Chapter Text
"I am never," Link announces, "going to understand the appeal of these."
He stares at the book in front of him, brows furrowed in the most confusion Zelda has ever seen on his face. For years, she's watched him stare down some of the most dangerous—and batshit insane—circumstances in the world with zero complaint. Not even the bat of an eyelid.
Yet somehow, the power of figurative language has gotten him absolutely stumped.
Zelda snickers and turns to the next page of her own book. "You know," she says, "there are some people who say poetry is the path to a person's soul."
"Well, I'm not seeing how 'kissed by the sun; coveted by the moon' could be a path to anything."
She lifts her head to grin at him. "The narrator is describing how beautiful their subject is."
Link's brows twist even further and Zelda's chest stirs with a deep urge to smooth them down. "Why wouldn't they just say that then?"
"They are. Just in… a more abstract way."
His expression remains unconvinced, and all Zelda can do is snort. "Never fear," she says, turning back to her own reading. "I'm not about to start expecting poetry out of you."
There's the sound of a book clapping shut, and next to her, the mattress shifts and creaks. Zelda tries to keep her eyes on the page—on the words formed from crisp calligraphy—but a jostling at her elbow breaks her focus. Sandy hair splays itself over her thighs, and lidded blue eyes ensnare her own. "You're beautiful, and I love you," Link says, getting his head comfortable in her lap. "That's it. That's my poem."