A/N: warning for slight mature content and slight angst.
gravity: [gra-vi-tee] a force of attraction
The day trembles on the edge of extinction.
On the rooftop, they stand on the far corners; in danger of falling, but as far away from each other as they can get. Katara wants it that way. Zuko stands with a casual sort of grace, a state Katara has very much associated with him. One corner of his mouth is curled up slightly, as though mocking her for her clenched fists, for her bare teeth.
In the rain, the paint washes off, making her feel even more vulnerable.
"You hit your mark," Zuko says, admiration coloring his voice. "Clean job."
"You sound surprised," Katara says, surprised at how even her voice comes out. Then again, this is familiar territory. Marks, money, paint, masks. Blood.
"I'm not," Zuko assures her. "You seem to be forgetting how well I know you."
The sentence causes her skin to prickle, making her feel dizzy and light and furious. Months of coaching, months of telling herself I won't see Zuko here, I heard news of him in Omashu- Ba Sing Se- North Pole- and if I do, it doesn't matter, he doesn't matter, go down the drain.
"You don't know me," Katara says, aiming for a cruel casualness like his, because anger is just another form of vulnerability.
"A week at the Western Air Temple begs to differ." Damn him, is he smiling?
Katara clenches her hands into fists, tighter, letting the sting of her nails cutting into her skin soothe her. She won't think of that- she won't think of that week (Spirits, was it really a whole week?), won't think of the inn in Omashu two months prior, won't think of the Crimson Garden, the fire lilies that painted their skin.
And she definitely won't think of the way his hands feel, rough with callouses and heat, or the way his expanse of pale skin glittered in the moonlight, littered with scar tissue, of the way his beautiful mouth could turn so red. She won't think of nights spent ripping into each other until there's nothing left, and always, always, sneaking off in the mornings.
"What are you doing here, Zuko?" She hates that she sounds so weary.
He looks startled by the question. "I- um… I had a-"
Katara reads between the lines, takes advantage of his stutter. "You don't have a job here." It's a guess, an educated one, but she makes it sound confident. "I know you don't."
Zuko looks at her. "Have you been keeping tabs on me?"
"You're sloppy," she teases, before she can catch herself. She hates and loves the way his eyes light up. She coughs, schooling her face into neutrality. "Besides. You've always kept tabs on me."
He's never admitted to it, but Katara knows. She knows by the way he turns up, never quite by accident. She knows because the coincidences are far too many, far two convenient for three years between two lives that shouldn't intersect.
"I'll ask again, Zuko." Katara stares him down, trying to look intimidating and dignified, though her clothes are weighted down by water. And a part of her- a hidden part of her- really wants to know the answer. "What are you doing here?
It's a few moments of rain pounding on stone before he speaks.
"Something… something always brings me back to you," he says, with the slight wonder of one only just unwrapping a thought, discovering something that was there all along.
Katara feels something lodge in her throat, a cross between delight and sheer panic.
"It never takes too long," he goes on, mindless, mindless of the havoc he's creating, the destruction of Katara's world. "I can always find you, and- I do. I don't want to keep falling into it, Agni knows that, but I can't stop myself. You have three years of proof."
He pauses, visibly struggling with this truth- and it is the truth, isn't it? A lie couldn't be so undeniable and frightening.
"It's like gravity," he concludes.
His right eye is wide, vulnerable, rain plastering his hair to his forehead and making him look a little lost. If she didn't know better, she'd think him innocent.
And she- she must make quite the picture, because Zuko reaches out his hands, almost placating. "Is that such a bad thing?"
"Yes," she forces through gritted teeth. How can he not see?
Zuko takes a step forward. Katara shoots him a warning glare, puts all the venom she can into it.
But Zuko ignores her. And that's how they got into this mess, damn him, by ignoring the warnings, but suddenly that doesn't seem to matter anymore because Zuko's pulling her flush against his body and peeling off her sodden shirt, and his blue mask falls away from where the straps were wrapped around his wrist because only Katara is allowed to see him like this, it seems.
He squeezes a breast and a sharp fingernail trails cruelly over the sensitive skin, and she retaliates by cupping him with a sure hand and reveling in the long, drawn out moan, and Katara relaxes, because this is familiar; because sex is just another kind of kill, and the sounds Zuko is making right now sound a lot like giving in.
What isn't familiar is the way Zuko's fingers wrap around her wrist as he pulls her off him, the way he tilts up her chin to look into his devastating, liquid eyes.
"Kiss me," he demands. "Eyes closed."
She almost doesn't. She almost turns on her heel and walks away, like she did six years ago when they told her she couldn't do it, that a life spent being the Painted Lady would eventually destroy her. Instead, like then, Katara takes a chance, closing her eyes and leaning in, blindly seeking out Zuko's kiss.
It feels, disconcertingly, like gravity. It feels like truth.
The rain washes off all disguises, revealing their true skins.