Wild, how just the sight of a girl's name could stop his heart.

But the force in which it raced back up to speed rattled painfully in his chest, tightened with shallow breath as a torched heat blasted all the way from his coiled guts to his wide-struck eyes and broke out of him in a cold, anxious sweat.

No.

Arnold's gaze flickered up from the damned history packet and up to her unnervingly straight back a few seats up from him as he fought to control his breathing, and dammit, this can't happen.

There was no way.

None of the words their teacher said made it to his ears, the sounds all just a fuzzy din as he contemplated an unthinkable prospect:

Working. With Helga.

Being around her. Talking to her.

The reality of it was so much that the idea of being paired with her didn't even make him hard. No.

He had to talk to the teacher. He had to stop this.

This just couldn't happen.

Practically vibrating in his seat with his bag at the ready by the time the bell rang, he erupted from his seat, but his opportunity to wave down Mr. Reid had already been taken.

By her, in fact, having rushed toward him, shoulders domineering and gesturing animatedly with her back turned. He couldn't see their teacher's face or make out anything she said through the commotion of their classmates packing up and taking their leave, but he didn't need to guess what the topic she heatedly discussed was about. He watched with bated breath and a small rise of hope.

Which was promptly dampened when she went silent, tightened her fists… and stalked out the door.

Arnold swallowed and attempted to calm himself and somehow breathe in the daunting vacuum that she left with her absence.

Their teacher typed something on their laptop and then looked up over the rim of his glasses as Arnold gingerly approached.

"Let me guess, you don't want to be Ms. Pataki's partner, either?"

A twitch ran through his shoulder. He adjusted his bag and was cut off before he had a chance to speak.

"Well, I'm afraid that's too bad, Mr. Shortman. As I was just telling your assigned partner, I won't be making any swaps. Really," he drawled, cocking a wrinkled brow pointedly before resuming his typing. "If there's one thing you kids need to learn before going out in the real world, it's how to get along with people you don't like."

Arnold's brow knit, a protest at the tip of his tongue but one he had to revise.

"What if she won't work with me?" he asked, though it was honestly the least of his worries. He just needed some reason that didn't detail his real problem.

The fact that it was probably true didn't hurt, either.

Mr. Reid shrugged.

"Well, part of the grade is a reflection of how well you can work with others. And keep in mind, Mr. Shortman," he elaborated with a tired sigh, the rings under his eyes pronounced as ever as he looked away, "this project counts as 25% of your final grade. So I suggest trying to make it work with her."

Frustration and unease bristled across his face.

He didn't necessarily expect all the faculty to know him, but he could work well with others. He did, often—he even had a reputation for it.

But Helga had always been different. And even with the times he worked with her in the past, he certainly couldn't now.

And beyond that, he'd nearly overlooked a detail he'd just heard that caused his brain to stutter and rewind.

"...25%?" he repeated hesitantly, hoping he heard the figure wrong.

Mr. Reid cast him another pointed look, and turned away, ordering Arnold's departure with a lazy finger gun toward the door.

… … …

Arnold was tense.

Not an unusual feeling, particularly as of late, but one that was compounded with a vexing heaviness that weighed him down as he let his bag fall to his side and dropped into a chair.

And hid behind his hands as he knuckled his forehead for a spell, before whipping out his headphones just to keep anyone from talking to him. He didn't even think to play anything as he slapped the world history packet on his desk so at least the teachers would think he was doing something during study hall.

He didn't want to have to rely on his grandparents any more than he had to.

Arnold had decent grades, but he needed to protect the scores going out on his transcripts next month if he wanted his best shot at whatever admissions and scholarships he could get. And sure, his math and science scores were high, as well as art to boot, which were good for architecture—but he wasn't ready to rule out political science, either. And going out with a D, or, depending on the Mr. Reid's grade scale, an F on his final history class, would definitely raise eyebrows and narrow his shots.

And true, maybe that wouldn't be the case if he'd cast a wide net, but his prospects had to be local, because there was just no way he could leave his grandparents and the boarding house, no matter how spry or unconcerned they were.

They were in their nineties.

There was no way he could just leave.

And they'd already given up their whole retirement for him. He couldn't imagine them covering him for college, or that the savings he'd built up working odd jobs in summer months would add up to much.

Arnold cast a wary look at the packet with her name on it.

…Maybe he could just do this all by himself.

Opening it up and reading through the summary and requirements, his frown deepened.

…No. The project structure wouldn't allow it.

Or the workload, shit. And even if he could, it was too much to do in a two week deadline with everything else, and.

…Shit.

He really would have to work with Helga.

Breathing like the room had collapsed around the small space surrounding his desk, he swallowed, anxious and hot in that trapped space.

He fell back in his chair, a glassy stare taking in nothing as it shot across the distance of the study hall and all the classmates socializing and studying within it; in a pocket world amongst theirs, cut off and oblivious to his plight.

He had no idea how he was going to pull this off, but, fuck.

He'd have to.

You just have to do this.

… … …

Arnold approached his locker like a dead man walking after the final bell rang, and stood, zoning out inside his door as he wished once again that he could just lock himself inside it until graduation.

God, he'd have to talk to her…

Good luck, replied the voice in his head.

He knocked his forehead against the metal frame of his locker in response. Twice.

Anyway, that voice followed up. Damned if you do and damned if you don't, right?

…Right.

Might as well be now or never.

Shutting the door and forgetting what he even went there for in the first place, and figuring he'd remember it before he left, he cast a hesitant, searching gaze at the daily flurry of activity down the hall.

Then flinched as he caught sight of Helga, chatting with Phoebe and Lila, as she absently unpeeled one of the bananas they had for lunch with utter nonchalance. And, despite himself, stared with brainless anticipation as she tore down the last piece, and when its tip disappeared into her mouth he had to physically turn his heel and walk in the other direction in order to look away, his bag guarding his front.

Arnold sighed with an exasperated grimace as he marched to the boys' restroom and took up a stall, knowing full well he wouldn't be able to resist long enough to get home first.

…Tomorrow.

He could talk to her tomorrow.

And at some point, even rolled his eyes as he took care of himself as quietly as he could.

Sure. With the loosest pants he owned and his dick taped to his thigh, that was.

Fuck.

… … …

He hung around her locker the next morning like he was waiting for a life sentence.

Despite his restless, trembling nerves, he couldn't even bring himself to pace, everything in him seeking groundedness as he focused on his sneakers and felt like his whole weight could sink through the tiled floor.

God, just let the ground take him.

Arnold was typically optimistic, the sort to keep hope and solutions in mind. And, reminding himself of that, he'd psyched himself out that morning as best he could despite praying his skylight would fall in on him, preparing the spiel he'd agonized over the night before as he switched from push-ups to burpees. Redirect blood flow, and keep the mind clear.

And, it didn't hurt that he already came five times before he left.

Sure, he was on a fast track to breaking his sixer-limit that day, but if there were a morning he ever needed to drain his pipes, this was it. And, well, morning came hours earlier than usual, a 4am start after a night of poor, fitful sleep and catastrophic dreams, but hey, you know what? He at least got some sleep. It could've been worse.

Could've been way better, though, came the irresistibly bitter thought nonetheless as he glared at Mr. Reid's door down the hall. And I guess we'll see how much 'worse' it can get, too.

Arnold closed his eyes and prayed against the worst scenarios that came to mind.

Or not, he amended in earnest. Please.

He bit his lip to brace through sick-stomached dread as he waited, and at the numb cold of the wrapped, makeshift ice pack in his boxer briefs, thankful that he'd found a way to make his pants hang discreetly nonetheless.

But as other students started filing through the hall in droves, it was the sharpness in her gaze when it locked on him standing in front of her locker that froze him on the spot.

The longer the moment stalled the more his head emptied and took his prepared pitch along with it; something about how they could get the project done while interacting as little as possible, leaving him airless and dumbstruck as Helga stonily approached and avoided direct eye contact. Her features were bold and unkempt, looking as underslept as he was, and the back of his mind conjured an image of her pacing and writing late into the night, possessed by whatever it was that drove her.

God, she's gorgeous, he thought anyway; in despair.

And perplexed, that while he'd never found her ugly, he'd never found her so captivating before recently, either. Despite knowing each other their whole lives, practically? Had he always been so blind to her, and stupid? Just because of her barbs, and a wall of dry sarcasm?

Has everyone?

Arnold meant to block her locker and force her hand, to not give an inch until she'd at least given one herself and conversed for once, but to his surprise he'd taken a step back without realizing it, no doubt at the projected force of her unspoken demand for space as she advanced. But still, it wasn't enough to open it.

And when she got unavoidably close, her eyes were thinned to slits at the metal door; and not just in anger, but to see even less of him, he realized.

His mouth opened like he was about to speak—but stupidly, he felt, as all his words felt stolen. So he tried twice, and again, and when he swallowed with intention to just push through this damn barrier and talk already, she beat him to the punch.

He flinched at the quiet iciness in her voice like it'd bitten him when she spoke.

"Move it, Shortman."

Arnold swallowed again, his breath uneven as he took another unwitting step back, something in him seizing at the use of his surname. He couldn't believe there'd come a day where he preferred her old temper, or that he'd miss being called any one of her old, annoying nicknames for him.

Even Football Head.

Gathering himself as best he could, he worked out the words lodged in his throat, sounding shaken and quiet.

"Look, Helga, I—"

"If this is about Mr. Reid's class, forget it. No way in hell I'm working with you."

She doesn't even look at him when she said it; cut out of sight.

His heart hammered at her rejection, and he shook his head. However unexpected, it kicked something up in him he couldn't name, and had no defense for feeling. Bowled over momentarily and unsure what to make of himself, he made another attempt.

"But, we can't do this without—working together. So—"

"Right, so it's not gonna get fucking done then, is it?"

She slammed her locker shut, and took off down the hall.

…No, he thought, his guts dropping.

No, that can't be.

As he shook his head in protest, that nameless feeling of his caught fire, flaring his chest with a rising anger he hadn't expected and sending a blustering heat to his face.

It even broke through his nerves, raising his voice as he hollered after her.

"Oh, come on, Helga! We'll get an F!" He threw his hands out. "You'll get an F!"

Helga spat her reply with her back turned as she stalked off to her first class:

"Worth it!"

… … …

Look at our little boy scout being a model of preparedness lately, even managing to talk to Helga without popping a boner! Do you think his regimen is sustainable? ;)

Also, thanks so much for everyone's comments so far, they're insanely motivating for me to continue this fic!