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You're sitting together on the living room couch, a blanket thrown over your naked bodies. The phonograph is spinning a jazz record, a mutual favorite. You steadily tap along to the slow rhythm on her bare thigh, producing a soothing silence you can hear quite clearly. She leans her head into the crook of your neck. You can tell from the soft vibrations tickling your skin that she's humming along to the song.
She's kissing the small bruises that had started forming on your skin just a few moments ago. Her tongue runs over them softly, almost apologetically. However, you know a good part of her isn't very sorry at all. She's proud of the marks she has left on you. If the slightly smug smile on her face is anything to go by.
You run your fingers through her smooth, silky hair. It reminds you of the water at the bottom of the icy cliffs back at the South Pole, fluid and ink black. But not entirely. Your fingers do get caught in a few stray tangles. The lamplight casts a lovely, warm yellow across her wavy tresses, something you didn't see on those lonely nights you have spent looking upon the ocean.
"Korra?"
Your eyes flicker down to met hers, a lovely jade color. "Yes?"
"What are you thinking about?"
"Nothing bad." You press your lips along her hairline. "Why?"
She momentarily breaks eye contact to nibble gently along your collarbone, her eyes meeting yours again with a tinge of concern. "It's just that you looked pretty intense there for a second."
"Oh. I did?"
"Yeah," she says with a laugh. "You did."
"I was just thinking about you. You're right here, after all. With me." You trace your finger along the bridge of her nose, stopping at the tip. "So naturally, I'm thinking about you."
"Is that how it works?"
You let out a chuckle. "Yes."
"Well..." she pauses. Her lips inch closer towards your own ever so slightly. You feel it against your lips, the question: "Do you think about me even when I'm not with you?"
"Yeah, of course," you say, smiling into the kiss. "All the time."
You've always known that Asami Sato was irreplaceable. There are no doubts in your mind about that. It's one of the simplest truths in your life.
Yet, understandably, you still try to fill in the void that was left behind.
So you would meet people. You would make love to them.
The women you'd sleep with, they would look like her. Long, black hair and porcelain curves. Those green eyes. That's all you would see. You would look at them like they're treasure, priceless and eternal. Because that's how you used to look at her.
(One of the many things that you had in common with Asami was that you both gave your all when it came to love.)
But, of course, your gaze would always be a little off. Your eyes would try focus on someone who isn't there. You'd be seemingly close to them but actually far removed.
So really, you'd just be fucking them.
They would often cry out your name, just like she did. Sometimes, you'd reply. But you would do so with the name that has always been clearest in your mind, the name you've never forgotten. Immediately afterward, the side of your face would be met with an angry sting. Tears diluting the venom seething from their mouths. The sight of their backs fleeting away sooner than anticipated.
So you would try to not let the name slip out. For everyone's sake.
You're gliding over Republic City. Whenever you're up in the air, you can see the stars a little better. However, you can't help but be a bit disappointed. After all, you grew up in the South Pole. The sky there had always been clear and beautiful, even before the return of the southern lights.
But tonight, you're not flying around aimlessly just to look up at the night sky. You're flying towards a known destination, towards Harmony Tower.
You arrive at the tower, its tall and magnificent form outshining the stars above. There are more people than usual, gathered by its base. You see a band playing. And an audience, one of a generous size, polite and listening intently. You land on the pavement with barely a thud, not wanting to risk interrupting the performance. The song rings clearer in your ears as you step closer.
You recognize the tune. It's an old favorite. A quiet smile grazes your lips as you are sent to a better time. Absentmindedly, your fingers twitch, tapping against the fabric of your pants. You hum almost inaudibly. Another voice reaches your ears instead of your own. It is familiar and lovely.
You decide that the band is doing a wonderful job with their playing. The usual noise produced by the phonograph is absent, and the song bleeds through unfiltered. The zhonghu's sound is like a dull blade cutting through the still air. Not piercing but separating it. For the first time, you become aware of the light hissing of the cymbals, the mellow vibrations of the bass. It all sends shivers up your spine.
You've always known that phonographs never sound as good as the real thing. Not even close.
Yet you cry anyway. It's too beautiful not to.