Chapter Text
The trek to Phoebe's apartment passes in a blur. By the time Helga reaches the Heyerdahl's building, the cold of the evening has sunk into her skin and she's shivering so badly her fingers spasm over the wall plate. She swears as she ends up pressing the neighbor's bell button instead.
Helga doesn't wilt with relief when the intercom crackles to life and a familiar voice floats through the speaker, but it's a near thing.
"It's me, Phoebe."
"Oh," is the only response she gets before the speaker releases a shrill beep, and then she's pushing the door open just as the intercom blares to life again and an unfamiliar voice asks, "Hello?" The door closes before she can make out whatever else is being said, and then she's bypassing the elevator for the stairwell and taking the stairs two at a time until she reaches the second landing.
The Heyerdahl's door is at the very end of the hall, and Phoebe is waiting for her in front of it, school clothes gone in favor of nightwear and hair loose like it only ever is when she's at home. Her expression is unreadable as she ushers Helga inside, and Helga chooses to focus on toeing off her boots and kicking them against the wall instead of trying to decipher it.
In no time at all she's in Phoebe's room, stripped of her flimsy sweater and bundled into a robe. The material is plush and warm, yet Helga still feels cold.
She's settling onto Phoebe's bed when it suddenly dawns on her that maybe it's not the cold that's making her shiver but something else. Something she's not quite ready, or willing, to think about. Fortunately, Phoebe chooses that moment to enter the room. The bedsprings creak beneath their combined weight as Phoebe crawls towards Helga then positions herself so that she's directly in front of her, front to front. With some maneuvering her legs come around Helga's hips, followed by arms around her back, and then Helga's being hugged.
It's an achingly familiar position, and all the more comforting for it. Tension Helga doesn't realize she's carrying bleeds out of her as Phoebe's hands rub circles into her back. Within moments she's gone utterly boneless, chin on Phoebe's shoulder and hands loosely bunched in her nightdress. She finds it easier to breathe now that there's another's to match, and for a long while that's all she does—just breathes, the familiar scent of rosemary and ink and Phoebe heady in her nose.
It's Phoebe who breaks the silence first. Of course it is. Left up to Helga, they'd remain silent forever.
"Are you ready to talk it about it now?"
"No," Helga exhales, releasing her grip on Phoebe's gown to embrace her tightly instead. And then, before she can stop herself, says, "It was Arnold."
Seconds that don't feel like seconds at all tick by before Phoebe finally sighs and says, "Yes, I thought it would be."
Helga rears back, unsure if she heard her correctly. "What?"
"Anyone with eyes can see how gone that boy is on you, Helga," her friend says simply, as if they're discussing a well-known fact of the universe and not the groundbreaking discovery it actually is. "And before you ask, I only just figured it out myself. I've had my suspicions for a short while, of course, but I didn't want to say anything until I was absolutely certain because…"
Because I didn't want to get your hopes up, Helga silently finishes for her. Which answers the question of whether or not Phoebe knows how Helga feels. As mortifying as it is, at least she doesn't have to admit it out loud.
Helga shuts her eyes and releases a breath, thankful that their current position dissuades either of them from looking at the other.
"What made you…?" She stops, unable to get the words out.
"Come to the conclusion that he likes you?" Phoebe doesn't wait for a response. "He stares at you a lot, you know. It's amazing how I never noticed before. But once I caught on, I started catching him all the time.
"Plus, the way he looks at you. I can't even put it into words. You remember the day I found you two talking in the library? Well, when you left…I swear Helga, I thought he was going to chase after you. For a long time afterward he kept glancing at the doors as if he were hoping you'd come back. It was…pretty obvious."
Obvious? To Phoebe, maybe. Helga never would've been able to come to such a conclusion on her own regardless what evidence laid before her. Even now, having heard the truth from the source itself, she struggles to accept this new reality where Arnold loved Helga outside the realm of her dreams.
"Will you tell me what happened, Helga?" Phoebe asks.
A refusal forms on the tip of Helga's tongue, but she swallows it down. Releases a deep, shuddering breath, then lets everything that's happened spill out of her instead.
She's shaking by the time she finishes. Feels exhausted, too, though she's self-aware enough to realize it's the good kind, not unlike the fatigue that sets in after a long, cathartic run.
Phoebe's hands have stopped their massage and now rest firmly against the expanse of her lower spine—anchoring instead of soothing.
"Oh, Helga," she sighs. "You never make things easy for yourself, do you?"
Helga wants to laugh at that, because ain't that the truth.
"I don't get it," Phoebe confesses, shaking her head. "You like him. I know you do. So why did you run?"
Helga bites back a denial at having run from anything, because she had, hadn't she?
"Because," she grits out.
"Because?"
"I don't know, Phoebe! Okay? I don't know!"
"Liar," Phoebe shoots back. "You know why, Helga. Stop lying to me, and more importantly, stop lying to yourself."
A growl erupts from the back of her throat as she flings herself onto her back, away from Phoebe, and stares balefully up at the ceiling. Dozens of reasons and excuses and justifications whir through her head, all of them clamoring for precedence, and yet what comes out when she finally opens her mouth is, "Nothing good ever comes from loving Arnold!"
"What—?"
Helga sits up and glares at Phoebe. Beneath her fists, the sheets crumple. "You don't understand, Phoebe! It's not as simple as you're making it out to be! You have no idea what kind of person I become when I'm with him! What he always, always manages to bring out of me!"
The words spill from her faster than she can stop them. She's barely aware of them forming in her head. All her fears, her insecurities, her self-hatred, everything—it pours out of her like whatever dam has been barricading them has broken, combining with remnant splinters that scrape against her insides as they're being expunged.
It hurts, but Helga can't stop.
"I get obsessed, Phoebe," she says, desperate for her friend to understand. "Addicted. He used to occupy my thoughts all the time. One word from him had the power to establish the outcome of my day. I—he made me crazy, Phoebe. Completely out of control. And worst of all, he didn't even know it!
"And now—now that I've finally managed to redefine myself as someone other than the girl who was hopelessly in love with him, after I managed to pick up all those pieces I lost to him over the years, after I managed to move on, now he notices me? Really?"
She laughs, and it's a bitter sound, brittle at the edges. "I won't let myself become that girl again, Phoebe. I won't. I've worked too fucking hard to backslide now."
The silence that follows her outburst is a tangible thing. When Phoebe speaks again, her voice barely a hush, she doesn't so much break it as add another layer to it.
"But you haven't, Helga," she says gently, eyes calm behind her glasses as she mirrors Helga's cross-legged position. "You haven't moved on at all."
Phoebe's words strike a chord of truth in her that hurts.
"And Helga, what you just described…well, that just sounds like being in love to me."
That pulls a derisive snort from her, but Phoebe is shaking her head before Helga can argue.
"No, it does. Everything you just said—how you always thought about him, and felt vulnerable around him, and felt like you were losing parts of yourself to him—Helga, that's normal. You're supposed to feel that way when you love someone."
Helga hopes her expression conveys just how disbelieving she is. "Phoebs, I built him a shrine." Several, actually, but like hell is going to reveal that tidbit. Admitting the one is humiliating enough.
Phoebe merely quirks a brow at her. "Well, do you have an urge to build one now?"
"Of course not!" Helga snaps, affronted.
"Then there you go," Phoebe says, pleased, as if she's just proven her point. "You were just a kid, Helga. An eccentric kid, maybe, but still just a kid. Clearly you've grown up, since you acknowledge that building a shrine for the one you like isn't exactly the behavior of a well-adjusted person."
Wow. It sounds even worse when someone else says it. Groaning with embarrassment, Helga buries her face in her hands in a futile attempt to hide the blush that's taken over. She's barely given five seconds of reprieve when Phoebe gently extracts her hands, cleverly entwining their fingers so Helga can't hide from her again.
"You're not the first person who's done crazy things because of love," Phoebe continues, voice as soft as her gaze. "Or the first to feel like you've been altered by it. That's what happens when you fall for someone. That's what makes it scary. Losing pieces of yourself, giving more than you're getting back, leaving yourself vulnerable and exposed…it's part of the process. But people do it, over and over, because it's worth it."
Phoebe's hands tighten over hers. "I think you were right about the reason you ran, though it's not for the reasons you're telling yourself. You're scared—no, please listen to me, Helga. You're scared, because you hate not being in control, and it's impossible to be when you love someone. And for someone like you, who feels so strongly about things and copes by bottling everything up…well, it makes sense that you ran. Because love isn't something you can bottle. So you got scared, and when fighting was no longer a viable option, you chose flight.
"I think what you really need to decide is whether or not Arnold is the type of person you'll regret opening yourself up to. That's what it all comes down to, Helga: whether or not you trust him, and whether or not you think he's worth it."
Another squeeze of her hand, followed by a reassuring kiss against her forehead, and then Phoebe's pulling away, murmuring her intent to make tea as she climbs off the bed and pads out of the room, quietly shutting the door behind her.
She's giving Helga time to think, and to organize her thoughts, and to unravel the knot of emotions twisting inside of her. Time, and privacy, too, because somewhere along the line she started crying without realizing it, and best friend or not, Helga doesn't need an audience to watch her fall apart.
A few minutes is all that she allows of herself, and then she's furiously scrubbing at her face and taking deep, controlled breaths. When her eyes no longer feel like broken faucets, when she can open them and the room doesn't blur around the edges, she sniffs, eases onto her side, and clutches one of Phoebe's overlarge pillows to her chest.
As disinclined as she is to acknowledge it, Helga can't deny the truth in Phoebe's words. She turns them over in her mind, desperately searches for weak points, but Phoebe's observations are as faultless as ever and she finds none. And doesn't it smart to realize she doesn't know herself as well as she thought. Though maybe that's for the best, considering how little of what she's learned of herself these past few weeks she actually likes.
Burrowing her face in the pillow, Helga thinks. Thinks and thinks and thinks. Thinks until her brain feels like it's unraveling at the edges and yet it's still not enough to so much as dent the block in her head.
Probably, she thinks glumly, because I'm not thinking about the things I should be.
Arnold. Somehow things always come back to him, don't they? Helga rolls onto her back, dragging the pillow with her, and exhales heavily enough to send her bangs flying. Just thinking his name makes her heartbeat go haywire. Makes her feel like she's standing directly under the sun. She still remembers the heat of his body so close to hers. The way her skin had tingled under his touch. The bittersweet scent of his breath as it ghosted her face. As vulnerable as she had felt, not unlike a raw nerve ending exposed to the air, there's still a part of her that had relished the feeling of being so close to him.
His confession—everything she's ever dreamed of and so much more for the realness of it—has carved itself a space at the center of her heart, secured itself a home in her vessels and valves. And Helga knows that nothing she does will ever force it out. Even cutting out her own heart will not remove the imprint of his words in her chest, the echo of them in her ears, the memory of them in her mind.
There it will always be, tucked beside her own persevering love, even when years have passed and they no longer hold true for the one who'd spoken them.
The thought sends a jolt of pain through her, and she squeezes her eyes shut, riding it out.
That one day Arnold will no longer feel for her the way he does now—that he, unlike her, could freely cast aside his feelings and move on—is nigh unbearable. More so than if he'd never liked her at all. Because now Helga has a taste of what it's like to be the one Arnold thinks about, the one he chases after, the one he likes.
Just a small, brief taste, but it's enough to spark a craving that she knows will never be sated.
The thought disturbs her the moment it comes, and she sits up, body and mind too restless to remain laying down.
What does she want?
The answer comes with a swiftness she wishes she can be surprised by.
Arnold. She wants Arnold. She's always wanted Arnold. Always will want Arnold.
And at least for the time being Arnold wants her back.
'What you really need to decide is whether or not Arnold is the type of person you'll regret opening yourself up to,' Phoebe had said.
'Do you trust him?'
Yes, Helga thinks after some hesitation. It's herself she doesn't trust.
'Do you think he's worth it?'
Helga smiles wryly up the ceiling as the tightness in her chest slowly begins to ease.
Yes, she rather thinks might be.
♦ ♦ ♦
Helga finds Phoebe in the kitchen. She's sitting at the island, a textbook spread out before her as she cradles a steaming cup of what's likely to be tea in her hands. Helga, hovering at the doorframe uncertainly, must make some type of noise because Phoebe immediately looks up.
"I don't know what to say to him," Helga blurts the instant their eyes meet. "Not after…you know. What do I do?"
"Why not take a leaf out of Arnold's book?" Phoebe suggests, scrutinizing Helga over the rim of her glasses. After a moment she carefully sets her cup down onto a saucer and snaps the textbook shut.
Helga blinks in confusion, not quite understanding what Phoebe means by that. After a moment it clicks, and she leans against the doorframe, mind working.
"Do you think that will work?"
Phoebe shrugs. "Why not? It worked for him, didn't it?"
Yeah, Helga thinks, something resembling hope swelling inside of her. Yeah, it did.
♦ ♦ ♦
It takes her all night. Over and over she rewrites the message, using various types of paper to accommodate its varying lengths. The first one is too long, the second too short. The third is too personal, the fourth not personal enough. The dry humor she attempts in the fifth comes out flat, while the sixth is so solemn it would benefit from even the tackiest joke. She uses loose-leaf, and post-its, and stationary. Uses pencils and a wide spectrum of colored pens.
By the time the sun rises over the horizon, Helga's hands are stained with ink and marred with paper cuts, and the bags under her eyes are a vivid blue. She slides an entire night's worth of effort into a plain envelope and carefully tucks it between the pages of whatever book lies in her bag.
There's no time to shower so she makes quick work of getting dressed, brushing her teeth, and gathering her things. The sky is a dreamy fusion of coral and fuchsia as she quietly slips out of the house and onto the wakening street, making her way towards the school.
The halls are empty when she feeds the envelope, stained from the smudges on her fingers, into the slit of Arnold's locker. With a churning stomach she watches as it disappears. Immediately there's an impulse to break open the locker and retrieve it, but she shoves it down as far as it will go and forces herself to walk away, her footfalls almost deafening as she retreats.
It's done. There's no turning back now.
♦ ♦ ♦
She sits alone at her table in the cafeteria.
Phoebe begs off, claiming some excuse that she likely comes up with on the spot. Helga resists the urge to fetter her to the table and lets her leave, even though her stomach, already twisting itself into knots, churns even more horribly the moment she's gone.
She regrets her decision when a familiar shadow falls over the table an instant later and someone who is definitely not Phoebe sinks into the bench beside her.
"Helga," the person greets in a neutral tone.
"Arnold," Helga returns, just as evenly. She stares intently at the patterns on the tabletop, ignoring the way her heartbeat has sped up, pulse points throbbing with it. She's successful, at least until a familiar stained envelope enters the periphery of her vision and whatever control she has of her physiological responses disappears as if it had never been.
She feels her throat go desert-dry as Arnold clears his, and it takes every ounce of courage she possesses to look at him. A brief, slanted glance is all she can manage, but it's enough to see that Arnold is smiling. He doesn't look uncomfortable, or frustrated, or angry, or any of the other things she's been bracing herself for. If anything he looks happy, and it's easier, after that, to turn towards him more fully and meet his gaze.
Eyes like honey look back, and Helga swallows down nerves and trepidation and the lingering echoes of her fear.
"Hi," he says, smiling in a way that melts her insides. She tries to smile back but the muscles of her face refuse to respond.
"So today's Tuesday," Arnold continues, and with a jolt Helga realizes that she's staring at him. She tears her gaze away, refusing to acknowledge the heat rising to her cheeks in case doing so makes it worse.
"Is it? I hadn't noticed," Helga snipes without thinking, inwardly wincing the instant the words escape her mouth.
"I guess I deserve that," Arnold says with a wry smile, and Helga wants to hit her head against the table because that isn't true at all.
So even though everything in her rebels against it, she forces herself to say, "No you didn't. Sorry."
She regrets her decision to play nice when Arnold looks at her like she's grown another head.
"Um," he starts, rubbing the back of his neck. "Wow. Okay. So I guess you really did mean it."
She knows he's referring to her letter now.
"I wouldn't have written what I did unless I meant it," she says tetchily and has to fight the urge to drop her gaze. "So can you please just get to the point?"
"Do you want to go the movies after school?" Arnold rushes out, as if the words have been waiting to be let out this whole time and she's just given them the go-ahead. "The snacks are discounted on Tuesdays and they just released that movie—um, the one with the boxing?"
"Fighting Star," Helga says automatically.
"Right." Arnold nods, seeming to relax a little at her contribution. "That one. And I'm not sure if you've seen it yet—"
"I haven't."
He relaxes further. "Oh, that's good. Great. Uh, so I was hoping we could watch it together. As a date," he adds, as if it weren't already clear.
Helga, for her part, is doing her utmost to keep the sheer giddiness she feels from showing on her face. This isn't at all how she expected their conversation to go, not that she's complaining or anything. Why would she? She's just been asked on a date by Arnold. And no matter what reservations she still carries, what worries she is carefully avoiding thinking about, this is…
There are no words for what this is.
"I guess," she says, aiming for neutral and missing by a mile if the way Arnold is looking at her is anything to go by. She can't bring herself to care—not when Arnold is giving her a look she never imagined would be aimed her way.
"Great. That's great. Okay. So I'll drop by your locker after school?"
"Sure," she says with a shrug.
Arnold's grin widens and yeah, she's definitely not fooling anyone at this table.
"Okay. So. I'll see you later then."
Helga nods, biting the inside of her cheek as a tendril of disappointment unfurls in her chest. Only he doesn't leave like she expects him to—instead, he takes her right hand and flips it over, trailing his fingers over her digits and palm until sparks of heat are shooting up her arm.
"Thank you. For the letter," he elaborates, and only then does Helga realize he's not just tracing random patterns into her hand. He's outlining the shapeless ink stains, mapping the zigzagging paper cuts on her clammy skin.
Her hand jerks in an aborted movement, but her own determination and Arnold's steadfast grip keeps it still. Arnold resumes his ministrations when she makes no further move to pull away, eyes fastened to their entwined hands as if he can't bring himself to look away.
"You have no idea how happy it made me. I thought—well, that doesn't matter now, I guess. The only thing that's important is that you wrote it. So. Thanks. And not just for the letter, but for giving me—giving us—a chance, too."
With that, he squeezes Helga's limp hand once more and pulls away. Helga can only stare, dazed, as he rises in a single fluid motion and walks away, leaving the cafeteria altogether instead of returning to his table. A table, she realizes belatedly, that's full of people who are staring at her. And they aren't the only ones—somehow, without having realized it, the cafeteria had gone quieter than she can ever remember it being, all eyes on her.
Helga flushes, because while she's used to being stared at it's never been for a reason such as this. It's awkward as hell, not to mention humiliating, and that's all it takes. Her eyes narrow, and she sweeps an icy look across the room that has most of the gazes averted in an instant. The slam of her hands against the table prompts the rest. Still, there are a few who continue to stare—most of whom are sitting at Arnold's table—but she knows there's nothing she can do about that.
Not if she wants to see where this thing with Arnold will lead, anyway.
Which she has to firmly remind herself that she does when Lila Sawyer catches her gaze across the room and winks. Helga bares her teeth at her, but the girl only grins back like she's amused.
He's worth it, Helga repeats to herself, dropping her chin into her hand—the same hand Arnold had just caressed not five minutes ago as he thanked her for giving him, giving them, a chance.
"Yeah," she whispers, feeling the corners of her lips creep up into a smile. "He really is."
♦ ♦ ♦
Dear Arnold,
In your sixteenth letter you wrote that you wished I thought you worth the effort of being gentle with.
You are.
Yours,
Helga.