DISCLAIMER: I do not own Avatar: The Legend of Korra. Or Tahno. :(

Author's Notes: 6/2/12.

PLEASE READ: So. I bet many of you are a little confused as to why I'm starting a brand new fic. Let me just say that this is not necessarily a brand new piece... simply put, you should know that this project has become monstrous and that it cannot be contained in three mere installments. Instead of one giant multi-chapter fic, think of this series as a collection of arcs that follow my ever-growing list of what ifs.If any of you have ever read the glorious, majestic, awe-inspiring piece that is Tempest in a Teacup by AkaVertigo, you may understand.

This series is going to continue on as a canon parallel on the basis that this is how the series might have gone: (1) if break the ice had actually happened, (2) if the show were intended for a more mature audience, and (3) if the timeline were stretched a little bit differently (as in, if the characters were allowed a little more development across more than twelve episodes). I'm going to try to make it align with canon as closely as possible for as long as I can, but don't be surprised if it eventually diverges slightly in later arcs, especially if Tahno appears again! (AND HE'D BETTER.)

Most of this gray skies ahead arc will take place between the the end of episode seven and midway through episode eight (you know, before shit hit the fan). I will address the end of episode eight eventually, when we have more source material, but in the meantime, please consider all of the following scenes as what has been happening off-screen in the in-between.

MORE ABOUT THIS COLLECTION: Please keep in mind that many of these drabbles and pieces are either (1) my personal headcanons or (2) literally just the physical manifestations of my jumbled streams of consciousness as I pour out my feels. D: My interpretations of these characters may not match perfectly to yours, but I hope that you are still able to enjoy them anyway... and as always, you should please feel free to share your own personal theories with me! :) I'd love to hear them. You can find me by the same namesake on both tumblr and LiveJournal.

MUSICAL INSPIRATION: It may seem a little contradictory, but I switched back and forth between "No Light, Not Light" by Florence + The Machine and "The Fighter" by Gym Class Heroes.

I know everyone is still a little winded from episode eight, but I hope that most of you have recovered well enough to read another installment. :) Happy Korra Day, everyone!

Beta'd by the lovely ebonyquill. :)

JUST TO CLARIFY: You should read my two Tahnorra one-shots, break the ice and but we're still so cold, before reading this. It won't make sense otherwise. :P

daybreak

step-by-step

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It is nearly dawn.

He sits on the bathroom floor, his heels and hipbone digging into the cold ceramic as he considers the rust of dried blood staining the quiet of his walls, and with his eyes he follows the hopeless trails of glass littering the space from the sink to the door. The morning sun is just beginning to slip through the tattered blinds at his windows from across the apartment, and though it is still tinged with gray and thick with fog, its light is gentle and soft.

"So," he whispers to the cold tile. "This is it then."

He takes a shard in one hand, between index finger and thumb, looking closely at the jagged ridges speckled with blood and the first thing that comes to mind is well, that wasn't exactly a clean cut, was it? But this is too painfully obvious in too many respects, so he clasps the broken piece in his hand, and gazes upon his jaded reflection with a broken smile and a mirthless laugh. The grays of the morning only deepen the contrast between the dark circles framing the dullness of his pale, tired eyes, and suddenly his mind is lost in another haze—gray skies, blue eyes—and it's foggy with insomnia and the creeping thoughts of everything he has tried so hard to bury for so many days and something that must be resignation. But the longer he sits in the silence, the more the sweeping smoke of his thoughts eventually begins to dissipate, and because there is no longer any alcohol lacing his blood, the images of his memories are so much clearer than what he'd previously pictured, the voices are so much louder than he'd imagined, and the blues are so much bluer than anything he could ever have—

—thought possible and fucking hell, he never thought he would ever be this stupid.

He feels the edges pierce the fresh skin of his calloused palm, and he casts it aside with a hot breath through clenched teeth and snarling lips. The sound of the glass chipping along the ceramic is jarring, but no more so than the resounding silence that surrounds him once the echo fades.

Don't think about her, he swallows, breathing deeply amidst the mocking calm. Not now. It's not worth thinking about now. Think about something else. Anything. Think about... think about anything, whatever, just pick something that's actually fucking useful, you fool, like how you're knee-deep in broken glass and you should probably... And then he pauses, really seeing the scattered mess before him for the first time with sharp eyes.

He's been staring at these pieces all morning, but it only just now occurs to him that this is beyond repair; the mirror is broken, and he will never see his full reflection—his true image—in these diamond shards again. He will not try to fit the pieces back together; to try would be madness, would be worse than futile, and besides, he's not even sure he even wants it back anymore because it was such a flimsy and ostentatious thing, anyway. All he can do now is clean up the mess and keep doing as he's always done and hope that the spirits will provide him with enough luck in the coming days not to catch his bare feet on any lingering flecks of glass lining the grout... His recent track record is not encouraging, but he decides that even though it all looks impossible—fucking impossible—maybe... maybe it's not actually going to be as difficult to restore as it looks.

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And then his thoughts are nothing more than a mess of chaotic, jumbled threads knotted together because does he or does he not want to fix this and—is he even really talking about a mirror anymore?—and of course it wouldn't be difficult, because he has already been through so much worse, hasn't he, and after everything—after all of the pain and uncertainty and loss, all of it—

Don't I deserve a little luck?

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As Tahno begins to register the heaviness of the room and the way everything sticks unpleasantly to his skin, he begins to notice other things as well: the grimy stench of alcohol seeping out through his pores, the clamminess of his palms in the open air, the hardness of the floor beneath him, the ache in his temple, the howling hunger in his gut, the thickness of his tongue, the burn in his throat, the choking thirst for—water water water waterwaterwater—a drink, for something, for another breath, for another chance or—just maybe—another life.

He runs his fingers through his battered hair, pausing when his fingers snag along the tangles, and he pulls the strands out in front of his nose to get a closer look. The hair feels stiff and cracked and dry, and he sighs, disgusted with himself—for too many reasons—and lets the hair fall back against his cheek, limp. Then he picks himself up off the floor.

He stretches his limbs half-heartedly and massages the stiffness of his neck while he thinks. Tahno knows he needs a shower, just like he needs to clean this up, just like he needs rest—just like he knows why he'd gotten so little the night before—but he's not sure where to start. Tahno decides that while it only makes sense to clean up the broken mess before trying to do anything else, he really needs to clear his head first. He stretches more fully, freeing the kinks from his tightly-woven muscles, and decides that the morning will proceed—step-by-step, one at a time—as follows: he will clean up the mess only after getting something to drink from the bar, then he will clean himself up, and then go back downstairs, get some food in his system, and then he's going to talk to Narook about getting a new mirror.

He'd been thinking of buying a bigger one for a while, anyway.

Then he will come back up to his room and... and figure the rest out from there. But that will come later. Save it for later, he repeats, and before he can stop himself, he wonders if she will come later, and he crushes it immediately; if he'd wanted to continue being pathetic, he thinks, he'd have harbored that oblivion and stayed on the floor.

Step-by-step.

The barest trace of clean sunlight has finally broken through, and he watches as it filters into the room, silently stretching across the worn hardwood until the soft warmth kisses his fingers, and then he looks up. It is going to be a long day, a long week—even long years, maybe, which he'd never given much thought to before—but he is getting ahead of himself again. He needs to focus on leaving those decisions for when the time actually comes, and to focus on living in the moment instead.

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And Tahno knows through the absolute certainty of his throbbing headache that the present moment calls for a drink, and that the only choice he should be considering in this moment is what kind?

He stuffs his hands into beaten pockets and shuffles into the open room, leisurely making his way to the stairs with a sly twist of his lips and a spark in his eyes that hints at a fire that once was. Tahno has a feeling that he already knows what he's in the mood for, and—as long as he doesn't read too much into it—he thinks he just might be able to enjoy it, after all.

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"Well, what do you know?" he whispers aloud.

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Tea.

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