Do you feel anything, Mai?
Not unless I'm commanded to.
Her parents demanded obedience and silence from her, sacrificing her soul for more gold pieces to rub together— and they got it. Azula demanded unfailing loyalty from her, perpetually watching for signs of independent thought with eagle-hawk eyes— and she got it. Mai embroidered and made polite conversation and bit down on her tongue, and then she grew up to shoot knives at moving, screaming targets, and all of this had to be perfectly equal to her if she was to survive.
It doesn't matter. Nothing will ever matter.
Choosing to love Zuko is hard. Choosing, at all, is excruciatingly hard. I care. I care about you. I care about what happens to you and whether you live or die, I'm vulnerable and I can't turn this off you fucking bastard I'm crying and laughing and I can't hide any longer—
He leaves; between her and his ideals she'll always be in second place. So she shuts down nice and tight until she sees him face to face at the Boiling Rock and then her rage bubbles out, magma-hot, more pain than she's ever shown before. The mask crumbles around him, it's never been a match for him, and though it's dangerous and risky and horrible she just can't let him get out of her head.
I like it when you express yourself.
She saves him, because he's the asshole who wants her wrapped safely in cotton wool but he's also the reason her heart still pumps blood instead of acid, and if Azula's shaky lightning bolt contorts her into death that's okay, that's okay, because at least for about five minutes her drawing breath had a purpose.
Do you feel anything, Mai?
More than I ever thought I could.
