I have worked on this for twenty minutes, which is fifteen more than I intended, and I think I officially give up. For what it is (a drabble that wants to be 1500 words), I give it to you:
--- Zuko was sure she did it on purpose, and he hated her for it.
Oh, her feet would be planted just fine, but her elbow would be too high or her shoulders hunched or her fingers curled, and when he shook his head at her she would raise an eyebrow and say, "Why don't you fix my stance, then?"
It was bad enough when Aang was around, looking curious as he hesitated; he didn't want to be the one to have to explain that Katara's bending outfit left much to be desired. It was worse when they were alone, no witnesses to restrain him, or confirm his self-restraint. He was sure she was teasing him, waiting for him to trip up, to linger long enough for her to holler for her brother. He was also sure she knew exactly what she was doing; in trying to avoid her gaze, he missed the question there, the cautious insecurity with which she gauged his reaction.
He gave no answers, wiping his expression from his face before stepping forward and touching--her wrist, her shoulder blades, once her knee. "Your hands are warm," she would say as he nudged her into place instead of answering, trying not to listen and thus failing to hear the hitch in her voice as his pale fingers trailed across her dark arms.
Their lessons ended with a bow, and he always left before she could see the strain in his eyes, turning away before she could open her mouth and say, please touch me again.
no subject
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Zuko was sure she did it on purpose, and he hated her for it.
Oh, her feet would be planted just fine, but her elbow would be too high or her shoulders hunched or her fingers curled, and when he shook his head at her she would raise an eyebrow and say, "Why don't you fix my stance, then?"
It was bad enough when Aang was around, looking curious as he hesitated; he didn't want to be the one to have to explain that Katara's bending outfit left much to be desired. It was worse when they were alone, no witnesses to restrain him, or confirm his self-restraint. He was sure she was teasing him, waiting for him to trip up, to linger long enough for her to holler for her brother. He was also sure she knew exactly what she was doing; in trying to avoid her gaze, he missed the question there, the cautious insecurity with which she gauged his reaction.
He gave no answers, wiping his expression from his face before stepping forward and touching--her wrist, her shoulder blades, once her knee. "Your hands are warm," she would say as he nudged her into place instead of answering, trying not to listen and thus failing to hear the hitch in her voice as his pale fingers trailed across her dark arms.
Their lessons ended with a bow, and he always left before she could see the strain in his eyes, turning away before she could open her mouth and say, please touch me again.