Pik's POV
Leaning my arms on the railing of the fire escape, I find myself yearning for a mere glimpse of the city lights before me.
I take another sip from the beer, acutely aware of its unrefined taste. When you're deprived of sight, your heightened senses often expose the lack of sophistication in everyday experiences. A fine wine might have been a better choice tonight.
"Feel better?" Link asks, sitting on the fire escape steps behind me. I continue to face the black void, lost in my thoughts.
"The fresh air certainly helps," I reply, a feeble breeze delicately tousling my hair. "Apologies for succumbing to emotion earlier."
"It's all good, man. This whole going-blind thing would be tough for anyone," Link reassures, his straightforward words contrasting the complex emotions swirling within me. "It takes time to adjust. Nobody expects you to handle it with a smile."
"Yeah..." I sigh, the weight of my reality settling in again. The distant hum of the city serves as a constant reminder. I can hear cars honking, people laughing, passionate street music.
The world, once vibrant and rich with colors, has now been reduced to sounds, scents, and textures. I miss the subtle hues of golden hour and the vivid palette of my own artworks. Blindness is not just the absence of sight; it's a shift in the way I perceive existence. My fingertips trace the metal of the railing, still warm from the sun, searching for familiarity in the tactile. Yet it can never replace the visual poetry I once reveled in. My fingers stop when I come across some chipped coating. Or perhaps it's rust. People hate rust, meanwhile I'd give my right arm for a quick look at it. Even just for a minute.
I halt my thoughts. This is the reality I grapple with, and no amount of philosophical pondering or comforting breeze can fully alleviate the ache that resides within.
Link breaks the silence. "You know, back in the day, I thought I had to handle everything on my own too. But sooner or later you'll realize that it's okay to share the load. Especially with your friends." I hear some shuffling behind me, the fire escape quivering slightly below my feet, and suddenly a hand grips my shoulder. "That includes me," he says, now standing right next to me.
I turn my head in his direction. "You consider us friends?"
He's hesitant to answer, but after thinking it over, he lets go of my shoulder, leaning against the railing like me. "Sure. Friend's look out for each other, right?"
I manage a small smile. "Indeed."
We stand in companionable silence for a moment, listening to the city's comforting rhythm.
"So," Link takes a small breath. "That afterlife theory of yours... How'd you come up with it?"
I chuckle, the sound bearing a blend of self-amusement and acceptance. "Contemplation tends to accompany the theory. I've had ample time for philosophical musings lately."
Link leans back, possibly gazing into the night. "Ever think about expressing your art even without sight? You've got this unique perspective now, right?"
His words linger in the air, prompting contemplation. "Traditionally, art was perceived as a visual medium."
"Traditionally," he scoffs. "So what?"
"I do find myself questioning that premise. Art is about emotions and experiences."
"Exactly."
"I've been trying to create art that people can feel with their hearts instead of just seeing it. Like music and literature. Painting with emotions, so to speak."
Link chuckles and I can't tell if it's because of what I said or due to the awkwardness that still lingers between us, but he sounds genuine and unguarded.
"See, you're already getting the hang of it," he says. "Blind Pik might become a sensation in the art world, who knows!"
I laugh, the darkness around me momentarily forgotten. "Blind Pik? Couldn't come up with a more alluring pen name?"
"I'm not creative," he defends. More silence passes, and after at least five minutes of quietly sharing each other's company, Link awkwardly clears his throat, his demeanor shifting slightly. "Thanksgiving is coming up in November."
"As it does every year."
"Zelda and I... we're heading to a lodge in Mammoth Lakes with some friends. The same people from the beach party."
"That sounds like a nice getaway."
"Yeah. So do you wanna join us?"
I raise an eyebrow, a surprised expression forming on my face. "You're inviting me to spend Thanksgiving with you guys?"
Link scratches the back of his head, a habit I've come to recognize as his way of navigating discomfort. "Yeah, I know it's kinda out of the blue, but, you know. Figured it might be nice."
"You sure?"
"Why not?" He questions. "Unless you already got plans."
I nod appreciatively. "I'll consider it, Link. It's really nice of you to offer."
"For sure, for sure... Just let me know," he says, awkwardness our third companion on the small fire escape. "Do you think our spirits are still watching us right now?"
"If the theory prevails."
"What are they thinking?"
"Ah, the musings of spectral beings," I croon in a ghostly voice, savoring the whimsy of the moment. "Look at those two mortals, stumbling through the complexities of life, like eternal klutzes.'"
Link laughs lightly, the sound echoing in the quiet night. "Yeah, probably something like that." Come to think of it, I've never really heard Link laugh before. Not like this. What a beautiful sound. "If our ghosts can see each other and communicate with each other, maybe they're chilling on the fire escape right above us."
"Maybe my ghost is mocking you in the afterlife, saying: 'Look at mortal Link, I never knew that his hair was blue all this time.'"
"My hair is pink, actually," Link goes along with it. "And yours is green, by the way."
"It is?" I touch my roots. "I don't recall dying it."
"That's because you're an eternal klutz, remember?"
"Right," I laugh.
"Yeah, your ghost is telling my ghost that you looked ridiculous when you were alive."
"At least they have something to laugh about. Maybe my ghost is telling yours: Look! Even without sight I always knew when mortal Link was scratching his head."
"Hey, wait a second! How'd you know I was scratching my head?!" Link asks. "Are you faking your blindness?"
"Are you seriously waving your hand in front of my eyes right now?"
"So you are faking it!"
"I can feel the wind you're fanning at me!" I laugh harder. "You seriously think I'd fake it?"
"I dunno."
"I bet you're still doubting my blindness in the afterlife. Forever the eternal riddler."
For the first time this evening, our conversation drifts into a welcoming pause, a type of silence that is neither awkward nor uncomfortable.
Zelda's POV
"Remember," Father whispers to me as I keep my eyes on the art in front of us, "You can bid on any of these pieces and I will pay for it."
"I know, Father."
"It's my housewarming gift for your new place."
"I know, Father."
"The price does not matter."
"Okay, Father."
"I'm just reminding you because you haven't bid on any of the paintings so far."
"I haven't."
"Why not?"
"I'm waiting for the right piece," I say, eyes attached to the stage.
The auctioneer presents a new piece behind him. "Now we move on to lot number 31," his voice commands the attention of the room as he introduces the next masterpiece, "Here we have a true marvel of creativity and sophistication! The bidding starts at $12,000!"
The painting instantly captivates my attention. Its vibrant colors and fine details draw me in, and I find myself irresistibly drawn to the allure of owning this particular piece. It would look great in the townhome's living room, I can just picture it! And besides, it would make Father happy if I finally started bidding on something.
"This one," I tell Father.
To my surprise, it's Ramses who raises his paddle first. My initial excitement is met with surprise. I didn't expect his interest in the same artwork.
I contemplate going against his bidding, but I'm afraid it would be rude. Especially since our fathers seem to be close friends. I'll just wait for the next piece that catches my eye.
"Fifteen thousand dollars," the auctioneer says as another paddle rises. "I see twenty thousand," he continues, picking up pace. "Twenty-two thousand, twenty-eight thousand!" Another bidder joins, "Thirty Thousand!"
A lady calls out, "Thirty-eight!"
"Thirty-eight!" The auctioneer repeats!
A man declares from the back, "Forty-two!"
"Forty-two!" The auctioneer cries! "Forty-two thousand dollars! Ramses, what do you say?"
"Sixty-thousand," Ramses raises the stakes casually, a smile playing on his lips. The room fills with whispers and hesitancy until the man in the back decides to challenge the bid.
"Sixty-two," the man says.
Seemingly unfazed, Ramses counters with a disarmingly innocent smile. "Seventy."
The room falls into a momentary hush, the murmurs of the crowd creating an electric undercurrent. The auctioneer, seizing control, declares, "Seventy thousand, Ramses! It's your bid at seventy thousand. Can I say Seventy-two, Jovani?"
All eyes turn to the man in the back, who contemplates his next move.
"Jovani, Seventy-two?" The auctioneer urges.
Jovani remains silent, a decision hanging in the balance. When he shakes his head, unwilling to go any higher, Ramses sports a confident grin, and somehow it seems to me that he finds more pleasure in playing than winning. Bidding does look pretty thrilling, I'll give him that.
Just when it appears that Ramses has secured the painting for himself, a new paddle enters the bidding war.
"Eighty thousand dollars," I playfully assert.
The whole room is stunned. Even Father, who's been waiting for me to participate all evening, seems speechless.
I look past him and Penn to steal a glimpse at Ramses. Visibly surprised by my unexpected entry into the bidding arena, he returns his eyes to the auctioneer.
The auctioneer is caught off guard too, but recovers with an intrigued smile. "Well, well! Eighty thousand from Zelda Hyrule! Ramses, it seems you have some competition."
Ramses is not ready to wave his triumph adieu. Nonchalantly, he pushes up his glasses and raises his paddle once more.
"Eighty-one it is!" The auctioneer proclaims excitedly.
Seriously? Ramses went up by one thousand dollars when he's been raising his bidding by ten-thousands this whole time? I can't help my smirk. He wants to play? Sure, I'll play.
"Eighty-two," I say.
"Eighty-two from Zelda! Ramses, what do you say? Ninety perhaps?"
"Eighty-three," Ramses chuckles.
The crowd eagerly awaits my response. I look at Ramses, his eyes meeting mine with a mix of amusement and competitive spirit.
"Eighty-four," I say.
Ramses is enjoying the banter and responds in a somewhat theatrical tone, "Eighty-five!"
The auctioneer, caught up in the excitement, declares, "Eighty-five from Ramses! Zelda, are we going to see another raise?"
I glance around the room, and then with a glint of mischief, I lift my paddle. "Eighty-six."
Father manages a smile, still wearing an astonished expression. Meanwhile, Ramses refuses to back down.
"Eighty-seven," he counters quickly.
"Eighty-eight."
"Eighty-nine."
"Ninety," I say, and before he can respond, I add, "nine."
"Ninety-nine from Zelda!" The auctioneer's smile broadens, his gaze full of suspense. "Ramses, what's your next move? Will we see a hundred?"
Ramses turns to me with a grin, offering a mock bow. As he surrenders with a flourish of his paddle, a shy chuckle escapes him. "Well played, Zelda."
"Ramses, are you sure?" The auctioneer tries to pull him back in, but Ramses is resolute in his decision. "Ninety-nine is against you, Ramses. May I sell for ninety-nine thousand dollars?"
Ramses gives a nod. "Zelda has earned this piece."
"Going once, going twice—" Electric silence dominates the room as the gavel is lifted in anticipation. "And it's final! Nobody else in this room may buy or bid on this painting." The auctioneer scans the room for paddles one last time. But the battle is over, and I am victorious! "I now sell, for ninety-nine thousand dollars, to Miss Zelda Hyrule," the gavel sounds, "Thank you!"
The auction carries on with the next painting, and I have to resist the urge to dive into any more bidding. I've spent far too much on this one painting, but in all honesty, the thrill was worth every penny. And fortunately, I'm not the one paying for it.
"Thank you," I whisper to Father, who pats my shoulder; a silent gesture of pride.
...
An hour later, when the last piece has been sold, guests begin to filter out. Father and Penn engage in boring business-talk while Ramses extends congratulations for my victorious bid as we wait for our fathers to finish up their conversation.
"Sold to the lady with excellent taste," he smiles carefree. "Congratulations again, Zelda. This masterpiece has found its rightful home."
"Thank you, I hope I wasn't being rude by bidding against you."
Ramses' demeanor remains professional. "Not at all. It's for charity after all. I'm glad you participated. You've certainly made this auction one to remember."
"It was fun, and it's for a good cause," I reply, trying to keep the conversation light.
His attention doesn't stay with me for long. He respectfully excuses himself to mingle. Like a good host, he speaks to some of the leaving guests, thanking them for coming.
Meanwhile, Father and Penn conclude their discussion, giving me a quick moment to check my phone for Link's response to my last text. I expected him to tell me that being alone with Pik is awkward, or that they got into a fight. Or that he finished early and went back to Kafei's apartment. But no, his message surprisingly reads:
*I invited Pik to the lodge for Thanksgiving. Hope that's okay with you.*
I smile at the unexpected turn of events, wondering how it came to it. My fingers hover over the screen, but amidst the plentiful chatter around me, I catch Penn saying to Father, "You should come over for Thanksgiving this year. It'll be a feast!"
Father, caught off guard, responds, "I will have to check my schedule."
"You? You have to check your schedule?" Penn mocks amused. "You cannot fool me, Rhoam, you cannot fool me!"
Father, ever the pragmatist, raises a brow, "And how am I fooling you, exactly?"
"You do not have to check your schedule, you make your schedule! You are your own boss, Rhoam, or have you forgotten?"
"I have not."
"Then take the day off. Join me and my family!"
"I run an international business, Penn. It never takes the day off—not for Christmas, nor New Year's, birthdays, or funerals... and especially not for holidays that the majority of countries in the world don't even celebrate."
Penn, undeterred by Father's professional resolve, laughs heartily. "This man never stops working. Well, I don't accept no for an answer! The food will be delicious and my wife and kids will be there. You're going to enjoy yourself, I promise. You should bring your daughter, too."
Surprisingly, Father is quickly persuaded. "That sounds pleasant, actually."
This revelation catches me off guard; he's not one to take holidays off, no matter the reason. Memories flood back of countless holidays where work took precedence. This whole thing makes me even more suspicious of Father's intentions with this family.
"Splendid," Penn exclaims. "I will see you both next month then!"
I interject, "Father, I will be gone with my friends during Thanksgiving."
"You'll be gone?" He questions. "Gone where?"
"Mammoth Lakes."
"The lodge?"
"Yes."
"On the day of thanksgiving?"
"Yes."
"To do what?"
"Celebrate Thanksgiving."
"With your friends?"
"Yes, Father, with my friends. It's my lodge."
"Oh." He nods, "Right."
I don't add anything and neither does he. Before the conversation plummets into an awkward pause, Penn proposes an alternative.
"Well," he says, "perhaps we could postpone then. Or! Oh! I've got it! It's short notice, but maybe you'd like to come to our Halloween party next week? My wife adores her annual masquerade ball."
"A masquerade," Father ponders. "Will your sons be there? I haven't seen them since they were of cotillion age."
"Yes, they will be there. I'm sure they would love to meet you and your daughter after all these years."
Intrigued, Father looks at me with the expectation to agree.
Penn, also looking at me, adds, "Invitations have been sent already but I'd love to have you there! Of course, no invitation needed for you guys."
I don't want to disappoint them. Father has been so cheerful and happy tonight, and I feel like we're finally doing something as father and daughter without getting under each other's skin. He didn't even make a big deal out of me and my friends going to Mammoth Lakes for a weekend.
So, with a nod, I accept the invitation. "Sure. That sounds fun."
"Excellent!" Penn exclaims. "I will send your father the details later tonight."