A/N: Alas, the universe has not been advocating for the posting of this update: both my laptop and my phone broke, I've been struggling with insomnia for the past few months, I'm starting college in November, and my writer's block was so out of this world that I might classify as extraterrestrial. I'm posting this chapter while running on about two—accumlated—hours of sleep, so I'm just yeeting this into the universe, woo *finger guns*

If it seems too dramatic or makes no sense at all in some places, I'm terribly sorry. I'm just really tired and stressed out, but I'm also really committed to this story. I tried to make this chapter long to compensate, and I'm not making any promises about future chapters anymore, because I've realized that I'm terrible at scheduling, so... yeah.

I'm trying to speedrun the next chapter while I'm still running on inspiration fumes, but I'm not sure when that'll be out. Go read something better that's actually consistently updated, like my friend Quackle's Blues story XII. It's amazing, they're amazing, and I wholeheartedly recommend all their fics in general.

I Wish That I Knew

Disclaimer: They're all Craig's.

Song: Love Like You by Rebecca Sugar

When I see the way you act

As soon as I'm sure Buttercup's out of earshot, I groan and faceplant into my pillow, mentally kicking myself.

So much for figuring out what I said last night. Like, fuck, I know I already lean pretty well towards masochistic, but about 90 percent of that conversation only succeded in making me feel miserable. Instead of just goofing off, I talked about moving away. Instead of keeping quiet and dealing with my shit myself, I ended up venting.

Oh, and I talked about kissing with my best friend of four years and my crush of two, so that was just wonderful.

I groan again. I'm going to die of heartbreak before I ever grow the balls to actually confess to her. Even just thinking of the goddamn word makes me cringe to all hell, so actually getting my heart stomped on is definitely not something to look forward to. And that brings me back to the urgency of finding out what I said to Buttercup last night, because if I did say something that ever resembled a confession, I'm fucking screwed already.

But of course, talking to Buttercup turns my insides to mush and makes me an idiot, and I end up getting carried away and talk about anything but what I actually need to talk about. Like a moron.

"UGH," I growl into my pillow. "Liking people is hard."

"Ah, so you admit that you like her, finally."

I jerk my head up to find Brick leaning against my doorframe, wearing his cap the right way for once. I take one glance at the smirk on his face and promptly launch my pillow at him. He swats it away with a scoff; it slams into my wall and coughs up fluff. "I'm not here to tease you, you dumbass. That's Boomer's job. Food's ready."

I watch as he turns around and saunters back out of my room. My gaze shifts to my Chemistry textbook on the floor as I contemplate whether or not I should study a little more. Then I blink, remembering that I value my stomach more than a book full of barely understandable science jargon.

I'm out of bed in a second, heading down the hallway to the kitchen-slash-dining room. Brick's at the table, feet propped up in front of him with a steaming bowl in his lap, and Boomer's at the counter, stirring something in a pot with his back facing me.

The smell of familiar spices wafts into my nose, and my feet lift off the ground, letting me float over to the counter. I rest my chin in the crook of Boomer's neck and whisper, "What'cha makin'?"

He reaches up to pat my head; my teeth clatter together as his hand hits the top of my head a little too hard. Then he moves back to the pot and says, "Just some noods."

"Pfft. Noods." I snicker. "Send the noods, Boomer."

"Oh my god," both my brothers groan in unison. Out of the corner of my eye I see Brick raise his fork in warning, and I turn to point an accusing finger at him.

"You don't get to threaten me when you eat ramen with a fork," I hiss at him.

He deadpans, "There's nothing wrong with eating it with a fork."

"It's ramen. Chopsticks or nothin', Elmo."

He rolls his eyes. "Well, if using a fork is a cardinal sin—" he stops to take a deliberate slurp of his food, keeping eye contact with me as the metal utensil disappears into his mouth. "—then I guess I'm going to hell."

I shudder. "He's desecrating your noods, Boomie."

"Eh, I believe in karma," Boomer replies, keeping his focus on the pot. "And he's only so adamant about it 'cause he doesn't know how to use chopsticks, so I don't care."

"I do too know how to use them!" Brick snaps, sitting up. A grin makes its way onto my face.

"Ha. He's using kid counters," Boomer snorts.

"I am not!" he shouts.

"Are too," I retort.

"Am not!"

"Case in point."

He stalls for a moment, and then leans back in his chair, scowling. "You're both dumbasses," he grumbles; insulting us in lieu of an actual comeback. Classic Brick.

"Whatever, dude," Boomer chuckles with a roll of his eyes. I float over to the cupboards, pulling out one of the dozens of ceramic bowls piled inside. Brick started taking pottery in tenth grade after he failed Home Ec, and making bowls sorta became his thing since Boomer and I were breaking more plates than we used. They all look hideous, which is the one downside to having so many, but I stopped complaining after Brick threatened to make me eat from paper plates instead.

"Hey!" Boomer protests as I swipe a ladle from the countertop and scoop a generous helping of food into my bowl. "What makes you think I'm making enough for two?"

"Because you eat like a bird unless tuna or sugary shit's on the menu, and Brick has a bowl," I reply immediately. When I catch his unimpressed expression, I add in a sugary voice, "And you're the bestest widdle brother in the whole world."

"I'm your only little brother," he deadpans, but doesn't stop me from taking another scoop of noodles. I grin at him before whipping around and floating over to the table. I take the empty seat beside Brick, who begrudgingly lowers his feet from the table when Boomer shoots him one of his signature scolding glares.

"I swear, you're a bigger stay-at-home dad than our actual father," Brick grumbles, twirling his fork in his bowl. "You've got the judgy look and everything."

"You're the one desecrating his ramen with your fork," I say matter-of-factly. I grab a pair of chopsticks from the small basket in the middle of the table, wasting no time in slurping up my food.

Brick's face shifts through three expressions; a sneer, a frown, and a smirk. I realize something's up too late, so when he announces "Butch finally admitted that he wants to screw Buttercup," I choke violently on my ramen.

"Ghk—dude, what—the fuck is wrong with you!?" I splutter between coughs, slamming my chopsticks onto the table. "That is not what I said, and that is not fucking funny!"

"It is to me." he keeps smirking, and my jaw clenches.

"Dude," Boomer says. He's facing us, his own bowl of food in his hands. He frowns at Brick. "Really? Some jokes just don't fly, and we're literally about to eat dinner."

Brick stalls at that. "Oh, c'mon. I know it's sensitive or whatever, but that's not gonna stop me from—"

Boomer cuts him off. "You wouldn't joke about it like that if you actually talked to Butch about it."

The sentiment is a little weird coming from Boomer, since he hasn't really talked to me about it either. But then again, I'm not going to be unappreciative of at least one of my brothers being understanding, and Boomer's always been weirdly empathetic, so he probably figured out how whipped I am long before I did.

Brick's gaze shifts between both of us before properly focusing on me. He stares at me for a while, his eyebrows furrowing the way they do when he's contemplating something. Then he sighs. "I guess that was a dick move."

"You guess?" I hiss incredulously, my annoyance quickly turning into anger.

"Guys..."

"Well, how do you expect me not to make jokes about it when you keep denying it?"

"How do you expect me to not deny it when you keep saying I want to jump her bones!?"

"Guys!"

"Because that's what you want, isn't it?"

"NO IT'S NOT!" I bellow, getting to my feet. "Maybe you'd be less of a dick if you stopped joking about things you don't fucking understand!"

"Then help me understand!" He throws his hands up in the air, his face pinched in exasperation like I'm the bad guy here. "Why are you so hung up on the most abrasive girl in Townsville High!? Because I have no idea what she did to make you so fucking whipped!"

I scoff. "Like I'd fucking tell you!"

"Can you both just stop!?" Boomer shouts, stomping his foot hard enough to crack the tiled floor and silence us. He shakes his head in frustration, but lowers his voice. "Everyone take a breath before one of us destroys this kitchen."

Despite the palpable tension in the air, we silently obey. For a long while we stay where we are, breathing hard and seething quietly. Then, gradually, I unclench my fists, let my shoulders relax, and try to get my twitch under control. With a grunt, I kick my chair further down the table and sit down again, glaring down at my food and trying to slow my breathing. In my peripheral vision I see Brick sit up straight. I hear him sigh.

"I'm sorry." His tone is genuine, and he slowly continues, "I just—I just really don't get it. And I'm shit at being a normal human being and just asking, alright?"

I pick up my chopsticks and poke at my food. My throat still burns, and I feel a lot less hungry. Boomer silently sits down at the table, and I can feel his gaze on me; I can feel both of their gazes.

"Look, just—" Boomer pitches in when Brick doesn't speak. "Could you... explain it to us? Why you like her. For real."

"I don't want to sleep with her, if that's what you're asking," I mutter shortly. Brick winces.

Boomer nods slowly. "... Okay. Then, why?"

"Do you really think I know?" I snap suddenly and turn to face him; not out of anger, but exasperation. "That I'm not just as in the dark as you are? Do you—do you think it's fucking easy for me?"

They're staring at me strangely now. It takes me a few seconds to realize it's because I'm shaking.

"I don't... want to feel this," I force out. "My head gets all fucked up because of her and I just—I can't—" I clench my hands into fists again, trying to stop trembling. "Sh-she's my best friend. She's my favourite person in the entire fucking world and I'm going to obliterate our friendship if I don't just—fucking—kill these feelings. They need to die and I need to forget them but I told her about them when I got drunk and fucked everything up already and—" I dig my nails into my palms until I draw blood, trying to steady my breath. "God, why am I telling you this? I'm supposed to be mad and ignore you but I'm just..."

"W-wait, wait," Boomer says, sitting up suddenly. "Did you just say that you told her?"

"I-I think so," I stutter out. "I'm not sure. I got drunk, and I don't remember what I said to her, but she—" I dig my nails further in, trying to focus on the stabbing pain so I can calm the fuck down. "She didn't tell me everything when I asked her what happened, and there was something weird about it, and then Marley and the others said that virtually everyone knows I have a—that I like her and—"

"Hey." Brick grabs my wrists, wrenching my hands apart and staring at my palms. The bloodflow's stopped already, but his eyebrows are furrowed when he looks up at me. "Just... Breathe, okay?"

Even though it's glaringly obvious that he has no idea how to calm me down, he seems sincere, so I try to listen. I take a shaky breath, trying to focus on how Brick's hair sticks out oddly from the sides of his hat instead of my frayed nerves. When I've settled down consideravly enough to think straight, I realize just how wacky this situation is. I went from wanting to throw hands with Brick to having him literally catch mine before I decided to dig them into my head. And now both of my brothers know exactly how much this whole feelings thing is fucking with me mentally, which is something I've spent years trying to keep to myself.

As hard as it is to admit, I'm a fucking mess.

"So you're not sure if you actually told her you liked her," Boomer says softly. I want to end this conversation right now, to go to my room and pretend I didn't just have a nervous breakdown in front of my siblings.

But I don't. Instead, I hum in response, keeping my gaze focused on my hands, still caught in Brick's grip.

"So," Boomer hesitates, like he's trying to decide whether what he wants to say makes sense or not. Then, "Why don't you just tell her outright?"

It doesn't. "Are you fucking serious, Boomer?"

"He's right," Brick says, and I stare at him incredulously. "I think it's better to take the risk than to just... Not."

I scoff. "Okay, so I've been talking to the walls for the past few minutes. I get it." I yank my hands free and stand up, turning to head for my room.

"We're serious, Butch," Boomer says; I hear him stand up too. "This is serious! You don't just like her, you're infatuated and it's not healthy!"

"Oh, that's rich coming from the number one Bubbles simp." I sneer, and I see the blue of his eyes get a few shades darker; I struck a nerve, but I'm too wound up to care. "And I know it's not fucking healthy, I'm not stupid. Or at least I'm smart enough to know that telling her about it would be a thousand times worse."

"You don't know that," Brick speaks up. "You haven't even tried but you're already condemning yourself! She could like you back—"

"She doesn't!" I scream, turning to face them and digging my hands into my shirt to keep me from punching a hole into something, or someone. "She doesn't want to like anyone that way. She doesn't want to date anyone! You don't know why, but I do! And I don't care what I feel, I'd rip my stupid heart out before I'd hurt her like that again!"

They're finally—finally—stunned into silence. My eyes are starting to sting, so I whip back around and storm off towards my room, slamming the door and locking it before either of them can recover enough to follow me.

I throw myself onto my bed, curling into myself as tightly as I can. My breaths turn into ragged whimpers and my chest starts to ache, so I pull the covers over my head and will myself to sleep. At least that way I don't have to think about anything in the real world. I toss and turn, press my hands over my ears and block out the outside world until my brain finally starts to slow down.

My dreams are a whirlwind of half-memories and dread. And Buttercup. Buttercup grinning, Buttercup laughing, Buttercup screaming. Buttercup sobbing, hard enough to shake her entire body. I try to comfort her, to hold her, but my hand passes right through her body.

I wake up in the middle of the night, feeling worse than I ever thought I could. My brain doesn't give two shits about how I feel right now. No matter what, her face is burnt into my mind. I hate it. I hate that I like her this way, because I'm condemned to silence, no matter how much I don't want to be. It's better this way, for Buttercup's sake.

It doesn't make it any easier.

My eyes burn again. My chest aches even worse. And I have to bury my face in my hands and squeeze my eyes shut before I do something stupid like cry.

Brick and Boomer don't talk to me in the morning. I don't know if it's because they're mad or sympathetic, but I'm glad. The last thing I want to do is talk. To anyone.

I get to school ten minutes before the bell solely because I have Art for first period. I head over to class with Marley and Rodney, only halfway listening to their conversation. When I notice myself keeping an eye out for Buttercup, I force my gaze to the ground and don't look up until we're at the door to the art studio.

"Morning, boys," Miss Carlyle greets as we come in, and then dryly adds, "Thank you for making it on time today, Rodney."

Rodney laughs bashfully. "Uh, you're welcome?"

She shakes her head with a small smile. "Take your seats, will you? Everyone, take out your sketchbooks, we're doing something a little different today."

Marley and I take our seats beside Bubbles, and I spend the next half hour trying to use the paint bucket and Rubik's cube Miss Carlyle set on her table as a basis for a character sketch. It's hard to focus, and I end up asking Marley for ideas since my brain is currently acting like a very old, very ineffective sponge.

"You okay, Butch?" Bubbles asks me. "You don't look like you got any sleep."

"I'm fine, just—" I sigh, trying to come up with a quick-fire excuse but instead settling with a half-truth. "I'm in a bit of a rut. Art-wise and otherwise. But I'm okay."

"You sure?"

"Yeah—Marley, can you just—help? Please?"

My voice must sound too desperate, because Marley squints in worry. "Dude, what's going—"

"While you're all still busy, I've been meaning to ask," Miss Carlyle pipes up, cutting us short. "Is anyone here thinking of going to art school? Feel free not to answer if you're not comfortable, or sure."

I turn to look at the others. Alex, Walter, Susie, Kevin and about three others raise their hands. When I turn back, I see that Marley's raising his hand up, too. I almost raise mine, but stop myself. It was just a one-time conversation with Buttercup. Even if I've thought about it, I doubt I'll really... try.

Miss Carlyle's cheeks turn rosy, like they always do when she's excited. "Eight out of twenty of you? Th-that's almost half the class," she says, her voice almost disbelieving.

"I mean, you are an awesome teacher," Susie says with a grin. "Of course you'd influence us."

"Number's probably gonna drop when you guys hear about art school's good friend College Debt," Rodney snickers, and then yelps when Lulu smacks him upside the head with her textbook. "What?"

"Rodney's right, though," Miss Carlyle says, her smile fading a little. "You have to understand that art school is expensive, and if you take out a student loan, some of you could be paying well into adulthood. I really recommend registering for scholarships if you know that money might be an issue but you're dead-set on it, and let the loan be a fallback."

"And if they can't get a loan?" Rodney asks. "What's the fallback for the fallback?"

"Community college," Walter replies. "I've been researching smaller community art schools where the fees aren't as back-breaking."

Aaand that's where I tune out. Listening to this conversation only makes me feel incompetent. I hear the others talk about researching colleges and calculating distances and figuring out expenses, and I internally scoff at myself. All I've done is browse through a list of art schools on this continent and nothing else. Talking about it with Buttercup made it feel like more of a possibility, but now it all feels far-fetched. I don't have the patience to research, and I doubt I even have the guts to actually leave. It's ironic, considering how much this place sucked when I was a kid.

I'm still scared of leaving what I'm familiar with, and Townsville is home.

"—utch? Butch?"

My head snaps up. "Wha—uh, yes Miss Carlyle?"

"I was asking if you were planning on going to art school," she asks me, softly. "I think I saw you lower your hand before."

Damn. Does this woman have x-ray vision? "Uh, I was—I-I didn't—I mean, I'm not... sure."

"If you want to go to art school?"

"Yeah, I'm not sure."

She nods. "Alright."

And she doesn't press, thank god. The conversation mostly ends there, and we all get back to work. Marley and Bubbles keep shooting me worried glances, so I focus entirely on my sketchbook and manage to make a lackluster character design by the end of class. Miss Carlyle takes one look at it and asks if I'm okay. The bell rings before I can answer, and I take the oppurtunity to all but run out of the studio. The problem with having an entire class of friends is that when you look even a little bad, everyone cares.

I still can't get used to that.

I'm halfway to my next class when I realize that I have Geography. I share my Geography class with Buttercup. The last thing I want is Buttercup worrying about me when I'm like this, 'cause my stomach will get all weird and fluttery and I'll feel even worse. So I have two options; go to Geo and fake normalcy for half an hour, or ditch the class and hide in my tree on the school field.

Coward, my brain tells me. Besides, if you ditch now, she'll look for you. And then you'll have to fake being normal while having to answer her questions.

Fuck. Guess I'm going with option 1.

I've never been so glad to be as far away from Buttercup as I can be. She's sitting right next to a window on the far left of the class, and I'm right at the back, on the far right. Every so often, she turns to make a confused or bored face at what Mr. Serafin is writing on the board; I can genuinely chuckle at those, at least. As long as we don't have to talk, she won't pick up on anything.

I was hoping I'd have snapped out of this by now, but no. I still feel pretty bad—which isn't wrong, given the circumstances. It's just that normally I can push down the sad feeling and be okay, for the most part. But today I feel... weirdly unhappy. And it doesn't feel like it's going to go away. And every time Buttercup turns to smile or stick her tongue out at me, my heart clenches so hard it hurts.

I've never felt this terrible before. I guess talking to Brick and Boomer about it made it a hundred times more real. This is an actual thing that is happening. For the first time in a long while I feel really fucking sad. It's annoying and, well, being sad in general kinda sucks on all fronts so... yeah, I'm having a great time.

It takes all my mental strength to not slam my head on my desk. Seething, I grab my pencil off of my table and force myself to write the notes Mr. Serafin scrawled on the board. It takes me about two minutes to give up, though, considering the man's handwriting looks like cat scratches on wet cement. With an aggravated sigh, I drop my pencil again.

"Butch." Mr. Serafin's voice has my head snapping up. "If your constant sighs and scoffs are anything to go by, you have something to share with the class, correct?"

"No," I respond immediately, not really thinking in my annoyance. "Your handwriting's just a chore to read."

Pretty much the entire class sucks in a breath, and I see Mr. Serafin's eyes darken. His handwriting's a bit of a touchy subject—though it probably wouldn't be if it looked less like hieroglyphics—so I know I'm either getting lectured or kicked out. I pray for the latter. I need to get some air and cool my head enough to not get detention today; I have a feeling that staying behind for three extra hours after school won't do much to help my mood.

"Well, if it's so hard for you to decipher, how about you come forward and write out the rest of today's notes, instead?"

For the love of—it's a goddamn lecture. "No, sir. I would not."

"Well then, I'm afraid you'll just have to cope with it, won't you?" he says, a smirk playing on his lips, as if being on school grounds makes me any less inclined to break something in this class. Preferably him.

"I guess so, sir," I manage to reply, unable to keep the dark undertone out of my voice. He nods once, then returns to talking about—

I squint at the the board for a few seconds, and then give up. The only word I can make out is 'revision', and that's enough to have me spacing out again. It's stuff we've already learned, so there's no point in trying to force myself to focus.

I lean back in my seat, schooling my face into a blank expression so Mr. Serafin won't notice me glaring at him, and pretend to take notes for the rest of the class.

"You were pretty mad at Mr. Serafin back there."

I focus on sliding a slice of pizza onto my food tray and grabbing a soda instead of looking at Buttercup. Taking a second to choose between strawberry and grape flavour, I respond, "Yeah, well I'll start being less mad when he starts actually writing shit people can read. I gave up halfway through the first paragraph."

"Tell me about it." she grabs a pizza slice for herself, "He basically dictates the notes to us because of his weird pride."

"Thank god I avoided detention, though," I mumble. "Don't think I can handle any teacher today, let alone Serafin."

Out of the corner of my eye I notice her tilt her head to the side in curiosity, and I internally wince.

"Why do you say that?" she asks.

I shake my head, using the motion to hide my hesitation before I reply, "Today's just not a great day, and I'm in a bad enough mood as is."

"I noticed," she says. She suddenly lifts herself a few feet off the floor, and I watch as she floats in front of me. "Everything alright?"

My eyes narrow in fake confusion, but my grip tightens around my tray; she's picking up on my mood, and that's not a good sign. It's bad enough that both Bubbles and Marley were worrying over me earlier. If Buttercup thinks something's up with me and I slip up now, she'll start bombarding me with questions and I don't think I have the mental capacity for that today.

So I say, "Yeah. Why?"

"You seemed pretty annoyed even before you got into Geo class today," she says softly. "You were frowning from all the way down the hall."

"Oh. Uh, yeah. My art mojo was all fucked up this morning, and I guess I was still sullen about it." She doesn't move out of the way, and I raise an eyebrow. "What now?"

"... You okay, dude?"

"Oh my god, do I look like I'm depressed or something? Why's everyone treating me like I'm made of china today?" Giving up on hoping she'll move on her own, I walk around her and head for the nearest empty table. She follows behind me, and I use the opportunity to try to will myself into acting normal for once today. I loosen my grip on my tray; there are indents where my fingers dug into the metal too hard. "I'm fine, Butters."

Buttercup hums once we're sitting down, her gaze not leaving my face as she says, "I dunno. There's something kinda different about you today."

"Oh, I see," I say, snapping my fingers as if I've just realized something. "I look a little more handsome, right? That's why everyone's been staring, I'm having a Handsome Squidward day!" It's a long-shot, but if I've managed to actually get a joke out, maybe I'm acting normal enough for her to back off. For the next hour, at least.

She snorts. "Okay first off, Handsome Squidward is an abomination—"

I gasp. "You take that back!"

"—And second," she continues, "You're deflecting. You're telling a joke to make me lay off." She leans forward, her gaze almost piercing, and all hopes of making her drop the topic crumble away. "Tell me what the problem is."

"I—" I cut off, hesitating. Of all the days for her to be creepily omniscient, she just had to pick today. My first instinct is, of course, to lie. But this is Buttercup, and she sees through most of my bullshit anyway. So I settle for a half-truth. "I-I'm still thinking about art school."

For a second, her face falls, the same way it did when we talked about it yesterday. It makes my chest ache, and I instantly regret bringing it up; it's probably the most insensitive topic I could talk about. Then as quickly as it came, the look's gone, and she rests her chin in her palms, looking up at me with interest that I can't tell is fake or not. She asks, "What about it?" and despite how much I want to stop talking about it now, I force myself to answer.

"I don't really think I want to go anymore," I say truthfully. "Miss Carlyle wanted to know how many people in art class were thinking of going to art school and—everyone who did was just—so prepared." I shrug, keeping my gaze on the slice of pizza and can of soda on my tray. "I guess I felt a little useless 'cause I've barely researched anything on... anywhere."

"So?" her flat, blunt response has me blinking at her in confusion.

"Wha'dya mean, 'so'?"

"I mean, so what? Just because you haven't researched yet doesn't make the people who did any better than you, you idiot." she shakes her head and scoffs, and somehow I feel both better and worse at the same time. "You're still thinking about it, keyword being 'thinking'. You don't have to do anything about it yet. Or, well, considering final exams are in like, a month maybe you should start thinking about options, but you're not incompetent or anything just because you don't have any definite choices yet."

"What about you?" I ask suddenly, half-surprising myself. "Do you want to go to college outside of Townsville?"

She's silent for a while, pondering over the question. I watch her eyebrows knit the way they always do when she thinks hard, watch her absentmindedly pick at her pizza slice and pulll off the thin slices of pepperoni. It's when I realize that I've been staring at her for a whole-ass minute that I look away, grabbing my soda can and chugging it to hide the sudden heat on my cheeks.

"I think I'll stay," she finally says. I set down my now half-empty soda can to look at her. "I mean, I'd like to leave Townsville at some point... but not for school, y'know? Feels too formal."

"Why am I not surprised you think that?" I say with a chuckle. "And besides, you'll probably change your mind later, anyway."

She smirks. "Oh yeah? Why?"

"'Cause you'll have like, nine sports scholarships, you fucking dweeb." I reach across the table to flick at her nose, and she swats my hand away with a grumble.

"Yeah, well who says I'll accept any of them?"

"The twenty dollar bill in my pocket."

"Oh, Butchie. And here I thought you'd learned not to gamble anymore, with your absolutely shit luck."

"Hey! My gut is actually pretty reliable, okay? I just had a losing streak, that's all."

"Yeah, tell that to the Benjamin Boomer's probably still spending."

"Oh my god, really? You're still stuck on that?"

"It's still freakin' hilarious, so yes!"

Watching her throw her head back with laughter, her face scrunching up in that really freaking adorable way, sends warmth spreading from my chest throughout my body until my fingertips tingle. Before I know it, I'm grinning too. Of course Buttercup makes me feel better within ten minutes of being in her presence; just the sight of her smile pushes all the annoyance that's been piling up from yesterday evening on the backburner. She must have some sort of bad-emotion-nullifying ability, with how quickly she's brought me back to my normal self.

All of a sudden I'm hit with how unreal this all feels; I've liked her for the better half of two years, but now I'm so gone for her it feels like a cheesy soap opera. I suddenly imagine that I'm both sitting at this table and hovering above it, watching myself as I look at her with something damn-well close to reverence. It reminds me of the plethora of foreign subtitled romance movies Bubbles keeps. I always end up watching one or two with the blonde after we finish whatever odd art project we get paired up on, and right now I can easily replace the stereotypical blue-eyed, pining European dude with myself. I've watched so many of the corny movies that even some of the extremely sappy lines are irreversibly branded into my brain. I imagine myself saying something mushy and dumb like "Ek dink jy is baie pragtig," and despite it being the tamest phrase ever, I have to fight down both a snort and a blush.

Dear god, what the fuck is happening to me.

"What?"

Buttercup's voice snaps me back to reality. "Huh?" I reply, peering at her.

"You said something just now," she says, tilting her head to the side again. "Ek din... something practic?"

My stomach drops to the floor. Oh, god.

I said that out loud.

"O-oh, it's—it's just a dumb thing from a movie I remembered," I immediately respond, letting out a laugh so inherently fake that I cut off into a wince.

Her eyebrows furrow as she takes in my horrified expression. "Yeah? Didn't sound like English. What'd you say?"

"I—I-it's just a dumb joke," I mutter near desperately, internally screaming LIE! WHERE IS MY FUCKING ABILITY TO LIE TODAY, WHAT THE FUCK—

"Well, it sounded interesting. Let's hear it."

"Why do you wanna hear some cringey foreign joke so much?" I bite, suddenly defensive, and for the love of fuck, I don't know why I'm being defensive, I'm just digging myself a deeper grave—

"Why're you being so weird over said cringey foreign joke?" she retorts, quick-fire.

"'Cause—you won't get it if it's... outta context," I try.

"Lies," she scoffs, and suddenly her expression is full-out worried, her eyes frustrated. "What the hell is going on with you today? You just keep acting weirder and weird—"

"Hey, Butch!" Both of our heads snap up at the new voice, and as soon as I make out Gemma—who probably just came over to say hi, she does that a lot—my already panicking brain jumps into overdrive.

"Gem!" I shout, propelling myself out of my seat so fast Gemma has to sidestep so I don't knock her right off her feet. I stick my arm out and link our elbows, stutttering out, "I-I've been looking for you!"

She blinks. "Y-you have?"

"Pshh, of course you forgot. We still have that thing we have to do at the library! For art class, remember?" I stare at her desperately, managing to add, "Miss Carlyle said we needed to finish up quick so she'd be able to mark it, remember?"

She stares at my gritted teeth in shock for a second before gulping and nodding, mouth stretching into a wobbly, nervous smile. "R-right, I totally forgot! Y-you're a lifesaver, Butch!"

"No sweat," I practically sigh in relief. "Sorry I have to cut lunch short, BC, see you later though!" I call over my shoulder, not daring to look back if the stare I feel boring into my back is any kind of warning. I all but drag Gemma along, thankful that the cafeteria is just full enough that nobody gives us a second thought.

"Fuck, I'm really sorry," I choke out once we're far enough down the hallways that the cafeteria is out of earshot. "I just—I just really needed to get out of there."

"Give a girl a warning next time, would you?" she hisses, clutching her chest. "You scared me half to death, freaking—springing up like that out of nowhere!"

"S-sorry, sorry, I just—fuck," I grip at my elbows, fingernails digging in to try to calm down. Then all of a sudden, a high-pitched, nervous laugh erupts from my throat. "Fuck, that was so stupid. She probably thinks I'm crazy."

"I still think you are," Gemma says, but her voice is softer now. "Are you alright?"

I take a breath. "Yeah," I say to her. "Be a lot better if people stopped asking me that, to be honest. Thanks, though."

She smiles at me, though it's still a little wobbly. "Just... next time, please ask Marley to cover up for you instead."

I nod. She shakes her head and walks off, one hand still pressed to her chest. I turn to press my back against the wall, heaving a breath as I sink to the floor.

I stare at my hands. I can't laugh anymore, but I can't even bring myself to be mad. On the one hand, my grand escape plan was so poorly executed that it's fucking hilarious to think about. But Buttercup's probably still sitting at the lunch table, seething at me. Unless I'm looking forward to being chucked headfirst into a dumpster for being a wimpy shithead, I'll have to talk to her later, and figure out a believable excuse for whatever the hell that was.

Not now, though. Fuck that.

I focus on slowing my breathing, clasping my hands together and ignoring the stares I get from the people that pass me in the hallway. Once I'm calm enough to process what happened properly, the reality of what I said properly sinks in. I groan and facepalm so hard the back of my head knocks against the wall.

I'm so stupid. Like, genuinely retarded. Who the fuck says something like that out loud to their unrequited crush, spaced-out or not? I have such a cognitive bias when it comes to Buttercup that I'm really convinced that every day I don't succeed in burying these fucking emotions, I lose more and more braincells. And if she figures out how to write out what I said—which I don't doubt, considering she's like fucking Sherlock Holmes when she wants to be—she could run it thought any shitty translator and it would spit out pretty much the correct English equivalent.

Fuck me.

I sigh. I'm tired of thinking. About anything. It all leads back to the one situation plaguing my mind already, and I just can't anymore. I've fucked up for probably the millionth time since my stupid drunk day and I'm just... Exhausted.

The bell goes off. Once I see the cafeteria doors open, I push myself into a stand and turn a corner, shuffling from hallway to hallway until I find myself in front of the Math Club classroom. I don't even bother to look around, I just push the door open and shut it behind me.

All the tables and chairs are piled up neatly along the back wall, leaving nearly all of the class's space free. Normally I'd lie down right under the window by the door so no one can see me and use my jacket as a pillow. Today I walk over to the back of the class instead, huddling down and crawling underneath the tables. I don't want to be out in the open; getting caught today is going to make me feel even more dumb, so I might as well put in the effort.

Before the slience in the room can force my thoughts to the forefront of my mind, I shut my eyes and pray for sleep, hoping with all my might that it'll be dreamless. I turn to face the wall and put my arms over my head, willing myself to think of nothing.

When I finally drift off, all I see is dark hair and green eyes. And if I said I hated every second of it, I'd be lying.

Making up teachers is fun. So many surnames to choose from.

Also, the language Butch spoke in is Afrikaans. Learned it in middle school, and I knew it'd come in handy at some point. You wanna know what he said, Google Translate gives you the exact meaning.