Chapter Text
There is a vast expanse of topics that Po does not often ponder—he does not opt to spend his time within the restricting bounds of his own mind, rather preferring to allow himself the liberty of embracing the present moment.
He finds profound joy in spending his time with loved ones, and although he treasures many of them, he particularly cherishes the company of his closest friends. He always looks forward to moments spent with those who are dear to him, which is why he readily agrees to Tigress's offer to join her on the roof of the barracks.
The rooftop of the barracks, while quite prone to gathering frost, provides a breathtaking view of the stars. The building’s site eludes the stretching canopies of most trees and sits in a serene clearing, composing a near-perfect place from which to view the night sky.
Even amidst the snow, the setting exuded a—Po imagines—romantic ambiance. Not necessarily in the traditional sense, but rather in an unorthodox manner that instead reflects the beauty of less appreciated things.
Po and Tigress sit side by side, their shoulders occasionally brushing. They haven't yet exchanged words, not even ones of greeting, opting instead to silently bask in each other's company. Po is at ease with the silence, oblivious to the anticipatory anxiety on Tigress’s end.
“Po, may I ask you a question?” Tigress asks. Her voice rises hardly above a whisper, almost swept away in the winter wind.
Po chooses to dismiss the hesitant nature of Tigress’s tone, instead exciting himself over the knowledge that she had been the one to initiate the conversation.
“Yeah, for sure,” Po says and nods, his signature smile adorning his face.
“What is the nature of our relationship?” she inquires.
The air was filled with such ease just moments ago—wonderfully careless and childishly wistful. Po longs for the moment as soon as it departs, mourning the loss of the calm to the monstrous greed of adult conversation.
A moment of contemplation ensues, during which Po sighs and purses his lips. He glances fleetingly about his surroundings—perhaps searching for some sort of distraction—and weaves his fingers together in his lap.
“I take it I’ve surprised you?” she says.
“A bit,” he admits, encouraging an amused huff from his lungs. “I don’t really know what I was expecting.”
“I suppose I could have prefaced it somehow,” Tigress muses. “It’s an unusual question. Apologies.”
“No, no, it’s okay,” Po assures her. He wrangles some of his thoughts despite only managing to gain slight mental footing. “I just don’t think I know what you’re asking.”
“I am asking how it is that you regard me,” Tigress tells him, “and I am questioning the way in which I regard you.”
“Okay,” he says, the word drawing itself out in uncertainty. “Did I…do something?”
“No,” Tigress replies.
“Are you mad at me?” he asks, at which Tigress sighs.
“No,” she repeats. Her tone suggests a hint of hostility.
“We’re friends,” Po says, his voice wavering in uncertainty. Tigress does not reply. He swallows. “Do you not—?”
“I do,” Tigress says, “but I've observed that our relationship has developed in unique ways compared to that of my other relationships.”
“I can’t tell if that’s good or bad,” Po tells her.
“Neither can I,” Tigress admits. “I’m inclined to describe it positively.”
“That’s good,” Po says. He hesitates and briefly—quite briefly—considers his options, ultimately deciding to pursue the subject. “How would you describe it?”
Tigress inhales and exhales, white puffs of breath unfurling from her nose and mouth like smoke from a dragon’s maw. She does not speak for the better part of a minute—perhaps in hopes of allowing some of the conversation’s tension to seep away—before tilting her head to look at the sky.
“With you, I feel understood,” she eventually says. “Utterly and wholly, without judgment or question.”
H er words hang languidly in the snow-sprinkled air, each syllable resonating with a weighty significance that seems to settle and sink into the cracks of the roof upon which Po and Tigress sit. Po initially doesn’t trust himself to speak, instead opting to ponder an appropriate response.
“That’s easy, then,” Po eventually tells her. “We’re best friends.”
She considers him and something in her eyes betrays her composed facade. She shifts—a tell-tale sign of her discomfort—and tucks her legs to her chest, wrapping her arms around them.
“I suppose so,” she says, despite looking quite dissatisfied.
“Do we need a label?” Po asks almost immediately. “I mean, it’s not like we have to have one, you know? Nobody’s forcing us.”
“It’s a comfort to have one,” Tigress argues.
“I think it’s restricting,” Po counters.
“How so?” Tigress inquires.
“I don’t know, they’re so definite, you know?” Po says. “It’s like saying ‘This is what you are and here are the criteria.’ It just seems like a label could hold you back.” He regards her and grins. “I don’t need one.”
Tigress says, "I need to understand what our relationship is."
“We’re Po and Tigress,” Po replies, “and in my humble opinion, that’s way cooler than literally anything else we could call ourselves.”
He playfully nudges his shoulder into hers, his wide smile reducing into a gentler expression.
“We’ll workshop it, yeah?” he says.
She gains a smile of her own, granting him as great a relief as rain in a drought. “Yeah.”