1. Floored

Elsa is wearing pants. Anna is floored.

Her sister never wears pants—like ever, except for like gym, but that's like— And then Elsa shuffles around their shared room, in nothing but those jeans—God, Anna can't remember whether Elsa is wearing anything underneath. Who is she kidding? Of course Elsa is wearing underwear. The girl probably couldn't even imagine why anybody wouldn't. But the possibility that she might not—that she could be going.

Anna is not going to survive this. She hasn't even been able to spare a glance for those sleek white shoulders and the tipped globes between them. She's too busy being bowled over by those freaking legs wrapped up in dark blue denim. What the heck is happening? Why?

Elsa's not exactly a daring fashionista. The last time Anna saw her sister wearing anything without at least a knee length skirt was back in elementary school when their parents were still dressing them. When did her conservatively-attired older sister even get jeans? Regardless, Elsa doesn't look like she's going to be taking them off any time soon as she fumbles with a belt, her hands clumsy from lack of practice.

Anna is still floored. Elsa huffs lightly in frustration.

They're not even regular jeans. They're the really tight ones. The really tight ones. The ones that get narrower and narrower until they're practically gripping the lower legs of whoever has decided to stuff themselves in. The ones that even Elsa, for all her slender grace, would have to squirm and wriggle and pull her way into. Anna's brain nearly explodes at that image. And then she imagines Elsa trying to get them on after gym when her legs are sweaty and she's got both her feet in, but she can't quite pull the damn things the rest of the way up—

Anna's brain does explode. Metaphorically speaking of course.

It's a good thing they don't have gym together.

"Anna?"

"Mm—wh-what?" Anna feels like a fish yanked out of water, flopping on bottom of a boat.

Elsa furrows her brow—when did she throw that T-shirt on?—and gestures to herself. "Does this look right?"

Elsa's T-shirt—when did she even get one?—is half-tucked into those blasphemous jeans, her hands dangle uselessly from her shoulders, and her belt, though finally buckled, has missed two loops.

Anna is slowly picking herself off the floor. When she finally manages it, she's probably going to shove Elsa up a wall. And onto her thigh. And against her—

No! No! Bad, bad Anna. Make words for big sister. Don't f—

No more inner dialogue for Anna.

Elsa just stands there, not even trying to pose, looking so deliciously nervous—ahem, adorably nerv—No! She's just nervous. Just nervous. Oh God.

"Oh God."

"What's wrong?" Elsa tugs self-consciously at the hem of her shirt, looking down at herself. Small white teeth appear on her bottom lip.

"Nothing's wrong." Anna rushes over from her place in the doorframe to reassure her sister. "Nothing's wrong. Just—Here."

She takes hold of Elsa's T-shirt and jerks it out of her waistband. For just a second she catches a glimpse of alabaster skin, and it makes her entire body tighten with desire. She breathes it out with a sigh, not looking up at Elsa's face. "You, uh, don't really need this belt with these, uh, jeans." She starts unbuckling Elsa's belt and then realizes how, um, intimate this act could be.

Anna jerks back like her hands are on fire. The top of her head clips Elsa in the mouth and the blond reels back with a muffled cry.

"Oh God!" Anna says again. This time with more alarm than vertigo. She lunges for her sister, grabbing her by the elbows and hauling her back on her feet. "Sorry! Sorry! So sorry. I mean— I didn't." She pulls away slightly, checking a flushed face for damage. A short line of red oozes from a cut on Elsa's lips. "Oh, geez. I'm a moron. Sorry." She almost reaches up with a thumb to brush it away. Almost. She's not that stupid.

"It's alright," Elsa says quietly.

Simultaneously and swiftly, the sisters step back from each other, and Anna can take all of Elsa in. Blue jeans and a white T-shirt. God, why is it so much worse than Elsa in dresses? Anna is used to Elsa in dresses. Anna can handle the rush of seeing skirts swish beneath that neat waist. Really the T-shirt and jeans should been less of… an issue. The T-shirt doesn't even have a fancy neckline, only a simple circular collar, and the squeeze of those jeans doesn't reveal the pale ankles and calves that have been stealing Anna's breath since mid-May. But now that they're harder to see, Anna can't help but search for those stupefying curves. She just can't look away for fear of missing that moment when the T-shirt clings, just a bit to Elsa's torso as the girl turns to look at herself in the mirror.

Floor. Anna is never leaving the floor.

"Any reason for the sudden change in style?" By some miracle of fate, Anna's voice sounds completely cheerful and lighthearted. It's not like she was inches from ripping apart the uncertain fabric of sisterhood that stood between them. Again. When it was going so well this year. Nope. Nothing that climactic at all.

"Um, not really." Elsa continues tugging at her T-shirt as though willing to go down further. "I guess. I wanted to see what it would look like." She pauses, fiddling with her belt. The whisper of leather sliding out of denim belt loops sends a shiver all the way to Anna's tailbone, and she flops down onto her bed to conceal the fact that the her legs are no longer functional. "Hans said I should dress more casually." Another pause. "We're going somewhere tomorrow night."

Don't say anything. Just let it go. Let it go. Don't you dare say anything that's not extremely polite and absolutely bogus.

"That's nice," Anna chokes out.

Good.

Polite. Check. Bogus. Double check.

Pleasant and light. Elsa brings up Hans. Anna pretends it's nice. Both can perpetuate the farce of being happy, normal sisters.

And it is nice. It's nice sharing a room with her sister, who doesn't run to the bathroom every time one of them needs to change clothes, who doesn't flinch if Anna's gaze lingers just a little too long, who asks her little sister to help her with her outfit. Anna gets to hug Elsa now, and sometimes her sister even hugs back—all the way and wholeheartedly, not the trembling clutches followed by hasty retreat that have become so common over the last few years. And if Hans makes Elsa feel safe enough to do that, then Anna will grit her teeth and take it. She will grit her teeth and be fucking grateful for it. And she won't slice and dice him every time he so much as mentions her sister's name.

Even if she thinks he's a pretentious prick.

Not fair. Not fair. So not fair. But Anna can't help it. The guy is flawless. He's sincere and courteous and well-liked by basically everyone. He's nice. He's great. He leaves Anna absolutely no hope.

"I don't know how I feel about this." Elsa stares at her reflection in the mirror with trepidation. "It doesn't look right."

"You should put on a different shirt with those jeans. The shirt's too—"

—too plain to go with those ridiculous jeans. On second thought: "Actually, maybe you should try a different pair of jeans." Hans doesn't need to see those. "Hang in there!"

Anna leaps up and into her closet on the other side of the room, digging through stacks of pants and shorts until she unearths a pair of baggy, faded jeans from the middle of the stack. In eighth grade, Anna thought it was pretty awesome, walking around with jeans that were so long they fell down over her shoes. It took all of two months before she realized she was tripping over herself even more than usual. She's grown a little since then, and Elsa is even taller, so these should probably work for her.

"Here!" she calls out, throwing the pants at Elsa. "Catch!" It's already too late. Anna's jeans land on top of Elsa's head, mussing up the perfectly woven braid that pulls Elsa's hair back tightly against her skull. "Sorry!" Enough with the apologies.

"A little warning would have been nice," Elsa remarks crabbily, turning to face her with the garment still covering half her face.

Anna bursts out laughing. Elegant Elsa in a white T-shirt and those mind-numbing jeans, and with another pair draped over her head. Elsa's grin makes an appearance too, teeth gleaming. Anna loves these moments. Elsa instinctively suppresses every little giggle, deeming them too frivolous or vapid or unguarded. So when she does finally let herself smile, the action simply splits her face open, and the joy gushes out.

"Just change," Anna demands bossily, collapsing on her mattress with the petulance of a prima donna. Good. She doesn't even sound eager to see her sister strip. She's just going to lie here and stare at the ceiling, so that Elsa can be comfortable. Yep. It's going so well. Life's great. Everything's wonderful.

"How do I look?"

Does she dare?

Oh, God. Elsa in those casual jeans and that casual shirt that just sometimes folds enough to give Anna the suggestion of her curves. Elsa with her bruised bottom lip and her hair escaping from that braid lying against her shoulder. Elsa waiting on her, waiting for Anna's opinion on whether she looks okay or not when obviously Elsa is always so much more than okay.

Anna is floored.


I had intended for the first piece of fanfiction I wrote for Frozen to be lighthearted—just Anna getting a nosebleed. Maybe a little fun. But nope. Angst. Plot. Sexual frustration. One day I will write something happy. Maybe I should continue this. That could be a really big hole I'm digging myself into.