A/N:
Hey, friends, here's the next chapter.
Thanks so much for the love, especially to my guest reviewer, who reviewed almost every chapter! I was stoked to see 'em all! Thank you! ORZ
I hope you all enjoy this one!
Prompt 12: Patience
Zuko and Aunt Wu sat out on her patio, a pot of tea between them. The air was soft and silent; they watched the sunset, saw the first falling of the leaves, and sipped quietly on their tea.
"I loved her first," he said, neither loudly nor softly, neither aggressively nor passively. It was just a statement of fact. An observation. A way of the world. A way of his life.
Then, he repeated it, and this time, he said it quieter, sweeter. He tasted the words, let the images swell inside his chest, felt the curve of each letter forming against his lips and tongue, felt each tiny, subtle movement and wisp of breath necessary to give life to the fluttering right against his ribs.
I loved you first.
The tree in Aunt Wu's yard was tall and broad; from his angle, it looked as if its branches were supporting the sky itself. Its leaves were a dark green, but still, they fell in time with the coming of the new season. On a few there were tints of red, as if a change was starting to take form, but before it could fully take hold, the leaf was cut and released. He watched one fall to the ground; it faced upwards toward the sky as it fell, green except for the little dot of fire in the center.
"I saw you in her future," Aunt Wu murmured.
Ah, and there was the ache. But Zuko was a man now, and he understood what each pang against his diaphragm meant, understood that it was as important as the rapid beating; he needed both Agni and Yue, both the left side of his face and the right side, both the sting and the hush.
He inhaled and closed his eyes — laughter, the sound of bells, the rush of the waves — and then exhaled — sunlight, the flash of the stars, the barest touch of shoulders, the desperate yearning in the bone that it could mean more.
"It would be my first time being wrong," Aunt Wu mused.
Zuko chuckled. "You were not wrong," he said. "I am in her future, even if I'm not a part of it. And that is enough. That is fine."
He felt the thrumming in his old wound. He pressed his hand against it and felt the timeworn pulse of electricity. It was something he would do again.
Aunt Wu placed a hand on his knee. "You will be reborn," she said. "You may have her in other lives."
He finished his cup. The tea was cold, but he found he didn't mind.
"Perhaps," he whispered. "But…"
The old woman refilled their cups.
"…But?" she repeated.
"He is a good man," Zuko said. "He will treat her better than I could ever, in any of my future or past lives."
Slowly, she nodded in a dawning understanding, and then turned back to the sunset. "Sometimes, the bird does not come back," she said.
"Yes," he breathed. No one knew that better than he. "And that is okay, too."
Zuko tilted his head upwards. There was a red that spread across the sky in streaks, cutting the blue like fingers reaching for something so, so far away, on the other side of the world, on the other side of the universe, on the other side of time.