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I cannot believe there was a time in my life where I thought this was good.
Continuing along the theme of Unnecessary UST from last week, today's I unearthed this forgotten scene from Best Kept Secret.
Basically, the section where Butch starts having dreams about Buttercup used to be longer because at the time I was writing it I had not yet developed that editorial eye that tells you "Hey, maybe pump the brakes on this shit." Thankfully, that so called eye had at least matured enough by the time I actually posted the fic, and while I'm never going to be truly happy with BKS (it's Greens of a bygone era; I can't even fathom writing them this way now), I'm grateful that I could make it just a tiny bit better by axing this.
Here it is, in all its glory.
---
Hell, I thought to myself as I swept my arm across my brow, this is absolute HELL.
I hadn’t bothered looking at the weather report before heading out—not like I ever did anyway—and that had to have been the worst mistake I’d ever made.
Well, today at least.
It’d been fine when I’d first gotten to the park, and all I’d been doing so far involved lobbing balls at the outer restroom walls with my lacrosse stick. Hardly strenuous exercise. But now I was starting to sweat in spite of the shade and general lack of activity.
“Man this ain’t wort it,” I muttered gathering up the loose balls with the stick. “I’m heading back—”
“Butch?”
I nearly dropped my stick and wound up losing all the balls I’d collected. “Buttercup?”
“Say, I didn’t know you were gonna be here; I would’ve come earlier.” Clad in her practice uniform, she hefted her gym bag up further on her shoulder and rolled a basketball along her hip with the opposite hand. “You should’ve called.”
I blinked and sputtered, “Oh, w-well—”
“Man, it’s one hell of a day, isn’t it?” she interrupted, turning her gaze to the cloudless sky and squinting.
“Yeah, you’re telling me,” I murmured, scooping up white and yellow lacrosse balls left and right. “I was actually about to head back, you know—it’s just too frickin’ hot.”
“Hey, you’re kidding! I just got here. Why don’t you hang around another few minutes and shoot a few with me?”
I rubbed a hand at my neck, noting the thick coating of sweat and said, “I dunno, Buttercup, I mean, it’s really, really—”
“Oh, come on Butch, please?” she slapped at her gym bag. “I’ve got tons of water in here. One game isn’t going to hurt you.”
I looked to the sun and then at her, my eyes lingering on her hopeful expression. Unable to resist, I cracked a small smile and said, “What the hell.”
***
“What… the hell… was I thinking?” I panted, before cracking the plastic on my fourth bottle of water and chugging it. The entire thing was gone in under fifteen seconds. “I can’t believe I let you talk me into this.”
“Dude, you’re not backing out now, are you?” she laughed, fishing for another bottle in her bag.
“Buttercup, with all due respect, I think you’re being a little bit overcompetitive here.” I’d long since pulled off my shirt and was now using it to wipe at whatever sweat I could. When she didn’t instantly reply I glanced at her.
She was staring at me with envy in her eyes. “God, guys are lucky. If they get hot, they can peel their shirt right off; no one cares.” She popped the plastic top on her bottle and raised it to her lips. “With girls it’s another story, you know?”
“Uh… yeah.” I suddenly felt a little… odd about Buttercup seeing me with my shirt off. Not like it was anything new, but—
I coughed and tossed my shirt a little self-consciously back on the bench.
“So,” Buttercup said, exchanging her bottle for the ball, “you ready?”
“You kidding? I’m about to keel over, you crazy freak. Why don’t we take a break?”
“Just did. Come on, wuss,” she laughed, and passed me the ball.
I groaned and as I caught it I muttered, “You’re just upset that you’re losing.”
“Not for long, Butch,” she said in a low voice, and bent forward, resting her hand son her knees.
The collar of her uniform peaked outward and I hesitated. Because that was a lot of skin. And it was really, really… distracting.
“What are you waitin’ for?” Buttercup said, voice throaty and rough, and my eyes flicked to her face.
I clenched the ball and said quietly, “The right moment,” before passing it back.
***
“Butch,” she wheezed, flapping her jersey collar to cool down, “pass me a bottle.”
I practically tore into her gym bag, then, after a pause, called back, “We’ve got one left.”
“One?!” she gasped incredulously.
“One,” I nodded, and yanked it out and tossed it to her. “It’s yours. And—while I can still talk—I won.”
“Fine… fine,” she breathed, uncapping the bottle. “Whatever.”
I watched enviously as she pressed the neck of it to her lips and sipped. Suddenly she paused, glanced at it, then threw her head back and poured it on her face.
All. Over. Her. Face.
My chest suddenly heaved, and I gawked in astonishment at the movement of the water along her skin, dripping and pooling and dipping every which way, outlining the curve of her neck and the crook of her arm—
I forgot how thirsty I’d been just five seconds ago.
The bottle clattered against the concrete and rolled into the grass. When I lifted my eyes I saw hers gleaming right back.
She ran a hand through her hair, soaked with drinking water and sweat. And her uniform… suddenly looked a lot smaller.
“Yes?” she purred (purred, Jesus Christ), a hint of a smile tugging her lip.
Oh God. “N-nothing.”
Her lip curled, and she murmured, “Liar.” She pulled a rubber band from her pocket and reached for her hair, tugging it into a ponytail. I stoutheartedly decided that the line of her neck was absolutely phenomenal. One I could’ve stared at all day.
… Assuming she wouldn’t stare back at me. Which she was very obviously doing at the present moment.
“You’re staring, Butch,” she said softly, voice unnaturally husky and deep, and a smile bubbled onto her lips and she chuckled. Very sexily. I hadn’t believed it possible to chuckle sexily, but she was doing it right here in front of me. Chuckling. Sexily. I briefly wondered if the world was on the brink of imploding. It sure felt like it. The air was stifling, God-awful thick, and I couldn’t breathe. Because of the air. Oh yeah. Definitely because of the air.
Never mind the fact that I am a fourteen-year-old boy-shaped hormone factory, I told myself. That was entirely irrelevant. But it didn’t exactly help that the object of my affection was not only flirting shamelessly with me, but flirting shamelessly with me in a basketball uniform drenched in sweat and water and hanging just so in all the right places—
The smile faded from her face and she lowered her glistening eyelids, peering at me from the thread-like shadows her bangs threw against her brow. Her right arm drew up to her skin as it made one straight wipe at the sweat just at her hairline. She slid her hand against her cheek and ran her wrist along her bottom lip, a hint of teeth and tongue peeking at me…
All that was running through my brain was I am SO uncomfortable right now.
“You’ve always liked watching me, haven’t you, Butch?” she whispered, a dangerous glint in her eye, and just as she said that her right jersey shoulder strap drifted off, and I was thankful that I could blame my very red and guilty blush on the heat. Um, of the sun. Damn that sun.
I wondered briefly if I was hallucinating. Maybe the heat had really gotten to me. I was probably having a stroke. Did people hallucinate when they had strokes? Because this couldn’t be happening. I hoped.
But then again, hoped otherwise. Because I wanted it to be real. Her laugh, her smile, her raspy half-voiced whisper and lowered eyelids, green irises sparkling at me as her bangs curtained around them like feathers… She turned from me, tiny droplets of sweat cascading down her neck and spinning from her hair, and suddenly she crossed her arms about her hips, grasped the hem of her jersey and quickly pulled it over her head, and my jaw dropped and my eyes widened and I choked out a gasp—
—And shot up in bed at 3:47 in the morning, sheets wound uncomfortably tight around my knees, gasping for breath in the awful, unnatural autumn heat wave air.
***
I had (somewhat) mixed feeling about how to deal with my dreams involving Buttercup. On the one hand, it could be really, really… nice. On the other, it was really, really uncomfortable having to face her in the mornings after. And she wasn’t stupid. She noticed when I kept avoiding looking at her or talking to her for too long, and got very keen on harping on me for it.
Me, well… we’ll just say I became one hell of an actor before I was able to fake normalcy with her again.
“Hey,” she said to me the morning after the first dream, and I mumbled, “Hey,” back. I looked at her sly little smirk and thought of sweat on her skin.
I’m not an idiot. I quickly blinked hard to get my mind back on track and learned to hone my acting skills. In fact, the dreams and, uh, “mornings after” were so frequent that I was practically a contender for the Oscars by the time I was fifteen.
So everything was going great, then. Just great. Minus the fact that I was dreaming about her smile and laugh and green-eyed glances, all of which disappeared the instant I opened my eyes.
Yeah. Everything was going just great.
***
---
Basically, the section where Butch starts having dreams about Buttercup used to be longer because at the time I was writing it I had not yet developed that editorial eye that tells you "Hey, maybe pump the brakes on this shit." Thankfully, that so called eye had at least matured enough by the time I actually posted the fic, and while I'm never going to be truly happy with BKS (it's Greens of a bygone era; I can't even fathom writing them this way now), I'm grateful that I could make it just a tiny bit better by axing this.
Here it is, in all its glory.
---
Hell, I thought to myself as I swept my arm across my brow, this is absolute HELL.
I hadn’t bothered looking at the weather report before heading out—not like I ever did anyway—and that had to have been the worst mistake I’d ever made.
Well, today at least.
It’d been fine when I’d first gotten to the park, and all I’d been doing so far involved lobbing balls at the outer restroom walls with my lacrosse stick. Hardly strenuous exercise. But now I was starting to sweat in spite of the shade and general lack of activity.
“Man this ain’t wort it,” I muttered gathering up the loose balls with the stick. “I’m heading back—”
“Butch?”
I nearly dropped my stick and wound up losing all the balls I’d collected. “Buttercup?”
“Say, I didn’t know you were gonna be here; I would’ve come earlier.” Clad in her practice uniform, she hefted her gym bag up further on her shoulder and rolled a basketball along her hip with the opposite hand. “You should’ve called.”
I blinked and sputtered, “Oh, w-well—”
“Man, it’s one hell of a day, isn’t it?” she interrupted, turning her gaze to the cloudless sky and squinting.
“Yeah, you’re telling me,” I murmured, scooping up white and yellow lacrosse balls left and right. “I was actually about to head back, you know—it’s just too frickin’ hot.”
“Hey, you’re kidding! I just got here. Why don’t you hang around another few minutes and shoot a few with me?”
I rubbed a hand at my neck, noting the thick coating of sweat and said, “I dunno, Buttercup, I mean, it’s really, really—”
“Oh, come on Butch, please?” she slapped at her gym bag. “I’ve got tons of water in here. One game isn’t going to hurt you.”
I looked to the sun and then at her, my eyes lingering on her hopeful expression. Unable to resist, I cracked a small smile and said, “What the hell.”
***
“What… the hell… was I thinking?” I panted, before cracking the plastic on my fourth bottle of water and chugging it. The entire thing was gone in under fifteen seconds. “I can’t believe I let you talk me into this.”
“Dude, you’re not backing out now, are you?” she laughed, fishing for another bottle in her bag.
“Buttercup, with all due respect, I think you’re being a little bit overcompetitive here.” I’d long since pulled off my shirt and was now using it to wipe at whatever sweat I could. When she didn’t instantly reply I glanced at her.
She was staring at me with envy in her eyes. “God, guys are lucky. If they get hot, they can peel their shirt right off; no one cares.” She popped the plastic top on her bottle and raised it to her lips. “With girls it’s another story, you know?”
“Uh… yeah.” I suddenly felt a little… odd about Buttercup seeing me with my shirt off. Not like it was anything new, but—
I coughed and tossed my shirt a little self-consciously back on the bench.
“So,” Buttercup said, exchanging her bottle for the ball, “you ready?”
“You kidding? I’m about to keel over, you crazy freak. Why don’t we take a break?”
“Just did. Come on, wuss,” she laughed, and passed me the ball.
I groaned and as I caught it I muttered, “You’re just upset that you’re losing.”
“Not for long, Butch,” she said in a low voice, and bent forward, resting her hand son her knees.
The collar of her uniform peaked outward and I hesitated. Because that was a lot of skin. And it was really, really… distracting.
“What are you waitin’ for?” Buttercup said, voice throaty and rough, and my eyes flicked to her face.
I clenched the ball and said quietly, “The right moment,” before passing it back.
***
“Butch,” she wheezed, flapping her jersey collar to cool down, “pass me a bottle.”
I practically tore into her gym bag, then, after a pause, called back, “We’ve got one left.”
“One?!” she gasped incredulously.
“One,” I nodded, and yanked it out and tossed it to her. “It’s yours. And—while I can still talk—I won.”
“Fine… fine,” she breathed, uncapping the bottle. “Whatever.”
I watched enviously as she pressed the neck of it to her lips and sipped. Suddenly she paused, glanced at it, then threw her head back and poured it on her face.
All. Over. Her. Face.
My chest suddenly heaved, and I gawked in astonishment at the movement of the water along her skin, dripping and pooling and dipping every which way, outlining the curve of her neck and the crook of her arm—
I forgot how thirsty I’d been just five seconds ago.
The bottle clattered against the concrete and rolled into the grass. When I lifted my eyes I saw hers gleaming right back.
She ran a hand through her hair, soaked with drinking water and sweat. And her uniform… suddenly looked a lot smaller.
“Yes?” she purred (purred, Jesus Christ), a hint of a smile tugging her lip.
Oh God. “N-nothing.”
Her lip curled, and she murmured, “Liar.” She pulled a rubber band from her pocket and reached for her hair, tugging it into a ponytail. I stoutheartedly decided that the line of her neck was absolutely phenomenal. One I could’ve stared at all day.
… Assuming she wouldn’t stare back at me. Which she was very obviously doing at the present moment.
“You’re staring, Butch,” she said softly, voice unnaturally husky and deep, and a smile bubbled onto her lips and she chuckled. Very sexily. I hadn’t believed it possible to chuckle sexily, but she was doing it right here in front of me. Chuckling. Sexily. I briefly wondered if the world was on the brink of imploding. It sure felt like it. The air was stifling, God-awful thick, and I couldn’t breathe. Because of the air. Oh yeah. Definitely because of the air.
Never mind the fact that I am a fourteen-year-old boy-shaped hormone factory, I told myself. That was entirely irrelevant. But it didn’t exactly help that the object of my affection was not only flirting shamelessly with me, but flirting shamelessly with me in a basketball uniform drenched in sweat and water and hanging just so in all the right places—
The smile faded from her face and she lowered her glistening eyelids, peering at me from the thread-like shadows her bangs threw against her brow. Her right arm drew up to her skin as it made one straight wipe at the sweat just at her hairline. She slid her hand against her cheek and ran her wrist along her bottom lip, a hint of teeth and tongue peeking at me…
All that was running through my brain was I am SO uncomfortable right now.
“You’ve always liked watching me, haven’t you, Butch?” she whispered, a dangerous glint in her eye, and just as she said that her right jersey shoulder strap drifted off, and I was thankful that I could blame my very red and guilty blush on the heat. Um, of the sun. Damn that sun.
I wondered briefly if I was hallucinating. Maybe the heat had really gotten to me. I was probably having a stroke. Did people hallucinate when they had strokes? Because this couldn’t be happening. I hoped.
But then again, hoped otherwise. Because I wanted it to be real. Her laugh, her smile, her raspy half-voiced whisper and lowered eyelids, green irises sparkling at me as her bangs curtained around them like feathers… She turned from me, tiny droplets of sweat cascading down her neck and spinning from her hair, and suddenly she crossed her arms about her hips, grasped the hem of her jersey and quickly pulled it over her head, and my jaw dropped and my eyes widened and I choked out a gasp—
—And shot up in bed at 3:47 in the morning, sheets wound uncomfortably tight around my knees, gasping for breath in the awful, unnatural autumn heat wave air.
***
I had (somewhat) mixed feeling about how to deal with my dreams involving Buttercup. On the one hand, it could be really, really… nice. On the other, it was really, really uncomfortable having to face her in the mornings after. And she wasn’t stupid. She noticed when I kept avoiding looking at her or talking to her for too long, and got very keen on harping on me for it.
Me, well… we’ll just say I became one hell of an actor before I was able to fake normalcy with her again.
“Hey,” she said to me the morning after the first dream, and I mumbled, “Hey,” back. I looked at her sly little smirk and thought of sweat on her skin.
I’m not an idiot. I quickly blinked hard to get my mind back on track and learned to hone my acting skills. In fact, the dreams and, uh, “mornings after” were so frequent that I was practically a contender for the Oscars by the time I was fifteen.
So everything was going great, then. Just great. Minus the fact that I was dreaming about her smile and laugh and green-eyed glances, all of which disappeared the instant I opened my eyes.
Yeah. Everything was going just great.
***
---