In explanation, Oct. 23-29, 2011 is Asexuality Awareness Week. In honor of this, I've been doing a short fic a day in different fandoms, each pertaining somehow to asexuality. This is the fic for Day Five. For those of you who don't know about asexuality, please give the topic a moment of your time by visiting the Asexual Visibility and Education Network and reading their overview!
Title: There is Always Time for Pai Sho
Prompt: Asexuality Awareness Week.
Word Count: 1374
Rating: PG
Characters: asexual!Zuko, Iroh
Warnings: This has not been beta'd.
Summary: In which Zuko is working too hard (as usual), and his uncle corners him to talk about it.
Notes: Throughout Book 1 and the first half of Book 2, Zuko consistently struck me as an ace. So that's what I've run with here. The dialogue feels a bit forced, so I dunno. It's been a while since I've written in this fandom, guys. I'm out of practice.
There is Always Time for Pai Sho
His uncle worries about him, Zuko knows. He worries in so many ways, some of which Zuko would never admit are perhaps valid, and most of which are because his uncle doesn't understand.
"You work too hard, my nephew," Iroh rumbles behind him, and Zuko can smell the lingering rich scent of the roasted duck he'd had for dinner, and he can hear the polished clack of pai sho tiles rolling between Iroh's fingers. "Come with us," he says. "It is so rare that we stay at port overnight; you should not miss this opportunity."
"I'm fine, Uncle," Zuko says, and snaps into the next form of the firebending set he's been practicing for the past week. "And I don't have time for breaks. The Avatar has had decades to train."
Iroh sighs, as he always does when they argue like this. "Zuko, an evening spent on shore will not hurt you. Who knows? The rest could do you good! Leave you refreshed and stronger!"
"Or out of practice. I'm staying here," Zuko snaps, and then curses, because he's lost his concentration. His foot has slipped and slid over the treacherous deck too far out, like a soldier breaking rank—isolated, unbalanced, and vulnerable. Zuko snarls and stalks five paces back to his starting point. He tries again from the beginning.
There is no sound from Iroh, and when Zuko next looks, he is gone. Iroh does not push too hard, not on this; he knows that he won't win because Zuko finds Iroh's disappointment easy to overlook in favor of more important things.
Zuko slides through the motions, his movements sharp and aggressive and anything but graceful. He hasn't yet learned to combine the Blue Spirit's water-like fluidity with the rage that fuels his firebending. The two are separate worlds, divided in his mind. They are two necessities that must never, ever meet.
Heat curls in his stomach, spreading sparks outwards in his veins and turning his breath into steam. Fury howls in his heart and whips glittering chakra coals into a firestorm that sears beneath his skin and boils in his lungs. Zuko channels that rage. He twists it with an iron will that fire can never hope to melt and channels it into hungry, howling torrents of molten gold.
He holds the sun sparkling in his veins long after it has set. Firebenders are weakest at night, which is why Zuko always practices then. Even when the moon unveils her face amongst the stars, cold and silver blue, Zuko keeps his fire alive. The Avatar will not care what the hour is when he fights; he has no weaknesses. The air itself is his ally.
He practices until his hands are tight with heat, until the ocean waters glitter with reflected rivers of copper and gold as well as slivers of moonbright silver. When he is too tired to hold a proper stance any longer and he feels his solid connection to the ground start to splinter, he walks to the starboard railing and watches the moon reclaim the reflective waters as her own.
It takes him a few minutes to realize that he's not alone. A shadow shifts carelessly in the corner of his eye, and a familiar sigh whispers through the still air.
Zuko turns his head. "Uncle Iroh?" he asks in surprise. "Why are you still here?"
Iroh joins him by the railing, walking like the old man he pretends to be and that Zuko sometimes thinks he really is. "I want to talk," he says.
Zuko frowns and opens his mouth to snap his usual harsh denials, to isolate himself behind thorny words. I'm not a child, so don't treat me like one. I have to do this to regain my honor. I know what I want. I know what I need. I don't need your sympathy.
But Iroh knows him too well and cuts him off, raising his voice just enough to indicate that he cant be brushed aside this time. "Just listen, Zuko. Humor an old man who cares so much for you. I'm not going to try to convince you to do anything. Just listen."
Zuko stares at his uncle. Sometimes he forgets that this man is the Dragon of the West. And then there are moments when Iroh does something devious and clever, and he remembers. Something like hiding silently in the dark until everyone else has gone and Zuko no longer has excuses to busy himself with, and speaking with steel in his kind and gentle voice.
"All right," Zuko says.
Iroh smiles, and then turns to gaze out over the water. He links his hands together atop the railing. "I know you think I worry too much. And perhaps I do. I know why you work so hard, and I admire your determination. You never give up, even in situations that would break older and more experienced men."
Zuko waits for the 'but'.
"But," Iroh says, "I don't understand why you isolate yourself. Solitude will not bring you strength, my nephew. Some pleasant company, now and then, could help your mind and heart. Alone, you will tire and your roots will be easier to break."
Zuko sighs. He's heard this particular litany before, though never phrased quite like this. Perhaps his uncle's logic makes sense for most people, but it just isn't the case for him.
His uncle is watching the waves and waiting patiently. He will not let this go easily, and Zuko is too tired to fight him. He probably counted on that, he thinks. "I don't have the time or the patience or the need to get the crew to like me, Uncle. They just need to follow my orders. And if I relax, I'll get sloppy. I can't afford that. And I really don't want any…pleasant company."
To his surprise, Iroh laughs. Not the full belly laugh so loud and deep that it could swallow the world, but the low, gravelly rumble warm with kindness and rich with wisdom. "Zuko, I know that you do not get along with your crew. And while I could argue with you on that point, that is not what I meant. Neither is that what I meant about pleasant company."
Zuko turns and leans against the side of the railing to face his uncle. He crosses his arms over his chest. "What, then?"
"I know you have no interest in the type of company that most of the crew enjoys on shore. And no, don't look at me like that. I know it's not because you work too hard. You just are not interested. There is nothing wrong with that."
Zuko forgets how perceptive his uncle can be. But even remembering that, he wonders how Iroh knew. The crew has invited him along, once or twice when he became old enough. After his acidly vehement refusals, the invitations stopped and morphed into vicious jokes about how he's too uptight and needs to get laid. Zuko ignores such whispers like the idiocy they represent. It isn't that he's too caught up in his work to appreciate or want comfort of that kind; he just doesn't want it at all.
"But, Zuko," Iroh continues, "you can still enjoy the pleasant company of friends. You should turn up to music night. Or," Iroh hastily adds, when Zuko rolls his eyes in disgust, "enjoy a nice quiet game of Pai Sho with your lonely uncle. I do miss our games."
Zuko is quiet, thinking.
Iroh waits, fingering the tiles in his hands, and then passes one of them to Zuko. "Just think about it," he says.
Zuko nods stiffly and looks out over the water. Iroh steps away and leaves, silently.
The moon has drowned the ocean in silver, and the sun feels far away and cold. Zuko is tired, and sunrise is still so far away, but he doesn't think he can sleep quite yet. He opens his palms to reveal the tile, and a white lotus blooms between his fingers. Well, maybe just one game, he thinks. Just one game.
He closes his fingers around the tile and heads belowdeck, where he knows Iroh is waiting hopefully, the board already set out.