Work Text:
Iroh liked to see people smile. He liked to see happiness on the faces of people around him.
He loved it all the more after spending so long surrounded by people whose expressions only spoke of tension, fear, and anger, never of contentment, peace, or joy. Where sneers replaced smiles and hatred replaced love.
A smile was precious. A smile was a treasure. A smile was like a ray of sunlight—warming, quickening, brightening. A golden, gleeful gift of power and heat and life. A light to keep the dark at bay and fire to banish cold.
A smile was a spark, an ember, a gift.
Iroh gave freely to those around him. A little here, a little there. A bewildered young man who had no idea what kind of spices he was supposed to buy for his grandmother (he had forgotten the list) but he did know what dish she was making, would that help? Uncle Iroh listened attentively with a fatherly smile, deduced the kind of spices the good lady would need, and helped the relieved youth to complete his purchases.
A young mother, tired and hot, who was trying to haggle with the butcher, and had a little girl in tow who was near to a having a meltdown. Uncle Iroh stepped in and entertained the child, telling funny stories until the girl was laughing and the mother’s business was done and she no longer looked quite so stressed.
A group of street musicians, ragged but talented. Iroh tossed what coins he could spare into their caps and then clapped enthusiastically, grinning and cheering. Attracting people, more attentions, more coins.
On and on it went. Person after person after person—smile after smile after smile. Men, women, children. Grateful smiles, childish grins, fond beams, good-natured smirks. Tiny sparks of compassion that smoldered long after they were lit.
Iroh smiled and he smiled and he smiled.
Iroh smiled most of all at his nephew.
His nephew didn’t understand why Uncle Iroh smiled so much. He didn’t understand why Uncle Iroh smiled at him.
His nephew knew smiles to be cold and dangerous things—the sharp grimace of teeth, the poisonous tilt of a mouth. They were not steady and warm like the sun. They were changeable, searing and icy by turns, like the flickering flames of a dying torch whipped by the winds of malice, greed, hate and fear. Smiles that were empty and dead like the white ashes of a forgotten fire.
(Of course, once, his nephew had known smiles that were soft as the feathers of a turtleduck, tender and gentle and lovely. A smile that had shone, wavering, for one last time before tears had quenched its light. Darkness coming too soon, to early.)
His nephew did not place much stock in smiles. To his nephew, smiles were either false, or cruel, or fleeting. Pain was the only thing of permanence, and it had branded its mark on his nephew’s face, etched it in deeply graven lines of exhaustion and conflict and hurt that tore at Iroh’s heart to see.
(He remembered when that face was not so angry, not so old beyond its years. Remembered when it was full of a childish innocence and a love that blazed so fiercely it had reignited Iroh’s, when he had thought it could never burn again. Remembered a boy whose eyes crinkled when he smiled, as if his smiles shone so brightly that he had to squint against their brilliance.)
His nephew did not understand that smiles did not have to be promises of pain.
So Iroh gave and gave and gave, trying to help his nephew understand, trying to strengthen his nephew’s fire with his own light. Because his nephew’s flame was strong, so, so, strong, but it was only one light in a darkness as vast as the night.
So Iroh kept smiling, hoping, that one day his nephew might find the courage to smile back.
Hoping that one day Zuko would find the courage to blind the world with the brilliance of his love.