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One.
The waterbender is seventeen when she moves in with The Avatar.
The news quickly travels through the city. Aang has chosen a home. Not a temple room, not a guest chamber in the palace, not another borrowed space for a few restless nights before duty pulls him elsewhere.
A home.
It sits near the edge of the district where the streets narrow into crooked paths and children race through alleys barefoot despite their mothers’ protests. The building is old enough that the wood sighs when the wind shifts. Its roof dips slightly in the middle and one of the paper windows has been patched so many times the sunlight enters in uneven shades of gold.
Katara falls in love with it instantly.
This home—once inhabited by a family of four all sharing one large chamber, now occupied by a waterbender and an airbender—it was a thing of stories.
The woman who sold it to them laughed softly while handing over the keys.
“My sons grew up here,” she said. “You could never keep them quiet. The walls remember everything.”
Katara believed her.
She sees it immediately: the ghost of children sliding across polished floors in their socks, shrieking with laughter while their exhausted mother folds blankets by lantern-light. She imagines a father crouched near the doorway, hurriedly tying his boots before work while little hands cling desperately to his sleeves. Morning steam from rice porridge. Wet coats hanging to dry. Tiny fingerprints pressed into windowpanes during storms.
The thought settles into her chest so suddenly it steals her breath.
There is only one bedroom, though “bedroom” feels generous when it is little more than a raised platform separated by a faded curtain. Aang had looked apologetic when they first stepped inside.
“We can find somewhere bigger,” he’d said quickly. “I just thought this one had nice energy, but if you want more space—”
“No,” Katara interrupted, her voice devoid from any malice - she just..she couldn’t erase the image anymore. In an instant - she imagines a closet they’ll share, her dresses and furs will overwhelm the tiny space within days. Aang owns almost nothing beyond his robes, a few spare shirts, and the glider he insists on keeping beside the bed no matter how many times she tells him it takes up too much room.
A bed layered with thick Southern Water Tribe blankets she plans to stitch herself when the cold comes. Blue fabrics draped over warm amber wood until the room looks like the meeting place between ocean and sun.
Walls that will listen quietly to their late-night conversations.
Aang talking endlessly about some strange festival he remembers from a hundred years ago. Katara telling him stories about the South Pole until his eyes grow heavy with sleep. Arguments over dishes. Laughter muffled into pillows. Long silences that only people deeply in love know how to share.
For days afterward, she can barely stand still.
While unpacking, she changes the arrangement of the room three separate times. She folds and refolds blankets. Opens windows. Closes them. Sweeps floors that are already clean. Every little task buzzes beneath her skin with nervous energy she cannot contain.
Aang notices everything about her.
“You okay?” he asks one evening, balancing awkwardly on the windowsill while trying to hang a lantern hook.
Katara, kneeling on the floor amid half-unpacked bags, laughs helplessly.
“I think so.”
“You think so?”
“I’ve just never…” She pauses. “I’ve never had something like this before.”
Aang stills. The Avatar climbs down carefully and crosses the room barefoot. He sits beside her, knees bumping against hers in the cramped little space.
Then he smiles.
That soft, devastating smile that always feels like sunlight breaking through clouds.
“We’ll make it ours together.”
And Katara thinks—wildly, suddenly—that she could spend the rest of her life listening to him say things like that.
(The first night Aang returns home late, Katara is curled beneath a blanket near the window, half asleep with a scroll slipping from her lap when she hears the uneven thud outside the door followed by muffled cursing.
The door slides open.
Aang stumbles in with a woven basket strapped crookedly across his back, leaves sticking out at odd angles.
“You’re back,” Katara says, giggling immediately at the sight of him.
“I bring gifts,” he declares breathlessly.
“You look like you fought a forest.”
“I did. The forest lost.”
He kneels dramatically before her and lifts the basket between them. It’s filled with berries—deep blue and red and violet, some crushed from the journey home—and tangled bundles of wildflowers gathered carelessly by hand.
Katara watches him carefully.
“Aang…”
“I saw them near the upper cliffs.” Suddenly he looks shy. “I thought they matched your eyes.”
Her heart does something embarrassing.
Before she can answer, he’s already picking through the flowers with careful fingers.
“Hold still.”
“What are you doing?”
“You’ll see.”
He moves behind her, warm knees pressing against her back as he gently loosens one of her braids. His fingers are clumsy at first, catching occasionally in her hair while he mutters apologies under his breath.
Katara bites back a smile.
The room is quiet except for the rustle of petals and Aang’s soft concentration noises.
Finally, he leans back proudly.
“There.”
Katara reaches up to inspect them - tiny blue blossoms tucked between dark strands of hair.
She turns toward him slowly, and something in Aang’s expression falters at whatever he sees on her face. Wonder, maybe. Or love too large to hide properly.
“You like them?” he asks quietly.
Katara could say yes.
Instead, she reaches forward and kisses him.
Sweet berries stain his mouth.
The tradition begins there).
Two.
Aang hits his growth spurt when he turns sixteen.
At first, it happens slowly enough that he barely notices. A little tightness in the shoulders when he stretches. Sleeves creeping farther up his forearms. Ankles exposed to the cold morning air when he meditates outside.
Then one morning, he pulls on his old air-nomad robes and realizes none of them fit anymore.
The orange pants stop awkwardly below his knees. The red-and-yellow sleeves cling to his arms, the seams strained whenever he moves. Even the collar feels too tight around his neck now, the familiar fabric pressing against skin that suddenly seems broader, leaner, older.
He stands in front of the mirror for a long moment, tugging uselessly at the hem of his shirt.
Aang exhales through his nose and lets his shoulders slump.
“Well,” he mutters to himself, “this was bound to happen eventually.”
His voice sounds deeper, too. That still catches him off guard sometimes.
Being the last airbender means there’s no older monk waiting to hand him properly fitted robes. No communal closets full of spare garments in his size. No elders measuring fabric and smiling knowingly while telling him he’ll grow into his limbs someday.
There’s just him.
He folds the too-small robes carefully anyway. Even now, he can’t bring himself to toss them aside carelessly. The fabric is faded from years of travel, singed in one sleeve from an unfortunate fire-flakes incident with Zuko, patched twice by Katara’s patient hands.
“For now,” Aang sighs, crouching beside the wooden chest at the foot of the bed, “we improvise.”
The room he shares with Katara is cluttered in the comfortable way homes become over time. Folded blankets drape over chairs. Scrolls sit stacked beside healing herbs on the windowsill. A half-finished carving Sokka abandoned months ago still rests near the door because nobody remembers to move it.
The airbender rummages through drawers and baskets until he finally uncovers something usable: a loose white tunic bought from a market weeks ago and a pair of worn brown pants that look vaguely close to his size.
He pulls the tunic over his head. The fabric settles differently than his robes ever did—heavier somehow, less flowing. The pants fit well enough once he tightens the sash around his waist.
When he glances back at the mirror, a stranger almost stares back.
Momo chitters softly from atop the bed.
Aang turns to find the lemur tilting his head, huge eyes fixed on him with obvious confusion.
“Yeah, I know, buddy,” Aang says with a crooked grin. “It looks weird.”
Momo gives a skeptical squeak.
The airbender laughs quietly despite himself and crosses the room, scooping the lemur into his arms. Momo immediately crawls onto his shoulder, warm and familiar.
“It’s temporary,” Aang assures him, scratching beneath one furry ear. “Just until I find a tailor. Maybe the right fabrics too.”
The Air Nomads had specific weaving styles, specific dyes, specific ways of layering cloth for movement and gliding. Monk Gyatso used to explain how the fabric should catch wind currents just enough to move with an airbender instead of against them.
Aang remembers all of it in fragments.
But memories are not the same thing as having someone there.
“I’ll figure it out,” he says more softly, perhaps to himself this time.
Momo presses his little paws against Aang’s cheek and lets out a gentle trill.
“Thanks.” Aang mumbles.
(Outside the closed bedroom door, Katara stands frozen in place.
One hand still rests against the tray she’d carried upstairs moments earlier, forgotten now at her side. The other presses lightly against the wood as she listens.
She hadn’t meant to overhear.
At first she’d only paused when she heard drawers opening and Aang muttering to himself. But then came the silence. The sigh in his voice. The quiet attempt at humor that didn’t quite hide his disappointment.
And Katara knows him well enough to hear every feeling he tries not to say aloud.
Her chest tightens painfully.
By the time Aang chuckles fondly at something Momo does, the waterbender is already turning away from the door, moving quietly down the hall before he notices she’s there.
A small smile touches her lips.
Because if Aang thinks he’s going to figure this out alone, then he still has a lot to learn about being loved).
Three.
“It was Katara’s idea,” Sokka sings, while perusing the many different fabrics at the market. “And I drew out the design, of course, since I’m the artist in the family.” Toph sighs while he keeps shopping and dragging her along. “Oh and Zuko says he knows a great tailor who could put it all together!” Sokka adds on. His earthbender friend simply yawns - she didn’t know how exactly she got roped into this but it was going to be a long day.
“Look Sokka,” Toph begins. “This thing you’re all doing for Aang, it’s nice and all…” she trails off, ignoring all the voices of the different merchants along the way. “But how is bringing me along this shopping trip helpful in any way?” she wonders. “I can’t see, remember?”
He simply shrugs. “I know I know,” Sokka repeats, sounding casual. “But you can feel!” He points out, grabbing a hold of a fiery orange cloth and bringing it to his friend. “Like this fabric, for instance,” he says. “Tell me, would an Air Nomad wear something like this?”
“How should I know?” Toph jerks.
“Oh c’mon,” Sokka urges. “You’re from a rich family.” He reminds her. “You’ll be able to tell if it’s good quality or not!”
She wants to keep protesting this little task but, part of her thinks of Aang. She knew that, despite Sokka’s annoying behaviour, he meant well. They all wanted the airbender to have a present he would actually find useful.
“Fine,” she offers, taking a hold of the fabric. “This one’s alright…smooth and seems comfortable enough,” she nods. “But I think we could do better.”
“Okay, better is what we’re here for,” Sokka says brightly. He snatches the bolt of cloth from Toph’s hands and tosses it back onto the stall. Somewhere nearby, the merchant groans in annoyance.
“You know,” Toph mutters, crossing her arms, “most people just say thank you when I help them.”
“And miss the opportunity to hear your delightful commentary? Never.”
Toph smirks despite herself.
Sokka moves on to the next table with all the focus of a general planning a siege. Toph can hear every little detail through her feet—the shuffle of sandals over packed dirt, the creak of wooden carts, the soft rustle of hanging cloth caught in the breeze. Every few seconds Sokka grabs another fabric and thrusts it toward her.
“What about this one?”
She rubs it between her fingers. “Too stiff.”
“And this?”
“Too heavy.”
“This one?”
“That literally feels like curtain fabric!”
“Well excuse me for trying to give Aang some sophistication.”
“Aang owns one outfit, Sokka.”
“Exactly! Which is why this is important.”
Toph snorts. Somehow, his enthusiasm is impossible to argue with.
They continue down the market street until Sokka suddenly stops so fast Toph nearly walks into him.
“Oh,” he breathes dramatically. “This is it.”
Toph hears the shopkeeper perk up immediately. “Fine silk-cotton blend,” the woman says proudly. “Imported from the Fire Nation colonies.”
Sokka gently places the fabric in Toph’s hands.
The moment her fingers brush it, she pauses.
It’s light. Airy. Cool against her skin. Strong without being rough. The kind of fabric that moves instead of hangs.
“Huh,” she says before she can stop herself.
“Huh good or huh bad?”
“…Huh good.”
Sokka gasps loudly enough that several people turn. “We found it!”
“Keep your pants on.”
“I’m serious, Toph! Can’t you just picture it? Flowing sleeves, airbender arrows stitched along the cuffs—”
“You know I can’t picture anything, right?”
“Metaphorically picture it.”
Toph sighs. “It’s fine. Aang’ll probably like it.”
“Probably?” Sokka clutches at his chest. “Toph, this is the greatest Air Nomad formalwear revival in history.”
“Pretty sure there’s not a lot of competition for that title.”
Before Sokka can respond, another set of footsteps approaches—measured, balanced, familiar.
“There you are,” Zuko says. “I’ve been looking all over for you two.”
“You’re late,” Toph says.
“I’m exactly on time.”
Sokka shoves the fabric into Zuko’s hands. “Tell me this isn’t perfect.”
There’s a short silence.
“…Actually,” Zuko admits, “that’s really good.”
Sokka beams like he’s just won a war.
Toph groans. “Great. Now there are two of you.”
Four.
(His birthday isn’t something he likes to bring attention to. Aang remembers his childhood — the monks celebrated things a bit differently than the rest of the world. There were no loud parties or elaborate decorations strung through the halls of the Southern Air Temple, no mountains of wrapped presents waiting to be opened beneath flickering lantern light. The Air Nomads believed attachment could weigh heavily on the spirit, so celebrations were simple, quiet things woven gently into the rhythm of daily life rather than grand occasions meant to stand apart from it.
When he was younger, birthdays usually began before sunrise. Monk Gyatso would wake him with a warm smile and a teasing remark about how much taller he’d gotten overnight, even if Aang insisted he hadn’t grown at all. The morning air would still be cold, carrying the scent of incense and mountain wind through the temple corridors as the monks gathered for meditation. Afterward, there might be an extra sweet bun saved for breakfast, or a new toy carved from wood by one of the older monks — something thoughtful rather than extravagant. The children would race around the courtyards afterward, their laughter bouncing between the stone walls while the sky stretched endlessly blue above them.
That was enough back then. More than enough.
Now, though, birthdays feel strange in a way Aang can never quite explain to anyone else. Every passing year reminds him how much time was stolen from him while he slept beneath the iceberg. Technically, he’s over a hundred years old, yet part of him still feels like the same twelve-year-old boy who ran away because the weight of being the Avatar became too frightening to carry. Some birthdays make him feel older than the mountains themselves; others leave him feeling painfully young compared to the responsibility resting on his shoulders.
And there are always memories attached to the day, lingering quietly at the edges of his mind.
He remembers Gyatso’s laugh most clearly. Warm, deep, impossible to forget. Sometimes Aang catches himself expecting to hear it again whenever the wind moves through a room just right. He remembers the temple halls glowing gold at sunset, the sound of spinning prayer wheels, the comfort of knowing exactly where he belonged. Those memories are precious, but they ache too. Every birthday is another reminder that the people who once celebrated beside him are gone, reduced to fragments of memory and feelings he clings to tightly because he’s terrified of losing those too.
So he rarely mentions the day when it comes around.
If his friends remember, he smiles softly and lets them celebrate in their own ways because he knows it matters to them. Katara will insist on doing something special no matter how much he protests, Sokka will joke that surviving another year deserves a feast, and Toph will pretend not to care while secretly participating anyway. Even Zuko will offer some of his uncles’ rarest of teas as a gift for the young airbender. Their warmth means more to him than he can put into words. Still, there’s always a small part of him that grows quiet during moments like that, reflective and distant beneath the smiles.
Because to Aang, birthdays were never about attention.
They were about gratitude. About taking a single day to breathe deeply and appreciate the life moving around you — the people beside you, the wind against your skin, the simple privilege of still being here at all).
Five.
Zuko isn’t the biggest fan of parties
But this was for Aang.
And so the palace came together -
Lanterns hung from every balcony in long streams of gold and red, swaying gently in the warm evening breeze. Servants hurried through the halls with trays balanced carefully in their hands while musicians tuned instruments in the courtyard below. Somewhere in the kitchens, something exploded loudly enough to shake the windows.
“Is that normal?” Sokka asked, pausing mid-step.
“No,” Zuko said flatly. “That means my uncle is helping.”
As if summoned by the accusation, Iroh emerged from the corridor carrying three steaming kettles of tea and looking entirely too pleased with himself.
“The fire only spread a little,” he assured them.
“A little?” Zuko repeated.
“The important thing,” Iroh continued smoothly, “is that tonight is a celebration.” He smiled. “And celebrations should never be tidy.”
The whole idea had started a few weeks ago when Katara mentioned the idea of a birthday party for Aang. Though, the Air Nomads had celebrated differently — quiet ceremonies, simple meals, games with the other children at the temples.
Nothing like this.
Nothing like banners stretching across the royal courtyard or tables overflowing with food or an entire city preparing fireworks that would burst over by midnight.
Naturally, once the idea existed, everyone had become impossible about it.
“He’s The Avatar,” Mai says as she follows Zuko’s lead while he decorates the hallways. “Naturally, people want to celebrate his existence,” she tells him, noticing the uncertainty on his face.
“I know,” he acknowledges. “But Aang is not super into his birthday, to be honest, he’s more of a quiet dinner with his friends kind-of guy,” he explains, grabbing a golden streamer and hanging it up anyways. “Not the big party type, you know?”
“Well,” Mai shrugs, pinning the colourful papers in place. “I guess things did get a little out of hand,” she admits, looking around the highly decorated palace. “I’m sure he’ll still like it - that guy is literally like almost always happy.” She couldn’t relate to The Avatar’s sentiments, though it didn’t mean she wouldn’t go along with this - especially since this was a friend of Zuko’s.
“Yeah,” he quietly breathes out. “I guess so,” he releases.
(It’s only moments later that he spots another one of his friends at the end of the hall, making an odd gesture with her fingers.
“Okay, we have to hide now, Toph just gave the signal that Katara is bringing Aang inside.” Zuko shares as he and Mai tip-toe back to the main party room.
The airbender and the waterbender make their way down the hall.
It’s not as much of a surprise as they’d like it to be, as things had gotten completely extravagant due to the public joining in on the festivities. However, Katara knew that one big aspect of today’s celebrations had still been kept under wraps.
Aang’s present.
She couldn’t stop smiling - he had no idea what he was in for.
“Surprise!” The whole room shouts as he enters.
He wants to cry, not because he really secretly wanted such a large party, no, it’s not that all. It’s just…it was them - Sokka with his goofy grin and Toph with her stoic look, Zuko and his red party hat and Katara, holding his hand and leading him towards the centre.
“We got you a few things,” she announces, handing him a few different boxes.
“These are all for me?” Aang asked as they all nodded in unison.
“They’re from all of us,” Sokka says. “But the original plan was all Katara’s!”
She blushes as Aang looks her way. He excitedly tears through the wrapping paper, pulling out an entire collection of traditional Air Nomad outfits…in a size that would actually fit him this time.
“You guys,” The Avatar’s voice trembles with tenderness. “How did you do all this?” He asks, teary-eyed with emotion.
“We did some research,” Katara shares. “Looked at some old scrolls, keenly observed the statues of the monks…and some of it was also our imagination.” She pauses, watching him still as he wipes his eyes clean and continues to shuffle through his new collection of outfits. “We hope you like it, Aang.”
He turns towards her and quickly throws his arms around her in order to hold her close. The airbender shifts his gaze towards all of his friends.
“I love it,” he cheers).