a/n at the end. you'll see why later :\

this is TECHNICALLY a sequel to "being moody," the main reason being it just works better if you read it first from buttercup's pov, so if you haven't done so shoot on over there, then come hear butch's side of the story.

um, yeah. reviews make the world go round, so please do. ^^


"Getting Sentimental"

How could I miss this?

I grit my teeth and speed down the staircase, leaving that familiar bright green streak behind me.

How could I be late?

I skid to a stop as I approach the principal's office. He's nailed me a few times too many for "speeding" in school to a late class, and I really don't need that extra Saturday d-hall on my permanent record.

'She's probably gone by now,' I think to myself as I briskly walk past the office, then take flight again once the coast is clear. 'There's no reason she'd wait, no reason to keep her there, no reason she has to stay. . . '

I'm still telling myself these things when I almost round the corner to her locker.

. . . and she's there.

I must say, it's a pleasant surprise for me to spot her, and I end up thinking twice about saying anything as I step back again.

I eye her rocking back and forth on her hips, biting her lip and throwing frequent glances at her watch, all the while confused and thinking to myself why? Why?

Why did she wait?

And why didn't I move to see her, to speak to her, to say hello?

Why am I perfectly content to stand here alone watching--no, more like admiring--her stance, her form, her every fluid graceful curve--

I back against the wall and grimace. 'Girlfriend, Butch. GIRLFRIEND.' I was known throughout the school for being a *ahem* "ladies' man," a title I had never officially consented to nor accepted. My brothers received the same amount of attention, did it make THAT much of a difference if I happened to talk more, smile more, FLIRT more. . .

. . . all right, I guess it did.

But despite the plethora of young ladies I had to. . . uh, choose from. . . why did I spend every minute when I was with them comparing them to her, HER of all people, her soft raven hair, her cold, chilling eyes, her frosty attitude and personality, strangely enticing and charming despite itself. . .

Why is it always HER on my mind instead of the girl I already had at my side?

And suddenly I remember my recently increased anxiety around her, and wonder what she would say if I worked up the nerve to ask, if we could both pretend that there was no other girl in my life, no vicious teasing or sarcastic remarks between us but something else, some more reasonable explanation as to why it's becoming harder now to repress the warmth that spreads over my face when I see her, the halt in my heartbeat when I hear her voice, the underlying desire to see just how well her frame would fit in mine, her head on my shoulder, her mouth--

'STOP IT!' I silently scream, gritting my teeth and cradling my head in my hands, willing myself to breathe normally again. There's a small sigh that reaches my hearing, and I know it's her and she's ready to leave, she's waited too long, and before my brain gets a chance to function I scale the corner and stop her from going further by sliding my arms around her body, all the while ignoring the surge of adrenaline racing through my body at her scent, her touch--

Her momentary bout of surprise quickly regains its footing and she greets me in her all too familiar icy tone. "Butch, you--"

I can't let her know. Ther's no way she could possibly ignore the frantic pounding in my chest, my panicked, rapid breathing, the cold sweat that's just broken on my brow--

She CAN'T know. . . can't know what?

I don't even know what I'm trying to hide, but all I know is it's got to stay hidden and she CANNOT KNOW.

She just CAN'T.

"I knew it," I cut her off before she can figure it out, and I hate myself for sounding so cruel, but it's too late now, my mind's gone on auto-pilot and is taking care of all comprehensible speech for me. "--you've got it BAD for me."

"What are you talking about?"

I wince at her harsh tone, but continue to tease her. "You're joking, right?" Some wonderfully warm intoxicating smell is pervading my senses, and I can't help but lean in to her neck and just soak it all in. I obviously have no idea what I'm talking about, so I base my response on the few precious minutes I spent watching her as she waited. "I saw you. Standing around for. . . " QUICK BUTCH! PICK A NUMBER! ". . . seven minutes, shooting looks at your watch every fifteen seconds to see if I'd arrive or not."

"I was NOT," she growls, and since there's no way I can refute that statement I continue to build on my own.

"You lie, you lie, you lie. . . and badly, too." Whoa. Way to turn on the charm, Butch. It's no wonder she hasn't dropped to your feet already.

She struggles against my grip and before I know what I'm doing, the physical attraction between us become almost unbearable and I stroke her cheek and hair and trace the length of her arm with trembling hands, and I come so close to whirling her around to face me and tell her something I haven't even figured out enough to tell myself when all of a sudden she rams her elbow into my ribs, not hurting me, but taking me enough by surprise that I let go, and all of a sudden I remember what I'm trying to hide, whatever it is, and instantly present her with the me she knows so well. I jam my hands in my pockets, smirk, and will down the red threatening to wash over my skin as she faces me.

It's hard to do when she's there. It's near impossible when she's looking at me.

Whether she's outraged or not.

"YOU are--"

Time to turn on more of that good ol' Butch charm.

"Fantastic? Charming? Incredibly sexy?"

. . . Where the hell did THAT one come from?

"Oh, how I know all too well."


"FASHIONABLY late, mind you."

"Jerk." At this she moves to leave, and an incredible wave of despair comes over me, I can't let her leave, not now, not now--

I grab her shoulders, bring her around to face me once more, and say the only thing I could possibly say at the moment that has a chance of making her stay. "Before you go, I have a proposition to make to you."

She's skeptical. To be expected. "Proposition?" she inquires, eyeing me suspiciously, and guilt washes over me as I brace myself to say it. I feel the smirk leave my face, and realize I can't do that, because I've never been serious to her before; I'm always the fun-loving easy-going guy who can't take anything seriously.

Except when it comes to her.

But she can't know that yet.

So I grin again, and I feel her rigid muscles ease up once more, and I've got to ask her now while my nerve's worked up, regardless of whoever it is I'm seeing, whoever it is who wants me, because I've got to take that chance to know if the one *I* want wants that too.

And she's standing right in front of me.

"I'm asking you to come to the prom with me." I lean in, ignoring the screams of protest in my head. "And I KNOW you want to come."

The question I knew was going to come up comes up, along with the initial shock and confusion. "I thought you were going out with--"

I grit my teeth and steel myself to continue. "I DON'T CARE. I'm asking YOU. And afer seeing you act the way you did just now, I KNOW the answer's yes." Which of course is a big fat lie, I don't know anything about what she wants, I know that and she knows that, and so far I'm fighting a losing battle.

"What do YOU know about what I want?" Cold.

I have no answer, so I don't bother with one. Admitting defeat, I lean in until my forehead touches hers, and even though it isn't much I feel my heart swell at the contact. "Come to the prom with me," I whisper, because that's all the courage I can muster in my voice. She's too close, it's too much, i've gone too far, and now if she speaks another word I'll--

"I wish--"

And that's it. Whatever it was holding me back, it snaps, and I dive forward, dive until my lips meet hers, her words lost in my mouth as the world around us drop saway and all i know is the increasing realization that whatever it is that was missing, whatever it was that I needed, is here in my arms at this very moment, and I swear to myself I'll never let her go, never again leave or know another, because this is everything.

This is home.

But I forget that she doesn't feel the same.

Whatever magic happened for me didn't happen for her, because she shoves me away, turns her sleek, chiling eyes on me, and sends me crashing back to reality with a mere three words.


And this, this is the end of the world.

To think that something we've tried to prevent time and time again was so easily executed by one of our own kind.

I can't move, can't speak as she turns on her heel and bolts in the other direction, leaving, running, running away. . .

. . .

. . . from me.

I stumble backward on the floor, or maybe it's the ceiling, or a wall, I don't know, everything's changed now, and it's ALL MY FAULT.

Just as easily, though, I find myself saying "You're making too big a deal outta this, Butch. Leave it alone. Leave HER alone."

"I can't," I mumble helplessly.

"Stop getting sentimental--"

"I CAN'T. . . "


"I CAN'T!" My voice echoes in the dead hallways, reverberating off the cold steel of the lockers and continuing on down the hall.

". . . why not?"

"Because I--" And I clamp my mouth shut, but it's too late. The words are already hanging in the air, as if they had been spoken aloud.


"But she hates me," I murmur, and that statement alone. . .

I reach a hand up to her locker and fumble with the combo, turning the dial to first three, thirteen, thirty-three, then back to zero, and I tap the door three times, and like magic, it opens. The same ol' trick works on every locker in the school, but I've never used it on her until now.

Feeling too shattered to stand, I blindly reach for something, ANYTHING, for whatever reason I can't think of, but my hand closes around a piece of fabric and I pull out her jacket. It tumbles into my lap and I hug it to myself, rubbing the soft fleece against my cheek and breathing in and in again that smell of rain and sun and moon that's so uniquely Buttercup.

I can pretend it's her.

I can pretend I never said a word.

I can pretend she never said anything back.

But I can't pretend I don't love her.

Which makes it all the more harder to pretend anything at all.


ok, that's the end. *sucks air in through teeth* i really was not pleased with this. at all. at the time i was writing it i supposed it seemed mediocrely well, but the next day when i read it, it had turned into this semi-pile of crap. and maybe i'm being a bit harsh, but out of sheer honesty, that's how i feel. this is definitely going to undergo a MAJOR rewrite, b/c i feel it's NOWHERE near as good as "being moody" was. the dialogue just doesn't work, butch's narrative could've been handled a LOT better, and it reads choppy and sort of fragmented. there are probably some tense changes throughout too that i missed when i was proofing it.

anyway, so why'd i post it? well, i wanted to build on the nifty response i got to "being moody" (which i intended originally to stand alone without any sequels at all) and already have plans for making it a small 3 or 4 part miniseries. this was SUPPOSED to be the 2nd, but since i'm so displeased, i'm gonna rewrite it. i just wanted to give the people who asked for a sequel something to tide them over until the MUCH BETTER version comes out (which might not be for awhile ^^;). so anyway. . . yeah. that's why. once i do the rewrite i'm taking this one down. so if you enjoy it (for whatever twisted reason you have) copy and save it or something. yeah. i'm done.