Chapter Text
To the average onlooker, marching band looks like an elaborate concoction of hell and those crazy (stupid) enough to endure it.
Korra tugs on her harness where it digs deep into her shoulder, and the worn snare wobbles precariously against her hips. She squints up at the podium, praying she won't see those white gloves held high.
"If she tells us to reset again swear I am going to shove these sticks so far up her—"
"Reset!"
"Oh my god. Oh my fucking god." She's three and a half seconds from quitting. No. No, she's quitting right now.
They've been running the same set for hours, and the hot, late August sun roasts their skin and Korra's ninety-eight percent sure that their drum major—The Dictator, Miss Bitchtastic, Kuvira—a fellow senior with a superiority complex that runs from the tips of her fierce eyebrows to the bottoms of her steel-toed JROTC-issued boots, is out to get the snare line. Specifically Korra, because she has managed to play her feature enough times to form the blisters between the joint of her thumb and forefinger into painful calluses she won't soon be scraping off.
"You know, it's funny. You'd think we'd get a water break, huh?" Bolin says from his dot behind her, and she doesn't have to turn around to hear the unmistakable sound of him emptying the massive water key of his contra. "Hey Korra, you want some condensation?"
"That is spit, Bolin. I don't care how many times you tell me otherwise."
"Condensaaation," he sings, and blows out a few more disgusting gallons of "condensation" for good measure. "Look it up, and bow down to the almighty brass!"
He can't see her face, but she rolls her eyes for satisfaction's sake before Kuvira's irritating gloved hands are up again and they're running Set Twenty-Two, the only set they'll ever fucking play in the show, apparently.
It's five or six more runs before Korra really starts to feel the effects of The Dictator's staunch distaste for water.
Heat exhaustion is a very real, very tangible thing that rookies and woodwinds fall prey to. She feels it, strong and heavy and pressing hard against her skull, and she can't really see straight, but it's some sort of sin for the center snare to sit out, so she blinks the sweat out of her eyes for the eight hundredth time and cracks her wrists like she isn't going to develop early-onset arthritis.
She's seeing multicolored spots in the darkening sky and while it might well be the start of an alien abduction, it might also be that she's entering the final agonizing seconds of life. Only the sharp crack of her sticks on the drum head lets her know that she is decidedly not dead yet, and it's proving to be a problem up until a beautiful, shining head appears downfield, shuffling toward the sideline.
God bless Tenzin. God bless his bald, tattooed head and his uncanny ability to rush out on to the field from his office exactly two hours after half the band is either sitting out or, like Korra, delirious from dehydration and heat exhaustion.
He calls the band to the sidelines, looking flustered, and Korra takes one step into the migrating mass of overheated band kids before the entire world tilts on its axis and she accepts her death. Then, there's a hand on her back, and ew, she's sweaty and gross and who the fuck wants to touch her back, whoever it is should probably just let her crumple into a heap on the field and shrivel away—
"You're not collapsing before I do."
Everything is blurry, but the voice is clear and familiar. Korra groans, "Leave me to die."
The hand on her back moves up towards her neck and then there's a sticky, sunburnt arm draped over her harness, around her shoulders, directing her off of the field. "No can do. You still owe me for the last time I dragged you off the field."
"You could have left me then," she grumbles. "Why won't you let me die, Asami?"
"Because," she begins, and Korra sees her prod a few flutes out of their way with her sabre out of the corner of her eye. They move to the front of the pack, where the officers are supposed to be, but she'd quite honestly rather be lying on the field. "We're all well aware that you're the only one that can pull off that solo. I'd rather not have Ryu as our center snare, thanks very much."
Korra grimaces at the thought. "Point taken."
"Band!" Tenzin calls, now standing on the tower beside Kuvira. Korra almost laughs at how out of place he looks, his orange (orange?) polo tucked precariously into his oversized khakis while Kuvira stands at attention, hands behind her back, looking like she could eat a child if the need arose. There's no doubt in Korra's mind—she's eaten children before. "There are several announcements I would like to make before we end rehearsal for today."
It's just about that time. Korra completely zones out and chugs half her weight in lukewarm water.
Tenzin spends what seems like a year or maybe five rambling on about how the uniforms need to be arranged correctly for their upcoming competition and how people need to stop stepping over the guard equipment (at this Asami jabs Korra in the side sharply, but it was only once, fuck) and blah blah blah, it's been four years already, Korra's heard every one of Tenzin's overused announcements about fifty times too many.
While Korra is decidedly not listening and instead fixing the thrice-broken handle of her water jug, Asami leans over, right into her personal space, places a hand on Korra's bicep and mutters a soft, "Burgers after this?"
She's just as sweaty and disgusting as the rest of the band, and while she may be wearing fingerless gloves, Korra's certain the rest of her hands are just as blistery, and fuck if guard gloves don't smell like something died after a long practice—but in four years Korra's never really been able to stem the little flutter her heart does when Asami touches her. Even if she's really gross and mentioning burgers.
It's easy to cover a blush when the sun makes sure that every band member's face looks like an oversized tomato.
"Sure," she says, takes a swig of water. "We'll get the others if Tenzin ever decides he's done."
Tenzin, much to her surprise, shuts up shortly after and hastily dismisses the band with more than a few angry glares at the young trumpet player leaning over his daughter's marimba. Jinora and Kai have inadvertently won the band's unofficial Cutest Couple Award, even if they aren't exactly dating. Seeing as, well, her father is the band director. Kai's an incredible player, though, knows his stuff, and the two of them are officially the only rookies Korra cares to talk to.
There's a tug on her arm. Asami's there, shouldering her weapons bag and smiling so her eyes crinkle at the edges and looking entirely too cute with the caliber of sunburn she's sporting across her nose and cheeks. She motions to their side with her free shoulder. "Let's go grab the others before you have a heatstroke."
Korra blinks the sweat from her eyes a few times and Asami's gone. She goes to pack her things away, watches from afar as Asami wrangles the rest of their little crew.
She tries to pry a swing flag out of Opal's hand when Bolin says something apparently stupid enough to warrant the hard metal against his head. Opal has an entire arsenal of silks, and while she's not usually the most violent person, Bolin's skull knows each and every flag personally. Mako hasn't involved himself in the situation, and instead sits on the grass, polishing his mellophone like he does after each and every use. Korra really doesn't get the need. Drums don't need constant cleaning. Drums are easy.
She jogs over and Bolin puts his head in the bell of his tuba, balances it on his shoulders, and Opal and Mako roll their eyes but Opal laughs, and Asami follows suit, and they're young and stupid and Korra can't remember ever being happier.
They scrap the burger idea for dinner waffles. Korra loves dinner waffles.
The five of them jam themselves into a booth in the corner, and Mako thinks better of sitting next to his brother and his brother's girlfriend and pulls a chair up beside the table.
Their waitress, a little old lady with a southern accent and the sweetest old lady smile ever, leans over the plywood divider between the open kitchen and their table with her notepad, and they end up ordering a really dumb assortment of food.
Who in the hell wants three and a half eggs and an omelet without eggs? What is an omelet without eggs? Mako might be a little more conservative with his decision of bacon and eggs, but he wants marmalade and no toast, (what? where is he putting the marmalade?) and Opal goes for the egg white sandwich because god knows why—they have waffles for fuck's sake, why is everyone ordering eggs?
Asami decides on blueberry waffles thank god, and Korra goes for the double chocolate chip with a side of hash browns. Their bare legs touch under the table when Korra leans over the table to hand the waitress their menus, and she tries not to retract like she's on fire. She also decides then and there that she'll be wearing pants to every future band rehearsal. She scoots away under the unspoken pretext of giving Asami more space on the bench seat, but Asami doesn't seem to quite get the message, because she leans against the corner and throws her legs right over Korra's lap so her feet are dangling over the edge.
"Can you massage my calves, please?" Asami groans, tossing her head back and exposing her very long and very sunburnt neck. "You owe me."
"I told you to leave me on the field," she says matter-of-factly, trying to maintain some kind of loose grip on her now scrambled thoughts as Asami adjusts her legs on Korra's lap.
Asami gives her the patented Sato Pouty Face, and there's really no resisting.
It's not that they haven't had a physical friendship. Not, of course, in the sense that Korra is only beginning to realize she'd really really enjoy now. It's always been more like hugs and little friendly touches. She's always felt this kind of overwhelming affection for the other girl, and once in their freshman year, an older member had referred to them as "as close as sisters." Korra had just always felt some level of comfort sticking with the title.
Halfway into their junior year, though, they'd gone to a party and Asami had gotten plastered and yeah, it was hilarious, but Korra hadn't expected the impromptu game of Truth or Dare, nor had she really been able to brace herself for a friend's drunken dare to Asami, and then Asami's mouth on hers.
Even sitting in the booth of a seedy breakfast place almost a year later, Korra still has no problem recalling the feeling of Asami's lips.
She'd been drunk off her ass that night, and no matter how badly Korra had wanted to act upon her pent up feelings in that moment, she'd never once considered taking advantage of her best friend, hammered or not. She'd been stone-cold sober, however. The unfortunate designated driver for reasons she couldn't quite comprehend since driving had never exactly been her forte, and when she'd spoken to Asami the next day, it had been obvious that the other girl didn't remember a thing.
Korra had decided then never to remind her.
"Korra?" Asami's voice drifts into her thoughts, shaking her out of her reverie. "You okay?"
She blinks, looking up at Asami. "Yeah, just grossed out at how nasty your legs are."
"If you like them, my feet are next in line, pal."
Korra gags a few times, and earns herself a smack on the shoulder as their meals arrive.
Much to her barely suppressed disappointment, Asami moves her legs from their place on her lap so she can eat without the obstruction. Yeah, she hadn't been kidding when she'd said that they'd been gross, (sunscreen is a dirt and dead bug magnet that somehow only protects half of the body parts you spray it on) but they were Asami's dead bug encrusted legs, and she'd been happy to work the tension out at her friend's request.
She's halfway through ravaging her third waffle, drowned in all four different kinds of syrup, when Bolin pipes up, mouth full of not-omelet, or whatever the hell he managed to order.
"I love you guys!" he cries. Bolin is notorious for getting emotional over food, so it's really no surprise to see tears streaming down his stuffed cheeks. Thankfully, he swallows before speaking again. "What're we going to do after we graduate?"
"Drum corps," Mako says like they actually have that kind of money. It's a joke, but Mako's never been good with jokes, so no one laughs. "College. Whatever comes first, I guess."
To be fair, Opal and Asami aren't exactly lacking in the financial department, and Korra's always kind of assumed joining a corps with her friends would be like, a lot of fun, but she's always dismissed the idea as soon as she looks into the costs.
Marching band isn't the kind of thing she's ever figured she could detach herself from right out of high school. It's a community, a family, and she's met all of her best friends in the organization. The music is always awesome, marching is actually incredibly physical, and they work harder than any of the so-called "sports" teams. It's just really hard to think of her life without it. Professional marching band might just be the perfect out. If only she made more than eight bucks an hour on the off-chance someone needs their lawn mowed or their house power-washed.
"Why not?" Asami says, and the rest of the table turns immediately to look at her. "We've always joked about it. Why don't we all go to a camp and see if it's something we'd like to do together?"
Apparently, Asami is not only beautiful and perfect and the nicest person in the known universe, but she's also a talented mind-reader.
"Asami and I can pay for the camp fees," Opal adds, now looking rather intrigued at the whole idea. She smiles over at her boyfriend. "I know Bolin's always wanted to audition."
"Woah, woah, hold on!" Mako says, frantically waving his hands in front of his face. "I was kidding. You guys can't actually be serious about this! Camp fees alone have to be—"
"Well within our means," Asami interrupts. "Let's do it. Just the five of us."
Bolin starts crying again, Mako looks like he's been poked right between the eyes, Asami and Opal are talking about colorguard whatever, and Korra really has no idea what's just happened.
Later, she tries to find the moment she was roped into attempting to join a drum corps with her best friends, but gives up the endeavor as soon as she realizes that she doesn't care. An entire summer of music and friends and memories she'll carry for the rest of her life? Badass.
She's in the car with Asami, and they've just dropped Bolin and Mako off at their little apartment near the school with more than a few promises to check out camp dates from Bolin, and a lot of grumbling from Mako. He's excited about the whole idea—that deep scowl is just how he shows it.
"How're we going to pick a corps?" Korra says, scrolling through her phone as images of men and women in elaborate uniforms slide past, all holding instruments or weapons or flags. "Bolin's going to want to check out The Cadets, but Mako's a Bluecoats fan, and I know you and Opal would love Santa Clara—"
Asami places a hand on Korra's arm, and it derails her train of thought almost instantly. She smiles at Korra when they hit a red light, and it makes her feel warm right down to the tips of her toes. Whatever she might have been worried about (what the hell was it again?) is now such a non-issue that it might as well have been a conversation on what color the sky is. Right now, it's black. Not really a topic for discussion.
"We'll figure it out sooner or later," Asami says, still smiling. "It's been a long day. You want to go to The Point?"
She grins, nods because Asami always seems to know when she needs a little R&R, always seems to know the right thing to say, or the right place to go, and Korra's heart swells in her chest when Asami's fingers brush her knuckles before she places her other hand back on the steering wheel.
The Point isn't anything special, just a weird rock formation by the cliffs outside of their little town. The two of them had found it completely on accident, biking around the outskirts when they were younger, looking for something to do. It might just be a bunch of stones, but Korra gets a rush of nostalgia every time she and Asami visit.
They get out of the car and Asami settles herself under one of the granite outcroppings and Korra plops down next to her, trying to ignore the jittery feeling that runs through her limbs when Asami scoots right up next to her and leans her head against her shoulder.
"I'm exhausted," Asami murmurs.
"You could've just dropped me off at home."
Asami shrugs, which jostles both of them before saying something that makes Korra infinitely relieved that the other girl can't see her reddening face.
"I just wanted to spend some time with you."
"Okay," Korra responds dumbly, but her mind can't process more than a few words at a time at the moment, so she can't exactly blame herself. "I mean—yeah. Cool."
She feels Asami shake with silent laughter. "You really are a poet, Korra."
"Hey, no one ever said drummers were good with words," she shoots back, but there's no fire behind it. "All I need to know is how to keep a beat."
"I think you know a little more than you give yourself credit for," she says, and Korra can hear a very specific smile of hers, even though she doesn't look to see, she just knows. "Like, what the hell is a paradiddle?"
Korra snorts. Leave it to a guard girl to ask about the diddles.
She explains the rudiment, drumming on her outstretched thighs like she'd normally do with the absence of sticks. Asami watches carefully, but Korra just knows intuitively that the other girl doesn't give two shits about drum rudiments. Then again, she'd had no idea what a flourish was until the back end of Asami's rifle had hit her funny bone. She'd learned a few very important things that day. Don't walk over the guard equipment, don't walk through the guard, because goddamn if flourishes aren't painful as fuck.
Her explanations drift away, and she leans her head against Asami's and just breathes.
For reasons she's kept locked away, deep in the recesses of her mind, she always feels at peace with Asami. Even caked in dirt and sweat, backs against jagged stone, asses on rough gravel, she feels as if she could stay there, looking up at the night sky, Asami tucked into her side—forever.
She's about ready to pass out, cheek pressed against Asami's hair, when she feels a surprisingly smooth hand cover her own.
It feels wonderful, soothing, but she's about to ask Asami if there's something wrong when the other girl sighs through her nose and runs her thumb along the side of her own, much rougher hand and mutters a reverent, "Four years, huh?"
Korra exhales a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding in, and the motion turns into a soft laugh. "Mmm."
"Weren't we just learning how to march?" Asami asks.
"You make it sound like it was yesterday."
"Doesn't it feel that way?"
Korra hums in affirmation. "Guess so," she says, and then grins wide and open. "Remember how we met?"
"Well, I remember you throwing a very painful drum stick at me the first day of rookie camp."
"I didn't throw it at you!" Korra protests, throwing her free hand up without disturbing their position. "I threw it in your general direction. You just happened to run into it."
Asami laughs, and Korra doesn't miss the way her fingers move to lace together with her own, warm and soft and wonderful. "You keep telling yourself that."
There's no use in arguing with a Sato, Korra's learned that fact the hard way. Instead, she focuses on their interlocked fingers, trying to compress the pleasant feeling in her chest and pack it away so she'll remember how it feels to hold Asami's hand just as vividly as she remembers what it feels like to kiss her.
The thought startles her, even though she's the one thinking it. This close, Korra could easily lean down and… no. No, Asami was drunk, stupid, and not at all like she is now. Still, Korra feels the urge to ask her if she recalls, and if so, in what way.
Apparently, Asami feels her sudden mood change, because she pulls herself away slowly. "You okay? You just got… like, really tense."
Now or never.
Korra takes a deep breath, turns to look at the other girl. "Do you… do you remember Tahno's party last year?"
Asami visibly stiffens, but she tries playing it off with a small smile. "Grain alcohol. Not really."
"Can you remember anything?"
She pulls her bottom lip between her teeth, worrying it lightly, and while in most situations, it'd be something Korra would love to observe, now she's just interested in what Asami can remember about the night that pulled her sexuality into question.
"I… yeah. Yeah, a few things."
"Like?" she presses.
Asami sighs, and for a moment she thinks she shouldn't be pushing her this hard. It seems unlikely they're talking about different things with the way Asami pulls her hand away from Korra's, but she's gone this far.
"Look, I know where you're going with this, but—"
"So you remember?"
It's not the sunburn this time, Asami is definitely blushing. "I kissed you," she admits softly, and Korra can't help but feel a little hurt by her tone—guarded, like the whole event had been something she'd been regretting. "I didn't ask, I was drunk, I was stupid, I'm sorry. Why are we discussing this now?"
"You were holding my hand, I kind of just… remembered it, I guess," Korra says, matching Asami's tone. "Nothing to be sorry about, though. I'm sure you're a better kisser when you're sober—wow that came out wrong."
The tension in the air snaps right in half when Asami's face breaks into a huge grin and she tosses her head back, laughing like she's never heard anything funnier in her entire life. Korra just watches her for a moment, half because Asami laughing is kind of like watching the sun rise, and half because she's in some kind of shock at both what she's said and the fact that Asami is laughing at her.
Asami huffs, wiping a tear from her eye. "I'd hope so," She smiles at Korra, who feels her heart miss a few too many beats to be healthy, and says, "You've got a point to all this. You're making that face."
"What—" She touches her face, frowns. "What face?"
"The patented 'I'm Korra and I Have a Point to Make' face."
"Am not."
Asami rolls her eyes. "What's your point, Korra?"
She slumps back against the rocks, now wondering if she should even say anything with the way her so-called 'best friend' is teasing her. Asami is the queen of Making Things Difficult, and Korra's ninety-nine percent sure she knows. So, having things made difficult, she takes a steadying breath, grabs Asami's hand without looking at her, and arranges her thoughts into something she can pass off as a coherent sentence.
"Remember when I told you that I thought I was bi?"
Great start. Wonderful.
She's not looking at the other girl, but she can see Asami smile out of the corner of her eye. "Of course. You told me not to tell anyone else."
"You remember when I told you?"
"Band camp," Asami says, and then, like the mind-reader she is, finds the unspoken question in her words. "After the party," Korra nods, and doesn't move as Asami slides next to her, slumped against the wall like she is, and weaves their fingers together again properly. "Do you remember when I told you that I thought I was bi?"
Korra's face immediately slams into a frown, and she whips her neck around to look at Asami, who's decidedly not looking at her.
"What—you're—uh, no. I... now?"
Asami just hums in response, and while it's not an actual word, Korra can only assume that it's a yes.
For a few moments, they just sit there against the uncomfortable rocks, and it's all Korra can really do to figure out what exactly they're admitting to each other.
It's easy to think back to all the moments she and Asami had shared over the years. Every twelve-hour practice, every show day, every quiet moment under the bleachers, every smile, every little touch. Korra's never really been one for sentiment and other gushy emotions, but in the darkness of the night, overlooking the city with Asami's hand in hers, she feels kind of like a block of jello.
"So…" Korra begins, but she doesn't have anything else.
It's all outrageously awkward. Well, Korra is, at least. Asami's always been the composed one, and somehow whatever they've been confessing doesn't seem at all out of place for her.
Luckily, Asami has had enough with the palpable silence and the tension that crackles between their fingers, because she leans over, and her other hand brushes over Korra's jaw, moving her face so they're looking at each other.
Korra feels as if her heart is about to burst right out of her chest, but Asami is smiling, barely biting back a laugh, and she just shakes her head and threads her fingers through the hair at the back of her neck and says, like it's the easiest thing in the world, "Come here, dork."
It's awesome.
Awesome even though they manage to mash their noses together because Korra's not sure which way Asami's turning (but Asami exhales a laugh against her lips, so it's all totally okay), and awesome even though they're so so gross from rehearsal and Korra's about a million percent sure she smells like something died in a dumpster full of old shoes, but once she actually finds Asami's lips with her own, and no one is drunk off their ass, just—awesome.
Korra keeps one hand on Asami's knee, and pulls away first entirely because she's feeling a little too loopy from kissing her best friend and not because of severe oxygen deprivation (if she gets to kiss Asami like this all the time, she'll figure out the need for air later) and she tries not to make some sort of pathetic noise when Asami looks at her the way she does.
Asami scratches lightly at the back of Korra's neck and it feels like, really nice, so she closes her eyes and doesn't even try to hold back the goofy smile that crosses her lips.
"You okay?" Asami asks, and Korra doesn't have to open her eyes to know she's trying not to laugh.
"Mmm," she hums, pops open one eye. She's totally right, Asami looks about ready to crack up. She flexes her fingers on Asami's knee. "Your legs are still super nasty, but I think I can handle it."
Asami sighs, long-suffering but not angry, smacks Korra's shoulder, and pulls away (way too far away) to stand up.
She glances down at Korra, hands on her hips, looking like the most gorgeous sunburnt sabre-spinning woman in existence. Or maybe just the most gorgeous person in existence. Either works, but it's probably the latter.
"We were having a moment, Korra."
"Hey, I'm still in the moment!" she protests, moving to stand. "Your legs are gross, but I said I could handle it. We're good. Continue the moment."
She rolls her eyes when Korra manages to pull herself to her feet. There's gravel on her hands and on her ass and it's not super comfortable, but Asami is still trying really hard not to laugh, and her eyes are sparkling, so the ass crack gravel kind of takes a backseat.
"Come on," Asami says, and grabs her hand. "Home. Shower. Sleep."
She groans, but she lets Asami drag her back to the car, lets her lace their fingers together on the way back, lets her turn the radio on to that horrible pop station she listens to solely to get on Korra's nerves. Asami doesn't even like pop, neither of them do. But Korra's in that wired, delirious stage of exhaustion, and Asami's hand is soft and strong and she doesn't have to think back a year to remember what her best friend's lips feel like, so she'll deal with the pop music for now.
They're at Korra's house entirely too soon, and she's slumped down in her seat, pouting.
"Sleep is for the weak. I'm not going in there."
"Cranky Korra is not my favorite kind of Korra, thanks," she says with a little smirk. "Go. I'll text you later."
She frowns, squeezes Asami's hand. "Not while you're driving, okay?"
It's warm, tender smiles like these that make Korra's heart want to fly out of her chest. "Of course not."
"Cool," she says, grins. "Can we have another moment before you throw me out?"
"Not if you're going to comment on my gross-ass legs again."
"What if I comment on your super hot legs?" she concedes. "That may or may not be covered in dirt and dead bugs but that's totally not a problem at all for anyone—still super hot."
"You really need to work on your smooth-talking, buddy."
Korra grins, and the look earns her a little giggle. "Is that a yes?"
Asami doesn't respond. Verbally, at least.
Her fingers slide along Korra's jaw, and she tucks a strand of hair that's fallen free from her short ponytail, and Korra's brain kind of fizzles out because the look Asami is giving her is like, really intense, but she's leaning in, and then her brain completely short-circuits because Asami's lips are officially the greatest thing ever.
It's only when Korra is standing in her driveway, dazedly watching Asami pull away that she realizes what's happened between them. She can still feel Asami's lips on her own, even after her car is well out of view, even after she's washed off an entire day of band, even after she's laying in bed, conveniently forgetting about all the homework she hasn't done.
She's not sure if two kisses make them girlfriends or anything, but hey, if Asami's up for that, she's not gonna say no.
A few minutes into her musings, her phone buzzes, and she almost falls off of the bed, grabbing it in a panic.
It's Asami, obviously: My legs are no longer gross.
Korra (11:50 PM): proud a u
Asami (11:50 PM): I aim to please, apparently :P
They text back and forth for a while, and Korra can't stop smiling, even though her cheeks feel about ready to fall right off of her face. Asami sends her a few camp dates for corps in the area, and a really cute picture of a puppy that looks a little like Naga when she was that small, and while she's glad for any communication at all, she just really wants to hear Asami's voice.
There's only one ring before Asami picks up.
"Did you want a bedtime story?"
"Rumpelstiltskin please."
"God, really? Not—I don't know, anything but Rumpelstiltskin?"
"Are you questioning my impeccable taste in bedtime stories?"
"Yes. I'm also questioning your sanity."
"Here I thought we were friends."
"Friends, hmm?"
"Well, I guess Rumpelstiltskin is as good a segue as any. Although I think we made him disappear."
"This is your definition of a good segue? You're not doing wonders for your whole 'sanity' case. Also, does he fall under Beetlejuice rules?"
"We're still talking about the fucking fairy tale? And yes, it's the whole three strikes deal."
"Hey, you brought it up."
"Whatever."
"I kind of get the feeling you didn't call for a bedtime story."
"Yeah, no. More like uh… I don't know, relationship… things?"
"Mmm?"
"You're gonna make me say it, aren't you?"
"I have no idea what you're talking about, Korra."
"Asshole."
"Ooh, vicious. Maybe I'm too tired to talk to you anymore. I think I'll just hang—"
"Oh my god, fine. Are we dating now?"
"Well you did just call me an asshole so I'm not sure…"
"You're not an asshole, your legs are super hot and not gross, I like kissing you a lot, please be my girlfriend. Good? Good."
"I can work with that. For now."
"Is that a yes?"
"Tentatively, sure. We still have all of the paperwork to go through, and I know you need a proper girlfriend license in this state-"
"You joke, Sato."
"Unfortunately, not really. Pseudo jokes aside, I'll be your girlfriend, Korra. And just for the record, I like kissing you a lot too."
Korra doesn't know how many hours pass, but when she hangs up finally (reluctantly), the sky is a dark blue with the sun just under the horizon. She's probably going to get like two hours of sleep, but she can't really be fucked to care because Asami is her girlfriend now, as she's still kind of reeling from the realization.
Also her face hurts from smiling, but it's a good kind of hurt. Like old snare harnesses with the padding stripped and picked off, digging into her shoulders. Like sunburns and band tans. Like the way her feet feel like they've been welded into the ground after twelve hours of standing and marching. Like the way her heart aches when Asami smiles at her. Like the gravel she'd sat on just to be close to her.
She gets two hours of sleep, yeah, but her best friend is her girlfriend.
It's pretty awesome.