Archive of Our Own ^beta

‘Come on,’ he said softly, as if speaking to a startled animal, ‘you need a bath.’

Link didn’t respond beyond a slight incline of his head. His eyes, blank and glassy, stared unseeing at the floor. Orville swallowed, tearing his eyes away from his friend, and began to start a bath.

He had no idea what Link had endured the past four years, but he knew it had not been good. Link had looked at him like an angel when he told him Lord Digianis was dead, and his innocence proven. He was thin, his cheekbones standing out starkly, and the skin beneath the rips and holes in his outfit clinging to his bones like a wet cloth on a face. Worse were the mottled bruises, old and fresh both darkening his pale skin. It filled Orville with a fury he had never felt before, leaving him with a desire to drop everything, pick up the sword, and run it through every bastard who had dared to harm his Link.

He shook the thought away; he had never told Link of his true feelings, and would not burden him with them now. What Link needed was care and rest, not having confessions of love preached by the man who couldn’t save him from his prison.

The water slowly inched up the tub, and Orville dipped his hand in. It was a pleasant warmth, one that would surely sooth Link’s aching body. He glanced back at him. The man in question was still staring blankly, but he stirred to attention when Orville coughed.

He gestured to the tub. ‘It’s ready,’ he said. ‘Do you need help or...?’

Immediately, he wanted to kick himself. Link was not weak, and he didn’t need Orville hovering over him like a wounded child. He cleared his throat. ‘I can leave if you—’

Bony fingers shot out, grabbing his wrist in a vice-like grip. ‘Stay,’ came Link’s voice, raspy, soft, and pleading, and Orville felt his heart shatter. 

‘Okay,’ he whispered. Link’s grip slackened, and he drew away, fisting the hem of his tunic. Orville watched as he fumbled with it, before he caught his arm. Link jumped, staring at him with wide eyes. ‘I’ll help.’

Shame flashed briefly across his face before it was hidden beneath a blank mask. He blew out a breath, holding his arms out for Orville to undress him.

His hands shook as he revealed the wounded body beneath him, though he tried not to show it. He wasn’t successful, as Link murmured, ‘They were very angry with me.’

He suppressed a flinch, dragging the tunic up and over his arms. His stomach churned as he caught sight of terribly precise marks on Link’s back; and he felt as if he might throw up when he saw they were letters, the raised scars spelling TRAITOR.

Link was silent, but with each piece of clothing removed, he seemed to curl in on himself, ashamed of his mutilated body. He did not meet Orville’s eyes, hunching over himself as he was fully undressed.

Orville cleared his throat, averting his eyes out of both respect for his injuries, and the warm feelings he carried for Link in his chest. ‘Come on,’ he said gently, guiding his elbow, ‘the water’s warm.’

Pale blue eyes glimmered at the prospect of a warm bath, and Link slowly lowered himself in, needing Orville’s hand to keep him steady. He didn’t lower himself as much as collapse, water splashing against the edges. Link leaned his head against the side, eyes closed.

Orville watched him for a long moment, drinking in his presence, the way his hair fell over his brow, the golden lashes resting on his cheek. He reached for the soap, pouring a generous amount in his palm. He dipped his other hand in the water and lathered it up. Link was watching with half-open eyes, and he gently raised his hands, giving Link ample time to pull away.

He didn’t; when Orville’s hands rested on his matted head, his breathing hitched, and he pressed closer. It reminded Orville of a cat, bringing a small smile to his lips. He gently massaged his head, Link pressing against his fingers.

He picked up a small comb, and began working out the tangles, murmuring apologies whenever it caught. Link didn’t seem to care, eyes closed and something that looked like bliss on his face.

He made a soft noise in the back of his throat when Orville pressed the knots at his neck. Link stiffened, tensing like a bowstring, but Orville swept his shock aside and continued to rub. Link relaxed, soft noises continuing to leave his lips.

When his hair was done, Orville moved down. Sometimes, he would brush over a bruise or pull a scab, causing Link to hiss through clenched teeth. He drew back, murmuring an apology and cursing those who’d left those marks.

Link pressed into his touch all the while, and Orville realised he must have been starving of kind touches. For four years, the only touches he had were the ones leaving marks. Orville wanted to take his pain away, bear it himself, and kiss him till he couldn’t breathe.

He did none of that, simply helping Link out of the tub when he was done. The water was dark brown, stained with dirt and blood, so he rinsed Link off one final time before wrapping him in a towel.

Belatedly, he realised he had forgotten to get him clothes, and over his dead body would he redress Link in those filthy rags. He coughed, hoping Link would not notice the red rising to his cheeks, saying, ‘I’ll get you some of my clothes.’

Link bit his lip, looking very shy all of a sudden. Orville took that as his cue to go ahead, and he dug up his cleanest, softest shirt and pants. Link slipped into them, turning them slightly damp with the residual moisture clinging to his body.

His time in prison aside, Link had always been shorter than him: the clothes hung off his bony frame, and something almost possessive stirred in Orville’s chest at the sight Link dressed in his clothes. He forced the feeling away, hesitated a moment, then reached out his hand. 

Link turned slowly, blinking like an owl, before he reached out in return. Orville grasped the bony hand with a firm gentleness, not wanting to shatter the bones that felt like fucking sticks , but at the same time never wanting to let go.

He led Link to his bed, and stopped. He had never felt more awkward in his life, but Orville forced himself to say, ‘It’s yours. I have somewhere else I can sleep.’

A crease formed between his brows. ‘It’s fine,’ said Link quietly. ‘I’ll take the floor—I’m used to sleeping on hard surfaces anyways.’

A pause stretched between them as Link realised that probably wasn’t a very reassuring thing to say. Orville narrowed his eyes. ‘Which is why you’re taking the bed,’ he said firmly. ‘No arguments.’

The stubborn gleam in Link’s eye jerked him back to years ago, before the war, whenever Orville was trying to get Link to not do something stupid (‘Link, you cannot juggle swords.’ ‘I’ll be fine!’ ‘Link, no.’ ‘Link, yes.’) but Orville gave his best pleading look. Link had never been able to resist it, probably because he only gave it if there was something truly important to him. It worked even now: his gaze dropped, and with a complaint that was truly half-assed he slid into the bed.

Link shifted several times, moving as if in a foreign environment. ‘It’s so soft,’ he murmured, an almost reverent look in his eye. A burst of grief rose in Orville’s chest, followed by a cold, destructive anger at those who harmed him. Silently promising on finding a way to get some justice, he smiled at Link, and got a spare bedroll out.

‘Goodnight, Link.’

‘Goodnight, Orville.’

They laid in silence for a long time, neither of them asleep. Link tossed and turned, while Orville laid on his back, staring at the ceiling, wondering how in the name of the goddess he was supposed to help his friend.

‘Orville...’

He jumped at the sound of Link’s hesitant tone. He swallowed. ‘Yeah?’

There was a lengthy pause. ‘Remember...remember before, when it was winter? How—how we kept warm?’

A giddiness raced his heart at the memories and at what Link was asking at, but he forced his voice to stay calm, even as his throat went dry. ‘Yes.’

He heard the sheets rustle as Link shifted. ‘It was...very cold in prison. I don’t remember what being warm is like.’

Orville rasped through a dry throat, ‘Are you cold now?’

The answer was so quiet, it could have been mistaken for the wind. ‘Yes.’

Link needn’t say another word; Orville rose from the floor and slipped next to him. He raised his arm, half an invitation, half asking for permission. Link hesitantly moved within his embrace. Orville wound one arm around his waist, pressing their bodies together. The other came to cradle his head, tucking Link under his chin.

Link buried his face in his neck, and Orville felt warm drops trickle down. Thin shoulders lurched with silent sobs, Orville squeezing tighter. Link made not a sound but the occasional hitch in breath, his body trembling like a leaf in the wind. Orville held him through it, a few tears of his own falling into blonde hair.

Eventually, his shoulders stilled, and his breathing evened, though still shaky. Link’s hands came up to grip the back of his nightshirt, pressing his nose into his neck. ‘Thank you,’ he whispered. ‘Thank you, thank you, thank you.’

Orville risked dropping a kiss to his hair, smiling as he felt Link relax, snuggling deeper. ‘There’s no need to thank me,’ he said softly, threading his fingers through golden strands. ‘Now rest. I’ll be here when you wake up.’

Link’s breaths began to even out after that. Orville waited until he was sure he was asleep before he whispered to the dark, ‘I love you.’

He was a coward for saying it when he could not be heard, but he would wait until Link was settled; for now, Orville was content to keep him warm.