Chapter Text
The sheet of paper is folded and diffident, the edges of it crinkled and slightly water-stained from the light misting of rain blowing into the covered porch. It juts out from the corner of his Don’t Mind the Explosions doormat– courtesy of Aang, and he’d rolled his eyes but set it out immediately– both conspicuous and unsuspecting all at once.
“...and besides, you know Dad is already a nervous wreck, he can’t come to any of the dress fittings and now he wants to make sure he knows where everyone’s sitting–” Katara is saying, as Sokka hums agreeably and bends to tug the paper free. He shoulders his door open, kicks off his shoes, and adjusts the phone to sit better between his shoulder and ear as he unfolds the note he’s been left.
“Don’t let him near the seating chart,” Sokka warns absently, his eyes skipping over the lines of messy scrawl, “I worked hard on that.”
“We worked hard on that,” Katara sniffs, her voice tinny and then impossibly loud as Sokka drops the phone onto his counter and switches it to speaker phone. It fills the room, staticky, but almost like she’s here with him. “It isn’t like you’re planning the whole thing without me.”
“No, but we’re planning nearly the whole thing without your fiance,” Sokka points out, flattening the paper down on the countertop. He can’t focus on the words.
Katara sighs, fond and exasperated. “He’s trying,” she says, which makes Sokka huff out a laugh.
“I know,” he replies in the same tone. Aang is. It’s not that his opinion hasn’t been asked and accounted for, but god, it can be difficult to rally him to parse the things that are actually helpful instead of just the first idea to take hold. Somehow, Sokka thinks, though it was extremely sweet, the ice sculpture of their small Alaskan hometown is perhaps…a bit much. “Listen, I’ll see you this weekend. Don’t let Dad touch anything before I get there,” he adds, though judging from Katara’s tch, he doesn’t need to worry.
After he’s hung up, he glances back down, lips moving quietly as he reads.
Hello. My name is Z and I used to live in your apartment.
I received a shipping update on a subscription I pre-ordered last year and it’s been sent to your address instead of my new one.
If possible, could you call or text me once you receive it?
I can stop by and pick it up.
There’s a phone number and a quick little Z at the bottom of the page, stylized but stuttered halfway through the last line, like they’re used to writing an entire name like that. Except they didn’t.
Sokka blows out a quick, hard breath and hovers over the New Message button. It’s nothing to dwell on, and he doesn’t know why he is – so he taps out a quick message.
hey there! this is sokka in 3C. got ur note. i’ll keep an eye out.
He waffles for a moment before adding a smiley emoji and sends it off. Then drops his phone back down, fingers only stumbling for a moment before he shakes his hands out and dives into making dinner.
–
Cool. Thanks., is all the reply says, hours later, after Sokka has showered and dozed off on the couch to the tune of an old episode of Modern Marvels.
–
The original note had been written with an air of stiffness, almost proper to the point of pedantry, so Sokka isn’t entirely surprised that the author would be dry in response. Not that Sokka had given them much to go off of – the idea of someone knowing where he lives, a completely faceless stranger, is only off put by the realization that Sokka will eventually know Z’s full name once the package reaches the destination…of his front porch.
But it’s nonetheless daunting to fit the reminder into his mind, trying to avoid letting it run him into the ground. He’s worn the wrinkles of the note down where he’s studied it for too long, his imagination working to take apart each letter, to decide eventually that the handwriting is mostly masculine and that perhaps that’s all Sokka can really work with.
It shouldn’t be a big deal except Sokka has only lived here for a few months, moved the hour closer to help his little sister plan her wedding. It’d be a shame to have to move again so soon because some absolute weirdo knows his address and has the ability to show up whenever they feel like it.
He knows he’s getting ahead of himself. But he buys a doorbell camera either way.
–
There’s a medium-sized, square, cardboard box on Sokka’s doorstep when he arrives home from work that Friday.
He’d known it would be there – the doorbell camera is motion-activated, and he’d been watching it in fascination, suddenly distracted by all the comings and goings of his neighbors – so he crouches to examine it. It’s probably a bit nosy even for him, but he can’t quite help himself, not when there’s a person out there that knows his name and the layout of his home. Equivalent, he thinks, as he squints as the label on the box.
Zuko Ran.
His own address stares back up at him underneath the name. Sokka hefts the box up to bring inside. It’d be just as easy to leave it out here, to text the number he’d been left with and let Zuko Ran pick it up off of his porch.
But, well. Maybe he doesn’t so much enjoy that idea. His fingers tap a rhythm against the cardboard. It’s fairly lightweight, and the return address is from a company called Raritea. The box plunks down onto the counter next to the note, and Sokka’s already on the website, a crease in his brow as he scrolls the subscription tea box service.
When he glances at the piece of paper sitting next to the box, Sokka can almost see the shape of the rest of the name after the Z.
Without taking the time to consider it, he snaps a photo of the box label. Then he texts it to Zuko Ran with a message that says: special delivery! let me know when u plan on coming by.
–
Ok. Thanks. I can get it after my shift tomorrow. 1PM.
The problem, Sokka thinks, with stilted texts, is that it leaves him too much room to wonder. It’s just like taking apart his computer to see how it works. Except it’s a person, and Sokka unfortunately likes the idea of that much more.
–
It’s maybe a touch inconvenient to keep his morning visit to Katara and Aang’s short.
There’s still so much to do – the wedding is so close now, and they’d wanted to keep it small, but that doesn’t mean time isn’t slipping through Sokka’s thin grasp like grains of sand. The last of the invitations have gone out, so RSVPs have started to flow back in, and Sokka’s been checking off names and securing their locations in the seating chart he’d been so proud of.
“Are you sure you can’t stay? Dad and Bato are going to bring lunch,” Katara says, a plaintive note in her tone as she bends to look over his shoulder.
“Just– seriously, don’t let Dad make any changes,” Sokka tells her, accepting the third cup of coffee she’s conveniently placing just off of his elbow.
She hums in acknowledgement and Aang’s head kicks up from where he’s sitting cross-legged on the floor between the couch and the coffee table. “His input’s important though, isn’t it?” He asks, and Sokka can feel Katara’s patient puff of an exhale behind him.
“Aang,” she chides, “it’s not more important than ours.” Sokka knows she’s had to remind him several times not to fold under Hakoda’s suggestions.
Aang takes that in for a moment, head tilted and mouth frowning, before he accepts it with a nod. When he looks down at his copy of the seating chart, his expression goes thoughtful. “Sokka, there’s a space open next to you,” he points out, as if Sokka didn’t know.
“Well,” Sokka begins, even as he feels Katara fumble and freeze more than sees it, “Suki was going to sit there. But she got moved.”
“Oh,” Aang says, quietly, like he regrets even mentioning it and it doesn’t feel good necessarily to try to evade this topic of conversation, but he knows he’s going to have to actually navigate through it eventually.
For now, Sokka waves it away like the thought could be simply flicked off of his fingertips. “Now, it’s for my plus one,” he offers with a grin that he knows is straining at the edges.
“Right,” Katara says immediately, grasping onto the topic, “and that person is…?”
Sokka taps his pen on the table, sipping slow at his coffee like that will give him more time to consider. Then he says, mysteriously, “you’ll know them when you meet them.”
“So you don’t have one yet,” Aang fills in, eyes wide and innocent, the traitor.
Sokka jabs his finger at him, eyebrows furrowing into a mock glare. “I will have one!”
Katara jerks his pen from his hand before he can object, and levels a flat look at his yelp of outrage. “Sokka, we have to pay for that, which I know that you know, because you’ve gone through the costs.”
He has. He’s done all of the math, unfortunately. And Sokka is very aware of every penny being spent on this wedding. And the way that he will have to gift Katara and Aang a little extra if he ends up attending solo. Like, the cost of another person, kind of extra.
And they hadn’t really needed to move Suki– they’ve been broken up for months, and they’re still friends, the sharp, stabbing feeling surrounding the mere thought of her reduced finally to a dull ache– but Sokka had pleaded with Katara for the option of a date since Suki would be bringing her new girlfriend. A thought that Sokka has not quite been able to fully develop just yet.
“I’m sure you can find someone,” Aang says, with an air of confidence in Sokka’s charm and charisma that feels a bit undeserved.
“Thank you, Aang,” Sokka sniffs, nose in the air, even as Katara’s expression goes somehow flatter.
“Well,” she relents, eventually, “you’ve got less than two months to find that someone. And just bring someone from work if you’re having trouble figuring it out.”
Sokka makes a face. “It’s not like I know a ton of people there yet. But I think you will all love Mildred from finance, and the way she’ll break a hip on the dance floor.”
Katara’s laugh is bright, startled out of her. She flicks the back of his earring and he ducks away from her, sticking his tongue out. “Gran Gran might,” she allows, “so don’t write Mildred off just yet.”
“I’m not bringing a date for Gran Gran,” Sokka says, but he can’t stop the smile twitching across his face. His gaze drops again to the seating chart, to the spaces filled out with the names of guests and their dates, and then hefts a sigh as he tilts the screen of his phone from its resting place at the corner of the paper. “Shit,” he mutters, “I’ve got to head out. I’ll be back tomorrow, I can spend more time looking at the menu with you guys.”
Katara eyes him suspiciously, but he’s already told her more than enough times that he needs to be home, even if he hasn’t exactly clarified a reason. Instead of prying again, she says, “Fine. Tomorrow. And don’t forget about the dress fitting on Wednesday, either.”
“You’ll remind me again tomorrow,” Sokka says, dryly, “and Monday. And Tuesday. And Wednesday morning–”
“Get out of my apartment,” Katara snaps, arms crossed, so Sokka does.
–
He’s a stranger, Sokka reminds himself, his fingers itching for something to fidget with as he sits cross-legged in the chair at his own kitchen table. He’s putting far too much stock into his own anxious, spiraling thoughts. He’s going to give the guy his package (ha– wait no, those are not thoughts he’s trying to have) and then he’ll be on his way and they’ll never see each other again, granted that the dude isn’t a weirdo. Sokka thinks he’s in no position to decide that without having met him, but anyone that …curt… doesn’t strike him as the type of person to want to spend more than a few minutes going out of his way for wayward mail.
He’s been staring blankly down at his phone for far too many minutes when the motion alert on his camera jolts him back to life. Sokka takes a bracing breath and opens the screen.
The guy is standing too far off to the side for the camera to actually catch more than the arch of a shoulder. Damn it.
Sokka’s next exhale puffs out of him in frustration. It doesn’t matter. Give him the package and let him go.
He rises from the table to do just that as the knock sounds at the door. Resting the box against his hip, Sokka flicks the deadbolt, easing the door back on the rusting hinges that he’s been meaning to oil.
Something curls strange and loud and hot in his chest, his heart giving a sideways thump. The stranger glances up from beneath dark hair framing his face, grazing across a sharp cheekbone, the remaining length of it gathered into a bun on top of his head. His eyes are a liquid gold that Sokka has never seen before in his life, unnatural in the gaze that skitters away nearly the moment that Sokka has it. There’s…a birth mark? No, Sokka realizes– it’s a scar, softened by the fall of his hair, covering the left side of his face. Stretched across his eye, his cheek, the edges of it vanishing into his hairline.
The guy clears his throat, lips pursed, and a flush rises up Sokka’s neck. God, he’s been staring, which would be one thing entirely on its own, but staring at his scar, like a completely ill-mannered child about to ask their parent what’s wrong with his face and Sokka feels– not good. Especially when he’s cute, all broad chest and biceps and a frowning tilt to his mouth because Sokka still is staring but no longer at the scar, at the fill of his black t-shirt instead–
“Uh,” the guy says, “I’m– you’re…Sokka?”
“Yep,” Sokka says, just a touch too high, popping the plosive and twitching back to action. He juggles the box against his side to extend his hand and the probably not a weirdo takes it, and Sokka absolutely does not do any more staring at the veins running the back of the hand against his. “Sorry, yeah, Zuko, right?”
Zuko cringes, but the expression is there and gone so fast that Sokka wouldn’t have noticed if he hadn’t been looking. Still. Maybe Zuko is just as comfortable with Sokka knowing his full name as Sokka is with Zuko knowing his address. “Yeah,” he says, after a moment, seeming to rally himself. But then he doesn’t say anything else, eyes dropping to the package tucked under Sokka’s arm.
Right. Yeah. The whole reason Sokka has a hot stranger standing at his doorstep. “So,” Sokka begins, despite every rational thought in his brain trying to convince him to please don’t say anything stupid as he hands the box over and does everything in his power to not let their fingers brush after all the ways he’s already been weird. “You, uh, like tea?”
Zuko pulls a quick face, his nose scrunching, taking the box. “No,” he says, short, and Sokka feels odd and wrong-footed. He doesn’t think he’s ever been this bad at– whatever he’s trying to do, before. But Zuko’s eyes jump to Sokka’s face again, sharp and guarded, and he seems to breathe out some tension at whatever he sees there. “My Uncle does. He’s got a tea shop nearby. He wants to do a little…experimenting?” That gaze drops lower, to Sokka’s feet, and Sokka follows it to the stupid doormat that had held Zuko’s note earlier in the week. He considers that there’s something there, some sort of hint, until Zuko continues, “You do some of that too?”
“I,” Sokka hesitates, unable to decide if he can afford to keep looking at Zuko or down at the mat. “It’s been a while since an experiment has ended in an explosion,” he finally says, twisting his tone into a rueful joke, “I’m trying to keep this place in one piece.”
The corner of Zuko’s mouth curls, just barely, but enough to thrill Sokka in a way he couldn’t have expected. “Of course,” he replies in something very close to an amused murmur, “you’ve got to get that security deposit back.”
Oh, Sokka thinks, his breath stuck someplace in the vicinity of his throat, piling up with any words he might want to attempt to use, Oh, I’m doomed.
Zuko nods, then, and steps back from the space of Sokka’s porch. “Thanks for this,” he says, just as even and awkward as any of his texts. He pauses for a moment, head cocked, and then adds, “There…might be a few more things. Sorry. I– if you don’t mind, just– still working on updating my address.”
“No, no worries, that’s great,” Sokka says, like an idiot, and then winces. “I mean– no, it’s fine. I’ll let you know, or y’know, you can just let me know what to expect, or– I’m going to go back inside.”
Zuko blinks, opening his mouth, and then closes it again with a swift nod. He turns away and heads down the steps toward the parking lot and Sokka absolutely does not watch him go because he’s already done enough damage, closing the door and leaning back against it with his face in his hands.
–
Sokka does not think about it.
Not for the rest of the afternoon, not that evening, certainly not in the shower or in bed when he’s at his most vulnerable. And all of his not thinking about it is running right up against his precious weekend schedule, when his alarm rocks him straight to his feet first thing Sunday morning.
“You,” Katara says, her gaze sweeping the circles under Sokka’s eyes, “look like shit.”
“Okay, thank you very much,” Sokka grunts, pushing past her into the apartment. “Good morning, I’m so happy to see you and spend my last weekend morning with you, and help you with your wedding–”
“Alright,” Katara interrupts, “I get it, you’re fucking grumpy.” She shoots him a glare and thunks his coffee mug onto the counter, and Sokka thinks her sheer willpower alone keeps the liquid from sloshing over the rim.
He quells over her responding prickliness and accepts the coffee, gently bumping his hip against her own in apology. “Where’s Aang?”
She sighs, a furrow between her brows. “Had to work. Happy Sunday,” she adds in a low grumble.
Sokka makes a noise of sympathy. They always plan around Katara’s schedule, but pinning Aang down with it has been a challenge all on its own. Any extra work to contribute to the costs of the wedding is nothing for them to turn their noses up at.
“So,” Katara says, drawing his attention as they sit side by side at the counter, “why are you so cranky this morning?”
“You mean why do I look like shit,” Sokka peers at her, pulling the folder labeled Menus between them.
“I feel like we said the same thing,” she snorts.
He can’t really argue that. “Not a lot of sleep,” he admits. He’s already feeling out of sorts about it, too, but Katara isn’t one to shy away from needling him. She’s his little sister through and through.
“Well? What happened? You were fine yesterday, other than leaving so early, even though Aang could be here,” she cuts him a pointed look and he can’t help bristling at the statement.
“Nothing happened, I just–”
“Didn’t text me when you got home, or call me later like you said you would, and acted all– suspicious in the time you were here–”
Sokka throws his hands up, several pages of food options fluttering from the rush of wind. “Can’t a guy get any time to himself?”
Her nose wrinkles. “I don’t want to know anything about the time you ‘get to yourself’–”
Gathering the papers back into a manageable pile, he hits her with a glower. “You were the one asking!”
“But you’re the one being weird about it!” Katara snaps, but there’s no heat behind it as she scrabbles for the contents of the folder.
He huffs, eventually helping her settle the papers, and there’s a certain amount of blessed teamwork that falls between them as they quietly debate over catering – a variety of vegan options for Aang, and a hefty amount of meat for Katara’s entire gathering of guests – before he makes the decision. “I was a little weird about it,” he allows, “but it’s nothing to be weird about. So.”
Katara arches an eyebrow at him, watching as he highlights several appetizers. But she waits patiently this time.
“The guy that used to live in my apartment,” Sokka says, fiddling with the highlighter, a streak of neon smearing across his fingertips. “Some of his stuff got sent to my place, so he came to pick it up yesterday. That’s all.”
She’s staring at him. “And…that’s what had you wound up all night so that you couldn’t sleep? What, is he hot?”
Sokka doesn’t reply, but the heat in his face is answer enough.
“Oh,” she groans, dropping her face to the counter. “Gross, Sokka–”
“Well, I wasn’t wound up like that! You’re taking it out of context!”
Her shoulders shake with silent laughter; he shoves at her, her hair tickling the back of his hand.
“Are you done?” He asks, haughtily. Without waiting for either a response or for Katara to lift her face, he goes on. “I just– I made an idiot out of myself in front of some cute guy and the only comfort is that I’ll probably never see him again.”
She twists her head to the side to peek at him, a smile hidden in the edges of her mouth. “For the sake of my humor,” she says, “I hope you do.”
–
Katara’s going to have a field day, Sokka thinks, ruefully.
Incoming, the text from Zuko says, Another package scheduled for Wednesday. Was delayed in transit.
great, Sokka replies, too fast, and still a bit like an idiot, because who says that, and then, i’ll keep u updated! He adds and deletes the emoji too many times before sending it – not that it matters, he decides, because Zuko never responds.
–
“Am I just a joke to you?” Toph asks, exasperated but light, from her seat. Her head is hanging over the back of her chair, legs kicked out in front of her, and she can’t see Katara leaning from behind a curtain to give her a withering look but they all know she is aware of it. “Bringing the blind girl to a dress fitting, what help am I supposed to be?”
“Support,” Sokka and Katara reply in unison, and Sokka can almost hear the quick flash of Toph’s grin despite her face being upside-down and facing the opposite direction.
“How have I been doing so far?”
“...you’ve been worse,” Katara concedes, muffled, as she disappears behind the barrier and the dress consultant does…something, Sokka supposes, to adjust the fit of her gown.
“I think you’re happy to be here,” Sokka says, stifling a laugh when Toph’s head snaps up in his direction, her features settling into a feigned scowl. He nudges her leg with his toe and dodges out of the way of her swatting hand.
“Okay, children,” Katara snickers, “can we behave out there? We’re in public.”
Toph heaves a long-suffering sigh, and the next flick of her hand catches Sokka squarely in the shoulder. Sokka opens his mouth, but his complaint lodges in his throat as the curtain pulls wide and his baby sister steps in front of the set of mirrors in her wedding dress and it’s not like it’s the first time he’s seen it, anyway, but it’s sitting properly on her now, the lace along her arms and the fit of the corset–
“Is he crying?” Toph asks, sounding just a little more delighted than Sokka would really appreciate, even as the backs of his eyes prickle unmistakably.
Katara meets his eyes in the mirror as the consultant throws the train of her dress wide behind her. “Hm,” she says, incredibly fond and politely not laughing, “best to hand him some tissues, just in case.”
The box whacks Sokka in the chest before he registers Toph tossing it to him, and if he has to blow his nose and dab at his eyes then the kind thing to do would be to not tease him.
“How are you even going to get through the ceremony?” Katara asks, but her voice is rich with affection, so Sokka lets it go.
“I think that is the most understandable time for me to be crying,” he says, not wetly. God, even the consultant is hiding a smile as she’s taking Katara’s measurements. “If you think there’s going to be a dry eye in the house–”
Toph clears her throat–
“–no, that includes you, it isn’t like you can’t hear their vows–”
She cackles but seems to cede the general point with a half-shrug.
“–and you were right, Dad absolutely could not be here for this.”
“I wouldn’t be able to handle both of you crying,” Katara murmurs, the corner of her mouth twitching up.
Sokka inhales nice and deep, taking the moment of silence that falls amongst them to ground himself, to breathe through the flutter of emotions in his chest. He watches and listens as the consultant and Katara discuss the dress and the way it sits around her waist, the flow of her skirts, the adjustments that may need to be made before the final fitting in another month or so, when they’ll put all of the pieces together completely and isn’t that just surreal to think about? It isn’t that Sokka hasn’t been considering the actual reality of it all; he’s been in the throes of enough planning by this point. But somehow, staring down the actual schedule of events, the way Katara is putting a date in her calendar for the next and last fitting – it’s strange enough, and it’ll keep getting stranger, Sokka thinks.
The vibration of his phone against his leg drags him from the depths of his attempts to spiral, and he wiggles it out of the pocket of his shorts to eye the camera notification.
Ah.
Katara catches sight of the dusting of scarlet over his cheeks in the mirror, innocently asking, “Did you get some mail?”
Huffing, Sokka mutters, “Not me, but yes. A package.” He’s already texting Zuko anyway.
Katara is ushered back behind the curtain to change, but she’s leaving him with Toph, which might be worse.
“And if the package isn’t for you,” Toph says, “then it’s for…?”
Sokka doesn’t reply. He’s staring down at the Pick up tonight? text reflecting back at him.
A sneakered foot hits him in the shin, just hard enough to bite, but not enough to bruise. He flinches and grunts anyway. “Oh,” Toph crosses her arms, slouching into the chair, “so you haven’t lost the ability to speak.”
“Not me,” Sokka repeats, because telling his sister is one thing, and telling Toph is something completely different and is a much more ominous threat to his sanity. “A previous tenant,” he hedges, and is saved by the chatter of several employees and then Katara’s back in her casual outfit and Sokka is replying sure – give me an hour.
–
Sokka practiced this time.
After he’d gotten home, after he’d recovered the novel-sized box and investigated the label from Playbills & Props, and obviously the website as well, for any hint of the box’s contents. After an impressively quick shower and maybe too much time on his hair and picking out a loose tank top that does lovely things for his collarbones and for his biceps and, by extension, the swooping curls of his aurora tattoo.
He hadn’t had as much time to practice, but he’s not willing to be caught off guard by wide shoulders and a pair of pretty eyes again. So. There’s a script in his head, now, at least.
Unfortunately, when Sokka opens the door just after six with the sunlight fading through the trees, the whole production of it all burns to ash on his tongue. If Sokka had gone the route of deliberately casual, Zuko’s genuinely effortlessly casual gym attire is ripping Sokka’s script into tatters. There’s a touch of sweat in the hollow of his throat, his shorts are showing more muscled thigh than Sokka can really stand to look directly at, and his tank top is anything but loose. Sokka can see the strong planes of his stomach through it. His dark hair is pulled up again, and Sokka is grateful for at least a little bit of familiarity while the rest of the look is throwing his heart into palpitations.
“Hi,” Zuko says, when Sokka doesn’t speak.
Sokka briefly wonders if he’s going to get his shit together or just pass out. “Hey,” he says, immediately clearing his throat as his voice comes out just the wrong side of too hoarse. He knows he’s more charming than this, typically, for god’s sake, he pulled Suki. He tries again, shoulders squared and an almost-easy smile spilling across his face, tone going joking. “Come here often?”
It’s not a part of the plan, and Sokka is going to have nightmares about this later. He’s going to lay in bed and remember this moment all night and possibly for all of eternity.
Zuko’s eyebrow ticks up slowly, a bewildered look crossing his face. “Uh,” he says, and Sokka hopes Zuko’s voice is on the verge of a laugh, but his pulse is beating so hard in his ears that he doesn’t trust himself to tell. “I…used to. Every day, actually.”
Sokka holds the package out to him, because clearly, he is willing to be caught off guard by wide shoulders and a pair of pretty eyes again after all. He’s already abandoned the script anyway, so what the hell. “This one for your uncle too?” He asks, more level despite the throb in his chest.
Zuko hesitates like he might be giving too much away if he answers. But after a moment of wavering, he seems to decide that Sokka, through all of his incompetency at flirting, is just genuinely curious. “No,” he admits, ruefully, “this one’s all me.” The quick slash of his gaze feels like a dare for Sokka to tease him.
After all of Sokka’s fumbling, the last thing he could possibly have the room for is teasing someone else. “Is it, uh, anything I’d know?”
Zuko’s eyes dart back up to him. “I doubt it,” he says, soft, almost an apology. “Love Amongst the Dragons?”
Sokka frowns, turning the title over in his head several times, but he’s only working at half brain capacity so it’s no surprise that nothing comes up.
Zuko doesn’t look too surprised either. He offers a little shrug, and Sokka almost misses the way his fingers go briefly tighter around the package before unclenching again. “Well,” he says, waving the box, “Thank you. Again. I’ll see you around.”
“Yeah,” Sokka replies, hurriedly, knuckles white around his door frame as Zuko’s barely-there smile flashes at him before he moves to turn away.
“Oh,” Zuko pauses, abruptly, glancing at Sokka’s arm. “I– I like your tattoo.”
Sokka frantically cards through responses in his scattered brain, glancing down at the long, swirling shades of blue flowing around his arm and up his shoulder. He suddenly wants to know, desperately, if Zuko has any as well. Instead, flustered more than he’s happy to admit, Sokka squeaks out, “Oh! Thank you–” and Zuko nods before breaking for the steps.
If this is the last time, Sokka thinks, it seems to have gone marginally better than before. And he’ll just have to carry that with him.
But something tells him that this is not, in fact, going to be the last time.
–
Ugh, the text says, frustration clear in just that word alone, Last one. Promise. Saturday morning. I can pick up in the afternoon.
Sokka is laughing because the universe has it out for him. it’s okay to admit u just want to see me again, he types, aiming for levity, and maybe because he’s had a few too many glasses of wine while watching Love Island. It’s too bold, he decides, then sends it anyway, adding, got my eyes peeled.
The lack of response isn’t incredibly shocking.
–
Sokka does wish he could unsend it, though. If it had felt like a risk even in the moment, then right now, with days of distance and no alcohol, it’s downright embarrassing. He’s torn between texting an apology and just letting the comment fall by the wayside.
But it’s Saturday morning, so he’ll have to deal with this today either way.
“How’d you find this place, anyway?” Katara is asking Toph, holding the door open to the Jasmine Dragon, the little tea shop she’s taken them to per Toph’s directions, ushering them all through.
“The owner lives in my building,” she replies, a noncommittal shrug shifting through her shoulders. “Seems like a nice old guy just trying to drum up some business. I’ve been by a few times. The server is kind of mean, which you know I like about him. And you,” she tilts her head pointedly in Katara’s direction, “have got to have something more calming than coffee while you’re planning.”
Katara’s nose wrinkles as they find seats in a cozy corner booth. She plops down her binder and levels a look at Toph. “I think,” she says, breezily, “that I’ve been relatively calm about this.”
“Hm,” Toph says, and then her head swings towards where Sokka is leafing through the music section of the binder. “How much coffee have the two of you gone through every weekend for the last month?”
Sokka opens his mouth for a moment before realizing that Katara has swung her glare at him. He promptly closes it again.
“Some teas are caffeinated anyway.” Katara turns her nose up, scooting into Sokka’s space to begin tackling ceremony music and instrumentals. Things Sokka appreciates, but is more than willing to let Katara and Aang have the reins on as far as anything classical goes. He thinks there might be a pianist provided by the venue. Or a harpist? He’s sure it’s one of those.
“Oh,” a surprisingly familiar voice says from the edge of their table, “Sokka in 3C.”
Sokka is frozen for a long moment, his words choked off in his throat. He’s vaguely aware of Katara’s head jerking sharply up, and the slow smile spreading across Toph’s face in his periphery. There’s a creeping heat up the column of his neck, blossoming wide over his cheeks, when he finally drags his dizzy gaze from the relative safety of Katara’s binder. “Oh,” he agrees, meeting amused gold eyes across the length of the table, “Zuko Ran.”
Katara’s hand jumps to her mouth, stifling a telling snort of laughter.
“If I didn’t know better,” Zuko says, probably the most words he’s spoken aloud to Sokka in the last several weeks and trips to his front door, “I’d think you were trying to find me.”
Sokka strangles out a wordless noise that could almost be a laugh. “Right,” he says, weakly, “no, no, I–”
“I wanted to bring some guests along,” Toph interrupts, more magnanimous than he’s ever heard her when she has the opportunity to tease him. Then she turns her grin to Zuko, and Sokka watches it go too sharp at the edges, registering it in the same way a shark smells blood in the water. “Cranky tea man,” she adds, with a wave towards Zuko.
“Ah, you,” Zuko mutters, tellingly. Obviously he’s somewhat familiar with Toph’s particular brand of being a menace to normal society. “Welcome back.”
“And how do you two know each other?” Toph asks, good naturedly, because she knows exactly what she is.
Sokka has been momentarily distracted in the interim by the black tee and black slacks and black apron that Zuko’s wearing. It’s all doing very good things for his shoulders and waist and Sokka jerks his head up in alarm when it occurs to him that Toph’s on the edge of outright cackling. “He used to live in my apartment,” Sokka says, belatedly, and tries very hard to ignore Katara’s snickering and the way she’s pinching his elbow where it’s resting on the table.
“Mm,” Zuko hums, “he’s been a lovely package locker.”
Sokka thinks his head might explode.
Katara’s laugh breaks out in recognition. “Oh,” she whispers, “Is that what they’re calling it these days?” These days, as if she’s not younger than he is–
At least one of them is having a great time. Two, judging by Toph’s open glee. And actually, three, if Sokka can trust himself to read the vibrating lines of Zuko’s body–
“Anyway,” Sokka’s voice is too loud, but it’s fine. “Little sister,” he thrusts a thumb in Katara’s direction. “Gremlin,” he adds, pointing at Toph.
“I know that one already,” Zuko says, dryly.
“Usually, people call me Katara,” she offers, rolling her eyes even as she shakes Zuko’s free hand– he is, Sokka notes, holding a pen and notepad in the other, because he is at his job, where he is a server.
“Toph,” she says, with a lazy, two-fingered salute. “In case you ever really need to get my attention.”
Zuko eyes her, clearly wary, and rightfully so. “...you want the same thing you got last time?”
Toph nods, pleased. “And something hot and decaf for these two,” she says over Katara’s sound of exasperation.
“There’s more than one option,” Zuko says, something wonderfully sour in his tone. Sokka kind of really likes it. He has no idea what that says about him, and he doesn’t know that he currently has the emotional space to figure it out. “There’s plenty of blends that fit that description–”
“Has your uncle been experimenting?” Sokka asks, suddenly, remembering that first box and the stilted conversation that came with it.
Zuko cuts him an assessing look for the interruption but replies, “A bit, yes. With the new stuff.”
“Experiment away,” Sokka tells him, decisive and with a confirming nod when Zuko twitches, bemused by the order. “With mine, at least. Hot and…” –Sokka makes a quick face, “...decaf.”
“Good god, you’re a mess,” Katara’s awed voice is so quiet it barely reaches Sokka’s ears, but he’d know what she’s saying from the expression on her face alone. Then, louder, “Just…any plain green tea. Not decaf.” She glares at Toph, who shrugs.
“Right,” Zuko says, striding away toward the stout elderly man– his uncle, Sokka would be willing to guess– behind the bar, just as a couple walks in.
“He didn’t seem that cranky,” Sokka says into the silence before anyone else can beat him to it.
“Maybe he likes you,” Toph laughs, her shoulder pressing into Sokka’s bicep. It’d been easy bait, and he’d laid it right out for her. He’s got no one to blame but himself. “Every time I’ve been here, he’s been more–”
They can’t hear the words, but Zuko’s tone has gone aggravated and waspish with the most recent patrons. The couple don’t look particularly charmed by it the way that Sokka definitely had been.
“Like that, yeah,” Toph finishes, grinning.
Zuko sweeps away from the couple’s mixed expressions of banked anger and embarrassment, but he blushes in an extremely gratifying way when he catches Sokka looking at him, tilting his head so that the hair around his face hides it.
“Are we even going to get anything done,” Katara wonders in a grumble, her long-suffering sigh doing more to force back Sokka’s dopey smile than any actual effort on his part.
He’s trying. But it’s hard to focus when Zuko brings them their drinks and shifts from one foot to the other, peering at Sokka curiously as he sips at his experimental drink. The warmth of it fills his chest, and there’s something fruity– blueberry?– and floral that Sokka can’t quite place. It’s maybe a bit sweeter than he would typically go for, but it’s delicious and soothing and it somehow reminds him of home in a way that aches between his ribs. He hums happily on his second sip and Zuko seems to relax at the sound, seemingly unbothered by any reactions from Katara or Toph– though, he supposes, his order had been more of a wildcard. More freedom, and absolutely a larger margin for error, since neither Zuko nor his uncle know anything about Sokka’s tastes.
“Okay?” Zuko asks, almost tentative, so contrary to the attitude he’d treated the other table with.
It makes Sokka bite his grin back, swallow the giddy trembling in his hands with the next pull from his mug. He makes a show of considering it, eyes narrowed at the liquid, until Katara’s toes dig impatiently into the muscles at the back of his calf. “Great,” he confirms, “A little sweet, but very good. The fruit is delicious. My compliments to the staff.”
“Oh my god,” Katara exhales, even as Zuko’s face goes flushed with satisfaction and he darts off at the call of his name. “Do you think you’ll be able to focus now?”
Sokka tosses her a half-hearted glare. “Yes,” he says, after a measured stare-off that he has no hope of winning when he notices Zuko bringing out the couple’s order with his back to Sokka’s table. He tears his gaze back to Katara’s doubtful, raised eyebrows and says, more firmly, “Yes. Let’s…do this.”
–
Sokka can count on one hand how many times he’s found himself preoccupied with the expanse of Zuko’s back in that shirt and the way the ties of his apron make the taper of his waist seem endless. He’s pretty proud of it, even if Katara is looking at him like those moments had extended an uncomfortably long time.
–
They’re through the ceremony music, thankfully, and have moved on to the playlists for the reception (something Sokka has much more of a feel for) when he receives the alert for his– Zuko’s– latest delivery. Last delivery, he reminds himself.
Sokka straightens, linking his fingers to stretch his arms over his head, grunting as his back shifts and snaps and pops. He glances up, ignoring Katara’s mouth scrunching in horror at all the noise, and catches Zuko’s eye. He doesn’t do it intentionally; he’s trying to get Zuko’s attention anyway, just to let him know about the delivery, but, well, if he doesn’t break eye contact while extending his stretch and slowly lowering his arms with some gratuitous flexing, then that’s his prerogative. And if Zuko’s eyes flit to Sokka’s biceps and then away with something like guilt and embarrassment crossing his face, that’s okay too, he figures.
Toph mutters something unsavory, as if she can somehow sense Sokka’s movements and underlying motives, but then she’s clearing her throat. “Hey, grumpy,” she says, her tone slightly lower than shouting.
Zuko’s scowl is almost audible in itself; Sokka tamps down his absolute delight at the sight of it, because really, what is wrong with him. But he’s making his way over with a bit of a stomp in his step anyway, like he’s determined for Toph to hear it.
“Sokka,” she says, knowingly, and he doesn’t know how she does that but it’s unnerving, “has something to tell you.”
The glare on Zuko’s face flickers, briefly bleeding into surprise, before hitting some sort of neutrality. “Is that so?” He asks, though any bite in his tone is softened by curiosity.
“Last one,” Sokka says, turning his phone screen to let Zuko see the quick clip of the mailman unceremoniously tossing a small envelope at his door. He can’t help his wince at Zuko’s sigh. “When’s your shift end?” He asks, half as a distraction from the envelope’s treatment and half because he’d genuinely like to know how much time he has before he should be expecting Zuko on his doorstep.
Zuko shoots a quick look over his shoulder to his uncle; his uncle smiles congenially in response, though not a single word is exchanged. Then, he tugs the ties of his apron free like he can’t wait to be rid of it. “Now-ish,” he shrugs, turning back to Sokka. He seems to stutter over his movements for a moment, sheepish. “Or– obviously you don’t have to– be there, I can just go grab it, since you’re all in the middle of something–”
“No, no, we’re all done–” Sokka says, hurriedly, because now he knows where Zuko works, and it doesn’t have to mean this package will be the last time he sees him, but he doesn’t know if that’s weird or not, so he’s half rising out of his seat before he can stop himself. His thighs smack the edge of the table and Toph yelps and Katara covers her binder from the dangers of sloshing tea with a noise of outrage and Sokka stupidly drops back into his seat at the scene he’s causing. He blows out a breath, vaguely wondering if there’s any way to recover his dignity from the last few minutes, or from the last couple of weeks, even. “I mean– it’s been hours, we could use a break, right, Katara?”
She’s looking at him askance but her lips are pressed into a thin line like she’s trying to keep any amusement trapped inside of her mouth. “Yes,” she says, at length, her tone shockingly even.
Zuko is staring between them, eyebrow raised. “Oh– okay, well…I…did you drive? I could…give you a ride back.”
Sokka is unbelievably, ludicrously grateful that Katara had picked him up. His heart thunks against the cage of his ribs so hard he briefly thinks he might be sick. “Sure,” he says, afraid of how much time has passed in awkward silence, his voice thin and a pinch too high. “That sounds great.”
–
Because Sokka is in a daze as he slides into the passenger seat of Zuko’s old, slightly dented sedan, he doesn’t consider that he’s currently in the car of a relative stranger.
Luckily, his sister does – she texts him a quick Got your location which is a relief. He doesn’t think he’s in any danger– at least not physical danger, especially considering Zuko already knows where he lives– but he’d clearly been thinking with something other than his brain when he left the Jasmine Dragon.
It’s…perhaps not awkward, but a little tense, as Zuko’s car comes to life with a sputtering start. The radio’s low, something folky that Sokka can’t quite make out, but certainly a local channel. There’s a cassette player, but Sokka is almost more impressed to see a collection of actual tapes in the center console. His fingers itch with the urge to sift through them, immediately fascinated.
“So,” Zuko says, slow, like he’s trying to tease the words out without seeming as uncomfortable as he actually is, “What were you all working on?”
“Oh!” Sokka grabs onto the question like a fucking lifeline. “Katara’s getting married in a couple months. I’ve been her unpaid wedding planner,” he says, aiming for lofty but landing somewhere around wry instead. “There’s still a lot to get done.”
Zuko stills for a moment; the light at their intersection turns green and he seems to shake himself with a low, dark snort as he accelerates through. “Don’t I know it,” he mutters, nearly inaudible, but Sokka hears it anyway. He’s pretty sure he wasn’t supposed to. “You two are close, then?”
He glances at Zuko, gaze sweeping fast and subtle, but he knows he would’ve noticed a ring by this point. Not that he’d been looking for one, but– he would have seen one. If he had been. “I moved to be closer to her,” Sokka says by way of a reply, shrugging a shoulder. “We’ve always had each other. It was weird for a while, having to drive more than five minutes to see her. It’s better now.” It’s mostly the truth– more than he expected to give. He thinks maybe skirting around his mom’s death is acceptable in a conversation like this, and the way that it had driven him and Katara to a codependence that had been tested by his distance for a while. “What about you?” He asks; at Zuko’s confused glance, he clarifies, “Siblings?”
Zuko’s mouth twists with discomfort but he nods, so Sokka calls it a win. “Younger sister,” he replies; he huffs, not quite a laugh. “She’s…she can be a lot.”
“Not close, then?”
Zuko’s eyes slide over to him and then back to the road. “Maybe not the way we used to be.”
Sokka nods like he understands, because he does in theory, but he plucks at a loose thread in his shorts thoughtfully. He can’t imagine a world where he and Katara are no longer exactly the people they’ve always been to each other, or how their relationship could change. “So your little sister didn’t think to make sure you weren’t getting into a car with a possible serial killer?” He teases, finally, grinning when it startles an actual huffing laugh out of Zuko.
“I didn’t think to tell her,” Zuko corrects, “or anyone. So you better not try anything.” He levels a mock-serious look at Sokka that makes his insides feel fuzzy. “I know how to handle myself.” It’s clearly meant to be a returning taunt, but the sleeves stretched around Zuko’s biceps become very distracting very quickly.
“You better not try anything,” Sokka splutters through his laugh, ignoring the heat in his cheeks. He crosses his arms, sliding down into his seat as the car rolls into his parking lot. “I could be stronger than you. You don’t know.”
“Hm,” Zuko says, mildly, throwing the sedan into park. “Kind of feels like you’re so offended because you don’t think that’s true.” His grin flashes too quickly for Sokka to really admire as he gets out of the car, but his laugh hits like a bell tolling through Sokka’s chest.
“Rude,” Sokka tries to grumble, nose in the air as he hops the steps to his porch. Unfortunately, he’s finding it hard to be anything but pleased by the teasing. He crouches to retrieve the little padded envelope, something vaguely small and box-shaped inside of it, noting the curly lettering of Zuko’s name across the label. There’s a return address that doesn’t seem familiar, possibly residential, but no name.
“Wait,” Zuko says, suddenly, the envelope sliding from Sokka’s fingers quickly, just short of being considered snatching. When Sokka jolts at the motion, looking up, he finds that Zuko’s gone pale and his joy has been well and truly snuffed out.
“Sorry,” Sokka murmurs, rising slowly, confused. “I didn’t mean–”
“It’s– it’s fine,” Zuko waves it off, his voice strained. He’s staring down at the label, at his name, fingers tense around the edges of the padding. “It’s– no worries. Thank you, again. I’ll– there shouldn’t be any more, but I’ll…let you know.”
Sokka nods, dumbfounded, and barely has the wherewithal to thank Zuko for the ride before he’s bolting, disappearing down the stairs, his shoulders hunched.
It sits uncomfortably in Sokka’s chest, watching him leave like that, with the echo of Zuko’s laugh ringing in his ears.