"Got the music in you baby,tell me why - you've been locked in here forever & you just can't say goodbye…"
The first time he finds the courage to speak to her, he's 11 and helping the staff (and his mother) during a royal birthday.
She's introduced as Princess Elsa of Arendelle, and he's not introduced at all – remaining nameless as he runs the smallest of errands for the palace workers (fetching wine, relaying information, doing the dishes).
Most of the guests don't pay him much heed, taking their drink or food, and carrying on with their conversation. He supposes that's how it ought to be – what else could be the mark of a good staffer, if not anonymity right?
But…
But then she looks right at him – right through him. Giving the young boy a knowing smile, and when he nearly trips over himself, she gives a quiet giggle – and he figures he's never been so in love with a sound before.
Just when he finally finds the courage to strike up a conversation, he sees her father approach her.
Her father… the King…
Fear takes hold of the young boy, and he quickly shuffles away – giving a pathetic lie when his mother asks him where he had been.
The next time he sees her, it's at her coronation.
She's introduced as (the newly coronated) Queen Elsa of Arendelle, while he remains the nameless waiter once more – blending into the crowd like some background character Fate would like nothing to do with.
But that's okay! It's alright! He doesn't mind being the furthest thing from attention… because truth be told, she deserved to be the centre of it tonight. Her hair is tied up in a tidy bun, an expensive tiara resting on top her head. Her gown is traditional, and clean, and nicely pressed – and all he can think is, How can I ever be good enough for her.
It's when the dance starts, that he finds his way to the edge of the ballroom, a plate of appetizers now holding dirty dishes. There is laughter and joy coming from the dance floor, and then there's her. He sees her standing idly by at the side, lips pursed in a smile that seems stipulated, eyes gleaming with something that isn't quite joy. He's not surprised. The conditions of the coronation are not joyous to begin with, and then to see friends and allies dance and laugh and sing? The thought of it makes him sick. So he saunters over to her, fuelled by equal parts cowardice and courage – hands still holding his plate of dirty dishes.
"G-Good evening, your Majesty!" he suddenly sparks up, drawing the words out to the point where it makes her to pay attention. He feels the eyes of her advisor burning the back of his skull, and as nervous as he gets, he (foolishly) stands his ground.
She gives a faint smile, eyes not concentrating on him – not really. But that's okay! He doesn't mind, God, he doesn't even notice. "Good evening.".
His own smile falters, and for a moment wonders if he should continue the conversation, eventually deciding against replying. Instead, he stands next to her, eyes losing the fire that should be there.
He doesn't mind that she won't talk to him, he doesn't mind (does, does so much) mind that she won't look his way… he's more than content just being quietly by her side.
"When you're all alone, I will reach for you… When you're feeling low, I will be there too…"
(well, at least almost)