Chapter Text
Asami’s world comes to a standstill when she meets the girl’s eyes for the first time. It’s predictable, it’s cheesy, and it is completely terrible.
Damn. Fuck.
It is autumn—first term of Asami’s junior year—and she is fresh out of a thermodynamics lecture (the readings are heavy, tucked away in her laptop bag) and sitting at a campus pizzeria because somehow she’s become that person who still has lunch dates with her ex and her ex’s younger brother (who are always, unfailingly, five minutes late), when she shows up, attached to Mako’s arm, laughing at one of Bolin’s jokes.
And her world stops. Her world, always busy, always racing through class and labs and meetings and internships and personal projects that never seem to be enough, screeches to a silent, unsettling halt. It’s not really the colour of the girl’s eyes (a jolting, electric blue) or the way they appear on the verge of breaking into laughter (even when she catches Asami’s gaze and tries to compose herself, extricate herself from Bolin’s infectious good humour) but more so the light in them, the look in her eyes and her lips and the slope of her shoulders and toned arms that makes Asami itch to open her up, dismantle her and figure out her story and the numbers that make her tick.
A small, petulant voice—the spoiled heiress part of Asami—immediately goes, I want her.
The logical, analytical part of Asami replies, Well. You're screwed.
Mako clears his throat. The three of them have taken a seat in the booth Asami had saved for them (for two of them), with the new girl—for some infuriating, inexplicable reason—slipping into Asami’s side of the table, her leg bumping into and settling against Asami’s on the bench.
Mako says, “Hey, Asami.”
Mako says, “This is Korra, my girlfriend. I—uh—hope you don’t mind that I brought her along.”
Korra shoots her a small, charming, lopsided smile. She’s sitting so close to her that Asami can feel Korra’s roaring body heat against her thigh, her side, her shoulder. Korra’s eyes sparkle.
Korra says, “S’up.”
Damn. Fuck.
Asami smiles. Poised. Controlled. “It’s no problem at all. Nice to meet you.”
Internally, all systems burst to flames. Damn. Fuck. Why did it have to be her?
Asami never stopped being friends with Mako. Their relationship—their fluttery, floaty, freshman-year relationship—didn’t work out, had ended in lodged throats and a quiet understanding, but it had been a relationship that included her hand steady on the small of his back as he talked about his parents, his fingers combing gently through her hair as she talked about her parents, and falling asleep together on his ratty studio apartment couch on the summer nights she couldn’t bear the thought of sharing a house with her father. That wasn’t really the kind of relationship they could just walk away from, so neither of them tried.
She almost wishes now, though, that she did try, that she walked far away and found some new friends who cared less and weren’t as much of a headache. She confides this to Bolin, the evening after she meets Korra.
He chokes on his drink. “What? Why?” He frowns, glances up at her living room ceiling, apparently finding an answer there because his face suddenly lights up in a teasing, delighted smirk. “Oh, no. Is this about Korra? Don’t tell me—is the Asami Sato actually jealous?”
Asami sniffs and glares straight ahead at the television screen, at the inane decade-old romantic comedy Bolin had picked off Netflix. Oh, she’s jealous. She’s seething, burning green with envy to the tips of her perfectly manicured nails. He’s right about that. But mostly, overwhelmingly, she is filled with thick, preemptive guilt.
Bolin flicks a popcorn kernel at her. “Hello? Earth to Asami?”
She sighs, picks the popcorn out of her hair and aims it at Bolin’s mouth. Casually, resignedly, she says, “Korra’s going to fall in love with me.”
He chokes, for the second time. “What?” His eyes widen, then narrow in suspicion. “Why?”
“I like her. Too much.”
Bolin groans, slapping a hand against his forehead, all suspicions confirmed. Movie forgotten, Asami shrugs at him and tries her best to look apologetic. He shakes his head. “No, no, no, no, no. Asami! No!”
She nurses her screwdriver as he freaks out at her. Bolin mixed the drinks this time, and he always uses too much orange juice.
“I’m sorry,” she says eventually. She’s not lying.
“Asami. Asami.” Bolin reaches over to put a firm hand on her shoulder, nearly tipping over the bowl of popcorn between them in the process. His tone is stern. “You’re not gonna steal Mako’s girlfriend. Okay?”
She sighs again. “I don’t need you to tell me that.” Of course she doesn’t want to steal Mako’s girlfriend. Doesn’t plan to. “I just—Korra. She’s interesting.”
“No! No, Asami! She’s not interesting!”
“I’m not going to try to seduce her!” She softens, gives Bolin a sad, reluctant smile. “You know I care too much about him to do that.”
He holds her gaze for a long moment, then relaxes, his shoulders slumping. “Yeah, I know. I was kidding. Mostly.” Bolin’s known Asami for nearly two years and known Mako his whole life, and he understands more than anyone the nuances in their relationship-turned-friendship.
“Besides,” she says lightly, “we shouldn’t just assume I can seduce her. Does she even like girls?”
“I dunno. I mean, does it even matter, Miss Prodigy Beauty Queen?” At her resigned shrug, he leans back, pursing his lips thoughtfully. “I think so, though? She kind of hit on Opal the other day, in that ‘if we weren’t both already spoken for’ kinda way, you know?”
Asami nods, carefully filing that piece of information away for later analysis. Then, she immediately chastises herself. No. No analysis. No more thinking about your ex-boyfriend’s gorgeous girlfriend who you’ve only met today, and how amazing it’d be to see the stars reflected in her eyes as you sit together on the hood of your car after a romantic 2 AM drive—
She lets out a slow, shaky breath, her head sinking into her hands. Bolin guesses the direction of her thoughts, grinning and shaking his head as he says, “I’ll go pour you another drink, yeah?”
Asami had known, of course, that Mako was finally seeing someone. After all, they were friends—are friends—and there wasn’t (isn’t) any point in hiding their love lives from each other. Up until the previous summer, though, neither of them really had much of a love life to speak of.
(A string of one-night stands, they decided, did not count as a love life.)
“It’s not that serious yet,” he had said that evening in August, when he first told Asami that he’d met someone. “And I kind of just want to see where this goes first. I want you to meet her, but—I just really don’t want it to be awkward.”
“It’s okay. I’ll be happy with whenever you feel ready to introduce us,” she’d said, smiling gently. “And it won’t be awkward. I promise.”
This is awkward, Asami notes, shoving back a grimace. This is so awkward.
Korra glances at her over her shoulder and frowns. “Hey, you okay? You look kind of constipated, or something.”
“I’m fine,” she says shortly.
Crap. Did that sound snappy? Asami kicks herself internally. Agreeing to go on a morning jog alone with the girl she had resolved less than thirty-six hours ago to not seduce (and, ideally, not fall in love with) was probably amongst her weaker decisions, she admits. She had spent the first eleven minutes trying to remain three strides ahead of Korra (in a noble attempt to avoid staring at Korra’s outrageously toned arms or ridiculously tight running shorts) but, despite Asami’s advantage in height, Korra (the stupid, cheery, tireless jock) easily matched her pace. Then Asami decided to let Korra take the lead for a while, a choice she’s definitely regretting.
In movements too smooth and too dorky and endearing to possibly be fair or legal, Korra twirls around to face Asami, and begins jogging backwards. She chews on her lower lip as worry etches itself between her eyebrows.
“I’m sorry,” says Korra, the words ripping Asami’s gaze away from Korra’s lips. “Did I sound stupidly rude just now? It’s just, I haven’t really gotten the hang of the whole ‘talking-to-people-without-making-a-total-ass-of-myself’ thing yet.”
“No! No.” Asami shakes her head, feels her facial muscles relax, loosen. “You didn’t do anything wrong. Really.” She smiles when this seems to relieve Korra. “I’m sorry. I’ve just been acting weird.”
Korra turns around to resume running properly, but slows her pace to fall into stride next to Asami. She tilts her head at her. “Why?”
Because I’m attracted to you, and that is nine flavours of Not Good. “Ah—did Mako tell you that he and I used to date?”
“Oh.” Korra skids to a halt and, wary, Asami follows suit. They are standing alone, just the two of them, on the track across the street from Korra’s apartment complex. Korra ducks her head, lifts a hand to fiddle with her hair. (A nervous habit, Asami observes and logs away.) “Actually, he did tell me,” she admits. “It’s actually why I asked you out this morning.”
Asami tries (unsuccessfully) to ignore the suggestive phrasing. “Oh?” she asks, arching a brow. For some reason, she’d been under the impression that Korra hadn’t known, that Mako hadn’t told her. The surprise registers idly in the back of her mind, as the rest of her is watching the corners of Korra’s lips lift in a small, guilty smile. She longs to reach out and lower Korra’s hand from where it fidgets with the tips of her hair, to cradle Korra’s fingers and pick out the little bits of dirt she can see stuck in Korra’s nails.
“Yeah.” Korra takes a deep breath, apparently steeling herself. “I mean—I just really don’t want us to be on bad terms or anything, because you seem really cool and Mako obviously cares about you—but, not like, in a romantic way, I mean, I get that!—and I just don’t wanna be the jerky, jealous girlfriend in this scenario, you know? Like, I like you and I like Mako and I just—you know—want to make sure that…?” Korra swallows, offers an embarrassed, sheepish grin. “That we’re good, I guess?”
Asami smiles. Bites back a laugh. “Korra,” she says, and the syllables feel good, feel right, rolling off her tongue and even though this isn’t the first time she’s said her name (she’d said it to Bolin, and she’d said it to herself, testing it out, cautiously turning over each letter in her mind), this is the first time she’s said Korra’s name to Korra. And it’s surprisingly nice.
“Korra,” she says again, still smiling, still suppressing fond laughter. “We’re good.”
Korra grins, a real (adorably lopsided) grin, and Asami idly wonders how her own name would sound when hovering in the space between Korra’s lips.
After that, they’re friends, and it’s not as terrible and painful as Asami thought it would be.
(It is plenty terrible and painful, but Asami’s decided she wants to make more bad decisions.)
Korra, like Bolin, is a sophomore. Korra, like Bolin, started out as a kinesiology major but, unlike Bolin, has switched to peace and conflict studies. A kind of fiery heat radiates from Korra’s eyes and lips and skin, and makes her seem like a confrontational person, which she is, sometimes. Korra has adorable puppy eyes and a less-adorable-but-very-important-to-her actual white husky who she had to leave at home with her parents (something Korra is very heartbroken over). Korra played rugby in high school, doesn’t drink, dislikes the dark, and is almost as skilled an MMA practitioner as Asami (but they are both slightly out of practice and so promise to work out together). Korra, unlike Asami and Mako, genuinely enjoys romantic comedies.
Asami, without meaning to, makes note of all of this, systematically logging each scrap of information she learns about Korra in the very back of her mind, where they rest and radiate a faint, buzzing warmth in the moments between laughs, in the lulls of conversation when Asami is once again trapped by the light of Korra’s eyes.
Asami Sato is so, so screwed.