A/N: Warning! Before you read, this fic is sort of an experiment for my writing. I'm probably going to use this to play around with words and stuff like that so if that isn't your thing... sorry? This will tell a story, though! Just not in the usual way that you would expect.
Disclaimer: Konietzko and DiMartino own A:TLA and its characters
- one -
"leaning on demolition"
Sokka doesn't smoke.
He's got a clean slate of being and - besides - it's not his thing.
Football is his thing. Head-crushing helmets and a nice position in the army.
(He's a running back among the enlisted.)
Smoking is a horrible salesman, too. Selling injuries in milky white, rectangular boxes.
It chips at the lungs, sounds whispers in the head.
But sometimes - rarely, even - he blurs the order:
Always think before you act.
For all the food that comes served on silver plates, love is not one.
Ursa left with it and Ozai did not deliver it.
So its taste could be expected in an unconventional manner.
Pink skirts. A bubbly spirit. An acrobatic personality.
For the first time in Azula's 17 years of living, she is confused.
This girl has life. A happiness defined by the strain of muscles, adjustment of body.
She knows how to sift through dirt for gold.
And Azula wants Ty Lee to teach her.
She wasn't always this tired.
Life used to be true smiles. Giggles that showed teeth.
But, the wear of innocence is worn.
And a boy's love is not love at all.
"You're such an asshole!" she says, flushed.
"For being honest?" His attitude bites at her patience. "You know I don't want to go."
"With me, you mean."
He slams his fist against the table. She does not flinch.
"Are you even listening?"
"I don't need to. I understand you perfectly."
His laugh is bitter. The flavor of unfiltered coffee. "You don't know me."
"Whatever."
After he's left, her tears assemble themselves like words.
She reads it as is:
A boy's love is not love at all.