Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

August 3, 20XX

Bubbles

Bubbles scrambles into the bus at the last second, preventing the double doors from sliding shut by using her thick drawing pad to block it. She throws herself into the closest available seat, taking a quick breath from the close call, and then trying to look as composed as possible. She gets stares from the older folks, and she waves at them, giving them a bright smile. None return it and instead turn away from her entirely, but she doesn’t mind. They must be having a bad day—she can’t really judge a book by its cover. She links her ankles together, places her backpack on the seat beside her, and then reaches to slide a pencil out of her bag. She flips the pad open and onto the most recent page of her work. 

Her teacher, Madame Belle, has recently given them an assignment to create an entire outfit, bringing a sketch to life. It is a major assignment that tests the skills of a designer, from how detailed, well thought out, and the pure effort was put into the design, to the way that it fits the person it is meant for. It requires thinking, creativity, style, and most importantly, vision. It’s assignments like these that Bubbles loves the most. Many people think of fashion as pointless and a useless degree, but Bubbles will defend it to her last breath. Fashion is how people represent themselves, their identity and how they choose to appear to the rest of the world. It is subtle and intentional all the same. Clothing has the power to change, alter one’s perception. Everyone has a use for clothing, meaning that however unimportant people may think of the occupation, it will always be necessary. With each material that is constructed, it is made with the purpose of a designer's mind. 

Bubbles had chosen Robin Snyder for her project to test herself. She had wanted to use either Blossom or Buttercup at first, but the role of a model proved to be a bit more work than she thinks they would want to do. Which is not to mean that Bubbles hasn’t secretly been working on ideas for her two sisters at all—but she has, and while she wants to create them a whole outfit that she knows they would wear and would suit their both stark style differences, she knows that she needs to wait. She needs to practice, needs to perfect her skills further before she gives her sisters a final product that she’s truly proud of. Her sisters deserve the best, and she wants nothing more than to give it to them. 

Choosing Robin was a better idea too, because Robin is perhaps the only person in her life who’s curious about her career. Robin has been a long-time neighbor of the Utoniums, and the four had been a close group in their school years until Robin had switched high schools sophomore year. Still, the four kept in close contact and after her sisters left, Robin was the only one who stayed in Townsville like she did. After Bunny’s passing, Bubbles decided to come back home and instead commute to school instead of dorming there like she had previously done. Robin received her with open arms, and the two have gotten closer on their own time. Bubbles thinks that coming back home was the right decision for her and the Professor, and she’s glad she did it. 

Robin had been happy to be asked about being her model for the project, and just the other day Bubbles had been elbows deep in her closet and drawers, scouring every clothing piece to make notes of. She would mentally tab anything new that she needs to know, from the types of colors she likes to wear, to the types of clothing she uses most of, to whether or not she wears pattern, to the ratio of tops to bottoms, to what footwear she prefers, to how she likes to wear her hair, and her body type. 

Bubbles takes fashion seriously. 

Her fingers tap against the paper. Going with the flow of the weather, fall time meant that the clothing she designs for Robin must have long sleeves and/or layers. She had already compiled the top half portion of the outfit, and was working on the bottom portion. She already had an idea of what she wanted to do, so with the mental image in her head, she presses the tip of the pencil into the paper and starts to sketch. 

The rockiness of the bus doesn’t hinder her. She has long mastered the art of doing art anywhere, at any time, in any circumstance. The familiarity of this particular path that she has taken dozens of times, helps her because she knows that once they cross Rander street, she has to stop drawing because there is a large pothole in the road that still hasn’t been filled in. The first time she was unaware of such a fact, her pencil had made a large black mark slicing across her art and was a mess to carefully erase. The sounds of the engine turns into background noise, as her focus is solely on the work in front of her. The rest of the world disappears, and it is only her with her pencil. 

A typical route would take about two hours, but Bubbles is unaffected by it all. At that time, she gets her work done and is mentally prepared to enter the piranha pool that is her fashion school. There no one knows that she is B3U except for the headmaster, and there, she is considered free game among her peers. The success rate of a fashion designer is slim, and the opportunities to join the few ton that are big, are closer to zero. There it is a cutthroat, competitive, and cunning environment where desperation makes everyone a bit animalistic. High school was a piece of cake compared to school, and even if Bubbles does her best to not step on anyone’s toes and preserve as most of her moral dignity as possible, she is not entirely free from judgment and hatred. She is lucky in the way that she doesn’t have to fight as hard to get known, because she is already heavily regarded as a genius in the fashion world. B3U is an alias to keep her safe, and the mystery of who B3U has in fact caused her to be more popular. There have been many attempts to find out the identity behind B3U, and luckily, Bubbles has evaded detection from them all. Not that she isn’t proud of it–in fact it is because she is proud of it that she hides it. She knows what will happen once the world gets their hands on the fact that it is hers. Her life won’t be her own anymore. Instead she will be paraded, watched, and supervised. Her art will become a trap, it will become something for others rather than what is intended to first be. 

She will eventually claim the name. After all, it is hers. And she cannot hide from the truth. The truth always has a way of coming out. About an hour way in, her phone pings the familiar ringtone, and she quickly is brought back to reality. She grabs the phone and hits the green button, putting it to her ear. 

“Good morning Professor!” she whispers excitedly. 

“Good morning Bubbles,” the Professor responds, smiling behind his voice. “I talked to Buttercup, like you asked me to.” 

“What did she say?”

“She said she knows that you were the one asking—”

Uh oh. 

“--And that she will be making an appearance on Thanksgiving. She is fine and well, and she asks that we not worry so much about her.” 

Ok. How Buttercup figured it out doesn’t matter. Onto the next, more pressing matter…

“Did you talk to her?” 

“I..did.” A pause. Hesitation on his end. She waits him out. “Everyone grieves in different ways, and you are all so different—”

“Professor,” she interrupts him. “It’s been eight months. You dote on her too much. It isn’t even about the healing time at all…it’s about her behavior. Do you really endorse that? Her pushing everyone away? Pushing us, her family away? This should instead be the reason she comes closer, because we are her sisters and we’re the only ones she has. What she said to us, what she did, isn’t okay.” 

Her bottom lip starts to tremble dangerously, and she furiously blinks away any upcoming tears, determined to not let herself cry. 

“Bubbles, you know I don’t think it’s okay at all. I just.. Buttercup has always been different from everyone else. Her brain is wired a certain way. And I…” 

Bubbles tries desperately to reel in her emotions. Her frustration will leak into her tone if she’s not careful. She breathes in sharply, holds it in to count silently in her head before exhaling slowly. After she’s calmed down, she raises the phone to her ear again. 

“It’s okay Professor, you don’t have to defend her to me. I get it. Thanks for trying.”

“Bubbles…” 

Try as she might, he knows that she is disappointed by his answer. But he won’t do anything. Professor is just like that. Maybe it’s because Buttercup is his actual biological daughter that he excuses her so much. Maybe because he feels guilty enough because her biological mother died during childbirth. 

Bubbles isn’t like that. Giving up is not in her vocabulary. Neither is patience frankly, but she’s going to have to compromise on that one. Asking the Professor was a desperate shot in the dark. Truly, the only one who could get to Buttercup would be….

She sighs, running a hand through her hair, messing up her carefully curled bangs. She slowly tries to arrange them back into place. 

She will just have to fix it. Like she usually does. She quickly says goodbye to the Professor before ending the call and staring blankly at her phone. With the mess of her sisters, and the alteration between Brick Jojo yesterday, Bubbles life is steadily becoming a lot more chaotic. Thanksgiving is two months away–that is far too long. If Buttercup and Blossom are too busy to come there, she will just have to go to them. Not now though…she also has to make herself a priority. It is only the beginning of the semester into her third year. For now she will wait and give them the time that the Professor claims they need. In the meantime…she needs to get this project done. 

The rest of the day goes like a typical Wednesday would. She exits off the bus at her stop, and walks the block towards her school, humming the whole way there. She checks into the building with her ID card, and then takes the elevator to the fourth floor, heading down the hallway and taking a right. She nudges open the door and takes her seat at the front, making herself comfortable and taking her time to arrange her deskspace. She is always the first to arrive, and the last to leave. Always ten minutes early, and always ten minutes out. She flicks through her backpack, fingers lightly feathering on the leather cover of the notebook she knows is there. She looks around–there’s no one around, and even if they were, there’s no shame in what she’s about to do. 

She takes the notebook out and flicks it open to the first page. The first chapter of ‘Eight Rings’ is halfways done. Yesterday, after Brick Jojo had walked out on her, she had taken it out and gotten started on it. Now that she had his permission, there was truly nothing holding her back. There is something soothing about her pencil just gliding over the white paper, creating strokes and lines and dashes. As she watches the paper come to life with characters from a book, the book, her heart pangs. She feels closer to her sister now. Feels as though her sister is watching her from above, smiling that toothy grin that Bubbles had come to love the day she first met her. Feels as though she can feel the phantom arms of hers from behind her, wrapping around her shoulders and squeezing tightly. Feels as though her spirit and soul are still alive somehow. 

She knows she’s not that much better than Buttercup at coping with loss. She is a big hypocrite after all. Because why would she be mourning a ghost if she was truly fine? Why would she be dreaming of her eyes, hearing her voice in the cold air, smell baked cookies, and imagine that she can almost touch her back, when her hand reaches out for hers? 

Bubbles truly is no better. As tears prickle at the corners of her eyes, threatening to fall and land on her tribute project, she quickly wipes them away. 

*******************

“Bubbles.” 

Bubbles snaps out of her thinking, blinking down once at the sight in front of her. She is sitting at Bean House, with a mug of hot chocolate next to her, and her familiar drawing pad in front of her. Her right hand is frozen, holding a pencil in her tight grip and she quickly loosens it, lifting up her eyes to meet her friends concerned, brown eyes. 

“Sorry, um…what were you saying?” 

Robin’s left corner of her mouth lifts up in a half attempt at a smile. It drops quickly once she begins to speak. “I was just saying if it’s alright that I stay here an hour longer? Someone’s called off and I can’t leave them alone. Do you have anywhere to go or anything to do today?” 

She shakes her head, waving the concerns away. “It’s okay Robin. Thank you for telling me, but I don’t have anything planned for the rest of the day. I have my drawing pad with me, I’ll be okay.” 

Her beaming smile makes Robin let out a breath of relief, her shoulders immediately dropping. Her mouth opens again to speak, but her eyes seem to land on the notebook, and whatever is on her tongue dies. She moves around the table to get a closer look, and when Bubbles slides it towards her, she takes it with slow, hesitant fingers. Bubbles nearly fidgets during the time. Having Robin see her work at its most vulnerable makes her nervous. Not that her art skills are at all bad—no, it’s just that this project, this specific one, is different from all the rest. This one is her own string connecting her and the memory of Bunny. 

“Bubbles…this is amazing.” Her tone is full of wonder, admirement, and awe. Bubbles feels a blush creeping up her cheeks at the sincerity, and further so when she begins to ask questions about her interpretation from the book. When she’s satisfied from knowing everything, she slides it back to her and then stares at her, a question swarming in her eyes that Bubbles mentally prepares herself for. 

“Is this the reason you got into a fight with Brick Jojo yesterday?” Robin muses, tone half hearted but with a hint of genuine curiosity. 

Darn it. 

Bubbles groans. “I knew you were going to ask. I’m surprised you nearly waited twenty four hours.” 

Robin laughs. “Hey now, I’ve never been patient. And I think you might have scared him off.” 

“What makes you say that?’

“He hasn’t been here in a day.” 

The laugh that escapes Bubbles feels like sunshine after a cloudy day. “Is he seriously that addicted?”

“That man has come here a solid week in a row before. He is addicted—horribly so. I told him to buy his own coffee machine one time so that he could just save money and do it at home, and you know what he did? He just gave me a stink eye and told me to do my job.”

Bubbles couldn’t have tried to hide her reaction even if she wanted to. She is as expressive as she is talkative. 

“Seriously though—was he that upset about you asking for permission? Because that’s all it really boiled down too, wasn’t it?” 

Bubbles sighs, allowing some of the stress to leak out of herself by doing so. “He doesn’t want to complete the work. He got prickly and shut down once I prodded him about it.” She mulls something over silently, taking a sip of her hot chocolate in the meantime. Robin watches her patiently, expectantly. “Why is he like that? Aren’t you two friends?”

Robin thinks it over. “I don’t know that we are friends,” she starts, slowly. “But maybe acquaintances? Maybe it's because he respects my skills as a barista, but he is generally kind to me. At the beginning he was definitely rude and stoic. I mean, he still is. But everyone has their tells if you look close enough. He’s sort of funny, in the dry humor type of way. Do you know about his…background?” 

Her eyebrows furrow and Robin took that as her answer. 

“Brick didn’t have the easiest life. I mean, he’s a Jojo. They generally get the short end of the stick, and he is no exception.” 

Her phone beeps and she jolts at the sound, as if surprised by it. She brings her phone out and frowns at whatever she sees. “My break is over,” she says. “But look him up. There’s a bunch of articles on him and the Jojo family.” 

She leaves not a second after, leaving Bubbles alone. Bubbles gnaws at her lip. She knew Brick Jojo was associated with the Jojo name, but out of respect, she never checked further. She knew that she had articles of her own, since she is a Utonium, but the two names were starkly different when it came to the media and society. While Utoniums were associated with intelligence and success, Jojo’s were destructive and heartless. 

She caves pretty quickly after that, wondering if knowing anything would possibly help her in figuring out the puzzle that was he. She whips out her Ipad and quickly taps his name into the internet browser, waiting the two seconds that it took to load the results, and her eyes suck in all the headlines. 

‘Brick Jojo Fired as CFO’ was the first, and she clicked on it. The first thing her eyes zero in on was the date of publication–why was it published just this morning? The article, written by some journalist, is patronizing and cruel as it pokes fun at Brick, stating that he must have been fired. She quickly exits the page. The other headlines are otherwise money-grabbing, shock factor schemes, so she tries for another search. When she searches “Who is Brick Jojo” into the search bar, the first article is a gold mine. 

It details his entire life, from the day that he was adopted into the Jojo family, to the present day where he quit his job as Chief Financial Officer at the Patten-Mojo Technological Innovation Corporation company. It has photos of him at different stages of life compiled underneath headers, and almost writes like an autobiography, giving information like his blood type, birthday, date of graduation, where he went to school, and even his past endeavors; namely a dropout from law school. Almost nothing is spoken of his personality, but in all the photos post high-school, Brick looks unhappy. At the bottom of the article is an attached link to his adoptive father, Mojo Jojo, and Bubbles clicks on that. 

Compared to Brick’s, Mojo’s article is a lot more extensive and is accompanied with an actual time-line. It's full of conspiracies, bankruptcy, scandals, allegations, lawsuits, and statements. The more Bubbles reads, the more she begins to hate the man that she’s never met. There are pictures of the man, and staring at the dark haired smug grinned makes her feel sick. His career started off simple, like any other successful businessman would, and that is through exploitation and manipulation. Mojo was, unfortunately, a masterful inventor and that is how he got inspired to make his own business, one that focused on technology and the next big thing. At first, he was perceived as the underdog, as someone meek and weak. After the disappearance of his brother however, it seemed to change. News reported that gone was the nice, humble man, and it was replaced by a money-hungry, heartless shell of a person. Mojo raised up the ranks, uncaring of those he hurt to get there. 

By the time Bubbles finishes the lore of the Jojo family, (she ended up reading Boomer and Butch’s too), she feels exhausted. She rubs her eyes and stares, going back to the original page, the article of Brick’s that started it all. Nowhere on the page is his book, which makes sense, and as she stares harder she almost imagines where he started writing. She grows curious the longer she stares at the screen, at the picture of an unsmiling Brick in a professional suit standing next to Mojo, close enough to appear civil, but not close enough to appear genuine in any affections. 

Pity rolls in her stomach, and a part of her feels sad for him. To have such a gross father, to be constantly paraded over by the media, and to be scrutinized for simply breathing. 

An idea pops into her head, and without thinking, her fingers are typing out a message to her boyfriend before she can think further on it. 

As she waits for his response, she shuts off the Ipad and turns her attention back to the drawing pad, half of the page completed and the rest rough sketches. She stretches out her arms, cracks her knuckles, and then gets right back to work. She has a lot of ground to cover, and with her determination successfully replenished, she zones in and the rest of the world goes quiet. 

The sun starts to set, the signs of nighttime creeping in on Townsville, the dull glow painting the town a dusty orange. By the time Robin drapes herself in the seat opposite of her, groaning as she slumps in on herself, Bubbles has finished three pages of work that just needs coloring. The drawing part wasn’t hard–what was hard was reading the book and trying to get into the mind of Brick Jojo–what was his purpose in writing that scene? What expressions are the characters making? What does the room look like? Those questions she had to solve for herself, and she relied heavily on rereading the original text in order to make sure it’s just right. 

“Time to go home?” Bubbles asks softly, patting her head reassuringly. Robin lets out a groan in response. Bubbles begins to pack her belongings, grabbing her now almost cold hot chocolate and chugging it. She hadn’t even realized she bulldozed through three small cups of it, and sheepishly she tries to organize the cups on top of one another so that it’s easier to take back. 

“Let’s go home. Can you cook some of those noodles that you made last time?” 

Bubbles pretends to think about it. “We have to stop by the grocery store for that then. We have to watch that reality TV show though. It just came out and I deleted my social media so that I won’t get spoilers.” 

“Is that the one with the celebrities?” Robin asks, standing up and the two head out the front door, Robin silently waving goodbye to her coworkers. Bubbles hitches her backpack further up her shoulders, nodding furiously. 

“Yes! There’s Ben Grant, you know that famous actor that’s been in like, practically all the action moves ever? He’s in there, and so is, oooh, Shannon Rivers, she’s there too! She’s such a great singer. I don’t know how they got the budget to hire these people.” 

“What’s it about again?” 

“Basically, they stick ten people in a villa and they are expected to match up with one another. Every five days, they hold a competition hosted by the host of the show, which could be a physical challenge or a mental one. Whoever wins the challenge has the chance to go on a personal date away from everyone else, and influence the rest of the game by going to a place called the boardroom. There, they have the power to bring in two single people to shake up the matches and test the existing couples. Winners have the chance to take the power in the game, making it a strategic play. Once they decide on which singles to bring in, they have to choose who they go on dates with. By the end of the day, since there are two new singles added into the villa, two people will be eliminated. After five rounds of this, the rest of the group must decide who will win the title as the most perfect match. The perfect match wins like, two hundred thousand dollars.” 

“My god,” Robin says, pushing the car key into the ignition, flaring the car to life with a loud roar. “People enjoy watching high tier celebrities fuck around in a villa with other hot singles?” 

“It’s the drama that makes it good,” Bubbles retorts. “It’s not really about the plot. I only like watching it because it’s funny. I mean, it’s absolutely unhinged! Trust me, you’ll probably be laughing just from the stupidity alone.” 

“If you say so. I wanna watch that other show, you know the one where they’re stuck on an island with only each other and have to survive the game by playing socially, physically, and mentally? My coworkers have been trying to convince me to watch it for the longest time.” 

“That sounds interesting too. Can we watch that one next time? You know, when you buy us takeout since you can’t cook to save your life.” Bubbles is expecting the punch coming her way and steps out of the way, laughing at the annoyed expression that flashes across Robin’s face. She continues her teasing. “That’s why you need me to cook for you, or else you’d starve once you run out your spending allowance. What would you do without me?”

“Bubbles Utonium, you live right next door to me and I know where your window is. I will not hesitate to throw rocks at your window until it cracks. Then I’ll crawl into your room and throttle you.”

“Romantic.” 

Robin lets out a huff of amusement, her anger evaporating from the breath of it alone. “I hate you.” 

“Yeah yeah, hey, which store are you taking me to? It better not be the one that’s down the street. The quality is so bad! Take me to the one on Main street. Please?” 

“The noodles better be worth it,” Robin says, before proceeding to u-turn so quickly that it gives Bubbles whiplash. Her head whips around to see the cars not so far behind them, and her face goes white. 

“Robin, that was so risky! Never mind, I don’t wanna be here if you’re gonna kill us. I don’t wanna die young!” 

“Don’t be so dramatic. If you hadn’t told me at the last minute I wouldn’t have needed to do that. Plus, I’m a good driver. I wouldn’t have hit them anyways.” 

Bubbles slumps back, heaving in a breath. “I have the sudden urge to start writing my will. I don’t have many possessions, but what I do have I will humbly give to my family. Professor can have the money I have hoarded at the bank. He can use it for whatever experiment he needs funding for. Not that he needs any at all, but a scientist shouldn’t complain over having too much money. Blossom can have the savings I put for a car–she should buy herself a car so that she might not have to rely on a bus. And maybe a personal driver–I can somehow see Blossom being a slow driver. Buttercup can have…whatever she needs. She probably doesn’t want anything of mine.” her eyebrows furrow at the thought of their once shared room, when Buttercup would complain about Bubbles having too many stuffed animals. Even now, in her own separate room, she still has many of her childhood memories with her. It’s the thing she can’t quite let go of. Back when things were perfect and everyone was happy. 

Robin snorts loudly. “Please, Buttercup is a much worse driver than me. I still remember the day she got her driver's license. Who did she bribe to get that thing?” The memory comes flooding through, Buttercup’s sports car that she parks through the driveway with, Professor in the passenger seat looking completely winded. When Buttercup had told them to come inside so she could drive them to the theaters to watch a movie, with that familiar smirk on her face that only promised trouble, Bubbles had simply exchanged a glance with Blossom. Excitement mingled with exasperation was mirrored on her face, and the two had simply grabbed their bags and plopped into the backseat. The Professor, with a shaky voice, warned Buttercup to be careful and that he loves them before he padded over to their front door, waving a goodbye before closing it shut. Buttercup had only waited a solid minute to pick the most explicit song that Bubbles had ever heard, before she sped out of Townsville double the speed limit. Bubbles remembers the fear that had seized her heart when Buttercup had nearly gotten into a car accident from a risky left turn. Blossom cursed underneath her breath, and any lecture out of her mouth was silenced by Buttercup raising the music louder. 

Later that night, Robin had sent them all a picture on their shared group chat, one that Bubbles still has framed on her photo board in her room. In it, Buttercup sits in the driver's seat with her shades on, grinning, hair disheveled from the wind and messily sticking up in different directions. The sun shade is off, and Blossom looks green in the face as she holds onto the head rest for dear life, her bow dangerously clinging onto her head with all its might. Bubbles is busy trying to fix her hair, mouth half open and speaking to the two of them, eyes big and brighter from the moonlight hanging above them. 

That had been when they had just arrived from the movie theaters, after Buttercup had taken the freeway home for the first time and Bubbles’s soul had actually left her body twice. That was the day she solemnly swore to never drive with Buttercup in the driver's seat again. There was nothing really positively memorable about that day, but it was one of the last days that they spent together as sisters, during Bunny’s hospitalization. That was before Bunny died, and then everything all fell apart when she did. 

Bubbles hadn’t realized that there were tears streaming down her face until Robin’s cold hands were on her, quietly asking questions that Bubbles couldn’t answer. Bubbles opened her mouth to ask what she was saying, but all that came out was a hiccup. She lets Robin pull her into her arms with no fight at all, burrowing her face into her shoulder to hide her sobs. Robin rubs her back with her palm, the soothing motions reminds her of Blossom and she just begins to cry harder. 

“Bubbles, what happened?” Robin tries again, and the lull of the still on car is the only sound. Distantly, Bubbles can register that they must be parked somewhere, maybe the store parking lot, and she feels guilty. 

“I’m sorry—”

“Don’t ever apologize for crying.” The sternness in her voice reminds her of Buttercup then, but Bubbles has nothing else to give. There are no tears left in her, it’s as if she cried all the water out of her system. 

She almost says sorry again, the instinct so strong that she has to physically clamp a palm to her mouth to stop it. She leans back, catching Robin’s eyes focused on her. “I miss them.” she admits with a shaky voice, the words wobbly as they slip off of her tongue. 

Her eyes soften at her. “I know you do. I know.” 

She pulls her in again, and Bubbles doesn’t cry, but she does drop her forehead on her shoulder. She has been hiding her true feelings this whole time, and even now, even at this low point, she doesn’t want to say it to them. She doesn’t want to bother them, doesn’t want to get in the way of their lives. 

But shouldn’t her feelings also be considered? 

Buttercup

Buttercup is wiping the sweat off of her forehead with a wet rag, the cooling sensation making her breathe out in sweet relief. She’s backstage with the rest of her bandmates, who are in similar states of exhaustion, but they all share matching grins of satisfaction on their faces. Buttercup looks around at them and all she feels is pride– that feeling soaring in her chest is one similar to back when she used to win soccer games. But that was when she alone was the one who stood out. Here, in her band that she created with her friends, everyone had a role. Everyone had a part in making the music that they loved, and all had a role in making performances fun. 

“Did you see the crowd out there?” Mitch speaks first, voice breathy. “From a last minute change, this is one of our best yet. Imagine if we had more space, how many more would’ve come?” 

“I thought I heard that there were people outside the doors, trying to get in and get good luck at us too.” Ace adds, taking a big swig from his water bottle. “I believe it.” 

“Who wouldn’t?” Buttercup boasts. “We’re the greatest band in the world. The whole world will see it too one day.” No matter that they are a rock, alternative, band, their music is already doing well on charts for rookies that have just entered the scene. Their natural talents speak for themselves, and while others have tried to either hold them down or pin them, they haven’t budged. It's difficult to do without an agent, but they have a lot of pride and even bigger egos to back it up. 

“Hey, you!” 

The three turn all at the same time at the sound of the unfamiliar voice. It leads to a woman, who’s unsteady on her feet, eyes unfocused slightly, but it's clear that she’s talking to them. Her dark brown eyes have a fire in them that Buttercup knows all too similar. 

“What the? How the hell did you get here?” Mitch splutters, hands raising up in alarm and he looks to Buttercup for help. 

“Excuse me, but you aren’t allowed backstage,” Ace frowns, stepping forward protectively. “You have to leave or we will call security.” 

The girl snorts, suddenly looking their age and not so much older. “I’m not…here for me! I’m here for…Boomer..” 

Ace turns halfways to exchange a look with the two of them. Buttercup shakes her head, about to tell Ace to call security, when some footsteps come rushing from behind the curtains. She blinks and a tall blonde boy comes into the room, blue eyes scanning the room quickly before landing on the girl. He is rushing towards her, mouth moving rapidly as words fly out of his mouth, quiet and intended only for her. Buttercup stares at him hard. He looks familiar—

She realizes that he’s the one from the crowd when his eyes meet hers. They’re so dark and intense, just like before, and she recognizes something in them. It reminds her of home, her old home, of her old family, and she hates that. She is done with that. She’s moved on, and so she averts her gaze from it, unwilling to think about the past. Thinking about the past means going back, means holding onto a memory that is long gone. She told herself she wouldn’t. 

“I’m really sorry!” he speaks for the first time, voice tight and high with nerves. “I was watching her and she slipped away while I went to the restroom.” He turns to his companion, the girl now leaning on him for support. “Veronica, tell them you’re sorry,” he scolds, as if she’s his daughter instead of a grown up. 

The girl, Veronica, rolls her eyes. “But I’m not,” she argues. “Tell them. Now's your chance. Show them what you can do.”

Mitch is curious. “Who exactly are you?” The question is directed towards the lanky blonde, who looks surprised to be even addressed. 

“I um…my name is Boomer Utonium.” 

There’s an awkward silence after his admission, and Mitch looks even more confused. He scratches the back of his head and Ace looks stumped as well, looking a bit lost on what to do. 

“Uh…okay?” 

“You’re useless,” Veronica hiccups, shaking her head and then holding her head after wincing. Buttercup is slowly losing her patience. Veronica stands up straight, and opens her mouth again, this time addressing the entire room with a clear voice. “Boomer Utonium is a brilliantly gifted guitarist, songwriter, and vocalist. He should join your group because you guys need him. He can make you guys better, can make you hit the charts. He’s the missing piece of a puzzle, and you guys would be fools to not give him the opportunity to prove himself.” She reaches a hand out, palm up and waits as Boomer places a phone in it. She glances at the screen for a second before slowly walking to Ace, holding it out for him to grab. He looks dumbfounded, grabbing it more so out of an instinct, before slowly looking down at the screen. Mitch is already sliding over and Buttercup’s legs start moving towards him too out of habit. Ace waits until the two are crowded behind him, Buttercup on his left and Mitch on his right, before he plays the button. 

The video reveals Boomer with a guitar in his hands, sitting on a chair in a room. His guitar is painted a dark blue shade, and looks to be a Gibson Les Paul. At first he starts small, easy, slow, his fingers gently strumming on the fretboard, before his other hand starts to reach up for the pickups. A solid beat starts to form, slowly building up and going faster before it abruptly stops. Then there is the instrumental, from what she can only assume is the amplifier, that sounds loud and harsh, filling the room with pandemonium, chaotic and messy. He starts to play again, fingers flying across the board, stretching and gliding like water. His face is pinched with concentration, but she can see the half smile from the corners of his mouth lifting up ever so slightly. She doesn’t recognize the song, doesn’t know if it's an original or even a cover, but the product is catchy enough that she finds her head moving with the beat, imagining what it would be like if there was more. What if there were drums accompanied with the sudden change? What if there were lyrics, what kind of lyrics would fit this song? The song finishes and she wants to hear it again. They’re rendered silent, all left speechless on what to say. 

“There’s another one. Just swipe to the right,” Veronica slurs, voice full of pride as she tries to ruffle Boomer’s hair, but she’s too short and unsteady so he evades her hands with ease, a shy smile on his lips. 

Ace does just that, and this time the video is Boomer standing with a microphone in front of his face. The guitar is in his hands, and he’s standing on a stage this time. He’s the only one there, and the studio light is bright, white and circular as it lands on him, casting a shadow on the rest of the stage. 

Boomer starts to play, and this one is equally as slow, but it’s smooth and silky. This song she knows. It’s a love song. She feels her ears redden as Mitch snickers from the other side, no doubt giving her a teasing look, but she doesn’t look up. She feels Ace’s eyes on her, and wishes the ground would suck her in. When Boomer opens his mouth to start singing, Mitch is effectively shut up, the smile dropping and gaping instead. Buttercup finds herself drawing closer as soon as her ears pick up his voice. 

It’s definitely…a nice voice. She’s not going to stand there and wax poetry about the stranger, but he definitely knows how to sing, and by the way he’s hitting all the notes, he is clearly educated about musicality. He probably had a vocal coach or singing lessons. Her heart betrays her, as her brain is slowly filled with curiosity, and it does so with the intent of filling a void. B.A.M. is perfect just the way it is, but his skills, his voice and his presence–she could almost see it in her mind. Taste the victory on her tongue, the charts they would break and the awards they would be given. And most important of all, the credit. To have their names out in the world, where she can simply just be Buttercup. She could simply be known for herself, and no other associations to her name other than her hard earned work. When the last of the lyrics leaves Boomer’s voice, the three stand there staring at the screen until it turns completely black. 

For once, Buttercup isn’t sure what to say. So instead she moves. She needs to confirm something. She stalks over to where her guitar –her prize and only treasure–, is stored, taking it out of its case and holding it up gently. The lime green is her signature color, matching her eyes and as she slides her pointer finger against the familiar shell, she feels excitement spark from underneath her veins. She heads towards Boomer with intention clear in her eyes, and watches as his eyes slowly widen as he begins to learn what she means to do. 

She is shoving it in his hands, and he stammers, grabbing it with his left hand and letting the other weight fall to the crook of his right arm. 

“I can’t quite play,” he blubbers out, holding up his right hand for them all to see. Bandages wrapped around it makes Buttercup purse her lips. 

“What’d you do to ruin your hand?” It comes out angry, and she can’t even pretend to act like she isn’t. 

“I…it was an accident.” 

Her eyebrows furrow at the half-assed lie. Or maybe in his mind, it’s a half truth, given the sheepish way he looks down to the ground, dropping his right hand in the process. His left hand, though, strokes against her guitar, as if holding it gives him a tether, as though it's a stable anchor. She watches him through squinted eyes, before turning to her bandmates. Mitch, who has been surprisingly quiet, has his thinking face on, as he stares at Boomer with a puzzling look. 

“Give me a few days to recuperate.” Boomer speaks up again, looking up to them with an entirely

new expression. It’s as if he’s an entirely different person then, blue eyes blazing and serious, eyebrows furrowed and mouth set in a tight line. “My right hand will be better by then. I could play something for you–an original piece I created. Give me a chance to show you in real time what I can do.” 

Buttercup has made up her mind. She reaches a hand out and he dutifully gives her her guitar back. With one hand on the neck of her guitar, the other reaches behind to grab her cellphone. She taps a few buttons on it and holds it out. He takes it after a split second of hesitation, fingers gentle and slow. 

“I’ll text you once we collectively discuss this as a team. Ace, give him his phone back. Boomer, Veronica, I’m going to have to ask you two to leave backstage now. We have to finish packing up.” At her words, Boomer and Veronica nod, the girl taking a lot longer to register her words, but getting there nonetheless. Boomer lets Veronica lean on him, and then the two are off, taking a slow pace out of there. 

Veronica’s, “They’re definitely letting you join,” is slurred, but distinctive, and is loud enough for the three band members to all hear. After another few beats of silence, Buttercup turns to her bandmates, raising an eyebrow in question. 

Mitch is the first to speak. “I, for one, think he’d be a good fit. A bit ballsy, to come backstage. But that means he’s serious about this, and about us. Given what we saw, I think a chance for him to impress us more is a good idea.” 

Ace crosses her arms against his chest, nodding. “I have to agree with Mitch. I think we could expand our reach, and adding another person is something we considered doing from the start. By adding more instruments and more substance to our songs, then that allows us more versatility.” He shrugs. “Plus, I’m interested in his songwriting, and this so-called original song of his. Mitch is…decent but he’s not the best. No offense.”

“It’s okay bro.” 

Buttercup nods, grateful for her mate's opinions on the matter. They’re both right, and she appreciates their perspectives during times like these. Mitch is similar to her in that he often reacts emotionally first, but Ace is the total opposite because he tends to think with his brain, letting logic and reason guide him instead. 

“Okay. So when are we next ready to meet up so that we can watch his audition in person?” 

When Buttercup compiles a message with the date and time, she doesn’t send it quite yet. Instead, she saves it as a draft and pockets her phone. She doesn’t want to seem too excited, and she wants him to wait a little. She instead turns to the task on hand, which is putting away all their equipment. They work in organized silence, their movements practiced so often that they glide past each other barely batting an eye. The van that they use is one Buttercup bought them when the idea of a band first came underway, bought at a car dealership full in cash, with enough ample space to fit all their equipment in. Its tinted windows and sleek black polished exterior was perfect, and the three were quick to spray paint on it, giving it their personalized touch, marking it truly as theirs. 

The dream to start a band was an impulsive one. She had never imagined, had never thought it even possible for her to make a life for herself out of music. In school she was known to be the athletic one, the sporty Utonium sister who was going to get scouted by a winning soccer team, who was going to make it to the MLS. She had wanted it too for a while, but it was until a spur of the moment, coincidental day that landed with a guitar in between her hands that it all changed. 

There was something she loved more than winning, and that was the sounds that an electric guitar could make. Gone were her soccer cleats and soccer ball, and instead was replaced by her guitars.  Her shoulders always held the case of her guitar behind her back, the weight of it brought her comfort and an excitement that left her fingers tingly and heart thrumming in anticipation. She never knew she could feel so breathless, simply from sitting down with her guitar in her lap, hands splayed out in the starting position. 

It was beyond just a hobby. It was something she could imagine doing for the rest of her life, for the rest of her days, and it was her purpose. 

Her sisters didn’t get it. Blossom turned her nose at the music she would play, complaining about the vulgarity, complaining about the curse words, complaining about how it was too loud and hurt her ears. Bubbles would try to act like she cared, but Buttercup could tell by the wrinkling of her nose and scrunch of her eyebrows that she truly didn’t understand. Instead, she would ask ignorant questions and act as if her dream, her passion, wasn’t good enough to make a career of. Music is another form of art, but neither of them seemed to get it. The Professor tolerated it with a shaky smile, but she knows that the only reason he opened up his wallet to fund it was because of his guilt. Even though he is technically her father, he has always held her at an arm's distance. Buttercup hadn’t minded it–she had always been independent, ever since young, and he once told her that she got that from her mother. The things she knows about her mother are scraps and pieces, picked up throughout the years. She’s seen photographs, and knows that she is her mother’s replica when it comes to her physical features, only getting her father’s mouth. He compares her a lot to her mother, stating that she was fierce, tough, but loving and gentle on those who were in need. Buttercup has seen a number of photos of her mother, but to not be able to meet her personally still leaves her with an empty hole in her heart. She knows it wasn’t her fault, but it was. After all, it was her mother’s life who ended, all to give Buttercup hers. She doesn’t spend many days thinking of her mother, because it always results in her hitting something. There are some things she still can’t get over, and that death was one of them. 

Sometimes Buttercup wonders if her mother would have been supportive of her band. Would have been a happy, kind, loving mother figure, like the ones she sees in the movies. Like Mitch’s mother. 

The only person in her family who was alive and happy for Buttercup was Bunny. Bunny, Buttercup’s older sister by only a year, but out of the two of them, Buttercup had seemed like the older one. Bunny, sick and frail and weak Bunny, with the toothy smile and wild imagination. Bunny who encouraged Buttercup to do whatever she wanted with her life, to do what she loved while she had the time and the health to do so. Bunny, who promised Buttercup that she would be her first fan, would buy her albums and her merch the moment it was on the market. Bunny, who made her promise that she would create a band and play everywhere, let her voice reach every corner of the world. But she ended up dying too, breaking her promise and leaving Buttercup alone once more. 

To say that she went a little insane after Bunny’s death would be an understatement. She was ruthless, using her anger as a shield to disguise her true feelings, and it definitely soured her relationship with her sisters. She successfully ruined it all, and instead of feeling sorry about it, she felt peaceful. Perhaps the only guilt she has is from the way she went about it, but cutting off contact left her feeling a lot calmer. She has a new family now—one that gets her in a way that even blood cannot replicate. 

Mitch and Ace are her brothers. They are the ones she relies on, trusts, and cares for. They’ve known each other since childhood, and they have been there for her through it all. They are on her side, always, and she is on theirs. They have no issue with making themselves clear, and in setting Buttercup straight when she begins to slack off. It is not to say that she doesn’t have love for her adoptive sisters, but she thinks it is for the best that they limit contact to the barest of minimums. If there is anything that the deaths have taught her, it’s that she’s the problem. She’s the outlier, and she ruins the family she was born into. With Mitch and Ace, there have never been problems—at least not any that couldn’t be resolved quickly. Family is not always blood. Sometimes it’s two dudes whose existence in the world is to annoy the shit out of her. She still loves them anyway. 

By the time the last of the equipment is loaded up and the three jump inside, Buttercup in the driver's seat, Mitch in the passenger and Ace in the back, the moon is shining down, the dark blue night sky twinkling with stars. Buttercup makes a turn at the next light to their favorite pizza spot, listening quietly as Mitch and Ace talk about the latest game that was just released. Mitch’s loud exclamations of excitement combined with Ace’s husky, passionate rant makes Buttercup smile. The familiarity of it all just makes her feel like she belongs. With them it’s as though each one is equally important, and each person has their role to play in their little group. 

She half wonders how the addition of Boomer would change that. 

When she pulls into the parking lot, she parks, braking harshly to cut through their conversation, grinning at the reactions she gets. Mitch’s gagging noises as his seat belt digs into his neck is accompanied with the sound of Ace’s body rushing forwards, nearly slamming into the middle if it wasn’t for his arms shooting out to grab it in time. She watches as his eyes roll around in his head before he jolts back into the present, glaring at Buttercup, shades dangerously low down his nose. She flicks it back up with her pointer finger, reveling in how his eyebrows furrow more. 

“Oops,” she innocently teases as she turns the engine off, ignoring Mitch’s complaints and whines. “Guess you should have worn a seatbelt, Ace.” 

He flips her off in response, getting up to open the door of the van, her cackle ringing out. Mitch’s head perks up at the sight of the pizza shop sign, eyebrows smoothing over as he kicks his own door open. 

Once outside, he meets Ace and Buttercup at the sidewalk, reaching over to pull the two into a side hug, and the three waddle like that towards the entrance, Buttercup making silly faces at Ace while he pretends to not find them funny. He tries to escape Mitch’s hold a few times, but Mitch responds by just grabbing him together, so eventually Ace just gives up. 

When they are about to sit, Mitch finally releases them. Buttercup mimes gagging at Mitch while Ace readjusts the collar of his shirt. The waiter is quick to take their order, recognizing them after only a few minutes, making Mitch puff up in pride. The moment Mitch starts trying to flirt with the waiter, Ace and Buttercup quickly pinch him to calm him down. His yelp is embarrassing enough to make him simmer in silence for a few minutes. 

While waiting for the food, Buttercup slips into her own silence as she grabs her phone out. Opening the screen, she’s met with the text draft intended for Boomer. She clicks send and then goes on her other apps, checking Instagram. Turns out their gig at the bar got them more followers, and she reads through the comments of their last post, ego increasing at each compliment. The ones in which they compliment her, she gives a heart to. Many are congratulating them for their success, and are inquiring for more content. She scrolls through her personal account, saving certain videos to watch later, before she does a quick scan through her emails for any business inquiries. When a text for Boomer comes a few seconds later, with him confirming the message, then sending a congratulations, along with a paragraph about their music, she wonders if he is sucking up. She is not interested in his words, she wants to see his actions. She is not easily impressed by vocabulary and statements anyone can make. Still, she won’t let this cloud her decision making too much. 

“Ooh, is that loverboy?” Mitch’s nosy ass comes snooping over her screen, greedy fingers already reaching for the phone. She pulls it out of his reach, but it’s plucked out of her hands by Ace, who avoids her punch. His eyes greedily take in the message before he turns back to her, raising an eyebrow as if to gauge her reaction. He hands the phone to Mitch who makes appreciative noises and dramatically gasps at whatever words he reads, and Buttercup wants to slam her head into a wall. 

“To bad he doesn’t know that flattery doesn’t work on our resident grump, Buttercup.” Ace finally settles on saying. Buttercup frowns. 

“I’m not grumpy,” she says in defense, at the same time that Mitch says, “It would work on me.” 

“Please, anything with two legs would work on you. You’re too easy.” Ace states, rolling his eyes. 

“Are you calling me a whore, Ace?”

“Well if the shoe fits…”

“Buttercup!” 

She groans, burrowing her face in her hands. “Can you two not fight like an old married couple? It was cute the first few times, but now it’s just annoying.” 

“Hey, tell Ace. He’s the one who doesn’t want to.”

“Mitch, what the fuck.” 

Buttercup hates them. She is suddenly aware that they’re not alone, and she whispers curses to them to behave in public or she will leave them to walk home all by themselves. They quieten down after that, and with a huff, she leans back in her seat, relishing in the peace and quiet. It won’t last. It never does. 

She hides the beginning of a smile by trying to scrub it off discreetly. Mitch, annoying as he is, picks up on it. 

“Aww Butters, you love us don’t you? I know you like to play hard to get but you can’t fool—oof!” Screw the public. Buttercup had to throw something to get him to shut up. 

“That was my phone.” Ace dryly says. 

Buttercup shrugs and Ace merely grabs his phone from the ground, inspecting it with a cursory glance before pocketing it. The smell of their pizza is enough to grab all their attention, and as soon as it’s placed on their table, the three start grabbing slices with their hands and stuffing their faces. They stay there for over an hour, effectively going through two and a half pizzas before they are done. 

Buttercup watches Ace slump back in his seat, Mitch following suit, rubbing his belly with his hand, and lets herself fall back in her own seat. This is life–hers alone, and she wouldn’t have it any other way. 

Butch

Butch is on his fourth shot of alcohol with his football buddies when the question is finally brought up. 

He’s draped over his couch, manspreading and back pressed completely flat against the plush, soft material, eyes shut in content. The Grant twins are both sitting on the opposite couch, nursing their own drinks in their hands, and next to them Boyd and then McCraw. Next to Butch is Brianna, the scent of her floral perfume hitting his nostrils as she leans closer to him, snuggling closer to his biceps, making noises of approval from the back of her throat. Littered close by are the rest of the football team, along with a few of Brianna’s fellow cheerleader friends. 

Butch had invited them over to his place earlier that evening, just to do some drinking and play some games. Ever since Butch was benched, he’s felt an invisible, but very much there, barrier between them and him. It started in subtle ways– him not being able to play meant he couldn’t join in on the team’s banter. The group chat he was once in was now empty, and invitations to hang out after practice became slimmer and slimmer. Watching the games was worse, because he got to personally see himself getting replaced with Adams. Adams was not as good as him, and even though the two had both tried out for the same position, it should be no surprise that Butch had come out on top. Seeing the way Adam led the team made his stomach curl, and anger crawl out of his veins. Adams won’t take them to nationals, Butch will. For Butch’s state of mind, he stopped attending practices and just made up lies if anyone ever asked about them. 

When Butch gets better, which will be soon, he will take his spot back on court. Adams is filling in temporarily, but it's still his position. When Butch does that, Adams will go back to being a benchwarmer. Why Coach Rodriguez even chose Adam in the first place is beyond Butch, but if he had to guess, it was probably intertwined with some sort of pity. After all, a guy like Adam won’t ever make it anywhere big. Some people are just simply better than others, and Butch knows that better than anyone else. 

Butch opens his eyes, taking a big swig of alcohol. The burning sensation down his throat feels like relief,  and he can almost see the way it sinks down into his stomach. His nerves settle down, and he blinks slowly, wondering if his movements are as sluggish as he feels they are. 

Something that the team cannot refuse is alcohol and drugs, and while Butch doesn’t do drugs anymore, he does have a shit ton of money and a fake ID. Plus, his own place is the perfect place to host events because the neighbors are never around to even give a shit. His place has become the place for parties, and Butch prided himself on being able to provide that to the rest of the team. Not only is he the best player on the team, but is generous, he truly is the best. 

Brianna begins to nuzzle his neck, no doubt tipsy from her two shots. Her lips pepper a light kiss on the side of his neck, sliding down towards his collarbones. He can hear the whoppings and whistles from his teammates, no doubt getting off from the display. Butch knows it would be all too easy for him to grab her and take him to his room, but he doesn’t want to. Not that night. 

The day before, when he received the text from Brick, he had smashed his phone to pieces. Then he went to the club and got black-out drunk. The morning after, he had woken up in bed with two girls and no recollection of what happened the night before.  He wasn’t upset that Mojo died, but upset that Mojo never cared. He had never bothered, during the years of silence, to pick up his phone and call his “sons”. It only truly confirms to Butch that no one has ever cared for him, and the feeling is shitty. After the anger settled, he felt blissfully relaxed. There was nothing holding him back. In fact, his death is probably the best thing that could happen to him. Butch hadn’t had a father in a long time, and it was quick to bounce back to the title of being fatherless. 

“So Butch,” one of the Grant twins starts to say, Butch isn’t sure which one because they look and talk the same, slurs out. “What is this project we heard you’re on? Are you quitting football?”

Some laughs scatter around the room, Butch being one of them. “Are you joking, Grant? That losers club project is only something I have to do or else the headmaster threatened to expel me from university.” He rolls his eyes, enjoying the way his team snickers. He continues, “Can you believe that it’s some stupid love project? I have to collaborate with Stainvardel Elite.” 

No longer did the other university’s name slip out of his mouth as the team reacted obscenely, cursing their name and groaning loudly. 

The rivalry between Stainvardel Elite and Oakville Academy can best be described by hatred. The two institutions, always compared to one another, have created an unhealthy relationship. Even though Stainvardel Elite has top grades and freshest leaders of the new generation–according to news reports–, Oakville Academy is known to have the most popular celebrities and number one athletics department in the state. The animosity between the students is no helping hand. While the Stainvardel Elite students like to present themselves as humble, Butch knows they are sneaky and cunning in their own ways, quickly retaliating when Oakville had deflamed their school building. Their sports team is laughable, but at the annual competitions Stainvardel Elite always comes out on top, annoying the Oakville Academy students. This year is going to be different, because Butch is determined to be one of the winners. 

The annual competition goes like this–every fall on September 15th, the two universities compete in a competition held by the mayor of the city. The competition utilizes both physical and intellect, and each year the obstacles are different. Last year there was an obstacle course, which Oakville (mainly Butch), cleared easily, but Stainvardel Elite were quick to take the point back during a speed test of mathematical equations. There are usually ten rounds, and the winner majority takes the title of Best university in the county. The actual prize is bragging rights and one’s pride, which is more than enough for the two universities to put their full effort into the competition. There is also a scholarship granted by the mayor for two individuals, one from each school, and those are impressive because not only do they get money, but the honor bestowed by their own mayor. Butch is determined to have it. He’s not in desperate need of money anytime soon, but he won’t deny that he wants the high status. 

“I hate those Shitvardel students,” McCraw states, chugging another shot and wiping the dribble that slides down the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand. “They think they’re so much smarter than us.” 

Technically, they are. But Oakville Academy is stronger and faster. Those are just the facts, and if Stainvardel can’t accept that, then they aren’t the smartest after all. 

“How does that even work? A love project?” Perhaps the most sober of them all, Adams speaks. Butch has to restrain from rolling his eyes. He hadn’t even wanted Adams there. The minute he saw him enter his place, he should have turned him away. But he hadn’t, because he was invited by pass-rusher Williams, and Butch respected him enough to not immediately diss his…new friendship with Adams. 

Butch shrugs though. “Something about if love can be forced through quality time. I don’t know, Julie is the one in charge of it from our side.” 

“Julie is such a prude,” One of the Grant complains. 

“He’s still not over that time he tried to get it on with her and she poured a cup of juice over his head,” the other Grant remarks, causing the other twin to scowl. 

“I was drunk. Only those desperate enough for it would ever go her way. I’m glad she turned me down–she’d probably chomp on my dick by accident.” Butch laughs at that, the image of Julie’s braces flashing through his head. Immediately after he feels a bit guilty, and he turns to look around the room as if she might materialize out of thin air. Him and Julie’s interactions are not horrible, but it’s clear that she is only tolerating him for the project. He doesn’t mind–if his friends find out they will bully him for it. 

“So which Shitvardel is doing the project?” Grant continues to question, making Butch wince. He doesn’t want to talk about the project. But the more he ignores their prodding, the more they will grow curious. And he needs them to shut up about it in the future. 

So he says, “Blossom Utonium.”

The room goes quiet. Well, only the football team. The music is still booming, bass shaking the ground and blaring over the speakers. Some cheerleaders giggle because of the sudden silence. 

The Grant twins turn to look at each other, and Adams leans back, crossing his arms against his chest. McCraw stills, hand frozen on the cup halfway lifted towards his mouth. Butch is actually unsure of how they’ll react. 

“Blossom Utonium?” Adams is the first to speak, voice quiet, but there’s also a hint of…longing? Butch furrows his eyebrows, shaking his head. He’s clearly under the influence already because his reaction does not make sense. 

“Fuck.” McCraw curses. “Butch, you lucky bastard. Hey..is there any way I could be involved in this experiment with her?” 

He’s punched in the shoulder by Grant. “Is your type nerdy, virgin, chicks who aren’t interested in you?” 

“I just want to hit that. Wouldn’t you?”

McCraw thinks it over. “I mean…she has nice long hair, and it looks soft..and I mean she does have nice hips…” 

“Right, right?” 

Adams shakes his head. “You two are drunk.” he tells them. “You don’t know what you’re saying.” 

McCraw nods, slow and mechanic. “Yeah,” he agrees easily. “You’re right.” 

One of the Grant snorts. “Seriously? She’s just a girl. She’s a know-it-all, goody two shoes who thinks she’s better than everyone else. She has no tits or ass.”

Some of the cheerleaders begin to giggle from behind their hands. Brianna’s body begins to shake from silent laughter, and Butch unconsciously snuggles a bit closer to her as he feels a chill coming on. Brianna takes that as a sign to wrap herself around him, her smooth skin rubbing on top of his. 

When Adams says, “I would tap that,” he says it so seriously and earnestly that the whole room envelops in laughter. He looks further confused by the reaction, and flips off the room. 

Butch wipes an imaginary tear from his eye. “I wouldn’t,” he says. He’s lying. He doesn’t really care what her personality is like– they won’t have to do any talking. She’s easy on the eyes and he would never deny his biological urges, and it’s that simple. Would he want to do anything more than a potential one night stand? No, but he hardly goes back for doubles. 

“Oh really?” One of the Grant challenges. Butch doesn’t like that glint in his eyes. It’s one of those tells that warns Butch that he’s thinking of something really stupid. 

The Grant continues, smirking as he says, “Then sleep with her.” The room hushes, making “oohs” and “ahhs”, and Butch rolls his eyes. 

Like he said; really stupid. 

“Are you fucking nuts? I’m not gonna sleep with her. This project is the only thing keeping me from being expelled. I can’t fuck it up.” 

“Maybe you guys should add another variable to the experiment.” He suggests. 

“No.” he says strongly, leaving no room for discussion. But Grant is a bit stupider than the rest, so when he opens his mouth again, Butch is prepared. 

“Pussy.” 

The insult is low, and coming from Grant it doesn’t even phase him. What does send Butch off the edge is the pure smug look on his face. The deluded belief that he somehow one-upped Butch, that he got Butch, that he could even go toe to toe with him, that they were on equal ground. 

That does it for Butch. Since the alcohol makes him even more impulsive than he usually is, it takes him only a second to stand up. His legs wobble dangerously from the sudden movement, and he only lets himself a second to recover his footing before he is stalking over, grabbing Grant by the collar of his shirt, and punching him in the nose. 

Grant falls to his knees like a pile of bricks, yelping out in pain, meaty hands reaching up to grab at his gushing nose. There are cheers in the background from the drama starved football players, and cries of surprise from the cheerleaders, but Butch can hardly hear it. He moves his leg, about to kick him while he’s down and weak, when he’s pulled back by Adams. 

“Are you fucking crazy?” Adams whirls in on him. Butch’s eyes can hardly focus on him. The world is spinning, and the only thing he sees is the blood splattered on his tile flooring. Grant better clean up his own mess. Butch moves forward to say that to him, when Adams hands hold him back. 

“Butch, stop. Calm down. You can’t hit him, we need him for the team. And if you hurt yourself, you’ll be gone from the game even longer. Do you want that? Do you really want to risk it all just for your short fuse of a temper?” 

Adams is right. Butch can’t get himself hurt again. The ACL is no joke. Blearily, he turns sideways to look at his shoulder. He can’t even feel a thing. Is it burning? He has no idea. The adrenaline has turned his senses off, the only thing he can hold onto is his anger. It’s always so powerful, so known to him, that he often is able to cling onto it for the longest. 

“You used your left hand to punch. Your right shoulder should be unharmed. But are you trying to pull your left shoulder too?”

Butch glares at him as a response, and Adams nods. “See, that’s what I thought. Now sit down and drink some water before you kill yourself with alchool poisoning.” 

“Don’t tell me what to do,” is what Butch says. At least, he thinks he does. He’s not sure. He heads back to the couch and chugs some water for his suddenly dry throat. His stomach pains in silent warning. 

Grant is now up, napkins stained red at his feet. A clean napkin is being used to soak up the blood from the gushing nostrils. Williams is helping Grant steady himself, onto the couch and after he’s done, sends Butch an unimpressed look. 

“Seriously Butch?” Williams says, voice incredulous and loud. “Why is your first reaction to punch him? He needs his hands to play. Do you want him to end up like you?” 

The music stops playing. The world starts spinning faster, or maybe that’s his breath. Whatever it is, he doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like the stares he’s getting and the glares and the judgment. He definitely doesn’t like the implication of William’s words. 

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Face it Butch. You’ve been trying so hard to belong again, and it’s just sad at this point how desperate you are. Wake up to reality, your injury might take you out of the game forever. Your recovery time keeps extending. Coach Rodriguez doesn’t even know what’s going on with you anymore. To make matters worse, instead of you getting better at that temper of yours, instead it's only gotten worse. Your short fuse has gotten us in trouble, and honestly? We don’t need you Butch. You may be the best player, but we don’t want you if you’re not going to fix your attitude.” 

Where is this coming from? All this anger? Just minutes ago they were talking and drinking and having fun. That all ends the moment Butch punches Grant? For defending himself? It feels unfair, it feels targeted, and it feels wrong. He’s the leader, he’s supposed to be the one people flock towards, he’s supposed to be the one with the followers. Why is Grant suddenly being protected? Why is Butch the bad guy here?

Butch shakes his head. “You hated Grant, Williams. You used to bully him and throw him into the lockers. Suddenly I do something, I defend myself, and it’s a problem?” 

“Defending yourself? Is your ego really that fragile that a single word is enough to dismantle it?”

“Fuck you Williams. You think you’re so much better than me huh? Not long ago you were the same. Just because you feel guilty about your past doesn’t mean you can push it onto me. Go cry about your conscience to a therapist and leave your problems yours. You’re always dragging me into your messes. Does the fact that I paid off your debt mean nothing to you, you ungrateful piece of shit?” 

Williams throws his hands up in exasperation. “My god, are you ever going to let that go? I would have refused your help if I knew that you would hang that over my head for so long. I didn’t ask for your help, for your money and your charity. You offered it all, and let’s not pretend you aren’t some sort of millionaire. I mean, look at this place! Do you have to flex on everyone that you have money? We get it. Seriously. Being the son of a hot-shot inventor is really nice, okay? But your entitlement is insane. You get some kind of rush by thinking you’re better than everyone else. Don’t you ever get tired of shitting on everyone underneath you?” 

Butch is rendered silent. Is this seriously what he thought of him this whole time? Is this how he appears to them? He offered the money to Williams because he cared. Because he has so much money, that he didn’t blink an eye at offering it to him. He had thought that Williams would be grateful, would be appreciative, but it turns out he despises it. Who else would have done such a nice thing for a friend? Butch regrets insisting, if it got him nothing in the end but underappreciation. Their jealousy over his upbringing is not his problem, but the notion that they believe his life was all sunshine and rainbows just because he was rich was not true. They don’t know the truth about Mojo. They don’t know anything. But if they want to be on their high horse and believe what they want, if it really makes them feel better about their insignificant lives, then so be it. 

“Then get out.” Butch says coldly. “Sorry my place isn’t good enough for you all. Didn’t hear you complaining at the time, when you were getting drunk off of my alcohol that i got with my money, to drink at my place. You weren’t complaining when I bailed you out of jail and paid your ticket for drunk driving." The heads whip around to stare at Williams, whose face doesn’t change. He stands up and briskly walks out of the room, with Grant following suit after, his twin after him. Brianna withdraws herself from him, whispering that Williams was her ride home, before leaving his side. One by one, people begin to leave, some apologetic, others wary, until it’s only him and Adams. 

Adams looks as though he wants to say something. Butch doesn’t want to hear it. 

“Leave. You know you want to.” The defeat is evident in his tone, and this time, Adam doesn’t hesitate. He simply closes his mouth and leaves Butch, staring up at the ceiling. The lights distract Butch for a while, before his eyelids begin to grow heavy. He doesn’t want to think anymore. He just wants to sleep and forget about the night. Maybe in the morning Willaism will apologize and everything will blow over. Butch is willing to forget it all if Williams apologizes. 

When he drifts off, it’s to the thought of his shoulder recovering and him back on the field, throwing the football over the field.