Author's note: Hi all! Just thought I'd write a quick one shot since I've been rewatching the Airbender series. I forgot just how funny, and terribly sad that series can be at times. Although incredibly short, the relationship between Sokka and Yue is both equally amazingly sweet and so awfully tragic. I decided to set this little one shot in an alternate modern universe where Sokka is older and actually a good artist. Bless his heart. He's a good boy who tries so hard. I did my best to portray his goofy charm. Hope you enjoy my dipping my toes in the waters in the Avatar The Last Airbender universe. Yes, that pun was intended. ;) Happy reading!
The painting made her want to cry. The wolf, a solitary dark figure, sat on the edge of a cliff with his head upturned and his mouth opened slightly to project his sad song of loneliness toward the moon in the black night sky.
A ribbon of beige sand bordered the murky lake below. The water and sky blended into one huge expanse of darkness. The only reprieve from the void, the isolation, and the gloom is the moon. Obviously the focal point of the work of art, the pale, milky sphere positioned at the exact center of the massive canvas is the literal center of attention.
No matter where a viewer looked at the painting, their eyes are drawn toward the moon. Whether following the wolf's snout to find the object of his adoration or seeking light in the overwhelming black of the endless night, even the most casual art observer could easily distinguish the most important aspect of the painting.
Even the smooth, dark surface of the water acted as a mirror reflecting the muted illumination of the moon back at her allowing her to see herself in all of her beauty. The artist arranged and painted the craters and shaded gray areas on the surface of the moon in such a way that only the slightest hint of a face, a woman's face, could be seen.
"It's beautiful, isn't it?"
The man's voice did not startle Marisol. Attending an art exhibit meant many strangers would be milling about, sipping wine and idly dropping comments to others as they roamed the gallery. It was not shocking that he spoke to her in regards to the painting she presently studied so intensely.
"It's amazing. Absolutely stunning," she added without turning to look at the man.
Too captivated by the painting, she cocked her head to the left to change her perspective ever so slightly to see if the new angle brought out another wonderful artistic subtlety hidden in the brushstrokes.
"Why do you think the wolf is howling at the moon?" he inquired.
Some people spoke to show off their knowledge of art, or rather the big words they knew in reference to art, which made them sound pretentious instead of intelligent. Others just liked to make friendly conversation. And as always, a few predators slipped in seeking easy prey among the artsy fartsy types who drank too much Chardonnay on their Mom's night out.
Honestly, this man's intentions did not concern her. Whatever they are, convivial or carnivorous, she could handle him. She knows impressive sounding art terms, enjoys polite conversation, and does not drink Chardonnay.
"Wolves don't actually howl at the moon," she rejoined, casting a covert glimpse at him out of the corner of her eye. "They howl to communicate with each other. You know that right?"
"Oh, I know, I know," he enthusiastically responded. "But if they did, why do you think he's howling at the moon?"
The fact he looked straight ahead at the painting and not at her actually surprised her. At least he was not hitting on her. He appeared genuinely interested in her opinion, her translation of the painting.
"Well..." Marisol resisted the urge to spout off a bunch of high handed nonsense. Taking a moment, she considered her words more carefully while examining the painting a little longer. "Well, I would say he's in mourning. He lost someone who meant a lot to him. Perhaps he sees her face every time he looks at the moon."
"Hmmm," the art enthusiast hummed, swirling the beer in his glass as if it were a fine wine. "Interesting. I like that. Such a romantic idea. Kinda makes it seem not so sad and depressing after all."
"If sad and depressing was what the artist was going for, he nailed it. That poor wolf...he's so pitiful, all alone and baying at the moon as if it could bring his lost love back to him. He makes me want to cry."
"What else?" he prompted her.
"All of the black paint hints at the darkness, the emptiness, inside of him. How the sky and water just kind of meld together and it's impossible to tell where one ends and the other begins...he believes it's never going to end. The black represents more than just an absence of light but his joy is gone...along with love and...and all things good." She paused, inhaling deeply.
"Go on," he pushed when she did not continue for a minute or so.
"But then again...," she hesitated, angling her head back in the other direction. "But then again, I guess the darkness doesn't matter because the moon is there with her light. Dim but comforting. And when the moon is full, it can be as bright as day and chases away the darkness."
"Do you think the moon represents love itself and not just his lost love?" he inquired.
"Yes, I do," she answered. "It's symbolic of much more than the woman he loved. Although he does see her every time he looks at it. And remembers her."
"Hmmm," he mumbled again.
Marisol backed up a bit to be standing in line with him as if to view the painting as he was seeing it.
"What do you see?" she asked, wanting to hear his opinion since he had patiently listened to hers.
"I see you. And what I see is beautiful," he said.
"What?" she gasped, her head jerking toward him to see him full on for the first time.
Dressed in a gray hoodie under a faded denim jacket, black skinny jeans, and black biker boots, his attire clashed painfully with the suits and cocktail dresses of those surrounding him. He did not appear to notice or care and no one stared at him or gave him disapproving glances.
Of course, there is not much to disapprove of where his looks are concerned. His chestnut brown hair, styled in a manner reminiscent of a samurai's chonmage, had been shaved down to his scalp on both sides of his head. His gorgeous skin, the actual shade of coffee mixed with a drop of cream (at least the way she took her coffee) looked so soft and touchable.
Feeling hot and flushed, hoping her cheeks weren't turning red, Marisol cleared her throat and stuck out her hand to introduce herself, "My name is Marisol Murdock. You can call me Mari if you'd like."
"You can call me Sokka," he said, his glacial blue eyes capturing hers as he shook her hand. "I prefer using your whole name since it means sea and sun."
"I'm impressed you know that, Sokka," she returned. "Sokka? Why does that name sound so fam - "
The realization struck her like a slap in the face. Sokka is the name of the artist whose exhibition she was attending. She just spent the last ten minutes babbling on and on about her personal interpretation of the painting to the man who painted it!
Marisol felt the heat of embarrassment set her on fire from her head to her feet. Never before had she wished so desperately she could simply disappear into thin air.
"I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to sound so pompous. Standing here running my mouth like some asshole art critic."
"That's why I asked your opinion. Because you're not an asshole art critic."
They laughed lightly, both at her expense. She laughed at herself to dispel the awkward humiliation engulfing her. He laughed because he seemed to be a really nice guy who found it refreshing to have someone tell him what they really thought rather than telling him what they thought he wanted to hear.
"Would you like to get out of here? Go somewhere else?" he ventured boldly.
"But you can't leave your own exhibition," Marisol protested, taken aback by his suggestion which would mean ditching his own art show.
"Why not?" Sokka questioned her, shrugging his shoulders. He leaned toward her, lifting a hand as if to whisper a secret to her. "You know these artist types, so unpredictable, so flaky. It's my right as an artist to be impulsive. Let's go."
Sokka took her by the hand and turned to begin weaving through the throngs of people. Everyone he passed spoke to him. Of course they did. He is the artist and the one they came to see along with his paintings.
Some guests, particularly women, touched him as they tried to capture his attention. A few became extremely aggressive, grabbing his arm or jacket, offering him drinks or business or cards. He shrugged them all off with a polite greeting and patient twist and pull of his arm to free himself from their grasp.
"Hurry," he encouraged her, tightening his grip on her hand as he walked faster almost running for the door that lay straight ahead of them.
"Where are we going?" she asked, struggling to keep up in her four inch heels.
The hem of her ankle length black dress kept tangling around her legs threatening to trip her as well. The only thing that saved her was the split up the side of the skirt to her knee.
"Where would you like to go? You decide," he said, extending his arm before they even reached the back door in preparation to push it open and gain their freedom.
"Let's go to the beach," she suggested. "There's a full moon tonight. Then you can tell me why the wolf howls at the moon. I want to hear more about your inspiration."
Once outside, they ran down the stairs. At the bottom of the stone staircase, Marisol jerked her hand out of his. Sokka whirled around to blink at her in confusion. She had lost one shoe on their way down the steps.
"What's wrong?" he asked, sounding disappointed and upset as if she planned to run away from him.
"Nothing. I just need to..." She abandoned explaining as she hopped around on one foot to remove her other shoe. Tossing it carelessly behind her, she reached for his hand.
Sokka smiled and took her hand. "Let's go, Cinderella."
The two of them giggled like naughty children as they ran down the deserted sidewalk toward the ocean a few blocks away. The slapping of her bare feet on the cement path echoed off of the walls of the buildings around them on both sides of the narrow alley.
The air became heavy with moisture and the briny, fishy scent of the sea. Soft, cool sand replaced the hard cement under her feet. The soothing, pleasant sound of the waves filled her ears like a relaxing song.
They stopped at the water's edge, standing in the wet sand. The sea foam washed over their toes. The bottom of her dress soaked up the water, sticking to her ankles. But she did not care.
Like in his painting, the water was black. However, the white caps of waves disturbed the surface, breaking up the darkness. The moving water still reflected the white moon above but in a wobbling caricature.
Holding tight to his hand, Marisol closed her eyes and inhaled deeply pulling the clean ocean air into her lungs. She concentrated on the sensation of his calloused hand in hers. She wanted to remember everything about this moment.
"Oh, look!" Sokka exclaimed, sliding his hand from hers.
Sokka ran down the beach with the abandon and joy of a small child. It made her happy to see a grown man acting so innocent and carefree.
"What are you doing?" Marisol giggled.
He picked a large white and pink conch shell before the waves could pull it back out to make it disappear. Putting the shell to his ear, he began yelling hello. Then he held out the shell to her.
"It's for you," he said, a goofy grin on his handsome face. "The ocean is calling. It says we should take a swim."
"You're crazy," she chuckled. "We can't go swimming."
"But the ocean invited us. Called us on the shell phone. Shell phone? Get it!" he exclaimed, laughing loudly and giving her a wink.
Marisol ejected a braying guffaw which instantly embarrassed her. Trying to hold back her belly laugh resulted in a series of loud snorts to which he responded to by pointing and laughing uproariously at her.
"Oh, my god, I'm so embarrassed," she muttered, covering her face with her hands.
"Don't be," he said, reaching out to smooth her hair behind her ear.
The gesture was all for nothing as the sea breeze whipped her lengthy brown hair around her face wildly. Sokka gently grasped her wrists, pulling downward to take her hands from her face. Marisol tried to keep her hands in place, but he was stronger.
"It's embarrassing to sound like a pig when I laugh. I hate it. I probably look like one too when doing it," she grumbled, reluctantly lowering her hands to avoid punching herself in the face by resisting him.
"Aw, but you're a cute pig," he assured her, his mouth lifting on one side into an irresistible lopsided grin.
"Gee, thanks," she muttered with feigned offense.
Marisol had no choice but to smile back at his rakish smile that she found quite seductive. The electrical tingle surging through her body in response killed her desire to laugh in an instant. She was no longer amused when the warmth settled in her chest.
"Soooo..." he began, lacing his fingers together behind his neck in an effort to play things casual. "Wanna go swimming?"
"You mean skinny dipping?" she inquired, lifting a questioning eyebrow.
"Yes," he responded candidly, smiling broadly at her. "Come on. It will be fun."
She found him too cute, too charming in his funny flirtatious efforts to be upset by his boldness. Besides, her friends always told her she should let go and have more fun, quit being such an uptight prude. They were both consenting adults after all. And who said anything was going to happen besides a swim?
"Close your eyes," she ordered him.
"Okay," he readily agreed, squeezing them shut.
"Turn around."
"What?" His eyes popped open.
"So you won't be tempted to peek. Turn around," she repeated, rotating her finger in the air as if to demonstrate what he should do.
"Awww," he moaned in disappointment but turned away from her anyway.
Getting undressed should not have been so simple but all she had to do was pull the long, straight dress over her head. Her shoes had already been discarded. She had foregone a bra because the tiny straps of the dress did not allow for one, and her breasts were not huge anyway so she did not opt for a strapless one.
"I'm going out. You should begin getting undressed. I'll call when I'm ready for you to join me," she said.
"Okay," he agreed, keeping his back to her.
Leaving her underwear on, she stepped out into the ocean which was so warm almost felt like bath water. She kept walking, gliding through the gently rolling waves until the water reached her shoulders.
"Okay!" Marisol hollered.
This time, she kept her back to him. Bobbing up and down on the waves like a cork, she focused her attention on the moon above them. A hand touched her shoulder, frightening her and making her scream.
"I'm sorry," he apologized, shielding his face with his arms as she flung water at him.
"You could have said something you know," she snapped angrily, genuinely irritated with him for scaring her.
"I know. But where's the fun in that?" he asked, receiving another splash in the face.
"Ah, ha ha ha," she retorted smartly. "You're such a funny guy."
"I am, aren't I?" he said, laughing at himself.
The silly grin melted from his face as he looked up into the sky. Suddenly he appeared ready to cry. His eyes glimmered in the moonlight from a thin sheen of tears. Despite being so sad, he looked absolutely breathtaking.
"Sokka?" she called, swimming over to him.
"Why does the wolf howl at the moon?" he asked rhetorically never taking his eyes from the white orb floating above them. "What if I told you that the spirit of a beautiful woman lives in the moon? The man who loved her is stuck here on earth, left to grieve and miss her. That man howls at the moon on nights when its brightest because he wants to remind her he loves her and will never forget her."
Marisol did not know what to say. There were no words to express her sadness and none to comfort him in his. Then he turned his head to meet her astonished and mesmerized green eyes.
"It's a nice story...isn't it?" he asked, giving her a small smile that completely lacked any joy.
How much of that story is true?, she wondered. He sure seemed to be missing someone, to be mourning her, at this given moment.
"You're the wolf who howls at the moon," she blurted without meaning to.
A drop of water trickled down his cheek from his eyes. There was no real way to know if it was a tear or a stray droplet sprayed up from the ocean.
Marisol lifted her hand out of the water, extending her fingers toward his face. The rumbling of the ocean covered her sharp inhale when he clutched her fingers and easily brought her into his arms through the water.
"Who was the moon?" she asked, trembling despite the extra warmth of his skin against hers.
"A woman I loved for a painfully short time before she was taken from me. Her name was Yue," he said, his fingers grasping her shoulder blades as he held her close.
"Oh, I get it. She was your moon," she murmured, winding her arms around his neck to embrace him. "I'm so sorry. I can tell you loved her with all of your heart to still be hurting so much from her death."
"Yeah," he murmured, pressing his cheek against hers. "I should be over it more, yet...I can't...I can't let her go."
"Everyone grieves in their own way. There's no certain length of time that's right to get over it. No one is going through this but you. Don't let anyone tell you how to grieve," she said, the passion in her voice making her sound angry. "You don't ever have to let her go. No one will ever take her memory from you."
"Thank you," he rejoined, leaning his head back to see her face but not releasing his arms from around her. "I'll never stop loving her, but...but I would like to know what it feels like to love again."
Sokka's eyes gazed deeply into hers.
"We should go," she said, her arms uncoiling from around his neck.
"Do we have to go? I'm not ready to leave...this," he said, keeping his secure hold on her. "I don't want you to leave yet."
"Are you sure?"
"I'm sure. I said I'll never stop loving her not that I'll never move on or learn to love someone else."
"Sokka, I - "
"Shut up," he ordered her in the kindest way possible. "Stop talking. You're ruining the moment."
"Oh, I'm - "
Before Marisol could apologize again, Sokka fitted his mouth to hers, placing his closed lips squarely to hers.
"Don't," he said, his lips brushing against hers as he spoke. "Don't keep apologizing."
"I won't...if you don't stop kissing me," she murmured, pressing her lips firmly to his.
They clung together, sharing a lover's kiss while the ocean bounced them around on the tranquil waves. Bathed in the white moonlight, she almost felt guilty kissing the man who had loved the moon so dearly.
But he seemed to want to move on with his life. Although her life ceased, his did not. Surely she would not him to be mired in sorrow, trapped in the past, unable to proceed, to live another day, to love another woman.
Marisol had lost someone dear to her as well. Cancer had stolen away her husband. They had only been married a year when he received the diagnosis. Although not together long, he held heart, and he was her everything. She did not know if she would survive his death.
So she truly understood Sokka's pain. Their lonely hearts had called to one another, seeking to once again love. He howled at the moon, pouring out his anguish and desolation. But then again, wolves don't actually howl at the moon...do they?
She had been howling as well but did not know it. Love had answered the call to bring them together.