Inspired by a post made by rllyjohnrlly over on Tumblr, therefore dedicated to them and the anon who sent the original ask talking about Hozier's song "Like Real People Do", me listening to the song for the first time being the whole reason for writing this. What I was trying to capture with this is the feeling the song sparked in me on my first listen, so ... maybe listen to it if you haven't already. (And do it again if you have.)
His heart beats.
Familiar under her hand.
His heart beats.
The same rhythm it has drummed for a hundred lifetimes.
His heart beats.
And she lifts her head.
A finger ghosts over her temple and brushes a strand of hair out of her clouded eyes.
"Good morning", he says, in a voice far away.
His chest lifts with every slowly taken breath, and she draws a pattern she cannot remember on his warm, warm skin as he whispers: "I had the strangest dream last night."
She presses a kiss to his shoulder.
"You were there", he continues, almost reverent, and his fingers dance over her head, her shoulder, her back, gentle and just barely there. "And you weren't."
"How is that possible?", she mumbles, tired still, and he is silent.
A moment passes.
His heart beats.
The most familiar rhythm.
Hours, minutes, seconds. Just the blink of an eye.
In this life and every other.
"It's not ...", he says.
She wonders if his brow is furrowed.
"But it must be. It was you. But ... it wasn't."
"You're making very little sense."
Another kiss.
He hums lowly.
"But that's nothing new. How did you know it was me?"
"I could feel it was."
With such conviction.
"And how did you know it wasn't?"
"She didn't look like you. Didn't sound like you, didn't speak like you. She looked at me differently, called me by a different name. There was nothing about her that reminded me you you. But when I saw her, I felt like you were standing right before me."
She breathes in.
He breathes out.
His fingers are hot on her skin.
–oOo–
His face is wet.
His hands are wet.
The world around him sinks.
His world has vanished.
And he is drowning.
–oOo–
Sometimes, when he dreams of her, her eyes are brown.
Her eyes are brown and her voice is soft, and the hands that roam his body, gently, are free of any callouses, and they trace lines his face doesn't have instead of the blue arrows she cannot see – but can now, he is sure.
And her skin, made of porcelain, made of snow, is the colour of earth in his dreams – and earth is right, is it not? –, under fingers, darker still, that are his but are not, and he cannot be sure, will never be sure, because he will have forgotten in the morning, but he thinks they used to be paler, too.
Her smile is shy.
Something is wrong.
Something is off.
Yet he feels so happy.
Because it is her, will always be, and he will know her, in this life and the next, in his sleep and with his eyes closed, in a hundred years and yesterday, something in his chest sings when he sees her, and all he has to do is listen.
Listen.
Just listen.
And he is not sure how real this is.
Her.
Him.
When she opens her mouth.
And the scream that wakes him could be his or maybe it is hers, and the hands that wipe the confused tear from his cheek are rough again, they shine white in the moonlight, and he breathes shakily when she wraps her arms around him and kisses his face.
–oOo–
His blood boils.
And his heart bleeds.
She is close.
He can feel it.
He is close.
–oOo–
It is a tug deep inside him, he says, and that he cannot explain.
(Cannot understand.)
(Cannot grasp.)
This feeling for which they have no words, because it is not yearning, is not wanderlust, not restlessness, nor confusion, yet is all of them and none of them and everything and nothing, and it makes his skin itch and his hands fidget and his mind is always somewhere, but never here.
So she stops asking.
Just grabs his hand and clings to his arm, when the air gets colder and the ground freezes over, and the harsher the icy wind cuts into her cheeks, the better she thinks she understands without yet understanding.
–oOo–
His face is wet.
And his heart bleeds.
The world is darkness.
He cannot reach his world.
And he is suffocating.
–oOo–
He has been here before.
Long ago.
Just yesterday.
The Oasis sings in a language he has never spoken, never heard before.
(Time is an illusion, he understands still.)
Her hand in his is the only thing to assure him that he has not stepped through time, that everything is real, everything is fine, and the Koi fish circle each other lazily in the pond that had swallowed the boy he hasn't been for a long time, and someone, he thinks, someone else, and her name lays on the tip of his tongue, dances out of reach when he tries to grasp it. He can feel pain build in his temples.
"This is where Yue gave her life", he says, quietly, to banish the thoughts of names he never knew. "She was ... very brave."
His throat feels tight.
"She must've been."
"I sometimes wonder", he mutters and gazes at the sky, "what it must feel like, knowing there is no way but to give up yourself for the world."
She squeezes his hand.
"Don't you know?"
He shakes his head.
"I always had hope."
(And so is death.)
–oOo–
"Show yourself, maggot!"
Unshedable tears burn behind his eyes.
He cannot move is face.
His hands shake.
"Back again, Avatar Kuruk?"
–oOo–
He is restless in his sleep.
Tossing and turning and mumbling of people and places she doesn't know, in a voice she doesn't always recognize, and it is impossible to wake him, impossible to calm him, impossible to even just hold him when he slips away again a moment later.
He won't remember in the morning, she knows by now, will not be able to tell her about what keeps her awake, and she worries, even when he promises that there is nothing to worry about, low and reassuring, and when he mumbles her name, she, too, can forget for a moment the dreams she doesn't know.
And when he kisses the corner of her mouth, the world feels almost alright again.
Just almost.
–oOo–
His body is tired.
His mind is weak.
He is an old man trapped inside a young one.
The world still needs him.
His world is gone.
–oOo–
The moon is full and bright when he falls out of bed, awake, asleep, inside a dream, and starts walking, driven by the feeling he does not understand, tugging on him relentlessly, and he is Aang, and he is not, and the world is cold.
The snow crunches under his bare feet.
He thinks of Yue and the fish and the pond.
He thinks of spirits and destiny and Toph.
He thinks of nothing, for he is asleep.
His eyes burn.
Coldness cuts into his toes.
He knows the way like he has walked it a hundred times before, in a hundred and one lifetimes, and every step is sure, and every thought is fleeting, and the stars are beautiful, and his chest aches.
He balls his hands into fists and and keeps walking.
Grass tickles his soles.
He falls to his knees.
His heart pumps tar through his veins, black and slow and hot.
A tear drops from his chin.
–oOo–
He closes his eyes.
His hands are shaking.
The blanket is heavy.
His world is gone.
In a second, so is he.
–oOo–
His hands are dirty when she finds him.
His heart beats a frantic, deperate rhythm, drumming inside his chest as if trying to break it open, and she can feel his fingers digging into the earth, doesn't have to see him, never has to see him, to know how very heavy he feels.
How very trapped in his body and this moment.
She takes a step.
He takes a shaky breath.
Doesn't turn, doesn't look up to her, just presses his forehead against the ground and muffles a sob – tries to. But it vibrates through him, and the world and her, and she bites her lip and hates how helpless she is.
"... Aang."
Because this is not the time for nicknames.
He sniffles.
In a croaky, broken voice: "I didn't mean to wake you."
"You should've", she answers, no less quietly, but oh so much firmer.
"I just ... I ..."
She takes another step.
Then sits beside him.
He starts when her fingers brush over his back.
The night is cold, and his hands are dirty, and she doesn't know what he has been doing out here, doesn't know why he came here, doesn't want to know, not now, when his heart slows with every beat, and his breath evens with every exhale, and his fists unclench, slowly.
"I'm sorry."
In a whisper.
The wind swallows half of it.
"What for?"
"I ... Everything. Just ... everything."
He breathes against the dirt.
Her hand wanders over his shoulders.
"Everything. Not waking you. Everything."
He shakes his head.
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be. Comere."
He turns his head.
Then pulls himself up, just a little, to collapse against her just a heartbeat later, his eyes closed, his breath warm against her neck, and he feels oddly tiny when she wraps her arm around him now, carefully strokes his ear and rests her cheek on his head, smaller than he has ever been.
His arms wrap around her waist.
Hold on tight.
She closes her eyes.
The wind howls around them, pulls on her hair and his robes.
His voice is a mumble.
"I'm sorry, Ummi."
–oOo–
His heart beats.
"Tell me what I can do."
The moon shines brightly.
"Kiss me."
Her lips taste of home.