A/N: Finally we reach what I like to call the Settin' Up The Dominos Chapter. From this point on it's a slippery slope of feels and angst until the next rest stop, so uh... brace yourselves for that, I guess?

Also, early update! Woo!

I Wish That I Knew

Disclaimer: They're all Craig's.

Song: Love Like You by Rebecca Sugar

Wondering when I'm coming back

I watch Butch pretty much sprint out of the cafeteria with his terrified Art classmate in tow, and my first feeling isn't anger, or annoyance, or exasperation. It's worry. And I don't usually worry about Butch, so that in and of itself is enough to make me press my hands to my face and try not to feel afraid. I wrack my brain to try and figure out an explanation.

I don't think I did anything wrong—well, apart from asking too many questions. Shit, did I make him uncomfortable? Normally he's used to me grilling him, but he did say he's been having a bad day. Me asking about what made him feel bad obviously wouldn't help him feel better. I'm such an idiot.

Wait, no. He was relatively fine up until he muttered that weird fucking phrase. A joke, he called it. I could tell he was hoping I bought into it, even though his entire face screamed bullshit. What the hell did he say, and why did me hearing it make him freak out? I mean, he's been acting strange ever since the day he got drunk, but this was just... extraterrestrial levels of weird.

I pull out my phone and pull out the translator built into my keyboard, but then I stop. Damn it. He spoke so softly that I didn't catch most of it, and even if I did, spelling it would be a whole new problem.

Fuck, what was it? I remember the first two words; Ek din or something along those lines. It didn't sound like any language I've ever heard—not that I've heard many—and Butch said it with a distinct accent, so his excuse that he heard it from a movie seems less plausible, but not completely impossible. So he either heard it somewhere or knows the language himself.

My eyebrows furrow. When the fuck did Butch start learning another language? And how does he know it well enough to speak with an accent? I've heard him in Spanish class; he at least attempts more than the average person, but every time he has to respond to Miss Flores or talk for a presentation, he sounds like an obnoxious American tourist who doesn't give a shit about pronunciation. He says hola as freaking 'hoe-la', for Pete's sake. The only thing he actually puts a lot of work into is art. The movie excuse is starting to sound a little less false, but still...

Frowning, I try to remember the rest of the sentence. Ek din. I heard a 'k' immediately after, I think. There was something inbetween, but all I could make out after that was the last word. Something like practic or pratic or—fuckin—

My fingers dart across the keyboard, typing in Ek din kay practic. When nothing pops up in the translation box, I hum. Maybe the 'c's were 'k's too?

Ek din kay praktik. Nothing. Maybe the last word doesn't have the first 'k'—Ek din kay pratik.

I type it in. Nothing.

"Ugh." I'm about to slam the phone onto the table in frustration, but the bell rings, making me jump and throw it halfway to the ceiling. "Shit—"

I dart out of my chair, arms out, rushing to catch the phone before it crashes to the floor. I've broken two phones this term already, and the Professor's not going to budge if I break this one. I fumble forward as I reach it; it bounces off my fingers, plummeting down in a spin I can only watch happen, my hands still clutching at air.

It doesn't hit the ground. Instead, a dark-skinned hand grabs it out of the air. I can't help heaving a sigh of relief as the hand flips the phone in its grip and holds it out for me to take. I reach out, raising my eyes to look at the person I'm about to thank—and then stop.

"Oh." I can only just make out familiar brown eyes from under the enormous mane of black curls; Andy's hair's gotten about ten times bigger. It almost catches me off-guard, but then I realize that I've actively avoided him for a year and then some, so of course he looks different. "Hey, Buttercup."

Making sure my face is blank, I reply. "Hi." I reach for the phone, and when he retracts his hand, I sigh. "Don't do this, Andrew."

"I just... I just want to say hi." he swallows. "And to... talk, maybe."

"Really?" I look at him with a deadpan expression. "More than a year of radio silence from both ends and you want to talk now? In the cafeteria?"

"I—well you weren't exactly keen on talking to me after R—"

"Don't." I spit violently, startling him into silence. "Don't say his fucking name."

I snatch the phone out of his hand and push past him. Out of the corner of my eye I see him stumble, but I don't look back. It doesn't matter anyway; there are so many people heading towards the cafeteria's exit that the sheer amount of bodies won't give him enough space to fall. I have to take a deep breath as I make it through to door and into the hallway, but that's all I need. I push the encounter into the back of my mind and force myself to forget it happened.

My main priority right now is Butch. He's what matters. I've gotta focus on him.

I'm halfway through History when I realize that I don't share any other periods with Butch for the rest of the day, and if his less-than-graceful exit from the cafeteria at lunchtime was any indication, finding him will be damn near impossible. He's avoiding me, that much is obvious.

I sigh softly, staring blankly at the board. Why is History as a subject a thing? I could think of about a hundred better things ot be doing than sitting in a stuffy classroom learning about crusty dead people and all the boring shit they did with their lives. I flick idly through the pages of my textbook, seeing the words printed on each page but not registering them. Mr. Lewis drones on at the front of the classroom about something or someone I can't be bothered to pay attention to.

Maybe I could ask Bubbles about Butch? The two of them were already pretty chummy when the boys stopped being troglodytes, and then after the whole art showcase thing when we were fourteen they became proper friends and Bubbles started taking art classes. If there's one person who Butch would talk to about stuff that bothers him, it'd be her. But how would I get her to talk?

I stifle a groan. Contrary to popular belief, Bubbles is probably the most reliable when it comes to keeping secrets. She locks up like a safe, and I've never seen Butch act the way he did at lunch before, which means that whatever's going on is most probably sensitive. If it is sensitive, and he did tell Bubbles, I'm not getting so much as a word out of her. And there's also the fact that if she asks me why I'm so worried, I'll have to talk about the whole confession thing, and telling Bubbles that would be equivalent to telling the whole school. Bubbles might be good at keeping secrets, but her sonic squeals of excitement that tend to carry like the freakin' wind aren't.

Sighing and rubbing at my aching forehead, I idly count the ticking of the class clock, tapping my fingers to time. Mr. Lewis's slow drawl is about as interesting as watching a snail race, and soon enough even my sheer boredom outweighs my worry about Butch.

The universe fixes that relatively quickly though. By the time I'm zoned-out so hard I'm practically asleep, the bell rings. For the first time I'm one of the last people to leave History class; I have to properly tether myself to reality so I don't end up stumbling into the wrong classroom. Or worse, leave school entirely due to my brain ceasing to compute. There's no way I'm powering through another lecture from Blossom because of that.

I jerk to a stop a few steps out of the class. Blossom. I could talk to Blossom. She and Butch barely speak because he drools like a pug around her 24/7, and despite that meaning that there's practically no chance she'll know what's going on with him, I can at least talk to her about it. Hell, I've needed to get the confession thing off my chest for days. Blossom can give me advice or, at the very least, listen without judgement.

I dart back into the History classroom to glance at the clock again; I have about fifteen minutes. Blossom's AP English class is in the opposite direction of my Biology class, but if I fly through the courtyard and double back to the other side of the school, I can make it to her in a minute. That leaves me around ten minutes to talk before she gets irritable about being late, and then I can get back to Biology class with a minute to spare, at least.

I'm cutting it hella close, but I can't take this shit anymore, and if Butch isn't gonna say anything, I can at least talk to someone else about it.

I head back into the hallway, heading for the doors that lead into the courtyard. Once I'm free of the crowd I kick off of the ground and propel myself forward, zipping past a few people and getting a few hisses to slow down from a teacher or two. In a stroke of luck, I catch sight of Blossom leaving her locker shortly after I land. The crowd here is thicker, with a lot of people heading off towards the changing rooms for P.E. She's a good twenty feet away, but shouting for her would draw attention, and given the subject I want to talk to her about, I'm not really eager to draw attention to myself.

"Hey," I say under my breath. Her head jerks up and her eyes sweep across the hallway before meeting mine. "Got a minute?"

Her eyebrows furrow at the quietness of my voice, but to my relief, she speaks at the same volume. "Sure."

Superhearing for the win.

She swings her locker closed and jerks her head to the left, and I follow her past the horde of moving students towards an empty classroom at the far end of the hallway. It looks as if she's about to enter the class, but she peers through the door's window and appears to think the better of it. Then she turns to face me.

"This seems like a delicate topic," she says, raising an eyebrow at me in silent question.

"Um—yeah," I say. "I-it's about Butch—just hear me out, alright?" I add quickly at the sight of her unamused expression. The only person she gets along with worse than Butch is Brick.

She narrows her eyes, but replies, "Alright. What's the problem?"

"Well—uh." I stop. I didn't think about how I'd approach this. "Wait, before I say anything, you have to promise that you won't tell anyone about this. Especially Butch. Or Bubbles."

At that, she stares at me in confusion. "Why Bubbles?"

"Because they're joined at the hip and she'll probably tell him if she finds out because of their...Artist's Ally Code or whatever. Just promise."

"Okay," she says slowly. "But what's going on, Buttercup?"

I take a deep breath. There's literally no way to say this other than outright. "Butch has been acting weird for days, and I think it might be because he confessed to me two days ago." Damn, was it really two days ago? It feels like it's been a week.

I barely register Blossom's hanging jaw. "He what?"

"He, uh. Confessed."

"Confessed what?"

"That he killed someone," I say sarcastically. "His romantic feelings for me, duh. He told me he liked me."

She blinks. "Well, that's... uh..." she trails off, sending me an odd look I don't have time to decipher before asking, "And what did you say to him?"

"Nothing. He was drunk, and we got to his house right after, so I gave him to Brick and went straight home."

"W-wait, what?" she stammers, her brows furrowing again. "I don't get it. He was drunk? Or... was this another one of those late night meet-ups you two have at school?"

"Yeah," I say, ignoring the disapproving look she sends me. That night plays back in my head like an old movie. "He was acting pretty weird at school that day, too. That was the start of it, I think. Then when we got to the rooftop, he chugged beer like it was water, even though he's a lightweight. He got so wasted I decided to take him home."

And then I tell her all the stuff he said and did in his drunk haze, from his clinginess on the rooftop to his slurred confession on the porch of the boys' house. Blossom's expression shifts from confused to contemplative as I go on. By the time I'm finished, her face is blank.

Then she asks, "So you just handed him to Brick and left?"

"Yeah," I respond.

"And you didn't talk about it after?"

"No—well, he asked, but I didn't mention it 'cause I don't want things to get awkward. I mean, he says all sorts of dumb shit when he's drunk. What if he didn't mean it?"

"Oh, Buttercup." she slaps her hand to her forehead, shakes her head and sighs. "You're hopeless."

"Hey, what's that supposed to mean?" I say, defensive. "I didn't do anything wrong!"

"But he's been acting weirder and weirder since you two spoke the day after, right?"

"Well, yeah, but that doesn't—"

The bell rings, cutting me off and making both of us jump. Both of out gazes shift to the watch on Blossom's wrist; we're both late. "Damn it," Blossom mutters under her breath, and with one swift glance down the corridor, she grabs me by the elbow and opens the door to the empty classroom.

I choke on the musty air as she closes the door behind us; the tables and chairs in here are covered in months' worth of dust, and they're all piled with textbooks and files that look only a little less abandoned. It's a glorified storage room.

"Buttercup." My head snaps back to Blossom. She looks me in the eye intensely, placing her hands on my shoulders. "I think you should tell him about what he said."

"Are you crazy?" I jerk away, shrugging her hands off me. "Didn't you hear me say that I didn't want to make things weird?"

"Yeah, and you've been doing a great job so far," she says sarcastically, and at the sight of my irritated expression, she sighs. "Sorry, I didn't mean that. Just... you've been bombarding him with questions every time he's acted strange, haven't you?"

"Yeah, but what does that have to do with anything?"

She facepalms again. "Buttercup. I get that you're trying to avoid any awkward situations, but have you bothered to think about how Butch must be feeling if he actually meant what he said that night? Do you realize that he could be freaking out right now, wondering whether he screwed up and said something he shouldn't have? And trying to skirt around your questions because he doesn't know how to answer them without saying something incriminating?

"Do you realize that if you'd just talked to him about this when he was sober the next day, you could have found out whether he meant it or not and figured everything out from there? And that brings me to yet another question: when everything inevitably goes to shit and he finds out he confessed to you, and it—er, hypothetically—turns out that he meant it, what are you going to say to him?"

"I..." I trail off. She's right, and how easily she puts it all into persepective makes me feel like the biggest piece of shit on the planet. These past few days, I've only cared about how Butch's confession would affect me if it turned out to be true. I didn't think about how fucked up he would feel about blurting out his feelings and not being able to remember he did.

Fuck.

Blossom's expression softens. "Do you like him?" she asks.

"No," I say, more instinctively than anything. Then I pause. "W-wait, that's—I don't think I do, but—" I cut off, not knowing how to continue.

"Have you thought about it?" she softly questions. I hesitate, and then nod slowly. "And how do you feel?"

"I-I don't know," I say truthfully, lowering my gaze to stare at the loose thread on her white blouse. "After that day I thought about... how it would be like. To be in a relationship with him, I mean. And it's—I guess I don't find it weird? But—that could just be because I'm comfortable with him as a person, right? And then," I lower my voice, feeling a familiar wave of shame wash over me. "there's the whole thing with—with you-know-who. And after that I don't know if—if I can do anything like that anymore."

"Hey." she tilts my chin up, and I open my eyes. Her expression is hard, but at the same time it's kind. "Don't compare Butch to him. Those are two different people, and I even with Butch's reputation, I doubt he'd ever do anything like that to you. He was there when it happened, remember?"

I nod again, but it's not exactly easy to not think about my ex-boyfriend after he left with the biggest bang of the century and took a chunk of my confidence with him.

Still, Blossom is right. Butch is different. And I can't say I like him, but I haven't been thinking about the whole possible relationship thing for nothing. It might not be a crush, but I do feel some kind of... something. The possibility of it being non-platonic affection terrifies the ever-living shit out of me though, especially since I'm not even sure that Butch's feelings are sincere, if they even exist.

And if they are sincere... I have no fucking idea how to deal with that.

"So," I say softly, furrowing my eyebrows as I try to come to terms with Blossom's words. "You think I should just tell him what he said?"

"Yes," she responds immediately. "Before you have to endure weeks of unnecessary misunderstandings and dancing around the subject. This isn't some romance novel. Butch is an actual person with feelings. Feelings which are probably going haywire from stress regardless of the existence of his romantic feelings for you."

I stare at her expression for a few more seconds, trying to find a reason for me not to see this through in her expression. Then I sigh. "You're asking me to do some pretty problematic shit, Bloss."

"Life's problematic, Buttercup," she says with a smile. "All you need to do is face said problems the way you face a fight. Head-on."

Ugh. Why does she have so be so freakin' smart all the time.

"Hey, Buttercup, do you have the History homework?" Robin asks me as I snap my locker shut. The rest of the day went by in a blur, and I'm not even too bothered about the detention I have to serve for showing up late to Biology.

I am bothered, however, by Robin's question. I stare at her blankly as I ask, "We have History homework?"

She groans in exasperation. "God, you're the sixth person I've asked. Did everyone else fall asleep during class today?"

"... Is that a genuine question?"

"No, it is not," she says with a snort, and then she catches sight of someone behind me and brushes past, calling "See you tomorrow!" over her shoulder.

"Yeah," I call back, and head off for Ms. Baker's detention. As I pass fewer and fewer people on the way, my mind drifts back to my conversation with Blossom, and I feel my stomach plummet.

God, I highly doubt I have the balls to see this shit through, as much as I hate to say it. And that's not even mentioning the fact that Butch is probably still avoiding me like the plague, so finding him is going to be a task on its own, let alone telling him he told me he liked me and asking him if he meant it. And then dealing with the aftermath of the entire situation.

I groan, forcing the thought out of my mind as the detention class comes into view. This is a problem for Future Buttercup to worry about. Right now I just need to serve my detention, walk home, whine over whatever the hell my History homework was over dinner, and sleep.

I walk into the classroom. Miss Baker greets me with a nod, and then gestures toward the desks scattered around the class. The moment I turn to find a seat, I swear I can feel Future Buttercup crash into my present self, because seated at the very back of the class, conveniently unobscured by any of the other three people serving this detention and staring right at me, is Butch. I guess neither of us can catch a break today, if the look on his face is anything to go by.

I decide to pretend I didn't see him—even though our gazes met for a solid three seconds—and head for a seat right next to one of the windows on the far end of the class. I drop by backpack to the floor, plop down in the chair, rest my elbows on the desk, and place my chin in my palms, staring out at the courts on the far side of the school grounds. The basketball team is practicing on their court, and I realize with a jerk that I'm supposed to be there. I've been so preoccupied the whole day that I clean forgot.

Sighing, I open my backpack and rummage for my notepad; staring at the courts is only going to make me feel like an asshole. Plus, I can feel Butch staring at me, and maybe if I look busy he'll stop.

I ruffle through the notepad, flicking past doodles and unfinished songs, and settle on a blank page. I pull my pencil out of the side compartment of my bag, and only when the lead tip is inches from the paper do I ask myself what the hell I intend to write. Repressing the urge to sigh again, I twiddle the pencil between my thumb and middle finger as I stare at the pale blue lines on the page. Then I look up at the clock hanging above the board at the front of the class. Fifty minutes of detention left.

I look back at the page. I can still feel Butch's eyes on me. Frowning, I write down the first thing I can think of, scribbling out the sentence so vehemently I'm surprised I don't tear the page in half. When I lean back and look down at my handwriting, I almost snap the pencil in my hand.

Pros and Cons of Dating Butch

Well, so much for not thinking about it. I stare at the phrase for a few seconds, frowning. Then a thought pops into my head; Butch is my best friend, so wouldn't that mean there would be too many pros (and cons, even) since I know him too well? I imagine writing He's actually funny when he's not being a horndog or He copies off me for homework, which actually helps since his grades are shit. Even though I'm not sure which category the latter would fit into, I have my answer, so I lean over again.

Pros and Cons of Dating Butch (must be objective!)

Shaking my head, I decide to just go with it, and start to write:

Pros

- best friend

- he's not bad to look at

- likes my cooking (which is a necessity)

- can genuinely be nice

- is no longer a villain/troglodyte

It takes me longer than anticipated to write these five things, 'cause it turns out being objective about my best friend is harder than I thought. By the time I look up at the clock again, thirty minutes have passed.

It's when I'm pondering over the cons that something hits the side of my head. I jerk and snap the book shut, eyes darting across the room in panic before looking down at what hit me; it's a small, folded-up piece of paper. Instinctively, I look over my shoulder at Butch. He catches my gaze and sends me a sheepish smile, mouthing 'read it' at me.

Casting a glance at the front of the class to make sure Ms. Baker isn't looking, I bend down to pick up the paper and unfold it. I recognize Butch's handwriting; it's a weird cross between neat and a scrawl, and the words are written in orange pen:

Soz about earlier. It was stupid. I can tell you what I said now if ya want.

I stare at the last sentence. I've been so caught up in what Blossom told me that I forgot all about the weird phrase from lunchtime. My curiousity resurfaces, and I tear off a piece of paper to reply. Then I pause. Butch's expression when I asked what he'd said flashes in my head; he looked mortified, like he let something slip.

I think about Blossom's words from earlier: He could be freaking out right now, wondering whether he screwed up and said something he shouldn't have.

I write out, I'm over it. And I thought I told you never to say 'soz' again.

Folding up the paper, I position it between my middle finger and thumb and flick it in Butch's direction with the help of my powers. It soars silently through the air at high speed, glowing bright green, and lands right in Butch's hand. He unfolds it and reads, and then a small, fond smile makes its way onto his face.

Suddenly there's a weird feeling in my chest. I've never seen him smile like that before, and to my horror, I feel a little warmer at the sight of it.

I turn back to my notepad, trying to ignore the way my cheeks burn in shame. I don't even know if I should feel bad, because if it turns out that Butch likes me, then this would be a good thing... right?

I resist the urge to smack my head against the desk. God, this wasn't so nerve-wracking the last time I was thinking about dating someone. Granted, the last time was with a normie who wasn't my best friend of four years, and last time also ended in the worst way possible, so maybe I'm not wrong in being extremely skittish about this.

A paper hits my shoulder, and I catch it before it falls to the ground. I rub a hand across my cheek as I read.

You know I never listen. Can I walk you home to fully solidify my apology?

He wrote 'solidify' in cursive for effect. I chuckle softly at that, turning to give him a small smile and a thumbs-up. He grins widely at my response and then slouches backward in his chair, crossing his arms and staring at the board with an incredibly self-satisfied smirk on his face.

I roll my eyes and turn back to my notepad. I lift my pencil and, after hesitating for a second, add one more pro to the list.

- he has a cute smile

It's not objective, but fuck it. I can make an exception.

A/N: Could y'all feel how hard Blossom was trying to not just tell Buttercup that Butch is, in fact, down catastrophic