Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

“Fear wist not to evade, as Love wist to pursue.”

Katara arrives late, because of course she does. When does she ever do anything right? 

Sokka greets her by the door with a harried expression, his suit jacket unbuttoned, pushed open by the stretch of his arms, reaching out to her. When she walks up to him, he grabs her shoulders. His fingers are shaking, and for the first time, her low-lying, simmering panic pushes itself to the forefront, and she can barely hear him over the ringing in her ears. 

“We’re fucked,” he says, agitated. If he weren’t clinging to her, she knows he’d be pacing. “We’re fucking fucked. Malina is screaming her head off inside, and it’s my fucking fault.” 

Katara’s hands find his elbows. She swallows heavily. “W-Why do you say that? What happened?”

“He fucking dropped out, Katara. He said he can’t do the wedding anymore!”

“Dad?” she asks, paling. But she already knows. 

“No! Aang!”

It starts weeks earlier than that, actually, but the course is decided the moment she looks at him, the moment he looks back at her.

Her family sits at a large table in the center of the restaurant, a popular, fancy-ish Water Tribe joint her brother recommended. From the podium, she can see him and Suki sipping from glasses of wine at one end of their table, and her father and Malina at the other end, chatting amongst themselves. When her dad spots her, he waves her over with a broad grin. “Katara, over here!”

She steels herself, clinging to her purse strap. She takes a breath. 

There’s a free seat towards the middle of the table. She walks over to it, and stretches her lips as wide as she can once her family stands up to greet her. Katara presses kisses to Suki and Sokka’s cheeks, and allows Malina and her father to hug her tightly. She can’t help but notice a familiar scent wafting from Malina’s hair, and tells her so, making sure to phrase it like a compliment.

“Oh!” She smiles, abashed, touching the nape of her neck. “It’s called Abbess. It’s supposed to smell like sea salt and coconut! Do you really like it?” 

Katara smiles back and nods her head, swallowing bile. 

That was her mother’s perfume. 

It’s only when she sits down that she sees him— an Air Nomad man, pale, tattooed, his head shaven, looking at her rather awkwardly. Handsome.

Sokka grins in the wake of an introduction. “Katara, this is Aang, a friend of mine from the gym. Aang, this is my sister, Katara.”

“It’s nice to meet you,” he says, holding a hand out. His voice is lovely. A deep, pleasant tenor that settles sweetly into her stomach. 

She shakes his hand, smiling a bit more genuinely. “It’s nice to meet you, too, Aang.” 

Everyone else sits, and the waitress comes round to take their orders. Very quickly, the conversation turns towards her father and Malina’s upcoming wedding, which Katara survives through frequent sips of wine. Through the corner of her eye, she can see Suki shoot her quick, sympathetic glances. 

“We’ve decided not to make it traditionally Water Tribe,” Malina says. Her fingers flutter to her naked throat. “After all, Hakoda and I are from different ends of the world, and even though the North and South are sister-tribes, we’re still so different in so many ways. We thought it would be easier to just divorce from tradition entirely.”

“So, what do you want to do?” Suki asks.

“Well,” her father starts. “Malina liked the idea of a combination of things. A—“

“Fusion wedding,” she finishes. “Something to pull from all Nations, just like Republic City! I thought the idea was very patriotic.”

Patriotic. Katara almost snorts into her glass. None of them are even from Republic City. 

“I think that’s cool,” Sokka says, which— of course he does. Her ever-enterprising brother. “I was happy to help you both out with that, by the way.”

“What do you mean?” Katara asks.

He gives her a smug look before gesturing to Aang. “Why do you think I invited him?”

“Because he’s your friend?”

“Because he’s a monk, genius. He works on Air Temple Island.”

Katara’s mouth rounds. She’s not entirely sure why she’s shocked. Aang being a monk seems rather obvious, now, given the shaved head and tattoos, but she supposes it must be his age. Every Air Nomad monk she’s met— of which there hasn’t been many, admittedly— has been old, gray, and wizened. 

And, objectively, she thinks, glancing at him. Gray eyes flick away. Not as good-looking. 

Suki gasps delightedly. “Are you going to officiate the wedding?”

He bashfully rubs the back of his neck. “Not exactly? People typically like Air Nomad blessings for good luck, so… that’s what I’m doing.”

“I didn’t know Air Nomads believed in weddings,” Katara says. 

“We’re not opposed or anything, just not as orthodox about it as other Nations. Plenty of Air Nomads get married, but the ones who don’t work at the Temples or take vows.”

“Did you take one?”

He looks at her, startled. Katara flushes, afraid she’s crossed some sort of line, but he ultimately nods. “Uh, yeah. Yeah, I did. When I was sixteen.”

The waitress finally arrives with their food, cutting off any reply she might’ve hoped to give him. When Sokka’s arctic hen is placed in front of him, though, he snorts and sends her a wry, teasing look.

“Why are you asking Aang about his vows, Katara? Were you hoping he’d give you a shot? Didn’t you have a hard enough time dating Jet?”

Their father and Suki growl, “Sokka!” at the same time that Katara spits an acidic, “Fuck you!” to him and jumps up from her seat. Her brother instinctively reaches out to her, laughing through an apology, but Katara slaps his hand away and storms out of the restaurant, ignoring the waves of shocked faces that follow her. 

Shivering, wrathful, she stomps over to the brick-wall exterior of the restaurant and rests her forehead against it, inhaling the lingering, stale odor of cigarette smoke, wishing she had one, herself. Wishing she smoked. 

Already, shame over her childish display is beginning to creep up on her, but she stubbornly ignores it. She refuses to apologize. She’s gone almost thirty years never apologizing to Sokka for anything, and she’s not going to start now, especially when he was the asshole first. 

She’s so resolute about this that when she hears soft footsteps approaching her— unmistakably male— she scowls darkly. “Didn’t you hear what I said? I don’t care if you want to apologize, Sokka. You can go fuck—“

She glances up, freezes. Aang smirks down at her, his tattooed hands shoved into his black slacks, a restrained laugh dancing around the lines of his mouth. 

“Not Sokka,” he tells her. 

She snorts. “I gathered.”

“I’m sorry he was being a jerk. You didn’t deserve that. You were just curious.”

Katara blushes again, starkly reminded of what prompted her fit in the first place. “Look,” she stammers, turning her back against the wall. “I obviously wasn’t trying to— I wasn’t—“

“I know,” he interrupts mildly. “You were being curious. It’s not a big deal. Lots of people have misconceptions about Air Nomads.”

“I bet you think I’m ignorant.”

Aang rolls his eyes goodnaturedly. “Katara, how many times do I have to call you curious before it sinks in that I wasn’t offended? You’re fine.”

She smiles, relieved, and he smiles back. His eyes look almost blue under the dim street lamps, but they sparkle with a friendly light. Bright and speckled, like stars. 

Katara sighs and looks to them, hesitating for a moment, before— “Malina probably thinks I did this on purpose.”

“What? Make your brother provoke you?”

“No.” She hides another smile. She enjoys his persistence in absolving her. “This. Throwing a fit. Isolating myself.”

“You don’t like her?”

“I don’t… not like her,” she admits. “But it’s hard. This whole thing is weird. I mean, three years ago my mom was still—“

Alive, hangs in the air between them. She can’t bring herself to say it, doesn’t have the strength, but Aang can hear it all the same. 

“I understand,” he says quietly. “I never knew my parents, personally. I was raised by the monks. But I was becoming friends with Sokka when your mother passed. She sounded lovely.”

“She was lovely.” Katara reaches up and fingers her necklace. She doesn’t know why she’s talking about this with him, but she can’t seem to stop. It must be because she wants to give it life, her grief, if only for a moment. “Anyway, Malina can tell I still miss her, that I’m— bothered about the engagement. It happened too soon.”

“Do you resent it?”

She shrugs. 

“I’m not sure I can blame you if you do. Change is hard. Change after loss is even harder.”

Katara tips a dry look up at him. “Which enlightened mind did you pull that from?”

“My own.” He taps the side of his head with his finger. “I invented it, myself. I welcome you to praise me and my infinite wisdom.”

She laughs, a burst of sound in the still air, and he grins, leaning his shoulder against the wall, gazing at her. Something about his posture is so relaxed, so open. An invitation. She can see why Sokka— normally so reticent and suspicious— became friends with him. 

Unfortunately, he ruins it. 

“Can I ask who that Jet guy is, by the way?”

Katara groans loudly. “No!”

“Oh, come on! You got so angry just at the mention of his name.”

“Shouldn’t that tell you something about how much I want to talk about this, then?”

“Yes,” he says slowly, then winks at her. “But I’m curious. Tell me.”

Katara puts on a scowl, but her mouth trembles with the urge to laugh. Whatever, she thinks. Compared to their last topic, this is hardly a big deal. “He’s my ex.”

“I guessed. A bad one?”

“Horrible.”

“Was it serious?”

She huffs, crossing her arms. “He didn’t think so. But we dated for four years.”

“Four years,” Aang breathes. “That’s a long time for casual.”

“Tell me about it.” 

He affects a shrug, his broad shoulders lifting slightly. She notices the exposed skin of his throat, and the way his orange button-down shirt rests against it; a stunning contrast of color. “That’s his loss,” he tells her, and smiles, close-mouthed, genuine, when she flushes again. 

“Are you gonna head inside, now?” he asks. 

Katara shakes her head. “I need another moment before I can withstand Sokka’s lame groveling.”

He laughs. “Alright. I’ll let them know you’ll be in shortly, though.”

“Thank you, Aang.”

His silver eyes hold her own. “Of course.”

True to form, Sokka begins his groveling almost as soon as she steps back into the restaurant. Katara takes it mostly in stride, stubbornly ignoring his attempts to appease her— until he promises to pay for her food. That, she knows, means her brother is being absolutely sincere. Katara rewards him for it with a smile and quick, conciliatory peck to the cheek. He grins at Suki with triumph. 

The rest of the dinner passes by smoothly, and the conversation turns to more safer avenues. Aang talks about his childhood in the Southern Air Temple, while Sokka and Suki regale Malina with the story of their disastrous first meeting. When Aang asks her, rather abruptly, what she does for a living, Katara tells him she’s finishing her residency at Republic City Hospital. Malina decides to interject, then, with a comment about how her brother used to work at the same hospital before getting fired. No one asks why.

By 8 o’clock, their bill is paid and they all begin to leave the table. Katara follows Sokka and Suki out after having accepted a ride home from them— she took a train to the restaurant— but before she can walk out the door, a brief touch to her wrist stops her in place. She turns to see Aang, holding a napkin out to her with a sheepish look on his face.

“I, uh—“ He rubs the back of his neck. A nervous tick, apparently. “I wanted to give you this. In case… In case you ever find yourself in need of someone to talk to.”

Slowly, Katara takes it from him, quickly scanning the soft, quick scribbles that make up his handwriting. It’s the address to Air Temple Island. 

“Thank you,” she says, glancing up at him, hesitant. Aang only nods, appearing as though he wants to add something else— apologize for his presumption, maybe— but after a beat, he turns on his heel and strides towards the bathrooms. Katara’s gaze lingers on his back, confused, but before long, she’s leaving, too, rushing to catch up with Suki.

“What took you so long,” her sister-in-law asks.

Katara shrugs. She’s not sure why, but Aang’s note is something she wants to keep private. To herself. “I had to pee.”

“Yeah, you did drink a lot of wine. Is that why you didn’t take your car?”

“I knew I needed some liquid courage to get through today,” she mutters.

Suki snorts, then turns her eyes to her husband’s back. Sokka walks ahead of them at a steady pace, car keys jangling from his long fingers. Her red lips curl into an impish smile.

“Can I tell you something you can never tell your brother?”

“Of course.”

She looks at her and playfully raises her eyebrows. “Don’t you think that monk was kinda…?”

Katara barks out a laugh, delighted, before looping her arm through Suki’s. She sighs, and she’s adult enough to admit that it might be a little wistful. 

“So hot,” she agrees fervently. “So, so hot. Spirits.”

Chapter Text

The ferry to Air Temple Island opens every morning at sunrise, when the color of the white-tipped, churning waves shifts from blue-black to orange, and the tides begin to deepen. 

Katara hops onto the ship with a foam coffee cup in hand, and spends the short ride over to the little island in silent contemplation. There are a few others around her, but even the sound of their chatter is hushed, mindful of the place they’re going. Nowhere else in Republic City is like this— reverent instead of ironic, quiet where everything else is bustling, loud, and cosmopolitan. It makes Katara wonder what the world must’ve been like before the advent of industrialization. If it was normal to hear the wind and the sea first thing in the morning, instead of the screech of tires against the road. 

She leans her forearms against the railing, watching for the approaching coastline. In the distance, she can see the gray spires of the Temple, tall enough to kiss the clouds, and the vague, orange silhouettes of the people walking the grounds. 

Other monks, probably, Katara thinks. She wonders whether Aang is among them, hidden in the midst of old-world beauty. She wonders what he’s doing, how he occupies himself. 

Within minutes, the ferry finally docks into the port. She tosses her empty cup into a nearby trash can and makes her way down the gangplank, inhaling the scent of sea salt and wet wood. The early-morning sun hangs high above her, warming Katara through her thin, blue sweater and jeans. It’s a beautiful, spring day: crisp and breezy, fluffy clouds dotting the skyline. Even if it weren’t a Saturday, Katara’s sure she still would’ve found an excuse to come here, eager to enjoy the sunshine and the sights. It’s so fundamentally different from the cold sterility of the hospital that she almost finds it therapeutic. 

She follows the crowd up a long, winding staircase into the Temple grounds, gawking all the while. The Air Temple is located in the center of a forested beach, built atop gray outcroppings of rock. The main tower is a stunning feat of architecture, made of polished, white stone, and so tall it reaches towards the sky like a beacon. There are smaller structures surrounding it that Katara assumes must be their dormitories, but what shocks her most of all is the sheer number of people. Hundreds of them.

Men, women, and children, all dressed in flowing robes of orange and saffron, move around her, either talking to each other or walking in silence. Many have their heads shaven, but a surprising number of them don’t. Not all of them look ethnically Air Nation, either. She sees a wide range of faces, eye color, hair color, and skin color; and yet, they wear their clothing all the same. 

Katara watches them carefully, her fingers fiddling with her purse strap. Aang’s note feels heavy in the side pocket, continuously calling her attention. With so many people, it would be borderline impossible to find him, yet she catches herself trying to, anyway. Her neck strains as she peers around. 

“Excuse me, Miss?”

Katara pauses, then turns to see a young woman. She looks to be about her age— give or take a year or two— and has long, brown hair tied into a side ponytail. Silk, saffron robes heavily off her frame. 

“My name is Yee-Li,” she introduces warmly, bowing slightly. Katara bows back. “You look a little lost. Can I help you with something?” 

“Yes, um—“ Katara debates reaching for her note— but what would that do? It was just an address on a restaurant napkin. “I was invited here recently by someone. A monk. His name is Aang? I wanted, um, to…”

Yee-Li’s eyes brighten. “Oh? Master Aang invited you?”

Katara nods, flushing. Flustered. She’s not sure why. “Yes, he was… He went to my father’s engagement dinner. He’s going to be blessing the union, so I thought it would be good to— to see him.”

“I understand. Let me take you to him,” Yee-Li says. “He should be leading a meditation lecture right about now.”

Then, with a wave, she gestures for Katara to follow her inside the Temple. Similar to the exterior, the walls are carved from pale stone. The ceilings are high, and murals of Sky Bison and monks stretch as far as the eye can see. Katara marvels at a particular one of an Air Nomad man, his tattooed fists held together, his eyes closed, a medallion hanging from his neck. When Yee-Li notices her looking, she smiles and says, “Good eye. He’s the one who founded Air Temple Island.”

They reach the room within minutes. Yee-Li raps her knuckles against a blue, wooden door before turning the knob, peering inside as it opens. “Master Aang? I have a visitor for you.”

“A visitor?” 

“Yes. A young woman named…” She looks back at her. Katara flushes under her pointed stare. 

“Katara,” she whispers.

“Katara,” Yee-Li repeats.

“Oh!” His voice brightens, noticeably. “Yeah, come in! Come in!”

Yee-Li swings the door open. Katara steps past her to walk inside, her eyes sweeping the room, the crowd of children sitting criss-cross around Aang, then Aang, himself, smiling at her from his position on the floor. 

“I was just about to finish,” he says. “You came at a good time.” 

Katara nods. She’s embarrassed despite herself, feeling exposed by how plainly her intentions have been stated. Aang, however, turns back to his students and dismisses them kindly, completely at ease. 

When the room finally empties, he stands up and makes his way over to her. He’s still smiling, his eyes twinkling. “Hello.”

“Hi.”

“I can’t believe you actually came.”

“Oh.” She blinks, surprised. “Was I… not supposed to—?”

“No, no!” He waves his hands. “It’s not that. I just didn’t know if you’d want to come. If you cared to.”

Katara shrugs, hoping it looks casual. “Well, I love sightseeing and I’ve never been here before, so… You gave me as good an excuse as any.”

“The Temple is nice, isn’t it?”

“It’s beautiful,” she says, glancing at him. He looks different in the daylight— brighter, more striking, and painfully handsome. An orange kasaya hangs off his broad shoulder, exposing the winding, blue line of his tattoo. Dressed like this, he so closely resembles the man in the mural that it amuses her, puts her in an oddly good mood. 

“This is lovely,” she says, semi-playfully, gesturing to his robes. 

Aang grins. He has dimples, deep in the plush of his cheeks. “You think so? I know it’s a departure from what I wore at the restaurant.”

“A good departure. If you showed up in this, you would've never had to explain your job.”

“But if I did, Sokka would’ve never made his hilarious joke.”

“I’m still horrified about that,” she fumes. “Suki and I chewed him out the entire drive home. I’m pretty sure she made him sleep on the couch.”

“Good! He deserved it,” Aang says, before sending her a sympathetic look. “I hope your dad didn’t get too upset, though.”

Katara waves her hand dismissively, souring. “He gets over things quickly.” She thinks of Malina, of her mother.

There’s a beat of silence. She can feel Aang’s eyes resting on the side of her face, so intuitive, even when she won’t voice her bitterness directly. 

“Can I offer you some tea?” he asks, gently. 

He takes her to a small room with a pai sho board. It’s sparsely decorated but overcrowded with knickknacks and orange streamers, and Aang smiles at her sheepishly as he leads her inside. 

“My office,” he says. “Kind of. Sorry for the mess. The Acolytes have a cultural expo planned for tomorrow, so every free room basically looks like this.”

“Free room?” she asks, amused. “You called this your office.”

“Which I also qualified with a kind of.” 

Katara takes a seat at the lone, tiny table in the room. It’s placed directly in front of a wide window, which warms her in ribbons of golden sunlight. Aang walks to the kitchenette— just a stove, really— and sets a pot to boil. 

“Do you like ginseng?” 

“Sure.” She watches him reach into a cabinet for the box of teabags, his bicep curling. Warmth flickers briefly in her stomach, but is stamped out by remembered propriety. She looks away from him. 

“So.” Katara clears her throat. “How is anything kind of your office?”

Aang chuckles lowly. “Well, I don’t necessarily need one, you know? I’m not that important. But I like to come in here to meditate in the mornings. The window faces the sunrise, directly.”

“That must be beautiful.”

He shoots her a knowing smile. “It’s the best view in Republic City.”

“I’m jealous. My stupid apartment is in the middle of the city. The best view I get in the mornings is of the building right next to me. And if my neighbor leaves his window open, his ass.”

“What?”

“He sleeps naked!” Katara cries. “I’m not even joking! I think he does it because he knows I’m there!”

Aang shakes his head, his expression rueful. He grabs the teapot and two cups, walking over to her with a small, silver tray. “I don’t even know what to say.”

Katara shrugs one shoulder. “Price of being a woman, I guess.”

“You have my sympathies. Seriously.”

She smiles at him, enjoying his sincerity. Aang meets it while pouring their tea, stars in his eyes. 

“So,” she says, after her first sip. “What’s this cultural expo about?”

“It’s this event the Acolytes plan. Since we’re mostly isolated on Air Temple Island, it’s their way of sharing Air Nomad culture with the rest of Republic City. We bake traditional foods, and give out fresh moon peaches. We share the benefits of vegetarianism, and the really devout ones make pamphlets that are how-to’s on meditation. It’s really simple, honestly, but fun. It’s nice to see the kids running around.”

“What are the Acolytes?”

“Oh!” Aang grins, abashed. “Sorry. It’s this really interesting subculture unique to Republic City. Due to where the other Air Temples are located— on the tops of mountains— it’s basically impossible for people from the other four nations to really be exposed to Air Nomad culture— unless they’re traveling and teaching, themselves, that is. But because of the multiculturality of Republic City, basically anybody can learn about our philosophy. Naturally, some people become invested and want to join our way of life. We let them, though we have a few caveats.”

“Like what?”

“They can’t get tattoos. You can only do that if you master the thirty-six tiers of Airbending.”

“Which you’ve done, obviously,” Katara says, gesturing to his tattoos.

“Yup.” Aang lifts his hand, showing her the arrow inked across the back of it. He has nice hands, she notices. Large and slim-fingered, sturdy yet well-maintained. Jet’s hands always looked a bit grimy. “I was twelve.”

“Twelve?” she repeats, stunned. “You mastered Airbending at twelve?”

He shrugs modestly, but nods. “What about you? Sokka mentioned you were a Bender.”

“A Waterbender,” she says. Then thinks, obviously. “I was fourteen when I mastered it.”

Aang whistles. “That’s impressive! And you’re a Healer, too?”

“Yeah. That’s why I became a doctor. It seemed like a natural evolution of my abilities. I’m pretty good at it.”

“That I do know. Sokka sings your praises, believe it or not. One time he told Zuko and I— another buddy of ours— about how you once healed a broken leg of his in two weeks. I was blown away by that.”

Katara flushes and glances down at the table, flattered, watching her fingers dance around the rim of her cup. “If this is your attempt to get me to completely forgive Sokka for last night, you’re going to have to try a little harder. He doesn’t compliment me, ever.”

Aang barks a laugh. It’s pure sunlight, and the echo of it bounces off the walls of the room like music. “Maybe not to you, but he adores you, Katara. Really. He’s so proud of you.”

The warmth in her cheeks grows. She feels incapable of meeting his eyes, overwhelmed by an uncharacteristic shyness. After a beat, Aang says, carefully, “You know, you were in my thoughts last night.”

Katara jerks her head up. “What?”

“Because of what you said about your mom,” he clarifies. “And Malina.”

“Oh,” she says. “Oh.” A low, sinking feeling surges through her— disappointment. She didn’t expect him to say that. “Um, well…”

“If it helps,” he says. “I knew a Guru who told me, once, that love is an ever-changing energy. What we lose, we find in something else.”

“That’s very wise.” If not totally applicable to her. Katara grieves, and it goes nowhere. It doesn’t pass or transform. It sticks.

Aang offers her a self-effacing smile, ignorant to this. “Gurus typically are.”

Katara takes another sip of her tea. It’s gone cold, but it’s still enjoyable. Or maybe he is. The longer she spends in his presence, the more that she finds she likes talking to him. He’s extremely worldly for someone their age, and effortlessly charming. 

She opens her mouth. To say this, maybe. To prolong the conversation in general, but the door swings open. 

They both turn, startled, to see an elderly monk walk into the room. His posture is slightly hunched and his face is weathered, but there’s a levity to his eyes usually afforded to the very young. Aang grins at the sight of him. “Gyatso!”

“Forgive me, Aang,” he says, glancing at her. “I didn’t know you had a guest.”

“It’s fine. This is Katara,” he introduces. “Katara, this is Monk Gyatso. My mentor.”

Katara rises to bow, but Gyatso dismisses the attempt with an easy wave, smiling at her. 

“Do you remember the Water Tribe wedding we were asked to do?” Aang asks him. 

“Oh? Is this the lovely bride?”

Katara huffs a laugh, embarrassed. “Unfortunately not, Master Gyatso. I’m the daughter of the groom.”

“An important role, nevertheless.”

“I’d like to think so.”

Aang interjects again. “Katara was just visiting.” 

“Ah. You enjoyed yourself, I hope?”

Two pairs of gray eyes dart to her, one expectant, the other hopeful. Katara dips her chin in a nod. “I did. The Temple is beautiful, Master Gyatso. I’ve never seen anything like it. And Aang—“ She avoids his gaze, knowing she’ll blush again. “Aang is a very good host.”

“That he is,” he says indulgently, before laying a hand on the younger monk’s shoulder. He looks up at him. “And I hate to interrupt, but Tashi and Pasang have requested your presence in the Council room, Aang. They said it’s important.”

His smile drops, his shoulders visibly deflating, but he nods, sighing as he stands up. Before he can leave the room, however, he looks back at Katara and smiles, almost shyly. It’s adorable. 

“You should really consider going to the expo, tomorrow,” he says. “It’s a great time. And it’d be nice to see you there.”

“Okay,” she says. Her voice sounds too tiny for her throat, constricted, fluttering beneath a swell of emotion. She hasn’t felt like this since she was seventeen, tip-toed on her doorstep, seconds away from receiving her first kiss. “I will.”

Aang’s smile widens. He holds the door open for her— ever the gentleman— and Katara scurries out of it and past him, suddenly desperate to return home. 

When she gets back to her apartment, she plays at productivity for about ten minutes. She wipes down her counters, puts on a pot of coffee, grabs her computer to go over patient files, then opens another tab on her browser. Her fingers fly across the keyboard, and when she presses enter, the search engine reads, rather tellingly:

Air Nomad monks celibacy. 

“Fuck,” Katara whispers, horrified. 

She has a crush on him. 

Chapter Text

Katara is hopelessly predictable.

She’s read somewhere, once, that the definition of insanity was repeating the same action over and over again while expecting a different result. Though she typically likes to think of herself as a rational person, someone who considers the consequences of things before she engages in them, she knows that she is also ruled by her passions. By her propensity, sometimes, to go barreling headfirst into self-destructive decisions simply because she wants to. Because she feels like it. Because fuck you— I’m an adult, Sokka. I can do whatever I want. 

So, what’s this, then?

She filters onto Air Temple Island with the afternoon crowd, the sun warm on her bare shoulders, the breeze cool against her legs, fluttering through her sundress. The courtyard is decorated with bright, orange streamers, and there are pop-up vendors selling moon peaches, egg custard tarts, and pretty, white chrysanthemums, bound together in bouquets with satin yellow ribbons. The air smells like baked goods and sugar, and she can see children running underfoot, playing tag, wearing green, and blue, and red, and orange, orange, orange. 

Katara wonders if she should feel out of place, given how unfamiliar with the Temple she is, but she doesn’t. She enjoys the sense of levity, the freedom of play. Despite how drastically different the environments are, it reminds her vividly of her own childhood in the South Pole— riding on the backs of penguins, sleeping top-to-toe with Sokka while they giggled under the covers, always conspiring to annoy their parents with something. 

These children are the same. She can see it in their wide grins, brimming with mischief.

When her stomach grumbles, she joins the line for a stand that sells sweet buns. She rises on her tip-toes, peering over a man’s head to read the sign that lists the different flavors, only to freeze when she hears a familiar voice call out, “Katara?”

Her neck snaps around. Dread immediately curdles in her stomach like sour milk. Water, drawn from the air, curls menacingly around her fingers. She wonders, dimly, how good her accuracy is from this distance. 

She’d like to take his eye out. 

“Jet,” she snarls.

“Spirits,” he breathes. His gaze drops to her bare legs, roving upwards. “Who are you trying to impress?”

“Don’t look at me!” she snaps, her skin crawling.

Jet holds his hands up in a conciliatory gesture. A cigarette hangs from the plush of his bottom lip, smoking lazily. She wants to freeze it to his mouth.

“We’re in public, Katara.”

“You’re a public nuisance! Leave me alone.”

“I haven’t done anything!”

“You will!”

They’re attracting a crowd. Jet notices first— because, of course, he does. The fucking shifty-eyed snake— and reaches forward to tug her out of line. He drags her towards the less-packed flower stand nearby, and Katara yanks her arm back the second he stops walking, even more incensed. “I was going to eat something!”

“Not likely,” he snorts. “You were so busy having your little tantrum, you didn’t notice the five people who already skipped you in line. What’s your deal, anyway?”

“My deal? You want to know what my deal is?”

He takes a puff of his cigarette. “Yeah.”

“Let’s see,” she starts, glad for the excuse to tell him to fuck off, actually. “You wasted four years of my life. You didn’t go to my graduation. You fist-fought my brother—“

“Who is an asshole.”

“And you didn’t call or even text me when you found out my mother died.”

“We had just broken up!”

“That’s not an excuse, Jet!” She’s practically screeching, now. “That was my mom! You knew how important she was to me!”

“Katara.” His hands go up again, hovering over her shoulders. He’s smart enough not to let them fall. “I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t know you wanted me to, and I didn’t want to make you feel worse. The last time we spoke, you said you hated me.”

She swallows the lump in her throat, looking away from him. “I do hate you.”

“Yeah. Me and about fifty other people can tell.”

A flush rises to her cheeks, but Katara refuses to let it spread. Being embarrassed would mean she’s somehow unjustified for the way she reacted to seeing him. She’s not.

“What are you doing here?” she grumbles. “You don’t care about Air Nomad culture.” 

“The Duke wanted to come. He likes their fruit pies.”

“So? Go get them at the grocery store.”

“The Temple ones taste better,” he says with some heat. “Spirits, Katara, I’m trying to be civil. What crawled up your fucking ass—?”

“Katara?” Aang calls, somewhere in the distance. “Is that you?”

She whimpers— a panicked, pitiful sound— her hands flying to her face. Unperturbed, Jet simply looks over, staring at Aang as he approaches them, his expression unreadable. 

His robes are more formal, today: a yellow, long-sleeved tunic with a red sash wrapped around his torso. It emphasizes his broad shoulders, which normally she would enjoy very much. Right now, however, she just wants to die. 

He waves when they make eye-contact. “Hi, Katara! I’m so glad you came.”

“Hi, Aang. I am… also glad,” she mumbles.

His attention switches to Jet, then. The smile on his face falters, but doesn’t slip, and he reaches out a friendly hand for him to shake.

“Hey, I’m Aang. Katara’s friend. Who are you?”

They both speak at the same time:

“He’s my ex-boyfriend—“

“Katara and I used to have sex—“

“His name is Jet,” she adds, testily. “Excuse his manners. He doesn’t have any.”

“Oh.” Aang draws back, instinctively, but Jet grasps his hand in a firm grip. They shake twice, then immediately let go. 

It’s a weird moment.

“It's nice to meet you, Jet,” Aang tells him. “Katara’s mentioned you before.”

His head falls back with a short laugh. “All good things, I hope?”

“Stellar.”

“Glad to hear it,” he says, clapping his shoulder. “I am nothing if not ruled by Queen Katara’s opinion of me.”

“Don’t you have friends to catch up with?” she asks tightly.

“That I do. Smellerbee’s probably wondering where I’m at.” He leans towards her. “See you around?” 

“No.”

“Alright.” He shrugs, and walks away. 

Aang lasts all of five seconds before whirling on her, disbelief stretching his eyes wide. “Four years?”

“Shut up!” Katara groans. She covers her face again, looking at him through the gaps in her fingers. “It was humiliating enough just running into him.”

“Was it? He certainly seemed happy to see you.”

There’s something in his voice, then; clamped around the edges of his usual geniality. There and gone before she can identify it. Oh, well.

“It was not mutual,” she assures him, dropping her hands back down to her sides. He sends her a smile, and all of her embarrassment disappears in a flash.

“Barring that, are you having a good time?”

“A great time!” she says. “Everything is so nice, Aang. The Acolytes did an amazing job.”

“They usually do. Have you eaten anything yet?”

“Not yet. I was in line for food when… well, you know.”

“Yeah.” He winces, then looks down at her. Even with her heels, he’s so tall. The top of her head barely reaches his chin. “Can I get you something?”

“Oh, Aang, that’s really not—“

“It’s fine,” he insists. “I want to. Have you ever tried egg custard tarts? They’re my favorite.”

He takes her wrist, gently, and leads her towards one of the stands. The Acolytes manning them greet him with wide smiles and hand him two egg custard tarts, free of charge. When Katara tries to protest again, Aang sweetens the deal by grabbing the sweet bun she was eyeing earlier. She eats both with gusto. 

Currently, they sit on a bench towards the edge of the courtyard. Aang has his long legs stretched out in front of him, while Katara primly crosses hers. She feels sated and warm and content, blooming under the sun. 

“I keep saying this,” she starts. “But it’s so beautiful here. I could probably wander these halls forever, just exploring.”

“If you think this is great, you should see the Southern Air Temple,” Aang says wistfully. “It’s so high up on the mountains that the snow-peaks look like diamonds in the sunlight. Even thinking about it takes my breath away.”

Katara turns to him, suddenly curious. “Why did you leave? You’re from there, aren’t you?”

“I am. I grew up there until I was about sixteen, then I started traveling with Gyatso. Somehow, we ended up in Republic City and just… stayed, I guess. Gyatso is such an important figure within the Air Nation, and Republic City is the most politically active hub in the world. He was needed here.”

“And you needed him,” Katara surmises. 

His eyes shift to hers. There’s a click behind them, an echo of surprise, and he smiles, shrugging. “Yeah,” he admits, ruefully. “I did. I’ve always been bad at that.”

“Needing people?”

“Not needing people.”

“Everyone needs someone.”

“The monks would argue that that mindset is why there’s so much emotional strife in the world. We learn to love people, but we never learn to let them go, to leave it in peace. That’s why we suffer.”

Katara purses her lips. Her fingers flutter to the pendant of her mother’s necklace, tracing the swirling divot of the engraving. “I can’t argue with that,” she says, finally. “But… I don’t know. Maybe it’s just the way I’m wired, but I don’t know how to love anything without fighting to keep it, tooth and nail, even when I shouldn’t.”

Aang rests his arm over the back of the bench, gazing at her. She feels her heart kick-up at the intensity of it, only for him to mouth, “Four years.”

“Oh, fuck you!” Katara presses her palm against the side of his face and pushes it away from her, laughing. 

“You opened yourself up to it!”

“I didn’t! You’re just a jerk.”

“A big one,” he winks. “You’re fun to rile up.”

“Aren’t monks supposed to be nice?”

He snorts. “You should’ve seen some of the ones I grew up with. And the nuns? Spirits! I got in so much trouble as a kid.”

“Are they better now in your old age?”

“Sometimes,” he grins. “Gyatso, always. Tashi…”

Katara looks out into the sea of faces surrounding them. She spots Gyatso easily, standing in a semi-circle of four other monks. She tips her chin towards them. “Which one’s Tashi?”

Aang looks over, himself, before stiffening. He sits back, drawing away from her slightly. Now, all five of them are staring, wearing varying expressions of disapproval. 

“I have to go,” he mumbles distractedly. “They look like they want to talk.”

“Oh.” Fierce disappointment rushes through her. “In that case, then, I guess I better—“

“No, no. You can stay,” he says. His hand falls, briefly, over her knee; a ghost of a touch. “The kids do this little concert towards the end. They sing traditional Air Nomad songs and play instruments. It’s really cute and worth the watch. And… And I can find you after, maybe?” 

There. That’s the sinker.

Katara smiles, relaxes. “I’ll wait for you.”

The concert starts ten minutes afterwards. 

Katara joins the crowd to watch a chorus of ten Air Nomad children walk onto the stage. The song begins with a flute solo, before the rest of the children join in with their soft, lilting voices. The effect is almost angelic, and Katara folds her hands over her chest as she listens to them, touched, yearning. 

She’s always liked kids. She’s always wanted some of her own. It’s strange to be at this point in her life without any, when, for years, she had imagined she would already be married at twenty-five.

Just then, she feels the press of a body behind her. Her angry recognition of it barely registers before she hears Jet’s smug voice in her ear. “It’s sweet, isn’t it?”

“Get the fuck away from me,” she growls. 

She moves to sidestep him, but his hand falls around her upper arm and grips her tightly. “You know, I wasn’t going to talk to you again, but I just had to take a moment out of my day to applaud you.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You and the monk. You’ve always liked a challenge, right?”

Katara gapes up at him. “You’re insane,” she hisses.

“Am I? I know what you look like when you want someone, Katara. I’ve been on the receiving end of it.”

“Don’t even try to compare the situations.”

“You’re right,” he concedes. “I shouldn’t. This—“ He gestures around them— “is worse.”

“There is no situation,” she insists. “He’s my friend. Actually, he’s Sokka’s friend. Isn’t there some bro-code bullshit about that?”

“You got a lot more to deal with than the bro-code, honey.” 

Katara sneers at him, seconds away from slapping the taste out of his mouth. Jet, however, merely smirks, his touch drifting to the bottom of her chin. 

“In case you ever remember what it’s like to want someone who is available to you,” he says lowly, almost a whisper. “Call me.”

“Fuck you.”

He laughs. “Whatever you say, Katara.”

“So, what’d you think?”

Aang finds her by the stairway leading to the beach. She’d been so incensed from her conversation with Jet that she barely remembered her promise to wait for him, and seeing Aang run to her, calling for her to stay, gave her a rush she could only compare to the moment a rollercoaster pauses before a drop; that split-second when the world stops spinning. 

Katara takes a steadying breath as he approaches. She doesn’t want to be angry around him. It doesn’t feel good when he’s there. “It was wonderful. The kids were so good. I especially liked that little flute solo.”

“Did you? That’s my favorite part, too.”

“Have you ever performed that song?”

“When I was a kid, yeah.” He wiggles his fingers. “The flute part, specifically. I was a regular prodigy.”

She smiles. 

“What about you?”

“I sang chorus in high school.”

“I bet you were good.”

Katara shrugs, a touch flattered. “So, um—“ She tucks a lock of dark hair behind her ear. “Did you and the monks talk about anything important?”

Aang stiffens, barely. It lasts only a moment, but she can see the perturbed bob of his throat. 

“Not really,” he answers eventually. “They were just asking me some stuff about the future. Gyatso, uh… He did have a question for you, though.”

“Me?” She blinks. “What kind of question?”

Aang gestures to her necklace. “Who your fiancé is.”

“My fiancé? I don’t have a— Oh!” Her hand flies to her throat. “Oh. This— This isn’t a betrothal necklace. I mean, it is. But not mine. My mom passed it down to me. It originally belonged to my grandmother.”

“That makes sense,” he says.

“Yeah.”

A beat. Katara attempts a joke. “Sorry if that’s disappointing to you. I’m afraid my dad’s wedding is the only one you’re going to speak at. So far, I’ve got no prospects.”

“Not unless Jet gets his act together, at least.”

Katara groans again, louder because— well. He just propositioned her, didn’t he? “You are obsessed. What? Do you think he’s cute? Do you need me to put in a good word for you?”

Aang affects an eager look. “Can you, please? I was blown away by all of his good qualities. I need a man like that in my life.”

“You know, it’s unsettling to hear you use sarcasm. I almost didn’t think you were capable of it.”

He shrugs, guileless, wide-eyed. Katara laughs.

“Sorry,” he says, after a moment. “I know I shouldn’t keep bringing it up, but he’s so… And you’re so…”

“Wonderful?” Katara jokes.

“Yeah.” It’s a deeply sincere answer, and one that makes her flush hotly. No man has ever been this sweet to her before, and she’s discomfited by how much she finds that she likes it. It’s one thing to be attracted to him— because, objectively, he is attractive— but it’s another thing to enjoy him. To appreciate his humor, his wit, the deep, soothing cadence of his voice. She wants to hear it first thing in the morning, pressed against her ear. 

Fuck me, she thinks, frustrated. Jet was right. 

“I have another gift for you,” Aang says, stepping closer. Katara shakes herself out of her daze. 

“Oh, boy! Another restaurant napkin?”

“Close,” he laughs. “The back of a flyer.”

He hands it to her. It’s his phone number, written on an advertisement for fruit pies. The irony is so sweet that it almost sends her into a fit of laughter. 

“In case you ever want to text me to hang out,” he says. “I really like spending time with you, Katara.”

She holds it to herself, close to her chest. Her heart pounds away beneath it, an inescapable staccato thump that threatens to give all of her away. 

“Me too.”

Malina calls her a few days later, right as Katara clocks out of her shift. 

“Are you free this weekend, my dear?” she asks, her voice hushed. “I have a surprise wedding present planned for your father, and I want you and Sokka to be involved.”

“Um… What kind of surprise? Do you need us to pitch in some money, or…”

“No, no! Nothing like that!” She lets out a peal of twinkling laughter. “I wanted to paint a portrait of you both.”

Katara stops short, her sneakers scraping against the asphalt of the sidewalk. “A portrait?”

“Yes. You and your brother hardly have any recent pictures together.”

And the ones they did have, had mom. That’s what she doesn’t say. Katara grits her teeth, stunned by the audacity. Imagined, though it is. 

“I’ll think about it,” she tells her, strained. 

“Please do. I invited your brother over this Saturday while your father has his tux fitting. He already agreed.”

“Great,” Katara says. “Glad he did.”

Malina blows a kiss through the phone before hanging up. Katara immediately texts Sokka. 

Fucking traitor.

He replies, Do it for Dad.

She arrives at 6 o’clock, on the dot, in her shiniest pair of heeled boots and the skirt she knows Malina thinks is too short. 

“Look at you,” she says in greeting, her blue eyes, predictably, darting to the hem. Katara barely contains a smirk. “Don’t you look beautiful!”

“Thank you!” She steps inside. Malina presses a kiss to her cheek and places a hand on the square of her back, leading her forward. 

“Let me show you to my art room. Your brother is already here.”

“Is Dad still at his fitting?”

“Yes.” She sighs, as if beleaguered. “You know how it is with our Water Tribe men. Everything fits nicely except at the shoulders. They’re so brawny!”

Katara hums. 

“Speaking of men…” Malina’s touch shifts from her back to the crook of her elbow, locking their arms together. Her expression is conspiratorial. “Are you seeing anyone? Any possible dates to the wedding?”

Unbidden, a flash of Aang’s smile dashes across her mind. She’d dreamed of him last night. “Oh, um… Not yet. Not really.”

“I’ll keep an eye on the yet.”

Honestly? So will she.

Malina’s art room used to be her father’s office, which used to be Katara’s old bedroom before she moved out several years ago. Just stepping inside of it makes her feel a pang of nostalgia, made double by the sight of Sokka sitting on a settee, dressed in an old henley and jeans he’s probably had since college. 

“Hey, Katara,” he says, when she leans down to give him a kiss. “I’m glad you could make it.”

“Anything for you,” she responds tightly. It’s even more annoying, because she means it. 

 “I bet.”

The door shuts behind them with a little click, and the siblings turn to see Malina walking to her easel and canvas. She gives them a reassuring smile.

“I know modeling for a portrait may sound nerve-wracking, but it’s really not. All I need is for you two to sit down together for a while. Today, I’m just going to do the outline.”

Katara gestures to the settee. “Do I just…?” 

“Yes! Sit down right there beside your brother.”

She does, holding her shoulders straight and back. She can see Sokka doing the same thing, along with puffing his chest out a bit, really trying to emphasize those Water Tribe shoulders.

“Sokka, dear, can you please turn around a little bit?” He shifts, angling himself to the side. “A little more.” Shift. “Just a liiittle more.” He stops when his back faces her. “Perfect! Don’t move.”

Katara snickers. Sokka flicks her off.

“Don’t get jealous,” she whispers. “We always knew I was the pretty one.”

“Oh, yeah? Which one of us is actually married?”

She bristles. “Congratulations on finding the one woman who had the strength to gentle-parent you out of your chauvinism.”

A shameful flush rises to Sokka’s cheeks, but he sputters. “Gentle-parent? She beat my ass in front of, like, ten people! Including Aang!”

“And I’m so jealous he was the one to see it,” Katara says with a wistful sigh. 

Sokka nudges her, hard, which earns a sharp rebuke from Malina. He stiffens again, chest out. Jackass. 

“Speaking of,” he mutters. “Aang told me you’ve been seeing him on Air Temple Island.”

An acute sense of paranoia, like she’s a cornered, starving animal, overcomes her. She has to restrain the instinct to lash out in defense.

“Yeah,” she says slowly. “What about it?”

“Nothing. I’m… happy about it, I guess?”

“Happy?”

“Aang’s a good guy, and he’s a great friend. You can never have too many of those.”

“True.”

“And I always…” he hesitates. Katara glances over at him, her heart skipping an anxious beat. “I don’t know. I always thought you two would get along really well. You’re both very good people.”

She bites the inside of her cheek. “We do.”

That’s the problem.

Malina keeps them there for another hour before she’s satisfied, upon which Sokka dramatically announces that he has to pick up Suki from her tessenjutsu class. He hugs Katara before leaving, but she rewards him for his betrayal with a hard pinch to the armpit. She cackles when he squeals like a stuck pig.

“It’s so nice that you two still get along so well,” Malina says, after the door slams shut behind him. 

Katara shrugs. “He’s easy to tease.”

“He says the same thing about you.”

“Yeah, but I’m the only one who can hit back, so…”

Malina smiles. “Plus side of being the baby sister.”

“It’s the only plus side.” 

“That I do agree with.”

Katara looks over at her, her lips quirking upwards, their eyes meeting. It’s their first moment of true connection, and the existence of it, stretching between them, makes her feel like a traitor unto herself. 

There’s another woman in her mother’s house.

The thought makes her go cold. It displaces her, pulling her out of the house and into some darker crevice, even though she doesn’t move an inch. She’s suddenly aware of the scratch of clothing against her body, the chill in the air, pricking at gooseflesh. The feeling of Malina’s eyes on her, probing into the bone. She’s overstimulated. 

She pulls her purse strap higher over her shoulder and looks at the door, trembling. “I think I should—“

“Katara, wait.”

Malina walks up to her, her hands folded over her chest. “I know this is hard for you,” she says. “I know that you wish Hakoda had waited longer before he started seeing me, but I love your father, Katara. And he loves me. I want to be in his life, and I want to be in your and Sokka’s lives, too. I want to meet his children and your future husband. I want us all to be happy.”

She pauses, takes a breath. To Katara’s horror, she sees tears brimming in her eyes. “I’ve never had a daughter of my own, but I would like it very much if you could be— when you’re ready, in whatever way makes you feel comfortable.”

Katara’s throat bobs. She hears herself whisper, “Okay.”

Malina beams radiantly. Katara has a vague recollection of the next few seconds— her leading her to the door, opening it while kissing her goodbye, and her stumbling onto the sidewalk, breathless. When it shuts behind her, she returns to herself, to her body, and is immediately uncomfortable with the shape of it, how it feels too small to contain everything she feels inside. 

She needs a fucking drink. She needs Sokka. She needs—

Katara reaches for her phone. She’s never contacted him before, but typing his name already feels instinctive, like muscle memory. 

It’s Katara. 

Are you free? I don’t want to be alone. 

Aang’s reply is instant. 

Meet me on the Island. 

She finds him on the docks; a tall, orange silhouette against the misty, purple twilight. His dark brows are pinched with concern, and he eyes the paper liquor store bag hanging off her arm. “Are you okay?”

“Can we talk somewhere else? Somewhere private?”

“Of course.”

He leads her to a garden. Like everything else on the Island, it’s lovely, with verdant green flora and a bubbling fountain, white lotuses dancing on the water. She and Aang sit under a small pagoda, their backs to the setting sun, the breeze cool on their faces. He turns to her again. 

“Are you alright, Katara?”

“I’m…” A strange reticence overcomes her, then. She realizes that she doesn’t want to talk about it. How can she possibly justify herself? Malina reached out to her, wanting to form a connection, and all Katara could do was hate her for not being someone else. 

She lifts her bag, the bottles clinking inside. “I just… wanted a friend and a drink, I guess.” She looks at him, unsurprised at his suspicion. “And you. You— calm me.”

It’s too unnerving a confession, she knows. But Aang offers her an uneasy smile. “I’m right here as long as you need me.” 

Katara smiles back, then opens her bag. “Do you like beer?”

“I actually don’t drink.”

“Really?”

“Rarely ever. It’s an Air Nomad thing. We believe alcohol disrupts mindfulness.”

“Oh.” She falters, embarrassed. Aang rushes to console her.

“I don’t care if you drink, though! Most of my friends do. Sokka’s taken me to bars before.”

Katara scoffs. “Of course. My brother has the cultural sensitivity of a rampaging polar-bear dog. I’m so sorry, Aang.”

“It’s alright. And, look. Here. To prove it to you.” He snags one of the bottles and pops the top off with a pulse of air before handing it back to her. Katara grins and takes a sip. 

“Neat trick.”

“It’s handy, isn’t it?”

“Definitely.” Katara takes another sip. The flavor isn’t great— a bit too hoppy for her— but she feels a pleasant warmth blooming in her chest. “So, um… I’ve been reading up on Air Nomad philosophy.”

Aang smiles at her, both surprised and excited. “Have you?”

“Yeah, on my off-time. It’s really interesting.”

“Do you have any questions about it?”

“Some,” she admits, hesitant. She doesn’t want to offend him.

“Tell me.”

“Well… I guess I don’t fully understand the concept of detachment. I don’t know how you can live in the world without wanting to keep things. And I don’t mean material things, I mean… love, people. Family. Stuff like that.”

Aang’s mouth purses with consideration, and his hand floats to his chin. “Detachment is probably the wrong word, there. Non-attachment is a much better term for what we mean.”

“What’s the difference?”

“To me,” he starts. “Detachment denotes an aversion. Turning purposefully away from something to avoid engaging with it. Non-attachment is release. It’s not so much that you don’t want to keep the things that come into your life, but you have to accept it when they leave. Possessiveness is control. Peace is being able to move on from the things you can’t have, and to be happy with what you do.”

“It sounds much better when you say it,” Katara says softly. 

“The literature can be a little dry and confusing. I always learned more from conversations like this—“ He gestures between them— “with Gyatso.”

Katara nods, humming. Then, a little playfully— “Do you think I should become an Acolyte?”

“No,” Aang answers immediately.

“Why not? You don’t think I’d be any good?”

“No, it’s not that. I just… I don’t know. I like the way that you think. I like how grounded you are, how fiercely you feel things. You make me question myself.”

Katara’s heart stutters. “Oh? And where are you now, philosophically speaking?”

He tips a smile at her. “More enlightened than I’ve ever been.”

She assumes it’s sarcasm, and thus lightly pushes his face away from hers again. She feels his laugh vibrate against the palm of her hand. 

“I don’t appreciate your jokes.”

“Well, my jokes are what you’re gonna get if you’re friends with me.”

“Oh, goodie,” she drawls. A giggle still slips out. 

Aang’s eyes rest heavily on her. The sun has already set, and she can see the reflection of the stars inside of his gray irises, turning them silver. She wonders what her life would’ve been like if she had met him earlier, when they were children, before she was scarred by Jet. Would it still be this scary?

“I have a question for you,” she says. Her voice is soft, barely audible.

“What?”

“What would you have done with your life if not this?”

His brows furrow. He considers it. “I’m not sure. I love what I do. I love teaching and traveling. I love meeting new people and learning new things.”

“Would you have had kids?”

“I kind of already do.” Her expression is stunned. He laughs loudly at it. “Not my own, of course. But we raise children communally. I’m as much of a father to the same child as Gyatso is, as Tashi is.”

“What about your own, though?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. I guess it would’ve been nice.”

“Well,” Katara starts, playfully. “If you ever change your mind, I’m good for at least three.”

Aang barks a startled laugh. “Three? Oh, boy. You got any names picked out?”

“Kya for a girl, definitely. That was my mother’s name.”

“Bumi for a boy. My first best friend’s name.”

“Any other ideas? We still have one more kid.”

“Tenzin,” he says softly. “For Gyatso.”

Katara smiles, her heart filling, expanding behind her ribs. The conversation hurts as much as it thrills her. She just met him. How does it already feel so real?

“In another world,” he says.

“In another world,” she agrees. 

They both laugh, but it’s not funny. 

Chapter Text

“Do you have a dress for the wedding yet?”

Katara lifts her coffee mug to her lips. Her brother’s voice, set on speaker, blares from her phone, accompanied by a vague crackling sound. 

“Not yet,” she replies. “I mean, I haven’t bought anything if that’s what you’re asking.”

“That is what I’m asking. What are you going to wear? Are you gonna get a haircut?”

“What?” she asks, baffled. “No. What are you going to wear?” 

“My gray suit,” he says shortly. “With the blue button-down. I got it tailored specifically for this.”

Katara rolls her eyes. Sokka, despite his vehement objections to the contrary, is the most image-conscious, materialistic person she’s ever known. “I have a cocktail dress. The navy blue one with the low back? I’ll just wear that.”

“Absolutely not. You’ve worn that a million times. Buy something new.”

She bristles, setting her mug down with a loud clack! “And who are you to tell me how to spend my money?”

“Someone with more sense than you, clearly,” he mutters, before asking, “Is it money that’s an issue? I can loan you some if you want.”

“Sokka, it’s not—“

“How much is a nice dress, anyway?” he continues. “50 yuans?”

“Try 150,” she snorts, though she softens, imperceptibly, at his offer. “And it’s not the money. I’m fine. I just don’t want to go shopping.”

“Since when, Katara? You love shopping.”

“Since I have better things to do!” she snaps. She takes the phone off the counter, switches the speaker off, and shoves it against her ear. “I have patient files to go over, I need to mop, I have bills to pay—“

“Blah, blah, blah,” he interrupts obnoxiously, making her scowl. “You’re just being a baby because you don’t want to buy something for Dad’s wedding. Well, guess what, Katara? He’s getting married. Be a fucking adult and deal with it. I’m so tired of your moping!”

His accusation strikes too close to home, and her fingers begin to shake. She fantasizes about reaching through the phone and smacking him. “You’re such an asshole! That’s not the situation at all and you know it!”

“Isn’t it?” he demands, just as heatedly. “Isn’t that always the situation? Doesn’t everything go back to that?”

All the blood in her body freezes, stopping her cold. They don’t talk about this. They haven’t since the funeral, over two years ago. 

“You have a lot of nerve to talk to me like that, Sokka,” she says coolly. 

“I’m just pointing out the obvious.”

“Are you?!” Her voice raises, her temper flares; a kerosene spark always on the verge of exploding. He brings it out of her so easily. “You want to know what’s obvious to me? The fact that you weren’t there! You weren’t in the room with her! You didn’t feel her—!”

“I didn’t need to, Katara! She was still my mom! She was still Dad’s wife! I’m sorry to tell you this, but you are not the only person who still mourns her!”

“Then why does it feel like it?!” she shrieks, slapping her countertop. “Why does it feel like I’m the only one who still loves her?! Sometimes— sometimes, I think I’m the only one who did! At all!”

A long silence greets her on the other end. She can feel her lungs twist, the unforgiving calm before the thick flood of regret. She bites her lip, stifling tears. 

“Wow, Katara.”

“Sokka,” she croaks. “I’m sorry. I— I didn’t mean that.”

“Whatever.” His voice is tired. Wrung out. “Call me back when you figure your shit out.”

He hangs up. The haunting sound of the dial tone follows her for the rest of the day, taunting her. 

It doesn’t take her long to decide— really, more so out of some misguided attempt to appease Sokka— to dedicate her next Saturday to shopping. After another fervent apology, she even invites her brother, but he refuses, citing that he has a date with his barber. 

“Why don’t you try inviting Suki?” he recommends, thankfully good-natured. “I think she’s free.”

“I don’t know where he got that from,” Suki tells her, when she calls. “One of the other instructors got sick so I have to fill in for her Aikido class.” She can hear her wince. “Sorry, Katara.”

Katara groans, hand braced against the wall, already slipping a pair of heeled sandals on. “I hate shopping by myself. It’s no fun unless you ask for opinions.”

“Don’t you have anyone else you can invite? What about your friend Toph?”

“She’s blind.”

“Oh, right,” Suki mumbles, embarrassed. “I mean, there has to be someone else, right?”

Katara goes silent, considering. There is an obvious answer, but she finds herself hesitating, wondering if it’ll come back to bite her in the ass. 

She almost scoffs. Of course it will.

“What do you think about this?” Aang asks, holding a bundle of fabric next to his face. 

Katara reaches out to run her palm over it, sighing at the lush, silken feel. They’re standing in a fabric store, surrounded by different hues of yellow, red, and orange, like a deconstructed sunset. Aang, apparently, had also needed a new outfit for the wedding, and happily accompanied her to the mall when she asked. 

“It has to be tailored, though,” he’d explained in the car. “You can’t exactly buy Air Nomad robes off the rack, unfortunately.”

“I love this shade,” Katara tells him. “It’s such a soft, pretty orange. It suits you very well.”

Aang hums, deliberating. “I do love soft and pretty things.”

She stamps down a blush. Was he being purposefully suggestive? Moreover, would it matter if he was? 

It takes her just a second too long to think, No. No, it wouldn’t.

“Um—“ She tucks a curl behind her ear. “Are you set on this one, then?”

“Yeah, I think so.” He folds the fabric under his arm, grabbing a swath of red cloth as well, and heads to the register. Katara follows him, just a pace behind, wondering if the cashier assumes anything about them. After all, in his dark sweater and jeans, Aang looks more like a regular man than anything else. 

“So, what’s your vision for the outfit,” she asks him, matching him step for step as they walk out into the sunshine. The weather is wonderful today, moderate and breezy. 

“Okay, so—“ Aang’s expression turns uncharacteristically serious. “It’s this whole thing. There’s this specific tailoring of the trousers, and a long shawl that goes down the back and over the shoulders—“

“All orange?”

“All orange,” he confirms. “And I get to wear this medallion. It has the Air Nation symbol on it.”

Katara perks up with recognition. “I’ve seen that before! On one of the Air Temple murals.”

“Yeah, it’s a ceremonial piece. Airbending masters wear it during formal occasions. Especially the Elder Monks.”

“Oh, wow,” Katara says, impressed. “You’re wearing something like that to my dad’s run-of-the-mill Water Tribe wedding? How important are you, exactly?”

Aang chuckles nervously. “Uh… Not very?”

She frowns. He seems to have missed her joke. “What about the shirt? What does that look like?”

“Oh, um— It’s this long tunic. It’s actually kind of baggy, but the sleeves—” He rolls his own up, exposing more of his tattoo. It curves sinuously around his strong forearm, his wrist— “are actually a little tight. They get nipped in at the elbow.”

“Do they?” His arms, she thinks, devastated. 

“Yeah. And then there’s this red band that goes around the wrist, too. And this red sash that goes around the waist. I think it really ties it all together.”

“Oh, wow.” His arms. Spirits, were they carved from marble? 

“It also has this high collar.” His fingers reach upwards, dancing along his throat, mimicking the shape of what he’s talking about. Katara can barely hear him over the din of her heartbeat, spellbound by the masculine angle of his jaw, leading into his chin; the bob of his Adam’s apple; the shadow of stubble that kisses his cheeks, freshly shaven. 

He has such a beautiful neck, she thinks, her gut twisting. His beautiful, beautiful neck. She wants to run her palm along the side of it, warm over his pulse. She wants him to—

Aang abruptly stops walking. Katara almost stumbles into him. 

His eyes are wide. “What?”

“What?” she asks.

“You said his beautiful neck.” His voice is hushed, dazed. 

All the blood in her body rushes to her feet. “I didn’t— I never—”

“I heard you.”

“I wasn’t talking about— It wasn’t about you. I was—“ Panic jolts through her like a lightning strike. She looks around frantically— “I was talking about him!”

Aang turns— a little stiltedly, she notices. He follows the direction of her finger to a movie poster. It features some Earth Kingdom actor she would maybe refer to as passable. “Don’t you think he has such a lovely neck?”

“Um…”

“Oh, look! There’s the boutique!”

Katara scurries away from him, praying to every Spirit on-high to kill her immediately. Behind her, she can dimly hear Aang following, his footsteps heavy.

It takes her about five minutes of restless pacing through the store to get herself to calm down enough to speak to him again. Given Aang’s unsteady position by the door, he seems to have understood this and waited for her. 

“Do you want to help me look?” she asks him, quietly, as she approaches. Her body still thrums with anxiety, with the aftershock of nearly being exposed. She can’t quite believe her stupidity, and her turmoil manifests in a fear of him, of what he might see in her, that almost feels animal. 

But, of course, it’s Aang. He’d never let her be scared for very long, for any reason. “Sure, Katara. I would be happy to.” 

Relieved, she leads him to a rack filled with midi-length dresses. She immediately nixes any red ones, worried others might perceive her as trying to be too provocative for her father’s wedding, and then, hesitantly, pushes the white dresses aside as well. Not all brides wear white, but it was better to be safe than publicly humiliated. 

“Are there any colors you like?” Aang asks.

“Blue, but I’m open to suggestions.”

“Do you like yellow?”

“Some shades. The really bright ones don’t look good against my skin.”

He peers at her, sidelong, like he doesn’t fully believe this, then shrugs. “What about this one?”

He plucks a dress from the rack. It’s a soft, gleaming yellow shift dress made of satin. It flickers like candle light as it moves against his hand. 

“I like it!” Katara says, taking it to fold it over her arm. “Let’s get at least two more, though.”

She grabs a light blue one and a pink one before starting towards the dressing rooms. When Aang hesitates behind her, she beckons him over with a wave. “Dress shopping is inherently opinion-based. I need your thoughts!” 

“I don’t know how good I’ll be,” he admits, following anyway. “I’m not a huge fashion guy.”

“You don’t need to be in order to tell if a woman looks good in a dress or not.”

She hears a short grunt. His unspoken concession of, true, I guess. 

Katara disappears into one of the dressing rooms while Aang sits on the bench outside. Some fluttery, nervous feeling dances around in her stomach, and she can’t help but remember the last time she did this— over two years ago, modeling clothes for a man who didn’t deserve it. 

This is different, though, she tells herself. Very different. 

She slips off her long skirt and top, kicking off her short heels in the process, and then turns to the dresses. She deliberates for a moment before grabbing the yellow one, admiring the way it glides against her fingers like water. 

Not a fashion guy, Aang called himself. What a joke. 

It’s not an overtly-complicated construction, so it goes on easy. She zips up the side zipper, then admires herself in the full-length mirror in front of her. It’s high-necked with two thin straps, falling loose over her body, suggesting only the barest hint of curves. She tilts her head with a hum, considering. 

Aang hears it. “Is it on?”

“Yeah.” Katara turns from side to side. “I like it, but I’m not sure if I’m in love with it.”

A beat. “Can I see it?”

Her heart skips. Katara releases a small exhale, donning nonchalance like a veil. “Sure.”

She puts her shoes back on, then unlocks the door, walking out like this is normal, like she is normal, like she can’t feel her stomach tightening, just at the look of him. “Thoughts?”

Aang’s eyes rove over her slowly, setting a trail of fire from the crown of her head to the tips of her toes. She feels so much like a little girl before a crowd, desperately wanting his approval.

“It’s great,” he says thickly. “You, uh… You aren’t sure if you like it?”

“Yeah, I— um…” She stammers, pulling at the fabric around her hips. “I typically like something a little more… you know…”

“Form-fitting?”

“Mhm. It’s flattering.”

“Yeah,” he says. He nods, keeps nodding, like he either can’t stop agreeing with her or moving his head. Katara swallows a giggle. 

“How about the blue one?” he asks, after a moment. “That one looked a little more…”

“Right. And the neckline was more—“ Katara gestures, unthinkingly, towards her chest. Aang blinks, hard, before nodding again. 

“Yeah.”

“Okay,” she says. “Okay.”

She disappears back inside, shoving her dress off with shaky fingers. Her heart pounds a tattoo against her ribcage, but there’s a degree of excitement that lingers above her anxiety. It makes her feel jittery, borderline hysterical, like she might burst out laughing at any moment. 

It’s immediately apparent that the blue dress is the one. It’s a light, powdery color decorated with sprawling, white flowers. It has a sweetheart neckline that offers a suggestion of cleavage, but nothing overtly provocative, and the fit clings to her waist and hips in a way she’s instantly pleased by. She already knows what heels she wants to pair with this.

“I think this is the one,” she calls out, smoothing her hands over her hips. 

“Really? You haven’t even tried on the pink one.”

“I don’t need to. This is it. Do you wanna see?”

His answer, this time, is immediate. “Of course.”

Katara steps out, and already she can tell that even if she were unsure about the dress herself, the look on Aang’s face would’ve sold it to her. His jaw slackens, his cheeks redden. She can see his fists clenching above his pants, the knuckles pale. 

Smug, giddy, Katara even does a little twirl. “What do you think?”

“You look beautiful,” he says softly. His eyes hold hers, like a hand reaching across the divide. “I just… I think…” He lets out a steadying rush of breath. “Can I say something uncomfortably honest?”

“Yes.”

“Sometimes, Katara, it hurts to look at you.”

She bites her lip. She hates him, suddenly, in some unfathomable way, for signing his life away before she could meet him. What would she have given to have had this instead of the constant strife she suffered with Jet? This aura of potential that feels grand instead of stifling, a sort of chemistry that’s thrilling without the inevitability of pain. 

But that’s not true either, isn’t it? He’s another dead-end, a different kind of fire. A slow roast as opposed to an inferno, but she’s worked with burn victims long enough to know that the methods don’t make a difference. The agony is the same. 

“This one,” she says decisively. Her voice sounds strangled. 

“This one,” Aang repeats. His eyes are still on her. Lovely and longing.

She shuts the dressing room door with a snap. What’s another barrier? 

Afterwards, she invites him to her apartment for lunch. Her ever-increasing awareness of the futility of their relationship is irrelevant. Aang calls her his friend, so she’s his friend. She will make him a friendly meal and serve him some friendly tea. 

While she heats up the dumplings she cooked last night, Aang putters around her living room like it’s a museum, stopping every once in a while to stare at a picture, to remark over a random knickknack, or ask her a question. She finds the intensity of his presentness so singular. It’s not uncomfortable, exactly, but he’s the only person she knows who’s ever cared so much about the things she likes, what she wants to keep in her house. 

“This is a great book,” he tells her, when she walks over to her small dining table with two plates. She looks over to see him pointing to a large novel on her bookshelf. The Life and Times of Avatar Yangchen. 

Katara smiles. “Yeah. I love reading about that stuff.”

“Avatars?”

“Yes, but not specifically. I love history, especially where it concerns bending and spirituality.”

Aang chuckles, pulling out her chair, then taking his own as they both sit down. She plops a few dumplings onto his plate and he thanks her.

“You would’ve made a great Air Nomad,” he says. 

“You think so?”

“Why not? Bending and spirituality is what we’re all about.”

“That’s a gross oversimplification and you know it.”

He shrugs, but concedes her point with a smile. “So, uh… I started working on my speech for your dad’s wedding.”

Katara forces away the instinct to frown. “Have you?”

“Yeah, and since I’m already here, I figured I should ask you a few questions about him. And Malina, of course. I don’t know them half as well as you do.”

“Okay.”

“What’s your dad like?”

“He’s… very strong. Very charming. He’s a good public speaker and a hard worker.”

“Alright,” Aang chuckles. “What else? What was he like when you were growing up? Were you close?”

“We were,” she says. “But my dad is a man’s-man. He’s not misogynistic or anything like that, but he wasn’t one to take me shopping or watch rom-coms with me. He was closer to Sokka.”

“I assume you did that stuff with your mom?”

“Yes. We were very close.” 

“Okay.” He nods slowly, like he’s filing this information away. She supposes he is. “Tell me about Malina. How did they meet?”

Katara snorts, her hand going to her chin. “We used to work together, believe it or not. Not constantly, but she was affiliated somewhat with the hospital through her brother’s architecture firm— until his contract got severed, of course. When my mom was— When she was sick, she was in the hospital a lot. She ran into my dad there.” 

“Oh.” His eyes soften with understanding. “I can see why this is so weird for you, then.”

“Yeah.” She lets out a humorless laugh. Aang drums his fingers against the table, hesitant. 

“Can I… Is it weird if I—?”

“You want to know how she died?”

He looks abashed, his cheeks reddening, but he nods. “If it’s okay with you, obviously. Sokka never talked about it.”

“That’s not surprising. Sokka never talks about anything.” Not unless it’s to lecture her, of course. 

“But,” he barrels on. “I know that was insensitive, and I’d hate to make you uncomfortable, so you don’t have to—“

“She had cancer,” she interrupts. “Uterine cancer. She could’ve had a hysterectomy, but we found it too late and it metastasized too quickly.” Her chest begins to burn. With anger or the instinct to cry, she doesn’t know. “After a certain point, there was nothing we could do.”

“I bet you tried everything you could, though.”

“Oh, everything. Normally, doctors aren’t allowed to treat their family members, but I’m one of the best Healers they have, so they let it slide. I was with her every single day, day and night, for six months. I watched her undergo chemo. I watched her lose weight. I watched her lose her hair—“ Her fingers tangle into her own, as if to punctuate the horror of this. “I watched her decay, literally, in real time, and yet all Sokka and my dad tell me is that I have to try harder to move on. Can you fucking believe that?”

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,” he says soothingly. “But I’m sure they say it out of a place of love for you. It’s hard to watch someone so close to you suffering.”

“Yeah, agreed!” she spits, her outrage climbing. “I did that, myself. For six months!”

She drops her face into her hands, then, breathing heavily. She can feel tears clogging her throat, but she doesn’t want to let them fall. She doesn’t want him to see her so angry, so indisposed. Katara doesn’t like who she is when she’s raw. 

A soft, warm touch grazes the curve of her shoulder. “I’m so sorry,” he whispers. “I didn’t mean to invalidate your feelings.”

“I know.”

“And… everything you just said. All of it— it’s too much for anyone to go through alone.”

She lets out a sob, then nods. Spirits help her, but she loves him for saying it. People only seem to stomach grief in the immediate aftermath. Any length of time beyond that is masturbatory. Annoying.

“Can I… Can we try something?”

Katara finally looks up at him, sniffling. “What?”

“There’s this thing Gyatso used to do with me. It’s an emotional regulation exercise. It’s very healing.”

“Meditation?” she asks, skeptically.

“No,” he smiles. “It’s… talking, basically. Just in a way that feels less intimate than looking into someone’s eyes.”

Katara stares at him. A large part of her wants to refuse— she’s exposed too much of herself already, today— but another part… 

She’s desperate for release, in one way or another. 

“Okay,” she whispers.

Aang takes her hand and leads her to the living room. He sits on her rug and gestures for her to sit behind him, back-to-back. Despite his claims to the contrary, this is still intimate, if in a more subtle way. He may not be looking at her, but she can feel the broad stretch of his back, the shift of his muscles, his lungs expanding as he breathes. 

His heart, even. Pounding away. 

“So…” Her voice is hushed. “What do we do now?”

“You talk, and I listen.”

“But what do I say? Is there some kind of… process or something?”

“No,” he laughs. “This isn’t really an Air Nomad thing. It’s a Gyatso thing. Believe it or not, when I was a kid, I used to have these really big emotional tantrums. It didn’t happen all the time, but there would be moments where I got so fed up with something— whether it was another kid taking my toy, or a monk scolding me for too long— that I would just explode. I could cry and rage for hours, I think. After a certain point, Gyatso understood that letting me get it out wasn’t helping. It was just reinforcing the behavior. So he started sitting me down like this, with him behind me, and had me talk about everything that was bothering me. Literally everything. It made me realize that I wasn’t necessarily an emotional person, just someone who internalized so much that it destabilized me. I would take and take and take negativity until I couldn’t anymore.” 

“And you think that’s my issue?”

“No,” Aang replies, a little hesitantly. “I suspect you feel things on a level that I can’t quite reach. That, or you’re just more open to expressing yourself. Either way, I can tell you have a lot of anger.”

“Sometimes, I think that’s all I have,” Katara admits.

“Then that’s the benefit of talking, right? The feelings get to go somewhere.”

“I guess.”

“Do you still want to do this?”

Katara nods decisively, straightening. “I never changed my mind.”

“Great.” He shifts in place. “Now, talk.”

“About what?”

“Whatever you want.”

“Yes, but… what?”

“What are the things you want out of this? Out of your life? What’s gonna make you feel better to say?”

Katara huffs a laugh, shaking her head. “That’s already too much.”

“What is?”

“The things I want. It’s too much to count. It would take too long.”

“As far as I’m concerned, Katara, we have all the time in the world.”

She bites her lip, both warmed by this and frightened. So frightened. If she was scared of being vulnerable with him earlier, it’s nothing compared to this— the actual expectation of it. Him knowing and waiting. Her baring her soul to be cleansed. It’s hard. It’s the hardest fucking thing she’s ever tried to do.

“Katara?” he prompts, softly. 

“I want—“ she starts. Swallows. “I want someone to tell me what to eat every morning.”

This has shocked him. She can feel the surprised burst of his laugh. “Okay. What else?”

“I want someone to tell me what to wear. I want someone to tell me who to be friends with, or which guys to date, or who have sex with. I want someone to tell me who I’m going to marry. I want someone to point me to the people who won’t leave me.” She sniffles, tears already beginning to form. “I want— I want someone to tell me how to be nice to my family, and how not to be angry with them all the time. I want someone to teach me how to forgive my father, because sometimes I don’t think he deserves it, all my hurt, even when I also believe he should shut up and take it. And I want— I want—“

A sob chokes her next breath, and she feels Aang reach back to take her hand, enfolding it completely under his own. Such a warm, steady presence. 

“What else?” he whispers. 

“I want someone to tell me what to do with all this—“ She reaches up, placing her hand over her heart. “With all this love I still have for her. For my mom. I want someone to tell me where to put it, because it doesn’t go anywhere. It just stays there, trapped, and there are days where I just cry, and cry, and cry, and I’m angry at everyone who’s not crying with me. How fucked up is that? I resent everyone who’s not as miserable as me.”

“Katara—“

“So— Just tell me where to put it, Aang,” she demands wetly. “You’re the monk. Tell me where it’s supposed to go, because I can’t— I can’t fucking deal with it anymore!”

She dissolves into harsh, chest-wracking sobs, and she can feel every muscle in his body shifting as he turns to hold her, tucking her into his chest. She wraps an arm around his neck and buries her face into the hot crook of his shoulder, inhaling him, his scent, blindly searching for something to stabilize her. An anchor in the deep. 

It’s only when her sobs begin to fade that Aang whispers, “Love is energy, Katara. Do you remember when I told you that? It’s gotta go somewhere.”

She sounds wrecked. “But where?”

“Wherever you want, to whoever you want to give it to.”

His voice is like the wind. It wraps around her, snags somewhere behind her heart. Wrapped in the circle of his arms, it’s hard to imagine this grief going anywhere but inside him, flowing through osmosis. Some token of her he can carry. 

“What about you?” she breathes, gazing up at him. “Can I give it to you?”

His face crumples. He laughs, but it sounds pained. “Katara, you could give me anything.”

Something in the air shifts, or maybe it’s just her, transformed by the power of his confession. She rises onto her knees and brackets his face between her palms, her fingers falling over his throat, his pulse pounding beneath them. He’s so frightened of her, too. She can feel it in the shake of his hands around her waist, clutching her to him even still. 

His eyes flicker to her lips. “Katara—“

She can hear his caution, and everything inside of her rejects it; the idea of sense, of moving carefully, slowly. She just wept against him. Shouldn’t they be more sensitive to the moment? 

No, she thinks. I’d rather die. 

It’s the dumbest thing she’ll ever do in her life, maybe, but when she leans down to kiss him, all she can feel is relief. 

Chapter Text

It comes to her in flashes, sometimes. In her dreams. In the moments where she’s too weak to forget. 

Like—

The quivering hitch of Aang’s breath against her mouth. The rumble of his sigh. Her tongue flicking against the seam of his lips, then touching against his own. His groan. The instinctive cant of his hips. His hand threading into her hair. Her fingers bunching into his sweater. Her moan, caught on a breath— his breath. Her back meeting the floor. The surety she felt, knowing this would be the best kiss she’d ever have, their differing experience levels aside. He liked her, she could tell. He might even love her. Kisses were bliss when they were all love, and Aang touched her like she was something he wanted to shove inside himself and keep. She’d grasped at him desperately, renewed by this. She told him, I want you, I want you, and he froze. 

Katara remembers the look in his eyes, then. The slow dawn of fear, overriding everything soft beneath. She’d already known at that exact moment that he was going to leave her, and she wasn’t surprised. 

Doesn’t it always end like that? 

Work is the one place Katara doesn’t allow herself to mope.

It’s surprisingly easy. There’s simply too much to do. Triaging and admittance. Check-ups and diagnoses. Chatting to nurses, and bending water onto her hands to check for tangled chi, internal bleeding, and mangled insides. Some people die, and that saps her energy, too, but Katara is nothing if not a hard worker, and a damned-good doctor to boot.

Still, she’s not invincible. 

“So, are the rest of us supposed to watch you sulk for the rest of the week or is there something you want to tell me?”

Katara stiffens in front of the vending machine, her hand freezing mid-way to her iced coffee. Behind her, on the other end of the tiny breakroom, sits Toph Beifong, her friend. 

Mostly.

It’s hard to categorize their relationship. In some ways, she’s her boss. The Beifongs are the main benefactors of Republic City Hospital, and Toph is their sole heiress, though she remains stubbornly unaffiliated. In other ways, she’s the most aggravating person she’s ever met, and a majority of the time, Katara can't stand to be around her. She’s brash, and rude, and confrontational, and she’s insensitive in a way that reminds her uncomfortably of Sokka, which must be why Toph enjoys him so much. 

And yet, despite herself, there’s something she does like about her. Some confounding, mysterious trait that both repels and draws Katara into her orbit at the same time. She thinks it’s her honesty. 

That doesn’t mean she always appreciates it, though. “Um. What are you talking about?”

“What are you talking about?” she mocks, imitating her, then jumps off the table she was perched on. Her bare feet hit the floor, and sightless green eyes roll, momentarily, to the ceiling. “Come on, Katara. I’m not like the rest of these idiots. Tell me what’s up.”

“I genuinely have no idea what you’re—“

Her voice, pitched in a lilting sing-song. “I can tell when you’re lyiiing.”

“Okay. Fine,” she snaps. “How about it’s none of your business.”

“Well, at least we’re getting somewhere.” Toph ambles back to her table and pulls the seat out with a screech, before gesturing for Katara to sit down. “Let’s talk about it.”

“Toph, I…” She puts a hand to her face. Already, she can feel the burn behind her eyes, the embarrassing instinct to cry. “I really don’t want to.”

“Why not? Is it about a guy?”

“No.”

“Lie,” she objects blandly. “Spirits, I don’t even know why you bother.”

“I just— It’s really sensitive for me right now, and I don’t want to—“

“Katara, you’re already on the verge of snapping. If you hold it back any longer, you’ll completely explode. Not that I wouldn’t be thoroughly entertained by that, by the way. But you know—“ She wriggles her fingers. “Professionalism. That’s so important to you.”

Katara sucks her lips in, breathing hard through her nose. She wants to strangle her— or, better yet, bash her own head against the wall repeatedly. But she suspects both reactions would lead to her getting fired, and Toph is unfortunately correct. Her reputation at work is very important to her. Her work in general is very important to her. It’s the one aspect of her life she can safely call fulfilling. 

“Is that resignation I sense?” Toph asks. 

“No,” Katara says haughtily, but takes a seat anyway. Toph sits across from her. “It’s restrained murderous intent.”

“How noble you are, Sweetness.” 

“Don’t push it. I’m barely allowing this conversation to happen as it is.”

“So, you admit there’s someone?”

Katara frowns, thinking of Aang. There’s a flash of him, somewhere— deep in her subconscious— of him hovering over her, the press of his body, his warmth, and even that’s too much. She shudders, suddenly cold. 

“Yes,” she admits, quietly. 

“Don’t tell me it’s the douchey one who smokes.”

She snorts. “I’d literally rather die.”

“Well, thank the Spirits for that. I thought he’d skulk around you like a creep forever.”

“Trust me, he’s still trying.”

Toph scoffs and crosses her arms. “Men. Anyway, who is it? What’s the problem?”

“He’s…” she hesitates. “Unavailable.”

“Emotionally?”

“No, like. Unavailable. Period. I can’t be with him.” There’s a beat. “I’m not allowed.”

“Oh.” A wave of emotions cross Toph’s delicate face. It settles on one she’s never seen from her before— disapproval. “He’s married?”

“No!” Katara instantly protests. “No! No, of course not! I would never!”

“Oh, good,” she says. “I don’t care about a lot of social taboos or whatever, but infidelity doesn’t really gel with me. Too messy. Too many hurt feelings.” She makes a gagging noise, but Katara can see right through her. 

She rolls her eyes. “Well, it’s not that. He’s just not available.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m not sure, honestly. I shouldn’t have even pursued things with him to begin with, but now I have and I’m… stuck.” It’s the understatement of the century. 

“Do you want my advice?” 

Katara nods, a bit too eagerly. Normally, this would result in an empathetic no, but she’s desperate and Toph is surprisingly reasonable when she chooses to be. “Yes.”

“Just fuck someone else.” She blinks, startled, but Toph continues. “Seriously. Just have sex with someone else. If you can’t be with this guy, then do whatever the fuck you can to get over him.”

“But what if it’s not that easy?”

Toph scoffs loudly, then makes a sharp motion with her right hand. There’s a squeak of metal, a slight grinding sound, and then a flash of glass in the air, hurtling into her palm. She cracks open Katara’s abandoned iced coffee. “You make it easy, then,” she says. “You cut him off. You give up hope. Life is too short to get hung up on dead-end relationships, and you’re not getting any younger. I don’t understand why you keep trying, Katara. Don’t you ever get tired?”

“All the time,” she says, resting her chin on her palm. “I just really like this one.”

“But does it change anything?”

She hesitates, bites the inside of her cheek. “No.”

Toph takes a bracing sip. “Then it doesn’t change anything.”

The wedding is scheduled for the end of that week, and Malina still hasn’t finished her portrait. 

Katara takes a half-day from work to go to her dad’s house for another sitting. Despite it being several days since she last saw Aang, the queasy, anxious feeling she’s had since he left her still sits in her stomach like a rock, expanding with every step she takes up the driveway. She wonders if one of her family members will be able to sniff it out of her with the ease that Toph did. She wonders, with real fear, how she’ll react if any one of them happens to mention his name, if she’ll burst into tears or get sick on the carpet. What excuse will she give them?

All this ruminating only worsens, of course, when she hears hysterical screeching echo through the front door. Katara freezes in place, struck with terror. In a sickening refrain she thinks, they know. They know. Aang suffered a guilty conscience and told them. She’s proven to Malina, once again, that her spite knows no bounds, even though this was the one situation in which her spite was barely a factor. Her father will disown her for ruining his wedding, and Sokka and Suki will hate her forever. 

Panic begins to overwhelm her. Katara’s hands fly to her throat, as if to stymie the breath that escapes her in pants. Her pulse drums rapidly beneath her fingers, and her blood goes cold, moving so fast it makes her lightheaded. When her brother flings the door open just seconds later, she nearly screams with him. 

“Katara!” he shouts, his eyes wide, rushing to her. For a moment, when his hands find her shoulders, she thinks it’s to shake her, but he merely grips her instead. “We’re fucked,” he says, agitated. There’s a deep furrow between his brows, a harsh line that only hints at the severity of his stress. “We’re fucking fucked. Malina is screaming her head off inside, and it’s my fucking fault.”

His fault, he said. His fault. Relief courses through her like euphoria, and she nearly crumbles into a heap at his feet. She grabs his elbows, trembling, just to keep herself upright. Katara swallows the lump in her throat. “W-Why do you say that? What happened?” 

“He fucking dropped out, Katara! He said he can’t do the wedding anymore!”

She pales. “Dad?”

“No!” he shrieks, an octave above his usual baritone. “Aang!”

It takes a moment to sink in. Aang dropped out. Aang’s not doing the wedding anymore. Aang, only three days before the ceremony, decided he can’t go through with it. 

Because of her. 

Katara inhales sharply— a short, wet gasp. Sokka’s grasp loosens around her shoulders, and she stumbles away from him, her hands going to her middle, pressing into her belly. There’s a burst of pain centered there, like something vital exploded inside of her. She hunches over herself, stifling tears. 

“I know,” he says. “I know. I fucking know, alright?” Distantly, she can hear him begin to pace; the fast clip-clop of his dress shoes. “I don’t know what the fuck I was thinking, depending on some twenty-seven year old novice. But I expected better from him, Katara! He’s my friend! I didn’t think he’d flake on my dad’s wedding at the last minute!” 

Her former relief reveals itself to be guilt, and she looks up at him through her tears. There’s a very real urge to tell him what she did, but she can’t imagine how it would make anything better. It might just make him feel worse, knowing he was the impetus behind their first meeting. Aang would’ve never spoken to Katara if it weren’t for Sokka’s cruel teasing, and she would’ve never pursued him after the fact. 

She’s afraid, also, of what Sokka might do to Aang if he knows. Her brother has always been overprotective, and he has a proven track record of being willing to fight her ex-boyfriends. With Jet, she hardly cared— she was vindicated by it, even, after so much heartbreak— but the idea of Aang getting hurt makes her feel sick and intensely panicked. She’d rather get yelled at, herself. She’d rather tell her dad what she did than see that. 

“I’m sorry, Sokka,” she says, and tries to infuse all of it— the depth of her guilt, her shame, her sadness— into those three insignificant, little words. Somehow, he understands. 

He walks up to her, standing her straight with a hand across her back, and tucks her into his chest. The two siblings breathe for a moment, simultaneously trying to regain their composure. Inside the house, Malina’s screaming continues, interrupted periodically by Hakoda’s deep, rolling voice. His obvious attempts to soothe her. 

Katara winces. “How long has she been doing that?”

“Since Aang left about five minutes ago. Honestly, I don’t blame her.”

“Sokka, what are we going to do?” She looks at him. “The wedding is on Sunday. It’s Friday.”

“Aang said something about referring them to another monk.”

“That’s not good enough,” she spits, tearing away from his embrace. She presses her palms to her cool cheeks and begins to pace back and forth, brainstorming on how to solve this, on how to make him change his mind. Sokka grabs her shoulders again, stopping her in place, and briefly flutters his hand across her forehead. 

“You look sick,” he says, concerned. 

“I’m stressed.” 

“Yes, but you’re pale. You’ve been pale. Are you alright?”

“Are you seriously asking me that right now? Dad’s wedding is about to be ruined— if it’s not already!”

“Yeah, but since when did you care about that?” 

She scowls at him, but he’s unmoved by her anger. A probing glint enters his eyes, and it makes her nervous enough to immediately want to change the subject. “What happened to your haircut?” she asks hastily. 

Sokka stops short, visibly baffled. His fingers drift to the ends of his wolf-tail. “I had to reschedule for today,” he says. “My barber cancelled last minute. Something about a funeral.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

He shrugs. “I mean— whatever. It is what it is.”

Katara rolls her eyes at his callousness just as the door swings open again. Suki goggles at them from the other side, her lips drawn tight, her complexion ghostly pale. 

“Sokka, my love,” she whispers, sounding harried. “I need you to deal with your stepmother for about five minutes, because if I have to listen to her sobbing for another second, someone is going to get very hurt.” 

He nods, frightened, before rushing inside. The door slams shut behind him, and Suki walks up to Katara with a sigh, dragging her hands down her face. 

“This is awful,” she moans. “I don’t know what we’re going to do.”

“We’re going to find Aang, that’s what,” Katara says, with more bravado than she actually feels. 

Suki snorts. “Trust me, I already tried to change his mind. I don’t know what’s up with him, but he was really set on this being the right decision. He said it multiple times.”

“He did?” Katara’s stomach pinches with dread. Hot bile rises to her throat. Did she really screw everything up that much? Was this his indirect way of saying he never wanted to see her again? She thought he liked her. In the moment, she even suspected—

Spirits, how could she have been so wrong? 

Suki pats her shoulder, oblivious to her spiraling. “You better get going, Katara. I don’t think this portrait sitting is gonna happen today.”

She nods dully. There’s some errant instinct to laugh that burbles inside of her. She thinks it’s hysteria. 

“I’ll call you later,” Suki says. She squeezes her hand in goodbye before bounding up the driveway again, leaving Katara with no choice but to stumble into the opposite direction, already unsteady on her feet.

She doesn’t make it far.

Katara collapses onto a bench at the bus stop just a block away from her father’s house, dropping her face onto her lap with a low groan. She can’t imagine what she looks like right now— pale, on the verge of crying in public; either the victim of the world’s worst hangover or the most heartbreaking walk of shame. She’s not sure which she would prefer. 

The warm weight of another person drops down beside her, sitting too close. Irritation flickers in her stomach at this stranger’s seeming obliviousness, and when she lifts her head to glare at them, there’s a familiar pair of gray eyes that meet her own, dark with distress.

Katara screams.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” Aang lifts his hands, waving them frantically, while Katara puts her own over chest, her heart pounding beneath them.

“You scared me!”

“I’m sorry!” he says again. “I didn’t mean to. I just saw you and…” His tone gentles, his gaze slides away. “I wanted to talk.”

The full brunt of her emotional turmoil races to the surface at his vulnerability, and she whimpers. “Aang, you can’t drop out of the wedding. You can’t.”

“I have to.”

“You can’t.”

“I have to,” he repeats, firmer. It doesn’t last, though. He rubs his palms over his eyes, sighing. “I can’t do it, Katara. I fucked up.”

“You didn’t fuck up. I fucked up. I kissed you despite the fact that you clearly didn’t want me to, and now my dad is—“

“But I did want you to,” he says fiercely. He angles himself towards her, compels her to meet his eyes. “I wanted you to. That’s the problem. Do you know how hard it was for me to walk away from you?”

The anguish on his face is unmistakable. She’s seen it everyday on her own, in her mirror, first thing in the morning. “Why did you?” she asks softly. 

“Because I can’t do this.”

“Why not?”

“Because the monks—“ He cuts himself off with a harsh laugh. Shakes his head. “Tashi and Pasang have plans for me, and—“

“What plans?” she interrupts.

“They want me to join the Elder Council one day, Katara,” he admits. “I’m the best Airbender of my generation. I love my culture. I love what I do. They see that, and they think I would be happy there. But I can’t do that if…”

His mouth tightens. He trails off, but she doesn’t need to be a mind reader to know where that sentence was going. 

“Right,” she says coldly. She shifts away from him, and Aang’s face visibly falls. “Well, at least you’re being honest.”

“Don’t get like that.”

“Don’t get like what? I’m being serious.”

“Katara,” he sighs. He rubs his eyes again. “I… I never wanted to hurt you. It makes me sick to think—“

“You should worry more about yourself,” she says blithely. “I’m gonna be just fine.”

“You’re lying to me.”

“What do you care?” she spits, jumping to her feet. It’s strange to be angry with him, and some part of her even finds it unfair to be, but she can’t help it. “It’s not like I was being duped! I knew what I was getting into. So, it didn’t work out. Big fucking deal. I’ve moved on from worse.”

Her voice warbles at the end, which she hates. Which she sees him pick up on. She rushes to speak before he can console her. “I think both of us would feel better if we were adults about this. Tell my dad you’ll bless his marriage, and I won’t bother you ever again. It’ll be like none of this ever happened.”

“But I don’t want that,” he protests.

“Honestly, Aang? I don’t think you know what you want,” she says. “But I do, and I need you to reconsider your decision. I would never forgive myself if my dad’s wedding fell through because of me— and before you say anything, I know it was because of me. So… please.”

He stares at her for a long moment. “You really want me to?”

“Yes.”

“Fine,” he says. “I’ll call him.”

It’s the best she knows she’s gonna get. She nods her head once, then picks herself up enough to leave him. Neither of them say goodbye. 

She’s informed of his decision the next day, when she sees him at the rehearsal dinner.

Anger makes her chest tight, but he cuts such a striking figure in his formal Air Nation robes that she can’t help but feel a little breathless at the sight of him. It’s the same tunic and sash he wore at the expo, but under the golden, buttery lights of the restaurant her father rented out, the breadth of his shoulders, somehow, seem larger, his handsome features emphasized by shadows. Even now, there’s such a pressing urge to reach out to him, to have him look at her. What would he say? What would he think? Would he still call her beautiful? 

Katara bites the inside of her cheek, and lifts her champagne flute to her lips. Before she can take a sip, however, Suki nudges her shoulder. 

“Look at you!” she gushes, grinning. “You look incredible.”

Katara smiles weakly. “So do you. I love that dress. Such a pretty green.”

“Thank you!”

“Where’s Sokka?”

“Getting me a drink, probably. Your Auntie Ashuna tried cornering us a little while ago to ask about babies, so I sent him on an errand to distract her.”

Katara laughs, shaking her head. “Spirits, she’s the worst about that. Do you know how many times she’s told me she has a nice, successful Water Tribe boy she wants me to meet? It’s exhausting.”

“Exhausting and demeaning. I just turned thirty! Sokka and I aren’t in any rush to have kids yet.”

“At least you’re married,” Katara snorts. “Everyone treats me like I failed at something.”

Suki gives her a quelling look. “You’re young, successful, and stunning, Katara. If you wanted to, you could find someone, no problem.”

She shrugs, grunting noncommittally. She determinedly does not look at Aang. Suki’s definitely perceptive enough to pick up on that.

“Here, babe. Your drink,” Sokka announces. 

Suki turns just in time to catch his kiss— a sweet, smiling peck— and the champagne flute he slides into her hand. When he pulls away, Katara finally notices his hair. Or rather, the lack of it.

“You’re bald,” she balks. Sokka scowls, immediately flipping her off, while Suki laughs heartily. 

“Not bald,” she corrects, running a palm over the soft, dark fuzz. “But close.”

He growls. “It’s not my fault, alright? Turns out having a dead grandma suddenly makes you a shitty barber. He ruined my hair, so I had to shave it.”

“Oh, no! What did he do? Do you have pictures?”

“About a million,” Suki says, reaching for her phone. Katara grabs it excitedly, laughing aloud at the photo of her brother, staring teary-eyed up at the camera while his dark hair hangs in a straight, even bob around his head. 

“How did he even do that?” Katara asks. “Why did you let him?”

“I didn’t! I was tricked!” 

“He cried like a baby,” Suki tells her, grinning. “I’m not even kidding. He was full-on sobbing in public. He only managed to calm down after I convinced him it was chic. Something the Boulder would rock, maybe. And then when we got home, I razored the whole thing off.”

“I’m never going to that fucking guy again,” Sokka swears vehemently. Katara throws her head back with another laugh. It echoes around them, and from the corner of her eye, she spots a head turning. A flicker of yellow. Her joy dies down again, and she hates herself for how quickly she was able to pick him out from the crowd— just from that. 

“I need to eat something,” she says, casually, as she begins to stray from the group. Suki calls for her to come back to them soon, before turning into the circle of her husband’s arms. Katara nods her assent, ignoring the pang in her chest. 

Jealousy is weird. 

She makes a pit stop at the buffet table, if only to keep up the appearance of wanting food. She grabs a small plate of blueberry cookies, finishes the rest of her champagne, and then makes her way to the back terrace. 

The outside air is cool— even for the middle of spring— and she shivers slightly as she walks out. There’s a balcony just ahead of her, and the clear, dark sky that looms overhead. The full moon washes her in silver light, and as she grabs the balustrade, she breathes in, feeling the thrum of energy, the uptick in her heartbeat. She often wonders what this must’ve felt like a hundred years ago, when bending was more than just an application of utility, overridden by the access of technology. How different it must’ve been, knowing she could use it for so much more than just work. 

She exhales, placing her cookies down onto the flat, even surface of the railing. Suddenly, she hears a shuffling sound behind her, the soft tap of a footstep. And before she even turns, she knows it’s Aang. Who else would seek to corner her like this?

“Hi,” he says, his voice low. 

She tilts her head towards him, minutely, but even that’s a mistake. His eyes look even brighter under the moonlight, like chips of steel. 

“Hi,” Katara returns. 

“You… You, uh— You look really—“

She cuts him off, shaking her head. Whatever tenuous fixture she built around her heart yesterday crumbles, just from the attempt. “Please, don’t,” she whispers. “Please.”

“Why not?” he asks, desperately. 

“Why else?” Katara whirls on him. “We know where we stand now, Aang. Why bother making anything more embarrassing for ourselves by going through this… charade,” she spits. “I know how you feel. You know how I feel, so just let me— let me get over it. Please.”

He stares at her for a long moment. She can practically see the thoughts move through his mind— that split-second urge to tell her, I don’t want you to— but he nods, finally, and the hope that began to bloom in her chest dies right there, like everything else between them. What a joke.

“Okay,” he says. His eyes hold hers, and then dart away. There’s a sheen over them that catches the light. “Bye, Katara.”

“Bye.”

She watches him walk back inside. As soon as the glass door clicks shut behind him, she gasps raggedly, her hand fluttering to her throat, reaching for her necklace. She rubs the pendant between her thumb and forefinger, blinking back tears. The pain she feels is baffling. It took four years for her to garner this much emotion for Jet, but Aang managed to pull it out of her in the span of a few weeks. She doesn’t understand how that’s possible. More than that, she doesn’t understand what she should do about it. 

Move on, Toph told her. Sleep with someone else. But that’s easy for her to say, isn’t it? She’s not in the situation she’s in. She doesn’t feel what she feels. How is she supposed to even think about that when her instinct, even now, is to be near him? To touch him, to kiss him, to beg him to want her back. It's almost embarrassing. 

“Spirits,” she groans. “This sucks.”

Katara knows, theoretically, who she could call if she had to. But does she have to? She doesn’t really want to, and she doesn’t see the point in having sex with anyone if she doesn’t want to have sex. But… maybe the suggestion isn’t so much about desire as it is necessity. Forcing yourself to look at other people, to see possibilities beyond what your heart is hopelessly yearning for. It doesn’t have to be horrible, either. It can just be what it is: sex. Casual sex. Casual sex with someone who’s not the man she desperately wants to have not-casual sex with. Casual sex with someone she actually fucking hates. 

But he’s all I have, she thinks, a little plaintively. Realistically, he’s the only one she trusts enough to respond. 

How pathetic is that?

Sighing, Katara pulls up his contact and unblocks it. It’s just for tonight, she tells herself. Then I’ll never speak to him again. 

The rest of the rehearsal dinner flies by astoundingly quickly. They sit through a nice steak dinner, and speeches. Toasts of well-wishes and even a merry song or two. But before long— cursedly— Katara is back in her apartment, seated on her couch and staring hard at her front door. 

She already regrets this. 

Jet, unsurprisingly, made that very easy for her by laughing when she called him. I knew you’d cave, he said. I knew it from the moment I walked away. She’d almost been tempted to tell him, then, that her reaching out wasn’t motivated by lust, or even something half as sentimental as missing him, but she knew it wouldn’t change anything. He loved the fact that she thought of him at all. 

So, she swallowed her pride, went home, showered, shaved, lotioned herself, put on her shortest, silkiest nightgown, and then planted herself on her couch, already stewing. For the past ten minutes, she’s been entertaining different fantasies of how she could go about rejecting him— leaving him at the door; opening it, saying, nevermind! and then shutting it in his face; telling him she already had someone else over, which she knows he would hate. The likelihood of her going through with any of them, though, is not something she wants to examine. She knows her stubborn nature too well.

After another fifteen minutes of waiting, a knock finally sounds at the door. Scowling, she gets up and stomps over, yanking it open with a growl. “What took you so damn—?”

“Uh—“ It’s Aang. It’s Aang, she notices, panicked. He looks similarly frightened, his eyes widening at the sight of her. “Um. I…”

“Sorry!” she cries, scrambling away from him. “I’m so sorry! Sorry! Hold on!”

She rushes into her bathroom to pull on a fluffy, white robe, before skittering back to him. He’s still in her doorway, blank-faced, shell-shocked. Katara cringes, chewing on the inside of her cheek.

“You, um… You can come in,” she tells him, weakly.

“Are you sure? You’re not… going to sleep or anything?”

Definitely not now. “I’m not.”

He nods stiltedly, stepping over the threshold and closing the door with a soft click. It echoes in the space between them like a death knell, a shout— a mourning cry for something that never had the space to live. 

Katara’s lips tighten. She holds herself protectively.

“What are you doing here?” she asks.

“I didn’t like how our last two conversations ended,” he says. “I feel like I didn’t explain myself correctly.”

She shakes her head. “You didn’t need to. I was being unfair to you, Aang. I knew it even in the moment.”

“And so was I,” he replies. “I was wrong to call it a mistake. It was hurtful, and I didn’t mean it.”

“I mean… It was a mistake, wasn’t it?” she asks, with a short, bitter laugh. “It was something we shouldn’t have done, and it’s clearly caused us both a lot of stress. And you tried to absolve me of blame earlier, Aang, but realistically speaking, that kiss wouldn’t have happened if it wasn’t for me, so I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”

“I don’t want you to apologize to me. I didn’t come here for you to do that.”

“Well, what else am I supposed to do? I put us both in an awful situation.”

He exhales a scoff. “If you think you were the only person toeing some invisible line, you haven’t been paying attention.”

Katara’s heart stills, then skips double-time. What did he mean by that? She won’t lie and say that she doesn’t suspect that he has feelings for her, but to imply that he’s been pursuing her this whole time? She can’t even begin to wrap her head around that. 

“Aang, what are you—?”

The doorbell rings. 

They both jump, thrust out of the moment. Katara fumes at the interruption, only to immediately panic when she remembers who’s on the other side of the door. Her blood rushes to her feet. 

“Uh… Do you want to get that?”

“No,” she rasps, before clearing her throat. “I, um. I don’t answer the door to strangers.”

“Katara!” Jet’s voice calls. “Open up!”

She grasps at her cheeks, mortified, just as Aang’s face twists into a fierce, angry scowl. She notices a muscle in his throat jump.

“I can leave,” he says.

“No. No, I don’t want you to.”

“KATARA!” Jet shouts again. The knocks get louder, more insistent. “Come on, open up! You didn’t pussy out, did you?”

She growls and makes a gesture for Aang to stay, before marching to the door. When she opens it, the sight of Jet’s face fills her with such potent loathing that she knows, for a fact, she would’ve bitten his hand off if he tried to touch her. 

“Leave,” she hisses. 

“Don’t be like that,” he cajoles. “I’m sorry I was so late. I promise it has nothing to do with you.”

“Luckily for you, I don’t give a shit. Leave.”

“Don’t tell me you changed your mind.”

“I did. Quite easily.”

He scowls, then tries to peer around her to see through her doorway. Katara closes it slightly. 

“Oh, I see,” he laughs. “You have someone in there with you, don’t you? Is it your monk?”

“Go fuck yourself,” she seethes.

“Clearly it is.” He steps away and shoves his hands deep in his pockets. “Well, who am I to get in the way of true love? Have fun with him, Katara. I know you’ll get a kick out trying to make him worship you.”

She slams the door in his face, her cheeks burning, incensed. It takes her a few seconds to calm down, and when she turns back to Aang, she almost wishes that she didn’t. 

His fists are clenched. He glares steadily down at the floor. His chest moves deeply, in and out, like he’s trying to calm himself. 

“I’m sorry,” she says, walking back to him. “I didn’t mean for him to—“

“But you did, didn’t you?” He looks at her. Something desperate lines the creases near his eyes. “You invited him over.”

“I shouldn’t have.”

“Yes, you should have,” he says, shocking her. “If you wanted to, you should have. I shouldn’t— It’s not my place to get angry with you.”

“I wish you would.” She laughs, a little crazed. “I wish you would get angry. I wish you would tell me how you really feel.”

“You don’t know?” She freezes. They both do, but the naked longing on his face is admission enough. “You really don’t know?”

Katara stares at him. The air has changed once again, and she feels like she’s standing on the precipice of something magnificent, something dangerous. A foot hovering above a cliff’s edge, a hand on her back. Her own. 

“Why did you change your mind about my dad’s wedding?” 

“Because you asked me to,” he whispers. 

“So did Suki. So did Sokka.”

“I know,” he says, glancing away from her. There’s a twist to his mouth that she can’t call rueful, exactly, but it’s close. “The more I get to know you, Katara, the less I think I can deny you. I didn’t want to refuse you.”

“Why?” Her foot shuffles forward as she begins to approach him. His throbs bobs, visibly nervous, but the depth of pure feeling in his eyes compels her, like he’s got her heart on a string. “Why?” she asks, again. 

“I already told you. The idea of disappointing you makes me feel sick.”

He’s close enough to touch now, so she reaches out, her hands taking his, intertwining their fingers. She can see his pulse pounding in the hollow of his throat, and she wonders if he remembers the brief moment she pressed her tongue flat against it, just to feel his heartbeat. 

“I don’t have feelings for him,” she says. “For Jet. It’s not what you think.” 

“Katara, it doesn’t matter—“

“Yes, it does,” she insists, anxious enough to faint. She grips at his fingers tightly, hoping it conveys just how much. “It does matter, because… If— If I had slept with him, I would have regretted it, but I also know I would’ve been thinking of you.”

A tremor goes through him. She sees his eyes darken, then squeeze shut. He pushes a slow breath through his mouth, before looking at her again. No secrets this time. His new resolve falls over his face like a veil, and her chest constricts with the implications of it. The dastardly birth of hope. 

“Are you gonna kiss me again?” he asks her.

Katara bites back a smile, overjoyed. “Do you want me to?”

He breathes, “Yes,” just as he dips down to meet her, his hands rising to cup her face. Katara loops her fingers around the bend of his elbows, sighing against his lips as soon as they touch hers. There’s something so wonderfully sweet about him— in the way his mouth parts to let her in, in how his hands skim down to her waist to loosen her belt, the question he breathes into her. She nods, of course, thinking that she could spend the rest of her life doing this, kissing him until her mouth was sore.

“Am I your first?”

There’s a split-second pause he takes before he pushes her robe off. It pools to the floor, around her feet, and he runs his nose up the line of her throat to press a long kiss beneath her jaw. She shivers, clutching at him. 

“No,” he admits, finally. “It happened before I—“ He doesn’t say it, but she knows. “Before.”

“Okay,” she says. “Okay.”

Katara drags him back down to slot their lips together, rising on her tiptoes. Aang slides his hands beneath her legs, up her thighs, and hitches her up against him with an easy strength. She whispers the directions to her bedroom in between searching kisses, already trying to loosen the clasps around his neck. Aang, obviously, has a much easier time with her nightgown. 

This was a foregone conclusion. Katara can see that now. His note, her visit, the discussion of their imaginary children— everything was building up to the inevitability of her ending up in his arms, on her back, one breath shared between them, and one continuous movement. Push and pull, a therapeutic, lovely sort of repetition that makes her want to press into him and weep. She’d asked him for relief, didn’t she?

Hindsight’s a funny thing. 

Chapter Text

She wakes up to the heat of the white, morning sun on her face and an empty space beside her in bed, still wrinkled from the press of his body.

Katara sits up in a burst of momentary panic, her heart plummeting, only to see Aang sitting at the foot of her mattress, his legs folded and his fists held together, meditating. Even without looking at his face, she can tell his eyes are closed, serene. His broad shoulders rise and fall in a predictable pattern— one breath in, then release, one breath in, then release, perfectly timed. The sunlight turns his pale skin to an enchanting golden color, and she watches it play off the blue lines of his tattoo, winding down his back like a river, strangely at home next to the healing, pink scratches she left.

Calming, Katara tilts her head, content to stare at him. He really is such a handsome man. She’d known from the beginning that his general physique must’ve been impressive, but her imagination could never capture the totality of it, his beauty. The enticing slope of muscles along his arms, up his back, the narrow taper of his waist, and how easily he fit between her legs, like he was made to be there. Like she was made to receive him. Katara is well-aware of her tendency towards being a romantic, but she knows— deep in her heart— that this is true, unequivocally. They were made for each other.

A second passes. Aang rolls his shoulders, obviously feeling the weight of her attention, and breaks his form to face her. His eyes are soft, as fragile as cracked porcelain, and his smile is small but sure. Overcome, Katara reaches out to brush her thumb across his pink lips, everything constricting in her; a slow, sweet sort of asphyxiation. She understands what he meant, now, in that dressing room. It’s too painful to look at him. It’s too much. It takes a herculean effort to even try, to confront the wave of longing it inspires in her.

“Good morning,” he whispers. His voice is deep, still rough with sleep. The intimacy of it makes her grin.

“Good morning.” Her touch drifts to his cheek, but Aang catches her hand and presses a long kiss to the center of her palm. Her breathing goes ragged.

“I can’t believe you did that,” she admits, hazy with wonder. “All of it. I can’t believe you’re with me.”

“I can,” he says. “I’ve thought about it for a long time.”

“How long?”

He smiles ruefully. “Since the beginning, from the first moment I saw you.” This time, he touches her, his fingers skittering across the delicate slope of her chin, ending at the underside of her throat, over her necklace. “You’re so beautiful, Katara. Watching you walk into that restaurant… I literally couldn’t breathe. Every moment I wasn’t looking at you, I was thinking about how badly I wanted to be.”

She bites her lip, giddy down to her marrow. “So you following me outside…”

“Wasn’t entirely altruistic,” he finishes, abashed. “I mean, I was worried about you. Sokka was being a jerk, and him laughing about how upset you were afterwards annoyed me, but—“

“You just wanted to score points with the angry, hot girl?”

He laughs. “More like I wanted you to think well of me.”

“I do,” she says, scooting closer. Her sheets slip from her chest, but she is remarkably unconcerned with her nudity. Around him, there’s something natural about it; a predetermined consequence. “I did, even then. You were so easy to talk to. You still are.”

They regard each other for a moment— a beat in time. Aang’s gaze flickers to his hand, warm against her throat, his palm just above her breast, and he dives down to kiss the crook of her shoulder. Katara grabs each of his biceps, her eyes screwing shut. She wants to pull him over her. She’s desperate for that same sense of homecoming, the bliss of release. He gives it to her in so many ways.

“I have to go soon,” he whispers, heavy with disappointment.

“Not too soon.” She leans up, kisses him. He sighs into her mouth, and her lips curl upwards with victory. Aang pulls her onto his lap.

“No,” he says, as they both position themselves. “Not too soon.”

Katara has never thought of her father’s backyard as being especially opulent, but she can admit that he and Malina— Malina, really— did a fantastic job decorating it for the wedding.

The grass has been freshly mowed, and four rows of white, cushioned chairs sit before a pagoda, the columns of it sprawling with vines of climbing hydrangea. She can see the influence of each of the Four Nations spread out around them: Water Tribe in the food: the Fire Nation in the fire lily flower arrangements; the Earth Kingdom in the sweet, bubbly wines; the Air Nation through Aang’s presence. Though, she has yet to see him.

“This is great, isn’t it?” her brother asks her, hushed. They’ve been standing by the entrance for the past ten minutes, on greeting duty. Katara’s cheeks ache from smiling, while Sokka’s are bright red from hard pinches and lipstick stains. “It kind of reminds me of mine and Suki’s wedding day.”

“It’s nice,” she replies. “The portrait turned out good, too. You know, considering the circumstances.”

“Yeah, it did, didn’t it?” He turns to look, accidentally mimicking their pose. A laugh bubbles up the back of her throat. “Man, my shoulders are huge. Have you ever noticed that?”

Katara snorts loudly, and Sokka sends her a weak glare, reaching out to pinch her waist. She nimbly dances out of his reach.

“Can’t you ever be nice to me?” he complains.

“The audacity of you to tell me that when the only thing you said to me today was—” She lowers her voice comically in imitation of him— “That dress is better than your lame navy blue one, at least. You’re a fucking asshole.”

He shrugs. “I’m your brother.”

“Right. Same thing.”

Sokka rolls his eyes, but a smile plays at his lips. He watches the guests mingle, his focus sharpening once Suki comes into view, resplendent in an ankle-length gown of shimmering, emerald green, her auburn hair pulled away from her face. It does something to Katara’s heart to see his adoration for her laid out so plainly; a soft, quick squeeze of a sort-of yearning, like a clenching fist. She desperately wants that for herself.

“This is gonna be a great day,” he muses.

“I hope so.”

He looks at her, his expression suddenly stern, on the knife’s edge of a warning. “It will be,” he says. “For Dad, it will be. Let’s try to remember that.”

“Are you implying something about me?” Katara asks, bristling. “You really think I’d do something at my dad’s wedding?”

“I don’t think you’d stoop that low, no. But Dad needs to know that we’re happy for him, Katara.”

“I am happy for him,” she insists. When she notices his doubtful glare, she adds, “I am. I want him to be happy. I want us all to be happy. I don’t like the fact that I feel like the one buzzkill amongst all this marital bliss.”

“You’re not, though,” he says, fully turning to her. He lowers his voice and leans in close. “Frankly, Katara, I feel weirded out, too. I have this whole time. How can I not? I mean, our Dad is getting married. The idea of that, alone, is kind of gross, solely because of the implications.”

Katara groans, “Sokka,” but he continues, heedless of her disgust. “But we ignore it because that’s what we’re supposed to do. Do you think any of us were happy when you started dating Jet? We all fucking hated him, even Dad, but we sucked it up because we knew you loved him— and also that you’d dump him eventually, but that’s neither here nor there.” He waves his hands, sidetracked. “My point is: we’re gonna white-knuckle through today, because that’s what Dad needs us to do. He needs our support, and as his kids, we should give it to him. Because we love him.”

A frisson of surprise, tempered down by more than a little humility, runs through her. Katara gently nudges her brother, allowing herself to ride the wave of affection. “I never thought I’d see the day you would lecture me on empathy.”

“Do you understand what I’m saying, though? It’s not about us today. It can’t be.”

“I know,” she says softly. “To be honest, I couldn’t get myself too worked up, anyway. I even feel… at peace about it. Is that weird?”

“No,” he grins, relieved. “If anything, that tells me you’ve been spending too much time with Aang. Did he try to lead you through one of those meditation exercises?”

A flush rises beneath her skin, thankfully concealed by her makeup. “Not really.”

“Well, whatever it is…” He shrugs, too casual. “I’m going to go find Suki. You should probably talk to Dad. Give him a kiss or something.”

She grumbles a protest, but silently agrees to his request, turning on her heel to walk towards the house. There’s a bevy of waiters that filter in and out from the kitchen, carrying silver trays topped with drinks and appetizers, and Katara has to bypass a few of them to make it inside. When she does, however, it’s Malina she sees behind the counter. Not her father.

Katara stops short, but her stepmother beams at the sight of her, and glides over to kiss both of her cheeks. “You look beautiful, darling,” she says in greeting, taking her hand to twirl her. “Such a lovely dress!”

“Thank you, Malina. You also look wonderful.”

It’s true, though the style of her flowing, blue hanfu, embroidered with delicate threads of silver, nearly makes her raise a brow. It’s not exactly Water Tribe fashion.

“You think so?” she asks, glancing down at it. “A friend of mine from Omashu made it for me. He’s a wonderful designer, and I thought— How very Republic City, that is. A Water Tribe woman wearing a dress from the Earth Kingdom, to be married in a ceremony blessed by an Air Nomad monk. Like I said at our dinner, very patriotic.”

Katara smiles tightly. “Very. Do you know where my dad is?”

“He was talking to Bato about the after party the last time I saw him, though that was a little bit ago. I’m sure he’ll turn up soon.”

“I’m sure he will.” Katara steps back, gesturing towards the side door. “I’ll go back out and join the party, then.”

“Have fun, dear,” she says with a wave, immediately going back behind the counter. Katara lingers for a moment, debating on if she should say something— a good luck, maybe. I’m happy for you— but nothing feels authentic enough, so she heads for the door, strangely disappointed in herself.

The air outside smells fresh, fragrant with the scent of flowers. Already overwhelmed, Katara fights a stumble as her heels find the uneven pavement, inhaling deeply. She goes to lean against the wall, but pauses when she notices the low, familiar tenor of a male voice, muttering something indistinguishable.

“Aang?” she calls, looking around. Her heart races, just at the thought. “Is that you?”

Sure enough, he pops out from behind the back of the house, visibly surprised. He’s dressed entirely in formal, tailored robes the color of sunset, a long shawl wrapped around his broad shoulders, a red sash tying his middle. For a moment, she feels transported in time, outside of herself, staring at a man so far out of reach.

“Wow,” he breathes. A grin touches his lips, but doesn’t fully take hold. She doesn’t think he can manage it. “You look beautiful.”

Flushing, Katara attempts an eye-roll. “You’ve seen me in this before.”

“I could see it a hundred times. You’re still beautiful.”

She bites her lip. There’s an urge, rising up on a deep swell, that compels her to touch him. Not even intimately. Just the brush of her palms against his cheekbones would suffice.

“You look handsome, too,” she replies, almost shyly. “Orange is such a lovely color on you.”

Aang chuckles, abashed. A rosy hue colors his cheeks. “Don’t compliment too much. You’ll give me a big head.”

“Ah. Will it finally match your ears, then?”

He shoots her a mock glare, which sends Katara into a fit of laughter. Uncalled for, maybe, but her irrepressible giddiness demands that she teases him, if only to make him smile.

“What were you doing?” she asks, after she settles.

Aang wiggles his notecards. “Practicing for my speech.”

“Can I hear it?”

“No, ma’am. It’s a surprise.”

“A surprise,” she echoes, playfully. “Tell me, how much of that speech is about me?”

He hums, looking it over with exaggerated concentration. Katara giggles again. “Probably all of it, honestly.”

“Well, I’ve always liked being the center of attention.”

“Yeah,” he snorts. “Sure.”

They smile at each other, saying nothing. When the moment begins to stretch too long, however, Katara remembers the guests outside; the world that continues to spin beyond them, practically on another plane of existence.

She clears her throat. “Um, I should probably go find my dad. I was trying to do that before, but I got… Well, you know. Anyway, I’ll see you again during the ceremony?”

“Of course.”

Katara nods, smiling again, and goes to walk past him. His eyes follow her before he does, and in a blur of movement, his hands find her waist, her back hits the wall, and he kisses her, swallowing her delighted moan.

It sets off a spark of passion within them both, and they cling to each other. Katara bunches her fingers into the front of his tunic, binding herself to him. Her dress is too long to comfortably be hiked up, but he gives it a damn good shot, anyway, eager to feel her. Skin to skin, like they should always be.

Aang groans against her mouth, breaking away to kiss a slope across the bridge of her nose. “I don’t know what this feeling is,” he rasps, grabbing her hands and securing them to his chest, right over his pounding heart. “I don’t— It’s too much, Katara. It’s too…” He shakes his head.

She laughs, cupping his face. “Oh, sweetie. You’ve never been in love before?”

He stiffens. They both do. But that’s what this is, isn’t it? Why bother ruining yourself for anything but love? It’s the only thing worth the ache.

Aang lets out a shaky breath, their fingers tangling. “Does it always feel like this?”

“No,” she says. A simple truth.

He nods, then, after a moment, steps back from her a bit. It’s hard not to feel stung, but she really should be going, and no one is more aware of what they’re risking than Aang. She compromises, though, by pressing one last, lingering kiss to his lips, using her thumb to wipe away the remnants of her lipstick after they separate. It makes him chuckle.

“That would look pretty bad, wouldn’t it?” he asks, touching his mouth.

“Very. You’re lucky I’m here.”

“Or unlucky, considering.”

She rolls her eyes. He shoots her a weak grin. Finally, he allows her to bypass him, their fingers grazing. A passing glance.

By the time she walks out, the party is in full form. A soft, romantic song plays out over the din of chatter. Some couples are already swaying to the beat, while others look on in longing, nudging reluctant partners. Katara wonders, idly, if she should greet any of them, but when she spots her Auntie Ashuna making her way towards her, a young man in tow, she beelines it for Sokka and Suki in a panic.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” her brother demands, squawking indignantly after she snatches his wine glass.

Katara gestures with her chin. They both nod in sympathy.

“She won’t rest until you’ve had at least six kids,” Sokka says.

Suki chuckles darkly. “Or us.”

“Yes, us. But especially Katara. Something about being a girl.”

“My womb is a ticking time bomb, obviously.”

“Obviously,” the couple says in unison.

“The guy’s not that bad looking, though,” Sokka continues with a shrug. “Maybe you should talk to him.”

“I’d rather not.”

“Why?” He waggles his brows. “Is my baby sister already taken?”

Fighting a blush, Katara narrows her eyes at him, preparing herself for a spat, but when Suki shouts, “Aang!” in delight, every barbed word slips from her mind like water.

The crowd parts to let him through. There’s a deference in the way people greet him, which she knows, immediately, makes him uncomfortable, but Aang bears it with good humor. When he turns to them, she feels her breath go short, her stomach clenching. Just minutes ago, she was in his arms. Now, she has to play at being his friend again.

He waves as he walks over. “Hey, guys.”

“Hey, man.” Sokka claps his shoulder with a grin. “Look at you!”

“Aw, this?” He pulls at his robes. “It’s just… You know…”

“Very striking,” Suki offers kindly.

“Especially around the…” Katara gestures to his arms. Aang catches her gaze. Drops it. He smiles, a little stiffly.

“Yeah. The monks did a great job.”

“Are you nervous?” Sokka asks him. “The ceremony’s starting soon.”

“A little bit. I brought note cards, though. So, I think I’ll be fine.”

“You will be,” Suki assures him, smiling. “You’re a great speaker, Aang. And no one is better at keeping their cool than you.”

There’s a brief moment where his eyes flicker to Katara, before he shrugs. “All I can do is promise I’ll try my best.”

“Well, you better start getting up there.” Sokka points to the band. “People are setting up.”

“Right,” he says. “Right.”

He looks back, their eyes meeting again. Katara wants to do something stupid, like hug him, kiss his cheek, fix his collar— friends do that, right? But she settles for a, “Good luck, Aang.”

“Thanks, Katara.”

They watch him take his place at the pagoda beside the officiant, before rushing to find their seats, the rows already crowded with people. Suki finds their name cards in the first row, and plops down beside Sokka. Katara sits near the aisle, a nervous flutter in her gut.

What is he going to say? she thinks. What is he going to do? It’s so hard to tell, given his neutral expression, but she finds that she wants something from him. Reassurance, but she can’t say why, or for what.

“Katara!”

She jolts at the frantic whisper near her ear, and snaps around to see Malina, crouching by her seat. Her eyes are wild.

“I need you to find your father,” she hisses. “Now. Right now. The ceremony is starting in five minutes, and no one can find him.”

“What?” Suki, Sokka, and Katara all sit up in panic, but Malina hastily waves them down.

“Don’t make a scene! Just go find him.”

“But… But where—“

“Go.”

Nodding quickly, she stands up and walks down the aisle, smiling stiffly at every person she sees. Once she’s in the house, however, she breaks into a sprint, her heels clacking against the wood floors. “Dad! Dad, where are you?!”

She checks his bedroom, both bathrooms, Sokka’s old room, and Malina’s art studio, but there’s no sign of him. It’s only when she rushes down to the basement that she sees him, hunched over something, the sleeves of his suit jacket rolled up to his elbows.

“Dad?” she calls, almost carefully. “Is that you?”

Startled, he looks up at her. When she reaches him, she notices a box laid out in front him, filled to the brim with old pictures. At the sight of her mother’s young, smiling face, a lump jumps straight to her throat.

“Our wedding pictures,” he says, smiling weakly. “I went down here just to reminisce. I guess I lost track of time.”

“Why?” she asks.

There’s a long pause. Katara settles down beside him, her chin tucked into her knees like a little girl. She wants to cry like one, too. Damn him.

“It’s strange to be a widower,” he says, finally. “The relationship never failed. It just ended before either of us really wanted it to. If we ever would’ve wanted it to. I’m always thinking about your mother, Katara, but I guess I just wanted to— see her.”

“Does Malina know?”

“Malina’s always known.” His forehead creases. He sends her a wry look. “Do you think that makes me a bad husband?”

“I don’t think anyone is unjustified in their grief.”

He notices her pointed tone immediately, and grabs her knee, squeezing it. “If I made you feel that way, please know that I’m sorry. I never meant to. All I’ve ever wanted is your happiness. You and your brother’s.”

“I know, Dad,” she whispers.

“And— And I know that Malina is not everyone’s cup of tea, but—“ He snorts. A smile flickers over his lips, and he jostles her playfully. “Neither are you, sweetheart.”

She gapes at him. “Dad!”

“Neither am I! Bato can barely stand me, and I’m his best friend.”

“Because your jokes suck,” she snaps. It lacks any real heat, but she continues. “And you created me, so…”

“Your mother created you,” he says, reaching out to touch her necklace. Katara freezes at the sheen over his blue eyes. “And it’s those bits you need to cling to. Not whatever I gave you.”

She grabs his wrist. “That’s not true, Dad. You’re a wonderful father.”

“I haven’t always been there for you.”

“I’m not easy to be there for.”

“A good parent tries, anyway.”

“And a good daughter knows better than to shut her dad out just because he gets a new girlfriend.”

They stare at each other for a long moment. It’s small, but Katara feels something begin to scab over in her. She spent so long thinking her father wanted to run from the memory of her mother that she didn’t consider she may have been running from him, and him from her, and the only thing that distance ever achieved was hurt, festering between them like a wound.

“That’s the thing about you,” he says, almost in awe as he thumbs her chin. “You’re so fierce but so forgiving. No one knows how to love better than you, Katara. That’s probably why you find it so painful.”

“I got that from you.”

“No,” he smiles. “That’s just you.”

He closes the box. They stand up together and link arms, which makes him laugh. “Do you want to walk me down the aisle?”

“I think Auntie Ashuna would have a heart attack.”

“It might do her heart some good to see it, though. You know, getting a glimpse into your future?”

Katara chuckles nervously. “Why don’t we just focus on you today?”

He doesn’t actually make her walk him down the aisle, thank the Spirits, but he kisses her hands before he lets her go, and it leaves Katara with the same rush of affection she might’ve gotten if she did. By the time she makes it back to her seat, she’s crying.

Sokka nudges her with a grin. “Toldja.”

“Shut up,” she sniffles, then shushes him loudly when Aang takes his place before the couple, her heart in her mouth.

“First of all,” he says, his voice ringing out strong and clear— the mark of a naturally good speaker. “I’d like to thank everyone for joining us today to celebrate the love between these two. I haven’t known Hakoda and Malina for very long, admittedly, but if Katara and Sokka are anything to go by, they’re amazing. Only someone special could raise two people like that.”

Someone in the audience whoops— Bato, maybe— and Aang laughs. “I, uh. I was invited here to give a speech. A blessing, mostly, but a speech, and I won’t lie to you guys, it’s hard to find something new to say about love. I mean, it’s love, right? It’s all any of us talk about. It’s all any of us want. There are books, and songs, and poems, and verses all about describing it, trying to get at the heart of what it is, and I doubt I’ll be any more profound than the scholars before me who have tried, but for you guys, I’ll give it a go.”

He clears his throat, tapping his notecards against his palm. Then, with a sudden fire in his eyes, he begins:

“Love is— Love is awful. Love is painful.” Katara jolts, along with everyone else in the crowd. “It is! It’s maddening. It sticks with you. It eats at you. It keeps you up at night and invades your dreams. It makes you selfish. It makes you jealous. It makes you obsessed with hair!”

“What the fuck is wrong with him?” Sokka hisses.

“Truly, it’s— it’s one of the most gut-wrenching things we can experience in our lifetimes, and we do it, anyway! Because we want it. Because it makes us feel less lonely. Because it gives us hope. Because it feels like hope, even when it’s hurting you.”

An audible sigh of relief from the crowd. Katara unlatches her fingers from the bottom of her chair, forcing herself to relax with them. He’s back on track.

“You know, the monks used to tell me that hope is just a distraction, but I’m not sure that’s true. I think it’s the only thing worth living for. What is life without hope? How do you get through a bad day without yearning for the next one to be better? How do you speak to someone without hoping you’ll see them again? What is grief without hope? What is grief without love? Emptiness. Bleak despair. What’s the point of living, then? There’s nothing there.”

“So, that’s why we do it, continuously putting ourselves on the pyre for love. We want to find that hope in other people. We want to share the hope that we have. And why not do that? Why keep it to ourselves? If love is energy, then let it go somewhere. The best recipient is each other.” He bows his head. “Thank you.”

There’s a burst of raucous applause. Aang smiles and flushes a bit, bowing again. Sokka leans towards her with a wide grin.

“That was amazing, wasn’t it?” he asks excitedly. “At first, I thought he was losing his mind, but he really turned it around!”

“He did great.” Katara can barely hear herself over the roaring in her ears. Her heart pounds hard enough to make her dizzy, and she exhales slowly, trying to calm it. She can’t explain her acute feeling of panic. There’s no name for its cause.

“Alright.” Aang claps his hands. “Let’s get on with the big event, shall we?”

Malina and Hakoda stand up. The officiant takes his place.

The ceremony is beautiful, objectively. Her father and Malina exchange heartfelt vows, kiss amongst a burst of applause, and then Aang leads them through a small, beautiful mantra about devotion and the betterment of themselves. It’s lovely, and even Sokka gets teary-eyed, but all Katara wants is a drink.

He’s made for this, she thinks, watching him.

When they’re done, they take it inside for the afterparty. All the large furniture has been stored away to make room for the dance floor, and inhibitions get discarded as alcohol begins to flow freely. Within two hours, most of their guests are well-and-truly drunk, and Katara loses track of Sokka and Suki almost as soon as they take their second round of shots. It’s not entirely surprising, given what an infamous lightweight her brother is, but she still feels disappointed. She’d hoped to hide in his company.

It’s only after another near-failed attempt to hide from Auntie Ashuna, that Katara finally decides to take her sulking outside. She grabs a glass of wine from a passing waiter, and settles against one of the columns on her father’s front porch. The sun is already beginning to set, and the sky is a dark, dusky shade of purple that hints at the coming night. If she weren’t tipsy, she knows she’d be cold. The breeze is a bit chilly.

“Hey,” she hears, and turns to see Aang, the door closing behind him. His hands are in his pockets. “What are you doing by yourself?”

She raises her glass. He laughs a bit.

“Do you want to join me inside?”

“It’s too loud to talk.”

He makes his way over to her and leans his shoulder against her column. She has such a striking sense of deja vu, then. The hint of a dream. “It’s the perfect volume for dancing, though,” he says.

Shocked, Katara gapes up at him. Her heart kick-starts into a gallop, and she looks around like someone might be watching them, listening in on their conversation. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“As far as I know, monks are allowed to dance.”

“It won’t raise too many eyebrows for you?”

Aang smiles, extending his hand. “I can deal with a few.”

There it is— that dastardly hope again, thrumming at the base of her throat. Katara swallows nervously, butterflies dancing around her stomach, but takes his hand, smiling as he leads her inside.

He must’ve timed his request perfectly, because a slow, crooning love song begins to play almost as soon as they step onto the dance floor. Aang leads her towards the center, then turns to fit her against him, one hand falling to her waist, the other interlacing with her fingers, poised at shoulder height— perfect form. Katara laughs breathlessly when he guides her through the first step.

“Are you a secret professional dancer or something?”

He shrugs, smirking. “Airbending has a lot of spinning. Makes you nimble.”

Which he is, indeed. While most of the other couples around them cling to each other and sway in place, Aang moves with her around the floor, twirling her on just the right beat, folding her back into his arms with perfect precision. It’s not flashy, exactly, but he’s captivating in his expertise, and it’s not long before Katara finds herself dazzled, speechless, content to spend the rest of her life doing just this. Circling him in an eternal dance.

She thinks she sees it in his eyes, too, reflected amongst the multicolor strobe lights: a certain happiness, a mad joy, intense in its brevity. Though she knows she shouldn’t, when he brings her back against him after another spin, she tucks herself into him, nearly chest-to-chest. Her hands clutch at his shawl, and he grabs her waist, panting. She can feel his heart pounding, right next to his Air Nation medallion, and she smooths her palm over it. There’s so much she wants to say. So much she wants to hear him say.

“Hey.” She looks up, so close their foreheads almost knock together. Aang hardly seems to notice, hyperfocused on her. “Do you want to get out of here?”

Katara nods, and he takes her hand to lead her off the floor. As they make their way towards the exit, she catches Suki’s eye. A wave of understanding passes between them, and her expression morphs, unbearably sad. Katara pointedly looks away from her.

The outside air feels soothing against their heated, sweaty skin, and both she and Aang sigh with relief before laughing.

“Worked you out, didn’t I?” he teases.

“It wouldn’t be the first time.”

He blushes, bright red, and Katara laughs again, wanting to hold him in plain view of the stars, the moon, and any eyes that might be watching. Damn them all.

“Can I walk you home?” he asks.

They make it as far as the bus stop. The late hour, their dancing, her drinking, and the general emotional upheaval of the past few days catches up to her quickly, and she requests a break. Aang sits beside her on the bench, drumming his fingers against his thighs. A nervous tap-tap-tap that sends daggers through her. Does he know what he’s about to do?

“That wedding was beautiful, huh? Your dad seemed really happy.”

“He was, yeah. He pulled through.”

“I assume because you talked to him?”

“I did,” she says, smiling shakily. “It was nice. It was… healing.”

Aang nudges her shoulder with his own. “What did I tell you?”

She looks at him. Can’t bring herself to respond, not even teasingly. The washed out, neon yellow lights surrounding them suit him just as well as the sunlight does, and her heart throbs painfully. He’s so precious. She wants to keep him, tuck him into herself, bind him to her always. Possessively. Selfishly.

She bites her lip, fighting back tears.

“So, what time do you think the bus is—?”

“This is it, isn’t it?” she interrupts. He turns to her, stricken, and she bites back a sob. “You’re not choosing me.”

Aang gapes at her for a moment. She sees it come over him in real time, the inevitability of a decision he had yet to come to, the reality of what it means. What children they’ve been, living in a world so far from the immediate consequences. It was always going to end here. Another foregone conclusion.

She can tell, just by the wetness that floods his eyes, the rapid-fire intensity of his sudden sorrow, that it's true. It strikes her more profoundly than any weak denial, and she hunches over herself a bit, gasping.

“Damn,” she spits, almost involuntarily. “Damn it.”

“Katara—“ His voice is thick with tears, but she continues, hardly aware of herself. Normally, she’d have tried to keep her pride, save face, but they’ve already taken so much from each other. Why not this?

“You want to know what the worst thing is?” she asks him. “I love you. I’m in love with you.”

His face crumples. She says it again. “I love you, Aang. So much.”

He inhales deeply. There’s a ragged, snotty sound to it, and he reaches over to grasp her hand. He leans towards her, and they stay in that moment, their fingers curling together, her shaky breath disturbing his collar. His thumb rubs a wide circle over her knuckles, and the urge to kiss his fingertips, even then, is bafflingly intense.

Aang catches her eye. His lips quirk, like he might smile, but it doesn’t keep. “It’ll pass,” he whispers. “Everything does.”

A startled laugh nearly bursts out of her. Consequences again. This is what she gets for falling in love with an Air Nomad monk— existential niceties instead of tortured yelling. But she can’t really blame him. This is all he’s ever known.

And what she knows is grief. Heartbreak is just another form.

“Okay,” she croaks, sniffling. “If you say so.”

He squeezes her hand. His face is still lowered, still close, so she presses a small, fleeting kiss to his lips. One more for the road. A sob breaks against her mouth.

“I love you, too,” he says, the words nearly lost to the wind.

She thumbs his chin. “I know.”

When he finally stands up, Katara tucks her hands beneath her legs, afraid she’ll reach for him again. He walks a few steps forward before pausing and turning to her, and there’s a second, a half-breath, where she hopes that he’ll change his mind. But he just sighs and wipes his wet cheek.

“Goodbye, Katara.”

“Bye, Aang.”

She watches him go, steadily disappearing down the block. The second he’s gone, the dam bursts, and she sobs bitterly into her palms, trembling with the force of it. Her heart aches under the weight of her love, aimless, searching for a place to land.

It’s gotta go somewhere, Aang had told her.

How ironic. She’d wanted to give it to him.