storypaint (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
storypaint) wrote2014-10-26 07:07 pm
storypaint) wrote2014-10-26 07:07 pm
[Legend of Korra] talking themselves red (Ming-Hua/P'li)
Title: talking themselves red
Fandom: Legend of Korra
Length: 655 words
Prompt: LOK, Ming-Hua/P'li, modern AU.
Pairing: Ming-Hua/P'li established
Other: n/a
Excerpt: "I won't be able to get a job that doesn't matter, you mean," P'li says. The tattoo on her forehead is still bright red and new. She has her hair slicked back with bobby pins and has, Ming-Hua suspects, been ignoring the possibility of pain medication in order to suffer for her art, or something. "Why would I want to work in a coffeeshop or a clothing store? I would rather starve."
"You'll never be able to get a job with that tattoo," Ming-Hua says. She isn't looking at her roommate; instead she is staring lazily at the ceiling. She's not wearing her prosthetics; they are resting against her bedside table, stiff fingers pointed toward the sky. She doesn't usually wear them when she's in their room. P'li doesn't care. In fact, she barely notices. This is the first thing that Ming-Hua liked about her when they met. P'li has greater concerns than feeling sorry for someone without any arms.
"I won't be able to get a job that doesn't matter, you mean," P'li says. The tattoo on her forehead is still bright red and new. She has her hair slicked back with bobby pins and has, Ming-Hua suspects, been ignoring the possibility of pain medication in order to suffer for her art, or something. "Why would I want to work in a coffeeshop or a clothing store? I would rather starve."
"You might," Ming-Hua says. "Principles don't taste good when they're all you have." Ming-Hua doesn't have a campus job, either, but that's not her own fault. She explained to the staff what she could do when she came here -- her feet are quite dexterous and her mind as sharp as anyone's -- but they are reluctant to place her, a fact that frustrates her nearly to the point of violence. She is dealing with her disability just fine; the problem is everyone else trying to deal with it. In any case, she has her scholarship so she doesn't have to worry about it when the cafeteria is closed or she's out of her allotted meals for the semester.
That's the thing about P'li, though -- she just laughs in response to Ming-Hua, stretching up and grabbing the chin-up bar she's mounted in the doorframe of their closet, completely ignoring the rules against screwing anything into the walls. She does two chin-ups, muscles contracting and expanding. Ming-Hua watches her. P'li runs three miles before breakfast every day. She admits to "training" but never explains what for. The eye on P'li's forehead stares back at Ming-Hua and her eyes keep focusing on it, instead of on the rest of her well-toned girlfriend. There is not an ounce of spareness on P'li's body or in her heart. Ming-Hua is glad that P'li makes space for her.
"Principles are all anyone truly has," P'li says to Ming-Hua. "I'm going to the demonstration later. Are you coming?"
She means Zaheer's pro-war rally in the quad. Ming-Hua has seen the posters plastered around campus over the past week. She's interested in what he has to say -- he's a great speaker. But she has noticed that he doesn't have a gigantic tattoo on his own forehead, or at least he didn't have one the last time she saw him. Maybe the tattoo is in relation to another one of P'li's hard-worn principles; she hasn't said. She doesn't like to talk about the way she lived before college. Since Ming-Hua doesn't either, it works out pretty well.
"Of course," Ming-Hua says. "Come over here."
P'li abandons the chin-up bar and sits down on the end of Ming-Hua's bed, twisting to face her, letting Ming-Hua drape her feet over P'li's shoulders.
"We can't let the war end before this government is properly destroyed," P'li says. There is a haunt of old loss in her eyes, the two that can see Ming-Hua and really know her.
"Yes," Ming-Hua says, because she has walked through too many institutions full of people like her who are not as lucky. She presses her heels into P'li's back, pulling her up onto her. P'li kisses her neck. Her braid is soft on Ming-Hua's face. She smells like antiseptic and blood and a bit like burning.
They have a few hours before they need to change the world. Ming-Hua can think of worse ways to spend them.
Fandom: Legend of Korra
Length: 655 words
Prompt: LOK, Ming-Hua/P'li, modern AU.
Pairing: Ming-Hua/P'li established
Other: n/a
Excerpt: "I won't be able to get a job that doesn't matter, you mean," P'li says. The tattoo on her forehead is still bright red and new. She has her hair slicked back with bobby pins and has, Ming-Hua suspects, been ignoring the possibility of pain medication in order to suffer for her art, or something. "Why would I want to work in a coffeeshop or a clothing store? I would rather starve."
"You'll never be able to get a job with that tattoo," Ming-Hua says. She isn't looking at her roommate; instead she is staring lazily at the ceiling. She's not wearing her prosthetics; they are resting against her bedside table, stiff fingers pointed toward the sky. She doesn't usually wear them when she's in their room. P'li doesn't care. In fact, she barely notices. This is the first thing that Ming-Hua liked about her when they met. P'li has greater concerns than feeling sorry for someone without any arms.
"I won't be able to get a job that doesn't matter, you mean," P'li says. The tattoo on her forehead is still bright red and new. She has her hair slicked back with bobby pins and has, Ming-Hua suspects, been ignoring the possibility of pain medication in order to suffer for her art, or something. "Why would I want to work in a coffeeshop or a clothing store? I would rather starve."
"You might," Ming-Hua says. "Principles don't taste good when they're all you have." Ming-Hua doesn't have a campus job, either, but that's not her own fault. She explained to the staff what she could do when she came here -- her feet are quite dexterous and her mind as sharp as anyone's -- but they are reluctant to place her, a fact that frustrates her nearly to the point of violence. She is dealing with her disability just fine; the problem is everyone else trying to deal with it. In any case, she has her scholarship so she doesn't have to worry about it when the cafeteria is closed or she's out of her allotted meals for the semester.
That's the thing about P'li, though -- she just laughs in response to Ming-Hua, stretching up and grabbing the chin-up bar she's mounted in the doorframe of their closet, completely ignoring the rules against screwing anything into the walls. She does two chin-ups, muscles contracting and expanding. Ming-Hua watches her. P'li runs three miles before breakfast every day. She admits to "training" but never explains what for. The eye on P'li's forehead stares back at Ming-Hua and her eyes keep focusing on it, instead of on the rest of her well-toned girlfriend. There is not an ounce of spareness on P'li's body or in her heart. Ming-Hua is glad that P'li makes space for her.
"Principles are all anyone truly has," P'li says to Ming-Hua. "I'm going to the demonstration later. Are you coming?"
She means Zaheer's pro-war rally in the quad. Ming-Hua has seen the posters plastered around campus over the past week. She's interested in what he has to say -- he's a great speaker. But she has noticed that he doesn't have a gigantic tattoo on his own forehead, or at least he didn't have one the last time she saw him. Maybe the tattoo is in relation to another one of P'li's hard-worn principles; she hasn't said. She doesn't like to talk about the way she lived before college. Since Ming-Hua doesn't either, it works out pretty well.
"Of course," Ming-Hua says. "Come over here."
P'li abandons the chin-up bar and sits down on the end of Ming-Hua's bed, twisting to face her, letting Ming-Hua drape her feet over P'li's shoulders.
"We can't let the war end before this government is properly destroyed," P'li says. There is a haunt of old loss in her eyes, the two that can see Ming-Hua and really know her.
"Yes," Ming-Hua says, because she has walked through too many institutions full of people like her who are not as lucky. She presses her heels into P'li's back, pulling her up onto her. P'li kisses her neck. Her braid is soft on Ming-Hua's face. She smells like antiseptic and blood and a bit like burning.
They have a few hours before they need to change the world. Ming-Hua can think of worse ways to spend them.