ETERNAL

the complex juts upwards into a precarious point, low railing revealing a scrap of greenery situated at the top- lush at the edges and patchy in turn, it represents the haphazard approach that has generally been taken at dynamite tower. since moving (read, running away to) the city in a shirt broken down two door, lj has held a certain fascination with the fledgling community. billed as a co op for your run down rebels and vigilantes, at odds with the more black and white celebrity focused power structures of good and evil. the aesthetic of it is awkward against the skyline, jammed between sleek new high-rises with it’s half yellowed brick and sloped roof. 

it’s not that tall a building, truthfully, but lijae hasn’t ever attempted a flight this high before. pressing her palms together brings a shimmering disk to life, oblong and big enough for her to hop up on top of it, settles her feet against the solidified disk of shimmering gold. shifting, she flexes slightly, bracing herself as she bends her knees lightly. it’s just a quick recon mission, a glimpse at a world she can’t be a part of, like peering through her fishbowl, and then it’s right back to her apartment slash run down (stolen) car.  with a grunt, she pushes her feet down slightly and feels her power hum to life beneath her, soaring up abruptly as she draws herself upwards, a sudden jolt that betrays the fact that she hasn’t had a lot of a chance to work her skills out. at least, not in a wider, uncontrolled atmosphere. 

as she lifts into the atmosphere, she jams a finger against the button of the walkman on her hip, a muddled rendition of a popular r&b track blaring out tinny and thin from the headphones slnug around her neck. it provides a slight soundtrack as she zips through the air, careening high, high, higher. it leaves her heart racing and her senses spinning, stumbling as she raises one floor, another, third, fourth, until she’s up around the tenth floor and nearing the roof. she’s tired by this point and unsteady on top of it, and she realizes a second too late that she’s losing control. it’s a quick jerk and a sudden jolt and then she’s tumbling down onto the astroturfed surface of the  roof, which someone has clearly attempted to dress up as a semi campground, and she fumbles into a heap.  there’s a groan, as she reaches her hand up to rub against the bruising spot on her skull, squinting at the offending shoes upon which she has landed, lips pursing slightly. she drags herself upright in time to see tattooed knuckles swipe themselves across full lips, blinking against the scattering light of her construction fragmenting, disappearing. 

“oh, okay, so it was dangerous, so you broke in, so that you could be liable for it instead. wait, why doesn’t it apply to you? super cool kid sunwoo doesn’t do rules?” she teases, wiggling her fingers lightly. “i dunno if you can use it.” she replies, brows furrowing. she lifts her hands with a further concentration to press together, molding and gathering light between her hands until it compresses into a ball shape. “lets try, catch,” she offers, throws it in his direction. it thuds into his palm with a soft sound and she grins, with surprise and interest. “it’s just light.”

sunwoo doesn’t get to show off much these days, the tenants of dynamite all too familiar (or annoyed, or both) with him and his pinpoint accuracy amongst other things. sometimes, he thinks he’s been here too long, since he’s run from the rural outskirts of busan he used to call home. dynamite has been his refuge and maybe he’s made himself too comfortable. but what’s the harm in that? sunwoo see’s none, and so he stays. and he impresses no one anymore that even lijae’s simple ‘kinda cool’ is enough to fill that need, to energize him, to smile like a proud overlarge puppy that learned his first trick. but when light manifests in the palm of her hand, his smile melts into something else more o-shaped. face betraying it all, his intrigue, wonderment. “cool,” he says quietly more to himself than anything as the disc hits the board. 

it would be a lie to say he’s not jealous of powers like hers. ones that are eye-catching on their own, without having to over-compensate with big talk and crease-eyed smiles and toned muscles that he technically doesn’t need. but he says none of that, pulling his expression together, into something more unaffected as he mirrors her words and shrug of shoulders,“i mean, kinda cool.” still, he grins back quickly as he sits down onto the mattress, leaning forward. “yes, exactly,” he answers jokingly with a snap and a few taps on the side of his forehead, “see you get it and we just met. it took me months to convince him the rules shouldn’t reply to me.”

as his snacks spill across the table, he sits on the mattress and clicks the play button down, cassette tape winding up to play some hip hop track he heard on the radio one time and hasn’t stopped listening to since. he raps along incoherently as he considers his food choices, reaching for the popsicle that’s already half melted and popping it into his mouth. it’s cool against his tongue, refreshing in the later afternoon heat as he hums – only stopping when a gold light in the sky catches his eyes and comes crashing down before him. he blinks, chewing down on the wooden popsicle stick as he tilts his head to examine the gold structure until it disappears before his eyes. ‘ooh,’ sunwoo hums shortly quietly to himself, intrigued, shifting his attention to the girl in front of him. 

“all good,”  he answers easy, wiping the popsicle melt from his lips. his eyes scan her body, only looking for any traces of blood (he swears), and shakes his head, reaching to take the stick out of his mouth and toss it onto the table. “nope, no blood that i can see. thank god too or mr.go would threaten to kick me out again, probably. not that he ever really would,” he snorts, leaning forward to click the stop button on the boom box. “yep, but i guess you don’t? i’m sunwoo, haven’t seen you around, and everyone knows better than to come up onto the roof. or you know, crash land onto it. same thing,” he pauses, grabbing a thing of yakult and holding it towards her, “here, have one. in case you’re bleeding inside. i heard this has probiotics? antibiotics? or something? i don’t know but maybe it’ll help.”

she feels an awful lot like she’s been hit by a bowling ball. there’s a scrape on her elbow and her head is spinning ever so slightly, a lingering dizziness at the edges of her senses. she’s got to stop pushing so hard, she’s pretty sure it’s just going to run her into the ground. but how is she supposed to figure anything out if she doesn’t test it? 

besides, it’s been mostly successful. 

the boy on the roof peers over her,eyes wide and sparkling and his hair a tangle of dark waves. there’s a popsicle stick sticking out of his mouth and the ripple of a surprising amount of muscle beneath tanned skin. the scattering light from the afternoon sun or from her construction as it implodes sparkles over his skin, and the whole thing leaves a strangely surreal taste in her mouth, as if she’s imagining him. “dope,” she sighs out, pulling herself upright to and stretching her legs out. “good music,” she tells him, reaching over to put it back on again, but tugs the dial down, fingers moving then to check on her walkman, which is battered and rather worse for wear. “damn,” she mumbles to herself, taking the offered drink and ripping it open with her teeth. 

“you could say that too,” he answers again, jumping up off the mattress before straightening his hands and throwing them up in front of his face, pretending to hit the air with a few whooshing sound effects. “just call me ninja sunwoo,” he jokes, heading over to the board to pull a few batwing shaped stars off with ease. there’s a crack in the wood that’s been steadily growing over some days now, but he avoids it when steps back to throw the sharpened steel onto the board, right onto his haphazardly spray painted yellow targets. he saves one for last just to show off, turning to face her with a tilt of his lips and throws one backwards over his shoulder, landing on the middle target. prideful, he doesn’t bother to look back and check, moving to sit down again instead. 

the complex juts upwards into a precarious point, low railing revealing a scrap of greenery situated at the top- lush at the edges and patchy in turn, it represents the haphazard approach that has generally been taken at dynamite tower. since moving (read, running away to) the city in a shirt broken down two door, lj has held a certain fascination with the fledgling community. billed as a co op for your run down rebels and vigilantes, at odds with the more black and white celebrity focused power structures of good and evil. the aesthetic of it is awkward against the skyline, jammed between sleek new high-rises with it’s half yellowed brick and sloped roof. 

it’s not that tall a building, truthfully, but lijae hasn’t ever attempted a flight this high before. pressing her palms together brings a shimmering disk to life, oblong and big enough for her to hop up on top of it, settles her feet against the solidified disk of shimmering gold. shifting, she flexes slightly, bracing herself as she bends her knees lightly. it’s just a quick recon mission, a glimpse at a world she can’t be a part of, like peering through her fishbowl, and then it’s right back to her apartment slash run down (stolen) car.  with a grunt, she pushes her feet down slightly and feels her power hum to life beneath her, soaring up abruptly as she draws herself upwards, a sudden jolt that betrays the fact that she hasn’t had a lot of a chance to work her skills out. at least, not in a wider, uncontrolled atmosphere. 

as she lifts into the atmosphere, she jams a finger against the button of the walkman on her hip, a muddled rendition of a popular r&b track blaring out tinny and thin from the headphones slnug around her neck. it provides a slight soundtrack as she zips through the air, careening high, high, higher. it leaves her heart racing and her senses spinning, stumbling as she raises one floor, another, third, fourth, until she’s up around the tenth floor and nearing the roof. she’s tired by this point and unsteady on top of it, and she realizes a second too late that she’s losing control. it’s a quick jerk and a sudden jolt and then she’s tumbling down onto the astroturfed surface of the  roof, which someone has clearly attempted to dress up as a semi campground, and she fumbles into a heap.  there’s a groan, as she reaches her hand up to rub against the bruising spot on her skull, squinting at the offending shoes upon which she has landed, lips pursing slightly. she drags herself upright in time to see tattooed knuckles swipe themselves across full lips, blinking against the scattering light of her construction fragmenting, disappearing. 

it’s why he’d been up there all day even in the late summer heat, steel throwing stars stuck into the large plank of wood he personally spray painted bright blue and yellow to match the door right next to the wall it’s dangerously propped up against. no one comes up to the roof anymore for this reason, not after he ran the bleeding maintenance guy to the hospital. literally, in his arms, sunwoo profusely apologizing and scolding him at the same time for unbelievably not knowing better than to burst through the roof door the whole way there. so, it’s sunwoo’s roof now. fitted with a hard mattress and cover, a scuffed up low wooden table before it with a faded black boom box sitting on top, and a wild array of exercise and training equipment scattered about. 

as his snacks spill across the table, he sits on the mattress and clicks the play button down, cassette tape winding up to play some hip hop track he heard on the radio one time and hasn’t stopped listening to since. he raps along incoherently as he considers his food choices, reaching for the popsicle that’s already half melted and popping it into his mouth. it’s cool against his tongue, refreshing in the later afternoon heat as he hums -- only stopping when a gold light in the sky catches his eyes and comes crashing down before him. he blinks, chewing down on the wooden popsicle stick as he tilts his head to examine the gold structure until it disappears before his eyes. ‘ooh,’ sunwoo hums shortly quietly to himself, intrigued, shifting his attention to the girl in front of him. 

@galaqsies

this is the first big project that they’ve allowed lijae to help with. up until now, her life as an intern has mostly meant fetching coffee, placing lunch orders, coordinating deliveries (of lunch and product alike) and scheduling. occasionally, she’s allowed to follow the real stylists around as they work. sometimes, she’s been allowed to re-apply the faintest, clearest shades of lip balm or to dust on further setting powder between takes. 

and now, after six months of excruciatingly long hours and back breaking work (often literally, being tasked with hauling the clothes or supplies for hair and makeup around), she’s being allowed to step up to the plate. just a little. an inch forward. but lijae is ambitious, and if given an inch, she’ll take a mile. 

yesterday had been the solo shots and sets, and she had spent a good part of the day staring in awe, having assumed much more of things to be computer generated than was actual. today, she sees immediately why they’re allowing her more freedom on set. it’s set up similar to a sort of dream boy’s backyard, with a foosball table, a huge couch, a dog, some grass, and so forth. the boys are outfitted simply and she’s instructed strictly that the makeup will be the same. fresh, shining, bright. 

they’re kind of already shining, if she thinks about it, but professionalism means that she shouldn’t, even when she’s ushered in front of sunwoo, who’s half asleep in one of the makeup chairs. she feels like she should say something to him like, hi i’m here and i have to put a bunch of layers of paint on your face now. or maybe, do you want a pillow, or maybe, well, anything. but she’s not sure what the protocol is, glances over and sees kiwon fully asleep as someone silently straightens pale pink strands, and she thinks it might be okay to just not talk at all. so, carefully (gently, uncertainly) she tilts his chin with a fingertip, the tip of her brush dragging a coral tint into place. she’s so focused, in the end, on tracing the curve of his lips and avoiding the layers of foundation already carefully applied, that she doesn’t notice wide round eyes fixed on her for a beat too long, startling slightly at sudden wakefulness, fumbling her brush to the floor (god damnit, another thing to sanitize) and scuffing backwards in platformed sandals. “uh, sorry, hi, i’m the training stylist, so - uh  - i’m styling you. i would have said something but i thought you were asleep,” she nods, meaningfully, towards the still unconscious boy beside them.  “i’ll get another brush.” she adds, bobbing down to pick it up and set it aside, trading it out for another. 

they’d never prepared her for making small talk, though, and while they’ve spoken before she’s sure he’s paid next to no attention. hell, she barely remembers half the clients she’s ever had - it’s easier for these to stick considering the absurd level of fame hoisted upon them, but she’d helped many rookies on her way to this spot without them making much impression. “long night? practicing or?” she tries to think - does this mv have any choreo shots scheduled? it’s a japanese release, how do those work?

sunwoo’s tired. that’s nothing new, but it feels like a whole different kind of exhaustion now, mixed with nerves and more pressure than usual. 

he’s sunwoo, after all. not han or kiwon or taehyun. he doesn’t write lyrics for their songs, much less lyrics in a language he only barely knows conversationally because of all the anime he’s consumed in his 23 years of life. he’s just the maknae, supposedly golden -- so why does he always feels more like a jack of all trades and a master in none? it’s why he still finds it hard to believe his lyrics have been chosen and advertised so heavily, and why he’s spent his nights locking himself up in the practice booth and singing until he physically cannot anymore. because if he doesn’t sound his best after all this hype, what’s the point? what’s losing a few hours of sleep when losing his pride is the alternative? 

so, he sleeps in his chair because that’s the only time he can afford to. or, he tries to, laying down with his eyes shut. his eyelids are heavy, but his nerves are heavier, plaguing his mind. so when he feels the lightest brush against his lips, he wakes up. quietly, still. not wanting to disturb the focused look on her face or mess her up by moving too much as she gently touches him up. that is, until she notices him and he grins small as the brush hits the floor, instinctively sitting up more as if to try and reach for the brush himself. when she moves to get it, he sits back, answering, “no worries you’re good, lijae. thanks for not trying to wake me up, your my new favorite stylist already, glad you’re finally moving up.” 

she wants it to be that easy,  she does. but being with gun has never been easy, and it’s never going to be easy, either. she knows that. “besides, you can’t stop now. you’ve got at least a hundred more songs on that hard drive, or you did before. must be even more by now. which means there’s probably about ten of them you’d actually be happy to release. so at least another album.” she teases, poking fun at his relentless perfectionism, nipping lightly at the edge of her own chapped lips, pressing them together thin. “next scene is gonna take longer. i need to get the prosthetics for the cut. it’s going to itch like hell.” she tells him, brows lifting ever so slightly as she leans back, one half step to examine his features. “you’re good to go.”

gun hates the impossibility of it all, the fact that he can’t have one without the other. the fact that he himself can’t choose one side definitively. on one hand, he means it, that he would rather quit now while he’s ahead, while his name is still viewed positively by the public eye. because often, it feels like he’s reached the peak of a mountain with no where else to go now but down, and he’s more afraid of that than the lack of new heights to reach. more afraid of tainting the name he’s slaved to make as reputable as it is now. 

but on the other hand, what else would he have to live for outside of sera if he did? and would he end up resenting her, losing both of his only loves? he’s not sure he can bear either choice, and so he hates the impossibility of it all. pretends, with small grins and a rumbling voice and the curl of fingers around her waist, in this small pocket of time that none of that matters. that he can have everything. “hey,” he starts mock-offended, obvious by the tilt of his lips, “i have at least eleven by now. maybe even twelve.” but that might even be a lie too, he’s never happy enough with songs until someone forces him to be. “i can even send them to you as an exclusive first listen,” he continues, only half joking, always wondering what she’ll think of a song even before he completes it. 

he mumbles at her, quietly, hidden in between them and she steps a half step closer, brows furrowing. “you know you don’t get to just decide that,” she points out, brows lifting slightly, exhaling a strained breath, trying to keep her calm. to remind him that she cannot do this. that he can’t, more importantly. not now, when he has come so far and when there is such a precipice beneath him, such a staggering height to fall from. “careful,” she replies on an undignified scoff, shaking her head softly. “you don’t know how to be careful.” this is abjectly true, objectively speaking, and she reminds him of this with a perked brow and a drawled, “don’t you remember when you were shooting the puma endorsements? huh? you were so sure you could be really careful that day and what happened instead,” she points out, nudging a finger into his side, “they literally walked in on us,” she half-whispers, pushing her finger at him again, moving briefly to curl a finger through the other’s belt loop and tugging lightly. she fights back the urge to groan in frustration as the other continues, lets her eyes slide closed quick. “stop, don’t tempt me.” she complains, peeking one eye open to look at him. “i really, really want to tie you up.” she admits, almost conversationally as she takes his chin in her hand, reaches into her bag to pull out a lip brush, balancing the tint in her fingers as she takes some to paint over his lips, a nude flush of color to bring life to pale features. “we could even take turns,” she sighs plaintively, “just quit your job first.”

gun has a way of making things difficult for himself, whether or not he intends to. he’d joined the company in hopes of fulfilling his producer dreams, only to end up in the harsh spotlight for the rest of his life. he fell for someone in the midst of his unforeseen rise, and she was a staff member at that, his stylist no less, forbidden on three accounts. and now, he’s all but invited her back into his life with the knowledge that, realistically, nothing can happen. but gun’s never cared to succumb to realism anyway. if he had, he wouldn’t be where he is now, standing there in an old painfully familiar set with ten times more success on his shoulders and more watchful eyes on him than he knows how to handle. so he drops his voice and cruelly he suggests what they both know can’t happen because even now, he wants to try. with sera, he always wants to try. 

and he knows, despite all her rejections, she wants him too. a fact that has always felt more unbelievable, more incredible than the anonymous proclamations he receives on a daily basis. a fact he wants to hold on to more than anything. “okay, so we only fool around behind locked doors then, lesson learned, that won’t happen again,” he offers a solution, reaching out with a hand still stuffed in his jacket pocket to tap at her waist. brief, skinless, unsatisfying. he steps in closer when she tugs at his belt loop, feeling the warmth radiating off her body and wanting more, more, more. his lips curve at her admission, her offer, and he sweeps his tongue through, laughing quietly before she paints color onto him. “if that’s all it takes, consider it done,” he says as she pulls the brush away. he presses his lips together, making small popping sounds before he slides a hand out of his pocket and reaches, quickly, to tug at the bottom of her shirt. wanting her closer, wanting her. 

“you know i’ve always been a fan.” she all but purrs in reply, lets her hands drop and sees the flicker of his eyes as they open. no lenses this time. she likes that, likes his look natural, in a way, though perhaps the stark, peroxide blonde of his hair offsets that. she bites at the edge of her lip when their eyes meet, a tension that stretches thin between them, an aching tightness in her chest. her heart races and his hands twitch, tempted to press his hands to her hips and she wants him too. wants to crowd a little closer to him, but it’s not that easy. the brush of fingers against the backs of her hands is all she gets, instead, and she rolls her eyes, shifts to tug the camo jacket to settle properly on his shoulders. “at least i know you won’t be able to mess up your hair if you’ve got your hands tied to a chair.” she hums lazily, biting at the inside of her cheek. she smacks him, lightly, on the arm as the other continues. “you know we can’t.” she half-whispers, glancing to make sure no one has heard him, relenting to add, “you know i want too.” as she drags a brush against his cheekbone. “so don’t be cruel.”

they’re on a schedule. his entire life is on a schedule. locked to his career, set months in advance, if not a full year. video shoot today, tomorrow, concept photos the day after, full day of rehearsals after that, and so on for as long as gun can remember. which, he doesn’t tend to remember a lot of it these days, increasingly reliant on his manager to text him the schedule for the week ahead of time. so, of course he knows she’s only going be there for two days. that doesn’t make it any less disappointing, and in the back of his mind he wonders if he’ll be able to convince the company to bring her on for the concept photos, too. probably not, he thinks as his grin feels incredibly apparent to everyone in the room. he’s not giving them any reason to. 

but he can’t help it if his chest twinges with the ache of wanting, a slight hint of unfounded jealousy lingering there too. “of course they do, who wouldn’t,” he tells her in reply, suppressing the urge to open his eyes and glare at her jokingly, “but you better not be getting any ideas.” even behind closed lids he can almost see the grin on her face and his lips tilt in return as he lifts a hand up, sticking a pinky out like a promise, “yes, yes i know, i swear i will try my best not to.” and he chuckles quietly, because they both know his best is no where near good enough. he’s missed this desperately, missed her. the ease he feels around her, the way she makes these seemingly endless shoots feel much too short. the exhaustion keeping his eyes closed just minutes ago has long since gone, and when he opens them he can feel the tightness in his chest. 

maybe it’s an excuse. if she couldn’t get liner to hold up under that kind of heat for a few hours she wouldn’t be much of a stylist. of course touch-ups are normal but she can already anticipate the urge to be there more frequently than she might for another client. it’s an important video, that’s what she defends to herself. “i see you’ve got the anger back. so will we be re-shooting the flashback scenes today? you know, the whole tied to the chair ones?” she drawls, watches his eyes peek open despite himself- she’d anticipated that, has already lifted her hands from his face to rest at his collar, brows lifting. “you know i’ve always liked that scene.”

this isn’t fair. he’d specifically requested her to be his stylist again, at least for this shoot. he wanted to go completely full circle, he said, and that requires the entire crew, from the director to the stylists -- even sera. especially sera. they pushed back, of course, their trust in him lacking for very good reason, and he’d thought that was that. but now her hands are on his face and he can hear her breathe, can see the concentration in her eyes even with his own closed. he can guess almost exactly what she’s wearing right up to her hair pulled into that ponytail he’s always loved and it is so incredibly unfair. they’ve given him what he wants, but logically he knows the stipulations attached. 

for now, he pretends he doesn’t. 

“good,” he says with a grin, “the more touch-ups the better, i think. shooting might end up taking several days, who knows?” his grin is unrelenting and he wants so desperately to open his eyes, wants to see the smile on her face up close like he hasn’t in what feels like forever. he’s asked the signal boys for selfies with her when they can, but it’s not the same on a phone screen, it’s different when he can feel the soft sweep of her fingers and hear the pout in her voice. so when she continues, he can’t help himself from sliding his lids up the second the pencil leaves his face and he feels her hands on his collar. 

that’s what she tells herself, pushing round spectacles up the bridge of her nose and gathering her hair into a ponytail, back out of her face. he looks half asleep as her assistant drapes accessories on him, and sera thinks of how strange it is to have gotten to the point where she has assistants and he has a say in his concepts, creative contributions from both of them so much more meaningful now. when sihyun steps away from him, sera moves in, doesn’t bother announcing the change, stepping forward to carefully place her fingers against his skin, swallows hard once before she adds a helpful, “keep your eyes closed,” and takes the liner to them carefully, watches the flutter first as he recognizes her voice, a slight grin playing at her lips. “so you’re back to a smoky eye, huh?” there’s a quiet laugh, “you hated it so much back then.”

there is something nostalgic about this, the familiar set they’re on today. the old run down freight car and abandoned train tracks with seemingly more rust than metal. it’s almost painful, too, remembering the previous song they were here for last time. he tries not to think about that song anymore, has even since deleted it from his computer, from his phone, and would even delete it from his memory if he could. it’s not that gun hates it, but those lyrics, the raw ache in his voice were both from much darker times he’d rather not revisit. not when he has a million new things to worry about now.

like how exhausted he feels. not just today at who even knows what time anymore, but almost always as a result of mixing jet lag and lack of sleep and an infinitely restless mind. so, he sleeps on set when he can, or at least rests his eyes, and doesn’t care anymore if he’s caught on camera doing so. his company likes when that happens anyway. it helps further their lethargic image of him, and who is he to complain? so he’s since shooed away the behind the scenes video staff after answering their questions and rests his eyes as stylists prep him for the shoot. his breath evens, slows, and he almost falls asleep despite all the bustling around him until he hears it. 

but it’s hard to remember that. when he speaks to her with such conviction. when his hands catch hers and his fingers cold around them. when they slide to his cheeks and he looks at her like she’s swallowed the sun. she trembles, lips on his until they’re gasping for breath that doesn’t come easy anymore, under the weight of all of this revolution, all of these promises. “of course i do.” she groans out in frustration. “but you left, yul. you left me there. you let him have me. you’d promised, you promised you wouldn’t, so how will it be different now? how are you going to keep these promises? how can we promise each other anything, anymore?”

yul makes a lot of heavy promises that he often cannot keep, despite his best efforts. it is at once his fatal flaw and the thing that keeps him going. both what makes him so convincing, so charismatic to the masses even with all his jagged edges, and yet still so unfit for the classical crown, the old-fashioned citadel’s throne. but he doesn’t want that, anyway. he doesn’t want the nation at his feet or the strength of the avatar at his beck and call or the moon blood red to terrify all of hyrule into dependence on the strength of the fire nation. he wants change, he wants to bring faith back to gerudo under less threatening circumstances, and he wants to settle the rippling unrest across the lands. but maybe above all, selfishly, foolishly still, he wants rae. and he wants her for more than just a few stolen moments and furtive glances, and in more than hushed voices with desperation in his eyes like they are tonight. 

“it’s different now, rae. i have already lost everything and have nothing more to lose, but everything to gain. i can promise you these things because i will make them all come true, or i will die trying,” he promises once more with just as much conviction and strength behind his words, even as he says them in barely above a whisper, a breathy voice that damn near wavers while his chest rises and falls so visibly. her hand burns against his cheek and he leans into that fire, placing his own hand over it and dragging his fingers down the back, down her arm, slow, until they’re hooking around her elbow. 

“i was thinking of burying you alive.” she tells him stubbornly, despite the quiver of fear in her voice, “and i guess i was too eager.” she presses her lips together, opens her eyes to look at him. finds he is much closer than he had been a moment ago, and that she has risen far enough from the ground to be at eye level with him, which is a new and alarming thing. his eyes are dark and intent, with a strength in them that runs like a dark current through a storming ocean. “i’m tired. i want to rest. we’re not going to find him tonight anyway, and you’re weakened too. you’re too stubborn and you’re only going to get us killed.” she bluffs, wiggling her fingers again, snaps them to draw his attention. “you didn’t even fully immobilize me.” she points out, “your pride is too much.”

it takes more energy than jaeyong will ever admit for him to bend blood. still, after all this time. 

he’d only learned it after they’d pumped him full of anger and it rose out of that, the heat of it, the way it overwhelms and consumes. and so now, he needs to be angry if he wants to bend blood. now, he cannot acknowledge the jaeyong he’d been before the citadel, cannot be weak, cannot have compassion, cannot, cannot, cannot. but unlike kindness and soft eyes and softer hands, he cannot control fatigue. deep breaths and heavy glares can only suppress it for so long before his tired fingers start to tremble. before his feet start to ache and can’t stand their ground. even now, as she tells him she fantasized about killing him, the little jaeyong of a small water bending tribe that is no more thinks: do it, death would be far better than this. 

he doesn’t tell her this, of course. and jaeyong, of the fire nation now in all but element alignment, stores the rage that swells inside of him. he steps forward until she can feel the heat of his breath, burn under the fire in his tired but endlessly frustrated eyes. “you think of betraying me?” he asks, posed more like a threat than a question. a warning, but for what he doesn’t know. because would he have it in him, to kill her, if the need arises? if she got in the way between him and that foolish avatar, would he be the soldier the citadel believes him to be? he breathes slow and tries to steady his hand, tries to believe that he could, would, even now, in a single snap of his fingers. 

and it is, too, she notices, with a grin that slides slow, brows lifting as she turns back to look at him from over her shoulder, slides off her bra and pauses, before she replaces it, the oversized shirt hanging from her arms as she looks at him.she sees him, fidgeting, the purposeful way his eyes dart and fix, and she lets that grin bloom a little wider, a flicker catching fire like a candle in her gaze as he coughs,  turns away again. “i wear a lot of oversized clothes,” she tells him, grinning widely, “did i hurt your pride, lion cub?” she drawls with a laugh, meets his eyes before he can turn away. when he does, she slides the shirt on finally, lets it settle over her shoulders and hang down in a billow of plain and unassuming fabric, thumping down onto the edge of the mattress with a sigh. “that’s so rude. i gave you a show, and i saw you peeking,” she tells him, leaning back on her hands as she looks over at him. “the least i deserve is one in return.”

he’s not drunk enough for this, maybe. he thinks. 

he puts the bottle to his lips to delay answering her, tilts it back, but it’s empty. so. maybe his mind is impaired enough. or just distracted, by her grin and the invitation he swears he sees in it. the slim curve of her waist and how regrettable it is she has a shirt on now when he turns his head back around. but, even that looks good with the way she sits back, the way her eyes are settled on him. he holds them with his own, her eyes, and that feels like a mistake waiting to happen. like his already poor resolve disintegrating quickly. on any other night, under any other circumstance, he’d be by her side now. sat right there on the mattress, voice low and lips searching for temporary reprieve he would regret and leave without a word the morning after.