#makorrayear

The band was called “The Lucky Looseys” and they eventually became the reason she bit the bullet and purchased a painfully expensive gramophone for the apartment.

She would never - could never - forget that first time she both saw and heard them. Down to the pattern of their cravates (gold paisley on midnight blue silk, if anyone dared to inquire), every detail was ingrained like an especially stubborn splinter. She remembered raising a curious eyebrow as they took the stage, twenty members at least, all wielding a cacophony of tangled brass pieces, not one of which she had been able to name back then.

She remembered thinking they were all too much. Overkill. An inevitable headache if not full on migraine. The girth of many of their handlebar mustaches was especially ridiculous.

Then they played.

They had eased her in with the drums as first. As a Southern Water Tribe girl, drums were to her what the singing was to most city dwellers. Her mother had thumped her callused fingerpads upon a miniature version to lull her to sleep at night. It had been the first and fortunately the only instrument she had ever attempted to learn back in her early training days. Korra remembered how beating her mittens upon that stretched skin kept her warm during frigid winter solstice celebrations. Drums never failed to summon electricity beneath her skin, until her toes started to tap for need of an outlet.

The first time she heard the trumpets roar, she admittedly winced. Such a jarring screech was - at first - considered on par musically with a elephant-hyena being stabbed. The notes found their flow eventually, mellowed out by the addition of sharper, tin drums, the Tuba’s low bass and the saxophone’s sighs. Somehow this hodge podge of loud, usually stand alone instruments managed to meld and synchronize and Korra could glean the messy, energetic melody underneath it all.

It was beautiful. Beautiful like in the way fighting was beautiful; which is to say, one couldn’t really appreciate it until one joined the fray.

“Do you want to dance?”

There was no need to turn around to know whose breath was ghosting across her ear. Instead of replying she took another gulp of sake. It acted a dual liquid courage and emotional dampener.

“And give the press more fodder for the gossip pages? No, thank you.”

The empty chair beside her was pulled back and she saw, out of the corner of her eye, the gold of his cufflinks twinking as his scarred left hand inched closer. “You know, the cat’s already out of the bag. Why not let it-”

“Scream?” she interrupted, unable to fully mask the amusement from her voice.

“I was going to say ‘let it frolic’, but yours also works.”

She hid her smile in another sip.

It had been a little over a week since the story broke. Korra had long since grown comfortable with the romantic label ‘unattached’ - since the populace apparently insisted on applying such labels to her - as she rootless-ly travelled the world completing her Avatar duties. It made things easier, giving more focus to her diplomatic actions over her personal life. However, a habit of frequenting Mako’s apartment when in Republic City had gradually developed over the last few months. A bad habit.

Originally, it had been simple and convenient stress relief. One too many politicians screaming at one too many conferences and losing herself in his arms for an hour or two was the only thing keeping her from decapitating someone.

Eventually, however, she found herself seeking him out just for the hell of it, re-plotting her routes to ensure she had a stop over in the City. As the rendezvous became more common and loose, so had her attempts at secrecy. A lucky press member had recognized her incognito form exiting a train and had followed her to the head detective’s abode, where he was able to snap a few photographs of their definitely-more-than-friends greeting.

Beyond mere embarrassment, the photos had exposed a tender nerve she had never wanted to see light. Not because she was ashamed. On paper as well as to everyone and anyone’s eyes, Mako was as good an illicit paramour as one could get; handsome, decorated, respected and selfless. Those few archaic factions that chose to berate her for being unmarried had never been people she cared to concern herself with anyways.

Primarily, she was upset that he had to be yanked into the tornado that was her life yet again. At 25 years old, 7 years after they had officially broken up, it had just started to be forgotten that he had even been involved with the Avatar. New rookies looked up to him due more to his current work ethic, not his past.

A little over a week ago, citizens and colleagues would point him out as “that’s the guy that took down the Triple Threats!”. Now, most likely, his label was something much more crude.

It wasn’t fair.

“You don’t have the do this,” she whispered, eyes glued to her feet that were still, restlessly, tapping to the beat. A new instrument had been introduced. A clarinet. She liked it.  

“Do what?”

“You know...this.” She made a vague gesture in the space between them. “Nothing’s changed. We still have the same arrangement. You don’t have to pretend that it's something more.”

“I’m not pretending anything.”

“Because I don’t care, you know? I don’t care what they think or what they say. It’s none of anyone else’s business.”

“I agree.”

“I mean, I only came tonight because it’s for charity and I had promised and you’re only here because Bei Fong bought you a seat. And we’re both here, at the same time, because I really don’t care what they all think.”    

“So you’ve said.”

With a huff she finally turned to face him, her expression a mixture of pure annoyance with just a hint of longing. Mako was revealed to be wearing the same suit Asami had bought him nearly a decade prior, accessorized with the medal of valor he had just won for outstanding acts of bravery in addition to an especially cocky smirk. The clothes still fit him to almost annoying perfection, tight around his still muscular shoulders and chest. Despite all logic insisting she remain apathetic, it was impossible to ignore the sparks slithering through her body up until they flared within her cheeks.

If that story hadn’t come out - if she hadn’t been so certain that almost every eye in this place was currently trained on them - in such a scenario should would have happily played along with his flirting. Perhaps, as had happened on occasions past, they may have disappeared into the bathroom together for a few minutes of giggle-ridden lip locks. Meanwhile, in public, they exchange nothing more than hollow hellos appropriate for old acquaintances.

It would have been secret and spicy and fun.

Thanks to that damn reporter, fun was forever off the menu.

Above and around them, the music picked up the beat, inspiring her second foot to start jiggling in time.

“I don’t want to give them any more ammo,” she muttered to him between tight lips.

“I asked you to dance, not propose marriage. Though, judging by recent headlines, I’m going to have to do that soon lest your honor be compromised.” She knew he was teasing, trying to add a humorous lilt to this uncomfortable bed they had made themselves, but she could only roll her eyes.  

“You’re not funny.”

“...I know. I just…” she watched, as if in slow motion, his fingers crawling forward to still hers, which she hadn’t noticed were also tapping the beat against her sake glass. Upon contact, her every muscle tightened, resulting in a discomfited stillness that itched to explode in a wild flailing of limbs.

“I think it’d be good...for us…”

“What would be good for us?” she asked, praying that her nerves weren’t being revealed through her wavering voice.

“To dance. To show that we really don’t care. Even though we obviously-”

“I don’t-”

“You do too. Of course we both do. We’re public figures and our lives are made infinitely easier by putting on a false front, impersonating these moral idols that no one can possibly live up to.” He stated this without an ounce of pity, just pure, inarguable fact. “You care because you’re caring and we’re a mess because life is messy. That’ll never change and we’ll probably never be on the same wavelength. Carefully coordinated is not how we work.”  

Ug. He had such an annoying habit of saying things out loud that weren’t supposed to ever be said out loud. It was a trait she both loved and hated in him.

“And you think dancing, publically dancing, to this insanity,” she waved towards the tangle of bodies occupying the stage. All the instruments were blasting now, as if they alone were doing a solo unattached from the rest. If the story of their admittedly unorganized lives existed in the form of melody, this would be it. “Do you honestly think this will solve everything?”

With a sigh he stood up. “No,” he admitted after a pause, and yet still he held out his palm in silent, heavy offering. “But I do think it’ll be fun. Don’t you?”

Korra considered.

But only for a second.

Any longer and she would have had the time to nitpick so many things obviously wrong with the proposal. The press would have a field day, accusing her of flaunting her illicit relationship. Mako would similarly be dragged through the mud, perhaps implying that he was unfit to hold such high office, his judgement obviously biased.

That didn’t matter though. All those thoughts were blocked out leaving room only for the music.

That intoxicating music.

After allowing herself to listen - truly listen - did the beat start to infect all of her limbs and her hand flew into his as if suddenly magnetized. As Mako pulled her to her feet, she had already started to bounce in time to the drums.

It was all so stupid but it was oh so very fun. A smile stole its way onto her lips before she could stop it and Mako was quick to take advantage, instantly tightening his grip so that he could pull her arm up high and pull her through a dizzying spin.

They clumsily crashed into one another as she completed the move and both burst into giggles at the ridiculousness of everything. Of Life.  

Messy, as always.

Amazing, as always, when together.  

Ignoring whatever press members were surely lingering closeby, Korra instead focused on the nearby dancefloor. All around, similarly experimental but ecstatic couples were throwing each other all over the floor. Something about this band had ignited a fever throughout this once stoic affair. Even the President and his wife were not immune, twirling wildly at the eye of the storm and laughing in what some may describe as “manically.”

“Let’s do this!” she said, daring to lean in close.

As she spun around the floor, she experienced...not exactly a change of heart.

More of a turn of the head.

All of sudden, she was seeing things that had always existed but from a fresh perspective.  

Korra remembered not remembering that night.

Her mind only allowed room for being pushed and pulled so furiously and lifted so high and her shoe flying off and hitting some senator in the face at one point, but nothing else.

Because nothing else mattered.

Two years later, when the same, brassy, loud, over-the-top, mustached band played at their wedding, Tenzin couldn’t but ask how they did it. The now famous ensemble never played outside of stadiums and especially not at such small, intimate events. Korra and Mako only shrugged in response.

Sure, the ensuing scandal from that first, public swing dance may have brought the band into the limelight. Maybe the were doing to Avatar - the world savior - a favor. Quite possibly she had just bullied them into it.

All the mattered was that they continued to dance. They danced through hundreds of stubbed toes and more than one twisted ankle. They danced until saturated with sweat and heels collapsed under the pressure.

All that mattered was that their futures remained like their steps; not always in sync, but ever uplifting.

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