Chapter Text
“And then maybe we can meet back up with the girls,” Aang is saying, his legs tangled into Sokka’s, because the couch is truly too small for two grown men to lay on together, even with their heads at opposite ends. Every excitable movement Aang makes, Sokka has to jerk a knee up between them, or drop his hand protectively, to avoid a kick to the balls.
“Why don’t we just have a joint party, then?” Sokka asks, tilting the screen of his laptop further towards him. The angle isn’t great for typing, with the keyboard resting across his abdomen and one arm effectively trapped against the back cushions, but he’s doing his best.
“Is that an option?” Aang asks, grey eyes huge and hopeful. Sokka would never suggest that he has separation issues, but, well, he kind of does. He’s been with Katara since middle school, and Sokka can’t really think of any time they’ve truly spent apart in the last fifteen years.
“Sure,” Sokka says, “why not? It’s your bachelor party, there’s no reason not to. Katara would probably be happy about that.” Katara would love it, he knows, because she’s been making all sorts of noise about it, as if Sokka would ever take Aang to a strip club. He doesn’t even want to go to one himself, and Sokka’s not one to plan a stereotypical bachelor party anyway.
Aang hums, digging his toe painfully into Sokka’s hip. Sokka grunts and attempts to wiggle away– damn lanky limbs that Aang gained after shooting up like a weed during high school. “You should invite Zuko,” he says, tone heavy with a significance that has Sokka suspicious.
“Are you worried you don’t have enough friends to invite?” Sokka asks, innocently, and the toe at his hip drops to his ribs with a jab.
“I think it’ll be good for him to come,” Aang says, hitting a ticklish spot that makes Sokka yelp and the laptop sway dangerously toward the edge of the couch.
“Are you worried he doesn’t have enough friends?” Sokka hastily rights the laptop, settling it more solidly against him.
Aang squints at him. “Does he?”
Sokka considers it, tapping aimlessly at his keyboard. He’s pretty sure he knows the answer already, but he doesn’t know it, and it’d be a pretty dick move for him to just go ahead and make the assumption.
“Well,” Aang continues, “he won’t know that many people at the wedding, so it’d be nice, right? For him to get familiar with people? Plus, you can’t hog him, what if we want to get to know him too?” Aang eyes him for a long moment, and Sokka sinks deeper into the cushions, chin down.
It isn’t like he’s been trying to do that, he wants to say, but if he’s been putting some extra effort into texting Zuko and asking him to hang out outside of the confined spaces of the tea shop, then maybe it’s just because he likes the way that Zuko always laughs like he’s surprised by the sound of it, and the way he goes pliant around Sokka, losing as much tension as he’ll allow himself. But Sokka’s not going to say any of that, because he sounds insane. “I’ll ask him,” Sokka decides to say instead.
Aang looks pleased with the answer, foot dropping away from his assault. “So what’s the plan, then? If we’re rearranging the party?”
“Some of it’s still got to be a surprise,” Sokka rolls his eyes, but he’s already got his plans mostly in order anyway, reorganizing things in his head and then on the schedule he’s got pulled up on his laptop. “We’ll still do dinner, but after that, it’s in my hands, so you don’t worry your pretty head about it.”
Aang gingerly touches the curve of his skull, fingers caught in short black hair, thoughtless in the action. “Okay,” he shrugs, “I trust you.”
Sokka grins, fond and only a little sharp, as he shifts the laptop against the cushion and grabs Aang’s ankle. “For planning? Good. For anything else? You shouldn’t,” he says, setting his fingers to ticklish feet and sending Aang off of the couch in a fit of laughter.
–
good afternoon, honeybee, Sokka texts, got a question for u.
Ugh, Zuko replies, What the hell is that?
what, Sokka types, snorting as his thumbs move across the screen, not a fan of honeybee? should i call you grumpy instead?
Lose my number, comes the quick response, and Sokka’s laughter erupts from his chest, only slightly hysterical, because he’s trying to fucking control himself.
He calls Zuko instead, just to prove a point, really, that’s all. And if his smile is so wide that it hurts when Zuko picks up after the first ring, then that’s for Sokka to contend with, and it’s no one else’s business.
“Number’s not looking very lost right about now,” Zuko greets, a hum in his voice like he might be about to laugh but he’s working to trap it in his mouth.
“And where would your daily entertainment go, if that happened?” Sokka pouts, certain that the purse of his lips is audible enough over the phone.
“You’re ridiculous,” Zuko says, because it seems to be one of his favorite things to say to Sokka, and the way he says it like ridiculous actually might mean lovely makes Sokka’s stomach do something weird and funny and he feels…well, ridiculous. “What is it you wanted to ask?”
“Well, I was talking to Aang, and we agreed that since you probably could stand to get out of the house–”
“Hey–!”
“He suggested you come out with us for the bachelor party, you can meet some of our other friends and maybe unwind for a little while–”
“What has given you the impression that I don’t get out and have fun?” Zuko asks over him, affronted, and Sokka tries very hard not to scoff at him.
“You work six days a week at a job you don’t like all that much, for the sake of your uncle and paying your bills, and then you go home and have dinner with your cat,” Sokka says, because he’s familiar enough with Zuko’s schedule over the last month and a half to know if there’d be a gap anywhere in there that is long enough for him to consider doing something fun.
“You know,” Zuko grumbles, “Druk is very good company.”
“I’m sure that’s true,” Sokka soothes, grinning despite himself, “but you’re kind of proving my point, bud.”
Zuko takes a breath that says I’m willing to fight you on this but then he’s quiet for a bit, seemingly mulling the invite over instead.
“You can bring Druk, if he’s such good company,” Sokka offers, teasing, and is rewarded with a huff of laughter.
“I’m not sure if I’m ready to let you meet my friends too,” Zuko shoots back, haughty as ever, and something warm trips over itself in Sokka’s throat at the joke. Because that’s what it is– a joke. And Sokka isn’t one to presume anything, not when this newfound friendship is so precarious, not when he saw the way that an emotion too close to panic unspooled across Zuko’s face as Sokka invited him to the wedding. Sokka still isn’t sure if he should be expecting Zuko to back out or not, but if he’s learned anything, it’s that Zuko is far too stubborn for his own good. “When and where?”
“This Saturday. Dinner’s at six, so I can pick you up if you want.”
Zuko sounds suspicious, asking, “Just dinner?”
Sokka allows his grin to infect his tone, giddy and just a touch stupid. “Oh no,” he says, “you’re going to find out all about this group of friends’ particular musical proclivities. We’re going to karaoke.”
The noise of horror that comes out of Zuko’s mouth is absurdly beautiful.
–
It does not matter that Sokka spent an absolutely preposterous amount of time picking out a deep midnight blue button-up that really makes his eyes pop, or threading his braids through matching beads before pulling them into his wolf tail, or deciding on the jeans that might be a little too tight around his ass. He’s going out so it’s natural that he would want to look good and the buttons of his collar being open nearly to the middle of his chest have nothing to do with the fact that he’s standing outside of Zuko’s front door poised to knock.
Zuko’s building is older in a way that makes Sokka want to walk through the halls and admire the bones of it; brush his fingers over oak woodwork. It isn’t shiny and new like his own apartment, and Sokka can’t help but love it all the more for it.
Zuko’s door opens, providing him with a distraction from his jittery hands; reality feels a little floaty, like he’s moving through a dream, because he hasn’t been on this side of things yet. He’s been on the inside, blatantly staring at Zuko from his own doorframe, and Zuko has been on his front porch, so Sokka is beginning to realize that it’s a tiny bit like being a bug under a microscope the way that Zuko’s gaze sweeps him and then freezes, guilty.
“Hi,” Sokka says, trying not to squirm; Zuko goes scarlet right down to his exposed collarbones, because he also must have had the same thought about his rare outing for the evening, a dark red unbuttoned henley showing off more of his pale skin than Sokka’s seen since his extremely memorable gym outfit and providing a quick glimpse of a thin gold chain that weakens Sokka’s knees.
“Hey,” Zuko replies, eyes dodging anywhere but Sokka. He’s a flurry of movement, shucking a thin leather jacket on, and Sokka silently mourns the loss of visibility for his arms.
A grumpy mewling sounds from around the vicinity of Zuko’s ankles and it occurs to Sokka that Zuko’s shifting in the doorway to keep a tiny black cat inside. “You really don’t want me to meet your friends after all, huh?” Sokka asks, crouching down to peer around Zuko’s combat boots. “You must be Druk,” he says to the cat that’s caught up between Zuko’s denim-clad legs, rubbing almost violently against him. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
Zuko makes a noise like he’s dying, covering his face with a hand. “You haven’t heard that he’s an escape artist,” he mutters, cross, as Druk uses the moment to try to wriggle out into the hallway. Zuko bends unfairly gracefully at the waist to snatch him up; Sokka rises to his feet with a grin at the scowl Zuko’s aiming at Druk. “I saved you, and this is my repayment?”
Sokka can’t resist reaching out, scritching the purring ball of fluff around the ears and neck. “Where’d you save him from?” He asks, leaning forward to make soft cooing noises at the slow blinking green eyes. He’s close enough to where Druk is cradled against Zuko’s chest that he can smell the sharp cinnamon of his aftershave.
“The dumpster,” Zuko says; there’s something strained in his tone that Sokka chalks up to the way that Druk is beginning to knead against Zuko’s arm. That’s probably Sokka’s fault, he reasons, so he straightens up and leans back on his heels. “So I’m not sure why he’s so eager to get back in there.” He turns to unceremoniously dump the little cat into a nearby bar stool and steps out, shutting and locking the door behind him.
Sokka’s glad he had the foresight to clean his car out; not that he necessarily expects Zuko to judge his collection of empty water bottles, but Zuko’s long legs require more space than the collection had allowed for. He fills the silent car with his usual amount of talking, circling patterns that drift off into new topics, and does his very best to ignore the way his mouth goes a bit clumsy when Zuko makes not-quite-laughing hums. By the time they arrive at the restaurant, Sokka has to shake his hands out from clutching white-knuckled onto the steering wheel.
Sokka has determined that Zuko is socially awkward on the best of days, and downright mute on the worst, so he’s already decided that he’s going to stick the evening out close to his side. They’re all here for Aang and Katara, but Sokka can’t stomach the idea of inviting someone to a celebration of people they barely know and then hanging them out to dry– not that he truly wants to wander too far from Zuko, anyway.
Before they go into the restaurant, he’s babbling at Zuko about the small assembling of friends that will be joining them in an attempt to lessen the tension he can already see creeping into Zuko’s broad shoulders. Luckily, they’re the first ones there– Sokka planned this, he’s certainly not going to let anyone else show up before them– so it’s easy enough to push Zuko into a chair and set up beside him at their long table.
It also helps that Aang and Katara show up next, because Katara wouldn’t allow them to be later than any of the rest of their guests, and it’s even easier after that. Aang likes Zuko, from the little he’s seen of him thus far, so he’s already chatting amiably with him as Katara lights up seeing them and circles the table to lean close to Sokka’s ear.
“Good job, lover boy,” she murmurs, ducking away from Sokka’s embarrassed attempt at a swat and shooting her a hasty middle finger behind Zuko’s back.
And as the evening moves forward, Sokka finds that maybe, really, it’s nice to be here with Zuko– to introduce him to Haru, to Teo, to Suki, who sweeps in like a thunderclap and hugs Sokka like she’s happy to see him (she is, he knows that she is, and his heart doesn’t twist in his chest the same way that it used to upon seeing her, and she works immediately to befriend Zuko). Zuko…fits in, Sokka finds, once he’s comfortable enough to let himself. He’s still quiet, but his smiles are less hidden around the edges of his mouth, his soft laughs are music to Sokka’s ears, and he glances at Sokka in swift increments like there’s something nice about looking at him.
Like Sokka might be something worth looking at.
–
Sokka picks up the check, because it’s the right thing to do, even if it’s a punch to his poor bank account’s solar plexus. He’d expected that, in any case, and Sokka is expecting another one after karaoke.
It’s a short walk from one location to the next. Their little group splits for the evening, with Haru and Teo waving goodbyes citing early mornings, and the remaining gang trek through the breezy spring evening. Toph steals Zuko away from Sokka’s side to be her “guide dog” and Sokka can’t quite keep himself from laughing at the scowl Zuko flashes his way.
Suki sidles up to him, bumping her shoulder against his. “Well,” she says, tone going low and sly, “he’s very cute.”
Sokka hums; he knows he’s blushing, and he knows that Suki knows he’s blushing, and that she knows him disconcertingly well after all of these years. So he doesn’t respond to it. There’s no world in which Sokka figures out a reply that doesn’t humiliate him in some way. Instead, he says, “And where’s your girlfriend tonight?”
Suki sticks her tongue out at him, accepting the temporary subject change with grace. “She’s working,” she sighs, “I was really looking forward to introducing her. But I guess you’ll just have to hit it off with her at the wedding.”
Sokka follows up his noise of sympathy by tucking her under his arm, squeezing her slim shoulders. He used to think they fit together perfectly, once upon a time– but nowadays, that fit, while still perfect in some ways, just feels like it’s taken on a different meaning altogether. “We can tell each other embarrassing stories about you,” he teases, and she shoves at his hand.
“They’ll only be good stories, and you know it,” she laughs. It’s true, and he does. She quiets after a moment, gaze sliding around their group, and then she squints up at him against the setting sun. “He’s looking at you,” she whispers, and Sokka’s head jerks up in time to catch Zuko’s honey-gold eyes skipping away.
Sokka’s ears are burning, red hot like a beacon in the encroaching darkness. “I think I’m going to catch up and make sure Toph isn’t harassing him,” he says, and Suki cackles.
“Oh, please, don’t make excuses on my account,” she tells him, and it’s his turn to stick his tongue out and drop his arm to gently push at her. Not that he’s ever needed to be gentle with Suki in their lives.
“We’re just friends,” he says, firmly, as if he believes it, even if he doesn’t want to.
“Get some more alcohol in you,” she snorts, as he picks up the pace to save Zuko from Toph, “and we’ll see how friendly you get.”
–
The room is huge, and dimly lit, a myriad of colored tube lights stretched around the ceiling. There are wide leather benches ringing three of the four walls, around a low table that has the binder of music, remote, microphones, menus– everything they could need.
Aang is already picking a k-pop song while Sokka orders them a round of drinks.
“Can Aang speak Korean?” Zuko asks him, as Sokka settles down next to him on the bench facing the screen.
“Absolutely not,” Sokka says, gratefully accepting his drink from the server and taking one long pull from it that drains half of the glass. “But he knows the words anyway.”
And maybe Sokka does too, singing along without a microphone, Zuko gaping at him in wonder like he’s fascinating. “Sokka,” he laughs, stunned, “I– I don’t know why I let anything about you surprise me, anymore.”
“Please,” Sokka says, watching Aang coax Katara into joining him in front of the screen, listening to the absolutely entertaining uproar that his friends are causing already, cheering the couple on with whoops and applause. “I’m sure there’s much more that you could learn about me that might surprise you.”
When Sokka glances back over to him, Zuko meets his eyes, thoughtful. “I think that could go both ways.”
Sokka huffs, shaking his head, polishing off the remainder of his drink and moving to pour himself a second one from the ridiculously gargantuan tube of alcohol in the center of the table. Suki’s right. They’re going to find out how friendly he can be, after all. “I know it does. Come on, pretty boy. We’re here to have a good time.”
Zuko’s blush is a reward all on its own, almost impossible to track in the dancing lights of the screen against the wall. But it’s there and it’s beautiful and Sokka is delighted to no end when Zuko looks away and clears his throat. “...you’re not going to try to make me sing, are you?”
Sokka orders them a huge basket of fries, even though they’ve just had an entire meal. It’s going to be an attempt at soaking up the copious amount of alcohol he’s consuming. He promises Zuko that he doesn’t have to sing, but maybe, if he’s interested in doing a duet, it’d be nice if Zuko joined him for it instead of Toph, who is currently screaming the incorrect lyrics to something punk rock.
Zuko doesn’t agree, but Sokka thinks maybe a few more drinks and they might get there. Or a lot more drinks. Zuko is pretty stubborn.
Then again, so is Sokka. And he’s next up for karaoke, so if he stumbles off of the leather cushions and slurs some of the words to Call Me Maybe with Aang, falling all over his lanky shoulders, while Suki wolf whistles and his friends laugh, then maybe offering his mic into Zuko’s frighteningly indulgent face isn’t the worst idea he’s ever had. Especially when Zuko pushes the mic back at him but hums along with the music anyway.
He passes it back to Suki and Toph for a duet, and the floor is feeling a bit wibbly and wobbly as he picks his way back over to Zuko through the room, gathering up their fries and another drink before collapsing cross-legged on the couch facing Zuko.
“What a performance,” Zuko deadpans, setting the fries between them and plucking one up.
“I have many talents,” Sokka preens in response; Zuko tosses the fry at him and Sokka nearly falls off the couch in his attempt to catch it in his mouth. It springs off of the side of his nose and goes flying across the room.
“That’s not one of them, huh?” Zuko snorts, another fry already in hand.
Sokka’s drunk, but he’s also determined. He steadies himself, leans back on his hands, and says, “It can be. I bet I can do it.”
Zuko’s eyebrow shoots up. “Is that so? What are we betting?”
“If I catch it,” Sokka says, “I wanna ask you a question. About you. And you have to answer, unless it’s like, super bad and then you can pass but you can’t pass all of them.”
“I have a feeling you’re too drunk for me to worry too much about this,” Zuko says, amused. “You’re on.”
Sokka refuses to be underestimated. He’s been underestimated for half of his life.
And maybe he wants to impress Zuko, just a teeny bit.
–
“Your turn,” Sokka says, forty minutes and two more drinks later, “and you can’t throw badly on purpose, just ‘cause you don’t want to answer a question.”
Zuko, much more sober, pulls a face and then nods agreeably, armed with yet another misshapen fry.
Sokka leans back at the throw, legs kicking up briefly to maintain his already questionable balance, and catches it cleanly between his back teeth.
“Show off,” Zuko says, cranky, because he hasn’t caught a single one yet. “I have bad depth perception, you know. Seems pretty unfair.”
Sokka wiggles a hand at him, grin wide enough to make his lips sore, and pops a fry right into Zuko’s scowling mouth. “And I’ve been drinking more than you, so don’t be pissy about it. I’ll give you a chance,” he says, soothingly.
“Maybe you should drink more,” Zuko replies, tartly, but he just pushes a newfound glass of water into Sokka’s palms instead. “Your coordination is unfortunately impressive.”
Sokka thinks about his earned question. He’s been pulling answers from Zuko one by one, about books that he’s been reading (The Odyssey because Zuko is pretentious), and shows that he’s been watching (Severance which Sokka may have suggested they catch up on together and didn’t get totally shot down for), and some of the cassettes that Sokka had spotted in his car a couple of months ago (one of which was ABBA and inspired a rendition of Dancing Queen from Aang that may have been filmed). Easy things, things that Zuko can answer in the same huffing relaxed tone each time. He doesn’t want to lose that tone, but there are so many things he wants to know. So many things that he’s afraid Zuko will pass, will shut down.
“You’re thinking awfully hard,” Zuko notes, giving Sokka a moment to consider his options as he enjoys the show that Katara and Suki are making of themselves. It’s so nice to have him here in this space. It really does just…make sense.
“Hey,” Sokka begins, feeling the question out on a tongue thick with alcohol, “are you…having fun? Here? With us?” With me? He thinks, the unspoken piece stuttering in his brain.
Zuko jolts back to him, looking so taken aback that Sokka wonders if that is the one he’ll end up passing. “That’s what you want to know?”
Sokka nods, earnest as he can be, and sees the way that Zuko takes in the room as a whole, the thrum of jumping, singing, drunk people that mean the entire world to Sokka.
“Yeah,” Zuko says, so soft that it nearly gets lost beneath the whooping cheers and applause of the most recent performance. “Sokka, I’m having a lot of fun.”
Maybe it means more to Sokka than it really should, but he can’t swallow the happy hum vibrating from his throat as he wriggles in his seat. “Good,” he sighs, slumping sideways into the cushions.
He’s got another drink on deck, something fancy and sweet that Toph mistakes for her own at first and yells, “Fucking lush!” from behind Zuko’s back. All he can do is flick her off, not that it means anything, but everyone else sees it and then she must know that it’s happened because she’s cackling and leaning up against Zuko’s shoulders with an ease that Sokka is trying not to be jealous of. He can do that too, he figures, so he places a hand against Zuko’s warm thigh to hoist himself close enough to jab Toph in the forehead. They both fall away from Zuko on opposite sides, maybe more amused than is strictly necessary, and Zuko’s loose enough that he doesn’t immediately go statue still underneath the brief, glancing touches.
“You know,” Aang says, directly into the mic in hand so that he’s far too loud over the instrumentals of whatever pop song he’s decided on, his words slipping into one another clumsily, “I just wanna say something. I just want to tell you guys that I’m glad you’re all here! And I’m super happy! And I’m marrying my soulmate!” He sways on his feet and Katara, laughing the whole way, slips an arm around his waist to steady his floppy weight against the line of her body.
Sokka snickers a little; he’s feeling good and relaxed and particularly tolerant of the soulmate stuff.
Zuko eyes him. “What’s that all about?”
“Sokka doesn’t think soulmates are real,” Suki pipes up from the opposite corner, “Or fate, for that matter.” She flashes Sokka a scathing look, but there’s no actual resentment in it, just the sort of playful outrage from someone who has known him in more ways than he could ever have known himself.
Aang blows raspberries into the mic and Sokka’s lagging brain makes note to not use his spit-covered one on his next song. But it draws the group’s attention back to him, and off of Sokka, falling back into side-conversations and laughter.
When it seems like no one is paying much attention to them anymore, Zuko turns back to him. “You don’t believe in fate?” It’s difficult to parse his tone, but his head is tilted curiously.
Sokka pulls a face before he can catch himself, flicking a fry at Zuko’s forehead and managing to tangle it in his hair. Not bad aim, if he says so himself. He kindly does not mention that no fries have made it into Zuko’s mouth without Sokka’s aid. “I had my fortune read one time,” he says, picking up his drink, pinky out. Toph’s right; he is a lush, and he’s going to act the part too.
“And?” Zuko’s gaze slides up to him from under the fall of his dark bangs as he shakes the fry free, and if Sokka’s words are a little breathier, it’s because he can’t get any fucking air into his lungs at the look.
“I,” he says, “am destined to a life of misery. Self-inflicted struggling, or suffering, or whatever. Something like that.”
“Hm,” Zuko says, the curl of his lips fascinating to Sokka’s alcohol-addled mind, “you seem to be handling your miserable life remarkably well.”
Sokka’s mouth squirms in response. “Well,” he mutters, “we make our own fate, you know? I don’t think someone with a crystal ball and vague predictions about the stars or whatever–”
“You like the stars,” Zuko points out, and Sokka makes his best attempt at not blushing over the casual knowledge.
“–I love the stars, Zuko, but I love that they’re giant balls of gas and that we can use their alignments to find our way home, I love the science of them, but,” Sokka pauses, flapping a hand, “I just can’t find it in me to believe that anything about them determines, like, my personality. Can’t I just be whoever I am without chalking it up to wherever Mars is or–”
Something in Zuko’s smile knocks him briefly off of his ramble. “Or Mercury’s retrograde?”
“If there’s a scientific reason behind it, but I’m a sarcastic asshole because that’s what I’ve built up for myself over years of concentrated effort and high school bullying, not because of–” Sokka throws his hands up, liquid dashing at the rim of his glass.
“You’re not an asshole,” Zuko says, the corners of his mouth now drooping slowly into a downward slant.
Sokka’s laugh barks out of him in surprise. “That’s what you fixated on?”
Zuko nods, frowning harder.
Sokka’s chest feels tight, hands shaking as he fumbles his glass back down. “Okay,” he relents, with a slow breath, because Zuko is frowning and it would be close to endearing if it weren’t Sokka’s fault. “Well, what, do you believe in soulmates?” He asks, finally, though it might just have been the wrong thing to say when Zuko’s expression falls even further. Sokka’s about to take it back, tell him never mind even though he wants to know more desperately from that reaction alone, but he doesn’t want Zuko’s face to keep doing these things that make Sokka’s chest hurt.
But then Zuko says, quiet and tight, “I used to. Before–” His eyes skitter around the group, all cheery voices and loud activity, and he looks like he’s about to change his mind. “Actually, want to step outside for a few minutes? Get some fresh air?”
Sokka’s flailing to his feet without replying, but it’s answer enough for Zuko. No one says anything to them as Zuko slips a hand around Sokka’s elbow and leads him out of the oppressive air of their room, out to a nearby balcony just off of the hallway.
The chill that hits Sokka is a relief; he hadn’t known he’d even been sweating until the breeze works to dry the prickle of perspiration on his forehead. The sky above them is a deep, dark, velvety blue, the same color as his shirt, pinpricks of starlight twinkling overhead and the bright crescent of the moon. Sokka starts when he notices Zuko pull a pack of cigarettes from an inner pocket of his jacket, producing a lighter from the same one, and admires the way that the quick flame shows off his sharp features.
“I didn’t know you smoked,” Sokka says, feeling, frankly, stupid over it. Maybe not so much for not knowing, but, well– it’s a look.
“Only when I drink,” Zuko says with a shark’s grin that doesn’t reach his eyes. He blows a stream of smoke out of the corner of his mouth, away from Sokka, and leans his elbows against the top of the railing.
“You were going to tell me something,” Sokka prompts him, unable to look away from the set of the cigarette against Zuko’s plush lower lip.
Zuko is quiet for a while, taking long drags off of his cigarette. Sokka could not be called a patient man by most people, but he is right now– waiting, watching, allowing the night to work a bit to try and sober him up. It’s not perfect, and Sokka doesn’t think he wants to be completely sober for this anyway, not with his nerves misfiring like this.
When the words come, Sokka doesn’t know what he expected. But it certainly isn’t Zuko’s voice, breaking through the hazy smoke, saying, “I’m divorced.”
Sokka’s limbs lock. Something freezes in his chest, in his throat, and he finds that Zuko’s watching him. There’s nothing that Sokka can read in his gaze, but his fingers shake when he tips ash off the edge of the balcony. The sight of it settles in Sokka’s ribs. Puzzle pieces slide into place. He wonders if this is a precipice that they’re on, their soft, precarious friendship that he’s teetering too close to the end of. He reaches over, gently extracting the cigarette from Zuko’s hand, and offers him an easy, winning smile. “So I suppose you wouldn’t believe in soulmates, then,” he jokes, popping the cigarette into his own mouth.
Zuko’s laugh is beautiful and relieved. “I didn’t know you smoked,” he says, instead.
“Only socially,” Sokka grins, passing it back. It’s still pretty rare, but he exhales smoke from his nostrils and enjoys the burn of it in his lungs. “Don’t tell Katara. She’ll have a fucking fit.”
“Your secret’s safe with me,” Zuko promises, studying him.
Sokka bumps their shoulders together. “Tell me more?” He suggests, and lets himself be studied.
Zuko’s cigarette is stubbed out against the metal. “We’ve known each other our whole lives,” he says, slowly, feeling out how much or how little he wants to talk about. “We…were on and off, for a bit, through my first couple of years of university. But– I don’t know. I love her still, but not the same way. And I’m…afraid that I never did, not the way she deserved. It was cruel of me, to marry her without knowing that. I was just too young, I guess.”
Sokka thinks about that for a minute, the wash of Zuko’s low, rasping voice and his hesitance, the bitter twist of his mouth. “That’s why it ended, I take it?” He wants to be careful; he doesn’t think that Zuko will be chased off by his questions, but he’s not sure he wants to risk it, either.
There’s a little hum, and Zuko says, “I tried. I tried for years. And I think Mai knew that that’s all it was– all it was going to be, was trying.” He reaches up, fingers brushing his collarbone, before catching the chain around his neck. He pulls it free; a flash of gold, moonlight sifting through the diamond like a prism. Sokka stares, mesmerized, as it falls against the front of Zuko’s shirt soundlessly. “It was my mom’s. Mai was kind enough to give it back to me,” Zuko explains, and Sokka’s eyes fly up to his. He can’t stop his mouth from forming a little o of surprise.
He clears his throat, taking a step closer. “You said– I thought your dad– I mean, I know it’s meaningful either way–”
Zuko’s shaking his head though, his mouth barely curling at one corner. “She was engaged before, to her high school sweetheart. It seemed fitting at the time, to propose with it, you know? Now, it’s just…nice to have this part of her back. Before my father.”
Sokka inches closer. He should ask permission. He definitely should not reach out, like his hand is no longer under control of his brain, and gingerly flutter his fingertips against the collar of Zuko’s shirt, right next to the necklace. The easiness in Zuko’s posture changes; his shoulders tick up, tension in his brow. Sokka watches like he’s in a dream. An out of body experience. He’ll blame it on the drinks later, he assumes.
Zuko slashes him a look, but despite his tight jaw, he doesn’t move away as Sokka fingers over the chain, shifting close enough to feel the way Zuko’s breath stutters in his chest, close enough to share his warmth, close enough to tuck into his side if Zuko dropped his arm. Sokka catches the ring around the tip of his index finger, the chain tangled between his knuckles, lifting it to the twinkling lights provided by the night sky. He’s throwing all of that care he’d taken to the wind, now. “Did you think I was going to judge you?” He wonders, offhand, catching the flash of a grimace as it leaves Zuko’s face.
“Sokka,” Zuko says, like a warning, breath warm against Sokka’s face. But Sokka’s still too drunk, and besides, he can hear more fear underneath the snarling edges, and Zuko hasn’t been able to chase him off with that attitude so far, so why let him try now?
“Mm,” Sokka replies, an acknowledgment, the pad of his thumb tracing around the lines of the diamond.
“Sokka,” Zuko repeats, all crackling desperation.
“Zuko,” Sokka says, hearing the way he sounds hoarse to his own ears, gaze flitting up to meet Zuko’s wide eyes, moonlight shuddering through them and setting their gold aglow. The ring is warm between his fingers, from the press of Zuko’s skin, body heat seeped into the metal.
Zuko’s breath hisses out from behind his teeth in frustration and he jerks back, the chain singing through Sokka’s loose grip, putting a step of distance between them and effectively breaking whatever spell had fallen over Sokka’s foggy mind.
Cold night air rushes in at him in the spaces left over and he straightens, dizzy, his stomach churning and churning. His vision is blurry right around the edges, and he doesn’t think his feet were this insubordinate a few moments ago, but he’s reaching for the railing with trembling hands now.
“Sokka?” Zuko sounds worried, now, and Sokka feels guilty enough for making him uncomfortable. He’d love to say something reassuring but he’s afraid to open his mouth; afraid of what might come out. Afraid it’ll be words, or more than words, and both thoughts are concerning and cling to him uneasily.
“Fucking lush,” Toph’s voice floats at him, suddenly. Sokka blinks slowly, wondering when she’d joined them on the balcony. Wonders how long they’ve been gone that the others have finally come to look for them. “Let’s get you home, Snoozles.”
“I drove,” he protests to her form in the propped open doorway. Suki is hovering behind her. Sokka’s stomach rolls furiously. “Me and Zuko. I drove us.”
“I’ll drive,” Zuko says, tentatively, “if you trust me to drive your car.”
Sokka knows, mouth tilted, that Zuko doesn’t have any reason to be this kind to him right now. But the rational part of his brain, the part that had vacated the premises long enough for him to cross a boundary, knows that he can’t drive them. So he nods, silently, and makes his peace with his…ugh…fate.
–
Sokka thinks he says goodbye to everyone. He thinks someone– Toph, probably– fishes his wallet from his jeans and gives his bank account one last aneurysm for the evening. He thinks he walks to the car without assistance, and he thinks he might fumble his keys into Zuko’s waiting hands.
“Sokka,” Zuko says, from the driver’s seat, reaching over with careful hands to buckle him in, “I can drive us back to yours and get an Uber home.”
Sokka frowns. He’s still doing his thinking. “You can spend the night. Take my bed.”
“No, it’s– I don’t really want to leave Druk,” Zuko says. They’re already on the move. Sokka does not know when Zuko started driving, and he should choke back the grumpy noise in his throat, but he doesn’t. “You need rest,” Zuko huffs out a laugh, “not a slumber party.”
It buzzes somewhere beyond Sokka’s racing heart, the sound of it, despite everything. “What if I want a slumber party,” he says, petulantly, and Zuko’s glance is full of a fondness that Sokka has done nothing to earn this evening.
“Maybe another night,” Zuko replies, like a promise, and Sokka throws his pinky out in Zuko’s direction. “Sokka, I’m driving,” he laughs, exasperated, but he gets the picture: he hooks their pinkies together.
Sokka finally, finally stops thinking.
–
Zuko doesn’t even get to cross the threshold before his Uber is pulling into the parking lot. Sokka’s finally got his legs under him, and he’s not about to be the reason that Zuko gets charged extra just to help him into bed. He swears that he’ll drink water, and take painkillers before bed, and Zuko says he’ll text him when he gets home to make sure Sokka has followed all of his instructions.
Well? Zuko texts, while Sokka is curled up in bed and warm and has hydrated and choked down pills.
zzz, Sokka responds, with what little coordination he has left in his fingers, all doneees
Good boy, Zuko says, and Sokka is suddenly, achingly, wide awake.