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Chapter Text

“You’re growing your hair out.” 

Earlier that day had graced Caldera with its first real rain of the monsoon season, so tonight a thick humidity hangs like a physical weight outside the windowpanes of Zuko’s study. A heavy springtime warmth has turned the storm outside soft and misty—and in retaliation it lingers in steamy puddles that stand under drains. Yellow fog curls around the palace and through the open windows, swollen water droplets falling from tree branches against the tiled roof in a murmuring susurrus. Sokka, occupying the space on the floor next to Zuko’s elbow, shuffles a small stack of scroll paper, cueing the sound of clean parchment brushing softly against itself.

They’ve made a habit of this. Taking their dinners (butter-spiced noodles and imported green-crab, seaweed fire flakes, sweet ‘n tangy cowpork barbeque, and steamed bao stuffed with ground meats, chickenquail eggs and tender shiitake mushrooms) and tea times (spiced cinnamon masala chai for Zuko, jasmine and moonpeach blossom for Sokka) and desserts (chocolates and jellied pastries and sweet fruit cakes sent all the way from the newly reconstructed Western Air Temple) in the Fire Lord’s private study, preferring it over the illustrious palace dining room.

The open window is a welcome relief for Zuko’s fatigued eyes. The darkness outside is almost complete—were it not for the occasional firefly, flickering weakly in the drizzle. The little bugs are almost rare in the anemic end of Caldera’s sickly dry season, but the music of the nighttime still beckons and calls to them. The tropical orchestra’s string section: cicadas, field and tree crickets, horned grasshoppers and katydids—accompanied by a choir of amphibian voices: pig-, leopard-, and badgerfrogs, bog dwellers and carpenter toads, river frogs, bronze frogs, northern and southern cricket frogs. Such charming names for such vocal singers; barking peepers, ornate southern chorus frogs, and the soloist—the bird-voiced tree frog. Fireflies gambol lazily through the heavy air, their lights gleaming like the stars. Some of them drift slowly up to join the constellations above; others fall like graceful meteors to the earth below. 

This intimate mealtime tradition began due to the increasing non-functionality of the dinner table in the dining room, which is currently covered in a mile-long roster of royal duties transcribed on a stack of scrolls three inches thick—rendering suppertime there impractical and frankly suffocating. The Fire Lord’s laundry list seems never-ending; in the first few months following his coronation, Zuko had took to taking his meals in the chambers reserved for the royal family—pouring over imperial decrees and international correspondence and domestic aide acquisitions between bites of food until the scraps went cold and his good eye began to hurt under the strain of waning candlelight. 

(It was on such an evening in the family chambers that Zuko had signed Sokka’s Ambassadorial contract from the Southern Water Tribe. Strands of Zuko’s unevenly cut hair were falling loose from his topknot and dangling in front of his face. He had pushed them away absently. Zuko remembers his passing thoughts as he signed the rough reed Tribe paper; it would be pleasant to see his friend again, after Sokka so quickly had abandoned the Fire Nation in favor of world travel following the end of the 100-Year War.)

Zuko’s unfocused gaze is broken when he blinks and glances at Sokka. These days, Sokka wears a unique blend of Southern Water Tribe and Fire Nation fashions: an otterseal cloak that he has abandoned in the warmth of the evening, a high-collared sleeveless tunic with angular brass clasps, tied by a sash adorned with whalebones and moon carvings instead of embroidered flames. His pants may be loose and cuffed like the Fire Nation style, but they’re dyed a deep navy with ink from seaweed that traders in the Southern Sea produce. He’s barefoot now, in the intimacy of the private study nestled within the royal family’s wing of the palace, and he wears a corded bracelet wrapped around one ankle. 

Sokka’s ambassadorial guidance has returned a special vivacity to the Fire Nation Crown. 

Early in his career, he traveled far and wide to attend meetings with representatives from the newly liberated (former) colonies, worked closely with the Fire Lord’s small council of advisors to draft the legal process allowing territories to petition for independence from (or annexation to) the Fire Nation. 

He developed a habit of running through the high-ceilinged palace halls instead of calmly walking from room to room. 

He spent two years at the Pole spearheading the Southern Reconstruction Project alongside Chief Hakoda, assuring Zuko that no, chiefdom of the Southern Water Tribe does not pass through inheritance—really Zuko, it’s more a principal chieftain—and yes, that means he doesn't have to stay at the Pole year-round. He can come back to Caldera and continue abusing Zuko’s power and status for his own gain, ensuring personally that the Southern Water Tribe gets theirs. 

He learned the names of everyone in the permanent staff, renegotiated their employment contracts and encouraged them to create their own Servant Society (a concept he supposedly picked up from his brief stint as a busboy for Ba Sing Se’s royal court, where labor organization is more popular among the working class). 

He shepherded Fire Nation naval forces away from the waters surrounding Kyoshi Island, spent months there restoring their proud isolationist status. In return, Suki agreed to loan mercenary Kyoshi Warriors to the Fire Nation Royal Guard. (Suki’s joyous return to the Fire Nation—to Sokka and Zuko —was celebrated with long evenings reminiscing over bottles of warm rice wine, a glowing aura of friendship honeying the palace halls.) 

Sokka complained loudly, constantly, and especially in front of Zuko’s council of advisors, the majority of whom had developed a sort of burgeoning, reluctant respect for Sokka as an ambassador, and a special minority of whom found Sokka incessantly entertaining and ceaselessly annoying in equal measure. 

He quickly became Zuko’s most trusted confidant. 

After four-and-a-half endlessly diplomatic years in the Fire Nation, the slow recovery from a war they were both much too young to fight in, long days and short weeks of delegations, reparations, consultations—the Fire Lord and the Southern Water Tribe Ambassador had become practically attached at the hip.

Somewhere along that long, long road, Zuko had fallen in love with his friend. 

Somewhere between the New Year celebration in late winter, when Sokka got Zuko drunk on lychee wine in the palace courtyard and it felt like golden light was bubbling out of his throat and Sokka couldn’t stop wheeze-laughing because Zuko was burping up small plumes of rainbow fire—

Between a vacation (diplomatic visitation!) to the South Pole for the middle-year solstice after Sokka had almost passed out from heat-sickness in Caldera, where when they arrived to the southern tundra Zuko was immediately and irrevocably weirded out by the constant twilight and slept for nineteen straight hours but Sokka still woke him up and brewed him specially imported sunflower tea for the Midwinter Festival to celebrate the return of the few minutes of daily sunlight to the pole—

Between sparring practice and picnics in the palace gardens during the autumnal months of the Fire Nation, when the weather is most bearable near the equator and the city comes to life with weekly musical performances to gain the favor of romance spirits before the annual bloomage of fire blossoms—

Between Suki and Sokka forcing Zuko out of what they have dubbed his Fire Lord Circus Tent (“—it’s my advising chamber! ”) for a week long foray-slash-beach-trip to Crescent Island where Sokka brought him to see Petals Falling Over River Long and listened sympathetically to his endless criticisms and Suki surprised him while he was distracted at the theater by having Uncle Iroh escorted all the way from the eastern Earth Kingdom for supper—

Somewhere between growing into the Fire Lord’s symbolically massive shoes with two of his best friends standing shoulder-to-shoulder with him and now , Zuko had looked up from his shared dinner meal in the Fire Lord’s private study during the first real rainfall of the monsoon season and had looked at Sokka, whose rich dark skin glows smooth and warm in the candlelight and whose usually closely shaved hair has grown thicker and longer to the point where it’s starting to curl right behind his ears and said—

“You’re growing your hair out.” 

It was supposed to be a question but it sounds flat instead like a demand. Sokka doesn’t even look up from what he’s reading, which from a quick glance Zuko can see is a joint proposal by the Education Committee and the Minister of Culture for the new public-school curriculum starting in the fall. There’s a slight crinkle marring Sokka’s forehead and a small frown tugging at his lips, and he hums in a pitch that lifts towards the end, indicating that he wants Zuko to repeat himself. 

So Zuko does.

“You’re growing your hair out?” He tries again, and this time it comes out right. 

Sokka looks up at him with an oddly proud expression on his face. Like he’s pleased Zuko noticed.

“Yeah, I am,” Sokka says, then he huffs a little and looks back down at the parchment in his hand. “My dad and Katara are thrilled.” 

Every once in a while, there are moments when Sokka and Zuko are talking about something or other—usually the topic itself is fairly innocuous—but it’s clear that there’s a bit of a cultural non-understanding. An odd phrasing, an off-hand comment, a dropped line in conversation. And while Zuko knows from deeply personal experience that a radical change in hairstyle can be exciting in its own right, Zuko also has a feeling this may be one of those misstep moments. Curiosity causes him to lean forward, paperwork forgotten. 

“Is it a Tribe thing? Or just a Sokka-thing?” Zuko asks, well aware that it could be either. Or both. 

Sokka raises a hand to the side of his head and runs ink-stained fingers through the glossy dark brown coils, which are a little shorter than an inch in length. The expression on his face is an absurd combination of dignified and academic, but Zuko can’t help but think it still suits his features charmingly. 

“In the Southern Water Tribe,” Sokka begins in a scholarly tone—like he’s about to recite an oral history, “warriors wear wolf-tails, and keep the hair on the crown of their heads pulled back, like this.” 

Sokka tugs a little at the tie that keeps his hair up, gesturing to the tail that has gotten long enough to brush the back of his tanned neck, even when it’s situated high near the crown of his head. The low lamplight dances lovingly over his skin, moisture in the air and the heat of night creating a heady fog that envelops Zuko like a well-loved blanket. The atmosphere of the evening is intimate—nearly romantic. Zuko nods, captivated. 

“Kids and bachelors keep the sides of their hair short. Since Bato witnessed my ice-dodging ceremony when I was sixteen, I’ve been considered an adult for a while now. Growing my hair out is symbolic of maturity,” And this is where Sokka breaks eye contact with Zuko for the first time, looking back down at the table and picking up his cup of tea (iced , which he insists is a Tribe thing but still makes Zuko cringe) to cradle between his wide palms. And then he opens his mouth, and in six words freezes Zuko’s heart and rattles him down to the core—

“And of my intent to marry.” 

For a moment the gentle song of rain outside the open window—the croaking of badgerfrogs, the hum of insects—they all go quiet to the roaring in Zuko’s ears. He feels a wildly nonsensical urge to laugh, but not because anything is funny; he feels a pressure building up in his chest, pushing out like steam in a tea kettle.

“Marry,” Zuko repeats dumbly. 

“Yeah,” Sokka tears his gaze up and away from the cup in his hands; He holds Zuko’s eyes meaningfully. “Once a year, traveling tribe members are called back south for a homecoming that coincides with the migration of the red-throated loontern—a type of arctic bird. My people learned to read weather patterns from the loonterns, so we honor them by timing our courtship with theirs. During the homecoming, I would traditionally present my intended—” and when Sokka says them the words my intended bounces around the inside of Zuko’s skull like a bug trapped in a jar, “—with a song or dance.  Once a proposal is accepted—publically, because it’s important for the tribe to approve of the match, too—it’s common for men in the tribe to wear a whalebone bead from their sweetheart woven into a braid of hair and declare themselves newlywed.” 

Zuko’s brain is making a valiant effort to acknowledge the intricacy of the frankly impressive amount of cultural knowledge that Sokka is sharing so eloquently, to come up with something fucking intelligible to say in response, but all he can think of is Sokka with gentle waves of hair that brush his broad shoulders, a braid behind his ear—and of how pitifully Zuko wants to be the one to give him that fucking bead. 

Sokka looks down at his lap again, expression suddenly heavy. “My dad shaved his head after my mom was killed.”

Zuko’s thoughts go quiet. He stares at the table, not really reading anything on the papers strewn out before them. 

“A lot of our culture was repressed during the war,” Zuko says haltingly, glancing at Sokka out of the corner of his good eye. “But in the Fire Nation, one’s hair is a symbol of honor. Especially if you’re rich, it’s only trimmed to stay neat…except in very specific circumstances.” As he speaks, Zuko fiddles restlessly with the edges of his robe sleeve.

“After my—” He stops, clears his throat. “After my banishment, I shaved my head but left my phoenix tail. Anyone from the Fire Nation would see me and know immediately that I was the dishonored prince.”

Sokka looks at him fully now, a rueful grin on his face. 

“I remember,” he says, then adds: “not your best look by far.” 

The joke coaxes a little smile out of Zuko. He relaxes. The rainstorm is finally starting to let up outside, and even with his damaged ear he can still hear the individual water droplets as they patter delicately on the leaves of the cedargums bracketing his windows. 

“Yeah, well.” Zuko continues, “By the time I was crowned Fire Lord, my hair had gotten long enough for me to keep it in this topknot.” Zuko flaps his hand absently to indicate the whole of his head. “It’s the traditional style here for people after they come of age.” 

Sokka squints a little at him, but he’s still smiling when he leans up and flicks the metal royal hairpiece that Zuko still wears—even now at this late hour. He’s only very briefly in Zuko’s personal space, but it’s long enough for Zuko to catch a snootful of his unique scent, thick like the rain outside. It goes straight to Zuko’s head, making him feel intoxicated.

“What about these things?”

“Uh,” Zuko falters a little bit, “just status symbols. Family heirlooms.”

“I like your hair now.” Sokka declares, “It suits you. It’s very...noble.”

Zuko literally cannot fathom how to respond to that in a way that’s not something along the lines of ‘I’m in love with you’, so instead he just settles on an awkward “Thanks.”

Sokka hums, evidently content to allow the conversation to lull, and turns back to the school curriculum plan on the table that he has been fiddling with absently between his fingers. Zuko takes the rare opportunity to observe his friend unnoticed, staring at the side of his face. His strong nose and browbone, his dark and thick eyelashes. The bow of his lips and the shapely curve of his jaw. 

Zuko can almost perfectly imagine it—the way Sokka would look wearing the tempered copper hairpiece of the Royal Consort that he knows is being safely kept in his family’s dowry until he is married. Zuko’s stomach clenches when his gaze falls on the charming curl of hair behind Sokka’s wood and whalebone earring. Intent to marry? Intent to marry who?  

Sokka takes an idle swallow of the tea left in his cup and immediately grimaces.

“Ugh,” he cringes, “all the ice melted.”

Months pass after that night in the study before Suki comes to him. It’s the day after the mid-year solstice, a week after Sokka has already departed for the Southern Pole like he always does during the hottest part of the summer. The Dragon Days Festival is in a valiant full swing, and the citizens of the Fire Nation are bustling with energy during the longest days of the year at their position just above the equator. The streets of Caldera are thrumming with life and joy and music in the fifth sun cycle of peace under Fire Lord Zuko.

Fire Lord Zuko—who is currently standing before an overly ornate floor-to-ceiling mirror in his personal quarters, fretting over his ceremonial kimono.

“Sokka was born during the first week of spring in the South Pole,” Suki says casually, while she’s watching him fidget with the shiny decorative sash around his waist. It’s bright scarlet and woven to look like the scales of a dragon. Suki’s got her arms crossed, leaning gracefully against the doorway to his chambers, already wearing her Kyoshi Warrior hakama, makeup, and headdress—which she only fully commits to during celebrations. “I think that would be early autumn here. A year after you. Which would make him, what, Year of the Snakemander?”

Zuko pauses while he’s adjusting the fabric of his robe. His hands fall still. 

“Yes,” he says, carefully, “that sounds right.” 

She’s looking at him knowingly, but not unkindly. 

“Your outfit looks fine; you don’t have to keep messing with it.” Suki pushes off the doorframe with her shoulder, coming up to stand next to him. She claps a gloved hand on his shoulder and dips her chin so he’ll look her in the eye. Her eyes have always been the color of slate, but contrasted with her striking red face paint they almost appear blue. 

“I’ve heard of fortune tellers in the Earth Kingdom,” She tells him softly, “that will bless couples with compatible spirit signs.” 

“Matchmakers,” Zuko scoffs, but it sounds too thin, too desperate. 

Three midnights after Sokka revealed to Zuko his intention to seek union, Suki found him — sleepless — in the palace garden, feeding turtleduck hatchlings crumbs from the sleeves of his silk robes. Technically as a member of his personal guard, Suki’s supposed to always know where he is, but they both pretend that he doesn’t slip past her as often as he does. The moon was only in its first quarter, a slim crescent shape in the purpling night sky. 

Growing up, Zuko had learned to associate the moon with madness, the pull of the tides, and lengthening of nights. He remembers the beach on Ember Island, how his mother would walk towards the waves that swelled against the shoreline. The tide had receded, beckoning her. She followed for several feet, before her legs up to the calf were swallowed by a surge of seafoam. Her laughter always sounded like it was being punched out of her, and it rang loud and true over the crash shwsh shwsh of the ocean current. The tides tease in their reach and retreat. Constant, yet ever-changing.

Pain is inherent in loving that which cannot remain the same. But the heart is slow to learn.

The rainfall in Caldera earlier that week was followed by three long days, nauseatingly hot for anyone who isn’t a firebender. The fire lilies are thriving. They push bravely through the scorched soil in the garden and put out buds that darken in color every day, threatening to burst into flowers. The night-blooming jasmine vine that climbs the short wall around the garden courtyard is heavy with blossoms, and when the breeze picks up or Zuko tilts his head back to rest against the thick trunk of the tree he’s currently leaning on — he can catch the cloying aroma of sweet evening nectar. The gardens always smell best just after sunset. 

Suki walks softly, like she’s standing on her toes. She always approaches on his right side, never his left, and it fills Zuko to the brim with affection for her in that moment. 

“Fire Lord Zuko,” she says, crouching gently next to him in the dewy grass. She catches sight of the amber glass bottle of sake that’s still clutched loosely in his lap, then sighs like a deflating balloon and settles more heavily on the ground, her strong legs folded under her. 

“Just Zuko, then,” She amends. 

Zuko realizes he loves her fiercely. He tells her so. 

It makes her smile, barely even patronizing. 

Zuko’s expression turns sardonic and a little self-pitying, and he looks back down in his lap, rolling the jug of warm rice wine back and forth between his flat hands. 

“All three of us are here ,” Zuko says, raising his hand that holds the bottle to toast the moon — to toast Yue. “But which one is he going to marry?”

“His hair isn’t going to get any shorter, you know,” Suki chides as she loops their arms together, an improper position for a member of the Fire Lord’s guard. It makes Zuko feel better, but only a little. 

“I know,” Zuko says quietly, and feels relief when she drops it. 

The Dragon Days Festival is about more than just the solstice. Some of the Fire Nation’s most important staple crops rely on hot, heavy summertime growths—like firemelons, where more heat yields more sweet. Or bright colored cassava and sweet rootpotatoes, tall trellises of squashbean pods that are pregnant with produce, husks of maize and couscous. The markets are a rainbow of pepper stalls, each cultivar spiced uniquely by their exposure to sunlight. In the outer lands and the Earth Kingdom, the annual monsoons saturate floodplains and foreign farmers bring jasmine, brown, and wild rice, salted beets, and bundles of sugarcane. A bountiful harvest is cause for celebration anywhere.

It’s nearing midday. The citizens of the Fire Nation watch anticipatorily as Zuko addresses them atop the raised platform of an amphitheater stage. Over the years his public speaking has improved drastically, but he can’t help but choke through his speech anyway, catching himself rambling a bit towards the end of an anecdote that wasn’t terribly funny to begin with. Suki stifles a laugh that could still arguably be labeled a cough into the sleeve of her robe when Zuko’s conclusion statement doesn’t land correctly and he has to awkwardly fumble out a ‘yeah, so. Enjoy the festival!’ to signal to the audience that the excruciating part is over. 

Before he can even begin to complain, Suki gasps and touches his right arm, lifting her hand to point to a couple of familiar faces in the crowd. 

“I want to feel bad for you,” Mai drawls when she approaches the bottom of the stage, managing to convey both amusement and utter boredom in her tone, “but I think that was actually an improvement from last year’s speech.” 

“Oh don’t be so mean, Mai.” Ty Lee pokes her head out from behind Mai’s arm, one manicured hand resting on Mai’s shoulder, “I thought it was hilarious, Zuko.” 

Somehow, Zuko isn’t convinced that Ty Lee is complimenting him.

“I don’t have to put up with this—” Zuko starts to pout, and Suki swats at him.

“It’s good to see you both again,” Suki says with a smile. She clasps both of their hands in hers in welcome, “the Kyoshi Warriors miss you dearly, Ty Lee. You’re still traveling with the circus?”

“That’s actually why we’re here!” Ty Lee chatters, “The event planners specifically wanted our fire dancers—I don’t think you ever met them, Aiguo and Su, the twins?—to perform last night, so they sponsored the whole guild to stay in Caldera this week!”

“And what about you?” Zuko asks, nudging Mai. 

She shrugs. “The ringleader likes my knife-throwing.”

Ty Lee left Kyoshi Island a year and a half after the end of the war. Suki told Zuko how it happened, one evening: while the anonymity of being a member of the painted fighting guild is the appeal for many Warriors, Ty Lee began to resent how she had (once again) become part of a matched set. Her departure remained amicable, though, and everyone can see the performance life suits her better, anyway. Besides—peacetime prefers entertainment over combat these days. 

Zuko sees them both fairly often, the circus that they travel with being wildly popular with the young adults in the northern region of Fire Nation’s main continent. He pretends not to know that they visit Azula at her mountain retreat in the outer territories every month, too. Zuko is grateful that the last five years have treated them well.

Very well, Zuko thinks to himself, as he watches Mai’s arm curl tightly around Ty Lee’s waist. Zuko and Suki share an instinctive moment of eye-contact, complete with matching raised eyebrows. He smiles.  

The quartet spend all day weaving through pop-up tent markets, made easier by the way strangers give them a wide berth when they catch sight of Zuko’s face, or Suki’s sharp fans. Despite the fact that Zuko has literally traveled miles at a time on foot in the rough Earth Kingdom wilderness, something about walking all day at a carnival has his feet aching sharply in his boots. 

Zuko makes purchases out of the royal treasury, arranging for local farmers to deliver their produce to the palace, the public schools, the children’s center, the camps of refugees, vagabonds, and homeless that still litter the city. He’s inspired by what Sokka refers to as a circular economy, how commerce functions in the South Pole. Everything that Sokka’s peoples need—food, clothing, infrastructure, tools—is produced, consumed, and recycled within the tribe. It was only very recently that the remote Southern Water Tribe began importing...anything at all, really. The local Fire Nation ranchers and merchants bow gratefully when Zuko buys out half their harvest for the rest of the year, hoping desperately that he’s leading by good example. 

“Oooh,” Ty Lee coos, her face sticky from candied fruit, “what are these?”

Zuko looks up from where he and Mai are inspecting a cart of dried herbs and spices to see Ty Lee leaning over the partition of what Zuko is surprised to find is a Water Tribe tent. Suki is perusing the merchandise that has Ty Lee so transfixed, an open and curious expression on her face. 

The merchant of the stall chuckles, then reaches up a long arm to unhook a charm from where it’s hanging on a rafter of the tent. 

“This, little bird,” the merchant presents the item with a flourish, “is a spidercrab eye.”

Suki, Mai, Zuko, and Ty Lee crowd around the counter, peering into the merchant’s hands. He’s holding a small hoop with nine points that looks a little like an artistic rendition of the sun, about the size of Zuko’s whole hand, fingertip to wrist. Within the hoop’s circle is an elaborate weave of rough twine, creating the appearance of a lotus, or maybe a web. The object’s star-like arms are made of a sort of ceramic material, painted with beautiful patterns and separated by little red beads, tufts of animal fur. 

“It’s a protection charm,” The merchant explains patiently, “from the Northern Water Tribe. Traditionally it’s given to newlywed couples, who will hang it above the cribs of their infant children. You charge it, see—” And then the merchant folds down one of the arms of the eye until it’s pointed inwards. The back of the triangular ceramic is painted to look like the tail of a fish. “—by leaving it in the window for a full moon cycle. They say if you wake to find all the points pushed out again,” and here he demonstrates by flipping the folded point back out, completing the star, “an evil dream spirit was banished in the night.” 

“How wonderful!” Ty Lee exclaims, then turns to Mai and touches her hand excitedly, “We should get one for little Bosh! Oh, Jingyi will just love it.” 

Mai sighs indulgently and fishes out her coin purse, while Ty Lee squeals happily. 

Zuko stares at the little charm, stomach roiling and thoughts buzzing. Is this an appropriate wedding gift for a Southern Water Tribe couple? Oh, spirits. Is Sokka planning on having children with his future spouse? Zuko tries to rationalize that just because Sokka is growing his hair out now doesn’t mean he’s already in love with someone else. It just means he’s...receptive. Available. Right?

Zuko turns away. 

The sun is starting to complete its descent in the sky, and Mai and Ty Lee depart for their lodgings with a promise to meet tomorrow morning. Suki walks with him back to the palace, matching his pace in comfortable silence. The golden hour sunlight is pleasantly warm, reminiscent of a hearthfire, and all Zuko can think about is “That makes him, what, Year of the Snakemander ?”

The first births of the Fire Nation Royal Family are always in the Year of the Dragon by design. It’s considered good luck for a Dragon child to have light eyes: supposedly the marks of a talented firebender. The old wise women of the Royal Family—Lo and Li—were there when Zuko was born, waiting in the shadows to give tandem reports of his astrological fortune. Dragons are the mightiest of the zodiacs, they said, the original source of firebending. Dragon children are dominant, ambitious, driven by a superior inner fire. A natural born leader, Crown Prince Zuko will bring honor to the Fire Nation under the Dragons’ careful guidance. 

The Royal Family no longer employs wizened old advisors for matters like arranging marriages and choosing wedding dates, but that doesn’t stop Zuko from writing to the High Priestess at the Black Cliffs Fire Sage Temple on the second night of the Dragon Days Festival. The letter stays anonymous, but Zuko’s heart still thunders with shame as he watches the dark plumage of the beastly messenger hawk he borrowed from a public aviary disappear over the horizon. 

Suki and Zuko spend the third and final night of the festival getting roaringly intoxicated and dancing like commoners in plainclothes with Mai and Ty Lee on the main street of Caldera. The fireworks display gets grander every year and never fails to scare the shit out of Zuko—but it’s in a thrilling, exhilarating way that forces barks of laughter from his throat like they’re being punched out of him. After five years, the sight of the young Fire Lord traipsing through the street has become less of a spectacle and more of a fond oddity—so Zuko twirls around to the rhythm of a stringhorn and tambourine with a young girl who steps on his shoes and giggles so hard she almost falls over. Suki whoops with glee at his flushed face and sweaty hair but Zuko falls into bed that night under a full moon with a fiery song in his veins that pounds in time with his heartbeat. I’m nothing like Ozai, I’m nothing like Ozai, it seems to chant and Zuko throws a quick prayer of gratitude up to Yue before he falls asleep. 

Sokka arrives from the South Pole on a rare breezy evening a few days later. He comes bearing stories and small gifts, and his hair falls in small coils near the bolt of his jaw so Zuko promptly forgets all about the inquiry he wrote to the High Priestess at the Black Cliffs Fire Sage Temple. Almost as soon as Sokka sees him, he grasps Zuko’s upper forearm in greeting and slaps the Fire Lord’s palm. 

“Bam!” He announces as he does so. 

Confused, Zuko looks down at his own hand, surprised to find his fingers loosely curled around a little figurine. It’s small, hardly bigger than a dried plum, and etched out of soft, smooth ivory. The craftsmanship is heavy-handed and it doesn’t work extremely well for the subject of the figure, but the whalebone has Sokka’s culture and personal style carved all over it.

“It’s a…” Zuko turns the little toy in his hands with careful consideration, looking at it from all angles, “a turtleduck?”

“Got it in one!” Sokka crows victoriously, and Zuko feels stupidly self-satisfied—like he just answered a question from one of his royal childhood tutors correctly. He grips the turtleduck in his fist, absurdly touched by the gift. Everyone at the palace knows that turtleducks are Zuko’s favorite animals. 

“Sokka!” Suki’s voice floats from where she’s just entered the long welcoming hall. Zuko unclenches marginally when Sokka turns away to greet Suki. He rotates the turtleduck in his hands over and over again. 

Sokka had only been gone a fortnight, but he chatters with Suki like they haven’t seen each other in seasons. As he speaks, he gesticulates extravagantly, but he’s always conscious of where his hands are—even without seeing them—and never accidentally knocks into something or someone. Distantly, Zuko processes that Sokka is telling them about the Midwinter Festival at the South Pole, how it came earlier than everyone thought it would this year—a good omen. Zuko has a very vague understanding of the celebration, as he’s only attended it once and slept through the majority of the ritual components. What Sokka describes seems to be an alien world: ice cliffs bathed in perpetual starlight, strange ribbons of color flowing like rivers in the air near the pole, the sky lightening to bright blue periodically at noon every day. During the Midwinter Festival, the Southern Water Tribe communes every morning to bang hoop drums made of animal hide. Warriors perform complex dances that involve a lot of stomping and spinning, reciting poems to coax Agni a little closer into their homes. At long last—day breaks over the distant horizon, and the precious few minutes of South Pole sunlight are spent singing and drinking and lighting bonfires.

Zuko doesn’t even notice his expression growing softer and dopier until Suki subtly elbows him in the ribs right before they sit down to take dinner. 

“Our word for poetry is the same as our word for breath,” Sokka tells them, his mouth already half full of flame-stewed noodles and spicy cream and meat-stuffed dumplings. 

“That’s beautiful,” Suki says, and Zuko agrees wholeheartedly. 

“Strength in firebending comes from the breath,” Zuko supplies, then instantly feels like an idiot for it. He’s horribly embarrassed, but his dinner companions just look thoughtful.

“There’s definitely something in that,” Sokka hums, and Suki nods decisively.  

When they finally turn in for the night, Zuko finds a huge messenger hawk with coal-colored feathers waiting for him on his windowsill. She stares into him with dark beady eyes the size of grapeberries. Immediately Zuko is seized with dread, his heart sinking like a stone in water to rest somewhere close to his feet. His hands shake only a little bit as he fumbles for the scroll in the wooden tube strapped to the bird’s broad back. When he finally gets the missive unhooked, the hawk chirps expectantly, then seems to understand he has no treats to offer. She ruffles her impressive wing plumes, shaking her head sharply back and forth and then takes off in flight once more. 

The scroll itself looks harmless enough; it’s written on soft yellowed parchment, sealed with wax. Zuko has to take a calming breath to prevent himself from accidentally burning it to cinders in his fingertips. 

“Mr. Li —” The scroll reads, once Zuko finally manages to unroll it. 

“On behalf of the Black Cliffs Fire Sage Temple, congratulations on your betrothal. You have requested an assessment of you and your intended’s compatibility which is inclosed. The ancient practice of matching couples with harmonious zodiacs has birthed many successful marriages in the Fire Nation and Earth Kingdoms, and we at the Temple wish you only good fortune in your romance. 

You, a Dragon — an impressive designation. Passionate in love, bold, risk-taker. 

Your love —” Here, Zuko has to look away from the paper. He blinks several times, then realizes he’s just sort of standing in his Fire Lord robes in the middle of his bedroom. He restlessly extinguishes the lanterns around his chambers. He tosses off his spaulders, then roughly unpins his hair from his topknot, letting it fall in a silky black curtain around his face. Only when he has settled into his bed, much too big and too soft for one person, does he swallow down his fear and keeps reading. 

“You, a Dragon — an impressive designation. Passionate in love, bold, risk-taker. 

Your love, born in the Year of the Snakemander. Snakemander children are intelligent, analytical, and are prone to materialism. When you receive a confirmation from your fiancé’s father, offer a large dowry in your next correspondence. You will earn your beloved’s heart and prove your worthiness with lavish gifts.

You are lucky, Mr. Li! ”—Zuko scoffs—"A Dragon and a Snakemander are a wonderful romantic pair. They are highly connected — physically, emotionally, and spiritually. You and your spouse will have good fortune in professional endeavors: you will trust and cooperate wholeheartedly. Your particular pairing will yield a happy family, although I would not personally recommend siring more than two or three children.”

Zuko stares at the line about children until his vision swims. 

“At heart you are likely a dreamer, an idealist. Do not dismiss your partner’s streak of realism — though at times you may find a cynic sharing your bed. Seek adventure and relaxation to nurture you and your love’s shared appreciation for beauty. Always be truthful, and we predict that your marriage will be loving and mature into old age. Conduct the ceremony in the late autumn, just before the first frost.

Best of luck,

High Priestess Din of the Black Cliffs Fire Sage Temple.”

Zuko rereads the letter. He gets stuck on the sentence about kids again. 

He tries not to think of how impressive the Fire Lord’s dowry would seem to Hakoda, Chief of the Southern Water Tribe, or of how he wishes he never imagined what it might be like to spoil Sokka with precious gifts and expensive attentions. 

He ignores the sheer amount of physical legislation and social reparation policy that has been enacted by the Fire Lord in the last five years with the diligent Southern Water Tribe Ambassador at his side, how he owes almost the entirety of his professional career to Sokka’s unwavering support. 

He definitely won’t linger on the fantasy of an autumnal wedding—Sokka’s hair beaded and adorned with the Royal Consort’s headpiece, framed in crimson fire blossoms, the impossible daydream of building a family, the ludicrous fiction of having his friend and husband at his hand as he grows old and sensitive and wise.

Spirits. Zuko is so fucked.

Chapter Text

The end of the summer marks the five year anniversary of the day that Avatar Aang defeated Phoenix King Ozai. The day that Fire Lord Zuko took his rightful place as heir to the throne of the Fire Nation. Of course, that’s not the only thing that happened on that fateful day half a decade ago, but that’s usually what historians and royal court reporters like to fixate on. 

Five years ago, a team of three elite child soldiers—a Kyoshi Warrior, the missing Beifong heiress, and the son of Chief Hakoda, Southern Water Tribe—triple-handedly took down the entire fleet of Fire Nation war blimps, saving most of the Western Earth Kingdom from being razed to the ground. During the fight, Sokka broke his leg and tore ligaments in his knee, and although Katara healed them quickly and expertly, the old injuries still cause him pain when the humidity spikes.

Five years ago, a twice-disgraced Prince Zuko challenged Crown Princess Azula to an Agni Kai and shouldn’t have made it out alive. A bolt of white-hot lightning meant for Katara gave him another scar from another immediate family member, this one in the shape of a starburst stretching over a quarter of his torso. It would have killed him, too, without the critical aid of the last living waterbender hailing from the Southern Water Tribe; instead the incident only weakened Zuko’s heart rather than stopping it entirely, and now his heartbeat stutters in a three-note arrhythmia. When he firebends extensively, his chest glows orange like damaged metal. 

Five years later, and they are all still recovering from a war that the world is finally starting to leave behind. 

Zuko is awake seconds before sunrise on the five year anniversary of the end of the war. He has declared this particular day a period of mourning at the palace, but he knows the winding roads of the city will be packed with foreign travelers and exuberant partygoers and bustling tent-markets a mile long. More than half of his staff will take to the streets tonight singing praise to the spirits that his father is imprisoned. The Fire Nation capital is once more a mecca of culture—bedecked in jeweled golden banners and bright red paper lanterns. People keep their windows open at night. Flower blossoms adorn doorways, bleeding heart vine and larkspur and the ever-present sunflower. Altars and spirithouses pop up overnight in the streets, lit candles glowing like embers in a fireplace. What was once tense and frightened is now open, warm, inviting. There’s an older gentleman who lives near the palace and plays his tsungi horn on the back porch of his apartment every evening, warbling tender refrains that lift in the air to match the ambience of the heavens. The country is preparing for a far more meaningful milestone to celebrate as the summer dies restless and slow. 

The anniversary of Zuko’s Coronation Day is in less than a week. 

Zuko sits up in his bed, letting the sheets pool around his trim waist. His bare toes curl against the hard floor.

Aang and Katara are flying in on Appa today. The pair has spent the last half decade as a sort of traveling diplomacy team, securing mutual aid between the two sister Water Tribes and settling agitated spirits around the globe. The last time Zuko saw them both was four months ago for the New Year. They were heading southeast—towards the ruins of the Southern Air Temple—with an ambitious wildlife and sacred land conservation plan. 

Zuko brushes his hair. It’s gotten long enough to hang between his shoulder blades. He gathers it all between his hands and twists it into a tight bun on top of his head. 

Toph met up with Uncle in Ba Sing Se, and they’re traveling by land then ferry to arrive before the coronation celebration—on account of the fact that Toph hates flying and will take an extra two days of commute to avoid it. Toph finds the time to visit with him every few weeks. Although she doesn’t have an official title as a politician…or an official employment contract anywhere, actually, she likes to sit in on Zuko’s advisory meetings anyway. She quietly takes a seat in the corner of the room, bends her metal meteorite band threateningly around her fingers and whispers to Zuko when his generals are lying and sometimes when they’re not, just for the mayhem of it all. Uncle writes to Zuko near daily. The Jasmine Dragon is booming in popularity with the residents of Ba Sing Se’s Middle and Upper Rings. 

Somehow in the last five years, Zuko and his friends have become the leaders of their respective homeworlds, ushering the commonwealth into an era of peace and prosperity. Zuko misses them terribly some days—his coronation celebration will be the first time they’re all together in the same city for almost five months. 

Zuko steps outside into the smaller of the palace courtyards, bathed in syrupy morning sunshine. It softens shadows and washes gently over Zuko’s skin. He breathes deeply, all the way down into his navel, and tender warmth suffuses throughout his chest as his inner fire glows in response. His fingers buzz with energy from Agni’s mellow rays. The fire within Zuko arches up into the sun like a sapling straining towards golden light.

Zuko moves through his stretches with ease. His first kata—Zuko shifts his right foot back before lunging forward with all his weight. When he punches, he lets loose a healthy burst of colorful fire: scarlet and crimson, bright yellow and springtime lilac—a gift from the dragons, all those many years ago. Zuko brings his other fist and knee up to balance on his left leg. He turns with his momentum and repeats the motion a quarter turn to his right. The rhythm of firebending pulses through Zuko like a heartbeat. He kicks forward in a roundhouse and traces an arc of blue-green flame with his heel before shifting to a half moon pose. Peaceful mind.  

“You know, without the fire—” Sokka’s voice floats above the crackle of heat, “you sorta look like you’re dancing.”

Zuko tenses in the first form of his second set—the king and crown katas. He steps forward smoothly, one foot arched and the other knee bent. He crosses his forearms, turns his wrists outward. One terse beat, then—he falls back on his braced leg, brings his arms in front of his face defensively and hikes one thigh up to his chest. The forward momentum carries him two paces, his left hand extending out palm-forward while the other curls tightly next to his hip. Two brutal punches, fire leaping forth from his knuckles to escape the pressure coiled in his core. On his third turn, his elbow pulls back over his right shoulder and his foot pivots as he crosses both arms sharply, blocking fictional attacks and shooting orange flames at the feet of imaginary enemies. His fists fall back close to his sides, and he steps forward once more, lowering his hands and exhaling in one calming motion. 

When he turns, Sokka is squinting at him with a weirdly strained expression on his face.

“You’re up early,” Zuko says, instead of dignifying Sokka’s dancing comment with an answer. There are critical differences between firebending as a martial art and dancing, but it’s hard to argue semantics when many of his forms (his first, the Dancing Dragon comes to mind) follow strict rhythms and require perfect body control. In an un-nuanced way, firebending is a dance. 

“Yeah, uh,” Sokka startles and coughs, “I asked Suki to wake me up before she went to her guard training today. I want to be awake when Katara and Aang show up. Um. I made your tea.” 

As he says this, Sokka thrusts his hand forward, offering a cup of red-brown beverage clenched between his fingers. 

Usually, the cooks on the palace staff prepare breakfast meals and pour tea. Sokka’s thoughtfulness makes Zuko smile, and he presses his palms together at chest level and bows to Sokka in a totally inappropriate show of gratitude before gracefully accepting the drink with both hands. He takes a seat right there on the stone stairs of the palace courtyard. The steaming tea he cradles between his palms, pulling heat into his hands. The sun is rising over the treeline now, turning it brilliant amber. 

Sokka clears his throat again and sits beside his right shoulder, one step higher. 

“How are you feeling?” Sokka hedges awkwardly. 

Right.

Zuko sighs heavily, tipping his head back and closing his eyes. The light outside paints red mandala patterns behind his eyelids. 

“I don’t know,” He murmurs, then opens his eyes and turns his head to gaze up at Sokka. “Your hair is getting long.”

Sokka’s skin soaks up light beautifully. His irises are shadowed as he looks absentmindedly at a point just below Zuko’s chin. His lips lift subtly in a relieved smile, but his eyes don’t immediately move from where they stare at Zuko’s throat.

“Yeah, it is.” Sokka finally blinks, tears his face away to observe the climbing sun. “It grows fast.” 

It’s been half a year since Sokka started growing it out, and now the longest strands are hanging loose past the back of his ears, halfway down his neck and brushing his collarbones. Soon, his hair will be the length he wore to sleep when he was sixteen, but it’s currently choppy and uneven. Zuko’s insides tie themselves in impressive bowline, hitch, and dragonloop knots on nights when he lies awake—feeling vulnerable and burning holes in his ceiling wondering is it long enough to braid yet? 

Has he carved an engagement necklace yet?

“I’ll probably trim it soon,” Sokka says nonchalantly. Confusion makes Zuko pout because he didn’t think—

“You can do that?” Zuko asks without considering how unintelligent the question sounds. 

Sokka grins at him, sly and teasing. 

“Pfft, yeah dude." Sokka uses the foreign word instead of something meaner like dumbass. People in the Fire Nation don’t say dude, but Zuko’s fairly certain it’s not an insult. “I don’t want it to look all ratty when it grows another inch or two. I’m probably just going to even it up.” 

Zuko blushes a little in light embarrassment and takes a too-large gulp of his tea. The temperature outside is starting to climb, which Zuko knows because a thin sheen of sweat covers Sokka’s forehead. The Water Tribe Ambassador is leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees, a cup dangling in a loose grip between his strong legs. Zuko settles back into an ankles-crossed lounge on the steps behind him, ignoring how the stone digs into his shoulders.

“It’s hard to believe it’s already been five years.” Sokka muses in a moment of pensiveness. He looks faintly amused when he peers over at Zuko, raises his glass of tea that swirls with cubed ice. “It’s funny. I’m happy to have found myself still by your side, after all that time. Five years...I never would have imagined that I’d end up feeling this way, about you.”

Zuko thinks he might choke on the calm sincerity in Sokka’s voice. He’s made a lot of progress since the end of the war, but sometimes it’s still hard to consolidate his own identity, to feel like it’s him beneath all the Fire Lord bluster. His friends pull him back down to earth when he spends days and weeks above the clouds. They make him feel like he’s got liquid gold spilling out of him, like there’s a firework show igniting in his stomach. Like he might only love himself if he has them to teach him how. 

But Sokka. Sokka is intense, directed. His words always seem to cut Zuko down to the bone in ways no others do. Life can be small, with Sokka. It can be simple. It can be sweet fruit wine and fire-belching at New Year’s—but it can also be specially brewed sunflower tea in a foreign land, pressed into cold hands still clumsy from sleep. Life is late nights in the dry, warm study chambers, the wet patter of raindrops and the croon of a distant tsungi horn. It’s bone-crushing hugs when you’re apart longer than a few days. It’s the feeling of linen silk sheets on Zuko’s skin at the end of every day. It’s falling asleep and not hating the idea of a tomorrow.

Loving Sokka makes Zuko feel...settled. It took him years to learn that the world isn’t cruel, it was just his family—his father —that told Zuko he was incomplete. Zuko’s whole. But Sokka offers Zuko something precious, something he’s come to covet: balance. 

“Ha, did I break you, Fire Lord?” Sokka pokes Zuko firmly right between his eyebrows. 

Zuko has the nonsensical, illogical, stupid compulsion to write poetry. Our word for poetry is the same as our word for breath. Strength in firebending comes from the breath. Fire begets creation. It’s life.

There’s definitely something in that. 

Zuko scoffs and jerks his head away from Sokka’s teasing finger, swatting lightly at his broad shoulder with the back of his hand. Internally, Zuko’s chest physically aches from the effort of holding it all in. He’s almost certain steam is going to start leaking from his ears like a lovesick teapot.

Their conversation wanders back into quiet camaraderie and Zuko agonizes over it for two whole minutes before he decides on—

“I’m happy, too.” The words are completely inadequate, but Zuko figures he’ll just have to deal. When Sokka hums at him, fond and a tad questioning he adds: “That you’re here...with me.” 

Sokka chuckles under his breath. He shakes his head at Zuko—who was already well aware of his own ridiculousness, thanks. Sokka slaps his hand down on the top of his thigh and groans exaggeratedly when he stands. The long line of his body tightens up, hands raised above his shoulders and muscles tensing. He reminds Zuko of a feline, but just barely. When Sokka finishes with his stretch, he sighs and stoops to pick up his empty tea glass. He straightens, then lets his fingertips brush the crown of Zuko’s head gently. The delicate gesture makes Zuko realize he had been staring. Hard. 

“Come on, Your Majesty,” And only Sokka can make the words sound playful instead of mocking. “It’s time to go greet the day.”

The morning passes slowly, leisurely.

The seasonal event staff has done an excellent job of garnishing the palace for the upcoming coronation celebration. They’ve had a lot of practice in recent years, and it shows. Elaborate paper lanterns and glittering garlands festoon above doorways, weaving a beautiful river of deep red, gold, and purple throughout the grand halls. A long embroidered rug with a fringe the color of egg yolk has been rolled out. Someone tied back all the heavy curtains in the palace to welcome good fortune and kind spirits inside, so the indoor corridors are now vibrant in the light of slanted sunbeams. Zuko considers a modern-looking ikebana floral arrangement in the parlor with absent approval. 

The tall wooden doors on the opposite side of the room open and Sokka enters. He shakes his head negative at Zuko, restlessly rocking back and forth on his heels. 

“They’re not here yet.” He announces, then throws his hands up. “Ugh!” Sokka exclaims, “All this hurry-up-and-wait-around is driving me actually crazy!”

Zuko’s head tilts in question at Sokka’s odd turn of phrase. “You’re excited to see your sister, and Aang,” he points out diplomatically, but Sokka is immediately shaking his head again. 

“It’s more than excitement.” He insists. “It’s like…” He makes another short noise of frustration, “it’s hard to describe. The Water Tribe word for it is iktsuarpok. I’m so keyed up with anticipation because I know they’re going to be here soon. I can’t help but go outside every ten minutes to check for them—even though I know it’s not going to make Appa fly any faster.”

For the first time in a long time, Zuko remembers when his one and only singular reason for waking in the morning was the impossible fantasy of capturing Aang and delivering the Avatar to his father. He spent a lot of time waiting, but he isn’t sure that Sokka would agree that he experienced iktsuarpok.

 Zuko has noticed that Sokka is prone to fits of impatience, after now five years of working side by side in the longest game of them all: bureaucracy. Sokka sometimes struggles to see the future harvest of the seeds he plants today. Without immediate results has a tendency to become...insecure. Zuko is no stranger to defeat, nor feelings of pointlessness, or redundancy, or inadequacy…or any number of similar emotions. He’s about to suggest an activity to waste the time—perhaps distract Sokka from his excess of energy—and is briefly unsettled by this because he realizes Uncle Iroh used to goad him into Pai Sho and shipwide music nights for the same purpose, but a light knock on the door interrupts him before he can truly come to terms with this revelation. 

A young page enters, dressed in plain rust-colored robes and slippers. Her collar is clasped with the badge of the Royal Family. She bows deeply upon appearance, and keeps her hands folded delicately in front of her body. 

“Fire Lord Zuko, Ambassador Sokka,” She demures, “As per your request, I have come to inform you that the Avatar’s bison was spotted on the outskirts of Caldera a quarter hour ago, heading towards the palace.” 

Sokka lights up, clapping his hands in delight. 

“Thank you, Hua.” He says, practically vibrating. “Please inform Warrior Suki as well and have her meet us in the main courtyard.”

Sokka turns on his heel, grabs Zuko’s bicep and tugs him along in one motion. His haste causes Zuko to stumble a little bit, and he’s forced into an awkward half-jog in order to catch up. He titters in fond exasperation, shoots Miss Hua a ‘what-can-you-do?’ expression and shrugs at her as they hurry past. She covers her shock at the informality surprisingly well, and tentatively hedges back an indulgent smile. 

Not all of his staff are comfortable breaking character around Zuko yet, but it’s progress.

Sokka hollers loudly as soon as he sets foot outside the walls of the grand hallway. Zuko trails behind him as he thunders down the steps to the palace lawn two at a time. He leaps early, skipping over the bottom four stairs and almost loses his balance—but the faltered landing doesn’t slow him but a second. Zuko looks up at the clear blue sky. 

Appa roars as he comes closer, descending two hundred, -one hundred, -fifty, -twenty feet to the courtyard below. Sokka replies with an obnoxious howl and beats his chest like a shameless beast. Sokka thrives on making a spectacle of himself and Zuko should be used to it by now—but it still never fails to make Zuko flush in secondhand embarrassment. Despite Appa’s formidable weight and size, the sky bison still makes the softest landings, managing to produce the same noise level as a cloth rustling through the wind. Zuko’s face splits into a wide grin when he spots two figures—one dressed in a blue and the other in bright yellow—dismounting from Appa’s saddle. 

Aang’s gotten taller, again. The Air Nomad shot up like a weed after his fifteenth birthday—now as a gangly late teenager his head comes up several inches above Zuko’s. Katara, too—Zuko can see as he (calmly) walks close enough to get a good look at her—has grown since last Zuko saw her. He feels a little childishly irritated that he seems to be the shortest in their group so far. 

“Sifu Hotman!” Aang’s shout is amplified by a burst of thoughtless airbending and booms like distant thunder. Zuko used to get so peeved that Aang still referred to him as that silly old-timey nickname, but he has to admit it’s grown on him—an embarrassing amount. The Avatar is a marigold blur riding on a ball of hot air as he zooms around Zuko in a dizzying circle. He crashes into Zuko’s shoulders for a hug and Zuko is almost toppled over by the force of Aang’s embrace. 

“Katara, Katara, Katara,” Sokka is chanting, waiting for his sister to slowly make her way down Appa’s furry tail. The second her sandaled foot touches pavement he’s crowding into her space, seizing her soft cheeks between his hands and tipping their foreheads together. Their identical noses touch and Sokka rubs his face against Katara’s, breathing deep and snuffling her cheeks like an affectionate polar bear dog. 

Zuko has never seen him greet someone that way. 

Katara shrieks in mock outrage but she’s giggling as she shoves Sokka’s face away.

“Sokka! Cut it out!” Katara laughs and struggles against her brother, who’s trying to wrestle her into a hug, “I’m not five! And you saw me like a month ago at the Pole!”

She lands a sharp elbow into his stomach and Sokka oomph s. He quickly releases her, pouting and making a show of rubbing the spot where she got him. 

“That hurt,” He whines, “I’m telling dad you hit me.” 

Katara rolls her eyes, but still happiness wafts off of her in soft waves. 

“Zuko,” She smiles, turning to him. She steps forward, “it’s been too long.” Katara raises her bare arms, muscular and lean, and folds him into a hug, hooking her chin over his shoulder. 

New Years felt like eons ago. None of Zuko’s friends spend too much of their time in the Fire Nation, nor would Zuko dare ask them to—not after all that 100 years of oppressive imperialism has done to their homelands. Sokka and Katara’s loyalties lie with their people, so naturally they wind up at the Southern Pole nearly half the year. And although Katara loves to travel, to seek adventure—Zuko knows from the letters she writes that she misses her tribe fiercely. Even Suki, who is employed by the Royal Family, takes two months off every dry season and the whole of the (admittedly short) winter to make the pilgrimage back to her island.

Zuko understands. The restlessness, the need to push, the feeling that you’re still not doing enough. There are times when Zuko feels like he’s drowning. He remembers that agonizing week—five years ago—right after he switched alliances, and he thought his inner fire might’ve gone out. When the pressure of being Fire Lord starts to feel like it might actually suffocate him, smother his fire, Zuko typically finds himself—once again—seeking the advice of dragons. Uncle is understanding, and silently allows Zuko to pick up the double weekend shift at the Jasmine Dragon. The labor pushes Zuko to physical exhaustion. He sleeps heavily. And although he gets the feeling that the other nighttime drink server Pranmay recognizes him as Fire Lord, they never say a word. He can usually get away with it for a few days before Suki physically can’t make any more excuses to cover his ass and is sent to come collect him. 

A battle cry rings out from the direction of the palace, and Zuko and Katara turn away just in time to witness a sweat-soaked Suki—still in her training gi—rush full speed towards where Sokka has Aang in a brotherly headlock. She tackles both boys, and the force of the assault sends all three of them back into Appa’s soft hide, giggling as they fall over each other. 

“Ugh, Suki! That’s so disgusting!” Sokka squawks, “you’re all sweaty!” 

Sokka’s complaints are ignored as Suki and Aang link hands and twirl. 

“Suki,” Aang greets with a haughty look and a flourish. He strikes a dramatic pose, like he’s about to break into dance, “you ready to show these fools how it’s done at Zuko’s party?” 

Suki grins, stomps her foot, and raises her hand to mirror Aang.

“They won’t know what hit them.” She retorts.

“That’s big talk for someone who’s never seen me and Sokka ice glide.” Katara puffs out her chest playfully, “You’ll both be eating our snowflakes.”

Suki and Katara share a laugh. They embrace, and Suki kisses Katara’s cheek. Zuko’s chest swells with affection for his friends—his family. Zuko no longer feels resentment that they go away—it’s never for long. And when they return; they bring back with them a piece of his heart. He knows without a doubt that he belongs with them. To them. 

Zuko stands shoulder-to-shoulder with Sokka. 

“What was that thing you just did to Katara? You pressed your face to hers.” Zuko asks his ambassador. Sokka looks confused for a moment. His brow creases briefly before his face clears in recognition. 

“Oh, that.” Sokka replies easily. “It’s called a kunik. It’s a way of saying hello or goodbye to someone you love. I used to do it to Katara all the time when we were little kids—she always got a big kick out of it.”

Zuko hums, intrigued. Sokka raises an eyebrow at him.

“What, you guys don’t have something like that here?”

Zuko thinks about how Sokka inhaled deeply when his face dipped toward Katara, as if he might have breathed her in if she was made of something less solid.

Perhaps it’s because of this particular day, but Ozai’s hard stare is seared in Zuko’s mind. He sees it when he closes his eyes. As if the image is plastered on the inside of his skull. 

“No,” Zuko says quietly, and Sokka’s look turns strange, “nothing so sweet.”

Suki wipes her damp brow and leads their little group back to the Royal Family wing’s inner sanctum, knowing by now that there’s no point in giving them a separate suite. Excited overlapping voices bounce readily off of the stone walls of the grand hallway.

Another tradition that they’ve developed over the years: another remnant of the past. The Western Air Temple, Ember Island, the White Lotus camp outside Ba Sing Se. When falling asleep under a blanket of stars felt just a bit like a group of teenagers on a camping trip, and less like child vigilantes on the run. Whenever their little group gets together in larger numbers like this, they make a point of sleeping in the same space; if they happen to meet at the palace—it’s sprawled out on the expensive woven carpet of the main private chamber.  

“Oh, this is nice,” Katara folds herself down onto the floor of the seating area, melting into a pile of featherdown pillows. “Four months of sleeping in a leather bedroll has been literally criminal on my back. Not all of us were raised by monks. I happen to enjoy ‘worldly luxuries’ these days.”

Aang deposits his travel pack against the wall and floats down to the floor next to Katara, looking completely unbothered.

Suki begs off to go bathe and change clothes while Aang and Katara settle in, travel-weary but both sporting content smiles. Zuko and Sokka take seats on the floor and together complete their little circle. Aang’s bright gray eyes are lit from within as he launches—unprompted—into regaling how he spent their time apart. 

“We met up with environmentalists at Gaoling’s public college before we even reached the Southern Air Temple—they were the ones that helped us draft the original plan for the habitat conservation.” Aang recounts. “The first week we were at the temple we did nothing but conduct wildlife surveys.”

Aang shares anecdotes that Katara periodically engages for, but it’s already clear that the ecological preservation of the Southern Air Temple is going off without a hitch. Zuko doesn’t contribute much but he approves; it seems that the faculty at Gaoling University are excellently thorough. He’s also glad that such an important relic of Air Nomad culture is now being protected and repaired from the harm inflicted by the Fire Nation. Nothing will ever be returned to how it was over a century ago, and that’s a travesty. But still society moves forward and evolves—something new is born. Although monks and gurus may not walk the steps of the Southern Air Temple anymore, nature will move back in and reclaim its former home there. 

“Humans like to think of themselves as more evolved or exempt from the rules of the wild, but the monks used to teach me that we are all members of the community of life and thus have a duty to live in harmony with nonhuman beings.” Aang is really in his element, Zuko notes. He’s grown into his role as a leader, the wisdom of his people guiding him even 100 years after their genocide.

“You sound like the Foggy Swamp Tribe elder.” Sokka says, scrunching up his nose. “At least you wear pants, though.”

“Hu is a wise man.” Aang sniffs.

Katara, whose eyes had been drooping listening to Aang’s story, smiles sleepily.

“I wasn’t too fond of the loincloths, either.” She says around a yawn. 

“I don’t see anything wrong with it!” Aang splutters, completely earnest. Zuko chuckles.

“I’m impressed with your work, Aang.” Sokka says, sobering slightly. He looks down at his hands. “It seems like you’re making great progress.”

Aang picks up on Sokka’s mood shift. 

“What is it, Sokka?” 

Sokka sighs, sounding suddenly reluctant. 

“The Southern Reconstruction Project is getting pushback. Again.” His shoulders curl inwards, slumped in defeat. Zuko turns to Sokka, surprised. This is news to him. 

“It is?” Zuko asks.

“Yeah,” Sokka winces, “there are some in the tribe who still don’t like the idea of receiving any aid from our ‘former oppressors’. Even if it is war reparations.”

Zuko’s brow furrows. Katara sits up, looking more awake. 

“You have to understand,” Sokka placates, “we’re a proud people. We’ve survived on our own—without even help from our sister tribe—for more than six decades. There are entire generations of people who are convinced we will just keep surviving without establishing trade with the Fire Nation. I also had to unlearn that worldview when I first left the Pole…because that’s just it. Our culture has only barely survived intact. There hasn’t been a time while I was alive where the Southern Water Tribe was actually thriving. Dad’s doing his best to assure everyone that this is what’s good for everybody’s welfare, but…”

Sokka looks uncomfortable.

“Sometimes, even I’m not convinced.”

The room is quiet. 

“I’ve thought about it, too.” Katara pipes up. “Eventually, I’m going to have to move back home. I’m the only waterbender alive that has mastered both Northern and Southern bending techniques—I have a responsibility to teach others. To keep that part of ourselves from dying.” 

Suddenly, Sokka looks troubled. He rounds on Zuko, hands fluttering restlessly.

“Of course, I’m thankful for everything you’ve done, Zuko.” He rushes to reassure, “You—personally, I think—are a fantastic Fire Lord. I mean, better than the last one—you ended the war and all, it’s not like—”

“No, no.” Zuko finds his voice, “I understand. Really. Seriously, Sokka. Katara.” 

They both still look unsure. They share a glance.

“I’ll bring it up with my understudies at our next advisory meeting,” Zuko decides, “and reach out to other world leaders. If it makes the Southern Water Tribe uncomfortable to work so closely with the Fire Nation— which I definitely understand,” Zuko bites out before either Sokka or Katara can interject, “—maybe they’ll respond better to a more indirect approach. Subsidized trade, or something.”

“It’s a delicate situation.” Aang offers, and nobody’s arguing that, but pointing out the obvious has Sokka nodding along.

“It’s just,” He says, “it feels risky. The Southern Water Tribe can’t feel like a Fire Nation colony. We don’t want to become dependent on any outside parliaments. The way we provide for ourselves is a part of our culture, and in the end that can’t be compromised.”

Zuko’s nods in agreement. He never intended this type of financial imperialism—lands that were ravaged by the Fire Nation become reliant on the very country that destroyed their ability to be independent in the first place. 

Suddenly, Aang sits up in alarm. He cocks his head, as if listening for something, and then—

Suki bursts through the door of the Royal Family chambers. Immediately, the group is on their feet. Fear shivers down the crown of Zuko’s head, but Suki’s grinning as she pants, damp hair curling slightly around her shoulders.

“Guys,” She puffs, “you’ll never guess who I just ran into in the hall—”

“SUKI! What did I say about spoiling my entrance?!” Booms a voice from behind Suki’s shoulder. The sheer volume of the young voice seems to rumble the very ground beneath their feet. 

“No way,” Aang breathes, and elation makes him appear almost weightless. 

Toph, at least, is still an inch or two shorter than Zuko.

“No bending indoors!” Zuko remembers suddenly—but even as he calls out he can see a familiar dark band fly over his head. 

“Too late!” Toph roars. The meteorite rope behind Zuko loops around everyone in the room, effortlessly lassoing Zuko, Aang, Katara, Suki, and Sokka into one tight circle. They’re crammed together. Sokka and Aang fall into each other, laughing. Suki yelps when Katara steps on her foot, but Katara is already reaching out to steady her. They snort—Zuko feels the meteorite constrict and he’s suddenly jerked forward into an impromptu group hug, Toph in the center. 

Toph is wearing rumpled plainclothes and is (as always) barefoot. She smells like sand, like dirt and like sweat. Her face is sooty, and there’s a smear of mud on one of her rosy cheeks.

Same old Toph. Except—

“Woah, no way!” Sokka laughs, a delightful sound. The meteorite ensnaring them loosens and slithers back into bracelet form, “You got the chop!”

Last time Zuko saw her, Toph’s hair had been long. She had a habit of letting her chin-length bangs fall in front of her eyes, even when the rest of her hair was pulled back in the traditional Gaoling updo. Zuko doesn’t think he’s ever seen it down, actually. Always out of the way. Practical. 

“Tell me it looks good,” Toph grins, “I did it myself.” 

Hair cut short, Zuko can see much more of Toph’s face. He hadn’t noticed her dark eyebrows, her thick eyelashes before. Toph’s hair is still a little long above her ears, but for the first time it’s brushed back away from her forehead. The unorthodox style looks good on her, rugged and boyish. She has... freckles.  

“Toph, I love it.” Suki says seriously.

“Eh, it’s okay...” Katara draws out the words, eyes Toph’s scalp critically, “but you had such beautiful hair, Toph.” 

Toph doesn’t roll her eyes. Her chin stays angled down towards the floor, but she does close her eyes briefly and it has the same effect. 

“At least I didn’t shave it all off.” Toph argues, sounding as though she had that retort prepared. Zuko glances at Aang, who doesn’t even bother looking offended. Toph smiles fake-sweetly. “Yours looks worse.” 

Katara does roll her eyes.

“I’m not falling for that one, Toph. You don't even know what my hair looks like right now.”

“Uh-huh I do! Twinkletoes described it to me.” Toph gestures to exactly where Aang is standing by the door. His face flushes red. “He sent me like two feet of scroll about it last month.”

“Toph,” Zuko interjects. Katara is already poised to return Toph’s volley—as per usual. The two girls get on like a house on fire, but they’re both too stubborn in maintaining their friendly rivalry to let everyone know that. Zuko respects Toph’s low-blow about Aang. He’s calling the match—game point goes to Toph. 

“You write letters. To Toph.” Sokka raises an unimpressed eyebrow at Aang. 

“She told me she gets someone to read them for her!” Aang says defensively. Suki shakes her head like she’s disappointed. Nobody can keep the smiles off their faces. 

“Toph." Zuko tries again. She cocks her head to indicate that she’s listening for his voice. “Where is my Uncle? I thought you two were traveling together.”

“Eh, he’ll be in tomorrow.” Toph shrugs off, “Said he wanted to meet up with his Pai Sho buddy—Piandao? He told me to tell you he’d collect you for tea in the morning.” 

As far as Zuko is aware, the Order of the White Lotus went into retirement shortly after the end of the 100-year war, but perhaps it’s the nature of top-secret organizations to benefit from the general assumption that they’re inactive. He was never privy to exactly what it is that the White Lotus did or did not do to contribute to the end of Phoenix King Ozai’s reign, but only a fool would find it coincidental that the major generals of the Order were all individually instrumental to the fully realized potential of several people currently standing in this room. Sokka still trains with Piandao, on occasion. 

It is very likely that Uncle Iroh is simply missing his old friends on such a momentous anniversary, just as Zuko missed Toph, Katara, and Aang in the last few weeks. 

“Is anyone else actually starving?” Toph says, and Sokka’s stomach decides that right now is the perfect time to announce its presence with a growl. Loudly.

“I can always count on you, Sokka.” Toph grins, “anyone else want to join us for lunch?”

The answer, as always, is a resounding yes. 

They take their meal in the palace, but Zuko doesn’t invite the rest of the group into his private study to eat. Painfully aware that the urge is fueled by lovesickness, he feels territorial over the space. The memories he has of his dinners with Sokka in that room are intimate and special, and he feels almost certain that the moment Aang, Katara, Suki, or Toph stepped into the private study they would be able to smell his desperate pining for Sokka as it has soaked into the grains of the wooden floor, diffused through the soft atmosphere, and woven itself into every fiber of curtain, pillow, or carpet that he or Sokka has touched. His panicked protectiveness over the very idea of exposure means that today they will have lunch outside in the gardens. 

The weather is mild for the Fire Nation, which means that it’s hot and humid and Katara insists on the shade of a large, sprawling yellow oak tree as the perfect place for a picnic in the grass. Employees from the kitchen deliver long trays of chilled vegetables arranged in slices, bowls of mildly spiced currystew and a towering stack of freshly baked naan, a massive grilled salmonbass kept warm by a small candle arranged underneath the metal serving plate, blue butterfly pea rice, and two sweating pitchers of iced sweet tea mixed with coconut milk syrup. Familiar with and accommodating of their guests, a cook announces each dish as it is placed on a reed mat on the ground, including its flavor profile and color for Toph’s benefit. Plates, cutlery, and drinking glasses are brought out last, and Suki is the first to dig into the seafood, claiming the succulent fish head for herself before anyone can protest. The staff members take turns bowing to Zuko before leaving the garden and seeking shelter from the sun indoors. 

Zuko has ditched his Fire Lord robe in the comfortable and casual company of his friends, enjoying the feeling of fresh air on his arms. He leans back on his hands, letting his legs stretch out in front of him and he joins Toph in barefootedness by toeing off his shoes. The cool grass is a welcome relief on the soles of his feet. He curls his toes, and one of them makes a cracking noise which earns an affectionately disgusted look from both Water Tribe siblings.

Katara idly bends the condensation off of the drink pitchers while they eat, freezing little droplets into snowflakes that melt immediately and are refrozen again moments later. Zuko finds himself idly impressed by Katara’s precise use of her bending, but when is Katara not impressive?

“So, Zuko,” She says, noticing him watching her, “what have you been up to since last New Year’s? Other than Fire Lord-ing, of course.” 

“‘Fire Lord-ing’ is a full-time job,” Zuko reminds her automatically, then thinks for a moment. “I don’t exactly…get out, much.” 

“Ha,” Suki laughs good-naturedly, “Speaking as someone who is very often your personal security detail, I wish that were true.” 

Zuko shrugs self-consciously. 

“You always end up finding me before too long. I don’t remember the last time I left the Fire Nation for longer than a weekend-trip to visit Uncle in Ba Sing Se.” He thinks about Aang and Katara and the Southern Air Temple conservation easement, and of Sokka’s stories about the Midwinter Festival last month, his ambassadorial status that takes him across the Earth Kingdom, too. Suki’s annual return home is fast-approaching, he realizes. Does he miss traveling? “I miss traveling,” he says, and the with you all goes unspoken. 

“Why can’t you?” Aang asks. Easy for a nomad to say. 

“Fire Lords don’t exactly get paid vacations,” Zuko says, annoyed. “Who would I leave in charge of this country? My cabinet wouldn’t be thrilled if I disappeared from Caldera for longer than a week.” 

“Fire Lords also don’t have to answer to anyone, either.” Katara points out, “You don’t have to ask permission for anything.” 

“I’m trying to be better than my father, actually.” Zuko can feel his temper flaring. Hot-headed like a true firebender, Zuko keeps a tight leash on his frustrations nonstop, desperate to maintain popularity amongst his subjects and not incite fear in his ministers. But he’s allowed to be petty and rude to these people, because they’re not afraid of his crown. 

“That’s not what she meant, and you know it.” Sokka comes to his sister’s defense. 

Zuko exhales heavily. “I know,” he says apologetically, then “sorry.”

“Why don’t you come visit, then?” Sokka repeats Aang’s question, giving Zuko another chance to answer. 

“Yeah,” Toph chimes in, “you could always just lie to your cabinet and tell them that it’s for diplomatic reasons.” 

“I could,” Zuko allows, “but then they’ll want some kind of result. A new treaty signed; a new ordinance ready to be enforced. The march of progress doesn’t slow for me.” 

“Come to the South Pole with me, next time Katara and I go home.” Sokka says decisively. “We’ll take the long way back to the Fire Nation and stop by Kyoshi Island while Suki is on her home leave.”

“I’d be happy to host you,” Suki nods encouragingly, and with humor, “as long as you promise not to burn anything down this time.” 

The joke doesn’t sting like it would have a few years ago. Sokka sits up a little in excitement, and Zuko can tell it’s because he’s seeing a plan come together behind his eyes. Always thinking steps ahead of everyone else, Zuko muses, no wonder Sokka is such a formidable Pai Sho player. 

“I’ve been invited to compete in an earthbending tournament in Omashu at the end of the year,” Toph says suddenly, and everyone turns to her in surprise. “Can you imagine the look on everyone’s faces if they saw the Fire Lord sitting in the betting section?”

“And the Avatar!” Aang looks excited, too. “That’s amazing, Toph! Why didn’t you say anything sooner?”

Zuko is relieved to let the subject drop. Aang, Suki, and Katara move on from harassing Zuko and begin badgering an unbothered Toph with questions about the tournament, but Sokka leans into Zuko’s personal space. The heavy summer air, which Zuko wasn’t even paying attention to before, suddenly seems a little suffocating. 

“Are you okay?” Sokka asks softly. Sokka’s blue eyes, clear and bright like the sky outside, trace carefully over Zuko’s face. His expression twitches minutely and his gaze gets stuck somewhere over Zuko’s right ear. He looks as though he might say something else but decides against it. The thrill of Sokka’s concern, his closeness. Zuko has never been more okay in his entire life. 

“I’m fine,” he replies on an exhale. “I’ll think about it.” He’s already decided to go with Sokka to the South Pole, from the moment he suggested it. We’ll take the long way back. We. Zuko and Sokka. A pair. 

When Sokka nods and leans away again, satisfied, he is still a little closer to Zuko than he was before, Sokka’s body halfway angled towards him. 

Zuko rides that high for the rest of the day.