More Than Human, ch9, part 4

[essbeejay]

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 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-

Blossom's good mood persisted all the way through Monday morning, inspiring her father to go through the medicine cabinet “just in case.” Honestly. Her family was being so silly.

She woke up a little earlier on Monday to take her time making herself presentable. She considered a dress, but then thought that might be too forward; instead she opted for her favorite jeans and a nice blouse. Up or down with the hair? She tried it out a million different ways before settling on her standard hairstyle. She didn't want to make it seem like a big deal or anything. She had kinda half-hoped he might call on Sunday, but then she'd reminded herself that she'd told him she was busy, and Brick seemed like the type of guy who'd listen to what you said and respect that. If he respected you, of course.

Her family was still wary at breakfast—Buttercup greeted her as “Frankenblossom”—but she assured them they had nothing to worry about. She didn't feel the need to tell them just yet. Besides, she wanted the Professor to calm down before revealing to him that she was dating again.

Dating Brick. Just thinking it made her giddy and she couldn't fight back her blush. They weren't practicing this morning, and she only had two classes with him today—Physics and Environmental Science. They didn't sit at the same table in the first, but were pretty near to each other in the second. Her heart thrilled at the thought of him showing up at the studio, before classes started, just to see her.

Maybe, she thought, allowing herself that small hope as she got changed and went into the studio. If he showed up to surprise her she wanted to be doing something lovely, something pretty. She put on something slow and proceeded to dance likewise—fluid, graceful. And then she'd turn, and he'd be at the door, stupefied by her beauty, and she'd look surprised and blush and say Oh my gosh, Brick, I didn't even realize—

Maybe he'd start dancing with her. Maybe they'd just sit and talk, or he'd offer to take her out for a quick coffee before classes started. Or maybe he'd just kiss her.

She glanced frequently at the door, wondering, wondering, and when the bell rang and Brick had not shown up once she could not help but feel disappointed. Dance, then, was spent making excuses for him in her head while she led the class through warm-ups. Her favorite was that he actually had made the attempt to come see her, but had been so overwhelmed by a sudden shyness about what had transpired Saturday evening that he couldn't bring himself to actually do it. Okay, that was a bit out of character, but it was Blossom's favorite, nonetheless.

She bolted to Physics, opting to linger outside to keep an eye out for him and... well, maybe walk in together, or something. The class began to fill, the minutes ticked by, and still Brick did not show up. Blossom paced, her gaze darting ever to the clock, and finally went inside alone five seconds before the bell rang. Brick was still not there.

Thirty seconds after she had taken her seat he walked in. She straightened in her chair, her chest going light.

“Tardy, Brick,” the teacher said flatly.

“Sorry, sir,” he muttered, and took his seat. He didn't even glance her way. Blossom sat back, confused.

She came up with more excuses for him as class went on, though these were feebler. Her confidence was shaken a bit. Had she imagined things? He'd seemed... receptive Saturday night. Was he just embarrassed?

It is a school day, she told herself. They had things to concentrate on, classes to go to. Of course.

But... he could've just spared a glance, or something. Again she thought he might just be shy, but that was seeming less and less likely the more she thought about it...

Then she remembered how he had stuffed his hands in his pockets after she'd gotten the call, how he'd looked away from her, his face flushed and his voice soft, stumbling over words and stammering. So unlike his usual stoic self. Her heart swelled at the memory. She wasn't giving him enough credit. Every boy got shy in the face of a girl he genuinely liked, right?

She tried something different in EnviroSci; they were a row and one seat apart. Instead of waiting for him this time she walked right in and took her seat, her eyes on the door. Again, Brick was the last to walk in, though he made it before class officially started.

He had to pass by her to get to his seat, and she smiled at him and quipped, “Beat the bell this time, huh?”

“Yeah,” he said, and took his seat without another word. The smile dropped off her face, and she swallowed as she faced forward, embarrassed.

No excuses this time. There was something wrong. Why else would he be acting so strangely? The thought flew into her head: what if their benefactor had changed his mind? What if he wanted the boys to leave now? This weekend? This night, even?

You're being irrational, she thought. She had no evidence. She hadn't even talked to him yet...

They had the late lunch together. The second the bell rang he was on his feet; she had to make an effort to catch up to him. What on Earth was the matter?

“Brick!” she cried, sounding too desperate. She grasped his sleeve and tugged, and he stopped.

She colored when he turned to her, his expression detached. “Yes, Blossom?”

A lump knotted in her throat. There was no warmth in that tone; it was nothing like the gravelly voice with which he'd spoken to her on Saturday, all flirty and playful and suggesting things Blossom would never admit secretly thrilled her.

“I... I think we should talk,” she said, feeling very much like a little girl and regretting that she hadn't worn the dress. “About... you know, Saturday, and what we...” She waved her hands about, searching for the right word.

“Are,” she finally said, her shoulders slumping a little.

Brick—still looking neutral, almost uncaring—looked around, then indicated an exit. “Let's go outside. To the roof, maybe.”

“Okay.”

He did not take her hand. He did not smile. He did not even look at her. All Brick did was turn away from her and start for the exit. He didn't even wait for her to catch up.

***

Brick had meant to talk to her before this. Each time, though—before school, before both their classes—he'd hesitated. Not because he was a coward; that had nothing to do with it, absolutely nothing. He just couldn't. That was all.

It took an enormous amount of willpower to keep his expression blank. He was so nervous. He couldn't believe it; after all the shit he'd been through rejecting a girl should've been a fucking piece of cake.

His hands felt numb as he pushed open the doors, and he shook them out as he floated to the top of the school. He landed with his back to her, waiting until he heard the soft tap of her shoes against the concrete before taking a deep breath to steel his nerves.

One breath wasn't enough. He was still nervous as fuck. He inhaled again, and then, once more.

“Brick,” Blossom said, her voice confused but level, and how did she manage that? “What's wrong?”

He felt her hand at his wrist, and before he could stop her she touched him. He drew his hand away and instantly wished he hadn't. Fuck, why had he kissed her? He could practically see her now, stunned, like a wounded animal.

“Look, Blossom,” he started, and everything he'd thought of saying to her up to this point vanished from his mind. He couldn't recall any of it. All that remained was I can't, I can't.

“I... Saturday, it just got...” He thought of turning to her and realized that if he couldn't do this with his back to her, how would looking right at her make it any easier? “It got kind of... heavy, for both of us, I think. And I don't know if that's... if that's something that's right, right now.”

He waited for a response, then, when he heard nothing, he added weakly, “You know?”

Silence. He wondered if she was still there. Just as he was about to turn around and check, he heard her say, quietly and coolly, “No. I don't—I don't know what you're saying.”

“I'm saying,” he started, and he didn't know either. He closed his eyes. “I want—”

No, stop, his brain said. That's not it. You can't share what you want with her.

He swallowed and tried again, blinking like mad. “I think Saturday night was misleading. I don't think... I don't think we should... go from that.”

Another pause. Finally, Blossom said, “I still—I still don't know what you mean.”

He cringed. Fuck, what did she want him to say?

Just say it. Tell her you can't. You've got these goals, and it just wouldn't work, no matter how much you want—

No. He couldn't say that.

“I just want to go back to the way things were before Saturday,” he said in one hasty exhale.

All these silences in between were agonizing. Brick swallowed, waiting for her to say something and wondering if he should.

“You mean,” she said, her voice quiet, almost a whisper. “You mean... like it didn't happen?” A disbelieving laugh broke the last word; it sounded bitter, hurt.

That's not what I mean, he thought, but he knew that was exactly what he'd said. In reality, he needed things to go back to how they were before he'd ever come back, before he'd ever even laid eyes on her again. She was distracting him, she was messing up everything—

He squeezed his eyes shut. “I just can't do something like... like a relationship, right now. I mean, it's just... you know, we're only seventeen, and right now, there's just no room for something like this... in my life. I just don't think we're ready for this, right now,” he said, trying to make that sound final, conclusive. He turned his eyes downward and stared at the cracks in the concrete.

“I'm sorry,” he added, and he meant it. He meant it with every fiber of his being.

She still said nothing. He wondered if she was angry, or sad, and his curiosity overwhelmed him and he finally turned to face her.

It was the latter. But there were no tears. She only looked at him, those wide eyes of hers drooping a little, as if she'd just woken up. When he turned to face her she blinked, then cast her eyes downward, at their feet. After a pause, he did the same.

“Okay,” she said, and God, that voice of resignation made him regret everything. She nodded, then looked up, a thin smile on her face. “Okay. You're right. It's... you're right.” She took a deep breath and exhaled, forcing a little laugh. “We've got a lot going on, so... yeah.”

The false brightness of her expression was too much to bear. Brick looked guiltily off to the side.

She clapped her hands together, once, then rubbed them. “So, um, I've got—I better go eat lunch, the period's half-over.”

“Yeah,” he croaked, feeling miserable.

“I'll see you,” she said, backing away.

“Yeah,” he said again. He looked up as she turned away, his stoic expression failing him now that her back was turned to him. She floated to the edge, and he winced and said, “Blossom?”

She froze for a moment, then angled her head, just enough to look back. He'd composed himself again by then.

“Yes?”

“I... you know, for what it's worth, Saturday... I had a really good time. A great time, even. With you.”

He knew that he might regret this a million times over later, but all he wanted at that moment was for Blossom to not look like that, to not try and look so okay when it was so clearly the exact opposite.

She held still for a long moment, staring past him.

“Yeah. Me, too.”

And then she disappeared off the edge of the roof. He heard her touch down on the concrete below.

He took a deep breath and hated himself for the way he shuddered as he did so. It was weak and it was stupid and it was all thanks to those fucking teenage hormones, they kept fucking everything up, everything with him and with her and with his future...

He flew off the other side and down to the school parking lot where he landed next to his car. As soon as he was seated and had his keys halfway to the ignition he stopped, realizing he needed to be home, he needed to be home right now, and so he got out and picked up his car and just flew. He forced himself to set his Coil down in the garage carefully, trying to keep himself from throwing it—damaging it would only be another thing to hate himself for later—and then he was dashing up the stairs, through the door of their apartment, and into the training room that he hadn't touched in months. He punched blindly at the console, shedding top layers of clothing in the process, and locked himself inside. He needed fighting, a distraction, something, anything, anything to keep him from thinking about it, about what he'd said to her and how horrible it had felt to glimpse that look on her face as she'd tried to smile and say it was Okay when even he knew, even he felt it was anything but.

***

Blossom sat on the curb for awhile, grinding the soles of her shoes against the gravel. Then, because it occurred to her that somebody might see and ask what she was doing there, she got up and went to the cafeteria. She ran into Buttercup and lied about going out for lunch; she wasn't hungry. Her sister shrugged it off, but gradually grew suspicious.

“Hey, you're not nearly as... 'up' as you were this morning,” Buttercup said, eyeing her. Blossom shrugged.

Her next class went by in a sort of blur, though she made an effort to concentrate. It was easier than she expected to not think about what had happened on the roof, and she buried herself in her notes and her textbook. After that there was dance practice with the Company; Homecoming was next month and they had to practice their routine for the game.

She felt okay. Yeah. It had stung, of course—quite a bit, really—but from a rational standpoint, Brick had a point. They were only teenagers. Wasn't this why she had avoided dating for so long? Because of the immaturity of those surrounding her? Perhaps there was a bit of irony in having encountered someone who—while maybe not quite mature, but at least above average compared to other boys—wasn't interested in getting into a relationship for the very reason that because of their age, they couldn't be mature about it.

By all accounts, Brick had made the right decision. They were too young, really. Really.

Blossom started the girls warming up. It felt good to sink into the routine. She was so used to this by now that even her commands were automatic and she could allow her mind to wander as they went through their stretches. In retrospect, though, maybe allowing her mind to wander wasn't the best thing.

Inevitably, her mind went to the conversation on the roof. She had, in all honesty, been pretty... disappointed. Brick had not touched her. In fact, he'd barely looked at her. He'd even pulled away from her when she'd only tried to touch his wrist, and that had been quite a blow, to see him recoil from her like that. Like she was some sort of disease.

Stop that, she scolded herself. Don't exaggerate. Though Brick could've handled that better. Did he have to pull away? He hadn't had a problem with holding her hand on Saturday night—but wait, they were supposed to pretend that hadn't happened. She went numb at the thought, then shook her head, tried to rationalize it. Saturday evening was a loss of control, of discretion. Brick was right. It was better to pretend that it hadn't... that they hadn't...

Her heart gave a sudden lurch, and her voice cracked. She cleared her throat and repeated, louder, “Switch sides and hold.”

The girls did so. Blossom swallowed, but the lump in her throat didn't move. It made her think of Brick's neck as she'd stared at it in the coffeeshop, in the club, how he'd let her skim her hands across it as she drew herself up and—

She inhaled sharply, almost a gasp. A few of the girls looked at her. She blinked furiously and announced, “Okay, up girls, and bend, nose to your knees.”

As they all complied she pushed her hair back, trying not to think about it. Don't think about it.

So then, of course, the only thing to do was exactly that.

Saturday, all in a flood—talking to him for hours, watching him consider the coffeeshop pastries, sitting in his car and the way he had twisted to back the car out, her ribbon, the dancing, the holding, the kiss—

Burning behind her eyes, then, and she stood, turned to Mel, and said, “I'm sorry, Mel, please take over.”

The Senior Lieutenant blinked and said, “Sure. Is everything—”

“I just need some air,” Blossom said, already on her way to the door and losing feeling in her legs, no, all over. “I just don't feel very well. I'll be back.”

It was better outside. It was easier, less stifling, and she paused to take a deep breath of it and closed her eyes. She could almost feel his lips on hers; the memory was that vivid and sharp in her mind, and her eyes flew open and she gasped again. Her vision was swimming, and she stumbled around the corner. The main building was on one side and the athletics building on the other, with a small, canopied walkway connecting them, and it was here that she stopped, her hands skimming the rough concrete wall and yet numb to the sensation of the building against her skin.

She pulled up the old t-shirt she wore over her dance clothes to dab at her eyes and sniffed, trying to take deep breaths to calm down. Her breaths hitched as she inhaled, and it felt good to do that, so then she thought maybe crying would make it better after all, and that did it.

Blossom collapsed against the side of the building as her tears spilled over, dripping on the concrete, her knees, her arms; she didn't bother to wipe them away. She tried to be quiet about it in case somebody came—God, she hoped nobody would come—and clamped her mouth shut so her sobs wouldn't be so loud. When she hiccuped, then, there was only a small, subdued squeak.

God, this is so pathetic, she thought, trying to make it funny, but that just made it worse.

She pressed herself against the wall in her crouching position, trying to bury herself in it as she sucked in her breaths through her teeth and sniffled and squeezed her eyes shut, feeling tears spill out anyway. He could've at least touched her, or hugged her! How could he ask her to pretend it hadn't happened? How could he ask her that? Why had he kissed her? Why had he taken her to the club, or walked with her at the museum? Why had he let her into his car? They used to hate each other, and now he was telling her they couldn't be together because they were too young and irresponsible, but they were more responsible than anybody, they were more mature, so why couldn't they be responsible and mature together?

The happiness that had overcome her when he'd kissed her in that horrible city was still crystal clear in her memory. How could she forget something like that? How could he ask her to just forget a moment in her life that was one of the happiest she'd ever experienced?

I thought, she started, and then tried to stop, but it finished itself. I thought he liked me.

She held her t-shirt over her face and tried to get her breathing to even out a little. She would manage a few breaths and then relapse, so it took awhile. Eventually, though, she was breathing pretty normally, with only a hiccup here and there, and she rose to her feet, her legs shaking a bit. She took one last, deep, calming breath, and rubbed her soaked t-shirt over her face, trying to dry her eyes as best she could. She was still sniffling a little—she couldn't go to practice like this. She couldn't let anyone see her when she was so volatile.

I'll call it a day and go home, she thought.

She heard a door open, and she hastily turned to round the corner back to the studio entrance.

“Blossom?”

Buttercup's voice was confused, and Blossom halted, clearing her throat as she turned just enough to glimpse her sister staring at her from the canopy, on her way to the athletics building.

She held up a hand and grinned. “Hey, Buttercup.”

“What are you doing out here?”

“Air. Just getting some air.” An uncontrollable sniffle punctuated the statement; Blossom wasn't wracked with crying anymore, but she still wasn't a hundred percent.

To Blossom's dismay Buttercup caught it. Now her face was concerned as she stepped forward. “Why are—your eyes are red, I mean, redder than usual... and what the hell's up with your shirt?”

“Language,” Blossom said, then added, “Um, allergies. And I had a bad run-in with a water fountain.” She sniffed and took a deep breath.

Those sharp green eyes scrutinized her. Buttercup's brow was knitted with what passed for worry on her.

Finally Blossom looked away and said, “Um, hey, I'm going home. I'm not feeling so great.”

“Yeah, okay,” Buttercup said, nodding. “That sounds like a good idea.”

Blossom smiled and waved as she turned. “Bye, Buttercup.”

“Bye.” After a pause, Buttercup added, “Blossom, feel better.”

“Oh, I'm fine,” Blossom chirped, not looking back.

I'm fine. I'm okay. I'm fine.

***

Blossom's appetite was not much improved by dinner, but she took a few token bites and pushed her food around a bit before asking to be excused.

“Quite a bit of homework,” she explained to her family.

On her way up the stairs she heard Buttercup say, “She barely ate.”

Blossom shut herself in their room and sat at her desk. Honestly, she had nothing to do. Since she'd come home early she had blasted through all her homework already. The only thing left was to read more of Agnes Grey for English. As she tugged it out, she suddenly remembered—the extra credit. She'd gone out on Saturday and Sunday and had completely forgotten about it. It was due tomorrow.

She powered on the computer she and her sisters shared and reluctantly thought back to Saturday. What had she thought she might do her piece on? She remembered the shadow sculpture and the couch.

She bit her lip and typed up her heading. The poems. What had the poems been?

“Um,” she said aloud, and her voice cracked. She didn't want to do this again, but she felt it coming on anyway.

No. Focus. This was just an assignment, an extra credit assignment, and in order to do it she had to remember the poems. This was separate from him. Brick had nothing to do with this.

since feeling is first—

may i touch said he—

Blossom covered her face with her hands. She clambered out of her chair and sat on her bed, her shoulders shaking and her hands wet with tears as she prayed that this bout of crying would finish before either of her sisters made it up here.

***

Bubbles hummed as she floated up the stairs while Buttercup helped the Professor clean up after dinner. She had to change for tonight's date...

She swung the door to their bedroom open and froze. Blossom was sitting on her bed hugging her pillow to her face to muffle the noise—the only way Bubbles could tell she was crying was from the telltale hitching of her shoulders.

“Blossom?!”

At the sound of her sister's voice Blossom tensed, but her crying didn't stop. Bubbles dashed to her side, pulling the pillow away so she could comfort her properly.

“Blossom, what's wrong?” she asked, smoothing her sister's hair back and wiping away some of her tears. Blossom squeezed her eyes shut and tried to cover her face with her hands, stifling a sob.

“Shh, it's okay, Blossom, please, tell me what's wrong...”

Blossom couldn't take a breath without hiccuping or sniffling, but after a few tries she finally managed, “S-S-Saturday... I saw Brick...”

Bubbles' eyes widened as she stroked her sister's hair. “Uh-huh?”

Blossom swiped at her eyes. “And we... and we went out...”

Bubbles felt a sudden, tense anger build up in her. “And then?”

Her sister buried her face in her arms and sobbed.

“Blossom, Blossom, shh,” Bubbles soothed.

“We just...” Blossom sniffled; Bubbles had to lean close to make out the words. “We had such a good time... I thought...” She started to clutch at the bed, feeling around for the pillow, and Bubbles pushed it aside and pulled Blossom into her arms instead, rubbing her back and shushing her.

“It's okay,” she repeated again and again as a fresh wave of sobs wracked her sister's body. She had never seen Blossom like this before; she was usually so composed, so above her emotions. What had happened?

“Holy—Blossom?!”

Blossom looked up, horrified, and Bubbles turned to see a frantic Buttercup in the doorway, already moving towards them.

“What's going on?! Why are—you were crying earlier today too, weren't you? What's the matter?”

Bubbles spoke up. “Something happened with—”

“No, no, it's nothing,” Blossom sniffed, batting at Bubbles to stop. She was inhaling deeply, trying to calm her breathing down. “I'm just really hormonal right now, that's all—”

“Bullshit! What's wrong?”

Bubbles looked up at Buttercup, but Blossom clenched her arm and when she turned back to her their leader's eyes beseeched her, begging her not to say anything.

“It's okay,” Blossom told Buttercup, hiccuping and swallowing. “I-I'm okay—”

“Are you kidding me? I found you crying at school, you barely ate a thing at dinner—I'll bet you didn't eat lunch, either; you told me you went out—”

“Girls?” The Professor's voice rang out downstairs, and all the girls winced. “What's going on up there?”

Blossom leaned forward and shouted, her voice cracking, “Nothing, Professor!”

She said it too loudly, which immediately announced to their father that something was terribly, terribly wrong.

“I'm coming up,” he said, and Buttercup leaped up and slammed the door. “Girls!”

“No, no, no, don't let him come in,” Blossom hissed to Bubbles, tearing up again.

“Are you going to tell me what's wrong or not?!” Buttercup cried.

“Buttercup, please,” Bubbles said. “She's upset, can't you please just give her—can you leave us alone, please?”

Buttercup gaped at her sisters, looking like she'd been punched in the gut. “What?!”

Bubbles just shook her head and turned back to Blossom to soothe her.

“I'm her fucking sister, too! Why don't—you guys never want to tell me anything! You—I asked you earlier today, Blossom, and you lied to me, and you're doing it now, too—”

“Buttercup,” Bubbles said sternly, “she didn't lie to you—”

“Stop covering for her!” Buttercup shouted, and the Professor pounded on the door.

“What's going on in there?!”

Buttercup was taut with anger. “You guys are always doing this! You never want to tell me anything, you always keep me out of the loop, you always gang up on me and—”

“Nobody's ganging up on you!” Bubbles cried. “We're just asking for a moment—”

“Fine!” Buttercup exploded, and shot out the door in an angry streak of green, past a stunned Professor.

“Buttercup! Girls, what the—what on Earth is going on?!”

***

Boomer was just about on his way out the door when he got a phone call.

“Hey, Bubbles,” he greeted, smiling. “What's up?” As he listened, his smile faded. “Really?”

Butch looked up from the couch where he had settled in for a night of television. The door to the training room opened, and a soaked Brick emerged and quietly shut the door.

“Dude,” Butch said, “you've been busy.”

Brick grunted in response.

Boomer knit his brow and said, “So you wanna take a rain check on tonight? ...Okay. Is she okay?”

Both of his brothers looked up at him.

“Who?” Butch said sharply. “Is who okay?”

Brick stared at Boomer, wide-eyed, one hand still on the doorknob.

“Alright, yeah. I'll talk to you later. Bye.” Suddenly he blushed, then, in a much more subdued voice, “Me too.”

Butch bolted upright as Boomer shut his phone. “Is something wrong? What happened? Who were you two talking about?”

Boomer shook his head. “She didn't go into detail, but—”

He was interrupted by pounding at the front door, and Buttercup's voice screamed, “Butch! It's me!”

He exchanged glances with both of his brothers, then shot to the door and flung it open. Buttercup stormed inside, her shoulders stiff with anger.

“I can't stand those two! Ugh! I swear to God, I can't fucking stand them!”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, what the shit?” Butch cried, watching her stalk back and forth in their living room. “What's wrong?”

“Fucking Bubbles and Blossom!” Buttercup snapped. “It's like I'm not even part of this God damn family! You know?! I see Blossom crying at school—”

Brick suddenly hated himself, more than anything.

“And then she lies to me about it, she barely eats anything at dinner, and when I go upstairs she's in our room bawling to Bubbles, and both of them immediately shut up when I come in and nobody wants to tell me what the fuck is going on!” Buttercup stopped in front of a bewildered Butch and, without looking at him, shouted, “I'm their fucking sister too! They're always doing shit like this, they've always done it! Ever since we were kids they'd always talk to each other about this stuff, they'd always leave me out, they'd only ever share secrets with each other, and you know, fine, whatever, you can do whatever you want, but when something's wrong, really wrong?! To the point where Blossom—Blossom—is in tears about it?! And they don't wanna tell me?! Like I wouldn't care?! Like I wouldn't get it?! That's bullshit! Fine! Fuck them! If they don't wanna treat me like I'm part of this family, then fine! I'll stop giving a shit!”

“Jesus Christ, Buttercup, calm down,” Butch said, and her head snapped to, livid.

“Don't give me that shit! I'm pissed off and I'll calm down when I'm ready to calm the fuck down!”

“Okay, okay, fine, be fucking angry.” Butch raised his hands in surrender. A strange look entered his eyes, and before she could turn away he snatched her arm and said, “Hey, come on.”

She halted, blinking at him. “What?”

“Just come on,” he said. “You can keep screaming if you want, but just come on.”

Both his brothers watched as Butch led Buttercup out of the apartment, slamming the door behind them. Boomer turned to Brick.

“Geez, what the hell do you think is going on over at the girls' place tonight?” he wondered.

Brick's gaze was far away. He didn't respond.

Boomer frowned and stepped a little closer. “Brick?”

Brick looked at Boomer as if he'd just now realized the blond was there.

“Everything okay?”

Brick inhaled and held his breath for a second before sighing, “Yeah.” He turned and started for his bedroom. “Yeah.”

***

Buttercup looked around, a little confused. Butch had taken her to an asteroid belt, not unlike the one she and her sisters—If I can call them sisters, Buttercup thought bitterly to herself—had retreated to all those years ago, before the city had wanted and loved them.

Now they were landing on one, the rocky surface of the asteroid crunching under their feet, and Butch finally—she'd almost forgotten—let go. She hesitated, then rubbed the spot where his hand had clutched her arm.

He turned to face her, his gaze still looking strange, almost distracted. “You still pissed off?”

She blinked at him, then muttered, “Of course I'm pissed off.”

“Why?”

She huffed. “Because... they don't fucking tell me anything, they don't treat me like—”

“Bullshit,” he said.

“Wh-what?”

“Bullshit that's your problem,” he snapped, his face vicious and unkind. “Your problem is you're a worthless piece of shit.”

Buttercup gaped at him before screaming, “What?!”

“You heard me,” he growled. “You wanna know why you're so pissed off? You're pissed off because you don't like your sisters calling you out on what a useless little bitch you are!”

Buttercup sputtered for an indignant moment before recovering her voice and shouting, “Fuck you!” She turned and stalked away.

Butch was close behind. “You got some nerve, coming and crying to me—”

“I'm not crying!” she snapped.

“And whining about how unfair it is, how mean they are to you—”

“Shut up!”

“Like a little pussy, that's what you are, you think you're all tough but you're still just a little fucking girl who goes crying to her friends—”

She whirled on him and screamed, “Why the fuck did you bring me here?!”

“Some fighter you are,” Butch spat, disgusted. “Your sisters didn't make you feel like a worthless little bitch, you just are—”

Before she could think twice about it Buttercup drew her fist back and punched him in the jaw, and then, before he could recover, she charged into him, sending debris sailing into space as the two of them hit the ground, snarling.

***

Bubbles had thwarted the Professor by claiming Blossom's moodiness was due to girl troubles of the monthly variety. He had still been intent on getting to the root of it, but Bubbles had insisted, and eventually he'd retreated back downstairs.

Curled up next to her on Blossom's bed was her heartsick sister, the last of her sniffles subsiding. When finally alone, she'd literally cried on Bubbles' shoulder, her endless tears soaking the cotton of her shirt. Bubbles stroked her sister's hair, mulling over everything Blossom had told her.

“I see his point, but I don't much like it.”

Blossom sniffled.

Bubbles took a deep breath and sighed. “I should've made you come home for dinner.”

“We were having such a nice time,” Blossom mumbled.

“You did. It sounds like it.”

“I can't believe he wants to forget it all happened.”

“He's a boy,” Bubbles said sagely. “Boys are stupid.”

“This one's smart.”

“No boys are smart when it comes to girls.”

Blossom sighed. “I don't know how I can look at him without wanting to burst into tears.”

“So stay home for a day or two.”

Even through her swollen, teary eyes, Blossom glared at her sister. “I'm not missing school.”

“Then just don't look at him.” At the look of uncertainty on Blossom's face, Bubbles added, “Though, yes, it'll probably be hard not to. He's pretty, after all.”

Blossom squeezed closer, and Bubbles gave her a reassuring hug. “Why doesn't he like me?” Blossom mumbled, her tone childlike, plaintive.

Bubbles thought about it, about saying, It's not that he doesn't like you, it's just that he doesn't want to let himself like you, but decided against it. How would saying that out loud to a heartbroken Blossom make anything better?

Instead she kissed her sister on the forehead and whispered, “To Hell with him. I like you.”

***

Buttercup panted for breath, her muscles aching and joints sore. Butch was draped on top of her, his elbows shaking as he propped himself up; he, too, was panting. Her fist opened against his stomach, skimming along the tense muscle before gliding over that chest of his, rising and falling in an incessant, almost calming pattern of movement.

She bumped her forehead against his shoulder as she pressed her cheek to his sweaty neck and whispered, “Thanks. I needed that.”

One of his hands thumped clumsily against her head, and she laughed. “I was ready for that, too,” he breathed, and she rolled him off of her, an awkward laugh breaking her heavy breathing.

He gulped some air before saying, “I grabbed your hair pretty hard, did it—”

“I didn't lose any,” she said, patting the side of her head. Her scalp was sore from where he'd yanked her hair, but even in the heat of the moment he hadn't torn anything out. She remembered something and sat up, despite the protests of her muscles, and started feeling around. “Ah. Here.”

She turned, offering two of his teeth to him in her upturned palm. He sat up, then took them and spit on them to clean off the dirt before setting them carefully back in place.

“Sockets didn't close up yet, did they?” she asked.

“Nope, still fresh,” he said once he'd taken his hand back out of his mouth. He ground his teeth a little, wincing as he evened out his loose teeth.

“Sorry,” she said sheepishly.

“Naw, it's nothing. Good as new in a minute.” He brushed his hand along the bruise on his jaw. “Got me good, there.”

She sniffed and rubbed the back of her hand along her face, pausing to study the blood she'd smeared from her split, swollen lip. “You didn't do too bad yourself.”

“Your arm okay?”

She rolled her shoulders, wincing a little. “Still there.”

“It made a pretty gross sound when I—”

“It's still there,” she repeated. She nodded at his knee. “That?”

He glanced down.

“Your knee looks like fucking Octomom's stomach.”

“Looked a lot more like it a minute ago,” he said. “Can't move it much right now.”

“I think I shattered it,” she said guiltily.

“Yeah, well.” He grimaced. “Ugh, weird. I can feel the bones moving back into place.”

“Fucked up!”

“Yeah, and all the little muscles and tendons, or what the hell ever they are...” He sucked in a breath, sweat breaking on his forehead. “Chemical X isn't doing shit for the pain right now.”

“Probably not, if it's having to reconstruct a knee.” She placed one hand on his shoulder and another on his chest. “Come on, lie down.”

“Oh, Buttercup, I know you wanna get busy, but wait till my knee's fixed up—”

“Fuck you, Pencildick,” she sniped, but she was grinning as she forced his back to the surface of the asteroid. After a moment's contemplation, she crawled over behind his head so she could lie on her stomach and stare at his face upside down. “Still hurt?”

“Barely feel it,” he sneered, but then winced and hissed a breath. If Buttercup listened, she could hear a faint grinding noise coming from his busted knee.

She reached for both of his arms and clasped his forearms; he clenched back. “Something to hold onto,” she explained, not needing to.

“Couldn't you just let me grab your tits instead?”

“Fuck off, or you'll have to wait for two knee repairs,” she warned.

Butch laughed, and she smiled. A stretch of silence passed, during which Buttercup watched his own smile fade. A few times he grimaced and clenched her arms, his good leg scraping against the ground as his other went about the tedious process of self-repair.

“You... feelin' better?” he finally asked.

She chewed her lip—gently, since the swelling hadn't completely gone down yet—and finally nodded. “Hitting something did just the trick.”

He laughed again. “Didn't just hit something, you cut up my jaw and fucked up my knee. You were hardcore pissed off.”

“You worked me up pretty good.”

“Good,” he replied. Then, after a pause, “Good?”

“Yeah. I told you, I needed that.”

A small, slow smile worked its way onto his face. She watched it form, almost mesmerized at the gradualness with which it appeared.

His eyes flicked to her chest, and he said in a sing-songy voice, “I can see your bra.”

Buttercup found she couldn't bring herself to care about it. “Your fault, ripping up my clothes.”

“You ripped mine up, too,” he whined.

“Don't see your bra showing.”

“I like to let it all hang out there, you know.”

She started laughing. “Right.” She paused. He was still staring. “Butch.”

His eyes snapped back to hers. “My bad.” He swallowed as she glared at him. After a long pause, he said, “Black?”

She blinked, then realized what he was referring to. “Dark blue.”

“Really?”

“Why the surprise?”

“Don't strike me as a blue kinda gal.”

“What, then?”

“Maybe polka dot.”

“Fuck you.”

“Right,” he said dimly, staring past her into the vastness of space. She shifted a bit to get more comfortable, and the ends of her hair dangled in his face, tickling his skin. He tried to blow it away. She laughed.

One of his hands squeezed her arm—first gently, then a little harder. “Your hair's too fucking long,” he said, his voice thick.

She snickered and swished it in his face; he made spitting noises.

“Seriously, you should cut it.”

“Been meaning to,” she said, the smile on her face almost apologetic.

“You look better with short hair.” He was still staring past her; she could see the stars reflected in those deep green eyes. “You should get it cut.” After a moment, he added, “Makes it harder for me to grab if we happen to do this again.”

“So you're giving me a handicap in the next fight, is that it?” She nodded at his knee. The swelling was already going down, and he was clenching less. “If anything, you oughtta get the handicap. Wasn't my knee that got all fucked up tonight.”

“Mmm. This weekend. Let's go.”

“Go where?”

“To get a haircut.”

“You, too?”

“Why not?”

She sighed and looked up, taking in the endless empty blackness of outer space, marred by the glittering of an uncountable number of stars. Butch's hands shifted against her forearm, not clenching anymore, just touching.

She thought back to Blossom in tears, clutching at Bubbles as if she were her only lifeline. It had looked familiar. It had even felt familiar. Her brow furrowed.

“Sure,” she said, her hand tracing a light circle on Butch's elbow.

***

Blossom was lying in bed, unable to sleep and curled towards the wall when she heard Buttercup finally come home. She watched her sister's shadow glide along the wall, pausing over Blossom. Nearby, Bubbles' heavy breathing was faint and regular, lost in sleep.

Blossom shifted and did not look up. Buttercup stood there a long moment, studying her.

“Three days,” she said, her voice soft, and Blossom's eyes widened, just a little. How did Buttercup...?

“But that's all you're getting from me,” Buttercup added, and then moved to get ready for bed. Blossom curled into herself a little, unsure whether to respond or not. Instead she just laid there, long after Buttercup had succumbed to sleep herself. Her sisters' deep, regular breathing was an odd comfort in the dark stillness of their room, and she didn't feel quite so much like bursting into tears as she listened to them inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale.

I'm better than this, she thought, tracing shapes into the wall with her eyes. I'm better. I'm stronger. I have to be.

This was such a small thing, in the grand scheme of things. This was so insignificant. Of course, it didn't feel that way now, but she was young and it was her first real rejection, so it was only natural for her to react in such an emotional manner. She could dwell on it, or move on. The smart choice was, obviously...

She had to stop pining over Brick. And that was the truth: she was pining. It was impossible to deny something that had become so obvious—Saturday was all the evidence anyone would need to show just how “into him” she'd been.

But now I have to move on, she thought, a little dismally. But of course she'd be dismal about it. Who wouldn't be?

In any case, he could not see her like this. He couldn't know how much his rejection had affected her. Then he'd just pity her, and Blossom... Blossom was not someone to be pitied.

I'm better than that, she thought again, jaw set and face hard. I'm stronger.

A part of her clung to that memory, that precious moment of sheer happiness when Brick's lips had met hers, and she felt tears well up in her eyes again. She squeezed them shut and took a deep breath.

I have to be.

Sleep never came to claim her, but daylight was bright and early, as always, and by the time her sisters awoke Blossom was already dressed and on her way out the door.

***

Brick sat in English, irritated with himself for letting his nerves get to him. She hadn't looked at him once in Statistics—that had been their second class today—though, granted, they sat on opposite ends of the room. But previously—and it had gotten to this point without either of them realizing it—something they'd always been able to count on was the weight of each other's gaze when one of them wasn't looking.

Well, Blossom had refused today to even acknowledge Brick's furtive gaze, period. He'd had to remind himself that was the way it should be, and really, he'd only been staring because...

She doesn't look like she's been crying, he'd thought to himself. Maybe her eyes had looked a little puffier, as if she hadn't slept much, but she didn't seem... he hesitated to say heartbroken, but wasn't sure what to say in its place.

Maybe he'd misunderstood. Maybe she'd been upset about something else. Or maybe she was just over it already.

The thought filled him simultaneously with frustration and disappointment. Plus a sort of resignation. He'd basically asked her to get over it, hadn't he?

In Art, Bubbles had not talked to him once or cast an eye in his direction. Well, that had kinda killed his theory that Blossom might be upset about something else. Bubbles had canceled a date with Boomer because Blossom had been upset, and now even the cheerful blonde was ignoring him. Funny, how class had been quieter, and yet Brick had found it vastly more difficult to attempt work. Especially with English looming...

He fidgeted in his chair as the students filtered in. He checked to make sure his stuff wasn't situated too near to her seat, then flipped through all his things to keep his eyes from going to the door. He didn't want it to look like he was just waiting for her to show up.

He recognized her footsteps and was angered by how tense he got, how quickly the color rose to his face. He didn't dare look up and rifled blindly through his things as she slid around him and took her seat.

He stared at a handout he'd received in Econ. “Hey.”

“Hello,” she responded, her voice painfully neutral.

Then that was it. Brick stared at his handout for a while longer before setting it down. He finally chanced a look at her; she had opened Agnes Grey and appeared devoutly focused on reading. Even up close she didn't look like she'd been crying. Maybe tired, at most. He thought of asking her how she'd slept, then decided against it.

“How... are you?” he finally said.

“Fine.”

Her eyes were glued to the page. Brick looked away, a part of him bothered by her response, or lack of it. He wanted to say something else to her, but he couldn't think of a fucking thing.

He looked back at her. “Really?” he asked, his voice coming out softer than he'd intended.

“Yes,” she said. Again, not looking up.

Brick's eyes drifted back to his section of the table just as the bell rang.

“Alright, class,” Mrs. Yang announced. “Who's got extra credit for me?”

Brick's eyes widened. He'd forgotten! In the midst of all that had happened since Saturday, he'd totally—

“Blossom?” Mrs. Yang asked, when the girl didn't rise with the other few students, and Blossom looked up.

“I didn't do the extra credit, Mrs. Yang,” she explained, her voice a little tight.

“I—you didn't?”

“Some things came up,” Blossom said.

Mrs. Yang stared, then looked down at her desk and made a note. “First time for everything,” she muttered. She looked up again. “Brick? What about you? Did you go to the E. E. Cummings exhibit?”

Brick thought back to when Blossom had first appeared in the museum, glowing in the soft daylight. He suddenly missed that image, missed that afternoon, that entire day, with a childish longing that nearly made him sick to his stomach.

“Brick?” Mrs. Yang asked again, and he looked up. Even now the memory of that day was fading, faster than he wanted it to, and even if it was for the better he tried to cling to it, wishing he could etch it into his memory in permanent ink.

“No,” he said, the words feeling heavy in his throat. She was sitting right next to him and did not so much as glance at him. “I didn't do the extra credit, either.”

***

Three days, Buttercup had said, and Bubbles had probably said it, too—after all, she'd originated it in this family. Blossom was remarkably undemanding, save for a couple of things.

First, every day Blossom came home from practice, set down her stuff at the coffee table, and said, “Girls. Homework.”

A grudging Buttercup and Bubbles would take their places at the coffee table and suffer through their assignments. Blossom made sure they were working, too, rather than just staring at the table.

Second, she asked Buttercup to make a new French dessert for each of those three days. After dinner Blossom would help herself to two servings and eat it at the table in silence, unless the Professor asked her questions. Her responses were limited, and after she retreated to their room he would exchange looks with Bubbles and Buttercup as if to say, “What's wrong?”

Blossom wasn't talking much at all; she'd only speak when spoken to. Bubbles was brave enough to chance a question one night:

“How's the show with Brick coming along?”

Buttercup looked up from where she was struggling to finish her homework on her bed, amazed that Bubbles was trying to instigate conversation.

Bubbles added, “Have you guys been practicing?”

“No,” Blossom said, and that was that.

It didn't occur to Buttercup until later that there might have been something significant about Bubbles asking in the first place.

***

Boomer attempted a little softshoe around the apartment as he got ready for his Friday night date with Bubbles. He managed alright, but...

“Hey, Brick,” he said, an anticipatory grin on his face. “Show me how you do this.”

Brick was at the dinner table, staring at his homework. “I'm busy.”

“You've been stuck on that page for the past twenty minutes and haven't written a thing. The shit you're busy. Humor me a second.”

Brick sighed the sigh of one most heavily burdened. “Don't feel like it.”

Butch called from his room, “Boomer! There's a really fucking scary horror movie out! Take your girl to that and she'll be crawling all over you!”

“What's it about?” Boomer asked, grooving his way into his jacket.

“Ghosts in a couple's house at night. Do it. Me and Buttercup and the boys are checking it out tonight. Supposed to be scary as shit.”

“I don't think Bubbles will go for that.”

“Fuck, do you always let that chick decide everything for you two? Don't you ever get to do what you want?”

“I just want to spend time with her,” Boomer said, and there was the slightest of huffs from the kitchen table. Boomer looked at Brick just as Butch emerged from his room.

“Whatever you say, homo,” Butch said, shrugging.

“You're a dick.”

Butch turned, sneering as he opened the front door. “The biggest there is! Peace, brothers. See you later.”

The door slammed, and Brick said, “Butch has a point.”

“Huh?”

“You let that girl get to you. You listen to her too much, you drop everything you're doing if she so much as utters a word, and honestly? You're spending way too much time with her.”

Brick sounded serious, and Boomer reacted the way he usually did to his brother's lectures: with lighthearted humor. “Well, she is my future bride-to-be—”

“No, she isn't,” Brick said sharply.

“Got a house picked out and everything—”

“Boomer—”

“Names picked out for the kids—”

“Cut that out!” Brick bellowed, jumping to his feet. Boomer halted, his smile fading at his brother's outburst.

Brick was glaring at him; Boomer couldn't tell if his eyes were glowing or not. Tension worked its way up and down Boomer's nerves.

“Break up with her.”

Boomer stared at his leader, stunned. “What?”

A humorless Brick repeated deliberately, “Break up with her.”

Boomer blinked a couple of times, forced a bewildered laugh, then turned away and scoffed, “Fuck you.”

Brick was suddenly at Boomer's elbow, and he whipped his brother around to face him. “I'm not playing, Boomer.”

Boomer made a half-hearted attempt to jerk his elbow away. “Neither am I,” he muttered, not looking Brick in the eye.

“You want to do it that way? Fine. I'm ordering you—”

“We're not on the job; you can't order me to do a fucking thing,” Boomer spat, and wrenched his arm away.

“You don't do it now, then I'm going to make it a lot harder when we are on the job,” Brick snarled. Boomer said nothing and zipped up his jacket, even though it was still warm enough not to. “And don't think that just because you're my brother I'm going to make it easy—”

“Fuck you,” Boomer muttered again. “Fuck you, you fucking—fuck you.”

“Boomer, ever since you've gotten together with her you've acted like a leashed dog. You follow her around everywhere, you don't do anything unless she's there, your whole life now centers around her—”

“Jealous, Brick?” Boomer snapped, and Brick's arm tensed.

“Who told you to quit the band?” Brick said viciously.

Boomer turned away.

“If you know what's good for you, Boomer—”

“Don't fucking threaten me,” Boomer warned, wrenching the front door open.

“You'll dump her ass—”

“Shut up!”

“Boomer—”

“I love her!” Boomer shouted, and Brick flared.

“No, you don't, jackass! You don't even know what the fuck that is—”

“Go fuck yourself, Brick,” Boomer snapped, and slammed the door. Brick almost went after him, ready to beat some God damn sense into him, because fuck, what did Boomer know? What did he know about anything? He didn't get that this was all his stupid teenage emotions getting in the way of rational thought, that he was blinded by affection for her, and she had no idea, she wasn't looking at him, she wasn't talking to him, no matter if she was only doing exactly what Brick had suggested they do—

Brick stopped, his hands flying to his temples. “Stop,” he hissed aloud; he was talking about Boomer, he was thinking about Boomer. Boomer was being an idiot. Boomer had let himself be trapped. And by who? A fucking Powerpuff Girl, a fucking enemy, or at least former enemy, someone on the wrong side, someone who threatened everything Brick needed to accomplish in his life with her stupid voice and her stupid legs and all her stupid fucking brains and talent—

“Stop,” he said again, squeezing his eyes shut, but that only made her image sharper in his mind, and he could almost feel her arms encircling him, almost feel her lips on his, a ghost of a memory that he was never going to rid himself of no matter how much he wanted to or how much he tried.

***