Chapter Text
“Excuse me? Do you know where I might find-”
Shiro turns his head toward the source of the question. It’s a man, a young man– one Shiro does not immediately recognize, although the stranger certainly seems to recognize him. Perhaps it was the golden crown pressed into his top knot or the infamous burn across the bridge of his nose that gave it away.
The man presses his mouth shut with a muffled noise and quickly bows his head, the many scrolls in his hands rustling with the abrupt movement. Even in the dimly lit hallway, Shiro can spot a slight flush rise to his ears, and something like endearment surges within his chest.
“Pardon me, your highness,” he mutters, eyes still glued to the ground. Shiro is met with a sudden urge to reach out and touch a hand to his shoulder– to reel the stranger back in. Instead he decides on a soft chuckle.
“Please, that won’t be necessary,” Shiro explains, taking a step closer to the man.
He cautiously lifts his head, eyes dancing around Shiro’s face, avoiding his aureate gaze. Shiro takes the chance to examine the man. He’s even younger than Shiro first assumed, likely a few years below himself; a rarity within these royal walls. His raven-dark hair hangs around his eyes, effortlessly disheveled in a way that could be due to meticulous styling or the rushed stomping down the hallway, that Shiro only just interrupted.
He finds himself drawn to the slight scar that runs from his jaw up his right cheek; how his skin stretches around it. It reminds Shiro of the one he often adverts his gaze from in his own reflection.
The man takes a step back, pointing behind himself. “I’m sorry to bother you, sir. I will just be-“
“You’re new,” Shiro interrupts, curiosity spiking deep within him.
“Uh — yes,” he pauses, shuffling his feet, "yes, I'm General Sendak’s new assistant.”
“Assistant,” Shiro crosses his arms, absorbing that information with a soft hum. “I didn’t know the general needed an assistant.”
The man shrugs, a soft smile on his lips. “I’m new.” His initial anxiety seems to be leaving his body as the tension in his shoulders drops.
Shiro chuckles once more, resisting the urge to step closer. An alluring charisma radiates off of this stranger, stronger now with the gentle curve of his lips. “That’s right,” Shiro clears his throat. “Well, where was it you were trying to find again?” He asks, bringing up the original question that sparked this introduction.
“Oh — um, the mailing room,” the man explains, lifting the scrolls in his arms as a sort of indicator.
Shiro nods, understanding. “You’re heading in the right direction. The room is just down that hallway and then the second door on your left,” Shiro answers, gesturing to the hall behind them.
The man nods and brushes past the Fire Lord, his pace quickening until he stumbles to a brief halt. Shiro turns his head to watch him fold himself into another unpracticed bow.
“Thank you so much for the help, my lord,” he mutters.
Shiro can’t help the smile that climbs his face. He waves away the gratitude with his hand. But before the man can fully turn back around, Shiro finds himself opening his mouth again. “Perhaps whenever you have a break from your duties, I can give you a proper tour of the palace,” he offers, surprising even himself — it’s not like he has an ample amount of free time himself to be auctioning up with an entire kingdom under his belt, an entire kingdom at war that is.
The man offers a smile, a nod, and a quick “that would be nice,” before he’s disappearing down the candle-lit hallway.
Shiro shakes his head; at himself, at this unexpected exchange. It’s not uncommon to come across unfamiliar faces within a palace this size, but rarely does he find himself this fascinated with a stranger. He blames it on the age of the man. Since the abrupt disappearance of his brother, almost every interaction in his day to day life is with an ancient council member; faces well worn and beards long and wiry.
It’s not until Shiro reaches the door to his office that he realizes that he didn’t even catch the man’s name.
He catches it a few days later. He’s in the palace’s massive war room, seated at the oversized plotting table, wooden rods and miniature troops strategically scattered around a map of the Earth Kingdom.
Shiro sighs into his seat, organizing his notes while fire sages and generals slowly file past the walls of flames and out the door. The chair directly to Shiro’s right scrapes back, but he lifts his hand, stopping Sendak from rising. Shiro looks up from the papers in his hands. “I met your assistant the other day.”
Sendak pauses. “Did you?” He asks, swallowing his habitual irritation in order to play along.
“He’s young,” Shiro states, it’s not a question, but he’s looking for an answer. When he doesn’t receive one, he speaks up again.
“If it’s assistance you need, we have plenty of extra hands within the palace.”
“I know him from the front lines,” Sendak explains.
Shiro sits with that for a moment, thinking. “He’s a soldier?”
“Was,” Sendak corrects.
Shiro raises a brow. "He’s young to be retired.”
“He was useful elsewhere,” Sendak explains, patience quickly growing thin. Shiro can spot it easily, the way his entire body tenses, his nostrils flaring. If he were to step any closer he could feel the air shift as Sendak’s body began to radiate overflowing heat. Sendak is an open book — an open, violent, hot-headed book— one Shiro learned to read at a very young age. But Shiro is no longer a child, and his throne sits higher than anyone else’s in this kingdom, so he continues to push.
“As your assistant.”
Sendak’s hands slam down on the table as he pushes up to stand.
“Is there anything else I can do for you, my lord, or have we not spent enough time today discussing our soldiers’ every next movements?” he asks, putting an end to their little game. Shiro does not immediately respond, so Sendak takes it as a dismissal.
It’s not until his hand is on the doorknob that Shiro opens his mouth once more.
“His name?”
Sendak turns to the Fire Lord with a grin that’s all teeth and no warmth. “Akira,” he answers before walking out the door and shutting it behind himself.
Shiro smiles to himself and repeats the name to the empty room, testing it out on his tongue.
“Akira, right?” Shiro asks, holding out his hand to accept the papers. He nods, a trace of surprise dancing across his brow before he steps back from the young Fire Lord.
“Sendak needs you to sign these,” Akira responds before tacking on a quick “your highness” at the end.
Shiro’s lips curve up. “No need for that,” he mutters, the repertoire becoming some sort of habit between the two. His eyes skim over the scroll in his hands, the gentle smile painting his face quickly falling into a frown. He lets out a deep sigh, his forehead tightening.
“Everything okay?” Akira asks, craning his head forward to get his own brief glimpse at the seemingly frustrating text.
Shiro shakes his head, frown deepening. “We didn’t agree on this,” he mutters, flipping through the updated war plans. “I told him-“ He groans, rolling the scroll up with a touch of aggression.
Akira clears his throat and holds out his hand. “I can return it to him and explain the confusion, sir.”
Shiro looks up at the man before him and places a smile back onto his face. This one is more rehearsed, less honest than the simple curve of his lips from a moment ago. Shiro takes a deep breath, releasing the tension in his shoulders. “Why don’t I accompany you,” he offers, rising from his desk, his knees and ankles cracking from movement. He’s been sitting in his office since the early hours in the morning, he could definitely use the exercise.
“Of course,” Akira replies, as if he even had an opportunity to reject the request. He steps to his left, allowing Shiro to catch up to his side.
The walk to the left wing of the palace is filled with an uncomfortable silence, the sounds of their footsteps echoing against the polished marble floors. They pass through dimly-lit hallways, candles flickering shadows onto the tall, ornate walls.
Shiro turns his head to watch Akira. His hair is brushed back today, significantly less disheveled than their first meeting. It’s long, probably long enough to be pulled back into the uniform top knot almost every man sports within the court. And yet his hair still hangs down to his collar, the ends twisting up in almost a comical way. Shiro likes it– likes the way one strand always seems to be falling into his eyes. It feels rebellious in a way that reminds Shiro of when he was a boy and sitting at his mother’s vanity, her golden comb scraping his forelock back and back again, her hands twisting and pulling at his scalp, her gentle smile at the pout pressed into his lips.
He clears his throat, shaking the memory. “Sorry if he directs his anger toward you.”
“When does he not,” Akira replies dryly, eyes dancing over to Shiro.
Shiro finds a laugh creeping out of his throat before he can stop it.
The noise seems to lift the other man's face. He smiles back at him.
“You’re a brave man for tagging along,” Akira jokes.
Shiro shrugs. “Perhaps I’m in the mood for a fight.”
Akira raises an eyebrow at the taunt but they arrive at the door to Sendak’s office before he can offer a full response.
Shiro lightly taps Akira’s shoulder with the scroll in his hands. “You wait out here while I deal with this.”
“Yes, sir,” Akira nods, snapping into a statue of professionalism.
Shiro eyes him for a moment before opening the door and entering the room. Sendak’s head snaps up at the unexpected intrusion.
“I can’t sign these.” Shiro tosses the plans onto Sendak’s desk. The scroll rolls off toward the edge and topples to the floor.
“Good evening, Fire Lord Shirogane,” Sendak calmly replies, ignoring the outburst. “It seems my assistant misunderstood the simple task I gave him.”
“The only person misunderstood is you. This outline ignores almost everything we agreed upon in our last meeting!” Shiro shouts, irritation rising.
“Your idealistic request to pull troops while simultaneously enacting a three direction attack was just that-” Sendak reaches down to pick up the fallen scroll. He unrolls it, eyes dancing across the text. He looks back up to Shiro. “-Naive.”
The corners of Shiro’s mouth sink. Anger boils just underneath his skin. “We lack both the resources and proper openings to execute this strategy you’ve outlined,” he mutters through clenched teeth. “If we charge them head on, we risk the lives of soldiers and civilians alike! We can no longer afford to-”
“My Lord,” Sendak interrupts, the title a taunt on his lips. He stands, leveling himself with Shiro. “My men and I appreciate the ideas you brought to the table, however the crown on your head does not make up for your considerable lack of experience. You seem confused, I need your signature, nothing else.” He steps closer to man, pushing the scroll into his chest. “If that task proves too difficult for you, I’d be more than happy to assist.”
Shiro glares at the older man, jaw set and shoulders tall. He swallows once, pushing his rising enmity back down his throat. Refusing to look down at the papers pressed to his robe, he turns, exiting the dark office with the slam of the door.
“You’re letting your temper get the best of you,” Ulaz says over the brim of his steaming cup of tea, Shiro’s soft groan drowned out over his noisy sip of oolong.
“How am I supposed to get anything done if my own generals refuse to listen to me,” Shiro asks, rubbing his temples, exhaustion and anxiety slipping through his usually tight mask.
“Nephew, you need to relax.”
Shiro’s not really his nephew, not by blood, but Ulaz had been a friend of his mother’s since infancy. He had more of a hand in raising Shiro than his own father did. When Shiro was young he found himself more than once falling asleep with a quiet wish pressed into pillow; a dream dancing across his eyelids where Ulaz was his actual father, replacing the nightmare that was his reality.
“You’re young. You’re new to the throne. They still need time to adjust,” Ulaz continues.
“I was crowned over two years ago, Ulaz! When will they deem me fit to rule the throne they placed me on?” Shiro spits, voice raising.
Ulaz lowers his cup back down to its matching saucer, inhaling and exhaling slowly. Unintentionally, Shiro’s own chest follows the rhythmic movement. He calms slightly with each breath.
“You are different from your father in almost every way and they know that, Takashi. They fear that. You speak about change in a room full of men who are ruled by comfort and routine and order. It will be a long, slow, uphill battle, but one day they will listen,” Ulaz explains. “But they won’t when you scream and throw things at them.”
“I didn’t-“ Shiro attempts before Ulaz interrupts.
“You did and people are talking. Your men will treat you like a child if you continue to act like one. Don’t give them that satisfaction, nephew.”
Shiro huffs and presses his cheek into his palm, leaning his elbow on top of the small table strewn with foreign teas and rose tarts. The past few days have been particularly long ones and he’s itching to step into one of the many training rooms beneath the palace– to release this growing irritation through flames from his fists.
Ulaz raises his cup again, gaze pointed at Shiro’s slumped position. “Try the oolong. I had it specially imported from the Earth Kingdom.”
With a tight handful of breadcrumbs and far too many knots twisted into his shoulders, Shiro steps into the private garden for a moment of relaxation, only to spot an unexpected raven seated under his usual tree.
“What are you doing here?” Shiro asks, his pent up frustration adding an unintended bite to the question.
Akira twists his head to Shiro, his hand rising up to block out the setting sun. “Am I not allowed to be here?” he asks, innocence and concern dripping in his voice.
Shiro holds his gaze for a tense moment before sighing and plopping down next to the man, any remaining fight leaving his body. He opens his fist and picks out a piece of the leftover bread, tossing it into the pond by his feet. A small turtle-duck swims out toward the crumb, beak pecking at the floating meal.
The two men sit in silence save for the quiet quacking and splashing. Akira slowly reaches out and takes a crumb from Shiro’s palm, tossing it to another wandering duck.
Shiro turns to regard the man. “How did you even get here?” He asks, voice now void of any aggression. “This is a private garden.”
Akira shrugs with a soft smirk. “I was wandering. It looked nice.”
Shiro directs his gaze back to the pond in front of him, shaking his head and echoing the man with a soft “wandering” on his lips, as if it were that easy.
They feed the ducks until Shiro’s palm is empty. The birds squawk for more, growing confident and swimming closer to the men’s feet before they lose interest and swim back to their mother.
Shiro leans back on his palms, looking up at the violet sunset. He’s not used to the company. It’s been years since someone sat by his side in these gardens. Since the passing of his mother, he’d forgotten other people can even access this secluded haven. This garden is so fiercely his own it sometimes feels as if it's just a figment of his imagination. The lush, green grass and vibrant splash of flowers seem so out of place in a kingdom of flames filled with so much red and black.
“You’re a soldier.”
This takes Akira by surprise. He flinches slightly before turning his chin to Shiro. He nods. Then adds a quiet “yeah” when he realizes Shiro is still watching the sky.
“When?” he asks.
Akira pauses at the vagueness of the question. He fidgets with his hands in his lap, quietly cracking his knuckles. “I joined when I was fourteen.” It sounds like a question — unsure if this is what Shiro was looking for.
Shiro finds himself wincing at the answer. The legal age for joining the army is technically sixteen but Shiro knows better than most that the Fire Nation often turns a blind eye to legality.
His gaze shifts to Akira. “When did you leave?”
“About a year ago.”
He lights up at this, slightly. “I would’ve seen you, then. Did we ever meet? I don’t remember.”
Akira shakes his head. “We had no reason to meet. I’m not a bender. But I remember you,” he admits.
“Oh.” Shiro flushes slightly at his response. When Sendak explained Akira was a soldier, he had simply assumed he’d be a fire bender like himself. Something close to excitement dims within his chest when he realizes he didn’t stumble upon a new sparring partner.
“Everyone thought you were so brave, charging the front lines like that,” Akira continues.
The corner of Shiro’s lip quirks up. “Yeah?”
Akira laughs, all breathy and soft. “I thought you were a fool,” he replies, turning to meet Shiro’s gaze, eyes serious. “A fool with too much to lose to prove a point to a man who wouldn’t care.”
Whatever look that crossing Shiro’s face, something between shock and amazement, must be hilarious because Akira laughs once more, deep from his chest. He leans over to shove Shiro’s shoulder, snapping him from his brief stun.
“You proved your point at least, winning that battle.”
Shiro shrugs, willfully ignoring the slight heat rising in his cheeks. “Our opponent surprised us.”
Shiro’s not used to banter like this, not from a man well below his own rank, but where there should be anger rising in his chest, something else seems to bloom.
“They made a mistake, one they probably regretted afterwards. That was a good win for the kingdom.”
He speaks easily of the battle of Gaoling, as if it were a Pai Sho game and not the actual bloody massacre it was. He shouldn’t be surprised. Akira was a boy born into war, raised around death, and now is the assistant to the puppet master behind it all. Still Shiro can’t help the slight chill that climbs up his spine.
They fall back into a silence, less comfortable than the one from before. Shiro clears his throat.
“Can you fight?” he asks. It’s supposed to come out as a challenge, but a touch of nerves slip through his delivery.
Akira raises a brow. “Do you need me to?”
Shiro shakes his head. “Can you spar?” he corrects, cheeks heating at the request.
Akira pauses, absorbing the question. He leans back on his palms, eyes lifting up as he smiles softly to himself. “Yeah.” He turns his head back to Shiro. “Yeah, I can.” He lifts up a finger, pointing it at the Fire Lord. “But you have to play fair. No bending. I got enough burns as it is.”
Shiro’s eyes dance back to the scar on his cheek. He wonders how he got it– if it was the result of undirected crossfire or an attack with a purpose. With a slight twist to his stomach he hopes it’s the former.
Shiro offers his hand, holding it between the two men. “Deal.”
Akira clasps his palm into Shiro’s own, his grip solid and tight. “Deal,” he repeats, excitement etched into his grin.