This is an Elsanna pairing fanfiction. It's been formulated to be the most hidiously emotionally-jarring story ever. You've been warned. Also: will contain much smut. And whatever else I'd like. Read at your own risk. Also, see the stardoll Elsa I made here: en/user/?id=290381350 (WIP)

Chapter One: I'm Cold

Elsa POV

"Anna, are you in there?" I pause at the doorway, which was slightly cracked, trying not to peek in. "I really, really need to talk to you." The soft folds of mydusty-blue nightgown is folding over my ankles but my bare, white toes still peek out. And they're cold. So cold all I want to do is crawl back into my bed and close out the world. But this can't wait anymore. It has been preying on me for weeks. It's time.

"Anna?" I raise a fist and gently knock, barely tapping my fist against the painted wood. Anna was always redoing her doorway, but I'm still shocked to find sticky, wet, pink paint glazing my knuckles. "Oh, shit." It wasn't my hand- I could wash it off easily. But I'd probably ruined Anna's work. I'd accidentally decapitated a sunny daisy.

"What's wrong with your hand?"

"Oh! I..." I tried to hide my fist behind my back, smudging the cloth over it in the process. "Ugh..." I stood staring stupidly at the mess I'd made, half-twisted around to see the damage.

"Elsa..." I tore my attention to my sister's face. She was just standing there, waiting. I was making a bungle of things as usual.

"Um, I-I'm sorry about your door. I didn't mean to-"

"That's ok. I was gonna redo it tomorrow. It sucked." I cantell she was lying as she glanced at the ruined paint-splotch, but she tried to smile. Her face seemed careworn, pale beneath the usually-dancing freckles, and her eyes seemed sunken. Here I was making things worse when she was already obviously upset over something. I felt immediately both idiotic and remorseful.

"I um, Anna...can we talk?"

Her eyes lighten for just a brief moment. "Um, yeah. Wanna come in?"

Don't screw this up, Elsa.

"Um, ok. Yeah." I tiptoe behind her, rubbing the smeared hand with the other. The paint's already drying, leaving my hands looking like they have some sort of weird affliction, pink flakes over snowy white. The carpet in her room is so soft I stand in it while she sits on the bed. Ok, yeah, so the carpet is soft. But that's not why I can't sit down, even when she pats the place beside her. I just...I can't be close to people. Especially not her. Not now. Not until we talk.

"So..." She stares at the place she offered me doubtfully, rubbing her fingers over the soft bed. My throat catches and I clear it, forcing myself to think clearly. She looks up at me, probably assuming my throat-clearing was to get her attention. Before I speak, I can't help but notice her hair. It's shimmering, the auburn trails over her shoulder let loose from their restrictive braids. She was getting ready for bed. Probably brushing her hair. I can see it, lying on the dressing table by the ribbon she took out of it. She's still in her clothing, unlike me, so at least I didn't disturb her when she'd been trying to sleep. But just to be sure- and to stall- I ask her.

"Am I keeping you up?"

"No. I was brushing my hair, though." She motions towards it, lying there, and I pretend to see it for the first time. "Can you hand it to me?"

I tiptoe over and let my fingers rest gently around the handle before I force myself to grip it. It has no trace of warmth and yet, I can imagine how it would feel, how she holds it indicating where my fingers go, to lend their own temperature. The opposite of heat. The tiniest misting of ice shoots out over the handle and I stifle a blush. I'm not quite sure if it works or if Anna notices. I bite my lip and make the trip back. Anna's looking at her hands, open in her lap, pushing a circular hollow into the folds of her green dress. The hair is draping in a velveteen curtain over one shoulder and as I stand there, brush in hand, I'm highly tempted to do the job myself. Everyday I brush out my tired, white-gold hair and fix it into the same old braid. For once it would be nice to caress her crimson, warm, living, real hair, hair that looks like it ought to be the color that it is. The white-streak is forever burned in my memory, but I entirely refuse to think of when it was...

Anna's still looking down, contemplating or something, and I slowly ease the brush towards the glorious locks. Everything in me wants to do this. To connect with her, to let physicallity profess my feelings. I want to be close to her, like we were when we were little kids. I want to do this. So very badly. But somehow, my hand passes the hair, and goes down to drop the brush, slightly-roughly, in her lap. She starts and picks it up. I'm sure she notices the cold, even if the ice is now gone. Why must I always be so very cold?

"So, um." She starts brushing her hair, fumblingly. All I want to do is help her, to brush with sure, steady strokes, to get all of the invisible tangles out. Maybe she was even going to braid it tonight so it would stay nice. I can imagine my fingers working the plait, sitting close to her shoulder, feeling the warmth radiating off of her. Oh how I want to be warm tonight. "Elsa? You wanted to...say something?"

I grimace. This is the worst moment of all. And I'm dragging it out for me. For her.

"Right. Hey Anna, have you ever thought about us since, you know..." I trail off as she meets my gaze, and nods. The brush is tangled in her hair from the side messily. She's paying it no mind. I'm afraid at the level of audience I'm getting. I really just want to dissappear into the woodwork. But I know that this must be said. "Because I mean, I've thought about it. Alot."

She sits, waiting. If it wasn't such a poignant moment, I would be tempted to giggle at the mess she's made of her beautiful hair. But I must go on.

"Um...well, I realized, I was going about it wrong before. So um, I'm not locking my door anymore." So that if you need me, even in the middle of the night, you can find me. "So knock. Because it doesn't mean I want you in there." Elsa! "...all the time." I trail lamely, as though that will solve matters.

"Ok." Her owl's eyes stare up at me, but I refuse to let them lock into mine. I can't bare to see whatever look is etched so plainly in them I would know it if I so much as glanced their way. Hell, I know what it is without looking. I've hurt her, maybe even alarmed her.

"And that's not all." I say hastily, in an awkward attempt to escape her eyes, the guilt of what I've said. "Um...we should hang out more. Because we need to um, go over business..."

"Business?"

I force myself to meet her gaze, and it's everything I can do to keep from shooting ice everywhere in frustratuon. But I know where that got me last time. I'm so crippled by that memory I don't know what to do with myself. Or with Anna. Or with anything, for that matter.

"Y-yes. No. Anna, look..."

"What is it, Elsa? You can tell me."

Those eyes. Those enormously trusting, torquoise eyes. And I feel like, for just that moment, I really can tell her.

"Um, Anna..." The words jumble in my head, and I can't seem to form even one decent word or thought out of them. I swallow hard, then settle down on the very edge of the bed. Our thighs are a couple of inches apart, and I hold very still. I can't handle the contact; the sheer body heat is enough tonight to dizzy me.

"Yes Elsa?" Waiting. Always waiting.

Without looking at her, fixing my gaze at her glorious pale hands instead, I pour out my heart. Or I try, anyway.

"Anna, I want us to be sisters again. I miss it. All of it. The good parts and the bad parts. And I wish I had done this so much sooner. So, so much sooner. And I...I'm sorry. For everything. And I want it to be ok again, but..."

"But what?" As the tears choke me off, I make myself meet her eyes. She's not crying, but I can't tell through my own mist if her eyes are misty too. She's definitely serious, though. So very serious it rattles me. My little sister. When did she get so grown up?

"But..." I can't. I can't! I just...just..."I'm going to need your help is all." There! Now was that so agonizing? Don't answer that.

My heart starts pounding when I see the utter look of trust in her eyes, mingled with joy. She starts to lean forward and I'm terrified she's going to hug me. Stiffening, I bounce off of the bed, which sends herhairbrush flying from beside her. Choking on regret, I lean over to pick it up. Why is Anna staring? I retrieve it, and this time there is no ice, despite my panic. Anna's owl-eyes have died down, and she looks sleepy again, sort of dead inside. The tears bite at my throat and I know just what I have to do. Trembling, I sit down beside her again, still not touching. Despite my best efforts, that is not the burden I will face tonight. Instead, I reach out, and brush the tips of my fingers acrost her hair. It's so smooth. She hasn't noticed despite the cold emanating from my nervousness; my touch was that light. I steady myself, then push the brush lightly through, the hair gathering up on either side like a red carpet. She started, just a little, but settled down. I awkardly pushed thr brush through a couple more times, then I got serious. My hand touches her head on occasion, my other hand coming up to steady the brush. I hardly notice. I'm so caught up in the task, in the focus of straighteningher beautiful hair, nothing bothers me. I know this isn't what I really want, this false closeness, but simply having the ability to be so close to her, actually touching part of her, is plenty of progress for me tonight. When it's over, I don't want it to be. But then again, I do. I push myself to ask her.

"Should I...braid it?"

"Oh! Do you mind, Elsa? I mean- I really'd like it if you'd-"

I force my hands to steady and drop the brush in my lap. Taking a great breath, I run my fingers along her scalp, loosening the hair. Anna sighs in contentment, and I recall how wonderful it used to feel when mother would style my hair, before I wouldn't let her touch me anymore. I trail my fingers along tantalizingly, then take up a great fistful of volume and start to plait it. I undo it twice- it doesn't braid easily. I'm not doing it right. It feels nice to do her hair. Such pretty hair. That must be it. Absorved in the task, I find myself contacting her more and more. I barely notice that I'm not so distant from her on the bed, and my hands bump occasionally into her warm neck as the braid goes lower. Finally I'm done, but I simply stare at the finished product, barely aknowledging the beauty of the glistening braid. I clear my throat and Anna sighs softly, as though torn from a reverie.

"I need a ribbon..."

"I...left it on the table."

Me manuever oddly to get it, me still holding onto the tail of the braid, Anna shuffling to reach the ribbon. It's an odd dance I'm sure many sisters have achieved in the past, but our relationship is extremely unlike theirs, to be sure. She hands me the ribbon, not nearly as careful of contact as I would have been, and my hand burns where hers hits. I fumble with the ribbon and tie an ugly knot in it before I stand up. I'm very tired now, exhausted really, from the efforts of everything. Anna is waiting, for what, I don't know.

"Um...goodnight Anna."

"I wish you would stay here for a bit. We could make some popped corn and-"

"No Anna. I stayed up too late as it is."

The hurt look that passes her face is too much for me to bear.

"That's not what I meant. I'm just so tired." I backtrack.

"Ok. Night Elsa."

I turn my back on her and pace to the door. I can't help but shoot one last look at her, and the scene is horribly picturesque. She sits there, looking terribly beautiful with the braid trailing over her shoulder, where I usually wear mine. Her eyes are large, slightly glossy, and almost alarmed. The brush lies beside her, the last reminder of our joy tonight. But also the pain of it all. I swallow so hard it hurts and turn away again. It's been enough tonight, I reason, for the both of us.