Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Aang sat cross-legged on the kitchen floor, flour dusting his pants even though he hadn’t baked a single thing yet. The space around him was a battlefield of open cookbooks, scribbled notes, frosting-smeared index cards, and one very judgmental lemur perched on the counter above him. Momo chirped softly and tilted his head, as if questioning his human’s life choices.

“I just want it to be perfect,” Aang said, more to himself than to the lemur. He sighed and stared down at the notebook in his lap, where KATARA’S PERFECT CAKE was written in bold, determined handwriting across the top of the page. The words were underlined three times, circled twice, and surrounded by a mess of flavor ideas, question marks, and small doodles of fruit and firebending flames that had nothing to do with anything.

What even was her favorite flavor?

He’d tried to figure it out. He really had. Days of subtle questions, careful observation, borderline espionage.

But nothing had given him a straight answer.

She liked chocolate—he was almost sure of that. But not too sweet. She liked lemon too. And coconut. And last week she’d practically melted after trying a vanilla sea salt cupcake that Suki brought home from work. Then again, she’d devoured his strawberry jam toast yesterday like it was a national delicacy. And wasn’t there that one time, way back in Omashu, when she'd stolen his green tea and made that little noise after sipping it?

He groaned and let himself flop back dramatically onto the tile. Momo took that as an invitation and leapt down from the counter, landing squarely on Aang’s chest and blinking down at him.

“She likes everything ,” Aang moaned, arms spread wide like he was pleading to the universe. “How am I supposed to pick just one cake?”

Momo’s tail flicked as he tilted his head again.

Aang sat back up and gently nudged him off. “I know, I know. I should just choose something. But it’s her birthday. I want it to be special. I want it to be right .”

His brow furrowed, and he glanced toward the chaos around him like inspiration might be hiding in the wreckage. His fingers hovered over the notebook, then gripped the pen.

He started scribbling:

Cake Plan:

Chocolate was a no-brainer. It was safe, reliable, and guaranteed to make her smile. A classic—just like the way her hand always found his in a crowd. That one was locked in.

Then came vanilla. Simple, yes, but it reminded him of that candle she burned nonstop for a week straight in January. The one that made their whole apartment smell like sugar and sunlight and softness. He’d be a fool not to include it.

Strawberry came next, not because she ever said she liked it, but because it brought back the memory of that pink shirt she wore to the farmer’s market. The one that made his brain short-circuit and nearly had him walking into a flower stall. Yeah… strawberry earned its place.

Lemon? That one made him smirk as he wrote it down. Sour—just like her mood whenever he snuck a bite of her snacks and acted like he didn’t. He could already imagine her rolling her eyes when he told her. Which, of course, made him want to include it even more.

Coconut was more sentimental. She had devoured that coconut cream pie he made last month like it was the last dessert on earth. He’d never seen her eyes go so wide. She said she didn’t even like coconut before that—now she insisted he make it again. Definitely staying on the list.

And finally, green tea. That one was Zuko’s suggestion, and at first it felt... random. But the more he thought about it—the calmness, the slight bitterness, the unexpected depth—the more it actually felt like her. Yeah, weirdly... it fit.

He sat back and surveyed the list. Six cakes.

Six.

His eyes widened. That was… excessive. Absurd. Ridiculous, even.

And yet…

He looked over at Momo, who was now nestled comfortably inside a mixing bowl, grooming his tail without a care in the world.

Aang slowly nodded.

Six cakes.

Because he couldn’t pick just one part of her to celebrate.

There wasn’t one flavor that captured her laugh. Or her strength. Or how soft she got when no one was looking. Katara wasn’t one-note. She was sharp and sweet and warm and unexpected, and he loved all of it.

He underlined the title again.

KATARA’S SIX PERFECT CAKES.

Momo squeaked and leapt off the counter just as a bag of flour tipped sideways and burst open across the tiles, sending up a white puff that settled like snow over Aang’s notes.

He didn’t even flinch.

“It’s fine,” he muttered, brushing off his sleeve. “Everything’s fine. Totally under control.”

He stood up, rolled his shoulders, and reached for the first mixing bowl.

“For love and frosting,” he whispered.

Then the bag of sugar slipped out of his hands and split open on impact.

Aang stared at the now-sparkling kitchen floor, closed his eyes, and took a slow, deep breath.

“…Okay. That’s fair.”

Aang carefully stepped over the sugar spill like it was lava and made his way back to the counter, Momo trailing behind him with twitching whiskers and flour footprints on his fur. The air already smelled faintly like vanilla and potential disaster.

“Okay,” Aang said to no one in particular, clapping his hands. “We start with chocolate. You can’t go wrong with chocolate.”

He yanked out the ingredients he’d pre-measured the night before—well, mostly pre-measured. Some of the sticky notes had fallen off the containers, so he had to guess a little. Just a little . Cocoa powder puffed up in the air as he poured, catching in the light like dust motes. He cracked two eggs into the bowl, then a third for good luck, stirred in flour, sugar, baking powder, and—

Wait. Had he already added the sugar?

He paused, spoon hovering in midair. Momo squeaked.

“…One more scoop won’t hurt.”

Aang mixed everything together with increasing confidence, pouring the thick batter into a greased pan and smoothing the top with the back of a spoon. Into the oven it went. He pumped his fist.

“First cake down.”

As it baked, he turned to the lemon cake. He zested a lemon with laser focus, tongue poking out the side of his mouth. The bright, sharp smell filled the kitchen and immediately made him think of Katara’s laugh—bright and sharp in the same way. This one needed to be just right.

But when he tasted the batter, he nearly gagged.

“Sour—sour, sour, way too sour,” he choked out, reaching for the honey with watery eyes. “Okay! Balanced now. Everything’s fine!”

He adjusted the recipe, sweetened it with a heavy hand, then poured it into a heart-shaped pan because he was feeling extra romantic.

While that baked beside the chocolate cake, he moved on to strawberry. The recipe called for fresh berries, but Aang had forgotten to buy any. He stared at the fridge for a long moment, then noticed the half-used jar of strawberry jam.

“Close enough,” he muttered.

The jam worked surprisingly well—until he added food coloring. He’d meant to give it a soft pink hue, something sweet and subtle. Instead, the batter turned neon. Like, glowing-in-the-dark neon.

He blinked at it. “Katara likes bold colors,” he rationalized, before shoving it in the oven.

By the time he reached cake four—vanilla—his arms were dusted in flour past the elbows and the front of his shirt was streaked with chocolate and what might have been lemon zest. The kitchen looked like it had hosted a flour bomb testing facility. Still, Aang was grinning.

The vanilla batter came together quickly, almost too easily. He poured it into a round pan and smoothed the top, then added a swirl of blue food coloring through the center to look like a wave. It wasn’t elegant, but it reminded him of her necklace.

The coconut cake, though? The coconut cake betrayed him.

He’d tried to be fancy—folding shredded coconut into a whipped meringue base, trying for a soft, airy texture like the one she’d swooned over last month. But when he pulled it from the oven, it sank in the middle like a crater.

Aang stared at it, heart sinking too.

Momo leapt onto the counter and stuck his nose into the collapsed middle, then immediately pulled back and sneezed.

“Yeah,” Aang muttered. “Same.”

He poked at it with a fork, then tilted his head.

“You know… this could be a trifle.”

An hour later, the failed coconut cake had been reborn in a glass bowl layered with whipped cream, toasted coconut flakes, and fresh mango chunks. It wasn’t traditional, but it looked gorgeous.

“Katara’s going to love you,” he told the trifle seriously, tapping the bowl. “You were a mess. But you got there.”

That left only one: matcha.

Aang hadn’t even known what matcha was until Zuko casually mentioned it while they were sparring last week. (“If you’re doing six cakes, at least one of them better not be basic,” he’d said before side-stepping a gust of wind.)

Aang found a matcha cake recipe in a book and ordered the powder two days ago. He squinted at the instructions, furrowed his brow, and muttered, “Whisk in a zig-zag motion…? What does that even mean?”

He tried his best. The green hue was soft and earthy, the smell unlike any of the other cakes—mellow, warm, comforting. He hadn’t meant for this cake to matter. But now that he was making it, it kind of… did.

He thought about how Katara had sat with him in silence the night after he was torn apart in that council meeting, just running her fingers through his scalp until he’d calmed down. How she never pushed. How she just was , even when he didn’t know how to ask for anything.

The matcha cake went into a bundt pan, smooth and heavy. He placed it gently in the oven like it was breakable.

By the time the final timer dinged, the counters were buried in bowls, mixing spoons, cracked eggshells, and empty flour bags. There was frosting on the ceiling. He didn’t even want to know how that had happened. But in front of him, cooling on wire racks, were five beautifully imperfect cakes and one accidental trifle.

He leaned against the counter, arms crossed, heart pounding—not from stress, but from hope.

Six cakes.

Six stories.

Six pieces of her.

Momo chattered from the windowsill as the sun began to dip, casting a soft golden glow across the chaos. Aang smiled, wiped his forehead with the back of his wrist, and surveyed his battlefield.

“Alright,” he whispered, grabbing a frosting knife and cracking his knuckles. “Let’s decorate.”

The frosting knife was still in Aang’s hand when the front door opened with a bang.

“Aang?” Sokka’s voice rang out through the house, far too loud. “Did you blow something up? It smells like sugar and smoke in here!”

Aang winced and called back, “No explosions! Just baking!”

Footsteps padded quickly down the hallway, followed by a snort.

“Spirits,” Toph muttered as she entered the kitchen, stopping just past the threshold. “It smells like a dessert graveyard in here.”

“Why is the floor… crunchy?” came Suki’s voice from behind her, followed quickly by a muffled squelch as someone stepped into the pile of sugar by the door.

“I think that was supposed to be the coconut cake,” Zuko deadpanned as he stepped carefully over a mixing bowl, surveying the chaos like it was a battlefield. “Or the scene of a crime.”

Aang looked up from the chocolate cake, which he was halfway through decorating with a shaky piped message that currently read “Happy Bi—”. He froze, pink icing bag in hand, and tried for a sheepish smile.

“Hi.”

There was a beat of silence as they all stared at him.

Sokka blinked. “How are you covered in five different colors of frosting already? You’re not even done with the first cake.”

Momo chirped from the top of the fridge, fur dusted green from the matcha cake and proudly clutching a spoon like a tiny champion.

Toph tapped her foot and gave a wide smirk. “Six cakes, huh?”

“How did you know?” Aang asked warily.

She grinned wider. “I heard the despair in your heartbeat from across the street.”

Zuko stepped forward, surveying the cakes cooling on the counter. His brows lifted just slightly—impressed, or maybe just surprised that none of them were actively on fire. “That’s… ambitious.”

Suki was already rolling up her sleeves. “It’s also very you. What do you need?”

Aang exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’ve got the cakes baked. But I still have to frost and decorate all of them, clean this place up, and set everything up for the surprise. And she’s going to be here in, like—” He glanced at the sun outside the window. “—three hours?”

Toph yawned and cracked her knuckles. “Then let’s get to work.”

What followed could only be described as barely controlled frosting anarchy .

Suki took charge of organizing the chaos, pulling the group into a loose assembly line. “We need structure,” she said firmly, tying her hair back with a ribbon. “Zuko, help Aang with the piping. Toph, you’re on decorations. Sokka—please don’t eat anything until we’re done.”

Sokka paused, a frosting spatula halfway to his mouth. “Rude. But fair.”

Aang worked on smoothing chocolate ganache over the first cake while Zuko tried— tried —to master the piping bag.

“How do people make these swirls look so effortless?” he muttered, squeezing a bit too hard and sending a string of icing curling off the side like a lopsided sea slug.

“You’re doing great,” Aang offered diplomatically, using a spoon to nudge it back into shape.

“You’re a terrible liar,” Zuko muttered, but kept going.

Toph, who had commandeered the sprinkle jar and a small bowl of chopped nuts, was haphazardly tossing handfuls at the cakes with zero precision.

“I’m decorating with feeling,” she said, shrugging when one handful landed more on the counter than the cake.

“You’re decorating like a badger-mole throwing a tantrum,” Sokka muttered from the corner, where he was being closely monitored by Suki after being caught trying to “taste test” the lemon frosting for the third time.

“It’s called texture , Snoozles,” Toph replied sweetly.

They worked around each other with the practiced ease of people who’d been through battles, journeys, and worse—like that one time they’d all tried to assemble a tent together during a thunderstorm. Compared to that, six cakes were easy.

Aang, though, couldn’t stop glancing at the clock. His focus flicked from the vanilla cake’s delicate blue swirl, to the trifle’s golden layers, to the matcha bundt cooling silently like a secret on the windowsill.

“I just want it to be perfect,” he said quietly, more to himself than to anyone else.

Zuko looked up from a lumpy blob of piping that he was pretending was intentional. “It already is.”

Aang blinked. “The blob?”

Zuko’s lips twitched. “No. The whole thing. You made six cakes for her.”

“Because I couldn’t decide on one,” Aang muttered. “Because she’s… everything . And I didn’t want to miss any part.”

Suki smiled from where she was straightening the tablecloth on the dining table. “Then you didn’t. That’s what love is, right? Not trying to pick just one piece—but holding all of it.”

There was a quiet moment.

Even Toph stopped flinging sprinkles.

Aang looked around the room, at the chaos of bowls and frosting, the barely-restrained mess of effort and intention, and the friends who had shown up to carry him across the finish line.

Then he smiled. “Thanks, you guys.”

“Don’t thank me until she sees the green one,” Zuko said flatly. “I’m not convinced it’s edible.”

“I’ll eat it,” Sokka offered.

“No,” Suki, Toph, Zuko, and Aang said at once.

By the time they finished, the cakes stood proudly in a row like soldiers reporting for duty. Chocolate with soft ganache. Lemon with candied zest curls. Strawberry with bold, unapologetic pink frosting. Vanilla with ocean waves. Coconut trifle, layered and gleaming. And the matcha bundt, simple and solemn, with a delicate drizzle of honey glaze.

Katara’s favorite flowers—handpicked by Suki and arranged in a glass jar—sat at the center of the table. Candles flickered softly. The kitchen was (mostly) clean. And Aang stood in front of the finished display, heart pounding.

Everything he wanted to say, he’d poured into flour and sugar and frosting bags.

Now he just had to wait for her to see it.

They didn’t have to wait long as the front door creaked open.

Aang froze.

Sokka straightened from where he’d been pretending not to hover behind the curtains, and Momo—balanced on the very edge of the counter—chittered and immediately launched himself out of the room.

Footsteps padded in softly, and then—

“Aang?”

Katara’s voice.

His heart leapt. The frosting knife nearly slipped out of his hand again.

“In the kitchen!” he called, his voice cracking slightly. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Come on in.”

Toph stepped back and wiped her hands on her pants. “Showtime,” she whispered with a smirk.

Suki nudged him forward with a look that said stop fidgeting, and Zuko crossed his arms with a raised brow like he couldn’t believe how nervous Aang looked after saving the world. Multiple times.

But this wasn’t the world.

This was Katara.

And she was walking in right now.

She stepped into the kitchen with damp hair, still half-clipped from her evening bath, and a soft cotton wrap dress tied around her waist. Her eyes found him first—flour still streaked on his cheek, pink icing in his hair, hands behind his back like a nervous child.

Then her gaze drifted to the table.

She stopped moving.

All six cakes were arranged across the surface like a tasting menu fit for royalty. Each one on a different plate, different height, different shape—flawed and homey, but unmistakably filled with love. At the center, a glass jar of moon lilies and blue poppies swayed gently in the evening breeze.

Katara blinked once.

Then again.

Then slowly, she stepped forward.

“What is this?”

Aang swallowed and stepped beside her. “Your birthday cakes.”

Her brow furrowed slightly as she glanced between them all. “Cakes?”

“Well…” He scratched the back of his neck. “I couldn’t pick just one.”

She looked at him then, really looked at him. The flour. The green powder on his sleeve. The smudge of jam under one eye. He looked like he’d been through a bakery brawl.

She looked back down and noticed the little folded note cards in front of each cake. She reached for the first one—the chocolate—carefully flipping it open.

“Chocolate,” she read aloud. “For the time we got caught in a storm and you gave me your cloak.”

Her lips parted. A small breath escaped.

Aang flushed and motioned to the second card. “That one’s lemon. Because you always make that scrunchy face when you eat sour things. But then you always smile after. Like you secretly love the punch.”

Katara opened the note and laughed softly under her breath. Her fingers moved to the next.

“Strawberry,” she murmured. “Because I wore that pink shirt in the market that made you trip over a basket of mangoes?”

“You looked really good in that shirt,” he added quietly.

She gave him a teasing sideways look, but her eyes were beginning to gloss.

“Vanilla,” she read, more softly now. “Simple, classic, beautiful… like me?”

Aang nodded. “Exactly like you.”

She touched the trifle bowl next. Coconut and mango layered in a spiraling tower. “And this one?”

“That one’s for when things fall apart. And you still make something amazing anyway.”

Katara stared at it for a moment. Her lips twitched.

Then finally, the sixth cake.

Green, unassuming, drizzled with honey glaze and topped with two delicate jasmine petals.

“Matcha,” she whispered. “Earthy. Comforting. Unexpected.”

Aang spoke before she could open the card. “Because sometimes you just… surprise me. Even after all this time. And I never want to stop being surprised by you.”

Katara didn’t say anything for a long time.

Her hand rose to her mouth, eyes brimming. She looked at all six again, then at him. Then again at the cakes, like she needed to see them twice to believe it.

“You really made all these,” she said softly.

He nodded. “By hand. Well—Toph helped with sprinkles. Zuko may have accidentally burned some frosting. Sokka was a menace. Suki kept us all from dying.”

“I was helpful,” Sokka protested from the doorway.

“You tried to eat the piping bag,” Suki said, exasperated.

Aang stepped forward again, gently taking Katara’s hand. “I didn’t know which flavor you’d want. Because you’re all of them, Katara. Sweet. Sharp. Soft. Bright. Unexpected. I didn’t want to pick just one and get it wrong.”

Her fingers tightened around his.

“You didn’t get anything wrong.”

He opened his mouth to say something more, but then she was wrapping her arms around him, pulling him close, her cheek pressing to his chest.

“Thank you,” she whispered, and he felt the words more than heard them. “This is… the best birthday surprise I’ve ever had.”

A beat passed.

Then she pulled back and grinned. “But I am going to eat all six.”

“Of course you are,” Toph said from the doorway. “I helped decorate them with my eyes closed. They better be appreciated.”

Katara laughed as Aang led her to the table and handed her a fork.

“Okay,” she said, bouncing slightly in her seat. “Let’s do this.”

He watched her take a bite of the chocolate cake first. Her eyes fluttered closed.

“Mmm. Perfect.”

Then the lemon. A surprised squeak. “Oh, wow.”

Strawberry? “This one’s obnoxiously pink.” Pause. “But it’s delicious.”

The vanilla got a quiet nod. The trifle got an outright groan of pleasure.

And finally, the matcha.

She took the smallest bite.

Then the biggest smile bloomed across her face.

Aang felt like he could melt into the floor right there.

She set her fork down, turned toward him, and cupped his cheek with her palm.

“I don’t have a favorite,” she whispered. “Because they’re all parts of you. And I love all of you.”

Aang smiled back at her, eyes warm, the tension finally gone from his shoulders.

“Good,” he said, leaning in so their foreheads touched. “Because I’m pretty sure I can’t top this next year.”

The rest of the evening drifted by like a dream.

After the first bites, the rest of the group slowly filtered into the dining space, snagging forks and plates, sharing laughs, and joking over which cake was the real winner. Sokka declared the strawberry cake “the people’s champion,” while Toph fought fiercely in favor of the lemon one—mostly, Aang suspected, just to be contrary. Zuko muttered something about the matcha being “surprisingly edible,” and Suki hugged Aang so hard he nearly dropped the coconut trifle.

But eventually, full stomachs gave way to quiet smiles and sleepy sighs. One by one, their friends peeled away to give the couple their space—Toph with a lazy wave, Zuko with a curt nod, Suki dragging a frosting-sticky Sokka by the collar and muttering something about dental bills.

By the time the front door shut behind them, the house had gone silent again.

Aang returned to the kitchen to find Katara standing at the table alone, bathed in the warm, flickering light of the candles that still burned low. Her arms were crossed over her chest, but her smile—gentle and soft—lingered on her lips as she gazed at the cakes like they were museum pieces.

“You really didn’t have to do all this,” she said quietly, sensing him as he approached.

“I know,” he replied, stepping behind her. His hands slid gently around her waist, resting over her stomach as he pressed a kiss into the side of her head. “But I wanted to.”

Katara leaned back against him with a hum, her fingers drifting over his.

“I think… what meant the most,” she murmured, “was that you saw me. Every part. And you didn’t try to choose. You just… loved it all.”

Aang’s breath caught. He lowered his head so his cheek brushed hers.

“I do,” he whispered. “Every stubborn, brilliant, breathtaking part.”

She turned in his arms then, slowly, deliberately, and he let her. Her hands came up to his cheeks, thumb brushing the tiny smudge of green powder he hadn’t noticed was still there. He smiled, just a little, and her heart did a slow, swooping turn.

“I don’t need candles,” she whispered. “Or presents. Or parties. Just this.”

Aang searched her eyes. “Just six cakes?”

She grinned. “Just you.”

And then she leaned up on her toes and kissed him.

It was unhurried. Soft. A quiet thank you. A promise, unwrapped and unspoken.

He kissed her back with all the tenderness in the world, his hands steady at her waist, hers curled at the nape of his neck. The candles flickered, the cakes sat cooling, and somewhere nearby, Momo let out a very unimpressed yawn.

When they finally parted, foreheads pressed close, Katara smiled.

“Next year,” she murmured, “I’m making you six cakes.”

Aang laughed, breathless and golden in the glow.

“As long as I get to eat them with you,” he said, “I don’t care what they taste like.”

And in the quiet that followed, they kissed again.

And again.

Until the world melted into frosting and flame.

Chapter Text

The early afternoon sun beat down on Ember Island, casting long shadows through the slats of the beach house as the Gaang scurried around in various states of party-prep chaos.

“Where’s the frosting?” Sokka called, poking his head into the kitchen. His sleeves were rolled up, his brow furrowed like this was a matter of national security. “Katara, did you hide it? Because if this cake ends up unfrosted, it’s gonna ruin the entire vibe—”

“It’s in the cold box, you dolt,” Toph snapped from the living room, sprawled upside down on the couch with a bag of fire flakes in her lap. “Right next to the lychee jelly you also forgot existed.”

“Okay, rude,” Sokka muttered, digging through the ice box. “You’re welcome, by the way, for trying to make something nice for your spiritual big brother-slash-savior of the world.”

From the back patio, Zuko emerged holding a bouquet of fire lilies—stiff, bright red, and clutched awkwardly like they might explode at any moment. “I brought these,” he said, completely monotone. “I don’t know if it’s a Fire Nation tradition or not. But they were... there.”

Suki raised her eyebrows from where she was stringing up makeshift lanterns. “That might be the most heartfelt thing I’ve ever seen you do.”

Zuko blinked slowly. “Thanks.”

All of them were moving. All of them were trying. But the centerpiece of their efforts—the reason for the gathering, the cake, the banners, the hand-picked playlist of bad Ember Island folk songs—was nowhere to be found.

“Okay,” Sokka said, clapping his hands once and looking around. “We’re two hours into Operation Airfest. We’ve got snacks, streamers, and a fire lily bouquet that probably violates several spiritual codes. Now all we need is—oh right, the birthday boy. ”

Silence fell like a curtain.

Katara was standing at the sink, rinsing a plate she didn’t need to rinse. Her hands paused under the water.

“Maybe he’s just out for a walk,” Suki offered, though the words sounded unsure even to herself.

Toph scoffed. “Please. He pulls this every year. Wakes up early, vanishes without a word, and shows up when the party’s over.”

“He did say something vague last night,” Suki added, glancing at Katara. “Something like, ‘Don’t wait for me.’ Does that sound familiar?”

Zuko frowned. “Maybe he’s meditating?”

Sokka huffed and collapsed into a chair. “He’s always meditating. That or brooding in a tree somewhere. I love the guy, but it’s like he treats his own birthday like a war crime.”

Toph tossed a fire flake into her mouth. “Maybe it is, in monk-land.”

“I just don’t get it,” Sokka went on. “We do stuff for everyone’s birthday. Remember Toph’s? I literally built her a wrestling ring. And for mine, Katara made seafood stew and we all went penguin sledding. But when it’s Aang’s turn to be celebrated, poof. Gone like a puff of air.”

Katara shut off the faucet.

The room quieted again, but this time all eyes slowly turned to her.

She didn’t say anything for a moment. Just dried her hands and leaned back against the counter, looking out the wide-open doors toward the mountains in the distance.

“I know it’s frustrating,” she said finally, her voice calm but threaded with something unreadable. “But it’s not about us.”

“Well, maybe it should be,” Sokka argued. “I mean, he deserves a party more than any of us. What kind of birthday tradition involves ghosting your friends?”

“Aang’s not like us,” she replied softly. “And birthdays probably don’t mean the same thing to him as they do to us either. You all remember what he lost. He’s not just a boy turning seventeen.”

Toph shifted on the couch. “Still doesn’t mean he should vanish into thin air every time.”

Zuko set the fire lilies down on the table. “Maybe he just needs space.”

Katara nodded once, slowly. But her brow furrowed.

Because something about this time felt different. He hadn’t even met her eyes that morning. Hadn’t said anything when she touched his shoulder, only given her the smallest of smiles before stepping out into the still-blue dawn with glider in hand.

She looked out toward the cliffs again.

And then, wordlessly, she reached for her satchel and slung it over her shoulder.

“Where are you going?” Suki asked.

Katara’s hand tightened on the strap.

“To find him.”

Katara didn’t look back as she stepped off the patio and into the blinding afternoon sun. Her sandals crunched against the sunbaked earth of the garden path, and she reached up to shield her eyes, scanning the horizon with practiced precision.

He hadn’t taken Appa. That much she knew—Appa was still lounging lazily under the shade of a cliffside awning, tail flicking at flies, utterly unconcerned. Which meant Aang had either flown or walked, and if she knew him— really knew him—he wouldn’t have gone anywhere loud or crowded. He would’ve sought solitude. Somewhere high. Somewhere open.

Somewhere close to the sky.

Katara exhaled slowly and started toward the edge of the Ember Island cliffs, her boots leaving faint prints in the dry sand as she climbed. The familiar sounds of the beach house faded behind her: Toph’s laughter, Sokka’s half-hearted singing, the screech of a chair being dragged across the deck. With every step up the winding slope, the world quieted.

And still, no sign of him.

A part of her was angry. Not furious, not hot with frustration—but low-burning, like a quiet ache in the ribs. He knew today mattered to them. To her. She’d spent the entire morning thinking of ways to make him smile. And once again, he was gone. Like he always was. Slipping through her fingers like mist.

But that wasn’t why she kept climbing.

She wasn’t doing this to scold him.

She was doing it because he had never once explained why he left.

And deep in her bones, Katara knew it was time to understand.

The slope grew steeper as she ascended. Ember Island’s cliff paths were barely marked—worn only by wind and the occasional Fire Nation hermit or wanderer—but she moved like she belonged there, brushing past scrub grass and dark, jagged rocks with the grace of a practiced traveler. The wind picked up as she rose higher, tugging strands of hair loose from her braid.

She paused near the crest of a ridge to catch her breath, fingers brushing the stone as she steadied herself. From here, the sea stretched out in every direction—blue and endless, a painting come to life. But it wasn’t the ocean she was looking for.

It was the flicker of firelight.

Katara squinted. There—just beyond the next rise, tucked into a natural hollow sheltered by curved stone. Not the aggressive, dancing flames of a bonfire. Something smaller. Dimmer.

Candles.

Dozens of them.

She moved slower now. Each step quieter than the last.

As she crested the final incline, the wind fell away like a held breath.

Aang was kneeling in the center of the hollow, his back to her, shoulders slightly hunched. The sunlight barely touched the space here—it filtered through in streaks, golden and soft, leaving most of the area cloaked in shadow.

But the candles—gods, there were so many.

Some were tall and elegant, standing straight and fresh. Others had melted into squat little puddles of wax, their flames low and flickering. All of them arranged in neat, almost reverent lines across the stone, like a constellation of light laid out around him.

Aang lit another with shaking hands.

He murmured something she couldn’t hear.

And then another flame caught.

Katara took a half-step back.

She hadn’t meant to intrude. Hadn’t expected this. This wasn’t just Aang slipping away for a quiet walk or meditating under a tree. This was ritual. Sacred. Old in a way she could feel in her chest but not name.

But it wasn’t just that. It was the way he moved—deliberate, gentle, solemn. The way his shoulders sagged with weight he never showed them. The way his lips trembled as he whispered names into the flame.

Something cracked open in her then—not anger, not confusion. Just understanding. Or the beginning of it.

Katara started to step back again, meaning to leave him be, to retreat without a sound. But her foot slipped slightly on loose stone, and the smallest crunch echoed in the stillness.

Aang froze.

For a long, breathless moment, he didn’t move. Then—slowly—he turned his head over his shoulder.

Their eyes met.

His face wasn’t angry. Just surprised. And tired.

“…Katara?”

She swallowed the lump in her throat and stepped into the hollow fully, her arms loose at her sides.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” she said gently. “I was just… looking for you.”

Aang didn’t answer right away.

His eyes stayed fixed on the candle he had just lit, its tiny flame trembling in the breeze like it wasn’t sure it was allowed to exist. He didn’t turn around. Didn’t look at her.

“You weren’t supposed to see this.”

His voice was so quiet, it nearly got lost in the wind.

Katara stepped forward, closing the final few feet between them. She sank to her knees beside him, the chill of the earth grounding her as the scent of wax and salt and sea air pressed in around them.

“Then maybe,” she said gently, her gaze flicking to the flickering light, “it’s time someone did.”

Neither of them spoke after that.

For a while, the only sounds were the hush of the waves and the soft rustle of wind moving through the field of candle flames. It wasn’t an uncomfortable silence. It was sacred. Heavy with everything unsaid but deeply understood. Aang sat with his legs folded beneath him, hands resting limply on his thighs, shoulders tense and still. Katara didn’t reach for him. She just stayed there, close.

“What is all this?” she finally asked, her voice a murmur—meant for him, and only him. There was no accusation in it. Just a quiet wish to understand.

Aang’s eyes didn’t leave the circle. They landed on a small, misshapen candle near the front—its wax uneven, melted like it had wept. He reached for it, fingertips steadying the cooled edge even though the flame stood straight.

“It was an Air Nomad tradition,” he said finally, his voice like wind brushing over a cliff—barely there. “On our birthdays, we would light candles… one for every lesson we learned that year. Every person who shaped us. Every moment that helped us become who we were.”

Katara turned her eyes to the hundreds of candles spread across the hollow. Her breath caught.

“Aang… this is more than just one year’s worth.”

“I changed it.” He reached for another candle, this one tall and elegant. The wick was unlit. With a small breath of fire from his fingertip, he coaxed it to life. “Now, I light one for every person I’ve lost. Every person I remember.”

He swallowed. His shoulders curled in, as if he could fold himself small enough to disappear between the flames.

“I don’t know how else to honor them.”

Katara pressed a hand gently into the earth beside her, grounding herself as emotion swelled. The sheer number of flames—it was staggering. And each one held a memory. A story. A goodbye.

“Do you do this every year?” she asked softly.

He nodded.

“Since I woke up.”

The weight of it hit her like a wave. Every birthday—every year since that moment on the iceberg—he had done this alone. Quietly mourning the entire world he'd lost, while everyone else offered cake and laughter and good intentions he could never quite carry.

“Aang…” she began, but he spoke before she could finish.

“I know what you’re going to say.” His voice was hoarse now. “That I don’t have to do it alone. That it’s okay to grieve and still celebrate. That they'd want me to live.”

“No,” she said, her voice breaking with its own quiet weight. “I was going to say I’m sorry.”

He blinked.

She continued, “I’m sorry we didn’t ask. I’m sorry we celebrated around you instead of with you. I’m sorry I didn’t know this part of you… and that I let you carry it alone.”

Aang stared at the flame in front of him. For a moment, it seemed like he might say nothing at all. Then his voice broke through the quiet, soft and almost apologetic.

“You weren’t supposed to see this.”

“I know,” Katara said. “But I’m here now.”

Another beat of silence. 

“Our friends… they’re worried about you,” she murmured, reaching toward one of the candles and gently tucking her hands around its warmth. “ I’m worried about you. We just wanted to celebrate with you today.”

Aang didn’t respond right away. His jaw tightened. His shoulders trembled slightly.

And then, in the smallest, most shattered voice she’d ever heard from him, he asked:
“How could I possibly celebrate my birthday?”

Katara looked at him sharply. His eyes were wide and shining now, like stormwater brimming in a well.

“How am I supposed to celebrate the fact that I’m the one lucky Air Nomad who gets to be a year older?” he whispered. “While all of them… all of them ...”

His voice broke.

“I’m the one who gets to grow up. To fall in love. To have friends. To have cake and candles and laughter—and they never even got to say goodbye.”

He turned toward her then, and the anguish in his face undid her completely.

“They were better than me,” he choked. “Kinder. Wiser. Braver. And they’re gone. Every single one of them is gone, and I’m still here. So no, I don’t want a party. I don’t want streamers. I don’t want people singing to me like this day is something worth celebrating.”

His fists clenched in his lap.

“I don’t want to feel happy when there’s no one left to feel it with me.”

The tears spilled freely now, streaking down his cheeks as he bowed his head. “I light a candle because it’s the only thing I can give them. They deserved more than being forgotten.”

Katara’s throat tightened so hard she couldn’t speak. She reached for him, slow and gentle, resting her hand against his back.

He didn’t pull away.

“They’re not forgotten,” she whispered. “Because you remember them. You honor them. Every year, without fail. That… Aang, that is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen anyone do.”

He collapsed then—not into sobs, not into loud wails, but into a trembling silence as his shoulders shook under her touch. Like a tree in a windstorm, bending under the weight of grief that had been too long held alone.

Katara wrapped both arms around him and drew him against her chest.

He let her.

He wept silently into her shoulder as the candles flickered all around them, dancing to the rhythm of a name-filled wind. She ran her fingers through his scalp, over the nape of his neck, whispering nothing but his name.

“Aang… Aang…”

They sat that way for what felt like hours, curled together in the middle of that sacred hollow, the warm flicker of candlelight softening the shadows around them.

And for the first time on one of his birthdays, Aang didn’t grieve alone.

The silence that followed was not heavy, nor uncomfortable. It was full. Full of unshed tears, of flickering warmth, of breath slowly returning to rhythm.

Katara kept her arms around him, letting Aang lean as much as he needed. Letting him fall apart and piece himself back together in her presence without pressure or shame. The wind had calmed. The flames no longer swayed—they stood steady, watchful, as if honoring the moment.

After some time, Aang shifted slightly, sitting upright again, though he stayed close. His hands were in his lap, thumb rubbing gently over the curve of one finger. His breathing was quieter now.

She gave him a soft smile.

“Would you… tell me about some of them?” she asked gently, eyes drifting across the sea of candles surrounding them. “Who they were to you?”

Aang blinked, then followed her gaze. For a moment, she thought he might hesitate.

But instead, he nodded.

He raised a hand and pointed to a candle near the center—a tall, worn pillar with an uneven base. It had clearly been lit many, many times.

“That one’s Gyatso,” he said softly. “He used to bend the air to make fruit pies explode just to make me laugh. He was… more than a mentor. He was my safe place. He taught me that being the Avatar didn’t mean I had to stop being a child.”

Katara smiled faintly, even as tears gathered again at the corners of her eyes.

He pointed to another—shorter, flickering in the corner of the formation.

“Monk Tashi. He was stern. Quiet. Always seemed annoyed with me for skipping meditation. But when I didn’t make the cut for advanced airbending once, he’s the one who stayed up with me all night, helping me try again.”

A third candle, melted almost completely down.

“Monk Pasang. He was the temple storyteller. Every night, he would sit with the youngest airbenders and recite legends until we fell asleep. I used to sneak back out just to hear the endings.”

His hand moved again, more tentative this time. He pointed to a thin candle near the edge—its flame was small but stubborn.

“That one… was for a novice. His name was Renji. We were the same age. Played airball together almost every day. We made our own team, the Sky Bison Flyers, and pretended we were professional athletes.”

A sad smile ghosted across Aang’s face.

“He was the fastest kid I’d ever seen on a glider. He could’ve been a master one day.”

Katara reached for his hand and took it gently in hers.

“And that one,” Aang added, motioning toward a candle that stood apart from the rest, near the outer edge, “is Bumi.”

Katara blinked. “He’s not…”

“I know. He’s still alive. But I light it anyway. Because he was the only person from before who I got to keep.” A pause. “I light it to say thank you.”

She followed his gaze to another candle beside Bumi’s. It burned a little too brightly.

“And that?”

“Kuzon,” Aang said, with a soft exhale. “He was my best friend in the Fire Nation. We used to sneak fire flakes and ditch lessons. He showed me how to light sparklers with chi. He wasn’t perfect, but he made me feel normal.”

There was so much more to say, Katara knew. So many more names. But she didn’t push.

Instead, she looked back down at the unlit candles beside her.

“Would it be okay,” she asked, voice quiet, “if I lit a few?”

Aang turned to her. His eyes, still rimmed red, widened slightly.

“You want to?”

“I think I should,” she said softly. “If this is how you remember people, then… I want to remember, too.”

Aang nodded, and with that small motion, something inside him unfolded—slow and tentative, like the first bend of sunlight through thick morning clouds.

Katara reached for a fresh candle, simple and clean. She lit it with a steady hand, then nestled it into a bare patch of earth near the rest.

“This one’s for Yue,” she murmured. “She was brave. So brave. And kind. She gave everything so the world could keep going.”

Aang bowed his head gently. “She deserves to be here.”

Katara reached for one more. Her fingers lingered on it a moment before she lit the wick. This time, her hand trembled just slightly.

She placed it close to her side.

“For my mom,” she whispered. “For every story she didn’t get to finish telling. For the warmth I still remember. For the strength she left behind in me.”

The flame caught.

Aang reached for her hand again.

They sat there together, surrounded by flickers of memory—his and hers, side by side. Two threads of grief slowly weaving into something shared.

And for the first time, Katara felt like she was seeing all of Aang—not just the Avatar, not just the boy who smiled, but the soul beneath it all.

He didn’t thank her. He didn’t need to.

The candles said everything.

Katara watched the flames dance around them, her fingers still loosely curled around Aang’s hand. Neither of them spoke for a long while.

There was nothing left that needed to be said—not right away, at least.

The sky above them had shifted while they’d been sitting together, soft blue deepening into a richer, duskier hue. The shadows stretched longer across the hollow, and the sea below reflected streaks of orange and rose-gold, painting the waves in quiet fire. The wind had stilled almost completely, like the world itself was holding its breath to keep this sacred space untouched a little longer.

Aang leaned forward again, reaching for another candle. This one had already been lit—maybe years ago—and the wick caught quickly as he tilted it into the flame of its neighbor. He whispered another name. Katara didn’t catch it. She didn’t need to.

Instead, she sat beside him in silence, anchoring herself in the steady rise and fall of his breath, the brush of his shoulder against hers.

She waited until he set the candle down again, and then spoke softly.

“I won’t force you to bring me with you every year,” she said, her voice barely above the crackle of flame, “but if you ever want me to… if you ever need me… I’ll be there.”

Aang turned to her slowly.

His expression wasn’t guarded anymore. It wasn’t even broken.

It was bare.

And it was so young.

His eyes held centuries and seventeen years all at once—wisdom too heavy for his frame, grief etched into his ribs, love written in the way he was still here after everything.

“I don’t think I can keep doing it alone,” he said. “Not anymore.”

Katara’s chest tightened with love so fierce, so full, it almost knocked the air from her lungs.

“You don’t have to,” she whispered. “Not ever again.”

He looked at her then, really looked—like he was seeing her for the first time in this place, this moment. And maybe he was. Maybe no one had ever sat with him like this before, inside the most vulnerable corners of his soul, and simply stayed.

Katara reached up and brushed her fingers along his jaw, featherlight. “You carry so much, Aang. You’ve carried it for so long. But let me help. Let all of us help.”

His eyes filled again, but this time the tears didn’t fall from pain. They shimmered, but held steady—contained by something stronger.

“I love you,” she said, finally voicing what had already been written in her every touch, every breath, every heartbeat shared in this space.

It wasn’t a grand declaration.

It was a quiet vow.

Aang closed his eyes, and she saw the words ripple through him, shoulders trembling as he leaned his forehead against hers. His hands reached for her—soft, tentative—and she met them halfway.

“I love you too,” he murmured, voice hoarse, cracked, but sure.

Katara smiled through the heat gathering behind her eyes. “I know.”

They stayed like that until the sun finally dipped below the sea’s horizon, setting the candles aglow in golds and deep amber. Aang continued lighting the last of them, moving slowly, reverently. Each one with a name, a whisper, a breath of memory.

Katara stayed beside him the whole time, her hand on his back, fingers rubbing slow, steady circles between his shoulder blades. She didn’t try to talk. Didn’t try to fill the silence. She just sat with him, keeping rhythm with the weight he’d carried for so long.

When he lit the final candle, Aang let out a soft breath and leaned back on his heels. He stared at the sea of flames, eyes shining in their reflection.

“I don’t know if I’ll ever feel ready to celebrate it,” he said.

Katara didn’t push.

“But,” he continued, turning toward her, “I think I’d like to try being with people who love me. Even if I’m not ready to blow out candles.”

She smiled, her thumb brushing the edge of his palm. “Then let’s go back.”

Aang looked out at the candles once more.

“I’ll come back here,” he said softly. “Every year. But maybe next time… not alone.”

She nodded.

They stood together, slowly, limbs stiff from the stillness but hearts a little lighter. Aang took one last look at the flickering field of firelight before turning toward the trail.

As they walked back down the winding path, the shadows followed, but not with the same weight. There was a softness to the dark now, as if the hollow behind them had given its blessing.

The noise of the beach house returned in slow waves. Laughter from inside. The faint scent of something charred—but probably edible—drifting from the kitchen. The glow of lanterns swaying from the balcony.

Katara glanced at Aang, gauging the quiet in his expression.

“Do you feel okay?” she asked gently. “To go back, I mean.”

He hesitated. Then nodded. “Yeah. I think I do.”

They stepped through the gate just as Sokka’s voice rang out from inside.

“I swear, if no one eats this cake in the next five minutes, I will —oh. Oh. You’re back.”

Everyone looked up at once.

Toph sat up straighter. Zuko glanced up from where he was slicing fruit with a knife far too large for the task. Suki stepped away from the lanterns, relief painting her whole face.

Aang offered them all a soft smile. Not forced. Not fake.

Just small. But real.

Sokka blinked, and then grinned wide. “About time! You missed the party, but the cake’s still here, and Toph only ate half.”

“I was giving you space, ” Toph said with a smirk. “You’re welcome.”

Aang laughed quietly.

And Katara saw it then—not joy, not quite. But ease. A gentle comfort as he stepped into the house and let the warmth of his new family meet him in the doorway.

They didn’t ask questions.

They didn’t need to.

They just welcomed him in.

And for the first time in seventeen years, Aang spent his birthday not in the company of ghosts…

…but in the light of those who still remained.

Chapter Text

Snow fell in soft spirals outside the window, painting the world in powdery white. Inside the warmth of Hakoda’s home, the glow of the fire crackled gently, casting shadows on the low-hung decorations strewn across the ceiling—ribbons, paper cutouts, and a hand-painted cloth banner that read, a little crookedly: Happy 3rd Birthday, Kya!

Katara’s fingers worked quickly, tying the last corner of the banner to a make-shift water-beam above the sitting area. “There,” she said, stepping back to admire their handiwork. “I think we did it.”

Aang, still in his sleep pants and wrapped in a heavy blanket, smiled from where he was perched on the low couch, cradling a sleepy Kya in his arms. Her arms were curled around his neck, her cheek resting against his collarbone as she yawned. “Not bad for a last-minute banner. Did Bumi help with the ‘Kya’ part? The Y looks like it’s trying to escape.”

“He insisted on painting her name all by himself,” Katara said with a soft laugh. “Then used his hand as a stamp.”

“And his foot,” Aang added, tilting his head toward a suspicious green blob in the corner of the fabric. “Pretty sure that’s a footprint.”

Before Katara could respond, a thunder of footsteps echoed down the hallway. Bumi tore into the room at full speed, a blur of blue parka and uncombed hair, yelling, “Is it time yet?! Is she up?! Can we do cake now?!”

Katara held up both hands. “Bumi! Slow down—she just woke up.”

Kya blinked sleepily, letting out a tiny “Mmmnh,” then clung tighter to Aang’s neck. He chuckled softly and kissed the top of her head. “Not yet, buddy. Let’s give the birthday girl a chance to open her eyes.”

Bumi skidded to a stop near Katara and bounced on his toes, eyes wide. “I have her present ready! I made it myself. Can I give it to her now? Can I?”

“In a little while,” Katara promised, reaching down to smooth back his hair. “We still need to eat breakfast.”

“But what if she wants to open it before breakfast?” he argued, with the seriousness of a high-stakes negotiation. “That’s a thing. Some people do that.”

“Some people,” Katara said with a smile, “also wash their face in the morning. Have you?”

Bumi groaned loudly and threw himself backward into a snowflake-covered cushion. “I’m gonna explode waiting.”

Aang laughed, low and warm. “Hang in there, big guy.”

Katara crossed the room and knelt beside him on the couch, letting her hand run through Kya’s soft brown hair. The little girl shifted and opened her eyes slowly, blinking up at both her parents. “Morning,” she whispered.

“Happy birthday, sweetheart,” Katara said, brushing a kiss against her forehead.

“Happy birthday, my little otter-penguin,” Aang whispered right behind her, making Kya giggle sleepily.

She wiggled a little, nuzzling into his chest. “Can I have cake now?”

Bumi let out a triumphant whoop from across the room. “I told you!”

Katara stood, hands on her hips, pretending to sigh in defeat. “Fine. Cake first. But only because it’s your birthday.”

As Bumi cheered again, racing off to grab something from the kitchen, Katara leaned down and kissed Aang softly on the lips. He tilted his head into it, smiling as their noses brushed.

“You’re cute when you’re cozy,” she whispered against his mouth.

“And you’re cute when you’re bossy,” he murmured back, giving her another quick kiss before resting his cheek against Kya’s head again.

From the kitchen, Hakoda’s deep voice rumbled, “If anyone lights candles before I’ve had tea, I will declare war.”

Katara grinned. “Dad’s awake.”

“Which means we have backup,” Aang said with a chuckle. “Good. We’ll need it.”

Because even with all the snow outside, the real storm was inside—and she had just turned three.

Kya sat up a little straighter in Aang’s lap, rubbing her eyes. “Can we play outside first?”

Bumi shot up like a bolt. “Yes! Yes, yes, yes! Snowball war time!” He darted to the hallway before anyone could answer, already grabbing boots and scarves from the pile.

Katara chuckled, giving Kya a kiss on the cheek. “If the birthday girl wants snow, then snow it is.” She extended her arms. “Come on, sweetheart, let’s get you bundled.”

Kya nodded and wriggled into her mother’s arms. Aang stood too, stretching, then moved to help Bumi sort through the chaotic tangle of winter gear near the doorway. After a few minutes of laughter, scarves gone rogue, and Bumi dramatically insisting that his gloves had “escaped to the spirit world,” they managed to get everyone dressed and out the door.

The Southern morning greeted them with a crisp brightness, the snow sparkling in the light like crushed diamonds. Their little igloo overlooked a hill that sloped down to a patch of soft-packed snow near the ocean, and it was there that the family trudged—boots crunching with every step.

“Okay, rules are simple,” Bumi declared the moment they reached the clearing, hands on his hips. “No aiming for the face. Snowballs must be packed to regulation squishiness. And if you eat the snow, you automatically lose.”

Kya giggled and immediately dropped to her knees, scooping up a handful of snow and tossing it harmlessly at her brother’s feet. “You lose!”

Bumi shrieked like he’d been mortally wounded. “Nooooo! Betrayed by my own sister!”

Katara and Aang shared a warm look as they watched their children romp, the air filled with laughter and snowflakes. Kya’s cheeks were already rosy, her breath puffing in little clouds as she stomped around and made exaggerated bending motions with her arms—mimicking what she’d seen her mother do in practice.

“Look!” she called proudly, turning to them with both hands raised. “I’m doing it like Mommy!”

She twisted her arms outward and then thrust them forward, a swirl of energy behind the motion—her eyes bright, her form clumsy but confident.

And the snow… moved.

Just a little. Just a curl. But where her hands sliced through the air, a stream of melted snow twisted into motion, catching the light as it lifted from the ground.

Katara froze.

Aang’s smile fell into something still, reverent.

Kya blinked. “Huh?”

Bumi had stopped mid-dramatic flop into the snow, now staring with wide eyes. “Did you see that?!”

Katara moved forward slowly, boots crunching, her breath catching in her chest. “Kya… do that again.”

The little girl looked around, confused but excited. She copied the motion with a giggle—arms raised, twisting, then pushing forward with a happy squeal.

This time, the water moved further—two thin ribbons spiraling from the snowdrift and collapsing in a playful splash.

Katara dropped to her knees.

“Kya,” she whispered, voice trembling, “you’re waterbending.”

Kya’s mouth dropped open. “I am ?!”

“You are,” Aang said softly from behind, stepping closer. His eyes were full, wide, shimmering with joy. “You really are.”

Katara reached out and gently cupped Kya’s small hands in her own, tears already prickling at the corners of her eyes. “I’ve waited my whole life to see this. You have your grandmother’s name, your mother’s eyes, and now… this gift too.” She gave a shaky laugh. “I’m not the last anymore.”

Kya didn’t quite understand the weight in her mother’s voice, but she saw the tears and quickly kissed Katara’s cheek. “Don’t cry, Mommy!”

Katara laughed through it, pulling her into a hug. “I’m not sad. I’m so proud of you.”

Bumi stomped forward in his heavy boots, arms crossed, a frown tugging at his face. “But she’s three. That’s not fair. I never moved snow like that.”

Aang turned to him gently. “Bumi—”

“Why didn’t I get bending?” he muttered, voice small but sharp. “Why does she get it already?”

Katara looked over her shoulder just in time to see him turn and stomp away, trudging back toward the igloo with angry little kicks into the snow. She started to rise, but Aang placed a hand on her arm.

“I’ve got him,” he murmured. “You stay with her.”

Katara hesitated, torn between her two children, but Aang gave her a reassuring nod. She nodded back and watched him jog after Bumi, snowflakes kicking up in his wake.

Kya looked up at her with big, expectant eyes. “Did I do good?”

Katara smiled through the lump in her throat. “You did amazing.” Kya beamed, little hands lifted high as she spun in place. A swirl of slush rose from the ground, trailing after her like a lazy comet.

Katara stayed there in the snow, knees soaking, heart thrown wide open. For so long she had carried the weight of believing she was the last Southern waterbender—had felt the ache of that title, the lonely burden of legacy. And now, here was her daughter, carving ribbons of water into the air, laughing as if the sky itself had kissed her on her birthday.

The tiny comet of slush circled Kya’s feet before breaking apart and melting back into the snow with a soft splatter. She twirled again, arms flung wide, cheeks pink from cold and delight, her giggles ringing out like little bells across the open air. Katara’s throat tightened, tears threatening as she knelt there, watching.

Kya, her baby girl, was a waterbender.

And not just any waterbender. Her waterbender.

Katara blinked back the fresh wave of tears threatening to fall and reached out a hand. “Sweetheart,” she said gently, “would you like to learn a little waterbending with me?”

Kya stopped spinning. Her eyes lit up instantly. “Really?!”

Katara nodded, her smile soft and wide. “Really. Just a little. It’s your birthday, after all. A little bending lesson from your Mommy seems like a perfect gift.”

Kya didn’t hesitate. She stumbled over to her mother and plopped down on the snow right in front of her, practically buzzing with energy.

Katara reached forward and brushed some hair out of her daughter’s face, tucking it behind her ear. “Okay,” she murmured. “Let’s start with something simple. We’ll do it together, alright?”

Kya nodded fast, her tiny legs wiggling excitedly as she tried to copy her mother’s posture.

Katara inhaled slowly and placed her hands in front of her, palms open and facing the snow. “Waterbending is all about listening,” she said softly. “Not just to the water—but to yourself.”

Kya blinked. “Like… ears?”

Katara laughed. “Kind of, sweet pea. But more like… feeling. Like when you know you're going to sneeze even though no one told you.”

Kya giggled. “I do know that.”

“Exactly.” Katara grinned, then slowly rotated her hands in a small circular motion over the snow. “Watch my hands. Water likes to move in curves. No sharp edges, no sudden moves.”

Kya squinted, mimicking her mother’s motion. Katara took it slow, letting her daughter follow the flow of her arms, and then, once their movements matched, she gently tugged the moisture upward from the ground.

A small ribbon of water lifted into the air.

Kya gasped.

Katara didn’t stop. She kept the movement slow, steady, letting the water arc like a question mark in the space between them. Then, with a patient smile, she shifted her fingers and let it settle into the snow with a soft splash.

“That was so cool!” Kya squealed.

Katara leaned in, her heart full. “Now you try. Remember—curves, not corners. Be gentle.”

Kya bit her lip in concentration. She held out her palms just like her mother had, her little fingers wiggling slightly with anticipation. She moved them in a clumsy circle, then paused, unsure.

Katara laid her hands gently over her daughter’s. “Slow down. Breathe with me.”

They inhaled together.

“Good,” Katara whispered. “Now feel the water. It’s underneath the snow, waiting for you.”

Kya frowned and then—just barely—lifted her hands again.

A tiny bead of melted snow jiggled into the air and hovered between them.

It only stayed up for a second before falling, but Katara gasped like it was the moon itself. “Kya! You did it!”

“I did it?!”

“You really did it,” Katara said, wrapping her arms around her and squeezing tight. “I’m so proud of you, baby. You’re already amazing.”

Kya beamed, her whole face glowing. “Can we do more?”

Katara nodded and shifted so they were sitting side by side in the snow, both of them facing the ocean now. The water stretched out into the horizon, glimmering beneath the early sun. It was peaceful, quiet—the perfect place for a first lesson.

“Alright,” she said, pointing out to the edge of the shore where the tide lapped gently. “Water has rhythm, like your heartbeat. Like the push and pull of waves. If you want it to move with you, you need to move with it.”

Kya’s brow furrowed with focus.

Katara demonstrated again, slowly looping her arms outward, then drawing them in. A ripple followed her motion, the surface of the water bending gently toward them before flattening again.

“Now you try,” she said.

Kya stood up on unsteady legs, wobbling in her boots, and tried to mimic the motion. Her arms went a little wild, and she ended up flopping back down into the snow.

Katara laughed and helped her up, brushing her off. “It’s okay! You don’t have to get it perfect. Waterbending isn’t about force. It’s about patience.”

“Like waiting for cake?”

“Exactly like waiting for cake.”

Kya grinned and tried again. This time, her movements were a little more deliberate. She lifted her hands and swirled them, her tongue poking out the side of her mouth in intense concentration. And this time… a shallow arc of water pulled toward them, crashing into her boots with a small splash.

“I did it!”

Katara clapped. “You did, sweetheart! That was beautiful.”

They practiced like that for a little while—Kya copying, Katara guiding, both of them laughing every time the water didn’t quite cooperate. And through it all, Katara was just beaming , her cheeks pink not from cold but from pride.

This was the kind of moment she never thought she’d get to have.

Not when she was the last.

Not when the world had almost made her stay the last.

And now, here she was, passing on the bending that had shaped her identity to her daughter.

As Kya bent a small wave into a spiral and squealed with joy, Katara knelt behind her and wrapped her arms around her waist. “You’re going to be incredible, Kya.”

“I want to be just like you, Mommy,” Kya said, her head leaning back into Katara’s shoulder.

Katara’s heart clenched. “Oh, baby. You already are.”

She pressed a kiss to the top of her daughter’s head, then held her there for a long moment, both of them watching the water dance under the morning light.

Back in the igloo, the warmth of the hearth didn’t quite reach the small room at the back, where Bumi had curled up on a pile of pelts with his arms crossed and his back stubbornly turned toward the doorway. Snow clung to the soles of his boots, melting into little puddles on the floor, but he didn’t move to take them off.

He didn’t even look up when Aang entered.

Aang stood in the doorway for a moment, silently watching his son’s small shoulders, the way they were hunched—angry and embarrassed, but mostly… sad.

Quietly, he stepped inside and sat cross-legged near the entrance, keeping a gentle distance. “You didn’t finish your snowball war,” he said softly.

Bumi scowled into the pelts. “Didn’t feel like it.”

Aang nodded like that made perfect sense. “Kya’s first waterbending—pretty cool, huh?”

Bumi didn’t answer.

Aang waited.

After a long pause, Bumi muttered, “She’s three.”

“I know.”

“She’s three,” he repeated, louder this time. “And she already knows how to bend .”

Aang didn’t interrupt, didn’t try to soothe him yet. He could tell Bumi wasn’t finished.

“I’m older, and I try so hard. I move the air, and I copy your stances, and I sit and breathe like you say, and I try to feel the water with Mom, and nothing happens.” His fists tightened in his lap. “Everyone else can bend. You can. Mom can. Now Kya can!”

Aang swallowed gently. “And you’re scared that you’re the only one who won’t.”

“I already am. ” Bumi’s voice cracked. “And now that Kya’s special too, you and Mom are just gonna love her more.”

Aang’s chest ached.

He scooted forward slowly, until he was sitting beside Bumi, but still gave him space. “Bumi… do you think I love you because I’m an airbender?”

Bumi didn’t answer.

“Or that your mom only loves me because I can waterbend too?”

“…No.”

“Then why would bending be the reason we love you? ” Aang’s voice was gentle, but certain. “Your sister bending today doesn’t change anything about how I feel about you. Not even a little.”

Bumi sniffled, eyes locked on his knees. “But she’s gonna be a master someday. She’s gonna learn all the cool things from Mom, and she’ll be all graceful and special, and I’m just gonna be the one who… can’t .”

Aang’s heart broke a little at that word.

He reached out and rested a hand on his son’s back, warm and grounding. “You want to know something true?”

Bumi nodded, barely.

“I’m proud of Kya. But I am so proud of you. Every single day.”

Bumi glanced at him, cautious. “Even if I don’t bend?”

“Especially,” Aang said with a soft smile. “Because you try anyway. You never give up. You’re clever, and curious, and you make me laugh harder than anyone else. You protect your sister. You’re brave enough to be yourself , even when you feel different. That takes more strength than bending ever will.”

Bumi blinked fast. His lip wobbled. “Really?”

Aang nodded. “Really. You’re already the best kind of person you can be. And bending or not, you’ll do amazing things.”

For a moment, Bumi just stared at him. Then he leaned forward and buried his face into Aang’s chest, small hands gripping the fabric of his shirt like he needed to anchor himself there.

Aang held him tight, rubbing his back slowly. “You are enough, Bumi. Just as you are.”

And in the warmth of the igloo, as the snow drifted quietly outside, father and son stayed like that—wrapped up in the kind of love that didn’t need any element to shape it.

The sound of footsteps rustled softly.

Aang looked up just as Katara stepped inside, brushing snowflakes off her shawl. Her cheeks were flushed from the cold, and her eyes flicked between her husband and son, immediately reading the softened tension in the room.

Bumi was still curled into Aang’s arms, but his face wasn’t buried anymore. He looked tired, puffy-eyed… but calmer.

Katara’s voice was gentle, warm. “Hey, you two.”

Bumi sniffled, sitting up a little straighter but not letting go of Aang entirely.

Katara crouched beside them, her hand reaching out to tuck a bit of hair behind Bumi’s ear. “Kya’s back inside. She’s washing her hands and already asking for her slice of cake.”

Bumi’s eyebrows twitched. “She’d better not take the corner piece.”

A ghost of a smile pulled at Katara’s lips. “I told her to save it for you. But she’s got her eyes on the frosting flower.”

Bumi hesitated, glancing up at her. “...I wasn’t trying to be mean. I just... I didn’t feel good.”

“I know, sweetheart,” she said, her hand now gently stroking his back. “It’s okay to feel that way. It really is. I just wanted to remind you of something.”

He looked at her, eyes still rimmed with frustration and confusion and something quieter beneath it.

Katara shifted so she was sitting beside him and met his gaze fully. “You are so special to me, Bumi. From the moment I first held you, you changed my whole world.”

He squirmed a little. “But I don’t have bending. You and Dad are the coolest people in the world and—”

Katara shook her head, pressing a finger gently to his lips. “Shhh. No more of that.”

He blinked.

“You are wild and brilliant. You make up songs when you brush your teeth. You once tried to climb the roof of this very igloo just to see if penguins could fly. You make me laugh, and think, and feel so proud of who you are— not because you bend or don’t bend. Just because you’re you. ”

Bumi’s eyes watered again, but this time, the storm inside him had passed. He whispered, “You mean it?”

“More than anything.”

And then she pulled him into a hug that only a mother could give—all-encompassing, fierce, tender, and completely certain. Bumi melted into her arms, clutching her coat tightly.

“I love you, Bumi,” she whispered into his hair. “Always.”

“I love you too,” he murmured back.

She kissed his forehead, and as he pulled back, his eyes brightened with a new kind of spark. “I’m gonna go get that frosting flower before Kya changes her mind!”

He bolted out the door, his boots slapping against the floor, shouting “GRANDPA HAKODA I’M COMING FOR CAKE!”

A laugh slipped out of Katara before she could stop it. Aang stood slowly, watching the doorway where their son had just disappeared, his expression soft.

Katara stood as well and turned to him, her voice low. “Is he okay?”

Aang nodded. “He will be. You helped.”

“So did you,” she said, stepping closer.

Aang wrapped his arms around her without hesitation, pulling her in as their foreheads touched. “You’re such a good mom,” he murmured.

“You’re a good dad,” she replied, brushing her nose against his.

Aang smiled, then kissed her, slow and full of quiet love—just a breath stolen in the middle of a snow-dusted, sugar-sticky birthday.

“Let’s go eat some cake,” he whispered against her lips.

“Only if there’s frosting left,” she said, smiling.

Hand in hand, they followed the laughter and scent of icing back into the heart of their home.

By the time Aang and Katara stepped back into the main room, the scene was pure, joyful chaos. Bumi was climbing onto the bench at the low table, both hands already reaching for the largest corner slice of cake—complete with the purple frosting flower—while Kya banged her little spoon against her wooden plate, singing something that sounded suspiciously like “birthday cake dance” in between squeals of delight.

Hakoda stood nearby, arms folded and watching with quiet amusement, a mug of hot tea steaming in his hands. “You’d think she just turned sixteen, not three,” he mused.

“She’s got your dramatic flair,” Aang teased, grinning.

Hakoda chuckled, but his eyes softened as he looked at his granddaughter, who was now attempting to feed her stuffed otter-penguin a spoonful of air. “She’s got her mother’s spirit.”

Katara nudged Aang lightly with her shoulder and made her way to the bench. “Alright, birthday girl,” she said with mock seriousness, “I believe you’ve got a wish to make.”

Kya gasped as if this had just occurred to her. She looked between everyone—her grandpa, her big brother, her daddy, and then her mommy—and placed both hands dramatically on the table.

“I have to think very, very hard, ” she declared.

“Take your time,” Aang said with a grin, already lighting the three tiny candles atop the cake.

Kya leaned forward with intense focus, eyes squinting, cheeks puffed. She paused. Then looked at Katara.

“Can I say my wish?”

“You can,” Katara said, eyes gleaming, “but then it might not come true.”

Kya frowned, clearly weighing the odds. Then finally shrugged and said proudly, “I wished for more cake. ”

Hakoda laughed. Bumi cheered. Aang leaned down and whispered, “You’ve already got it.”

Kya grinned from ear to ear and took a huge breath.

“Wait,” Aang said suddenly, holding up a finger. “We forgot something important.”

Everyone turned.

Aang reached into the folds of his coat and pulled out a small, hand-carved comb made of pale bone, polished smooth, with tiny waves etched along the edges. “Your first real water tribe comb,” he said, crouching beside her. “Made by the birthday sky-dad himself.”

Kya gasped like it was the most magical thing she’d ever seen. “It’s soooo pretty!”

He gently tucked it into her hair, just above her ear. “Now you look like a real master.”

“She is a master,” Bumi declared through a mouthful of frosting. “A master of cake.”

Once the candles were lit again, Kya puffed out her cheeks, and with everyone cheering her on—“Big breath, Kya!”—she blew out all three in one go.

“Perfect form,” Aang said proudly, clapping.

“Very controlled breath,” Katara added, winking.

They all dug in after that, passing plates and napkins and little spoons as the room filled with sugar and laughter. Kya licked her frosting-covered fingers like it was a culinary art form. Bumi made sure everyone knew his piece was the biggest, and Hakoda kept refilling tea for the adults with a quiet smile that never quite left his face.

Eventually, the sugar rush settled into something slower, softer. Kya ended up curled on Katara’s lap, thumb in her mouth, head resting against her mother’s chest. Bumi lay sprawled on the floor, drawing shapes into the rug with his finger, humming to himself.

Aang was sitting beside Katara, his arm around her shoulder, his thumb stroking gently over her collarbone. “Today was a good day.”

Katara nodded, looking down at the sleepy girl in her arms. “I still can’t believe it. She really bent water today.”

“And you taught her,” he said softly. “You were amazing with her.”

Katara turned to meet his gaze. “You were amazing with Bumi.”

Aang leaned in, kissing her cheek slowly, then her temple. “We make a good team.”

“The best team.”

“Are you two going to kiss again? ” Bumi groaned from the floor. “Gross. We were just eating cake.”

“You were eating cake,” Katara teased. “Now you’re eating your words.”

“I regret nothing.”

Kya stirred and mumbled, “More kisses…”

Katara blushed. Aang laughed quietly and pressed another kiss to Katara’s head. “That one was for her.”

Hakoda cleared his throat and stood, stretching his back with a low groan. “I’ll go get some extra blankets. Looks like it’s going to be a cold night.”

As he moved toward the hall, Bumi jumped up and chased after him. “Wait! Can I help set up the sleeping stuff? I wanna do the fire pit again!”

Katara watched them go, then looked down at Kya—half-asleep in her arms now, her breathing steady and deep. “She’s out.”

Aang gently gathered their daughter, cradling her with ease. “I’ll tuck her in.”

He moved toward the back room, and Katara rose to follow, only pausing once at the edge of the firelight to take it all in: the cake crumbs, the snowprints on the floor, the sound of her father and son’s laughter from the other room, the snow still falling softly outside.

Her heart swelled.

She was no longer the last waterbender of the South.

She was a mother. A teacher. A wife. A daughter.

And tonight, her whole world was here.

Together.