Killing Me Slowly

Hello, all. Greeny here. Alive and writing.

Here is my first story I've published on here in a while. Some of you extra random devoted stalkers might recognize is from my dA account, BlinkyDesu. This was originally published there around one year ago. Now, it is here! Edited and thus improved!

Warning: contains men having sex, otherwise known as mansex. Don't read if you don't like mansex.

Italics - Sheik's thoughts, and flashes to the past. You'll figure it out. I trust you.

Enjoy! =3


The bells chimed softly on their doorknob string as the Sheikah slammed the door. There's was the only sound in the small apartment, minus the weighted unevenness of his own breathing. Habit made him scan the dark front room, lit in golden pockets by ever-burning candles, though he knew full well the Dark King was dead and such deceit had died with him. It was safe as far as he could tell; the rugs, beaded curtains, and mismatched pillows undisturbed.

With a tightness in his chest, Sheik ducked through the thick curtain separating his bedroom from the rest of his small hideaway. The floor was covered in a fading rug that swallowed his footfalls.

"Damn," he swore, voice soft yet rough. "Damn him."

Screwing his eyes shut – could he ever open his eyes again without seeing him? – his fingers flew to his head, unwinding the cloth turban wrapped around his honey-colored hair. Metal clanked as embroidered gems hit golden inlays: while practical in most garments, the Sheikah were certainly not frugal when it came to their festivals.

Festivals.

He shuddered as the last of the turban pooled as his bare feet. A festival had started this mess.

It has been the princess's idea. Her Highness had learned of the exotic tradition from Impa - exotic not in the sense that only the Sheikah had festivals, but rather, that no one has festivals like the Sheikah.

The Sage had warned the Princess of the cultural differences. There were no large crowds, no public dances while a boar roast on a spit, no glittering rooms where one could chat over a flute of champagne. Only the fire, the field and the silent lure of incense and a pounding drum beat, coaxing even the most reserved into full abandon.

"At a gathering like this, milady, it is a different kind of crowd. There are select, intimate, and the wine is spiced. There is nothing mild about it," Impa said as Zelda scowled and Sheik knotted his brows uncomfortably. Even then, weeks ago, he had been against it. Zelda, of course, was no help.

"Well," she said delicately, folding her hands in her lap and looking out of her peripheral as she often did when she wanted something, "I believe we could use a little spice. Don't you?"

It was not a question.

And festival there had been - a large bonfire in a clearing specially prepared just outside Kakariko, golden poles from which incense burners hung, select stones and tiny gems cast about the ground. Not for a purpose, except to add, add, add to the mystery of the One Moment. Large body pillows were cast about, bowls of exotic snacks passed between those who watched the dancers.

Sheik clenched his teeth. Dancers. Goddesses. Sinking to his knees before his low bureau, he stared as the lopsided pentagon of glass which served as a mirror. His burgundy eyes, bright and plagued, gazed back from above the purple veil which fell to cover his neck and shoulders. His hair stuck flat across his forehead, sticking in places to the paint of his tattoos. It had been the Princess's orders that he regale himself in the full attire – "to grant the full experience".

She never said anything about arranging the same for him.

Sheik swallowed heavily, hastening to remove the veil that stuck to his lips and made it even harder to breathe in. The necklaces came next – they would melt to his skin if he let them remain. The tattoos would be harder, they patterned his cheeks and eyes, crawling down the back of his neck and sides of his arms. He was tempted to leave them, at least for now.

– the way they had framed his eyes, staring from across the fire –

There was a sharp clang as his comb smacked the right wall. Trembling, he wiped his fingers rapidly through his hair, as if he would brush the memory away. "Will I ever be free of you again?" he asked. There was no answer.

It was not his presence at the festival that shocked Sheik's system. Naturally the Princess would invite the Hero of Time, legendary knight and savior of all Hyrule. Sheik had expected him to come, though admittedly he had expected him to do so in a shirt.

His eyes froze on his haggard reflection. The strange side of his mind, unfamiliar and all together unrepresented in his life before the Hero, grasped as his own image: the bare, compact chest, dark whirling tattoos, gauzy dancer's pants that were tight only at the knees and waist. It took account of Sheik, wiry and slight, and transposed them to another figure. One he himself has contemplated in snatches in the long hours between their meetings, his thoughts sinking father down a path he hadn't dare to explore until, trembling, he had to light a strong candle to clear his muddled brain.

Sheik massaged his forehead. That would be twenty times harder now – now that he had a visual.

It was a perfect night for a festival. Above the small abandoned valley the sky was pristine, choked with stars though the moon was new, casting little light onto the chosen clearing. Between the bonfire and the incense the air was thick and heady.

At first Sheik had been tense, skulking around the perimeter as his hands checked his legs for his weapons, only to twitch when they weren't there. Seven years of constant vigilance were hard to lay to rest. Every stray shadow, the snap of a twig or unplaced noise could be a remnant of the Dark King's army. As he combed through a small glade and paced over yards of grass and flowers, he was reminded again of the Hero of Time. It was becoming unnerving to the Sheikah, how an action as commonplace as walking could stir his presence.

One day, he mused, there would be pilgrimages to trace the Path of the Hero as he Journeyed to Save Hyrule. And at every spot the guide would take a moment to speak of the crazed ninja who wore ruts in solid stone with his pacing, who waited for days without food for the Hero to appear, who was frantic with worry but was too dumb to let the Hero know. The same fool who always ran away, who was a coward, and who died from the love of him.

Sheik paused, biting his lip. It wasn't love. He was more likely to die of pure confusion. It could easily be madness that made him this lonely.

It was Impa who finally caught him, grabbing him by the ear (how she did so without mussing his turban was beyond him) as she pulled him down off the rock he had been crouching on.

"I don't care if you're the Pride of the Sheikahs, or if you find yourself special now that you've helped save Hyrule," she scolded smartly, "no nephew of mine is going to show such disrespect to the Royal Family by missing the festivities."

"Alright, alright," he protested, mouth twisting into a frown. "I was only checking." Ducking his head beneath his arm, he threw off her hand – a maneuver she could well counter but chose not to, giving him in pride and space. "I'll come to the fire now."

Impa arched a silver eyebrow, stung through not surprised at the bitterness in his voice. "Don't take that tone around the Princess. She's been quite excited about this."

"I won't," he mumbled, already turning away when his aunt grabbed his arm, too fast to anticipate, whipping him around again. The distant fire cast an almost wicked glow across her angular features.

"Sheik," she said, a new tone to her voice that Sheik couldn't place – a fearful mix between pity and false innocence. "No need to keep that sullen look on your face. I'm sure the Hero will be here soon."

He felt his skin grow flush. Pulling his arm away, he backpedaled, putting distance between himself and his too-observant relative. "I am not sullen. The Hero can arrive whenever he pleases."

"And I'm sure it will please you if he arrives sooner," Impa cut in lightly, striding away nonchalantly before the Sheikah could ask why she was so sure.

With a new suspicion he tried to set aside, Sheik slipped back to the party, the earth both hot and unyielding beneath his unshod feet. The fire was burning higher, two younger Sheikah tasked with the traditional burden of keeping the flames alive rolling fresh wood into the pit. In his absence the party had developed, attendees drifting into the ring of orange light from the shadows of the Field.

It was a mixed group – those few dozen Sheikah who remained after the Great Wars populated the bonfire, mingling with those Gerudo given pardon by the Royal Family. The cultural similarity was something both sides felt worth exploring though there were a few, Sheik included, who felt on edge around tanned woman with big swords. A handful of Hylians stuck out, not quite as comfortable in the orange shadows.

Zelda perched on an ornately embroidered pillow – nicknamed her "throne away from home" by Impa – regally adorned in clothes that appeared to be borrowed from Nabooru, though her makeup was Sheikah. It was an unsettling image. Even with such an attire – a adorned shirt with enough fabric to enfold her chest and span her shoulders, a dancer's maneuverable skirt, and a mantra of golden chains mixing with her own yellow tresses – it was difficult to picture her in any way but as his Princess. There was something about her softness, or her delicate status, that turned Sheik away while others, including members of her elite guard, eyed her when she wasn't looking.

"Sheik!" someone called. A dark golden hand wrapped around his upper arm. Nabooru. His stomach tightened. If there was any reason to avoid a Gerudo, it was that – that look. Perhaps it was the way her eyes gleamed whenever she looked at him, as though he were less of a man and more of something to bite.

He kept his face neutral, stepping no closer yet no farther than was polite. "Sage."

"Oh, call me Nabooru. We're all friends in the firelight, aren't we?" she said, putting an uncomfortable emphasis on the word "friends". When he said nothing, she gestured to the wide ring of sand surrounding the bright flames. It was abundant enough that no grass or earth were visible. Nearby the night's musicians were collecting – the sharp tuning of Sheikah instruments weaving through the serenade of crickets and burning wood. "Shall be dance, boy? I hear from Impa that you're quite…flexible."

As if she had been listening – Sheik had few doubts at this point – the Sage of Shadows appeared at his other shoulders. "Indeed," she added, suspiciously casual, "our Pride was once quite the dancer. Come, let's see if you've retained your technique."

The first twangs of the sitar cut through the scented haze. Other Sheikah began to stand, moving onto the sand circle. They shook out their limbs, stretched their muscles carefully. Before he could object, Sheik felt himself propelled forward by Impa and Nabooru, the synchronization of their actions enough to make him fully paranoid.

"Impa, there could be stray monsters. Just because the Dark King is gone-!"

The look she gave him was infamous among their tribe – speak more and suffer. "Dance, nephew," she commanded, narrowing her eyes. "You sound like an old man."

Flustered and rightfully irritated, Sheik could only pout. Impa smirked, before diving forward in a skillful tuck, uncurling into a handstand. Letting her knees dangle, she walked forward on her palms, with all the ease and comfort of one who was born that way. Sheik sighed and did the same, rolling forward and coming up on his forearms, elbows bent, taking enjoyment in the way the muscles of his long stomach stretched. Curling his body forward, he came up on his feet as the throaty sound of a wooden flute ran an elegant scale, up then down. Sheik took care to prepare his limbs. One must never underestimate a Sheikah dance.

In the corner of his eye he saw Zelda rise from her perch, silver discs shimmering on the fringe of her shirt. "I'd like to join," she said lightly, tossing a loose strand of hair from her face. She approached, and when Sheik began to protest she held up a hand, smiling. "Impa promised to teach us the basics."

Sheik froze, the hair on his neck standing up as it always did when something was about to go wrong. "Us?" he repeated, voice catching.

"Oh, yes," Zelda replied, carefully raising her arms above her head, wiggling her fingers in the night air. "Link and I."

A thousand images – no of them pure – assaulted the Sheikah's brain. Link, muscles tight, spinning on his heel, arms moving in a wide circle. Link, turning gracefully, glowing gold in the light of the fire. Link, covered in sweat, hands hot on his skin as they danced together, minds lost in the beat of the drum.

"L-Link…dancing?"

She didn't seem to hear him. Her Hylian ear twitched, and just as the sound of those familiar footfalls reached his own, Zelda was looking over his shoulder. Her face brightened, and she raised her arm wave as a chorus of welcome rose from the crowd.

Sheik wanted to do the same, but the action of turning around suddenly required more motor skill than he had.

"Link!" Zelda called happily. Nabooru did the same, and from everywhere around him others echoed, regaling the arrival of the one who had saved them.

"Princess." It was that voice – that surprisingly light voice that was so rarely heard that made Sheik turn around…and die.

At least it felt like dying. The sight of the Hero dressed like that caused his mouth to go dry as his heartbeat spiked beyond mortal limits before failing completely. All his organs seemed to shut down, the entirety of his insides breaking up and plummeting…straight between his legs.

The Hero was shirtless – the firelight caught and adored his bare chest, accenting his muscles in artistic shadow. He wore neither turban nor his trademark hat, instead allowing his thick hair fall where it willed across his neck and shoulders. Whomever had dressed the Hero had chosen pants that hugged his broad waist, cradling the curve of his hip bone. His feet were bare, though a number of thin golden bracelets were hooked around his ankles, tinkling softly with every step. Even his face, while still as handsomely structured as ever, was different, a collection of black whorls framing his eyes.

Zelda waved again, stepping around the dazed Sheikah and getting the Hero's attention. "Link, over here!"

A firm cuff to the shoulder brought Sheik back to reality. Impa whispered in his ear and he swore she sniggered. "Stop drooling, boy. It's not polite to stare."

Sheik nodded dumbly, though he couldn't take his eyes away. Here was his secret dream, walking towards him with his hair loose and – Goddesses, were those tattoos down his sides?

"Zelda," Link greeted, pulling her into a friendly, one-armed hug. He nodded to Impa and Nabooru. Then he saw Sheik – the ninja watched his cornflower eyes light up, a smirk stretch his lips, and the area below Sheik's stomach began to curl.

The Hero crossed to him. "Sheik! Where have you been hiding, friend? I haven't seen you." He spread his arms, and Sheik knew he intended to hug him. Though a naughtier half of his mind screamed for contact with that body, he stepped away, waving him off.

"It's the tattoos," he said quickly, resisting the sudden urge to weep. "They'll smear."

Link laughed, clasping his shoulder instead. "Good to know." He met his gaze, and Sheik forced his eyes away before his jaw could drop again. When did they get so blue? Link frowned, drawing his hand away slowly. "It's…good to see you again."

"You too," Sheik forced out.

It was Nabooru who broke the short silence. "Well, Hero, I hear you're here to dance. I'm interested in comparing a few styles. Perhaps we could partner up?"

Scratching the back of his head, Link glanced at the Princess before responding, "I don't dance. I'm here on royal invitation. I was hoping to learn, though, from someone." For a second, Sheik imagined he felt the burn of Link's gaze as he spoke. "It can't be harder than fighting."

Zelda laughed. Sheik could picture her exchanging glances with Impa - tonight's criminal mastermind. "Perhaps Sheik could teach you?"

Impa hummed in approval. "A fine idea, Princess. You'd enjoy his style, Link."

Sheik was contemplating how long it would take to die if he jumped into the fire when Nabooru began to talk. "You would be such ideal partners. Similar height, strength, maneuverability."

They're all against me, all of them.

"Boy?" Impa's impatient snap summoned his attention back to the conversation. He avoided Link's face, cringing at the unreadable smiles of Zelda and the Gerudo woman. Impa merely looked annoyed. "Have you lost your mind, or just your manners? I've decided it."

"W-What?" he stammered.

"Teach the Hero," she ordered, elbowing him hard in the side. Before he could protest, she beckoning to her lady companions. "Come then, Princess, Nabooru. I shall instruct you." Looking at Link, she flashed him another sweetly innocent grin, and Sheik wished he could hit her. "Have fun, Hero."

Left alone with his tormentor, Sheik struggled to think of some way to make it through his ordeal with his reputation and sanity intact. It was beginning to feel helpless when Link cleared his throat, eyeing his friend curiously. "Are you well, Sheik?"

"Yes," he responded, perhaps too quickly. Just stomach it, he ordered himself, just it over with.

The Hero shifted from one foot to the other, watching others around him prepare their bodies. "Should I be doing that?"

"Yes, sorry. I've never, uh, showed someone how to do this before. Though you probably don't need me to tell you much. The only real difference between a dance and a fight is the lack of weapons."

Link's eyes lit up, and he grinned as a kind of easy confidence fell over him. "Oh, is that all? What a relief. I thought it was something complicated."

"It can be," Sheik cut in, losing control momentarily to a bitter monster who wanted that light to go out again – anything to make the Hero plain, or make this moment less of the dreamy nightmare it was. "There are specific styles, but I haven't time to teach you those."

The Hero's face changed briefly, twisting again into that frown. "The basics, then. As Impa said."

Sheik scowled at the mention of his wicked Aunt, who was likely off with Zelda and Nabooru, sharing a laugh at his poor expense. "The basics," he repeated with a sigh. "I suppose…the most important thing is to watch your surroundings. In this dance you have not one partner, but nine, even ten, as many as are dancing. It's like weaving, trying to compliment movements. Listen to the tempo, keep the beat, and dance as one. It's…communal," he finished lamely, feeling more the idiot with every word he spoke.

Link's expression was unreadable. "I…see. Can you touch people?"

"Huh?"

"Can you touch people?" he repeated, stretching an arm behind his head.

Sheik panicked, speaking harshly. "No. You c-can get as close as you want, can synchronize your actions, but you must never touch anyone. The dance is a work of art, but each dancer is like a separate painting, hung on the same wall-!"

"But never touching," Link finished, oddly disappointed. "I understand." Shrugging his shoulders, he adopted that easy, warm grin that caused sparks to go off in Sheik's belly. "Sounds interesting. I'll give it a shot, but promise you'll correct me if I start to mess up."

The band was calling for attention – it was time to begin. Sheik fumbled for words. "I-I promise."

"Thanks," Link replied, giving him another dazzling smile.

Someone up there hates me, Sheik thought morosely, squaring himself for the beginning of the dance. I bet it's Farore.

As if in holy spite, Link fell into the circle next to Sheik. His innocent half-smile made the Sheikah's heart do loops. "I'll have to keep my eye on you."

Great.

On someone's cue, the music began – nothing but the low call of the flute, raising goose bumps across his flesh. Around the circle, the dancers moved slowly, dreamily. Sliding his foot backwards, Sheik gave into his instinct, bringing a willowy arm above his head, arching backwards. It was torture to feel Link's eyes on him, to know that he was shadowing his every move.

As the flute continued to play, one note slipping into the next as the dancers followed, moving from stance to stance at its demand, Sheik began to wish he had brought his Deku nuts. He wanted to run, to vanish off to somewhere away from the Hero as he had often done when it became hard to bear his presence. Reflectively the past was nothing – not compared to standing next to him now, clad in so little, moving his body with a careful, enchanting fluidity.

It only got worse. Even as the sitar entered, its thrums and trickling chords heralding more decisive movement, Link did not lose his composure. He simply moved, as if by instinct, sliding his feet across the sand, twisting his body with practiced ease, until Sheik began to recognize maneuvers. Link moved as he moved in battle, combining his sword technique with the rudiments Sheik had thrown at him and what must have been pure natural ability into a style that was so unique, so Link…and so damn appealing.

Sheik bit the inside of his lip. What torture indeed. Mentally he cursed the Hero's talent. Was there anything he couldn't learn in less than twenty minutes?

Constantly Sheik had tried to maneuver away from his new, uninhibited Link, so different from the battle worn boy laden with his armaments. Yet no dive, flip or cartwheel saved him for long. It was like Link had targeted him, and all around the fire he could feel the burden of those sharp eyes. Even when the dance quickened its pace again and everyone heightened in response, arm whirling, bodies spinning. It required much concentration not to get his nose broken.

If possible – but of course it was, for nothing was beyond the limits of the Hero of Hyrule – Link managed to get closer despite the difficulty. Desperate, Sheik had resorted to his most difficult flips, putting as many moving bodies between his and that one.

He paid for it – like every pursuit of happiness, it backfired. That final picture was the one to break him.

It was frantic finale: sitar, flute, and drum coming together in a clashing dissonance which only partially resolved, leaving an edge of unrest in the sweaty air. Sheik ended as he had begun, back arched, fingers stretched towards the dark moon.

In his room, Sheik shifted uncomfortably, his whole body tightening. Curling close to his bureau, he buried his head in the crook of his arm, fingers yanking at his hair. It wouldn't stop, it wouldn't stop now. Once his fantasies started they were dominate, pushing his poor body towards that terrifying edge. Tonight, with the memory ripe, it was worse. If he had only held his pose a little longer – mere seconds more! – he wouldn't have seen him.

Link was across the fire, hidden and framed in turn by the red-orange blaze. He had ended in a pose unlike Sheik had seen before – his arms spread wide, thrown apart as though welcoming the world into his arms. His head was tipped back, and Sheik greedily followed the line of his neck before focusing on his face. It was breathtaking, every contour touched by fire. The starlight was drawn to him, gathering onto his perspiration until it looked as though he was anointed with drops of silver. Every muscle pulled tight, draw across its plane, drawing the Sheikah's greedy eyes in turn. He couldn't stop, allowing himself to peek where he never had before: at his rosy nipples, the way his skin dipped between his abs, the delicate trail of hair that began as his naval and disappeared farther below. Link was so beautiful, more of a god than a simple Hylian, and more magnificent than anything or anyone Sheik could hope to have.

It happened before he could stop it. Inside everything broke down, his bones crumbling like burnt wood. The Sheikah grasped as his stomach as though he could stop it, the immense heat that clawed as his groin until all he could do was want. Want Link, want that light, want, want.

Beyond him the dancers were breaking their poses, applauding one another as the band took their bows. Somewhere to his left Zelda chattered excitedly, and he heard Impa snort. Beneath his yearning, what tiny fragment of logic that remained blamed his aunt for tonight's happenings, though it wasn't long before that logic gave away to the kindling inferno.

Link came back slowly, lowering his arms to his side. Sheik watched in rapture as the Hero shook his head, cracking his neck as he carefully scratched his delicate ears. His face was solemn, lips pursed tight. It confused Sheik, who couldn't understand why his brows would knot when he had seemed so peaceful not moments before.

Then he opened his eyes.

Sheik's gut twisted sharply. Slamming one fist against the mirror, rattling it against the wooden wall, he ran his other slowly, knuckle by knuckle, against his thigh, near where he wanted to touch but never dared in fear it would aid the development of this craze. His eared burned, filled with a low roar permeated by an odd tinkling, and he was much too hot, even in nothing but the thin pants.

Link's eyes were dark and heavy, saturated from their customary cerulean. They latched onto Sheik, as though Link had known all along he was standing there, and pinned him. Sheik felt as though he was sinking beneath the Hero's gaze. It was profound and unbearable. He looked…hungry.

Instantly Sheik scrambled for his control, the cold fear shooting down his spine enough to break the bubble of desire encasing his brain. Backing away, each movement a shaky prayer to take him away accompanied with the nightmare of falling. If he tripped, if he didn't get away, that look was going to destroy him.

With monumental effort and pain, the distraught Sheikah tore his eyes away from the Hero, stumbling away towards the safety of the darkness.

Distantly he saw Zelda reach out to stop him, and saw Impa stop her, following his retreat with an unreadable expression.

She was not the only one to note his departure.

"I hate you," Sheik lied to his reflection, moaning as his hand strayed close to his growing desire. Blindly he groped for the earthenware pitcher –the cold water was what he need. Anything to jar him from this hazy torture where even if he obeyed his call for pleasure, when the spots faded and his vision cleared, he would still be alone.

Blinking salt water from his eyes, Sheik raised the pitcher above his head –

"I wouldn't do that. You'll smear your tattoos."

Sheik jumped to his feet, instinct taking over as he whipped around, hurling the pitcher will all the might and accuracy of a trained shadow warrior. Water flew from the open mouth, sprinkling the rugs and ceiling as well as the Sheikah. He wiped his eyes, tensing as he waited for the decanter to shatter. It didn't.

"I wouldn't do that either." It was that voice, that damn noble voice. "It's an awfully nice jug." Something was wrong with it – it was not as carefree as it had been before. There was a tightness to it, a kind of distance detectable though Sheik could feel the Hero standing less than five feet from him.

Opening his eyes, he took in the Hero once more like another hot stab to his stomach. Link was breathing heavily, his hair slicked by the wind and Sheik's mind tortured him with visuals of the Hero sprinting after him, dodging through the night like a golden ghost. One hand stretched out to the right, clutching the water jug – damn his reflexes. He still wore his tribal clothes, though now the pants were stained with the sweat of his run and stuck to his calves and the inside of his thighs. Link's eyes scared him – that darkness hadn't lifted, though now there was another layer. He was guarded. Link, the brave and infamously innocent Hero, was hiding something.

Sheik knelt down quickly, focusing on the patterned rug as he gathered his chains and turban cloth off the floor. "What troubles you, Hero?" he asked flatly. "I thought you would be at the party. Nabooru seemed keen on dancing with you."

Link's smooth feet came into view, followed by the rest of his strong legs as he knelt by the Sheikah. He offered him the water pitcher and replied, "You left suddenly."

"I felt ill," Sheik fibbed, receiving the jug while taking great care not to touch the Hero's fingers. It was a joy and a pain to be able to turn his back to Link's penetrating eyes, though he could feel them on his skin, could see them watching his face in the mirror.

"You've never been ill," Link said, and the ninja could sense his growing frustration.

Sheik persisted, voice growing tight. "I was tonight."

"No, you weren't," Link insisted hotly. "You've always been healthy, and quick, and distant, and aloof. You were not ill. You didn't look normal, you looked devastated." His voice was irate, and Sheik flinched. Link was a man of few words, but he knew well how to make them count. "I want to know what happened."

His hands shook as he untangled the chains and glassy beads, dropping them one by one into their velvet chest. Sheik thought of a thousand things to say – I'm sorry, I'm stupid, I love you a lot – but found he could say nothing. The air hissed as Link rose to his feet, and in a moment Sheik heard a soft thud as he set himself down on one of the pillows heaped around the small futon in the corner. He recognized the mulish set to Link's face – that stubbornness that would conquer any height, distance, puzzle or monster. Or, in this case – man.

"Go back, Hero," Sheik begged. "You will be missed."

"So will you," Link answered, his tone indecipherable. "Impa was worried too. She gave me leave to check on you."

Of course she did.

"Impa thinks she knows everything," Sheik found himself saying. The seal on his emotions was fast cracking under the hot wool which shrouded his brain. In the dimness of his apartment, with naught but candles and a single lantern to light the scented air, it was hard to stretch his mind to the rest of Hyrule. Here, in the room, with Link there behind him, watching his every move, the Sheikah's famous control was slipping. "Impa has no right to send others to invade my privacy. Just because she raised me, and we're related, doesn't mean to knows what I think, what I feel-!"

"What do you feel?" Once again, the young man's insight cut keenly.

Sheik fell silent, shutting the lid to his jewelry box with more force than was needed. "Go back, Link. Please."

For a few moments the Hero was contemplative, staring deeply at the Sheikah who hid so much. Sheik tried to swallow, though his throat felt small, his breathing no less labored. Part of him wanted to scream.

Without warning, Link rose to his feet. "Stand up."

"W-What?" he stammered, caught again off his guard.

"If you aren't going to talk," he began slowly, his plot freshly forming, "and you aren't going back to the party…we'll have to continue the party here."

Instantly Sheik panicked, all his hair standing straight on end. The developing piece of his mind gobbled those words, spinning them a hundred nasty ways. He turned on his knees, fearful of what the Hylian was doing behind his back. Link was close behind him – he walked so quietly, despite the tinkle of his ankle bracelets. The candles on the shelf behind him outlined his broad shoulders in a warm glow.

"What do you mean, Hero?" Sheik asked slowly.

Link extended a calloused hand and said simply, "Dance with me."

Hell.

"Dance?" Sheik squeaked, eyes widening as his traitorous body grew warm at the idea.

The Hero chuckled, a familiar gleam creeping into his eyes. "Yes, dance. I came to the party to dance. Since I am not returning, you will have to make up the difference. Teach me something."

Scrambling through his untidy thoughts, Sheik dug for an excuse, any excuse – I'm contagious, I'm terminal, I'll lose my mind if I touch you. "Uh, that would be difficult. There are very few couples' dances. Most are for weddings. I don't know any of those."

As if he sensed his resistance, the Hero swooped down, gripping his forearm between his powerful fingers and lifting him to his feet. Sheik imagined his sanity slipping out and remaining on the floor – the Hero's touch, even a small one, drove the heat inside wild. His lips tingled, brain whispering the next step. No, no, no.

"Then I shall teach you one," Link replied, and Sheik blinked as he struggled to remember what they were talking about. In his daze he did not struggle when Link pulled him towards the curtained doorway, out into the wider front room where a few larger candles released their waxy smell. "Zelda taught it to me. It's very popular, I'm told."

He turned the Sheikah to face him, and Sheik was acutely aware of the lack of light, audience, and clothes; the proximity between himself and the Hero consumed his active mind. His eyes dodged around the room, looking for anything he could do – there was a window, but at this point he questioned his ability to escape. The effort it would take to move seemed monumental compared to that which it took to stand right where he was.

"It starts like this," Link began, dropping his volume as if he too realized they were completely alone. "We bow." He did so, and Sheik imagined he must have done the same, for Link continued, "And then we begin."

The Sheikah was unprepared when Link stepped closer, engulfing the dead space between their bodies. "One hand like this." He grabbed his right hand, placing it on his shoulder – Sheik shivered slightly on contact. He could feel the muscles flexing and relaxing as the corresponding hand ran down his side to settle on his waist.

"And this hand," Link murmured, "goes here." He grabbed Sheik's left, entwining their fingers as he posed them properly. Before Sheik could protest, the Hero's hand slipped to the small of his back and pressed hard.

If only one could die on command, Sheik thought despairingly. Link was proclaimed innocent, but with his brilliance it would not take long to sense the growing hardness between the Sheikah's legs. In his mind he could see mortifying pictures of his idol shoving him away in disgust, his young mind forever scarred by the warrior who couldn't control his libido.

Yet Link said nothing. He only bore his eyes into the Sheikah, and when he spoke again, his voice was thick and throaty. "Look at me, Sheik."

He obeyed.

Oh Goddesses, those eyes! They were a warm, buttery blue, but not without large traces of the same feral darkness he had seen across the fire. Have his lashes always been this thick? It was hard to follow his thoughts, if he was still thinking any. The Hero made a noise deep in the back of his throat, and slowly pushed his right leg forward, encouraging Sheik to step backwards.

"Right, one, two three," Link counted, though his voice was barely a whisper and he never took his eyes away from Sheik's. He trusted his body completely to the Hero, doubting he could stand if it weren't for the muscled arm snug about his waist. "Left, one, two, three. Back again, to the right."

They made a box around the room, dancing to their heartbeats in the bare space between his couch of broad cushions and the messy table. Again, Link repeated the same motion, until Sheik could do it without provocation, and never ever did the Hylian's enchanting eyes leave his own. With each interplay of muscles his eyes seemed to change, the lightness fading away to that bone-melting carnality. After a number of complete boxes Link halted their dance, simply staring as if he had never seen him before. Sheik's heart palpitated as his beautiful face inched closer.

"What - where do we do – g-go from here?" Sheik forced out, articulation slipping.

"We're supposed to spin," Link replied, lips barely moving. He paused, the tips of their noses touching, his eyes so dark and so close Sheik lose contact with the world.

"I am spinning," he choked.

And then Link kissed him.

Link was soft and warm, yet firmly insistent as he rubbed Sheik's plump lips with his own. In that catalyst the final string holding Sheik back snapped, and Sheik yanked his hands free, grabbing at the Hero's neck and hair – oh, that lovely thick hair. Link made that throaty noise again, one Sheik came to compare to a growl, and attached his own hands to the warrior's lithe hips, digging his fingers into yielding flesh.

When they parted, their faces remained close; balmy breathes mingling beneath their noses. Sheik cracked open his eyes, daring to meet Link's though when he did the Hylian's eyes flashed and he moaned. Running his hands smoothly up the Sheikah's exposed chest, leaving a trail of sparks in their wake, he cradled the other man's angular face, tracing his delicate jaw with a hardened thumb.

"I love your eyes," Link whispered, carefully kissing him on each eyebrow. "They say so much when you keep silent. I never feel as weak as I do when I look at them. Not even against Ganondorf."

Sheik couldn't reply, not in a million years. Words, the power of speech had completely escaped him, and all he could manage was to nod. Link kissed him again, with more vigor than the last, and when he felt the Hero's tongue begin to trail across his lips he started, finding enough brains cells to ask, "What about…t-the dancing?"

Link chuckled, the sound vibrated beneath his chest. "I have a different dance in mind."

"I – but you-!" Sheik couldn't stop himself from babbling. There was something about having one's ear nibbled by an elf boy that destroyed any attempts at self-control.

The Hero's hands jumped to his shoulders and he pushed Sheik far enough way to catch his eyes once more. The amount of desire, unveiled completely in the dim bungalow, hit Sheik in the stomach, and lower. His shoulders heaved, his breathes rough, almost desperate. Sheik looked at his Hero and saw the picture of want that was not at all a stranger. "Don't deny me, Sheik. I have been denied too many things – how can you not have an idea of how I feel about you?" he asked, sweetly.

Sheik had no answer. What was he supposed to do against a plea like that? Sheik had no answer but to hold the young man's face between his hands and kiss him back.

"Thank you, Sheik," Link cried between kisses, the joy infecting Sheik until he felt he would float away. "Thank you."

Gathering the shorter man in his arms, Link lifted with a small grunt and Sheik felt his feet leave the ground as the Hero started for the bedroom. Oh, Farore, the bedroom. The unexpectedness of the situation made him giddy. That giddiness multiplied when Link suddenly dropped him against the wall and began to attack his exposed neck. Sheik felt his throat constrict in tandem with his groin, where the heat was quickly kindling anew.

"Bed…bedroom," he gasped, dragging his fingers rapidly through the Hero's golden mane.

Link growled again – a habit Sheik was quickly becoming attached to – and began to suck on his collarbone. "Too far away. You're beautiful now."

"Please," Sheik said again. While he was not opposed at all to Link fulfilling his desire right here against the wall, there were some standards of love-making, kept dormant in his internal lock box, which must be upheld. He had dreamed of this moment for too many lonely weeks to have it pass like this. "Please, make a solid effort to reach the bedroom."

Link lifted his head, gazing down on him, his eyes like some dark blue fire, thick yet burning bright. He smiled to reveal white teeth and kissed his nose delicately. "I have waited forever to hear you say that," he said, and kissed him with more passion than the Sheikah had ever been faced with.

He felt the Hero move him, and without much warning he was pushed gently backwards. He fell and with a dull thud he sank into his futon, sprawled across the pillows. The cold air hit the hardness erect between his leg and he shivered, burrowing his head back against the pillow. There was an itch, a hot and persistent tingle that enveloped his skin, but he knew without knowing that no touch of his could ever sate it now. It had to be Link.

Link. Opening his eyes, Sheik watched his heart's companion loom above him, swaying slightly as if it took all his effort to remain on his feet. The light from his bedside lantern cast an otherworldly glow upon his figure, and Sheik felt his own fingers twitch with a new urge to caress. Lifting his hands, he beckoned to the god at the end of his bed.

"Please?" he asked, forcing out the word. "I want you."

"You're impatient," Link replied, laughing as if this surprised him. "I deserve a chance to adore you. You're beautiful," he stated again, falling slowly to his knees at the end of the bed.

Sheik trembled, knees inching apart of their own accord. "Then adore me. Please. I'm dying again."

The Hylian threw his head back, exposing his throat and laughing again, the rich sound echoing against the low ceiling. When he lowered his face Sheik gulped at the expression – the glow of his eyes and the set of his mouth comparable to a wolf that had cornered its prey. Sheik's breathe accelerated, his heart working in overtime to supply blood to his spreading blush and straining desire. He's going to devour me.

And he did. With torturous slowness, Link wrapped his fingers around his ankles, moving up his leg while feeling every sinew and bone. When he reached the hem of the dancer's pants, he glanced quickly at Sheik, who wondered how he was supposed to bid no when the Hero was absently tracing the outline of his naval. Smirking again, Link pulled at the ties, loosening the garment before pulling it down. He did not stop until it cleared his feet, disappearing at the foot of the bed.

Sheik heard him intake sharply, and his own blush increased a thousand fold.

He slid up onto his elbows, wanting to say something, do something to keep his new lover from looking where no one had seen since his birth. It was too late – the Hero's sight was fixed, and Sheik's heart jumped.

"I – please don't-!" That was all he could manage before Link descended.

"Ah!" His sharp cry pierced the warming air. This is it – this is how I'd like to die. He had never imagined how – Goddess. Where had Link learned this? Had he – holy night mother - practiced on another man pole-axed by his lusty gaze? Or was this – stars above! – more of an instinct, something primal that came out from his core and told him to kiss, lick, and taste in a pattern that pushed Sheik beyond the reaches of his long abandoned sanity.

Arching his back, unable to stay still yet never wanting to disrupt all that was happening between his legs, Sheik dug his hands into the pillow on either side of his head. Don't be a fool, don't be a fool! He wanted to scream and shout until his lungs were raw, to relieve the fire that was kindling all across his stomach and head, clawing from behind his skin, yet his pride kept him silent. Link paused long enough to scowl at him.

"I like it when you moan," he whispered, and then used his mouth, his hand snaking down to massage his tender, private skins. A cry ripped from Sheik's chest and he nearly doubled over, mindlessly grabbing at Link's hair, pulling and pushing as one side battled another in his head – the side that begged for the release the Hylian's ministrations offered, and the one that feared it.

Sensing his distress, Link released his throbbing erection, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand as he rose to the Sheikah's eye level. "Don't be afraid," he said, brushing fingers across his cheek. "Why are you afraid?"

"I can't answer questions like that," Sheik protested angrily. Tears welled in his eyes, bright and crimson behind his lashes. Without warning he hit Link on the shoulder with a fist. "I can't, don't you see? There is a hole, a great fire right here." Snatching Link's hand he placed in on his blistering skin, in the patch of fine hair above his groin. "I can't do anything – I can't eat or sleep, not while you make it burn." He hit him again, and Link let him. "You…control me. What power is it that makes that so?"

Link silently leaned forward, kissing away his tears. "No evil one, Sheik. That power has been inside those who love for a long, long time," he said, solemn and quiet. Pressing a chaste kiss to his parted, panting lips, he gently pushed back Sheik's wild, sweaty bangs. "It isn't to be feared."

"Then help me," Sheik pleaded, "before I lose my mind."

With all his gentleness, Link leaned Sheik back against the pillows and kissed him, again and again until his lips began to swell and turn red. Then he moved on, kissing all the lines of his face, his neck, his shoulders. He peppered his chest, fingers slipping from muscle to muscle, and between mouth and hand Link discovered every secret place that made him moan, twitch, or laugh in response. He coaxed the fire out of Sheik, leading it to spread to every inch of his lover's body. This time when it came Sheik relaxed his shoulders, letting himself sink into this hot haze.

Link came up to kiss his mouth again, sliding his tongue inside and running it along his teeth. Tentatively Sheik returned his touch, allowing his own fingers to explore the planes of the Hero's chest and back, relishing the moments when the Hero would gasp sharply or moan against his mouth. He could wield the power too – and for once such a thought did not bring fear, but bubbling warmth.

Distracted in his sensual daze, Sheik did not notice when Link's hand slid farther south, traveling down between his legs, but not to the place he expected. "L-Link…?" he asked faintly, his own voice foreign to his ears.

"Sssh," Link whispered soothingly. "I believe I know…how this works. If I just-!"

His finger pressed against his flesh, penetrating it, and Sheik choked on his groan.

Grabbing at the Hero's arm, Sheik dug his nails into the hardened muscle. "Wait, w-why?" was all he could manage.

Link kissed his cheek. "I want to adore you," he said seriously, pressing his finger farther into the Sheikah's body. Sheik groaned again, the noise tight in his throat. How it hurt. Fingers did not belong there – in that place. Pulling urgently at Link's arm, he hissed when the Hero did not heed, and continued applying that dreadful pressure.

"Relax," Link encouraged, finding the place on Sheik's neck that made his heart skip beats. Guiding him down onto his back, he used his free hand to caress his lover's side, knowing how it made him tingle. "Please relax. I want to prove my love."

I already love you, Sheik wanted to shout, though his proclamation was lost when Link began moving his finger in and out, slow and purposeful as was the Hero's way. It was the rawest of pains, the hard rub of skin on skin. Yet when he thought it would be too much to bear, Link was there, running his tongue along his skin or pinching his chest, awakening all the warmth that slid under his skin like sunlight. Sheik's mind was being pulled in a thousand directions, torn between pain and pleasure and left to discover some foreign middle ground.

Link's voice was heavy, almost unrecognizable as he whispered in Sheik's ear.

"Another." The pain worsened, and the Hero began to stretch his skin. Golden Powers, this was not happening. Sheik dug his fingers into Link's broad back, feeling his jaw go slack as he gasped for air that was harder to find as heat claimed the atmosphere. The pattern continued, Link adding a third and Sheik wondering faintly if it was possible to be split open, right down the middle, when suddenly he cried out, hips jerking upwards. White passion exploded from somewhere above his tailbone, shooting straight down to his toes.

"Link."

He was shaking above him, his breath uneven as he hung his head near his ear, as if he were overcome simply watching his love taken by such pleasure. "Now," he growled, deeper and more ferociously than before.

Sheik protested when Link's warmth suddenly left his body, the Hero leaping to his feet. Without much patience he clawed at the gauzy pants drenched in sweat, peeling them away from his own heated flesh. Sheik's blood boiled at the sight of the exposed figure. Truly he was born of the Goddesses' themselves, though Farore alone could never claim credit. That pure beauty, the perfect assembly of bone and muscle, that was Nayru's work, and that fire-driven power that radiated from his heated body, that belonged to Din.

But Link, Link, Link. Link belonged to him.

"Now," the Sheikah rasped, opening his body once more to the Hero. "Now, Link."

Link growled – though in his passion it sounded more as a needy whine, and descended upon his lover. Raining kisses down on his flesh, Link settled himself between Sheik's legs, cradling his sweaty head in his arms before kissing his lips.

"I love you," he said, and Sheik was amazed as his ability to talk and love simultaneously. "I have loved you since the day we met."

And I you! Oh, and I have loved you-! Again, his words were lost as Link entered his body, this time with more size, power, and heat than before.

At first it hurt beyond any wound Sheik had received, Link smothering his cries with sweet kisses. "Hush, hush," he whispered, massaging his head gently. Sheik shook, begging himself to relax, to take what this man had to offer. Link was patient, waiting until the body around him was not so tight before repeating the gesture. And again, with a pause and many kisses, and again. In time, Sheik melted beneath his touch, and they began to make love.

The candles guttered, casting shadows down on the bed where Sheik was certainly dying – this time without any doubt. With each thrust Link was killing him slowly, pushing him against the bed, and when Sheik might have exploded he withdrew, only to fill him again. He was overtaking him – his chest on his chest, his stomach on his manhood, his cheek pressed against his own as he groaned in turn. Sheik was less composed, grinding his ankles into the mattress and he babbled meaningless sweet things into Link's ear. His hands crawled everywhere, clawing at the bed and the man above him. They found their way to the beaded wall hanging and grasped mindlessly as Link again found the spot inside his body and awakened that blindly white pleasure.

"I…wouldn't do that," Link forced out, snatching at Sheik's hands and pinning them to the pillow. "You'll ruin the curtain."

Sheik stared at him, lips parts as he panted and heaved. Enthralled he leaned up, catching Link's lips again. "Who cares about the stupid curtain," he spat on broken breathes. "Love me."

"Yes."

The pace quickened, and if it were possible Link went deeper, carving out a new place deep inside him. Sheik cried out with every movement against his skin – he felt electrified, every touch sending shockwaves up and down his spine. He wrapped his legs around Link's, giving up his own actions to the hot core than slaughtered his logical mind. His hips began to rise, meet Link's with a voluble smack. His babbling gave way to pure noise, sighs and groans as his view of the world was redefined to be what belonged to them and what was not them.

I'm dying, I'm dying, I love you, love, love! I must be dead.

In a final surge, Sheik felt his bones bruise as Link howled in his ear, stars cracking in his eyes. Sheik was lost in a bright flash as all his tension, his fear and his loneliness leaked away. The last he recalled before falling into unconsciousness was the feel of Link's lips on his cheek.


Someone was kissing him. Sheik fought against the lure of waking, blissful in his sleep. He had never felt so light and limber, like every part of him had been tended carefully and was now flourishing. He stretched slowly, pausing when his leg brushed against cool flesh. The memory of the night before came back in a sluggish procession, starting with the bon fire and ending with the massive heat Link had awoken in his soul. A smile tugged at his lips as those others exploring his face found them, pressing tenderly.

Sheik opened his eyes, greeted by a glorious view of Link's own face, strong yet delicate, and handsome from ear to ear. "Morning," the knight greeted. Sheik only smiled, feeling silly and younger than he was.

"You're a fantastic dancer," he finally said, and Link laughed, burying his face in the crook of his shoulder. He lifted his head again, his eyes like the eyes of the confused boy he fell in love with – warm and blue, yet these were also filled with that deep fire. Light and shadow, all in contrast, yet hooked into his heart. He could never live without them.

"So are you, love, so are you," said Link mysteriously, delicately kissing his forehead.


Did you enjoy? Of course you did. Everyone enjoys sex muffins.

Go take a cold shower. =P

Eternally,
Greeny