Chapter Text
'I love you' wasn't always in the words. It wasn't always a whispered confession, or a laughed out declaration.
It was the way Bato would always let Hakoda borrow his furs even though they were too tight and too long for Hakoda. It was the way he'd sit behind Hakoda every morning and rebraid his hair. It was in the way he'd take his hand and gently pull him away from another dumb idea.
It was the way Hakoda would always pretend he was too warm for the spare blanket so Bato would take it. It was the way he'd spend the time gently massaging salves into Bato's scars. It was in the way he'd laugh at all of Bato's jokes even if he was cringing inside.
Love was the way they'd reach out to each other in their sleep, waking up always touching somehow, curled around each other or barely touching by the fingertips. It was in the way they smiled, the way the eye contact lingered; a firm hand on the shoulder that fell to rest on the arm before twining their fingers together. It was in the way they'd tuck each others hair back when any fell loose, or how they'd pull each other's hoods up, or fuss over if the other was wrapped up warm enough.
Right now, love was support. Hakoda had spent so long trying to be strong for his family, for his Tribe, that he never allowed himself to cry. Bato could tell that today was a rough day, that Hakoda was holding back tears. He'd been doing it for most of his life, even when he didn't realise it, and it tore him apart inside. He'd done his best to make sure Sokka knew that real men cried too: to never repress his emotions to the point that he could no longer express them openly, to the point that it festered and brewed and destroyed him from the inside out like it had done to Hakoda.
It was like he was waiting for permission, for reassurance that he could stop being strong and finally break apart.
So Bato pulled him into his embrace and smoothed his hair back, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of his head. "You can cry with me, love."
Hakoda finally broke apart; finally allowed himself to be vulnerable, with the one person he could be truly vulnerable with. He was grieving everything: his children's lost childhoods, the loss of his men at war, Kya, and himself- spirits knew Hakoda felt like he'd lost himself in the maelstrom of war.
Tonight, love wasn't words; love was the trust between two men. Love was being vulnerable, and love was gentle reassurances whispered into the darkness; that it was going to be okay, that Bato would take care of him, that it was okay to cry. It was always okay to cry.
Tonight, love was too tired men crying together in the darkness, allowing themselves to be vulnerable, because it was safe. Love was feeling safe enough to break apart when everywhere else expected you to be strong. Love was comfort, and the 'I love you' was in every tear Hakoda allowed to fall, and in every tear Bato gently wiped away.