Author's Note: For those of you who have read my other stories, I experimented with a completely different writing style here than my usual one, so it might throw you a bit. Just letting you know so you have some pre-warning going into this.

Rated T for language.

Quick Disclaimer: You're going to want to be sitting down for this. Are you sitting? Okay, good. Now, this may surprise you, but... I do not own Kingdom Hearts or Frozen. BOOM! ALRIGHT, ENJOY THE STORY, KIDDOS.

~*~ NOTICE ME ~*~

He is not a creep.

That's what Axel keeps telling himself anyway. It has become his mantra. A chant that cycles over and over again in his head. Once as he slams off his alarm that goes off an hour earlier than his ass actually needs to be up out of bed. Another seven times as he goes through his morning routines, getting dressed, tying his black and red checkered scarf around his neck to fend off the cold. Thirteen more times as he makes the long, slow trek through this godforsaken snow to the local park. Then thrice more as he comes to a stop at the rickety old fence that creaks as he uses it to prop himself up by his elbows, his eyes scanning the stupid little frozen lake that now stretches out before him.

Then he waits.

And hopes.

And continues to tell himself that he's not a creep for waiting and hoping.

The minutes tick by, and nothing happens. He's disappointed. But still he waits. And still those words play on loop through his thoughts. Time passes and his disappointment grows. Finally, just as he is about to throw in the towel and leave, it happens.

She appears.

His breath still hitches at the sight of her. His heart still gives a little lurch, reminding him that, yes, he does in fact have one. It's good. Because it's easy to forget sometimes.

Her silver blades whisper along the ice as she glides out onto the lake, her cyan and alabaster striped scarf dancing in her wake. Her hair, weaved into a long french braid, is such a fair shade of blonde it's nearly as white as the blankets of snow all around them. Her eyes are deep and prismatic and rival the blue of the frozen water beneath her feet, and truth be told, put it to complete shame. Her skin so pale and creamy, you'd almost miss the freckles that lightly dust across her nose.

Those god damn freckles will be the death of him.

Her eyes are distant. And sad. She is lost, miles… no, leagues away somewhere in that pretty little head of hers. She always is. He wonders where her mind goes when it steps out and leaves her body on autopilot. The body doesn't seem to mind. It takes to the ice as easily as it takes to breathing. It's second nature at this point, it seems.

She never notices him, though he must stand out against the stark white winter wonderland as brightly as Rudolph's red nose in a snowstorm. She probably thinks she's alone. She's too adrift in her own sea of thoughts to notice much of anything, least of all the likes of him.

But he sure as hell notices her.

He notices her when she comes here to build a snowman, usually with the help a redhead that wears her hair in pigtail braids. He thinks they're related. Sisters, perhaps. They have the same nose. They seem to enjoy each other's company well enough. The ginger shows it with her laughs, which are loud and frequent. She shows it with her smiles, timid and small though they may be. She never laughs. Or if she does, it is too soft for him to hear. What he wouldn't give to hear her laugh. He bets she has an adorable laugh. The kind that would warm the heart like hot cocoa.

He notices her when she comes here to walk her dog. The thing is a beast, all fluffy, milky white fur, nearly as big as she is and three times as wide. It's a wonder she has any control over it. His knowledge on breeds is slim, but he thinks it's a Tibetan Mastiff. Or a yeti. Or maybe both. Its name is Marshmallow. He knows this because that's what she calls out when the leviathan has strayed too far for her liking. To him, it is the most beautiful word in the English language, because it is the only word he has ever heard from her lips. She spoils the mutt. Gives it far more pats and cuddles and little kisses on the snout than the fleabag could ever possibly deserve. Would that he could switch places it. There are times when she is hugging it that he swears it locks eyes with him and a smug little doggy grin spreads across its muzzle.

"Man's best friend my ass," he grumbles, flipping the bird to the cheeky literal son of a bitch.

Then he feels pathetic because he is jealous of a god damn dog.

He notices her when she comes here to skate, which is most days, like today. She is beauty and grace personified on the ice. If you were to ask him, he'd say she was beauty and grace personified off it as well, but that is neither here nor there. One minute she is taking her time as she glides along the cool glassy surface, languid and at ease. The next, she's picking up speed and is a blur - a sylph darting across the ice. Her turns are sharp, her spins nimble. And when she leaps, it is no mere jump. She soars. She is one with one the wind and sky. He wonders if she's a professional figure skater, or if it's just a hobby. He wonders does it really matter?

He thinks maybe he notices her too much.

Not for the first time, he admits to himself that he may in fact be a creep.

He sighs, his breath steaming the frigid air as he hangs his head and looks down at his hands.

A lighter is cradled within his fingers. He doesn't remember digging it out of his pockets. His hands have minds of their own sometimes. His fingers restlessly toy with it, his thumb flicks the little wheel, the fire sparks to life for a few seconds before he lets it fizzle out. Then he does it again. And again. It's a tic he has developed. The repetition soothes him in times of anxiety.

This is one of those times.

It's all this ice. It unsettles him. Makes him cranky. You wouldn't blame him if you knew what happened to him. Him and ice go way back. They have a history. They are old acquaintances, but they are most certainly not old pals. Quite the contrary, in fact, the ice is his arch nemesis. Strong word to attribute to an inanimate object. But he feels it's an appropriate word, given that ice tried to murder him once. He's still got the scars, one under each eye.

He focuses on the tiny flame within his hands. Feels its feeble attempts to warm his skin. It helps, but it doesn't completely melt away the bad memories. No, that only happens when he looks up and once again settles his eyes on her.

He wonders if she's real. If anyone else can see her besides him. Maybe she's only a figment of his imagination. Maybe she's some mythical being come to taunt him. A ghost, perhaps. More specifically, a Yuki-onna. A Japanese winter spirit with skin like snow and ethereal beauty known to beguile its victims. Tempt them and lead them astray into a rimy, frigid grave. Were she to finally notice him, turn her cool gaze his way and crook a finger, would he follow? Would he go willingly and risk death's icy embrace?

Yes.

Hell yes.

With another heavy sigh, he pushes himself off the fence, shoves his hands into his pockets and turns to leave. He doesn't want to, but he's already late enough for work as it is. He tells himself he won't be back here tomorrow.

But then, that's what he told himself the day before. And the day before that. And all the days before that.

Maybe it'll be true this time.

He snorts.

Yeah right. And ducks will perform magic tricks and mice will be kings.

He's not fooling anyone. Not even himself.

He has come to a decision.

The winter spirit is going to notice him.

And how, one might wonder, is he going to bring such a wonderous, desirable miracle to pass? Simple, really. He is going to skate. Surely, his dexterity and prowess on the ice will impress the divine creature and garner her favor. His plan is flawless. Perfection. It cannot fail.

All he needs to do is learn how to skate.

It will be easy. He has seen drooling, bubbleheaded toddlers do it. How hard can it be?

He has enlisted the aid of a friend. No, friend isn't the right word. More like a work associate. His name is Vexen. Vexen likes winter. He enjoys the chill in the air. The grey skies. The land drained of vitality and deep in slumber. He finds the season's cruel, bitter indifference to life fascinating. Yes, winter is his favorite time of year, mildly morbid though his reasons may be. By consequence, Vexen knows how to skate, despite finding such frivolity tiresome. And he has agreed to teach Axel. The why is up for debate, but Axel suspects he sees it as an experiment. After all, Vexen is a scientist. Experiments are what he does.

Axel stands on the ice now, his feet in rented skates that are a ragged brown from use and age. His blades are unsteady beneath him, shifting to and fro by fractions. He does his best to listen to Vexen when he speaks; pay attention when he demonstrates how to move. But it is hard to focus, what with the ice gleaming so sinisterly all around him. He knows his old nemesis plots and schemes. He must remain ever vigilant.

He scowls down at the ice. His frosty reflection scowls back. Vexen scowls at them both. Axel doesn't notice however. He is too busy scowling. The scientist clears his throat and Axel blinks. He realizes he hasn't heard a single word for the past several minutes. "Ready for a trial run?" Vexen asks, arms crossed.

No, he is not.

"Yup," he smirks. Then attempts to take a step.

His back hits the ice hard.

Vexen frowns. His eyes dissect. His brain analyzes. He instructs him on what he did wrong. Then he says, "Again." Axel shakily regains his footing, then does as he is told. This time, he face plants.

At least now he is moving forward. He calls that progress. From the face Vexen is making, he doesn't agree.

More frowns. More dissecting. More analyzing. More instructing. "Again." Axel stands, only to slip and fall onto his butt. Rinse, repeat. "Again." Once more, he rises. Once more, he falls. But this time, he catches himself on Vexen, who stumbles but manages to keep them both upright.

People are staring. Gawking, almost, as they skate past the pair. But smiling too. Axel suspects they think the two of them make a cute couple. The idea doesn't bother him. Because there is nothing to be bothered by.

Vexen, on the other hand…

His left eye twitches, his nostrils flare, his lip curls. The idea does bother him. Because Vexen is a small, closed off man with a small, closed off mind. He probably voted for Trump.

Axel doesn't like Vexen. Not really. He idly wonders what would happen if, hypothetically, Vexen were to disappear. Would anyone hypothetically miss him? Hypothetically, he doesn't really think so. But then, hypothetically, who would be left to teach him to skate?

Vexen is safe. For now. Hypothetically speaking, of course.

He is safe, but that does not mean that Axel cannot have some fun at his expense. He loudly calls him "babe" and "boo" and "sugar lips." He even gets away with smacking his ass once. He knows he shouldn't do it. He risks losing his teacher. But seeing that vein in Vexen's forehead about ready to burst? Worth it.

Glaring, Vexen starts rattling off the names of figure skating maneuvers. Axel is not quite sure how a recitation of a glossary of terms that are all but alien to his ears is supposed to help him become a better skater. He suspects he is being punished for his impudence. Swizzle, twizzle, edge jump. Salchow, chocktow, flip jump. Single toe loop, double lutz, quad. On and on. His eyes glaze over. He wonders if this mind-numbing list will ever end. At the term triple axel however, he snerks. Vexen narrows his eyes and inquires as to what's so funny. He doesn't give him an answer however and merely shakes his head.

He highly doubts the scientist wants to know that he has a move in the bedroom that he's oh so cleverly christened with the same name.

So.

Skating is harder than it looks. Go figure.

He's been at it for weeks now. Feels like months. Years. May as well be, for all the good it would do him. He can neither twizzle nor swizzle. He cannot even make it three feet without his skates slipping out from under him and he is once again kissing ice. He hasn't seen Vexen in days. The scientist has declared him unteachable and has washed his hands of him. Given him up for a lost cause. A failed experiment.

Screw him. Who needs him anyway? Axel will master this stupid little pastime on his own. He will. He has to.

Otherwise, how will she notice him?

Today, there are more signs than usual posted at the edge of the frozen lake. He doesn't bother to read them. He doesn't have the time. Precious daylight's burning and he needs to make ice skating his bitch already. One final loop, one final tug of his laces. Then he stands and makes his way out onto the ice.

Within seconds, his blades betray him and he pancakes across the chilly surface. His body aches in protest. He's fallen so many times by now that his body is a tapestry of black and blue. Bruised knee. Bruised hip. Bruised elbow. Even his bruises have bruises. About the only thing left he hasn't bruised is his ego. It helps that there is no one around to witness his humiliation. He is all alone on the ice today. Which is strange. The place is usually packed by now. But he is not one to look a gift horse in the mouth.

So he picks himself up, dusts the clinging frost from his pants, and he tries again.

And again.

And yet again.

Maybe he should have given up a long time ago. But he doesn't have it in him. The word quit is not in his vocabulary. He is too determined. Too stubborn. Too bullheaded. So determined and stubborn and bullheaded is he that he does not hear that telltale cracking sound.

When he does finally hear it, he immediately goes as still as a statue.

But he knows it is already too late.

He sees them. Tiny fissures in the ice that click and snap as they slowly spread, spiraling outward from beneath his skates. As if an invisible spider is spinning its web around him. He watches like the helpless prey he is. It's all he can do. That, and think. He thinks maybe he should have paid more attention to those signs posted at the edge of the lake. That's the only thought he has time for. That, plus two little words that flash across his mind.

Not again.

Then the ice breaks and he plummets into the frigid watery depths.

Like an eager lover, the freezing cold envelops him in a crushing embrace. It greedily tugs at his clothes, dragging him down. It gets overly familiar and intimate, entering his mouth, his nose, his lungs. It feels like liquid nitrogen fills his breast and surges through his veins.

He can't breathe. Blind and mindless terror seizes his heart. He tries to fight and kick his way back to the surface, but his limbs are already heavy, his chest tight. His vision blurs and begins to darken. His body swiftly grows clumsy and useless, and all too soon becomes altogether unresponsive. Against his will, his body falls limp, refusing to obey him any longer. Then, ever so slowly, he begins to sink.

So this is it, his dazed and sluggish brain thinks.

This is how he dies.

At the mercy of his old nemesis. It almost seems fitting, really. Poetic, even. He'd chuckle, if he had any breath left in him to do so. Instead, his leaden eyelids drift shut as his consciousness starts to slip away bit by tiny bit.

Suddenly something wraps around his all but numb fingers. If he didn't know any better, he'd almost believe it to be the hand of another. But he does know better. It is nothing more than a hallucination from a mind now delusional from a lack of oxygen. It has to be. He silently bids the phantasm away, to leave him alone so he can experience his final moments with what little peace and dignity he has left. But the apparition is obstinate and ignores his wishes. The hold tightens, something encircles his chest, and the water moves around him. Or maybe he's the one moving through the water. He doesn't really know. At this point, he doesn't really care.

Everything goes black.

He comes to a minute later. Or maybe it's hours. Hard to say. He coughs and splutters. His chest feels like an inferno. But it's better than feeling nothing. The amount of energy he has left in his body would hardly fill a thimble - a very small one at that - and it takes every last drop of it for him to crack even just one eye open.

When he does, all he can see is her.

She hovers over him, her eyes wide, her mouth moving. She is trying to tell him something, but no sound seems to be coming out. He wouldn't have thought it possible, but she's even more beautiful than he remembers. Or maybe that's just the hypoxia talking. She gives up her attempts to communicate and as her lips settle into a frown and her brow wrinkles, he wonders if there is anything she does that isn't pure loveliness. Even now, there seems to be a glow about her. A celestial radiance that is almost blinding.

It is then that he realizes he's been mistaken this entire time. She is no mere winter spirit. Fuck no. She is Valkyr. Chooser of the fallen in battle. For he sure as hell has fought a battle and he sure as hell lost. He sees now. Her presence this entire time has been heralding his imminent demise. She appears before him now to guide his wayward soul to the bloodsoaked gates of Valhalla.

She is holding a phone in one hand. Huh. It would seem Valhalla is keeping up with the times. She looks skyward as snow begins to fall thickly around her, then holds up the phone, waving it about. He finally shuts his eye and makes a weak sound that is half snort, half cough.

It appears that even the fabled shieldmaidens of Odin are not immune to shitty mobile signal, he muses.

Then darkness claims him once more.

Valhalla is warm.

Almost unbearably so, even for him. And he likes the heat, so that says something.

Axel jerks awake with a grunt. His body is pain personified. He is so exhausted, he feels like he could hibernate for the winter. Ignoring the way his muscles complain, he tries to move, but finds he can't. The heat weighs him down too much.

If this is the afterlife, it blows some serious chunks.

Perhaps he is fortunate enough to find himself still in the land of the living. But then, he has to wonder where exactly in it he is.

His eyes lazily take in his surroundings. He is inside now, alone in an immense room. The oaken walls are decked in holly and other seasonal trimmings. Snow pelts against the frosted glass of his only window to the outside world where a storm rages on. A large fire crackles and dances before him in a grand stonework hearth. He lies atop a giant, supple couch that all but swallows him whole. There are many, far too many blankets piled atop him, with a bulky fluffy white one on top.

A crease starts to form between his eyebrows. Something… is off. It takes him a second to realize it's the fact that beneath all the layers of warm covers, there is not a stitch of clothing on him.

He is completely and one hundred percent nude.

He knows he probably should be nervous. It's a sensible reaction to waking up in a stranger's home in nothing but your birthday suit. But then, he's never really been the most sensible person. In any case, he's already come up with a plausible explanation. He did almost drown in icy waters, after all. And if television has taught him anything, it's that you strip a human popsicle out of their damp, freezing clothes and warm them up by pressing naked bodies against them for heat.

Thinking of his Valkyrie, he feels around beneath the comforters.

He is alone.

Sadly.

But then, if he is truly all by his lonesome under here, he has to wonder why the covers are moving when he is not the one moving them. Has to ponder over that soft breathing of another that he hears. Has to puzzle over feeling a heartbeat that his not his own.

Without warning, the fluffy white blanket licks him from from chin to eyebrow with a warm, leathery tongue.

Which is unexpected, to say the least.

He begins to have doubts. He has an inkling - nay, a hunch that the blanket might not actually be a blanket. When it starts to snuffle his cheek with its large wet nose and thump a bushy tail against his feet, Axel forms a theory that the creature may in fact be canine in nature.

He stares up into the ex-blanket's fuzzy face and squints. Yup. Fleabag-status confirmed.

Not only that. He thinks he recognizes the mutt.

"Marshmallow," a soft melodious voice says gently, even as the very same word is forming on the tip of his own tongue. "Down."

The fluff monster obeys, hopping down to the floor as Axel's gaze flicks to the source of the command. His breath hitches. His heart gives a familiar little lurch. That snowy braided hair. Those icy blue eyes. And those freckles… those god damn freckles.

It's her.

He scrambles to sit up. He is weakened, so it takes a few attempts, but he finally succeeds. Then he recalls his state of dress - or rather, lack thereof. Face heating, he hastily clutches the blankets to himself. Then he tries to speak.

And he croaks.

Literally.

It would seem his brush with ice-cold watery death has stolen his voice from him.

She shakes her head, holding a finger up to her lips. For the first time he spots a mug cradled in the palms of her delicate hands. It steams as she offers it to him and explains that it'll help. He takes it and she gives a small smile. He can't help but return it with one of his own, somewhat sheepish though it may be.

So this is it.

This is how she notices him.

It may not be exactly how he pictured it. Half-dead, naked, and with a frog in his throat.

But hey.

At least she's finally noticed him.

Author's Note: MERRY BELATED CHRISTMAS GUYS!

Oh my god, you have NO IDEA how hard this was to write! Seriously, this lil wanker fought me. Every. Single. God Damn. Step of the way. I normally don't do present tense, so that might have been part of the struggle. But not a big part. Really, it was just a completely different style of writing than I'm used to. I'm used to just being light and trying (and, let's face it, failing) to be funny, and this was heavier and more serious and almost kind of like writing a poem, but not really? If that makes sense? ANYWAY I'M JUST SO GLAD IT'S FINALLY DONE! Jeeze, this lil shit took twice as long to write as my other one-shot, but my other one-shot is over twice as long in word count. SO THAT SHOULD TELL YOU SOMETHING.

Okay, end rant. Now a few quick notes to clear up some things that may not have been totally clear:

If you see someone drowning in a frozen lake, DO NOT EVER try to rescue them yourself unless you ACTUALLY know what you're doing, like you've received training and whatnot. Modern Elsa is still queen of all things ice, so she would have known what she was doing, which is why she could safely rescue our poor Axel xD Even then, she probably would have left it to a professional if she could have called 911, but as hinted at by her waving her phone around, she wasn't getting any phone signal to reach them.

Also, near-drown victims should be taken to a hospital, not your home. However, as hinted at by the snow pelting the window when he woke up, a blizzard hit - so with her unable to call an ambulance and unable to drive him there herself due to roads being blocked by snow, the next best option was to get him somewhere warm, which closest place was her home.

Finally, you may be wondering how petite lil Elsa was able to pull tall, lanky, unconscious, dead weight Axel out of the water. I sort of have an image in my head of how that happened, but I'm not entirely sure it would work, so I don't want to share in case the idea is totally silly xD Let's just say it involved hooking Marshmallow up to a complicated network of ropes and pulleys and- just kidding, it's not THAT ridiculous. But thank goodness for an excuse to have Axel pass out so I didn't have to explain it! I'll just leave that part up to your guys' imaginations.

I hoped you liked this stupid little story (can you tell how so done I am with it? Never again. lol). If you're new to my little crack ship and would like more, check out my profile, AND check out my tiny community Fire and Ice and Everything Nice! Go to the Kingdom Hearts communities, sort by creation date, it'll be the first one at the top! :D

Thank you one and all for reading, hoped you liked it, please please kindly leave feedback and let me know what you think! I'd really appreciate it since this was such a struggle to write and it being my first time trying to write in this style, it would be nice to hear how I did and if there are any critiques for improvement. Thank you, and happy holidays!