A/N: I honestly don't know what happened, I sat down about six months ago to write what I imagined to be a relatively short modern Cinderella story that was maybe four chapters long. Now there are elements of Pride and Prejudice in the mix and I'm currently on chapter twelve and still going strong. I have lost all control. I need help. This is also the story Dragon Therapy is taken from. Reviews are appreciated.
Chapter 1
Katara
Katara bit her lip and bounced on the balls of her feet as she waited for Mr Pakku to notice her. He was a greying, cantankerous old man who viewed his teacher's chair as a throne and his desk as an altar (on which his students were presumably supposed to sacrifice every ounce of joy for an entire hour at a time), and expected all his students to operate on the assumption that this was, in fact, true. He put the pen down decisively next to the paper he had been writing on and massaged his forehead with one hand briefly before leaning back in his chair to give Katara his attention and the last of his patience.
"Mr Pakku, I was wondering if you would be able to go through the test with me and help me see where I went wrong and what I can improve on." Began Katara hopefully, painting on her brightest smile just in case her most infamously sour-tempered teacher had mysteriously had a personality transplant recently and would consent to put in the extra effort with a student.
"Katara, what you need is a tutor." So no personality transplant then. He levelled her with a disapproving look, before continuing, "You can either find your own outside of school, or I can set you up with someone doing well in this class. Which would you prefer?"
Katara sighed, a student tutor would be cheaper, even if it was more humiliating. "I'd prefer a student tutor," she decided, keeping any whining out of her voice as best she could.
Mr Pakku nodded. "I'll have someone for you by our next lesson," He grunted. He picked up his pen, and upon seeing that Katara had yet to move, made a gesture with it towards the door, accompanying the move with a disdainfully raised (and disturbingly hairy,) eyebrow.
"Right. Sorry," Katara squeaked as she scurried through the door.
She hurried down the corridor and made her way straight to the lunch queue in the cafeteria. Unfortunately, the extra minutes she had spent talking to Mr Pakku about her literature test had put her right at the back of the line. Katara tried not to sigh too much at having to wait, but her disappointing score had left her in a bad mood for nearly the entirety of her last lesson and said bad mood had only been exacerbated by her teacher's disinterest.
The only thing that looked even remotely appetising under the harsh, yellow glare from lightbulbs that should have probably been changed several years ago, was the pizza. Well, it had been an unpleasant morning so far and if Katara was going to shake off her mood, then pizza would give her the strength to do it.
"Hey, Katara!" Aang chirruped when she finally dropped onto the cheap plastic seat next to him and set her tray down with a clatter. "How come you're so late today?"
The only way Katara could describe Aang was bubbly. His personality was bubbly, his voice still had a certain squeak to it and even his head, bald as it was, was in a sort of way, reminiscent of a bubble. He had only joined the school three weeks ago and about one day after that, Sokka had brought him over to their table at lunch and declared him part of the friendship group. And he had fit right in.
Not that they had strict entry requirements, or any entry requirements at all apart from being nice. Katara had always thought that that was the least she could be expected to ask of people who wanted to call her a friend.
Katara grunted as she set her elbows on the table and dropped her face into her hands (it wasn't her fault her family had a flair for the dramatic) before finally gathering the energy to answer. "So I got a bad score on my literature test from last week and I stayed behind to talk to Mr Pakku about it but he was about as helpful as a frying pan in a thunderstorm."
"A frying pan in a thunderstorm?" Aang asked, a picture of earnest confusion. He was the kind of person whose overwhelming naivete often had the people who knew him worrying about his future; and even though he was becoming friends with her and Sokka, he still struggled to understand the concept of sarcasm.
"I don't know!" Katara moaned, Aang might not have been great with sarcasm but this one was partially on her for the bad analogy, "this is probably why I got such a bad score on my test!"
"Yeah you should probably leave the sarcasm to someone much more skilled," chimed in Sokka from across the table.
He received a swat on the arm from his (long-suffering probably, in Katara's opinion) girlfriend. Suki then turned to Katara and asked, "So what did Mr Pakku actually say?"
"He told me I needed a tutor. And that he would have one for me by the next lesson." Katara pouted as she took a bite of her pizza.
"Well, that doesn't sound so bad..." Aang hedged.
"Yeah sis, what's wrong with having a tutor?" Sokka added.
It wasn't the idea of needing a tutor in general that rankled deep in her gut, it was more specifically the idea of her needing a tutor. She had high academic aspirations and needing a tutor was not likely to impress any of the institutions that could further her education. But also...
"I'm just worried about who Mr Pakku will pick for me."
Sokka immediately scoffed, "I'm sure it won't be that bad."
"Please. I have all the jerks in our school in my literature class. This could go really bad."
"I'm sure you could ask Mr Pakku to find someone else if your tutor ends up being a massive jerk," Aang offered weakly, though even he knew the likelihood of Mr Pakku going out of his way yet again to help Katara was slim at best.
Katara simply raised an eyebrow at Aang and watched as his hopeful expression melted away into sheepishness under her silent command to face reality.
"I guess I'll just have to grin and bear it," Katara sighed, "...unless it's really awful, then I suppose I could find my own tutor in school?"
"That's the spirit Katara," Suki enthused, "you take control of your own destiny."
"Right," Katara agreed decisively and nodded. "So, what were you guys talking about?" She asked; if she was ever going to improve her mood, it was probably wise to not dwell on the thing that was making her so grumpy.
Sokka shrugged. "The ACA league," he said and then turned back to Suki and resumed the topic.
Katara groaned quietly to herself, the Armed Combative Arts league made up at least a third of her brother's daily topics of conversation. More specifically, his admiration for anyone wielding a broadsword and his dogged insistence, often in the face of an overwhelming amount of evidence to the contrary, that his hero deserved to be champion of every tournament and was the most badass swordmaster ever.
Katara turned to Haru on her other side, "Hey, what are you guys talking about?"
"We're talking about which is the best, Earth Rumble, the ACA league, MCB, Agni Kai Fest or the Ultimate Barefist Championships. Smellerbee and Longshot are obviously biased towards the ones without bending but what I'm saying is, Mixed Combative Bending has it all. It's a spectacle, there's drama, there's never a boring fight when it's element versus element and not a whole lot of rules." Haru replied, Longshot and Smellerbee peering around him to stare at her.
Smellerbee snorted, "Only because you just started training MCB at Solaris gym," she shot back at him.
Oh no, more fighting, Katara thought as Aang asked Haru a question. She took a bite of her pizza, worrying about her literature tutor was beginning to look like the lesser of two evils.
Katara's next literature class wasn't until Monday, three whole days away, and she spent that entire time feeling like she had some sort of woodpecker (cranialpecker maybe? Brainpecker?) hammering one thought into the back of her mind, getting more and more insistent as the weekend withered away.
Who on earth was Mr Pakku going to get to tutor her?
She was distracted all through her first two periods and completely failed to notice the bell ringing until someone jostled her desk on their way to the door. With a start, she realised she had five minutes to pack her things up and push her way through the tide of students across the school for her fateful literature class.
She screeched into the room just as the bell went, earning a disgruntled nod in the direction of her seat from Mr Pakku which Katara meekly obeyed.
She pulled out her books and her pen and began to unconsciously, nervously wag her pen between her fingers.
There was no opportunity to speak to Mr Pakku during the lesson so she once again found herself standing expectantly in front of his desk as the rest of the class filed out past her.
"Your tutor will meet you in the library at one o'clock for the second half of lunch," Mr Pakku said in a bored tone whilst refusing to take his eyes off the papers in front of him and giving her a distracted wave towards the door.
Katara opened her mouth to protest or at least demand to know who her tutor was, but Mr Pakku just frowned and shooed her more insistently towards the door.
As Katara walked towards the cafeteria, once again dissatisfied with the entire lesson and Mr Pakku's attitude, and with an anxious knot in her stomach, she began to contemplate the mystery of her teacher's life choices that had led him to be such a miserable old goat.
It was safe to say that Katara was once again having what was commonly known as a bad day. But to Katara, it seemed more like a continuation of the same bad day she had been having on Friday.
Her unresolved anxiety (it never really occurred to Katara that the strength of her reaction was not entirely rational) kept her quiet at the lunch table and she only managed to eat half of the cafeteria lunch she had bought before she was scooping up her bag a full ten minutes early to go and meet her mysterious tutor.
There were a few people already in the library occupying some of the tables. Once she got there, Katara chose an empty table easily visible from the entrance. She sat down so that she was facing the door and started regretting her early arrival just minutes after setting out her work. She had fallen into the trap of believing (subconsciously) that the quicker she moved, the quicker time would move as well. But her impatience was in no danger of abating and she resigned herself to that most painful of pastimes in such circumstances, which was clock-watching.
Two people had entered the library in the time that she had been waiting, the first had been clearly several years younger than her, and the second she recognised from her year but he swiftly and purposefully went straight over to the shelves dedicated to science.
Katara's eyes kept darting to the clock on the wall and eventually, the time came for her to meet her tutor, yet the door stayed resolutely shut. The hands didn't slow in their journey around the clock and Katara frowned when they showed that it was seven minutes past the appointed meeting time. She blew out a long breath and tried to contain her annoyance, Sokka had told her more than once that she was too uptight.
But being late was just so rude! It just showed that whoever this tutor was, they clearly had no respect for her time.
Three more minutes slithered past and Katara was starting to get a little more agitated. Up to ten minutes late was excusable with a sincere apology, if annoying, but their lateness was starting to border into offensive.
By the time her tutor was officially eighteen minutes late, Katara was ready to call the whole thing off. She would talk to Mr Pakku in her next literature lesson and explain what had happened and-
"Are you Katara?"
She whirled around to face the boy who had been sitting at the table behind her when she had entered the library.
Dark, messy hair obscured all but hints of angry, red, puckered skin around one eye and glints of firebender gold irises as he momentarily made eye contact with her. His hoodie was large, black and had a small firelily embroidered in gold on the breast which told her that that one item was probably worth about as much as all the clothes in Katara's own wardrobe put together. He tucked his hands into his sleeves as he picked up his things and shuffled over to her table.
Feelings of horror and dread and embarrassment welled up inside her, the logical part of her mind knew such feelings were - wrong felt like such a concrete and incriminating word to use, so she decided to label them as unfounded, which came with a much smaller side order of guilt. But the logical part of her mind had been slowly but thoroughly usurped over the weekend by the stupid, anxiety-ridden emotional part of her mind, and would probably need a very good prod to wake up to even begin the process of remembering how to take back control.
Unfortunately for Katara, that was a process that took considerably longer than the time it took for the school's resident weirdo to walk over to her table.
"You're my tutor?" She asked, snapping her jaw shut at the end as she realised the question had come out way more accusatory than she had meant.
The boy frowned and retorted, "You got a problem with that or something?"
"No! I-I mean... No." Katara blurted out, embarrassed by her faux pas.
She didn't know a whole lot about the boy now about to sit opposite her, she knew his family lived on the rich side of town (his father owned a small but booming chain of gyms, if two locations could be called a chain,) and that his sister was definitely a tyrant, and possibly a psychopath, and the only reason Katara hadn't had many interactions with her was that Katara wasn't really worth the effort it would take to bully. Katara's friendship group, although large, was close-knit and fairly complacent when it came to student politics.
But what she knew about the boy in front of her? Well, some of the more mean-spirited students liked to call him Scarface or Matchstick behind his back, and he had once beaten up her ex-boyfriend for reasons she still wasn't entirely sure of. The incident had enraged her at the time since she had still been very much with Jet when it had happened.
It had also been an ongoing source of ire that Jet had been the one to be expelled instead of him. But that anger had dulled when she had broken up with Jet four months later.
Lying, cheating bastard.
Nevertheless, he had still been someone Katara had never really concerned herself closely with, other than to feel distant anger and contempt whenever his presence was unavoidable.
"Alright..." the boy said slowly as he slid smoothly into the seat opposite her. He pulled out his workbook, a small sheaf of paper and a copy of the book they had been studying.
"Can I have a look at your test?" He asked.
Katara bit her lip. "Sure," she said as she handed it over.
He frowned again as he read over her work (he always seemed either frowning or scowling - which Katara thought was just the same as frowning but with more malice) but she couldn't work out whether he was frowning in concentration or disapproval. She watched him anxiously as she waited for his verdict.
He studied her test for nearly ten minutes, he seemed to read it all through once, then darted back over different paragraphs before finally setting the papers down and looking up at her with a neutral expression.
"Well?" She demanded, "What did I do wrong?"
"You didn't go into enough detail with your answers."
Katara blinked, well that was annoyingly vague and unhelpful. "What do you mean? What more details should I have written?"
"Well, you're mainly missing out on writing about the context of the book. Like, for example," he flipped her test back to the first page and laid it out in front of her, pointing to her answer for the second question, "here when you talk about the ending, you talk about how the protagonist turns out to be from high-class parents all along, but you never really talk about why the author would make that decision. This was being written at the beginning of the industrial revolution and social climbing hadn't really been a thing for the poor before and the rich were very concerned about the poor being able to steal their wealth and status."
"Oh no, the rich want to keep getting richer while the poor keep getting poorer? What a surprise," Katara muttered darkly.
(Jet's ideology regarding social structures had been one of the things that Katara had been attracted to when she first started dating him.)
The boy looked at her and raised an eyebrow at the comment but quickly turned back to her test. He flipped over another page and pointed to another one of her answers, "and on the question about themes you explain how poverty affects all the characters in different ways and how it's used in the plot but you still never go into the context for the book and why the author would choose that theme to write about. Like you could have said something about the author being a social critic and the protagonist appealing to the poor by bringing their struggles to light and also evoking sympathy for the working classes from the rich who had no idea what being in the lower class was like."
Katara snorted derisively, rather than point out with words that not much had changed there in the last hundred or so years since the book was written. But her tutor seemed to get the message, he seemed to be an expert at reading between the lines after all.
He raised a brow at her again, before seemingly deciding it was better that he ignore her sarcastic commentary and just get on with his job. "But do you understand what I'm saying? There are a lot of questions where you could've expanded on your answer and written a little about what was happening around the book, not just inside it."
"Yeah, I get it. I think it's a little unfair though," Katara countered.
"How do you mean?"
"Well, this is a literature test, not a history test." She explained, "And I haven't studied the firenation industrial revolution so it's not like I can write a whole lot about it."
"Nothing exists in a vacuum. Actually, subjects end up crossing over quite a lot. Like in cooking class, you use maths to work out ratios and a little bit of chemistry and in history, you might use a little geography... Also, pre-war firenation and this particular author have a lot written about them, it's fairly easy to do some research."
"Yeah, I bet it is for you," Katara retorted. Did it count as irony that Zuko was exhibiting the same obliviousness to the struggles of those who weren't exactly wealthy as the firenationals of old he had just been talking about?
"What's that supposed to mean?" the boy shot back, leaning back and crossing his arms.
"Your dad is the richest guy in town, I bet it's really easy for you to do a little research. But not everyone has it so easy. Not everyone can afford a home computer. You're just the same as them, you're just another spoilt rich kid who doesn't have a clue what it's actually like to be poor." Katara stated with all the indignation of someone who had figured the world out some time ago and didn't appreciate any suggestion to the contrary.
"I might not be poor, but at least I'm not a judgemental asshole like you." He spat as he stood up, roughly scooping his bag from the floor and grabbing his things from the table.
He turned to walk away but hesitated before thrusting his own test towards Katara. "Just... There are some more examples in there. Just have a look through it and give it back to me next lesson," he said tersely, not even giving Katara a glance before walking away.
Katara sat slightly stunned as she watched him walk away, and found herself wondering how it had all gone wrong so fast. She had simply been stating facts - but she wasn't exactly sure which side of her brain was telling her that. Was it her logical side arguing that honesty was always the best policy? Or was it her irrational side trying to shake some of the sticky feelings of guilt?
Katara was more inclined to go with the first option. And in that case, how dare that rich kid try to turn things around on her?
She gathered up her supplies, including the test that the boy had so rudely shoved in her face and put them in her bag as she walked slowly to her next lesson, fully intending not to even look at it. Katara was a connoisseur of moral high grounds, and she wasn't about to give this one up - even if it did feel slightly bitter.
She shoved her things back in her bag along with that stupid boy's test not caring if she scrunched it up - well, she might have cared a little. But she cared in a way that had her gripping tightly and cramming it with as much force as she could right to the bottom of her bag.
Then she walked to her next class grumpy and frustrated and it looked like Katara would be spending the rest of the day like that.
Zuko
"Stupid, spirits-forsaken, vile, evil piece of plumbing," Zuko growled uncharitably as a frigid drop of water dropped from the shower head above him and landed on the top of his head, shortly followed by another, which landed on the back of his neck and wormed its way beneath his collar.
"You know Zuzu, talking to yourself is the first sign of madness."
Zuko jumped and spun around to see his sister leaning against the doorframe and casually inspecting her nails. It wasn't an easy feat to accomplish from where he had been leaning awkwardly over the bathtub and Azula smirked as he wobbled and almost fell backwards onto the toilet.
"What do you want?" He growled at her and went back to scrubbing the bathroom tiles with renewed ferocity.
"I'm bored."
"You're bored?" Zuko asked almost disbelievingly. He glanced at her over his shoulder before returning his gaze to his task.
"That's what I just said! Or do you need to get your hearing checked?" Azula snapped.
"But how can you be bored? You have a TV in your room, two different game consoles, a laptop... pretty much anything you want, Dad buys you."
It did not need to be said that this only held true for Azula, and Zuko was often baffled by the paradox this created. Azula quite often professed herself bored even with what was seemingly every possible means of entertainment at her fingertips. Yet Zuko with only one shelf of books in his room and only limited access to the various computers and televisions around the house, struggled to recall feeling such a sensation. How could such a wealth of easily available entertainment produce such staggering amounts of boredom?
Boredom of which the only cure seemed to be taunting Zuko until he was incensed, and then abruptly leaving as if his pain and rage were barely worth a thought.
Azula shrugged. "I just am. So I thought I would come to talk to my idiot brother."
"Great. Well, we've talked, so now you can go."
"Wow, you're sixteen-"
"Seventeen," Zuko corrected with a growl. "You know I'm seventeen. I'm in my last year of school, I'm gonna be eighteen in two months."
"Pfft. Whatever, you're seventeen and you still haven't managed to learn any manners. No wonder Dad isn't wasting his time saving for your college fund." Azula sighed and moved forward so she could perch on the counter by the sink.
"Fuck off Azula!" Zuko growled automatically as his brain stuttered to a halt. He kept his eyes on his hands, refusing to face her, he wouldn't show her any vulnerability because Azula would weaponize it against him, instead, he significantly increased the violence with which he was scrubbing the tiles. "Stop lying," he tried to shout as the implications of not going to college began lumbering around his brain like undead monsters, despite his best efforts to stop them.
"Oh, I'm not lying."
Zuko scoffed, "Why would Dad even tell you that he's not saving a college fund for me?"
"Just some things he's said." Azula shrugged, looking completely unconcerned that Zuko's future was burning before his eyes. "Plus, it's not hard to work out, what did you get in economics last year, a C? And how are business studies going for you?"
Zuko's mouth hung open for a moment before he finally muttered, "Shut up." He turned away from Azula and busied himself by rinsing the sponge under the tap and wiping away the suds on the wall while attempting to wrestle his unruly facial muscles under control. Azula could zero in on a facial twitch in much the same way that a tiger shark could zero in on blood.
Not that she needed to see his face to know that she had hit a nerve.
"Ooh. So creative. So eloquent. Your intelligence astounds me." Azula deadpanned. "Face it Zuko you don't have what it takes to make a career in MCB or move up in the family business, even with nepotism on your side. So what's the point in paying for you to go to college when all you're good for is scrubbing shower stalls? Case in point." She finished with a gesture to the scene in front of her.
"Oh right because you're so perfect! You never do anything wrong, and you're amazing at everything you do!" Zuko mocked, "Didn't you fail Art once?"
"Twice actually, but who cares about art? When am I ever going to need to paint anything? If I want art I'll just buy it. And I'll be able to afford it because I will have a prestigious degree and a high-paying job. Unlike you, dear brother." Azula's tone twisted with malevolence and disgust as she neared the end of her speech.
"You don't know that!" Zuko shouted, throwing down the sponge as he turned to face his sister.
"Oh yes, I do. Fifteen years from now I'll be the undefeated MCB world champion and I'll take over Dad's chain of gyms, and if you're lucky I'll take pity on you and let you keep your shitty little janitor job."
"Fuck off Azula! Dad's not just gonna... not send me to Uni!"
"Trust me Zuzu, Dad is done wasting money on you. Uni is expensive and you're just not worth the money." Azula taunted with mock regret in her voice when, just as she finished speaking a quiet buzz sounded.
She pulled her phone out of her pocket and looked at the screen, "finally," she muttered before standing abruptly and stalking out of the bathroom as she put the phone to her ear. She was already fading quickly out of earshot when she greeted whoever was on the other line.
If it had been anyone but Azula, Zuko would have scarcely believed the audacity. But Zuko, unfortunately, had been related to Azula for fifteen years and during that time she had managed to poke and prod every nerve that he had with practically clinical thoroughness and aloof satisfaction at his inevitable reaction.
He felt his lip curl and his breathing get heavier as he watched her go for a few moments. He managed to keep his frustrations mostly contained until he was sure Azula was well out of earshot before he allowed them to boil over and he roared and punched a fireball at the tiles he had just been scrubbing. The fireball splashed onto most of the wall and a huge cloud of steam from the previously wet tiles billowed around him vengefully.
Zuko picked at his suddenly damp t-shirt, just my rotten luck, he thought sullenly.
He wanted to punch another fireball at the wall. He was furious and worried and something bubbling just under his skin craved destruction.
He indulged in one more before taking a slow, deep breath and pushing Azula out of his mind. Or trying to at least. (His efforts, although falling short of his true goal, nevertheless resulted in him wresting some control of his mindscape back from his sister. Unfortunately, this meant Azula's taunts were still very much a tortuous presence in the back of his mind.) However, he couldn't just stay there punching fireballs at the bathroom tiles all evening, he couldn't even go and vent in the home dojo in the basement, he had too much to do.
He had to finish cleaning all the bathrooms, (he still had his father's and Azula's ensuites to go,) and then he had to cook dinner. And Komodo chicken curry was a ball-ache to make but his father was expecting it and Zuko didn't have any excuses not to make it. And then there was homework. There was always homework, and chores, and training, and Azula's smug superiority over all his shortcomings...
Zuko tried to cheer himself up by focusing on the fact that Komodo chicken curry was his favourite. But the comfort that thought provided was threadbare at best.
Zuko evaporated the water from his clothes quickly before the dampness became too unpleasant.
He quickly gathered the cleaning supplies and tucked them back into the caddy before moving on to the next room.
He finished the bathrooms in time to make dinner, which was exactly as arduous as he thought it would be. As he was setting three plates on the counter, Ozai walked in. The older man went to the wine cupboard and poured himself a large glass and as he turned around, he glanced over to Zuko and rolled his eyes.
"Azula won't be home for dinner tonight. I'll eat in the living room," Ozai said, strolling towards the door just as Zuko had spooned some rice onto the final plate.
Zuko stopped and let out an irritated huff. He spooned the rice back into the pan then set the now unnecessarily soiled plate in the dishwasher before grabbing cutlery and following his dad through to the living room, carrying both their dinners.
Zuko ate quickly and quietly and was summarily ignored by Ozai in favour of watching the MCB league, except for one snide comment about the curry needing more cayenne pepper and, as Zuko was clearing the plates away, Ozai requested a refill on his glass.
Once the kitchen had been cleaned down, with all the crockery in the dishwasher, all the pans washed up on the draining board and all the leftovers in the fridge, Zuko cautiously poked his head out into the hall. His father was still focused on the onscreen fight, so Zuko grabbed a tin of tuna from the cupboard and quietly made his way to his room.
Opening the door, he surveyed the halfheartedly converted space; the bed was the same one he'd had since he was ten and it was tiny, and the only other furniture he could fit in his room without giving up the idea of having any floor space entirely was two small chests of drawers and a bedside table. There were also two shelves he had bought and put up himself, (the wall directly underneath both shelves punctured by his many attempts to get them level) and a thin piece of rope he had stretched across one corner, which he used as an extremely improvised wardrobe. Because even he knew that some things shouldn't be folded.
Zuko tried to comfort himself with the thought that a cramped attic room was at least better than a cupboard under the stairs and then frowned to himself because actually using a cupboard under the stairs as a bedroom was almost as unbelievable as the concept of a magical school for witches as wizards was.
He didn't care much about his room anyway, the only things he cared about in his room were the walls that separated him from every other aspect of his life and the people in it... and his bookshelf.
But it was still hard to shake off Azula's earlier smug pronouncements about Zuko being a waste of money. Of course, his father had spent money on him over the years: he had been fed without restriction, clothes had been bought when necessary and he had, on the whole, been provided for.
And yet, all his bedroom furniture had been bought when his mother was still around. It was all small and old and there wasn't that much of it left. He hadn't been able to fit most of it in his new room the day his father came up to him and told him his old bedroom was to be converted into an ensuite, and what hadn't fit, had been thrown away. And years later he had watched with barely concealed resentment when Azula had been gifted her car for passing her driving test, while he had merely been added to his dad's insurance for the express purpose of running the occasional errand and a warning that any car he had driven would be expected to be returned in pristine condition, or else.
But Zuko was tired and aching and didn't want to spend any more time ruminating on the sparseness of his room or his lack of personal automotive transportation. He went over to the chest of drawers by the foot of his bed and opened the bottom drawer as much as he could before the drawer bumped into his bed. It wasn't a lot. The process of removing the clothes he needed from that chest of drawers was an awkward one, but one that Zuko was very well practised in by now.
Zuko tossed his clothes at the laundry hamper in the corner, not having the energy in him to care whether they went in or not, and donned a set of old joggers and a t-shirt that now served as pyjamas. He also pulled on a pair of thick woollen socks and a hoodie, before grabbing the tuna and climbing onto his bed.
The skylight opened after three increasingly firm thwacks, and then Zuko was climbing onto the roof. He crept along the tiles to his usual spot and sat with his back against one of the chimneys. The air was just starting to chill in the early autumn evening, but Zuko didn't mind as he leaned back and watched the sunset.
As twilight encroached and warmth retreated, Zuko noticed behind him the soft tread of paws gently picking their way over to him. Zuko smiled softly as the cat he had been calling Mango in his head greeted him by rubbing herself all along his side as she rounded the chimney and climbed over his leg to end up in his lap.
She continued to undulate against him, contorting herself fluidly to press as much of her body against him as she manoeuvred, even after he lifted both hands to stroke her.
He was immensely glad that she had shown up tonight, he needed to see a friendly face after the day he had just had.
Soon, a chittering to his right and a weight on his leg announced the arrival of Mango's new friend. Zuko held one hand out to the flying lemur and the creature eagerly scampered closer, head nudging into Zuko's palm.
The lemur revelled in the affection for a couple of minutes but then Zuko was forced to let out a quiet chuckle as little hands sought out the tin of tuna.
"Alright, alright," he muttered as pulled the lid off the tin and held it out to his two furry friends.
After the tuna was gone, the lemur, (who Zuko had internally named Peach,) scrambled up his arm and nestled himself around Zuko's shoulders and began grooming his hair. Zuko allowed himself another small smile and turned his attention to the cat sprawled across his lap.
He stayed on the roof for almost an hour before reminding himself that there was homework to be done. He scooped up the cat and set her down on the roof and did the same for Peach, and with a last, fond scritch behind the ear for both of them, he made his way back into his bedroom.
