Chapter Text
somewhere in between
Katara is so, so wrong.
She’s wrong when she lets her fingers linger just a second too long while detangling hairspray-coated sable locks that glisten under the many bulb lights of the vanity mirror. She’d argue that Azula was wrong this time too, staying behind at the makeup station when the photoshoot had ended an hour ago, only photographers and stylists left straightening up the studio (certainly no one that could point out their bullshit).
But she can’t, not really, because all Azula had done was wait and wait and wait, making Katara the one to slowly shuffle her feet forward, the one to ignite the flame. The flame that licked her over and over, scorching. She let it, and when it would be snuffed out it would be she who carried the match — and perhaps a jerrycan of gasoline.
It’s the first time Azula looks at Katara today, truly looks at her, instead of passive gazes Azula thinks she won’t catch when staring straight into the lens and contorting into poses her diet suffers for. Wordlessly rising out of the folding chair, a peck on the cheek leaves both of them blushing in thick silence.
Azula’s soft lips of vermillion don’t leave a stain. Katara kind of wishes they would.
Katara grabs Azula’s hooded capelet from the coat rack as they step out into the harsh winter, pristine crystalline snowflakes already clinging onto delicate lush lashes amber gleams through.
It’s not just sex anymore.
(It never was.)
The comforting warmth of chamomile travels to her insides. The tea shop smells of earth and Azula’s Earl Grey. It’s wonderfully toasty, the heating on so high that Katara has to shed more than one layer. The afternoon sunlight streams through the large pane windows covered in vinyl decals, casting onto Azula a glow so elysian as she adorably blows on her raised teacup.
“What?”
“I think you’re beautiful.”
“As I you.”
Neither of them speaks as they hold each other’s gazes. Katara wishes it could be like this, every day, every second of her life. It’s just the two of them, no pretending, no anything. Her drink is mostly drained now, the atmosphere having dimmed and the reclining hearth descends early given the season. The quiet is no longer comfortable.
“We’d better get going,” Azula comments dryly.
They really shouldn’t, since sugar is the enemy, but Katara just needs time, just needs whatever the gods can spare her.
“What about dessert?”
❀
The ticking of the clock nearly makes Katara insane. The plastic chair she’s sat on definitely was chosen for design’s sake, her spine getting sore. Much too jittery to do anything else, she stares straight into the white walls — lined with frames of past starlets produced by the agency she hopes to sign into. She arrived thirty minutes early, but she’s been sipping on the paper cup filled with water for so long its edges have begun to wither under her nervous chewing. Her portfolio of head and body shots taken by Suki’s eager camera lies heavy on her lap. Somehow, only when she settles and flips through bored does she realise everything completely flawed with it.
This wasn’t the plan, not originally. Katara wasn’t one of those kids who stuck with whatever they had said for icebreakers the first day of school. She had ‘wanted’ to be a lot of things. A nurse in second grade, because she had wanted to help people. She figured that wouldn’t work out when she’d almost fainted at the sight of Sokka’s nosebleed a day later. A veterinarian in the fifth grade, when they had first gotten their golden retriever and she vowed all her love to the animals of the world. That lasted a bit longer until she knew she never wanted to be the one pushing euthanasia through a syringe. A police officer freshman year, wanting to live the life of flashy cop shows where she’d have the chance to shout ‘You’re under arrest!’. She shunned the idea after those useless degenerates declared her mother’s case cold.
Helping people right? So a human rights lawyer it was, till Katara had cried out of fury in debate club opposite the poor boy who had only followed his allocated stance. She probably couldn’t do that in a courtroom. She’s been loosely working toward a social work degree ever since.
To say she was fascinated after the lady in the supermarket had approached her would be an understatement. All she knew was one minute she was scanning the shelves for her favourite brand of peanut butter in sweatpants and sandals and the next she had a business card printed with emails and phone numbers in her palm.
“You so have the look for it!” the woman squeals, then finally leaving with the clicks of her little beige pumps.
Aang says it’s up to her. ‘It could be fun’ is all she gets out of him even if she pokes and prods for something other than neutral. Suki starts proclaiming that this way they could work together, a duo that would make its mark in the media world. Sokka refers her to his boyfriend, Zuko, who has a sister in the industry. Zuko tells Katara that she has potential and it fuels the urge inside her for something new, something fresh, something different. Just a thing on the side, just for her.
Which is how she finds herself thinking ‘I shouldn’t have crooked my arm like that for the hundredth time before the door finally swings open. Katara can hear the boisterous laughter flooding out. An agent, she presumes, steps out to see whoever was inside out.
She’s breathtakingly gorgeous.
The girl nods and the staff at the door disappear back inside the room. Katara, assuming she’d be going in soon, scrambles to collect her things feeling more out of place than ever.
“Is that your portfolio?” A voice so silvery it stays in her head for the rest of the day (though she doesn’t know it yet).
“If you can call it that. I’ve never done this before and I’m pretty sure I’ll look back and laugh at this one day.”
“Can I see?”
“Sure.”
The girl sits on the chair next to her. She can smell faint dusky perfume. Tuberose and gardenias.
“You’re pretty. You’ll be fine.”
“Thank you, but I don’t know. I don’t think I’ve got your charm," Katara remarks, feeling her cheeks get warmer and warmer.
“Hmm?”
“Oh, well it seemed like they liked you in there.”
“Right—“
“You look familiar... I’m sorry that’s weird, ignore me,” she says sheepishly, having not thought her words through at all.
“I’m Azula Sozin. You might know my father.”
“I know your brother! He’s my brother’s boyfriend... I’m Katara!” Katara utters excitedly, extending her hand out.
“....Nice to meet you Katara,” Azula replies, slowly clasping her hand in hers shaking it clearly a little addled.
To her relief, she’s called in just a moment later.
“Good Luck.”
“Thanks. I’ll need it.”
That was awkward, she finds herself thinking. It was stupid of her to assume that Zuko had told Azula about her. Stupid, stupid.
She finally lets out a breath long overdue after the wardrobe assistant is done. Her waist is cinched tight in a corset dress they’re fitting on her. She’s rushed off into a seat and she can feel the brushes of mink fur tickle at her nose, tempted to sneeze at the pigment they’re piling on her. Hands are in her hair and she winces but doesn’t complain when a rogue bobby pin stabs into her scalp.
Left alone from gentle tugs at her curls for a rare moment, she takes in the people around her. The girls are all from the agency as far as she can tell, familiar with a few. Orah, the blonde next to her, is talking her ear off about whatever teen heartthrob is in the tabloids.
“Ugh, can you imagine even just meeting him?”
“Mhm.”
“At least I’m not lonely anymore, but my boyfriend keeps complaining he never gets to see me at these runway shows. Does yours do that Kaya?”
“Oh, It’s Katara. Um, not really but I think mine’s actually coming to this one.”
“Don’t you have to be exclusively invited?”
“I’m not sure actually, I just got the message an hour ago that he’d gotten access—“
“I know the designer, and I’d gotten my dear brother to pass on the spare invites,” Azula suddenly remarks, apparently having just arrived slightly late and slinking into the chair on the other side of Katara.
Katara darts her eyes startled rapt in familiar recognition of Azula.
“I certainly didn’t forget you,” Azula whispers before heading to be styled in garments.
The flute of champagne sits in her hand heavy. All she does is watch the effervescence in the cognac as her body sinks into the leather of the sofa, dismayed that Aang had left after the runway. Though, now that she’s sitting alone in the club, she can’t help but think she should’ve hightailed it out of there with him. The after-party rages around her. The blaring EDM strains her ears and the flashes of strobe lights tire her out after an already early start to the day. She can’t blame them, probably countless weeks spent on the summer collection, the designer’s efforts finally coming to fruition.
But all she had done was strut and look pretty, so when she looks on to a team of pattern makers throwing back shots amongst neighbouring cheers she’s afraid she doesn’t quite feel the exuberance they do.
“Having fun?”
“Would you believe me if I said yes?”
Katara thinks the radiant blurs of violet make Azula look enchanting.
“Wouldn’t want their blown budget to go to waste, no?
Katara’s not normally one for the dance floor, but when hands pull at her waist, the rhythm of the music seems ever so easy to sway to. They’re so, so very close. Her arms are around Azula’s warm neck and there’s a firm grasp on her hips and
....lips are on hers.
and as quickly as they were they aren’t anymore, foreheads pressed together now. Why is she giggling? She chalks it up to the alcohol since everything is terribly fuzzy except for the one thing, the one person.
The other seems to titter as well, but then it’s static. Painful, painful motionless. She can’t tell if a minute or an hour has passed when she leans in, she wants, no she needs
because it’s been too long,
and it’s utterly sublime.
Katara learns two things. First, that she likes the taste of fireball whiskey, at least right now, like this. Second, that Azula isn’t a danger she chases, she’s euphoric ecstasy she didn’t know she could ever feel, never mind if she’s supposed to.
She wakes the next morning to tangled sheets and unwelcome unrelenting sunlight flooding the hotel room.
Katara’s done something bad. Done something really really bad, and the fact that she’s naked under the duvet doesn’t help. Dragging the covers around her preserving any last shreds of dignity she has as she searches for any semblance of last night's clothes she hopes will be somewhere on the floor.
Three pings among the sounds of running water in the background alert her ears. Her nails scrape against the glass of the coffee table as she picks up a phone that isn’t hers.
3 new messages
Ty Lee [9:03]: You didn’t come to mine last night.
Ty Lee [9:03]: it’s ok. just tell me next time.
Ty Lee [9:04]: Call me, please
A guttural, sinking feeling that has her clutching the armchair, so tight her knuckles turn white. A headache, pounding at her forehead.
“Morning.”
She turns to see Azula with a cool aloofness that radiates off. Dressed in a white hotel robe and strands of sodden hair are being patted dry with a towel. Legs crossed over slide out into view as Azula proceeds to sit on the edge of the bed, nonchalant. Katara doesn’t miss the ruby lace lingerie clinging onto delectable skin peeking through.
Katara doesn’t answer. She can’t. Can’t seem to form any words and even if she did it would more or less be unleashing ire she wouldn’t be able to justify after.
The muteness transpires a certain tenseness in the room. Katara forces her eyes to instead look towards the horizon, past the glass to the cityscape below. They’re high up, those beneath on their daily commute look like ants. The other indulges her, deciding to peruse the view as well, although amusedly.
“What did I do?” she mutters, voice hoarse and scratchy yet louder than ever.
She can feel the stare of the other blazing into her.
“You tell me.”
“Well, I’m sorry I’m not entirely okay right now. I don’t exactly cheat every day.”
Katara admits the accusatory glare she sends Azula isn’t fair, especially when the words ‘unlike some people’ hang just at the tip of her tongue. The air turns stale.
“...I don’t either,” Azula rasps with a hint of dejectedness that dissipates when she takes on a hardened expression again.
Craning and picking up a cigarette to dangle on the mouth, the lone flame dances as a hand cups around it before dropping both the limb and the butane lighter. Smoke emerges with a breath out and the stick rests between a middle and ring finger.
“...I need to leave.”
“Go ahead,” the smoker responds airily, seemingly uncaring as a head tilts back taking in tobacco once more.
So Katara does, all but scampering out as she finally finds her dress crumpled and purse tossed in a far corner of the room. It’s only when she’s in the corridor does she feel the carpet and realise she hasn’t got her shoes. But the last thing she’ll do is go back in there, so cloth slippers get nicked from an unattended housekeeping trolley.
Azula goes with flowers in hand as an apology unspoken. Fuchsia tulips and alabaster carnations. Tied up pretty with tissue paper that she’s trying hard not to crease and a satin bow she’d paid extra for. It’s late by the time she makes it there, the downtown apartment she enters via a key under a terracotta flower pot by the entrance.
She’d spent the rest of the day wandering in vain because no matter how many hundred dollar bills she slips to the homeless the guilt doesn’t wash away. It’s funny since just several years ago she wouldn’t have batted an eye to the damage she’d always do.
Moonlight shining into the living room is the first thing she notices. A mug sits on the kitchen counter, still half-full with what she assumes to be coffee, its inner rim stained sepia.
“...Azula.”
Ty Lee, always so soft-spoken but it’s tiredness this time, rubs her eyes clear on the couch she had just awoken from. Standing now, clad in an endearing cartoon pyjama set.
“Are those for me?”
A nod. The sleepy sniffing the bouquet in a clichéd move. Moving to fill a vase by the tap, running water thrashing harsh in what would otherwise be a quiet pause.
“I feel like I haven’t seen you in ages.”
“I’m sorry.”
(too rushed, too stilted.)
“Whatever for?”
(not now.)
“Sorry for not calling you.”
“Oh. How was my sister’s fashion show by the way?”
“Ty Lao did a good job.”
“Good for her.”
“Your bed’s for sleeping in you know.”
“Was expecting a guest.”
“In the dead of the night?”
“I was right, wasn’t I?”
The sound of crickets chirping as Ty Lee likes to crack open a window of her second-floor flat every night.
“I should go.”
“Alright.”
Abnormal but nothing is normal with Azula. Ty Lee never pushes, has learnt not to after all these years. They part with not a single touch shared.
(and the thing is, ty lee has never pushed so far to a label either. but they’re still bound, together, for she has seen the other like no one has before.)
When Katara arrives home her limbs ache and she’s painfully aware of the smudged makeup after peering at her reflection in the shiny lift. She drops her keys in the ceramic trinket dish with a clang. Her feet carry her into the bathroom and she runs a bath, scalding yet not hesitating to step in all the same.
Her phone buzzes on the white tile floor. Struggling to answer as droplets drip on the screen.
“Hi Kat.”
“Hi Aang.”
“...are you okay? You sound a bit off.”
“I’m fine.”
“Oh, well, your dad invited me to your family dinner next week.”
“You there?”
“I’m sorry.”
(too rushed, too stilted.)
“Whatever for?”
(not now.)
“Last night I guess.”
“You have nothing to be sorry for. I love you.”
“I love you too,” she chokes out, before pressing a hand to mouth trying to stifle any emotions from passing to the other end of the line.
“I’ll talk to you later, bye Kat.”
Hugging her knees, Katara cries.
The start of the day had already been torturous, almost burning her fingers while trying to pull the toast out of the damn toaster. She’d run out of instant coffee, driving to her nearby Jasmine Dragon. The car ride had been full of attempts for mental preparation that only ended in honks from disgruntled drivers behind, making her spill the tea.
Katara knew all too well Azula would be there. Azula is Zuko’s sister and she’s Zuko’s friend, so she’s going too. A simple resolution.
When she steps into the penthouse she’s fine, fine because Zuko is hugging her and she can’t see anything other than the pattern of his shirt. Then she’s released and can see much more.
“You know my sister right?” Zuko asks, motioning for Azula to come forward, who rises from a shared chaise metres away.
“Yeah, hi. Nice seeing you again,” Katara says hastily, eager for the chance of stalking off and finding a secluded corner to maybe merely sip on a can of cherry cola.
“Likewise.”
“Are you going to introduce me?” a voice chimes, its bearer the doe-eyed girl still sitting.
“Right this is Ty Lee, my—um, Ty Lee.”
Katara throws a half-hearted wave. If the girl of the ‘you didn’t come to mine’ texts had been even just a tiny bit bothered by Azula’s mishap she didn’t show it.
“You’ll have to excuse me, I just need to go to the bathroom.”
Sokka and Zuko’s bathroom is thoroughly interesting. She’s currently rummaging through their cupboards and has found a plethora of various hair gels and shaving creams. They use different soaps, she deduces, a clear divide between flowery and fruity scents on the wall-mounted shower shelf. Then again, they might mix it up. Something to investigate further with nothing else to do.
A knock that makes her jump and break the bottle of vitamin gummies on the floor.
“Was that glass breaking? Let me in.”
Embarrassed, Katara tentatively pulling the door back only enough for a small gap. Azula pushing herself into the space anyway, then proceeding to crouch and inspect the mess.
“There should be a broom here,” Azula comments, looking to Katara who hands her the mentioned item after having nosily snooped for the past hour.
Katara foolishly bends to pick at shards that had somehow projected themselves across the room. Red forms at her hand even though she can’t feel anything that major.
“Give it here.”
“Huh?”
“Your hand. I found the first-aid kit.”
She grimaces as Azula presses a cotton ball soaked in betadine onto the wound. Dressing goes around it and she’s not the one attentively ensuring it is tight and secure.
“You were in here long.”
Katara responds with a shrug, eyes downcast.
“An hour in fact. Your boyfriend arrived.”
“Oh?”
“He’s nice. Seems quite happy-go-lucky.”
Her hand is let go now, so both of them stumble to their feet.
“The expiration date was on the lid, four months ago. I doubt they’ll notice it missing.”
“Why were you the one to come find me?”
“Why not? We’re friends aren’t we?”
Curse Zuko for having a summer birthday. Katara finds herself dipping a toe into the coolness of the water, watching as the ripples fade away with time. She’s lying down, the only thing between her back and the mahogany deck a laid-out red and white striped towel. The polarised sunglasses aid her against the glare of the midday sun.
“You’re such a party pooper," Sokka whines with a pout.
He’s right, but entering the pool means playing makeshift water polo with everybody else and she can’t do it, not with Azula (in a bikini) down the other side of the net. It’s absurd because she’s good at water polo, really really good in fact, a former high school captain of the sport.
The bandaged hand is a good excuse. She can’t risk any unintended looks of longing, not currently trusting herself.
Finally, as the sun sets, the group decides to head in. After a brilliantly sung happy birthday from Suki, Sokka pulls Zuko into a kiss before letting Zuko blow the little rainbow wax candles out. Azula is delegated to cake-cutting duty and when a paper plate is handed to her a brush of fingers makes her shiver.
Toph is telling Katara about a local martial arts competition she is to take part in. As she stands to perform a move Katara catches a glance of Azula and Ty Lee sharing a plate.
The strawberry between fluffy chiffon layers is sickly sweet.
It’s the first day of the semester. She walks with purpose down the halls, colourful ring binders, and notebooks in hand. Eager and ready, she chooses a spot only a few rows from the very front.
To her dismay, the professor’s voice turns into a drone while going through the syllabus she had already read through last night. Bored, propping her chin up with the heel of her hand, Katara highlights the occasional key term in neon yellow. Having finished her only class of the day, she heads to the library to get a head start on what was said to be the topic of class tomorrow. Getting settled in the wooden chair and putting her touch-typing skills to use.
Incessant pattering at the arched window tears her away from the page in her textbook she paid too much for. Swearing the forecast had said sunny skies, she swipes her things into her tote bag. Her steps quicken as the thunderstorm seems to only get worse.
Staring out into the expanse, the nearest road to bus stops is past the long driveway she had walked up along prior. Whatever luck she had proved to be running short, she had sent her car to its yearly maintenance check today (and fuck is the rain getting heavier). Somehow she was going to have to make it over. Sitting on the shaded steps of the building entrance now, only a temporary refuge, Katara feels hopeless. Terribly, terribly hopeless. It seemed that many things in her life were turning out that way.
“Need some help?”
The universe is playing some cruel prank on her, she’s sure because Azula standing next to her opening a long-handled umbrella is downright comical.
“What are you doing here?” she finally asks, head swimming in confusion and something else.
Something else that Katara’s wrestling to keep at bay, to keep the dam she’d tried so hard to build up.
“This is a university, no? You could say I’m here for the education.”
The weight of all the emotions Katara is feeling right now prompts her to only glower at her feet.
Azula shuffles.
“Well come on, or I’ll start walking.”
At this point, she’d much rather be drenched and cold and shivering.
“Oh please. What are you going to do? Run a hundred metres? If not you, your books will be soaked.”
Katara did indeed borrow some from the library.
“Fine.”
The pedestrian cobblestone path is just wide enough for two. It's infuriating how uncomfortable it is but Katara continues to stubbornly keep as much space between them. Her shoulder was already getting damp from being outside the safety of the umbrella, but she leans away all the same. Her thoughts distant, she misjudges the weight of her step. Slipping on the wet surface of the rocks she lands on her knees, hands dirtied while stabling her fall.
"Heavens Katara!"
"I'm fine, I'm okay!" Katara protests firmly, brushing away a consolatory hand Azula places on her shoulder.
"Just let me help you—"
"Why can't you just leave me alone?!"
"I'm not stalking you if that's what you're implying,” Azula scoffs.
“It’s just—what do you want Azula?”
“What do I want?”
“Yes, what do you want! I don’t see you until the party and then it just so happens to be with your girlfriend as well. And you know what? I was fine with just going our separate ways but I can’t exactly do that with you following me into the bathroom!”
“Katara—“
“No, because I can’t do it. I can’t just continue like nothing happened even if you can.”
They’re both completely wet now, the umbrella long discarded to the side in the chaos. Sitting in a large puddle does not help, not that they notice. Katara might as well be full-on shouting, the pattering around them resounding loud.
“Not when I can’t talk to you without…” she starts, voice cracking.
“Without what?” Azula presses, whispering with something desperate behind those magnificent golden eyes of hers. Cerulean peers back hesitantly.
“Without wanting you.”
At this Azula’s lips sear into hers and Katara’s hands go to pull her closer, delighting in the comforting shared warmth of their bodies. It’s different this time, more passion and more fire and more purpose she craves from Azula so much. It’s deliberate, filling her chest with a sense of renewed brightness that encompasses every fibre of her being.
Breaking apart, breathing laboured in between hazy stares and she’s pretty sure she’s—
Katara sneezes.
damn near freezing.
Azula giggles, this dulcet sound that Katara wishes she could dearly treasure evermore in that heart of hers. All she can register is Azula collecting the bags by the floor in a flurry, pulling her by the hand, hurrying them to a car park in mere moments. A black key fob and a brief flash dance of hazard lights from a slick white coupe that hails a shining car emblem on its bonnet. Opening doors with a click and suddenly aware that the seats are leather, expensive leather soiled with rainwater.
"Ugh, I'm sorry—"
"Sit. It literally does not matter,” Azula remarks, nudging various buttons that make hot air blow out of air vents, a succour of much-needed temperature.
“So…” Katara muses, drawing out the last sound of the word.
“Put in your address,” Azula says as she hands her a phone, it displays a navigation app search bar.
“You don’t have to drive me.”
“But I will.”
The sound of windshield wipers in motion. Azula reversing the car, head turning back and hand on Katara’s headrest. Blurs of street lamps whizzing past them, soft glows in the dull evening sky. Azula focused on the road, Katara lulled by the comfortable silence.
It’s peaceful.
The car comes to a stop. It’s still pouring, but the sprint to the apartment complex entrance lobby is short.
“Azula?”
“Hmm?”
“I don’t want this to just be another mistake.”
“I don’t think of that night as a mistake Katara.”
It’s a Friday when they see each other, by chance yet again, at a party with tossed ping pong balls and flowing booze. Hosted by a sorority neither is part of.
They wake together this time.
It’s a Saturday when Azula is a name and not a number in Katara’s contacts.
It’s a Sunday when their chat history becomes long enough to scroll.
It’s a Monday when they decide to meet by choice, a random, mundane weekday. Katara’s hands shake after a notification from him pops up just when the plans are finalised.
It’s a Tuesday when he asks her about the bomber jacket in the backseat. She edges the speed limit and drops him off wordlessly.
It’s a Wednesday when she goes to the coffee shop, distracted, and head elsewhere.
“Not the usual then today Katara?” Jen chirps, dressed in a green barista apron and clicking away at the register.
“What?” she asks, head snapping up from pestering emails sent by websites she needs to unsubscribe from.
“Oolong tea, you said?”
“Huh. I suppose I did.”
It tastes strong, sharp, lasting an impression in her mouth. Just slightly different from when it came out of a kettle, brewed by another.
It’s a Thursday when she realises, late night and her eyes are drooping, that she sleeps alone fewer times than when she doesn’t.
“Ty Lee is not my girlfriend.”
“But she’s your something.”
“…she’s my something.”
“Do you still sleep with her?”
“No. Do you still sleep with him?”
“No. I haven’t for a year.”
“A year?”
There’s a sense of tease to her delivery.
“Yeah. Don’t get cocky now,” Katara retorts, trying to hide her mirth as she rolls to face the other side of the bed.
She’s back to where she was a minute later, nuzzling into Azula’s chest with her hair being played with.
Katara and Ty Lee are very different. Azula wholly believes so.
Ty Lee takes in Azula’s words. Nods and agrees that when Azula leaves a conversation she has no opinion but her own.
Katara considers Azula’s words. Sometimes Azula gets raised eyebrows and sometimes Azula gets amused twinkling eyes that suit her so very much.
Azula likes this.
When her actions make Katara smile, bright and nice, it makes her better than the white quiet lines that marr high up the inside of her thighs. Discreet under the cover of darkness or the shield of coverings.
Katara is her freedom when she walks up the stairs with her weight on her toes, hoping the carpet in the hallway will conceal her steps. He’s a busy man, her father. The ground Ozai walks on is worshipped, at least in the realm of his multimillion-dollar empire.
She’ll get away with it.
She won’t when it’s her name that’s called, low and simmering that it makes her confront the heap that sits at the dining room table below.
“Father.”
“Finally home daughter.”
She says nothing, nails digging into her palm, stinging.
“I demand perfection from you Azula.”
“I know.”
“Yes you certainly do, don’t you? You’re better than that brother of yours.”
His hand beckons her to near and she walks leaden, eyes downcast on the timber leg of his chair.
“Is a B perfection Azula?”
Her breath catches.
“It’s a mistake father, a mistake I swear I’m going to talk to the professor tomorrow and—“
She doesn’t get to finish before hands close in around her throat. Her eyes prickle and tears threaten to reveal themselves. The impact has her back throbbing against the wall, feet dangling.
“You know how much I hate excuses.”
She can’t breathe.
“Are you nothing more than a pretty face?”
Can’t breathe.
“Is that all she gave you? It would be too bad if you took after the bitch after all.”
Breathe.
The blow to the eye comes fast, and she reels as she gasps, the sudden intake of air rough but needed. The floor tile is cold, cold.
He is calm and everything that she isn’t.
“Is this who I’m supposed to leave everything to?” he sneers bitterly.
It is bold when she tries to stand up, and the second strike doesn’t have her attempting again. She spits blood and finds that she has never hated red as much as she does now. Her arms do not feel like her own as they flail and smear making her dizzy at the sight.
His distant figure at the cellarette is a chance. Running to the front door and his phone calls in the next room give the adrenaline that scares her.
The house is riches exemplified but it is nothing but worthless to her.
The shop door jingles as she enters. The worker looks at her aghast and their face takes on a certain pallor.
“Hello.”
“Young lady, are you alright?” the worker shrills, not helping her headache.
She rubs her temples wanting desperately to drown out the ringing in her head somewhere and the overwhelming brightness of the room.
“Can I borrow a phone?”
Date night is a joke when Katara picks at her food, fork scraping the ivory porcelain. He is no better when he slouches on the chair, looking lackadaisical.
Her apartment is dimmed to what some might call romantic. Not once had they made eye contact throughout the process of cooking.
Katara does not know what they are doing.
“Something’s wrong isn’t it?” he mutters so hushedly she’s surprised she caught it.
“Hm?” she hums back noncommittally.
“Something’s wrong Kat.”
It comes out so grating it has her stopping in her tracks, probably creating a scratch on the tableware.
“Yeah, something is.”
Sooner or later.
“Hi, you've reached Katara! Unfortunately, I am unable to come to the phone right now. You know what to do and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can—“
“How long?”
“You knew?”
She’s sure her voice is more than wavering.
“I know you.”
No, you don’t, she wants terribly to blurt, not like her.
He pinches the bridge of his nose, dolorous as his eyes close so tight she thinks he just might burst.
“I’m sorry.”
because she is.
(she didn’t want to hurt him.)
“Jesus Azula.”
Zuko’s voice is harsh against her ears. The sidewalk is rugged and the whole ordeal of resorting to issuing threats so the worker didn’t call the cops wore her out. The car door pops open and she feels herself being lifted up by the arms. Her ankle is bent just a bit wrong.
Once she is in his garishly red sedan her head throws back onto the headrest, frustrated. The car starts and for that she is grateful. Out of the corner of her eye, she spots the keychain swinging from the ignition, the engraved initials clear as day.
“That’s new.”
“Anniversary gift.”
The radio broadcaster mentions something about insurance deals in a blaring ad.
“Azula—“
“Zuzu.”
“You’re eighteen. You can move out.”
“To where exactly?”
“I’ve said countless times, might I say pleaded, for you to come to me and Sokka’s.”
The smooth jazz played by the station does not match the tone.
“Isn’t there something to speak for in family? Blood is thicker than water brother,” she replies sing-song, but even she can tell it comes out pained.
“You know damn well it’s blood of the covenant and water of the womb sister.”
She clicks her tongue.
“Azula I’m done. I’m not letting you go back there I swear. It’s gone too far—“
“Take me to Katara’s.”
“Katara’s?”
He is gone with the slam of a door and she feels free.
But Katara answers the doorbell and something in her breaks, like precious china fracturing into irreparable pieces.
Ty Lee sees Azula approach her, lurking purples and blacks swirling under a layer of what must be concealer and foundation.
“Hi Ty.”
“Zula’.”
“Have you ordered?”
“Yep, your favourite.”
The server comes only a moment later.
“How have you been?”
“Good, and you?”
“Just peachy.”
“I haven’t heard you say that since we were in middle school.”
Azula’s mouth moves into a slight smile, before clearly coughing just for the sake of it.
“…I’ve met someone.”
Taking her time in thinking, but Ty Lee is merely searching for the right words. She’s known, has known for a while now, ever so observant.
“Are you happy?”
“Yes.”
“Are you safe?”
That comes quieter.
“Yes.”
That comes much quieter.
“Then I’m happy for you.”
“Thank you Ty.”
Her hand comes to rest upon Azula’s.
“We had a good run didn’t we?”
“Of course.”