#waterwheels

Midna watches the silver of the city shine then shimmer then disappear. She decides that she  doesn't care. She decides that she will care later. She decides that  six months from today, from this very moment where she’s departing on the Capital Flyer, so desperately indifferent to leaving, she will have sorted out whatever was not bothering her at the moment, or whoever was not  bothering her at the moment.

 She pulls the window screen back down and  is firm in her apathy. Her fingertips do not remember the feel of his cheekbone when she lightly brushed it--they do not hum.

/// 

The first time she left as a runaway princess, crying for four hours of the ride then drinking too much vodka and turning into a sour-lemon bitch for most of the rest of it, seething over every little thing she’d experienced in the time before she left. Now, she thinks of nothing, sits straight amidst the smoke in her  cracked-leather seat, a star-crowned rail-queen flying through her thousand cities. She could go to whichever one she wanted,  she knew. She liked it like that, was comfortable with that, one of very few things she really felt at ease about.

Six months back when the Flyer pulls into one of those tiny border towns,  he sits across from her, because of course she does, and starts to talk to her in an almost-familiar drawl, because of course he does. It catches something in the back of her head and two weeks later she finds the courage to call her cousins. They hate her back home, one of them tells her, but she’s still family, says another, still the rightful bloodqueen of their tribe. The twins had ruled well in her absence, were fair and kind and all that shit, but they would step down.

Of course they would, she thought, stopping herself from saying it aloud.  That was the first night she and Link  went out, the first night she brought him home and let him see her apartment, let him see the lack of bedroom curtains and the screaming yellow restaurant sign blinking through the window until the sun broke the next morning. He tolerates the neon so well she suspects this is his norm, but he still doesn’t sleep; she decides to tolerate his clearly-broken heart in all the following hours when he freely admits that ever since his arrival, he’s wanted to go back home to Ordon.  

It’s never worth it, she tells him, almost meaning it, and later, his mouth kissing over her nipples and his fingers pressing on the inside of her, she can tell he nearly believes her.

 ///

The observation car is loud and crammed but it’s got bigger windows than her private room. Stretching far into the distance, old Twili and Sheikah shrines blink blue on starry black mountains. Infinitely stunning in the dark, undeniably decrepit during the day.

“You’d think they’d restore the walls or something,”some asshole  mutters, and if they knew even the tiniest amount of Lorulean history they’d know --

“Would you like another coffee, Miss?”

Midna stares up at the car attendant as the train begins to slow for its next stop. The smoke begins to gather and settle, more noticeable than it’s been in awhile, because it’s usually nice, like green apple candy or someone unexpectedly  grabbing your hand but now---now it tastes like not talking to your mother in five years,  or crumbled, sacred dust.

“Plum tea, if you’ve still got some?” She doesn’t understand how it comes out so smoothly.  The girl smiles and nods and walks off and the train slides to a stop. It’s the last one before the border.

“You can really see the decay in the dayti--”

“They’re not meant for the daytime,” she finally snaps across the aisle. “Look out at them now--can’t you see what they’re supposed to be?”

///

The jar is next to his foot and he sticks his fork in and glares out the window.

“I don’t know why I even came here, I just--”

“Because you were miserable?”

He shoves a pickle into his mouth and crunches down. “Yeah, but it’s more...”

Midna rolls her eyes and rubs the glass with a finger. There was exactly one store in the entire city that sold pumpkin-rind pickles and ever since she knew him, he would keep some in stock for two-in-the-morning emotion-fueled vodka sessions.

“More what?”

“It’s not that easy, you know. Not that easy when you don’t have a clear reason.”

“What’s a clear reason matter, anyway? Cheating? Hating each other? Someone leaves their shoes scattered on the floor?”

“I could’ve dealt with her cheating, maybe even hating her.”

“Not her shoes? Did she have horrible taste in footwear?”

He pauses, then reaches into the jar and pulls out another pickle.

“It’s hard to explain. Everyone there tolerates shoes on the floor.”

Midna leans over and plucks the pickle out of his hand and pops it in her mouth. “I mean, it’s not like it’s different here. You’ve still got to deal with stray footwear. Or casual pickle addiction. Or--”

“It’s not just that, it’s--” He groans. “It’s different.”

“But how?”

“It just is.”

There’s a way she kisses his neck, and it’s intoxicating, fearless; there’s a way her hands run up his belly and to his chest and down his arms, never letting up, relentless, warm; gorgeous, honestly, in the way they eventually entwine with his own fingers. And he’ll trace his own palms up the backs of her thighs and ass and back until he’ll tangle himself into her.

 The love songs tell him she’s supposed to taste like persimmons or plums or papayas or some shit like that but mostly she tastes like salt, smells like her perfume and perspiration, looks like she’s always looked to him (lovely, smug) if not a little more unguarded, eyeliner a bit smudged

(...though he’ll admit, grudgingly,  the way her orange-gold hair looks when it catches the light is faintly crown-like...)

The first time they fuck he cannot hold back and spills inside of her quickly. But he makes her come with his mouth shortly after, and he is sure that once he knows her well enough they’ll figure it out together. He rests his head against her chest and listens to the rhythm there, and the smile in her voice when she says his name.

 ~~~

 It is midnight on a Friday, and Link is frustrated. Frustrated in the way flickering street lights that can’t quite stay on are frustrated, or how the moths that decide to slam against them are probably frustrated as they burn and fizzle and fall. Frustrated because there is a stretch of sidewalk with wide-white circles from the streetlamps, because the entire city is bathed in silver light that shimmers in his vision, and it is breathtaking and it is movement and it is huge and hungry and alive.

 Between each circle is a glorious dark shadow where she does not lurk--will not fold into shade and cling to his shoulders, or bite his lobe and grin at his shivers, will not rest a hand on the crook of his neck, will not emerge later with her hand still there, will not pull him forward and press black-or-berry  lips to his, will not be here to walk this sidewalk with him, will not do whatever weird bewitching thing she does.

 And what’s really the point of a sidewalk if he doesn’t walk it with her. What’s really the fucking point.

 Except, there is a city and it is made of moons, it is calling him by name, it is some lonesome-howl  filled with things like him; he wondered if she’d ever know how he changed, how he used to sleep at night and how all the heartbreak he knew before he met her turned him into something else. How what she loved was a new and tarry-black creature. How it made sense that she would be three thousand miles away for the next six long months, because he didn’t know his new starry self, because if she belonged to shadow then he certainly belonged to her dark.

 The Tunnel’s busiest station sits at the confluence of the Green and Yellow lines, and their passengers pour into the Purple’s torrent of people. Behind him, a procession of ear-talons and tartan bottoms, fast-food uniforms and button-shirts,  black-laced boots and bandeaus rushes out across the platform in half-jogs and skips to board for concerts on Bean Street or the apartment towers of Gaepora Heights. A guy in a sweater and suspender-held shorts bumps him as he runs on his way, pauses, glares, and runs off again muttering.  Across the tracks, Yellow Line passengers stream out from their own transfer tunnel -- gray suitcoats and houndstooth skirts shuffle onto trains headed for the detached, silent houses of Starpatch and Silver Shore; dress-slacks and tailored vests spring aboard, bound for the bars at Alder Circle. A bell rings, the train flurries, and is gone.

 He scans the people again -- up the escalator, across the turnstiles on the south exit, down the opposite escalator, over the opposite platform -- pushing himself up onto his tiptoes in these rather uncomfortable shoes, looking for the familiar bobbing of her head above the crowd, and the drifts of orange hair gleaming bright even in the dim and dark.

 He’s been here for months now, but sometimes the sheer crowdedness of the city still takes his breath away.

 Not tonight, though. He pulls at his too-tight collar and fights the urge to undo the top  buttons. Tonight, he just wishes the press of the crowd would go away-- and that finding a seven-foot-tall Twili woman was not so bewilderingly excruciating a search.

 “Stand to the right.” Someone says behind him.

 “Ah, sorry--” He takes a sideways step to the right, near-instinct by now.

 Then he pauses. And he turns.

 And, in a flash, realizes that the voice is hers--and that she is in fact an asshole who has been standing behind him for minutes, and that -- if her blackberry-lipsticked smirk is any sign -- she has been enjoying his confusion.

 He glares. He tries to make himself look more annoyed than he feels. It doesn’t work at all.

 She looks back blithely, appraising him with eyebrow arched. Apparently, she approves.

 “You don’t look too bad, tête de cabri.”

 It occurs to him that he has no idea what the nickname means.

 She jerks her head, and the blue-bejeweled brooch in her headpiece glitters. She wears it like a mood, he knows, and he likes how it’s never quite the same  and how it always somehow inscrutably fits her. He follows it as he follows her, through the crowds, pressing forward -- until their train fills up, and the doors close without them, and people are already trickling onto the platform. She makes an irritated and probably offensive gesture.

 “Trains come every six minutes,” he offers, but she flicks her hand at him.

 “We’re already going to be thirty minutes late. Do you want to walk in at intermission?”

 “No, but it’s rude for people to cut in line.”

 “Less rude for one?”

 His eyes narrow. “Midna.” But sees how her lips tug and even though he’s seen it before, he’s really not used to what she’s about to--

 A few heads in the crowd snap when she disappears, then turn back to their business; he feels the weight of her shadow clinging to his nape, soft and cool. His own mouth starts to curl up, until she whispers urgently in his ear--if we don’t catch this one, we might as well never.

“Maybe the next one,” he says as the next train screeches in and people swarm the door.

Uh, no.

So he grunts and cuts in line and jostles forward and the other passengers in the car glare and somewhere behind someone  probably says “asshole” none-too-softly, but all he can hear is the trill of her laughing in his ear, a little too loud but welcome all the same. And when her shadow-hand rests on the curve of his neck, a little too intimate for just friends but not intimate enough to warrant these goosebumps, his own mouth is smiling and for the love of all the spirits in Faron, he cannot wipe it off.

They ride in silence at first, but after three stops she pipes up.

 What do you think about that guy over there? One in the pink pants.

“I think that you can’t judge people based solely on appearance.”

You absolutely can. Everyone here is judging you, for example.

 “For what?”

 For talking to yourself.

 “Goatshit. Ain’t a soul that cares--”

 Oh, they don’t care, but they definitely notice. She says it with such glee.

 “If you’re noticin’, you’re probably carin’,” he mutters to himself, but much softer, eyes darting around the car as it pulls them forward, a weird screeching thing full of a thousand people. And when she laughs again, and a finger touches (traces?) his ear he wonders if she’s noticed him flushing, and really (kinda desperately) hopes that she has.

~