It takes time to get used to it, to having them close, to see them as comrades. A glimpse of red or the crackling of fire still sharpens the line of her shoulders, still narrows her eyes, still makes her flex her fingers and touch the water in her pouch through the leather, creating little rage-filled swirls where no one else can see. The Firenation will always be her enemy. She keeps it a well-guarded secret.

When Mai dresses in green she is easier to like, Katara finds, and covers the shame over her own thoughts with irritation.

Mai has the slight lift of the upper lip and lowered eyelids of a noble, and she looks at everyone from above, even those taller her. Mai moves with aggravating carelessness, drops her dresses on the floor and looks surprised if they’re still there next time she walks by. Mai drawls sarcasms and deadpans punchlines at anyone’s cost, and her honesty stings like beemosquitoes.  

Katara smiles and seethes, drops poisonous retorts and is met with dry, amused dismissal.

Often she wonders what Zuko sees in Mai.

She practices her bending in the yard behind Iroh’s teashop in the mornings, drills for concentration and precision. The water flows between her fingers in constant movement, floats in the air in liquid spheres, rotating around her. She breathes in deeply, breathes out slowly. The motion, the push and pull, becomes all she is and she extends her consciousness out into the water until it feels as much a part of her as her hands.

A flash of red in the corner of her eye and her body reacts before her mind catches on, the waterwhip lashing at the veranda. Mai has no time to evade.

It knocks her off her feet and down the small flight of stairs. She lands in a rather controlled mess on the tiles below – she is after all a fighter as good as any bender - but the way she avoids putting weight on her left foot as she gets up is very telling. Katara’s cheeks burn with embarrassment as she hurries over.

“Good morning to you, too,” Mai says and if she is angry she masks it well with indifference.

Her bangs fall heavily in her eyes. She doesn’t brush them away.

“Sorry.” Katara draws the water out of Mai’s clothes and hair and into the pouch. Not a word of thanks.

It’s irrational and unfair, she knows, but the anger bubbling up inside her has been brewing for a long time. The words are already lined up on her tongue when something in Mai’s expression changes, becomes softer with a hint of something that may be close to understanding.

“I’ll put on something green.”

The silence grows long between them before Katara says the only thing she can think of. Her voice is smaller than she intended.

“Thank you.”

Another minute passes. Then Mai straightens, smirks, and lets her eyes wander from Katara’s shoulders to her feet and up again.

“Yeah. At least it’s not blue.”

Katara flexes her fingers.