487 Acacia Willows
Five: The Garden
Tahno can't sleep in silence, and leaves the radio on a low, humming volume during his evenings to lull him to sleep. His odd habit leaves Korra with many sleepless nights spent with him in her memory, for she's accustomed to the peaceful isolation of the Air Temple during the evening. On the contrary, Tahno's apartment is in the heart of Republic City, and is alight with the sounds and views of the world around them. Never is it quiet, never does an evening pass where the sound of a police siren, screeching tires, or ambient honking of Satomobiles fill the evening. Sometimes, the street musicians stay out long past midnight, and singing trumpets and jazzy saxophones play the score to the lively movement of the city.
There's nothing particularly different about this evening compared to the other nights that Korra's spent in Tahno's company. She arrived wordlessly at his door after three weeks of little contact with him, and he welcomed her unequivocally, as he always did, and they spent the vast majority of the night passing a glass of wine back and forth and talking about anything and everything that slipped into the mind. Beneath their voices had been, per usual, a jazz record, singing, singing, singing through the horn of his gramophone. Korra cherished the conversation, the freedom to speak her mind with little retribution, though sometimes he would chuckle, and raise his eyebrow rather questioningly at certain statements she made, and she would laugh and toss her hand at his shoulder in mock anger.
But, though they were safe from the world and its prying eyes in his apartment, they weren't immune to fatigue, and weariness had eventually led them both upstairs to his bedroom. Tahno had, of course, almost immediately turned the radio onto a live-broadcasting jazz station, though he left the volume dial close to home.
"A bit of background noise," He had hummed to her through a smile. Korra had only rolled her eyes, and continued fishing through his closet to find something to wear to bed.
That had been hours ago, however, and though she had initially succumbed to slumber quicker than Tahno, a rather loud car horn honking, followed by police sirens circling around their block, wakes her with a jolt against Tahno's sheets.
Wide-eyed, and with hair that's fallen flat against her head, Korra pushes herself up into a sitting position, and brushes her bangs out of her face. Her breathing is shallow and quicker than it should've been, as if she's just had a nightmare, though she's actually been woken from the most peaceful slumber she's had in weeks. Being startled awake always raises the heart rate, however.
Korra glances to her left at the doors that connect the balcony that overhangs above a relatively busy street to his bedroom.. They're just as they've always been, the balcony doors, black-painted wood with glass panelling, and eight little windows in groups of four run up and down each door, partially concealed by sheer grey curtains that give privacy to more secluded moments.
The commotion from the city seems to have calmed for the moment, and Korra finds her gaze re-directed to Tahno, and she scoffs out a laugh.
Of course, he's slept through the noise—Korra doesn't think she's ever seen him wake through the night—and still lays on his back at her side. He looks quite celestial with the moonlight (or rather, neon reflection of street and building lights) reflecting onto his face, and it dawns on her just how girlishly pretty his features are. Without conscious thought, Korra lifts her fingers and places her hand tentatively on his arm, watching as their skin meets—light against dark—a contrast that an artist can only so dream of replicating with such beautiful balance. Her rich brown against his marble white. He both equalizes her and brings out her true colors, and Korra wonders how she's never made the connection between their skin tones in the past.
Beyond this, her fingers begin to dance upward, along his neck, but stopping just below his jaw. For some reason, she's noticed, he's absolutely impossible to wake in the morning—unless he feels a touch upon his face. Even something feather soft, fingers so delicate that they can barely be detected, send his eyes fluttering open. It's a strange quirk of his, and though she finds it cute, she has no intention to wake him.
Still, like a painting in a museum, or a rare flower in a botanical garden, she can look, and appreciate just as well, if not more.
She doesn't follow any definite patterns in her observations. She traces the curve of his nose with her eyes, marveling at just how smooth and sharp the bridge is, and had it been a tad bit longer or shorter, would've made for something unsightly. She imagines what it's like to press her lips along the strength that is his jaw, even though she's done it countless times before. Korra would've continued her observations—would've let her gaze linger on his closed eyes, and let herself imagine the striking, colorless eyes beneath the closed lids—but something draws her away, makes her blink, and realize what she's doing.
He's talking.
Only, he's not. Tahno is sound asleep—but she can hear his voice so clearly, the way the silky tones of his timbre wrap around her skin like a blanket and fill her mind with a sparkling fog. In her sleepy haze, she shakes her head, and looks around.
His voice is still there, and he's talking (or maybe singing) about what he anticipates from the upcoming probending season, and Korra's brow furrows. Upcoming probending season? But Tahno's not…
Her eyes fall upon the radio, still on and still humming. Her pupils dilate, and she almost laughs at her own ignorance.
It's the radio talking, not Tahno. She glances at the analog clock that hangs just above his balcony doors—3:42 AM. The live broadcasters must've gone home to sleep, and left something prerecorded behind to play to fill up the early morning hours, and that something pre-recorded sounds like an old interview with Tahno Kurosawa, Captain of the White Falls Wolfbats.
For some reason, Korra finds this unsettling, and something begins to bubble in her stomach. Listening to him speak, listening to him wear his mask as the Captain makes her feel nauseous, and her nose wrinkles. She can only stand it for a moment longer, her eyes falling across his sleeping form once more as, distantly, he speaks about the legacy that he hopes the Wolfbats have begun to carve for themselves—but the bubble in her stomach is turning into a rock, and its leaving a bad taste in her mouth, so gingerly, she peels the blankets away, careful to leave his side undisturbed, and pads on barefeet to the radio, and flicks the thing off.
She doesn't admit to herself, as she climbs back into bed and wraps her arms around him, that the reason why she found the interview so unsettling was because she hadn't heard him sound that happy in a long time..
It's a rare occasion that Tahno wakes up before Korra—rarer still for either one of them to willingly be up before the clock strikes nine-but the wilderness of the city calms at just about seven in the morning, when even the liveliest of dolls slip off their shoes and tip-toe back to wherever it is that they call home, to recover from the night before and prepare to do it all again once the sun slips below the horizon.
Normally, the cool-down of the city is muted carefully by the soft lull of the radio, and whatever station Tahno picked the night before to be his call to dreamland. But Korra had silenced the lullaby in favor for Tahno's soft breathing and occasional incoherent murmur beside her. The silence had, ironically, woken Tahno up just as the sun began to rise. He doesn't quite like silence.
He's a bit grumpy and disoriented when he wakes-It's far too quiet. I'm fairly certain I turned the radio on last night-for he's never been an early riser, especially not when he's had a late night before. But, the crease in his brow dissipates as he stretches out and finds that his dexterity and range has been hindered by a body beside him. A sleep-ridden smile takes his lips, and he lets his eyes flutter shut, drinking in the silence and the feeling of Korra's steady, deep breaths against his side.
Of all of the nights she's spent at his apartment, he can't ever recall waking before her. She's always up before him in a frenzy, gathering her clothes and raking her fingers through her hair, murmuring something about oversleeping as she shoves on her shoes and hurries out the door, leaving Tahno with little more than a pause and an 'I'll see you…. I don't know, whenever!' called out behind her as she slams the door shut.
He opens his eyes slowly, but doesn't move. Though Tahno feigns aloofness and general indifference, something about Korra makes him sentimental to the core (Shaozu, who knew only what Tahno had told him about his relationship with Korra, had been less eloquent with the phrasing, saying that Tahno was whipped like a shirshu) and he wants to remember what she feels like beside him. They aren't exactly a perfect fit, for Korra stretches out and shifts multiple times during the night, but sometimes they find their harmony, and as she is now, tucked against his side, her head resting just below his collarbone, arm outstretched across him, is harmony.
He's studied her before, but not during her slumber, not when her lips are parted and a bit chapped, and her eyes are closed and occasionally squeeze tighter, bringing soft lines of worry to her forehead, before she relaxes once more.
She's stunning, and he prefers the word to beautiful, because anything can be beautiful-a delicate rose holds beauty between its petals, and poison within its thorns. The skyline of Republic City, with its neons and high-rises and complicated, architecturally puzzling bridges harbors a humbling beauty, a reminder of just how small everything seems to be when put into perspective. The blending of a saxophone with a piano, a bass with a trombone, and a singer with dusky vocals as the cherry on top is beautiful.
But, how rare is something, to be so beautiful and ethereal that it stuns any onlooker into shock?
Quite rare, on Tahno's account, and he holds such rare beauty, such a delicate rose, guarded in thorns-the crown jewel of his garden- in his arms.
He wishes, and not for the first time, that he could lift the weight from her shoulders, for even in sleep, she looks worried, her brows furrowed together as if she's having a bad dream, and Tahno clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth and absent-mindedly lifts a gentle finger to her forehead, and brushes the lines from her skin.
When he realizes what he's doing, he stops immediately, and draws away from her as if she's burned him.
Spirits, he might as well be playing with fire, for they're in a delicate situation, and while he doesn't care very much for the preservation of what's left of his reputation, he's rather concerned about the state of hers, and their secret affair (which truly isn't secret with how sloppy they've been lately) will only drag her down.
Tahno sighs, and glances at the woman who shares his bed. They really shouldn't be doing this, and he really should kick her from his bed just as he would any other woman at any other time in his past life, but she's not any other woman, and he's not living in the past (or so he tells himself), so instead of pushing her away, he runs his hands through his hair.
He's relatively pleased when his fingers don't catch on the curls and snag strands away—he's doing better, taking care of himself again, and no milestone is too small.
In his chest, he can feel a nicotine fit, and sighs once more, because it really is a nasty habit, and admittedly one that's grown since his encounter with Amon a few months beforehand, and with reluctance, sits up and reaches across his nightstand for a small, black box.
Inside, he keeps his cigarettes (they're custom, of course, rolled with black paper and a gold leaf filter, because old habits die hard) tucked away, because he thinks they're ugly things, custom order or not, and beside the box rests a sleek, black lighter. Tahno grabs a cigarette and the lighter, placing the stick between his lips and lighting it discreetly. The deep drag he takes from it fills his body with poisonous smoke, but he takes a certain satisfaction in the sting.
Smoking ruins his pretty boy image, but that's fine, because he hasn't felt very pretty lately, anyway.
He lolls his head against the headboard, Korra still sound asleep beside him, and exhales grey smoke, watching as it pillows up and dissipates against the ceiling. He's not entirely sure what he's thinking about as he watches the smoke, and a part of him knows that that's where his addiction has come from. Cigarettes pull the fog from his mind and breathe it into his lungs, and any moment of clarity is worth whatever negative, long term effects that come with his methods.
He's not a chainsmoker—not usually—but when his mind wanders, his fingers may absently draw another stick from his stash, and under the night's circumstances, he's lit another.
By the time Korra stirs beside him, by the time she stretches her arms high above her head until her knuckles press against the headboard, and releases an adorable sigh with the exertion, Tahno's halfway finished with his second cigarette.
Korra blinks after she stretches, and sits up slowly, gathering her bearings. She feels well rested for the first time in weeks, and as her eyes focus, taking in the grey walls and silver decor of Tahno's room, she wonders if his bed is charmed, or if it's his presence that soothes her enough to actually sleep.
She looks at him and smiles sleepily. Dumbly, she waves.
"Hey," She says, her eyes flickering from his messy hair and sleepy eyes, to the cigarette that lazily rests between his fingertips, a thin spiral of smoke uplifting from the charred end of it.
He smiles back at her, though she can tell by the crookedness and the muted laughter in his eyes that he's probably teasing her with the expression.
"Good morning, Sweetheart," He purrs, and Korra almost shivers at his tone. The early morning hasn't quite woken his voice, and delicate hints of that Foggy Swamp accent (that she finds incredibly endearing) have him slurring his words and cutting his syllables short.
Again, Korra stretches her arms above her head, her ribcage pressing against the shirt—his shirt—that she's wearing, well aware of his lazy eyes on her body. She lowers her arms, and scoots back to sit beside him, her back pressing against the pillows and the headboard of the bed.
She lets herself reach for the affection that she's been deprived of since he woke up, and loops an arm through his and leans heavily against him, clinging to him as if he's the only thing keeping her from being whisked away and blown back to Air Temple Island—to the real world—and inhales deeply. The scent of cigarettes burns her nose, and she can't fathom how Tahno manages to bring something so sharp and painful in sense to his lips, but she doesn't mind the habit. Tahno, however, knows her entirely too well, and snubs the cigarette out on the ashtray that sits on his nightstand, watching as the embers pulse wildly, before dying a powdery grey against the cool surface of the glass.
They lay in silence for a few moments, and Korra lets her eyes flutter shut again, her head finding a pillow on his shoulder. The peace that basks them is something akin to the peace that she tries so hard to achieve while meditating in solitude, and her breathing slows and deepens so much that Tahno thinks she's fallen asleep again.
The sun rises higher in the sky, its light casting shadows through the curtains, and bathes the room in a soft yellow-orange dawn. Tahno doesn't think his house has ever felt more like a home. He follows Korra into a similar, informal state of meditation.
"How many times do you think we've done this?" Her voice breaks the silence no more than ten minutes later, and Tahno's eyes flutter open, his brows scrunching together in the middle, as if her words have brought on confusion.
"Are you asking me to count how many nights you've played hooky with me?" He asks, his voice airy, and Korra snickers, her breath tickling the skin of his shoulder.
Tahno never takes anything seriously (unless, of course, the situation calls for it), and she absolutely adores it.
Her pasts lives whisper to her about harmony—the complete balance of not only the elements, but of herself as well, and if she's Yin, she couldn't imagine a better Yang—a better harmony than Tahno. What they have, whatever she could call this—staying up with him and talking her stress and worries away, curling against him to sleep, and watching the sun rise through grey curtains, breathing in the scent of cigarettes and the faint smell of his cologne from the night before, and forgetting the worries that brought her to his door in the first place—feels ages old.
"I mean," She clears her throat and pulls away from him, repositioning herself to sit cross-legged in front of him. "Spirits, this is going to sound crazy," She almost chokes her words, her idea back, but he reaches forward and brushes a hair from her face with soft, gentle fingers and sweet, caring eyes, as if to encourage her.
"I feel like I've known you forever," She settles for saying, meeting his eyes almost shyly.
He smiles, and Korra feels something possessive flutter in her chest. She loves that smile—the pearly whites of his teeth, the way his lips are crooked, the left side of his mouth raising a tad higher than the right, and the barely-there wrinkles at the corners of his eyes—and she selfishly hopes that it's one of those things that's only reserved for her.
"Forever?" He echos back at her. "Why, three months is forever for a Wolfbat." Tahno says, rather cheekily. Korra presses her lips together, trying so desperately hard to bite back her snicker, because there's always something about him that makes her want laugh (or, on rare occasion, slap him in the face).
"Yeah, yeah," She grumbles, pretending that his flippant reply to her confession has upset her, but she counteracts her words by falling to his side once more, lifting his arm to slide beneath it, and pulls the blanket up to her waist. Beneath her, his body vibrates with a laugh, and she feels his lips against the top of her head.
"You've been stuck on me for centuries, Darling," His words are quiet, but Korra can hear the upturn in them, hear the smile that graces his lips and bleeds into his tone, and snuggles deeper against him in response.
"I should probably get going." She murmurs tiredly into his skin. Spirits, there's no where else she'd rather be.
Tahno doesn't say anything, but they both know that her hideaway time ends when the sun rises, and usually, she harbors enough self control, enough restraint to pick herself up and return back to the island before its inhabitants wake, but, for whatever reason, it's not so simple this time around. She doesn't want to leave, doesn't want to face her responsibilities again and paint Avatar across her forehead, and it's so stupid and silly and absolutely selfish of her.
Perhaps it's a bad thing, Tahno's influence over her. Or perhaps the lax and leisurely life she lives in the hours she spends with him are exactly what she deserves—exactly what she needs—and she's in no real hurry to leave his side.
"You're going to be late," He practically sings to her. Neither of them move, because this is the first time they've woken together in peace, the first night they've shared a bed in nearly a month, and they're both attached, too attached to the dusky atmosphere that hangs over them when they're together like this.
Korra moans in defiance, hiding her face away against his chest, and grumbles something akin to 'whatever'.
She's absolutely going to be late, and she absolutely doesn't care.
im the worst omg im sorry this took twO MONTHS i rewrote this chapter probably 5 or 6 times and im honestly not entirely too happy with this im so sORRY GUYS
my updating schedule is going to be pretty sporadic, but I'll shoot for once every two weeks. Thank you so much for sticking around with how hORRIBLY SLOW AND INCONSISTENT I AM