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At first, Sokka doesn’t notice.
He’s a busy guy, okay? Besides, it’s not exactly uncommon knowledge that Zuko has...moods sometimes. Sokka means that in the nicest of ways, for the most part; the occasional fits of angry yelling are still a bit much, if he’s being honest. But his boyfriend has trauma for days and is also running a literal country, so Sokka has learned to give him the space he so clearly craves. Or the administrative assistance, or sparring partnership, or sex—whatever combination of stress relief Zuko decides he needs.
Then there are the times that Zuko gets quiet and distant. These are Sokka’s least favorite, because they just make him feel entirely useless. He’s a problem-solver by nature, a planner and a doer. But any attempts to unfurl Zuko from the walls he’s constructed around himself—to provide the support and affection he’s spent so much of his life lacking—are met with glares so standoffish that Sokka’s half-convinced he’s dealing with the surly, angsty teenage version of his boyfriend.
So no, it’s not particularly out of the ordinary for Zuko to shut him out, or hole up in his office for an ungodly number of hours, or brush off Sokka’s concern—you know, one of the many hallmarks of a doting boyfriend that Sokka so graciously embodies—with a snippy comment.
Which is why Sokka doesn’t notice what’s happening right before his eyes until it’s too late.
It begins with a letter from Iroh. Usually, this is a good thing, because Iroh is literally a polar dog in human form. And it’s nice, seeing the soft smile on Zuko’s often-grimacing face when he reads about his uncle’s stories from his tea shop. (He’s also a personal fan of Zuko’s scandalized expression when Iroh slips in one too many details about his “enlightening experiences” with what feels like half the women in Ba Sing Se.)
But today, there’s a frown tugging at the corners of Zuko’s lips, and that’s just not right.
“What’s wrong?”
“The Order called an emergency council next week,” Zuko replies.
For a moment, Sokka thinks the disappointment stems from the fact that a White Lotus meeting inevitably means more political bullshit (and subsequent paperwork) brewing on the horizon. Except this isn’t Zuko’s “preparing for a migraine” face. No, this is something much more personal.
“Oh!” Sokka smacks his forehead as he remembers, because he’s a certifiable idiot. “You were supposed to visit him!”
Zuko nods, eyes downcast.
“It’s fine, though,” he says (or, rather, lies). “This is more important.”
Sokka thinks Iroh would have some choice words at the implication that anything is more important than his nephew, but he keeps this thought to himself; if there’s one thing he’s learned over the years he’s known Zuko, it’s that he needs to wisely pick his battles. (Plus, such a statement would 100% send his boyfriend spiraling into his massive guilt complex. And yes, they’re working on it, so don’t look at him like that.)
“You know,” he suggests after a moment, “We could just celebrate Iroh’s birthday after he finishes at the conference.”
Genius idea, right? Problem-solving Sokka for the win!
Zuko looks up from the letter at this. “What?”
“Like,” Sokka says, gesturing noncommittally, “Whatever it is you guys do when you visit, we can do once he’s done.”
Zuko blinks at him, clearly confused. “Uncle’s birthday was two months ago.”
“But—“ Sokka opens and closes his mouth a few times. “But you always visit him this week!”
“So?”
Sokka shrugs. “So I guess I just thought it was for some sort of special occasion.”
Zuko freezes momentarily, every muscle going rigid. By the next time Sokka blinks, his posture is once again relaxed, and Sokka is half convinced he imagined it.
“Sorry to disappoint,” Zuko replies, something hard in his voice. “I have to go to a meeting now.”
He stands and brushes past Sokka without another word. Sokka, who can only gape as the door to Zuko’s office swings shut behind him.
What the fuck just happened?
Zuko doesn’t bring the letter up again, and Sokka is hesitant to do so himself in fear of somehow making the whole situation worse. He knows he misstepped somewhere, but frankly has no idea how. And it’s not like he can just ask Zuko about it, because that’s a disaster waiting to happen in its own rite.
Zuko, for his part, is putting on a stellar performance of ignoring the situation altogether. Seriously, method actor extraordinaire over here, give the man a damn trophy. And maybe Sokka shouldn’t be so okay with simply watching and playing along, waiting for the other shoe to drop as it always seems to. But he’s his own person with feelings and emotions too, dammit! Loving Zuko to the ends of the Earth doesn’t change that.
Things are okay, for the most part. Yeah, Sokka’s pretty shocked, too. Zuko was probably just stressed the other day and lashed out. It makes sense, especially with the endless nightmare that is overseeing the colonies (which, in Sokka’s bonafide opinion, should be kissing the ground at Zuko’s feet for helping them avoid destruction.)
Then Zuko has to go and disappear, and everything falls apart.
It starts with the change to Sokka’s schedule. That itself isn’t too out of the ordinary, because some of the councilors are old as shit and take a lot of sick days. (Or funeral days, which is morbid but factually true.) Honestly, Sokka is kind of relieved that he doesn’t have to go to the stupid agriculture meeting. The things always drag on forever, and the Southern Water Tribe being on a literal glacier means that Sokka doesn’t even get a chance to talk. And he loves talking!
Except it’s not just the agriculture discussion that’s been changed. The cross-cultural education forum? Gone. The reparations council? Nixed. His entire schedule has essentially been upended and replaced by lower-caliber meetings, many of which only involved the Water Tribes.
He wants to ask Zuko about it, but he’d spent the night in his own chambers after falling asleep at his desk. (Unlike the other times he’d conked out in the midst of writing a letter, there had been no warm arms depositing him in his bed, nor lips pressed softly to his forehead.)
He manages to flag down a servant in the hall, who momentarily looks so scared that Sokka fears he still has some ink splattered on his cheek. (He’d tried his best to wash it off while simultaneously fixing his horrible bedhead, but the Fire Nation sure values their fortified calligraphy.)
“Do you know why all my meetings got changed?”
“I apologize, sir, but I do not.”
“Do you know where I can find Zuko, then?”
The servant winces. Sokka figures she’s probably new and isn’t used to the whole casual, titlelessness thing.
“His Majesty requested that he...not be disturbed today.”
The hesitancy in her voice makes Sokka think the “request” may not have been given so civilly. He frowns and thanks her, then heads towards Zuko’s regular haunt.
Except his office is empty. So is his bedroom. Is he in meetings, then? Was this- does he want Sokka off the councils? It doesn’t make any damn sense!
He runs into a Kyoshi Warrior on break near the kitchens. (He’s hungry, okay?) Maybe she’ll have some answers.
“I’m sorry,” is what she says instead. “I haven’t seen him since early this morning. He left his chambers before sunrise.”
Translation: he didn’t sleep last night.
“And the meetings?”
The warrior bites her lip, likely considering what’s definitely a break in protocol. Sokka must look truly desperate—or have a particularly impressive reputation from Suki—because she eventually admits, “I heard he cleared his schedule.”
Zuko, voluntarily ignoring his responsibilities? No way.
No, something is wrong. And Sokka isn’t going to rest until he finds out what.
By the time Sokka finishes pacing the hall of meeting chambers, he’s fairly certain every single servant and guard posted outside wants to collectively fight him. To be fair, it is probably annoying to have someone badgering you about whether the Fire Lord is inside and, if not, have you seen him?
The answer to both questions is a resounding no.
(Strangely, some of the older staff say so much more firmly.)
He takes to prowling the servants’ passageways in search of a single scrap of information. News of his quest must have traveled far and wide—curse the palace gossip network—because one guard corners him before he can so much as offer a halfhearted greeting. The man has a significant height advantage on Sokka, but the white coloration of his truly impressive beard belies his age. His wrinkly hands are curled into fists, the left of which, Sokka notes, is missing a finger. He vaguely remembers some childhood story from Zuko about accidentally insulting a servant’s battle injury, and the name “Jo” comes to mind. (Not that he’s confident enough in his memory to say it.)
Maybe-Jo backs Sokka into the wall with a scowl, though the expression doesn’t quite meet his eyes.
“I heard you’re asking around about His Majesty.”
“Uh, yeah…” Sokka tugs at his collar. Is it getting hot in here?
“You should leave him be. Us, too. Today’s hard enough as it is.”
Wow, how cryptic. This is why Sokka hates old people.
“What does that even mean?”
“If you don’t know,” he replies carefully, “Maybe you aren’t meant to.”
With that (still super vague) response, Maybe-Jo turns away. Sokka may be imagining it, but he’s pretty sure the guard also mutters something about how “Iroh should’ve known better” under his breath. Or “I wrote Shu a poem letter.” No judgment from Sokka either way, what with him being a certified haiku master and all.
But if the comment isn’t about poetry, what the fuck is Maybe-Jo talking about? Is he implying Iroh somehow caused whatever disaster-waiting-to-happen the Order is currently dealing with?
Sokka groans as he exits the passageway. He just needs to clear his head and think through this logically, and he’ll figure it out. Right?
It’s easier said than done.
The sky is grey and overcast when Sokka steps out into the palace gardens. It’s fitting, really, which he kind of seriously hates. It’s also humid and gross, and he can feel sweat pooling in all sorts of disgusting places.
The courtyard is clearly deserted, but Sokka gives another cursory scan for Zuko anyways; Sprits, how embarrassing would it be if he kept interrogating everyone about his boyfriend while staring straight at him?
But alas, it’s just Sokka, twiddling his fucking thumbs like a loser. He all but collapses into one of the wrought-iron chairs set up amidst the flowers, letting his forehead thunk down onto the nearby table.
He lets out a kind of pathetic moan of Zuko’s name. He’s exhausted and his legs ache from all the pacing, and he seriously debates giving up.
Something’s not right with his boyfriend, though; that much is for certain. And Sokka can try to deny it all he likes, but he is hopelessly, disgustingly smitten, and he wants nothing more in this stupid world than to give Zuko all the love and adoration he deserves.
To do that, he needs to look at the facts, starting at the beginning of all this weirdness: Iroh’s letter.
From the letter comes the cancelation of some sort of annual (apparently not birthday-related) tradition that he and Zuko share. It’s a tradition with the capability to send Zuko spiraling and the means to ratchet up the already overprotective palace staff into a state of frenzied defense.
But what sort of anniversary—if that is indeed what this is—would link the three together? As much as he hates to say it, what involvement would servants have in the private affairs of the most powerful members of the Royal Family?
Unless... What if they weren’t so private? What if…?
Oh. Oh.
Oh, no.
The ever-building lump of dread deep in Sokka’s gut grows even heavier when he arrives at the singular area of the palace he has yet to check. Zuko had forced him to swear never to step foot in it for some undisclosed reason upon his appointment as ambassador, and Sokka had enough common sense to know not to prod. But now Zuko is either here or off somewhere in the countryside, or Yue-forbid kidnapped again, and Sokka just needs to know he’s okay.
He recognizes, vaguely, where he’s about to enter before he crosses the threshold. The doors, large and ornate, are closed, but he can clearly make out the faint sound of the whistling wind. This entrance leads outside, then.
Steeling himself as though preparing for execution, Sokka pushes open the doors. They creak open with a rickety grandiose, rusty with disuse. The squeaking of the hinges does little to disturb the chamber’s lone occupant, seated in the middle of the stone floor.
“Zuko,” he calls softly, carefully making his way towards his boyfriend’s right side.
Zuko doesn’t acknowledge him, though Sokka isn’t sure if the lack of response is intentional. He needs to reach him, to look in his eyes and check for a light behind them. He needs to remind Zuko that he is here and not there, now and not then.
The sconces lining the arena walls are unlit, and the late afternoon sun casts the dias in creeping shadows. His steps echo in the emptiness, and he can’t help but imagine what this room looked like full of life. (Full of nobles and royalty, laughing and cheering as a child was mutilated before their eyes.)
Sokka has never seen the chamber himself; the few Agni Kais Zuko fought after his coronation—back when he still had to fight tooth and nail to preserve the crown on his head—were private affairs, over and done with before Sokka even caught wind of them.
(But he still saw the aftermath, saw the impossible weight they pressed down upon Zuko’s too-small shoulders. And he held him as tightly as he could, as though his meager body could ward off the perpetual cycling between nightmares and insomnia.)
(For a warrior, Sokka makes a surprisingly shitty shield.)
He comes to a stop a few paces in front of Zuko, turning to finally get a glimpse at his expression. He’s curled in on himself, shoulders hunched rather than pressed back to stretch his sternum. His legs are folded in a meditative posture—a lotus position, not a seiza.
(Sokka wonders if the decision not to kneel was even a conscious one.)
The flame cupped in Zuko’s hands is smaller than the one he typically meditates with, and the rise and fall of the fire doesn’t quite match up with his breathing. Even with his head bowed and eyes closed, he appears the furthest thing from relaxed. The pinched muscles of his brow tug at his scar in a way that Sokka knows must be uncomfortable, and he aches to take the pain away from him.
“Hey,” he says gently.
Zuko raises his head momentarily to stare at Sokka before letting his gaze drop back down to his knees.
When Zuko doesn’t say anything for another minute, Sokka sighs and sits down across from him. He tries to mirror the lotus pose and ends up caught in a tangle of his own limbs. His flailing draws a soft snort from his boyfriend, but he receives no other response.
Sokka chews on his lip. Might as well rip off the bandage.
“It’s the anniversary.”
The flame jumps in Zuko’s palms. When he coaxes it back down to its previous size, his hands are trembling. It’s an admission in its own rite.
“Yes,” he says eventually. His voice is quiet, somehow raspier than normal. “Eight years.”
“Fuck.” It’s the only response Sokka can think of, and he immediately blushes the second the word is out of his mouth.
Zuko just hums as though in agreement. It’s far too reserved for Sokka’s liking.
Sokka carefully extends his arms so that his elbows rest on his knees with palms upturned in silent invitation. He sees Zuko’s eyes flick over the gesture, the cautiousness belying his permanent doubt of kindness.
The fire in his hands dims until it’s only a thin plume of smoke, but he doesn’t move to accept Sokka’s offer of affection, instead seemingly entranced by the vapor swirling up into the ether.
(Did Zuko see the smoke furling from his own burning skin that day? Did he taste the ash, the soot, the charcoal? Did Ozai?)
(When the grotesque flavor of his son’s misery slipped past his bared teeth, did he smile?)
“I knelt here. Eight years ago, I knelt here and I- I asked him for forgiveness.”
Now that the floodgates are open, it seems like Zuko can’t keep the words, mangled and twisted, from pouring out. They haven’t talked about the scar so explicitly since that dark evening after the attack on the Western Air Temple, and Sokka almost feels like they’re breaking some unspoken rule.
“I should be over this,” Zuko continues angrily, “but I’m not, and I hate it. I hate that he still has this power over me, and maybe if I wasn’t so weak—“
“Hey,” Sokka softly interrupts. “You went through something horrible. You’re allowed to be upset.”
“I’m tired of being upset!” Zuko snaps.
“Sorry,” he says after a moment, wringing his wrists and looking away. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to yell. You shouldn’t have to deal with me like this.”
Sokka frowns. “I’m your boyfriend. I care about you, dummy. Even when you get all angsty.”
“I want to be better for you,” Zuko replies quietly. “Why can’t I just be better?”
He sounds so small, so insecure, and something inside Sokka nearly shatters.
It’s probably why he follows up Zuko’s incredible admission of vulnerability with a statement of insultingly little tact.
“That’s trauma, buddy.”
Sokka immediately wants to smack himself upside the head, but Zuko barks out a startled laugh.
“Yeah,” he says. “I guess it is.”
“Come on.” Sokka stands and holds out a hand. “Let’s get out of here. Your children miss you.”
Zuko allows himself to be pulled to his feet with a confused expression. “I don’t have children.”
Sokka gasps in mock offense. “Don’t let the turtle-ducks hear you say that!”
The corners of Zuko’s mouth twitch up as he processes the meaning of Sokka’s words, and he squeezes Sokka’s hand with a look of such fondness that Sokka’s certain there’s a real possibility of him going into cardiac arrest.
The guards give them a wide berth as they walk through the halls, a few of them exchanging subtle smiles at Zuko’s appearance. (Sokka tries not to think about how many of them Zuko must have pushed away earlier in his crash course towards self-destruction.)
When they reach the doors to the courtyard, Sokka pushes Zuko out ahead of him with a gentle nudge.
“I’ll be right there,” he promises before turning to the guard at the door.
“Could you send us some food?” he asks her quietly. “And any leftover bread. Oh! And tea would be great. Zuko likes—“
“Jasmine,” the guard finishes for him, the wrinkles on her forehead deepening as she offers him a kind grin. “It’s always been His Majesty’s favorite.”
He sees the sadness in her eyes—only a flash of bittersweet heartbreak, but there nonetheless—when she glances at Zuko, who’s crouched at the edge of the pond.
“Thank you,” he tells her earnestly.
Is it for the food and tea, or the motherly care this guard so clearly possessed for Zuko when his own parents couldn’t (or wouldn’t) provide it? Sokka isn’t quite sure.
He calls out Zuko’s name as he makes his way over to the pond. His boyfriend looks up with a soft smile, and Sokka just wants to kiss him senseless. There’s no one else around, but since Sokka doesn’t want to be the cause of even more stress, he settles for briefly pressing his lips to Zuko’s forehead as he sits down beside him.
From his position on Zuko’s right, he has a perfect view of the way his unscarred cheek turns bright red. Sokka must have chuckled at the frankly adorable sight, because seconds later he feels a literal heat wave washing over him.
“Shut up,” Zuko murmurs.
He dips his hands into the water, lazily swaying them back and forth. The motion is mesmerizing, and Sokka stares transfixed as, ever so slowly, one of the turtle-ducks swims over. (Zuko always acts like this proves he’s some sort of animal whisperer, but making himself more enticing by warming the water is totally cheating.)
“That one’s getting kind of chunky,” Sokka comments.
Zuko wrinkles his nose and curls more protectively around the objectively large turtle-duck nestled between his fingers.
“Her name is Matcha,” he corrects pointedly. “And she isn’t fat, she’s pregnant.”
The animal—sorry, Matcha—quacks in acknowledgment.
Is this the point where Sokka should ask when the babies are due or how the fuck turtle-ducks have sex? Someone please give him a sign.
“Sirs, the refreshments you requested.”
So the Spirits’ answer is none of the above. Wow, thanks for the vote of confidence.
“Oh, uh, thank you?” Zuko says hesitantly.
He has enough regal manners to wait until the servants—two, because they really spared no expenses with their spread of food—are out of earshot to hiss an accusatory, “What the fuck?”
“What?” Sokka shrugs. “Are you gonna try to tell me you ate today? You’re a terrible liar, baby.”
“Whatever,” Zuko mutters. “Can you hand me a piece of bread, then?”
Sokka glances between Zuko and Matcha, who’s still resting in his loose grasp.
“Only if you’re going to eat it.”
“Of course I’m going to eat it!” Zuko snaps defensively. “Who- who else would, uh, eat it?”
Like he said: terrible liar.
But Zuko looks so thoughtful and flustered, and the turtle-duck has started to quack so sweetly…
“Fine,” Sokka relents. “One bite for Matcha, and one bite only!”
Zuko chuckles at what was meant to be a very serious ultimatum as he tears off part of the roll in Sokka’s hands. There’s a breathless moment when their fingers touch, and the comforting heat lingers on Sokka’s skin long after.
He eventually manages to coax Zuko into eating something, too, and by the time the sky has darkened into streaks of pink and purple, his boyfriend looks much more like himself. The turtle-ducks have paddled away to hunker down for the night, and the occasional croaking of badger-frogs has emerged to fill the silence.
“Can I tell you something?” Zuko asks.
Sokka looks up from his tea. “Anything.”
“You’re the only person I really trust on my left.”
And Sokka hears the words he doesn’t say, the ones that reach far deeper than the scar warping the surface of Zuko’s skin. He feels the sheer gravity of the admission of vulnerability so contrary to a childhood of conditioning otherwise, and the pride that comes with the knowledge that some way, somehow, he has become a source of safety in a home haunted with anything but.
His tongue is heavy and useless in his mouth. For once, he is truly at a loss for words. He settles for wrapping his arm around Zuko and tucking him into his side, hoping beyond hope that the gesture encapsulates all the contradictory emotions—the love and adoration, the constant low-burning anger at the bastard with the audacity to call himself Zuko’s father—coiled up inside him.
Zuko just sighs and leans into Sokka’s touch, languid and warm and gentle. The last rays of golden sunlight bathe him in an ethereal glow, and Sokka wonders, not for the first time, how he got so damn lucky. To be able to love Zuko and be loved by him in return…
There is no greater honor.