Our resident Sideburn-Freak was wandering around, quite innocently (surprising, he knows) in the small highschool classroom, peeping (just peeping, it's not that bad) through his fellow classmates desks.

A bit of gum stuck under Flynn's, neatly printed notes in Rapunzel's, messily scrawled drawings of bizarre-looking lizards in Hiccup's, and Elsa's desk, though empty, was filled with cool air. Uh, boring.

Who's desk would be the most amusing? He cast a bored eye out.

Ah. Red.

Looking around once more to check that no one was in the corridor, approaching the classroom, and reassured himself. Lunch had barely started, no one in the right mind would be in the classroom when they could be somewhere, anywhere else.

Carefully lifting the lid of the desk without a sound, he pulled a couple of faded textbooks off of a quite obviously concealed notebook.

Hearts. Everywhere. Ugh.

Nonetheless, he flipped the notebook open nonchalantly and began reading.

Hi. I'm Anna! It's really nice to—

He flipped the page quickly, not wanting to read the boring, sappy introduction that would surely go on endlessly, and skimmed until he saw something that wasn't this boy stared at me or we had a really good chocolate cake this morning for breakfast.

Dear Nobody,

I realized something today I had an epiphany today (I've always wanted to say that! ^^).

Hans rolled his eyes. What a dork.

There are two kinds of perfect.

Huh. Idiot.

Number one is when you're literally, physically perfect. Wait, 'physically' isn't really the right word, huh?

Anyways, it's when you're . . . good at everything? Like, you're handsome, athletic, intelligent, talented . . .

Just like him.

I suppose I don't need to say who this is, huh? I mean, no one is going to read this but me.

Still, though, he is. Fudgin' perfect. His hair is kept, his build is just right (not too tall, not too bulky), and he's always picked for teams in the beginning.

Like, that one time we were playing softball, when there were two outs the first two players from our team, who was batting, he stepped right up, swung the bat, and walked calmly to first, second, third, and home bases while the field team struggled.

He took a moment to smirk at this. Definitely him.

Oh, that was an intense game. When it was down to the last out of the last inning (we were out in the field) and it was too close to call whether he got the baseman out or not, it was down to rock, paper and scissors.

Yep. Rock, paper, and scissors. Best of out three.

Him and the baseman had to do it, of course. Everyone gathered around to watch.

It seems silly now, as it was just a game, but it was drawn-out, tense, and exciting.

Pound, pound, pound, draw.

Every time one round finished, he would turn and run his hand through his hair, grinning from the intensity of the game.

Win.

Loss.

It was down to the last, deciding point. If he won, we'd get a draw game. If he lost, we lost, too.

Draw again: scissors vs. scissors.

One more draw: rock and rock.

And then, we won! Not really, it was a draw anyways, but adrenaline was running high. I turned just in time to catch of glance of him, victorious, running and leaping up, touching the basketball net.

He really is this kind of perfect. Smart, cute, athletic . . .

Heck, he can even sing. Heard it first-hand, and lemme tell you, I think I peed my pants.

He is fudgin' perfect. That's it.

Oh, Anna. Atta-girl. Gosh, he has this silly girl wrapped around his finger—

But the second kind of perfect is my favorite of the two.

Huh?

The second one is, I guess, more of a . . . character kind of thing? I don't know, I can't explain . . .

But this is deeper, I guess. It's when they don't make mistakes.

Not normal mistakes, like missing a shot in basketball, or getting a homework question wrong.

But when you literally don't do anything wrong to someone else. You're not unkind, you're not hateful. You don't use your talents for anything that could hurt someone else.

This was sounding suspiciously . . .

Like Kristoff.

Pfft. Reindeer-enthused freak.

He's not this kind of perfect or the other kind of perfect by a long shot, but no one is (for the former). No one except God, I guess.

But he tries, I can tell, REALLY hard to not hurt anyone, in any way. In that one softball game, where Hans absolutely destroyed everyone, he didn't just make the other team look bad, he made me look bad too.

That sounds really shallow. Wow. I didn't mean it like that!

But, it's true. He's all amazing, and there I am, struggling to properly put on my over-sized catching glove. Even when the ball was hit my way, I tried grabbing it as it bounced pass, but, well . . . He was trying hard not to laugh out loud, I know, but I saw it on his face. He thought I was pathetic (and I sort of was, but, well . . .).

. . . Well . . .

But Kristoff didn't think that. He smiled and quietly helped me put them on. He didn't laugh at me, he laughed with me when we saw that even when we pulled it on, it was still way too huge on me to look normal.

Yeah, I guess Hans is flawless, in another sense. But Kristoff is beautifully, amazingly, not really, perfect.

And I guess that's what I was really looking for.

Well.

Hans sat back, temporarily stunned.

This girl . . .

She declared him perfect, and yet he wasn't what she wanted. She said he wasn't lacking in any department, and yet he was undesired.

She said that—that oaf was preferable over him, although he had not even reached the 'perfect' point.

Why?

She also said why, too.

He's someone who'll go easy on mistakes, and someone who'll help me through those mistakes. Someone who I don't have to try to be someone else for, someone who won't make me do things I don't want to do. He's the kind of guy who makes me feel accepted, whereas with others, I'd feel insecure, and inferior. I'd never be good enough.

I'm not trying to say that Kristoff is low enough to be in my league, or whatever—absolutely not! But he accepts me as who I am, and—DON'T SAY A WORD!— maybe even might possibly perhaps slightly ish like me?!

Well, if so, I would be so incredibly happy.

You want to know why?

Because today, (or gradually) I figured out that perfection is anything but linear, and in my eyes, Kristoff is utterly perfect in a non-linear way.

Without another word, Hans closed the book, placed it carefully back under the two textbooks, and shut the desk.

He strolled out of the classroom with a cool look of absolute calm on his face, but inside he was brimming with confusion and, perhaps even ambivalence.

He spied the 'try-hard' students who were coming back from lunch slightly early, the all-too familiar mop of blonde hair standing taller than everyone else.

Towering over a small redhead who was bursting with energy.

They were grinning. At each other.

He rolled his eyes.

What a load of sappy puddles that inhabit our school, he thought.

Feeling a slight rumble in his stomach, which was screaming at him for skipping lunch and promising suffering during the rest of the school day, he headed off towards the cafeteria, thinking he might snag a small snack.

fin.