The Closest Thing To Crazy

It's hard to be a Diamond in a Rhinestone World

A/N: I will likely stick to the use of song titles (with matching context), but there won't be massive quotes, no worries. As for the title, 'The Closest Thing To Crazy' is a song by the wonderful Katie Melua from her album 'Call Off The Search'. You might also be interested in having a look at the fanart 'Fabulous tea-time' by Mr-teapot on deviantArt, for obvious reasons.

The reason for this use of foreign material is my experience that people tend to associate more with a story if they have a visual or audible impulse – I'd love to hear about other thoughts on that matter.

This is an Alternative Universe, however, it is still Hyrule.

Enjoy!

I don't step, I strut

Turn that music BLAST up UP UP UP

It's so hard to be a diamond in a rhinestone world.

(Blood on the Dance Floor, 'It's hard to be a Diamond in a Rhinestone World')

A week.

For just one interview.

A whole fucking week.

The words kept repeating, doing odd somersaults in his brain while his eyes searched the road. The landscape was most insulting, trees and bushes and stones mixed up – no sign of the accurate order of a city park. The surface of the road was rocky and looked like coal tar had not yet been invented when it was build. It probably no longer deserved the title 'road'. 'Dirt track' sounded nice. And way too close to the truth.

A week.

Ghirahim slammed his heel into the brakes, and the car screeched satisfyingly pained before stopping. It wasn't like anyone would mind him blocking the path, though Ghirahim would have been happy for that. Just the kind of stress relief he would have needed to gleefully concentrate on his mission.

His legs were aching from the long hours of stillness that he had spend driving in a rental car, a yellow piece of junk that deserved every ounce of hate that Ghirahim directed at it. It was dusty, smelled of cheap antiseptic, contained only bloody gospel CDs, and most of all, it had a gear shift!

But it was supposedly better than walking. Ghirahim reset his seat to stretch his white, stovepipe-pants-clad legs by propping them up on the dashboard. It was about time he did his usual half-hour of yoga to keep his muscles able to move in the smooth, taunting way that always attracted so much jealousy, but there was no way he was getting out of the car. The ground was muddy, and he would end up ruining his favorite pair of boots – Ghirahim had made such an effort of looking dashing, he refused to ditch that. Time was money. He would just have to make do with what little space he had in the crammed coupé. After all, the navigation system claimed that it would only be half an hour before he finally reached his destination.

Ghirahim groaned as he flexed the muscles and began to pull up his right leg up to his chest. The lycra of his leggings allowed gymnastics, which Ghirahim greatly appreciated, since he seldom had time or opportunity to change clothes in his busy schedule.

A week. Seriously.

Ghirahim, rather Lord Ghirahim, wasn't called the Demon Lord for nothing. Of course, one could also call him 'Ghira' or worse, 'Debbie', if it was planned to change Ghirahim's attitude from bland indifference to hostility. And he had an excellent memory for those who were foolish enough to crack that joke.

Ghirahim smiled sardonically to himself while he removed the safety belt and stretched his leg even farther. One of the many benefits of his job was the fact that he simply owned power over people. People who were desperate for his opinion because they were feeling doubtful about their own, because they lacked charisma and strength and sought his instead. It felt absolutely wonderful, the simplicity with which Ghirahim could lift them up or smash them down.

'Simply Fab' was his column on 'Skyward Serenade', the most popular newspaper in Hyrule – though certainly not the most professional. Skyward Serenade was an exquisite mix of politics, gossip, hypocrisy and fashion. Oh, and sex, but that went without saying. Ghirahim casually examined his silvery lipstick before pulling down his leg again and twisting the limbs into the lotus position while combing his soft white hair. A diamond gleamed on the lobe of his right ear.

A week.

Ghirahim had proven to be a very effective part of the team. His unique styling attracted attention wherever he went, and to his immense satisfaction, nobody had been able to copy it without looking flat out ridiculous. His opinion on events, dresses and people counted a great deal, and whoever pissed him off (intentionally or not) would receive a whole paragraph full of fabulous words that ripped him to shreds. Readers loved columnists without mercy, and Ghirahim was, for all intents and purposes, a Demon Lord par excellence.

He rolled his shoulders before separating his legs and pulling his left leg behind his back, until the back of his calf rested against his shoulder blade. Ghirahim was used to being short on time, so fixing his hair while his hip joint gave a vicious cracking sound was perfectly normal. He pushed his foot even higher and finally hooked his right arm around the instep.

When he'd announced that animal prints were no longer stylish last week, it had been a delightful little scandal again… He couldn't wait to twist that knife even deeper. His laptop rested in the rhinestone-encrusted bag on the passenger seat, ready for new, juicy massacres in the all too small heads of his readers, prepared for whatever direction Ghirahim would take this time…

But one week.

It frequently happened that Ghirahim wrote an article about a celebrity or did an interview, occasionally both at a time. That required an hour at maximum – no one kept the Demon Lord waiting, and he himself decided how close he would stick to the truth that his naïve respondent revealed. And whether this truth was simply fab or not.

That was why he had been stunned to hear that Simply Fab was actually taking a break for whole seven days to give Ghirahim – unparalleled, irreplaceable, luscious, visionary and most of all simply fab Demon Lord Ghirahim – room for one interview.

A week. Seven days. 168 hours. 10080 minutes. It was impossible.

Ghirahim could not remember the last time he'd had a free weekend. Simply Fab was a daily column, and he had plenty of other work to do, let alone keeping in touch with informants and making sure that he didn't look like he was that busy. A beauty like his was to be treated like a lady, with care, money and Fango treatments.

If he hadn't been absolutely sure that this mud worked wonders on his fantastic skin, he would finally declare that it was not fab to bathe in that stuff. Eww.

Ghirahim was not used to free days either, for the same reasons. He was not used to being in this huge dead spot, with even his brand new mobile being unable to get reception. He was not used to being away from civilization in this shitty prairie.

And he was NOT used to being unable to have hot tea when HE desired it, let alone from his FAVORITE cup!

Ghirahim frowned and disentangled his leg. The muscles still hummed angrily from the stretching, but the journalist hardly noticed. The situation made him, as he dubbed it, negatively giggly. There was no way Skyward Serenade would be fine without him, even for only a week. On the other hand, they would be horribly disappointed to see that there was no man in this world that Ghirahim could not deal with.

Since he was on his way to no other than Link.

Yeah, just Link. Ghirahim figured it was a rather lame nom de plume for a writer, so the birth name had to be even worse.

Three years ago, Link had been the darling of the media, such an endearing young man with great promise. Even though nobody could really tell where the author had popped up, his books had bestseller stamped all over them before they had even gone into print. The saga about the silent hero who saved his princess and the world in some kind of utility union had practically won every award worth mentioning – if you were into that sort of thing. Ghirahim hadn't bothered to read Link's books, but had dealt with them nonetheless. Back in that time, they had been a very popular accessory for everybody, it had been essential to know the outlines of the plot in order to successfully converse. Link had been praised for his highly sensitive and yet suspense-packed style and producers all over Hyrule had all but crusaded against each other to adapt the material for film.

That had been the case three years ago. Before Link's fiancée had been shot in an armed raid on a jewelry store. Probably while picking up the engagement rings: Ghirahim thought it was rather well-deserved if people wasted that much time before finally getting married, so that they could follow the protocol and get into a dirty divorce ASAP.

Link had dropped off the face of the earth after that. He hadn't been a very public person to begin with, and after the funeral, he had shut himself off completely. He had no family, and his friends – a highly problematic term that had been invented for idealists only – tried in vain to contact him. It was no secret that Link lived in a charming farmhouse in the Faron Woods that he had renovated with his girlfriend, probably with the intention of carrying her over the threshold and having loads of adorable Dinky Linky's with her. While the latter did not really happen, Link barricaded himself there until the public had finally stopped to besiege him.

However, the interest never actually died down like it would have with any other celebrity. Link had never published the last book of his famous trilogy, and people couldn't seem to forget about him. Kind of like a really good lover; Ghirahim could not relate that obstinate clutching to anything else.

Link was a mysterious person. Of course, he could not avoid the rest of the world, even in this godforsaken backwater, and nowadays, it was impossible to prevent all sorts of communication.

Link no longer spoke to anyone. Bushed.

Perhaps he did tell the dairyman that he was terribly upset to have found a dead fly in the last bottle of milk, but if he did, no one mentioned it. The villagers of the nearby hicktown ('nearby' still meaning that the distance was a binary number of kilometers) had obviously declared themselves Link's savage guardians over the years, acting repellent to anyone who got there without the necessary letter of recommendation from the local cow-fucking stable-lad.

A whole week. Skyward Serenade thought that the infamous Demon Lord needed that much time to deal with a bushwhacker who liked to drown in self-pity and act as if there weren't plenty of other fish in the sea. Fish that would hook up with his fishing hook before he knew it.

Heads would roll once Ghirahim returned to the editorial office.

He just hoped Link hadn't been too self-indulgent over the past three years. He had been handsome back then, and frankly, Ghirahim wouldn't mind getting tangled up with a guy who kept his mouth shut most of the time. Flirting was part of his work, but he hardly had time for workouts, and he hated the idea of anyone thinking some guy had power over him because Ghirahim claimed him for a longer period.

Well, what happened in Faron, stayed in Faron. After all, he had plenty of time.

Ghirahim briefly checked his makeup and finished stretching, then he rearranged the car and started the engine. The road twisted on, and finally, the trees were losing ground. Ahead lay the farmhouse: a lovely stone building where ivy clawed the front colored in warm brown, white-framed dormer windows reflected the midday sun. Ghirahim decided that the gingerbread trim on the roof was not fab, instead quite ridiculous, but he had to admit that the house looked nice. Though he himself preferred living inside buildings that didn't scream SOB STUFF.

He stopped the car and gingerly got out, watching the grassy ground dubiously. It didn't seem like tires got here often. The only vehicle around seemed to be a horse.

Ghirahim did not detect this from the imprint of hooves, but from the horse manure lying blithely in his field of vision.

So not fab.

He was careful to watch his way as he went up to the front door made from dark pine wood. There was no bell at all, so he simply knocked while looking around.

Even though this place was so remote it might as well have been on the moon, it was clear that someone tended to it. Ghirahim suspected that there was a garden behind the house (cheesy farm houses always had gardens, and sunflowers as well), and the red-coated shed on his right was open, a metal hand barrow stood waiting next to it. The windows and the porch were clean and it faintly smelled of freshly cut grass. It was a sweet scent that Ghirahim was unused to – rural idyll. He'd get tired of that before the week was over.

In fact, this was pissing him off. Where the hell was this Link? It wasn't like there was anywhere exciting to go in this boring wood!

"Link?" he called with a hint of amusement. Was Tarzan getting shy out here? He tried the door and found it locked. Too bad.

Ghirahim stepped back and looked around. Beside the shed that he had no desire setting a foot into, there was the stable and perhaps the back door of this house. Ghirahim was pretty sure that entering the stable would soil his boots, so he saved that option for the emergency and walked around the corner.

"Link?"

Ghirahim saw the flash of green right the moment he wondered whether he should get the most current photo of the author that he had been able to get his hands on. In case it wasn't easy to identify him. That thought stopped abruptly.

Because there was a pitchfork pointing at him. A dirty, rusty, seriously sharp pitchfork, ten centimeters in his comfort-zone.

Well, fuck.