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Sokka is lounging in a cozy little corner pub, low-ceilinged and smoky, when someone slides into the stool next to him.
“You know,” Zuko begins, plucking up his tumbler between long fingers, “a fake beard isn’t a very good disguise.”
He shoots Sokka a pointed look, and tips back his throat to swallow the rest of the whiskey. Sokka grins, watching how the smooth lines of his throat move. When Zuko looks back up, he makes an obvious show of contemplatively stroking where his facial hair would be, if he had any.
“What beard?”
Zuko shoves the glass back towards him. Sokka catches it before it can slide too far, bringing the rim to his lips to lick the last drops of bitter liquid up with his tongue. In the kitchen, smoke billows from the stoves, masking the red that crawls up Zuko’s cheeks.
Sokka smacks his lips together, and flexes one arm.
“The greatest goalkeeper in the league-“
“Debatable-“
“Would never stoop so low as to attend his rival’s matches.”
He almost cringes at the slip, but Zuko doesn’t seem to notice. The dull, overhead lighting reflects off his brown eyes, rivulets of honey that swirl like a relentless storm. They study him intently, like he’s still on the field, watching and waiting for the right moment.
Sokka swivels in his seat to face him better, one arm resting on the counter. Zuko looks just as good in his sweatpants and blue windbreaker, football boots swapped to what looks like an old pair of futsal shoes.
“Nice goal,” he acquiesces, because Zuko’s disbelief is starting to twitch into a scowl.
“Only one,” Zuko grumbles, and it’s unfairly adorable. Especially when he’s seen this man squirt water into his mouth on the sideline; watched the droplets dribble down his sharp jaw.
Sokka rolls his eyes.
“It was one-nil. Be happy.”
Sokka hails the bartender again, and turns to Zuko, eyebrow raised.
Zuko shakes his head.
“I’m not supposed to be drinking.”
“Why not?” Sokka asks, sliding a tip forward in exchange for his drink, another whiskey on the rocks, “are you only allowed to steal sips from the enemy, or something?”
“Obviously not, Wang Fire ,” Zuko retorts, the start of an infuriating smirk pulling at his lips- the one he flashes after a goal, or while lining up for a penalty.
Sokka snaps his neck to glare at him.
“How the fuck did you know that?”
As a joke, and as a certain level of added security while attending your rival’s first match of the season, he’d placed his ticket under ‘Wang Fire’.
Zuko doesn’t respond, the asshole. He sits smugly on his chair, posture stiff and rigid as always, bag slung over one shoulder.
Sokka takes a sip of his drink, and drops his head to peer at Zuko snidely.
“Your coach is an asshole.”
“My coach is great,” Zuko snaps, “it’s my personal trainer who doesn’t let me drink.”
He blinks at the counter for a second.
“Or eat cheese,” he adds, morosely.
“Very specific,” Sokka snorts, “does that mean you can’t eat pizza?”
“I can not,” Zuko confirms.
“Pity,” Sokka says, standing with a stretch. He makes sure that it reveals his stomach, just so he can watch Zuko scowl, and awkwardly act like he’s not looking.
“Can’t wait to beat you,” he continues, pushing his stool in while leaning forward to place a wet smooch on Zuko’s cheek. Zuko dodges, and throws a very severe glare at him.
“Don’t count on it.”
Sokka merely tucks his hands into his pockets, whistling an out of tune litany as he heads towards the door.
“Hey!” Zuko yells behind him, “pay your bill!”
“Pay it for me,” Sokka calls back, not bothering to turn around, “you make over one hundred thousand dollars per week.“
“So do you! Asshole!”
Sokka laughs, and lets it float behind him, the jingle of the door lost to the bustle of the street.
Truthfully, he can’t wait to spy Zuko from across the field, in knee high socks and pants that do wonders for his ass. He can’t wait to grip his hand after the match, and whisper taunts into his ear. Because they would win. If only so Sokka can admire the look on Zuko’s face.
Which is how it all started, really. Because the thing is, Zuko is pretty when he’s mad; gorgeous while shouting profanities and receiving a yellow card for his troubles. He’s seen photos on Twitter, Zuko with his hands on his hips, scowling at someone off screen. (Maybe he’s even looked up compilations of some of Zuko’s more brutal tackles, because there’s something sexy about a man sending a guy twice his height to the ground).
And, as much as Katara claims it is, Sokka knows it's not a crush.
It’s a hot, steamy male rivalry.
(Very common, incredibly normal).
Especially in football.
His phone pings, and it’s a DM from Zuko on Twitter.
10:48PM: Your manners are nearly as awful as your goalie gloves.
They’re neon pink and beautiful.
He taps a reply out.
10:49PM : You can try them on any time you like. ;)
Sokka waits a second, and clicks on Zuko’s profile. He’s been blocked, again. It only makes him laugh, because he knows by next week he’ll be unblocked.
(Later, a picture of him in the stands with a cap and fake beard goes viral.)