2. Equal

Goodbye to the kisses I gave until yesterday
Goodbye, dear pain in my heart
But that's OK, I'm somehow still living today
Things like loneliness or past or rumors
Desires or relatives or habits
Starting tomorrow, they'll stop mattering
"People will understand your feelings someday if you believe..."
Don't joke with me, you don't really believe that, do you?

'Nowbody knows' by Shikao Suga

Both Kristoff and Elsa knew telling Anna was possibly going to be the hardest part of the whole matter.

Scratch 'Possibly', it WAS the hardest part, hands down.

But in the end she ended up accepting there was nothing else they could have done. With Hans beaten to pulp, starved, weak and feverish and with possibly nowhere else to go, the only decent thing to do was exactly what they did.

That is, take him to the castle until he got better and the three of them figured out what they were going to do with him.

It was the fifth time that week, Hans thought, wrapping himself on the quilts because he couldn't stop shivering. The fifth time he'd had a fever that week and he still couldn't bring himself to care.

But something almost –key word being almost- did spark enough his curiosity to make him care and this was how private this captivity was being kept. He could hear the guard outside his door sneeze or snore or cough or whistle from time to time, but he had never seen his face. Hell, even the Ice Harvester (Kristian? Krusty?) hadn't set a foot into the room since then. Hans was kind of grateful that Anna hadn't either, though.

And then there was Elsa, whose face was the only one he'd seen since awakening inside that room (And why was he in a room and not a cell?) and was likely going to be the last face he ever saw, if his lack of recovery –not only that, he seemed to be getting worse by the day- went on. He vaguely remembered she'd said something about an infection; well, it was to be expected, what with the careless treatment of the merchants towards their goods. And it explained why he often woke up to her changing his bandages, looking at the gashes and bruises and burns on his skin, specially the skin of his back and sides, with pursed lips and a pessimistic countenance. She didn't seem to hold much hope of his recovery either, but what really puzzled Hans was how affected she seemed. Sure, he knew she was incredibly idealist, incredibly kind for someone with terrible power in more than one aspect, but he still couldn't grasp the fact that she seemed saddened by the fact that this man who would have cut her head without a second thought was dying.

As he slid into the edge between sleep and wakefulness, he mentally listed her visits, his sightings of her between fevers and sleep and vigil: Elsa gingerly washing his body with a sponge under the misty, pale light of morning. Elsa feeding him spoonfuls of hot soup. Elsa covering him with cold, wet cloths when the fever was so high that he all but felt fire sprouting from his wounds. Elsa pouring him water and helping him drink because his hands hadn't quite recovered the ability to function after the time they spent tied to his back. The glisten of her dress when she moved across the room. The clean, fresh smell of her skin when she approached him. The silvery hue of her hair, like the back of the hills on winter nights.

He hated her. He hated that she made herself the only contact with reality he'd have until he was finally dead and over with. He hated that he made him depend on her and only her. He hated how helpless he felt whenever she wasn't there to hand him over things or soothe his pain with medicines and ointments or just move at all.

But even so, he had become so accustomed to seeing her that even in her dreams she seemed to sneak in, but that was kind of a relief because otherwise he got fever-induced nightmares.

Yes, he remembered there was this one time when he was having a particularly horrible nightmare and then the dream changed, as dreams are known to do, and without warning he was back in the room and she was staring down at him, sitting by his bedside and then she'd cradled his head on her lap and sang to him, her cool hands refreshing his boiling head. And the voice he dreamt for her was beautiful and soothing, and he slid into yet another dream, this time a good one.

And with the memory of that voice emerging from within his haze, he finally fell asleep.

But when he wakes up he does with a hoarse wail and it's because the pain is overwhelming and oh, how he regrets waking up (Or is he even awake? Because he's had nightmares that feel incredibly similar to this) He writhes on the bed, all but tearing off the wet towels over his skin in frustration, and spins his head around, only to catch a glimpse of Elsa's incredibly worried face. She looks like she might be sick and this somehow rubs him in a bad way. Has she ever seen a man die? Has she even faced mortal illness' incredibly ugly face? Her expression says she hasn't; oh, how easy it is to preach mercy and human decency and true love when one hasn't glanced at the utter madness and horror of human condition. So he sits up and tears off some bandages too and his nails scratch the wounds open and only then she finds the strength to go to him and try to stop his hands from doing any more damage. Blood seeps from one of his wounds and she stains her hands as she tries to place the bandages back and the sight of red over her ice gown makes him think of what he would have done to her and it makes him even wilder.

"I'm going to die" he hoarsely groans between pained wails, still squirming, and just as he utters it, it dawns on him that it's true, dream or not, he will die.

What does it matter?

"Hans, calm down" Elsa tries, her voice strained with that disgusting pity she holds for him, pushing him down into the bed to no avail.

"You and your whole kingdom will celebrate once I'm gone" he keeps spitting out, as if vomiting a poison that consumes his insides "You and your sister and that Ice Harvester what's-his-name and my father and brothers. All of you, happy to see me rot in a ditch"

"That is not true…!" she half-pleads, seeming genuinely mortified by his words.

"Oh, isn't it?!" he sneers grabbing her by the wrist and pulling her to him until she's so close he can see the light freckles in her nose "So you mean to tell me you'd care if I died? That anyone at all would?"

She doesn't reply, but there is a slight, almost imperceptible movement in her features, a light twitch of her lids as if she were squinting to find a shape in something unidentifiable.

"You can't, can you?" he releases her "Of course you can't. Why would they? Why would YOU?"

It's a legitimate question, because he's remembering how worried she seemed for the past days whenever she realized he wasn't getting better.

But he breaks into a fit of coughing that stops him from continuing and she quaveringly reaches for the water jug only to freeze the liquid solid upon contact with the recipient. Her hand retrieves and she cradles it, as if burnt, lips pursing with displeasure, but he contemplates this during his fight for breath. She obviously didn't mean to do it but she can't help it because she's altered. This brings the memory of what these powers are capable of and it dawns on him that this girl could be the monster to end them all, because if she can be pretty dangerous without intending to, heaven knows what would happen should she ever actually intend to.

And yet, Elsa has a sister and friends who'd miss her should anything happen to her.

But if Elsa has the potential for being a monster, Hans not only has it, he USES it.

And that's the reason why no one will cry for him once he dies.

He's finally stopped squirming, much to Elsa's visible relief.

"Why would anyone care…?" he whispers. His throat feels incredibly sore, and his whole body is trembling and he feels as weak as a child as he lets Elsa lay him down, her cold hands soothing against his feverish skin. The words stick to his throat until he finally manages to choke them out in a sob.

"…Why was I even born?" he breathes out, and all of his rage evaporates and he's just a guy crying because he feels incredibly sorry for himself despite how pathetic that is and because despite everything he doesn't want to die yet. Elsa is beyond astonished. He covers his face with his forearms and turns away from her to avoid seeing the surprise turn to pity and cries his heart out and when he's finished he feels so exhausted that he can't keep his eyes open.

But he feels a cold, small hand trace his wet cheeks and comb back his hair and a soothing voice telling him he's not going to die.

"I won't let you die" she says in the edges of his sleep, her fingers drawing lines in his scalp.

And Hans believes her.

He got better. It became undeniable once he began eating something besides the strong-smelling soup he, surprisingly enough, came to love during his illness. He was thin, pale, covered in healing wounds and still pretty much aphonic after coughing his lungs out for the past weeks, but definitely recovering.

And on this day where he had the satisfaction of filling his stomach with something solid for the first time in forever, Hans ventured the question in the croak his voice had become.

"Why?"

Elsa was picking up the tray, readying to leave, but left that unattended to look at him warily. He hadn't spoken to her since that night, not a word, and she couldn't help but feeling grateful for that because there was only so much information about him she could process at a time.

"Pardon?" she inquired, cocking an eyebrow.

"Why wouldn't you let me die?" her expression became incredibly nervous at this and the thought that it was because she knew the real question under this one was the same he'd made back on that night crossed his mind.

'Why would anyone care?'

"Why do you want to know?" she said, trying to mask her uneasiness. He sneered slightly.

"Replying a question with another one it's a display of poor upbringing"

Come and gone, the uneasiness was replaced with a glare.

"Goodness, where are my manners?" she sharply retorts "Allow me to correct myself: That is none of your business"

He laughed, then cringed at the pain still residing in his ribs.

"Surely you'll agree that at the very least I deserve to know whether I'm being healed to be put to death later" she pinned him an incredibly scandalized look before replying coldly.

"However barbaric the Southern Isles' customs are, that is not how we do things in Arandelle"

"Really? Barbaric?"

"What would you call a Kingdom where even the Royal Family has deals with slave merchants?"

"So you did believe me!" Hans half-mocks, eyebrows raising.

"Well, I must. One of the guards of the caravan confirmed your story" however, her glance had gone from angry to puzzled. It was like she couldn't believe he'd said the truth and Hans supposed she had good reason. He had nothing to gain from lying in that case, but she didn't know that.

Her scrutinizing eyes on him were starting to feel heavy when she suddenly said something Hans was too distracted to understand.

"I'm sorry, what?" he said, feigning incredulity. She pursed her mouth as if having second thoughts on what she'd said, but repeated it nonetheless.

"I couldn't..." she averted her eyes for a second, but regained composture immediately "Let you die. I couldn't"

He chuckled humorlessly, thinking of the insulting emotion he'd often caught in her eyes since their encounter under the sales tent.

"Of course" he said, in a why-didn't-I-think-of-it-before tone "Pity, was it?"

"No" she snapped, catching him off-guard with her offended tone. Then she made a pause, breathed in, eyes closed, and continued, visibly reluctant "I couldn't let you die because of what you said when we found you. And..." she furrowed her brow "...and...because of what you said the other night"

This time he did laugh, despite the fact that it still hurt to do so. By the time he could stop, he was expecting her to be glaring knives at him but instead found a surprisingly –and unnerving- calm expression on her face that cut his laugh short.

"I'm sorry but, are you listening to yourself?" he wheezed "What did I ever do to deserve the indignity of being charged with the accusation of telling the truth?"

And yet his stomach was a knot, because she was still looking at him with a serenity he never thought he'd see in her.

"How do you know that wasn't just me trying to earn your sympathy?" he continued, smiling despite the panicked thoughts running rampage inside his head, lying the best he could because the sole thought of being reduced to sincerity (by her, no less!) was infuriating.

"No" she insisted gently and he realized something had shifted in her eyes "It was the truth"

"How do you know?!" he demanded, this time unable to feign the laughter. He was genuinely shocked. And scared. What was it exactly about the way she looked at him that had changed? He couldn't wrap his mind around it just yet.

She took another deep breath before answering.

"I know those words. They're not quite the same, but the essence remains. I have heard them before, lots of times, for a long time"

Hans didn't want to know. He was sure of it, and yet, when he realized pity was nowhere to be seen in her eyes anymore and there was something else on its place he couldn't just stay silent.

"You heard them from whom?" he breathlessly asked.

She made a hesitant pause, before running a hand through the platinum bangs on top of her head, disarranging them slightly. And then breathing deeply in defeat.

"…myself"

He then realized what was it that had installed in Elsa's eyes; she was looking at him like someone who once stood the same ground as him.

"It takes a liar to know another" she finished, with a pursed-lipped half-smile.

CC (a) the author here.

I'd like to thank everyone. The first chapter got an incredible amount of support. I certainly wasn't expecting it! I hope the second chapter doesn't fall short to the expectatives.

Yes, yes, I know the idea of Hans having a complete breakdown is strange, but things the way they were it was just a matter of time until he did.

Comments and critiques are welcome.