Archive of Our Own ^beta

The grand halls of the Fire Palace were eerily quiet, save for the distant murmur of negotiations behind closed doors. The tension in the air was palpable—this was the first time in decades that both sides had gathered without weapons drawn.

Sokka was restless. The peace talks had barely begun, and already he was itching to leave the suffocating chambers where his father and the elders debated with their supposed "former" enemies. He stepped out onto one of the open-air terraces, the cool evening breeze offering a brief respite.

After a few moments moments of Sokka looking over the city (and damn, this city is huge), the door lightly pushes open and he turns, his back to the railing now. He finds a man his age, dark hair tied back and neatly pinned with an ornate golden hairpiece.

Prince Zuko. The infamous nephew of Fire Lord Iroh, the next in line for the Fire Nation's throne. Sokka had heard plenty about him—the traitor’s son, the one who helped kill his own father. He looked exactly like Sokka expected: composed, cold, too refined for Sokka’s liking.

For a long moment, neither of them moved. The space was wide enough for them both, but the weight of their families' history made it feel suffocating.

Sokka leaned against the railing, crossing his arms. "Did they send you out here to spy on me, or are you just as bored of listening to old men argue as I am?" His voice was laced with distrust, but there was no outright hostility. Not yet.

Zuko bristled, his response automatic from years of painful enforcement to be the perfect son at court, "That room is full of highly respected men that have spent decades in their positions," he answers tightly, looking over the side again. He regrets it as soon as he says it, it came out tight and cold. It's not intentional, it's just... instinct. Instinct Uncle has been trying to break him of, but it hasn't been successful yet. 

Sokka snorted, shaking his head. "Right. Because men who spent decades leading a war are obviously the best ones to end it." His tone was sharp, but there was something else under it—frustration, exhaustion, maybe even a hint of bitterness.

He turned slightly, watching Zuko’s posture, the rigid way he held himself. Sokka had expected arrogance, but this was something different. He wasn’t sure what yet. The prince didn't seem to know how to respond to that, his eyes flicking away over the city. But he doesn't argue against it. Interesting. 

"So, what?" Sokka pressed, pushing away from the railing. "You actually believe in all this peace talk nonsense, or are you just here to look pretty and agree with whatever your uncle says?"

The other man blinked, thrown off guard from the almost complimentary snark. "Are you just here to look strong and agree with whatever your father says?" He snarks back.

Sokka opened his mouth to fire back, but then the words actually registered. He hesitated, just for a fraction of a second, before his scowl deepened.

"Nice deflection," he muttered, folding his arms again. He wanted to be angry—Zuko was on the wrong side of history as far as he was concerned—but that response had been too quick, too sharp.

And too familiar.

He didn’t like that.

"Fine," Sokka said after a beat, tilting his head. "Then tell me. If this peace is so important to your uncle, what do you want?" His voice held a challenge, testing. "Or do you not get to want anything for yourself?"

"I want my people to stop dying," he answers evenly after only a second's pause, gaze flickering back over the rails again. A bit of something exhausted flickers over his face through the blank mask. "For crops to grow again and parents to stay with their children instead of riding off to war. What do you want?"

Sokka wasn’t expecting a real answer—certainly not one like that.

For a moment, he didn’t know what to say. He had spent years picturing the people of Fire Nation as faceless enemies, ruthless invaders who stole, burned, and killed without thought. He hadn’t considered that maybe… they had wanted it to end too.

He scoffed, but there wasn’t as much bite to it this time. "What do I want?" He exhaled sharply, rubbing the back of his neck. "I want to not have to sit across from the people who made my childhood a nightmare and pretend like that never happened."

He shook his head, looking Zuko over again, really looking this time. "But I guess neither of us get what we want, huh?"

Zuko snorted slightly, unable to stop it. His walls are usually tighter, usually higher, but the past few weeks have been a blur of nonstop pushing at them, always having to keep himself tight and guard raised as his uncle and him fought to actually get the peace they'd planned for years for, that they'd killed for. 

The other boy's bluntness is refreshing, after so many years of courtly speak, of underhanded statements. He's never been good at understanding when people speak court to him, always messing it up, always taking people at face value instead of seeing the poison behind the words. Or seeing that there is poison, but not knowing where. That's one of many ways he failed to meet his father’s expectations.

"No," he answers quietly, still looking over the side. "We don't."

From this angle, there's just the edge of a deep scar on his neck that can be seen from Sokka's perspective, hidden beneath the high collar of his court attire.

Sokka caught a glimpse of the scar, just for a second, before Zuko shifted slightly and it disappeared beneath the stiff collar of his expensive clothes. It wasn’t the kind of mark you got on a battlefield. It looked older, deliberate.

Sokka frowned. He wasn’t sure what to make of that.

He could still hate Zuko, still resent him for being on the other side of this war, but there was something about the way he stood—rigid, like he was holding something heavy, something invisible—that nagged at Sokka.

He let out a breath, leaning back against the railing. "Well," he muttered, "at least you're not pretending this whole thing is some grand, noble mission. I was getting real tired of that speech."

It was almost— almost —a peace offering.

"It can't be noble," Zuko answers with a sigh, shrugging slightly. "Not with all that's happened. There's nothing noble about any of this." That same thread of exhaustion, of something bitter, is present in his voice again, even as he tries to suppress it. If Father were here-

But he's not. He never will be again. If he were a better son, he'd feel something other than relief at the reminder.

Sokka didn't know what to do with that, with him. Zuko was supposed to be arrogant, cold, a perfect reflection of the nation that had taken so much from him. But this? This was something else entirely.

He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "You talk like someone twice your age." He didn't mean it as an insult, not really. Just an observation. "Guess war does that to people."

For a moment, the conversation teetered on something almost real, almost human. Sokka hated it. He didn’t want to see Zuko as a person, as someone who had also lost things. It made it harder to stay angry, and anger was so much easier.

So he scoffed and pushed away from the railing. "Well. Try not to look too miserable. You’re supposed to be the face of the future or whatever." The words had some bite, but not as much as they could have, a viper striking without intention to hit.

And, without another word, Sokka turned and walked off.

Zuko drummed his fingers on the railing, taking in the words. They're true. He knows he's not allowed the bitterness, not allowed to be tired and just want this all to be over. He's the next in line for the throne. The 'face of the future'. He needs to be engaged, needs to be pleasant and accommodating and unflappable and whatever else his people need, whatever else he needs to be to make this diplomacy work. He doesn't have the luxury of his own feelings.

After a few deep breaths, he walks back inside. Just in time to hear raised voices, to see one of their generals, General Zhao, a man that's always been hot-tempered and is starkly against the war ending, slam his fist against the table he's sat at. Great.

Uncle quickly steps in, silencing the man with a few words, but the damage has been done. Both sides are riled up from whatever they were discussing while Zuko was outside ( not doing his duty, taking a break like he's allowed things like breaks. What would Father say?) and it's clear that they're no closer to peace talks than they were three hours ago, when this began.

Chief Hakoda sat back in his chair, his expression unreadable, though there was tension in his jaw. His council of elders murmured among themselves, some shaking their heads, others glaring openly at the outburst from General Zhao.

Sokka, now back at his father’s side, looked unimpressed, arms crossed as he leaned against the back of Hakoda’s chair. He caught Zuko’s eye as he re-entered, raising a single brow as if to say, See? This is why this is all pointless.

Iroh remained composed, his voice steady as he addressed the room. “We are not here to raise voices and rattle the bones of war. We are here to end this.” His words were measured, controlled, but Zuko could see the way his uncle’s fingers tightened slightly against the table’s edge. He was losing patience.

Hakoda gave a slow nod. “A reminder well spoken,” he said, voice calm but firm. “But if we are to speak honestly, then let us speak honestly. There are still matters unresolved. Lands burned, families torn apart—”

Sokka scoffed audibly but didn’t say anything. Zuko could tell he wanted to.

Iroh exhaled slowly. “Then let us resolve them, not rehash them.” He glanced at Zuko, the look brief but pointed, before returning to the room. “And that will take all of us keeping our tempers.”

Zuko knew what that meant. His uncle wanted him to step in, to help smooth things over before the talks collapsed entirely.

But how?

He steps forward, taking his place at the table silently beside his uncle. "We've all been hurt by this war," he says, mostly a reminder to his own people, his eyes flicking between the generals at his side. He knows they don't respect him, not really, knows they call him 'the traitor prince' when Zuko and his uncle aren't around. But he also knows they have to listen to him, have to at least pretend to respect him to his face, especially in a room full of foreign dignitaries.

"It has harmed all our people immensely, harmed our nations, our lands, in a way that won't fade for generations. There is no room for ego in these talks, no room for the passion that used to belong out on the battlefield. In this room, there is only room for the want of peace." His tone is firm but not intense, strong but not overbearing, as his gaze steadily falls on each of the generals, lingering a bit longer on General Zhao.

The room was silent for a moment, the tension settling like a thick fog.

Chief Hakoda studied Zuko with a careful, unreadable expression. The elders beside him muttered among themselves, but it was Sokka’s reaction Zuko caught first—a flicker of something unreadable in his face before he turned away, as if annoyed.

General Zhao’s jaw tightened, his fingers flexing slightly, but he said nothing. He held Zuko’s gaze for a long moment before finally nodding, just barely. A reluctant acknowledgement, a begrudging fine.

Iroh exhaled slowly, subtly—relief masked as composure. He gave Zuko a nod, approval in his eyes, before turning his attention back to the others. “My nephew is right,” he said, voice smooth but firm. “There is no room for anything but peace. Let’s act like it.”

Hakoda leaned forward slightly, fingers tapping against the table. “Then let’s stop wasting time,” he said, voice calm but edged. “We came here to negotiate. If no one here is ready to do that, say so now.”

Sokka, still silent, stared at Zuko for a beat before looking away again.

The room held its breath, waiting for what would happen next.

Zuko falls silent in his seat. He's still figuring out how to be the next in line to his Uncle, rather than his Father. Father would have destroyed him for that, for speaking at all, for his speech not being strong enough, for it being too strong, for... likely, for a thousand reasons. But Uncle wanted it, liked that he said it. His role isn't quite clear to him yet, here.

For now, though, he knows his place. Sit here quietly and help keep the generals that don't want to be here in line, however he can. He leaves the actual peace talks to his Uncle, as is his right, his duty.

The negotiations resumed, still tense, but without the threat of outright collapse looming quite as heavily. Zuko kept his expression carefully neutral, his posture composed, though his mind was still racing.

This was a different battlefield - a war of words, of carefully measured tones and hidden meanings. He wasn't sure yet if he was any good at it. Only time would be able to tell.

Across the table, Sokka remained uncharacteristically silent, his fingers drumming idly against his arm. Zuko caught him glancing his way a couple of times, though Sokka said nothing.

The meeting dragged on, discussions of borders and reparations filling the air. Zuko kept his focus on the generals, keeping them in line with steady looks when their tempers threatened to flare.

By the time the meeting finally adjourned for the afternoon, everyone seemed exhausted. Hakoda and Iroh exchanged curt nods before parting ways, the elders and generals filtering out in clusters.

Sokka stretched with an exaggerated sigh, muttering, “Well, that was fun .” He cast a glance toward Zuko, his expression unreadable. “You always that good at making people listen, or was that just for us?”

Zuko snorts a little. "If I said it was just for you, would you judge the weaknesses of our government?" He says dryly as he busies himself gathering up papers and packing up his table. 

He's not sure where the honesty comes from, except that there's something so refreshing about the lack of doublespeak from the other boy, the way he carries himself so honestly. It makes him want to just be honest back, to drop the perfect act that has been an integral part of his survival his entire life.

Sokka huffed out a short laugh, shaking his head. “Please. I’ve been judging your government since the day I could walk.” His tone was teasing, but the edge of old resentment was still there, buried under the forced humor.

He watched Zuko for a moment, watching the way he methodically packed up, how he moved with the quiet efficiency of someone used to cleaning up after messes—maybe even messes that weren’t his to begin with. It was strange, seeing someone from his side act like that. He would’ve expected Zuko to leave this kind of thing to a servant, to not bother with it at all.

Sokka leaned against the table, arms crossed. “Still,” he admitted, voice a little lower, like he wasn’t sure he should say it, “they listened.” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “I don’t get it. Why the hell do they call you ‘traitor prince’ if you’re one of the only ones making sense in there?”

It wasn’t exactly a compliment, but it wasn’t an insult either. Just... curiosity. Maybe something more.

Zuko's hands stilled for a fraction of a second in their cleaning before he continues, barely enough of a pause to be noticeable. He... should have expected that they'd heard the nickname already, should have known it had spread beyond the castle walls. It's probably known across the world by now. "If you ask them, I'm not making any sense," he replies, his voice coming out slightly tighter than he means it to, an edge of bitterness to it that he can't quite hide.

Sokka's eyes watched Zuko’s hands, catching the slight pause, the way Zuko’s voice had tightened just a fraction. He wasn’t sure why it bothered him—he should have been glad the other side was turning on one of their own. It should’ve made things easier.

But it didn’t feel good.

He frowned, tapping his fingers against the table. “Yeah, well,” he muttered, “seems like making sense isn’t exactly a requirement to be a general on your side.” He meant it as a jab, but it lacked real bite.

A beat passed. Sokka shifted his weight, watching Zuko carefully. “You really believe in all this peace talk, don’t you?” It wasn’t an accusation. Not anymore. Just a genuine question.

Zuko stops where he's pushing a chair in. Looks up, to make eye contact with Sokka. "I do," he says, and his voice projects his sincerity, his gaze steady and sure. "Do you?"

Sokka wasn’t expecting the question to be thrown back at him.

He hesitated—not because he didn’t know the answer, but because he didn’t want to say it out loud. He’d spent so many years hating Zuko’s people, blaming them for everything, clinging to his anger like a lifeline. But war had taken things from him too. His mother. His childhood. The lives of too many people he grew up with.

He exhaled sharply, glancing away for a second before looking back at Zuko. “Yeah,” he admitted, almost begrudgingly. “I do.” His fingers drummed against the wood again before he muttered, “Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

His lips twitched slightly, just barely, like he was considering a smirk but thought better of it. “Guess that’s something we have in common, huh?”

Zuko's lips twitched too, as he goes back to tidying up the room, gathering the last of the papers. "Two things in common then. The future of our people, and hating long conversations with old men." It's a joke, almost. The closest thing to a joke he ever tells.

Sokka blinked, then let out a short laugh, shaking his head. "Hah. Guess so."

He pushed off the table, stretching lazily. "Careful, traitor prince —keep this up, and I might actually start thinking you're a real person instead of just some stuck-up court puppet."

There was teasing in his voice, but less venom than before. The tension between them wasn’t gone , not by a long shot. But it had shifted, softened at the edges.

Sokka rolled his shoulders. "You done playing cleanup, or do you have some other princely duties to attend to?"

He gathers the papers into his hands, locks them in a cabinet off to the side. "If I do anymore, the Head Servant will have my head for stealing jobs again," he says dryly, heading to the door. "Any pressing issues for the future Chief to handle, or are you free to eat?" He asks with an eyebrow raise, noticing the way the boy has hung behind while the rest of his people headed back to grab lunch.

Sokka huffed, shoving his hands into his pockets. "Future Chief," he echoed with a scoff. "Sounds weird when you say it."

He had been lingering, but now that Zuko pointed it out, he felt a little ridiculous. He should’ve left already, should’ve gone to eat with his father and the others. But for some reason, he was still here.

He rolled his eyes, like he was too cool to care. "Yeah, I’m free," he admitted. "Not that I want to eat with you or anything—just don’t feel like sitting through another hour of my father talking about ‘responsibility’ over a plate of dry bread."

A beat. Then, more grudgingly, “You do have better food on your side of the castle.”

Zuko snorts, opening the door and holding it for him. "If you plan to eat with me," he says, an invitation without being direct, without the option for it to be thrown back in his face as an insult, "don't expect the royal dining room. I prefer to convince food from the kitchens and eat somewhere that isn't full of people who'd rather have me dead." The words come out dry, clearly used to the fact that most of the people around him would happily assassinate him, that some of them have tried before, it just can't be proven.

Sokka raised an eyebrow but stepped through the door without argument. “What, no grand banquet hall?” he drawled, falling into step beside Zuko. “No army of servants waiting on you hand and foot?”

But his usual sarcasm didn’t have the same bite this time. There was something about the way Zuko had said it—so matter-of-fact, like it wasn’t worth dwelling on, like the knowledge that people wanted him dead was just normal. Sokka had grown up in a war, had lived his whole life knowing death could come at any moment, but... this was different.

“So what you’re saying is, you steal food from the kitchens,” he said instead, smirking slightly. “Didn’t take you for a criminal, prince. ”

He snorts. "Can you steal what's already yours?" He asks with a quirked eyebrow, a flicker of a smile across his lips as he leads the other boy to the kitchens. "Besides, sometimes they give me two sweet rolls," he says enticingly, as if that itself is reason enough to get the food directly from the kitchen instead of eating in the banquet hall.

As they walk through the hall, nearing a corner, men's voices float around it. 

The generals, Zuko recognizes immediately, as he hears a furious whisper of “What I wouldn’t give for it to have been that traitor prince’s blood spilt instead of-” , the rest of the sentence lost to the wind.  

Typical. He didn't react, used to it, and just rounded the corner steadily. "Generals," he said easily, tipping his head as he passed them, watching the way they straightened and acted as if they weren't just discussing how much better the country would be if he had died instead of his father. It’s not all of the generals, at least, just a select few. 

Sokka had been about to make some sarcastic remark about sweet rolls—maybe something about Zuko being easily bribed—but the moment they turned the corner, the shift in the air hit him like a wall.

The small group of generals straightened as Zuko acknowledged them, their faces carefully neutral, but Sokka had heard them. Had caught the tail end of their conversation. And what unsettled him most wasn’t even what they said—it was how Zuko acted like it didn’t matter. Like this was just normal.

Sokka kept his expression unreadable, just like Zuko did, but something inside him bristled. He knew enemies when he saw them, and these weren’t just men who disliked Zuko—they hated him. He couldn’t imagine facing that deadly hatred from his own council of elders. 

Sokka let the silence stretch for a beat before flashing the generals a slow, pointed smirk. “You should speak up next time,” he drawled, voice deliberately casual. “I couldn’t quite hear how you were planning to commit treason.”

The way their shoulders stiffened was immensely satisfying.

Zuko was not going to smile. He was not . He kept his expression carefully blank as always as they passed, then shot Sokka an amused, surprised look when they were out of eyeshot. "Are you always that blunt?" He asks, but the thread of surprised amusement in his voice takes any possible bite out of the statement

Sokka shrugged, looking entirely unbothered. “Only when people are being really stupid.”

He glanced at Zuko, catching that flicker of amusement, and—damn it—he liked that look on him. It was the first real emotion he’d seen on Zuko’s face that wasn’t exhaustion or carefully measured neutrality.

“Besides,” he added, smirking, “I figured you weren’t gonna say anything. Someone had to make them sweat a little.” His tone was light, but there was something else beneath it—something steadier. Sokka might not like Zuko, but he wasn’t about to stand there and let a bunch of bitter old men act like his death would’ve been a blessing. That was bullshit.

He nudged Zuko’s arm lightly with his elbow as they walked. “C’mon, let’s get those sweet rolls you were bragging about.”

They make it to the kitchen without further incident. As Zuko slides in, stepping to the side to not bother the chaos, the servants glance up, some offering him a smile, others just heading back to their tasks when they realize it's just him. He'd spent his childhood ducking in here, lingering in the hopes of being fed after his father had sent him from meals for his mistakes, or had ordered him to train through them only to criticize him for having missed the meal after. They were used to him, some of them even fond. While the generals and nobles of the castle might hate him, the servants were the ones that respected him, that looked at him with easy smiles and none of the fear they offered his father, the uncertain respectful fear they offered Uncle now.

He leaned against the wall, waiting for them to be less busy. He's not about to bother them in the middle of meal preparations, he's not here to make their jobs any harder. Just his own day a little less hard.

Sokka took it all in—the way the servants barely blinked at Zuko’s presence, the way some smiled at him like he belonged here, like he was one of theirs.

It was strange. He was used to the nobles here treating their servants like furniture, barely acknowledging them unless they needed something. But Zuko? He moved through the kitchen like someone who had been here a thousand times before, like he knew these people.

Sokka leaned against the counter beside him, arms crossed. “So,” he said idly, “you’ve spent a lot of time sneaking in here, huh?” He eyed Zuko, then glanced at one of the servants who had smiled at him. “Should I be expecting some childhood nickname? Something embarrassing?”

His smirk was teasing, but there was curiosity there, too. The more time he spent with Zuko, the more he realized he didn’t have him figured out.

Zuko's lips twitch into a slight smile. "Only if you expect my people to consort with foreign nationals," he says easily, more a tease than anything else. He does, in fact, have a nickname among the servants, one he's aware of and one he's unaware of. Pipsqueak , he's very aware of, given to him by the chef when he was eight and first snuck into the kitchens, stuttering out his apologies when he realized there was actually people still in there that late at night. The man had gruffly called him a too-thin pipsqueak and shoved a sweet roll in front of him after he heard his rumbling stomach. 

The servants, after all, had been just as aware as the rest of the castle as to how the crown prince was treated by his father.

The people’s prince was another name often murmured by the servants when they discussed him. This nickname, he was very much not aware of.

Sokka snorted. “Right. Wouldn’t want to corrupt them with my terrible foreign influence.” He leaned back against the counter, watching Zuko with a lazy smirk, but his mind was still turning.

There was something about the way Zuko fit here, the way the servants reacted to him. It was different from how Sokka had watched them react to Iroh - there was respect for the Fire Lord, but also careful distance, uncertainty. But Zuko? There was no fear, no hesitation.

It made Sokka wonder just what these people saw in him. Because whatever the generals thought - whatever the nobles whispered - Zuko had loyalty here. And loyalty was a powerful thing.

One of the kitchen staff finally freed up, an older woman with a sharp eye who barely glanced at Zuko before shoving a wrapped bundle into his hands. “Go,” she said briskly, already moving back toward the stoves. “And don’t come back whining if you get crumbs all over your fancy clothes.”

"Thanks, Anuya," he grinned as he took the bundle and led Sokka out, headed through smaller, servant halls to the back gardens. He's used to travelling the halls quietly, to slipping through spaces where he can't be bothered, can't be spotted doing something wrong . It's a habit that's not needed anymore, but hasn't been broken.

Sokka raised an eyebrow as Zuko took the bundle. “I see how it is,” he said, amused. “Not even a word exchanged, and you get food shoved at you like some favored pet.” He nudged Zuko’s arm as they headed toward the door. “What, you got them trained ?”

He snorts at Sokka's words. "More like they've got me trained," he mutters, amused

Sokka followed, taking note of the way Zuko moved—like someone who knew exactly where to step to stay unseen. It was second nature to him, slipping through halls meant for people who weren’t supposed to be noticed. It said a lot about how he grew up.

Sokka didn’t bother being subtle. He walked like he always did—easy, confident, like he belonged no matter where he was. He glanced at Zuko, smirking at his muttered reply.

“Oh yeah?” he said. “What kind of tricks do they have you doing? Rolling over? Sitting pretty?” He grinned. “Begging for treats?”

Zuko rolled his eyes, the tips of his ears reddening slightly under the teasing. If part of that was because of the way the other man's grin looked so natural on his face, made his blue eyes stand out even more, a few of his dark hairs sticking out of his high, short ponytail to drift across his forehead, no one else needed to know. "All of the above?" He says dryly, as they break out into the back gardens. 

He can feel the shift in his shoulders as a bit of tension falls out of them. Here, it's safe to relax. It always has been. There are no guards posted that might report if he does anything unsavory for a prince , no family members that might walk through. The only people ever here are him, the gardener on occasion, and... well, when he was younger, his mother. But now, just him and the gardener. And Sokka, for the moment.

He leads the man easily to a spot by the pond, sitting on the grass and lips quirking into a small smile when the ducks immediately start swimming over, used to receiving plenty of treats in his presence. They don't come all the way up, eyeing the newcomer with suspicion as they flutter their wings, disturbed by the new presence.

Sokka plopped down beside him, stretching his legs out carelessly. His gaze flickered between Zuko and the ducks, sharp enough to notice the way his posture shifted the moment they’d stepped outside. The way he breathed a little deeper, the way his expression eased - not much, but enough.

He didn’t comment on it, though.

Instead, he smirked and nodded toward the ducks. “So you do beg for treats,” he said. “Just vicariously, through them.” One of the ducks flapped its wings at him, and he huffed a laugh. “Alright, alright, I get it. I’ll earn my place first.”

He leaned back on his hands, watching Zuko out of the corner of his eye. “So. Let me guess,” he said lazily. “This is your hiding spot.” He didn’t say was , because he was pretty sure Zuko still needed somewhere to escape to. Just like Sokka did.

Zuko shoots him a sideways glance as he unwraps the bundle, two meals packed inside, three sweet rolls, and a small container of peas and corn, for the ducks. The staff know him too well.

"Can I trust you to keep my secret?" He asks wryly, but there's a hint of truth to it. Perhaps it was a bit bold, bringing the other boy here, to this place that has always been his , but he... kind of likes Sokka. Wants the peace to work and it can't work if they're all holding each other at arm's length all the time. There's got to be someone to take the first step, to make themselves vulnerable in the expectation that it will be treated gently. Why not Zuko? He's used to having his easy trust thrown back in his face anyway. It won't bother him the same way it would others, won't stoke anger in him. It would just be expected.

Sokka raised a brow at him, taking the food Zuko handed over without hesitation. He spun a piece of bread idly in his fingers, considering.

Then, instead of answering immediately, he plucked a few peas from the small container and flicked them toward the ducks. One of them snapped up a pea midair, and he gave a satisfied nod before finally speaking.

“I won’t tell,” he said simply, rolling his shoulders. “Not my place to burn down a good hiding spot.” His gaze flicked to Zuko, a little too knowing. “Especially one you’re trusting me with.”

He tore a piece of bread off and popped it in his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. “But that means I get to bring you to my hiding spot sometime,” he added, smirking. “Fair trade.”

Zuko's lips quirk up, something pleased and surprised hitting his face before he turns away to toss a few peas to the ducks himself. "Next peace conference should be held in your land," he says easily, as if there's no question there will be another peace conference, no question that this one will work. "I'll expect a full tour."

Sokka huffed out a laugh, shaking his head. "Dangerous thing, making plans that far ahead," he mused, but there wasn't any real bite to it. If anything, he sounded... hopeful. Like maybe he wanted to believe it, too.

He leaned back on one hand, popping another piece of bread into his mouth as he eyed Zuko. "But sure. I'll give you the tour. Just don't complain when it turns out my favorite place is a good hour's climb up a rock face." His smirk turned just a little sharp, teasing. "Wouldn't want the future prince taking a tumble, would we?"

Zuko snorts. "Now it sounds like you're trying to bribe my generals to peace," he says wryly, not reacting to the tease about his own safety from someone who, weeks ago, was a sworn enemy to his nation. He's... pretty used to threats to his life and safety. "Besides, what makes you think I can't climb?" He asks, raising an eyebrow as he pops a grape into his mouth

Sokka tilted his head, looking him over with an exaggerated, scrutinizing squint. "You're all buttoned up and polished like a proper little prince," he said, gesturing vaguely at Zuko's fancy high-collared shirt. "Not exactly screaming man of the wilds to me."

He smirked, tossing a small piece of bread at a particularly bold duck that had waddled closer. "But hey, surprise me. Maybe by the time that next peace conference rolls around, you’ll have proven me wrong." There was a challenge in his tone, but not the sharp-edged kind they’d thrown at each other at the start. This was something easier. Almost playful.

Zuko snorts, but doesn't refute it. His attire is fancy, buttoned-up and polished and perfect. His uncle had tried a few times to convince him he didn't always need to look so perfect anymore, that nothing bad would happen if people saw him looking more casual, but he had too many painful lessons about looking perfect in front of others. It's not a vulnerability he'll be engaging in anytime soon.

"Maybe," he says easily, as if he doesn't know himself that the image of proper Prince he puts on is an air. As if he doesn't spend half his nights in rough clothes, sneaking out to go just exist without expectation in the land beyond the capital.

Sokka hummed, studying him for a moment before turning his attention back to his food. "I'll believe it when I see it," he said, but there was no real skepticism in his voice. More like he was just waiting for the moment Zuko would prove him wrong.

He leaned back on one arm, stretching his legs out in front of him, perfectly at ease in a way Zuko suspected he always was. Or maybe he just always looked . "So," Sokka said after a moment, glancing at him with a smirk. "If you could slip away from all the polished perfection for a bit, where would you go? Not for duty, not for politics. Just... for yourself."

Zuko hums for a moment, considering the question as he chews. "Have you heard of Hira’a? It’s an island." He asks, flashes of his mother in his mind as he looks out over the pond. 

Sokka frowned slightly in thought, then shook his head. "Can't say I have," he admitted, popping a piece of bread into his mouth. "Small, then? Remote?" He studied Zuko with curiosity. "Doesn't seem like the kind of place a prince would usually daydream about."

Zuko shrugs. "Probably not," he agrees, tossing another few pieces of corn out to the ducks. "It’s where my mother was from, I've always wanted to visit." he says it easily, but keeps his face turned away as he does, looking at the ducks instead of Sokka. It's another vulnerability, offered for no reason. Just honesty, for honesty's sake. "What about you? Any place you'd go?"

Sokka watched him for a moment, noting the way Zuko kept his gaze on the water, then looked away as well, giving him the space to speak without pressure. "Hmm," he hummed, leaning back on his hands. "There's this range of mountains you can see from my village, I've always wanted to climb them. My father says it's foolish, but..." He rolled a shoulder. "There's something about standing at the top of something no one else has before. Seeing everything stretched out below you. Just you, the sky, and the wind."

He flicked a glance at Zuko. "Not as peaceful as an island, I guess."

Zuko shrugs. "I could see it," he says easily. "There's a peace to that, too. Proving that you can do what no one before you has done and then getting to just... exist, take it all in at the top. Not just your success, but the beauty of your world beneath you. Makes sense to me." Then he pops another grape in his mouth.

Sokka huffed a small laugh, shaking his head. “Didn’t think the prince would understand that kind of thing,” he teased, but there was no real bite to it. More like… surprise. He’d thought Zuko was all polish and proper manners, the kind of person who only looked at the world through diplomatic lenses. But here he was, talking about hidden islands and understanding the call of the wild like it was second nature.

He tossed a pebble toward the pond, watching the ripples. “Maybe if this peace actually holds, I’ll get the chance to try it,” he mused. Then he glanced at Zuko, a smirk playing on his lips. “And maybe you’ll get to your island.”

Zuko huffs a laugh slightly. "Maybe," he agrees, but there's something wry in his tone that makes it obvious he doesn't really believe it. There's no time in his life for him to do something frivolous, something just because he wants to. Uncle has been trying to talk to him about that not being the case anymore, about him being able to be more than just his expectations, but he doesn't really believe it. 

Uncle may say so, but sometimes he prioritizes sentiment over practicality. And he's pretty sure the nation that considers him the traitor prince wouldn't take kindly to him going on sabbatical after staging a coup and changing their entire way of life.

He tosses a few more pieces to the ducks, finishing his own food and leaning back on his hands, fingers in the grass. "You're... different than I expected," he says after a moment's silence.

Sokka arched a brow, finishing the last bite of his meal before brushing his hands off. “That so?” he asked, glancing at Zuko with interest.

He could take that a few ways—most likely, the prince had expected him to be rigid and battle-worn, a blunt weapon to be wielded, or a savage like their propaganda said about Water Tribe people, rather than someone with his own thoughts and dreams. But then, Sokka had thought the same about him .

He smirked a little. “And here I thought you were going to be some stuck-up noble who only cared about politics and titles.” He tilted his head. “But you feed ducks and sneak out of kitchens instead.”

Zuko snorts at that. "I guess our reputations exaggerated," he says, a smile twitching at his lips again.

Sokka chuckled, shaking his head. “Or maybe we’re both just terrible at being what people expect of us.” There was no real bite to his words, just an easy amusement.

He leaned back on his elbows, glancing up at the sky. “Probably for the best. If we were exactly who everyone thought we were, this peace would’ve fallen apart days ago.” His gaze flicked sideways toward Zuko, considering him. “Guess it’s a good thing we’re not.”

Zuko looks back at him, the sun making his brown eyes warmer, almost gold as they flicker with something light. "Guess so," he agrees easily, a smile at the corner of his lips.

Sokka held his gaze for a moment, something unreadable flickering in his expression before he exhaled a small laugh and looked away, back at the pond.

“Didn’t think I’d say this, but…” He stretched his arms over his head, posture loose, relaxed. “I think I actually don’t mind being stuck here if it means I don’t have to listen to another three-hour debate over grain trade.”

He shot Zuko a smirk. “Peace might be worth it just for the excuse to avoid those.”

Zuko shakes his head, groaning. "You just reminded me I have to sit through another meeting this evening on the water-line boundaries," he complains, plopping back into the grass completely, so he's laying on his back, knees still up. "Why is the world such a cruel place?" He sighs dramatically.

Sokka chuckled, shaking his head. “Truly tragic. Here lies the traitor prince, slain not by war, not by assassins, but by boredom. ” He placed a mock-somber hand over his heart before nudging Zuko’s boot with his own.

“Could always pretend to be sick,” he suggested, smirking. “Or suddenly develop a deep and pressing diplomatic crisis that can only be solved with a walk in the gardens and absolutely not another mind-numbing discussion about water rights.”

Zuko snorted at that, shaking his head again. "I'll just suffer through and pretend to pay attention while naming all the general's nose hairs in my head," he joked, "I've survived worse." The last sentence comes out just as easily, but it rings a little too true.

Sokka’s smirk faltered for half a second, his sharp eyes catching on the ease with which Zuko said it - like it was just another fact, like it wasn’t worth dwelling on, just like the fact his generals wanted him dead. But Sokka dwelled on it, just for a moment.

Then he huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “That’s disturbing,” he said dryly. “Though I guess I’d rather you be mentally cataloging nose hairs than planning another rousing speech about the necessity of unity while I’m trying to eat.” His tone was teasing, but there was something a little more careful in his gaze now, studying Zuko like a puzzle he wasn’t quite done piecing together.

They lounged there for awhile longer, just idly chatting and teasing, the aura around them growing calmer, before they eventually had to head back inside. Zuko's spine automatically grew straighter as he stepped back through the doors, princely posture returned again, face instinctively setting back to neutrality and shoulders set.

They head through the halls together, Zuko leading Sokka through the winding castle back to the guest suites, back to where his people are.

As they near the guest quarters, Zuko slows just slightly, glancing at Sokka from the corner of his eye. The warmth of the afternoon lingers on his skin, but the easy atmosphere from the gardens is already fading, replaced by the weight of expectation pressing back onto his shoulders.

“You’ll survive the rest of the evening, won’t you?” he asks, voice lightly teasing but carrying the same thread of honesty that seems to slip through when he talks to Sokka. It’s half a joke, half a real question. He’s enjoyed today, more than he expected to, and some part of him acknowledges - quietly, cautiously - that he hopes Sokka has too.

Sokka walks alongside Zuko, noting the way his posture shifts the moment they step back inside. The ease from earlier is gone in an instant, replaced with careful neutrality, like slipping on a second skin. It’s fascinating - frustrating, even - but not surprising.

At Zuko’s words, Sokka huffs a quiet laugh. “I think I’ll manage. Though, if your people start debating the same point for an hour again, I might actually throw myself out the window just to make it stop.” His tone is dry, but there’s amusement in his eyes as he looks over at Zuko. He’s not sure when the other prince became someone he actually enjoyed talking to, but the realization is there now, solid and undeniable.

As they near his quarters, Sokka slows his pace slightly. “You?” he asks, glancing at Zuko with an arched brow. “Or are you doomed to spend the rest of the night being the ‘traitor prince’ again?”

Zuko's lips twitch slightly. There's no one else in the hall with them, so he allows himself a wry, "More like the rest of my life."

A moment after he speaks, a few men round the corner - one of them being the Chief, Sokka's father. Zuko posture grows somehow straighter, even more proper. He offers a respectful bow to the sharp-eyed man, who's looking between Zuko and his son with his head slightly tilted as they come into view.

Hakoda’s gaze flickers between the two of them, sharp but not unkind. There’s a hint of something in his expression—curiosity, maybe, or quiet amusement. “And here I thought you’d be off causing trouble,” he says lightly to Sokka, though there’s no real accusation in his voice. “Instead, I find you keeping good company.”

His eyes shift to Zuko, assessing without the cool detachment he uses in the council chamber. “Prince Zuko,” he says, his tone still even but easier, more natural. “I trust my son hasn’t been too much of a headache?”

Sokka snorts, unbothered. “No more than usual.”

There’s something careful about the way Hakoda looks at Zuko—not hostile, not distrustful, but considering, assessing. He’s not a man who speaks without purpose, and it’s clear he’s weighing what to say next.

Zuko dips his head in a slight nod, gaze carefully not looking away but also not meeting the Chief's eyes. He has a set of strict rules in his head for how exactly to deal with leaders, with fathers, and they're relatively easy to follow, even if he does have to suppress the flicker of surprise he feels at the easy warmth the Chief directs at his son.

"Not at all, Chief," he answers easily, tone still polite, respectful, his posture still perfect. "I hope the rooms appointed to you have been treating you well?" He asks politely, just in case the man has any complaints he'd like to air.

Hakoda watches Zuko for a beat, something unreadable in his expression. He’s used to reading people, to knowing when someone is speaking out of duty rather than ease, and Zuko is very practiced at duty. Too practiced, if Hakoda had to guess.

He doesn’t comment on it, though. Instead, he nods. “They’re more than adequate. Your people have been generous.” There’s a slight tilt to his head, a glimmer of something almost amused in his eyes. “I take it you’re the one to thank for that?”

Sokka snorts, folding his arms. “Oh, definitely. You should’ve seen him interrogating the staff about our lunches.”

Zuko can't help the way his eyes flick to Sokka immediately, a bit of why would you say that flickering through his eyes before it's cleared by the polite, respectful look as he turns his eyes back to somewhere around the Chief's shoulder. "Fire Lord Iroh and I would prefer our honored guests to be comfortable during their stay," he says easily, deflecting taking the glory for their comfortable suites. "If there is anything neglected, please feel free to let one of us or one of the servants aiding you know and it will be rectified."

Hakoda huffs a quiet breath—something between amusement and acknowledgment—but doesn’t push the matter. “Duly noted,” he says, his tone easy.

Sokka, on the other hand, is watching Zuko with something knowing in his expression, like he’s already figured out exactly how much effort the other boy put into ensuring every detail was accounted for. He doesn’t say anything more about it, though. Instead, he claps his hands together lightly. “Well, I assume you’re heading off to that miserable water-line meeting?” he asks, glancing at Zuko. “Try not to fall asleep.”

Zuko, again, refrains from sending the boy a furtive, shut up look at the informality he speaks with. "Thank you for your well wishes," he says instead, tilting his head politely at Sokka, the picture of a perfect prince in a way he wasn't at all when they were alone. "And your company," he says after a fraction of a second. It's not part of his mental script, but it is true. He'd liked hanging out with Sokka. It’s a weird thought.

He takes a shifting step back, nodding politely to the both of them. "Enjoy your night," he says politely, before turning to leave for his meeting.

Sokka watches him go, an amused little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. The shift in Zuko - the way he slipped seamlessly back into the perfect prince act the second there were eyes on him - was fascinating to watch. Almost like watching someone don armor before stepping onto a battlefield.

Hakoda, observant as always, makes a quiet noise of thought before turning to his son. “That one’s sharp,” he comments idly, though there’s something deeper in his tone. Consideration. Approval, maybe. “And he’s got a good head on his shoulders.” His sharp gaze flicks to Sokka, a knowing gleam in his eye. “You two seem to get along.”

Sokka just grins, rocking back on his heels. “He’s not as bad as I expected.” A beat. Then, with teasing lightness, “But he does need to learn how to have fun.”

The water-line meeting is, as Zuko predicted, terrible. It's long, irritating, and full of barbs towards him that Uncle repeatedly shuts down, but keep coming anyway. Father shutting down a comment would have ended it for good, although Father shutting down something he didn't like usually included more blood and begging. 

He pushes the thought out of his mind. Father would have encouraged the comments, anyway, he wouldn't have even tried to shut them down like Uncle is. He should be grateful the man is standing up for him, and he is , even if it's still a little frustrating to have to sit through the repeated barbs, repeated attempts to catch him out on not knowing something.

By the time it's over, he's eager to get back to his rooms, but restless with the suppressed frustration. He finds himself switching into his outside clothes quickly, worn and lesser quality, stained slightly with the amount of times he's worn them out into the area beyond the walls, ripped and patched with the amount of times he's been careless in them. His scar shows in them, the deep, ragged cut from his father curving from the side of his neck down his collar bones and under the shirt. He stares at it for a moment in the mirror, one finger tracing it. It doesn't matter if it's visible in this, because no one will see him. It still makes his eyes linger on the reflection, finger lightly tracing.

He shakes himself out of his memory and begins his familiar, careful retreat out of the castle. He's... not expecting to see a familiar figure his age standing out on the guest suite balconies. It's late enough that he would have expected them all to be in bed when he passed.

Sokka leans against the balcony railing, arms folded atop it as he stares out over the darkened castle grounds. The night air is cool, a breeze ruffling his dark hair as he breathes in deep, taking in the quiet. It’s a stark contrast to the intensity of the peace talks, the layers of careful words and strategy that surrounded every interaction during the day. Out here, things feel… easier.

His gaze flickers downward absently - and then stills when he catches movement below. Someone slipping through the edges of the castle grounds, quiet, careful. Dressed in plain, worn clothes that don’t fit with the image of a noble. Of a prince. But the dark hair is unmistakable, the sharp cut of the prince’s chin in the shadows.

Sokka raises a brow, interest sparking. Well. That’s interesting.

Instead of calling out and alerting Zuko to the fact he’s been caught, Sokka just leans his chin on his hand, watching. Waiting to see what the other boy does next.

Zuko slips up easily to the top of the wall, the guard rounds well-known to him, perching hidden on it as the guard rounds the corner and passes without notice beneath. It's then that his gaze flicks up to the balcony and he catches Sokka watching him where he sits in the shadows, gaze unmistakably pointed at him, not just out into the night. He blinks. Puts one hand up and gives a small, awkward wave.

Sokka grins, sharp with amusement, and lifts a hand in return, fingers wiggling in an exaggerated wave. He doesn’t call out - wouldn’t want to ruin the other boy’s little operation - but he does raise an eyebrow in a silent question.

Going somewhere, oh-so-perfect prince?

There’s no accusation in his expression, just curiosity and a hint of challenge. He props his chin back on his hand, watching to see what Zuko does now that he knows he’s been seen.

Zuko hesitates. He glances over as the guard rounds the other corner. Then he looks back to Sokka and tilts his head, pointing a thumb over his shoulder invitingly. He doesn't know why he's inviting the other man to come with, just the same as he doesn't know why Sokka didn't blow his cover, even though he'd obviously seen him and owes him no silence.

Sokka’s grin widens, surprised but clearly intrigued. He glances back into his rooms for a second, as if debating, then shrugs and pushes himself up. A few moments later, he’s scaling down the side of the balcony with an ease that suggests this isn’t the first time he’s done something reckless.

When he drops lightly to the ground below, he dusts his hands off and shoots Zuko an expectant look. “Well? Lead the way, your highness ,” he teases, but there’s a flicker of something more serious in his gaze. Zuko offered - he accepted. Now he’s waiting to see what exactly he’s just signed up for.

Zuko snorts but leads him through the rest of the route without a sound, not even the swish of his clothes or light footsteps. It's obvious from the ease with which he does that this isn’t his first escape.

As they scale the wall and drop down to the other side, heading out among the trees, he finally turns to Sokka. The moonlight glints across him and for the first time, his scar is visible, a thick wound that looks like it must have been near fatal, long, curving from the side of his neck down over his collarbone and disappearing under the low collar of his shirt. "Still think I can't climb?" He asks, a tease in his voice.

Sokka’s sharp eyes flicker over him, pausing briefly on the scar before flicking back up to his face. He doesn’t comment on it, but there’s something considering in his gaze, something thoughtful. Then, as if deciding not to push, he smirks.

“I suppose you’ve proved me wrong,” he concedes, stretching lazily before falling into step beside Zuko. “Though I have to wonder why a proper prince like you has so much practice sneaking out.” His tone is teasing, but there’s an undercurrent of curiosity beneath it. He didn’t miss the way Zuko had moved, the way he’d mapped out the guard rotations in his head without hesitation. This wasn’t just a pastime - it was a habit. A need .

And Sokka can’t help but wonder what exactly Zuko needs to escape from.

Zuko snorts, but catches the way Sokka's eyes pause at his neck, the flicker of something in the other man's eyes. He'd forgotten about the low collar, never had to worry about anyone else seeing him. He turns back forward, a little self-conscious, as if not looking at the other boy will negate the existence of the obvious scar. "I'm not a proper prince," he gives in lieu of an answer, "Not now, anyway."

Then he glances at Sokka, considering, a small grin spreading across the face. He tilts his head forward, gesturing to the hill that sits in front of them. "Race you to the top," he says, and darts off into the night without waiting for Sokka to answer

For the briefest second, Sokka is caught off guard - by the grin, by the challenge, by the sudden lightness in Zuko’s expression that he hasn’t quite seen before. Then, his instincts kick in.

“Oh, you’re on, ” he growls, and launches after him.

The hillside is steep, littered with roots and loose dirt, but Sokka is used to rough terrain. He moves quickly, his boots finding footholds with practiced ease. But Zuko has a head start and, as Sokka is quickly realizing, the other prince is fast. Lighter on his feet than someone who grew up in castles has any right to be.

Still, Sokka grins as he pushes himself forward, closing the gap. “You do this often too?” he calls, breath coming quicker, exhilaration threading through him. It’s different from sparring, different from training—this is something freer, something that feels more like living.

Zuko glances over his shoulder, grinning. The other boy is catching up to him, and he speeds up, feet light and pace quick, wind ruffling his hair as he runs. "Not with a future Chief by my side," he calls back, a tease in his voice, a lightness in it that's never present inside the castle walls.

Sokka huffs a laugh, pushing harder to close the last of the gap between them. “Then try to keep up, Prince, ” he challenges, surging forward.

The top of the hill is close now, just a few strides away. Sokka throws himself into the final stretch, muscles burning, heartbeat loud in his ears. He reaches out—whether to steady himself or to throw Zuko off, he doesn’t quite know—but his fingers brush against Zuko’s wrist as they both near the crest at the same time.

Zuko laughs, breathless, a small flutter in his stomach that he ignores at the contact, as they both reach the top at the same time. He stops, catching his breath. There's a grin on his face as he looks over to face Sokka, positioning himself so this time, the scar is on the further side from Sokka. It doesn't hide it, nothing could, but it's automatic. "Guess it's a tie," he says easily

Sokka exhales, grinning as he plants his hands on his hips. “I’ll allow it,” he says magnanimously, as if he wasn’t just barely keeping pace himself. His gaze flickers across Zuko’s face, sharp eyes catching the way he subtly angles himself away. He doesn’t comment, but something thoughtful lingers in his expression before he looks away, glancing out over the view from the hilltop.

The moon casts a silvery glow over the land stretching out before them, distant torches flickering in the capital below. It’s quiet up here, peaceful in a way neither of them often get to experience. Sokka rocks back on his heels, glancing sideways at Zuko. “So,” he says, voice quieter now, less teasing. “What do you do out here?”

Zuko casts him a sideways look. "Breathe," he answers simply after a moment. There's more to it than that, obviously, he explores, wanders, sometimes trains away from the ever present eyes of the training grounds. But the core of why he comes out here is just to get away from the stifling pressure of it all.

Sokka nods slightly, as if he understands. Maybe he does. The weight of expectations, of always being watched , judged , measured - it’s something they both know in different ways. He exhales, tilting his head back to look at the sky.

“Good place for it,” he murmurs. A beat passes, then he smirks. “Bit dramatic, though. ‘Oh, the prince flees into the night to escape his terrible burdens,’” he teases, voice mockingly wistful. “Should I be expecting a ballad about your tragic plight sometime soon?”

Zuko snorts, shifting to sit atop the hillside, wind kissing his still slightly-flushed face. "Depends, will you be writing one?" he asks teasingly as he settles back on his hands, blade of grass between his fingers.

Sokka flops down beside him, propping himself up on his elbows. “Maybe,” he says, pretending to consider it. “I’d need a good title, though. The Moonlit Misadventures of the Runaway Prince ? Golden Eyes and Heavy Burdens ?” He tilts his head, eyes glinting with mischief as he glances at Zuko. “Or maybe just The Boy Who Can Climb .”

Zuko laughs despite himself, the second real laugh that's come from him tonight. He never laughs in the castle, not really. He huffs from amusement rarely, occasionally lets it slip into his tone or flicker across his face, but he doesn't laugh . "You're too good at that," he shakes his head, amused. "Now I'm sure you've written one before."

Sokka grins, clearly pleased with himself. “Maybe I have,” he says, all mystery, leaning back on his hands. “Or maybe I’m just good at reading people. You give me a lot of material, you know.” He flicks a blade of grass at Zuko’s knee. “Tragic backstory, secret escapes, a mysterious scar… I’d have to be a terrible storyteller not to spin something from all that.”

Zuko snorts, but a thread of tension enters his shoulders at the easy mention of the scar. Everyone in the castle knows about it, knows the story, most of the generals were there when it happened, but no one ever mentions it. Uncle had tried to talk to him about it, just once, but it had ended with Zuko uncharacteristically blowing up at him and then apologizing and cringing away from him for days. The man hadn't tried to bring it up again.

"Guess I'm not as much of a mystery as I thought," he says wryly, like it doesn't matter, and settles completely on his back, hair mixing with the grass as he looks at the stars

Sokka watches him for a moment, catching the shift in his posture, the way the tension lingers. He doesn’t push, doesn’t pry - just lets the moment settle between them, filled only with the wind and the rustling of grass.

“Nah,” he says finally, lying back beside him and looking up at the same sky. “I think you’re still a mystery. Just means I’ve got more to figure out.” His tone is easy, teasing, but there’s something quieter beneath it, something real.

"It's only fair that you give me something to work with for my own ballad," Zuko says, tilting his face to look at Sokka beside him. They're closer, like this, only about a foot between their faces. He doesn't move away. "I mean, all I've got so far is that you're ridiculously easy-going considering your whole hardened-warrior reputation, apparently have the eyes of a hawk, and you want to climb the mountains."

Sokka huffs a laugh, turning his head slightly to meet Zuko’s gaze. He doesn’t move away either. “That’s a good start,” he admits, a smirk tugging at his lips. “But if you’re composing a proper ballad, you’ll need something more dramatic. Maybe throw in that I once fought off three raiders alone, or that I tamed a wild seal as a kid.”

His voice is still light, teasing, but there’s something in his eyes - something considering, like he’s studying Zuko just as much as Zuko is studying him. “Or, if you want the truth… maybe I’m just easy-going because someone has to be. And I see things because it’s always been my job to.” His voice softens slightly, more honest than he expected it to be.

Then, because the moment is starting to feel like something, he nudges Zuko’s shoulder with his own. “And I’ll have you know, the mountains will happen. You can write that into your ballad.”

Zuko smiles at him, slightly, before turning back to watch the stars again. "You know, I actually believe you," he says, and there's a thread of something softer in his voice than amusement.

Sokka glances at him, something flickering through his expression before he looks back at the sky too. He’s quiet for a moment, like he’s turning that over in his head, like he hadn’t expected Zuko to say it but isn’t sure why it matters that he did.

Then, finally, he exhales a soft chuckle. “Good,” he murmurs. “Because I’d hate for my ballad to be built on lies.” His tone is teasing, but there’s something quieter underneath it, something almost… pleased.

For a while, they just lay there in the silence, letting the night air settle around them, the stars bright and endless above. It’s comfortable, in a way neither of them would have expected even a few days ago.

After a long few moments of peaceable silence, Zuko points up to the sky, "Ara," he says easily, pointing out the constellation. He's not sure about the other boy's knowledge of the stars, but that's one that feels amusingly relevant to their situation.

Sokka follows Zuko’s gesture, his sharp eyes tracing the pattern of stars before recognition flickers across his face. He huffs a soft, amused breath. “The Altar,” he says, glancing sideways at Zuko. “Fitting. A symbol of offerings and sacrifice.”

His tone is light, teasing, but there’s something thoughtful in the way he studies the constellation. He knows enough about the stars to recognize a few, though he’s never been one to chart them carefully. But now, laying here beside Zuko, he finds himself more interested than usual.

“So,” he muses, tilting his head, “are you saying we’re the sacrifice, or are we the ones making the offering?”

Zuko huffs at that, half-amused but with an almost bitter twist to it. "Depends who you ask," he answers quietly

Sokka watches him for a moment, the moonlight casting shadows across Zuko’s face, highlighting the sharp edges of his cheekbones, the curve of his scar. “Yeah,” he says finally, voice quieter now, thoughtful. “I suppose it does.”

He shifts, leaning up on his elbows, gaze flicking between Zuko and the stars above. “But since I’m the one asking,” he continues, a wry edge to his tone, “I’d rather not think of either of us as sacrifices.” His lips quirk. “Not exactly the legacy I want for my ballad.”

Zuko tilts his head, catching Sokka's eyes. The wind ruffles the other boy's hair, moonlight catching his bright blue eyes. He's... kind of beautiful. Not that Zuko has any thoughts or feelings on that. It’s just… an observation. "Let's go with offerings, then," he agrees softly. "Makes for a better story."

Sokka holds his gaze for a moment longer than necessary, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes before he huffs a quiet breath, almost a laugh. "Offerings," he echoes, rolling the word over his tongue like he's testing the weight of it. "Yeah. I like that better."

He looks away first, tipping his head back to the stars. "Alright, offering," he teases lightly after a beat, smirking. "Now that I’ve been dragged into your secret midnight escapades, what’s next? Or do you just lie here staring at the sky all night?"

Zuko shifts, too, sitting up and stretching his arms. He sends a sideways look, amused, almost as if he's assessing Sokka. "You any good with a sword?" He asks

Sokka raises a brow, smirking. "Depends on who you ask," he throws Zuko’s own words back at him with a glint of amusement. Then he tilts his head, considering. "Good enough to hold my own. Great enough to make my trainers curse my name. But if you're asking if I can keep up with you ?" He leans forward slightly, eyes sharp, playful. "Only one way to find out, isn't there?"

Zuko hops to his feet, "Come on, then," he says, as he starts down the hill and toward the shallow cave he claimed to store the belongings he snuck out of the palace long ago. He'd smuggled two swords out when he was younger, always too hopeful that Azula would one day be on his side again like when they were little, not his father's loyal reporter anymore. The day had never come.

But it does mean that he has a sword to toss to Sokka when they arrive, pulling out his own and heading out to the dirt patch outside the cave he typically practices his forms at. There are a few trees with old strike marks on them, clearly having been used for his sparring practice before.

Most of the strikes are lower, as if he'd been smaller, younger, while making them.

"Show me what you've got, future Chief," he says with a teasing smile, rolling his shoulders out as he gets into stance.

Sokka catches the sword easily, testing its weight with a few casual swings before stepping onto the dirt patch across from Zuko. His sharp eyes flick over the marks on the trees, noting the size, the age of them. Zuko has been doing this a long time. Longer than Sokka would have expected, honestly. He adjusts his grip, settling into a stance, loose but balanced, the easy confidence of someone trained but not rigidly drilled into perfection the way Zuko probably was.

His smirk lingers, but there’s an assessing gleam in his gaze now. “Alright then, traitor prince ,” he taunts lightly, mirroring Zuko’s teasing tone from earlier, rolling the title off his tongue just to see how Zuko reacts. “Let’s see if you're as quick with a sword as you are with an escape.”

Then, without further warning, he lunges.

Zuko snorts, the term that's usually sneered with hatred sounding lighter in Sokka's taunting tone. He reacts easily, keeping up with Sokka's advances, but doesn't push onto the offensive yet. Just deflecting and dodging, assessing the other man's skills. He's good. Really good. But Zuko has spent much of his time in his life training, had years where his safety depended on meeting his father's impossible to reach standards of perfection with the swords. 

He's not going down easily. Could probably end this fight the moment he goes on the offensive, if he was intense enough about it. If he needed to. But he doesn't need to, doesn’t really want to. It's fun to dance around with Sokka, grin on his face, adrenaline flowing as he dodges and deflects.

Sokka grins as their blades clash, reading the way Zuko moves - fluid, precise, effortless. He’s holding back . Sokka can tell. And that makes him all the more determined to press harder, see if he can draw something real out of him. He shifts his stance, feinting left before twisting his blade at the last second to strike from the right, testing Zuko’s reaction time. Zuko meets the blow easily, deflecting it.

“You fight like you’ve got something to prove,” Sokka notes between strikes, breath steady despite the exertion. His own style is adaptive, a mix of formal training and instinct, built for real battle more than duels. He shifts unpredictably, seeing if he can force Zuko to stop deflecting and actually fight. “Or maybe something to hide.”

His smirk is teasing, but there’s something sharp beneath it, something watchful, as if he’s waiting to see how Zuko reacts - not just in the fight, but to him .

Zuko laughs. "Maybe I just don't want to send you to the dirt too quickly," He replies cheekily, fluidly slipping out of the way of the unexpected move. Their fight gets faster with every second, Sokka pushing harder and Zuko easily meeting him. "Not good for your Chiefly ego."

Sokka huffs a laugh, adjusting his grip. “Oh, don’t worry about my ego,” he counters, sharp grin in place. He presses forward, blades flashing in the moonlight as he pushes Zuko to either fight back properly or lose ground.

“Starting to think you’re afraid of a real fight,” he taunts, their blades locking for a moment. There’s barely a breath between them now, Sokka’s blue eyes glinting with challenge. “Or maybe you just don’t know what to do when you’re not dancing around someone.”

He shifts suddenly, twisting his sword in a way that forces Zuko to either disengage or risk being knocked off balance. “Come on, prince - fight me .”

Zuko disengages, then rapidly twists and pushes to the offensive, grinning as Sokka is suddenly the one being pushed back. His movements are quick, efficient, and difficult to predict as he gains ground quickly.

Sokka curses under his breath, forced onto the defensive as Zuko’s sudden shift in strategy has him scrambling to keep up. He blocks strike after strike, but Zuko’s speed and unpredictability make it nearly impossible to regain control.

“Alright, alright ,” Sokka grits out between parries, grinning despite the pressure. “Guess I deserved that.” He shifts his stance, trying to find an opening, but Zuko isn’t giving him any. It’s exhilarating, frustrating, and, if he’s honest, kind of impressive.

He exhales sharply, then abruptly steps into Zuko’s space rather than away, aiming to throw him off with a close-quarters maneuver. “Let’s see how well you handle this.”

Zuko's surprised by the way Sokka is suddenly in his space, bright grin lighting up the boy’s face, his blue eyes dark with determination, flashing in the moonlight. Suddenly Zuko’s sword is twisted out of his grip, clanging onto the dirt. He grins, not letting it stop him as he dances around the other boy's blade and uses Sokka's own momentum to twist his arm, forcing his blade to clang in the dirt as well.

He's not expecting the way Sokka immediately adjusts to the switch in combat to change to grappling instead, something the slightly larger man has a slight upper hand in, an easy contrast to Zuko's upper hand in the sword fight.

Zuko adjusts in return, but he's back on the defensive, laughing as he fluidly twists and dodges across the dirt patch, Sokka keeping him moving in the opposite direction of where the swords lay.

Sokka grins, breathless but determined, as he keeps Zuko moving. “What’s the matter, prince ?” he taunts, deliberately emphasizing the title. “You were a lot cockier with a sword in your hand.”

Zuko, despite being on the defensive, is quick and slippery, twisting out of holds before Sokka can properly pin him. It’s frustrating, but gods, it’s fun - Zuko is fast in a way that makes it feel like trying to catch water in his hands, always just slipping away at the last second.

But Sokka is nothing if not persistent. He feints one way, then suddenly lunges, catching Zuko around the waist and using his own momentum to take them both down into the dirt. They hit the ground with a thud , Sokka on top, pinning Zuko’s wrists on either side of his head.

He grins down at him, blue eyes bright with victory. “Got you.”

Zuko grins back up at him, heart pounding faster, breathless. Not just from the fight. He feigns defeat for just long enough to feel Sokka's grip loosen slightly, then twists, breaking the hold on his wrists and trying unsuccessfully to get out of the rest of the pin while Sokka tries unsuccessfully to re-pin his wrists.

Eventually, Sokka predicts his movements just well enough to grab his wrists again and this time they're closer, Sokka's face only inches above his own, both of them breathless and grinning. Zuko's hands are pinned in the dirt on either side of his own head, their bodies pressed against each other as Sokka uses his weight to keep him down. "Guess you did," he concedes, still grinning, his voice coming out soft, respecting the closeness between them. His heart is beating even faster now, face flushed with the exertion of the fight.

Sokka’s grin falters for just a second, something shifting in his expression as he realizes exactly how close they are. Zuko is warm beneath him, breath still coming fast, cheeks flushed from exertion, golden eyes sharp with something Sokka doesn’t recognize but feels warm, his hair slightly tousled from their fight.

Sokka swallows, suddenly hyperaware of the way their bodies are pressed together, of the feeling of Zuko’s pulse thrumming beneath his fingers where he holds his wrists down. His own heartbeat stutters - then picks up again, just as fast as before but for an entirely different reason.

He should say something. Should make another joke, keep things light, keep this moment from slipping into something else, something he doesn’t entirely know how to name.

But for once, he’s speechless. He just looks at Zuko, the playfulness from before still lingering in his eyes, but now joined by something else. Something softer. Something unspoken.

Zuko just looks back at him, golden eyes sparkling as they shift between Sokka's own blue. He should say something, he thinks, to break this moment between them. But he's not the prince that has to follow every rule to the letter out here, not the perfect prince that has to maintain propriety at every moment. He's just... Zuko. 19 and having fun, heart pounding as a pretty, strong boy pins him to the dirt. He doesn't really want to break the moment. So he just watches Sokka back, still breathing shallow and quick from the fight and... maybe just from Sokka himself.

Sokka’s fingers twitch around Zuko’s wrists, his grip no longer firm, more like he’s just holding him now rather than keeping him pinned. The moment stretches, charged with something unspoken, something electric.

Sokka’s breath is still coming fast, but it isn’t from exertion anymore. He watches Zuko, gaze flickering over his face - the slight flush to his cheeks, the way his lips are just slightly parted, the warm brown of his eyes catching the moonlight. He’s beautiful . The thought comes unbidden, and Sokka doesn’t push it away.

He licks his lips, hesitates - then leans in just a fraction, like he's testing the space between them, like he’s waiting to see if Zuko will pull away.

Zuko's breath catches slightly and he tilts his chin up. Suddenly, they're kissing, the moment flickering between them. He's not sure who closed the final distance. Maybe both of them. It feels right, feels warm, makes his stomach flutter and his eyes close.

Sokka exhales softly against Zuko’s lips, like he’s surprised but pleased, like this is something he didn’t expect but wants - more than he realized. His hands, once pinning Zuko down, loosen completely, shifting, fingertips brushing against Zuko’s wrists instead of holding them in place.

The kiss is unhurried, almost hesitant, like neither of them are sure how much they’re allowed to take. But it lingers - soft, warm, real . Sokka tilts his head slightly, deepening it just enough to chase that feeling a little longer, like he’s afraid to let it go too soon.

A rustle in the trees makes them both break away, startled, breathing heavy. Their faces are only inches apart from each other as they watch an owl take off into the night.

"Future Chief afraid of owls?" Zuko teases, his cheeks flushed pink. He doesn't know how to act, what to say, if he should acknowledge what just happened or not. So he doesn't, just falls into the easy teasing that's settled between them

Sokka huffs out a breath, still half caught between the kiss and the moment breaking apart. His grin is just a little crooked, a little dazed, but he leans into the teasing like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Not afraid,” he counters, voice still low from breathlessness. “Just surprised. Didn’t realize I was competing with the local wildlife for your attention.”

His hands are still bracketing Zuko’s wrists, but not holding him down anymore—just there , like neither of them have decided what to do with the closeness. Like neither of them want to move away yet.

Zuko flicks his eyes across the other man's face, his breathless voice making something flutter in Zuko's stomach again. Agni, does he have a crush ? Does it still count as just a crush if they've kissed like something was going to pull them apart, bodies pressed against each other? He pushes the thought out of his head. "There's no competition," he says back, just as low. It comes out a little more honest, a little more breathless than he means it to. He doesn't try to take it back. His fingers shift up, lightly brushing against Sokka's hand.

Sokka's breath hitches just slightly at the touch, at the words. His grip on Zuko's wrists finally loosens completely, but he doesn’t move away. Instead, his fingers shift too, brushing against Zuko’s in return, deliberate and slow, like he’s memorizing the way they fit together.

For a second, he just watches Zuko’s face, the flush in his cheeks, the way his hair has been mussed from their fight, the way his lips are still just barely parted.

"Good," Sokka finally says, voice quiet, but sure. His fingers curl around Zuko’s hand properly, just for a moment, before he finally pushes himself up, offering the other boy a hand. "Because I win my fights, prince." His grin is teasing, but there’s something softer in his eyes as he looks down at him.

Zuko takes his hand, lets himself be hauled up. Agni, Sokka is strong. He's good with a sword, but it's clearly not his main weapon, based off the way he fights, even just based purely off his muscle mass. "And you take your spoils, apparently," Zuko teases him, bumping his shoulder as he passes him to collect the swords. He spares a glance at the sky. "We should probably head back, if you plan on sleeping before the morning meeting," he says easily, cheeks still flushed and hair mussed as he moves to put the swords up.

Sokka huffs a laugh, shaking his head as he watches Zuko move. Takes his spoils, huh? He doesn’t regret it. Not one bit.

"Yeah, yeah," he says, rolling his shoulders out as he follows Zuko to help put the swords away. "Can’t have Fire Lord Iroh thinking I spent the night getting my ass kicked by his nephew instead of sleeping." He smirks at Zuko, bumping their shoulders back as he passes. "Or worse - have your uncle guess what we were actually doing."

His words are light, teasing, but there’s an undercurrent of something real in them. They should be careful. But as he watches Zuko’s dark locks shift in the moonlight, still a little messy from where his fingers had been, he knows he’s already in trouble.

Zuko snorts, watching as the boy passes him to walk slightly ahead. "He'd have to be psychic," he answers dryly, but with a hint of the same realism. It's not like what they're doing is wrong, per se, no rules against it. But it would definitely cause a stir at court, definitely not be what a perfect prince should be doing. If his generals wanted him dead now, they'd want him drawn and quartered for 'consorting with the enemy' like this. As they pad slowly back toward the big wall in the distance, Zuko neatly slotting into pace beside Sokka, their shoulders brushing occasionally, he can't help but feel lighter. Even moreso than he usually does away from the castle. They're quiet, as they walk, but it's not bad. Not at all. It's... comfortable. Easy.

Sokka glances at him, a smirk still playing at his lips, but it softens as the silence stretches between them. It’s not the tense, uncertain kind—it’s the kind that feels good , like a space that doesn’t need to be filled. He lets his arm swing naturally, brushing against Zuko’s every so often, neither of them pulling away.

He exhales, glancing up at the darkened sky, the stars still bright above them. Damn it. He should be worried about this. He should be thinking about how complicated it is, how it could be used against them both.

But right now? He just feels good .

He lets their fingers brush once, twice—then he loops his pinky lightly around Zuko’s, not quite holding his hand, but not not doing it, either. Testing the waters. Waiting to see if Zuko pulls away.

A smile flickers across Zuko's face. He doesn't glance over, but he doesn't pull away either, his pinky looping back around Sokka's, just a fraction tighter than Sokka's loose grip. A silent yes, to a silent question.

Zuko’s the one to drop it first when they get closer, though, shifting back to that silent padding as they get close. He glances at the moon, mentally checking the time, then waits a moment before they scale. He really does have the guard's rotations memorized. Zuko leads them back through, making it to the bottom of the balcony again without trouble. "Goodnight," he says, voice low, barely audible, as they pause beneath the balcony

Sokka lingers for just a moment, eyes still on Zuko even as the other boy looks up toward the balcony. The space between them feels like it’s buzzing, like something unspoken is still resting between them, waiting to be acknowledged. But neither of them does.

Instead, Sokka exhales, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Goodnight, Zuko,” he says, just as quiet, just as low.

And then, with a last glance, he scales up the wall and disappears over the edge of the balcony, slipping back into the castle as if he’d never left.

Zuko's smiling his entire sneak back to his room. He stores the clothes back into their hiding place easily, switching back into his princely sleeping clothes and laying in bed. He feels light, still smiling as he lays there. That was the first time he'd heard Sokka actually call him by his name and not prince or some teasing nickname. It had felt right, coming out of his mouth. Fond, a little.

Zuko doesn't know what to think about tonight. It's like he's settling back into the skin he wears in the castle, the Zuko that would never let his feelings come before his duty like that, but he doesn't regret it. It was... nice. Really nice. He felt good, felt his walls down completely with someone in a way he's never had. Sokka is just so honest , so straightforward in a way he likes. It felt like just... being Zuko, with him. Not being anything for anyone else, not following any expectations. It felt… really good.

Sleep doesn’t come easily, even though his body is exhausted from the fight and the running. Zuko stares at the ceiling, still feeling the ghost of Sokka’s hand against his, the weight of him pressing him into the dirt, the warmth of his lips.

He closes his eyes, but that only makes it worse. His mind replays it all, over and over, every look, every touch, every word.

He shouldn’t let himself get distracted. That’s what this is, isn’t it? A distraction. Something fleeting, something dangerous. He can’t afford to let his feelings get in the way - not here, not now, when his future is already walking on a knife’s edge.

But for once… he doesn’t want to fight it. Not yet. Not tonight.

So he lets himself feel it, lets himself remember the way Sokka had smiled at him, had seen him, had said his name . And for just a little while, Zuko allows himself to hold onto that warmth as he finally drifts into sleep.

It's in the morning that the anxiety comes. Tight, gripping around his chest. He feels, as soon as he wakes, that same tense certainty that he's going to be found out that he'd felt constantly with Father. Now, his center of anxiety is his uncle. It would... it would probably be okay, if Uncle did find out. Maybe. He's always stressing how Zuko doesn't need to be so careful, so respectful, so quiet and dutiful and everything else that his father demanded. It's hard, though, to let go of when the lessons were learned in blood.

There's been a shift in Uncle and his relationship since they'd pulled the coup off together. The weight of the man's new position hit Zuko harder than Uncle, made Zuko pull back again, stop treating the man with the easiness that had been earned over years of Uncle never snapping, never tightening a fist. But now... he's the Fire Lord. And Fire Lords and Uncles have different expectations, Zuko knows, different rules that come with their treatment. 

Uncle... doesn't really agree. Just patiently reminds Zuko in little ways, whenever he's overly respectful, overly withdrawn, that he doesn't need to do that. That he's still just Zuko's uncle.

But this is different. This isn't just about dropping respectful titles or not having to bow to greet him whenever he enters a room. This is something that Zuko willfully did just for his own wants, something that would have great political ramifications in a moment of difficulty. This is Zuko choosing impulse, choosing himself, over carefully laid plans they spent years doing. Over the fate of his nation, his duty. 

The thoughts run through his head, make his chest tighter, his mind dizzy from the speed at which his thoughts run. His hands are shaking, breath quick and sharp in his empty room.

He throws up. Sits there gasping for breath on his bathroom floor for a bit, until he's less dizzy, until his thoughts have simmered to just feeling like they're going to burst out of his skin instead of literally making himself sick with them.

Then he brushes his teeth like nothing happened, and heads out to join the morning peace meeting. He skipped breakfast to have a little extra sleep, then to have time to panic inside his room until his walls were able to be raised to neutrality again.

The morning meeting is already in session by the time Zuko steps into the grand hall. Elders and generals from both sides are seated, the air thick with tension and barely concealed distrust. His uncle is speaking, his tone calm but firm, discussing the logistics of borders. Across the table, Chief Hakoda listens with the impassive expression of a man who has spent years reading between the lines of political pleasantries.

Zuko keeps his posture composed, his face unreadable as he takes his usual seat beside Uncle. His heart pounds harder than usual, but he forces his hands to remain still, his breaths even. He doesn’t need to look to know where Sokka is sitting. He can feel him there, opposite him, where he always is.

He doesn’t glance up, doesn’t risk meeting his gaze. It would be fine. He would act as he always did, would do what was needed of him. Last night was… last night. And now, he is Zuko, the proper Crown Prince to Fire Lord Iroh once again.

"You're late," Uncle murmurs to him, quiet enough that only Zuko can hear. His tone is mild, a simple observation, but Zuko still feels his stomach clench.

"My apologies," he answers just as softly, keeping his gaze forward.

Uncle studies him for a beat, then turns back to the discussion, saying nothing more. But Zuko knows he knows something is off. Uncle always notices.

Across the table, Sokka shifts slightly in his seat. Zuko doesn’t look. He can't.

Sokka notices Zuko the moment he steps inside the hall. He always does.

He doesn't stare , exactly, but his eyes flicker up from where his father is speaking, tracking Zuko as he moves through the room. Something is different today. It takes Sokka only a second to figure it out—Zuko isn't looking at him. Not once. Not even a flicker of acknowledgment.

Sokka leans back in his chair, resting an arm along the table as he studies him, waiting for the usual glance, the quick, knowing look they tend to exchange at these meetings. It never comes. Zuko's posture is perfect, his expression carefully neutral, but Sokka can see it—the slight tightness around his mouth, the way he holds himself just a little too still.

He’s shutting him out.

Sokka’s fingers curl slightly against the wood of the table. Last night had been— real . He knows it was real. The way Zuko had laughed with him, looked at him, let himself just be with him. The way he had kissed him, the way he'd held his hand, even for just a moment. That wasn't something he could just lock away like it never happened. Was it?

Apparently, Zuko thinks otherwise.

Sokka forces his expression to stay even, the easygoing smirk he usually wears dropping into something more unreadable. If Zuko doesn’t want to look at him, fine. If he wants to pretend last night was nothing, fine. But Sokka isn’t going to just forget it.

He shifts slightly in his seat, and across the table, Zuko stays completely still, gaze fixed ahead. Sokka exhales sharply through his nose.

Coward.

Halfway through the meeting, Zuko loses his tight control for just a second. A fraction of a second where, while he's watching Chief Hakoda as the man speaks, his gaze flickers, eyes automatically going to Sokka for a moment. 

It's not a long glance, not a knowing look like they've flicked each other before when someone says something particularly stupid or offensive. It's just a flicker, an automatic thing he can't stop, borne from just wanting to see him. Sokka's gaze finds his back. 

Zuko looks away first, only holds the gaze for a second before his eyes flicker back to Chief Hakoda. His heart pounds but he keeps his face blank. His Uncle feels taller beside him. It's fine. No one else knows. It was... it was real, it was good, but it wasn't what he was supposed to do. It can't exist right now.

He feels like a coward. He shoves that feeling down, too.

Sokka catches it.

It’s brief—so brief he might have missed it if he weren’t waiting for it. But it happens. Zuko’s eyes flick to him, just for a second, just long enough for Sokka to see the way something tight and unreadable flickers beneath that carefully controlled mask.

Then Zuko looks away.

Sokka doesn’t.

His fingers drum against the table, slow, thoughtful. He could let it go. Let Zuko pretend nothing happened, let him shove it down so deep it might as well not exist. Sokka could play along, could ignore that moment on the hillside, the way Zuko had smiled against his lips, the way he had looked at him like he was something safe, something easy .

He could .

But he won’t.

Because the thing is—Zuko looked. And Sokka saw.

And now, Zuko knows it.

A slow smirk pulls at Sokka’s lips, just enough for Zuko to notice if he looks again. He leans forward slightly, forearms resting on the table, and shifts his boot just barely beneath the table—until the toe of it brushes lightly against Zuko’s.

It’s the softest touch. Just enough to remind him that last night did happen. That Sokka isn’t going anywhere.

His father is still speaking. No one is watching them.

Except Zuko.

Sokka waits.

Zuko's already perfect posture grows just the slightest shift more perfect, more purposeful. He can feel Sokka's gaze on him, feel the tiniest brush of a foot touch his.

His posture does not go unnoticed by his uncle, who sends him the briefest flicker of a considering look. It's meant to be caring, he's sure, but it makes him feel like he's under a microscope. Uncle doesn't feel like uncle in this room. He feels like his Fire Lord and his Fire Lord's attention during a meeting is not a good thing, especially if he knows he's done something wrong, something selfish, that there's no chance his Fire Lord knows about but the Fire Lord always knows everything , and-

Something lightly brushes his foot again. He carefully, slowly, starts breathing again. Hadn't realized that he'd quietly stopped. Uncle isn't looking at him anymore, but Zuko has no doubt it's because he caught the way Zuko's anxiety was rising from the attention. He's always been able to read through Zuko's neutral walls.

His eyes flick over to the source of the touch, Sokka, still watching him.

Sokka sees it all - the way Zuko stiffens, the way his uncle's gaze flickers over him, the way something tightens in Zuko’s shoulders, like he’s bracing for impact. Like he’s waiting for something bad to happen.

Sokka hates that look.

But then Zuko breathes again. His shoulders don’t relax, not really, but he steadies. And Sokka knows it’s because of him.

So when Zuko’s eyes finally flick to his, Sokka doesn’t smirk this time. He doesn’t tease. He just looks . His gaze is steady, calm, something warm flickering beneath the blue.

It’s okay, he doesn’t say. You’re fine.

He presses his foot just a fraction more against Zuko’s, just the barest pressure. It’s nothing anyone would notice. But it’s there.

And Zuko hasn’t pulled away yet.

Zuko shouldn't . The same way he shouldn't have brought him to the garden, shouldn't have invited him to sneak out with him, shouldn't have kissed him in the dirt, shouldn't have looked just now. But just like he did all those things, he gives in now. Shifts his foot forward, just the slightest amount, pressing a tiny bit of pressure back. Keeps breathing, slow and steady. Forces a pause on his anxiety, that's helped by the way Sokka seems so steady , so real across the table.

He flicks his gaze away again, keeps attentively watching the speakers as the peace talk continues. But that extra tension in his posture slowly loosens back to his usual perfect posture. His breathing doesn't stop again.

Sokka doesn’t push for more. Doesn’t press again. Just leaves his foot where it is, content with that tiny, invisible connection between them.

And when Zuko looks away, when he straightens back into that perfect, unshakable posture, Sokka doesn’t take offense. He doesn’t expect anything more.

Instead, he just knows .

Knows that Zuko is still there, beneath all those layers of duty and careful neutrality. Knows that last night was real , that even now, in this room full of politics and expectations, there’s a thread between them neither of them want to sever.

So Sokka just lets the meeting go on, lets his foot rest lightly against Zuko’s, and allows himself the smallest, most imperceptible smile.

As they walk back from the meeting, Chief Hakoda nudges Sokka’s shoulder lightly with his own. “You were actually quiet today,” he muses, sounding more amused than anything. “Thought I’d have to listen to you argue with at least three of their generals before the first hour was up.”

Sokka scoffs, shooting him a side-eyed look. “I can keep my mouth shut.”

Hakoda hums like he’s deeply considering that. “Mmm. Can you?”

Sokka huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “I just didn’t feel like picking fights today.”

“Really?” Hakoda raises a brow, glancing at him. “Not even with Zuko ?”

Sokka knows better than to react too fast, but he still feels the way his stomach tightens, just for a second. His father isn’t looking at him in a sharp, assessing way - he’s just watching him like he always does, relaxed, curious but not prodding. Just waiting to see if Sokka will give anything away on his own.

He shrugs, keeping his voice even. “He’s not as insufferable as I thought.”

Hakoda lets out a knowing chuckle. “Well, I could’ve told you that. But you weren’t listening.” He pauses, then smirks, tone light. “Guess you’re listening now.”

Sokka rolls his eyes, but he can’t help the small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “I guess I am.”

Iroh had spent the entire meeting in perfect silence, as was his way. A figure of power, composed and unmoving. Watching. Calculating. Learning .

And he had learned something today.

Zuko had been composed, as always - poised, well-spoken, unreadable in all the ways his father had trained him to be. But Iroh had seen the momentary lapse. The barely-there flicker of nerves. The tension in his spine when he thought too many eyes were on him.

The way he had steadied.

Iroh knew his nephew well enough to see the difference. Zuko didn’t just regain his composure - he had been steadied . He had adjusted, anchored himself to something outside of his own willpower. And someone had been the cause of it.

Iroh had his suspicions. He had seen where Zuko’s eyes had strayed, had caught the briefest second of a glance exchanged, the way Sokka had met it without hesitation.

So.

Iroh does not speak to Zuko immediately. He lets the boy retreat to wherever he needs to go, lets him breathe. But later, he will have a quiet conversation with his nephew. Not as his Fire Lord.

But as his Uncle.

Zuko hardly sees Sokka that day, both of them busy with their own meetings and duties. The few moments they see each in a hall or across a meeting room, they exchange a brief glance, Zuko looking away first each time. He's proud of the fact that only once does he feel his face get slightly hot as he does, and thankfully no one was walking with him. 

He'd seen Sokka passing in the hall by his father's side, offered a respectful nod to the Chief, and when he'd offered Sokka the same polite nod he’d nodded back, a smile in his eyes that had made Zuko's heart pick up.

His heart is fast now, for an entirely different reason, as he enters his uncle's office. It's not the Fire Lord’s office. Uncle hosts one-on-one meetings with most others there, but after the first time he'd asked Zuko into his office and watched the way he'd reacted to simply being there, he hadn't asked him to the space again. 

Uncle always invites him to his personal office, set off his bedroom, now. They never talked about it, but Zuko is grateful. He was taught too many lessons in the other office, with a different Fire Lord, to ever be able to shut down the survival mode when he's in that room alone with the Fire Lord. Even if it is Uncle now.

He nods a low greeting, a compromise between the bow his brain urges him to do and the lack of any respectful greeting that Uncle has tried to tell him to do.

Iroh watches as Zuko enters, taking note of the way his nephew holds himself - controlled, measured. But there’s something else today, something tight about the way he moves, the way his shoulders don’t quite settle, the way his nod is just a little too precise.

He sets aside the parchment he’d been reading, folding his hands over the desk. “Come, sit.” His voice is even, an invitation rather than a command.

Zuko moves forward, seating himself across from him with perfect posture, hands folded in his lap. He doesn’t speak first. He never does.

Iroh studies him for a beat, then exhales. “You were… distracted today.” His tone is calm, not a reprimand, just an observation.

Zuko's gaze flickers to the side. He shuts down his first response, the automatic, instinctive apology that his mouth starts to open on. If he says it, Uncle will just say that's not what he meant, because he's never looking for an apology from Zuko, Zuko's just used to giving them.

"I didn't really sleep well," he says after a beat, a slower but truer answer than the deflection an apology would be.

Iroh’s sharp eyes flicker, just for a moment, something soft beneath the usual steady calm. He doesn’t press, doesn’t ask the obvious follow-up questions. Instead, he leans back slightly in his chair, giving Zuko more space.

“Bad dreams?” he asks gently. He knows better than to frame it like an accusation. With Zuko, it’s always better to leave the door open and let him decide if he wants to walk through it.

Zuko shakes his head slightly. "Just... thinking a lot." He says slowly, quietly, but honest. He doesn't say what he was thinking about , but it's honest. His mind kept turning over everything about Sokka, until he finally fell asleep with the memory of their lips, warm against each other, Sokka's hands loosely holding his wrists, his body still pinning Zuko's from their spar. The thought only flickers in his head now, but it was turning in his mind for at least an hour before he got to sleep.

Iroh watches him for a moment, then exhales softly, nodding as if that’s answer enough. It usually is, with Zuko. He’s never needed to be pressed - just given the space to say as much or as little as he wants.

“Thinking’s good,” Iroh says mildly, reaching for the tea set on his desk. He starts pouring a second cup without asking. “Thinking too much, though, can be a slow poison.” He slides the cup across the desk toward Zuko, not pushing, just offering. “Something I should be worried about?” It’s casual, but there’s an edge of real inquiry beneath it.

Zuko shakes his head quietly again, the same answer he's always given, although his stomach tightens with anxiety, eyes still cut away to the desk instead of his uncle. He resists the urge to fidget in his seat. He accepts the cup, takes a sip and lets the warmth help steady his nerves, slightly. The routine does, too. 

Uncle always has tea, is always pouring cups and pressing them into Zuko's hands when they're talking. He did it for years before he was Fire Lord and still does now. His Father has never drank tea in front of him in his life. It's the little jolting reminders, like the tea, that help Zuko remember that Uncle doesn't want him to change, doesn't want him to revert away from the nephew that had finally started to be open and honest with him, into the dutiful prince to his Fire Lord.

He's still not sure if that feeling is enough to override the possible danger of what he did with Sokka. What Zuko feels about him. It's enough to override the few, small mistakes Zuko has made. But he has never done something impulsive, so truly for himself, as this. He doesn't know how Uncle would react, if he would be disappointed or- or angry, or... he just doesn't know. It fills him with deep anxiety.

He tries not to let it show, just stares down at his cup of tea in his hands, warmth seeping out into his hands from it.

Iroh watches him for a beat longer, then leans back in his chair, exhaling through his nose. He doesn’t press - he never does. But he knows Zuko too well to miss the way his nephew’s shoulders hold tension like they’re bracing for impact. He recognizes the way Zuko won’t meet his eyes, how his hands are steady because he forces them to be.

Iroh takes a sip of his own tea. “You know,” he says lightly, conversational, like he’s speaking about nothing at all, “the first time I ever broke a rule - really broke a rule - I couldn’t sleep for days.” He tilts his cup idly, watching the liquid shift inside. “Convinced myself I was going to be found out. That it would all come crashing down the second I so much as breathed wrong.”

He lifts his gaze back to Zuko, casual, knowing. “I did breathe wrong, eventually. No one noticed.” A beat. Then, softer, “Sometimes things feel heavier than they are.”

Zuko nods a little, finally giving in to the urge to fidget just slightly, shifting his weight in his seat a little. He takes another slow drink of tea. This is the kind of thing Uncle does all the time , talking to him gently and seeing through every wall he has to somehow immediately know what's going on. But he doesn't know exactly. He knows that Zuko is tense because he feels like he's done something wrong, but that's happened before while he's been the Fire Lord. It's been something that felt huge at the time but seems tiny now, each time. Not something like this, not something this big. Zuko doesn't look up, staring at his tea as it slowly settles in his cup. His tea. It's just Uncle.

Iroh lets the quiet settle between them, easy and patient. He watches Zuko shift, watches the way he holds himself - like a wire pulled too tight, like if he breathes wrong, everything might snap.

“Whatever it is,” he says eventually, voice even, steady, “I doubt it’s as terrible as you think.” He takes another sip of his tea, gaze warm but unwavering. “You’re not your father, Zuko. You don’t have to measure yourself against his rules.”

It’s not the first time he’s said it, and it won’t be the last. But something in Zuko’s silence feels different this time - like he’s standing on the edge of something and doesn’t know if he should take the step. Iroh won’t push. But he’ll be here, if Zuko wants to talk. He always will be.

Zuko gives a small nod again, swallowing as he keeps staring down at the tea in his hands. After a long moment of silence, his gaze flickers up, head tilting up slightly to look at his Uncle across the desk. He doesn't know what to say to that, he never does, but it does help him settle a little, the familiar phrase, the way that Uncle always stays so calm and steady and predictable.

Iroh meets his gaze, steady as ever, and gives him a small nod in return - just enough to acknowledge the moment, to let Zuko know he’s seen. He doesn’t push, doesn’t press for more. Just lets the quiet settle again, easy and unhurried.

“Alright,” he says after a beat, taking another sip of tea. “Let’s talk through the afternoon meetings, then.” His tone shifts, casual, as if they were already in the middle of discussing something mundane. He knows Zuko needs time, space to pull himself back together. And if Zuko wants to talk - truly talk - he’ll do it when he’s ready.

For now, Iroh lets him breathe.

Zuko’s shoulders settle further, as they discuss the meetings. He's relaxed enough, by the time his Uncle asks his opinion of how the peace talks are going, that he's honest, straightforward. "I think we're getting somewhere. Slow, but steady. Obviously there's a lot to be figured out, on both sides, but I think they really want it, too. I think they're willing to put in the same amount of work we are." His mind flashes to Sokka as he talks, the quiet but sincere I do , when Zuko had asked if he believed in the peace talks.

Iroh watches him as he speaks, noting the way his posture shifts, the way the tension in his frame has eased just enough to let him speak freely. Good. That’s what he wants - Zuko thinking, analyzing, offering his own perspective rather than parroting the careful, calculated answers he used to hide behind.

“I agree,” Iroh says, setting his cup down. “It’s slow, but progress is progress. The fact that they’re still at the table means they see the value in this, same as we do.” He pauses for a moment, considering. “Who do you think is our strongest ally on their side? Outside of the Chief himself.”

He watches Zuko closely as he asks, not just for his answer but for the way he reacts to the question. There’s something shifting in him, something he won’t name yet. But Iroh has been watching him long enough to know when something is pulling at his nephew’s thoughts.

Zuko's gaze flickers to the side briefly. He pauses before answering, as if in thought, even though the answer flashes in his mind immediately. He just... doesn't know how he would explain his certainty. "Maybe Sokka," he says eventually, eyes flickering back toward Uncle, but not quite meeting his eyes.

"He's certainly... passionate," Zuko adds slowly, referencing the way that the other young man is often loudly dissenting from the general's more pushing-it plans, the opposite of Zuko's own reserved silence that's only broken when Uncle looks to him to speak.

Iroh hums, taking a thoughtful sip of his tea. "He is that," he agrees. "Passionate. Unafraid to speak his mind, even if it puts him at odds with his own at times." His fingers tap idly against the porcelain of his cup. "That kind of honesty is rare, especially in negotiations like these. It makes him dangerous to some, but valuable to those who know how to listen."

His gaze sharpens just a fraction as he studies Zuko. "And you trust his passion isn’t just bluster?" he asks, his tone even, but probing. He doesn’t push too hard - doesn’t need to. He knows Zuko well enough to see when he’s guarding something, even now, when he’s trying so hard not to look like he is.

Zuko is quiet for a second. "He seems genuine to me," he says after a moment, a steady certainty in his tone even if he doesn't explain why he feels that way.

Iroh watches him for a beat, long enough that Zuko can probably feel it, before he gives a small nod. He doesn’t press, doesn’t pry, just takes the answer for what it is. "Then that’s worth something," he says simply.

He leans back slightly, letting the moment settle between them. "You should get some rest tonight," he says after a pause, his tone shifting back to something lighter. "You might be used to running on little sleep, but it’s not a habit I intend to let you keep." There's a faint, familiar dryness to his voice, a reminder that while he's the Fire Lord now, he's still Uncle , too.

A small smile twitches on Zuko's lips, smoothing over the anxiety that started to rise after the beat too long of a look. "I'll do my best," he says, the same words he might have used before as a quiet promise, an obedience to words that aren't really made as an order. Tonight, he says them a little wryly, more of a what can you do? energy to it, actually keeping the slight edge of relaxation to his shoulders that had slowly entered while they talked everything through.

Talking through things like that, being on the same team as Uncle against something bigger, it's familiar. Grounding. Reminds him of nights spent having hushed conversations about which nobles they’d gained the support of, what guards would turn the other way.

Iroh huffs a quiet breath, something that isn’t quite a laugh but carries the same warmth. He catches the shift in Zuko’s tone, the wryness instead of the old automatic obedience, and he lets that be the note they end on. "That’s all I can ask, I suppose," he says, reaching for his own cup of tea.

He doesn’t press him to leave, doesn’t dismiss him. Zuko knows he’s welcome to linger if he wants, to sit in the quiet with his tea until he’s ready to face the rest of the evening. Just like always.

He doesn't linger tonight, not like he does some nights. Just sits the tea on the man's desk, barely drank but the warmth and familiarity appreciated. He steps out of his chair, toward the door. "Goodnight, Uncle," he says, voice soft. He pauses at the door and without fully looking at him, murmurs a quiet, "Thanks," before sliding out the door and heading to his room.

Iroh watches him go, the soft click of the door settling into the quiet of the room. He doesn’t call after him, doesn’t press for anything more. Just exhales slowly, turning his gaze to the barely touched cup of tea left on his desk.

He lets it sit there for a moment before picking it up, turning it slowly in his hands. Zuko always does that - accepts the cup, holds onto it like an anchor, but rarely drinks much. A small thing, but it tells Iroh more than most words would.

He leans back in his chair, eyes on the flickering candlelight. Sokka. That name had come easier to Zuko’s lips than he’d expected. There’s something there, something shifting in the way Zuko holds himself, the way he moves through the spaces they all occupy. Iroh doesn’t know what it is yet. But he’ll figure it out.

When Zuko sneaks out that night, a small smile curves at his lips when he sees Sokka waiting out on his balcony again, the other man's eyes finding him almost immediately. He raises his hand in a tiny wave again, as he perches on top of the wall and waits for the same guard rotation as always to finish passing below him.

Sokka smirks, arms crossed as he leans casually against the balcony railing. “I was starting to think you weren’t coming,” he says, voice pitched low enough not to carry but warm with something almost teasing. His eyes flick down toward the guards below, then back to Zuko, watching him balance so effortlessly on the wall.

He tilts his head slightly, something quieter in his gaze now. “You good?” It’s not the usual cocky remark, not some flippant tease. It’s real, just for Zuko.

Zuko nods slightly, gaze flicking away before coming back, something playful in his eyes. "Can you come out to play?" He asks teasingly, like he's just a neighbor boy knocking on the door, like they're just kids. His voice is low, but playful.

Sokka huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head as he pushes off the railing. “You make it sound so innocent,” he murmurs, but there’s clear amusement in his voice. He steps up onto the railing in one smooth motion, then vaults up to grab hold of the edge of the roof. A quick pull, and he’s up beside Zuko, settling into an easy crouch.

He glances sideways at him, the smirk still playing at his lips. “Lead the way, rogue prince.”

Zuko snorts and leads him silently through the grounds again, over the wall and out. The same hill as they'd raced to the top of the other night sits in the distance. He glances sideways at Sokka, catches the other man's gaze. A grin splits across his face, playful, and he darts off toward the top of the hill without a word, initiating a race just like before.

Sokka barks out a laugh, caught off guard for only a second before he launches after Zuko, his legs already burning with the need to catch up. "Oh, you ass -" he half-laughs, half-growls, pushing himself harder.

The night air is cool against his skin, the ground uneven beneath his feet, but he doesn’t care - doesn’t think about anything except the chase, the way Zuko’s silhouette moves just ahead of him, swift and sure. He grins, determination sparking in his chest.

He will win this time.

Zuko laughs as he hears the footsteps catching up, pushes himself harder, heart already beating fast from a mix of the adrenaline and just the presence of Sokka, there in the night, running with him again.

Sokka grits his teeth, forcing himself faster, muscles burning as he closes the gap between them. The hill is steep, the incline punishing, but he barely feels it - his focus is entirely on Zuko, the way his laughter cuts through the night, the way his silhouette is just barely ahead, just barely out of reach.

With a final burst of speed, he lunges forward, reaching - not quite grabbing, but brushing his hand against Zuko’s arm as he pushes past him in the last few steps. He stumbles at the top, breathless, triumphant, turning sharply on his heels to face him.

" Ha! " he gasps between breaths, grinning wide. " Finally got you."

Zuko laughs, running into him when Sokka stops so suddenly, his own momentum not as carefully halted. They both hit the ground with an oof of their already sharp breath lost, this time Zuko on top of Sokka. He lets himself stay there a second, linger, before he pushes himself off and to the side, catching his breath as they lay beside each other, arms and legs brushing from proximity. "Beginner's luck," Zuko teases between breaths.

Sokka huffs out a breathless laugh, tilting his head to the side to look at Zuko beside him, the night sky sprawling endlessly above them. "Yeah? That what you're going with?" His voice is lighter, teasing, but there's something softer underneath it, something quieter.

He shifts his arm slightly, just enough that their arms press together a little more. Doesn't move away, doesn't make a joke out of it. Just stays there, breathing in the cool night air, heartbeat still racing from the run - or maybe something else entirely.

"You gonna make me prove it again?" he asks after a moment, a grin in his voice.

"Tomorrow, if you can," Zuko teases, grins up at the stars, the feeling of Sokka's warm body against his side feeling steadying, easy. He feels so loose like this, in a way he's never had with anyone. Like there's no possible repercussions to his time spent with Sokka, despite that feeling being wildly untrue. Things could go so badly. But he... doesn't really care. Just likes the feeling of being with him too much to care, when he's free of his duty out under the moon.

Sokka chuckles, low and warm. "Oh, I can ," he promises, turning his head just enough that he can watch Zuko’s face in the moonlight. There's something easy about the way Zuko is stretched out beside him, the way his grin lingers even after he’s finished speaking. Sokka likes seeing him like this. Likes knowing that he is the reason for it.

He exhales, shifting just a little to get more comfortable, making no effort to put distance between them. "You know," he muses after a quiet moment, "I think I like you best like this." His voice is soft, absent of teasing now, just honest. "Not a prince, not a strategist - just... you."

Zuko tilts his head, surprised and unbelievably pleased to hear the words. It's softer, sweeter than anything either of them has said to each other. His eyes meet Sokka's and they're, once again, only inches apart. Sokka's eyelashes are dark and thick over his blue eyes, sparkling with a soft... fondness.

Zuko's voice gets stuck in his throat. He doesn't know how to react to that easy sweetness, soft positive honesty. To that pretty face. He just looks at him instead, hoping he doesn't look as stunned silent as he feels, a dusting of pink spreading across his face.

Sokka watches the faint flush spread across Zuko’s face, and his lips twitch into the smallest, most satisfied smile. He doesn’t press, doesn’t tease him for it - he just lets the moment settle between them, warm and steady like the space they’ve carved out for themselves in the night.

After a beat, his voice drops quieter, more thoughtful. “I mean it, you know.” His gaze searches Zuko’s, open and unguarded in a way he doesn’t usually let himself be. “You don’t have to say anything back. Just… know that.” His fingers shift slightly where they rest against the grass, barely brushing against Zuko’s.

"You're so..." Zuko says quietly back, undeniable fondness in his voice as he trails off. He doesn't know what to say, but he's smiling as his fingers slip toward Sokka, closing the basically non-existant distance and lightly pushing their fingers together, softly taking his hand. He shifts, just the slightest bit closer, their noses almost brushing now.

Sokka’s breath catches, just for a second. His fingers curl around Zuko’s without hesitation, warm and steady, like he’s meant to hold them. He doesn’t look away, doesn’t tease - just smiles, something slow and a little awed.

“You too,” he murmurs, voice softer than Zuko’s probably ever heard it. His thumb brushes lightly against Zuko’s knuckles, a gentle, absent motion, as if he can’t help but touch him now that he’s allowed. Their breaths mingle in the small space between them, and Sokka wonders if Zuko can hear how fast his heart is beating.

Zuko moves slowly, keeps his eyes locked on Sokka's as he closes the distance between their lips, only closing his eyes when they meet, when the other boy moves forward instead of away.

Sokka meets him halfway, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His lips are warm, soft, pressing back with a quiet eagerness that makes Zuko’s stomach flip. He doesn’t rush, doesn’t push - just kisses him like he’s savoring it, like he wants this, wants Zuko.

His fingers tighten slightly around Zuko’s hand, anchoring them together. The night air is cool around them, but he feels warm, the heat of Zuko’s body so close making him dizzy in the best way. He tilts his head just a little, deepening the kiss without even thinking, without caring about anything else right now.

They stay like that for awhile. It starts innocent, slowly gets more electric, both of them leaning into the feeling, deepening the kiss, shifting so their bodies are facing each other, instead of lying on their backs beside each other. Eventually they break apart, both their heads laying in the grass, faces close, fingers playing with each others, both smiling and flushed and looking pleased in a way that's fond, that's easy.

"I like you," Zuko says quietly after a minute of staring into the other's eyes. It's innocent and obvious but he says it anyway, voice soft and fond and warm.

Sokka’s smile grows, slow and bright, like Zuko just said the most incredible thing in the world. He exhales a quiet laugh, his fingers tightening around Zuko’s for a second before slipping between them completely, lacing their hands together.

"Good," he murmurs, just as soft, just as warm. His thumb brushes absently over Zuko’s knuckles, like he can’t not touch him now. "Because I really, really like you."

He doesn’t tease, doesn’t make a joke out of it—just says it as easily as breathing, as if it’s the simplest truth in the world. Like it isn’t complicated, even though they both know it is . But right now, lying here in the grass with Zuko beside him, it feels easy. It feels good .

Time keeps turning. They hardly see each other during the days, but Zuko suppresses smiles when they meet eyes instead of anxiety as the days pass. They see each other every night, take turns beating the other at racing to the hilltop, at sparring in the dirt and ending up breathless and together . The peace talks are still rocky, both sides having plenty of reservations, struggling to find the middle between almost every issue. It's slow-going and evident that people are getting frustrated, but Uncle stays just as firm and steady, as does the Chief.

He still meets with Uncle, still is careful about how favorably he talks about the other young man while they discuss the peace talks, still does his princely duties and ignores generals that want him dead and nobles that look at his back with open anger at how much he's broken their status quo, at turning from the boy that it was encouraged to put in his place to the young man they need to defer to.

But it all feels a little easier to handle, when Sokka bumps his foot during tense moments in peace meetings, when he passes the other man in the hall after a private meeting of generals trying to rip him down.

Iroh notices. Of course, he notices.

Zuko is still careful, still reserved, still the ever-dutiful prince when he needs to be. But there’s a lightness to him that wasn’t there before, a looseness in his shoulders that can’t be attributed solely to the slow but steady progress of the peace talks.

Iroh watches, doesn’t push. Zuko has always been cautious with what he reveals, and Iroh has long since learned not to pry too early. But he knows something has shifted. He sees it in the way Zuko’s eyes flicker - less wary, more… expectant . He sees it in the way his nephew absorbs the weight of his duties with a little less weariness, in the way he meets resistance with sharp intellect instead of quiet frustration.

Most of all, he sees it in the way, sometimes - when the meetings grow particularly tense, when an argument threatens to stall progress completely - Zuko’s eyes find him . Sokka . And something steadies in him.

Iroh doesn’t say anything. Not yet. He simply watches. And waits.

The day of the assassination attempt, there's been something off all day. A few generals were in a much lighter mood during their peace talks, during their meeting just before lunch to go over trade routes being established. He knows Uncle feels it too, sees the calculation on the man's face as he watches them, the way his shoulders are slightly more ready, eyes narrowed.

It happens in the banquet hall. Zuko never eats in the banquet hall, but this lunch he has to, since it's more of a business lunch than a break, the one time a month that the generals, Fire Lord, and future Fire Lord all sit together to discuss the progress of the nation over food. It's not necessarily a hidden event, but there's not many that know about it.

So when Zuko feels the shift in the air behind him, shifts instinctively just to watch a dart hit the table, a dart that would have hit his neck if he hadn't moved, his eyes dart to Uncle immediately and finds the man's own eyes already flicking to take in the reactions of the general at the table, as the sounds of the assassin being instantly taken down break out in the background, guards flowing into the room as the sounds of the fight drift out the doors.

Iroh doesn’t react like a man who has just witnessed an attempt on his nephew’s life. He doesn’t bolt to his feet, doesn’t reach for a weapon, doesn’t even tense.

Instead, he moves like a man who has been waiting for the moment to arrive.

His eyes sweep the table, sharp and calculating, barely sparing a glance for the dart embedded in the wood, still trembling from the force of impact. The fight behind him is meaningless - his guards are already handling it. No, his attention is on the generals. On the men who had been too lighthearted earlier, who had been too relaxed for a peace still so tenuous.

One of them flinches, just barely, before schooling his face into something carefully neutral. Another’s hand tightens on his goblet. A third looks to the first before catching himself. There.

Iroh’s expression doesn’t change, but something in his presence solidifies , a quiet, dangerous shift. His voice is calm, but laced with steel.

“ How fortunate ,” he says, setting his goblet down with slow, deliberate precision, “that my nephew has such quick reflexes.”

Zuko is still stone-still beside him, but Iroh knows he is taking everything in just as quickly, just as precisely.

The hall is chaos now - guards swarming, nobles whispering - but at this table, there is only silence. Heavy. Knowing. Waiting.

Iroh leans back in his chair, folding his hands together as his gaze settles on the men across from him.

“Perhaps,” he says mildly, “we should discuss loyalty over lunch instead.”

Despite his easy nature, Iroh is one of the most powerful people on the planet. Has been, for Zuko's entire life. It's not a fact Zuko notices often, not a power that Iroh wields often.

Now, the fact is starkly apparent. The table is silent, no one daring to move as Uncle's sharp eyes settle on the generals, lingering on three men in particular. He's still speaking mildly, but it's like the calm before the storm. Zuko realizes, from how well he knows his uncle that the man is furious , despite his seemingly mild disposition. He thinks, for half a second, about his cousin, Uncle's son, mowed down in battle with Uncle leading the charge. The last battle he'd led, many years ago now. People have thought him soft since then, since he came back to palace life broken and quiet and Zuko started clinging to him the moment he realized he was safe , their bond slowly growing into something that ended with them killing Zuko's father, striking down their Fire Lord. With Uncle driving the blade in, but Zuko half the reason it was possible.

He stays quiet, watches. Uncle's gaze never drifts to him, that cold, sharp look fixed on the generals.

Iroh lets the silence stretch. Lets them feel it. The weight of it, the precarious balance of their fates hanging in the air.

He doesn’t need to shout, doesn’t need to slam a fist to the table or demand confessions. He’s never ruled with brute force - that was his brother’s way, and his brother is dead. No, Iroh rules with certainty , with patience , with the unwavering understanding that he will always be five steps ahead.

When he finally speaks, his voice is still smooth, still almost gentle. “It’s a strange thing, isn’t it?” he muses, tilting his head slightly, gaze locked on the three men in particular. “The timing of it all. The convenience . My dear nephew, after all, never sits to lunch with us.”

One of them swallows hard, another’s fingers twitch at his side. The third— the one who flinched first —keeps his expression carefully blank, but Iroh sees the telltale tension in his jaw.

Iroh finally, finally looks at Zuko. Just a brief flick of his eyes, assessing, making sure his nephew isn’t hurt , before he turns back to the generals.

“You know,” he continues lightly, “if I were a more suspicious man, I might think that today’s little incident was meant to send a message.” He lets his fingers tap against the table in an idle rhythm. “And if I were an even more suspicious man, I might think that message wasn’t meant for me —but rather for my nephew.”

Another twitch. A sharp inhale. Iroh files away each reaction, each tell.

“Our nation is very lucky,” he says at last, a smile flickering at the edge of his mouth. “I am a suspicious man.”

The doors slam open as more guards file in. Iroh doesn’t even blink.

“Take them,” he orders, tone as casual as if he were ordering more wine.

Zuko watches, still silent, eyes flickering over the signs the generals are broadcasting. He might not have seen it, if he wasn't already watching them himself. He didn't even need to follow Uncle's lingering gaze for his own to flick to the three of them. General Zhao has been the most vocal voice against him, the two at his side no more a surprise than if any of the other generals had joined them.

He thinks about the amount of times the generals all saw his father cut him down for mistakes in front of them, how Father encouraged them to make meetings harder for him, to make life itself harder for him. Thinks it would be hard for him to respect himself as their future Fire Lord, too, if he were them, old men who respected brute force and power above all else.

He watches dispassionately as they're taken away. Pops a grape in his mouth and flicks his eyes back to his Uncle. The rest of the table is still silent, half of them watching the general attentively and the other half staring at the table, waiting for the wrath of a Fire Lord to be over and trying not to catch attention while it might still be ongoing.

Iroh meets Zuko’s gaze, just for a second. He takes in the flicker of detachment there, the dispassion. The control .

Good.

Iroh lets out a soft breath, barely audible over the tension still thick in the room. He shifts, adjusting his sleeves as if nothing at all has happened. Then, finally, he picks up his cup of wine and takes a leisurely sip before looking around the table.

“Well,” he says, tone mild. “I believe we were discussing trade routes.”

The silence stretches for another beat—one last moment of hesitation—before the conversation awkwardly, slowly , resumes. Voices stilted at first, but no one dares to stray from the discussion. No one dares to acknowledge what just happened, not while Iroh sits at the head of the table, calm and unshaken.

Zuko, he notices, is still watching him. Iroh doesn’t say anything, doesn’t react—just lifts a brow slightly, a quiet acknowledgment between them. A message only Zuko will understand.

It’s handled.

You’re still here. You’re still safe.

Zuko flicks his gaze back to his plate, keeps eating like nothing happened. If there's anything he knows how to do, it's accept sudden violence and the return to normalcy at his lord's table. The only difference is that while the threat to life had been to him at first, this time he had a Fire Lord that defended him, whose control was exerted over the generals instead of him, whose anger never pointed his direction, an Uncle instead of a Father. It's... nice. He probably shouldn't be feeling a little flattered after an attempt on his life, but he is.

He's had enough close brushes with death that the whole death thing doesn't really bother him, it's familiar. But the act of being defended, being protected, still fills him with that pleased rush of unfamiliarity, even though Uncle keeps doing it, anytime he's threatened in his presence. Maybe he should have mentioned the threats he's been 'overhearing' (some of the time must have been on purpose, or they were the worst conspirators in the world) to Uncle, earlier. Maybe next time he will.

He eats his grapes and joins the discussion on trade routes. When he dissents with one of the generals, there are no dirty looks this time, no comments that Uncle has to intervene to shut down. No one is willing to push the man's ire, not right now.

Iroh notices.

He notices the way Zuko settles a little easier, the way he speaks with just a touch more certainty, unchallenged for once. He notices the way no one dares to meet his nephew’s eyes with the usual condescension, the usual veiled (or not so veiled ) dismissal. It’s a small shift, but a crucial one.

It won’t last forever, of course. Fear is a temporary leash, and there will be whispers, conspiracies - the remnants of Zhao’s influence still lingering in the shadows. But for now, at least, Zuko is free to speak . To hold his position without the weight of their constant, biting resentment pressing down on him.

Iroh doesn’t relax - he rarely does, especially not when it comes to his nephew’s safety - but something in him settles. A small victory. A message sent. He will not tolerate the same acts toward Zuko that his foolish brother did while on the throne and he’s glad to have a chance to make that clear. 

And Zuko, smart as he is, will take full advantage of it.

Iroh lets him, watching as his nephew engages, as he commands space in the discussion without force, without cruelty - just quiet confidence and sharp precision.

For all the old men’s talk of strength, of brute power, they are fools if they do not see the power in this .

The rest of the day is fairly normal, although the nobles seem to shy away from their usual frustrated treatment of him, too, no one wanting to seem like they were a part of the attempted assassination. Word has spread quick, whispers following him and a few servants he knows better shooting him concerned looks. Anuya, the day shift chef, ruffles his hair when he comes down to grab dinner straight from the kitchen as always instead of eating in the banquet room. Gives him two sweet rolls and a heavy portion of dinner without a word, just a worried look.

Later that evening, the guest suite was quiet. The advisors were gone, the guards stationed outside, and the only sound was the low crackle of the fireplace and the occasional flick of Hakoda flipping pages in the lengthy book about Fire Nation culture he’s taken to reading in the evenings.

Sokka sat slouched on the couch, staring into the flames. He wasn’t really thinking - at least, he didn’t want to be. Because when he thought, all he saw was Zuko, Zuko who could’ve died today , Zuko who was probably acting like it was nothing , just a minor inconvenience, a meeting interruption.

His father hadn’t said anything for a while, but Sokka could feel the weight of his gaze, steady and knowing. He should’ve realized it wasn’t over.

“You were upset earlier.”

Sokka didn’t flinch, but it was a near thing. He dragged a hand through his hair, feigning a stretch as he forced a smirk. “You know me, always dramatic.”

Hakoda gave him a look . The kind that meant really? That’s what you’re going with?

Sokka sighed, slouching further, elbow braced on the armrest. “I was just… surprised, that’s all.”

His father hummed, not agreeing, not disagreeing. Just waiting.

Sokka frowned at the fire. “It’s not like it was shocking who did it. Zhao’s been foaming at the mouth since this whole thing started. He was always gonna try something.”

“That’s not what surprised you.”

A muscle twitched in Sokka’s jaw. He hated how well his father knew him sometimes.

Hakoda leaned back in his chair, studying him. “You reacted… strongly.”

Sokka shrugged, still playing at nonchalance. “I am passionate, or so I’ve been told.”

Hakoda exhaled a quiet chuckle, but there was something keen in his eyes. “Sokka.”

The sound of his name like that - low, expectant - had him tensing without meaning to. Damn it. He couldn’t bluff his way out of this, not with him.

His fingers curled against the fabric of the couch. He swallowed. “It’s just…” His voice was quieter now, the fake ease stripped away. “He could’ve died.”

His father didn’t speak, letting the words hang in the air.

Sokka let out a breath, rubbing a hand over his face. “I mean, yeah, he’s a pain in the ass , but -” He stopped himself, shaking his head.

Hakoda’s voice was softer this time, still calm, still steady. “But you didn’t like hearing that someone had tried to kill him.”

Sokka clenched his jaw, staring at the fire again. “…No.”

His father nodded slowly, taking a sip of his drink, his expression unreadable. For a long moment, he said nothing. Just studied Sokka like he was turning something over in his mind.

Then, finally, he said, “I see.”

Sokka frowned. “That’s it?”

Hakoda quirked a brow. “Would you like me to scold you for having emotions ?”

Sokka huffed a short, incredulous laugh. “You’re you . I thought for sure you’d have a lecture about keeping a level head or, I don’t know, something about politics.”

His father tilted his head slightly, considering. “If you were reckless about it, I would.”

Sokka eyed him warily. “…But?”

Hakoda exhaled softly, gaze dipping to the flames, thoughtful. “I just didn’t expect him to be the one to get under your skin.”

Sokka scowled. “He’s not under my skin .”

One side of Hakoda’s mouth lifted, the closest thing to amusement he ever really showed. “Of course not.”

Sokka groaned and slumped back again. He wasn’t about to sit here and explain whatever the hell was going on with him and Zuko - not that he could explain it. It wasn’t exactly something he had words for.

His dad didn’t press, didn’t pry. Just sat there, watching the fire with a knowing air that Sokka found vaguely infuriating .

After a long moment, Hakoda set his cup down again. “You should get some rest.”

Sokka snorted. “Yeah. I’ll get right on that.”

His father just gave him another one of those looks , the ones that said don’t be an idiot, but also, I’m not actually stopping you from whatever stupid thing you’re about to do . Then he stood, stretching slightly, before clapping a hand briefly on Sokka’s shoulder. “Try not to do anything too reckless.”

Sokka rolled his eyes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Hakoda only huffed, shaking his head as he headed for his room. “Goodnight, Sokka.”

Sokka sighed, running a hand through his hair again. “Night, Dad.”

And the second the door shut behind him, Sokka was already moving toward the balcony.

When Zuko steals away to Sokka's balcony that night, as he has every night, he's not expecting the other boy to be so... ruffled. Sokka looks at him with open worry the second they lock eyes, the usual guard passing unknowingly beneath.

Sokka exhales sharply, crossing the space between them in a quick slide down the balcony’s edge. His usual smirk, his teasing remarks - none of it is there tonight. Instead, his eyes rake over Zuko like he’s searching for proof, like he needs to see that he’s unharmed.

“You-” His voice catches, frustration tangled with something else, something raw. He drags a hand through his hair, then lets it drop uselessly to his side. “You almost died today.”

Zuko blinks at him. "You heard?" he asks lowly, then immediately realizes it's a stupid question. Of course he heard, everyone's whispering it. He just didn't realize the gossip train extended to the other nation's people. That's good, right? If they're in the rumor mill, then that means people are starting to come around to them. “I didn’t realize gossip was spreading to the Water Tribe now. That’s good,” he adds quietly, nodding slightly.

Sokka lets out a breath, sharp and frustrated, like he can’t believe Zuko is thinking about politics right now. He shakes his head, stepping closer, the lanterns casting flickering light over his furrowed brow.

“Of course I heard,” he says, voice low but edged. “It was the first thing my father told me. You think I’d just- just not know if someone tried to kill you?” His hands clench, like he doesn’t know what to do with them. His usual easy confidence is nowhere to be found.

He looks at Zuko again, that sharp blue gaze searching, like he still needs proof that he’s here , that he’s fine . “...Are you…?”

"I'm okay," he answers the half-question. "Didn't even touch me." He doesn't mention that if the dart had touched him, he'd certainly be dead right now. They'd identified the poison on the dart as incredibly toxic - he probably wouldn't have survived minutes, even. He has a feeling Sokka will not find that reassuring. "Let's go," he urges lowly, not wanting to get out of rhythm with the guard's patterns on their way out of the castle.

Sokka presses his lips together like he wants to argue, like just missing isn’t good enough, but he doesn’t push. He exhales sharply through his nose and nods, moving in sync with Zuko as they slip past the familiar patterns of the guards, neither of them speaking again until they’re clear.

But once they’re outside, moving toward their usual hill, Sokka glances at him again, jaw tight. “You should’ve told me.” His voice is still quiet, but there’s heat behind it. “If I hadn’t heard it from someone else, were you even going to mention it?”

Zuko hesitates, feeling caught out, facing Sokka with slightly widened eyes. The honest answer is no, he wouldn't have. He's also fairly sure it's the wrong answer, but he just... wouldn't have really thought about it. It happened, it's over, taken care of. He's too used to threats on his life, to sudden, extreme violence that's then pushed aside to be moved past. He didn't really realize that was something Sokka would want to know.

"I can... tell you in the future?" He offers, sounding just as lost as he feels. "When someone tries to kill me?"

Sokka makes a sharp, disbelieving noise, running a hand through his hair as he stops walking. “Yeah, Zuko,” he says, exasperated. “When someone tries to kill you , I’d kind of like to hear about it. Preferably from you, and not in passing from someone else like it’s just- just normal palace gossip.” His voice is still low, but there’s no mistaking the intensity behind it.

He exhales hard, shaking his head before meeting Zuko’s gaze again, something raw in his expression. “I get that this isn’t... new for you. But it’s new for me. And if something happened, if-” He cuts himself off, jaw clenching, before forcing out, “I just want to know. ”

"Okay," Zuko says quietly, watching as Sokka stops pacing, the frustration and fear practically pouring off him. He doesn't really know what to do here, but he can't help but feel sure he's done something wrong. Not telling him about the assassination attempt is an obvious one, at least. "I can... tell you next time," he voice comes out stilted, unsure. When he continues, at least his sincerity shines through the way he doesn't quite know what to say, "Sorry, that I scared you."

Sokka sighs, his shoulders slumping slightly as some of the tension drains out of him. He steps closer, reaching for Zuko’s wrist, his touch warm but gentle. “Just- yeah. Tell me next time,” he says, quieter now. He holds Zuko’s gaze for a beat before huffing a soft, almost self-deprecating laugh. “I don’t scare easy, you know. But you…” He shakes his head, squeezing Zuko’s wrist lightly before letting go. “You make it look so normal, like it’s nothing. Like you’re not the one who almost-” He stops himself again, jaw tightening before he exhales.

“I just don’t like thinking about what could’ve happened,” he admits, voice softer, rawer. “So... try not to get killed, yeah?” It’s half a joke, but the weight behind it is real.

Zuko's lips tug up slightly, not quite a smile but not the same wide-eyed, unsure expression he'd held a few moments prior. "Hey, I've survived this far," he answers just as softly, the same half-joking tone with a real weight behind it. It's been a challenge to survive this far. "Can't get rid of me yet."

Sokka shakes his head, the corner of his mouth twitching like he wants to smile but can’t quite get there. He watches Zuko for a moment, searching his face, before finally sighing and nudging his shoulder lightly. “Good,” he says, quieter now. “I’d be pissed if you did.”

His hand lingers at Zuko’s sleeve for a second, like he’s debating something, before he lets go, rolling his shoulders as if physically shaking off the weight of his worry. “C’mon,” he says, jerking his chin toward the hill. “Let’s go before we get caught standing around like idiots.”

Zuko flicks a sideways look at him, cautiously playful. "Race you?" He asks

Sokka huffs a laugh, the tension finally starting to ease from his frame. “You really want to lose that bad?” he teases, already shifting his weight like he’s ready to take off at a moment’s notice.

Then, without warning, he bolts. “Try to keep up, princeling!” he calls over his shoulder, the grin clear in his voice.

Zuko squawks in surprise, taking off after Sokka. Usually he's the one that suddenly bolts ahead, but he's laughing as he takes off after him, closing the distance between them slowly as they get closer to the top.

When they're nearing the top and it's obvious Sokka is about to win, he jumps forward, tackling him down to the dirt and laughing, scrambling to make it the last few places to the top before him.

Sokka yelps as he goes down, breath leaving him in a sharp oof as Zuko scrambles over him. For a split second, he blinks up at him in stunned betrayal - then he’s moving, grabbing at Zuko’s ankle to yank him back down.

“Oh, you’re a cheater,” he accuses, laughter bubbling in his voice as he rolls, trying to pin Zuko down in the grass before he can scramble away. “I should’ve expected dirty tricks from a noble.”

Zuko can't help his breathless laughter as he tries to twist out of the attempted pin, the both of them wrestling in the dirt now, finish line only paces ahead of them as they scrabble in the dirt.

Sokka laughs too, breathless and exhilarated, shifting his weight to try and hold Zuko down - but Zuko is fast, slippery , and Sokka is laughing too hard to focus properly.

“You cheat ,” he accuses again, mock-offended, but there’s no real heat to it, just that easy warmth that’s been building between them for nights now. His grip loosens for half a second, and Zuko takes advantage, twisting out from under him and bolting for the finish.

“Oh no you don’t- ” Sokka lunges after him, grabbing at his waist to drag him back down with him, breathless and grinning.

Zuko yelps as he's pulled back, laughing still as he tries to get out of the hold, but Sokka's grip around his waist is firm, even if he can't quite get a hold of Zuko's twisting limbs.

He grins over his shoulder at Sokka, then employs an even dirtier trick. His fingers twist, moving along Sokka's sides, tickling him to try to loosen his grip

Sokka lets out an undignified yelp, his whole body jerking as laughter bursts out of him, completely involuntary. “ You-! ” he gasps between helpless laughs, twisting as if he can somehow escape Zuko’s fingers while still holding onto him - an impossible task.

He scrambles for some kind of retaliation, one arm locking around Zuko’s waist while his free hand flies to Zuko’s own side, seeking revenge with quick, relentless fingers. “Two can play dirty,” he warns, grin wide and breathless.

Zuko laughs breathlessly, tries to twist and turn out of Sokka's grip for a minute but it's unyielding, his own hands pushing at Sokka's and pulling at his grip. The tides turn quickly from neither side winning to Sokka clearly ahead, as his breathless laughter and predictable movements make it easy for the other young man to suddenly pin his wrists and then keep tickling him

"I yield," he gets out, laughter still bubbling, face pulled in a smile, "Mercy, mercy," He cries out playfully.

Sokka grins triumphantly, stilling his fingers but not immediately letting go of Zuko’s wrists, his body still half-draped over him. His own breath is coming quick, both from laughing and from their struggle, and there’s something bright in his blue eyes as he looks down at Zuko - something warm, fond, completely endeared .

“Mercy, huh?” he teases, lips quirking as he watches Zuko try to catch his breath. “That’s all it takes to make the great Prince Zuko surrender?” His grip on Zuko loosens, though his hands stay, still close, still touching.

"What else is there to do when faced with a great foe?" he asks teasingly, breathlessly, his own eyes bright with deep fondness as he looks up at Sokka. It's a position they find themselves in a lot, Sokka above him, both of them breathless and looking smitten at each other. Maybe if Zuko stopped initiating wrestling and sparring it would stop happening. 

He doesn't plan to stop anytime soon, grinning as he tilts his chin up ever so slightly towards the other man, still catching his breath.

Sokka huffs a laugh, shaking his head at Zuko like he’s impossible, but his gaze softens even more, his grin lingering. His fingers slip away from Zuko’s wrists, but he doesn’t move away, instead bracing himself on his forearms to stay close.

“Well, I suppose if you yield,” he murmurs, tone dipping into something softer, “then I should accept your surrender.” His gaze flickers down to Zuko’s lips for half a second before meeting his eyes again, his breath still warm between them.

He doesn’t close the distance just yet, doesn’t make the choice for Zuko, just stays there, close enough to let him decide if he wants to bridge the last inch.

Zuko, of course, leans up. They kiss for a moment, Zuko still breathless but pouring his feelings into the kiss, deepening it. It's a long moment of kissing later that Zuko pushes up, flipping him then darting ahead the few paces left to the top of the hill to win the race they'd never finished.

He turns around, a mischievous look on his face, and doubles over in laughter at Sokka's stunned face, still on the ground, hair mussed.

Sokka blinks up at him, completely thrown, then lets out a loud, incredulous laugh. "Are you kidding me?" he exclaims, pushing himself up, shaking his head like he can't believe what just happened. "I let you up, and you used that to cheat ?"

He's laughing even as he shoves himself to his feet, stalking toward Zuko with a look of faux betrayal, eyes still warm with fondness despite the way he narrows them. "You cannot be trusted," he accuses, voice full of mock outrage as he strides up the last few steps, fully intent on tackling Zuko back to the ground for his crime.

Zuko meets each step forward with a matching step back, grin on his face. "Whatcha gonna do about that?" He asks playfully, before turning and sprinting down the hill when Sokka suddenly speeds up to close the distance, his laughter bright around them as he takes off into the forest he knows well, Sokka only paces behind. It's so easy to be with Sokka, the man's not only enticing but he brings out something relaxed in Zuko that he didn't even know he still had, something playful and bright and youthful.

Sokka doesn’t hesitate, chasing after him at full speed, his own laughter spilling out as he tears down the hill after Zuko. “Oh, you know what I’m gonna do about it!” he calls, voice full of that same playful fire. His feet pound against the earth, heart racing not just from the chase but from the way Zuko looks when he laughs like that, all loose and free .

He nearly catches him once, fingers brushing Zuko’s sleeve, but the other man twists at the last second, veering through the trees with an ease that has Sokka cursing under his breath. He’s too fast. But Sokka doesn’t stop, doesn’t let up, because he likes this - likes the chase, the way Zuko challenges him, the way this feels like the only kind of war he ever wants to fight.

They run for awhile, both laughing, calling taunts back and forth, breathless, until Zuko’s about to dart around a tree when Sokka's hand brushes his sleeve and catches this time, his momentum coming to an abrupt stop as his back is suddenly to the tree, Sokka's body warm against him as their smiling faces are suddenly inches apart, both of them breathing heavy, eyes sparkling.

Sokka’s grin is wide and triumphant, breath mingling with Zuko’s as he presses him lightly against the tree, their bodies still humming with the rush of the chase. His hands settle on Zuko’s hips instinctively, holding him there - not trapping him, not really, but keeping him close, like he wants him close.

"Got you," he breathes, his voice warm, teasing, but softer than before, like the exhilaration of the run has melted into something quieter, something heavier between them. His eyes flicker down to Zuko’s lips, then back up, searching his face, waiting.

Zuko's own hands find Sokka's waist, a small smile curving his lips, heart still fast. He leans into Sokka a little, their bodies warm against each other in the summer night air. "You did," he agrees softly, shifting forward slightly into Sokka's space. Then they're kissing and then they’re doing more, the space between them electric and soft even in its urgency.

The next day, he feels a slight blush on his face when he sits down across from Sokka in the morning peace meeting, the memory lighting up as soon as he sees the man. He tries to will it away, sitting perfectly in his seat and not quite making eye contact with anyone as the flustered feeling slowly fades.

Sokka, on the other hand, is way too composed for someone who had been pressing Zuko into the forest floor just hours ago. He sits with his usual relaxed posture, arms resting on the chair, looking for all the world like nothing has changed. Except for the way his fingers tap absently against the table, or how his eyes flick to Zuko just a little too often when he thinks no one is looking.

And then, beneath the table, the slightest nudge of a foot against Zuko’s. Casual, easy, like it could be nothing. Like it could be everything. Sokka doesn’t look at him when he does it, his expression neutral as Chief Hakoda speaks, but there’s a tiny quirk at the corner of his mouth, the smallest sign that he’s entirely aware of what he’s doing.

He doesn't look back at Sokka, but Zuko’s foot nudges the other man's foot back. He stubbornly keeps his gaze from flitting to Sokka for most of the meeting, looking attentively to each speaker, until one of the general's on Zuko's side makes an idiotic comment, like normal, and his eyes automatically flit to Sokka's, the two of them exchanging a knowing look. His lips quirk up slightly, although he quickly quells it and focuses back on the meeting. He's unaware that the Chief and the Fire Lord both separately caught the interaction, turning it over curiously in their heads as another piece of the puzzle that is their son (or essentially son)'s behavior

Sokka schools his expression back into neutrality just as quickly, but there's no mistaking the shared exasperation in their glance, the ease of it. He flicks his eyes back to the speaker, fingers twitching slightly where they rest on the table.

The meeting drags on, debates stretching over old grievances and new concerns. It's the same slow, tenuous progress they've been making for weeks, and yet Sokka feels… lighter somehow. It should be harder to focus, but instead, he finds himself more patient, less prone to frustration. Every so often, he shifts just enough for his knee to brush Zuko's beneath the table—nothing obvious, nothing lingering, just enough to remind himself that Zuko is there. That they're here, together.

Chief Hakoda is watching. Sokka can feel it, even if he doesn’t turn his head to check. The old man has always been perceptive, always seen more than Sokka would sometimes like. He wonders what his dad is thinking, whether he’s starting to suspect. Maybe the thought should unsettle him, but it doesn’t. He keeps his eyes forward, discussing the latest proposal, and doesn’t move his knee away.

Chief Hakoda leans back slightly in his chair, his expression as mild as ever, but his thoughts turning. He knows his son - knows every shift in his moods, every subtle tell that gives away more than Sokka likely realizes. And right now? Right now, his son is happy .

Not just in the surface-level way Sokka often is, the sharp grin in battle or the easy camaraderie with their warriors. This is different . It’s the kind of ease that isn’t just about the moment - it’s settled, deep in his bones, making him more patient than usual, making him lighter in a way Hakoda hasn’t seen in some time. It reminds him, a bit, of how his own sharpness had been tempered when he’d met Kya, all those springs ago.

And then there’s the looks.

Hakoda might have dismissed them if it had been just one. A passing glance between two young men forced into this political mess together, maybe an acknowledgement of shared frustration over the slow-moving talks. But it’s not just one. It’s the flicker of amusement when an idiotic comment is made, the subtle brush of a foot beneath the table, the way Sokka’s attention - so often restless in these settings - is steady when Zuko speaks.

And Zuko - Hakoda doesn’t know the young man as well as he does his own son, but he’s been watching. Zuko is careful, composed in a way Sokka has never had to be. He hides his reactions well - too well, sometimes - but not with Sokka. With Sokka, there’s something else.

Hakoda’s lips twitch slightly, hiding his amusement behind a slow sip of his drink. He’s not worried , exactly. If anything, he’s curious .

He’ll wait. Let things play out naturally. But later—when they’re alone—he thinks he’ll ask his son a few careful questions. Just to see if Sokka wants to tell him what Hakoda is already starting to suspect.

Fire Lord Iroh sits with perfect poise, fingers laced together as he listens to the meeting unfold. His expression remains neutral, his mind anything but. He has been watching, quietly, the way he always does. And right now? His observations are yielding interesting results.

He had already noted that Sokka was an unusual sort of heir - charismatic, yes, but with an unpolished charm that set him apart from his father’s smoother political demeanor. But Iroh has spent years negotiating with Chief Hakoda. He knows the man’s reputation, knows how he leads: not through fear, but through trust, through an easy command that makes people want to follow.

Iroh does not lead the same way. He is respected, certainly, but he has never had the luxury of trusting those under him so freely. Too many knives in the dark. Too many threats close to home.

Perhaps that is why Zuko and Sokka-

He stops himself there. A slight, imperceptible tilt of his head is the only outward sign that his thoughts have shifted, that something has clicked into place.

He noticed it before, in flashes - glances exchanged between them, the way Zuko’s tension, ever-present in court, dissolves in Sokka’s presence. But today, for the first time, he’s certain . The way Zuko’s foot nudges Sokka’s, that moment where their eyes meet and amusement flickers between them like shared breath. It is not just politics that tie them together.

Iroh’s gaze flicks, just briefly, to Hakoda, only to find the man already watching them, his expression contemplative. Ah . So he is not the only one seeing it.

That complicates things.

Not necessarily in a bad way. But it adds another layer to these negotiations. Because while both sides might be willing to work toward peace, Iroh does not trust Chief Hakoda - not fully. The man is personable, but he is still an opponent across the table, and Iroh has spent too many years at war to take easy smiles at face value. And if Hakoda sees this bond between their heirs as a potential tool , as leverage, then Iroh will need to tread carefully.

And yet.

He looks at Zuko, at the way his nephew, his son in all but name, sits relaxed for the first time in a political meeting, not constantly bracing for the next blow, not watching his own people for the next sign of betrayal.

Iroh has spent years ensuring Zuko’s survival. If this… thing between them is something real, something good - then perhaps, just this once, he can allow himself to trust it.

A little.

But he will be watching. Always watching.

The two young men head out of the meeting together, unaware of the way their respective leaders and father figures hang back, glancing at the other, each aware of the change that's been slowly taking place in their court.

Hakoda lingers, arms loosely crossed, watching as Sokka and Zuko disappear around the corner. His expression is unreadable at first, but there’s a glint of something thoughtful in his eyes.

Iroh remains at his seat, fingers tapping once against the table before stilling. He, too, watches their retreating forms.

For a long moment, neither man speaks.

Then, Hakoda exhales a quiet chuckle. “Well.”

Iroh arches a brow. “Well?”

Hakoda tilts his head toward the now-empty doorway. “They’ve certainly grown close.” It’s an easy, offhanded statement, but there’s weight beneath it, an invitation for Iroh to show his hand.

Iroh doesn’t take the bait. “They have.”

Hakoda hums, glancing at the papers before him as if this is no more than a passing conversation. “It’s good, isn’t it? That they’re not at each other’s throats anymore.”

Iroh’s lips curve into something almost resembling a smile. “Yes. Good. ” His tone is unreadable, mirroring Hakoda’s deliberate casualness. Two men playing a game where neither wants to reveal their next move.

Hakoda leans back slightly. “You think they know?”

Iroh gives him a sharp look. “Know what?”

Hakoda’s grin is quick and bright, like he already knows the answer. “That they might be the reason this damn peace treaty actually succeeds.”

Iroh doesn’t answer right away. He has already considered this. How Sokka and Zuko’s bond, whatever shape it takes, has softened tensions in ways neither political strategy nor military deterrence could.

Finally, he exhales, his expression unreadable. “Not yet.”

Hakoda nods, thoughtful. Then, with an easy smile, he claps Iroh on the shoulder as he steps past him, as if they are nothing more than friendly allies. “Let’s keep it that way for now, then.”

Iroh watches him go, eyes narrowed just slightly, mind already spinning.

Yes. Let’s.

As they sit in the gardens together, eating lunch, Zuko feels loose, relaxed in a way he hasn't felt in these gardens his entire life, even if they have always been his escape. It's better with Sokka here, too. He snorts when a mama duck bites Sokka's hand when he tries to pet her chick, shaking his head. "I told you you needed to build up more trust first," he teases, shaking his head.

Sokka shakes out his hand with an exaggerated wince, though he’s grinning. “She looked like she was warming up to me,” he grumbles, eyeing the mama duck with feigned betrayal. She quacks once, unimpressed, then herds her ducklings farther away from him.

“You’re a menace,” Sokka mutters at her, before turning his attention back to Zuko with a huff. “You could’ve warned me louder, you know.” His grin betrays the complaint, though, eyes bright as he nudges Zuko’s knee lightly with his own. “Or were you just waiting for me to get bitten so you could laugh at me?”

"Mmmh, take a wild guess," he says wryly, popping a grape into his mouth and grinning as he eats it.

Sokka huffs in mock offense, leaning back on his hands. "Unbelievable. Betrayed by both duck and alleged ally in the same afternoon." He shakes his head with dramatic disappointment before snagging one of Zuko’s grapes and popping it into his mouth in retaliation.

His knee bumps against Zuko’s again, more intentional this time, and his grin softens a little as he watches him. “You seem… good today,” he says after a beat, quieter but no less warm. “Better than yesterday.”

"No one tried to kill me today," Zuko answers wryly, but they both know that isn't the reason. The attempt on his life had settled more than rattled him, the way that Uncle had reacted instantly and decisively to tear the threat down from its base, the way he'd had the generals taken away without a second thought. He should have expected it, but he'd never had it done for him before.

He leans back on his hands, expression thoughtful as he looks over the ducks. "Things feel... good," he says finally, slowly, like it's a revelation he's still in the middle of. He's never had his life feel like it could be stable, like he's not constantly walking a tightrope 1000 feet in the air through biting winds.

Sokka watches him, the wry remark met with the smallest twitch of his lips, but it's the quiet realization that follows that really makes something tighten in his chest.

"Things feel... good."

He doesn't think Zuko even realizes the weight of that statement. But Sokka does. He’s seen the way Zuko is always waiting for the floor to drop out from under him, how he takes every kindness with wary hesitation, like it's something that will be snatched away the moment he dares to trust it. For him to admit this, even just in pieces, means everything .

Sokka shifts, nudging his shoulder against Zuko’s. “That’s because they are good,” he murmurs, like it’s a certainty, like it’s something that won’t be taken away. He lets a small smile curl at the edge of his lips. “Though I imagine not getting murdered helps, too.”

Zuko turns his head to face him, smiles as he nudges his shoulder back and stays there, leaning against him slightly. It's too close for the castle, but no one ever comes out here beside the gardener, and she's not due today. "So does having lunch with you," he says easily, and it comes out sweet, fond, honest.

Sokka’s lips part slightly, like he wasn’t expecting that answer, like it hit somewhere deeper than Zuko probably meant it to. Then he huffs a soft laugh, tilting his head just enough that their temples brush. “Well, can’t argue with that,” he says, voice warm, full of something quiet and pleased.

He lets the moment linger, the easy quiet between them stretching out, broken only by the occasional rustling of the trees and the soft quacks from the pond. Then, just to be difficult, he adds with a smirk, “Guess that means I should start charging you for my company. Going rate for improving a prince’s day is not cheap.”

Zuko snorts, shaking his head. "I'm sure I can pay whatever your rate might be," he says mischievously, suggestively.

Sokka makes a show of considering it, tapping his fingers against his knee. “Hmm. High price for such exclusive company…” He turns his head slightly, so close now that his breath brushes against Zuko’s cheek, his smirk deepening. “You sure you can afford it?”

His voice drops just enough to make the teasing laced with something heavier, something that lingers between them like the warm afternoon air. He tilts his head, watching Zuko closely, drinking in the way the sunlight catches in his hair, the way his eyes are alight with mischief.

Zuko leans slightly into him, the same way a flower leans toward the sun, his eyes sparkling. "I'm sure I can find some way to afford it," he murmurs back, voice low, smile curving on his lips. "Do you take payment in favors?" He asks, turning his face so his own lips are barely apart from Sokka's.

It's risky. They shouldn't be flirting here, shouldn't be this close here, it breaks all the clear boundaries that Zuko himself put in place. But he's doing it anyway, and finds instead of fear shooting through him there's a little bit of a thrill. He's definitely in trouble.

Sokka’s breath catches just slightly, the shift in Zuko’s posture pulling him in like gravity. His smirk softens into something lazier, something dangerous in an entirely different way. “Depends on the favor,” he murmurs, his voice barely more than a hum, his lips so close that the words practically land against Zuko’s own.

They shouldn’t be doing this here, shouldn’t be doing this at all , but Sokka isn’t moving away. He’s caught in it, in Zuko, in the spark of mischief and thrill in his eyes. He could pull back, tease, play it off like they always do - but he doesn’t.

Instead, he lifts a hand, brushing a slow, deliberate touch along Zuko’s wrist, his thumb ghosting over his pulse. “What exactly are you offering?” he asks, his voice warm, teasing, but there’s something else underneath it, something real.

"Wouldn't you like to find out?" Zuko murmurs back, pulse quick, eyes sparkling. He closes the distance, kissing him.

As they leave the gardens far later, splitting up for their respective meetings, he can't help but hold the stunned look on Sokka's face as he'd sunk between the other man's legs close to his heart. There's still a lightness to his steps as he steps into his afternoon meeting, greeting his uncle with an easy, "Uncle," instead of the stumble between formality and family he's been struggling with since the man took the throne. He doesn't even notice, himself, sitting down and busying himself with pulling out the right papers.

Iroh does notice. He’s been watching Zuko carefully these last weeks, observing the slow but steady changes in him - the way he holds himself, the way he speaks, the way he moves through court. Today, though, something is different in a way that goes beyond Zuko’s usual clever maneuvering. There’s something loose about him, something almost… unburdened .

Iroh leans back in his chair, considering. “You seem in an unusually good mood,” he comments lightly, just watching as Zuko sorts through his papers. His tone is casual, but his eyes are sharp, assessing. “I assume the meeting with the western merchants wasn’t canceled?” Because Zuko never likes meetings, even when he finds them useful.

No, whatever this is - it’s not about politics. It’s something else .

"No," Zuko replies, shuffling through his papers now to hide the small smile curved on his lips. "It's just... a good day." He says it quietly, but it's meaningful. None of his days are just good days, not in his life. There's always something to be worrying over, something he feels he should be doing or doing better , to avoid something going wrong.

But right now, he's steady. Happy.

Iroh studies him for a long moment, then simply nods. “Good.” He doesn’t pry further, though he could. Instead, he allows Zuko this small victory, this moment of peace. If his nephew has found something - someone - to bring him this kind of ease, Iroh has no desire to tear it apart. Not unless he has to.

He picks up a document, shifting the conversation toward business as easily as breathing. “Then let’s make sure it stays that way. The western merchants are pushing for a reduction in tariffs again. I assume you have thoughts?”

And just like that, the moment passes, but Iroh tucks it away, storing it carefully with all the other small changes he’s been noticing. He’ll find out in time.

The moment passes, and business moves on, but Zuko keeps the lightness, the easiness with the way he speaks. He's been contributing more since the other day, the assassination attempts and his uncle's swift and decisive action in response. Funny, his father always used violence to show him his place, but he feels like he's finally found his place now, after seeing a show of force from his uncle. Just... not aimed at him.

The weeks pass and the treaty creeps closer to possible with every day. It's incredibly slow progress, but it's progress. Considering the war raged for nearly a century, there's no question why it's slow-going. There's a lot to unpack, the group of them having to figure out what a world without war looks like. 

Zuko and Sokka keep growing closer, keep sneaking around at night and seeing each other in every brief moment they have during the day, occasional lunches spent in the garden when they can. Admittedly, they've been getting a little less careful, more glances shared, more often to smile at each other in passing instead of just a flick of eyes met and away again.

That's why it shouldn't surprise Zuko when, one evening, he's perched on the edge of Sokka's balcony, legs spread and Sokka standing in between them, murmuring a tease in his ear, and the balcony door opens. And suddenly Zuko has shoved his way to standing, heart pounding as Sokka and him both stand frozen under the eyes of Chief Hakoda. Holy fuck.

He feels like his whole body has shut down for a second, completely at a loss for how to react. How do you react when the leader of the country you're struggling to find peace with walks in on you and his son clearly flirting, clearly comfortable with each other in intimate ways, even if they weren't really do anything at the moment?

Sokka's stomach plummets so fast he might as well have fallen off the damn balcony.

His dad stands in the open doorway, eyes moving over the scene in that way that makes Sokka deeply nervous - not angry, not disapproving, but assessing. Sokka’s been on the receiving end of that look his whole life, and it’s almost worse than if Hakoda had just stormed in yelling. Because yelling would at least tell him what to expect.

Zuko moves first, like he can somehow unmake the scene by standing up straighter, but it’s too late. Way, way too late. Sokka’s brain is still catching up, trying to figure out how to salvage any of this, when Hakoda finally, finally , speaks.

“Well. That explains a few things.”

Sokka almost dies on the spot. "Dad-"

Hakoda lifts a hand, cutting him off with the kind of ease that suggests he has no intention of actually getting into this right now. “I don’t need an explanation, Sokka.” His lips press together like he’s fighting off a smile - a smile, the audacity - and Sokka actually wants the ground to open up and swallow him whole. “Not tonight.”

Sokka blinks. “Not-?”

“Tonight, you’re going to do me a favor.” His dad’s voice is too casual now, too light, like he’s barely holding back from teasing him over this, which is not helping. “You’re going to escort our guest back to his rooms before the wrong person sees him leaving yours .”

Oh. Oh, fuck.

His dad’s gaze flickers to Zuko, unreadable, before he looks back at Sokka. “Tomorrow, we’ll talk.” And with that, he steps back into the hall and closes the door behind him, leaving only deafening silence behind.

Sokka barely breathes for a long moment, waiting, listening, like maybe his dad is going to come back in and make it all worse , more embarrassing, but the hallway stays quiet.

Then, finally, Sokka exhales, dragging both hands down his face.

“Holy fuck. ”

Zuko just stays frozen there, eyes wide and on the door, chest impossibly tight and stomach turning. Fuck. Holy fuck, he's so stupid ! Why would he ever have risked this? His heart feels like it's stopped and he doesn't realize he's not breathing until his lungs start burning and he forces a shaky inhale. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. He, unlike Sokka, had not been able to read the smile behind the Chief's words, the teasing suppressed. All he heard was the words, said as casual as every politician ever, and he's never been good at understanding doublespeak. Not the way he's supposed to be. He just knows when it’s there. 

Zuko keeps staring at the door, almost looking like it's about to rise up off the wall and strike him down.

Sokka watches him for half a second before stepping forward, hesitating only a moment before pressing a hand to Zuko’s arm. “Zuko,” he says quietly, but Zuko doesn’t move, doesn’t even blink, still staring at the door like he expects it to open again and bring hell down on him.

Sokka squeezes his arm. “Zuko, breathe. ”

Zuko’s inhale is shaky, too shallow, and Sokka feels his own stomach twist at how rattled he looks. Shit. This isn’t just embarrassment or nerves—this is fear.

And of course it is. Of course it is, because Zuko has spent his entire life around people who play politics like it’s a game of knives, and Hakoda, for all that he’s an easy-going leader, is still the Chief of the opposing side. Zuko can’t read the teasing in his voice because Zuko doesn’t have that kind of history with leaders, with authority.

Sokka steps in fully now, reaching up to cup the side of Zuko’s face, tilting his chin just enough to get him to look at him. His eyes are still too wide, still full of something that makes Sokka’s chest ache.

“Hey,” Sokka says, softer now. “He’s not gonna - Zuko, it’s just my dad. Nothing bad’s gonna happen. He’s not about to-” He stops, exhales sharply, then tries again. “He’s not angry. ”

Zuko still doesn’t say anything, but his fingers twitch at his sides, like he wants to believe that but doesn’t quite know how.

Sokka’s chest tightens. He swallows hard and forces a small smirk, trying to lighten the weight between them just a little. “He’s definitely going to give me shit for this later, though.”

Zuko finally blinks, brow furrowing slightly, his gaze flickering over Sokka’s face like he’s trying to make sense of him.

“He’s gonna love making me squirm,” Sokka adds, rolling his eyes, keeping his tone light. “He lives for this shit. Probably thinks it’s hilarious.”

Zuko exhales sharply - not quite a laugh, not quite steady yet either, but something in his expression eases just a little.

Sokka keeps his hand where it is, rubbing his thumb absently over Zuko’s cheek. “We’ll figure it out, alright?” He says, voice still quiet. “Just… trust me on this?”

Zuko nods slightly. Swallows thickly. Tries to think past the overwhelming tightness in his chest. He is not going to freak out in front of Sokka. He's never freaked out in front of him, never had the other man witness the extent of how intensely he breaks when he breaks, only rarely done it in front of Uncle and otherwise only in front of people when he's been broken by someone on purpose (read: his father), not when he breaks. He takes another shaky inhale, lets it out slowly. Tries to calm his racing heart.

Sokka's proximity helps. The way he keeps his face cupping his cheek, steps into his space like he belongs there. Because he does. Zuko, as much as the idea of facing being found out makes him almost stop breathing again, knew what he was risking when he started this, when he kept it going, kept initiating as much as Sokka was. This is worth it. Sokka’s worth it. 

Sokka keeps his hand on Zuko’s cheek, steady and grounding. “Okay,” he says, voice firm but soft. “We’re fine.”

He watches Zuko swallow, nod slightly.

Sokka exhales, lets the tension ease just a bit. Then, because he knows Zuko, knows his way of coping, he smirks. “You know, if you wanted my dad’s attention that badly, you could’ve just-”

Zuko pushes him away, but he huffs out a breath, eyes rolling, something in his shoulders settling slightly. "Shut up," he groans, rubbing a hand over his face. His heart is still pounding, adrenaline still pounding through him, but... nothing's happening right now. He can have right now and deal with whatever the fallout of this is in the morning. He can do that.

Hesitantly, he brings up, "When he said we're talking about this, he meant you and him, right?" Warily staring at the door, mentally crossing his fingers that he's not part of we . It tastes a little like cowardice on his tongue, but he's observed enough of Sokka and his father's interactions to know the other man would be in no danger alone with him, even if he is angry. 

It's a weird thought to have, that an angry father might not be dangerous to his son, but the few times they've strayed on the topic of family, Sokka has given him a confused look at his probing questions, had outright stared at him with horrified eyes the one time he'd made an offhand comment about his father having broken his arm when he was younger. It hadn't even been something that stood out to Zuko, Sokka had just asked him what bones he'd broken, he'd mentioned his arm, and the man had asked how it happened. So he answered honestly: he didn't give the right answer to his father's question in a meeting with the generals when he was a kid.

He re-orients his thoughts. Here and now. Not his father. Sokka's father. And the fact that Sokka will be safe having a disagreement with him and that Zuko would preferably be on the other side of the world when it happens.

Sokka’s smirk fades at the wary edge in Zuko’s voice, at the way his eyes flick to the door like it might open again at any moment. He hates how ingrained that fear is in him, how instinctive.

“Yeah,” he says, keeping his voice easy, casual, like it’s obvious. “Just me and him.” His dad wasn’t the type to drag someone else into a conversation that wasn’t theirs, and he especially wasn’t about to interrogate Zuko like some kind of threat.

He watches Zuko closely, then bumps his shoulder against his, nudging him back to the present. “You’re off the hook. For now,” he teases, but there’s a thread of reassurance beneath it.

Zuko blinks a little heavier than necessary, the bump grounding him slightly. He blows out a slow breath. His heart still thumps a harsh, scared beat, like a rabbit that's hunkered down but still ready to bolt at a moment's notice. He offers an unconvincing smile to Sokka. "Well, lead the way, escort," he says tightly, although his hand comes up, brushing against Sokka's arm.

Sokka doesn’t call out the tension in Zuko’s voice, the way his smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He just nods, stepping in close enough that their arms brush as he turns toward the door. "Try to keep up, princeling," he murmurs, keeping it light as he leads them inside, his hand grazing briefly over Zuko’s before falling away.

He doesn’t look back, doesn’t push, just walks at a pace that makes it easy for Zuko to stay close if he wants to. If he needs to.

Zuko walks exactly as close as he can while still being proper. Tries to be casual about it, doesn't look at Sokka as they walk through the halls of the guest suites, but his heart thumps that same rapid beat the entire way back out into the castle proper.

They hesitate when it's time for them to part, neither really wanting to go.

Sokka lingers, shifting his weight like he’s considering saying something but doesn’t. His fingers twitch at his side, resisting the urge to reach out again.

"Get some sleep," he says finally, softer than before, like he knows neither of them really will. His eyes flick over Zuko’s face, hesitant, searching, but then he just exhales and steps back. "I’ll see you in the morning."

He hesitates one beat longer, then turns away, heading toward his father’s office, shoulders squaring as he steels himself for the conversation ahead.

Zuko doesn't turn away until Sokka is out of view. Then he takes a deep, shaky breath, and heads to his own room, where he can fall apart in private like a proper prince does. If that means heaving for choked breaths while tucked between the small space between his toilet and the sink, that's no one's business but his own and he's sure as hell not going to be sharing.

Sokka closes the door behind him, but he doesn’t sit. He crosses his arms instead, feet braced like he’s expecting a blowback that might never come. “Alright,” he says, exhaling. “Let’s get this over with.”

Hakoda raises a brow at him from where he leans against his desk, arms folded in the same easy, considering way he carries himself everywhere. “That eager, are you?” He sounds amused, but not unserious. His sharp gaze flicks over Sokka, taking him in, measuring. “So. You and Fire Lord Iroh’s nephew.”

Sokka clenches his jaw but holds his ground. “Yeah.”

Hakoda doesn’t look surprised. “How long?”

Sokka huffs. He should’ve expected the directness, but still, his mouth presses into a thin line before he answers. “A while.”

Hakoda nods slowly, as if filing that information away. Then, casually - too casually - he asks, “And what exactly do you think you’re doing?”

Sokka bristles. “I don’t know, Dad ,” he says, defensive without meaning to be. “It’s not like I planned for this to happen.”

Hakoda just watches him, eyes steady. “No, but you let it.”

Sokka swallows, looking away, because he did let it. More than that, he chose it, over and over.

The silence stretches until Hakoda finally sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “You know I’m not angry, right?”

Sokka looks back at him sharply, not sure if he believes that. “You’re not?”

Hakoda snorts. “Should I be?”

Sokka shifts on his feet, arms still crossed tight. “I don’t know,” he mutters. “Probably.”

Hakoda leans forward slightly, his tone softer but still firm. “I want to know what this is , Sokka. If it’s just a reckless thing, something to pass the time, then I need you to think about what that means.”

Sokka meets his father’s eyes then, frowning. “It’s not-” He hesitates, scrubs a hand over his face. “It’s not that .”

Hakoda watches him a moment longer, then nods, like that’s what he thought. “Then you need to be careful.”

Sokka lets out a short laugh, tired. “I thought we were being careful.”

Hakoda gives him a wry look. “Then tell me, son, how exactly did I catch you?”

Sokka groans, dragging a hand through his hair. “Alright, yeah. Point taken .”

Hakoda chuckles, but there’s still something serious in his gaze. “I don’t want to see you hurt, Sokka. I don’t want to see him hurt either, and I definitely don’t want this turning into something that puts our talks at risk.”

Sokka’s stomach twists, because he knows that. He’s known it from the start. “I know,” he says, quieter. “I know.”

Hakoda watches him a moment longer, then pushes off the desk, clapping a hand to Sokka’s shoulder. “Just… think it through. And maybe be a little less obvious next time, yeah?”

Sokka lets out a breath of something between relief and exasperation, nodding. “Yeah. Got it.”

Hakoda squeezes his shoulder once, then steps back, ruffles his hair fondly and nods toward the door. “Go get some rest, kid.”

Sokka hesitates, just a second, then nods, turning to go.

By the time the morning meeting rolls around, Zuko's intense anxiety about it all has been neatly packaged back into himself. This does not, however, mean that he is able to meet the Chief's eyes across the table. He looks at the man as attentively as ever when he speaks, but his eyes end up more at the man's shoulders than his eyes. 

At least, he thinks to himself, he never meets the Chief's eyes, not really. It's something his father was intense about as a leader and he just instantly defaults to when facing another ruler. One of the many careful rules in his head built up around leaders, around fathers, even if they're not his own. He does... usually looks more at his face than he can bring himself to today. But hopefully the man doesn't take any notice.

He glances Sokka's way, once the meeting's started progressing. Zuko's posture is perfect as ever, that slight edge of extra straightness, extra attention to it that comes out when he's stressed about something and trying to compensate by being as completely perfect as he can.

Sokka notices immediately. Of course he does.

Zuko’s avoiding his dad’s eyes, and more than that, he’s wound up like a string pulled too tight. It’s subtle - no one else would notice, not unless they knew what to look for - but Sokka does know. The way Zuko holds himself, the extra care in every little movement, the precise way he sits, all of it screams that he’s still tangled up in his own head about last night.

Sokka shifts in his seat slightly, not enough to be obvious, but enough to try to catch his eye. He doesn’t quite succeed. Zuko barely flicks a glance his way before looking back at whatever document is in front of him, posture never wavering.

Yeah, okay, Sokka expected some level of awkwardness after last night, but he hadn’t been expecting this . Zuko isn’t usually like this with him . He’s used to Zuko being guarded, sure, but not like this, not in a way that makes Sokka feel like there’s an invisible wall between them.

He clenches his jaw slightly and exhales through his nose, glancing toward his dad. Hakoda, for his part, doesn’t seem any different than usual - calm, focused, occasionally adding a quip in that keeps things from getting too stiff. But Sokka doesn’t miss the way his father’s eyes flick to Zuko every now and then, assessing.

Because, of course, Hakoda would notice too.

Everyone notices. Not everyone , of course, the majority of the room is still completely unaware of any difference in behavior, but Zuko can feel the extra eyes on him, the extra glances thrown his way. Sokka was a given, but Chief Hakoda is glancing toward his way more than he usually does and Zuko can feel it like a weight pressing down on his chest. Uncle is too, glancing sideways at him more often than usual, clearly picking up on the tension in his shoulders the way he always does, and all the extra attention makes Zuko feel like he's about to explode into the air.

He doesn't explode. He just draws himself a little tighter, posture absolutely perfect , face clear and still in polite neutrality, gaze attentively pinned to whoever is speaking even though he's hardly listening, his thoughts running a mile a minute, his heart beating faster. Calm down, he tries to urge himself. What type of prince can't handle attention directed his way during a meeting? This is insane. If Father were here- he cuts off the thought. If Father were here, none of this would be happening and he'd feel like this every day and it wouldn't matter .

He keeps his face clear, eyes on the general who's speaking. Realizes, distantly, when more eyes turn to him, that he's just been asked a question. Or directed to say something. Or... something. Clearly, everyone in the room is waiting for him to speak. Is this a fucking nightmare?

Zuko gives a polite twitch of a smile, but his eyes flicker automatically to Sokka. Not Uncle, for once, as he tries to figure out how to reply quick enough to not be suspicious when he stopped actually listening to what they were saying minutes ago. Fuck. His heart pounds in his chest loud enough he can hear it loud and clear in the expectant silence of the room.

Sokka meets his gaze instantly, his expression steady, grounding. No amusement, no judgment - just quiet understanding. He tilts his head the slightest bit, barely a movement at all, but it’s enough. A nudge in the right direction. His lips part like he might speak, but he doesn’t, just waits, patient.

He doesn’t look away, doesn’t shift in his seat or draw attention to the moment. Just sits there, solid, steady, like he’s offering Zuko something without anyone else in the room even realizing.

Zuko's eyes flicker to where Sokka's head had slightly tilted. In his hands, the other man loosely holds the trade agreement for the southern waters. Right, General Moren is the one who just spoke and he's the one who's been heading that section. It's enough to point him back on track and he looks back to the general, all of that having only taken a second's pause, saying smoothly, leadingly, "My apologies, General Moren, you were talking about the second act of the southern waters trade agreement?" 

It's fine if his attention flickered for a moment, if he lost a question as long as he was still following the thread of the conversation. He hadn't been, but Sokka has given him enough room to pretend. If his Father was here, a quiet, nagging voice reminds him, that wouldn't be fine. That would be weakness.

When the general repeats his question and Zuko smoothly answers, he fixes his gaze back on Sokka after the attention of the room has shifted back off of him, almost all of them none the wiser for Zuko's anxiety or lapse in attention. He holds the steadying gaze for a moment instead of looking away again, instead of avoiding it. Takes a slow, purposeful inhale and exhale. Tries to calm his racing heart with Sokka as a grounding force. It helps, a little. It would help more if he couldn't feel both Chief Hakoda and his Uncle's gazes flickering to him occasionally still. Agni, he's tired of perceptive world leaders.

He flicks his gaze back to the speaker, forces himself to listen this time. To do his duty and not be distracted by the way his heart still beats abnormally fast, his shoulders stiff where they haven't moved an inch beside straighter since he sat in his seat.

Sokka doesn’t look away immediately this time. His gaze lingers, watching the way Zuko resets himself, smooths over the moment like it never happened. He sees the flicker of tension still holding in his shoulders, the way he’s forcing himself through it, and it twists something deep in his chest.

He knows that stiffness isn’t just from today. It’s old, ingrained, and Sokka wants - wishes - he could just reach across the space between them and shake it loose. But this isn’t the place for that. So instead, when Zuko turns his attention back to the speaker, Sokka finally looks away too. But not before letting his knee bump lightly against Zuko’s under the table. A small thing. Barely there. But deliberate.

Zuko presses his knee back against Sokka's. He usually doesn't, in meetings, usually allows the occasional long foot press or short knee bump, since it's not like anyone can see under the tables, but this time he presses back and holds it. Lets himself be grounded by the touch, even as his focus stays forced on the topics at hand. It steadies him a little bit more. He's achingly grateful for Sokka’s presence.

Sokka doesn’t move away, just lets their knees stay pressed together, a silent anchor beneath the weight of the meeting. He doesn’t push further, doesn’t draw attention to it, just lets it be . Zuko needs steadiness right now, and if this is the way he can offer it - quiet and unnoticed - then that’s exactly what he’ll do.

Still, he doesn’t miss the way his dad’s gaze flickers toward them again. It’s not sharp, not probing, just aware . Sokka doesn’t flinch from it, doesn’t shift away from Zuko’s touch. He just meets Hakoda’s gaze for the briefest second before looking back down at the papers in front of him. If his dad has something to say about it later, well… they’ll deal with that when the time comes.

The meeting, eventually, ends. Zuko politely excuses himself and does not stay behind to help clean up today, like he usually does. Instead he steadily gathers his papers up and heads straight for the door, posture still perfect, gait easy. He wants to get the fuck out of here, but more than that, he wants no one else to know that he wants to get the fuck out of here.

Sokka watches him go, tracking the way Zuko moves - controlled, measured, just a little too precise. He doesn’t try to stop him. Pushing wouldn’t help right now. Instead, he lingers behind as usual, stacking up his own papers, pretending like everything is fine.

His dad is still watching.

“You going after him?” Hakoda asks, tone mild, but there’s an undeniable knowing edge to it.

Sokka exhales through his nose, a half-smirk twitching at the corner of his lips. “Didn’t plan on it,” he says, which is true. Zuko needs space first. Then Sokka can find him.

Hakoda makes a quiet hum of acknowledgement, but says nothing else. Sokka takes that as his cue to leave before his dad does decide to say something.

His Uncle finds him before Sokka does. He's in the garden, wedged up between the old stone bench and the tree growing beside it, knees to his chest, forehead pressed into them, just breathing. He stiffens when he hears the purposeful crunch of a footstep, glances up to see Uncle, and puts his head back down again, shoulders slightly tighter.

The ducks are crowded around him, quacking quietly, confused why their snack dispenser isn't dispensing.

Iroh doesn’t speak right away. He takes in the sight of Zuko - folded in on himself, pressed into the space like he wants to disappear - and sighs softly through his nose. Then, with the ease of a man who has spent too many years wearing heavy layers of ornate embroidery, he lowers himself onto the bench beside him.

He glances down at the ducks, watching as they nudge at Zuko’s legs, impatient and expectant. “You’re disappointing your loyal subjects,” he remarks lightly. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen them so betrayed.”

It’s a careful opening - one Zuko can ignore if he wants. But Iroh, patient as ever, settles in, content to sit and wait.

Zuko snorts into his legs. "I think they'll live," he mumbles back, but doesn't leave the position, doesn't stop his slow, purposeful breaths. It's a breathing technique Uncle taught him, so the man definitely knows that he's using one. But it's not wrong to be upset in front of Uncle, not wrong for that clawing anxiety to crash into him until he can't take it anymore. 

Uncle has repeatedly told him, over and over, that it's okay to feel like this in front of him, okay to show it instead of trying to hold himself together so he can go crash alone instead. He still feels a trickle of unease, like he's trying to convince himself of the fact instead of believing it as fact. But he doesn't let it get to him. Well, he tries not to, anyway

Iroh hums, watching him with the kind of quiet patience Zuko still isn’t used to. The kind that doesn’t press or demand. He could say a dozen things - he has, over the years - but for now, he just lets the silence settle.

After a long moment, he shifts slightly, stretching one leg out. “Do you want to talk about it, or do you want to sit here and pretend I’m just enjoying the view?” It’s dry, but gentle, and most importantly, gives Zuko the option.

"I think I messed up," Zuko says softly into his legs still, barely audible. He doesn't want to admit the full scope of it, but he can't stop himself from taking the opportunity to lighten the load of his intense anxiety a little. As much as it's still not something he's used to, still not something he can always get himself to trust, talking to Uncle always makes things easier.

Iroh exhales slowly, not in disappointment, not in exasperation, just measured. Thoughtful. “Alright,” he says simply, because he isn’t going to push, not when Zuko has already given him something. “Big mess or small mess?” His tone is even, like the answer won’t change anything, like it isn’t the deciding factor between judgment or understanding.

"I don't know," Zuko murmurs into his legs, voice still soft, still achingly young. Not the perfect prince, not here. Just Zuko, the nephew that's been so messed up for years that he always has to be pushed to the breaking point before he'll admit to his Uncle that he's scared about something.

Iroh steps closer, lowering himself onto the stone bench beside Zuko. He doesn’t touch him, doesn’t reach out, just sits there - present, steady. “Then we’ll figure it out,” he says, voice quiet but certain. “Whatever it is, Zuko, you don’t have to carry it by yourself.”

He watches his nephew for a moment, gaze softening. “Do you want to tell me?” The words aren’t a demand, just an offering. A reassurance that Zuko doesn’t have to bear it alone unless he chooses to.

Zuko's quiet for a long moment. "No," he says finally, but he's not sure of it. The word comes out unsure and soft, his face still not having lifted since he glanced up and saw it was just his uncle approaching. He just... he just can't figure out, still, how Uncle will react to being told that. They've had these moments before, but it's always been about something that Father would have cared about but Uncle didn't. Little things, and things that were all genuine accidents . This was a purposeful, ongoing choice he's been making to prioritize himself over what might be best for the peace treaty. He has absolutely no idea if Uncle or Fire Lord will win as Uncle's title if he tells him. He doesn't want to find out, not when Uncle has never treated him like a prince that needs to be taught his place instead of a nephew.

Iroh watches him for a long moment, then nods, as if Zuko’s answer is enough, even if it isn’t firm. He doesn’t push. He never does.

“Alright,” he says simply. “You don’t have to.”

His gaze flickers to the ducks, still lingering, then back to Zuko. “But I’m here. And I always will be, no matter what it is.” His voice is steady, unwavering. A quiet truth, not a reassurance. Because it doesn’t need to be. Because it just is .

They sit there together for awhile, quiet. Eventually, after enough time has passed that the ducks have finally accepted they won't be getting any snacks and redispersed around the pond, Zuko shifts slightly. Doesn't leave his curl, doesn't lift his head, but shifts so he's leaning against the bench instead of the tree, toward Uncle instead of away.

Iroh doesn’t comment on it, doesn’t move to acknowledge it beyond the way his fingers, resting on the bench, shift just slightly closer. He lets the silence stretch, lets Zuko have whatever he needs from it.

When he finally speaks again, it’s quiet, almost an afterthought. “You know, I had my fair share of missteps at your age.” A small pause. “More than my fair share, probably.”

He doesn’t look at Zuko as he says it, just watching the rippling water, his voice casual, but steady. Not pushing. Just… leaving the door open.

Zuko takes another five minutes or so to reply. "You're gonna be mad at me," he says finally, quietly, uncertain, and it feels like the words of someone much younger than him. It's honest, though, actually engaging instead of just shutting down. He wants to talk to his Uncle about this, he just... doesn't really want to talk to his Fire Lord about it. 

With Father, it had been one distinct role, one man that was never safe to bring anything to. With Uncle, he's still trying to figure out how to balance the safe role of Uncle against the unsafe role of Fire Lord, all the while Uncle keeps trying to tell him that they're both safe, and he's always Uncle.

Iroh exhales softly, the kind of breath that isn’t quite a sigh but holds the weight of something unspoken. “Zuko,” he says, gentle but firm, “you’ve seen me angry before.” His fingers tap idly against the bench. “You know the difference between when I’m mad at a situation and when I’m mad at you .”

He finally tilts his head, just enough to catch Zuko’s still-buried face in his periphery. “And you know, even when I am mad at you, I don’t stop being your uncle.” There’s a beat, then, quieter, “If you want to tell me, I’ll listen.”

Zuko doesn't speak for a while. The silence stretches until it's starting to feel like he's not going to say anything at all, and then quietly, words pushed together quickly like he has to shove them out to get them out, barely audibly, he says, "I might be dating Sokka and Chief Hakoda caught us last night." The might be is because they've never talked about labels, but... they're definitely not not dating. Right? Do they have to talk labels to know for certain when they spend all the time they can together, when they've explored each other multiple times, when Zuko, feet away from where he's currently sitting, sunk to his knees and-

Not the right time to think about this. His head ducks a little tighter against his knees as he waits for his Uncle's and his lord's reaction, shoulders tight.

Iroh goes utterly still. For a moment, the only sound is the distant ripple of water from the pond, the occasional rustling of leaves. He doesn’t speak right away, doesn’t make any sharp movements, just lets the words settle between them.

When he does speak, his voice is calm - too calm. “I see.” A pause. “And by caught , you mean…?” He doesn’t finish the sentence, but the weight of the question is clear. How bad? How much? How much leverage does Chief Hakoda now have?

His hands are still, no tapping now. Just waiting. Waiting and calculating, even as the Uncle in him wars against the Fire Lord , because Zuko’s body language is screaming how fragile he feels right now, but Iroh needs to know exactly how much damage has already been done.

"Not like that. But he knows," Zuko forces out, quiet and raw. If he's started, he can't stop now, can't not answer when asked a question, can't not give information on the fuck up he's done, the mistake he's made by being selfish and stupid and impulsive and reckless and-

He forces himself to breathe again. He'd stopped, at some point. Forces himself to restart the breathing exercise, his forehead pressed so hard against his knees that he's starting to give himself a headache. It's something to focus on, at least, the way his fingers dig into his elbows, crossed in front of his head, the pressure of his forehead digging into his knees, the way his heart is pounding so hard it almost hurts in his chest.

Iroh exhales slowly through his nose. He notices every little thing - how Zuko’s breath had stuttered to a stop, how his entire frame is locked up so tight he’s liable to snap. He doesn’t reach out yet, doesn’t move closer. Instead, he speaks, careful and steady, the same way he does when pulling Zuko back from the edge of his own spiraling mind.

“Alright,” he says. Just that, for a moment. Letting it settle. Then, after another measured beat, “Did he say anything? Imply anything?” Because knowing is one thing. What Hakoda plans to do with that knowledge is another. And right now, Iroh has no read on whether they’re dealing with an inconvenience or a catastrophe.

Zuko shakes his head slightly, his throat too tight to try to answer verbally. He hadn't, not really, had just told Sokka that the two of them were gonna have a talk and Zuko hasn't had the chance to talk to Sokka since. He could have easily been implying something, too, but Zuko's too stupid to understand when people are speaking doublespeak to him most of the time, and Uncle knows that, so why is he even asking ? He should tell Uncle that the man said he was gonna talk with Sokka. He doesn't.

He forces himself to start breathing again. Why won't Uncle just react instead of this calm patient working through the issue? He gets it, logically, understand that Uncle likes to gather information before he reacts to things, especially something that could be a huge mistake like this, but it still fills him even further with anxiety. Zuko's been hiding a huge secret from him, not been lying but basically been lying, and going behind his back, and literally consorting with the enemy , even if they're not the enemy anymore it could still severely impact their truce talks and-

Breathe. He takes a slow inhale through his nose. Exhales through his mouth. Counts the beats, just like Uncle taught him years ago, the first time he'd caught Zuko freaking out.

Iroh watches him closely, reads every small movement, every breath forced in and out like Zuko is trying to keep himself from splintering apart. He doesn’t push. Not yet.

Instead, he nods slightly, as if Zuko had answered him out loud. “Alright,” he says again, quiet, steady. “Then until we know more, we don’t assume the worst.” A pause, then, “Breathe, Zuko.” It’s not a command, not sharp or stern, just a gentle reminder that Zuko is allowed to calm down. That Iroh isn’t going to explode, isn’t going to punish him, isn’t his father. 

Iroh sighs, tilts his head back slightly before looking at Zuko again. He softens, just a little. “We’ll figure this out. But first, I need you here with me. Alright?” His voice is still calm, still even, but there’s a weight to it, an assurance that Zuko is not in this alone.

Zuko nods slightly against his legs. Keeps trying to calm himself down, even as his mind is racing faster than he can keep up with. Forces himself to keep breathing, to keep counting the beats of it in his head, because even if Uncle doesn't seem mad, he's also nice and he might just not be showing that he's mad right now because Zuko is acting like a frightened child and wouldn't be able to take any anger headed his way. So the least he can do is listen to what he's told and try to calm down so that Uncle can be honest with him.

Iroh doesn’t say anything for a while, just lets Zuko breathe, lets the silence settle around them. He knows his nephew well enough to know what’s happening in his head - that tangled mess of fear and doubt, the way he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop, waiting for Iroh to turn from Uncle to Fire Lord .

So he stays patient, waiting until he can see the worst of the tension begin to ease, if only a little. Then, finally, he speaks again, voice quiet but firm. “I’m not angry with you, Zuko.” He lets that sink in for a second before continuing. “This is… complicated. It’s messy . But it’s not something you need to punish yourself over.”

Iroh shifts slightly, leaning one arm on his knee as he watches Zuko carefully. “You said Hakoda caught you. Did he threaten you? Or Sokka?” His tone doesn’t change much, but there’s a certain sharpness under the evenness now. “Or did he just… talk to you?”

Zuko listens to Uncle's words. Keeps breathing and tries to believe them. Even if it changes later, Uncle has never said that and not meant it. And if it changes later, Zuko can take it. He's taken much worse, for longer, from a much worse man.

He swallows past the lump in his throat. "Talked," he answers quietly, the word still pushed out, still muffled slightly by his head tucked into his legs. "He said Sokka and him were gonna talk after I left."

Iroh exhales slowly, considering that. “Alright,” he says, and there’s something measured in his voice, like he’s working through the possibilities. “That’s… not nothing, but it’s not the worst outcome either.”

His gaze stays steady on Zuko, even though his nephew won’t meet his eyes. He’s used to that. “You said might be dating Sokka.” His tone doesn’t sharpen, doesn’t probe, just leaves room for Zuko to fill in what he wants. “What do you think? What do you want?”

Because that’s what this is really about, isn’t it? The politics, the risks, the secrecy - it’s all secondary, at least in this moment. Right now, Iroh needs to know if this is something Zuko wants , or if it’s something he’s been swept up in.

Zuko is quiet for a long moment. Then, almost like it's the worst thing he's admitted so far, the thing most likely to make Iroh angry, like it's a crime he's committed, he whispers, "I like him."

Iroh doesn’t react with anything but a slow, steady exhale. Not mad. Not upset. Just... there.

“Yeah,” he says, just as quiet. “I figured.”

He doesn’t press further, doesn’t try to make Zuko justify it or explain himself. He just sits with him in it, lets the weight of that admission settle instead of making it feel like something to fix or defend.

Then, after a pause, just as gently, he says, “Liking someone isn’t a mistake, Zuko.”

Zuko doesn't look up, still, doesn't relax at his uncle's lack of anger at the admission, at his gentleness. But he does breathe a little easier. "I'm not supposed to like him ," he says after a moment, quiet but pointing out that it is wrong, when they're both wrapped up in the biggest shot at ending the war their nation has seen in a century of strife.

Iroh looks at Zuko, at the way he’s curled in on himself, at the way even now - months after his father’s death, with the full weight of his uncle’s protection at his back - he’s still bracing for impact. Still holding himself in like he expects to be punished for the simple crime of feeling .

And for a brief, burning moment, Iroh hates his younger brother all over again. Hates him with a depth that hasn’t lessened in the months since he drove his sword through that bastard’s heart, that never will, no matter how much control Iroh has learned to wield over his own anger. He has made his peace with many things, but this - the way Zuko was twisted into believing that love, want, happiness itself was something dangerous - he will never forgive.

And the worst part? It hasn’t even been long enough for Zuko to believe that his father is really, truly gone. Six months is nothing after a lifetime of fear.

Iroh blinks, pushing the anger down. Zuko doesn’t need it. He needs steady. Needs safe.

So Iroh keeps his voice just as calm, just as gentle. “Who told you that?” he asks, though he already knows the answer.

Zuko keeps counting his breaths mentally, still tight, still small. He shrugs roughly, doesn't answer. It's not like it was a specific lesson from his father to never like Sokka himself, but they both know who the heart of the lesson came from. The same person as the heart of all the lessons that leave him stumbling over himself to apologize for something Uncle simply dismisses, that leave him pressed into the corner of his room after messing up in a meeting, breathing through the panic because there's not going to be a punishment for giving the wrong answer or for taking a second too long or for not having the most perfect posture possible or any of the other thousand things that feels tiny now, now that he's finally had a real mistake with his Uncle as his Fire Lord.

Iroh watches the way Zuko folds in on himself, the way he shrugs as if the weight of all those years can be shaken off like something inconsequential. Like it shouldn’t matter anymore.

But it does. Of course it does.

Because six months is nothing. Six months is barely enough time to learn how to breathe without waiting for the next blow.

Iroh feels the rage again, smothering and bitter in his throat, but it is useless here. He cannot fight the ghost of his brother, cannot kill him a second time, cannot drag his lessons out of Zuko’s head by force no matter how badly he wants to.

So instead, he speaks quietly. Steady. Certain.

“You don’t have to justify it,” he says. “You don’t need permission to feel , Zuko.”

He lets the words settle. Doesn’t push, doesn’t press. Just says it like it’s a simple fact. Like it’s as natural as breathing.

Zuko doesn't reply. He's quiet, for a long moment. Then, "are you mad at me?" he asks, voice soft, raw and a little unsure, like he doesn't know if he wants to hear the answer or not. Uncle already said earlier that he wasn't and it's not respectful to make the man repeat himself, but he just wants to hear it again, check if now , after getting a few more details, the man is angry.

Iroh exhales slowly. He doesn’t sigh, doesn’t let any hint of exasperation slip into it, even though it hurts - Agni, it hurts - to hear Zuko ask him that. Again.

He could say I already told you I’m not . He could remind Zuko that he has never once raised his voice at him in anger. That he has never punished him, never given him a reason to expect it.

But Iroh knows that wouldn’t help.

So instead, he shifts slightly, just enough that Zuko can feel his presence a little more solidly beside him, his fingers brushing beside where the young man’s head is leaned against the bench. And he answers simply, “No, Zuko. I’m not mad at you.”

He lets a beat of silence pass before adding, just as steady, just as certain—

“I won’t be, either.”

Zuko breathes for a moment, lets the words wash over him. Uncle never lies to him, has never faked being calm just to get him to relax so he can release the anger again. Doesn't use the doublespeak he knows Zuko struggles with, even though he should be able to understand it.

"Okay," he says quietly. After a long moment of quiet between them, he shifts slightly, turns his head so he can look up at his Uncle sitting on the bench next to him, the first time he's looked up the entire conversation. "Sorry if I made the talks harder," he says quietly, honestly.

Iroh looks down at him, and for a moment, the words don’t come. Because Agni, Zuko , that’s what he’s worried about? Not himself, not the weight of the fear pressing down on him so hard he’d curled in on himself like a wounded thing - he’s worried about Iroh . About making things harder for him.

Iroh feels that old, bitter fury rise in his chest, the kind he’s only ever let himself direct at one man, long dead now, finally dead. It makes him want to reach out, to rest a hand on Zuko’s hair the way he used to when Zuko was younger, when he was just a trembling, lost boy trying to survive under years of fear and obedience.

But he doesn’t. Zuko has never liked being touched when he’s like this, when he’s just barely unwinding from the storm of anxiety.

So instead, Iroh meets his gaze and answers just as honestly.

“We’ll handle it.” A slight pause, softer. “ I’ll handle it.”

Because Zuko has already spent enough of his life terrified of the consequences of things beyond his control. Iroh won’t let him add this to the list.

"Okay," Zuko replies, repeating himself softly. But his shoulders have lost a bit of their tension and his hands aren't digging white spots into his skin anymore and his breath is coming a bit more naturally, not locked on the breathing exercise Uncle had taught him anymore. 

It's easier, as the weight of it all has passed, as Uncle has accepted everything with the same easy steadiness he always does, to look up at the bench and just see Uncle instead of the man who's now his Fire Lord. He leans against the side of the bench he's tucked himself beside, chin propped on his arms on top of his knees now, no longer hiding his face. 

If the bench didn't have the armrest he'd be leaning right up against Uncle's side, the way he used to when he was little, before the years just kept getting worse and harder and an authority figure's touch stopped feeling safe no matter who it was on the other end. There's only the thin plank of wood separating them, as he leans the side of his head against it, hair hardly any inch from Uncle's hand resting on the end piece.

Iroh watches him, taking in every small shift - how his breathing is easier, how the tension in his shoulders has finally started to ease. How, in the quiet, in the wake of everything, Zuko is still here, still his .

He doesn’t move his hand, doesn’t try to close that last inch of distance, but he lets it rest there, just in case Zuko decides he wants to bridge it himself.

Instead, he lets the moment sit between them, quiet and steady, before he finally speaks again, voice lighter, but still warm.

“You’re going to have to feed those ducks eventually,” he says, glancing toward where they’re loitering nearby, still hopeful. “They look like they’re taking your avoidance personally.”

Zuko snorts. Slowly shifts out of his curled stance, doesn't get up but lets his legs lay out in front of him instead of being tucked tight to his chest. He reaches in his pocket and pulls out a bag of peas, not bothering to explain why he has them. Uncle knows him well enough to know he almost always has duck snacks somewhere on him. He tosses a few out and the ducks come trotting back over, quacking happily. It makes a small smile tug on his face, the simple way they're pleased.

Iroh watches the ducks waddle over, pleased as ever with their simple luck, and watches Zuko, too - how the tension is still unwinding from his frame, how the smile tugs at his lips despite everything.

“You know,” he says after a moment, his voice easy, thoughtful, “for all the stress you put yourself through, I think those ducks might have the right idea. Take the good things when they come, no overthinking required.” He glances down at Zuko, amusement flickering in his gaze. “You could stand to learn a little from them.”

Zuko watches as two of the ducks try to eat the same pea and get so busy fighting over it that they don't notice a third sneak in and snag it. He huffs a silent laugh and throws out a bigger handful to stop the infighting. "Lot of good lessons there," he says quietly but wryly, actually teasing back a little instead of shutting down. It's 50/50, after he panics about something, if he'll relax back into himself or slam his walls back up as hard as he can, shut down after. This time, he can feel himself slowly breathing easier, slowly feeling more normal the longer Uncle just acts like Uncle.

Iroh watches the little squabble with a raised brow, shaking his head slightly. "Greedy little things," he comments, but there's fondness in his voice. Then he glances at Zuko again, catching the wry humor, the way he's engaging instead of retreating. He won't push, won't call attention to it - but the fact that Zuko is still here, still joking, still himself, settles something in Iroh’s chest.

"A lot of lessons, indeed," he says lightly. "Some of them useful. Some of them just about how to be an absolute menace for food." He flicks a look down at Zuko’s ever-present bag of duck snacks. “Speaking of, is this whole friendship built on bribery?"

Zuko snorts at that, tossing out another handful. "Every good friendship is built on bribery," he answers back, a thread of humor in his voice. He leans his head against the side of the bench again, his dark locks tickling over the side of his uncle's hand.

Iroh huffs a quiet laugh. "Wise words from a young statesman," he remarks, his voice warm with approval. He doesn't move his hand, doesn't shift away as Zuko's hair brushes against his skin - just lets the touch stay, light and unspoken, another small step Zuko has chosen to take.

He watches the ducks for a moment, thoughtful. Then, with the same ease as if they were discussing trade agreements, he adds, “Well, in that case, I suppose I should ask - what did Sokka bribe you with?” His tone is even, but there's a quiet amusement there, a gentle invitation rather than a demand.

Zuko blinks, not expecting it to be brought up. He watches the ducks for a minute, debating on answering, on what he would even say. "Fun, I guess," he says finally, tossing a few more peas to the ducks idly. "It's just... easy, with him. To just... be me." It's honest, more honest of an answer than Uncle probably expected from his teasing, but it's the truth. And he's wanted to talk to his Uncle about Sokka so many times , but he couldn't get past the fact that talking to his uncle meant telling his Fire Lord, so he suppressed it every time. It's nice to be able to talk about it now.

Iroh nods, gaze still on the water, but his attention wholly on Zuko. "That’s a good bribe," he says simply. No judgment, no sharp analysis of what it means for the treaty, just an acknowledgment of what Zuko said.

For a moment, he doesn’t say anything else, letting Zuko sit in the openness of it. Then, gently, he asks, "And do you like who you are, when you're with him?" Not a test, not a lesson - just curiosity, and the quiet kind of care that Zuko has spent so long trying to trust is real.

Zuko smiles slightly, a tiny, soft thing. "Yeah," he answers quietly, but there's a thread of warmth in his tone that wasn't there before and just the act of talking about Sokka has helped ease some of the remaining tension out of his shoulders.

Iroh glances at him then, just for a second, taking in the rare softness of the smile, the warmth in his voice. It makes something settle in his chest, something quiet and aching and relieved all at once.

"Good," he says simply. And he means it. Whatever else comes of this - complications, consequences, peace talks, politics - that right there? The way Zuko just looked? That’s worth something. Maybe even worth everything.

Eventually, Zuko casts a glance to the sky and sighs, judging the time from the sun's path. "I've got that trade routes meeting to get to," he says, flicking a few more peas out, but he doesn't move to stand yet, doesn't move to pull the mask tightly back on and head back to being the unflappable prince.

Instead he picks at the bag in his hands, something exhausted in the set of his shoulders at the realization that he has to go sit through a meeting and be perfect when he's just finally starting to unwind from the anxiety that's had its grip on him since last night.

Iroh watches him for a moment, then exhales through his nose, something thoughtful in the motion. "You could reschedule," he offers, voice easy, unpressing. "Or I could send someone else. You don't have to be at every single meeting, Zuko."

He knows what the answer will likely be - knows Zuko’s sense of duty, the way he holds himself to impossible standards - but he says it anyway, because Zuko also needs to hear it. Needs to know it's an option, even if he won’t take it.

Zuko wrinkles his nose. "Then they'll know I don't want to be there," he says lightly, but there's an undercurrent of truth to it. The generals he sits among now are the same ones who watched his father belittle him in those same rooms for years, who watched as the man verbally and sometimes physically tore him apart in front of them, day after day. Watched him fold into himself in a thousand ways to try to fit the right shape, have seen him cower and beg while being left the deep scar that curls around his neck, seen him be broken .

He's worked hard to start to claw their opinions of him back from that. It's very slow going and he's not about to sacrifice any of that progress just because he doesn't want to go. He stands, stretching out his arms, his shoulder letting out a pop - unsurprising, considering how tightly coiled he was for so long.

Iroh watches him, something unreadable in his expression. For a brief, searing second, he is drowning in hatred for his younger brother all over again. He has spent months carefully unraveling the mess that man left behind, trying to untangle the boy from the wreckage of his father’s cruelty. And still, still , Zuko thinks like this. Thinks he has to prove himself to men who let it happen . Men who never stepped in. Never said a word.

Iroh schools the anger away before Zuko can catch it. He knows how quickly the boy would assume it was directed at him . Instead, he just exhales, shakes his head.

"They’ll know you're busy," he corrects simply, "and that I approved it. If they think anything beyond that, they can take it up with me." His voice is calm, but there’s an edge to it, subtle but firm. The quiet implication that if they did take it up with him, they wouldn't like what they got in return.

Zuko tilts his head, raising an eyebrow at him. "They wouldn't," he points out, "They'd just gossip like hens about my absence and send me pointed questions about information they covered at the meeting I missed next meeting," he says dryly. He's always like that, always thinking ahead to the consequences of his actions, to what people will do if he does something they perceive as wrong or weak.

He's good at his predictions most of the time, even if he does tend to be a little pessimistic, a little heavy handed in his expectation of other people's judgement of him, treatment of him. Still, he tends to be right. At the moment, he's pretty sure the only people who don't hate him in the castle are Uncle, Sokka, the staff, and maybe the Water Tribe members, who seem neutral on him as a general rule.

Iroh lets out a quiet breath, a hint of dry amusement in his voice. "They can gossip all they like. And if they want to play games with you about missing one meeting, we can play back." His fingers tap idly on the bench’s armrest, but his gaze is sharp. "You outrank them, Zuko. If they try to make a point of your absence, make a point of their inefficiency. If they spent an entire meeting covering something they couldn’t summarize in a brief, maybe they’re the ones wasting time."

He pauses, then sighs. "But you’re right. They would do that." There’s something resigned in the admission, but also vaguely irritated - though not at Zuko. Never at him. "I won’t push if you want to go. But I’ll remind you, again, that you don’t owe them your suffering." He watches him for a beat longer, then, a little more lightly, adds, "And if you are going, at least take a few more minutes so you don’t walk in there looking like you just wrestled with your own thoughts and lost."

Zuko watches him as he speaks, head still tilted. He knows better than to think the irritation is at him, but it still makes the still-settling anxiety in him draw his posture up a little straighter. He snorts at his uncle's comment, shaking his head slightly. "Better to walk in late or not at all?" He muses, eyes flicking up the sun again. It's not an exact measure of time, but he knows that Uncle's right, that he needs some time before he'd be able to attend that meeting without showing his hand, and he's pretty sure he'll be cutting it close if he takes the time to get himself together.

Definitely won't arrive first, like he's been doing since Uncle took the throne. There's something satisfying about the way the generals' faces fall as they come in one by one and see him already there, waiting on them as if they're falling behind. And him being on time would already practically be late for him, the break in routine would make the whole meeting feel unbalanced, he's sure at least one general would smirk at him coming in late. 

He realizes he's just listing reasons not to go in his head, sighs as he looks out at the ducks.

Iroh watches him quietly, seeing the way his nephew’s posture subtly shifts under the weight of consideration, the way his mind is clearly turning over every potential consequence, every reaction he might provoke. Always thinking three steps ahead. Always looking for the angle that keeps him safest.

Iroh hates that the boy has to think that way.

He exhales, a little softer this time. “Better to walk in late and put together than on time and cracked open,” he answers, then tilts his head. “Though, if you really want to throw them off, you could send a message saying the meeting will start when you arrive. Let them wait for you for once.”

His tone is wry, just teasing enough that it could be taken as a joke, but also just sincere enough that it could not be.

Zuko cracks a smile at that, huffing in amusement. "If I start doing that, my nickname might change from traitor prince to spoiled prince ," he says wryly, but he still hasn't moved to go back inside. He doesn't want to go sit in a room full of old men that hate him for an hour and a half. There's no room in this world for what he does and doesn't want, but he's still feeling cracked open enough that the pure amount he doesn't want to is enough to have him stalling, lingering

Iroh watches him for a moment, taking in the way he lingers, the reluctance woven into his posture despite his usual sharp wit.

He leans forward slightly, forearms resting on his knees, voice quiet but firm. “Zuko.” A pause, enough to make sure the boy is actually listening before he continues, “You don’t have to go.”

He knows what his nephew will say, the protest that will rise immediately about duty and perception and all the things beaten into his bones. So he cuts him off before he can start. “One missed meeting won’t undo all the work you’ve put in. And if they think it does, they weren’t ever going to let you win anyway.”

Iroh shrugs. “You’ve spent years proving yourself to them - why not take one day to remind yourself that you don’t need their approval to be worth a damn?”

Zuko hesitates, flicking his eyes from the ducks to his uncle and back again. "There's not anything important on the docket today anyway," he says quietly, tentatively. He really doesn't want to go. But it's wrong to not go just because he doesn't want to, right? But Uncle is saying, seriously trying to get him to believe, that it would be okay if he doesn't.

And Uncle understands court and expectations and perception and everything important better than Zuko does. He watches the ducks, leaning against the tree beside the bench Uncle still sits at. So if Uncle's saying it's fine, then not only is it legally fine, but it's probably socially fine too. And he really doesn't want to.

Iroh nods, catching the hesitation in Zuko’s voice, the way he’s weighing the words in his mind like he’s looking for a trap, a test, something to catch him if he chooses wrong.

“There you go,” Iroh says, tone easy, tipping his head toward him slightly. “You just gave yourself the reason you needed.” He leans back against the bench, watching the ducks squabble over the last of the peas. “Nothing important on the docket, nothing pressing to discuss - you missing one meeting won’t bring the kingdom crashing down. And if any of them decide to make a fuss about it, they’ll just be showing their own pettiness, won’t they?”

His eyes flick up to Zuko, considering. “You’re allowed to take a damn breath, Zuko.” His voice is softer now, but no less certain. “You should .”

"I guess," Zuko says after a moment, still hesitant but it's there. "If you have someone to spare to send in place of me." Always looking a step down - Uncle had offered to send a stand-in, but would that disrupt something in his day? Is there something more important that person should be doing, than going to a meeting that Zuko can go to but simply doesn't want to?

Iroh huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "Zuko," he says, dry but fond, "you are one of the highest-ranked people in this entire kingdom. If you don't attend a meeting, no one is going to drop dead from it."

Still, he waves a hand, dismissive. "I'll send Lethan. He’s already briefed on trade matters, and I promise you, there's nothing else he should be doing more than this." His gaze sharpens just slightly. " You , however, should be doing something more important—like taking a breath and giving yourself room to recover from the day you've already had."

He gestures out at the lake, at the ducks still happily pecking at the last remnants of the peas. "Go for a walk. Sit here longer. Hell, go find Sokka if you want— whatever helps. Just don’t waste time worrying about a pointless meeting full of people who wouldn’t hesitate to skip it if it suited them ."

Zuko hesitates one final time, glancing at Uncle. "Yeah," he says finally, nodding. "Thanks." It's simple, short, but genuine. His eyes track the ducks. He shifts off from the tree but instead of leaving he comes around and sits on the bench beside Uncle, their arms brushing slightly from the closeness. After a long second, he tilts his head, leaning it on the taller man's shoulder. Because it is just Uncle next to him, not his lord, and this is a pose they've found themselves in many a time. He's still safe, even if he's... the ruler of the entire nation now. It's hard to remember, sometimes (a lot of the times), but he's just Uncle.

Iroh stills for just a moment at the unexpected weight against his shoulder. Then, as naturally as breathing, he shifts slightly - not away, but just enough to make it more comfortable for Zuko to lean, an old familiar habit. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t acknowledge it beyond that. Just lets the quiet settle, easy and undisturbed, between them.

Instead, he watches the water, the gentle ripples disturbing the reflection of the sky, the ducks still circling lazily, pleased with their unexpected bounty. "You know," he says after a moment, voice low, casual, "I bet if we sat here long enough, they'd start to expect this. You'd be training them, really. And then one day, you'd walk out without peas, and you'd have a flock of very disappointed ducks on your hands."

It's light, teasing—but there's an underlying ease in it, in the way he speaks, in the way he just lets Zuko be . No demands, no expectations, no orders. Just time. Just this .

Zuko snorts. "Uncle," he says, as if he's letting him in on a secret. He is, in a way. Uncle knows he likes the gardens here, knows he spends time at this pond, that he's often carrying snacks for the ducks, but he hasn't ever actually admitted to coming out here every day, that it's part of his daily routine and not just something he does when he's upset. "I already do that. That's why they were all over me when I wasn't handing over the peas."

Iroh huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Of course you do.” There’s no surprise in his tone, just quiet amusement. He should have figured - Zuko’s habits are meticulous, even the ones he pretends aren’t.

He glances at the ducks, who are now waddling about, satisfied for the moment but still keeping a wary eye on Zuko, just in case more peas appear. “So you've already got them trained, then," he muses. "I take it back - you’re not just bribing them into friendship. You’ve got yourself a little army.” He smirks, giving Zuko a sidelong look. “That’s dangerous knowledge to have. If you ever decide to overthrow me, I’ll know exactly how it starts.”

Zuko shakes his head with an amused huff of laughter. It'd be a dark joke to make perhaps, if they were anyone but each other. Anyone but the two leaders of the last successful coupe. "Imagine that," he says dryly, "I lead two coupes in one year, one of them duck-powered. The nation would be in disarray."

Iroh exhales a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. "A true disaster. Historians wouldn't know what to do with you. First, the shadow of a tyrant's son, then the traitor prince, and finally, the Duck Usurper." He tilts his head slightly, his voice still carrying the same dry amusement. "Honestly, that last one might do the most damage to our reputation. How could anyone take us seriously after that?"

He lets the quiet settle for a moment, letting the warmth of Zuko’s presence beside him sink in. It’s a rare moment, this - Zuko relaxing with him, instead of near him. He’ll take it for as long as it lasts. “I suppose I should be grateful you’re not that ambitious,” he adds, glancing down at him. “Or at least that you don’t have enough ducks yet.”

"My flock grows larger every spring," he says ominously, a smile tugging at his lips.

Iroh hums thoughtfully, as if genuinely considering the threat. “That does seem like a long-term issue I should be concerned about. One day, I’ll wake up to find my throne overrun with ducks, and you sitting there, smug as ever.”

He sighs dramatically. “I suppose I should just accept my fate now and start preparing my resignation speech. It’s only a matter of time before I’m forced out by an army of well-fed waterfowl.”

Zuko laughs, shaking his head at his uncle's antics. It's a rare sound, his laughter within the castle walls, but he's been getting used to laughing every night with Sokka and it doesn't come out as rusty as it used to. "You're ridiculous," he grumbles, but he's smiling as he bumps the older man's shoulder before leaning his head back down on his shoulder. "I'm not gonna steal your throne with ducks," he rolls his eyes.

He lets the sentence sit for only a second before following it up, a strong thread of mischief in his voice, "I'd be the one to steal your throne, obviously, the ducks are there to assassinate you. You'd never see them coming."

Iroh chokes on a laugh, shaking his head as if truly exasperated. "So that's your master plan, is it? Dethroning me was too simple, you had to add regicide by duck to your ambitions?" He tuts, mock disappointment in his tone. "And here I thought I was raising a respectable young prince, not a criminal mastermind."

He pauses, then casts a wary glance at the flock still lingering nearby. “I don’t suppose I should be worried about an imminent attack? Or have you taught them patience, too?”

The banter continues, so does the closeness. Easy, comfortable, like he's used to it again instead of the way he's been stiff and awkward on and off to his uncle in the months since the man made the transition from Uncle to Fire Lord. He's starting to make the transition back to Uncle in Zuko's mind, even if it's slow-going, and today was the first real example of that, the first time that Uncle was, in Zuko's mind, truly tested by a way Zuko had messed up and still stayed calm, stayed Uncle .

When Uncle invites him to join him at the banquet hall he wrinkles his nose at the stuffiness but makes a show of agreeing just for Uncle . If he uses that show to leverage Uncle's sweet roll off of him at lunch, no one else is the wiser beside the two of them sitting at their own small table, both smiling. It's nice. Easy.

That night, as he sneaks out to go out to the hill as usual with Sokka he's nervous, ready a thousand times over to hear how the talk with his dad went.

Sokka is already waiting by the balcony when Zuko slips around the corner, moving through the shadows with practiced ease. The moon is bright tonight, silver light glinting off Sokka’s dark hair as he leans casually against the stone railing. He looks up as Zuko approaches, a smirk already tugging at his lips.

“You’re slow tonight,” Sokka teases, keeping his voice just above a whisper, as they finally break out into the wilderness on the other side of the palace wall.

Zuko rolls his eyes but doesn’t take the bait. He’s too focused on the question pressing at the back of his mind. “Yeah, yeah,” he mutters. Then, after a brief hesitation, “How’d it go? With your dad.” His voice is careful, unreadable, but Sokka catches the tension in his stance.

For a beat, Sokka just watches him. Then, with a small huff of amusement, he straightens up, jerking his head toward the hilltop. “Come on. Race you.”

Zuko narrows his eyes, catching the evasion. But if Sokka is deflecting with a race, that at least means it didn’t go badly . That’s something.

Still, as they break into a sprint, feet pounding against the dirt path, he can’t shake the anticipation coiled tight in his chest.

Zuko sprints alongside him, breaking ahead just at the top of the hilltop, just barely winning. They both catch their breath and he jabs the other man lightly in the shoulder. "Come on, spill, how'd it go?" he asks. 

Sokka lets out a breathless laugh, swiping a hand through his hair as he catches his breath. “Yeah, yeah, you won,” he grumbles, but there’s no real bite to it. He flops back onto the grass, looking up at the sky for a moment before turning his head toward Zuko.

There’s an expectant look in Zuko’s eyes, his usual impatience barely tempered by the fact that he’s trying to play it cool. Sokka can’t help but smirk.

“It went fine ,” he says, drawing the words out just to watch Zuko’s irritation flicker. He shrugs, stretching his arms behind his head. “Better than fine, actually. He listened. Didn’t even fight me on it.”

He watches as the tension in Zuko’s shoulders shifts - maybe not entirely gone, but looser. “Told you,” he adds, smug. “I am very persuasive.”

Zuko rolls his eyes but sits down beside him, sitting up instead of laying down. His fingers play with the grass as he asks, "So what? He just said... okay?"

Sokka hums, thinking back to the conversation. “Not just okay,” he says, tilting his head toward Zuko. “He asked how long it’d been going on, wanted to know if it was serious or just… a thing.” He shrugs one shoulder. “Told him I really liked you.”

He watches Zuko closely as he says it, no hesitation in his voice. It’s not like it’s some grand confession - Zuko knows how he feels - but he wonders if the words will make him squirm.

Then, with a bit of a grin, he adds, “So, congrats, I guess. My dad officially doesn’t hate you.”

Zuko feels his face get hot at Sokka's easy declaration. Told him I really liked you. So he told him.... it was serious. Which it is, for Zuko, and obviously it is for Sokka too, but it's different to hear him say it out loud. He's pretty sure his face is bright red as he looks out over the hillside instead of at Sokka, fingers still fiddling with the grass. 

"Oh," he says simply, nodding slightly. That's... a lot different than he'd feared the conversation had gone. The thought that Chief Hakoda didn't actually care is weird to him, in the same way Uncle's calm reaction still hit him as unexpected. He's used to leaders being... different men, perhaps, then these two are.

Sokka watches him, the way his face goes red, the way he nods like he's still processing it all. He doesn’t tease, doesn’t push - just lets the moment settle between them. He gets it, probably more than Zuko realizes.

“Yeah,” he says simply, lying back again, folding his arms behind his head. “Not so bad, huh?” He exhales, watching the stars blink into view. “I mean, he told me to be careful, but that’s more of a me thing than a you thing.” His lips quirk slightly. “Though, guess it applies to you too, since you’re the one climbing walls and dodging patrols just to see me.”

He tilts his head toward Zuko, smirking. “Gotta say, kinda sweet of you.”

"Shut up," Zuko grumbles, but he settles down finally, laying beside Sokka so their shoulders brush, both of them looking up at the stars. "I... told my uncle," he says after a second, purposefully keeping his gaze up at the stars as he does.

Sokka turns his head slightly, not expecting that. He studies Zuko’s profile, the way he keeps his gaze stubbornly on the stars.

“Yeah?” His voice is softer now, not teasing. He knows how much Zuko struggles with things like this, how much weight that must have carried. “How’d that go?”

It’s not just a casual question. He knows how much Zuko respects his uncle - and how much he fears being a disappointment. Telling him must’ve been terrifying.

"I was kind of... freaking out," he admits slowly. He knows that Sokka knows how tightly wound he is, knows that the other man sees his moment of freeze by the way he always does something to try to help him out of it, but he's taken care to never let himself actually freak out in front of Sokka. To never let him see the way he breaks, the way he gets small and scared and can't even breathe and sometimes makes himself sick from the burning fear in his chest. "About Chief Hakoda knowing. I... thought it was gonna be a bigger deal, I guess."

He lets the quiet sit for a moment before adding quietly, "It went well. He doesn't mind." That's a gentle way to put it, the way that Uncle had soothingly talked him through it all, had patiently asked questions until he understood the situation, had told Zuko that it wasn't wrong to like Sokka as much as he does.

Sokka listens closely, feeling the weight behind Zuko’s words. He knew Zuko had been anxious about it - really anxious - but hearing just how much makes his chest ache a little. Zuko may not have elaborated on freaking out , but he reads the other man’s tone easily, understands the weight of it. He turns his head back toward the stars, considering.

“Well… I’m glad,” he says after a moment, voice steady. “That it went well, I mean. That he doesn’t mind.” That Zuko had someone there to talk him down, to remind him that this wasn’t some catastrophe waiting to unfold.

He lets the silence linger for a few breaths before nudging their hands together lightly, a quiet, grounding touch. “You okay now?”

Zuko nods slightly, slips his fingers between Sokka's. "Of course I am," he says softly, tilting his head to look at Sokka. "I'm with you," he says, a tiny smile playing on his lips.

Sokka’s breath catches for just a second before he grins, turning his head to meet Zuko’s gaze fully. “Damn, you’re getting smooth,” he teases, squeezing Zuko’s hand lightly. But there’s warmth in his voice, something softer beneath the joking. Because he gets what Zuko is saying - this, them , is something steady for him.

He shifts just a little closer, their shoulders pressed together fully now. “Guess that means I’m doing my job right,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing over Zuko’s knuckles.

"You're getting slower, though," Zuko teases, "I barely even had to try to beat you this time." It's not true, of course, he'd been just as out of breath after winning the race as Sokka, as they both are every night, but it's not meant to be taken as true. Just meant to be taken as a challenge, to extend this softness into a familiar playful teasing, to brush away the last of the uncertainty and fear that had surrounded them. Well, surrounded Zuko, at least.

Sokka huffs a laugh, rolling onto his side so he can prop himself up on an elbow and properly squint down at Zuko. "Oh, is that so?" he drawls, raising an eyebrow. "Big talk from the guy who tripped over his own feet last week and still only won 'cause I was laughing too hard to sprint properly."

He smirks, but there’s a glint in his eyes - he sees what Zuko is doing, the shift from deep emotions to easy banter, and he welcomes it. If teasing is how Zuko wants to settle into this new, easier feeling between them, then Sokka will meet him there every time.

"Tell you what," he says, nudging their joined hands slightly. "Tomorrow night, we rematch. And when I win, again , you owe me a favor."

Zuko laughs. "You're on, but when I win, you owe me a favor," he grins, not bothering to prop himself up, just grinning up at Sokka who's propped up on his own elbow.

Sokka grins right back, giving Zuko’s hand a squeeze. “Deal,” he says easily. “Hope you’re ready to pay up, ‘cause I’m definitely winning this time.”

He flops back down beside Zuko, their hands still loosely tangled, and lets out a content sigh as he looks up at the stars. The weight of the day has finally melted away, leaving just this - Zuko beside him, warm and real, challenging him to another race like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“Better start thinking about what favor you’ll owe me,” he adds smugly, even though they both know there’s a fifty-fifty chance of him actually winning. But the game isn’t really about winning - it never has been. It’s just another reason to keep meeting here, another reason to keep coming back to each other.

Things settle in Zuko, after another night of ease with Sokka. That tight grip of fear in his chest, of uncertainty, isn't there the next morning at the morning meeting. He does, however, realize for the first time during negotiations that the Chief across from him is also his maybe-boyfriend's dad. He's not prepared for the way it makes it harder to focus - not in the usual doomsday prepping way he feels, but from the weirdly flustered feeling he gets.

It doesn't really come up until he finds himself in a brief conversation with Sokka and Chief Hakoda, a few of the elders of Chief Hakoda's council milling about. The man had stopped him on the way out to ask a clarifying question about one of the trade routes they'd been discussing. He, as usual, projects the picture of perfect prince as he speaks, but he can feel the heat creeping up his neck as he remembers the fact that the man walked in on Sokka standing in between his legs, their bodies flush against each other as their breath mingled.

"Um, the southern - no, sorry the uh eastern winds are strong there, that's why we prefer for any trade routes to come from the east but return, uh, return-loop through beneath the southern islands, so the progress isn't. Slowed. By the strong eastern winds.... pushing them... back." His answer comes out awkward, stilted, his usual respectful tone in place but he stumbles over the words.

Sokka watches the unraveling happen in real time, and it’s amazing . He’s never seen Zuko flustered like this in a meeting - ever . His perfect, controlled, princely Zuko, suddenly reduced to a stammering mess just because he’s talking to his dad .

Sokka bites the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning. His dad, for his part, just listens with his usual measured patience, nodding along as if Zuko hadn’t just tripped over his own tongue like a nervous apprentice speaking to their first council.

“I see,” Chief Hakoda says, considering. “A reasonable adjustment. We’ll account for that in the final negotiations.”

Sokka can’t help himself. “You okay, Prince Zuko?” he asks, his voice all casual amusement, but the sharp glint in his eyes betrays just how much he’s enjoying this. He crosses his arms, tilting his head. “You’re looking a little warm.”

Zuko is warm - his ears have gone pink, Sokka swears it. And Tui and La, he’s never letting him live this down.

Zuko's eyes flick to him and there's the smallest break in his perfect prince facial neutrality, the smallest flicker of oh my God I hate you in his eyes. "Thank you for your concern, I'm fine," he answers smoothly, politely.

He turns his gaze back to Chief Hakoda - as usual, not quite meeting his eyes and Agni is he grateful for that rule he's been upholding in his head from the beginning, because he thinks he would die if he had to look the man in the eyes right now. 

"We appreciate your understanding, Chief," he says smoothly, and thanks the Fire Lord that he doesn't stumble over his words there. It had been partly the surprise of being addressed on his way out that had added to his fluster before. "If there are any more issues you seek clarification on, please feel free to reach out to Fire Lord Iroh or myself at any time."

It hadn't been something they'd said explicitly before, that the negotiations didn't only have to happen during the official peace meetings. In his own head, he hopes that Chief Hakoda never takes him up on it. He can meet with Uncle as much as he wants, but Zuko in no way wants to have a one-on-one meeting with a ruler of the opposite nation or with his maybe-boyfriend's dad, and the fact that the man is both in one makes it a nightmare scenario.

Sokka can practically see Zuko willing himself into professionalism, clinging to it like a lifeline. He’s so composed now, so proper - except for the fact that Sokka knows he’s dying inside. He can feel the tension radiating off him, and it’s all he can do not to make it worse by bursting out laughing.

His dad nods, taking Zuko’s words in stride. “I’ll keep that in mind,” Chief Hakoda says, and Sokka swears there’s a glint of something knowing in his father’s otherwise neutral expression. But if he’s enjoying Zuko’s suffering, he doesn’t show it. “Thank you, Prince Zuko. I won’t keep you any longer.”

Sokka knows Zuko is going to flee the second it’s appropriate, and he’s so ready to drag him for this later. Maybe he’ll bring it up tonight, when they’re alone on the hill - lean in close and whisper, You got so flustered over my dad today, it was adorable. See if he can get him to stumble again.

But for now, he just smiles pleasantly and nods to his dad before turning back to Zuko with way too much amusement in his eyes. “See you later, Prince Zuko?” he asks, all innocence.

Zuko gives a respectful nod, the half-bow that is perfectly appropriate for their similar statuses, and clearly says the perfect, respectful goodbye according to the script he always has in his head, and absolutely does not run away. Just turns and takes measured steps directly out of the room.

Halfway down the hall, he realizes he forgot his papers.

Hopefully Uncle will grab them, because there is not a chance in hell he's walking back in there right now.

That night, when they drop down off the castle wall and start toward the hill, he doesn't give a warning before sprinting forward to start the race to the top of the hill. Sokka doesn't deserve a warning after the amusement in his eyes today

Sokka barely registers the shift before Zuko bolts, and for half a second, he just stands there, caught off guard.

“Oh, you little- ” He cuts himself off, pushing forward into a sprint, laughing as he chases after Zuko up the hill. No warning, no teasing lead-up, just gone.

It’s dirty, underhanded, completely unfair. And Sokka loves it.

He pushes himself harder, trying to make up the lost distance, but Zuko has a head start and he’s fast. Sokka’s gaining, but the top of the hill is close, and he knows with a sinking certainty that he’s not going to make it in time.

Zuko crests the hill just ahead of him, triumphant, and Sokka reaches the top only a breath later, breathing hard as he glares at him with exaggerated outrage. “That,” he gasps, pointing an accusatory finger, “was cheating. ”

"We never made any rules," Zuko pants out, laughing, "Can't cheat if there are no rules to break. I win. And you owe me a favor."

Sokka groans dramatically, dropping onto the grass with a thud, arms spread wide as he catches his breath. "Unbelievable. You cheat —" he places heavy emphasis on the word, "—and then have the audacity to demand a favor? I think I should get to revoke that on grounds of treachery."

He tilts his head up just enough to squint at Zuko, still grinning despite himself. "Alright, fine. What do you want, oh victorious, deeply dishonest prince?"

Zuko hums, tapping his chin in mock-thought. "I don't know," he grins, "There are so many options. Maybe I'll just keep it in my pocket for when I need it," he teases lightly

Sokka groans again, this time with more theatrical suffering. “That’s worse ,” he complains, rolling onto his side to look at Zuko properly. “Now I have to live in constant fear. You’re going to lord this over me at the worst possible moment, aren’t you?”

He narrows his eyes, clearly onto Zuko’s game but playing along anyway. “I bet you don’t even have something in mind yet. You just want the power. ”

Zuko stays standing, nudging lightly at Sokka's leg with his foot. "You can't blame me. Who wouldn't want a little power over someone like you?" He teases lightly, voice suggestive.

Sokka lets out a huff of laughter, tilting his head back to look up at Zuko. “Oh, so that’s how it is?” he drawls, smirking. He catches Zuko’s ankle lightly, not enough to pull him off balance, just enough to make a point. “I hate to break it to you, prince , but you already have plenty of power over me.” His voice is warm, teasing, but there’s something honest buried in it too.

Zuko smiles down at him, not trying to break the grip on his ankle at all. "And how'd I manage to do that?" He asks, voice still teasing but with that same hint of honesty, a little bit of wonder. Yes, it's just a teasing question he's asking, but he genuinely has no idea how he's managed to win Sokka over so firmly, not when by all accounts they should have hated each other

Sokka looks up at him, his smirk softening into something quieter, something more real. His grip on Zuko’s ankle loosens, fingers brushing over the fabric of his pants before falling away. “Beats me,” he says, voice quieter now but still carrying that same warmth. “Maybe it was the arguing. Maybe it was the way you get that fire in your eyes when you’re fighting for something. Maybe it was just… you being you.” He exhales a soft laugh, shaking his head as if baffled by himself. “Either way, you got me.”

Zuko plops down into the grass with him, but instead of lying beside him he monopolizes the space, lays his head down on Sokka's chest. His cheeks are dusted pink from the honesty, from the way Sokka just likes him in a way no one else ever has. Doesn't expect him to be something he's not, just sees him for who Zuko is and likes it. "You're crazy," he says finally, but his voice is warm, full of fondness and a little touched.

Sokka lets out a soft chuckle, his arm coming up naturally to rest around Zuko’s back, fingers idly tracing patterns over the fabric of his shirt. “Maybe,” he concedes easily, the rhythm of his breathing steady beneath Zuko’s cheek. “But if I am, it’s only because you made me that way.”

His voice is light, teasing, but there’s something in the way his hand settles against Zuko’s back that makes it clear he means it, in some way or another. Like Zuko has shifted something in him, rearranged the way he sees things, and Sokka isn’t complaining one bit.

The morning sun filters through the high windows of the hall where the meeting is taking place, casting long streaks of light across the polished stone table. It's been a tense but productive discussion so far, focusing on trade agreements and the logistics of maintaining peace in the long term. Chief Hakoda sits at the head of his delegation, flanked by his council of elders and trusted warriors, while Fire Lord Iroh and Zuko occupy their own side. Sokka sits just off to his father's right, looking more engaged than he has in days, since the rumors about Zuko started swirling.

Zuko himself has been composed, sharp-eyed as ever, though there’s a certain exhaustion to him, like he's been running calculations in his mind all morning. The weight of maintaining both diplomacy and his own position in these talks rests heavily on him.

And then, chaos.

The doors slam open with a thunderous crack. Armed figures pour into the hall, swift and merciless, cutting down guards at the entrance before they can react. The attackers are shouting something - Zuko catches only fragments over the sudden clash of steel, but one word rings through it all:

"Azula."

They're calling her name. Declaring fealty. Declaring that the throne should be hers.

And they're headed straight for Chief Hakoda.

Zuko leaps up at the same time Uncle does, both of them throwing themselves into the fight with cutting grace, despite the lack of weapons ever held during peace conferences. It feels like an oversight, now, to Zuko. Still, he slams an elbow into an attacker, steals the sword. When he glances over and sees Sokka being cornered, no weapon in hand, he calls his name and throws the sword his way, switches his gaze to find another man to take the sword of and-

There's a sword headed straight for Chief Hakoda's back. He's vaulting across the table before he can think, before he can decide a better way to handle things, and he gets there just in time to take the strike across his shoulder instead, grunting as he feels the blood already started to spill, the fire of a deep cut lighting up his right arm. At least he can fight with both.

He kicks the man's legs out from under him while he's still overbalanced by the blow, then slams his foot into the side of his head, knocking him out and stealing his sword into his left hand. Zuko ends up back to back with Sokka, the chaos of warriors slowly dying down as the attackers lose the advantage of surprise and are slowly beat back by the intensely skilled warriors they've attacked.

He can't help but notice, as it's all calming down, that most of his generals backed away instead of engaging. Stayed out of the fight, willing to let their peace die in front of them when they realized they weren't the targets. 

Zuko can't stop himself, doesn't even try to. Adrenaline flowing through him still, he storms back to his side of the table, slams the sword down between him and the assembled generals who had stood back, letting the metal on metal floor clang loudly in the room.

"You call me the traitor prince," he says, voice cold, dangerous, rising as he speaks. His eyes burn with fire, none of the perfect, neutral and composed prince here. Just an angry, fiery future Fire Lord, disgust for their behavior clear in his voice. "Yet you are traitors to your own people. You, who would allow a guest of peace to be slain before you. You, who would sooner cower back from danger than raise a fist in defense. You are cowards, who shame the very colors you wear, the medals that adorn your bravery simply the trappings of men who wish to be more than they are, who cling to your political power as if it matters more than the lives you are sworn to protect. There is not a shred of honor among you and every single one of you should be ashamed to dare to stand before me in my court today, ashamed by the way you've proven your own cowardice beyond reproach."

He doesn't plan any of it, is hardly even thinking as he spits the final words out, anger and disgust warring in his tone to be the winner.

A thick silence follows Zuko’s words, heavy as the scent of blood in the air. The assembled generals—men who had held their tongues in the heat of battle but now stand with their dignity still somehow intact—stiffen at the rebuke. Some exchange glances, a few look away, and others hold Zuko’s gaze with carefully blank expressions.

Fire Lord Iroh steps forward, his expression unreadable, but there’s no reprimand in his voice when he finally speaks. “Your prince is right.” The words cut sharper than any blade. “You have shown yourselves today, and I will remember.”

Some of the generals flinch. Because those words - I will remember - from a man like Iroh are a promise, not a passing statement. There will be consequences.

But Zuko is still breathing heavily, his arm burning with pain, chest tight with anger, and then-

A hand on his uninjured shoulder.

Chief Hakoda.

The man is looking at him, a quiet steadiness in his eyes, and for the first time, Zuko registers what just happened. He saved him. Instinctively, thoughtlessly, he threw himself into the fire for the man.

Hakoda doesn’t say anything at first. Just nods. A small thing, but full of meaning. A warrior’s acknowledgement. A chief’s recognition.

And then there’s Sokka. Still standing behind him, his breath uneven, his hands still gripping the sword Zuko had thrown him. His eyes, dark and unreadable, flicker over Zuko’s bleeding shoulder, then up to meet his. He looks like he has a thousand things to say and no words to say them.

The peace talks have not crumbled, not yet. But the tides have shifted. The rumors will start before the blood has even dried on the floor.

And Azula’s name, spoken like a banner on the battlefield, will not go unaddressed.

Zuko forces himself to take a steadying breath, to quell the rage at the generals' inaction that had been fueled by the same adrenaline as battle. He meets Hakoda's eyes for the first time, and nods back. Something trickles on his hand and he looks down, notices for the first time that his arm is thoroughly soaked in his own blood, soaked up through the high collar of his shirt and sticky and wet where it drips down his arm into his hand. It's... a lot of blood. He's not shocked by the sight of his own blood, has seen more of it before, but it's definitely a deep wound.

Feet step toward him and he looks up to see his uncle's face, the man's eyes pinned to the way the blood has thoroughly soaked the fabric of his entire sleeve.

Iroh’s eyes flick down to Zuko’s shoulder, the sharpness of his gaze cutting past the fabric to the steadily spreading stain beneath. His jaw tightens, but he does not reach for him, does not scold. Instead, he merely says, “You need a healer.” His tone is composed, but there is something firm beneath it, something unyielding.

Around them, the room is still tense, the scent of blood and sweat thick in the air. The generals Zuko had berated remain stiff, their expressions ranging from shame to irritation. Chief Hakoda steps forward, his expression unreadable as he glances between Zuko and the wound he’s only now noticing the full extent of.

A flicker of something passes across the chief’s face before he inclines his head slightly. “You took a strike meant for me.” It is not a question.

Behind Hakoda, Sokka takes a step closer, his usual easy confidence replaced with something heavier, something unreadable. His eyes track the way the blood has soaked through Zuko’s sleeve, his hands flexing at his sides as if resisting the urge to reach out. Then, he moves.

Zuko watches Sokka weave toward him instead of looking at the Chief while the man speaks, doesn't even look over while Zuko himself replies. It's not the perfect diligence of respect to look away while speaking to someone who is the leader of his people. It's not proper, it's not part of the perfect scripts he always follows in his head, for every princely conversation he's a part of. But neither was berating his generals that bluntly, that harshly, in front of the entire peace conference.

He did it anyway and he does now too, watching Sokka weave his way through the room closer instead of looking at Hakoda when he replies. "Better my arm than your heart," he says steadily. The strike had been a clean shot and Hakoda had been engaged with a man on the other side. "A stab through the back at a peace conference is no way to die." He says it less for Hakoda to hear and more for the people around them. To make it clear what this attempt was, to make it as cowardly of a political move as it was. Someone in this room was involved with this. He's not great at court politics, but he knows that much.

Then he tilts his head, without breaking eyes from Sokka. The other man's just about reached him as he tells Uncle, "I'll head that way," nodding his head slightly.

Iroh gives a small, approving nod, though his gaze lingers on Zuko a moment longer, searching, assessing. There is no argument from him - only a quiet acceptance, though his eyes flick toward Sokka just briefly before he steps back, giving space but not withdrawing entirely.

Chief Hakoda, too, watches closely, though his expression remains composed. He does not press further, does not question Zuko’s choice of words or the way he does not meet his gaze. Instead, he turns his attention to his own council, to the whispers already beginning to spread through the room.

Sokka reaches Zuko’s side just as his uncle steps away, his usual sharp tongue absent, his expression uncharacteristically serious. His eyes flick to the bloodied sleeve, then back to Zuko’s face, something unreadable in them. He does not speak right away, but there’s a tension in his stance, a silent urgency in the way he remains close. Then, with only a glance toward Iroh and Hakoda, he moves as if expecting Zuko to follow.

Zuko falls into easy step behind him, leaves the room with him. They haven't been hiding that they're at least civil and tend to express similar opinions. They're of the same age, are expressing many of the same values at different times in a room filled with far more polarizing opinions from old men (and on Chief Hakoda's elder council, women as well), they haven't seen a need to hide that they've grown at least a low level positive working relationship with each other. Zuko is grateful for that now, because otherwise the way he automatically follows Sokka out of the room would be enough to raise eyebrows in court. There still might be a whisper or two about the two of them being closer than people realized.

He catalogues the three generals who had actually stood and fought with one final glance, looks every general who didn't fight in the eyes with the same steady look, as if memorizing each of their choices in this particular moment, condemning them to memory in his mind.

Once the door closes behind them and it's just the two of them in the wall, he lets himself pause, just breathing for a second beyond the wave of dizziness that's hitting him. Zuko puts an arm on the wound, applies pressure. He should have done so in there, but it felt more important to not show any weakness. Plus, the anger and adrenaline made the wound feel like less of a problem.

Sokka doesn’t speak right away. He’s watching, eyes sharp, gaze flicking from Zuko’s bloodied sleeve to the way he braces against the wall. Then, without a word, he steps closer and reaches for Zuko’s wrist, his grip firm but not rough as he pulls Zuko’s hand away from the wound.

The fabric peels away, dark with blood, and Sokka exhales sharply through his nose. His fingers press just beside the wound, checking the depth, and his jaw clenches when fresh blood wells up in response. "You should’ve let the healers see to this in there, " he says, voice low, but there’s no real bite to it - just something strained, something edged with frustration that doesn’t seem entirely directed at Zuko.

Then he glances up, meeting Zuko’s gaze. His eyes are steady, but his fingers are already moving to tear a strip from the hem of his own tunic. "Come on," he mutters, more to himself than Zuko, as he starts wrapping the makeshift bandage around the wound. "You’re not going to bleed out on me after pulling something that stupid."

Zuko quirks an eyebrow. "Sorry I saved your father's life?" He says, half like he's not actually sure if that's what Sokka's mad about and half wryly. He doesn't protest the bandage being wrapped, barely twitches from the stimulation on the deep, fresh wound even though there's a sharp fire shooting up his arm from the pressure.

Sokka exhales sharply through his nose, not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. "No, idiot," he mutters, securing the bandage with more care than his tone suggests. "I'm sorry you got yourself stabbed doing it."

His fingers linger a second longer than necessary, pressed against Zuko’s arm as if double-checking that the makeshift bandage will hold. Then he finally steps back, looking him over like he’s assessing whether Zuko is about to keel over. "You’re lucky it wasn’t deeper. You should still let a healer look at it before you decide to storm back in there and fight someone else." His voice is drier now, but there’s something underneath it, something taut.

After a beat, he crosses his arms and leans back against the wall, gaze flicking up and down the empty hallway. "So," he says, quieter now. "What do you make of this?" It’s not just about the attack. Not just about the generals standing back, or about the rumors already starting to swirl behind closed doors. His father almost died. Zuko is injured. And peace- peace feels more fragile than it did yesterday.

Zuko's quiet as he starts the slow pad to the healer's office, nodding his head for Sokka to walk with him. "They called my sister's name," He says lowly. "That could mean it was a move spurred by her or could just be someone using her name. Her loyalties are... unclear, to me."

Sokka falls into step beside him, hands still loosely crossed over his chest as he listens. His expression shifts slightly - thoughtful, but with an edge of wariness. "If they’re using her name, they either think she’ll support them or they want people to think she does," he says. "Either way, it pulls her into the fight, whether she wants to be or not."

He exhales, shaking his head. "And if she is involved…" He doesn’t finish the thought. It’s Zuko’s sister, after all. If she had a hand in this, if she wanted to make a move for power, Zuko would be caught in the crossfire one way or another.

Sokka glances at him. "Do you think she knew?" He asks the question carefully, not pushing, but not avoiding it either. "Even if she’s not behind it, do you think she saw it coming?"

Zuko sighs slightly. They've never talked about his sister before. His relationship with her is more complicated than he knows how to explain. "Honestly, I have no idea," He says after a moments quiet. "We're not close." They're only two years apart in age, but it feels like there's a world of difference between them. Has felt that way since Mom wasn't around anymore and suddenly everything was harder, the two of them split to opposite sides of their father’s dangerous favor. He hasn’t seen her since the coup. Hasn’t visited the rooms she’s locked away in, although he knows Uncle goes to see her frequently.

He lets the words sit in the air as he forces himself to think about the political side of this. "That was a significant force to have snuck inside the castle," he says finally, slowly. "Especially since they weren't particularly good fighters." The implication is there. To sneak that many fighters of that quality into the capital at all, nevermind the castle set at the edge of the capital, is improbable. So they must have been found inside the capital and someone betrayed them to let them into the castle or they were found in the castle and about 15 men from the castle betrayed them.

Sokka nods slightly, absorbing the weight of Zuko’s words about his sister but letting them be for now. This wasn’t the time to pry further - though he files the knowledge away for later.

At Zuko’s observation about the attackers, Sokka’s expression darkens. "I was thinking the same thing," he admits. "They weren’t skilled enough to get in on their own. And there were too many of them for it to be a simple mistake." His jaw tightens. "That means someone inside let them in. More than one someone, most likely."

He exhales sharply, rubbing a hand over his face before crossing his arms again. "There will be rumors flying before the day is out. And some of those rumors are going to land on you and your uncle." He glances sideways at Zuko. "That performance in there won you some admiration, but it also painted a target on your back."

Zuko sends him a sideways look right back. "There's never a moment in my life I don't have a target on my back," he says dryly, "and it wasn't for admiration. I didn't really think about it." He says it like he's admitting something. Because for him, that's crazy. He doesn't do anything without thinking about it, let alone something so drastic, loud and decisive. "I was just mad. They think of themselves as holding so much power, but they always, always , just stand there and watch when something happens." 

There's something more personal in his voice than there should be, more of a bitter-edged, righteous anger, and he realizes suddenly that maybe all his anger isn't about them standing and watching this time . Maybe some of it is for all the other times they just stood and watched, when it was their old Fire Lord who was doing the violence.

Sokka is quiet for a beat, but there’s understanding in the way he looks at Zuko - sharp, perceptive, but not pitying. He won’t push, won’t ask for the details behind that bitterness. Not here, not now. But he hears it.

"They didn’t like being called cowards in front of everyone," Sokka finally says, voice low, almost amused despite the weight of the conversation. "But you weren’t wrong. And maybe someone needed to say it." He exhales, shaking his head. "Still. If you weren’t already under scrutiny, you are now. The wrong people will be paying attention after today."

He pauses for a second, then adds, deliberately casual, "Let me know if you need backup." Like it’s nothing, like it’s obvious, like it wouldn’t be a risk for him to openly stand by Zuko if things get worse. Like it isn’t a risk already.

Zuko glances at him, the sharp feeling in his chest once again disrupted by Sokka's easy steadiness. "Your heart is going to be your undoing," he says, and it comes out soft, like a fond warning.

Sokka huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "So I've been told," he says, just as soft. Then, with a sidelong glance, he adds, "But it hasn’t killed me yet."

There's something unspoken in the space between them - Zuko’s sharp instincts, his cold, practiced distance, Sokka’s steady warmth, his ability to trust despite everything. Two people who should have never fit together, standing side by side like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Sokka nudges Zuko lightly with his elbow. "Come on. You’re bleeding all over the floor. If you die of blood loss, I’m blaming you for making me care."

Zuko snorts but keeps walking. About halfway to the healer's room, he starts to think maybe Sokka had a point about him needing to have seen a healer where he was instead of going to the healer. He makes it another few minutes after he starts feeling woozy before he stumbles, left hand jolting out to catch himself against the wall. If he leans maybe a little more of his weight than he means to against it, if his eyes close for a half a second, that's his business.

Sokka is at his side in an instant, one steady hand gripping his uninjured arm while the other hovers near his waist, ready to catch him if he slides further. "Alright, that's enough of that," he mutters, his usual teasing edge gone, replaced with something sharper - concern, maybe frustration.

He shifts so Zuko's arm is draped over his shoulders, supporting more of his weight. "I know you love dramatic exits, but collapsing in the hallway isn’t the best look," he quips, but his voice is quieter, steadier, as if keeping Zuko grounded. Then, more seriously, "You're not walking the rest of the way on your own. Either you let me help, or I carry you, and I promise you, I will make sure everyone sees it."

His expression dares Zuko to argue, but there’s something softer in his eyes, something that says- please just let me do this.

"Well, if you want to play Prince Charming," Zuko murmurs, his voice coming out a thread quieter than he meant it to. He really does feel woozy. For just a moment he questions if the blades had anything on them, any chance of poison. But then again, he did lose a lot of blood. It could be either. He leans against Sokka, lets him take more of his weight than he should as they walk along together.

Sokka doesn’t rise to the bait this time, doesn’t give back some quick-witted remark. He just adjusts his hold, steady and unwavering, keeping Zuko upright as they move. He can feel the way Zuko sags against him more than intended, and that quiets something in him, turns his focus razor-sharp.

When they finally reach the healer’s room, Sokka doesn’t bother knocking, just pushes the door open with his foot and guides Zuko inside. “We need someone now ,” he says, voice firm but not panicked, just the clear, urgent command of someone who is used to being listened to. His grip tightens slightly, as if grounding Zuko to him.

The healer turns at the sound of his voice, eyes widening at the sight of them, or maybe just at the sheer amount of blood. “Set him down,” she orders, already moving for supplies.

Sokka helps ease Zuko onto the nearest cot, his hand lingering at his shoulder for just a moment before he finally steps back, jaw tight, watching every movement the healer makes.

Zuko blinks, looks up to see Healer Isora's hands moving for his arm. "Hey," he greets her, lifting his arm slightly to give her better access, even as his head spins a little. He was a regular in the healer's office most of his childhood, in fact until the last 6 months he'd be in here at least once a week. He knows all the healers pretty well, knows which ones he trusts more than others. Isora is one that he doesn't force his spine straighter at the sight of, doesn't know that however he reacts to treatment will be spread around the castle, so he has to stay as perfect as he can.

Isora's okay. Safe. So he lets himself lean back against the wall as she works, eyes closing for another half-second before he opens them and finds Sokka, watches as the man watches with sharp eyes. It's kind of sweet, the way he's watching over him when he's vulnerable. Zuko's still getting used to the idea of it, but he likes it.

Isora doesn’t say anything at first, just gives him a look that’s somewhere between exasperation and fondness before she starts working. She’s efficient, practiced- cleans the wound with steady hands, checking for anything deeper before reaching for a needle and thread.

Sokka hasn’t moved from where he’s standing, arms crossed over his chest. His brows are still drawn, his sharp gaze flicking between Isora’s movements and Zuko’s face, watching for any sign of real distress. He doesn’t seem entirely convinced Zuko is okay, and Zuko thinks that if Isora weren’t here, he might be saying something about how obviously not okay Zuko is. But instead, he just holds his tongue, eyes dark with something unreadable.

Isora sighs as she threads the needle. “You never come in for small wounds, do you?” she mutters, shaking her head as she starts stitching. “Always have to be bleeding half to death before you show up at my door.”

"Just a princely evaluation of your skills," he murmurs back with a twitch of a smile. He's looser with her, the same way he is with most of the servants, the ones he'll greet by name and stop to have a short conversation with, the ones who smile at him in passing instead of the stiff nods of respect Uncle gets. It's not that Uncle has ever done anything cruel to any of them, not like Father, but it's not the same.

These are Zuko's people. The nobles, the generals, they may be of his nation, but the working people here in the castle, the ones who live in the capital and live in the villages and out on the islands, those are Zuko's people. The ones who are 95% of the people he's in charge of keeping safe, of helping to prosper. The upper class, in Zuko's mind, is more of an obstacle than anything else.

He doesn't flinch as she stitches him up, but he stops watching her, flicks his gaze off to the side and holds Sokka's heavy gaze instead.

Sokka holds his gaze, his expression unreadable at first, but there’s something thoughtful in the way his brow furrows, something considering in the slight tilt of his head. His arms uncross, his stance shifting - not in any defensive way, but in the way of someone settling into a presence instead of merely tolerating it.

He’s watching - not just Zuko, but the way he interacts with Isora. The way he’s at ease here, the way his words to her are softer, easier. The way Zuko, who so often moves through noble spaces like a blade being carefully sheathed and unsheathed, doesn’t wear quite the same armor around the people working in this castle.

Sokka has noticed before, in passing, the way Zuko gravitates toward servants and lower-ranking warriors more than generals and nobles. But standing here now, watching it up close, he understands it better.

“You’re comfortable here,” Sokka observes, voice quieter than before, but no less certain. His gaze flickers to Isora, then back to Zuko. “More than you are out there.” Not a question, just something he’s saying out loud, watching to see if Zuko reacts to hearing it put into words.

Zuko shrugs one shouldered in response, dips his head in acknowledgement. He is . But how else would he be, after a childhood spent with high-ranking people always the ones to knock him down and the servants the only ones that sometimes helped him back up? It had been the chef who helped him have enough to eat when he was growing up, Healer Isora who held his body together when he thought he was going to die by his father's hands years ago.

There's not much to say about it. Sokka and him have shared snippets of their childhoods before, Sokka much more likely to dive into a story about his upbringing whereas Zuko tended to just carefully answer questions if they were asked, at times accidentally revealing something horrible that happened to him simply because it wasn't as bad as other things, so it didn't read as awful in his mind. Zuko knows Sokka has picked up on how he's entirely a mask when he's in court, when he's sitting in meetings. That the Zuko Sokka meets outside the castle is an entirely different man than the one he sees in the halls. He figures the other man's smart, he can put it together himself.

Sokka watches him for a moment longer, eyes sharp in a way that says he is putting it together. Has been, for a while. Zuko doesn’t say much outright about his childhood, but he doesn’t have to. Sokka isn’t blind. He’s seen the way Zuko holds himself in court, the way his words are precise and measured, every movement calculated. He’s seen the way he stiffens when certain men in power speak, the way his sharpest anger is reserved for those who let harm happen and did nothing.

And now, he sees the ease with which Zuko lets himself exist here , among the people who patch him up instead of tear him down. Sokka has always known that Zuko is different from the nobles he shares blood with. But this- this confirms just how much.

He doesn’t push, doesn’t press for more explanation. He just nods slightly, like he’s filing away this piece of understanding, slotting it in with everything else he’s learned about Zuko over the past few months. Then he shifts, letting a hint of a smirk tug at his mouth as he says, “I suppose I should be honored you don’t go all stiff and princely around me , then.”

There’s an edge of teasing to it, but something genuine underneath. Because the truth is, Zuko doesn’t act like that around him, not like he does in court. And Sokka might not say it outright, but he notices . And he doesn’t take it lightly.

A smile curves on Zuko's lips. "You're too much of a nuisance," he says lightly, a fond twist to his voice. He sees Isora glance up at the sound of the fondness in his voice, her eyes flicking briefly to Sokka before raising an eyebrow at him. She won't gossip, he knows. Still, his ears get a little pink as he looks away from her. Keeping Sokka and his relationship a secret keeps getting harder the more he likes the other man.

Sokka huffs a laugh, shaking his head as if to say I’ll take that as a compliment . But his eyes linger on Zuko’s face for just a second longer, catching the way his ears go pink as he looks away. He doesn’t comment on it, but the corner of his mouth quirks up, something knowing in his expression.

Isora doesn’t say anything either, just makes an amused noise under her breath as she ties off the last stitch. “All done,” she says, patting Zuko’s arm with a practiced sort of care before standing. “Try not to get stabbed again before the day is out, hmm?”

Sokka snorts. “That might be asking too much.”

Zuko is probably about to respond, but then Isora adds, slyly, “And you-” she turns her gaze to Sokka, a smirk tugging at her lips. “Make sure our dear prince doesn’t overdo it. Not that he ever listens to me when I tell him to rest.”

Sokka raises a hand in a mock-serious vow. “I’ll do my best.” Then, with an arched eyebrow at Zuko, “Though I doubt he makes it easy.”

Zuko rolls his eyes. "Are you trying to get him to babysit me?" He complains to Isora as he already starts to slowly get to his feet. He still feels a little woozy, but the blood loss dizziness is familiar. He can make it back to his rooms as long as he travels slowly.

Or he could travel the lesser difference to his meeting chambers and take the meeting he had on his schedule for after the peace conference. It's about that time anyway, and really, a meeting is mostly resting. He considers as he lets his head settle once he's on his feet, the world drifting around him slightly before it settles.

Isora gives him a pointed look, unimpressed. “Considering you just stood up like an old man in a storm, maybe you do need a babysitter.”

Sokka, predictably, does not help Zuko’s case. “I’m up for the job,” he says, utterly unbothered, hands sliding into his belt like he has all the time in the world. “Not sure you’d make it ten steps without me.”

Isora sighs, shaking her head as she starts tidying up. “At least try to rest, Zuko.” She glances at him knowingly. “And no , before you say it, a meeting doesn’t count as resting.”

Sokka’s gaze sharpens slightly, picking up on the way Zuko is clearly gearing up to argue the point. “You’re not actually considering going to a meeting right now, are you?” His tone is less teasing now, more dubious. “You just got stabbed .”

"Well, I would just be sitting around if I went to my rooms anyway," he points out, complaint still in his voice as he wrinkles his nose at Isora calling him out, slowly making his way toward the door. "What's the difference between sitting around and sitting around while other people talk?"

“The difference,” Sokka says dryly, falling into step beside him like he has zero intention of letting Zuko walk out of here alone, “is that if you’re in your rooms, no one expects you to make decisions while missing half your blood.”

Isora hums in agreement, not looking up from her work. “And if you pass out in your rooms, the worst that happens is you wake up on the floor. If you pass out in a meeting, I have to stitch you up again after you crack your head open on the table.”

Sokka snorts but eyes Zuko closely. “You are still woozy. Don’t lie.” He pushes open the door for him but doesn’t move aside just yet, standing half in his way. “At least eat something first.”

"I'm not -" Zuko starts, but he stops instead of just brushing past Sokka, which says more than his petulant start of a protest about his wooziness. He lets out a long suffering sigh. "Fine, no meetings til after lunch," he agrees begrudgingly, throwing a look over his shoulder at Isora. "You are a cruel woman," he complains.

Isora smirks, utterly unfazed. “And yet you keep coming back to me. Must be my charm.”

Sokka huffs a laugh, but his sharp gaze hasn’t softened as he steps aside, finally letting Zuko through. “See? Not so hard,” he says, voice light, but there’s an undertone of satisfaction - like getting Zuko to agree to take care of himself is a personal victory.

As they step into the hall, Sokka glances at him sidelong. “Since you’re so put out about it, I’ll even walk with you. Make sure you don’t accidentally find yourself in another meeting.” There’s an easy smirk on his face, but his shoulder brushes against Zuko’s as they walk, steady and grounding.

He lets out a long sigh, like he's irritated, but he doesn't step away and create distance as they walk the empty halls. "You know me too well," he laments as they go

Sokka snorts. “Takes a lot less time than it should,” he says, casting him a knowing look. “You’re predictable in your unpredictability.”

His steps stay even beside Zuko’s, but there’s a quiet attentiveness to him, as if he’s ready to steady him if needed. Not that he’ll say it out loud - Zuko’s stubbornness is a force of nature, and Sokka has no interest in pushing his luck too far.

After a few beats of silence, he glances over again. “So, are you actually going to rest, or am I going to have to really be a nuisance and stick around?” There’s teasing in his voice, but an unmistakable thread of sincerity underneath it.

Zuko hums. "Well," he sighs out, flicking a glance over, "If you trust me not to return to work, I'm sure there is plenty that you're needed for, what with the assassination attempt of your father." It's both an offering of an out and a challenge, a little, the kind like he gives out on the hills, when they're just Zuko and Sokka. The kind of challenge meant to pull Sokka in, to hold him closer instead of push him away. But wrapped with the offer to go without judgement, to fulfill his duty in a way that Zuko understands the need to prioritize.

He keeps his steps slow and steady as he heads toward his room.

Sokka huffs, shaking his head with the kind of exasperation that only comes from understanding someone too well. “Nice try,” he says, dry but amused. “But I do trust you—to be a terrible patient.”

He doesn’t take the out, though. He matches Zuko’s pace easily, keeping just close enough to be a presence without making a show of it. There’s a quiet, shared understanding in the way he walks with him, neither making a big deal out of it nor pretending it doesn’t matter.

“The council is handling the immediate fallout. My father’s fine, and Iroh’s still in there. If anything urgent comes up, they know where to find me.” His lips curve slightly. “Besides, you’re underestimating how much I enjoy being a nuisance.”

Zuko doesn't turn his head toward Sokka at his words, but there's a small, pleased smile on his face. Like he hadn't really expected the challenge to be met. "My, be careful, if I thought any lower of you I'd think you were just trying to get in my bedroom," he says lowly between them, something teasing and light and amused in his tone. He never teases him like this in the castle, never shows the parts of him that he keeps locked away and defended while roaming the halls, but there's no one else in the hall with them and he can always blame blood loss and adrenaline crash for his lack of impulse control.

Sokka snorts, glancing at him with a smirk that’s just shy of smug. “You wound me, Zuko,” he murmurs, matching the low, private tone. “If that were my goal, I’d be much more direct about it.”

His steps remain easy, but there’s something sharp in his gaze, like he’s watching Zuko - like he notices the way this kind of teasing is rare here, the way it’s usually kept to the hills and the open air. He doesn’t call it out, doesn’t press, just lets the space between them stay light.

“But if you’d like to pretend I’m just here for your charm and not because you nearly bled out in a conference hall, by all means.” He tilts his head slightly, his smirk widening. “Tell me more about how irresistible you think you are.”

Zuko huffs out a laugh despite himself. Count Sokka to pick up on the way he keeps shifting the conversation, tilting it away from his injured status and toward something easier, to call him out for it while simultaneously essentially telling him to feel free continuing to do it.

He really loves how direct Sokka always is.

"Shut up," he says, shaking his head slightly with a smile. Unfortunately, shaking his head is not a good idea, no matter how slight. He slows his pace even more, blinks a little harder to clear the stars from his vision.

Sokka’s smirk softens just slightly, though he doesn’t call attention to the way Zuko’s steps slow or the way his eyelids flutter. He just adjusts his own pace to match, shifting a half step closer without making it obvious.

“Ah, a royal decree,” he says instead, still in that light, teasing tone. “I suppose I must comply.”

But he doesn’t actually stop talking, of course. Instead, he lets a beat of silence stretch before adding, “Your room better not be halfway across the damn castle, or I’m carrying you.” And unlike the teasing before, there’s something distinctly not lighthearted about the way he says it.

"Not far," Zuko says, and although he tries to keep the light, easy tone there's something more strained in his voice now. They really are only another couple minute's walk from his room, but it feels like he's been walking for an hour. He definitely waited too long before putting pressure on the wound. “Maybe a couple minutes.”

Sokka picks up on it instantly. He doesn’t comment, doesn’t ask if Zuko’s alright—because obviously, he’s not . Instead, he shifts just enough that if Zuko needs to lean into him more, he can do it without making a show of it. His arm stays at his side, but it’s there, within reach. A silent offering.

“Two minutes, then,” Sokka says, like he’s marking the time out loud for both of them. Like he’s making it a fact rather than a hope. His voice is steady, something firm to hold onto. “You make it there, and I won’t say anything when you collapse dramatically into bed.” A brief pause. “Much.”

Zuko snorts. He does, indeed, make it there and collapse face first onto bed once the door is closed behind him and the only person there to judge him is Sokka. He lets out a long, dramatic sigh before flipping so he's just lounging on the bed instead of flopped face-first and looks at Sokka, watching as the other man takes in his bedroom for the first time. As much time as they spend together, most of it has been pretending they're not close in public and being close out of the castle or in the back garden.

This is a different kind of intimacy.

Sokka takes it in, gaze flicking over the space - Zuko’s space. It’s nothing like the sharp, pristine chambers of his uncle, nor is it the indulgent, over-decorated sort of room that some nobles favor. There’s a quiet sense of lived-in order, but also personal touches. A well-worn chair near the window, maps and books stacked neatly but not untouched. It’s his , not just a place he sleeps.

Sokka’s sharp eyes settle on Zuko again, something thoughtful in his expression. “Not what I expected,” he says, voice still easy, but there’s an undercurrent of something else, something quieter. He steps closer, like he’s stepping into something more than just a room. “Though, I’m not sure what I expected.”

Zuko shifts over, pats the bed beside him. "I hope I exceeded your expectations instead of falling below the mark," he says lightly, watching him fondly as he looks around.

Sokka huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head as he steps closer. “You always keep the bar so high, Zuko. Hard to say.” But there’s a flicker of something softer in his expression, in the way he watches him now. The way he always watches him when they’re alone, when Zuko lets down the edges of his mask.

After a beat, he sits beside him, careful but not hesitant. “You should sleep,” he says, even as he stays right there, close enough that their shoulders brush.

"Come here," Zuko says instead of agreeing or denying, holding his good arm up in a clear snuggle me motion. He's not usually so verbally clingy, but then again, he is the one constantly initiating play-fighting and wrestling and more risque activities. He likes touching Sokka, likes the way their bodies fit together. He hasn't had a lot of positive touch in his life and he plans to make it all up in the moments he gets with Sokka.

Sokka lets out a low chuckle, but there’s no real resistance in him as he shifts closer, sliding in beside Zuko. “You really are helpless right now, huh?” he murmurs, teasing, but his arm comes around him easily, pulling him in without hesitation.

He’s careful of the bandages, but other than that, he holds Zuko like he always does - firm and steady, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His fingers find the hem of Zuko’s shirt, tracing absentminded circles against his skin.

“You should actually sleep, though,” he murmurs, even as he leans in to press a brief kiss to Zuko’s temple. “I’ll still be here when you wake up.”

Zuko leans his head against Sokka's chest, letting the sound of his steady heartbeat, the rise and fall of his chest, become half his world. The idea of sleeping doesn't actually sound that bad right now. His body needs to replenish some of that blood, anyway. His eyes slide close while he's thinking. "I'll hold you to that," he murmurs, body relaxing.

He slips into sleep much, much quicker than he ever does when he's trying to fall asleep at night. It's easy, when he's curled up against Sokka, the man his pillow, Sokka's arm loosely around him, fingers idly playing on his skin, heart lulling him.

Sokka stays still, feeling the way Zuko’s body relaxes into him, the way his breathing evens out far quicker than usual. He’s seen Zuko exhausted before, seen him push himself beyond reason, but this - Zuko just falling asleep so easily, so openly against him - is different. It makes something deep in Sokka’s chest tighten, something warm and fierce and protective all at once.

He shifts just enough to get more comfortable without disturbing Zuko, his fingers still tracing idly over his skin. He doesn’t mind staying like this. In fact, he wants to.

Zuko is always bracing himself for something, always holding some part of himself back. But here, like this, he’s just breathing , just resting . And Sokka will make sure no one disturbs him.

It's not until later that a soft knock rings on the door and it creaks open without waiting for a response. The only person who does that is Iroh, after he figured out that waiting for a response only made Zuko more anxious instead of feeling like his space was being respected.

Zuko, ever the light sleeper, shifts in his sleep at the soft knock and door opening. But he doesn't completely awaken, something that's entirely out of character for him. Sokka has no idea how out of character it is, not really, since the two have never actually slept beside one another.

Iroh steps inside quietly, his gaze immediately landing on the two figures on the bed. His sharp eyes flick from Zuko - who, notably, is still asleep despite the intrusion - to Sokka, who is very much awake and watching him.

Iroh tilts his head slightly, assessing. Zuko never sleeps this deeply, not unless he’s absolutely drained beyond reason. And even then, he tends to wake at the slightest sound. That he hasn’t now, that he’s still tucked against Sokka without even a flinch, says more than words ever could.

His expression doesn’t betray much, but Sokka can see the gears turning behind his eyes, the way he catalogs this information before he finally speaks, voice pitched low.

“I assume there’s a good reason my nephew is still unconscious.” His gaze flickers briefly to Zuko’s wrapped wound, then back up to Sokka. “And that you’ll give me the truth of it.”

Sokka doesn’t move, but his grip on Zuko instinctively tightens, just slightly. Not in a possessive way - just protective. His gaze meets Iroh’s steadily, the way it would if he were speaking to Hakoda or any other leader he respected.

“He lost a lot of blood,” Sokka says evenly. “He was on his feet longer than he should’ve been after getting stitched up. He was dizzy when we got here.” He glances briefly down at Zuko, still tucked against him, then back up. “I think he finally hit a wall.”

Iroh studies him, quiet for a beat too long. Sokka recognizes the look - Hakoda has a version of it too, the kind of scrutiny that dissects a person piece by piece, looking for weakness or intent or danger . It doesn’t unnerve Sokka, but it does make him sit up a little straighter, like he’s suddenly being tested.

“Convenient,” Iroh murmurs, gaze shifting briefly to the way Zuko is curled against him, then back.

Sokka doesn’t bristle, but he understands exactly what’s being implied. Zuko might be willing to trust him - maybe even like him - but Iroh? Iroh is the sort of man who wouldn’t take anyone at face value, especially not the son of the enemy leader getting close to his nephew in the middle of delicate peace talks.

“It wasn’t planned, if that’s what you’re asking,” Sokka says smoothly. “I didn’t make him bleed all over the council floor, I didn’t convince him to be stubborn about walking here on his own, and I definitely didn’t drug him into sleeping this deeply.” His voice is even, maybe even a little wry. He shifts slightly so Iroh has a clearer view of Zuko’s face - not in a way that feels like a challenge, just open. “He just… fell asleep. Maybe because he finally could. ”

Iroh doesn’t respond immediately, but Sokka can feel the weight of his scrutiny settle heavier.

“You don’t sound surprised.”

Sokka huffs a quiet breath. “I’m not.” He hesitates for only half a second before he adds, “He’s different outside the castle.” He doesn’t mean it as an insult, just an observation. “He lets his guard down more. Not completely, but… more. I didn’t expect it to happen here, but I do know he doesn’t get much rest.” He lets his eyes flick up, meeting Iroh’s again. “I assume you already know that.”

Iroh doesn’t answer, but he also doesn’t have to.

Zuko stirs from the noise but doesn't wake up completely, just shifts his face closer into Sokka, tucking his face into the crook of his neck in a way that shows he's obviously done it many times before, if he's doing it this naturally in his sleep.

Sokka stills at the movement, instinctively tightening his hold just a little as Zuko tucks himself closer, pressing his face into the crook of his neck like it’s the most natural thing in the world. And maybe, in some ways, it is . He doesn’t think Zuko is this trusting with anyone else - not here, not in this castle. But he is with Sokka .

That, more than anything, is what Sokka thinks Iroh is really watching.

The older man’s expression doesn’t shift much, but Sokka doesn’t miss the way his gaze flicks down to where Zuko has burrowed in against him, nor the way his fingers flex slightly at his side, like he’s fighting the urge to do something. Adjust a blanket? Brush Zuko’s hair back? Wake him up so he can prove to himself that Zuko is choosing this, that it isn’t something Sokka has somehow manipulated him into?

Sokka doesn’t offer any reassurances. If Iroh wants to believe he has some kind of ulterior motive, Sokka can’t stop him. But he can be honest.

“I know what this looks like,” he says after a moment, voice quiet, even. “And I know why you’re wary.” His fingers trail lightly along Zuko’s spine, not enough to wake him, just enough to be comforting. “But whatever you’re thinking - whatever you’re worried about - it isn’t that.”

Iroh’s eyes narrow slightly. “And what is it, then?”

Sokka glances down at the man curled against him, his voice softer when he answers. “Zuko needs a place to rest.” His gaze flicks back up, steady. “I just let him have it.”

Zuko stirs again when the voices continue, his brain's instinct to wake him when something in his environment changes finally beating out the way his body insists that nothing could be wrong as long as Sokka's breathing is steady beneath him, as long as his arm is firm around him and hand idly trailing across his skin through his shirt.

He shifts groggily, opening his eyes and pulling his face out of the crook of Sokka's neck but not pulling away from the man, just rubbing at his face with his good arm and looking around. His dark hair is a fluffy mess and his face is drawn with the tiredness that comes with blood loss. He blinks at his uncle, standing partway in the room, staring at him. Where Sokka and him are... cuddling... on his bed. Well. This is... awkward. He sure feels awake now.

He shifts up into a sitting position, pulling out of Sokka's space slightly but not completely moving away from him. Not pushing away his arm or drifting from where their legs are pressed against each other's. "Uncle," he greets tiredly, gaze flicking between Sokka and the man. "I didn't hear you come in," he says, a bit surprised that he didn't wake up from the door opening.

Iroh watches him carefully, taking in the slow, groggy movements, the way he rubs his face and blinks at him with lingering exhaustion. He sees, too, how Zuko sits up but doesn’t fully move away from Sokka, leaving their legs still pressed together, leaving Sokka’s arm where it is.

That, more than anything, is what makes Iroh’s lips press into a thinner line.

“I imagine you didn’t,” Iroh says, voice calm but edged with something thoughtful, assessing. “You were deeply asleep.”

Zuko frowns slightly at that, eyes narrowing in the way that means he’s trying to figure out why Iroh is commenting on that specifically.

Iroh doesn’t make him ask. He takes another step into the room, glancing briefly at Sokka before his gaze settles on his nephew. “When was the last time you slept that deeply, Zuko?”

Zuko blinks at him, and Iroh watches the way his nephew hesitates. Watches the flicker of realization pass through his face as he comes up with no immediate answer.

Zuko doesn’t sleep deeply. Zuko doesn’t sleep deeply ever .

Iroh already knew that, of course. He’s watched his nephew run himself ragged for years, never letting himself fully relax, never allowing himself to be anything less than alert. Even when Zuko was younger - especially when Zuko was younger - his body always stayed tense, as if he was ready to defend himself at any moment.

And yet, here he is, just waking now after Iroh opened the door and spoke aloud .

Iroh lets that truth settle between them for a moment before he speaks again. “It seems you feel quite safe,” he says, his voice quiet, measured. “Safe enough to let your guard down. Safe enough to sleep.” His gaze flicks briefly to Sokka again. “Safe enough to trust him.”

Zuko doesn’t deny it.

He doesn’t agree , either, but he doesn’t need to.

Iroh already has his answer.

His ears grow slightly pink at the frank way his uncle says it, the open emotional vulnerability of it all. "Yes," he agrees after a moment, because he does trust Sokka, and it's not something he's willing to pretend is wrong, definitely not to his uncle. "I do," he says quietly. Uncle already knew he liked him, already knew that they're in this maybe-dating thing they're in, but this is different. 

This isn't just a shared crush, it's intimacy, it's trust, and he finds himself realizing that maybe Uncle didn't realize the extent of what Zuko feels for Sokka.

Iroh exhales slowly, his sharp eyes studying Zuko’s face, the pink dusting his ears, the way he admits it - quiet, sure, without hesitation once he decides to say it at all.

There’s a long beat of silence, weighted and careful. Then Iroh finally speaks.

“I see,” he says, and there’s something softer in his tone now, not quite approval, not quite concern, but something considering. Something understanding .

He glances to Sokka again, his expression unreadable, before his attention returns fully to Zuko. “Then I hope your trust is well-placed.” It’s not a threat, not exactly, but it is pointed , because Zuko’s judgment - while sharp, while keen - has been wrong before. Has been misled before. And this? This is not the kind of trust Iroh takes lightly.

He shifts, glancing toward the door before saying, “I came to check on you after the attack.” A pause, then, “But I can see that you’re in good hands.”

His lips twitch faintly, dry amusement threading through his tone, though his gaze flicks to Sokka once more - measuring, watching. Waiting to see what he does with all of this.

"Thanks," Zuko says, a little awkward, a little unsure what to say. Because this isn't a moment they've ever had before, he's never taken a lover he trusted enough to have in a space they could be caught by his Uncle doing anything, and somehow being caught cuddling, being caught sleeping deeply, feels like a more intimate thing for his uncle to have walked in on than anything else. It's, at least, less embarrassing than anything more... intense would have been.

He glances at Sokka, too, following his uncle's gaze subconsciously.

Sokka, who had been quiet through the exchange, finally moves - not away from Zuko, but just enough to sit up properly beside him. His arm, though loosened, still rests against Zuko’s back, grounding, steady. His expression is composed, sharp-eyed as ever, but there’s something more serious in it now.

“Fire Lord Iroh,” he acknowledges, his tone neither defensive nor overly polite, but even. Honest. “I don’t take his trust lightly.”

And that’s the truth of it, unvarnished, free of courtly pretense. He knows what Iroh is asking without asking. He knows the weight behind that measured gaze, the unspoken warning wrapped in his words. But Sokka also knows himself and he knows Zuko. Knows that this thing between them, whatever they’re shaping it into, isn’t something he’s careless with.

He meets Iroh’s gaze without flinching. “You don’t have to approve of me, but I won’t betray him.” His voice is steady, certain, not a promise made lightly.

A small smile curves across Zuko's face as he watches the interaction, the steady honesty that he's always liked about Sokka, even from their first interaction. He's not afraid to cut through the courtspeak and say something frankly, and Zuko loves that about him.

"You can stop mother-henning, Uncle," he says dryly, voice a bit lighter than normal as he flicks his gaze back to his uncle, small, pleased smile still in place. Like he's been given a small prize, a look that's not often on his face in the castle walls but Sokka is well familiar with.

Iroh exhales through his nose, an expression caught between exasperation and something softer flickering over his face. He looks at Zuko, takes in that rare, genuine lightness in his expression, and shakes his head.

"I’ll stop mother-henning when you stop giving me reason to, nephew ," he says, dry but not unkind. His gaze flicks briefly to Sokka again, assessing, weighing something. Then, with a slight nod, he steps back toward the door.

"You’ll need to eat soon," he reminds Zuko, because he knows how Zuko is when left to his own devices. "And you’ll need your strength for the council meeting later. They’ll be circling like vultures after today."

There’s meaning layered in those words, more than just a casual warning. Be ready. Be careful. Be aware of what this means.

Then he’s gone, the door clicking shut behind him, leaving Zuko and Sokka in the quiet once more.

Zuko turns to Sokka, pokes him in the shoulder. "I don't think I've ever seen you look like such a little nobleman," he teases him, but that same pleased smile is still stubbornly tugging at his mouth, a warmth in his eyes

Sokka huffs a laugh, catching Zuko’s hand before he can poke him again and holding it in place against his shoulder. "Don’t get used to it," he says, his voice full of dry amusement. "I don’t make a habit of giving formal declarations of intent to overprotective uncles."

But he doesn’t let go of Zuko’s hand right away. Instead, his thumb brushes absently over Zuko’s knuckles, his sharp eyes taking in the warm expression still lingering on Zuko’s face.

"You look happy," Sokka notes, quieter, something almost tentative in his voice. "That’s not a face I get to see much in the castle."

Zuko huffs a laugh, flicking his gaze away and back again. "We don't get to be alone much in the castle," he says softly, not denying it

Sokka hums, a thoughtful sound as he watches Zuko, fingers still lightly tracing over his knuckles. "No, we don’t," he agrees, just as quiet. His gaze flicks to the door Iroh left through for a brief moment before settling back on Zuko.

"But maybe," Sokka continues, a slight smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, "now that your uncle’s given his approval, we should start taking advantage of that a little more." His tone is teasing, but there’s an underlying sincerity to it, something warm and real in the way he looks at Zuko - like he wants that, to be beside him more often, even in the place where Zuko is most guarded.

Zuko laughs softly, a real warmth to his face. "Careful," he says softly, leaning in slightly, his face only inches from Sokka's, breath ghosting across his face, "You're gonna start to make me think you like the grumpy prince as much as the Zuko of the hills."

Sokka tilts his head slightly, a smirk still playing at his lips. "Maybe I do," he murmurs, voice low, teasing, but there’s an undeniable honesty to it. His hand shifts, fingers brushing lightly against Zuko’s jaw before he leans in just a fraction closer, like he's testing the space between them.

"You forget," Sokka continues, his gaze flicking between Zuko’s eyes and his lips, "I like a challenge." A beat passes, his thumb briefly skimming over Zuko’s cheekbone. "And you, Zuko, are my favorite one yet."

Something warm blooms in Zuko's chest at the words, the same flutter of a crush that he gets anytime Sokka is like this, treating him like a precious thing, like a favored thing, his words full of honesty and care even in their teasing.

He leans forward, connecting their lips in a soft, sweet kiss. Leans his forehead against Sokka's. "I'm glad you find me challenging," he says lowly, lightly, the teasing in his voice taking a backseat to the overwhelming fondness.

Sokka lets out a soft hum against Zuko’s lips, his hand settling lightly at his waist, grounding but not holding, like he wants to keep touching but is content just being close.

“I’d be bored otherwise,” he murmurs, the smile in his voice unmistakable. He presses the faintest kiss to the corner of Zuko’s mouth, barely more than a breath, then pulls back just enough to take him in, the warmth in his eyes a perfect match for the one settled deep in Zuko’s chest.

For a moment, there’s nothing else - no politics, no peace talks, no expectations. Just them.

"You're getting sappy on me," Zuko says, but it comes out more of a compliment than a complaint, something undeniably pleased and just happy in his voice, in his face.

Sokka chuckles, the sound low and easy. "Don't get used to it," he warns, though the smirk on his face makes it clear he's lying. His thumb brushes lightly over Zuko’s side, a small, absent touch like he can’t quite help himself.

"But," he adds, tilting his head slightly, voice dropping just enough to be something softer, something quieter, "I don’t mind if you like it."

Zuko's good arm shifts, moving closer like he's being pulled in by a magnet as he tucks a stray hair back toward Sokka’s ponytail. "Who said I liked it?" He asks teasingly, but his smile is still warm, his eyes looking at Sokka like he's something cherished.

Sokka huffs a laugh, tilting his head into Zuko’s touch just slightly, like he’s indulging in it, like he’s letting himself be taken in by the moment. "Oh, my mistake," he says, voice rich with amusement. "You must be suffering then."

“Terribly,” Zuko murmurs back, matching amusement in his voice. 

Sokka’s hand drifts up, brushing his fingers lightly over Zuko’s jaw before settling against the side of his neck, warm and steady. "Want me to stop?" he murmurs, the tease in his voice softer now, threaded through with something fonder, something more serious underneath it.

"Never," Zuko says warmly, honestly, before closing the distance and kissing him again

Sokka meets him halfway, lips curving into the kiss, steady and sure. His hand stays at Zuko’s neck, thumb brushing slow, absentminded circles against his skin. There’s no urgency in it, no rush - just something deep and steady, something that says I’m here, I’m staying .

When he finally pulls back, just enough to rest his forehead against Zuko’s again, his breath is warm between them. “Good,” he murmurs, voice still laced with quiet fondness. “Because I don’t plan on stopping.”

The peace treaties still need to be handled. There will be months of work in constant meetings, countless death threats, the deposing of generals, years of recovery for both their lands before they even see the benefit of peace time. But that’s all outside these walls. Right now, tucked in Zuko’s bed together, the future can wait.