He works numbly, with dull eyes and leaden hands. He goes through the motions, flexing and bending through plumes of steam and dust. The gears grind on, the conveyor belts make their slow loops, and the factory bells dictate when he comes, when he goes, how he breathes. His mind remains relentlessly fixed on a place beyond time or reason.
He collects his paychecks, but only because he has to pay for food somehow. He makes sure to eat at least twice each day, but only because Korra refuses to eat unless he does.
He sleeps, because he has to. Every few days, his body will shut down, and unconsciousness will seep into him for several hours. When he wakes, he begins the cycle anew, each day wondering how many hours he has left, certain that eventually, the sheer burden of his weariness will grind his bones to dust.
She devotes her waking hours to training. Because she has to master the fourth element, because the world needs her more than ever, because giving up would disappoint Tenzin. Because admitting failure is unthinkable.
She eats, but only because this is her bargaining chip with him, her way of ensuring that he doesn't allow himself to wither away, just as she wishes she could.
Most days, Naga sits watch over her bed, a silent companion whose fur absorbs the few bitter tears Korra allows herself to shed before slipping back into insentience.
She sleeps willingly, because on lucky days, she sees him in her dreams, and it is almost enough to forget.
Almost.
When they make love, they often do so in the dark. She doesn't make a sound when he grips her wrists so tightly he leaves bruises, branding her with his fingertips. He doesn't pull away when she sinks her nails into his back, not even when her palms go slick with blood, sliding against his skin. Their rituals are their own.
The first time they did this, she's not quite sure that either of them intended it. The first time they did this, she cried. Because all of it is wrong. It was not his voice she wants, not his touch or his taste. And yet, it is all she has.
Because through each other, they can raise the dead.
They stood together at the funeral, never touching, never looking up from the funeral pyre that discharged a steady stream of smoke above the city.
They stood there even as all the rest left, not feeling each hesitant hand that brushed over their shoulders in an attempt at comfort, not seeing any of the glances thrown in their direction. The rumors would surface later, but neither of them would pay any heed. If anything, it pushed them closer together, a visceral need surfacing, the desire to forget.
She stood there even as he staggered forward, keening softly. She watched as he sank to his knees, shoulders slumped, the burden of realization suddenly weighing upon him. She watched his fingers burrow into the ground as he sought purchase in the earth, threw back his head, and, like a wounded animal, he howled his defiance to the sky.
It takes them time, but they manage. She is as pliant as Bolin needs, a warm body for him to wrap his arms around to keep the nightmares at bay, a pillar of strength to replace the one he has lost. He is silent, as she desires, knowing that it is not his voice she needs to hear.
Habitually, they return to the place where they watched the wind take the last vestiges of him they had left. They stand, as they stood that day, close enough to touch but keeping their distance. But he no longer howls, and she no longer cries.
Neither has the strength to admit their defeat. Not since the wind swept away the last of Mako's ashes.