Chapter Text
The crowd cheers.
Zuko’s surrounded by an array of squeaky rubber soles and skinned elbows, but he can’t focus on his teammates through the harsh scrutiny of the crowd.
His shoulders sag under the pressure, his heart pounds between his ears, and yet the audience still drills their anticipation right through the court. Their chaos is suffocating Zuko, not giving him enough space to think.
From somewhere behind him, someone makes a dig, the pounding impact rippling through the court.
As Zuko approaches the net, he feels the weight of every eye in the stadium. He calls for the ball—yells, screams—to no avail. No one can hear him.
With sinking dread, Zuko watches his confused setter push the ball out of their hands.
The ball soars through the air, and it’s meant for Zuko. The crowd is begging for victory, chanting indiscriminate nonsense, yelling louder and louder.
The intensity of their sound cracks the brittle floorboards beneath Zuko’s feet.
He pulls his arms back, jumps as high as he can.
The remaining court and net crumble beneath him, and now he’s floating through a void. All that remains is the cacophony in the stands, swelling to fill the space.
He swings--
--strikes empty air.
The crowd collectively gasps, and panic blooms in Zuko’s chest.
In the horrid silence, he lands empty handed in empty space and watches as the ball falls more slowly than he ever dreamed possible, his mistake suspended beside him, and he can’t do anything but watch.
The crowd recovers and begins to jeer, fierce enough to rattle Zuko’s brain around his skull. Yet somehow, the ball hitting the ground is even louder, cracks of thunder cutting through the mob’s rageful cries.
Boom. Knock. Boom. Knock. Boom.
Knock.
Zuko startles awake.
The sound is odd, since nobody on campus enters his apartment, let alone knocks on his door?
The timing is also strange. It must be the wee hours of the morning, based on the absence of sunlight, and furthermore, based on his pounding headache, he did not make good enough choices last night to warrant even the faintest notions of productivity, let alone intruders, until at least three o’clock in the afternoon.
He rolls over, pulling his blanket with him, and flings a leg out.
But his leg does not find the other side of his mattress; it finds the unforgiving open air. The momentum almost yanks him to the floor before he steadies himself with an elbow.
What the fuck.
The knocking returns, and Zuko grumbles as his eyes adjust to the dark.
This… this is not his room. In fact, this may as well be a closet. The undecorated walls are pushing the nightstand and shelving unit into Zuko’s personal space, and if he straightened his dangling leg, he could probably kick items off the shelves and send them tumbling onto the nondescript carpet.
He glances down at a half-zipped, leaning tower of suitcases. The wrinkled luggage tags and random articles of clothing sticking out of the pile belong to him, but he has no recollection of packing. Or leaving his apartment. Or traveling here.
At least if he’s been kidnapped, the criminal was considerate enough to provide him with a few personal effects.
Zuko sucks in a ragged breath, and the air is unfamiliar, hot and full of earthy spices.
He takes in another breath, brewing in his own sweat, searching for notes of chamomile or lavender or whatever calming agents Uncle had once suggested for the tightness in his throat and his racing heart and his shaky hands.
Oh no.
Maybe that’s actually the smell of weed, soaked into the fibers of his sweatshirt. Was he both drunk and high yesterday?
Someone clears their throat, and he snaps his attention back to the room’s lone wooden door.
“Zuko?” a familiar voice says. “I thought you would appreciate breakfast before I open.”
Oh, they must be inside Uncle’s apartment, tucked right above his pocket-sized teashop in a nameless town, hours away from anything of importance.
The stack of suitcases in the corner now mock him. You brought half of your wardrobe? You don’t even remember your own arrival, and you had the audacity to think Uncle wants you in this apartment for a pack-half-of-your-clothes length of time?
The suitcases have a point. The last time he stayed here, he was a knobby-kneed preteen with braces and an attitude problem.
He’s much older now, though, so he must’ve… well.
He has definitely fucked up.
“Uncle?” he blurts out when he has the wherewithal to generate a response, pinching the bridge of his nose to counteract the pressure behind his eyes.
“Zuko?” his uncle repeats.
How is Zuko supposed to answer him? It was a mistake to allow this amount of undiluted alcohol to marinate in his body overnight. It was yet another mistake to arrive here, so far-flung from campus, before consulting his sober brain.
An undo button of cosmic proportions would be nice right about now.
“I hate this,” he says out loud to nothing and no one, afraid to elaborate because he may summon vomit instead of words.
“Good, you are up! I’ll see you in the kitchen. I’ve prepared some food. And some tea of course.” Uncle’s voice fades as he walks back down the hallway.
Zuko wants to disappear—open the window in this cursed beige room and run. Maybe the real world awaits him just beyond those panes of glass.
He rolls out of bed, ready to escape this nightmare, but the movement is too much, too soon. His stomach lurches upwards, and he chokes down the hangover attempting to exit his body. His mouth has the remnants of something artificial, too sweet to be anything but poison, swirling around in his battery acid saliva. The combination is foul, and he gags again.
He’s in no shape to run anywhere.
How he manages to remain upright during his perilous voyage down the hall is beyond his own understanding of the human body’s limitations. Every heartbeat aggravates the deep ache in his temples and each step sloshes his internal organs from side to side so violently that he can’t be sure this apartment isn’t the open ocean.
He collapses at the first lifeline, a rickety wooden chair next to a tiled breakfast table. Uncle places rice porridge and green tea next to Zuko, and even though Zuko appreciates the gesture, he presses his face into the table, unable to even look at it for fear of becoming more ill.
“You don’t look well,” Uncle says.
It seems as though they’re skipping normal pleasantries in favor of addressing the disaster at hand. Or maybe they have already exchanged pleasantries and the black void of yesterday swallowed those discussions whole.
Zuko slides his face to a new tile, cool against his sweaty skin, and asks, “Why am I here?”
“You came here of your own volition.” Zuko bristles, and Iroh quickly amends, “Okay, I picked you up and drove you here but only after you asked me many, many times.”
Iroh places his chunky iPhone on the table.
“You left me over fifteen minutes of voicemails. I can only hope other uncles are lucky enough to receive such… pontifications for posterity.” If there is mirth in Iroh’s tone, Zuko pointedly ignores it.
Iroh scrolls to the first recording and hits play.
They listen to the muffled shufflings of packing. Zuko closes his eyes and tries to bridge the gap between yesterday’s drunk Zuko and today’s hungover Zuko. If he can remember, form enough of a telepathic connection, perhaps he can tell his past self to shut up and prevent whatever mortifying tirade that’s about to blast through the speakers.
Five seconds pass. No words come out. Another five pass, and Zuko relaxes a little.
Uncle said fifteen minutes, but maybe those are empty recordings. Maybe it’s fourteen and a half minutes of him stuffing his life into three suitcases and two duffle bags, and in the home stretch, the final thirty seconds, he’ll say “Hello, my favorite Uncle. I apologize for calling so late. Would it be alright with you if I stayed in your apartment for a few days?”
Blackout!Zuko shatters those hopes by slurring out, “Hey… Zuko here.”
The recording continues, “Whatever, you knew that already.”
“I’m sorry,” Zuko croaks, “I—” but Uncle gestures back to the phone.
“I’m taking a break.” In the background of the voicemail, the last of his suitcases fall to the floor with a bang. “Or, uh… I guess it’s more like the team and I both separated. Mutually. They didn’t break up with me or anything, it’s not like they sat me down and said ‘Zuko, it’s not us, it’s you.’ I haven’t told them that I’m moving out. But also we’re not together.”
“You expand on that relationship metaphor for a long while,” Iroh says, skipping to the next recording. Zuko’s never wished to astral project more.
“Hi Uncle. I’ve suffered an injustice. An unfair injustice. An unfair, unethical, not… fair… listen! I don’t even have that many sanctions! Okay, maybe I was a little out of line. In a few situations. But how dare they—I mean, me? A starter? A program legacy? What are they going to do? Good fucking luck to them—who is gonna play middle in a few weeks when conference play starts? Harrison? Like he did any of the offseason workouts. Or like he doesn’t get fucking blocked every time he swings… The stupid fucking rule book. There are so many other players with sanctions!”
Again, Uncle takes mercy upon Zuko and skips to the next message.
“Your dumb mailbox cut me off. I dunno what I’ve said. You’re always telling me about dark and light clouds or whatever and eating silver sandwiches. So this is me, taking a big, juicy bite out of my silver sandwich. And this sandwich is telling me ‘actually, fuck this team.’ They think they’re the number one ranked team in college, but I know better. I know the mandatory team-bonding and the hours of analyzing game tapes and the five am conditioning and of course the conduct book are fucked. The entire thing is a joke.”
Uncle keeps playing snippets of voicemails, and the deeper they sink into Zuko’s drunkenness, the more they hear him losing composure.
“I’m so fucking tired. My body hurts all the time, I lose sleep at night. Everyone is always telling me to do better. It doesn’t matter how hard I work, it doesn’t pay off. Like, fuck the training plans. I don’t want to do this anymore.” It’s becoming harder to decipher what he’s saying. On top of the intoxication, his words are muffled, almost like he’s… “Fuck whoever said you can’t have cake and eat it too.”
He’s eating a grocery store sheet cake. With his bare hands. The leftover proof is still woven between his teeth, and his stomach sours.
Great, now he’s also ruined sheet cake for himself.
“I’m unhappy. I was unhappy on the team and now… And now, I’m still not fucking happy.”
Heat rises to Zuko’s face, and he flinches against his unbearable honesty. It is unheard of for a Sozin to struggle in Caldera’s volleyball program. So admitting to those struggles—recording them and sending them out into the world—should get him banished. Right out of the known universe.
Uncle taps through the final messages.
“Can you come pick me up? I don’t know where to go.”
“It’s a big ask—but do you still have a spare room?”
“Can I stay? With you?”
“Okay, enough!” Zuko reaches over and flips the phone upside down. “We are never talking about this again.”
It’s the wrong thing to say. Zuko stares at the neon blue frosting still caked under his nails, avoiding Uncle’s eyes and hoping to also avoid the consequences of his own actions.
The pin drop silence stretches and stretches before Zuko finally spits out, “Shouldn't you be at work already?”
“My start time is flexible. Life is full of wavy deadlines,” Iroh says.
“Ugh, forget I asked. Leave me here to die in peace.” Zuko threads his fingers through his hair, pulling tight to give him a distracting sensation. Something to focus on, an anchor to ground himself while his body suffers against his will. He squeezes his eyes shut, to the point of seeing stars, only to open them and trace the swooping patterns on the tile floor.
“The bathroom is across the hall.” Iroh gently adds, “There’s a bucket by your feet as well, in case the toilet is too far.”
“I’m fine,” Zuko snaps, still looking downwards, “I don’t need your help.”
“Suit yourself,” Iroh says. “I’ll be downstairs until 6:30. Call me if… well, anyway, you have my number.” He leaves the food and walks out of the kitchen.
The front door closes. The lock slides home. Zuko counts six unsteady breaths before dragging himself to the bathroom.
He is fine. This is fine.
Zuko vomits the instant he reaches the toilet.
His stomach settles, but his skin is boiling and his lips are crusty and bile clings to the back of his throat. Using the bathtub’s ledge, Zuko pulls himself underneath the faucet, blasting cold water and allowing it to wash over his hair and neck.
Shivering, he tugs a towel off a nearby hook, tucking it under his head to lay on the floor, and he wishes the past twenty-four hours would just wash away, too.
%%%
The next time he wakes, the violent aspects of the hangover have mostly dissipated, although his tongue is plastered to the roof of his grainy mouth. He lays on the bathroom floor a few minutes longer, wondering if his entire life has gone up in smoke.
Maybe he should become an accountant? Do accountants have lives?
He gulps down faucet water, and unfortunately the newfound hydration grants him the strength to check his messages.
27 notifications. Zuko doesn’t even like twenty-seven people.
A few messages from Azula, cussing him out, some from Mai, demanding a call back, and the rest are from teammates, justifying their bullshit and sharing a particular YouTube link.
Zuko clicks it.
He watches, detached, as a clip of yesterday’s exposition match loads. As his team gets a bad call. As he shoves a line ref. As he screams at the head referee mid-court. As he receives a red card, and before walking off, throws a clipboard at his father’s head.
Two white men in tacky sport coats appear on screen, sitting behind a Collegiate Sports News desk.
“Well, Frank, he’s always been out of control. This announcer is happy the league is finally punishing players who are simply put—out of line. It’ll be interesting to see if Coach Sozin will give his son anymore playing time this year after an explosion like that.”
“That’s right, Bradley! He cracked like an egg under the pressure. And who can blame the kid? He’s just not as talented as his father or his sister, and I mean that with no hate. When he’s on he’s on, but he’s lacking the explosive athleticness, the court awareness, the vicious drive, all the stuff that, in my opinion, makes other Sozin volleyball players extra special, award winning champions.”
Zuko sighs and locks his phone. He scuffs back to the closet-bedroom, crawls under the covers, and begs for a respite from consciousness.
The rest of the day passes in bursts of fitful sleep.
%%%
“Zuko, we do need to talk about this.”
That is an unideal start to this dinner. And Uncle says it ten minutes after Zuko’s left bed, a mere hour after his body has recalibrated back to its baseline, ignorable state.
The clock says 7:30 pm, but Zuko is fairly certain he exists outside of time at the moment.
“About what?” he responds.
“What is your plan?”
A few seconds slip by. Zuko picks the remaining blue frosting out from under his nails. On the best of days, while both coherent and sober, he cannot conceive of plans more than three steps long, so under the duress of yesterday...
“I’m going to stay in your spare room, hidden from everybody, until enough time passes that I can safely relocate to some remote corner of the earth, never to be seen or heard from again. Obviously,” he says.
Uncle opens his bag, digging around until he pulls out a stack of papers, fastened with a binder clip.
“I’m serious,” Zuko continues, “I’m not going back there. I can’t be seen around campus.”
Uncle places the papers on the table to say, “Omashu College’s transfer applications are still open. You could start this semester and live here. With me.”
Zuko sneers at the application. “What?”
“I’m saying—if you don’t wish to return to Caldera University, you don’t have to. There are other options.”
“But—” But no Sozin has ever left Caldera. “Omashu’s DIII. I’m not going to a Division III school. That’s humiliating!” Zuko says. His recent life choices have already hit his excruciatingly embarrassing quota for the year. His ego isn’t strong enough to drop two division rankings, too.
“I’m sure the Mothbears could use a talented hitter like you.”
Zuko frowns. “The what?”
“The Mothbears. The proud Omashu mascot for the past one hundred and sixty years,” Iroh says as he gestures to the bottom corner of the papers.
There’s a sketch of an upright brown bear, smiling and pointing at its imaginary audience. For some inscrutable reason the bear has large, spotted wings and long, fuzzy antennas. It’s wearing a yellow hard hat and a tool belt that has large keys dangling from it, and right below the cartoon, simple print reads: Unlock Your Dreams.
“Do you mean to tell me that’s a bear?” Zuko asks, while simultaneously wishing death upon the inspirational message.
“No, Zuko, the sketch clearly shows both the moth and bear elements of the mascot.”
“So what—someone Frankensteined this monstrosity together? And it’s allowed to represent a school?”
“It’s a fictional animal. I think you could grow to appreciate its majesty,” Uncle says. “You may also enjoy many other aspects of playing volleyball at a small school.”
“What do you mean small?” Zuko asks, apprehensive. Caldera had enough students to function as a city, with tens of thousands of students milling around at any given time.
“There are around 300 students in each grade. So about 1,200 total students.” Uncle says.
Anxiety whirls around Zuko’s stomach. It’s not that he can’t make friends—he’s known Mai and Ty Lee since childhood. He speaks to Azula whenever it’s convenient. He was just waiting for the repeated, prolonged exposure with his teammates to develop into friendships. Like how the barista he bought five am espresso shots from eventually learned his name.
The plan hadn’t worked yet, but that’s not to say it wouldn’t. He’s so close to the invisible friendship threshold—starting over now with new people, not to mention people from a puddle-sized population pool, would doom him to certain loneliness.
Uncle is still looking at him, waiting for a response.
Zuko dodges. “Is ugly bear team even good? I’ve never seen a DIII match.”
“Keep an open mind. You may find something you don’t expect. Not every goal needs to be volleyball related.”
Uncle wraps his hands around his tea cup. Another quiet minute passes before he adds, “In fact, many valiant pursuits don’t have any goals.”
Of course Uncle would fucking cloak the knowledge on re-becoming a Sozin in allegory.
Zuko whips out his phone to look up the team’s record. Last year they went a stunning 0-33, not even winning exposition matches at random, unranked tournaments. Past year’s records didn't fare any better; the last time they won a match was over five years ago. So why would Uncle tell him to keep an open mind about this shit show trying to pass as a volleyball team?
Unless.
Unless Zuko, through his talent and sheer grit, could turn the program around. It would be the ultimate test, rehabilitating a group of volleyball clowns to prove that he deserves a spot in the family hall of fame.
He could picture it now: the players gather around him, desperate for his expertise. He whips them into shape, wins the division championship. His father gives him a small approving nod as he accepts his MVP medal, and it’s the same nod Azula’s gotten since childhood. Soon after, the national committee calls him, asking him to join the roster. They win Olympic gold, and reporters swarm to him, asking, “How ever did you do it? After such humble beginnings as a Mothbear, how did you become who you are today?” And he says, “It was no trouble at all. Charity work is good for the soul,” as he signs multiple posters for the fans surrounding him.
Yeah, that’s what Uncle meant. Maybe metaphors do have a purpose.
“You have a few days to think it over,” Uncle says, wrenching Zuko back into reality. “I’d have to drop them off by Friday.”
“So much for wavy deadlines,” Zuko retorts.
“Unfortunately, this particular one is not wavy.”
Zuko scoffs, but Uncle is unreactive, tipping his chin down to scoop up another bite of noodles.
The soft kitchen light accentuates the dark bags beneath Uncle’s eyes. While Zuko got drunk and slept all day, Uncle drove more than half the night. And then worked a full day. And somehow found enough time to make Zuko food and give Zuko applications.
“So, how was the,” Zuko stumbles over his words, “How was the shop today?”
“Very busy. I have a new hire who is still learning how to emotionally connect to the art of tea making,” Uncle says.
“The art of—” Zuko stops to rephrase, “Don’t you just pour hot water over leaves?”
“Because you do not realize how hurtful that statement is, I will forgive you in advance of your apology.” Uncle’s words have no real heat behind them, though, and he smiles softly at Zuko.
The refrigerator hums and the clock ticks, and Zuko rolls Uncle’s proposition around in his brain. This may very well be his best shot at earning back the Caldera throne.
“You know,” Uncle continues, “the captain of the Omashu team is a regular customer. He seems like a very nice boy.”
“Okay...” Zuko says. Why it matters where a loser buys hot leaf water, he’ll never know.
“I think there are a lot of nice boys on the team,” Uncle continues with a confusing confidence.
Zuko crosses his arms. It’s not like he’s desperate enough to befriend temporary teammates, people who’ll soon be distant, unfond memories. “Why would I care about nice when they lose every volleyball game?”
“Perceptive as always, Zuko. Just know that many Omashu students come to my shop, and the boys seem…,” Uncle pauses to make eye contact, “nice.”
Zuko looks back and tightens the grip on his own biceps. Uncle really does seem drained, repeating himself nonsensically.
“Okay,” Zuko says. “Whatever, you think the boys are nice.”
“I think you could be happy here.” Uncle says.
The sentiment is sweet, and if Zuko’s half-baked idea works, he could someday arrive at happiness. This whole Mothbear experiment will be a bump in the road, so tiny and insignificant that years from now, it’ll be a microscopic speck amongst the dust of his other mistakes.
Zuko tucks the transfer application under his arm, and Uncle asks, “Does that mean you’re applying?”
“I’ll think about it,” he says, before returning to his room.
%%%
Zuko arrives at the athletic complex fifteen minutes early. His plan is foolproof: walk into the gym, find the captain amongst the players loosening up for practice, and give his prepared speech, beginning with Hi, my name is Zuko Sozin and ending with you’re welcome. The list of the you’re welcomes--for stooping to this level, for sacrificing his junior season, for throwing away his ranking--will stay hidden.
However, when he opens the gym door, there are no nets, no ball carts, and no players scattered around. He’s standing alone on a scuffed-up wooden floor, and on the far wall, the Mothbear towers above him, fifteen feet tall in faded paint.
Did he read the schedule wrong? He checks the gym’s reservation calendar, and it clearly states, Men’s Volleyball Captains Practice. 3:00 pm. When he selects the reservation, the description reads: Walk-ins welcome.
Walk-ins welcome? If any fucking person can just waltz in here off the street to play, why’s the gym empty?
He throws his bag into the bleachers and sits down.
“Shut up,” he says directly at the twinkles in the Mothbear’s stupid eyes. “It was a good plan.”
Now practice supposedly starts in seven minutes. At Caldera, this egregious level of lateness and disorganization would have warranted hours of team conditioning as punishment. But you aren’t at Caldera, a tiny voice whispers from the back of Zuko’s mind.
He tells the voice to shut up, too.
He watches the scoreboard’s digital clock click closer and closer to three. So help him, if nobody arrives in the next few minutes, Zuko will march back and accuse Uncle of playing a cruel joke because no self-respecting volleyball team would disregard a schedule like this.
It turns 3:01.
Zuko stalks across the gym, half hidden behind the bleachers, reaching for an inconspicuous side exit when the main doors burst open. Two men stumble in, playfully shoving each other and arguing about…
“If you wanted smooth, silky, citrusy skin, you could have asked, and I would have gladly bestowed my gifts upon you.”
“Dude, I didn’t fucking take your dumb flamingo egg! You lost it! I don’t know where it went!”
They unlock a closet and toss two volleyball nets in an ungraceful pile on the floor before gathering more equipment. The thought of Zuko explaining himself—Hello, yes, I do come from the most successful volleyball family ever. No, let’s not analyze how I ended up in this garbage gym—feels ludacris. Zuko tugs the side door open to escape, but the rusty hinges squeal.
“Oh, hey bro! Totally missed you there. You with us today?” one of them calls out, jogging closer to Zuko. He’s tied a bandana around his absurdly spiky hair, and his bleached t-shirt says PLEASE FACE FORWARD in bold print. Zuko cannot tell who or what is meant to face forward, and he doesn’t have the courage to ask.
“My name’s Bumi.” He holds a hand out, wiggling his fingers. “And I’ve never absconded with a teammate's bath bomb in the dead of night and then blamed said bath bomb’s loyal owner for its absence.”
“Fuck off!” The lanky boy yells from across the gym.
“That’s Marlon,” he says, ignoring the ongoing torrent of protest behind him as he shakes Zuko’s uncertain hand. “Now, let me guess…”
Zuko peers at this Bumi, who is rocking from foot to foot and scrutinizing every inch of Zuko’s face.
“I know!” He cries out, “You’re Hei Bai! You vibrate on a similar wavelength to a complex panda I once met, who was also named Hei Bai.”
This guy must be kidding. Volleyball may not be the world’s most popular sport, but Zuko’s known. Generally.
It’s a joke, messing around to see how Zuko responds to being approached like a commoner. Or maybe it’s an original attempt to ask about his scar.
Zuko responds, “What? No?” with what he hopes is a well-meaning laugh.
“What a mistake of the most heinous degree,” Bumi says, blissfully unaware of the desperation in front of him. “I should have considered the curve of your frown. Funnily enough it is an exact replica of my juvenile probation officer. Your name is Zhao!”
Zuko twists his hands around the strap of his gym bag and tries to ask about probation for what, exactly, but he is cut off by more guesswork.
“But of course! When were you gonna tell me you are also Bumi? I already go by Bumi, so you’ll need to use something like Bumi II or Bumi Junior.” With a mischievous light in his eyes, he leans closer to Zuko to say, “Which, between the sick social prowess of us both, we can convince people to shorten to Bum-Ju.” He nudges Zuko’s shoulder, as if this is an inside joke they share.
Clearly Bumi knows how to commit to a bit. Zuko’s never been good at improv, though, so there’s no way he can generate the next fantasy in this ridiculous series. His next best option is to introduce himself.
Stick to the plan and hope it works out for the best.
“What!” Zuko says with more force. “I’m Zuko. My name is Zuko.”
“Zuko,” Bumi says, stretching out the vowels disbelievingly. “Huh. Didn’t see that one coming.”
Okay maybe if Zuko says his full name and summarizes his volleyball resume, Bumi will drop the act. They can move onto more important topics, like a complete run-down of every player’s skill set so Zuko can pinpoint their weaknesses, develop the most effective training plan. He’s never been a captain, per se, but he can’t sit on his volleyball knowledge and watch this team needlessly suffer.
He’s here to help, after all.
But before Zuko can say anything, the side door between them opens. Another player strides in, chin tilted high.
“Oh, didn’t mean to scare you,” this new guy drawls. “I know this place so well, I can move around pretty much unseen.” He eyes Zuko up and down before saying, “I’m Hahn, one of the outside hitters. Let me know if you need any help today. I have a few tips and tricks up my sleeve.”
Hahn glides away nonchalantly, oblivious to the steam curling out of Zuko’s ears. Tips and tricks? Zuko learned his tips and tricks from the best known coaches in the world, practiced tirelessly for the past fucking decade—
“He’s kidding, my dude. Or rather, lemme say it’s much more righteous to pretend that he is kidding, if you’re catching what I’m throwing,” Bumi says with a crooked grin.
Zuko exhales sharply to smother his anger. “What are you, like, from the coast?”
It drips out of his mouth with unintended disdain, and Zuko opens his mouth, ready to panic or backtrack or explain, whatever will patch up this conversation.
But Bumi’s grin only widens. “Thank you for your curiosity. I am most definitely not not from an area that may or may not have coastline,” he earnestly replies, and Zuko’s left in the dark. “Now, c’mon, it is of utmost importance that we prop up the emotional support net before half gallon gets here.”
Is this a reality television show? Is there a camera crew ready to pop out from behind the bleachers and explain to Zuko that this is all orchestrated for a viewer’s entertainment?
Against his better judgement, Zuko follows Bumi back to the middle of the gym, where about ten players are now gathered, sliding knee pads on and aimlessly chatting. He helps tighten the emotional support net, indistinguishable from the other, non-emotional support net, and sits down on the floor, too hesitant to approach anyone.
They wait, and Zuko reties his shoelaces. They wait, and Zuko pretends to be at ease, the team sprawled around the court. They wait, and Zuko wonders why they haven’t started something, anything, despite the clock displaying 3:17 pm, despite having enough people to start.
Yet another set of doors open somewhere behind Zuko.
He squints against the influx of natural light. These doors lead directly outside, and the shining sun temporarily blocks out whoever just walked in.
Once they close, Zuko blinks hard and takes in this new player, piece by piece. He’s wearing a Hawaiian shirt, right over crew socks and crocs. Neither the socks nor the crocs match, in pairs or to one another.
Zuko would keep raking his eyes over this hideous outfit, but he can't look away from the line of piercings adorning this man’s ears. The jewelry gleams and flashes under the gym’s fluorescent lighting, bringing flickers reminiscent of sunlight into their indoor, concrete box.
Those piercings cannot abide by the athletic association’s rules. Does he take them out to play? Tape over them?
This guy says something. He says something, and whatever he says includes the word crackalackin’, but Zuko is too distracted by the logistics of piercing protocols, and he’s missed an instruction. The other players stand up and disperse, leaving Zuko alone on the floor.
“You’re late,” Zuko chokes out at the same time Mr. Ugly Shirt says, “You don’t go here?”
Fuck, this is off Zuko’s script. Maybe if he starts it now, “Hello, I’m Zuko—”
“—Sozin. Yeah, I’m aware.” Ugly Shirt narrows his eyes, suspicion creeping into the corners of his mouth. “Why are you here?”
Zuko scrambles to his feet. “I go here. Now.”
“I can physically see you here in the gym. Why are you here though?”
To regain what I lost. To prove I’m above this. To leave as triumphantly and quickly as possible. He searches for neutral territory, and eventually the words, “To play volleyball,” tumble from his mouth.
“To play volleyball at this school?” The man’s voice rises in pitch, approaching hostile territory. “Zuko Sozin transferred from Caldera to here to play volleyball?”
Zuko wishes he could emulate Azula right now, rearranging conversations in his favor, always ending with the confident upper hand.
It’s barely a question anyway, a simple why, yet it shines right through his incomplete explanations.
Where would why even begin? Sure, recent events pushed him off the edge, but he doesn’t remember when he started crawling toward it. Last year, when he barely made his starting spot? Four years ago, when he trained twice as hard as his high school teammates and couldn’t beat their stats? Ten years ago, when his father signed Zuko’s first club contract?
He can’t open that can of worms. But if he holds his ground long enough, maybe he can still play. Once they see him play, they’ll have to keep him.
“And? Weirder things have happened,” Zuko retorts.
“I don’t think this is the team for you,” the captain says, voice still harsh and eyes still tense.
The rest of the team has started a butterfly drill. They’re a flurry of shuffling and throwing and passing that rotates around the court, leaving Zuko and Captain Ugly Shirt as the epicenter of their synchronized movements.
Zuko stands in stunned silence, the team’s predictable patterns and scripted communication just out of reach.
“Whatever, I guess this is an open practice,” he says, throwing up his hands after considering Zuko for a few more seconds. He walks away, headed for the locker rooms, and says, “And just for the record, I wasn’t late,” over his shoulder.
Not late? Time isn’t a debatable entity, especially for close-minded, croc-wearing people. Also, the right team for Zuko? If anything, these players should beg Zuko to join and somehow bend the rules for him to play every position.
But he can’t bring himself to argue. The only thing more demeaning than joining this team would be fighting the captain within the first five minutes of practice.
So instead, Zuko will behave in a manner fitting of his upbringing. He’ll bite his tongue, dig his nails into his palms, and join this warmup drill, starting off reserved and slowly revealing his superior talents as the drills become more complicated.
He turns on his heel, crashing into something big and blue.
“Woah.” Bumi pops out from behind the saddest AirCat Zuko’s ever seen. “Careful of Lady Bessie, here! She is very conflict avoidant.”
Bumi leans over and flips the switch. The machine lurches to life, chugging like an antique steam engine and vibrating violently enough that the duct tape holding it together may disintegrate. Every few seconds a grinding metallic whine escapes from somewhere inside the geriatric beast, making Zuko itch to put the contraption out of its misery.
The off switch is so close to his hands.
“Would you listen to that kitty purr,” Bumi proudly remarks as he pets the top of it. “Not all of ‘em are as sturdy as her, you know? You ever use an AirCat before?”
Suddenly, reality slaps Zuko across the face.
Bumi wasn’t kidding. He genuinely doesn’t know Zuko. Without the prestige of a Caldera uniform, Zuko is nobody.
Zuko’s old gym had expensive, top-of-the-line equipment. Everything was dark and shiny and rich—warmups that fit like tuxedos and gym floors that reflected like mirrors and championship banners that cascaded from the walls like popped champagne.
And now here he stands, looking at a dilapidated ball-tossing machine at a nowhere school in a nowhere town.
Ugly Shirt steps back onto the court, meets Zuko’s gaze, and rolls his eyes.
Awesome. Somehow Zuko is both a nobody and a bad reputation, a void entity that any captain would chase out of their gym.
An ugly emotion wells up, and Zuko’s too afraid to acknowledge it because he may break something or scream in front of all these strangers and an AirCat that should’ve been euthanized a decade ago. The emotion grows, becoming a heavy, calcified weight in his gut.
Zuko has to leave.
The main doors burst open again, letting in a tall, gangly player with bright eyes and a bald head.
“Bumi!” the newcomer cries out. He races across the gym, effortlessly weaving between teammates without losing pace. “I know what happened to your flamingo egg!”
That sentence unleashes a mayhem Zuko couldn’t begin to understand, and with the team distracted, Zuko slips out a side door.
%%%
“Zuko?” Uncle calls out while rapping on the door. “Are you home?” He sounds unnatural, like he’s performing for an audience.
“Yeah?” Zuko says. “I don’t know what you’re doing, you can come in here.”
“Ah, yes, my talented nephew!” Uncle steps inside and closes the door behind him before continuing in conspiratorial whispers, “You’ll never guess your good luck, Zuko. Sokka is here! That practice must have gone well.”
“What are you talking about?” Zuko responds, “I have no idea who Sokka is. And no, practice was horrible, thanks for asking.”
But Uncle just shushes him to say, “He’s the team captain! And he has something to say, so be polite and pretend to know him.”
“Right now?” Zuko asks.
“That’s what I just said.” Uncle looks at Zuko’s ratty sweatpants. “Is that what you’re wearing?”
“What do you mean is this what I’m wearing,” Zuko frantically whispers back. “I’m—”
Iroh cracks open the door to call down the hallway, “Sokka! Zuko is elated that you have stopped by!” And before Zuko can express his dissent, Iroh opens the door fully, and the same boy from earlier appears, still in his abominable shirt.
“Well, I’ll leave you two here. Good luck this season, Sokka!” Uncle says, beaming. He all but shoves Sokka into Zuko and slams the door behind him.
Zuko lunges backwards only to be kneecapped by the metal bed frame. He bites his lip to cover his wince. It can’t be entirely successful, however, because Sokka’s looking at him strangely, almost on the verge of laughter.
Zuko scowls to kill Sokka’s amusement before crawling onto the bed and leaning against the wall.
It’s not his fault this room wasn’t designed for more than one person.
Sokka scratches the back of his neck, looking at anything but Zuko before asking, “Is it weird that your Uncle’s—”
“Don’t say anything bad about my Uncle,” Zuko interjects.
A heavy silence passes between them. Sokka’s avoidance intensifies. No matter how sharply Zuko stares he can’t catch Sokka’s eyes.
He knows, Zuko thinks. He knows, and I’m fucked.
“Wasn’t gonna, bud,” Sokka says.
Uncle’s pity is bad enough. Zuko refuses to tolerate faux inclusion as well. If Sokka is here to tell him to get lost, they may as well speed up the rejection. “And don’t call me bud,” Zuko spits.
Sokka throws his hands up. “Fuck, okay. I genuinely didn’t know you were related. I came to buy boba, and now I’m here.”
Sokka won’t say what he’s come here to say, and the delay has Zuko’s heart rate skyrocketing and his face flushing. At least his ex-team didn’t pussyfoot around this, making Zuko watch them work up the nerve to say the words you’re cut. And at least his ex-team had real rankings, actual titles, and professional contracts on the line.
Sure, they kicked him off, but that exile held more dignity than whatever this is.
Something snaps. Zuko opens his mouth to fight, but Sokka launches into a frantic speech at exactly the same time.
“Fuck off with this act like you somehow feel bad--”
“I don’t understand what’s going on,
but I definitely don’t get why you’d show up to a practice just to walk out—”
“—started training before I could fucking walk. This program’s never had anyone--”
“—make me feel bad about being cautious.
No idea who you are and they acted like I saw a sick puppy outside in the rain and kicked it—”
“—ever seen a real gym? Like with functioning equipment?”
“--didn’t want to show up here unannounced, trust me,
seeing you randomly this afternoon was bananas enough, but your Uncle found me—”
“--of no consequence. My father’s gonna get me out of this shithole anyway as soon as—”
“--what am I supposed to do? You can’t need this.
I watched you in playoffs last year and this year your team’s predicted to be even better--”
They both stop speaking to take a breath.
“You watch me play?” Zuko asks, concurrent with Sokka’s, “Shithole?”
“You must know this program is well below average,” Zuko answers, as Sokka explains, “Well yeah, not strictly you, but sure, I watch the big men’s games and okay, you happen to be in them.”
Zuko cringes at his word choice. Of course Sokka meant that he watches televised men’s tournaments. He wouldn’t tune in for Zuko specifically.
Before either of them can follow up, they’re interrupted by—
“Boys!” Uncle Iroh bellows. “Tea’s ready!”
“Okay,” Zuko mutters. “Will you please just fucking tell me I can’t be on the team already? So that you can leave?”
“Why would I say that?” Sokka says, stepping out of the room. When Zuko doesn’t immediately follow him, he gestures down the hall to say, “He said he’d give me tea if I spoke to you. Like I’m gonna turn down his free tea?”
“Unbelievable!” Zuko snarls, chasing Sokka to the kitchen, “You were bribed into this?”
“First of all, you just missed the opportunity to say unbeleafable. Fuck’s sake? Second of all, I’m not here to kick you off. It seems like you’re kicking you off, and that’s not my problem.”
They cross the kitchen’s threshold to find Uncle, hands folded over his belly, centered in front of three steaming tea cups. He gestures, inviting them to sit, and they plop down, precariously balanced on either side of Zuko’s disloyal uncle.
“You know,” Sokka leans toward Uncle, “I just want to say, Mr. Sozin--”
“Please, call me Iroh. Or Uncle, if you’re comfortable.”
Zuko scoffs before he can stop himself. This is his Uncle, and it’s unclear what this guy did to deserve Iroh Sozin’s good graces.
Sokka ignores the scoff, eyes sparkling with equal parts pride and mischief, “—Uncle Iroh, then. I have to say, you have a knack for decorating. This apartment feels cozy. I could move in right now, and it would feel like home. I can’t even find the word to properly describe it, just so eclectic and personal and comfy. I wonder,” he pauses to scratch his chin, “Do you have a word for like… the opposite of a shithole?”
Uncle chokes mid-sip of tea.
That shock isn’t enough to stop Sokka, though, who continues his inane rambling, “Like if you looked at a place and thought to yourself, wow this is so not a shithole that I have to invent a new word to describe this.”
Uncle hums, perplexed, taking the time to ponder Sokka’s antics. Eventually, he circumvents the shithole comment entirely to say, “Thank you. I have put much of my time into building a life here. It’s nice to hear it’s appreciated.”
Zuko glares at Sokka between sips of tea, using each frosty second of eye contact to flash his displeasure. How dare Sokka come in here, terrible fashion choices and smug attitude, and act so familiar with Uncle? Cussing at their kitchen table? Treating Zuko as if Zuko’s kicking himself off? How could Zuko possibly be the source of his own problems?
Inconceivable. In-con-fucking-ceivable.
“Now then,” Uncle nudges Zuko to bring him back to their conversation, “not that I condone eavesdropping, but I couldn’t help but overhear the two of you speaking earlier. And a word of advice, it is much more difficult to accomplish anything when neither of you are listening.”
“I listen fine,” Zuko argues, but neither Uncle nor Sokka engage.
“Sokka,” Uncle says, mindlessly resting a hand on Zuko’s forearm. The patronizing motion sets Zuko’s pride aflame. “I’m sure you are somewhat familiar with my nephew’s accomplishments but that also means you are aware of his missteps.”
“I’m right here?” Zuko says indignantly. But he may as well be speaking to himself. Sokka’s staring at Uncle, his eyebrows knitted together and shoulders pulled tense.
“Some recent missteps lost him certain connections with some teams.” Uncle barrels onward. “You know what it’s like for plans to drastically change,” still speaking to only Sokka, “and you know how it feels to have your future reorganized at a whim. All I ask is that you give my nephew a chance. He will surprise you. Probably.”
Zuko would rather have suffered a thousand deaths than hear Uncle give that speech.
“Can we not?” Zuko pleads.
Uncle, seemingly satisfied with today’s meddling, excuses himself.
“Well. As much as I enjoy spending time with two fine young men, the baked goods below are calling my name,” Uncle says, stretching out of his chair. He leaves the dishes on the table and clasps Sokka on the shoulder to say, “Always good to see you,” before meandering out the door.
Now Sokka and Zuko are alone at Uncle’s far too small kitchen table, and it’s no less awkward than being alone in Zuko’s room. Sokka picks up his tea cup and takes the longest, loudest sip possible, his weird gurgles echoing off the tile. Zuko coughs and also takes a sip of his tea.
How is Zuko meant to recover from this level of embarrassment? He should start a conversation. He doesn’t know what to say, but anything would be better than Slurpy Ugly Shirt and this weird limbo they’re in.
He’ll just start speaking. Once he starts saying words, it’ll be better.
“Hey,” Zuko says, exactly as Sokka says, “I’m--”
Zuko chews on his lip before gesturing to Sokka. “No, you first.”
Sokka nods.
“Look, I’m sorry for not being more welcoming earlier,” Sokka says. “I was surprised to see you in our gym, that’s all,” looking expectantly at Zuko.
“I get it,” Zuko starts slowly. “I am also sorry for…” for being who I am? For carrying this amount of baggage into your gym?
“For walking out of a team practice,” Sokka deadpans.
“I am sorry that I left,” Zuko says. Sokka won’t respond to him, though.
“This… isn’t how I thought it would be either,” Zuko adds. “But I’d like to try again. I meant it. That I’m here to play.” His fingers fidget restlessly by his teacup. “I don’t have anywhere else to go.”
Sokka waits a beat before pulling out his phone. “Here,” he says, “add yourself, and I’ll put you in the team chat. We have two weeks of preseason before classes start. Think of it as a trial period. To see if this works.”
Zuko stares at Sokka’s hand, an offering between them. Before he lets himself think about it any further, Zuko snatches the phone, enters his number, and hands it back.
Sokka leans back in his chair, head tipping to one side.
“Look, I really care about this team,” Sokka says. “Aang and Bumi can be dipshits, and Hahn is a dick, and we might not have the same abilities or equipment that Caldera does. But I still care. And I think this season can be the first big step in rebuilding this program. So if you have some ulterior motive for attending a school below your rank…” Sokka pauses to raise an eyebrow. “Or if you’re gonna be flinging shit at our coaching staff, then I will actually kick you off.”
Zuko clears his throat. His earlier suspicions were correct.
“I’m not usually like that,” Zuko says.
Sokka stands, noncommittally muttering, “I fuckin’ hope not,” while gathering his keys and wallet to leave.
Zuko bristles, but twinges of regret and shame pull at his gut, not allowing him to fight back.
So instead, Zuko leads Sokka to the front door.
“See you at the first official practice on Monday,” Sokka says before brushing past Zuko and bounding down the apartment’s stairs.
Zuko hears the exterior door open and close.
He almost can’t believe it. He’d fully expected a rejection from this team, and for the first time in days, after so much confusion and loss, he feels calm. At least he has a place to play, a chance to prove himself, and a shot at earning back his rightful place.
“See you,” Zuko says, voice echoing in the empty stairwell.