A friend got married today.

He was the happiest twit I'd ever seen in a while, arm laced over a blonde, strong willed female he'd been friends with since they were children. The boy-turned-man looked good in a black tux, his once messy brown hair gelled in a sleek fashion, and while standing next to the woman with a gown made of sparkling sequins against a sea of white silk, he had never looked more calm yet treacherously nervous.

Hiccup was no stuttering fool ever since he reached 20, but right now, as the minister declared them husband and wife while the storm of camera flashes almost blinded the couples' eyes, the man had turned tongue-tied with unspeakable happiness over finally marrying someone he adored since before he was a pubescent with raging hormones. He found love he longed for since he was a child and the completion he longed for since the day he was born.

He found a new home.

"Congratulations man." I tell him. It was genuine. It was heartfelt. I was happy for the guy.

"Thanks." he replied. "Now better hurry up and get married so we're even!"

Laughter from the crowd reminds me that there were people apart from close friends and relatives in weddings that (annoyingly) want to take part in the main attraction's shenanigans (and popularity). Naturally, there'd be lots since he was the son of the city's mayor, and soon enough, Hickory Haddock III would be joining the Vikings political party list for next year's elections. He'd been hesitant about it for sometime, frequently doubting his leadership skills. It was a good thing Astrid knocked some sense into that kid before he decided to throw in the towel and completely disappoint the father who constantly believed in him.

The dying sounds of snickers pull me back into the reality that I was being made fun off. Scratching my head, I let out an awkward chuckle as I am reminded that even non-believers of the contented brooder could see me.

Meaning I wasn't invisible. Meaning society expects me to be part of them: to be part of the norm, to long for what many long for in the (sort-of) ripe age of twenty seven.

Such deep thoughts for such a mundane situation.

"When the bride throws the bouqet, make sure the best man gets it!"

Crowds broke into loud guwaffs (yet again) while I shook my head in well-mannered disbelief. I saw familiar faces from the Vikings club (not to be confused with the party list), dressed in formal wear in place of their Norwegian warrior cosplay get-up (which is quite funny, considering that they are one of the best lawmakers, politicians, policemen, and military officials in all of Berk.) Hiccup had strange childhood friends, but they were all a fun group (and were either married or engaged with their significant others, thus the constant teasing of the groom's best friend's still miserably single status.)

"I thought he should get the garter?" Hiccup quipped innoccently.

Giggling women dressed in what looked like... like gown versions of cake pastries were giving me that weird sultry look that could give men nightmares if they weren't careful.

"Ha, ha, very funny." I deadpanned, choosing to finish my drink instead as I made a bee-line for the bar near the reception's patio.

"Hey come on Jack. We were only kidding," I heard Hiccup call after me, still recovering from laughter. "Don't you want a girl waiting for you when you come home?"

I didn't look back, choosing instead to raise my hand and wave in a lazy fashion as I made myself comfortable on one of the bar stools. But what the groom last said kind of stuck in my head just like that annoying Lego song I keep hearing on some children's FM radio.

Home...

I always thought I grasped the concept of a home since the time of my early teens. Raised by a single mother and growing up with a younger sister, I lived my life mostly content being the pseudo-father. I loved the memory of the man who was supposed to be there for us, but life isn't often very kind because it can leave you when you least expect it. Father died when we were young. Grief was a bitter pill to swallow, so we chose instead, with difficulty, to honor his memory and live on.

And I had lived on. Worked and played the way a content man did. Lived for ambition in the springtime of my youth. Fought my way to success in the early stages of adulthood. Lived my dreams in my mid twenties as a writer. Provided for my mom and sister with the necessary things and occassionally the luxuries of life. I've lived on. Life was already good. I had no need for anymore, and anymore was already considered an excessive blessing.

Friends jeered at me for that thought, for the dogma of contentedness often had its consequences. Because I had been so content living with what I already had, I no longer desired for more.

Why did I need to find a girl when I was already happy with what I had?

Well... In all honesty, that last sentence was a lie. I do desire for more... But I make a good show at pretending not to.

That was why I am getting teased for being twenty seven and still single.

Hiccup's wedding was an unconscious testament to my longing for more. Now that one of my best friends is married, I'm reminded of the 'more' that is yet to happen in my life. But time runs out, and losing an important figure in your life can leave you anxious for the sand that seeps down the lower half of the hourglass. Time can be as precious and as cruel as the finest gold. It leaves you wanting and left with nothing. Just a sparkle that catches the attention of the desperate eye, nursed by calloused hands in tender care, but no more than something to adorn ones' neck...

And jewelries are often meaningless. They're just there to make you look pretty. Just like time... It's only there to prove that you exist.

Hiccup no longer existed. Hiccup now lived.

As the jealous friend, I also wanted to live.

And here I am brooding a week after the events of a friend's wedding, thinking of what to write but couldn't. Leaning over my writing desk, white dyed bangs shielding my hair from the wood and dust, I fell into another state of intense brooding, thinking my way through the labyrinth of my thoughts. This is my curse. Contentment often brings you to question the sanity of your sanity.

The simplest things trigger my thinking mechanism. I wanted to experience what it was like being there near the altar, with a woman I love by my side. But there are so many things I do not grasp, one of them is the difference of romantic love from the contented love I felt from my family.

Home. Contentment. Ambition. Life. Love. Universal words. Complicated meanings.

It all changed when I met you.

The office: a place of beginnings, of stories encoded over a laptop placed immaculately over a black writing desk. Such a room was often associated with the typical routine activities of the editing board. I was the one who did the final checks, approved the research, wrote about stuff on people like you. If not the imaginary worlds and fantasies of non-existent heroes of some alternate universe, it's often the real life accounts of the upperclassmen whom I admittedly couldn't care less about. The curse of the idealist was that nothing about reality ever satisfies. I wanted to write about perfection, of adventure, of the rare kind of love I saw during Hiccup's wedding.

But it was quite impossible really. I didn't have any idea on what to write about something I've never experienced. They say imagination does wonders for people who are inexperienced, but if you didn't want to write about vomit and wanted to let the readers actually feel and learn something from what you wrote, then imagination is talking crap. Maybe some people are able to pull it off, but I'm more of a firsthand experience kind of writer.

I tried to look for inspiration instead. I listened to the cheesy Elton John song playing through the speakers placed on the corner of the wall. I stared at the abstract painting hanging to the left that had some sort of girl in a blue dress doing an oblation pose on a porch made of ice. I looked through the spines of the books placed on the shelf to the right that had a few (seemingly) romance titles. Nothing.

Then I remembered Hiccup and Astrid's wedding and sighed. Perhaps that's the closest thing I could associate to the kind of love I was planning to write about.

And when you came through that glass door, that's when I was proven wrong.

"Your article about my sister was erroneous!"

You slapped the magazine opened to page 26 hard on my really cool desk.

I ignored the sound of my staff apologizing for being unable to stop you. I was just stunned that, for the very first time, a person found something I wrote as 'erroneous'. You were the first.

"Miss Arendelle." I acknowledged you with brow raised.

"You had it all wrong." you accused me with sharp eyes, arms crossed saucily over your ruffled purple blouse. "Anna didn't 'throw herself at Hans Westergard' at all! He manipulated her!" You slam your palms against the table. "In fact, you shouldn't be writing about this in the first place!"

"I'm a journalist." I said matter-of-factly, challenging you with deadpanned eyes. "My beat is national politics, and I've had the misfortune of writing something about a prime minister's 13th son having a scandalous relationship with a diva's younger sister."

You gritted your teeth, "First of all, I am a Broadway artist, not a diva. Second, my sister was the victim!"

"She believed in love at first sight." I replied off-handedly. "She made herself the victim."

"You don't even know half of what happened between them you misogynist pig!" your words were filled with venom that it stung me.

I rose an eyebrow, "Excuse me?"

"Don't act so surprised Mr. Frost." you said icily, planting your hands on your hips. "You have a notorious reputation with the country's most influential women."

"Meaning?" I drawled out slowly.

"Ugh, you've written stories that practically defamed women. Feminists are always holding riots because of you."

I waited for you to explain further.

You groaned impatiently, "You wrote that article about Rapunzel Corona getting pregnant before marriage."

"Which was true, and she did marry the man who impregnated her."

"You destroyed her reputation as a youth advocate before she even got married!" you hissed angrily, slamming the table again with your small (yet strangely powerful) hands.

"Meh, she seems happy with Fitzherbert now." I shrugged. "And became a motivational speaker for young moms."

"You publicized the issue about Ariel Watersbrook running away from her

father because of a guy!"

"Because she did." I pointed out. "And my photographer caught her in the act of canoodling with her boyfriend in a public place. It's an occupational crime not to make a story out of it." I sat up from my chair and looked at you through my bangs. I really didn't have the time to deal with you then, because I was both physically tired from my daily work routine and the mental effort that came with my occassional brooding. "Besides, just like the story with Rapunzel, Ariel's father still ended up giving her and Erik Hamilton his blessing. I don't really see how that makes me enemy number one against the feminists."

"But you managed to cause a mighty public uproar because of publishing those scandalous stories!" you reasoned out, and I understood that you were equally exasperated with me as I was with you. "And I don't want this to happen to my sister."

"Miss Arendelle," I interrupted you, "You and I both know the consequences of being a public figure, right? The Guardian Times doesn't publish anything that violates any privacy rights and has always been fair with our views." I pointed at the page of the magazine you threw at me to prove my point. "And if you read carefully in this column, I even got a statement from your sister admitting that she did throw herself at the minister's son."

"She didn't know what she was saying because she was emotional that time!" you practically roar. "Why are you being so difficult?"

"You basically storm into my office, was rude to my staff, and called me a mysognist pig to my face!" I barked, satisfied when my sudden anger caught you off guard. "And you ask why I was being difficult Miss Arendelle? I would have been more cooperative had you agreed to schedule an appointment with me under more civilized circumstances."

You blinked, pink lips opening and closing as if perplexed and unsure of what to say next. That vulnerable look on your face almost made me want to apologize for my yelling, but I had to stand my ground. I had pride to uphold as a journalist with integrity.

Plus, you gave me a mighty annoying headache.

"You better fix this!" you threatened me with narrowed eyes before turning your back and marching off towards the door in long strides until you were out of my sight.

You didn't even leave with an apology.

I slumped against my chair and let out a long exhale, closing my eyes as I reclined and stared at the ice-like chandelier suspended above me. Only then did it finally settle in that you, Elsa Arendelle, the most amazing Broadway actress who had just recently won a few notable international awards for her craft, had sponsored the making of two hospitals and an orphanage, had joined countless humanitarian missions across the globe, and was sister to movie actress Anna Arendelle, had just stepped into my office and threatened me.

And I was an Elsa Arendelle fan.

"You had a really long day Jack," I told myself in a humorless laugh. There goes my hopes of getting your autograph.

It took three days before I decided to write a follow up article on the issue concerning your sister and the Prime MInister's son, Hans Westergard. To be honest, I didn't want to look further into this particular issue since I wanted to invest more time in my first attempt at writing romance. But you did say that I had to make whatever it is right, and the only way I knew how to do that was to schedule another interview with Anna. I had to do this secretly of course.

So imagine my surprise when I met up with Anna in that French restaurant and found you sitting by her side with a glare meant especially for me. A masochistic side of me was actually flattered.

You were wearing an ink blue, sleeveless frock that made your shoulders look like a pair of sparkly pearls, and Anna was wearing something akin to a dark green, single sleeved dress that seemed to be the latest fashion trend that day. The freckles on your skin weren't as noticable on Anna's which looked adorable on her, and I noticed that the both of you had a thing for really complicated braids. Huh, sisters. The both of you were very beautiful women, and I felt like an extremely lucky guy to be graced with your presence.

I shook hands with your sister, offered to shake yours, then retracted my hand when you refused. I fought an amused smile as I took my seat across yours. We ordered food, made some small talk about menial stuff (well only Anna and I were talking. You were glaring daggers at me), and when all that was done, began the interview.

"Okay so, I asked you to make this appointment with me so that we could even out some stuff on th article we published in The Guardian Times, okay?" I clarified. "You have read the article, right?"

"Yeah," Anna replied in a forced chipper manner. "It did sound a little... weird when it came out. People are starting to look at me strangely now but I guess that's what it is with showbusiness." she shrugged. "People like putting their noses in celebrities' private lives. I've already gotten used to it."

You seemed offended by her statement as I heard you whisper, "What do you mean? It's his fault why your reputation's been ruined."

"No it isn't." Anna retorted firmly, her voice loud enough to turn a few curious heads in our direction. "Because Jack only wrote the truth about what happened. Yeah, it might have sounded like I was the girl who flung myself at some guy. But it was the truth. Jack didn't do anything wrong!"

"Why are you doing this Anna?!" You reprimanded her.

"Because I don't want people talking about how Hans tried to assault you and blame you for it!"

Anna stopped with a gasp, clamping a hand shut against her mouth as she looked at me with worry. With that you allowed a relived sigh to escape your lips as you followed her gaze at me, almost like you were pleading.

"You heard right, Mr. Frost." you said resignedly. "That was what really happened.

You began narrating about the ill-fated relationship between your sister and that (and I quote) "bastard with the side-burns"". Anna really did initiate a relationship with Hans, which the guy candidly accept. They seemed like the perfect couple within the span of six months, but it turned out Westergard was using Anna to get to you because of your international influence. Anna might have been popular nationwide, but your reputation would boost his chances of getting a wider publicity. He wanted you to become his trophy wife, and at the unfortunate moment Anna discovers how he tried to seduce you, attack you, and failed to claim you because of your little sister's feistiness and your killer spirit, he seethes with revenge. His comeback was to destroy your reputation, but Anna had done something to save you from that fate.

She destroyed her own reputation to save you. She came to me, asked for an interview, and the next day people dubbed the nation's darling of the crowd as a politician's tramp.

Harsh.

"Now I'm asking you to please set this right." you tell me civilly, a hidden plea in your crystal blue eyes. "That story wasn't the complete truth. I don't care about my reputation being ruined. Just please set this right with Anna."

"Elsa, no." Anna scolded you.

"No, Anna. This is the right thing to do."

"Hans would just twist the story and people would start talking about this for a long time." Anna reasoned out, almost slapping the table with her other hand, a trait she probably shared with you. "Let it stay the way it is. This issue will die down eventually. As long as the press doesn't talk about a flaw in his reputation, he wouldn't bother us anymore, okay?"

You and Anna had all but forgotten me, silently sipping what was left of my drink as I stared at what seemed like a comically childish fight between sisters. Only when I coughed to my hand did you notice I was still there, chuckling at your antics. The both of you were adorable.

"You guys are adorable," I said, being honest with my thoughts. "But I'm afraid that, as a journalist, I'm only allowed to publish the truth. It's part of our duty to journalistic ethics or I'm a douchebag member of mainstream media."

For the first time since we personally met, you offered me a genuine smile.

I smiled back, fighting a blush on my cheeks. "Sorry Anna."

"Thank you," you told me.

Anna meant to argue further with you, but her manager had already called her, asking her to go to some studio to shoot some movie. It all seemed like she had forgotten what we were all talking about as she rushed out of the restaurant on barefoot while she scooped up her heels into her hands("Do you have any idea what it's like to walk on those death stilletos?!). The restaurant's staff's eyes followed her trail for a few moments before quietly resuming their duties. That left only you and me, staring at each other awkwardly as the night grew darker than it already was. We were one of the few ones left inside the restaurant, who were mostly married or engaged couples on dates.

Awkward.

"Will she be fine on her own?" I asked you, breaking the silence.

"Kai is with her." you assured me. "He's the family escort. He'll be driving her there"

"Aah."

Silence.

"Well, I better be going as well." you said as you got up and took your purse, leaving a thick wad of bills on the table.

"No, please, the dinner was on me." I insisted, taking your hand and putting your money on your palm.

I thought I caught a blush on your cheeks. But I might as well have been imagining things.

"And, I'm sorry by the way," you said quickly. "I... I did act kind of brashly in your office, It was very unprofessional of me."

I waved you off with a well mannered snort, "Nah, I already forgave you for that. You were just being protective of your sister, which is very admirable by the way."

You shook your head modestly, "And you're not a mysoginist pig. I take it back. You really are a writer with integrity."

"A very flattering compliment coming from the wickedly talented Elsa Arendelle." I smirk, doing that charming smiley thing Snotlout (not his real name, just an insult me and Hiccup came up with) does with other girls.

I was hoping it didn't creep you out though, because the way Snotlout did it was creepy. But when you were batting your eyelashes bashfully and when an adorable pink blush dusted your cheeks, I knew I did something quite right.

Damn. You were really beautiful in person.

"Well, I'd like to have your agent's number in case I need to ask more questions on the issue at hand." I said formally, taking out my phone as I waited for you to hand me a busniess card of some sort or something. "I might hand over the story to one of my other writers though since I'll be covering another story on Corona's charter change this week."

"Ah yes of course," you fretted, as if you were snapped from some trance. I looked at you curiously when you took out your phone instead and showed me a contact number.

"That's mine." you said. "But if you're going to hand the story over to another writer, I'll just send you my agent's number instead."

I blinked. Did you just...

"Uhm, I... I would like to make amends with uh," you tucked a hair behind your ear, "With my behavior that day. Are you all right with dinner some other time?"

You were fidgeting. I guessed you were wondering if you'd worded your statement poorly, wondering if I was thinking that you were probably interested me when you aren't, wondering if I was probably interested in you or something, when you assume that I am not.

Or maybe I was just mirroring my thoughts on you with your invitation.

I smiled in the most casual way I could, "Dinner would be great."

You looked at me, returned the smile and nodded. When you said you were going, I insisted to drive you home. You refused at first, saying you'll just have one of your drivers pick you up. But I was one persistent guy, and I refused to leave a lady on her own when it was way past ten thirty in the evening.

Soon I found you in the passenger's seat of my car. It seemed like you belonged there, the fairness of your hair and skin lighting up the dark interior of the vehicle. I was content with the silence between us as a faint Mozart melody played on the radio.

"Do you enjoy being a journalist, Jack?" you asked me, breaking the silence.

"Hm?" I acknowledged you, keeping my eyes on the road. "Well, I enjoy being a writer. A journalist... hmmm it depends on what I'm writing about. But a job's a job. And I enjoy it most of the time."

I could feel you raising a brow in interest, "You write other stuff besides news and opinion articles?"

"I wrote a few novels under the pseudonym Jackson Overland." I told you, "But don't tell anyone."

"Wait, what..." you gasped. "You wrote Dancing with Death and Immersion?! "

"Yeah."

"Those are my favorite books!" you nearly squealed at my ear, making me chuckle lightly. "The characters in those books were really deep. And the stories were really clever, the way you expressed the complexity of Rowan fighting with himself while he tried to keep his brother and sister safe from the people trying to kill him and from himself in Dancing with Death. And I've never read a book that looked into the value of life and death in such an in depth way in a story better than Immersion!"

I scratched my head with one hand, slightly embarassed with your compliments. "I'm glad you liked them."

"I mean, the emotions, the characters, the happenings in those stories..." you went on. "Although they were slightly coupled with a slight spark of fantasy, they felt so real."

"Because they are." I admitted, becoming solemn as I reminisced the days when I wrote those books."

"They are what?"

"They're real." I said. "Dancing with Death is about me and my family, when my father died. Our family was in a lot of debt and I had to be the breadwinner of the family. My mother was sick for a time, and I had to work a lot while I was studying. I didn't have time for a social life, and sometimes missed out on a lot of stuff in school because I tended to fall asleep in class due to exhaustion. The people whom my parents borrowed money from weren't very nice people and even threatened us a couple of times. It was because of them that my dad worked so hard 'til he was sick to death. I fell into depression, but I never told my family about it. Writing was my therapeutic release."

You were silent, so I took this chance to continue.

"Immersion is about when I was skating with my sister at a pond one winter. I didn't check the ice so imagine when my sister was frozen with panic when the ice slowly cracked beneath her. I managed to save her, but I fell in... well, only half of my body did anyway, because my sister was smart enough to pull at me and let go at the right moment. Half my body was paralyzed with hypothermia but I eventually recovered."

I let out a sigh.

"For a time I hated the cold because of it... but then I started to love the season again because that moment in cold waters made me want to live everyday like it was my last. I was thinking, 'what if I die tommorow?', 'what if I won't ever have another chance to tell my family I love them?', 'what if I can't reach my dreams today?', 'what should I do to make this short life seem worth while?"

This was when I looked at you, only to find you staring back at me with glossy eyes. I gave you a brief smile before turning my sight back at the road. It felt really nice that I had someone other than Hiccup to confide this to. And from you nonetheless.

"I'm sorry." I heard you whisper.

I smiled, "Don't be. If those stuff didn't happen to me, I wouldn't have been able to write two of your favorite books."

The rest of the ride was filled with the comfortable kind of silence. It took at least an hour before we reached your posh looking house. The sight of the large black lacquered gate made something drop in my gut as it opened to let the car in. I didn't bother to look at the landscaping of the area the way I usually did when I was given access to celebrity property. All I felt was a little disappointment on knowing I couldn't spend time with you longer. I guess this would be the only chance I get to spend time alone with a woman until our 'someday' dinner.

I was about to get out of the car to open the door for you when you grabbed the hand that was resting on the steering wheel.

"Wait, Jack..."

I didn't notice it, but... I think you meant to kiss my cheek when you leaned from across the seat and accidently planted your lips on mine. I knew it was an accident because you were blushing profusely while cupping your mouth then sputtering emarassed apologies later.

"I, I'm sorry for that... I was... I"

But I silenced you when I yanked you back to myself, and kissed you again. When you didn't move, I was scared that maybe I probably did the wrong thing, that I should stop what I was doing and apologize.

It was until you eased into the kiss that I felt the most peaceful for the first time in... in like forever. Your lips were gentle and shy and sensual, and just when I felt an animalistic urge to deepen the kiss, you pulled away with a coy smile, cupping my face in your hands.

"I prefer taking things slow, Jack Frost." you whispered, not meaning to sound sultry. "But I enjoyed this little talk we had."

I smiled, taking one of your hands and planting a soft kis on your knuckles before I left the car to open the door for you. Leading you to yout door strangely made me feel like Hiccup as he waited for Astrid while she walked down the aisle. It triggered something inside of my chest. It was painful, it was exciting, it was both in between.

You turned to me as we reached the door to your house, giving me a serene smile before you tiptoed to kiss me lightly on my cheek.

"I look forward to our dinner this Friday at Collete's, Mr. Frost."

I smirked in understanding. "As do I, Ms. Arendelle."

The moment I was a good distance away from the house, silently brooding in my car as the evening lights passed by me, I was struck with inspiration. It hit me hard like an arrow piercing through my chest. It made me laugh like an idiot at the sheer cliche feel of it all. It made me insult the me who was content with what I had now, and it made me encourage the me who was secretly, and now explicitly wanting for more.

I suddenly realize that cliches are the proof of the human's yearning to romanticize the simple things. But apparently, you don't get a say on how love is supposed to happen in your life. Hiccup had no say whether Astrid should intrude into his window of existence or not. It's just that, she was designed to be part of his life whether he liked it or not.

When I met you, I think I finally understood a part of it. Of how the simple things such as these could get complicated just by the mere thought of thinking about it.

I understood your love for Anna, and I understood my love for my friends and family.

What we both needed to understand was this chance, amidst the circumstances, for the 'more'.

The only choice really is to take this chance while it is here. If you weren't for me, then another would come. But right now, at the ripe age of twenty seven... I'm kind of hoping your're the one.

But ah... wishful thinking. I need more backbone than this.

At least I know what to write for that romance novel now.

... ... ...

A/N: Since I am suffering from severe writer's block for my stories Totentanz (currently sitting at 13 pages) and Child of WInter Solstice (currently sitting at mental pages), I decided to take a swing at another BtB oneshot.

This is slightly different in terms of style as compared to my previous oneshots, but I hope this one still made you guys happy. This was inspired by a picture my good friend peanutbutterandgarlicgirl drew about a brooding 27 year old and still-single Jack Frost. It turned out differently than how I originally planned to write it but... oh well. And this one is unbeta'd and rushed and all over the place so... *cries* sorry.

I hope you guys liked this one anyway. :)