Work Text:
Intro: Syd
The crisp knock on her door got Katara jumping off her bed. “Coming!” she called, trying not to sound too eager. It was just Zuko, after all.
As usual, he dumped his backpack on her desk chair. “Hey,” he said, nodding at her. He took off his gloves and red scarf. “Cold out there today.”
“Duh, it’s November.”
He shrugged. “Sorry this took so long. Work at the tea shop’s been kicking my ass.”
“Better late than never.” After a slightly awkward pause, she gestured at her bed. He took the hint and sat, and she pulled out the record they were after. Her back to him, she said, “So. What do you know about this album?”
“Just what Sokka’s told me. One of Pink Floyd’s famous albums. Turned fifty this year.”
“Mmm-hmm.” Katara sat down next to him. “Do you know the name Syd Barrett?”
“No,” Zuko said, his good eyebrow quirking up at her. “Who’s that?”
She sighed. The story made her heart hurt a little. “He was one of Pink Floyd’s founders,” she explained. “But late in the Sixties, he had a mental break, to where he couldn’t function anymore. They say drugs did it. So the others just…sort of pushed him out.”
He let out a long, low whistle. “That sucks.”
“I know.” She looked down at the vinyl in her hands. “This album’s a tribute to him, most people say. Weird story, he showed up to the studio when they were recording it. They didn’t recognize him at first.” She paused. “It was the last time they saw him alive.”
“Jesus,” Zuko muttered.
“I know. He haunted them, I think.” Katara sighed, running her thumb along the sleeve edge. “At the very least, a lot of this album’s about loss. To me, anyway.”
Zuko’s eyes flicked down to the cover, two men shaking hands in a parking lot. He tapped the man on the right, a charred and burning shadow. “Is that him?”
“It’s not a photo of him. But it could…you know. Represent him.” Katara slid the record out, set it on her player. “Ready?”
He laid back, stretching out on her bed, and closed his eyes. “Yeah.”
She dropped the needle. “Okay. Welcome to Wish You Were Here.”
____________
Side One: Shine On
The sound bled in slowly, stars emerging from inky darkness. Zuko reached for the album sleeve, reading it. “Whoa, whoa, hang on,” he said.
Katara, lying next to him on the bed (not too close), groaned and dropped her arm over her eyes. “Oh, my God, already?”
“What, a guy can’t have questions?”
“Okay, shoot,” she sighed.
“ ‘Shine On You Crazy Diamond’ has nine parts?”
“Yeah, it’s like an orchestral suite. Now shush, or you’ll miss the best bit.”
The guitar sang out again from a near-silence. Then, oh so gradually, the drums entered like a wildfire roaring to life, her heart racing with them as they set the rhythm. Katara happily let herself be pulled into the dense, warm waltz. The guitar sparkled above it, unfurling vines of cream and pure white light. God, Gilmour, who’d you sell your soul to?
Zuko read her mind, apparently. “That’s some guitar.”
“Uh-huh…”
“And the words. They’re…”
“Poetic?” she said, turning her head to him. He nodded, and she grinned. Unable to help herself, she joined in on her favorite lyric. “Well, you wore out your welcome / With random precision / Rode on the steel breeze / Come on, you raver, you seer of visions / Come on, you painter, you piper, you prisoner, and shine!”
Zuko laughed as the saxophone entered. “Good to hear some more of that too.” He was quiet for a bit, until the buzzes and thrums of machines announced the next track. “I’m thinking about taking up the sax next spring. I want to try jazz ensemble in college.”
“French horn doesn’t really scream ‘jazz,’ yeah,” she said. She only held the thought back for a second. “I can see you playing the saxophone.”
“Think I’d be any good?”
“If you practice, sure. And let go of Romantic music a little. Can’t be a jazz cat if you don’t loosen up.”
“Very funny, Katara.” But he smiled a little as he said it.
Zuko didn’t say much more for the rest of the first side. He closed his eyes and listened, like her, to the glowing pulses of synthesizers. Shimmers of acoustic guitar, the blue of a flame’s center. Deep snarls of the bass and drums, steel parts of whatever “machine” the song spoke of, grinding together and throwing sparks.
Katara had often thought that if Dark Side were a natural element, it would be water. But if that one was water, then Wish You Were Here was fire.
____________
Side Two: Lost Souls
Just by default, “Have a Cigar” wasn’t her favorite portion of this album. But the bass line was still pretty cool and funky. Katara tapped her fingertips on her stomach, seeing if she could pick up the rhythm.
Zuko suddenly laughed again. “ ‘By the way, which one’s Pink?!’ ” he repeated. “Please tell me they just made that up.”
She laughed too. “Nope! Some label guy asked them that once!”
He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Oh, Christ.”
“I don’t know if this is super clear,” she said, very seriously. “But…” She dropped her voice to an ironic whisper. “Roger Waters kind of didn’t think much of the record industry.”
He rolled over onto his side, leaning on one hand. “No!” he said, equally sarcastically. “I couldn’t tell!” They both laughed as another lengthy guitar solo played, sizzling red-hot from her speakers. Looking at the record player, he asked, “Is this your favorite album by them, by any chance?”
“Yeah,” she said, surprised. She sat up and dangled her legs over the edge of her bed. “Why?”
“It’s really guitar-driven. More than The Dark Side of the Moon. I thought…”
“You thought right,” she said, and he grinned. “I like what it’s about, too.”
He looked curiously over at her, both arms under his head. “How so?”
Katara hesitated. “Well, like I said, it’s about loss. But…not just losing someone. It can be about losing anything. Your mind, your passion, yourself. How you go on living after.” The white-noise whoosh gave way to another near-silence. “And how it always stays with you. What you lost,” she said quietly.
The backing guitar, filtered to sound like it too was coming from the radio, caught her ear. Then the solo, songlike, perfect drops of bronze sunlight. She sighed happily, picked up her own guitar, and joined in.
Zuko sat up quickly. “I know this,” he said.
“Yeah, it’s pretty famous. And not hard.” Katara smiled, feeling her way through the familiar chords. “It was the first song of theirs I learned and – ”
“No, Katara…I know it.” He gazed at her record player like he wasn’t really seeing it, like he was off somewhere far away. She stopped playing, staring at him.
As the first verse ended, he finally spoke. “My mom. She played this once, for me and Azula. A long time ago.” He swallowed. “She died when I was eleven.”
Oh, God. Katara set her guitar down, her mind reeling. She said lamely, “She…had good taste in music.”
Zuko did not answer, and she braved a look. He was watching the record spin, his mouth a thin, tight line. Though he blinked fast, trying to stop it, a tear slid down his cheek.
She wished she hadn’t looked.
Still, Katara scooted closer. Not sure what was making her do it, she put her hand on top of his. Zuko looked at her with wide, tear-filled golden eyes, blushing. She ignored this, not looking away from him.
“My mom died when I was eight,” she told him.
He didn’t say anything. There was nothing to say. But he did not take his hand away. And when she leaned into him, to show support and comfort, he leaned back, his warmth pressing into her side. Tears bit her cheeks too, as she laid her head on his shoulder. Sighing, he put an arm across her back and lowered his head, so it rested gently against hers.
They sat in silence and stillness, listening. The music gave voice to a curious mix of feelings. Longing, anger, sorrow. The ache of holding two equal and opposite forces in your heart: wanting to forget, and wanting to remember. It was a feeling hard to fully name.
But it was one they both knew, something they shared. With every person who’d ever loved, and lost…and with each other.
How I wish, how I wish you were here / We’re just two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl / Year after year / Running over the same old ground / What have we found? / The same old fears / Wish you were here.
____________
Outro: Friends?
Katara slid the album back into its place, between Dark Side and Animals. Neither she nor Zuko had spoken for the past twenty minutes. He looked a bit out of it, gazing quietly at the record player, his eyes still deeply sad. Haunted, even.
Now there’s a look in your eyes / Like black holes in the sky…
Shaking her head to snap out of it, she brought some tissues from the bathroom. They both blew their noses. “Thanks,” he said thickly. He looked around a few times before setting the used tissue way too close to her leg.
She squirmed away. “Ew, Zuko.”
“Sorry.” He put the tissue in his pocket instead. Then, sighing, he stood up and stretched. “Well, thanks for today. And sorry for the…well, what happened.”
The embarrassment on his scarred face made her sad. “Don’t be,” Katara said. Her own voice’s gentleness surprised her. “That album can be a lot.”
“Yeah.” He looked down at her shelf, her ever-growing vinyl collection. “But I…it feels kind of…I don’t know. But it’s good.”
She knew what he meant. Wish You Were Here was intense. But after you’d listened to it, after you’d let it really make you feel, everything was lighter somehow. Like something black and sticky and poisonous had been scraped clean from inside you.
After you’d listened, you felt free.
She smiled at him. “I’m glad you liked it.”
He smiled back. “I did.”
They went to the front door together this time. As Zuko tied his scarf around his neck, he asked, “So? What’s next on the menu?”
“Ha. Can’t get enough of Pink Floyd now, can you, Beethoven boy?” she teased.
“Oh, shut up and just tell me.”
“The Wall,” she said immediately. “My dad gave me a copy for my birthday. We’ll just listen, though.” When he blinked at her, confused, she explained, “There’s a movie too. I cried through almost all of it.”
“Yeah, no. I think I cried enough today for the next few months.”
Both of them laughed. For a moment after, they looked at each other, grinning and not entirely sure what to say. But then Zuko took her hand, gave it a squeeze. “See you, Katara.”
“Bye, Zuko.” He shouldered his bag and she closed the door behind him.
“Ahem.” Katara nearly jumped out of her skin. Sokka was leaning in his room’s doorway, smirking at her. “So when’s the wedding?”
“Sokka!” She chased him into his room for a good pillow-whooping. But when she returned to her room, and her eyes fell on the slim white spine of The Wall, she smiled to herself.