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Chapter Twelve: Insanity Edit
He is going insane.
“I can’t—I can’t sleep,” he snaps. He can’t quite tell if it’s early dawn or last evening. The sun is either rising or setting, but it seems to be stuck on the horizon, glaring at him. Mocking him. Taunting him. He shakes his hands. “Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?” Her head is titled, and she is obviously confused. “Aang, what’s—”
He raises one hand. “I told you. Training. I have to train.”
“Aang.” She gently takes his hand, and it spasms in her grasp. A shudder runs through his body. “Please. You have to sleep. It’s the middle of the night.”
He shakes his head. “What are you talking about? It’s almost morning. See? You can see the sun right over there.” He points to the great golden disc hovering over the sea. “It’s making fun of me.” Seeing her expression change to one of disbelief, he inquires, “What? Am I just supposed to take it? No way. Maybe I could Waterbend a giant wave, and . . .”
She has grabbed his shoulders.
“Aang. Sleep. Please?”
Shaking his head, he half-turns away to stare into the distance. “I can’t, Katara. I need to take down the sun. That way, the Firebender won’t be able to Fire Lord.”
He glances at her irritably. “You know. On the eclipse. The Firebender won’t be able to Fire Lord.”
“You mean the Fire Lord won’t be able to Firebend?”
With a wave of his head, he nods. “Yeah, sure, whatever.”
“Look, Aang, you’re losing it. Nightmares or not, you need to sleep.”
He turns back, and suddenly he is wondering why she is wearing her bathing suit. He blushes. “Ah, Katara, I—”
He is suddenly pushed forward. By the sun, no doubt. Thanks. He falls on top of her, and the combined weight tips them; he lands on her, and, strangely, no dust or dirt has been disturbed.
“Hi,” he breathes.
She smiles. “Hi.”
He leans in, his hands on the ground. He nuzzles her cheek.
“Katara,” he murmurs. “I love you more than I can say.”
“Then show me,” she invites.
And he does.
He begins slowly, simply letting her feel his ragged breaths upon her face, his radiating wanton need. Then he loses control, and he presses his lips to hers.
He kisses her.
He has lost all semblance of common sense, of self-control, of anything. He is intoxicated with her, completely and utterly, and he presses forward, having his way—keeping it kissing only.
And then he needs more, much more. “Ready to take it to the next step?” he asks, his words muffled by her mouth.
His eyes widen. “Huh?”
She is a few feet away.
“Dreaming about being underwater again?”
He stares at her.
“Oh. Um. Yeah. Of course.”
She blinks several times.
He quietly slinks away.
I don’t know, but if insanity gives me these kinds of daydreams—I like being insane.
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