June 30th – Broh Week – Comfort

Title: Within the Shantytown

Fandom: Legend of Korra

Chronology: Skeletons in the Closet

Pairing: Broh, of course!

Rating: K+

Summary: Before having his arm healed by Korra and hatching a plan to thwart Amon, General Iroh II rambles around the shantytown, slightly intoxicated by the alcohol Gommu gave him to ease the pain. He encounters Bolin and they share a moment that is the precursor to the inception of their formal relationship.

Word Count: 1091

General Iroh II wandered aimlessly through the shantytown; on a second circumspection, it was actually quite charming. Charming, indeed…he sighed. He didn't know if he actually thought that or if it was just the alcohol in his system. He hadn't had very much to drink…just one glass' worth of ash-brandy, his favorite––who would have thought that Gommu had a stash? ("That should numb the pain for now," he said, pouring out some of the ever-steaming liquid into the bottle's cap, "Now take a drink!") The shabbiness of the whole place was softened around the edges by the glow and heat of the ash-brandy; it felt warmer, lighter, more like home. He was sure–

Iroh was never a man for wishful thinking, and the fact that he was almost practicing it at that very moment made him realize the true scope of how the alcohol was affecting him. Although he hadn't had much to drink, perhaps it was the alcohol's mixture with the pain from his arm that caused all this. Maybe it just showed his true propensity to suspend his disposition when given an excuse to…he settled on the former; it was slightly more comforting to his befuddled mind.

He tried to get his thoughts in check, tried to put the situation in perspective. He was a United Forces General who was hurt to an unknown degree; he had almost drowned and was practically stranded in a shantytown. Born into riches, he could hardly bear the thought of it, and momentarily snapped his thoughts into check. Where he was now…it was the exact thing he should have abhorred; the illegal epitome of the opposite of what he was raised up to be. And yet, somehow he felt at home? He shook his head. It was probably just the alcohol getting to him.

He wasn't sure which he was more displeased with: the current situation, or his helplessness in his current situation. Ever since he was a child, he hated being wounded. It made him feel useless, like he could contribute nothing; all of the things on top of sheer helplessness. He knew that wasn't true; his grandfather had told him it wasn't countless times, yet his thoughts gave way to the childish compulsion.

He should have been livid with himself: had he not failed to anticipate the Equalists' method of attack? Had he not failed in protecting himself, his fleet, his men? But he wasn't. All of the anger stewing in his gut, about to erupt had been quelled in the commute into the sewers by a pair of gentle, kind eyes. They were soft, like new spring dirt; fertile, ready to grow…but durable, like the metal and stone palaces of his own homeland. And to go with all of those things, they were an almost ethereal shade of green: pastel and bright at the same time…he feared he sought solace in those eyes a few too many times on the way into the pipes.

With that thought in mind, he turned steeply around a cluster of tents. Part of him scolded himself for his adoration of those eyes; another wanted to seek them out again. Ah, the duality of tipsiness… That was sounded like something his grandfather would say, or rather, quote, since his dictation of such phrases always seemed a little contrived; imitational, but nostalgic. His eyes would rise above Iroh's head and to the back of the room, or out a window, glazing over slightly–– Iroh stopped, scuffing a heel on the ground in a half-formed step. He quickly assumed perfect posture and stance, correcting any negligence that may have occurred due to his slight inebriation.

They eyes greeted him gaily, but their owner seemed a little perturbed by his arrival. Not angered, just startled. There he sat, on the floor, his hands resting between the ears of a fire ferret. Iroh couldn't help but smile a little. He greeted him, his sense mostly regained. The earthbender reciprocated the gesture, scratching his ferret behind the ears whilst doing so. The creature let out a mixture between a purr, a squeak and a sigh. Iroh didn't quite know what to do next, so he sat down, his aforementioned sense present mostly, but not entirely. They sat in silence.

"I…like this place." Bolin said tentatively, talking to Iroh, but still making eye contact with his ferret.

"I do, as well–" Bolin nervously continued his previous thought, accidentally interrupting Iroh.

"I mean–oh, sorry." He looked a little more flustered than before. Iroh raised his hand in a gesture of calmness and dismissed it.

"It's alright. Continue," Bolin took a breath, and resumed his thought:

"I mean, you'd expect it to be smelly, with like, the homeless people and all, but it isn't. It smells…good here." He exhaled, and it was clear his thought was over.

"Well," Iroh furrowed his brow, "Are these people really homeless?" After he posed his question, he proceeded to answer it: "Despite the illegality of it all, aren't they less homeless than the majority of Republic City, bender and non-bender alike? In the traditional sense of the word home, at least." He paused, then realized he had nothing left to say. Bolin looked a bit stunned, his eyebrows in a state of perpetual lifting. Perhaps it wasn't the statement at all…he could have just been frazzled by the fact that Republic City had just been raided. Countless citizens' lives changed indefinitely.

"I guess you're right."

Then, something strange happened. Just as Iroh reached out to rub the top of the earthbender's ferret's head, Bolin did the same, and their hands overlapped: his over Bolin's. Bolin's hand tensed up in an attempt to withdraw, but he seemed to hesitate to do so; Iroh's hand didn't move at all. Bolin slowly brought his eyes up from his ferret, on which they had been centered for the entirety of their short-lived conversation and met Iroh's gaze. And it felt, in that moment, that they knew each other, like they understood each other: like they were one. At least, that's how it felt for Iroh.

Gommu arrived shortly, saying that he had been searching for them and that the Avatar desired their council (except all of that was said much less eloquently). Their bodies next touched on Naga's back, upon the decision that he, Bolin and Asami would embark as a team, and the feeling was reawakened. Well, not so much reawakened as reheightened; it had been there even after the physical contact ceased, begging for it to resume.