Begin again in the night. Where can we go?
Let's sway again tonight,
Your arm on my shoulder,
Your cheek against mine.
Where can we go?
When will we find that we know...?
When will we find that we know
To let go...?
Begin, begin again tonight...
The silence lingers inside the room, though the atmosphere does it no favors. They look briefly at each other, look away, to the same place: the couch to their right; then to the chairs further apart by the fireplace, for the couch feels somehow too intimate. "Should we sit down?" Elsa asks.
"Ladies first." Vergil says for the second time in as many days. He hadn't intended to be polite, but nevertheless he waits until she's seated in the chair closest to her before taking his seat opposite her.
"Thank you for coming." she says shyly.
"I didn't have much of a choice." he replies, his usual dry sneer uncomfortably evident.
"I suppose not..." she admits. Suddenly he realizes he's come to the crossroads. The choice he's been running from his whole life must be made, and it must be made now. He can return to the life he led before, or he can change. He can go back to seeking power no matter the cost, or he could try it Dante's way once more.
His insides knot. His hands clench. Is this what people mean when they talk about butterflies in their stomach? Is this what it would be like to be her? She looks so delicate, like the ice she commands. How does she stand it? How does she stand him? The nights they've spent together should have been a warning sign, the argument they'd had to be the first of many. He wants to ask, but for the first time in his life he's afraid to be right.
She's looking at him. Staring. Watching. Judging. She knows what he's done, what he tried to do. The humans must have told stories about it. His brother couldn't keep a secret if his life depended on it, and the woman... He doesn't know anything about her. He doesn't know anything about Elsa either, come to think of it. What secrets does she keep; what unspoken tragedies dog her every footstep?
Elsa worries. It's what she does. She worries about her kingdom, she worries about her sister, she worries about her children, Olaf and the one she left behind, and she can't help it, she worries about her powers too, what a sudden shock could make her do to everything that she has left to love. Vergil won't stay. She sees it in his eyes. He's sick of her, sick of her worrying, of her desperate need to be loved. Why can't she be happy? She thought she'd known what happiness felt like: when she let her hair down on the mountain, when against all hope her sister came back for her, because she loved her. Why can't that be enough? But that all changed when she kissed him. She just wants to feel the way she felt when he brought his face close to hers and whispered that he loved her. The thrill down her spine, the wonder, the way she fit so perfectly in his arms and he in hers...
"I'm sorry." Vergil says, and it's over. She can feel her heart begin to break. She's cold now, so cold, just like Anna before she died. She wishes she could die. She hopes that she'll be able to let go and die like she's always wanted when he walks out that door. There probably wouldn't be anything left in the morning, just a little puddle where she turned into ice and disappeared. They'd have to bury an empty coffin, like they did when her mother and father died. Can I see them? Just one more time? All this tumbles wildly through her mind before he continues. "I'm sorry that I hurt you. I'm sorry that I...forced myself on you."
"No! No you didn't!" Elsa says frantically. "It was nice; it-it felt good! I didn't know what you were thinking, that's all. And it scared me."
"I'm sorry." Vergil says heavily.
"No! No you don't have to be sorry!" she says desperately. "I'm the one who should be sorry! I shouldn't have made you go; I shouldn't have tried to...push you away, like I push everyone away!" She folds in on herself, clutching at her arms, unable to look at him. He should go. It's what she deserves. The cold is starting to spread...
He never knows what to do with her, least of all when she's so distraught. He leaves his seat and crouches beside her. She's curled up into a ball now, snuggling reflexively into the back of the chair. Snow is billowing all around them now; the fire starts to dim. He puts a hand on her shoulder and she sniffs quietly and it hurts. He can't even speak. He can't even say her damn name, so he climbs into the chair beside her. He wraps himself around her. He can feel her crying silently, can feel the way she's shaking, and it hurts.
He wishes she would just turn around and cry to him instead of the empty room, which is thick with the sudden snow. He doesn't know how she'd manage it with the chair so small, but he wishes she would try. He wishes he could make it all go away. He wishes he was strong enough to take away all this pain, but he can't even talk. All he can do is hold her, hold her close; not close enough, but close. Elsa sniffs again, and his heart breaks like hers. "Why are you doing this?" she whimpers.
"Because." She turns to face him, somehow. "Because I love you." And there's nothing else he can say.
They snuggle, if you can call it snuggling. They...rest together, their bodies entwined in a complicated tangle they're not sure if they'll be able to figure out. They suppose they could move to the couch, but that would mean leaving the safety of this moment that they have, so they don't. After a while, Elsa struggles upright and climbs into his lap, resting her head and her hand on his chest. Vergil still doesn't know what to do, so he just keeps holding her. He could spend the rest of his life holding her, and in some ways he will. But she'll hold him back, because turnabout is fair play.
Elsa looks up at him. "I love you." she whispers. In response, he kisses her. She kisses him back, her hand drifting up to rest against his jaw and cheek. They both taste like tears, for their tears are mingling together and falling lovingly to the floor, where the snow has already begun to melt. She sighs into his lips and makes him shiver.
The door opens for a moment. Anna pokes her head in and her face lights up when she sees the two of them in the chair. She opens her mouth to cheer them on when Kristoff taps her on the shoulder and jerks a thumb over his shoulder. She opens her mouth again to argue with him, but he grabs her gently but firmly by the wrist and drags her out the door. Neither Elsa nor Vergil notice this, nor do they notice when the door closes a little more loudly than it opened. They don't notice the faint sounds of an argument in the halls, sounds that grow fainter by the second, until right at the end they're cut off entirely when their owners decide to put their efforts to better use. They've come to like arguing, or at least what invariably comes after.
Vergil breaks the kiss. "My neck is killing me." he says apologetically.
"Mine is too." Elsa says with a smile. "What should we do now?" she asks.
"Hmm..." He scratches his head thoughtfully like his brother does. "What about a dance?"
"I don't dance." she says regretfully.
"Neither do I." he says.
"I mean, I don't know how to dance."
"Neither do I." he says again. She laughs. "Shall we?" She nods eagerly and together they find their feet.
"What kind of dance?" Elsa asks as they walk hand-in-hand to an open corner of the room.
"Whatever comes to mind." he says.
"I don't know any dances." she reminds him.
"Just do what comes naturally." he tells her.
"Like this?" she asks, holding out her arms uncomfortably.
"No," he says quietly. He puts an arm across her shoulder. She does the same. He holds her close. She does the same. "Like this."
And they dance.