four point one, a legend of korra fanfic

Disclaimer:I do hereby disclaim all rights and responsibilities for the characters in this collection. Kudos to Bryke, indeed.
Pairing(s): Tahno/Korra, background!Mako/Korra
Genre:Drama/Angst/Romance
Word Count: 6,294
Rating:PG-13/T
Summary: How Tahno's world officially fell apart at half-past twelve, and how he tried to put it back together. — Tahno/Korra. AU, Personal Record!verse.

Author's Notes: 4/13/13. Do not read this until you have read 4.0 of Personal Record. I mean it. It won't make sense, and you'll spoil the story for yourself. IF YOU HAVEN'T READ 4.0 YET OF PERSONAL RECORD, TURN BACK NOW. This is meant to be a Tahno-POV companion piece specifically for that chapter and the days that follow. (Note: although this will contain spoilers for 1.0 - 4.0, it is merely meant to provide some additional insight; hopefully, it won't spoil much for the rest of Personal Record. ;D ) AGAIN, IF YOU HAVEN'T READ 4.0 YET OF PERSONAL RECORD, TURN BACK NOW.

Musical Inspiration: "A Drop in the Ocean" by Ron Pope and "Hurricane" by Panic! at the Disco.

Beta'd by ebonyquill, who eagerly awaits the shit-show that will most likely be had in the reviews to come.

4.1

Just before seven, his phone vibrated.

Tahno glanced down to where it rested on the bedside table. When a familiar name appeared on the screen, his fingers stilled, leaving his shoelaces half-untied.

2 New Messages!

He set it back down, unopened.

And just after twelve, the rest of his world fell apart.

The drive home was silent. His head rested against the seat, limp, exhausted, expressionless. The blurs beyond the window passed by in a gray, meaningless haze. The inside of Tahno's head was dull, blank with a nothingness that might have scared him, if he'd been aware. In fact, he might have been offended by his own empty, hollow train of self-denial, if he'd been capable... or if he cared.

(He held his head high with pride, chin raised in challenge, voice lowered in warning, eyes narrowed in—)

Narook gently turned the car into the parking space, and Tahno's heavy head rolled to the side.

The door closing behind him echoed out into the short, narrow space of the hallway, ricocheting off of old, darkened hardwood floors. It left him with nothing but resounding silence.

There he stood, in the threshold of his own room, motionless. (Was this really the same room he had left this morning? Were these the same walls? Is this where—) Tahno didn't know where to go, or where to start.

("Did you hear me, old man?" he called, tearing open the door with ease. "I said, 'I'm back!' You're going deaf from your own shower singing!" It slammed behind him, cutting off the sound of a raspy voice laughing from beyond another closed door, but he was already throwing his bag against the wall on the opposite side of the room. It landed in a heap under the window, but he didn't need to watch to see where it landed, just like he didn't need to think about how far to throw for his phone for it to land safely onto the covers. Within a mere two seconds, both shoes had been ripped off—without untying the laces first, a terrible habit that even he knew he should fix—and he collapsed back onto the dark comforter, snatching the phone from its resting place—)

The bag dropped onto the floor at his feet with a gentlethud. His steps were small, tentative even, but they eventually led him to the bed. He'd actually made it that morning—for once—and he stared down at it, examining the steely gray threads with cold detachment. His fingers reached out to trace the lines separating and dividing the feathers within, but he did not lower himself down. He wasn't sure how long it would be before he would be able to get back up.

A weight from within his pocket pressed into his awareness, and Tahno swallowed.

(He smiled—but then quickly smotheredit, lest anyone be watching—"Stupid," he muttered, sinking farther into the mattress; he was alone. But... for his own, private sake, he glanced around, confirming his privacy. Mostly satisfied, his eyes flipped back to the open screen; a warmth began to spread, and his head started to feel light, and despite his assurances of utmost secrecy, he bit his cheek to reel it in, but even that wasn't enough to—)

Standing still was getting him nowhere, but it also kept him blank. Safe. It was movement that usually wired his brain and movement that usually got him into trouble, and it would be movement, now, that tore everything open. Tahno wasn't sure what was worse; suddenly not knowing what to do with a body that had never let him down, that had never needed so much as a push in the right direction... or knowing exactly where it needed to be and knowing that it would never, never be the same.

("Ridiculous," he whispered, although even he didn't know that he'd said it aloud. His fingers were in place, but instead of typing a response, he reread the message again, laughing under his breath in spite of himself. "Ridiculous," he repeated, biting his cheek. Everything was warm, and peaceful, and quiet, with the smell of rain still clinging to his skin—and Tahno was starting to accept the sneaking suspicion that the sensation wouldn't ever leave, no matter how many showers he tried to take—)

Slowly, Tahno reached down into his pocket and closed his hand around the phone that had been calling to him since he first woke up that morning. (That morning? Was this really the same day? Because it felt like a different life, it felt like—) Still blank, still numb, Tahno eased his thumb into the space between the cover and the body and flipped open the phone, his heavy-lidded eyes traveling down. At first the screen was only a square of light, and then it became a collection of shapes, then words and sentences without meaning, and then—words that he did know, meaning he didrecognize, and apologies he might have expected—before—but were uselessto him now.

I'm still hoping there's a chance that you're—

Tahno sank down onto the bed, and his head collapsed forward into his hands, elbows onto his knees, feet twisting along the floor, with the open cell phone still clutched in his shaking palm.

For much of the rest of the afternoon, he slept. (Or, at least, he tried.)

He did what he could to stay blank.

Just a little while longer.

"Well, this is certainly a fine mess you've gotten yourself into."

His head snapped up, so quickly that his hand jumped to ease the sudden pinching in his neck. There was someone sitting in the tree. His eyes widened.

"Well?" she prompted impatiently. "Are you just gonna stand there, or are you gonna come up and meet me?"

Tahno scowled. "I thought the plan was to avoid situations that could end with me breaking a limb."

"Yeah, well," she scoffed, with a hint of sadness. "I guess it's not like we have to worry about that so much anymore, do we?"

His jaw tightened; first with anger, then with resignation. He sighed as his fingers first brushed the bark, and the next moment he was at the top, but he couldn't remember the climb. (That wasn't usually how things worked for him; the top, he was familiar with, but the time it took to get there, to reach where he wanted to be, that was even more—)

"See?" she smiled tentatively. "That wasn't so bad." She seemed less brash all of a sudden, though he was sure it was a trick of some kind; he couldn't tell if she was because he simply wanted her to be, or if it had something to do with the setting sun flickering through the leaves, splashing color and light onto her skin... or maybe with reasons that he wasn't entirely prepared to think about yet.

"Oh, yeah," he scoffed. It came out with a little less derision than he would have liked, and a little more exhaustion. "Easy as pie."

"What?"

He rolled his eyes. "Forget it. It's not like you'd understand... You always seem to be the one who finds their way up here first. You don't have to let anyone watch you climb yourself up from the bottom."

Her smile shrank, which he immediately regretted. "Yeah," she said quietly, looking away. "Maybe."

This should have felt familiar, understandable. He'd seen this all before—bright leaves, muted sounds, fresh air, a savage girl and a small town boy trapped in the same tree—but something felt off. Something was missing.

"I guess... I guess you just have to remember which climbs are worth it."

He turned to look at her, to ask her what she meant, but he moved too far, too quickly—he couldn't hold his balance—and his hands snaked out, reaching for her as far as his arms would extend—

(But he still hadn't caught her.)

So he watched as she watched him fall and—

—he gasped himself awake into a dark and empty room, shuddering with the renewal of his equally undesirable reality.

(And this dream was only the beginning.)

"There," she hissed through a broken whisper. "Happy now?"

Tahno blinked, lids shuttering rapidly under the force of his confusion, but she was already walking away. Her back disappeared into the shadows of the empty stairwell."What just—?"

"God, Tahno—just leave me alone, okay?"

Her tone sent his stomach rolling. "Whoah, wait a minute," he rushed out, panting from the exertion of running towards her and blocking her path. It would have been easier if he'd worn any of his running shoes, but for some reason his feet were bare. (Why were they bare? Why hadn't he worn shoes to school? Where were his—) "What's going on?" he demanded, outstretching his palms; it was the only barricade he could manage while still so in the dark. "I don't know what just happened. Did I—what did you just say?"

"Seriously?" she sighed in disgust, and turned her face away from him. "You're really going to make me repeat it?"

"I don't even know what you said in the first place!"

Her look was hard. "Then it's even worse than I thought," she said darkly.

"Worse than—worse than what?"

"Dammit. Just forget it, pretty boy—all right?"

"Forget what?" he demanded again, gripping her arms when she tried to slide past. "I'm obviously missing something here, so just cut the crap and come out with it!"

"What do you want, Tahno? A formal letter? A flashing marquee?" she laughed and—she doesn't laugh like that, or at least she shouldn't—not like I do. "I've practically told you everything."

"You haven't told me anything at all!" his voice rose, as the frustration began to mount. "You keep saying that I should know what's going on, like I'm supposed understand what the hell you're talking about—"

"Just give up, Tahno!" She tried to wrench herself away from him, but he was too stunned to let go. "Don't you get it? I can't do this anymore!"

Another forceful yank of her wrists snapped him back into awareness and, dazed, he released her. She put space between them immediately, tenderly rubbing her arms. (She leaned against the far railing of the stairwell, on a step or two higher than his... and it was just perfect, absolutely perfect, because they were never on the same level, were they? They never had been and they weren't now and—) A ball of shame and confusion swelled in his chest, doubling to a staggering size as she bit her lip in an effort to hide her expression. He opened his mouth to apologize, but found himself rendered speechless.

It took him a moment, but soon Tahno realized that she wasn't moving either; still so far away—at arm's length—but she wasn't running away, not anymore. (Away from what? From him? What had he—) When she looked up, the pain on her face was clear as day. His lips parted in surprise.

"I'm sorry," he blurted.

(Inadequate; that was the word, wasn't it? Is this what that meant? Inadequate?)

But she merely rolled her eyes. "Please," she scoffed. "A Spaghetti-O could do more harm than a weaklinglike you."

Tahno started, completely and utterly bewildered. (That wasn't—well, that was—he'd been apologizing for that too, but there was so much more that he'd meant to—) "What's your problem?" he spat. It was just like before, when he didn't understand anything that was going on. (There'd been something similar, right? What had it been? Something had happened and he hadn't known what he'd done or what to say, which wasn't like him, wasn't like anything he was used to at all—)

"In case you haven't been listening, pretty boy, it's you."

"Me?" he echoed incredulously. "What the hell did I do?"

Her groan of frustration echoed all throughout the empty halls and her stomps pounded against the linoleum floors. "God, this is so pointless! Just let it go, Tahno."

"No," he ordered, racing down the steps to block her path once again. He kept his hands to himself this time, even when she tried to dart around him; she was quick, but he'd always been faster. "Not until I understand what's going on!"

The determination in her eyes was steely, but Tahno knew it wouldn't last; her eyes were too blue, while his were the perfect shade of ice... and right before his very eyes, she froze.

A breathy sigh escaped her, and she turned away, again. "Tahno—"

"Look at me," he commanded. And then, more softly, "Please."

The adrenaline was still high, so his senses were already on urgent alert, but a new awareness somehow managed to creep in; she was a lot closer than he remembered, even if she was securely rooted on the landing while he merely balanced on the ledge of two steps below. Each of his hands gripped the railings on either side of them, but he could tell that she knew it wasn't to keep her from running away anymore; he did wonder, however, if she knew that they were the only things holding him up.

There were sounds coming from down the stairs, from out beyond the halls, but he ignored them and continued looking up at her, suddenly finding it hard to breathe. "What happened to this?" he whispered.

She swallowed, and then: "Don't you mean... What happened to 'us'?"

Outwardly, he froze, but his heart stuttered chaotically in his chest. He swallowed, too. "Was there ever an 'us'?" he asked quietly, painfully aware of her mouth, and his dry, cracking lips.

She looked down at him uncertainly; her eyes were dark, deep... and sad. Helplessly, he leaned forward.

"I don't know," she whispered, as he took a careful step forward—up. "You tell me."

He tried.

But something hooked around him from behind and jerked him back with a dizzying lurch, his head snapping forward from the force of the pull. He could barely open his eyes as he fell—Were those hands around him? Pulling him down?—but just before the blackness overtook him, he saw a hand stretching out to him, dark and tanned and small and strong, reaching for his.

But the one in which he did nothing but run—with the open air in a wide park enveloped by a great big city, set by the early morning grays, with just a touch of rain, close to the university's campus—

—that was the cruelest dream of all.

"You should eat something, boy."

Tahno blearily glared from underneath dark, tangled fringe; his hair was a mess, his body felt weak, and the scrapes he'd received that morning on the course were still stinging. He'd taken a shower somewhere around what was supposed to have been dinner time, but it's not like he actually checked his cuts. They were hardly the worst injuries he'd sustained.

Narook merely grunted when he received no response, and silently went about his business making coffee. In a distant part of Tahno's mind, he remembered that today was a Saturday, which meant that Narook would be working late. Functioning purely on autopilot, Tahno maneuvered his way towards the sink. Ignoring Narook at the counter to his right, he pulled a mostly clean coffee mug from the drying rack. If the old man noticed that Tahno was settling for tap water instead of the purified stuff from the fridge, then he must have chosen not to mention it; he was probably trying be sensitive, which a deep part within Tahno grudgingly appreciated. It wasn't like either of them were very good at that sort of thing, after all.

A few minutes of silence passed, with Narook sipping his coffee and Tahno swirling his water in his chipped coffee mug, and then the old man sighed and poured the cooling liquid down the drain. He straightened the leather jacket resting over his shoulders and gave a stiff nod. "Well," he muttered gruffly, heading toward the door. "It's in the fridge whenever you want it."

Tahno lingered against the sink for some time, though for how long exactly, he couldn't say. Finally, curiosity overtook him: Tahno slowly dragged his feet to the refrigerator and opened the door, peeking inside. His stare was blank, but his insides felt twisted; there, on the top shelf, was a veritable feast. (He hadn't even realized Narook had been cooking.) It was all of his favorite foods, stacked onto three plates, the comfort foods he never admitted to having. They both knew that he wouldn't eat it, but... the fact that he still went through all the trouble to make it for him, anyway...

Tahno swallowed back the emotion—blank.

(Control.)

With a heavy sigh, he let the grimy white door slam shut, preparing to take his water and leave. His eyes fell to the lone canned good resting in a pot on the stove, and the can-opener laying on the counter beside it, all prepared for easy access, another one of Narook's subtle ways of showing that he cared.

Tahno twisted the metal can so that the label—Spaghetti-Os—was facing the wall, put the can-opener back in the drawer, and walked away.

He was running.

This should have felt familiar, understandable, but something was wrong. He couldn't be sure, but he felt alone—normally, he wouldn't mind, but there was this nagging feeling at the back of his mind that kept telling him that he shouldn't be. (There should have been someone else there, right? Weren't there supposed to be others? He should have heard them, off at a distance, behind him—) His mind kept swirling in different colors, he kept trying to decipher the hues among the trees but—what could be so important about colors? He didn't know. (He didn't know.) It was like there were two of him inside his brain, one who was living out the moment, one who was watching, both just as fucking confused as the other.

The race, one of them whispered, but Tahno couldn't be sure which. But didn't this already happen?

A heavy blow to his lower back forced the wind from his lungs, leaving him gasping in the frigid air, and then he was falling—no, rolling—tumbling—down the bank onto the lower levels of the trails—but someone was with him—and he couldn't see who it was or where they were going—but he knew those colors, and—I'm not supposed to see those colors, not until the finish line, not until I've won, why are they—and the next thing he knew, he was sliding down toward the river—where he skidded to a stop over the dirt path, retching out his lungs, rocks and gravel digging into his skin—knees, elbows, cheek—and he coughed out dirt.

He moved to rise, but his arms felt weak, unsteady—

A snarling face glared up at him—red as the uniform he wore, red as the blood running down his legs, bleeding into the red dirt.

"You!"

And he realized
he'd been running all this time,

—but he hadn't been getting anywhere at all.

"What the hell are you doing here?"

She dropped her backpack to his floor with an unceremonious thud. "Narook let me in."

"Liar," he accused, reaching over and snatching the fallen backpack from the floor. He shoved it into her stomach—perhaps a bit more roughly than he'd intended—but she wouldn't take hold. "Why would he let you in?"

"Last time I was here, I noticed that he's a fan of coffee; you wouldn't believe the variety of coffee beans a South American traveler like me has access to... Oh, and the fact that he's worried about you, of course."

Tahno's scowl deepened into a sneer. "I don't know what your deal is, but you're wasting your time. I can tell you that much."

Unfazed, she let her eyes drift around his room, and countered, "You don't even know why I came."

Against all of his better judgment, he hesitated. There were a few reasons he'd like to have believed, each more impossible and unlikely than the next. Her backpack was still in his hands. "Why, then?"

She crossed the room, crossing her arms as she slowly came to the window, and the look of disappointment—furrowed brows, pulling frown—was clear. As usual with her, he felt like he'd failed some sort of test. "Is it really so hard to believe that people care about you?" she asked.

This only confused Tahno more.

"I could ask you the same question," he quietly replied.

She stared out the window, hiding her gaze. She must have come straight from school, he realized. (Her backpack was heavy in his hands, packed and loaded with all the makings of a high school athlete; was she finally starting to see herself as one, after all this time?) Sneakers, jeans, a t-shirt, hair still damp with sweat and fog and mist, skin flushed with a healthy glow... He felt pale and tired, scrawny and weak in comparison, with his dark clothes and tangled hair and the bags under his eyes. She looked like she was ready to take on the world, whereas all he felt prepared to take was a nap. (It wasn't like he would have actually managed one, but he certainly looked the part, he thought distastefully.) He could almost feel the rush of the run, still lingering on her skin.

"You screwed up, you know," she whispered to the window.

He swallowed hard, and pain and anger and denial split his face into a wordless grimace over which he had no control. Tahno bit his tongue, feeling his eyes squint shut without his permission, his brows dig deep into the space between, and he cleared his throat uselessly, licking his dry and cracking lips.

It was just as he'd expected.

"I could have told you that," he rasped in a low voice, gritting out his frustration. She suspected him, just as everyone else did. (He hadn't admitted to himself just how much he'd been hoping that she, of all people, would have been able to see the truth, would have figured it out, should have known—) He could have corrected her. Set her straight.

(But maybe it was better to play along, right?

Maybe the truth was just as awful as the lie.)

"Is that what you came over here to tell me?" he demanded, his already splotchy control wearing down. "That I fucked up? That I've—I've got nothing left? Is that it?"

"No," she swallowed.

She still wasn't facing him, and his patience was in tatters. "Well? You've apparently got something to say because you came all the way over here," he snapped, taking a step forward, gripping the backpack in his right hand. Throw it out. Give it to her, and get her out. "Unless you're just acting as batshit crazy as ever, in which case, you probably have no fucking clue why you're over here, aside from a guilty conscience. Well, I don't fucking want your pity, all right?" he demanded, towering over her. Her profile remained stiff, but he could see the quiver in her chest.

She was even more beautiful up close.

Tahno swallowed hard, feeling himself grow even angrier. "Whether I screwed up or not, I'm still fucked. You shouldn't even be here," he accused. She should have never have gotten mixed up with him at all. (Was this it? Was this his punishment, for thinking that things could turn out okay? He was selfish, and she was stupid, and they should never have—) "Get out," he commanded. "Go home, new girl. You're not gonna be doing yourself any favors if your little ferrety teammates found out where you are, and you're definitely doing me any, so if you're done here—"

She took his face in her hands and stole the words from his mouth, swallowing them whole.

His brain was shattered; his lungs caved in, emptied with a painful twist in his chest, and her broken sigh became his inhale, the breath that filled the chasm. The gasp that filled his ears was his own, and it sent a shock of white-hot pain to the tip of his skull, a burning awareness of every nerve, of every exposed patch of pale, clammy skin. Her lips were on his, moving against his, ghosting with breath and sweetness and warmth, and when she pulled back, when she tilted the tiniest fraction away—as he looked down at her through heavy-lidded eyes, dusting his lips along hers—softly, slowly, carefully, memorizing the feel, blissfully blank—he knew that he must have felt—she must have thought—to her, he must have felt cold, he must have felt—

"I fucked up, too," she breathed against him, panting hard. She was blinking back tears, he realized, but not very well; they streamed down her face moments later, and still, she didn't reach for them, wouldn't let go of his face. (Was she crying for him? he wondered. For herself? She didn't seem the kind to cry, and he wasn't worth the tears.) They dripped onto his lips, smeared across his mouth, dipped inside until he could taste them on his tongue—

Until he grabbed her, dropping her heavy backpack to the hard floor, and swallowed them whole.

Her back hit the wall as her arms wound around his neck, fingers trailing through his tangled hair, digging into his scalp. This was real, he realized. She was small and soft in his arms, which was a lie, and the chill in his fingers raised the hairs over her arms, calmed the flush over her neck and chest just as much as it encouraged it. Her strong legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him closer, taking him in and—he could taste the heat still trapped in her skin—the salt and sweat and tears painted under her jaw, below her ear, resting in the juncture between her neck and shoulder—as breathy gasps puffed into his ear, as blunt fingernails scraped down the back of his neck, down his spine. Her hands were warm, purposeful and shaking, bunching themselves into the fabric of his shirt, hefting the edge up higher, revealing a slice of pale skin at his lower back—until the heat of her hands seared into the flesh, rising up underneath the shirt to his shoulders—his head reared back as she dragged her teeth along a tight, rigid cord in his neck, down to his collarbone—and while she had him distracted, separated, she tore the shirt upwards, catching the collar along his chin as she ripped it away, leaving cool, pale skin bared beneath. When her nails scraped along his shoulder blades, as they dragged along his throat, he struggled for breath, leaning into her against the wall as electricity racked his spine—when the hardness against her thigh became too much, and the sensation of her lips vied for his focus with the warmth at her hips—when her hands cupped his face—she kicked off from the wall, and sent him staggering backwards, spiraling down towards the bed—until he flipped, and he swerved, pinning her beneath him over the covers, gasping as she gasped—as she arched, as she bent, as she fell—and he watched her catch her breath, sucking in air through a swollen mouth. Her fingernails raked down the muscles of his stomach, which twitched and shifted under the deceptively soft nature of her touch, and he broke apart, staring down at her with disbelief, and accusation, and wonder. But she merely looked back, waiting to see his next move—and for a moment, he was stupid with shock, and then her fingers slipped lower to the band at his waist—

He bucked, bending into her with a gasp that split his head; her thumbs traced the deep lines at his hips, curved onto the hard planes at his back and pulled, sinking her nails into him until he surrendered, until he sank down onto her, hovering but slipping, suspended but falling. A swift kiss to her shoulder, then quick work of his fingers dusting along her sides—and Tahno learned very quickly something that she had probably never wanted anyone to know, when her hands clasped his, unbelievably strong, and stilled—and he found himself laughing into her mouth, wiping away her indignant frown, stealing away her breath.

His fingers played along the skin of her stomach—a mere ghosting of touch—while he shifted her back farther onto the bed, crawled deeper onto the mattress, spread themselves wider and longer over the covers—and he could literally feel the energy crackling between them, buzzing in his brain.

"Korra," he gasped, feeling dizzy.

Her eyes were so fucking blue—and then they were gone, and he was staring up at the ceiling, and something warm and wet was suckling at his throat. His eyes closed, his head tilted back, and she settled onto his waist, straddling his hips, an unbearable heat bearing down. Chills shot across his naked torso, mapping his weakest points—and he bucked as she shifted, groaning aloud into the crackling space between their mouths. She silenced him immediately, tearing and pulling at the hair at the base of his skull as his fingers splayed across her stomach, reaching up, encroaching higher and higher until he was desperate for breath—and another thrust of her hips sent his world rocking, spinning madly—and he held tight to her ribs, which fit easily—almost perfectly—in his palms, his long fingers encircling the cage—and it was hewho was trapped; he was the prisoner here, wanting and willing and splintering at the seams.

"Korra," he breathed again, voice hitching as she rocked against him. His eyes kept fluttering closed, but he fought hard to watch, to see; she was beautiful, and she was fast, and strong, and his—and on top of him—and it was enough to send his mind spiraling down into madness. Ohgod, his mind whispered, because he was incapable of saying it aloud. Oh god. He swallowed, but it didn't help, it wasn't enough. Her mouth was on his mouth and he wanted more; his fingers shook when they held her face, brushed away the hair from her temple, out of her eyes. She was so soft, so unbelievably soft for someone who always fought so hard, and her name was on the tip of his tongue again, dancing behind his lips, between hers when that feeling overtook him again, that awareness of the current between them, that buzzing in his brain—"Mako," she breathed.

"What?"

"Oh, god," she groaned, sitting back onto her haunches and pulling out a cellphone from the back pocket of her jeans. Tahno could only watch, aghast, as she flipped open the phone and scoured the screen three times over, her warm weight still nestled firmly over his cock. "He hasn't stopped calling me since I left practice."

Tahno blinked. His mouth was dry. His heart was pounding, but a dull, hollow feeling had taken over his entire body, and in his gut was nothing more than a sick churning. Everything else felt numb, and cold, and heavy. The weight of her over his hips grew painful, but still, all he could do was look at her in awe, in complete and utter awe, and say, "Are you fucking kidding me?"

She shook her head, looking troubled. "Ahh, I'm sorry, but I have to go. He's been trying to get a hold of me for almost an hour now, and I don't know what else I'm supposed to do about all these missed calls."

Tahno's mouth fell agape, and the rest of his world seized up around him. "You fucking ignore it!" he sputtered. "That's what you do!"

She kissed him hard, pinning him back against the pillows until his mind turned to blank, and then she was gone, off of the bed and collecting her things, while he was still there, sprawled out across his bed in what was probably the most vulnerable position he'd ever let himself lie in, watching in total bafflement as she flurried around his room.

"Wait," he called, though his voice was weak. "Wait!" He tried to sit up, to reach out for her—to summon her back—

And then a warm hand slithered around his shoulder and over his chest, sweeping down towards the soft line of hair leading to his hips, and a sharp chin rested itself into the hollow of his clavicle. He glanced at the figure out of the corner of his eye, peering straight into the gaze of a very familiar pair of icy blue, and then a weight shifted the mattress at his feet, and crawling up towards him was a recognizable mass of brown, wavy hair, and lips a deep shade of magenta. Tahno swallowed, shifting back, but the arm around him clenched more tightly, snaking around his torso, and below, two hands blazed up the insides of his thighs, pressing into them, spreading them farther apart.

"Wait a minute," he rasped, his breaths coming out in short and panicked spurts. "Korra, wait," he called again, feeling one of the hands clasp around his throat—but she was already on the phone, laughing and smiling into the receiver, and when she walked out his door—he couldn't breathe—she didn't look back. Tahno couldn't move; he was stunned, trapped, with his arm suspended motionlessly in the air, and as the auburn mass crept higher, reaching for the waistband slung low on his hips, his face contorted into a look of pure horror—

"Mother—fuck!"

Tahno toppled out of bed so fast he landed on his face, though his hip followed soon after. A silent cry of pain stole across Tahno's expression for a moment, and then he growled into the floorboards, slowly easing himself onto his forearms. He wanted to throw up. He wanted a glass of water and a shower, but all he could do was flip over onto his back in the cold darkness of his room and thank god that he was still wearing his shirt. A curious glance down to his hips told him everything he needed to know; definitely a nightmare, and definitely too real. For a few minutes, Tahno could only lay there, occasionally coughing out a lung when he felt that a speck of whatever had transpired was still lodged somewhere deep inside him, and let his eyes adjust to the gray shadows over the walls. Cotton-mouthed and frustrated on too many levels, Tahno weakly reached up to the bedside table with one arm, scrambling for the bottle of water he knew was there.

What he came across, however, was his phone.

His fingers froze over the small device and, warily, he yanked it from the charger cord and pulled it down, closer to his face. The hour was disgustingly early—oh, look, he thought dryly. Sunday—and there were several messages waiting for him. Swallowing hard, Tahno opened the phone, and looked. Many were from his teammates—most notably from Shaozu and Ming—but there was definitely one name that was distinctly absent.

Tahno let the phone fall onto the floor by his hand with a clatter, and felt all the pieces finally fall into place. He swallowed, he nodded, and he laughed, feeling crazier than ever. All of his ambitions were totally and utterly wrecked, but somehow he couldn't bring himself to care. (It would work out. It would work out, right? They would figure it out. It wasn't like this was permanent.) His goals were trashed for sure, but somehow, those seemed to be the furthest things from his mind. Tahno glanced at the phone once more, searched through the disappointing slew of condolences and call to arms, searched for the one name that was missing, the one that he'd been hoping to see, and finally, he said it.

"I... am so fucked."

End Note:

COME AT ME, BRO.

(With reviews.)