#SHE'S HOT SHE'S FIT SHE HAS THE LUNG VOLUME OF A GODDESS AND SHE ONLY DOES HELENE FISCHER

[definitely-not-an-alb]

Not zurechnungsfähig rn but I think fundamentally the reason i am immune to whatever dubious sway TSwift holds over terrifying large parts of the internet is that my heart is already lost to another technically very skilled singer with atrocious music taste (Helene Fischer)

[tayegi]

New Rules Ch. 12

Word count: 10,425

Word spreads fast. It seems like no matter where you turn on campus, you see smirking faces and people whispering under their breath while pointing in your direction. As if it wasn't bad enough being the Ice Queen bitch, now you're the delusional bitch who actually thought she had a chance with Jeon Jungkook and threw a hysterical fit about it in front of his entire frat. Embarrassing does not even begin to describe it. It was bad enough when Jungkook rejected you to your face. But now the whole school knows about it… and you can't even show your face in public.

You contemplate dropping out of school, with only a year left, for a period of time. The only thing that keeps you from fleeing for a hermit life is the support of your girlfriends.

Mijoo is the first one who finds out. You had been dreading her reaction the most. She had been encouraging you to pursue Jungkook since day one, and was adamantly convinced that he actually liked you… You don't know how you can show your face in front of your best friend. Scorn is bad enough; you wouldn't be able to survive her pity.

You should've known her better than that. Once again, Mijoo proves why she's the one person you love most in the world.

The day after your dramatic scene at the frat house, word spreads like wildfire around campus. Hell, the very next morning, the entire sorority is aware of your embarrassing meltdown. And Mijoo is no exception. So you dash out first thing in the morning before she wakes, then hole up in the library all day. But with finals over, the library closes early. And you're forced to retreat back to the sorority house, your tail between your legs, hours earlier than you'd like. And this time, there's no way to avoid your roommate.

As anticipated, Mijoo is in your shared room, clearly waiting for you by the time you finally drag yourself in. Your eyes meet when you shut the door behind you, and neither of you know what to say for a moment.

The awkwardness is suffocating, so you try to break the tension with a laugh, "Haha, so I guess you've heard about the news?" you ask, sheepishly rubbing at the back of your head.

Mijoo doesn't say anything in return, but a single nod confirms your suspicions.

You resist the urge to cringe and double your efforts to keep up a nonchalant façade. You can't let her know how much this has affected you. Her sympathy would crush you. So you offer her a playful roll of your eyes, "Silly, isn't it? Oh well. Glad that's over and done with! Phew!"

But of course, your best friend can see through your act at once. Her face crumples and suddenly she's rushing towards you with outstretched arms, "Oh, ___," she sighs your name.

You wince when she hugs you tightly to her chest, suffocating you with her love. You really can't endure this. Anything but her pity. Oh god. This is the worst. You've never felt so small and idiotic. If you could have one wish, you'd have the ground open up to swallow you whole and—

"I'm proud of you."

Mijoo's unexpected words cut through the panicked frenzy of your brain like a cold knife.

You blink hazily, "Wh-what?"

She pulls back to gingerly cup your face with the utmost care, "I'm proud of you, ___," she repeats in a soft voice. "It can't have been easy confessing your feelings like that. And standing up for what you believed in. You are so strong, ___. And I admire you."

This is not what you had been expecting whatsoever. And all at once, your feelings of dread melt away, swallowed by a tide of affection. "M-mijoo," you whisper, voice choked with something dangerously close to tears. "Oh god, Mijoo." And with that, the floodgate of emotions bursts and you throw your arms around her, clinging on for dear life.

"Thank you," you breathe into the warmth of her embrace.

You can feel her smile against the crook of your neck, "___, you are a strong, independent, fierce goddess. Do you hear me? Any man who can't see that doesn't deserve you."

Tears fill your eyes, no matter how you try to blink them back, "It's me who doesn't deserve you."

Mijoo laughs softly as you tighten your grip on her hard enough to squeeze the air from her lungs, "I love you, ___."

"Good. Because that's all I need."

And when you finally let her go from your crushing hug to look her in the eye, Mijoo can tell from your watery, but steely gaze that you're not lying. Because no matter what happens, as long as you have her in your life, you can survive anything. Jeon Jungkook means nothing in comparison.

***

"I can't believe he turned out to be such an asshole!" Yerin exclaims in outrage when the three of you meet up for drinks the following Friday evening.

You pause to take a sip of your beer to hide your grin, "I dunno. I should've known better."

"No!" she practically yells at you, "How could you have known?! Men these days are all sneaky ass bastards! Well, fuck him!"

"Yeah!" Mijoo cheerfully agrees, sloshing her beer down her arm, "Fuck men!"

You choke back a laugh as you watch your best friends happily high-five each other in agreement, splashing beer all over the bar in the process. Mijoo and Yerin might have had one too many to drink… But they're so cute that you can't find it in you to reprimand them.

"Mijoo, what about Jimin?" you politely remind her, "Your boyfriend?"

"Oh, him…" she bitterly mutters under her breath, "Well, fuck him too!"

"… Aren't you bringing him to the sorority's homecoming dance after the break ends?"

"Oh yeah, that's right… Should I just dump him?"

"Wow. You must be really drunk if you're saying that," you snicker, "Ok, I'm taking the beer away."

"Ooh, can I have him if you don't want him anymore?!" Yerin eagerly waves her hand up in the air like a school kid waiting to be called on.

"Boys ain't shit," you playfully nudge her, "They're all crusty cheesemolds, remember?"

"No, only Yoongi's crusty," Yerin bitterly says.

"Ahh, he's not that bad…" you feebly defend him.

Both women turn to you in shock, "___, what are you saying?!"

"Yeah, whose side are you on, anyways?!"

You cower before their dual fury. You'd like nothing more than to correct them, but you can't forget about the promise you made Yoongi… "Yeah, you're right," you hold up your hands in defense, in case they start attacking, "He's the biggest dickbag of them all."

"Damn right."

"Cheers to that!" Mijoo crows as she holds up her pint of beer a toast.

Yerin whoops in joy and happily joins her, "Boys suck! I've decided that I'm gonna be the biggest fuckgirl of all time from now on!"

"Yeah! That's the spirit!"

You rush to intervene, "Wait, what?! Yerin, no! That is not a good idea!"

"Why not? Get that D while you're still young, girl!"

You hastily slap a hand over Mijoo's mouth before your roommate can continue with her horrible, drunken advice, "No! Don't get that D while you're young! Get it when you're both emotionally and physically mature enough to make reasonable—"

"Omg, Mimi should we go dancing?!" Yerin interrupts, her eyes as wide as saucers.

"Why are you even asking?! Fuck yeah!"

And with that, your two best friends are off, and you have no choice but to chase after them, playing the role of the babysitter for the first time in your life.

"Wait, where are you going?! Girls, wait for me!"

***

Once more, you find yourself outside of the epsilon chi omicron house. You'd sworn to yourself, after that eventful Halloween weekend, that you would never return to this place. But clearly, luck is never on your side.

So here you are, on a freezing Friday night, watching your two drunk friends attempt to sloppily flirt their way into a private party when you'd much rather be curled up in your warm, cozy bed. You sigh deeply as you watch Mijoo twirl her hair around a finger and bat her eyelashes.

"Oh come onnn," she coaxes, "Can't you just make an exception for us? Just this once?"

The bouncer falters under the force of her adorable pout, "I… Um… Sorry, Miss," he says, somehow managing to resist, "I really can't let you in."

"We won't cause any trouble," Yerin rushes to Mijoo's defense, "We just wanna have one teeny tiny little drink… Pleeeeaase?"

The bouncer awkwardly scratches the back of his head, "I… I dunno… Let me ask the other brothers…" And with that, he twists around to address some guys behind him, "Hey guys, these cute chicks want to join the party. Can I let them in?"

"Ah, I don't know about that," a second frat brother says as he approaches the door, "This party is invite-only and we don't—wait a minute… Is that you? Are my eyes deceiving me right now?" he asks, gawking in shock as his eyes widen in recognition.

And you're horrified to find that he's staring straight at you. Confused, you glance over your shoulder, but there's no one behind you. "… Me?"

"Yes, you!" He exclaims, suddenly bursting into hearty laughter, "I never thought I'd see you again. Come on in!" He grabs you by the shoulder and yanks you through the front door.

Bewildered, all three of you stumble after him, "Um… Do I know you?"

But the frat brother ignores you as he drags you to the center of the party, "Guys! She's here!"

"What?!" you say in alarm, "I really think that you are mixing me up with someone—"

"It's her!" Comes his joyous exclamation, "The hotdog girl!"

"What? The hotdog girl?"

"Oh my god, it's the hotdog girl!"

"Waaa! Fuck yeah, hotgot girl!"

All the color blanches from your face as the crowd of people all light up with realization.

"Let the hotdog dance! Let the hotdog dance! Let the hotdog—"

"Oh god, I need a drink," you groan.

***

"Ooh, he's pretty hot, ___," Mijoo says in a conspiratorial whisper as the guy who let you into the house cheerfully fills the red solo cup in your hand for what feels like the hundredth time, "And I think he's into you, too…"

"Ah, whatever. Drunk guys are easy," you snort as you take a giant gulp from your cup. If you can't beat 'em, join 'em, right?"

"You should fuck him!" Yerin passionately shouts, "Teach that coconut asshole a lesson!"

You wince at the volume of her voice, "Nah, that's not a very mature thing to do, baby girl."

"Why not?! I think you should too!" Mijoo exclaims, "I mean, Jeon was cute, I'll give you that. But pretty boys like him are a dime a dozen. Come take your pick here! It's practically raining men!"

"Hallelujah!" Yerin fervidly adds.

"I know he was good-looking, but…" you bite your lip before you can let anything else slip. But that's not why I liked him…

"If you won't fuck this guy, then I will!"

You jerk your head to look at your cute little blonde friend with shock, "Yerin! Don't say such things!"

"Why not?" She shoots back, "I have nothing to lose. If Yoongi doesn't like me, who cares? There are dozens of men at this party who would love to have me!"

"Damn right!" Mijoo crows as she pours practically half a bottle of vodka in her solo cup.

You wince as you wrestle the bottle away from her, "Are you forgetting that you're still a virgin?" you hiss at Yerin in a low voice, "Don't be acting like this. It's not you!"

"I'm sick of being the goody-goody little virgin girl!" She angrily yells as she rips the bottle from your grip, "I'm not nice. I'm not sweet. And I sure as hell am not naïve! I want to be a fuckgirl, too! Why can't I ever have any fun?!"

Something about the way she says this makes you very uncomfortable. Sure, if she really just wanted to sleep around for the pleasure, you'd have no choice but to support her… But what are her motives here…?

You quickly grab her wrist before she can take a swig straight out the bottle, "Stop it, Yerin. You aren't thinking straight. I know what happened with Yoongi was rough, but you really don't have to do this to prove anything, okay? You are a smart, wonderful woman and you'll find someone perfect for you one day."

"Easy for you to say," she snaps as she yanks the bottle out of your hand, "At least you have Jung Hoseok waiting on your beck and call. I have nobody!" And with that, she raises the bottle to her lips and takes a deep, long drink. "But fuck it, I'm gonna go wild and I don't even care! Whoo!"

"Wait, Yerin!" You exclaim, trying to chase after her when she rushes for the dance floor, but Mijoo holds you back.

"Don't, ___," the pretty brunette says as she holds you firmly in place, "Nothing you say or do can convince her otherwise right now."

"But she's making a mistake! She could get into serious trouble!"

But Mijoo holds firm, no matter how you struggle in her grip, "Well, she has to figure that out for herself. You're not her mom. You can't ground her or shelter her forever. This is a lesson she can only learn from herself."

You chew your lip, indecisive, as you glance between the slim brunette and the mosh bit. You know that your roommate is right, but you can't help but worry. "What if she gets hurt?"

Mijoo shrugs, "Well, that's just life. You can't protect her from everything, ___. Besides, don't we all go through a phase like this?"

Heat flushes through your system at the reminder, "Ah… Don't remind me of that dark period."

Mijoo laughs, "It might not have been the prettiest period of time, but you did manage to fuck Seokjin out of your system, right? Maybe you could use a bit of that right now…"

But the very thought of sleeping with a faceless stranger makes you cringe, "Nah. That's not my thing anymore… It was fun for a bit, but I think I need to be with someone I truly care about."

"Like Hoseok?" Mijoo suggests with a little waggle of her eyebrows, "You know the homecoming dance is coming up… Maybe you could use your invite on him…?"

Your eyes widen at the suggestion. For some reason, it hadn't even crossed your mind. But now that you think about it, it makes perfect sense. "Hmm. That's not a bad idea actually…"

A sudden, roaring cheer from the dance floor makes the two of you jump in surprise. And you promptly forget about the conversation at hand as you watch a petite blonde girl perform a keg stand in the middle of the mosh pit while a dozen frat brothers surround her and cheer.

"Oh no, Yerin, no!"

***

Needless to say, you find yourself carrying Yerin home that night. You and Mijoo had grudgingly let it slide when Yerin unleashed herself on the dance floor. You even resisted the urge to violently interfere when the younger girl began making out with some random frat brother (well, Mijoo had to hold you back while you struggled and screamed bloody murder, but same thing). However, when Yerin decided to climb up the table and attempt to one-up your hotdog girl reputation, that's when it was time to intervene.

But of course, it was easier said than done. It's clear that you are the only sober one around in a one-mile radius, and Mijoo was far too drunk to be of much help. And unfortunately, there was no serendipitous run-in with Yoongi this time… Although that might not have been particularly welcome to the heartbroken Yerin. So you are left with no choice but to utilize the services of the weird little frat brother who recognized you all the way from Halloween.

"Hey what are you doing after this, hotdog girl?" He cheerfully asks.

"I dunno," you mutter as you groan under Yerin's weight, "Can you just focus on not dropping my baby on her head?!"

"Whoops, sorry," he cheerfully says as he adjusts his grip on the younger girl, "So what's your deal anyways? You got a boyfriend or something, hotdog girl?"

You look up to flash him the deathliest glare you can muster, "Can you please stop calling me that? I've got a name, you know! It's ___, goddamn it!"

"___?" he repeats, "Oh, that's pretty. I'm Sehun, by the way."

You grunt in response.

"So, about that boyfriend…?"

"Fuck Junkcock!" Mijoo suddenly screeches from behind the two of you, triggered by the word. "That shit burger dink!"

Sehun's eyes widen in surprise, "Wait… You're Jeon Jungkook's ex-girlfriend? Damn, I've heard so much about this."

Embarrassment washes over you like a wave, "Yeah, I'm that hysterical freak. So what?"

"Nothing," he laughs, "We heard about this angry ex-girlfriend who called out Jeon and embarrassed him in front of everyone, but I never thought I'd meet her in person. You're an idol to us in Exo."

You wince at the memories, "I was never his girlfriend… But thanks, I guess?"

"Wow, I seriously can't believe that's you," he says with a delighted laugh, "This makes me like you even more!"

To your horror, his bold proclamation stirs the sleepy girl in your arms, "Huh?" Yerin blearily rubs her eyes, "You like ___?" She asks in confusion, "Why don't you like me?!" And with that, she proceeds to burst into tears.

You would have pinched the bridge of your nose in frustration if not for the fear of dropping the younger girl on her head, "Shut up, playboy," you growl at Sehun.

"Pssht, ___!" Mijoo tries to whisper in your ear, but ends up practically bursting an eardrum, "This guy's hot. You should fuck him!"

Embarrassment floods you at the way Sehun's eyes light up in delight, "Yeah! What she said! What brilliant advice!"

But this makes Yerin cry harder, "Why won't anyone fuck me instead?!"

You groan deeply, "I hate my life."

***

It's a quarter past two in the morning by the time you finally get Yerin back to her dorm room and shake Sehun loose. He dramatically requests a kiss in exchange for his noble services carrying your pesky younger friend home, but you manage to ward him off with your phone number instead.

And then you're stuck with the task of piggy-backing Mijoo home.

You thank all the deities you can think of for not running into any cops or nosy security officers on your way back to the sorority house. You have no doubt that they'd take one look at your drooling roommate, and haul her ass off to prison. But somehow, somehow, you manage to drag her back to the house in one piece, undeterred even as she shrieks out her love for you and covers your neck in messy kisses.

As soon as you enter your shared room, you hurriedly dump her in bed, eager to rid yourself of her weight, and dashing for the kitchen before she can kiss you anymore. Not that you mind too much, but you don't know how you'd explain yourself to Jimin.

You're sagging with weariness by the time you make your way down to the kitchen to grab Mijoo a glass of water before she dies of dehydration. It's been a long night, and all you've done is run around trying to protect your best friends. Not exactly the stress relief that you were looking for… But it was fun, in a weird way.

You're hovering over the kitchen sink, smiling to yourself over the amusing memories of your intoxicated friends, when the front door swings open. Surprised to find another sister returning home so late, you look up to greet her—but your voice dies in your chest at the sight of Hyejin stumbling through the door. Your eyes meet, but neither of you say anything for a moment.

Then, the beautiful redhead sighs and kicks off her towering stilettos to march into the kitchen, "Did you just get back as well?"

"Yeah… I was at an EXO party. What about you?"

"The club," She says as she reaches around you for a glass, "Did you have fun?"

You know that the socially appropriate answer is to simply agree with a smile. But it's so late and you're too exhausted for these meaningless niceties, "Nah," you admit with a sigh, "It was tiring."

"Me too," Hyejin says as she fills up her glass, "I guess neither of us are succeeding in our attempts to get over him, huh?"

You freeze in shock as she ever-so-casually addresses the elephant in the room, "O-oh, you mean Jungkook?"

"Yeah," she says as she sips her water, "I heard about what happened between you guys. I'm so sorry, ___."

"A-ah," you stammer, surprised beyond words. Why is she doing this? Before today, you could've sworn that she hated you, "Thank you… Um… I'm sorry for you as well…"

Hyejin simply shrugs her elegant shoulders, "Don't be. I should've known better… Guys like that will never change… But I just couldn't help myself…"

You blink at her in confusion, "What do you mean?"

The older woman flashes you a half-hearted smile, "It's hard not to like him, huh? I mean, he's gorgeous and so talented, but that's not why we like him, is it?"

You can't find the words to respond with as you stare at her with huge eyes.

Hyejin absentmindedly swirls the water around in her glass for a few seconds before continuing, "I first met him about two years ago, when I was at a BTS party and he was still just a little Freshman pledge. And at first, I didn't think anything of him… He was cute, sure, but who cares? Guys with his looks are a dime a dozen on this campus. And I didn't want to mess around with a little underclassman. But then…" she bites down on her bottom lip, "But then, all of that changed."

"How so, Hyejin?" you ask, eyes alight with curiosity.

The redhead chuckles softly as she stares down at her glass, "When a frat brother slipped a date-rape drug in my drink…"

Your eyes bulge in horror, "What?!"

"It was the scariest moment of my life," Hyejin sighs as she stares dreamily into the distance, "Every limb felt like it was weighed down with lead, and I couldn't talk, couldn't move or even fucking breathe. I thought I was going to die. And that senior frat brother… He kept trying to drag me into his room…"

"Oh my god," you gasp, "Hyejin, I—"

"Nothing happened," she quickly cuts you off, dispelling your worries, "Luckily, a couple of guys at the party noticed and interfered before the senior could take me to his room, and called an ambulance… Jungkook was one of those guys."

"Thank god," you exhale in relief, "No wonder you like him so much. I had no idea."

But Hyejin simply shakes her head with a little laugh, "Nah. That's not why. Anyone can save a victim at the scene of the crime. It's what he did afterwards that really mattered…"

"Afterwards?" you repeat in confusion, "What happened?"

Hyejin's teeth sink into her bottom lip, and you don't miss the way her hand tightens around her water glass hard enough to make the knuckles turn white. It's clear that the pain never eases, even after all these years.

"It's easy to apprehend a crime… but not as easy to follow up with justice…" She says after a long, deliberative pause, "The person who tried to rape me… He was a senior in the frat. And his father was a very powerful man who made important donations to the frat and to the school as a whole. It didn't matter that I had drug tests from the hospital proving that I had been roofied. No one cared to hear it… No one dared to oppose him… Except one noisy little Freshman boy…"

A lump forms in your throat that you can't swallow down. You can't see Hyejin's expression clearly in the darkness, but a single beam of moonlight that streams through the parted curtains of the kitchen window allows you a glimpse of her clenched teeth. It feels like your chest may cave with empathy, but you're too afraid to break the spell if you reach out to touch her like you crave.

"Jungkook was the only one who refused to cover it up. Even at the risk of not making it into the frat, he went up to the president and demanded justice… There was unfortunately nothing he could do at the university-level, but he managed to convince Namjoon to kick that rapist out of BTS…" Hyejin pauses to take a shaky breath.

"He was only a Freshman pledge… He could've been rejected from the frat. Worse, he could've experience backlash from going against such an important person, and been kicked off the soccer team. Had his scholarship revoked or something. But he didn't care… Even though he didn't know me… Even though I was just a stranger to him… He stood up for me. He stood up for what he believed in… And I've been in love with him ever since."

Her words send a shiver down your spine. You're so entirely shell-shocked and overwhelmed with emotion that you can't speak. You can only stare at her in the silvery darkness as your heart breaks into a thousand piece for her.

Hyejin must notice the utter despair in your gaze, because she smiles and reassuringly squeezes your shoulder, "I'm not telling you this to feel bad for me, sweetie. I'm telling you this, because I want you to know that you're not alone. I know exactly how you feel… Jungkook… he's a really good guy at his core. But he's still an immature kid and he can be a complete jackass at times. He definitely needs to grow the fuck up before he can handle a woman like us," she says with a playful nudge.

"Oh, Hyejin…" you murmur, forehead crinkling as you stare at her with wide, doe-like eyes, "I… I just… I'm so—"

"Nah, I don't need to hear it," she laughs, "Me and you, we'll move forward, alright? It's not fair for us to wait for him. We'll get over this kind, caring, immature asshole together."

You offer her a tremulous smile as you barely resist the urge to tackle her in an embrace. Knowing Hyejin, she would definitely not appreciate that. "Yes," you breathe, "Yes, we will."

And when you muster the courage to gently touch her hand, you're delighted when she doesn't immediately move away.

***

The next morning, after you've cleaned up all of Mijoo's vomit and ushered her to the showers, you sit on your bed and stare down at your cell phone, reflecting on your conversation with Hyejin the night before. She's right. Jungkook is a good man. In fact, he could be everything you could want in a man in a few years… But not now. You can't wait around and hope that he'll grow up. You have to move on. You owe that to yourself, at least. You, and Hyejin.

So after taking a deep breath for strength, you pick up your phone and dial in a number.

To your relief, the other party answers after just a few rings, "Hello?"

"Hi, Hoseok… How do you feel about going to the homecoming ball with me next weekend?"

***

A week later, you yank clothing out of your closet in a state of complete panic as Mijoo and Yerin watch you in amusement. "Ah!" you shriek, "Hoseok's gonna be here in half an hour! What do I wear?!"

"Calm down, you only have like two dresses anyways," Mijoo points out with a snicker, "Just pick one of them and let's go."

"But which one?!" You exclaim as you hold up both dresses, "Is this one a bit too plain?" you ask as you gesture to a dark gray shift.

"Yes, definitely," Mijoo says at once, "This is a formal ball, not a job interview."

"Ugh… Should I just wear my pantsuit instead?"

"Definitely not. I mean, you look cute in anything, but don't you want to look extra nice for Hoseok?"

"Why does it matter anyways?" Yerin suddenly pipes up, "Hoseok's so whipped for you that he'd love you in anything."

"What? I don't think that's right…" you say as you consider your options with unease, "Maybe I should take a chance and wear the pink dress…"

"Yes!" Mijoo crows with delight, "You've been saving that weapon since the goddamn date auction last semester. It's time to unleash that on us! We deserve it!"

You chuckle at her dramatic statement, "Okay… Maybe I should wear it… But isn't it a little too… pretty for me? I don't think I can pull it off…"

"Oh, don't say that, ___!" Yerin says, "I'm also wearing a long dress, and mine is also glittery!"

Both you and Mijoo turn to her in surprise, "Wait, you're going to the ball, too?"

"Yep. I'm officially a member of the sorority now, too, remember?" She cheerfully informs you.

"Ah, that's right," you say with a fond ruffle of her hair, "My adorable little sister… So glad you picked me as your big sis over Mijoo," you whisper in a conspiratorial voice.

"I heard that!" you pretty brunette roommate exclaims in outrage.

"Sorry, babe," you chuckle, "But my cute baby and I are perfectly suited for each other! That's why we're even wearing matching dresses to the ball, huh?"

"That's right!" Yerin happily chirps, "I want to be exactly like ___!"

"Good girl!" you coo as you reach over to scratch her under the chin.

But then Mijoo frowns, "Wait a minute… I understand that you can go to the ball now as a sister… But who did you invite as your date?"

"Oh Sehun."

You and Mijoo exchange a confused look, "Huh?"

"Who?"

"The EXO brother, remember?"

"Ooh," you say as realization dawns upon you, "The fuckboi who helped us home? Why would you ask him, Yerin?"

"Yeah, didn't he like ___?" Mijoo adds, confused.

The younger girl flushes pink at that reminder, "Y-yeah… But he was really cute… and I wanted to do something nice for him to thank him for carrying me back to the dorms…"

But Mijoo still looks perplexed, "Wait but if he likes ___, why would he agree to go with you?"

Yerin sheepishly scratches the back of her head, "… I may or may not have told him that ___ was going to be there… and that I'd try to set them up…"

You groan in annoyance, "Why, Yerin?! You know as well as I do that that little fuckboi doesn't actually like me!"

The blonde girl looks up in surprise, "Wait he doesn't?"

"Of course not! He doesn't know the slightest thing about me. He's just thirsty and trying to get in my pants, because he thinks of me as this wild party animal… or party hotdog… Either way, it's not real."

"Really?" Yerin says with her eyes as wide as saucers, "That's all it takes to get a guy to like you?"

You glance at her harshly, "Is that all you got out of that?!"

"I like Sehun," Mijoo suddenly pipes up, "He's got a great ass. Granted, it's not as bouncy as my Chimchim's, but at least it's better than that pancake ass of Yoongi's. I support you, Yerin."

"What?!" you exclaim in horror, "Mimi! Not you too!"

"Don't worry, ___," Yerin says as she kindly pats your hand, "You still have Hoseok. And he has the ass of a Greek god."

"… oh my god, you guys…"

"Speaking of that Greek god… Isn't he coming over any minute now?" Mijoo kindly reminds you.

Your jaw drops, "Shit!"

***

Fifteen minutes later, you find yourself decked in your floor-length pink tulle dress as Mijoo and Yerin flutter around you, trying to plaster you with as much makeup as they can manage before Hoseok gets to the house. But all too soon, you receive the dreaded text announcing his arrival.

I'm downstairs!

That sets the girls into a state of panic. Mijoo almost rubs lipstick all over your face in her haste to apply it, and Yerin nearly breaks your big toe trying to shove your feet into borrowed heels. And you can only sit there the whole time, too scared to move with your heart racing a thousand beats a minute. You've never been so dolled up in your entire life, and for a moment, you feel so helplessly self-conscious that you consider feigning an illness and calling this whole thing off. But somehow, you force yourself to rise to your feet and numbly make your way downstairs. Because you can't allow yourself to keep hiding behind your insecurities. You have to channel Hyejin and move on with your life.

Your feet hurt with every step and your dress is a bit too tight—making it a struggle to even breathe, but when you catch a glimpse of your reflection in the mirror on your way out, but can't deny that you look good. Hell, this is probably the best you've looked in your entire life. The cut of the dress emphasizes your figure and the heels make your legs look miles long. Hell, even the makeup is flawless and highlights your best features. For once in your life, you're showing off rather than hiding, and you feel so good about yourself that you feel like you're floating…

But your tenuous ego immediately shatters when Hoseok takes one look at you and bursts into laughter.

"Oh my god!" he laughs, doubling over and clutching his stomach from the hilarity, "What are you wearing?!"

You self-consciously tug down your dress and suck in your tummy, "What? Is it really that bad?"

"No," he says once he calms down enough to rub the tears from his eyes, "It's just that… It's not like you."

"Oh…" you feebly say, "I was… just trying something new? I guess that it didn't work then…"

"No, you're pretty no matter what you wear," he says with an award-winning grin, "But this just doesn't suit you… Did you lose a bet or something?" he chuckles.

You timidly smile back. Of course this doesn't suit you. You're the ugly tomboy who needs to hide behind her oversized hoodies and sweatpants. You must look like a pig in a dress, all dolled up like this. "Ah… maybe I should go change then…"

"Nah," Hoseok laughs, "We're late, and you've put in all this effort anyways, so why not?"

Somehow, the way he says this makes you feel even worse. And you want nothing more than the ground to open up and swallow you whole. "Alright," you murmur in a small voice, "Let's go."

***

As always, the sorority's annual ball is held in the swanky hotel downtown. Hoseok seems unimpressed by the decor, but this is your first time attending this particular event, and you're blown away by all the glamor.

The ballroom is enormous, with vast marble floors and high ceilings illuminated by golden, shimmery lights. It's like a scene straight out of a fairytale with the colorful dresses bursting across the dancefloor and the men in their dapper suits. Only, you don't feel like Cinderella. Next to all the goddesses decked in silk, you feel like the ugly stepsister. And the handsome Prince Charming escorting you to the ball only makes you feel a million times worse in comparison.

"Is there something wrong?" Hoseok interrupts your thoughts with a hand pressed to the small of your back.

You flinch from his touch, "Nothing," you lie, "I just need a drink."

***

"So…" you awkwardly attempt to make conversation a few minutes later, when you and Hoseok settle down with your drinks at a table, "How's recruitment going? Did you make a decision yet?"

"I'm leaning towards Seoul team," he informs you, "But I might spend a few months training with the national team first… but of course, you must know all about this," he says with a laugh.

You look up in surprise, "I would?"

"Yeah. A sports fanatic must've heard all about this news ages ago."

It takes you a second to realize that he's not joking. So you force a smile and lie along, "Ah, that's right. I already knew. But I wanted to give you a chance to tell me. Although any decision you make is sure to be great!"

He grins at that, "See, this is why I like you so much. It's hard to find a girl who's so informed about the sport, yet so chill about everything."

"Haha, you know that's me," you say, praying that he doesn't notice how fake your laugh is. He is so wrong about you that you don't even know where to begin. And maybe it's time to come clean to him about everything. You're not that lowkey, cool girl that he thinks… And if you ever want to get anywhere with him, you should start by telling the truth…

But before you can make up your mind, a loud voice calls out your name, "___! You got here quick!"

You grin at Mijoo and Jimin, grateful for their sudden appearance as you jump from your seat to give them enthusiastic hugs, "Hey guys! Oh my god, you look amazing!"

And you're not lying. With her sleek royal blue dress and her rich brown hair cascading down her back in curls, she looks more like a movie star at a red-carpet premiere or a storybook princess. And Jimin looks just as good at her side in his dark suit that highlights every angle of his slim body, with a matching blue tie to complement her dress.

"Thanks!" Your roommate beams, spinning in a wide circle to show off her dress, fragrant curls flying everywhere.

"Oh my… I'm in love. Please forget about Jimin and run off with me," you tease.

"Hey, watch it!" Jimin laughs as he wraps an arm around Mijoo's waist to tug her to him.

"Can you blame me?" you shoot back, "I mean, my precious Mimi is always pretty, but today she's as sparkly as an angel!"

Mijoo blushes and preens from the attention, but next to you, Hoseok shifts in discomfort. "Do you girls really care about this stuff…?" He whispers this under his breath, so that only you can pick up on it, but the damage has been done.

You hastily clear your throat, "Um… By the way, where's Yerin?"

"Oh…" Mijoo's expression darkens at once, "She and that EXO punk are over there…"

You glance over to where she's pointing, and sure enough, there's that tall frat brother propped up against the bar next to a leggy blonde in an ultra-tight red sequined dress. You blink a few times before you finally recognize the blonde, "Yerin?!" And then you're running over as fast as your painful heels will allow.

Your lil sis turns around at the sound of her name, and your jaw drops in scandalized horror as you take in her plunging neckline. "Oh, ___. There you are!"

You stand there, numb, as she gives you a big hug. "Yerin… I—what are you…? What is this?!" you splutter as you stare at the slit of her dress that reaches her upper thigh, threatening to reveal her panties at any second.

"Oh, I just bought this dress! Isn't it nice?"

"It's amazing," Sehun immediately answers for you, drooling like a dog over her bare skin, "You're so beautiful."

"What?! Don't look at my baby like that, you yogurt-slinging cheese—"

Mijoo hastily slaps a hand over your mouth before you can continue any further, "Ah, what ___ is trying to say is that she's a little surprised by your outfit choice, but you look gorgeous, Yerin."

Shocked by her misrepresentation, you struggle in her arms, but the taekwondo black belt is a lot stronger than you anticipated, and you can only splutter incoherently against the palm of her hand.

But unfortunately, your dramatic antics make Sehun notice you for the first time. His brow creases into a frown as he looks you up and down. "Hotdog girl?!" He says in amazement, "What the hell are you wearing?!"

And with that final blow, you fall limp in Mijoo's grip, numbly allowing her to drag you away. What's so bad about your outfit that you have every former admirer turning away in disgust? God, what were you even thinking?

"Don't be like this," Mijoo whispers to you as she drags you to the other side of the ballroom, "Yerin's an adult woman. She can wear whatever she wants. I didn't expect you to slut-shame like this."

"I'm not," you feebly mutter as you slump your head against her shoulder, "I just didn't like how that fuckboy was looking at her."

The pretty brunette chuckles, "Jealous that he's diverted his affections elsewhere? Sure, maybe he had a harmless crush on the wild hotdog girl, but you've got to admit that Yerin has easily blown you out of the water with her whole Jessica Rabbit act. You stand no chance."

"That's not it," you sigh, "I just hope she's making the right decision trying to seduce such a fickle fuckboy. Is it so wrong that I want her to be with someone who likes her for her? Not just because she's showing a lot of skin?"

"These boys are all stupid," Mijoo patiently reassures you, "They think that if a girl gets up on a stripper pole in a hotdog costume, or dresses in a certain way, that they're easy. Our Yerin will just have to prove him wrong and put him in his place, huh?"

"Yeah… you're right. I just hope that she makes the right decision."

"There's nothing we can do, ___. We've just got to trust her."

You pause for a moment to allow the words to sink into you. Then you sigh loudly, "Where did the guys go, by the way? I need a drink… And I know we're at a fancy ball or whatever, but I demand that we take shots."

Mijoo laughs at this, "I wouldn't expect anything less from you, babe. I think Jimin and Hoseok are over there by the bartender."

"Right," you say, following as she begins to lead you over. But then you pause, "Wait, Mijoo… Can I ask you a question?"

She stops to look over at you with curiosity, "Sure. What's up?"

You hesitate for a moment, gnawing on your bottom lip as self-doubt overcomes you. But you bite the bullet and continue, "Is this dress really that ridiculous on me?" You ask in a small voice, eyes lowered to avoid eye contact.

Mijoo's guffaw brings you out of the shadow of doubt, "What are you even talking about? You look beautiful."

And with that, your mouth splits into your first genuine smile of the night. "Thanks, babe."

"Of course. Now are we gonna go or what? Those tequila shots aren't gonna drink themselves!"

You laugh in delight as you take her hand and skip across the elegant ballroom, attracting stares from all the other party-goers.

***

An hour later, and your heels are killing you so much that you have to abandon all attempts at dancing to sit at a side table and nurse your bruised feet. On the dance floor, Mijoo and Jimin are still going at it, swaying gently to the beat of the music. You watch them with fondness, wondering when it will be your turn. But instead, you're stuck on the sidelines with shoes that don't fit.

"Should I just take you home?" Hoseok asks with an amused smile as he watches you take off your heels for the umpteenth time that evening.

"Ah, do you mind?" you ask, "I'm so sorry, Hoseok. This is unfair to you…"

"Nah," he says with a good-natured laugh, "I had fun… but next time, just be yourself, okay?"

That strangely worded statement makes you pause, "Wait, what do you mean by that?"

"I mean, you don't have to dress like this," he laughs as he playfully tugs at the pink tulle of your dress, "It's really not like you. I'm not sure if you lost a bet or something, but don't let your friends push you around like this."

He's so wrong that you can't speak for a moment. This entire time you thought that Hoseok was different. That he actually knew the real you, and appreciated you for it. Could it be that you had been wrong this whole time…?

You shake these useless thoughts out of your mind. There is a time and a place for everything, and it's clearly not here. All you want to do is go home and kick off your shoes to give your poor, crushed toes some much needed relief.

But of course, nothing goes to plan, and on your way out of the door, the two of you are intercepted by a furious woman on a mission.

"Jung Hoseok!" She cries out, making you both freeze in your tracks, "What the hell?!"

You slowly whirl around on your heel to find Somin standing before you, looking beautiful in her pearl pink satin dress, but majorly pissed off. Next to you, Hoseok's face folds into a grimace.

"Ah… Somin… You're here, too?"

"Yes, and I cannot believe you, you asshole!" She fumes, "You told me that you were too busy to come to the ball with me when I asked you a whole fucking month ago! And now I find you here with ___? With her? Are you fucking kidding me?!"

At the mention of your name, you awkwardly shuffle a few feet back, wishing that you could turn invisible. This is a conversation that you clearly should not be apart of… But there's no escaping now…

"I dunno… I guess my schedule just cleared up," Hoseok attempts to make an excuse for himself.

"Bullshit!" Somin practically shouts at him, "How are you such a lying piece of shit?! You couldn't even think of a better excuse? Did I ever even mean anything to you?!"

Hoseok cringes at the volume of her voice and nervously glances around the ballroom, as though fearful of causing a scene, "Shh. Don't yell. It's really not like that…"

"Not like what?!" She shoots back, undeterred, "You couldn't be bothered to even come up with more than just a half-assed excuse? What am I to you? Just a fucking toy that you can throw away whenever you want?"

The handsome redhead runs a hand through his hair, clearly distressed by all of this, "Come on, Somin. You knew from the beginning that we were just having fun, nothing more. There's a reason why I didn't want to get all caught up in feelings…"

But the sports reporter simply stares at him with cold, expressionless eyes, "If you think that's the reason why I'm upset, then you're truly an idiot."

Hoseok's eyes widen in surprise, "Somin, wait!"

She shakes him off with a dismissive wave of her hand, "I don't need this toxicity in my life. So don't you dare ever speak to me again, Jung Hoseok." And with that, she turns to march away with exaggerated stomps of her platform heels.

The two of you watch her strut away in stunned silence. This has got to be one of the most awkward situations of your life. You almost feel like the other woman, caught in an illicit affair.

Hoseok picks up on your discomfort, and turns to offer you a half-hearted smile, "Sorry you had to witness that."

You hold both hands up, "No, not at all. Although, honestly, this whole thing seems to be due to a small mistake… Maybe you just forgot to tell her… right?"

"Yeah," he sighs, "It was obviously just a misunderstanding… I don't know why she had to be so dramatic and call me out in public like that… Geez. This is why I don't fuck around with girls like that. I should've known better…"

Something about the way he says that sounds a bit… off… You know that you should just mind your own business and move on… but you can't help but prod a bit. "Girls like that?" you ask, curious, "What exactly do you mean by that?"

"You know," he says with a roll of his eyes, "Overly dramatic, high-maintenance girls like her… What was I even thinking?" he says with a self-deprecating chuckle.

But you can't laugh along. Because next to him, your blood has frozen to ice. "Y-you think Somin is high-maintenance?" you croak out in disbelief.

"Yeah," he sighs, "I really can't stand it… Everything is about touchy-feely shit, and nail polish, and color-coordination with her," he laughs, "What a headache! I'm so glad that I've found a real girl, like you."

"A real girl?" you repeat in a quiet voice, "What does that mean?"

"You know, someone who keeps it real. Who isn't so caught up with frivolous, girly bullshit. You're just super chill. And that's what I like about you." He ends his statement with a wide, infectious smile, as though he's just given you the greatest compliment on earth.

But you can't bring yourself to crack a smile even if you tried. Because it feels like your world has flipped upside down. Belatedly, you realize that you should've known this all along. All the signs were there, from the way he laughed at your dress, or the way he praised your interest in kickboxing on top of the roof, all those months ago. Hell, you should've known from the moment you met him, when he was so unreasonably impressed by your lack of makeup. Were you really so blind? Or did a secret part of you, deep down inside, know all along?

For a split second, you consider feigning ignorance. It would be so damn easy to laugh along with him and continue living this lie of being the cool, sporty tomboy who doesn't care about stupid "girly" things. After all, Hoseok isn't a bad guy. He's so handsome, popular, and kind. And he likes you. Someone actually likes you. Isn't that better than being alone? For a split second, you're tempted to grab his hand and flash him an award-winning smile. For a split second, you contemplate giving up all your morals and living a life of comfort with this lovely, charismatic man.

But you can't.

So you take a deep breath through your nose, eyes squeezing shut for a millisecond, before you open them to stare him straight in the eyes, "Hoseok… Do you know why I'm not like those other girls?" you ask him in a soft voice, "Do you know why I don't wear makeup or frilly dresses or bombard you with my emotions?"

Hoseok seems a bit taken aback by your strange line of questioning, but attempts to respond, regardless, "Um… Because you don't care about such dumb things?"

You throw your head back with a bark of laughter, "No, that's not it at all."

Hoseok's brow creases with confusion, "Huh? Then why?"

"Because I'm insecure."

That only makes him more confused, "What? What are you even talking about?"

"You have completely misunderstood me. I am not that confident, chill girl you think I am. The only reason why I don't wear makeup and pretty dresses like Somin is because I am so fucking insecure about myself that I don't think I can pull it off. But if I could, you bet your ass I'd be wearing princess gowns with my face contoured like a fucking Instagram model every single day of my life."

The handsome redhead staggers back in shock, "I… I don't understand what you're saying, ___."

But you simply step forward, not allowing him to escape your clutches, "The cool girl you thought I was? The unaffected tomboy who watches sports and drinks with the guys and doesn't give one shit about emotional garbage? She doesn't exist. This ideal woman is a figment of your imagination. And I'm not going to bend over backwards pretending to be someone I'm not. Especially not for a sexist."

"Sexist?" he repeats in horror, "The fuck are you talking about?! I'm no sexist!"

By his offended reaction, you can tell that he genuinely does not understand the error of his problematic views. So you try to break it to him as gently as possible, "Feminism is about respecting and empowering women, Hoseok. You can't just pick and choose which women you want to respect. That's not how it works. If you can only respect certain women for being 'cool' and 'chill' and basically acting like men, while condemning the rest for being too 'girly,' then that's the literal definition of misogyny."

Hoseok looks utterly horrified and outraged by the accusations, "Are you fucking serious?! That's not what I meant at all! You're twisting my words, ___. Let me—oh come on! Where are you going?"

"To catch my uber," you say as you march past him.

He desperately grabs you by the arm before you can go out the door, "Wait—let me explain myself!"

But you jerk out of his grip as though you've been burned, "Don't you dare touch me, Jung Hoseok," you hiss through your teeth.

"I'm sorry! I just—come on, just let me explain myself! It's really not like that!" He exclaims in frustration.

"I think I've heard enough," you curtly retort, "I think I'll channel Somin and cut the toxicity out of my life."

And without sticking around to listen to the rest of his excuses, you rush out of the ballroom into the safe haven of your waiting uber.

***

By the time you finally make it back to the sorority house, you feel like you've aged ten years. Your hair is flat and messy, your skin dull, and your blistered feet are burning from the pain of standing in your cramped heels. Most of all, you feel mentally drained from that exhausting conversation with Hoseok. All you want to do is to strip of your tight, itchy dress and wash your face of the thick makeup. And when you're finally in bed, hidden under the covers, maybe the heaviness around your heart will finally dissipate.

But like always, luck is never on your side. And when you walk up the driveway to the front of the house, you find Jungkook sitting on the front steps waiting for you.

He jumps up immediately at the sight of you, "___!" He calls out, "I… I… um… You look beautiful."

You stiffen for a second, eyes wide as though you've just seen a ghost. Never in a million years would you have ever predicted this outcome. Hell, you thought you'd never see him again after the very public call out in the frat house a few weeks ago. And yet, here he is, standing in front of you with lights shining in his brown doe eyes, as though the humiliation of the last month never happened.

Suddenly, you feel a thousand times heavier.

It hurts to see him. The incident in the frat house is practically old news by now, but the time doesn't ease the pain one bit. And seeing him in the flesh again just tears apart your wounds anew.

You sigh deeply, whole body sagging with exhaustion, "I don't know what you're here for, but I'm tired, Jeon."

"Wait, ___!" He exclaims, jumping to block your path when you try to walk around him. "Please! I promise this won't take that long!"

You sigh again. Whatever this is, it's clear that you won't be getting any sleep until he finishes. So you cross your arms tightly over your chest and turn to shoot him the dirtiest look you can muster, "You have five minutes."

Jungkook seems slightly taken aback by your gruffness, but hastens to make use of his time, "Okay, okay… I just… I'm here to apologize, okay?"

You simply hum in response and glance down at your cell phone for the time, "Cool."

He winces at your reaction and tries again, "I'm really sorry, ___. I was an asshole, and you have every right to be mad at me… And I would do anything to make it up to you."

That unexpected statement catches your attention. Your eyes shoot up to meet his in surprise. He's not saying what you think he's saying… right? "Jungkook…" you murmur, "I don't understand…"

His teeth dig into his bottom lip, and for a moment, he looks so frightened and unsure of himself that you almost feel sorry for him, "I just… I miss you, okay? I'll do anything—literally anything you want—to have you back again."

Your heart skips a beat, and for a moment, you can't even breathe from all the euphoria flooding your veins. Can this actually be real? Jeon Jungkook is actually in front of you, confessing everything you've ever wanted to hear from him and more? You're not just dreaming, right?

It's almost an out-of-body experience having all your dreams come true, and for a moment, you float out of your body, watching the scene of the groveling boy begging for the girl back from a distance. It's like a scene out of any drama. You can vividly imagine yourself running into his arms and never letting go. Then the two of you can ride off into the sunset and have your happily ever after. And you'll finally get your turn at playing the princess of the story.

It's all you've ever wanted… isn't it?

After a long second of tension, you slowly release the breath you didn't realize you were holding to approach him with small, cautious steps. Jungkook watches your every move with huge eyes, apprehension written across every feature. And when you reach up to gently caress the sharp angle of his jaw, he visibly relaxes… until you bring your lips to his ear and tell him:

"No thanks."

Jungkook tenses at once, like you've slapped him, "Wh-what?"

You smile faintly at him as you continue to trail your fingertips up and down his jawline, "I don't want you to do anything I want. Do you really think I'm that type of person to manipulate a guy into a relationship that he clearly doesn't want? Think again, Jeon."

His eyes widen as he processes your words, "B-but, it's not like that!" he stammers, "You're not manipulating me. You want a relationship and titles and all that? That's fine! I… I'm genuinely willing!"

"Yeah… but that's not enough," you murmur, echoing something that he told you in bed all those months and months ago.

Jungkook stares at you in utter disbelief, unable to conceal his panic, "I… I don't understand what you want from me!" he despairs, "Seriously, ___. Tell me anything, and I'll do it. I'll grovel at your feet for a decade if that means I can have you back!"

But still, you shake your head and smile, "Yes, you're willing. But that's not enough for me… Tell me what you actually want, Jungkook."

He can't comprehend your words for a moment, "I… I want anything you want?" he offers, hopeful that it's what you're looking for.

But you only laugh, "No, tell me the truth, Jungkook, and I might go easy on you: In an ideal world, where you could have everything you wanted with no consequence… would you want me to be your girlfriend?" At the very sound of that word, Jungkook involuntarily grimaces, giving himself away at once. You sigh deeply and drop your hand from his face. "I see…"

Horrified by his own reaction, Jungkook rushes to redeem himself, "Well, it's not what would happen in my perfect world, but I don't mind it! Seriously. I can be anything that you want me to be!"

"But do you want it, too?"

That single question knocks him out. He's silent for a moment, eyes wild with dread and hands clenched to fist. "N-no," he finally grits out in a shaky voice.

It's as you expected, yet it doesn't hurt any less. You offer him a tight smile, "Ah, I see. Thank you for being honest, Jungkook."

"Wait, ___!" He calls out your name, panicking when you move past him to the front door, "I didn't mean that—I just—"

But you stop him in his tracks with a hand pressed against his chest, "We're just in different places right now," you inform him in a small voice, "It'll never work out, so please don't make this harder than it needs to be."

With that, you render him speechless, and this gives you the opportunity to slip under his arm and run into the house, eyes shut tightly so that you can't see his expression of pain. Because you're weak. And if you do, you might hesitate. And then, it'll be too late.

So you run up to your room, carelessly flinging your shoes off without stopping for a moment. And it's not until you're huddled in your bed, piles and piles of blankets stacked on top of you to block out any light, that you finally allow yourself to breathe.

You've gone and done it this time. Two perfectly respectable guys in the span of a single evening… All because you couldn't compromise. Because you want more than you deserve. And what did you expect? That someone would actually like you for you and want to be with you?

You're asking for too much. And that's why you'll always be alone. But that's okay, because you have your Ice Bitch reputation to maintain…

Somehow, you convince yourself that it's better this way.

***

Author’s Note: Please don’t ask me about updates!

Also, when I was planning this fic back in sept 2017, this is the furthest I had gotten with my brainstorming, so everything past this chapter is uncharted territory, and I’m both scared and excited aklsdfjlksd Wish me luck, guys :D 

[punishandenslavesuckers]

She has no throne. Girls without thrones should not have knights, but hers won’t go. Princess Zelda – the girl who killed Calamity – would love to fade into legend, but Link’s bought a house, he’s fighting off monsters, and he’s selling giant horses to strangely familiar Gerudo men. She’ll never have any peace now. (ao3)  

(chapter one) (chapter two) (chapter three) (chapter four) (chapter five) 

(chapter six)

She is walking across a desert.

Her hands are soaked with gold. They run with it – like rainwater from an unseen storm – from her palms and from her feet. She leaves a winding line of damp, luminous footprints along the thin spine of the dune. In one hand is a bow. Platinum and mathematically curved. In the other hand – four arrows. Gold as well, hollow, and fletched with silver. She climbs a hill slowly. She knows with no context that she is going to the Arbiter’s Grounds to find the execution circle – the abandoned ruin at the foot of the desert colossus and then, having thought that, she is there.

She stands at the top of sandstone steps under a granite arc facing the colosseum circle – pale curves of stone built over and over atop one another so the diameter of the arena stands three stories tall. Rotted banners waves from the battlements. The floor is grainy, wind worn, and hot beneath her bare feet. A pool of silvery light gathers and evaporates on the stone where she stands, dripping, her clothes wet, her lips running with rain, her hair caught up in slow eddies behind her.

There are two people standing in the ruined arena.

Link is there. He’s wearing armor she’s never seen – a green tunic and chain mail. She can see his breath in the desert night; it glows gold, as though he is exhaling from some kiln burning steady within, the endless smoke rolling over his tongue and dissipating into the dark. In his hand – the blade, burning silver. It shivers the air around them with every breath it breathes in sync to the soul of the Hero. He doesn’t look at her when she mounts the steps. He only has eyes for the man on the other side of the arena.

The other man in the arena is Draga.

She’s never seen the armor he’s wearing. It fits too close – black metal and old Gerudo script tooled in leather. He’s crouching, massive and dark, across from Link. There’s a claymore smithed of black steel in his hand, resting point down against the sand-eaten stone. The ground beneath Draga’s boots is glowing, pulsing a slow gold vibrato through the earth, like the heartbeat of some great animal and when Zelda descends the first stair he looks up at her.

She can’t see his face. It’s dominated entirely by the steady hell-red burn of light in the sockets of his skull.

When she sees the glow – it cleaves through her like a butcher’s blade, laying her heart open and she begins to weep immediately, tears running gold from her eyes and cooling against the skin like a mask. She’s standing over him suddenly, looking down into a familiar face made black with shadow. The sacred bow lies shining on the ground. She cups her friend’s jaw in her hands and tries, with her thumbs, to wipe the darkness away – like you wipe dirt from a boy’s cheek.

She wipes gold where the shadows are, smearing it like oil, leaving it like gold-leaf against his cheek.

She bends down. She can smell his breath – iron oxide and alkali earth.

She kisses him, gold over flowing from her lips, melting down his jaw and filling his mouth, his throat, his lungs. She is drowning him but he doesn’t move – still as a statute and warm as a hearth stone as she –

  She wakes up.

The moon overhead hangs heavy and bright – caught up in the warming sky. Constellations spark like pin pricks of bright fire in her mind and for a reeling moment she can’t recall if these were the stars in that desert or if there were stars at all in that old ruin or if she ever looked at the sky. She groans, rubbing hands over her face, feeling her belly pitch and yaw with the aftermath of Draga’s flask. Her mouth tastes sticky and sour. There’s a residue of sweat on her face and her hands feel cold, like they’ve run through glacial streams. She can hear voices talking in the distance. One voice speaking low, coming into focus as she begins to listen and hear…

“What do you mean you ‘rode him’?”

There’s a murmur.

 “Link,” Draga says, “I know you don’t speak out loud very often so I say this with the gentlest of criticism, but you cannot just say the crown prince of the Zora –who is over a century old and known in the land for slaying mountainous sea creatures – let you ride him. That sounds very…” He struggles. “…offensive? Is that offensive to Zora? It sounds offensive, to say nothing of somewhat suggestive…”

Zelda rolls over to squint toward the edge of the canyon where Link and Draga are seated at the edge of the cliff, bodies framed by the faint edges of dawn beginning to spread along the horizon. Just enough light that Zelda can make out the open-mouthed look of mortification on Link’s face – all blue-eyed, blond, and offended. Draga shrugs, facing forward, one long leg hanging off the cliff, the other drawn up so he can drape an arm over his knee.

“You said it. I’m just telling you…”

Link hisses something.

“I know you well enough to assume as much, but most people know you as a madman so it would not take much for them to make very different assumptions. That one fellow thought you sold your soul to a mountain lord. God knows what he might think if he heard a Zora Prince let you mount him…”

Link immediately swings around and kicks Draga in the ribs. Hard.

“He’s Mipha’s brother!” Link says, horrified, loud enough that Zelda can hear.

Draga, lying on his side, drawls, “I apologize. That was rude.”

Link settles a little.

Draga props his chin in his hand, lounging. “You also share a bed with the crown queen of Hyrule so there’s that too.”

Link kicks Draga again, repeatedly.

“What?” Draga is laughing over the thump of Link’s boot knocking into his thigh, hip, and lower ribs. “A misguided bard could have a field day with it. This is what happens when you don’t come forward and tell your own story.”

Eventually the furious kicking lets up (mostly because Draga catches his boot in one massive hand) and they both sits straight again. There’s a sociable quiet and Zelda hunkers down against the blanket, pressing herself flat to the rumpled wool, afraid to disturb that quiet lest she derail its pleasant trajectory. The wind rising from the canyon makes a riot and a mess of Link and Draga’s hair respectively and, side by side, the difference in their size seems exaggerated – Link no more than a shadow beside a monolith – and its only then, in the contrast, that the residual anxiety crawls forward again.

Zelda squeezes her eyes shut and it’s there: The desert. The shadow. Gold dripping like honey and nightshade. She opens her eyes. Draga is shoving Link with a companionable brutality. Link elbows his arm away. Her heart races in her breast – quickened by unfathomable instinct. Like she needs to stand up. Move. Go to them, immediately and… and what? Warn them of what? The dread crawling through her belly like a trapped salamander? Her premonition of a desert and symbolic dangers? She lies, paralyzed and afflicted, by her own promise to Link only months before: I swear it. I would tell you if we were in danger.

Draga says, “When is your dragon coming?”

Link shrugs.

“Is it true they’re wardens to the Goddess Springs?”

Link nods.

“What are dragons like? In case none come.”

“Indifferent.”

That seems to surprise Draga who glances at Link.

“Like a storm is indifferent,” Link goes on calmly.

Draga says nothing to that for a moment. Then, “Which dragon are we waiting for?”

“Dinraal. Lord of fire.”

“Hmm.”

Draga sits forward, setting his elbows against his knees and looking out into the void beyond, boots braced against the cliff face while the wind gets pieces of his bangs loose. Zelda has this theory he cut his hair too short, too fast, and after years of classic Gerudo coiffures (based entirely in volume and length and elaborate restraint) was at a loss for how to style it. And so, he makes due wrangling it into half braids and gold clips. She hasn’t told him lately that it suits him. She should do that.

Zelda can hear his smile, even if she can’t see it.

“I would be disappointed to not see Dinraal.” He laughs. “For all that I’ve traveled… there is much I’ve not bothered to see.”

Link cocks his head.

“My circumstance was too urgent for that, you understand. I had to… acquire power quickly. This journey back to my home country – winding, unfocused, lackadaisical as it is – it’s the longest stretch of time I’ve spent actually seeing this land. Doing what it is our pilgrimage is supposed to be.”

Link fidgets. Then, after a moment, he asks, “Will they bar us from entering because we’re voe?”

“They won’t bar me. I’m returning from pilgrimage and I’m of the People.” He shrugs. “As for you, any voe can ask for a circumstantial pardon if you’re there on business. You just need someone to vouch for you and –” He stops. He looks at Link. “Are you saying Riju hasn’t already given you a pardon?”

“A what?”

“A pardon. You can come as a voe into Gerudo Town if you have one. It just means the Gerudo who sponsored you must be with you. In this case, I would be your sponsor, but I assumed you had pardon already.”

“I didn’t have that.”

“So how did you get into the city?”

A pause.

Link must answer quietly because all Zelda hears is Draga’s loud, belligerent rejoinder.

“You did what?”

Link squirms physically, hot with embarrassment.  

Draga stares Link dead in the eyes, a soul-crushing judgement. “Gerudo Town is a trade post, not a central stronghold. The vai-to-vai commercial traditions date back eons, yes, but they aren’t life-or-death. It’s a trade practice to protect our merchants.”

Link signs, ‘Really?’ with one hand.

Draga growls. “I understand going under cover as a vai once to meet with Riju, provided the guards didn’t believe your admittedly ridiculous story, but after that you could have claimed sanctuary and gone as voe with escort. Either Riju assumed you identified both ways or knew you didn’t and thought it was hilarious. She is thirteen so…”

Link thinks about it. “Oh,” he says after a long while, softly.

Draga looks disgusted. “You idiot.”

 “Oh,” Link says, covering his face.

Draga sighs, relenting a little. “This does not… improve upon your actions, precisely, but the actual writ of the law is that you must act in accordance with Gerudo norms while within the city. This interpretation is… very subjective, intentionally, so we may bar whoever we like from the city provided they are disruptive or disrespectful. Even if a guard suspected you might be a Hylian male in form, when dressed as a vai, you are vai.”

Link’s less embarrassed now. “I didn’t know that.”

“Almost no one outside of Gerudo culture does. That’s the point, but that does not apply to you, Hero.” He calls him ‘hero’ like you call someone ‘idiot’. “When we get there, you should ask Riju for a formal pardon outside merchant law.” A beat. “Unless, you do feel as a vai…?”

Link looks up, blinking. Draga’s squinting at him and it’s then he must realize the Gerudo is legitimately asking. “Oh! No, I’m… I’m voe.”

“All the time?” Draga says, like that’s surprising.

Link kind of stares for a moment, then gives it some thought. He nods.

Draga shrugs. “Blessed for you that it’s so easily known.” A pause. “You know Draga is not my birth name, do you not?”

Link gives no sign this surprises him.

“Not every Gerudo comes home with a new name, but I am. It is… uncommon. As is my trade. When I stand before Chief Makeela Riju and her council, it will mean something if you and Zelda are there for it as witness. It will… assure people.”

“Why that name?”

“I don’t know. It felt correct.”

“Mer Draga,” Link says, using his Gerudo surname. He nods, as if he likes the sound of it.

Draga smiles. “It’s reversed in Hylian, is it not? Surname and given name?”

Link’s smiling. He begins to say –

And that’s when, all at once, something erupts from the canyon directly below them. A geyser of molten red exploding from a gap in dimensions and the displacement of otherworldly air knocks Link and Draga flat to the ground.  Zelda, in her instant of panic, thinks of Death Mountain: That a dormant vein from the core of the great volcano has come awake in the canyon. But even as she thinks it, the volcanic eruption snakes like a great, red-black ribbon in the sky overhead and resolves, finally, as something else entirely. A hovering twist of magma suspended in the atmosphere.

And then, slowly, the dragon’s head – horned in flaming iron, maned like a lion, muzzle the color of ash on cherry red metal – rises from the loops of its body and stares down at them.

Its eyes are gemstone and older than comprehension. The sight alone garrotes the functions of Zelda’s lungs. But the dragon isn’t even looking at her. It’s staring directly down at Link and Draga.

Link’s already up on one knee, blade in hand, his fist snagged in the collar of Draga’s tunic. Frozen with the potential energy of flight but illuminated in the furnace glow of the dragon… he doesn’t even breathe. Draga lies stunned, just… staring as the dragon-god Dinraal (fire wyrm, guardian of the sacred flame, beast that eats the falling stars) twists upward suddenly, breaches the low-hanging clouds… and begins to dive.

By then, all three of them are sprinting away.

They run toward the long open flatlands leading back toward the road, stumbling in the dark over unseen divots in the grass, breathing fast and ragged. They say nothing to each other. Running close to one another. Link’s crushing her hand in his. The moon illuminates the way before them, illuminates Link’s shoulders, angled back, the blue-gold scabbard strapped to his spine, the blade in his hand and – Too familiar. Too familiar. She’s been here before.

 “We can’t outrun it.” Draga’s voice is unnervingly calm. “Link? I can route her. I can hold her, but I need your sword.”

 “You think we can kill Dinraal?” Link sounds stunned. When he looks over his shoulder, Zelda feels a momentary spike of fear – the unrecognizable rage in his face. “You’re that arrogant?”

 “I know you believe it’s a servant of your Goddess –”

“No.”

“–but your blade might get through.”

“I can’t!”

To which Draga says, “Well, I can.”

Then the air sucks inward, pulls impossibly – like gravity gone amiss – then snaps back in the empty space where Draga once stood. Zelda shouldn’t be surprised. If the Yiga can manage it, then of course Draga can pull it off. She and Link stop running immediately. Panic taking them both.

“There.” Link points.

She follows his arm and, standing at the peak of Mount Rhoam and facing the beast in Tanagar Canyon, is Draga.

The air shimmers. A smell like hot metal rising from the earth. There’s a rumble in the veins of stone beneath their boots. Draga coils two loose fists at his sides. The air around his fingers smears with heat. There’s a fist in her belly – Draga. He’s pulling paths of power like roots from the earth – their ends grafted somehow in the wellspring of his soul and conducted there by sheer force of will.

“Draga! No!”

She’s sprinting up the mountain road.

“Don’t!”

She feels it before it happens.

With terrible, almost unimaginable, force… Draga drives both hands together and Zelda watches in horror and awe as three enormous stone pillars erupt up from the ground, slamming against a section of Dinraal’s flank, its jaw, and belly. Like ribs bursting from the chest of the planet, they push and push outward – bones from a horrific wound ensnaring the great beast. Dinraal scores the earth with its claws, scarring the stone. The impact knocks scales like cooled magna from its body. Link is beside her. He’s screaming something.

He’s yelling at Draga to stop.

The blade in his hand is awake – burning like a sheet of involuntary starlight.

Zelda is not sure what evil has whet its edge.  

Dinraal rolls, shoved onto its side by the sudden obstacles, a half-mile of sinuous lower body sliding off the cliff into the canyon even as its back legs claw for traction – like Draga is shoving an enormous cat from the desk. The entire stone shelf where it writhes begins to crumble then fall into the canyon but the dragon doesn’t seem frantic. It claws the ground two forearms, digging in, then grabs hold of the stone columns. It nudges one with a strangely doggish nose, cat-like curious. Then it takes hold of the pillar blocking its shoulder, like a person might grip a loaf of bread…. then it rips the stone apart. Shatters it.

Zelda feels the break. Physical and spiritual. Feels every line of power sever itself at the wrist from Draga’s soul. He staggers, doubles over –

By the time he recovers, Dinraal is on top of him.  

It’s impossible. The speed. Interdimensional. Snapshots of motion. (It moves like Link moves.) In an instant Dinraal tears a path up and around the mountain top, coils around the summit like a field snake around a rabbit until its great body lies looped in a barrier. It breathes like a furnace. The air around it is on fire. The mountain is shaking, vibrating in the bones of the earth and Zelda can’t hear anything over the roar of the wind. She can’t even hear Link, who is yelling.

All she sees is Draga, standing there looking up at god-beast. He doesn’t move a single step back as the dragon rises over him like a cobra before the strike. Blotting out the moon until the only light left is the hell-red glow breathing beneath its scales. And Draga doesn’t move. Not even when the beast opens its jaws, great mouth yawning volcanic and indifferent and –

Zelda panics.  

She closes one fist and a golden curve of light flashes there, solidifies, becomes the second sacred weapon in her hand. From nothing she fashions three silver arrows and in that instant (she learned this before the Twilight came, she knows this, how to kill the darkest of men with nothing but a bolt and bow) she looses a blazing shot.

The arrow disintegrates inches from the dragon’s face.

It stops. It looks at her.

The Bow of Light evaporates in her hand.

Then she knows – sees clear as a premonition – that if Link draws his blade against the beast that the sacred sword will not just dim and dull. It will turn its impossible edge back on it holder. So, when Link starts to move, time shifting around him like wind along an angled plane, Zelda grabs his arm and wrenches him back into the present, holding him there.

“You can’t!”

“What?!”

Link’s eyes in the dark – panicked and blue, the wind ripping at his clothes and hair. She lets him go but he stares at her. 

“Why?”

Link is shouting. But she’s looking at the sky.  

“Goddess.” She doesn’t know if she’s cursing or praying. “Why? Why is this –?”

And then the back of her right hand ignites gold.

It hurts – like lightning coursing through her bones. Zelda screams and grabs her wrist, falling to her knees, panting, choking back her voice because this pain is familiar, infinite, indifferent. She focuses through it, lives inside the river of shrieking nerves. Red on red on white – the holy nail driven through her palm – and she forces herself up on one knee, then to her feet. It hurts so much. Why does it hurt so much? She can barely stand it. Draga. She can save him. Just like before, just like Link. That’s why. Isn’t it?

Isn’t that why?

The world is glowing, is blurring, is hyper-focused in segments. The sky, the ground, her fingers, a sword gleaming on the roadside. She blinks and it takes an eternity. She focuses. Sees… Link. He’s on the ground too. He’s on his hands and knees. He’s got one arm curled in the dirt, his forehead pressed against it, his other hand flat against the stones in front of him. For a second she thinks he’s praying or hiding his eyes or…

It takes her a moment to realize he’s screaming. His right hand, like hers, is lit up from the inside – a three-sided section of sunlight burning in his palm and it’s the agony that has him on his knees, not faith.

She can’t focus on him. She has to… save Draga. She has to…

Zelda can’t see anything now. Everything is burning light and blinding. She’s staggering through the maelstrom. Her blood is boiling. She’s dying. Surely. She screams and looks at the sky and to her wonder and agony there are dragons – green and silver, indifferent and immortal, distantly circling like sea serpents swimming in atmosphere. She can’t fathom what’s happening to her. To Link. To all of them. She can’t feel her skin. She can’t move or speak. Link isn’t moving anymore, just lying on the ground while the divine power bleeds across his body like fire, possessing every inch like its possessing immolating her. She staggers forward, toward the mountain, toward Link. She’s burning. Like a thing on an alter.

And in the distance -- Draga’s there, standing in the coils of the dragon. He’s clutching his right arm. There’s gold light eating the world. 

She loses consciousness.

  “Zelda.”

Someone says her name.

“Zelda, please. Please, wake up.”

Someone is cupping her head in their hands, their fingers sunk into the braids at the back of her skull. Someone is leaning their body against hers, sitting over her, holding her. She feels their thumbs run against her temples, pushing hair or dirt or blood from her eyes and that someone presses their forehead against hers. They are breathing so close to her, she can taste their words on her tongue. She can feel them shaking, hear the shudder in their breath. Someone is praying over her without speaking, their lips almost and sometimes catching against her nose and mouth as they speak.

Someone kisses her, desperately, like you kiss the dying and says, “You can’t.”

She opens her eyes.

Link is kneeling over her. He’s staring at her in a way… she doesn’t have a word for that look.

“I’m here,” she says.

He yanks her into a hug.

“Ow,” she says.

Link doesn’t say anything; his face is pressed into the curve where her neck meets her shoulder. He’s holding her so tightly his arms shake a little with the effort. She swallows, uncertainly raises her hands to smooth them across his back then up behind his head. His hair’s singed. Her nails tangle a little in it. She says it’s okay a dozen times. She says it half a dozen times more before he lets go. He tries to say something, but his voice is gone again so she just tugs his forehead against hers until he calms down.

“Link, where is Draga?”

He doesn’t have to speak – his blank, terrified face mirrors hers. 

Link pulls back and pulls her to her feet. She fists her hair back from her face and turns an unsteady circle. The mountain is empty – the stones scorched at the head of the hill, great loops of black wherever the great beast laid its body. And yet, there’s fresh lichen growing, mountain flora and grass pushing up through the ash, flowers blooming before her eyes. Death and resurrection. She starts to walk up the hill, toward the top. She starts to jog, then to run, stumbling as she clambers the uneven stones. Link races past her, bounding up the path like a mountain cat, then turns to help her up a steep rock.

Wordlessly, they run for the top of the hill. Link’s hand in hers.

When they reach the head of Mount Rhoam, they stop.

Zelda is the first to move. Link’s gone rigid. She steps around him. She knows how to do this. She’s done this already. Muscle memory guides her to her knees (just like before) where she lays one hand on Draga’s shoulder and one on his hip. This time, she’s not crying. She’s not capable of it. She tugs him gently. He’s so much heavier than Link was, but he’s the same – the same lifeless momentum, head rolling to the side, his arms slack. She pulls him onto his back. He’s not burned. The rest of the mountain is scorched, but he looks perfect – like the day she met him at Highland Stable.

“Draga,” she says softly.

She starts to touch his face, hesitates, hand hovering, before she lays it against his forehead.

“Draga, please.” She shakes her head. “I can’t do this again. So wake up.”

She feels Link standing behind her – the intensity of his fear shivering off his skin, electric and conductive. She lays her head against Draga’s chest, but she can’t hear anything through his armor. She places a hand against his throat, searching for a sign, a breath, anything. She tries again, leans down, cupping Draga’s head, her thumbs hooked behind the hinge of his jawline and staring into his seemingly sleeping features. Peaceful and eerie.

Her kingdom if he would just scowl at her.

“Come back,” she says steadily.

Her palms glow gold, but the light won’t diffuse into the skin like it would if she were healing a person and not… not an object.

“No,” she says. “Draga. You have to come back, stupid idiot. Who tries to fight a dragon?” Her eyes are dry but stinging. “Who does that? You can’t run around trying to do whatever foolish thing Link does, that’s just a bad idea. Okay? So, wake up.” She feels Link kneeing beside her. She shakes her head and drops her forehead, gently, against Draga’s and begs, “Please, come back. Come back. Come back…”

She kisses Draga. Once, carefully, turning her head just a little – like you kiss someone for the first time because you’re not sure how you will fit, if your noses will accidentally bump or how the other person might like it. She kisses him like Link kissed her, as though that were the thing to break the curse. And it’s only in that horrible nightmarish instant that she realizes some part of her had vaguely hoped to do such a thing under much better circumstance.

Link puts a hand on her shoulder.

When she turns her face up to look at him, he’s blank-faced and calm. He lets go of her shoulder and carefully takes Draga’s hand between his palms and just… sits there until she reaches along his arm and lays her hand on top of theirs. Insanity feels like a fever, you know. Zelda knows it. Malarial. Contagious. Shimmering and unreal. She hasn’t known that disease in one-hundred years kneeling in a muddy field, but she feels it now, sitting here with Link, letting reality settle into them like cancer eating into the marrow.

Then…

“Link,” Zelda whispers. “Your hand.”

He looks at it.

He’s wearing thin swordsmen’s gloves, fingerless soft leather, but there’s… light. Soft and gold, superimposed against the back of his hand. Link stares. She knows he’s seen the like of it before and when Zelda bring her right hand up, fingers spread, it’s there on her too. A small dull triangle of light, like a tattoo, but humming with warm luminance. Like there is a tiny lamp just under her skin. They look at each other – conflicting emotions – confusion, grief, warring for majority because it’s too familiar. It’s just like before. It’s happening again and Zelda can feel Link seeing it on her face –

Link shakes his head, losing his blank calm to rage, to despair, to disgust –

“Link, wait. Don’t –” Don’t what? Hate what’s killing us? Why not? “Open your hands.”

Because there is light bleeding between his fingers. Link forgets the fleeting blasphemous hatred she saw (just a shadow of it) that began in him. He opens his hands from around Draga’s palm and there’s more light – from Link’s hand, from her hand, almost too bright to look at now, but there is a blinding, mathematically perfect triangle shining also from the back of Draga’s hand. Shimmering gold in the dark of his skin, pulsing like a heartbeat.

And that’s when Draga groans and opens his eyes.

The two heroes of Hyrule, the destined souls who struck down Calamity – stare, stricken, illuminated in light.

Draga grimaces. His eyes are old jade set against the rest of his face. When he starts to sit up, the light dims in their fingers and fades.

“What happened?” He notices how tightly both Link and Zelda are gripping his palm, almost entirely encasing his hand in theirs. He frowns at them. “What?”

  To make a fortifying pumpkin stew you need a few things: A Kakariko pumpkin (one will do, they’re small for a gourd), fresh milk (fresher the better), Tabantha wheat flour, goat butter, carrots, onions, leeks, salt, pepper, thyme, garlic, and a bit of Goron curry powder if you like a little kick. Link has all of these things in his travel pack. Which would seem odd if it wasn’t preposterously enchanted. At one point, Zelda caught Link up to his shoulder fishing around inside what is essentially a shoulder satchel only to eventually pull an entire breast plate of armor from the depths. So his casually producing the ingredients for comfort food is less impressive and they’re all used to it by now.

Draga watches Link sauté the onions, leeks, and carrots then transfer the sizzling contents into a pot of bubbling pumpkin and spice.

The communal cookpot and fire is free. Courtesy of there being virtually no other customers in the whole stable and the fact Link’s cooking at 4am in the morning out of pure nervous reflex. Draga and Zelda are sitting side-by-side observing his practiced culinary hand in silence, the crackle of the fire and the pop of cooking food filling the void where they should be talking about what happened. Instead, they enjoy the smell of home cooking, despite being far from any home at all.

They watch Link prep and cook in wordless inertia.

They all, Zelda knows, look like hell but none of them have made a move toward getting a bath or changing clothes or anything that might require them to separate even briefly for reasons of privacy. They just huddle together by the fire.

Eventually, the soup’s ready.

“Are we going to talk about it?” Zelda says after staring into her bowl and not eating it for five minutes.

“I see no point,” rejoins Draga, who’s on his second bowl, his appetite apparently unafflicted by his near-death experience, “since we don’t know what it means.”

Link doesn’t say anything. He also hasn’t eaten anything.

He hasn’t said a word, aloud, since the mountain.

Zelda glares at Draga. “Not talking about it will not make it go away, as you’ve well reminded me time and again.”

“Maybe,” Draga snaps, “I’m tired because we almost died on some godsforsaken mountain because your holy Goddess let a bunch of mad dragons chase us down like field mice. Perhaps that’s my hesitation, Princess.” Then, after a moment. “That was uncalled for. Apologies.”

Another silence.

Link’s sitting cross-legged, back to the fire, staring intently at a section of grass a few feet in front of him. His hands are resting on his knees, curled lightly into fists and at this angle, his bangs eclipse his eyes. The pumpkin soup is sitting in the grass beside him, untouched. It smells phenomenal. Like home. Zelda toys with her spoon, then carefully eats a single mouthful from her own bowl.

“This is good,” she says.

Link nods.

“You remember the first time you made it for me?”

He says, “Mhmm.”

“After the Yiga attack, I was… so shaken up it took two bowls to calm my nerves. It’s been one of my… one of my favorite meals ever since. I didn’t know you were carrying the ingredients with you all this time. When, uh, did you get a chance a pick them up?”

He doesn’t move to answer for a moment.

Then he signs, ‘I ordered some of it delivered.’

“That’s a lot of trouble.”

‘Yes.’

“I appreciate it.”

Draga drops his bowl and spoon in the grass beside him.

“Enough. You want to talk about it? Fine.” He stands up to face them, animated with his anger. “What do you want to talk about?”

Link looks up and breaks his silence, finally. “I think you should go to Gerudo Town without us.”

Which, apparently, wasn’t what Draga thought either of them were going to say. Zelda, in fact, wasn’t expecting him to say that. But now, hearing it, she agrees. Draga stares at Link, a micro-flash of confusion and hurt that catalyzes immediately into anger. He tilts his head, hands tight at his sides.

“Why?”

Link never breaks eye contact. He stares calmly at Draga. Then just shrugs. Draga’s glare deepens.

“Yesterday, you were desperate to break my curse. Now you want me gone?”

“Yes.”

“You’re a bad liar.”

Link glares.

“It’s not the dragon that scared you, is it?” Draga calmly rolls his right sleeve up, inspects the back of his hand. “Was it this?” He touches a faint, triangular scar. Like a burn. Perfect and three sided just below his middle knuckle. “We all have one now. Does it mean something to you? Have you seen it in a past life, Link?”

“Yes,” he says.

“On the hand of your enemies?”

He tenses, but for a second he breaks eye contact.  

“Is that it?” Draga moves to crouch directly in front of Link, face-to-face. “You think I’m your enemy?”

Link’s jaw is clenching.

“Do you think you’re mine? You want to be? You’ve thought of killing me?”

“I have,” Zelda says quietly.

A deafening silence follows. Draga, who was likely just being dramatic to get a rise from Link, seems a little horrified to get an answer. Both of her friends stare at her, sitting there, with a bowl of soup in her lap and her knees drawn together, fingers curled carefully around the smooth clay bottom. She thumbs the lip of her bowl.

“I have nightmares, Draga. Not always, but sometimes, I dream about fighting you. About…” She trails off, watches their faces until she’s sure she’s conveyed the violence of it. “And sometimes when I look at you and Link, I feel like I’ve seen you together before but I don’t know where or in what context. I feel like we’re… moving along a pre-determined path. Which wasn’t a problem before because you and I noticed it and we all decided we didn’t care if there was something strange about our meeting but now…”

She uses one hand to quickly wipe her face.

“That dragon came for you. I’m afraid of where we’re going. More afraid of that than the possibility that it could be good. I fear we’re destined to… I don’t know. But I don’t like it. I think you should get away from us before we…” She wipes her eyes again. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to say this to you but I keep having visions where you’re dying and I don’t know what it means! Maybe it’s the demon. Maybe we’re too close and if we fight it, we’ll kill you. I just don’t know…”

“Then don’t fight it,” Draga says quietly.

“I’m scared though! I’m scared something is going to happen!”

“Why?” Draga says. “You’re the girl who killed Calamity. How can you be afraid? You see one vision and run?”

“Not just one –!” Link bites his tongue. Holds it.

Draga stares. “Oh?”

Link says nothing.

“You’ve thought about fighting me before?”

Link says nothing.

Draga leans forward. “I ask you again, do you want to kill me?”

“No.”

“Then stop fretting about figments from past lives,” Draga snaps. His face is very close to Link’s. “I’m sick of telling you this. Do you know how to be anything to others but the role Hylia gave you? The Hero to everyone you meet? Zelda at least has the spine to hate it and defy it. You let it take everything from you up. Everything, Even own goddamn voice. Like the Goddess owns you. You act like it.”

Link stares, eyes wide, expression empty as a bell jar.

“I’ve seen myself,” he says, “fighting someone with that mark on their hand…”

Draga shoves him with one hand, forcing him to catch himself with one hand in the grass.  

“You’re not going to kill me, you moron! Your sainted Goddess herself could come down and tell you to take up your sword but you don’t have to. That’s the point, Link, you can tell the gods to fuck off. So even if there is some divine plan between the three of us, it doesn’t matter. We can say ‘no’. We can walk away. How is it that you two don’t understand something so fundamental about the roles you play – that they hinge on your willingness? You never had to fight.”

His expression softens a little.

“Which is why is matters that you decided to. That’s why you two are so impressive to me. Do you understand?”

Link is getting angry. “You’re my friend, Draga. I don’t want to–”

“Is that what I am?’ Draga angles his head. “Your friend?”

Link never breaks eye contact.  “I don’t –”

Draga doesn’t move fast, but he didn’t have much distance to cover.

He just leans forward – rather like he’s done it a hundred times before in this or another life – and hooks a finger under Link’s chin and kisses him. Calmly. Easily. Like it’s the most obvious thing the world. So obvious it’s almost unromantic were it not for the small uncharacteristic spot of hesitation in the curl of Draga’s fingers. His touch along Link’s jaw. How he tilts the other man’s head just slightly so he can fit their mouths together without any awkwardness in angle and having done that, he does nothing else. He initiates no further – like he’s asking a question in an entirely new language. Hoping for an answer.

Link’s shock freezes him for a heartbeat.

He – Goddess above – he looks at her, his mouth caught against Draga’s, parted on the last word he’d been trying to get out and there’s something about that. There’s something about her knight errant holding still, his shaky breath against Draga’s mouth, how blue his stare looking at her through his touch-tangled hair, how he won’t move a fucking muscle even though she can see it in every line of his body that he wants to but he keeps staring at her. Like he’s waiting until she, herself, makes a move but she doesn’t know what. Something races down her body. Link is still looking at her. She feels hot. Aching. Why is he looking at her?

She…

She nods, once, terrified but hypnotized.  

Link closes his eyes and his hands go immediately to back of Draga’s neck and pull him down.

Draga’s hands close reflexively on Link’s shoulders, fingers digging into his biceps, thumbs pressing into the curve of his collarbone. Link doesn’t let go. He’s half the other man’s size and, yet, he’s indestructible in Draga’s grasp. Unmovable. He slides his hands up into the shorter hair at the back of Draga’s neck, fingers threading up into the thicker braids and gold beading. He’s kissing Draga now. Breathing raggedly and rapidly between instances of urgency, his mouth guiding Draga’s to open against his and allow him for just a second. He pushes his tongue into Draga’s mouth. Once. Twice. Again. Link bares pale teeth and catches them just once against Draga’s lower lip and the Gerudo makes this… sound in his throat.

Link groans, frustrated, and jerks back.

“Fuck you,” he says, so close to Draga it’s like a second kiss when he says, “That’s not fucking fair.”

He pushes away and gets up, walking out of the light of the campfire. Zelda can hear him swearing like a solder as he goes down the hill.

Zelda stands to go after him. Stops because Draga is just sitting there, staring after him, with his hair messed up where Link has his fists closed in it.

“I don’t know what to do,” she admits.

“Why are you looking at me?” Draga says, laughing. “I don’t know.”

“Shit,” Zelda says. She starts to go down the hill again. Stops. She darts back to Draga and, ignoring his bemused expression, plants a kind of angry kiss on his forehead and hisses, “He’s right. This doesn’t change anything. We need to talk about this. You… cheater.”

Then she runs down the hill after Link.

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go to chapter eight...