Disclaimer: I do NOT own Avatar: The Last Airbender. Katara and Zuko are owned by Michael Dante DiMartino and Bryan Konietzko.
A/N: First time participating in Zutara Week! I originally published this on my tumblr Thursday, but I hesitated to upload it here because of my lack of editing. So this was (and still is, I hope) relevant. Reviews are ALWAYS welcomed and down right encouraged! Enjoy!
On the roof of a small cafe in old Argentina, the sounds of night come into clarity. The candlelight dims and the whole world falls under a sepia tint. Twinkling lights strung from the four corners of the roof's walls, paint peeling and yellowed from the times, are the envy of neighboring fireflies. A small sextet of accordion players, base players, and violinists are stationed at the far end of rooftop. At the opposite end sit no more than six tables, all occupied and in the middle lies a worn out, wooden dance floor. A man dressed in a black pinstriped suit with fine, black hair sits at one of the tables, playing with the flame on the centerpiece's candle. He wears a fedora hat tipped low over his eyes and a red handkerchief stuffed into the suit's upper pocket that matches the burn over his left eye. Suddenly, he hears the door to the roof open and looks up.
There she is by the door. She is wearing her hair down tonight. He breathes and allows himself a moment to indulge in her image. Dark, tan skin. Piercing, blue eyes. Chestnut, brown hair. She is wearing a simple dress, backless and short with a slit at her right thigh. It's shade of red he likes, the kind that graces only the petals of a rose nearest to the stem- deep and rich. They meet each other's eyes. They haven't spoken, but they have seen each other before, always giving the other silent acknowledgements of their presence. As she makes her way to his table, the band begins to play a sultry tune. He rises from his chair and reaches his hand out in exchange for hers.
They make their way on to the floor. When they turn around to look at each other it's like lightning has coursed through their bodies, their joined hands shocked by the touch. He makes the first move, stepping into her, pulling her close to his chest, one arm steadying her back, the other cradling her hand. Her fingers explore the length of his arm before resting at the base of his shoulder and she holds her other hand with such a lightness that it feels as light as a feather. She arches her back, pressing her core against his, feeling more comfortable. He shivers as he feels her nestled her head snuggly at the base of his neck.
None of them had to speak for either of them to know what was going to happen next. They close their eyes and step as one. Slowly. Together. They moved with the music, soles and heals scuffing the floor. As it sped up so did they. When it crescendoed he would let her go and when it dimuendoed (decrescendo) he pulled her back in. Their feet were at constant war with each other. They strived to out-dance the other, and yet none of them saw victory. Because they both knew that if the other won, it would be over. And, so they stayed locked in combat.
There were times when he would pause and stand there to let her show off. She would kick in between and around his legs in quick, jerking motions. At other times, she would jump onto his lap, which was positioned like a chair, wrapping her legs around his lower torso. All the while, he kept his body stiff and held her hands tightly, giving her the stability and support she needed. When it was his turn to arouse her, he would do things such as pick her up and spin around the room or dip her. When he did he felt her surrender the weight of her body into his. In these precious moments, his arm on her back wandered over the sea of smoothness that was her skin.
The music is significantly louder now. All the violins had joined in and were adding their nostalgic pull of lingering sadness to the atmosphere. They pulled on something they were sure was forbidden- their heartstrings. He pulled her back closely from a turn, catching her wrists. For a split second they rested their foreheads against each other's and breathed in as one. And for that split second, everyone disappeared. Everyone was irrelevant. Except them. Then, without warning, she dropped into a split. The only thing suspending her entire being from the floor was his grip on her wrists. Her fingers spread so that her hands mimicked a fan and she threw her head back so that she was staring up into his wide, amber eyes. It seemed like eternity the way they stared into each other, paralyzed in their positions.
When the violins broke their pull, so did they. He pulled her up and quickly replaced his hand at the arch of her back to hold her. She snapped her head back to level with his, hair flying as she did so, and gasped when he pulled her in close to him. For a long time, they stood in silence. They felt each other's chest heave up and down and breathed in the same warm air. Their hands were pressed together between them, still connected by lightning.
She was the first to break away. She flashed her eyes open and he soon followed suit. Lost in the perfect pools of her sapphire eyes, it was all he could do to return the grip on his hand before she retreated from the dance floor. As much as he wanted to run after her, he knew he couldn't, that they were not meant to follow each other. So he just stood where he was, feet glued to the floor as she walked away. But before she disappeared through the door leading to the stairwell that brought her there, she glanced back at him and gave him a look as if to say 'we'll meet again' and she was gone.
He makes his way to the side of the roof and stares out into the open, star-studded sky. The cold, night wind braises his cheek and he closes his eyes and sighs. Her memory is still fresh in his mind, the sound of her heals as she parted resounds in his ears. He knows their paths are destined to cross again.
The whole scene fades to black.