Chapter Text
Time: 20:27
Music: Dancing on the Highway - Elliott Smith
Ch03 MP3 (Right click download, normal click stream)
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Thanks to paraka for hosting
On the sixth day, the land starts to get uneven. It's a good sign—it means, maybe, they're approaching a volcano—but it's hard-going, and even the tasteless little berries they were living off start to vanish, replaced by dry scrub.
Sokka starts to have dreams of Zuko blasting gulls out of the air, the hot drumsticks he'd tear with his hands. In one dream the gull turns into Aang, falling to the earth in an ashy streak, a dirty shooting star. He wakes up with his chest heaving, Zuko's eyes on him in the blue morning light.
“Bad dream?” he asks.
Sokka swallows, but doesn't answer.
—
They clamber and scrabble up a hard slope. Zuko's usually so agile, almost catlike on quiet feet, but they've gone hungry for so long that Sokka can see him struggling, listless, and it hurts his heart a little.
Maybe that's what Zuko was talking about. A little echo.
Then Zuko falls.
Oh, fuck.
Sokka is used to the tug. The tug is nothing like this. It feels like something with claws reached into his chest and tried to gut him. Succeeded, even.
Blinded by pain, tears filming his eyes, he scrambles down the slope, trying to feel for Zuko. For too long it keeps getting worse, and he knows Zuko is still falling. He feels in the black silt, stirring up dust until he's coughing. When he wipes at his mouth, he feels blood on his hand.
For a moment, terrified, he wonders if his heart will come up through his throat.
“Zuko,” he whispers, and that hurts too, the smallest sound he can make. “Zuko, you have to let me know where you are.”
He doesn't hear anything, and he doesn't want to think about what that means.
—
He keeps fumbling until he touches something warm, far down the slope. As soon as it happens, the pain starts to ebb.
Still, for a long time it lingers, like heartburn. Sokka sucks in his breath and waits for his vision to clear.
—
He's used to Zuko being his mirror, but Sokka knows he doesn't look anything like this.
The firebender looks trampled, the angle of his body all wrong, like it’s broken all his ribs, being too far from Sokka. He’s small and flat, all his color gone.
Maybe he was always wrong. Maybe Zuko is his shadow.
Sokka spits out a mouthful of blood and gathers Zuko up in his arms, holding him to his chest. When he shifts his grip, clumsy with fatigue, Zuko’s head flops back, like his throat has been slit.
Sokka knows he’s not dead, but there’s a little voice in his heart screaming that he is, he is, he’s gone .
“Hey,” he whispers, shrugging Zuko’s head up again. “Hey, buddy. It’s okay, it's gonna be okay.”
Zuko isn't making a sound, but his face is wet with tears, his expression pinched. There are long red stretches where the skin’s come off his arms and back, blood seeping through his dirty tunic.
“You're doing a great job,” Sokka says, for some reason. “Really great.” He shifts his arms, pressing Zuko's head gently to his chest, to his heart.
—
Zuko doesn't come back easily from that.
He barely speaks, and he seems confused and nearly blind. Sokka thinks it's the pain, but he doesn't know. He can't.
So he stays close to Zuko, makes sure their bodies always overlap. He doesn’t know how it works, the tie between them, but when he closes his eyes at night he tries to imagine a little thread of strength going from his body to Zuko’s, feeding what’s been lost.
During the day, he slings Zuko's arm over his shoulder and keeps trudging up the slope with him. He rips a strip from the bottom of his shirt and ties their hands at the wrist, so that if one of them falls again, the other will stay close.
It’s a struggle, every minute.
He can feel Zuko trying to help, even if he has no idea what's going on, and that makes Sokka's throat hurt, thinking about it.
Little echoes again.
—
The nights are cold, even in the Fire Nation, without a fire. Sokka’s hands ache. He knows they’re close—everything about the shape of the landscape screams it—but they’re moving so slowly, now that Zuko isn’t able to support his own weight.
“This is what happens when you meet a flying bison,” Sokka says out loud, to no one in particular. “You get spoiled.”
There’s a soft, smothered sound. It takes Sokka a moment to realize Zuko is laughing.
He rolls over. Zuko still looks like a corpse, but he has that faint smile on his lips.
“I told you I was funny,” Sokka says.
Zuko shakes his head a little— you’re not funny, is what the head-shake says—but he doesn’t speak. His eyes are closed.
Sokka reaches around Zuko's waist, tugging him close, and once they're close he lets his hand rest there for a while. Zuko's head slumps against his shoulder.
For a moment, Sokka gets the dizzy feeling again. But good-dizzy.
“Thanks,” Zuko says hoarsely. “For… you know.”
“Of course.” He nudges Zuko with his shoulder. “You're half of me, buddy.”
Zuko grunts quietly, not meeting his eyes.
“How are you feeling?”
Zuko's laugh is hollow.
“Right,” he says, wiping his mouth. “You don't know.”
“I know a little,” Sokka says. He feels, illogically, hurt.
For a moment Zuko covers his face with his hand. Sokka doesn’t know if he doesn’t want to see or if he doesn’t want to be seen.
“I don't want to talk about it,” Zuko says. “Talking won't change what happened.”
Sokka squeezes his arm.
“I don't agree with that,” he says. “I mean, yeah, it won't turn back time. But sometimes when you talk about it, it hurts less."
He squeezes Zuko again. It feels nice.
“Like when time passes,” he says, “and it starts to hurt less. It's like that.”
Zuko doesn’t say anything. Sokka doesn't know if the firebender’s head is on his shoulder because it's comforting to him or because he's too tired to do anything about it.
“For me,” Zuko says, “nothing ever hurts less.”
Well, what can Sokka do?
There's nothing you can say, really, to someone like that.
—
On the eighth day, they reach the lip of the volcano, faintly smoldering. The relief Sokka feels is dizzying, like the air has gone too thin.
“Okay,” Sokka says. “So how do we find a shrine?”
Zuko crouches down, his hands pressed to the earth, like he’s feeling for something under the surface. After a little while, he shakes his head.
“There might not be one,” he says.
Sokka feels his heart drop out of his body.
“Are you telling me,” he says, his voice barely restrained, “we have to find another volcano.”
Zuko shakes his head again, swaying slightly; even the smallest motion can make him dizzy. Sokka kneels down next to him, resting his hand on Zuko’s back.
“We don’t need to find a shrine,” Zuko says hoarsely. “We can make one.”
He follows Zuko’s instructions, picking up chunks of pumice, glassy bits of obsidian. Zuko just sits, crosslegged and drained. His voice is so soft Sokka has to bend down to hear it, his ear almost to Zuko’s lips.
“Okay,” Zuko says. “Okay. So now we need fire.”
Sokka looks around. As far as he can see it’s all black sand and charred earth, rolling dunes of it.
“There’s nothing to burn,” he says.
“Yeah,” Zuko says quietly. “I know.”
He rests his head in his hands, and Sokka bends down to hold him. He smells like sweat and ash, and his skin is gritty with sand.
“How long does it need to burn?” Sokka asks. “Can we burn a shirt or something?”
Zuko shakes his head carefully.
“Not long enough,” he rasps. “It needs to go for a while. It’s not respectful otherwise.”
Sokka thinks.
“Can you keep a fire going in your hands?”
Zuko smiles at him, and there’s a darkness in the smile that Sokka doesn’t like.
“Sokka,” he says, with the horrible smile. “I’m not strong enough for that anymore.”
He opens his hands and a little flame springs up, no bigger than his fingernail. It’s pale, fragile, and then it’s gone.
Like a ghost, Sokka thinks, and shivers.
“It’s okay,” he says, and lets his body shelter Zuko from the sun.
—
“Well, we can’t let the perfect be the enemy of the good,” Sokka says finally, shrugging off his shirt. “How much time do you think this gives us?”
Zuko is staring at him like he’s forgotten how to count.
“You know what, whatever,” Sokka says. “It lasts as long as it lasts. What do I call him?”
“Him?”
“You know,” Sokka says. “Volcano Guy.”
“Please don’t call him that.”
“I’m aware of the issue,” Sokka says patiently.
Zuko considers.
“Great Spirit,” he says. “You can call him that.”
“Got it. Great Spirit.” Sokka tries to say it without condescension or, at this point, anger.
“What’s the plan?” Zuko asks.
“So,” Sokka says. “You’re going to hate it.”
Zuko laughs.
“Great,” he says. “That’s great.”
“I just want you to follow my lead, okay? You have to trust me.” Sokka squeezes Zuko’s fingers, and Zuko, after a moment, squeezes back.
“I trust you,” he says, and lights the fire.
—
“Great Spirit,” Sokka says, swallowing his pride. “I’ve come to ask that you reconsider our punishment.”
There’s a rumble under his feet, and Sokka wonders if Kojin is laughing at them.
“We’re very sorry,” he continues, “we’re both very sorry, and we ask that you, um. Take it back.”
Now Sokka knows the spirit is laughing at them. The sound is distinct: deep, dark chuckles, the snap of them like the bubbles popping in the lava that swallowed the temple.
Insolent, the spirit says. Both of you are insolent.
Sokka squeezes Zuko’s hand, a reminder: trust me.
“The thing is,” he says, “it’s not a particularly effective punishment.”
In the silence that comes after, he can feel Zuko’s hard grip on his hand, the way his fingers go cold.
Effective? the spirit asks.
“Yeah,” Sokka says, clearing his throat. “Zuko and me, we’re actually pretty much in love—” he reaches out quickly to smother the noise Zuko makes when he says it “—so, um. This is actually a reward, to us. Isn’t it, sweetheart?”
Zuko is staring at him, slack-jawed.
“Isn’t it?” Sokka says a little louder, squeezing Zuko’s hand.
“Yeah,” the prince croaks. “Sweetheart.”
“So this won’t really work on us, the whole cursed-bond thing,” Sokka says, turning his attention back to roughly where he imagines Kojin to be. “Breaking the bond would actually be a much better punishment.”
There’s quiet. Zuko looks white with panic, but he’s also, distinctly, flushing. Sokka knows he is too. He tugs Zuko’s hand closer and kisses it.
“See?” he calls.
I don’t know if I believe you, the spirit says finally.
“You really should,” Sokka says. Then he pulls Zuko’s face toward him and kisses him.
Zuko is tense at first, startled, and then he relaxes into Sokka, slipping his hands around the younger boy’s waist. Zuko’s lips are soft but chapped, with the salt of blood on them, and he sighs a little as Sokka kisses him. It does something to Sokka, that small noise, that hint of salt.
When Sokka pulls away, Zuko is looking at him with an odd expression, half-trusting, half-cautious. He lets his hands slip from Sokka’s hips with reluctance, unless he’s just stunned.
Mortals, Kojin said, bewilder me.
“Yeah, me too, bud,” Sokka says. “I mean. Great Spirit.”
I still don’t know what to make of this, the spirit says, but frankly I don’t care. And I want the two of you off my land.
“We can do that,” Sokka says. “One hundred percent, you got it.”
There’s a slow, soft rumble like a sigh.
If I break the bond, Kojin says, will you just go away.
“I promise,” Zuko says, head bowed. “It would be an honor to serve you, Great Spirit.”
None of the fucking squabbling, either, the spirit says. Lovers’ quarrels! Ten thousand years of lovers’ quarrels. Do you have any idea how exhausting that gets ? Another sigh. Well, one day I’ll incinerate the lot of you and it won’t be my problem anymore.
Sokka glances at Zuko nervously.
“Right,” he says. “Well. If you don’t mind…”
It’s already done, the spirit says.
Sokka doesn’t feel any differently. From the way Zuko looks at him, he doesn’t either.
“You’re sure that…?”
I am Kojin, Spirit of Three Ways, he thunders. I make and unmake nations, shape the unseen landscapes of the deep, pluck the fire from the stars and let it blossom from the earth! You ask if I’m sure?
“Er,” Sokka says. “Right. Of course, Your Threeness.” He takes Zuko’s hand. “We’ll be going then… sweetiepants.”
He starts to lead Zuko down the slope when the ground shakes again.
And one more thing! the spirit thunders. Tell your Avatar he owes me a temple.
“Got it,” Sokka says. “One temple, coming right up.”
—
“So,” Zuko says. “That was weird.”
Sokka snorts.
“You’re telling me,” he says. “Spirits are real—” He pauses, glancing back at the slope. “Real great,” he says loudly. “Just… super.”
Zuko coughs.
“I didn’t mean that part,” he says.
Oh.
“Sorry about that,” Sokka says.
“It’s not a sorry thing,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck, “it’s just…”
They’re laying on their backs in the hot black sand, looking up at the stars. There’s an openness to the world that Sokka missed, back when he was tethered to Zuko at all times. Then again, he misses the closeness of it too, the safety in it.
“Do you feel any better?” Sokka asks.
Zuko makes a little smile.
“Better,” he says, “or different?” He’s still smiling, and Sokka doesn’t know how to read it, the softness in his smile and the sharpness in his eyes.
“Well, you’re not worse, right?”
Zuko hums, but doesn’t answer.
“The funny thing,” Sokka says, “is I had just gotten the hang of the… the little echoes, you know?” He stretches out, enjoying the soft burn of the sand against his skin. “I dunno. It’s kind of weird. I can still feel them, I think.”
“What do you mean?” Zuko asks quietly.
“Oh, you know,” he says. “Like when I look at you I feel…”
He tilts his face toward Zuko’s and the words slip out of his mouth, lost.
“Yeah,” Zuko says, and takes his hand. “I think I know.”