Chapter Text
“On the day of Fire Lord Zuko’s coronation, the whole world had seemed to stop and listen, stuck on an inhale, waiting for what was to come. Regardless of how you felt about the disgraced, usurper revolutionary, you were waiting and watching him with bated breath. I remember thinking he looked young, that the world’s Peacebringers were just children. I remember thinking that he was just a boy on the cusp of being a man on the cusp of being a myth.”
–An excerpt from the personal journals of Fire Sage Raoke
There is something treacherous about new beginnings. Maybe it’s the first, wobbling step, the leap of faith that makes your stomach swim up to your throat, the call of the unknown, the sudden aching nostalgia to turn back, and the terror of knowing you can’t. Zuko feels it now, kneeling before the Fire Sages, trembling like the world does, uncertain, but hoping, hoping, hoping with everything inside of him as he is crowned Fire Lord to his nation.
“All hail Fire Lord Zuko!” The Fire Sage’s voice echoes and Zuko holds his breath.
There is cheering in the streets, streamers and shouts and applause. The world has turned upside down. When Zuko looks out, he can see only blurs of color in the crowds, the world brimming on a new era. His chest is tight and he feels old and young all at once, the eyes of history upon him, peering into him. He rises.
Aang is there, beside him, when he feels the weight of it all. And Aang smiles, so Zuko does, too. His eyes sharpen on the crowd and he searches, finds the Kyoshi Warriors and Mai and there’s Toph-- Sokka. Katara. Smiling. And he feels like he can breathe again.
So he takes the leap and he doesn’t look back. He begins again with the Fire Nation, with the whole world, ushering in a new era. Humbled and proud, seeking and found, unsure and unshakeable.
And he looks out on his nation with the hopeful eyes of a child, the hardened eyes of a man, and breathes thanks to whatever stars or spirits have decided to write his story into a triumph and not a tragedy.
The evening gives way into revelry and celebration for his crowning, for the end of the war. There is drinking and food and merriment. Music swells around the room, and dancing couples hold fast to each other. There is laughter and excited, bright conversation all around. Party guests swirl before his eyes in silk and gems, noblemen and women clamoring for his attention, royalty from other nations who give congratulations while they eye him uneasily. Toasts in his honor. Diplomats and politicians, poets and artists, so many faces that come and go.
It’s all a little overwhelming.
He wants to know where they were before? Did they clamor for his father’s attention, too? But it’s a night of celebration, he tries to remember, there is time to be suspicious. There is time to weed out the old from the new. And it is not tonight.
His chest is aching, though, his injury still fresh and tender. It worsens as the night goes on under the weight of his regalia, under the weight of his armored shoulder plates that rest so heavily upon him. He has to try and keep his face serene for his guests, it wouldn’t do for them to know he’s in any sort of pain, that there is already weakness in him.
So when his friends are finally able to occupy his attention, he breathes a sigh of relief as they surround him.
He doesn’t even get angry when Aang greets, “Flameo, Fire Lord Man!”
“Look at you, buddy!” Sokka says with the brightest smile, “The best Fire Lord I’ve ever seen!”
“I would hope so,” Suki quips.
“You do look handsome, Zuko.” Ty Lee pipes up, eyes glittering, “Your aura is the loveliest shade of red right now.”
Zuko’s cheeks turn a little red, too, and he offers a nervous smile, “Uh, thanks guys.” he gets out, before Toph suddenly punches his arm.
“I’m proud of ya, Sparky.” she says, just as pain lances through Zuko’s arm, reverberating through his chest. He winces, doubles over a little.
And then it’s Katara, in front of him, all blue, blue eyes that are looking up at him in concern. “Easy, Toph, he’s still injured,” she scolds, and her hands, cool and small are on his chest then. “Are you okay? How do you feel?”
“I’m okay,” Zuko tries to ease her worry, “Just a little sore.”
“I can heal you again,” she offers quickly, “After the party.”
The polite part of him insists to tell her that he’s fine, he’ll be okay, she doesn’t need to. But the part of him that feels weary and achy wins out, because he nods a little, and says, “That would be nice. Thank you.”
Pleased with this answer, Katara backs away and the group breaks into lively conversation. Anything from horrible impersonations of stuffy nobles to ranking the fancy food to who might be able to sneak glasses of wine. Zuko finally eases up, feels normal for a moment. He laughs with them, even if it makes his ribs burn. He plucks the wine glass that Toph manages to steal from her hands, holds it out of her reach because she’s too young to drink wine.
He hands it off to Katara, who hands it back to a passing server, despite Toph’s protests. He shares a look with Katara, who looks exasperated, but happy. Like nothing’s changed from them hiding away together, taking care of everyone.
Even if everything’s changed.
As the night winds down, he and Sokka do steal wine together. They don’t tell Toph.
“Because we’re the oldest!” Sokka declares, clinking their glasses together.
Sokka drinks too quickly, the wine no doubt burning and he splutters, choking, his face growing red.
Zuko throws his head back and laughs, reaching out to pat Sokka on the back. He’s filled with warmth, the sweet, sticky kind that clings to his insides. It makes him bright eyed, and crooked smiled.
When he finds Mai, sitting at a lone table on the outskirts of the ballroom, he slides into the seat beside her. His friends have given away to dancing, Toph and Aang are making up a new dance move and Sokka has managed to find a way to dance with his crutch still in one arm. Suki is laughing at his flailing so hard that she’s doubled over, clinging to Katara, who is laughing, too.
“Fire Lord Zuko,” Mai greets, her voice a teasing drawl. Her eyes glitter, just before he leans in to brush a kiss to her lips. He feels her smile, rather than sees it.
“Have you been drinking wine?” she asks, pulling away, almost amused.
“Just a little-- with Sokka.” Zuko answers and she hums in response, just as his attention returns to the group on the dance floor.
Aang has pulled Katara into a dance and she is fluid, the silk of her dress swirling beneath candlelight, looking like the arc of a wave. She practically lights up the room, her melodic laugh carrying, even to Zuko. He is mesmerized for a moment, with her joy, with her youth and love and delight, with the way she moves like she’s compelled to-- like there’s something in her that makes her want to get up and dance . To be so moved by her own happiness that it can’t be contained in her, stretches inside of her through her arms and legs, fills her torso, extends through the graceful turn of her wrist, the playful step of her feet.
Maybe it’s the wine, or something boyish and soft in him, but he turns to Mai and asks, “Will you dance with me?”
Mai scoffs a little, “You know I don’t dance.” she remarks dryly.
“Just once? Just for tonight?” Zuko asks, and he’s not pleading, but maybe he could be.
“No, Zuko,” Mai says, thinking it’s nothing, and as if to placate him, she takes his jaw in hand and presses a kiss to his cheek, “Why don’t you ask Ty Lee?” she teases and he huffs.
But he’s still watching Katara and maybe she can feel it, because she glances at him, looking over her shoulder for a moment, her eyes sparkling, crinkled into happiness. And then she spins and spins and spins and enamors the rest of the ballroom, too.
The night winds down and Zuko begins to bid his guests goodbye and goodnight. His friends linger, he can hear their laughter and shouting. When he can, he glances at them, commits them to memory, here and now, like this. Happy and young and bursting at the seams, vibrant and endless. They’re heroes, the figures of legends and myths, but they’re also just kids. They’re just kids who have lived to see another day and can laugh because of it.
He tries to hold onto the happiness that has sunken into his bones, cling desperately to the moment, even as it slips from him as he does so.
There is a tentative knock on his chamber doors not long after he has retired to him. He had sent his servants off, told them he would do without them until morning, though regrets it slightly now that he can’t reach his top-knot and crown without wincing, can’t quite shrug off his shoulder plates or robes. Still, he manages to return to his feet and go to the door to pull it open.
Katara stands there, her cheeks flushed and rosy, her smile a little shy.
“I promised I’d stop by to heal you,” she says when all he does is blink at her for a moment.
He’d nearly forgotten, and he breathes, “Oh,” and then, “Right. I remember.” Before he steps aside and allows her to enter his room. The door clicks shut behind her and then they’re left in the dim light of his bed chambers and-- he’s been alone with Katara before, he’d taken a whole trip alone with her before, when they went to find Yon Rha.
But for whatever reason, it feels different, strange and a little intimate in here. Maybe it’s because it’s his bedroom, maybe it’s the low, soft lighting that casts her in gold and shadow.
“I’ll just--” he starts to break the stretching silence and he moves to take a seat at the chair near his desk. A neutral place, not like the edge of his bed. Not that it should matter, he reasons internally, it’s just Katara but-- but just to be sure.
He tries to reach up and take out his crown again, but pain lances through him and he hisses through his teeth. Sharp, quiet, and quick.
Katara is there in a heartbeat, though, and her hands gently brush his away, “Zuko, are you in that much pain?” she asks, her voice soft, but almost a little scolding. She sets to gently pulling his crown from the top-knot in his hair, setting it on his desk, and then delicately, she begins unwinding his hair.
“I’m just a little sore,” Zuko tries to ease her worries. She’s always worrying about everyone, “It’s been a long day.”
His hair falls onto his forehead, the nape of his neck, over his ears. She quickly runs her fingers through it and he becomes keenly aware of it. Maybe she does, too, because she stops suddenly and maybe he catches the slightest shade of pink rising to her cheeks.
“It has been a long day,” she agrees and she moves to begin easing his shoulder plates from him. “These are so heavy!” she admonishes as she lifts them from him, just as he ducks out of them and she pulls them the rest of the way off. She sets them on the ground, even if his advisors would keel over to see royal armor touch the ground. But Zuko doesn’t care. And Katara continues, “You shouldn’t have been walking around with those on all day! No wonder you’re sore.”
“Tell that to my advisors,” Zuko replies, exhaling roughly as he finally lets his shoulders drop. The muscles in his back, in his shoulders and chest are aching and tense. She comes around to face him then, moves to step between his legs and--
And he knows it’s just so she can begin to help him pull his robes off, but something about it makes his heart tumble a little. He is careful, turning slightly, pulling his arms free to help her. He is keenly aware of her small hands, the way they steadily unravel him.
“I will, if I have to. You should stay out of those for long periods of time while you’re healing.” Katara responds and though her tone is firm, almost commanding, her voice is quiet because she’s so near to him. Almost hushed. He also knows she’s serious, he thinks she really would scold his own advisors over it. “Doctor’s orders.” she then adds, beginning to fold the layers of robes she’s peeled off of him.
“You’re a doctor now?” Zuko asks, lips quirking up slightly, almost fondly.
“Healer’s orders, then.” she quips back to him, and when she turns back to him, she carefully begins to remove the bandage wrapped around his chest and ribs. Her fingertips are cold, they brush his skin and when she leans closer, he can smell water lily and dew, the distant ocean breeze caught on her.
And then his chest is bare before her.
The wound is pink and raw, all burned but healing flesh, sensitive and newborn-looking. He isn’t unfamiliar with it, with the sensation of tight skin trying to knit itself back into health after being so sharply burned.
She pulls the cool water from a pitcher in his room, coats her hands in it until it glows blue and bright in the shadows and then sets them upon his chest.
He hisses quietly and her eyes flicker up to his face in concern, “Are you okay?” she breathes, so quiet he fears she didn’t even say it at all.
But he nods, small and quick, “Your hands are always cold.” And then he sighs a little, sinks deeper into the chair as the soothing cool of her hands begins to melt away the ache and tenderness of his wound. It’s an instant relief, after the initial plunge.
“Well you’re always so warm. Sometimes I think you have a fever.” she retorts quietly, tracing the outline of his injury, slowly drawing the water over it.
They lapse into comfortable silence.
Zuko watches her face as she works, the glowing blue of her hands makes her eyes appear pale and gem-like, opalescent and pearly. Her brow furrows the slightest as she works over a particularly sensitive spot on him, like she’s working through his skin, down into the inner parts of him. It’s like he can feel her there, on the other side of his chest, swimming around his heart. It’s a little frightening, if he thinks too hard on it, but he’s too tired.
And her touch is too gentle. And she is too careful with him.
She handles him with such fragility that he feels breakable suddenly, keenly delicate under her hands. He doesn’t know if anyone has ever handled him with such care. Maybe not since his mother. He doesn’t want to think of her, though, not today. Not now. He isn’t sure if he would be able to bear the weight of her memory, too.
But he still feels compelled to murmur, “Thank you, Katara, for this.” with all that he has inside of him.
She shakes her head fractionally, “You don’t need to thank me,” she replies, “It’s the least I can do.”
“You never do the least,” Zuko points out before he can stop himself. “You offered to come tonight, after the party, and you didn’t have to. You could’ve waited until morning.”
Katara pauses for a moment, her eyes finding his in the glow of the azure light. Her hands are still on his chest, over his heart. Something unnamable crosses her face, something like disbelief or awe, and whatever she has seen in him, makes him turn nervous under her gaze. He already feels so raw, so exposed, so aching. He isn’t sure what she’s going to say but--
“You saved my life, Zuko.” she whispers with a quiet fierceness, the kind that is meant for best kept secrets and a spilling of emotions. It’s meant for lovers and promises, like the rush of the waves, or the feeling of fire when it eats up all the oxygen in a room. It almost feels like it shouldn’t be for them.
But it is. It is.
And there’s almost a question in it, too-- you saved my life, but why? You risked everything; kingdom and crown and glory and life for me. But why?
Zuko swallows. He doesn’t know if she expects the answer to the unspoken question, he doesn’t know if he’s supposed to shrug it off, tell her he would’ve done it for anyone like some false hero. But Katara is not just anyone to him and he’s not a hero.
“You saved my life,” she repeats, softer, “So it’s the least I can do.”
“ You also saved my life.” Zuko counters, peering into her eyes that are like pale, blue moons. “So we’re even.”
Katara huffs out a small laugh, like she can’t believe he’d fight her on this, just as she finishes up healing him. The blue light dims. Shadows flicker across their features, soften them. Had it been this dark before?
“Alright, we’re even,” she concedes with a small smile, “But I’m still going to continue to heal you.”
Zuko supposes he can’t argue with that and he tells her so. They’re still so near and her hand is still on his chest. As if she realizes, she pulls away, stands a little straighter, looks to busy herself by reaching for the cloth wrappings to bandage him back up.
She works with the same delicate steadiness and he leans forward for her, so she can wrap it behind him, her arms going around him, then receding. He is careful, his face is near her shoulder, his eyes trace the line of her neck. When she is finished, she looks down at him, surveys to make sure he is all okay again, he is all put back together.
And then she says, “I am proud of you, Zuko.”
His heart does something strange in his chest.
“I wouldn’t have been able to do it without you,” he breathes, and then as if to soften it, as if to backpedal a little from it’s intimacy, he adds, “Without all of you.”
Her eyes glitter again and he thinks she might cry. She’s looking at him like he’s a little too good and he doesn’t quite think he deserves it but-- but she still tips forward, wraps her arms carefully around him in a hug. The angle is a little awkward, it’s all a little uncertain and fumbling but he returns it, and she tucks her face into the juncture between his shoulder and neck. His pulse leaps. The scent of lilies and the ocean envelope him as he buries his face into her curls. She squeezes and if it's a little too tight, if a little bit of pain wrings through him, he doesn’t say a word.
She pulls away, stands, quickly steps out of his space, as if it all becomes a little too much.
“I’ll let you rest,” she whispers because this moment is just for them, “Goodnight, Zuko.”
“Goodnight, Katara.” he rasps softly and watches her leave the same way the sun watches the moon slip beneath the horizon.
As much as Zuko wishes he could keep the sliver of time with all of his friends in the Fire Nation in the palms of his hands, it all has to come to an end. They may have toppled his father’s regime but there is far more of the world to fix; they are inheriting a broken place, wounded and war-ravaged, one wrong move from dissolving into new chaos. They have a lot of work to do. Zuko has a lot of work to do. In the face of it all, usurping his father and defeating Azula seems like a leisurely stroll in the park.
It is daunting and with everyone leaving to different corners of the world, Zuko feels rather alone. Suki and Ty Lee are returning to Kyoshi Island, Sokka, Katara, Aang, and Toph are returning to the Southern Water Tribe before Aang and Toph go on to the Earth Kingdom to begin smoothing over damage done there. There has already been talk of bringing Fire Nation soldiers home, pulling them out of the colonies in the Earth Kingdom, and reparations from the Fire Nation to the Earth Kingdom and Southern Water Tribe respectfully.
There is a lot to do and selfishly, Zuko wants them all by his side to do this. He wants to go back into hiding, he thinks, when they were on Ember Island and he never felt alone. He knows this is all for the better, he knows they have to be strong now, to push the uncertain new world in the right direction. He is just terrified, watching them all load up Appa to leave him.
He hates goodbyes.
Ty Lee’s hug is bone crushing and Mai receives an even tighter one, with some added watery eyes. Mai doesn’t let on too much, but he can tell with the way she squeezes Ty Lee back that she’s going to miss her. The way her eyes close for a moment, like maybe she won’t let go of her.
Suki pulls him into a hug, Toph slugs his arm before she suddenly throws herself around his middle. He is shocked, the breath knocked out of him for a moment, but he still wraps his arms around her. Squeezes. He’s going to miss her. She pulls away and pretends it didn’t happen and it makes him smile a little fondly, a little sadly.
Sokka’s hug is tight and he admits, “You know, I really am gonna miss you, buddy.” and he sniffs a little, pulling away to look at Zuko, “Take care of yourself, okay?”
Already, he misses Sokka, and he’s still standing in front of him. Zuko swallows around the lump forming in his throat. He nods a little and when he feels like his voice won’t splinter, he says, “Yeah, you too, Sokka.”
Aang hugs him tight, too. “I’ll be in touch,” he promises quickly, “I’m sure I’ll see you soon.” he continues, more like he’s trying to convince himself that this goodbye isn’t so bad. And it’s not-- it shouldn’t be. It’s not forever. But Zuko just feels so unsure still, desperately wants to cling to all of them. “It won’t be long.” he promises quietly.
And then it’s Katara who wraps her arms around his neck, buries her face into his chest. He would never admit it aloud, but he is going to miss her the most. He almost feels tethered to her, like after what they went through, she has some precious part of him. And when she pulls away slightly, her eyes round and filling with tears, he wonders if he has a part of her, too.
“Sokka and I will be in touch,” she tells him, and he knows she means about fixing the relationship between their nations. “But-- you should write to me, too. Not about politics.” Katara tells him, “Write to me?” she implores, her voice rough with unspoken emotions.
“I will,” Zuko rasps quietly and he lets her slip from his arms like water between his fingers.
Mai stands beside him as they watch Appa lift into the faded blue sky. She reaches out and takes Zuko’s hand. He grips her a little too tightly, but for once, she doesn’t say anything.
They don’t say anything at all and Zuko tries to swallow everything down, even if his eyes are burning as he watches Appa become a speck in the sky.
When he finally breaks to Iroh that night, catching a sob behind his hands like he could force it back down inside of him-- sick with worry about his nation, with self doubt, with being alone, with already missing them, Iroh tells him very gently;
“It is easier to leave than it is to be left behind, my nephew.” he touches Zuko’s shaking shoulders, “It always has been.”
Zuko tucks his face into his elbow and tries not to cry harder.
Days turn into weeks and weeks blur into months and Zuko is always busy. He gets little sleep, pouring over scroll after scroll of proposals or old laws or history or letters from other nations. Not to mention, there are so few people he can trust, even in the palace. His council is all half out to get him, ready to devour the young and revolutionary Fire Lord whole. The first few weeks had been the toughest, as he’d learned all about politics and trade and negotiations. It had helped that he’d traveled the world, but applying everything at once was like piecing through a jigsaw puzzle you didn’t quite have all the pieces for.
He was thankful to have his uncle to help him and Mai to confide in. Even if it led to bickering more and more often now. He could still trust her.
And it was one of the most important things to him now after the handful of assasination attempts upon his life. There is a group of terrorists who still believe in his father’s regime and they wish to see Zuko dead. Though his guards have been reinforced several times, there are still too many instances for everyone’s comfort. One of which even circles back to a member of his council who does not agree with the radical ideas of giving reparations to previously conquered nations.
When he cannot sleep, tossing and turning in the middle of the night, he returns to Katara’s letters. The personal ones, not the political ones. They detail Sokka’s antics and how she believes she’ll soon be joining Aang to help him with the Earth Kingdom. How the spring brings baby otter-penguins and the sky at night has so many stars that it takes her breath away. And those letters always end with;
I miss you. Write back soon.
He writes to her in these twilight hours, too, when sleep evades him. And on one particular occasion, he mentions all the turmoil, his lack of trust in those around him. How he misses her, too.
In a matter of days, he receives a letter from Suki, much to his surprise. She explains that she is already on her way to the Fire Nation with the Kyoshi warriors, since a little sparrowkeet told her that he could use some better security. And maybe some friendly faces.
When he sees her and Ty Lee again, he lets go of a breath he feels like he’s been holding since everyone left all those months ago.
He thinks even Mai is pleased to have Ty Lee back, with the way her eyes light up.
The next letter he sends to Katara begins like this;
Dear Katara,
Even from across the ocean, you’re still managing to look out for me.
And it ends as it always does, I miss you. I hope you’re well. But this time, there’s an addition, I can’t thank you enough. And a small, scribbled out phrase which she will never see, and it reads;
When will I see you again?
Mai worries over him, but her worry usually comes out in the form of breezy, near waspish comments and scoldings. Which makes his temper flare and he usually says something he regrets and then she says something worse. Because Mai likes to have the last word in, the last dig, as if to maybe feel as if she’s won that argument. Zuko doesn’t know how to say he’s not competing with her and it all just feels like he’s losing anyways. Unraveling.
She is dismissive and he is hyper-sensitive. She’s both the rose and the thorn and he reaches towards her bare-handed and too quickly every time, gets himself all cut up because of it. She once told him that talking to him is like playing with fire, she shouldn’t have to get burned just to speak with him.
They have good moments, too, and he clings to them every time she storms away from him. He clings to the children they were, the familiarity of her, the steadiness of her. She is the only constant of his past, besides his uncle. She is here when so much else has changed and he is infinitely grateful for her. He can’t think of his life without her, not after everything they’ve been through, not after growing up together. In ways, she is all he knows.
And maybe, he is all she knows, too.
“Can’t you ever put Fire Lord Zuko to rest? Can’t you just be Zuko?” Mai asks him one night when he hasn’t picked his eyes up to look at her over the dinner table, he is glued to the scroll in his hands. It’s a report about the many soldiers returning from war who are now left impoverished and struggling. What many people fail to recognize is that war, even from the supposed winner, still wreaks havoc on it’s own country, specifically it’s lower and working classes. His father has not only left him with a desperate need to repair relations with other nations, but also an increasing class disparity in his own--
“ Zuko,” Mai snaps sharply and he finally peels his eyes away from the scroll.
“I’m sorry,” he says, “This is important.”
“That’s what you always say,” Mai counters and her voice is so clipped and icy that he nearly shivers, “Can’t you ever take a break?”
“Well, it’s all important.” Zuko retorts and maybe there’s an edge to his voice. Maybe his temper is just lurking beneath his skin, itching to burst outward. He hasn’t slept well. He barely eats half the time, too. He is stressed. “So, no, I can’t ever take a break.”
“You can’t live like this.” Mai responds, “You’re going to burn out.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Zuko grinds out, and feels the temperature in the room spike sharply.
“That’s not what I meant and you know it.” Mai seethes, her eyes flashing dangerously.
“Then what do you mean?” Zuko asks, and maybe he shouldn’t but he continues, “Is this about not getting as much attention from me?” And maybe his tone is a little too harsh, “Sorry, Mai, but I think the state of our nation comes before our relationship.”
The second it leaves his mouth, though, he regrets it.
There’s a flash of pain in Mai’s eyes before she quickly schools her features. That’s somehow worse for Zuko— he wishes she would tell him off. He wishes she’d shout at him, get angry, anything but this coldness and the pain he causes her.
Mai stands sharply, “Enjoy your dinner alone, Fire Lord Zuko.” Mai hisses, before she turns and strides out with her back straight and tall and her chin tipped up. The silence that stretches in her wake is long suffering, makes guilt claw up, drag it’s talons along the insides of him. He shouldn’t have snapped at her, he shouldn’t have said that.
He thinks about swallowing his pride and chasing after her, apologizing. He thinks about taking her into his arms, kissing the corner of her lips, trying to assure her that he didn’t mean it.
But it isn’t fully true, is it? The state of the Fire Nation is, in some way, more important than his personal life, is it not? It’s bigger than him, he can feel it, those eyes of history and time upon him. It’s bigger than all of them.
He can feel a migraine forming. He doesn’t rush after her. He sits in the silence. The crown in his hair feels suddenly heavy.
He’s glad Mai has Ty Lee, for when he’s hurt her like this.
He lets out a rough exhale, just as Suki melts from the shadows of her position as his personal guard. She rarely breaks protocol but now she moves to sit beside him. She doesn’t say much, just puts her hand on his slumped shoulder and he drops his head into the fold of his elbows on the table.
And they sit like that for a long time, until Zuko speaks up quietly, “We don’t always argue,” he feels the need to tell her, knowing that Suki sees them bicker often.
“I know,” Suki says, maybe to placate him. “She’s just worried about you.”
“I wish she would say that, then.” Zuko mumbles into the crook of his elbow, feeling miserable. He still shouldn’t have been so mean, though, so cruel. Shame and guilt work at him, make him duck his head to hide his face in his arms. He feels stupidly young again, trying to hide from Suki, drowning in another regret.
“I know,” Suki says again, gentler this time.
And then she tells him that they should really talk, sort out why there are so many arguments between them. There has to be a bigger reason, something trapped between them. Everything is so different now, and with it brings the pains of nostalgia. He’s so different, Mai is, too.
“And that’s okay,” Suki tells him, ducking her head so that he has to catch her eyes, “Change always brings growing pains. I think you’d know better than most that it isn’t easy nor very pretty.”
He does know this. And he is still changing, he realizes, the way the world is changing, too.
He talks softly with Suki until he doesn’t feel so tender and frustrated, until he can pick at his food and eat. He is grateful for her company, for her friendship. He finally is able to drag himself back to his bed chambers, vowing to find Mai and apologize to her tomorrow, to try and instigate a more open conversation. But he ends up sitting at his desk for a few more hours, pouring over scrolls for the next day.
He climbs into bed eventually, weary, his neck and shoulders sore, and with tired eyes. He lets loose a slow, unraveling breath as he sinks into bed. Exhaustion pulls him into a deep sleep.
When he dreams, he dreams of the fairytales his mother used to tell him, in colors of pale blue and ruby red, of golds and quicksilvers. Great dragons and koi fish, of princes from far off lands and girls with gems for eyes. He dreams of the holding of hands and the saying of prayers. He dreams of the beginning of myths and legends, the swirling words of prophecies, and the crowing of fate.
He dreams of the plunging, opening line to the epics that begin with a boy who has to be a man who has to be a hero.
And when he wakes, he knows the story has just begun.