"The biggest coward is a man who awakens a woman's love with no intention of loving her."
— Bob Marley

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The biggest coward is a man
who awakens a woman's love

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with no intention of loving her

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(what happens if he falls anyway...)

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...

"Auntie?" For a moment, Elsa is mad at how weak and small she'd sounded. How pathetic. Like she's back to being the little girl who's just lost her parents and were trying desperate to fit in, to be okay again, just so Aunt Primrose nor Uncle Thomas would throw her out onto the streets. After all, she's never been good with people, not even to her little most favourite, most kind sister. Maybe even her Uncle and Auntie was scared of her, then. Afraid. Or worse, hate her. But just as she was when she was that little girl, Aunt Primrose, who's been engrossed with tendering to the flowers, have never looked at her with as much as an off-putting glint to suggest that they didn't want her here. They do.

They always do. It's something Elsa has to constantly remind herself; she wishes she was braver. Has the mighty confidence as a certain red-headed prince-wannabe has; one he proven to easily shed and wear insistently to his heart's desire. Oh, if only things were different. Maybe she wouldn't have wounded up here, so confused and baffled by what life has thrown at her.

(But then again — her train of thought couldn't help but to take her to wonder — if she weren't who she has become, she wouldn't have met the certain red-headed prince-wannabe that, while morally ruined, has a certain kind of beauty in the way that he is. The way that he thrived. The way he speaks and talks and looks at her and grasps at her hand and tells her she's okay when she's getting a little lost in her own mind. There's a certain kind of something in him that Elsa wouldn't meet if she was different, and that, Elsa thinks, would be a shame.)

Aunt Primrose's large eyes greet her again and Elsa has to shake herself from her mini trance; a small smile hovering by the edges of her thin mouth as Aunt Primrose stands and begins to pick on her dirty gloves that she's been using to protect herself from the thorns of the roses. "Is there something wrong, Elsa?" Aunt Primrose asks gently as Elsa steps forward, blue gaze falling on the garden that's too beautiful to exist (and too pretty that it reminds her of the large Southern Isles and how proper they've kept their plants) before she turns to her aunt — her beautiful, beautiful aunt — and smiles just a bit more in reassurances.

"N-no, of course not." The hesitance in her tone stings — she needs to be better. Better. Better. — but she moves forward, not allowing the damned self-hatred to drown on her conscience today. Or at least, not in this garden. Such gorgeous things don't deserve an ugly breakdown from her. And, plus, she's here to talk. To confront. Not to shed her tears and sob story. "No."

Aunt Primrose, ever the concerned maternal-figure, raises an eyebrow and motions them to a table she's decoratively put in the middle of the garden, just a few steps away from where the small fountain is. "Elsa?" Her tone is questioning, doubting of her choice of answers and, honestly, Elsa doesn't blame Auntie. If she were the older woman, she would've doubted herself.

"Auntie," she remarks surely, hands clasped in front of her torso in a manner she remembers her mother used to practise — like a proper woman — and tips her chin up to establish her cool-headedness. She has got this. She can do this. Hans would be proud of her, she recalls pathetically, feeling something stinging from the inside of her chest where her heart should be whenever she remembers anything that's of concern to the conceited character. "I need to tell you something."

"Elsa." Her Auntie's tone this time is harsher — as though Elsa's attempt to ease her all this time has failed, and maybe it has — Auntie's dark brows furrowing while she stares back, just as one of the help fills the empty china cups on the pristine small metal table with hot tea. "What's the matter, honey?"

"I need advice." She urges hurriedly, afraid that she's came off way too wrongly. She doesn't want Aunt Primrose to be agitated with her — she just wants guidance. And since Auntie is the closest thing she has to a mother since when own passed away, she'll take what she can get. It's okay though, she has to remind herself: Auntie gives out the best advices. After all, if it weren't for Auntie's bold moves to confront her during her grieving periods, she wouldn't have the best relationship she's having right now with Anna.

She wouldn't have gotten over the fear of her own ability. She wouldn't have embraced it.

And just like that, it's as though Aunt Primrose has known of everything since the beginning when she only nods wisely, firmly, gesturing Elsa to the other chair while she slides one tea-filled china cup down Elsa's way. "Sit," Auntie insists, and when Elsa does, Auntie stares ahead seriously, the very face of patience and elegance, all wrapped up in the way she's accepted to help Elsa right now. "You know you can confide with me on anything, right, dear?"

And just as Auntie says it, she has one hand reached out to grasp on Elsa's much lean, much colder palm and Elsa smiles, feeling her heart falling at the kindness. She's truly fortunate, she thinks. She could've ended up in worse situations, and yet fate — or something bigger — has her tied with one Primrose of Corona, and again, she thinks once more, she's so truly fortunate.

"I know, Auntie. Th-thank you."

Auntie nods, and takes her hand back when Elsa squeezes it. "Drink your tea first."

Elsa does as she's told, her chest warming up as the hot liquid travels itself down her oesophagus.

Auntie allows her to take her time, and then she puts her own cup down — precisely, gracefully. "What is it that you need advice on, Elsa?" And when she asks that, it is not out of mock — not in the way to suggest that Auntie's just asking so they could get over the conversation — and Elsa marvels for a second at the sincerity. Such a rare thing, she thinks. Or maybe she's just dwelling like that because she's been pondering on a certain sleazy Southern Isle-born young man way too much recently, and in every kind of act he's able to manage, there's one he's yet perfected: the act of being genuine.

Speaking of.

"Hans c-came over the other day."

Auntie Primrose looks on confusingly, but nods nevertheless. "That's… good, isn't it? I haven't seen you two interacted since — well, how long since it's been, honestly? I just thought he'd gotten busy. Anna told me that you've informed her that he was visiting his brothers."

Yes, only for one week. What happens to the other three weeks, only God knows. Are what Elsa choose not to say, smiling a little guiltily over the fact that she hasn't exactly told anybody of her… eh, fight with the youngest of Andersens. "Y-yes, but — but truthfully —"

"Elsa, honey, is everything okay?"

"Y-yes, yes, of course!" Elsa blinks and clutches back onto her Aunt's hands that are out to grip on her knees as a form of comfort and Elsa smiles a bit more, though all she feel inside is grief as she's reminded of the topic that had cracked her mutual affiliation with Hans, tearing them into these separate beings as though they've never met the other before. As though those times they've spent together was nothing but an active imagination of what could've been's. She misses him, she realises again, in an odd way.

Oh, she's still mad. She's still so, so dissatisfied with how everything went down — but there's a part of her that'd just like for those times where they'd wander in the Southern Isles' large compound, and they would just talk and yes, he would be judgemental and nasty and crude, but he'd also be … charming in his own way; and he'd have this type of humour, the one that she shouldn't find funny, but it entertains her anyway. And he'd be somewhat decent.

And she misses him.

Elsa tries not to appear very gloom as she purses her lips, and tries to fix her next words without worsening any situations. "It's just that, over a month ago, we had a… we had a little fallout, Hans and I. And it's all his fault. And it's — it's a big … big fight, Aunt Primrose. He hurt me v-very badly. And we didn't talk. For a whole month. And then… and then he came to meet me, and we finally sit down to t-talk and — and now I don't know — "

"Did he apologised?" Aunt Primrose suddenly inquires, and Elsa has to take a moment to register those question in, like it's the first time she's asked of it and she realises that it actually matters.

She rethinks of their conversation in the coffee shop with his long fingers and faded photographs, and she notices that — no, not once has he said he was sorry. It was implied yes ("I don't expect to be forgiven…") but there was no solid apology. And suddenly Elsa is reeled back with such realisation, feeling as though all of her worry this time was meaningless after all. He hadn't even apologised.

"Uh — yes, I-I think so." She stutters out anyway, blue eyes helplessly darting down as the world around her crashes upon her shoulders again. How dare he. How dare—

"Elsa?"

"Yes." She would really like to believe that it's true, but it's not. And there you go: her first lie to her Aunt. And it's all thanks to Hans of the Southern Isles. "He did."

"And you're not ready to forgive him."

"I don't know," Elsa answers truthfully, now more clueless than ever. He's hurt her again. Even when he's not here to do it on his own. "I don't know what to do now, Auntie."

"Elsa, do you… like Hans?"

She can't stand him, when she thinks it over. But—

There were certain things and times, she can't deny, that has made her second-guessed so many times; her mind searching through the archives of her memories to pluck everything that contains Hans in it, and while some makes her squirm, there were others that… that makes the man low in her belly sets out the hummingbird feeling, letting the warmth spread all over; even to her lips, to allow her to smile, to cherish such things. Strings of sneaking glances and whispered laughter clashes into her train of thoughts, bringing along it were memories of cold ice creams on the edge of her tongue, the way his skin feels as it touches her knuckles, and the way he looks over to her sometimes.

The way he looks over and makes her feel good. Like she can do this. Like he has the faith of a billion men and one if that's what it takes. And it makes her feel like she's dancing on the top of the world when he'd look at her like that. Or she could, and nobody is going to stop her. Oh, such a gift to give to a girl like her. Maybe it's in his plan all along — to have her be so… attached like this, but still.

Do you like him? The question echoes, and Elsa blinks, utterly defenceless, before looking down, like she's ashamed that she hadn't had this figured out — and if she were truthful, she hasn't.

Oh, if only her father could see her now. So intelligent, but with just one man — it's like everything she's learnt so far, it's gone to waste.

"Elsa?" Her Aunt prob softly, and something, aside from the warmth, clenches. Twists. She doesn't know, she wants to yell. She doesn't know!

"Elsa, it's okay." Her eyes open and it takes her a few moments for her to mismatch the image that, in front of her right now isn't the freckled, red-headed man who had broken — tarnished, ruined — her trust, and they're not in a coffee shop, and he isn't looking at her with that kind of intensity that will haunt her for the longest of time and it's not him who's holding her knuckles in place and assuring her that he's there, and she's okay. No, in front of Elsa right now is Aunt Petunia with a look that Elsa has recognised way too much — the sad, pitiful glances everybody seems to be an expert at harbouring.

"You're just feeling too much," Aunt Primrose assured warmly, warm thumb slanting over the mountain of her knuckles graciously. "Hans is… I think, one of the first few friends you've made outside of your family. Of course you're confused."

"I don't—" Elsa feels the words twisting on her tongue, running around her neck and choking her. But all she needs is to breathe. Why must this be so hard? "I don't want to forgive him just because… just because I'm afraid of los—" She feels herself pausing, afraid of what she's going to say next but there's no denying it. It's there. It's on the tip of her teeth. She has to say it now. Or else none of these talk would matter. "…I'm afraid of losing him."

And no, she thinks to herself. She doesn't want that.

But she also doesn't want to get hurt.

And an unstable man like Hans — one whom she will never confirm the motives behind, not very clearly at least — she can't guarantee her emotional safety. So, how, she asks of you? How does one proceed in such situations, to be honest?

"Hush now, darling," shushes Aunt Primrose as she takes another hand and caresses Elsa's cheeks tenderly; in her green eyes that were to similar to Elsa's late mother, there are a kind of affectionate that Elsa doesn't think she can ever reincorporate, not that strongly at least, and for a moment, she allows herself to dwell on the guilt behind such realisations. "You come to me searching for answers, Elsa. But this time, I cannot tell you—"

"But Auntie—"

"Trust your own judgement. When it comes down to it, you'll know what to do — and with that decision made, you'll get by, Elsa. With or without Hans. You're so strong, you know." Auntie smiles one more time, warm and kind — a true smile Elsa has seen her perform tirelessly countless of times — and something in Elsa rumbles softly. There's turmoil, still, brimming like a storm wanting to roar, but it's better now. Somehow. Auntie's smile stays with her. "I believe in you so, so much."

She wishes she believes in herself just as much — but alas.

He doesn't call, doesn't show up, doesn't text. He doesn't intrude, and Elsa stops to expect him to.

It still hurts, and everyday she wakes up, it feels like she's missing something. It's crazy, she thinks, of how much anxiety-inducing these circumstances is when he's not around. Shouldn't it be the other way around? Should his presence cause her to be on the edge of her seat? Instead, thinking of him in the corner with his confident smirks make her… make her wants to do better.

And now he's not here, she's just… keep expecting him to be. Is this normal?

She supposes he's not going through the same experience. He doesn't miss her. Not when on that Friday, he shows up on tabloid with models by his hips. (Though it states there that he leaves early at the opening of the new club, alone. But who can she trust, really?)

The days go by.

Anna eventually stops asking about Hans.

It's rare for it to be raining down anywhere near the country when summer usually means hot, relentless sun glaring at the land as though the earth is its mortal enemy. But that one fine afternoon, the sun shivers and the clouds turn grey and the sky thunders as though somebody has wronged them, and Elsa is across the street and she's got some paperworks clutched between her side with her arms and she's holding a newspaper in her other free hand, trying to shield herself from her impending doom that is the unforgiving rain as she waits for the cars to slow their speeds enough so she could just cross the street and buy the famous bagels the coffee shop that she's currently staring at is famous for selling.

"C'mon, c'mon," she mumbles to herself, tapping her foot impatiently as the sky gave out its thunderous cry again. She's got hours left till she could finish her reports — Ariel's closing the labs early tonight, and it would be inconvenient if she has to wait for three days, since today's Friday and then there's the weekends, till she could finish what she predicts is so close for her to discover. It'll work well in her thesis. She needs it.

Her professor would be proud.

Maybe she could even go to the expedition the up-coming year. It'll certainly be a new experience altogether.

And despite the looming atmosphere, Elsa keeps a secret smile to herself, excited at the idea before she realises that luck and fate is merely mocking her when, the second the cars seem to be slowing down to allow pedestrians to walk across, is when the rain begins to fall. Drizzling at first, like its testing the water, before it pounds, making an impactful marking on the streets while puny humans groan and curses it; and while others do just that, Elsa joins the small group which are jogging across the street to the coffee shop; the scent of hot, freshly brewed caffeine stings her senses nearly immediately as she comes closer, and while the rain continues to impose its statement, Elsa doesn't let the positivity she's had for herself strewn away — not yet, that is.

She shivers, suddenly feeling cold when all she's been for the past month is being captivated by the mighty sun. Elsa's prim fingers that are free from holding the now wet newspapers are then trying its best to move any of her platinum blond fringe from being stuck pathetically across her forehead, while her marches to her destination never stops. Just a couple of steps away and—

"Umph!" A woman gasps as Elsa bumps into her harshly and Elsa turns, panicking for that one millisecond, as stringing words of apology run by her mouth. "Oh g-gosh, I-I'm so — I'm so sorry — I didn't —!"

"Aw no, gorgeous, oh my — honestly, it ain't your fault. I should'va kept my head up." The woman smiles kindly, bright beautiful eyes glinting under the darkening sky and Elsa realises that, despite the light wrinkles forming by the edge of her eyes as she beams, suggesting that she may well be in her early 40s but her youth still stubbornly refuses to leave her, this woman is gorgeous. If one were to glance once at her, one would've made a guess that she might even come from a wealthy, typically snobbish family, what with her curled golden hair and designers high heels. But her behaviour towards the situation doesn't uphold to Elsa's first impression, nor does her foreign accent helps.

"Are you alright, darlin'? You ain't hurt anywhere, are you?" The woman asks again, one hand reaches out to touch and in her shining grey eyes, Elsa truly does see concern in them.

Elsa shakes her head, smiles a little. "N-no, thank you."

"Thank goodness. Well, we better walk carefully now, don't we? Don't want to fall on our asses the next time. Might get our dresses all wet, and ain't that just a nuisance." The woman drawls some more, makes a cheeky gesture where she tries to wrinkle her nose in fake disgust as she says the word nuisance and Elsa can't help but to smile a little. These kind of women are a gift to the world. The woman then proceeds to smile a bit more and flips one of her golden hair behind — but not in a prissy way. Just in a manner to suggest that the particular strand is bothering her and she's pulling it away to her own comfort. "I better get goin' now, honey. You sure ya' okay?"

"I-I'm completely fine, thank you."

"Alright, then. Remember, be careful! I'll see ya' 'round. Bye-bye!" And the woman waves, designer heels stomping down the road while Elsa is left to stare, before she breaks out of her own trance and finally walks inside the coffee shop.

Like any other people who've just walked in, they immediately shrug the water off their clothes and takes a minute to bask in the heat the coffee shop provides and that's exactly what Elsa did. She fishes her paperworks from under her arms to see the damage the rain has done as she slowly walks herself near where the long line to order the coffee starts. Discarding the useless newspaper which has served as her temporary umbrella, Elsa succumbs to the idea that, with this heavy downpour, it might be impossible after all for her to finish her work today.

She's fishing out her phone to inform Ariel that she will probably not be returning to the lab when she hears the familiar southern drawl coming back into her ears, "Oh, Hans, darlin', I forget to mention—!"

Hans?

Elsa looks up to see the same beautiful woman glancing into a certain direction and Elsa turns, fearfully, only for her eyes to be met with the intense emerald ones belonging to the person who has been a constant presence on her mind since the last time they've chatted, which was two weeks ago. And just like that, Elsa could feel her positivity melts away, like metal as it meets fire, helpless and vulnerable. Exposed and raw.

Hans appear shocked to see her there, as though this coffee shop would be the last place he would ever think to meet her, before he composes himself — stance cool and posture straight; gaze hard and mouth pursed. The beautiful woman marches forward to take the cups that are already ready in his heads; dips her head to inhale the scent and glimmers proudly, "Oh you did remember to put the creamer as I like it. You're an angel, darlin', just a sweet angel."

Hans is unfazed however by the affection, green eyes still holding her blue ones in a heated contact, as he drawls in return, "I don't think you've grasped the true meaning of an angel." And then, because he's Hans, he throatily adds, "I am hardly one."

But the woman ignores him, stomping back to where she's entered, completely missing the intense staring competition Elsa is involuntarily having with the one person in the world who will forever continue to baffle her.

And then, just like that, with one more glance — and for that one critical moment, Elsa is fooled to believe that there might even be guilt in the way that he's currently looking at her, like maybe, there's a part of him that misses her too. Genuinely. — mutely, he turns around and follows the woman out. Elsa looks away defiantly after that, telling herself that it's okay. It's okay. It's just a coincidence.

And it's fine. She's fine.

She realises as she's walking back to her labs with her coffee untouched and her bagel cold and the cold from the rain engulfing her, that she is most definitely, entirely, utterly not fucking fine.

It's disheartening. No. No. Actually — it's more than disheartening to the see the one person who should mean so much less to you, regards you without as much as a glance when they shouldn't so. Not only has it been such a completely disastrous bump-in, but it's one that makes her go crazy. She's so frustrated and exhausted and mystified and there he is — barely glancing at her like she's dirt itself; as though she's … she's the one who wronged him!

Which is why she finds herself driving to the stupid, stupid Southern Isles' territory that she wishes for such a long time to not return — not in the short period of time, not when everything is still fresh — with her stupid car and her stupid determination and her stupid, stupid depression that refuses to go away. Though this depression is a little different: this one is a stubborn kind. The one that will drive her to the steps of Hans' front door to let him know that she's entirely dissatisfied and demands so much more than a glance.

She could not, she tells herself, mean that little.

She cannot.

She won't allow herself to feel like that. Least of all, by him.

He'd have to know that. Even if it's true. Even if she probably do mean so little. She doesn't care. She will demand respect and she will have it. And this is what she's constantly feeding her mind as she marches and tries her best not to fumble into her step. Her mind is everywhere: constructing words upon words that are repetitively changing by the seconds as she come nearer and nearer to her destination, her lips murmuring sentences that aren't even in coherent English — wanting desperately to get her points across. She must look like an insane person!

One insane person that's too caught up in her head that she hasn't even noticed the group of mostly redheaded men crowding the Manor's main entrance, and one of them, noticing the flash of snowy white hair, frowns deeply in confusion, a flash of hesitance passing quickly by his eyes before it disappears and is replaced with a glint of something Elsa, given if she had notice, wouldn't have recognised to would ever flicker upon his expression. And, just like that, with a slight crack to his voice, his voice resonates — "Elsa?"

Hans.

Her stomach squeezes and suddenly the world is silent.

And everybody — everybody — is staring at her.

There are six men besides from Hans who are staring at her, and all in their own odd ways. Mostly were primarily out of curiosity, one even had a glimmer of astonishment at her presence, some were confused and others were a mix of all three. For a moment, as though finally noticing the men he had seconds ago been huddling with, Hans appear irritated, rolling his eyes before pushing himself forward to stand outside of the group. "Elsa," he whispers again, gentler, like a holy call in the loneliest of nights but Elsa is too transfixed by the others' stares that she has barely noticed it.

Too many, she thinks. Too many people.

The earth spins on her, a little bit too fast for her own comfort and she nearly loses her balance, before she catches herself and hears Hans cursing.

"Benno!" The man in question yelps, looking over his shoulder to a disgruntled figure that seemed to purposely forgot to shave for days — not that the state was making the unshaven man any less attractive than he really is, because he is. If Anna were here, Elsa would imagine, she would endlessly giggle about how "bad boys" look totally turn her on. Not that Elsa's particularly interested to know that in the first place, stuff like that just comes up.

Benno — Elsa's recalling it now, that's Hans' sixth brother, the bachelor — seems to have understood the order when he immediately says something (Elsa is too dizzy to concentrate at this point) and round up the rest of the men to… to somewhere. Maybe to the inside of the Manor. Elsa isn't sure.

"Elsa—" His voice is more distinctive now; louder and clearer and Elsa snaps up just in time to realises he's coming forward to reach out to her hugging figure.

"Don't—" She has to force herself, cursing inwardly at how weak she is. She had been so determined. And now she's a crumbled mess. No wonder Hans find her an entertainment. If she were crueler, she'd find this enjoyable as well. "Don't touch me."

"Alright." He sounds reluctant, but resigning to the decision in the end: keeping his distance near but never touching again.

Somehow that makes it harder for her to breathe.

"Elsa, please—"

"Shut up. Please. Just shut up!" She just needs to shut every other voices down. All those voices down that keeps on whispering about what Benno and Hans' other company must be thinking of her. She though she has passed this! She thought—

She's so weak. Why is she so weak?

And why is the world spinning so fast? Too quick? Does it wish to end her?

Does the universe hate her this much?

She's going to fall, she's sure. Faint right there and then. She can't breathe anymore and she's going to – she's going to—

"ELSA, LOOK AT ME!"

He's touching her. He's touching her, she realises. And how dare he. Just when she had make it clear that she doesn't want to be touched. He goes on ahead and his hands — his long fingers and large palm — are curling around her shoulders in urgency and when she's looking up, ready to tell him off, there's a certain paleness to his expression that she doesn't think she'll ever see. There's darkness too, under his eyes, hidden well with some kind of foundation — like a lotion or something — that makes the freckles upon his face look more like a dreaded feature than attractive ones.

Has he looked this exhausted? Recalling back for that split second, she realises that he might have had. Even back in those coffee shop — how had she simply missed his tired glance? Is it possible that he's not sleeping? Could it be that it's happening so because of what happened to them? It can't, can it. It just — can't. He's not meant to care. He's meant to mock and tease and crudely points out things she wouldn't be appreciative to be pointed out upon.

And he's—

She bites onto her lips and feels so much because he's so close and why — why is he looking at her that way? With so much concern? Isn't he supposed to be the bad guy? He broke her ; this isn't fair — and she falls, hands reaching out around his body to clasp onto his back like a scared little girl holding onto the only thing that seems to be concrete enough to hold, and, surprisingly, his wide arms encircle around her and she could feel his hot breath hitting on her ears before — a second passes — and his nose is pressed onto the crook of her neck, his hold seemingly tighten as he does so.

This isn't fair, she bites to herself. He's acting like… like he misses her.

Nevertheless, she holds back with just as much force, just so the trembling in her body would stop.

She doesn't know why she thinks he'd be able to give her that — some sort of form of solidity. Maybe it's because he's always been like a stone to her? A rock. Keeping her just where she needs to be, in his own wicked ways.

"It's okay, it's okay. You're okay." She hears Hans tell several times in a low whisper while he continues to hold her. Just hold her. "I've got you. I've got you, love."

He's so gentle now. So gentle, and it's becoming more than she could anticipate.

"Don't—" She tells him out angrily, the memories of what's happened in the coffee shop burning into her mind evilly, and she has to tell him now, she thinks. Before she loses her nerves again; tugging harshly on his white shirt. "—ignore me li-like that again. I'm not — I'm not j-just some girl y-you dumped and you ignore later, Hans. I'm not—"

"I know," he whispers back with such conviction, for a moment she has forgotten everything it takes to function. To breathe. "Never."

"I want — respect and—" She struggles, screwing her eyes shut and telling herself to go for it. Say it. Just do it. She clutches on his shirt tighter, probably messing up her whole attire, but she doesn't care. It seems that he doesn't either. "—and not — I don't want to be treated l-like that—I'm not going to be ignored—when I'm—I know I'm so much more a-and you can't—you can't walk away on me like that and make me f-feel like—like crap when it's you—it's you who made a mistake—a big one, Hans—and I don't—you can't make me feel low because of something you did and I don't—"

"Okay, okay…" He hushes some more and Elsa is wondering if this is the same man who had breached her privacy just early this summer and kissed her. He certainly doesn't sound like it.

"Don't make me feel like c-crap again." And now, tear edging at her lashes, she's staring at him, hands on his chest, his hands ready on the area at the back of her ribs.

"I can't—" He frowns. Hard. Green eyes burning down to his shoes like its personally done him wrong, and Elsa notes of how she's never seen him so conflicted before. She wonders what's going through his mind. (She ignores the twitching to her fingers — the one that yearns to reach out and tries to ease his mind with her fingers running down the side of his scalp.) "I can't promise you that. I'm not — good, Elsa."

"Then try," she demands, having enough of his bullshit.

And then she sees it, the determination — and it's hot and it burns and it's so, so green (so, so beautiful) — in his gaze before he locks his eyes with her again, his lips pursing as he finalises, "Alright." He tells her. "I will."

And then he hugs her again, and he sighs against her hair and she lets him.

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"I'm sorry," he says at last, warm, and for the first time, true.

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Elsa doesn't know whether to laugh or cry.

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She settles with forgiving him.

End Note: 6,064 words. Apparently, a lot of things have transpire since the last time I was in the Frozen fandom, like, for instance, they actually have a book (a novel, actually), published officially by the Frozen franchise — called A Frozen Heart — that tells a tale of Hans' background and his brothers. And it has been canonically stated that Hans was physically as well as emotionally abused. This literally changes everything okay, guys. Like, now we see so much of why Hans is the way he is and honestly, that is such a beautiful sight. With that said however, please be aware that no matter how my heart would love to follow closely to canon as possible — I'm afraid it can't just be done. In my story at the very least, while Hans' brothers are a traumatic event for Hans to survive his childhood through, they're not so much as extremely abusive as they should've been. They're just asshole brothers that practises hate on one another more than they do with anyone else. I guess it's rather appropriate, when you think about it: since my story is set in a modern settings and Hans came from a wealthy family where practically everyone outside is involved in their lives, they can't really afford to have anybody spreading the fact that the clan is toxic within themselves.

There's always the possibility that it could happen, of course, but nevertheless, in my story — it hasn't. To read more on Hans' background in this story, of course, you can read nulla which features a chapter narrated all in Hans' points of view between Chapter 7 and Chapter 8. Okay, enough with Hans' tragic backstory, the second news that has baffled me is that WE'RE TOTALLY GETTING FROZEN 2! I'm stocked. I'd love to see the cast hanging out with each other again, and I really do hope Hans will be apart of the new movie as well. Honestly, Santino Fontana (the voice of Hans) — who I've been stalking to get my muse for this story back — should have one more solo. Maybe even a duet with Idina Menzel! Who knows. Anything could happen. But no honestly, Santino is life, okay. You guys should totally stalk him too. Trust me, he's worth it.

I'm sure I have to address a couple more things but for now I'll only settle with giving a positive shoutout to adrilabelle, laura . lovedidi, spectaculater, helssa, Eyes of Onyx because all of your reviews mean the world to me. I seriously thought nobody else was interested in this story any longer but all of you showed up and it makes me feel very blessed. The same goes to those who have read without leaving reviews, those who have favourited, alerted etc. I thank you all! Please, have a nice day and I'll see you in the next chapter.

BELLA

PS: also, if anybody would be interested in beta-ing to this story — I ask that you must english well — please PM me and perhaps we could reach to a decision?