I never tried milkwine before. It always seemed like the kind of drink powerful people break out if they’re rich and have something to celebrate.

I mentioned this to Link earlier today, because I obviously couldn’t have shut up. After contemplation, he said that our meeting was adjourned until the afternoon, and that I had to dress elegantly for the occasion. I think it’s his way of making fun of me.

Or maybe he’s completely serious, which should cause me to worry.

Anyhow, that’s why I’m wearing an evening dress just after lunch and sitting in a nice chair in the west wing boudoir, looking out the window at the dull sunlight. The windows are pretty big, and frankly this recluse room could probably host a small party. Talk about a boudoir.

How many people could this room fit comfortably? I’m thinking twenty-five obese people, or forty slim people.

Then, my thought pattern gets really convoluted because I begin to wonder how many obese and slim people combined could fit in. Ugh, my brain.

Math was never my strong point.

“Penny for your thoughts?” I hear Link ask, and his voice doesn’t even startle me. I blink and turn to look at him.

Gods. He’s wearing crisp evening clothes. I saw him in this sort of clothing before, but every time, it becomes a new kind of sexy. Seriously. He looks like your modern prince charming. Which is so ironic because I’m supposed to be the royalty around here and because there is no way we can get together.

Remember, Zelda: he’s your publicist; you’re the future queen; and, okay, why must he be so handsome? It makes not liking him so bloody hard.

“Just considering that we should host a rave in this room,” I say, as levelly as possible.

My eyes drop to what he’s carrying. It looks like three bottles of wine. Well, that makes sense since we’re going to have a milkwine tasting lesson. My logic seems to be slipping. I’ll just blame Link’s hotness. It’s the perfect culprit for plenty of things.

Maybe Link was right to have me change into an evening dress. I already don’t feel as weird about drinking milkwine. I still think ―alright, I hope, ― that Link just commanded it in order to see me in a dress rather than a pair of jeans.

Well, I’m not going to complain. He returned the favour. Look at that body of his. Drool.

He puts the three bottles down on an end table. “I don’t think,” he jokes, “that a rave would please Kotake.” He then heads towards a small cabinet out of which he pulls two wineglasses.

I can’t help but notice the precision of his movements. It’s entrancing to watch. It makes him seem so capable. Actually, if Tetra looks efficient, Link exudes it.

“The purpose of today’s exercise,” he says, “is to teach you how to differentiate plain milkwine from excellent milkwine. That’s why we have the following bottles.” He taps the cork of each bottle as he names them. “Cattle Milk, a cheap imitation of milkwine with strong alcoholic content, Lon Milk, a respected but inexpensive milkwine, and finally, the spotlight of our lesson, Château Romani, the most expensive and high-quality milkwine in the Hylian Alliance... All set?”

He’s so sexy. Oh, gods. I need to focus.

“All set,” I confirm.

“You did mention you didn’t know much about milkwine, and since you’ll be busy drinking, I took the liberty of typing up a sheet with the basic information on tasting.” He even adds, with a teasing smile, “Who knows, you might not be able to make sense of drunken notes, otherwise.”

“How astute of you,” I say as flatly.

“It was a joke,” Link grins. “You’ll still be sober at the end of this. Since milkwine is an alcoholic beverage, there’s a risk for beginners to get drunk fast. That’s why you’re also going to learn how to spit it out.”

Um. Okay. Ew. Gross.

“You want me to spit it out?” I repeat, a bit incredulously. “How am I supposed to do that elegantly, pray tell?”

“There are a couple of techniques,” Link assures me. “I’ll show you when we get to it.” Goody. Anything that involves Link’s mouth has to be good.

“Let’s start with observation.”

Yes, I think, let’s start with observing Link. Why must he be so handsome anyway? How is it that his every trait is so defined and he’s so well toned? His parents must have been gods or something. Even his movements are defined. He uncorks the first bottle professionally.

Wait. My eyebrows rise high. I only saw one person uncork a bottle as confidently as that before, and it was Talon Ranch. Seems like Link isn’t unfamiliar with alcoholic beverages.

I ask, disguising my surprise, “You’ve done bar service before?”

He glances up with a thin, amused smile. “Maybe. University won’t pay itself.”

Okay. Link is my new soul mate.

He pours the milk into the glass. Immediately, a familiar scent wafts up to me. I frown.

“Gods,” I mumble, grimacing, “why does it smell like alcohol so much?”

“Cattle Milk is a fake milkwine. It’s prepared similarly, but it’s not filtered as well and as much as usual. Actually, it’s a mystery that it doesn’t turn to rat poison.”

“That,” I say, taking up the glass he slid to me carefully, “is repulsing.” I glance at Link, and I notice that he just shot me a tiny, kind, amused grin.

I think that’s the cutest smile I ever saw him make. Mustn’t melt, mustn’t melt…

Oh, dammit. What’s the point? It so figures. I am the dumbest person in the world. I let this happen. I should have seen it coming, though. I should have known.

I think I’m in love. This isn’t just a crush or some illusion about Link being my soul mate. I’m in love.

I have to fall out of love, and quick.

“Alright,” he says, picking up his own glass. Why? Why was I so weak? Why did he have to be so nice and cute and sweet?? “First, you want to observe the general colouring of the drink.”

I glance down at the content of my wine glass. “It’s white.”

Link smiles patiently. “Yes, but how?”

“It’s opaque,” I say, slowly, unsure of what he wants me to observe. “You can’t see through it.”

Link grins. “Precisely. Usually, the less light comes through, the heavier the drink.”

“Oh,” I say. “I knew that. Talon Ranch would always tell us never to give the heavy beers to the late-night drunkards.” It’s true. Malon and I would often have to trick the patrons with lighter drinks because otherwise, they’d fall asleep at the counter or retch all over the place before the end of the night.

Link smiles again. “I was waiting to see when the barmaid would kick in.”

I pull a face at him. “Milkwine was too fancy for us Lakeside suckers.”

He doesn’t dignify that with a response. “You’ll see in a little while that in contrast, Château Romani is drastically lighter. It’s still white, but you can see through it.”

I bring my glass up to take a quick sniff of the drink. Before I can even get close, Link’s hands closes around mine and lowers my glass. His eyes shine with humour.

“Not so fast. I’d suggest not taking a whiff of this one. It’s a bit too strong.”

I roll my eyes. Hot or not, this guy seems to think I’m stupid. “I wasn’t about to inhale it or anything. I just wanted to get an overall feel for the smell.”

He seems amused. “Don’t worry about the scent for now. That’s a whole new lesson. For now, we’ll just focus on the tasting itself.” He lets go of my hand, which for the record I intend never to wash again, and says the one thing I have been dreading since this morning. “Take a sip.”

I do so. Down my throat it goes, burning a trail of impossible strength along the way.

Holy Gods. How much alcohol is in this stuff anyway? I wonder this as I nearly choke. My eyes water, even.

“What kind of drink is this?” I splutter, coughing.

Link carefully takes my glass from me to keep it from spilling all over the place. “A poor imitation of milkwine, that’s what. Since you’re going to be the future queen, you’ll never have to deal with this sort of poor quality drink ever again.”

Really, I wonder. But it wasn’t exactly bad.

An idea blossoms in my mind, and I examine Link’s gentle but serious profile as he shuffles with the half-full wineglasses. I feel myself burn and doubt creep into my mind. What I’m thinking of demands guts and fearlessness. Do I have it in me?

Well, that Cattle thing wasn’t half-bad, so this might work.

“Milkwine, real milkwine,” Link is saying as he reaches for the Lon Milk bottle, uncorking it as professionally as before, “tastes creamy and sweet, but there’s an insidious sort of alcohol in it that can get you drunk without your notice.”

I take my Cattle glass back. Link’s eyes widen comically as he freezes in his movements. “Don’t―” But he can’t finish his sentence, since I already downed all its contents. I grin at him and put the glass back down.

Link lets out a loud sigh. “Did I mention the purpose of this class was not to get you drunk?” He puts the Lon bottle back down, and mumbles, “Maybe I should teach you how to spit it out…”

I laugh. It’s always easier to keep going than to get started. “It’s a bit late for that.”

“For future reference,” Link says, flatly, but I can guess that he’s a bit amused, at least, “when you take a sip, you taste it for five seconds then spit it back out. Usually there’s a bowl provided with an absorbent product at the bottom to keep it from splashing.” He furrows a dark blonde brow, holding back a thin smile. “If you don’t make use of that sort of thing, you’ll be drunk in no time. We can’t have any of that.”

He’s right. I hardly drank a glass of that Cattle thing and I’m feeling very warm. That stuff is powerful…

“Actually,” Link continues to say, “Since we don’t have a bowl for you to spit in, you’ll have to take only small sips and as few as possible.”

Ah, but see, that isn’t my goal. Here’s a sexy and serious hunk that I would pay money to see wasted. I know. I should restrain myself. Really. But it’s not like I’m going to take advantage of him. I’d like to see him loosen up, that’s all.

Link looks up at me. I smile as innocently as possible. To my surprise, his own face turns into a suspicious grin.

“Zelda?” He examines my face critically. “Are you hooked to Cattle milk or something?”

I blink. “Um…” I know the answer to this, but it’s best to lie. “No?”

He seems to be holding back a smirk. “I’ll pretend I believed that unconvincing display.” He picks up the Cattle milk bottle and pours himself a glass as well. He holds it up. “Now. What did you notice while you were tasting it?”

“The alcohol,” I say, a bit hoarsely, because it kind of burned my throat to down the whole glass in one shot.

Link smiles. “Yes. The alcohol. To which I’m beginning to suspect you have no resistance.”

Lies! All lies, I tell you! I can’t believe he concluded this from― Well, I can’t believe he made that assumption, which has no basis in reality whatsoever. Really. None at all. I mean… I was a barmaid. I know about alcohol. Right?

Then again, being a barmaid implies I couldn’t drink, since I was supposed to be catering to the others’ needs.

Fine. So I have no resistance.

I refuse to admit it, though.

“Anyhow,” Link says, having amusedly examined the emotions that probably played on my face in the past two seconds, “when tasting something, it’s imperative to take notice of three basic and principal points: the overall feeling, the origin, and the texture.”

“Feeling,” I repeat diligently, all the while wondering how I could possibly test his own drinking skills, “origin, texture.”

“Tell me about those.”

Bah. Boring. I want to see him drunk instead. “Why don’t you tell me?”

Link shoots me an indulgent grin and lifts his glass to his lips. Yes! Victory is mine!

He takes a sip of the milkwine. He looks pensive for a moment. I see his throat move as the wine comes down.

“Well?” I ask, trying to sound as innocent as possible.

He lowers his glass, purses his lips, looking at me critically. I get this feeling like he’s either going to put me in my place or going to say, very coolly, ‘I want to see you naked’. It’s like he’s blankly considering his options.

Finally, he says, “Just how thirsty are you?”

My brow rises. He meets the motion with a tiny, beguiling smirk.

“Are you suggesting we drink more than is reasonable?” I ask.

Link shrugs, putting the glass aside. His eyes wander over the skirt of my evening dress, down to my tattoo, which is showing just above the lacing of my sandal. In a completely professional tone, he says, “A couple of priorities shifted. I get this feeling like tasting milkwine is not the right activity for either of us.”

I don’t know if this is his way of turning me down or of making a move on me. Considering that he’s so ambiguous, I choose not to speak. Let him clear this up.

He stands and walks towards the door. “When I listed milkwine tasting lessons, I hadn’t accounted for the fact that you’d be completely permeable to alcohol.”

Hey, bastard, the fact that I don’t have as much experience as you might have in the drinking department doesn’t make me some naïve lamb.

“Excuse me,” I say, bringing an indignant hand up to my chest, “If you’re going to insult me on my non-history with drinking, I’m leaving.”

Link turns back to look at me. He looks impossibly handsome, and his smile is even stretched into a cute smile, like he’s amused that I took the bait. “I didn’t mean to offend you. But at this point, you’re just too unaccustomed to drinking for lessons like this one. You need more alcohol resistance.”

Bummer. There goes my chance at seeing Link drunk. Because, “Well, I’m sorry, but I doubt I’m going to develop that skill very quickly.”

He reaches for the doorknob and closes the door quietly. He says, softly, “Precisely. Therefore, I suggest you take the notes I typed up for you and study them. As for resistance, it’s never too early to start building it up.”

He shoots me another one of those looks. Wait. He closed the door behind him. We’re probably all alone in this tower, with three full bottles of powerful and insidious alcohol, and he’s suggesting that we—

“You are suggesting that we get blind stinking drunk!” I exclaim in shock.

This causes him to laugh. “If you don’t like the idea, it’s alright too.”

Um, excuse me, sweetheart, but if you think I’m going to pass up an opportunity to see you drunk while wearing a hot tux, you are out of your mind.

“This exercise won’t last very long,” I say. “I’m already half fuddled.”

“After one glass of milkwine?” Link teases calmly, coming back to his seat. “I doubt that.”

He shoots me a daring, intent look. This can only mean two things. Either he is the sexiest, most distracting professional publicist a girl can have, either he’s a freak who wears Terminian suits like a chocolate bar wears its wrapper.

Hm. Let’s see. Get secretly smashed with the hottest man I know, or keep my dignity until next time? This is a tougher debate than one might believe.

“I never got wasted before,” I carefully say.

Link chuckles. “Good. Me neither.”

“You’re lying,” I say. He rolls his eyes.

“Alright. I did get crocked once, and I woke up the next morning next to a girl wearing a leotard. Considering that she was still wearing the leotard and I was still wearing my pants, it’s likely I didn’t get it on with her.” I try to stifle my laughter while he looks pensive. “How can a drunk guy possibly be expected to remove a leotard anyway? That’s ten times the difficulty of a bra.”

I break out into uncontrolled giggles. I can’t believe Link Forester, the most competent man alive, the most focused man I know, is saying stuff like this. What the heck got into him? He’s not like his usual self, but he’s just as a fun.

Is it possible that his alcohol resistance is even lower than mine? No. Surely not. It probably just loosened him up.

Anyhow, I choose not to be upset by his misadventures. It’s not like Leotard Girl can be blamed for wanting to get Link naked. Gods know women everywhere live to see that kind of hunk drop trou.

I’d probably just get upset if it happened these days, while I’m next door.

“So, what do you say?” Link offers. “This is your last opportunity to do something crazy and out of line.”

He hands me a glass full of milkwine. The alcohol wafts up to both our noses, and we both frown in mild disgust and amusement.

I take the glass from him. “Whatever happens, I reserve the right to kick you wherever I deem necessary if you do something perverted.” Hah. Lie!

Link nods solemnly, pouring himself a glass as well. “Of course. I personally reserve the right to stop the game if I feel the overwhelming urge to vomit.”

I grimace in open disgust. “Please don’t hesitate.”

His sharp blue eyes rise to meet mine. With a smile, he asks, “Any last words?”

We both look pensive. I consider that we’re not nearly drunk enough to declare our undying love to one another. That’s why I finally say, “Nope. You?”

He thinks a little while longer than me, but in the end he just says, “None.”

I wish I could say I remember all the details of the following hour. We spoke and drank. I remember we exchanged tales of our respective embarrassing experiences, as well as family anecdotes. I unfortunately cannot recall much of what they were, though. It doesn’t matter, since Link was just as drunk as me.

It’s somewhat comforting to know that even the coolest people, the ones with the competent attitudes and sexy looks, can still have as little drinking experience as me.

I observe this, trying to detach each syllable to make them clearly audible. Link, sitting on the far side of the elegant divan where we collapsed earlier, looks up from his glass with a sort of dazed but still good-humoured look.

He says, his words surprisingly clear, and not slurred at all, “There are three types of drinkers: the eternal newbies, ―that’s you and me, ― the boasters, and the idiots. The boasters claim to know how to drink, but most of their tales are exaggerated. They only say their exploits because they think it makes them interesting. The idiots, on their part, are swayed by the boasters’ stories and think they have to drink themselves dead to be cool too. Because they didn’t understand they could just fake it.”

That makes a lot of sense, even though it’s coming from a guy who is so wasted that he can’t move his legs anymore.

“So,” I say, bringing my legs up to place my feet in his lap, “it’s better to be eternal newbies?”

“Yeah,” Link says, shaking his empty glass. It’s been fifteen minutes since any of us has taken anything to drink, actually. We just forgot to drink more.

Oh well.

“So,” Link mumbles, “Tell me something I don’t know about you.”

I shoot him an annoyed and embarrassed look. “What don’t you know about me?”

I meant this as a rhetorical question, but he takes it seriously.

“Well,” he starts listing on his fingers, “what your favourite show is, what your favourite dessert is, what you like to complain about, what you like boasting about… I don’t know. Anything.”

I’m surprised by his interest in me, but I answer him anyway. At this point, if he’s going to be my publicist, he might as well know a few facts. “I love the Queasy and Cheesy show. Newscast sarcasm was always my favourite genre. I love strawberry cake with lots of almond frosting. I like to complain if it gets me a quick problem resolution. I like boasting about finding items on sale. And you?”

Link snorts. “Well… My life is pretty boring nowadays. I live for work. But as far as shows go, I like… I don’t know… science-fiction things, like Dark Realm.”

“You like Dark Realm?” I ask, incredulous. How much of a nerd can someone this hot be?

“Don’t judge me,” he laughingly warns. “Though Queasy and Cheesy is also pretty good. And… My favourite dessert would have to be dark chocolate cookies. Yum.”

“That is disgusting.”

“You have no taste, obviously,” Link responds, causing me to shove him with my foot. He laughs. “I don’t like complaining or boasting to others. I complain and boast to myself.”

“Wow. You sound like such a loner.”

Link snorts. “I am, I guess. I live for my family and my work. Most my friends are also business acquaintances.” I notice that his hands are giving my foot a massage. Ah. Good boy.

“So, your private life is still connected to your work?”

“What private life?” He asks, jokingly, but I can guess that he’s not that far from the truth. “Seriously,” he says, “right now all my energy is focused on you.”

Is it my fault that I am rendered speechless? Taken out of context, this sentence would have made my heart beat faster. Right now, it just seems as though I constitute his sole preoccupation. As though I’m what keeps him from getting his own life.

“I’m sorry that your life revolves around others so much,” I say sympathetically. “It must suck.”

He grins, and his blue eyes meet mine again. “Not really. Things have been picking up lately.” The way he smiles at me is both teasing and friendly.

Whoa. It’s been so long since I last blushed from a compliment. It’s not surprising that he’s the one who actually has the power to affect me like that.

I pull my foot away from his comforting hands and sit up a bit straighter. “Um, so, you mean that before I came along your job was boring?”

He shrugs, inching over with a shuffle. “Politics are never boring. But they get redundant.” He stops moving once he’s sitting next to me. “Besides, it’s difficult to keep a decent set of morals when you’re surrounded by vain ambition. I’ll say your coming up was a breath of fresh air.”

I laugh, looking at the empty bottle of Cattle Milk. “Not that fresh at the moment. We’re both sloshed,” I say, as though it were unspeakable.

“We are,” Link agrees, and I see him look pensive. “So drunk, in fact, that anything we may choose to do would be justly attributed to the milkwine...” He glances at me.

“What are you suggesting?” I ask, my voice coming out as a whisper, unintentionally.

He doesn’t say anything, but I feel my gut twisting with some sort of anticipation. I notice that his lips aren’t that far from mine.

Could it be? Is he going to—?

We both start when we hear something thudding against our door. Link motions for me to stay seated. He stands and strides towards the door. He doesn’t even sway. Whoa. He got over the alcohol way faster than I’d have expected.

He swings the door open. A young man falls forward, pushed on by an irate Darunia. The guy looks impossibly pale. His hair is dark. He looks kind of ominous, too. He has a thin frame. And he carries a recorder, which is enough to send dread in my veins. Darunia picks him up from the floor. “What are you doing here, kid?”

The ‘kid’ glares at Darunia, but daringly holds up his recorder. “Vaati Winder. Reporter for the Mask of Truth.”

Link, hardly even glancing at Vaati Winder, just grabs the recorder, takes the tape out, and breaks in two. Vaati lets out a frustrated, indignant howl.

“That’s private property! You can’t stop the liberty of press—I have rights, you know!”

Link grabs Vaati’s collar. He has the hot cop thing down pat. “So do we, so I don’t care. Unless you want to be sued on behalf of Marcastle Palace, I suggest you shut up.” He looks through Vaati’s pockets, and takes out a rumpled business card. He snorts at the name written there, then smiles at Vaati, who is still looking indignant. “Guess what. I have a better, more lucrative job for you.”

“I’ll take this up to my boss!”

Link smirks. “That’s a wonderful idea. And here’s what I want you to say…” He drags Vaati out before I can even get a word in.

Uh… Hey, wait a minute… There goes my kiss!

Dammit!