burns.

Korra sees them for the first time when she glimpses Mako washing dishes at Air Temple Island.

He catches her looking and buries his arms elbow-deep in soap suds, studying the sink with utmost concentration.

A moment passes, and Korra silently joins him, fishing out a bowl to rinse, fingers brushing his wrist beneath the water.

Neither speaks a word.

His bending is all wrong, Korra realizes, watching the young man execute a series of perfectly timed blows at straw dummies.

He moves with the grace of a waterbender, the endurance of an earthbender, and with eyes beyond his age.

But there is no passion.

Korra watches as the smoke curls around Mako's fists, flames fading fast into the wind.

The dummies remain intact.

"You need to try harder!"

"I am trying!"

"If those dummies were Equalists, you'd be dead by now. This isn't a pro-bending match, you know."

"Incredibly insightful, thanks."

"I'm just trying to help! If you want more power to your firebending, you need to -"

"It's getting late. Good night, Korra."

"Hey! Hey I'm not done talking! Mako -!"

(She doesn't follow him.)

Amon launches his final assault, and Mako bends for all their lives.

The flame that leaves his hands billows and roars into an inferno, and Korra feels both an inexplicable sense of thrill and dread shoot through her spine.

The Equalists fall like spent matches, and she finally catches sight of Mako's face.

His expression is telling enough.

The second time Korra sees them, it is against the starched white backdrop of hospital sheets and the stinging scent of antiseptic.

The pulling and bunching of scar tissue like spider webs over the backs of his hands. The pink discolouration of skin, like an afterthought of scarlet-red flames.

Korra sees, but does not ask.

(When he wakes, Mako is all regret and apologies, self-loathe and loneliness wrapped into one.

That makes two of us, thinks Korra.)

With the looming threat of Amon and his faceless army gone, Korra finds herself ironically restless. Seeking out the best noodle joints with Bolin and going for rides around town with Asami have done little to fill the spaces in her mind.

Korra finally works up the courage to ask Mako to accompany her in firebending drills. To her surprise, he accepts, and the drills eventually dissolve into a full-blown sparring match.

(His flames are stronger now. He singes the tip of her ponytail, and she retaliates by kicking his feet out from underneath.)

By the time the embers on the ground have dissolved to ashes, the night is carrying a sweet wind across the island and Korra has him pinned to the ground, foreheads against each other, sharing the same air and smouldering heat.

(She learns later that night about the break-up; on mutual grounds, apparently.

Asami just gives her a small, sad smile.

Dry eyes, Korra thinks, and suddenly feels like crying.)

She leaves the City in the following month to continue her Avatar duties around the world. Southern Water Tribe comes first, where her parents and Master Katara shower her with the love they have always given so eagerly, followed by the North. Then it's Fire Nation, and Earth Kingdom. Finally, the four Air Temples. She drinks it all in greedily, revelling in these new sights and adventures beyond the walls of the White Lotus compound.

But still she finds herself longing for the bright lights of the Stadium, the fruit trees of Air Temple Island, the familiarity of friendly faces.

A year passes. Then another.

And when she finally boards the ship for Republic City, there is a lift in her step and run in her stride.

Mako greets her at the docks, freshly broken arm in a sling from last night's victorious pro-bending match. Bolin is bending all the spoons in the brother's flat, and Asami now occupies the chairman's desk at Future Industries.

She feels a twinge in her chest.

Everything has changed.

(Except not really, Korra thinks as the four of them crowd into one tiny booth at Narook's and swap stories and sample each other's noodle bowls and laugh long into the night.

This must be what home feels like.)

Mako asks her out the next day.

Korra can only smile and nod.

Their second kiss comes softer and sweeter this time; they knock noses and click teeth the first few tries, and Korra thinks she should have remembered chapstick. But then she tastes spearmint and wood fire on his lips, feels the spark of his fingertips oh her waist, and stops thinking altogether.

When they finally pull away, there's something disarming about the look in his eyes: vulnerable like a child's, heavy like soldier's.

Korra supposes he is both, in a sense.

So she decides to ask.

(When they make love for the first time, Korra floods the bathroom sink and Mako sets the curtains on fire.)

"How?"

Mako blinks lethargically, already half asleep. "Hm?"

Korra reaches over and twines her fingers with his, tracing calluses and burn scars – a silent answer. She looks up to meet his gaze.

The firebender runs a hand through his hair and avoids her eyes. Silence filters and settles into the room; their new curtain set billows in the night breeze.

She takes his hand in both of hers.

He takes a breath.

The pieces are falling into place.

Eight year-old Mako, full of self-hatred and blame. Lighting candles with matches and draping his father's scarf around his shoulders like a burden.

Twelve year-old Mako, bending for the first time in years to save Bolin's life against the street thugs. He sets the man's face on fire, then empties his stomach onto the sidewalk, memories of a night four years ago spilling over like a broken dam.

Just-another-street-kid Mako, relentlessly re-learning and perfecting his bending against the brick wall of a back alleyway, even as he rejected every moment of it and the flames ate at the hands that released it.

For the sake of Bolin's life. For the sake of his own.

The flames always came back when called.

And the burns stayed behind.

(Proof of life.)

"I could heal them."

She idly studies the hard lines of his back as he flips a flatbread.

"You wouldn't have to cover up with those gloves anymore."

She knows the answer before he gives it.

Korra buys him a new pair of gloves for his next birthday; practical and tough leather ones, appropriate for daily use and the occasional firebending sparring match.

Between the sheets, she always pays special attention to his hands, tracing their ridges and valleys with butterfly kisses, watching his eyes darken as she presses a chaste kiss to his pulse point.

(He's never been good with words, so they speak with lingering gazes and fleeting touches instead.

He tells her that he is no longer ashamed of the firebending that saved his brother's life, when he returns Bolin's bear hug at the metalbending police force's inauguration ceremony.

He tells her that he has never been ashamed of his burns, skimming a rough palm down the planes of her stomach, and lower still.

He tells her he would very much like to marry her, presenting her with a stone-hewn betrothal necklace, slightly rough around the edges and inexplicably warm to the touch.

She tells him to shut up and kiss her.)

When their first child is born, Mako stops wearing gloves.

Korra only smiles and says nothing.

"Daddy look! I set the curtains on fire!"

End.