Sokka kept coming. Zuko just kept seeing him, kept hearing him. Zuko could not get him out of his mind. Sokka's voice, that grating voice. That voice burned, it singed Zuko in the ears; he couldn't stand it! Zuko laid in bed, hot. The heat sweltered on. Zuko had thrown off his blanket. He tossed and turned underneath the cool side of his pillow. He listened to his sweat as it dripped off his hand, onto the chamber pot which sat below his bed. Water. He needed water. Zuko was burning up, and he needed water.
Zuko sat up, then stood up, then stumbled onto the rug. Drowsily, he dragged his hands - like great bricks - across the surface of his mattress. He was almost dancing. His feet wobbled and flew; his breath huffed and drew. It was too hot. It was too hot. Zuko was almost spinning. The incessant chirping of insects, the hazy smudge that looked like the moon. Princess Yue. A strange bloom of guilt blossomed into Zuko's chest. Why did Zuko feel so bad?
Sokka had gotten so upset, Zuko remembered. The idea of Sokka being upset; Zuko did not know how to feel about that. This strange feeling pooled in his belly. His chest fluttered with millions of butterflies. Zuko did not know why he felt this way. Deep down, however, he knew of the sins he'd committed. And the sins his nation had committed.
Zuko took the bucket of water Iroh had drawn, and he gulped. Water came spilling down the sides of his cheeks. Zuko paused for a moment, the now empty bucket still hanging loosely from his index finger. Zuko let the bucket drop, and he stormed off back to bed.
When he thought of Sokka, he still felt hot. That idiot from the South Pole made him feel hot.
"I'm sick of you coming."
Zuko looked at Sokka. Sokka looked at Zuko. They stood eye to eye. Too close. Too close. Just a bit further and their noses would touch. Zuko felt the muscles in his face twitch, then curl. His mouth hurt from the sheer exertion of his scowl, and he did not care. He gave Sokka the stink-eye.
Sokka turned away, probably to leave, when Zuko caught his hand. Zuko's fingers squeezed a little too tightly.
"I said that I want you to leave the tea shop. I never said you could leave me." Zuko ignored his shift. He didn't care about his manager. He didn't care about getting yelled at. On his way out, he told Iroh that he was leaving for a bit, and he didn't wait to hear Iroh's answer.
Zuko practically dragged Sokka out of the tea shop by the ear. Sokka did not say anything. He just followed along, dumbly.
The two teens - were they boys? men? Transitory, just in-betweens, Zuko supposed; not young enough to play, not old enough to fully face the horrors of war - stood on a hill, in a grassy meadow. The wind was cool here. Sokka's brown hair fluttered. His dumb, brown hair fluttered. Totally like a lump of dead grass, Zuko thought, but deep down he knew he didn't mean it.
Sokka laid his hands on his hips, then stretched. He whistled. "Good view up here." Sokka chuckled tentatively. There was no view to speak of. There was just grass, and Sokka knew it. Zuko stamped the wild flowers beneath his feet. He twisted his ankles back and forth, digging the tip of his shoes into the dirt. Zuko felt hot again.
The two did not exchange another word. They stood, silent, feeling the wind in their knotted, tangled hair. After an hour or so, Sokka climbed down the hill, and he left, leaving Zuko alone. All alone again. Zuko sat down. He rested his chin on his hand, and his elbow on his folded knee, and he thought. He did not know what he thought about. Swirls of feelings wriggled through his head. Zuko inhaled, then exhaled, but he did not feel air enter his lungs. He wheezed numbly as the sun began to set.
Sokka kept coming. To the hill.
"Tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow."
Zuko did not have to tell Sokka the time. It just happened. Sokka just showed up. The entire time, neither said anything. They met in the night now, so that Uncle would not notice Zuko's absence from the tea shop. Iroh always told Zuko to be home before it got too dark. That almost never happened.
"I'm not seven years old anymore!" Zuko would say before storming out of the apartment. Iroh just chuckled, and it made Zuko's blood boil. Was Iroh not mad? Uncle just stood there, chuckling, waving. Zuko imagined his own father there, chuckling, waving, telling him to get back before dark. Zuko spat out the thought, too pained to continue on with it.
Zuko and Sokka continued to meet like this for an entire week. Was it actually an entire week? Had it been half a week? Two? Zuko hadn't been counting. As the days dragged on, they stood, then sat, closer and closer. It could have been Zuko's imagination, though. Then, suddenly, Sokka didn't show up.
Sokka did not show up.
Did Zuko dare say he felt offended? Zuko was on the hill, wrestling with his own hand, pacing across and crushing the yellow flowers beneath his feet. The warm breeze which ghosted the back of Zuko's neck felt like shards of ice. Zuko shuttered; he shivered. Suddenly, he realized that he had started to cry.
Disappointment? Was this what disappointment really felt like? Zuko thought that he'd known disappointment. His father was so disappointed in him; Ozai must have been so disappointed. And Zuko's throne. His throne? He was set to become Fire Lord, for spirits' sake. His home. His throne. His glory. It just crumbled between his fingers, leaving his hands like sand. But this? But this disappointment? Zuko tried to chew it, then tried to swallow it whole. It did not work.
Zuko wanted for Sokka to come. To the hill. Their hill. Where they would sit, together. Closer and closer. They had been getting closer and closer, inching nearer to each other by the day. Sokka's skin felt warm. Zuko tried to remember how warm it felt when his arm sat next to Sokka's.
After several more days of exhausting disappointment, Zuko stopped coming to the hill. Whenever he did, for some reason he wanted to cry. Sometimes he did. How dare Sokka leave him like this? After coming over and over? After all the glares, all the stares, and all the hushed warnings Zuko had given him? As soon as Zuko found a hill for them, Sokka was gone.
It was nighttime. Dark. The moon, a sliver in the sky. Zuko would have slumbered.
A knock. Zuko heard a knock at his door. He wondered if it was Azula, ready to take him and Uncle away. Perhaps it was Earth Kingdom soldiers who had discovered that Uncle could fire bend cold tea. Zuko had spent the past few days being so numb. He got up, shuffled to the door, and opened it, not bothering to light an oil lamp. He closed his eyes, ready for his hands to be violently twisted behind his back.
A set of arms reached out to Zuko. Zuko felt it. He held out his wrists in surrender. How did Sokka make him feel this way? Why, when Sokka stopped coming, did Zuko want to give up?
Probably a minute had passed, but no sensation of pain exploded through Zuko's chest. His shoulders did not ache. He was still standing. Zuko opened his eyes, and he saw him, just barely, in the darkness of the crescent moon.
Brown hair. Brown skin. Brown eyes, which reflected the pale moonlight. Warm hands. Zuko reached with his own hands to meet Sokka's.
"I'm sorry."
"Why?"
"You know why."
Sokka looked at Zuko, daring to make eye contact. "I'm sorry. I don't know how to feel about you."
"What do you mean?" Zuko asked, both lips and eyes burning. Don't cry, he told himself. Don't cry.
"Don't you feel it, too? My stomach feels funny when I'm around you."
Sokka was right. He was right!
Then, a thought occurred to Zuko.
"How did you find me?"
"I guessed. I assumed that you lived above the tea shop."
"You were right."
"Was I ever."
Stupid, stupid. Sokka was so damn stupid.
Zuko did not know whether to feel annoyed or disturbed. Why did Sokka even want to know where he lived? He could have just asked; Sokka knew that, right? Then Zuko remembered that mere months ago, Sokka had been dodging fire balls.
"What if you had knocked at the wrong door?"
"I just had a feeling, you know?"
"You never make decisions on just feelings. I know at least that about you."
"I saw you come in."
"You what?"
"I was snooping. I, I couldn't help it! I didn't know what to do! I had left you, ghosted you! I don't know how to feel, I. I. I. I. I."
Zuko took Sokka's hand, and, surrounded by the anonymity of the night's shadow, they retreated once again to their hill.
Zuko felt hot again, even when the ground felt cold. They both sat, in the dark, on the hill.
Suddenly, the urge hit Zuko. He did not know who did what first. Lips slammed on top of lips. They both toppled onto each other. Hot. Warm. Arms. Softness. Teeth-clattering, spine-chattering, absolute fire. Like fire. Zuko felt a fire within him, within his stomach. It tingled. Hotness.
Zuko pinned Sokka to the grass, and he went in for more. Sokka craned his neck up, frantically. His jawline tightened, appearing almost to convulse. It was well defined and sharp. Zuko didn't notice that about Sokka before. Had his cheekbones always been so sharp? The angle of his chin so defined? Sokka smelled like man. Sokka's arms wrapped around Zuko's back. Fingers ran aggressively up and down Zuko's chest. Zuko did think to stop what they were doing. He didn't care. They didn't care. Two lonely souls, together at least, at last. Zuko didn't want to admit that he liked it. Could he admit that he liked it?
The two separated, and they both lied, side by side, in the tall grass, holding hands. Their breaths, heavy, labored. Zuko observed Sokka's chest rise and fall.
"Is this why you've been avoiding me?"
.
"I want you."
Zuko did not say anything after that, and neither did Sokka. A peculiar hunger had Zuko in its clutches, and Zuko didn't even know it. Zuko was practically licking his lips in want. In need. He wanted Sokka, too. He wanted more. He wanted every last bit of Sokka, wanted to devour him on the spot. Zuko lied in the grass, completely still, skin on fire, fearful of what he'd do if he allowed himself the luxury of movement.
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