[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.]
[Huh. Sokka had felt like a natural with the boomerang, but it was nothing like this. No, this was different. The music flowed like water through him. Several more notes were plucked out before he decided himself too cruel for continuing in such a manner.]
It feels nice. You'll be glad when all this is back to normal, I'm sure. [He rests Zoi's hands on Zoi's lap, feeling bad to have borrow his talent even that long.]
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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If I can do it now, you must be a natural. It feels so... right. Did it always feel that way to you?
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[His eyes follow each movement of Sokka's hands hungrily. But under his own clumsy fingers right now, the sound would be... offensive.]
Yes. All my life, that was the power within me.
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It feels nice. You'll be glad when all this is back to normal, I'm sure. [He rests Zoi's hands on Zoi's lap, feeling bad to have borrow his talent even that long.]
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I am missing a part of myself. As well to cut off a limb.
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