ch: memory.
characters: jet, zuko.
tumblr prompt: jetko week.

…

There is no war in Ba Sing Se.

But there are places in his mind that ache with an emptiness that Jet can't explain away, just faint daydreams of ambiguous figures and surges of feelings through his skin. There are meaningless things in his life, trinkets he finds and slowly throws away when he cleans through his apartment—wilted flowers tucked into pockets of his clothes, a dagger he carries and intends to sell, a coupon for tea that he gives to Longshot because he appreciates the calming effects of simple things like silence and books and tea better than he ever could.

Jet knows there is something alive in his blood, a virulent thing that used to tear its way through his veins with passion and ardor and all the reasons people go from breathing to living, but he can't put his thumb down on the pulse of it.

…

Zuko curls in on himself, back pressed against the chilling stone of the alley, shallow breaths brushing against his knees as he tries to think. Days, he thinks, it has to have been days, because he thinks he has been keeping count but everything blurs together except Jet. He is a prominent imprint in his mind, a tangled body with regret like blood running through its veins, skin stretched with every truth that Zuko stretched all the same, every shifting lie he whispered with his body so close.

He finds that he clings to dark memories like these, all of the beautiful things he could have had for fleeting moments at a time, like Jet's crooked smile and his endearing persistence and the annoying way that Zuko was starting to think about staying in this miserable, wall-blocked city. He digs his fingers into these terrible emotions so deeply that it seems covetous, but he hates them, because it floods his mind every waking moment of the day and he can never chase those thoughts away.

There is no home for him in this city.

…

He has swords, Jet thinks as he taps his shoulder, but his eyes go wide at the sight of him before he can hold in his shock. The color of his scar bursts in the center of Jet's mind with a stabbing sensation, because suddenly he knows the shade of red it becomes under a blush and the way it looks crimson in the middle of the night and the way it fades under his hands.

Jet stares and clenches his fingers tight around the dagger in his hand, and somehow he feels the ghostly brush of fingers against his as the dagger slides into his palm, and he holds his hand out, still staring at this boy with swords who has been in his life before.

Curiosity spikes in his blood, but Jet knows there is no need for it, none at all because clearly, he's forgotten, for reasons.

"I have a feeling," Jet says, "that you'll want this back."

…

It hurts Zuko the most, that they made him forget.