It's cloudlight streaming through the window that stirs Mai, a soft, grey sort of glow that illuminates her and Zuko's entwined limbs. She's always preferred overcast days to bright ones- the sunbeams that penetrate even the heavy curtains make for too harsh an awakening.
Slowly, she turns over to face her husband, who is still dead to the world, his scar pressed into an embroidered pillow. He is far more peaceful in sleep than not, and she is loathe to rouse him, but the needs of the Fire Nation often take precedence over the wants of its rulers.
"Wake up," she says in a raspy early-morning voice, prodding his bare chest. "Rise and shine, Zuko."
His eyes flutter open, and, seeing her, he smiles a little. She can't help but reciprocate- so much for her previously stern visage. "Hey," he sleepily mutters. "What is it?"
"Delegates from the water tribes. Eight o'clock. They want to argue over who gets some archipelago." Mai swings her legs over onto the floor and crosses the chamber to pull the shades open. "You've slept in already."
Zuko isn't listening- instead, he's watching her, which isn't surprising, seeing as she's still naked from last night's... activities. "Come here," he replies, beckoning towards the bed. She does so, deciding to humor him for a while, and sprawls across the crimson sheets.
He drinks her in for a few moments, observing the stark contrast between black and white and red. Then he leans over to plant a kiss just south of her alabaster shoulders and idly toys with a few pieces of her tangled hair. "Can I fix it?"
A protest is on the tip of her tongue- she would do it much faster alone- but she swallows it. It can't hurt to let him try.
Mother used to do her buns when she was a girl- the servants were not dubbed worthy of touching her 'only beauty.' Mai hated that part of the morning. It was when Mother pointed out her daughter's seemingly endless physical flaws, and she spent an eternity on each step, making sure that not one strand was out of place.
Azula had attempted to once at the royal academy, just to see if she could master the complicated style, but the princess proved to be a terrible hairdresser, and the longer she worked, the greater a mess she made. Finally, she'd stormed off in distate, leaving a disheveled pile in her wake.
Zuko is different (he always seems to be). She has watched his fingers in action- they can produce flame, snap bone, are marred with thick callouses from swordplay. Yet they're featherlight as he combs jasmine oil through her mane, careful not to tug too harshly.
Nor does he even bother with her usual ox-horns. Instead, to her initial surprise, he proceeds to weave a loose braid, securing it with a scarlet ribbon. She's disappointed when he finishes. There's something very soothing in the way her hair was pushed and pulled at Zuko's will.
He admires his work a bit, then silently withdraws. She takes a looking glass from her vanity and studies her reflection.
Normally, her hair is tightly pinned, but it's much freer now, the plait casually strewn down her back, a few strands escaping to frame her sharp cheekbones. "I look like a peasant," she says aloud, though the slight curve of her lips betrays another sentiment.
"Glad you like it," Zuko retorts, knowing that that's the closest she'll ever get to showing appreciation.
She starts to remove the ribbon, but he grabs her wrist before she can loosen the knot. "You should keep it. You're prettier like this."
If she's beginning to blush, somebody shoot her now. "Am I supposed to wear it to the meeting?" she argues. "I can't even fit my crown."
He thrusts the four-pronged golden flame into the space where her braid starts, triumphantly securing it with a stray piece of silk. "Problem solved."
She at least knows when to acknowledge defeat. "Fine," Mai coincides with a heavy sigh. "Maybe the tribals will be more sympathetic if I'm dressed like them. But I draw the line at showing up in a parka."
Zuko smirks, satisfied. "I'll take you up on that one."
Let him be all smug now. Tomorrow morning, she's stringing beads through his hair, whether he likes it or not.
A/N: Pure Maiko post-war fluff. I make no apologies. I promised that I'd write DragongirlM a fluffy fic if she wrote me an angsty one, and I'm fulfilling my end of the bargain.
Brownie points to anyone who can guess what album I spoofed for this story's title.