Chapter 26: Croisé

Croisé - a classical ballet term meaning "crossed." Croisé is one of the directions of épaulement. Basically, a croisé position is when the legs appear crossed from the audience.

Helga shuddered out a breath, sure that if she emptied her lungs, the chances of thinking straight would increase. Everything felt shaky and unstable, like standing on a ship over choppy waters. She knew it wasn't the effects of alcohol messing with her. She was too well versed in her craft (and her family's reaction to alcohol) to fall victim to a glass or two of wine and a sip of a badly crafted "cocktail". She would have been more accurate in blaming the late hour or the residual jet-lag for the upheaval in her stomach and chest, but that wasn't it either.

It was definitely, most-assuredly not because Arnold was blazing a trail of kisses up and down the column of neck.

Helga's head and palms thumped back against the door as she tried to steady her racing thoughts. They went in every direction as she struggled to keep up with him. The ardor with which she was pushed against the hard, wooden door shocked her, and the confidence in his movements took her a moment fall into sync with, but was not unwelcome. If Arnold was as skilled a lover as she was a bartender, she was already in trouble.

Without trying (or even wanting to) Helga tried to think back to her last romantic encounter of similar intensity. Something about this one was not normal, but in a good way. She certainly never got so flustered, so quickly before. At no time did a knee wedging itself between hers make her lose her balance and send the room tilting. And to her knowledge, a hand moving up her bare back was not supposed to elicit sounds from her that were not recognizable in any human language.

Helga let her eyes fall closed and attempted to quiet her mind. She was sure that she would want to preserve every detail in her mind, especially since anything that came after would probably pale in comparison. He was so leisurely and purposeful; like he was following a map that only he could chart. The encounter was nothing like any daydream or fantasy that Helga dreamed up. In the confines of her mind, the two of them both moved too quickly; the flashes in her brain were indicative of how she could only imagine any such meeting with Arnold would go. The slow, methodical passes of Arnold's hands down her bare arms and up her back were dizzying to say the least.

Helga's attempts at keeping pace with Arnold were finally earning her some headway; she stopped feeling like a bystander and more like a participant. While Arnold busied himself with a particularly sensitive patch of skin right below her left ear, Helga imitated his bravado, and slid both hands down his back and gingerly lifted the back of his shirt. Then skin there was too soft and warm, and if she wasn't already sighing, she would have done it again.

Before Helga could calculate another logical move (a frustrating reality; she figured if there had to be a voice in her head, now of all times, it ought to be at least composing a sonnet) Arnold shifted. Possibly sensing some mental distance on her part, he replaced his mouth with a hand, keeping her in one place, and kissing her with a confidence and surety that stalled her breathing and warmed her belly like a barrel-aged scotch.

The scorching kiss sent Helga's mind into another tailspin, and she wondered if she should resign herself to being left dumbfounded for the remainder of the evening. Her mind briefly wandered to flashes of how the evening would progress. It spurred her forward in her own motions, and she pressed her hands across his back and arched her body to curve against his. Arnold broke the kiss and made a sound that Helga was sure she failed to elicit from anyone, ever. Pride settled in her chest, and Arnold moved back to her neck. She reminded herself to ask him tomorrow what kept drawing him back to that spot.

Helga stilled.

Tomorrow.

She hadn't thought that far ahead, but suddenly, it was the only thing she could think about. She questioned whether it would follow every dream she'd ever have: waking slowly in a pool of sunlight, flushing over things said and done the night prior, interspersed with offerings of coffee and a walk back to her place.

If the evening in question was anything to go on, that wouldn't be the case. Arnold was already throwing curve balls at her at every turn, and the surprise of his coldness to come was not one she was looking forward to. She couldn't blame him; he may have already been more inebriated than she, and if she had the wherewithal to end it before it became a truly earth-shattering mistake, she would only be in her right mind to do so.

Before she could reason on what to do, or why, exactly, she was pushing him off. He looked first dejected, then guilty, then worried. Helga closed her eyes and shook her head, hoping to ease his apparent fears without having to look him in the eye. He'd done nothing wrong, but the way it was going, the inevitable hours to come, were not right. Maybe in a different time or place or circumstance, but not here. Not with Arnold.

Despite her lack of comforting skills, she wanted to assure him somehow, that she wasn't rejecting him. A hand on the shoulder might have soothed the blow of her physically (and otherwise) pushing him away, but in the split-second of thought that Helga gave herself did not lend itself to indulgence, for herself or Arnold.

She was slamming his front door behind her before she could finish the thought.

A cold sweat formed on the nape of her neck as she swept down the stairs with a surefootedness that she lacked on the way up. By the time she hit the street, she was almost entirely certain that the past eight seconds were a mistake. Pride and frustration gnawed at her as she sprinted down the road, only minimally aware of cars and potential thugs. After some confusion, she found the street which housed her hotel, and made it to her room, panting in the night air.

Come on, come on, come on…'

The moment the stubborn apartment key made contact with the lock, it slipped out and skidded across the wooden door, leaving a light brown trail in its wake, and, more than likely, a charge for damage of property to the current key-holder. The renter huffed and swore under her breath at the door, glancing around, before realizing that she hadn't actually uttered a word in the local language. Even if someone were to hear her, panting in the ill lit hallway and swearing at inanimate objects, she was confident that, if nothing else, she deserved a moment of being a potty mouth.

The moment the lock gave way, she sprang into the dark room and shut the door behind her. Leaning back against the door for good measure, she tried to still her breathing in case she was being followed, but he shaking of her hands refused to calm down. She thought for a moment that the spasming of her limbs came from the realization of what did…what she'd almost done.

Shaking such distracting thoughts from her head, she pushed herself from the door (for the second time that night) and made her way to the phone in the next room. Fishing a ticket stub from her pocket, she dialed the number on the back quickly and nervously, pressing button after button until she came in contact with a real person.

"Hello? Hello, I need to buy a ticket for the next flight to Baltimore. Yes, I'll hold."

A tremor woke Helga, subsiding only after a number of unsteady breaths. She wanted to stretch and roll over, and possibly stretch some more, but the top of her head was already pressed against the arm of the couch. She had to suffice with rubbing the sleep from her face and picking at a scab that was developing on her chin. Thinking on the mystery bag of facial products that Molly left her, and wondering if anything could be done for her face, Helga attempted to move from her seat, only to find herself hindered. An arm was draped under her own, and a hand pressed lightly over her diaphragm. The other arm, she finally noticed, served as a pillow under her head.

If Helga could sink into the couch cushions and hide among the lint and lost coins, she would have. She was, again, in the precarious, exhilarating and potentially embarrassing situation of having shared an evening with Arnold. She remembered certain moments with glaring clarity, but how they got into their current position was lost to her.

As her hands were mostly free, she moved them gingery, trying to piece together what she could of the night prior. She was still wearing her grey hoodie, and a quick check under their shared blanket (after questioning who may have laid it over them, and why they didn't warn her about the implications of such a gesture), revealed that she was still fully dressed, or at least as dressed as she was from her last memory of the night. It was an assessment that Helga was not eager to make; disappointment was inevitable either way, but the lesser of two evils was definitely to be dressed with her memory in tact, rather than the other way around. She tried not to think about what she'd do if she had woken up in any state of undress, with Arnold pressing himself against her as they slept. She wasn't sure, but walking into the ocean seemed the most reasonable response.

She tried to pretend to fall back asleep (should he wake up to find her peeking about the sheets), but found that she couldn't time her breathing to feel relaxed enough to be disguised for sleep, and fighting the urge to squirm would, no doubt wake him anyway. Resigning herself to move, Helga took Arnold's arm by the wrist, intending to move it off her hip, so she could escape.

She froze, however, when it was snatched from her grasp, and the body behind her shifted.

Were it his choice, Arnold would have stayed asleep for hours. He rarely got to when living in the jungle; with the dawn came creatures who rose with the sun, as well as a long day of packing, traversing, translating, unpacking, setting up camp, and trying to steal a few hours of restful sleep. Even after his abrupt move to Portugal, we woke early to prepare his teaching assignments, instead of staying up late with many of his colleagues. They asked him regularly to join him for late nights out, but dreading the hour at which he had to wake up, Arnold almost always refused.

Light streamed in from the adjacent window, the couch underneath him bent to the curves of his body, and hugged him with a comfort he wasn't familiar with.

The warm body moving against him was not unwelcome either.

Arnold learned that if he slept like a stone, Helga did so like the ocean. She moved almost constantly, shifting her whole body, or sometimes just a limb, searching for the most comfortable position, but never finding it. In the deepest moments of her sleep, she spent a few precious minutes wedging her head under his chin, and if not for the utter darkness of the room around them, he would have tried to find a way to keep her there longer. Without the constraints of nervousness and the general awkwardness of their trip, her embraces were easy and forward. Sleeping Helga was honest, or at least more honest than she was when awake, with less gravel to sift through. And Arnold realized how starved for such affection he was.

He didn't like to think on the last such embrace he shared with someone. Despite the time, distance and circumstances, the sting in his chest remained, though less pronounced than before. To name Helga as the cause, or cure, felt reductive. She had no knowledge of a need to heal his hurt, and asking her to do so would have been unfair to their friendship. Even so, she managed to help, and if she was unaware of it, it only made him appreciate her more.

Arnold released a huff, thinking on his impromptu confession the night before. He'd planned on telling her, once they got home, and maybe after gauging her thoughts a little further. Arnold was all too familiar with moving too quickly and mistaking proximity for passion. It was, essentially, how he fell for anyone. After so many missteps, he decided to be more pragmatic and honest. It would do no good for him to rush his feelings, even if his actions came with a deadline. The difference with Helga was the friendship they already had, build on a precarious house of card they built the year prior. He wondered if they would ever discuss at length the night that almost was. He thought about it more and more often, and considered if their relationship would be different.

Next to him, Helga stilled and he knew she was awake and probably aware of their position. He wanted to chuckle at the realization and the awkwardness that rolled off of her in waves. For a second, he wanted to wake and tell her that, in her relaxed state, she'd told him more than she could in conversation. That their shared uneasiness was unnecessary, because everything he needed to know, she already told him. But her nervousness, and the results thereof, were both entertaining and endearing.

He smiled as she lifted the blanket, and blushed at the obvious direction of her thoughts. She seemed to settle again, only to continue fidgeting and finally make a move to leave the bed. She attempted to lift his arm, when he moved out of her hold, and planted a hand on the sliver of couch next to her shoulder, caging her in.

Instead of the rosy blush that accented her sparse freckles that he was expecting, Arnold was met with a wide-eyed and blanched Helga, who'd drawn both arms to her chest. He didn't mean to scare her, exactly, ut when he realized that he was essentially leaning over and trapping her underneath him, he understood he reaction. Arnold felt the need to say something non-threatening, so as to diffuse the situation.

"Good morning."

The greeting came out gravelly and rougher than intended, and, judging by the slight bob of Helga's throat, did little to calm her. She squeaked out a response, and Arnold smiled and moved over and around her as swiftly as he knew how. The action served to unnerve him as well; sitting up and moving away so quickly gave way for a rush of chilled air to hit his chest and neck, parts of him that were previously warm were cooling faster than his liking. He decided to replace the feeling with a warm shower, one that would hopefully prepare him for the day and afford him a few moments of silence to contemplate the morning so far, without the somewhat welcome distraction of wanting Helga to stay close to him.

The lack of silence in the car was unsettling to say the least. Something in the backseat was knocking against something else, and an unsteady, rhythmless rattle echoed throughout the vehicle. The radio played only static, interspersed every few seconds with talking that was barely audible. And the whir of the air conditioning hummed between the two passengers.

Helga never prayed for silence or sound so much in her life.

The pair packed and cleaned their shared space quickly, efficiently, and mostly in silence. Helga used Arnold's shower to say goodbye to her mother, promise her that she'd visit (without stating a specific time, as was her custom), and leave a brief, somewhat frantic voicemail on Phoebe's phone:

"Hey...so...I don't want you to freak out, because I am not freaking out, but if you could just call me back, whenever...I just need a little help with...you know...don't worry, nothing happened, I promise, except some really awkward conversations, and we may have fallen asleep in the same general area, that was definitely not a bed. And maybe some totally platonic cuddling, or whatever. Definitely platonic. Fully dressed, platonic...okay, mostly dressed. Semi-platonic. Partially dressed. And kind of notplatonicatallokaybye-"

Once the two entered the car, it was as if their nervousness was combined and concentrated. It was palatable from their movement, and lack thereof: Helga noticed Arnold was as still as a statue next to her, and she had yet to move her hands from fen and two on the steering wheel, despite the lack of state troopers they passed on the road. Helga thought back to a performance she had once, where the music wouldn't start and she and her partner stood on opposite ends of the stage, staring at each other. Both were to scared to start and throw the other off their timing, but also hoping that the music would start and the dance could begin. But the radio was broken, and there was no music to lessen the tension. She gripped the steering wheel harder and cursed the fact that her sister bought a car for aesthetics rather than a decent sound system.

"Are you hungry?"

Helga jumped at the question, and the first intentional sound either of them made in the past three hours or so.

"Uh...sure," she stammered out, glancing only briefly at him, and then staring back at the road ahead of them. A sign up ahead read the names of fast food stops, greasy spoon restaurants, and a number of tourist attractions. Perhaps if they were to escape the too-close space of the car, her thoughts would have room to move and breathe and maybe disappear altogether. Maybe visiting the world's tallest rocking chair, or a nearly bankrupt flea circus was exactly what they needed. "What're you hungry for?" Helga fought her natural reaction to grimace at the suggestiveness of her question.

Arnold chuckled. "That's a loaded question…"

Helga forced air from her nose and gripped the steering wheel harder.

"...is it weird that I'm craving pancakes?"

"Ugh, yes; we had pancakes a few days ago." Helga wasn't exactly annoyed with him, but frustration was her

"But, I love pancakes."

Helga ignored the casual affection in his voice. "Well, I'm craving steak. A big one. Mid-rare, no, medium, with onions and mushrooms and garlic butter-"

"-can we just talk about last night before we go any further?"

"...wow, you really know how to segue into a conversation, don't ya?" Helga pulled over to the shoulder of the road, convinced that she couldn't think clearly, speak coherently and drive safely, all at the same time. As soon as she put the car into "Park"and engaged the parking brake, the rattlings and rumblings of the car fell silent, and she was upset for wishing for the quiet. "To be fair, I strongly doubt we'll find a place with pancakes and steak. but, sure, let's talk about your thing. Shoot."

Helga rolled her eyes at the paused, and asked herself why she couldn't fall for a guy who wasn't as dramatic as she was. "...are you angry with me?" Arnold finally asked.

"What? Why would I be angry with you?"

"We just haven't talked all morning, and I wanted to make sure it wasn't because I was messing with you last night-"

"You were messing with me-"

"No! Not about that. That…", Arnold paused, taking a deep breath. "I was serious about that."

"Oh." The pit of Helga's stomach dropped and then starting floating, and she felt the urge to punch her own gut, lest it continue to act so erratically without her consent.

"But, I was trying to get under your skin. Sorry if it went too far."

"Like you could seriously get under my skin. Nice try, though."Helga sat back in her seat and crossed her arms, hoping that she was convincing him, if not herself.

Arnold waited again, and Helga resolved not to let her facade break. he'd already gotten more out of her in the past few hours than most got in years, and it was a pattern she was determined to break, at least for the remainder of their trip. "Whatever you say, Helga."Arnold conceded, and after Helga started the car again, he tried to complete the conversation on a lighter note. "So, you're okay about...everything else that happened last night?"

Helga narrowed her eyes. Despite the apology for getting 'under her skin', and the sincerity behind it, she couldn't help but feel like she was walking into it again. "Nothing happened last night."

Arnold looked at her as if he were about to break some unfortunate piece of news, and Helga braced herself for such. She asked herself if something did happen. She wasn't terribly thorough in her check, given the circumstances. She was skilled at doing something stupid, and replaying it in her mind for no less than a few years, mostly at night when she found it hard to sleep.

Starting the car t distract her, Helga took the first exit that she came to, not bothered that the only stops advertised were a few gas stations and a winery. She was slowly losing her appetite anyway. "Nothing happened," she repeated slowly, hoping Arnold would take her cautionary tone and drop the subject. She knew, however, that he wouldn't. He got too much satisfaction already from riling her up, and she fell too easily into the trap each time.

"Something happened."

"Well, you're wrong."

"How do you know?"

"Because I checked." Helga could have kicked herself for speaking so quickly.

"I know."

"You were awake?"

"Yeah; I'm a light sleeper. And you're…"

"The next words outta your mouth better be a compliment-" Helga warned through her teeth.

"Helga," Arnold began, his tone playful, but pitying. It made her want to stroke his cheek and punch him at the same. "You're a cuddler."

Helga's jaw fell slack in shock and anger. "I am no such thing!"

"You are. You're an aggressive cuddler."

"'Aggressive cuddling?' Now I know you're lying."

"I'm not. You'd like, squirm your way against me no matter how I slept. it's actually kind of sweet."

"Listen here, sir, I will not have you sully my good name with your lies."

"By saying that you cuddle aggressively, and that you're good at it, and that I like that you're good at it?"

Darn Olga. Darn Olga and her ancient car. helga wished desperately for a newer car, with a button that would roll the window down and bring some cool air to her face. Instead she sat, clearly flushed, with heat creeping its way up her chest and back with nothing that she could do about it. "...yes…"

"Well, don't be embarrassed. At least not about that. Be embarrassed that I tried to get up- several times-and you'd do this crazy acrobatic move, where your legs would just wrap themselves around my wais-"

"No! No, no, no! Stop talking!"she said, cutting him off. She stopped, without thinking, in the large dirt-packed parking lot of the winery, in no discernable parking spot, and cut the car off as well. Looking to Arnold, helga yanked the parking brake up and turned in her seat to face him fully. "Listen to me! I have slept as myself for my entire life! Trust me; there is no way I did...any of that."

"'Being yourself' and 'sleeping next to yourself' are not the same thing, and you know that."

"Even so, and not to brag, or anything, but you are not exactly the first person I've shared a sleeping space with, and none of them have mentioned any 'aggressive cuddling'."

"Well," Arnold began, leaning forward and unbuckling his seatbelt. The look on his face read innocence, but his tone was playful and only slightly seductive. "Maybe you've been sleeping next to the wrong people."

Helga sat back in her seat, and huffed in anger and shock. She bolted out of her seat, intent on either beating him to death with her words, or her fists. Possibly both.

"Hey! I'll have you know, Footballhead-"

"Hey, Helga," he interrupted, focusing on the buildings and fields up ahead. Helga was annoyed by his lack of interest, but couldn't help but look in the same direction as he continued.

"What?!" she asked, hoping to launch into a lengthy diatribe.

"I know this might be ironic, given the nature of the weekend we just had, but, do you wanna try and score some free food and wine?"

A/N: Look at this little baby chapter. A mere 4,000+ words. But, I kind of love it. The beginning, anyway. The end isn't perfect, but I feel like I got super wordy in the beginning of this chapter, and wanted to thin it out with some dialogue. I was really nervous about the start of this chapter; so much so that I refused to read it for a few weeks. I really hope it reads well for you guys because it's been in my head for MONTHS and I just needed to get it out.

I can't think of anything else to report, except that I already have most of the next two chapters conceptualized and kind of ready. SO, hopefully they'll be out soon. Leave a review, pleasae. Thanks, guys!

-PointyO