College was exciting.
Honestly.
Well, okay, it was once Elsa was able to get used to the thumping bass of every frat party in a 600 foot radius and the fact that those comfortable college sweaters were incredibly expensive (she may be a junior but that didn't mean she actually had any money).
And when she befriended a lovely-looking French international student, aptly named Belle, in the library, she found that the expansive university wasn't so lonely.
And when her sister Anna forced her to explore everything the campus had to offer ("I didn't know that lesbian knitting circles were a weekly thing!"), she found herself more or less having a good time.
She also discovers the blunders and joys of being wooed by women.
Elsa had never been particularly good with dates ('Well, of course not! You stepped on Jasmine's foot! And broke her toe!' Anna said at one point when Elsa's self-loathing grew out of hand). She didn't know what to say, she hardly even realized that she was on a date until it was too late ('Meg took you to dinner sis. And then you went for a walk. In a park. With a lake in it. That's a date.'), and she just couldn't' believe that these beautiful, brilliant women wanted her ('Mulan pressed you up against a door and kissed the living daylights out of you! How much more convincing do you need?).
But, at the end of the day, she never felt enough of an interest to seek dates out anyway.
Or so she thought, until a Scottish girl with a head of hair permanently set ablaze caught her eye.
The girl was tall, lithe, and had the most wondrous hands Elsa had ever seen and was almost never seen without her petite blonde friend Rapunzel (seriously?). She technically caught Elsa's ear, since her very Scottish accent filtered through the courtyard and forced Elsa to irritably look up from her notes on code-switching in literature and oh, hello.
She was an amalgamation of tousled red hair and unrestrained laughter and was nothing like the prim embodiment of femininity that Elsa was taught to be and she fell in love with it right away.
Elsa couldn't pinpoint the exact moment when it occurred to her that this girl was going to ruin her, but she did know that she would enjoy every minute of it
After Anna returned from one of Rapunzel's "totally awesome" parties and messily plopped onto Elsa's bed whilst the girl was studying, she tells Elsa that the girl's name is Merida, she is an art major and 'she definitely has a thing for blonde girls. But don't worry, I didn't tell her that you, like, totally want to hit that'.
She lets the information settle in her brain that night, and suddenly finds herself on the receiving end of the redhead's special, small smiles.
But, you know, she could be imagining it.
And yet….it didn't seem like her imagination when Merida profusely apologized after one of her smiles rendered the blonde catatonic and unable to prevent her coffee from dribbling all over her baby blue cashmere sweater (Anna was going to be so pissed). She offered some Scottish remedy that her mother used to use on her clothes (I was too wild a child for me mum's taste, she says with a half-shrug that Elsa can't explain why it looks so very attractive), but Elsa merely smiles and accepts her purchase of another frappuccino.
Nor did it seem like her imagination when Merida gives her another smile before returning her Emily Dickinson notes (when did she even drop those?). She chuckles when Elsa stutters a 'thank you' and relishes the moment when their fingertips brush.
Merida asks her what she thinks of the class, and Elsa immediately runs the girl into the ground with an analysis of Dickinson's early life and how it undoubtedly affected her unique form of writing until she realizes that Merida isn't really paying attention, and she was more focused on staring at her lips the entire time she was speaking and yeah, she really has to go.
And it definitely didn't seem like her imagination when Rapunzel smacks Merida on the arm, ferociously whispering something along the lines of 'how many sweaters are you going to make her ruin?' when Merida's smile was paired up with a wink and actually drove Elsa to the brink of insanity (and another stained top).
Even with two ruined sweaters and a fuming sister to deal with, the sly redhead and her uncanny ability to make Elsa feel were the only things occupying her thoughts.
Not for any particular reason.
Honestly.
Within eleven weeks of her third year of English Language and Literature, she and her classmates are informed that they are to individually meet with their professor to discuss term papers.
Her professor sees Elsa's acumen for folk poetry and encourages her to write about the evolution of the literary tradition of one of the UK republics.
She picks Scotland.
No reason.
Honestly.
Elsa looks everywhere for good research material.
She checks the 'European History' section of the library. She checks the 'Poetry' section. She checks the 'Anthology' section. But, all she can find are rigid analyses of the same three men, and these accounts bear nothing in common with the burning red sense of life that she has attached to the Scottish.
Her search is tiring and she grows frustrated and Merida is looking particularly lovely today for no feasible reason (seriously, it's a Tuesday) so she just blurts it out when they cross paths.
"Merida!" she winces at how eager she sounds and decides to drop it a decibel, "I mean, uh, hi…Merida. How are you?" Elsa asks tentatively, vaguely aware that her 'deep' and 'cool' voice still sounds rather pathetic.
Fortunately for her, Merida doesn't comment on it and simply tucks a wild strand of hair behind her ear and smiles, "I'm doing pretty well, Miss Elsa."
Elsa blushes and mumbles, playing with the frayed edges of her sweater. She doesn't question the new nickname, just like how she didn't question Merida's knowledge of her name the day after their first encounter, "You can drop the 'Miss' you know…"
"I could, but I think it suits you better."
Elsa can't bear to glance up and to be consumed by the smoldering look that is undoubtedly permeating through Merida's gaze (A redhead with green eyes? Is this a joke? Don't I deserve a break?), so she clears her throat and fixes her gaze somewhere near Merida's foot.
"Well, um… the thing is you're Scottish and I'm, well I'm not Scottish; I'm Norwegian but that's not pertinent to what I have to say… the point is well, I need you for something. Not like 'need-need' in a strange way but it's more of a…um," Elsa fumbles over her words, unable to cling to the right ones that will lead her through this conversation and away from embarrassment. She closes her eyes and takes a breath, steeling herself before meeting Merida's unwavering, emerald gaze.
"I'm writing a paper about Scottish literature and all of the books I've found are very old, very musty and very boring and I doubt that Scotland is any of those things. I'm sure it's old but I honestly doubt that it's musty and boring. Anyway, I wanted your angle on things since you're Scottish and,"
"Not old, musty, and boring?" Merida interrupts, unable to hide her amusement now as a grin spreads across her face, subsequently wiping any trace of embarrassment from Elsa's mind. She can't help but stare in wonder as this beautiful girl, an artist's platinum-haired dream, grows flustered by a simple smile. Oh yes; college is good.
"Exactly!"
"I'd love to 'elp; but later on you'll 'ave to acknowledge me as a factor in yer literary career or wha'ever."
Elsa blushes, moving to play with the end of her French braid as she mentally curses this girl for being so damn charming. How dare she just come out of the blue, all sleek lines and black jeans and combat boots and her ability to make Elsa swoon with a mere quirk of the mouth?
"Well, I wouldn't necessarily call it a career…"
Merida places a hand on her arm, sending goose bumps across Elsa's skin and if she noticed that Elsa stopped breathing for a moment, she didn't say anything.
"I've read yer stuff. In tha' literary magazine."
"Really? I never took you for a poetry person."
"I knew I liked ye fer a reason," Merida chuckles. "Me mum runs the English department and forces me to read it in case I get 'inspired' one day. Fer an art piece or wha'ever."
"Your mother is the English department chairperson?"
Merida nods and sticks her hands in her pockets.
"Well, have you been inspired?"
Merida gives Elsa a quick once-over and Elsa tries her hardest not to let the shivers running through her skin reach her bones.
Merida smirks, "Ye could say that."
Elsa blushes and bites back a smile, suddenly unaware of what to do with her hands.
"Besides, yer poems and tha like are the only stuff worth reading in that trash."
"Oh! I wouldn't say that."
"S' fine; I'll do that fer ye."
This time, Elsa didn't stop the corners of her mouth from quirking into a grin.
"But, I do agree; the lack of Scottish in yer life is a tad disappointing."
Elsa's heart stutters and she chuckles.
Isn't that right…
"So, how about Saturday at 9? I'll come by yer dorm. And we'll go explorin'."
"Sure! That sounds great; thank you!"
Merida offers a final grin that makes the girl in front of her blush for the umpteenth time that day (later on, when she's in her bed, replaying the interaction in her mind's eye, she'll berate herself for having such easy-to-read skin).
When Anna sees her later that day, Elsa's humming some Disney song to herself and thoroughly confusing her sister who could have sworn that she left her older sibling as a traditionally gloomy mess only four hours prior.
"What's got you acting all…like me?"
"Nothing. No reason."
Honestly.
Elsa blinks eleven times.
A pub?
Did Merida have the wrong address? Did this place recently open up and she had no time to double check the location? Did she forget Elsa's entire purpose for coming here?
It wasn't a bookstore or even a Scottish cultural center; it was a palm-sized pub named MacCroy's with a blue and white Scottish flag sticking out from the apostrophe and the 's'. Outside, a vaguely territorial grey cat lurked on the cement step; inside, a blue light shone with the aggressive voices of the patrons.
Overcome with the feel of Merida's hand pressing against the small of her back, Elsa didn't even have time to panic about the fact that they were at a pub and that this really looks like a date.
When they cross through the threshold, with Elsa leading the way and Merida's warm presence behind her and her melodious voice urging Elsa to 'Keep clear o' tha vomit', Elsa is smiling.
No reason.
Honestly.
After they maneuver past the crowded entrance, they plop themselves into the nearest empty booth. As Elsa settles into the surprisingly comfortable cushions, Merida buys her a drink. Elsa finds it hard to breathe, what with her fingers brushing Merida's knee and Merida's arm casually draped around her shoulder and the smell of Merida's hair (it's mango) wrapping itself around her twice.
"Ummm…I don't see how Robert Burns fits into this atmosphere," she says, once the insistent sound of beer mugs clinking overpowers whatever ideas she had about this place wedging itself into her research.
Merida chuckles and her lips ghost over the shell of Elsa's ear, presumably because the pub is loud and pulsates and even the smell of Scotch seems to have its own sound. Right.
"I'll be having none o' that. What you're getting is the prissy, primped version o' Scotland. What you see here is the real Scottish culture."
"Oy! If it isn't tha wee beauty Merida! And 'er pretty frien'!" A large, bearded, burly man leans over their booth and envelops the two of them in a tight hug, prompting Elsa to yelp and evoking a grumble from Merida whose lavender-scented companion was replaced with the stench of Jack Daniels.
"Malachi; do ye mind? I was trying to have a conversation with me good friend 'ere before ye came blundering over."
Malachi squeezes Merida's shoulder before laughing good-naturedly and straightening himself up," Well forgive me wee miss. It's nae often ye bring yer friends here; especially pretty ones that can 'andle their liquor," jerking his thumb towards Elsa.
Elsa blinks four times, surprised to see the large man's attention directed at her and her empty mug of beer, "Well...wine coolers never really impressed me."
Malachi all but roars with laughter, chortling and clapping Merida on the back in a way that should be painful by the looks of it, "I like this one Merida. Bring 'er 'round more often why don't ye?" he offers, before leaving them with a ,"There goes Angus tryin' to sneak another drink. Aye! Angus!" Merida simply rolls her eyes, crossing her arms and gazing petulantly at a raucous drinking game at the far end of the bar.
Elsa breathes out a chuckle, lightly wrapping her fingers around Merida's wrist and tugging to get her attention. Merida relents, resuming her position next to Elsa and tentatively slipping her arm around the girl's waist.
"He seemed nice." Elsa says, definitely not focusing on the way that Merida's fingertips were skimming over her side.
Merida rolls her eyes, "I was thinking more along tha lines of oaf."
Elsa shakes her head and tries to sound angry on Malachi's behalf. Although, that's difficult to do when the low lighting makes Merida's eyes even more stunning and hypnotizing than they normally are, "That's not very nice of you."
"Ye didn't know? I'm not particularly nice Miss Elsa."
"Yes you are; why else would you be helping me with an assignment on a Saturday night?"
Merida nods slowly, "Speaking o' which; ye should be getting' yer first look at some poetry inna lit-"
As if on cue, the entire pub bursts into song.
It begins with Malachi, who bumbles his way from the bar to the booths, conducting the patrons with his large hands. It's powerful and it's stirring, and it resonates from every trash-laden corner of the establishment.
Elsa can make out something about a glen, a river, and a bear, but it's generally lost in the sea of English, Scottish, Irish, and American accents that are belting the song at the top of their lungs. She's half-intrigued, half-confused, and is especially amused when Merida tries to hide her lip-syncing with an air of annoyance.
Elsa laughs.
Here she is, supposedly on an intellectually stimulating excursion with the most interesting human being she has ever come across and she's surrounded by middle-aged men and drunken folk poetry. She laughs even harder when Malachi reprimands Angus for singing in the wrong key (Och, aye! After all yer country has dun fer ye, that's how ye repay 'er?).
Merida looks over at her with a smile in her eyes, "Did ye understand any o' tha?"
Elsa shakes her head, realizing that she would be much more content with running her fingers through Merida's untamable tendrils than actually doing what she came her for.
But, of course, she doesn't say that.
It's not as though she had the capacity to say anything when Merida lips are actually on her ear and her fingers are skimming over Elsa's thigh. Not to mention the fact that her hand is still wrapped around Elsa's waist and her husky voice is coursing over Elsa's skin and pulsing through her veins and is she still talking?
"…eventually, Mor'du was defeated by all o' the mighty Scottish clans, fighting as one sword, and the prince's soul was finally put to rest."
Elsa turns to Merida, taking in her piercing eyes and her button nose and the dusting of freckles across her face and her , and she laughs.
Merida's eyebrows furrow adorably,"Wha'?"
Elsa shakes her head. She gently places a hand on the back of Merida's neck, and internally smirks when she draws an uncharacteristic look of nervousness from the artist and presses their lips together and-
Whoa.
Okay.
Kissing Merida is everything Elsa thought it would be; she tastes like beer (Elsa could have done without that to be honest) but there's an underlying natural sweetness to her lips that Elsa can barely register before Merida's tongue runs playfully across her bottom lip and she just about dies.
She's not sure how long they continue kissing, lips sliding against one another in tandem and tongues running smooth circles around one another. All she knows is that when oxygen re-emerges as a necessity, her fingers are irrecoverably tangled in Merida's hair (finally) and Merida's fingers are digging into her hips and drawing her closer.
"So…was I useful?"
Elsa smiles bashfully, watching how the blue light of the pub contrasts beautifully with Merida's fiery orange hair, and thinking of many other ways that Merida could be useful.
"Maybe a little," she says, before pulling Merida back for another kiss, lavishing her bottom lip with attention and smiling into the kiss when she hears a low groan erupt from the back of the other girl's throat.
She feels Merida's fingers slip under her shirt and stroke the soft pale skin of her lower back and she feels Merida take charge of the kiss and does this thing with her tongue that has nebulas exploding behind Elsa's eyes that cancel out Malachi's second conduction and the pub's raucous and enthusiastic encore.
She's surrounded by Scottish folk poetry. All she can smell is Merida's hair that's falling across her face and tickling her nose; all she can feel is Merida's hand tip-toeing across her back and their thighs pressed together in a small booth. And all she can taste is the wonder of Merida's lips.
This will probably be the best essay she's ever written.
Honestly.