A/N: You can officially thank OFA for giving me all the Elsanna family feels and for inspiring me to give this fandom one last shot. I'll be editing/touching up chapters one at a time, though I have no official update schedule. At the very least, every Friday (though if I can squeeze another before or after, lucky you!) I'll be rewriting/updating my other fic "Be My Escape" as well, and probably working on a few smaller stories as they come along, so all I ask for is patience. I made the mistake of being a pushover before, but this time I assure you, I will not stand for the needy, greedy demands some (a few) of you felt entitled to. Otherwise, welcome back, and please enjoy.


There's something about her voice tonight — unusually husky — the sound of it so piercing in the still of night that it sends shivers prickling through my skin. Perhaps it's the atmosphere; we're on the beach, after all, and it's night time. The moon is full, a radiant disk of white against the backdrop of blackened sky, floating high above us as though in quiet observance. Maybe it's because we're at a wedding, celebrating the union of two very good friends, and love saturates the salted air. It might even just be the alcohol.

(She's on her fifth glass by now, and there's still a whole bottle to be shared between us, though in her booze addled state, I'll be lucky to steal more than a few hasty sips.)

"H-have I told you… that you look… quite dashing in your outfit?" she slurs, arms clung to my waist as she supports herself against my sturdier — and far less intoxicated — frame.

"Dashing?" I repeat, skeptically. Briefly, I glance down at my attire, finding it less than intriguing. It's nothing more than a buttoned white blouse tucked into dark grey slacks, hidden under the cover and warmth of one of my nicer leather jackets; entirely appropriate for the setting, but hardly dashing if you were to ask my opinion.

"Yes, dashing!" she exclaims, beaming sideways at me.

On second thought, it's definitely the alcohol, and I can barely repress an amused snort at her muddled attempt at flirting. Drunk Elsa is always an experience, but nothing I'm ever opposed to handling. Being the CEO and sole heiress to a rather prominent tech company — Queen Enterprises — she's often forced to work upwards to a hundred hours a week, rarely taking the proper time to care and look after her own well being.

As designated best friend, it's my honor and duty to ensure her good health and good spirits, intervening whenever she overworks, nudging her to take a step back and relax every so often. It's for this very reason why we find ourselves here now, sneaking away from the crowded tent of party goers in search of a more secluded setting. The ceremony was beautiful and the reception has been fun, but the energy is too rowdy for one of Elsa's temperament. I've known her long enough to see the tension in her shoulders, to recognize that anxious glint in her eye — the one she gets when she's feeling particularly overwhelmed — and I whisk her away to further decompress and unwind.

"Here," I say, once we're far enough away; still close so that we can hear the playing of the band, but distant to the point that we're all alone, no longer drowning in the sea of noisy chatter. Kicking a few tangled knots of seaweed to the side, I clear a spot on the sand for Elsa before helping her down, easing her gently into a seated position.

When she doesn't immediately topple over in some half-drunken haze, I release a silent sigh of relief and plop unceremoniously into the sand beside her, laughing as she reaches eagerly for the bottle of champagne in my hand. With a teasing smirk, I pull back, her hand trailing the receding the drink as she whines petulantly like a child. Playfully, I bring the lip of the bottle to my own mouth and tilt back, the golden liquid cascading down my eager throat as I try not to choke in laughter over the way she keens pitifully.

"Anna, share!" she demands, lips in full pout as she lunges forward and snatches it quickly from my grasp. Some of it spills onto my shirt, and even more into the sand, but Elsa doesn't seem to mind the mess. Either that, or she doesn't notice, too busy taking a sloppy swig of her own.

"Hey, slow down, will you?" I warn, though only half-heartedly. It's not often that Elsa let's herself go so unabashedly, and I'm inclined to let her enjoy herself however she sees fit. As it is, I'm blessed with a naturally high metabolism and can burn through alcohol like a furnace, meaning — if she so chooses — Elsa can get blackout drunk, and I still wouldn't worry about finding a way back to the hotel.

"Don't be such a killjoy," Elsa murmurs, sticking her tongue at me.

"Yeah, yeah. Well, one of us has to be," I say, swatting my hand at her before snatching back the bottle. "And close your mouth. You'll catch flies that way."

She makes a soft noise of thoughtfulness, as if genuinely contemplating the idea, her perfectly pink lips jutting out, and her rosy cheeks — flushed from the alcohol, or the cold, I cannot tell — ballooning upon her face as they expand with air. I can't help but roll my eyes at the strange expression, earning a giggle that she exhales in one sharp breath before dissolving into a fit of laughter. Seriously, drunk Elsa is such a child! Though, to be fair, sober Elsa is way too much of an adult, so I guess this balances things out. Plus, with all her responsibilities and duties, she deserves to act like a child every now and then.

Releasing a content sigh, I lay back, leaning against my elbows as I take another sip or two of the champagne. We were supposed to share the bottle, but between Elsa's earlier mishap and her hogging the drink, it's left only a third of the way full, and I'd like to at least get a buzz before it's all gone. From the corner of my periphery, I can see Elsa prepare to make another leap for it, a predatory sort of glint in her eye as she makes grabby hands at the bottle.

Thankfully, I pull it away just in time to avoid her attempted theft, but am not so quick to get out of the way myself. She lands atop me with a heavy jolt, and I bite the inside of my cheek as she accidentally elbows me in the groin, refraining from letting her know my discomfort. You can imagine this has happened before, and if experience has taught me one thing, it's best to simply bite the bullet and keep quiet; as the last time I let her know, she had gotten a tad too handsy in her attempt to "make it feel better", and I'd rather not suffer through another repeat incident.

Instead, I shift around a bit until she's no longer crushing the precious family jewels, careful not to let any inappropriate parts bump. Elsa, as expected, is blissfully unaware of our compromising position, and swipes gleefully at the bottle, stealing it away again before I can properly react.

"Hey!" I cry, feigning indignation as she takes it. "Give it back! You've already had more than your fair share!"

With a mischievous grin, Elsa rolls off of me and, after a few bewildering attempts, manages to stand — albeit with the grace and balance of a two-year-old, but still she stands. Taking a heavy gulp of the drink, she playfully shakes the champagne at me and issues her challenge. "If you want it, come and get it," she dares, grinning manically as she takes off down the long stretch of sea and sand.

Naturally, she makes it no more than a couple of yards before she makes the unfortunate mistake of tripping over her own two feet, and the next thing I know, Elsa drops like a fly in the sand. A strangled choke escapes my lips, a cross between laughter and worry, and I'm not sure whether or not to feel amusement or concern as I watch her flail in the sand, drowning in her dress like some sad, beached whale.

Suddenly, she shrieks as the waves crash in around her, and it strikes me that she's fallen dangerously close to the water. Elsa is inebriated, her dress is heavy, and there is little in the way to stop her from being swept out to sea. But, because she is Elsa, and because she is drunk, of course she manages to save the champagne before even making any attempts to save herself.

I have the undeniable urge to smack a palm over my face at the absurdity of it all, but I have more pressing matters to attend to. Like rescuing Elsa, for instance, because apparently she has little to no sense of self-preservation when even remotely smashed.

I'm at her side in a heartbeat, dragging her away from the incoming tide and further along the beach. She's far from heavy, but playing tug-of-war with the ocean is no easy task, only made more difficult by Elsa's frantic squirming. It's only when we're safely out of the water's reach that I release her, falling sideways to lay beside her as the adrenaline fades and I'm left panting for air.

"Okay," I say, once I've finally caught my breath. "I'm officially cutting you off for the rest of the night." The bottle is back in my possession before she can even acknowledge the words, and though she endeavors to wrestle it back, whatever attempt she makes to overpower me is easily deflected.

Instead, I roll over her, effortlessly pinning her arms together above her head as I wiggle my brows teasingly. Then, in playful wickedness, I toss back the bottle and drain it of its remaining contents, grinning as Elsa whimpers at the loss. Thinking I've finally won our little game, I rein back on my hold and loosen the grip I have on her wrists.

Immediately, she breaks free with an unexpected surge of strength, leaving me woefully unprepared for what happens next. Desperate hands clamp at the collar of my shirt, yanking me down until our lips meet, her tongue darting into my opened mouth and lapping greedily at the last few drops of champagne. I can do little more than brace myself atop her, careful not to crush her more delicate frame as she continues to siphon the remains of alcohol from my orifice.

Elsa leans back for but a fraction of a second, those icy blue eyes captivating me in their stare, and then she smiles. She smiles — tender and sincere — and moves back in, pressing her lips to mine again and again. Her name falls from my lips like a prayer, even as I struggle to resist, pulling away only for her to pull me right back in.

"E-Elsa, no… you need to stop this," I breathe, groaning as she releases my lips, only to nip heatedly at my neck and throat.

"I don't want to," she whines, latching onto taut flesh and sucking harshly, leaving a mark that will most certainly bruise.

"That's because you're… you're not thinking straight," I argue, my eyes fluttering shut as she continues the lay kisses against my skin, hands sliding down to tug my shirt loose. "Elsa, stop…"

"But it's been so long…"

And for good reason, is all I can think. It's not the first time we've been down this road, Elsa and I. We've known each other since early childhood, our friendship spanning nearly twenty years now, and we've had more than our fair share of "what if's" to last us a lifetime. It was almost inevitable that we try the whole relationship thing, making two earnest attempts to get things going, but either due to bad timing or conflicting life events, we never managed to work it out. (And don't get me started on that one time in college when we were stupid to believe ourselves mature enough to be 'friends with benefits' without things getting complicated — which it did, mind you, very quickly.

No, history had shown time and time again that Elsa and I were never meant for anything more than friendship, and that was enough — it had to be. Furthermore, we were both fine with the current arrangement, so why mess up a perfectly good thing?

"Elsa… you're drunk," I say, rolling away before she can further dig us into this hole of inevitable regret. There's a twinge in my chest — sharp, and painful, and oh so familiar — as I scoot farther back, creating space between her and I, obstinately ignoring the voices in my head urging me to reconsider.

She sighs loudly with defeat, heavy and relenting, and I turn to look over, watching as Elsa seems to curl in upon herself, knees drawing in as she wraps her arms around them in a lonely hug. It occurs to me then that she's wet — soaked, really — the fabric of her dress clinging to her figure like a second skin, and while she's always claimed to be unaffected by the cold, the last thing I want is her getting sick. Reluctantly, I return to her side, shucking off my jacket and draping it carefully over her pinched shoulders.

Elsa smiles and leans into me, tipping her head into the crook of my neck where she hums contentedly. I tense briefly, wary that she might try to start something up again, but all she does is nuzzle closer. Eventually, I lower my guard and slip an arm around her waist, tugging her further into the embrace in order to keep her warm.

"Anna," she murmurs, as several minutes come and go, ebbing away like the tide before us. A fleeting glance is all it takes, her lips stretched thin with quiet elation as she leans back, slowly taking me with her. Our eyes lock and my back hits the ground, but I'm still falling and so is she. I realize then that I have little choice in the matter; the heart wants what the heart wants, and in this moment, all it wants is Elsa. She lays next to me in the cool, damp sand, a finger tracing lazily into the curve of my side. Bathed in moonlight, her pale features and soft platinum hair radiate an almost ethereal beauty, and from that moment on, no more words are shared.

We fall in love in the silence… but only for tonight.