The memory was never too far from his mind anytime he entered a pool.

Harold, laughing within earshot of half their 7th grade class and his crush at the time at one of Rhonda's parties, pointed at a soaked Arnold as he discreetly made his way to an empty corner to grab a towel, and shouted:

"HEY, GUYS! ARNOLD'S GOT A BONER! HAHAHA! HE'S TOTALLY GOT A CHUBBY!"

And Arnold, whipping the towel around his waist and stalking toward the exit with livid embarrassment, muttered something ugly that only Harold could hear as he passed him, and regretted it instantly.

"Takes one to know one."

Wrong-footed, no doubt, to be treated meanly by him of all people, Harold's face dropped, and didn't even retort as Arnold left to get dressed. He even, to his credit, returned Arnold's apology sheepishly when they eventually spoke again.

That said, he still never felt right about it, and from then on out, made an extra effort to prevent an incident like that from happening again. But this time, he was sweating with nerves before even making it to the pool.

He had completely forgotten about their upcoming swimming unit in gym class.

And Helga, sure enough, would be there.

God help me.

He was already in the deep end before everyone else and hugging the wall, his mantra resolute as splashing and amused chatter echoed around him when more classmates entered the water.

Stay cool, stay cool.

Eyes down.

"Swim attire only, Ms. Pataki!"

Arnold flinched at the barked order from the opposite poolside, and looked up in a moment of knee jerk self-betrayal. He stared, eyes blown wide.

The wave of heat that flashed all the way from his groin to his ears left him dumbstruck and lightheaded as Helga, who never wore anything tight enough to show off her figure, grumbled, grabbed the hem of her oversized Wrestlemania t-shirt with an eye roll, and tore it over her head. Then flashed half a cheek as she turned around and sulked back into the girls locker room to chuck it with the rest of her clothes.

Arnold had never risked drowning in a pool before, but he'd never been so tempted to, either.

He'd been picking up and practicing some new tips over the past few days to kill unwanted boners while forcing himself to heal. Flexing his quads until they hurt. Push ups. Counting backwards from 1000 in sevens. He'd even had some success.

Yet, as she returned shortly after in just her dark magenta bathing suit—her revealed contours igniting the burning image of her nudeness in his mind; her movements fluid and punctuated with annoyance, mesmerizing, he knew that he'd need unprecedented, emergency intervention to survive the rest of class.

He tore his gaze away with a shudder, dragged himself along the wall toward the shallow end of the pool until his feet could touch the bottom, and paused. Then slowly lowered his hands into the water as he gathered his nerve, went into position, and braced himself.

Building up power in his middle fingers until they trembled behind his thumbs, Arnold bit his lip with a sharp inhale, clenched his eyes shut…

And flicked his nads.

And when that still wasn't enough to kill his erection, he did it again.

Hard.

"...Arnold?" came Eugene's voice through a wave of sharp, radiating agony from his balls. "Are you okay?"

He was not.

"Mr. Shortman? You got an upset stomach or something? Why don't you stay out of the pool today, you don't look so good."

Barely seeing through slitted eyes as his face twisted in a suffering rictus, Arnold grit his teeth and nodded.

His boner sufficiently snuffed, he practically crawled his way out of the shallow end of the pool, and slowly made his way back to the boys locker room, clutching at the pain rolling up his stomach.

There was nothing quite like getting smacked repeatedly in the nuts that made a guy re-examine his tactics.

Or, at least, served as the final, humiliating lynchpin in his resolve to somehow stop touching himself long enough to give his dick a break and properly heal.

He drove himself into homework; math was particularly occupying, he found, and definitely filled mental gaps where cold showers and exercise could not. And putting in hours on the seemingly endless list of maintenance and repairs for the boarding house also saved him from the risk of idle hands. That said, even though the tasks took his focus, the solitude offered him time to think.

Not that it did him any favors, of course.

When he finally indulged again over the weekend, he wanted to believe that the breather had earned him a meaningful modicum of control. While definitely more than his former average, he'd set his limit to only jerking off six times a day, and he hadn't felt sore, or too restless, yet.

But even he knew he was fooling himself to say that it was frequency that set his mark.

Though pulled apart at the fork of two paths, and feeling the guilty tug from the tried and true he'd always tread before, he gave into this new, wrong one.

Every time.

Even attempts to distract himself with fantasies of other girls, even porn, didn't help. Faces and features kept morphing back to hers—and often his, when the girl was partnered. And those who looked too far removed from her left him impatient and agitated to move on. It didn't matter if they'd have suited him just fine before, or were arguably more beautiful or not.

He had already been spoiled by her.

Somehow.

Truthfully, it was beginning to freak him out. He didn't remember this problem happening with any other girl. Even the girls he'd dated, including his recent ex, who he went further with than anyone else and left him at the edge of his proverbial seat with sexual frustration when she'd bait and retreat. Sure, he'd thought about them a lot, even felt overwhelmed and out of control sometimes, but.

He'd never given in against his will so much before. Not like this.

…But that's just it, you didn't have a problem focusing on them, came the thought at the end of another debauched, conflicting round. But you have a problem thinking about Helga.

Lots of problems.

Arnold leaned back in his desk chair, the feeling of his cum cooling unpleasantly over his hand and stomach registering like a sensation of mockery. Ignoring it, he cast a troubled stare through his skylight. Or tried to. It was nighttime, and when he looked up at the glass he was greeted by his own dim reflection.

He scowled at himself and yanked out a wet wipe, looking away as he cleaned up.

Thinking back over their childhoods, all these years their best friends have been dating, and their last real encounter, during that road trip with them and his ex that winter—their fight, in particular; he knew he could take one thing for keeps:

Despite being at a loss with himself, there was no reason to be confused about who Helga was.

Arnold leaned his elbows over the edge of his desk and facepalmed as the explanations of novelty, of that incident being overwhelmingly hot, and the expectant, bottled-up nature of unwanted virginity all swirled in his mind like objects losing their permanence.

If he had so many problems with her—with all of it, then why couldn't he just… drop this? Still, God dammit?

Why not?

Arnold went to a party the following night.

And to be fair, he wasn't really a party type of guy. Not this type, anyway.

Outside of the more wholesome, eclectic gatherings typified by his unusual family at Sunset Arms, and the kind where he could join group activities and dance—really dance, his type of party was to kick back with peers he could trust to be chill, smoke the occasional bowl, chat, snack, and zone out to vinyls.

In particular, the kind of parties where he could actually relax, and not feel like everyone's babysitter while his peers got wasted, horny, and dangerously stupid.

Or just stupid.

'Man, lighten up, Arnold.'

Well, between getting stuck as the designated driver most of the time, catching Curly dropping his trousers to show a group of disgusted, fascinated girls something he called 'The Brain,' and that one time he walked in on the guys doing what was allegedly a nipple wax dipping competition, the high school party scene had lost its appeal. He had no idea who had won the competition, but he'd never forget who lost, when the guys tugged the wax off and took a piece of Stinky's nipple along with it. Either way.

Here he was.

Iggy flipped him off when he'd opened the front door, of course, but Park grinned and let him in.

Thus began the series of unavoidable and customary exchanges, and as soon as Arnold could he dipped out to make his way toward the back staircase, and paused.

His recent ex, Candace, was not only with another guy on a couch, a fellow senior he dimly recognized from his Physics class—but they were quite...handsy.

Already.

Arnold loured at the sight, shaking his head slightly. And… it wasn't that he was jealous, he realized, as his eyes narrowed with distaste, before looking away and setting off down the hall. Or bitter, that she was with someone else, or had apparently gotten over at least one of her hang-ups since they'd split up. No.

He was just…resentful, at the fact that even though they still would've broken up, that at least if she'd maybe worked through some of her hang-ups by then, he wouldn't have been so pent up and sensitized before he'd walked into this whole Helga fiasco.

Of course, Candace didn't owe him anything sexual when they were dating. No girl did, and he'd never want any of them to feel pressured, including her.

But everything in him was insisting that he was only in this situation in the first place because every piece that could have been assembled to somehow set up a perfect storm had been. And he was certain his history with her was one of those pieces. It had nothing to do with wanting her anymore, because he didn't. And deep down, he knew better.

But he resented it anyway.

Sidestepping a necking couple while hiking up two flights of stairs, Arnold sighed when the volume downstairs lowered to an indistinguishable din and the bass thrummed up the floor through his sneakers.

He was halfway down the hall before he heard something that froze him in his tracks so fast the world slowed, leaving him momentarily stunned.

Of the two girls moaning behind a closed door he was just about to pass, his eyes blew wide, pulling a double take when he recognized Rhonda's voice dishing out vulgar taunts, followed by an unmistakable smack, an excited yelp, and a chorus of raunchy, staccato cries that blushed him all the way to his ears.

...Damn.

He… should really not be hearing this. And should go, right now.

Yep.

Pushing away the swirling thoughts that encroached, he pressed deliberately down the hall, and instead imagined his neighbor, Mrs. Vitello, that one time he'd shown up late to a community life drawing class and she was their nude model.

Anyway. That worked. And he'd only been at half mast, thankfully.

He was just about to open the door to enter the roof access when realization blew all his air out and left his stomach heavy with knots.

He'd passed off not just prime, spank bank material, but completely brushed off accidentally overhearing real time girl-on-girl, like it was practically nothing.

Sure, he wasn't trapped and stuck listening to the whole exchange, but...

Wasn't that novel?

Wasn't that hot, and another accidental violation of privacy?

Wasn't Rhonda another girl he knew? One who didn't leave her figure or her…assets, much of a mystery, and certainly wasn't bad looking to boot?

It ticked off so many of the same boxes.

So… why the hell was it so easy to ignore, then?

Why isn't it like that with Helga?

Dear God. Seriously, what is wrong with me?

Marching up the steps to the roof with his guts twisting and hard, Arnold set out to do what he arrived at this party to do in the first place.

"Gerald? Do you think I can get, kind of…" he gestured like he was about to cut himself off, before finally relenting and letting his hand drop to his lap, "...obsessive, sometimes?"

When he turned his head, his best friend was slowly leaning in with an incredulously bug-eyed, restrained look, and Arnold sulked unappreciatively when he burst with raucous cackles that echoed off the roof.

It didn't help that he only got into this mess to begin with by doing him and his girlfriend a favor, either. A fact that left him feeling sore, even if he couldn't bring himself to blame them.

"Really? Can you be obsessive?" he repeated, shaken with laughter and wiping his face as he picked up his beer. "Man! Oh, come on, don't look at me like that—you know you're clearly asking for a reason. So," he settled down, flashing his palms, "what's going on, buddy? You're definitely a lot more…distracted than usual."

Arnold facepalmed, rubbing his eyes. Gerald didn't share any of the same classes he had with Helga, and made a consciously difficult choice not to look at her during lunch period, so at least he didn't have to worry about his friend catching on to why. He hoped.

Still.

"...Am I that obvious…?"

"Well, you've always been a bit of a daydreamer, head in the clouds…" Gerald mused as he took a sip from his can. "But on the obsession piece? Damn. I'm glad you're finally acknowledging this buddy, because for real? Outside the nut job varieties like Curly, you are the most obsessive person I know, man. Like. You really are that bad."

"...That bad?" Arnold repeated, brow pinched as he clung to a hopeful skepticism that he wasn't. I mean, sure, he had a problem, but he had to be exaggerating...

Right?

"Don't believe me? Okay. First off, may I remind you that you're the one who asked? And second—who's the one who never, ever gives up on a cause, even when anyone else in their right mind has?"

Arnold paused, then let out a light scoff.

"Well, I don't think not giving up is necessarily obsessive," Arnold countered, "maybe more determined or persistent I guess, or—"

"Relentless," Gerald corrected, with a meaningful tip of his beer can.

Arnold frowned, growing irritable with this take on qualities about himself that he rather liked.

"Totally relentless. Who's the only guy we know who winds up losing sleep and all their free time trying to fix other people's problems?"

"I'm not losing sleep."

Over that, anyway.

"Except—okay, that recent thing with Mr. Green's son, but you know that's—"

"Oh come on, Arnold. You've been like that since forever!" Gerald gestured with exasperation.

Then shook his head at him, like he'd come right to the edge of sense and still couldn't see it.

"Man, who publicly humiliated themselves when they got so obsessed over Iggy not forgiving them over some stupid bullshit, that they actually paraded their ass out on the red carpet in bunny pajamas?"

Gerald, who usually handled his taunts with a lighter touch, actually pointed a finger at him over the lid of his beer and shot him a hung stare, and Arnold cringed in a moment of self-consciousness as he wondered just how much and far back his friend had kept tabs, all while he hadn't questioned himself.

"Who actually spent hours and hours at Elk Island, stalking an author who just wanted to be left alone at their house—"

"Okay! Okay! I get it!" Arnold threw up his hands, a flush of eye-opening embarrassment heating his cheeks.

Then heaved a sigh, and facepalmed.

"You're right, I've always—pushed, and... held onto stuff..."

…Shit.

"Exactly! Not letting go, fixating—that shit's obsession, man. And nah, brother. That ain't nothin' new."

Gerald wrapped up with a wave of his hand and lowered his voice, turning to look at him with honest concern.

"So, what's going on? Why's it bothering you, this time?"

Because this time I'm dying to let something go, but I can't, he thought, his nerves set miserably on edge.

And Arnold, feeling lost and uncomfortable, didn't answer.

How could he?

Sure, they were best friends, but… he had a hard enough time admitting everything that he'd done and wanted to do to himself, and the prospect of telling anybody else was just…demoralizing. Impossible.

There was no way.

And, thankfully, Gerald was seemingly able to pick that up without him even having to say anything.

"Hey, it's cool," he reassured, tapping the air casually with his palms. "I don't gotta know. But I mean… I'm sure it's fine, man. Whatever it is. You always shake things out, eventually," he shot him a cheeky look, "and before you know it, you'll be onto your next obsession," he added with a light snort, elbowing him.

Arnold, despite himself, elbowed back with a crooked smile and a snort of his own. Then paused, as the smile faded, the look on his face growing more thoughtful as he went inward.

"...Thanks," he replied quietly. "Yeah. Actually…"

He perked up a bit, looking off at the city lights glowing in the distance in realization.

"That helps."

Gerald shrugged, brow arched with a pleased, easy confidence.

"Don't mention it, buddy."

And Arnold meant it, hearing that really did help.

His problem lately—it really didn't have anything to do with Helga. It was just a wild event he hadn't let go of yet. He was just obsessing about her lately because that's just how he was; more than he'd ever quite realized, until then. So, really. The fantasies, his feelings—it was all okay.

Because they meant nothing about her.

And Gerald was right. All his past fixations had gone away, and this one would, too, one way or another. He was sure of it.

As the two of them hung out on the roof for a while and shot the shit, he felt more relaxed and relieved than he had in weeks. And when he finally went back down the stairs, he even joined the party a bit. Had a beer, and even wound up helping a few people, lending an ear and some wanted advice.

And it felt good, really, that it was wanted.

In those moments he felt nearly normal, felt like a return to form, even as he thought of her again, and how much his advice back then had backfired when they were overnighting in that cabin with his ex and their friends. How she'd snapped and went out in the snow. How she was forced to stay because of the weather. How the drive back home felt.

And how she never treated him the same afterwards, even after he'd apologized. And it was fine, honestly, that he kept thinking about it, even while listening and nodding along with his friends. Even when his eyes tricked him as a blonde across the living room turned her head, seeing her for a second when she wasn't there.

It didn't mean anything; it was just something he couldn't help, and it'd go away, with time.

After all, he was just obsessive.