11. Intimacy

Katara would describe their relationship post-zoo-field-trip and sick day as...the same.

Well, okay. They weren't kissing before.

Not that she was necessarily complaining. The point was strictly confined to one thing: uncertainty. They had, on a physical level, admired each other. Their small arguments went like clockwork and were never really taken seriously. There wasn't something she could put her finger on, but when he stared at her while she was warming up, quietly going through her laps and drills, she felt something quiet but there, like wind brushing against bare skin. When they sat together, she inhaled his smell—like pumpkin pie with extra nutmeg and cinnamon and something else that was Zuko—and felt peaceful (until they started bickering).

The thing was, however, like wind, she never knew exactly where it came from or which form it exactly would take. She didn't know his boundaries, the line that she'd possibly overstep that make him relapse into the uncomfortable silence that she always identified with his telling of his family. She didn't know what truly made him happy—for example, what he would like for a birthday present—and felt as if it was something she couldn't give. Sometimes when he stood beside her, she felt small and uncertain like a child.

Zuko's touches were always tender, delicate, and faint, as if he was afraid of the age-old cliché of breaking her. He brushed his fingers through her hair as softly as petting a newborn kitten, kissed her cheek or lips as a butterfly gently landing on a flower does, and nothing felt solid and warm and Zuko—passionate, firm, strong.

Perhaps it was dating her coach, like dating a teacher or other authority figure who should be respected and always known as such. Jet had said Mai and Zuko stopped dating, and she could see the complications. What if Zuko were being too complimentary and was trying not to hurt her feelings? What if they had a terrible argument and it hurt worse than the last one and he stopped coaching her? She played this game many times and always lost.

"Katara." His voice broke into her thoughts, and she realized she had been swimming around the pool for a very long time while Zuko kept calling her name.

"Sorry, Zuko. Should I transition onto—"

"No. Come here, Katara."

She did, looking up at him. He sat down, feet dangling at the edge, plunking gracefully into the water.

"What would you like to do for my birthday, Katara? It's this weekend, and you look very tired."

"Oh. It's your birthday, Zuko. You pick."

"Give me a suggestion then. I'll take it from there."

Katara shrugged the best she could while keeping herself afloat the water. "Dinner. It doesn't have to be fancy. Something you like. Relaxing."

"Good." He leaned over and pecked her nose. "Now, let's try beating your last time."

Katara took more time getting ready for the dinner than with the gala and luncheon combined. Her sleeveless dress was Zuko's most frequently worn color, red—so she assumed it was his favorite—with gold rising up on the edges like waves or flames. She had pretty gold ballet flats covered with patterns of random swirls and twisting gold earrings with a small diamond in the middle with two gold bangles on her right wrist. Her mother's necklace, as always, was on her neck. Her hair was down, curled in more outlined and neat waves.

Zuko followed all of the steps that possibly came from How To Treat Your Date: Greeting, Meeting the Family, and Date Night Gesture Tropes before speeding her off in the limo.

"Your dress looks lovely," he complimented. "It's perfect for our menu tonight."

She smiled at his slightly awkward last sentence. "Spicy food?"

"Indian, to be precise."

"Ohh," she said in surprise. "I've never really had Indian food. Except some curry."

"Curry is very good," he commented. "But you must try some idli or perhaps sambar."

She decided to order one of the items Zuko recommended, sambar. Zuko had ordered a mixed plate for both of them and also kofta for himself. He smiled at her from across the candlelit table. They made small talk and played with their hands. Zuko didn't seem to know what to do with his birthday, and she didn't know what to do at a formal dinner. Figures.

She then gave him a present she hoped he'd like: a (faux) gold pen with a dragon carved to make it look as if was curling around it and a Barnes and Noble gift card. He turned the pen in his hands to admire the detailed work and carefully put it back with a genuine thank you. The gift card was much appreciated, even though Katara had anticipated that wouldn't have been the show-stopper of the night.

He kissed her over the table, mindful of the candle. "Thank you, Katara."

They started a conversation on their favorite books when Zuko mentioned he'd use the gift card sometime soon, when their food arrived, piping hot and steaming their glasses. Katara put a tentative spoonful of sambar into her mouth and gasped.

Zuko looked at with slight disappointment. "You don't like it?"

"Zuko, I love it, but I must—" Katara grabbed her full glass of water and downed two huge swallows of it in one sitting. Zuko was chuckling as he nonchalantly ate his own meal.

"Katara, it's supposed to be mildly spicy. Are you sure you're not overreacting?"

"My taste buds are different from yours," she protested, but continued to eat the hearty stew in smaller spoonfuls.

The evening went without a hitch—they delicately fed each other the small snacks and sweets on the platter, while Zuko told her stories about the origin about sambar and various Indian mythology. She hung onto his every word and watched his hands gesture wildly in enthusiam, his eyes dancing in amusement as he recounted when elephants did indeed fly and how much trouble they caused. Katara laughed and ate and drank her water, which tasted like fine wine on her tongue—she was truly seeing the man she knew.

"Where did you learn all of this, Zuko?" She asked, imagining it might have been a course in college or from a friend.

Zuko looked down, took a bite of sukhdi.

"My mother."

Katara felt terrible as the silence stretched between them once more. She placed a hand on his larger one.

"Your mother seemed—seems—"

"Katara, don't." He sighed, trying to stroke a part of her hand with his thumb. "It's okay. I don't know where she is now. She could be dead; she could be alive...but I will never know."

"Don't say that—she could be—"

"No, Katara. It hurts too much." Zuko finally pulled his hand from underneath her and played with his shirt. He plucked another sukhdi from the plate and handed it to her.

"Try it. It's sweet."

As Katara chews, Zuko is silent from across the table. It seems like a hundred miles away, stretching out far away from her.

"My mother loved those," he finally says. "They were her favorite, with oatmeal-raisin cookies. She also liked to take me here for my birthday."

His eyes are brimming. She doesn't need to take his hand again or kiss him or even speak his name. But a small look passes between them that will never be forgotten, that makes Katara's eyes shimmer, too, in the candlelight.

"Wow, it's late," Katara commented as she carefully carried the sambar stored in a take-home box in a plastic bag. Zuko grinned and watched his breath puff in the night air.

"It's cold," he commented with a shudder. "Let's get into the limo."

"Jee parked it this whole time? Zuko! Is he waiting for us?"

"He did park it somewhere, but he said he was going to the movies while we were out."

Katara rolled her eyes, but kissed his cheek. "Should we call him? Is he there?"

Zuko shrugged and pulled her closer. "Can't hurt to wait—"

He looked up and a look of horror came over his face. Katara glanced up, alarmed. Was someone going to rob them? Did they have a gun? Could they make it back to the car?

"My...son." A man loomed over both of them, his features almost exactly like Zuko's gleaming in the low streetlight. "Happy birthday."