I'm not surprised -- seems like everyone's got the same problem. Thought I might come check in, y'know? Make sure you weren't using that devastatingly handsome body of mine for less-than-good intentions.
[And in he goes, taking a look around at Zoi's digs.]
[He's not going to admit to the ways this body just doesn't respond the way his own should. The way each movement feels different, awkward. He isn't sure himself whether it's simple unfamiliarity or something about the body he's in.]
This body has not been harmed, and I will not harm it.
Neat. I thought you were a singer. [Something about their last conversation had led Sokka to that conclusion. He gestures to the piano.] Do you mind if I...?
[Sokka sits, sliding down to the end of the bench. He gestures in case the other guy wants to sit.] Can you show me something? Maybe how to play a song?
And you've tried? [He touches a couple keys with his fingers and it feels so... so right. And it even sounds a little sweeter than he expected, for just choosing as randomly as he could.]
[Endlessly, constantly. In precise contrast to the enthusiasm of discovery, Zoisite is feeling the heaviness of loss. His music has defined him for centuries; without it, the world itself feels too silent, and stark.]
[He takes the sarcasm in stride, and steps aside to allow Sokka to enter.]
If you are seeking to return our bodies to normal, I am unable.
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I'm not surprised -- seems like everyone's got the same problem. Thought I might come check in, y'know? Make sure you weren't using that devastatingly handsome body of mine for less-than-good intentions.
[And in he goes, taking a look around at Zoi's digs.]
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[Zoisite only gives Sokka a raised eyebrow and a look.]
I do not think it is accustomed to such purposes.
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[Wait, what does that mean?]
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Look, never mind that. Is everything okay? You haven't cut off any of my fingers or anything like that, right?
[Because Sokka has noticed a biiiiig difference in exactly how much less clumsy he feels in this body.]
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[He's not going to admit to the ways this body just doesn't respond the way his own should. The way each movement feels different, awkward. He isn't sure himself whether it's simple unfamiliarity or something about the body he's in.]
This body has not been harmed, and I will not harm it.
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Since you're in it, I'm not worried. [You'd have to be a fool to injure yourself, right?]
[Sokka gestures to the piano.] Do you play that?
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Neat. I thought you were a singer. [Something about their last conversation had led Sokka to that conclusion. He gestures to the piano.] Do you mind if I...?
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[If Zoisite had put together what was happening, he'd never say this.]
Go ahead if you wish.
[He supposes he can brace himself for what he assumes will be another fiasco.]
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[Sokka sits, sliding down to the end of the bench. He gestures in case the other guy wants to sit.] Can you show me something? Maybe how to play a song?
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[Turn the knife, Sokka.]
I cannot play.
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[Sokka looks down at the piano and wonders for a second if he should try it.] You said you play. What's changed? [Oh, wait.] Us?
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That is correct. This is from the transformation between our bodies.
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And you've tried? [He touches a couple keys with his fingers and it feels so... so right. And it even sounds a little sweeter than he expected, for just choosing as randomly as he could.]
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I have tried.
[Endlessly, constantly. In precise contrast to the enthusiasm of discovery, Zoisite is feeling the heaviness of loss. His music has defined him for centuries; without it, the world itself feels too silent, and stark.]
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