Title: the heart where i have roots
Author: Reinamy
Fandom: Hey Arnold!
Pairing/Characters: Helga/Arnold; Gerald, Stella, Miles
Rating/Warnings: Teen (past minor character death, grief/mourning, swearing, angst/drama, emotional hurt/comfort)
Summary: After two years, Arnold finally comes home.
Author's Note: Written for length-of-rope—thanks for the brilliant prompt! This fic was inspired by the wonderful shortaki fic "Truth Cast in the Fresnel Lens" by darnold_longkid. Title is from "If you forget me" by Pablo Neruda.
PART I: HOMECOMING
"When we are no longer able to change a situation,
we are challenged to change ourselves."
— Viktor Frankl
Dear Arnold,
I still love you.
"I think I'm ready to go home now," said Arnold.
His parents, who were arguing over who'd get to eat the last quenepa, went still. The sound of clinking metal filled the small room as utensils were set down. For a long moment, all that could be heard was the cadence of birdsong outside the window and the murmur of a town being roused from its sleep by the rising sun.
"Are you serious, Arnold?" his father asked.
"Not that we're opposed," his mother cut in, slanting a reproachful look at her husband. "But the last time we asked, well, you weren't exactly keen on the idea, honey."
"Right—that's what I meant. If you want to go back, then we'll absolutely do that. But if I may ask, what caused the change of heart?"
Arnold took a steadying breath and met both his parents' eyes. "I just think it's time. These past two years have been great and I wouldn't trade them for anything, but…it feels like I'm stuck in place, and I don't think I can move forward until I confront the things, the people, I left behind."
Arnold's throat constricted as he watched their faces soften with pride.
"Oh, sweetheart," his mom said, reaching over the table to clasp his hand. "Of course. If this is what you need, then we'll go."
"Thanks, Mom. Dad."
"No thanks necessary, son." His dad leaned forward and placed his palm above theirs. "We love you so much, and we could not be more proud of you."
For a moment, Arnold felt torn with indecision. He'd grown to enjoy the life he now had—traveling the globe with his amazing parents, exploring foreign cultures, meeting new people, and helping those who needed it when they could. It wasn't always easy, or even safe, but it was thrilling—challenging. Over the past two years, Arnold felt as if he'd learned more about not just the world, but about himself, than in all the years preceding them.
He would be lying if he said he wasn't reluctant to leave the bubble his parents had created for him. He'd left behind so many loose threads in Hillwood, and just the thought of them filled him with unease. But he was seventeen now—practically an adult—and it was time he stopped running from his mistakes and faced them head-on.
Beneath the table, his thumb smoothed over the coarse surface of the envelope that lay on his knee. He allowed himself to draw strength from it and solidified his resolve.
There were lots of things he needed to rectify back home, but what was currently occupying every corner of his mind was this:
Arnold had left his heart behind in Hillwood, and it was time he got it back.
Three months later, they packed their bags and boarded a flight from Carolina, Puerto Rico to New Washington. As accustomed as Arnold was to saying goodbye to the friends he made throughout his travels, it never got any easier. He watched with his nose pressed against the foggy plane window as the dirt roads, colorful squat houses, and vibrant palm trees became tiny figurines. And then they were soaring above the clouds and the arcadian scenery faded from view.
The sky was dark when they finally departed the airport, dragging a trolley loaded with luggage behind them. Arnold barely had a moment to take in the drab, starless sky when a sleek van pulled up to the curb and he was ushered inside. A moment later they were on the road and headed for the hotel they'd be staying at until more permanent arrangements could be made.
(Arnold hadn't asked about the boarding house, and his parents were wise enough not to mention it.)
The van crawled. At nearly 9 PM, the road was congested with vehicles going every which direction. As his parents talked quietly among themselves, Arnold leaned his head against the window glass and observed the glittering metropolis. Over the past two years, he and his parents hadn't ventured into any city as large or as populated as this, and he'd almost forgotten how intense it could be. His ears rang from the sounds of jeering horns and distant sirens, and everywhere he looked were cars, pedestrians, and flashing lights.
Arnold closed his eyes when he began to feel overwhelmed—not by the furor of the city, but what awaited him in its jagged bowels. He rubbed a hand over his chest, but it did nothing to soothe the worsening ache there, as if his body knew that they were drawing ever closer to what he'd left behind.
Soon, he thought.
The notion filled him with both anticipation and unease.
Arnold stirred, neck stiff from the awkward angle he'd dozed in, and knew without opening his eyes that they'd arrived in Hillwood.
He couldn't explain how or why—he just knew.
The van pulled to a stop in front of a rundown building with a blinking sign that read The Grand Hotel. He opened the door and stepped out onto the sidewalk, sneakers squelching as they landed in a mud puddle.
He held his breath as he took it all in.
Everything was the same, from the pavement beneath his feet and the shops lining the street, to the old bodega he used to buy Tango from for a dime-off because the Ecuadorian owners were sweet on him after he helped find their lost cat. The area even smelled the same—spice and smoke from Amir's Halal truck and spoilage from curbside garbage awaiting pick-up from sanitation trucks. Building vent fumes and damp brownstones, and the acrid scent of cigarettes and hash.
Even the air felt the same, somehow—the soft breeze tugging at his hair almost as if it were welcoming him back.
It sounded crazy, but Arnold felt a bit crazy standing there—a dream within a dream. It was jarring to see his hometown so unchanged when he himself felt like a completely different person.
His mom's hand on his shoulder drew him from his appraisal, and when he glanced sideways, it was to find her gazing at him with concern.
"You doing okay, honey?" she asked quietly, for his ears alone.
Arnold gave a hesitant nod. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm okay. Just..being back here… it's going to take some getting used to, I guess."
"If you find yourself struggling, come to us. Your dad and I are always here for you, alright?"
Seven years had passed since Arnold was reunited with his parents, but sometimes he still found himself overwhelmed by the prospect of them being there. Moments like this, when he was confronted with their unconditional love for him, were at times too astounding to bear.
Arnold had spent most of his childhood wishing for parents. And then one day his wish came true and they were everything he'd dreamed of and so much more.
It still felt too good to be true.
They'd become his bedrock these past few years—keeping him steady whenever he came close to falling apart.
Arnold's time abroad hadn't been all fun and adventure. Once his grief had softened to a manageable level—when he could go a full day without feeling like it hurt to breathe—he could no longer ignore the extent of the destruction he'd left behind.
So he'd forced himself to reflect; to push through the soul-tearing shame and acknowledge all the mistakes he'd made, the people he'd hurt, and understand why.
As it turned out, Arnold wasn't nearly as honest a person as he'd always thought. Or at least not when it came to the things that hurt to be honest about. It took him a long time to come to terms with the fact that he had a tendency to stick his head in the sand and shut people out when he got scared.
He'd done it to his parents—kept them at arm's length because there was still a small, inextinguishable part of him that feared they'd leave him again.
He'd done it to his grandparents—kept himself at arm's length because he hadn't wanted to accept the truth.
He'd done it to Gerald—distanced himself so he wouldn't see that Arnold was cracking at the edges; held together by nothing but stubbornness and false hope.
He'd done it to her —pushed her away because she refused to swallow his lies. Shut her out, because around her his skin felt like glass and he couldn't bear being seen through by her piercing eyes.
For months Arnold had plastered on a smile and pretended everything was fine—pretended so well that even he'd believed it. And when the universe had pulled the rug out from under him and forced him to open his eyes, he'd burned all his remaining bridges and ran without once looking back.
But that was the Arnold of two years ago, and he was trying to be different—to be better.
It was why he'd come back—to try and mend what he'd broken, or find closure for what he could not.
Arnold wrapped one arm around his mom's shoulder and gave her a grateful side-hug.
"I know, mom. Thanks."
"No thanks necessary, my heart. We love you."
"Yeah. Love you, too."
It rained heavily the next two days, which Arnold used as an excuse to stay within the confines of their hotel. He ignored his parents' knowing looks and busied himself with unpacking, breaking in his new sketchbook, and reacquainting his taste buds with greasy fusion takeout.
When he was awoken on the third morning by a sliver of harsh sunlight peeking through the curtain, and there didn't appear to be a rain cloud in sight, Arnold knew he couldn't delay the inevitable any longer. So he gathered his courage, got dressed, and hopped on a bus headed downtown.
Anxiety churned in his stomach as he approached the two-story house twenty minutes later. It looked the same as ever—chipped purple exterior, tall windows, flecks of green paint on the stoop from the time he'd been roped into repainting the door and an aggressive pigeon had startled him into dropping his brush.
Arnold had spent so many weekend nights and summer days here. Once, he'd even considered it to be his home away from home, but now…
Now, he felt like a stranger intruding in a place he mightn't be welcome, for which he only had himself to blame.
Arnold took several fortifying breaths before ringing the doorbell.
On a Friday afternoon in the midst of summer vacation, there were three people most likely to open the door.
The first was Timberly, who was unlikely to have stayed the night out.
The second was Jamie O, who may or may not have come back from college.
And the third was—
The door swung open, startling Arnold so badly he took a step back. He swallowed the lump in his throat and stuffed his hands into his pockets—gripped the folded square of paper that he'd shoved in there without thinking—as the person on the other side of the threshold stared.
"Hey, Gerald."
He'd barely gotten the words out when the door slammed in his face.
Arnold's heart fell, despite having expected that reaction.
"Gerald, please," he sighed, knowing he could be heard through the steel between them.
He waited. Not a minute later, the door was wrenched open again and Arnold fought not to flinch under that furious glare.
"Fuck you," Arnold's once-best-friend said.
Arnold winced. "Yeah, I deserve that."
"Oh, you deserve a lot more than that," Gerald snapped, eyes flashing. On the edge of the doorframe his knuckles were white. "You just—just fucking disappeared, Arnold. Without a goddamned word to anyone. Had no damn clue you'd even gone until I went to the boarding house one day to find that Mr. Hyunh was running the joint and your entire family had cleared out. But hey, at least you left behind a PO Box address, so I guess that's something!"
Arnold's shoulders hunched under the heavy onslaught of Gerald's words.
"Gerald, look—"
"No! Don't you dare, man. You have no idea— no freaking idea. Best friends since preschool and you couldn't even be assed to pick up a phone and say 'by the way, I'm leaving the damned country.' Had to find out from the freaking boarders after you'd already left!"
Gerald broke off to laugh, but it was an unpleasant sound devoid of humor and short-lived. The sardonic twist of his lips didn't fade.
"Then again, I guess the two of us were hardly friends towards the end there, were we?"
The way Gerald's question trailed off, his voice taut except for where it trembled, punched an even bigger hole in Arnold's gut. His eyes blurred with tears that he fought to suppress.
Gerald wasn't wrong. Before he'd left, their friendship had been hanging on by a thread, and it had been Gerald who'd fought the hardest to keep it from snapping completely. Arnold had been too preoccupied with other issues to see just how bad things between them had become.
No, that was a lie. He had seen—he just hadn't wanted to acknowledge it, too overwhelmed with everything else on his plate to spare it the worry it deserved. So he'd pretended everything was fine even as their friendship frayed and fell apart.
Eleven years of friendship, destroyed by his own hands.
His fists tightened as if trying to hold onto something that was no longer there.
"You're right," Arnold whispered, willing himself not to turn away from Gerald's condemnation. "I—I was a coward and a horrible friend. Not only for leaving without saying anything, but for everything I did before that. For pushing you away when you were just trying to help. For only thinking of myself when you had your own crap to deal with, too. It just—I wasn't okay." Arnold's voice broke on the last word, and he finally lost the battle with himself and looked down. The sight of green paint made the burn in his throat even worse.
"I really, really wasn't okay. And I didn't want you to see it, because then it would have shattered the illusion that everything was fine a-and I couldn't handle that. I just couldn't. So I pushed you away even though you were just trying to be a good friend—"
Arnold swallowed and took several shuddering breaths. He watched, feeling so damn wretched, as drops of saltwater hit the concrete, creating dark gray splatters that bled over years-old paint.
"I—I'm just so sorry, Gerald. I know nothing I say will change what I did, but…I'm sorry."
A warm breeze swept pass, carrying with it the dissonant scent of fresh bread from the bakery down the street. Arnold hunched further into himself as the seconds ticked on and Gerald didn't respond. His silence was deafening.
Vines of resignation spread through Arnold, numbing everywhere they touched, and he nodded once and took a step back.
"Right. I just—just wanted to tell you that. See ya around, Gerald."
His body felt heavy as he turned, like he was wading through mud. He'd barely taken three steps when Gerald heaved an explosive sigh and said, "Fuck you, Arnold Shortman," and the next thing Arnold knew, he was being engulfed in a hug so crushing it drove the air from his lungs.
"Seriously, fuck you."
"Gerald—"
"Shut up. I'm still so damn pissed at you. And I'm probably going to stay pissed at you for a long freaking time. But dammit, man—I missed you so much. You have no idea how worried I've been. And I'm just so damn glad you're back, you asshole."
Arnold's bones protested as he was squeezed even tighter, but he didn't have it in him to complain—not when Gerald was talking to him, and hugging the life out of him, and speaking as if their friendship was still salvageable.
He slumped with relief.
He knew he had some massive groveling to do—Gerald was vindictive and would absolutely rake Arnold over the coals until he felt satisfied—but gods, he'd do anything if it meant having his best friend back.
Arnold had come so close to losing one of the most important people in his life, and the close call had him pushing past the numbness in his arms and holding his friend even tighter.
Gerald was here. And okay, nothing had really been resolved, but at least now there was hope. Arnold was going to take this frail olive branch and do everything in his power to ensure it grew roots and bloomed.
"I missed you too, Gerald," he mumbled into his friend's broad chest. Gerald's heartbeat was a rapid staccato against his ears—just as wild and frantic as his own.
For the first time since Arnold stepped foot into Hillwood, he truly felt like he was home.
Gerald eventually dragged Arnold upstairs so they could talk.
And boy, did they talk.
It wasn't easy, and it wasn't painless. Gerald was ruthless with his questioning, and Arnold felt too guilty to deny him the answers he wanted. So he withheld nothing—not even the words that dug in their heels in refusal to get out.
It hurt, but in the way a bone being set did—an aching relief.
The sky outside Gerald's window grew dim as the sun flagged. They'd long-since lapsed into silence—Arnold talked-out and Gerald seemingly done with his inquisition, at least for the moment. They were both red-eyed as they sat, shoulder to shoulder, at the foot of Gerald's bed. Quiet and spent.
And then Gerald broke the silence to ask, "Have you visited them yet?"
Arnold tipped his head back and stared unseeingly at the ceiling.
"No," he rasped, throat sore from hours spent spilling his guts.
"Are you gonna?"
Arnold closed his eyes. "Yeah. Yeah, I am."
"Want me to come with?" he asked, hesitant, and Arnold could tell that Gerald was thinking of all the times his attempts to help had been tossed back in his face.
Arnold offered what was intended to be a smile but felt like a grimace. "I appreciate the offer, really, but that's okay. I think…I think that's something I need to do alone. At least the first time, y'know?" He ducked his head and picked at a scab on his knee. "But, um, I've been thinking of visiting the boarding house, and just exploring the neighborhood a bit—see what's changed and what hasn't. If you want to come along…"
Luckily, Gerald didn't leave him to flounder.
"Yeah." He cleared his throat. "Yeah, alright. I can do that."
"Thanks, Gerald."
"No problem, man." He paused, and somehow Arnold knew what he was going to ask before the words even left his mouth.
"...And Helga?"
Just hearing her name spoken out loud made Arnold's chest constrict. He released a breath and ran shaky fingers through his hair.
"That's…one thing at a time," Arnold said. He knuckled his lids as if to banish the image of piercing blue eyes that sprang to mind. It was futile—he could never rid himself of them. Those eyes stalked him halfway across the globe, intruded on his waking hours, and haunted his dreams. He'd drawn them hundreds of times in hundreds of ways in an effort to get them out of his system. It hadn't worked.
Helga's eyes, much like the rest of her, infested his thoughts.
She'd burrowed into his skin like a parasite and made a home out of his veins. Had fused with the vessels inside him so that he couldn't hope to extract her without carving parts of himself out.
Some days Arnold wanted nothing more than to be free of her.
Most days he couldn't even bear the thought.
"I'm working on it," he continued, avoiding Gerald's cynical stare. "That…I can't just walk up to her house the way I did yours. I knew that with you, the worst I'd get would be a kick to the curb, but Helga..."
Unfortunately, Gerald did not appear to be sympathetic.
"Maybe you should've thought of that before you dumped the wacko who built a freaking shrine for you," Gerald said, pushing himself to his feet and ignoring Arnold's hiss of "You swore not to talk about that!"
Gerald didn't miss a beat. "I told you not to get involved with her crazy ass, but did you listen? No. You never do when it comes to that girl. Now you're gonna end up as inspo for a Deadly Women episode and you bet your ass I'm gonna cash in the check for that interview."
"Can really feel the love here, Gerald," Arnold grumbled, following his friend out the door. He couldn't bring himself to be upset—not when this felt so much like the dynamic they used to have. It gave Arnold hope that in time they'd be able to smooth out all their serrated edges and fit together as seamlessly as they did before.
"It's tough-love. Consider it practice for when Helga gets her hands on you. Word of advice? Don't meet her in an isolated area. Not that witnesses would stop her from shanking you if she really wanted to. Balls of steel, she has."
Arnold winced, because for all they were exaggerating Helga's psychopathic tendencies, there was a vein of truth to it. Helga wasn't violent—at least not anymore—but she didn't need to be. Her tongue was vicious enough, and she didn't need weapons or fists to make someone bleed.
But contrary to what Gerald thought, Arnold wasn't too worried about that.
Arnold could handle her cutting barbs. What he couldn't handle was when her anger, her pain, became an inferno that burned the words right out of her. Turned everything inside of her into ash. She went quiet, then. Cold. Became an ice statue that nothing could thaw. He had seen it happen just once, when her dad had crossed a line that even Arnold could not forgive.
Helga had shut down, and despite living with the man, hadn't spoken a word to him in two years. Four, if you counted the years Arnold had been abroad—which he did. Because Helga didn't need violence to kill someone. She reached into herself and cut out whatever parts they occupied, be it her heart or her mind, then buried the pieces in the dirt and walked away.
Where Helga was concerned, Robert Pataki was already dead.
And dead things didn't come back to life.
That was Arnold's worst fear. Not her incandescent eyes, or fire-iron tongue, or the scorching heat of her temper. No, he was terrified of her ice. Afraid that she'd look at him with cold eyes and have nothing to say, because in her heart he didn't exist.
Arnold slipped his hand into his pocket, allowing the feel of parchment against his fingertips to allay his mounting fears.
I still love you, the letter had promised in Helga's familiar script.
There was still hope. And for the time being, it had to be enough.
"Man." Gerald's sigh drew Arnold from his thoughts, and he looked down to see his friend shaking his head a few steps below. "Good to know that some things will never change."
Arnold shot him a questioning look as he fell into step next to him, and the two descended the stairs together.
"Huh?"
"I'm referring to that stupid face you always make when you're thinking of the blond banshee."
"You're hilarious," Arnold intoned with a slight flush. He'd just stepped onto the bottom of the landing when something heavy landed on his shoulder. He turned to find Gerald staring at him with a complicated expression. The hand on his shoulder tightened before falling away.
"I'm still furious," his friend said quietly, and Arnold felt the words slither into his chest and strangle his heart. "And it's probably going to take a while for me to fully trust you. Things are going to be awkward as hell until we figure out how to be us again. But man, Arnold." His eyes glittered, and Arnold knew it wasn't because they were refracting light from the overhead fixture. "I missed you so much, and I'm so glad you're back. You ever do that shit to me again and Helga G. Pataki will be the least of your worries, y'hear?"
"Loud and clear, Gerald," Arnold said, his eyes glittering, too.
Gerald blinked rapidly, and after taking a measured breath, gently eased past Arnold.
"C'mon, mi amigo. All that talking and soul pouring was hungry work and I'm freaking starving —"
Arnold snorted and quickly dabbed at his eyes, then followed his best friend into the kitchen.
Gerald was right. The bridge between them hadn't been miraculously fixed with a single conversation, no matter how heartfelt or long. It was battered and broken and there were pieces missing that needed to be replaced. Heck, it might never look the way it used to again.
But it still held, and it wasn't being left to rot. Gerald was just as determined to see it repaired as he was. And while the end-result might be changed, Arnold had faith that it would be as strong as it ever was. Stronger, even, so long as they were careful and didn't rush. And they wouldn't—this was far too important to them both.
Even if nothing else he'd ruined could be salvaged, that he still had Gerald's friendship, fragile as it may have been, meant the world to him.
Arnold was never again going to take that for granted.
Two weeks passed, and then it was August. The new month brought with it a heatwave that cast a rippling film over the city, which had grown quiet as its inhabitants fled indoors to get some reprieve from the oppressive heat. When the humidity was bearable, Arnold and Gerald braved the high temps and explored the neighborhood. They hit up several of Arnold's favorite spots and some new ones that had either still been in development before he'd left, or had sprung up in his absence. For the most part, it was still the same Hillwood he'd always known, and Arnold tried not to feel like a crab who'd outgrown his shell and was contorting itself to fit in.
He saw most of his old friends, which was nice, if not a little awkward. Few of them had been close enough to have been subjected to his temper during his last months in Hillwood, let alone significantly impacted by his leaving. It didn't take long to be reabsorbed into the gang like he'd never left.
The adults were harder. Once the surprise passed, they looked at Arnold with a sympathy that made his smile brittle and his heart feel like lead. "So glad to have you back, kid," they'd say with a shadow of pity in their eyes that rankled. Most had enough tact to not broach the subject further, but they were poor actors, and their unspoken thoughts made themselves known in the way they treated him—gently, as if he would break.
Arnold resented that they weren't exactly wrong. Even their tacit sympathy was more tolerable than the alternative. He hated when it was spoken aloud and he was expected to swallow his discontent and respond in a way that was socially acceptable rather than true. When someone was being particularly insensitive, Arnold toyed with the idea of being brutally honest in return. Of answering their probing questions with: no, actually, I'm not okay at all and you bringing up a painful topic when I'm clearly just trying to enjoy my day isn't helping. But thanks for asking, even if I wish you hadn't. Of watching with vindictive pleasure as they squirmed with discomfort as their own incivility was shoved in their face.
Gerald was a life saver in those moments, somehow seeming to always know when Arnold's patience was wearing thin. He'd squeeze Arnold's shoulder—just hard enough to ground him—and come up with ridiculous excuses to get them away.
His friend's protectiveness served as a reminder that for as painful as it was to return to a city where dark memories haunted each street corner, he couldn't regret it. There was still life among the ghosts, and they were worth the pain.
On the morning of the thirteenth, Arnold opened the curtains to his new bedroom window and had to squint against the bright glare of the sun. The world beyond the glass was like something out of a Kinkdale painting—dreamy and idyllic, with vibrant skies and candyfloss clouds, and upbeat neighbors kindly greeting each other as they went about their day.
Arnold shoved the curtains closed, disgusted.
He was dressed and sipping coffee at the dining table when his parents vacated their bedroom, appearing just as solemn as he felt. They rustled his hair as they walked past to retrieve the mugs he'd set out for them. While his dad rummaged in the fridge for some fruit, his mom sat next to Arnold and leaned into his side. Neither of them were in the habit of eating when they felt restless.
No one spoke, and not before long they were bundled in the car and on the road.
Hillwood Memorial Park hovered on the outskirts of the city. It was nestled above sprawling flatlands and soft hills that unfurled further than the eye could see. The cemetery's lichgate stood tall—it was an imposing stone structure with a grandiose arch and spiral posts that pointed towards the sky. A bow and picket fence was cast open, welcoming.
Arnold had never wanted to be anywhere less. Still, he followed his parents' lead as they guided him through the gates.
It was silent. The only sound to be heard was the creak of swaying trees and the crunch of dead leaves beneath their shoes. Arnold's mind was elsewhere as they followed one meandering trail into another—head too full of static for thoughts to exist.
He wasn't aware of time passing or the movement of his feet until his mom's hushed voice met his ears, tethering him back to earth.
They'd stopped. He looked around him, and then down, at the gravestone that sprouted from the ground. At once, Arnold's vision grayed at the edges and his heart went still.
"Do you want to be alone for a few minutes?" his dad asked, sounding so very far away.
Arnold must have nodded, because he heard his parents retreat, and then he was alone.
Knees buckling, he slid to the ground and buried his trembling fingers into the sharp grass.
Long minutes passed before he could bring himself to look back at the granite slab. It was just as he remembered it from the burial—wide and gray, with a ceramic photo tile of his grandparents on their wedding day and an engraved inscription that he was once again unable to read through his blurring eyes. Still, he tried. He rubbed his lids and willed his tears to subside. Slowly but surely, the words shimmered into focus.
In loving memory of:
Philip Shortman & Gertrude Shortman
(1916 - 2004)
Beloved grandparents, parents, and friends
& two people who knew how to throw a good party!
The world is a dimmer place without them.
A bark of laughter was ripped from him at the tongue-in-cheek epitaph, and then he was sobbing into the damp ground, tufts of grass being torn asunder as he dug his fingers into the dirt.
The grief that consumed him felt like a supernova—it burned him alive, took up all the space inside of him until there was nothing left. And when everything inside of him finally turned to embers and dust, he was left hollow. A husk of a person with a chasm for a heart.
He was a dying star collapsing into itself, to be reborn as a black hole that violently inhaled everything in its vicinity to ease the anguish of its own emptiness.
There was too much of nothing inside of him. His frame was too small. His skin felt too tight.
They said that time would heal all wounds, including grief, so how could it still feel as if not a day had passed since he watched his grandparents being lowered to the earth? How could it still hurt so much, even two years later? Would Arnold ever be able to think about them again without feeling as if he couldn't breathe?
He had thought, when he could bring himself to think of it at all, that visiting their graves would be cathartic. That he'd sit before their headstone and speak with them the way mourners did in movies. He would cry, and laugh, and relay the most important details of his life, and when he left he'd hear their laughter on the wind and be healed.
He didn't feel healed.
It felt like an old wound inside him had been torn open, and all the anguish he'd tried so hard to contain was seeping from the ruptured edges like pus.
His grandparents were gone.
Arnold would never again hear his grandma's cackling laughter or diabolical schemes, or his grandpa's embellished stories and misguided words of wisdom. He'd never shuffle into the kitchen to find them flipping pancakes and bickering. He'd never be hugged by them after a bad day—his nose itching from the smell of the citrusy perfume his grandpa bought his grandma every year.
There would be no fireworks on Thanksgiving or illegal escapades at sundown. No impromptu dancing in cramped hallways, or outlandish costumes in the wash. No gnarled fingers in his hair, or record music playing at midnight. No gravelly voice saying "Hey, Shortman," and beckoning him closer for a silly tale.
No matter how much he prayed, or begged, or bargained, Arnold was never going to see them again. He would never be able to thank them for raising him, or apologize for distancing himself when they got sick because he couldn't accept that they might die. Would never be able to make it up to them and be the grandson they had deserved.
Would never again be able to tell them he loved them, and hear it back.
It was too late.
They were dead and nothing he did would bring them back.
Arnold cried into the dirt even after his tears ran dry and there was nothing left. Eventually his parents returned, and they pulled him into their arms and wept with him.
"Did you notice how clean the grave was?" his dad murmured as they made their way out of the cemetery. "The stone was spotless, and there were new offerings."
His mom sniffled. "They were great people who had many friends. I'm not surprised. It's wonderful that folks were visiting them while we were gone."
"Yeah." His dad sounded wistful.
Arnold said nothing as they trudged down the main trail leading to the entrance, sneakers kicking rocks as he dragged them through the sparse grass. He was depleted of everything, even words. He just wanted to return to their empty apartment, crawl under his bed covers, and sleep for however long it took him to feel human again.
He lifted his gaze from the mud-caked tip of his sneakers, grimacing as his temples throbbed from the movement, and looked towards the gates to see how much further they had to walk.
He stumbled to a halt.
"Arnold?" his mom asked in concern, but he could barely hear her over the rush of blood in his ears.
There, at the entrance of the cemetery, was someone he would have never expected to see. Not today, on the anniversary of his grandparents' deaths. Not here, in the place they were buried.
It was Helga. And she was walking towards them.
Arnold felt dizzy as he watched her. She hadn't noticed them, too busy fussing with a small bouquet of flowers, and Arnold knew he should be doing something but he couldn't figure out what. There were too many questions flooding his head—who were the flowers for? Why was she here of all places, and today of all days? Was it all coincidence?
He wanted to run to her. He wanted to bolt. They were pointless urges—his feet were rooted to the ground and he couldn't have moved them even if he wanted to.
Helga, he thought, wildly, desperately. And as if she could hear the call of her name in his mind, from his soul, she looked up.
And froze.
The flowers tumbled from her fingers and fell to the dirt, and oh.
Two whole years he'd spent imagining those eyes—had dedicated countless margins and pages to them in his sketchbooks. But he could see, now, that it was like trying to convey the laws of physics with words alone.
How could anyone capture the unyielding pull of gravity—the way it hooked into your entire being and launched you towards objects so unfathomably vast—with tools as inadequate as paper and ink?
They couldn't.
The only way to really comprehend it was to fall.
Arnold stood transfixed, unable to so much as breathe as he watched her face flicker from one emotion to another. Shock was first, followed by confusion and disbelief, and then rage. Her expressive eyes (had they always been that magnetic or blue?) narrowed to slits, and her lips quivered before folding into a thin line. Even from so far away he could see her shaking, and he wasn't surprised in the least when she turned on her heel and doubled back at a run.
He stared after her retreating form, body tense in his desire to go after her, but he didn't.
He was still exhausted by the events of the day, and confronting an enraged Helga with anything less than a clear head and battle armor was wishing for death.
"Oh dear," his mom murmured, turning from the gates Helga had vanished through to her statue of a son. "Are you alright, sweetheart?"
"Yeah," Arnold breathed, and forced his legs to move.
He could tell his parents didn't believe him from the concerned looks they kept sending him, but it was true. Arnold was okay. Still reeling from the encounter, maybe, but he was okay. If his hands were shaking, it was from the adrenaline, not despair.
Helga had been angry. She had run from him. That was more than he could have hoped for. Because Helga G. Pataki only ever ran from the things that hurt. And as awful as it was to be within that category—as guilty and regretful as he felt—he was still relieved. It meant that she still felt something for him.
Not like Robert Pataki, who to Helga, may as well not exist.
A part of Arnold had already known it from her letter. But seeing her react so strongly to him with his own eyes—it nourished the tiny sprout of hope that had come into being after receiving it. Made it grow into a wild, writhing ball of vines in his chest.
He shivered as it flourished.
When they reached the spot Helga had been standing at, Arnold picked up the flowers she'd dropped and gave them a gentle shake.
"Yellow lilies," his dad said from behind him. "They symbolize gratitude."
Arnold stood from his crouch. The delicate tissue paper crinkled under his fingers as he brought the flowers to his nose and inhaled. They smelled cloyingly sweet.
"Come on then," his mom said, sympathy in her voice as she nudged him to continue walking. "I'm sure we'll all feel better with some food in us."
Arnold didn't voice his disagreement. His hand tightened over the bouquet as he thought of stricken blue eyes and quivering lips.
Soon, he soothed the ache in his chest. We'll see her again soon.
...
Author's Note: Thanks so much for reading, lovelies. The next part will be up soon.