Disclaimer: In celebration of the final season of Korra that is almost upon us and the awesomeness of Asami Sato, I decided to do another LOK fanfiction. I love the musical, Rent. Light My Candle is my favorite. Thought I combined one of my favorite songs and favorite couples to make my first AU. Enjoy
Light My Candle
New York City was known for many things. The Empire State Building and Lady of Liberty, Broadway, the busyness of the city as well as the excitement that came with it, and the weather that could be unbearably sweltering in the summer and insufferably bone-chilling in the winter.
Unfortunately for him, being stuck in the middle of November with December too close by, winter was here and it was brutal.
Iroh rubbed his hands together and blew hot air into them, attempting to thaw out the iciness.
It was cold. Too cold. The weather only got worse in the nighttime. Past two in the morning on a chilly Saturday, the apartment building on Avenue A was silent for once. Most of the residents were out, including Bolin, drinking themselves into a stupor, enjoying a fun night out with their friends, or finding a way to come up with enough money to pay for the rent, which their landlord, the cunning snake, Tarrlok, increased, forgetting the small fact most of them could barely make ends meet.
After all, their neighborhood was known for storing the close-but-not-too-close homeless. Artists, such as he and Bolin, people with low-paying jobs, recovering addicts and drunks, and more.
It would be such a dream that, with the holidays coming up, Tarrlok would show some kindness and allow an extension on the payment. But no. So dreams were just that:dreams. Tarrlok wasn't known for being kind, or even warm. Bolin was convinced that the man was born without a heart, instead housing a hard, black lump that grew colder as the years went by. Not only did man promised that anyone unable to pay on December 25th will be spending the holiday in the streets, but decided that the residents needed physical reminders. Hence the eviction notices posted everywhere around the building, most of which he and Bolin used to feed their small fireplace, and the power outage, which took away the electricity and the heat, dropping the temperature to an incredibly chilling negative-Census temperature.
It was as if the whole building was set on negative twelve and lowering.
Iroh tried to push his mind away from the rent that was going to be impossible to pay, the landlord who was impossible to deal with, and the temperature that was impossible to ignore. He needed to focus on other things, important things. Such as the story that was long overdue.
Taking a long drag of his cigarette, he stared down at the white paper in front that mocked him with its bland whiteness that seemed to go on forever.
When he had first sat down at his desk, the main focus of his story was a beach. Beaches, where the water was cold, the sand hot, and the air nice. Where people go to have some time for themselves. To escape or to relax.
Then beach changed into the forest, standing in the center of the clearing.
The forest morphed into the forest, which then morphed into….nothing.
Nothing except quick ideas falling flat and the blank pages expanding.
I was lost
Nowhere to go
Stranded here with….
Stranded here with….
With….do-do
He shook his head and stared down at the page, as if looking at it would ignite some sort of spark. After staring at the paper for a few more seconds, waiting for something and getting nothing, he dropped his pen dropped with more force than necessary, nearly shaking his table. He leaned back against his chair, tilted back his head, and sighed.
There was a time when the words came easily to him. Just two mere words turned into a sentence, which morphed into a paragraph, then onto a page, growing and growing until he had a new story under his belt or a poem to add to his collection. A time when an image in his mind, like a child looking up at the sun, a couple walking through the park, a mist hazing the air, became a new story.
A natural-born writer, his grandfather called him from the time he was six and had written a ten-page story on a turtle and a mouse. A story he remembered that brought tears to his mother's eyes when she read it. The next Edgar Allan Poe.
Nonsense, his grandmother smacked him on the shoulder. Poe was a nasty drunk. The boy is a pure Ernest Hemingway.
Thinking about his grandparents, especially his grandfather, Zuko, managed to put a small smile on his face. The smile quickly faded though.
Writing used to be easy. It used to be effortless almost. He remembered the days he stayed glue to his desk, writing from dusk to dawn and then back again. Days when it was impossible to separate him from his journal that was an extension of him. Days when his fingers would be sore and smeared with ink from so much writing.
When he first came to New York City, his writing had been taken to a new height. The beauty of the city, the air vibrant with fresh energy, the environment always in motion. It inspired more than six dozens stories, some making to the publishers, fewer getting printed. However, the wheels of his creativity began to slow down the longer he lived in the city. Nine short stories after two months with five poems, fewer after six months.
And now, after two years in the city, he hadn't written a thing in almost a year.
It was hard to write when the writer no longer had a muse. The city was it for him because it was new, exciting, different. Problem was the longer he stayed in the city, the more familiar it became. So familiar that it was hard to create something uncommon and new.
Think Iroh, he told himself. Think.
Maybe that was the issue. He was over-thinking. He was trying to make his brain come up with an idea when he was giving himself a migraine. He needed to relax. To calm down. To let the idea come to him instead of forcing it.
He closed his eyes and tried to come up with a picture. A quiet night at the bar, staring down at a glass of Dragon Whiskey-wait, no. Alone on the rooftop, watching the moon. The moon that was a loyal companion to the night creatures. Mysterious yet fascinating. So close yet so far. Like a girl-no, a woman. Approachable yet unattainable. His dream to have yet not to keep.
That's it!
A spark went off in his mind, slowly churning the wheels of his imagination, stretching out rusty metal, as he created the scene. The more detailed the scene began, adding features to the moon and comparing them to the woman, the man and his confused feelings about her, the more the wheels turned until they were running. At full speed, he was scribbling phrases and ideas, which branched off into further plots and characters.
Yes, he smiled. His pen raced across the page, filling the blankness with black ink, dropping word after word. Yes.
Dark hair the shade of night
Eyes the glint of cat's delight
Lips red as-
Knock-knock
Startled by the sudden sound, cutting through the silence and his creative stream, he snapped his pen in two, unleashing a blot of ink that splattered onto his cheek and his shirt, showering over his work.
No! No, no, no. He stared down at the paper, paper that was once filled with the start of the new beginning, the first he had in a long time, lost in the Alant-ink Sea.
Fate didn't like him, plain and simple. They loved torturing him.
Knock-knock, the door rattled.
He turned away from the ink mess on his door, over to the door that was unaware of his hateful glaring as it continued to rattle with knock.
As the sixth knock progressed to a seventh, Iroh pulled himself away from his desk and walked over to the door, dropping every foul word in the English vocabulary against his roommate who was cursed with two tragic flaws: horrible timing and forgetfulness. Dates, his wallet, his goddamn keys.
"One of these days I'm going buy handcuffs. Strong, unbreakable handcuffs. I'll handcuff your wrist to your keys, lock your wrist, and throw away the-"
The person on the other side of the door definitely wasn't Bolin.
Not unless Bolin grew out his hair and dyed it a darker color. And changed into woman's clothes. And decided to switch genders, turning into the type of beauty whose looks only existed in the pages of books.
Her reddened lips formed a small smile that reminded him of a cat, quirked in curiosity, entirely feline-like. The twinkle in her vivid eyes was just as astonishing, pulling a tug in his stomach. Her left brow slightly arched, she said "By all means please continue. I'm curious on what will happen next. What exactly will I have to do to gain freedom from the handcuffs?"
Oh dear Sweet Spirits of Agni. Only this could happen to him.
"I…" He rubbed the back of his neck, as if easing the tension of his body would lessen the awkwardness of this meeting.
Wouldn't mind continuing this either, spoke a voice inside of him, intrigued by the idea of her tied in handcuffs and being free only by his satisfaction.
If his mother were to hear his thoughts, blushing-red and blood-tingling thoughts coming from her son she raised to be a gentleman, she'd faint.
"You're not Bolin." The words escaped his mouth before he thought them through, raising the levels of awkwardness.
She wasn't put off by his slip-of-tongue. She looked amused.
"Well, that's a first," she said. "Usually I'm mistaken for a guy's girlfriend. First time I've been someone's boyfriend."
Boyfriend? Bolin? Him….she-"Believe me. You're the farthest thing from a man."
Oh dear Spirits, him and his words. No wonder he hasn't been able to write. How could he make words happen on paper when he could barely make them with his own mouth?
"That came out wrong. What I mean is," he tried again. "You're much too pretty to be mistaken as man. You're already too pretty for me to believe you're an actual woman."
Not the greatest comeback, but so far those had to be the best sentences he said so far. He snuck a peek at her.
The amusement in her smile slowly died down as she took in what he said. One blink of her eyes, the amusement was gone. Another blink, a soft smile curled up her lips. Despite the size of the smile, it was breathtaking, making her look even lovelier.
"Thank you."
"My pleasure," he replied with a timid smile. He realized seconds later he was still standing, still staring. "Is there something I can help you with?"
"There is actually," She retrieved a small, white candle from the pocket of her skirt. "Got a light?"
"Oh. Of course. Sure," he smiled. She smiled back. He nodded. She nodded. It dawned to him he was still standing and staring. "I'll be right back."
Quickly turning around, he walked back inside the apartment, searching for the matchbox all the while trying to ignore the fact he was the human embodiment of awkwardness.
If Bolin was here, or god-forbid Bumi. He shuddered at thought. The moment would never be lived down by either one of his jokester friends.
He finally found the matchbox, tucked away in the cabinet's drawers. Satisfied, he turned around-
To find her inside the apartment, her twinkling eyes dancing as they glanced around, taking in the lumpy furniture, the small coffee table, the tiny kitchen. What sparked her real attention was his desk that was caked with the ink, pens and pencils flung here and there, crumbled papers of half-finished stories and poems and ideas pilled up into a series of Paper Mountains, his journal stored into a small shelf on the left and a collection of his favorite books stored on the right.
It didn't take her long to figure out his passion. "Aspiring to be a writer?"
He didn't speak-not yet. He was focused on her movements, praying she'd only look and not touch. A prayer that he often sent out when others saw his desk and often unanswered. He was sure she was going to open a journal or unroll a discarded idea. She did neither. She only glanced at the desk with a soft smile that widened slightly as she eyed the books in his collection. Turning over, she leaned against the desk and held out her candle.
Quickly, he ran a match against the box, sparking fire. He leaned over and lit the candle.
As he leaned back, he noticed the slight chill that went through her, causing her to tremble. He did a once-over at her clothes. Spirits, the weathers was not kind during this time of the year. And the power-outage only made things worse. Glancing over at her attire, he was impressed that she made it this far, practically in her undergarments compared to him, heavily bundled up in sweaters and jeans. She only had a red thin, long-sleeved sweater to protect her from the cold and a dark skirt over a pair of red leggings she paired with ankle boots.
He shed off his jacket, stripping one of the three layers he had on, and placed in onto her shoulders, mindful of the dancing flame between them.
Had he stepped back a second later he would have missed the fleeting yet undeniably surprised look on her face when he gave her his jacket. It was surprising to him that a lovely woman like her would be so stunned by a simple gesture.
He was curious, but learned curiosity often led to downfall, so he kept his questions to himself.
"A writer and a gentleman," she said. "Quite a rarity these days."
"Perhaps. Or perhaps people just don't search hard enough," he told her. "We may be but of a few but I can assure you we are not a dying breed."
He got a smile from her, the same mischievous, feline one that greeted him at the door. "Modest, too."
He opened his mouth to reply, to continue their banter, to keep that smile on her face. He fell silent as he noticed few things.
One being how suddenly close they were to each other with her candle keeping them apart a few inches.
Second was how truly stunning she was.
Right off the back he knew she was pretty. Up close, he saw she was truly breathtaking. She reminded him of a fairy-tale princess that was a personal favorite of his sister's, Snow White. She could practically be a living, flesh-and-blood incarnate of the princess with her raven-colored locks gleaming in the moonlight, skin white as the pure snow falling outside his window, lips red as a blossoming rose. And her eyes.
Her eyes were the third. They were in a particular shade that was both deep yet bright, bright as emerald, eerie as a cat's. Eyes that were incredibly beautiful and held a story. Not just one but many, so many stories and mysteries.
He wanted to unlock the mysteries regarding this girl. He wanted to explore her stories.
"You're staring." she whispered in a small whisper, breaking the silent between them that was suddenly heavy. Heavy with something that wasn't quite tension but close to it. Or the start of tension if that was truly it.
"I'm sorry," He knew that was a cue to look away or do something. But he was frozen to his spot, his eyes glued to hers. "Well…"
"Yea," she encouraged. He tried with little success not to notice how very close they were to each other. So close, they could exchange breath.
"Ow." she hissed in pain. The candle fell to the ground with a thump, plundering them into semi-darkness.
"Are you aright?"
She nodded. She placed her forefinger in her mouth and sucked. "The wax."
She peeked around the ground for her candle, but it was hard to see standing up and to find such a small thing in a large space. She groaned in frustration, leaning lower.
"Maybe I can get you a new one. I have a few extras somewhere…" His voice trailed off.
She was down on all fours, her back to him, unveiling a pleasing view of her backside.
Holy Agni, he thought, his eyes widening.
Stop staring, the gentleman in him ordered.
He tried to pull his eyes away, to avert them to somewhere safe like the wall. But no use. They couldn't pull away from her, taking every detail, making note of every curve.
"Most guys believe seeing is an invitation for feeling," Her words were like a physical slap to the head that brought him back to reality. He met her smirking eyes. "Kudos to you for only looking."
He frowned slightly, taken back by what she said. He wondered if she spoke for the sake of it or from experience. If it were the latter, he wondered how often it occurred. "I'm a man, not an animal."
The smirk was still present in her face, but the gleam dimmed to a low dim. An unsurprised, almost-crestfallen dim. "Like I said, Mr. Fitzgerald, your kind is quite a rarity these days."
He joined her on the floor, going on down on his hands and knees. As he searched around the room, his mind remained on what she said. Being in a similar position with a man and the scenario ending unpleasantly.
It never ceased to amaze him how gravely different he was from his mates, especially in the area of women. He seemed to be the only one who believed they should be treated like an individual, not as a thing.
"Don't worry too much, Fitzgerald," He glanced over at her, surprised. Her eyes weren't on him, fixed on the ground for her candle. "Believe me when I say I can handle myself. My dad made sure of that."
He nodded, though he knew she couldn't see it. Still he had to ask. "Did you call me, Fitzgerald? As in Scott F. Fitzgerald? Author of The Great Gatsby?"
She looked up to give him a funny, small smile that gave him the impression of half-hearted eye-roll. "Yes. That very Fitzgerald. The comparison seems to suit you."
His thoughtful frown chipped into a smile. "He's one of my favorites."
"Mine too."
In that moment, it dawned to him. In the whole time she had been here, he hadn't asked for her name.
Then again it could be because she hadn't asked for his.
Still.
"I'm Iroh."
She gave him that feline smile as a gleam shoot through her eyes, causing his stomach to squirm, but kept quiet.
While she said nothing regarding his name, she had plenty to say about his writing. She asked questions, much more than the usual one to three question most people did. When did he start? Who was his inspiration? How many stories had he done?
As soon as he learned to write. Different writers inspired his writing style, too many for him to name right on the spot. And he had done so far twenty or so stories and a dozen poems since he moved into the city.
"Though I seem to have hit a frustrating dry-spell."
She slowly sat back up, raising her brow. He blushed bright red.
"I mean with my writing," he stammered. "I've been having a frustrating dry-spell with my writing. For almost a year, no matter how much I've tried, I hadn't been able to write a full-length story or even a decent stanza."
"You think too much," she said. "You just need to let the ideas come naturally. Trust me. Ideas always seem to happen on their own when we're completely calm."
He smiled.
"Any of those stories of yours happen to cross the romance side?"
His smile froze.
"Well," he confessed. "Few, though not as much. I'm more so into contemporary literature."
She cocked a curious brow, a sly smile spreading across her face. "Any inspired by past loves?"
He thanked his lucky stars that Bolin was at a party and miles away from here, otherwise he'd quickly turn this tense moment into one of Iroh's most regrettable. Knowing his friend, he wouldn't let a moment to explore Iroh's love life go to waste, telling her about his past conquests and how truly short the list was. Incredibly short compared to the list of the women within the pages of his journals.
"Um. More so inspired by pure imagination."
His heartbeat increased rapidly, practically ready to burst from his chest, when he looked over at her, seeing that heart-curling twinkle in her cat eyes.
"I bet that imagination of yours is pretty impressive. Especially on the erotic side with the handcuffs and all."
His entire face, down to the roots of his hair, ablaze, matching the shade of her top.
"Well, it's certainly something."
They found nothing in the center of the living room. They continued their search over to the coffee table, her going left, him right.
"Would you write a scene like this for one of your stories?"
He thought about it. Two strangers coming together in the dark, bonding over books and a fickle little candle. At first the idea seemed too close to the cliché line, similar to lovers meeting over spilled coffee. The more he allowed the idea to sink in, the more it appealed to him.
It does have potential, he thought, finding it refreshing compared to spilled coffee.
"Possibly." he admitted.
The next question definitely caused his face to quickly reach inferno-hot.
"Would you base the girl off me?"
"I-"
At the end of the coffee table laid the candle. They reached for it at the same time, neither of them prepared for the first touch of skin that burnt them down to the bone.
Soft, he thought. She felt like ice yet her skin was softer than anything he ever touched before.
"Cold hands."
"Yours too."
Smiling softly at him, she pulled away from his hand. On her knees she walked over to his side, sat up, and held up her candle. "We could light the candle."
He brought out the matchbox and produced a match. He cupped his hand around the candle as he lit the candle.
He swallowed down a nervous lump that was wedged tightly in his throat before he looked up at her. She looked back at him, head slightly cocked, as if she were waiting for his next move.
He was stuck, unsure what to do.
"I-" His puff of breath caused the candle to go. "Shoot."
She giggled
"That was my last match."
"We can still get a spark."
He looked at her, puzzled. She smiled at him and took the lead.
She kissed him.
He kissed her back.
They moved softy and slowly against each other, exploring the taste of one another, as if they had all the time in the world. Beneath the gentleness was a burning passion hot and powerful as a single flame that grew in intensity as the kiss continued.
She tasted so good. Like a piece of warm chocolate. A nice cup of jasmine tea.
No, he corrected him, moaning (to his surprise) as she opened herself up to him, inviting him into her garden. She was better. Much better.
"Asami." she whispered against his lips, dropping a soft kiss on his bottom lip before pulling away.
Dazed, he opened his eyes and caught her playful smirk as she winked at him and headed out the door.
Bolin crawled his way back to the apartment at the crack of dawn, head-splitting pain slicing across his skull, his stomach churning, threatening to upchuck all the body shots he chugged down with Opal last night.
Time to do the walk of the shame, he thought to himself, groaning. The last thing he needed was Daddy Iroh giving him the stink eye for his hangover. Sadly it was the only way he could make it to his bed, where he intended to crash and sleep until the year 3014.
Iroh was still planted at his desk just as he was when he left. But instead of a new pile of crumpled papers added to his mountain set and his head buried in his hands, convinced that his writing drive was completely used up, he was writing.
Really writing.
His fingers swept across the keys of his computer, words pouring across the pages like rapid fire. He'd pull back quickly to read over what he written in his journal, nodding at what he liked and crossing out what he didn't before he continued typing.
Entering the room, Bolin glanced over to the right, stunned to see more than a hundred pages of typed words stacked into a nice pile on the coffee table.
He peered over at the front page, reading the title.
Dark Conversation under Fickle Light.
"Productive night?" Bolin asked.
"Very," Iroh answered, eyes glued to his work.
His eyes glanced over from the papers to the window, widening in shock as he read the smeared message.
Early-holiday brunch? Just us? Anonymous wrote, marking the question with a heart.
"I-what-who-the hell!" Bolin stammered. "Explain."
"What can I say? I had a very interesting, productive night." Iroh turned around to give his friend a smile.
"Is that smudged lipstick on your face!"