The Champagne Letter
SFW Hansanna oneshot inspired by the Vladimir Nabakov quote, 'I'm drunk, and all that, but I adore, I adore, I adore, I adore more than life you, I ache for you unbearably, and please, don't let me swill champagne any more.' from Ada or Ardor, mixed heavily with the idea of drunk dialing or texting an ex, only in the 1800s it would be with a letter instead. Written for andeverymomentafter on Tumblr as she's the one who concocted this idea. Enjoy!
Agony.
That was his first thought upon waking. He was in utter and absolute agony. His head throbbed, pain pulsating in steady beats against his skull. The room was much too bright. He hadn't opened his eyes yet, but he already knew if he did, the morning sunlight streaming in from his study window would scorch his brain and make the headache worse.
And the world was much too loud, too. God, he hated the chirping songbirds heralding the too bright morning. The high-pitched rhythmic songs sounded more like the shrill cries of harpies on the hunt to his ears.
He licked his lips, his mouth dry and pasty, but his cheek pressed to the desk felt uncomfortably wet. With all the effort of his physical being, Hans pulled himself upright in his chair. Annoyed to find his stationary stuck to the side of his face, adhered by drool. He reached up to brush the paper away, looking at it briefly to see if it was blank. It was. A small comfort to the morning knowing he didn't have black ink all over his face like last time.
Not a terrible start to the day considering he was horribly hungover. He'd had worse mornings for sure. He rubbed his bleary eyes, brushing the gritty remains of sleep away. Even that took effort. What he wanted was to lie his head back down on his desk, but the rest of his body disagreed in varying degrees of aches and pains now that he was awake. Passing out in a chair had not been particularly kind to his back.
He groaned, stretching briefly and stopping when the movement caused his head to throb even harder. He'd need to call his manservant and get the man to fetch him something for the pain. Rubbing his hands over his face, he let his fingers rake through his hair. How much had he drunk last night?
The answer presented itself in the empty champagne bottle precariously sitting on the edge of his desk. A single, empty flute beside it. He stared at the objects in mute concentration, the hazy memories of last night's overindulgence becoming clearer as tiny pockets of memory surfaced.
Oh, right.
It had been the anniversary of their failed engagement last night. And Hans, being the idiot he was these days, had decided to mark the occasion with a sarcastic drink or two. Only a drink or two had turned into the entire bottle...or two.
'To Anna!' He had toasted one too many times last night as he sat alone in his study, penning out all the things he would say to her now if he could.
He'd kept them, every single last one of the letters he'd written to her over the course of time that had passed since their fateful end. He had a box full of them now, kept safely hidden under his bed. Most were apologies. Some were explanations. A few were just accounts of his daily life, as though they were still friends. All were soaked in guilt and remorse.
Every time he wrote her, he'd think, 'This is it, this is the one I'll send to her.'
But in the end, he never did.
Coward, his mind hissed.
It had become ritual for him to write Anna, write to her until his hand cramped and his eyes were sore and his brain hurt, but always depositing the letters to his safe, special box. Keeping them to himself. Because what point was there to send her a letter now? Especially after so long. Would she care how sorry he was? Or how alluring he found her eyes?
No.
Anna had moved on, and she really hadn't been his in the first place, so how he felt about it now really didn't matter to her. The letters were for himself, because he hadn't moved on. In fact, he was only just catching up to how she had felt that night.
Stupid, slow Hans, always dismally behind.
He'd been quite inebriated last night when he'd written her yet again, fuelled by champagne, lust and regret. He vaguely remembered bits and pieces of what he'd penned. Mortifying things like, 'how I long to spend the evening between your supple thighs', which sounded much more poetic last night with a full glass by his side. He cringed at the thought of reading his drunk, ardent thoughts on the page, sober and in the light of day. Best this letter went straight into the fireplace.
Except when looked on his desk to do just that, there was no such letter.
He frowned, staring at the blank pages scattered atop his desk. He was sure he had written it. He couldn't remember all of what exactly he'd written, but he vividly remembered writing it down. All of it. He inspected his hands. Ink stains. He had most definitely written the letter. So where the hell was it?
A small sort of panic began to lace its way up his spine as he frantically moved papers around on his desk, searching for the letter and coming up empty handed.
His box.
He must have already put the letter in his box.
Ignoring the hammering pain in his skull that spiked with the rush of movement, he ran to his adjoining bedchamber. His head now feeling like it would split in two. It didn't matter. He could crawl into bed and sleep it off once he'd taken care of the letter.
Task at hand, he dove under his bed to retrieve his wooden chest. Relief swept through him the moment his fingers touched the familiar polished wood. Box in hand, he sat up, leaning his back against the side of his bed and taking a moment to let his pulse slow and the headache ebb a bit.
Only to have new panic rise along up with his pulse when he opened the box.
The letter was not there.
It took only a moment for a brand new sort of horror to seep in as the worst possible scenario lurched to the forefront of his mind and began to play out in slow motion.
His brothers.
Oh God.
One of his brothers had the letter.
His stomach turned at the very thought. He felt dizzy. Cold sweat immediately drenched him and he gagged, very nearly vomiting on the floor.
Calm down, don't panic, the reasonable part of his brain whispered. But there was no way to stay calm when he had just opened the floodgates to amplified teasing and ridicule. He'd never live this down. They wouldn't let him.
Stupid, stupid, stupid!
He leaned his head back against the mattress in defeat, willing himself not to cry. This day could not get any worse. His life as he knew it was over. Of all the letters they could possibly have gotten a hold of, why did it have to be that one?
A short knock at his door startled him from his misery, and his valet entered with a tray of breakfast in hand.
"Ah, you're up I see, my lord," the man stated, walking past him and placing a breakfast tray down on the end of his bed. "I've taken the liberty of bringing you some droughts for the headache."
"Thank you," Hans mumbled, the headache being the very least of his problems now.
The man gave a short nod. "And since you'll be nowhere near up to it today, I also sent off your letter."
The words shook him from his stupor and Hans straightened up, focusing his full attention on his manservant. "What?"
"Your letter, sir," his valet repeated. "The one you left on your desk, addressed, sealed and ready to go?"
Hans blanched. "You…you mailed that?"
"Yes, sir." The man frowned. "Should I not have? It was in the tray for outgoing letters—"
Oh God.
He was going to faint.
Keep it together…
Hans waved the man off as calmly as he could, trying not to visibly tremble. "No, no, it's fine." No sense in yelling at the man for doing his job. What was done was done, and Hans was to blame. As usual. He leaned his head back against the mattress, this time staring up at the ceiling before squeezing his eyes shut. An entirely new sense of dread now engulfing him, swallowing him whole.
Apparently, there was something unfathomably worse than his brothers getting a hold of his letter.
Anna getting a hold of his letter.
He groaned, his stomach churning in knots. He wanted to crawl into a hole and die. There was no chance of getting the letter back. The ship delivering mail would have left late dawn. Hans was officially screwed. When Anna got his letter, a whole gauntlet of people would know. Anna would know. Her sister would know. Then his parents. His siblings.
The moment his valet was gone, Hans choked out a sob and buried his head in his hands.
This was an absolute nightmare.
Arendelle, one week later.
"Oh!" Elsa handed Anna an envelope from the pile of mail she was sorting. "This one is for you."
Puzzled, Anna took the letter from her sister. There was no return address and she didn't recognize the hand or the seal on the back. She inspected the red wax, indented with a delicate, yet simple insignia. She decided that it was a personal seal and not an official one, but judging by the quality of the paper, it was from someone of importance.
Who would be writing her? She thought back to the many royals and dignitaries she and Elsa had met in the past year, wondering who on earth she had left an impression on to send her a letter. Though her confidence was improving, she wasn't the most socially graceful in formal settings yet, and more often than not, her meet and greets turned into awkward fiascos and faux pas. It made making friends with people of her class and station…difficult.
She cringed. God, she hoped this wasn't a letter about spilling her drink on the fourth prince of Kongsberg's lap so badly it had looked like he'd wet himself. Or when she thought the Duke of Vakretta was choking and gave aid only to learn that the distressed gasping and wheezing noises he made were actually his laugh, and not him in mortal peril.
She had only ever met one other royal who hadn't been fazed or offended by her nervous awkwardness, and she didn't really want to think about him. She had enough problems already erasing Prince Hans from her thoughts, and certainly didn't need to remember him today, especially after she'd guiltily indulged in memories of him last week. Only for that one night, she rationalized sternly. At least she could scratch one name off the list of potential mystery authors.
There was no point in speculating about a letter that was right in front of her. Might as well open it and see what it was. Taking a deep breath, she broke the seal, opened the envelope, and pulled the letter out.
At first glance, the letter was written incredibly sloppy, but legible, like a skilled hand writing quickly. So not likely a formal letter addressing any given social incident that had led to embarrassment, but more likely a personal letter from a friend. But who? Anna didn't have any friends outside of Arendelle.
She frowned as she read the address.
'Dearest, most beloved Anna of Arendelle,'
An admirer? That was a little exciting, and certainly piqued her curiosity further. She had always been a bit of a romantic, and had spent many a day dreaming about receiving secret love letters when she was younger.
She eagerly read on.
'How I long for you, on this, the night of our anniversary in which we first met. I'm having a glass in your honour tonight, my sweet, the finest champagne in the whole of the kingdom. Do you remember that night as fondly as I do? Probably not, I suspect it's been tainted by the abysmal events that followed. Still, one does not so easily forget stealing a girl as stunningly beautiful as you away to a secluded waterfall for a clandestine engagement.'
Her excitement quickly faded, replaced with confusion, followed by a shock of old hurt. Hans? This letter was from Hans? It couldn't be. Hans would never write her. There was nothing for him to gain from it. She'd heard neither hide nor hair of him since his fall from social grace and his subsequent punishment and official apology from his parents. And yet as she read on, there was no mistaking that the letter was from Hans.
'How illicit, how shocking, when I think of that night. The way your eyes sparkled in the moonlight as we danced, escaping the stuffy confines of your sister's coronation ball. I'd have placed stolen kisses along your neckline but for fear of leaving my mark on your exposed skin for all to see. For you, my dearest, I would have devoured whole. On the balcony. At the lighthouse. In the stables. Our waterfall.
Another glass in your honour, my love! And as I drink, I can't help but wonder if your lips taste the same as champagne had I dared to venture that far. I should have. I regretfully should have.'
Her pulse quickened, and she instantly felt ashamed at how swift words on a page from him could arouse her. Surely, this had to be some sort of joke—
'What I wouldn't give to spend the evening encased between your sweet, supple thighs. I'd spend an eternity of bliss buried there seeking the carnal pleasures that only the most ardent of love can express.'
She drew in a shocked breath, nearly dropping the letter, her eyes widening in disbelief. There was no way she had just read that correctly. She scanned over the words again. Heat rising to her cheeks when yes, yes she had read it right the first time.
Elsa looked up at her from her own letters, frowning. "Are you all right? You're awfully red in the face."
Anna blinked, glancing down at the letter, not wanting to show it or share its contents with anyone else. Guilt pooled in her stomach, hiding such a thing from Elsa. Such a scandalously indecent thing. But her sister would never understand. Nobody understood just how complicated things were for her in regards to Hans. How sometimes she loathed and loved him all at the same time, even after a year. He was right, he'd never left his mark on her body, but on her heart? Well, that was quite a different story.
"I'm fine." She laughed much too loudly and winced. God, Elsa would be onto her in no time if she kept this up. "Just warm in here, I guess." More nervous laughter.
Elsa gave an apologetic shrug. "Sorry, I tend to run cold."
Anna smiled tightly, thankful to be in the clear, and turned her attention back to Hans's licentious letter.
"Who's it from?" Elsa asked, nodding to the letter.
Anna froze. Panic gripping her. She could not show such a wildly inappropriate letter to Elsa. All hell would break loose.
"Oh…just the, uh…Duchess of Vakretta's youngest daughter, inquiring about my dressmaker," she lied.
"That's nice," Elsa supplied politely, obviously bored, and turning her attention back to her own work.
Anna breathed a sigh of relief, but not trusting her reactions to the rest of the letter in Elsa's company. "I'm gonna finish reading upstairs in my room. I'd like to, um, look at the dresses she's writing about."
"Well, make sure you write her back," Elsa murmured absently, already engrossed in her work. "It'd be good for you to form some friendships outside of Arendelle."
"Yes," Anna answered, bumping into the sideboard before hurrying from Elsa's study and to her own quarters. The letter clutched far too tightly in her hand.
She reached her bedchamber in record time, practically slamming the door shut behind her. Her nerves were on fire, her heart pounding so loudly that she could hear it quite clearly in the silence of her room. She made her way over to her window seat, not daring to finish reading on her bed. Somehow that seemed far too intimate, to read such a letter from him in bed.
She nestled into the array of pillows tossed on her window seat and continued to read,
'I can imagine your sighs, your moans, your cries, pleasure in every note, even in the tender words you'd whisper, tongue against my ear, our bodies entwined and one. I yearn for you. I do, truly. I yearn. God…I do. Nightly. Daily. Oh, Anna! If you only knew how I hunger for—'
A growl of frustration erupted from her throat as she stared at the paper. How dare he? She cursed. The rest of the paragraph was smudged beyond comprehension as though he had spilled something on the page and tried to wipe it off. Tears, maybe? Had he been crying? The very idea of Hans crying over her in remorse, drunk or not, made her lightheaded and giddy.
She brought the paper up to her nose and gave it a tentative sniff. Stale alcohol. The idiot had spilled his glass on her letter! Her immediate response was outrage. How dare he leave it all up in the air, and when it was getting good too! Would he have gone into further explicit details of how he envisioned their love making?
She squinted at the ruined ink, willing the naughtiest words she could think of to appear, but they didn't. No matter how hard she stared, the words he'd written were lost to the champagne.
The rest of the letter was the inconsequential ramblings of a drunk, peppered with half formed apologies and regrets. Most of the words were either spelled wrong or completely illegible, his already poor penmanship degrading with each stroke of his pen, along with his thoughts in drink.
He was, however, rather clear on his fixation with her eyes, spending an entire paragraph simply listing off things he had thought matched her eye colour. The sentiment and ridiculousness of it making her smile. Idiot.
Obviously, he was getting drunker and drunker throughout the course of the letter. It was rather disappointing compared to his strong start. Yet, there was still something about it that tugged at her heart.
When she reached the end of his letter, she let out a long sigh, 'Forever and woefully yours, Hans.'
It took her a moment to put his letter down, and by then her hands were shaking. It took her an even longer moment to realize she was crying. The silent tears slipping down her cheeks. She reached up, hastily brushing the tears away with the heel of her palm. How stupid to cry over Hans and his stupid, drunk letter.
He misses you.
He's sorry.
She drew her knees up to her chest, hugging them close to her body. What was she supposed to do now? What did one do when their treacherous former fiancé got drunk and sent them a letter? And such a letter! She wondered if he even realized he'd written her. If he even knew how stupid he was. She should send him a scathing reply. Admonishing him, and hopefully making him feel like a complete jackass for sending such a thing to her in the first place.
But by the time she got to her writing desk and held the pen in her hand, dipped and ready, hovering over the page, a different kind of response spilled forth.
'Dearest, most beloved Hans of the Southern Isles,
I am not drunk and nor should you be when you next write a lady of good standing. Especially when she is your former fiancée who you've grievously wronged in the past. Your salacious musings are almost as scandalous as your abysmal penmanship. Can you imagine the drama that would have ensued had someone else read your letter? Thankfully, I'm the only one to have laid eyes on it. Such a thing should not be in a lady's possession and should be burnt to ash instead. But I suspect that if you realize you've sent such a letter, and to me, then having it destroyed is exactly what you'd like, so I am keeping your letter.
Consider yourself very lucky that I intend to keep such an illicit correspondence between ourselves. Gentleman indeed! It's little wonder you're still an utter disgrace with all those inappropriate thoughts of me milling about in your head.
If you want your letter back, I suggest you send me a better one. One that does not have drink spilled all over the good parts. I should very much like to know what it is you hunger for when you yearn for me both nightly and daily, especially after you've already described spending an evening in carnal bliss between my thighs in enough detail. I will await your reply.
Forever and impatiently yours, Anna.'
She read it over once, pleased there were no mistakes. Once the ink had dried, she gave the letter a few mists of the perfume she had worn the night of Elsa's coronation and sealed it in an envelope addressed to Hans. She dropped it in the tray for outgoing letters on her desk, and then went for lunch. A small skip in her step.