Since I'm new to the Frozen fandom, I guess I'll introduce myself: Hello! Name's Snowmanmelting (Snow for short) and I have a master's degree in Making People Suffer.
Ergo, I write hurt/comfort! (and there's lots of it in this fandom, for some reason, and while it's that's my jam it really surprised me).
Nice to meet you! :)
Elsa never thought death could feel so unreal, so empty and so logical at the same time.
She had said goodbye on a Friday evening, wishing them good luck on their trip, and promising she'll spend a quiet weekend in the company of books and movies, as usual.
Then Saturday afternoon came and it was anything but normal. It was already too late, when Elsa realized it, as she was already running form one place to the other, answering calls like she knew what she was doing.
And on Thursday day night they were laying pale, motionless and dressed in their favorite clothes, looking like they were sleeping. But no chest was expanding or contracting, and the air was damp with tragedy and a thousand tears.
Elsa had cried, too, of course. How could she not? She cried for an hour straight, between hugs given by people she cared about and by distant relatives that might as well be strangers, but still felt the need to give more condolences than truly necessary. When she thought she wasn't, someone would let her know that tears were still streaming down her face, no matter the rhythm.
It wasn't like her, crying this much. She never allowed herself to.
Oh well, there's a first time for everything.
She supposed that also included taking the first break of the night. Sitting on one of the benches at the backyard of the funeral home, watching some little kids play around as silently as kids could. Not like she minded, seeing carelessness and innocence go around with weightless shoulders. It was nice and refreshing, like the night air in her lungs. It helped Elsa think, process what happened. She couldn't give herself such luxury during the day, trying to keep the head for the sake of the paperwork she offered to help with.
Now the clock was close to eleven, the moon was out and so were her feelings.
Her parents were dead.
Elsa knew it. She had stood in the middle of the room with a whirlwind of sensations, eyes on motionless figures while someone hugged her by the shoulders. She had cried, wept for an hour straight, of course. Why wouldn't she?
Why would she cry, though? Under what specific reason? That was the main problem. The motive, the real motive.
Grief that they wouldn't be around anymore? That she'll have to come home to an empty house on Monday and end up bawling in the middle of the living room? Yes, grief, that is. For the most part, she supposed. Because she loved them and they loved her back and always tried to do what they thought was best. That was how the phrasing usually went, at least. Both ways. You care. I care. We do the right thing. Everything is okay as it is. No complaints allowed.
No complaints, no, none at all. But then what about the anger? What about the pain and the anger and the guilt at the smallest of the sparks of joy at the idea of freedom and the confusion because this is not how closure should feel like at all , even if someone had to die in the process but it didn't really feel like it so how—
How was this closure? How this was anything but, at the same time?
The easy way, it was the easiest way out.
This wasn't the best time to analyze these things —it never was and it would never be—, she was sure even thinking about it was disrespectful. And Elsa shouldn't even feel anything remotely similar in its structure. Better to conceal it, if she did, pretend it wasn't real for the sake of the world around her.
If it's not there, then it's not real.
Was there any proof? No, there wasn't. So nothing is real, because Elsa always knew how to hide things well. She still did, and she would always know.
So she sat there, forehead against knees. Only Elsa and her little world where everything is fine and she is a beautiful, happy puppet living a beautiful, perfect life in her paper mache stage.
Bad habits die hard, especially when you're not putting any effort into killing them.
She stayed like that, for a while. The sound of low chatter and children being lectured for raising their voices to the point of screaming as they played tag. The soothing sound of weightless shoulders and its horrible problem of ending up with a stomachache from eating too many sweets. The sound of muffled footsteps approaching to bury Elsa in an even deeper world of shadows.
They took a seat in the same cautious way, no physical contact whatsoever. Just their presence. It was a strange but certain feeling, just like when you are alone at night and you know someone is right behind you. Turning around means facing the catastrophic reality of either an imaginative mind or suppressed memories.
Elsa turned her head anyway, spying with an eye out of morbid curiosity, as slow as her breathing would allow, to check whether it was her active imagination, a ghost, or someone real. And once Elsa was sure her eyesight was not deceiving her, she raised her head as fast as the air in her lungs allowed.
Anna was there, sitting next to her.
A second was long enough to recognize that face, no matter the years.
She had grown quite a bit since the last time Elsa saw her, like everyone does —especially younger siblings— after three years. Elsa probably did too, if Anna's teal eyes scanning her features were any indication. Although the change from twelve to fifteen was more drastic than from fifteen to eighteen.
However, this wasn't the time to talk about physical changes, or their daily lives, or to try to make up for lost time. It wasn't the moment to apologize for past attitudes or provide explanations. It was about in the here and now, for the immediate need to find comfort.
Elsa saw Anna's lips tremble, every time she tried to verbalize her feelings. But no words were necessary when Elsa was great at reading body language and her sister was excellent at carrying her sorrow on her face. So as soon as Elsa made the gesture of reaching out, Anna leaned down with the full force of body action and a fresh wave of tears.
She hugged her by the shoulders, head leaning against the top of Anna's copper hair, eyes closed tight.
She wished she could say something, anything at all.
I'm sorry, more than anything else. I'm so, so very sorry.
I'm sorry for your loss. I'm sorry for our loss.
She was sorry, and meant it all the honesty in the world. But at the same time, she wasn't, guilt for the smallest spark of joy on the hidden parts of her soul. The parts she had no proof of and, therefore, didn't exist. She had to be the perfect, sad little puppet with her sad little puppet life in her paper mache stage.
And here she was, bathed in pain, anguish, and guilt for non-existent feelings. Hugging her sister while she soaked Elsa's only black piece of clothing. A sister Elsa forced herself to push away and with whom she had had no contact in the last three years.
This was the best outcome of it all, despite what everyone might say.
Because their parents were dead.
It was better that way.
This was an idea I got from another story I wrote (kinda like making a fanfiction of your fanfiction but not quite), please beware I might add trigger warning tags later on.
Constructive criticism is welcome! I'm still testing the waters, here, and feeling so guilty I don't know a thing, lol.