Until You Wake, Come Morning
Zuko is awake and Katara is breathing.
He still hasn't bought a sleeping bag, his hair is sweaty, his chin juts uncomfortable into the dirt and he knows he'll never be able to fall back asleep, so he lies there and listens to her inhale, exhale. When he squints his eyes open, he notices that the moon is painfully bright. Zuko thinks Sokka must hate the moon tonight, too, because he winces every time he glances towards the star-filled sky, and Zuko still can't believe he knows why. Finally, there's a subject he doesn't feel totally ignorant about; there's a memory he is privy to, a memory that he, too, has learned to dance around in Sokka's presence.
But he still doesn't understand why Aang looks at Katara like he won't be allowed to stare at her a month from now - why Suki's eyes are hollowed and guant, even (especially) when illuminated by the firelight - why Toph and Sokka refuse to halt their rhythmic bickering and bantering in the midst of battle. Zuko had been instructed by a total of twenty-six private tutors by age fourteen, but despite his prestigious education, he has the nagging feelings that he knows less than anyone here.
Habitually, Zuko cringes at a sudden, but quite rustle from across the campground, and his hand darts to his bare hip.
Oh, right: no sword. It's stuffed inside Appa's huge saddle, which was probably a foolish choice. But Zuko liked the idea that he could sleep safely; he likes that if he really needed to defend himself, he could use firebending, and even if his hands glowed like embers, he wouldn't have to worry that someone here would attack him because of it (well. Mostly). He's cursing his sentimentality as his eyes search for the source of the noise. When his gaze lands on the furry, smelly heap curled up beside Toph - Momo - bright, round eyes blink back at him.
The wind tickles his neck like it's laughing at him, which it very well should, because Zuko is scared of a lemur and Katara is still breathing, in and out, in and out, and the entire world seems to be inhaling and exhaling along with her.
Quite suddenly, he props himself up on his arm and looks over at her. Katara's knees are pressed against her torso and her arms cupped against her chest, curled over the position he supposes her heart would be in. But Zuko wouldn't know about Katara's heart; he's only hugged her once and it wasn't long enough for her to get a whiff of her hair, let alone to feel her heart pump in her ribcage. The Avatar (whose name is Aang, but Zuko keeps forgetting) probably knows exactly where her heartbeat is - he could probably sense it from miles away with his earthbending - but Zuko doesn't have any of that. All Zuko has is the sound of her lungs, collapsing and expanding. Pushing the air away and sucking it back in.
It's funny how Katara sleeps like she's only thinking of guarding herself, even though she's usually busy protecting them. He glances down at his own calloused palms and remembers that Katara's hand were rougher still; Katara had been washing clothes and cooking practically from the day she was born.
They are so similar that sometimes Zuko can't help but want to slap her at times for her stubbornness and idiocy, if only because Zuko sees himself reflected in Katara's eyes and knows that he, at least, deserves to be punished. But his Uncle's patience snaps across his mind just before the fumes of anger are fanned into a flame and he holds back. Zuko should be able to understand her, he should be as willing to reach out to Katara as his Uncle was to him - but Zuko isn't his Uncle; Zuko is exactly like Katara in almost every way, and maybe that's the problem.
They both had broken childhoods and broken families. Zuko has a mother who left and a father who hates him; Katara has a mother who died and a father who left her. But when his life was shattered in the blink of an eye (not that he can blink anymore), Zuko was allowed to be weak - he was allowed to argue and spite and rage the pain away - and Katara...wasn't. She stayed at home and took care of Sokka and now she's here, and isn't it funny how life works out?
Zuko is siezed by a sudden urge to come in contact with another human being. He trembles out of fear or insanity, he can't tell which, as he rises to a kneel and shifts towards Katara.
The ground scuffs his kneecaps and he moves faster; moments later, he is staring down at her face. So calm. So serene. It might even be the kind of peace that not even Zuko is twisted enough to destroy, but somehow, he wants to try: he reaches out and brushes his knuckles against her cheek.
No movement. No shiver on her lips or flutter of her eyelashes. It is disappointing and satisfying and all too expected, because the fact of the matter is that Katara is too...Katara for Zuko to ever convert her into something like him.
He summons the memory of their embrace - really touching her for the first time - and along with it comes the realization that his touch will not destroy her. She won't die if he brushes against her and Zuko can't leave poisonous on her skin and even if he were to go over and stroke her forehead, she would still wake up in the morning. Even if he pressed a kiss to her skin, Katara wouldn't stop breathing.
Zuko isn't falling asleep. Katara isn't dying.
He wonders if this is all a a dream. It might make sense, because he doesn't do things - like this - and moments like these don't just happen, to him, anyway. Katara's warm breath is on his face and he could reach out and cup her jaw if he wanted to.
'If he wanted to' - that's an excuse. It's an excuse because Katarawould never want him to and Zuko doesn't even know why he cares, because he has Mai, after all. This - Katara - is not about unrequited love, anyway, but Zuko wonders if it is about discovering how to balance right and wrong and training alongside an equal and protecting each other, not just one person carrying the brunt of the burden.
He peers at her sleeping face.
"I once told you that I rose with the sun," he says, so softly that he doubts he isn't just thinking it. "Well, I can learn to rise with the moon, too."
It doesn't really meananything but Zuko likes to think that it might. He stares at her a moment long, then slithers back to his spot and folds into neat ball.
A damp breeze ruffles his sweat-soaked hair, the rocks dig into his back, the moon is too bright, and he'll never get to listen to Katara's heartbeat, ever, because he knows all too well that she'll never really trust him. Zuko thinks about all of this as he continues to listen to her breathe, and realizes he still wouldn't mind if every night was like tonight for the rest of his life.