Notes 1: Have you ever written more Helsa to avoid writing other Helsa?
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think of me and burn
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Call me a fool, I'm always like this
– Baek A Yeon, Sorry to myself
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Most boyfriends present their girlfriends with roses – big, romantic, grand, red gesturing roses. If not, any bouquet of flowers will do, even cheap daisies dyed pink. But Hans doesn't.
He had presented Elsa with a cactus – and maybe because of that, she should have known he was a prick. But, he wasn't. Not entirely. Because, in actuality, he had gotten it for her after she had told him, once, in the quiet of the night, that she was – so scared to touch things. I'm so scared, Hans. I'm scared I won't be able to care for anything (not even myself).
She had told him all this the night he had pushed her pale blonde hair oh-so gently behind her ear then held her like she was his everything and kissed her sweetly, just right.
She remembers her face burning, trying to fight the blush crawling up her neck and face; remembers hesitating then touching the inside of his wrist, his broad shoulders then had her hands hover over his chest, just above his heart.
Then she kissed him back with the same softness, she thinks.
(it wasn't true love's kiss, but it would do)
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We can make this work! She says – no, begs, to him.
Why? He had asked her.
Why? Elsa remembers echoing back. At least, she thinks so? She thinks she echoed that single word back pathetically.
Yeah, why can we make it work?
At that moment, her mouth had quivered and her blue eyes had gone glassy. She can't answer him. Not really. Her mind goes blank and she simply stares at him. Frozen. One hand gripping onto the sleeve of his jacket like a lifeline while the other is holding onto her shopping, a whole bag of apples. They weren't even on sale, but she bought them! She bought them because –
She hears him exhale like he was tired of holding it in. Waiting for her to make up her mind must have felt like pulling teeth. And with his educated eyes glaring at her and his royal nose turned upwards, he gives her that knowing smirk.
I'm sorry. Is the only thing she can manage as her heart skips a beat.
And because Hans is the most preposterous man alive, he says –
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She gathers all his belongings in a plastic bag.
And by 'all', she means about thirteen things (she had counted – one, two, three – one by one, carefully like she didn't want to lose them despite knowing the trash is where it all belonged).
There wasn't a lot there. There was never much to begin with. After all, Hans hardly ever leaves any traces of him at her apartment. Mostly, whatever they have between each other, it feels like a lost memory – Polaroid pictures, discarded white winter gloves, and a cactus plant that pricks her and draws blood.
Oh.
Oh.
She can't see anything red the same way ever again.
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.
.
They had named that cactus 'Hindbær' because she didn't allow herself to be expressive nor creative, and he likes fruits too much – even going as far as naming a pet 'Sitron', which Elsa will never understand because lemons are such sour things.
The stupid green thing reminded her of the colour his eyes and the colour of the bench she just so happened to be sitting on when they had first met.
He had caught her when she was comfortable and alone, reading a book she now no longer remembers the plot of, just that the cover was blue and that the story must have been a pleasant kind. It must have been, for her to let her guard down and to let him in.
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{ Sorry, my heart, for hurting you – again,
Why did I do that? Why did I let such a person get close to you? }
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There are moments where she swears he's next to her in bed, just an arm's length's away. So sure that sometimes, most times, she restrains herself and doesn't dare turn. Because if she does, if she turns her blonde head then maybe there would be some chance?
Some chance that she might see him there – his handsome face, freckled splattered shoulder, sleepy bed head. She'd smell his familiar scent and feel his warmth when he wraps his arms around her and buries his royal nose into her neck.
But, there is no chance. It's all a trick of the mind. He isn't there to do any of those things. Not anymore. It's just her (but that doesn't stop her from missing him and thinking that her bed is too big without him).
Don't. She whispers. Maybe to herself. Maybe to her fragile heart. Maybe to him who's not there with her. Don't.
Elsa doesn't wallow (much). She doesn't allow herself to do a lot of things.
She tells herself, Get up! Get up, you silly girl! Then forces herself to start her day; shower under hot water that beats her back into shape, clean every part of her like she wants to erase him off her then she would stand in front of her steamy bathroom mirror. Her reflection would be sad every time, frowning and pale.
She remembers staring at herself a lot in that mirror, thinking she looked worn out and she wondered – how could he have ever looked her in the face and said, You're beautiful, Elsa, you know that?
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{ I'm sorry, my heart, can you please stop hurting because nobody cares? }
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Elsa thinks, she remembers a time when they had gotten into a heated argument. She was trying to touch him, to calm him down but he didn't want to be calm. He wanted to be a storm, a wild hurricane.
And in an incident where she had uttered a I'm sorry, he had picked up something made of glass and hurled it at the wall.
Only, it was close to her. Too close. She had taken a step further when she should have taken a step back, and it almost struck her.
They both froze when that happened. That's never – he's never – he would never (hurt her) –
I didn't mean it. He says quickly, rushing over to her to make sure she was okay. But by that time, her knees had gone weak and she was sobbing so hard she didn't hear him.
He had made sure to steer her clear from the sharp glass on the floor. Probably would have carried her to safety like some Prince Charming too, if he wasn't so conflicted. So he just settles with grasping her colds hands lightly and guiding her to the couch to sit, and she settles with him.
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.
.
It was a jam jar. He had thrown a jam jar right against the wall and made it smash into a billion pieces like her heart; raw and red and bleeding like –
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I didn't mean it. He had said, also raw and exposed and true.
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But he didn't apologise.
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Elsa? A voice calls her name, pulling her out of her daydream.
She blinks – once, then twice – and doesn't see red hair or green eyes, but dark locks and warm brown irises. That's right, she was out and at a café.
Yes? Elsa asks back, smiling with false happiness.
I just asked you a question. He says, still smiling, cheeks dimpling.
Ah. Elsa answers back, looking down into her coffee cup. I – I don't know. She says after a beat, without consideration. I'm sorry. She adds, because she always feels that way; always apologetic, always at fault, always sorry. Sorrysorrysorry –
His smile remains on his face. It's alright. He tells her, understandingly. It's alright to not know.
She should have said 'thanks', should have looked him in the eyes and smiled at him because he deserves it but doesn't. Instead, she just looks deeper into her coffee cup and swallows down the urge to cry like a little girl.
Elsa thinks this person, this man before her, her blind date, might actually be Prince Charming. The Prince Charming. But she does not dare to wish. No, wishing on stars is …
She tells herself to do the opposite.
Her friends had told her this Prince Charming has a type; blonde and blue eyed, polite and kind. Elsa makes a mental note to introduce him to her friend, Cinderella, who is blonder and has blue eyes that shine like starlight.
Elsa tells herself anyone is a better than her.
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{ Sorry, my heart, I'll lock you down so nobody would hurt you again,
I won't let you out, trust me }
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– he says, I'm no good for you.
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Elsa doesn't remember how they broke up – which, really, should be absurd, because she loves him so and doesn't think she could ever forget any part of him. But, she forgets. Oh, does she forget this part of him. The angry part, the side that's completely and utterly done with her.
She doesn't blame him. Though, Elsa really should. It's always easier to blame someone else, but she mostly blames herself. Anna had told her not to, had said to her dear sister, He wasn't that great anyway, he was just some stuck-up jerk!
But, Elsa still thinks the fault is all hers. She must have been – she doesn't know – wrong? Maybe too clingy. Too sad. Too cold. Too neurotic. Too everything. Everything except perfect, a good girl.
He's heartless! Anna had said further (but he wasn't, not really). What do you even like about him, Elsa?
Elsa concentrates, thinking, I don't know. She had said, shrugging. Everything.
You can't like everything about him!
But she does. She does. She likes how she can be simple with him. She likes how open she is around him, how she's not closed off or wounded up or tight. She can let her hair down when he's near and dear to her heart. She can wear big shapeless hoodies instead of stuffy dresses and can actually hold his hand when it's not occupied with his favourite fruit.
(apples. red apples. red like his hair)
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They were out together and it was last Christmas, not exactly a white winter, but he had bought her a cookie and she remembers taking a bite out of it. It was gingerbread and she had made a face.
Here. Elsa says, passing it to him.
You don't like it? Hans had asked, smoothly taking the sweet thing from her glove covered-hands.
I don't think I like the taste of ginger. She thinks was her response.
He blinks his green eyes for a moment then cheekily says, But you like the taste of me.
Shut up! She remembers snapping while she flushed pink because he was being stupid and mischievous and, and – he tastes sweet, okay? From eating all those apples all the damn time, and – and she does like him but she's not going to tell him that because – You're such a prick! She tells him.
Do you want me to get you something else? He asks, distracting her.
Something else? She considers. Like what?
What about – He utters, pausing for dramatic effect while his green eyes sweep across the shopping windows, – a cactus?
A cactus? She blanched back, frowning.
You know? Hans teases. His smirk now rivalling against her frown.
No, I don't. She responses dryly.
You know, He continues, since you like pricks so much?
Elsa had punched him on the arm after that. It hurt (not as much as a heart break) but Hans had gloated at the victory because Elsa had actually reached out and touched him without any fear.
She should have known she would be a fool for him after that.
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{ I'm sorry, my heart, can you please stop hating him?
He doesn't even deserve being hated, I'm sorry }
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I'm no good for you – She tells herself she doesn't remember who had said it now. Maybe it had been him who had said it to her? Or maybe she had been the one to say it to him? Either way, it works both ways.
I'm no good. I'm just a fool.
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{ I'm really sorry, my heart }
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end
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Notes 2: Fun fact, I decided to write Cinderella's Prince Charming in because of Rodgers and Hammerstein's Cinderella musicalwhere Santino Fontana plays Cinderella's prince, Prince Topher. I almost weeped during Do I Love You Because You're Beautiful? So my little add in is basically a comparison between the versions Hans can be. Or, Hans's voice actor, at the very least.
Notes 3: If I don't die after my presentation due tomorrow, I'll update white knight syndrome :)
– 27 November 2018