TITLE: Infection, Poison, and Electrocution

SUMMARY: Zuko reflects on his complicated relationship with his sister and his inability to escape it. Post Sozin's Comet. Hints of zucestuous feelings, but no zucestuous acts.

DISCLAIMER: Avatar: The Last Airbender and all of its characters, etc. do not belong to me. If they did…well, we don't have time for that.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: My first Avatar fic – I'm brand spanking new to the fandom. I would love to hear what you think. Hours to write – seconds to review…

Azula…

Sleeping is no escape. In fact it's worse: no distractions, no bricks or chains to remind you that she is walled up and shackled. She haunts your dreams. She's swimming around in your bloodstream, a poison coursing through your veins. She's pulsing with your heart, dancing to your heartbeat. Dueling you to the beat of your heart.

You breathe her in when she's around you. Her skin is succulent, soft and mellifluent; but she smells like ashes. She'd taste like ashes. Like the dust she leaves behind her. She's destruction. She's disappointed: she wants to be annihilation.

She's death. Except in you. You never feel so alive as when you're hating her. The sun inside can't compare. You remember the firebending masters' lesson, but when you try to summon their pure energy, it doesn't parallel the conflagration you can bend when you let your feelings for her be your inspiration.

You try to replace thoughts of her with thoughts of the mother you still haven't found. She's not your mother. She's the antithesis of your mother. You hate that. You like that. This creature is nothing like your mother…she doesn't sully the memory, she doesn't echo the perfect original. She was born of fire and you were born of pain. You sometimes think Ozai and Ursa had nothing to do with it.

You try to forget she's a woman. That she's beautiful. You try to forget she's your sister. When her blue fire singed your skin, you tried to forget. When you saw her plummeting to her death. You don't forget. You can't. The cruel smile etched on red feminine lips. The elegant fingers and sharp nails directing lightning your way. The sturdy stance of the petite form – you could push her down, you could hold her down…if things were different. If she didn't have fire. She's good with daggers, but you're good with swords. She's nimble and quick, but you're broad and strong.

She was happy to see you that day after over three years apart. You saw it in her eyes. You forgot your mantra: "Azula always lies." You heard the words she said, but you listened to her eyes, and that's why you believed her. Your uncle knew better than to believe that your father wanted you home again, but you listened to her eyes. And you would have followed her all of the way home even if it had meant swimming there.

And you believed her again, when she gave you your second chance, and she was honest for once. Who would believe that Azula was asking for help from you? But you listened to her eyes, and she did want you by her side. And that pull was so strong that you turned your back on your uncle and your peace of mind.

You saw pride for you in her eyes when you fought her for the first time. She could still beat you. She could fight you every day for one thousand days and beat you every time. Who couldn't Azula conquer? But you've improved, and she notices. She's impressed. It's the best moment in over three years for you. A part of you wonders whether you been distinguishing between her and your father inaccurately.

And then, when the Agni Kai that always had to be finally did happen, it was excruciation. It was agony. It was torment. For her and for you. She was broken. And by the end she was shattered. And when you won with the help of the waterbender (and who knows what might have happened if you had been alone, or if your sister's paranoia hadn't driven away those sworn to protect her), it wasn't triumph. It wasn't victory. It felt like defeat, and it tasted like ash.

"Scars are sexy," she taunted the night before you entered exile, running her hand over your burn, and you wondered if she was shooting sparks because electricity zipped down your spine and tingled in your toes. You were 13. No longer a boy. And you hadn't been touched like that since…since it was innocent. Since you were innocent. She was being ironic – she was telling you it was ugly, but she didn't think that and it was in her voice. She liked it. Maybe she liked it because it was cruel, or maybe she liked it because it was shameful, but her face cleared itself of that trademark smirk for a moment before she lifted away her fingertips and you saw something real there.

And you can't look at her without remembering that moment.

Your uncle knows that you're infected. That she's infected you. He'd scrub clean every arterial inch if he knew how. He's just as afraid now of what she'll do to you as he was when you first left home. He spent the first two years of your banishment trying to get her out of you: training, meditation, fasting, tea, distractions of every kind – including other girls. It didn't make any difference. You only had eyes for five things: home, your honor, your throne, your father's respect, and Azula. You don't know what you wanted from her: her love? Her respect? Her submission? Other things…

You don't know what you want from her now. She's your captive. But for every thought of satisfaction or relief, you feel ten of discontent, fear and despondency.

Your uncle has given up. Azula is a part of you: your rivalry with her (although she wouldn't call it much of one despite what went down during the comet, and a large part of you agrees that you're only human but she might very well be a goddess), your jealousy of her (it was never just about your father's love, and yet that disparity still stings), your brotherly love for her, and various other sentiments of a less brotherly nature, including a visceral and intense desire to hold her head under water and watch her drown - even though you very nearly got its equivalent.

You'd pull her up, before she drowned. You can't kill her. You didn't. You can't, and you wouldn't. But you'd like to get close. You'd like to breathe life back into her lungs. And then walk away, leaving her wet and panting.

That would satisfy.

It was less satisfying when she was crying her heart out, when she was only a ghost of herself. You felt sympathy for her – empathy – which nearly brought you to your knees. Which nearly made you vomit. It wasn't her anguish that you wanted to see. You know that now. All of that time you spent fantasizing about seeing her suffer…but it was like a nightmare when it came true.

You thought it was all hate, but you worshipped at her altar. You thought you were jealous – but it was resentment. And you hate and worship her still.

When your uncle wasn't trying to convince you to find a pretty girl and settle down in an anonymous village, he'd talk strategy. He'd talk of political reform. He'd talk of marrying Azula off to generals or to governors. You protested. She was yours. She was a curse, but she was your curse.

She's yours.

And when you look in the mirror in the morning and see the large, veined scorch mark over your ribs - just one other way that she got inside of you and rattled every inch - you realize that you're hers too.