[3/5]

He's waiting outside her door, alone on a Sunday afternoon, anger fading rapidly into a warm fuzz under his fingernails and a heavy feeling against his ribs.

He pacing feels ridiculous, so he settles for leaning against the opposite wall, heels digging into the carpet, arms crossed and staring at the door. Every now and then he pushes himself more upright (the rug keeps sliding under his feet), and aims a fresh glare at the painted rosettes and leaves.

Go knock on the door, the reasonable, rational part of his brain whispers. Tell her you're out here. Tell her you'd do anything to talk to her, and that you're sorry for being a big stupid idiot with a big stupid mouth. The voice is soothing, calming, and very, very annoying; he leans his head back against the wall with a hard thonk and it shuts up.

It was a bad move. Now he can just hear himself more clearly, and he winces.

"Just go – I don't know – go find someone else for people to gawk at!"

They'd stomped off in opposite directions, his shoulders tight under his ears, and Anna's braids swinging wildly behind her back. Kristoff had stopped and watched her go, proud and indignant for a whole five minutes before turning around, an unexpected dread roiling in his stomach as he ran back toward the castle gates.

Anna can really move when she wants to; even though his strides are twice the length of hers, he turns into the corridor with barely enough time to see her disappear into her room, and to hear the door snap shut with a crack.

Of course she'll open it (he knows she hates closed doors) but that doesn't make it easier to wait; he's getting creative imagining scenarios where she kicks him out of the country for losing his temper and yelling at the princess. Kristoff reaches up to pinch his nose and rub his temples – there's pressure growing behind his eyes: the beginning of a headache, and probably a big one.

He slumps into a sitting position and digs the heels of his palms against his eyebrows. The wood floor is warm from autumn sunshine, though the beam from the window has inched several feet to the left.

"I'm still a little mad at you," Anna's voice says.

Kristoff's eyes launch open and he wrenches himself up, tries to get his feet underneath him again, and almost loses his balance when the carpet slips. Anna is standing in her doorframe – he always forgets how silent that door is – and though her arms are firmly crossed, her face is gentle. He dusts himself off, and unsure of what to do with his hands, settles on stuffing them into his pockets.

"Not for being upset," she continues, "but for what you said. How you said it, I guess."

"I am sorry," he says, and he is, very much so, and he hopes she believes him.

"I know. So am I. I knew you were uncomfortable. But Kristoff, sometimes…look, I can't just stay inside all the time; been there, done that, kind of over it."

He sighs, and she frowns.

"I don't think a walk in town with you is asking a lot, you know."

"People stare." It falls out unexpectedly, he'd meant to say something else, something more along the lines of 'yes sweetheart, anything you want, anything.'

Anna blinks.

"That bothers you?" She asks slowly, and gives him a look. "It hasn't before."

"Because…it's rude." Kristoff wants to tell her how the feeling of that many eyes, scrutinizing and curious and judgmental makes his skin crawl. He'd like to be able to explain to her how keenly the difference between anonymity and notoriety stings, and how embarrassing that is, that it would bother him so. Maybe he will, someday, but Anna's posture has softened and she's looking at him like she understands, and he loves her enormously because today he doesn't have to.

"I can always get someone from Elsa's staff to take me. One of the handsome ones," she teases, poking a finger into his stomach.

"You don't need to go with someone else," he says, and pulling his hands from his pockets, wraps her into his chest. She doesn't protest. "Not some prissy castle boy, anyway. You'd be so bored."

From somewhere in the region of his armpit she snorts, and a smile pulls at the corner of his mouth.

"Better stick with you then," she says, hands wrapping around his waist as she takes a step backwards, drawing him into the room. Kristoff half-turns and kicks the door closed with his heel, very aware of the smell of her perfume, how her hands are gliding over his lower back.

"You want to do this now?" He asks between pressing kisses on her neck. "I mean, we were just fighting…" Anna laughs and gives his behind a squeeze that makes him jump; his skin feels electric.

"Kristoff."

Somehow she can turn his name into a full sentence, a whole conversation laden with implication. Anna's face is hot under his lips, skin flushed and plump, and he makes up his mind, covers her shoulders with his palms, and holding her firmly in front of him, fingers gripping a fraction tighter than usual into her dress, steers her toward the bed in the center of the room.

Before they reach it she brushes him off. He stops short, unsure if he's meant to continue, but Anna's hands are moving quick, tugging at his sash, pulling his shirt from his waistband.

He nudges one foot against hers and she steps back again, then once more, until they've reached the edge of her bed – it's absurdly large for such a small person, the frame raising it high off the floor. Anna's hands are still fisted in his shirt, so he lifts her the few inches necessary for her to sit on the mattress, and she hooks her feet behind his knees, holding his body close.

Everything about her is heat. There is a pulsing pounding in his ears, and he's not sure which of them it belongs to; his heart is shuddering in his chest, in his neck, between his legs.

Anna shoves her hands up into his shirt, drags her fingers up from his waist to his shoulder blades, and he gasps, shivers when the skin erupts in gooseflesh against the draw of her nails. He can feel her grin against his neck, and she repeats the motion backwards, fingers splayed, running through the curls of hair on his chest, down over his stomach, then across the width of his hips.

"Off," she says, a whisper, and he nods, straightens, pulls the tunic off with one hand and says a brief mental thank you to whoever made the thing, loose and oversized as it is.

He leans forward again, legs braced against the edge of the bed, their hips and chests colliding. Anna's legs are strong: when he runs one hand up her thigh she flexes unconsciously, grips his waist between her legs, moves herself along him.

There's a natural rhythm – a kind of instinct brought of desire – and they've found it in her rolling hips, in his pushing against her. Hands and mouths are everywhere – on his back and hips and wound in his hair, her waist, breasts, and one between her shoulder blades where he holds her upright.

Anna gasps whenever he moves, and it's going so well, going very, very well, her body pressed against his, warm and pliant and inviting, that Kristoff is suddenly acutely aware that, yes, he needs to stop – like, yesterday.

With effort, he pulls away from her, then rolls them both up over the bed so that they're laying side to side, a breathless tangle of petticoats and legs. Anna nuzzles into his shoulder, one hand drawing lazy circles on his bare chest. He takes a deep breath. Then another. Okay.

"Are we alright then?" He asks after a minute or two.

"Yeah." Her voice is muffled against his skin.

"You let me sit out there for hours."

Anna pushes her face away from him, quirks her eyebrows up in a question.

"What are you talking about? Kristoff, it was less than ten minutes. I saw you."

"Just felt like it I guess."

"Ah. Well, you know how to avoid that now anyway."

"What, go shopping with you?"

She stuffs a pillow in his face.