Red-faced and his beverage going down the wrong pipe, he couldn't have been more grateful for the whoops and clamor of the crowd, or she'd have surely heard his coughing fit. It didn't hurt that the ceiling light in their corner of the garage was broken and they were obscured by a throng of people, either. In a moment of sobering panic while Gerald smacked his back to clear his chest, he didn't think Helga could see him.

Arnold sank as low as he could into the cushions, anyway.

…God, come on, though, he sulked. Why did she have to come?

Couldn't he catch a fucking break?

His breath picked up as his feelings flared to anger, breaking him out in a sweat. Or maybe it was hot in here. All the bodies. Anyway, the sensation irked him further, particularly since he had been feeling so good before she arrived.

Now tonight was just another thing of his that she ruined.

He had half a mind to go up to the mic himself...

Gerald had asked him a question that didn't quite reach him, like if he was okay or something, and the air howled with shredded riffs and the low rumble of death growling into the mic.

Helga, growling.

A gravely sound that steadily grew in volume and intensified into a full-blown metal scream that had him pressing back against the couch and crunching his aluminum can as its force reverberated through him.

Whoa.

Partially blocking his view of her, the initial reactions from the other party-goers were shocked; 'I didn't know she could—' and, 'holy shit—' hitting his ears, but was quickly overcome with excitement. What he could see of Helga's face contorted in a howl, and the crowd hollered and whooped back as she belted out screaming lyrics no one could decipher but blew the room apart nonetheless.

His heart pounded in his chest from the unexpected display of wild, emotive power she projected. Unstoppable and raw, that wouldn't let a single person leave without knowing what always brewed inside her. Arnold took a shaky, irritable sip from his fourth beer.

He didn't need reminding.

"Daamn," Gerald drawled, impressed. "Girl can really scream, can't she? I mean, no shocker there, but, damn."

"Yeah," Arnold replied on automatic, but his eyes widened as his mind went on a filthy detour and had to adjust his pants. Fuck, he thought in exasperation, and clenched his leg muscles to redirect blood flow so hard they cramped.

Come on.

When she'd finished tearing through the mic and the music stopped, the crowd shouted back with howls and applause. She waved, but didn't let it go.

"I'm bowing out with a poem," came her dry announcement, and the dim off-mic sound of her speaking to the twins as she turned around. Arnold leaned to the side and caught a glimpse of the dark haired, mop-headed twin nodding back.

A few moments later an atmospherically low, ambient swell of electric guitar brought the volume of the room down to a dull, idle chatter, punctuated with hoots and whistles. The other twin joined shortly after with a quiet, accompanying percussion.

Arnold's head swam a bit, pulled in too many directions; the blood coming back to his brain, from the music, the booze, his temper, and dammit, his curiosity.

Whatever writing of Helga's she'd ever shared publicly, he'd liked, but it wasn't often. He knew through Phoebe, who was too busy to come, that there was much, much more she didn't attach her name to, and he'd always wondered why. And, as much as he couldn't stand her being there, or him staying, he couldn't resist the chance to hear it.

Gerald idled on his phone beside him, but he might as well have been in another world. Hidden and obscured, Arnold listened intently—as much as he could on his fourth beer, anyway, as she spoke in a lilting, melodic alto, her voice edged at times with a bite...and exhaustion.

...

I have a joke I'll share with you

And though I wish it weren't true

It's such a sad and sorry state

I'm sure a few appreciate

.

To live a lie and take its shape

For fear you'd let the truth escape

To guard a vigil with a fist

For a boy who doesn't notice it

.

But choices are for minds, not hearts

It's not mine to command

And when I'm in your presence

I just couldn't feel more damned

.

It suffocates to share your gaze

I won't feed it as it haunts

Yet for what starves will never die

Oh, no. It only wants.

.

The torch I've always held, you see

That you would never light for me

Don't need reminding, I'll pretend

.

And I will not do that again

And I will not do that again

.

The more I fight to set it free

The more it sinks its claws in me

A heart for you that makes me sick

A heart for you that makes me sick

.

Don't tease me with the hope you bring

Wings to delusion, I would cling

I can't stand to slight myself again

What's self-respect if not a plan?

.

The flickers on the altar

I beg they burn you out of me

A shrine that never shows its face

Knows its purpose couldn't be

.

Spare me this battered convalescence

The years are long and overdue

Free in spirit and in essence

Grant me a heart that's through with you

.

Yet I find only the desperate pray

I find only the desperate pray…

.

I'm in the writing on these walls

And I'll never tell you what they say

...

Some lazy 'yeah!'s and applause filled the air as Helga passed the mic back to the twins, who began packing up so the event could move onto whoever was performing next, but he could already hear the incredulous speculation that peppered through the crowd before he caught her exit up the stairs and out of the garage.

"No way, was that a love poem? Did she write that?"

"Really? Helga Pataki? You gotta be kidding."

Arnold, though relieved to see her gone, reeled as he shifted on the couch.

His brow furrowed as he tried to slowly process what he'd heard. He was already forgetting some of it, save a few parts that burned in his mind for some reason.

He was sure he'd gotten the gist, though.

If the poem was about her, then…she'd had feelings for a guy, for a long time, who didn't want her back. And it'd eaten her up. And for how long? What did she say?

Years?

…Wow.

And she felt more than just heartache, he was sure of it, though his thoughts were mushing together a bit, and he couldn't pinpoint the rest. Honestly, it floored him that Helga, of all people, would share a poem like that. Even if it was negative.

Arnold knocked a swig back and shook his head sourly as the thought of the other guy came to mind, and him not liking her back—how she'd suffered over him.

Asshole.

…Wait, what? Really? 'Asshole?' Did he just think that?

Why?

Still, even though it was like trying to push through molasses to make sense of it, the word repeated in his head with even more indignation and conviction. Yeah.

Asshole.

Arnold grimaced in confusion.

…Why did he care? He didn't care. He didn't even know them. And, what, was the guy just…supposed to like her back? Just to make her happy?

Was that what he wanted?

Arnold blinked and stared through his fourth beer, brows furrowing a crease up his forehead as something heavy built up inside him so much it started to hurt his chest—his head. Fuck.

He facepalmed and groaned.

Gerald hummed back. "Shit, I hear you, man. This poetry slam's just not my jam…" he then paused, and snorted. "Ha! That rhymed..."

Arnold set his can on the chest in front of him while knocking over the rest without meaning to. His mouth twisted in a hard frown as he swam in some kind of ugly sensation that overwhelmed to the point where he couldn't just stay put.

"Yeah, I—I'm set," he slurred a bit as he got up with a lurch and swayed, really feeling the booze hit him when he cast a look at his friend.

Gerald tipped his can at him.

"Wanna bounce?"

… … …

Some stumbled flights of stairs and a haphazard piss break later, they stepped out onto the roof access. The night air was unseasonably warm for spring, but at least it was clear. They idled their way across the tar and gravel surface and sat down, leaning their backs against the ledge.

Gerald popped another can, and Arnold noticed he didn't have another one for himself. Shit, he should really drink some water—or just douse himself with it at this point, wash the sweat off, make him feel better, who knows.

He just…didn't feel well.

"Hey, Arnold… Hey. Hey!"

"W–what?" Arnold stuttered, surprised by Gerald's shout. He didn't really hear him the first time.

"You alright, buddy?"

"What? Oh, uh. I'm fine," he handwaved, looking away evasively.

He did not want to talk about this, but his friend didn't relent.

"You sure don't look fine," Gerald replied, sipping his can.

"Well, I am fine, alright?" Arnold snapped his hands out, staggered. "I'm totally fucking fine."

"Whoa!" Gerald reared back, looking him up and down. "Man, normally you're a chill drunk. The hell's got you all riled up?"

"Nothing," Arnold scowled, rubbing his face. It felt hot and words kept falling out of it, and he was starting to care less.

…Fuck it.

Fuck this.

He can say that, right? Yeah. Everyone already knows she's horrible. Gerald knows. Fuck.

"Ugh. It's just—fucking Helga."

"Helga? Oh, she still bustin' your balls on that history thing?"

"God! I wish she didn't come tonight," Arnold spat out, and buried his face in his hands.

It was just—too mucking fuch. Fucking much. Fuck.

He was so upset and there were too many feelings, other feelings he. Ugh.

Arnold's chest heaved with all of them, their force blowing his words out.

"Nobody drives me crazy like she does…"

There was silence, and he didn't think anything of it. Not until he eventually slid his hands down his face and looked at Gerald, who'd fixed him with an unwavering, odd look he couldn't place. Arnold's eyes thinned in question as he stared back to try and recognize it.

But, when he did, his jaw slacked with a kind of dawning, open horror.

What followed was an escalating, non-verbal exchange as Gerald slowly stood while shaking his head, bug-eyed. And Arnold, without breaking eye contact, shook his head back and pressed against the ledge behind him like he could escape through it if he just willed his body hard enough.

He kept shaking his head, unable to even conjure a retort, as Gerald started, stopped, started again with wide, speechless gestures, and reeled with open-mouthed incredulity, throwing his hands out.

"...Pataki?!"

Arnold gulped.

Twice.

"It's—not like I actually like her, or anything—"

"Nobody," Gerald led off, finger pointed to the air in emphasis, "said you did."

A silent beat passed.

"...Good," Arnold slurred back, cemented to the spot, eyes wide, "because I don't."

The world around him began to tilt and turn his stomach, but Arnold waited and watched, refusing to move a single muscle as he was awarded with a long pause.

The white of Gerald's eyes caught the ambient city light as he slowly wiped his mouth and nodded, breaking the silence with a low, tipsy chuckle that turned to a broken cackle, that carried as the moment dragged.

"...Whatever you say, Arnold."

Tipping his beer can at him and downing it, Gerald shook his head, and blew out a gust of breath in a whistle on his way back to the roof access.

The door had hardly shut by the time Arnold pulled away from the ledge, wobbled half-way to his feet, and vomited off the roof.

… … …

"It's just school, Grandpa."

Arnold had always more or less considered himself an approachable, easy-going kid, who could share what was going on with him when he really needed it. And, when his grandparents occasionally joked that when he hit his teen years those days would be over, he had every confidence that wouldn't be the case.

But now, as close in heart to them as he ever was, even he could sense that rift.

He was hung over, (lightweight, grumbled his thoughts) in a foul mood, and distant when his grandpa remarked that he hadn't been himself lately.

And he knew he wasn't fooling them, yet the added guilt Arnold felt when his grandpa respected his privacy anyway, and reminded him they were always there for him if he ever needed to talk, dug under his skin…

Dammit, he thought as he repaired the old, stuck door to the basement, and not for the first time. He didn't used to be like this.

This was all Helga's fault.

Everything was.

He hadn't even jerked off to her that morning—not at all. Just skipped all that for a cold shower, over-the-counter meds for his throbbing headache, breakfast, and now a list of neglected maintenance and repairs throughout the old boarding house.

He chugged water to stave off his symptoms, but spent a miserable day pushing away the aches anyway, and the thoughts that threatened to encroach from last night.

After oiling and unsticking more doors, deodorizing their smelly washing machine, and spray-covering ceiling stains, which took up the rest of his late-start morning, he gave up patching one of the cracked drywalls in a spare room to take a nap. He'd slept like crap that night. More dreams than usual, occupied by stress for his grandparents, college.

And, of course, her blonde, unibrowed menace.

Arnold thought back to the poem she'd shared last night, what he remembered of it. He didn't have any memory gaps, per se, and he didn't have the best auditory memory even when he was sober—but some of the lines just…stuck.

Even without being in the same…position as her, there were parts he couldn't help but relate to.

.

The more I fight to set it free

The more it sinks its claws in me

.

God. His obsession.

.

I can't stand to slight myself again

What's self-respect if not a plan?

.

The scolding, shameful reprimands that made him swear so many times it would be the last time the memories formed from her invaded privacy made him cum, and yet—

.

I'm in the writing on these walls

And I'll never tell you what they say

.

Christ. How, even if Helga didn't hate him, he could never tell her.

Any of it.

And there was another line, how did it go? Something like, only desperate people pray?

Arnold facepalmed, brow pressing hard into his hand.

He had.

Despite his exhaustion, he struggled sleeping that night, reached his hand down, and finally gave in.

Even though he tried so hard to push her out of mind, let his orgasm belong to anyone but her for once, the fleeting, intrusive memories he had of her were enough to take him over the edge. God dammit. But, at least, it helped his sleep.

But not his dreams.

… … …

Author's Note: Do you think Helga's poem holds some clues?

Very excited to post the next chapter soon, it's my favorite chapter so far…and keeping these updates shorter really helps me put out content regularly, and helps keep up my steam on this slow burn. (And trust me. Burn, it will.)

All your feedback fuels me so much, too! Thanks so much for the comments! I read every one and love em :) BTW, here's a roof scene outtake:

Gerald: "Helga? What do you mean, man? All she ever does is pick on you, and call you names, and yell at you, and—you're getting hard right now, aren't you?!"