He ducks and weaves, she spins and flips; they dance together daily and Sokka's more comfortable dodging her kicks and throwing punches at her stomach than he is sitting in the bar with quiet conversation.
Steph gets flustered and hot, sweaty from sport and red with exertion; Sokka's skin always seems always smooth and cool to her touch, even in spar -- like water, she thinks, and spends more time thinking about it than she should.
They can't be more than a few months apart, he might even be younger than Steph, but sometimes when she laughs, when she grins, when she looks at everything so optimistically, so filled with hope, Sokka feels ages older.
Eden was dying, and this world is dead; it makes Steph think Maybe nothing was meant to last, and it makes her determined to smile all the more, laugh all the louder, while they're here.
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