"Dude, you get a load of forehead mustache when her face is wet? I thought I was gonna hurl."

"Haha! 'Forehead mustache'? Shit, that's good. I just always call her monobrow."

"You see the way she rounded on Mike in the pool? Like a caterpillar with a fist."

I'll show you a fist, Arnold thought as he went still, glaring darkly into his locker in mid-search for a spare shirt. The guys behind him kept on, oblivious with his back turned that he was debating whether he should keep quiet or say something—and potentially draw suspicion that he might have feelings about Helga.

Which he did not, and didn't need.

"Just be glad she shaves, or we really would've yakked in the pool."

Arnold furrowed his brow angrily and made a conscious effort to try and keep his breath even and controlled as the guys sniggered.

"Yeah, cave girl got the sides, but how much do you bet she's got a total fur pie under there?"

"Oh ho, sick dude!"

The guys all jumped at the slam from the locker behind them, followed by a curse. They all set a bewildered stare at Arnold as he turned around, pretending to nurse a smarting hand and grimacing with a forced, sardonic half-smile as he faced them.

"Well, that spider's dead."

The guys snorted and grinned, 'No shit,' as he tore on his spare shirt, popped on his sneakers, and paced toward the door, his frown twisted and stormy once out of sight.

Assholes, he thought.

… … …

They have no idea.

He beat his cock roughly, movements fueled with burning want and indignation when he'd made it back home that afternoon.

No idea what they so blindly overlooked by being so quick to judge.

In truth, it wasn't that he didn't understand how they couldn't see it, though he hated every insult, each disgusting jab. But he understood how they couldn't see her as the kind of girl to want that way, and not just for her unibrow.

But for her intimidation, her scowl, her sarcasm and one of the guys' vibe, who obscured her curves with loose punk T's and leather jackets. Helga, who shrugged off typical beauty standards and would sooner flip you off than flirt. A girl who was the furthest thing from available or interested.

Helga, a girl you'd be foolish to want.

And the very one he couldn't not think about.

Pull your focus back from the fact that her brows met in the middle and you could appreciate just how expressive they were, how dramatically they framed her large, heavy-lidded eyes, particularly when she cocked a brow. How prominent they were, dark circles setting off her baby blues like pierced targets.

Cast under that bold, unapologetic unibrow of hers, laid the power of a stare that could lure you in and strike you down. And if he ever found himself caught in her sights like that again, God.

He'd let her.

But that's okay, it doesn't mean anything, you're just obsessive.

He struggled to admit it, and it wasn't often—but there were times his guilt and shame conjured a game of what if; what would she do if she had found out. A deserved, self-destructive fantasy, like indulging in some form of ironic justice, that she'd found someone worthy of her bullying all along.

But of course, even thoughts spurred by self-flagellation were contaminated by his cock. He recalled her amped up abuse after they saved the neighborhood as kids, and that time she even knocked him to the ground and stepped on his chest, fists brandished. And of course, in his stupid, horny haze, he reimagined the encounter as their grown up selves, and in a very different light.

Jesus.

He'd never felt so much like there were two of him. The daytime version who'd been there all along, who never responded to stuff like that, or girls like Helga. And this other side that had cropped up out of nowhere, who he swore was a total, unwelcome stranger.

And one he could temper, some, but not kick out. But it's okay. It won't last.

You're just obsessing—which is normal, turns out.

For you, anyway.

So he let them come—fantasies that would've taken him to the point of no return if he'd acted on them, and didn't even resist anymore; figuring he'd lost something already, to have given in so many times before.

Dragging his tongue back and forth along the length of her used toy, savoring the taste he'd stolen from her after each pass until he'd licked it clean.

It's just a fantasy.

Her wet and swollen down there as he went straight to the source, smothering and stuffing her with his mouth and fingers—

It's fine.

Even grabbing at his own hair as he laid back in bed, meanly, like he imagined she would, as he ate her up and stoked all those hot—

It's not like you'd ever.

—sweet sounds of hers as he gripped her back and lost himself with his tongue on her, in her.

Because you would NEVER.

He bit his lips as he thought of them rushing over her own down there, and the explicit details he'd caught between her thighs when she stood naked in her hallway.

You're just obsessive.

Breath huffing through his nose as he panted, he let out a soft, derisive snort as he dimly recalled one of the comments those idiots had made earlier. Little did they know that she did, in fact, do more than just groom 'the sides' for her bikini line; all her curls were trimmed below the waist.

And as for the rest…God.He always liked a 'look' down there to be more than just a simple, tucked away slit, and Helga's was—

Arnold groaned loudly. Then again, as he came for the fifth time that day; powerfully, even with little to show for it as his cock mostly ran dry.

He swallowed as he stared blearily at the wispy, early spring clouds through his skylight, and was thankful to not see his faded reflection in the glass looking back at him this time.

Remember, he reminded himself, catching his breath, you're not actually into her.

Don't forget.

He took a crisp inhale, and shook away the notion that he even needed reminding.

… … …

That said, while a genuine source of regret and unease for months prior, it was likely a blessing in disguise that she'd gone from treating him with fuming sarcasm to the cold, spiteful distance set against him since that trip. Arnold didn't want to think he'd do anything… stupid, if she'd gotten up in his face like she used to since escaping her closet, but he was unnervingly grateful to not have the measure of his self-control stress tested.

If he wasn't already keeping himself in check he might have flinched at her sardonic reply to their teacher's question on Ancient Rome.

Helga received a tired nod in response: correct. and though she'd answered with a drag of attitude,Mr. Reid couldn't care less. Instead of reprimanding, he asked her to get up from her desk and point out Hannibal's invasion path during the Second Punic War on the rolled-down wall map of Eurasia behind them.

Loose-shouldered with inconvenience, she extracted herself from her desk, turned around to head down their row, and his heart stopped as they made eye contact.

Actual eye contact.

The first, truly, in so long, after months of avoidance from either, or both of them.

A mere moment he knew consciously was brief but expanded as time slowed. He'd already been looking at her when her gaze lifted up and met his, the connection unguarded and accidental.

She froze.

As they held the thread of that unbroken link, he felt something inexplicable building inside himself that nearly leapt out at her when she didn't relent.

Her shoulders twitched and tightened as she set her pace across the room, and he couldn't believe the feeling he got from the flash of heat across her face as she finally tore her eyes away and glared at the wall she approached. A flicker of some kind that went against her brusque, apathetic chill. Whether from hatred or embarrassment, he didn't know, but he could tell that by making unintentional eye contact with him, she felt like she'd somehow lost.

There was no shock for his anxious shame or regret when he looked down, going inward as she set the marks on the map for the class and narrated Hannibal's doomed venture with disinterest. Or humiliation for his predicament and sexual interest (he shifted his flannel and clenched his quads until they hurt to redirect blood flow.)

But, as his heart beat wildly in his chest, he couldn't name the rest.

Somehow, describing them felt off limits.

Arnold turned his head to avoid watching her when Mr. Reid called her back to her seat after she'd satisfied him with her answer. And nursed the tension in his brow as he half-listened to the rest of their lesson at best as he ruminated.

He'd heard the saying somewhere, that you're only as sick as your secrets, and wondered if holding secrets could make you sicker, too.

…Maybe that explained it?

All of it?

Even why he'd become so obsessed to begin with, and messed with his head?

Arnold turned the page of his World History book to their next chapter along with everyone else and retained nothing from the first page as his thoughts halted.

That would mean he'd have to confess to someone, came a thought that sank all the way to the bottom of his stomach.

But to who? Grandpa, or Gerald? He was closer to them than anyone else, and couldn't imagine spilling to anyone but them, and yet every fiber that made him revolted at the very prospect.

People keep secrets for a reason; or in his case, several.

And besides, what if telling them didn't make it any better, but made it worse? And what perspective or advice could they even give, anyway?

He knew what he'd done was wrong, he didn't need them to never let him live it down, or somehow worse, goad or press for details. Somehow, if this obsession did run its course (when it ran its course, he hastily amended) then when he did unload his secret, if he so chose, he could refer to it as something he'd already dealt with.

However the hell he would, anyway.

Even if (when) his obsession with her waned, he still couldn't think of any way to right what he'd done. How could he ever make up for all this?

Not by confessing to her, that's for sure. Jesus.

Normally Arnold was the type who'd own up and make up, who made the tough choices even when he struggled to do the right thing, but this? This was different.

And not just for the concern of his own self-preservation, but… as tough as she was, wouldn't learning something like this had happened, make her feel violated? Humiliated? Disturbed, and even unsafe, in her own home? In her own bedroom?

Just… fuck.

The thought of her ever feeling that way, and especially because he'd made the selfish choice to burden her just so he could get this off his chest? Made him want to crawl into the small dark space inside his desk and die.

And, Christ, how would that confession even go, anyway?

'Hey, Helga,' he mocked internally as he facepalmed miserably into his book, 'I know you hate my guts and everything, but did you know I broke into your house and jerked off in your closet while listening to you moan and fuck yourself? It was so goddamn hot I even came—but don't worry, it's not like I want you or anything. Oh, and I wiped my cum off your wall and floor with just my socks, but you're okay with that, right? Anyway, sorry about all that. Oh, and don't worry, it won't ever happen again!'

Arnold's forehead smacked against the surface of his text book, and suppressed a groan.

Fuck.

No.

If there was one thing he could get right about all this… it was doing everything he could to make sure it never got back to Helga.

Just as he vowed in that moment it would never happen, even if it meant taking this secret to the grave, the sound of their teacher repeating his name with growing impatience whipped his head up in a double take.

"Having a nice nap, Mr. Shortman?"

"Uh—what?" he asked sheepishly, his cheeks growing hot amidst the stifled snickers from his peers. "Sorry, uh. You were saying…?"

"As all your classmates can attest," his teacher gestured to the room, none too impressed, "we'll be closing this unit on ancient Empires with a final project, and you've all been assigned partners at random."

His eyes widened as Mr. Reid began filing down the rows and dropping project packets on to everyone's desks, his heart in his throat as his limited view of Helga's jumping leg, up a few seats from him, went eerily still.

Color drained from his face as he read the words at the top of his "Final Unit III Project: Autopsy of an Empire" packet once it was dropped unceremoniously onto his desk and read the name of his assigned partner:

Helga Pataki.

… … …

Author's Note: Special thanks to some buddies of mine when it came to writing this chap, you know who you are!

And in response to some of the comments/PMs I've gotten, may I say that I'm so pleased that you're eager to see the ending of this fic (which has now lengthened, again) That said, there's a method to my madness. Let me cook ;)