More Than Human, ch9, part 2
More Than Human, ch9
part 1
part 2
part 3
part 4
part 5
Title: More Than Human
Chapter 9: Monday Broke My Heart, or Everybody Knows You Cried Last Night
Pairing: RrB/PpG
Rating: R/M, because they're teenagers and a good handful of them use terrible, filthy language.
Disclaimer: Pay your respect to Craig, not me.
Summary: There is no way I can make this sound original, ever. My attempt to write a believable RrB/PpG in high school fic. Nobody realizes that some people expend tremendous energy merely to be normal. – Camus
Notes: Thanks to![[profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
mathkid and juxtaposie who are the best. Around. Nothing's ever gonna keep 'em down.
More Than Human, Pt. 2 – Senior Fall Semester
September – Monday Broke My Heart, or Everybody Knows You Cried Last Night
-sbj-
Boomer acted funny for about a week after that, though he wouldn't tell his brothers what was up. Brick didn't seem too concerned; he was preoccupied with practicing with Blossom, which consumed his early mornings and afternoons, sometimes well into the evening. It bothered Butch, even though he tried not to let it.
Buttercup, having had two weeks now to get over her initial anger at him, was finally starting to calm down. She still made threatening gestures towards his lower half if he got too close or talked too much, but at least he could enter her line of eyesight now and actually talk to her without encouraging her to smash his potential future children in.
Even Butch could admit to himself that he deserved it. If anything, he liked getting what he deserved. Except, of course, when it came to brothers stealing girlfriends—never mind that Blossom hadn't been nor was ever going to be his girlfriend, and Brick still claimed he hated her guts—but honestly, despite what he thought? Butch would have deserved this kind of treatment anyway.
After an easygoing lacrosse practice he went home to shower. Buttercup wasn't out of practice just yet, but she might be free afterwards if she wasn't cooking, and Butch had been encouraged by the fact that he'd been able to make a rude joke around her today—not about her, of course; he had to work back up to that—and avoid another kick to the nads. As he got out of the shower he wondered how much Chemical X helped with nad regeneration. Maybe Brick would know. Butch snickered to himself at the phrase he'd unwittingly created in his head.
“Nad regeneration,” he muttered to himself, amused. He wandered around his room, looking for a fresh set of clothes. Shit. Was he out of jeans? He was out of jeans. Grumbling, he located a pair of boxers and rummaged around his mess of a bed for a clean shirt. Something rolled out, bouncing onto the carpet, and as Butch tugged his shirt on he peered at it, frowning.
The memory came to him; it was the album he'd borrowed from Mitch, with a very special bonus disc inside.
He picked it up, a few drops of water dripping onto the case from his wet hair, and he shook his head vigorously, pushing his hair back away from his face. Fuck, it was getting long. He didn't mind long hair, but Brick tended to grow his hair out. That made Butch dislike it on principle.
He wiped the water off the beat up plastic with his shirt, then opened it and extracted his disc from behind the real CD. He examined the track listing of the album while waiting for his computer to power up, then tossed it back on the bed, deciding he really couldn't give a fuck.
Penny, bless that woman's heart, had given all three of the Boys a password hack program, and Butch copied the disc's contents to his desktop before running the program on the folder which contained what Butch could only assume was Mitch's Happy Time collection. The program started scanning for the password, and Butch watched for about a minute as it did its thing. Then, bored—it'd probably be going for awhile—he got up, located his phone, and dialed Buttercup's number.
It rang until her voicemail picked up. “Hey, it's Buttercup. Um, I'm busy, I guess, so leave me a message and if you don't suck I'll call you back.”
After it beeped Butch said, “Hey, motherfucker, what's up? Yours truly. Give me a call, I'm bored out of my—”
His computer chirped, indicating the program was done, and he turned, shocked. That fast? Huh.
“Out of my skull,” he continued into his phone as he approached his computer. “So give me a...”
He trailed off, catching sight of the password the program had discovered.
Buttercup.
He furrowed his brow and fumbled for his chair, then remembered he was on the phone. “Um, call me,” he said, then ended the call. He pulled his chair up and hovered his mouse over the Continue button. After a second's contemplation, he clicked.
The folder flooded with thumbnails, and Butch watched the number climb in the corner of the window until it stopped at five hundred and twenty-seven files. His eyes widened. Had Mitch taken pictures of Buttercup when they were...?
He scanned through them. No. Nothing indecent. They were just regular photos. Bummer. It would've been great to find something to blackmail her with.
He drew his feet up on his chair, studying his desktop. Then he clicked on the first photo.
Scrolling through the first half, Butch gathered that part of it covered roughly ten years—it contained younger stuff, like a scanned photo of their Kindergarten class, with Buttercup and Mitch making faces at the camera, the only blemishes in a class full of smiling students. He'd forgotten what Buttercup had looked like as a kid—not that she looked that much different now, but the sight of her five-year-old self brought on a dim collection of memories. He remembered punching that face when it was snarling at his, the way it had spat insults at him, snapped angrily, even sneered when she'd landed a good blow. The ones that followed were from various stages of adolescent life. Soccer games, parties, general dicking around. Butch could see a clear progression of time throughout them. He shifted uncomfortably; the feeling he'd gotten when he'd watched her sing on stage last month welled up again now. But he didn't stop.
One of these wasn't a photo, but a video file. Butch clicked it open and played it.
Grainy laughter spilled out of his speakers; it was a group vid of Buttercup and the guys, sitting and laughing in the parking lot of a Malph's at night. Buttercup was standing in the well of a shopping cart, weaving as she tried to keep it in place. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and she looked about fifteen, maybe sixteen tops.
“Dude, you're so gonna fall,” Harry's voice crackled.
“Wanna bet?” Buttercup laughed.
“Harry, if I could do it, what makes you think Buttercup couldn't?” This was Mitch's voice; he was manning the camera.
“Hey, hey, hey, look guys. Look.” Buttercup was waving them around, waving at Mitch to bring his camera closer. “Okay. This is my impression of Harry.” She looked right into the camera, snorting with laughter. She took a second to compose herself, then inhaled and said in a deep, mocking voice, with her hands waving on either side of her head, “I AM A VAGINA.”
The group exploded into raucous guffaws, Buttercup included. Butch even gave a perfunctory snort himself. Only Harry's voice was humorless as he snarked against the joke.
“Real funny, guys! Really fucking hilarious! I'm laughing my ass off! Ha!”
Buttercup cackled as she sat on the edge of the cart, but too hard; it overbalanced and the end toppled over, taking Buttercup with it down to the asphalt.
Harry's voice sounded again, “Dude! What the hell did I tell you? I so called it!”
This only inspired another furious round of laughter, and soon enough Harry had joined in.
“Oh my God, I'm crying,” Floyd—or was it Lloyd?—said, punctuating his announcement with a sniffle and a theatrical wiping of tears. “I'm crying, guys, holy shit.”
The camera turned to Buttercup, crawling out from under the cart, still giggling.
“I so told you you were going to fall—”
“Shut up, queef,” Buttercup said, and Mitch laughed, catching her attention. She turned her face to the camera and grinned, her eyes darting back and forth from the ground to the camera as she sat up. Her ponytail had fallen out after her spill; a light breeze pushed her now loose hair into her face, and she brushed it back, still smiling to cam.
The laughter cut off as the vid stopped there, on Buttercup's beaming expression, with a hand in her hair to hold it back. Butch's gaze lingered on the image for awhile before continuing on.
That was the last of the first half. The entire second half of the folder, he realized, was from the short three months Buttercup and Mitch had spent together as a couple.
He was a little surprised at how different Buttercup looked with long hair. It seemed so impractical for a girl like her. Butch took his time, studying these semi-recent photos more closely. There were a few group shots of Buttercup and the boys, some of Buttercup and Mitch here and there, but for the most part, they were all her. The photos covered a wide array of her expressions. Butch spent less time on the ones he was familiar with—where she looked sullen and irritated. They were of less interest to him.
There was one of her holding the very bass guitar that he'd seen in Mitch's room, her eyes intent and focused on whatever she was playing. There was another of her leaning back, legs askew on the trailer’s steps—a downshot, taken from the front door behind her, with her head tilting up and back and a wild grin on her face. Butch paused for a long time on a closeup shot of Buttercup asleep on Mitch’s bed (fully clothed), her long hair smooth and dripping black off the pillow, looking way too peaceful for Buttercup. There was another video, but Butch skipped over it.
It just felt really sad.
Buttercup. Buttercup. Buttercup. One after another after another.
In the skate park. At the convenience store late at night. In Mitch’s room again, shy and hiding the smile on her face with one hand as she indicated the “MITCH ROCKS” shirt she was wearing with the other.
We never did anything like that. Mitch was a fucking liar.
Butch stopped on the last one, face stony as he contemplated it. She was in Mitch's room. He recognized the posters in the background, the stacks of CDs and magazines on the floor, the rumpled bed. All that was blurry. It called even more attention to her, her top half framed dead center. Her long hair was a little messy, a few strands of it drifting across her face—Butch imagined she probably hated having it so long, but what did he know? She certainly didn't look unhappy. The small smile on her face said so. And that face…
Butch didn’t know how to place it. She looked happy and sad all at once. She looked like something warm from her chest was spilling out into her expression, softening her eyes, her smile. She looked so at peace, so content, so deliriously and unabashedly in love that it scared her and all she could manage was that tiny, tiny smile.
She was looking right at the camera like that. Just like that.
In the end, I really, really…
It wasn’t just the impractical long hair that made her look different. This Buttercup… all these Buttercups… didn’t exist anymore. For Butch, they’d never existed at all. It was like that night he had watched her sing, growing more uncomfortable and distanced the more she loosened up, the more she faded back into the person she’d been before her haircut, her breakup. Before him.
He remembered the video he'd skipped over, and scrolled back to it. This looked like it was only of her, and he clicked it open just as his phone rang. It startled him, and in his haste to answer it he unintentionally clicked the mouse button, causing the vid to play just as he answered his phone.
“Hello?” he said, as Buttercup's voice started echoing out of his speakers. He turned back to his desktop and hissed, “Shit!”
“Butch, it's me,” Buttercup said, then paused. Butch tapped the spacebar frantically, but he had inadvertently clicked off the window, so the video didn't pause. “What's that?”
“What's what?” he said as he grabbed his mouse and stopped the video.
“Are you watching a movie or something?”
“Just channel surfing. So what's up?”
“Got your call. Hey, I can't hang out or anything tonight.”
“Oh...” He stared at the long-haired Buttercup smiling at him from his computer screen. “Well, that's alright.”
“Yeah, maybe tomorrow or something.” He tried to reconcile that careless voice with the happy girl onscreen, a Slurpee in her hand. “Hey, is everything okay?”
He jerked to a little. “Huh? Yeah, what? What makes you ask?”
“Naw, man, your message was a little weird. That's all. Like you forgot you were on the phone towards the end of it.” A pause, then, “Everything okay?”
He looked away from the screen to his bare knee. “Yeah. Yeah, it's okay.”
“Were you stoned or something?”
“No, just...” He glanced up again at his screen, looking at her. “I just got distracted.”
“Yeah? Well, alright. I'll see you tomorrow.”
“Yeah, sounds good,” he said, and hit the button to end the call. He settled back in his seat, staring at her name on the tiny screen. Finally he set it back down on his desk, his gaze drifting back to his computer monitor and the frozen image of Buttercup. He pulled the little playbar back to the beginning and started it over.
“—Just not my thing, that's all,” Buttercup was saying as she lifted the straw to her lips and sipped. She looked at the camera—at Mitch. “You carry that thing around a lot these days, you know?”
The camera wobbled a bit; Mitch had shrugged. “What about it?”
“I just wanna make sure my head's not gonna wind up on some naked lady pictures or something,” she joked. “Lots of creepy fucks on the internet, you know.”
“Come on, not my style. You know me.”
“Ha.” Buttercup sipped at her drink again.
“Your tongue's turned blue.”
“Is that right?” Buttercup stuck her tongue out to the camera, curling it.
“Yeah.”
“Shit, I've only taken, like, five sips.” She brought the plastic cup up to eye level, as if she could decipher its mysteries by staring at it.
“Buttercup, you'd look good in a dress.”
She rolled her eyes as she sipped again. “I told you, it just isn't my thing.”
“You wore a dress when we were kids.”
“Yeah, we all start out young and stupid, don't we?”
“I think you'd look nice.”
She glanced at the camera askance, sipping a long time before pulling her lips away from the straw and saying quietly, “Yeah, well, you? You're biased.”
“I guess.”
They were approaching a bus stop; Buttercup hopped up on the bench and pretended to walk along it like a balance beam before hopping off the other end.
Mitch spoke up again. “Hey, so Prom.”
She threw the camera a funny look, clearly amused. “Right after we skipped Homecoming? You're already thinking about Prom?”
“Yeah, well, it got me thinking.”
“About dresses,” she snorted, sobering. After a while she said, “So you're saying I don't look good otherwise, huh?”
“That is not what I'm saying.”
“You're trying to get me to wear a dress because you don't want to go to Prom with an ugly dyke like me.”
“Bullshit. Cut that out.”
She flipped her hair back. “I'm just telling it like it is.”
“I think you're gorgeous. You're gorgeous now. You're gorgeous all the time. You'd look gorgeous in a trash bag. Hell, you'd even look gorgeous in a dress.”
Buttercup stared at the ground. It was hard to tell, with her face tilted down and her hair masking it, but anyone with an eye could tell she was blushing.
“Sure you're not mixing me up with Blossom there, are you?” she murmured, then sipped at her Slurpee again.
“Shut up. You're the most beautiful girl I've ever seen.” The urgency in his voice made it obvious. Mitch meant it.
Buttercup looked at the camera, her eyes soft, almost sad, but that smile was on her face, that tiny, scared, and yet deliriously happy smile that lit up her expression, made it almost shine in the dark. Mitch was right. She was...
She looked away, then looked back again, smiling a little more fully at camera now. She was also blushing something fierce.
“Hey. Put that thing down for a second.”
“Huh?”
“Put it down.” She stooped to set her Slurpee down on the sidewalk.
“Why?” Mitch asked as she reached for the camera. The angle tilted, and her face slid out of sight. The camera was facing down now, trying to focus on their shoes.
The blurry image wobbled as their hands fumbled on the camera. “So I can kiss you, stupid,” Buttercup's voice whispered, and then the video stopped.
Butch stared at the screen, his jaw sore. He'd been clenching it; he hadn't even realized. He looked back at the album he'd thrown on his bed, the one he'd hidden the disc in. He'd thought it'd have porn on it. He felt cheated, angry. It'd have been better if there'd been porn on it.
Fucking Mitch.
Lacking something better to do, he tabbed through a few of the photos again. Yeah. Porn would've been better. It would've been a lot better.
He'd never seen her smile the way she was smiling in some of these photos, particularly the ones from when she and Mitch were together. He'd never have expected she could look like that. Like someone happy instead of someone mean, or condescending, or so over everything, seriously.
He hesitated on a photo of her, leaning over so her hair fell along either side of her face, framing it. Suddenly Butch hated her with long hair. Really hated it. He'd only mildly disliked it before, but no, it looked awful. Short hair was way better on her.
He came again to the video, the one of her by herself, clutching her Slurpee and smiling at the camera. Smiling at Mitch.
Butch stared at her, letting the image soak into his brain, into his memory. It would be a false one. It wasn't his; he hadn't been there. He hadn't been there for any of these. He stared and stared, drilling that expression, that smile into his brain until it burned, and then he clicked his mouse button.
“—Just not my thing, that's all,” Buttercup said, and she raised her Slurpee to her lips and sipped, her tongue curled and stained blue.
***
“So Faust thinks this one should be just us.” Blossom pointed at a track on the back of the CD case.
“Really?” Brick peered at it. “It's got a lot of energy; it'd be good for a group—”
“She was talking to Jim and they both reached some sort of conclusion about turning it into a ballroom dance.”
“So she's turning that one over to Jim now?”
“I guess.” Blossom set it down, shrugging. “Anyway.”
“I mean, if they want to, okay. Doesn't affect the stuff we have to do.”
Someone knocked on the doorframe of the otherwise empty studio, and they both looked up to find Robin standing there.
“Hey, losers.”
“Robin!” Blossom stood up and hugged her. “I'm sorry I haven't seen you—”
“I've been busy, too,” Robin said, smiling. “Lots of StuCo stuff going on. Hey, I just wanted to tell you guys—Bubbles said I'd find you here—I'm throwing a party at the end of the month. And you.” She pointed at Blossom here. “You have no excuse to not come, since we live right next door to each other.” Robin turned to Brick. “You and your brothers can come, too. As long as you can keep Butch from breaking something.”
The invitation took Brick by surprise. He blinked and said, “Uh, sure.”
“Very cool.” Robin clapped her hands. “Alright, I'll leave you guys to it.”
Blossom waved at her friend as she left, then stayed standing, glancing down at Brick. She began to play with her hands.
“So... do you want to get started?”
He reached for the CD and grunted as he stood. “Yeah. Sure.”
“Which one should we work on?”
Brick scanned the track listing on the back. It was too bad Jim hadn't started choreographing the ballroom piece yet. It'd be nice to work on that one with her.
He shook his head and cleared his throat, then picked a safer one, one that didn't involve them being too close or touching too much.
“Here. This one. Let's do this one.”
***
“Robin is throwing a party!” Bubbles called out to Buttercup long before she bounded up to her. Buttercup looked up from where she was conversing with the guys—sans Butch—in the atrium.
“Yeah?”
“In two weeks,” Bubbles said as Boomer came up beside her. “Or, end of the month. End of the month is in two weeks, right?”
“Give or take,” Buttercup said.
“Oh, Boomer.” Floyd reached into his bag. “I gotta give these back to you.”
He pulled out the albums he'd borrowed from Boomer and held them out to him. Boomer stared at them for a second before taking them and flipping through them.
“Thanks, Floyd,” he said, his voice quiet.
An awkward silence settled over the group.
“You guys, um,” Boomer tried, then started again. “You guys found anyone else for the band?”
“Naw, I think we're quittin'.”Mitch shrugged.
Boomer looked up, stunned. “You're kidding.”
“Well, Senior year and all, I mean, we're all kinda busy...”
Boomer still looked as if he'd been sucker punched in the gut. Bubbles noticed his expression and began to pull him away.
“Hey, we'll see you guys later.”
“Wait,” Harry called as Bubbles and Boomer started down the hall. “Does that invite to Robin's party stand for us guys, too?”
“Yep,” Robin said, striding past them. “Hey, Buttercup.”
“Yo.” Buttercup waved at her friend's back, spotting Butch at the doors. “Hey, there's that fucker.”
Butch saw them and floated up, yawning. “Hey.”
Buttercup took in his sleepy eyes. “You look tired.”
“Hm. Makes sense. Feel pretty tired.”
“What's up with that?”
“Was on my computer too long last night,” he muttered, glancing at Mitch. The twins were standing between him and Buttercup. “Um... what's up?”
“You barely made the bell, I think,” Buttercup said, and right on cue the bell rang.
“Well, see you guys at lunch,” Harry said. “Except for you, Buttercup.”
“Fuck you early lunch guys,” she said. “Late lunch is where the cool kids hang out.”
The guys rolled their eyes. Before Mitch could leave, Butch dug out his album and handed it over.
“Oh, yeah, man,” Mitch said, eyeing it. “Did you like it? I've got more of their stuff, if you're interested.”
“It was alright,” Butch muttered. “Not really my thing.”
“Okay. See you.” Mitch turned to Buttercup. “Later, Buttercup.”
“Bye,” she said, and Butch watched them both as Mitch turned away and started down the hall.
Stupid. Their voices still went soft when they talked to each other, their gazes held just a little longer than necessary. They were still in love with each other and didn't even fucking know it.
Idiots, Butch thought viciously to himself as Buttercup shouldered her bag and glanced at him. Fucking stupid idiots.
“Hey,” she said, jarring him from his thoughts. “You're really out of it this morning.”
He stared at her a second before saying gruffly, “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” She started walking, then paused when Butch didn't follow. “You coming or what?”
“What?”
“Gym, you dumbass,” she sighed, giving him a look. “Obviously we're not in the same class, but fuck, we're headed in the same direction.” She jerked her head. “Come on. Let's go.”
She started off again, her head still turned and watching him. Butch felt his feet move on their own, jogging to catch up.
“Lay off the weed, man,” she said under her breath as they walked. “I think you're killing brain cells.”
Butch thought of telling her he hadn't smoked a damn thing. “Yeah.”
***
Brick was kind of relieved when Friday arrived. Not that his week was going terribly at all—last week was another story; he'd brooded about the confrontation with Mojo for days—but it was still a relief to know the weekend would soon be upon them.
He stared off into space as he sketched out ideas for his sculpture, glancing at Bubbles' empty seat. She was at home again, doing her Independent Study work from there. There was something odd about the room when she was gone; it was less interesting, less friendly. He actually felt a little bored when she wasn't around.
Julie, who was seated next to Bubbles' empty seat, caught him staring and said, “She says it's too big to work on at the school.”
“Is her place really any bigger?”
“She cleared out a room, I think. At least, that's what she told me.”
“Mm,” Brick intoned, and went back to sketching. He was grateful for when the bell finally rang, but there was still lunch, and then English. He could skip, probably, but Blossom was in English and... yeah.
He went out cruising around in his car during lunch and came back in time for his last class. The passing period was already underway, and he slipped through the crowds of students to his English class. Blossom was already there, and she glanced up from her book as he came in. He tried to take his time getting over there.
“Hey,” he said as he sank into his seat.
“Hi,” she said, and went back to her book.
The bell rang, and Mrs. Yang said, “Okay, guys, everyone brought their books, right? We're just free reading today because I've still got papers to grade.”
“If it's free reading could we just leave?” one of the students asked.
“Who was that? John? Stacy, hit John for me.”
There was a whack, followed by a subdued, “Ow.”
“Thank you. No, you cannot, because as far as I'm concerned I'm just giving you class time to continue prepping for your essay. You're comparing a theme in a book of your choice to two other books on this semester's class reading list. Since I know most of you will be scrambling to finish this thing at five AM the day it's due, I'm offering you the opportunity to have at least a little more read before the eleventh hour is here. Don't try my patience.”
Dim, murmuring chatter swelled as they pulled out their reading material. Brick glanced at Blossom, who looked away from him and back to her book.
“By the way, I almost forgot. The Museum of Contemporary Art has an E. E. Cummings exhibit in town featuring art inspired by the poet. If you drop by and can do a quick one page comparative essay on the art piece to the poem that inspired it, I'll bump your lowest grade up by one to ten points, based on how well it's written. Due Tuesday.” She pulled out her gradebook and papers. “Now get to work.”
***
Brick should've expected to see her there.
He hadn't been sure he'd go. But his Saturday was crawling, he was bored, and because he had nothing better to do he kept thinking back to the conversation he'd had with Mojo.
Even before he and his brothers had left Him, they'd never heard anything about their “destiny” or the like. Sure, they'd been created to destroy the Girls, so in a way that had been their destiny. But it'd always been treated as just a goal, a mission. If there was a greater plan in place and it was “meant to be,” why hadn't that been mentioned until now? And for Mojo Jojo to bring it up... that implied some sort of great spiritual thing going on there that even a man—well, monkey—of science wouldn't dismiss with logic and reasoning.
Mojo Jojo had always wanted to destroy the Powerpuff Girls and rule the world. Why would he now—suddenly, upon being confronted with the Boys' return—tell Brick that it was actually their duty in life—their destiny—to destroy the Girls?
Brick mulled over it until his head was sick with brooding. That was when he decided to head to the MoCA Townsville and check out the Cummings exhibit.
He wasn't big on poetry, but the exhibit was interesting. A lot of it felt pretentious in the way that most modern art did. He stared at a couch with a lamppost through it for about five minutes, trying to figure out what the hell it was saying, and finally realized it was about fucking. Well, that was stupid. He didn't even bother reading the poem for that one.
There were others, though—paintings, sculptures, even interactive pieces that were really well done. After he was about two thirds through the exhibit he thought he had a good idea of what he might do his extra credit on—it was between two paintings, both pretty abstract—and turned down the last darkened hall.
It was spotlit, so his eye was drawn to it fairly quickly, despite it being smaller than many pieces it shared the space with. It was a gnarled little metal sculpture; he couldn't figure out what it was. He read the first few lines of the poem to try and put it in context.
since feeling is first
who pays any attention
to the syntax of things
will never wholly kiss you;
Brick stopped after that, because he noticed a switch on a panel next to the poem, level with that line. After a moment, he flicked it.
The spotlight flicked off, and a smaller spotlight he hadn't noticed on the podium where the sculpture rested illuminated it, projecting its shadow against the wall. He blinked, his eyes darting from the twisted mass of metal and the shadow of two people it created when it was lit in just the right way.
His eyes traced the silhouette of a man and woman, lying together, the man's fingers brushing her lips open. It looked nothing like the scraps thrown together on the podium. How had they done that? It was fucking ingenious.
“Brick?”
In the stillness of the gallery her voice rang like a bell. Brick turned to see Blossom floating at the end of the hall, where he'd originally come in. It might have been because he'd lost himself a little in the genius of well-executed art, or maybe the first four lines of the poem had stuck with him. Or maybe he just hadn't expected to see her, when really, he should have; after all, it was extra credit. It may have also been the sunlight streaming in the one lone skylight in this section of the gallery, putting this ethereal glow about her that only heightened the effect.
In any case, something clenched in his chest when his eyes fell upon her, something welled up in his throat that he couldn't swallow down. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end, and when he said her name it came out in a voice he didn't mean to let out, a voice that was practically a whisper and yet, somehow, still heavy with emotion.
“Blossom?” he said, his voice sounding soft, deep, yet still ringing in that quiet gallery, and she blushed furiously. She couldn't help it.
***
“Holy shit, Butch,” the twins said in one awed voice as they stepped into his apartment. “Who do you have to kill to live in a place like this?”
“Eh, a bunch of rich old fucks,” he said, his tone bored. Buttercup shot him a sharp look before dragging her haul of movie-watching munchies over to the kitchen.
“How did you guys get tangled up with the rich old fuck who hooked you up in this place?” Harry said.
Butch went with the answer he was supposed to go with. “Anyone with money gets interested in the Red-Eyed Golden Child, since he's some sort of prodigy, apparently. He's out, by the way.”
“Good,” Buttercup said. “He's always in a fucking mood when someone's over.”
Butch was studying Mitch's guarded reaction, wondering if he was jealous. The living room was like three of Mitch's trailers combined.
“So what's the lineup tonight?”
“Pick your poison, brothers.” Butch laughed, indicating the rack of movies he'd dragged out of his room.
“I'm voting Anaconda,” Buttercup called from behind the breakfast bar. Harry went over to help her start some popcorn.
“Lady's choice, then,” Butch announced, flicking the case out of the rack and extracting the DVD. “Coke's in the fridge, by the way.”
“The kind you drink, right?”
“Fuck you, Floyd,” Butch sniped.
“Fair question, for you,” Buttercup laughed, and undid the Saran wrap over a cake tin. “Brownies, anyone?”
“Pot brownies?” Butch, Mitch, and the twins asked simultaneously.
“Hell no, druggies!” she snapped, but with a smile. “You know, when your parents told you to eat your greens, that wasn't what they meant.”
“Can't blame me,” Butch said as he flipped the TV on. “I weren't brung up right.”
A door swung open, and a drowsy Boomer wandered into the living room, stretching. “Hey, guys,” he said through his yawn.
“Look at you, gorgeous.” Butch sneered at his mussed up hair and wrinkled clothes.
“Go fuck yourself.” Boomer hoisted himself onto a stool at the breakfast bar. He peered blearily over, brightening up a bit as he saw Buttercup cutting brownies.
“Are those pot brownies?” he asked, and Buttercup rolled her eyes and looked skyward.
“Seriously, guys, what the fucking fuck?” she said in disbelief as the rest of the room broke into laughter. The microwave beeped, and Harry stuck a second bag of popcorn in it, then tore open the first and carried it over to the group.
“Here.” Buttercup handed Boomer a piece. “And there's no pot in it.”
“Mmphmrmph.” Boomer's response was muffled by brownie.
“Hey, shouldn't you and Bubbles be hanging out?” Mitch asked.
“They spent enough time together this morning,” Buttercup interrupted before Boomer could respond. “Freaking Siamese twins, those two.”
“What kind of stuff do you guys do?” Lloyd asked, then shut his mouth at the warning glare Buttercup threw his way. She waved a large knife in her hand for emphasis, her glare shifting to Boomer.
Unperturbed by her threat, Boomer swallowed the last of his brownie down and said, “Just hang out and stuff. You know.”
“What kind of stuff?” Floyd pressed.
“I got a shitload of knives over here, and I know how to aim,” Buttercup snarled. “Quit asking personal questions.” She looked at Boomer and added, “Don't you dare tell us anything that I don't wanna hear.”
“We don't—we just hang out, seriously. Like, we go shopping, and—”
“'Shopping?'” Butch's brow wrinkled. “What the fuck for?”
Boomer shrugged. “I dunno... she wanted some new shoes the other day—”
“Wait, what?” Mitch cried. “You went shoe shopping with her? Voluntarily?”
“Brave man.” Buttercup's expression was now one of reverence.
“You shop for panties together, too?” Butch asked. “Since, you know, you wear them now and all?”
A knife went flying at Butch's face, and he caught it by the blade one-handed.
“I'm going to stab you in your sleep, Butch,” Boomer snarled, on his feet and brandishing a second knife in his hand.
Butch was inspecting the knife he'd caught, the blade bloodless and now bent, ruined. “Brick's going to be pissed. Now we need a new one.”
“Who bent it, fucker?” Boomer shot.
“Who threw it, pussy?” Butch shot back.
“Quit your crying and start the movie!” Buttercup snatched up the last four knives out of the knife block and aimed two each in each brother's direction. The non-superbeings ducked for cover. “I didn't come here to listen to you two whine like the bitches you are!”
“He started it!” Butch cried, pointing his knife at Boomer.
“He made fun of Bubbles!” Boomer cried, pointing his knife at Butch.
“You started it,” Buttercup growled, pointing at Butch. “And you were the one being made fun of, not Bubbles,” she grumbled, pointing at Boomer. “Now sit down, shut up, and watch the God damn movie. And eat some brownies and popcorn while you're at it. Anything to keep your mouths busy, because if you start pissing and moaning during the movie, I'm going to make you eat these fucking knives. Literally!”
***
Brick stood back as she examined the piece he'd been looking at. He didn't like how his eyes drifted continuously from the silhouette on the wall to her, so he stepped to the side and just watched as she read the poem to herself.
Her lips—looking exceptionally full and soft in that light—formed the syllables in slow motion, and he thought of the silhouette on the wall (didn't look, no, he wasn't looking at it) and how the man was parting the woman's willing lips for a kiss. He liked the f's and the v's the best, when her teeth appeared, brushing along the swell of her lower lip to form the sound. The o's were good too; her lips came forward, puckered around the vowel like an invitation...
She looked up and he stepped back involuntarily, feeling caught. But she wasn't looking at him.
“Pretty poem,” she said. “A little overly sentimental. This is really something, though.” She indicated the sculpture and the shadow. “Is this what you're going to do your extra credit on?”
He trained his eyes on the light switch on the podium. “Maybe.”
“Did you... did you just get here?”
He glanced at the clock on his cell. He'd been here about an hour. “Um... not quite. Have you been around to see the whole exhibit yet?”
“No, I actually detoured and looked at some of their other exhibits first. I only got here about five minutes ago, so I haven't really looked around yet.”
She was wearing a skirt today—knee length, but it showed enough of those legs of hers to make the length irrelevant. Her top was a plain button-down blouse, nothing to write home about. But she even wore that well. Her ever-present bow adorned her head, canted today at a particularly flattering angle. Brick thought about the paintings he was going to choose from (maybe this sculpture, though) and what his Saturday held for him if he simply called it a day and went back home.
He tried to sound nonchalant. “Well... why don't we, um, go check out the rest of the gallery, then?”
***
Bubbles giggled as she toweled her hair dry. The days where she found herself alone in the house were few and far between. She generally didn't like the emptiness and was prone to feeling lonely, but the day was beautiful and after a pleasant morning of shopping with Boomer (he was so patient!) she had luxuriated in the warmth and comfort of a frothy bubble bath, with no sisters pounding on the door to disturb the peace.
With the tub now drained and her hair damp and smelling of strawberries, she picked out a bright sundress to feel pretty in, then threw the windows wide open. She did likewise downstairs, then, after a thought, cranked up the stereo and popped in a dance-y pop CD. She never got to listen to this stuff at this volume when her family was in the house—the volume gave the Professor and Blossom headaches, and Buttercup would spend so much time criticizing her taste in music that Bubbles, who could be quite sensitive about these things, resigned herself to headphones at home.
She loved hearing her music fill the house, though. It flooded the empty spaces and bounced off the high ceilings with a faint echo, a musical manifestation of her happy mood.
So Bubbles pushed past the faint loneliness at being the sole occupant of the house this afternoon, twirled in her dress as the speakers thrummed, and picked out a cookbook to peruse for dinner options, looking forward to taking full advantage of a house left entirely to herself for the evening.
***
Brick spent another hour at the museum going through an exhibit he'd already been through. He didn't much mind. He'd expected they might run into someone from class, but he didn't see anybody once in the entire two hours he was there.
“Well, the MoCA's pretty far from the school district,” Blossom said. “It's kind of a trek. I heard some folks in class talking about coming earlier today, after breakfast. There's probably going to be a few tomorrow, too.”
“Mm,” Brick said, walking with her. They came to one of his possible paintings. “I like this one.”
“Do you?”
“I don't like that one over there, though.” He pointed at the couch with a lamp post through it. He watched as Blossom, her curiosity piqued, floated over and read the poem.
“May I, said he,” she read. She frowned and looked again at the piece.
Brick came up beside her. “I don't like a lot of modern art like this; it's so pretentious.”
“And degrading,” she muttered, looking at the piece with disgust and approaching it from a completely different angle than Brick. “They turned a mildly humorous poem into sexist garbage.”
A few more pieces and they had gone through the whole gallery. It didn't feel like an hour, Brick thought.
“What piece do you think you'll do yours on?” he asked her as they made their way back into the lobby.
“Oh... I don't know. Maybe that sculpture. The one with the shadow. Or maybe that terrible couch piece, just so I can criticize it.”
Brick glanced at the gift shop—no, that was stupid. He wondered if they should go through the other exhibits... but no, she'd glanced at those already.
What can we do? he thought, his eyes fixed on the floor so he could watch her walk in his peripheral vision. They were already approaching the exit. What should I ask her? What can we go do for the rest of the afternoon?
He didn't once think of not asking her or avoiding her. In the back of his mind he could remember that kid, that Junior, talking to her so easily in English, and then he was thinking of Kris and how boring he'd been, and how she'd been his girlfriend anyway. And now she was here, and they were walking together, and it wasn't like Brick had anything better to do, and she just looked so pretty today...
He heard an intake of breath; she was about to speak and bring this afternoon to a close. But there was still daylight left! They had time! Hours, even.
Brick spoke before she could get a word out. Or, he tried to.
“Hey—” he started, with no idea what he was going to say, but he had inhaled too sharply and the rush of air down his throat sent him into an involuntary coughing fit.
Blossom thumped his back. “Are you okay?”
That was so not cool, he thought miserably to himself as his coughs subsided. Still hoarse, he croaked, “Yeah, just... just thirsty.”
She blinked at him. “Well... there's a really nice coffee shop down the street... I mean, you can probably get water here at the gift shop or something, but...”
She trailed off, pulling away from him a bit and fidgeting with her skirt. Brick rubbed his throat, staring at her and stunned at the sudden opportunity.
“No, I...” He cleared his throat, swallowed. “That sounds fine. The coffee shop, I mean. Where is it?”
“Oh, just down...” Blossom pointed out the doors. “Just... um, I'll show you.”
***
Boomer excused himself two-thirds of the way through the movie and left their complex, wandering outside into the late afternoon sunlight. It wasn't that he didn't enjoy the movie, or the company. But it was weird, sitting there with the rest of No Neck Joe and not... well, it just felt weird, and Boomer got uncomfortable and thought maybe he should leave.
He didn't really have anywhere to go, though. He would've defaulted to a music store or something, but that wasn't really keeping in line with his promise to Bubbles. A promise he felt compelled to keep. He realized she couldn't actually force him to, but it was Bubbles, and he just thought...
He shook his head. Obviously the music store was out. And for all that he was well-liked by a lot of people at school, he didn't have a fallback group to hang out with or call up. Even the group that would invite him and Bubbles out to karaoke didn't really feel like his group.
Lacking other options and partially out of a deep-rooted desire to see her, he called Bubbles.
“Well, hi there, boyfriend.” Even when warped and tinny through a cell phone, she still sounded sweet.
He cleared his throat. “Hi. Um... what are you up to?”
“Just getting ready to make dinner. What about you?”
“Nothing. I was wondering if, um, you were busy or something?”
“Well, Buttercup's out, and so's the Professor. Blossom's been out all day and I haven't heard from her, but I'm assuming she's coming back for dinner.” A pause, then: “Have you eaten yet?”
Boomer thought of the brownies and popcorn he'd had back at his place. “Yeah, but just junk. Not, like, dinner or anything.”
“How about you come over, then?”
His heart swelled at the suggestion, but he gulped at the thought of her dad coming home to find him there...
“Just give it a few; I'll have to power down the Boyfriend Killing Machine—”
“Wh-what?” he squeaked.
“That's not its real name, me and my sisters just call it that.” He could hear her steps echoing in the house, evidently moving towards the control panel, wherever it was. “We didn't realize he had one set up until one of the guys I was dating tried to surprise me by sneaking in and scattering rose petals in my room.” She paused, then, “Poor Sanjay.”
An uncomfortable silence passed. Boomer was about to suggest maybe taking her out instead when she continued, “Anyway, me and Buttercup figured out how to turn it off by spying on him. It's in the garage and he sets it up whenever he leaves the house.” Boomer heard beeping on the other end, then, “Done. It'll need five minutes to power down, but then you can come in, no problem. See you, love you!”
Her sign-off caught him by surprise, and his nervousness was displaced by a surge of feeling for her. “Yeah! Um, yeah.” He swallowed, then mumbled, blushing, “You too.”
***
Is this a date? Blossom thought to herself as she played with her empty teacup and watched Brick ponder over the meager food offerings by the register. They'd been here for over an hour, not including the time at the museum.
This kinda feels like a date.
She would have been lying if she'd denied any interest in having a drink with Brick. Walking through the museum had felt a lot like that week of doing homework at his place—a little awkward, yes, but full of... promise.
They had school, so they talked about that until the subject had exhausted itself (though she didn't ask, what had he learned growing up, how had he gotten an education?). That was followed by a long stretch of awkward silence, during which Blossom tried to figure out the most casual way to bring up that guy... Smith, that was who Brick had mentioned before. She could've plunged headfirst into it and just asked, but she knew Brick would close up immediately, and possibly leave. She wasn't ready for that just yet.
No, she'd thought as her eyes had traced the outline of his jaw, his neck, his broad shoulder as the fabric of his shirt shifted against it when he moved. Not just yet.
Now he was standing at the counter, his gaze passing over muffins and cookies and other pastries. When he'd gotten up he'd asked if she'd wanted anything.
“Another tea would be nice,” she'd said, and it wasn't until he'd already risen out of his chair and moved to the counter that she'd realized she hadn't given him any money for it.
She reached for her purse and paused. It would look so weird if she went up there to give him money for it now! Besides, he hadn't asked. Was he covering her? Wouldn't that really make it a date? Then again, it was just a cup of tea, barely three dollars. She wasn't sure how this worked; she'd only dated Kris, and not for that long. Maybe she'd just try to pay him back when he sat back down. At least make the offer, or something.
He reappeared at the side of their table, placing her tea in front of her. She already had her wallet out of her purse and in her hand, and snapped it open.
“Here—”
Brick's hand closed the flap of her wallet down, where the snap button's click seemed to echo in Blossom's head. His hand had alighted on top of hers; her skin tingled where he touched her, and she felt a sudden heat rise to her face.
“Don't worry about it.” His voice sent a shiver through her body, amplified by their slight contact, and she hastily pulled her wallet away and busied herself with stuffing it back into her purse.
“Thank you,” she said, suppressing a wince at the meekness of her voice.
“It's nothing.” He settled back into his chair. “So... Agnes Grey? You're a Brontë fan?”
“Huh?”
“Isn't that what you're doing your essay on?”
“Oh! Oh, yeah. I mean, I haven't actually decided yet. I was just reading it for fun.” She sugared her tea and stirred. “I like Anne. I don't care much for her sisters' work.”
“I'll be honest.” He laughed, almost apologetic. “I don't read chick lit books.”
A tiny surge of irritation shot through her. “I wouldn't call classics of English literature 'chick lit.'”
“Oh, come on,” he said, brushing it off. “It's totally proto-chick lit. Romance, dashing suitors—”
“I might grant you Wuthering Heights and Jane Eyre could certainly be viewed as such, but Anne's works are a different story. Hers were much more like Jane Austen's than either of her sisters'.”
“Austen's like the queen of proto-chick lit—”
“What about you?” she interrupted. “Are you picking something by Camus?”
“What makes you say that?”
She shrugged. “You seem to like his stuff.”
He chewed on this for a minute, during which the girl behind the counter brought him a slice of cheesecake, warmed on a plate with two forks. Blossom took one automatically.
“I do,” he said. “Don't know if I'll do the essay on something of his, though. What made you think I'm a fan?”
“That was how you got into AP English, wasn't it? I was there when Mr. Bean came gushing to Mrs. Yang. Also, I saw him on the shelves in your room. You know, when you were sick.”
“Perceptive of you.”
“What do you like about him? Are you an absurdist?” Not that she was trying to ascribe a deeper meaning to Brick's affinity for Camus, but in a weird way she thought it might fit.
“I wouldn't say I'm as much of an absurdist as I am a fan of absurdist literature.”
“Do you...” Blossom thought back to the words he'd scribbled in that collection of essays. I think my life is of great importance, but I also think it is meaningless.
His eyes were lifted, waiting for her to go on. She wanted to ask: Did he really think his life was meaningless? But it seemed such an odd question to just come up, and heavy besides.
Unable to continue, she took a forkful of cheesecake, then realized she'd just dug into Brick's food without even asking.
“Oh my God,” she said, muffled, dropping her fork onto a napkin and flushing scarlet. “I... oh, God, I'm sorry! It was just there, I wasn't even thinking! I won't take another bite, I swear—”
He was laughing, amused at her flustered reaction. “Chill! It's fine. I don't... I don't mind sharing. If you're that hungry, I mean.”
She swallowed her bite, her guilt dissipating as she watched him take a bite for himself, from the other end of the slice. He nudged the plate towards her.
“I don't mind,” he said around the fork in his mouth, staring at the plate. His voice sounded odd, a little strained, even. “It's not a big deal. I don't mind sharing it with you.”
***
“Okay, I'm turning around,” Buttercup said, her face bright red and her expression pained as she acted on her promise. “This is, like, the most awkward sex scene ever. Somebody mute it.”
“Have you seen Oldboy before, Buttercup?” Harry asked.
“No.”
“Fuck, if you think it's awkward now...” Butch muttered, muting it for her benefit.
“Hey!” the twins protested. “Don't kill the sound!”
“They're fucking subtitles, dumbasses,” Butch said. “Like you understand Korean!”
“Is it over yet?” Buttercup asked.
“Yeah, it's over,” Butch said, and she turned around. It was not over.
“Butch, you prick, you suck,” she snapped, whipping back around and flinging a pillow blindly over her shoulder. It whacked Mitch in the head.
“Ow!”
“Sorry, Mitch.” She raised her voice over Butch's laughter. “Butch, you fucking prick. You fucking God damn prick.”
“It's over now, for real,” he choked out through his laughter.
“Is that fucker telling the truth?” she asked the rest of the room.
“Yes,” the rest of the room said.
She turned around, then yelped and twisted back towards the wall as the guys exploded into laughter.
“I hate you all!” she screeched, flinging pillows off the couch and every which way behind her. The guys scrambled to save their food and drinks, still chortling. “You all suck! I know where you fuckers live, seriously! I'll burn in hell before I ever watch another movie with you guys!”
***
Boomer sipped at the lemonade Bubbles had poured for him when he'd arrived. He was leaning on the counter, transfixed by his girlfriend as she bounced around the kitchen, singing and dancing along to the music spilling out of the stereo in the living room. She had a really nice dress on—seriously, it was adorable—and every time she twirled the skirt of it flew up, exposing a great deal of thigh. She'd tied an apron over the dress, and Boomer found himself sighing over the littlest details, like how she wiped her hands on the apron, or how she kept adjusting the strap around her neck, or how she played with the tiny ribbons on the pockets as she mouthed the recipe to herself, brow furrowed in concentration while she read.
She turned to him. “I hope you don't mind being vegan for one night.”
The ice in his glass clattered as he set it down on the counter. “Um, no. It's okay.”
She beamed at him. “Good.” Turning back to the cookbook, she started to twirl a strand of her hair—freshly washed and slightly wavy as it dried. “Just so you know, I'm doing a pasta salad—really simple, and the colors are so pretty...”
“Uh huh,” he said, sliding his glass back and forth on the counter.
“You know, I don't think I've ever had a boyfriend over here for dinner.” She giggled. “It's neat!”
The smile she was throwing his way was the sort that men killed other men over. Boomer twitched a glazed and distracted smile back at her, feeling nothing but a soul-deep affection as he did so.
The music in the living room moved into the next track, and her eyes lit up. “Omigosh! I love this song!” She started grooving a little, da da da'ing the musical accompaniment before the lyrics started up, and her lighthearted cheerfulness was so inspiring, so infectious, that Boomer laughed and moved into the kitchen with her, snatching up a couple of utensils and tapping a beat out on the counter as he joined in the singing. She didn't notice—neither of them did, at first—until he moved up a fifth and started harmonizing. It was then she stopped and stared at him, the glow in her expression subsiding.
Boomer's voice faltered, and he stilled the impromptu drumsticks in his hands, remembering his promise to her. The music trilled on, its bright, predictable melody now obnoxious and overbearing.
Boomer lowered the ladle and spatula he'd grabbed, and stammered, “S-sorry. Sorry. I wasn't... I wasn't thinking—”
“No, I wasn't either.” She lifted her feet and started floating towards the living room. “You know, I'll just go turn it off—”
“No, wait, you don't have to—I won't start that up again, I'll just keep my mouth shut—”
“It's okay, it's the last track anyway,” she called back.
“Really, Bubbles, let it—”
The stereo died, and he trailed off. He sighed, tossed the utensils on the table, and trudged back to his original spot, where his glass—now filled with half-melted, lemonade-flavored ice—dripped a pool of condensation onto the counter.
***
“I still can't believe you don't dream,” Blossom said, shaking her head.
“No, I do dream. The difference is I'm aware of when I am.”
“How did that whole thing start? How old did you say you were?”
His lips puckered a bit in thought; Blossom's eye was drawn to the movement of his mouth. “I think eleven or twelve.”
She recalled a fragment of a previous conversation. “Around the time you left Him?”
A part of her almost regretted asking. He paused, the openness of his expression closing off very slightly. “Yes.”
He's going to leave, she realized, almost floored by the disappointment. I've done it now.
“I guess I just felt... better, when we did,” he went on, surprising her. “As if everything... as if my life was finally my own. And I guess it was such a huge life adjustment for me that it leaked into my dreams.”
“You still lucid dream? Even now?”
“Haven't stopped.”
“Mmm.” She stared at the lip of her teacup. How many cups had she drunk? How many cups of coffee had he had? That was a lot of caffeine; they'd had to temper the effects with food and water, so the table was littered with empty plates and two half-finished bottles of water. He'd paid for almost everything; she'd bought the waters.
Guess I'm not eating dinner tonight. After the cheesecake, they'd shared five more snack-y things from behind the counter.
A light snicker drew her attention, and she looked at him. “What?”
“You just,” he started, then he laughed a little more fully and tried again. “You just got this look on your face that said something like, 'Oh my God, it's getting late,' or, 'I've ruined my dinner,' or something else equally goody-goody.”
She felt her face flush at the comment, a reflexive reaction thanks to Buttercup's barbed admonitions of Blossom's Goody-Two-Shoes inclinations growing up.
Brick read her expression like a book. “Obviously you get that a lot,” he jibed, and she actually blushed more. The blushing was mostly brought on by her embarrassment, but a part of her reaction was also thanks to that teasing smile on Brick's face, a smile that she wasn't used to receiving without malice behind it. It struck her that yes, it was late (she'd left the house at two, and here it was just past seven), she had ruined her dinner, she hadn't started her extra credit like she'd originally planned, she hadn't even called home to tell them where she was... all because of her reluctance to leave the boy sitting across from her now.
“Actually, Blossom,” he said, and the sound of her name on his lips sent a strange, invigorating shudder down her spine. “What is the most rebellious thing you've done? Ever?”
It took her a moment to process the question, though once she had it wasn't any easier to answer. In a panic she racked her brain for something... she knew there were things she'd done, bad things, things that went against that Goody-Two-Shoes image, but the question had caught her off guard and she couldn't call any of it to mind.
Brick was smirking at her. “Can't think of anything, can you?”
“There're things,” she said, a little defensively. “I just... I just can't think of it, but I know—”
“I guess you kissing Kris at Prom counts,” he said, and hot shame flooded through Blossom at the mere mention of it. “No one expected you to do that.”
She looked down and clenched a napkin in her lap, wanting to shred it. Suddenly memories spilled over in her mind, and she looked up at Brick, almost triumphant.
“I beat Mojo Jojo up for candy,” she said, a little breathlessly. “I let our dad steal toys for us when he was sleepwalking. I stole an expensive set of golf clubs for him.” She blinked; there was more—
“A regular Bonnie Parker, aren't you?” he said, and she wished she would stop getting that shiver every time he spoke, every time he looked at her. And—she realized this with a twisted thrill—Brick would not stop looking at her. His last comment... kinda indicated this was flirting. This was flirting, wasn't it? He was flirting with her! Was he doing it intentionally? Was he trying to freak her out? Or—and the thought surged through her, a current of hope that she couldn't shoot down—was he just doing so, unawares, unplanned, simply because he wanted to flirt with her?
They'd been here for hours, after all. Again the question Is this a date? crossed her mind, again that raw hope flared in her chest, beating its insufferable little wings against her ribcage.
“So, Miss Parker,” he went on (A nickname, she thought despairingly, He just gave me a nickname), “you're a fine dancer. Ever been clubbing?”
She blinked in surprise. “What? No, of course not. I'm underage.”
“Ah. Right.” He settled back, a knowing smile on his face, as if he'd expected the answer.
She sputtered a bit, then added loftily, “And that aside, no one's ever asked me—”
“Want to?” he asked, and her heart rocketed into her throat. The smile had disappeared from his face. He looked almost forcedly neutral. There had been no teasing element to his voice when he'd said it—and he'd said it so casually!—and even his eyes weren't glittering with telltale mischief. No, he'd just asked her. Simply, casually. And now he was watching her, his eyes lifted in question, waiting for her answer.
She swallowed, trying to think, trying to weigh her options (What answer is there but NO?! screamed her head, and yet another voice cried, But, but, and keened at the hours they had shared together today, the conversation, the lack of fighting and insults).
And all the while, Brick waited for her to make her decision, trying to—through sheer mindpower—will his heart to stop railing inside the cavity of his chest, fearful that the deafening jackhammer beat of it would reach her and give every last bit of him away.
***
part 1
part 2
part 3
part 4
part 5
Title: More Than Human
Chapter 9: Monday Broke My Heart, or Everybody Knows You Cried Last Night
Pairing: RrB/PpG
Rating: R/M, because they're teenagers and a good handful of them use terrible, filthy language.
Disclaimer: Pay your respect to Craig, not me.
Summary: There is no way I can make this sound original, ever. My attempt to write a believable RrB/PpG in high school fic. Nobody realizes that some people expend tremendous energy merely to be normal. – Camus
Notes: Thanks to
mathkid and juxtaposie who are the best. Around. Nothing's ever gonna keep 'em down.More Than Human, Pt. 2 – Senior Fall Semester
September – Monday Broke My Heart, or Everybody Knows You Cried Last Night
-sbj-
Boomer acted funny for about a week after that, though he wouldn't tell his brothers what was up. Brick didn't seem too concerned; he was preoccupied with practicing with Blossom, which consumed his early mornings and afternoons, sometimes well into the evening. It bothered Butch, even though he tried not to let it.
Buttercup, having had two weeks now to get over her initial anger at him, was finally starting to calm down. She still made threatening gestures towards his lower half if he got too close or talked too much, but at least he could enter her line of eyesight now and actually talk to her without encouraging her to smash his potential future children in.
Even Butch could admit to himself that he deserved it. If anything, he liked getting what he deserved. Except, of course, when it came to brothers stealing girlfriends—never mind that Blossom hadn't been nor was ever going to be his girlfriend, and Brick still claimed he hated her guts—but honestly, despite what he thought? Butch would have deserved this kind of treatment anyway.
After an easygoing lacrosse practice he went home to shower. Buttercup wasn't out of practice just yet, but she might be free afterwards if she wasn't cooking, and Butch had been encouraged by the fact that he'd been able to make a rude joke around her today—not about her, of course; he had to work back up to that—and avoid another kick to the nads. As he got out of the shower he wondered how much Chemical X helped with nad regeneration. Maybe Brick would know. Butch snickered to himself at the phrase he'd unwittingly created in his head.
“Nad regeneration,” he muttered to himself, amused. He wandered around his room, looking for a fresh set of clothes. Shit. Was he out of jeans? He was out of jeans. Grumbling, he located a pair of boxers and rummaged around his mess of a bed for a clean shirt. Something rolled out, bouncing onto the carpet, and as Butch tugged his shirt on he peered at it, frowning.
The memory came to him; it was the album he'd borrowed from Mitch, with a very special bonus disc inside.
He picked it up, a few drops of water dripping onto the case from his wet hair, and he shook his head vigorously, pushing his hair back away from his face. Fuck, it was getting long. He didn't mind long hair, but Brick tended to grow his hair out. That made Butch dislike it on principle.
He wiped the water off the beat up plastic with his shirt, then opened it and extracted his disc from behind the real CD. He examined the track listing of the album while waiting for his computer to power up, then tossed it back on the bed, deciding he really couldn't give a fuck.
Penny, bless that woman's heart, had given all three of the Boys a password hack program, and Butch copied the disc's contents to his desktop before running the program on the folder which contained what Butch could only assume was Mitch's Happy Time collection. The program started scanning for the password, and Butch watched for about a minute as it did its thing. Then, bored—it'd probably be going for awhile—he got up, located his phone, and dialed Buttercup's number.
It rang until her voicemail picked up. “Hey, it's Buttercup. Um, I'm busy, I guess, so leave me a message and if you don't suck I'll call you back.”
After it beeped Butch said, “Hey, motherfucker, what's up? Yours truly. Give me a call, I'm bored out of my—”
His computer chirped, indicating the program was done, and he turned, shocked. That fast? Huh.
“Out of my skull,” he continued into his phone as he approached his computer. “So give me a...”
He trailed off, catching sight of the password the program had discovered.
Buttercup.
He furrowed his brow and fumbled for his chair, then remembered he was on the phone. “Um, call me,” he said, then ended the call. He pulled his chair up and hovered his mouse over the Continue button. After a second's contemplation, he clicked.
The folder flooded with thumbnails, and Butch watched the number climb in the corner of the window until it stopped at five hundred and twenty-seven files. His eyes widened. Had Mitch taken pictures of Buttercup when they were...?
He scanned through them. No. Nothing indecent. They were just regular photos. Bummer. It would've been great to find something to blackmail her with.
He drew his feet up on his chair, studying his desktop. Then he clicked on the first photo.
Scrolling through the first half, Butch gathered that part of it covered roughly ten years—it contained younger stuff, like a scanned photo of their Kindergarten class, with Buttercup and Mitch making faces at the camera, the only blemishes in a class full of smiling students. He'd forgotten what Buttercup had looked like as a kid—not that she looked that much different now, but the sight of her five-year-old self brought on a dim collection of memories. He remembered punching that face when it was snarling at his, the way it had spat insults at him, snapped angrily, even sneered when she'd landed a good blow. The ones that followed were from various stages of adolescent life. Soccer games, parties, general dicking around. Butch could see a clear progression of time throughout them. He shifted uncomfortably; the feeling he'd gotten when he'd watched her sing on stage last month welled up again now. But he didn't stop.
One of these wasn't a photo, but a video file. Butch clicked it open and played it.
Grainy laughter spilled out of his speakers; it was a group vid of Buttercup and the guys, sitting and laughing in the parking lot of a Malph's at night. Buttercup was standing in the well of a shopping cart, weaving as she tried to keep it in place. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and she looked about fifteen, maybe sixteen tops.
“Dude, you're so gonna fall,” Harry's voice crackled.
“Wanna bet?” Buttercup laughed.
“Harry, if I could do it, what makes you think Buttercup couldn't?” This was Mitch's voice; he was manning the camera.
“Hey, hey, hey, look guys. Look.” Buttercup was waving them around, waving at Mitch to bring his camera closer. “Okay. This is my impression of Harry.” She looked right into the camera, snorting with laughter. She took a second to compose herself, then inhaled and said in a deep, mocking voice, with her hands waving on either side of her head, “I AM A VAGINA.”
The group exploded into raucous guffaws, Buttercup included. Butch even gave a perfunctory snort himself. Only Harry's voice was humorless as he snarked against the joke.
“Real funny, guys! Really fucking hilarious! I'm laughing my ass off! Ha!”
Buttercup cackled as she sat on the edge of the cart, but too hard; it overbalanced and the end toppled over, taking Buttercup with it down to the asphalt.
Harry's voice sounded again, “Dude! What the hell did I tell you? I so called it!”
This only inspired another furious round of laughter, and soon enough Harry had joined in.
“Oh my God, I'm crying,” Floyd—or was it Lloyd?—said, punctuating his announcement with a sniffle and a theatrical wiping of tears. “I'm crying, guys, holy shit.”
The camera turned to Buttercup, crawling out from under the cart, still giggling.
“I so told you you were going to fall—”
“Shut up, queef,” Buttercup said, and Mitch laughed, catching her attention. She turned her face to the camera and grinned, her eyes darting back and forth from the ground to the camera as she sat up. Her ponytail had fallen out after her spill; a light breeze pushed her now loose hair into her face, and she brushed it back, still smiling to cam.
The laughter cut off as the vid stopped there, on Buttercup's beaming expression, with a hand in her hair to hold it back. Butch's gaze lingered on the image for awhile before continuing on.
That was the last of the first half. The entire second half of the folder, he realized, was from the short three months Buttercup and Mitch had spent together as a couple.
He was a little surprised at how different Buttercup looked with long hair. It seemed so impractical for a girl like her. Butch took his time, studying these semi-recent photos more closely. There were a few group shots of Buttercup and the boys, some of Buttercup and Mitch here and there, but for the most part, they were all her. The photos covered a wide array of her expressions. Butch spent less time on the ones he was familiar with—where she looked sullen and irritated. They were of less interest to him.
There was one of her holding the very bass guitar that he'd seen in Mitch's room, her eyes intent and focused on whatever she was playing. There was another of her leaning back, legs askew on the trailer’s steps—a downshot, taken from the front door behind her, with her head tilting up and back and a wild grin on her face. Butch paused for a long time on a closeup shot of Buttercup asleep on Mitch’s bed (fully clothed), her long hair smooth and dripping black off the pillow, looking way too peaceful for Buttercup. There was another video, but Butch skipped over it.
It just felt really sad.
Buttercup. Buttercup. Buttercup. One after another after another.
In the skate park. At the convenience store late at night. In Mitch’s room again, shy and hiding the smile on her face with one hand as she indicated the “MITCH ROCKS” shirt she was wearing with the other.
We never did anything like that. Mitch was a fucking liar.
Butch stopped on the last one, face stony as he contemplated it. She was in Mitch's room. He recognized the posters in the background, the stacks of CDs and magazines on the floor, the rumpled bed. All that was blurry. It called even more attention to her, her top half framed dead center. Her long hair was a little messy, a few strands of it drifting across her face—Butch imagined she probably hated having it so long, but what did he know? She certainly didn't look unhappy. The small smile on her face said so. And that face…
Butch didn’t know how to place it. She looked happy and sad all at once. She looked like something warm from her chest was spilling out into her expression, softening her eyes, her smile. She looked so at peace, so content, so deliriously and unabashedly in love that it scared her and all she could manage was that tiny, tiny smile.
She was looking right at the camera like that. Just like that.
In the end, I really, really…
It wasn’t just the impractical long hair that made her look different. This Buttercup… all these Buttercups… didn’t exist anymore. For Butch, they’d never existed at all. It was like that night he had watched her sing, growing more uncomfortable and distanced the more she loosened up, the more she faded back into the person she’d been before her haircut, her breakup. Before him.
He remembered the video he'd skipped over, and scrolled back to it. This looked like it was only of her, and he clicked it open just as his phone rang. It startled him, and in his haste to answer it he unintentionally clicked the mouse button, causing the vid to play just as he answered his phone.
“Hello?” he said, as Buttercup's voice started echoing out of his speakers. He turned back to his desktop and hissed, “Shit!”
“Butch, it's me,” Buttercup said, then paused. Butch tapped the spacebar frantically, but he had inadvertently clicked off the window, so the video didn't pause. “What's that?”
“What's what?” he said as he grabbed his mouse and stopped the video.
“Are you watching a movie or something?”
“Just channel surfing. So what's up?”
“Got your call. Hey, I can't hang out or anything tonight.”
“Oh...” He stared at the long-haired Buttercup smiling at him from his computer screen. “Well, that's alright.”
“Yeah, maybe tomorrow or something.” He tried to reconcile that careless voice with the happy girl onscreen, a Slurpee in her hand. “Hey, is everything okay?”
He jerked to a little. “Huh? Yeah, what? What makes you ask?”
“Naw, man, your message was a little weird. That's all. Like you forgot you were on the phone towards the end of it.” A pause, then, “Everything okay?”
He looked away from the screen to his bare knee. “Yeah. Yeah, it's okay.”
“Were you stoned or something?”
“No, just...” He glanced up again at his screen, looking at her. “I just got distracted.”
“Yeah? Well, alright. I'll see you tomorrow.”
“Yeah, sounds good,” he said, and hit the button to end the call. He settled back in his seat, staring at her name on the tiny screen. Finally he set it back down on his desk, his gaze drifting back to his computer monitor and the frozen image of Buttercup. He pulled the little playbar back to the beginning and started it over.
“—Just not my thing, that's all,” Buttercup was saying as she lifted the straw to her lips and sipped. She looked at the camera—at Mitch. “You carry that thing around a lot these days, you know?”
The camera wobbled a bit; Mitch had shrugged. “What about it?”
“I just wanna make sure my head's not gonna wind up on some naked lady pictures or something,” she joked. “Lots of creepy fucks on the internet, you know.”
“Come on, not my style. You know me.”
“Ha.” Buttercup sipped at her drink again.
“Your tongue's turned blue.”
“Is that right?” Buttercup stuck her tongue out to the camera, curling it.
“Yeah.”
“Shit, I've only taken, like, five sips.” She brought the plastic cup up to eye level, as if she could decipher its mysteries by staring at it.
“Buttercup, you'd look good in a dress.”
She rolled her eyes as she sipped again. “I told you, it just isn't my thing.”
“You wore a dress when we were kids.”
“Yeah, we all start out young and stupid, don't we?”
“I think you'd look nice.”
She glanced at the camera askance, sipping a long time before pulling her lips away from the straw and saying quietly, “Yeah, well, you? You're biased.”
“I guess.”
They were approaching a bus stop; Buttercup hopped up on the bench and pretended to walk along it like a balance beam before hopping off the other end.
Mitch spoke up again. “Hey, so Prom.”
She threw the camera a funny look, clearly amused. “Right after we skipped Homecoming? You're already thinking about Prom?”
“Yeah, well, it got me thinking.”
“About dresses,” she snorted, sobering. After a while she said, “So you're saying I don't look good otherwise, huh?”
“That is not what I'm saying.”
“You're trying to get me to wear a dress because you don't want to go to Prom with an ugly dyke like me.”
“Bullshit. Cut that out.”
She flipped her hair back. “I'm just telling it like it is.”
“I think you're gorgeous. You're gorgeous now. You're gorgeous all the time. You'd look gorgeous in a trash bag. Hell, you'd even look gorgeous in a dress.”
Buttercup stared at the ground. It was hard to tell, with her face tilted down and her hair masking it, but anyone with an eye could tell she was blushing.
“Sure you're not mixing me up with Blossom there, are you?” she murmured, then sipped at her Slurpee again.
“Shut up. You're the most beautiful girl I've ever seen.” The urgency in his voice made it obvious. Mitch meant it.
Buttercup looked at the camera, her eyes soft, almost sad, but that smile was on her face, that tiny, scared, and yet deliriously happy smile that lit up her expression, made it almost shine in the dark. Mitch was right. She was...
She looked away, then looked back again, smiling a little more fully at camera now. She was also blushing something fierce.
“Hey. Put that thing down for a second.”
“Huh?”
“Put it down.” She stooped to set her Slurpee down on the sidewalk.
“Why?” Mitch asked as she reached for the camera. The angle tilted, and her face slid out of sight. The camera was facing down now, trying to focus on their shoes.
The blurry image wobbled as their hands fumbled on the camera. “So I can kiss you, stupid,” Buttercup's voice whispered, and then the video stopped.
Butch stared at the screen, his jaw sore. He'd been clenching it; he hadn't even realized. He looked back at the album he'd thrown on his bed, the one he'd hidden the disc in. He'd thought it'd have porn on it. He felt cheated, angry. It'd have been better if there'd been porn on it.
Fucking Mitch.
Lacking something better to do, he tabbed through a few of the photos again. Yeah. Porn would've been better. It would've been a lot better.
He'd never seen her smile the way she was smiling in some of these photos, particularly the ones from when she and Mitch were together. He'd never have expected she could look like that. Like someone happy instead of someone mean, or condescending, or so over everything, seriously.
He hesitated on a photo of her, leaning over so her hair fell along either side of her face, framing it. Suddenly Butch hated her with long hair. Really hated it. He'd only mildly disliked it before, but no, it looked awful. Short hair was way better on her.
He came again to the video, the one of her by herself, clutching her Slurpee and smiling at the camera. Smiling at Mitch.
Butch stared at her, letting the image soak into his brain, into his memory. It would be a false one. It wasn't his; he hadn't been there. He hadn't been there for any of these. He stared and stared, drilling that expression, that smile into his brain until it burned, and then he clicked his mouse button.
“—Just not my thing, that's all,” Buttercup said, and she raised her Slurpee to her lips and sipped, her tongue curled and stained blue.
***
“So Faust thinks this one should be just us.” Blossom pointed at a track on the back of the CD case.
“Really?” Brick peered at it. “It's got a lot of energy; it'd be good for a group—”
“She was talking to Jim and they both reached some sort of conclusion about turning it into a ballroom dance.”
“So she's turning that one over to Jim now?”
“I guess.” Blossom set it down, shrugging. “Anyway.”
“I mean, if they want to, okay. Doesn't affect the stuff we have to do.”
Someone knocked on the doorframe of the otherwise empty studio, and they both looked up to find Robin standing there.
“Hey, losers.”
“Robin!” Blossom stood up and hugged her. “I'm sorry I haven't seen you—”
“I've been busy, too,” Robin said, smiling. “Lots of StuCo stuff going on. Hey, I just wanted to tell you guys—Bubbles said I'd find you here—I'm throwing a party at the end of the month. And you.” She pointed at Blossom here. “You have no excuse to not come, since we live right next door to each other.” Robin turned to Brick. “You and your brothers can come, too. As long as you can keep Butch from breaking something.”
The invitation took Brick by surprise. He blinked and said, “Uh, sure.”
“Very cool.” Robin clapped her hands. “Alright, I'll leave you guys to it.”
Blossom waved at her friend as she left, then stayed standing, glancing down at Brick. She began to play with her hands.
“So... do you want to get started?”
He reached for the CD and grunted as he stood. “Yeah. Sure.”
“Which one should we work on?”
Brick scanned the track listing on the back. It was too bad Jim hadn't started choreographing the ballroom piece yet. It'd be nice to work on that one with her.
He shook his head and cleared his throat, then picked a safer one, one that didn't involve them being too close or touching too much.
“Here. This one. Let's do this one.”
***
“Robin is throwing a party!” Bubbles called out to Buttercup long before she bounded up to her. Buttercup looked up from where she was conversing with the guys—sans Butch—in the atrium.
“Yeah?”
“In two weeks,” Bubbles said as Boomer came up beside her. “Or, end of the month. End of the month is in two weeks, right?”
“Give or take,” Buttercup said.
“Oh, Boomer.” Floyd reached into his bag. “I gotta give these back to you.”
He pulled out the albums he'd borrowed from Boomer and held them out to him. Boomer stared at them for a second before taking them and flipping through them.
“Thanks, Floyd,” he said, his voice quiet.
An awkward silence settled over the group.
“You guys, um,” Boomer tried, then started again. “You guys found anyone else for the band?”
“Naw, I think we're quittin'.”Mitch shrugged.
Boomer looked up, stunned. “You're kidding.”
“Well, Senior year and all, I mean, we're all kinda busy...”
Boomer still looked as if he'd been sucker punched in the gut. Bubbles noticed his expression and began to pull him away.
“Hey, we'll see you guys later.”
“Wait,” Harry called as Bubbles and Boomer started down the hall. “Does that invite to Robin's party stand for us guys, too?”
“Yep,” Robin said, striding past them. “Hey, Buttercup.”
“Yo.” Buttercup waved at her friend's back, spotting Butch at the doors. “Hey, there's that fucker.”
Butch saw them and floated up, yawning. “Hey.”
Buttercup took in his sleepy eyes. “You look tired.”
“Hm. Makes sense. Feel pretty tired.”
“What's up with that?”
“Was on my computer too long last night,” he muttered, glancing at Mitch. The twins were standing between him and Buttercup. “Um... what's up?”
“You barely made the bell, I think,” Buttercup said, and right on cue the bell rang.
“Well, see you guys at lunch,” Harry said. “Except for you, Buttercup.”
“Fuck you early lunch guys,” she said. “Late lunch is where the cool kids hang out.”
The guys rolled their eyes. Before Mitch could leave, Butch dug out his album and handed it over.
“Oh, yeah, man,” Mitch said, eyeing it. “Did you like it? I've got more of their stuff, if you're interested.”
“It was alright,” Butch muttered. “Not really my thing.”
“Okay. See you.” Mitch turned to Buttercup. “Later, Buttercup.”
“Bye,” she said, and Butch watched them both as Mitch turned away and started down the hall.
Stupid. Their voices still went soft when they talked to each other, their gazes held just a little longer than necessary. They were still in love with each other and didn't even fucking know it.
Idiots, Butch thought viciously to himself as Buttercup shouldered her bag and glanced at him. Fucking stupid idiots.
“Hey,” she said, jarring him from his thoughts. “You're really out of it this morning.”
He stared at her a second before saying gruffly, “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” She started walking, then paused when Butch didn't follow. “You coming or what?”
“What?”
“Gym, you dumbass,” she sighed, giving him a look. “Obviously we're not in the same class, but fuck, we're headed in the same direction.” She jerked her head. “Come on. Let's go.”
She started off again, her head still turned and watching him. Butch felt his feet move on their own, jogging to catch up.
“Lay off the weed, man,” she said under her breath as they walked. “I think you're killing brain cells.”
Butch thought of telling her he hadn't smoked a damn thing. “Yeah.”
***
Brick was kind of relieved when Friday arrived. Not that his week was going terribly at all—last week was another story; he'd brooded about the confrontation with Mojo for days—but it was still a relief to know the weekend would soon be upon them.
He stared off into space as he sketched out ideas for his sculpture, glancing at Bubbles' empty seat. She was at home again, doing her Independent Study work from there. There was something odd about the room when she was gone; it was less interesting, less friendly. He actually felt a little bored when she wasn't around.
Julie, who was seated next to Bubbles' empty seat, caught him staring and said, “She says it's too big to work on at the school.”
“Is her place really any bigger?”
“She cleared out a room, I think. At least, that's what she told me.”
“Mm,” Brick intoned, and went back to sketching. He was grateful for when the bell finally rang, but there was still lunch, and then English. He could skip, probably, but Blossom was in English and... yeah.
He went out cruising around in his car during lunch and came back in time for his last class. The passing period was already underway, and he slipped through the crowds of students to his English class. Blossom was already there, and she glanced up from her book as he came in. He tried to take his time getting over there.
“Hey,” he said as he sank into his seat.
“Hi,” she said, and went back to her book.
The bell rang, and Mrs. Yang said, “Okay, guys, everyone brought their books, right? We're just free reading today because I've still got papers to grade.”
“If it's free reading could we just leave?” one of the students asked.
“Who was that? John? Stacy, hit John for me.”
There was a whack, followed by a subdued, “Ow.”
“Thank you. No, you cannot, because as far as I'm concerned I'm just giving you class time to continue prepping for your essay. You're comparing a theme in a book of your choice to two other books on this semester's class reading list. Since I know most of you will be scrambling to finish this thing at five AM the day it's due, I'm offering you the opportunity to have at least a little more read before the eleventh hour is here. Don't try my patience.”
Dim, murmuring chatter swelled as they pulled out their reading material. Brick glanced at Blossom, who looked away from him and back to her book.
“By the way, I almost forgot. The Museum of Contemporary Art has an E. E. Cummings exhibit in town featuring art inspired by the poet. If you drop by and can do a quick one page comparative essay on the art piece to the poem that inspired it, I'll bump your lowest grade up by one to ten points, based on how well it's written. Due Tuesday.” She pulled out her gradebook and papers. “Now get to work.”
***
Brick should've expected to see her there.
He hadn't been sure he'd go. But his Saturday was crawling, he was bored, and because he had nothing better to do he kept thinking back to the conversation he'd had with Mojo.
Even before he and his brothers had left Him, they'd never heard anything about their “destiny” or the like. Sure, they'd been created to destroy the Girls, so in a way that had been their destiny. But it'd always been treated as just a goal, a mission. If there was a greater plan in place and it was “meant to be,” why hadn't that been mentioned until now? And for Mojo Jojo to bring it up... that implied some sort of great spiritual thing going on there that even a man—well, monkey—of science wouldn't dismiss with logic and reasoning.
Mojo Jojo had always wanted to destroy the Powerpuff Girls and rule the world. Why would he now—suddenly, upon being confronted with the Boys' return—tell Brick that it was actually their duty in life—their destiny—to destroy the Girls?
Brick mulled over it until his head was sick with brooding. That was when he decided to head to the MoCA Townsville and check out the Cummings exhibit.
He wasn't big on poetry, but the exhibit was interesting. A lot of it felt pretentious in the way that most modern art did. He stared at a couch with a lamppost through it for about five minutes, trying to figure out what the hell it was saying, and finally realized it was about fucking. Well, that was stupid. He didn't even bother reading the poem for that one.
There were others, though—paintings, sculptures, even interactive pieces that were really well done. After he was about two thirds through the exhibit he thought he had a good idea of what he might do his extra credit on—it was between two paintings, both pretty abstract—and turned down the last darkened hall.
It was spotlit, so his eye was drawn to it fairly quickly, despite it being smaller than many pieces it shared the space with. It was a gnarled little metal sculpture; he couldn't figure out what it was. He read the first few lines of the poem to try and put it in context.
since feeling is first
who pays any attention
to the syntax of things
will never wholly kiss you;
Brick stopped after that, because he noticed a switch on a panel next to the poem, level with that line. After a moment, he flicked it.
The spotlight flicked off, and a smaller spotlight he hadn't noticed on the podium where the sculpture rested illuminated it, projecting its shadow against the wall. He blinked, his eyes darting from the twisted mass of metal and the shadow of two people it created when it was lit in just the right way.
His eyes traced the silhouette of a man and woman, lying together, the man's fingers brushing her lips open. It looked nothing like the scraps thrown together on the podium. How had they done that? It was fucking ingenious.
“Brick?”
In the stillness of the gallery her voice rang like a bell. Brick turned to see Blossom floating at the end of the hall, where he'd originally come in. It might have been because he'd lost himself a little in the genius of well-executed art, or maybe the first four lines of the poem had stuck with him. Or maybe he just hadn't expected to see her, when really, he should have; after all, it was extra credit. It may have also been the sunlight streaming in the one lone skylight in this section of the gallery, putting this ethereal glow about her that only heightened the effect.
In any case, something clenched in his chest when his eyes fell upon her, something welled up in his throat that he couldn't swallow down. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end, and when he said her name it came out in a voice he didn't mean to let out, a voice that was practically a whisper and yet, somehow, still heavy with emotion.
“Blossom?” he said, his voice sounding soft, deep, yet still ringing in that quiet gallery, and she blushed furiously. She couldn't help it.
***
“Holy shit, Butch,” the twins said in one awed voice as they stepped into his apartment. “Who do you have to kill to live in a place like this?”
“Eh, a bunch of rich old fucks,” he said, his tone bored. Buttercup shot him a sharp look before dragging her haul of movie-watching munchies over to the kitchen.
“How did you guys get tangled up with the rich old fuck who hooked you up in this place?” Harry said.
Butch went with the answer he was supposed to go with. “Anyone with money gets interested in the Red-Eyed Golden Child, since he's some sort of prodigy, apparently. He's out, by the way.”
“Good,” Buttercup said. “He's always in a fucking mood when someone's over.”
Butch was studying Mitch's guarded reaction, wondering if he was jealous. The living room was like three of Mitch's trailers combined.
“So what's the lineup tonight?”
“Pick your poison, brothers.” Butch laughed, indicating the rack of movies he'd dragged out of his room.
“I'm voting Anaconda,” Buttercup called from behind the breakfast bar. Harry went over to help her start some popcorn.
“Lady's choice, then,” Butch announced, flicking the case out of the rack and extracting the DVD. “Coke's in the fridge, by the way.”
“The kind you drink, right?”
“Fuck you, Floyd,” Butch sniped.
“Fair question, for you,” Buttercup laughed, and undid the Saran wrap over a cake tin. “Brownies, anyone?”
“Pot brownies?” Butch, Mitch, and the twins asked simultaneously.
“Hell no, druggies!” she snapped, but with a smile. “You know, when your parents told you to eat your greens, that wasn't what they meant.”
“Can't blame me,” Butch said as he flipped the TV on. “I weren't brung up right.”
A door swung open, and a drowsy Boomer wandered into the living room, stretching. “Hey, guys,” he said through his yawn.
“Look at you, gorgeous.” Butch sneered at his mussed up hair and wrinkled clothes.
“Go fuck yourself.” Boomer hoisted himself onto a stool at the breakfast bar. He peered blearily over, brightening up a bit as he saw Buttercup cutting brownies.
“Are those pot brownies?” he asked, and Buttercup rolled her eyes and looked skyward.
“Seriously, guys, what the fucking fuck?” she said in disbelief as the rest of the room broke into laughter. The microwave beeped, and Harry stuck a second bag of popcorn in it, then tore open the first and carried it over to the group.
“Here.” Buttercup handed Boomer a piece. “And there's no pot in it.”
“Mmphmrmph.” Boomer's response was muffled by brownie.
“Hey, shouldn't you and Bubbles be hanging out?” Mitch asked.
“They spent enough time together this morning,” Buttercup interrupted before Boomer could respond. “Freaking Siamese twins, those two.”
“What kind of stuff do you guys do?” Lloyd asked, then shut his mouth at the warning glare Buttercup threw his way. She waved a large knife in her hand for emphasis, her glare shifting to Boomer.
Unperturbed by her threat, Boomer swallowed the last of his brownie down and said, “Just hang out and stuff. You know.”
“What kind of stuff?” Floyd pressed.
“I got a shitload of knives over here, and I know how to aim,” Buttercup snarled. “Quit asking personal questions.” She looked at Boomer and added, “Don't you dare tell us anything that I don't wanna hear.”
“We don't—we just hang out, seriously. Like, we go shopping, and—”
“'Shopping?'” Butch's brow wrinkled. “What the fuck for?”
Boomer shrugged. “I dunno... she wanted some new shoes the other day—”
“Wait, what?” Mitch cried. “You went shoe shopping with her? Voluntarily?”
“Brave man.” Buttercup's expression was now one of reverence.
“You shop for panties together, too?” Butch asked. “Since, you know, you wear them now and all?”
A knife went flying at Butch's face, and he caught it by the blade one-handed.
“I'm going to stab you in your sleep, Butch,” Boomer snarled, on his feet and brandishing a second knife in his hand.
Butch was inspecting the knife he'd caught, the blade bloodless and now bent, ruined. “Brick's going to be pissed. Now we need a new one.”
“Who bent it, fucker?” Boomer shot.
“Who threw it, pussy?” Butch shot back.
“Quit your crying and start the movie!” Buttercup snatched up the last four knives out of the knife block and aimed two each in each brother's direction. The non-superbeings ducked for cover. “I didn't come here to listen to you two whine like the bitches you are!”
“He started it!” Butch cried, pointing his knife at Boomer.
“He made fun of Bubbles!” Boomer cried, pointing his knife at Butch.
“You started it,” Buttercup growled, pointing at Butch. “And you were the one being made fun of, not Bubbles,” she grumbled, pointing at Boomer. “Now sit down, shut up, and watch the God damn movie. And eat some brownies and popcorn while you're at it. Anything to keep your mouths busy, because if you start pissing and moaning during the movie, I'm going to make you eat these fucking knives. Literally!”
***
Brick stood back as she examined the piece he'd been looking at. He didn't like how his eyes drifted continuously from the silhouette on the wall to her, so he stepped to the side and just watched as she read the poem to herself.
Her lips—looking exceptionally full and soft in that light—formed the syllables in slow motion, and he thought of the silhouette on the wall (didn't look, no, he wasn't looking at it) and how the man was parting the woman's willing lips for a kiss. He liked the f's and the v's the best, when her teeth appeared, brushing along the swell of her lower lip to form the sound. The o's were good too; her lips came forward, puckered around the vowel like an invitation...
She looked up and he stepped back involuntarily, feeling caught. But she wasn't looking at him.
“Pretty poem,” she said. “A little overly sentimental. This is really something, though.” She indicated the sculpture and the shadow. “Is this what you're going to do your extra credit on?”
He trained his eyes on the light switch on the podium. “Maybe.”
“Did you... did you just get here?”
He glanced at the clock on his cell. He'd been here about an hour. “Um... not quite. Have you been around to see the whole exhibit yet?”
“No, I actually detoured and looked at some of their other exhibits first. I only got here about five minutes ago, so I haven't really looked around yet.”
She was wearing a skirt today—knee length, but it showed enough of those legs of hers to make the length irrelevant. Her top was a plain button-down blouse, nothing to write home about. But she even wore that well. Her ever-present bow adorned her head, canted today at a particularly flattering angle. Brick thought about the paintings he was going to choose from (maybe this sculpture, though) and what his Saturday held for him if he simply called it a day and went back home.
He tried to sound nonchalant. “Well... why don't we, um, go check out the rest of the gallery, then?”
***
Bubbles giggled as she toweled her hair dry. The days where she found herself alone in the house were few and far between. She generally didn't like the emptiness and was prone to feeling lonely, but the day was beautiful and after a pleasant morning of shopping with Boomer (he was so patient!) she had luxuriated in the warmth and comfort of a frothy bubble bath, with no sisters pounding on the door to disturb the peace.
With the tub now drained and her hair damp and smelling of strawberries, she picked out a bright sundress to feel pretty in, then threw the windows wide open. She did likewise downstairs, then, after a thought, cranked up the stereo and popped in a dance-y pop CD. She never got to listen to this stuff at this volume when her family was in the house—the volume gave the Professor and Blossom headaches, and Buttercup would spend so much time criticizing her taste in music that Bubbles, who could be quite sensitive about these things, resigned herself to headphones at home.
She loved hearing her music fill the house, though. It flooded the empty spaces and bounced off the high ceilings with a faint echo, a musical manifestation of her happy mood.
So Bubbles pushed past the faint loneliness at being the sole occupant of the house this afternoon, twirled in her dress as the speakers thrummed, and picked out a cookbook to peruse for dinner options, looking forward to taking full advantage of a house left entirely to herself for the evening.
***
Brick spent another hour at the museum going through an exhibit he'd already been through. He didn't much mind. He'd expected they might run into someone from class, but he didn't see anybody once in the entire two hours he was there.
“Well, the MoCA's pretty far from the school district,” Blossom said. “It's kind of a trek. I heard some folks in class talking about coming earlier today, after breakfast. There's probably going to be a few tomorrow, too.”
“Mm,” Brick said, walking with her. They came to one of his possible paintings. “I like this one.”
“Do you?”
“I don't like that one over there, though.” He pointed at the couch with a lamp post through it. He watched as Blossom, her curiosity piqued, floated over and read the poem.
“May I, said he,” she read. She frowned and looked again at the piece.
Brick came up beside her. “I don't like a lot of modern art like this; it's so pretentious.”
“And degrading,” she muttered, looking at the piece with disgust and approaching it from a completely different angle than Brick. “They turned a mildly humorous poem into sexist garbage.”
A few more pieces and they had gone through the whole gallery. It didn't feel like an hour, Brick thought.
“What piece do you think you'll do yours on?” he asked her as they made their way back into the lobby.
“Oh... I don't know. Maybe that sculpture. The one with the shadow. Or maybe that terrible couch piece, just so I can criticize it.”
Brick glanced at the gift shop—no, that was stupid. He wondered if they should go through the other exhibits... but no, she'd glanced at those already.
What can we do? he thought, his eyes fixed on the floor so he could watch her walk in his peripheral vision. They were already approaching the exit. What should I ask her? What can we go do for the rest of the afternoon?
He didn't once think of not asking her or avoiding her. In the back of his mind he could remember that kid, that Junior, talking to her so easily in English, and then he was thinking of Kris and how boring he'd been, and how she'd been his girlfriend anyway. And now she was here, and they were walking together, and it wasn't like Brick had anything better to do, and she just looked so pretty today...
He heard an intake of breath; she was about to speak and bring this afternoon to a close. But there was still daylight left! They had time! Hours, even.
Brick spoke before she could get a word out. Or, he tried to.
“Hey—” he started, with no idea what he was going to say, but he had inhaled too sharply and the rush of air down his throat sent him into an involuntary coughing fit.
Blossom thumped his back. “Are you okay?”
That was so not cool, he thought miserably to himself as his coughs subsided. Still hoarse, he croaked, “Yeah, just... just thirsty.”
She blinked at him. “Well... there's a really nice coffee shop down the street... I mean, you can probably get water here at the gift shop or something, but...”
She trailed off, pulling away from him a bit and fidgeting with her skirt. Brick rubbed his throat, staring at her and stunned at the sudden opportunity.
“No, I...” He cleared his throat, swallowed. “That sounds fine. The coffee shop, I mean. Where is it?”
“Oh, just down...” Blossom pointed out the doors. “Just... um, I'll show you.”
***
Boomer excused himself two-thirds of the way through the movie and left their complex, wandering outside into the late afternoon sunlight. It wasn't that he didn't enjoy the movie, or the company. But it was weird, sitting there with the rest of No Neck Joe and not... well, it just felt weird, and Boomer got uncomfortable and thought maybe he should leave.
He didn't really have anywhere to go, though. He would've defaulted to a music store or something, but that wasn't really keeping in line with his promise to Bubbles. A promise he felt compelled to keep. He realized she couldn't actually force him to, but it was Bubbles, and he just thought...
He shook his head. Obviously the music store was out. And for all that he was well-liked by a lot of people at school, he didn't have a fallback group to hang out with or call up. Even the group that would invite him and Bubbles out to karaoke didn't really feel like his group.
Lacking other options and partially out of a deep-rooted desire to see her, he called Bubbles.
“Well, hi there, boyfriend.” Even when warped and tinny through a cell phone, she still sounded sweet.
He cleared his throat. “Hi. Um... what are you up to?”
“Just getting ready to make dinner. What about you?”
“Nothing. I was wondering if, um, you were busy or something?”
“Well, Buttercup's out, and so's the Professor. Blossom's been out all day and I haven't heard from her, but I'm assuming she's coming back for dinner.” A pause, then: “Have you eaten yet?”
Boomer thought of the brownies and popcorn he'd had back at his place. “Yeah, but just junk. Not, like, dinner or anything.”
“How about you come over, then?”
His heart swelled at the suggestion, but he gulped at the thought of her dad coming home to find him there...
“Just give it a few; I'll have to power down the Boyfriend Killing Machine—”
“Wh-what?” he squeaked.
“That's not its real name, me and my sisters just call it that.” He could hear her steps echoing in the house, evidently moving towards the control panel, wherever it was. “We didn't realize he had one set up until one of the guys I was dating tried to surprise me by sneaking in and scattering rose petals in my room.” She paused, then, “Poor Sanjay.”
An uncomfortable silence passed. Boomer was about to suggest maybe taking her out instead when she continued, “Anyway, me and Buttercup figured out how to turn it off by spying on him. It's in the garage and he sets it up whenever he leaves the house.” Boomer heard beeping on the other end, then, “Done. It'll need five minutes to power down, but then you can come in, no problem. See you, love you!”
Her sign-off caught him by surprise, and his nervousness was displaced by a surge of feeling for her. “Yeah! Um, yeah.” He swallowed, then mumbled, blushing, “You too.”
***
Is this a date? Blossom thought to herself as she played with her empty teacup and watched Brick ponder over the meager food offerings by the register. They'd been here for over an hour, not including the time at the museum.
This kinda feels like a date.
She would have been lying if she'd denied any interest in having a drink with Brick. Walking through the museum had felt a lot like that week of doing homework at his place—a little awkward, yes, but full of... promise.
They had school, so they talked about that until the subject had exhausted itself (though she didn't ask, what had he learned growing up, how had he gotten an education?). That was followed by a long stretch of awkward silence, during which Blossom tried to figure out the most casual way to bring up that guy... Smith, that was who Brick had mentioned before. She could've plunged headfirst into it and just asked, but she knew Brick would close up immediately, and possibly leave. She wasn't ready for that just yet.
No, she'd thought as her eyes had traced the outline of his jaw, his neck, his broad shoulder as the fabric of his shirt shifted against it when he moved. Not just yet.
Now he was standing at the counter, his gaze passing over muffins and cookies and other pastries. When he'd gotten up he'd asked if she'd wanted anything.
“Another tea would be nice,” she'd said, and it wasn't until he'd already risen out of his chair and moved to the counter that she'd realized she hadn't given him any money for it.
She reached for her purse and paused. It would look so weird if she went up there to give him money for it now! Besides, he hadn't asked. Was he covering her? Wouldn't that really make it a date? Then again, it was just a cup of tea, barely three dollars. She wasn't sure how this worked; she'd only dated Kris, and not for that long. Maybe she'd just try to pay him back when he sat back down. At least make the offer, or something.
He reappeared at the side of their table, placing her tea in front of her. She already had her wallet out of her purse and in her hand, and snapped it open.
“Here—”
Brick's hand closed the flap of her wallet down, where the snap button's click seemed to echo in Blossom's head. His hand had alighted on top of hers; her skin tingled where he touched her, and she felt a sudden heat rise to her face.
“Don't worry about it.” His voice sent a shiver through her body, amplified by their slight contact, and she hastily pulled her wallet away and busied herself with stuffing it back into her purse.
“Thank you,” she said, suppressing a wince at the meekness of her voice.
“It's nothing.” He settled back into his chair. “So... Agnes Grey? You're a Brontë fan?”
“Huh?”
“Isn't that what you're doing your essay on?”
“Oh! Oh, yeah. I mean, I haven't actually decided yet. I was just reading it for fun.” She sugared her tea and stirred. “I like Anne. I don't care much for her sisters' work.”
“I'll be honest.” He laughed, almost apologetic. “I don't read chick lit books.”
A tiny surge of irritation shot through her. “I wouldn't call classics of English literature 'chick lit.'”
“Oh, come on,” he said, brushing it off. “It's totally proto-chick lit. Romance, dashing suitors—”
“I might grant you Wuthering Heights and Jane Eyre could certainly be viewed as such, but Anne's works are a different story. Hers were much more like Jane Austen's than either of her sisters'.”
“Austen's like the queen of proto-chick lit—”
“What about you?” she interrupted. “Are you picking something by Camus?”
“What makes you say that?”
She shrugged. “You seem to like his stuff.”
He chewed on this for a minute, during which the girl behind the counter brought him a slice of cheesecake, warmed on a plate with two forks. Blossom took one automatically.
“I do,” he said. “Don't know if I'll do the essay on something of his, though. What made you think I'm a fan?”
“That was how you got into AP English, wasn't it? I was there when Mr. Bean came gushing to Mrs. Yang. Also, I saw him on the shelves in your room. You know, when you were sick.”
“Perceptive of you.”
“What do you like about him? Are you an absurdist?” Not that she was trying to ascribe a deeper meaning to Brick's affinity for Camus, but in a weird way she thought it might fit.
“I wouldn't say I'm as much of an absurdist as I am a fan of absurdist literature.”
“Do you...” Blossom thought back to the words he'd scribbled in that collection of essays. I think my life is of great importance, but I also think it is meaningless.
His eyes were lifted, waiting for her to go on. She wanted to ask: Did he really think his life was meaningless? But it seemed such an odd question to just come up, and heavy besides.
Unable to continue, she took a forkful of cheesecake, then realized she'd just dug into Brick's food without even asking.
“Oh my God,” she said, muffled, dropping her fork onto a napkin and flushing scarlet. “I... oh, God, I'm sorry! It was just there, I wasn't even thinking! I won't take another bite, I swear—”
He was laughing, amused at her flustered reaction. “Chill! It's fine. I don't... I don't mind sharing. If you're that hungry, I mean.”
She swallowed her bite, her guilt dissipating as she watched him take a bite for himself, from the other end of the slice. He nudged the plate towards her.
“I don't mind,” he said around the fork in his mouth, staring at the plate. His voice sounded odd, a little strained, even. “It's not a big deal. I don't mind sharing it with you.”
***
“Okay, I'm turning around,” Buttercup said, her face bright red and her expression pained as she acted on her promise. “This is, like, the most awkward sex scene ever. Somebody mute it.”
“Have you seen Oldboy before, Buttercup?” Harry asked.
“No.”
“Fuck, if you think it's awkward now...” Butch muttered, muting it for her benefit.
“Hey!” the twins protested. “Don't kill the sound!”
“They're fucking subtitles, dumbasses,” Butch said. “Like you understand Korean!”
“Is it over yet?” Buttercup asked.
“Yeah, it's over,” Butch said, and she turned around. It was not over.
“Butch, you prick, you suck,” she snapped, whipping back around and flinging a pillow blindly over her shoulder. It whacked Mitch in the head.
“Ow!”
“Sorry, Mitch.” She raised her voice over Butch's laughter. “Butch, you fucking prick. You fucking God damn prick.”
“It's over now, for real,” he choked out through his laughter.
“Is that fucker telling the truth?” she asked the rest of the room.
“Yes,” the rest of the room said.
She turned around, then yelped and twisted back towards the wall as the guys exploded into laughter.
“I hate you all!” she screeched, flinging pillows off the couch and every which way behind her. The guys scrambled to save their food and drinks, still chortling. “You all suck! I know where you fuckers live, seriously! I'll burn in hell before I ever watch another movie with you guys!”
***
Boomer sipped at the lemonade Bubbles had poured for him when he'd arrived. He was leaning on the counter, transfixed by his girlfriend as she bounced around the kitchen, singing and dancing along to the music spilling out of the stereo in the living room. She had a really nice dress on—seriously, it was adorable—and every time she twirled the skirt of it flew up, exposing a great deal of thigh. She'd tied an apron over the dress, and Boomer found himself sighing over the littlest details, like how she wiped her hands on the apron, or how she kept adjusting the strap around her neck, or how she played with the tiny ribbons on the pockets as she mouthed the recipe to herself, brow furrowed in concentration while she read.
She turned to him. “I hope you don't mind being vegan for one night.”
The ice in his glass clattered as he set it down on the counter. “Um, no. It's okay.”
She beamed at him. “Good.” Turning back to the cookbook, she started to twirl a strand of her hair—freshly washed and slightly wavy as it dried. “Just so you know, I'm doing a pasta salad—really simple, and the colors are so pretty...”
“Uh huh,” he said, sliding his glass back and forth on the counter.
“You know, I don't think I've ever had a boyfriend over here for dinner.” She giggled. “It's neat!”
The smile she was throwing his way was the sort that men killed other men over. Boomer twitched a glazed and distracted smile back at her, feeling nothing but a soul-deep affection as he did so.
The music in the living room moved into the next track, and her eyes lit up. “Omigosh! I love this song!” She started grooving a little, da da da'ing the musical accompaniment before the lyrics started up, and her lighthearted cheerfulness was so inspiring, so infectious, that Boomer laughed and moved into the kitchen with her, snatching up a couple of utensils and tapping a beat out on the counter as he joined in the singing. She didn't notice—neither of them did, at first—until he moved up a fifth and started harmonizing. It was then she stopped and stared at him, the glow in her expression subsiding.
Boomer's voice faltered, and he stilled the impromptu drumsticks in his hands, remembering his promise to her. The music trilled on, its bright, predictable melody now obnoxious and overbearing.
Boomer lowered the ladle and spatula he'd grabbed, and stammered, “S-sorry. Sorry. I wasn't... I wasn't thinking—”
“No, I wasn't either.” She lifted her feet and started floating towards the living room. “You know, I'll just go turn it off—”
“No, wait, you don't have to—I won't start that up again, I'll just keep my mouth shut—”
“It's okay, it's the last track anyway,” she called back.
“Really, Bubbles, let it—”
The stereo died, and he trailed off. He sighed, tossed the utensils on the table, and trudged back to his original spot, where his glass—now filled with half-melted, lemonade-flavored ice—dripped a pool of condensation onto the counter.
***
“I still can't believe you don't dream,” Blossom said, shaking her head.
“No, I do dream. The difference is I'm aware of when I am.”
“How did that whole thing start? How old did you say you were?”
His lips puckered a bit in thought; Blossom's eye was drawn to the movement of his mouth. “I think eleven or twelve.”
She recalled a fragment of a previous conversation. “Around the time you left Him?”
A part of her almost regretted asking. He paused, the openness of his expression closing off very slightly. “Yes.”
He's going to leave, she realized, almost floored by the disappointment. I've done it now.
“I guess I just felt... better, when we did,” he went on, surprising her. “As if everything... as if my life was finally my own. And I guess it was such a huge life adjustment for me that it leaked into my dreams.”
“You still lucid dream? Even now?”
“Haven't stopped.”
“Mmm.” She stared at the lip of her teacup. How many cups had she drunk? How many cups of coffee had he had? That was a lot of caffeine; they'd had to temper the effects with food and water, so the table was littered with empty plates and two half-finished bottles of water. He'd paid for almost everything; she'd bought the waters.
Guess I'm not eating dinner tonight. After the cheesecake, they'd shared five more snack-y things from behind the counter.
A light snicker drew her attention, and she looked at him. “What?”
“You just,” he started, then he laughed a little more fully and tried again. “You just got this look on your face that said something like, 'Oh my God, it's getting late,' or, 'I've ruined my dinner,' or something else equally goody-goody.”
She felt her face flush at the comment, a reflexive reaction thanks to Buttercup's barbed admonitions of Blossom's Goody-Two-Shoes inclinations growing up.
Brick read her expression like a book. “Obviously you get that a lot,” he jibed, and she actually blushed more. The blushing was mostly brought on by her embarrassment, but a part of her reaction was also thanks to that teasing smile on Brick's face, a smile that she wasn't used to receiving without malice behind it. It struck her that yes, it was late (she'd left the house at two, and here it was just past seven), she had ruined her dinner, she hadn't started her extra credit like she'd originally planned, she hadn't even called home to tell them where she was... all because of her reluctance to leave the boy sitting across from her now.
“Actually, Blossom,” he said, and the sound of her name on his lips sent a strange, invigorating shudder down her spine. “What is the most rebellious thing you've done? Ever?”
It took her a moment to process the question, though once she had it wasn't any easier to answer. In a panic she racked her brain for something... she knew there were things she'd done, bad things, things that went against that Goody-Two-Shoes image, but the question had caught her off guard and she couldn't call any of it to mind.
Brick was smirking at her. “Can't think of anything, can you?”
“There're things,” she said, a little defensively. “I just... I just can't think of it, but I know—”
“I guess you kissing Kris at Prom counts,” he said, and hot shame flooded through Blossom at the mere mention of it. “No one expected you to do that.”
She looked down and clenched a napkin in her lap, wanting to shred it. Suddenly memories spilled over in her mind, and she looked up at Brick, almost triumphant.
“I beat Mojo Jojo up for candy,” she said, a little breathlessly. “I let our dad steal toys for us when he was sleepwalking. I stole an expensive set of golf clubs for him.” She blinked; there was more—
“A regular Bonnie Parker, aren't you?” he said, and she wished she would stop getting that shiver every time he spoke, every time he looked at her. And—she realized this with a twisted thrill—Brick would not stop looking at her. His last comment... kinda indicated this was flirting. This was flirting, wasn't it? He was flirting with her! Was he doing it intentionally? Was he trying to freak her out? Or—and the thought surged through her, a current of hope that she couldn't shoot down—was he just doing so, unawares, unplanned, simply because he wanted to flirt with her?
They'd been here for hours, after all. Again the question Is this a date? crossed her mind, again that raw hope flared in her chest, beating its insufferable little wings against her ribcage.
“So, Miss Parker,” he went on (A nickname, she thought despairingly, He just gave me a nickname), “you're a fine dancer. Ever been clubbing?”
She blinked in surprise. “What? No, of course not. I'm underage.”
“Ah. Right.” He settled back, a knowing smile on his face, as if he'd expected the answer.
She sputtered a bit, then added loftily, “And that aside, no one's ever asked me—”
“Want to?” he asked, and her heart rocketed into her throat. The smile had disappeared from his face. He looked almost forcedly neutral. There had been no teasing element to his voice when he'd said it—and he'd said it so casually!—and even his eyes weren't glittering with telltale mischief. No, he'd just asked her. Simply, casually. And now he was watching her, his eyes lifted in question, waiting for her answer.
She swallowed, trying to think, trying to weigh her options (What answer is there but NO?! screamed her head, and yet another voice cried, But, but, and keened at the hours they had shared together today, the conversation, the lack of fighting and insults).
And all the while, Brick waited for her to make her decision, trying to—through sheer mindpower—will his heart to stop railing inside the cavity of his chest, fearful that the deafening jackhammer beat of it would reach her and give every last bit of him away.
***