Toph liked to feel people's hands.
She never said it quite that way, but she never really felt she knew a person until she had held their hands in hers, had felt their palms and their fingers and the firmness of their grip and how well they stuck to her skin, knew how their fingers felt when wrapped around hers.
She never asked anyone straight-out if she could hold their hands, but through bumps and other "accidents," or the group hugs that Katara liked to orchestrate, she eventually figured out how everyone's hands felt, how they fit with hers and from that, how they fit into the group – into the small family.
Zuko's hands were soft, softer than she felt a firebender's should be. They were at odds with his voice, which rasped from a place deep within his chest; she could feel the vibrations from miles away, it felt, when he spoke. But his hands were not like that – they were large and warm, yes, she could practically feel the fire and energy thrumming within them, but not hard enough for the offense that firebending was, a contrast within themselves. His grip was firm, though, almost painful – it was the hardest of the group, and she wondered if it was maybe to compensate for the almost-cotton softness of his hands, or if he didn't even notice how tight his fists really clenched.
There was no doubt about Katara's element from her hands. They were smooth, almost slick, in Toph's – sliding in and out with ease. Her fingers were long and tapered, elegant; they reminded Toph of waves, the way the tide ebbed and flowed. When she stood on rock by the sea, she could feel the smoothness of the rocks, where the water had worn them down – Katara's hands were like that, graceful and beautiful but also capable of wielding deadly power. Similar to the girl herself.
Toph could barely feel Aang's hands in hers, similar to the way his touch on the earth was almost nonexistent. She'd seen – well, felt, really, but what was the difference? – the boy fall, and fall hard, but the truth was that he defied gravity; a thin layer of something separating his element from hers, as he was just slightly apart from her. Their hands, and their relationship, reflected their elements – no matter how hard it blew, the wind could not disturb a deeply-rooted rock; and no matter how firmly it stood, a rock could not stop the wind. She stood in his way sometimes, but he simply flowed around her; they clashed occasionally, but managed to coexist. For all she could barely feel him, though, Toph could see how Aang and Katara were so close – air and water pushing and pulling one another, hurricanes and breezes, tidal waves and barely rippling lakes. Hands slipping in and out, twining around each other in an endless graceful dance.
But of all the group, Sokka's hands were her favorites.
She didn't know exactly why – maybe it was because his personality was closest to hers, or because he was the only person whose grip was actually comfortable; firm but not hard, or maybe it was because his palms were callused from holding his sword and his boomerang, and the calluses were almost like handholds, keeping his hand in hers. (Sometimes she considered asking him if she could pick at them, but then she thought that might be a little too much, even for Sokka. Even for her)
But the whole point of all that was that, even if she did hate depending on anyone else, and even if dangling from an airship by her fingertips was not an exception to that rule, if she had to be holding onto someone, she was glad it was Sokka's hand she was holding.
Not to mention that, had it been Aang or Katara she would have fallen long ago, simply from losing her grip, there was an inherent pleasure to be found in holding Sokka's hand. Zuko might have been able to hold on for longer, but his grip hurt – and honestly, he always had that air about him of not having time for her. (Yeah, Toph was still stinging from that stupid failure of a life-changing field trip, and she needed to plan some revenge for him) And Sokka was –
Well, in addition to having the best hands of the whole group, Toph would have to say he was something like her best friend. It was strange to admit something like that – and yeah, she did admit to nursing a soft spot for him – but all crushes aside, and even putting aside the hand thing for a moment, if she had to pick one person from the group to hold hands with in this last, desperate attempt to survive –
It would have been Sokka. No question.
She was boiling hot; the air around her trembled, seeming ready to burst into flame at any moment, as impossible as that seemed. Her hand, slick with sweat, slipped a little in his; her breath hitched. Her hair was sticking to her forehead and neck, her legs kicking hopelessly in the air. It was possibly the most uncomfortable she'd ever been in her life – and still –
For some reason, she felt almost . . . happy. Terrified out of her wits, yes, but secure in the knowledge that Sokka would never let her go, not by choice. Not only should she hold onto him; but, she knew, he would hold on to her as well.
So even as the heat grew so intense that tears beaded in her eyes and ran unrelentingly down her cheeks; even as her grip on him slid down so far that she was only clutching his fingertips, even as he called down increasingly desperate warnings, she thought that – despite everything – there were worse ways to die.