Mako is afraid of unraveling.
She could see it the first time she saw him out of his pro-bending uniform, wearing clothing that bleed like cleaning ink from a brush, all grey washes flooding into a glass of water. He gingerly pinched the hem of his scarf against his fingertips to feel for loose threads. She remembered staring into his eyes like a challenge - look away I dare you - while he did this, and maybe it was a nervous tick, but maybe it was because he was terrified pinked rough sink would catch a red thread between their fingers and pull.
Korra has no interest in unraveling Mako. He would just be a pile of thread when tugged from his spool of charred bones, and she doesn't want to make anymore tangles.
He says it's happened already, that she's knotted him around her fingers until they turn purple because there are times where he pulls away, even when he doesn't mean it. But she can't have a mess of a boy on her hands so she never wrecks him like he expects.
Instead, she lets him half melt, just enough until he's sitting in a small pool of warmth with her when they lie in bed with nothing to do. Melting is something she can control and she can flood her hands with heat and press them to his neck, under his jaw, and feel his throat vibrate and bow into her touch. He caves and gives. She could sink her fingers into his skin if she wanted and feel no resistance.
She's used to having power but this isn't the same thing; he's not an element, he's Mako. The Mako she met - how long ago? A month? It seems longer - checked for loose threads and had a sharp gaze. He didn't let anybody curl themselves over him. He didn't laugh quietly when hands fluttered against his ribs just before he went to sleep. He didn't ever just lie in bed because he felt like it, even when Naga whined at the door and the kids were playing outside without adults around. Who is this boy?
He says in a whisper that he wants someone to be there when he inevitably fails.
"What do you mean?" she asks back, lips brushing against his hair while his breath hits her collarbone, slipping down under her shirt.
"I don't know," he says, but he does, and she knows because he thinks too much. "Just someone to be there for me. I've never had it before."
"Neither have I," she admits.
He nods because he understands now, how you can still have parents, friends, a thousand lifetimes of past families, and still long for something. He sighs and it glides down her skin.
"I guess I just think about it a lot because - I think at some point, you'll have to pick between me and the world, which one needs you most."
He doesn't say anymore because actually asking the question out loud - which one do you pick? - means he'll get an answer he doesn't want to hear, and he knows how to avoid disappointment.
She cups her hand on the back of his neck, wiggles closer and his arms squeeze her tight, nose pressed awkwardly against her skin as he tries to burrow into it. Sometimes she wonders if he does this so he can never lose her, because he can only hold so many things and his scarf is tucked under his pillow right now, leaving his shoulders free to carry her if she needs it, or if he wants it.
"Between you and me, I'd pick you," she says, because she can tell the secret to him and the world has no ear for her to whisper to.
He breaths in and when he exhales, there's a gap of space between them so he grips harder to close the distance. "You can't."
She nods and laces her fingers into the back of his hair, where it sticks up funny and his scalp is warm under the tangle of black. "And I wouldn't remember that without you. I'd be a bad Avatar without you."
"The fate of the world depends on my nagging," he says and she feels his lips stretch with a smile, his teeth pressing against her skin.
She laughs lightly and it dies, fizzling out into the dark of the bedroom, where he's technically not supposed to be. It's warm and there's a cold breeze outside that shakes the trees on the island, and they are still under a layer of blankets. They speak and dull amber sparks fly from their mouths, get caught in the air, and burn out in a quiet fade.
She sighs and drags the tips of her fingernails through his hair, his short eyelashes closing against her neck, relaxing his face and melting into her arms.
"I love you," she says and there's no quickening heartbeat, no nerves, and it's been a fact for a while now but it still feels right to say.
"I love you, too."