Chapter Text
Something changes after Sokka sends in his college applications. There’s a shift inside Sokka, a weight that hasn’t increased or decreased, but changed shape. Here’s the simplest way Sokka can think to put it: he has hope now, which is just as heavy as despair.
It’s distracting.
The morning of January 2nd, Zuko asks, “So, do you think this will all be enough to get in somewhere good?”
“I don’t know," Sokka answers, wishing they could stop talking about it. He wants to forget about this entire topic until moment of celebration — or perhaps, never.
“I hope you’ll go somewhere good. Otherwise, what’s the point? Listen, I don’t want to seem like an elitist. I mean, I am an elitist, but I don’t want to seem like one.”
“You definitely seem like one,” Jet drawls,“literally, all of the time.”
“Oops,” Zuko says, popping the P.
Jet lowers his chin, eyes widening as he zeroes in on Zuko. Sokka knows that Jet feels put out about being the awkward third wheel, but no one is forcing him to sit on the floor in the corner the way he is. There’s a chair, or he could even sit on the bed like he typically does with Sokka. It isn’t as if Zuko’s made the sheets radioactive.
“Besides, I think you’re projecting,” Jet goes on. “Since you’re no longer going anywhere.”
Sokka glares at him, mouthing shut the fuck up, but Jet just shrugs.
Zuko’s gaze falls somewhere in front of him, empty like a corpse.
“Zuko.” Sokka reaches out, but Zuko flinches away.
“It’s okay,” he whispers. He opens his mouth and lets out a tiny sound, but then he just lies back down on the bed.
A protective rage floods Sokka’s body, and he snatches Jet out of the room. He slams the bedroom door shut, and hisses at Sokka, “What the hell is wrong with you?”
But Jet isn’t easily shaken and never has been. He glares back at Sokka. “He shouldn’t be putting pressure on you.”
Sokka doesn’t know how to make everyone else understand that Zuko is the priority now. His college applications are in; his future belongs to the admissions officers. Everyone’s focus needs to shift, immediately.
“That doesn’t mean you have to be cruel,” Sokka says. “He’s hurt. Cut him some slack.”
“Why should I? He’s your boyfriend, not mine.”
Sokka’s fist itches. “He’s going through a really hard time right now! Don’t make it worse.”
Jet rolls his eyes. “He seems fine to me.”
“Then you’re an idiot. Look, I…” Sokka hesitates to name his fear, but it’s been pooling in his mind since he first saw Zuko through the window with an injured back and haunted gaze. “I don’t want him to kill himself.”
Jet stills. “You think he’s going to?”
Sokka counts up everything that’s happened in the past month, and the sum looks pretty damning.
“I don’t know,” Sokka says. “There’s a lot going on that you don’t know about. His dad… Why do you think he’s staying here instead of at home?”
“I thought you just wanted to take care of him,” Jet says, his eyes wide and stupid.
“It’s more than that.”
Jet’s head bobs up and down like a buoy over a slow, enormous wave. “I didn’t realize. Sorry.”
Sokka grabs the doorknob.
“Seriously, Sokka, I’m sorry. I was just trying to protect you.”
“I know,” Sokka whispers. “But he’s more important right now, okay?”
When he goes back inside, Zuko opens his eyes, but he won’t speak.
From then on, Zuko barely speaks. He spends his days alternating between staring at the wall and crying, pressing his forehead into Sokka’s thigh but saying nothing. Sokka tries everything he can think of: offers to talk, distractions, alcohol — but Zuko responds to none of it. He won’t say more than a few words each day — requests for water, one-word answers.
It’s tempting to blame Jet, but realistically knows Sokka knows that it’s not Jet’s fault. Zuko is falling so far, and Jet isn’t the one that keeps snatching the floor away. It probably would have happened anyway.
Surely for Sokka’s benefit more than Zuko’s, Jet sticks around and helps out. Sokka’s grateful, because he has no fucking idea what to do.
Zuko hasn’t said anything about he suicide, but it just seems like the logical conclusion to everything that’s happened. Plus, there seems to be something about knowing and loving Sokka that pushes people in that direction. He doesn’t know if it’s something he does — doubtful, considering how young he was the first time — or something he is. If it’s the latter, it would be impossible to escape.
After three days of Zuko’s catatonic state, Sokka starts to break down. Crying, he shakes Zuko’s shoulder. “This isn’t normal,” he says. “Please, just tell me how to help you.”
Nothing.
“Zuko, please.”
Zuko rolls over, which is more than he’s given Sokka in the past few hours.
Sokka glances at Jet, who stares back with wide eyes. They’re ill-equipped to handle this, and Zuko needs to be someplace better, but where else is there? His home, where he’ll only be driven farther inside himself? At least Sokka can give him a safe place to land when his free-fall finally ends. At least he won’t scare him further.
“Do we need to call 911?” Jet blurts.
Sokka mutters, “Jet, you’re freaking him out.”
Jet keeps his eyes aimed at Zuko like a sniper.
“Zuko, the way you’re acting right now is seriously fucked up. We need an answer, or we’re just going to go ahead and call. Right, Sokka?”
“Um—“ Sokka starts. He’s not sure the police are the best people to call in a mental health crisis — maybe, literally, anyone else?
“No,” Zuko answers his voice flat and emotionless.
Okay, so the police were an effective threat. Jet was right, it occasionally happens. Sokka needs to keep this momentum.
“Are you having suicidal thoughts?” Sokka asks, because he has to know.
“No,” Zuko says. “Just let me sleep.”
“But you’re not sleeping. You’re staring the wall.”
“I’m resting. I’m not going to kill myself. Please stop talking.”
Jet shrugs and gives Sokka a thumbs up.
Sokka should be relieved. He should believe Zuko, but Zuko is a liar, and Sokka has failed once before.
“Zuko, you’re going to be okay. I know everything is terrible right now, but it will be okay. Your back will get better, and maybe you can recover in time for the Prix. You don’t have to —“
Zuko’s eyes snap open. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
“No…? Did I say something wrong?”
“I’m not going to the Prix. Is that a joke?” Zuko pushes himself up, and to Sokka’s surprise, he can sit up on his own. “I can’t go to the Prix. Even if I recover, I’ve lost all this rehearsal time, I’ll never win. I won’t be prepared, it’ll be fucking pathetic. It’ll be embarrassing for everyone.”
“Maybe it won’t be that way. You’ve had a major setback, but I don’t think you should give up hope.”
“Don’t talk to me about ballet again,” Zuko says, lying back down. He turns away, and it isn’t long before his shoulders start shaking in silent sobs.
Again, Sokka has hopelessly failed. Even if Zuko hadn’t been suicidal before, Sokka’s clumsy attempt at comfort might have changed that. He wants to believe that Zuko was telling the truth; he wants to believe that Zuko isn’t so fragile as to let some tactlessness push him towards death. He should burn his fears to ash and let Zuko blow them away, but he can’t even start a fire.
The next day, he calls Toph.
“You need to come. I need help,” Sokka says, pacing around his room. He can’t stop moving; he can’t even slow down. He’s never felt so driven to do something.
“What’s going on?”
Sokka glances at his bed where Sokka lay sleeping, a statue in the shadow of closed curtains. “He’s not doing well. I’m worried about his mental health.”
Toph snorts. “Yeah, well, that’s Zuko.”
“When can you get here?”
A crackled, staticky breath. “I’m not sure I can.”
“Are you serious?” Sokka asks. Toph, steady, loyal Toph, is bailing? “I can’t do this alone.”
“What about Katara? What about Jet?”
“They’re not his friends, you are.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I have a lot going on right now.”
And it sounds just like Zuko. These stupid people with their stupid goals that supersede everything human. A war could start, aliens could come to Earth, their best friend could die — and they’ll still be at rehearsal. They’d work through the end of the world.
“What could be more important?”
“Sokka.”
“What? Rehearsal? Class? Ballet is really more important than this?”
“No. Sokka, it’s not ballet. I’m having some health problems.”
Sokka freezes mid-step. “Oh. Is it something serious?”
“Has Zuko mentioned anything about this to you?”
“No. He was respecting your privacy, I guess.”
Toph snorts. “He just never thinks about anyone but himself.”
Sokka looks back at Zuko, counting his slow, steady breaths. He can’t go anywhere with Sokka watching him like this.
“What’s wrong with him?” Toph asks.
“I’m worried he’s suicidal. He says he’s not, but…” The fear has crystalized, and no matter how hard Sokka chips at it, it won’t shatter.
He can practically see her nod. “I’ll be there as soon as I can. Keep a close eye on him until then.”
Toph arrives two later, looking pale and wan. But whatever’s ailing her, it doesn’t slow her down. She marches to Zuko’s place on Sokka’s bed.
She sits next to him and places her hand on his shoulder. “Hey, asshole,” she says, a smile in her voice. “It’s me.”
And, infuriatingly, Zuko speaks. “Hey, Toph.”
She scratches his head, then stares at Sokka and points to the door.
Sokka is willing to be mature about this. With a decade of friendship solidified between them, of course they can come to an understanding that can only be formed by existing in the same special, painful, way. Sokka is just the boyfriend of the moment. He tries his best, but he’s so unused to trying his best.
There’s no space for pettiness or jealousy here — he needs to be strong, selfless. This isn’t about him, and he needs to be unbothered by the fact that nothing ever is.
He sits with his back to the wall, and watches the light dance through the hallway as the sun hides, emerges, and eventually disappears. The room grows dark around him, and he hears a voice go on and on— words indistinguishable, but the cadence and tone indisputably Zuko’s. What Sokka would give to have Zuko talk to him that way, but it’s fine that it’s Toph instead. At least it’s someone.
This isn’t about him.
The door rams into Toph’s back, and he scrambles away from it. Still on his the ground, he gazes up at Toph.
“Ha, I had a feeling you were right there.” She looks around. “It’s a little dark, right?”
“It’s dark.”
She snickers. “I know that you think that you and Zuko are so different, but you both have a dramatic streak.”
“Hey, I—“
Toph throws her hands up. “I never said it was a bad thing.”
She slides against the wall and settles down next to him, until they’re shoulder to shoulder, arms pressed together.
“So, what do you think?” Sokka asks.
“He’s going through a hard time.”
“Are you serious? I could have told you that.”
“What do you want me to say? I don’t know how to handle this any better than you do.” She sighs. “He’s in pain, and he can’t make sense of his life. He’s not suicidal.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. He told me he isn’t, and if he was, he’d definitely milk it a little bit.”
“Then why won’t he talk to me?”
Toph closes her eyes for a moment, then drops her head against her knees. “Fuck.”
“Toph?”
“I don’t have it in me to take care of him right now, but I’m the only one he trusts.” She swings her head back up and lets it bounce against he wall. She doesn’t flinch at the pain. “Where are all the decent adults?”
Sokka barks out a laugh. “They want decent kids.”
Toph sniffs. “You can hate yourself all you want, but don’t pretend that everyone else had this coming. Zuko didn’t deserve better than his dad? Katara doesn’t deserve better than yours? Come on.”
“Sorry.”
“It’s fine, I guess.” She takes a long inhale. “And you deserve a decent adult, too.”
I had one, Sokka nearly says.
Suddenly, a laugh leaks out of Toph, acidic and uncontrolled. “Want to know something else fucked up?”
“Honestly, no.”
“Too bad. I’m going blind.”
Sokka chuckles. “No, you’re not.”
“I actually am.”
“What, are you trying to steal Zuko’s thunder or something? And you say we’re dramatic.”
“Sokka, I’m serious.”
Sokka keeps laughing and waits for Toph to admit to her strange prank. It’s an odd thing to joke about, but Sokka isn’t one to claim moral high ground on comedy.
As time goes on, his own laugh starts to sound empty and shrill, and his smile slides from his face.
“Toph, you’re… What? When? Soon?”
Toph shrugs. “I’m not sure, exactly. Some time in my twenties. Maybe earlier.”
Sokka stares at her. One day, she won’t stare back. “I’m so sorry, Toph.”
Toph shakes her head. “It’s okay. I’ve known for a long time. So has Zuko. I can already only see shapes and colors, basically. There was just a treatment that we thought would work, and it… didn’t.”
“Why didn’t either of you say anything to me?”
“It always felt far away. For a really long time, it was far away. Then one day, it wasn’t. It’s actually going to happen.”
“Soon?”
“Could be.”
Sokka doesn’t want to make things worse, but this can’t be a question she hasn’t pondered on her own. “What about ballet?”
“I want to keep dancing, but I don’t know what will happen. You don’t really hear about any blind ballerinas.”
“You could be the first.”
Toph smirks. “Maybe, if there are any companies willing to accommodate me. But with the way the industry works, I don’t have high hopes.”
“I hope you can make something work,” Sokka says. “Seriously. I know ballet is basically your whole life.”
“It isn’t, actually,” Toph says.
A smile creeps at Sokka’s lips — this, at least, he can recognize as a joke.
“I know you’re used to him.” Toph tilts her head towards the bedroom. “But I have actual hobbies and interests. I’ve always known that I wanted to go to college one day. I love ballet, but… There’s more to life. We’re not all robots.”
“Don’t call him that,” Sokka mutters.
“You know what I mean. Zuko’s more obsessed with ballet than I am, but I love it more. It’s too wrapped up in obligation for him. I just think it’s fun, and I happen to be good at it.”
“You work your ass off for it, though.”
Toph shrugs. “I care about doing well, but I won’t make it a chore. I’ve always known that I might have to give it up one day, so I have to enjoy it now. I won’t always have the chance. I guess that’s why things are so hard for Zuko now — he never understood that.”
“And now it might be over.”
She shrugs. “He’s stubborn. If he wants something, he’ll always come back for it, no matter how much it hurts him.”
Sokka blinks. “Why are we talking about him right now? You’re the one going blind.”
“He always gets all the attention. Of course he never told you about me — he probably forgot. He’s so self-absorbed.” The words are damning, but she says them with a smile. She stands up and dusts off her hands. “Don’t worry about me too much, okay? I’m usually not this sad about it. I’ll be okay, and so will he. What about you?”
He looks up at her, the way she stares into the darkness with her head high. “Well, if you two can pull it off, then maybe I can too.”
***
The days tie together and slither away. Winter break ends, but Sokka can’t make himself show up to school. He can’t leave Zuko behind, so he just says nothing about the date and stays home. Whatever Toph said to him seems to help — he still cries, but he talks now, too. Sokka isn’t going to leave him when he’s just starting to improve. Zuko lets Sokka hold his hand and pet his hair as he sobs, and he opens up a little bit.
“My dad,” he says. “I think he really did it. I think he really hurt me. How-?”
Or, another time. “What am I supposed to do? I’m not good at anything besides ballet. I don’t like anything else.”
Or, once more. “What was all of that work even for?”
Sokka has no answers for him — Zuko will have to find those on his own. But Sokka stays home with him, unwavering in his support as he becomes more mobile. They venture downstairs to watch movies; they even leave the house sometimes. They spend cold afternoons at the skate park, Zuko sitting alone and affectless on a bench as Sokka and Jet fall out of their tricks.
One day, just to get that blank look off of Zuko’s face, Sokka suggests that Zuko get on the skateboard.
“I’m no doctor,” Jet interjects. “But maybe you should wait until his back isn’t broken.”
“I don’t really mean skate,” Sokka says. He’s certain that Zuko needs this. “Just let me guide you.”
Zuko looks at him warily. “I don’t know.”
“It’ll be fun. I’ll be really careful.”
Zuko stays firmly planted on the bench. Jet kicks the board, and it glides over to Zuko’s feet.
“Come on,” Sokka says. “You can walk now, mostly.”
“I don’t want to get hurt.”
“You won’t. I’ll take care of you,” Sokka says.
Zuko takes a shaky breath and stands up.
They stand on opposite sides of the board. “Hold my shoulders,” Sokka instructs. He leans forward and grabs Zuko’s hips.
“I’m really nervous,” Zuko whispers.
“I know. I got you. Just step onto the board.”
“What if I fall?”
“You won’t. I got you.”
Zuko gingerly steps onto the board, his fingers gripping Sokka’s shoulders so tightly it hurts. He wobbles a little in Sokka’s hold, but Sokka steadies him.
“Oh my god,” Zuko says.
“I got you, I got you.” With Zuko up on the board like this, he’s taller than Sokka. Zuko can feel the narrowness of his hips, see the sharpness of his jaw. He tilts his head up and kisses it softly.
“I’m really scared,” Zuko says. He lets go of Sokka’s shoulders and wraps his arms around Sokka’s neck, and Sokka tightens his hold on Zuko’s waist.
“I won’t let anything happen to you,” Sokka says. Holding firmly onto Zuko, he begins making tiny side-steps, the skateboard creeping along the ground.
Zuko’s breaths are shaky and his grip is tight, but when Sokka asks him if he really wants to get down, he says no.
“You’re safe,” Sokka murmurs, and Zuko nods.
Together, they move. It’s slow, and the ground has no slopes or glamorous challenges to overcome, but it’s movement nonetheless. Eventually, a smile breaks out onto Zuko’s face, the first Sokka has seen in weeks. After a few moments, a nervous giggle erupts from him.
“Having fun?” Sokka asks.
“Yes,” Zuko whispers.
“Good,” Sokka stays. “I knew you would.”
“Great!” Jet says. “So now we’re going to throw you down that ramp, sound good?”
Zuko’s laugh bursts out of him, buoyant and silvery, like wind-chimes in late summer. His breath warms the air around them as he reaches out to whack Jet, forgetting about his precarious position atop the skateboard.
Jet dodges him. “Teach us ballet.”
“You’re joking.”
“I am dead fucking serious. I would love to learn! Apparently it’s dangerous enough to get terrible injuries from it, so I guess it must be cool.”
Sokka glances at Jet. “Don’t make fun of him.”
“I’m not! Show me the basics.”
With the weeks Zuko has spent in bed, and the years he’s spent between dance studio walls, his skin has turned pale and ghostly. But as Zuko approximates Jet’s motives, the sun sets, glazing his skin and eyes with gold — what it might have been, had he spent his youth playing outdoors. He looks angelic, even where the the sunlight drips on his scar.
Zuko pushes against Sokka as he steps off his board and presses his heels together. “This is first position,” he says. “Do it. You too, Sokka.”
They follow him, their movements awkward and their position off-center.
“This hurts my knees,” Jet says, wobbling.
“Turn out from your hips.”
“What does that mean?”
Zuko rolls his eyes. “Okay, here’s second position. …And here’s third, but we don’t really use that. Fourth, fifth…”
Jet and Sokka bumble along, laughing but trying their absolute bests. Jet and Sokka’s mimicry is clumsy, as are Zuko’s instructions. Even injured, Zuko his more graceful than them, though his movements are limited. He shows them the different arm positions, his delicate wrists and fingers poised and beautiful as they poke out from his sweatshirt.
“Longer, make your arms longer,” Zuko instructs.
“I think you’re gonna have to go take that one up with God, dude. This is as long as they get.”
“Imagine that they’re longer! It’s the mental image. Okay, no, I didn’t say straighten them, Jesus. Now, sort of rotate your shoulders and chest, just a little. No, not like that.”
“Rotate our chests?” Sokka asks.
“Yeah.”
“I don’t get it. Can you demonstrate?” Jet asks.
“I’m literally wearing a back brace.”
“Good point.”
Zuko ignores Jet but walks up behind Sokka. “Like this,” he mumbles, clasping Sokka’s shoulders and turning Sokka like a wind-up doll. “Move your whole chest, all together,” he says, his hands firm against Sokka’s back ribs. His fingers are thin and long as he repositions Sokka, and Sokka can’t help but howl and and crumple forward when Zuko’s fingers graze against the ticklish spot near his armpits.
“Hey! No laughing in ballet!” Zuko scolds as he squeezes more laughs out of Sokka.
He continues to guide Sokka and Jet through the absolute basics. Zuko isn’t a great teacher, and Sokka and Jet are even worse students, tripping without even moving. They begin purposely exaggerating their failures just to watch Zuko crack up. At some point, Zuko gets back on the skateboard while Sokka holds him and Jet falls out of pirouettes. As the world grows dark around them, they disappear into sound: children laughing.
***
The following evening, Sokka reads in the living room as snow begins to melt in his yard. He loses himself in his romance novel, trusting in its inevitable happy ending. Zuko’s upstairs, facetiming with Azula. He left to give them — and get — some privacy. Too bad his father is looming over him, ruining it.
“I got a call from your school,” Dad says. You’ve missed almost two weeks.”
Two weeks? “Oh, that’s a lot.”
“What are you doing?” Dad asks. “You need to go to school, or you’re not going to be able to graduate.”
Sokka snorts. “Since when do you care about that?”
Dad sighs, easing himself down into the armchair next to the couch. “You clearly don’t think that I do, which is probably my fault. But by not going to school, the only person you’re punishing is yourself.”
“I’m not punishing anyone. I’m staying home to take care of Zuko.”
“He can’t be by himself while you’re at school? I saw him walking the other day.”
“It’s not just physical. This is hard for him emotionally too.”
“You need to go to school.”
“No, I need to be here. It’s my responsibility to take care of him. I can’t just abandon him when it’s my fault he got hurt.”
Dad frowns. “Wasn’t it a ballet injury?”
“That doesn’t matter.”
“Sokka, you need to go to school. Your biggest responsibility right now is your education. I’ll make sure Zuko is fine.”
Sokka scowls. “How could I trust you to look out for him? And why do you suddenly care about my education?”
Dad pinches his nose. “I’ve always cared, but you’ve always been fine on your own. Now, things have clearly gotten out of hand.”
Sokka doesn’t see how his grades are fine. Sure, A’s in English and History are great, but he’s struggled to even get C’s in his math and science classes. If his dad truly does care about Sokka’s education, then his standards must be astoundingly low.
Sokka wants to pipe in, but his dad barrels on.
“As for Zuko, I’ll make sure he has what he needs. He doesn’t need 24-hour care, but he probably needs physical therapy soon, right? Follow-up appointments? If he makes the appointments, I’ll handle the co-pay. What insurance is he on?”
Abruptly, Sokka’s eyes start to burn. “Are you serious?”
“Of course. I told you I’d let him stay here; I knew he would need something like this.”
“But you — you’ll take care of him? Really?”
Dad shrugs. “I’ll do what needs to be done. He’s an injured child living in my house. He’s my responsibility, not yours.”
Sokka drags his forearm across his eyes. “What about me? Aren’t I your responsibility?”
Dad stares back. “Yes.”
The words swell in Sokka for a long time before they outgrow his body: “Then why do you care about him more than me?”
“…What?”
“You barely even know him!” Sokka jumps up from the couch, and his dad flinches back in his chair. But Sokka keeps walking. “He’s a stranger to you, so why are you giving him all this attention? If it were Katara, I would get it. But I’m your kid, not him!”
His father’s voice is low, rumbling current. “Sokka. I don’t really care about Zuko. I’m doing this for you.”
Sokka blinks at him, stopping in his tracks. “For me?”
“I barely know him! But you came to me for help. You haven’t done that since you were a kid. Of course I said yes. Of course it’s for you.”
Sokka’s eyes sting, and he turns away from his dad to hide the wetness. “You never offered to help.”
A squeak as his father stands up from his chair. “You pushed me away.”
No. Sokka won’t bear the responsibility of that. If his father simply disliked him, as Sokka believed for so long, Sokka would be willing to take the blame. There’s plenty of blame that lands squarely on Sokka’s shoulders, but he won’t let his father convince him that their lack of relationship is a result of Sokka’s desires.
“Who cares?” Sokka whips around. “You’re the adult, you’re the parent. You should have tried harder!”
His father takes a deep breath, the floor pulling his head closer. “I didn’t want to smother you,” he finally admits.
“You didn’t smother me. You didn’t even look me.”
Dad looks up, his jaw hard and his expression grave. “I smothered your mother. I tried to help her, but it was too much. And then she killed herself.”
Of course, Sokka knows all about that. A mound of hair floating in bathwater, long and matted, a red sheen over black. The lavender scent of her soap. He had rushed forward to her and tried to fish her out of the water, but there was a metal weight over her neck — the barbell her father used to lift. He tried to pull the weight off of her, but it was too heavy for him. A child could never carry that.
(And if he could have?)
So he screamed, screamed, screamed, until his father came home from the pharmacy an hour later with medicine for her. His father pulled her up by her hair, and her face was paler than he ever saw it — mouth open, gums white, eyes white.
If she had known that Sokka, seven-year-old Sokka in his dinosaur pajamas, would be the one to find her, would she have done it differently? Would she have done it at all?
But she must have known. They were the only two at home.
Sokka remembers the day perfectly, but the story his dad just told is foreign.
“What?” Sokka asks.
His father looks at him, eyes vacant. “If I had just let her be, then maybe she wouldn’t have done what she did. I wasn’t going to make the same mistake with my children.”
Sokka shakes his head. How could his father be at fault? They had been together since sophomore year of college; they looked so happy in all the photos. Of what Sokka remembers of his mother, he remembers most clearly that she had loved his father.
His mouth feels dry. “But… It wasn’t your fault. She did it to herself.”
“Thank you, Sokka,” his father says, an empty smile ghosting his face. “I never planned on telling you this. It’s my burden, not yours. But, maybe it could help you understand me.”
Sokka has never considered that his father, too, could feel responsible for his mother’s death. How could someone else be culpable?
“Sokka?” his father asks, pulling him out of his trance. “Do you understand what I’m telling you?”
Sokka nods, his skull floating above his body. “So… that’s why you’re never around? Because you think spending time with me is going to make me want to kill myself?”
“It sounds ridiculous when you put it that way,” his dad says. “But I wasn’t going to force myself on someone who seemed to want space. I’d done that before. I would rather have you at a distance than not have you at all.”
“But... I didn’t want distance. I wanted — I needed my dad.” His voice breaks, and maybe this display of affection looks pathetic, but his dad needs to know how wrong he was. There were times that Sokka felt like his mother had drowned him in that tub. He swore he could feel heavy water in his lungs, sloshing around and pulling him closer to the ground with her. But he withstood that, alone.
“I’m sorry, Sokka,” his dad says. “If I had known, I would have done things differently.”
Sokka shakes his head. He can’t organize his thoughts. “You thought it was your fault that Mom died? It wasn’t.”
“Please don’t worry about that.”
“I”m not worried, I’m right. It isn’t your fault.”
“This really isn’t for you to take care of.”
“No, Dad, you don’t get it. It can’t be your fault.” Sokka takes frantic, shallow breaths. He always thought his father knew about this, but it seems Sokka has to confess. “It’s not your fault because it’s my fault.”
His father inhales sharply, his eyes going wide. “ No. Sokka, no it’s not. Did someone tell you that?”
“No one had to tell me. I’ve always known.”
“Sokka, she was ill. She couldn’t find a prescription that worked for her. How could that be your fault?”
“So what? She still made a choice!” Sokka cries. Sokka understands that his mother was sick, that she was in pain. But why wasn’t he, her baby, a good enough reason to stay alive?
His father grabs him by both shoulders. Sokka tries to shake him off, but his mother was small, and so is he. He sees his own reflection in his father’s pupils.
“You were seven,” his dad says. “There was nothing that you did, or could have done, that killed her.”
“It’s not a problem with what I did . There’s something inside me that’s wrong. If she loved me, she would have lived.” Sokka says.
“That’s not true. She loved you more than anything.”
No. It’s always been very clear to Sokka: parents who love their children don’t abandon them. If she had loved him at all, it was in a way that didn’t matter.
“Then why?”
“She was sick.”
But it can’t be that simple. An imbalance of chemicals, synapses misfiring — there had to be more to her choice than that. There had to be more to her than that.
“Why did she do it at home?” Sokka whispers.
Sokka has always hoped that his father knew why. For Katara, they chained up the truth like a hostile dog, letting it thrash and bark at her but never touch her. As far as Katara knew, their mother had fainted after overheating in the bathtub, and no one found her until it was too late. Maybe there was a similar secret for Sokka: translucent enough to aggravate him, opaque enough to protect him. He hoped his father may have gone to the same effort to hide his mother’s reasons. He was terrified of what the reasons were, but he hoped they existed.
“I don’t know,” his dad says.
“Oh."
That’s all there is.
“The way she did it — the fact that she did it at all — it’s a cruel thing to do to a child, and she was never cruel. So I can’t understand. The only thing that I’m sure of is that it’s not your fault.”
“Okay,” Sokka says, wiping his tears. “Whatever.” His father has no more answers to give. His dad loves him, maybe even likes him — he should walk away satisfied. He should go back upstairs and check on Zuko: the one who’s alive, who can still be helped. But his father grabs his forearm.
“No, listen to me,” He says. “You have to understand this. There’s nothing wrong with you. It’s not your fault.”
Sokka swallows. “Okay. Then, it can’t have been your fault either.”
His dad pulls him into a hug, and Sokka barely remembers what his father’s arms feel like. For a moment, he lets himself behave like a child: he presses his face into his father’s shoulder to muffle the sound — if Zuko is sleeping, he doesn’t want to wake him — and sobs. The sound is deep, guttural, from a place inside him Sokka didn’t know existed. He wraps his arms around his father’s thick torso and wails.
“Sokka,” his dad says. Sokka can feel his chest vibrate as he speaks, can hear his voice through his bones. “It wasn’t your job to save her.”
Sokka would argue, but he doesn’t have the energy, and he’s not sure he has the desire. Wouldn’t it be nice to simply believe his father’s words? To let his father wash the blame off of him like dirt off of a gem? Wouldn’t it be nice to finally be clean and beautiful like everyone else around him?
It would be nice. It will be.