A/N: 19 follows and 9 favorites. You guys are hilarious. You're so scared.

Well, you have that right. I did say this story was angsty and I meant that. But you should know by now that nothing ever remains that way with me. The overall tone and message of this story will be happy, as all my stories are. Trust me. This is still SuprSingr you're talking to.

So, this is another bit I wrote forever ago. Thought it was about time I updated. The next chap's not finished but then I've been focusing on other projects. I wanna update LwtS again before I write anymore for this, but as I said before, it is outlined. Actually, I'd like to know if anyone would be interested in betaing for me? A lot of this I've already read through about four-billion times 'cause I wrote it so long ago, but these fresh parts won't get that same four-years-of-lip-biting-hair-pulling-revision and since I do care about this story so much, that kinda sucks. So, offer's open if anyone wants to take it? Well.

We're jumping ahead a few years here, so. STRAP ON YOUR SEAT BELTS, KIDDIES. This time machine was modeled after the Tower of Terror, hayuck.

Four Years

"Oh, just come off of it, Football Head! You always think you know everything, but you don't know anything about anything! How can you? Your head's so far past the clouds by this point that it's in space. Your brain got sucked out through your ass years ago!"

She watched as his face turned three shades of red. Her own breath was coming sharp and harsh, her chest heaving and eyes burning. The next moment, he let out a sigh that sounded like it wanted to be patient but just ended up being frustrated, before he looked at her levelly, his jaw working. He said lowly, his words loaded, "Well then maybe you shouldn't run to me every time something goes wrong, Helga. If that's really what you think."

She flinched. A part of her soul cried out that she was sorry, while the rest of her just seethed. "Maybe you should stop telling me you're there for me when all you ever do is scold me and tell me to be nice!"

"All I said was that maybe you should talk—" he tried, desperately, reaching towards her.

She took a sharp step back. "Talking never works with them, Arnold! We've been over this! We've talked plenty of times but it never does any good—they just pretend to care for a little while then go back to normal."

His eyes softened, at the same moment his muscles in his face tightened. He looked conflicted, reason battling with bafflement and love battling with anger. Finally, he breathed out through his nose and said evenly, "I don't know what you want me to say." If they wouldn't cooperate or care enough to make any serious changes, then there was no point. He didn't have to say it for her to know it was true. It left a bitter taste in her mouth, and her stomach lurched.

She turned away from him, her fingers white from digging into her arms. Her old jumper had stopped fitting her properly when she was eleven, and the shabby pink dress she wore now felt somehow wrong. It was the middle of Fall, and as usual Miriam had forgotten her jacket, like she always did, every year, without fail. It was like a tradition. Arnold had draped his own around her shoulders when he found her waiting on his stoop and hugged her so warmly she'd been certain everything would be all right.

Deep down, she knew her parents cared about her, but sometimes she felt so desolate in her own home that it didn't seem to matter either way. A part of her loved them dearly and wanted desperately for them to feel the same, while the other loathed them and wished they'd get into some horrible accident so she could just be an orphan like Arnold had been. She could get taken in by Arnold's family and live happily ever after in the Sunset Arms until they eventually got married and started their fabulous life together in Paris. At the same time, she didn't want it to come to that, but sometimes she felt it was the only way. To go from loving her one day to acting like she wasn't even there the next; to look past her like she was a window and then magically become the best, most attentive, adoring parents in the world when Olga visited. It wasn't fair. Why wasn't she good enough? What was so bad about her that she couldn't have that too?

She needed stability. Something right and good and pure and that never changed; a constant, a comfort. And the only constant she'd ever had was Arnold.

Arnold, Arnold, Arnold. He was here now, trying so hard not to be angry with her even as she screamed in his face. She felt he'd love to smack her if he could, and would have smacked herself right then and there if her pride would let her. Heck, if Arnold would let her. He always scolded her when she hit herself. He had a lot of nerve sometimes and she hated it. Always telling her what and what not to do, looking down on her and treating her like a child when inwardly she felt like she was well into her hundreds and hours away from her deathbed.

But wasn't that what she'd always loved about him? That he stood up to her? That he wasn't afraid? That he was always there with a smile and encouraging words and helpful advice, like her own personal Jiminy Cricket or something? She'd always longed for him to show up at her bedroom window while everyone was asleep, to rescue her from all the horror and pain and confusion and carry her off into the early morning mist, to someplace beautiful and right, but now she just wanted him to stop and shut up. She wanted to lock herself away and never come out, for anyone or anything. Not even him.

He was right. She didn't know what she wanted him to say either. What she really wanted to do was fall into his awkward little fourteen-year-old body and kiss the everloving out of him; to forget every problem, every look, every hardship she'd ever endured and just let the love wash over her and shield her from all the hate.

But it wasn't that simple. Arnold could go off on some life changing adventure to get his perfect, loving, incredible parents back and be happy forever more in his happy, little home with all his happy, quirky, extended family, but she couldn't. She was stuck and there was no way out. There were only tears at 12 AM and screaming in the mornings and stroking his picture frame to seek comfort. She'd always thought that once her and Arnold got together that everything would just freeze and be perfect forever, but the world kept spinning and life just kept happening. They got older and older and it wasn't leading to someplace wonderful anymore. Now all she could see was black.

Tears leaked out of her eyes and trailed down her cheeks, and she angrily swiped them away. There had been a time she grieved ever having him see her like this, so open and vulnerable and disgustingly red in the face, but she didn't have the energy to be insecure about it anymore. It had happened several times already and she'd long lost her will to care. She just wanted him to make it better, but he couldn't. Arnold Shortman, the boy who had a solution for everything, couldn't.

He stood stiff, every muscle in his body tight and caught between reaching out and walking away. In the end, the former won out, and he stepped forward and placed a hand on her shoulder. When she didn't react, he took another step and wrapped his arms around her uncomfortably, feeling the awkward curves of her sides that had become statuesque sometime after she'd turned away from him. He rested his lips on the back of her head and closed his eyes, his breath still short and puffing on the top of her head in the aftermath of their fight. Fights that were becoming more and more frequent—fights they hardly even noted anymore, they were so common.

She never turned around, and her shoulders didn't relax until he'd started placing hesitant kisses on the back of her neck.

She let herself forget then, just for a little while.