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Light, Manufactured

Chapter 6: Sympathetic Resonance

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text


“Toph?” Zuko calls, pushing into the darkened gym. “Sorry I’m late, somebody broke a pile of bowls and—Toph?”

Toph doesn’t lift her head from where her small form is curled into itself on the bench. Her cane is extended open across her lap, and she’s rolling it in her hands. Zuko flicks on the lights. 

“Hey, what’s up?” he asks.

Toph shrugs. 

Alarms go off in Zuko’s head and he shifts on his feet. He doesn’t have a clue how to deal with an upset Toph—he’s afraid that she’ll either kick his ass or cry, and neither are something he’s ready to handle right now. 

Zuko tentatively lowers himself on the bench beside her. “Everything okay?”

“I’m fine,” Toph snaps. Zuko tries not to be stung, and he looks around the gym. No sign she’s worked out already.

“Want to work on the bag today?”

“No.”

“Okay.”

He goes quiet. Toph rubs a hand under her nose.

“You have shitty parents, right?” she says out of nowhere. 

“Um, yeah, I guess. My mom was great, but—I’m zero for two.”

“Thought so. You give off neglected, grumpy orphan vibes.”

Zuko snorts. “Not an orphan.”

“Same energy.”

“If you say so.”

“I do.” Toph sniffs softly. “My mom sent an email for the first time in like six months.”

Zuko glances over sharply. “Oh,” he says.

“Yeah. Only so much that a robotic voice can do to soften some of that stuff, you know?”

“I believe it,” Zuko says. He considers asking further, or putting his arm around Toph, but neither of those options feel right. He waits.

“They’ve never really believed I can do anything,” Toph says into the silence. 

“Your parents? Why?”

Toph’s mouth twists into an expression that says in no uncertain terms that Zuko is an idiot. “They’re protective,” she says, and that’s explanation enough. “They didn’t like the thought of me moving twenty minutes away to go to school, and they lost their shit when I said I was coming here a few years back.” Toph shrugs. “Guess I just hoped they’d be over it by now.”

“Have you...tried talking to them about it?”

Toph laughs, low and dark. “Sure. But I can only try that so many times before I start to look stupid.”

Zuko thinks about when he was young, young enough to still believe that if he did well enough—in school, sports, life—his father would be kind, and he wants to say that he knows about that desperate need for parental approval, and that there’s no chance she’ll ever be as stupid as he was, but the words don’t sound right in his head. He fought for love that was not forthcoming—Toph’s parents love her a dangerous amount. 

“Want to check on something with me?” he says instead. “That’s if you’re not feeling up to working out.”

“I’m fine,” Toph says again, but there’s less bite to it. “What would we be doing?”

“It’s a side project of mine. Kind of failed the first couple times, but this one seems to be taking. I have to go check on it.” Zuko shrugs. “Come along, if you want.”

Slowly, Toph lifts her head in his direction. “Alright,” she says. “Lead the way, Oliver.”

Zuko rises and waits for Toph to stand. She folds her cane and opts to take his arm, and he leads her carefully down the stairs and across the station.

“This side project of yours better be interesting,” she mutters. 

“It is to me.”

Toph stays quiet until he opens the door to the greenhouse. The lights are on already, set on their timed schedule. He leads her through the vestibule and through to the back corner of the greenhouse, where he’s pushed his project behind the tomatoes. If Suki’s seen it, she hasn’t commented. Sokka hasn’t asked to see it, either—this is Zuko’s, but he can share it with Toph.

He pulls out the jar. “Here, take it.”

Toph holds out her hands and Zuko presses the jar into them, making sure she’s got a good grip before releasing it. She frowns, holding the jar at the base in one hand and exploring the stem and two leaves with the other. “What is it?” she asks. “A carrot or something? No offense, but you and I have different definitions of interesting.”

Zuko grins. “It’s an avocado plant. The fourth one I’ve tried to grow since I’ve been here. It’s the only one that’s taken so far—the others wouldn’t sprout.”

Toph’s fingers find the lip of the jar and dip inside, a fingertip scraping the smooth shell of the cracked pit where it’s suspended in the solution. “Cool science experiment, I guess. Why are you showing me this? What’s your point?”

“My point is that even though shit sucks, there’s always the chance to try again. Fail a few times, but keep trying.” Zuko winces at Toph’s puzzled expression—Iroh was always better at this. “And, you know. If your parents don’t come around and meet you halfway, well.” He shrugs. “You’re a badass, and I think you’ll be okay.”

It takes a second for Toph’s face to light up, and the laugh that bubbles up from her is clear and free of mockery. She passes back the avocado plant and Zuko tucks it into its corner before she punches his arm. Her aim is off center and it hurts, but she laughs again. 

“Your advice is almost as bad as your jokes,” she says. “Thanks, though.”

“Anytime,” Zuko mutters.

“And hey,” she says, turning toward the entrance to the greenhouse, “if that one croaks, I guess you can try again.”

Toph unfolds her cane and leaves, and Zuko runs a finger over the delicate curve of a tomato stem. The avocado plant is bright green and growing steadily, as far as he can tell. Roots are turning into a tangled ball in the jar, and it can likely be transplanted to the usual system soon. It probably won’t die—and if it does, he can try again. 


There are good days, there are bad days, there are days where Zuko doesn’t feel much at all, and on those days he doesn’t want to leave his bed, but he does, and sometimes the day grows into something tolerable and sometimes it stays shitty. 

The good days don’t quite outnumber the bad days. It matters less than he thought it would, because the fact is the good days exist, and Zuko is thankful for them.

He doesn’t feel better yet, but he has hope that he can. There is a wobbly path of stepping stones to better, and he just has to sweep aside the underbrush to find each one. On their own it’s not enough, but it’s something. 

One of the better days so far comes two weeks later.

Suki has a date night, and while Zuko hasn’t quite brushed off the sting of not yet having had a chance to spend time with them, it means that tonight he has an opportunity.

The strawberries are ready. They hang from their leafy stems over the edges of the troughs, small, bright spots of fruit in the center aisle.

“What are you going to do with them?” Sokka asks from where he’s pulling berries off and placing them in a bowl. “Tart? Pie?”

“I was thinking sorbet,” Zuko says. “But I could be persuaded.”

“No, that’s a better idea. Simple, lets the fruit shine. She’ll love it.”

Zuko looks up from his binder, where he’s recording today’s notes. “What about you? Do you want something else? There’s plenty here.”

Sokka looks over, lips parted. “Seriously? You’re taking requests now?”

Zuko rolls his eyes and looks down again. “Only for you.”

There’s a shuffle, and Sokka clears his throat. “Um, in that case. Pie.”

Zuko nods. “I’ll get Piandao to help with the crust. He’s better than me at that. And we might be able to make some kind of whipped cream happen—I’ll have to check.”

“That—would be amazing.”

“I’m thinking we can surprise people at the solstice party,” Zuko says, gears turning now. “The vegetables have been going over really well, but we’ve kept the fruit quiet. Could make for a nice mid-season treat.”

Sokka doesn’t answer. The drop of berries into the stainless steel bowl continues, until he announces, “I think that’s all of them. They look good.”

“Paws off until the party,” Zuko says without looking up.

There’s a huff, and footsteps head in his direction. Sokka arrives in Zuko’s periphery and he sighs, turning on his stool so he can glance up. “What’s—”

Sokka cuts him off with the press of a strawberry to his lips, and in Zuko’s surprise, he opens his mouth and accepts it. 

A choked, strangled noise gets caught in his throat. He looks at Sokka with wide eyes. Sokka looks at Zuko’s mouth. 

“That’s fucking delicious,” Zuko murmurs. He unconsciously darts his tongue out to swipe the juice from his lower lip, and desire drop-kicks in his gut when he sees Sokka track the motion. 

“Looks that way,” Sokka says. 

Zuko doesn’t breathe. 

Sokka’s eyes are blue and warm under the greenhouse lights. He’s standing close enough that Zuko has to tilt his head back to meet his gaze, and it’s vulnerable like this, sitting while Sokka stands over him. He swallows, and stale air bursts from his lungs through parted lips. 

Sokka nudges one of Zuko’s feet to the side with the toe of his shoe, and Zuko widens his knees without thinking. Sokka steps into the space there and leans down until his face is close to Zuko’s, close enough that he can feel the flutter of his breath brush across his cheeks. 

The gentle clang of the bowl of fruit being placed on the bench echoes loudly in the greenhouse. Sokka’s eyes don’t leave Zuko’s as he releases the bowl and tracks his hand back to settle on Zuko’s shoulder, thumb rubbing a line of fire into his skin as it sweeps in slow arcs over Zuko’s collarbone. Fingertips rest on the sensitive skin just above the collar of his sweater. 

Sokka looks for a long time, and Zuko doesn’t move. He wants so badly—he can’t move. He can’t break this, because if this is what he gets, Sokka looking at him with easy, blatant affection—with mirrored want—it’s more than he deserves.

Finally, Sokka darts his eyes down to Zuko’s lips, and he whispers, “Can I?”

Zuko breathes out with a shudder, and there must have been a yes somewhere in the shape of it because Sokka slides both hands up to cradle Zuko’s jaw and he kisses him. 

Sokka tastes like stale coffee and his lips are chapped and he kisses Zuko with his entire body, curling over him and tilting his face with gentle pressure on his jaw and cheeks. Zuko pulls back to gasp for air and feels the curve of Sokka’s lips, the grin against his mouth. He presses in again, his hands finding their way to Sokka’s waist and fisting into the hem of his shirt. His pinky slips under the fabric to brush the overwarm skin above Sokka’s belt, and Sokka hums into the kiss. 

Zuko takes, and takes, greedy for whatever Sokka will give, for the warm slide of their mouths together and the solid weight of him in his hands and the ache starting at the base of his neck, all of it, any of it. Sokka’s thumbs stroke over his cheekbones, and he slides one hand back to anchor it in the hair he gathers behind Zuko’s ear. Zuko goes without protest when Sokka tugs, very gently, and guides his head to the side so Sokka can mouth across his cheek, down his jaw and throat. He grazes his teeth over Zuko’s pulse and drags a thready whine from the back of Zuko’s throat, something for which Zuko knows he should be embarrassed but can’t find it in himself to care about when Sokka’s lips trail further down the side of his neck. 

Their knees knock together when Sokka shuffles in closer, trying to get better access to press kisses along the line of Zuko’s jaw, and Zuko realizes that there are better positions for this. He drags his head back, away from Sokka. Sokka tries to follow, and Zuko pushes on his hips to hold him away.

Sokka jerks back, eyes open and blown wide, lips swollen as he breathes ragged—and Zuko burns. 

“What’s wrong?” Sokka asks.

“No—nothing, just—” Zuko’s voice is more breathless than he expects, and he instead uses his hands to convey what he wants. He flattens a palm on Sokka’s stomach and pushes back, then shuffles himself farther back onto the stool and tucks his legs back to try and get them in between Sokka’s. “Here, come—”

Sokka gets with the program in seconds. He braces his hands on Zuko’s shoulders and swings a leg on either side of Zuko’s thighs, then drops into his lap, chest to chest. It’s better this way, with the full weight of Sokka grounding him, and Zuko winds his arms around his back and kisses him again.

Sokka groans low and filthy when Zuko sucks his bottom lip into his mouth, and his hands wind into Zuko’s hair, fingers scritching absently into his scalp. Pleasure sparks down Zuko’s spine, and he sighs. 

“S’good,” he whispers. Sokka hums and brushes a hand firmly from Zuko’s forehead to the back of his neck.

Heat builds in his gut, and his pulse feels loud and unsteady. He wants, and he wants, and he’s sure that Sokka will give, but Zuko keeps his hands where they’re spread across Sokka’s back and kneads with his fingers. Sokka murmurs encouragement against his lips, his hands tightening in Zuko’s hair. 

It goes on until Zuko feels flushed with need and an itch under his skin that reminds him of fear but doesn’t fill his head with empty static. Excitement, maybe. 

Sokka drags his lips up from where they’re sucking a mark below Zuko’s ear and slots their mouths together one more time, a slow, languid kiss, before he pulls back just far enough to look Zuko in the eyes. There’s a pretty flush high on his cheeks, and his hair is starting to pull free of its tie, thin strands floating around his face. His smile is small, subdued, but pleased without a trace of smugness.

Zuko’s hands clench in the back of Sokka’s shirt. 

“That was nice,” Sokka says. His voice sounds loud in the hush of the greenhouse. He shifts back and laces his hands behind Zuko’s neck, the drag of their jeans together whispering with the movement. 

Zuko manages a nod. “Yeah,” he says. “Um, really nice.”

There’s the smugness, now. Sokka lifts an eyebrow and glances down pointedly between them. 

Zuko huffs and rolls his eyes. He shoves half-heartedly at Sokka’s sides to get him to stand. “Alright, off.”

“Aw, babe, don’t be mad,” Sokka teases. 

A small whimper lifts in Zuko’s throat, and his eyes snap wide. He expects another joke, but Sokka’s gaze sharpens, and he licks his lips before leaning in for another kiss. It’s sloppy and bruising, and too short, and they’re both breathing hard when Sokka pulls away and smiles at him.

Zuko waits for the syncopated beat of his heart to return to something more regular, less likely to bust free of the cage of his ribs. Sokka’s chest rises and falls against his own, and he consciously matches their breathing. Slow, long pulls of air into his lungs, back out through his nose. He smiles. 

“Your ass has got to be killing you,” Sokka says eventually, and Zuko snorts a laugh.

“Wouldn’t be, if you weren’t so heavy,” he says. In truth, he’s almost certain he’s going to have a bruised tailbone. The greenhouse stools weren’t designed for enthusiastic makeout sessions. 

Sokka’s laugh is bright and loud, but he does stand and pull Zuko up with him, dragging him close to plant a messy kiss on his cheek. Zuko pushes his face away with a hand. Sokka licks his palm.

“Very mature,” he mutters.

“You love it. Now, to the kitchen?” Sokka says, reaching for the strawberries. 

Zuko blinks once, recalibrating. “Uh, yeah, we should get those to the cooler. But don’t—”

Zuko lifts a hand in resigned protest as Sokka bites into a strawberry, grinning wickedly as his lips close around the fruit. He speaks while he chews. “These are great, seriously. That sorbet is going to kick ass. Maybe we can do daiquiris?”

“One thing at a time,” Zuko says, and he waves Sokka ahead of him out of the greenhouse. 

Sokka glances over his shoulder as Zuko closes the door. “One thing at a time.”


The solstice party arrives, and Zuko sneaks into the kitchen ahead of Piandao to check on the sorbet. 

It’s creamy and sweet, and Suki is going to love it. A number of strawberries were sacrificed in the first attempt, but then Sokka and Aang had gotten involved, and the version made using liquid nitrogen ended up being much better. Zuko had protested at first, arguing that there was no need to bring in a dangerous substance when they had a perfectly good freezer at their disposal—not to mention that they could just as easily let the tub sit outside for an hour—but then Piandao had gotten excited and Zuko was vastly outnumbered. 

He’s not going to admit that Sokka was right. 

Piandao finds him like this, spoon digging a well into the center of the sorbet tub and guilt splashed across his face.

“Um,” he says.

Piandao lifts his eyebrows. After a beat, he gestures for the spoon. Zuko hands it to him with a scoop of sorbet already on it, and Piandao hums around the dessert. “Pretty damn good,” he says. “Now help me with the pie and casserole. We’ve got thirty people to feed in an hour, and I’m not going to be responsible for the chaos that ensues if there’s not enough to go around.”

“I doubt that’s possible,” Zuko says, but he follows Piandao into the kitchen and ties on an apron. Every minute of the past week not spent prepping the regular meals has been devoted to designing and preparing a menu for tonight, with Jin and Lee coming in early for their shifts and Zuko and Piandao leaving late to ensure enough will be ready. 

Piandao snorts. “It’s your first year, kid. Just wait.”

They set up side by side at a counter, Zuko laying out charcuterie boards as Piandao takes the final pies out of the oven and lets them cool before moving on to the salad. “Uncle didn’t mention that Midwinter was such a big deal down here.”

“Maybe he wanted you to experience it for yourself,” Piandao says with a shrug. “That, or he didn’t want to have to explain all the trouble he got himself into the year that he was picked to run the gift exchange.”

Zuko glances at Piandao, who has a private grin on his face as he cuts vegetables, and he has to ask. The ensuing story of Uncle losing the letters from home and being forced into doing the polar plunge as penance—running across the snow and jumping into the icy water, naked—only to find the letters in his laundry pile the next day has Zuko laughing and cringing in turn, and once Piandao gets going he’s an open book, and Zuko takes in the easy cadence of his stories and the clear fondness for Uncle with a smile plastered to his face until his cheeks ache.

Sokka and Aang, along with a still one-armed Haru, bang into the kitchen an hour later. 

“What’s the hold up?” Sokka demands. “We’re starving out there.”

“Only you are, Sokka,” Aang says. “The rest of us ate lunch, instead of ‘saving room’.”

Zuko lifts a brow at Sokka and grins at the eye rolls he gets in return. “You lack vision,” Sokka says. “Now, what can we carry?” he asks Piandao.

“All these can go out,” Piandao says, gesturing to several casseroles, the meat and cheese boards, and a variety of other appetizers. “Desserts will come out later. We got enough to drink out there?”

“Suki handled it,” Aang says. “Though Toph is bartending at the moment, so if you want to avoid alcohol poisoning I’d wait on mixed drinks until someone else takes over.”

Zuko chuckles at that, but Sokka says with a serious face, “No, really. Wait.”

“Alright then,” Piandao says. “Grab a plate and get on with it.”

Sokka and Aang swoop in to lift a tray or two each, and they bustle out of the kitchen. Sokka throws Zuko a wink over his shoulder, and Zuko feels his ears warm as he turns back to the counter. Haru steps up beside Zuko and tries to slide his cast-free hand under a casserole dish, but it wobbles precariously when he lifts. 

Zuko reaches out a hand to steady it. “Careful,” he says. “Here, I’ll take this, you grab the salad bowl.”

Haru nods his head. “Thanks.”

There’s a beat where Zuko doesn’t know what to say—he’s never been alone with Haru before, never had a conversation with him. He scans the cast, taking in all the scrawled names of other station residents, and a shaky TOPH filling most of the forearm. “How much longer are you in that?” Zuko asks. 

“Oh, just a couple more weeks, hopefully. Physical therapy’s going to be a bitch, though,” Haru says, no trace of bitterness in his tone. “But Katara’s good, and I’m hoping to be back to normal, more or less, by the end of the season. Katara did say that range of motion might be a little limited from now on. We’ll just have to see.”

Zuko tilts his head. “It doesn’t bother you?”

Haru frowns at him. “What, that it got broken?”

“That it won’t be the same after this.”

“Not really,” Haru says, lifting a shoulder. “I wouldn’t have picked it, obviously, but it is what it is. Things happen that we can’t control. I’ll adapt.”

“You’ll adapt,” Zuko repeats in a small voice.

“Hey, you ready to head out? I think I hear the music starting.”

“Yeah, just a second.” Zuko grabs another tray in his free hand and nods for Haru to lead the way. “Let’s go.”

“You’re in for a treat,” Haru tells him as they walk into the galley.

Zuko gapes at the transformation. He’d seen the decorations on the wall go up earlier this week, the handmade streamers and Midwinter banner draped above the galley door. The stage from the lounge had been disassembled and rebuilt in here a couple days ago, as well. In the past few hours, though, the galley has been turned into something nearly unrecognizable. 

The usually scattered tables have been pushed into a neat layout, covered with white tablecloths and colourful centerpieces, place settings carefully arranged at each chair and complete with wine glasses. One corner of the galley has been cleared, a makeshift bar rolled in, and Zuko sees Toph grinning as she shakes a drink for someone in line. Others are still adjusting decor, and Suki lines up a camera on a tripod aimed at a space of wall designated for photos. The galley’s buffet table is covered with a cloth, the lights on to exhibit several paintings and sculptures that are on display. Another table is set up next to it to showcase a range of wrapped gifts.

“I didn’t know we were supposed to get presents for people,” Zuko says.

“Don’t worry too much about it,” Haru says. “Some do, some don’t. Most are homemade things, and there’s no obligation. We didn’t do a formal exchange this year anyways.”

Zuko frowns and leads the way to where Jin and Lee are arranging trays on a set of tables. They both look up as Haru and Zuko arrive and set to work taking the food from them, waving them off immediately to go mingle. 

“Looks amazing,” Haru calls over his shoulder, and Jin blushes. 

“I can’t believe how different the place looks,” Zuko says. He’d heard the bustle this afternoon when he was in the kitchen, but had been too busy to pay much attention. 

Haru just smiles and bumps his shoulder into Zuko’s. “Let’s go find the others.”

Katara and Aang are leaning over the bar, chatting with Toph as she puts around behind the counter. Aang occasionally reaches out a hand to move a bottle out of her way, or to pass her a lime, and Katara looks on with obvious concern each time someone steps up with an order. 

“Hey, guys,” Aang says. “Can we get you anything?”

“Just a beer for me,” Haru says. 

Zuko considers, thinking of the pill he remembered to take last night and that he wants to stay clear for this. He shakes his head. “Maybe a ginger ale or something, if you have it.”

“Coming right up,” Toph says. 

“It’s a great spread tonight,” Katara says, leaning towards Zuko. “And I heard there’s a surprise for after dinner?”

“I’ve been sworn to secrecy,” Zuko says. His lips twitch as Katara huffs at him.

“Nobody told Sokka that, so the cat might be out of the bag,” she says. "At least, for a few people."

Zuko glances around for Sokka, but he doesn’t find him in the crowd. “I probably should have known better,” he admits.

“He’ll be here soon,” Katara says. “Wanted to change before we ate.”

Zuko hums and takes the can of soda that Toph slides in his general direction before noticing that it’s a cooler. Aang shrugs and takes it, exchanging it quickly before Toph realizes he’s behind the bar. Zuko throws him a grateful smile. 

Haru and Katara chat idly as Zuko waits with them, his eyes roaming over the entirety of the station milling around the galley. Several people stop at the art display, pointing things on the paintings. Music drifts overhead, turned low to allow conversation. It’s not the usual mix that gets blared in the lounge, but a subdued instrumental selection, as though they’re at some stuffy charity event. Zuko would know—he’s been to enough. 

It’s not stuffy, though, and despite the obvious care that’s gone into dressing up the galley for this party, everyone’s in their usual attire, jeans and sweaters or plaid. Jin is moving between the rows of tables to light the candles in the center, and Zuko watches as Suki steps onto the stage and addresses the crowd without a microphone.

“Heads up, people,” she calls, and the galley goes silent within seconds. Suki smiles out at the crowd, lifting her hand in a wave. “Welcome to the annual Midwinter celebration,” she says. A small cheer goes out at that. “As always, a massive thank you goes out to our kitchen staff, especially Piandao, for being able to pull this together. Another thanks to everyone who lent a hand in decorating throughout the week—it looks great in here. And finally, thanks to every single one of you—we’ve got an awesome winter crew this season, and we’re lucky to have you all on board.” Suki waits for a few moments of enthusiastic applause to recede, and finishes with, “Sit where you want and serve yourselves—let’s eat!”

Aang nearly drags Katara over to the food tables, and Haru offers Toph his arm to head over behind them. Zuko hangs back for a moment. He’ll let the crowd get settled first, and find a seat where he can.

He startles when he feels a presence at his shoulder, and Sokka says, “What, not hungry?”

Zuko turns, and his face goes hot. Sokka has changed into dark jeans and a solid blue button down shirt with a collar, not formal but a clear step up from his usual pullovers, and it’s doing him several favours. Zuko is conscious of the fact that he almost certainly smells like grease. “Just waiting for everyone to get theirs, first,” he mumbles. 

Sokka shakes his head, but he’s smiling. “You made it, and you shouldn’t have to settle for the crumbs. Let’s get a move on.”

He steers Zuko to the tables with a hand on either shoulder. Suki catches Zuko’s eye from across the galley and raises an eyebrow at him, and he ducks his head. 

“I can find it myself,” he mutters. 

“Sure, but this is more fun,” Sokka says. 

The crowd has made quick work of the food, but the kitchen staff had also prepared for this, and there’s plenty left when Sokka and Zuko reach the front of the line with plates in hand. Sokka takes about twice as much of everything as Zuko does, and he nudges him with an elbow to head to the table where Katara, Aang, Toph, Suki, and Haru are already tucking into their plates. Wine has appeared from somewhere, and Toph’s pouring a glass when they arrive. Haru reaches out to stop her before it overflows.

Only one seat is left. Sokka places his food down and raises a finger, then proceeds to drag a chair over from the next table, going back and forth a few times for the cutlery and napkin. Haru and Aang move over to make room, and Zuko squeezes in. His thigh is pressed along Sokka’s beneath the table, and it’s comfortable.

“So, who’s signed up for the plunge this year?” Sokka says.

“Nobody,” Aang says. “Too cold.”

“That’s the whole point, buddy.”

“No, really,” Katara says. “Wind’s high tonight and I don’t need anyone getting hypothermia.”

Toph says, “Babies.”

“We can do it anytime,” Haru says. “Could even do it tomorrow, if the wind settles. Just get a few people out to clear the ice again.”

“I really think we need to stop and ask whether we should,” Katara says. 

Sokka rolls his eyes. “Buzzkill.”

She flicks a slice of cucumber at him, and Aang laughs. 

Buoyant energy fills the galley as conversation continues. People rise and take their seats, mingling between tables or getting seconds or thirds, and laughter rings easily over the music. Glasses clink, and there are several happy exclamations as the pile of gifts diminishes. Zuko fades in and out of the discussion at his own table, but he’s grounded by the weight of Sokka’s leg against his own, the way he lets their elbows brush when Sokka leans over the table to argue with Toph, the occasional hand that slips under the tablecloth and squeezes his knee reassuringly. 

In the days since the greenhouse Zuko’s had ample time to worry about what this thing with Sokka is, or means, or how he’s inevitably going to fuck it up. The nagging fear starts to pick at the edges of his thoughts, drawing him out of the galley, but then Sokka turns his head and smiles at Zuko as he laughs at something Suki said, and Zuko’s head goes quiet. He smiles back and reaches under the table to place his hand on Sokka’s thigh. He leaves it there, tracing the seam of Sokka’s jeans with a thumb.

He’s feeling bold tonight, and proud. He grew the freshies they’re eating, grew and made the stuffed peppers that Aang won’t stop raving about and the salad greens that Katara perked up over. There’s something here that didn’t exist before he arrived, and Zuko is light with it.  

Piandao eventually makes his way over to their table. He’s holding a camera. “You kids want a photo?” he asks. “We’re going to get the group one later.”

“Of course!” Suki says. She turns to the rest of them. “Come on, squish. Act like you get along.”

There’s a frantic scrape and shuffle of chairs as they lean into each other, following Piandao’s directions to get in frame, until he says, “Okay, hold it like that. On three, Happy Midwinter. One—”

Zuko tries to smile, tense against Aang’s side. On two, Sokka throws his arm over Zuko’s shoulder. 

“Happy midwinter,” he breathes into Zuko’s ear, and Piandao says three.

Sokka grins and leans back into his own space as the others drag their chairs away, chattering easily.

Piandao looks at the camera and raises a brow. “Alright, I’m stealing my assistant back for a few minutes. Dessert in ten,” he announces. 

Zuko huffs, but he stands and follows Piandao.

“We’re going to serve the sorbet in those glasses there,” Piandao says as they enter the kitchen. “Think we have enough for one scoop for everyone?”

“Probably.” Zuko thinks back to his earlier indulgence. “Might be a little short.”

“That’s okay. The pie should make up for it. Scoop in the freezer, that way it won’t be melted by the time we get out there. I’ll take care of the pie.”

Zuko scoops, filling three trays with glasses of sorbet. On a whim, he decides to garnish the ones for his table with the last of the sliced strawberries. 

“Looks good,” Piandao says as Zuko’s finishing. “Ready?”

Zuko places his final strawberry into a sorbet, one with two scoops—for Suki. “Yeah, I’m done.”

“Good.” Piandao pauses. “How are you holding up?”

Zuko snaps his head up and meets Piandao’s gaze. His face is neutral. “Fine,” Zuko says slowly. “Why?”

“You looked—better, at dinner. Cozy. That picture—your uncle will like it.” Piandao shrugs. “Just wanted to know if I need to have some stern words with anyone,” he says. “Even if they can write me up for it.”

Zuko stiffens, ready for the onslaught of tension in his chest and the numbness in his hands, but Piandao only gazes at him steadily. 

His heart beats regularly in his chest. His head is quiet. He’s fine. 

Zuko rolls his eyes. His cheeks stretch in a grin. “I’m a little old for that.”

Piandao grins back, eyes bright. “That’s what you think.” He nods at the trays. “One at a time.”

They serve dessert individually, and it doesn’t take long between the two of them. Zuko saves the final tray of sorbet for his table.

Suki’s eyes are wide as Zuko sets the glass down in front of her. “Your strawberries,” he explains. 

She tilts her head back to look at him, and her mouth wobbles as she reaches out. Zuko lets himself get pulled into an awkward hug, bent over while Suki sits, and he wraps an arm around her shoulders. 

“Thank you,” she whispers. “It looks amazing.”

“Team effort,” he says into her hair. 

She pulls back and wipes at her eyes. She raises her sorbet glass. “To good friends,” she says. 

The others follow suit, raising their desserts in a toast. “To good friends,” is repeated around the table. Even Toph reaches out for Katara’s hand and squeezes. 

Zuko takes his seat beside Sokka again after emptying his tray. Sokka tilts his head to the side to catch Zuko’s eye, but he doesn’t say anything. 

The sorbet is delicious, the pie even better, and Zuko eats until he’s splitting at the seams.


“You look like you’re fading,” Sokka says, after Zuko’s rubbed his eyes for the fourth time in as many minutes. “Wanna get out of here?”

“Everyone’s having a good time,” Zuko says. It’s true—the galley is still full, the music changed out for more upbeat tracks, and drinks are flowing. Tables have been shoved aside for a makeshift dance floor, and that’s what Zuko’s been watching for the past twenty minutes. 

“They’ll slow down eventually. You look tired.”

“It’s been a long day.”

“The longest night, actually.”

Zuko smirks and glances over at Sokka, leaning against the wall by the kitchen door and looking unfairly beautiful in the dimmed lights, all at once ethereal and resolutely solid in the bouncing glow of the remaining candles. “Okay,” he relents. “Walk me back?”

Sokka smiles and pushes off the wall. “Of course.”

Zuko lifts a hand in Suki’s direction as they push through the galley doors, and he deliberately avoids Piandao’s pointed look. The galley noise is hushed as the doors swing closes behind them, and their footsteps are dull in the darkened halls. 

Zuko goes slowly, reluctant to lose the solid presence of Sokka beside him. He’s exhausted, bone tired in the way that comes from a day’s worth of satisfying work, but there’s something electric thrumming through him and he knows he won’t sleep yet. 

“Hard to believe the season’s already half over,” Sokka says softly as they walk. 

Zuko hums his agreement. 

“It’s been interesting, huh?”

“That’s one way to put it.”

“How would you put it?”

Zuko chews on his lip. “Unexpected.”

“In a good way?” Sokka asks, a thread of concern in his voice. 

“I think so.”

Sokka makes a considering noise and goes quiet, and too soon they reach Zuko’s door. He pulls his key from his pocket, and he lets a breath out of his nose before turning to look at Sokka. 

“It’s not—I still don’t feel like myself,” Zuko says quickly. Sokka’s brows pull into a frown, severe in the dark. “But I’m not sure I really knew myself before, not very well. I didn’t know what I wanted.”

“Do you know now?” Sokka’s voice is curious, not careful. 

Zuko shakes his head and laughs, and it’s a little hysteric. “No, not really,” he admits. “But I’m trying to figure it out. It feels...”

A beat. “What?” Sokka prompts gently.

“It feels possible, maybe. Like before, there was no way—I was so stuck, and so angry—not that I’m not still angry, I mean, half the time I want to hit something, but it’s—it’s a little better every day, and I—it’s a lot, and I don’t want it to be on you. I have to keep trying, and it can’t be on you, or Uncle, or Piandao—I have to do it myself, and I want to. For myself, for once.” Zuko stops and drags in a shaky breath, and balls his hands in front of him. He looks at his feet. 

There’s a long moment of silence. Then Sokka shifts, steps forward so the toes of his shoes are in front of Zuko’s. A broad hand lands on Zuko’s cheek and nudges his face up. 

Like it’s that simple, Sokka says, “I’m cheering for you.”

Zuko’s throat aches.

He turns his face and places an open mouthed kiss on Sokka's palm. Sokka’s breath hitches.

Zuko breathes, with his face against Sokka’s hand, until the space is too big and he needs to be closer. He draws his head back and slides a hand into Sokka’s hair to pull him forward into a kiss.

It’s chaste, a dry brush of lips, but Zuko sighs into it and Sokka wraps his arms around Zuko’s shoulders to anchor him. Zuko breaks the kiss with another shuddering sigh and tucks his face into Sokka’s neck, and he lets himself be held. They’re just hugging, standing in the unlit corner of a hallway at the end of the world, and Zuko can endure this. He can do this.

He wants to do this. 

Sokka holds on, tight and unwavering until Zuko pulls back in increments. He gives Sokka a watery smile. “Thank you,” he murmurs.

Sokka brushes a hand over Zuko’s temple and down his throat. Zuko runs a few mental calculations, tries to determine the probability that two grown men can fit on the mattress in his dorm, and he’s worried that his groove is only big enough for one, and Sokka gives him a knowing, soft look. “Get some sleep,” he says. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Zuko nods, his chest tight. They have time. Zuko will make time. 

Sokka leans in for another gentle kiss before stepping back. He waves, and then he’s gone, footsteps fading down the hall. 

Zuko leans on his door, hands braced behind his back. Something paces under his skin. 

Another minute, and he pushes his key back into his pocket before shoving off the door and into the hall. He moves fast, down the corridor and past the galley, ignoring the sounds of the party still going strong. 

The coat room is empty, of course—it’s past midnight on the solstice, and there’s high wind tonight, and nobody is supposed to be outdoors without signing out and adhering to the buddy system. This is not, strictly, allowed, and Zuko doesn’t care. He dresses in the dark, layering carefully. He pulls on the same gray scarf that Sokka let him borrow before they left, before the storm. He’d never given it back. 

He grabs an extra boot, something to stop the door from latching behind him, just in case, and he cracks the station door open. He places the boot. He walks outside. 

The snow crunches and the wind whips at his face, razor sharp where his skin is exposed. He didn’t bother with goggles, didn’t want a barrier for this. 

The jaws of the continent rise on all sides as he walks onto the ice, threatening to close around him. His heart quickens with every step, and he knows he shouldn’t be doing this.

Zuko steps forward again. Again, and one more. 

The wind is brutal, fast and cutting. He angles his body so it breaks against his side instead of his face. There is no aurora tonight, and the sky is hazy with cloud cover. He feels the telltale tingling in his fingers as he takes another step, and his face stings. 

Zuko will never be as far away from the sun as he is now. The absolute darkness stretches around him, and he looks into it. It gazes back. 

Zuko squints, cranes his head up and around, and he looks. 

There is a break in the clouds, far ahead of him. The sky clears. There are stars.

Zuko breathes out in a gust, letting the wind snatch his breath and carry it away. There’s light, up there.

There’s light behind him, too, when he turns. A sliver of creamy lumination from the station falling in an unfocused slat through the crack in the door, the weak lights of the hallway testing their limits.

Something across the ice catches Zuko's attention, and he stills.

In the middle distance, closer to the station than they usually venture and pressed in a tight formation, is a group of stout, black bodies. They sit huddled together, pinpricks on the ice. They are featureless in the dark, only the shape of them giving any indication that they are not hewn from snow and ice. Zuko can’t make out the kind of penguin or fathom why they as a species have chosen to evolve here, of all places, but he’s flooded with an admiration that far outstrips what most would consider warranted for an aquatic bird. He wants to see them closer, to hear them, but they’re too far. 

He reminds himself that he has time—they will be here long after he’s gone, relying on each other to endure the harsh winter. Like him, they’re flightless. Zuko will see them again.

He twists one more time to catch a greedy glimpse of the stars. He looks for as long as he can, face upturned to their light, before the wind slices at his skin and he needs to get inside.

He grins wide enough that his teeth sing in the cold and bounds back to the station and up the steps. The station door closes gently behind him and he undresses, shaking out his limbs as he does. 

There is still internet when he makes it to his room and opens his computer, and he sighs with relief. 

Zuko has one unread email—from Piandao. No subject, no content, only an attachment that loads slowly, materializing in pieces until Zuko’s face is aching from the residual cold and the stretch of his smile.

It’s the picture from dinner, only hours ago. Suki and Toph are in the forefront, grinning widely. Aang and Katara share a bright smile, and Haru is leaning back with his good arm over the back of Suki’s chair, cast resting on the table. The remains of their dinner are scattered over the table in front of them, and a warm flush rises across their faces. Zuko is at the farthest point in the photo, center left, looking at the camera, slightly stunned but pleased—face and eyes less hollow than several weeks ago. Sokka has his head turned, hair falling free to soften his profile. His arm fits over the curve of Zuko’s shoulders like it belongs there, and he looks at Zuko like there’s nothing else to see. 

It’s the people. 

Zuko attaches the photo to a message to Uncle. 

With steady hands he writes, I looked, and I found it.


 

Notes:

To anyone who read this far, thank you! This was cathartic for me to write and I hope it brought some enjoyment to you. Take care of yourselves.