Polyethylene…Polymer… Mermaids… Water… Katara…
No, no. Polyethylene.
Polyamorous… Amor… Armor… Strength… Katara. Oh, come on, dude, focus.
Polyethylene.
Ethics. Katara. Your eyes finally leave the scrambled black letters on the wrinkled page and peek up at the busy girl sitting across you like they've wanted to all along. Her long, russet hair is gathered up in a messy bun that probably looks artful only by accident, her teeth chew on the chapped lip below them, and she keeps drawing on her front tooth with her pencil when she's deep in concentration. Her foot taps quietly to the rhythm of whatever flowing music she's playing; the other ankle rests on that knee under the table and sometimes her flip flop nudges your calf.
She withdraws then and you flash an expression you hope resembles a smile—to reassure her and hide the fact that you were being mesmerized by the way her ocean eyes dart from word to word when you should've been darting your own eyes across pages of chemical formulas instead—and you both return to your studies without a word, prohibited as they are here. Not even five minutes pass, however, before her shoe's inevitably back at its dutiful post of brushing against your leg again; she groans and mutters a quiet "sorry" when she notices and pulls it back again, but by now you'd really, honestly let her rest both her feet (and maybe the rest of her body) in your lap if that helped her concentrate.
A heavy, purple scarf hangs around her neck despite the blazing sun outside and she's even quieter than usual today—no humming of her favorite folk songs under her breath, no whispering the words along as she reads, not even a call to her brother. Could she be sick?
The thought of chicken soup floats around in your very empty brain as you forget you're getting lost in the sheen of her skin, and that's when Katara's gaze lifts and connects with yours for a split second that sends electric currents through your whole body. Your insides probably explode and you duck your head down so far your nose smashes against the thick volume on the library table. The audible crunch sends uncomfortable heat rushing up the back of your neck and through your ears—more from embarrassment than pain—and right about now you'd recite the definition of polyethylene a thousand times to keep from acting on the intense urge to look at her once more (and be an idiot again).
But then, you never actually managed to get through and read the definition, so you give in and glance up—quick, cautious, bashful.
The girl's reading once more with a small smile when you do and you exhale in relief; stiffen when she sneakily catches you staring at her again moments later, smile widening just so. But she pulls a tissue out of her oversized bag and hands it to you—slowly pushes your hand under the nose you hadn't noticed was bleeding when you don't seem to know what the hell to do with the white paper—and you can't seem to take your eyes off her even as you accidentally stuff part of it into your mouth. (Much the same as she's spilled water all over the table three times in the last two weeks when you caught her looking at you.) (You assume it was you.) (Could've been the dying potted plant behind you that's suddenly started blooming this week.) (Actually, yeah, that's probably more likely.)
You both chuckle wordlessly at each other's confused expressions and return to your respective books, and out of the corner of your eye you see her tuck a strand of hair behind her ear with curled fingers and a softly bitten lower lip. You'd probably do the same, but you have no hair to speak of and, if you did, it'd most likely cause a heat stroke from all this blushing.
Another day, another soar of your heart at the sight of her across you, at the stolen moments you share in this silent library. Her foot resumes its tapping and you continue trying to get through this chapter on plastic, and the two of you have still spoken exactly twenty-seven words to each other in the two months since these study sessions became an everyday thing. And all is right with the world.
"Hey, uh, Katara?" you start three weeks later as you gather your things, when she's left the flyer out in sight two days in a row and you've done enough math to be reasonably certain that maybe it's your move.
She glances up, quicker than she usually reacts to her phone or an odd noise. Her locks shimmer and flow at the movement, and for a moment you feel catlike, distracted by the faintest of Katara-shaped laser beams. "Yeah?"
Your tongue suddenly glues itself to the roof of your mouth. "Uh… I was just. Your sorority." Your finger sticks out on its own and blindly points to somewhere that could be either the party flyer or a reminder to check one's reproductive health. "A-Are you going?"
"I… was thinking about it." She lingers on—and rushes past—the syllables in a fidgety manner uncharacteristic of her. "Why?" Her fingers smooth out her skirt with barely noticeable motions. "Are… you going?"
The entire room must have heard your gulp. "Uh, I mean. Sorta. I guess. It's about two minutes away from my dorm. Not like I'll be able to sleep anyway," you stammer out in a fit of panic, because for some reason it was always easier for you to pour out twenty words instead of one that truly matters.
"Oh." She pulls her bag up to her shoulder; her fingers miss the strap twice. "Well, if you… happen to stop by..."
"Yeah?" you squeak out, every nerve tensing. Dammit, Aang, get yourself together.
"Come find me. If you want," she adds, with a quick jerk of the head.
"Right. Sure." You beam at her, but it probably comes out looking something monstrous. "We might get a chance to talk. Without the… shushing." Your voice lowers on the last word; the librarian is probably already giving the two of you a stink-eye. Quite frankly, you don't care what anybody gives you as long as the "you" includes Katara.
"Yeah, and dance," she adds quickly and crosses her arms with hunched shoulders. "Do you dance?"
"Oh, all the time." In the privacy of your own room. With moves passed down your family for generations.
And right then, right in that second, you catch a glimpse of a sight that's as elusive as it is precious—her true, genuine smile. "Then I'll see you there."
"...Okay!" You watch dumbstruck as she departs—bumping into someone when she half-glances back. There's only one thing on your mind now.
Who can you bribe to give you dancing lessons on two day notice?
"Sorry I lied." You plop down on the bean bag couch and fling an arm behind your head, half-turning toward her.
"No, don't be," she says right away and there it is again, that smile. "That was... an experience."
"Agh." Your nose scrunches up. "When I was a kid, I had these friends who always wished they'd be lighter on their feet when the big scary dance events started happening. I was let loose on the dancefloor on a dare once, and nobody in my entire class complained about being too clumsy again."
"Aw, come on," she drawls, a little louder than this party demands, and rests her chin against her palm, "it might not be the traditional way, sure," she allows when you grimace, "but, I don't know—" her fingers part her thick, luscious hair "—it looked really fun. You should teach me sometime."
The image of the two of you entangled and breathing the same air for hours at a time entrances you so much you almost forget to be surprised, but it slips through anyway, with just the tiniest of delays. "Wow, that's a new one."
She quirks an eyebrow as her foot kicks the door shut to drown out the noise. "What do you mean?"
"Oh, well, just that…" You exhale sharply, mouth tightening. "People always want something from me, but it's never been dancing."
"Reeeeeally?" There's no surprise in her voice. "What sort of things do they want?"
"Y'know." You squirm and turn away from her for the first time in an hour. "Uh. Tutoring. Advice. Lunch money. Saving the world. That kind'a stuff."
"Ah, that's right, you're that Avatar guy; forgot." Her tone is light, teasing, but you flinch at the word anyway. "How'd that nickname happen anyway?"
"I… once helped code an automated online assistant we put on our school's front page who did a better job responding to kids' harassment complaints than our guidance counselor." The last few words almost fade into the air before they get a chance to be heard. "Which is not saying much about the coding, because he was an entitled ass and the bar was low," you add quickly, "but it kinda… stuck."
She nods along, a peaceful glint in her eye. "Why do you dislike it?"
Your shoulders lift. "Scholarships and advanced programs and job offers… that's all great and I'm really lucky, don't get me wrong; I know how rare that is for a kid from the foster system. But I just kinda wish I could be a normal guy for a while. A bit weird, getting into trouble with friends, bad with girls…" You gesture to your feet.
"Would it help or hurt if I told you you're being pretty good with one particular girl right now?"
You only smile wider than you can remember doing in recent memory. You mouth physically can't close anymore, it feels like. "I, uh…" You stretch your cheeks with your tongue because they keep contorting into a grin. "I just thought college was gonna be the place to do that; be normal and find yourself, y'know?"
"I so do." Katara settles deeper into the couch. "I've been the mom of my brother and cousins—most of the block, actually—since I was about ten. First day here, I get twenty minutes to start freaking out about all this new spare time other people use to relax, and then the phone starts ringing with laundry emergencies and math homework, and questions about boiling pasta." Out of anyone else's mouth, the words would've no doubt come out sharp and stingy, but from her they roll out warm and light. She chuckles to herself before bringing her gaze back up to you. "Still haven't quite figured out how to be my own person yet. But, hey, three and a half years ahead of us, right?"
You raise your cranberry juice. "To three and a half years."
"And expanding our horizons." She clinks her cup with yours; the sound comes out muted and sloshing, and the motion nearly makes juice rain down on the both of you. "Woah, careful. You know, you should meet my brother," she says after taking a slow sip. "I feel like you two would really get along."
"Sokka, right?" You gaze idly out the window, to the night full of colors and possibilities. "I think I've seen him around."
"Dorkiest haircut you've ever seen; can't miss him."
"I'll put it on my list." You take a swing of your juice, pretending it's a courage elixir. (Not that you need it as much as you did before this night. Not now that you've stopped counting the words she speaks and listened to them instead.) "Right below asking you if you'd want to go visit the ocean with me this weekend; I've never been."
"Ah." She bites her lip, and you thought that that second of silence would be the longest one you'd ever experience, but it passes by quite ordinarily. "And when, exactly, are you going to ask me that?"
"I was planning on tomorrow," you say easily. "Probably right after we open our books; I'll wanna wait till the end of the studying, but not be able to concentrate and just give up."
Her lips purse; they're a faint purple shade and you've probably just found your favorite color in the known electromagnetic spectrum. "Well, if it helps your brain power, I'm going to say yes."
"It does, actually," you say with a quick smile. "Thanks."
"...and then I'm probably going to kiss you," she announces matter-of-factly and pulls her phone out; your heart freezes for two whole beats. "So it would be best if you asked me as soon as we got there, because I'm texting Sokka to meet us afterward right now, and he's not even used to seeing me as his sister yet, let alone someone who, well…" Her lips quirk up. "I'll see you tomorrow, Aang."
You watch as she rolls to her feet and tugs her sleeves back down. "Yeah. Sleep well." A smile just won't leave your face.
She glances back with one hand on the doorknob and something surges within you, something too alive and and exhilarating to contain. Minutes pass as you adjust to the new feeling, and then the next thing you know, you're tumbling down the stairs and racing across the lawn with the cup of juice still in your hand; it leaves marks on your shirt and probably causes a whole other sugar party for the ants on the ground.
"Katara, wait!" you call out when you round a corner and she's in sight, barely ten feet away.
This girl, this amazing girl turns back curiously as you halt a few steps away, panting slightly and no longer sure about this. But then she holds her hand out right as you're about to reach for it, and somehow she ends up in your arms with your lips moving softly against hers, and all is, once again, right with the world.
Righter than it's ever been.
She's smiling when you pull away, eyes crinkling. "What was that for?" You take a deep breath and remove your hand from her back.
"Just in case the world ends tonight," you whisper. And in that moment—with a happenstance, unspoken crush blossoming into hopeful and rash fantasies of front porches seven decades from now with her on them—you feel every bit the normal guy you always wished you could be.
A/N: inspired by the first verse of Tyler Hilton's "You'll Ask for Me". /watch?v=SBFKBE2ROBc