The Closest Thing To Crazy

This is the nearest thing to crazy I have ever known

I was never crazy on my own –

And now I know that there's a link between the two

Being close to craziness and being close to you…

(Katie Melua, 'The Closest Thing To Crazy')

This had to be a joke.

Ghirahim felt his throat become dry suddenly. The moment was so surreal that he could not even feel fear, though his brain immediately recognized the threat. At first, there didn't seem to be any sense, and a part of him failed to understand how the situation had turned out so drastically.

Just what he needed, a deranged psychopath. Ghirahim briefly remembered a course he had taken years ago about what stories revealed about the author and what hidden depths seemingly innocent pieces of phrasing could conceal… But aside from his mind being much too shocked by the sight of dark hole in the barrel, it could not be real. It was illogical, Link, who avoided violence to an extent that was almost ridiculous, who pictured bloodshed as vile, an ultima ratio that actually, if you looked close enough, had nothing glorious about it. The people who had written their mostly creative biographies about Link had all agreed that his characterizations were typical for someone who had experienced violence and heavily disapproved of it.

"You're crazy."

Link beckoned him to get up, which Ghirahim obeyed (not like he wanted to be shot in a fluffy armchair, that color combination would be so not fab), and then stepped forward. The grim silence was unnerving, and Ghirahim felt sweat prickle between his shoulder blades. He moved backwards when Link motioned him to, feeling a strange tension.

A gun. He had joked about that on his first day.

"Perhaps you're not crazy, but it's probably the closest thing to it."

His bare feet touched cold ground, the tile floor of the kitchen. The sensation made him flinch, and his head seemed to grow cool as well, clearing away the hollow confusion he had felt since waking up and realize that his life was well and properly ruined.

He had never wanted to… escape, hide away, commit suicide, whatever. Although he had fallen into a state of shock, he would never consider giving up – in fact, he would never allow the fruit of his hard work to be stolen by somebody else so easily. Ghirahim didn't doubt his own determination; he simply hadn't had the presence of mind to dig it up.

It was nice how these rare moments of perfect intuition always occurred when you were up to your ears in shit.

His back came into contact with the jade-colored tiles of the kitchen wall. Yes, no doubt his blood would look gross on that surface.

Link looked at him, unaffected by the remark or the tension that Ghirahim kept so carefully hidden. His hand – the left one, Ghirahim had never noticed that feature – was calm and steady, not glistening with sweat or trembling with tautness. If he had been fumbling with the trigger, it would not have been quite as menacing. The sureness was truly frightening.

For the first time, Link's eyes shifted. Ghirahim noticed a framed picture of a small orchid next to him, he vaguely wondered about it since the walls in the living areas were all blank, so why did the kitchen need decoration…

Link made a curt gesture with his right hand. Everything in Ghirahim struggled against turning, letting the revolver out of his sight, but he wouldn't let himself be paralyzed. He'd find a way out of this, somehow – he always had, he just needed to figure out what exactly Link was planning. If he was planning anything survivable at all.

"In case this magically cures you from your writer's block, or whatever you call it, I want an honorable mention in the third book… At the very least, a dedication." Ghirahim lifted his arm and touched the plastic frame of the picture. He had his cell phone in his pocket, but even if he managed to call the police, it would take them much too long to get here, and there was nothing he could use as a shield or a weapon. The kitchen counter was behind Link, tidy except for the pot he had made the chocolate in. Great.

A small crease appeared between Link's brows again, and he bit his lower lip. His calmness seemed to be fading, which could not be a good sign. Ghirahim took the picture, which only revealed another tile, and clutched it. He could throw it, though he had to expect that Link was prepared for an attack. More than fear, Ghirahim felt anger at the comprehension, a stifled rage that he could not voice.

"If you seriously-"

Link aimed the gun in a frightening fluent motion and pulled the trigger. The shot rang like the scream of a mechanical creature.

Ghirahim pressed his hands over his ears when he heard the second crash, smithereens of green tile rained onto him, then mixed with the amber-colored shards of a vase. The sound of detonation still hummed in his ears and dulled every noise, it rang and hurt, but it was the only pain.

Both men stared at the assortment of green and orange pieces, a tile and a vase and the framed picture Ghirahim had dropped. None of them moved.

"Oh."

It was odd to hear Link's quiet voice in that overarching silence. He had lowered the revolver and regarded the mess on his kitchen floor quizzically.

"Ricochet", Ghirahim heard his own voice, it sounded strangely distant through the jingling in his ears. He felt unsteady on his feet, the closeness of the shot had temporarily disturbed his equilibration.

It never stopped him from striding towards Link to lift his hand and slap him.

Ghirahim hadn't been rambling about his ability to turn that mostly harmless move into a both painful and humiliating experience. When his palm grazed Link's cheek, the force was enough to knock his head to the side, and the snapping of skin on skin echoed through the kitchen like a second shot. Ghirahim knew that it hurt, the burning on his own palm was satisfying; however, it was not nearly enough to cool his rage. He still had something up his sleeve, after all.

Link only clasped the gun, his arm hung limply by his side while his other hand automatically came up to cup the white imprint on his quickly reddening cheek. The revolver in his hand seemed to be forgotten, or he judged it useless for his defense. Even if there had only been one bullet, he could use the tool itself. But he didn't. He just cradled his cheek, staring at Ghirahim with naked blue eyes.

It would have taken someone with much more brutality to attack him again. And while Ghirahim didn't view himself as especially soft and indulgent, it was… Just why the hell should he do that, as if his self-esteem was so low he needed to boost it like that.

"Next time you do that, your balls will make the acquaintance of your tonsils – from the south direction." Ghirahim made a meaningful gesture and ripped the gun from Link's hand; he felt a short resistance, then the other man let go. The grip was warm and smooth, and Ghirahim preferred not to ponder where Link had gotten it. It was surprisingly heavy, and Ghirahim wasn't tempted to hold it, though it gave his almost shaking fingers something to cling to. His weapon was his wit and occasionally a smashing slap. And the swiveling of his hips.

For the first time, Ghirahim took notice of the place where the now broken tile had been. His nerves were still vibrating from the shock, so his brain felt numb. He should have been surprised to see a small, iron safe embedded between the tiles, but the feeling didn't arise. Although the lock had been hidden under the tile, the bullet had blasted the iron open. The accuracy didn't exactly placate Ghirahim – the ricochet could well have hit him instead of the vase.

"Why?"

He stepped over the shards, even if it probably didn't help his bare feet much.

"Threw away the key." Link sounded somewhat dazed. He didn't try to cool his cheek to prevent a swelling, although the skin was in an angry shade of red now. Ghirahim shot him a glance, then dug his nails into the tiny gap between door and wall to force the safe open.

It was small, and it didn't contain much, no cash or, what was even more disappointing, no unfinished manuscript. God knew what that would be worth.

Link drew in his breath as if Ghirahim had opened a horrible tomb. He grew pale underneath the mark of the slap, visibly fighting the urge to slam the safe shut.

Ghirahim casually dropped the revolver (good thing those needed to be cocked, because it would have been distinctly unfab to shoot yourself that way) and pulled the few contents out.

A pink, girly handbag surfaced, along with some colorful hair ribbons and a toothbrush tumbler. So there were people who still used that stuff… It was not hard to guess that these things belonged to Zelda, and Link had kept them in a peculiar twilight zone between neglect and loving safekeeping.

Despite the tension still lingering in his muscles, Ghirahim's professional curiosity awoke. He put the beaker and the ribbons aside after briefly examining them and took the bag. There were some dark stains on the cheerfully pink accessory – blood, without a doubt, though someone had tried to scrub it off.

"She had this when she was at that store?" It was rather obvious, and Link nodded tersely. He watched Ghirahim with an unreadable expression, but hardly moved. It was impossible to say whether he wanted to tear the belongings of his fiancée from these alien hands, or if he was glad that Ghirahim spared him the contact with painful memories. Perhaps it was both.

Ghirahim sashayed towards the living room again, small cuts burned at the soles of his feet, yet he did not pay them attention. He emptied the contents of the bag onto the table with as much respect as he could (or whatever you tagged as such) and began to inspect.

Zelda didn't seem to be as queer as her boyfriend (and yes, that adjective had been chosen with care) – in fact, she was rather normal. She carried basic makeup, a brush, a bunch of cute key chains, a hand mirror, old cash vouchers and hundred other tiny things that Ghirahim was all too familiar with. Like a good fiancée, she had a photo of Link and her in her purse and some old rings. Considering that she had been at a jewelry store, it was self-evident what for if she wanted to soothe her jealous lover. Ghirahim politely ignored Link swallowing dryly.

"You suspect something, but you don't tell me about it. Fine." The Demon Lord flipped his hair. "Have you ever looked at this stuff?"

Link shook his head. "A feeling", he rasped.

"Oh, fuck me."

Ghirahim overlooked the alienated mien of the author (he hadn't invented that phrase, so what?) and began to dig around in the handbag. Paper crackled beneath his fingers as he triumphantly pulled out a folded note. "Now, that is something. See these lines? This was the content of an envelope. I thought she was supposed to be in a hurry?"

He unfolded the paper. Because Zelda had disposed of the envelope, there was no postmark, but whoever had sent it had thankfully made a letterhead.

"One day before she… died." Link eyed the paper warily. Ghirahim couldn't tell what was going on with him – frankly, he was too excited to think. With regard to Link's dyslexia, he read the short content out loud.

"Dear Zelda, it has become urgent. I have prepared and sent you the necessary material, await it within the day after this letter. I will take the risk of giving the address already because time is short. Get into contact asap. 'Loftwing Avenue 3920-6 B'. It will be Fi."

There was no signature, the printed letters gave away nothing. Ghirahim frowned, but Link met his look of bewilderment, equally stunned. Unless he was a terrific actor, he didn't have the faintest idea what this was about.

"Did you get any material?"

Link shook his head again. "Not out here. I… have no claim on her belongings since we were… not married."

"Who does?"

"Her father."

Ghirahim whistled quietly and ran his tongue along the corners of his mouth. "What's Fi?"

Again, Link seemed helpless, he simply crossed his legs to rest his slightly cut foot. Ghirahim tried it with abbreviations. "Financial Institution? Feminist Initiative? Functional Integration? It could even be a name, short for Fiona or Fiadora. If she cheated on you with a girl, I'll laugh at you till I croak it."

Link didn't seem to find that particularly funny. He stared at the letter as if it had turned into a poisonous snake. He had been hiding away for three long years, and it seemed like the temptation to burn this note and continue his peaceful solitude was strong. The explanation of a feeling was rather vague, but Link probably hadn't wanted to explain his foreboding.

Ghirahim wasn't too good at being tactful or consolatory – and it would have been a strange thing to do for someone you knew only for a week, let alone for… anyone. Ghirahim would never coddle anyone, his persona had no space for protective and tender instincts. And all that mattered was his success. The wheels already began to turn, developing a plan while he scrolled through his cell phone.

Oh, that must be all too convenient for you.

He ignored the pesky voice in the back of his mind.

"Where?"

Link ran his hands through his hair, looking alluringly like a womanizer in spite of his visible distress. Ghirahim smirked. So Tarzan had guts after all.

"Looked it up. That's an address in Hyrule City – really not the best neighborhood, by the way."

If possible, Link's face grew even more reluctant.

"Hyrule City."

"That's what I said, darling. Don't expect me to train speaking with you." Ghirahim drew an elegant circle with his finger on the paper of the letter, then tipped on it. "The ugly truth is that all the spoors of your girl's mysterious activities might have gone cold long ago, since you insisted on sulking. Even a PI would likely just turn you down. And you don't even manage to talk to people, less than ever how."

He was rubbing salt into the wound now. Ghirahim bestowed a bright smile upon Link and leaned towards him. "You wouldn't guess what the media have in store, though, especially about a raid on a store in a godforsaken backwater whose gains usually wouldn't even cover the gas expenses of the journey." He silently blessed his assistant for including that in his notes. Link didn't react too obviously, but he was attentive. He first looked at the note, then at Ghirahim, his eyes cool and strained.

"Why?"

There would have been many ways to interpret that question. No one was more surprised than Ghirahim himself when his lips twisted into a humorless smile.

"Someone royally fucked my life. Someone who will regret that deeply. I won't tell you more."

Link didn't question his motive, and maybe he hadn't wanted to hear it. His hand sank from his hair to his cheek, gently rubbing the tender skin while his expression remained barred. His gaze was lost somewhere until it, oddly enough, turned to Ghirahim and fixed on his face. The silence stretched for minutes, an unnatural quietness that seemed comfortable.

Until Ghirahim abruptly kicked Link's resting foot with his own. The author gave a low hiss of pain, and Ghirahim grinned at him.

"Told ya I'd make us blood brothers, didn't I?"

And fuck, that hurt – he should have been more careful with those shards. Link stared at him with a glint of twisted amusement and gingerly reached under the table to touch the sole. His fingertips were smeared with blood; possibly only his own, but that wasn't what counted.

Oh yes, it's perfectly convenient if you get to keep him. As if there was another cogent reason for a millstone around the neck.

Ghirahim frowned at the nasty voice speaking up once more. He had always disposed of anything and anyone that threatened to become a nuisance to him. And he never teamed up, and there was the creeping suspicion that Link wouldn't do so either. In short, it was a nice idea, and completely useless in the execution. And if he had caught anything with that dumb gesture of blood-bonding, he so deserved that.

"You are crazy."

Link's bleak statement was as startling as the shot. There was no reason this shouldn't get a ricochet as well.

"Close to it."

Ghirahim grabbed Link's faintly bloody hand and examined the rusty-red color with a smirk. "Kind of a déjà-vu, don't you think?", he remarked casually and leaned forward, the little whirligig in his head spun wildly. Could be that there was still residual alcohol in his blood, or some sort of shock still lingered. However, being caught between those roller coasters might not be so bad.

"And unless you want me to repeat whatever I said back then, I suggest that you kiss me."

Link smiled the shadow of a cocky smile. But it was a smile nonetheless. His voice seemed sealed away again because he simply looked at Ghirahim with non-comitial attention, raising one eyebrow ever so slightly.

Ghirahim yanked him over the table and pressed their lips together in a bruising kiss full of promise. Their hands wrestled on the wooden surface for gratuitous dominance, an omen of some sort, then slowly entwined – for the time being. It tasted like chocolate and tension, and when Link groaned softly, fabric rustled. Zelda's paper-eyes seemed to regard them thoughtfully.

Outside, a mild drizzle began.

/

Here we are – at the end of the first part. I thought I'd make it without a Drawn-Together-reference, but I failed in this last chapter. Oh, well.

I'm actually proud of this because I'm usually not nearly as fluent, but Ghirahim is strangely fun to write for all his egoistic behavior and crude humor. And of course, it wouldn't have been so easy without your wonderful feedback! Thank you so much for giving AU a chance with suggestive yoga, stream-wrestling, alcohol abuse and fabulous fights for dominance.

I'm really excited to start with the new plot – join me in the sequel 'The Closest Thing To Crazy: Forever Not Yours'.

And yes, the name says it all.