… … …
Of course he woke up to morning wood.
It was common before, but it happened all the time now, ever since the incident. From the uncomfortable, damp stain on his boxer briefs he could tell he'd had a wet dream. But, sure enough, there he was, hard again, anyway. God.
Every.
Fucking.
Day.
He took care of it as quickly as possible, tried focusing solely on the sensation, but at the end what made him get off was the memory of her cries when he overheard her getting off, too.
Arnold facepalmed for a while after, leaning over his knees.
This obsession was…out of hand.
Push-ups, burpees, a cold shower, breakfast, homework, lunch, and chores occupied him all the way to mid-afternoon. And Arnold, though no longer hung-over but still in a foul mood, ignored notifications from friends and poured himself into repairs again.
He only had so many cracks left to patch before he went to tackle the next wall, which had sustained damage beyond repair by a tenant they unfortunately had to evict. And, with Mr. Potts visiting his infirm mother that weekend, and his Grandpa holed up in the basement bathroom as usual, Arnold was left with a task he was more in the spirit to do than ever.
Demo.
The first track shuffled on his bebop playlist built in intensity, until the jazz blared through his headphones as he cut the length of a molding seam, pocketed his utility knife, and grabbed a crowbar.
The music was boisterous, punchy; well suited for this kind of work. Distractedly rough, and selected for this very reason—he wanted the noise to drown him out. But, despite the cacophony, as he hammered the claw of the crowbar between the wall and the floor molding to tear it off, she wound up snared on the line of his thoughts again, anyway.
Arnold scowled.
It pissed him off so much, that after being such a pain to deal with and leaving him in such an unfair spot, that he had to sit there the other night and listen to Helga spout off some sad, 'sympathetic' poem.
And go figure she'd cast herself in that light.
He scoffed.
So sorry the guy you likedoesn't like you back after all this time, Helga, he thought nastily, marking the spots on the wall with a wire tracer so he wouldn't mess up the electrical. Which, unlike his Grandpa last time they demoed, had forgotten to turn off and nearly started a fire. He slid the tracer across the floor, put on a pair of safety glasses, and grabbed a hammer. Arnold braced his weight, swung back, and smashed its head through the wall.
Now, have you ever maybe wondered why he never liked you back?
SMASH
Do you think that's a total mystery?
SMASH
Are you actually surprised?
SMASH
Maybe most people somehow manage to miss the fact that you're so gorgeous—
SMASH
But they sure as shit don't miss what a fucking heel you are!
SMASH
Let alone how your walls are always thrown up!
SMASH
You're selfish.
SMASH
Mean-spirited.
SMASH
Insufferable!
SMASH
And I'd give anything to not feel like—!
SMASH
SMASH
SMASH
Arnold panted against the busted wall, dusted in particles, and stopped, the percussive chaos in his ears fading to dissonance. He looked through the messy floor and sighed.
She has to know.
She has to know she's—difficult. She knows that. Or at least knows other people can absolutely find her—
In a fleeting moment that crunched his stomach, he thought back to the smothered, sobbing sounds she made while she came that last time, and entertained a thought that made him sick.
He knew from some of the guys that their girlfriends sometimes cried during sex; 'just overwhelmed' being the most common explanation he'd heard—but, in those cases, it was because it was so good. He figured much the same when he heard her make those sounds.
But…what if that's not why she made them?
He closed his eyes, brows furrowing as he repeated his thought he had toward the guy on mic night; whoever he was, and ignored whether or not it was fair to think so:
Asshole.
Arnold frowned, and wondered if what he'd said at the cabin had made her feelings about the guy's disinterest in her even worse. He facepalmed.
Asshole, he thought again; this time to himself.
And, come on…it's not like he was forced to listen to her poem…
He shook his head, readied his hammer, and resumed his work along the length of the wall.
SMASH
SMASH
SMASH
…Even if it were peanuts in the grand scheme of things, what he said couldn't have helped.
SMASH
Even so, he'd already taken the worst of it back—how it was wrong, anger in the heat of the moment. Something he didn't mean. And, dammit…
SMASH
Arnold figured, with his track record as a peacekeeper, mediator, and a sought-after source of advice by his peers, that he knew how to at least give a decent apology. Or at least a decent-enough one.
And at this point, he'd given her a few.
SMASH
He steamed over it, just the same. Resented her unforgiving, vindictive, insufferable nature, the tight spot she left him in, his obsession toward her.
SMASH
SMASH
SMASH
And, he wondered on an odious whim, if she could just learn to be happy for once, would she still act so miserably toward him?
SMASH
It occurred to him rather bluntly as he let the hammer drop, that her being happy would likely be in his best interest.
Putting on a mask and reaching through the holes he'd put in the wall to pull down the rest by hand, he speculated about the unknown guy she had her heart set on. Wondered if she could be happy, if she finally got over him.
Or, hell, what if the guy finally fell for her?
Arnold slowed down; it was suddenly so much harder to breathe, and figured it was just the mask. Or the pluming clouds of dust. But, then…why did his chest hurt?
Man, it—really hurt.
He shook it off, continuing his demo despite it. Maybe he just inhaled some debris before remembering to mask up.
Tearing down whole sections of drywall with his hands, he felt the resistance through his gloves and had to grab his crowbar again to wrench down the stubborn areas. As the mess built up around him, his flannel and jeans covered in debris and frayed pieces of old insulation, he churned forward with his thoughts, scattering along the discordant notes of his music.
Screwed on the assignment or not, or whether he'll get into a decent, nearby school or not—at the very least, soon, he wouldn't have to worry about this crap anymore. Any of it. After graduating, most of his classmates would likely branch out and leave Hillwood behind, and he just wouldn't have to deal with her anymore. In fact, given she could likely get accepted anywhere, meant there was a good chance he wouldn't even see her again.
Arnold froze.
His arms hung from the edge of the hole he'd torn out like dead weight, boring a long, thousand-yard stare through the exposed framing.
After graduation he might not even see her again.
It'd been difficult to breathe before, but now it was like something snapped him still and stopped everything inside, save his racing heart. Though there were no words he could readily pin down to describe the feelings that swelled a pressure against the pain in his chest, making it even worse, he did know one thing:
He felt horrible.
Held too long, his breath burst back with a lurch, leaving him panting as his hands dropped from the wall. Biting his lip in a frown, he swallowed, thickly, around a throat that felt oddly closed.
The thought of it all—really just being over, and in only a few months, just…
...Crushed him.
…Why?
Why does that idea hurt so much? He should feel relieved, glad to finally be rid of her and over this stupid obsession, but, instead, he…
The air in his lungs fell from him in a rush, eyes widening as he thought of Helga walking away at the end of the ceremony out of his life, with her back just turned on him like that.
His eyelids slid shut, achingly, as he imagined the only thing he could stand to do in that moment.
Him, running out to grab her, spinning her around, pulling her to him, and—
Oh my God.
His features roiled in a despairing grimace when the fantasy culminated with him cradling her jaw, and crushing his lips to hers a heart-pounding kiss—
Oh, my God…
...
…I like Helga.
I like—
He swallowed, shaking his head.
I really like her…I...can't believe this…I…
I like Helga Pataki.
...A lot, and—
In his mind the scene progressed, Helga running her hands up his graduation gown and into his hair, tearing off his hat and tassel as she kissed him back just as hard. Twisting up that feeling even more. Fuck.
Fuck!
He staggered to the other side of the room.
Slowly tearing off his protective gear, he wiped his face, slid against the bit of wall that was left, and slumped onto the floor. He put his head in his hands.
Arnold sucked in a shaky breath, to try and gather himself, but the air just felt sharp in his lungs.
Goddammit, he thought; a bewildered, flaring sensation swirling him up all at once, particularly when he closed his eyes and imagined that kiss still going.
This can't be happening. How is this even possible?
I can't believe I'm actually into Helga. Helga Pataki.
And…
I can't believe how much I want her, he thought, gnawing his lip in a rush as that kiss deepened into a heady makeout, filling him with a yearning that constricted his chest, and tightened his pants.
I want her so fucking bad!
...
And, of course…
His hands dropped, arms hanging over his knees in defeat.
She wants absolutely nothing to do with me.
He stared ahead, thoughts dulling a moment as too much kept sinking in at once.
...She won't even work with me to save a grade, much less give a good reason…
Arnold shook his head slowly. His eyes narrowed through a different kind of heat that burned him up all the way from his gut; of complete and utter frustration. And the kiss, in turn, grew more aggressive, intense in his mind, back in the cafeteria again. Fucking her against the wall so hard she could hardly breathe, unable to do more than clench around him and whine.
He roasted on the spot as he closed his eyes and indulged, letting himself just feel the way he strained and twitched in his jeans, that pent up hunger building irresistibly amidst the peals of flailing sax in his ears.
Exhaling with a humid huff, he opened his eyes again in a heated, thousand-yard stare as he lowered his headphones and let them dangle around his neck. The song had just ended.
Pulling out his phone to check the time, his eyes darkened at the title as it showed at the top of the screen.
Moanin,' by Charles Mingus. Nostalgia in Times Square, 1993.
…Fitting, he thought, sucking his bottom lip as he thought of her's.
Arnold balled his hands into fists. He took a steady inhale, the building force of it drawing deep in his chest. And held it, before letting it release slowly in a heavy, smoldering exhale. One filled with anger, heartache, resentment…
And, more than anything, want.
It was no time at all before the door snapped shut and Arnold had stalked halfway up the stairs to his room, shaking his head.
God.
He'd tear that girl apart.