#glitterswitch

He was too far away to see the details of her eyes, but when she would turn, he imagined he could make out the spark that burned there. And that dress...damn the flowershop girl for lending it to her. The cream-colored material clung in soft, crinkling folds to her torso and hips, the capped sleeves pulled down her arms to leave her shoulders bare. As she twisted and leapt backwards, arms swinging around her, the gold-edged hem did its own pirouette around her shockingly tan thighs, skimming across the tops of them as the girl came back down to earth.

It was far too short for her, who he was so used to seeing in concealing leggings and a long tunic. She was too practical for an outfit of that...that...brevity. The Agni-cursed thing left her entire top half uncovered! Well, not the entire top...but from her shoulders down to the swelling curves of her breasts there was nothing but glowing, bare skin. A hint of bosom at the top of the dress was all it took to have every male ranging from old windbag to spotty adolescent ogling her. It certainly had his attention. (And where, he would dearly love to know, had she learned to dance like that?)

Why am I even thinking about this? She isn't my sister; I shouldn't be worried how many eyes are on her (not that he worried about said sister in the first place). I don't need to be thinking about her in that thrice-cursed (blessed?) dress, or that everyone else is thinking about her out of it -

That was enough for him. He tore his eyes away from the swaying hips and stamping feet, away from the levity of the dancers and the fire that moved them. He made himself focus on his leg, the one that was propped out in front of him; it was still supposed to be broken, but she had healed it for him only a few hours ago -

And there he went again. He wasn't supposed to be thinking of her. He settled himself back against the trunk of the tree, then picked up his discarded knife and set to the small piece of clay in his hand with a savagery that nearly broke the fragile disk in two. Slowly, swirls and spirals appeared, almost as if the music were being transferred in the stone. Stabs of flame, whorls of dust and waves of water broke across the surface of the clay. Don't think, just do. But his mind couldn't focus for long; neither would his eyes. He felt himself being pulled back into the firelight, into the rippling rhythm of the dancers before him. One dancer. She moved to her own music, it seemed, sometimes almost out of time with the others. Certainly her moves weren't like the other girls'. Theirs were coy and submissive, made to draw the eyes of suitors. Hers were fierce, almost savage, as if she listened to a different set of musicians altogether. The roar of the ocean, maybe, or the thundering of rain. But despite this, or perhaps because of it, all eyes were on the wild-eyed girl that moved in the center of the pinwheel like a typhoon.

The music was changing, he suddenly noticed. Becoming harsher, deeper, faster. Because of her, he didn't doubt. Wherever she went, the Waterbender inspired change. (He was living proof, wasn't he?) The other girls stumbled a bit, losing the beat, but then, as if a key had been turned, they, too, became waves. Pushing, pulling, over and under. Leaping and ducking, as if fire were hot on their heels. But still his eyes followed the one at the center of the maelstrom, the one closest to the flames that lit her hair to fire and turned her skin into dusty gold. He watched, the carving in his hands forgotten.

No, he decided. Not quite the ocean. More like a firestorm. An unchecked force of nature that leapt and grabbed, darted and wove through the hearts of men. Fire can be so like water, in the push and pull, the breaking down of the elements before it, the hunger, the potential for destruction if left to itself. She dances like fire.

Slowly, quietly, something passed through him, sinking deep inside his bones and turning them to jelly. His palms were suddenly sweaty, and he blinked, swiping at the moisture that dripped into his eyes. He felt the change, and wondered what it was. Then, just as softly as it had snuck up on him, the feeling passed, and he was left with the nagging thought that there was something he was missing. As if of their own volition, his eyes found the Waterbender in the throng of dancers once more, and something in the air changed, like the charge of energy before a storm. She looks different. He took a deep, steadying breath, and leaned back against the tree once more, following every step, every twist and bend and fall that her body made against the firelight.

Someday, the thought found him. His fingers absently smoothed over the half-formed design in his hand, barely registering the heat that seemed to come off it. Someday, I'm going to dance with her.

Then he glanced down at the piece of clay, at the abstract design he had carved into it, and blinked. If you looked at it just right, angled it a little this way, and squinted, it looked...it looked almost like...

His calloused fingers closed over the piece abruptly, thinking to melt it. But he didn't. He held it in his fist, knuckles white, and looked back up at the water girl that danced like fire.

Someday.