(who are you trying to convince? except, the answer is obvious. mako's fingers bunch in the fabric of his coat, which rucks up under the grip. he's. conflicted. pretty obviously, by his posture. by his. everything. conflict is the default mako state, he's existed in it pretty much ceaselessly since he was a kid. do the illegal and/or dangerous thing, put food on the (well, rarely a table, but) for bolin. help korra, help asami, save the world. he had to choose, sometimes, which master to serve. love or duty. and duty mostly won.
he's not so good at following his heart. it's gotten him in pretty deep trouble over the years, and rarely out of it. mako can't return the affections, not like this. dick has been nothing but a frustration to him for weeks, he only just learned his name. that's not a basis for anything real. it's barely a basis to be here now, talking to him absent the jangling of cuffs.
not that he has his cuffs, anyway. he used them on the mooks in the store.
but it's. been a long time since anyone reached out to him like this. mako has modeled himself on beifong but he doesn't want to be like her, alone and bitter and buried in his work. he misses love. being in love, having someone to kiss and say soft things to. just because he wasn't good at it doesn't mean his brief experiences with it weren't. some of the best of his life.
he's too controlled to let fire spark under his hands, but he can feel the building thrum of it beneath the skin, coiled like a quiescent thing. alive, waiting. that's what a lot of non-benders don't realize about fire, it's not about letting it out, it's about keeping it in. you have to want to control it. you have to need to endure it, because the second there's an outlet and the slightest slip of your hands, you can burn the world to iron and ash at your feet. he's wished more than once, over the years, that dragons never gave fire to humanity. all they've done is ruin what could have been — should have been a gift. the element of power, but also one of death and war and pain and loss. he wears his heritage like a scar.
and all he can think about as he looks down at his hands is how air feeds it. and how its absence extinguishes. and then he bridges the small space between them, cups dick's cheeks in his hands and kisses him. in another life, maybe it would be a passionate thing, heat and fire and cinders, heat beneath his palms. but this one is just. tentative, like walking a tightrope in a storm. trying to find balance. )
no subject
he's not so good at following his heart. it's gotten him in pretty deep trouble over the years, and rarely out of it. mako can't return the affections, not like this. dick has been nothing but a frustration to him for weeks, he only just learned his name. that's not a basis for anything real. it's barely a basis to be here now, talking to him absent the jangling of cuffs.
not that he has his cuffs, anyway. he used them on the mooks in the store.
but it's. been a long time since anyone reached out to him like this. mako has modeled himself on beifong but he doesn't want to be like her, alone and bitter and buried in his work. he misses love. being in love, having someone to kiss and say soft things to. just because he wasn't good at it doesn't mean his brief experiences with it weren't. some of the best of his life.
he's too controlled to let fire spark under his hands, but he can feel the building thrum of it beneath the skin, coiled like a quiescent thing. alive, waiting. that's what a lot of non-benders don't realize about fire, it's not about letting it out, it's about keeping it in. you have to want to control it. you have to need to endure it, because the second there's an outlet and the slightest slip of your hands, you can burn the world to iron and ash at your feet. he's wished more than once, over the years, that dragons never gave fire to humanity. all they've done is ruin what could have been — should have been a gift. the element of power, but also one of death and war and pain and loss. he wears his heritage like a scar.
and all he can think about as he looks down at his hands is how air feeds it. and how its absence extinguishes. and then he bridges the small space between them, cups dick's cheeks in his hands and kisses him. in another life, maybe it would be a passionate thing, heat and fire and cinders, heat beneath his palms. but this one is just. tentative, like walking a tightrope in a storm. trying to find balance. )