[2/5]
The next time he sees her room it's at Elsa's request.
Summer at the palace is what Anna calls 'busy season' – it's the time for visiting, for diplomacy, for Elsa to dance with courtiers and meet their children and draw up the trade agreements that will keep Arendelle and other countries cozy in the winter. It's busy season for an ice miner too; Kristoff spends long nights hauling ice out of the highest mountain lakes, or busy days in the market, trading and selling what he's stored over the winter.
It doesn't leave much time for socializing – not the kind he prefers at least, just him and Anna and a picnic basket and a meadow somewhere – but if you love a princess, sometimes you do what you have to do, and sometimes that means agreeing to escort her to a state function on your evening off.
He's never been to a ball before. The castle has buzzed with it for weeks, including Anna, who insisted on having his clothes starched (in the end he'd been fitted for a formal suit anyway, poked with pins and measured again and again by a man with bored eyes and a scowl); he caught Elsa practicing a two-step in the library, wincing at her imaginary partner; and every staff member he's spoken to lately has had nothing else to talk about (down to the stable boy even, someone Kristoff considers a like-mind).
Anna knows what to expect and is excited enough for both of them. She can look forward to the music and dancing, the tables of pastries and little pickled vegetables, the fancy clothes and staying up way too late. Kristoff has no frame of reference for fancy parties or extravagance in general, but his pants are too stiff and he smells strongly of detergent. If it's a portent of what balls are like he's not going to get his hopes up, despite what she says.
Still, Anna's eyes had glowed and she'd clapped her hands in delight when he modeled this new getup for her the day before. He wouldn't dare of disappoint her, so the crunchy clothes are on, and the ball is happening.
He's walking up the main staircase, weaving through the waltz of people carrying plates and linens and baskets of flowers, tugging at his newly acquired cravat, adjusting the woven band around his hips when he almost bowls over Elsa on her way down.
"Kristoff! Good, oh, I'm glad a ran into you – " Elsa is slightly out of breath, and her cheeks are pinker than usual. Like himself, she's in her formal clothes – though in her case it's a navy silk gown, with an edging of fine tissue lace that Kristoff suspects is her own design, crafted in ice and frost. When she's flustered, the air around her chills perceptively; tonight, standing next to her is like standing in a cloud.
"Can you go check on Anna? We're late, I'm supposed to be shaking hands with people now, but I couldn't wait for her any longer okaythankyou I've got to go." She takes a deep breath, pats his arm and turns back down the stairs (the flow of people, Kristoff notices, parts unconsciously for her – always reverent).
By the time he reaches the fourth landing he's alone, and wheezing, the cravat unceremoniously yanked off and stuffed in his pocket, jacket unbuttoned and hanging open so he can get a full breath. Though there is a continual low hum of people and music wafting up from below, it's much quieter here. His new boots squeak on the wooden floor.
He raises his hand to knock, but before he can, there's a scuffling huffing sound, an audible thump.
"Anna?"
"Kristoff? Is that you?" There's another thump.
"Yes?" He ventures, hand on the knob. "Can I come in?"
"Please. It's unlocked."
His hand turns, and the door opens, swinging silently on well-oiled hinges.
He was right; the room is pink – very pink – floral wallpaper, patterned rugs, an enormous bed (unmade) with a tall canopy and layered with discarded clothing. At first he doesn't think it looks like her kind room at all – Anna is girly, but she isn't prissy, and this room is flowers and dolls and lace on everything. Then he sees her: against the opposite wall is a wooden vanity with a large mirror, and Anna is standing in front of it, trying to see her reflection while turning in tight little circles, reaching for something on her back.
Okay then, yes. It's hers.
She catches sight of him in the reflection and stops, bent over backwards, fingers grasping in the air and grins at him upside down.
He'll never stop loving her, no, not ever, this weird and clumsy girl in her pink room, but it's not enough to keep him from laughing at her sometimes, chasing ribbon strings like a puppy pursuing its own tail.
Anna rights herself and blushes, and he covers his mouth, rolls his lips under his teeth to keep them still, and clears his throat.
"I think I need some help," she says flatly, after a beat. Kristoff chuckles, and covers the distance between them in two strides.
She turns her back to him and he can see the problem. Bending at the waist, he squints at the mess of ribbon and dress and lacey things – it's women's clothing, a mystery, but it doesn't look right. "What did you manage here? You're one big knot – " Anna shrugs, silk rustling.
"Oh, well, you know. I think I laced my dress into my corset. I can't get it undone. I mean, I'd just leave it – Elsa's mad at me for making her late – but I think she'd be more cross if I came downstairs with my underwear showing."
His eyebrows shoot up – which she can't see, thankfully – but the mountaineer is already taking over, mentally breaking down the tangle of green and white ribbons, eyelets and stays.
"May I?" He asks, laying a hand on her back. Her shoulders are exposed, and so is a length of her spine, pale and smooth, curving up her neck and down into her bustle. He'd like to linger – would like to push the little shoulder pieces off and see if she's like this all the way around, all peaches and cream, would like to count her freckles – but this is business, there is a ball waiting. Anna hums and nods (and where his palm is on her back he can feel the muscles move), so he begins to pick apart the knot, expertly running strands of ribbon across each other until the pieces fall free and open like wings.
"Ah, that's much better," she exclaims, wiggling her arms and stretching. "I couldn't even get my hands over my head to pull the thing off, which is silly, I've been dressing myself for years." Anna turns to face him, laughing at herself, then, standing on her tiptoes, hooks her arms around his neck.
"Thank you," she smiles. She's warm and wearing something sweet smelling, and without the strict whalebone and laces holding her tightly together, she's all Anna: curving, flexible, potential energy.
Kristoff dips his head to meet hers, kisses her nose then her mouth, lingering just a little on the mental picture of her bare back, holding the kiss a fraction more than a chaste 'thank you for helping me Kristoff' kiss might require. It's an indulgence to daydream about her this way (especially when they have places to go – how long have they been here?), but Anna responds by pressing herself into him, skating her tongue against his lips, and his hands are running down the open length of her waist, skimming over skin.
They're comfortable with this now – not so shy, more practiced – but it's exciting, a little forbidden, this is her bedroom.
It's the sound of footsteps that stop them, and though they pass by Anna's door without slowing (a maid, Anna mouths at him, gently extracting his hand from where is has come to rest inside her bodice, against her waist) the ball is still happening downstairs and they both know they'll need to hurry.
Anna laces herself up without incident and bounces out the room – pausing at the door to wink him, so he melts a little – thoughts clouded by her, this crazy beautiful girl.
Kristoff takes one extra breath to readjust himself and his shirt before following her, jacket still unbuttoned and cravat gone but he doesn't care, if this is a ball, whatever, he'll go to balls.