Marriage Something.

Hello.

!!!

Zuko has animals running up and down his stomach. Azula calls them "butterflies," but he prefers "menagerie"—when was his—gulp—betrothed appearing again? What time was it? Where was he again? Oh, ancestors, what was his name?

"Zuzu, you're going to have to stop making those adorable faces, or else you're going to end up my husband instead," says Azula, bored, lying on her back on Zuko's splendid crimson bedspread, both her legs in the air.

Zuko takes the time to quell his thoughts in order to muster an appropriately horrified face.

"You stopped, didn't you?" offers Azula off-handedly, but she sounds like she'd much rather be selling cabbage. Her legs flail around a bit and she flips herself on her stomach to inspect her nails. She is wearing her hair down in a style she hates, with the top half twisted into an elegant bun that houses her tiny flame tiara; two single curls frame her delicately feline face amongst a waterfall of black tresses. Her robe is a brutish, heavy thing made of enough garnet silks and satins to trade with a small nation that, with the help of many ladies in waiting, manages to conform to her petite frame alluringly (but it's horribly stiff and doesn't fold; even as Azula rolls around, the fabric never pools). When she stands, the bell-sleeves touch the floor; when she walks, the train trails behind her for a foot or so.

Azula is the only person Zuko knows, besides his mother, that is able to wear something like that without burning it to shreds. She calls it finesse, but Zuko would rather call it something of an ironic brand of self-control.

Even so, Zuko is barely any better—bunched up in a scarlet-colored, high-necked silk jacket that goes to his knees and ties in individual, oriental knots all along the front and loose black pants, he feels and looks like a confused, walking trophy. His hair, which usually reaches his upper-back, is knotted at the top of his head, unruly strands slicked into place, and adorned with that accursed flame hairpiece that makes his head itch when he moves. His shoes look like slippers and they curve up at the end. Urgh. He looks like a girl.

When he tells Azula this, she laughs rather cruelly and says, "Well, I guess that means you'll never top," but Zuko doesn't get it.

And then he does and his mother has to hold him back from burning off Azula's hair.

Zuko takes a seat next to his sister and picks at his sleeve. The material shines a delicate honey color in the light.

"Azula?" he says.

"Mmm?" replies his rather inattentive sister, who has switched her attention from her nails to her lipstick.

"What if I hate him?" Zuko asks tentatively, in his most muted voice, and yet when her eyes flicker to his, his jaw is set.

Mid-lipstick swipe, Azula stops and flips her tube up her sleeves. She looks her brother square in the eye and says, flippantly, "So what? He's supposed to be 'your only,' so if you hate him, it's sure to die down. The soothsayers haven't been wrong about much, and I doubt this is one of them. You're not that important, Zuzu." She flips onto her back once more and flicks at her hair. "More likely the thing that you'll have to do if he can't cooperate with you is to whip him into line. The little ice cube won't be able to do much. I heard he isn't even a waterbender."

Zuko blanches at this. He had hoped that his mate would be a bender so that they could at least relate in that respect, but now Zuko actually had to talk to the guy about something besides bending styles, bending moves, and, if either of those grow stale, the history of bending. Ancestors know, Zuko could barely get to know turtleducks if they didn't come up to him. "But he's a warrior, too," Zuko reassures himself aloud. "You can't really go wrong with that." Martial arts styles, martial arts moves, and the history of martial arts, then. That should last them about a decade, if Zuko plays it right. He figures menial snippets of conversation will worm themselves in there somewhere, too, but that most definitely will be the bulk. He's sure that a good ten years will give him time to figure out the next topic. Maybe bending.

Azula snickers, "Try some impersonations on him, I'm sure he'll love that," and Zuko flicks her forehead. His stomach still hurts—he's not sure whether this feeling is anticipation or dread—so he excuses himself to the washroom as Azula spreads herself out on the warmth he leaves behind.


In the washroom down the hall, there are several fountain-sinks and tubs lined with wax lotuses and fresh pink peony petals. The décor is fashioned to please fair maidens, what with the beautiful reed-parchment tapestries and screens, and the luscious red hanging lanterns—and we can't forget the rock garden adorning one corner.

Zuko's a boy, so he scoops out the petals out of the sink and dumps them on the floor, accidentally knocks over a votive, and nearly rips a lantern with his headpiece.

"Damn it!" He swears as he burns his finger when clumsily trying to pick up the fallen votive. Stupid thing, why in the world would anyone want a dragon's eye for a candle holder? It's just creepy, especially at night.

The window on the far left side is open, and the summery air of the Fire Nation roams in and out, clinking through the wind chimes set up along the bright red curtains. Zuko can smell the change in the air, the coming of a foreign presence—the tinge of charcoal and fiery zest is muted by an edge of chill and animal skins. The flame inside him flinches a tad at the presence, but he quells it by breathing deep the other scents of home, for feast preparations are underway. Dumplings, sizzling lotus root, chilies sautéed amongst bell pepper and tender beef—they are the food makings of a festival, and more than anything, as the young boy rears up inside him, he is tempted to beg the chefs for a bite.

But his stomach sinks when he realizes once again the cause for the festivities—in less than an hour, he is meant to meet the boy that he'll be chained to for the rest of his life.

Sighing, he flips on the sink and dips his hands in the cool water. Perspiration is already building along his neck, and the steady beat of the water against his knuckles soothes the beating of his heart. He cannot imagine a life with a wife, let alone a husband. For years, he's never truly been interested in relationships—he had his mother, his uncle, and his sister to keep him company (his father was hardly in the Fire Nation, as he was often handling diplomatic affairs—thank the ancestors, as he blanched to think of how he would have grown up under the weight of Ozai's intimidating disapproval). Besides, mastering firebending and swordsmanship with his sister had become a main focus, along with his studies. He was the heir to the throne after all, and could not disappoint, even if from his very birth it was expected of his future sister to bear the next heir, as he was destined to a—boy.

"Ughhh," says Zuko, and he feels like dipping his face into the water and blowing bubbles, an unusual habit he'd picked up from hanging out with turtleducks. Well, until his mother made him stop because Dear Ancestors, Zuko, don't you know what turtleducks do in the water?

His hands are covering his eyes now, and he peeks between the fingers at a plain looking glass positioned above the sink. His hands come down at his side very deliberately, and he takes in his face. He comes to the conclusion that it is just a face—his eyes are gold and small, like a good fourth of the population in these parts, but nothing like his mother's, which shine and gleam with her every action. His nose is just a nose, straight and curved up a little at the end, his eyebrows are a little thick and he has the beginnings of frown lines. His mother calls them dimples, but frowning now at himself, he has no doubt that they are, indeed, frown lines. His ears are a little big, too, when his hair is pulled away from them and – urgh, his hair is always scruffy unless one of his hand servants combs it to death.

Looking at himself now, he cannot help but think that there's nothing particularly likable about this face, so why in the world would a boy fall in love with it? He'd never even known a girl to. Soothsayers are supposed to always be correct, chants his pompous tradition, but what the hell is he supposed to do in the meantime, while their prophecy settles itself into correctness? Wait for his imminent lust for men to set in?

He shakes his head and takes a seat on the side of a tub. Yes, that's exactly what he's supposed to do.


Azula has a key and Zuko doesn't. Click, click.

Some little ice cube is going to woo her brother? Well, wouldn't a private meeting be much more intimate; wouldn't that spark something? They'd be much better off.


Iroh is tired of taking his little brother's place, sometimes, but other times he can't help but be grateful that he is here to witness his nephew (and yes, even his little ingrate of a niece) grow up in Ozai's absence.

He can remember the look on Zuko's face the day he unwrapped the broadswords, how he smiled brighter than the polished steel could shine and tried to pick one up, but dropped it because he was too small. He remembers Ursa's face, too, and the sting of her slap on his elbow—What the hell are you giving my seven-year old?

He can remember Zuko's flops and his fears of being burned; he can remember the light in his eyes when he produced his first flame. He can remember the frustration when Azula cartwheeled past him in skill, producing blue flame, and the hurt in his eyes as she sneered.

He can remember when Zuko first realized that his betrothed was a Water Tribesman— he can recall how the tiny Zuko, wide-eyed and happy, drew a picture of the person he was supposed to marry: big blue eyes set on a too-small, androgynous face, smeared with light brown crayon, riding on a colossal mass of poorly constructed blue water.

And now, another memory: Zuko stepping forward into adulthood, meeting his betrothed to begin the relationship that will define the rest of his life.

Iroh takes a long sip of tea, staring mildly into its caramel-colored depths before taking another deep draft. He is seated in the first formal sitting area of the Fire Nation palace upon a well-cushioned chair with a back lined in gold etchings. Several feast dishes are stretched out in front of him upon a beauteous red silk-cloth lined table, but whenever he tries to filch a piece of pork or a steamy bun, the utterly silent servant next to him whaps his knuckles with a pair of chopsticks. Chef's assistants and maids filter through the room, polishing things last minute, brining in and rearranging food.

Ursa is due to show up any minute with the children—well, Zuko hardly counted as one now, as he is nearing his nineteenth birthday. Idly, Iroh fiddles with his cup, watching the maids as they bend and reach, and bend and—

He smiles wide, and the chopsticks bat at his fingers.

"What?" He cries indignantly to the servant who, in her splendid silken robes and tinkling jade hairpin, looks rather like a statue or a vase. She makes a movement—the first he's seen her do all day—to stick her tongue out at him.

He laughs, belly-deep, and takes another sip of tea.

"What's so funny, Iroh? Nothing I'd like to see, I'd hope," says the folding screen behind him, and from the thick black lines of calligraphy and pictograms steps Ursa, in all her splendor. Kohl lines her eyes, her lips are the color of rouge, and the flame hairpiece that she wears is complimented by egret plumes. She looks ten years younger, and Iroh tells her so ingratiatingly.

She slaps him mildly on the wrist, "Oh, Iroh, flirting will do nothing to get food in your mouth faster."

"You know me too well," he says, laughing and setting down his teacup. The armor he wears has the signet of a general etched into the chest—it has been recently polished, and smells of cleaning alcohols.

Azula, who has just stepped from behind the screen as well, "ahems" and leans her head down to touch her cheek to her uncle's, a familiar greeting. "Hello, Uncle," she says formally, and Iroh can see the glimmer of mischief in her eye. It's rather alarming.

"Azula," he says warmly, standing up and taking her by the hand to spin her around. Her perfectly cinched and elegant dressings make no movement, almost predictably, and the ridiculousness of women's fashions nearly makes him laugh. "You're becoming quite the lady. Soon, Zuko will have to fry any of your suitors."

Azula seats herself elegantly and quips, in her most breezy, matter-of-fact tone, "Oh, I assure you, I am more than capable of doing that myself." She leans back in her chair and crosses her arms.

Ursa and Iroh exchange glances—Azula's coldness is often dismissed as inherent of her character, which makes her warmer moments cherished all the more. They shrug, lightly, and take seats as well.

Ursa is tall for a woman, and her height, even sitting, soars above both Iroh's and her daughter's. She says, conversationally, to Iroh, "And when are the Water Tribesmen allotted to arrive?"

"Within the hour," says Iroh pleasantly, and he sips his tea.

"Hmm," says Ursa.

The servant with the jade hairpin had left to help someone carry in the roasted pig.

All three, Azula included, eye the food.


Sokka stretches out his gangly limbs and gives an exaggerated yawn. The air here is warm on his skin, and he has already stripped off most of his furs and is wearing only his blue cotton jerkin. The sun here is nowhere near as fierce as the sun back home, where one had to be careful of it shining off the ice, lest he had forgotten to wear darkened whale tallow under his eyes to avoid day-blindness. In contrast, this sun was warm and yellow, full and playful, beating down upon the lush greenery of the Fire Nation's islands and red-clothed subjects.

Katara is lounging in the sun on the deck of the ship in a sleeveless blue dress with a white fur trim; her hair lay down and hanging about her in sheets of dark chestnut waves, in a style she'd learned from the Fire Nation hand servants that continued to wait on her. She is stunning, but very few soldiers who by pass dare to stop and stare after the incident from a few days ago, involving a gawker and Sokka's fist.

"Are we almost there?" Sokka says while eying most people around him poisonously. Katara's eyes are closed, so she pays no notice.

"Alm—"

"All passengers, we've reached the Ember Island Harbor!" cries a young cabin-boy with a loud, jangling bell as the ship lurches to a tentative stop. He walks up hesitantly to the foreigners.

"Water Tribesman sir and lady, we've arrived. Please grab any immediate belongings, and the rest will be shipped to the palace later. You'll be leaving on the first rickshaw," he says, and then looks Sokka in the face. "You'll like our prince. He's very kind to me—sometimes he'll let me come inside the gardens to play with turtleducks! But you have to talk to him first, then he'll be nice." He smiles widely at them and turns heel to notify the other soldiers of their destinations.

Sokka is blushing, and Katara tells him so. "It's embarrassing, Katara," he says, head down and cheeks burning, "that all these people know I'm just here to make out with their stupid prince!"

Katara giggles and hits him on the back. "Man up," she laughs, "or you'll end up the bride." She devolves into hysterics, slapping her knees, until Sokka yanks on her hair, which she responds to by bending a splash of water into his face from her canteen.

"Katara!" Sputter.

"Don't pull my hair!" Punch.

"I'll pull it if you're being a jerk!" Yank.

"Augh! Don't make me bruise you before you meet your husband—"

Splatter.

"Ahem."

The Water Tribe siblings look up from their strange wrestling position to see a man with the signet for a lieutenant emblazoned on his chest. He is staring at them rather awkwardly.

They straighten immediately, with Katara magicking all her water away in the flip of a finger, including what had made Sokka's clothes wet.

"Yes, sir?" Katara cautions sheepishly.

"My name is Lieutenant Yao. I'm here to accompany you to the capital," says the lieutenant, scratching his cheek. "We're ready to transport you now, if you could just gather your things."

"Of course!" says Sokka, perking up, taking Katara by the hand and dragging her away to their quarters.

The lieutenant can hear them squabbling until they disappear from sight.


The Fire Nation is beautiful, in all its foreign charm. There are people sprawling across its lush and green flats and hills; there are people in the towns and in the fields and everywhere, everywhere, there is laughter and robust families of three to ten, gossiping and playing and eating—to a Southern Watertribesman, this is an overwhelming experience. The tight-knit cluster of home plays no part in this new surrounding, as the pieces here are a part of a much larger whole. The air is sweet here, like a tablet of red bean candy on your tongue, teasing your nose and making your mouth water. Water runs bluer than in the Antarctic south, but no cleaner.

The Fire Nation capital, however, is placed far above this, in what can only be described as a giant volcano.

The rickshaw that they climbed into at the Harbor City not two hours before is hooded with silks, thick and ornate, painted red and carved out of mahogany; much to Katara's chagrin it is lofted high upon the shoulders of six to eight, well-browned servant-men, each sporting an equally officious, tall red hat. The lieutenant accompanies Sokka and Katara in the rickshaw—he seems to have died and been reincarnated a tour guide, for at every turn there is something he is pointing out with great vigor and emphasis, as if he were the cause of it all. Once through the sprawling jungles of architectural wonders and into the capital city walls, he seems eager to talk until he explodes.

"And there's Second-Governor Fang's manor—there's his no-good son, too—Fang Jianguo, you get off that wall before you break your head like an egg! The second-governor has a daughter too, quite a dull thing, she is. Did you know—ah, and there are the steps that lead to the Thousand Words Temple," here he pauses briefly to bow curtly at the neck, his hands pressed together in front of his nose, "that you take your prayers to before festival times, or just when you need to speak to someone. And there, over that marketplace— the fish one— there is the great dragon's head of the palace walls." Here, he looks significantly at Sokka, and Katara nods constantly, enraptured by the culture shock.

Sokka is nodding off. It's too hot here and he's beginning to sweat through his jerkin. The air buzzes around him like fireflies, and the chatter of nobles are of no worldly interest. He closes his eyes and wonders why this place is so blandly organized, why there are only the flashily dressed in this Crater that serves as a home for the elite, why there is so much smoke and pollution and why in the world this place is not home.

Katara eyes him and jumps to the confused and flustered Lieutenant Yao's aid as he flounders for a way to respond to Sokka's seeming indifference. "Lieutenant, sir, forgive him. It has been a long trip, and we are a long way from home," she says, placating, inwardly cursing Sokka for being a butt. Even so, a smidge of worry works itself into her veins. How is Sokka faring with all this?

Lieutenant Yao, unaffected, rattles on until they reach the great, yawning gates of the Fire Nation Palace.


Oh, dear ancestors. He's locked in the bathroom.

Zuko can't imagine a worse situation. He's also very sweaty, which exacerbates his temper until he can feel his ears coloring.

He shakes and rattles the door, slams himself against it, calls feebly for his mother—to no avail. Firebending is not an option at any point in time, not in his mother's privately designed washroom and especially not in these horrendous clothes. He's certainly scared to miss a meeting with his—cringe—beloved, but he is much more scared of his mother and her ability to inflict bodily pain.

So Zuko jumps out the window.

Well, he tries, but his clothes weigh him down so much that he can't fit his rear end through, much to his mortification, and he'd much, much rather be stuck in a bathroom than hanging out a window, so he pries himself out.

He waits, paces, curses, then settles huffily in one of the gigantic tubs. The basin is soothingly cool in the sticky summer air, so he curls up, stares at the ceiling and sighs, hoping.


"Majesty—the guests have arrived. Shall we send them to wash up before holding counsel? They have endured an arduous journey."

Ursa's head is turned curiously away, and a napkin is pressed to her delicate lips. She waves the servant away, nodding. She calls after him, as an afterthought, sounding as though her mouth is full, "Where is Zuko? Go fetch him for me, dear. He should be out here with us, or he'll miss his dinner." Aside, to Azula, she mutters with great difficulty, "Cold feet."

Azula's lips, a perfectly uniform crimson, curl into a smile with a hint of teeth.


Sokka is rudely awakened by a splash of water to his face. Katara's unforgiving hand shakes him and she gives him a reprimanding glare. "Up," she says, "we're about to enter the palace courtyard."

Sokka mutters to himself and obeys.

The courtyard is splendid, emblazoned with red buds and greenery that had only been viewed in tapestries back home in their longhouses. The bleached granite sheets that make up the geometric designs on the ground are flattering, but a tad stiff in contrast to the warm fur carpets and leather flooring of home, but as the ground gives way to warmer cobblestone, Katara cannot help but imagine herself traipsing along them without shoes in the warm evening air. The beautiful, open hallways that line the sides of the yard are plain, but tastefully so, and seem to lead into several sitting and tea rooms.

Lieutenant Yao and Sokka's personal horde of Fire Nation soldiers (who had, much to his horror, reappeared at his side in what can only be described as teleportation as he stepped foot outside of the rickshaw) led them strongly to the heart of the place, until they reached a flight of grand steps as wide as a longhouse all on its own. Katara was floored, and when she told the Fire Nation soldiers so (Sokka was a mute, oddly enough, so she vied for their attentions instead), they picked her up until she punched one of them. They headed up the steps, a motley crew of dark-skinned and light, armor and furs, with Lieutenant Yao yammering the entire way. The Fire Nation horde gasped and nodded appropriately.

Sokka wants to go to bed, really, and even though he is more than willing to uphold his father's wishes, he supposes he doesn't have to act happy about it until he meets the Fire Nation prince he's betrothed to—what was his name again? Su-something. He wrinkles his nose as they reach the stairs' landing, headed by an enormous red and black, gold-dragon engraved door. Really, these people had the flashiest taste.

Legions of servants bow low along the ground at his sides as they enter a sort of humongous foyer, dressed exclusively in muted pink and red robes. Lieutenant Yao and the Horde seem to melt into the background as the front row of servants rise and, without looking Sokka and Katara in the eyes, gently lead them down opposite hallways. Briefly, the Water Tribe siblings glance over their shoulders and make eye contact; Katara smiles and waves with two fingers: Good luck.


"Milord," says the servant, light-skinned and dark haired, with a single gold earring (round, like a hanging globe, and spinning with his movements), "the washroom is through these curtains here—oh, dear, someone seems to have locked it, I'll take care of that, milord. Take all the time you need. One of your bags will be delivered shortly, so you will have your spare clothes… but, milord, do remember that Princess Azula requested that you wash here specifically, and that other rooms are off-limits until the Prince himself introduces you to them. This is the Prince's wing, after all." And with a flourishing bow and an earring jangle, Sokka is left alone in front of a delicately embroidered reddish curtain.

Stretching his neck side to side, he cracks his knuckles and rotates his wrists. It's been a long journey; time to unwind with a nice bath.

The door opens soundlessly, as if the hinges are greased, and a brief, warm wind kicks up and flickers about his ponytail. It, like so many things here, smells sweet, something he needs time to get used to.

The first thing he notices when he steps into the room is that this really shouldn't be the washroom in a Prince's private wing. There are too many pictures of lotuses and bathing women, too many flower petals littering the ground, and is that a rock garden?

The second thing he notices is that there is someone asleep in the bathtub.

When he first realizes it, it nearly scares him half to death—he would have given a high-pitched scream had his vocal cords not frozen in place. He wonders, briefly, if the person is dead, until he realizes that the person is breathing, and allows himself a breath himself.

A knock interrupts any further action, and he meanders back to the door, opening it and finding one of his sealskin packs neatly placed outside, with no one accompanying it. Creepy. He debates yelling out for someone to help him, there's someone in his tub, as if the person were an over-sized fly in his soup, but decides against it due to the sheer quiet around the halls. He decides to deal with it himself.

Walking back into the room and keeping the door flung wide open to let the warm, sugary breeze run through like the gait of tiny deer moseying through, he stops to examine this person— this boy, actually— in the tub.

He's an average Fire Nation boy, with a little furrow in his brow. His hair is in a topknot atop his head with shorter strands falling out of it, askew. Spread out in the sun as he is, he still looks like he's barely gotten any sun most of his life, perhaps not in a bad way, but certainly not in an entirely good one, either. The light illuminates his face in a way that makes it innocent, but not overtly so—he seems to have dark circles, too, but they give his face character. He's dressed as ornately as this room is designed, in swathes of silk and satin that seem vastly uncomfortable. Sweat seems to have dotted his temples, and Sokka understands that he has been here for a while.

The very last thing he notices, however, is the flame-shaped headpiece clutched precariously in slack fingers, indicative to Sokka (who, despite all who make protest otherwise, is not a cultureless dolt) that this young man is Fire Nation royalty. Why he's sleeping in the bathroom, no one knows, because shouldn't he have some goose-feather something or other to rest in?

Sokka kneels next to the boy, his arms folded along the side of the tub, and he looks. Perhaps, by some twist of fate that Sokka does not have the patience to believe in, this is his betrothed. While sleeping in bathtubs may be a peculiarity, at least he is a tad more colorful and a little less upright than his stuffy surroundings and cultural background suggest. If this is his betrothed, perhaps if he stayed soft and vulnerable like this forever, Sokka could love him.

Sokka has had many crushes and many failed attempts at relationships—he is, after all, a seventeen year boy possessing what his sister and father often referred to as "an oafish sort of charm," but many girls, despite being enamored initially, eventually tired of his antics and goofy, occasionally abrasive convictions, and he grew tired, too, of their lack of wit.

Sokka isn't quite sure what he wants in a relationship (who knows at his age, anyway?), but right here in this room, thousands of miles away from his snowy homeland, being in the Fire Nation doesn't seem so torturous. He feels that, perhaps, if there is this sort of comfortable atmosphere between him and his betrothed, maybe being engaged can be a reprieve from a good long stay in what has so far demonstrated itself as a hot, sticky, gaudy sort of Hell.

As Sokka contemplates, the boy stirs. With Sokka's face so close to his, Sokka can see the snap of his eyes, amber-gold, as they lock on his own.

He also sees the pillar of flame rushing toward his face, and scrabbles backward to avoid it, only to get nipped by a solid right hook. Holy crap.

"Are you crazy?!" shouts Sokka in alarm, his voice high and wild, his hands on his cheek. He gesticulates far after this is said, his blue eyes open wider than they've ever been. So much for vulnerable.

But, then again, as he stares full-on at this strange Fire Nation prince, he sees the open eyes full of shock and a tinge of panic, an awkward self consciousness drowned by regret, and a sudden wash of anger—perhaps vulnerable is a viable description.

"Who are you?" shouts the prince in a voice husky with sleep. He clears his throat, sits up higher in his wash basin and starts anew, "Why are you in here—this is my private washroom! Don't you know that this is—my, ah, private washroom?!"

"You said that."

"Shut up, intruder!" The boy draws close to him by leaning out of the tub, wisps of his dark hair falling into his face, hands alight as smoke streams out his nostrils. He reminds Sokka of a little dragon. "Who sent you? Why are you here? No one but servants are allowed in my quarters! Unauthorized entry is punishable by—um, by death!"

Sokka puts up two hands, placating, telling him he is unarmed. "Calm down. Ancestors! If I was an enemy, you'd obviously have an easy time getting rid of me, considering you nearly singed my sac."

The boy's eyes harden. "Who are you affiliated with?" he demands with great force. "You better not be part of that stupid fanclub—"

Sokka bursts out laughing. "You have a fanclub?! You're too little to have a fanclub!"

His Fire Nation companion is not amused; in fact, it seems he is trying to be all the more intimidating by the second (which is, in all honesty, rather hard, as he is still sitting in a rather diminutive wash basin). With one finger, he produces a lick of flame that breezes maliciously past Sokka's face and singes a few hairs off his wolf-tail.

"Gah!" cries Sokka as he stares at the boy incredulously. At the boy's deliberately slow raise of a hand, he yelps and ducks, covering his face with his forearms. He shouts, muffled, "Princess—Ah, Ah-soo-luh sent me here specifically! I was told not to go anywhere else."

The boy looks floored by this. His jaw slackens a little, and he curses. He takes a furtive glance at Sokka in his strange blue outfit, and he goes white while his ears simultaneously color. With what seems like great difficulty, he extracts himself from the tub and, after great deliberation, hesitantly gives Sokka a hand up as he dusts himself off.

"You're a Water Tribesman," he says, as if he is just realizing this for the very first time. Sokka raises an eyebrow at him.

"And you're a Fire Nation prince—a crazy one, but one all the same," retorts Sokka as he bitterly palms his bright red cheek and motions to the fallen headpiece, shaped exclusively as a lick of flame.

The boy scowls briefly at him, but he trudges on awkwardly, "A Southern Water Tribesman…?"

Sokka smiles at this proudly. "Why, yes, I am."

"And are you here accompanying the Prince?" the boy demands.

"Nope," says Sokka, with a bland look.

The boy colors further as he stares at the "duh" vibe Sokka is exuding until he grimaces, registering the utmost stupidity of his every action thus far. In a small voice, he says, "Are you the Prince?"

Sokka's smile is a watt brighter, this time. "Yes, I am."

The boy flees out the open washroom door.


Zuko knew, in the pit of his stomach, that one day he would nearly attack his betrothed and make a complete fool of himself in the process. He just knew it would happen, and if he didn't bring itself about all on its own, that Azula would have a hand in it.

Azula, that conniving little witch.

Zuko wanted to sink into a hole and stay there until his betrothed thought he had died and went back home. He wanted to hide until this blue-eyed, dark-skinned boy forgot his face, so that he may reintroduce himself without the painful awkwardness of "Hey, sorry. So, remember the time I nearly singed your face off?" or "How's that bruise doing? You know, from when I punched you in the face."

A hand catches his arm. Crap. Zuko needs to practice dramatic exits—walk faster, next time.

"Hey, kid," says the Water Tribesman warily, "not so fast."

"I'm not a kid," grinds out Zuko, but he stops quietly. He feels small and cornered by embarrassment and a sickening feeling that he has dishonored something, somewhere, if not just his dignity.

The tanned boy gently spins him around with his forearm. Zuko can see him scrutinizing his face while he refuses to look at him. Instead, he looks at lined fingers on his arm, gripping feather-light, almost tenderly.

"So, you're what, the little brother of the guy I'm supposed to marry, right?" Royal cobalt eyes are completely serious when Zuko glances up in surprise.

Zuko proceeds to see red.

"N-No!" he sputters. "Fool! Idiot—simpleton! I am your betrothed!"

The Water Tribesman seems slightly caught off-guard by this, but a spark of recognition runs along his face, settling into something that Zuko cannot name. He smirks a horridly tan smirk.

"Are you sure? Because you don't really seems up to the standards of the greatest Prince on the planet, you know. This is kind of something you have to fit."

Oh, now he's just trying to piss Zuko off.

Zuko sticks out his hand suddenly, causing the other boy to flinch, much to Zuko's satisfaction. "Sun Zuko," he says, trying to be short, but sounding generally murderous instead.

His hand is taken tentatively, then crushed in a fierce shake. "Sokka. Ah, Sokka Sialuk."

As the handshake draws to a close and Zuko's anger begins to dissolve, they stare at each other awkwardly. 'What now?' panics Zuko inwardly. For what is not the first time in his life, but perhaps one of the more significant milestones, he is mortified into silence.

This "Sokka" person decides to take this situation up in his own hands, Zuko can see, because he has a steeliness in his eye that Zuko feels he can come to admire.


'Talk to him first, then he'll be nice,' says the ghostly voice of the cabin boy in his head. So Sokka does what he does best.

He tells this awkward little prince a joke. He, after all, is the funny guy in this equation; he can break the ice, he's sure of it. The Fire Nation prince, this "Sun Zuko" character, will laugh and be amazed at Sokka's stunning wit and they, automatically, will be friends.

It starts, innocently, with "So, you wanna hear a joke?" and a goofy grin—in return, he receives a disarmed (or is it alarmed? Desperate?) smile, and a brief nod.

Sokka tells Zuko his joke proudly. The contents will not be inserted here, and must be left to the reader's imagination, for they are largely insignificant. Zuko's reaction, however, should take the stage.

Sokka opens his eyes (having closed them in pleasure at the final punch line) to what appears to be a vague cricket noise.

Zuko appears ill, almost as if he is on the border of suffering cardiac arrest. His golden eyes are wide with incomprehension and what one could only guess to be great amounts of bodily stress.

'My ancestors,' thinks Zuko, 'the soothsayers have given me a moron for a husband. What did I ever do to them, and how will I ever repent?'

Sokka feels unsure, suddenly, until Zuko snaps out of it to take him by the hand. "Come on," he says, "we should be getting to the feast." His voice sounds strained.

"You didn't like my joke?" says Sokka, allowing himself to be led.

Zuko doesn't pull his punches. "No."

Sokka frowns as he swipes out a hand to grab his sealskin pack on the way. "But I'm hilarious."

Zuko stiffens and switches his stride. "No, you're not."

Sokka's frown grows deeper. "Everyone thinks so."

"They were laughing at you."

"At my jokes, yeah."

"No, at you."

"With me, you mean?"

"No."

They bicker this way until a servant at stops them at the door to the main entry hall, where the feast awaits. She shoos Zuko back in the other direction with a few hand servants to fix up the two of them—"My prince, whatever happened to your hair?" (there are significant glances between him and Sokka here)— and Zuko does an about face and drags Sokka with him. When questioned why he was still holding his hand, Zuko replies, shortly, that Sokka is a moron, and would embarrass him otherwise.

On the very peripheral of Sokka's mind, beneath the outrage and the insulted pride, there is a millimeter of his heart that likes the feeling of their hands intertwined, but under the landslide of "Wow! You sure are a jerk," there doesn't seem to be any room for recognition for such a tiny, flighty thought.

!!!

A/N: Zuko doesn't have a scar. I didn't particularly know how to add it in, anyway, as this is an AtLA world in a time of peace, and I wanted to develop a family aspect amongst the Fire Nation that not a lot of fanfiction sees. Therefore, Ozai is absent, because how is family family with a lunatic at the helm? In his place, Iroh and Ursa manage the home-front.

When I'm characterizing Zuko, I tend to think of the Zuko trying to tell the Gaang that he isn't evil anymore—that's the awkward boy I'm focusing on, because it's obviously a side of his personality that would have been more overt from the start had he not be, um, traumatized.

Haha, "Sun" is a Chinese last name that I read somewhere was the surname of royalty, at one point. No matter how true this is or not, I saw "Sun" as the most ironic, beautiful last name the Fire Nation Royal family could have in the whole entire world.

"Aningan" is the name of the god of the moon in the Inuit language, or it just means "god of the moon," if my googling is correct. That is the name of Sokka's clan, exclusively his family line, so the Southern Water Tribe is currently under the rule of the Aningan Clan. Their clan name is entirely separate from their surname, "Sialuk," which means "raindrops."

Questions are welcome; I'll answer them to the best of my ability, as I'm—uh, making it up as I go. And, yes, Natsuko-chan, Aang will be in this, though maybe not how you'd expect. :)

This story is mostly for my own enjoyment, but still, thank you all for coming. :)