When Azula smiles people get nervous. Not just the person she's smiling at either, the people around them speed up; a servant sitting down to scrub at the floors slowly halts their motion.. The wind stutters, the chimes echoing its small show of hesitation, clouds obediently moving around the sun. Zuko's sure that people around the world feel a sudden chill.
Once, when Zuko was young, he saw his father flinch out of the corner of his vision. Remorseless gold eyes for once reflecting a small amount of fear. Azula had done something cruel and frightening, he didn't quite remember what, and for a moment his father's face paled. He wondered if it was like looking into a mirror, only to watch as your reflection blinked just out of synch with you.
(When people said she was the greatest firbender the nation had ever seen, Zuko wondered if his father paled then too.)
But Azula also painted. She stuck her large soft baby hands into bright green paint, and messily smeared it on scroll after scroll of paper, giggling her little head off. Zuko thinks he remembers his mother pursing her lips, muttering under her breath.
(what a waste of good paper)
Zuko played with her, back when he was stronger and faster and smarter. He'd pretend to be her noble steed and give her ostrichhorse-back-rides. He'd braid her hair, collect berries, climb small rocks. They had their own little worlds, with their own little languages and signs. Zuko thinks she probably forgot those.
(A small doodle in her middleschool notebook, the sign for 'I give up')