disclaimer: I claim no ownership over any of the characters contained within. This story is written for fun, not profit.

a rose is a rose

The scent is a thick wildness she has never known. Katara reaches for the bush with its full blooms, sweltering things of bright colors and thick scents. She pricks her finger on the stem.

Sokka turns at her cry. "What'd you do now?" he asks, every inch the obnoxious brother.

"Nothing," she says, popping her finger in her mouth and making a face at his back.

Aang floats down from the winding branches of a tree. "You should be careful," he says. "They've got thorns." He smiles at her, rocks on his heels as she drops her hand.

This time she locks her hands behind her back and just leans forward, over the bush and its bright half-moon flowers. Katara breathes the smell in and closes her eyes, and thinks it is the most beautiful thing she has ever smelled.

Her chest fills with the scent and when she thinks she can't take anymore of it in, she opens her eyes and breathes out.

Aang touches her elbow so she looks at him. He smiles at her, the same shy, wondering curve that first day, as if he'd never seen a girl before (and she thinks, really, not for a hundred years anyway).

"Do you like it?" he asks, curious.

"Yes," she agrees, and laughs, running her hands over the petals. The sun here is hot and her hands and shoulders are bare - a part of her feels naked without furs covering all her skin. The flowers are soft against her palms and she touches them gently. They feel as beautiful as they smell.

"They're called roses," Aang says, importantly. He hop-floats onto a tree branch above the flower bush and crosses his legs, hands gripping his ankles. He puffs his chest out, straightens his shoulders, eager to prove - something, she thinks, though she isn't sure what.

Katara smiles up at him, brushing hair from her face. "Roses," she says, fingering a yellow petal, gently. "Roses," she repeats, tasting the words. "Roses."

"Say it enough and maybe you'll remember it," Sokka says, heaving himself up into a tree some distance away where he can pluck the plump fruit from the branches. He grins and starts filling his lap with the red fruit.

"Those are apples," Aang calls. "I like the red ones more than the green."

"Well, I'll remember that," Sokka says, saluting and taking a bite as he keeps picking. He tosses one to Katara, one to Aang. "They're not as good as those orange things," Sokka adds.

Katara takes a small bite; Aang is eating his with remembered gusto.

"Roses," she says again, quietly and to herself.

Aang picks small blossoms from the tree he's nestled in, and drops them, twirls them like tiny boats with small graceful movements of his fingers. They float down, rocking softly, a pale pink against the yellows and reds of the roses.

Katara laughs and catches one of the tree blossoms, cupping it in her palms and lifting it to her nose so she can breathe deep. She imagines she can smell the tree deep in the tiny ring of petals, and the sweet-salt smell of Aang's hands.

Aang sprawls along the branch, hands dangling on either side of her face. He has a very quiet look on his face. A memory, or a dream. "You can pick roses," he says. "If you're really careful. If you don't touch the thorns. Sometimes they keep smelling nice for a few days, if you get a lot of the stem and put it in water."

She reaches for his hand and presses the tree blossom between their palms. "No," she says. "I think I'll leave the roses to themselves."