A Fire in the Chest

by pasadisu

Zuko is haunted on Ember Island by memories in the corners, mistakes in the shadows, and maybe's in Katara. oneshot. zutara.

A/N: To be honest, this is a story that has been angering me for 3-4 years, y'all. It was rough. And ugly. God.

I sincerely hope you enjoy, however.

Note that I do not own ATLA.

---

A Fire in the Chest

"And so at last, you sleep, in the circle of my arms
that push back the shadows so that you can rest —
vegetables, seaweed, herbs: the foam of your dreams."
Pablo Neruda.

Zuko skids to a stop, kicking up sand as he does so. Nervously, he drops his gaze. His hands tremble by his side as he resists the temptation to wring his fingers. It is not a habit that his father likes.

His eyes flicker upwards to the face silhouetted by the sun in the quick and shy manner that only belongs to a child.

"Straighten your back, boy."

He fixes his posture quickly. Zuko tries for a tentative smile and receives a grunt. There is a blossom of good spirits in his chest at the response.

"W-will you —"

"What have I told you about mumbling, boy?"

The blossoming withers. He is anxious again, but he stills his hands and clears his throat. "Will you be watching Azula and I reenact the play tonight?"

There is a pause where Zuko, back aching because of how straight he has it pressed, remembers that his father always watches the reenactment, and maybe it is a stupid question that will earn him sharp retribution —

"Of course."

His father steps past him, leaving Zuko to stare at his back, giant and rigid. Zuko smiles at his toes.

Looking up past broad shoulders, he sees Iroh and Lu Ten on the sand, he sees his mom and endless horizons, he hears Azula call his name from the edges of the white shore, and he turns to call back.

---

"What are you thinking about?"

"Nothing." His answer had come out sharper than he had wanted, a reaction he was sure was fueled by the magic of Ember Island.

"'Nothing,'" Katara repeated. "Really."

Zuko glanced from the bowl in his hands to the fire pit to Katara's raised brow; and then he shrugged one shoulder.

"Nothing," he said again.

"Alright… Well," she motioned to the group having dinner feet away, "are you gonna come eat with us?"

"No." Zuko winced internally at the way it came out. "I just don't…feel like moving," he finished lamely.

Katara narrowed her eyes suspiciously at him.

"I'm fine," he insisted.

She looked like she was about to say something further, but instead of indulging in her first instinct, Katara left to join the rest of the group around the warm flames, leaving Zuko to his growing unease.

The bowl of soup was forgotten beside him as he looked around at his family's beach house. The last time he had been here was with Azula and her friends, and that was because he had wandered off and decided to burn half the things here, and then before that… Well, it had been so long that he couldn't quite remember.

Now, having returned once again, the memories wouldn't stay away.

"Zuko, you be the Dark Water Spirit."

"Why am I always the Dark Water Spirit? Lu Ten, you should do it!"

"Lu Ten's the Dragon Empress, dum dum!"

He forced his breathing steady, not wanting the rest of the group to think he was weak or crazy. As far as he could tell, Katara was the only one who had any suspicions to the fact that there could be something on his mind; she was the only one to have come over, and she was the last person he wanted to have done so.

He sat with his back to the walls he used to drag small fingers along. There was a gentle tug of the past against his shoulders. He could almost hear the echoing footsteps of his sister and the faint laugh of his mother.

"So," Aang began, "what are you gonna do after the war, Toph?"

The earthbender wiped her lips with the back of her hand. It was hard to imagine her as a young heiress, despite everyone's insistence of her background.

"Who knows," Toph said. "I haven't really thought about it."

"You're not going back to your parents'?" Katara asked.

Toph scowled. "I'll deal with it when I deal with it."

When everyone else turned back to the flames, her glower softened into a dejection. Zuko knew the feeling, he thought to himself.

"What are you gonna do, Sugar Queen?"

"I…don't really know either," Katara answered slowly. "I guess it's the same as you, Toph. We've just been so busy preparing and training, moving from one location to the next… I always figured I'd just go back to the South Pole, but I didn't really think about the specifics."

"Or if we'd even survive," pitched in Sokka, earning an annoyed look from everyone around him. "What? We're all thinking it!"

"We're going to survive, Sokka," Katara remarked, irritated. "Why would you even say that? Aang's gonna beat Ozai, peace will be restored, and then we're all going to go home."

Everyone except Ozai and Azula. For them, it was death or prison, and neither really counted as survival in Zuko's opinion.

He suddenly remembered that Azula favored mangos and dragonfruit over bananas and lychee nuts.

"What about you, Mr. I'm-too-mopey-to-eat-with-everyone?" Katara shot toward him.

Zuko rolled his eyes. It was as though she was always looking for reasons to snap at him; though they had patched their rather strange and shaky relationship, she was still breathing down his neck. Maybe it'd always be that way. (Maybe he liked the warmth of her fiery exhales on his skin. He shook his head.)

"Rule the nation, I guess," Zuko said. "Fix the shithole my father made."

It went quiet then. He couldn't help but be serious at everything. His mom used to joke that he had been born with the smallest funny bone. She used to like water apples.

Zuko wondered if she still did, wherever she was.

"So, uh, Zuko," Sokka interjected. "You said this was your family's beach house, right?"

"Yeah," he replied. "But we haven't been here in a long time."

"Is it weird being back?" Aang chimed in.

"Sort of."

He hoped they wouldn't ask anymore. He didn't know what to say or where to begin. His story was one that spanned generations, one in which he was merely a small speck, one of many victims — one of many villains. Zuko absentmindedly scratched his arm, remembering suddenly that his father had a sweet tooth; and then, overhead, a streak of blue-silver light darted across the sky, eating away a brief second of darkness with a greedy swallow. A clash of thunder beat against the clouds soon after. All eyes turned upward.

Sokka whistled in awe. "Sounds like it's gonna be a rough night."

"We should all go in soon," Katara suggested.

There was no verbal agreement, but everyone quickly finished their food. Aang looked toward Zuko, hesitating in front of the fire, but Zuko pointedly stared at him until the other relented in a sigh. Hesitantly, Aang slid his feet into firebending position. It wasn't necessary to do to extinguish a flame of that size, but he was still reacquainting himself with the element despite having the blessings of the original benders. (It was really only when there were other people around; Zuko figured he was still having flashbacks of burning Katara.)

"What rooms are we staying in?" Suki asked.

Drops began to fall from the sky. Toph and Aang quickly maneuvered some earth to make a tent for Appa. Once it was done, Momo shuffled on top of the bison to keep him company throughout the rainy night. The rest of them shuffled into the halls.

"Don't worry — I already found us one, Suki," Sokka said. He put his arm around her shoulders and wiggled his eyebrows in a way that only Sokka could. "One where we can see the stars after the rain, and the beach in the moonlight, and it's gonna be so romantic."

She flushed a deep pink while the rest of the group groaned and rolled their eyes. The back of Aang's neck turned red and he glanced in Katara's direction. Zuko looked away.

"Time to hit the hay, Twinkle Toes," Toph announced, punching Aang in the shoulder. The boy winced, but she didn't react. Zuko always had the suspicion that she could "see" it, but she just didn't care. "I've got some fun earthbending exercises for you tomorrow."

"Great…" Aang remarked.

They all dispersed. Zuko stepped in front of his door. He had naturally picked the one that used to be his room, years ago.

He held his breath and pushed it open, expecting a wave of nausea and nostalgia, of scattered toys and embarrassing diaries; but he only found a room sparsely decorated with a thin layer of dust. He thought he saw a mini Azula running by out of the corner of his eye; when he turned, though, there was only an old poster.

Zuko went to the closet and pulled out blankets and pillows, shaking them free of time. He coughed as it all invaded his lungs.

Maybe staying here again wouldn't be so bad, he thought optimistically to himself. Maybe he wouldn't get nightmares or weird feelings or strange memories.

He lay down and closed his eyes. The blankets smelled familiar.

---

Zuko swerves into his mother's office, using the doorframe to help him make the sharp turn.

His mother is sitting on her chair; the book in her hand is lowered to her lap so she could give her son an amused eyebrow raise.

Zuko, without thinking, immediately blurts out his first thought: "I hate Azula!"

Her tongue clicks — "Tsk." — and he instantly feels the lump of regret in his stomach. He drops his gaze, and out of habit, digs his nails into his palms.

"I — I don't hate her," he corrects himself, keeping his gaze firm on his hidden toes. "But…can we trade her for a hogmonkey? Please?"

He hears the book close and winces, afraid that he has caused his mother's irritation, or worse, her disappointment. He has never seen her mad, only annoyed and tired, and he has only disappointed her a handful of times; each hurt more than the last, and Zuko isn't too keen on doing it again.

When he hears her move, he risks a glance. She is shaking her head, a small smile on her face. The book is left on the tall table, and she lifts her dress and positions it in a way that allows her to sit cross-legged on the floor.

His heart jumps — she isn't mad.

"Come," she says, and pats the spot in front of her. He sprints forward and drops down, crossing his legs in the same way. She reaches out to fix his disheveled hair; a haircutting accident left it too short to pin up in the traditional topknot, and with him running around all the time, it never looks the way it starts out in the morning.

"Now," she begins, folding her hands in her lap. "Why would you say that about your sister?"

The guilty lump is back. His shoulders tense and he hunches over.

"I didn't mean it," Zuko mumbles. "But sometimes, she makes me so mad. She threw a block at my head today, and she ripped out all the flowers in the center garden, and she threw all my socks in the pond! These are my last pair, Mom!" He wiggles his toes for emphasis, and when he feels the sting of tears in the corner of his eyes, he digs his fingers deeper into his palms to keep from crying.

"Oh, Zuko," his mother sighs. "Azula's very young. She's just confused about how to show her affection."

"She's only two years younger than me," he protests.

"One day you'll see that those days in between are very important at your age. A couple of years younger may not seem like much right now, but it can be a very big difference."

He shakes his head, not understanding. "Azula hates me. If she got a chance to trade me for a hogmonkey, she would! And — she wouldn't feel bad about it like I would, either!"

"If she didn't love you, why would she follow you around everywhere?" she counters.

Zuko stares at his mother incredulously as the answer, to him, is supremely obvious. "To make me mad!"

His mom grins when he rests his elbows on his knees and places his face in his hands, sulking.

"Azula loves you," she assures him. "She just…shows it differently."

"Maybe someone should tell her that throwing all their socks in the duck pond isn't how you show love," he grumbles.

She reaches out to lift his chin up. "Why don't you show her, then, hmm?"

Zuko furrows his brows, confused and suspicious. He is sure that if he tried to hug Azula, she'd take it as a sign of war and punch him in the stomach.

"Teach her," his mother says, caressing his cheek. "Like I taught you."

Zuko doesn't know what she means by that, as he has loved his mother as far back as he can remember; there hadn't been any lessons needed.

"If you taught me, then why can't you teach her?" he asks.

There is a flash of something on her face that he catches, an expression he doesn't understand, but it is quickly smoothed over by the arrival of her soft smile.

"Show her, Zuko," she says. She tugs at his ear and he laughs, even though he wants to stay serious. "Teach her. You can do it, my brave boy.

My brave boy…

My Zuko."

---

Zuko shot up, unable to breathe. He tumbled out of the bed, hitting the cold ground painfully, but the stinging of his shoulder from the impact was dwarfed by the heavy fire in his chest. He gasped and heaved mouthfuls of air, but all his attempts seemed to be obstructed by his collapsing throat.

The sensation of trying to breathe underwater while on land was familiar, but it wasn't something he had thought would happen again. Zuko curled up onto the ground. He scratched at his neck and beat at his chest, but no matter how wide he made his mouth or how many times he made to breathe, it felt as if the air was escaping through puncture wounds in his lungs.

The room was suddenly stifling, like the walls were contributing to his suffocation.

Zuko pushed himself to his feet. Using the wood and panels to support himself, he walked down the hall on unsteady legs, hoping to keep his heaving to a quiet minimum as he stumbled forward. He didn't want to wake the others or worry them (would they be worried?), and he especially didn't want their questions.

Each step brought another flame of pain through his body. Every movement, even the tiniest twitch of his fingers, seemed to expel too much energy, energy that couldn't be spared. His heart was rapid in his ear. The feeling of helpless frustration returned to him; this wasn't an enemy he could fight, this wasn't a battle he could run away from. He couldn't use his fire bending, couldn't force his lungs open, couldn't force the weight off his chest. He could only trip through the darkness in the hopes that time would be kind to him.

The moment Zuko made it to the courtyard, he fell to his hands and knees. Hunched over, he pressed his forehead into the cool stone, gasping and rasping and wondering if this was punishment from the universe for all he had done, for taking so long to understand what was right and wrong.

This will pass, he reassured himself, it always passes.

The broken heaves were painful to his ears and even more agonizing for the rest of his body. Zuko closed his eyes and tried to recall all the times as a child he had gone through these attacks, tried to remember what the family physician instructed, what his uncle advised, what his mother used to hum as she sat with him through this betrayal.

Relax, relax, he thought, breathing techniques, it'll pass, breathing techniques, ride it out, let it through…

In, out…

No…

No, no, come on, come on, breathe. Breathe!

A panic settled on top of his chest, adding to the pressure already there.

How long did these attacks last?

For how long did he need to swallow gulps of emptiness?

Zuko couldn't recall details of past attacks, couldn't remember anything useful, nothing but the feeling of drowning under moonlight, the muscle memory of wide eyes and raw throat and dry mouth and searing chest, the fire flaring deep into the night. He wondered if this time he would burn out before light could come.

---

Zuko already has two wooden swords in his hands when Azula enters the room.

"I'm training with Father today," she announces.

"Oh." He lowers the swords to his side as if he had meant to be wielding two. "Okay."

"Sorry, Zuzu."

She doesn't sound sorry, he thinks.

---

The sun was just greeting Zuko over the horizon when he opened his mouth and took a desperate breath of air, relieved to feel the full force of the morning rush deep into his ribs.

"Sorry, Zuzu."

Azula's voice echoed in his ear, rattling in time with the electricity in his lungs.

He had been seven. She had been five.

Was that the start of it, the beginning of the break in blood? Or was it years before that, or minutes after it? Was it something decided at birth — before birth? Before even the start of time?

Zuko gave a mirthless smile at the little details flooding back. Technically, Zuzu had been her first word. That didn't mean anything, though. They found her second word to be die when they saw her shaking her gift doll. Maybe that had been a sign. Maybe he was supposed to have stopped it — stopped her. Maybe he still could've.

Blue eyes invaded his vision, set against the brightening sky.

Katara — Agni, the Fire Nation colors suited her. It wasn't fair, though that was a sentiment he was used to.

"What are you doing out here?" Katara asked, raising a confused brow.

"What are you doing up?" he shot back. His voice came out harsher and raspier than normal. Little petals of pain prickled the back of his throat, reminding him that he was in desperate need of water. He hoped she didn't notice, or that, if she did, she wouldn't find it out of place.

"I have a lot of errands today," she answered, rolling her eyes. He assumed she was referring to the many house duties she seemed to always be lumped with. "So I thought I would get a head start. Why do you sound like you've been screaming all night? And you never answered my question."

Leave it to Katara, the mother goose-hen, to hound a person right at dawn.

She frowned, her eyes darting from his grimy face to the rest of his body. "Are you okay?"

"Fine," he grunted. He knew he would have to prove it to her, and with all the willpower and stubbornness that kept him going through those long years of banishment, Zuko pushed himself up to a sitting a position, swallowing a groan of pain at the ache in his body, and then stifling the second one that came with the pain of swallowing the first.

Katara, however, looked annoyed at his answer. "Alright," she said. "Continue with whatever it is you're doing, I guess…"

She stalked off. Halfway across the plaza, she glanced back at him, but he brushed aside whatever warmth that second glance brought.

With a soft grunt and a sharp gritting of teeth, Zuko pushed himself to his feet. There was a crying need to drunk himself into the fountain, but those thoughts were dashed when Aang jumped down from the second floor with more life than he should've had for the hour. Zuko stamped down urge to strangle him. The one time the kid got out of bed willingly was the one time Zuko needed him not to. It really was too unfair.

"Sifu Hotman!" Aang saluted. "Ready for sun salutations and all the fire squats you've got to give, sir!"

Oh, he wanted fire squats did he? — "Five hundred."

"W-what?"

"Five hundred fire squats. I'll be back." Zuko turned around and headed for the washroom, clearing his throat softly. It felt as if he was scraping the inside of his throat with a knife.

"One fire squat, two fire squats…"

"Louder," Zuko snapped.

Aang groaned, mumbling something under his breath.

"You want to repeat that?"

"THREE fire squats, Sifu Hotman!"

---

The rest of the morning was spent with Zuko trying to hang onto sanity with the throbbing in his throat and chest while he directed Aang on what to do, what position to be in, and how to direct his breathing in relation to the sun's surging streams. Everything took talking — talking and breathing, and by noon, Zuko's whole body was aching.

He was grateful for the afternoon break, silently thanking Toph as well when she exploded onto the scene, ready to teach Aang more earthbending techniques.

Maybe this would mean he could get some sleep, which would be a blessing and a curse. He shuddered, thinking of the memories that awaited him. Those were often worse than the nightmares.

Zuko stepped onto the smooth, wooden floors of the beach house, feeling a shift in wind, in atmosphere. It was hard being here; he could admit that to himself. The onslaught of voices was difficult to hold off, the depths of the past even more difficult to wade through.

It had been years since he had been here, and yet his feet still knew where to go. His body still shifted over every crack, curved around every corner before it came. His fingers instinctively traced familiar routes against the walls as they had done a decade ago.

It was unnerving. Every touch undid another stitch, opening up another forgotten memory. The walls were haunted by childish laughter and gentle hymns.

Zuko couldn't help but pause at an open room. Someone must've gone inside looking for supplies, though nothing looked too ransacked. He recalled the room being a storage room, one that he and Azula often played in, exploring the many boxes and scrolls gathered there. Even now, they were still collecting dust.

There was a particular box with aged ink on the side that caught his attention. He couldn't remember what was written, but he remembered what it blocked. Pushing it aside revealed old paint splatter — Azula's doing. She marked everything she touched, he recalled.

In a way, she still did.

"Dad's going to kill you. Really, he is."

"Ha-ha, Azula. Nice try."

Somewhere along the way, her voice and words became mean and unfamiliar. Years later, Zuko considered them to be mean and expected.

The suspicion that there was poison in his bloodline returned to him.

With his foot, he pushed the box back in front of the paint splatter.

"Still thinking about nothing?"

Zuko turned to the door where Katara stood with a basket of vegetables and fruits under one arm and a pot of cooking utensils under the other. She had her head slightly tilted, and though her words had originally sounded accusatory, her expression was soft.

She leaned against the door frame and looked around, but he knew that she'd only see unopened boxes. She wouldn't hear the sweet singing caught between rays of sunshine, the pitter patter of hide-and-seek, or the high pitch of Azula before she deepened with darkness.

"You know," Katara began, breaking the silence. "It's okay to be uncomfortable."

He suddenly felt too tired.

"I'm just saying," she continued. Her voice was gentle, devoid of the tone of motherhood she had picked up somewhere in the group's travels, maybe even before then. "You don't have to be 'Sifu Hotman' all the time. It's okay — you have a lot of memories here. And even though Ozai's trying to take over the world and Azula's trying to kill us… They're still your family. I get it."

Did she? And if she truly didn't — then, could she?

Zuko hadn't been prepared for their shift in relationship after the Southern Raiders mission. Back then, he had known where their boundaries were. Now, everything was up in the air, mixed in with weird hues of gray, with the bright blues of her eyes.

Zuko could still feel her fingers, gossamer touches, ghosting down his scarred cheek.

There was a part of him that wanted to reach into the rip in his ribs and pull apart, to feel her hair and hands trail against his mangled bone — but there was another part of him hiding in the ache, frightened by gentle touch.

Finally, he said, "We haven't been a family in a long time. It's fine — I've made peace with it."

Despite the confidence in his words, he didn't make eye contact with her.

"Teach her, like I taught you."

If anyone could teach love, it'd be Katara, he thought.

"Okay," she said, but he knew she could see right through him.

She compelled him, he had realized early on. There was something about her that pulled fire from spent coals. If Katara asked, Zuko would give; and that was why it was so dangerous to be around her — he'd give bone and breath and it still wouldn't be what she deserved.

Stubbornly, forlornly, Zuko steadied his eyes on a box — but then he thought he heard her exhale his name, kind and quiet like a prayer, and the way her voice carried through the heaviness of the air curled something in his chest, and he couldn't help but look up, couldn't deny the gravity of the moon.

He hadn't imagined it. She said his name again, taking a step forward. Zuko had to resist the instinct to step backward.

From the way her hair cascaded down her back to the way her eyelashes framed the sincerity in azure eyes, to the way her brown skin was smoothed over by golden rays in even strokes and the way her voice brought goosebumps like cool water dotting dry skin –– she was magnetic. He almost gave in to her. He almost unzipped his diaphragm and read aloud from the very first scar, the very first sear, the very first Zu-Zu uttered — but Sokka's shrill voice rang down the hall and Zuko was cut free.

"Katara! Where's lunch? I'm starving!"

The atmosphere was shattered. He could tell in the way she frowned that she could feel the walls rising once again between them.

He felt her try to grasp the disappearing thread, push through any and all gaps before they were cemented over — "Zuko — "

"Katara! Where are you? Luunnnchhh, Katara, lunch!"

Zuko, now back to his senses, dusted off the cool hand of the past on his shoulder and took the basket and pot from the waterbender. "Come on," he said, "before Sokka eats Momo."

"Do you want me to eat Momo, Katara? Because I will!"

She didn't look pleased, but she was unable to speak further as Zuko had already started off toward the courtyard.

---

Utilizing her waterbending abilities, Katara encased the vegetables in a blue bulb to clean them. While she worked, Zuko started the fire beneath the pot with his bending, standing in front of her to block her from the heat of the flames as it awakened.

Sokka and Suki were chatting and holding onto each other nearby in the shade. Every so often, Sokka would leer and drool at the large fish in the basket. On the other side of the area, closer to the beach, were Toph and Aang, training loudly with painful slams of rock and stone.

When Zuko crouched down beside Katara, he was finally very aware of her irritably not looking at him. There was a twinge of guilt. She was only trying to help, but he had told her once that one couldn't heal a scar; and he had a lot of scars.

"How'd you do this without a firebender?" Zuko asked, trying to start small talk despite his normally terrible results with it.

Katara still didn't look at him; it seemed that she was having an internal debate on whether or not to even respond, if her twitching brow was any indication.

Finally, though, she answered, "Old-fashioned way: wait for Sokka to rub sticks together, and then push him out the way and do it myself."

He smiled, imagining it. "Sounds about right."

Katara sliced the vegetables and dumped it into the pot. She began descaling the fish next.

"Why don't you use the kitchen?" Zuko asked.

"It's just been so long, I guess," she said. "It feels kind of weird to cook indoors, in a legitimate kitchen. And anyways, it's not like I use actual knives or anything." She gestured to how she used her bending for almost all aspects of the cooking process. "I really just need a good pot."

Katara finally looked at him, and then Zuko realized he had been staring too intently. He tried to transition his eyes from her face to the fluid movements of her hands, as if it had only been a brief analytical glance, but he doubted the choppy trail of his eyes fooled her.

"My grandmother and I used to cook a lot outdoors for the village for celebrations, birthdays, stuff like that," she continued. "This has always felt more natural, I guess."

There was a beat where he choked himself mentally. "…I see," was all he could think to say.

All sounds ever uttered were incorrect ones — at least, if they came from his mouth, and this uncanny ability seemed to go into overdrive whenever Katara was concerned.

It was better this way, he thought, trying to justify his habit. This was a box he definitely did not want to open.

When all the herbs, vegetables, and fish were boiling in the pot, Katara sat back on her heels. He thought she would overlook her work with pride, but after a year of being saddled with all the domestic chores, it was simply a monotonous routine. She sat completed, but unexcited.

Zuko, on the other hand, stared at the smoke rather than the pot's contents. In the opaque tendrils of the fire, he saw hazy remnants of regret. No matter what, it seemed he'd see phantoms everywhere.

Zuko was used to flashes of the past, fragments of memories digging themselves up at odd times, but it wasn't ever like this, shadowing over him so much like the storm clouds on that night with his sister and her friends. And Mai.

"So," Katara started, stirring the pot with her bending. Her intonation made him think that he he should've run off when he had the chance. "So…" she began again. "I've told you something, now it's your turn."

There was a definite mischievous glint in her eyes, but she kept her face composed in an innocent fashion.

"It's only fair," she said simply.

This was absolutely his fault. He should've realized that a little screaming from Sokka wouldn't deter her from getting what she wanted. He should've realized that her not talking or looking at him had been missed opportunities to leave. Damn her and the way she fogged his mind.

"There's nothing to say," Zuko answered, tone carefully controlled.

"Nothing? At all?" Katara pressed.

"Nothing," he repeated, "at all…"

"Look," she said firmly, now trying a different route. "If you're going to be part of the group, then you're gonna have to participate."

"…In talks?" Zuko drawled.

"In talks, in group hugs, in games, in whatever the group does," she clarified. Katara rested her hands on her hips and he frowned, thinking about sitting around the fireplace and dusting off skeletons in front of them. That didn't seem cathartic whatsoever.

"And you can't just say, 'Nothing.'" She mimicked the raspiness of his voice — he was slightly offended, thinking that his voice wasn't that raspy, and if it currently sounded like it, it was only because of the asthma attacks. Expressing his disagreement, however, would mean spilling his secret, so Zuko opted to roll his eyes instead.

"There's definitely something. So… Just — tell me anything. It doesn't have to be a deep, dark secret," she prodded. "Like… Tell me what were you gonna say back then?"

There was a shiver — an image of her hand against his face in the dim glow of the caves.

"Back in the room?" she said.

"I wasn't going to say anything," he argued.

"Liar. You were, before Sokka started yelling."

Agni, so she saw.

"Nothing. I told you: my family's batshit crazy and I've already made peace with it." He immediately regretted the instinctual steeliness in his voice, but this was necessary.

Katara kept her gaze, but Zuko wouldn't make the same mistake again so soon, keeping his eyes in front of him. The smoke seemed to be taking the form of Mai's face.

"I just asked if you were cold."

He felt Katara lean in. For a waterbender, it was always warmer around her.

Zuko couldn't keep still suddenly; his leg was shaking, and his eyes flickered from her smooth neck to the ground to the face in the smoke — to a little Azula in the center of the plaza, holding a wooden sword at a small Zuko's throat.

"Die, Water Spirit! Die! I, Hero Azula, have slain you!"

"Argh… I will have my revenge! You will rue this day, Hero Azula!"

"The Fire Nation is safe once again!"

The tentacles of the smoke raised upward, shielding the memory from view, so he turned to look at the sun-touched girl beside him and yearned for things he couldn't have and things he couldn't change.

It wasn't nothing. But that didn't mean he had to voice it; it didn't mean he needed to tell her, and he didn't want to, and he shouldn't, and he couldn't because he couldn't change the past and he couldn't take back words said in the heat of cruelty, and things were complicated and Mai never cared and Katara was supposed to be with Aang and it was just so hard to breathe sometimes, it was just so hard to be in his skin.

Zuko met her gaze, felt gravity surround him, the tug, the pull, the force of her presence — and he could make a second mistake, he thought, he could make two mistakes so close together because maybe it'd be okay; it could be okay; he could be okay; this could all be okay —

"It's nothing I can't handle," he said quietly, as honest as he could be, hiding in all of these shadows.

Katara leaned forward. "You're not alone anymore, Zuko."

Sokka jumped in front of the pot, then, noisily breathing in the savory aromas and obnoxiously gripping his sister in joy. Aang and Toph came back, lured by the smell, and the noise level increased tenfold with shouts and cackles.

While Katara was distracted by the sudden chaos, Zuko took the chance to gratefully slip away, his head buzzing and pulsing. In the halls, he made sure not to look at the room with the notches in its doorframe and quickly returned to his bed where he fell into a fitful, homesick sleep.

---

"Mornin' Sparky."

Zuko looked to the doorway; Toph was leaning against the frame with her arms crossed, head tilted in his direction.

"I overslept again," he deduced aloud.

"Yup."

Zuko groaned into his pillow.

The past few days had been rougher than he had expected. At first, it was bearable. There were random bursts of memories, silhouettes and shadows fading around the corners, the feel of fabric when he stood too close to cobwebs. But he thought he could handle it, thought that it would go away, but then the nightmares came, the spotty sleep, the restlessness, the irritation, the suffocation.

This was the third time he had slept through the day without getting any actual rest. Most of the hours right before dawn was spent with him gasping for air, and then collapsing and hoping he'd wake up later.

"Aang's waiting?" Zuko asked.

"Yeah," Toph said. "I've got him doing your flaming squats or whatever as a warm-up."

"Thanks," he said, stifling a groan as he got to his feet.

"Trouble sleeping lately, Sparky?" It was a statement, not a question.

The thought struck Zuko, then, that maybe Azula would've turned out like Toph — if Azula didn't have demon in her blood.

"I can tell when people are lying, 'ya know," the earthbender reminded him. "Well, Sparky?" she said when he didn't respond. "We're losing daylight here."

"You can't even see daylight…" he sighed.

Toph snorted. "I'm not wrong, though."

"I'm sleeping fine —"

"Ha!"

Damn her hearing.

A silence settled in between them. Wasn't there some way he could opt out of this group therapy subscription?

"I can hear you tossing and turning," Toph said abruptly.

He held his breath. Was that all she could hear?

"It's just a crappy bed —"

"And?"

"And that's it," Zuko finished, shrugging automatically. "It's a crappy bed."

The silence returned, but rather than a passive curtain fall, it buzzed with unasked questions and ringing impatience. He thought he'd get further hounded, but Toph turned and headed down the hall and threw "Aang's waiting in the courtyard" behind her. As least she knew when to leave him be.

After washing up, Zuko made his way toward the training area. When he rounded the corner, he saw Katara and instantly tried to backtrack, his heart and stomach jumping for a myriad of reasons. However, considering the universe was never on his side, she had caught sight of him and completely changed directions.

Zuko tried to outpace her around another corner, but her voice carried — Must run in the family…

"Hey! Hey, jerkbender!" Katara called. "What the hell?"

"I'm late for Aang's training," Zuko said, quickening his pace, but she yanked his arm. The scar on his face and the arm she gripped burned and prickled.

"Why've you been ignoring me?" Katara demanded.

"I haven't been ignoring you."

It was too early for this — or late — or whatever. It didn't matter, because there was never a time appropriate enough for Katara's (intuitive) persecution.

"You've gotta participate, remember?" she said.

"…I'm late." He pulled out of her grasp.

"And you've been avoiding me, too," she accused, but Zuko shook his head dismissively, and said, "No, Katara, I haven't," and then he turned the other way to continue avoiding her.

---

"Sorry," Zuko said, jogging onto the scene as Aang finished up the rest of his squats.

"It's okay," Aang said, smiling hesitantly at him. "Are…you alright, though?"

His head throbbed in time to the aggravating question.

"I'm fine. Let's start — it's late enough as is."

Aang stared at him, one of his monk expressions that Zuko was getting used to; he pulled it out whenever he felt like the Avatar needed to step in and do his duties (whatever that meant when it concerned the dynamic of a group of raggedy kids trying to save the world).

"Zuko, you haven't been talking much," Aang noted.

It was an inaccurate statement.

What the boy meant was that Zuko didn't share personal information like the rest of them.

"Firebending's about breathing, Aang, not talking."

"But — "

"I'm fine! Would everyone just stop asking!"

Zuko's last exhale came out as steam, and he immediately regretted the outburst. His uncle was always telling him how he was too hasty, too hotheaded, a trait attributed to his father's wildfire blood.

Zuko took in another breath in an attempt to calm himself. "I just have a crappy bed. I'm fine."

"…Alright."

Before an unsettling atmosphere could find its way into their conversation, Zuko positioned himself into a familiar firebending stance, his torso strong and his legs rooted to the ground.

"Let's start on some forms," Zuko instructed.

There was another hesitation from Aang. He looked as if he wanted to try and use his great wisdom and monks' advice to pull at Zuko, to peel off the layers and find the beating hurt beneath, but Zuko kept his gaze firm and steady, and Aang had no choice but to agree in the end, sliding into the same form.

Zuko went about reviewing what he remembered from the last time he and Aang had practiced. Like his Uncle Iroh had taught, Zuko focused on the basics. Aang still wasn't breathing properly, so Zuko tried to strengthen his foundation while simultaneously teach him more advanced skillsets — not the most efficient tactic, but they had to make do.

As usual, the training was grueling. Firebending drills were just as rough for the teacher, but these days, everything was worse with so many distractions. There was the normal anxiety of Sozin's comet looming over them, but then there was also his mother watching from the dim windows, his father disappearing around corners, little Azula perfecting her fire forms behind them.

It was hard to concentrate. It was hard to keep the hammering in his head at bay.

In front of him, Aang sent out a weak punch of fire, finishing up the form. His shoulders sagged, already knowing that his performance had been subpar.

"Again!" Zuko shouted.

Aang recoiled from the yell, but he sighed, straightened his back, and began the form again.

"No, I loved watching you."

"— Zuko?"

Aang was looking at him. Zuko shook his head to rid himself of the past, clinging to him like cobwebs.

"You need to be fiercer," Zuko advised. "You're not going to do any damage with those candle flames, Aang."

"I know…"

"Do it again, and remember your breathing!"

"Suffering will be your teacher."

"Again, Aang!"

"You'll never catch up."

"Aang! Are you fighting or are you dancing? Do it again!"

Zuko could feel himself getting more frustrated. He could see the red of fire and anger, could feel the old wounds opening up with sparking burns and scorching regrets.

As Aang practiced, Zuko quietly did his own breathing practices, keeping the fire from starting in his throat, keeping the steam from developing. He knew that Aang responded to a specific type of teaching, knew that his vexation wasn't from the young boy but from the phantoms, the memories. But every misstep Aang made, every tiny flame that didn't blossom into an explosion, every hand movement steeped in airbending swiftness rather than firebending fury made Azula's shadow grow until all he could see was wildfire red.

"Aang!" Zuko shouted. "What the hell? You're not doing it right!"

"I'm sorry," Aang said quickly, cringing. "I'm really trying!"

"Where's the ferocity? Are you going tiptoe around Ozai, too?"

"I'm sorry, Zuko, but I'm try— "

"Try harder!"

Aang charged forward and kicked into the air. A weak fire shot out from the base of his foot; he stumbled on his landing.

There was a pulsing behind Zuko's eyes. Why did it feel like there were so many people watching him? Like an entire stadium of people waiting for him to drop to his knees?

"Maybe we should take a break," Aang suggested, sighing.

"No," Zuko growled. "Do you think the Fire Lord takes breaks from planning world destruction? Do you think Azula takes breaks from hunting you down?"

"I just think —"

"Think what? Azula can do all of this and more! She's faster, she's deadlier, she can freakin' create lightning — she mastered all of this before she even turned twelve, and I can't even — "

Zuko caught himself then; the words died in his throat, leaving as weary smoke, the fading sigh of a buried fire rather than a dragon's breath.

Several of the group members were gathered on the outskirts of the plaza. He felt their eyes stabbing into his back, and he briefly was reminded of the times they were on opposite sides, the way they used to look at him with suspicious scowls, and for a moment he thought they would strike him down. Nothing happened though, and maybe he wished something did.

Zuko dug his nails into his palms, thinking that every drop of blood pulled would never add up to all the lives he ruined, all the lives his family took.

"We're done," he muttered, and then he turned and left the courtyard.

---

He didn't know where to go. It was an island, for Agni's sake. It wasn't as if he could simply up and leave on a boat, and it wasn't as if the island was all expansive and he could disappear in a tucked away corner.

He ended up pacing in the hallways for a few minutes, but then the thought of bumping into anyone and having to talk about what just happened overrode any part of him that thought the open halls were a good idea. He made his way into his room and took a seat on his bed, and then he stood and paced, and then sat back down; and then he started to pace again.

There was a moving shadow in the corner.

"You know you don't belong here."

Don't look at her, he told himself. This was all in his head. This was the curse of Ember Island. It made you crazy. It was making him crazy.

"Oh, really, brother, have you been reduced to such a mannerless savage so soon? Can't even greet your favorite baby sister?"

"Not now Azula," he growled, massaging his temples. "Great," he muttered. "Great. Now I'm replying to a figment of my imagination."

The shadow Azula laughed. He still refused to look over there.

"Even on the other side, you're pathetic."

"Azula, I said not now!" He turned to the corner, fuming, heaving, aching, but no one was there.

---

Zuko had found safety in the trees, making his way onto their leaning branches from a window on the second floor. Still, he wasn't completely free from the webs. The whole island had voices caught on the wind, and the salt and sea in the air mixed unsettlingly with the nostalgic bittersweetness of the past. You couldn't escape Ember Island's magic — hexes, really — but at least up here, in the trees, things were a little more peaceful. At least up here, he could try to process things, even if he didn't really want to — even if he wasn't sure if he could, or if he even knew how.

Zuko leaned back against the bark, fingers reaching up to his dry lips to peel back the rough skin.

His mom was actually alive somewhere.

His father would soon be dead — or imprisoned, but really, at that point, did it even matter? He'd either die at the hands of the Avatar, or he'd die cold and alone in a cell; and, considering his fire prowess, the former option was most likely necessary to peace and penance.

And then there was Azula who had proven that she'd haunt him even if she wasn't around, so no matter her fate, Zuko didn't think he'd ever get rid of her.

He wished it was more of a sign, though, like the spirit world was trying to tell him there was still some good in her and that she could be saved, salvaged, but it was probably trying to condemn him for not being a better brother. Or maybe it was just that the demon in Azula would never sleep, be it in distance or death.

He hated this damn island.

There was a sudden creaking of wood. He turned his head to see Sokka leaning against the windowsill, basked in the fading sunlight.

"Mother goose-hen Katara is on the rampage," Sokka announced.

"Aang tattled," Zuko said.

"Yes, and no." He shrugged. "I mean, you were pretty loud."

Zuko groaned, wondering if the problems would ever stop stacking.

"And I wouldn't really call it tattling."

"Why's that? Because I deserved it?"

"No, 'cause everyone's worried about you."

He could feel Sokka's stare into the side of his neck.

It was strange, to say the least, hearing this from Sokka and not Katara, the one who normally tried to push group bonds. It gave him a warmth, but he wouldn't say that it changed his mind about anything. There was a reason why skeletons were buried.

Sokka coughed, but it sounded fake, like he wasn't sure how to approach the conversation, how to reach out his hands to someone who didn't just know things — (how to share, how to hold without grasping, which path to take at the fork in the road) — like the rest of his friends simply innately knew.

"I'm not one for touchy-feely talks, but… But maybe you should, you know, talk about it, or something."

"…With you?"

"No, like with Katara or Suk –– hey, wait, why wouldn't you talk to me?"

The reason why should be obvious. It was Sokka after all.

"No, no, you'd be a great person to talk to," Zuko amended quickly. Sokka seemed to have been soothed over with that, despite the fact that his sentence did end in a tilt of confusion. Zuko cleared his throat habitually; the action brought a quick flitter of pain. "I don't have anything to say, though. Honest."

Sokka stared at him, unfazed. "Riiight…because you normally go on crazy rants about Azula in the middle of training Aang."

Zuko winced, guilty.

"But I can kinda get it, you know."

Neither of them were making eye contact with each other. Sokka had his boomerang in hand, twirling it slowly between his fingers. The action was half-hearted, despite his intense stare at the movement. Zuko, for his part, had his gaze angled toward the setting sky, though he couldn't help the peripheral gaze at the other.

"My dad was kind of like you," Sokka noted. "Besides the psychotic screaming episode part."

"Yeah, yeah," he grumbled.

"When we lost our mom," Sokka continued, "he never got mad at us, or yelled at us, but…you could tell that he saw her, sometimes, in the middle of the room, or when things just got too hard. He took a lot of long walks early in the morning, or maybe it was late at night and he just stayed out until then…" He trailed off. Then, he asked, "Do you see things?"

Tensing, Zuko debated lying.

Sokka, taking his silence for confusion, went on, "Like, in the halls or in the rooms or something, or even when you're with us?"

Zuko debated lying because that was his first instinct. Things were different in his family. Hesitation, doubt, vulnerability — all weakness to be manipulated. He had a hard time even speaking to his Uncle, though he knew Uncle Iroh would never prey on someone else's ache — and he knew these people would never either.

So he turned his head to look behind Sokka because he saw things now, threads of the past lining and crossing in the halls behind them, quick passing figures with their old footsteps creaking the old floors; and he heard things, too, the walls whispering past conversations, singing from a woman whose face he could never quite make out in the darkness, laughter from a little girl he didn't recognize anymore.

"Yeah," Zuko murmured. "Yeah." He pulled his gaze away from the lingering shadows to the small children on the beach assigning character roles to the horizon, and that, too, wasn't free from the cobwebs. "They say the island's cursed," he deadpanned.

Sokka snorted. "Seems like you're cursed, buddy." Then, he said, "Maybe we're cursed, all of us. Explains our situation in this war, huh?"

Zuko sighed achingly. "Yeah, maybe."

"So, what do you see?" Sokka asked, his tone carefully neutral in a manner that was so self-aware that Zuko almost re-evaluated his entire opinion on the other.

"Shadows," Zuko said. "Memories. Spiderwebs."

"…No people?"

When Zuko turned his head, he saw that Sokka was looking at him, the boomerang now still in his hands.

He thought, not for the first time, that it'd be good to grasp someone by the arm and confess that he was haunted by the living in a way the dead could never. He didn't expect salvation or solutions, but maybe with someone know, with someone there, he could finally sleep, put these ghosts to rest.

But Zuko couldn't take that step forward. He didn't know if it was pride, or shame, or the thought that he deserved this, or his father's cruel and deceitful blood in his veins, but even though Iroh had always warned him of insanity that awaited people who built tall towers, Zuko still swallowed the truth and shook his head and continued to construct fortresses.

"Just shadows," he lied, voice barely above a whisper.

"Oh." Sokka looked ahead into the sky.

They stayed in silence for a little while, until Sokka cleared his throat and Zuko was reminded of how he didn't deserve all the chances he was given.

"I didn't see my mom after she, after it — you know." Sokka inhaled sharply. Zuko nodded, understanding why some words didn't need to be given breath. "I heard her, though, afterwards. It was weird."

At an old remembrance, one side of Sokka's lip tilted upward into a half-smile. "I would wake up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom, and I swear — I swear — I heard her telling me to watch my step, to go back to sleep, asking if I remembered to rinse my mouth out before bed."

Zuko listened, but he didn't know what to say. He felt like he was supposed to say something. Was this what talks were like? There was so much heaviness in between the conversations, so much sea of quiet that no one could break through. He bit his bottom lip, feeling a piece of dried skin that he had missed.

"It didn't happen for long, just a few weeks. I never told Katara. I guess I felt — bad, almost, because she had nightmares for months about it afterwards, and I just… I dunno, I just heard her for only a little bit."

His voice cracked toward the end, the hand gripping the boomerang tight and shaking, knuckles white.

They all paid heavy prices in this war, Zuko thought. No skin was unmarred from Fire Nation hands — no skin was unmarred from other people.

"I…had a crappy childhood," Zuko announced, pointedly not looking at Sokka. He could say this much, he thought. "It wasn't always crappy. There was a small time period of not-crappiness…and then it was suddenly crappy all over."

"What happened?" Sokka asked. "What made everything change?"

"I'm not sure," Zuko murmured. He felt an ache, a small ghost hand squeezing on his heart. "Sometimes I think it was almost…pre-destined. Like it had to be. Like it was always supposed to be this way."

"You don't think we have a choice?" Sokka frowned, obviously uncomfortable with the thought that their path was already set.

"No, not like that." Zuko shook his head. "It's just — I feel like…I don't think I had a choice — I don't think Azula had a choice. I think our blood is fucked up, to be honest, so fucking up is just inevitable." He rubbed at his face, fatigued from the past nights and all the thoughts and theories in his head. "But maybe it's just a copout way of thinking. If there was no way to save her, then I wouldn't have to feel bad that I didn't. That I can't."

"…It's not your fault," Sokka said.

A sharp, biting laugh came out of Zuko. "We don't know that! I don't know that!"

He ran his hands through hair. As he reached the back of his head, he grasped the strands, as if tugging on them tightly would shift his head into the right place and he would be able to see every thread in the tapestry, understand every paint stroke in the universe's canvas, and everything would make sense and he wouldn't have throbbing migraines of someone who was both mighty Fire Prince and so, so small.

"Some days I think it's freakin' destiny," Zuko continued. He heard himself begin to ramble but he couldn't stop it. "And other days it's like — like I could've done something — I'm her older brother, right? We grew up together so I should've, I dunno, fuckin' seen something — "

"Seen what?" Sokka's voice cut through, soft.

Zuko deflated when he looked at him, feeling a sadness wash over him, an emptiness he didn't think was possible, one he hadn't let himself feel ever since Azula traded heroic antics for lightning strikes.

He looked back down to his hands. "Anything," Zuko said. "Anything that would've told me something. I'm her big brother, you know?"

Sokka nodded slowly, eyes glossing over at the blue water glistening in the fading light. If anyone understood, it had to be him.

"I know," Sokka said. "But that's all we are. And, in your case, no offense, but maybe it was your crazy dad. Bet that didn't help any."

"Definitely didn't help." Zuko snorted. "My mom — our mom — wanted me to teach her, though. Stupid things. I never could."

In the distance, against the white shore and the pearl foam, he saw that the little figures were still playing in the water.

His eyes were burning and his chest was tight. Zuko exhaled shakily, keeping the flow low and soft to minimize any vulnerable sounds that could leave with the air. He was suddenly afraid an attack would happen right then and there, but besides the heaviness, he felt the air rush in and out of his lungs without obstacle.

"That's pretty rough," Sokka said — but not awkwardly or at a loss of words, just in the way another person knew that they were all small paint strokes or scattered pebbles. "I don't think anything was your fault, though. It's crazy to think you could've caused Azula to be, like, you know, that. And, yeah, you chased us halfway across the world but — but you were in a tight spot, too. I get it now." He rubbed under his nose in that peculiar way he thought was cool. "You have your mom's blood, too, you know. My tribe says it's the better half, anyways."

If Zuko wasn't trying to bite back tears, he would've smiled.

"You can talk to me any time," Sokka said carefully, as if he was trying out the foreign vulnerability between his teeth for the first time. "Bro to bro."

Zuko shook his head imperceptibly at the word choice. "Right… Bro to bro."

Sokka let another moment of silence fall between them, Zuko continuing his careful watch of the sunset and Sokka re-familiarizing the feel of the boomerang in his hands. Then, as if he had reached his limit of solemnity, Sokka pushed off the windowsill forcefully.

"Alright!" he exclaimed. "Well, I'll go keep the rest of them busy and I'll just…you know, let you be, so, uh, sulk away."

Sokka paused at the corner of the hall, looking back. "Thanks — for telling me." Then, he disappeared around the corner, cutting through shadow with his limbs long and gangly and gawky and kind.

Zuko felt exhaustion settle into his bones. He thought these types of things were supposed to be cathartic, but he just felt tired and sad.

He turned back to the sky, watched how the night crept up slowly from behind the tangles of light, and then they were all suddenly devoured at once by darkness and wolfbats and spirits.

---

Zuko shifts his position so that his toes are closer to the red flames, enjoying the heat, the sound of their crackling hymns.

"Mom didn't visit me before she died."

Zuko glances at his sister, sitting a few feet away on a log. His heart and lungs and ribs and spine curl and contort painfully at the mention of their mother, but he keeps agony off his face. With the angle and the glow of the fire, Azula's face is covered in strange shadows that make her look menacing, and wistful.

"But she visited you, Zuzu." The words are said blankly, without emotion, without the condescending layer that he is used to from his sister's sharp tone.

He doesn't know how she knows, and he doesn't know why she would bring it up now. He never believed his sister thought of that night; Zuko, on the other hand, is always thinking back to that hazy moment, wondering if there was something he could have done. (Maybe if he had wiped the sleep from his eyes sooner. Maybe if he had gotten up for the bathroom like he usually did. Maybe if he hadn't worn socks that night. Maybe…)

He wonders when Mai and Ty Lee would return from wherever it is they said they'd disappear to. This isn't a conversation he wants to have.

"She visited you," Zuko insists, but his heart isn't really in it.

Azula snaps at him. "Oh, really. I didn't know it was your hobby to be up at all times of the night, completely aware of who went where."

He scowls. "Whatever."

Why does he bother? It doesn't even matter anymore. He is back; he has his title, his honor, his father's love, a girlfriend — but some things don't change.

He can still hear his mother's words, but he digs his feet deeper into the sand as if rooting himself from being whisked away into the past.

Some things don't change, he tells himself. Some people don't change. Whatever Azula wants, she isn't going to get it from him, and she obviously wants something. She is manipulative and selfish like that.

Despite his resolve, Zuko still glances at her. She is staring into the fire. He sees the flames in her eyes, not as a reflection but a source, as if she was birthed from the ashes of a wildfire, the heat coursing red and orange in her veins. He thinks that if she was birthed from the fire, then he must've been thrown into it.

"You were always her favorite," Azula says without looking at him.

"You were always Father's favorite," he says.

"I still am." She says it sickly sweet.

Zuko glowers at his half-hidden feet. He can only shrug. "Yeah."

He thinks of the time Azula had thrown all of his socks into the pond, of how she punched him in the stomach when he hugged her afterwards, of how she stepped into the murky water, dirtied with the leaves and the debris of the passing storm, her pants' legs hiked up to her knees as she helped him find all the ones she had thrown in.

He glances from his feet to her feet, small, nails trimmed and painted.

For some reason Zuko thinks of his mom and how she had tugged on his ear and cupped his cheek and fixed his hair.

For some reason he sees her smile in the flames, faded and forlorn, not as bright as he thought it'd be.

"Mom visited you," he announces suddenly.

Azula scoffs, rolling her eyes.

"She wasn't like that," he says. "She visited you, even if you don't remember, even if you weren't awake."

"Sure, Zuzu, because she was some kind of perfect angel," she drawls.

"Teach her, my brave boy."

"Show her."

"My own mother thought I was a monster."

"My brave boy."

"My Zuko."

---

He woke up on fire.

It was all back, the stifled air, the collapsing chest, the shaking lungs, the heaving gasps from someone so insignificant in the face of the galaxy.

Zuko leaned his head back against the wall. It'll pass, it'll pass, it'll pass.

He wished he could say that he was getting used to it, that it wasn't as bad as the first time. Unfortunately, every night seemed to be worst than the last. Perhaps he could've gotten accustomed to the attacks were they more consistent, but he never knew when they would come next or for how long or which memories would be dug up to haunt him for the rest of the night.

Zuko felt the abrupt powerful need to cough up his lungs. There was nothing else in his stomach; all that was left to regurgitate were his organs. When that urge passed, he resumed his wheezing, hand clutching the tightness of his chest, eyes pressed shut. His body tilted over to the left, not enough energy to hold himself upright, and soon he let himself fall from the bed to the ground.

He crawled to the edge of his door, following the path he had carved out in the dust two nights before.

This was always the hardest part, making his way toward the open air of the courtyard.

He heaved against the floor, knowing that pressing his face against the dirtied ground would only aggravate his situation, but this was a necessary part. He had to grovel in the soot and stone before he could make his way to open skies. This was not an unfamiliar path; this was not an unfamiliar necessity. He felt that he was always looking up from the dirt, from the ashes of all his actions.

Every movement was fire and torment. He made the same steps, the same grimy fingernails gripping the edges of sandy walls to propel himself forward and support every unsteady gasp for air — and still, it hurt all the worse. Nothing was familiar; he still wasn't used to the feel of flames at his skin, despite the many times he had burned himself in training, or the times that Azula had used him for target practice, or the time that his father had wanted to teach him a permanent lesson. He had grown up suffocating on the fumes of flames and yet it seemed he would never become accustomed to the way they seared.

When Zuko finally made it to the open plaza, he fell to his knees, the sharp impact dull against his rupturing diaphragm. He crawled several more steps until he couldn't any further, collapsing onto his stomach.

He knew he needed to roll over. He could taste the dust, dirt, and sand in his mouth, in his throat, in his lungs. He needed to roll over, see the skies and breathe new air, but he was using so much energy already to resist closing his eyes and slipping into the pain. He wasn't sure if he could do anything else.

"Zuko?"

He tensed, the instinctive movement exacerbating his already strained body.

No, no — not Katara, shit.

He didn't know why but he tried to push himself up to get away from her, though with the lack of air and all the energy it took to not drown on land, he only pushed himself to his hands and knees and did a pathetic and painful crawl before he fell again, unable to take the extra effort.

"Oh, my gods! What happened?"

Zuko felt cool hands grip his arms and turn him over. Blue eyes washed into his vision, and he was reminded of how clear the sky was that faraway day on Ember Island, how calm and peaceful and bright; he recalled laughter, a hand on his shoulder, the wind and water at his hands and feet.

He closed his eyes and tried to go back to that time, but the sound of his throat betraying him returned to his ears, followed by the feel of his chest caving in, of his head churning, of his mouth aching, and he was pulled back to the present.

"Zuko, what's happening?" Katara asked frantically, searching him for any puncture points or bloodied cuts.

"As—asth—ma," he gasped.

"You have asthma?" She gaped at him in disbelief. "You are just one walking, troublesome, disastrous jerkbender, you know that!"

"S—sorry." He didn't know if he had said it sarcastically or if he had meant it. His mouth had opened automatically, but the way he was gasping and holding his chest and the way she suddenly dropped the fire in her eyes and bit her lip suggested that it didn't matter why or how he said it.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't mean it like that — I was just thinking aloud… Come on, you can't lay on the ground and breathe in all that dust and dirt. You have to sit up."

Katara's hands were cool on his burning skin. With a little effort on her part and much rasping and groaning on his part, he was finally propped up against the fountain's foundation, still trying to coerce life back into his lungs.

Zuko looked past her ear, hoping that now he was sitting up she would leave. He didn't expect her to wait around and help him out. He wouldn't blame her either. It was better that way.

But she wasn't leaving, and everything seemed to hurt more because of it.

"Slow down," she said at his rapid attempts to grasp air.

"I'm —mm—try—trying," he retorted, and then the urge to cough was strong in the pit of his chest again, right in between his lungs, so he turned away and coughed up everything but soul and secrets. The tremors wracked through his body; he was still aware enough to awkwardly angle himself away from Katara to avoid hitting her with his shaking leg. When the coughs passed, he was back to wheezing; the noise of the air scratching against his insides on the way down felt as painful as it sounded, as everything felt so much more raw.

Katara helped him back into an upright sitting position against the stone.

He closed his eyes and tried to think about happy things or relaxing things, even though the noise of his fast rasps of dry air were deafening in his ears and chest.

Zuko thought of the moon and how it quietly shown against the shore; he thought about the ocean and how it felt to be standing in water, his toes sinking into sand — and then, as if that was all it took, he thought to his feet in the sand against the fire, Azula and her manicured toes and her slicked back hair, nothing ever out of place, thought of her eyes staring into the flames that night; how she said a lot of un-Azula-like things that made a lot of sense but no sense at all, and that made him feel sorry for her, pity her, made him remember his mother and her words…

There was misery in his throat and searing under his skin. He clenched his eyes shut and forced his thoughts back to the moon, but it only took him back to his toes in the sand, and then the heaving was worse and he felt as if he was going to black out from the lack of oxygen because now it seemed almost impossible to get even a whisper of breath down, and oh, sweet Agni, he couldn't do anything right, couldn't even breathe properly, couldn't even —

"Zuko!"

Tender hands pressed against his face.

"Look at me. Slower," Katara said. "You have to breathe slower. Just look at me, come on, Zuko."

Humiliation curled at the edges of his eyes. He flinched and tried to turn away, but Katara held on firmly, gently. Her thumb was on the edge of his scar and even though he was suddenly so aware of how rough his skin was against her delicate fingers, she paid it no mind.

"In through your nose, out through your mouth. Slower, slower… Yes, like that, good. No, don't close your eyes, yet — just keep looking at me."

It seemed to be working for a few seconds; Zuko thought he was getting a hold on it, felt the holes slowly cover up, the air finally making its way through his body as he breathed in time with her instructions — but then it came back full force. He was shaking, his hands curling into tight, frustrated fists, nails drawing blood from his skin in crescent cuts.

"Just focus on my voice," Katara insisted. "Look at me — it'll pass."

He wanted to believe her so badly, but just like that time in the glowing caves, he felt there were other, more convincing arguments.

Zuko rested his fists on her waist. She didn't say anything, and that seemed to strike something in him, a hope, a desperation, a need.

Maybe a close body would help — or was that just the thoughts of a panicked man?

Would he die here, like this, suffocating on his own terrors? If this was the end for him, he wouldn't mind dying in her arms.

Would she be sad?

Would she remember him here, like this, small and shaking, ten years later? Or would she always see him as the face of the Fire Nation, the people that took her blood and culture from her?

He forced his fists to relax, and then he swore and he knew this was a mistake (everything he did was a mistake), but he needed this, needed her so much more than he ever needed anyone before, and Zuko gripped her waist and pulled her to him, her yelp of surprising twisting a guilt in his stomach — but please, if there was any spirit listening, he'd take all the punishments later — one moment, just give me one moment — because right now his chest was on fire and his insides were raw and he felt bare and barren in this pain of being in his own skin, a pain he never thought he'd feel again (not after that time; not after that fire), and he feverishly and fiercely wanted her soothing touch; and he was sorry, so sorry that he couldn't hold, couldn't touch gingerly; that, just like Azula, he could only mark and mar.

Zuko rested his pulsing forehead, sweaty and dirty, on her shoulder, and he prayed that all the universe and spirits and Katara would be okay with him trying to catch his breath like this, just for a little bit.

His arms wrapped around her waist, gripping onto red cloth. He could feel the rapid beating of her heart (or was that his?). She tensed beneath him, stiff like stone, and Zuko felt the rising insecurity, the understanding that all he could have was just a few seconds, that was all he deserved — right, right, of course, he was tainted and wrong and always late to every right path, and she'd never want anyone like that touching her — and then Katara surprised him.

She was always surprising him.

In his unmarked ear, Katara sighed as if sorry and placed a hand on his head, in his hair. She shifted her legs so that she was straddling him carefully. Any other time and he would've flushed and spluttered, but at that moment he was so thankful to sink into her hold. At that moment, he remembered that she had touched him first in grace beneath green light, and she had forgiven him first in understanding atop a rickety dock.

"In through your nose," she reminded him softly, "out through your mouth. You still have to sit up straight; don't lean into me too much."

She counted the seconds with him to help him slow his breathing. There was a hand in his hair and another rubbing his back in a cooling sensation; he suspected she was using her bending.

"Slower, slower, good," she murmured.

He gasped out, unable to get as much air in his last inhale. His body shook and he was suddenly afraid that he was holding her too tight, but she didn't let go.

"It's okay. It'll pass — you're doing good," Katara whispered. "Breathe in, out, slower, slower…"

Zuko closed his eyes and focused on her voice, intimate in his ear, on her fingers brushing through his hair, on the cooling tingling on his back, on the fact that she would let him be this close, that he had the opportunity to be this close, despite the laws of the universe.

She smelled of stones and vegetation. He wondered why he thought she would smell of oceans and river lotuses.

"It'll pass," she said again.

He felt her lips brush against his ear and held onto her tighter.

It'll pass…it'll pass.

"You were lucky to be born."

In through the nose…

"Oh, Zu-Zu, you know I love you."

…out through the mouth.

"Teach her, my brave boy."

It'll pass, it'll pass.

"I'm ready to forgive you."

It'll pass.

"I'm ready to forgive you."

---

It felt as if they had been in that position for days, but his lungs finally opened up and the heaviness on his chest dissipated, and he was able to slow and steady his breathing. Zuko slumped his shoulders, exhausted, relieved, and very aware of the strong pulsing in his chest, the rhythmic tapping of his defiance. Her hands were still in his hair and against his upper back; and she was still in his lap. She hadn't rejected him off her shoulder, either, but he was too tired to turn red.

Zuko shifted his head to a more comfortable position in the once-secret nook of her neck; he was tired, so tired. He'd accept the retributions later, tomorrow, but for now, this was all he could want. The moon was high, too high for it to be close to dawn, and for that, he was grateful.

Zuko felt both hands in his hair. She was picking it apart, as if she was analyzing the strands. Every few seconds she would twist them between her fingers and he couldn't resist shivering.

"What were you dreaming about?" Katara asked.

He didn't have the energy to show his surprise, but as if she was sensing his thoughts, she added, "I heard you tossing and turning earlier." Her voice was soft, but it seemed to echo around the empty plaza, fluttering out slowly into the night sky.

He knew he would answer her; fine wasn't an option, and it wasn't because of the attack.

Maybe it was because she was still holding onto him; maybe it was because he was still lightheaded; maybe it was because there were still ghostly touches of fire in his chest; or maybe, it was because it was Katara who had asked, and she had but to ask and he'd give her all he had in his heart and hand, this one person who pushed and pulled him in her orbit, like the sun, like the moon, like inevitability.

"My past," he murmured.

"Is that the trigger?" she asked.

"I guess." Zuko sighed. It came out as steam. He hoped he hadn't burnt her.

"…You're a real mess, you know that, jerkbender?"

He let out a mirthless chuckle, cringing at how his throat felt after usage.

A silence settled around them, different than the one that had settled around him and Sokka earlier that day. He tried not to realize that she fitted against him more perfectly than Mai, but his skin and muscle and bones were already memorizing her curves.

"…Was it about your mom?" she asked.

Zuko swallowed painfully. "Yeah," he whispered. "And about Uncle Iroh — and my father, and Azula…"

Katara didn't say anything. He had thought she would have something compassionate to say that would suddenly erase everything he was feeling, make things better, make sense; but that was too high an expectation for anybody.

After all, who could reply to something like that, much less say anything that could fix it? How could she stitch together all the cuts and scars of a story that spread across so many countries, across so much time? His whole family was messed up, so messed up that, by the end of the war, he'd probably lose everyone in his immediate bloodline to death or imprisonment.

What was there to say in front of a cold truth like that?

When she realized that he wouldn't continue without her prodding, she asked, "What about them?"

"Little things," he replied. Then, "Everything."

"I see," she said.

Zuko smiled bitterly. "Do you?"

Her hand was on the back of his neck. "I'm trying to."

Of course she was, he thought. Katara was always trying, even when he was making every wrong decision possible.

"This is why you've been acting mopier and angrier than usual?" she observed.

He shifted his head in a small nod, unable to spare the energy for an answer she already figured out.

"You should've asked for help, dummy," Katara scolded. "How long has this been going on for?"

Forever, he thought.

"You should've told —" She broke off. "You should've told someone."

He nodded and she sighed.

"We're going to have to get up soon," she advised.

"Not yet," he protested weakly. "Just a few more minutes. Please."

"…Alright." Katara sank deeper into his hold — or was it that Zuko was sinking into hers? Was she holding onto him, or was it the other way around? Could he imagine that it was a mutual grasp, that as much as he orbited around her, so did she in his field of gravity?

Water pushed and pulled, but didn't fire also sway in such a way?

"Sokka told me what you guys talked about," she said, and then added as an after thought, "Don't be mad at him."

Zuko grunted. There was a faint flame that told him he should be annoyed, but he was too exhausted to care and the feeling was quickly stamped out.

"I'm sorry," Katara said. "Sometimes I forget that this war is hard on everyone. You're not an exception." She traced lines against the back of his neck with her nails. He shuddered. "But you shouldn't blame yourself. Azula is… If you want to blame yourself for anything, you've got plenty of stupid things to choose from. Azula — she's not one of them."

He tried to snort, but it turned into a stinging cough. "Nice pep talk…"

"Could've had it sooner had you just said something, geez."

She shifted in his hold, and for a panicked second, he thought she was trying to move away from him, but she simply repositioned herself a little more comfortably on his lap.

"I'll keep that in mind next time I'm suffocating on the floor," Zuko remarked.

"I'm serious, Zuko," she said sternly, jabbing her finger into his back. "No more of this lone wolfbat nonsense. Don't participate in group talks or sit around the fire with us or whatever, but you need to talk to — " She paused again. He didn't know if it was hesitation, or realization, or careful calculation of the next words, but after a second's thought, she wrapped her arms around him and shook her head.

"You need to talk to me," Katara declared softly. "You need to talk to me, okay."

And for the first time, the exhaustion in his bones wasn't from a fatigue of being in his skin or of carrying a devastating legacy on his shoulders, but from someone finally lifting it, just for a second. It was an exhaustion that seeped in between the ribs after you let the caustic sob take everything it needed to make room for new soil.

"…Okay," Zuko whispered.

He heard her breath catch like there was something more she wanted to say, something else she wanted to ask. In the end, she simply said, "Good. Now come on, let's go back to sleep."

When Katara pulled out of his hold, Zuko immediately felt a buzzing in the empty space where she should've been — where she was, he corrected mentally. She grabbed his arm and helped him up, and though she offered for him to throw an arm around her shoulders, he declined not on pride but on the fact that, if he got another arm around her, he was sure he wouldn't let go again.

Now knowing how she felt against him, he wondered if he'd ever be able to hold anyone else. The way his body vibrated hollowly led him to understand that, from now on, it was either Katara or empty space.

"Why are you up?" he asked, wincing when he heard how strained his voice sounded. He tried to clear his throat to clean up whatever was left that was blocking his voice, but all that came from that was a sharp ache that could've been avoided.

"Don't get mad at Toph," Katara warned, "but she told me you haven't been sleeping well for the past few days. And your 'crappy bed' excuse was beyond stupid."

Zuko scowled. Was nothing said in confidence? Was Katara the great mastermind and all were secret spies reporting back to her?

"Anyways, so I heard some noise in the hall and thought it was you looking for a mattress or extra pillow or something, and I came out to — "

"— Snoop —"

"— To check on you. And it's a good thing I did, too."

They paused briefly when Zuko leaned against the wall to catch his breath, thinking that he had never thought he'd miss breathing so much.

He felt a sudden chill as he moved further down the hall. There was a memory calling out to him, thrumming in time to the faint sound of a familiar pitter patter of feet sliding around corners. At the fork in the halls, he stopped, looking off to the right at the door with notches of height in the frame.

Katara followed his gaze. "What's in that room?"

"It was my mom's office," he explained, and without having to be asked, she headed down the hall with him, stopping at the door. It wasn't quite closed all the way. "Office is an exaggeration," he clarified. "It was just a room to knit and read."

Swallowing painfully, Zuko stepped away from the support of the walls and stood a little straighter, a little taller, because he wanted to do this on his own.

He gripped the door, feeling cold and undisturbed air escape, but no shadows or phantoms. The door shifted without any trouble; his hold remembered the way he had to help it over the bump that stopped it from opening smoothly.

There wasn't much to see. The shelves weren't full of books and scrolls like they used to be. Paintings of the Fire Nation landscape that used to be on the walls were now gone, leaving behind a strange rectangular discoloration. His mother's knitting supplies weren't scattered on the table anymore, the chair with the red velvet backing wasn't there, and the screen divider had holes now, made by time and insects.

And still, despite all the touches of time, the room still held traces of her: her smell (old paper and fire lilies), her presence (warmth and laughter and full) — and Zuko (her boy, still alive, still fighting).

"There aren't any pictures here," Katara noted, possibly referring to the fact that there weren't any pictures of his mother or his family.

"Yeah," he said. He had avoided this room when he had been looking for things to burn. Perhaps his mother had taken the photos with her. Perhaps they were in storage. Perhaps Azula had come back, late that Ember Island night, and took some photos of the woman she said believed her to be a monster, or the woman he said visited her in the night with one last loving glance.

He leaned against the doorframe, fingers tracing old scars in the wood.

"You don't want to go in?" Katara asked.

He looked at the shadows, expecting to hear laughter or see movement, but it was still and dark. Nothing stirred or shifted. Nothing called out to him from the corners. It was odd, considering the hauntings in the rest of the house, and yet it was this room where not even the dust rustled.

"No," Zuko said gently. "I just wanted to see it."

They stepped out of the door frame as he pulled the wood closed, blocking the moonlight that illuminated the spot on the floor where he and his mother used to sit. The room closed with a soft exhale, as if saying come back, or I've missed you, or good bye.

Zuko leaned against the closed the door. During the day it was his rule to make sure he wasn't staring at Katara, but right here, right now, with dirt still floating in his lungs, with cobwebs still dangling over his head, with Katara gleaming in the night like silver beams off water, he let his eyes fall over her. What sort of person could ever deserve someone like Katara?

The Avatar, his mind supplied, but he was sure that was his insecurity speaking because the Avatar was a 12-year-old boy and Zuko was positive he wasn't an exception to this rule.

Katara seemed uncomfortable under his heavy stare. She held her fingers in front of her as if she wasn't sure what she was supposed to do. He himself wasn't sure of what to do about the space between them after spending the earlier moment contoured against her skin.

"Thanks," he finally murmured.

"You don't need to thank me," she told him. "I told you, you're part of the group."

She would've helped even if he wasn't part of the group, he knew. That was simply the type of person she was. He would give fire and warmth to those he loved, but she'd give water to all who thirsted.

He shifted his weight to his other foot.

"Um, good n —"

Katara immediately interrupted. "Are you going to be okay by yourself?"

His lips were pressed tightly closed. Zuko didn't trust himself to say anything other than Please, please stay with me, so he chose to nod instead.

She didn't seem to believe him, though, staring at him suspiciously. "Are you sure?" she said, and then immediately after, "and don't lie to me."

Zuko shrugged.

Katara crossed her arms over her chest. She chewed on the inside of her cheek as though trying to analyze him. Then, she said, "Come sleep in my room tonight."

He almost choked on his surprise.

"Your room is next to Aang's," Zuko blurted out.

Katara, ever the powerful, independent woman, raised a challenging brow as she placed a hand on her hip. "So what?" she retorted.

"So…" He didn't know how to finish. She didn't think it'd be weird?

She didn't think it'd be a betrayal, almost, to Aang?

Could Zuko stand to cut out another betrayal?

"You said you'd talk to me, Zuko." Her expression was soft, patient.

"I did," he agreed quietly.

"Are you scared?"

He hesitated. "A little."

"Of Aang?"

Zuko started to answer, but then he looked away, uncomfortable now under her intense gaze.

He wasn't scared of Aang, necessarily. He didn't want to hurt him. He didn't want to ruin his place in the group. He didn't want to make her regret anything. He didn't want to believe, to hope, to pretend, and to find out later that these words now were not for him in particular, but for all who were hurting in her path.

He didn't want another memory to haunt him on Ember Island.

"Zuko," she called, and he wanted to swear, wanted to press his face into his drained hands. She wasn't patiently waiting for him to make a decision because there wasn't one to be made, because there was only ever one choice, one option, one path, when it came to Katara.

She was waiting expectantly because she had to know, she had to know, she had to feel in her veins — the same way she felt the swell of her powers, innate and intrinsic — that he was drawn to her like fire to the skies or smoke to the stars, always breathless and starved for more.

He was mistaken under Ba Sing Se when he did not heed her call, and he didn't want to make that mistake again — or maybe he couldn't anymore, that the decision was out of his hands.

"Yeah," he said. "I'm coming, Katara."

---

The walk to her room was shorter than Zuko had expected.

He thought time would slow to give him a chance to process things. He thought he'd be given a chance to bask in her orbit and then drift away, because surely Aang was in this orbit, too, and that had to mean something; but Zuko was already falling, plummeting too fast, and it seemed the quick walk only finalized his plunge.

Katara pulled back the bedroom door and stepped inside. She began combing through her hair with her slender fingers. When she saw that he had opted to stand awkwardly outside in the hall, she rolled her eyes and cleared her throat, obnoxiously tapping her foot. Zuko rolled his eyes in response, but he entered and found a corner off to the side to lean against.

Katara sat on the bed, still messing with her hair.

"Why are you all the way over there?" she asked, exasperated. "Aren't you tired?"

He was so, so tired, he thought. Every limb wanted to lop off onto the ground rather than resist gravity any further, but he couldn't relax or loosen up. He forced himself to stand off to the side, away from the bed.

His mind kept going back to the fact that he and Katara were the only two awake — the only two awake in the same room with Aang — the Avatar, the most honorable man alive, her end result everyone was sure — was on the other side of the wall.

Katara, who seemed certain earlier, now seemed to settle into a similar unease. Zuko didn't know if it was due to his own atmosphere infecting her or if the situation finally dawned on her. She stopped playing with her hair and sat still on the bed, her hands in her lap. They both looked around the room instead of at each other. Zuko searched for memories to distract him, but nothing emerged from the corners.

"Do you want the bed?" Katara asked.

"…I should probably go back to my room," he answered, half-honest and half-hesitant.

She frowned. "What if you get another attack?"

He shrugged halfheartedly. What was one more night?

"You can take the bed," she offered. "It'd be better for you."

Without waiting for a response, Katara grabbed the second pillow from the mattress and moved to the floor; there wasn't another blanket in the room, however. As she laid on the ground, her hair cascaded to the floor in waves. Her neck was dark and smooth. His cheek tingled at the memory of pressing against it.

He clenched his fists, feeling his nails scrape against the old scars on his palm. "We could…share the bed," Zuko suggested. His heart beat too loud in his chest; he thought that Aang would wake up at any moment at the noise.

She'd reject him. What was he thinking? She was a waterbender who could curl blood and stop rains; she was leading a war on the most formidable man in the world; the Avatar was the very least she deserved —

"…Okay," she breathed.

"Okay," he said unnecessarily.

She let him lay down first; he was pressed against the wall. Then, she laid down next to him.

Zuko was all nerves and limbs. He felt like an octopus-fish, confused with what to do with his many arms, with where to aim his breath, with how to keep the smell of sand and seashell out of his nose. He was pure adrenaline, pure awareness, and too nervous to even hope that she could be the same.

Their fingers were millimeters from each other; the space between seemed to buzz with unsaid desires — his own, he was sure.

Katara turned onto her side, closer to the edge. Zuko could feel every strand of deep brown hair touching his coarse skin. He turned, too, pressing further against the wall to keep from pushing her off the bed.

"Sorry, do you have enough room?" he asked quietly.

Feeling that he had given her some space, she scooted back, closer to his chest, to his hands, to him.

"Yeah, thanks," she said. "Breathing okay?"

"I'm fine," he said. "Why?"

"Thought you were holding your breath for a bit," she said gingerly.

He had been. His face warmed.

"Comfortable?" she asked.

"I'm, uh, not sure where to put my hands," he whispered.

"Oh." She shifted, but there wasn't anywhere to go. "Just, you know…" She trailed off.

"Um. Sure. Okay."

Zuko put one arm around her waist stiffly, waiting. She didn't jerk away. She tensed for a second, and he hoped it was because of the unfamiliar sensation and not because it was him, but she relaxed quickly after, almost settling back against his chest, if he could be allowed to interpret it so. If she felt the hammering of his heart, she didn't say anything.

"Here," she whispered back, lifting her head. "Move your arm."

He slipped his other arm beneath her head.

"Still okay?" he asked.

"Yeah," she said.

Zuko hesitated, but then leaned into her hair, face near her neck, and he breathed deeply. He thought he heard her sigh.

"You?" she asked.

"Mhm."

He curled into her, thinking that he could spare a smile right here, in the darkness that, for once, enveloped him coolly rather than devoured him coldly.

Would she sleep as soundly as he tonight with a warm intimacy, he wondered, or would she lay awake with a motherly kindness.

He fell into a light sleep, holding onto threads of conscious as if he was afraid she would disappear at any moment. When he felt her shift, Zuko jerked awake in a dreaded alarm, trying to pull back from her as if he had done something wrong, but Katara grabbed onto his arm.

"Shh," she hummed. "It's okay. Go back to sleep; I'm just moving the blanket."

Despite her words, Zuko was still tense and rigid, uncertain and scared in so many new ways. True to her words, however, Katara simply grabbed the blanket and draped it over their bodies. Then, she reached for his hand as if knowing that his stiffness would remain if she didn't make this first move, if she didn't show that his touch did not burn her in the way he feared, that he, too, was capable of caressing rather than scarring. (He remembered again, warmly, that she was always making the first move.)

Katara led his fingers back to her waist, showed him how to wrap around her more closely, and Zuko relaxed as he was slowly submerged in her soothing scent again, feeling her hair twirl and coil around his fingers.

"Good night," she murmured.

He forgot that he was supposed to say it back, too preoccupied with trying to keep sleep from taking over as he fought to memorize this moment, wondering for the life of him why he ever tried to fight her force, to escape her orbit.

---

When the noon sun filtered through the window, he woke to Katara curled into his chest, her long hair twirled loosely around his fingers.

He had slept dreamless for the first time. He did not hear singing. He did not hear laughter or footsteps. He did not see faces in the corner, hands outstretched, trying to pull him back into the webs, back into tangled threads.

Zuko slipped out of the room and washed up. In the halls, he was caught by Toph who motioned to Aang in the courtyard, waiting.

Zuko bowed and apologized, but Aang was all smiles, and Zuko only felt a small, tiny twinge of guilt, smaller than he had thought.

When Katara's absence was noted and he scrambled for a suitable cover, it was Toph who said she had a late night and that they should let her sleep (and he figured out later that it was Toph who kept the others from his room when he had missed that morning's meditation, her knowing gray eyes more colorful and brilliant than anyone would ever recognize).

They trained and ate and laughed and yelled. He joined them in the ocean, the sand, and around the fire. He never strayed too far from Katara.

That night, Sokka reenacted the group's most "badass" moments during dinner. Suki taught them constellations. Aang told stories of Monk Gyatso's pranks. Toph showed them metalbending. Katara shared South Pole folktales, her hand lingering on his shoulder. Zuko uncovered for them some of his skeletons and scars in the dim glow of the embers.

And then, when they retired for bed, Zuko snuck down the hall to Katara's room. Before the moon even had time to rise, he was already knocking, asking if he could talk to her, and Katara opened the door and her arms.

They stayed up whispering in the moonlight. They talked about Lu Ten. They talked about Master Pakku. They talked about lychee nuts and mangos, sea urchins and seaweed. Tomorrow, he thought he'd tell her about Mai, about how it was Fire Nation custom to offer tea to your elders first, about how the White Jade Bush was wholly different from the White Dragon Bush. Maybe one day he'd tell her about his family, how his father had a rigid back and ate too many sweet breads after dinner, how his mother had callouses on her fingers from teaching herself the pipa, how his sister used to break into hiccups when she laughed too hard and how she used to be called Hero Azula. Maybe one day they'd talk about Aang.

Hours later, Zuko was lulled to sleep by the sound of his own clear breathing weaving in time to her heartbeat, murmuring against his ear. Her long hair was threaded through his fingers, connecting him back to her as he slipped into his dreams. He heard a girlish call from a white foam shore, and he watched a young Zuko turn around and call back. He watched the light take on a green glow, watched an angrier boy turn away from his Uncle Iroh and Katara, and he did not feel an aching because he would find his uncle, and he did not feel a throbbing because he was always in her pull.

He was woken by Katara touching his face — Shh, she hummed, go back to sleep — and he thought, one day, he'd tell her about all of this — about how he wasn't trying to hover but that he was helplessly in her orbit; about how the original firebenders told him that fire was life and creation, and that he understood it more every time he coaxed to life the embers beneath her pots, or every time his exhales warmed her room, or every time he showed her a new firebending technique and she would watch the flames as they danced, as they swayed, mesmerized, magnetized, by how they swelled, her hands reaching out to feel the heat as though compelled.

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ADDITIONAL NOTE: Welp, it's been a day since my frantic upload of this story. I'm still seeing errors and annoyances in regards to dialogue or details, but that probably comes with the territory of being a writer.

I thought I would hop back in to talk a bit about the story. I'm pretty close with my brother, so I just wanted to play with the idea of Ember Island being a place of memories and regrets for Zuko, and that maybe he used to be close to his sister, or maybe he had wanted to be. I wanted to explore how he could feel guilt about Azula who didn't have Uncle Iroh's guiding hand, but Ozai's, and I also wanted to write about how he once loved her, and maybe he still did in a much more painful way.

And, of course, I always want to write about him loving Katara, hehe.

The asthma bit I thought of because I thought it would be fun to have a physical reason as to why Azula was better than him, specifically when they were younger. Also, it's a great excuse for some Zutara cuddles! I don't have asthma, but I did some research for this story, and I hope it's not too far off (or if it is, that you can suspend that fact for a bit lol!).

Anyway, I hope you enjoyed!

See y'all around.