Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The roar of 80,000 people was supposed to be intoxicating. It was supposed to be the purest form of love—unconditional, loud, and directed straight at her. Korra Waters, or simply “Korra” on every billboard from Tokyo to Toronto, stood backstage, the vibration of the crowd humming up through the floor of the stadium and into her bones.

She watched the clock tick down to the start of her encore, her reflection staring back from the darkened screen of her phone. Perfect turquoise eyeliner, artfully messy hair, and a tired, practiced smile. She was The Alt-Pop Star, the queen of the melancholic anthem, the voice of a generation’s quiet heartache.

But Korra felt like a cardboard cutout in the spotlight. She knew why. Every song, every lyric that brought in the millions of streams and the screaming fans, was a perfectly crafted love letter to a person who would never read it as anything but poetry.

“Five minutes, Kor,” Kuvira, her childhood friend and current tour manager, announced, leaning against the doorframe. Kuvira’s expression, always serious, softened when she looked at Korra. She knew the truth. All of Korra’s inner circle—Mako, Bolin, Kai—knew.

Korra nodded, picking up her acoustic-electric guitar. “It’s time for the sad song, huh?”

“It’s time for the song that just went platinum in three countries and is currently number one on the global charts,” Kuvria corrected gently. “It’s ‘Satellite.’ Don’t you dare call it just a sad song.”

Korra tuned a string, the sound tiny against the stadium’s massive silence. “It is, though. It’s the saddest.”

She closed her eyes, and in the dark space behind her lids, she didn’t see the stadium lights; she saw a memory: Asami Sato, laughing on a high school rooftop, her perfect black hair whipping around her face in the wind, entirely unaware that Korra, sitting beside her, was already writing a life-long soundtrack to their friendship.

Korra opened her eyes, finding a focused spot on the worn wood of her guitar. Time to sing the secret to the world.

The lights cut out completely. The crowd volume surged, a physical wave of sound. When the first spotlight hit her on the small secondary stage at the far end of the arena, Korra began to play.

The opening chords of “Satellite” were simple—a delicate, repeating arpeggio that sounded like rain hitting glass. The melody was haunting, the kind of tune that burrows deep into your chest before you even realize you’re crying.

Korra leaned into the mic and let the words she had penned for Asami, and only Asami, fill the immense space.

As Korra finished the final chord, the cheering was overwhelming. She gave the crowd her practiced, grateful smile, her mind already racing ahead. She was taking her long-overdue creative break, and she was heading home.

Kuvira had warned her that Asami was in town, and that her boyfriend, Iroh, was with her.

She lowered the guitar and let the applause wash over her. She had built a fortress around her heart using platinum records as bricks. But going home meant stepping back inside Asami’s atmosphere, and for the first time in years, Korra was afraid her protective layer might burn away entirely.

She had to go home, but she couldn’t risk telling the truth.

Chapter Text

Korra peeled the glittering eyelashes off her face as her customized black SUV sped away from the stadium. The crowd noise was instantly replaced by the muffled roar of the engine and the low drone of conversation. The energy she spent on stage was gone, leaving a heavy, hollow fatigue.

“You crushed it, Korra,” Mako said from the driver’s seat. He was Korra’s oldest friend, and now her head of security—a role that required patience and a decent driving skill. “Sounded like you wrote ‘Satellite’ five minutes ago. Never gets old.”

“It’s the magic of the muse,” Korra muttered, tossing the falsies onto a plush velvet seat.

Bolin, Mako’s younger brother and Korra’s social media liaison, grinned from the passenger seat. “The magic of the muse is making me rich! The streaming numbers are insane. People are calling it the ‘Breakup Ballad of the Century.’”

Korra winced. “It’s not a breakup ballad. It’s an orbit ballad.”

“Potato, po-tah-to,” Kai, her stylist and close confidant, chimed in, adjusting a scarf. “It’s a song about loving someone who doesn’t see you, which is basically the same thing as a breakup. Only sadder, because you never even got the chance to make it official.”

Kuvira, who was meticulously reviewing flight logistics on her tablet, gave Kai a look that could curdle milk. Kai just shrugged. They all understood the painful nuance, but sometimes, a bit of bluntness was needed.

“It is what it is,” Korra sighed. She loved the normalcy of this car ride; they were the only people in her life who consistently treated her like Korra Waters, not the Alt-Pop Star.

“Look, you’re home for a month. Recharge. Ignore the noise. And ignore the Iroh of it all,” Kuvira said, naming Asami’s current boyfriend.

“Iroh’s fine,” Mako offered neutrally.

Korra snorted. “He calls her ‘Sato.’ No one calls her ‘Sato’ unless they’re pitching a merger. He doesn’t see her, Mako. He sees a good accessory for his career.”

“And you see her as the center of your universe, which is the problem,” Kuvira said, setting the tablet down. “She’s home, she’s dating someone, and you are literally the most famous person on the planet. You have to decide, Korra. Are you going to keep writing songs about this, or are you going to finally–”

Korra cut her off with a sharp voice. “I’m not risking it, Kuvira. We’re on a long-distance friendship orbit now, and that’s safer than a fiery crash. I made that promise to myself years ago.”

The mention of that promise—the vow—snapped a wire in her memory. The stadium, the SUV, the millions of fans, all dissolved. Suddenly, she was eighteen, sitting on the dusty, cool asphalt of the Republic City High rooftop.

The air smelled of tar and distant summer rain. Korra’s hand was sweaty, clutching a worn leather-bound notebook. She had practiced the words a hundred times in her bedroom mirror. This was it. Before graduation, before they went their separate ways, she had to tell Asami.

“Look at this,” Asami breathed, pointing down at the city light stretched out like a glittering blanket below them. “We did it. We survived high school.”

Korra took a deep breath. Her confession was coming out, right now. It was going to sound like the soft, unreleased song in her notebook, “Rooftop Theory.”

“Asami, I–”

“Oh, wait! Speaking of surviving, I need your advice about Tahno,” Asami interrupted, her eyes shining with excitement. Tahno was the senior she had been casually dating for three months.

Korra’s heart seized, a sudden, cold panic washed over her. She swallowed the love that was lodged in her throat and tried to pull a normal friend expression onto her face.

“He’s great, he’s totally gorgeous, but…he just seems so set on his future, you know? Like, he knows exactly what pro soccer team he’s going to play for. And I’m worried I’m holding him back from getting there.” Asami sighed, leaning her head on Korra’s shoulder, a causal, devastating gesture.

Korra felt the warmth of Asami’s neck through her t-shirt. It was everything, and it was nothing. It was the friend zone personified. She knew, then and there, that Asami was looking for partnership, stability, and a future that did not involve the messy, all-consuming flame Korra felt for her.

The planned speech died. Korra flipped the page of her notebook, hiding the lyrics for “Rooftop Theory.”

“He wouldn’t want you to hold him back, ‘Sami,” Korra finally managed, her voice thick. “If he really cares about you, he’ll want you to go after your dreams, too.”

Asami sighed contentedly and squeezed Korra’s hand. “That’s why you’re the best. You always know what to say.”

In that moment, Korra made the vow: She would never, ever ruin this easy, beautiful bond. She would rather write a thousand heartbreaking songs for the world to sing than risk Asami’s perfect, straight-laced happiness.

Korra blinked, the roar of the private jet’s engines replacing the summer wind. She was back in the present, strapped into a white leather seat. The plane had landed at a small, private airstrip near her parent’s home.

“We’re clear to disembark, Kor,” Kuvira said, already standing by the hatch.

Korra touched the familiar, old guitar case resting on the floor. It was the same one she carried that day on the rooftop. She had kept the love a secret for eight years and built a glittering, untouchable life around the truth.

But now, she was back on the ground, and Asami was waiting. And this time, there was no guarantee the vow could hold.

Chapter Text

The first twenty-four hours of her break felt wrong. Korra wandered the large, quiet apartment her parents kept for her in their old city neighborhood, trying to remember what it felt like to be a person who didn’t exist primarily on a screen. The silence was deafening after the constant stadium noise.

“You look like you’re waiting for an explosion,” Bolin observed, scrolling through his phone as he lounged on her couch. He and Mako insisted on staying nearby for the first few days, a human security blanket.

“I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop,” Korra corrected, running a hand through her hair. “I feel exposed. Like my house has a glass ceiling and the paparazzi are circling.

“The paparazzi are busy fighting over who gets to print the most dramatic headline about your ‘mysterious hiatus.’ You’re fine. Go get a coffee. Be a regular person,” Mako advised from the kitchen, making a rare cup of tea.

Korra considered it. A regular person. She put on the largest pair of sunglasses she owned, pulled a low-profile baseball cap over her chestnut hair, and left. She chose their old spot: a local coffee shop called The Fire Ferret, a tiny, independent place they used to study in during finals week.

The moment she stepped inside, the anxiety lifted, replaced by a deep, nostalgic warmth. The smell of dark roast and old paper was exactly as she remembered. She ordered a massive black coffee and settled at a small table near the back, pulling a mostly blanket notebook—ready to try and write something new, something not about Asami.

“Korra?”

The voice was like a physical shock. It was smooth, musical, and instantly familiar—a sound she had heard thousands of times in her head, but not in person for almost three years.

Korra froze, slowly lowering her sunglasses.

Standing over her, perfectly put together even in a casual button-down shirt and tailored jeans, was Asami Sato. Time had only sharpened her features, adding an edge of professional polish to the natural beauty Korra had obsessed over in high school. Her eyes, those beautiful, sharp emerald eyes, were wide with surprise and a genuine, radiating happiness.

“Asami,” Korra managed, standing up, feeling immediately too tall, too loud, and too famous.

Asami didn’t hesitate; she stepped forward and wrapped Korra in a tight, familiar hug that pressed all the air out of Korra’s lungs. It smelled like expensive wood and clean air, exactly like the Asami Korra remembered.

“What are you doing here? I thought you were in Europe until Christmas!” Asami pulled back, her hands gripping Korra’s shoulders.

“Surprise break. I needed a change of scenery. You know, creative renewal,” Korra lied, already falling back into the protective rhythm of her public persona.

“Creative renewal? You just broke the global streaming record with ‘Satellite’—what could possibly need renewing?” Asami laughed, that bright, easy laugh that used to be the sound Korra started every day with. “Sit, sit! I’m with Jinora and Opal, we’re waiting on Ginger. How long are you staying?”

They sat, and for a glorious thirty seconds, it was just them—two high school best friends who had never really stopped loving each other, despite the distance and the diverging paths.

Then, the inevitable happened.

“Iroh is going to lose his mind when I tell him you’re here,” Asami said, pulling out her phone. “He’s a massive fan. He listens to ‘Satellite’ on repeat in his office. He keeps asking me if you’re ever going to write a song with a bass line that really thumps, for like, a workout montage.”

The mention of Iroh acted like a shock of cold water. Korra’s shoulders instinctively tensed. Just like that, the intimacy vanished, replaced by the familiar wall. There it is. The shield.

“I’m sure Iroh has great taste,” Korra said, keeping her voice light, forcing a smile.

Asami waved a dismissive hand. “He’s great, he really is. He’s organizing some huge corporate charity gala next month, and honestly, it’s nice to have a grown-up, organized relationship after all those messy, intense high school flings.”

Messy, intense high school flings. The exact thing I represent. Korra nodded, the unsaid confession tucked safely back behind her teeth.

Asami leaned in conspiratorially. “Okay, now for the real question. Everyone is obsessed with ‘Satellite.’ Who is it about? The lyrics are…devastatingly specific. Especially that bridge. Is there a new girl? Or is this about that producer you were linked to a year ago?”

The moment she’d prepared for. Korra didn’t even have to think; the lie was a muscle memory now.

“Oh, that old thing?” Korra chuckled, a warm, genuine sound that made the lie even more convincing. “No, that song is 100% fictional. Kuvira actually challenged me. She said, ‘Write a song from the perspective of a person who is too proud to confess their feelings but is also too scared to lose the friendship.’ So I just invented this poor, pathetic guy orbiting his crush. It’s all theater, Sato. You know I love melodrama.”

Asami’s emerald eyes searched Korra’s face, looking for the tiny flaw in the story. Korra held the gaze, projecting confident indifference. She was a world-class liar; she had years of practice on stage.

A slow smile spread across Asami’s face. “Of course! It makes sense. You’re always pulling from those universal fears. Well, you nailed it. Everyone thinks it’s their life story.”

“That’s the goal,” Korra said, taking a long, scalding sip of her coffee, letting the heat mask the fresh, raw pain of the lie. She had succeeded. She had protected their friendship.

But as she watched Asami get up to greet her friends, Korra felt the familiar, crushing weight of isolation. She had just sold her soul’s deepest truth for a cup of coffee and a casual conversation. She was home, but she was still orbiting.

Chapter Text

Korra’s kitchen was immaculate, minimalist, and currently occupied by her three most opinionated friends. She had recounted the coffee shop encounter—the accidental meeting, the mention of Iroh, and the successful deflection of the ‘Satellite’ question—with a sense of quiet triumph.

Mako was leaning against the counter, arms crossed, looking less like a security chief and more like a disappointed older brother. Bolin was nervously playing a game on his phone, and Kuvira was making a strong, audile tsk sound while looking very disappointed.

“You know, for a person who writes songs about honesty being the only currency,” Kuvira finally said, rolling her eyes for the millionth time since Korra started talking, “you are a world-class coward, Korra.”

Korra winced. “I’m a world-class professional who manages her emotions. I told her the truth about the song’s inspiration—that it’s based on the feeling of being too scared to lose a friendship. That’s true! I just didn’t specify whose friendship.”

“You let her think you manufactured the entire emotional experience for theatrical drama,” Mako stated flatly. “You watched her light up at the thought of Iroh listening to it, and you didn’t even flinch. That’s not managing your emotions, Kor. That’s actively choosing to live a lie every time you see her.”

“It’s protecting her relationship! Every time I’ve tried to be honest, she’s with someone. Tahno, then this guy, and now Iroh. It’s a pattern!” Korra slammed her coffee mug down. “She’s building a life, a safe, steady one. And my feelings? They’re an unpredictable storm. I’m not going to be the tempest that wrecks her ship.”

Bolin paused his game. “But what if she wants the storm, Korra? You don’t know. You’re just assuming.”

Korra just shook her head, unable to articulate the depth of her fear. Losing Asami meant losing her muse, her anchor, and her oldest piece of home.

Before the argument could escalate, Korra’s phone buzzed with an incoming video call. The screen showed the grinning, slightly worried face of Sokka, a mutual friend from high school.

“Korra! You actually picked up! I saw the news. Are you really on break?” Sokka asked, his voice booming. 

“I am. What’s up, Sokka? You look frantic.”

“I am! Listen, I need a favor. A huge one. Suki and I are getting married next month, and we’re doing this huge elaborate reception in the old botanical garden space. We need logistical help, and we need entertainment. You’re perfect for both, but I can’t ask you to do everything.”

Korra instantly saw the trap. “Sokka, I can arrange the music. I can get you a band, or maybe play a set myself if you promise it’s low-key. But logistics? That’s not my skill set.”

“Exactly!” Sokka beamed, oblivious to the dread sinking in Korra’s stomach. “That’s why I called Asami! She’s the greatest event planner/project manager I know, and she’s in town. She’s already agreed to take the lead on the physical layout, catering coordination, and all the design aesthetics. We were just on call with her, and she suggested we bring in a music expert to handle the entire entertainment flow.”

Kuvira mouthed, No, don’t do it, but the words were already forming on Korra’s tongue.

“So you want Asami and me to…co-manage the reception?” Korra asked, feeling a strange mix of terror and exhilarating hope.

“Co-manage the vibe, yes! She’s handling the structure; you’re handling the soul. You two were always the best team in high school, remember? You just need a project to connect on again. Come on, Kor, for the happiest day of my life?”

Korra glanced at Mako, who gave her a look that clearly said: Self-sabatoge. She looked at Kuvira, who simply sighed and shook her head, already accepting the inevitable chaos.

This is perfect, a small, insidious voice whispered in Korra’s mind. A perfectly neutral, justifiable reason to spend time with her. I don’t have to admit anything. I can just be her partner on a mission.

“Okay, Sokka. I’m in. Send me the details. I’ll handle the soul of your wedding,” Korra agreed, forcing a cheerful tone.

“You’re the best! Asami is already setting up the first coordination meeting. She said to tell you 6 PM tonight at the old Sato Industries co-working space downtown. See you both then!” Sokka disconnected the call.

A silence fell over Korra’s kitchen, heavy and judgmental.

“So you went from ‘I’ll never tell her the truth’ to ‘I’m going to spend the next month in a tiny room with her planning a wedding, which is peak relationship energy,’” Kai summarized, rejoining her after overhearing the last part.

Korra straightened her spine, pulling on her defensive armor. “It’s work. It’s professional. And it’s a distraction. I can be around her, be useful, and get some material for the next album. It’s a win-win.”

Sixty minutes later, Korra was sitting at a large, pristine conference table in a sterile, glass-walled office that screamed Asami Sato, Successful Professional.

The door opened, and Asami walked in, carrying two travel mugs. She was wearing a crisp blazer, and she looked focused and energized.

“Korra. You actually showed up. I’m glad you said yes. This project is huge, but we can nail it,” Asami said, setting one of the mugs—Korra’s preferred black coffee—in front of her. “I already drafted the initial timeline. We need to decide on a central theme that guides both the visuals and the sound. Sokka wants ‘romantic, but with a kick.’ I was thinking we could call it: The Unspoken Connection.”

Asami smiled, completely unaware of the irony.

Korra looked at the mug of coffee, then at the woman sitting across from her, who was planning an event called The Unspoken Connection with her. Korra knew the truth of her situation: she hadn’t managed her emotions at all. She had just trapped herself in the epicenter of her own secret.

“That sounds perfect, Asami,” Korra managed. “Where do we start?”

Chapter Text

The first week of co-managing Sokka’s wedding reception was supposed to be a polite, professional nightmare. Instead, it was like breathing deeply for the first time in years.

In the sterile, glass-walled office, the world-famous alt-pop star and the successful businesswoman fell back into a rhythm they had perfected in high school, only now the stakes were floral budgets and lighting plans instead of trigonometry assignments.

“Okay, the seating chart is a nightmare,” Asami declared one evening, scrubbing a hand over her face. They were surrounded by printouts of floor plans, vendor contracts, and color palettes. It was 11 PM, and they were running on lukewarm coffee and the adrenaline of a shared task.

“It’s not a nightmare, it’s a problem of geometry,” Korra corrected, tracing a line on the table with her pen. “If we move the dessert station from the north wall to the center arch, we can turn the awkward table 12 into a high-top lounge space. That splits the feuding cousins into separate orbit zones. Problem solved.”

Asami stared at the diagram for a beat, then her mouth curved into a slow, appreciative smile. “You are impossible. You see problems in terms of space and sound, not social anxiety. You’re right. Geometric problem.”

Korra immediately pushed the remaining half of her chocolate croissant toward Asami. “Eat that. You’re hitting the wall. You get overly formal when you’re tired.”

Asami picked up the pastry, her eyebrows raised in surprise. “How did you—? I haven’t had a chocolate croissant since we used to sneak out of the library in tenth grade.”

“Some things you just don’t forget,” Korra murmured, avoiding eye contact as she straightened a stack of place cards. Like the way your expression changes when you’re genuinely relaxed.

Their collaboration was built on this kind of effortless shorthand. When Korra brought up the acoustic challenge of the venue’s high ceilings, Asami was already researching dampening panels disguised as drapery. When Asami was frustrated by a vendor’s vague promises, Korra could usually summarize the contractual loophole Asami had missed in her exhaustion. They were an unstoppable professional unit, perfectly complementing each other’s strengths. It was the deepest, easiest intimacy Korra had felt since she left for tour.

The intense, beautiful flow was shattered by the insistent, chirpy sound of a video call notification. Iroh’s name flashed on Asami’s laptop screen, accompanied by a picture of him looking impeccably coiffed on a golf course.

Asami sighed, picking up the call immediately. “Hey, honey. Sorry, I'm still working. We’re deep in the weeds.”

“Just checking in on my busy planner!” Iroh’s voice was too loud and too cheerful. He was wearing a light blue polo shirt that probably cost Korra’s entire first advance. “You two still fiddling with the napkins? That sounds exhausting. Did you remember to tell Sokka we should switch to white orchids? I had dinner with a huge client, and he said black magic roses are passé.”

Korra felt her jaw tighten. They had spent three hours finding the perfect, subtle shade of deep crimson for the centerpieces, based on a vague comment Suki made about her childhood garden. Iroh hadn’t seen the concept sketches, the mood board, or the budget.

Asami’s smile was professional, strained. “Iroh, we’ve decided on the flowers. We’re using a mix of crimson and blush to complement the lighting. It fits the ‘unspoken connection’ theme much better. We’re actually deep in sound design now.”

“Sound design. Right. Your famous friend,” Iroh said, barely glancing at Korra on the screen. “Just tell her to play ‘Satellite’ a few times. Everyone loves that one. And make sure the DJ plays some house music after ten, you know, for the real party crowd. I’ve got some specific tracks I can email you.”

“Got it, Iroh. House music after ten. Talk later,” Asami finished the call quickly, a flicker of something Korra couldn’t quite name–annoyance? Resentment?—crossing her face.

Asami immediately ran a hand through her hair, looking frustrated. “I love him, but sometimes…he just misses the point.”

He misses more than the point, Asami. He misses the whole map, Korra thought, trying to keep her expression neutral.

Korra picked up her notebook, needing to channel the sudden, raw spike of jealousy and frustration into something less combustible than a verbal attack on Iroh. Asami was staring at the floor plan, clearly wrestling with her boyfriend’s casual dismissal of her effort.

Korra started sketching out lyrics for the song that was forming in her head, the one about the tragedy of being the perfect match in every way but the romantic one.

Korra looked up from the page. Asami was staring at her, but not with surprise this time—with consideration.

“You’re writing again, aren’t you?” Asami asked softly, gesturing to the notebook.

“Just processing,” Korra admitted, tapping her pen against the page, hiding the lines she’d just written.

“It’s incredible, Korra. That raw emotion. I wish I could tap into something that pure. I feel like my life is so organized, sometimes I forget what messy feels like.” Asami paused, resting her chin on her hand, her gaze lingering on Korra. “You always were the best at being messy.”

“Someome has to be,” Korra said, managing a smile. She was the best at being messy, which was exactly why she was kept at arm’s length. She was the storm, and Asami chose the shelter.

Korra packed up her notebook. The intensity of their proximity was becoming unbearable. She had to leave before she finished the song and, worse, sang the truth to Asami.

“It’s late. We both need sleep. I’ll text you the vendor list updates in the morning,” Korra said, standing up. “Good work, Partner.” 

“Good work, Partner,” Asami echoed, but her eyes held a deeper, unreadable look that suggested she knew they were doing much more than just good work.

Chapter Text

Three weeks into the wedding planning, the sterile glass office had become a comfortable, collaborative mess. Korra had learned that Asami drank her coffee black, only switched to herbal tea after 9 PM, and often bit the cap of her pen when she was concentrating. Asami, in turn, knew exactly when Korra needed silence to write a melodic hook, or when she needed a fierce debate to solidify an idea.

The connection was so effortless, it was dangerous.

One afternoon, Korra was running late after a last-minute interview about her “return to roots” creative strategy. She rushed into the office, dropping her backpack near her chair.

“Sorry I’m late! The reporter wouldn’t stop asking if ‘Satellite’ was about the heartbreak of abandoning her pet hamster in high school,” Korra joked, breathless.

Asami was already at the table, organizing a massive collection of linen swatches. “Don’t worry. We just have to finalize the playlist. I’ve been sorting through your old demo folder. You have so much unreleased genius, Korra.”

Asami gestured to Korra’s backpack. “I grabbed your water bottle out of your bag when I came in—it was sitting on the floor—but your bag was open, and I noticed this fell out.”

Asami held up a thin, leather-bound notebook. It wasn’t the current notebook containing “Counterpart” lyrics; this was older, thicker, and utterly filled with Korra’s desperate, teenage handwriting.

Korra felt a cold jolt of fear travel from her stomach to her throat. That notebook was a time capsule of unrequited high school poetry.

“Oh, that old thing? Throw it in the bin,” Korra said quickly, walking over and snatching it with more aggression than necessary. “It’s filled with truly embarrassing early angst. Nothing worth reading.”

Asami frowned, her emerald eyes sharp and inquisitive. “It didn’t look embarrassing. It looked intense. I glanced at the first page—it was open to something called ‘102-Day Theory.’ It looked like…a timeline?”

Korra felt sweat prickle on her neck. 102-Day Theory wasn’t a timeline; it was a count of the first 102 days of their junior year, where Asami had been single. Korra had written a song documenting every small, beautiful interaction, convinced that was the window for her confession.

“It was just a strange math project for extra credit, Sokka helped me with it,” Korra lied, a terrible, desperate effort.

Asami didn’t look convinced. She lowered her voice, her tone shifting from friendly colleague to interrogator.

“Korra, I want to ask you something, and I need you to be honest with me, just for one second. It won’t change anything about the wedding, I promise. But this intense, avoidant energy around the idea of heartbreak…it’s not performance art. It’s real. And frankly, it’s confusing.”

She leaned across the table, closer than she had been all week.

“Is ‘Satellite’ about me?”

The question hung in the air, a massive, lead weight. Korra’s heart hammered against her ribs, echoing the rhythm of a thousand nervous drum beats. This was the moment she had rehearsed for years—the moment she had decided she would fail rather than answer honestly.

“No,” Korra whispered, but the word was thin, transparent.

Asami pressed on, her voice soft but unwavering. “That notebook…I saw a line in the middle of the page, something about ‘the green light you won’t give, the one I can’t live without.’ That kind of specificity—that’s not a hypothetical character, Korra. That’s about someone real. Someone who has green eyes.

Korra looked at Asami’s perfect, intense green eyes, and the dam of her composure almost broke. She could see the hurt in Asami’s expression, but it wasn’t the hurt of a rejected lover; it was the hurt of a friend who felt lied to and mistrusted.

Korra swallowed hard, fighting down the surge of emotion, and fell back on the most painful truth she had: Asami’s dating life.

“The green light is about a business opportunity I missed, Asami,” Korra insisted, forcing a professional, distant tone. “And look, you’re reading way too much into my old, dramatic writings. You know how I get. Besides,” Korra smiled—a cold, practiced smile this time—and delivered the final, crushing blow, “if I was actually in love with you, don’t you think I would have told you before you committed to Iroh? I’m not going to be the girl who chases her best friend while she’s happy. I respect you too much for that.”

The words were true, but they were also a shield.

Asami sat back, the fire dying in her eyes, replaced by a deep resignation. The hurt of being lied to was replaced by the sting of being dismissed.

“You’re right,” Asami said, her voice flat. “I’m sorry, Korra. I’m tired, and I’m overthinking things. It’s just been a stressful week with the planning. And Iroh and I had a weird fight yesterday about him forgetting my birthday—a small thing, but…I’m projecting. It was ridiculous of me to bring it up. Let’s stick to the linens.”

Korra wanted to reach across the table and grab Asami’s hand, apologize, and tell her everything. But the moment had passed. Asami had retreated behind her own wall of professional composure.

Korra watched Asami turn back to the swatches, her movements suddenly jerky and less fluid. She had protected the friendship, but she had done so at the expense of Asami’s trust. The silence between them was no longer comfortable; it was thick with unspoken truths.

I just made her think she’s being paranoid about her relationship, all to protect my own secret.

Korra looked down at the old notebook in her lap. The lie was solid, but the price felt heavier than any stadium success.

Chapter Text

The event was a pre-gala networking reception hosted by one of Iroh’s primary corporate sponsors—a gleaming, soulless rooftop bar that smelled faintly of money and expensive hairspray. Korra was only there because Asami, looking stunningly out of place in a perfectly tailored sapphire dress, had needed moral support for a brief appearance.

Korra, wearing an understated but impeccably cut black blazer that somehow made her look like the coolest person in the room, stood on the edge of the crowd with Mako, watching.

“Tell me again why we’re here,” Mako muttered, balancing a tiny appetizer on a napkin.

“Beacuse Asami needs to schmooze with the logistics team for Sokka’s open bar, and Iroh couldn’t be bothered to understand the difference between a dry cut and a full-service bar,” Korra explained, taking a sip of sparkling water. “So I’m here to look cool and occasional nod at people who think my music is ‘great background noise.’”

They watched Asami interact with a knot of corporate types. She was brilliant, articulate, and professional. Iroh stood beside her, a hand casually resting on her lower back, occasionally interjecting with a loud, board comment that inevitably steered the conversion back to his own recent business victories.

“He’s doing that thing where he absorbs her light,” Korra observed to Mako. “Look at her face. She’s trying to be nice, but she’s internally counting the seconds until she can leave.”

Mako followed Korra’s gaze. Asami was indeed smiling rigidly, her eyes darting toward the exit. She was clearly done.

The critical moment came when Asami finally managed to break away from the group. She walked over to Iroh, tapping his arm gently.

“Honey, I have to run. Jinora and Opal are meeting me at the office; we’re working until midnight to hit the final budget deadline for Sokka,” Asami said, her voice low and efficient.

Iroh blinked at her, a look of vague irritation crossing his face. “Midnight? Asami, come on. It’s barely nine. We had plans to meet the Millers from the new development firm. They specifically wanted to meet us.”

“I know, but this budget is time-sensitive, and Korra and I are leading the project. I promised Sokka, “ Asami insisted.

Iroh sighed dramatically, loud enough for a couple of people nearby to hear. He grabbed her hand, squeezing it. “Look, this wedding thing is nice, it’s charity, fine. But it’s not your job, sweetheart. It’s a small favor. The Millers are important. Just text Jinora and tell her to put a pin in it until tomorrow. They can wait for you. You’re a Sato, they’re just freelancers.”

He didn’t even realize how dismissive he sounded. He was treating Asami’s passion project and her promises as a trivial annoyance that could be canceled for his own business gain.

Korra felt a familiar, protective heat surge through her veins, a feeling that had nothing to do with fame or songwriting and everything with protecting her person.

Korra dropped her glass on a passing tray with a decisive clink.

She walked straight up to Iroh, sliding smoothly between him and Asami. She didn’t raise her voice; in fact, she pitched it low, making Iroh strain to hear her over the ambient bar noise.

“Iroh,” Korra said, a dangerous softness in her tone. “The budget deadline is tonight, and it involves five different vendors, three of whom are only available via conference call for the next four hours. This isn’t a small favor; it’s a detailed, contractual obligation to Sokka.”

Iroh looked startled, clearly unprepared for a confrontation with the famous singer. “Korra. Didn’t see you there. Look, I’m sure it’s important, but Asami needs to prioritize."

“She is prioritizing,” Korra countered, her eyes flat and cold. “She promised Sokka, and she’s running the design. She is the lead. You know how important commitments are to Asami, or you should. This is her project, not just a side gig to cancel for a handshake with the Millers.” Korra paused, letting the implication hang: This is Asami’s life, not an accessory to yours.

Korra then turned her attention entirely to Asami, and her expression instantly melted into one of concern and quiet solidarity.

“We’re already late, Partner,” Korra said, lifting an eyebrow. “Shouldn’t we go?”

Asami stared at Korra, her eyes wide. It wasn’t the relief of being rescued; it was the sudden, overwhelming sight of someone who not only understood her commitment but was willing to fight for it publicly, without asking for anything in return.

Iroh, sensing the shift in power, quickly tried to backtrack. “Oh! Right. Time-sensitive. Of course. Well, I’ll stay and chat with the Millers, then. Good luck with the… logistics, honey.” He forced a kiss onto Asami’s cheek.

Asami didn't look at Iroh. Her gaze was locked on Korra.

“Let’s go,” Asami said, her voice barely a whisper. She nodded curtly to Iroh and followed Korra, practically pushing through the crowd.

They didn't speak in the elevator. The silence between them wasn't strained; it was intensely charged, electric with the leftover energy of the confrontation.

Asami finally broke the silence when they reached the ground floor. She grabbed Korra’s arm, turning her to face her, her emerald eyes shining fiercely.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Asami breathed, her voice slightly shaky.

“Yes, I did,” Korra responded simply, her voice low. “He was treating your work like it was disposable. I wasn’t going to let him.”

Asami searched Korra’s eyes, looking deeper than she had since their meeting at The Fire Ferret. She saw the fierce loyalty, the deep protection, and the effortless understanding that Korra always offered. It was the complete opposite of Iroh’s possessive, self-centered concern.

“Thank you,” Asami said, and this time, the words felt heavier, more meaningful than just gratitude.

Korra gently placed her hand over Asami’s, which was still gripping her arm. “Always, Sato. Now let’s go save Sokka’s budget.”

The moment broke, but the silent, powerful exchange—Korra fighting for Asami's worth—had cracked Asami's perfectly organized world wide open.

Chapter Text

Asami stood in front of the full-length mirror in her guest apartment, examining the faint, lingering importing of Iroh’s hand on her hip where he’d tried to pull her away from Korra last night.

It wasn’t a bruise, but it felt like one. It felt like a small, uncomfortable stain on her otherwise perfect life.

Iroh had called an hour ago, profusely apologizing and sending a massive, garish bouquet of white lilies—the exact kind of flower she disliked. He promised to make it up to her, but his apology was focused more on how Korra had “embarrassed” him in front of the Millers than on his dismissiveness of her work.

Asami sighed, running a hand over the cool glass of the mirror. She knew Iroh loved her, or at least, he loved the idea of her: the brilliant, composed, beautiful partner who enhanced his professional image. But when had their relationship become so focused on optics and so empty of genuine support?

Last night, when Korra had stepped in, the energy in the room had shifted. It wasn’t the famous celebrity intervening; it was Korra, the fierce, loyal friend who always saw Asami’s inner drive and protected it. When Korra said, “She is the lead,” it wasn’t a statement about the wedding; it was a statement about Asami’s value. Iroh had reduced her; Korra had championed her.

Her phone buzzed. It was a group chat with her two closest friends, Jinora and Opal. They were waiting for her at their usual brunch spot.

The moment Asami sat down, Jinora, ever the diplomatic one, started discussing the wedding details, trying to keep the mood light.

“The crimson and blush palette is gorgeous, ‘Sami. You and Korra have really nailed the aesthetic. It feels very passionate, but contained,” Jinora commented, stirring her iced tea.

Opal, however, was in no mood for contained passion. She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table, her gaze direct and demanding.

“Okay, cut the wedding talk. We need to talk about last night,” Opal announced.

“What about last night?” Asami asked, pretending to be oblivious while her stomach twisted.

“Iroh,” Opal said, her voice dropping slightly. “He’s awful. He was so condescending about the planning, and honestly, you looked ready to murder him. And then Korra stepped in, and she was…spectacular. She was ready to start a physical altercation on your behalf, and you didn’t even have to ask.

Jinora nodded slowly. “It was a powerful moment, Asami. Korra was protecting you in a way Iroh never would.”

“It was just a professional disagreement,” Asami insisted, picking at a piece of bread. “Iroh was stressed.”

“He was stressed that you weren’t serving his interests,” Opal countered sharply. “Look, I love you, and I love Iroh. He’s fine. But ‘fine’ isn’t Korra. When you look at Korra, your entire posture changes. You glow. When you talk about her music, you get this intense, proprietary look, like you’re the only person who knows what the songs really mean.”

Opal paused, leaning back and delivering the blow Asami had been dodging for weeks.

“Asami, I’m just going to say the uncomfortable truth that Jinora is too polite to voice: You have intense, undeniable chemistry with Korra. The way you look at her is the way you’re supposed to look at your future. The way she looks at you is frankly devastating. It’s not a secret; it’s an atmosphere. It’s what her new song is about.”

Asami felt a flush creep up her neck. “Korra said ‘Satellite’ is fictional. A professional exercise in angst. She told me herself.”

Opal raised a skeptical eyebrow. “She told you that in a coffee shop the day after she got back into town, while dodging a direct question. Korra is a genius at turning the most painful parts of her heart into a marketable product. She’s famous for writing about unrequited love. And guess what? You’re the only person she’s been unable to get over for the last eight years.”

“That’s unfair speculation!” Asami defended, perhaps a little too vehemently. “She’s never said anything. Every time we’ve been close, she’s been supportive of my relationship.”

“Because she respects you too much to blow up your life! Which is beautiful and agonizing,” Opal argued. “Think, Asami. When did Korra become famous? Right after high school. And what was the recurring theme of her first smash hit, ‘Glass Ceiling,’ that came out while you were dating Tahno?”

Opal started to say the opening lines of the old song, a track Asami remembered playing constantly in her college dorm:

I see your future, bright and clear, but I’m standing on the ground. There’s a ceiling made of glass between us, where no sound can reach you, and you wave at me from the stable, higher air. And I keep knocking on the silence, but you never know I’m there.

“She’s been documenting her love for you in album after album, and you’ve been living right through it, thinking she was just writing about universal angst. The songs are the confession, Asami. They’re the diary she let the world read instead of you.”

Asami suddenly felt nauseous. Opal’s brutal, clinical analysis of Korra’s discography, mapped onto Asami’s dating history, was too logical to ignore. The truth felt huge and crushing, like a beautiful skyscraper Korra had built in her honor, brick by brick, entirely in secret.

“I don’t know what to do,” Asami finally admitted, rubbing her temples.

“You don’t have to do anything immediately,” Jinora said, finally offering a gentler perspective. “But you have to stop lying to yourself. You have to admit that the reason you feel so perfectly aligned with Korra, and so strained with Iroh, is because Korra is your truth, and Iroh is your safety net. And right now, your safety net is starting to fray.”

Asami looked out the window, processing the uncomfortable, undeniable truth. Korra was a storm, yes, but Asami was realizing that she might prefer the exhilaration of the storm to the suffocating stability of the shore.

Chapter Text

The planning sessions had grown so intense that Asami had suggested a mandatory ‘no-planning’ dinner. Both friend groups were gathered at a local sushi restaurant, a chaotic, loud affair meant to foster camaraderie. The separation between the two circles—Korra’s protectors and Asami’s truth-seekers—was slowly dissolving into a single, boisterous group.

Korra was across the table, laughing with Kai and Mako. She looked relaxed, slightly disheveled, and completely beautiful in the soft restaurant lighting. Asami tried to focus on her conversation with Jinora about floral arrangements, but her gaze kept drifting back to Korra.

Opal, sitting next to Asami, leaned in conspirationally. “See? Look at her. That’s not a woman who’s writing about a fictional muse. That’s a woman who’s been carrying a secret for a decade.”

Asami nodded, the words “The uncomfortable truth” from Opal’s previous conversation still echoing in her mind. Asami had spent the last two days secretly researching Korra’s discography, cross-referencing album release dates with her own ex-boyfriends’ tenures. The pattern Opal described was unsettlingly precise.

It was Bolin, of course, who provided the final, accidental proof.

The conversation had turned into the difficulties of writing while touring, and Bolin, ever the enthusiastic fan of Korra’s work, jumped in.

“But Korra is a master of compartmentalizing!” Bolin said, gesturing wildly with a sushi roll. “Like that song, ‘Glass Ceiling’—her first huge hit, right? That whole album came out while we were on the European leg of the Small Town Dreams tour. She was writing the lyrics for ‘Glass Ceiling’ on the bus every night, completely miserable. Because Asami was dating Tahno back then, remember? And Korra was losing her mind that ‘Sami was settling for someone so…flat.”

The noise in the restaurant seemed to cut out instantly for Asami.

Tahno

Asami had dated a talented, but ultimately boring, soccer player since high school and the relationship ended in their sophomore year of college. The relationship had lasted exactly seven months.

She turned slowly, her eyes fixed on Bolin, who was still mid-chew, oblivious to the emotional bomb he had just dropped.

“Wait,” Asami interrupted, her voice dangerously quiet and even. “Tahno. The one I dated in college? That was the inspiration for ‘Glass Ceiling’?”

Bolin, realizing he had stepped onto thin ice, suddenly froze. His eyes widened, and he shot a desperate, terrified glance at Kuvira and Mako.

Kuvira immediately jumped in, attempting a rescue with practiced speed. “Bolin, shut up. You’re mixing up timelines. That song was about a record deal that fell through, remember? It was not a personal song.”

“It was Kuv! I remember because Korra kept saying the lyrics about ‘standing on the ground’ meant she couldn’t see Asami over Tahno’s boring shoulders!” Bolin insisted, then finally registered the collective horror on the faces of Korra’s friends, and the razor-sharp intensity in Asami’s gaze. He clamped his mouth shut, looking utterly defeated.

Korra, who had been laughing, froze completely. She looked at Bolin, then at Asami, her face draining of color. She knew the secret was out.

Asami didn’t look at Korra; she looked back at Bolin, her mind racing, running the timeline.

“Glass Ceiling” was released in October of her college sophomore year. She started dating Tahno in May of her senior year of high school. The song details the specific sense of distance and the feeling of waving from a “stable, higher air,” exactly how she had felt when she was trying to force the relationship with Tahno to work.

It wasn’t a coincidence. It wasn’t fiction. It was a documented, painful, chronological record of Korra’s feelings mapped precisely onto Asami’s romantic life.

Asami felt a fierce, burning anger—not at Korra for the feelings, but at Korra for the elaborate, eight-year lie. The lie that had forced Korra to live her entire career in anguish, and the lie that had made Asami feel paranoid and ridiculous for suspecting the truth.

Asami stood up, the chair scraping loudly against the polished floor, drawing attention from every table.

“I have to go,” Asami said, her voice shaking slightly with contained fury.

“Asami, wait,” Korra pleaded, standing up, reaching a hand across the table.

Asami didn’t look at Korra. She looked only at Bolin, who was shrinking under the scrutiny. “Thank you, Bolin. That was…very clarifying.”

She grabbed her purse, nodded a curt dismissal to Jinora and Opal, and walked quickly out of the restaurant, leaving behind a profound silence and the sight of Korra looking utterly devastated.

Korra didn’t move for a long moment. She just stared at the empty space where Asami had been, a space that felt infinitely wider than the few feet of polished floor.

Kuvira was the first to speak, glaring at Bolin. “Bolin, I am going to end you.”

“I’m sorry! I thought we were past the secrecy stage! I thought that fight with Iroh meant we were telling the truth now!” Bolin wailed in genuine remorse.

Korra ignored them. She felt the heavy, cold pressure of the lie collapsing around her. She had spent years preventing a ‘fiery crash,’ and now in one clumsy sentence, Bolin had guaranteed a five-alarm explosion.

Mako looked at Korra, his face full of pity. “She knows, Kor. She knows everything now.”

“I know,” Korra whispered. She knew the anger she had seen in Asami’s eyes wasn’t rejection. It was betrayal—the betrayal of a friend who refused to trust her with the truth of her own heart.

Korra grabbed her jacket, shoving her empty music notebook into the pocket. “She’s not mad about the songs. She’s mad about the lie. And she should be.”

“What are you going to do?” Kai asked nervously.

Korra looked toward the glass doors where Asami had disappeared. “I’m going to face the music. And this time, I’m not going to run away.

Chapter Text

Korra found Asami at the one place Korra knew she would retreat to: the roof of the Sato Industries co-working space. It wasn’t the familiar, dusty tar of their high school rooftop, but a sleek, manicured space with potted trees and a stunning, panoramic view of the city.

Asami was leaning against the railing, her arms wrapped around herself, looking out at the glittering skyline. She didn’t turn around when Korra approached.

“You followed me,” Asami stated, her voice tight and low, vibrating with controlled rage.

“I had to. You deserve an explanation, not a disappearance,” Korra said, stopping a few feet behind her.

Asami finally turned, and the fury in her eyes was startling. It was the deepest anger Korra had ever seen from her, far worse than any disappointment she’d ever faced over a missed deadline or a canceled plan.

“An explanation?” Asami laughed, a harsh, brittle sound. “I don’t need an explanation, Korra. Bolin gave me the explanation. My entire dating life was the lyric sheet for your career. That is the explanation.”

Asami stepped toward her, her hands clenching into fists. “You lied to me. For eight years. Every time you told me ‘Glass Ceiling’ was about a record deal, or ‘Rooftop Theory’ was a math project, or ‘Satellite’ was about a fictional, pathetic guy—you lied. And the worst part is you didn’t just lie to me, you lied to the world and told them my life was pure, beautiful, profitable fiction.”

“I didn’t lie for profit, Asami! I lied to protect us!” Korra protested, her own voice rising.

“Protect us? No! You protected yourself!” Asami accused. “You protected yourself from the possibility of being rejected, and you protected yourself from the possibility of being vulnerable. You chose the safety of the secret, agonizing martyrdom over the reality of friendship, and you did it because you didn’t trust me.”

Korra felt the accusation land, striking the core of her fear. “That’s not fair! Every time I got close—in high school, in college—you were with someone. You were happy, you were building this stable, perfect life, and I was terrified of being the disruptor. I was afraid that if I told you the truth, you would see me as messy, as an obligation, and you would walk away from me forever! I couldn’t bear to lose you.”

“You didn’t lose me, Korra! You built a beautiful, glittering cage around our friendship and locked yourself in it! You didn’t give me a choice! You decided, unilaterally, what my life needed—stability, safety, a life with people like Iroh—and you assigned me a role as your silent, inspirational muse!”

The mention of Iroh, after that night’s public humiliation, was the key.

“Iroh,” Korra spat the name out, unable to hold back the sudden wave of protective fury. “Don’t you dare bring him up! Iroh is a placeholder, Asami! He doesn’t see you! He calls your work a hobby, he cancels your commitments for his benefit, and he dismisses your entire artistic soul! That night, he treated you like an accessory, and I was the only person who stood up for your worth!”

Asami flinched at the harsh truth, but she didn’t back down. “That’s not your right! He is my choice! My partner! And you don’t get to come back after eight years of elaborate silence and tear down the life I built because you’re suddenly brave enough to say the word ‘placeholder’!”

“I’m not trying to tear down your life, Asami! I’m trying to make you see the one you actually deserve! The one where your partner sees you as a co-star, not a supporting character!” Korra was shaking now, the raw emotion finally boiling over. “I watched you choose safety over passion for years, and I accepted it, I wrote songs about it, I accepted my orbit! But seeing him treat you like a possession—I can’t. I can’t live in a world where you’re settling!”

Asami looked away, tears finally welling in her eyes, not of anger, but of agonizing realization. The truth was ugly, raw, and undeniable. Iroh was a safe design. And Korra—Korra was the only person who had ever truly seen her, even from the safe distance of the stage.

“Iroh and I are over,” Asami said quietly, the words barely audible against the city sounds.

Korra froze, all the heat draining out of her body, leaving her cold and stunned. “What?”

“I broke up with him before I came here,” Asami repeated, turning back to face the skyline. “After the restaurant. After the Millers. I went straight home and ended it. It wasn’t about you, Korra. It was about me. I realized he was standing still, waiting for me to catch up to his ambition, and I’m tired of being held back.”

She turned back, her eyes red, but clear. “I need to be alone. I need to figure out what is mine and what is just the safe design I built to avoid the storm. And I need to figure out how to be friends with you again, Korra, because I don’t know how to forgive you for all the years you wasted on a lie when you could have just said the words.”

Korra walked forward slowly, tentatively, until she was standing right in front of Asami. She didn’t reach out; she didn’t try to touch her.

“I love you, Asami,” Korra finally said, abandoning the elaborate lyrics, the metaphors, and the performance. “I love you more than my career, more than my music, and certainly more than my own pride. I have since high school, and I always will.”

Asami nodded, a slow, painful acknowledgement. “I know. But I need to hear it from me first. I need space.”

She stepped past Korra, heading toward the rooftop door. “I’ll see you at the office tomorrow. We still have a wedding to plan.”

Korra watched her go, feeling the strange, contradictory relief of a secret finally exposed, mixed with the agonizing emptiness of being explicitly told to stay away. The lie was gone, but the distance remained.