Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"I'm too tired to listen.

I'm too old to believe

In all these childish stories.

There is no such thing as

Faith, trust, and pixie dust."

— Jonatha Brooke

"So you're really doing this, huh?" Arnold grunts, leaning all his weight on his bulging suitcase so the blasted thing can close. His bedsprings groan under the onslaught. His arm muscles aren't faring much better.

"Hell yeah, I am," Gerald says, watching with unabashed humor as Arnold struggles instead of, y'know, actually helping like any decent friend would.

Arnold sags over his luggage when the wretched thing finally zips shut and shoots Gerald a glare when the traitor slow claps.

"You are the worst," Arnold pants, rolling onto his back to catch his breath.

"Lies and slander."

"Lies and slander your face."

Gerald barks a laugh at that. "That doesn't even make sense, you dummy."

Arnold pointedly ignores him. When his chest no longer feels like it's fit to burst, he pushes himself to his elbows and studies the only other occupant in his room.

To anyone else, Gerald would look the very definition of casual—slouched in Arnold's computer chair as he fiddles with his phone. But Arnold isn't anyone else, and so catches the telltale signs of stress that others would have overlooked: the twist of his mouth as he chews the inside of his cheek; the shuttered cast of his screen-lit eyes as he aimlessly scrolls; the way his hand keeps jumping to the bulge in his pocket, as if to reassure himself that the object he's carrying is still there.

It's subtle, but Gerald is definitely freaking out.

"You absolutely sure about this, Gerald?" Arnold asks, because it's part of the best friend code to make sure one's friends are fully committed before diving headfirst off metaphorical cliffs.

Gerald takes a deep breath, hand tightening unconsciously over his pocket, and nods.

"Yeah, Arnold. I'm sure. Nervous as hell, because what if she says no? But I'm a hundred—no, a thousand percent sure. Hell, I've never been more sure about anything in my life."

And Arnold knows it's true when Gerald turns to look at him, the conviction in his eyes overshadowing whatever nerves may exist. Arnold can't help but smile in the face of his earnestness even as a twinge of envy makes itself known in his chest.

How nice it must be, the envy whispers as it coils around his heart, to know who you're going to spend your life with before you've even graduated college. How nice it must be for the other person to feel the same.

For a moment his jealousy flares, like the splaying hood of a rearing cobra, but Arnold beats it down to the lowest depths of himself with a mental fuck off for good measure.

Arnold refuses to be that person. Gerald needs his support now more than ever, and Arnold is going to buck the heck up and be there for him the way his friend deserves.

What he's absolutely not going to do is make the situation about him.

He'll have all the time in the world to sulk over his shitty love life later.

When Arnold speaks again, not even a hint of the heartache he's stubbornly pretending doesn't exist can be found in his tone.

"Phoebe isn't going to say no, Gerald," Arnold says, firmly. "Even the blind can see that you're it for her."

"She rejected me before," Gerald points out begrudgingly, like he hates to even be reminded that such an awful event happened.

"C'mon, Gerald. Don't do this to yourself. You know she had to wait 'til she graduated to get her parents off her back."

Gerald purses his lips. "Yeah, but what if—"

"Stop. There's no what if. It looked like it killed her to say no last time, and I bet you anything she's been counting down the days to graduation just as you have. Gerald, seriously. Phoebe loves you. She wants the same things you want. And she'd kick your ass for doubting her, you know she would."

Gerald's mouth quirks up at the corners, and then he's tipping his head back and blinking rapidly up at the ceiling. Arnold, amazing friend he is, pretends not to see him swipe his sleeve over his eyes. Heck, he's not too far behind. How can he possibly be any less affected when he's been a bystander to their relationship since fifth grade? Has watched them grow from two fumbling adolescents who couldn't even hold hands without blushing, to a couple so steadfast that marriage between the two feels more like a natural progression of things than some monumental event.

"God, Arnold. How the hell did I get so damn lucky?" Gerald sighs before pulling out the velvet box in his pocket and snapping it open. Arnold watches, heart full enough to burst, as Gerald stares at the ring he spent weeks searching every jewelry store in the city to find—and Arnold would know, considering he'd been dragged along for the ride.

Arnold swallows the lump that suddenly rises to his throat and closes his eyes. Breathes in and out. In and out.

"Phoebe is, too, y'know. Lucky. You both are."

A long moment passes. Arnold exhales a final time when he hears the box snap shut, looking up just as Gerald returns it to his pocket with a final dab of his eyes.

"By the way," Gerald says, muted humor in his tone, and just like that Arnold knows the sappy moment is over. "You know you're going to need space in your luggage to bring shit back, right? Or do you expect to go to Disney World and not buy souvenirs?"

Arnold freezes. His gaze falls onto his bulging, tattered bag, filled so tightly to the brim that not even air has space to move. And then he collapses onto his back with a groan of dismay.

Gerald, asshole he is, laughs at him.

"And who knows," Gerald continues, a sudden inflection in his tone that sets alarms off in Arnold's head. "Maybe this trip will provide an opportunity for you to get lucky, too."

"Don't, Gerald," Arnold grits out, hackles rising.

Gerald persists as if he hadn't spoken. "You're going to have to talk things out with Satan's Spawn sometime, Arnold. It's been months. Don't tell me you're planning on avoiding her forever."

"I'm not talking about this," Arnold snaps as he sits up, prepared to abandon his own bedroom if it means escaping a conversation that he refuses to engage in.

Gerald shakes his head but, to Arnold's relief, backs down.

"Fine. I'll let it drop. But you should know that the two of you are impossible and you're driving everyone around you freaking nuts."

Arnold almost chokes on the outrage that surges up his esophagus like bile.

"I'm impossible? When she's the one who—" Arnold catches himself before he can catapult into a full-blown rant, which is the last thing he wants. "No. I'm not talking about her. I'm not going to even think about her. I refuse to give her the satisfaction. As far as I'm concerned, Helga Pataki doesn't even exist. So just drop it, Gerald."

Gerald raises his hands. "Whatever you say, man. I won't bring it up again."

"Thank you," Arnold bites out.

Gerald sighs, slumping even further into the chair. He rubs a hand over his face. "Man, this trip is going to be so damn awkward."

"It won't," Arnold denies, opting to glower up at the ceiling instead of his friend. The air being expelled from the sluggish overhead fan does little to cool his ire. "Helga and I will continue avoiding each other just as we have been. And besides, the girls will be there too so it's not like we'll be forced to interact or anything."

"How interesting that you didn't include Brainy in there. Which I'm sure has absolutely nothing to do with the big, fat crush he's had on Helga for years.”

"Gerald."

Gerald mimes zipping his lips. "Alright, alright, don't bite my damn head off. Since talking about your disaster of a love life is off the table, let's at least figure out your luggage situation." He ignores Arnold's disgruntled grumbling as he pushes off the chair and strides towards the bed. The expression he makes as he unzips the bag and the contents spill out in an eruption of mismatched clothing is almost enough to flip Arnold's sour mood.

Almost.

"What the hell, you damn pack rat, we're only going to be gone a freaking week—"

Arnold allows some of the tension in his shoulders to bleed out of him as the topic shifts to safer ground.

If only the rest of his problems could be so easily resolved.

Arnold Shortman despises Brian "Brainy" Brockman with every fiber of his being. And no matter what Gerald says, it has nothing to do with the guy's crush on Helga.

It's a coincidence that Brainy just so happens to be at his most annoying when he's hovering at Helga's side like there isn't plenty of unoccupied space in the vast airport where he can loom instead. There isn't any need to stand so close when there's ample enough room to be literally anywhere else.

It's rude as heck, is what it is.

And you know what's also rude? Making everyone uncomfortable by openly flirting with someone who clearly isn't interested for the duration of a three-hour flight. Arnold just wants to enjoy the flight in peace, but no. Instead, he's forced to suffer through Brainy's lame jokes, and breathy giggles, and freaking cow eyes.

Arnold’s teeth grind as he's forced to watch Brainy lean in to whisper something in Helga's ear. He swears he hears a cracking sound when Helga throws her head back and laughs, far too loud for such a cramped and public space. But then that's Helga for you, isn't it? Always doing what she wants without any consideration for how it impacts others. Because it's Helga's World, and everyone else is just living in it.

Maybe she and Brainy do belong together, irritating as they both are. They can date and become the most obnoxious and insufferable couple the world has ever known. 

Arnold takes a long, desperate swig of his Pepsi to chase away the acid that rises to the back of his throat at that sickening thought.

Arnold's in a sour mood when they finally depart the plane. His butt hurts from sitting on it so long, and one of his ears refuses to pop no matter what methods his friends suggest. He takes the opportunity to stretch his sore limbs as the others make a quick trip to the restroom, and that's when he realizes that he and Helga are the only ones waiting outside.

His heart gives the same confused lurch it always does when he sees her. You'd think that would make it easier for him to look away, but apparently he's a masochist, so he doesn't.

Helga's back is pressed against the wall, her head lowered as she taps away at her phone. Arnold hates that the first word that comes to mind as his gaze rakes over her is gorgeous. It's a bitter thought, but nevertheless true. Helga is so damn gorgeous, even in her baggy off-shoulder shirt, worn sneakers, and biker shorts, with her long hair pulled into a messy bun that's practically begging to be plucked loose. She's chewing her bottom lip—an indicator that she's lost to whatever thoughts are occupying her mind—and Arnold is overcome with such a fierce sense of yearning that he sways on his feet.

Had this been six months ago, Arnold would have sidled up next to her and poked at the furrow between her brows until it smoothed out. Would have needled and prodded and made a complete nuisance of himself until she revealed whatever thoughts were plaguing her just to shut him up. And Arnold—stupid, lovesick moron he was—would have been so damn pleased to be one of the two people in the entire world who Helga G. Pataki confided in. For being one of the rare few she trusted enough to share her innermost thoughts.

But that was before they'd made a wreck of things.

Before their friendship crashed and burned, leaving behind nothing but ash-like regrets for him to choke on.

Helga's head jerks up as if she senses him staring, and Arnold's breath hitches as her piercing eyes spear him in place.

Arnold can feel the long seconds tick by in the mad tempo of his heartbeat, yet neither of them look away. Helga's eyes have always been his favorite feature on her—catlike and sharp, with irises painted an electric blue. He's heard others call them intimidating; has even known those who found it difficult to meet her gaze. But Arnold's problem has always run in the opposite direction: he's captivated by them, like a fly drawn to a flame. Even now he feels as if he's stepping on a livewire yet can't bring himself to move.

Her eyes are just so vibrant, flickering with some emotion that Arnold can't name, and the way she's staring at him makes the chest of things he keeps locked away in the deep recesses of his mind start to quake.

For a second, Arnold forgets that he's angry with her.

For a second, he forgets all the heartache and betrayal.

For a second, he wants nothing more than to close the abhorrent distance between them and hug her, kiss her, put the entire incident behind them so things can return to how they used to be. So they can return to how they used to be.

But it's only for a second, because a moment later she averts her gaze—dismissing him, like she always does—and Arnold is painfully reminded that he's the only one who cared. The only one who tried fighting for them after Helga had so effortlessly cut him out of her life, as if Arnold was no more important to her than a pair of worn shoes she'd outgrown overnight. 

I'm such an idiot, he thinks, forcing his gaze away.

He stuffs his fists into his pockets where no one can see them, and tries to convince himself that the burning sensation he feels in his chest is heartburn. Heck, he'd even welcome a heart attack at this point.

Anything is better than acknowledging what it actually is.

Arnold does his best to not let thoughts of Helga dampen his mood even further. He's on a trip with his best friends to celebrate surviving four grueling years of college and he's going to enjoy himself, dammit.

So he smacks his cheeks resolutely, ignoring the raised brows it earns him, and boards the Magical Express Bus with a determined pep in his step.

It's a short distance between the airport and the resort they'll be staying for the next seven days. Arnold's excitement becomes a little more authentic as the shuttle rolls to a stop in front of a massive, ostentatiously painted building with a comical sign declaring itself to be Disney's Pop Century Resort. It's cartoonish and cheesy, but Arnold sorta digs it. The aesthetic reminds him of those old comics he used to read as a kid, which was probably the goal.

"Well, this is certainly…something," Rhonda says, eyeing the resort like an art appraiser would a finger-painting from a toddler.

Nadine elbows her. "I think it looks charming."

"I agree, Nadine!" Phoebe pipes up. "It certainly has a lot of character. Now come on, let's check in quickly so we can find somewhere for us to eat."

The look Gerald sends her as he hooks his arm over her shoulder is one-part amused, one-part besotted. "And I'm sure there isn't a plan for that somewhere in that twenty-page itinerary you're lugging around, of course."

Arnold bites back a smile when Phoebe clutches said itinerary to her chest and pointedly doesn't respond.

Check-in is a breeze, and locating their rooms even moreso. Since their party consists of eight, they decided to book two adjacent rooms and split the group in half. They tour both rooms—which takes them no time at all as they're essentially the same, down to the queen-sized bed, the murphy bed that converts to a table, and a single bathroom with a regrettable glazed door. Even the decor is the exact same—chestnut furniture with polychrome pop-art paintings of Mickey Mouse on the alabaster walls.

"We three are going to share this one!" Lila declares, linking her arms through Rhonda's and Nadine's. When neither girl objects she tosses out, "Who's going to be our fourth?"

Arnold is at once frozen with indecision.

He looks between the two neon red doors as he tries to work out what to do. On the one hand, sharing a room with the girls will mean he won't be sharing it with Helga, which will be ideal for everyone. But on the other hand, it also means that Helga will be sharing a room with Brainy.

The thought bothers him so much he can't even pretend it doesn't.

"I'll—" Helga starts, stepping forward, but Phoebe yanks her back.

"Don't even think about it, Helga. You're supposed to help me, remember?"

"Help you with what?" Gerald asks, but is blatantly ignored.

Helga huffs, sending flyaway wisps of hair into the air, and yanks her arm free of Phoebe's vice-like grip. "Yeah, yeah, alright. Don't tug my damn arm off. So I guess Brainy can room with us—"

"Absolutely not," Gerald interjects. "I'll be needing Arnold for, uh, something. No offense, Brainy."

Brainy shrugs. "None taken."

Helga's eyes flick to Arnold and then away. She purses her lips. "Yeah, so that isn't going to fly. Why don't we—"

"C'mon, Brainy, why don't we get settled in?" Rhonda loudly interrupts before shoving the guy into their room. "Lila, do you mind sharing that abomination for a bed with him? If not, I'm sure he'll be fine taking the couch. Right, Brainy?"

"Um."

"Don't worry, I don't mind sharing the bed," Lila assures him, stepping into the room behind Rhonda. "It's more than big enough."

"Hey! I didn't agree to this!" Helga snaps, but Nadine merely gives her an apologetic look before Rhonda reaches around her and slams the door in her face.

For a moment, the only sound to be heard is Helga's grinding teeth.

"C'mon, Helga," Phoebe cajoles, ushering the fuming girl into the room. "You can share the bed with me!"

"Aw, man," Gerald grumbles, kicking a pebble into the bushes, but if he means to complain further, the glare Phoebe shoots over her shoulder dissuades him from doing so. With a resigned sigh, he claps Arnold on the shoulder and gestures at him to follow.

"Tough luck, man," Gerald says. "You think this is the universe's way of telling you two to get your shit together?"

Arnold is so not in the mood.

"Shut up, Gerald."

"Touchy, touchy. Now hurry up before She Demon over there decides to piss on your side of the bed to keep you out of it."

It figures that the first time they talk to each other in months is as a fight.

"I'm not sharing a bed with you," Helga seethes, eyes so dark they look black even under the garish ceiling lights of the room.

(And Arnold resolutely does not think about the last time he saw them this way, half-lidded and laden with something other than anger, and so damn dark he could see his own hazy gaze reflected back.)

"Then you can sleep on the couch," Arnold grits out, unsure who he's more pissed off at in the moment: Helga, for being as infuriating as always, or himself for being a nostalgic fool.

"How about you sleep on the couch. It's not like you'll need the leg room."

"Oh, real mature, Helga. It's pretty pathetic that your insults haven't changed at all since grade school."

"Well, that tracks since neither has your height."

A sharp clap has Arnold biting back another insult, and when he swivels his head in the direction of the sound, it's to find Gerald and Phoebe giving them looks so unimpressed that the acidic words perched on the tip of his tongue slide back down.

"Are you two seriously going to be at each other's throats for the entirety of this trip?" Gerald demands, arms folded. "Because if that's the case I don't know why you even bothered to come."

Helga finally stops trying to set him on fire with her eyes and fixes her glare on a vibrant painting of Mickey Mouse instead.

Phoebe rests a calming hand on Gerald's arm before spearing them with a look that makes Arnold feel like a scolded child. "We told you two that it wasn't necessary for us to share a bed. Helga can sleep with me, so please just stop fighting."

What remains of Arnold's anger peters out, giving way to guilt.

"That's not fair to you two, though," he mutters, dropping his gaze to his sneakers to avoid Gerald's displeasure and Phoebe's disappointment.

Hadn't he promised he wouldn't make things awkward for his friends? Yet here he is, doing just that. And worst of all is that he's supposed to be helping Gerald prepare for one of the most important moments of his life, yet he got so distracted by Helga that he forgot his primary purpose for being here in the first place.

Gerald is clearly thinking along those same lines, because his retort is merciless. "No, what's not fair is having to listen to you two tear into each other when we're supposed to be having a good time. We haven't even unpacked our bags and the two of you are already going at it. Is this how the rest of the trip is going to go?"

Arnold hunches into himself even further.

"You're right. I'm sorry. I'll just take the couch, alright?"

He's not happy about it. The couch is the furthest thing from inviting, and Arnold just knows that it's going to annihilate his spine. But he supposes a bit of discomfort is a small price to pay to keep the peace. It's not like he can count on Helga to do it, who'd rather eat her own foot than concede to anyone—especially him—in an argument.

Arnold's resigning himself to the inevitable back pain he's going to have to deal with when Helga's voice disrupts the tense silence that sprang up after his apology.

The words she grits out have him freezing in place.

"For fuck's sake. Just take the other half of the bed, Shortman. It's whatever. Just keep to your side and we'll be peachy-fucking-keen."

Arnold is so stunned that Helga G. Pataki is actually backing down that by the time the gears in his head start turning again, she's already out of the room. He hears the bathroom door slam shut, followed by the sound of the faucet running. Arnold isn't sure how long he stands there, staring at the door she disappeared through. It isn't until Gerald pointedly clears his throat that he realizes what he's doing and tears his eyes away.

"Well, that was fun," Gerald says, voice dripping with sarcasm. He plops onto the bed with a huff, still visibly irritated, though that eases somewhat when Phoebe sits down next to him and tucks herself into his side.

Arnold also sits, feeling like damp a towel that's been wrung dry. The fact that it's only the first day really doesn't bode well for the rest of the trip.

"I really am sorry, you guys," he says again, scrubbing his face.

It's Phoebe who responds, and she picks her words carefully. "It's…well, it's not fine, exactly, but I appreciate the apology nonetheless. But please, Arnold, do try to get along with Helga for the remainder of the trip. Not just for our sake—but for yours, too."

Arnold has nothing to say to that. How can he promise to get along with someone who is constantly itching for a fight? It's not as if he hasn't tried mending things between them, but Helga's made it clear she isn't similarly inclined. If she isn't willing to get along with Arnold, there really isn't anything he can do.

"I'll do my best to avoid her," is what he says instead. It's the closest to a promise he can make without lying outright.

A chorus of sighs fill the otherwise silent room. 

Arnold should have just taken the damn couch.

It's 9:38 PM and he's lying in bed, hyperfocused on the girl barely an arm's throw away. It's so dark he can close his eyes and not tell the difference, yet still he doesn't give into the urge to turn his head in her direction, fearful that he'll find a pair of eyes staring back at him through the gloom.

So he keeps silent and still as he listens—to the sound of her soft breathing, to the rustle of the blankets as she turns, to her contented sigh as she settles into a more comfortable position.

In the other bed, Phoebe and Gerald are whispering to each other, so quiet that Arnold can't make out what they're saying. It brings to mind unwanted memories of him and Helga doing the same—curled into each other on whoever's bed they crashed on as they traded stories deep into the night.

And as if a dusty switch has been flipped, he starts remembering other things, too.

He remembers the tantalizing warmth of her, the reassuring weight of her head on his arm, the tickle of her damp hair against his skin. He remembers the way she smelled, like apples and soap and a scent so uniquely hers that he used to wish he could bottle it to forever keep. He remembers the way she'd mumble in her sleep, sometimes silly nonsense, other times his name. Remembers waking up to find her staring at him with eyes so blue it always took his drowsy brain a moment to realize he hadn't fallen asleep under the summer sky. And when she'd grin at him and poke the sleep wrinkles on his face, the tone for the rest of the day would be set because he got to wake up to the only sun and sky that mattered.

I'm over her, Arnold repeats to himself—a self-made mantra to ease the girl-shaped void inside of him that he so badly wishes weren’t there. 

With eyes squeezed tightly shut, Arnold turns his back on her and forces his thoughts to clear. He hugs a pillow to his hollow chest, absolutely not thinking about what a poor substitute it is. Or what he wishes it were instead.

He's so desperate to think of anything else that his mind snags on the song that's softly streaming from the radio. It's a familiar tune, though he's too exhausted to put any effort into identifying where it's from.

The melody has a dreamy quality, almost like a lullaby, so Arnold focuses on it, hoping it will lull him to sleep.

No matter how your heart is grieving, the woman sweetly sings to him, if you keep on believing, the dream that you wish will come true.

Arnold slams his pillow over his head with a stifled groan.

The universe really is out to get him. 

In the end, Arnold does manage to fall asleep, though it takes him a long time to do so.

The harsh realization that Helga doesn't share the same struggle tells him all he needs to know on where they both stand.

~

Chapter Text

Arnold wakes the next morning to bruises under his eyes and a hollowness in his chest that grows worse when he once again finds himself the recipient of Helga's silent treatment. 

As he gets ready for the long day ahead, he tries to convince himself that it's a good thing. 

At least they're not fighting. 

But a part of Arnold—a selfish, reckless part that would rather see explosions than remain in this miserable limbo where nothing changes—can't help but think that the fighting is better than the silence. Because at least then Helga is talking to him. Looking at him. Acknowledging he exists. 

Quit it. You’re over her, he reminds himself with a pinch to his wrist. 

He wonders when he'll have thought it enough times for it to feel like it's true.  

Their group boards a bus decked front to end with dynamic paintings of Classic Mickey from Steamboat Willie, and within half an hour they're waiting on a massive line to get into Hollywood Studios. 

For all that he expects it to be hot—it’s July and they’re in Florida, after all—he isn't at all prepared for the oppressive humidity. Which is really saying something considering he lives on the East Coast. The sun has barely risen and Arnold's clothes are already sticking to him. Lila is on her second bottle of water. Gerald is herding Phoebe, who had to abandon her glasses after they became too fogged-over to see through. Behind them, Nadine is doing her best to convince Rhonda that she still looks gorgeous despite her hair being twice the size it was when she left her room. And Brainy is...

Anyways, Arnold can only imagine how much worse it’s going to get when it hits high noon. 

Despite the brutal onslaught of the sun, made all the worse by the swelling crowds and injudicious lack of shade, Arnold finds himself having a blast. The food is great, the rides are amazing (Tower of Terror definitely ranks in Arnold's top five thrill rides now), the shows are as entertaining as they are nostalgic, and he enjoys bumping into the roaming characters in costumes far more than he thought he would.

They end their day with fireworks from Fantasmic!, and Arnold isn't the only one enraptured by the resplendent water show. The glowing boat floats, the rousing music, the dancing characters and shimmering lights—it's like nothing he's ever seen before. He's so glued to his seat that when the show ends, Gerald practically has to peel him out of it. He'd feel embarrassed if not for the fact that Brainy and Rhonda have to do the same with Lila and Nadine. 

When they leave the park, bone-tired with overfull bellies and aching feet, Arnold is actually optimistic about how the rest of the trip will pan out. As long as he and Helga continue to ignore one another, things will be fine. Not ideal, maybe, but fine. 

Arnold’s got a really good feeling about it. 

If Arnold thought Hollywood Studios was huge, it has nothing on Animal Kingdom. The sheer size of the jungle-themed park is staggering. 

“It’s the largest of the parks, spanning 580 acres,” Phoebe, their self-appointed tour guide, tells them as they slowly make their way towards the safari zone. “Despite that it has the fewest attractions, though that’s on account of the Kilimanjaro Safari taking up approximately 20% of the park.”

Gerald slings an arm around Phoebe's waist and smacks a kiss to her temple. "My girl is so damn smart." 

Phoebe ducks her head with a blush, and Helga, walking next to them, rolls her eyes.

"Yeah, yeah, Phoebe's a genius and you're whipped, we get it. Now can we get a move on already? The later it gets, the fewer animals we'll be able to see on that damn tour." 

Arnold's head snaps up. He stares at Helga, but she's too busy bickering with Gerald to notice. He had been the one to mention that factoid during a high school trip to Six Flags Wild Safari. It had been an offhand comment, prompted by Harold's relentless complaints about not seeing any lions. Helga, who'd scoffed at him for being a nerd, had been the only one to overhear—the others had been too focused on the tour guide's compelling narrative and the thrilling wildlife to care about Arnold's quiet commentary. 

And she remembered. 

Arnold's chest swells like it's being fed helium, because isn't that Helga in a nutshell? Always paying attention to the things he says even when she pretends otherwise. Always showing that she cares even when she claims not to. 

Or at least that used to be the case. Now she truly doesn't care. 

What does her remembering some random fact he said years ago prove, except that she has an excellent memory? It doesn't mean or change anything. It isn't some convoluted signal that somewhere deep inside, she still cares. 

The harsh reminder sinks into him like a sharp needle, popping that little balloon of hope that barely got a chance to be. Now it's little more than ruined latex—deflated and defeated, just like him. 

Arnold grits his teeth. Why does he keep doing this to himself? Searching for signs that don't exist, hidden meanings in the unambiguous. Didn't he promise to stop getting his hopes up? Didn't he promise himself to move on? 

Arnold just wishes—

Stop. He kills the thought before it can fully form.  

I'm over her, he repeats to himself as his nails dig crescents into his palms. She means nothing to me. 

It's a lifeline to a drowning man made of fragile string.

Epcot is fun, but Arnold doesn't enjoy it to the same extent he did Animal Kingdom, though he does dig the park's outer-space theme.

They arrive just on the tail-end of the International Food & Wine Festival, and despite his feet begging for a reprieve, he has a great time sampling diverse fares from the various country pavilions that make up the World Showcase. 

And then there's Soarin', which quickly works its way up to being Arnold's favorite ride of all time. It's his first time on a simulated ride so he doesn't know what to expect, but it certainly isn't the exciting aerial ride around the globe he's taken on. They're all beaming as they get off—even Helga, who apparently woke up on the wrong side of the bed and stayed there—and Soarin' ends up being the only ride that they ride twice. 

The toll of three consecutive park days catches up with them right as the sun starts to flag, and they unanimously agree to skip out early. Fireworks from the Luminous show set off behind them just as they're exiting the park, but they're all too dead on their feet to care. 

When they finally drag themselves to their hotel room well after dark, Arnold collapses onto his bed with a moan that comes straight from his soul. It's testament to how exhausted he is that he doesn't even react when Helga drops like a rock next to him, so close he can feel the heat radiating off her skin.

"For the love of Pete, please tell me that tomorrow's a rest day, Phoebs," Helga begs, voice muffled from where she faceplanted into the mattress. 

"Tomorrow's a rest day," Phoebe tiredly confirms from the other bed.

Gerald groans. "Oh, thank god. Phoebe, I love you, I really do. But I would've started a riot if we had to do this again tomorrow. Man, I can't even feel my feet anymore." 

"Lucky you," Arnold says with envy.

"My thighs hurt," Helga complains into the bedsheets. "I don't understand how. It's not like I was doing anything with them." Arnold hears the mattress creak as she attempts to get up, and then creak again when she fails.  "Oh, shit, fuck, ow." 

"So tomorrow's definitely going to be a rot-in-bed kinda day, right?" Gerald asks once Helga stops swearing. "Think we can get our meals delivered? Like, all of them?" 

"We can," Phoebe assures him. "Also, Helga, the ibuprofen is in the bathroom." 

Helga merely groans in response, not moving a muscle, and she must really be in pain if she's allowing everyone to see her like this.

Arnold's body moves before his brain even gives it the cue to do so. His entire body feels like it's one big bruise being mercilessly poked at, but somehow he's able to push himself to his feet and shuffle like a man thrice his age to the bathroom. 

He snatches the ibuprofen from the counter, and then three bottles of water from the kitchenette, and tosses two onto the bed where Gerald and Phoebe lay tangled together in a half-dead heap. 

The third he sets down next to Helga's downturned head, along with the white bottle of pain meds. 

"I'm calling dibs on the shower," he announces to the room at large, and then before Helga can even lift her head, flees to the bathroom to avoid being told to shove it. 

That is, if she'll even say anything to him at all. 

The hot shower is a balm to his sore muscles, coaxing the tension from them until it trickles down the drain alongside the water. He almost feels like a person again when he shuts off the water and steps out—the sweat and grime of the day no longer stuck to him like a second skin.

He tiredly dries himself, tugs on a pair of sweats, and then brushes his teeth.

He doesn't wipe the mirror to see his reflection. He knows he won't like what he sees.

Steam, white and warm, billows outward as soon as the door is opened, and gooseflesh breaks out across his skin as it comes into contact with the cooler air. 

Or maybe it's not the temperature at all that causes it, but the girl standing right in front of him. 

Arnold flinches as he suddenly finds himself staring into Helga's piercing eyes. She pushes past him before his brain can catch him up to the unexpected situation and slams the door shut behind her. 

Arnold stands there for a solid minute, rattled by the close encounter, until his feet give a painful reminder they exist. They lead him to the bed calling his name, and the only reason he doesn't flop onto it like a dead fish is because there are items on his side that hadn't been there when he'd left it. 

Arnold frowns as he takes in the sealed water bottle, the ibuprofen, and a tube of Aspercreme (how that got there, he doesn't know). He doesn't want to believe that Helga would refuse to touch any of it just because he was the one who handed it to her.

Surely she isn't so petty. Surely she doesn't hate him that much. 

Oh, who is he even kidding? Of course she does. And the proof of it is right there, lying on his pillow like a calling card. 

Gerald, no doubt sensing Arnold's train of thought, speaks up.

"Hell Girl grabbed that for you," Gerald says casually, studying Arnold's expression from where he's sitting cross-legged on his bed next to his softly snoring girlfriend. "The water and the Aspercreme. Just so you know." 

Arnold ignores Gerald's deliberately flippant tone, and the stare he can feel drilling into his back, and the way his heart trips like it, too, has been taken off-guard. 

"Alright," he says with similarly forced casualness—partly because he doesn't want to open the floor to this discussion, and partly because he genuinely can't think of what to say to that.

His mind is in disarray, thoughts stumbling into each other as they try to figure out what to do with such critical information. Arnold is simultaneously too exhausted and overwhelmed to even consider wrangling them into any semblance of order, let alone take the time to parse out the implications. 

Gerald grumbles under his breath when he realizes Arnold isn't going to bite, and Arnold ignores that, too. 

He crawls onto the bed, pops two pain killers and washes them down, and then slathers the pungent numbing cream onto his throbbing ankles and feet. He then sets it all on the nightstand before settling under the covers, pulling a pillow over his head as if that will somehow drown out his chaotic thoughts. 

He falls asleep before he can finish wondering if he'll be in for another sleepless night. 

Despite everyone's insistence on it being a day of rest, they still end up at the pool—courtesy of Rhonda. 

"I just bought this bikini and I refuse to let it languish in my luggage," Rhonda declares as she barges into their room a little after noon. “And while the pool isn’t quite up to my standards, it’ll have to do. So chop-chop, get moving, people!” 

Nadine shoots them an apologetic look from behind Rhonda. It's only when Arnold notices that Lila and Brainy—who are hovering sheepishly off to the side—are also wearing their swimsuits that he knows resistance is futile.

Later, Arnold will regret not having resisted harder. 

"We'll meet you guys there so hold our seats for us," Rhonda tells them once they have their swim trunks on. "And for goodness sake, don't secure any loungers that are in a shaded spot. Or any that are too far or too close to the pool. And make sure there are enough towels for all of us— who knows how equipped a plebian establishment like this is." And with that she thrusts a bottle of sunscreen at Arnold, ushers him and Gerald out of the door, and slams it in their faces. 

Arnold, Gerald, and Brainy look at each other and sigh. Women. 

So they're the first to arrive at the pool, which, to Arnold's surprise, is nearly empty. They claim lounge chairs that meet Rhonda's very specific criteria with towels they pick up from a dispenser, slather themselves in sunscreen, and make for the water. 

It's nice. 

They chat for a bit, then lapse into a companionable silence. Arnold basks in the warmth of the sun as he lazily floats, his mind blissfully quiet for once. 

The peace doesn't last.

There's a noisy splash just as chlorinated water hits Arnold square in the face. He shoots upright with a splutter, his nose burning from the impromptu waterboarding, and he looks around to see who the hell—

His brain short-circuits before the thought can complete itself.

Because Helga Pataki, the obvious culprit of his plight, is in a bikini. 

Helga, who's worn one-piece swimsuits for as long as Arnold has known her, is in a bikini. A tiny, hot pink bikini that leaves nothing to the imagination. And all Arnold can do is stare at the scant slip of cloth and the endless miles of bronzed skin it reveals—skin that's glistening wet and so damn smooth it doesn't even look real. 

An airbrushed model. That's what Helga looks like, standing there in that hot pink bikini with her sun-kissed skin and sky-blue eyes, the rays of the sun glinting off the studs in her ears and burnishing her hair gold. She looks like something too perfect to exist in reality. Like if he reached out to touch her, she'd wrinkle. 

Arnold's eyes catch on the diamond bow-shaped ring poking from her belly button, and his mouth goes dry. 

"Arnold?" Lila's voice comes from behind him, causing him to jolt. "You're looking a little overheated there. Are you alright? Do you need to lay down?" 

"Y-Yeah," Arnold rasps, ripping his gaze away from Helga and seizing the out he's been given. He needs distance to get his bearings. The water can only hide so much. "I think the sun is getting to me so I'm just gonna go, uh, rest for a bit." 

"Do you want me to accompany you?" Lila asks, eyes full of so much genuine concern that Arnold feels like a heel for lying to her. 

"No, you don’t have to do that, Lila. I’ll just be…dozing, I guess." 

"If you're sure, Arnold. Drink lots of water, alright? And don't hesitate to call me over if you need anything."

Arnold is the worst.

"I will, Lila. Thanks." 

The trek to the seating area feels damingly like a walk of shame. 

Arnold drops into one of the chairs with umbrella coverage and presses his fists into his lids, as if that will somehow block out the flickering slideshow in his mind that comprises of: Bikini. Wet skin. Belly ring. Bikini. Wet skin. Belly ring. Over and over, like a projector stuck on repeat. 

Arnold tries not to stare at Helga. And for a while he even manages. But his willpower can't hold out long against the lure of Helga wearing a bikini, and all it takes is a single peek for it to wave a white flag. 

He looks. And can’t bring himself to stop.

It takes everything Arnold has to keep memories of what it felt like to touch that soft, golden skin at bay. To not lose himself in recollections of touch and taste, skin and sweat, honey and heat. 

He nearly groans out loud when Helga and the others begin a zealous game of volleyball with an inflatable ball that appears out of nowhere, and she starts maneuvering in ways that shouldn’t be legal in such a skimpy swimsuit. One particularly energetic bounce is enough to obliterate the voice in his head that's screeching about how counterproductive this is to getting over her. Another voice takes its place, this one silkily whispering how nice it would be to be under her instead, and—

Fuck. 

He is so, so screwed. 

Arnold watches the game progress—though he couldn't tell you what the score is, let alone who else is playing—and notices that sometimes Helga's eyes will skitter close to where he's seated. And the part of him that refuses to stay dead and buried wonders if she's looking at him. Checking up on him. Because she thinks he's ill. He's forced to chalk the whole thing up as wishful thinking when he fails to catch her in the act. 

But then it happens again, on the tail end of Arnold reprimanding himself for being an idiot. And he unconsciously holds his breath as he counts down the seconds it takes for her to look his way again.

He ends up gasping for breath sixty-seven seconds later, which puts an end to that.  

The game ends. Helga's team is victorious, given the sharklike grin she's sporting. Arnold's eyes trail after her a while longer, but eventually the nagging of his guilty conscience becomes too difficult to ignore so he gets up. His mind is as clear as it's going to get, and he figures it's as good a time as any to rejoin his friends.

Arnold treads down the steps into the water, shivering as the cold, choppy waves lap against his heated skin. He tells himself that it's Gerald he's searching for as he trudges deeper in.

But no amount of willpower can override a habit that's been honed over many years, and it's an easy thing to pick Helga out of the swarm of people in the water, as if he's honing in on a beacon that won't ever shut off. 

Arnold hates that even now, his first instinct is to always seek her out. 

He hates even more the sight he's met with when he does. 

Helga is sitting on the lip of the pool, her legs swinging in the water, and next to her is Brainy, who's sitting entirely too close. Three inches is the most he'll have to move for their arms to brush, and the thought has Arnold's nostrils flaring and an ugly sensation forming in his gut. The sensation worsens when Brainy leans down—because he's needlessly tall—and whispers something into her studded ear. Whatever he says makes Helga smack him on the back with a laugh, but rather than pull away, her hand lingers there. 

Arnold is wading towards them before his brain even makes the conscious decision to do so. 

Before he can reach his target he's blocked by Gerald and Lila, and it takes all of his restraint not to shove them out of his way. 

"Arnold! You feeling alright now, man?" Gerald asks, thumping his arm. 

"Uh-huh," Arnold says, forcing himself to look at Gerald and not around his shoulder. 

"Are you certain, Arnold?" Lila presses. "You really shouldn't overexert yourself. We'd hate for you to end up sick." 

"I'm fine, I promise," Arnold says, but he's barely paying attention to the conversation. He shifts slightly to the side so his attempts to look behind Gerald won't be noticeable, only for him to freeze when his gaze catches on a pair of striking eyes. 

His heart leaps to his throat. 

Someone is saying something, but Arnold can't make out who or what it is. Their words come warbled and distant, like they're speaking at him from the other end of a long tunnel. All of Arnold's attention narrows down to the clash of light and shadow in Helga's eyes. Everything that isn't her fades away. 

Peripherally, Arnold is aware that Brainy is still talking to Helga. Still trying to draw her back into his orbit. But he's failing. And Arnold can stop the vicious triumph that surges in his chest no more than he can stop a rooster from crowing at the rising sun. Right now, all of Helga's attention is on him. On Arnold. The way it should be. 

(If Arnold weren't so caught in the gravity of Helga's stare, he would have noticed the way Brainy looked between them with slumping shoulders. He would have seen the crestfallen expression he wore before he pushed himself to his feet and shuffled away. But Arnold noticed none of those things, too captivated by the girl who always took up all the space in his mind.)

Helga is the first to look away, shattering the moment between them and leaving Arnold stranded on his own tiny island with an abject feeling of loss. Don't look away from me, he wants to shout. Don't pay attention to anyone who isn't me. But the words stick to his throat like tar, and he says nothing as she heaves herself out of the pool and walks away without so much as a backwards glance. 

Just as she always does. 

All the triumph he'd felt leaves him in a rush, taking any emotion that can be construed as positive with it. He stands there with only a gaping hole in his chest to prove that the moment happened at all. 

A firm hand settles over Arnold's shoulder, distracting him from the miserable sight of Helga's retreating back, and the sympathy he sees in Gerald's eyes when he looks up at him has Arnold's throat closing tighter. 

Quietly, Gerald says, "You've got to talk to her, man. You'll never fix things between you two if you don't." 

Arnold doesn't have it in him to muster up his usual denials. 

What would be the point? Who is he even trying to kid at this point? 

These past few months, Arnold has done little else but try to convince everyone, including himself, that he was just as capable of ignoring her, of forgetting her, as she was him. Looking back, he can't help but feel humiliated at his poor performance. What hope did an actor have of convincing others when they couldn't even suspend their own disbelief towards the role they played and the script they read?

It was a farce, and both the actor and the audience knew it. 

Helga G. Pataki isn't someone one can ignore, let alone forget. She's an indelible mark—a tattoo that's been engraved so deeply into his skin the ink has seeped into his blood and stained his muscles and bones. There's no concealing it. There's no removing it. There's only living with the agonizing reminder of it every day. 

"She won't talk to me, Gerald," Arnold whispers when his throat unclenches just enough for words to pass through. He shuts his eyes against a traitorous sting. "I've tried reaching out so many times, but she refuses to even acknowledge me. And that's if I'm lucky. "

He hears Gerald expel a breath. 

"Arnold, what the hell did you do?" 

Arnold chokes out a laugh that's been wrapped in barbed wire. "That's the thing. I don't know. She won't tell me. Years of friendship, gone, and I don't even know why." 

It takes a moment for Gerald's response to come. "Something must have happened after the two of you… y'know. Because that's around the time she started acting strange. Well, strange-er." The hand on Arnold's shoulder tightens before falling away. "Are you sure you can't think of anything you said or did that set her off?" 

Arnold's frustration leaks into his tone. "D'you think I haven't driven myself crazy trying to come up with something, anything, that would explain why she hates me? I don't know, Gerald. Things were great, and then they weren't, and I haven't a clue why." 

Another heavy pause follows, and for a moment all that can be heard is the distant sound of water splashing, seagulls crying, and the high-pitched squeals of children. And in the background of it all, the quiet thrum of music streaming from a point Arnold can't place.

He tunes in just long enough to make out a snippet of a lyric—

Somewhere in my secret heart, I know

Love will find a—

—but then Gerald sighs and hooks his arm around Arnold's shoulder. Draws him close. They both know that Arnold has an easier time accepting pity when he doesn't have to look at it. When he can pretend it's something else. 

"The offer to ask Phoebe is still on the table," Gerald says without hesitance, and Arnold is so touched by the offer that his eyes sting once more. 

"Thanks, Gerald, but no. Phoebe wouldn't tell you anyway, and I don't want to drag either of you into the middle of our mess. I appreciate the offer, but no." He tips his head back and stares at the drifting clouds. He envies them for not having to deal with all this human bullcrap. "I'll just…I don't know. I'll figure it out. Who knows, maybe an opportunity will come where I can get Helga alone and she'll actually want to talk to me. Miracles are supposed to happen at Disney World, right?" 

Gerald snorts and nudges him. "Personally, I think you're going to need something a lot stronger than 'Disney Magic' to get through to that demonic gremlin of yours, but whatever makes you feel better." He glances off to the side to where Phoebe and the girls, sans Helga, are chattering in front of a fountain, and his eyes soften before he looks away. "Seriously, Arnold. Good luck. I mean it. If you need me to tie the harpy to a pole so ya'll can finally talk, just let me know. I'd be happy to. Ecstatic, even. Hell, I might even pay you for the privilege." 

Arnold flicks water at him even as he feels the corner of his mouth tug up into a reluctant smile. 

Gerald notices it, too, and beams as he not-so-gently punches Arnold in the arm. 

“Now c'mon, mi amigo. Let's table this heavy convo for now and see what the ladies are conspiring about over there. I don't know about you, but I am not liking that gleam in Rhonda's eyes. Nothing good ever comes from that girl being happy." 

"Probably because her happiness often comes at the expense of everyone else's," Arnold says dryly, and allows himself to be dragged out of the gloom of his thoughts and towards his friends. 

His relationship with Helga may be in shambles with no hope for restoration, but at least Arnold has this —good friends and a good life. 

And if Helga doesn't want to be included in either of those categories, then fine. 

He'll do his best to wish her the best in life and move on. 

Arnold promises himself one more attempt. He'll try talking to Helga just once more before the end of the trip, and if he fails to get an answer out of her—if she genuinely  wants nothing to do with him anymore—then that will be the end of it. And he means it this time. No more lying to himself about being over her, only to spend hours thinking about her. No more stalking her on socials, or checking his phone for texts that never come. No more obsessing over someone who'd rather he didn't exist. 

Tattoos can be removed, and Arnold will figure out a way to remove this girl-shaped one, too, no matter what it takes. 

The closer they get to the fountain, the louder the music echoes. A man and woman serenade over singing violins and a humming piano, and Arnold listens just long enough to regret it. 

Somehow we'll come through, they croon, for now that I've found you I know love will find a way. 

"Unlikely," Arnold mutters bitterly. 

"Huh? You say something, man?"

"No, Gerald. Not a thing."

~

Chapter Text

When Arnold wakes the next morning, there's a stillness to the air as if the universe itself is holding its breath. He sits up carefully to avoid disturbing the girl snoring softly next to him, and after allowing himself one selfish, lingering glance at her peaceful face, he slips out of bed in search of Gerald. 

Arnold finds him sitting on a bench beyond their room, swallowed in a hotel-issued robe and gripping a steaming paper cup between his hands. Gerald's head is tipped back, his shadowed eyes fixed on a sky that's just beginning to brighten. Arnold doesn't even try to decipher the minute shifts in his expression.

Arnold sits next to him, shivering from the morning chill and the damp wood that's seeping into his sweats. Around them are the sounds of a world shaking itself awake: lilting birdsong and trilling katydids and the whisper of footfalls from those who'd risen with the sun. 

"So today's the day, huh," Arnold murmurs.   

"Today's the day," Gerald echoes, taking a slow sip from his cup. 

"You nervous?" 

"Understatement." 

"Excited?" 

"More than I've ever been in my life." 

Arnold bumps their shoulders together. "Phoebe's going to say yes, you know. And you'll have a short engagement because she's surprisingly impatient, and your wedding ceremony will be so disgustingly sappy that even Jamie-O will cry. And then you'll be married and realize that nothing really changed for you two. Because the important parts of a marriage—the love, trust, respect, commitment—you've already got all that. So ditch the nerves, Gerald. You don't need them." 

Arnold lapses into silence, allowing Gerald time to mull over his words. He hopes his friend sorts his thoughts out quickly because it's freezing, and unlike him, Arnold doesn't have a robe to fend off the chill. Another breeze swirls past, rustling the bedewed grass and overhanging trees, and he shivers as it sinks into him. 

Arnold is just about to head inside to grab a robe when Gerald suddenly twists and hugs him, so tightly his lungs rattle in protest. It's not a comfortable position but he doesn't complain. This is Gerald, his best friend since he was four, and lung functionality is a small price to pay to give him the comfort he needs. 

When Gerald pulls away, his eyes are bright. "Thanks, man. I needed to hear that." 

"You're welcome," Arnold says, simply. 

"Think I can convince you to write my proposal speech for me?" Gerald jokes, swiping at his eyes. "Because I'm having second thoughts about what I've got."

"First of all, Phoebe would notice in a heartbeat," Arnold points out. "Secondly, you could literally quote the proposal from Rocky II and she'd still be thrilled. And lastly, your speech is amazing. I'd know. You practiced it with me so many times that I can recite it in my sleep. So trust me, Gerald. She's going to love it." 

Gerald takes a steadying breath, leans briefly into Arnold’s side for a handful of seconds, and then pushes himself to his feet.

"Alright, alright, enough of this sop. Let's get back inside before you break a tooth or something. I bet Walt Disney can hear your teeth chattering from his cryo chamber." 

"Disney was not cryogenically preserved, Gerald. That's a myth."

"Yeah, that's what they want you to believe."

Gerald's eyes are clear when he extends a hand for Arnold to grab. 

Arnold grins and allows himself to be pulled up. 

Magic Kingdom is aptly named. There's no other explanation for the way Arnold's breath catches when he's waved through the entrance gate and his eyes fall on the skyscraping spires and gilt turrets of Cinderella's Castle, which looms golden against the backdrop of a sunlit sky. 

The other parks were wonderful, without a doubt. But none came close to inspiring the bittersweet nostalgia now flooding his chest.

As their group ambles down Main Street to the dreamy strains of When You Wish Upon A Star, Arnold feels like he's walking backwards in time—to evenings spent watching Disney movies on worn-out tapes at the boarding house he once called home. Pinnochio had been one of his grandpa's favorite movies, so it's no surprise that the lyrics come easily to him now, as if no time had passed at all. 

Arnold's love for Disney films died with his grandparents. After their burial, he'd tucked the memories away alongside the tapes, which he stuffed in a box in the attic and tried his best to forget—hoping his grief couldn't reach what he refused to touch. 

But as he stands in front of a bronze statue of Walt Disney and Mickey Mouse clasping hands, the castle rising behind them like something out of a dream, he feels a shift inside him. For the first time in a long time, Arnold finds that he wants to remember.

Memories burst forth like bubbles from a shaken bottle, and this time he doesn't scramble to stop the overflow. 

Arnold allows himself to remember movie marathons with the boarders, all of them arguing over who got to hold the popcorn bowl. He remembers his grandpa's off-key singing, and the constant stream of anecdotes that interrupted every film. He remembers the way his grandma could recite Robin Hood word for word, often while dashing around the living room with an authentic bow and arrow that grandpa would have to wrestle out of her hands. He remembers falling asleep on the couch beneath his grandpa's arm, the flicker of the TV painting shadows on the walls. Remembers waking to the scent of pancakes and bacon, and his grandma's craggy singing voice. 

Arnold remembers music and laughter and silliness.

He remembers joy and affection and love.

Grandma and Grandpa would have loved this place, he thinks with a tremulous smile, and has to blink away the sting of tears the thought brings. He discretely wipes at his eyes and vows to enjoy it for the both of them. 

Arnold is so lost in reverie that it takes him a beat too long to register the prickle of heat that comes with being watched. He somehow both is and isn’t surprised to find Helga staring at him with an inscrutable expression he can’t make out. And there must be some magic to this place after all, because Arnold experiences another first: he doesn’t even try to.

He turns away, disinclined to twist himself into even tighter knots trying to figure out what’s going on inside her head. 

Besides, there are far more important things to be focusing on right now. 

As they inch further up the queue of people waiting to take photos in front of the statue, Arnold pulls his phone from his pocket. Gerald shoots him a panicked look when their group is next in line, which Arnold returns with a reassuring smile. 

"You've got this," he mouths with a thumbs-up, and Gerald nods, jerkily at first, and then more decisively. Arnold watches him take a rallying breath and visibly steel himself. 

His own hands are clammy as he lifts his phone and sets it to record. 

"Why don't the two of you take a picture first," he suggests as planned, and Phoebe smiles her thanks and steps in front of the statue, the hem of her blue sundress fluttering in the balmy breeze. 

"Gerald? Why are you standing so far away? Do you—" 

Phoebe’s voice falls silent, along with everyone else, as Gerald falls to one knee, the velvet box presented on his outstretched palm like an offering. But isn't that exactly what it is? Arnold thinks, heart throbbing as he watches the scene unfold. An offering of himself to the girl he loves in the hopes that he'll be accepted. That his offered heart will go to safe hands.  

Arnold's vision goes blurry just as Gerald begins to speak. 

"Phoebe. God, Phoebe. I swear I had a speech planned. I really did. But right now I can barely remember my own name, let alone a three-hundred word proposal. So I'm just going to wing it and hope I convey what I need to."

He takes a deep breath just as Phoebe whispers, "Oh my god." 

"From the moment we first held hands in fifth grade and you gave me that shy, wobbly grin, I knew I never wanted to hold hands with anyone else. And twelve years later, that hasn't changed. I want all my firsts to be with you, until we're old and gray and there are no more firsts to be had. I've loved you my whole life, Phoebe Hyerndahl, and I swear that I'll continue loving you 'til I take my last breath if you let me. So," he takes another shuddery breath, "will you marry me?" 

A pindrop can be heard in the hush that follows. Arnold holds his breath along with everyone else in the silent crowd as they wait. It feels like an eternity passes in the seconds it takes Phoebe to answer. 

"Yes!" she shouts and tackles Gerald, who by some miracle doesn't drop the ring even as they topple to the ground. "Oh my god, Gerald, yes! I'll marry you! I love you so much—just so, so much! Yes!" 

The blazing sun has nothing on Gerald's smile. He slips the ring onto Phoebe's finger and kisses her, and Arnold almost drops his phone as he cuts the recording and rushes towards them with the rest of their friends. They pile around the newly betrothed couple in a hug that's pure chaos. There's screaming and crying and laughter, and even complete strangers are adding their congratulations and blessings to the din, caught up in the whirlwind of it all. 

And in the midst of it all is Phoebe and Gerald, teary-eyed and beaming with eyes only for each other. 

Just as it's always been. 

"I can't believe you did that," Rhonda says for the fifth time, still visibly reeling from the proposal. She isn't even trying to hide the fact that she cried. None of them are, really—all of them, including Helga, are red around the eyes. "Never thought I'd say this but I'm, like, actually genuinely impressed, Gerald."

"Oh, wonderful," Gerald deadpans. "Just what I always needed: Rhonda Lloyd's approval. Finally, my life is complete."

They all laugh—at Gerald's mockery, at Rhonda's indignant huff, and at everything and nothing—caught in the giddy afterglow of what had to be the most romantic proposal of all time. 

After their group had left the monument, Phoebe had surprised them all by deciding to forgo their morning itinerary. The spontaneity leads them to Gaston's Tavern for breakfast, where they take pictures in an impressive replica of Gaston's antler chair, argue over whether LeFou's Brew is drinkable (it's not), and eat their collective weight in cinnamon rolls the size of Arnold's face. 

When they finally leave for the next unknown destination, Arnold's cheeks ache from smiling so hard. There's a bounce in his step that could partially be attributed to a sugar high, but it's so much more than that. 

He's just so happy. 

He's happy for Gerald and Phoebe, whose joy is so palpable it hums in the air around them. He's happy for Rhonda and Nadine, who keep sending each other these gushy looks that Arnold is almost certain means he'll be witnessing another over-the-top proposal soon. And he's happy for himself, for being able to share this moment with the best group of friends a guy can ask for. 

Arnold is bursting at the seams with a sickly-sweet optimism he can't contain, which he 100% blames for the impulsive purchase he makes at the gift shop they wander into next. 

Arnold doesn't mean to buy anything. He's already bought all the souvenirs he needs for his friends and family back home, plus a ballcap for himself that was too nice to leave behind. Considering they still have another day at Magic Kingdom to look forward to, he would prefer not to be completely broke for it. 

But when his eyes catch on the silver necklace with an inscribed half-heart charm, Arnold's body moves without conscious thought. His hand doesn't feel like his own as he plucks it off the shelf, the swinging chain catching on the bright ceiling lights.

His thumb brushes over the words engraved on the charm in elegant cursive.

Now and forevermore. 

Arnold doesn't need to flip the tag over to see what franchise it's from. He'd recognize a lyric from Helga's favorite Disney movie anywhere.

"Hello! Can I help you with anything?" A chipper voice pulls Arnold from his trance. 

He smiles distractedly at the cast member and intends to tell her no, until he realizes he does have a question. 

"Oh—uh, yeah, actually. Is this necklace part of a set, or is this just the style?" 

The woman leans in to inspect it. "Ah, yes, it's part of a couple's set. Unfortunately," she continues, anticipating the question before Arnold can ask it, "someone bought the matching half just a few minutes ago. The piece you're holding was actually being held for another guest, but they never came back for it. So if you're interested, you're in luck. These usually sell out fast." 

His fingers tighten around the chain. "I see. Do you think I can find the other half in a different shop?" 

The woman gives him an apologetic smile. "Hard to say. It won't hurt to look, of course. And if you can't find it and want to return this one, we have a 30-day window for returns so long as the product remains in its original packaging and you keep the receipt." 

Arnold thanks her, and with a jovial wave, the woman walks away. 

He glances down at the necklace once more, and that's really all it takes. 

He doesn’t check the price before heading to the register. Doesn’t pause before handing over his debit card. Doesn’t second-guess asking for a gift box. Doesn’t stop to ask himself why the hell he's even buying something for someone who's more likely to toss it in his face than keep it—if not use the chain to strangle him dead.

Thinking would pop his little bubble of optimism, and so he doesn't.

And you'll be in my heart, yes you'll be in my heart, from this day on, now and f—

"You know you've been humming that damn song for like an hour now," Gerald tells him when they're waiting in line for the Seven Dwarfs Mine Train.

Arnold abruptly stops mid-hum. 

He rubs the back of his neck, hoping that a certain someone also hadn't noticed. Because that would be... 

Arnold cringes just thinking about it.

"Sorry. I guess I heard it playing somewhere and it got stuck." 

"Uh-huh," Gerald says, sharing a knowing look with Phoebe that Arnold refuses to acknowledge. Just as he refuses to acknowledge Helga and Rhonda bickering loudly behind him, and the ridiculous envy he feels towards Rhonda for being able to banter with her in the same way he used to. 

And if that weren't enough, there's also the looming deadline for the conversation that Arnold swore he'd initiate with Helga, which he's purposefully not thinking about, either.

Whoever said that ignoring one's problems is a recipe for disaster is absolutely right—but Arnold's refusing to acknowledge that, too. 

A parched throat is what drags Arnold from his sleep.

The last thing he wants is to leave the warm cocoon of his bed, but his thirst is so insistent he can't ignore it. With a despairing groan, Arnold peels himself out of bed and stumbles in the dark towards the kitchenette in search of water. 

There's only one bottle left.  

He sighs. 

Sometimes Arnold wishes he was a crueler person. Because a crueler person would drain the last bottle without any consideration for the others, and then crawl back into bed to sleep away the next—he checks the glowing digital clock on the nightstand—five hours in guilt-free peace. But Arnold isn't cruel, not if he can help it, and so he allows his conscience to bully him out the door with an ice bucket in one hand and his wallet in another. The other occupants in the room are dead asleep and none the wiser as he slips out into the dark.

Florida nights are brisk even in the midst of summer, and this night is no exception. Arnold tugs his robe tighter around himself as he treads down the dimly lit hallway of the resort, accompanied only by the distinct chirping and buzzing of tiny nocturnal dwellers. The resort is ever silent in its slumber.   

He’s nearly to the alcove where the vending machines and ice dispenser are tucked away when he hears voices from around the corner. And they're familiar.

When he registers exactly who is talking, he almost drops the ice bucket.

That's Helga's voice. 

And a second is all it takes to determine that the other voice belongs to Brainy. 

With a heavy swallow, Arnold creeps forward. His mind is spinning with so many questions he feels dizzy. How could he have failed to notice that Helga hadn't even been in the bed when he'd left it? Why was she meeting up with Brainy of all people in a secluded area in the middle of the night? 

Arnold doesn’t like this. 

He doesn't like this at all. 

Arnold inches as near to the edge as he can get without revealing himself, and strains his ears to better hear what they're saying. He knows it's wrong to eavesdrop, but he doesn't care. Even his noisy conscience has gone silent—as if it, too, is disquieted by the unnerving situation. 

The thought comes—unbidden and unpleasant—that maybe Helga and Brainy are a lot closer than either of them have let on. 

Arnold rejects the idea so viciously that he shudders like a dog ridding itself of filth. 

"—like you," Brainy is saying, so softly his voice trickles like a whisper in Arnold's ear. Arnold cringes but doesn't lean away. "I've always liked you, Helga." 

And just like that, Arnold's heart plummets into ice water.

It's a confession, he realizes, the horror creeping through him like icy vines. Arnold has to use every ounce of self-restraint he possesses not to give himself away by throwing himself between them. 

He can't afford to get caught. He needs to know how Helga will respond. Needs to know if the hope he's been so desperately clinging to was little more than a pipe dream all along.  

He hears Brainy take a quivering breath. "And I realize this is sudden but I just…I needed to know if you'd let me take you out. I-I know you're not really into me like that, but if you'd give me a chance I'd—I'd do my best to show you that we could be so good together, Helga…" 

Arnold's nails bite into the palms of his hands hard enough to draw blood. 

Were Brainy confessing to anyone else, Arnold would've admired his bravery. Were it anyone else, he would've rooted for his success. But it's not anyone else. It's Helga—the girl Arnold loves. The girl he misses. The girl he’s been trying so damn hard to find his way back to.

As such, Arnold's thoughts are the furthest thing from kind. 

Arnold prays to any gods listening that Brainy fails. That Helga stomps on his heart so thoroughly all the love he has for her gets crushed like a bug beneath her heel, leaving no hope for survival. That Brainy walks away from this encounter so full of despair he never, ever tries to make a move on her again.

(And would you look at that? It seems Arnold has the capacity for cruelty after all.)

Each second of silence that ticks by feels like an aeon. Even his heart has gone still as he waits, breath trapped behind clenched teeth, for Helga's response. 

And then, finally—

"I can't," Helga says quietly. "I'm sorry, Brainy, but I can't. I'd just be leading you on and it wouldn't be fair to you. So thank you, for liking me, but…I just don't feel the same. And that's not going to change. I'm sorry." 

Relief sweeps through Arnold, so swift and fierce he has to clutch at the wall to keep upright.

Helga turned Brainy down. 

She doesn't like him that way. 

Said she won't ever like him that way. 

Arnold still has a chance. 

So loud is his relief that Arnold almost misses what Brainy says next.

"I-I see. Thanks for not laughing in my face, I guess." Even from so far away Arnold can hear the way his voice strains like a rope-bridge about to give way. 

And just like that, Arnold's guilty conscience is back. It twists in his gut so violently it makes him feel sick.

"I wouldn't do that," Helga insists, and Arnold latches onto their conversation with fervor, desperate to be distracted from the shame gnawing at his insides.

"No," Brainy says after a beat. "I know you wouldn't." 

There's a shuffling sound, followed by a sigh that Arnold can't pinpoint whom it belongs to.

"Helga. I—I know it's not really my place to ask you this, and you don't have to answer if you don't want to, but the reason you're rejecting me…is it because of Arnold?"

Arnold's shock holds his mounting guilt at bay. 

His name, so unexpected, clangs within his skull like the deafening echo of a cymbal. He's unable to stop the gasp that falls from his lips, and hastily slaps a hand over his mouth to prevent any other sounds from escaping. 

Arnold's heart is in his throat as he listens for some indication that they overheard him, but neither of them react. And so Arnold waits, coiled like a spring, for Helga's response. 

"I—" she starts, but is interrupted by the sound of distant laughter. Voices follow, and Arnold realizes with flaring irritation that whoever they are, they're getting closer. 

"It's getting late," Helga says, seizing the opportunity to change the subject. "We have an early start tomorrow so we should probably get back to our rooms."

Arnold is so frustrated he could scream.

"Yeah, you're right," Brainy mumbles, and it takes Arnold a split-second to realize that they're now headed for his direction and—shit. 

He panics. And a panicking Arnold isn't a particularly smart Arnold, which is how he ends up squatting behind a bush shaped like Mickey Mouse and praying to go unnoticed.

Something out there must pity him enough to answer his prayer, because Helga and Brainy walk right past him. Arnold holds his breath as the distance between them grows, but just when he thinks he's in the clear, Helga suddenly stops in her tracks and looks behind her.  

Don't notice me, he begs as she sweeps her gaze over the hedges like she's looking for something. And while Arnold has always admired how sharp her instincts are, he can't help but curse her for it now.

To his relief, Helga's eyes slide right past his hiding spot, and she turns away with a shake of her head before jogging to catch up with Brainy. 

Arnold doesn't release the breath he's holding until he knows they're long gone, and it whooshes out of him with enough force to knock him on his ass. 

He sits in the bushes for an indeterminable amount of time, somehow both high-strung and drained. His mind turns over the conversation like a hamster running a wheel—over and over, all the while knowing that nothing will come from it. Arnold still has more questions than answers, and the only thing to really come from his eavesdropping is the reassurance that at least Helga doesn't like Brainy. 

His guilt is quick to stop his instinctive grin before it can spread. 

There's a fluttering sensation atop the hand braced over his knee, and he glances down to see a cricket perched on his knuckle. Arnold gently raises his finger to frighten it off, but it merely readjusts itself and looks up at him in a way that seems unnervingly critical.

The cricket stares at him.

Arnold stares back. 

After a moment, he slumps. 

"Wonderful," Arnold grumbles. "As if this night weren't crazy enough, now the universe has sent a cricket to judge me. Well go on then, Jiminy. Hit me. Tell me what an awful person I am for not only listening in on a private conversation, but wishing heartbreak on someone who doesn't deserve it."

Jiminy chirps at him, unimpressed, and the way it rubs its legs together almost feels like a rebuke. 

"Ugh, I know, okay? I did a horrible thing and I need to be better. I'd apologize to them but Helga would murder me and Brainy would probably dance over my remains. Anyway, I don't need a cricket telling me what a scumbag I am. I already know." 

Arnold pauses, realizes that he's talking to a cricket, and groans loudly enough that the (judgmental) little critter finally hops off. Probably to tell all his cricket friends about the human who tried conversing with him like a loon. 

Arnold is losing his damned mind, and it's all Helga G. Pataki’s fault. 

~

Chapter Text

It’s the last day of Arnold’s self-imposed deadline for talking to Helga, and he isn’t sure if he’s more frustrated or relieved that he's been thwarted at every turn. 

Arnold can grudgingly admit to himself that he’s not trying particularly hard. Whenever a window of opportunity presents itself to get her alone, he finds his feet dragging just long enough for it to snap shut. 

He knows he's being a coward. He just can't bring himself to do anything about it. Despite what Gerald claims, Arnold isn't actually a masochist, and memories of all the times he's tried reaching out, only to get the proverbial door slammed in his face, has him reluctant to try again. So freaking sue him if he wants to preserve the pathetic remains of his bruised and battered heart. 

It's that self-preservation that holds his tongue when he ends up sitting next to Helga on the street curb on Main Street as they wait for the Festival of Fantasy parade to begin. It helps that it's so stiflingly hot that Arnold can hardly think straight, let alone muster the energy to start a conversation. The sun is brutal as it beats down on them, and he regrets with his whole being that he'd left behind his cap, and the paltry shade it would have provided, at the hotel. 

Arnold downs half a bottle of lukewarm water just as faint music trickles in his ears, and he leans forward to see if he can spot the start of the procession. He can't, not yet, and so sits back with a sigh.

Next to him, Helga squirms for what must be the hundredth time in the past five minutes, and it takes everything he has not to look at her. 

Arnold knows she's suffering. The pavement  has been baking under the sun for hours, and the biker shorts she's wearing can't be offering much by way of protection. Even he's feeling the burn of it through his jean shorts. 

At one point, Brainy had even offered her his neck towel to sit on, but Helga, proud as ever, insisted she was fine and sniped at him to keep his filthy sweat-rag to himself. 

Arnold is sure she's regretting it, just as he's sure she'd rather shrivel into a raisin than ever admit it. 

When Helga squirms again, so fiercely the sides of their arms graze, Arnold gives in. He glances at her from the corner of his eye, biting back a sigh when he sees the way she's perched as far to the edge of the curb as she can get without being reprimanded by security. There’s a grimace of discomfort on her flushed, sweaty face that has Arnold squirming with a pressing need to help. 

Why is she always so damn stubborn? He despairs as he unties the shirt wrapped around his waist and scoots forward to slip it out from under him. He folds it three times, hoping to create as many layers as possible, and places it on the ground behind her. And then, bracing himself, Arnold splays his hand on Helga's back, steadfastly ignoring the way his skin tingles at the contact, and pushes her forward just enough that her butt lifts off the concrete. 

Arnold slides the shirt forward as she flails, and were he not at risk of being pummeled, the perplexed outrage in her eyes as she whips her head towards him would have amused him. 

"What the fu—" she abruptly cuts off when she sits back and her thighs meet something that isn't scorching hot concrete. Helga looks down, sees Arnold's plaid shirt sticking out from under her, and the searing look she shoots him puts the glare of the afternoon sun to shame. 

"Arnold," Helga says through her teeth, and even the anger in her tone can do nothing to stop his stupid heart from fluttering at the sound of his name falling from her lips, it’s been so damn long—

"I didn't ask—"

"For once in your life, could you just stop being so stubborn and accept help?" Arnold cuts her off. "It's unbearably hot, we're going to be stuck here for who knows how long, and contrary to what you think, your pride is not worth getting second-degree burns, Helga." 

Helga scoffs and, to absolutely no one’s surprise, doesn't stand down. 

"Don't be so damn dramatic," she sneers. "I’m fine." 

Arnold rolls his eyes. "Sure, Helga. You were doing your best impression of a slowly boiling crab because you're fine." 

When Helga opens her mouth, Arnold can almost see the daggers hovering at the tip of her tongue. But rather than dodge them like anyone sane would, Arnold (who is never sane where Helga is concerned) leans forward instead. A memory unlocks itself at his instinctive sway forward, of all the times he’s purposely done this—met her ire by leaning in close, catching her off guard—and the way she would always, always lose steam at his proximity.

Arnold used to feel so damn pleased by the evidence of how affected she was by him. Especially when, without her even realizing it, her words would trail off and her eyes would drop to his mouth and linger. It was a heady feeling, flustering someone so otherwise unflusterable. Of being visibly desired by someone so self-contained. 

He wonders now, as he leans forward, so close that only scant inches exist between them, if Helga will react to him the way she used to. If he can still affect her in the same way.  

Not a single word in the English language can reliably define the vastness of the feeling that rises in him as her mouth snaps shut with a resounding click.

"Helga," Arnold breathes, staring into wide, cobalt eyes that are so clear he can see his own uncertainty reflected back, "just use the shirt. Please." 

Away we go! It's a festival of fantasy!

Beauty and majesty, shining magically!

Dreams that glow, wondrous, dazzling, brilliantly. 

So, away we go—it's a festival of fantasy! 

Helga rips her gaze from his, lips pressed thin, and any triumph Arnold might have felt at his victory is overshadowed by the thrum of loss he feels now that she's no longer looking at him. He sits on his hands to keep from doing something stupid, like reaching for her chin to force her face towards his. The burn of the concrete against his palms grounds him; keeps his thoughts from tipping into dangerous what-ifs.  

Music, blaring and upbeat, swells around them as the first massive float begins gliding in their direction. The crowd erupts in cheers and song as Bell, leading the procession in the glimmering golden gown that had made the Beast so starstruck, waves her gloved arms from atop a throne of vibrant flowers. 

Arnold watches the outline of Helga's face as she drinks in the dancing characters, the colorful platform stages, the majestic streamers and balloons. Watches a hint of a smile slowly unfurl at the corner of her mouth as her shoulders lose some of their rigidity and she relaxes. Watches as she commits to ignoring him so she can enjoy the parade.

Arnold exhales some of his own tension as he forces his attention away from her and focuses on the dancers spinning like versicolor dreidels in front of him. 

Or at least he tries to. 

The parade is amazing, truly. The characters are charming, the floats are artfully constructed and creatively festooned, and the music is so energetic that, were he a little more present, his head would be bobbing along to the jaunty beat. 

But how can Arnold fall for its spell when he's so completely under another's? How can he be entranced when the most enchanting person he's ever known is sitting close enough to reach out and touch? Arnold's focus strays no matter how hard he tries to steer it elsewhere, like a compass needle always straining towards a perilous north. 

Arnold is so damn hopeless. 

He's afraid his love is, too. 

The crowd disperses once the parade ends, shattering the illusion of vacant space as the masses spill onto every available inch of the curving walkways.

Arnold's back protests as he stands, and he stretches to work out the kinks that formed from sitting on the hard ground for so long. He's just beginning to look around for the others when a bundle of red fabric is thrust in his face and he jerks back, startled. 

It's his shirt. Helga is holding it out to him with pursed lips and narrowed eyes that demand he hurry the hell up and take it. Arnold does, and he isn't the only one who twitches when their fingers brush. 

He expects that to be the end of it. For Helga to let go, maybe tell him off for sticking his nose where it doesn't belong. But instead the shirt rumples between their hands as Helga grips it tight and doesn’t let go. Arnold wonders, with more indifference than is probably wise, if she's considering strangling him with it. But she isn't looking at him with murderous intent. In fact, Arnold can't decipher the way she's looking at him at all. Only knows that the way he’s being looked at makes his throat tighten, his chest constrict, and his feet feel like they've fused to the ground. 

"Arnold," she says, then stops. That same unnamable something flashes over her eyes, quicksilver swift, and then they're shuttering. Arnold can almost see a wall erect upwards from the ground below—encasing her in, shutting him out—and before he can react he's once more standing on the other side. He thinks that if he were to reach for her now, he'd only touch stone. 

"Helga—" he tries anyway, stepping forward, his fingers tightening over the shirt he's now carrying alone. But it's as futile as shooting arrows at a towering palisade; the flimsy sticks clatter to the ground without so much as leaving a mark, and her blank indifference is the only thing he earns for his trouble. 

When Phoebe catches up to them a moment later and links her arm through Helga's, bright-eyed and gesticulating wildly as she gushes about the parade, Arnold forces his leaden feet to take several steps back. As if, somehow, physical distance will make the emotional distance easier to bear. 

It doesn’t.

"Y'know," Gerald says, falling into step next to him, and Arnold startles so badly he almost drops his shirt. "I never really understood the hype about parades, but I think I get it now. That was pretty amazing.” He shakes his head, eyes alight with a wonder that Arnold would envy if he didn’t feel so numb. “I even got a kiss blown at me from Jasmine. And I know she’s just an actor but damn if she didn’t feel real in the moment.”

Arnold chuckles, but it’s a halfhearted thing barely worth the effort of trying. Unfortunately, Gerald picks up on it and eyes him with concern. 

“You alright, man? You don’t look so good.” 

How can I be alright when the girl I love can’t even talk to me for a second before shutting down? Arnold wants to ask, but he clenches his jaw to keep the words in. 

It’s their last day at Disney and Arnold refuses to burden anyone else with his mess. Gerald is still riding the high of getting engaged to the girl of his dreams and the last thing Arnold wants is to pluck him out of the air so he can thrash about in the mud with him. 

“I’m good, just a little overheated,” is the excuse he gives. When that isn’t enough to erase the doubt from Gerald's expression he tosses out, “Also? Jasmine blew that kiss at me, so maybe get your eyes checked, Johanssen.” 

He forces a lazy grin, giving Gerald his best 'yeah, I’m a stud' look, which prompts an eyeroll just as Arnold knew it would. But before his friend can voice his indignation, Phoebe is sliding next to him and interlacing their fingers, and Arnold may as well cease to exist from that point on. 

Arnold's sham of a smile fades away as he eases back.

The rest of their friends, who got separated when the parade ended and the crowd scattered, find their way back to them. And then their little group is off to check off the next item on Phoebe's itinerary—to eat something called dole whip, going by Gerald's exuberant chanting. 

Arnold spares Helga's back one final look, ties his wrinkled shirt around himself, and follows.  

The day passes far too quickly, and before Arnold is ready, the sky starts to dim from the flagging sun.  

"Well, this is it, guys. Our last activity of the day," Phoebe says, tucking her phone away with the finality of a book snapping shut. Which, Arnold supposes, in a way it has. They've reached the end of the journey and there's nothing left to read. 

Story over. 

The End. 

Arnold rocks back from the impact the finality of the thought has on him. 

I won't let it end like this, he tries to reassure himself, but it lacks conviction to his own ears. Promises made without actions to back them are just hollow words. And they certainly feel hollow as they echo feebly in his head before vanishing like smoke. 

Arnold can't be more sick of himself if he tries. 

With the park near closing and the Happily Ever After fireworks show about to start, Fantasyland is almost a ghost town. They reach the front of the standby line for the Enchanted Spinning Wheel in no time, and Arnold barely has time to blink before they're being ushered onto the boarding bay and split into two groups since they all can't fit onto a gondola. 

Arnold hasn't been on a ferris wheel in ages, nevermind one so…innovative, so he's a little excited.

"The swinging gondolas look pretty fun, don't they?" Nadine says, looking hopefully at her assigned groupmates. 

Rhonda, Lila, and Brainy look at her like she's insane.

"Are you crazy? Absolutely not." 

"Good heavens, no." 

"I don't even want to get on the stationary one…I don't like heights…I don't like heights at all… " 

Nadine slumps in defeat.  

"But we're getting on the fun one, right?" Helga says, bouncing on her feet as she stares her group (excluding Arnold, who may as well not exist) down. "Because we're not lame cowards. Right?" 

Gerald shrugs. "Sure. Looks fun." 

"I don't mind," Phoebe says, before pointedly turning towards Arnold. "How about you, Arnold?" 

Well, at least someone here cares about his opinion. "I'm cool with it, too." 

"How wonderful that we're all on board."

Nadine sighs. "Can't I ride with ya'll?" 

Rhonda folds her arms. "No, because this is a romantic ride and you want to spend it beside your gorgeous and charming girlfriend who you love so very much. Right, Nadine?" Rhonda smiles, sweet as nightshade. 

Nadine sighs again, more amusedly this time, and looks equal parts exasperated and fond when Rhonda slips behind her, wraps her arms around Nadine's waist, and nuzzles the side of her face.

Next to them, Lila is running a palm up and down Brainy's arm, doubtlessly trying to ease his nerves at being dragged onto another nightmare-fodder ride. But when Lila curls her fingers around Brainy's wrist and glances up at him through fluttering eyelashes, Arnold's brows shoot up. 

They shoot up even further when Lila presses herself against Brainy's side with a sly innocence Arnold knows is feigned, and practically cross the boundaries of his hairline when Brainy blushes and stutters but doesn't pull away. 

Huh, Arnold thinks, watching them. But before he can ponder on that any further, their group is flagged down by a crewmember and they're gearing up to board.

The gondolas are even more majestic up-close, constructed to look like royal carriages in various hues of silver, purple, and gold. Even the iron mesh casing the windows doesn't take away from its regality, though Arnold wouldn't complain even if it did—not after realizing there isn't a safety bar or seatbelt in sight. 

Helga is the first to hop on. Arnold follows suit, opting to sit on the far end of the seat so Phoebe and Gerald can claim the opposite bench for their own. 

Which, speaking of. 

"Guys?" Arnold asks when he realizes their friends haven't followed them inside. 

"Sorry, but I'm not feeling very well all of a sudden," Phoebe says from the outside platform. She's clutching her stomach and leaning into Gerald like he's the only thing keeping her upright. "I think it's best if I sit this one out." 

"Phoebs, are you okay? Do you need to go to the med station?" Helga asks, voice heavy with concern, and they're both starting to stand when Phoebe hastily waves at them to stop. 

"No, no, you two should stay and enjoy the ride! It's the last one so make the most of it, okay?" There's something barely contained in her tone that has an alarm bell flashing in Arnold's mind, made worse by how calm Gerald looks. Gerald, who goes into panic mode when Phoebe gets so much as a paper cut. Yeah, something is definitely off. 

A glance in Helga's direction tells him he's not the only one who's suspicious. 

"If you won't be boarding, please exit to the right of the platform," a nearby crewmember tells them, and after a hurried wave, Phoebe and Gerald disappear down a ramp, leaving Helga and Arnold alone. 

"Well, aren't you two lucky, getting the carriage to yourselves!" The crewmember exclaims jovially before shutting the door and locking it. He tugs on it twice to make sure it's secure. "Enjoy the ride, you two!" he says with a wink before moving on to secure the next gondola. 

Arnold and Helga glance at each other and then away. He drops into the seat opposite Helga as an anxious pit forms in his stomach. When his phone vibrates in his pocket, he yanks it out, desperate for a distraction. 

It's not the distraction he wants. 

His screen alights with an incoming stream of texts, each one more aggravating than the one before it. 

Ping!

Gerald: You're welcome. 😏

Ping!

Gerald: Do NOT waste this opportunity, you doofus

Ping!

Gerald: you'd better TALK TO HER or so freaking help me 🔪🔪🔪🔪

Arnold viciously pockets his phone, wishing that Gerald were here so he could chuck it at his head. 

Opposite him, Helga is texting frantically on her own device with a scowl sour enough to curdle milk, and Arnold finds himself wondering if she received her own slew of encouraging texts from her own best friend. 

The ride jolts as Helga angrily types out what Arnold would bet money on is a threat  before stowing her phone away. And not a moment too soon as the gondola lurches forward, sways, and then takes off the ground. 

Their eyes meet again before slashing away to safer sights. 

The silence is tense. 

The pressure to end it even moreso. 

Arnold has planned relentlessly for this opportunity, and yet now that it's here, all the words he's toiled over for days, weeks, months, stick to his throat like gum. He can't dislodge them no matter how hard he tries. All he can do is stare out the window to the shrinking park as he chokes on his own cowardice. 

And then the gondola shudders and starts to slip, and Arnold stops thinking of anything that isn't oh shit.

He yelps, fingers clinging desperately to the mesh as his butt lifts from the seat. He hears a similar cry of surprise opposite him, and looks up to see Helga gripping the mesh as tightly as he is, her cheeks flushed and eyes wide with a frightened sort of delight. 

"Oh fuck," she swears as the gondola begins to wildly swing back and forth, and then they're both screeching as it plummets backwards. 

Arnold can't help it—he laughs. The rush of freefalling, of vertigo, swoops in his gut like the worst kind of tickle, and he cracks up as the wind zips around him and he has to fight to keep his butt on the seat. 

Helga isn't faring much better, grinning madly as her hair whips wildly around her head. 

Their eyes meet, and this time neither looks away. 

Arnold's stomach swoops, and it has nothing to do with the ride. 

The gondola abruptly jerks once, then twice, before slowing to a creaking still. Arnold watches Helga's brows furrow with confusion, feeling his own do the same. They only break their stare when voices of alarm sound from the surrounding carriages, growing louder until a loudspeaker somewhere above them crackles to life. 

"Hello, folks," comes a tinny, chipper voice. "We're currently experiencing technical difficulties so please be patient and sit tight while we work to get the ride moving again. Thank you so much for your patience." 

There's another staticky crackle as the announcement ends, and then silence until: 

"Oh, you have got to be fucking kidding me." 

~

Chapter Text

Here's the thing: Arnold isn't afraid of heights. He quite enjoys them, actually, considering his propensity for finding himself cloudgazing atop any rooftop he can gain entrance to. But there's a difference between a solid rooftop and a metal box dangling from a 250-foot high wheel, and he'd be lying if he said he wasn't a little apprehensive about the current circumstances. 

After texting his friends to reassure them they were fine—or as fine as they could be given the situation—Arnold pockets his phone and takes a moment to survey the view. 

From so high above, Magic Kingdom looks entirely befitting of its name. Night has long since fallen, but the park is all the more brighter for it—glowing lamplights scattered like stars, and buildings outlined in a candlelike hue. In the distance, Cinderella's Castle is so blindingly bright the air surrounding it shimmers violet. 

It's magical—like an illustration from a storybook consisting of fairytales. And for a while, Arnold allows himself to be swept up by the illusion. 

But only for a while.

Because this is the moment he's been waiting for—an opportunity to get Helga alone where she can't escape and he can't let her. 

It takes him longer than he cares to admit to gather the nerve to call out, “Helga?” 

She twitches but doesn't turn from where she's staring out at the luminescent world below. Arnold takes a rallying breath and tries again. 

"Helga, can we please talk?" The slow stiffening of her spine gives the impression of a portcullis being drawn, and were Arnold to take a step closer to her, he thinks he'd ram into iron bars.  "Helga."

When her eyes slice towards him, the unyielding steel he finds there nearly makes him flinch. 

"Fuck off," she enunciates harshly, each syllable coming down like an axe. 

Arnold meets her glare with a steadiness he doesn't feel. "Helga, c’mon. It’s been months. We need to talk about this."

"No, see, this is where we differ, Shortman. You need to talk. What I need is for you to leave me the hell alone." 

Arnold drags a hand through his hair. He may as well be talking to a stone wall for all that he's getting through to her. It sets his teeth on edge, how sour things between them have become. They used to be so close— used to talk for hours about everything and nothing, and would seek each other out for no other reason than because they enjoyed spending time with each other. Attached at the damn hip, Gerald used to say with an uncomprehending shake of his head.

Arnold would give anything to return to that time, which is why he’s digging his heels in now, refusing to budge no matter how forcefully she's shoving him away.

He's done letting Helga dictate the terms and conditions of their exchanges. Done being denied answers for the awful way she's treating him. Done paying for a crime he has no knowledge of committing because she won't tell him how he screwed up.  

The unfairness of it all crackles under his skin like firecrackers.

“What the hell did I do?” Arnold erupts, standing so abruptly the carriage lurches violently and they're both forced to cling to the wire-mesh windows to keep themselves steady. “How the hell am I supposed to fix this if I don’t even know what I did wrong?”

Helga’s eyes flash as she purses her lips, and Arnold holds his breath, certain this is it: the moment she talks to him. 

It feels like he's been punched in the gut when she turns away from him instead. 

Screw this, he thinks waspishly, fury boiling beneath his ribs. Why is he twisting himself into knots and wringing himself dry over someone who wants nothing to do with him? Why is he chasing so hard after someone who doesn’t give half as many damns about him as he does her? 

There's a limit to what a person can take, and Arnold, who feels like a rubber band stretched taut, has finally reached his. 

“You know what, Helga? Fine. If you don't want to talk, if you don’t want to fix us, then I guess that's it. I’m done being the only one trying here.”

He throws himself onto the bench, ignoring the way the gondola shudders in complaint. His jaw aches from how tightly he’s  clenching it, but it's nothing compared to the ache in his chest now that he’s realizing the futility of it all. The finality. 

“We never should've slept together,” Arnold hisses through his teeth, trying to convince himself that the sting behind his eyes is anger. “It ruined everything."

Arnold expects his comment to go without remark. 

For Helga to continue pretending he doesn’t exist. 

He's wrong. 

"You're the one who ruined everything!" Helga snarls, sudden and vicious like a lunging snake. Her knuckles bloom white from where they’re clenched over the edge of the bench, like it's taking everything she has not to wrap her hands around his neck and squeeze. "You're the one who used me to get a leg over and then fucked someone else, so don’t you dare pin this on me!" 

The accusation doesn’t register at first. It hangs suspended in the air between them, and Arnold’s brain is incapable of processing it at all. 

He must’ve been hit over the head with something. That's the only logical explanation for why the words Helga spewed are arranging themselves in such a nonsensical order. Something brained him, and now he's concussed, and that's why he's currently experiencing this insane auditory hallucination. 

Because what.

"Helga, what? "

“Fuck you, Shortman. Seriously, fuck you . Why the hell did you sleep with me if you were just going to—" she chokes on whatever else she intends to say, and her eyes are burning with so much rage that Arnold nearly misses the hurt lurking behind the flames. "Why did you—why did you say all those things to me if you were just going to—" 

She squeezes her eyes shut and folds into herself like her arms are the only thing holding her together. Despite his shock, Arnold's heart still twists at the sight. 

"You're right about one thing, though,” she continues savagely. “We never should have slept together. But let's make one thing clear: you were the one who ruined everything, not me." 

The silence that materializes in the wake of her speech is so thick Arnold would've choked on it were he not already choking on the jumbled protests warring at the back of his tongue.

Arnold's head spins as he tries to make sense of what he just heard—tries and fails, because how can one make sense of something inherently insensible? 

It takes him three painful tries to push through the tightness in his throat. 

"Helga, I—" 

"Don't." 

"Helga, you've got it—"

"I said don't." 

"—all wrong, I—"

"I don't want to hear it!" 

"Helga, I never slept with anyone else!" 

Arnold watches as Helga goes still. Inside his chest is a wild animal battering itself against his ribcage so violently his bones rattle. He wants to let it loose but they're both trapped, and he can do nothing as it scratches burning claw marks into his flesh, threatening to tear him apart. 

He can barely hear himself think over the rush of blood in his ears and the deafening pounding of his heart. With a mouth gone bone dry he manages to repeat, "Helga, I never slept with anyone else." 

Arnold thinks he isn't the only one being ravaged by too many thoughts to sort out, because Helga's eyes are a kaleidoscope of emotions, taking on different shapes and shadows with each rapid blink. 

"Bullshit," she says, more defense than attack. "I know what I saw." 

Arnold leans forward until his forearms rest on his knees. He scrubs his face with his palms and tries to breathe through the disbelief filling his chest and pressing against his lungs. 

"Well, whatever you saw was wrong , because I haven't slept with a single person since you ." 

The seconds tick by. Helga's eyes are like lasers, roving over him as if she can see through each layer of his skin, and Arnold keeps still so she can see the truth of what he’s saying for herself. 

She sucks in a breath, and the way she looks at him has Arnold's heart jolting with the realization that he’s finally starting to get through to her. 

"Helga, why did you think I slept with someone else?" he says insistently, spurred by the spark of uncertainty he can see in her eyes. 

Helga's jaw flexes, and once again, Arnold braces himself to be met with silence. 

He’s so surprised when Helga actually  responds that had he been standing, his knees would’ve given out. 

"After we—” She breaks off like she can’t even bring herself to say it, then continues through her teeth, “I woke up the next morning and you were gone."

It doesn’t take Arnold long to pull up memories of the morning she’s referring to. He's turned that day over in his mind so many times he can replay each second of it as if it were a tape that could be rewound with the press of a button. 

"You know I had a meeting with my counselor that afternoon," he protests, vividly remembering how reluctant he’d been to pull out of her warm embrace and crawl out of the cocoon of blankets they’d been wrapped in. A vision of her reaching sleepily for him, her lips downturned in a pout of discontent, flashes behind his eyelids. Months later, the memory still aches like a bone that never set quite right. "You were—you were sleeping so peacefully that I didn't have it in me to wake you. I thought I'd be back before you woke up, that you wouldn't even notice I was gone." 

Helga's nostrils flare. "Well, I did notice. I waited hours for you to get back, and you never did. You couldn't even be assed to respond to any of the texts I sent you." 

Arnold shakes his head and says, "And I told you why. Helga, you know I would've texted back under any other circumstances, but my counselor got me a last-minute interview with that company I wanted to intern at and then my phone died and I didn’t have a charger and—"

"I know," Helga cuts him off so harshly that Arnold almost bites his tongue as his mouth snaps shut. "I know . And I never begrudged you that, alright? But I still looked for you, because you just freaking vanished without a word and no one could tell me where you were. So I went to that fucking cat cafe you loved thinking you got distracted like you always did, and that's when I saw—" She grits her teeth and rips her gaze from his like she can’t stand to even look at him anymore. “—You kissing her. Fucking Candy Owens." 

Arnold's face spasms before it falls. Because that had happened. And of course—of freaking course—Helga had seen it.

"Helga, she kissed me ," Arnold pleads, his desperation pushing him to the edge of his seat. "And I swear I pushed her away afterward. I was only at the cafe in the first place because I knew you were pissed at me and I didn't want to apologize empty-handed. And then Candy approached me and started talking about how I was making eyes at her at that party—which I wasn't, you know that I barely took my eyes off of you for even a second —and then she just kissed me. And yeah, okay, I admit I froze for a few seconds. But I pushed her off of me the second I realized what was going on!" 

Arnold inhales a nervous breath, hoping that Helga will finally soften from the statue she's impersonating as she comes to terms with the truth. That she’ll believe him. 

Instead, she just becomes stonier. 

"You know, that's what I thought, too," she grits out, still refusing to look at him. "I came up with every explanation imaginable, so damn convinced that it was all just a misunderstanding. So the next night I went  to your place to get the story straight from the source and what did I see?” She laughs, but there’s nothing humorous in the sound. “You and Candy embracing in front of your apartment. And even then, with the truth staring me in my stupid face, I still tried to make excuses for you. But then you brought her inside." Helga's voice tremors—a splintering crack in the stone. "You’d think that would’ve been enough evidence for me, but I was still in denial so I waited. For three fucking hours, I waited. And neither of you came out." 

And Arnold can see it with such painful clarity he has to shut his eyes. 

Helga, storming up to his apartment to confront Arnold about what she saw, only to find him embracing the girl he'd kissed and leading her inside.  

Helga, pacing in front of his door the way she tended to when she was anxious, waiting for him to come out. Promising herself just a little longer as the minutes and then hours whittled by. 

Helga, assuming the worst and giving up. 

And the worst part is, Arnold can't entirely blame her for jumping to such a conclusion. As much as he wants to rage at her for not trusting him, for shutting him out instead of just talking to him…Arnold knows he would have assumed the same had their roles been reversed. 

His mind casts back to the moment he realized something was wrong. It had been the morning after the incident Helga spoke of—mere hours after Candy had left his apartment—and Arnold had turned up at Helga's dorm, so damn eager to discuss the night they'd shared, to give their evolved relationship an official label, to just be with her. 

Helga had opened the door with dark bruises under bloodshot eyes, and she'd dismissed his concern with a flimsy excuse about breaking night to finish an essay. 

And Arnold had believed her. 

His heart, already fractured, completely shatters when he realizes she must have spent the whole night crying. Has probably spent countless other nights crying since. 

"Helga—" He chokes. Stops. Breathes through the pain as fragments of his heart embed themselves into his lungs. "Helga, I swear to you—we didn't do anything ." 

Helga's so still that she doesn't even appear to be breathing, whereas Arnold's taking deep, ragged breaths like he's just done a round in a ring. 

"Candy, she—she just turned up at my place completely drunk and rambling about how I was playing hard to get. I wanted her gone but I couldn't just leave her like that. So I let her in, figuring I could call someone to get her, only she passed out on my couch. Helga, I swear I sent her off the second she woke up. I told her—" He swallows as he considers whether he should relay what he’d said to Candy that morning, unsure if it will do either of them any good. In the end he decides to, even though doing so makes him feel like an exposed wound. "I told her that I already had a girl. And my girl would kick her ass if she found her there, so she had to leave. God, Helga, I never slept with her. I didn't even sleep in the same room as her." 

A strangled sound rips itself from Helga’s throat, and Arnold's pushing out of his seat before he can even think to do so, closing the distance between them and dropping to his knees beside her hunched-over form. Sometime during his explanation, she'd buried her face in her hands as if to hide herself from him. But Arnold won't let her hide—not anymore. He dares to curl his fingers around her birdlike wrists and tug her hands from her face, ducking his head under hers so he can stare into blue eyes rimmed red.

Were his heart not already in pieces, it would have cracked even further at the sight. 

"You believe me, don't you?” he asks in a hush. “Believe that I'd never do that to you?" 

It's like watching a dam break in slow-motion. Her eyes dampen, then overfill, and before he knows it, tears are splattering where his hands encircle hers. He can feel each one like the press of a hot poker. The air, once weightless, grows heavy with a misery not solely his own. When he inhales, he smells salt.

Helga closes her eyes, her last defense, and chokes back a poorly-contained sob. 

"What else was I supposed to think?" she cries, lashing out like a trapped animal. 

"You were supposed to trust me," Arnold bites out. "And when you couldn't do that, you were supposed to talk to me." 

"I couldn't!" She tries wrenching herself out of his grip, but Arnold only clamps down tighter, refusing to let go. 

"You could have.” 

"I couldn't! You have no idea how long I—" She gasps a strangled breath. "And then we—and then you —I fucking couldn't , Arnold!" 

Arnold. 

Another crack in the stone. 

Another piece of her emerging.  

"You could have," he repeats vehemently, ignoring the warmth that pulses in his chest at hearing her say his name. "You should have, instead of cutting me out of your life without even telling me why . Do you have any idea how hurt I've been this whole time? And all of it could’ve been avoided if you'd just talked to me!" 

That's what Arnold can't wrap his head around—how preventable their fallout was. The absurdity of it sticks out of him like a thorn, one that refuses to budge no matter how hard he yanks on it. And it hurts. 

Helga finally rips herself out of his grip and leaps to her feet, and Arnold, still kneeling, has to catch himself on the bench to keep from falling on his backside. The carriage pitches as she puts as much distance between them as she can, which isn't much. Arnold stares, just for a moment, as she presses her face against the false window  and breathes slowly like she's trying not to cry. And then he drops to the floor like whatever strings have been holding him up have been cut. 

His throat bobs as he tilts his head back and tries to think. He makes a halfhearted attempt to organize the chaos in his head, the clutter in his chest, but that has him feeling even more like an open sore that's being lanced and drained. 

Eventually he gives up and pushes himself to his feet. He spares another look towards Helga’s back, and the effort it takes to not reach out when he notices her shoulders shaking is immeasurable. His nails dig indents into his palms as he forces himself to turn away. 

He doesn't know what to feel. Doesn’t know what not to feel, either. Should he be angry at her for believing the worst of him? Sad that this whole time she’d truly thought herself used and discarded? Relieved that she was finally talking to him again? Frustrated that it had taken them getting trapped on a malfunctioning ride to get her to talk to him at all? 

The only thing he knows with any certainty is that he's tired . Tired of being the only one trying to mend things between them. Tired of knocking on doors, only for them to be slammed in his face. He supposes the ball is in her court now, and Arnold wants—no, he needs to see what she intends to do with it. It's not in his nature to sit and wait when there are things to be done and wrongs to be corrected, but this time he will. 

Arnold has to see if Helga even considers them worth fighting for. 

Considers him worth fighting for. 

The distant sound of cheering pulls him from his clashing thoughts, followed by the brassy trill of trumpets. He looks up just as beams of white light flood the night sky like beacons, and then Cinderella's Castle begins to glow with the incandescent lustre of sapphires, of copper, of gold. 

Each of us has a dream, a heart's desire. 

It calls to us, and when we're brave enough to listen, 

That dream will lead us on a journey to discover who we're meant to be. 

All we have to do is look inside our hearts and unlock the magic within. 

A piano builds up to a crescendo just as golden sparkles swirl around the castle, and the copper towers and turrets brighten to a red only found in jewels. A man and woman sing of the wonder of new tomorrows as fireworks take to the sky like shooting stars, sending sparks of light over the land as if millions of fireflies have just woken from their slumber. 

An emotion he doesn't want to name froths under his skin as he watches the light show, and it intensifies when he senses the only other occupant of the gondola tenuously take up the empty space next to him. 

Arnold glances at Helga. She glances back. Colors splash over her skin like splatters of paint, and Arnold wants nothing more than to brush his thumb over her tense jaw, smooth the tension away with a gentle swipe. 

But he doesn't. 

He doesn't do anything at all, and neither does she. 

They turn away from each other, both of them with crossed arms like it's the only thing keeping them from falling apart. Arnold wonders if the enchanting world outside of their cage blurs only to him. 

They stand there, still and silent, even as the overhead intercom whizzes to life and the tinny voice of the ride operator thanks them for their patience, and with a jolt, the ferris wheel slowly, gradually, begins to turn.  

And so our journey comes to an end, but yours continues on. 

Grab ahold of your dreams and make them come true. 

For you are the key to unlocking your own magic. 

Now go. Let your dreams guide you. 

Reach out and find your Happily Ever After.

They return to their hotel. 

The door has barely closed behind them when Phoebe makes a request to the front desk for a delayed check-out, and they're all relieved when it's granted. None of them want to wake up early for a flight that doesn't depart until late noon. 

Arnold‘s bed sings to him with the seductiveness of a siren, but knowing he’ll only regret it come morning if he succumbs to its song, he forces his body to finish packing instead. It sucks. By the time he's done, Gerald is already a snoring lump of blankets on the opposite bed and Phoebe is in the bathroom, putting rollers in her hair as she chats on the phone with her mom. 

Their room’s fourth occupant stepped out half an hour ago for ice but hasn't returned. 

Arnold sets his bulging suitcase aside and pretends, just for a moment, that he's going to follow Gerald's suit, crawl into bed, and get the shut-eye his mind and body are begging for. 

He sighs in resignation when instead he slides into his shoes and leaves the room, following the insistent pull of his heart. 

At just past eleven, the resort is deserted. It's so quiet he can hear his muted footsteps against the pavement. So quiet he can hear the rhythmic trills of katydids and cicadas from the distant bushes and trees.  

So quiet he can hear muffled sobbing long before he can pinpoint its source.

He follows it, because he's helpless to do anything else. 

When he finally spots Helga between two neat, flowering shrubs, sitting with her arms around her legs and her face tucked into the bony points of her knees, the whole of her shaking like she's a string being plucked to the point of snapping—Arnold doesn't hesitate. He lowers himself next to her, jostling bushes and sending a dozing bird into startled flight. It had drizzled earlier, and whatever rain hadn't been sucked into the ground now seeps into his sweats, but Arnold barely feels it. 

He can tell Helga knows he's there from the way she increases her efforts to stifle the sounds she’s making, but she isn't successful. If anything, Arnold's presence seems to make her cry harder. His hand takes on a life of its own as it settles onto her back. He can feel her overheated skin through her thin t-shirt, and the way she stiffens for a beat, then two, before slumping, chips away at a heart that's already been fractured. Arnold stares up at the night sky and its meager stars and rubs circles into her back while she cries herself out. 

"I'm sorry," she croaks after several heartbeats. Her words come muffled and wet, but Arnold hears them as clearly as if she spoke them directly into his ear. "I'm so damn sorry, Arnold." 

Arnold doesn't realize how much tension he's carrying until it trickles out of him, and inch by inch, the abnormal stiffness of his spine eases. 

"I know, Helga." 

"I just—" She releases a shaky breath. "It was just so much. You have no idea, no idea, how long I've liked you, Arnold. And then we had sex, and okay, we were a bit drunk but not so much that it didn't mean something. Didn’t mean everything. And I was so damn happy. But then everything afterward was just wrong. You weren't there in the morning. And when I finally did see you again you were kissing another girl." 

Arnold opens his mouth to remind her, once again, that he'd not been the one doing the kissing, but she cuts him off. "I know now that's not what happened, okay? But that's what it looked like. And it didn't help that the next time I saw you that same girl was all over you and you were bringing her into your apartment. What the hell was I supposed to think?" 

She swipes the back of her hand across her eyes and inhales harshly before continuing, "I should have talked to you. I know that. We could have settled this months ago if I had. But I was a coward and I couldn't bear the thought of you telling me that—that what we did didn't mean anything, that it was a mistake, that you didn't want me and fuck— "

Helga kicks at the dirt with the heel of her sneaker, sending pebbles and dirt onto the pavement beyond the grass. Her knuckles dig into her eyelids as she once more drapes herself over her knees. 

"I'm so stupid," she whispers when she catches her breath. "I finally got everything I ever wanted and I ruined it because I couldn’t just ask you outright—"

"Hold on. Who said you ruined anything?"

His question stops Helga's spiral of self-loathing in its tracks. Her spine straightens under his palm, and for a moment, the world seems to contract to a single interval of sound: Helga's breathing, shaky and on the cusp of hyperventilation; and his, steady from the weight that's fallen from his shoulders and the certainty that’s settled in its place. 

Maybe it's stupid—pathetic, even—to forgive her so easily after how horribly she treated him, but Arnold can't hold onto his anger even if he wants to. It's simply gone, replaced by other feelings that are far more demanding. 

There's sadness, because they've wasted so much time hurting and hiding and fighting, time that would've been better spent building something real. Something good. 

And on the flipside of that is relief, because now they can finally put this mess behind them and be Helga and Arnold again. 

So no, Arnold isn't angry. Maybe he will be later, when he isn't feeling so emotionally strung out, but for the time being he just wants to revel in the fact that they’re talking again. That he’s touching her and she isn’t pulling away. Is leaning into him, even.

The desire to hold Helga close and never let her go swirls behind his navel, and Arnold braves giving into it when she gazes at him through damp lashes, her eyes narrowed like she’s picking his expression apart for deceit.

And Arnold realizes in the time it takes him to crowd into her space, wrapping one arm around her and then another, that they're going to have to work on that. Because Helga's always been the type to not only look gift horses in the mouth, but stick her head inside to search for tricks. She’s always been suspicious of good things falling into her lap, and Arnold was foolish for believing he'd be the exception to that rule.

It's not that she doesn't trust him, per se. 

She doesn't trust anything good that happens to her. 

And it’s beginning to dawn on him that to Helga, he might just be a great thing.

Tentatively, as if Arnold is a skittish animal she’s afraid to startle, Helga returns the hug. She buries her face into the crook of his neck, cautiously at first, and then like she intends to burrow beneath his skin. Arnold shivers when her nose drags up and down his throat and she inhales greedily, almost like she's trying to commit his scent to memory. His bones creak from the pythonlike grip she has on him, but there’s nowhere else in the world he’d rather be.

"I'm so sorry, Arnold," she repeats in a quivering hush, and Arnold shivers again as her breath grazes his ear. 

Helga is in his arms. He can hardly believe it. 

"I'm sorry, too,” he says, swallowing the lump that rises to his throat. “For leaving you that morning, and not trying harder to contact you that day, and for not realizing that if the whole school knew about Candy kissing me, then you would’ve learned about it, too." 

Impossibly, Helga's hold on him grows tighter. 

Which is fine. Great, even. Breathing is overrated, anyways. 

"Don't. I'm the one who messed up." 

"We both did. And we're both going to need to do better—and be better—so this doesn't happen again." 

"Do you—do you think we can still—" 

"Helga, you aren’t half as brilliant as I thought you were if you seriously think there's a chance in hell I'm letting you walk away." 

Helga releases a shuddering breath and rasps, "I know I don't have a right to say this, but I missed you so damn much, Arnold." 

Arnold’s eyes sting. "I missed you, too. Let's never, ever do this ever again." 

"Never." She swears it like an oath. "I know I'm fucked up, alright? My head's a goddamn mess. But I'll work on it. I'll—" 

"Stop talking about yourself that way," Arnold snaps, leaning back to look into her eyes. "Anyone in your shoes would have jumped to the same conclusions. And you're not the only one with a few screws loose. I mean, look at me." He laughs bitterly, and maybe his anger isn't as deeply buried as he thought. "You pushed me away, wanted absolutely nothing to do with me, and I still refused to give you up. 

"You have trust issues. I have abandonment issues. You let go too quickly, and I hold on too tight." He shoots Helga a wry, crooked smile that stretches like a scar across his face. "Clearly we're perfect for each other." 

Helga makes a stifled sound, something between a sob and a snort and a snarl, and then she's devouring what little space exists between them and kissing him like she's been starving for him for months and the only thing that will sate her is his mouth upon hers, and his hands tangled in her hair, and his chest pressed so firmly against hers that he can’t tell where he begins and she ends. 

"I missed you so fucking badly," Helga gasps against his lips before consuming him once again, and her need for him, her desperation, gives oxygen to something inside of him that's been suffocating for months.

Abandonment issues, indeed. 

It isn't a perfect reunion. They both have aspects of themselves they need to work on—broken boxes that need discarding, cobwebs that need dusting, and boarded-over windows that need to be pried open to let the sun in. But it's a start. And perhaps it's naive of him to think this, especially after everything that's transpired, but Arnold has a gut feeling it's all going to work out. After all, they both know what's at stake now. What they stand to lose. 

But that's a matter for his future self to deal with. 

Right now, Arnold just wants to enjoy being kissed by the girl he's longed for. The girl he loves. 

They're walking back to their room—lips swollen, hair and clothes mussed, and hands clasped tightly between them as if they're both afraid to let go—when a thudding sound stops them in their tracks. 

They look back, and then down, and Arnold feels a stirring of panic when he sees a crumpled white box and remembers that he'd stuffed the necklace into his back pocket while he'd been packing, and has spent at least an hour sitting on it while he and Helga talked and kissed and talked some more. 

He bends to pick it up, peeking inside to make sure it’s still intact, and then returns it to his pocket as he stands. 

"What was that?" Helga asks, craning her head to peer at his backside. 

Arnold resists the urge to cover himself with his hands and scoot away. 

"It's nothing," he says quickly. 

Helga raises a brow at him, and Arnold sighs, knowing she won't let him get away with the lie. 

"It's, uh, something I bought for you."

At once, Helga softens. "Yeah?" 

And that's that. There really is no getting out of it now. 

"Yeah," Arnold says, just as soft, and ignoring the heat he can feel rising in his cheeks, he pulls the battered box back out. He hands it over and tries not to fidget as Helga carefully pulls it closer to herself and opens the lid. 

"Sorry about the box. I, uh, sat on it. Obviously. But yeah. I saw it in a shop and had to get it for you. I mean, it's your song, right?" He rubs the back of his neck as Helga stares at the necklace with the help of an overhead lamppost emitting a pale yellow light. "It's a part of a set but I couldn't find the other half, so sorry about that, though I guess it doesn't really matter since it's not like you'd want to wear two necklaces—"

"Wait here," Helga interjects, her expression too complex for him to read. 

Arnold blinks. "What?" 

"Just don't move, alright? I'll be right back." And then she's swiping the card key into the door slot so fast her hand blurs and disappearing into their room. 

Arnold stands there with his arm outstretched as the night crawlers whirr and warble around him. Two, maybe three minutes have passed when the door reopens, spilling waxen light into the hallway, and Helga hurriedly steps through. 

Before Arnold can say anything at all, Helga's pushing something into his hands. It's a box, he realizes, pristine unlike the one he'd given her, and Arnold's breath catches as he gets an inkling of what lies inside.

He opens it, and there aren't words for what his heart does when he sees a familiar silver charm. 

"I saw it and thought of you," says Helga, her voice thick in a way that Arnold knows his would be if he were capable of speech. Even breathing appears to be beyond him now. "Same as with you, they only had one half of the set. And I know I had no right buying it. I mean, I wasn't even talking to you at that point. But I just couldn't bring myself to leave it behind." 

She steps closer to him, and presses the two boxes next to each other so they can see where the jagged edges of the heart-halves meet. 

"I guess even when I tried convincing myself that I wanted nothing to do with you, a part of me still hoped this necklace would find its way to you. That maybe I’d find my way back to you,” she finishes in a whisper.

          now and forever more

                         in my heart, always 

Arnold looks up to find Helga watching him with eyes brighter than the waxing moon overhead.  

"What a pair we make, huh?" she says with a faint smile that trembles at the edges. Her eyes reflect not just the moonlight, but all the yearning he feels, all the terror and hope, and Arnold's heart crackles like it’s made of static. 

"I'm never going to let you go," Arnold says unthinkingly—a confession, a warning, and a surrender in those seven damning words. 

And rather than run screaming like anyone sane would have, Helga sighs and sways towards him like he just recited poetry.  

"And I'll learn to believe you,” she promises quietly. 

Arnold places both boxes in his back pockets, and then pushes himself to his tiptoes in silent demand of another kiss. Helga obliges, and the world around them falls away as their lips meet, leaving only them two and the brilliant, fledgling thing between them that finally has a chance to exist. 

They're having brunch in the food court—their last hurrah before they board the Magical Express back to the real world—when Arnold forgets himself and kisses Helga for no other reason than because she's there and he loves her and he wants to.

He still hasn't quite come to terms with the fact that he can do this now. The way she sighs and melts against him feels like a dream. 

Their friends gawk as Helga breaks the kiss. She rolls her eyes at him, and Arnold shrugs sheepishly in apology. He feels a little guilty given their mutual decision to keep the changed status of their relationship quiet, at least until the ground beneath them solidifies, but who can blame him when Helga's lips are so damn kissable? 

"Really, Arnold?" she says exasperatedly, but Arnold knows it's mostly for show when she laces their fingers together right on top of the table and hooks her ankle around his where the others can't see. 

It's a good thing she's anchoring him, because he's pretty sure if she lets go he's going to float straight into the ceiling. 

"Oh. My. Gosh!" Rhonda shrieks, and Arnold flushes when what seems like the entire cafeteria turns to look at them. "When the hell did this happen?"

"Last night," Helga says casually, but Arnold can see the tips of her ears burning. He feels like a frenzied bull in front of that enticing flash of red, and has to beat back the urge to sink his teeth into it, knowing that Disney doesn't allow that sort of PDA and Helga would probably whack him for it besides. "And tone it down, will ya? We don't need the entire state of Florida knowing our business." 

"Congratulations, you two," Nadine gushes. "I honestly didn't think you’d ever get your crap together." 

"Took you idiots long enough," Lila says under her breath, only to duck her head when everyone looks at her with varying degrees of shock. She coughs daintily. "I mean, congrats to you both! I'm ever-so happy that the two of you are getting along again! Right, Brian?" she says, beaming at the boy seated next to her with a coquettish flutter of her lashes. 

Brainy looks dazed. "Um, right…"

"Uh-huh," Rhonda drawls, eyeing Lila suspiciously. 

Lila smiles beautifically back. 

"Anyways," Gerald says, shooting Lila one final weirded-out look before turning his attention back to Arnold. "What the hell, man? I can't believe you didn't tell me. After months of having to listen to you mope and moan about that hellcat—uh, I mean, Helga —”

Helga throws a crumpled napkin at him.

“—you'd think I'd get first dibs on the news, but guess not." Gerald crosses his arms with a huff, and Phoebe, pressed closely against his side, swats at him for being dramatic.

"Sorry, Gerald," Arnold says, lifting a shoulder.

Gerald scoffs. "Whatever, man. In all honesty, I never thought I’d see the day where the two of you worked things out. I guess there’s some truth in what they say about Disney magic being real." 

"Nah," Arnold laughs, shooting Helga a delighted grin when he squeezes her hand and she squeezes back even harder. He glances at the silver chain around her neck, glinting from the sunlight flowing through the window, and feels the other half of the heart, hidden beneath his shirt, grow heavy and warm. "The real magic is faith and trust.”

Arnold pauses as he thinks back on everything he experienced in the past week—moments that defied explanation, and what felt astonishingly like nudges from the universe meant to guide him to where he needed to be.  

Arnold’s always been a pragmatic guy. He believes that there’s a practical answer for everything, even that which seems inexplicable. He’s never been content with letting a mystery go unsolved, and yet right now he finds himself unwilling to overanalyze all the bizarre coincidences he’s experienced, opting to focus on the good that came from them instead.

And maybe that's the real Disney magic: not the castles and fireworks, nor the light shows and parades, but the way it makes even pragmatic adults like him want to believe in something bigger. How it provides them with a safe space to hope and dream without limits the way they used to as children, before adulthood swooped in like a needle and made that bubble pop.

Arnold presses a kiss to the back of Helga's hand, a marvel in its own right, and thinks of magic and miracles. 

Their eyes meet and his heart swells when she scrunches her nose at him and grins. 

If she isn't both, he doesn’t know what is.

"I can finally see it, 

Now I have to believe, 

All those precious stories, 

All the world is made of 

Faith, and trust, and pixie dust."

— Jonatha Brooke