Archive of Our Own ^beta

Hands, your hands, quite calm now
At the day's end,
You are not delicately molded, not exquisite,
Not gentle always…

You are scarred,
With broken lines—
Sultry lines of passion.
There are grotesques in you,
Like forests after fire.

You hold valleys of renunciation,
And crags shaken by the storm,
That only faiths like wild goats know.

Yet now rises, within that dark repose,
Beauty, as she comes hooded at twilight…

Ah, do not touch me, yet…

Your Hands, Florence Ripley-Mastin

—

Sokka grows up with restless hands, fluttering at his side because he never quite knows what to do with them.

No matter how hard he tries, they’re too small, too clumsy, too uncoordinated to do all the things he wants to do. 

He tries to hold his newborn baby sister, but she starts crying because he can’t figure out how to cradle her just right, his hands too shaky with nerves and excitement and the desire to be the perfect big brother.

He watches his father and the other men go fishing, and he picks up a spear to try it himself, but the spear is so big and his hands are so small, so unused to holding a weapon, and he ends up missing, plunging his spear into empty water as the fish all dart away.

He’s gifted a boomerang, a beautiful weapon that his father says he’ll teach him to use when he’s older, but Sokka is so eager to learn that he throws it and ends up almost slicing his fingers off when they slip on the catch.

He tries to braid Katara’s hair the way their mother does, but her hair slips through his fingers like water, and it turns out tangled and lumpy instead of smooth and neat the way it should be.

He tries, but his hands can never quite get it right, always shaking, always fluttering, always slipping, always messing up whatever he does.

And then the Fire Nation comes, and his mom dies and his dad leaves, and suddenly all the things that their hands used to do, his hands have to do.

(They are still so small. How is he supposed to carry it all?)

His hands have to be precise when he thrusts his spear, because if they aren’t, no one eats.

(He misses the warmth of his dad’s hands, guiding his spear into the water.)

His hands have to be steady when he lets his boomerang fly, because if they aren’t, no one is safe.

(He misses his mom’s gentle touch, bandaging his cuts from catching the blade wrong.)

His hands have to be sure when he hugs Katara, because if they aren’t, she has no one to hold her tight.

(He wishes his parents were there to ruffle his hair and pull him into an embrace).

His hands have to hook the clasp on Katara’s necklace, because if they don’t, she has no way to keep their mother close.

(His father used to clasp it, then drop a kiss to where it rested against Kya’s neck.)

With time, it becomes familiar— the shape of a club, the slide of the boomerang, the heft of a spear, the curl of a fist prepared to land a punch— and sometimes, when he looks at his hands, he doesn't recognize them. They had once been unsure and clumsy and soft, but now they are certain and steady and rough. 

They go from the hands of a child to the hands of a man. 

The hands of a protector.

He begins wrapping them in fabric, the way all the men in the village did, just so that he doesn't have to look at them and wonder if they’re his or not.

(It isn’t just his hands that don’t look like they’re his— he looks in the mirror, and no longer recognizes the person staring back at him.)

—

After they find Aang, his hands have a new purpose. 

Suddenly, they hold a map, pointing from location to location and dragging a finger along the best route. 

Suddenly, they’re responsible for steering them in the right direction.

Suddenly, they have to protect not only his little sister, but also the world’s last chance at peace, a young girl who pretends to be so much older than she is, and all the people they meet along the way.

(What can his hands really do, when they can't even bend the elements like everyone else?)

—

His hands learn to fight— to push and shove, to punch and hit, to use fans and wield a sword.

They learn to go straight to his boomerang when he sees the disgraced prince and his uncle, to be ready to grab Katara and Toph and Aang when he sees the princess with the sharp glint in her eye, to ball into fists when he sees even a hint of danger.

They shovel coal, chip a meteorite, pour metal into a mold. 

They learn the shape of a hilt, the weight of a sword, the vibrations of clashing blades.

They learn to swing, to parry, to thrust.

(Could his hands even be gentle anymore? He isn’t sure.)

—

He tries to make art, just to prove that he can— just to prove his hands can be used for something gentle still. 

But he’s too used to the sharp angle of a boomerang and the weight of a club; the delicacy of a brush and ink is foreign against his callouses, and his lines come out shaky and sloppy. 

Still, he creates something instead of destroying it, and he shows off his creations with a wide beam. But—

“Sokka, the arrow is on Appa’s head.”

“Why are feet coming out of it?”

“It looks just like him to me!”

“…You added a rainbow.”

(Why does he bother? They don’t need an artist, they need a warrior.)

—

The Day of Black Sun comes. 

The Day of Black Sun ends.

The invasion fails. 

There’s a sinking feeling in his gut, a knot in his throat, a little voice in his head whispering that if only he’d drawn better plans—

If only he’d wielded his sword better—

If only he’d thrown his boomerang differently—

If only he’d let go of Azula sooner—

—maybe it wouldn’t have failed. 

—maybe he wouldn’t have failed. 

(As they fly away, he stares down at his hands and wonders— when will he do enough? 

When will he be enough?)

—

They flee, leaving Caldera City behind them, and they…

Well, the rest of them all take the chance to relax. They laugh, and explore the Western Air Temple, and have bending competitions. They act like kids.

But Sokka can’t forget his failure, can’t forget hugging his dad and saying goodbye yet again. He feels so old, so tired of the fighting and the failing and the fleeing—

He wishes he could just be a kid again, lounging by the fire with the rest of them while his dad takes care of him, but the invasion failed and his dad was captured and it was all his fault.

He thinks that everyone knows it’s weighing on him, but no one really says anything to him. They’re too busy with Zuko’s sudden arrival, watching him train Aang and trying to figure out his motivations.

(Even if they weren’t, though, Sokka’s the one who takes care of everyone, so there isn’t really anyone to take care of him in any case.)

He watches Zuko, too.

He watches Zuko, and he thinks— he might know where Sokka’s dad was taken.

He watches Zuko, sees the steadiness of his hands as he holds the tea tray, and—

“Hey, can I talk to you for a second?”

—

Zuko knows, Sokka can tell he knows, but he won’t say and he’s turning away and Sokka can’t fail again—

His hand flies out before he even realizes, grabbing Zuko’s shoulder to keep him from leaving.

(It’s the first time he’s touched Zuko outside of a fight, and his grip is probably far too tight. After all, he forgot how to be gentle a long time ago.)

“It’s my dad. He was captured too. I need to know what I put him through.”

“It’s not good, Sokka.”

“Please.”

Zuko must hear something in Sokka’s voice— desperation, hope, the weight of too many failures— because he sighs and looks back.

“My guess is they were taken to the Boiling Rock.”

—

He waves Zuko’s concerns aside, pats his shoulder, and goes to pack his bag.

His hands are steady as he does.

—

Zuko is waiting for him in Appa’s saddle, and Sokka frowns as he begins to repack the spilled contents of his bag.

“Look, I have to do this. The invasion plan was my idea. It was my decision to stay when things were going wrong. It’s my mistake, and it’s my job to fix it. I have to regain my honor. You can’t stop me, Zuko.”

He pushes Zuko aside, and his hand doesn’t shake.

Zuko's voice stops him. “You need to regain your honor? Believe me, I get it. I’m going with you.”

—

They take Zuko’s war balloon, and Sokka… Doesn’t know what to do with his hands.

It occurs to him that this is the first time in a while where he hasn’t had anyone to look after, where he hasn’t been looking over his shoulder to make sure they have everyone, where his hands haven't been drifting to his sword or preparing food or tracing their route or trying to fix something. 

He’s just idle, watching Zuko fly a war balloon that Sokka helped build, fiddling with his hands because he doesn’t know where else to put them.

Zuko’s hands are steady as they pump fire into the balloon, but when the flames die down, they fiddle just like Sokka’s. 

(Maybe he’s not the only one who doesn’t know where to put his hands.)

—

The guard uniforms are awkward, the metal helmet constricting in a way his wolf helmet never is, and he’s trying to look for his dad but he can’t see anything except red uniforms and miserable faces and a lick of fire in the corner of his eye—

Zuko goes to take a step forward, and Sokka’s hand darts out to hold him back.

“We can’t blow our cover,” he says when Zuko turns to him.

(I can’t fail again, he thinks, and he keeps his hand on Zuko’s arm.)

—

Things go wrong, and then they go right, and then they go wrong again and—

Sokka doesn’t know what to do.

He can’t keep Suki imprisoned any longer than she’s already been, but he doesn’t want to fail either, especially knowing that he’ll be able to hug his dad again if he waits just a few more hours. But not quitting is what got him into this mess in the first place—

“Look, Sokka, you’re going to fail a lot before things work out,” Zuko says behind him.

“That’s supposed to make me feel better?”

“Even though you’ll probably fail over and over and over again—”

“Seriously, not helping,” he mutters as Zuko walks up to him.

“—you have to try every time.” He grabs Sokka’s shoulder, warm and steady and sure, and Sokka closes his eyes at his touch. “You can’t quit because you’re afraid you might fail.”

Sokka makes up his mind then and there, even as he wonders when Zuko learned to read him so well.

(Maybe they share more than just not knowing what to do with their hands.)

—

Things go right, and then they go wrong, and then—

Well, and then Zuko is jumping to the gondola, and Sokka barely thinks before he’s flinging his hand out, reaching for Zuko, grabbing his hand tight to keep him from slipping away.

What were you thinking, you idiot, he wants to say, even though he knows exactly what Zuko was thinking— that Sokka’s hand would be there, that Sokka’s grip wouldn’t loosen until he was safe, that Sokka’s hands would catch and protect and save.

Or, well. They’ll at least try to do that. 

Half the time, they get it wrong. Half the time, they try to help only to fail. Yue, the war balloons, the invasion, his father… All slipped between his fingers like water. 

And yet… And yet, Zuko trusts Sokka to catch him. 

(He wonders what it says about him that Zuko trusts him more than Sokka trusts himself.)

—

After stumbling upon that poetry center in Ba Sing Se, Sokka had tried to write poetry, yet another attempt at creating something beautiful with his hands. It had failed, just like all his other attempts at art. 

He thinks now, fighting in tandem with Zuko, that he had failed because he wasn’t writing about the right thing. 

Any poem he wrote wouldn’t be about the beauty of the rising sun, the gentle floating of a leaf on the breeze, the softness of the spring air. It would be about the push and pull of him and Zuko, of the twisting of Zuko’s hands as he deflects Azula’s flames, of the singing of his sword as he rushes forward. It would be about them fighting as two halves of a whole, two warriors with a single mind, two people blending together so seamlessly it’s difficult to say where one ends and the other begins. 

There’s a natural rhythm to their movements as they fight off Azula, as if they had been fighting together forever, and Sokka thinks— maybe this will work. Maybe with two warriors, two protectors, two people whose hands only have one job, they’ll be okay. He’ll keep Zuko safe, and Zuko will keep him safe, and they can get everyone out of here.

And then—

And then the gondola tilts, his foot slips, and he goes sliding towards the edge. 

He scrambles for something to hold onto, but the roof of the gondola is smooth and his nails scrape across the metal without catching on anything. The boiling lake looms beneath him, the steam rising off of it licking at his skin and taunting him. He thinks that at least this time, his failure will only get himself hurt.

He feels his hand slip off the edge, and—

Zuko catches him.

His grip is warm and strong on Sokka’s wrist, holding on tight as he hauls him back up, and Sokka grabs him right back.

Zuko keeps holding on to him even once Sokka is securely on the gondola, and he makes no move to shake him off: simply squeezes back just as tight.

He needs the touch as reassurance that he’s alive, as a reminder that he hasn’t failed yet.

He thinks maybe Zuko needs it, too.

The guards start to cut the line, and he has no choice but to let go.

—

In the end it’s Mai who saves them, her hands steady as she throws her knives, as she fights her friend, as she betrays her country just to see Zuko through to safety.

She looks so sure of herself that it’s hard to imagine she’s ever unsure of what to do with her hands, but Sokka wonders.

He wonders.

—

He holds Suki in his arms— warm, solid, safe— and he feels almost normal again. He feels like all of his past failures, every moment when he tried to keep someone safe only to watch them be captured or killed, can’t touch him. After all, he got Suki out of Boiling Rock unharmed, so clearly he can use his hands for good. He’s the one Suki comes to when she wants to be held at night, so clearly he can still be gentle. And he’s whom she trusts to have her back in a fight, so clearly he can still protect the people he loves. 

He knows she doesn’t need him, not really; she’s more than capable of taking care of herself in any and every situation. But she wants him there, preferring to take on every challenge with two pairs of hands instead of one, and it’s nice. It’s really, really nice.

Feeling wanted, feeling loved, feeling trusted to use his hands when sometimes even he doesn’t trust himself—

It’s nice.

—

He starts watching Zuko more closely.

He watches the way his hands create fire, the way his hands wrap around twin hilts, the way his hands are certain and steady and rough so long as they have a task. He watches the way they fiddle and flutter and shake when they don’t.

And Sokka begins to think… Maybe he isn’t the only protector, now.

Maybe someone can help him carry the burden.

That’s nice, too.

—

Sokka always thought Katara’s words were her greatest gift.

Sure, she can bend water and manipulate it in whatever way she wants to. She can use it to heal wounds, to terrify opponents, to protect innocents, to attack those trying to hurt them. But her words have always been able to do that, too. Ever since she was little, tottering around in the snow, she’s found ways to say the exact right thing to get Sokka to leave her alone, or their parents to come play with them, or Gran-Gran to sneak them another slice of seal jerky. She can inspire towns, settle conflicts, and talk them out of almost any situation, just by using her words.

And she can hit Sokka right where he hurts the most.

Then you didn’t love her the way I did.

His hands form fists at his side and grief claws at his throat.

It’s not—

He knows she doesn’t really mean it. She’s just hurt and angry, lashing out because she doesn’t know what to do with all that emotion. 

But he can’t help thinking about their mother, and how he never learned to braid like she did, and how Katara was the one to go to her during the raid while he stayed behind to fight, and how he can’t quite remember her face now. Her laugh, her smile, the sound of her voice when she said goodnight.

He can’t help thinking maybe Katara’s right. 

His hands start shaking.

He goes to find a place on the cliffside to sit alone for a long time, waiting for them to stop.

And, in the end, he lets Katara go find the man who killed their mother.

He just hopes she doesn’t come back with hands as blood-stained as his own.

—

Zuko brings Katara back, safe and with hands clean of blood, and Sokka knows he was right. He’s not alone anymore; wherever they go, whatever they do, Zuko will do his best to keep everyone safe, too.

It’s the only reason he lets Katara out of his sight on the day of Sozin’s Comet.

Because, in the moments when it matters most, Zuko’s hands won’t shake, the same way Sokka’s wouldn’t. He’ll keep Katara safe, the same way Sokka would. 

Fighting, after all, seems to be the only thing their hands are any good at.

—

He guides Toph and Suki through the airship with as much confidence as he can muster, one hand gripping tight to Toph. He wants to hold onto Suki too— wants to see if he could find a piece of that normalcy, that safety he'd found from holding her before, even hundreds of feet in the air on an enemy airship— but he knows he can’t afford to. Toph needs him more than Suki does, nervous as she is without the reassurance of solid ground beneath her feet, and he needs his other hand to wield his sword and get them through the ship unscathed. 

They reach the flight deck and he lets loose an unsteady breath— part one of the plan complete, and so far so good.

Unfortunately, they've still got a long way to go.

His hands are steady as he turns their ship around to slice across the rest of the fleet, pushing levers and pulling handles and turning the wheel without second thought because he can’t afford anything else. If he falters now, if his hands shake, it’s all over— it’ll be the Day of Black Sun again, only a thousand times worse.

He can’t fail.

He won’t.

And it works, at least until—

Until the ship splinters, and he’s too late to reach Suki. 

His hand grabs at empty air, and he watches her shrink into the distance, and he feels his heart shatter. Another person he loves, pulled away from him, slipping through his fingers because he was too slow, too late, too clumsy— 

Suki jumps to the other ship and is fine, of course she is, but he can’t help the feelings of guilt and failure from creeping in, eating at him, freezing him in place. “ No.”

“Sokka, I think we gotta—” Toph starts, feeling the piece of the ship they’re on shake beneath her feet, and Sokka forces his head on straight. They’re still in danger, and they have to—

“Jump!”

He holds fast to Toph, gripping her hand so tight that he must be hurting her. Knows he is, because she’s holding him just as tight, squeezing the delicate bones in his hand together until they pinch and twinge and ache. He doesn’t dare say anything, though. As long as his hand hurts, it means she’s there. It means he’s done his job and kept her safe.

He only lets her go so she can bend the rudder, her bare hands— so small yet so strong— pulling the massive sheet of metal into place. He only has a brief moment to appreciate her before they have to start running again.

He’s just sorry the only option is to run them right off the edge of the airship.

—

His body is shaking with the strain of holding onto Toph.

He thinks if his leg wasn’t broken, then maybe, maybe, it’d be easier. If he could just flip over onto his stomach, then his shoulder wouldn’t be twisted so awkwardly and he’d have enough leverage to pull her up. When he tries, though, it sends red hot pain shooting up through his body. Black spots cloud his vision and his stomach roils with nausea.

“Hang on, Toph!” he cries, even as he feels their palms, slick with sweat from the heat of the flames, slide against each other. He forces himself to ignore it, to keep tightening his grip on Toph’s hand. Without rock or metal beneath her feet, he’s all she has, and he refuses to let her go.

“Aye-aye, Captain.” She tries to sound chipper, but the ragged shake in her voice betrays her terror.

His mind races, trying to come up with a way to get them out of this. He can’t let go, and he can’t pull her up. He has his boomerang and his sword and not much else. His leg is broken, and his shoulder isn’t doing much better. They’re hundreds of feet up in the air, and Suki is who knows where.

His stomach churns as he realizes that they are, quite frankly, screwed. He has no clue how to get them out of this, no clue how to save Toph, no clue how to make this anything but another terrible failure.

Naturally, that’s when a soldier flanks them on either side— as if the situation wasn’t bad enough already.

Still, there’s only the two of them, and Sokka still has two weapons.

Two weapons, one working hand, and a refusal to go down without a fight.

As the first tendrils of fire emerge from the soldiers’ hands, Sokka flings his boomerang with everything he has. It flies through the air, the reflection of the flames turning it molten red, and for a moment he is both six and sixteen; six and slicing his fingers open on the blade because he just couldn’t wait to use it, sixteen and asking for one more miracle from the weapon that has never let him down before.

The moment shatters.

There’s still one soldier left.

With his good leg, he kicks his sword up into his waiting hand. Without a second thought, he throws it at the metal platform the soldier is standing on. A piece of his heart cracks as he does— his beautiful sword, perhaps the most perfect thing his hands have ever created, lost to the flames and destruction below. 

Toph’s hand slips out of his grasp, far enough that only their fingertips keep her from following his sword and boomerang, and he forces his head on straight. She needs him more than he needs to miss his weapons.

He just needs one more miracle, one more genius idea that keeps Toph from falling, from slipping through his fingers like water, like Katara’s hair, like his mother, like Yue, like his father, like Suki—

Suki, who has come to rescue them with her very own airship.

He lets out a shuddering breath and thanks his hands for hanging on. For not failing him this time.

—

Katara’s hands are gentle on his leg, the glow from the water lighting her face as she works. She already treated his shoulder, mending the strain from over extending it in just a matter of moments, but he knows better than to expect the same miraculous treatment for his leg. If it’s as broken as he thinks it is, there’s nothing she’ll be able to do for him.

After a few minutes, she frowns and returns the water she’d been using to the bowl at her side. “It’s broken, alright. I found two fractures on your tibia, one on your fibula, a tear in your meniscus, and a pretty bad bruise on your femur. I did what I could for the swelling, so that should help with the pain, but I can’t do anything for the breaks. I’m sorry.”

He shrugs, resigned. “It’s alright. Thanks for trying.”

She presses a kiss to his forehead, then helps him sit up. “Of course, Sokka. Let me just get the supplies to splint your leg with so that you can get out of here.”

As she begins rifling through the infirmary to find what she needs, he asks, “How are you doing?”

“I’m fine,” she says distractedly, pulling out a roll of bandages and setting them aside. “Azula barely laid a hand on me.”

“I didn’t really mean physically.”

She pauses, just for a moment; with her back to him, he can’t see her face, but he hears the forced assuredness in her voice. “I’m fine. The war is over, you and Zuko will recover, Azula won’t touch us again, and everyone is safe. Why would I be anything but fine? What about you? Are you alright? Broken leg aside, of course.”

He thinks about telling her that he doesn’t think he’ll be okay for a long time. That the terror of being the only thing keeping Toph from falling to her death will never leave him. That without his sword and boomerang, he feels as though a part of himself is missing. That he looks to the future— no mission to accomplish, nothing to protect anyone from, nothing to do with his hands— and already feels useless.

He’s not mad that she lied to him; after all, he’s about to do the same.

“Of course I am,” he says. Used to hiding what he’s really feeling, his voice comes out steady and chipper. “Mr. Fine, that’s me.”

Katara laughs slightly, and turns to him with her hands full of supplies. “I think you need a splint before you can be ‘Mr. Fine’, but sure. That’s you.”

Before she can get to work, he catches one of her hands in his. “Hey. I’m glad you’re safe.”

She tightens her grip on him. “Yeah. Me too.”

She finishes splinting his leg in silence.

—

He finds Zuko later that night, once he’s out of a several hour long meeting to start recalling troops back to the Fire Nation. They’d all urged him not to go, conscious of the fact that he’d taken lightning to the heart just hours earlier and was still recovering, but he’d refused, claiming there was too much work to wait for a full recovery.

Based on the way Sokka finds him in his quarters, laid out in bed with pallid and sweaty skin, it took a lot out of him.

“Yikes,” he says from the doorway, leaning heavily on his crutches. “And I thought I was doing bad.”

Zuko doesn’t even lift his head, merely turns it to the side to give Sokka a weak smile. “I know, I know. I should have listened to you about the meeting. But the longer I take to start ending the war, the more people will die. Change is going to take a long time, and—”

He doesn’t stop talking until Sokka reaches the foot of his bed and places a hand over his mouth. “Funnily enough, I didn’t actually come here to talk to the Fire Lord; I came to speak to my friend, Zuko. Grumpy, dry sense of humor? Sound familiar?” He takes Zuko rolling his eyes as his cue to remove his hand from his mouth, and sits down next to him on the bed. “And you’re not, you know.”

“What, grumpy? I think I am, actually.”

“Fire Lord. Not yet. You don’t have to shoulder it all yourself right away. You can take time to heal.”

“That’s rich, coming from you,” Zuko shoots back. It’s startling, sometimes, to realize just how well Zuko knows him even though they haven’t actually been friends for that long. Something burns in Sokka’s stomach whenever he remembers that Zuko seems to see right through him. “Tell me, how long did Katara tell you to keep weight off your leg?”

“Touche,” is the only answer he provides to that question. “Anyway, that’s actually who I wanted to talk to you about. I just wanted to say thank you for taking care of her. I was worried about her every second I was up on those airships, and knowing she was with you was the only thing to keep me calm.”

“Of course, Sokka. I wasn’t going to let anything happen to her. Although,” he huffs out a short, humorless laugh, “she didn’t really seem to need me. She more than took care of Azula all on her own. If she hadn’t been there… Azula probably would have won.”

“Maybe. But you jumped in front of lightning for her. That wasn’t for nothing, and it’s not something I’ll ever forget. You saved her.”

Zuko’s lips twitch up ever so slightly. “Well then. At least the scar will have been worth it.”

Satisfied by his response, Sokka leans back on his hands and looks around at Zuko’s quarters. It’s almost overwhelmingly dark, all burnt iron and deep red fabric and wood so brown it looks black, dripping in ostentation and wealth. It’s honestly terrible. “How does anyone live in these rooms? It’s so… Dark.”

Zuko groans. “Agni, I know. They’re awful. That’ll be the first thing I do when I’m Fire Lord— redecorate my quarters.”

Sokka can’t actually tell if Zuko is joking or not, as dramatic as he is. “Really?” 

“No,” Zuko snorts. “Ending the war and appointing new advisors will be first. But it’ll be up there. I spent three years living on a metal ship with no windows, I don’t need to live like that here. Maybe I’ll bring in someone from the Earth Kingdom to redo it— I like the lighter woods they use.”

“You’ve got it all figured out, huh?” 

He’s mostly poking fun, but there is a part of him that thinks it’s true; Zuko seems to have a plan, same as everyone else. He’s going to reign over the Fire Nation, and Katara is going to help rebuild the Southern Water Tribe. Aang will continue traveling the world, helping wherever the Avatar is needed. Toph is going to attempt to fix her relationship with her parents, and go back to wrestling. Suki will return to Kyoshi Island and regroup the Kyoshi Warriors. 

And then— 

And then there’s him. Without a plan, without a clue what to do now. He’s trying not to think about it, but his aimlessness looms over him.

“Does it seem that way? Because I really don’t.” Zuko turns his head to Sokka, and he sees uncertainty written across his face. It’s reassuring, in a way, to know that Zuko pretends just as Sokka does. “My coronation is tomorrow, and all I’ve been thinking about is if taking over as Fire Lord is really the right thing to do, or if I should abdicate and let my uncle rule. He’s already going to be regent until I’m eighteen; maybe it should just be permanent. I mean, what do I really know about ruling a country? I’ve spent nearly four years living as an outlaw. My exile was so absolute that I barely even set foot in the Fire Nation until a few months ago. How can I be expected to do the right thing for my people when I haven’t even been here? Uncle seems confident I’ll be fine, especially after another year and a half passes, but… I don’t know.”

“It’s up to you, but I think you’ll be a great Fire Lord for all the reasons you just told me you won’t be,” Sokka says firmly. “My dad has always told me that the best leaders are the ones who are just a little bit unsure of themselves, because they think more about the consequences of their actions. When people are cocky, or think they deserve to lead, that’s when the world suffers. And maybe you haven’t spent much time here since you were young. But you care, both about your people and about the rest of the world, and I think that’s the most important thing right now. The rest will follow.” He scratches his cheek awkwardly. “I realize now that may have been a rhetorical question, and I probably sounded kind of naive—”

Zuko’s hand lands lightly on Sokka’s uninjured knee. “No, didn’t. That helped a lot, actually. Thank you. I wish my advisors were half as wise as you.”

“Oh,” he says softly. He hadn’t really ever thought of himself as being all that wise, but— “I guess. Thank you.”

“Your dad must be looking forward to having your help rebuilding your tribe. Katara was telling me that there’s a lot of work to do, both in terms of the physical infrastructure and building a relationship with the Northern Water Tribe.”

“I guess, yeah. We haven’t really talked about it. Honestly, I don’t… I don’t know what I’m going to do now that the war is over. I suppose I’ll just help with whatever my dad needs.”

“You’ll figure it out. You’re the plan guy, after all.”

Zuko smiles at him and Sokka wishes, not for the first time, that he had as much faith in himself as Zuko seems to.

—

Zuko is crowned the next evening, and the glow of the setting sun makes it appear as though he’s surrounded by flames.

He looks steady. Self-assured. Proud as he addresses his subjects and the other nations gathered in the palace’s courtyard.

Sokka can’t help noticing, though, that Zuko never pulls his hands out of his sleeves. He wonders if it’s because they’re shaking.

He doesn’t bother asking; he thinks he knows the answer.

—

Two weeks later, he and Katara head back to the Southern Water Tribe with Aang.

It feels good, at first, to be home amongst the snow and ice and cold. It hasn’t changed much in the months that they’ve been gone, but it feels different. It’s more alive now, even in the throes of winter, with the return of Sokka’s father and the other men, and the arrival of an envoy from the Northern Water Tribe. 

Where once there were drawn faces and solemn meals around the fire, now there is laughter and music and joy. What were once empty streets are now filled by twice as many people. New buildings are constructed everyday by Katara, Aang, and the Northern benders that came to help; boats come and go from the harbor; the food stores are full of enough meat to feed the village through even the toughest of winters. It feels nice. It feels the way it did when Sokka was younger, before the Fire Nation came and took everything from them.

And yet, with enough time, a sense of restlessness begins to haunt him.

He thinks, at first, it’s because of the limitations of his broken leg. Walking through the snow is made easier with the sturdy crutches Bato carved for him out of driftwood, but it’s still tiring and leaves him winded before long. He can’t put weight on his leg yet and therefore isn’t steady enough to go fishing, which his father made sure to inform the entire village lest Sokka try to sneak out with them. He can’t go through katas without putting his weight on both legs, not that he has his sword or boomerang or even a reason to continue his training.

He can’t do anything so long as his leg is still healing— there’s another two weeks until he can put weight on it, based on Katara’s assessments, and at least two more after that until he can go without the splint— and it’s maddening him.

So he starts searching for other things to do.

Except—

Except no one needs his help.

The food stores are once again manned by half a dozen men and women, each of them drying and freezing and pickling enough food for a village ten times the size of theirs, and they’re low enough on space without another body getting in their way.

The waterbenders are taking care of rebuilding, and Katara is kind but clear when she explains that there’s not much for a nonbender to help with; his hands can’t do the things they would need him to do.

The weavers chuckle when he asks if they need help, knowing he’s never been any good at working with furs and threads and fabrics; his hands always shake too much.

Even his dad, when Sokka goes to ask him if he can help, dismisses him.

“You’ve done enough to help this village— this whole world, really. It’s time for you to be a kid again, and for your old man to bear the burden of leadership,” he says, before disappearing into the Chief’s hut to continue negotiations with the Northern Water Tribe.

So it’s not just his leg keeping him from doing anything; it’s that no one needs him.

It’s not just that he’s restless; it’s that he’s useless.

It’s a novel feeling, suddenly not knowing what to do or where he fits, because he was the only one protecting his home and his people for so long. He was the only one looking out for Aang and Katara and Toph, making sure they had enough food to eat and a safe place to sleep and a steady hand to point them toward their next destination. He was the only one who could braid Katara’s hair or clasp her necklace, but she’s older now; she doesn’t need him to do those things for him anymore. No one does.

A year spent fighting a war, and suddenly his hands are useless.

He thinks of Zuko, so sure that Sokka would figure out something to do, and laughs bitterly. Yeah right.

He stops walking, holding his crutch with his armpit, and raises a hand to wipe away the tears that are suddenly threatening to fall.

When he pulls it away, his hand is trembling.

—

His discontent only worsens when Aang leaves; the rebuilding effort may be slowing here, especially as the winter snows thicken in anticipation of spring, but the rest of the world is just entering the autumn season and needs the Avatar’s help as much as ever.

He wonders, watching Aang and Appa disappear into the cloudy gray sky, what it’s like to know that no matter where you go, someone will welcome your help.

He doesn’t wish he was Aang. He would never wish that burden on anyone after having a front-row seat to see how it weighs on Aang’s shoulders.

He just wishes he was able to do more than he is.

He just wishes his hands weren’t fluttering at his side, unsure of what to do.

—

He starts drawing again, filling scroll after scroll with memories from the past year. He doesn’t care whether they’re good or not— he just needs to get the images out, just needs to do something with his hands.

It’s still not enough.

—

“Dad?” He asks, poking his head through the furs at the entrance to his dad’s office.

It’s late, the stars hidden behind the heavy snowstorm that had rolled in a few days ago, but his dad is still hard at work, buried in a mountain of scrolls all demanding his attention. He looks up at Sokka’s voice and smiles tiredly. “Sokka! What can I help you with, kiddo?”

“I just had something I wanted to talk to you about, if you have the time.”

“Of course. Come here, I could use a break from this desk.”

He leads Sokka over to the fire, settling into the furs in front of it. Sokka takes a seat next to him, lowering himself to the ground gingerly; Katara said his leg is finally healed, but it still aches even on the best of days.

“What’s bothering you, Sokka?”

“I…” He takes a deep breath. “I was just wondering if there’s anything more I can do to help you or the tribe. I know I keep offering and you never say yes, but I just… I want to help. However I can.”

His dad smiles, though it’s tinged with sadness. “I appreciate that, I really do. But the best thing you can do to help me right now is rest. I don’t want you to worry about a thing; you’ve done enough of that for quite a while, I think. Just let me and the other adults take care of things.”

A flicker of irritation goes through Sokka. He gets the sense, sometimes, that his dad still sees him as the thirteen year old he left behind, forgetting that Sokka has grown up. That he had to grow up if he wanted to survive.

“Why won’t you let me help?” He snaps. “Katara and Aang got to build pretty much an entire city out of snow and ice and you never stopped them, but I ask to help you read some scrolls and you tell me I’ve done enough? That’s not fair! You don’t need to coddle me, Dad, I want to help.”

His dad’s face flickers briefly. “I tried to stop Katara and Aang from helping, but at the end of the day Aang is the Avatar and I have no power over him. He’s technically older than me, too, so I really have no sway with him.” 

It’s a sorry excuse for a joke, one that Sokka doesn’t even smile at. His dad sighs. 

“Look, I didn’t want Katara and Aang to get involved. I told them not to. But the North only sent so many waterbenders and we were hurtling towards the harshest part of winter; I had to let them help if I wanted our people to have places to sleep and eat. It hurt me to let them help, but I had to. And I’m sorry if it feels like coddling, but I won’t apologize for giving you a chance to rest. I left you with far too much responsibility for a thirteen year old, and I shouldn’t have done that. I definitely never should have let you fight in the war. I can’t change those things now, but I can do better moving forward. You’re only sixteen, Sokka; you still have some of your childhood to enjoy. It’s time I let you do that rather than stacking my burdens onto your shoulder.”

“But I—” 

He doesn’t know how to make his dad understand that a childhood isn’t what he wants right now, and that he doesn’t know if he even knows how to be a child. That he thinks the chance was taken from him the moment black snow started falling and his mother was taken from him. He doesn’t know how to say that he needs something to do, because he doesn’t know who he is if he isn’t doing something, anything.

His dad’s hand falls heavy on his shoulder, his voice soft. “What is it, Sokka? You’re unhappy, I can see it on your face. Why?”

“I feel like… I don’t really know what I’m supposed to do now. All I’ve been thinking about for so long is how to keep Katara safe, getting Aang where he needs to be, keeping everyone together, fighting the war. Now it’s over and I feel like I should be happier. I mean, I am happy the war is over, of course I am, but I’m also just… Stuck. No one here needs my help. I don’t know who I am or what I’m supposed to do.”

His dad pulls him in for a hug, presses a kiss to the top of his head. “Isn’t that sort of wonderful, though? Having the whole world ahead of you, ready for you to discover something you love to do instead of what you have to do? That’s the chance I’m hoping to give you now, Sokka. Time to discover who you are when you don’t have anyone else to be.”

He thinks it’s meant to cheer him up, to inspire him and give him some hope for the future, but it just makes him feel hollow. Misunderstood.

“I guess,” he says, suddenly needing to be anywhere but here, faced with the realization that his father doesn’t actually know who he is. That he might not ever know who Sokka is, because who Sokka is was shaped by his absence. “I think I’ll try to get some sleep now. Goodnight, Dad.”

“Goodnight, Sokka.” His dad sounds confused, as if he doesn’t understand why Sokka isn’t beaming and skipping out of here, but he doesn’t try to stop him. “I love you, son.”

“Yeah. Love you, too.”

He shoves his hands into his pockets to keep his dad from noticing that they’re trembling.

—

The letter from Zuko is a bright spot in what has become one of the hardest winters of Sokka’s life. It’s not a long message, but it’s more than enough for Sokka to cling to as though it’s a raft in a storm.

Dear Sokka,

I hope this letter reached you safely; if your winter has been as intense as our summer, I’m sure the storms might present a challenge for Araya, the messenger hawk I sent this with. I also hope you’re doing well, and that your leg has healed nicely. I meant to write earlier, but I’ve been overwhelmed with my duties. Between treaty negotiations, appointing new advisors, and the lessons I have to attend to prepare to rule on my own, I barely have a moment to myself. It feels odd to say, but it almost makes me miss the war. Not the fighting, of course, or the cruelty my ancestors inflicted upon the world, but just being on the road with you and the others. When I was able to just be Zuko, you know?

The palace is lonely without you; Suki sent a few Kyoshi Warriors to guard me, but they take their job very seriously and aren’t much for chatting. I hope things are going better for you in the South, and I’m sorry if they aren’t; feel free to tell me all about it, if you’d like. Hearing from you, no matter how good or bad the news, would present a much needed break from the stress of the crown. I hope to hear from you soon.

Zuko

He writes his response immediately, the words pouring from his brush. He doesn’t send it for a few days, though, having to wait for the skies to clear before he can slip the letter into the case on Araya’s back and send him back across the ocean.

Dear Zuko,

Araya and the letter reached me just fine, and I can’t tell you what a relief it is to hear from you. Although I just have to say, Araya is a terrible name for a bird— Hawky is way better. 

I’m sorry to say that you seem to be busy and stressed enough for both of us; I’d hoped my father would let me help him, but he’s refused in hopes of giving me a “normal childhood.” I know he means well, but I’m still frustrated. No matter how many times I’ve tried explaining to him that I want to help and feel useless without anything to do, he never seems to listen or understand. I feel like he sees me as the same little kid he left all those years ago, and can’t accept that I’ve grown up since then. Meanwhile, Katara helped rebuild the tribe and is now working as a healer; I love him, but it’s hypocritical of him.

What a pair we make, huh? The prince who’s forced to bear too much responsibility, and the chief’s son who isn’t allowed to have any. 

I’m sorry you’re juggling so much; if there’s anything I can do to help, please let me know. Spirits know I’ve got nothing else to do. And give the Kyoshi Warriors time to warm up to you. Unless, of course, you’re willing to put on one of their uniforms and learn how they fight. If you do that, though, I need you to let me know when your first lesson is so that I can get to the Fire Nation and see it for myself. 

Also, I’m afraid to report that my leg isn’t doing great. Katara says it’s healed perfectly, but it still aches when I wake up in the mornings and if I walk on it for too long. I’m not quite sure what to do about it, but I’m dealing with it the best I can.

And I don’t think it’s weird for you to miss being on the road with us; I spend most of my time feeling the same way. I miss you and the others a lot. And I miss having something to do and knowing that I was needed. I think if I had something to keep me busy, I’d be perfectly happy being back home. Without it, though, I’m just… Lost.

Write back to me when you get a chance.

Your restless friend,

Sokka

—

Dear Sokka,

This is going to sound ridiculous since I was the one who wrote to you first, but I honestly didn’t think you’d write back. I’d created this notion in my head that you’d receive my letter and toss it aside as the ramblings of a monarch making a big deal out of nothing. Seeing that Araya came back with a response lifted a weight from my shoulders. 

I’m sorry that you’re not finding the purpose you’d hoped to find following the war— I have to say, I’m a bit surprised. I thought Hakoda would take the opportunity to work with you in stride; if you don’t mind my saying, I think he’s an idiot for not doing so. You’re one of the smartest people I know, and anyone would be lucky to have you helping them. I hope he comes to his senses and that you find something to keep you busy. In the meantime, if you’re serious about helping me, I’d love to get your thoughts on something.

I’ve opened my palace to audiences so that my people can speak to me face to face about issues plaguing them as we demilitarize the nation. For the most part, I feel confident finding solutions for the concerns they come to me with— farmers asking for subsidies to help support them as our economy shifts, soldiers concerned about losing their livelihoods, families displaced by the war and searching for somewhere to go. 

A few weeks ago, I was visited by a man from one of the most remote parts of the nation. His family lives in the shadow of a volcano on one of the smaller islands, quite a distance from Caldera City; the fact that he came to see me tells me just how desperate he is for my help. He told me that since the comet, the water supply that they relied on has all but dried up. There’s still fresh water on the island due to a river, but it’s on the other side of the mountain range that houses the volcano. On foot, it takes two days to traverse the mountains, and three to get back once they have the water. With three young children and his elderly mother to care for, the man can’t afford to take five days to get water.

I’m not sure why the comet impacted their water supply, or how to go about fixing it. I was curious if you had any ideas to bring water back to their usual supply, or if I should figure out a way to make the trek between the river and their home easier. Any solution is appreciated; my advisors have voted to put it on the shelf until a solution presents itself, but I refuse to wait and let this family go without easy access to water any longer than they already have.

Try putting warm, damp rags on your leg for the pain— Uncle has an old shoulder wound from the war that’s aggravated by the cold, and he swears by this remedy. I hope it helps you, too. 

Eagerly awaiting your next letter,

Zuko

—

Zuko,

Thank you for the tip about using heat on my leg— I tried it last night, and it was one of the first times I’ve felt relief since I broke it. The snow has yet to slow, so I imagine I’ll be relying on my warm, damp rags to get me through the next few weeks. It would certainly be handy to have a firebender around, though. Waiting for the water to get warm felt like it took ages, especially knowing you could have heated it for me in a matter of minutes. Want to quit your job and come warm water for me?

Kidding. Mostly.

The comet drying up their water source is definitely perplexing; I’ll have to take some time to think about why that might be. Maybe you should ask an astronomer? In the meantime, I think it’s worth it for you to reach out to the Earth Kingdom and see if they have any city planners or geographers or someone who would be willing to take a look at the island; if there was a water source near their house, perhaps there’s an underground aquifer that the earthbenders could find and make an access point. If not, perhaps commission them to build a tunnel through the mountains. I’m not sure how wide the range is, but a path through will likely take less time than going over them does. I hope this helps you get them easier access to water soon. Keep me updated?

I was finally allowed to go fishing with Bato and the other men today. I think it was less my dad coming around to my requests for something to do and more Bato going behind his back because he thinks my dad’s ridiculous, but I’m hardly complaining. One because I actually got to do something, and two because it proves Bato is going to be a cool step-dad.

Oh yeah, Bato and my dad are engaged! Bato proposed a few nights ago. I didn’t even realize they were courting each other, but apparently they have been since my dad had a near death experience about two years ago. I’m happy for them; my dad deserves happiness after losing my mom, and there’s no one better than Bato. I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to seeing my dad with a betrothal necklace, though. 

Katara’s reaction to the news was mixed. She’s happy they’re together, but something about the idea of them getting married unsettles her. I think she feels betrayed, or like our dad is forgetting about Mom. I get where she’s coming from, but it’s not like he’s marrying some stranger or someone who doesn’t know what happened to our mom. Bato would never try to replace her. He said not to get involved, though, and to let Katara come to Dad when she’s ready. I wish I had half the patience Bato does, but you know me.

And of course I wrote back— you’re my best friend.

Sokka

—

Sokka’s life begins to revolve around Zuko’s letters after that.

A week and a half to receive a response from Zuko, always sent with Araya.

A matter of minutes for Sokka to scrawl out his response, the restless energy that never seems to leave his hands these days channeled into writing down every thought he has.

A few days of waiting before he sends his response, so that Araya has time to rest.

Another week and a half before the next letter comes, and it starts all over again.

The letters are a poor substitute for actually talking to Zuko— Sokka finds himself longing for those days between Zuko’s coronation and Sokka’s departure, when they spent hours talking in Zuko’s room after he finished with meetings for the day— but he clings to them anyway. It’s the only time he feels like himself, now: reading about Zuko’s life and scribbling out his own response, ink staining his hands and his eyes always searching the horizon for any sign of Araya.

Zuko seems to understand, is the thing. Their situations are far different— Zuko can never catch a break, while Sokka is overwhelmed by boredom and aimlessness— and yet there’s a sense of kinship present in every letter they pass between them. When Sokka writes about turning to inventing random little trinkets just for something to pass the time, Zuko responds with an anecdote about whatever debate his advisors got into that threatened to bore him to death. When Zuko presents him with a problem to solve— any subject from architecture to culture, politics to science— Sokka does his best to respond with at least two solutions, as well as a story about his family that he hopes will make Zuko smile.

He hopes Zuko finds the same peace in their letters that he does; that he holds Sokka’s letters between ink-stained hands and smiles, just a little.

—

When the last of the winter storms blow away and the skies turn blue once more, marking the start of spring in the Southern Water Tribe, Suki comes to visit.

Sokka is startled to realize that he doesn’t feel the same sense of peace from holding her as he once did. That something in him has changed, enough so that his hands shake when he reaches for her. That he looks at her and doesn’t feel the same yearning for her that he once did.

He still loves her, he knows he does, but it’s become something different. Something more like his love for Toph and Aang rather than something romantic.

It hurts, but he knows it’s time to let her go.

Naturally, Suki beats him to it. They go on a walk in the early morning, gloved hand in gloved hand, and she ends things between them.

“I’m sorry,” she starts to apologize, her eyes wide and worried under the hood of her parka.

Sokka can only grin. “No, don’t apologize. I was going to do the same thing. I just hadn’t figured out how to tell you yet.”

“...Oh,” she says shortly, seemingly stunned into silence.

And then they both start laughing, and they don’t stop for a long time.

Sokka feels a bit more like himself then, too.

—

It’s only later that he realizes he compared his love for Suki to his love for Toph and Aang, and not his love for Zuko.

It’s only later that he realizes that maybe, just maybe, it’s more than just friendship that makes him tuck all of Zuko’s letters under his pillow, and read them over and over again while he waits with breathless anticipation for the next to arrive.

He expects his hands to shake at the thought, but they don’t.

He’s not entirely sure what to think of that.

—

Three days later, Zuko’s next letter arrives and changes everything.

Dear Sokka,

I hope you enjoyed your time with Suki— I’m fairly certain this letter will have reached you after she’s left, but in case I got my math wrong and she’s still there, please tell her I say hi. I have to admit, I’m a little jealous that she was able to visit you. I would love to come see you, but I can’t afford to leave Caldera City right now. It’s like every time I blink, more and more work piles up. Uncle Iroh does his best to help, but he’s been distancing himself little by little as we approach the one year anniversary of the end of the war. I appreciate that he’s just trying to prepare me for when I turn eighteen and my reign officially begins, but Agni knows I could use a bit of help. 

In other news, I have something to share with you and I hope you’ll consider it carefully before sending me your response. As you know, I’ve been working hard to demilitarize the Fire Nation. I started with pulling troops and reducing the size of our military, as well as altering curriculum in schools and stopping production of military equipment. We’ve been a military state for so long, though, that our economy is beginning to suffer; our production capabilities have been focused on weaponry and armor for so long that our factories can’t afford to stay open. My citizens are starting to lose their jobs, and there are entire towns that can’t sustain themselves without the factories. I came up with the idea to create and produce new technology and products that will improve life for our people, as well as stabilize our economy and provide jobs.

I appointed a long time friend of my uncle’s, Kudo Toshiaki, to spearhead this project. His official title is still in the works, but I guess you could call him the Royal Inventor. I’ve tasked him with designing new inventions and building prototypes of them. He’s pretty much a genius— he’s studied everything from architecture and electricity to mechanics and astronomy, and some of his initial ideas are remarkable. However sophisticated we thought our war balloons were, his inventions are better. He’s getting older though, and has requested that I let him hire an apprentice to assist him in his work. I approved his request, and also mentioned your name and some of the things you’ve built to him; if you’re interested in the position, he’d like to hire you. I’ve included a letter from him alongside this one to give you more details about the job.

I know this offer must be a surprise and that there’s a lot to consider; you spent a year away from home and now I’m asking you to come back to the Fire Nation to work for me. I also realize you may not want to help the Fire Nation develop new inventions, considering the harm this nation’s machines have caused. If it makes a difference, I swear to you that these inventions will be used for good; every single one has to be approved by me before it goes into mass production, and I won’t approve anything that’s meant to be used as a weapon. I also just… I hope it isn’t overstepping to say this, but I think about you in the Southern Water Tribe with nothing to do, sitting idle and just waiting for an opportunity to do something, and I can’t stand it. You’re capable of so much, Sokka. I know it. And I think you can achieve it here with Toshiaki.

In the interest of honesty, though, I have to admit that there was another smaller, more selfish reason I mentioned your name to Toshiaki; I miss you, Sokka. I want you to be close to me as much as I want you to be happy.

That being said, please take your time thinking about this offer and don’t feel obligated to accept. I’d like for you to take this job because you want to, not because you feel like you have to. Send me your response via Araya; once I have it, I’ll pass it along to Toshiaki.

For what it’s worth, I hope you say yes.

Zuko

He reads Toshiaki’s letter once— a brief introduction and explanation of what the role will involve, and does Sokka think he can do these tasks?— then reads Zuko’s letter over and over again, only stopping when his hands are shaking badly enough that he can barely see the words on the page.

But they’re not shaking from nerves, he doesn’t think. They’re shaking from excitement. From the opportunity to do something, to make a difference, to put his hands and mind and heart to work. To see Zuko.

I miss you, Sokka.

He traces the words once, twice.

He goes to find his dad, letters in hand.

—

He finds Bato instead, sitting in front of the fire in his dad’s office with a scroll open in his lap. He beams when he sees Sokka and sets the scroll aside.

“What’s up, Socks?” Bato asks, using the nickname that he’s had for Sokka for as long as he can remember.

“Nothing. I was just looking for my dad. Is he out?”

Bato nods. “He’s with Chikuk; she injured her hip on the ice and asked for him to be there while Katara heals her. He should be back shortly.”

“Oh. Okay. I can come back later then. I just needed to talk to him about something.”

“Is it something you can talk to me about? Or I’m happy to just listen, if that would help.”

Sokka looks down at the letter; Bato can’t approve the position, as he’s neither Chief nor Sokka’s biological father, but perhaps he can help Sokka figure out how to convince his dad to let him go. Because he’s fairly certain he already knows what the first words out of his dad’s mouth are going to be.

“Maybe. I— Zuko appointed a royal inventor to develop new technology to help the Fire Nation, and the inventor is looking for an apprentice. Zuko recommended me for the job, and Toshiaki is interested in hiring me.” 

If Bato is surprised, he doesn’t show it; he merely raises an eyebrow to encourage Sokka to go on. 

“I want to go. I really, really want to go. But I know Dad will say I’m too young, and I should stay home for a while to enjoy being a kid. I don’t—” He sighs. “I don’t know how to make him understand that I don’t feel like a kid anymore. I went through so much while you were all gone and then while traveling with Aang that I don’t think I’ve been one for a long time. I know he’s trying to protect me and that he thinks he’s doing the right thing. But I’ve felt so… Trapped here without anything to do. He won’t let me help with anything, no matter how many times I ask. This opportunity is exactly the type of thing I’ve been wanting since the war ended. It’s what I thought I’d be doing, before he got all… over protective.”

“I remember when you were born,” Bato says, going in a completely opposite direction than Sokka thought he’d go. “You were born nearly a month early, you know that? It caused quite a stir in the tribe; premature births always do, just because of the cold and risk of sickness. Your mom was perfectly calm about it though, even as her first baby was fighting his way into the world. But your dad… He was terrified. He annoyed Kya so much with his fussing that she kicked him out of the birthing room and didn’t let him back in until you were out and safe— tiny, far too tiny, but safe. She had me stay in there with her instead,” he says with a small chuckle.

“I didn’t know any of that,” Sokka admits, though he’s still not sure where Bato’s going with this.

“I thought so; you were a bit too young to hear that story before we left. But it’s true, and it tells you that your old man’s always been a worrier. Leaving you when you were so young nearly broke him into pieces, and watching you win the war that we couldn’t wasn’t much easier on his poor heart. I think you’re right, though; he looks at you and still sees that fragile little baby boy, entering the world a month early and scaring him half to death in the process. It’s hard for him to let you go.” Bato studies Sokka, searching his face with an intensity that he wants to shrink away from. He forces himself not to. “But I have a feeling that if you tell him what you just told me, he’ll see what I see. It’s time.”

“So you think it’s a good idea?”

Bato rises and presses a kiss to Sokka’s forehead. “Socks, I think it’s the best idea you’ve ever had.”

Sokka’s heart is so full he thinks it might burst; the feeling lasts all the way until his dad walks in a few minutes later, when it’s suddenly replaced by nerves. His leg, as if sensing his anxiety, throbs with pain.

His dad greets him happily, none the wiser to Sokka’s internal panic. “Sokka! What a pleasant surprise. Were you looking for me?”

“Uh—” Bato’s hand squeezes his shoulder, encouraging and kind, and Sokka takes a fortifying breath. “Yes. I received some news from Zuko that I’d like to share with you. But, Dad, I need you to keep an open mind and listen to me, okay? This is really important to me.”

His dad’s eyes flick between him and Bato, suddenly worried, but he takes a seat anyway. “Alright. I’m listening, son. What’s going on?”

Sokka takes one last deep breath, then tells his dad exactly what he told Bato.

When he’s done, his final request— please, Dad, let me do this— hangs heavy in the air.

He’s shocked to see that his dad’s eyes are shiny with tears. “Sokka. I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize—” He lets out a shuddering breath, spurring Bato to move to his side and grasp his hand in support. “I thought I was helping you by releasing you of responsibility: that you were only asking for something to do because you felt obligated. I didn’t know I was… That you felt like I was trapping you. Oh, Sokka, I’m so sorry. I didn’t listen to you.”

“It’s alright, Dad,” he says quietly. “I didn’t mean to upset you, I only wanted you to understand.”

“If you ever have kids, you’ll discover that understanding them often upsets you,” his dad says, a self-deprecating smile on his face. “Not in a bad way, but because you’re forced to see how much they’ve grown. Regardless, if you’re sure you want to do this… Well, I can’t say it doesn’t break my heart to think about saying goodbye to you again so soon, but I think it’d be foolish to make you pass up this opportunity. You’ve always been a genius; it’s time the whole world benefited from that big old brain of yours.”

Sokka beams and is across the room before he knows it, ignoring the ache in his leg in favor of slamming into his dad. “Thank you, Dad. Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

His dad laughs slightly, his hand coming up to rest on the back of Sokka’s head. “Look at you. I blinked and now you’re all grown up. Not my little boy anymore, huh?”

“I’ll always be your son,” he says, stepping away. “That won’t ever change. I just want you to see me for who I am now.”

“I’ll do better,” his dad swears. “Now, go write your acceptance letter. Those inventions won’t invent themselves.”

“Yeah,” Sokka agrees. “Thank you, Dad.”

“I’m proud of you, Sokka. I hope you know that.”

He smiles at his dad. “I do.”

He means it.

—

Four weeks later, Sokka is officially hired as the Apprentice to the Fire Nation’s Royal Inventor.

He packs his bags with steady hands.

—

He arrives in Caldera City Harbor a week later, sailed there by Bato and a small crew, and his heart just about pounds out of his chest when he sees Zuko waiting for him.

He hadn’t expected Zuko to be at the dock to greet him, imagining he’d be far too busy to take time for something so trivial. After all, it’s not like he’s a dignitary or an ambassador or some other important figure coming to visit; he’s just an apprentice, here to tinker in a workshop.

He thinks back to Zuko’s letter— I miss you, Sokka. I want you to be close to me— and wonders if maybe there was more to that statement than he thought. If maybe he should have sent the first version of the letter he wrote accepting the job, the one where he wrote by the way, I think I might be a little bit in love with you with steady hands.

He dismisses the thought, not wanting to sully the first time he’s seen Zuko in nearly a year with what if’s and maybe’s. 

No, he’d rather focus on watching Zuko, taking in every detail of his face, every tiny thing that’s changed in the months since they last saw each other. His hair, half of which is pulled up into a bun that’s held in place by his crown, has grown out to the middle of his shoulder blades. His stance is proud but relaxed, showing an ease in his role as Fire Lord that brings a smile to Sokka’s lips; Zuko had been worried about nothing, it seems. His face is unchanged for the most part, with the exception being his eyes— they’re older, now, wisened by even the short amount of time he’s been ruling.

Zuko smiles as Sokka approaches him, and Sokka swears he feels a piece of his heart slot back into place. 

Still, he can’t help teasing Zuko when he stops in front of him. He bends into a low bow, and says with every ounce of grandiosity that he can muster, “Fire Lord Zuko, you honor me with your presence.”

His efforts are validated by the inelegant snort Zuko lets out. “You’re an idiot,” he says, the smile clear in his voice.

“Guilty,” he grins broadly. Then, cutting a glance towards the guards at Zuko’s back— two Kyoshi Warriors and two private guards— he asks, “So am I allowed to hug you, or will your friends here throw a fit?”

Zuko rolls his eyes and steps forward to tug Sokka into a tight hug. “It’s good to see you, Sokka. I’ve missed you.”

He hugs Zuko just as tight. “Yeah. Me too, buddy.”

When they break apart, Zuko turns his attention to Bato and the crew, lingering by the boat while they greet each other. “Bato! It’s great to see you again. Congratulations on your engagement. I trust you had safe travels?”

“Thank you, Fire Lord Zuko,” Bato smiles, slightly bashful as he always is when someone mentions his engagement to Hakoda. “And yes, it was very peaceful. We didn’t encounter so much as a strong wind.”

“Excellent. I’ve prepared rooms at the palace for you all. If you’d like to follow me, someone will fetch your belongings and bring them to you.”

He turns, and Sokka falls into step beside him. “So,” he says. “You seem comfortable in those robes, Fire Lord Zuko.”

“You’re not going to call me that forever, are you? It’s bad enough that Uncle insists on using my title, I don’t need you to either.”

“Nah, it’ll wear off eventually. Just need to tease you for a bit, first. I’m serious, though— you seem at ease. Confident.”

Zuko scoffs. “A rare moment, then. Trust me, I spend most of my time second guessing myself.”

“Well, I think you’ve been doing well so far.”

“Thanks,” Zuko smiles. “It’s hard to believe, but I’m glad you think so.”

“We’ll work on your self esteem,” Sokka decides. “It can be my side project.”

“You’re going to be a thorn in my side, aren’t you?”

“Absolutely,” Sokka grins. “Your fault, really. You’re the one who got me the job.”

Zuko just shrugs. “A price worth paying, so long as it means you’re here.”

Their fingers brush, and it’s all Sokka can do to keep from intertwining them.

—

Toshiaki is exactly what Sokka expected from an elderly, genius inventor who’s studied every subject under the sun: frenzied, disorganized, and with a mind that moves a million miles per second. He frequently loses track of his thoughts and doesn’t finish sentences, leaving Sokka to figure out what he was trying to say. His notes are messy, disjointed collections of half-finished thoughts and drawings, and they frequently start out as one thing and end as something else entirely. His workshop is filled to the brim with loose papers and semi-built machines, and tools and parts litter the floor. His sense of humor is dry at best and difficult to follow at worst, and he shows up late to the workshop more often than not.

Naturally, he and Sokka get along like a house on fire.

Naturally, Sokka loves his job.

He loves working with his hands again, building things and solving problems and sketching out new ideas. He loves the smell of machine oil, ink, and dust that permeates the air in the workshop. He loves that Toshiaki encourages him to try things, and doesn’t care if his ideas fail. He loves knowing that everything he creates is made with the intention of helping people, of making their lives better and bringing them joy. He loves the satisfaction of getting something right and knowing that his hands can be used for creating things, not just fighting and protecting people. He loves that he has purpose again, after so many months of searching and begging and longing for anything to do.

And he loves that through it all, there’s Zuko.

No matter how busy they both are, no matter that Zuko has an entire country begging for his attention, they do their best to spend as much time together as they can.

Breakfast on Zuko’s balcony, quiet other than the rustle of Zuko going through his notes for the day because Sokka isn’t a morning person. Walks in the garden whenever their lunch breaks line up, giving Zuko a chance to be himself rather than the Fire Lord, and giving Sokka a break from Toshiaki’s ramblings. Telling each other about their days over dinner, or tea if Zuko’s meetings run late. Zuko picking Sokka’s brain for ideas about the latest issue he and his advisors can’t seem to solve. Sokka giving Zuko a preview of every project proposal before it ever crosses his desk because he’s too excited to keep it to himself. Working in silence in Zuko’s study, Sokka tinkering with new inventions at the desk that Zuko had brought in just for him while Zuko tackles his stack of paperwork that never seems to get smaller. 

They’re small moments, but Sokka treasures each one. Spends each one falling just a little bit more in love.

His hands start twitching whenever he’s near Zuko, as if begging to reach out and touch him.

—

“Do you want to spar?”

Sokka looks up from the proposal he’s writing for his and Toshiaki’s latest invention to find Zuko leaning against the doorway of the study, already changed out of his robes and dressed down in loose fitting pants and a cropped tunic, his sheathed swords on his back. Sokka blinks a few times, trying to collect himself; it’s a rare thing these days, seeing Zuko in casual clothes, and it always makes him a bit flustered for a few seconds. “I thought you had meetings all day.”

“They got canceled,” Zuko explains. “The Ministers of Agriculture and Infrastructure were supposed to arrive today from Chiszi Village, but there was an issue with their air balloon. We can’t get started without them, so I delayed the meetings until next week. Which means I have an unexpectedly free afternoon.”

“That must feel good— you’ve been working hard lately, you deserve the break,” Sokka grins.

“Yeah. I could use a good, even fight, too— my private guard is too scared of hurting me to make it worth it, but the Kyoshi Warriors just wipe the floor with my ass. We’d be a bit more even, I think. So what do you say?”

Sokka’s shoulders sag. “I would love to, but I… Don’t have a sword anymore.”

Zuko seems taken aback, brow wrinkling in surprise. “You never made another? I mean, I guess that makes sense since you had a broken leg last time you were here and you wouldn’t have made one back home, but… I’m still surprised. And you never found the space sword?”

“No. I kept holding out hope that it might magically resurface, and my boomerang too, but no such luck. At this point I’ve kind of given up on ever finding them— they’ve been gone long enough.”

Zuko’s face flickers, quickly enough that Sokka can’t begin to decipher the look before it’s replaced with something more hopeful. “I know it’s not the same, but I do have some other swords you could borrow.”

Sokka glances at the proposal, awaiting the final few paragraphs, and figures there’s no real rush. There’s definitely not one when the person asking him to spar is also the person who has to approve the proposal. “Yeah, alright,” he agrees with a grin. “As long as you’re ready to lose, jerkbender.”

Zuko grins, sharp and challenging and cocky in a way that makes Sokka’s stomach flip. “You’re on.”

And then he grabs Sokka’s hand and tugs him down the hall, his touch enough to make Sokka feel as though he’s burning.

—

The spar is going well, all things considered— Sokka is out of practice and using an unfamiliar weapon so he’s not as good as he was, but he’s still hanging on— until he steps wrong and pain goes racing through his leg, sharp and sudden enough that his vision goes black.

The last thing he hears before he collapses is Zuko crying out his name, and metal clattering against stone.

—

When he comes to, he’s laying on the ground with his head cushioned on something soft, Zuko’s upside down face peering at him, and his leg aching.

He groans; the pain hasn’t been this bad in a long time, and he’d almost forgotten the vague sense of nausea that accompanied it whenever it got like this. “Ow,” he grits out.

It’s a severe understatement, which Zuko seems to know from the way his brow creases with worry. Sokka has never been more grateful for Zuko’s uncanny ability to read him than when he skips asking if Sokka is okay and goes straight for, “How can I help?”

“Heat?” Sokka says through clenched teeth, another wave of pain spreading from his knee. “If you could just get me a damp rag—”

“No need,” Zuko says, shifting. It’s only as he lifts Sokka’s head up that Sokka realizes his pillow was actually Zuko’s thighs; for the briefest of moments, the pain in his leg is secondary to the burning of his cheeks. “You have me.”

He rests his hands on Sokka’s leg, one just above his knee and the other just below, and slowly, ever so slowly, heats them up. It takes just a few minutes for the muscles in Sokka’s leg to start to relax, the sharp ache fading away alongside the stiffness in the joint, and he thinks he could cry from how wonderful it feels.

“Is that okay?” Zuko asks softly.

“It’s perfect,” he says. “I don’t know why I’ve been bothering with damp rags all this time, this is way better. Are you still sure you don’t want to quit your day job?”

Zuko snorts, shifting the hand above Sokka’s knee to rest a little higher on his thigh. The tension in his quads begins melting away. “You have no clue how tempting that is, especially with my schedule for next week. All my normal meetings, plus the ones that were pushed back because the ministers got delayed…”

Sokka winces; this time, it has nothing to do with his leg. “So I won’t plan on seeing you much next week, then.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’ll always find a way to make time for you, no matter how busy I get.”

Sokka’s cheeks, once again, go warm.

For the most part, it’s easy to be quietly in love with Zuko. Easy to be content with their friendship, the peaceful simplicity of it, and the quiet moments where they can just be Sokka and Zuko, best friends. Easy to appreciate the way they are now, unburdened by the pressures of a romantic relationship and all the political nonsense that would accompany it, given Zuko’s position as Fire Lord.

But then Zuko says things like that, and Sokka forgets every single reason he has for not confessing how he feels. Every single complication and worry and fear washes away in the face of Zuko’s kindness and the sincerity with which he speaks to Sokka, looks at Sokka, touches Sokka. It becomes almost unbearably difficult to swallow his words, to keep his hands from reaching out for Zuko and never letting go.

He lets himself picture it for a moment— resting a hand lightly on top of Zuko’s, while the other goes to brush the loose strands of hair from Zuko’s eyes. Sliding his hand down to Zuko’s cheek, and using the lightest of pressure to guide Zuko’s mouth to his. Kissing Zuko with the same gentleness that he’s using to treat Sokka’s leg.

He doesn’t do it, though. Doesn’t move an inch, aside from the subtle twitch of his fingers.

Zuko’s hands don’t budge from Sokka’s leg for a long time.

—

Things change between them after that.

Not in a weird way, or a significant way, but just… little things.

He catches Zuko staring at him more frequently, whatever report he was working on forgotten as he gazes at Sokka from across their study. They seem to find more excuses to touch— Zuko using his firebending to treat Sokka’s leg pain, their fingers brushing when Sokka hands Zuko the latest report from Toshiaki, their shoulders bumping when they walk through the gardens— and each time it takes more and more of an effort to pull away. Sokka notices Zuko’s cheeks flushing red around him, and feels his own burning more often than not as well.

Sokka’s not stupid: he knows that whatever feelings he has for Zuko, Zuko reciprocates them. He knows Zuko knows, too.

And yet neither of them say anything. They’re both just waiting— for what, Sokka couldn’t say. But he’s looking forward to the moment that the fragile tension between them finally breaks.

—

For the most part, Zuko doesn’t make a habit of visiting Toshiaki and Sokka in their workshop. He’d told Sokka, back when he first arrived in the Fire Nation, that it was because he didn’t want them to feel pressured, or like Zuko was waiting for them to come up with their next idea. He wanted their inventions to come naturally, and for them to have whatever time and space they needed to work on them. Which Sokka appreciates— he always finds it difficult to work when someone is looking over his shoulder, breathing down his neck. 

Of course, it also means that Sokka knows something is up whenever Zuko does pay their workshop a visit.

Like today, when he strides in sometime after lunch and greets, “Good afternoon, Toshiaki. Sokka.”

Toshiaki, head buried in a massive tome about the chemical properties of liquids, barely acknowledges Zuko— he just mutters something incomprehensible and keeps reading.

Sokka catches Zuko’s eye, one eyebrow raised in amusement, and has to stifle a laugh. “Fire Lord Zuko,” he greets on behalf of both of them. “How can we help you? We’re still working on the prototype of the image capturing device, but—”

He waves a hand. “Oh no, I’m not here about that. And this isn’t an official visit, either. I have a surprise for you, Sokka.”

Sokka eyes his conspicuously empty hands. “Really? What is it?”

Zuko rolls his eyes. “Nice try. I’m not telling you. You’ll just have to follow me.” He turns on his heel and starts to leave, but pauses at the doorway. “Oh, and Sokka? Bring your stuff. You have the rest of the day off. Fire Lord’s orders.”

Sokka blinks at him, but grabs his bag with a shrug. He doesn’t bother saying anything to Toshiaki— he’s so busy muttering to himself about hydraulics that he wouldn’t hear or pay attention.

“So,” he says as they start strolling down the hall, Zuko leading the way and nodding to all the palace staff they pass. “You won’t tell me what it is, but will you tell me where we’re going?”

Zuko glances at him in amusement. “You can’t just wait a few minutes?”

“You know me well enough by now to know that I can’t.”

“True. Fine then,” he acquiesces. “We’re going to the courtyard.”

Sokka’s eyes light up. “Is it a dragon? Zuko, did you get me a dragon?”

“Why would it be a dragon? Where would I even get a dragon?”

“I don’t know, you’re the one who found the secret lair of the dragons. Maybe they gave you a gift.”

“Nope,” Zuko says, which Sokka knows is a filthy lie— Zuko came back from his trip with the ability to conjure rainbow fire, which is a gift from the dragons if Sokka’s ever seen one. He doesn’t bother pointing that out, though. “I’d argue the surprise is better than a dragon, but you’ll have to tell me what you think.”

He slides open the door to the courtyard, and Sokka has barely stepped through the doorway before a booming scream hits his ears.

“Captain Boomerang!” And then Toph is there, slamming into him in a rib-crushing hug.

“Toph?!” He exclaims, delighted. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m your surprise! Zuko invited me to come stay with you guys for a few days.”

“Seriously?” He asks Zuko, grinning. He hasn’t seen Toph since she left for the Earth Kingdom at the end of the war, over a year ago at this point. He’s delighted to see she hasn’t changed in the slightest. “It’s so good to see you, Toph.”

“I’d say likewise, but all I have to go on are vibrations.”

He snorts. “Don’t worry, I’m as beautiful as ever. Zuko can verify, can’t you?”

Zuko’s cheeks go bright red, and Sokka immediately feels a little guilty— that probably wasn’t very fair of him, considering the unspoken… Thing between them. He winces at Zuko in apology, who just shakes his head slightly, still saying nothing.

Toph wrinkles her nose at whatever vibrations she feels from them and mutters, “Oh, gross. Moving on.” She claps her hands and says louder, “Right, it’s been ages since I was last here, so I want a tour. And I want to go to your workshop, Sokka. I have to judge the materials you use.”

“Sure,” he grins, slinging an arm around her shoulders and steering her towards the palace. “Come along, Melon Lord. Zuko?”

“I actually have to get back to work,” he apologizes. “But you two enjoy your day together, yeah? I’ll see you for dinner.”

“Oh,” Sokka frowns. “If you’re sure. And Zuko?”

“Hm?”

“Thanks for inviting Toph.”

“Of course,” he smiles warmly. “I’ll see you both this evening.”

He heads in the opposite direction of them, and Sokka turns his attention back to Toph. “Right then. Tour of the palace and workshop, and then I want to know everything about your year. How many grown men did you humiliate in the ring?”

“Oh, Snoozles,” Toph grins wickedly. “Far too many to count.”

He laughs, happy beyond words to have Toph next to him again. Even so, a small part of him can’t help wishing that Zuko was here, too.

—

“So,” Toph says later, sprawled across his bed after finishing their tour. “What’s going on with you and Sparky?”

“Nothing,” Sokka says. At Toph’s disbelieving face, he amends, “We haven’t talked about… Whatever this is.”

“Well that’s stupid,” Toph says, decisive as always. “Your heartbeats were going nuts as you walked up to me. I could feel them before you even got close, it was disgusting. You should just tell each other.”

“Shut up,” he blushes. “I want to tell him, I just haven’t found the right time.”

“Hmph,” she huffs, her bangs fluttering with the force of her exhale. “Ridiculous, considering it sounds like you spend all of your free time together, but fine. Just tell him soon, yeah? Put me out of my misery.”

“If you think I’ll be any less obnoxious once I tell him, you’re in for a rude awakening,” he says frankly. “But I’ll keep that in mind. I’ll try to… Tell him.”

He’s grateful that her feet aren’t touching the ground— he’s not sure whether or not she’d be able to sense his hands trembling at the thought of confessing, and he’s not eager to find out.

—

Sokka is catching up on all the work he’d put off while Toph was visiting when there’s a soft knock on the study door, immediately followed by Zuko’s head poking into the room.

“Hey,” Zuko greets, smiling softly when their eyes meet. “Busy?”

“Uh…” Sokka glances at his stack of finished notes, drawings, and Toshiaki’s reports— finally bigger than the stack of unfinished work— and shakes his head. “No, I can stop here for the night. What’s up?”

Zuko shrugs, moving further into the room. “Nothing. Just feels like I haven’t seen you much this week.”

It’s objectively not true— they’ve probably seen each other as much as, if not more than, usual this week since Zuko made sure to make time in his schedule to hang out with Toph— but Sokka understands. It was nice to see Toph, but it wasn’t the same as when it’s just the two of them.

“Yeah, I know what you mean.” He frowns, noticing that Zuko looks… Weird. Fidgety and nervous, in a way he usually isn’t. “Are you okay?”

“I— Yeah. I just… Have something for you.”

Sokka raises an eyebrow. “Again? It’s not Aang and Katara this time, is it?”

Zuko laughs, and Sokka is relieved to see his shoulders relax slightly. “No, no. It’s… Well. Here.” He goes behind his desk and pulls out a long wooden box. He brings it over to Sokka’s desk and sets it down, gesturing for him to open it. “Go ahead.”

Curious, Sokka lifts the box and—

And there’s his sword and boomerang, cradled in a layer of silk that’s the color of the ocean at dusk. Both weapons have been polished and sharpened, and they gleam in the soft light of the study.

Sokka’s heart lodges itself in his throat, and he reaches out to brush his fingers over them, his touch soft and reverent.

“Zuko,” he whispers, staring down at the weapons he’d long since given up hope of seeing again. “How?”

“Toph,” he says simply. “That’s why she was here— I asked her to look for them for me.”

“I never even knew she left the palace.”

“She went whenever you were at work,” Zuko explains. “I had some of my private guards fly her out there so that she could walk around and try to sense them. She found them two days before she left, and then I cleaned them up myself. Are they… Did I do okay?”

Sokka almost laughs at the question— he doesn't know how Zuko could possibly think this was anything but perfect.

“You’re kidding, right? Zuko, I—” His thoughts trip over themselves as he tries to process what Zuko’s done for him, overwhelmed by this show of… of love. Because he can’t think of another reason for Zuko to do this— to fly Toph all the way here just on the off chance that Sokka’s weapons might still be out there, even a year after they were lost— than love. Tears well up in his eyes, though they don’t fall. “I don’t even know what to say. You didn’t have to do this for me, but— thank you.”

“I’d do anything for you, Sokka. You know that, don’t you? You have to know that.”

Sokka looks up finally, and his breath catches when he sees how Zuko is looking at him— like he’s something precious, like nothing in the world matters to him as much as Sokka does, like he could look at him everyday for the rest of their lives and never grow tired.

This is what they’ve been waiting for, Sokka realizes. This is the precipice, and this is the moment they leap from it.

“I do,” Sokka breathes, stepping closer to Zuko. Zuko steps forward at the same time, as if drawn to him by some magnetic force. “And you know I feel the same, right? That there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you?”

There’s a shadow of a smile when Zuko murmurs, “Yeah, I do.”

“Good. That’s—” He laughs slightly, though his gaze doesn’t stray from Zuko’s eyes, unbearably warm as they stare right back at Sokka. “I’m usually smoother than this, I promise.”

“I don’t think you are,” Zuko teases, pure affection lacing every word. “But that’s okay. I love you the way you are.”

Sokka’s heart gallops in his chest, a rapid drum beat against his rib cage. “I—”

He tries to get the words out, tries to say what he’s known for months now, but he can’t. It’s as though they’ve burrowed into his heart and made a home there, and nothing he can do can make them leave now.

Zuko understands, as he always does, and his eyes sparkle when he says, “It’s okay. I know. Sokka, I know.”

Sokka grins helplessly, and reaches up to push a loose strand of Zuko’s hair away from his eye.

His hand shakes.

He stares at it, his hand trembling with Zuko’s dark hair draped across his fingers, and—

And it’s strange, because they’re shaking like he’s unsure. But he’s never been as sure of anything as he’s sure of Zuko. Has never wanted anything as badly as he wants this, here and now, with Zuko.

“Sokka,” Zuko says softly.

It’s just his name, really just an exhale into the candlelit space between them, but it feels heavy. Momentous.

Sokka’s hand keeps trembling.

Zuko smiles softly and reaches up. He rests his fingers on Sokka’s hand and tenderly— so achingly tender, Sokka feels his heart breaking in his chest— flattens it against his cheek.

Pressed between Zuko’s hand and cheek, Sokka’s hand finally stops shaking.

“Sokka,” Zuko repeats, and Sokka can feel his jaw move under his hand. 

“Sorry,” he whispers. Zuko’s eyes are on him, warm and steady just like his hands, and he swallows thickly. With a little laugh, he confesses, “I don’t… I don’t really know what to do with them if I’m not trying to fix something.”

“You give them to me,” Zuko whispers back, his thumb swiping across the back of Sokka’s hand. “Just give them to me to hold.”

It’s the easiest thing in the world, then, to lean in to kiss Zuko.

And when he lifts his other hand to cup Zuko’s cheek, it’s steady. 

His hand doesn’t shake.