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Ganondorfs apartment is…something.
It’s not bad, exactly.
Zelda just isn’t sure why he chooses to live here. He could have something nicer, bigger, whatever. And maybe this counts as high end, she doesn’t really know, but his complex isn’t in one of the luxurious parts of town either. It’s just somewhere nice enough. In a building thats nicely maintained and-she considers how she sounds for a second.
A rich brat.
She presses her lips together, double checking her text messages for his address. Definitely the right place. She adjusts the garment bags over her shoulder.
Given her childhood in high rises and penthouses it seems lackluster but she moves her gaze to the shiny elevator. It’s nice, really. She takes some determined strides towards it, jamming her finger into the ‘up’ button.
This place makes sense for him.
The sort of guy who’s locked himself away and wants that nice, easy, quiet life in a mildly luxe complex with a staffed lobby and only a few tenants. Given his childhood, what she’s gleamed from hearsay and interview sound bites she’s found, it’s better then how he grew up.
She gets into the elevator and waits for it to let out.
When it does, signaling her with that bright, cheery, ding, it opens up into a clean floor with dark carpets and a hall that is desperately clinging to the artificial lights above, the windows at either end of the hall unable to do much.
His floor only holds himself and his neighbor across the way (she figures all the floors are like that) and she resumes her confident stride to his fairly anonymous door. She holds her clothing bags higher and starts pressing the buzzer.
It’s a minute until he answers.
She’s honestly she doesn’t get a scolding over the intercom.
He’d texted her the place and confirmed the time, but she’s pretty sure he thought she’d just be waiting for him downstairs. All she’d said, after all, is she needs a ride and wanted him to take her rather then her usual driver. She was…sparse on any other detail.
But he opens the door and his eyes land on her first, raising a brow. Then he looks back to her stack of garment bags.
And he says, “Zelda, what’s all this?”
She gives him one of her best, winning, smiles and says, “we’re going to Termina today, remember? To talk to Malon? I texted you about it, you said yes?” He raises a brow and she puts a hand on his chest, trying to push him back inside so she can join him. “It’s going to be fun.”
He takes a step back, opening the door wider for her so she can come inside.
“Shoes off,” he says.
She obeys. She’d worn sensible shoes in, anyway. The unsensible ones are mixed with her other shit.
“What’s with the clothing bags?” He asks, shutting the door after she’s taken a few broad strides into his foyer.
She’s trying not to look. Because it’s her first time in here. Naturally she’s curious. But she doesn’t want to look like a kid in a candy store. No, she wants to exude confidence. To seem like she knows what she’s doing.
So she glances over to him, looking confused, and says, “it’s my outfit.” Then her eye flicks down from his head to his toes, nose scrunching. “Is that what you plan on wearing?”
Ok.
Look.
It’s a good outfit on a regular day with him.
Zelda learned pretty quickly that all Ganondorf wears is black. Occasionally some browns. But mostly black. And he looks good in black. He likes tight shirts and expertly tailored pants. He has these big, dramatic, jackets she knows are vintage from back when he was famous. Always nice, perfect shoes. Usually boots. Sometimes not. Always pristine. And he takes care of his things well. Sometimes he’s more of a corporate goth. Others, a bit of a washed up grunge boy.
Her favorite bits are, though, when you get yo see a little bit of his younger side come out. Statement jewelry, spiked or studded collars and bracelets, his particular earrings. Sometimes he has distressed pants that fit him perfectly on the waist. Perfectly disheveled. Perfectly torn.
She’s desperate for him to pull out his old fishnets and crop tops.
She’s sure he avoids it because he thinks he’s too old for that kind of thing. But if you ask her, he was hot then in all the pictures and videos she’s found. And he’s hotter now, really grown into himself and all. He’s bulked up some, but not enough to throw out all of the wardrobe from his 20s. The boxy crop tops that hung off him before should still fit. Tight now, but still.
Whatever.
Today he’s more on the ‘grunge boy’ end of the spectrum. Black jeans, black flannel, slightly less black tank that fits him just right. Freshly painted black nails. Cute.
His hair is down to. It’s nice. Long, curly waves, so goddamn bright.
“I don’t need an outfit to escort you to see a drummer,” he says, dry and uninterested. “Neither do you.”
“We’re going to Termina,” she says, “not just to see Malon.” She sets down her garment bags and fishes around between until she pulls out an elaborate and beautiful skull mask, complete with horns and tusks. “I even got you this.” He looks no less convinced. She just stares at his outfit. “I need to get you something better. You can’t go in…that.”
“Zelda-“
She’s already making her way through his apartment. It’s full of these deep, dark, rich, jewel tones. As she makes her way through, she takes note of what she passes. The rooms, the decor. The guitars. The tiny spots where things are not perfectly seemed up.
There’s a bunch of cool art on the walls she wants to take time to look at later, when she has time to ruminate on them. Stuff that looks like he bought it direct from artists he liked.
Later, though. Later.
She has pressing matters at hand.
And she can hear his footfalls behind her as she turns into his bedroom.
Zelda was right, of course.
She often is.
Termina is…not quite what Ganondorf remembered.
Firstly, the crowd had an entirely different energy.
He’s not sure what he expected. When he was here, he was the age of the majority of the crowd. 20s, no care left in the world. Now he just feels old, made worse by the sea of young faces now in new, trendier, recreations of what kids used to wear back when he was famous. Trends are cycles, of course, and some of that shits back now. Go figure.
It’s part of what feels wrong, though. Termina feels like it’s been invaded. The kids feel richer. The environment is more expensive, more corporate, less free. If he opens his mouth to complain, though, he’s sure Zelda will remind him of how expensive a bottle of fucking water was the year he played. So he keeps his mouth shut.
Regardless…it feels so much more establishment. Nothing counter culture about it at all. It makes him wonder if it’s Termina that’s sold out, become a part of the machine as he fears most counter culture is destined to do one way or another when it, inevitably, becomes culture. Either willingly for the monetary gain that comes from sanding off a things fine edges, or forcibly by labels that want to squeeze every last drop of value from the unique and strange as they possibly can.
Maybe it’s just him that’s changed. Now a more cynical thing twenty years older then when he last stood here. Would he act much different then any of these kids if he had access to a smart phone back then?
He doesn’t know.
He doesn’t really want to know either.
Zelda’s dragging him behind her, though, and turns her head with her hood still drawn.
Another thing she was right about. She’s some how managed to turn Zelda Harkinian off, replacing her with just another girl who’s name no one knows in this sea of bodies. She looks like she belongs here with any one of these little friend groups. Perhaps on summer break from college, wanting to let loose before she returns to the grind of classes.
Is this, maybe, who she is? Or maybe just who she could have been. In some other world, some other time.
He watches her smile and spin and weave through the crowd.
No, he decides, this isn’t a realer, truer, Zelda. Not like the one who met him on the roof. Not like the one who’s with him alone at the recording studio. Maybe this is one he wishes was real. Less sad, less torn by the industry that bore her, raised her, primed her to be the work horse that she is. Someone far, far from the messy world both of them occupy.
Just another facade, made to make her life easier.
He hates her outfit, though.
Termina is in the summer. While the collage kids are out of classes so they’re all reveling in the eat and their fresh freedom. Skin is everywhere. All the time. Constantly. He remembers that from the first Termina, of course. He remembers coming on that stage and the sun beating down on his body, so oppressive and blinding. He remembers taking off his sweat soaked shirt, the sheen of his skin and how it all felt a bit like home. A bit like wandering around Gerudo in the middle of the day. Except worse because there was no shade on a stage, nothing to cover his head. No reprieve.
He’d felt alive all the same. The heat a footnote in the recollection.
Skin, though, as he and any Gerudo would know, doesn’t really help you with the sun. No amount of knowing stops all the shirtless bodies, girls in bikini’s, the water features to keep cool, all of that. And it’s only become more cemented as part of the Termina ‘look’ once the nightly raves started cropping up. First spontaneous, now fully fledged and sponsored parts of the festival.
Termina attendees are called Moon Children, something the most enthusiastic of them take to heart and wear with supreme pride. They’ve woven together aspects of the rave scenes you find in the Twili Realm and the Zora Domain as part of their outfits, intending to seamlessly go from the summer sun to the nightly EDM shows. Moon Children are also most likely to wear masks. Lot’s are hand made and traded. Some are bought. Sometimes there’s sellers wandering the crowds, trying to sneak around security to avoid getting caught selling on festival grounds without a license, a hilarious counterpart to the drug dealers crawling around the same paths.
All of this has culminated into the fashion side of Termina. People like to curate the perfect outfits to share on social media. People even write articles about what to wear. Lists suggesting costume ideas, the best places to shop, the most comfortable platforms to wear (the answer being none are comfortable but you, the reader, don’t need to know that).
Zelda has opted to dress up as a Blupee.
Meaning she’s wearing some sort of fucking leotard get up that sits tight and firm on her ass in a way that makes him wonder, in the brief seconds he’s dared look, if she’s glued the goddamn thing to her. There’s a corset equally well fitted that cannot be good in the heat. A cropped hoodie of thin fabric that barely qualifies as a garment and is more just an agent of which her good functions, seated firmly on her head with her long, long ears and equally long Blupee antenna or whatever they are. Her shoes are tall and impractical, ending high on her thighs. But she’s yet to trip.
She has a mask to, of course. Or, more aptly, googles that bring back the whole ‘Blupee’ idea. Big, red into yellow, opaque, and round.
He’s not going to pretend Zelda isn’t attractive.
She is.
The outfit accents her hips, the creamy expanse of her pale thighs. Her waist that always seems grab-able is only made worse by the corset and her tits look far more ample in something so cinched. When she means it, her smile is radiant and world collapsing. And when she doesn’t, it’s still pretty.
She’s also twenty years younger then him.
Twenty years younger and he is so, so sure any flirtation from her has been less about him and more about her using any means at her disposal to get her way. Batting her pretty eyelashes at him, someone she’s clearly pegged as lonely and desperate for any sort of connection, is just another means to an end.
A very maddening means to an end he’s already long agreed to. He signed a fucking contract and everything.
Anyway. The Blupee is incognito. And she is currently going by Tetra.
No ones recognized her, head to toe in blue, parts of her face obscured so no one quite gets the full picture.
He didn’t really think it was going to work when he first saw the get up in his living room. He thought it was too obvious she was Zelda, even though the image of her in the outfit was certainly burned into his brain like it or not. But, he supposes, hood up with her hair how it is, big goggles on with the Zelda persona turned off, most people around them are probably thinking she’s some other blonde who looks kinda like Zelda Harkinian.
Zelda Harkinian, surely, if she wanted, would not be out and about with the main crowd at Termina. So, naturally, it was not Zelda Harkinian they see.
He’s far more disguised.
She’d dug through his whole closet and assembled him something to match the mask she’d bought for him. An outfit that looks more like something he’d have worn when he was her age but constructed out of things he currently owns.
Jeans that had been cut off at the knee who knows how long ago, loose strands all dangling about his legs. Leather boots past his ankles. Duster with a hood that’s made of nice, breathable fabrics that won’t kill him in the sun. Spiked choker she insisted upon with matching bracelets he didn’t even remember still owning.
He feels…ridiculous.
Of course he feels fucking ridiculous.
The fucking 20 something in the Blupee costume dressed him. It all being his own clothes save for the mask doesn’t change that.
“Tetra,” he says, finding the name odd on his tongue but she hums all the same, perfectly attuned to her character, “what’s the plan? Are we going to find where Lost Woods is or…?”
“Oh, we’re going to talk to her after she’s preformed,” Zelda says and Ganondorf decides to stop walking.
The crowds thin enough in this spot that it’s not much of a problem to stop. Try as she might, Zelda can’t pull him along either after he’s planted his feet. She turns to him, mildly annoyed, meeting his gaze.
“We’re going after she plays?” He asks. She nods, slow like he was meant to know that all along. Even if she never once mentioned it in her texts. Then again, she never mentioned attending Termina either as much as she mentioned she just needed a ride to get her there to talk to Lost Woods.
This is already a lot more then just being a ride to get her to Termina to talk to Lost Woods.
“Yeah,” Zelda says, “if she plays a good show, she’s going to be way more agreeable.”
“And if she plays a bad show, she’s not going to want to talk to anyone,” he returns.
“She’s at Termina. Even if she plays a shit set, she’s going to have a blast and be riding that high all night,” Zelda says. “Plus, I’ve never been to Termina. I thought it would be fun, even more with a friend.” He blinks. “What? You haven’t been either, not in a few decades. It’ll be…I don’t know, good for inspiration or something. For the album.”
He doesn’t fucking understand why it’d be good for the album to wander around a sea of fucking Moon Children. But sure, whatever. Why not waste the day doing this.
“Could you not get inspiration somewhere else?” He asks.
She frowns.
“Why do you hate this so much?” She asks. “What were you going to do today if I didn’t bring you here?”
That…she can’t see his face twist behind the mask. See how his lips press together, how his brows lower. What was he going to do today? Get up, get showered, get dressed (already done before she showed up). Stretch, light work out to keep himself limber. Play a little. Sit in silence, sit with a book maybe, sit looking out the window. Text Zant maybe, who always has something to say. Scroll on his phone at news that he pretends not to care about, but kind of does.
Rot. Rot. Rot.
Maybe, if he was lucky, he’d play some more guitar. Get some new little bits of songs to stow away for other people to play. If he’s even luckier, he’d stow bits away for himself to play. For some fabled new song he’ll never write that is fully, truly, his again. And he’ll trap all the bits on his phone, leaving music to live in there without him until it spawns enough to actually sing along.
Then go to bed, probably. Maybe shower a second time.
Try not to think about Zelda’s ass or hips or anything which is usually easier then he’s sure it will be today after watching her walk around in this get up for hours.
His silence lingers in the noise around them and Zelda crosses her arms.
“Nothing, right?” She asks. He doesn’t answer. “It’s good to go outside, you know. Do something. Have some fun. See people. Plus, we can flip between the stages and see what’s interesting. Creatively. Like a work trip.”
A work trip with her ass out. Sure.
“No, you probably have a whole list of who you want to see,” he says, dry, deciding to bite at the hook she’s dangling for him. She beams then (real, radiant).
“Absolutely,” she says, grabbing his wrist again, “come on.”
“When is Lost Woods on?”
“Afternoon,” she replies. “I think…sometime after 4, something like that.”
“Respectable slot.”
“Respectable, yeah. I think a lot of the crowd’s going to run off for food during it, though, if they’re even at the second stage.”
It also means there’s plenty of time to kill. Zelda turned up to his place a bit past noon but her dress up activities took a bit over an hour. Then there was driving, parking, and walking, so it’s now past two in the afternoon.
He’s a bit grateful for that.
He won’t be out as late as he thought, in the very least.
“Come on,” Zelda repeats, tugging on his wrist again, “we are wasting so much time standing around.”
And with that, she drags him back into the fray.
Zelda drags him to an eclectic array of artists.
No two are the same genre and nor does she want to stay for the whole thing. Her reasoning makes sense. She has two hours to kill and given Termina’s three stages, there’s a lot to see.
The three stages are after Ganondorfs time. When he played the festival twenty years ago there was a smaller venue and there was only the main stage.
Now, though, there’s the big headliner stage for the biggest acts. Most people flock there. The second stage, acts that are known but not the sort that will draw the massive crowds Termina demands. Zelda would be main stage. Lost Woods, naturally, is second stage. Enough to draw a crowd. Not the sort the headliners are drawing, though.
Third stage, though, is where the weird shit happens.
Third stage is supposed to be for the small up and coming artists. Barrier to entry is low, the variety of acts is wide, and you have absolutely no idea if you’re going to see a band that is going to make it big in less then five years or some random artist with enough of a portfolio together and enough money for fees that they made it past the screening process and takes the stage to play like absolute ass. The sets tend to be shorter, though it’s not unheard for them to go on longer. Particularly if someone dropped out.
Sometimes bigger stars who didn’t make the second stage show up there. Sometimes you get solo artists who recently broke from a big band, or a bigger band themselves, wanting to give a short little experimental treat to a small crowd. Sometimes you get acts that aren’t music at all who slipped through the cracks or, on occasion, just broke their way onto stage because everything is far more lax down there right down to security. It’s where the raves started for that reason, before they became an actual part of the whole thing.
He likes the idea lot. Even if these days it’s become a lot more of a record studio game, as they can afford all the dues easily and can give their smallest acts sea legs and free publicity.
Everyone down there is still so free. And they’re all just on the cusp of something.
It reminds him of when he’d jump around bar to bar with Nabooru when they were young, far before the band, and they would just try to listen to everything they could. Like they’d find just the right tiny band with a home made cassette for sale that would change their life.
It’s cute. Third stage is cute.
Zelda floats between it and the second stage, checking a list on her phone with times and names he doesn’t know. Easily rattling off who’s playing where and when they need to get there by.
She’d searched everyone coming to Termina. Everyone. Including every single one of those little baby indie artists on stage three.
She’s so…meticulous in her planning, he struggles to reconcile her with the same girl who keeps turning up late to the recording studio. But he supposes planning and actualization are two separate things and when you’re so high in the world time becomes just another luxury you can easily afford.
Right now they’re listening to a group called the Indigo-go’s. An all Zora outfit that must either be loving or hating this goddamn heat. They’re good, though. Very good. And judging by the crowd, they’ve got interested fans. The set is engaging and flows together well. The band seems to have good chemistry amongst themselves, to. At least onstage. They probably have a shot, if they want it, towards enough success to live.
He particularly likes the bassist.
He’s possibly the best bassist he’s seen all day, not that he can definitively say that given the smattering of show’s he’s seen but he also think’s he’d be a good fit for Zelda and what they’ve discussed for the album.
Though he’s sure she probably doesn’t want any unsolicited advice from any of her sessions musicians. Even from Ganondorf outside of song writing opinions and guitar input.
He is, though, regardless, opening his mouth to give his suggestion anyway. Then he see’s her. And see’s how lost she is in the music, swaying with her eyes shut at his side.
She parts from him, letting her body move and flow freely with the music, entering the outskirts of the crowd. She hops a little, careful not to fall in her platforms.
Ganondorf can’t look away from her, feeling safe behind his mask to observe and captivated as she let’s herself be free. Floating into the crowd, with other people her age around her. She dances with a group of girls who might have been her friends in another life. Sways her hips at boys she might have looked twice at there to.
It hurts to watch, honestly.
Not because of the passive flirting with boys and girls.
No, because he wishes she had the choice to be this.
And wishes he could go back. Lose twenty years off his bones and maybe make some different choices to, be a different man.
She sways her way back over to him all the same, head tilting up as he feels her gaze on him. Over the music, she says, “I like this set.”
“They’re good,” he agrees. “What do you think about the bassist?” Zelda looks over to the stage thoughtfully. “He’s good. I think he’d pair well with Malon to. Something a little bolder for you.”
“Maybe,” Zelda says and he’s sure that’s the best he’ll get until she makes a decision on her own. “I’ll look into it after we find out if Malon’s game.” Ganondorf nods and Zelda glances to her phone. It’s closing in on four and they’ll need to get to second stage soon.
But Zelda doesn’t move to leave.
She goes back to swaying and dancing.
And Ganondorf…let’s himself have a moment to watch and maybe smile.
The two remain until the Indigo-go’s last song, arriving about twenty minutes late to Lost Woods. They probably didn’t miss much, though. The stage would have to be reset between acts, after all, and Ganondorf has seen enough roadies scrambling around to set up a stage in his lifetime. Doing so again for Lost Woods is…entirely necessary.
He’s warm and uncomfortable in his outfit but he can’t strip any of it off. Not now, not with Zelda here to watch him dismantle her hard work that he didn’t ask for.
And Lost Woods is just as good in person as they are in the videos Zelda’s been sending him.
He tries to pay the most attention to Malon in the back, but the whole trio works well together. It’s hard to separate one part from another, particularly with the sound quality of an outdoor festival of all places. And, given they were late…well…Zelda has the two of them parked very far in the back.
Malon, though, does seem to be having a good night. She’s keeping rhythm and holding the band together well. When the other two need to switch equipment, she easily transitions between songs with improvised little drum beats.
He can see what Zelda sees in her. Not only someone talented, but someone who can offer input, something he’s learned Zelda respects in her sessions players.
Zelda makes him wait with her until the trio has exited the stage with waves and goodbyes, wanting to be sure it stayed a good show.
Parts of the crowd start filtering out, new people starting to flood in for the next set. Roadies are swarming the stage to pack up equipment and Malon's kit. But Ganondorf does not move. His presence causing Moon Children to part around him as he glances down to Zelda, her eyes still on the stage.
“Now what?” He asks. “How do you plan on finding them?” She shakes to life, but her eyes don’t leave the stage.
“Being Zelda Harkinian, of course,” she replies, grabbing his arm again and pulling him with her right up to the front.
He starts to understand the get up she assembled for him. Something big, intimidating. Something that makes it easy to cut through a crowd. Zelda might have trouble pushing towards the security line on her own. But with Ganondorf in toe, dawned in black and with a mask full of horns, it’s a hell of a lot easier.
She get’s to the edge of the barrier between security and stage, Ganondorf now behind her and acting as shield while she flags down someone in security.
For the first time all day, she takes down her goggles. Big, red circles are left in her skin but her make up is as impeccable as when she got to his house. And when the security guard sees her, he seems a bit take back by what he’s looking at.
But she explains who she is with ease. Her father to. Even Ganondorfs name she drops with persuasion and grace, lifting up his mask before he could even move his hands. And she, repeatedly, insists on getting backstage to where the acts are right now. She offers to make some calls to prove herself but leaves a sly little threat for this poor guard who probably does not want anyone with a higher influence coming down their neck about a displeased Harkinian.
Besides, she looks like Zelda Harkinian and talks like Zelda Harkinian, the guard probably believes her on that merit alone.
Instead of phone calls, the two find themselves ushered to a quieter part of the barrier where they can be let in.
It’s all so quick, the roadies haven’t even left the goddamn stage.
“Does Lost Woods have a trailer?” Zelda asks the guard, grounding Ganondorf in this chaotic moment with the sound of her familiar voice.
“No idea,” the guard replies, “if they do, one of the roadies can probably take you.”
Which means, now that the guard is slinking away, they must commender a roadie.
Ganondorf almost loses her with how fast she’s walking, busy trying to detangle himself from the mask he no longer needs to wear and failing because he’d rather keep up before she vanishes for good.
He catches up to her in the middle of asking some roadies what band they’re with. If it’s Lost Woods or not. One raises a hand.
Fuck Ganondorf could use a drink. He’s thirsty as hell.
Zelda’s saying, “great, where are they right now? I’d love to talk to them but I need to find them.” The roadie, arms full of wires, glances about. Then her eyes land on Ganondorf, quickly trying to place him. Hard to do now that the mask is back on.
“Is…the horns guy coming with us?” She asks. Zelda glances behind her, noticing Ganondorf there for the first time. Her gaze seems to be calculating his appearance, but also the fact she’d nearly lost him to begin with. Without even noticing.
She quickly nods, looping her arm with his.
“Absolutely,” she says. “He’s my business partner.
Business partner. Ok. Sure.
The roadie just nods and gestures, saying, “follow me, they’re not far but it’s kind of a maze back here.”
Ganondorf is sure it is.
But he’s not thinking about that.
He’s thinking about the last time he went backstage like this. All these tiny flashbulbs are firing in his mind. The anticipation of waiting to get up there, on the stage, the crowd already screaming. The rush of leaving the stage, of coming back down and feeling like you are falling through the sky, through the clouds, some sort of heavenly thing. The adrenaline still high. The hot, sweaty, suffocating feeling of success in the air. The knowing you did a good job, the crowd still calling for you as you walk away.
The younger him in his minds eye, grim on his face and all of his body buzzing with energy he’s yet to exude. His band mates around him as they all chatter and laugh and smile and hold each other, relishing in a good show. In playing good music.
He swallows, a put forming in him, grounding himself in Zelda’s thin fingers now back on his wrist. Familiar now that she’s held him like this most of the day.
And when he takes a second to see where they are, the roadies coming to a stop near a trailer, gesturing once again.
“Lost Woods, right here,” she says with a bright smile, hoping she pleased Zelda Harkinian. And Zelda smiles back, all customer service but the roadie probably can’t tell. And Ganondorf’s not sure that it matters. A kindness is a kindness.
“Thank you so much!” She says and the roadie nods, rushing off as she adjusts her pile of wires.
Zelda does not move any closer to the trailer. Ganondorf stands with her, quiet for a moment before he glances down towards her.
Her fingers grip his wrist a little tighter.
“Are…are you nervous?” He asks. Her shoulders stiffen and she glances up to him in return, trying to shake…whatever this is off.
“Nervous?” She asks. He nods. She pushes his mask back again, so he can look her in the eye. “I’m fine.” He raises a brow, something she can now see, and her expression scrunches. Looking away, she lets go of him to cross her arms. “I’m not nervous.”
Sure.
“She had a good show,” he says passively. “She’s probably full of energy back there.” Zelda takes a breath.
“Yeah, absolutely.”
“And you have a lot of good samples on your phone if she even asks to hear what you’re working on,” he tells her. Zelda’s shoulders soften. “Lots of good lyrics, lots of good sound bites. You’ve got something good, Zelda.”
She swallows again, nods, then shakes out her hands.
“I’ll be back, wait here,” she tells him, squares herself, then knocks on Lost Woods door.
He’s standing outside for a while. At first, he just looks around. Mask finally off, he can properly breathe. No need to worry if people recognize him back here, back with the roadies and the talent. If anyone even does.
But that get’s boring quick.
By the time Zelda’s back, he’s stripped out of the duster and remains in only his tank, scrolling on his phone while her nurses a cigarette. What catches his attention is, of course, the door. But also Zelda’s long, long, breath.
The hood is down. Her goggles are still off.
She takes a long breath back in after, filling her lungs. The girl from the roof top. The pretty little thing that joins him for recording sessions.
“How’d it go?” He asks, taking the cigarette from his lips.
She smiles, bright and real. Nearly enough to crack the planet in two.
“She said yes,” Zelda says. “She took my number, she’s going to meet with me later this week. And I can finally start getting some drum beats.”
He tries not to make it seem like there’s little more he wanted all day then to see that smile. He just nods, puts his cigarette back between his lips. Leans against the trailer next to her as she sits down on the steps for a moment, two, so she can finally relax.
“You picked a good one,” he tells her. “She’s a good drummer.” She nods.
“Exactly the sort of drummer we need.”
“You seem like you were scared. You didn’t seem so scared with me.”
Zelda considers, turning to look at him. Finally. He likes the depth of her eyes, that richness of the blue, and he’s scarcely had a chance to really look at them all day. “You were always going to say yes,” she tells him.
“Because I have nothing else going on?” He presumes, bitter at the accusation she hadn’t made.
Zelda, though, lowers her brow.
“No. Because you’re hungry,” she says. “Just like me.”
He doesn’t know what to make of that. Especially with how quickly she glosses over it, abruptly looking away from him and squaring her shoulders.
“You want to rave?” She asks. She’s beaming when she looks back, artificial and stunning.
“I think I’m up past my bed time,” he replies. “You should get some food in you. We haven’t eaten enough today.”
Zelda hesitates.
“I’ll be fine,” she says, pulling out her phone. “I’m going to see what Link and Midna are doing.”
“Zelda.”
“I’m not missing the rave,” she says. “I’ll ask Malon if I can have some of Lost Woods trailer food, it’s fine.”
She does not back down from his gaze and, instead, dares him to make a choice between going home and something worse. And he refuses to take such bait.
“Have fun, then,” he says, dropping his cigarette to crush it with his boot. Then holds out his discarded mask. “Do you want this back?” Something that almost seems like disappointment flashes through her. Almost.
“Keep it. Souvenir,” she says.
He nods.
Says goodbye, goes through the back of the festival and walks the long way to parking. Abundantly thankful that Lost Woods wasn’t on so late that there was no longer daylight to burn.
And when he gets home, he will set that mask down on the console table where he keeps his keys in a little hand made, artisan bowl. And it will not move.