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It was 6:32pm on a Wednesday when her mother died. Azula supposes she should have felt something other than detached irritation but then again Azula was Azula and her mother was right about her.
It’s a shame she could never tell her mother that in person.
Zuzu was bawling. Always weak. Always mother’s favorite. He was the source of her irritation.
Mother always did like weak things.
“Get up. We have to prepare for the funeral.”
Father would want it done quickly. No need to let the woman linger longer than necessary. He would be expecting them to be prepared. Azula doubted her brother even owned a suit.
She looked down on her brother, a hopeless mess, and eyed his measurements. She placed a call to their local tailor. The things she does for him. And then she waited.
At 7:13pm on a Wednesday Azula realized that her brother wasn’t going to stop crying. Insulting him didn’t make her feel better, it was like kicking one of those baby animals her mother is so fond of. Was. Her mother was fond of baby animals. Her mother is dead.
“She’s dead Zuko. Crying isn’t going to bring her back. Stop being a disappointment.”
Her brother didn’t listen to her advice, as usual, and if calling him by his name couldn’t snap him out of it then there was nothing much else she could do.
Azula took his phone, called his uncle, and left the phone next to him as it rung.
Her brother didn’t stop crying.
Azula started categorizing things she’d need for the funeral. She already had a dress, of course. Death was to be expected. Azula had assumed it would be Iroh who died first or Zuzu but it didn’t really matter. A funeral was a funeral.
She was prepared. Almost. The last funeral she attended was, ironically, with her mother and the drugged up hazy memory involved flowers. Azula has said something about the uselessness of gifting flowers to the dead and her mother had scolded her, as usual. Her mother was wrong. It was pointless to give flowers to the dead, but nonetheless if it was tradition then Azula would follow it if only to maintain the charade of caring.
At 7:20pm on a Wednesday night Azula left her brother crying on the floor to go buy flowers for her mother’s funeral.
She wished she never came back.
The trek to find a flower store was unnecessarily difficult. It seemed as though most stores had idiotically and inconveniently decided that it was impossible to sell flowers at night. As though the flowers could object. All but one store fell prey to this idiocy.
*Ding*
“Hi—”
“I need flowers for a funeral.” Azula said, interrupting the boy before he could finish whatever retail greeting he was about to spiel.
“What kind of flowers?”
Azula frowned. She hadn’t thought that far ahead. She turned and did a once over. A bald boy her age with vivid tattoos and a harmless smile was not who she expected to see running the night shift at a flower store. Oddly enough, it seemed to suit him.
“What flowers do you have?” she asked.
“Many kinds,” he said and then with too wise eyes he asked, “What did this person mean to you?”
“My mother. She meant nothing,” said Azula.
“Are you—”
She cut him off. “Flowers. I want the correct flowers and nothing more.”
The strange boy hesitated, then said, “tell me about her.”
And Azula did.
"Everything I did to earn her approval only garnered her fear."
Rain pattered against the heavy doors. Azula tapped her foot on the antique wooden floors. She had already given more than she allowed. However, it was warm inside though it smelled of flowers and old candles.
"You can stay as long as you like," said the boy for whom she had no name.
Perhaps it was the air about him. The kindness he gave without reason. The way he spoke as though they were old friends sharing a secret from many lifetimes ago. The way he listened.
"My mother died believing I was a monster. She was right—"
“I don’t think you’re a monster.”
The funeral wasn’t the next day as she had thought. Hoped.
Father, it seemed, was keeping up appearances. His muteness, though not uncommon, seemed colder when it was pitted against her brother’s frequent emotional outbursts.
Azula waited for her father to lay a heavy hand but he did nothing. Said nothing. Ate hardly anything.
This is ridiculous, thought Azula, staring at the fresh forget-me-nots on her window sill until her eyes burned.
There were muffled cries coming from both sides of her room.
Azula pressed her hands against her ears as the forget-me-nots withered.
“These were the wrong flowers,” she said upon her return.
His smile was far too cheerful for the occasion and the time of night.
“What’s your name?” he asked, holding out a hand.
Azula pressed the fallen petals into his hand, belatedly realizing she could have thrown out the forget-me-nots.
He unfurled the petals and gingerly placed them on the counter.
Buried etiquette lessons crawl out of her rib cage.
“My name is Azula. It is a pleasure to meet you,” recited Azula, the words sounding so small and faraway that she hardly recognizes herself.
“Aang,” says the boy with a bow and a smile.
Azula doesn’t return the smile.
“Those flowers are wrong,” she said then paused.
Azula doesn’t know which flowers are right, but rather than admit weakness, she left the statement hanging in the air and waited for him to rush and catch it.
Except Aang doesn’t follow expectation.
He sorted the petals, stems, and what-nots into piles on the counter; seemingly content with their silence which, Azula supposes, makes sense in the weird way the boy doesn’t make sense at all.
“What are you doing?” she asked in a voice that is no longer faraway yet still not quite hers, because Azula is not a soft and kind question but a — what is wrong with that child? — unapologetic truth.
“Sorting flowers,” he smiled, “Gyatso used to do it all the time. He said it made his hands smell nice.” Aang lifted his hand up to her face. The smell of flowers lingered on his palm.
“You work in a flower shop,” she said, “surely your hands must smell of flowers regardless.”
“It’s different when they’re given,” he said and then he reached into his pocket and plucked out a flower which he then pressed into Azula’s hand.
She stared at the flower for which she had no name. It was a pathetic sight. The passage of time having discolored and curled the petals inwards into a fragile mimicry of a human skull.
Azula pressed her too sharp nails into the skull. What is wrong with that child? Until it bled and the smell of flowers laced themselves around her fingers.
“How did he die?” she asked with practiced indifference.
“In his sleep.”
“How boring.”
“There was a fire.”
At this, Azula glanced up. “I wasn’t there,” said the boy, though without the obnoxious smile he felt to be around her age, “but he was a father to me so I tend the store for him.”
“How boring,” repeated Azula because there was something in this easy share of secrets that made her uncomfortable. She could tell, for example, by the way he talked that Gyatso had died this year. It wasn’t the sort of thing one should know about strangers.
“How did your mother die?” asked Aang with a smile.
Mother. Not mom. Perhaps she was going crazy but it seemed as though he knew. Knew what she couldn’t, wouldn’t, say.
“I’ll return tomorrow,” she said without answer.
He waved goodbye.
Azula paused, caught between intrigue and a feeling she couldn't place.
"Thank you for last time," she said.
He smiles far too easily, she thought even as she gave a small smile back.
Kindness, a demon almost as cruel as hope, had planted fish hooks in her heart. It tugged her back into the strange flower shop with the strange boy named Aang who had the most charming smile.
“She’s not buried yet?” he asked, his eyebrows raising in surprise.
“No,” Azula drummed her nails across the counter, ignoring her worn reflection in his bright eyes. “My family wants to make sure she’s dead.”
He tilted his head in innocent confusion and Azula let out a dry chuckle. “They want to make sure it was suicide.”
“How?”
She shrugged. The night air must be loosening her tongue. That, or it was the lack of sleep. “I don’t know. No one will tell me anything. I don’t care.”
“Why won’t they tell you?”
“My, aren’t we talkative today?” She leaned forward in delight, smirking as he tensed, “They probably think I killed her.”
He stared at her, but he didn't run away. Whether that was good or bad, Azula didn't know. It felt good.
“Why would you buy her flowers if you did?” he asked quietly.
Azula cradled her hand underneath her chin. “You tell me.”
He raised a hand and gently traced the dark circles underneath her eyes. “When did you last sleep?”
Too good.
Azula jerked back. “That doesn’t matter,” she snarled, rubbing her eyes. “I need flowers.”
“There are more in the greenhouse,” he said, leading her away from the room packed with perfectly acceptable flowers.
Azula matched his footsteps.
The greenhouse was more of an indoor garden. Everything so homely, so reeked with care, that Azula could practically feel the presence of whoever made it.
“Gyatso,” she murmured, reading the inscription on a stone bench.
“That was his favorite spot,” said Aang. He patted the bench and gestured for her to sit. “He would sit here surrounded by flowers and breathe in the air of life.”
“Life?” she muttered, when he sat down next to her. “What do flowers have to do with life? They’re such temporary things. A waste, really.”
“Do you want me to tell you about them?” he asked, and Azula should have said no but there was nothing at home but misery in all its pathetic glory.
“Of course,” she said, and the way he smiled almost made her forget.
They dressed in muted black.
“At least you match your girlfriend,” said Azula to her brother. He didn’t find it funny. “If you don’t quit scowling your face will get stuck that way.” He ignored her advice, as per usual, and scowled further. Then, completely unnecessarily, he said,
“I bet you’re happy.”
She was my mother too, was on the tip of her tongue but she swallowed the words. “Of course I am.”
“You didn’t give me any flowers,” said Azula accusingly upon her return and then she added a sarcastic, “I’m hurt.” for good measure.
His back was towards her and he didn’t turn at the sound of her voice.
Scowling, Azula reached over the counter and grabbed his shoulder.
He jumped, nearly twice his height, into the air before turning around and exclaiming, “You’re back!”
“And you’re as cheerful as ever,” she remarked before repeated her earlier words.
“I think I left them in my room upstairs,” he said apologetically.
“I don’t recall having specified a type of flower.”
“You seemed to like the last ones,” he said, and then, mistaking her shock for confusion clarified, “the ones that look like skulls when they decay?”
Why would you notice something like that? “I don’t like flowers.”
“I know.” He smiled. “Do you want to come up with me? I can’t leave you in the store alone.”
Azula glanced around at the perpetually empty at the midnight hour flower shop, before raising a solitary eyebrow at him.
He shrugged, sheepishly. “I’d also like the company.”
His room was more of a small apartment and sparse aside from a few trinkets and the bare necessities. Yet, strangely, it suited him. Aang wore strange well, decided Azula as she sat down on the antique couch.
The memory of her mother teaching her how to sit properly struck Azula and, in an act of defiance, she crossed her legs.
Aang brought out the flowers but Azula already knew they were wrong.
“I can’t show up with decaying flowers at a funeral,” she said, uncrossing her legs, “Obviously.”
“I like them,” said Aang, and he sat down next to her. Azula could see the bags under his eyes but she didn’t press, not until the silence felt like home.
“Tell me about your family,” she said, breaking the stillness of the air.
“I don’t have family,” he said, but I do have friends.
Azula thought of Mai and Ty Lee. “That’s not the same thing.”
“No,” he agreed, and the silence found them again.
Azula stared as he twisted the flower stems, tying them together with deft hands and old memories.
“I lost a lot of my family a long time ago. My friends are my new family,” he said, quietly.
It’s not the same thing.
When Azula said nothing, he raised a flower up for her inspection before tucking it behind her ear.
“Did your friends lose family?” she quietly asked.
“Yes.”
“But they—” she stopped herself. “Tell me a story.”
“About what?”
If he took offense to her demand, he didn’t show it. A strange request for a strange boy. How fitting.
Azula leaned her head back. “Death.”
Aang thought for a bit, before he gradually began to speak. His light, melodious voice filling the achingly familiar silence.
She listened to him tell tales of old friends who, whether by his face, or his voice, or something else entirely, Azula could tell were dead; and then she closed her eyes.
Azula awoke in an unfamiliar bed to a crown of flowers on her head.
She must have fallen asleep to the lullaby of his words.
Azula frowned and removed her crown. The flowers were smushed on one side. She straightened her hair and smoothed her clothes before making her way outside.
He was asleep on the couch.
“I could murder you, you know,” she said pleasantly. He twitched in his sleep and, on a whim, Azula ran her fingers over the tattoo on his shaved head.
“I know you’re awake.” When he didn’t respond to that, Azula lowered her guard.
“The tattoos suit you,” she said as an unheard farewell before moving towards the door and spying the bouquet of white lilies placed directly in her path.
Azula crept in after both her brother and her father.
This could be a new family tradition; sneaking in after the procession.
Azula ripped at the lilies in her hand, waiting to see if anyone would be walking in after her. She waited and listened for the smallest of breaths, but there was no one. No one had noticed she was gone.
Azula pried open the casket and threw the petals over her mother in a rush. Then, she simply stared. The white contrasted beautifully with her mother's drawn face and stiff posture. If her mother could open her eyes, then the image would be complete. As it were, the flowers were far too beautiful for this corpse.
Azula reached in and removed the petals. One by one she crumpled and shredded them into a mess on the floor.
Can’t yell at me now, can you mother?
She waited. And listened. It would be hilarious if Zuzu came back in and saw Azula making a mess around mother’s corpse. He’d throw a fit. It would be pointless. What could the dead do with flowers anyhow?
Azula closed the casket.
There were still petals in her hair that morning. Azula burned them all. A fitting end. It was foolish to give flowers to the dead and to the living. The scent of flowers mixed and ashes lingered on her palms. She brought her hands up to her face and took a deep breath. The smell suited him.
The smell clung to her clothes and followed her around the too big house full of people she’d rather wished were strangers.
Iroh was with Zuzu.
Her father was with her. She supposed.
Perhaps he’s keeping me distant because I look like mother, she thought, but it wasn’t a very good lie. She had always looked like Ursa and Father had always guarded his affection. He was prattling about things Azula already knew, before winding down the theatrics to ask if she had any questions.
This would normally be the moment where Azula would impress him, grabbing his affection like gold from the jaws of a dragon, but today, for whatever reason, all Azula had to ask was, “Do I look like mother?”
Her father frowned, but Azula found it hard to care. She couldn’t remember the last time her father had smiled instead of smirking. He likely had wrinkles.
While her father collected his thoughts, Azula pondered on how many years her father had left.
“Yes,” he said at last before adding, “Do not waste my time with vanity in the future, Azula. I expect better.”
“Yes, father,” replied Azula, counting his gray hairs.
“You are dismissed.”
“Those flowers didn’t fit,” said Azula. She crossed her arms, all too aware that she making a habit of visiting him. “My mother is ugly,” she continued, recalling her perpetual frown, “Those flowers were too beautiful for her.”
Aang tilted his head. “Ugly how?”
“Her mouth,” explained Azula, “is always frowning.”
“You’re frowning now,” pointed out Aang.
“That’s different,” scowled Azula.
“You don’t look ugly when you frown.”
“My mother is different. She looks like me but she’s different.”
He paused, and the silence said too much.
“Her funeral is almost over,” said Azula.
“Peach roses,” replied Aang, but he didn’t move to retrieve them.
In a mockingly sweet tone, Azula asked if he was afraid of her.
Aang shook his head.
“Are you sure?” she purred, leaning closer.
He locked eyes. “I’m afraid of how well we know each other.”
We’re strangers. “It’s the way they look at you, isn’t it?” said Azula the words burning through the fortress of her mouth. “Either they expect you to be unbothered or they drown you in pity.”
Mai and Ty Lee.
“They care,” said Aang, but he didn’t deny her words.
“You’re a prodigy.” It was not a question, but a statement. Something Azula had known instinctively.
“As are you,” he said, nodding in confirmation.
“What you really want to do,” continued Azula, “is to forget the dead as easily as they forgot the living.”
“I don’t think Gyatso has forgotten about me,” countered Aang, “his flowers still bloom.”
“They’re your flowers now,” she said, stubbornly crossing her arms, “admit it. It hurts to remember.”
“It does, but in a good way,” said Aang with a smile like a stray beam of sunlight across a shuttered window.
“Tell me the bad ways,” she said, pressing gingerly, “and I’ll tell you the good.”
“Your flowers—”
“I’ll come back for them later.”
“Where were you Azula?” asked Uncle Iroh. For a moment, Azula thought he had trailed her on a previous excursion, but then she realized he was referring to today. The day Azula was supposed to pay her last respects.
“I don’t see why it matters,” sighed Azula. “I was never particularly fond of her.”
She waited for him to say something. Anything. But her Uncle only shook his head and walked away.
Azula stood alone in the empty corridor.
Azula lingered next to the peach roses.
“When are you going to ask me to leave?” she asked.
“I don’t want you to,” he said, and a rose of color bloomed on his cheeks. I mean,” he coughed, “you’re free to stay here as long as you want. It’s nice having you around.”
“I’m not nice at all,” she corrected. “The only reason you envy my attention is because the flowers can’t return any.”
Aang stared in shock before frowning.
I told you I’m not nice.
He opened his mouth. “When was it?”
Perhaps he had a point. They did know each other too well to be mere strangers.
“It’s none of your business,” said Azula, which translated roughly to today.
He pointed to a basket of bulbs. “Where is she buried? We can plant them.”
“I don’t think that’s wise. My mother may come back if she saw them,” said Azula, “To scold me for some silly thing. She loved flowers more than she ever pretended to love me.”
“Sometimes we get stuck in grief,” said Aang, simply. Azula hated him in that moment.
“I’m not grieving.”
“You need to plant the flowers.”
“I don’t need to do anything.”
“She won’t come back.”
Azula left.
If she didn’t care then she wouldn’t think about it. If she wasn’t thinking about it then she would be able to sleep.
Azula tossed and turned in her bed, the smell of flowers fading from her hands.
*Ding*
“Plant the stupid flowers. I don’t care.”
She didn’t care.
She didn’t.
“What was she like?” asked Aang. He had asked a similar question when she first strode into the shop, and now, kneeling in graveyard dirt, he repeated the sentiment.
He treats me the same as everyone, thought Azula. The idea was both thrilling and disappointing.
She had hoped. She was a fool. And with the fearless courage that came from knowing one was wrong, Azula knelt and held his face in her dirt covered hands.
“Kiss me.”
He stilled. “I don’t think that’s wise.”
“Do you want to?”
He said nothing. Azula tilted his face. She leaned in.
He held a finger to her lips. “Afterwards,” he promised.
Azula stood and dusted the dirt off her hands. “I’m not coming back to the flower shop after this,” she stated.
“Will you come back to your mother’s grave?” asked Aang.
“My mother is in an urn,” said Azula, and she walked away from the unnamed woman’s grave.
Three days later there were forget-me-nots on her doorstep.
She ignored them.
She did.
But her lie lingered on her palms and try as she might she could not wash the scent away.
There was an urn in her father’s room that contained her mother’s ashes and a few, insignificant, flower petals.
Azula walked into the flower shop.
“My hands smell of flowers,” she said.
“Mine do too,” replied Aang with a soft smile.
“How do you get rid of it?”
“Do you want to?”
She stared at him and said nothing.
He rose and left a petal shaped kiss on the palm of her hand.
Not the same as everyone then.
Azula smiled as he raised his head. “Your lips smell of flowers as well,” she said.
He stared at her and said nothing.
Azula leaned in and murmured her secret into his mouth.
“I miss her.”