Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

August 2, 202X

BRICK

“Your father’s dead.”

Brick cursed silently. Of course Mojo would choose the worst possible moment to die, inconveniencing him even through his death. He glances down at his open laptop, the screen full of graphs, stats, and numbers of the company’s yearly finances, and then to the side to where his notecards lay with their unintelligible scribbles to possibly anyone but him. He drops his pen onto the table to massage his forehead for the oncoming headache that was bound to start from creating a sixteen page report that he wouldn’t even have to have made if Mojo had simply chosen to die just one day earlier. Not only could he have saved himself a lot of time, but he also wouldn’t have to have to deal with seeing Patten and his business partners. Meetings always suck all the life out of him, and there’s only so little left that he has to give. Mojo’s death had been something Brick has been waiting for years now. He thought he’d feel relieved that the moment finally arrived, but instead he feels rather tired. The nurse on the other line interprets his silence as him quietly wallowing in sorrow, for she starts to give condolences and comforting words that don’t land, and Brick can’t help but roll his eyes. He interrupts her as soon as she starts to talk about “purpose in life”, just to let her know that he’ll be right over in thirty minutes to sign the certificate, collect any of his belongings, and pay the remaining bills. After he hangs up the phone, he stands up, taps a few buttons on his laptop before closing it and surveys his office. Absently, he slips his laptop into his black satchel, and hangs the strap over his right shoulder. His office, though he resided in it for two years, committing four days and fifty-five hours a week too, was pretty bare. Besides the default oak desk with fifteen different drawers that came with all of the offices, he also had a simple red leather office chair, and a water dispenser planted right by the door. He refused any decorations and denied any other commodities to make the office look more “homey”. Steven liked to remark that if it weren’t for the gold plate outside the door with his name on it, that it would look as if it were no one’s at all. Brick likes to keep it that way. Work is just a chore that he has to do to bring money in, and since he refuses to use Mojo’s money for himself, all his money has been sent to his brothers, Boomer and Butch, under the guise of Mojo trying to repair amends. Mojo may have been a shit father, but the one thing he did have was a shit load of money. Brick took advantage of that, and he doesn’t have any regrets for it. He crumbles his notecards into a tight ball, and throws it into the trash can on his way out of his office. As he walked across the long, familiar, empty hallway, his mind felt completely blank of any real emotion. If he were any normal son, he would have been crying at the news of his father’s passing. He would have been inconsolable, would have felt as if his world had just crumbled right in front of him, and would have felt a wave of intense reaction so heavy he would have fallen down to his knees. He wonders what that would feel like—to care so much about someone, that to live without them would be an unimaginable pain full of angst and tears. He wonders and wonders what life could have been like, if Mojo had been an actual father. A father worth bearing tears over. He chides himself for thinking about it at all. Thinking of what-if’s never helped anyone, and what’s done is done. Mojo is dead, and the world is all the better for it.

When he reaches the glass crystal doors that lead to the large meeting room, he doesn’t bother knocking. He just opens the door, peeks his head in, and watches as every single man wearing a clean-press suit in dark shades of a night sky, turns to look at him in one fluid second.

“Brick!” Steven says, giving him a polite smile. His hair is combed back this time, gelled down to reveal his forehead. “You’re here early.”

Brick blinks at him. He’d been planning his departure ever since his first day at this job. To execute it, only two years later, fills him with a joy that could only be classified as pettiness, and a quarter, knack for chaos.

It’s what prompts him to say, “Steven. I just came here to tell you some news. My father just died. And I quit.” He watches in squashed down excitement as the smile is wiped off of Steven’s face. His forehead lines with wrinkles, eyes widening in horror, and mouth dropping open in a silent gasp. Similarly, the rest of the professional business men stare at Brick in surprise, before exchanging looks between each other that could only be described by incredulous bewilderment. Brick’s kind of an ass. He adds, “I sent you the last financial report later tonight. Any other forms you need me to sign you can send me via email. Have a nice rest of your day..” Brick turns, lets the doors shut behind him and once his back is facing the shut door does he let a smile grow on his face. He nearly rips the badge off of his neck, shoving it deep into his black suit pants to dispose of at the nearest trash can. As far as he’s concerned, he’s no longer the CFO of the company, and he wants no correlation to the place at all.

Steven wasn’t a horrible person–that’s the only reason Brick bared to be around him for so long, and also the reason why Brick didn’t just delete the report immediately. However, working an office job at a tech company was never what he wanted to do with his life, and never what he envisioned for himself. He crosses another hallway, throws the badge into the trash can, and steps into an awaiting elevator. Pressing the ground floor level, the doors slowly close shut before the elevator makes a whirring noise, moving him floors down to the parking level. Upon stepping foot off the elevator, he reaches into the front pocket of his satchel to bring out a simple, round, sleek black piece of metal with his car’s logo carved into it. He clicks the button and the familiar sound of his car beeping only a few cars away leads him there. When he gets inside, he immediately slumps in the driver side, throwing his satchel onto the passenger side with a desperateness he didn’t know he had. He breathes in sharply finally, through the comfort of his car. The smell of cedar wood enters his nose, going straight to his brain and signaling safety. He breathes out, feels the way the pent-up stress releases out of his chest, and the way his shoulders relax by his sides. He stares blankly out his window, skin buzzing with a newfound type of energy, as his brain tries to catch up with the events that have just occurred. He’s done. Free to move back with his life. He starts the engine with a simple click, starts the GPS navigation to the hospital that he only recalls visiting twice, and starts to play some classical music. He clicks off the parking gear, presses onto the brake, maneuvers his car into reverse, and then is off on the road. It wasn’t always like this.

At one point, Brick had loved his father. Had admired him, respected him, and been grateful to him for taking him out of the horrible orphanage he had been sent to after the death of his parents in a car crash. The first of three, when Boomer and Butch came along, he quickly filled in the role of the eldest brother–one that he might have also fulfilled through, in another reality where his parents didn’t die. Mojo had given them a lavish lifestyle. From an early age, they learned that he was a famous inventor and that the paparazzi that followed him (and eventually them too), were money-hungry nosy desperate vultures that did anything for drama and content. Courtesy of Mojo, they lived in a wealthy area, with a five-story house, with more rooms than necessary, double the amount of bathrooms for the amount of people living in it, had personalized tutors that would teach them different languages, maids, cooks, chauffeurs, limitless money, and the opportunity to pick up any hobby that they desired. Though Mojo was mainly absent from the boys' lives, often busy in his lab creating his newest invention, he always made time for them and would attend all of their school events. The brothers also learned that all they had was each other, and even though they weren’t related through blood, they stuck together through thick and thin. Their first year of high school however, is when Mojo’s health takes a steep decline. Following an outbreak of success from a medical device that could be life saving, he flies out to do conferences around the world. One of the planes he rides on is faulty, and it ends up crashing. Though he survives, his hands are permanently crushed and due to the risk of infection, they are amputated. From that point on, Mojo is depicted as a fallen superstar, and pitied across social media and the news outlets. Though he does get prosthetics, the surge of newer, younger, fresher, more active inventors has him tumbling into depression. He began to push the three boys, wanting them to be the best, only tolerable when they would bring back trophies. Anything below first place was intolerable, and anything short of number one was useless. Mojo’s behavior changed as quickly as it takes to flick a light switch on.The love he once shared for his boys turns into a bitter, harsh, hatred, uncontrollable fire sparked through his own failures. When Boomer lost the national art competition by placing at third place, Mojo went feral. He blew up right in front of their very eyes, and no matter how much Boomer cried, he wouldn’t relent. Safe to say, the boys learned to hate the man they had once loved.

The times Mojo was home, he would openly speak of his regrets on adopting them in the first place. Most of his time however, was spent away from them. He would go onto founding a tech company with a fellow business partner, continue working on new creations, and confine himself to his lab. On the outside, he seemed put together and like a hardworking family man, but on the outside, his mental psyche was dropping at a drastically quick rate. When he started experimenting into the science field, the pressure, expectations, responsibilities, and high standards all built up into a combinable wall of stress. His mood turned into a constant foulness that neither boy could break through. He swore to them all that he would be the greatest scientist to ever live. In the same breath he would blame the boys for being such a nuisance. Of course, those never ended well, and always resulted in Brick and Butch getting into his face, while Boomer would quietly rock himself in place. He was often hospitalized from stress overload, and was diagnosed with a heart condition. He was no longer a caretaker, and as such, he found a suitable guardian to watch over the boys, who were merely sophomores in high school at the time. Brick supposes that his illness clouded his judgment, for why else would he choose to send the boys someone straight from hell? The first thing HIM did was work to separate them. They encouraged jealousy, hatred, fear, anger, and competition within the boys that did nothing but spark a chaotic fester of internal dislike. Their manipulation worked to get the three to turn their backs on each other, and they used the boy's emotional weakness as leverage to get them to appease to HIM. Their validation was so strong, powerful, and necessary to the emotionally desperate teenage boys that they did just about anything. Each one would try to one up the other, and everytime they got praise, it only encouraged them to act up even more. They eventually strayed down their different paths. Butch joined a gang, Boomer resorted to drugs and drinking, and Brick found himself with a nasty, addictive habit of smoking. They would ignore each other's existence, pretend they were never related, and found their own places in the high school hierarchy that placed them the furthest away from each other. It wasn’t until Brick landed in juvie at the age of 17, did he wake up and realize that HIM was a sadistic fuck who needed to go.

Funny enough, it was a therapist named Mr. Fickle who had gotten through Brick. Mr. Fickle, a patient and middle aged man with a stubborn, patient, calm demeanor, broke Brick down into a puddle of dissolved pieces of the person he once was. When Brick was released for good behavior, he was legally an adult. He kept in touch with Mr. Fickle, and resolved to get his brothers back together again. Boomer got clean, and he paid Butch out of his gang by using Mojo’s money through the bank, plagiarizing Mojo’s signature to get it all (and maybe resorting to threats and violence to get what he needed). And it worked. The boys were now healthy, safe, and slowly healing. Of course, that meant that the threat of HIM was still lingering, his claws desperate to stay sinked into the boy's shoulders. Brick had created a plan. A plan so thoroughly well thought of, a plan that had him spending hours pouring over different names, different details, and different stories, before he took HIM to court, where he was sentenced to jail. Just when Brick was able to take a full breath of success, Mojo reappears. Discharged, physically better (barely), but still refusing mental health or social services. Mojo, knowing that his mind and brain are against him, strikes a deal. Brick will take over as a company through Mojo, and Mojo will pay for the boy’s education after they graduate.

The GPS beeping brings him out of his memories. With one hand, he steers his car into the nearest available parking spot, before turning the engine off and letting the silence wash over him. His eyes track over to the hospital, merely giving it a glance before he gets out, locks his car behind him, and heads into the entrance. He’s always hated hospitals, and this one was no exception. As soon as he walks in he gets a strong smell of cleaning supplies, sanitizer, and mint. He can’t hold back from visibly wrinkling his nose at the stench, and as he makes his way to the receptionist, his dress shoes make a clink clack noise that signals his entrance. The receptionist’s head is hidden by the large curve of a shiny marble counter, and as he gets closer the computer she’s typing in front of enters his vision. She stops typing, looks up at him with big brown eyes covered partially by thick bangs.

“Hello, good morning,” she says sweetly. “What can I do for you?”

“I’m Brick. I’m here for Mojo Jojo’s forms.” He crosses his arms against his chest, stares decidedly at a random point on the wall. It’s best to dissociate in situations like these. The atmosphere changes, and he can feel the pity radiating off of her in waves more than anything.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” she starts, eyebrows drawn, voice tight and quiet. Worst of all is, he can tell that she genuinely means it. He shrugs, and she bites the inside of her cheek, but starts to type once more.

“I’m going to just print out the forms that you need to sign. Standard procedure, signatures, all of that stuff. Did you want to see him?” He nods, almost surprising him, in the way he got the strong urge to see him, twisting into a bundle of tight knit resignation.

She nods, as if she expected that response, and taps a button he cannot see. “Go ahead. It’s room 113–do you know where it is? Okay, then you can head over. I’m sending someone over, they should be there to meet you when you get there. Do you want to take the forms with you?”

His eyebrows furrow. Then he shakes his head. “There is really no need for you to expand your resources on this. I just need to see him briefly. If you can save the forms for me here, I’ll just right back and fill them.”

She nods once more, waving him off with a permission he didn’t need. He knows where the room is. He’s only been here twice, but twice is more enough for his body to remember the exact hallway to take, count the amount of doors it takes to get there, know which side 113 lands on, and the paintings on the walls. His dress shoes make a quiet clicking noise as he walks on top of the tan sand tiles, and he self consciously loosens his tie, unraveling it so it drapes over his shoulders like ribbons. When he reaches the door, he doesn’t bother knocking but just barges in. There are two doctors wearing white coats and holding binders, talking amongst themselves when he walks in. They stop and look at him before turning back to each other to exchange a look. One of them speaks.

“Are you Brick Jojo?” she asks, glasses perched on her nose as she stares over at him through her square lenses.

“Yes. And you two are—?”

“Surgeons. Dr. Beanti,” the man addresses himself, bowing his head slightly. “I’m sorry for your loss. My deepest condolences. This is my colleague, Dr. Williams.” She also nods her head. “We apologize for this loss. We understand it is not easy.”

Brick doesn’t really care for their empty, rehearsed words. “Can you leave. I want to see him alone.” They don’t really react to his tone, but quickly dip their heads and step out, white coats flying behind them like capes. He watches them leave and waits a few seconds as the doors shut, before turning to Mojo finally. He steps closer to his bed, and stares deeply.

Mojo’s face is gray, and his eyes shut. His eyebrows are busy, and his face is lined with wrinkles and some sun spots. His cheeks are hollow, and his hair is threading, a bald spot in the middle of straw brown hair. He looks repulsive. The quiet beeping of the ventilator and the whirring of machines becomes a dull sound in the back of his head, and he stares at him as if expecting his eyes to suddenly flick open, so he can see the familiar yellow eyes full of disappointment. He looks as if he’s five days into decomposition. His body looks thin, frail and on the verge of falling apart with even the slightest touch. Now that Brick has come face to face with the sight of the man, he finds himself at a loss of words. He almost dares to touch him, but his arm twitches helplessly by his sides. Getting any closer than where he is now seems dangerous, as if entering treacherous waters, and his heart, selfishly twinges with fear. He was never afraid of Mojo, but to see the man at his most vulnerable takes something from Brick, and he’s not sure if it is enough for it all. He settles for clearing his throat. “Fuck you, Mojo.” The words settle into the air, and the tightness in his shoulders dissipates. He breathes out, and then he feels a strong wave of relief wash over him. It’s not enough, but for the moment it feels like just enough. His consciousness feels clearer, and he lets the corners of his mouth quirk up at the corners. He leaves the room with no last look over behind his shoulder. His footsteps down the hallway are lighter, and as he walks to the receptionist and grabs the forms, he flashes her a slight nod to depict some appreciation. Going through the forms is quick work, and as soon as he finishes, he deposits it back to the front desk, and leaves through the sliding doors entrance, content to never return back to the hospital ever again. Getting into the driver's seat of his car brings him a sense of comfort and relief combined into one, and he lets the classical music playlist wash over him, clouding his thoughts and whisking through his ears in a long hum of symphony. He opens his phone and scrolls through his contacts, clicking on a chat that hasn’t been opened in three years. With a lot of hesitation, his finger clicks on it and opens up the keyboard. He types out a message, deletes it, retypes another one, and then hits send before his cowardness takes over. The last chat ever posted was from Butch, a simple one that simply says 'Fuck you Brick. I never want to talk to you again.'

Brick never responded to it. How was he supposed to, anyways? Brick’s message is short too. 'Mojo is dead'. He’s not expecting a response, but he’s also expecting one. Secretly he hopes that with the death of their guardian, it meant that their bond could be repaired. After all, half of their separation was the fault of Mojo’s. But he knows that hope is a useless feeling, and brings disappointment more often than not. That’s why his expectations are always low–it prevents getting hurt. He takes himself to his favorite coffee shop, determined to move on with his life. Now it’s as if he can unpause the moment of his life to one year after graduating. Back when law school was his only priority, and back when he had a passion to do some good. Back when he was allowed to want something in his life and determined to do anything to get it.

His favorite coffee shop, Bean House, (a stupidly embarrassing name that he refuses to say aloud, but returns only because they are the only coffee shop around him that sells affordable high quality coffee), that he frequents enough to be known as a regular. It’s a small, hidden thing that’s cramped in between a bookstore and a vintage shop, that he found when he was strolling on the sidewalk, trying to explore the new city that he was expected to live in. It’s near enough to his apartment that it’s within walking distance, and not too far from his workplace, which made it an ideal halfways point whenever he wanted to grab a coffee. Which was admittedly, pretty often. Normally he is careful with his expenses, but the five dollar coffee is enough to splurge on daily that he doesn’t mind it. He parks in front of the shop, and since it’s only nine in the morning on a Monday, there are still spots available. He turns his engine off, steps out and gets hit with the smell of freshly mowed grass, grabs his satchel, and locks the car behind him. He opens the door by pushing the bar in the middle, and the familiar bell rings signaling his entrance with a bright thrum. The coffee scent is always strong, and he breathes it in deep as he steps forward to the cashier. There’s no one in line, and a quick glance around the shop tells him that there’s only a few customers spread across the lounge, cups of steaming coffee on their coasters. A familiar face is working behind the counter, hands moving quickly as they go from steaming milk to grinding coffee and pumping syrup into shaker cups. Brick patiently waits, and leans against the counter for support. The coffee shop, though it appears small from the outside, is actually quite spacious inside. The lights hang above them, glowing an off white light from glass circular plates, and there is the sound of classical music, at just the perfect amount of volume playing throughout the speakers in the store. When you enter the store the register is right ahead, but to the sides there is the lounge where customers sit to work or relax. There are low desks with comfy plush chairs, long sofas, high stools, long desks placed haphazardly across the cafe, along with various paintings on the walls from different local artists. The walls are painted a baby blue, and the colors are a combination of dark shades and pastels. Most interesting of all though, are probably the customers. The customers are strongly diverse, freely themselves in a way that is refreshing. Individualistic, and independent, but not completely antisocial. The environment is friendly, comfortable, easy, and everyone is known among the others. Brick has found himself sometimes dragged into conversation, and sometimes he entertains them. For the most part, everyone seems to know that Brick likes to come there for alone time, and for no interruptions. He never thought he’d like it, but the fact that he’s known and understood gives him some satisfaction.

“Hey Brick, long time no see.” Brick brings his attention back to the front, where he meets Robin Snyder’s teasing smile, as she leans against the counter with her elbow propped up. She continues with, “And by a long time, I mean a whole week. That’s a new record.”

He waves her off. “Trust me, that was not by choice. I had to go out of the city for work related reasons. The coffee in Knoxville was shitty.”

She laughs, a genuine one that makes her eyes crinkle at the corners. “Bet you’re glad that you’re here now, huh?” Her hands start to work, as she talks, and he entertains her.

“I quit my job as CFO.” She blinks, but doesn’t even pause. She studies his face, gauging his expression, but her hands skillfully continue in measured precision.

She settles for, “Congratulations.” He smiles at her, this one small and genuine, and her shoulders sag in relief at saying the right thing. “Thanks.”

“So what are your plans now?”

“Law school probably,” his skin starts to itch from underneath, and he finds his tongue turning into sandpaper at the turn this conversation was taking.

“Anyways, how are you doing?” he blurts out lamely, steering the conversation in a way that is so obvious that her face shifts into an expression that he cannot decipher, before she quickly smoothes it out.

“The same old. Everyday is a constant cycle of work, eat, and sleep. I feel as though I’m wasting my youth away at this place. All my friends have moved away and sometimes I feel..lonely.” she shrugs, and his skin prickles at the thought of having to comfort her. He doesn’t know what he should say. The correct thing to do would be to extend an invitation, but he hardly ever spends time with other people as is. He prefers the company of himself only. The other possible solution is to provide words of comfort, but he doesn’t see the point. It’s not like saying anything will make her feel better–her friends are still away regardless of whatever he says. She slides him his now hot coffee, accompanied with the company sleeve and a thin slice of strawberry shortcake while he thinks, and he blinks in surprise.

“Take it as a freebie for getting out of that dreadful, boring company.” He responds by bringing his wallet out and tipping her a twenty dollar bill. She frowns, staring at it but not taking it. “You know I don’t like handouts.”

“It isn’t a handout. It’s a token of my appreciation for all that you’ve done for me. Where else would I go for good coffee, if you weren’t here?”

She grins at him and takes the bill. “You really know how to talk to a girl, don’t you?” He tips his head at her, and she pretends to swoon. The laugh that bubbles out of his throat is unfamiliar, husky with unuse, and surprising. He grabs his things, bites back the shadow of a smile threatening to appear on his face, and maneuvers his way to the familiar spot in the back, where he likes to sit at a booth and gaze out the window. He brings out his laptop and gets to work getting his documents prepared to apply to the nearest law university, just an hour outside of Townsville. He casually takes a sip of his coffee, the familiar taste of strong coffee mixed with nut melting on his tongue. The door jingles, but he peels his eyes away from his laptop when he hears a girly squeal at the front. He rolls his eyes, glancing over to whoever had to ruin the vibe of the coffee shop with their interruption, and he sees the side profile of a blonde girl talking animatedly with Robin. Her hair is tied into two childish pigtails, and Robin is openly staring at the girl with a large grin. Robin has…friends? He blinks away the stray thought as he looks at the blonde one more time, grimacing at how her voice sounds through the entire shop.

He moves to grab his earbuds, grateful that he thought ahead to prepare accordingly for moments like these. Placing them over his ears, he quickly plays a random song from his playlist and continues his work, letting the music completely cancel out any background noise. He had just gotten through an outline of a personal essay when a small hand appeared in his vision, tapping on the table—his table. He looks up, pauses the music by tapping his earbud, and looks into baby blue eyes, big and blinking at him. Her mouth spreads into a real smile, her eyes twinkling with delight at him. He furrowed his eyebrows. “What?” it comes out harsh, but he doesn’t really care.

“Hi,” she breathes out, like she had just finished running five miles straight and couldn’t quite compose her breathing. “My name is Bubbles. Bubbles Utonium.” He raises his left eyebrow expertly in a way that he knows gives heavy judgment.

“Ok. And?” She raises an eyebrow, not quite upset, not quite angry. It won't take long for her to break, he has a talent in getting people pissed off at him. She sits down across from him, inviting herself and he frowns further.

“How are you doing?” she asks, tone full of concern, eyes bright.

“I was fine until you showed up.” Her eyes soften then.

“Sorry,” she starts. “I don’t mean to intrude. I just..needed to meet you. You’re Brick Jojo.” Her head turns around to survey her surroundings, before she turns back to face him and whispers, “But I know of your alias.”

His breath catches in his throat. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” His face goes blank.

“Yes you do. Your face gives you away, believe it or not. Ethan Oakley, author of the world famous action fantasy series, ‘The Eight Rings’. You’ve won numerous awards, and earned more than fifty thousand dollars from the copies sold.”

He glares at her. “What do you want? Money for your silence? How did you even figure it out? Have you been stalking me?” he spits the accusations out with such hatred, that she flinches.

“What? No! Of course not!” She raises her hands in the air, placating and eyes wide with shock. “I would never do that to you, or to any artist! I’m…B3U.” He blinks, the anger he had disappearing in one single second. And then it flickers to life once more, heavier, choking him.

“Your lies are—”

“Hey!” she interrupts him, standing to her full height of five feet, slapping her hands on the table. The action brings them attention and she flushes, sitting back down and clearing her throat, waving the concerned onlookers off. “I’m getting tired of your sour, pissy attitude.” she says after they sit in a heavy silence as they each compose themselves. Her eyebrows narrowed slightly. “I understand your concern, but if you would just simply let me explain myself, you will find that your accusations are unfounded.”

He finds him dumbfounded as he watches her grab a sketchbook, flipping the cover over and sliding it to him across the table. He grabs it gently and skims the pages. They’re all artwork by B3U– of course he recognizes them. B3U is known in the world of arts for their artistic style, unique in the way that it combines dark messages with soft pastels and light shadings. They are experimental, and skilled in all different types of styles, dabbling in every single style known to man. While they are most consistent with impressionism, realism, and watercolors, they have an undeniable born talent for all things of painting. There is no one in the creative art world that doesn’t know of B3U, and know of their works. In fact, inside the coffee shop they’re currently inside, he can point out three paintings they’ve made, easily. B3U is known and regarded as an artistic genius, and Brick has long been an admirer of their work. The awe is on his face before he can even comprehend it. As he flicks through the pages, the colors, the lining, the mediums pop out at him in all of their true forms, blurring together into familiar pieces that he can recall seeing on websites, art museums, exhibits, along the walls of hospitals, and he even has a few in his own home. He shakes his head to snap out of the awe, berating himself silently for letting himself expose his feelings so openly in front of a stranger.

“How do I know that you didn’t stalk some other artist and steal their sketchbook?”

“Your imagination knows no bounds,” she states, shaking her head but her fingers are already reaching back into her bag. “Here. Open this and tell me if it is anything that B3U has published as of yet.”

The sketchbook she gives him is thinner and looks entirely handmade. The cover is a light beige leather, with a satin pattern placeholder draped over the front. The bottom was lined with floral washi tape that doesn’t fit the aesthetic and looks as if a random gripe at creativity. When he turns the book around, he finds random cartoon stickers on the back, so disorderly and haphazardly with no care, that if he wasn’t sure that B3U was potentially right in front of him, he might have dismissed this entire interaction as a weird fangirl with a creepy obsession for an artist. He settles instead to look over at her and give her a heavy stare full of judgment. She meets his gaze and doesn’t waver.

“This looks like something a child made.”

“Because it is.”

Her voice is solemn, and her eyes flutter rapidly as she looks wistfully over at it. A frown appears on her lips, and he flicks his eyes away from the sight, before she has the chance to start crying. If he ignores her, maybe she’ll stop. Or compose herself. He doesn’t really care, he just doesn’t want to deal with the emotional breakdown. He flips the book open, telling himself that this must all be a joke, and even if he doesn’t particularly like being wrong in any case, he will take it this time. But as soon as his eyes catch sight of the first picture, his breath catches in his throat. It is undeniable now.

This has to be B3U. The lines, the switches of thickness between lines, the familiar patterns of colors, and the details that are often overlooked by every other passerbyers, but not him. He knows that the lines in the tree spell out her alias, he knows that she leaves messages or secret reveals in her designs. That is part of what made B3U so superior to everyone else. It is an unfinished work, raw and exposed, and Brick feels a strange sense of pride at being able to be the first to witness the artistic process of a great artist. The painting has a singular tree, trunk sliced in half. The remaining stump remains ingrained in the ground, but the roots have curled up and shriveled up from beneath the soil. There is a blonde girl with a watering can, short and slim, with a distraught expression, emptying the water into the dead stump. Off to the side are the remains of the trunk with the accompanying branches and leaves, slumped over on the ground. The branches look like strands of brown curly hair, and the trunk looks as if there has been a face carved on the wood. To the far end are two other little girls, both with matching blank faces, as they, together, lug away a long hatchet. Dirt stains their dresses and there are deep scratches along their arms, dripping down their arms and landing on the ground. It’s depressing. It’s authentically honest. His tongue feels dry and heavy in his mouth as the realization starts to sink in. He cannot find the words, cannot muster up the right amount of courage to speak up and say—-what exactly? That he’s sorry? Give one of his favorite artists compliments? Ask for an autograph? He never thought this day would arrive– what does one do in this sort of situation?

“I’ll take that stupid, dumbfounded, shocked look on your face as your apology,” she speaks for him, tone knowing and with a smirk on her lips. “I don’t blame your paranoia–but still, it is always interesting how people never suspect me of being B3U. Guess that makes this secret that much easier to keep, huh?” She leans back in her seat, eyes narrowed as she assesses him. He finally has the decency to lift his head and meet her gaze. “Though to be fair, you don’t really strike me as an author either. I wouldn’t think you would be affiliated with the name Ethan Oakley. You don’t look like an Ethan...has anyone ever told you that? You certainly fit Brick better.”

“B3U,” he starts, and then immediately wrinkles his nose at how winded his voice sounds. He readjusts himself, trying again. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. Your artwork is…original and true, fresh and raw, in a way that not a lot of artists possess. The talent you have is not something that is learnt, but something born with. You are an inspiring creator in the world of arts, and I must admit, that I follow your workings quite closely. Our mediums of choice are different, but the messages in art are all the same–a voice, a way to express ourselves and leave a mark in this world. So, thank you.” She’s staring at him with an open mouth, eyes wide and so blue, and frozen on him.

After a few seconds of silence, she splutters into action, blinking rapidly and a flush rising to her cheeks. “Why’d you have to get so serious? I thank you for your kind words. I mean…thank you, seriously. Sorry, I just didn’t expect that from you. Uh, I wish I could tell you that I’ve read your series, but alas I haven't. I’m not much of a reader. But um, you see, it’s actually the reason I’m here.” She takes a breath to compose herself and he patiently waits her out, his own ears burning red at his own embarrassment at his own admission. He can hardly believe himself. He would be lying to himself if he didn’t admit that he’s been following B3U’s work for a long time, and imagined what his first words would be if he were to ever meet them. A silly part of himself wished for it as a kid. He had thought that he was done with his childish dreams but apparently he wasn’t. The honesty had come bursting out and there was nothing he could do to take them back.

“My sister loved your books as a kid,” She starts to speak again, softer this time as she plays with her fingers. “She was so invested, it was her favorite book series ever. I must admit, I’ve never been much of a reader, but after she…passed, I wanted to get closer to her. I thought reading your book would help me. So I listened to an audiobook and after that I sort of whizzed through the other books.” She looks up, eyes blazing with a passion he once saw everyday in the mirror. “Your work is unfinished though and I need to know how it ends. Why won’t you finish it?”

His face betrays nothing, a carefully constructed mask he crafted to protect and defend from the dangers that come with exposing feelings. That series he created was a passion project at ten years old, a pipe dream for a boy who once imagined his life to solely be a writer. Mojo—- The man had once made and destroyed Brick’s ire. Brick had moved on. It was a mere temporary passing, and the dreams, wants, and hopes of that young boy were locked up and left for dead. He doesn’t want to say it, and has never thought he’d ever be. Perhaps he’d been stupid in thinking that it would be forgotten in the world of books and writers.

“It doesn’t matter why. I’m never finishing it.”

“No,” she shakes her head. “What would it take for you to finish it?”

“Nothing. There is nothing I want.”

Except, maybe… No. This is coming from a woman who hides her own true identity. He cannot blame her, but at the same time he does. He can’t trust her. She doesn’t fight him on it, but her cheeks fill up with air anyways, nose scrunching and eyebrows furrowing slightly.

She exhales and her face calms, falling back to a natural ground. “Okay. Fine. Then maybe there is something else you can give me. Permission to collaborate with me. I want to make your book into a comic book.”

“Okay,” he waves her off. “I don’t know why you had to come here all the way to do that. Do what you like, it’s your life.”

Her face morphs into one of sterness. “Artist to artist, you should know that I just can’t take your idea and make it my own. Isn’t that common sense?”

“I don’t care if you did. You asking for my permission is useless, no matter what.”

“Because you would say yes regardless?”

“Because I don’t care about it.”

“Liar.”

His temper flares up. “Listen, do it or don’t do it. You asking for permission is only to soothe your moral high ground. You can do whatever you wish to do with the story.”

“I’m asking for your help on it.”

“You’re B3U. You can’t do it yourself?”

“Just because I can, doesn’t mean that I should.”

This conversation is going on way too long for his liking. “I don’t want to finish the story. I don’t think I would be of any use to you. If that is all, then I will leave now.” He moves to stand.

Her mouth opens. “You’re the creator of it. I know you could help me make the comic better. No artist simply forgets their own work, for each work is part of oneselves, one’s identity. Walk as much as you like away from it but you can never escape it.”

He grabs his satchel, slinging it lazily over his shoulder and walks out, not bothering to give her a second look. His finished coffee mug is neatly snuggled on the empty plate, and as he steps out the door he can feel two pairs of eyes watching his back.

Boomer

Boomer always thought that his first heartbreak would be absolutely horrible. He thought it would taste like expired milk, would feel like his world was crumbling down around him, would be like stubbing your toe at the edge of a desk leg. He had imagined sleepless nights, a bunch of tissues, red eyes, and sobbing silently over heartbreak songs. Instead, all he felt was emptiness, a large hole in his chest that he desperately tried to fill with binge eating and picking up a new hobby in the hopes of finding a new purpose in life. It had turned out to be nothing like that. When Veronica broke up with him over text, they had remained friends afterwards and there were no ill feelings in between them. They both continued to work on songs together, him with his electric guitar and singing, and her with her bass and song writing. They were a good team that worked well together, but they fell off a bit when Veronica got accepted into her dream college, a decision that took her out of state. So they wished each other goodbye one frosty morning in December, and after she left, Boomer packed up his own bags and got out of Oakville.

It was too close to Citysville, and not far enough. So he went to Purmville, a pretty expensive place to be, but it had an abundance of places to explore, people to meet, and more job opportunities. It is where he resides now, only able to afford his one studio apartment by using a big chunk of money from his savings account (a gift from Mojo when he was lucid, centuries ago), and only able to keep living in it by working two jobs. He had attempted secondary education via community college, but he found school a bore and didn’t care enough about the subjects to learn about them. He ended up slowly stopping going to classes altogether, and eventually dropped it altogether when he saw the tuition bill. When he wasn’t working at the local coffee shop (Mondays through Thursday mornings), he was doing his secondary job, which was a dog walking/sitting service. He loved dogs, and while his apartment doesn’t allow pets, he has always known himself destined to be a dog savior. Maybe that’s what he’ll do for the rest of his life. Getting to walk dogs was a great way for him to leave his house, get some vitamin D and serotonin, and get paid for doing it. The services aren’t particularly high in demand, but he has five stars on Pawgo, the top dog services app on the app store, and solid reviews. He typically walks four dogs at a time (size and breed doesn’t matter, he can handle anything, because he is the ultimate dog whisperer), and the walks are usually about an hour and a half. Sometimes he’ll go the extra mile for the super active dogs, and sometimes he’ll take multiple breaks, for the dogs that simply enjoy sniffing whatever is in their path rather than just run. The best part is that he gets to set his own schedule, so he can usually smush in whatever he feels like doing that week. This week he has planned to go out Friday-Sunday, rather than doubling down on the weekdays. More money usually comes from the weekdays because people aren’t as free to walk their own dogs themselves, but Boomer is still getting the groove of things and he is not completely broke, so he can afford to not work himself like a dog (ha).

He feels his stomach grumble loudly, and he absent mindedly places a hand against his stomach. Damn, he’s hungry. When was the last time he ate? Wasn’t it just last night? Or maybe it was a day ago…but he did eat two tacos for lunch…so it mustn’t have been so long.. Still his feet guide him towards the familiar path towards his small little kitchen, where he has a very small setup of a makeshift kitchen. A microwave, stove, fridge and oven are pressed tightly against each other with peeling paint and signs of rust quite visibly at the fronts. He ignores it just as he always does. He can’t afford to be picky, and as long as it gets the job done, he doesn’t mind too much about its appearance. He opens his fridge, the door making a loud squeak as it opens, and pulls out a few eggs. He finds himself slink over to auto-pilot mode, zoning out as his hands do the motion he has become accustomed to doing for quite a while now. He is no amazing chef, but ever since he has moved out of his house, he has had to learn the basic cooking abilities. He doesn’t mind cooking, in fact, he finds it kind of therapeutic, if not a little boring. The smell of cooking eggs fills the room, the sizzling over the pan a familiar tune, and he heads over to the toaster to toast some bread for himself, letting the noises of the stove drown out everything else. His apartment, though a studio, has pretty thick walls, meaning that he hardly hears anyone and no one hears him. The privacy is one of his favorite parts of the place, and it means that no one will go pounding on his front door if he goes a little hard on his guitar. He pulls out his phone to at the very least, play some rock music, blasting it at a high enough volume until it is all he hears. Music; his love for it came late. It’s really corny to admit, but music was the thing that saved him. His salvation when he was younger, stupider, and cared too much about what everyone thought of him. When he was still a people pleaser trapped in the body of a fourteen year old boy. At a dark time in his life where it felt like his life was truly a waste of space and oxygen, it was the heavy sounds and throaty voices that made him suddenly feel planted to the ground. His interest in music strengthened when he went to a concert for his favorite rock band, and while he had felt the ground shaking, his heart beating loudly in his ears, all he could focus on were the happy faces of the crowd. When he later visited a music shop and tinkered with different musical instruments, he couldn’t stop smiling as his fingers experimentally flicked and tugged at each string before eventually stilling on an electric blue electric guitar. It was when he held an electric guitar that it all seemed to make sense. He purchased it and spent the rest of his days teaching himself how to play it, eventually finding Veronica and the two would play music together. They had tried to find bandmates so they could create their own actual band, but plans fell through and their dream never came alive. Still, he would play his electric guitar every day, and it became his thing– something he was good at. Something he never grew bored of doing, and yet—his fingers itched towards something more. A purpose, place of belonging, a dream of forever just playing music.

As he chews on his bread and eggs, he pours himself a cup of orange juice before sitting down at the small table that acts as both a dining table and a coffee table. His phone pings, notification cutting through his music and he chugs some juice before checking. Opening his messages, he stops mid-chew at the new message. He reads it over multiple times, not blinking once the entire time. He doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t even know what reaction his face is making. The news seemed so foreign, so unreal, that he almost forgets to breathe. Mojo Jojo is dead, and the world is all the better for it. So why does his heart hurt all of a sudden? He grabs the fabric of his shirt for support, and his fingers twitch as if they want to reach into his chest and grab his heart, to stop it from smacking so harshly against his rib cage. Mojo was a horrible father, and no matter how many chances Boomer gave him, no matter how many times Mojo would break him down into a small child, Boomer would still yearn for a change. He would still foolishly hold onto the hope that Mojo would become a good dad again. It would never come, and Boomer hates him all the more for even wishing in the first place. Boomer hadn’t spoken to his father for three years. Ever since he became an adult, ever since that final argument, Boomer had fled Citysville and everything that was associated with it. With every passing day of no contact from him or his brothers, Boomer had hardened his heart in response to the abandonment. The memories of their once tight-knit family became that of the past, and he was still too much of a coward to try and reach out in fear of getting rejected. He’s healed, but even he is not sure that he could survive his brothers abandoning him too. Just like Mojo had always said…. it would happen eventually. His breaths come in harsh pants. The familiar crawl dancing up his throat is familiar, and he knows what’s going to come. He doesn’t want to deal with it–he thought he was over this. He thought it was all in the past. He didn’t think he would feel this way again–foolish thoughts, foolish hopes, and foolish him for being so stupid. For someone to still hold so much power over him, even after death, is too much. Why is it so hard to forget Mojo? The other version of him, the happier one haunts him more than he would like it too. Was it all a lie? His hands reach up to grab his hair and he starts to tug at it, needy. No, he can’t. He cannot let a dead man have so much power. He promised himself that he would forget him. That he would forget all of the memories and erase the man from his life. He promised himself that he wouldn’t let himself get hurt again. But the man’s face flashes in his mind, the wide grin and beady eyes that would taunt him even in his happiest memories. The grip turns tighter, more desperate, the knots growing tangled into a mass of hairs. Once a headache starts to form, he lets go. The pain isn’t enough. He needs something stronger, something more hard so that he may finally feel it. In a fit of blurred anger, his right arm lifts into the air, hand curling into a tight fist, that he slams into the counter. The burning sensation is nonexistent, and the anger at not feeling anything causes him to do it again. This time, he doesn’t stop until he sees the dark, familiar, crimson red. The pain registers all at once, after his eyes finally lock onto the bleeding knuckles, split skin and the soreness stings like a bitch. He groans, exhales through his nose, as he lets his mind clear up. He burrows his face in his left hand, a heavy hanging headache pounding annoyingly at the front of his head, only a reminder of his stupidity. He relapsed again. What was the point of all that therapy, if he was still a broken, unfixable mess? He stops moving, staring in defeat at the wall in front of him.

Grounding techniques, he reminds himself, as his eyes trace the brown stain that’s right next to the wall adapters, that’s been there ever since he first moved in. The air still smells heavy of eggs, but when he inhales a little deeper, he thinks he can smell the air fresheners, the hints of clean linen and laundry twirling and heading straight to his brain. The rock music is still blaring in the background, and he forces himself to focus on the lyrics. It doesn’t take long for him to recognize the song.

It’s “Not Your Responsibility” by B.A.M! He runs through the facts in his head to calm himself down. B.A.M! A three person band consisting of Buttercup (vocalist, lead guitarist), Ace (bassist and part time keyboardist,) and Mitch (drummer, songwriter). They are the newest, local rock/alternative band to enter the scene, and they debuted with their first single called “Super Villain”, which they performed in local competitions, local gigs, and open bars. Their promotion paid off, because their song blew up after being downloaded on the popular social media apps, and they gained a following. Not too long after, they released a full album of ten songs to mark their debut. Their songs grazed the entry of the top songs in the United States, but never entered. Rock bands aren’t that big in the states anyways, so it wasn’t much of a shock. Still, in the world of music, their entrance did not go unnoticed, and many articles online have been applauding their work. Their song was released earlier this year, on January first, and since then, he has followed them all on social media. He also knows that they live in Purmville—not that he’s a stalker. He would say he’s a fan, not necessarily an active one but a silent one. He has thought about what it would be like to meet them multiple times. He didn’t move to Purmville for them. He had wanted to go there first anyways. Them being here is just an added bonus. The song ends in the familiar abrupt smashing of drums, and he breathes the first full breath of relief he’s had this morning. He tests his right hand by slightly, slowly, moving his fingertips. Sore definitely. His pale skin is now purple and green, and a delicate touch has him hissing. He doubts it’s broken. He’s glad he didn’t break it, and is secretly thankful that he’s not that strong to have done crazy damage. He needs his hands—doing it was stupid. Very stupid. He turns on his phone again to distract himself from that. He stares at the text on his phone until the screen turns off. Now that he’s in a state of momentary calmness, his brain goes haywire and his nerves tingle underneath his skin. What is he supposed to do with this information? What was the point of Brick sending them a text, after all this time? Is he expecting a response? What is he supposed to do now? His left hand reaches down to his thigh, drumming his fingers in thought. It’s different with him because he’s actually related to Mojo. His feelings are complicated and conflicting in a way unlike his other two brothers. Mojo was his blood relative, his uncle before being his legal guardian. Mojo had loved him like a son at one point. They had a bond through blood that was thicker than water. His brothers didn’t get it, and he didn’t expect them to. He wouldn’t ask them to. It’s only one in the afternoon, and he already wants a drink. He rubs his eyes with his left hand, fully conscious of the fact of his limp right hand. He’s only been at Purmville for two weeks, but he still feels lonely. Making friends was never anything he struggled with, but it seems like everyone he has met has been totally out of his atmosphere. He stands to put away his plate, and grab some ice for his hand. He no longer has any appetite, and he has to find something to get his mind off of the text.

He ends up dialing Veronica’s number before he can even think any more on it. She answers on the third ring, with a curt, “Boomer?”

“Hey,” he says lamely. “How’ve you been?”

She snorts, the familiar sound soothing his nerves almost instantly. “Wow, smooth moves. Does that get you all the ladies over there?”

That brings a smile to his lips. “Oh yeah,” he plays along. “You’d be surprised. Gets the ladies into my apartment every single time. A hundred percent success rate.”

“And yet you’re still a virgin.”

The smile drops, his tone shifting into one of slight apprehension. “It’s a personal choice. I thought we left shaming back in the 1900s?”

“You’re right, sorry,” she sighs through the phone. “I’m a bit cranky. College is kicking my ass–who knew majoring in Computer Science was a bad idea. Why didn’t you warn me? I get no sleep, no bitches, and no time of my own. My professors are so demanding, and the men here reek. It’s like they’ve never heard of the concept of a good shower. And then they have the audacity to look down their noses at me. I hate men.”

“I did warn you. Multiple times. Your response was always, ‘Screw you, Boomer’.” He rolls his eyes, recalling all the times she would give him some sort of smart-ass comment. He continues with, “And who cares about them? Stick a tissue up your nose and suck it up. You’ll be making buckets of cash compared to them anyways.”

“I can hear your eyes rolling from all the way over here. Glad that you’re still sassy as ever–some things don’t change after all. And I DON’T sound like that.” She quiets, the sound of papers rustling in the background. “Thanks. I think I’ll just do that. You’re really good at advice. Why’d we break up again anyways?”

“You broke up with me because you can’t do a long distance relationship.”

“Is it too late to change my mind?”

“Yes.”

“Hmm. You almost make me want to regret my decision.” He smiles. He lays back down on his small couch that’s too short for his long legs, but is at least comfortable. Stretches himself out like a cat, careful to keep the ice pack on his right hand.

“So why did you call?” she asks, sounding much calmer now. “Did something happen?” He bites his bottom lip. Veronica is the only one from his hometown who knows about Mojo. She knows bits and pieces, but she’s only ever seen the after effects. Seen the Boomer during the abuse and seen him in his desperate attempts to recover. She’s been a solid, steady presence, and even though she left to pursue her own dreams, she’s always made time for him. He doesn’t know how to say it. How he feels like he doesn’t belong anywhere, how every time he’s fled to a new city that he thinks it might just be the one. How he’s so desperate to find a place to call home.

“Boomer.” Her tone changes, firmer with hints of a warning laced in there. “Tell me what’s bothering you.” His throat clogs up. It’s getting tighter. Before it closes up all together, he whispers it. “He’s dead.”

He thinks that she didn’t even hear him, until he hears her sharp intake of a breath. She knows she's smart enough to connect the dots. He can hear her thinking, can hear the gears in her brain whirring as she comes to different conclusions, different solutions, different things to say. Just like she knows him, he knows her. “Okay.” she finally says, and it’s the first time that he’s ever heard her unsure. “Okay.” she repeats, and then there’s the sounds of justling. Keys dangling and clinking. “Are you safe?”

He frowns. “I’m not…I’m not going to hurt myself.”

“Anymore than you already have?”

Fuck. How did she know? His silence is enough. He can’t lie to her. He can’t. He hears her murmuring something to someone else. Hears the sound of movement. He starts to understand what’s going on.

“Don’t come over,” he almost pleads. “Don’t. You’re busy, and you have so much to do. I’ll be okay over here. You really don’t have to come.”

“Boomer. I’m going to come because you need someone. And you won’t tell me what to do, because I’m a grown woman and I can do whatever I want to do. You better have space ready for me. I’ll be there in five hours. I’m staying on the line.”

He doesn’t want to fight her, and a part of him is secretly glad she’s coming. He would never directly ask her to come for him, even though he knows she would. To be known is a scary thing, yet he basks in it. He doesn’t think there is anyone who will ever get him like she does. She’s fiercely devoted and loyal, and it is a characteristic that he’s not used to.

“Only five hours? You’re in California?”

“I had to come over for some business.” She says, sounding nonchalant, but he knows better by now. He waits her out. It only takes for him to hear the sound of a car door opening and the ignition revving to life that she speaks again. “She’s dead. She was murdered by her own mother before I could even meet her. Yet another thing that woman had to take away from me.” she sighs. Her voice is a bit more faraway when she speaks again. “I kind of wish I never knew she existed. It wouldn’t have hurt so hard to find out. All I have from her are our letters, but I never got the chance to meet her and finally have a sister. That was something I had always wanted. She was only fifteen. I can’t help but feel like there was more I could’ve done for her.”

“You did everything you could,” he reminds her. “The fact that she passed knowing that you existed must mean something. Her reaching out to you meant she wanted it too. It means that she cared, just like you cared for her. Even if it was short, even if it was only through words, the intention and the love is still there. No one can take that away from you. You have a sister.”

“Had.” she corrects, but it’s weak.

He ignores the past tense. “Please say that the mother is locked up or I will lose my shit.”

She huffs out a laugh. “Yeah, she is. Detained for now. I will make sure she gets a life sentence or death penalty, whichever comes first. I want her dead.”

“This is the first time I feel inclined to agree with you.”

Her laugh is stronger this time. “Fuck you Boomer. Hey, you think we can go out to the club later? Let’s go eat pizza first though, I’m starving. I haven’t eaten all day. We have to drink away our feelings. What do they have there in Purmville anyways? Besides your idols?”

His cheeks flushed in embarrassment. “That’s the one thing you remember? Out of everything else?”

“They mean a lot to you. Hey, you know what? You should totally ask them if they are willing to add you into the band. That was always our dream wasn’t it? You’d be a good fit.”

His eyes land on his iced right hand. It feels numb, but he thinks that the ice has just been on there long enough that it feels that way. The swelling has gone down, but the bruises will probably be there for a while. He knows he didn’t break anything, but still he knows he has to take it easy. Veronica will see it when she gets there and there is no doubt that she will lose her shit.

“No way!” He shakes his head vehemently. “Are you crazy? They would not do that.”

“Self depreciation was cute years ago, maybe.” She drily says. “Don’t knock yourself down like that. They would be lucky to have an electric guitarist. Who knows? Maybe they’d finally enter the top 100 with you in it.” the insult flies over his head, as he ponders her words. Veronica always speaks from a place of care, and she wouldn’t purposely set him up if she didn’t personally believe in her words and him. “Maybe after a drink or two, you’ll loosen up enough to do it. I know you want to. And there is no harm in trying. Don’t you want to see your dream come true? You can’t always let fear dictate your life.”

He’ll probably end up doing it later. Veronica will make sure of it.

He runs a hand through his hair. “Purmville has everything. It’s the ideal dream for lost young adults who don’t know what to do with their lives, or just want to throw all the cards on the table to try feeling alive.”

“Is it home?”

“Not yet.”

They only stay on the line for three hours before Boomer taps out. He needs to clean up his studio before she arrives. Even though the space is small, it is beyond cluttered with a lot of random items that he hoarded over the years with the insistence that he might need it one day. Ever since moving to Purmville, he’s found a lot of items for free or discounted prices at garage sales, and now he is slowly running out of space to put them. The latest acquisition is a pair of ice figuring skates with peeling paint and dull blades, but they’re still usable and they were half the price. He hasn’t gotten the chance to use them yet, but he thinks that the day will come where he will take them out of a dusty box at the very bottom of a pile of other boxes sitting in the corner of the room. He finishes that in about an hour, creating a pile of items and clothes that he needs to donate, after going back and forth with himself for over a minute on each individual item. He hates giving things away, but he hates throwing stuff away even more. After the grueling task, he lay draped over his bed with a pair of noise-canceling headphones over his ears, the rock music blaring through so loudly that he effectively tuned out the rest of the world. His fingers twitch with a fierce desire to grab his own electric guitar. He’s been hesitant to grab it and play ever since the last falling out with his old band. Veronica is right–he does let fear control him. It’s only been three months, yet it feels like it’s been a whole year. The memories of that time period still plaque him till this day. He had it all, and then he had nothing. He really is a coward, for letting that get into his way of his dream. But that was the thing. This setback feels like a heavy lesson, a warning that maybe his dreams were really as stupid as Jojo had loved to call them. The failure that was his old group’s breakup serves as a heavy toll on his shoulders, imprinting itself harshly into his brain, a suspicion that maybe he needs to let go of it. Maybe it was all just that, a dream that he held onto desperately in hopes of belonging anywhere. He gets up, elbows propping himself up as he stares over at a random spot, thinking loudly. Suddenly the case underneath his bed feels especially large, like its presence is smoking through the bedframe and heading straight towards him. He only hestitates for a second before he pulls himself off of his bed, the music still playing, and kneels down to inch the case out. By the time it’s right in front of him, he just stares. The guitar case is dark blue, the paint still bright and non chipped. He never decorated his case, he’s never felt like there was anything worth staining it with. He touches it and feels smooth wood, rubbing it slightly. Unclasping it, he holds in a deep breath before he looks down. And there it is–his guitar. Painted an electric blue, it lays untouched, and still as new as he remembers it. Tentatively, with light fingertips he grabs it out of the case and puts it in his hands, the motion so easy and habitual he doesn’t even realize he’s done it before he suddenly does. Conscious of his still pulsing right hand, he strokes the fretboard. Tests the strings. The noise that plunges the air is deafening, and his heart starts to beat faster at the exhilaration. His fingers start to glide over once more, and as a short, light, tune erupts, he finally feels a smile crawl up his face. He’s not sure how much time passes during that. Only that sometime after, he had put down his headphones and experimented with his guitar, even going as far as to grab the notebook he had abandoned, to look over some tabs. It's mindless work, but soothing, and by the time he hits a riveting climax, the sound of a familiar ringtone slices through the air. He’s startled for only a second before he gently puts away the guitar, checking the phone to confirm that Veronica is right outside his door and just as she promised, she did get there eight hours after she said she would.

By now the sun was already setting, the last of its orange lazy glow barely seeping out of the visible horizon. He heads over to the front door, swinging it open just wide enough before he’s immediately enveloped into a warm hug. He holds back just as tight, taking a deep breath in and smelling her vanilla cinnamon perfume that she has used every day since he first met her. He can hear her similarly draw a breath, and they stand there, in the doorway for a solid minute. He’s not sure–the moment he shuts his eyes he feels so comfortable with her in his arms, he thinks he can stay there forever. He withdraws first, and she quickly steps an appropriate distance away to get a good look of him. He ignores the furrow of her eyebrows as he similarly gives her a look over. She’s gotten skinnier–no doubt she hasn’t been eating. She’s still short, but with the way she carries herself, the aura she holds is big enough to account for it. He sees the moment her eyes catch onto his right hand, that he had been trying to feebly hide behind his back. She grabs his arm gently, tugging it into the light and getting a good look at it.

“Boomer,” she says, defeated, and he’s not sure of what she’s going to say. With the way her lip twitches, she wants to reprimand him, but when she drops his hand slowly she doesn’t say anything of the sort. Instead, she turns to him and says, “Drinks?”

A peace offering. Or a promise for later berating. He’ll take the exit. He grins. His stomach growls right after, the noise so sudden and loud that they both start giggling. They both revert to teenagers, and everything is okay. As he grabs the car keys and she links their arms together, the two head down to take the elevator, down to the parking garage. She plucks his car keys out of his hand with no fight from him, slitting herself into the driver's seat like she had done it millions of times before. He doesn’t bother hiding his smirk as she has to adjust the seat and the mirrors. She doesn’t smack him but she does send him a dirty look for it. As he taps the GPS instructions into the car navigation, and she starts to reverse the car out of the lot, he starts to talk. He points out every single thing to her, excited and she encourages him by asking questions. The park down there? Great for skating and walking, but avoid certain hours. Because of the kids? No, because of the druggies. And the coffee shop where he works is located just down the street. It’s a nice enough place to work, but the drama is too much. Everytime he clocks in he’s bombarded with he said, she said, and he’s supposed to nod his head, gasp at the right times, and pretend he cares about some high school drama. Once they park outside the bar of his choice, Veronica cuts off the engine and the two step down, crunching leaves underneath their feet as they head to the door. He opens the door for her and takes the lead, following quickly after him as he heads for his favorable location– the seats closest to the stage and still within range of the bar. There aren’t many people around which isn’t surprising for a Tuesday evening, but what is surprising is the stage set up. Equipment is placed in their designated spots, drums, a microphone, bass, and a guitar. Connected are cords and cables that lead to somewhere backstage, and the lights on the ceiling are turned on, the light glow on the lowest setting, but giving the stage the obvious focus.

“Band playing tonight? Is that why you dragged me over here?” Veronica asks from next to him, nudging his shoulder. “That’s so you. Can’t even pretend to be surprised at this point. Do you come here all of the time?”

He shakes his head. “I swear, I didn’t know about anybody playing tonight. Usually they do have it posted on their socials, but I guess this might have been a last minute switch. Although…I can’t disagree, I do come here for the music.” He turns back to her with a smile. “But they do have drinks and food here. C’mon, you still owe me a drink.”

She grumbles underneath her breath but quiets when they sit at the bar, her quickly ordering a heavy one for herself, ignoring the look he sends her way. He orders them a large pepperoni pizza, but doesn’t drink. He hasn’t drank for a year ever since he got clean, and he has no interest in drinking anymore. It’s true that visiting bars so frequently made it difficult for him at first to resist, but after some time his self control has gotten so strong that the mere smell of it has his nose wrinkling and taste buds dissipating. He has been to a few around the area, but this place, Diablo Tavern, is the best because it attracts the most musicians. They are typically booked weekly, and there is never nothing going on on the weekends. To say that a weekday having a performance is unusual, would be the truth. There is something about the dim lighting, the cozy atmosphere, and the chatter of patrons that makes this bar much more inviting and warm than all the others. Their drinks are basic, and their food is great, but there is something hungry in the eyes of the musicians who perform. It is a sort of passion that cannot be taught, but born with. The musicians always play with their entire souls, their hearts on their sleeves and their faces so free. There is nothing more alive than witnessing it. Seeing people so into the performance makes him feel eager to fulfill his own goals. The last time he had been on a stage…had also been the last time that he got to play in a real band. Ever since that day, Boomer has been a walking ghost, desperate and fearing himself. He drinks the Dr. Pepper and sighs out in content. Much better than alcohol. Veronica nurses her own drink close to her chest, and the two fall into a comfortable silence until the food arrives. Once it arrives, she scarves the food down, and he dutifully gives her most of it, turning in his chair slightly and propping his chin underneath his balled up fist to get a better look at the stage. It’s nearing seven, which means that whoever is about to pop out of the stage is nearly ready. He can almost imagine the scene behind the stage, reliving his own past performances. Three instruments and a microphone stand–it had to be at least a four member band though. He thinks about past performances, but the instruments don’t look familiar to anything he can recall. His right hand twitches suddenly, and as he looks down, he can’t feel an itch of excitement crawling up his spine. He feels even stupider for smashing his precious hand into a counter, but he knows that that reaction was way better than picking up a kitchen knife. He would take the consequences of his actions like a man would, and he won’t do it again. He blearily thinks about whether he should send a message to his therapist, when Veronica slumps onto his shoulder, the weight of her making him tilt sideways until he adjusts himself.

“I think I’m having a food coma,” she groans, eyes shut and rubbing her belly. “I just about ate this whole damn pizza. I don’t think I can move.”

He pats her shoulder in sympathy. “There, there,” he coos. “You drove eight hours straight just to see me. You deserve it. Do you want more drinks?”

She thinks it over. “Yes please,” she hiccups.

“Do you want hard or soft?”

“Hard. I want a big hangover, and to forget about my life and the problems for just a night. You’ll drive us home?”

“Of course. Go take a seat right there,” he points to the seats he was eyeing, the ones he always seated himself at. He’s conscious of the fact that there are other people streaming in, the commotion making him think that tonight is an important one. Someone good is performing, and he needs the best seats. She nods, jumping down from her seat and planting herself onto the seat, looking around with curiosity. He orders her favorites, standing guard until the bartender finishes the shots, and then he brings the platter over to Veronica. She immediately reaches for it and he swats her hands away. He slides a shot her way first.

“One at a time. Don’t go so fast. I don’t want you to die from alcohol poisoning.” She makes a face but miraculously, doesn’t argue with him, and instead downs the shot. He slides over some water and she takes a few sips of it.

“Boomer…” she says. “Thanks for everything. You’ve helped me out a lot, you know? I want to pay it forward. Tomorrow, after I finish getting myself black out drunk, I’ll help you. I know it’s programmed in you to help others over yourself, but this time, save yourself. Put yourself first. And that’s why I’m here–we need to get your problems fixed first.”

He wasn’t going to let her get black out drunk, no matter what she thinks or says. He knows first hand that it is not a solution, but for now, he’ll let her think that it is. She won’t remember much from this night, and if she does remember, then tomorrow she will be thanking him for not letting herself embarrass herself in some random town.

“I haven’t done anything that a normal friend wouldn’t do,” he says softly. “Your sentimentality is cute, but kinda scary. I like you better when you aren’t being so nice.”

She laughs, her head knocking back from it. That’s how he knows she’s starting to get tipsy–she doesn’t usually have such a low sense of humor. Her head lolls around, eyes catching onto something behind him, and her eyebrows furrow slightly.

“Woah,” she says louder than usual. “It’s packed here.”

He turns and his eyes instantly catch onto what she is talking about. Bodies are filtering through the doors, bringing cold wind in with them, the noise level steadily increasing. All the seats at the bar are occupied, and the bartenders are working faster to get the drinks done. More people are occupying the seats, most in groups of their own friends, excitement thrumming from their bodies and their expressions cheerful. He checks the time–only ten minutes until showtime. He almost thinks he can hear the footsteps and quieter chatter from backstage, and his curiosity only grows. He wonders, for a passing minute, if it could possibly be B.A.M. Veronica grabs another shot and downs it. Boomer stares hard at the stage, and once the lights from the ceiling begin to move, the room seems to collectively silence. The room waits with bated breath, as the lights glow a deep blue, twirling and whirling in on the center of the stage. He stands up straighter in his seat, and then he hears it—footsteps. Multiple pairs of feet, coming from somewhere backstage and heading straight towards the front stage. The rest of the room hears it too, because suddenly there are excited whispers, anticipation building in everyone’s veins. When everyone’s eyes catch onto the familiar, light brown hair, the whole audience begins to scream. Loud whooping and cheers accompany the band members as they step into the light, faces grinning and bodies open as they wave and make eye contact with the crowd. Boomer is dumbfounded.

“Is that–?” Veronica asks. He nods. Any words die off on his tongue, at the familiar smirk on the brunette boy’s face, as he makes kissy faces towards the crowd. The audience cheers, squeals from lovestruck fans cutting through the air and into his poor eardrums. It’s none other than Mitch Mitchelson, drummer and songwriter. Next to him is Ace, the bassist and keyboardist of the group with his slicked back black hair, notorious black shades that he never takes off, still perched on top of his nose. Ace nudges Mitch’s shoulder, murmurs something that makes Mitch laugh loudly. And lastly, the woman herself, Buttercup Utonium. Her hand rises to tuck her jet black hair behind her ears, her lime green eyes scanning the crowd, a small smile appearing on her face that she neatly tries to hide by pretending to fix her earset. Vocalist with a captivating voice, and the main guitarist of the group, she is the epitome of a rock artist. The blue light makes her skin glow and she waves cooly to the audience, making the crowd erupt in more pandemonium. Boomer can’t keep his eyes off of her. 

“Hello Purmville,” she purrs into the microphone, and the audience goes nuts. She waits them out patiently, her foot tapping against the floor in measured beats. 

“You’re staring really hard, Boomie,” Veronica teases him. He pushes her shoulder lightly, and she rolls away slightly from it, giggling as she takes another shot. He takes a few sips of his soda, ignoring his red hot ears and her whispered teasings. 

Buttercup continues. “To those that are here today, we appreciate it. We know this was a last-minute switch, but we are glad to see so many fans in the crowd. To those who may not know us, we are B.A.M.” 

Polite cheers ring out from that, and she motions for Mitch to take over. His energy is more than enough to excite the already hungry crowd, and with a charming smile, he says, “I see so many beautiful ladies in the crowd. If any of you are interested, meet me backstage after this and we can have you sign an NDA–”

Ace plucks the microphone from his fingers. “Anyways, we are a rock band that originated from Purmville, and we released our first album called ‘Tentity’ two weeks ago! Our main track is called  ‘Cross my heart’, and you can listen to all of our music on all music streaming platforms. Today we are going to play our personal favorites from the album, so if we enjoy it, please consider following us and keeping up with our new works. We have a lot planned in the future.” 

He nods to Buttercup, handing her the microphone. As her hands wrap around the handle, her eyes continue to search the crowd. Her eyes fall on him and as their eyes meet in a long stare, his heart stops. His blood rushes to his head and he can’t focus on anything, can’t think about anything, other than the fact that her eyes are on his. 

She is the first to look away, already speaking. “No more talking. This is ‘Cross my heart’, playing right now live. Enjoy the show.” 

He swears that she looks at him one last time before she turns, going back to her assigned position in the middle of the stage. The lights shut off completely, and the crowd waits with bated breath as the first sounds of a drum start pounding down. The guitar starts to blare, the lights come to life at once, casting down on the three members. The three members' faces are full of concentration, but underneath that, undeniable happiness. The moment Buttercup opens her mouth, Boomer feels himself let go into the music. He can feel Veronica swaying next to him, her own shot forgotten about in her hand as she stares at the scene in front of her. Her fingers glide across the fretboard, flexing and stretching to strum against the strings, body moving with the sound. Mitch’s head rocks with the beats, his feet pounding against the bass drums, and drum sticks rotating between cymbals, toms, and the snare. Ace’s body is natural and relaxed, with the bass in between his arms, but as he moves about the stage, the movements are smooth, almost instinctual. 

Boomer sucks in a breath and revels in feeling alive. 

Blossom

Blossom Utonium is number one at everything.

A total perfectionist, her tendency to give her one hundred and ten percent to every single thing in her life has led her to not have many friends and not much of a social life. Her high school days were spent in her father’s lab, tinkering with his beakers, reading through his notes, all the while jotting down her own observations in pink cursive with her signature pink pen that she would bring everywhere with her (a die hard habit that she keeps with her to this day), writing reports, and researching all on her own.
Her interest in science was something that she got into in middle school, and ever since that day where she made a chemical explosion, she has been intrigued in all things science. It was a topic that bonded her and her father to one another, and the two quickly would annoy the rest of the family with their “weird nerd brains' ', a nickname from Buttercup that would make Bubbles giggle and Blossom roll her eyes at. Her hard work, perseverance, determination, and work ethics is what landed her many internships, gotten her many trophies, numerous, various awards, and her name out there in the world.

The name Blossom Utonium means something, and while her father did have some part in helping expand her network, she desperately tries to not let the last name do all the work for her. She refuses to be called a nepotism baby, for Pete's sake. It was worth all the insults, cyberbullying, depression, and mentally draining stressful headaches that she endured, if it all led her to the doors of Stainvardel Elite.

Stainvardel Elite: A prestigious institution that only has nine hundred and fifty enrolled students in the undergraduate wing. They accept only two hundred students a year, half of that number coming from community colleges alone, and another quarter coming from out of state, with more than a hundred thousand applications sent yearly. More importantly, it’s a university that accepts only the best of the best and molds students into leaders, innovators, and big names.
The campus has just about everything, suited to every single major, and though there is not much of an emphasis on athletics, (their all-time rival university, if you could even call it that, is Oakville Academy, a primarily focused on athletics school with education being secondary), they make up for it for being number one on all charts that are academic. Simply saying that one graduated from the rigorous academy of Stainvardel Elite is often enough.

Blossom thrived her first year, and she found the workload to be challengingly right up her alley. Work gives her a purpose, keeps her busy, makes her feel alive and breathing. She quickly made a great impression on the scientist, Professor Monsunt, and became an assistant and an intern along with eight other students. When she was not in the lab, she was in her four other classes, in the library, or in her dorm room, unwinding down to relax (a task that was extremely difficult for her), before she would quickly let sleep take her.
During the day she would be too busy to eat, so instead, she would often mix meal replacement shakes the night before, and then chug them the day after so she wouldn’t pass out from starvation. It worked…she has long forgotten the taste of real food, but she can’t even afford to mourn the loss before she is onto the next task of the day.
Point is, Blossom is a busy woman. Her time is carefully organized into time slots, so she has no extra time to adjust her already full schedule. Her sisters know to text her unless it is a super emergency, and her father has her schedule posted in the living room.

  So when her phone rings, she almost expects the worst. She checks the caller ID, sees its Bubbles, and immediately presses accept call.

“Hello, Bubbles, what’s wrong?” she asks in a rushed out sentence, stopping what she was doing seconds before–which was some of her homework in the library, and heading out the closest exit, abandoning her items in such haste.

“Hey Blossom!” her sister greets cheerfully. “Um…there’s nothing wrong. I just wanted to call and talk. Check on you, make sure you are alright over there.”

Blossom holds in her sigh of exasperation, rubbing her forehead with the tips of her fingers to calm herself down. It’s just her younger sister wanting to talk to her older sister. Bubbles feels lonely, understandably so, since both of her sisters moved away from home. She went from seeing them everyday to seeing them once a year. It is a huge adjustment still, even worse now, since the…. accident. It has been only a year. She calms herself down with her rational thinking, taking a seat at one of the free chairs. There are no students outside, most likely because the fall weather is so cold that many take advantage of the warm heater inside the library. Blossom is suddenly grateful for her over-bundling clothing choices, because she left her coat hung on the seat inside. She’s also glad that nobody will be able to listen in on the conversation, because she doesn’t have her earbuds on her and Bubbles tends to speak loudly. 

“Bubbles, I am good. Just doing some homework. Third year is the hardest year, there is always the pressure to be doing something new, to have your name be the next big thing, you know the drill. Work never stops for me.” She stares hard at her shoes, the shiny black Mary Janes showing her reflection. Orange hair tied up into a high ponytail with her trademark red bow at the top, bangs messily getting into her vision. She sweeps them to the sides, reminding herself for the millionth time that she needs to get them cut but never getting around to doing it. “How are you and father?”

“You say that every year is the hardest,” Bubbles teases. Her energy is infectious, happy and bright, and Blossom can feel some of it start to seep into her own self. She positions herself more comfortably, shoulders dropping. “We are good! Father is mopey because…well we both miss you! When are you coming to visit? Please make some time for us, it would mean a lot for us if you just came for even a few days over here.”

Blossom bites her lip, feels guilt crawling up her throat. “Yeah, sorry Bubbles. I will make time for you guys, it’s just right now it is the hardest since it is the start of the third year. Things tend to die down after the first month. But I will come visit, I promise.”

“Alright, if you promise to, then I know I can count on you. Have you heard from Buttercup at all? I always have to be the one to reach out to her sometimes, I wonder if she is eating well! Why’d she have to move so far away anyways? She could’ve started a band here.” She can see the pout forming, as her tone shifts into a whiny one,  “We could have supported her here.”

“Buttercup and I haven’t spoken since last Thanksgiving,” Blossom murmurs. “If she doesn’t speak to you, then I’m not sure what to tell you since she has never reached out to me. I’m tired of having to deal with her tantrums, Bubbles.” 

A heavy pause. And then Bubbles speaks, cautious. “That’s okay. I know you feel stressed and have a lot of responsibilities. I don’t fault you for your feelings, but you know how Buttercup is…she won’t ever admit she needs help. I worry for both of you. You know, since we’re family and all, we should really stick together. We only have each other, and well…we never know when our last days are our last.” 

The unspoken name rings in the air between them, but the two don’t speak it aloud. The air suddenly feels harder to breathe in, and Blossom desperately reminds herself that she cannot have a panic attack right now.

“Anyways, I’ll call her. Maybe you guys can come for Thanksgiving–they always give you some time off for that right? And I um…have something to tell you…” she starts, voice growing smaller, tone more bashful, and Blossom can almost see her now.

“What is it? It was not anything illegal, right?”

“What, no! I would never! Wait…no yeah it isn’t illegal, but maybe immoral? Ethically wrong?”

“Alright, alright, take a breath and then tell me from the start. What exactly went down?”  

“So uh, remember how I brought up how I wanted to find Ethan Oakley, the author of the series that Bunny loved? Well, I found him. But it didn’t really go the way I thought it would. I confronted him about it, but I think I scared him off by saying I knew his real name and identity, because he told me to leave him alone and gave me a scary glare and oh gosh I really ruined it didn’t I? He was mean but then I thought about how I would feel if someone were to come up to me and go, ‘oh, you’re B3U2 right?’ Like I would probably freak too if I were in his place! So I totally understand his reaction, but now that I messed it up I don't know how to make it up to him.”

Oh yeah, Blossom remembers all too well about this. The conversation about Bunny, or rather the death of their sister, caused three different effects in each of the sisters. For Bubbles, who was always the most emotionally sensitive and in tune with her feelings, it meant that she wanted to stay at home with their father, and family became a string that she clung tightly to in hopes that it would never break. Buttercup however was the absolute opposite, and talking about her feelings was simply not something she could do. Instead her emotions would often fluctuate and rotate around anger, a barrier and safety net that she would tightly shield over herself. It was what led her to move so far away, interpreting death as some symbol to enjoy life.
And Blossom–well, she was always in the gray area. She didn’t like talking about vulnerability and emotions, and would hardly be the first to bring it up willingly, but she wasn’t against talking about it at all. She always was destined to leave anyways– school was just the best excuse for it. Her sister would have wanted her to continue her studies. And everything Blossom does medically speaking, is for her. So Blossom can’t stop. She never can stop working, not until she gets results. Not until she finds a cure for the illness that took her sister’s life. 

  Bubbles had told them last Thanksgiving, before everything went to hell, that she had wanted to commemorate Bunny. That they should take this tragedy as a lesson to live their lives to the fullest. She had been discussing her personal idea of making Bunny’s favorite book series into a comic, going into a whole rant that Blossom had only half listened to. She had nodded at the right times, asked the right questions, and had encouraged this honoring act, but it wasn’t until Buttercup got up and walked away that Blossom had snapped. 

She shakes her head to get out of the memory. She doesn’t like thinking about that day—it makes her feel like a useless and bad sister, even though  she knows that she isn't. It trudges up insecurities and self negativity in ways that hurt the most in the way that they stem from her only family. 

“You found him. How?”

“I– It doesn’t really matter! His name is Brick Jojo, and he’s the CFO of a big technological company that is working on flying cars or something…I honestly wasn’t paying much attention. It was kinda hard to understand with all the long, weird words they put on the website. And before you ask; yes I am sure it is him.”

“Bubbles,” Blossom warns. “How exactly did you find him? You didn’t do anything illegal, I hope.” 

She can hear Bubbles squirming on the other line. Bubbles is a horrible liar, so Blossom knew she would cave quickly. All she had to do was wait her out and decipher her blubbering. 

  “So Jake had owed me a favor…I don’t know what he did exactly, but I cashed the favor in and then next thing I know, Jake has an entire document on the connection between Ethan Oakley and Brick Jojo. He probably did do something illegal, but I don’t really want to ask at this point. This all felt sort of sketchy.”

“Jake…you mean the one who did hard drugs behind the school? Who is affiliated possibly with the mafia? Who went to prison?” 

“Blossom, please erm…calm down. Those are all rumors anyways–well, except for the first. I caught him doing that and he invited me. I said no of course! I would never…do drugs. Anyways! He wasn’t that bad of a guy. He was nice enough when he was sober.” 

Blossom does indeed calm down, but not before she takes a few deep breaths. Her sister is trustworthy, and maybe the rumors were all wrong after all. But there was this one time Blossom walked in on him— never mind. 

“So, how does Brick Jojo hate you?” Changing the subject was easy, and Blossom took a second to search the man up. Everything she read upon a quick scroll was not at all appealing. 

“Well… he sort of thought I was lying about my alias, but he calmed down when I showed him proof. And then when I told him why I wanted to meet in the first place he sort of shot me down. He was kinda…rude about it all. He told me to do whatever I wanted, but it’s like..the moment I would bring up his book or anything related he just shut down completely. Like he didn’t even want to discuss it. Which would be fine if he was nice and polite about it. But now I’m just wondering what made him so cold and why he won’t finish his series. I know what you’re gonna say! You’re gonna tell me not to pry, that it’s his personal business, and that I should just take his answer as that. But I don’t know…it just looked like he needed help.” 

“Your bleeding heart won’t help that man,” Blossom mumbles. “What he needs is to take that stick out of his behind. Regardless of what, it shouldn’t be an excuse to be so blatantly rude to you. You, or rather, me, is right. Just work on the comic. You got the permission you wanted. And you probably won’t even run into the guy again.” 

“You’re right,” Bubbles hums in deep thought. “I don’t need to think about him a second longer. I need to get started on this comic. Thanks Bloss, you’re always so good at advice!” 

“It’s the results of twenty one years of being the eldest daughter.” 

“Was that a joke?”

“Yes.”

“Well… let’s just say your sense of humor is definitely lacking.” 

That sends Blossom into laughter. The motion is so calming, so much needed in ways she hadn’t realized till then, that her heart soars in her chest. When Bubbles starts giggling, a smile stretches across her face, so wide and so genuine, as a warmness spreads across her skin. 

“Hey,” she tries her hardest to sound stern and serious, but a giggle slips through her lips, betraying her. 

“Sorry!” she doesn’t sound the least bit sorry, and they both know it. “Ok…I might regret asking this, but how is your work going?” 

Blossom knows that Bubbles finds all science things related to be boring and a headache, but she asks anyway because she cares. She feels a strong sense of love towards her sister for that. 

“Just doing intern things as of right now. Basically, all the boring or tedious tasks that the professor hands off to us lackeys. He has been talking about a possible internship opportunity with Professor Suntal, and hinting that he will give it to the two lucky interns that impress him enough. So I’ve been working everyday to make sure he picks me for the opportunity. I need to get that internship!” 

“Oh Bloss, that’s such great news! I’m so happy for you! You’re super smart, no doubt he’s gonna pick you for it. You’re the smartest woman ever and you work harder than anyone else I know. If he doesn’t give it to you, he is a fool.” 

“Thank you Bubbles. That means a lot. Never mind about me–how’s your fashion line going B3U? Am I going to come home to a bunch of new handmade clothes? I liked that scarf you made me last time…”

Bubbles groans. “I hit a roadblock. Don’t even talk to me about it right now. If you think about it, I have double the blocks because I am double the artist. I’m trying to do some reading or magazine scouring to get more inspo, but sometimes…I get tired of work. Even though I love it, sometimes all the creativity juice I have is sucked out of me. Do you ever feel like that?” 

She thinks it over. “Not really. I feel like I’m too tired to even think for myself. There is always something for me to do. Work is the only thing I sort of live for.”  

“That..sounds kind of sad. You don’t have any friends?”

“I have friends!” she retorts defensively. “All the lab scientists are my friends.”  

“Do you have their numbers? Hang out with them? Talk about anything other than work?”

  Blossom’s lips tighten into a thin line. “No,” she grits out, painfully. “But I don’t need friends.”

  “Yeah yeah,” she dismisses. “I’ve heard of this before. You don’t want any, yadda yadda. I just don’t want you to be lonely.”

  “Don’t worry so much about me.” Blossom retorts. “You worry too much. Worry about yourself for once. You really need to be more selfish. Can you do that for me?”

She sighs heavily through the other side of the line. “I guess,” she draws out longingly. “As my eldest sister, I have to listen to you. Alright, I'll let you go then so you can finish working. I just wanted to check in. you’ll be coming in for thanksgiving right? I already checked the website- I know they give you guys a day off. You don't even have to stay for a week or anything—just for four days! Please? I’ll call Buttercup and make sure she gets there too. Actually—this is my first selfish request, you coming over. Don’t try to get out of it!”

“Okay, fine, I’ll be there.” Squealing over the phone causes Blossom to cringe, the high pitch damaging her eardrums. She swears she can hear them ringing afterwards. “Take care of yourself and father.”

“Two weeks!” Bubbles responds. 

“Two weeks.” Blossom responds. 

“Kk, love you Bloss, bye!” 

As soon as the line cuts off, Blossom pockets her phone back and heads back inside, the warmth from the heater making her relax. She rubs her cold fingertips against her fuzzy sweater, and slinks back into her seat, her laptop still on her email page. She refreshes absentmindedly, eyes widening when she sees a new notification from her professor. She clicks the open email button a bit harsher than she intended it too, and her eyes scan the header. She reads it again. And then again. She closes her eyes, refreshes the page, and tries again. 

Her brain registers the words, but her heart can’t believe it. It’s an email directed towards her, congratulating her for her acceptance into an experiment conducted as a collaboration by Oakville Academy and Stainvardel Elite that answers the simple question: Can romantic love be forced through questionnaires and forced close proximity? 

The rest of the details blur together into an unintelligible mess and it isn’t until she blinks and feels a wet tear run down her cheeks that she realizes that she’s crying. She wipes them away furiously with her sleeves, shutting her eyes to calm herself down. Take a deep breath in, hold it for eight seconds, exhale. Clear your mind, clear your emotions, and clear your head. She reaffirms herself, decodes her emotions and feelings into mathematical problems that can be solved. It always helps to reason and logic her way through her own emotions. Quickly she composed herself, packing away her items, pushing her chair in and stalking with her head high to the Professor’s office. She is Blossom Utonium and she is going to demand answers. 

As she stalks down the hallways, her feet pound harsher on the floor and her Mary Janes make a heavy clunk noise with each step. She imagines that the expression on her face gives her away, as some people gaze at her with wary glances, whispers behind her back. If it were any other day, it might have hurt, it may have stung even. But Blossom has no time to dwell on other people, and no time to worry about anyone else than herself. There at the school she has no one, no friends to rely on and no one to talk to. It is not from lack of trying—she is perfectly good at talking to people when it comes to school related things, but she’s never really had any interests that aligned with her other peers. She likes to keep to herself, likes to keep her space small and tight. It was difficult for her to make friends that she could do normal things with, and she could never mesh well with anyone outside of school. It’s just the way Blossom is, and while it may have felt really lonely when she was a teenage girl, now that she's more mature she views it as just the way life is. 

She ignores the students around her as she turns a corner. The Professor’s office isn’t too far away from the library, and she doesn’t even have it in herself to feel embarrassed that she came in without an appointment. She knows how to stand up for herself, and she knows that what this proposition is, is a joke. It’s an offense, a laugh at her expense and at her skills. Is this what the Professor thinks of her and her abilities? For some cheesy, stupid, money making scheme that has nothing to do with her line of work? It’s a waste of time and a waste of resources. After all, everyone already knows the answer to love. The question of the emotion has been a long researched topic of discussion that garners lots of reactions and is mysterious in the way that it may manifest differently, but its purpose and point is all the same. It’s silly, and well beneath her. 

Her anger is a tightly coiled snake in her stomach, contained and controlled only by bundled strings. Unlike her other sister, she can control and regulate her emotions. Unfortunately, like her sister, her anger is quick to flare to life. By the time she swings the door of the office open, she sees the familiar man sitting at his chair, gray mustache twitching as his mouth moves with words she can’t hear. Across from him are two young students, but she doesn’t even spare more than just a glance towards them. Instead she makes a beeline towards him, the sounds of her harsh steps gathering everyone’s attention. Anger comes off in waves, and by the way Monsunt adjusts his glasses, he expects it. That makes her feel a bit better. 

“Blossom Utonium,” he greets. 

“Professor Monsunt,” she greets politely, before changing gears. “I can assume you know what I’m here for. This love experiment that you randomly assigned to me  is a joke and clearly not in my expertise. My skills and experience lie in biomedical, and quite frankly, for you to put me on this experiment is an offense. You know I am the greatest and smartest person in your roster, and I need that internship with Professor Suntal. Is there anything you can say to me that would make me feel any better for this…decision you made on my behalf?”

“Utonium,” he starts. “Maybe it is best if we discuss this in private. These are…the Oakville students also assigned to this experiment.” She can feel their eyes on her, but that does nothing to deter her. 

“Poor them.” she grits through her teeth. “I can only assume they had issues with this arrangement. In that case, wouldn’t it be easier to hand it off to anyone else?” 

“Blossom Utonium,” he rubs his eyes. “You don’t want to push me today. It’s either we meet another day, or I tell you in front of them. Which would you prefer?” 

“Now you ask for my opinion?” As soon as the words come out, she regrets them. Her anger evaporates instantly, extinguishing flames of her anger, as her eyes widen with her outburst. Someone whistles, a student she no doubt is a peer of hers. Shame and embarrassment has her ducking her head. That reaction, uncontrolled anger, is much unlike her. She is suddenly reminded of her place and her manners, as she bows her head. “I’m sorry Professor. I am just…irritable. Please excuse my rudeness, I did not intend to act out.” 

Internally she wants to hit herself. How could she have messed up? How did she let that slip out so easily? Such emotions or feelings aren’t a luxury she can afford to show off so willingly. At school, during work, there is a mask, a polite persona that one must put on. As someone growing up underneath her father’s thumb, in the world of science it matters much what other people think of you. Blossom had long mastered retaining herself, how to present herself in a way that is both inviting but not intimidating, friendly but not overly so. 

Was it because Bubbles had brought up Bunny? No— Blossom had gotten over it. Or as much as she could get over the death of her sister. It had been traumatizing and horrible to see her sister in so much pain yet unable to do anything about it. To see her sister nearly unrecognizable with all the scars, swollen face marked with purple and green,  and all of the plugs connected to her body. 

Blossom has to pinch herself to bring herself back to reality. Professor Monsunt is watching her sadly—no doubt he pities her. Bunny Utonium became a headliner and garnered much sympathy because there was nothing that could’ve done. It was a slow, painful descent. It was a difficult diagnosis, and rare as it was, it happened to Blossom’s sister. 

He sighs. “Blossom, you are my greatest student. But you must know—your last name has brought a lot of concern. A lot of people assume you are here based on your father’s name, and while I know that to not be true, others aren’t so easily convinced. They think you are a fraud, even with all your achievements, they don’t have faith in you. I know you work hard, and I know you deserve the best, but this experiment is the best thing I can do for you. For you to bring positive attention to this school will finally put you in a good light and show everyone that you are capable since I listed you as the lead. I know it may seem like an amateur topic, and it is, but it is also a guaranteed money maker. Plus, you have been working too hard too fast. You are going to run off of steam eventually and this project is a good chance for you to dip your feet into the role of leader. This isn’t a punishment, it's an opportunity.” 

“I don’t care what other people say about me. I am used to it. Please, don’t give up on me,” she is begging now, pleading so desperately and voice so full of need that she wouldn’t recognize herself. The internship she wanted was a life line, a chance to get real exposure, a chance to finally get started on what she intended to do the minute after Bunny stopped breathing. It all fell on this dream, this goal of hers to cure the diseases that took her sister’s life. So that no one would have to suffer like she and her family did. So that no other Bunny’s could hurt like hers did. She continues, “If I get an internship with Suntal, I will get positive publicity. I don’t need to associate my first solo project with silly love experiments.” 

“If you get the internship with Suntal, you will not gain much experience and will be swept underneath the rug as he takes all credit for your work. He is my friend, but he is a horrible teacher. I will give you somebody better, someone who believes in you like I do.” 

She gives up. Deflates, and all the fight leaves her at once. She feels tired, and her legs start to shake. It’s as if all the years worth of constant work has caught up with her, and she’s left with a tired, empty shell of a body. She leans all of her weight onto her left leg, desperate to not sit quite yet. She wants to argue more, but she knows it's fruitless.  She supposes he’s doing the best he can for her. The fact that he’s a close colleague of her father’s probably won her some points in that regard, but she can’t deny that it feels nice to feel acknowledged and validated. His words make sense—it is just like the scientific world to be so progressive technologically and medically, but not so much evolutionary. The traditional, outdated way of thinking has her often picking battles that are larger for her, but she fights them anyways. If she has to prove to men that she is smarter, more capable, and greater than they are, then she will do so. Their animosity only further fuels her determination to prove them wrong. Perhaps she should use this opportunity as that—a way to get to her goal instead of letting it tear her down. 

“Now that that's settled,” he looks mighty pleased for someone who just told her no. “Blossom, I want to introduce you to your two Oakville partners. Julie May Roberts and Butch Jojo.” 

Blossom shuts her eyes tightly as it dawns in on her. 

She just embarrassed herself in front of the last two people she could’ve had a tantrum to. Her partners. The ones who are supposed to help make this experiment a total success now think she’s crazy. She wants to cry and tear her hair out. Instead, she does her best to appear composed and unfazed, even though the shame is eating her alive from the inside. 

Julie May Roberts– a third year at Oakville Academy, an intelligent chemist student, seemingly got famous overnight by the bleeding heart middle class who viewed her success as a “miracle”, since she came from poor immigrants, the eldest daughter of five. She wants to be a chemical engineer, was valedictorian of her graduating class, and is hated by everyone in Blossom’s STEM classes, so that makes her like her instantly. 

Butch Jojo– another third year at Oakville Academy, who is considered one of the best American football quarterbacks in the state. He has made many headlines in the past few years, ever since he was first scouted during his sophomore year of high school. Talented in all things athletic, not so much academically, but apparently his “looks” make up for it. Besides having a fanbase composed of young teenage girls, older women and a few guys, he is said to have a crap personality. People say he’s overconfident, smug, arrogant, competitive and a playboy with no regards to feelings and allergic to commitment. 

Blossom has no idea who Butch Jojo even was, because she doesn’t pay attention to sports, she works all the time, and he attends a rival (if you can even call it that,)school. Everything she knows is not by choice, but chatter that she mindlessly picks up from being at the wrong place and the wrong time (girls who love to gossip in line at networking events). She much prefers her men to be intelligent, not intimidated by a strong woman, tall, kind, polite, and with ambition. Butch Jojo is the total opposite of that. He is the sort of person that she would steer far away from, not towards. The fact that he is here is a total surprise. She heard that he wasn’t returning to the football season because of some sort of shoulder injury that had him permanently benched for the season. Everything she knows about him is not willingly, and she wishes she knew nothing at all. Girls swoon over his tall, muscular six foot two, dark green eyes, impressive jawline, and charming smile, but all Blossom sees is a typical jock whose personality is equivalent to that of dog manure. 

When Blossom turns around, she is sure to plaster her well practiced polite, friendly smile on her face. The first thing she sees– Butch Jojo, arms crossed against his chair as he leans backwards, a smug grin on his face that is joined by an eyebrow raise when they lock eyes. She doesn’t hold eyes with him for long, and when they sweep to Julie, she at least has the decency to pretend like she heard nothing by giving her a nod. 

“Hello,” Blossom says first. “My name is Blossom Utonium, a third year student currently majoring in Biomedical science. Nice to meet you both.” 

“Julie May Roberts. I attend Oakville Academy as a third year majoring under chemical engineering. This is our partner, Butch Jojo. He will be my side-long partner during this experiment.” 

Oh, brother. 

Butch Jojo is going to be working under her experiment? Her as the lead role of scientist to an extremely important, crucially needed, desperate to succeed, study? 

Julie seems to catch onto her thoughts, because she soon adds, “Butch was forced to participate in this due to his failing grades, and since his injury has taken him out of the sport he is technically in a paid scholarship for, the president claims that he must make himself useful by aiding in our combined group study experiment. While he may not be the…ideal partner, I admit, I assure you that he is not as dumb as he may look. He excels in math and science, and you’ll know it yourself if you give him a fair chance.” 

Regardless if she does or does not want to, she doesn’t really have a choice. 

She stiffly nods her head. 

Professor Monsunt claps his hands together to get their attention. “Well then! Now that you all three have met each other officially, I am expecting today to mark the first day in which you all three come up with a plan. Blossom, the only person missing from this team is Dexter, and you may contact him to make further introductions. Now, you three should go, talk to each other and melt the ice. This is supposed to be a less extraneous project after all!” 

He shoos them away from the office, and the three find themselves standing awkwardly by the entrance. 

Blossom tries her hardest to not fidget. “So I suppose we should exchange numbers. I will create a group chat so we can discuss plans to meet and anything else that comes up. You should all write your availability so that we can best proceed.” 

“Already asking for my number? That was certainly quicker than I thought it would be,” Butch drawls, voice silky smooth as he hands her his phone. His fingers brush against hers and she purses her lips. 

“Don’t flatter yourself. This is all business as far as I’m concerned. I know you Butch Jojo, and you better not make this difficult for me.” 

“You know nothing, Blossom Utonium. But entertain me—what exactly would you do if I made this..hard for you?” 

“You don’t want to find out.” She pushes her number in with a lot more force than intended, pushing it towards him. She watches as his eyes flit across her screen and she grabs it out of his hands. “Don’t look through my phone!” 

“I was just checking if we had any mutual friends,” he says innocently, not in the least bit ashamed. “Got any sisters by any chance?”

“Not any that would be interested in the likes of you.” she spits out, feeling the anger creeping out of her skin steady, like a fire being ignited. 

“So you do have some,” he muses, eyes glinting with mischief and trouble. “Don’t worry, I promise not to do anything scandalous.”

“Stop talking about my sisters. Just stop talking at all.” She turns away from him, facing Julie who hands her back her phone, silent but eyes observant as they gaze at the two with an unreadable expression. Blossom wonders what she could possibly be thinking of, as she pockets  her phone, and gives her a silent goodbye. She starts to leave, ever conscious of heavy green eyes drilling into her backside.