Archive of Our Own ^beta

“The important thing in life is not the triumph, but the fight;
the essential thing is not to have won, but to have fought well.”

“Hockey player.”

“Hmm, okay. How about that guy?”

“Oh, speed skater for sure. Look at the size of his thighs.”

Sokka laughs. “Okay, yeah, that one was too easy. How about her?”

Katara tilts her head contemplatively and narrows her eyes at the French woman sitting a few tables away from them. “Hmm, I don’t know. Ski jumping, maybe?”

Sokka hums. “Could be. She’s pretty skinny. Not that I know anything about ski jumping, though.”

Trying to guess someone’s sport based on their body type—it’s a game that he and Katara play almost every time they come to the dining hall. It’s a fun way to pass the time, and a welcome distraction from the nerves that have been simmering just beneath the surface ever since he first arrived in Beijing.

It’s still the week before the beginning of the Games, and the reality of the situation has yet to sink in completely. Even with the months of preparation and training that have led up to this moment, even though he is literally, currently sitting in the infamous Olympic Village dining hall, Sokka still feels a little bit like he’s in a fever dream. He worries that if he thinks about it too hard, it might all just disappear.

He finds that ogling his fellow athletes makes everything more bearable, though. Nothing like staring at the most objectively attractive people on the entire planet to bring you back down to earth. They can go at it for hours, if they want to—there’s definitely no shortage of eye candy to go around.

“Okay, uh, look at her,” Katara says, pointing at a woman with the Norwegian flag embroidered on her hoodie.

Sokka considers her for a moment. “Hmm…I’d say biathlon. Look at her arms.”

Katara nods in agreement, her fork tapping idly against the table as she surveys the room once more.

Sokka casts around the massive dining hall too, trying to find someone interesting. There are always some athletes whose sports are pretty easy to guess—the speed skaters, of course, and the hockey players are a very different kind of big—and he wants to keep the game challenging.

Sokka’s gaze finally lands on a guy with long black hair, wearing a very snug-fitting Team USA track jacket, and his breath catches in his throat. Because hot damn, that is one beautiful man, even with the scar that stretches across the left side of his face. And that’s saying a lot, because they’re at the Olympics, where everyone is beautiful by virtue of being in peak physical condition—but this guy manages to blow the rest of them out of the water. He looks like a god.

“Shit, look at that guy,” Sokka breathes. He can’t stop staring at how tightly the jacket is stretched across his broad shoulders, the way his long hair spills messily across his perfect face. “What do you think? Bobsled? Hockey player?” Hockey seems unlikely, given that Sokka has done extensive reconnaissance on each and every player on the American hockey team—and there’s no way that he missed this guy, not with a face like that—but damn. The guy is built.

Katara turns in her seat to follow his line of sight, and Sokka watches her eyes go wide as she sucks in a sharp breath. She whips back around and leans in towards Sokka, hunching over their trays of food on the table.

“Sokka, don’t you know who that is?” she hisses.

Sokka frowns at her. “What? No. Should I?”

“That’s Zuko Nakayama.” At Sokka’s blank look, she lets out an exasperated sigh. “You know, the figure skater? He and his sister are like, super famous.”

Sokka glances back towards the guy—Zuko Nakayama, apparently—and finally notices the woman sitting next to him. She has the same black hair, the same sharp, elegant features, that same aura of untouchable beauty. His sister, he assumes.

“But I thought figure skaters were all, like, super skinny,” Sokka says. “You know, so they can twirl around the ice all daintily?” He can’t contain the disdain that creeps into his voice. A figure skater? Really? He couldn’t have picked someone better to drool over?

“Just goes to show how much you know about figure skating,” Katara says wryly.

“You know I don’t care about that dumb shit,” Sokka says, rolling his eyes. “It’s barely even a real sport.”

“Whatever you say, tough guy.”

Sokka turns back towards his food, wrenching his gaze away from Nakayama and his sister, and takes a huge bite of steak. “Okay, moving on.”

“Don’t talk with your mouth full, that’s disgusting.”

Sokka flips her off as he scans the dining hall again, searching for their next target. Annoyingly, his gaze keeps sliding back over to Nakayama against his own will, and he mentally smacks himself. Gorgeous though he may be, Sokka doesn’t need to be wasting his brainpower ogling a goddamn figure skater.

“Okay, um…” Sokka chews his lip, trying to find someone interesting. “German guy, over near the coffee machines.”

Katara cranes her head around to look, and at that exact moment someone appears over her shoulder with a sudden and chipper, “Hi!” Katara jumps and yelps in surprise, jarring the table with her knee and making their trays rattle dangerously.

“Sorry!” the guy says, one hand raised in apology, the other still clutching his tray of food. He looks to be about eighteen or nineteen years old, with his hair buzzed close to his head. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I just—you’re Katara Kinalik, right? And Sokka Kinalik?”

“Um. Yes?” Katara says. She exchanges a look with Sokka, seeming both pleased and baffled at having being recognized. It’s not like either of them are very well known, after all.

“Sweet!” The guy slides into the seat next to Katara, and Sokka raises an eyebrow at his forwardness. “I’m Aang Gyatso. I do freestyle skiing.” He holds out a hand, all bright-eyed enthusiasm, and Katara tentatively shakes it.

“Katara. I snowboard, although you, uh, probably already knew that.” She tilts her head and gives him a quizzical look. “I think I’ve heard about you. You’re competing independently, right?”

“Yep! That’s me.” Aang straightens a little in his seat, his chest puffed up with pride.

And now that Katara’s brought that up, Sokka recognizes him too. “Aren’t you Canadian, though? Why compete independently?”

“Oh, that’s easy,” Aang says breezily. “I was born in Tibet, so I thought it’d be nice to represent my heritage, but competing for China was out of the question, so. Here I am, representing my people by competing independently.” He pulls open the collar of his track jacket to show them a small Tibetan flag sewn into the inner lapel. “See?”

Katara sits back, looking faintly impressed. “Huh. That’s really cool, actually.”

“Right?” Aang bounces a little bit in his seat. It reminds Sokka of an overly excitable puppy. “Man, it’s so cool to meet you guys.” He turns to Katara. “I saw you compete at the X Games last year. You were amazing!”

Katara blushes a little at the praise, and Sokka watches as she tucks a nonexistent piece of hair behind her ear—it’s one of her biggest tells for when she’s trying to flirt with someone, and something that Sokka has teased her mercilessly about in the past.

“Thank you,” she says, ducking her head and smiling, and Sokka decides at that moment to tune them out. He’s not really in the mood to sit through his sister’s awful attempts at flirting.

He chews absentmindedly at his food as he surveys the enormous dining hall, the steady din of conversation filling the air. He busies himself with trying to scope out the hottest people he can find and rating them on how feasible sleeping with them might be, with 1 being ‘absolutely never going to happen’ and 10 being ‘totally achievable.’ Though the amount of people that end up being in the lower digits is kind of disheartening.

He deliberately does not look in Nakayama’s direction. Nakayama is a solid so fucking far out of his league that he’s in the goddamn stratosphere, so Sokka doesn’t even bother.

His eyes land on a woman wearing a Team USA tank top, her eyes lit up in a smile as she laughs along with the others at her table. She is spectacularly hot. Sokka appreciatively eyes the definition of her bare arms, the visible strength in her slender frame. She seems friendly, if a little intimidating—a solid 7, Sokka thinks. He makes a mental note to look her up later.

There’s a sudden commotion on the far side of the dining hall. Heads turn all around him to watch the two men who have clambered onto a table, wearing nothing but their underwear and business ties around their necks, and begun to hand feed each other bites of food.  People all around them erupt into cheers and wolf whistles, egging them on. Sokka raises his eyebrows and turns back towards Katara, biting back a grin at her openly scandalized expression.

“You know, you hear stories, but I didn’t think it would actually be like this,” Aang says as he chews thoughtfully on a piece of tofu, eyes trained on the spectacle before them.

Just then, someone playfully slaps the ass of one of the men on the table, the resounding smack carrying over the crush of voices, and Sokka can’t hold back his grin any longer. Maybe everything is finally starting to sink in; he feels suddenly giddy, like he can barely sit still, spurred on by the frenzy of activity around them. Excitement zinging through his veins like an electric current, he spreads his arms wide and crows:

“Welcome to the Olympics, baby!”

—

Early morning practices are a very specific brand of torture, Sokka thinks.

He pushes open the dressing room door, hockey bag slung over one shoulder and his hair still wet and dripping onto his shirt, and shuffles his way down the hall towards the lobby. It hadn’t even been a particularly hard practice—Coach doesn’t want to push them too hard before their actual games—but his knee is aching and he’s still feeling kind of jetlagged and all he wants to do is collapse into his shitty little twin bed and sleep for the next twelve hours.

Something makes him pause, though, right before he steps through the sliding doors and into the cold air outside. He frowns, straining all his senses, until…

Is that…music?

Now that Sokka has managed to identify it, he can’t not hear it. It’s still faint, but it’s definitely there, and if he really strains his ears he can even manage to make out a faint melody. But why would there be music playing in the training rinks…?

Oh.

Sokka had known, on some level, that the training hall housed the practice rinks for both the hockey teams and the figure skaters, but somehow he had never really had to confront that fact until now.

Curiosity overtakes him, and he drops his bag and sticks to the ground, cocking his head as he follows the music down another hallway, away from the hockey rink. How he had never managed to notice this hallway before now is a mystery, although it might have something to do with the fact that all of their practices so far have been in the mornings, and Sokka is not a functional human being before noon. The music grows louder as he goes, a sweeping orchestral piece that drifts through the air and sends shivers down his spine.

Sokka pauses outside the doors to the figure skating rink. The windows in the doors are too narrow to see through properly, and he hesitates with his fingers resting lightly on the handle. He probably shouldn’t be here. He doesn’t even know why he’s here—it’s not like he cares about figure skating. He should probably get back to the rest of his team, before the bus leaves without him.

But…it couldn’t hurt to just take a peek. Right?

Curiosity wins out again. Steeling himself, Sokka turns the handle as quietly as possible, which is probably unnecessary, since the music is loud enough that it drowns out almost every other sound. He glances around before edging his way inside, carefully easing the door shut behind him. He sticks close to the wall of the tunnel as he tiptoes his way towards the ice; he’s still not convinced that he’s not trespassing, and he doesn’t want to get caught.

There’s the sharp scratch of skates against ice. A moment later, two bodies fly past where he’s lurking near the boards, in perfect synchronization. Sokka flinches back, his eyes widening, and he swears that he stops breathing as he recognizes the skaters.

It’s Nakayama.

Well, Nakayama and his sister. So the Nakayamas, technically.

The two of them glide across the ice, weaving around each other in a complicated series of steps. Suddenly, the brother—Zuko, Sokka thinks his name is—grabs his sister by the waist and, before Sokka can even really process what’s happening, launches her into the air as she spins and spins before landing back down on one skate.

Sokka gapes, impressed despite himself. What the shit was that?

The music cuts off all of a sudden, and the siblings instantly freeze, skidding to a stop. Sokka stiffens too, his pulse thumping nervously. Has he been caught? But no, there’s nobody around him, and the Nakayamas aren’t even looking in his direction.

“Your landing was sloppy, Azula,” a stern voice barks out. Sokka can’t see where it’s coming from, but he assumes it’s their coach, standing somewhere along the boards.

“It’s not my fault,” the sister, Azula, whines. “Zuko threw me wrong. It’s a miracle that I even managed to get all the rotations in.”

“I threw you perfectly,” Zuko retorts. Sokka finds himself captivated by the raspy timbre of his voice. “It’s not my fault if you can’t stick the landing properly.”

“I don’t care whose fault it is,” the voice snaps, and the two of them immediately straighten. “Do it again, and do it perfectly.”

“Yes, sir,” they say in unison, bowing their heads. When Zuko raises his head again, his gaze darts over to the tunnel where Sokka is hiding, and their eyes lock for a split second. Zuko’s eyes widen, and Sokka curses under his breath and scrambles backwards, his heart hammering in his throat. He fumbles for the door and slams it open, uncaring of the amount of noise he’s making, and nearly sprints back towards the lobby. He hears the music start up again behind him as he runs, and breathes a sigh of relief. At least nobody is trying to follow him.

Some of his teammates are still loitering about in the lobby when Sokka runs in, and a few of them break off from their conversations to give him weird looks.

“Whoa, whoa, where’s the fire, K-dog?” Conway says with a chuckle.

“What?” Sokka skids to a stop. “Oh. Uh, nowhere. I was just, uh, worried that you were going to leave without me.” He runs a hand through his hair, aiming for casual, and then makes a face when he realizes that it’s still wet from his shower.

“Nah, we’re still waiting on Petersen.” Conway shakes his head exasperatedly. “You know how he is. Forever the last to leave.”

Sokka tries to act nonchalant as he walks over to his bag and hoists it over his shoulder. His sticks clattering together when he picks them up feels like the loudest sound in the world. “Is, uh,  the bus outside?”

Conway nods, and Sokka makes his way out through the sliding doors. The cool air outside is a soothing balm against his burning skin.

He loads his bag and sticks into the bottom of the coach bus and then climbs aboard, falling into his seat with an exhausted thump. He immediately leans his head against the window and closes his eyes, hoping to get a quick nap in before they arrive back at the Village.

He’s on the verge of dozing off when, unbidden, an image flashes through his mind: a pair of stunning golden eyes, widened in shock as they stare back into Sokka’s. But then it’s gone as quickly as it came, and sleep is pulling him under before he can think of anything else.

—

Outside of training, Sokka likes to spend his free time in one of three places: the dining hall, his room, and the lounges. The lounges, despite how crowded and noisy they tend to be, are a favourite of his, because they’re where he gets the best wi-fi.

It’s in one of these lounges that he finds himself now, sunk into a couch watching old NHL highlight reels on his phone. Katara has only just gotten back from the ski hill for day of practice runs, and he’s waiting for her to shower so they can head down to dinner together.

The lounge is definitely not the best environment for anyone who wants to focus and get any real work done; it’s always full of chatter and there are people constantly walking in and out, and the clacking and shouting that comes from the foosball table in the corner is nothing short of distracting. But Sokka enjoys the atmosphere. He likes being around people, and everyone is generally pretty friendly, even if they don’t all speak the same language. It’s not a bad place to try to chat up the occasional pretty stranger, either.

Speaking of pretty strangers: the door swings open once again, and Sokka glances up from a clip of a truly beautiful wrist shot, one that flew right over the goalie’s shoulder and into the top right corner—and nearly drops his phone. It’s the gorgeous woman from the dining hall, the one with the amazing arms. She’s wearing a tank top again, though this one is definitely more tight-fitting than the last one, and the word ‘USA’ stretches across her chest in large white letters. Sokka, with considerable effort, snaps his mouth shut, and then double checks to make sure that he’s not actually drooling.

He actually had ended up looking her up, one night when he was curled up in bed and cursing the spotty internet connection in his room: Suki Ho, twenty-two years old, Korean-American, biathlon. There had been a picture of her at least year’s Biathlon World Cup Championships, beaming at the camera with a silver medal held up next to her face. It had been a nice picture—she’s ridiculously photogenic, as it turns out—but it doesn’t even begin to compare to how she looks in person.

She glances around the room, looking a bit unsure of herself—it is pretty crowded, and all the seats have already been taken—and Sokka scrambles to make space on the couch before she can turn around and leave.

He catches her eye and waves. “Hey, you can sit over here if you want.”

She shoots him a grateful smile and makes her way over, sinking down next to him on the couch. Sokka gets a whiff of—what is that, pine? God.

“Thanks,” she says. “I’m supposed to be meeting a friend here, but I didn’t realize this was such a hotspot.”

Sokka chuckles. “Yeah, this is definitely not the lounge you go to if you want peace and quiet. It’s the only one with a foosball table, so.”

She grins at him, and Sokka feels a weird flutter in his gut. “I’m Suki,” she says, holding out her hand. “I do biathlon.”

Sokka shakes it. Her grip is sure and strong. “Sokka. I play hockey.”

“Ah, a hockey boy. I should’ve guessed.”

Sokka snorts out a laugh. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing bad!” she says, smiling. “Just—you’re tall. Cute. Strong. Though I’m impressed that you still have all your teeth.” She tilts her head to the side, eyes sparkling, and oh god, she’s flirting with him, isn’t she? This is already going so much better than Sokka expected.

“Excuse me, I take my dental hygiene very seriously,” Sokka says. “A mouthguard is a small price to pay for keeping these pearly whites intact.”

“Very responsible of you,” Suki says. “Wouldn’t want anything messing up that pretty little face of yours.”

Sokka blushes despite himself. He’s never really been called things like “pretty” or “cute” before, but…he thinks he likes it?

He settles himself more comfortably against the couch, trying to be casual as he slings an arm over the back. Suki raises an eyebrow but turns to mirror him, bringing one leg up to tuck her foot under her thigh, her knee pressing into Sokka’s leg. It sends a thrill of excitement through him.

“You know, you’re not so bad yourself,” Sokka says.

“Wow, such a charmer,” Suki giggles. “I bet you have all the girls throwing themselves at you with lines like that.”

Sokka flushes in embarrassment, and he grins sheepishly. “What can I say? I get a little tongue-tied around pretty people. And you’re the prettiest person I’ve seen so far.”

Not true, a little voice in his head says, an image of bright golden eyes flashing through his mind. Sokka quickly shoves it down.

Suki ducks her head as she smiles, her cheeks glowing pink. It’s such a distracting sight that Sokka doesn’t even notice the person that’s suddenly appeared next to them until they clear their throat, loudly.

Sokka startles and looks up, into the eyes of a slim girl wearing a South Korea track jacket. She smiles politely at him, and then turns towards Suki, her expression immediately softening into something warmer.

“Ty Lee!” Suki exclaims. Sokka glances over and finds her face split into a delighted smile. “Took you long enough. Did you get lost or something?”

Ty Lee giggles and says something that Sokka doesn’t understand, and then drops down into Suki’s lap, wrapping her arms around her neck. Suki’s arms immediately come up around Ty Lee’s waist, and she leans in to murmur something into the other woman’s ear. Sokka feels strangely, suddenly, invisible.

Well, looks like Sokka’s too late. It’s obvious from the familiar way that the two of them interact with each other that they’re...involved, somehow. Of course, fooling around with multiple people isn’t uncommon at the Games—everyone has heard the stories about the crazy orgies—but Sokka isn’t sure that he’d be comfortable intruding on whatever it is the two of them have going on. Sure, Sokka’s had his fair share of threesomes, and Suki had definitely seemed interested in him...but something tells him that he’d most likely end up as an unintentional third wheel. Better to cut his losses now and try somewhere else.

“Oh!” Suki says, and turns towards Sokka, as if she’s suddenly remembered that he’s there. “Ty Lee, this is Sokka. He plays hockey. Sokka, Ty Lee.”

“Nice to meet you,” Ty Lee says in accented English. She grins at him, and Sokka smiles politely back.

“You too.”

Ty Lee leans back in to whisper something into Suki’s ear, her eyes darting up towards Sokka every so often. Then the two of them burst into merry giggles, and Sokka blushes, feeling confused and a little left out.

“Did she say something about me?” he asks.

“She said you’re very cute,” Suki says with a knowing smile, and Sokka gets the feeling that that’s definitely not all Ty Lee said. His face burns.

He’s spared from any further humiliation by Katara, who walks through the door at that moment, dressed in a loose Team Canada t-shirt, her wet hair hanging down her back. Sokka immediately waves her over.

“Hey,” she says. Her eyes dart over to Suki and Ty Lee, canoodling next to Sokka on the couch, and she gives Sokka a significant look. “Making friends?”

“Yeah, sort of,” Sokka says. “Um, this is Suki and Ty Lee. Guys, meet my sister, Katara.”

“Hi,” Katara says, and waves. Suki and Ty Lee wave back. An awkward silence stretches between them all.

“Right.” Sokka coughs. “Um, me and Katara were gonna head down to the dining hall, so I guess we’ll, uh, go.”

He heaves himself to his feet and goes to follow Katara out of the room, but something makes him pause before he can get too far. He turns back towards Suki and Ty Lee, who are both watching him with matching disappointed looks on their faces.

Sokka’s stomach twists. Even if he has no chance with Suki, she was still a lot of fun to talk to. And it would be nice to have someone to hang out with besides his sister and his teammates…

“Um,” he says, before he can lose his nerve. “Do you two want come eat dinner with us? There’s always plenty of room at our table.”

Suki and Ty Lee exchange a quick glance, and then the two of them are eagerly climbing to their feet. “Sure!”

The dining hall is crowded by the time they get there—it is the dinner rush, after all—but it’s pretty easy to find Aang, with the way he’s waving and hollering at them from a table on the far side of the room.

“Hey, sorry for keeping you waiting,” Sokka says as he slides into a seat across from him. “Katara takes fucking forever to shower. But look! We brought some friends!”

“No worries!” Aang chirps. “And I hope you don’t mind that I brought a friend too.” There’s a girl sitting next to Aang, a white cane propped up against the table next to her. “This is Toph. And, uh, she’s not technically supposed to be in here, so let’s maybe keep that a secret between us.”

“If anyone asks, I’m his bodyguard,” Toph says with a mischievous grin.

“No, she is not,” Aang says firmly.

They take another minute to get the rest of the introductions out of the way, and then they all split off in different directions to get food. Sokka loads his plate with as much meat as he can manage—hey, he’s a professional athlete, he needs protein—stops by the coffee machines for a self-indulgent hot chocolate, and heads back to their table.

On his way there, he spots a familiar head of long black hair and nearly trips over his own feet. It’s only thanks to his lightning-fast reflexes, honed by years of intense physical training, that he manages to not completely embarrass himself by spilling his entire tray onto the floor.

He quickly recovers and ducks his head, shuffling past Nakayama’s table as quickly and inconspicuously as possible—which isn’t an easy feat, since he’s over six feet tall, but he manages. It helps that someone has started very loudly and very badly singing what sounds like the French national anthem on the other side of the room, which is what’s occupying most people’s attention at the moment. Thank god for dining hall shenanigans.

Sokka finally slides back into his seat with a relieved sigh. Katara gives him a weird look, but he waves her off, and she raises an eyebrow but goes back to picking at her fried rice.

The others begin to trickle back towards their table, and conversation flows easily. Aang is so outgoing and friendly that there’s no room for awkwardness, and he has Suki and Ty Lee laughing within minutes at some outrageous story about the lemurs at the Toronto Zoo. Sokka finds Toph wildly entertaining—she’s brash and unapologetic and, best of all, gets on Katara’s nerves—and the two of them spend a good ten minutes discussing the merits of actual meat over protein powder.

Periodically, against his better judgement, Sokka finds his eyes drawn back towards Nakayama’s table. Nakayama doesn’t catch him looking, thank fuck, but Sokka can’t help but wonder what might happen if he did. Would he recognize him, or would he just brush Sokka off as another insignificant nobody, starstuck by Nakayama’s reputation and beauty?

In the end, Sokka never gets to find out, because the next time he looks over, Nakayama’s table is empty. For some reason, he feels disappointed, which is ridiculous, because it’s not like he cares about the guy or anything. He’s just…vaguely curious.

Whatever. Sokka turns back to his table, where Aang is using his chopsticks to do a goofy impression of a walrus, and very deliberately does not let himself think about Nakayama for the rest of the night.

—

The opening ceremony isn’t anything new to Sokka. He’s very familiar with the theatrics, the artistry, the spectacle of it all. He’s watched the opening ceremony of every Olympic Games on television since he was two years old. Heck, his dad had even bought them tickets to the opening ceremony of the 2010 Olympic Games back in Vancouver, and the second the Canadian team stepped onto the stage Sokka had screamed his little lungs hoarse until he thought he would faint.

Despite all of that, though, he is still wholly unprepared for the actual experience of being a part of the ceremony himself.

It’s honestly a bit underwhelming, in the beginning. They spend over an hour backstage, waiting for their turn to parade across the stage of the National Stadium. Sokka can hear the roar of the crowd, the muffled thumping of music, and he’s kind of bummed that they can’t go out to see it all in person. He and Katara huddle around a live broadcast of the ceremony that he’s pulled up on his phone, but it’s not the same.

And then the countries start filing out onto the stage, one by one. And then it’s their turn to step out of the tunnel, into the heart of the National Stadium, into the blinding lights and the deafening cheers and the music that pounds into every bone in his body. And then it finally hits him.

He’s here.

His name is Sokka Kinalik. He is twenty-two years old. He’s a hockey player. And, against all odds, he’s made it to the Olympics.

It’s all so overwhelming that he thinks he might pass out.

Katara’s hand on his elbow grounds him, though, and he steps out onto the stage with his heart in his throat and a brilliant smile on his face.

His dad and Bato are out there in the crowd, somewhere. He can’t see them, but he whoops and waves as hard as he can, hoping that they’ll manage to spot him among the rest of the athletes, at least. Katara pulls out her phone and takes a very shaky video of the two of them as they strut proudly across the floor of the National Stadium. Sokka’s arm is starting to ache with the amount of waving he’s doing. He can’t remember the last time he smiled this hard.

They only get about a minute of glory before they have to head backstage again, but it manages to feel like both the shortest and longest minute of Sokka’s entire life. His heart is racing, pumping him full of adrenaline, and even after they’ve exited through the tunnel that leads them backstage he still feels like he’s flying on top of the world.

Katara crashes suddenly into his arms, her hair spilling out of her toque and into his mouth. Sokka laughs breathlessly and squeezes her tight, lifting her a few inches off the ground and shaking her back and forth.

“We made it, Sokka!” she yells. All around them their fellow athletes are laughing and jostling each other, caught up in the excitement of the moment. “Can you believe it? We actually made it to the Olympics!”

It’s been an uphill battle to get here, certainly, full of blood and sweat and tears—and the hardest is still yet to come. But this is already farther than Sokka ever thought he’d make it, so he thinks that, at the very least, he can let himself have this moment.

It’s not like he’s ever going to get another one, after all.

—

“Hey,” Katara says. “Are you free?”

Sokka glances away from his phone and towards the door to his room, where Katara is standing with one hip braced against the frame. “Uh, how did you get in here?”

“A magician never reveals their secrets.”

Sokka snorts. “You’re hardly a magician.”

“Okay, fine. Your roommate left the door open.”

Sokka drops his head back against his pillow with a groan. “Ugh, fucking Jackson. I keep telling him not to do that.”

“Sounds like a jerk.” Katara steps into the room and drops onto Sokka’s bed, just barely missing his feet. “So, are you free?”

“Yeah, Coach gave us the day off today. Why?”

“Dad and Bato and I were going to go watch the figure skating competitions today. You should come.”

“I take that back,” Sokka says. He unlocks his phone and begins to scroll aimlessly through his Twitter feed once again. “I’m not free.”

“Sokka,” Katara whines. “You can’t just stay in your room scrolling through your phone all day.”

“Sure I can. Watch me.”

“You’re insufferable.” Katara crosses her arms and frowns at him; Sokka frowns right back. “Why can’t you come? Dad and Bato want to see you.”

“Katara, you know I don’t care about figure skating. It’s stupid and boring.”

“This isn’t about figure skating, Sokka. It’s about spending time with your family during one of the most important competitions of your entire life. Come on.” She grabs him by the arm and tries to pull him off the bed, but Sokka doesn’t budge.

“I’m tired, Katara,” Sokka says, and feigns a yawn that Katara very obviously does not buy. “Just go without me.”

Katara watches him for a moment, considering. “I’ll get you McDonald’s if you come.”

Sokka lowers his phone and gives her an incredulous look. “Seriously? You know the line is always, like, an hour long.”

“I know,” she says lightly. “So, you coming?”

“Fuck, I guess so,” Sokka says, hopping to his feet. “Just give me a second to get dressed.”

There’s a shuttle that runs between the Olympic Village and all the main venues. Hakoda and Bato are waiting for them outside of the Capital Indoor Stadium when the shuttle pulls up, and Sokka stumbles off of the bus and directly into the waiting arms of his father. He’s taller than Hakoda now, has been for a while, so it requires a bit of finagling, but a hug from Hakoda never fails to make Sokka feel like he’s a little kid again, safe and warm in his father’s embrace.

“Hey, kiddo,” Hakoda says warmly, his voice muffled against the shoulder of Sokka’s puffer jacket.

“Hey, Dad.” Sokka turns and trades places with Katara, wrapping Bato up in a hug as well. “Hey, Bato. It’s good to see you guys. How are you?”

“We’re great! We’ve been doing a lot of sightseeing since the opening ceremony. Bato made us an itinerary and everything,” Hakoda laughs. “What about you two? Holding up okay? You nervous for your first competition tomorrow, Katara?”

“A little bit,” Katara says. “It’ll probably all really hit me in the morning, though.”

They keep up a steady stream of conversation as they approach the stadium, catching each other up on the things they’ve been doing since their separate arrivals in Beijing. There’s a long line of people waiting outside the entrance of the stadium, but they cut around to the side towards a smaller entrance that’s reserved for staff and the press.

“Are you sure we’re allowed to go in through here?” Bato says, frowning. “We have tickets, we can just go through the main entrance.”

“It’s fine, don’t worry about it,” Sokka says. He pulls his tournament lanyard out from beneath his coat and flashes it at the security guard standing near the door, who lets them pass through without a word.

The stands are halfway to full when they make it inside, but given the amount of people still waiting in line outside, it looks like it’s bound to be a full house. Which is crazy, because, as far as Sokka knows, this isn’t even a final or anything.

“Do people really care this much about figure skating?” Sokka says as they push their way through the crowd of people milling about. There’s a stand near the front entrance selling flowers, for some insane reason, which only serves to reinforce the idea that figure skating is a shallow, nonsensical sport in Sokka’s mind. You don’t see people selling flowers at hockey games, after all.

Katara just rolls her eyes at him. “And you wonder why people call hockey players meatheads.”

Katara leads the way over to the designated seating area for spectating athletes, and they manage to find seats easily enough. Bato is a little disappointed that they aren’t sitting in their reserved seats, but Hakoda pointedly reminds him that this is less about the actual figure skating and more about spending time together as a family.

Sokka immediately slumps down into his seat and pulls out his phone to scroll half-heartedly through Twitter. They have another twenty minutes before the actual competition starts, and he is seriously regretting not having brought his earbuds with him. There’s a post from the official Olympics Twitter account, something about congratulating the winners of yesterday’s first biathlon race, that he likes without a second thought. It takes him another couple of seconds before he realizes that one of the women in the picture is Suki.

Well, shit. He’ll have to congratulate her later. He hasn’t seen her in a couple days, but they’ve been Snapchatting here and there, and he thinks that by now they’re probably at the point where they can call each other friends. Maybe. He hopes.

He’s startled out of his mindless scrolling by a sudden and deafening fanfare of music, and Katara laughs at the way he jumps in his seat. A voice begins to blare through the speakers, speaking first in French, then English, then Mandarin. There’s a lengthy introduction speech that Sokka doesn’t bother following, then something about sponsors, and then they’re announcing the first skaters, a pair from Russia, to raucous applause.

Sokka crosses his arms and tries not to look too much like he would rather be literally anywhere else. He’s flanked on either side by Hakoda and Katara, both of whom look completely enthralled by the two skaters gliding onto the ice, so trying to sneak out isn’t an option. Sokka sadly resigns himself to sitting through what will probably be the most boring two hours of his life.

Then the music starts up, some melancholy instrumental piece, and Sokka reconsiders slightly. Maybe he’ll just be able to sleep through the most boring two hours of his life.

For all that he’s been on skates for most of his life, Sokka really, truly does not understand the appeal of figure skating. Sure, it’s nice to watch, in the same way that a painting is nice to look at…but where’s the excitement? The adrenaline? The blood, sweat, and tears? The skaters don’t even look human, all done up like pretty porcelain dolls, without even a single bead of sweat to mar their perfect faces. Sokka wouldn’t be surprised if there’s someone backstage whose job it is sprinkle on any last minute sparkles before they skate onto the ice.

He dozes off somewhere between the third and the fourth performance. The music is just so soothing, and all the routines look kind of the same anyways…

A round of raucous applause abruptly jolts Sokka out of his sleep, and he glances around, bleary-eyed. It seems like every single person in the stadium, regardless of nationality, is cheering as they welcome the duo that’s just stepped out onto the ice. Sokka squints, trying to discern who the skaters are—he can’t see much from this distance, only the black and red of their outfits, and their matching black hair…

Wait.

“Representing the United States of America,” booms the announcer, “Azula Nakayama and Zuko Nakayama.”

Oh, god.

Sokka shifts slightly in his seat, trying to get a better view. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Katara give him a knowing look, which he dutifully ignores. It’s not that he’s interested in the performance or anything, he just thinks that maybe he should probably pay a little more attention to the skaters who are so obviously the crowd favourite. It has to be for a reason, right?

The Nakayamas take their places, and then the music begins to play, and Sokka notices right off the bat that there’s something…different about them. Something that distinguishes them from all the other skaters that had come before them. The music might have something to do with it—it’s certainly a change of pace from everything else, loud and dramatic and exciting—but Sokka gets the feeling that it’s not just that. There’s just something else, even if he can’t quite put his finger on it.

Whatever it is, it’s definitely managed to catch Sokka’s attention. For some reason, he can’t make himself look away. The two of them fly across the ice like they were born for it, perfectly in sync—Sokka didn’t even know that it was possible for two human beings to move together like that. At one point Zuko picks his sister up and launches her so high into the air that Sokka finds himself holding his breath without even realizing it, and he only lets it out once Azula is safely back on the ice, twirling around as if she hadn’t just been one wrong move away from breaking every single bone in her body.

The two of them are gorgeous, that’s for sure, but Sokka finds his eyes drawn to Zuko almost against his will. There’s just something about him—the confidence of his movements, the effortless grace with which he glides across the ice, the obvious strength contained in his muscular frame—that Sokka finds himself inexplicably drawn to.

It’s like he has something that everybody else had been missing, some sort of fire that lights him up from the inside. It’s there in Azula too; Sokka can see it. The two of them are so alive, so full of energy, sparking like a lit fuse. They’re incandescent, brilliant as two twin burning suns, but there’s something else too.

Something almost…volatile.

Sokka thinks he understands why these two are so popular, now.

The music fades out, and Zuko and Azula come to a stop in the centre of the ice, their chests heaving. As the entire stadium erupts into thunderous applause, Sokka sits back in his seat, stunned, and thinks that maybe—just maybe—he might have to reconsider his stance on figure skating.

—

Suki answers the FaceTime video on the third ring.

“Hey,” Sokka says.

“Hey.” The video is shaky and at a bit of an unflattering angle, which is probably for the best, because otherwise Suki’s frustratingly symmetrical face is more than a little distracting. “What’s up?”

“You free for dinner in a bit?”

“Yeah, umm, kind of.” It looks like she’s walking down a hallway of some sort, and she apologizes as she skirts around what sounds like a very rowdy group of athletes. “I’m, uh, eating dinner with a couple other friends tonight, but you’re welcome to join us if you want? Aang and Katara too.”

“Aang and Katara are off on a date or something,” Sokka says, pulling a face, “so it’ll just be me. But sure, I’ll come.”

“Great!” She smiles briefly at the camera, and then turns away at the sound of a door opening. She says something that Sokka doesn’t understand, and then turns back to the camera, her cheeks flushed pink. “I’m gonna hang out with Ty Lee for a bit first, but I’ll meet you at the dining hall in like thirty minutes?”

Sokka chuckles. He thinks that he can guess what ‘hanging out with Ty Lee’ means. “Sure. Just shoot me a text before you head down.”

“Will do,” she says, and hangs up, but not before blowing Sokka a cheeky kiss. Sokka blushes despite himself—they may just be friends, but that doesn’t mean he can’t still find her attractive.

He kills time by trying to watch some YouTube videos on his phone, sprawled on his back in bed. The videos keep buffering, which is annoying as shit, but he’s not in the mood to head down to the lounges, so he stays where he is, humming quietly beneath his breath as he waits for the videos to load.

Eventually his phone vibrates with a text from Suki: dinnertime :) He grins and shrugs on his jacket, slips on his shoes and grabs his lanyard before heading out the door. He can’t see Suki anywhere when he gets to the dining hall, so he shoots her a text, nervously tapping his foot as he waits outside the entrance. where are u?

She answers less than a minute later. inside. table near the salad bar

The first thing he spots when he walks through the door is Suki, waving at him from a table across the dining hall. The second thing he spots is Nakayama, sitting at that very same table.

He very nearly swallows his own tongue.

Whipping his phone out, he frantically types out a message to Suki. ur friends with nakayama?????

He sees her look down, and then a few seconds later a message appears on his screen. you mean zuko and azula? theyre ty lees friends

Then: come sit down. i swear they dont bite

Sokka sighs loudly and pockets his phone. The universe just loves to fuck with him, doesn’t it?

He makes his way over to the table, doing his best to act as normal and nonchalant as possible. So what if Nakayama is the most beautiful man Sokka has ever seen in his life? So what if he looks like sex on skates on ice? That doesn’t mean Sokka has to be weird about it. He can do this. He can be normal.

“There you are!” Suki says, grinning at him as if she isn’t the reason for Sokka’s current state of emotional distress. “Here, we saved you a seat.”

“Thanks,” Sokka says. He keeps his head down as he slides into the spot next to Suki.

“Guys, this is Sokka,” Suki says. “Sokka, this is Zuko, Azula, and Mai. And you already know Ty Lee.”

“Um, hi. Nice to meet you.” Sokka lifts his head and forces himself to meet their eyes. Sitting directly across from him is Mai, a tall, thin woman with a very angular face, wearing a toque with the Japanese flag embroidered on the front. Next to her is Azula, and then, furthest away, Zuko.

Sokka does his best to hide the way his breath catches when he and Zuko meet eyes. God, he’s even more handsome up close, and his eyes shine like burnished gold even in the shitty fluorescent lighting of the dining hall. Even the scar manages to look sexy. Sokka searches Zuko’s face for some flicker of recognition, wondering if he possibly remembers him from that day at the training rink—but no. There’s nothing, just a placid facade of politeness as he stiffly returns Sokka’s smile.

Sokka tries not to feel disappointed.

“Yes, likewise,” Azula says as she examines her immaculate nails. “Now that we’re all here, can we go get our food? I’m absolutely famished.”

“Oh. Yeah, sure,” Sokka says, and stands again. There’s a chorus of chairs scraping against the floor as the others follow suit.

There’s a bit of a line near the pasta section—it’s technically still a little too early in the game for Sokka to be carb loading, but fuck it, he’s really in the mood for some fettuccine alfredo tonight—so by the time he returns to his spot everybody else is already seated again at the table. Mai, Zuko, and Azula seem to be in the middle of a serious conversation in what he assumes is Japanese, and Suki and Ty Lee are whispering and giggling with each other in hushed voices, so Sokka just shrugs and tucks in. There’ll be plenty of time for conversation after he’s demolished his food.

“So,” Sokka says a few minutes later, sitting back and wiping his mouth with his napkin. “What are you guys’ sports?”

Zuko, Mai, and Azula stare blankly back at him, and it takes him a second to realize that he’d just interrupted their conversation.

“Whoops, sorry,” he says sheepishly. “Didn’t mean to interrupt. I just, uh, thought it would be nice to get to know each other a bit?”

More silence and staring. Sokka is beginning to regret ever having opened his mouth.

Suki decides to come to his rescue, bless her soul. “Mai does biathlon, like me,” she says. “We’re in the same category.”

And now that she’s said that, Sokka realizes that he recognizes her, actually. She’d been standing next to Suki in that picture that the Olympics Twitter account had posted, holding a gold medal to match Suki’s silver.

“Oh, sick, you won gold the other day, right?” Sokka says. “Congrats!”

“Thanks,” Mai says in a monotone. Sokka has never seen anyone look less excited about winning a gold medal. He shifts uncomfortably in his seat.

“And Zuko and Azula do figure skating, like Ty Lee,” Suki says.

Sokka bites his lip and doesn’t say that he already knew that, and that he’d been at their competition yesterday. He doesn’t want to come off as some sort of weird fanboy, after all. “That’s cool.”

“Yep,” Azula says, popping the ‘P’. Zuko doesn’t say anything at all, just stares back at Sokka with unsettling intensity, which is not helping his nerves at all.

“Um, I play hockey,” Sokka says weakly. “Just—in case anyone wants to know.”

The rest of dinner continues a lot like that: Sokka doing his best to try and break the ice and make conversation, with limited success, until Suki takes pity on him and decides to bail him out. He eventually gives up and spends his time trying to get Ty Lee to laugh at his jokes, which only works about half the time because she has a hard time understanding the puns and he ends up having to explain them to her, at which point they’re definitely not funny anymore. She still laughs afterwards, though, which he appreciates, even if it’s mostly just to make him feel better.

Despite that, though, his frustration continues to grow. Why won’t the others talk to him? He’s just trying to be friendly, and they seem perfectly capable of maintaining a conversation amongst themselves, in a mix of English and Japanese. Do they just not like him specifically? Or maybe they’re just assholes. Sokka is beginning to reassess his initial judgement of Zuko—sure, he’s pretty, but he’s also a pretty huge dick.

At this point he’s willing to do just about anything to get them to exchange a single word with him, or at the very least acknowledge his presence. He’s spent so much of his life being overlooked and ignored, and having it happen again in the one place where he finally thought he’d be on equal footing with everyone else around him kind of stings. A lot.

“So, how do you guys feel about the whole doping scandal from last year?” he tries, and Azula just shoots him a cool look and then returns to her murmured conversation with Mai. Sokka bristles.

Well, there’s nothing for it, then. Bat, meet hornet’s nest.

“You know,” Sokka says casually, leaning his elbows at the table, “I’d always wondered why figure skating is even a sport at the Olympics.”

Suki gives him a sharp look, as if to say what the hell do you think you’re doing, but Sokka ignores her and just leans even further over the table, trying to catch Zuko or Azula’s eye.

“I mean,” he continues, “it’s barely even a real sport anyways. Like c’mon, twirling around on the ice in a sparkly costume? You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

Azula raises one perfect eyebrow and doesn’t answer, but at least she’s looking at him now. Good. That’s an improvement, at least.

“Hey, I’ve gotta hand it to you, though. You must get a lot of sponsors, flaunting yourselves out on the ice like that. It’s a good strategy, I’ll admit.”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” Zuko growls.

A thrill runs through him. Finally.

Sokka turns in his seat, giving Zuko his full attention, and braces his cheek against his fist. “Don’t I? It seems pretty simple to me: you guys go out there and do a pretty little dance to some pretty little song in some sparkly skin-tight outfit, and then the next thing you know people are practically throwing themselves at you, begging you to take their money.” He shrugs, and he can feel the heat of Zuko’s glare on him like a brand. It feels delicious. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

“You are wrong,” Zuko spits. “Figure skating is nothing like that; it requires discipline and control and years of training.”

“Please,” Sokka says, rolling his eyes. “Literally anybody could do that shit.”

At this point, Sokka should probably stop—he got what he wanted, and Zuko is finally, finally talking to him, even if he’s real pissed about it—but he’s on a roll now, and he’s discovered, to his delight, that riling Zuko up is just so much fun. The guy’s got more spark than a firecracker.

“I’d like to see you try it,” Zuko says, and oh, there’s that fire again, the one that Sokka saw yesterday during his performance. For some reason it sends a jolt up Sokka’s spine.

“Listen, Nakayama—”

“It’s Zuko,” he snaps.

“Listen, Zuko,” Sokka says, thrilling at the way the name rolls off his tongue. “As much as I’d like to, I unfortunately don’t have any figure skates. I’m a hockey player, remember?”

Zuko narrows his eyes at him, and Sokka nearly shivers. “I’ll take care of it.”

Sokka can feel the others watching them, the same way one might watch a particularly entertaining fistfight, wondering if they should intervene or not. He can’t make himself look away from Zuko, though, captivated by the way his eyes look almost lit up from the inside, the way his mouth forms the words as he says:

“Meet me outside the training rink, tonight at ten. Don’t be late.”

—

This is a bad idea. This a ridiculously, stupendously bad idea. This is probably one of the worst ideas that Sokka has ever had—which is saying a lot, because he has had a lot of bad ideas in his lifetime.

The shuttle doesn’t run this late at night, so he’s stuck with making his way to the training rink on foot. Which is fine, he’s a professional athlete, he doesn’t mind walking—but it’s a lot colder at night than it is during the day, and he’s regretting not having put on a couple more layers before leaving his room.

By the time he gets there, his cheeks and lips are chapped from the cold and his nose won’t stop running, but at least he’s on time. Zuko is waiting by the front entrance, two pairs of skates dangling from his hands and his hair done up in a messy bun on the top of his head, and Sokka feels his heart trip over itself at the sight. Shit, he’s really doing this, isn’t he?

Such a bad idea.

“Hey,” he calls out.

Zuko looks up, and his eyes narrow when he sees Sokka. “Hi,” he says sourly.

“You actually showed up.”

Zuko frowns. “Of course I did. Why wouldn’t I?”

“I don’t know. Thought you might stand me up just to embarrass me, or something. You know, waste my time.”

Zuko doesn’t answer, and Sokka gets the impression that the idea didn’t even cross his mind. Cute.

“This way,” Zuko says after a moment, and leads them around to the side of the building, towards the zamboni doors. He struggles with the skates for a bit as he rummages around in his pocket—Sokka makes no move to help him—and then pulls out a key and inserts it into the lock of the smaller maintenance door to the side.

“Whoa, whoa, where the hell did you get that?” Sokka asks.

Zuko looks down at the key and shrugs. “Being a world-class figure skater has its perks, sometimes,” he says, casual as anything, as if he doesn’t have exclusive after-hours access to the arenas at the fucking Olympics.

“Fuck, dude, it sure does,” Sokka mutters as Zuko opens the door and motions for him to go through.

Sokka pauses once he’s inside, unsure of where to go. Zuko snorts quietly and steps past him, around the parked zamboni and through another door with a confidence that speaks to the number of times that he must’ve done this. Does he do this every night? Talk some poor helpless soul into sneaking out after dark so that they can embarrass themselves on the ice in front of him? Sokka wouldn’t be surprised, honestly—it’s hard to say no to a face like that.

They eventually emerge into a figure skating rink. It looks different with all the lights off—kind of creepy. The tunnel that Sokka had hidden in as he spied on Zuko sits on the other side of the rink. Sokka glances over at him, trying to see if Zuko remembers anything now, but his face reveals nothing.

“Sit down. Put your skates on,” Zuko says, dropping a pair of skates next to Sokka on the ground. “I’ll be right back.”

“Hey, are you sure these are even the right size?” Sokka says, but Zuko is already walking away and doesn’t answer.

Sokka sighs and sits down on a nearby bench, shedding his boots and coat and grabbing the skates. They’re black and featureless, with a heel to them that Sokka eyes nervously. Why would skates ever need heels? It only serves to prove his point that figure skating is weird and more about the aesthetic than actual athleticism.

A few lights click on as Sokka is pulling on his skates—not all of them, but enough to ensure that they can at least see where they’re going on the ice. Sokka stands as Zuko makes his way back towards him, and wobbles uncertainly. The fucking heels, man.

“How do they feel?” Zuko asks as he draws even, a small smirk on his face. Sokka wants to wipe it off with…something. His hand, maybe?

“Fine,” he snaps. He shifts on his feet, and reconsiders. “Well, actually, they’re a little small.”

“Sorry,” Zuko says. He sits down on the bench and begins to pull on his own skates. “They’re the biggest ones I could find on such short notice.”

Sokka flaps his hand. “Eh, it’s whatever. I’m no stranger to using borrowed skates.”

Zuko takes a little longer to finish tying his skates, and then he stands and pulls open the gate to the rink. The thunk echoes oddly in the empty space.

“After you,” Zuko says, waving him through.

“Such a gentleman,” Sokka says sarcastically, and steps past him onto the ice.

He immediately almost faceplants.

“Shit!” he yelps, and grabs onto the boards for balance. Behind him, he can hear Zuko laughing. It’s an odd, if nice, sound. It makes his face flush.

“I thought you said this was easy,” Zuko says, and Sokka really does not appreciate the smug note to his voice.

“Shut up,” Sokka says, still holding onto the boards for dear life. “There is something seriously wrong with these skates.”

“The skates are perfectly fine,” Zuko says, and Sokka hears the click as he steps onto the ice too. He circles around to stand in front of Sokka, his arms crossed. “Maybe you’re the problem.”

“No way. I’ve been skating almost since before I could walk. I am definitely not the problem here.” He lets go of the boards and straightens, only wobbling a little bit. “See?”

Zuko looks unimpressed. “Sure.”

“You’re such a jerk,” Sokka says, and skates a little further out onto the ice.

“Watch the toe pick.”

“The what?” At that exact moment, Sokka’s toe catches against the ice, and he nearly goes crashing to the ground before Zuko catches him by the arm.

“The toe pick,” Zuko says, digging the toe of his skates into the ice for emphasis. Oh, so that’s what the weird spiky things are. Zuko shakes his head. “You really don’t know anything about figure skating, do you?”

“Of course I don’t,” Sokka says, yanking his arm out of Zuko’s grip. “Why the hell would I give a shit about figure skating?”

Zuko’s face tightens, and he skates away towards the centre of the ice, leaving Sokka alone near the boards. “Sorry. I forgot that you’re a hockey player.” He spits the words ‘hockey player’ out like they leave a bad taste in his mouth.

Damn. And here they had almost been getting along.

Zuko suddenly spins around and glares at Sokka, his arms crossed tightly across his chest. “Show me what you got.”

“What?” Sokka says.

“You said literally anybody can figure skate. So show me what you can do.”

“Oh. Like, right now?” Sokka says. Zuko nods. “Um, shouldn’t we, like, warm up first, or something? I don’t wanna pull something before I even play my first game.”

Zuko sighs explosively. “Fine.”

He leads them through a short warm up around the ice, and by the end of it Sokka feels a little more confident in the figure skates. He can finally skate without tripping, at least. He takes a little extra time to really loosen up his knee, and then turns to Zuko, who’s watching him expectantly.

“What are you waiting for?” Zuko says. “Show me.”

“Right,” Sokka says, suddenly nervous. What in the world has he gotten himself into? “Okay, um. Prepare to be dazzled, I guess?”

Zuko snorts. “Yeah, okay.”

Sokka shakes out his shoulders, letting out a long breath. He’s fine, he can do this. The worst thing that can happen is he cracks his skull on the ice and gives himself a brain hemorrhage. Totally fine.

“What do you want to see first?” he asks, stalling for time.

“Show me a spiral,” Zuko says.

Right. A spiral. Because Sokka totally knows what that is.

“Okay, uh, here goes nothing,” he says.

He spreads his arms wide for balance and does a little spin. He’s very impressed with himself for not falling over. “How was that?”

He thinks he sees Zuko’s lips twitch. “That was a spin. But nice try.”

“Oh. What the hell is a spiral, then?”

“This.” Zuko pushes off of the ice and begins to glide on one foot, lifting the other leg up until his body is parallel with the ice. He curves around in a wide arc and comes to a stop in front of Sokka, who is definitely not having any impure thoughts about how flexible Zuko is, no sir.

“Hm,” Sokka says. “Looks easy enough.”

Zuko raises his eyebrow. “Try it.”

“Maybe I will.”

Sokka pushes off the ice, trying he’s best to mimic what he’d seen Zuko do. It’s a lot harder than it looks. He’s not nearly as flexible as Zuko is, and no matter how hard he tries he can’t get his leg up without wobbling so hard that he nearly loses his balance. And then, just as he thinks he’s starting to almost, maybe, kind of get it—his toe pick catches against the ice and sends him sprawling, face-first.

“Ow, my fucking elbow,” he yelps. He sits up and finds Zuko bent over, his hands on his knees, laughing at Sokka’s misfortune like the heartless jerk that he is. Sokka feels his face burn.

“So,” he says loudly.

Zuko straightens, and he’s not laughing anymore, but he’s still smiling, which makes Sokka’s stomach do something weird and kind of unpleasant. He has an unfairly nice smile.

“So, how was that?” Sokka says, still sitting on his ass on the ice.

Zuko snorts. “Terrible.”

“Shit. And here I thought I was starting to get the hang of it.”

Zuko skates closer and holds out a gloved hand. Sokka puts his pride aside and takes it, letting Zuko haul him to his feet. He stumbles a little once he’s upright again, bumping into Zuko’s chest. Standing this close to him, Sokka realizes, not without some satisfaction, that he’s actually a couple inches taller than Zuko.

“Sorry,” Zuko says, and backs quickly away. Is he blushing? Sokka can’t tell in the dim light. “Um, how about we don’t have you try to show me anything else. For your own safety.”

“What do you mean?” Sokka says, and grins. “I was totally nailing that shit.”

Zuko shakes his head, and Sokka swears that he’s smiling, too. “You definitely weren’t. But how about this: I’ll teach you some tricks, if you admit that you are not the figure skating legend that you think you are.”

“But I am a figure skating legend.”

Zuko just rolls his eyes. Something warms in Sokka at the sight.

“Here, I’ll show you how to do a spin.”

Zuko walks Sokka through the basics of doing a very rudimentary spin, with both skates firmly on the ice. It takes him a few tries, but eventually he manages to get it, and he turns to Zuko with a triumphant smile.

“Now did I nail that shit, or did I nail that shit?”

Zuko bites his lip, his eyes crinkling as he looks back at Sokka. “Fine. You may have, possibly, nailed that shit.”

“Fuck yes!” Sokka pumps his fist enthusiastically. “Alright, what’s next? Ooh, you should teach me how to do one of those crazy spinny jumps.”

“Um, no.” Zuko skates over to stand next to him, and Sokka feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. “How about we start with you loosening up a bit. You look like someone could snap you in half like a toothpick.” He gently takes Sokka’s hands and brings them up to shoulder-level, one extended out in front and the other out to the side. “Relax your shoulders.”

Sokka immediately tenses up. “They are relaxed!”

“No, they’re not. Stop being so stiff.” Zuko presses down on Sokka’s shoulders, and Sokka drops them. Zuko makes an exasperated noise and hikes them back up a little bit. “No, not that much. Stop, you look like a turtle. Figure skating is about looking good, and you’re not going to look good if you’re so tensed up that we can’t even see your neck.”

“A-ha!” Sokka exclaims, turning his head to look at him, and Zuko freezes under his stare. “So you admit that figure skating is just about looking pretty.”

Zuko glares at him. “That’s one part of it. It’s also about strength, and coordination, and doing incredibly dangerous stunts.”

“Alright, then. So, what do I gotta do to look pretty?”

“Well, first of all, relax.” Zuko presses down on Sokka’s shoulders again, and Sokka does his best to relax them a little bit, but not too much. “And then, um, I don’t know. Pretend you’re, like, a prince, or something. Something fancy.”

“Ooh, is that what you do? Pretend you’re a prince?” Sokka laughs, and he grins teasingly at Zuko. “Prince Zuko.”

Zuko’s face goes red. “Fuck off.”

Sokka just grins wider. Zuko turns away and mutters something under his breath.

“Alright, so how do I look?” Sokka says. He raises his arms again and relaxes his shoulders, tilting his chin up to look haughtily down his nose at Zuko. “Princely enough for you?”

“Perfect,” Zuko says, deadpan. “You know, I think you might be ready to try a jump.”

Sokka drops his arms. “Really?”

“Not the kind of jump you’re thinking of.” Zuko rolls his eyes. “Just a little baby jump.”

“Are you calling me a baby?”

Zuko smirks. “Maybe.”

And if that makes Sokka feel some type of way—well. Nobody has to know but him.

Zuko shows him how to do a simple jump off of one leg to land backwards on the other. Sokka watches intently, trying to commit the move to memory. Push off the outside foot, jump, spin, and land on the inside foot going backwards. He can totally do that.

“Okay, give it a try,” Zuko says. “Don’t worry, I’ll be there to catch you if you fall.”

“No you won’t,” Sokka says, and Zuko laughs.

His first few tries are…less than stellar. The jump itself is fine, but he always wobbles horrifically on the landing, and he almost wipes out more than once.

“Remember to relax your shoulders,” Zuko says. “You’re a prince, not a hockey player. Nobody is coming to slam you into the boards.”

“But I am a hockey player,” Sokka complains, but he tries his best to follow Zuko’s advice.

When he finally manages one that feels particularly nice, he turns to Zuko, a hopeful look on his face.

“Wow,” Zuko says, his eyebrow raised and arms crossed. “You almost looked pretty.”

Sokka gives him a goofy smile. “You think I’m pretty?”

“I said almost.”

He’s smiling though, so Sokka counts that as a win.

They spend some more time going over the basics, but eventually, Sokka begs off any more figure skating lessons. He’s tired, and his knee is starting to ache a bit, and he just knows that his legs are going to be sore as hell tomorrow. His calves are on fire, along with some other muscles that he didn’t even know existed.

“Okay, I’ll admit it,” Sokka says to the ceiling, sprawled on his back in the middle of the ice. “Figure skating is hard as shit. You win.”

Zuko skates over and looks down at Sokka, standing near his head. A few strands have fallen out of his messy bun and are hanging down to frame his face. “Is that all?” he says.

Sokka huffs. “And it’s a real sport, I guess.”

“And?” Zuko prods.

“And…I am not the figure skating legend that I think I am.”

“There we go,” Zuko says, grinning. “Although you actually didn’t do too bad, considering that it’s your first time.”

Sokka laughs. “I’d like to see you in hockey skates someday.”

Zuko shakes his head. “Never gonna happen. I tried them once when I was a kid, and I am never making that mistake again.”

Sokka climbs to his feet again, and he and Zuko skate back over to the gate together, close enough that they occasionally brush shoulders. Sokka glances over and feels his chest warm at Zuko’s expression, all loose and content, so different from the cold and standoffish man he’d met at dinner earlier that night.

“You know,” Sokka says thoughtfully, “you’re really not so bad, after all. I thought you were, like, this stuck up bitch at dinner, but you’re actually pretty cool.”

Zuko looks away and rubs at the back of his neck. “Yeah, sorry about that,” he says, sounding sheepish. “I, uh, have a hard time talking to new people.”

Sokka bumps their shoulders together. “You’re doing pretty okay now.”

“Yeah, well. You make it easy.” Zuko looks up at Sokka then, and then quickly glances away again. Sokka feels his cheeks burn. Was that a compliment?

Sokka stops them before they can step off the ice, his hand lingering on the boards next to the open gate. “Hey, before we go,” he says, and Zuko turns to look at him expectantly. “Um, do you think you could show me one of your routines? You’ve been on the ice with me all night, but I haven’t even seen you do any real figure skating.”

“Oh, um. I don’t know,” Zuko says. He looks down and fiddles with the strap of his glove. “You know I’m a pairs skater, right? I don’t really know any singles programs.”

“Pleeeaaase,” Sokka begs, putting his face into Zuko’s space and giving him his best puppy-dog eyes. “Can you at least show me some sick jumps or something? I don’t even care if it’s a proper routine.”

“Sokka—”

“Come on, Zuko, just for me. Pretty please? I promise I won’t tell anybody else about it.”

“Why are you so—”

“Please, Zuko, pleeeaaase. I’ll do anything you want.”

Zuko makes an exasperated noise and pinches the bridge of his nose between his fingers. “Fine. Fine. I’ll do it, just stop looking at me like that.”

“Wait, really? You’ll do it?”

“Is that not what I just said?”

“Yes! Ugh, Zuko, you’re the best.” Sokka almost goes in for a hug, but at the last second he catches himself and gives Zuko a friendly punch in the shoulder instead. “Just, hold on, give me a second to take my skates off. My feet are fucking killing me.”

Sokka steps off the ice and begins to unlace his skates, while Zuko digs around in the pocket of his jacket on the bench.

“What are you looking for?” Sokka asks, pulling off one skate—ah, sweet relief—and starting on the other.

“My phone,” Zuko says. “For—you know. The music.”

“Oh, so you are doing a routine.” Sokka grins. “And you said you didn’t know any.”

Zuko rolls his eyes and straightens, phone in hand. “Yeah, well. I lied.”

Sokka pulls his boots on while Zuko steps back onto the ice and begins to do a quick series of stretches. Sokka tries not to stare too obviously, but he thinks he might not be doing the most amazing job. At least Zuko seems to be mostly preoccupied with his stretching, so he doesn’t seem to notice Sokka’s ogling.

At one point, Zuko bends fluidly in half to stretch out his hamstrings, his hands wrapped around his ankles, and Sokka inhales so sharply that he nearly sends himself into a coughing fit. Do all figure skaters have an ass like that?

Zuko skates back over towards him and picks up his phone from where he’d left it on the boards. Sokka desperately hopes that his face looks at least somewhat normal. Zuko taps at the phone a few times, and a song begins to play, upbeat and percussive, before Zuko cuts it off. He clicks the volume button a couple of times and then presses the phone into Sokka’s hand.

“I’m going to warm up a bit more,” he says, “but I’ll tell you when to press play. Okay?”

“Okay,” Sokka says. He doesn’t trust himself to say any more than that.

Zuko skates backwards away from him, holding his gaze, and Sokka feels his heart thump almost painfully hard in his chest. Sokka swallows once, his mouth gone suddenly dry, and then Zuko spins away and begins to glide leisurely around the ice. Sokka watches as he dips into a spin, emerges from it like it’s nothing, and then sails into a jump that makes Sokka’s stomach drop down to his feet. Now that he’s done a little bit of figure skating himself, he has a lot more appreciation for the danger of the sport, and his mind helpfully supplies him with every single worst-case scenario that it can possibly conceive of as Zuko whisks gracefully across the ice.

“Okay,” Zuko says finally. He’s standing in the middle of the rink, arms crossed and one knee cocked in a pose that Sokka can only describe as roguish. “You can start the music.”

Sokka gives him a thumbs up, and presses play.

The music starts up again, some energetic rock song that Sokka doesn’t recognize. He raises an eyebrow, intrigued by Zuko’s choice in music, and then settles himself against the boards to watch the vision before him.

Zuko raises his arms and twists out of his starting position, hopping into a fluid series of steps as he sails across the ice. He lifts a finger and points it at Sokka as he skates past, and Sokka flushes at the cocky look that Zuko gives him before he turns away again. The rhythmic scratching of his skates across the ice is loud enough to nearly drown out the music, drifting quiet and tinny up from Zuko’s phone into the cavernous space of the rink. Given the easy assurance of Zuko’s movements, though, Sokka gets the impression that the music is more for his benefit than anything else.

Zuko continues to dance across the ice, bold and theatrical in a way that perfectly matches the tone of the song. It’s a far cry from his performance with Azula yesterday, which, while exciting in its own way, still had a certain gravity to it, like the two of them took themselves incredibly seriously. The way Zuko is skating now, though…it seems almost playful.

Sokka can see that fire again, the thing that had set him apart so distinctively from the other skaters. He sees it in the confident tilt of Zuko’s shoulders, the dramatic sweep of his arms, his single-minded focus as he lines himself up for a jump. Zuko burns so brightly that even without the flashy outfit, dressed only in some track pants and a plain black t-shirt, he’s dazzling.

But there’s something else, too. Something that had been missing yesterday, that Sokka hasn’t seen before.

And as Zuko sails into the jump, spinning through the air before landing effortlessly on one skate, an exhilarated smile stretched wide across his face, Sokka thinks, oh. That’s what’s different.

Zuko actually looks happy.

Sokka doesn’t think that there’s a single force in the entire universe that could draw his eyes away from Zuko right now. Now that’s Sokka’s seen it, he can’t un-see it. The way Zuko grins as he twists and steps across the ice, the delighted light in his eyes—it’s like there’s something in him that’s come alive.

Zuko slides into another spin, crouched low on one leg, and when he comes out of it his hair has shaken itself loose of its bun, and it spills messily across his face and into his mouth. He doesn’t even seem to mind—just laughs and sweeps his hair out of his face without breaking stride. Watching him soar around the ice, his long hair billowing behind him, Sokka worries that he might actually go into cardiac arrest.

The song finally reaches its crescendo with a flurry of drums and electric guitar, and Zuko skids to a stop on his knees, his head tilted back and his chest heaving with ragged breaths. He stays frozen there for a moment before collapsing spread-eagled on his back, laughing breathlessly up at the ceiling, his face split into a euphoric smile.

Sokka lets out a long breath that he didn’t even realize he’d been holding. He feels like he’s just witnessed something private, something that wasn’t meant for his eyes. He presses pause on the phone before another song can begin playing, and shuffles his way out onto the ice.

Zuko looks over when he hears Sokka coming, but his smile doesn’t waver. There’s a sheen of sweat on his face, long strands of hair sticking to his skin and catching on the corner of his lips. Zuko is so untouchably beautiful that sometimes Sokka thinks that he can’t possibly be a real person. But like this—sweaty and glowing and happy, with his dark hair fanned out messily around him—Zuko looks so painfully and undeniably human that Sokka almost doesn’t know what to do with himself.

He settles for, “Yo.”

Zuko huffs out a weak laugh, his breaths still coming fast and choppy. “Yo.”

“That was fucking incredible, dude,” Sokka says, coming to a stop next to him. “Like, seriously. Wow.”

Zuko’s smile turns a little self-conscious. “Thank you.”

“Did you come up with that yourself? I didn’t even know figure skating could be like that.”

“Uh, yeah.” Zuko sits up then, leaning back on his hands as he looks up at Sokka. “Yeah, I choreographed it myself.”

“God,” Sokka says, shaking his head disbelievingly. Who the hell even is this man? “You are absolutely insane.”

Zuko chuckles and climbs to his feet. He’s covered in snow, and Sokka valiantly tries to resist the urge to brush it off for him. “In a good way, I hope?”

“Eh, jury’s still out on that one.” Ah, screw it. Sokka gives in and dusts some snow off of Zuko’s shoulder, laughing at Zuko’s disgruntled expression. Then he turns and starts to shuffle back towards the gate. Zuko stays by his side as he walks instead of skating ahead, and something inside of Sokka twists pleasantly.

Zuko grabs his phone as they step off the ice and pockets it, and then sits down on the bench and begins to unlace his skates. Sokka leans against the wall in front of him and watches his deft fingers, the way his hair spills over his shoulder like a waterfall.

“D’you want an elastic?” Sokka asks before he can think better of it. Why the hell would he want Zuko to tie his hair up again?

Zuko glances up at him. He’s still all smiley and happy, probably still riding the high of his adrenaline rush, and the warmth in his eyes nearly catches Sokka off guard. “Yeah, sure.”

Sokka tugs one of the spare elastics off his wrist and hands it to him. The brush of their fingers feels like an electric shock.

“Thanks,” Zuko says softly, and quickly ties his hair back up into a bun before starting on his other skate.

Sokka watches him for a moment. “So,” he says, “why don’t you skate singles?”

If Sokka hadn’t been looking at him so intently, he would’ve missed the way that Zuko tenses for just a split second before continuing to unlace his skate as if nothing had happened.

“I’m just better at pairs,” Zuko says.

“No way,” Sokka says, crossing his arms. “I’ve seen you skate pairs, and that was nothing compared to what you just did. You were like a completely different person.”

“Well, I—wait.” Zuko pauses and looks sharply up at Sokka. “When have you seen me skate before?”

Sokka freezes. Shit. “I, um. I haven’t?”

“Sokka,” Zuko says, his mouth beginning to pull up into a smile, “were you at the figure skating competitions yesterday?”

“What?” Sokka blusters. “No, of course not. Why would I do that? I’ve literally told you how much I hate figure skating, like, twenty different times tonight.”

“Hey, it’s okay.” Zuko leans back down and pulls off his skate. “A lot of people are secret figure skating fans. I won’t tell anyone.”

“That’s not—!” Sokka huffs. “My sister is the one who dragged me out there. I wouldn’t have been there if I could help it.” Zuko raises a doubtful eyebrow, and Sokka frowns. “Whatever, I’m not arguing about this with you. And anyways, you never answered my question.”

“What question?” Zuko asks innocently. Sokka gives him a flat look.

“Why skate pairs when you’re so much better at singles?”

Zuko’s face pinches. “I’m not better at singles.”

“You sure looked like you were having more fun, at least.”

“Well, forgive me if I didn’t look like I was having the time of my life in the middle of a competition where nine different judges are critiquing my every single move,” Zuko snaps. He glares up at Sokka for a second, and then suddenly deflates, slumping back in his seat. “Sorry, I just—it’s not the same, okay? I have my reasons for skating with my sister, and I can’t just switch to singles just because I feel like it. Now can we stop talking about this?”

Sokka stares back at him, taken aback. That had not been the reaction he was expecting when he’d asked that question, and now he feels like an insensitive idiot. “Yeah, sure. Sorry for bringing it up.”

Zuko waves him off. “It’s fine.” He pulls his phone out of his pocket and checks the time. “Shit. It’s almost midnight.”

“What?” Sokka pulls out his own phone and checks for himself. It’s 11:51. “What the fuck.”

“Yeah,” Zuko says, rubbing a hand down his face. He looks suddenly exhausted.

Sokka shoots him a sympathetic grin—he feels pretty drained himself. He hasn’t been up this late in weeks. “We should probably head back, huh?”

“Probably.”

They walk together back to the Olympic Village, filling the time with idle chatter or otherwise just walking side by side in companionable silence. Sokka is still having a bit of a hard time believing that this is the same Zuko that he’d met at dinner earlier that day. The untouchable Zuko Nakayama, laughing at his stupid jokes as they kick a block of ice back and forth on the sidewalk—he never would’ve even considered it a possibility before tonight.

Sokka doesn’t expect to feel so disappointed when they finally arrive back at the Village. He regretfully hands Zuko back his borrowed skates and then shoves his hands in his pockets, awkwardly shuffling from foot to foot as he tries to find a way to stall for time.

“Well, this was fun,” he says.

Zuko gives him a small smile. “It was.”

“Sorry for, you know, being such an asshole about figure skating earlier. I didn’t mean what I said.”

“It’s okay,” Zuko says. “I already forgave you for it.”

Sokka laughs softly and ducks his head. “I like you, Zuko. You’re a cool guy.”

“I guess you’re not so bad yourself,” Zuko says. He meets Sokka’s eyes and smirks. “Even if you are a hockey player.”

“Hey!” Sokka shoves his shoulder, and Zuko stumbles away, laughing. “I thought we were over the whole hockey player-figure skater rivalry.”

“Yeah, we are, don’t worry.”

They stand there for another moment longer, just watching each other, until Sokka awkwardly clears his throat and looks away.

“Well, I guess I’ll see you around?” he says.

“Yeah,” Zuko says softly. When Sokka looks up again, he finds Zuko watching him, his eyes crinkled up into a smile. “See you, Sokka.”

They part ways, heading in opposite directions towards their respective buildings. Sokka glances back once and spends a moment watching Zuko’s retreating figure, skates swinging at his sides. There’s a warm feeling building in his chest that he doesn’t want to put a name to, and no matter how hard he tries he can’t quite quash it down.

God. This really was such a terrible idea.

Sokka is well and truly fucked.

—

“Did you know they have free condom dispensers on every floor?” Sokka says, and Zuko promptly chokes on his Gatorade.

“What?” he splutters, his face gone a brilliant shade of red. Almost as red as his Gatorade, which he quickly caps and drops to the side.

“Yeah, it’s crazy, right?” Sokka strolls into the room and drops down onto the empty bed across from Zuko. “I mean, you hear the stories and everything, but that’s still completely different from actually seeing it firsthand.”

“I—wh—” Zuko coughs again, looking equal parts bewildered and embarrassed. “What are you doing here?”

“I was in the area, so I thought I’d stop by and say hi,” Sokka says breezily, as if he hadn’t sent Suki approximately five thousand messages that morning begging her for Zuko’s room number. He tilts his head to the side and tries to look dejected. “Are you not happy to see me?”

“No, no, it’s not that,” Zuko says quickly. “I’m just—surprised. I didn’t think I’d see you again so soon.”

Oops. Maybe showing up to Zuko’s room the literal day after they met is coming on a little too strong. Sokka makes a mental note to dial it down a bit.

“Well, you were nice to me once, so now you’re stuck with me.” He shrugs. “Sorry, I don’t make the rules.”

Zuko snorts. “I don’t know if I would call yesterday ‘me being nice to you.’”

Sokka leans back on his hands and rolls his eyes. “Whatever. You laughed at one of my jokes so now I am forever indebted to you, or something. How’s that instead?”

“That works,” Zuko says. Sokka gets so caught up in the way that Zuko’s eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles that he doesn’t even realize he’s staring until Zuko suddenly goes pink and looks away.

Sokka mentally slaps himself out of his stupor. Bad Sokka. Get a hold of yourself. He clears his throat and tries to project an aura of nonchalance.

“So, what are you up to?” he says, nodding towards the laptop in Zuko’s lap.

“Oh, um.” Zuko tilts the screen of the laptop down, shielding it from Sokka’s prying eyes. “I was just—watching some old figure skating videos.”

“Sounds boring. Joking! I’m joking. I didn’t mean that.”

“No, you’re right.” Zuko sighs and gives the laptop a long look before closing it all the way and setting it to the side. “I was just going over me and Azula’s old competition footage from last year, to prepare for our short program tomorrow. But I think I’m over it.”

“Okay, that does sound kind of boring, actually.” Sokka bounces his leg, a sudden rush of nerves making him suddenly feel very jittery. “Do you, uh, wanna go do something else?”

The look that Zuko gives him seems half-caught between fear and curiosity. “Like what?”

“I don’t know—anything. I think there’s some people having a snowball fight out in the plaza, if you’re into that. Or we could go wait for an hour in line at McDonald’s. Or we could steal a bunch of condoms and blow them up into balloons. Literally whatever you want.”

Zuko’s lips twitch. “McDonald’s doesn’t sound too bad.”

“Awesome.” Sokka jumps to his feet and holds out a hand. “I was starting to get kind of sick of dining hall food, anyways.”

Zuko eyes Sokka’s outstretched hand for a long moment—long enough that is Sokka starting to regret his decision. But then Zuko’s eyes dart briefly up to his face, and Sokka isn’t sure what he finds there, but it’s enough for him to reach out and take Sokka’s hand and pull himself to his feet. His grip is firm and warm, and Sokka feels the point of contact in every part of his body.

Sokka quickly lets go before he can make a fool of himself. “Right, um. After you, Prince Zuko.”

“Don’t call me that,” Zuko grumbles, but Sokka manages to catch a glimpse of his grin as he steps past him to pull on his jacket and shoes.

They end up waiting almost an hour and a half in line for McDonald’s—everyone else must be getting as sick of the dining hall food as he is—but Sokka barely even notices the wait. There’s just something about Zuko that makes everything else sort of…fade away. And maybe that’s going to be a problem later—Sokka does have to focus on his upcoming games, after all—but for the time being, at least, Sokka thinks that he can let himself enjoy this.

—

Sokka’s first game is against Norway. He hates to say it, but it’s an easy win. After almost a week of watching all the other athletes compete, with no outlet for their excitement besides practice and training, Sokka and his teammates have been practically chomping at the bit for a chance to truly stretch their legs. The poor Norwegians didn’t even know what hit them.

Sokka’s first game also happens to be on the same day as Zuko’s final.

He’d gone to watch the short programs the day before—and yes, he even knows what a short program is now—and he knows that Zuko and Azula had been in first place going into the free skate. But Sokka’s coach has a strict ‘No Phones During Warmup’ policy, and then he’d been stuck in cooldown and recovery for another half hour after the game, plus a quick team debrief after that, so by the time he hears about the final results it’s been almost four hours since Zuko actually skated.

It takes a little bit of effort to track him down once Sokka is finally back at the Village. Zuko isn’t in his room, and he isn’t with Azula, Ty Lee, and Mai in one of the quieter lounges, either. But Azula offhandedly mentions that Zuko gets very restless when he’s frustrated, so Sokka heads down to the fitness centre, and lo and behold: there’s Zuko, hunched over on a stationary bike, staring off into space and pedalling so viciously that the bike is actually wobbling.

Sokka walks over and takes a seat on the bike next to him, but Zuko is so caught up in his own head that he doesn’t even notice. Turning the resistance all the way down—he did just play a game, after all—Sokka begins to pedal at a leisurely pace, arms crossed over his chest, and watches a bead of sweat drip down Zuko’s temple and off of his chin.

“You know, it’s a called a stationary bike for a reason,” Sokka says after a moment. “Pedalling harder isn’t going to get it to suddenly take off.”

Zuko finally glances over at him, and his face goes slack with surprise for a split second before settling into annoyance. He turns away again. “I know that.”

Huh. Zuko must really be in a bad mood if he’s not even laughing at Sokka’s jokes, or at the very least exasperatedly rolling his eyes at them.

Sokka pedals in silence for a bit, watching Zuko out of the corner of his eye. The fitness centre is mostly empty at this time of day, so it’s just the two of them on the bikes, and Zuko’s harsh breathing and the constant whir of his bike are the loudest sounds in the room.

Sokka sighs. “What are you doing in here, man?”

Zuko barely spares a glance in his direction. “What does it look like I’m doing? I’m training.”

“But you’re done competing! You just won a silver medal! You should be out there celebrating, not in here working your ass off.”

Zuko hunches down even further over his bike. “Silver isn’t good enough.”

“What do you mean silver isn’t good enough?” Sokka says, gesturing wildly. “You just won an Olympic silver medal, Zuko. That’s pretty fucking amazing, if you ask me.”

Zuko shakes his head. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“I wouldn’t understand what?”

Zuko doesn’t answer, just keeps his eyes steadfastly fixed on the far wall.

“I wouldn’t understand what, Zuko?”

Still nothing. The whirring of the bike kicks up a notch, Zuko’s legs moving even faster than before.

“Okay, no, that’s enough. Stop that,” Sokka says, hopping off his bike. He reaches over and slams his hand down onto the resistance dial of Zuko’s bike, sending him screeching to a halt. “You’re gonna hurt yourself if you keep doing that. You just skated a full program today. You need to let yourself recover.”

Zuko turns to stare at him, an incredulous look on his face, and for a second Sokka is half-afraid that Zuko is going to start yelling at him. Did he cross a line? Was that too far? Sure, they’re friends now, but it’s only been four days, after all.

But then Zuko slumps down and rests his sweaty forehead against the handlebars. His breath is sawing out of him at a frankly worrisome pace.

“Sorry. You’re right,” he pants. “I’m just…angry with myself.”

“Why? You got a podium finish at the Olympics. You should be proud of yourself, dude.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

Something twists in Sokka’s gut at the sound of Zuko’s voice, so small and dejected. Looking down at Zuko’s sagging shoulders, his bowed head, Sokka doesn’t think he’s ever seen a victor look so defeated.

“Hey,” Sokka says, placing a gentle hand on Zuko’s shoulder. “What do you say we go out celebrate? Grab a couple drinks or something. I bet your medal can get us a free round, at least.”

Zuko lifts his head and frowns at him. “Sokka, you can’t. You just started competing.”

“Eh, a few drinks won’t hurt me. I’ve got an amazing metabolism.” Sokka flexes his arms for emphasis, and Zuko rolls his eyes. “Besides, it’s not like we’re playing tomorrow or anything. Just a team meeting and recovery session. It’ll be fine.”

“You still shouldn’t be drinking in the middle of a competition.”

“Come on, Zuko, it’s the Olympics! Live a little.”

“That’s exactly why you shouldn’t do it.”

“Ugh, stop being so boring.”

“I’m not being boring. I’m trying to look out for you.”

“Aw, you care about me?” Sokka presses his hand to his chest and bats his eyelashes. “That’s so sweet. Not gonna cut it, though.”

Zuko huffs. “You’re going to get in trouble, Sokka.”

“Not if nobody finds out,” Sokka says, wiggling his eyebrows. “I’ll get my teammates to cover for me, and we don’t even have to stay out that late. I promise it’ll be fine.”

“I just don’t think this is worth it.”

I just don’t think I’m worth it, is what Sokka hears, and—well. That just won’t do. They may have met only a few days ago, but Sokka already knows, without a doubt, that Zuko is worth every penny.

Sokka steps around to stand directly in front of Zuko’s bike, braces his hands on the handlebars and looks Zuko directly in the eye. “Look, if you don’t want to go out, that’s fine. You can just say so, and I’ll drop it. But if your only excuse is that you don’t want me getting in trouble or drinking before a game, then I’m sorry, but that is not a valid excuse.”

Zuko purses his lips and doesn’t say anything.

Still holding his gaze, Sokka raises an eyebrow. “Well?”

Zuko sighs explosively and looks away. “Fine. Let’s go.”

Sokka beams. “That’s the spirit! Okay, come on, get off the bike. Let’s get you showered; you reek.”

They part ways outside of the fitness centre: Zuko goes off to shower, while Sokka heads back to his own room to change into something a little more appropriate for a night out. No Team Canada swag for him tonight—if he ends up making a fool of himself while they’re out in public, he doesn’t want to have his actions traced back to his team.

He’s knocking at Zuko’s door fifteen minutes later. Zuko pulls the door open, freshly showered, his wet hair dripping onto the towel draped around his shoulders. He’s still in the process of buttoning up his shirt, and Sokka gets a delicious glimpse of his bare chest before he yanks the shirt closed, his face flushing.

“Hey,” Sokka says. His voice comes out steady, and he silently congratulates himself.

“Hi,” Zuko says. His eyes dart from Sokka’s face, to his feet, and back up again, a very quick once over, and Sokka feels his face go hot. “Um, sorry. I’m almost done getting dressed. You can come in.”

He takes a step back to let Sokka through the door. As Sokka walks by, he gets a faint whiff of what smells like…jasmine? Dear god.

Sokka sits down on Zuko’s bed and tries not to stare too obviously as Zuko buttons his shirt up the rest of the way, then reaches up to towel his hair dry. The way that his biceps strain against the sleeves of his shirt as he dries his hair should actually be illegal, if only for the sake of Sokka’s mental health.

Zuko is fully dressed and ready to go a few minutes later. He’s halfway out the door before Sokka, still seated on the bed, clears his throat and says, “Um, aren’t you forgetting something?”

Zuko turns and frowns at him. “What? No.”

Sokka gestures to his own neck. “Uh, yeah? Your medal?”

Zuko’s frown deepens. “I’m not bringing my medal out with us just to parade it around like some sort of trophy.”

“That’s literally what it is, Zuko. Also, I guarantee that it’ll get us at least a few free drinks. People love to buy shit for medallists.”

Zuko lets out an irritated sigh. “Sokka—”

“Look, you don’t even have to wear it, okay? Just put it in your pocket, and you can just flash it whenever you want something from somebody. Sound good?”

Zuko still looks unconvinced.

“Or, I mean, I could just wear it—”

“No,” Zuko says emphatically, stomping over to his closet, and Sokka laughs and jumps to his feet. Zuko turns around after a moment, his medal gently cradled in the palms of his hands. Sokka peers over and lets out a low whistle.

“Damn,” he says. “That’s the real deal, huh?”

“Yeah,” Zuko says quietly. He gently brushes a thumb over the shining metal surface.

Sokka raises his eyebrows. “Well, what are you waiting for?”

“What?”

“Put it on! I wanna see how it looks on you.”

Zuko hesitates, biting his lip, but then slides the strap over his head. He adjusts it a bit so that the medal settles heavily over his sternum, and then looks up at Sokka.

Sokka’s breath catches in his throat.

“Wow…” he breathes. He reaches a hand out but stops just sort of actually touching the medal. “Can I?”

Zuko nods.

The metal is cool to the touch, and he traces his fingers over the embossed surface gently, almost reverently. It’s been polished to such a gleaming finish that he can actually see his reflection in the metal, although it’s a little bit distorted by the intricate design. Sokka runs the tip of his index finger down the ribbon, smoother than silk, and feels a gust of breath against his cheek as Zuko lets out a shaky exhale.

Sokka snatches his hand away and straightens, taking a step back to put some distance between him and Zuko. Zuko’s face has gone very pink, and he quickly takes the medal off before stuffing it unceremoniously in his coat pocket.

Sokka coughs. “Okay, cool. Um, ready to go?”

“Yeah,” Zuko says, not meeting his eyes, and he shuffles out the door. Sokka follows at a safe distance.

There aren’t any bars in the Olympic Green, so they take the train further downtown. They’re not the only ones heading out for a night on the town—the car is filled with athletes and spectators alike, all chattering energetically amongst themselves as the train trundles along.

At Sokka’s suggestion, they decide to follow the biggest group off the train and see where that takes them. They end up in a bar that overlooks a frozen lake, the street outside teeming with people even in the cold. Sokka can only assume that most of them are foreigners here for the Olympics, given the myriad of different flags that everyone seems to be sporting.

The bar is crowded and the music is loud, but they manage to find seats along the bar and are able to somewhat hold a conversation. Despite Zuko’s reputation and his admittedly distinctive face, they manage to go unrecognized for some time. It’s not until Zuko, at Sokka’s insistence, pulls the medal out of his pocket and drapes it reluctantly around his neck that they start to garner more attention. Some people are fans of Zuko’s and ask for pictures, which he politely declines. Others simply want to personally congratulate an Olympic medallist, regardless of who it may be. Many buy them drinks—so many that they aren’t even capable of finishing them all.

They eventually stumble out of the bar and immediately into another one down the street. This area seems to be the hub of Beijing nightlife for locals and tourists alike, and there is no shortage of bars to choose from. They repeat the process in every establishment they visit: finding a seat, flashing the medal, and then being bombarded with so many free drinks that Sokka is seriously starting to worry for the sanctity of their livers. He’s not complaining, though—he’s never gotten so many free drinks in his entire life, and he is absolutely going to milk this for all that it’s worth.

By the time they decide to head back to the Village, Sokka’s head is spinning and he’s having a hard time keeping his balance. Zuko at his side doesn’t seem to be faring much better. It’s okay, though, because Sokka is having the time of his life. Zuko keeps laughing at everything Sokka says—probably a little too loudly, if Sokka is being honest, but it only serves to fuel his ego—and he’s such a touchy drunk that under normal circumstances Sokka thinks he might actually combust. Zuko presses their thighs together under the table, leans into Sokka as he laughs, clings to Sokka’s arm as they stumble together down the street. If Sokka were in his right mind he would probably have had at least five mental breakdowns by now, but as it is he just lets himself happily bask in Zuko’s attention.

They flag down a taxi and stumble into the backseat together, giggling at their clumsiness, and spend the entire ride back to the Village pressed together from shoulder to hip, even though there’s more than enough room for the both of them in the backseat of the car. Once they’ve been dropped off, Sokka insists on walking Zuko back to his room, because he’s a gentleman, and also because he thinks that Zuko might actually fall over if he lets go of him. Sokka wasn’t lying about having a crazy fast metabolism—he’d already managed to sober up somewhat on the ride home—but Zuko does not seem to have been blessed with the same gifts as him.

Zuko fumbles with his keycard a bit, but he eventually manages to get the door open on his third try. He toes off his shoes with admirable focus as Sokka watches from the doorway, unable to resist the fond smile that stretches across his face. Zuko looks up at him once he’s shrugged out of his coat, and, upon seeing his expression, gives Sokka a dopey smile of his own. It makes Sokka’s stomach flutter.

“So,” Sokka says, crossing his arms and leaning against the doorway, “did you have fun tonight?”

“Yeah, I did.” Zuko laughs and shakes his head, his smile growing. A strand of hair falls into his face, and Sokka, emboldened by the alcohol still flowing through his veins, reaches out to tuck it behind his ear for him.

“That’s good.” Sokka’s eyes wander down to the medal still draped around Zuko’s neck. He’d stopped hiding it about halfway through the night, and had instead just started proudly parading it around wherever they went. “You feeling better about that silver, now?”

Zuko nods. “It definitely helps to have a couple hundred strangers fawning over it like that.”

Sokka snickers. “Definitely.”

Zuko’s smile softens, and he takes a step closer. Sokka feels his heartrate ratchet up a notch.

“Thank you for inviting me out tonight,” he murmurs. “I haven’t had that much fun in…a long time.” He shakes his head. “I think that I might have actually forgotten how to have fun, with how much I’ve been training lately.”

“You’re welcome,” Sokka says. His eyes seem drawn almost of their own accord towards Zuko’s perfect smiling mouth. “I, uh, had a lot of fun too.”

He sees Zuko’s eyes flick down to his own mouth, and all of his breath leaves him at once. If this were a movie, this would be the part where they kiss. And Sokka does want to kiss him, so, so badly that his entire being aches with it.

But he’s drunk. And so is Zuko. And even though Zuko is looking at him like that, is tilting his chin up in the most unmistakeable ‘kiss me’ signal known to man—Sokka doesn’t want to do anything that they might end up regretting in the morning.

It takes nearly everything he has to take a step back and put some distance between them again. Sokka does his best to pretend that he doesn’t notice the flash of disappointment in Zuko’s eyes.

“I’m, uh, I’m gonna head to bed, but I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?” he says, plastering on an easy grin. “Gotta make sure you’re still alive and everything.”

Zuko blinks and shakes himself, looking dazed. “Shit, yeah. Sorry, I forgot you have stuff in the morning.”

“It’s fine,” Sokka says. “But I should probably go now if I want a chance of getting any sleep at all, so, um. Goodnight, Zuko.”

“Yeah. Goodnight, Sokka,” Zuko says, all soft and unguarded, and Sokka’s resolve almost crumbles to dust right then and there. Shit, how does Zuko make him so weak?

He waves awkwardly and turns away before he can change his mind, and starts to make his way back towards the elevators. The quiet click of Zuko’s door closing follows him down the hall—but the image of Zuko’s smile, unselfconscious and beautiful, follows him all the way into his dreams.

The next morning is hell. Even a lightning-fast metabolism isn’t enough to completely prevent a hangover, especially considering the amount of alcohol he drank last night. He gets chewed out by Coach for falling asleep in the middle of the meeting, and the team recovery session is a special kind of torture, seemingly designed to specifically target him in all the places where he hurts the most.

But then he thinks about the way Zuko had looked last night—all loose and happy and carefree, with a smile that could put the brightest stars to shame—and that’s enough to make it all worth it.

—

There’s a knock on the door. Sokka frowns and glances up, pressing pause on the movie playing on his laptop. Why would someone be at his door? He’s not expecting anyone tonight—everyone else is supposed to be going out for dinner at some fancy restaurant downtown. Did Jackson forget his goddamn keycard again? With an annoyed grumble, Sokka places his laptop to the side, then stomps over to the door and yanks it open without bothering to look through the peephole first.

“Hi,” Zuko says.

“Hey.” Sokka blinks, his annoyance immediately fizzling out. Zuko looks all soft and rumpled in his oversized Team USA hoodie, his hair spilling loose and messy over his shoulders, and the sight of him has Sokka feeling strangely off kilter. “What are you doing here?”

Zuko looks down and scuffs his shoe against the floor. “Um, I just wanted to come see you. Ty Lee told me you’re not going out with the others tonight?”

“Oh, yeah. I feel kind of bad for ditching, considering that it’s for Aang’s first gold and everything, but.” He shrugs.” I’m really tired, plus I’ve got a quarterfinal game tomorrow, so it’s a quiet night in for me.” Sokka leans against the doorframe and raises an eyebrow, eyeing Zuko up and down. From the way he’s dressed, he doesn’t seem like he’s going out to dinner either. “What about you? You weren’t invited?”

“No, I was.” Zuko bites his lip, avoiding Sokka’s gaze. “But, um, I thought I’d stay behind and keep you company instead?”

“Oh.” Something pleased and warm takes root in Sokka’s chest. “Well, come on in, then,” he says, taking a step back to let Zuko through the doorway.

Zuko hesitates. “Um, I mean, if you’re tired, I can just leave you alone.”

Sokka rolls his eyes. “Get in here, jerk. You look like an idiot standing out in the hallway like that.” He grabs Zuko by the arm pulls him into the room, shutting the door behind him. “And I was just watching a movie, anyways, so you can watch with me. How do you feel about Pacific Rim?”

“Never seen it.”

“Well, then! You are in for a treat, my friend.”

Sokka picks his laptop up and settles down onto the bed, propping himself up against the headboard. “Here, I’ll restart it for you,” he says, and pats the empty space beside him.

“You don’t have to do that—”

“Shut up. I will not have you miss out on a single second of the greatest movie of all time. Now come sit.”

Zuko gingerly perches on the edge of the bed next to Sokka. It’s a twin bed, so there’s not a whole lot of room, especially for two men of their size, but there’s definitely enough space for Zuko to sit without half of his ass hanging off the mattress. Sokka sighs, exasperated, and drags Zuko over until he’s leaned up against the headboard next to Sokka, their shoulders pressed tightly together.

“Okay, now pay very close attention,” Sokka says, settling the laptop on his lap and angling it so that Zuko can see. “You don’t want to miss any of this.”

No matter how many times Sokka has seen this movie, it never gets old. It may be ridiculous and over the top and a bit too cheesy for some people’s tastes, but that’s exactly why he loves it. He glances over at Zuko every once in a while, trying to gauge his reaction, and Zuko seems interested, at least, which is good enough for Sokka.

Sometimes Zuko will tilt his head towards Sokka and ask him a question, voice pitched low and quiet so as not to talk over the movie. The deep rumble of Zuko’s voice so close to his ear makes Sokka shiver, but he answers enthusiastically, trying not to betray the effect that Zuko’s proximity has on him. He might be fighting a losing battle, though, because each time it just gets harder and harder to not give into the temptation to lean his head down onto Zuko’s shoulder.

Eventually, despite his antsiness, Sokka feels his eyes beginning to droop, and he catches himself in the middle of nodding off more than once. He really has seen this movie a truly outrageous number of times, so it’s not like he’s missing out on anything, anyways, and Zuko’s body next to him is just so solid and warm…

The last thing he remembers is the soft tickle of Zuko’s hair against his face, the sturdiness of his shoulder beneath his cheek.

Sokka wakes in the morning to the sound of his phone alarm, and he fumbles out a hand to slap it into silence before it can wake his roommate. He’s still wearing his clothes from the night before, but he’s got the bedcovers pulled up to his chin, meaning that someone—Zuko—had tucked him under the covers after he'd fallen asleep. Sokka feels himself flush, with embarrassment, but with something else too—something soft and warm that he doesn’t dare name.

Zuko is long gone by now. Sokka’s laptop sits charging on the bedside table next to him, and when he opens it, the Netflix page for Pacific Rim is still pulled up on the screen. He goes to exit out of the window, but right before he does, his eyes catch on the timestamp—and he realizes, to his surprise and delight, that Zuko had finished the entire movie.

—

Eleven days into the Games, Katara wins her first medal.

It’s a bronze, and her smile when they drape it over her head is the biggest and brightest that Sokka has ever seen. Sokka doesn’t see it in person, unfortunately, too busy with his own quarterfinal game the same day, but the fact that he’s seeing it on a screen doesn’t lessen the effect at all. She’s radiant.

She’d come to see him as soon as she made it back to the Village, positively buzzing with excitement and eager to fill him in on everything he’d missed. She wears the medal proudly around her neck, and reaches up to touch it every so often, as if to remind herself that it’s still there, solid and shining and real.

Sokka should be happy for her, he knows. And a part of him is—all those years and years of lessons and training and hard work have finally paid off, and he couldn’t be prouder of his baby sister. But it’s hard to act happy when he knows that his little stint at the Olympics may very well have just come to an end.

Sokka nods absently and shifts on his bed, trying to get more comfortable without moving his leg too much. Katara has been talking to him—well, more like talking at him—for the past five minutes, and he hasn’t actually heard a word of what she’s saying. The bag of ice is dripping onto the pillow that he’s using to prop his knee up, and he stares blankly at the growing wet spot. He’s only realizing now that he probably should’ve gotten a towel or something, because sleeping on a wet pillow tonight is really going to suck.

“And then I completely over-rotated and I thought, ‘There’s no way I’m going to land this thing,’ but I did! I almost couldn’t believe it.” Katara bounces excitedly on the bed, and Sokka winces at the way it jostles his knee. “Shoot, sorry. Are you okay?”

“Fine,” Sokka grits out. “And that’s really great, Katara. I’m happy for you.”

Katara frowns at him. “Are you? Because I’ve been trying to talk to you for, like, the past ten minutes and you’ve done nothing but stare off into space the entire time.”

“Yep! Totally ecstatic, can’t you tell?” Sokka tries to smile, but he thinks that it definitely comes off as more of a grimace.

Katara huffs and crosses her arms over the medal still resting against her chest. “Geez, no need be all sarcastic about it.”

“Me? Sarcastic? I would never.”

She gives him an unimpressed look.

Sokka sighs and tips his head back against the headboard with a thunk. “Fine, sorry. I’ll stop with the sarcasm. I really am happy for you, Katara.”

“Thanks,” Katara says, smiling half-heartedly, but her good mood has completely evaporated. Sokka mentally smacks himself—way to go, dipshit—and tries to steer the conversation back on track. Maybe there’s a way to salvage this.

“Uh, how was the medal ceremony? That must have been exciting.”

“Yeah, it was. Dad and Bato made me take a bunch of pictures with them afterwards.” Katara looks down, picking at a loose thread on her pants, and then glances at Sokka out of the corner of her eye. “How’s your knee?”

Well, there go his chances at salvaging the situation. “Fine,” he says tightly.

“Do you think you’re gonna be able to play again?”

Sokka feels his mouth pull down into a frown. “I don’t know.”

“Well, what did the athletic therapists say?”

“They told me to go see them tomorrow, once the swelling’s gone down.”

“And what do you think they’ll say then?”

“Fuck, I don’t know, Katara!” Sokka explodes. “Maybe they’ll tell me I’m totally fine and I can play in the semifinal no problem, although that seems unlikely, and maybe if I’m really lucky they’ll tell me that I completely fucked myself over and I can never play hockey ever again!”

Katara surges to her feet and glares down at Sokka, her nostrils flaring. “God, why do you have to be such an asshole? I was just trying to be nice and ask you how you’re doing, since you obviously don’t seem to give a shit about any of the other things I’ve been trying to talk to you about.”

“Well, as you can see, I’m doing just fine, thanks,” he says, gesturing broadly to himself, his leg propped up on the bed. “So you can stop asking.”

She makes a disgusted noise. “You’re insufferable.”

“Yeah, tell me something I don’t know.”

“Whatever,” Katara says, and stalks over to the door. “I’m going to go hang out some people who actually care about what I have to say, or who will, you know, at least try to have a conversation with me. You can stay in here feeling sorry for yourself.”

“It’s not like I can go anywhere, anyways!” Sokka yells after her.

The door slams shut with a violent bang.

Sokka slumps back onto the bed and drags his hands down his face. Great. Fucking great. One of the happiest days of his sister’s life, and he had to go and ruin that for her with his own bad mood. He’d smother himself with his pillow if he weren’t using it to support his stupid fucking knee.

He grabs the ice pack and tosses it to the floor, then shuffles further down the bed so he can lie on his back and stare listlessly up at the ceiling. It’s white and featureless, without anything that he can use to distract himself, but that’s fine—he feels like wallowing, anyways.

All the work that he put in to get here, and he’s out after only three games because someone checked him into the boards a little too hard and his lousy bum knee couldn’t handle the strain. He doesn’t even know why he’s surprised—it was only a matter of time before the stupid thing finally gave out for good.

…Still. It would’ve been nice to have made it to the end of the Games, at the very least. They’ve still got two games either way—the semifinals are just to decide whether they’ll be playing for bronze or for gold, in the end—but with the way things are looking, he likely won’t get to play in either of them.

The numbness from the ice is starting to fade, and the pain is flaring up again. He has a bottle of painkillers in his bag across the room, but he doesn’t feel like hopping all the way over there to get them. And it’s not like really needs them, anyways. He’s dealt with worse before—he can tough it out.

Sokka doesn’t know how long he lies there, just watching the ceiling, stubbornly ignoring the growing ache in his knee. There’s the occasional clamour of voices and footsteps in the hallway as a group of people passes by his door. His phone buzzes a couple of times on the bedside table, but he makes no move to reach for it. He’s not in the mood for anybody’s sympathy.

Eventually, there’s a tentative knock at the door. Sokka groans and closes his eyes.

“Go away, Katara,” he says. He’s not in the mood to be yelled at again, either. “I thought you had better things to do than hang out with my busted ass, anyways.”

The door creaks open—of course she’d left it unlocked, probably just to piss him off—and Zuko’s head peeks through.

“It’s, uh, not Katara,” he says, and Sokka’s heart does something funny in his chest.

“I can see that,” Sokka says. He struggles into a sitting position as Zuko steps further into the room, closing the door behind him. “What are you even doing here? I thought you weren’t staying in the Village anymore.”

“Yeah, well.” Zuko shrugs and takes a seat near the foot of the bed, taking care not to jostle Sokka’s leg. “Suki told me what happened.” He pauses. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Sokka’s stomach clenches. “It wasn’t important. I didn’t want to bother you.

“Of course it’s important,” Zuko says. “It’s you.”

Sokka just stares at him, unsure how to respond. What is he even supposed to say to that?

Zuko swallows and looks down at his hands. “I’m sorry I wasn’t at your game.”

Sokka waves him off. “It’s fine. I wasn’t even playing for most of it, anyways. Got hurt in the first period.”

Zuko looks up at him then, something like pity in his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he says.

It leaves a bad taste in Sokka’s mouth.

“Yeah, whatever,” he says, and tries to ignore the hurt that flashes across Zuko’s face. “How was your uncle’s curling match?”

“Boring,” Zuko says immediately, and Sokka’s mouth twitches up into a half-smile despite himself. “But they won, so. I’m happy for him.”

“That’s good.”

“Yeah.”

They lapse into silence. Sokka catches Zuko’s eyes darting towards his knee a couple of times, and he bristles internally. When Zuko eventually opens his mouth again, Sokka cuts him off before he can say anything.

“If you ask me about my knee,” he snaps, “I’m kicking you out.”

Zuko blinks, startled, his mouth working silently for a moment. “I wasn’t going to ask you that.”

“Really.”

“I was going to ask you if you wanted another ice pack.” Zuko leans down and picks Sokka’s bag of ice up from the floor. It’s completely melted now, and there’s a sizeable puddle on the ground where it had been sitting. “You look like you could use a new one.”

“Oh.” God, Sokka feels like such an asshole. “Sure. Thanks.”

Zuko nods and leaves the room. As soon as the door closes, Sokka leans back against the headboard and closes his eyes, counting his breaths. It’s something that he does when he’s feeling especially stressed out before a game, and he thinks that he could definitely use it now. He’s almost made it to a hundred when he hears the click of the door opening again, and he opens his eyes to find Zuko padding quietly into the room, a fresh bag of ice in his hands.

“Here,” he says softly. He sits down next to Sokka and hands him the bag; his fingers, when they brush against Sokka’s, are cold.

“Thanks.” Sokka winces when he settles the ice against his knee, both from the cold and from the sudden flare of pain at the pressure. It doesn’t go unnoticed by Zuko, whose face pinches with concern.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

“I’m fine,” Sokka lies.

Zuko obviously doesn’t buy it. “Does it hurt?”

Sokka goes to shake his head, but a sudden wave of pain courses up his leg, and he inhales sharply. Zuko’s brow furrows.

“A little bit,” he admits.

“Have you taken anything for it?” Zuko says, and when Sokka shakes his head, he immediately climbs to his feet. “Do you have any painkillers in here? Or I can go get some if you want.”

“Uh, there’s some in my bag,” he says, gesturing to his backpack by the desk. “But I don’t need to take anything, I’m fine.”

“Did your therapists tell you not to take anything?” Zuko asks. Sokka shakes his head no. “Then it’s fine.” He pulls out the bottle and shakes out a couple of pills, then holds them out to Sokka. “Here, take two.”

Sokka eyes them dubiously. “I really don’t need them, Zuko.”

“Sokka, you’re in pain. Just take them.”

Sokka frowns. “Zuko—”

“Who are you trying to be strong for, Sokka? There’s nobody here but me.” He takes Sokka’s hand and presses the pills into his palm. “Take them, okay?”

Sokka swallows. Why do his eyes feel like they’re burning all of a sudden? “Okay.”

He takes the bottle of water that Zuko offers him and swallows the pills past the lump in his throat. It’s not until he’s screwing the cap back onto the bottle that he realizes that his hands are shaking.

He drops the water bottle to the side and fists his hands in the sheets before Zuko can notice, but he’s not very successful, if Zuko’s expression is anything to go by. His eyes are wide and concerned, his mouth creased into a frown, and he looks so horribly, genuinely worried that Sokka can’t stand it. Sokka turns his head away and clenches his eyes shut, presses his lips together and inhales shakily through his nose.

He tries counting his breaths again, but it doesn’t work—a tear slips out anyways.

“Fuck,” Sokka mutters, and he swipes at it, but another one follows it, and then another and another, and there’s nothing he can do to stop them. He keeps his eyes squeezed shut, not wanting to see the look on Zuko’s face, feeling the tears leak out and drip down his cheeks.

Sokka hates crying. He hates the way it makes him feel—weak and vulnerable and so very, very small. He can count on one hand how many times he’s cried in the past two years. So the fact that he’s crying like this now, in front of Zuko of all people—it’s beyond humiliating.

He startles when he feels a light touch against his forearm. It’s just Zuko, he reminds himself, and he doesn’t move as the touch drifts down towards his wrist and then wraps carefully around his fist, still clutching the sheets in a death grip. Gentle as anything, Zuko pries his hand loose, uncurls his stiff fingers, and begins to run his thumb back and forth over Sokka’s knuckles. Something in Sokka’s chest squeezes, hard, and then loosens all at once.

“This okay?” Zuko asks, quietly, softly.

Sokka nods. He doesn’t trust himself to speak.

Zuko continues to stroke Sokka’s knuckles in a soothing, repetitive motion. Sokka lets out a shuddering breath and uncurls his other hand from the sheets, slowly flexing his aching fingers. Zuko takes that hand, too, and brings them together to rest in Sokka’s lap, never once faltering in his movements.

Sokka should hate it—he hates being treated like he’s something fragile. But for some reason, he doesn’t, and he never wants Zuko to stop.

The tears eventually begin to taper off, and Sokka forces himself to open his eyes. His vision is blurry with tears, and he blinks a few times to clear it. Zuko watches him carefully, but there’s no pity in his eyes—just understanding.

“Are you okay?” he asks. His voice is hushed, and the space between them is so small.

“Yeah,” Sokka says. He reluctantly pulls his hands away from Zuko’s and wipes at his face. God, this is so embarrassing. “Yeah, I’m fine. Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.”

“I don’t even know what that was.”

“Sokka, it’s fine. You don’t have to explain yourself.” He leans over a plucks a tissue from the box on the bedside table and hands it to Sokka. “Here.”

“Thanks.” Sokka wipes at his eyes and then blows his nose. Tosses the used tissue towards the garbage can and misses. “Oops.”

Zuko gives him a small smile. “Good thing you’re not a basketball player.”

Sokka feels his stomach twist. “Yeah, well. I’m not much of a hockey player anymore, either,” he says bitterly.

Zuko’s smile vanishes. “Is it really that bad? Can’t you, I don’t know, get surgery or something?”

Ha. Sokka stares down at his hands, twisted together in his lap; they’re shaking again. “You know this isn’t the first time this has happened, right?”

“Oh.”

Sokka laughs humourlessly. “Yeah.”

He turns his gaze towards the window. It’s dark outside, and the lights in the windows of the other residences shine brightly in the night. The faintest sounds of laughter and shouting drift up from the plaza. He wonders if Katara is down there.

He doesn’t like to think about his knee. For the most part, as long as it’s not actually hurting, he can ignore it and pretend that it’s completely fine—and it works, usually. But he can’t ignore it anymore, and he’s finally being forced to reckon with the hard truth that no, it’s not fine, and that it might not ever be again.

He’s never talked about it to anyone besides his family; hates being confronted with his own weakness. But for some reason that he can’t explain, he wants to tell Zuko.

“Growing up,” he starts, still watching the lights outside his window, “my biggest dream was to play in the NHL. And for the longest time it was just that: a dream. But I worked my ass off, for years—I had to work twice as hard as everybody else, just to get noticed. But I did it, and I got noticed, and I—” He stops; swallows. “I was so close to making it.”

Zuko shifts on the bed. “Sokka, you don’t have to—”

Sokka cuts him off. “I was on track to be a first round draft pick for the NHL, you know. Right up until I blew out my knee. The whole thing, just kaput.” He mimes an explosion with his hands and tries to ignore the way Zuko’s eyes widen. “I had to get three surgeries, and it took me almost two years to get back up to speed after everything. And by then, ha, well. It was too late. I’d missed my chance. And I’m never gonna get another one ever again.”

“Sokka, I’m…I’m sorry,” Zuko says quietly. It makes Sokka feel a little bit like he’s been punched in the throat.

He tries to shrug it off. “Don’t be,” he says blithely. “It’s not like it’s your fault or anything. And hey, at least I’m here, right? The Olympics—not bad for a victory lap.” He chuckles, but it comes out a lot more bitter than he means for it to.

“Victory lap?” Zuko sounds confused.

“Yeah, I mean. This is kind of it for me, you know?” Sokka shrugs. “There’s nothing else for me after this. This was my last shot at making it big, and I blew it. Literally!” He gestures angrily towards his knee, still propped up on the pillow with the new ice pack dripping all over the place. On a sudden impulse, he grabs the ice pack and flings it to the ground; it’s not as satisfying as he’d hoped. Zuko just watches him, his face unreadable.

Sokka slumps back and buries his face in his hands. “God, I don’t know why I even bother,” he says, his voice muffled. “It’s not like there ever was a place for me here, anyways.”

“What do you mean?” Zuko says carefully.

“Just—look at me!” Sokka drops his hands and gestures widely to himself, his movements rough and jerky. “I don’t exactly look like your average pro hockey player, do I?”

Zuko doesn’t say anything, but when Sokka looks over, he just looks…sad. Sokka swallows and looks away again.

“My entire life,” he says, “I’ve always been the odd one out. And like…when you’re a kid, and you grow up playing a sport where nobody else looks like you, you don’t even notice, because, well, you’re just a kid, right? You’re just trying to have fun.” He sniffs and looks down at his hands. “But then, you get older, and you look at all the people around you—you know, the ones who give you funny little nicknames because they can’t be bothered to try pronouncing your last name—and you start to wonder if there’s even a place here for you anymore. Or if there ever even was one in the first place.”

Sokka tilts his head back against the headboard and closes his eyes. The abrupt feeling of helplessness that washes over him is like a weight pressing down on his chest.

“Maybe this is the universe telling me that it’s time to just give up,” he says. “Not that I believe in that kind of shit or anything, but.” He flings a hand towards his knee. “Obviously I wasn’t meant to be here.”

There’s a moment of silence. Sokka keeps his eyes shut, but he’s painfully aware of Zuko’s presence at his side: every breath, every quiet shift. If he listened hard enough he could probably hear his heartbeat.

“I think…I think I know how you feel,” Zuko says.

Does he now? Sokka cracks an eye open and glances over. “Really.”

Zuko flushes. “Well, I mean, it’s not exactly the same, but.” He chews at his lip, deliberating for a moment, before seeming to come to a decision. He straightens and looks Sokka in the eye. “Have you ever heard the name Ozai Nakayama?”

Sokka shakes his head. “A relative, I’m assuming?”

“Yeah. My dad. He used to be a figure skater, too. He was amazing at it—we’ve got his old medals all around the house.” Zuko pauses. “Until one day he got injured, badly, and he had to quit.”

Sokka frowns. “I don’t see—”

“He’s my coach now.”

Sokka’s mind flashes back to that time at the training rink, when he’d been spying on Zuko and Azula’s practice. A voice, stern and commanding, and the way that they had both seemed almost terrified of it. “Okay.”

“He’s, um, a good coach.” Zuko glances down and chews at his lip. “I mean, he got us here, so he must be. But he’s strict. Doesn’t take any shit. And he has a lot of expectations for me and Azula.”

Sokka isn’t sure that he likes where this is going. He keeps his mouth sealed tightly shut, his eyes trained on the harsh bob of Zuko’s throat as he swallows.

“When I was fifteen, I told him that I didn’t want to do pairs with Azula anymore, and that I wanted to do singles instead. We got into an argument about it. And he got angry, and, um…” Sokka watches, with a dawning sense of horrified realization, as Zuko hesitantly brings a hand up and touches the edge of his scar. “Yeah.”

Sokka’s heart squeezes. “Zuko…”

Zuko takes a deep breath and shakes himself. “Anyways. That’s not what the point is. The point is that all of a sudden, I was almost completely blind in my left eye, and I could barely walk straight, because of how damaged my ear was.” He clears his throat. “I, uh, got reconstructive surgery and everything, which fixed it somewhat, but not completely. So I went to rehab. I spent two years teaching myself how to skate again.”

Zuko meets Sokka’s eyes again, and there’s something so raw on his face that it almost hurts to look at. “But the whole time I was in rehab, I was just…so angry. I would lash out at everyone around me, even the people who just wanted to help me. I just thought, what’s the point? I’m never going to be able to do what I really want, and I’m never going to be the same as I was before. I thought about quitting, a lot. About just giving up and walking away and never going back.”

Sokka feels caught in Zuko’s gaze; he can’t make himself look away. “So why didn’t you?”

Zuko smiles sadly. “Because it’s the only thing I’m good at.” He shrugs. “Isn’t that why you kept going, too?”

Sokka feels as if all the breath has been stolen from his lungs.

“Yeah,” he whispers. “I guess it is.”

He wrenches his gaze away from Zuko’s, unable take it any longer. How is it that Zuko manages to make him feel so painfully seen? He feels like he’s been flayed open, all his most vulnerable parts laid out for the world to see—his still beating heart, ripped from his chest, now cradled gently in Zuko’s bloody hands.

Sokka swallows thickly. A lone tear rolls down his cheek, and he lets it. His voice, when he speaks, is broken and small.

“What am I going to do, Zuko?”

Zuko hesitates. “I…don’t know.” A pause. “But, I do know that, even if this is the end of your hockey career, you still have so much more to give to the world than you think you do.”

Slowly, Zuko reaches up and wipes Sokka’s tear away with his thumb, so, so softly that it makes him ache. “You’re not done yet, Sokka.”

—

By some insane miracle, Sokka’s knee turns out to be completely fine. Just a tweak, the athletic therapists say, and they prescribe him a few days of rest and ice to keep the swelling down. He has to sit out the semifinal game, which is one of the most stressful experiences of Sokka’s life—but the team, without his help, manages to narrowly eke out a victory over the Swedish team, effectively securing them a spot in the gold medal match.

Sokka is cleared to play in the final. It’s the last day of the Games, and the arena is completely packed with spectators. Half of them wear Canadian colours, while the others cheer in support of the American team. His family is out there, somewhere, but Sokka can’t spare the time to look for them. They’re still tied 2-2 as the end of the third period approaches, and he’s so hopped up on nerves and adrenaline that he feels like he’s about to vibrate right out of his skates.

He’s on the bench as he watches the clock trickle down to the last few seconds, both teams scrambling for the puck in the neutral zone. When the buzzer sounds, the entire arena groans in unison: overtime it is.

After a brief and stressful meeting in the dressing room, they take to the ice again. Sokka can hardly hear the roar of the crowd over the rush of blood in his ears. He plays one shift, and another, skating so hard that his legs tremble and his lungs ache, but no matter what they do neither team is able to get the upper hand.

But then, ten minutes into overtime, he sees it: an opening.

They’re down in the Americans’ end, doing their best to keep the puck in their possession. They’ve been tossing it around for a bit, looking an opportunity, but the defence aren’t giving up any ground. After a shot that flies wide, there’s a mad scramble for the puck against the boards, from which Sokka somehow manages to emerge victorious. He skates back towards the goal, every muscle in his body screaming for oxygen, and sees McKinnon round the corner behind the net at that exact, perfect moment.

He doesn’t even think before letting the puck fly.

It’s as if he’s watching it in slow motion. The entire arena seems to hold its breath as the puck skims across the ice, cracks off of McKinnon’s stick, and then flies beautifully, flawlessly past the goalie and into the back of the net.

The buzzer goes off. Sokka throws off his helmet and gloves and is halfway across the ice before he even realizes what he’s doing, and he slams into McKinnon so hard that they nearly go crashing to the ice. They’re immediately joined by the rest of their teammates, screaming and cheering at the top of their lungs, and it’s disgusting and uncomfortable and sweaty but Sokka is so delirious with joy that he doesn’t even care.

Everything after that passes in a blur. They shake hands with the Americans and line up as the carpets are rolled out for the medal ceremony. There are pictures, and announcements, and the never-ending cheering of the crowd. Sokka searches for his family in the stands, but they’re impossible to find in the chaos. Everybody is still on their feet, cheering and waving flags, a living, breathing sea of red and white.

The American team is given their silvers first, and then it’s their turn. One by one, his teammates bow their heads to accept the gold medals placed around their necks. And then Sokka bows his own head, and someone carefully drapes a medal around his neck, and it’s so much heavier than he expects, but at the same time it feels like nothing at all.

He lifts his head again, and that’s when he finally spots them: his family. Katara is waving so hard that it looks like her arm is about to fly off, beaming in that way that she only ever does when she’s proud of him and doesn’t want to admit it. There’s his dad and Bato, their arms wrapped around each others’ shoulders, swaying side to side as Hakoda raises a hand to his mouth and hollers like his life depends on it.

And then, standing next to them, is Zuko.

Sokka’s heart skips a beat in his chest.

Zuko, who is supposed to be performing at the figure skating gala exhibition right now. Zuko, who is wearing a Canadian jersey that looks about two sizes too big for him. Zuko, who is smiling at him so widely and so brightly that Sokka thinks he could eclipse the goddamn sun.

They lock eyes. The noise of the crowd, the flashing of the cameras, everything else seems to fade out as the world narrows to the single point between them.

Zuko raises one hand and waves.

Sokka smiles, so wide that it almost hurts, and waves right back.

—

The closing ceremony is, in Sokka’s opinion, much more entertaining than the opening ceremony, but that might just be because he’s drunk.

He’s been drinking ever since they popped the first bottle of champagne in the dressing room after the game, and he hasn’t really stopped since. He’s not really sure how his teammates managed to procure so much alcohol on such short notice, unless they’ve just been secretly stashing it the entire time, which would also make sense.

He hasn’t partied like this since he was in high school. The lounges are packed with people drinking and laughing and dancing, and he’d passed more than one couple just straight up making out in the hallways. At one point he walked past an open door to a room where some people had definitely been having a very loud and enthusiastic threesome.

Actually, now that he thinks about it, there might’ve been more than three.

It had been a bit of a struggle to get all the athletes rounded up and wrangled into their uniforms for the closing ceremony, but it had worked out eventually, and now Sokka is back in the National Stadium, parading across the stage with his teammates once again while doing his damnedest to appear sober on international television. He’s not sure that he’s doing the most amazing job, but whatever. He deserves this.

Katara is at his side, and they’re both wearing their medals like badges of honour. The music is loud enough to rattle his very bones, the lights are blinding, he’s taken so many pictures and videos of the entire night that he’s pretty sure his phone is about two seconds away from dying, and he can’t think of a single thing that would make this night better.

Well, maybe he can think of one thing. But he hasn’t seen Zuko at all since his medal ceremony.

It’s fine. He’s still enjoying himself. It’d be hard not to, with the amount of alcohol that he’s consumed, combined with the exuberant atmosphere of the entire ceremony.

After their celebratory lap around the stage, they’re all corralled into the stands to watch the rest of the closing ceremony. Sokka is a bit ashamed to admit that he misses a good chunk of the performances, because he keeps sneaking out of the stands to go get more drinks. Katara gives him a disappointed look each time, but he always brings her back a drink that she accepts without question, so she can’t actually be too upset with him.

The entire time, though, he can’t help but wonder: where is Zuko?

Sokka tries to comb through the stands to find him, but the Americans are all seated in front of him, and they all look identical from behind, with their toques and matching coats. Trying to text him isn’t an option, because his phone is fully dead now, and he can’t use Katara’s because he doesn’t remember Zuko’s number.

There’s an anxious ball growing in the pit of his stomach at the thought of not seeing Zuko again before they all part ways for good. Not even the alarming amount of alcohol currently flowing through his system is enough to quell it.

He’s getting more and more antsy as the ceremony drags on, and Katara can tell, judging by the annoyed looks she keeps giving him. Whatever. It’s not his fault that he tends to fidget when he’s bored. And the speeches that they’re giving right now are pretty dry.

The music starts up again, loud and upbeat, and Sokka thinks that they’re finally nearing the end of the ceremony. The announcers invite all of the athletes to join the performers on the stage, and all around him people begin to surge to their feet and eagerly make their way down the steps. Katara grabs him by the arm and hauls him to his feet, steadying him when he stumbles a little bit.

“Go find Zuko!” she shouts, directly into his ear, and then shoves him towards the stage.

Sokka doesn’t have to be told twice.

He bounds down the stairs, almost tripping over his own feet in his drunken haste. He can barely see anything through the throng of people—over two thousand of them, if he remembers correctly, all of them dancing excitedly and jostling each other around—but he pushes his way through, keeping an eye out for anybody wearing American colours. He runs into Aang, in his plain white jacket, who shakes his head when Sokka asks if he’s seen Zuko. Suki and Ty Lee, bouncing happily with their arms wrapped around each other, give him the same answer.

The anxious feeling in his stomach grows.

What if Zuko isn’t even here? Sokka knows that there are some athletes who leave before the closing ceremony—what if Zuko was one of them, and he’s already gone for good?

There’s a tap on his shoulder. “Sokka!”

Sokka whirls around, and he’s hit with such an intense wave of relief that he nearly feels lightheaded with it.

“Zuko,” he breathes, because of course it’s him.

Sokka didn’t think that it was possible for someone to look both adorable and devastatingly beautiful at the same time, but Zuko somehow manages it. He’s all bundled up in his Team USA jacket, a toque pulled over his hair and his cheeks flushed pink from the cold, but the smile that he gives Sokka is nothing short of brilliant. Sokka thinks, with that unwavering certainty that only comes with being spectacularly drunk, that he could look at that smile forever and never get tired of it.

“Sokka,” Zuko says again, and then he rushes forward and wraps Sokka up in the fiercest hug that he’s ever experienced. Sokka doesn’t hesitate for even a second before hugging him back. Their medals clink together and press uncomfortably against his chest, but he doesn’t think that there’s a single force in the entire universe that could get him to let go. Zuko smells like jasmine and something else, something unfathomable, and the weight and solidity of his body in Sokka’s arms feels like the only thing anchoring him to the ground in the stormy sea of bodies around them.

“I’m so proud of you!” Zuko yells over the deafening music. He pulls away but doesn’t go very far, keeping his hands on Sokka’s waist. “I’m so proud of you. God, Sokka. You’re incredible.”

Sokka’s heart is thundering in his chest, and his cheeks hurt from how hard he’s smiling, and Zuko looks happier and more vibrant than Sokka has ever seen him, and Sokka can’t help it anymore.

He kisses him.

Sokka kisses him, kisses Zuko, and it’s the most perfect thing that has ever happened to him in his life.

Zuko laughs breathlessly into his mouth and kisses him back, wraps his arms around Sokka’s shoulders and holds him tight. There are fireworks bursting to life in Sokka’s chest, and—when Sokka finally pulls away and glances up—fireworks above them too, lighting up the night sky with bright bursts of colour. It’s all so cliché, but Sokka doesn’t even give a shit, because nothing else matters in this moment except for Zuko’s bright eyes and his smiling mouth and his soft hands on Sokka’s cheeks and just—

Zuko.

Zuko, who burns brighter than any sun in any sky. Zuko, who always laughs at his jokes, no matter how awful. Zuko, who holds his hands and wipes his tears and doesn’t think any less of him for it.

Zuko, who is everything.

And so Sokka leans back in and kisses him and kisses him and kisses him, again and again and again.

—

“God, this smells so bad.”

“Yeah, well, that’s what happens when you borrow someone else’s equipment,” Sokka says, fixing one of the straps on Zuko’s shoulder pads. “You know, you’re lucky that we managed to find some that fits. Most of the guys on my team are even bigger than me.”

Zuko rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I feel really lucky right now.”

“Don’t get cheeky with me,” Sokka says, poking Zuko’s nose. Zuko recoils, and Sokka laughs. “Here, lift your arms.”

He helps Zuko pull the jersey over his head. Then he pulls on his own helmet, grabs his stick, and steps onto the ice. When he turns back around, Zuko is still fiddling with the straps of his own helmet, brow furrowed as he tries to clasp the buttons together and fails, miserably.

“Need any help?” Sokka says, one eyebrow raised.

“No, just—give me a second,” Zuko grumbles, swiping his long hair out of the way and trying again. He finally manages to get it after a few more tries—Sokka smothers a grin at his disgruntled expression—and then grabs his borrowed stick and heads for the ice.

They’re in the training rinks again, although they’re on the hockey side this time rather than the figure skating side. Zuko still won’t tell Sokka how or where he got the key, or why he even still has it now that the Games are over, but Sokka is willing to let it slide. It’s their only way of getting in after hours, after all.

The fact that they’re in here after hours, though, means that nobody else is around to witness the great Zuko Nakayama’s spectacular faceplant the second he steps onto the ice, which Sokka thinks is just tragic.

“Stop laughing at me!” Zuko says, his face gone red beneath his helmet. Sokka just shakes his head and laughs harder.

“Now you see how it feels, huh?”

“Shut up,” Zuko says, and scrambles to his feet. “I never should’ve agreed to this. I hate hockey skates.”

Zuko totters over to Sokka, and any grace he would’ve normally had on figure skates has completely vanished. He looks like a newborn deer trying to find its footing.

“It’s only fair,” Sokka says. “I already embarrassed myself in front of you, so now it’s your turn.”

Sokka leads them through a quick warmup around the ice, during which Zuko manages to fall over twice, much to Sokka’s amusement. It’s a good thing he’s wearing equipment—Sokka doesn’t want to be responsible for breaking a world famous figure skater.

He tries to teach Zuko the basics: skating, stick handling, shooting. Zuko is miserable at all of them. When Zuko finally manages to actually shoot a puck into the net, rather than beside it, Sokka makes a huge show of tackling him to the ice, pulling both of their helmets off, and kissing him squarely on the mouth.

“What was that for?” Zuko asks, laughing, his cheeks flushed pink.

“Haven’t you ever heard of a celly?” Sokka asks. Zuko just makes a confused face, and Sokka sighs dramatically. “You know, after you score, you do a celly? Short for celebration?”

“Oh.” Zuko’s face turns pensive. “Do you do that with all of your teammates?”

“Nah.” Sokka leans down and kisses him again. “Just you.”

Afterwards, when they’re pulling their sweaty equipment off on the bench, Zuko turns to Sokka and says, “You know, you actually make a pretty good coach.”

Sokka pauses in the middle of untying his skates and shoots Zuko an incredulous look. “What?”

Zuko flushes and ducks his head. “Well, I mean, I wasn’t the greatest student, but. I think you’d be good at it, with kids and stuff.”

“You really think so?” Sokka straightens and meets Zuko’s eyes; Zuko looks nothing but sincere, and it makes Sokka’s heart squeeze almost painfully in his chest.

“Yeah,” Zuko says softly. “I do.”

And what is Sokka supposed to do except kiss him?

When he pulls away, Zuko looks flushed and happy and dazed, and Sokka’s heart feels so full that he think he might burst. He takes Zuko’s hand and presses a kiss to his knuckles, and thinks back to what Zuko had said that night in his room.

You’re not done yet, Sokka.

Maybe Zuko is right. Maybe the Olympics were never the end for him.

Maybe they were only the beginning.