Disclaimer: Unfortunately, I own neither Frozen nor Rise of the Guardians. If I did, Jelsa would be canon. Cathy's name comes from Jack Ryan: Shadow Recruit, but she isn't meant to be that character. Little joke with Chris Pine and characters named Jack. ;)
Warnings: Infidelity, angst, sex, and more angst. Don't read if you don't do well with dark themes.
a world without us
i. break of dawn
He wakes up slowly, blinking away the fog clouding his mind. At first he can't figure out where he is—the feather-soft mattress and bedsheets definitely aren't his. He blinks again and the memories come flooding back.
It's already light outside, early morning sunlight spilling through the window to illuminate the room. He sits up and shakes off the last of the fog as he sees the figure sitting on the edge of the bed beside him, wrapped in nothing but the thin cotton sheet as she reads something on her phone.
"Hi," he calls softly. Seeing him awake, she drops her phone back onto the bedside table and turns, resting her weight on one hand.
"Did I wake you up?" she asks.
He shakes his head. "What time is it?"
"Just after six. I thought I'd let you sleep a little longer." She smooths his hair down (a futile endeavor) and looks toward the window.
He doesn't want to sleep. He wouldn't have slept at all last night if he didn't have to. He doesn't want to waste these last few hours with her on something as mundane as sleeping.
"We still have time," he says. "Come back to bed for a little while." He holds out a hand in invitation, and after a slight hesitation, she accepts it and settles beside him again, resting her head on his shoulder. He kisses her and lets his hand fall to her waist, his thumb tracing lazy circles on her hip. She sighs and rests her hand lightly on his chest. Her fingers are cool, but her body is warm next to his.
"What are you thinking?" he asks when the silence grows too deafening.
She sits up and wraps the sheet around herself again but otherwise gives no sign she's heard him. He's preparing to try a different topic of conversation when she abruptly asks, "Have you ever heard of the 'many worlds' theory?"
He raises an eyebrow and props himself up on one elbow. "What, you mean like aliens?" he says, trailing a finger lightly down her arm.
She laughs: a warm, rich sound that always makes him smile. "No, not aliens," she replies. "The many worlds theory says that there are multiple universes that exist parallel to ours, where all the choices we didn't make are being played out."
"Sounds like something you tell yourself when you miss the bus," he remarks. "'Somewhere I'm not late to work.'"
He wanted to make her laugh again, but the comment only seems to disturb her. So he sits up and wraps his arms around her from behind. In a more serious tone, he asks, "Do you believe it?"
A beat of silence, and then she admits, "I don't know. I'd like to. I'd like to think we…" She seems to shake herself out of a reverie. "I guess it doesn't matter either way."
"You don't think so?"
"There's no point regretting what we can't have," she answers. Her voice is firm, but there's something painful that gathers at the edges of it. Not for the first time, he feels the guilt gnawing at him.
"Do you hate me?" he asks hesitantly. The question had been nagging at him for a while now, and he wonders if she was thinking of a world where she had never met him, where he had never disrupted her life.
She seems taken aback. "Of course not," she says at once. "It's just…"
She takes some time to consider her next words. Unlike him, she always thinks before she speaks, but every second that passes now only makes him more convinced that she really does hate him, in spite of what she said. He can imagine her answer going through a careful filtering system in her mind (filtered for things like politeness and decency and neutrality) so that it returns a kind of half-truth.
He touches her shoulder to get her attention. Her silence unnerves him, and he wants to see her eyes. She's become very good at hiding her emotions over the years, but she has yet to completely master it with her eyes.
She doesn't look angry, but his relief is short-lived. She's not angry, but she looks restless.
"It's just…I have a lot of regrets now, but if I had the chance I'm not sure I'd do anything differently."
It's in his mind to make a joke about that makes one less world, then, but she looks so lost, he doesn't have the heart.
"I'm sorry," he says. He isn't sure which thing he's apologizing for (because he has a lot of options to choose from), but it feels like the right thing to say. He cups her cheek in his hand and repeats, "I'm sorry," and this time he knows exactly why he's apologizing when he leans in and kisses her.
It's easy to lose himself in her. Much as he hates to admit it, she's like a drug, something that soothes him and gives him something else to focus on so he can forget. He can forget the years they've lost and the changes those years have wrought on both their lives. He doesn't have to think about his girlfriend, off studying in France, blissfully unaware that he's currently holding another woman, their bodies separated by a sheet. He doesn't have to think about exactly how fucked up he is.
He's never been particularly religious, but right now he prays to any God who might hear him that this many worlds theory of hers is true, because that means that somewhere he's getting out of bed and leaving her with what's left of her dignity. Somewhere he never started this madness in the first place. Maybe there's a world where he's still that ignorant, carefree kid who first fell in love with her.
And maybe he never met her at all.
He can feel her tense, but she doesn't pull away. He wishes she would. He'd have let her go then, if that was what she wanted. But the truth is, she's as lost as he is now. He took her poise and confidence and turned her into something she isn't.
He forces himself to break the kiss and say, "Maybe—maybe I should go." And yet even as he says the words, he regrets them and hopes she'll ask him to stay.
For a moment, she looks stung by what she must see as his rejection, and he mentally slaps himself. It seems he's bound to hurt her no matter what he says.
But she blinks and the hurt is gone, replaced with resignation. "If you want," she answers quietly. But she doesn't move, and neither does he.
Finally, as she sighs and starts to get up, he snatches her wrist and holds on. Surprised by the sudden resistance, she jumps and has to gather the sheet in her opposite hand to keep it from falling. She turns back to him.
"I don't want to," he says flatly.
She still doesn't move, but as she looks at him the bright, clear blue of her eyes starts to darken, and he gently tugs the sheet from her fingers so that it pools around her waist. This time when he leans in to kiss her, she meets him halfway and loops her arms around his neck. It's different than the previous night; that had been explosive, a release of pent-up emotions. This morning is tender, but somehow more intense.
He puts one hand on her back, the other cradling her head so that he can lay her gently on the pillows. He buries his face in the crook of her neck and inhales. She smells like soap and Chanel and sex, a combination he still remembers perfectly.
And in spite of everything, she smiles at him when he pulls away and entwines their fingers. It's a sad, knowing smile, but a smile nonetheless.
He doesn't deserve her. He never did.
"It's okay, Jack," she whispers, squeezing his hand gently. There's something very final in her voice, in the way she says his name.
His hand slides up her inner thigh, and she parts her legs a little further to allow him access. She lets out a soft sigh of pleasure as he slips first one finger into her, then another. She's already wet, her body welcoming. Although she's a little more relaxed from last night, she's still tight enough that he knows it's been a long time for her. (How long? Is it possible he was the last (only?) person to touch her like this? The thought makes him feel uncomfortably possessive.)
He'd been too impatient last night to make sure she was properly prepared, but then she hadn't seemed particularly concerned about it, either. Foreplay had not been high on either of their priority lists. But she's probably sore this morning, so he wants to be more careful. There's too little time to rush through this.
The sunlight has grown brighter as the day begins, but Jack refuses to let himself think about the time. He remembers when they had let entire weekends pass by without a glance at the clock, free of schedules, free of responsibilities. It had taken some persuasion to get her to that point, but it had been worth it. He doesn't think she'd be able to do that anymore, and he wishes he had the time to teach her again.
The first time he saw her, she reminded him of a fine work of art: beautiful and untouchable, something that had to be preserved behind a glass panel. She didn't do much to change that perception, at least publicly. But this is Elsa in private, soft and sensual and loving. He likes to think he's the only one who's ever seen her like this, and, hypocritically, he wishes jealously that he's the only one who ever will. Her trust (misplaced though it is) has always made him feel special. Once, it had made him strive to be someone who deserved it.
He kisses a trail down between her breasts and over her stomach, stopping to trace intricate patterns over her abdomen before moving between her legs, pressing a kiss briefly to her upper thigh. She exhales as he drags his tongue along her center once before slipping it inside her. He hears her moan softly as her fingers tangle themselves in his hair. God, she tastes just as good as he remembers, maybe better; and the sounds she's making are like a song. (Those are for him; that song is for him.)
Pulling away slightly, he slides his fingers back into her and listens to her breath hitch. He teases her clitoris with his tongue until her legs tighten around his head and her breath is coming in short gasps.
"Jack," he hears her say breathlessly, and he looks up. She tugs lightly on his shoulders, wanting him closer. "Not like this," she says. "I want you inside me."
Her words send a shiver down his spine. He crawls back up so he's positioned over her. Today he enters her slowly, watching her face transform with pleasure as they join.
Her eyelids flutter shut, and she exhales a long breath. She smiles again, more genuinely this time, and he can almost believe they're still back in his old apartment on his lumpy mattress, and that nothing has changed.
When he's completely inside her, she wraps her legs around his waist and buries her fingers in his hair again. Her smile is soft, peaceful.
Until now, he's thought that at least some of the reason she finally gave in to him last night was because of the thrill, the forbidden romance-type feeling. After all, she's exactly the type for that—someone who lives her life so tightly bound by rules and responsibilities that she'd let go in a moment of recklessness. But he's underestimated her again. This isn't about rebellion or liberation. This is her way of apologizing for the last five years, of bringing some closure to both of them. This is her way of saying goodbye.
"I love you," she says, and he blinks in surprise. She has never been the first one to say it, always cautious with her heart, always wanting some reassurance that her feelings will be reciprocated.
Tenderly, he brushes a few locks of hair away from her face. "I love you," he echoes.
His lips graze against hers in an almost-kiss. He forces himself to keep a measured pace, wanting it to last as long as possible. She feels so good—all of her, her hair and her lips and her skin flush against his.
He sits up and pulls her into his lap. This has always been his favorite way of making love to her, because he can actually hold her. She rests her forehead against his as they move together—slowly, but with a sense of underlying urgency. He rests his hands on her hips and holds her steady while they speed up.
He's getting close, but he can tell she's still not close enough. Slipping a hand between them, he finds the bundle of nerves between her legs and strokes her.
"Jack," she moans, her muscles clenching around him.
"Come for me, Elsa," he whispers.
Her legs tighten around his waist and she stifles a cry in his shoulder as she comes. He's just behind her, and as he groans her name he holds her against him as if she might slip away. This is wrong on so many levels, but it also feels right in a way very few things in his life ever have.
They stay like that for some time, wound around each other. Her fingers stroke the hair at the nape of his neck. The sun has risen fully above the horizon now, turning her pale hair and skin an almost ethereal shade of gold.
"It's getting late," she finally says. "You should get ready."
He nods, but again neither of them makes a move to get up. As the silence stretches on, a question begins pressing in on him. It's one he's wanted to ask her since they met again seven months ago, but time has flown by and he still hasn't found the right words.
He's still trying to formulate the question when she sighs and gently extricates herself, letting her fingers trail along his jaw as she gets up. She pulls on the robe hanging on her door and disappears briefly into the bathroom. A moment later she emerges with her hair clipped up.
"I set out a towel and a washcloth. You can use any of the soap and shampoo." Before he can say anything, she hurries out of the room, and he hears her moving around in the kitchen.
In the shower, he stares at the bottles lined up on the shelf. (He knows all of them; he'd even had to throw out a couple she'd left at his apartment.) He's going to leave smelling like her whether or not he showers, so he picks one and hurries to finish. He wraps the towel around his waist and heads back into the bedroom. The bed has been made and his clothes are sitting folded neatly on the end. He dresses again, but his shirt is missing.
"Your shirt's drying," she says when he comes into the kitchen. She indicates a hanger fixed over the doorknob on the hall closet. "I steamed it for you so you don't have to leave looking like it's been wadded up. Come have some breakfast." She pushes a cup of coffee at him. "You got a text," she adds after a brief pause, nodding at his cell phone where he'd left it last night. He picks it up, but they both already know who it's from. He writes back and then puts it on silent before pocketing it.
He pulls the coffee toward him and takes an experimental sip. It's hot, but not scalding; and he stares into the mug pensively. Somehow, she always managed to make his coffee even better than he could—probably because of her meticulous nature.
"Breakfast is almost ready," she says. "The bacon's not quite done yet."
"I'd have been fine with some cereal," he says, perching on one of the stools.
"I know," she answers simply. Behind her, two pieces of toast pop up. She picks up a plate and drops all the bacon and some scrambled eggs onto it, then adds one of the pieces of toast. She slides the plate across to him before taking the rest of the eggs and the other slice of toast for herself. She sits down beside him and they eat in silence.
If not for the tension in the atmosphere, this could be just another one of their mornings-after. But the silence now is more awkward than companionable, and all the little details she remembers are bittersweet. They aren't exactly secrets, but they're still personal, things that only she knows or can do. He has made new routines, new preferences with Cathy, who'd be more likely to meet him with orange juice and cereal. Jack shakes his head, trying to push the thought away. It's not fair to compare them.
After breakfast, she loads the dishwasher and goes to shower and change. Jack takes the opportunity to wash out the skillet for her and gets his shirt. It looks neater than it has since he bought it.
When she comes out, she's back to being Elsa in public, a perfect work of art. She scoops her keys up from the counter.
"Ready?" she says. "I'll give you a ride to the airport so you don't have to fight the subway."
He nods wordlessly. She shouldn't have to worry about chauffeuring him around on her day off, but he can't bring himself to turn down the opportunity to spend a few more minutes with her.
They ride in silence except for the radio. It sounds like some opera song, definitely not in English. He hears her humming along with it softly.
"What is this?" he asks.
Instead of answering, she skips past the song. "Sorry, it was just on my iPod when I got in. I know it's not really your style."
"What is it, though?" he asks again. For some reason, he feels like he really has to know, even though the title won't mean anything to him.
She shrugs lightly. "Il Divo. Ti Amerò." She says it as if it's nothing special, but something in the tone of her voice suggests otherwise, and he makes a mental note to look it up later.
As he watches her, the question that's been nudging the back of his mind becomes more insistent. More than once he actually opens his mouth and takes a breath to say something, but he can't do it.
Finally, they pull into the airport and she stops outside the doors to let him out. He reaches for the handle but pauses. This is probably the last chance he'll have to find out, and he can't leave without knowing.
"Five years ago…"
He sees her tense, her fingers gripping the steering wheel a little more tightly. "Yes?" she prompts when he doesn't go on.
He swallows hard and forces himself to say it. "If I had asked you to marry me, what would you have said?"
She doesn't move, but he hears her draw in a sharp breath. She brushes an imaginary lock of hair out of her eyes and says in a strained voice, "Let's not live in the past anymore, Jack. It's time to move on."
"That's why I need to know," he insists.
She lets her gaze drop to her lap. "It doesn't matter. Whatever I'd have said, there's nothing we can do about it now. The past is past."
He regards her silently for several moments. Then, quietly, he begins: "I bought the ring about a week before your parents—before the accident. I just…never could find the right time to ask. And then everything happened so fast, and you just kind of…shut down. After a while, I guess I figured you'd have said no anyway," he concludes.
She stares at him, her expression unreadable. "You thought I'd say no?" she says, more to herself than him.
He sighs. "I guess it was pretty presumptuous," he admits grimly. "I was just…" He trails off when he meets her gaze again.
He shouldn't have said anything. He should have just kept his fucking mouth shut, he thinks viciously, because right now she's looking at him with something like anguish in her eyes.
"I'd have said yes," she says quietly.
It's what he'd hoped. It's what he'd feared.
A car behind them blares its horn, and he realizes they're still sitting in front of the entrance. It gets Elsa's attention, too, but before he can get out she pulls away and swings into the parking lot so they can talk without blocking the road.
She cuts the engine and stares ahead blankly. He's not sure if she's waiting for him to say something, so against his better judgment, he keeps talking.
"I've thought about it a lot since then. I shouldn't have left you like that. Whether or not you'd have married me is beside the point. You needed someone with you. You'd just lost your parents, your sister was in a coma, for Christ's sake. And I was sitting there like a selfish asshole wondering why you didn't have time for me anymore."
"No." She reaches for him and seems to think better of it, drawing her hand away. "It's not your fault. I pushed you away. I just got so overwhelmed, I didn't know how else to cope. You flew halfway around the world to see me, and I couldn't…" She lowers her head slightly. "I ruined everything, didn't I?" she whispers.
"Look," he begins, trying to sound reassuring. "We both made mistakes, okay? I don't blame you."
She doesn't look at him. Her hands are folded in her lap, and he wishes he knew what she was thinking right now. She must be upset, but her expression is impassive, revealing nothing.
He takes her chin in his hand and turns her head gently to him. "Look at me," he implores, his inflection almost turning it into a question.
He hears her draw a deep breath, but her eyes are clear and determined. She meets his gaze directly. Her calmness is more than a little unnerving, considering her initial reaction.
"Thank you," she says. "I'm glad you told me."
He waits, but she seems to be finished. "Is that all?" he asks uncertainly. He was prepared for her to cry or shout or something. Then he realizes, this is Elsa in public, and he's only allowed to see what she lets him see now.
Her expression softens. "Jack, somewhere there's a place where you and I have never met. So I'm grateful I got to know you, and for everything you did for me." She runs her fingers lightly through his hair and smiles. Her eyes shine with tears, but her voice is calm as she says, "Go. You're going to be late."
He stares at her for a moment before pulling her into a searing kiss. She holds him close, and he can feel her trembling slightly.
Abruptly, he breaks the kiss and gets out before he has time to think. He refuses to look back as he walks away, because he's not sure he'll be able to leave if he does. When he finally reaches the entrance, he allows himself to glance over his shoulder. Her car is gone.
Well, I originally intended it to be a oneshot, but there was too much story. And after that I'd only planned a two- or threeshot, but I got several requests for the full story, and your reviews were so generous, I thought I owed it to you guys. The more I thought about it, the more I really did want to write it.
If you've never heard Ti Amerò by Il Divo, go listen to it now. I've posted a version on Lyrics Translate since FFN doesn't let you post entire song lyrics here. Link will be in my profile and my Twitter (Rameine), but you're more than welcome to read other translations.
So before you review, let me say a couple things. First, I do NOT condone cheating on one's partner. At the same time, I don't believe anyone who does is automatically a horrible person. Second, this chapter is depressing and maudlin. I know that, and honestly, I had fun experimenting with this style, because my writing tends to be a little grittier. Future chapter(s) will be lighter on the angst, and I promise you'll get a mostly happy, if not fairytale-ever-after, ending.
(Speaking of happily ever after, did you guys see Frozen is coming to Once Upon a Time? I don't watch that show, but I'm tuning in for the Frozen arc. Their marketing ploy totally worked on me. ;))
