Chapter Text
Ty Lee had learned, long before the world learned her name, that there was a particular kind of woman people liked best.
She was bright. Flexible. Cheerful. Easy to project onto.
As a gymnast, she had been celebrated for smiling through pain, for bouncing back after brutal landings, for making the impossible look effortless. Commentators used words like radiant and natural and fearless, never once asking how much discipline it took to look that unburdened.
As a singer, the world expected the same thing.
That was why the silk robe mattered.
Backstage at The Tonight Show Starring Jimmy Fallon, Ty Lee adjusted the tie at her waist and looked at her reflection in the mirror. Pale pink fabric. Bare feet. Hair braided loose down her back instead of styled into something sharp or glamorous. She looked soft on purpose.
The hallway buzzed around her. Assistants moved quickly with headsets on. Someone laughed nearby. A stage manager murmured about timing. The faint hum of the audience filtered through the walls, that particular sound of anticipation that made her chest tighten even after years of competition.
This was not her first time being watched.
It was the first time she had chosen what they would see.
She pressed her palms together and inhaled slowly, grounding herself the way she used to before vault runs. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Feel the floor beneath her feet.
“Two minutes,” a stagehand said gently.
Ty Lee smiled and nodded, instinctive and practiced.
She had been on television since she was a teenager. She had waved to crowds larger than this. She had stood on podiums with medals biting into her collarbone while national anthems played. She knew how to perform.
What she did not know was how the world would respond when she stopped pretending everything was fine.
The press releases had framed tonight carefully.
Olympic icon Ty Lee debuts music career.
Former gymnast reinvents herself as recording artist.
An inspiring transition.
No one mentioned that she had stopped competing because her body finally gave out. No one mentioned the anxiety that lingered after retirement, the loss of structure, the sudden quiet. No one mentioned the relationship that had followed her through tabloids for years like a shadow.
Ty Lee had not corrected them.
She had just written a song instead.
The song had come together in fragments. Half sentences scribbled into notes apps. Melodies hummed under her breath while pacing at night. Lines written, deleted, rewritten again.
And then there were the edits that were not hers.
She could still see Azula sitting across from her at the kitchen table at two in the morning, hair loose, glasses perched on her nose, red pen tapping thoughtfully against the page.
“That line,” Azula had said. “Say it cleaner.”
Ty Lee had frowned. “It’s supposed to be messy.”
Azula had looked at her, expression unreadable. “Messy does not mean unclear.”
It was one of the few creative arguments they had not turned into something worse.
Now, standing just offstage, Ty Lee wondered if that restraint would hold once the world knew.
The applause surged suddenly, loud and immediate. Jimmy Fallon’s voice echoed through the studio as he finished his introduction, her name rolling warmly off his tongue. Ty Lee stepped forward as the lights flared.
The applause intensified.
She waved. She smiled. She let herself bask in it for exactly three seconds before grounding again. She bowed slightly, casual and charming, then made her way to the mic.
The set was simple. A stool. A microphone. A small band positioned behind her, muted and ready. No dancers. No spectacle.
Just her.
She sat and wrapped her fingers around the mic stand. Her hands trembled. She let them.
Somewhere, she knew, Azula was watching. Or maybe deliberately not watching. Azula did not like public displays. She said they were inefficient, unpredictable, and prone to sentimentality.
Ty Lee inhaled.
I like being used, it means I have a purpose.
The first line slipped out softer than she had rehearsed. Almost conversational. Almost confessional.
She felt the room lean toward her.
She remembered the first time she had said something similar aloud, years ago, laughing it off as a joke. Azula had not laughed. Azula had gone still, eyes sharp with something Ty Lee had not known how to name at the time.
“You should not measure your worth by utility,” Azula had said.
Ty Lee had shrugged. “I like being needed.”
The melody carried her forward.
It’s the little things you do, at least you’re being earnest.
She thought of the small, controlled gestures that never made headlines. Azula correcting a waiter who dismissed Ty Lee as ditzy. Azula texting reminders to eat when meetings ran long. Azula standing half a step closer whenever cameras flashed.
Earnest, even when harsh.
Oh, maybe I’m too fragile.
Ty Lee swallowed, voice steady despite the tightening in her chest.
Fragile had always been the insult people tried to stick her with. Too soft. Too emotional. Too easy to break. No one ever seemed to notice how much strength it took to remain gentle anyway.
But maybe you’re too mean.
The audience reacted to that. A subtle shift. A murmur.
Azula would not flinch at the word. She never had. Mean was a blunt instrument, and Azula preferred precision. Efficient. Strategic. Unyielding.
Love, to Azula, had always been something that demanded structure.
Ty Lee sang on.
I’ve never been real good at deciphering things.
That much was true. She felt first. Thought later. Sometimes never. It was how she ended up forgiving too easily, staying too long, loving too deeply.
The band eased in around her, gentle and understated.
Let’s let fate decide.
She thought of all the times they had almost ended. All the moments that could have been exits. The arguments that left her shaking. The reconciliations that felt like oxygen.
Hands feel good in yours, ’til we go to mine.
Azula’s hands were steady in a way that grounded her. Even in anger, even in silence, they never shook.
You’re a bad idea.
Ty Lee smiled faintly.
But a real good time.
The audience laughed softly, uncertain but engaged. They recognized the trope. The dangerous lover. The forbidden attraction. They did not yet understand how literal it was.
I’d be lying if I said I didn’t love it, ’cause I do.
Her voice dipped, richer now.
Love was not safety. Love was not calm. Love was choosing something that hurt because it also healed something else.
I’m a couple minutes out from relapsing into you.
The word hung heavy in the studio.
Ty Lee remembered the first real attempt at leaving. Suitcases by the door. Her hands shaking so badly she could not zip them. Azula standing in the doorway, perfectly still.
“Is this what you want?” Azula had asked quietly.
Ty Lee had cried instead of answering.
Oh, fuck it.
A collective intake of breath from the crowd.
Baby, I love it.
Her voice cracked just enough to be real.
I love it, I love it, I.
She closed her eyes.
I love it when we fight, and I like it when you’re mean.
That line had been Azula’s, spoken one night with unnerving calm. “You do not leave when I push,” she had said. “Most people do.”
Ty Lee had not known whether to feel proud or afraid.
We don’t have to get into what that says about me.
She let the note fade naturally, unforced. She was not asking forgiveness. She was not defending herself. She was stating a truth and letting it exist.
Oh, shut it.
A ripple of laughter moved through the audience, warmer now.
Baby, I love it.
The band carried her gently into the bridge.
(Hmm) I’m a couple minutes out from relapsing.
Late nights. Missed calls. The way she always knew exactly how long it would take before she gave in.
Do you remember the last time this happened?
Azula always remembered.
(Hmm) Baby, relax, sometimes it happens.
Not dismissive. Not cruel. Just factual.
(Hmm) Is the key still under the mat?
It always was.
By the time the final note faded, the studio was completely silent.
Ty Lee opened her eyes.
For a moment, she wondered if she had miscalculated. If honesty had finally crossed the line into discomfort.
Then the applause crashed down, loud and unfiltered.
She stood, bowed, thanked the band, and crossed to the couch on autopilot.
Jimmy Fallon looked genuinely stunned. “That was,” he said, blinking, “incredible.”
Ty Lee laughed softly. “Thank you.”
The interview that followed was careful. Questions about transition. About vulnerability. About writing from personal experience. Jimmy did not say Azula’s name, and Ty Lee did not offer it.
But the internet already had.
When she got home that night, her phone buzzed nonstop.
Ty Lee’s New Song Sparks Debate.
Fans Divided Over Lyrics About Toxic Love.
Who Helped Ty Lee Write ‘I Love It’?
Azula was waiting in the living room, jacket folded neatly on the chair, sleeves rolled up. She did not look angry.
She looked thoughtful.
“You sang all of it,” Azula said.
Ty Lee slipped off her heels. “I told you I would.”
“You did not tell me it would be that public.”
Ty Lee met her gaze. “I did not lie.”
Azula studied her for a long moment, then nodded once. “No. You did not.”
They did not argue.
Instead, they sat on the floor with their daughter between them, carefully helping her repair a paper heart she had torn earlier that day. Azula held the glue bottle with meticulous patience, guiding small hands.
“You are doing very well,” Azula said softly.
Ty Lee watched them and felt something in her chest finally loosen.
Ty Lee did not sleep.
She lay on her side in the dark, listening to the quiet rhythm of breathing beside her and the softer, uneven sound between them. Their daughter had kicked her blanket off again sometime after midnight and migrated closer, one small hand curled into Ty Lee’s shirt like an anchor.
Azula lay on Ty Lee’s other side, still and awake. Ty Lee could always tell. Azula’s breathing changed when she was asleep. Right now, it was too measured. Too controlled.
The glow of Ty Lee’s phone lit the ceiling faintly.
She had drafted the post three times already and deleted it every time.
The image sat ready in her gallery.
It was simple. Intimate in a way that made her chest ache. The shadows of two adults holding hands, their fingers interlaced, cast against a wall. Between them, a broken heart shape, visibly cracked down the center. And in the middle of that crack, the smaller shadow of a child, hands carefully placed as if mending it.
No faces. No names. No explanation.
It was not meant to justify anything.
It was meant to tell the truth.
Ty Lee exhaled slowly and glanced at Azula.
“Are you awake?” she whispered.
“Yes,” Azula replied immediately.
Ty Lee smiled faintly. “Of course you are.”
There was a pause. “If you do not want to post it,” Azula said, voice low and even, “you do not have to.”
Ty Lee looked back at the phone. At the image. At the quiet sleeping proof of their choices curled between them.
“I do,” she said softly. “I’m just scared.”
Azula turned her head slightly, just enough that Ty Lee could feel her attention fully. “Of what.”
“Of what they’ll say,” Ty Lee admitted. “About you. About me. About her.”
Azula was silent for a moment. Then, quietly, “They already say things.”
That was true.
Ty Lee unlocked her phone.
She posted the image.
The caption was short.
iloveitiloveitiloveit.
She set the phone face down and stared at the ceiling, heart pounding.
It took less than thirty seconds.
The vibration started immediately.
Likes climbed faster than Ty Lee could process. Comments flooded in, stacking so quickly the app lagged. Her name began trending again before the post had even been up for five minutes.
She turned the phone back over.
The first comments were confusion.
@sunvault: wait. WAIT. is that a KID
@gymgolden: ty lee please tell me im hallucinating
@popupdates: TY LEE CONFIRMS CHILD WITH AZULA???
Then the theories started.
@fandomfire: the shadows?? the heart?? the symbolism is INSANE
@softlylee: this is beautiful and heartbreaking at the same time
@azulawatch: no way she’s trying to rehabilitate azula’s image with a baby
Ty Lee’s stomach twisted.
She scrolled.
@lovetylee: if this is real i just want you to be happy
@fireceoapologist: so we’re just ignoring azula’s history because she’s a mom now?
@chaoticneutral: the fact that the child is fixing the heart is actually devastating
The comments kept coming, faster and sharper as people processed what they were seeing.
@stanlee: i knew they were together but a CHILD??
@ethicsfirst: this is actually really concerning given the power imbalance
@softpopgirl: she literally warned us in the song and yall still shocked
Ty Lee’s chest felt tight.
She handed the phone to Azula.
Azula scrolled without visible reaction. Her expression stayed neutral, but Ty Lee could tell she was cataloging everything. Separating useful criticism from noise. Identifying threats.
“This will escalate,” Azula said calmly.
Ty Lee nodded. “I know.”
“And they will be cruel.”
“I know.”
Azula handed the phone back. “Then look at the ones that matter.”
Ty Lee scrolled back up.
There were thousands of comments already, but tucked between arguments and think pieces were quieter voices.
@quietlistener: thank you for trusting us with something this vulnerable
@brokenbuttrying: that picture explains the song more than any interview could
@gentletruth: kids don’t fix relationships but they do change how people show up
Ty Lee swallowed hard.
She turned the phone off.
By morning, it was everywhere.
Entertainment sites ran with it immediately.
Ty Lee Confirms Child With Azula In Shocking Instagram Post.
Fans React to Revelation About Ty Lee’s Private Life.
Is Love Enough? Public Questions Ty Lee and Azula’s Relationship.
Pundits weighed in. Psychologists were quoted out of context. Old interviews were resurfaced and reanalyzed. Every lyric from the song was dissected line by line, now treated as evidence instead of art.
Ty Lee did not open Twitter.
She sat on the couch with her daughter curled into her side, watching cartoons at low volume. The child hummed softly, oblivious to the storm, pressing her feet against Ty Lee’s thigh for comfort.
Azula took a call in the other room, voice low and controlled. Ty Lee did not need to hear the words to know what kind of conversation it was. Legal. Strategic. Protective.
Her phone buzzed again.
A text from a fellow singer she barely knew.
Are you okay?
Ty Lee stared at it for a long moment before typing back.
I am. Just tired.
She was not lying.
The exhaustion came from holding multiple truths at once.
She loved Azula.
Their relationship hurt sometimes.
Azula was feared by the public.
Azula was gentle with their daughter.
All of these things could be true at the same time.
The internet struggled with that.
By midday, the comment sections had hardened.
@concernedfan: loving someone toxic doesn’t make it romantic
@realismnow: this isn’t empowerment, it’s glorifying harm
@defendtylee: she literally said it was flawed. yall just don’t like honesty
Ty Lee read until her eyes burned.
One comment stopped her.
@hopefulmaybe: my parents were like this. messy and real. they loved us the best they could.
Ty Lee closed the app.
That night, after dinner and bath time and stories, after their daughter finally fell asleep clutching a stuffed animal, Ty Lee and Azula sat together on the floor of the bedroom.
The city lights glowed faintly through the windows.
“They think I’m a monster,” Azula said quietly.
Ty Lee leaned into her. “They always have.”
A pause.
“And they think you are a victim,” Azula continued.
Ty Lee sighed. “I hate that one more.”
Azula looked at her then. Really looked at her.
“You chose this,” Azula said. Not accusing. Just stating fact.
Ty Lee nodded. “I still do.”
Azula reached out, hesitant for once, and brushed Ty Lee’s hair back from her face. The touch was careful, reverent.
“They will never understand us,” Azula said.
Ty Lee closed her eyes. “I don’t need them to.”
Between them, the quiet felt fragile but real.
And in the next room, their daughter slept peacefully, unaware that the world was arguing over whether her existence made sense.