and raise this garth of trust between them. But Butch wouldn't do it any other way, with any other person.

"She's trying," Butch said, equanimous. "I want her to try."

Boomer considered his response before nodding. "I like that."

He studied Boomer, finding the honesty in him. His understanding to see Butch through. Not as someone feasting on others to fill a hollowness, but as someone who's chosen the love they want to reach Kingdom Come with.

"So like... We're good, right?"

"We've always been good, Boom," Butch said, matching Boomer's grin before punching his arm lightly, narrowing his forest-green eyes. "But try that shit again—"

"Nope." Boomer rubbed where Butch had punched him—Pussy, it wasn't even that hard—and raised the other. "I'm going to take my own advice and stay out of things. Let all the chaos happen."

Butch squinted up at the sky, breathing in the fresh air. A sunray shined in his chest, warming him from the inside out. He couldn't imagine not knowing this feeling anymore, to have it fade away again.

"Is it really only chaos if you get a sense of peace from it?"

"I think that's just balance."

---

Buttercup had been in her third period when Him called for a mandatory senior assembly to go over graduation procedures. She didn't understand why. You sit. You wait. You walk and get a deceivingly empty diploma case. You sit again. It only took the rubbing of two brain cells to figure out what to do.

But then again, most of her classmates were equipped with only one, so maybe it's a good thing it's mandatory.

In the auditorium, Him and Vice-Principal Bellum were privately chatting on stage. A screen was already queued with a mediocre PowerPoint presentation.

Buttercup sat in the far left back, slouching as she watched the rest of the senior class pour in like water around a stone. All of them were so... happy. Carefree. Thrilled to be out of class, at the impending conclusion of their high school days.

Her eyes scanned through the crowd, feeling the numbness of her fingertips. The sudden cold seeping to the rest of her.

She thought she saw him in the middle rows, but she didn't.

Instead, she found Brick.

He stood at the opposite end of the auditorium, stuck behind a group of girls who were too busy gabbing across the aisle to move forward. If this were a cartoon, he would be drawn with steam blowing out his ears, his head close to exploding like a volcano.

His irritation brought an amused grin to Buttercup. One that'd diminished when he looked around, double-taking when he noticed her. She sat up straighter, her skin prickling more than pine needles. The world grew hush as he tilted his head in that familiar way. She hated knowing that serious expression, knowing it meant he's in the process of weeding something out of her.

They stared at each other for too long. For whatever reason, an incredibly asinine reason, she believed he would come to her. Shove those annoying girls away, climb over the aisles and rows dividing them, and sit next to her.

Buttercup decided she wouldn't mind. The seat next to her was empty, and she would prefer to sit next to someone who, at least, was tolerable. Maybe it would make things feel like last week. Where Buttercup had nested into a new normal and could see the potential of a friendship.

But he didn't.

The girls had cooed out their apologies, their ear-splintering voices echoing through the supreme acoustics of the building, moving out of the way. As if it were impossible to not ooze out any more lameness, Brick went to sit in the front row. Alone, as everyone tended to avoid those seats.

He didn't look back.

"May I sit next to you, Butters?"

Buttercup broke away from Brick's infuriating head, unwilling to understand the seedling in her chest, meeting Blossom's friendly gaze.

She blinked, dubious. "Um..."

Shouldn't she be with...

But she wasn't, and Butters. The nickname Buttercup usually loathed. The one Blossom hasn't used in weeks because they've barely spoken. Not in a real way, at least. It was such a small thing, the peace offering of it. Those two syllables were like snowy doves flocking together.

Buttercup moved her legs, allowing for Blossom to sit.

The assembly began with Him droning on about etiquette and bullshit no one cared about. The auditorium chairs were too stiff, and boredom was getting the better of Buttercup. She wanted Him to get onto the good shit already. Like how they'll be getting their degrees and then the fuck out of here.

"Him loves to stall," Blossom said quietly.

Understatement of the century.

Buttercup looked at Blossom. Really looked at her like she hasn't gotten to these days. Watch her take in a good breath. And a part of her, the bulbous clump that festered and bred on splenetic notions toward Blossom, shrunk a little then.

"I think the guy beside you has already passed out."

Blossom smiled briefly at the brunet, who had his chin in hand and a translucent vine of drool dangling from his mouth. "I don't blame him."

"Is any of this necessary? How hard is it to go through a graduation ceremony?"

"Alphabetical order does trip some people up."

"Send them back to kindergarten then."

"That's precisely why I told Him this would've worked better as a mass email."

"I think most conversations would work better that way."

"I agree," Blossom laughed lightly.

Buttercup didn't realize how much she misses that laugh.

She misses her. When they were fourteen, sitting through another of Him's greatest hits of dogmatic policies. Their snarky jokes and hushed laughter. The naivety and simplicity of the past. Them. Together.

Buttercup nudged Blossom, the presenting of a long-overdue and proper olive branch. "You know... I meant what I said," she told her, low and sincere. "I do love you."

Blossom regarded her. A sad smile curving her lips.

"You don't have to do this."

"But I want to."

Blossom stayed quiet, looking down at the hands in her lap. "I should've told you."

"You should've," Buttercup whispered, her throat knotting a little. "He should've too."

"No, I..." Her voice shallowed, her skin the ghastly color of a Monotropa. "I should've told you about that morning. Why he'd stayed with me, and—"

"Don't," Buttercup interrupted softly. "I don't want you to tell me."

Because Buttercup couldn't care anymore, and maybe because she didn't want to know anymore. If she was supposed to, if it were her truth to see, it would've happened by now.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

There was a pause. A video of last year's graduation played, the regal tone of Pomp and Circumstances filling the air.

"Are you mad?"

Buttercup shook her head slowly. "No. I'm just..."

"Sad?" Blossom finished after a beat.

Buttercup would prefer to say defeated.

From the agrestal thoughts and questions of hers too thick to navigate through.

From not knowing a faster way to crack through the ice of her fingertips.

From this one-sided game between her and Blossom. Even when she didn't try, when Buttercup told herself not to. This need, the constant self-pressure to be what Blossom has. Tearing off her petals comparing their differences, contrasting their similarities in playing He loves me now, He loves me not. Forgetting to water and tend to her own, worrying too much about Blossom's growth. To be so fucking exceptional in this garden she and Blossom exist in, doing her damndest to be a pretty flower worth loving.

To get a love Blossom has and will get to keep in spite of her attempt to slash and burn at those resilient roots. How unfair has it been to know of such a love's revival and florescence. Yet, the beauty of it was something Buttercup couldn't help but to silently admire.

Blossom didn't look away when she said, "I get sad too. Almost all the time, I do. And," she let out a tight breath, "and I've learned that it's okay. I don't have to pretend it's not there." She touched Buttercup's arm, light but heavy with its love. "You don't either."

Buttercup turned away. "I'm fine. There's nothing to be... He never did belong to me, anyway."

A soft laugh escaped Blossom's lips, and Buttercup arched a brow.

"Sorry. It's just... I've spent the last few weeks swearing to myself that he never belonged to me. In reality, how silly is it to think there's some type of ownership over someone. Yet, we both did."

Buttercup did smile a little at that. It felt nice to smile around Blossom again.

"You know, I do too," Blossom whispered after a moment. Ms. Bellum spoke now, answering questions. "I love you, and I'm so sorry for hurting you—"

"He told me you wanted it to be him and I."

Blossom sagged, her eyes darkened like when grubby fingers press and bruise rose petals. "I did. I'd tried so hard, Buttercup. I came up with this stupid plan and—"

"Then how can it be your fault he picked you? Butch had a choice to make," Buttercup shrugged, lugubrious. "And he did." She grew silent. "There would've been a time I would be a dickwad and act like you'd sabotaged my chances, but there's more to this. Blaming you or Butch, there's no real point in it. Because I sabotaged my chances. I believed in the worse of him." Buttercup lowered her eyes, shame shadowing her. "I believed in the worse of you. And I just—"

"Wanted someone to blame?"

"Anyone other than me," Buttercup confessed in a breath, and a part of her loosen with it. "Shitty, huh?"

Blossom's lips curved. "I've been so sure the whole universe has been working against me lately, like that's even a rational thing to consider. So no, I don't think it is." Buttercup let out a small chuckle as Blossom hesitated, whispering, "I really am sorry, Buttercup."

"Yeah. I'm sorry, too," Buttercup whispered.

She had to wonder how much of this could've been prevented. Because the thing is. If they were in a garden. She and Blossom, both thorny roses. None of this would matter. Their beauty, their value, their growth; wouldn't increase or decrease because of each other.

They'll have those who'll walk by as if they were another weed in the ground. Others who'll stop and observe them. Those who would want to keep them in their vase. But it's all up to them. Whether or not if they're admired, if they're chosen to be someone's rose, didn't matter. They'll bloom regardless. They'll be. And that was enough.

It's always been enough.

Buttercup leaned closer to her. "You know what we should do?"

"What?"

"A blood pact to make sure we don't fuck around with the same guys anymore."

"Um, no," Blossom said, dilatory. Her ginger brows were drawn apart. "I don't approve of anything involving blood."

"Don't be a pussy."

Blossom shook her head, letting out a laugh as Ms. Bellum ended the assembly. They sprawled out of their row and the auditorium into the cheerful sun.

"We could do a pinky promise?"

Buttercup scrunched her nose. "Bubs is rubbing off on you."

"We have gotten closer."

"She has been pretty awesome dealing with all of our bullshit."

"I know. I should be paying her the same rate as my therapist."

Buttercup blinked. "You're in therapy?"

"We really haven't talked in a while." Buttercup couldn't agree more. "Now," Blossom lifted her pinky, "shall we?"

"I would rather hug than that."

She heard Blossom let out a soft breath. The sun caught her eyes as she traced Buttercup, reaching for her arm to step away from the traffic swarming behind them like deafening cicadas. Now standing in a patch of green grass.

"I would like a hug."

Buttercup made a show of rolling her eyes and groaning with displeasure, but deep down, she would really, really like a hug too.

Her cheek pressed against Blossom's marigold hair, the floral scent of her perfume growing in Buttercup's lungs with comfort. She and Blossom hugged each other so tight, both were a little breathless.

It was the type of hug you give after you've been petrified of losing someone, but they were here now and you can hold and love them despite how furious or sad they've made you. It was a hug that said I miss and forgive you.

Buttercup liked to believe there never was a reality where she wouldn't have forgiven Blossom because she never did let go of Blossom. She's never stopped loving her, always there to give.

She has so much love in her to give, and for once, that didn't feel so scary.

---

"What do you think?" Bubbles asked Brick as they walked to lunch. She'd approached his locker less than thirty seconds after the bell rang. Her eyes fixed on him in the manner an entomologist would study dragonfly wings as she told him her current conundrum.

"I don't think I'm the best opinion for this."

Brick wasn't trying to dismiss her. In actuality, he wishes to give her more. Something sugary sweet and reassuring as she deserves, but that wasn't him.

"Maybe not, but I still value yours," she said with such sincerity, Brick felt that cavernous hole inside him shrink a little. "If you think it's a bad idea, please tell me."

"I don't know, Bubs." Brick gripped on the straps of his backpack, squeezing them with a vice grip. They walked through the doors to the lively courtyard, and he let out a labored breath. "I don't even have nearly enough courage as you did to just consider meeting your dad."

That may have been the most honest thing Brick has said today. Because Bubbles had the mammoth-sized balls to look her dad in the eyes and understand it wasn't him. He doesn't get that victory or pat on the back. Her spirit and intelligence, her accomplishments and kind heart. The heart that Brick still doesn't understand how it could give him a second try, but respects enormously. They all make up who Bubbles is because she's who made who she is.

She didn't let the damage of her dad implant deep within her. The damage that stains your soul so much, you can't extirpate it.

The type of damage Brick left unattended in the darkness for too many years, tangling its wicked vines in every aspect of his life.

Sometimes, there were sparks of envy in him, for Bubbles' ability to take the damage and turn it into armor made of petals. To be soft and vulnerable, but full of resilience and joy through all the pain of this hard, hard world.

He can get envious of her, but mostly now, Brick wanted to learn from her. To reach where she exists.

Bubbles had stopped them underneath an aged oak. The sunlight found her through the shadows of the branches, brows creasing. "Brick."

He shook off her empathy. This wasn't supposed to be about him. It's about seeing a friend who would like his opinion. Maybe even give them a sense of clarity.

"I..." Brick flitted his eyes to the translucent leaves. "I see where this Camille woman is coming from. She doesn't want you to be hurt by something neither of you had control over. She just wants you to know you're not alone." He lowered his gaze, finding Bubbles' sunny smile. He scratched at his neck awkwardly, unable to prevent his mouth from lifting a little. "At least, that's what I think. I could be wrong."

"But you can also be right," Bubbles said with the same warm smile, and maybe Brick did let himself share a similar expression. She brushed his shoulder, holding his gaze with her true blue eyes. "You know if you ever feel ready to talk about him. I'm here."

"I know." That was the second most honest thing Brick has said today. And maybe, one day, he'll have the fortitude to take her offer. "You got all the daddy issues wisdom."

Bubbles giggled. "That I do."

They crossed over the courtyard together. Bubbles scanned the crowd for a Boomer sighting, and Brick...

Well, he tried not to.

But his eyes were drawn to the right of them. Where lush strawberry-blond hair and lily-white skin caught his attention.

Smiling and laughing, beautiful and whole. An icy jewel refracting in the sunlight.

Blossom had gotten his attention, but it was who she stood with. Who made her laugh and smile, whose eyes in the light of day were jade like the sea right before a storm. It was her, such a pretty and noxious flower, where his stare lingered.

He didn't know she's friends with Blossom again.

Then again, Brick didn't know what the fuck is going on with Buttercup.

That stupid shoulder touch this morning? Where it wasn't even equivalent to the touch Bubbles had committed a minute ago? When Brick had to convince himself that he must have a heat rash, in explanation for the sparks leaping from her touch into his veins? Yeah, what the absolute fuck was that?

It couldn't—It didn't mean anything. She doesn't, Brick told himself then.

And he told himself again. Now, as Buttercup's pretty green eyes traveled through the lawn of people. Only to find him. To puncture him with the slightest glance. His breath caught, cracks of light seeping into him.

He wanted her to come over here. For her to catch his signals on wanting what they had last week, for them to be okay.

For her to be okay.

"Boomie!" Bubbles called out, snapping Brick's attention away.

Brick had averted his gaze from the couple greeting and kissing, being so cute it'll make you puke. They then joined the outdoor lunch line. The air smelt of ambiguous food offerings and warm steam, and Boomer informed Bubbles and Brick about his morning.

"She had us working," Boomer exasperated. "Like actual work."

"But gardening sounds so much fun," said Bubbles.

"Trust me, it wasn't. And then—"

"Hey," Butch said, striding to the right of them, his hand clipping Boomer's shoulder. "Have you seen—"

Butch paused, having to do a double-take towards Brick. As if to make sure Brick's whole existence wasn't some trick of the light. His brows furrowed. More baffled than aggressive, but there was a hard glint to his forest-green eyes that told Brick what he needed to know.

Which is fine. He didn't expect clear skies and fucking rainbows after the cataclysmic hurricane he'd directed towards Butch's life. His mediocre apology didn't accord for forgiveness and probably never will.

So Brick ignored him, as they have for the betterment of the spring semester, moving forward in the lunch line. He grabbed a maroon tray. Sliding it down the serving bar.

"Butch," Brick heard Bubbles say behind him. Her voice ripe with warning, and Brick glanced back—

"Your knees must be pretty sore from blowing everyone," Butch said, grabbing his own tray, gliding it next to Brick's. Fencing him with fourteen stones of muscle, a chatty group of sophomores, and the metal barricade corralling the line.

Brick shivered involuntarily at Butch's caustic tone, the crawling of maggots felt underneath his skin. He flitted his eyes to Bubbles and Boomer, who stood behind Butch's sinewy figure, giving him nervous faces. Unsure of how to stop whatever this was unless things got volatile.

He met Butch's gaze. So viperous, a serpent lying in the tall grass and flowers. Lying in wait.

If Butch wanted to talk, then they can talk. Even if Brick knew this would end up stagnant as their rare encounters tend to be nowadays.

And underneath all the ruin and ego of him, Brick was relieved to know Butch had something, anything to say to him. Maybe it's Bubbles and Boomer's belief in seeing the good, or it's everything between him and Buttercup. Where he found solace and salience. It may have given him the tiniest speckle of hope for a chance of real forging.

"Trying to be a giver now," Brick replied, mordant. He moved with the line, Butch right behind him.

"Appears to be well-received."

"You've been keeping track?"

Butch let out a humorless laugh, his tray bumping into Brick's. "I've peeped some shit."

"Right."

Brick reached for one of the last two apples. Shiny and perfect on one side but enormously bruised on the other. He put it back down, going for the other, but Butch snatched it before Brick could. He watched, his mouth slacked as Butch took a big, crunching bite out of the rosy apple.

"So, about that apology," Butch said, still chewing, apparently skipping over any more of their barbed pleasantries. He wiped at his mouth. His bitten apple sitting on his tray, taunting Brick as he reached for a green pear now. "I'm good."

Brick furrowed his brows, his jaw twitching. "You're good?"

"Yeah." He stretched out the word. His deep green eyes studied him like a snake slithering in the garden of Eden. "You can get off my dick. Wouldn't want you to realize one day you can't carry me, you know?"

Brick heard Boomer try to hold back a cough behind them, having choked on the tension thicker than jungle-air.

Brick blinked, realizing how he'd stupidly walked barefoot in the tall grass, unprepared and so naïve, thinking he'll be safe. Now, he felt the strike. The baring of a serpent's vicious fangs piercing his skin, its venom surging through his bloodstream. Turning him cold and sick.

Blossom.

Of fucking course, that's what this is about. Her. What she wasn't going to. What she couldn't say to him, Butch would. To ensure Brick knew just how shittier than manure he is.

He didn't get it.

Brick had said worse things, did worse things. And that's what Blossom has fixated on?

But Brick wasn't going to say as much.

"That was a bad moment."

Butch laughed wryly, grabbing a cheeseburger and fries. "You seem to have a lot of those."

If Brick were a superpowered being, the look he aimed at Butch would've charred his flesh clean off his bones.

"What do you care? It's not like you didn't wait to capitalize on them."

"Did you wait?" Butch said with so much stomach-churning sangfroid that in another situation, another conversation, Brick might've needed a longer examination to gather how fucking pissed Butch was.

Behind them, Brick caught a glimpse of Bubbles and Boomer. Their twin blue eyes flared, mouths agape, leaning into the serving bar a little, no chance of hiding their eavesdropping now.

Brick could deny. Put the blame on Blossom because it is her fault. For not having the ability to resist temptation. For trying to run away from someone, from her life.

She's the one who'd kissed him first. She's the one who couldn't wait and gave into what should've been forbidden. She's the one who'd moldered and tarnished them.

That's the veracity of it all. Except...

She gave in, yes.

But Brick had been the one dangling the golden fruit. Coaxing her into what he wanted.

Until she discovered such fruit can sour her lips. Its gold merely an illusion, its insides infested with grimy worms.

He couldn't fulfill. He couldn't give her anything that wasn't perishable. Yet, Brick still tried and succeeded at fooling her because he hadn't wanted to wait. He wanted to feel something.

He wanted to feel chosen.

Butch wasn't the real snake in this tale. He never has been.

Neither has Blossom.

"You're right," Brick said quietly. "If I could go back," he paused, forcing out the strongest truth he could ever say in his lifetime. "If I could do this whole year over again, I wouldn't even want to have seen her once."

Brick didn't know if it's the sunlight streaming into the lunch booth or if he did see it. The faint gleam in Butch's eyes, one he would classify as the feeling of pity. Of understanding.

They moved on to the end of the line without more to say. The last of the sophomores was having trouble paying for their lunch, holding them back longer.

"Look," Brick heard Butch exhale, turning to him once more.

There wasn't any trickery, no toxin to diffuse Brick's blood with. Just pure honesty.

Brick considered how Blossom must find that appealing. Someone who's so open. Someone who didn't pretend, who thought with their heart in any given occasion. Everything she had wanted Brick to be, more than.

"I don't believe in bad people," Butch said. His voice was low as he added a fudgy brownie and strawberry parfait to his tray. The latter of which Brick knew had to be intended for Blossom.

For a moment, his heart. Where Brick finally thought was starting to become clean, felt overgrown by mildew.

"But this "new leaf" you're turning, it feels disingenuous. Given everything I know, and who," Butch stopped, the rest of his words uprooted and thrown away. An exasperated breath blew out from his mouth in their place. "Why? If you're only doing this to get back at—"

"It isn't about her."

"When hasn't it for you?"

Brick could say it hasn't been about Blossom. There wasn't a single trace of her he could follow, none he would want to.

He could tell him the whole.

That it's when Bubbles gave him the kindest look he's seen in his whole life, when she'd told him to let go. When Boomer washed away the ashes of their past and held onto him when Brick didn't know he had. When Buttercup looked in him. Saw all the black rot, all of his damage, and didn't look away.

And when Butch stood in front of him, asking for his truth because Butch wanted to understand. Because maybe, deep down, Butch wanted the same. To let the brittle and colorless foliage of their feuding be blown away like the leaves of autumn. There could be a chance their friendship would grow back, or perhaps its branches would remain bare. But the tree and its conglomerate roots will always be there.

Instead, Brick went for the simplest answer.

"When I decided to do better."

Butch raised his dark brows for a moment. If he had anything else to ask, to object, he didn't make it known.

Brick went along to pay for his lunch, heading for the condiment station to get a handful of hot sauce packets. He felt someone near, reaching for a stack of paper napkins.

"I still hate your fucking guts."

He turned to Butch, watching him take another crunch out of his apple. His head cocked to an angle, a wry grin flashing as he chewed.

"But I'll try thinking about cracking your skull open less," Butch said breezily, turning his back and walking away.

Brick stayed rooted in place, dumbfounded by such an absurd promise.

But then he inhaled a breath of salubrious air. The sun's light beaming and reflecting off of him. His mouth twitched, almost in laughable disbelief.

Was it a microscopic victory? Maybe so.

But he'll happily take it.

"Well," Bubbles croaked out beside him, clasping her hands together with an uncomfortable smile. Boomer stood next to her, holding both of their lunch trays and sharing a similar expression. "That was fun."

"You need to work on your eavesdropping skills," Brick said, and he may have laughed louder than usual as they both nodded sheepishly.

---

After class, alone in her dorm, Buttercup found her inspiration. No longer a love letter for whom she still couldn't unearth the reason why. But now for "Those who've gotten me through this shithole"—currently a working title, but Buttercup believed it to be the perfect title.

"Dream" by The Cranberries hummed in the background as she sat at her desk, using the slow-fading sun for light. Black ink moved as fluid as the current of emotions pouring out of her.

She started with Bubbles. The memory from their Christmas party, when Buttercup had been drunk and crestfallen over Mitch. Where Bubbles comforted and let her know how deserving of love Buttercup is. It'd been the first seeding of her want to understand the power of vulnerability.

There was Boomer. The person who, through all the mayhem, the raging waves and changing tides, has always been the anchor. There to defend, so solid in his beliefs, right by your side to keep you steady in the madness.

Buttercup added a section about her parents and their visit. A shameless boasting of the parental figures she couldn't be more grateful for the first and constant source of love in her life.

After cracking her knuckles, Buttercup got to Blossom. About the storms they've endured. Making it through the worst and most persistent of them. And now, with the hope of cloudless skies, Buttercup couldn't be happier for their friendship to be beneath the sunlight once again.

And then...

She sucked in a breath. Her handwriting grew sloppy. Her chest buzzed viciously like a hornets' nest that'd been kicked by some punk-ass kid. Their puncturing stingers erupted bumps all over her skin—the vitriol venom questioning and mocking why.

Why would she write about him?

It's still fresh. It's still new.

It still hurts like fucking hell.

What does she get off by telling everyone, by telling Butch, by retelling herself, what went wrong?

This grief she'd expected, the mass of it living inside her, growing wild. She knew it'll come and had hoped it'll have a purpose.

Does it anymore? Can discovering its new purpose fix anything?

No, it won't.

But it can help her understand the truth.

And the truth is, Buttercup had wanted.

She wanted someone to lean on, who wouldn't disappoint and leave.

With Butch, she had that. He didn't walk on by or see her as a weed; he did want her. Placed her in a vase she'd broken into fragments with bloody fingers to sew.

There's nothing she can change.

Yes, it all hurts. He's hurt her, and she's hurt him.

But to reach spring, you have to accept the risks of the wildest winter. Frostbitten lips and icy creeks of tears. Freezing palms and dark storm clouds and frosted shoulders.

Now, the green is so green. The snow heavy as their hearts has melted, and gone along with its dazzling bitterness, was Butch.

He wasn't here. With her, in this brand new season.

And that's okay.

It didn't change how she feels about him. How she loves him after all the cold days they'd endured and got through by letting go of each other. There didn't need to be a fix, a faster way for the warmth to reach the numbed tips of her fingers.

So Buttercup wrote it all.

And as she did. That hard, protective shell of her heart felt like it had been cracked wide open. Because it suddenly made so much fucking sense.

It was never about the circumstances of why love comes to exist or why it persists. It's the fact it does.

Her original idea. The plotting of all the moments why she's come to love Butch. They weren't as important as they'd seemed. It was the fact she does love Butch. The fact she's gotten the privilege to be in love with her friend. See all the good and ugly and weird in him and still be in love. It's just that love has to phase into the same way she's in love with Bubbles, with Boomer, with Blossom.

Because perhaps we should all be a little in love with those we care about. To always find something new to admire about them, to appreciate the familiar in them. Love transcends romance, regardless of the musty societal norms that tell us otherwise. Our friends, our family, our idols, our partners in life. It's for anyone and everyone we want to share it with.

With a concluding dot printed, Buttercup puffed out a breath. A small smile grew on her lips.

Guess she did end up writing that love letter after all.

She traced over her words. Her brows furrowing, chewing down on her bottom lip as she went. The gradual feeling of dissatisfaction vegetated in her chest.

Her memory map should be complete. It looked done, so why did it feel unfinished?

She had everyone who matters. Everyone she cares for.

All except for one.

It's just... they weren't—

You're getting attached.

She should've left him then. Instead of indulging in the transformation of his smirk to an honest smile, of letting him go on with words that weren't supposed to be said. To her, between them. Ever.

But she'd stayed. She let him look at her like—

And today has been weird. She didn't know if they'll be okay again or if they'll pretend last week had been a fluke. An experiment never to be spoken of again.

She could tell herself easy lies. That it didn't matter, he didn't matter.

But honestly, gagworthly, Buttercup kind of misses Brick's infuriating, disastrous, self-proclaimed lameo self.

Maybe she could be generous and reach out to him, spare him from a pitiful night alone. Make sure this. Their friendship didn't diminish over something so meaningless.

But first, Buttercup had one. Just a tiny, fatuous memory to add to her map.

---

"Have you thought about it?"

An evening breeze flowed around Blossom and Butch, light with the fragrance of sweet mint. The sky fused a deep peach and lavender, the type of sky made to be shared and remembered. To talk and be kissed under.

They laid out on the lawn by the boys' dorms, backpacks by their feet. The occasional group walked by, their hushed whispers and lingering stares felt but not acknowledged or cared for. Butch laid flat on his back, hands resting on his chest. While Blossom was on her stomach, fingers tentatively brushing the petals of a bright yellow dandelion. A wildflower she's seen as nothing more than a weed on ordinary, but now, up close, she saw it as such a beautiful flower.

Butch's evergreen eyes were on her, adding to his previous question, "What you're doing?"

"I don't know." They had been talking about the summer again. Her plan—or lack thereof. "Maybe I'll do nothing."

Butch snorted, a lazy smile on his lips. "You'll lose your shit doing nothing."

Blood flew under her cheeks, sharing a grin with him.

"You don't have to be right."

"Make it harder then," he teased.

Moments like these, days like today, ingrained a part in Blossom that wanted to say screw it. To stay in California or splurge on a tropic destination. Just them for those three weeks before Butch became a fresh-blooded Golden Bear studying—well, he was still undecided.

But that wasn't what they'd agreed on, and it wasn't what Blossom needed.

It was going to take some time. Getting used to being alone, figuring out what it meant for her. Where her life was heading. Who she'll (pun fully intended) blossom into.

And truthfully, Blossom knew she would never really be alone. Not when she has Butch's hand to hold along the way. Not when the bents of her river will always find the ocean of him.

"You don't know what you're doing either." She propped her head up with her hand, carnation eyes studying him. The dandelion pirouetted in her fingers now. "Unless you've decided on Austin?"

She'd told him about Buttercup during lunch. His response a dimpled smile and such a clenching embrace, she felt the heart in his chest springing with happiness for her.

But what about him?

"I don't know. I," he paused, letting out a breath. Palming at his forehead, Butch looked up at the sublime sunset. "Still want to give her space, you know?"

"I agree."

"But... if we do, I don't want—It's not going to be weird for you?"

"No," Blossom answered, true as the zephyr touching their skin. His eyes fixed on her as she reached out and tucked the dandelion behind his right ear—a beautiful flower for a beautiful boy. "I trust you."

He bloomed at that, simply admiring her for a moment as she did the same.

Dark curls on his forehead slow-danced in the breeze. The yellow petals brought out the green paradise of his eyes, the ethereal lighting catching the lush fringe of his lashes. His cheeks were rosy from the balmy weather.

"I look good, don't I?" he smirked roguishly.

Blossom let out a laugh, tracing a fingertip lightly over the contours of his face. "Nothing else I would rather see."

For some reason, he coiled—a shadow crossing his face, like an eclipsed sun

Butch wrapped a hand around her wrist. His touch light and warmer than the air as he swallowed. His Adam's apple bobbing dubiously. "Hey, so... That reminds me. I," his voice flowed out with high viscosity, "I talked to Brick today."

Her skin grew cold.

She felt it come in a snow-crested wave. The wind knocked out of her, nausea lurching in her stomach as the force of the arctic sea swept and pulled her under. The brine stung her eyes to a blur, sharp and bitter. She tingled numb, frigid water pouring back into her lungs.

I can't carry—

Butch cupped her cheek, his calloused skin reminding her of the warmth. Reminding her to breathe.

She couldn't. The depth between them felt like miles. She was drowning in it.

She couldn't—

No. The sky intensified its colors, her heart chose to still beat. I can do this.

She can best this. Just breathe, just breathe.

Blossom closed her eyes. She took in a shaky breath. And another, another, another.

I can't—

She opened her eyes to blink away the salt pricking them. Finding the tender concern on Butch's face. The understanding that he couldn't follow her where she goes, not unless he wants to drown too. But he can wait for her to reach the shore, to be the hand to take—all there for when Blossom brought herself up to the surface.

I—

She can best this. The surface will change. It'll be easier to reach, it'll feel like nothing. It'll be so onerous, she didn't think she'll make it through. She can. Blossom could damn well try.

Slowly, Blossom inhaled. It was secure and cool. Feeling the warm Earth beneath her, the melting touch on her cheek. The wave receding, and she was still alive. She was here, alive.

I can do this.

When she exhaled, it defrosted something in her.

The corner of her mouth flitted, silently letting him know she'll be okay. That it's possible to hurt, and to laugh and smile and be present, all in the same moment.

"How did that go?" she asked faintly.

He shrugged. His rough thumb ran across her cheek, sizzling her skin awake.

"It went."

Blossom thought about asking but chose not to. They both knew she wasn't ready for more, and Blossom had a sense of the answer.

Instead, she grasped his hand, bringing it to her lips.

Like daisies at the sight of dawn, gradually, he unfurled to a smile. He lifted his head up, nearing closer to her—the sunny petals of the dandelion swaying with the wind from his ear.

Looking in those evergreen eyes, Blossom could see everything. His inclination of what to say, the instinct he quieted.

Which was okay. It wasn't needed.

She kissed his fingers again. His chin, his rose-colored cheeks, his full lips.

His mouth was soft and warm against hers, his hands weaving in her ginger hair, pulling her in deeper.

Kissing Butch felt like honeybees buzzing a melodious rhythm in her head, turning her blood into sweet honey. Moving with the hazy heat of his touch, thriving on the wildflowers breaking loose in her chest. Plants that enriched her to see how real and revitalizing the world can be. Of the magic existing around them, and in all of the glow and unimaginable colors, there's him.

"I'm glad we're doing this," he said quietly. Dimples again.

"I am too."

The sky had darkened to a deep blue, the silver tadpoles of stars surfacing. Foot traffic lightened, and both felt their stomachs lightly grumble.

"Ramen?" Blossom suggested, tucking her legs beneath her.

"You know I'm down." He sat up, too, loosely hugging his knees as he leaned forward. "Gonna let me do the whole gentlemen schtick and pay?"

"Never."

"One of these days, Blossom. I swear."

"What?" She laughed. "I like paying for you."

"I know you do. It's—"

"There you are, Butch." Blossom and Butch looked up to find Bubbles sauntering towards them. Her straw-blonde hair was knotted into a bun, and unlike them, she'd swapped her outfit from the school day for leggings and a cornflower-blue shirt.

Butch raised his brows. "Hunting me down?"

"Just checked your dorm for you." She pointed at the monolithic building a few feet away. "I need to ask you something."

"Bubs, I'm flattered," he smirked, patting Blossom on the head. "But this one over here is my whole heart."

Blossom was pretty sure her pupils were molded into black hearts as she could only stare at him, resisting the temptation to lavish him in kisses. His face, his neck, his hands. All over.

"Adorable," Bubbles cooed, her affection genuine and appreciated. "But that's not at all what I'm asking."

"Then what's up?"

She filled him and Blossom in about Camille and the decision she needs to make. Bubbles told them how she'd planned on asking Blossom afterward but delighted to find herself able to knock two birds with one stone (no killing, just a gentle tap. She swears).

"What I'm getting," Butch said as Blossom trimmed through her thoughts, "is you're scared of your dad interfering?"

"I guess... Maybe." Bubbles sat on the lawn with them now. Somewhere, a night bird started to sing.

"So what happens if he does?"

She grew quiet, her eyes clouding over like a bag of tea to clear water.

"I don't know."

"Isn't he rich or something?"

"He owns a real estate agency, so I suppose he does well."

"Scam him."

"Butch!"

He shrugged. "That's what I would do."

"Should I be concerned?" Blossom asked him.

"Don't worry, sugar mama." He actually patted her head again. "I would scam your parents, not you."

Blossom didn't not agree with him.

"Respectfully, that's a no for me," Bubbles said. "And it's not about him. It's my brothers, and if..." she became quiet, the slightest bit untamed by fears. "Should I try? Is it right if I do?"

Butch had let out a ponderous breath, squinting up at the stars swimming in the sky. The dandelion losing its movement and color in the dimming light. His voice was abraded like water upon sand. "I still talk to my sisters. Our..."

Blossom reached for his hand, threading their fingers, laying them on the ticklish sward. They exchanged a look, implanting a seed of strength in each other.

"They have tried reaching out a couple times, and my sisters want me to talk to them. I don't." Butch shook his head. "I don't want to fix this. Sometimes, things don't work out in the way they're "supposed" to." He held onto Bubbles' sorrowful eyes. "But I also don't want to punish my sisters for something our parents did. So I only talk to them. I tell them no, and they try to understand as much as they can."

"Butch, I'm so sorry—"

"It's okay." He managed a smile. "I've had my time with it. And honestly, it's their loss 'cause I'm fucking awesome."

Blossom hummed, stroking the heated skin of his knuckle in agreement.

"Think of it like this. The decision your parents made was like," Butch paused, his dark brows furrowing as he glanced at Blossom. "What was that blip thing you'd talked about?"

"The Butterfly Effect?"

"That shit." He turned to Bubbles. "Your parents made this huge fucking decision that changed everything. For you and your brothers, but most of all, this Camille chick. So, do all of you get punished for what your parents did, or do you just roll with it and," his mouth curved into the shade of a smile, glancing at Blossom again, "let things happen?"

Blossom smiled back, and for a second, she realized how right he is.

That she can, finally, say the Butterfly Effect does exist. Just look at Butch and her. The fates they'd chosen, only to change and find a new genesis. Mosaic wings fluttering across the Atlantic, and she'd let him go on the spring break trip. Or she revealed all at Robin's party. His decision to stay that morning. All those moments could've been what changed the universe, their universe, and its history. Proving blips do matter.

Charles Darwin once wrote, "We see beautiful adaptations everywhere, in every part of the organic world." But adaptations can only be useful if you know what to do with them. She and Butch saw and felt this transformation. They didn't know when; they'd resisted. But the change couldn't be ignored. So they let the beautiful ramifications of their evolved worlds happen and became better for it.

This. Bubbles' distress over Camille and her brothers was an adaptation that hadn't been foreseen. Most aren't. But what Bubbles saw, this wild and dramatic change, didn't cooperate with her world. With the unlimited power change can have.

Blossom tilted her chin, speaking delicately to Bubbles. "Are you sure this isn't about your dad?"

"No." She slanted her eyes dubiously. "Why?"

"You're never hesitant about giving your love. With your brothers and Camille, they have it. I can tell by how you speak of them; you do."

Bubbles chewed on her bottom lip, but she stayed quiet, allowing Blossom to continue.

"Let's say you do meet Camille and your brothers. The people who live with your dad, who's been raised by him. The person who's stayed and worked with him." Butch squeezed her hand, and she squeezed back. "They know him. They're going to talk about him. It's inevitable."

Bubbles' eyes were on the verdant sod, nodding. A loose curl twirled behind her ear in the clement breeze.

"They might give you what you'd originally wanted. Or maybe, unintentionally or not, they'll convince you to forgive."

"I'm good without him," Bubbles whispered after a small lull. "I've let him go, but..."

"It's hard," Blossom finished for her. She glanced up at the dark pond of starlight, wondering what the sky looks like at home. Except, New York has never really felt like home to her. "Keeping boundaries is hard. I'm still trying to navigate that with my dad. If I should keep letting him try, or if I would ever forgive my mom one day. Sometimes... Sometimes, it comes easily. Then it's..."

Bubbles smiled softly. "Hard?"

"Yeah," Blossom said with a wan smile. "I'm not saying you are or that you have to. But you shouldn't be hard on yourself if you do. If one day, he does prove to you that he's worthy of forgiveness and you decide to work things out with him. But until then."

She turned to Butch, who gathered the simplest but most effective conclusion. "Fuck him."

Bubbles laughed. "I may agree with that."

"Like Butch said, none of you should be punished because your parents forgot about the Butterfly Effect. You deserve to know your brothers," Blossom told her. "And they deserve to know you."

For a moment, Bubbles just stared at them. Her face flickered with the anthesis of understanding, and somewhere far away, on another continent, there may have been a butterfly quivering its wings to the change of her world. The light above glimmered along with her eyes where Bubbles rubbed a little.

"I... I think I get it now," she said. Her voice soft and, maybe, at peace. "Thank you both."

"Anytime, Bubs. It's kind of nice to be the ones giving the advice."

"Look at us," Butch said to Blossom. That beautiful flower still planted behind his ear, fitting the mirthful grin on his beautiful face. Blossom was definitely going to shower him in kisses before the night was through. It's only fair. "Finally, having our shit together to give meaningful advice. Who would've thought?"

---

There's a crack in his ceiling—about a few inches, jagged and sharp.

Brick didn't know how long it's been there. How he hasn't noticed until now.

How many days and nights he's spent staring. His mind like English ivy smothered over a tree trunk. Infested by trysts with Blossom, invading lies, suffocated emotions. Looking up at the same ceiling, all while the fissure went unnoticed.

It couldn't be new. Deep-set this whole time, waiting for him to see.

Brick couldn't stop staring. Lying on his back, arms folded underneath his pillow, still in his t-shirt and jeans. His side of the room was more organized than it has in recent weeks, thanks to his distracted cleaning the day before.

That crack in the foundation stared down at him, trying to make sense of his mind as much as Brick has been trying to.

What has lying done for him?

If anything the last couple of months have proven. What today, especially, has shown him. Is that Brick should rely more on the truth.

He wants to. Recovery is a bitch, habits are hard to break, but Brick didn't want to be known as a fraud anymore. He wasn't made to, couldn't live in this icy fortress built on duplicity and distance anymore.

Brick never did like the cold. He wanted to get rid of the lone darkness it festered.

So why has he furled back to the old?

There's so much more. If he let it all melt away, maybe Brick could have it. To feel the warmth. Summer air drifting with ease. The itch of tall grass, starry nights, and the everfeeling of light burning inside him.

Brick waited for the fracture in the ceiling to finish reading his mind. To convince him it's possible.

But, of course, he would have to drop acid and be tripping balls for such to happen.

He slanted his eyes at the ceiling. Why didn't he fucking see it before? Been there, so close to him, and Brick has been foolishly oblivious.

He better not get fined by his dumbass RA when dorm checkout happened. Brick sure as hell didn't cause this crack to appear, couldn't do anything to change it.

He couldn't stop looking now that he knew.

Okay, his bad. He could. It's just—

Brick jumped at the sound of his phone vibrating against the chestnut wood of his desk. Sitting up, he rubbed at his eye, reading a text.

Buttercup: I know you have nothing else to do tonight except be pathetic.

He should ignore it.

Brick: Is this you rudely asking to hang?

The reply had been within seconds, and Brick hated how his mouth twitched at the fact.

Buttercup: Congrats, genius. You got something right.

Brick: So you also have nothing else to do tonight except be pathetic?

There was a pause.

Buttercup: I have things to do. Charity work is one of them.

Brick: How benevolent.

Buttercup: I'm a giver, remember?

Brick looked up at the crack again, swallowing the knot in his throat. He could hear, "You just give," splintering in his ears, close to making them bleed.

God, why the fuck did he have to say that? How could he keep—

The phone vibrated in his hand, snapping Brick's thoughts as if they were brittle twigs.

Buttercup: Is that a yes or a no?

Brick should say no, already mentally typing his excuse.

But his thumb hovered over his keyboard, taking this as what it is.

They were friends, after all. Why would either ruin such a simple and promising thing?

Never mind her pretty green eyes. Or how her smile could bring the most red-blooded soldiers to their knees in ruin.

Forget about how Brick looked at her today, in the hallway, with the fireworks of his mind and the reckless striking of matches that was her touch.

When he saw nothing.

He saw everything.

He saw the truth.

Brick: Yeah, let's be pathetic together.

---

In the courtyard, sitting on the concrete edge of the fountain, Boomer and Bubbles looked up at the frothing spray of stars, breathing in the mist of stardust after a spontaneous dinner invite from Blossom and Butch.

Which had been oddly nice. Not solely because Boomer loves a good bowl of ramen, but also to be around Blossom and Butch. To see them together-ish again. Boomer still wasn't sure, but he's trying to understand. And maybe they were sort of starting to make some sense. In the sluggish way Boomer comprehends, they are.

Now, with full bellies and alone time, Boomer got to enjoy the one person who's always made the most sense to him.

"I'm going to miss this," Bubbles whispered.

"The stars? They have those in San Diego," Boomer said. He turned to her, creasing his sandy brows. "There are stars in San Diego?"

"Light pollution hasn't been kind, but there are places." She affectionately scratched at the back of his hand. "We'll go see every last one."

"Then what is there to miss?"

"Here. This fountain, all of our moments."

"We'll still have them." He poked her forehead. "You got the better brain, but we got them in here with us."

"I know, but I can still miss them."

He rested his head on her shoulder. "I think I'll miss them too."

For a while, they grew quiet. Boomer had shut his midnight-blue eyes, inhaling the warm air and sugary vanilla of her perfume. He may be an old spirit, but she was very new. Beyond her years in wisdom and joy and love, but so, so new. He couldn't believe his luck, how many lifetimes he must have lived on this terrestrial plane. Waiting for her. His tethered equal.

"Boomie."

"Yes?"

"I think I'm going to do it."

He exhaled loudly, lifting his head to meet her uneasy expression. Her guilty expression.

Boomer didn't want her to feel guilty, but he also didn't want her to be jabbed by the same razor-sharp thorn.

A minute must have gone by, and Boomer failed to grasp he hadn't said anything. Only puffed out a sigh. The peaceful burbling of the fountain filling the silence.

"Are you upset?" she whispered.

"No," Boomer said with quick softness. "It's just..."

The words he wanted to tell her now, wanted to say on Saturday, were always unripe and plucked away by the squawking crows of his own reservations.

"I understand." She lifted his hand, her fingers pressing his nails in the crescent moonlight. "I've thought about it all day. I've asked. And, darling..." She looked at him, and he felt a stoned pit of sadness in his chest from her thinking he was upset. He could never. "I've realized it's not our fault."

Lines of confusion swarmed between his brows. "Our?"

"Me. My brothers and Camille. It's not our fault."

Boomer nodded. "It's not."

"There's nothing I can do about the past, but I can't cut it out of my life so effortlessly. Neither can they."

He nodded again. What Bubbles' dad did, her mother's choice to bring such radiant splendor into this world. It didn't change the fact they were her brothers. They were Bubbles' family, just as much as she was Boomer's.

"Bubs, no matter what choice, I'm going to be sticking with you." She smiled at that, and so did he. "It's that pea brain loser I'm concerned about."

Bubbles let out a light laugh. "Pea brain?"

"He has the tiniest of all peas for a brain, and you know it."

"I do," she laughed again. "Which is why I don't want to let him dictate this."

She laced their fingers, laying them on her lap. The heat of her warming all of his senses.

"I like to believe Camille wants me to know I'm not alone, and I want her and my brothers to know they aren't either. Because of my mom and our dad, there's been so much we haven't been able to control. So much confusion and hurting that hasn't healed. I want it. Even if it means that maybe one day..." Bubbles paused, letting out a tight breath. Her robin-eggs-blue eyes crackling with the truth Boomer hadn't want to consider. "I think I'm ready for whatever happens next."

If he could, Boomer would like to wrap her into a silky cocoon to protect from all the pain and disappointment of this world. But he couldn't, he couldn't prevent something that's so enwrapped in the condition of existence. She'll be seasoned by hurt. Maybe with Camille and her brothers. With the wounding thorn of her dad. Or maybe she won't.

But she will, one day. And all that truly matters isn't shelling her away from the chance but to be there. For Boomer to help her towards healing, to simply be a kind face when the time comes again.

"Okay," he said. Gradually, a smile grew on his face. For this sweet creature and her brave, extraordinary heart. "Okay. Do it."

Her expression brightened, melting Boomer's own heart as she leaned into him. "Really?"

"Pretty lady, you don't need my permission."

She giggled. "Duh. That's pretty obvious."

"Hey." Boomer's grin spread. "Don't go bullying me like you do Brick."

"What? No! Not you too, Boomer. I wasn't—"

Boomer grabbed her chin, pecking her lips. "You can bully anyone but me, okay?"

Bubbles let out an exasperated breath, averting her eyes. "I'm not saying I do, but if anyone deserves a little of it..."

"Oh. Brick is definitely the right choice."

They both laughed until their stomachs hurt a little. The late spring air flitted through, the fountain trickling gently behind them. The stars splashed silver in the sky, and Boomer realized how right Bubbles was. He'll miss this moment, the beauty and glow of it. How it has become one of his favorites with her.

But like everything else, it'll only get better. They'll have more moments to share and love, new favorites to pick. So many to long for and never forget, so many of the future to look forward to. So many real moments to live in and reap the most of.

"Can you be there?" Bubbles asked softly, touching his cheek. "When I call Camille? When I meet them?"

Boomer smiled. For once, his words were perfect and ripe to regale.

"I would love to."

---

"See. It's all about testing the grip first," Brick said, venturing onto a new field of nerdiness that Buttercup didn't know existed.

Buttercup raised a skeptical brow, leaning her side into the plexiglass of the claw machine. "You're aware this is completely rigged."

"Don't believe everything you see on the internet, Buttercup."

"Right." She rolled her eyes as Brick wasted a whole game token on his useless theory. Hovering over the jungle of stuffed animals, the claw of the skill crane whirled smoothly in her ear. Such a contrast to the cacophony of other games and the stampeding bowling balls mowing down pins.

She'd been the one to suggest the Dynamo Bowling Alley, primarily for its arcade. If she can't roll around and throw a tantrum, the least she can do is supplement the desire by having airy, innocuous fun like those annoying brats.

The windowless room was painted a shadowy black, with most light dripping from the games' screens or the neon fixtures jagging along the wide space like lightning bolts, colored in reds, blues, and yellows. Grease from concessions lightly wafted the air. Kiddos weren't found since it's a school night and well-passed their bedtimes—which Buttercup had no complaints about. Their fingers made the games a little too sticky for her liking.

Besides a couple (they appeared to be a few years older) playing air hockey, Buttercup and Brick were practically alone. The cable of the metal claw dropped and whizzed back up, empty.

"Wow," Buttercup monotoned, crossing her arms. "You snagged absolutely nothing."

"That was a trial run."

"Oh. Sorry, it's just this," she gestured to the trapped animals, "is so thrilling."

"This is why I'm showing you." He slotted in another token like the sucker he is, gripping the joystick again. His eyes fixed on hers, the salt-white lighting of the machine softening his intense eyes to an apple-red. The freckles dusting his cheeks stood out as if under the bright summer sun.

"That you have a concerning obsession with claw machines?" Buttercup wrinkled her nose, and he looked at the game faster than a housefly avoiding a smack. What a fucking weirdo.

"No." He moved the joystick, positioning to the right corner of the fluffy Serengeti. The claw whirled down with its familiar noise, clamping. Brick's mouth tilted into his taunting smirk as the machine dropped his prize into the shoot. "Patience. It's a virtue."

"That's rich coming from you."

Brick ignored her, reaching for his oh-so-precious stuffed animal. Guess his little theory did have some verity. Good for him, Buttercup supposes.

"And I'd thought you would be nicer to me."

Buttercup gave him a sardonic smile. "Now, why would I?"

"Because you want this."

He lifted up the lime-green alligator he won, observing its textured fabric with an, almost, whimsy smile.

She wanted to—

It was off-putting. His perfect face and whatever the fuck he was doing with it.

"Nice try, but I'm not five."

"Come on." He turned the gator to face her. Its gnarly, serrated smile had the capability of burgeoning a whole childhood full of nightmares. "Give Clifford a chance."

Buttercup snorted. "Does he look like a big fucking red dog?"

"No, but—"

Buttercup snatched the plushie from his hand, crushing it to her chest. "Then stop disrespecting Morris like that."

Brick tilted his head, regarding her. Those eyes—

She examined Morris, his opal eyes weepily stared back at her. The sewn fabric of his skin was scratchy, terribly cheap. He wouldn't have been the first choice for most. Such a terrifying and misunderstood animal.

She liked him nevertheless, finding the creature oddly endearing.

"Morris."

"Yes," she said curtly. "He's definitely a Morris."

"Now you claim him?"

"We bonded over your abhorrent name choice. So yeah, I'll be taking custody of him." She raised her brow, meeting that infuriating stare. Will he stop looking at her like that? "Got it?"

"As long as I get the weekends."

"You'll be lucky to get hourly visitations."

The corner of his mouth lifted. "We'll see about that."

They went on to play a few rounds of air hockey (Buttercup won those) and laps on Cart Fury (no winner worth mentioning) before Brick suggested the Jurassic Park Arcade game.

Fashioned like a vehicle cart in the film, the cabinet game's outside was wrapped in the franchise's logo and lush greens, oranges, and reds. Inside, there was a red bench to sit on, two guns pointed at the bright LED screen. Dark curtains hung on each side, blacking out the rest of the world, trapping in the guttural bellowing of the digitized dinosaurs.

Morris sat on the dashboard, staring at them as they slotted in tokens, beginning their journey to save archosaurian reptiles from a Mount Vesuvius type of disaster.

Their guns roared to life through the speakers. Buttercup's finger happily pressed the trigger, trekking through the first level.

"This was my favorite movie in elementary school," Brick said. "Still is, actually."

You hate this movie, Buttercup almost corrected. But that would be for another person.

She swallowed, cutting away the raw edges to her voice until it was cool and smooth as granite. "Because it's dinosaurs and murder?"

"For its commentary on hypocrisy and superiority. You can't play God when it comes to science." There was a mordant tone to him, and Buttercup could feel his smirk.

"It's so believable you understood those concepts in elementary school."

He puffed out a laugh, and Buttercup considered how decent it was to hear after everything. That they can still hold a damn conversation.

"Maybe the dinosaurs did lure me in."

"Let me guess. You were, predictively, a lame T-Rex fanboy?"

"Brachiosaurus would be the correct answer."

Her finger slipped off of the trigger. No longer able to feel its tip, to feel any of her fingers through the chilled numbness. A wiry velociraptor headed straight for her character, but Buttercup didn't notice. She felt a loss of breath, a thick vine noosing around her neck.

The vision of watching the scene in her dorm zapped through her mind. Jolts of Butch's past touch stunned her current skin into bumps, thoughts of what once had been seen as unbelievable. Only to be real.

Unimaginable things can come true—

The velociraptor lunged at her, its sharp claws threatening to shred her into bloody strips, lifting Buttercup out of her melancholic fog.

She couldn't respond quick enough. Her shot far off and wasted.

But Brick's wasn't. Perfect and on time to save her ass from defeat.

"That's surprising."

"What." she said tartly. She needed to get back on her A-game. No fucking way she's letting Brick win.

"You're not much of a sharpshooter."

Buttercup scoffed, aiming at a shrieking raptor charging towards Brick. Shot cleanly before he could even try. "You sure about that?"

She heard him clear his throat. "I'm just glad I picked a game you can actually play."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Want to relive Cart Fury?"

Buttercup flitted a stone-cutting glare at him. "Dude, let it go. You won by default."

"Because you can't fucking drive."

"That's awfully presumptuous."

"You literally crashed into everyone."

"They were going too slow." Their knees accidentally touched. Gunfire continued to spread, and Buttercup expected Brick to back away, but he didn't. So she did, swearing it wouldn't happen again.

"Sure, Buttercup. They were going slow."

For the majority of levels two and three, they worked silently. Twin soldiers, marching on. Eyes burning from the bright colored screen, Morris cheering them on with his sad eyes and sawtooth smile.

And Buttercup couldn't help thinking how perfectly fine she felt. She didn't know if it's the company. Or it's the continental mind shift of focusing on the gore of dinosaurs that let her feel something else.

But she did in this moment, with him.

It was a quiet feeling budding in her chest. One Buttercup didn't feel compelled to prune away.

"This is fun," she said. Buttercup didn't mean to say it out loud, but what did she care?

"For charity work?"

"For charity work."

She didn't need to look at Brick to know he was smiling.

And a part of her didn't want to see.

"I'm glad—I mean, this is nice. I," he paused, letting out a laugh that rustled more than leaves. "I wasn't sure that after Saturday we... that you—"

"It's not like you've tried. You've been so fucking awkward, dude."

She snuck a glance at him, finding his skin to be red as strawberries.

"It's okay," she said. "It's over. We're good."

He cleared his throat. "Right."

"I'm serious. It's fine. I don't like you like that or anything." Buttercup wrinkled her nose, gripping the trigger until her knuckle was white stars. "You're not even attractive to me."

She'd been so fucking thankful when Brick huffed out what may have been a laugh. Because the heavens know the boy can make things so awkward so damn quick.

"Wasn't interested."

"Good. Now you have no reason to be weird."

"You're right," he said after a moment of nothing but screeching from the creatures chasing them. "It's actually relieving to know."

"As in?"

"That'll never happen again."

"How adorable. You got another thing right, genius." Their knees bumped again. This time, Buttercup hadn't moved away, but the connection only lasted for a couple seconds.

"It's good to know I won't bald prematurely from you clawing my hair," he said, sardonic.

Buttercup snorted. Oh, so now he wants to have this conversation out loud?

She's more than game.

"It also saves you from being a scared, little bitch about touching me."

"Or from you gnawing on my lip like it's the last piece of meat on a rib."

"I'm so happy to know I won't be poked by your chode again."

"And I'm ecstatic to know you won't be trying to fish out my tonsils with your tongue again." Their knees were definitely touching now, and neither pulled away.

"At least I won't have to hear your virginal moaning anymore."

"Fuck, okay." There was a peculiar warmth to his voice. "You win."

"You're damn right I win."

She went on with the game, taking a whole minute to notice the silence. The cease-fire on Brick's end, how deafening it was despite his character being mauled onscreen.

Buttercup turned, realizing he was studying her. Those intense eyes all the same, and suddenly, she'd forgotten about the game.

"What?"

"It's nothing." He shrugged, leaning into the cabinet's dark back. He slanted his stare, doing his X-ray vision thing that made Buttercup's skin crawl with fire-covered fleas. "It's just I've wanted to ask. If..."

She wondered if he'll ask why. Of what version she'll tell him.

That she'd been too drunk to stop and consider the indecorous behavior. But neither would be able to get away with such deceit.

It could be the other.

How she wanted it to end. The bleeding of her wounds, to not be given the tourniquet anymore. To no longer bare the limbs Butch had touched and devout promises neither kept. To wrap herself in a new skin, tougher skin.

So she tried to claw it all away, for the carnage and massacring of those feelings and memories. And what better person to do such with than the relentless fuck-up, the Bludgeoner of emotions, the Duke of Destruction himself?

Except. There had been no claws, no mauling to death.

And Buttercup, now, knew that wasn't what she'd intended. It's not what she wanted. Because those memories and emotions are worth keeping. That, the toughest skin she'll ever have is the softness she could bear.

So maybe it's as simple as this. She had been sad, and Brick had been there. Like he has lately. Saying all of those nice things. And she'd noticed the tiny wrinkle by his eye. His rosy cheeks and freckles that reminded her of the summertime. How his upper lip was a bit thinner. Looking in her, and Buttercup thought, I get it.

The game's sounds faded into white noise as Brick reached out, tucking a strand of her midnight hair. His knuckle lightly brushed against her cheek, a bird's feather. She did her best to not coil up, to not give in to those knots in her stomach.

He didn't ask why.

He asked the question Buttercup has been trying to figure out since.

"Are you okay?" So casual and cool, but she could see the bonfire in his eyes—the want to keep her warm from the icy cold.

Buttercup couldn't look at him, finding refuge in Morris' lugubrious stare. The screen of the abandoned video game flickered. Big, bold letters read: GAME OVER.

"What do you want me to say?"

"The truth."

She flinched, meeting his stare.

"I don't know."

Brick's brows pinched for a moment. Unreadable, or maybe, she didn't want to go beyond what she's already seen.

"Are you sure?" he whispered.

Are you?

After today, after all she's realized. After being here, after seeing—

She didn't know if they could co-exist. If she could still have the ripened sadness in her and have this other budding feeling.

Because there's still so much to be sad about, but there's also so much to be happy for. Like knowing she'll bloom from this hurricane. All the love she has planted and receives from those in her life.

This friendship she's growing with Brick.

Slowly, Buttercup's mouth curled a little. "I don't know. I might be both."

"Both," he parroted. There was a particular recognition to his voice as if he knew all about this grafting of feelings—and maybe he did. Relief softened his expression to an uncomfortable degree for Buttercup.

She flitted her eyes briefly. "Will that answer stop you from turning all sappy on me?"

He smiled. Blunt and crooked. Perfectly him.

"I wasn't."

She tipped her head to one side. The body heat radiating off of him felt like a fever. The glow of the screen just barely caught his eyes, and the chlorine smell no longer hung on him. Smoky wood permeating the air she breathed.

"You're a goddamn liar."

"True," he said, looking her over intently. "But you make me want to be honest."

Buttercup scrunched her nose. "Gross."

"I'm serious," he said, still smiling. It must've been the most persistent Buttercup has gotten from him.

"Then tell me something real."

Brick's head tilted, his smile broadening. The pink of his freckled cheeks just barely visible, his brow lifted, and—

He wasn't… Right?

Because Buttercup couldn't ax away the feeling that he would.

And what would she do if he did?

Push him away. Flick his forehead. Laugh in his face for thinking he should ever kiss her again, that she would allow him.

That'll never happen again.

He wouldn't. He's been so fucking awkward; Brick would probably shit, well, a brick at the thought of kissing her. He would never be so foolish to ruin this for something so meaningless.

He wouldn't be her.

He wasn't her.

But if he did—

Pull away, Buttercup told herself. It's the smart thing to do, the safe thing. It was never a good idea to play with fire—in her case, do it more than once.

This jackrabbiting of her heart didn't mean anything. It didn't need a meaning. Nor did that look on his face, the smile curving his lips or the fact their knees were still pressed together.

"I'm glad you're giving me a chance," he said. "It means a lot."

Buttercup raised a brow. That wasn't what she expected from him, but why would she expect anything else from him?

"How? Over a week ago you didn't even like me."

Most people would deny, but Brick wasn't like most, shrugging his shoulders. Still fucking smiling. "You didn't like me, either. But now I'm your charity case, and I can admit you're nice to be around."

She snorted half-heartedly. Her springtime eyes scanned over him. For a shade of repentance, the sadness they may share. For the murderous truth, because Buttercup knew.

She knew by letting him in, with how he's been—

Stop this.

Buttercup needed to leave it alone. Take this as it is.

That'll never happen again.

He doesn't.

So why would she keep creeping around this? It was simple, not so innocent, but just a stupid moment. A sudden desire. A taste she wouldn't revisit, a memory she shouldn't think about.

Like she said. It's over.

Buttercup turned to the screen again; her knee itched away. He was that close to her. He was that far from her.

"Another try?" he suggested, already with a new token between his fingers. The gold-tint of the coin gleamed sharply in her eyes, more lustrous than she remembered.

She thought about telling him no. That she's had enough with this game.

But Buttercup glanced at him once more. His poppy-red eyes eager, his russet hair curled around his ear. That upper lip of his pulled thinner for a challenging smirk.

The vision of it lasted behind her eyelids in the way a firework would go out, the invisible sparks reaching the frostbitten tips of her fingers.

In the end, Buttercup chose to play again.

---

Author's Notes:

Y'all, there's only two chapters left. To say I'm thrilled would be an understatement. I want to thank you for sticking around and taking the twists and turns of this story with interest and kindness.

Next chapter: What would you do on your last day? Also, Boomer uses a sharpie.

To those who reviewed last chapter:

SliverKard: Love your enthusiasm and passion for your ships! I wouldn't say much else, but I'll make it known this is the last *major* project of mine that'll include color-code romantically.

N: The greens did hurt last chapter (and this one, too), but yes! I'm so glad you liked Brick/Buttercup.

erin. babycakes456: Butch and Boomer on 'shrooms was one of my favorite moments of last chapter too!

Niskin. ko: My dude, your review was everything! Blossom's growth has been the biggest achievement of this project, and I'm happy I don't have to hurt her much anymore. Brick and Buttercup's dynamic is some good shit. They're smart, but they're also so dumb. Bubbles' storyline has been a challenge to get right, so that's great to hear. And Boomer is the true skinny legend we all need.

AnaHearts: Your reviews are god-tier. I'm definitely on Buttercup's side of the Shakespeare opinion. The blues are 100% meant for each other here. And yes, I'm a little sadistic with my writing, lol. The greens' "break up" was hard to write because there's so much build up, only for it to feel like it amounted to... kind of nothing. But that's life, you know? We pick the wrong people, we pick the right one. We don't know until time and experience allows. AND I AGREE! The polyamorous mess would be delightful. And thank you so much, I've been working on my style, imagery, and nuance (basically everything) this past year, and it's been a grueling joy to see it develop. It really nice for you to notice. I can't explain how grateful I am to have you as a reader since the beginning and all of your support despite my sadistic tendencies. Also, been wanting to say I wish you well in your studies. You definitely picked the right path because your literary skills are what authors' dream of.

Guest: I totally get where you're coming from. With Ace, he got what he deserves. He was expelled from a prestigious school during his senior year, which means he either won't graduate or have to repeat the grade. He lost his only friend (Butch), went away known as a cheater, and has to start his life over again. Yes, he's gotten away with the video recording in Chapter 25, but he also dealt with a lot of repercussions, too. For Princess... I ask, what has she done that's villainess? She stirs the pot, yes. And she'd organized the Parents' Weekend, but it didn't work out in her favor. She got used by Brick, measures herself to another person for validation, got injured and lost her starring role in the school play, and doesn't have any real friends, you know? Tbh, Brick/Blossom have been more antagonistic with their choices/actions, but they're also teenagers making stupid and hurtful decisions that they now know were wrong/are trying to fix. Life's complicated. We do shitty things we regret or someone does a shitty thing and never gets what's coming. I've been on both sides of the matter, it's not so black and white. I appreciate this question so much though, it got me thinking about the nuance of Princess and what I wish I'd done differently with her, so thank you. I hope this answers clarifies things.

DDisa: BAMBOOLZED, that's literally one of my favorite words. And lol at referencing chapter 1. I knew I wanted Buttercup/Brick in some degree when I'd decided she'll be the one to tell him to get his shit together after Blossom broke up with him. Which was probably around Chapter 7 or so when I was finishing my outline (About over three years ago! WOW, I feel old). Loved your jokes, btw!

Jaalk5: Thank you so much for your support! Psyched you're loving Blossom/Butch, and dude, Brick is getting there. He's trying and can be likeable depending on his environment.

3mi1y02: Girl, you know how thankful I am for you reviews and support. Can't wait to hear your thoughts on this one.

Velvet Blue Roses: I, too, am poorly fed and will make the good fucking food for us. Also, thank you for the rest of your lovely review.

Until next time, thank you so much for reading and wishing y'all well!