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*

34. Just Breathe

Butch was the last to find out. Again.

For your clarity, this didn't have anything to do with him. So maybe that's why.

Or it might've started with him running late this Wednesday morning.

His alarm didn't go off. A smudge on his Retro High OGs needed to be scoured and took longer than he'd expected. The breakfast line was long, Blossom's morning goodbye even longer.

Missed ten minutes of his first period. Then, despite only three days left, his biology teacher insisted on a tardy pass.

Didn't ask for one on Monday, but fine. Whatever. He went.

But you bet Butch took his sweet ass time. Going the long way to the front office, even entertaining the thought of popping into Him's office, but his door had been closed. Ms. Bellum's too.

That's weird. One was always available; if not, the other.

Tardy pass in hand, he walked back to class, expecting it to be in the same rambunctious form as when he'd left.

Which, of course, it wasn't.

His teacher shooed him away, whispering into a phone. Didn't care for the tardy pass he'd wasted fifteen minutes getting.

The room was as silent as death, everyone on their phones. Tapping and typing, scrolling and an occasional sniffle.

Butch went to his desk, eyeing Boomer. In shorts and an aqua button-down, he stared down at his phone. The same frown as everyone else.

Shit. This has even gotten to the master of chill and serenity?

What exact curse has been brought upon him that made Butch the last person to find out everything? Who hates him? Is it God? Because Butch thought they were pretty tight, have something good going on.

But god-fearing aside, Butch had to know.

"What the hell happened?" His brows knitted. "Everyone's acting like someone died."

There was a pause as Boomer glanced up at him. His eyes the blackest blue, letting out a thin breath.

And then he said, "Actually, someone did."

---

Death is inevitable. Like a setting sun, it's going to happen, whether you notice it or not. It's terrifying, yes. But it's not the kind of terror you should flinch or run from or scare you half to death. It's more of a foreboding. Something that quietly lives within us, a worm at the core of our apples. It's something to accept.

You make light of it.

At least, that's what Brick's mom had said. Right after his grandmother had passed, and his five-year-old brain couldn't cognize why there wouldn't be Sunday Dinners anymore.

It was expected, the new chemistry teacher, Ms. Proton, lamented.

Brick had to suppress the urge to roll his eyes at that. Obviously, it is. Death is going to happen. There's no cure for it.

But it's kind of fucked up to be infuriated with a woman who's only a messenger. Probably following a formulaic but touching script Him sent out for teachers to say in a mass email.

The air was static as a radio station losing its transmission. Quiet, muffled cries from his classmates broke through for a second or two, and even Brick had to swallow down the lodge of hurt in his throat. They were all struggling to catch their breath, to accept what has happened.

Death is to be expected, but he didn't expect this one.

Maybe he should've. The timing had been off, no proper explanation given.

Brick couldn't remember the last thing. If Professor Utonium smiled, what they'd learned that day, his parting pun.

It did get a chuckle out of Brick, whatever it was. He does remember that.

Isn't it funny? How quick our complicated yet simple brains forget? You might not think so, but Brick supposes it's damn hilarious.

In his seat by the window, a beam peeked in, touching his desk, and warmed the maroon fabric of his shirt. Motes of dust dancing in the air, in the sun, as his jean pocket vibrated.

Buttercup: Just found out. Are you okay?

He reread the message, unsure of how to feel. Unable to combat the live wire of sparks in his chest where it should be full of only dark ash.

Brick: It's death.

Buttercup: Let's try that again, edgelord.

Buttercup: Are you okay?

His mouth twitched, and if nothing else mattered, if nothing had happened, he would've given her an answer.

Brick: I don't know.

There was a pause.

Buttercup: Do you need someone right now?

He didn't respond.

Because how the hell do you say you need someone? How do you explain—

Brick turned his phone over, ignoring how the action welted and blistered his skin. Ignoring the boiling of pink matter in his skull to type out what he really wants to say.

To forfeit because winning doesn't matter anymore.

At least, not to him. Not with this.

He moved his eyes around the room. Ms. Proton consoled a couple of classmates, dabbing at her glacier-blue eyes with a snotty tissue.

There was Blossom, four seats horizontal from him. Fiery hair tied into that ridiculous bow Brick never did like, outfitted in a green floral and cream button-front dress.

Her snow skin was blanched whiter. Eyes glistering with water he'd once spent weeks collecting buckets of. Spent weeks creating as if he's fucking Poseidon.

But there was a tenebrosity stretching around her features, a ticking fury. Another thing Brick had become familiar with.

You only know how to hurt people, just like him.

He didn't think he would see it again.

He didn't know why she's like this.

Maybe it's because she's thinking about him.

Because if it wasn't for the momentary advice from the recently departed, they wouldn't have made things official. She would've let go much sooner.

In the month of icy silence capable of fogging up a world of glass, from Butch's relaying of his faults, Brick knows she regrets their ever existence.

He knows she hate, hate, hates him.

Maybe she wishes it had been him instead.

A willing accomplice he had been for the burying of their relationship. Four hands bloody. One damaged heart, one missing for the entirety of their spree. What else is left to do? How else can she punish him further?

To not only peel back his flesh, exposing the blackened viscera of him with disinterest, flourishing on his pain by defaming the good spent between them. Snapping and crunching his bones for all the crimes they'd committed, the crimes he coerced her into. All the things he did because he wanted her—he wanted someone.

What other ending can she give them—give him—other than where we all belong in the end? A few feet into the ground. To rot and stink of decay.

To disappear forever.

Maybe he should wish the same upon her. Maybe he should realize life is too fucking short. We're so finite and evanescent, and he's spent too much of it hurting her. He's spent it going without a glint of a real apology.

Yet.

He didn't feel malice or repentance. He felt—

Brick turned to the sound of the classroom door opening.

To Butch, standing in the doorway. A damn clairvoyant in his black Beastie Boys shirt and joggers. He cocked his head to the side, thumbing towards the hallway. Ignoring Ms. Proton's pesky questioning of who and why the hell he's here (she asked more professionally, but the energy was the same). Eyes were on Blossom, on Brick. There were a few whispers, someone mumbling Cuck under their breath. Brick wasn't sure if it was in reference to Butch or him—at this point, maybe both.

For a second, she flinched, but not in the way Brick has known from her. Then, she softened. Promptly gathering her things and going with Butch. Not a glance or word or care given to anyone else.

Fuck. It must be nice to have a good boyfriend, huh?

Brick wouldn't know. His one chance at being one is... well, six feet under.

Most would agree that's for the best. Where it should stay.

His finger tapped on the back of his phone, the pad of it sizzling and popping each time. The same voice echoing through his mind for minutes, hours. Days and nights.

Do you need someone right now?

How do you explain it's not someone?

How do you shake something that you've quietly accepted, that you know is coming?

You make light of it.

With a carrying breath, he said what he should've said.

Brick: If it's you? Yes.

---

In calamity, let there be sugar.

With Wednesday classes now canceled for bereavement and seated at the cherrywood window of the Parisian café off-campus, Boomer had splurged. Macarons, tiramisu, crepes smeared in Nutella, crème brûlée, oat milk lattes with cinnamon whipped cream. All of the decadent and cavity-filling goodies that are best to be devoured when the vibes were seriously crushing your bones more than usual.

It was then. With the riffing of French acoustic and the aroma of freshly roasted coffee beans, bodies angled and knees pressed together, blue food-coloring of macarons dyeing their fingertips, he finally told Bubbles about Professor Utonium.

"It was a nasty cellular mutation, he'd said. That, what else are you supposed to expect from a previous career handling radioactive materials? And... Everything was just so heavy. And Buttercup and I didn't know what to do but keep it to ourselves, you know? Respect his privacy, that's what we'd decided on."

In a vanilla babydoll dress, the lambent daylight soothed the sadness of Bubbles' face. "I'm sorry you had to keep it to yourself."

He shook his head once. "No, I'm sorry I couldn't tell you. I," he puffed out an aged and weary breath. One that's been waiting to be freed of the rusted cage of his ribs since he'd found out. "I'm just sorry."

"I'm sorry that you're sorry."

"And I'm sorry that you're sorry."

The corner of her mouth lifted. "So, we're just going to sit here and feel sorry for ourselves?"

He smiled. "Ain't it fun?"

She laughed softly. "Not my kind of fun."

"Yeah. Not my kind, either."

A silver spoon tapped the surface of the crème brûlée they were sharing. Fresh raspberries and blueberries garnished the burnt caramel sugar, unbroken in spite of her pattering.

"It's strange," she said after a moment. "Camille texted to confirm she and my brothers are attending graduation, and I was rushed with so much happiness. Like, I'll get to meet my family—I'll get to have a family to look for in the audience. But then they'd told us about the Professor, and that went away so fast. And it was like—It was like..."

"A wave?"

The light of the sun shined her eyes a pale blue as she regarded him with consideration, slow to nod.

"Yes."

"That's grief."

"It is," she said in what could've been a distant and chilling response but was only warm. Her spoon cracked through the burnt cream, shattering the sugar into a mosaic. A fragile smile coming to her lips. "You know, towards the end. When my mom was sick of being sick and the chemo and hospitals, we went home."

She paused. The spoon mixing the bitter shards of the surface into the creamy and sweet custard underneath.

"I don't know what it would've been like not knowing. And maybe," her brows creased with her delicate musing, "maybe there was some peace in that. Knowing she was going, and that we had these very few moments left to make the most of."

Boomer nodded. It was all he could do with the torrent of emotions in him, whirling and simmering for this person he loves. Who life has pushed and tripped and tumbled around but still stood to her highest. Who radiates a rainbow of love no matter what she does, in every breath she holds and let's go.

He could cry, could sob until his knuckles grew sore for her and her pain that she's chosen to turn a blessing.

But doing so in the middle of a populous café would be highly questionable and draw WTF stares. So, he chewed his cheek raw, nodding for her to go on.

"I wasn't able to say how much I love her to fill up a lifetime, but I did get close enough in those last few weeks. And I live with knowing that," she said, her voice infinitely calm. "I hope it was the same for the Professor. That he got his peace before going."

"When he'd told us," he eventually said, his voice briefly cracking like firewood. "He was smiling and laughing, and there was—he had this shine. I swear, Bubbles, he did. And—I think you're right. I think he found his serenity in knowing."

Bubbles smiled at that. "That's all you can want."

"It is."

"You did good in keeping it," she said after a moment, her hand brushing his arm. "Please know that you did."

"I do," he breathed. "I do. It's just," his voice was barely above a whisper, "it was so awful not telling you. There were so many times I almost did and wished I did. I should've—"

"Boomie." She laid her hands on his shoulders. "It's okay."

He shut his mouth, the world disintegrating to inhabit just the two of them.

"It's okay," she repeated. "Breathe. Just breathe."

Bubbles' fairytale-blue gaze was steady, and Boomer inhaled, he exhaled. Just as she did the same. Her breath tasting of sugar and cream, their hearts pacing in rhythm.

He looked at her and—

Boomer was smart enough to know forever isn't, well, forever. The very foundation of his temple of beliefs starts with understanding the impermanence of everything. And death is the foremost reminder of it.

But here's Bubbles.

The beauty of all that's old and new, the promise of only more, the sublimity of being alive and living. The lighthouse guiding him home after lifetimes of coasting without. The reason to ever convert him to a nonbeliever.

Boomer was smart enough to know forever isn't forever, but he also may be smart enough to know they may have gotten it wrong.

He sees, he feels, he's living it.

"You're good at that," he smiled softly. His head emptying from what had happened or what should've happened. There was only Bubbles and the now, the now and them.

"I'm good at you."

He puffed out a breath, a laugh. His teeth aching not from the sugar consumed but from the sweetness of her entire existence. His gaze went to her hand, reaching. His thumb rubbing along the bone of a delicate finger.

"That is a very true statement."

---

When Buttercup had asked where he wants to go, Brick didn't say his initial answer.

So, he suggested Citrine Park. Their park.

The sky was a vast blue void. A warm breeze would come and go, the rustling oak trees becoming a diaphanous green in the daylight. Two mallards swam among the water lilies of the pond, and the scent of citrus still stung his lungs. Not from the orange and lemon trees of the community garden, but the person next to him.

He thought they would walk around the pond or check out the garden. Maybe a game of tennis. But Buttercup suggested the swings, and Brick didn't say no.

"I can't believe you knew," he said. His hands gripped on the chains of the swing, the soles of his worn-out Chuck Taylors planted on the mulch littering the ground.

She shrugged her shoulders. In jeans and a black tank-top printed with jade dragons, she used the tip of her foot, gently swinging right to the left, left to right as a pendulum would.

"I still can't believe he'd told Boom and me." Her eyes were on the screaming kids who played on the sea serpent playground. "But he did."

"Must have been a lot."

"This year has been a lot."

He couldn't agree more.

"Still."

She looked over at him with those pretty green eyes. Any composure he told himself to have could only melt as a candle would upon lighting.

He stared for a few beats as he decided to say, "You sure it isn't just me who needs someone right now?"

She gave half of a laugh, her rounded nose wrinkling in the way that captured and held onto Brick's attention. "I suppose I can say this arrangement is symbiotic."

"Symbiotic?"

"Yup. I'm the sea anemone, and you're the clownfish." The tip of her Doc Marten tapped against his foot. "Emphasis on the clown."

"Are we talking like the 1990 miniseries It or 2017 film adaptation?"

"More like Ronald McDonald."

"Damn." The corner of his mouth lifted. "Think my feet can fit in his shoes?"

"You know what they say about guys with big feet..."

"That they should probably get a good pair of clown shoes," he said sardonically.

They laughed as a group of moms walked by with their kids, unable to spare two teenagers who were obviously too old and too big for the swing set a dirty look. Blue jays squawked in the branches, and Brick lifted his head to the sky. Breathing in the fresh air, the taste of citrus on his tongue.

Things weren't okay, but at this moment, it felt nice to believe they could be.

"I wanted to tell someone," Buttercup said to him after a peaceful silence. Eyes still on him, boric acid to a flame. "It just wasn't my secret to tell."

Brick nodded, and he didn't think she could earn his respect any more than she already did, but she keeps surprising him. He was starting to like it, having something new to find in the familiar of her.

"I get that."

"It gets tiring." She took in a breath, her voice dimming to a whisper. "Having all of these things I can't talk about because it'll be—"

"A shitshow?" Brick finished. He knew what she meant, he knew it so damn well it might as well be encoded into his DNA.

She held onto his stare, hesitant to nod. "After this year, I hate secrets."

Brick's jaw twitched as he flitted his gaze, watching the two mallards reach the shore, brushing their damp feathers against the other on the verdant grass.

"You're good at them," he said quietly. "Kept a lot."

All except for one, Brick realizes.

She'd been the one to tell Butch the whole and ravaging truth. The force behind why Blossom slipped away from Brick's hold, little by little. All starting with that night on the beach.

Buttercup has been the beginning for so much. If she didn't push Butch away, if she'd held onto him like Brick had tried to with Blossom, then maybe Blossom and Butch wouldn't be together right now. Maybe Brick wouldn't be here with Buttercup, maybe he wouldn't have ever gotten to know her.

Since it'd happened, Brick has been trying to figure out who takes the blame. If it's Blossom or if it's him. And it's taken him a shit ton of time to conclude; it wasn't one person. It's them.

But the thunderous clap to the storm clouds, the raging volcano to siege the land, the earthquake to tear up entire continents.

It's Buttercup.

She's a disaster. Overwhelming, shaking, metamorphic.

A cataclysm he needed to wake, to bring him away from the life he knew. To bring him back to life.

He just wishes he could say it to her.

"But I'm done," she said, and Brick slid his gaze back to her. To her smile that flickered infinite sparks in him. "I don't want to do this whole keeping secrets shit anymore."

"Good luck," he said.

Good luck? That's the best the boiled mush of his fucking brain could come up with?

She smiled more, mashing his brain further. "Yes. Good luck."

They stared at each other for too long. His cheeks hotter than a lava plume, the breeze was a hand mussing through the darkness of her hair.

"If this were the end, what would you do?" he asked because he wanted to. Because he wants a surprise, wants to know her in any way he can.

"As if I was going to die?"

"I mean," he paused, his legs moving forward, the swing creaking with the movement. "Yeah, I guess."

"That's a heavy question, dude."

"It's going to happen. We're going to die."

She rolled her eyes. "Typical Leo. Have to be so dramatic."

"You don't actually buy into that bullshit?"

"Astrology? Why wouldn't I?"

"It's pseudoscience. There's no actual truth or evidence for it."

"So? It's fun." Her eyes roamed his face, lingering on his lips for a second. "It might be hard for your nerd brain to understand, but things are allowed to be just fun."

"I know that."

"Do you now?"

"Obviously," he said dryly in spite of the current meltdown happening to whatever is leftover of his useless yet apparent nerd brain. "I'm, like, such a fun person."

"Shit." She had a grin that nearly made Brick want to explode. Nearly. "I might be, too."

"Me and you." He didn't like how easily that rolled off his tongue. Me and you, him and Buttercup. But then again, he does kind of, sort of— "We're just fun people."

"You may be onto something there, genius."

He tightened his grip on the chains of his swing, tapping against her foot this time. "So, I can assume you have no idea."

She snorted out a laugh. "I don't think about my death, dude. That's kind of the point of living. You do whatever you can to not think about it until you kind of forget."

Brick considered her. He didn't know much about living, spent too many years walking around like he's dead. Killing everyone around him to not be alone in his fate.

Maybe she does have a point.

"But you're weird, so you've thought about it," she said when Brick didn't say anything back. Not a question, but a statement. Because he has let her know him.

That's more than he can say for most, for someone.

"Lame, weird, pathetic, fun." He smirked. "You describe me superbly."

"You can also add arrogant and cynical and selfish—"

"Right."

"—and also the fucked-up lovechild of the Lucky Charms mascot and Ronald McDonald—"

"Now you've gone too far."

Buttercup laughed, and it sounded so peculiar and carefree and bewitching. It was magic, and Brick has never believed in magic. But shit.

"Okay, okay. I'm done," she said. "For now."

"Wouldn't expect anything less from you."

"Good." They smiled at each other for a second, quickly looking away. The sun was a wicked scorcher today, Brick could blame it on that if he needed to. "So, what would you do then? If this were the end?"

There were quick and loud answers. Catch a touchdown at Gillette Stadium. Eat endless lobster rolls in the Cape. Listen to mom sing "Sweet Caroline" while she does laundry. Watch the masterpiece of Jurassic Park a final time, and then Jurassic World to shit on Chris Pratt.

But then there was a new one. Quiet, subtle. Arriving inside of him harmoniously, finding its place among all the others he's come to recently welcome.

You, Buttercup. Be with you.

He told her the other things. Giving her the pieces he can of himself because the real part he does want to share, he can't.

Isn't it ironic how he never did give it away, always been his to claim? Unfound, unwoven, but his heart has been his and only his.

And then there's Buttercup. The last person he would've ever expected, the last person he would've thought to see. The biggest surprise.

Fucking Buttercup Soto and her goddamn hands.

Hands he thinks he can count on, can trust. Hands that only carry the truth.

Hands where he's to go.

But what's the point in giving your heart when there's no house for your soul? When your flesh is decorticated, your guts exposed for all to see, bones dismantled like a flood brought to a sandcastle? When you've never known how to live? When you've barely known how to be human?

Help me.

Those were the words he'd spoken to her, sitting in the hall of her residence, the previous night's kohl still smudged underneath her eyes like soot, his thumb pressing into her beating pulse. So warm and alive. It nearly destroyed him.

But it didn't, and Brick couldn't ask her of it. She's done enough, she's done more than enough.

Even if he wanted to—No, he wants.

But in spite of what the voice inside him says to do. To tell her, to tell her everything. Anything he says, any sentiment he can give, it can't possibly be enough. It didn't feel enough to him when Brick isn't who he wants to be.

He may be here now, but he wasn't there yet. He wasn't the person to count on for anything, he hasn't earned anything. Maybe someday, maybe never, but Brick can try. For everyone who he can finally admit to caring about, for the someones he's used and discarded and broken. For himself.

For Buttercup.

So, Brick took a breath. Watching Buttercup reach a new height on the swing next to him. The sunrays deepening the gold of her skin, oil-black hair lifting in the breeze, laughing with a ruinous smile. And suddenly, Brick was a boy again, seeing the world with brand new eyes. Realizing this whole life thing might be terrifying and confusing, but it might not suck.

It might just be worth the try.

---

Butch had been seven, riding his bike with the other neighborhood kids. He doesn't remember who, but someone dared him to ride down Neptune's Slant. If you're from Florida, you'll know there isn't much elevation. Hills are practically nonexistent, especially in Pompano Beach. This slant was one of the few places with a steep incline—along with skid-prone asphalt. Biking down it, as an idiotic seven-year-old and freshly off his training-wheels (the only thing he's been a late bloomer about), probably wasn't the sanest decision.

But this was Butch. It is him, still intrepid today as he was back then.

So he did it. Pedaled feverishly down the slant, lifting his, once, small feet. Letting gravity and momentum do their thing. Laughing, smiling, howling with his excitement.

Throwing and face-planting himself into the chain-link fence across the slant. Too inexperienced to press the brake, too nescient to notice the fence, too much of a dumbass to wear a damn helmet and look like a chump.

A huge gash sliced across his left brow, a bruised nose, abraded skin. Dark red blood had stained his Tony Hawk t-shirt and shorts.

He remembers sitting in the hospital with his mom, stitches straining to keep the skin of his brow together. In a rare time his mom tried for him and only him, she'd stayed the whole time. Just the two of them, sitting in his hospital bed, watching Shrek 2 (the superior sequel to ever exist. Fight him on it), drinking cheap hot chocolate.

It's the best memory he has from his childhood and probably the reason why chocolate is his go-to remedy for anything.

It's why he'd suggested getting some tonight.

In the shopping district of Townsville, where trendy restaurants and snobby boutiques lined the roads for the rich to window-shop, expensive perfumes lingering around no matter where you went, there was an alleyway. Colorful murals, herringbone brick buildings, string lights zig-zagging overhead.

A busker stood in the center. Dark-skinned in an olive bomber jacket, a couple years older than them. Strumming on a guitar, his case was opened for the spattering of coins and dollars, his sonorous voice singing "Stand By Me."

On a secluded iron bench, Blossom rested her head on Butch's shoulder, eyes on the busker. Barely touching the fat slice of chocolate cake Butch held for them to share.

"If you think I'll eat this whole ass cake by myself," Butch said, shoving a fudgy piece of heaven into his mouth, still talking as he chewed. "I will. Happily."

Blossom lifted her head, mouth flitting as her thumb wiped the corner of his lips, crumbs sticking to the pad of it.

"I know."

"Can't eat?"

"I can." Her voice was soft, tired. Eyes back on the busker—He's pretty fucking legit, Butch must say. "I'm in my head. That's all."

Butch nudged her gently. "Totally bragging here, but I got big ears that are pretty fantastic at listening."

"You have plenty of teachers and coaches who would disagree," she said. Butch smiled briefly at the jest in her tone, glad to know she can in spite of what happened.

"Fine. I got big ears that are pretty fantastic at listening to you."

Cotton candy eyes met his, a fading smile given.

"Him asked me to help with the memorial," she told him, and Butch nodded. Him had called her a couple minutes before they left campus for the Puffery Bake Shop. "I think I might make the slideshow."

"Insta-stalking your dead teacher?"

She puffed out air that wanted to be a laugh but couldn't. "Maybe."

"Sick." He tucked a flyaway behind her ear. The lights glowed around her, waves of hair gleaming like silken flames. "But that's not what's getting to you."

She stared at him, letting out a breath honed with so many emotions, it pierced his chest.

"It's not."

Butch wasn't going to press for more. She'll tell him. Now or later, when she's ready, he knew she would.

They sat in silent understanding. Butch inhaled the rest of the gooey cake (chocolate does miracle work), going to discard the box as the busker strummed the beginning of a Springsteen classic.

He stood in front of her, figuring they'll head to campus. But she took his hand, pulling him back to the bench, back to her.

Sitting down again, he studied her intently. He knew that look on her face, that she is both here and there. Feeling her slip away, lost in the delicate darkness of the past. It's a trip she has to take alone, one he cannot trespass even one step.

He can be here, he can fight for her, but he cannot heal her.

She was quiet for a long moment, gradual to murmur, "When they told us, I couldn't stop thinking of you."

Butch squeezed her hand. To let her know it's alright to go on, it's chill if that's all she can get out at the moment.

She laid another hand over the entwined. Cool upon touch, but becomes so warm with his.

"It," her voice was huffy, frustrated. "It made me think and remember and just realize how I've—how I've wasted so much time unable to get over my own self. And you." She shuddered in a breath, shaking her head. Resentment and love fusing together in her glimmering gaze. "You've given so much. So much without taking, and—How can you not be? You should—"

His brows creased, incredulous. "Blossom."

"Butch."

"Blossom."

She slanted her eyes for a second, dilatory to repeat, "Butch."

The corners of his mouth lifted. "Blossom."

He could see her try, but she also didn't try to hold back a laugh. One that wasn't as breathier as before. Almost full, almost vital. It made him smile more.

She jostled his side lightly. "I'm serious."

"I know."

She glided a finger to the scar on his brow, the scar he'll have for the rest of his life. Her touch was light as smoke, a whisper. Just as the smile on her lips. Tears slow to trickle down her cheeks.

"You should be mad," she said quietly.

Butch knows anger. On such a personal magnitude, he does. To let it open its mouth, a dragon breathing fire, and eat him whole.

Because anger is better than shame. There is a sense of being, a sense of worth and reality in the feeling. The loveliest resurgence to be known and bestowed.

The cosmic disruption, the intoxicating pain spilled into his veins and soaked into his bones by Blossom. It was a catalyst for godly rage. And he, a perfect vessel to let it fuel his bloodstream as he has done so many years prior.

But he also knows how it evaporates. The anger is unsustainable, subsided. It cannot hold, cannot replace the shame or hurt or all the other shit that gave birth to the vengeance of wrath.

"But I'm not. I'm not going to be."

He brought his thumbs to her tears, gently brushing against the damp fan of her lashes.

She might not believe him, but it does mesmerize him how beautiful of a crier she is. Blood smearing beneath her creamy cheeks like sweet strawberry jam, the slight part of her lips, eyes crystallizing with water. So heartbreaking, so magnetic, so human.

Blossom melted into his touch, letting out a soft sigh.

"You're so good," she murmured.

"That's not—"

"But you are. I hate that it took me so long."

In the incandescent alleyway and its shadows, she was all light. A prairie fire rushing towards him, and he could only be still. Inhale, exhale. But still, mindlessly still as she approaches.

"About us?"

"You." She threaded her fingers through his hair, delicate as a petal on a stream. "You're my favorite person."

Butch blinked. He thought about searching for the previous deceit in her, for what he's come to expect from others and their ephemeral sentiment.

But he didn't want to. He didn't need to.

He knew he shouldn't be looking for something that wasn't going to be found.

Swallowing the emotions searing his throat, he was able to say, to not rasp out like an idiot, "That's a shit ton of people to choose from."

"It'll still be you."

Only a few feet away, but felt like light-years from them, Butch could faintly make out the busker playing a Pearl Jam song. A sappy and mellow piece, unlike the heavy-riff stadium rock and grit from their discography.

"I think... I think that's why I am mad," she said, quiet and rushed. Almost as if she was out of breath. "I missed out on so much time with you. Even before, I did." She smiled through her tears. "I want to be next to you all the time, and I could've. Every day, I could've."

"Blossom," he breathed, not to fuck around like the moment before, but as if her name was the prayer assenting him into the empyrean.

Butch felt it on the tip of his tongue, smoldering from all he can want. From the most he's ever been given. The thick and familiar fumes hanging at the back of his throat. Clogging his nose, stinging his eyes. He sniffled slightly, and Blossom held him as if he's the rarest and daintiest thing she'll ever be graced to hold.

"I miss you," she told him, a murmur. An incantation that would've taken his heart if she didn't already have it.

His throat shifted, pressing his lips together. Any stupid ass remarks, any wits, any thoughts to him. They were kindling to be alight. His world set ablaze once more, the inescapable heat caressing his skin, but this time.

Butch has never felt so fireproof.

The pads of her thumbs stroked underneath his eyes, the groves of her skin shimmering with his warm tears.

"Got me in my damn feelings," he said in a cracking voice, and she let out a laugh. Bright and alive, mellifluous to his big ears.

"Is that something I should apologize for?"

"Nah." She traced another tear, and he smiled. "It's the good kind of feels."

"The good kind... I wish we've always had those."

"But we can now."

"I know," she breathed, and it wasn't as piercing anymore. It was sacred. It was hopeful.

"We have it, you know?"

She creased her brows. Eyes like morning suns as she searched his face. "As in?"

"Time," he answered, fervent. Forehead to forehead, nose pressed to nose. "We're a long time thing."

Butch didn't need any conviction.

But how nice it is to hear her say, unwavering, immediate. Not as a promise, but unanimity.

For her to simply say, to breathe, "Yes."

---

Buttercup didn't mean to spend the day with Brick.

She didn't think she would suggest smoothies as they got back to campus, blanketed by the swelter of the night.

She didn't expect this.

But she does.

The smoothie shop was about to close, only allowing them to get their drinks. Which is how they found themselves on the nearby football field. Sure, there's the ass-numbing bleachers, but the grass was too soft and too green to not sit on. At the fifty-yard line, the stadium lights were bright and open on them. The crescent moon right above.

Using one hand behind her to sit up, Buttercup sipped on her pineapple-kiwi smoothie, eyeing Brick through the light and the dark.

"Virgo should be visible tonight."

Brick scrunched his nose. "Not a fan."

"Of the constellation or actual Virgos?"

"Both."

"Thought you didn't believe in the whole "pseudoscience"?"

"I don't." Brick looked at her, doing his stupid smirk thing. He's so annoying. "But it gives me a reason not to like some people. You know I'm all about that."

"Wow. So, you're definitely a Libra moon."

"A Libra what? There are moons in this bullshit?"

Buttercup chuckled, nodding. "Remind me to do your birth chart one day."

"That doesn't sound invasive at all."

"Shut up and drink your smoothie." And what do you know, Brick did as he was told. Her eyes drifted down to his lips puckered around his straw, then to the tiny crinkle by his eye. He's so annoying, he's so— "Any other constellations out tonight that you don't have unwarranted hatred for?"

"Crux. Coma Berenices, maybe." He scratched at the palm of his hand. She didn't realize how large, slender his fingers were until now. She remembers how firm and warm they felt when he held her on the golf course. "But I haven't checked."

"No stargazing tonight, Starman?"

His mouth turned up a little. "There's no point."

"Finally came up with a new move?"

He turned to her. With the tilt of his head, intense eyes fixed on hers like they have been lately, he was a seasoned thief stealing the air right from the vaulted armory of her lungs.

Suddenly, she didn't want him to say anything. It would be too much. It would be too little.

His mouth opened just as hers did to stop him, but neither said anything.

The vibrating of a phone interrupting what they haven't said.

Brick pulled the phone out from his dark-blue jeans. "I need to—"

"You're good."

Buttercup glanced at the sky, sparing him some privacy. Wanting to look at anything but him, for her chest to calm the fuck down over nothing.

Over everything.

"Why are you still up?" she heard him say, and there was the crackling of a female voice on the other side. "You work tomorrow."

She couldn't stop her eye roll. Sometimes, Brick can be as crotchety and lame as a four-hundred-year-old.

"Yes, mom. I know," he sighed.

Buttercup stiffened, flitting her eyes to him. She knows he's been talking to his mom. Hasn't said much on what they spoke about, but she knew their conversations have been semi-regular since their reconciliation.

She just doesn't know if he wants her here. If this is an aspect of his life he wants her to see.

She gets it if he doesn't.

After a few uncomfortable seconds, Buttercup moved to waste time in the bathroom but was stopped by Brick snagging her arm. A light and brief heat, an oblation.

"I'm with," he said into the phone, sinful eyes finding hers, "a friend."

Buttercup's mouth quirked, able to make out loud and clear his mom saying a friend? What's their name? as a nosy but well-meaning mom would do.

It's what her mom would do.

He didn't hesitate. Didn't waver or fidget.

"Buttercup," he said, and Buttercup has never heard her name said in such a manner. As if she were to be known, to be exalted. In the way one would speak of a deity, respected and humbling.

Buttercup could tell he was half-listening as they stared at each other.

She could see it in him. The quiet, festering embers.

What they've been stepping around. What they've been treating as a game of who can care less. Too afraid of knowing what giving up gives you, to know where giving up takes you.

It just couldn't be. Not this soon, not with each other.

But when he looks at her. When he makes her lose her breath like this, Buttercup can see it.

She should've said it. Instead of going on with this needless game, instead of keeping more secrets as consolation prizes, she should've.

"Yeah, fine," he huffed out, tearing his eyes away. "Talk tomorrow."

Hanging up the phone and pocketing it again, he took a sip of his smoothie.

Blech. Cherry-lime.

Such an acquired taste.

"I'm pretty sure my mom wants to meet you at graduation now."

Bad idea. Bad fucking idea. And yet, Buttercup couldn't find any good reasons for wanting to say no.

"Moms tend to love me." He smirked, and she jostled his arm, dismissing the pyretic feel of his skin. "What's she like?" Because Buttercup wants to know. If he's going to let her, Buttercup wants to.

With the straightest face, he said flatly, "Batshit."

Buttercup snorted. "Dude, that's your mom."

"So you know it's true." She could, but Buttercup also knows Brick still struggles with the abstinence of dishonesty. "But she's so loud and also so strong. She's worked hard her whole life... She's actually the reason why I never want to give up."

Buttercup stayed quiet. Taking in how Brick let himself shine, for the vulnerability and softness to be him for a moment.

"She also never misses the chance to shit on me," he said, smiling.

"Sounds like my kind of woman," Buttercup said after telling herself to breathe.

Brick chuckled, letting it rattle in his throat. Buttercup didn't like what that sound did to her head, to some places that had absolutely no right asking to be heard.

His hands went to the back of him, in the grass, holding his weight. He hesitated, his smile crook higher, "She'll like you."

She looked up to the dark kingdom, skin burning in spite of the lacking presence of the sun.

"Duh. I am a fucking prize."

That got another chuckle out of him, and she's in serious trouble if this is all it takes for her to come undone.

Well, she would actually rather come with—

"What about you?" he said after a beat, ending whatever messy, messy thought she was about to entertain. "What are your parents like?"

Buttercup glanced down, regarding him skeptically. She wasn't sure if he's just doing the polite thing, but she quickly dismissed the thought.

Brick was anything, everything, but the type of person to spare your feelings with politeness.

Either he doesn't care, or he does.

"Not fucking with you, but they're the best. Like I actually choose to be friends with my parents even though they're old and lame sometimes."

Brick snorted a little but didn't add anything. Still smiling, but now.

It's just for her.

Buttercup didn't think she would ever find his smile to be sacrosanct, didn't think it would make her chest froth over with warmth.

But she does.

She wanted to say the same. That they'll like him.

Except, they wouldn't.

Brick isn't someone you like upon the first meeting. It'll take the sixth or seventh time for you to suppose he's alright.

It might take you months and begrudging camaraderie to realize he's—

It's not that Buttercup didn't want him to meet her parents. She just didn't think graduation would be the time for it.

So she didn't say it.

They found themselves in silence. The air was starting to cool. Light pricked through the sky like holes in black fabric. Crickets played into the night, and if Buttercup wanted to, she could hear a couple classmates in the distance. The chill, natural sweetness of fruit still on her tongue.

"I've been thinking about my answers," he said. His eyes were dark, fervid on her.

Such a fucking Leo.

"If this were the end?"

He nodded, and Buttercup was damn sure the heat radiating from her would be capable of swarming California into a record-setting heatwave.

"Me too," she said quietly. She didn't have it figured out like him, but she thinks she knows one thing she would like to do.

One thing to try again.

"What I said," he paused, mussing a hand through the firelight hair underneath his hat. "When I said—"

"I know."

Sometimes, we say things we mean. And sometimes, they lose their meaning.

She knows. She's done the same.

She'd convinced herself to believe what has become a lie, to stop.

That'll never happen again.

But there's no use in denial or duplicity.

A month ago, she wouldn't have, but that was a month ago. Now, she's gotten closer, too fucking close, and somehow, it wasn't close enough. Because when she looks at Brick, and he looks at her, she can see it. Not love, but the potential. The something more. A budding flower that wasn't ready to bloom just yet.

It was a secret they've tried to ignore, tried to keep within the purgatory of themselves to resist the temptation of knowing and surrendering.

But Buttercup has found herself achingly tired of keeping secrets.

And her optimistic heart, rising from the brittle ashes to be anew, thrummed steadily with the hope Brick is also tired.

He stared at the stars, brows furrowed. His mouth pressed into a solemn line.

"I'm a terrible person," he said to her, to her reborn heart.

"I know."

Everyone knows. It wasn't a rupturing secret.

But she understood why he did.

When we admit this, when we finally let go, we're asking the other person to see us. For them to know what we can and cannot be. It's an undressing of our soul, the unwrapping of the blood-soaked bandages to our gashes and contusions.

"It's not much," he said. Quietly, urgently.

He still wouldn't look at her as she mindfully traced his profile. Taking in the freckles on his face, freckles she's come to revere.

Taking him in as he is. A boy who is arrogant and cynical and a selfish prick. But also sad and tender, merciful and repentant. Bruised and beautiful. A boy who's just needed a friend to not feel the lonesomeness of this crushing world.

He has a friend in her. He will have one in her.

Because what they say, what she'd used to believe, is bullshit. People can change. She has, and he is. Every day, he tries harder. Every day, he gets closer.

But she also knows his limits. His shortcomings.

He wasn't ever going to be a hero. That's okay. She didn't expect him to be Superman and put on a cape or fly or save anyone. She could only ask for him to stop hurting himself.

To learn how to love himself in the manner she can.

"It's a start." The warming tips of her fingers touched his, the grass itchy underneath her palm. He tremored, but he didn't move away. "A start is something."

He regarded her for a long time. Incredulous, distrustful, hesitant.

But then he took a breath. The corners of his mouth impatient, interrupting him halfway. A crooked smile. A nonbeliever finding a belief.

"You know I'm just going to fuck it up."

"Oh, for sure. It's still you."

His evil smirk was there, but it wasn't evil to her anymore.

It was just Brick.

"But you're obnoxiously relentless. So, keep trying," she said, leaning forward, the scent of smoky wood mixing in the oxygen she breathed. "That's also you."

His head tilted, looking in and seeing all the degrees of her. Softening into an expression Buttercup hasn't always found to be worth shit but has since come to challenge such outdated judgment.

"What about you?"

Her mouth curled a little, shrugging. "Who knows? Maybe I'll stick around to watch the train-wreck steam forward."

Brick snorted slightly. "You're so..."

"I'm what?"

He shook his head. The smirk was gone, but a light glinted in his eyes. Lit from within, and that was so much more.

"You're you," he said as if she were a benediction. Tentatively, the pad of his thumb stroked the outer curve of her palm. "What else can I say?"

"I think you've said perfectly enough."

He arched a brow, mouth twitching. Cheeks and ears and neck warmed. "For a train-wreck?"

She shook her head, smile broadening.

"For you."

---

Not wanting to be alone, Bubbles had asked Boomer to stay the night. Moonlight snuck in through the vertical slats of her blinds. The clean and chemical smell of chlorine filled her lungs as Bubbles nuzzled her head into his chest.

This is what she needed. Her twin bed would've felt too cold, her room too dark and quiet without him.

She knew, like her, Boomer couldn't sleep. One arm around her, he played idly with strands of her hair.

"Let's go to IKEA."

"I could go for some frozen custard right now."

Bubbles giggled. "Boomie, it's the middle of the night. They're not open."

"Hey. You're the one putting ideas in my head."

"Okay, yeah. I'll take the blame for that," she said. "But I mean it. We should go this weekend. Our apartment is going to be very sad if we don't."

They'd signed their lease agreement a few weeks ago. Finding a place in San Diego wasn't the most pleasant experience, but after a month of searching, they'd settled on a modest one-bedroom near her campus that wasn't so mind-bogglingly outrageous in price. Plus, Boomer's parents said they'll help out for the first few months of rent while they settle in and find jobs.

Maybe she should be nervous about moving in together right after graduation, but truthfully, Bubbles was ecstatic. She'll get to wake up to his cute sleepy face every morning. Brush their teeth in the same sink, make friends with their neighbors, come home and get to ask how was your day, darling?, make dinner and binge whatever is in the Netflix top ten that week. She'll get to kiss him goodnight, fall asleep in his arms every night.

Yeah, Bubbles is already so in love with the future they'll have.

"I thought we'd already agreed on bean bag chairs and pizza box table for the aesthetic?"

"Absolutely not!"

He laughed. The sound of it rumbling in her ear pressed to his chest. "Already crushing my dreams."

"Maybe dream bigger? Like one that includes getting a nice bed frame. Please?"

"Good try. I know you only want that for your exploitative bed-assembly fantasy."

"No," she said, cheeks burning as if Boomer doesn't already know. "It's just bed frames are essential to adulting."

"Right."

"It's only a bonus that I'll get to watch you."

"Sure. Whatever you say, pretty lady." His hand moved down a little, rubbing circles into her back. His voice a soft whisper, "I still can't believe we're doing it."

"Me either." She smiled lovingly into his chest. "But it's right for us."

Boomer didn't say anything back, and she didn't think too much into it. He's probably starting to fall asleep.

But after a few minutes of restless silence, Boomer started to talk.

"I think," she moved along with the shaky breath he took in and out, "I've done a lot of thinking today. Too much thinking for me. And I don't know. Maybe I'm crazy, maybe I'm the right kind of stupid, but I—"

Bubbles lifted her head, but she couldn't make out his gorgeous face through the darkness. Reaching across him for her desk, she turned on a lamp. Honey light illuminated the room, catching his shining eyes. She couldn't tell if he was about to laugh or cry—maybe both.

She creased her brows, studying him. "Boomie, what are you talking about?"

"Don't you think about it, too?" He sat up, reaching for her hand. "Haven't you looked?"

The day she'd met Boomer, it had been in the Academy's art room. Their teacher wanted to show off the first quarter's work, holding a mandatory gallery walk after school for all his classes to attend. She'd drifted around the room alone in her sunflower sweater and jeans, appreciating the seniors' work who had more experience, silently critiquing her own.

There was this one piece in the back corner of the room. A seascape. The waves cascading forward, wild and sparkling. Forgoing the deepest blues or the dullest of grays but painted in gilded yellows and sugar whites.

She looked at the painting for seconds, minutes. Others came and went, their chatter nonexistent in her ears.

And then she felt someone near her.

Then, she felt him. Renewing and lulling like a hot summer day spent at the pool.

"Sorry," she'd said, gesturing to the artwork. "Were you trying to look?"

He shook his head full of sunny waves, waves like the painting, hands in the pockets of his tan shorts paired with a cream shirt.

"No," he'd said, cool as the air right after a rainstorm. "I was looking at you."

"Oh."

Bubbles swore her flesh was close to becoming molten. She didn't know why she hadn't said something cooler, something more impressionable than oh—But what exactly do you say to someone who looks like an angel?

He'd rubbed at the back of his neck. The corners of his mouth pulled into a lazy grin, the quintessential Boomer face. "That sounded a lot weirder than it did in my head."

"It did."

She looked. Bubbles looked at him in the way he looked at her, and she felt the tether. The string that'd been taut finally relaxing.

She smiled at him, said, "But I like weird."

She liked it in their friendship then, she adores it in their partnership now, she couldn't imagine a life without his weirdness.

So him asking if she's looked, Bubbles understood. In the purest essence of her spirit, she understands what he means.

"I have," she said quietly.

"You know I've done this life thing before. Many, many times. But then," he paused, a divine smile on his lips. A finger traced the love line of her palm, light and soft. "But then, you." He shook his head once. "I don't know how I got so lucky. To see and know it's you. It's always going to be you."

Bubbles blinked. Eyes prickled with tears, trying to catch her breath. To argue with him because she is the one who's so lucky to have him. To share this mystical time, this transcendent love. She's never needed any signs or directions or clues to know.

But all Bubbles could do is let out a watery laugh, nodding.

He stared down at their hands, whispering, "Everywhere, for every lifetime. It's you."

She sniffled, small but sharp. The beginning of a light sob. This boy, this angel incarnate living and breathing amongst her. He could say anything, he could say nothing, and she'll still turn into soft sand to sift through his gentle hands.

"Boomie," she murmured. "What's going on?"

"I told you, I'm thinking and," he stopped, taking her hand as he moved out of bed. He stood in only a pair of hot-pink, dolphin-printed boxers, and for a moment, neither of them moved. In too much of a delirious daze, smothered by the thick emotions of her throat, Bubbles almost asked again.

But then, he opened a desk drawer, pulling out a black Sharpie with a jittery hand. Dark blue eyes on her, an ocean for her to float along. The water of him clear and smooth, steady with its intent.

"Boomer."

Bubbles doesn't care what anyone says. In this moment, the world was breathing with her. Slow and assiduous with its inhale. Soft and relieved in its exhale. Each new and old breath taken and given, full of love, as Boomer dropped to one knee before her.

Still on the edge of her bed, in an oversized Rina Sawayama t-shirt and underwear, she watched him through foggy eyes. Using the Sharpie to trace a thin loop—

"Shit," he muttered, accidentally missing the start of the loop. "Shit."

Bubbles giggled at the mistake, crying softly, because this. Everything about it. It's perfectly Boomer, and she wouldn't want it any other way.

With a re-traced and thicker loop around her finger, Boomer looked up. The honey light of the lamp glowing his face with true blue, devout hope.

"Marry me, pretty—"

She tenderly stroked the side of his cheek, stopping him mid-question with a big, salty kiss.

Boomer sighed, squeezing the hand he'd drawn on. His eyes glassy and bright with heated joy. Water on his cheeks, hers and his, as his smile deepened. "I'm going to take a wild guess and assume that's a yes?"

Bubbles laughed again, her fingers running up his shoulder, twisting in sun-kissed strands of hair. In a burst of sweet, tear-stained kisses, she gave him the answer their souls have known from the start.

Yes yes yes!

---

It was four o'clock in the morning, and Blossom should be asleep.

Fingers woven in the black velvet of Butch's hair, cradling his head that rested on her chest. Listening to the steady pattern of his breathing.

They were still dressed in their clothes from the day before, and he wasn't supposed to stay this long, but Buttercup hasn't texted when she's coming back. So, Blossom didn't see the crux in letting him stay for now.

Through the dimness of her room, she watched him sleep. He smelt like rich chocolate, cedar and spice of his cologne. His body bent into her, arm snug around her waist, the heat of him insulated by the peach blanket they laid underneath.

It's overwhelming. His existence, and the sheer joy she has from the fact he does.

She's missed out on a lot, but there's still so much she won't. No matter how long it'll take her heart to grieve the what-could-ofs and from the what-dids, to understand each bit and piece of her ruins for the salvation of rebuild.

It will be alright.

She will be alright.

In the predawn shadow, Butch's snoring vibrating against her chest, her mind soon drifted to Professor Utonium. Wondering if he had been content, if he lived how he needed to.

Because isn't that all you want? Not perfection or immortality, but to take this impermanent life and find timeless fulfillment.

Blossom wanted to know.

Carefully, she reached for her phone. One hand still laced in Butch's hair, the other dimmed the white light of her screen.

She told herself she was going to later, per Him's request. So this wasn't weird.

Finding Professor Utonium's Instagram wasn't weird for her to do. It'll only be for a couple minutes, a quick peek. That's all.

It was easy to come across his profile since Utonium wasn't a common last name, and she clicked on the most recent image. She could've gotten what she needed from just that.

But Blossom kept scrolling and scrolling, going through each post.

He must have been everywhere. Seoul, Mount Kilimanjaro, Copenhagen, Simpson's desert, Buenos Aires.

Her favorites happened to be in France. The flea market in Clignancourt, champagne tasting in Épernay. Moustiers-Sainte-Marie, where at the age of eight, she remembers the summer air tasting of honey. The blue-blue waterfall, the bursting of sunflowers and lavender everywhere you went. And at twilight, on just the right day, the limestone cliffs diffusing into a pink glow across the village.

To see it through Professor Utonium's eyes. The wonderment of the unknown, the abundance of love for the world he held at his fingertips. Never taking a moment to hesitate.

He went for it. He experienced it.

He lived.

All alone.

Maybe it's social media, how we portray ourselves. But Blossom's soul longed for the enrapture of each photograph, each video she came across.

Blossom wanted to know.

What secret did he possess? To know it's okay to walk alone, that it is.

How did he figure it all out? To have nobody to wake you up in the morning, to have no one to wait for you at night.

To do whatever you want. Go to that kitschy tourist trap in spite of it being a kitschy tourist trap. Eat all the bread and butter you want at every café you come across because bread and butter are too damn good to pass up in any lifetime. To take strolls in cities you don't know, in towns you knew on the back of your hand. Stopping at each flower you see and marvel at its beauty. To sleep the whole day away, to stay up all night without a care.

How did it happen for him? When did alone not give rise to loneliness, but to freedom?

Blossom didn't know. She's never been given a chance.

But now. Maybe she can.

Maybe she should.

---

By the earliest slugging of dawn, Butch twitched awake. His eyes opening to see Buttercup's empty, unkempt bed. A horrifying alligator plushie smiled at him from the other side.

That's new.

A yawn escaped him, throat slightly bitter from his slumber. The arms wrapped around his stomach gave him a squeeze, Blossom's boobs nuzzling closer to his back.

"Leaving?" she whispered sleepily, her breath hot against his neck.

"Might be best if I did."

"It would." Even though they both knew he should, she said, "Five more minutes."

"Only if you don't put your crusty toes on me."

"Oh." He could feel the challenging smile on her lips. "How unfortunate for you."

Feet so cold pressed into his legs, sending a chill that steeped through the black fabric of his joggers to his bump-ridden skin and spine.

"Get those fuckers off of me," Butch said, half-demanding and half-laughing.

"Not happening."

"Blossom."

"Butch."

"We're not doing this again."

"Sure."

He shifted his legs to shake her, but those gnarly yet venerable dancer's feet of hers stuck to him like suction cups. Surely close to waking the neighboring rooms, maybe the entire hallway with their laughter.

"You will keep my lovely toes," she said.

"Fine, fine. I surrender."

Her nose burrowed into the tangles of his hair. "Good boy."

Butch twitched. Images flashing through his mind so rapidly, he might've blacked out. His fingers digging into the delicate skin where Blossom's hips and thighs meet, hers desperately twisting and pulling his hair, him relearning the taste of her, the arching of her back, the sweat and wetness of it all, his mouth glistening as she gasps out good boy.

The weepy eyes of that disturbing alligator still stared at him from across the room, and now Butch wasn't sure if he can be marked as horny or horrified. Maybe both.

"Buttercup pulling an all-nighter," he said. Well, more like rasped out because his dick was still in control of his blood flow momentarily.

"I know."

"Haven't heard from her?"

"After I'd told her you were here and for her to text me when to kick you out, she said, and I quote, 'sounds bitchin'."

"She's not wrong."

"She isn't, but that's the only update I've gotten."

He placed a hand on hers, stroking his thumb along a knuckle. "Are you okay?"

Of course, he's told her what he knows, what Butch peeped at prom. The look of hateful intrigue and pining Buttercup has given him so many times, except, on that night, it had been for someone else. And there's Brick and his whole personality shift and those two constantly texting in Keane's class for these past couple weeks and eating dinner together and—

It didn't take much to know when there's macking going on, and Buttercup and Brick? They were going at it hard, even if they might not realize it.

She flinched, and he let her take her time to respond. "If she's happy, then I can only want that for Buttercup. But truthfully, for my own sake, I don't even care to acknowledge it."

"Smart. Mature."

"I'm trying." Her foot rubbed his calf affectionately. "What about you?"

Butch thought it over.

"It's whatever. Like... Is it bad that I want to say I don't give a shit?"

"No. I'm kind of there too."

"I think it's genuine, so good on you, dude. But yeah, unless proven otherwise, it's nothing I'll be getting pressed about."

"Smart. Mature."

"I learn from the best."

"Strange. I learned that from you."

"I know. I was talking about myself."

She laughed into his hair, and fuck, he would ask for an entire lifetime of five more minutes if he could. "You're horrible."

For a while, they laid together. Together but silent.

A happy silent.

"I have to call my dad today," she eventually said, and they surely had to be past their five minutes by now. There was this giddy excitement to her tone that he knows couldn't possibly be about her dad. "I figured out what I'm doing."

"Deadass?"

"For real." She told him about her insta-stalking session while he'd slept, the epiphany she had during of which concluded in her impulsively purchasing a one-way ticket to Paris. "I'll have to talk to my dad about budgeting, and if there are any relatives I'll like to visit, but this is it. I want to go."

Butch smiled to himself. "I want you to go, too."

"It'll be for the whole summer," she said. "That's almost three months with a nine-hour difference between us."

"Berkeley is already going to screw up my sleeping schedule. So might as well get a head start," he said. "Especially when the reason is so worth it."

"Butch," she murmured. It was a warning and a plea.

"What?"

The arms enveloped around him tightened, practically crushing herself into him. Ever so softly, her mouth pressed against the back of his neck. Again just below his ear.

Butch thought about saying something but didn't. Maybe because he didn't have anything to say. Maybe because he didn't want to. Not with her pausing, full lips slightly parted along his jaw.

The room haloed golden as he twisted in her hold to face her, breathing her in. The smell of fresh roses and sunlight, sweat and rosemary shampoo. Loose waves ravaged her pillows, her fingers curled against the nape of his neck. Each breath taken felt his, but also hers, bringing them closer until Butch pulled her on top of him.

Knees dug deep into the mattress, straddling his hips. The weight of her rushed his pulse, fresh and heated.

His hands grazed along her waist, and he felt a pang in his chest of happiness and longing and grief. Missing. Because he misses her just as much as she misses him. All in the present tense.

And now, Butch wants more than ever before.

He wants to sink his teeth into the hollow of her neck, kiss the stretch marks of her thighs, live out that good boy fantasy. To look at each other, unhurried and in awe, savoring the squishy skin and every soft curve of hers he's gone months without.

He just wants her.

His hand slid towards her spine, gliding up it as she folded over him. Her nose pressed into his, a hand roaming lightly down his collarbone, then to his mouth. Her fingertips tugging delicately on his bottom lip.

Butch didn't want any thoughts of caution or sensibility. Only those of her on top of him, beneath him, bent over. His hands all over her warm skin. Caressing, unraveling, worshipping her.

He was breathing hard, so was she. Their lips were separated by an inch of infuriating air. Hands moved along the soft cotton of her floral dress to the altar of her hips, along her calves, and back up her thighs to curve over her ass. Grip tightening.

His chin tilted up, the edge of his mouth brushing hers lightly. Her breath shuddered, or maybe it was his, as he grazed the back hem of her dress. Thighs squeezed his hips as she bucked against him, making Butch shiver.

At this point, Butch didn't think he would be able to last.

"Blossom," he said, a warning and a plea.

A door slammed across the hallway, rattling the walls. All of the motion, the momentum, coming to a grounding halt by reality.

They stared at each other, just breathing for a moment. Languorous smiles and laughs meeting their rosy cheeks.

"Thin walls," he said thickly.

Her throat pulsed, voice rich and muddled as his. "Those damn thin walls."

"Biggest cockblock."

"Now, who said you were getting anything?"

"You say that now, but when you're in France for the summer, missing and wanting me—"

"I'll FaceTime you." She pushed back the hair on his forehead, and because Blossom finds amusement in his suffering, she whispered, "Make sure you have good Wi-Fi. I'll want to be able to see everything."

Butch had to close his eyes for a moment, letting out a pained breath. "These thin fucking walls."

Well, well, well past their five more minutes, he found the blasphemous motive (and chaste thoughts for cooling himself down) to detangle himself from her and her bed.

"I'll see you at breakfast," she said, swathing in her peach comforter like the precious thing she is. Putting on his sneakers, Butch really had to stop and convince himself not to laid back down and stay warm with her. But then he remembers she's an evil and powerful seductress, and yeah, that also makes him want to stay. So, he's just fucked on all fronts.

Still, he should go before it gets too late. He gave Blossom a parting kiss on the forehead, and a couple of minutes later, Butch was outside the girls' residence hall. The sun wasn't visible yet, but the sky fused a blend of golds and purplish-blue. Birds chirped to the glee of morning. Dew glittered on the lawns and oak leaves. The air smelt sodden and a bit peppery as Butch checked his messages.

Boomer: ❗❗❗❗❗

Boomer: I DID THE THING

Boomer: WAIT YOU DONT KNOW THE THING

Boomer: BUT YOU WILL 🏄 ️

Oddly enough, it wasn't the most confusingly ominous thread he's awoken to from Boomer.

He moved to reply—

"Looks like someone had a good night." He stopped, barely five steps away from the chrome doors of the hall. Buttercup was right in front of him. He hadn't seen her, but it shouldn't surprise him. Somehow, he and awkward encounters have become like a moth drawn to a flame. "Didn't you, Santos?"

He hesitated. "It was good."

"Just good?"

Butch arched a brow, déjà vu shaking his skeleton as he pocketed his phone. "Look, I'm not—"

"Relax," she said, distant and not as easy-going as she would've liked. "You can depucker your asshole."

Okay, that's solid advice he won't admit to using.

Against what should be proper, he smiled slightly. Her nose wrinkled in response. Almost as if she wanted to but won't allow it.

He got that. He totally does.

For a long moment, they stood there. This was the first time they've spoken, the first time they've really looked at each other since prom. They've done the thing. A couple months ago, he didn't think it would be possible, but they've done it for days, for weeks now.

To suffer a devastating loss and go on living without.

Butch thought of what to say. Ask how she's been or how things are, but small talk was never them. He could ask her about her making any new friends, but he really didn't care to ask or know more than he already does. He can wait for her to say he's a colossal floppy dildo.

But neither did say anything, too tired of holding onto what has and hasn't been said.

So they stood there. He sees her, and she sees him. They know what the other is and what they aren't now, they know.

Finally, Butch said, "I should go."

"Me too," she said, brusque.

She walked away as he walked away.

The morning heat was merging with the cool air of the previous night. Above was a soft blue, the clouds etched with gold and gray, and he looked up at them to ask, so what now?

"We're going to die."

Butch stopped again.

Dubious, he turned back to Buttercup. She stood by the doors, anxious emotions pouring out of her more than the sunlight climbing the sky.

"That's pretty brutal for six-thirty in the morning."

She puffed out a breath. "But it's true."

"Still fucking brutal."

They were in front of each other again, having made the steps to meet in the middle. A bench rested next to them, but they stood.

In the stiff breeze, he could smell the heady earth and sweaty fruit and woodsmoke on her. Dark circles edged her eyes, inky hair wild and confettied with strands of grass. Green bled and stained her light-washed jeans.

He briefly wondered if he should've been the one to ask. If she is the one who had a good night.

He questioned if she's slept, if she's incoherent or not.

"I know what I'm saying, you bugger," she monotoned, drilling into his skull and scooping out his exact thoughts.

The corner of his mouth pulled, letting out a chuckle. "Okay. Then what is it?"

"Isn't it obvious?"

It is, and Butch does too.

"I—"

"I wasn't fair to you," he said.

Buttercup's eyes flared, the golden light painting them acidic. "You little bitch! That's what I was going to say!"

He scoffed. "Little?"

"That's what you're really getting hung up on?"

"It's just, I'm not little—"

"Dude, that's not—"

"And so what? I'm the pulsating asshole here—"

"Are you kidding me? You're the asshole? You're the asshole here, Butch?"

"Yes, I'm the asshole!"

"No, I'm the asshole!"

"No, you're not!"

"Yes, I am!"

"No!"

"Yes!"

At this point, they were whisper-yelling. They may be picking up their rusted armor, buckling back in, and cleansing the dried-up blood from their fists in anticipation of more to shed, but like hell they weren't going to be courteous to those still sleeping.

"What I did to you—"

"You think with your heart," Buttercup cut in hotly. Eyes full of fire and fury, smoke and retribution. "That's like your whole fucking thing, Butch. And here I was, acting so stupid by questioning who you are because I was impatient—"

He snorted. "You were impatient? I was a dumpster fire you had to put up with for months."

"Because I wanted to!" Her finger jabbed at his chest, a knife out to serrate him into thin strips. "You were dependent on me, and I secretly liked it. I wanted you to be better, but I also wanted you to be fixed. And when you weren't fixed fast enough for me," she paused, indignation wrinkling the smooth skin of her face. "You know what? Fuck that. When you weren't fixed in the way I wanted—"

"Dude, I'm not Humpty Dumpty," Butch said as if it wasn't the most ridiculous statement he's ever uttered in his life.

"I know!" Her chin lifted to him. "That's the real ass muncher here. You've never needed fixing, Butch. You've never been broken to be fixed. You were," her voice softened its grit, "you were sad and going through shit. And then you were just there for a person you love because you're like the most unsaintly saint—"

"I need you to stop taking all the blame—"

"Don't tell me what to fucking do!"

Butch blinked. He couldn't hold back anymore.

A grin became of him, his cackle shaking his entire weight until it echoed around the sleepy campus, and birds flapped away in fright.

Even Buttercup couldn't resist letting out a chuckle.

"This is the worst apology ever," Buttercup said, a ghost of a smile haunting her lips.

Butch shrugged, still spilling out a laugh. "Getting kind of sick of apologies."

Her eyes gleamed at that. "I felt that. I really felt that."

They became quiet for a moment, staring. The same question lingering on his mind.

So what now?

Butch didn't know, but he stayed for the possibility. So did she.

A morning jogger in neon and a dark ponytail huffed past them as Buttercup was slow to say, "You know I've never been good with my emotions—"

"I do."

"—But without you," her dark brows creased, the morning glow softening her nose crinkles, "and my constant self-implosions, I don't think I would've taken the time to try and understand what's the point if I'm just going to be too scared to say I love the important people. So, uh... yeah." She huffed out a breath, a slight pull of her lips. "Thanks for that."

"Yeah, yeah. Of course." He ran a hand through his messy hair, glancing at the gold-rimmed clouds spreading from the seams to fuse into others. "And look, I know how it all seems because of how I'd handled things, but I want you to know I meant everything."

"I know."

"It's just. You were gone, and I didn't run after you. And I told myself to just do it, but I—"

"I get it." Her voice was hollow, defeated. Eyes full of love and loss, guilt and grief. "You chased after someone else. You've always wanted—"

"No, that's not what fucking—"

Suddenly, Butch was back under an ivory fort watching boring Jurassic Park, trying to assure and appease in that chemistry classroom. Two weeks of late nights spent waiting on just a single fucking text message. A witness to this crater between them expanding, expanding, expanding. Caught in the same rainstorm of indecision and distrust, beneath the ending starlight of prom.

It's been about her incredulity, about what she's thinking. What she sees and believes.

Did you forgive her?

Could you tell me…

You sure you like me?

Tell me that you don't love her.

I can't have any sympathy for you anymore...

Not playing this stupid game with her.

His jaw tensed, swallowing down the bile climbing his throat as he met her choking gaze.

"That's not what fully happened," he tried again. Almost a whisper because anymore, and the tightened spools of him would've unraveled.

"Then tell me what did."

Butch looked away but force himself back to her.

"You said I was playing a stupid game. But," he took in a breath that stung like alcohol to a fresh cut. "To be blunt, it felt like you were putting me through all these tests that I could never ace. Like if I didn't say the right thing, or if I didn't behave in the right way, or if I so much as heard Blossom's name, then," he shrugged. A hopeless smile becoming of him because he didn't know what else to do. "Then you'll be gone, and I had to chase—"

She let out a humorless chuckle. Glaring at the air and space between them, but not at him. "I didn't do..."

He waited for her to finish. To deny. To tear deep into his tendon, to his bone some more.

But she didn't, so he continued.

"When we'd stopped talking, and everything changed, I think you were waiting. Like it was another test for you to see and pick through everything I'd tried to say and show you. You wanted me to be quick and apologetic and a liar." She flinched at that. "And a part of me wanted to be so badly. I wanted to be what you wanted. But I… I couldn't. I can't be."

She still wouldn't look at him, acting so tough when saying, "Okay. So I suck. I—"

"But I was angry," Butch cut in because it's true, and she quieted again. "About… fuck, everything. I didn't know what to focus on, and it all got blurry, and I should've told you. I should've waited, but I was angry and—and it was like you had expectations for how I should've been, but I had expectations for you too."

It was all coming out of him so fast, far too fast. The truth and a month's worth of emotions rushing out with no signs of braking.

Or maybe he didn't want to brake.

Maybe he just wanted to earn another scar.

"So, yes. I had my shit to work through with Blossom, but she's not why I didn't chase after you," Butch said, feeling the chasm between them tremor. Closer, further. He wasn't sure. "It's because when I did, I didn't like who you were becoming."

"Damn. That's," she faltered, and Butch could see the weight of his words pressing into her skin. Not sharp incisions, but purple bruises. "Now, that's fucking brutal."

"Yeah," he said softly, and he began to say what neither wanted to hear, but she waved him off before Butch could even get an I'm out.

There were tears in her green eyes, but they never did fall. She swallowed and tried to say something, but it came out watery and embarrassing, so she just let out a breathy laugh.

He did too, and it felt so, so nice. To have a light breath through all the taut muscles and ruptured grounding, failed expectations, and… grief.

Just grief, man.

"I hate to be a sickening bitch here, but," her stare was heartbreaking yet mending, "but I'm sorry, Butch."

"I know," he said. A small smile. "And I'm sorry."

"I know," she said, quiet and honest as him.

They paused. Armor on, but no swords of their tongues or shields of distrust were drawn. A new battle, a reigniting war could go on, and they chose not to. Not because they weren't fighters, but because sometimes you don't need to fight to let out all the grievances and resentment and pain you have. Sometimes, you just need to show your bruises and wounds to say what needs to be.

He's hurt her, and she's hurt him.

They could avoid, forget, vindicate, threaten. Have apathy or scratch out the other from all the moments of their life.

But that's not how it works. When you've caused hurt, you give scars. You can apologize, you can atone, you can stain your teeth kissing wounds better. But they'll be here.

Representing what you've lived through, what you've survived. They'll soften. The dull pain goes away. The grief we carry becomes lightweight, going everywhere we go. You live with them. You live with it.

Still with you to the end.

"So," he said. The new sun warming his face, and the ground beneath him still moved. A small movement, but closer to her than he's felt in a while. "I'll still say I'm the raging, hemorrhoid-filled asshole here."

She chuckled, weak but well-intended. "No, that's all me."

"I don't think so."

"I'm smarter than you, Santos. I would know."

"You right." His mouth lifted. "But still. I'll rather we call it even, and both be assholes?"

Her finger was back to his chest, and this time, he knew it wasn't to cause damage. Green eyes glittering, not with sadness or torment, but faith and affability.

"Yes," she said, smiling. A beautiful, real smile he didn't think he would ever see from her again. It didn't revive the love he once thought he could find in her but instead gave genesis to a different kind they can have. "I think I can live with that."

"I think I can too."

---

Author's Notes:

This was supposed to be out a month ago, but things needed a retouch and rearrangement. Butch and Boomer were so hard to get their narratives down, and things felt too rigid for a long time. Wanted to keep a lightness among all the heavy, you know? I know this chapter is somewhat about Professor Utonium's death. It's a plotline I decided to do four years ago and positively don't love four years later, but gotta make it work now when I've started the plot thread, right? Originally, in the early early stages of plotting, his death would've been more of a focus. But then I decided to shift it to the mortality of death by proxy and the sentimentality of living. Sort of like a reaffirming moment for each character and their relationships.

But hey, we're now onto the last chapter of this series. Won't make any promises on when it'll be done, but I did finally graduate from uni with my bs degree earlier this month and have more time on my hands as of now, so as long as the narrative doesn't lose focus, it should be out before the end of the year. Although, it will be a lengthy, lengthy chapter just by a quick glance at my outline. So who knows?

Until then, thank you so much and please stay safe!

Next chapter: Graduation and goodbyes.