My Body is a Cage

A/N: I was glad that Ghirahim running riot didn't seem too OoC to you – as always, your reviews send me into a frenzy of rainbows! This chapter is the last but one before the sequel takes action. Thank you all for staying with me so long and giving your feedback!

/

I'm living in an age

That calls darkness light

Though my language is dead

Still the shapes fill my head

(Peter Gabriel, 'My Body is a Cage')

/

There really should be an enhancement of hate so you could express your feelings for mornings. And it should be an incredibly obscene word. And a short one so you didn't need much breath for it.

"Uuh…"

It was a start.

Ghirahim very slowly opened his eyes, the lids felt heavy and encrusted with sand. He lifted one hand and tentatively wiped them. His fingertips and nails felt rough and prickly against his sensitive skin, and he instantly rejected the soft light. His head showered him with unhurried waves of pain.

Yes, alcohol is the bane of mankind. I knew there was a reason it was never fabulous.

His fingers touched purple. Damn, he didn't want to know what sleeping with makeup on had done to his skin and eyelashes. Ghirahim carefully began his physical inventory, resting his hand over his eyes so the light was blocked. His mouth was dry and tasted vapid, but his throat was fine, so even though his stomach felt queasy, he hadn't thrown up – so he couldn't have lost all his dignity. Good. He'd dealt with enough photos of people covered in their gastric contents.

Something stirred at that thought. Ghirahim ignored it and dragged his hand from his eyes, then blinked. He could see more clearly now, and the wooden ceiling he looked up to was not familiar. Nor were the delicate green curtains or the carved headboard. Come to think of it, this whole bed was foreign to him, and there were potted plants hanging from the ceiling…

"I wouldn't have expected hell to be so sappy… I guess the horror isn't nameless for nothing."

His voice was raspy and hoarse (and not the positive kind), but at least it was no longer slurred. Ghirahim cleared his throat and deliberately sat up. His hair was a mess (which was normal) and sleeping in his clothes had been uncomfortable. Ghirahim had made a habit out of sleeping naked, regardless of the season.

It was kind of ironic if you were alarmed because you woke up clothed. Nevermind, because the next unpleasant surprise was the fact that he was in a double bed. Double bed, like, matrimonial bed. Oh God, that was enough to make his stomach do a nasty flip.

Ghirahim caught a movement from the corner of his eye. He flexed the fingers of his right hand and sighed deeply when he found them undecorated. Though dark earth stuck under his fingernails, and he couldn't remember where he had gotten that.

"Whatever I told you, we are not married, and please tell me we didn't have unprotected sex." He thought that over for a moment and then added: "We did have sex, right?"

Uh-oh. What did that old author-guy once say about the liaison of alcohol and sex? 'It provokes the desire, but it takes away the performance.' He hadn't… failed in the middle, had he? It made his headache boom, and Ghirahim lost all desire to face the world and fathom those mysteries. He dropped back into the fluffy pillows with a groan and shut his eyes again. There, that was much better. He could wait and hope that his blackout never disappeared.

Something warm and rough brushed his cheek and left a wet trail on his skin. Ghirahim shuddered and rolled over, cracking open an eyelid to meet the gaze of horrible strabismus.

Cat. That blasted cat. Ghirahim buried his face in a pillow that smelled of soap and decided that this morning could not get worse.

Chamomile soap. Ugh, yes, it could get worse.

"Goddammit, smell like a man, man!" Says the guy who wears gooseberry scent.

Ghirahim wasn't particularly fond of himself today. He flung the pillow off his face, it bounced against the window and tumbled onto the carpeted floor, missing the cat and the other unmoving object in the room.

Link stared at him with his bland expression, his arms crossed in front of his chest. He wore jeans and a black v-neck-shirt with the almost completely faded emblem of a singer-songwriter who had been out of fashion for years now. It was strange to see him in such casual, ordinary clothes. Black suited him. And yet, it was odd. Link, who represented a man in deep grief, hadn't shown himself in that special garb.

Ghirahim's heart sped up. "You spoke."

Link did not react, not even when the cat jumped into his lap and kneaded his thighs.

"Don't give me that, I heard you." Ghirahim sat up straight and blew his hair from his face, headache momentarily forgotten. "You cuss like some domesticated housewife, but I heard you."

Link paid no attention to him. He stroked his cat, his blue eyes vacant and thoughtful. Ghirahim noticed the slight redness on his lower lip and the little scratch on the side of his throat. Marks that the author hadn't bothered to hide, and Ghirahim tried to remember what had happened. His mind was a blur, and he failed to put the pictures in place. He cleared his throat again and tugged his hair behind his ear.

"We did not have sex, right?"

Link ignored the question, but Ghirahim spotted the soft blush of his ears under the blond hair. He managed the first grin for the morning. "Right. Thankfully. Because I don't get topped, wrap your brain around that. If there's ever…" Something tender? He thought he saw Link tense, but it was impossible to read him. Did he regret seizing the opportunity? Had his own needs unsettled him? Was he simply worried that his hook-up would be in the media? Or, as off-key as that sounded, was he objecting to the politics of sex?

"If we ever do it, it's me", Ghirahim finally concluded and rubbed his eyes again. It seemed like Link had completely withdrawn into his shell again, which frustrated him. And at the same time, he felt like he didn't need to care. If only his concentration wasn't so rotten, he could put his finger on that.

"So… This is your bedroom."

Ghirahim looked around with mild interest. He absolutely didn't feel like getting up already, so he examined the colorful quilts, the sloped windows across from the bed. They were slanted towards the north so that the sun didn't heat up the room too much. Bookshelves lined the walls, and opulently blooming light blue clematis hung above a large desk made of cherrywood. Though the desk was stocked well enough to write a whole epic, it didn't appear like someone currently used it. Ghirahim was not close enough to decipher what the books filling the shelves were about, but judging by the design, they didn't look too… funky. Also, two fishing rods were standing in an old-fashioned barrel, and a wooden staircase led to the first floor.

All in all, it looked like a cozy vacation home, maybe even a love den for a honeymoon if you liked it rustic. There was no sign of anyone else living here, but it was obviously meant to. Ghirahim involuntarily cast a glance at the untouched place next to him.

And there was hair sticking to his clothes. And earth. Ghirahim grimaced and pushed back the quilt to take survey of his appearance. Looked like fluff from something with brown fur, and the earth had dried long ago. Ghirahim immediately longed for a shower, but he paused to mull over his blackout again. If he had indeed gotten these marks somewhere outside, why had Link dragged him back here, allowed him in this very personal space, to give him the cold shoulder again.

Perhaps hermit-authors were insane after all, and he'd soon enough end up shredded to pieces in that green lake. The problem with those horror scenarios was that Ghirahim never believed them. True horror was something else, like-

"If you're sulking because I babbled something, I have the best of excuses." Well, maybe getting drunk didn't count as such, but if he was the only one talking, it was only fair if he made the rules. Ghirahim stretched slowly and eyed Link warily. "I didn't declare my everlasting love and devotion, right?"

Link's mouth twitched ever so slightly – it was too brief to classify the small sign, so Ghirahim only took it for a No. All was not lost, then. It was all he needed to know for now, his voice was starting to tire. He would have killed for a cup of tea, and considering that the only living beings in this room were a dramaqueen and a fuzzy, squinting cat, he would take the tea and kill nonetheless.

"You know what? Fuck you. Fuck you with something hard and sand-papery."

Ghirahim swung his legs over the edge of the bed with more enthusiasm than he actually felt. His head still ached terribly, but at least his stomach had calmed a bit. The first thing he had to do was to scrub his fingers, God knew what was under his nails. Dirt and hair and… ink?

From one second to the other, the fog in his memory brutally cleared. His career was over and done with because of the pettiest of intrigues.

It didn't sting as bad this time. Ghirahim didn't feel like the realization would crush him anymore; suddenly, the most painful feeling was his lostness. Where would he go from now on? He had been the Demon Lord – every other place in Hyrule seemed unfit to him. He honestly had no idea. He would never be content with holing up somewhere on the countryside and returning to a normal job.

He barely noticed how he hadn't gotten up at last and instead had dropped back into the messy quilts. He stared for long seconds without noticing how his fingers ran along the tiny bruise at his throat. The tension had softened enough to push the turmoil aside for now; it felt hollow, but not unbearable. It would work. Ghirahim sat up once more and turned his head. Link hadn't moved an inch, he watched his guest with a stony expression that reminded Ghirahim heavily on their first day. Only that one important detail had changed since then.

"Since you're obviously not going to tell me where I left the car, I'll get going. Feel free to dismiss this as the oldest trick in the book, but I won't continue this interview." And it wasn't like he had any material. His camera was broken, there was not a single piece of written dialogue, and to be honest, there were wide parts of this man that Ghirahim still couldn't figure out. He wished the strange attraction had died down by now, so that his lips wouldn't tingle teasingly now, however, time was patient. His memories were smoothing, reminding him on clumsy, enticing kisses and hushed sounds of wonder, stings of pain, lust.

Link gave no indication he believed it – or even heard it. If he wasn't in deep thought, he had fallen asleep on his chair or something. Ghirahim rolled his eyes and stood up, glad that his legs carried him. The knees of his jeans were stained with dust, he probably looked like he had tried mud wrestling…

"I am trying to remember your name."

And there goes my newfound peace.

The voice was quiet and raspy, like you would expect it from a tool more or less not used for years. The gentle instrument of an artist with a timbre like claves. It was a revelation. And at the same time, it was just annoying as hell in this very moment.

"When I told you to mind the H, I did not mean you could forget about the rest!", Ghirahim spat, feeling as if the whole moment of revelation had been robbed of its magic. But that was life; the dramaturgy was lousy, and when you needed the strings and the field of daisies, nobody had them down pat.

Link watched him with laconic patience. He seemed to have listened to his own voice intensely as he spoke, and something with his intonation seemed off, like he concentrated hard while he formed the words.

Ghirahim sighed and glared at the author. Technically, hundreds of journalists and reporters had likely left their names here, yet that did not exculpate Link from actually forgetting someone like the Demon Lord. And that title was his and would always be.

"It's Ghirahim. No surname, and if you want a greeting hug or something, move your ass over here and put away that cat. And not in that order."

Link scowled at him, and of course remained seated. He didn't appear like he wanted to talk more, maybe he had changed his mind after all. Or he needed time to collect himself, it was like he needed time for everything…

"Fine. Where's your bathroom?" Ghirahim cocked his head expectantly. Link met his eyes for a short moment, then got up so suddenly that the cat rather fell than leapt from his lap. Without giving any further signal, Link descended the stairs, his shoulders stiff and cool once again. He hadn't beckoned Ghirahim to follow (though he had to take the stairs if he wasn't planning to jump out of the window), as if his presence was erased.

Ghirahim flicked his hair and stretched carefully. Yes, he was free to go, and honestly, he wanted to catch some more sleep and nurse his hangover. But the thing he didn't want was prying company, and one way or another, there was a reason why Link had asked his name. Rash decisions didn't seem typical for him, especially when he had taken the effort to bring Ghirahim here.

Yes, the only remaining question was whether Ghirahim wanted to take part in this and continue the job. He absent-mindedly stared at the cover of the book on the nightstand, An Updated List Of Fish And Amphibians In Danger Of Extinction In Faron And Phirone, then turned around and set his bare foot onto the softly creaking staircase.

/

Showering had improved Ghirahim's condition and even his mood, at least his thoughts were moving more fluently now. He was relieved to discover that Link a) had a bathroom instead of a pit latrine outside and b) had running water, even hot water if you wanted. The warmth soothed the irritated skin and cleared away the mixture of dirt, sweat and dried semen. The memory of their tryst was blurry, and while hard water cascaded from his body, Ghirahim pictured the glimpse he had caught of Link. A different shade of the man, an inexperienced, apt lover with vivid sensuality. Too bad this side was gone again.

Link didn't seem to see a use in elaborate care products – he didn't even have moisturizer, which served as the final proof that this household was stuck in the last century, if not in the Mesolithic. Ghirahim reconstructed his styling the best he could without hairspray or makeup and gave his reflection a swift check-up. He still looked like someone who had painted the town red and then fell into the paint bucket, but as long as he could make it seem like that was his purest intention, it was fine.

He had washed the stains of earth and grass out as much as he could, the delicate material of his clothing hadn't taken the scrubbing well. It was his least concern right now.

And someone ought to tell Link that chamomile was an odious scent! No wonder his girlfriend had preferred a quick death over that stench. And yes, Ghirahim's humor was incredibly black.

Aside from the bedroom under the roof and the bathroom, the farmhouse only had a wide living room and a u-shaped kitchen. Everything was sturdy built, clean and well-kept, not obtrusively expensive and obviously furnished without the help of an expert. Someone had simply dragged in the furniture he liked and arranged it so it wasn't in the way. Ghirahim was no interior designer, but this was clearly the work of a man. A complaisant man, and a man nonetheless.

Link shot him a very impolite look of surprise when Ghirahim discovered him in the kitchen. The expression was directed at the absence of makeup, which was more than a bit insulting.

"Yes, that gray is my natural skin color, in case you meant to ask that. How the hell did you survive three years without boring yourself to death with those books? They're fucking sick!"

Link turned back to the herd, apparently disgruntled by Ghirahim's loose habits of swearing. The journalist let him be and idly looked around. The walls were bare; both here and in the bedroom. No framed photos of landscape, cute animals and exceptionally not of the deceased fiancée. Well, Ghirahim wouldn't want the dead to loom from his walls, either.

"If you want me to ask the right questions, you gotta give me a hint, you know."

Link kept his back turned to him, but he lifted one hand and pointed at the spacious living room. The aroma of chocolate began to drift through the air, an oddly soothing scent even for Ghirahim's still nervous stomach.

"Charming host you are", he mumbled and decided against arguing with Link – there was no use trying his own patience now. Ghirahim sunk into the broad armchair, one of the motley seats that grouped around a massive dining table, and closed his eyes. He felt worn, not only from the aftereffects of the exertions and the hangover, but kind of… sapless. He had always wanted to be someone of importance, perhaps a craving for recognition and power. It was not like he had never suffered a setback, and now he discovered that falling so deep was less painful and instead rather tiring…

The sound of a mug made from grog made him open his eyes a fraction. "Bribe?" Ghirahim sighed. "I told you I don't eat chocolate. It's no exception if it's hot chocolate, hon."

Link regarded him with very well-concealed smugness. "Hot chocolate… and marshmallows."

Ghirahim's eyes snapped fully open, and he had the unpleasant feeling that a treacherous blush crept up his cheeks before he could force it back. "That's just my password!"

Link didn't hide that he didn't believe that for a second. Good thing he never talked. Ghirahim fiercely glared at him. Skeletons in his cellar were his and his alone. … And so what if he liked hot chocolate with marshmallows. He should be glad he hadn't revealed anything more explosive in his sleep. Just why had Link heard that?

Link didn't try to pursue the lie, whether he wanted to avoid unnecessary communication or basically wasn't interested. He took his own mug of hot chocolate (there were actually adult guys who had chocolate for breakfast?) and sipped it gingerly, not minding that the viscous drink would warm him up.

Ghirahim slumped back into the cushion of the armchair. "You want to talk to me." It was not a question. "I don't know about what, and frankly, I couldn't care less." He cast a warning glance at the cat that approached his foot. "If you're doing this out of pity or some misguided favor, you can have a piece of my mind – and the astonishing experience that both my backhand and my kick in your privates will make you wish you had kept your puss firmly closed. Oh, and I can do both at a time." Ghirahim smiled sweetly. "Terms of service have changed, you see."

Link raised his eyebrows at him.

"And if you have a question, say it. I might guess what's going on in your uptight brain, but that doesn't mean I want to."

Link paid no attention to his brusque tone. Ghirahim wouldn't have admitted to actually feel uneasy under the unrelenting stare. No doubt Link was listening, however, his mind was working, just like Ghirahim had analyzed his gestures before. And the result seemed acceptable.

"You are angry."

"That's no question!", Ghirahim snapped and shifted in his seat so he could swing his legs over one arm of his chair. "If your head isn't fucked up after all, why the hell don't you write? I offered you that before." He ignored the fact that a successful interview would have been worthless. And Link seemed to sense that the priorities had changed.

The author pressed his lips together; once more, it seemed like he was concentrating before opening his mouth.

"It is… hard."

Ghirahim snorted rudely. "Hard, my ass! As if you…" He stopped and examined Link closer, his sneer faded again. "What do you mean, it's hard?"

The unused desk, the short words on the notepad, the slight distress that had made Link cut himself with his peeler. Ghirahim narrowed his eyes as the truth began to dawn on him.

"You have dyslexia."

Link's nod was so curt, like his muscles had tensed up everywhere.

He had written a message before – very short and spidery, and a message he had had all day to compose. Aside from that, Ghirahim couldn't remember ever witnessing Link write in the past week. He had refused to do it, the notepad had even seemed strange to him. Because it was indeed difficult for him.

"Well, that's… something." Ghirahim sat up a bit straighter. "Not the end of the world, though. After all, you fabricated those books."

Link looked at him. It was more apparent now that he was centering himself, there was a small crease between his fair brows. He reminded Ghirahim on someone from a fantasy movie who was trying to fight a spell of silence. And it indeed seemed like Link didn't want to… talk.

"It's not everything." Not a question, either. Ghirahim felt the tension encroaching on him.

"I… need Zelda."

The short jolt of jealousy at those few, tightly spoken words startled Ghirahim; he had never felt any desire for people to need him. Likely, it was only the undertone of yearning that appealed him. He took his mug to have a distraction for his hands while he waited for Link to continue.

"I was not… good with words." The way the author spoke a bit quicker hinted that whoever had raised him had equalized the dyslexia with mental retardation. "Storytelling was a practice. Zelda could…"

The note of pain was thick; Link's eyes were dry, his hands calm and steady, but it laced his voice, snuck across his face. Link waited for a few seconds before he could take his chopped style of narration again.

"Zelda helped me with the exercise. I constructed the story for her. She could… make me overcome the barricade."

Ghirahim hummed quietly and ran his fingers along the side of the mug. If he had understood this correctly, Link didn't have one, but two blockings, and the second one was much more difficult to undo. "So in other words, there is no third book and there won't be one." Because Link couldn't trust anyone as much as Zelda, so his story remained locked. And he didn't seem eager to find someone who made him feel at ease.

"How far were you with your work when she was shot?"

Link flinched ever so slightly at the last word. The crease between his brows deepened as he once again forced words out of his mouth. "Not… far. I wanted to finish as soon… as possible. This… hype." He frowned. "I don't like it. Neither did she. I wanted her… to move here so she could… have peace until the books were finished."

Ghirahim turned his head with ostentation. "She didn't live here?"

"No." Link's voice was choked once again. "She was going to. Suddenly… she was hesitating. There was something on her mind." The blond closed his eyes for a moment, the first visible sign of his grief. "I was worried. Zelda could have… reconsidered the wedding. Or us. It bothered me, she was so… absent. We fought." His tone turned bleak. He drank some chocolate without paying attention to the warmth.

"She drove to the village. She was at the… post office, then at the jewelry store. There was something she wanted… to buy as a gift."

"She was going to give you jewelry 'cause you were pissed? Just out of curiosity, you weren't wearing skirts back then, were you, since she obviously wore the breeches!"

Link's head snapped up, blinking bemusedly at the acidly remark that he could not file into the context. Ghirahim smirked at him, and when a stare with the temperature of liquid nitrogen hit him, he casually sipped the chocolate, suppressing a sign when the silky aroma of full-fat and spice nuts caressed his tongue. The fat probably clogged his arteries right there, but… No way he was just spitting the chocolate back.

"My offer for a scrap stands, you know", he said lightly and licked his lips. Spice nut, so that's where Link had gotten that taste. "Oh, wait – I remember where we ended up last time when things got a little violent."

Link's face had gone dark and contorted, his hands were clenching the mug so hard his knuckles turned white. Ghirahim's smirk thinned, but stayed present.

"If I had to make a guess, I'd say you'll walk away now, like the last time I was being a positive bastard – though I can assure that I can be much worse. But you won't, because there is something you want."

"What do you know." Link's voice had lost all intonation again, and yet his body had relaxed. None of them were willing to surrender; Ghirahim smiled thinly.

"I don't. That's why it's me you're talking to." He drank another mouthful of chocolate and then swung his legs from the arm of the chair, lowering his head in the parody of alacrity. "You need me for something – what in blazes is that?"

He was fairly sure he had been evaluating Link well, but it became apparent that he hadn't been the only one. For all his quietness and strange softness, Link couldn't have gotten to this point without a talent for cold calculating. He merely used it in a less reckless way.

The author didn't answer at once. He finished his chocolate and shooed the cat off the table, then he eyed Ghirahim with a distant, unsettling curiosity.

Hold your horses, if nothing else. He doesn't know, primitive caveman that he is. Still, Ghirahim couldn't shake off the disturbing feeling that he was being candled like an egg. Who would have thought this geek was tough enough to affront him…

"There is something. I…" Link seemed to be at a loss for words again. His movements were resolute as he got up, his mechanic blue eyes swept over Ghirahim as if he considered letting him in on the secret. Ghirahim flashed him an elliptical smile and meaningfully touched his fingers against his neck.

"What if you can't trust me?"

Link's blank seriousness eased for a brief moment. "I don't do it."

"That has to be the only smart thing you have done so far, in case you aren't taken in by the grave error that you can control me." The suggestive note was barely there, but it danced on the edge of Ghirahim's voice. "I told you, nobody can."

He would love to try it out, without the angry frenzy and yet, would that even be possible?

Link took a few steps away from the table.

"Please yourself."

"Flirting with me?"

"No."

"You should have known I'm even nastier off duty." Ghirahim raised a mocking hand. "And I never agreed on anything."

The sad smile that Link smiled was sudden, unexpected – it send a cool pang through Ghirahim that disappeared just as quick, leaving behind a slightly faster pulse. His face remained unmoved, but something inside him was spinning, fluttering, waking a primal flight-reflex; and at the same time, we stayed put, the adrenaline cleared his head.

"No need", Link said softly and opened the drawer of a low, dark commode to take out a small, unadorned revolver.