"You wanted smooth sailing and I've always been a tsunami."
— 10 Word Story by C.R.


XI


Elsa's eyes travel hesitantly over the large wrists and firm shoulders, one, it seemed, that she hadn't seen for a while and feel something nasty and weird tugging at the strings of her heart when she realises that yes, god, this is really happening.

Her fingers twitch.

She makes the point on curling it into careful fists and shoves it under the table, pulling her gaze to the side just as she sees his emerald gaze dropping back to focus wholly on her. It's been too long, she thought absently, but didn't say. It feels like years.

I miss you.

And, she thinks, she really does.

It feels like a dream, really, now that she thinks it over: sitting here again, facing him. At least she has treated whatever happened between them like a dream. A shocking one in the beginning, when his lips had dipped down to capture hers unexpectedly, catching her truly off-guard, before it travels to a smoother plot where they kept spending time with each other and while there were challenges, Elsa can't help but to admit that there were moments in it which she could appreciate.

There were so many things she learnt, so many things he had make her feel and experience, that it's impossible for her to turn and deny the importance of those events. And then there's the downfall, the part where the dreams turns into something ugly, something horrible — a nightmare. And then he's gone. Just like that. For one month.

One whole month, where she's left to pick up the pieces of where he has pierced his claws in and scratched her raw; the sinister whispers of Aurora Aurora Aurora rings in her ear like a curse reminding its victim of their damning fate. And how she's managed to pick herself up is still a question in itself, but she has, everyday. She wakes up, she goes down to breakfast, she talks and smiles and work and day by day, it gets easier to convince herself that perhaps his bright green eyes that holds so much is just truly another dream gone wrong.

But then he comes strutting in, like this, confident, strong, arrogant, and — and Elsa doesn't know what to think.

He looks like a dream.

Maybe he is.

Maybe she's just hallucinating. Maybe if she reaches out right now and tries to touch him, he'll be gone, and she will find out that she's been talking to herself all along. But that's impossible, because then he moves, just one smooth move of long naked fingers wrapping around his cup and Elsa knows — oh, she knows — that even in her imagination, she's never possessed such ability to act so gracefully. Not a hitch to his steps, no hesitance, no nothing.

Hans has always been perfect. Perhaps not in the way he talks or, necessarily in the way he behaves even. But when he moves — there's nothing like it.

Other than his voice, Elsa would recognise his trained, well-mannered actions anywhere.

"I'm sorry," he says, after a while, exhaling out, and from the corner of her eyes, she watches his fingers twirl with the cup of hot tea he has; his eyes no longer fixated on her but on his thumb that was flicking at the edges of the cup helplessly. Short nails scrapping on the label that cannot be scratched, and if Elsa's not wrong, it can be said that he might've done it out of nervousness but — that's impossible. Hans of the Southern Isles does not get nervous. Just like Elsa of Arendelle is never graceful, elegant nor brave. She's just a little mouse. A little mouse to entertain; weak, helpless and another toy to be played with.

And suddenly Elsa is mad again; the heat rising up from her chest to her cheeks, painting her once pale expression with a shade of scarlet that might have been a match to the colour of his hair. Or her sister's — as she reminds herself of the exact reason they have had a downfall, and why there has been a separation between them. And, why is here? Why has he come back?

He said he'd wanted to explain himself. No, not explain — tell it from his side of the story. But what is there to tell? She'll just be hearing a version of the story that could either make the first version she hears like a fairytale, or he'd tell a version of the story where he'd be making excuses for his cruel actions towards Aurora. Either way, she'll leave him today. They'll part ways. And if she can help it, they won't ever have to speak to the other again.

His freckles stood out under the ray of afternoon sunlight falling on his face, and one flaming hair curling a little near his one eyebrow and Elsa's convinced herself that her stomach definitely did not squirm at such image.

He suddenly shifts and pulls something from out of his pants' pockets, seemingly giddy and yet, all at the same time, coolly professional and Elsa, out of curiosity, watched purposely, observing on what trick he'd be willing to pull on her next.

"I thought I…" He paused then, finally pulling out several small papers, which were decaying and curling by the edges, and pauses; his eyes look far-away, and Elsa stares at that, stares at this transfixed image of him, knowing it isn't always, or none at all, that she would catch him looking so… out of place? Out of time? Like he's stuck in a place where he can't stay but he's not quite ready to say his goodbye just yet. There is serenity in the sadness that he's dwelling on right now and honestly, it's taking her breath away.

It's also a bit concerning and Elsa's about to reach out, hesitant fingers are ready to curl around his thick wrist to pull him out his trance that's starting to scare her out when he blinks a few times, like he's just realised that he's not completely alone, and he shakes his head, clears his throat and moves his own thumb to fix the curled edges of the small rectangle papers.

And then: it's not papers, Elsa thought, realising.

It's pictures.

He smiles through his eyes, dejected and chap-fallen, but the air of dangerous, the classic rich bad boy still hasn't quite left his being and Elsa shivers. He pushes the photos on the table with a combined manner of sophisticated grace and careful authority; thumbing the pictures down right where she could reach out and take it if she wants to, "I thought you'd want to see it. It's… some of the collections of my childhood. It's not grand, I'd say, nor would I prefer to share it with anybody… but, uh…" He pauses again, swallowing, eyes flickering down while Elsa bravely picks on one picture, tracing her finger over the sepia-ed colour photography, a toddler with the same bright eyes looking back at her, sitting on the laps of, Elsa assumed, his carer.

Despite herself, she smiles.

"Elsa." His voice catches her attention again and she looks at him, saw his brows furrow, the corners of his mouth twitches. His eyes slants, treacherously, but handsome. Oh gosh, if he isn't handsome. "It's just you."

She looks at him, confused.

"I've never showed any of this to anyone. Aurora didn't even know about Bill or my father. Or, really, anything. She'd like to, I'm certain, but."

"H-Hans?" She finally voices out, her attempt weak and small, just like how she truly feels on the inside, and watches as his shoulders drop, his forehead falling to his folded arms on the table.

"It's you." He repeats silently. "It's always been you."

"I d-don't — I don't understand."

Green eyes are flicked sharply to meet hers then and Elsa gasps; something in her cannot believe how deadly one can manage to look and yet, there's a certain type of captivity that she's feeling herself falling in when his gaze meet hers, like it's always been, when one to think about it. With Hans, it's as though you face Death itself, and yet you still stay. Despite knowing that there will be danger, there will be extreme pain you'll have to endure. And while it's exhilarating, is it truly worth it?

Elsa's not very certain now.

Hans raises himself back up, takes a deep breath in and roughly combs his fingers down the side of his thick red hair. He's not looking at her, then, but he looks frustrated, she could see, as she sneakily still tries to go over the pictures that he's decided to share.

There is a picture of a woman — Hans' mother, Elsa recognises a second later — with a young boy by her side. They both don't look too happy, but at least the woman is attempting to smile. But it had been too fake, which made Elsa guiltily prefer the boy's serious face, frowning hard into the picture as though he wishes to imprint his sorrow till kingdom come.

And there's a picture of a man with the same woman — Hans' parents — before her eyes land on the picture of the man again, though this time while he's seated, around him are five young boys; all varying in ages, and the man is smiling, genuinely smiling, and sillily, Elsa can see a little of Hans in there. The sincerity. If Hans is ever sincere, that is.

When she looks up again, it takes her a little by surprise to find that he's been staring at her and Elsa gasps, tries to calm herself down and slowly put the pictures where it was again, all the while ignoring the way her heart is hammering under her chest. She forgets sometimes that he has this effect on her. It's completely disheartening.

"Whatever Eric told you, it is the truth. I am in no business to deny what happened. I was young, selfish, greedy and when I saw Aurora, I saw an opportunity. I wanted to be worthy, I wanted to be — more than I could ever hope for. The youngest CEO in my family. Think about it. The riot it'll cause between my brothers. Oh, how I would've proven them all wrong."

And Elsa suddenly feels small again, hearing this damned story once more, but it's her who has agreed that she'll listen, right? And listen, she will. He's right. She owes it to the good times they've had to hear his side of the tale, although he's not really listing anything from his points of view. In fact, he's just reconfirming what Eric has told her.

She wonders, momentarily, what is he up to.

"That's not—" Hans bows his head then, a little, in a way that might've even suggested he's shameful, and suddenly Elsa is struck by how wrong that image is. It makes Hans look more… humane, which is impossible, for someone who's acted like he's a God the whole time. "That's never been the case with you."

He chuckles darkly then, fingers fiddling with his cup again, and Elsa notices that his eyes are glancing over the pictures of his mother with the boy and suddenly Elsa recognises the frown. It's him. The unhappy boy was Hans. "I've never wanted to take over your business nor have I ever intended to marry you just with the intention of stealing your business from you. I mean, sure, the thought crossed my mind of course, I mean, why wouldn't it, but — no. Overtime, I realise that… that I can't go through with it."

"Why not?" She finds herself asking bravely and she would've been surprised, she thinks, if she isn't already too curious.

"Because I can't. Because the last time I did, my brothers threatened to send me to a psychiatric ward. Because it's you. Honestly, Elsa, I don't know."

Because it's you, it echoes.

Elsa stares at him.

Hans releases a breath of hot air afterwards, shifting again in his chair to make himself a bit more comfortable, and while frustrated, Elsa can't help to note how wondrous it is for him to just be like that and yet still manage to appear like he has the whole world ready to fight for him with an easy flick of his fingers. "With that said however, I won't say that I am not selfish. The reason I chose to 'help you' was … well, truthfully, I thought it would be fun. A splendid way to spend my times more purposely, I suppose. The addition that you're Arendelle's heiress helps, certainly. I mean, the entertainment it'll produce throughout the journey. But then…"

"B-but then?"

His eyes flicked over again, and their gaze met, though this time Elsa was determined to hold the contact until, surprisingly, it's Hans who looked away, looking smaller than Elsa has ever remembered her to be. "But then what, Hans?" She asks forcefully, wanting to know what happened. What changed. Did she became something worse than a toy that he started her out as? Or? Or maybe there was something else...

He looks irritated.

"I don't know, Elsa," he grits out, shutting his eyes close for that one moment — like he's disgusted with the fact himself. Disgusted that he has to admit it aloud. "I don't know what happened, but I like—" and then he pauses and something in Elsa freezes at the word, wondering what it is that he's going to say. "When I tell you of my brothers and my father and my mother — when I asked you to ask me something that's personal to me — and when you know it — I don't … it doesn't make me wanna scratch my eyes out."

And Elsa thinks again about his words as it begins to etch at the back of her skull, engraving itself like calligraphy on tombstones, about how it shatters and yet it has built so many things all at once. This is going to haunt her at nights, she thinks, keeps her up awake just like those years she's spent behind locked doors away, away from Anna. Maybe this is what he wants.

She doesn't know anymore.

Oh, she's just so confused. And afraid. This man has hurt her way too many times. With his words and actions. So many times. She doesn't know if she's willing to risk herself into getting hurt again. Not anymore. What if he's lying? What if these were all just acts? He may say he's not after … whatever it is that he's after (and she realises she can't even say it, can't even fathom the idea that she's just another ticket for his riches and goals, another Aurora), but what does she know? Can she trust him? Can she, truly?

And just as she realises that she can't breathe properly, she feels a warm hand circling around her knuckles and she looks up to find his steady gaze, "You're okay," he says, lowly, naturally, green eyes looking from her freckled face to her knuckles before she pulls her hand from his and she sees him wincing before he curls his fingers into a fist, like he's regretting his action to ever reach out.

"I'm not perfect, but the idea of you being aware of that?" He whispers harshly, maybe even just to himself, "It settles with me."

He shakes his head then, like he's erasing the mere existence of what just happened, and finally takes a big gulp of the hot tea. Either the high temperature of the drink doesn't effect him, or he's pretending that it isn't, when the cup is brought down, half of the content are gone and Elsa watches, too shocked to say anything and too scared to risk it.

She needs time to think.

She needs time—

"I don't expect forgiveness. But…" He stands up then, tugs on his suit and Elsa can see that he's swallowing hard, like everything about this meeting kills him. Or his ego. "But if you're willing to give it, I'll wait." And just like that, he turns and leaves. And Elsa can't help but to inwardly comment that even in his apology, it seems like he's ordering her around.

She doesn't know why that causes her to smile somehow.


End Note: Comes back 800 years too late with Starbucks. What's up, guys. I know, I knows. Bella, you're such a shitty writer. How dare you leave a fanfic unfinished. Well, to be honest with you guys, things happen, I guess. I got discouraged and I lost inspirations, and maybe even, I've outgrown Frozen. But I'm here now. Funny story cause I was terribly sick for the last week and it's only just recently, when I was lying down trying to beat my headache away that I decided to re-read some of my old story, and I decided to give this a re-read. And then I remembered: oh holy fuck, this is the only story in the history of my writing that I actually took the time to miraculously plan 'till the final dot, like legit I had this planned till the last chapter you guys, and yet here it is. Lied unfinished with that cursed Updated: Apr 29 2014. So I took it upon myself to re-watch Frozen, re-view ForsakenWitchery's Hans/Elsa videos that are absolutely amazing on Youtube and kinda slowly work my way to finish this story again.

With that said, please take heavy note that (1) If you haven't read nulla, which is an interlude between the previous chapter and this chapter from Hans' points of view, please do so. It tells heavily of what happened when Elsa didn't text Hans back and how exactly Hans coped with the fact that he fucked up. (2) I have made minor changes to this fanfiction like, for instance, instead of a one week, I've changed the separation time between Hans and Elsa after the Aurora shizz has blown up to one month. There's a lot of reason as to why I'm changing the time, but let's just summarise that the story will flow better this way. (3) I AM NOT THE SAME PERSON I AM OVER A YEAR AGO, since this fanfiction last updated. Therefore, my style of writing have also changed. Like, a lot. With that said, I try to still imitate the way that I used to write (because holy shit I was actually good omg cries) but no guarantees. I don't wanna stress myself too much over this, you know? Then I'll get discouraged again and my effort to try and actually finish this will burn itself into the air.

And then you guys have to wait, for like, what — another whole year for this fanfiction to be updated? Honestly, I'm a cruel person, but I'm not that cruel. Hm, what more? Oh yes! I don't know if there's any Hans/Elsa fans left out there, so I really have no idea if I'd even get any response when this chapter goes out. But, I mean, if you're still around and still like, reading this. Then, thank you. And yes, I am very sorry for being very crappy but … yeah, if you're reading this, I appreciate you okay. Merry Christmas, you guys. And if you feel like giving me something, a review would be kinda awesome? I mean.

Winks,
BELLA.

For future references: 2,879 words.