Disclaimer: I own nothing. Yay, Bryke.
Author's Notes: 6/21/12. For any of my Monstrosity readers out there—please don't kill me. D: I know I totally just whipped out 40,000+ words for Legend of Korra in three and a half weeks but have yet to even touch my WIP draft for the next Monstrosity chapter, but DO NOT FRET. I will be back in the Dramione action soon! (Eventually.)
THIS IS PART 4 of 15(?): Aaaaaand this installment I'd hoped for ended up being, yet again, too long. This installment is nearly 8,000 words, so I've decided to split this from the next part. On the bright side, since the next part (Arc II: letting go – dirty little secrets) is almost done already, it should be out before the Korra finale! I expect that this fic will be composed of somewhere around fifteen parts. My actual plan was for nine or ten, but I suspect that I'll probably end up dividing up another installment (again). It really just depends on how I space it all out. Still trying to finish it all up before July 5th! We shall see...
ABOUT THE RATING: And now we are slowly reaching the brunt of what was intended for PART II of but we're still so cold. (Before I came to my senses and realized that YOU CANNOT FIT ALL THIS INTO A TWO-SHOT, HELLO.) Please keep in mind that this is rated M for language and sensuality.
"BREAK THE ICE" SERIES FANART: I've been meaning to post this, but FFNET's prohibition of all internal links has kind of put a damper on my plans. :( I've decided to go ahead and post the link here because these fanart pieces are lovely and deserve to be shared! I've collected quite a few, and you can find the links and thumbnails on my public livejournal post. Another huge thank you to ch4rmsing, happyzuko, Parrot4a, pennyofthewild, eternaldreamland, and sophatizer!
therentyoupay. livejournal . com
/ 31647. html
MUSICAL INSPIRATION: "Wonderful Life" by The Hurts (speaking of Dramione—this is one of my favorite songs for them), "Broken" by Lifehouse, "Closer" by Anberlin, and "Let Go" by Frou Frou (again).
Beta'd by the glorious ebonyquill. :) Don't know what I'd do without her and her insightful feedback. Both of us are quite sure that she's probably the first person to ever beta a fic via iPhone e-mail while at an all-day music festival in near-hellish heat, so please send plenty of kudos and good vibes her way!
letting go
giving in
She huffs out a breath, watching as the water vapors curl in the early morning air, and feels an irrational pang of jealousy. That's probably as close to airbending as I'll get for awhile.
Korra isn't cold, but she hugs her knees more tightly, anyway. It's peaceful at the gazebo on the northernmost part of the island, where she's afforded a stunning view of the bay whose name she never learned, and the great metropolis housed behind it, the city that has been both such a blessing and a curse to her these past few weeks. From this viewpoint, she can see the tall tower of the city hall, home of they city's protectors, and a bitter taste coats her mouth.
She leans to the side, spitting into the grass—crap, that's probably part of the new sacred meditation site or something, the monks are going to kill me—and settles back into the wood post at her back, letting her legs stretch out along the railing on which she sits. Upon further consideration, Korra supposes that it's not entirely Tarrlok's fault that he's such an arrogant scumbag; perhaps it's just the way he was raised? Granted, it's still no excuse, but... I bet he was probably brought up by one of the more conservative families of the North or something... but I'll have to look into it. I wonder if Tenzin knows where—
A noise sounds from down below at the bottom of the hill, and Korra tenses immediately, flames bursting to life. She listens carefully, and all of her senses are alert and ready, but it is wasted, because Korra can already see the apologetic wave of one of the older members of the Order from behind a rather robust fern. Korra's wave is nothing more than a lazy flick of the wrist, and then she is watching the flora settle back into place as the Order member resumes his patrol. She supposes she shouldn't be feeling so irritated—they're just trying to protect me—but it's hard when—she still feels so isolated and pressured and scrutinized, and it seems like nothing is ever going to come easy to her—they're everywhere.
She sighs, suddenly feeling tired, and despite the morning calm, she wishes she had stayed in bed for the extra hour that she thought she didn't need. It's not like she's even directly participated in the Task Force in a while, due to her probending obligations, and it's not like she'd really even heard anything about Amon in particular over the last few weeks... But I'm still so damn jumpy.
Granted, she hasn't escaped Tarrlok's attention entirely; since she no longer has probending to fall back on now, Tarrlok visits as often as he can... at least, when Tenzin can't find a decent enough excuse to bar him entrance into his home. She listens to plan after plan, report after report, and it sounds like it's all some kind of progress, she can't help but feel like—there's something he's not telling her—there is something else she should be doing. Something more.
Something a little less involved with Mr. Two-Face Weasel-Rat.
She hates feeling like this, having these antagonistic thoughts about someone who calls himself her supporter, because she already has so few allies these days, and making enemies with someone like Tarrlok is so not on her list of things she'd like to do. But he's so pushy and she's getting so sick of hearing him tell others only what they want to hear. They are already on two separate paths, and as these too-quiet days pass, she feels their agendas diverging farther and farther away.
Face it, Avatar.
"Shut up," she whispers into the cold, and she slumps farther down against the wood as her brows draw together. Of course, it doesn't actually work, because she can still hear the voices no matter what she tries; sometimes it's Tarrlok's, occasionally it's Tenzin's, or the White Lotus leader's, or Beifong's, or Tahno's, or his—and she hates to admit it, but more often than not, the voice is Tahno's.
And it's usually right.
It's been three days, and since then she's tried to think about what he'd said to her about bloodbending—haven't been able to stop thinking about it, more like—and she's tried so hard to look at it with an open mind. Believe me, I want to. She gets that there are different ways of looking at this art and that there are many who choose to interpret the gifts from the spirits differently, but she knows Katara, and she trusts her, and hey, this is a tricky topic anyway, and I'm allowed to be conflicted, all right? But even so, she's not about to change her mind; a bloodbender isn't the kind of Avatar she wants to be known for. And then a thought occurs to her. What do I want to be known for?
When the historians go to scribble her life history into those school textbooks, she wonders... what would end up becoming the Legend of Korra?
You're not prepared.
"Ugh," she groans furiously, stuffing her hands into her pockets. She's never been one for the philosophical side of life, and all of these unanswered questions—reminders of just how little she knows—are giving her a monstrous headache. And what's worse is that these questions are bringing up even more questions, like where in this world am I going to find a teacher capable or willing to teach me everything I need to know? And on that note, what the hell is Aang trying to tell her?
For the past few days, she's been pretty adamant about not thinking about Tahno, but of course it's futile, because she's done nothing but think about that conversation-come-interrogation that took place in his living room, and one of the things that gets her the most is how convinced she was of her ideals when she told them to him, how sure she was in the words of Katara and her mentors and her predecessor and—
Now she isn't so sure.
She'd been thinking a lot about something she'd said to Tahno in particular, the part about leaving the young unprepared for the evils of thew world—Katara's words, Aang's words, or so she's been told—and then voila, up spring the beginnings of resentment.
She needs to make her own path, yeah, she knows that—but isn't it already hard enough when she has to fill the shoes of someone who mastered his three remaining elements and defeated the Fire Lord and created a brand new form of energy bending and ended the war and saved the world—all in less than a year? When he was twelve?
I'm not Aang, she thinks to herself.
Is there not some guide out there somewhere that will teach her how to be the avatar? If the universe expects this much from her, the least they could do is give her a manual, right? Katara told her years ago that Aang had been sometimes visited by Avatar Roku... And that Aang had eventually connected with his Avatar spirit so thoroughly that he was able to look within himself and access the previous Avatars on command.
As if I didn't already have enough to live up to, she thinks bitterly.
She's getting more and more frustrated that she can't decipher those messages from her past lives, and the weight of the world is getting heavier and heavier, and she's ever growing more and more irritated with Tarrlok, and don't even get her started on Tahno—
I'm slipping.
She stills.
And then her breath twists through the air like memories on a wave, and as sights and sounds of nights long past creep into her blood, she thinks that, just maybe, I might be slipping, too.
She doesn't see Mako until he's right beside her.
"Hey," he nearly chirps, and the sound cuts straight through her chest like a lightning bolt. "Whoah, sorry."
The panting isn't really helping any, so she focuses on a rather long, deep breath, and rights herself from where she almost fell off the ledge. "S'okay," she manages breathily. "Wow... that was embarrassing."
"You all right?"
"Yeah, you just caught me in the middle of... something. I should have been paying better attention."
His brows knit themselves into a heavy crease, and Korra has to stare at her wrist guard to keep from rolling her eyes. "Imagine what would have happened if it'd been an Equalist," he nearly scolds. "It's not safe for you to let your guard down when—"
"So," she interrupts firmly but good-naturedly, and he swallows his words with an acquiescent frown. Her breathing has returned to normal, but her heartbeat has not, so she smiles slightly, trying to remain casual. "Long time, no see. What's up?"
She sends him a sheepish smile, suddenly relaxed now that the surge of adrenaline has passed through her system, and that's when she notices how embarrassed he's looking all of a sudden. She watches him awkwardly shift his weight about, and sees that his hands are stuffed in his trench pockets and that his jaw is tight.
"You can sit down if you like," she nods to the railing space by her feet. "There's plenty of room."
"Nah," he says as he gives a noncommittal shrug, and she tries not to feel disappointed. "Just out for a morning walk."
"Oh," she says, with much less brightness than before, and dammit, she thought she was getting better at this hiding her feelings stuff. "Okay." But then she catches the jittery twitch of the muscles at his shoulders, and a curious brow rises. Okay?
"It is a pretty cool view," Mako admits quietly, his eyes trained on the stadium.
"It's beautiful," she agrees, staring at the now lifeless arena. "I would look out over the water at night and see it all lit up, and think of how I used to dream about it when I was a kid. From the first day I got here, I'd stare at it every night, until I finally fell asleep."
It took her a minute to notice that he hadn't responded, and when she looked back to him, Korra realized that he'd been watching her the whole time. A light blush crept across her cheeks and, suddenly feeling like she'd said too much, she hastily adds, "But I guess you wouldn't really know, seeing how you actually lived there and all."
"Well... I've done my fair share of staring out across the harbor, too."
Korra regards him skeptically. "What? At Air Temple Island? I mean, yeah, it's wonderful, but I hardly think it compares."
"I don't know about that," he gives her a sly smile. "There's a lot about the view over here to appreciate, too."
Her heart skips at the look in his eyes— Is he... Is he flirting with me right now?—and for a giddy moment, she is blown by how easy this feels, but then ever-reliable reality swoops back in, as does the doubt and the insecurity and the remembrance of a certain-someone-who, and her hope crumbles.
Her words must have been embossed across her forehead, because he suddenly clears his throat and fixates his stare on the bay. "You know, Korra, I've... I've been meaning to tell you something."
Her head snaps up, perhaps a bit more quickly than is dignified, and she knows she's going to have a crick in it later. "Yeah?"
"Uhh, yeah," he rubs the back of his neck awkwardly, and he is so stiff that she's positive she'd break him in two with a single kick. "You know, about how great it is for Tenzin and his family to put us up like this. Bolin and I really do appreciate you talking to him about it. And Asami, too."
Oh.
"Right," she nods. "Of course. Tenzin would never turn his back on people who need him. And I mean, after all you've been through... How is Asami doing, by the way?"
"Asami?"
Yeah, your girlfriend, remember? Korra thinks as a heavy pressure settles over her chest, and—oh, look, just another dead weight to carry, well, that's quite all right, go ahead, pile it on, why not just add a little more? He doesn't response as quickly this time and she dips her head, trying to catch his eye, and trying to rid herself of her sour mood. Shut up, Korra, not everything is about you.
"She's... doing as well as she can, I guess. We've tried talking about it, but it's still too soon."
Korra gives a gentle nod. "I can imagine," she says softly, because she doesn't know what else to say. But then she is bombarded with visions of Tonraq and learning how to fish and pillow fight alliances and storytelling by the hut fire with roasted sweets and she knows that, actually, she couldn't imagine it if she tried. She smiles, but she doesn't have to see it to know that it's broken. "It's good that she has you, at least."
But something in her words has shaken him.
"Look, Korra," he says, spinning toward her, and they are mid-conversation but the abrupt way the words have spilled out into the air leaves her on edge. "That's not all I want to say. It's just that, you know, things really aren't getting any simpler, and and and it's not like I don't appreciate everything that you've done for us, and—and you know that I care about you, right?"
Korra blinks, and she tries to inhale, but the breath won't come. "Mako—"
"Because I do," he presses. "I do, but it's just that—"
"Mako," Korra interrupts, because she knows where this is going, and she can't hear anymore right now. She feels like she should feel happier, but he is still with Asami, and instead she feels weary. "It's okay. I get it."
Mako looks disappointed, and not particularly relieved. "Bolin has always been so much better at this stuff."
Korra releases a small laugh, grateful for the opportunity to lighten the moment, and looks up at him warmly. She hopes he understands what she means when she says, "I guess you didn't do such a bad job taking care of him?"
They share a knowing smile—no, no, no, stop it, not again, her mind cries—and then Mako releases a sigh and looks back toward the house. "I should get going. Pema told me that she wants to start experimenting with breakfast creme brûlées."
Despite her inner tension, the idea of Mako baking in the kitchen is so hilariously fitting that she can't help but laugh aloud. "All right. Better not keep the pregnant lady waiting, then."
He cracks another smile and—shit, stop it, enough—heads toward the main branch, hands stuffed in his coat pockets with a carelessness that make her insides ache. But just as she leans back into the woodwork, he turns, and calls out.
"Hey, Korra."
She tenses, but this time her guard has not been let down. Korra raises her head, looking toward where he stands across the long, narrow stone path.
"I'm sorry."
His expression is too far away to be seen clearly, but Korra's eyes widen. She expects there to be more, but this is all he says, and then he is turning away. She has half a mind to race after him and demand what for? but he is already gone and she's still too surprised to go seek any elaboration, so she watches his retreating back finish the journey to the kitchens until he vanishes from her sight completely. And then she is sliding all the way down onto the railing until she is completely parallel with the woodwork.
Maybe he's finally trying to make up for his rather dismal apology on the airship? About not believing her and accusing her of going after Hiroshi out of jealousy over Asami? Her gut churns at the mere memory. Or maybe he's sorry for his overall behavior? Spirits knew he hadn't exactly been the most considerate guy on the island lately. Or maybe he's just apologizing in general for life's shitty timing and terrible sense of humor.
Whatever the reason, Korra knows that it doesn't excuse everything... not how he's been been acting or how he's treated everyone—does Asami even know that we kissed?—but her headache is back, and she figures that this is the best it's going to get for now. Besides. She has the feeling that he wouldn't have offered an explanation, even if she'd asked.
Not yet, anyway.
"At least he apologized," she whispers to herself, and her eyes fall to the waves beyond the shore.
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But by lunchtime she's already turned the wrong corner at the wrong place at the wrong time, and has accidentally caught a glance of them sharing a rather passionate kiss in the gardens.
As she slips away unnoticed, swallowing a lump in her throat that could very well be her heart,
Korra thinks that though he might actually be sorry... he really can't be that sorry at all.
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He flips a page and the crisp sound of fresh newsprint crackles through the air.
Narook looks up from his spot a few feet down the bar, wordlessly casting a speculative glance at his only tenant. For a half an hour now he's been carefully brushing his cloth over the glasses until each one is shining and bright, trying to stay productive in the undeniable lull that the rainstorm has brought upon them, all the while listening to the gusty sighs from figure on the nearby stool. He's allowed Tahno his privacy, saying nothing as he watches his impatient eyes rove over the articles held before him, but Narook doesn't miss any of the quick glimpses toward the old clock on the wall, which now reads eleven hours too late. Tahno is nearing the back of the newspaper and, with a frustrated huff, he whips back another page.
It's been four days, and his disappointment is nearly tangible.
"I don't need to tell you that if there were any word about Amon, it'd be on the front," Narook says in an old, wizened voice.
"Then don't," Tahno drawls, and his eyes never wander from the page.
Narook finishes his last glass, and slips the cloth over a rack near his waist to dry. Right before he disappears behind the kitchen's tapestry, he turns back, landing his only customer with a heavy, almost apologetic stare. "The same goes for her."
There is a heavy pause, but Tahno's eyes slowly drag themselves upward; the scowl that lingers there has never had much of an effect on Narook, but the fierce expectation he sees within the young man's eyes does, and it is enough to elicit a sigh from his weary lungs. So young and already so old.
"She's not in there today," Narook explains, and though his voice is still just as gruff as ever, his eyes soften. "I've already checked."
Tahno watches the old man dip behind the curtain with narrowed eyes, and as the downpour drowns out the meager sounds of humanity beyond the window shutters, his frown deepens. He folds the newspaper without a second glance, and tosses it into the waste bin behind the counter.
He tells himself that she wasn't what he was looking for, and that the old man shouldn't just assume, but it's been four days, and the nightmares—blue eyes, repeat, repeat, repeat—are only getting worse.
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"Stupid," she spits under her breath, frowning in the moonlight that filters through her bedroom window. "Why the hell didn't you think of that earlier?"
Her parting words have been gnawing on her for days straight, but it's only this evening that she's finally allowed herself to really look back on it all, to examine it like collection of scraped away scabs that she'd finally decided she wasn't going to mindlessly pick at anymore. She should have left his apartment by saying something about already having a set of advisors who have far more knowledge and experience and sound advice than he does, and that she wasn't going to take tactical advice from a drunken narcissistic-turned-misanthropic playboy, but the truth is that she doesn't trust most of the people she is supposed to; her only real faith rests in the too-patient Tenzin, the begrudging Lin Beifong, and now... him.
Maybe.
His words have planted a seed in her mind and, without her permission, wildly, it has started to grow.
"Just like before," she whispers to the empty bedroom, and she falls back down against the pillows, hair spaying out along the wrinkles in the cotton.
A dance is just a dance.
It's been a week since that afternoon in his apartment, and she's running out of excuses not to think about him.
And Yue forgive her, but she misses what they'd had. The routine, the distraction, the comfortable silences with Narook, the banter and insults and the reminders that he is going to be okay, after all, but she can't go back. She just can't. There is too much at stake, she tells herself, too much to lose, too much likelihood that she will get too close—again again again—and she's not about to put herself into any more situations that will only end up getting her even more hurt than before.
But Korra sighs as she tangles her fingers into the loose strands of hair at her scalp, and it is no surprise when her imagination comes to light—she would never have expected such heat—and her breathing catches, just so.
It's been a week and, if she's being quite honest with herself, she's not sure how much longer she's going to last.
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"Fucking faucet," he mutters, pounding his fist into the metal piece that's stuck and lodged on what's no doubt some decade-old grime. He doesn't know how much longer he'll have before the water goes out again, and he'll be damned if he doesn't get in a decent late night shower before it dies.
The heel of his palm presses down and at last, it gives. The water comes churning out in glorious cascades; it's merely a soft stream at first, but eventually flows into a downpour of pressurized luxury that Tahno had thought for sure he'd never again receive in this little hell hole. Not wanting to waste a drop more, he tears off his pants, cursing as he struggles to disentangle one ankle from a pant leg, and throws them to the floor without care for where they fall. Tahno hastily steps behind the curtain into the stream, and all at once, his body relaxes.
It's been a week and a half since she left, and he's running out of reasons for why it'd be better if she stayed away.
Tahno knows that he doesn't have much time, so taking care of his hair and the dirt on his skin is first priority, but once he's finished, he sags against the tiled wall, and the fighting rush that of energy that had fueled his earlier haste simply leaves him in one heavy breath.
How long has it been since that night in the stadium? Weeks? Has it been a full month yet? For someone so obsessed with watching the clock, he's lost all real track of time; in trying to live moment by moment, in trying to ignore the customary facets of daily living, he has been hiding away here in this barren apartment like a recluse, with only an occasional trip downstairs—to see if she's come back—to let Narook know he's still kicking, or for food. He doesn't even bother with the side trips to the dumpster anymore.
But while his days are painfully predictable, his nights are haunted by endless guessing games. What's in store for him this time? What kind of nightmare would he have tonight? Perhaps it will be another reflection on his pathetic attempts to regain a semblance of normalcy, or an encore of the taunting visions of the what ifs that torment his less fortunate days. Maybe he'll get lucky and be blessed with a strike of consistency by receiving a visit from the old favorite, in which—here it comes—he loses everything. What could it be said about him, he wonders, that this hellish dream is preferable to the others... to the ones in which the water speaks to him, just like it used to, in which it responds to his beck and call and—and it's a little like the way he used to live his life, isn't it?—only to find that the dream ends with things as they are now, in which the water sleeps, even as it moves, and his broken cries of but how can water sleep? are lost in the distant echoes of his lonely mind.
All this time he'd been thinking that it was the alcohol that had been keeping the insanity at bay. And, he'll admit, it might have actually been for a time.
At first.
But the tile is cold at his back, and it is getting harder to ignore the truth. The water drips into his eyes but he doesn't care, and despite the sting, he barely blinks them away. He knows what happens if he closes his eyes for too long; it's a world of darkness, and then she is there, an ever-changing constant in his too-constant world, and depending on the day or the hour, she is snarling at him, or smiling, or laughing, and all of it sends a terrible ache through him. It's like he's replaced her for the alcohol, traded one drug for another, and he resents her for it, but he's in withdrawal, and when he lets the realization that he wants her rush across his mind, it's not a game, it's a debilitating need.
Memories swarm before his eyes—hair wild and twisted along his pillow, the thoughtful bite of a lower lip, the feeling of a delicate ribcage beneath his fingertips as they twist across the floor—and he won't stand for her pity, but it's the only thing that kept her coming back, isn't it? That feeling of guilt that she harbors toward what's happened to him, that feeling of responsibility as the unfulfilled Avatar, the savior who let yet another victim fall to Amon's cause, that's what was really driving her here. He swallows a lump in his throat, tries to cough away whatever it is that tightens his airways, but it's all in his mind; he wants her back, and he vows that if she does—if she does—he'll never relinquish that power; he doesn't blame her for what happened, but he'll never let her know.
Without any of the weight of the blame to hold her down, she'd have nothing keeping her from drifting away.
Tahno raises his hands to his scalp, wanting to brush back the heavy wet strands through long fingers, but instead they come to rest flat against the cool wall. He drags an idle finger along the lines between the tiles and allows himself to consider where she might be, what she might be doing, in this moment. She is the Avatar and, unlike him, there are things beyond these walls that tether her to the outside world, and he's never really given serious thought to all that might mean until now. He rarely calls her anything but Avatar, and at first it was because there has never been any point in trying to remember names, but it's only now, long after the habit has stuck, that he realizes just how little her being the Avatar means to him. To him, she has always been, first and foremost: Korra.
In the shady lighting of the downstairs bar on that first night he'd approached her, she'd been little more than an interesting prospect, an amateur with a tight body hidden beneath too many layers, a decent face with a fancy title, and an unexpected twist of blue eyes. While plotting out his strategy at the Festival of the Moon, she was simply a breath of fresh air, a long-awaited challenge, but after the dance—those few precious minutes with her writhing and breathing and twisting under his willing hands—the Korra of his mind became dizzying images of the curve of her lips, the swell of her heaving chest, the flat of a smooth stomach flexing beneath his splayed fingers, the feel of her brushing against him. In the days leading up to the match Korra had become his opponent, a real one, and his weakness and—
And now?
He thinks of Korra, and he sees an eagerness in her eyes to please, a breath to steady herself, a not-so-hidden smile as she laughs at something inappropriately funny at his expense. He remembers a terrible habit of pointing with her chopsticks and talking with her mouth full and leaning her elbows on the table. He hears an astoundingly creative curse muttered loud enough and forcefully enough to offend more than a few neighboring customers on the other side of their protective wall, and he hears a sigh when she thinks he isn't paying attention. He remembers the crooked line of her smirk and the jut of her pout and the tell-tale slant of her skeptical brow, and he's back to remembering the looks and the concern and the eyes full of promise as she sits in the space across from him, as she pushes him down to the bed, as she curls against his chest, as she sways her body down against him, as she smoothes his hair away from his face, and as a jolt courses through him, he is startled to find that over the course of his disorienting thoughts, his hand has moved of its own accord, and he is already hard.
His head slams back against the tile, but it does him no good, because the images are already there, and they are here to stay—even if she isn't. For a moment he considers turning on the cold water, to end it now before he does something he may regret later, but it is easier said than done. A soft gasp is released into the water as his fingers brush against himself and he waits, waging war with logic and loneliness and the fact that she may never come back. She may never look at him that way again, and it occurs to him... So what if she's only hung around to ease her guilt? So what if she's just been using him all along as a distraction for her own issues? Or as an interim companion for that shit firebender? Did it really matter if she was there for him, as long as she was there?
Like you didn't have your own motives, his mind taunts spitefully.
And it is at this moment, alone in the fog of the shower, standing in the very spot of their first and last and only kiss, with his hand wrapped firmly around his cock, itching to give in, and his mind full of Korra, it is at this moment that he decides he doesn't care anymore.
"Fuck it," he grinds out, giving a long stroke.
No one has to know.
And as he surrenders to the memories, relaxes into the fantasies, he imagines the touch to be softer, smoother, less certain, and as a groan drifts out into the steam and his eyes roll back, he knows it won't last, that it won't be long before it's over. But time is something that he's got only too much of, and he is determined to ride this feeling all night, long after the water runs cold, after the water runs out completely.
"Korra," he spits, and the coils wind tight within him.
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It's been a week and a half, and there's really no denying it now.
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It's official.
She's sick of Tarrlok.
There aren't many people in this world who she detests, but she's almost certain that Tarrlok is one of them. Not even Amon has garnered this much loathing; she fears Amon, is threatened by him, but she is also fascinated by him and his story, and in a convoluted way that she's not even entirely sure she understands herself, she might even respect him. She'd never agree with his ideals or his means, but he is a man with purpose, and sometimes, that's more than she can even say about herself.
But Tarrlok! She hadn't realized just how many layers of despicable a single person could be, but with his help, she is discovering more and more each day. She wants to talk to somebody about this, but Tenzin already has his own problems, and she'll admit it, he's already a little biased as it is... What she really wants is to tell someone who doesn't already have any preconceived notions, someone with a clean slate who can listen objectively and give sound advice. And while she trusts Tenzin's judgment, she doesn't want to have to rely on him for everything. He already has a family to support and a city to run and a pregnant wife to watch after—and maybe an ex-girlfriend to conciliate?—and he doesn't need her running off to him for every issue that stumbles her way. So, as always, she's back to where she first started on day one in this city: alone. Because who is left for her to turn to?
Mako? Bolin? Asami? Yeah, like things aren't already complicated enough as it is. Naga is a great listener, but that only does so much. She's already tried out the airbending girls, but she's pretty sure she'd need a translator for any future advice they'd try to give her, and she doesn't have easy access to those kinds of resources.
But really. When it comes down to it... what kind of support system does she have?
Thanks to an unexpected favor by Beifong—and a whim completely unknown to Tarrlok and Chief Saikhan—Korra has spent the entire afternoon trying to look into some files at the police station. She knows she's only got a little time left before she has to put everything back in order and slip back out unnoticed, but she keeps getting distracted by the stupidest things: like how little she likes the Task Force instigator or how much she misses home and how badly she wants Narook's freshly-made sea prunes, for example. And there is another nagging voice ringing in the back of her mind, a never-ending string of memories that has been a sing-song medley of her miserable loneliness for days, but she reminds herself that she is supposed to be working and—don't think about him, don't think about him, you're not safe here, and whatever, you shouldn't be thinking about him, anyway, no matter where you are.
She inhales a deep breath, forcing her eyes to remain focused as she scans the documents before her, looking for something that will tell her more about what happened that night in the stadium. It seemed like a good idea when it first occurred to her, and when Beifong offered her the boon and gave her the spare keys, it seemed like it was too good to be true; now she realizes that this was probably the worst task she could have given herself, because instead of the newspaper clippings and typed letters and flowing signatures—and helpful leads, please and thank you—all she sees are her failures and her guilt and her regrets laid out, listed one-by-one, spread open before her in newsprint and classified documents with fresh ink and shiny seals.
Korra heaves a heavy sigh as she slips the folder back into the stack on the desk, and it is as she pulls her fingers away that she catches sight of something that plunges her heart into her stomach.
CASE# 9852: TAHNO OF THE _.
She peers closer, blinking twice to clear away the disbelief. Her fingers slowly reach out to take hold of the file, gingerly, hesitantly, and she leans back in the chair as she stares at the name on the folder. It feels wrong to be holding this file—his file—in her hands, because this is a total invasion of privacy, but the prospect of what might be inside is so frightening and delicious that her fingers actually begin to shake ever-so-slightly. Korra gently taps her foot on the ground while she turns over the idea in her mind, trying to release some of the nervous tension while still maintaining her silence, but she is running out of time, and if she's going to do this, she has to do it now. With one last reconnaissance glance about the room, she sighs deeply, and opens the file.
Her eyes land on the standard photo clipped to top right corner of the standard cover page, and her breath abandons her.
It has been one week and six days, and the effect he has on her hasn't weakened in the slightest.
She releases a shuddery breath and hastily turns the page, biting her bottom lip so furiously as she skims over the words that she vaguely worries she might one day end up chewing it apart. Interestingly, it's not the information already written into the documents that intrigues her, but rather the number of spaces still remaining on the pages. She knows it's not uncommon to be without a surname for most, since having a family name is usually reserved for the richest and most privileged outside of royalty, but... she's curious; a given name is often connected to their place of origin, and yet... Korra of the Southern Water Tribe. She glances back to the label on his file, TAHNO OF THE _, and wonders.
There are a number of notes in the margins detailing the need for a follow-up appointment and for cross-referencing from the archives of city hall due to time constraints, but these are dated and signed from way too long ago to be of any consideration to the police force now, and it's clear that these facts—birthplace, relatives, duration of residence in Republic City—have fallen under the radar. Korra frowns, eyes narrowing incredulously at the broken puzzle before her, and her brows draw together in frustration. "Well, somebody certainly did a shitty job with the follow through," she mutters under her breath.
She's flipping through the remaining packet in the file, ready to give up this fool's errand and go home—and think of something productive for once—when a page falls open in her hand, and it's clear as day that it's the transcription from his interrogation.
You gotta get him for me.
"Don't read it," she whispers, begging her eyes to pull away. While the last few minutes of research could be toeing the line of questionable morals, this right here is no doubt dead center in the well-established circle labeled utmost invasion of privacy.
Don't! Just because it's here in front of you doesn't mean that you deserve to know. Ten minutes ago, you would never have thought to ask him about any of it! her mind cries, but her instincts are warring. How could she have expected to even consider asking him, let alone get an honest answer, what with the state he has been in? She'd already fucked up enough as it was with her slip of the tongue about his bloodbending—dammit, just forget about it, stop it—so was she really supposed to just walk up to him and say, "Oh, hey, pretty boy, would you mind filling me in on all of the horrid details about the night your bending was ripped from your soul?"
The file is already halfway closed when she peeks down—involuntarily—and her eyes catch words like under-the-table and unnamed party and bribery. "Fuck," she spits, and next thing you know, she's skimming over the lengthy annotations by the clerk despite her better judgment. There is a great deal of discussion about the game officials' intentions during the night of the championship match and, to her immense surprise, a police official has noted that the Wolfbats' proclamations of ignorance regarding the pay off are true, and has further detailed the backhanded transaction between the referees and... an unnamed group believed to hold ties to the Equalists.
She swallows the heavy lump in her throat, skeptical at once. Korra has worked alongside Tarrlok long enough to assume fabrication until proven not to be a boiling sack of lies, but then she sees the referee testimonials and the witness reports vouching that Equalist forces had been behind the scam, and she wavers. She turns the page, following the lines of notes in the margins, and eventually her eyes stumble across the page, over the transcript, and down to a very familiar name.
That's correct, sir.
The line on the page screams out at her. She can hear the words enunciated perfectly in his voice, and her lips part as she imagines it; she can see the shape of his lips as he sounds each of them out with equal care, his hair disheveled, his skin sallow, his eyes hollow and lost and—
"All right," she whispers in agitation. "You've had more than enough."
In less than five minutes, all of the files have been stacked neatly away, sealed behind two doors and three locks, and she is back out on the street with an eager Naga and a whirlwind at her core. She has been spent so many days trying to build back up those barriers had originally pushed her from him—the egoism, the narcissism, the hedonism, the chauvinism, too many fucking isms—and it's taken a lot of work. She doesn't want to think any differently of him just because of this. He's still broken the rules. He's still a sleaze, a cheater. What difference does it make if she's learned about a single moment of innocence? It's not even innocence! It's closer to ignorance! So what does it really matter? He's still... he's still human, and flawed, and broken, just like you are, only worse, so who are you to judge?
It shouldn't change the way she looks at him, but it does.
"I should never have read that, Naga."
But she has, and as she barrels toward the harbor on Naga's back, she knows that there won't be able to hide from her thoughts for much longer. The dam is already leaking, and the urge to let it pour through and consume her is so enticing that she can almost taste the temptation, but it's too soon; when she's back, after Naga has been put away comfortably, after she's gotten through the formalities and the useless pleasantries of dinner, when she's successfully avoided any awkward encounters with Mako or Asami or Bolin and after she's retired for bed and is sure that no one will dare disturb her, then, and only then, will she give in.
It shouldn't change the way she looks at him, and it hits her that maybe, it doesn't, not really...Because she has been craving him for nearly two weeks now, and all of the barriers and dividers and protective shields at her disposal still can't hide the fact that she misses his company.
What changed? she wonders. What's the difference between then and now?
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But it occurs to her that the difference might have been made a long, long time ago.
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I suppose we'll see... won't we?
She swallows thickly, and urges Naga onward;
when Air Temple Island appears on the horizon, it isn't near quickly enough.
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It's quiet here, at least.
And it is.
Korra lays along the wet sand, feeling the surf lap at her ankles and calves, breathes with the tide, and thinks. She's done exactly as she's said she would; the dam is in tatters, as is her peace of mind, and the deluge of memories has already flooded her three times over.
When it'd become obvious that the four walls of her bedroom were too high and too thick, Korra stole to the waters along the southern shore of the island. The water had been cool and refreshing against her too-warm skin, and the bite of the cold was nothing compared to the familiar arctic waters, but soon enough her muscles tired from her swim, and now she lay here, with most of the water bent from her clothes, still drying on the fine sand beneath the sounds of night and the moon hidden behind the clouds.
It's a beautiful beach, but it's not theirs, and this makes all the difference. It's not white sand and dark water, because the storm clouds and have turned the night into a mass of dull gray, and although the stillness of the silence and the feel of the waves calm her, she cannot ignore it any longer.
She is alone.
This means many things, but most importantly, it means that no one is here to see her, to think anything of her, to expect anything from her—and it's always, always the same, isn't it, she thinks, because everything and nothing has changed—and who will know? If she allows herself just this one moment of release, of pretending that there is nothing to complicate her story, of giving in to the—feel of his touch gliding over her cheek—absurdity of it all, just this once... No one will know.
She closes her eyes and breathes.
What can I do?
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It has been one week and six days, and she swears that it's the last.
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NEXT INSTALLMENT:
Arc II : letting go – dirty little secrets
