Author's note: Hey guys! Ready for some Truth Cast cameos? ;) I figure, it's my AU, so, why not!

… … …

Depends on how you approach her, huh?

Right, however that was.

Every approach he'd made had been brushed off. Bargaining or calls to reason while she stalked away amounted to nothing, and neither did his last and most humiliating attempt, when he practically begged her down the length of a hallway.

Offshoots of doomed ideas were crumpled up and tossed one by one, occupying the crossed-out margins of his notebooks and his thoughts all the way to his last morning period that day, Visual Arts. He found himself erasing the marks he'd absently made during his warmups.

Directionless at the start of their free study that day, he started drawing Helga without meaning to. The eraser couldn't go deep enough; her imprint on the paper light, but just the same.

He tore it out, balled it in his fists, and chucked it in the trash.

You are not going to draw her.

He couldn't quite tell why—it wasn't like there weren't more damning lines he'd already crossed—but there was something about the idea of crossing this one that felt more…threatening, somehow. An area that he absolutely shouldn't touch.

She's just another obsession of yours.

A phase. And it doesn't mean anything.

It's one thing to jerk off, but taking your time drawing her, would be…

Arnold shook his head and flipped his drawing mat to a fresh page.

It's not like he'd been drawing much lately, anyway.

Arnold frowned, and in a moment of strained reluctance, finally admitted to himself he'd been avoiding his sketchbook ever since that day at her place. And then tried not to dwell beyond that. Besides, he thought, as his new drawing took up the page; he'd been busy, hadn't he?

I guess you could say my hands have been 'occupied,' he mused sardonically. Then rolled his eyes, unimpressed with himself.

Sour-stomached and making a conscious effort to keep his breath even and steady, he relented to the fact that he really didn't have any good (or appropriate) ideas, and sagged in his chair. Arnold dropped his charcoal pencil to the table, giving up on his observational study for now, of the large, two-story interior that made up their school's art department; another piece for his portfolio.

And something else he had to worry about.

He couldn't decide which major he wanted, but he didn't want to limit his options, given he liked so many subjects, and felt like he could dabble in a little bit of everything. On the other hand, social sciences, humanitarian affairs, urban planning and architecture interested him especially. That said, few colleges nearby offered all those subjects.

Some schools would open doors, while closing others; and he didn't know what would be open to him. Especially if Helga bombed his history score on his upcoming transcript.

Either way, he knew architecture schools sometimes requested portfolio submissions, and he wanted to be ready, just in case.

Arnold heaved a sigh, and let his gaze travel absently to the source of black metal he heard from above. It played from the loft at a volume that was too low for the teacher to care, but just loud enough to clash with the class playlist.

Then paused as he recognized two guy friends of Helga's he never interacted with talking by the lofts ledge, their conversation muted by the din of their music.

It was the twins.

Arnold watched them, sitting on the fence with two choices.

The first one was obvious—he could just ignore them.

That said…

They were likely alone, as the loft was normally cramped with equipment and supplies, and they kept a small crowd; none of whom were present. And, unlike Phoebe, he had a feeling their lips weren't quite as sealed…And, he had to admit, the more distant Helga had grown while meshing with her new alternative group of friends, the more he recognized how helpful it might be to talk to someone from that part of her life...

Not that he trusted them, of course. Or liked them, even though he couldn't put his finger on why, exactly; it's not like they were the only guys who pulled pranks.

…Still. Maybe he could get something useful out of them. And besides, how could he make things even worse? After all.

It's not like Helga didn't already hate him.

Restless, and before he could talk himself out of it, he was already making his way up the stairs.

And crushed down the odd, intrusive observations that quipped from the back of his mind: That they were guys, guys closer to Helga than he was, and at ease around her when he wasn't. Like that mattered. And yeah, of course they'd be, if they were friends of hers, so…

Why are you still thinking about it?

He shook the thoughts from his head as he made it to the top of the stairs.

Despite his resolve, when he came up to the landing he was overcome with a mortifying wave of embarrassment, and stalled.

When it became obvious that he hadn't come up there to get something, but for them, the twins paused, eyes widening as they stared back.

In that moment their names finally sprung to mind; Ivan and Isaac.

But as for who was who, he had no idea. And as the weird stand-off tension only grew painfully stronger amidst the shrieking vocals from their music, he hoped he wouldn't have to ask.

He swallowed when they slowly grinned and leaned back in their chairs, crossing their arms in assessment. They eyed him with an amused interest that felt more focused than it should—like they already knew they had the upper hand; whatever his reason for being there.

The twin with a black mop of hair arched a brow at him pointedly to speak.

He knew there was a reason he didn't like these guys. Arnold cleared his throat and recovered, though he had mostly doubts that they'd be helpful at this point.

"Hey, you guys are friends with Helga…right?"

Their pierced eyebrows shot up. There was a pause; then the twin with messy black and red-dyed hair under their hoodie finally spoke.

"...Yeah?"

"Look, I wanna—" Arnold stopped and started again, feeling stupid but going for it. "We got paired up in history, and I was wondering if you guys have… any idea how I can get her to work with me?"

He resisted glaring at their resultant chuckles and the look they shared with each other.

"Wow," the dark-haired twin shook his head and grinned. "Is Mr. 'Let's Just Get Along' himself really asking us how to…get along?"

Arnold deadpanned.

"Right? Aren't you the kind of guy who can make friends with practically anyone? Well," the other twin shrugged and paused the music, which made it easier to concentrate, "present company excluded, obviously. And Frida, of course."

"Frida?" he repeated despite himself, and hoped he didn't sound as irked as he felt.

They smirked and chuckled again, showing teeth.

"What're you, mad, thinking we're making fun of her?"

"Freakin' white knight…"

Arnold bristled.

That was one of the things she'd called him, too. Rather than acknowledging it, he put his palms out and reined it back. "...And you're not?" he challenged.

"Oh, we are," the dark-haired twin admitted so cavalierly it drove him nuts. "But it's okay, we can call her that."

"Yeah, see, 'cause we're her friends. You'd get that, if you were, too."

"And clearly, you are not."

Arnold controlled his breath, but was sure he'd lost the battle to keep his irritation off his face. Looking at him only seemed to entertain them more.

Though he'd have just told her to ignore any comments like that in the past, he had a much lower tolerance for hearing anyone mock Helga's looks lately—even if she never heard them, or cared. He cared.

Arnold paused a moment, going inward. That wasn't weird or anything, right?

He frowned and averted his gaze.

"...I was," he replied; quieter; more bitter than he'd have liked.

When he looked back the twins were sharing a disagreeing grimace, and noticed their fingernails were painted black when they replied with half-handed gestures.

"Were you…?"

"I mean, you were always glaring at her."

"See? And now you're doing it to us. Is it any shock that we're not friends?"

"I'm not—" he threw his hands out with an incredulous scoff, his forehead furrowing, "I'm not glaring, I'm just. I'm serious."

The twin with the mop of dark hair sucked his cheek dubiously, then flashed a barbell tongue piercing, pulling the end thoughtfully between his teeth.

Then shrugged.

"If you say so."

Ugh. Couldn't he keep that thing inside his mouth?

The other twin shrugged as well, but kept shaking his head.

"I don't. I think you look like you're pissed at her. Like, all the time."

Arnold heaved an exhale.

"Well, yeah," he granted in exasperation. "Lately, she's been—"

"No, no, I mean like, all the time."

He started, taken off guard by the twin's shift; they'd insisted on the point without a trace of airs or amusement.

"Well, okay. Maybe not, like, literally all the time," he amended under his breath, pushing his messy dyed hair back into his hoodie. "But like, honestly? That's always been your default, dude. I mean—as long as we've been here."

There was something about the way the other twin paused and nodded that closed his throat and any protest he may have voiced.

Arnold's arms dropped, dumbstruck.

He didn't even know what to say.

It was one thing to be mocked on top of everything else. But to be told something like that, and in a way he had a hard time dismissing as bullshit, even when it came from one of them…?

Still, though…sure, before all this, and even before the fight at the cabin, Helga could drive him up the wall like no one else, but…the very thought that he'd been giving her looks like that all this time without even realizing it didn't even make sense…

Then again, who'd even call him out on it? Gerald? Since when was he ever surprised that Helga had ticked him off? But, it definitely wasn't most of the time, since she'd eased off so much since junior high, so…

…Why would he have been so mad?

"So, yeah," the twin with the hoodie shrugged, before the corners of his lips pricked up in a crooked grin. "Maybe if you want someone to work with you, you should take that stick outta your ass."

Arnold frowned.

"And maybe don't act like you're always so right all the time," his twin added with nonchalance, leaning back in his chair with his hands laced behind his head.

"No, I don't—" he ejected his retort; it was automatic, "I don't do that."

The twin faux-gasped and turned to the other, who gaped with fake disbelief in return.

"Oh, look! We must be wrong, and he's right again! Do you wanna come by more and tell us how to fix all our problems, too?"

Arnold rolled his eyes and scowled as his reply came off the cuff.

"Is that what she's still mad about?"

The twins went oddly quiet, unreadable, and paused.

"What do you think?"

He hesitated in a moment of self-debate as he considered just how far he was willing to go down that road.

"...What do you know?" he fished, guard up. "Isn't how she feels obvious?"

The twins looked at each other, something passing between them that was detestably irritating to watch. Something like an old joke they shared among themselves that involved knowledge that was clearly relevant, but that he knew they wouldn't care to explain.

"Not a lot," came the evasive, drained reply, "but enough."

There was a wall in him that Arnold knew better than to let down, but it was already brimming over, and he let it blow out with exasperation.

"I said I was sorry," he said, throwing his hands out, "I don't know—I've tried apologizing, and it just doesn't seem to work."

"Well, I dunno," the dark-haired twin replied mildly, with a mocking lift to his features, "have you tried… being better at it?"

Arnold shot a dirty look across the room and pushed a sigh through his nose for patience; though in truth, it wasn't for their jab.

"...I don't know what she wants..."

He lingered there for a moment before sliding his gaze back to the twins.

And took a double-take.

Christ, it was unsettling, the way they bored those dark eyes of theirs right into him. How long had they been looking at him like that, anyway? He flushed with frustration when the moment hung and their stares didn't relent. And staring at him like, what, like he was clueless or something?

Clueless about what? What the hell do they know that I don't?

Do they even know anything? God, what do you wanna bet they don't even know anything, and they've just been messing around with me this whole time...

Assholes.

"Well. She does what she wants," the dark-haired one said with emphasis, letting up at last, then frowned. "I guess, so…" he added, under his breath.

What does he mean, 'I guess so'? Of course she always does what she wants—it was one of the most insufferable things about her!

Arnold crossed his arms, shaking his head in a moment of scorn for the lot of them. And, when he turned back, he gave them a hard, proper look of his own; and didn't even care that he compared themselves to him while he did so, however petty.

They were clearly night owls, underslept eyes shadowed enough to look bruised, but wily and alert. Unlike him, they were the furthest thing from athletic, but were long-limbed, and carried themselves with sly ease that always rubbed him the wrong way; smiling too easily and in a manner others might find funny, but he could never trust.

Pranksters, saboteurs and bad influences.

No wonder someone like Helga would like them.

"No doubt about that," Arnold muttered with disdain. And a question he kept pushing back prickled once again at the edge of his mind's periphery as he returned a look at them.

…Who was she thinking about, when he overheard her through her closet door?

And, another unwanted thought encroached that was beneath him, that he didn't want to think about, and shouldn't have been cared to think about:

Was it one of them?

"So, no real advice, and just giving me crap, is that it? How well do you guys even know her, anyway? I mean," he scoffed, casting his eye away from them as he ventured despite himself, "are either of you guys close…?"

It was a question that made him cringe the instant he asked, with that weird flop in his stomach it caused. Why did he ask? But the second his eyes met theirs he paled, and wished like nothing else that he could take it back.

Their demeanor had completely shifted, leaning forward in their seats with a keen interest he knew was at his complete and utter expense.

Fuck.

"Why do you ask?" the dark-haired twin asked, eyes alight in a way that made Arnold want to hide. "You wondering if we're into her or something?"

"And why would you care?" asked the other twin, coming in just as strong.

Arnold stumbled on a sputtered retort, but the twin in the hoodie shrugged indifferently and cut him off before he could correct their presumption.

"Well, you don't have to worry about me. I like cock and balls."

Arnold's eyes widened, nonplussed. And, just as he caught himself staring at the other twin on autopilot like he was waiting for his answer—because, holy crap, that was rude—the dark-haired twin tossed his shoulder and dismissed the unintended pressure with a handwave.

"I hate everyone."

"That's…cool," Arnold replied with a slow, processing nod, feeling too wrong-footed to even deny he'd been worried about them liking Helga in the first place. Because of course he didn't.

Right.

After a moment the twin with the dark mop of hair sighed, parting his hands like a compromise.

"Look, if I was gonna give you any more advice?" he began, measuring his words. "Then, I'd say… she's never gonna talk to you if she can help it."

Arnold frowned incredulously.

"...How is that advice?"

His question awarded him a long, pointed look, before they unpaused their black metal, swiveled away in their chairs, and ignored him.

And Arnold, on his awkward return to his art station, began slotting the pieces together, and looked at the overcast day out the window in a moment of realization.

If she'd never talk to him if she could help it…

…Then he'd have to find a way where she couldn't.

… … …

…Of course, how the hell was he gonna do that?

Arnold facepalmed in the bathroom stall—of course all the first scenarios he considered on how to set up a situation where she couldn't refuse to talk were contaminated by his fucking dick.

He let his mind wander through his ideas again in the brief, post-nut clarity that was afforded to him; most of which were also, quite honestly, bad.

But the most rejected thought was one he'd managed to keep down since his whole issue with her even started.

He tried not to think about how the concept of kissing her made him feel, or how the even filthiest thoughts he had were more welcome than that, and shoved that down, too.

It's okay, you're just obsessed.

It was moments like this he wished he could ask for help.

He could do, what? Lock her in a room with him? Broom closet? And how could he stop her from leaving? Would he hide the key? And what if he wound up being just as trapped as her?

The idea of being trapped with her was heart-racing, and…mortifying. And for once, he wasn't even worried about what she might do to him.

He reeled from the self-questioning and judgment that came with that insight.

I mean, come on…do I really think I wouldn't be able to keep my hands to myself? Even if she got right in my face, or got physical with me…?

No.

Of course not.

How could he even ask that? There was no chance. He could never.

But…

Arnold dropped his head in his hands with a suppressed groan.

But, the truth was, he still didn't trust himself to not do something stupid if he were with her in private. He didn't know what, exactly, but dammit, he didn't know what to make of that. And he hadn't done a great job of earning his own trust in himself lately, either.

…No. If he was going to force her hand, it needed to be in a more public setting. And one where either one of them could get away from each other, if need be.

But how…?

He didn't even try to hide his stare toward her in the cafeteria later. Didn't care if others noticed, particularly when Gerald and Phoebe already knew what a nightmare she was being. Though, the look his ex, Candace, shot him as she passed by wasn't quite expected, giving him a moment's pause before shrugging her off and resuming his watch.

And, to his complete surprise, an opportunity presented itself.

Helga, after pulling belongings out of her bag to look for something, rushed to stuff everything back in, dropped a book without realizing it, and left. And no one noticed.

Except him.

Pushing against the current of bodies leaving the cafeteria, he went over to the table, bent surreptitiously, and swiped it off the floor.

It was immediately clear that it wasn't a textbook, or even a notebook. It was, unmistakably, a journal.

Bound in black leather and wrapped shut with a thick, pink thread to match its trim, its seal was tied off in a loop that hung a small trinket at its end—like a locket.

Arnold swallowed shakily as he watched himself stuff the journal into his bag, heart hammering in his chest.

Yeah…

She'd definitely notice this was gone…