She has the soft hands of someone who has never worked; his are rough and calloused, often scratched and dried out from exposure to wind and grating snow.
"You need to wear your gloves," she chides gently. In the evenings when it's long gone dark and still outside, and if he has time, or doesn't have errands to run in the early morning, they will sit together in one of her sisters parlors (there are many; he finds it a little confusing and silly, which rooms are for what) and she will massage salve into his cracked and broken skin.
"Gloves get in the way," he murmurs, head leaned against the high back of the sofa. "It's easier to use my tools without them. Ouch."
Anna gives him a look that doesn't quite meet contrite, and taps the small bottle against her hand, freeing a few more drops of ointment. He closes his eyes, picturing her movements as he hears the familiar sound of her rubbing her palms together to warm them, the gentle knock of glass on wood when she sets the bottle down on the short table beside him.
The pull of her hands against his is painful and wonderful: the good hurt of loosening muscles and joints. Against his hands, hers are delicate, thin and long; his are broad, thick with muscles used to pull, grip, grasp and haul. She has done this enough times now to know exactly what gets sore – how to push his fingers backward to stretch the higher lumbricals, what pressure to use when massaging the abductor of his thumb, how gentle to be around the carpals in his wrists. He groans a little as she hits a particularly sensitive spot, and slouches further into the flowered cushions.
They have a routine. Anna sits beside the sofa on a plump footstool next to him, with his hand and arm suspended over her lap. Often she hums to herself, a nonsense melody keeping time with the stroke of her hands up his forearms. Her hair, which she has tossed carelessly over a shoulder out of way, gleams a darker auburn in the firelight, and although most of her face is shadowed, he can make out that she's biting her lower lip in concentration, fully absorbed.
Anna touches him freely and often – sliding her hand easily into his when they walk, resting her weight on his shoulder as she leans over him when he works on his ledgers, her slightly annoying-but-also-somehow-endearing habit of throwing herself off of things (low stone walls, the banister, Sven, a tree) with unreserved, full confidence that he will be waiting below to catch her or offer a steadying hand, and how she always kisses him goodnight on the same spot right below his left ear.
Privately he has begun to wonder how it had felt normal, all that time with just ice, men, and stone. They were free years, certainly: he worked hard and fast when it pleased him and when he needed the money; spent long stretches of time alone at the tops of mountains, breathing clean air and winter pine; slept outside in the summer, watching the stars wink in and out, bathing in peace and loneliness.
Kristoff's definition of normal has shifted, and his need for material things is still small – he keeps Sven well feed, his equipment in good repair, and there's no doubt he's grown to appreciate having a room in the castle (where food, fire and a hot bath are never too far away) – but the biggest change is still Anna: he drinks up her company and affection, her smiles and laughter – a starved man at a buffet.
He's soaking her up like a balm.
The thought surprises him out of his drowsy reverie just as Anna chirps "Okay, switch!" and gestures for his other arm. He starts, and blinks rapidly, clearing his head and vision. On her footstool Anna smiles at him, still beckoning, her hands flashing in the firelight.
"Are you getting sleepy? It's pretty warm in here."
"Yes? Wait. No, I'm not. Just…thinking, that's all." She raises her eyebrows and picks but the glass bottle again, shaking it deftly with one hand.
"It's a little late; you should go sleep if you need to. I mean, I'm not trying to get rid of you or anything, it's just, if you're tired, you should go to sleep. If you want."
Kristoff sits up straighter, and runs his free hand over his face and through his hair.
"So what were you thinking about?" Anna asks, taking his other hand and laying it in her lap.
"Oh. You, actually."
"Me?" She pauses and looks straight at him, her voice light, eyes inquisitive.
"Yes…um. Thank you. That's what I was thinking."
Anna doesn't say anything, just makes a soft noise while her mouth forms a silent 'Oh', and her expression softens from a curiosity into something that Kristoff is pretty sure is love.
"Yes. Thank you," he repeats, curving his fingers until he's holding her hands, leaning forward and pulling her closer. Her eyes are catching the firelight, and he has a fleeting surge of affection for her freckles before pressing his lips gently against hers.
Kissing her is another part of his new normal: he can smell her soap, taste a hint of dinner wine, and feel her breath on his cheeks. Anna murmurs, shifts a little, and his hands instinctively come up to cradle her face, kiss deepening: mouths open, lips smoothing over each other's, a light scrape of teeth and shadow of a tongue against the palette, small sounds in her throat, and a low hum in his.
After a long moment they break apart, slightly breathless and Kristoff is sure he's blushing but can't bring himself to care.
"Oh. Well. Geez, if I knew you liked your hands worked on that much, I'd have started doing them a long time ago."
He laughs.