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"It's tradition to kiss the one nearest you at the stroke of midnight."
It's that simple statement that makes Link choke on his tea. She's only a desk apart from him, reviewing the commander's seasonal reports now that the turn of the year is quickly approaching. It's one of the few times they're granted each other's company during work hours, so they make the most of it with cups of tea and news of interest.
But after that comment, he couldn't remember what they were talking about. Or why she would mention this at all.
Link coughs into a fist, and the hand that balances the teacup is trembling, so he sets it down out of fear of shattering the fine porcelain. His brows turn inward and upward as he hazards a look at the princess across from him.
Her eyes are on him, a brow arched ever so elegantly, and he doesn't question it: he's made quite the spectacle of himself. But a small smile finds her pink lips and his eyes snag on them.
"On New Year's," Zelda clarifies.
He swallows. "On New Year's," he repeats.
"There are some obvious exceptions, of course – marital statuses and such - but it's popular amongst the gentry." She turns back to her papers, unperturbed. Her quill dips in the inkwell and the nib swipes the parchment to cross out a word. "I wonder if you have similar traditions in Ordon."
"No," he means to say, but it comes out a little more like a question.
She hums and carries on as if she hasn't just thrown one of Barnes's bombs his way, and try as he might, he can't focus on anything else.
It's almost automatic, his decision to be the one closest to her when the bell tolls. He isn't sure he realizes he's made the decision, much less realizes how ridiculous it is.
Tradition or not, he can't just go kissing Zelda. Not only is she the princess, but she's become one of his closest friends, his confidant, and he's become her one true ally. She's the one he goes to see after a grueling day of work. He couldn't just risk their bond on a whim.
But Link can't remember a time he didn't want to kiss Zelda. Really, it's the only conclusion he can come to.
After all, it wouldn't be so hard to find her. She spends nearly every midnight in her study, head bowed over her desk, whittling away that day's impossible pile of paperwork.
He knows because he's stayed by her side many nights, under the premise of ensuring her safety – which is true, of course, but mainly he just wants her company, and she seems to appreciate his, so it works out in the end.
Ironically, it's on one of these nights that she delivers him the next set of news, and he likes this one a lot less.
At her desk again, Zelda works diligently and efficiently. Just moments before a swipe and a scribble of the nib, her brow twitches, and her tongue tuts. The scratch of her quill is punctuated by the occasional shuffle of paperwork, when she lifts a page and sets it aside, into a new, neater pile, and then her fingers are already under the next corner.
From the shadows beneath her eyes and the stretch of her lips beneath a gloved hand, he knows she's tired. He thinks of sweeping her up and carrying her to bed, but the thought makes him bristle – because no, he can't think like that, and he shakes it out of his head.
He's standing at her door, at least pretending to be on duty. His eyes dart between her and the portraits on the wall. There's an oil painting of Lake Hylia and one of a man with bushy brows, and he's thinking how he looks awfully similar to her advisor when -
"I'd like to invite you to the New Year's Ball." His eyes snap back to her.
It doesn't click at first; her invitation is nothing out of the ordinary. Since he first started working in the castle, the princess has invited him to any and all events, and there have been quite a few since the cloak of evil was cleaved. Though he's yet to enjoy one, he's attended every dinner party, ball, and performance just to spend more time with Zelda.
But when it does click, his heart drops to his stomach.
A New Year's ball.
It's nearly impossible to stay by her side at such an event, in a current of blue-blooded nobility, each betting and bartering for a conversation or a dance with Her Highness. The sudden image of a tall, dark stranger at her side flashes across his third eye. His jaw clenches.
"A New Year's ball?"
"Yes."
"And it's on New Year's?"
"I was surprised as well."
If she bothered to look up from her documents, she'd prove oblivious to the way color drains from his face. But she doesn't: her head is still bowed and her cheekbone is glazed with the candle's honey glow when she tilts it slightly.
"I know you're not fond of such events, but I'd be happy if you attended." He takes a breath. Finally, she raises her eyes to his and the smile returns to her lips. "It's not right to be alone for the holidays, after all."
Her tired voice is soft and tender, and though his heart is heavy, it flutters in his chest. He finds he cannot deny her.
"Of course, Your Highness."
When the night arrives, Hyrule Castle's ballroom is sparkling. White wisteria cascades from the ceiling, amongst the grand chandeliers that wash the assemblage in a golden glow. Everyone is dressed in their finest garbs and every gloved hand holds a gilded flute. Those who dance waltz with a sprightly step, in time with the lively string quartet, and the colorful fabrics sail across the polished floor like a swelling tide.
Zelda's extravagant gown is as red as the evening sun that has set on the kingdom. Her pleated sleeves slink down to her upper arms, revealing her smooth, pale shoulders, and there's a dip in her collar that's almost scandalous. Holly berries are tangled in her updo, the crimson stark against her chestnut hair.
He can't keep his eyes off her.
Even as he stands off to the side, even as he tries not to, his eyes follow her. She comes to him after addressing the councilors, bows her head, and he bends at the waist. "Sir Link."
"Your Highness."
When he straightens up, he finds her pale eyes sweeping over him, and the mischief in them sparkles like champagne. The hero wouldn't admit it, but he did dress a tad nicer for the evening. His messy hair is slicked back, though it still sticks up in some places, and he wears pristine white gloves with his crimson knight attire.
"You look handsome tonight."
He stiffens but manages to say, "Just a fresh set of clothes, Your Highness."
"You shouldn't have gone through the trouble."
He snorts. Mirth is dancing in her eyes, and when she settles into place beside him, he tries not to notice how natural it feels. She looks out into the crowd to see what he sees. "How are you enjoying the festivities?"
Better now, he thinks.
"It's fine," he says.
The princess clicks her tongue. "I wish I could say the same. There are a handful of dukes who would benefit from a few more lessons on propriety."
His hand goes to the pommel of his sword. "Any heads you'd like me to lop off, Your Highness?"
"Not at the moment. But I'll keep you posted."
He laughs breathily and the corner of her lips twitch. But then it settles into a comfortable silence, as it often does, and they simply stand side by side.
He found that's more than enough for him long ago, back when Ganondorf was still ravaging the kingdom. He wonders if it's enough for her.
"I really cannot stay long."
"I know."
But she doesn't move. His eyes are looking at her through his peripheral vision, and her hands are folded over her waist.
After a moment, trading turns breathing until they're in sync, she sighs and steps away from him. Zelda bows once more and he follows suit. It's only a moment before she vanishes like sugar in tea. She's ensnared by the royal trappings, but he can still hear her soft voice between the pealing laughter and droning chatter of the crowd.
Zelda strolls past every so often, seemingly making rounds across the floor, and maybe he's overthinking the fact that she lingers when she gets near him.
But Link wants her to stay - or rather, he just wants to be by her side, wherever she wanders - especially tonight. But he's not her escort, and no one ever really stays by her side at these types of events. They're either waiting for her to come by or daring to engage her with whatever riveting topic they can come up with, but it always comes to a close, and she always inevitably moves on to the next guest.
The same can't be said for him. By now, the nobles are aware of his disinterest in their transactional conversations, and really, his attendance alone is good enough for Her Highness's standing. They acknowledge him with polite nods if their eyes happen upon him or engage him with small talk when they parade past his unassigned post, but his simple answers don't keep them entertained and they always depart soon after.
It doesn't matter either way. If he ever did have any interest in their gossip, it wouldn't matter tonight because he can't stop thinking about kissing her. He can't stop thinking about how soft her lips must be and how sweet she must taste and how her mouth might move on his.
The hero questions if he'd actually have the nerve to do it - if there wasn't a ball and if he really did have her all to himself - but every time she disappears, his heart hammers faster against his ribcage, and he's sure he would kiss her if only he could.
He's going mad with every passing hour. He can't be sure what time it is, not with the same monotonous chatter, and she's always beside someone. Someone taller than him or with neater hair or shinier boots. A scowl is set on his face, lip twitching and jaw set, and now people are avoiding him as they pass.
Heat sits in the congested space and it's getting harder to breathe; he's fanning his collar; he's wiping his brow. Breathing shallow, his eyes keep darting to the frosted windows, encased by crystallized snowflakes.
His feet start moving before he realizes he's barrelling out the door. Moonlight washes over the gardens, blanketed by a thick layer of sparkling snow, but he doesn't stop to admire it. He's marching without a destination; he just needs to go.
When he finally feels like he's far enough, Link stops, panting despite his stamina, bent over with his hands on his knees. He doesn't want to think about who's at Zelda's side now, who's taking her hand or leading her to dance. His stomach churns at the thought of who's lucky enough to be at her side when midnight strikes.
It's silent out here, amidst the falling snow that lazily drifts through the night sky. If snowflakes made a sound when they settled over the pile, he'd surely be able to hear it.
He's not sure how long he's out there. It might be moments or hours even before he hears the plodding of snow, distant before getting closer and faster, with clear urgency with every step. His ear twitches and Link turns on his heel, surprised to find Zelda approaching, crimson skirts in her hands as she races a little breathlessly towards him.
"Your Highness? What are you-"
There's a distant toll of the bell, and before he can register it - before he can make sense of her urgency – Zelda crashes into him and presses her lips to his.
He must've stopped breathing. There's nothing besides her kiss.
The movement of her lips is incessant, kissing him over and over, and his senses start flooding back to him. Vanilla saturates the cold air, and her hands are cradling his neck, thumbs in front of his ears, and fingers in his hair. It sets his skin on fire.
When she pulls back, her brows are narrowed and there's a scowl on her pretty lips.
"Where are you going?" she demands, and it's exactly what he's thinking when she parts from him.
He wraps his hands around her waist and draws her back, dipping his head to kiss her once more. Finally, he thinks, as he's kissing her madly, he realizes why she told him about this tradition.