A pin-dropping silence ensued between the two, and Butch's hold on his phone loosened. The clatter that sounded from the device's collision with the ash grey concrete broke the tension between the two, along with Blossom's concentration. She swallowed down another mouthful of words and looked away, failing to notice Butch's expression darken.

"Blossom," he enunciated with a newfound iciness, and said person was taken aback at his sharp change in tone. Even from her distance, Blossom could feel the intensity of his anger radiating off of him in frigid waves. Her grip on the plastic bag handle tightened as she bit her lip anxiously.

"I—"

Suddenly, before she could react, there came a blinding flash of green, and Blossom was slammed into the nearest brick wall at an unimaginable speed. Her head throbbed from the sudden assault, and she felt her breath being cut short. Butch's grip on her throat tightened, and she winced in pain. The redhead's hands found the brunet's forearm in an attempt to pry his palms away, but she found that her attempts were ineffective. Seems like he'd been training after he left Townsville...

"Butch," she gasped, eyes wide and frantic. Gazing into his, she found only menace and hate reflected back in his irises, and she choked up tears. For once, she wasn't sure if the liquid threatening to spill out of her eyes was from her shortage of oxygen or from the painful memories that arose whenever she looked at the person in front of her. "What—"

Unrelenting, he growled, "You have no right to call me that."

Blossom loosened her hold on his wrist, despite the fact that her life was hanging by a thread, and barely coughed out, "You're... You're right."

Abruptly, she felt the merciless pressure on her trachea leave, and she collapsed against the wall, struggling to stay upright. She launched into a coughing fit, eyes watering, and felt Butch's intensifying gaze bore holes into her back. Holding up a hand to steady herself against the brick, Blossom gradually found the courage to look back up at him. He had taken a step back, and was instead regarding her with wary curiosity.

"Why," he began suspiciously, "didn't you fight back, Blossom? What the hell is wrong with you?" His voice was deep.

The latter swallowed with difficulty, and finally found her words. "No," she coughed, breathless, "I can't. I—I can't use Chemical X."

A moment of silence passed between the two, and Butch ran a hand through his hair exasperatedly.

"Fuck." He dragged his hands down his face, and it was then that Blossom noticed the dark circles that had formed under his eyelids. She remained silent, and glanced at the floor. Behind him, her groceries had been scattered all over the floor in the sudden attack. "Fuck," he repeated, "I knew it. Of course you wouldn't..."

"Butch," Blossom murmured, voice unnaturally small, "what are you doing here?"

"What do you mean?" His voice had a rough edge to it now, and Blossom didn't fail to overlook it. Even the same small details that made him him... She remembered it all clear as day. She straightened and brushed down her skirt, and knelt to gather her fallen groceries, when suddenly a hand stopped on her own. She glanced up to see Butch staring straight at her, his orbs both piercing, bright, yet unreadable.

"Tell me. What do you mean?" he enunciated, and Blossom sighed.

She sat back on her heels, the warmth from his hand pulsing through her like a shock wave. She pushed the feelings aside. "Because," she swallowed, nervously, "you aren't supposed to be here. You left for good all those years ago." Emotions welled up inside of her, and she struggling to keep her feelings at bay, distracting herself by collecting the items on the ground.

Standing up, with all gathered contents back in their rightful place, Blossom started again, "We never met."

"What?" Butch was caught off guard by her sudden speech.

"We never met," the redhead repeated, brushing her bangs aside. She shifted her handbag, and began shakily walking away. "It's all for the best."

Butch gazed after her with an unreadable expression in his eyes, and released a collected sigh. "Yeah." He watched until she had walked out of view before he blew a strand of stray charcoal hair aside and hurtled off into the sky in a flash of blinding green. He didn't look back down at the ground.

The elevator door slid shut, and Blossom, her back against the walls of the enclosed space, sank against the glass. Running her hands through her hair, she buried her face in her hands as an unkempt sob forced its way up her throat. Her rose-colored irises fought against the tears that stung at the back of her eyes, and she inhaled a long, shuddering breath to even out her breathing.

Butch.

How long had it been since she'd last seen him? That would have to be high school, wouldn't it? Now those were some memories that she sure didn't want to bring back. What a waste.

There came a disrupting ding! as the elevator stopped at her floor, and Blossom stepped out. As if fate was playing a cruel trick on her, there came yet another uncanny ding! as the elevator across from the one she'd just exited also arrived at its destination, and soft padding footsteps came from behind her. They paused again.

"Wow," the all-too-familiar voice drawled, "what the hell."

Blossom, who had formerly been inserting the her keys into the lock, paused, her heart filling with an incorrigible dread. Bracing herself, she pivoted around with a sweet smile. "Butch," she greeted, as if she hadn't met him less than ten minutes ago, "fancy seeing you here."

"Cut the crap, pinky." She recoiled at the abrasive way he spat out her nickname, and her smile faltered ever so slightly. Butch's hands were stuffed deep in his pockets. "What the hell're you doing here?"

"Oh, so you're not going to slam me into my door and wait until I get a concussion this time, are you?" Her pink irises frowned defiantly at the figure in front of her. "If you haven't noticed by now, I live here."

"You've got to be fucking kidding me," Butch massaged his temples in frustration. "I can't be your freaking next-door neighbor now, can I? What a life."

"Language," Blossom snapped, before softening. "Look, I know why you're mad—"

"Good," he interrupted hastily. "All the more reason for me not to talk to you."

"Butch—"

"No," he growled fiercely, and Blossom took a step back so she was flat against the door. Subconsciously, he took a step forward. "No. Blossom Utonium, I'll tell you this: you are a time bomb, and to me, any memory of what we once were is dead. Your time's already up. I'm done. I'm fucking done." He looked away with a glare and strode towards his own door, jamming the key in and wrenching it open and closed after him like it had wronged him. The slam resounded through the empty hall.

Blossom, stunned, covered her mouth with her hand and rushed through her own door, unknowingly leaving a bright pink trail of light in her wake.

It was January, and the crisp snow made the school a winter wonderland. Blossom had just called a dismissal to the student council meeting, and watched blissfully as the last of the officers filed out of the room, chatting mindlessly about events to come. With a satisfied sigh, she began assorting her papers into her folder.

A sudden series of rapping on the door brought her to attention, and she glanced up to see the principal, Ms. Keane, poking her head through the doorway. Immediately, the redhead leapt up out of her seat and rushed over to the door.

"Good afternoon, Ms. Keane," she greeted politely, and said teacher nodded at her in salutation.

"Good afternoon, Blossom. Have you just finished your meeting?" she returned, and upon seeing Blossom's affirmative nod, she continued. "Well, I have a favor to ask of you, if you don't mind." Another nod. "Well," she began, a slight hint to her voice, and herded a certain Rowdyruff into the room and through the doorway, "Butch needs to help around the school to compensate for the fight from the other day. Would you mind monitoring him for the next week or two while he does? And don't worry, it's only afterschool. Can you manage?"

Blossom let out a slightly uneasy chuckle, but offered her teacher a graceful smile. "Of course, Ms. Keane, I'd be glad to."

"Thank you ever so much, Blossom," Ms. Keane gushed gratefully. "I have no idea what this school would do without you. Anyway, I'll be down in my office. If anything gets out of control, you know what to do."

Butch huffed. "I have no idea what this school would do without you, Blossom," he mimicked in a high-pitched tone, groaning. "You're such a teacher's pet, Blossom."

Blossom eyed him warily. "Why don't you make the job easier for both of us and get cleaning?" she deadpanned, crossing her arms and closing the door.

Butch winked at her suggestively. "Sure thing, Blossom."

She had figured that a cup of tea would soothe her frayed nerves, but it turned out that she hadn't been dead wrong. Blossom crumpled against the sofa submissively, the snowy white mug in hand, and fiddled aimlessly with the dangling square of string hanging over the edge of the object in her hands. Reaching over towards the coffee table in search of a novel to read, the redhead's hand paused when her fingertips brushed lightly against a rough, leather cover. She didn't remember having a leather hardback...

The Powerpuff tugged gently, and as the mystery book escaped the pile of intellectuality, she sucked in a stunned breath when she set down the steaming cup and noticed the title scrawled onto the cover in chicken-scratch.

High School Years.

Blossom clutched the cup and sipped as she flipped open the solid black cover, and the tingle of familiarity she felt upon contact with the leather sent shivers up her spine. How long had it been since she'd last seen this? Sure, she'd been busy for quite a while now, but it wasn't as if she hadn't ventured around her own house for a while; it was her own property, after all...

A wave of regret washed over her as she noticed a large, page-sized photo in full color of her and her sisters—a much younger Bubbles had been taking a photo with her phone at that time, a cheeky grin plastered on her face as she fake-gasped and pointed to an equally aged Buttercup, who was a little ways behind her and was animatedly arguing with a few of her friends. A basketball was clutched underneath the brunette's arm, and she had been yelling at Mitch, poking her finger into his chest while Mike and Robin stood next to them in a circle, laughing awkwardly at the camera. In the background, Blossom stood, back to the camera, with her face turned towards the screen in mild surprise. She smiled sadly at the sight of everybody's grinning faces. Underneath the photo, in Bubbles' curly handwriting, was the caption, "First day! I'm too excited! Buttercup has a bad temper."

Following the larger photos came pages more, each side with two panoramas taped with homemade care and with golden captions littering the bottoms and Bubbles' mindless doodles on the borders and corners. As Blossom continued flipping, faster and faster with each passing moment, her entire high school life had been summed up, and replayed in her mind like a spinning wheel's perpetual release of thread. The sentences scrawled on ranged from "Blossom never writes anything" to "Oh my God Boomer asked me out!"—although that came much later.

Blossom slammed the cover shut, breathing heavily, when the last picture in the album poked out of the paper and slid smoothly into her lap. Cautiously, she reopened the last section, only to find that the entries had been cut off suddenly, as if someone had lost heart in memoranda altogether. A few more empty sheets lingered in the back, but the Powerpuff turned to the last existing entry and picked up the fallen photo. Tape hung loosely on the paper.

Featured in it was none other than herself, looking naturally pretty and very much shocked at the wily cameraman.

And Butch.

With one arm cradling her close in a rather protective manner, and the other holding a pile of her own folders and books.

The rest of the week had gone fairly smoothly, despite Butch making licentious remarks about Blossom every time he came afterschool to fulfill his community service punishment. In all honesty? He was unbearable. All the while, they only managed to make small talk while he grudgingly worked his duties, but they had been gradually making progress.

It was Friday afternoon, and the sky outside the window was cloudy and a dull grey. Blossom frowned through the glass, when Butch's voice suddenly filtered through her thoughts.

"So, Blossy," he began with another impromptu nickname, "what's with your staring?"

Said person sighed, and swiveled back towards the brunet, who was currently stacking chairs atop their respective desks, looking bored out of his mind; the redhead had prohibited his use of his superpowers—that would just defeat the purpose of helping, right?

"Nothing," she mumbled, glancing back out the window, although she knew he could hear whatever she said clear as day, "just the weather." She shifted her attention back at the raven-haired teen in front of her, who was rubbing his hands together. "Are you done?"

"Mhm," he grunted.

"Alright, then," she admitted, surveying the room. The cleanliness struck her as comical, but she said nothing. Funny that someone like Butch would... yeah. Yet, the Ruff refused to budge, and instead crossed his arms over his chest in wait. Blossom blinked at him. "Aren't you going to visit Buttercup?" she inquired politely, confused.

"Hell no," he broke out into a chortle, and Blossom sighed. "She's pissy as fuck."

"Language!" the Puff reprimanded automatically, and he winked at her coyly. "And watch it. This is my sister you're talking about."

"Sorry, Bloss," he stuck his tongue out, but dropped the flirtatious tone. "You?"

"Oh, actually," Blossom replied, and reached over to the nearest table, where she'd stacked a towering pile of thick novels and dictionaries, "I have to take these to the library, so I'll have to lock up now." She shooed Butch out of the classroom and clicked the doorknob's lock into place, before stopping to prevent the books from toppling over. The green-eyed Ruff steadied her.

"Uh, you need help?" he offered with a sheepish grin, and when Blossom opened her mouth to object, he quickly interjected, "No, really."

The redhead knew that she should've left well enough alone, but the memories and photos haunted her mercilessly. As she gulped, standing in front of a moss green door, she immediately regretted her rash decision of coming out of her comfy apartment. She imagined her tea gradually running cold, and shivered. Back to another cold and empty apartment again.

She raised her curled fist to knock, but hesitated. Blossom knew she looked like an idiot standing there with a raised, immobile hand, but she also knew that only the person on the other side of the door could make her feel this way.

Just knock the door.

Get it over with.

Instead, she lowered her arm, released a long, deep sigh, and sank towards the ground, her back pressed against the smooth plywood.

Little did she know, only a slab of wood away, Butch had long since heard her coming. He'd been intently tuned in on her prim and proper footsteps, and the faint beating of her heart reverberating in the marble hallway. Chemical X had its perks.

He'd missed her, no doubt. Butch Jojo missed Blossom Utonium, wanted her, desired her, with every burning fiber of his being.

And he knew he could never have her, especially not after she'd reentered his life back in the day like the flaming supernova she was. He'd always had a mask and castle walls built around him, fortifying him, lest something should happen to the only loved ones he had in his life; Butch wasn't as shallow and boorish as everybody had made him out to be. Yet, when he and his brothers had returned to Townsville, the beautiful redhead next door had sneakily tiptoed her way into his heart (and life), sneakily pried off his mask like a daring thief, and had made away with it, refusing to give it back. As if she'd been given a great opportunity, she'd also taken the time to snatch away his heart and peel off his emotions, only to rip it up and step all over the remains like confetti.

Even so, he'd let her get away with it. That's how much he loved her, and he feared that she would never know.

The charcoal-haired Ruff, who had found himself a comfortable spot leaning against his front door like he was fortifying his walls again, heard Blossom exhale a lovely sigh, and proceed to slide down his door. Perplexed, he nudged his eyes towards the little circle of light showering through the peephole, and saw her exotic red hair. He wished to see no more.

Just open the door. You know you miss her.

Get it over with.

He didn't budge.

Again, he was reminded that he would never 'get the girl.'

Hey guys! Happy (early) Thanksgiving! I know my writing is pretty messed up and has steadily declined over the years, but I still hope you enjoy this chapter.

Please remember that there'll be a lot of future profanities to come, because Butch happens to be the lucky owner of a potty mouth.