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Zhao had never wanted a soulmate. And for the first decade or so of his life, he’d thought fate had let him go, released him from the burden of bearing another’s pain along with his own.

But life never goes how he thinks it will, and it’s on a balmy summer afternoon when he is sixteen, sitting bored in class, that he suddenly jerks up in his seat because his knees start aching out of nowhere, like he’d tripped and scraped them on gravel.

That is the first time Zhao can say he understands what it’s like to feel the world crashing down around him. He’s never met his soulmate, but he already hates them.

They must be young, much younger than him. His elbows get scraped, his knees feel raw more than once, and sometimes there’s a sharp pain that bursts in his temple, like he’d clipped it against the corner of a wall.

They are the typical childhood injuries, and already, resentment is budding.

He’s only thankful that echoes don’t reflect the full extent of pain. Minor injuries are rarely felt, perhaps a tingle here and there, but that’s all there is to it. Moderate injuries are mirrored by what is commonly described as a pinched sensation or a dull pang. Nothing truly painful, but noticeable enough. It’s the severe injuries that are truly felt. A broken bone, a terrible illness, a deep gash.

It’s much later when he enquires the school nurse that Zhao is informed that in the first few months, no matter how mild, the echoes will always feel painful. He asks if it’s normal for him to be feeling echoes now when most of his classmates have been feeling them since childhood. The nurse gives him a reassuring smile and says sympathetically, “When a pair has a relatively big age difference, there is the tendency for echoes to only appear when the younger of the two turns older than four or five years old.”

Zhao wonders if anyone would look down on him for hating a child.

His parents weren’t soulmates, and in retrospect, maybe that’s why they argued so much. They’ve always raised him with the belief that soulmates aren’t necessary, but it had always been hard to believe them when they argued day in, day out.

As soon as he was old enough, they sent him off to boarding school. In the breaks, they shipped him over to a firebending teacher where he stayed under their tutelage until it was time to return to school.

That was how he met Jeong Jeong.

Zhao never gives much thought to his soulmate’s upbringing. He knows they’re a rather clumsy person even for a child, often tripping and falling. He knows they sometimes cause great injury to themselves. A nasty gash across the forehead, a burn on the wrist, a throbbing pain in the side.

Pain in the ass, more like.

Sometimes, his soulmate goes through a different type of pain. They say soul bonds don’t just encompass physical pain; severe emotional pain can be felt in echoes too. Zhao has never understood why. Isn’t it enough he has to feel physical injury? Why should he need to carry his soulmate’s emotions as well?

Every so often, Zhao feels something akin to a dull throb of deep sadness close to his heart. It stuns him the first time it happens. And then it too quickly becomes an annoyance. He tries to pay it no mind, but emotional pain is a different type of pain, and it always lingers far longer than physical hurt.

He grows up. At eighteen, he enlists in the army at the behest of his father. He doesn’t know why exactly he still listens to the man. He’s not much of a father. Shelled out the money to raise him, yes, but Zhao has been raised more by Jeong Jeong than both his parents combined.

The years pass. Zhao experiences love and loss alike. But what little love he finds never has a happy ending, and he finds that he is far more familiar with loss than he is with love.

And throughout all this time is the occasional reminder that there is someone out there who is apparently meant for him.

Truth be told, Zhao finds the notion of soulmates ridiculous. He knows plenty of people who found love with someone who is not their soulmate, and over time as their bond strengthens, inversely, the connection they have with their soulmate wanes. It’s such a deliciously ironic thing. For all the romanticism surrounding soulmates and how fate had decreed it so, the choice is still ultimately up to oneself. If both parties are willing to sever the connection, they can do so, sometimes without having ever met. It takes time, of course, and is based on the condition that at least one half of the pair had found someone else, but it’s a possibility, and it further cements Zhao’s ideology that there is no one perfect person out there to be tied to.

Love is fickle. Love is strange. It’s a confusing mess of emotions, and while Zhao can say he has loved, he struggles to hold onto it.

He is twenty-five when the world comes crashing down for the third time.

(He doesn’t think about the second time, when he had been abandoned by the man he’d thought of as a father.)

Zhao is invited to Crown Prince Zuko’s first Agni Kai. More than that, he is invited a seat close to the arena. It’s an honour reserved for only the highest of society, and Zhao finds himself situated amongst General Iroh and Princess Azula, as well as countless other dignitaries.

Sadly, there is no fight. Unless one counts the prince grovelling at his father’s feet a fight. But something puts Zhao at unease when he feels a sharp spike of pain in his chest. It’s similar to the emotional agony his soulmate has experienced before, but this is by far the most intense wave he has ever felt. It is like every hurt in the world intensified by a million times, and if this is only an echo, Zhao wonders what exactly is happening to his soulmate that is making them feel like they’re about to keel over and die.

Zhao is pulled back to the Agni Kai by Ozai’s voice, ringing throughout the Agni Kai chamber in sinister tones. It’s such a stark contrast, how level his voice is to his words, but Ozai has always had that effect on people. He speaks in such a way that one can’t help but be drawn towards him, listening with rapt attention.

“You will learn respect,”

Prince Zuko begins to shake, and with how close Zhao is to the stage, he can see tears shimmering and spilling out of Zuko’s eyes.

Something hot runs down Zhao’s own face, and when he idly reaches up, it is wet to the touch. He frowns, confused, and stares at his fingers, stunned when he sees tears.

This… has never happened before.

But suddenly, Zhao is crying. He’s not, truly, but the tears are running down his face without control, and though he has no tightness of the throat or other associated signs of crying, he finds the tears are uncontained and involuntary.

It’s only when he’s looking back up through his tear-blurred vision at the spectacle in front of him do the dots finally connect.

No.

“… and suffering will be your teacher.”

Zhao lurches in his seat, his mouth falling open. He doesn’t know what he can even do, doesn’t know if he is trying to vocally protest, or join Prince Zuko in his begging, or, hell, even offer to take the prince’s – his soulmate’s – place in the fight.

But there’s nothing he can do, because Ozai’s hand is cupping Zuko’s face like a facsimile of a tender touch, the beginnings of fire flickering beneath his palm.

And then – the world is blinding pain, and it takes everything to not scream and retch on the floor. Zhao still can’t stop himself from pressing a hand against the left side of his face, from hunching forward, nauseous from pain, and curling in on himself in pure agony. He bites so hard on his tongue that blood fills his mouth in an instant. It hurts – it hurts so fucking bad, and it’s only an echo. Through it all, he can’t even hear the crown prince’s screams.

He doesn’t know how he manages to keep his own screams in during the entire debacle, but he knows he can’t quite stop writhing in his seat, convulsing with the atavistic need to get away from the pain. The only consolation he has is that everyone is too fixated on the spectacle still going on to question why he is trying not to scream with the prince, why he is clenching and scratching at his arms as if to inflict a different kind of pain on himself will distract from his face getting burned off.

When it’s finally over, Zhao lurches out of his seat, not even bothering to go talk to any familiar faces. His head is clouded with pain, he feels delirious, and his vision is swimming. The room is spinning around him, people’s voices mixing with the ringing in his ears until he can’t discern any type of language at all.

Down the hallway, past the doors, stumbling like a drunkard.

He staggers into the washroom, finally – finally – retching up whatever had been in his stomach. There’s little more than bile, but the gags and retches still wrack his body. By the time he’s done, his body is heaving, his ribs aching, his stomach cramping, the bitter aftertaste lingering in the back of his throat doing nothing to calm his nerves.

When he eventually, dizzyingly, stumbles out of the bathroom, there is an attendant waiting outside, proffering a moist towel with a sympathetic twist to her lips.

“You’re not the only one who had to run to the toilet,” she whispers conspiratorially, “it was a sickening thing to witness, what just happened.”

He doesn’t have the heart or conviction to say he’s not vomiting his soul out because of what he just had a front row seat to, but rather because, well, if he could eject his soul, he would. Maybe then he wouldn’t have a soulmate. Maybe then he wouldn’t be suffering like this.

Zhao accepts a sip of water. The left side of his face is pained, not to the point of numbing, but just on the borders of feeling so much that he can’t even feel anymore. His hands are trembling as he lifts the cup to his lips, shaking so hard water sloshes out in lurches.

The servant wipes it away. “Don’t worry, sir,” she assures, “none of this will reach the Fire Lord.”

“It better not,” Zhao says, and then he stumbles his way out of the palace to his accommodations.

He’s in pain. Fiery, hellish pain. He spends the rest of his shore leave crippled in bed, feverish, sweating, pale, and terrible. There are blank lapses where he simply faints from pain, meandering through blurry, illogical dreams and doing his best to at least slur out something coherent whenever someone comes in to check on him.

By the time he emerges from his bedroom, he is kilograms lighter and a hell of a lot more confused.

It starts with registering that he’s found his soulmate. It’s a terrible, terrible revelation. He’s never given much thought to his soulmate, only finding it a pain in the ass when it feels like his clumsy, clumsy soulmate has accidentally burnt themselves for the umpteenth time that day.

And now the reason why his wrists always felt like they’ve been burnt became evident. Zhao doesn’t know what to think. The pain isn’t a common occurrence. But over the years, he has slowly figured out the difference between pain and pain.

Pain is in scraped knees, in punches on arms, in twangs of pulled muscles.

Pain is in lying awake at night, frightened and sore in the heart, wanting to cradle a heavy injury to himself and seek comfort.

But now he thinks they are one and the same.

For a long time, Zhao seems to float in the plane of existence without direction. His recovery is far from smooth. It’s not even the physical pain anymore. It’s the emotional ache that comes after what he assumes to be the prince’s re-entry into reality.

It hurts so, so bad.

It feels like everyone around him has betrayed him and left, kicking him to the ground and spitting on him while they were at it. He spends days on the ship avoiding people, and he knows it’s an echo, he knows it’s not truly him, but he can’t help eying everyone distrustfully, certain they were going to hurt him.

The first time Zhao encounters the banished prince on sea is when they are to carry out a routine inspection. It’s been approximately three months since his exile, three months since Zhao has felt like his heart has been trampled into the ground.

The door to Prince Zuko’s cabin is sealed shut, and he refuses to respond when Zhao’s men order him to.

“Forgive my nephew,” Iroh says, wringing his hands. “He has not received the news of his banishment well. His room is the only safe place for him. Please, must you inspect it? Surely you can apply an exemption just this once.”

“My hands are tied, General Iroh,” Zhao says unsympathetically. “Every room is to be inspected. We can’t risk the chance if there is anything… untoward hidden on this ship.”

“Very well,” Iroh sighs, resigned.

Iroh gently knocks on the door, calling out as if the prince is a frightened animal. It makes Zhao want to roll his eyes. There isn’t any use in coddling him. Not when it would ultimately do more harm than good. Predictably, Prince Zuko refuses their entry.

“Prince Zuko,” Zhao calls through the thick door, fed up with it all. “I have an official order from your father that every room must be inspected. Open up.”

Rancid fear suddenly seizes Zhao’s chest, and for a moment, he has to stop himself from reaching up and clutching a hand over the aching, hurting spot. He squeezes his eyes tightly, his feet frozen to the floor from the overwhelming wave of no, no, no, please don’t talk about Father, can’t disappoint Father yet again –

The door opens, and Zhao quickly lets out a harsh exhale under the cover of creaking hinges. Seems that a decrepit little ship like this still has its uses.

“Prince Zuko,” Zhao greets, straightening up.

There is a swathe of bandages and gauze covering the left side of the prince’s face. His head has been shaved save for a trailing length of hair tied up into a phoenix tail. It’s a mark of dishonour, and not for the first time, Zhao wonders why he’s been cursed with such a terrible choice in soulmate.

And it is strange, isn’t it? The few times Zhao had allowed himself to envision meeting his soulmate, he’d never thought it to be like this – in pain, in suffering, in agony. Because for as much as he has been tormented by these soulmate echoes, he had thought, at the very least, it shouldn’t hurt to finally meet them.

But it hurts. It’d be surreal to be so close to his soulmate, but pain anchors him to reality. And reality is the smell of medicinal herbs, the feeling of betrayal, and the world’s weight upon his shoulders.

His men enter the room. At once, the dull throb next to his heart spikes up into an anxious chokehold. Too much, too much, he wants to be left alone, he wants to be comforted, he wants, he wants –

“Make it quick,” Zhao demands, a choke of terror rising in his throat. “We have better things to do.”

His men look at him oddly, but they obey. And the terror subsides somewhat, but it’s not enough to swamp the feeling of overwhelmed – exhausted – please leave me alone.

For a moment, Zhao wonders if he should tell Prince Zuko of their bond, but when he looks at him, the words wither in his throat.

The prince isn’t ready. Zhao isn’t ready.

What good would telling him do?

Zhao remains silent, and he wonders if he ignores it long enough, the bond will fade on its own.

The bond doesn’t fade.

The one upside to the whole thing is that he and Prince Zuko only occasionally cross paths. But when they do, there is no doubt that they loath each other.

Soulmates? Pah. It’s a joke to think Zhao would willingly see Zuko as anything more than a spoilt brat. Because that’s what he is.

He is incredibly short-tempered, flying off the handle at the slightest things. He has no respect for anyone, is self-centred and driven by his own wants, and refuses, absolutely refuses, to even consider the notion that his father gave him a fool’s errand.

“Don’t you think he’d have wanted you home even without the Avatar if he truly cared about you?” Zhao tries once. “Don’t you think he wouldn’t have made you fight an Agni Kai in the first place?”

He tries to be tactful about it, he really does, and it’s evident that blunt honesty is usually better when it comes to Zuko. After all, General Iroh’s wishy-washy cryptic messages evidently have done nothing to curb the prince’s temper or behaviour.

Zuko doesn’t take it well, of course.

Zhao gets yelled at and is demanded to leave immediately. He does so gladly. He can’t stand to be around the prince, and for the millionth time, he wonders why the hell Zuko of all people is his soulmate.

(There’s a twinge of pain in his chest once he leaves. It’s an echo, but it’s mournful, and Zhao doesn’t feel guilty about being the source of it. He doesn’t.)

Just because Zhao has a soulmate doesn’t mean he’s one of those fools who ‘hold out’ for their destined partner and abstain from any sort of romantic or sexual relationship with others.

He’s been in love.

Once. Maybe twice.

No, just the once, when he was young and foolish. When he thought he was rebelling against the world by diving headfirst into a budding crush-turned-infatuation. And then it turned out his partner found their true soulmate and left Zhao a heartbroken mess.

Zhao doesn’t love easily. He knows he doesn’t. He’s been burned too many times to count to simply throw himself willy-nilly at someone. When he loves, he loves like he’ll never love again. And so he’s cautious with his heart. He remembers every love in his life, romantic or platonic, and he carries the scars they have left everywhere he goes.

“You got a sweetheart waiting for you at port?” the prostitute flutters his lashes at Zhao from the stool next to him without preamble. It’s a common occurrence. Sex workers usually learn their uniforms so they know who can afford them.

“No,” Zhao answers. Zuko is fourteen now, and hardly ‘sweetheart’ material.

“Got a soulmate?”

It’s a rational question. A lot of people refuse to ‘cheat’ on their soulmate. More than one person has taken offence to propositions such as this. But it’s hard to call it infidelity when there’s no one to cheat on.

“Yeah,” Zhao answers honestly. He’d lied once and said he was a Painless One. It hadn’t worked out well. Zuko did something stupid while they were in the middle of it and Zhao had hissed in pain. What ensued was an awkward admission that he did have a soulmate, and that no, he wasn’t involved with them, and no, he wasn’t one of those people holding out for them.

Anyway.

The prostitute tilts their head at him, clearly waiting for elaboration.

“I’m not involved with them,” Zhao reassures.

The prostitute hums in confusion. “So you’ve met them?”

“I’ve met them.” A pause. “I don’t love them.”

“Like, then.”

“Nothing on that front, either.” Zhao signals to the bartender for another drink, and he receives it promptly. “Soulmates are overrated.”

“I sense a story there.” The prostitute smiles, introducing himself, “I’m Ailo, by the way.”

“Zhao.” Then he amends, “Captain Zhao.”

“Captain Zhao,” Ailo drags out his name. “I’ll be honest, I like hanging around taverns and the like just to hear stories about soulmates.”

“Don’t you have your own?”

“No,” Ailo shrugs easily. “I’m a Painless One. But there’s always been something so intriguing about soulmates.”

“It’s overrated,” Zhao reiterates. “I often wish I didn’t have a soulmate.”

“You’re not the first to think that.”

“For good reason,” Zhao scoffs, taking a sip of his drink. “It’s an annoyance. People like to think it’s some magic epiphany life throws at you out of nowhere. Your whole life is centred around your soulmate. You grow up wondering who they are, you meet them, it’s love at first sight, everything clicks in place, and you live happily ever after. What a load of bullshit.”

“That’s a rather cynical view.”

“Because why should I love someone who has been hurting me before I’ve even met them?!” Zhao says incredulously. “It’s ridiculous. It’s like a setup that’s trying to make you resent your supposed one and only before you’ve even seen them.”

Ailo takes a contemplative sip of his own drink. “A lot of people say it’s comforting to know that there’s someone out there who understands your pain.”

“I don’t see how or why it’s comforting,” Zhao sneers. “Pain is personal. Most people don’t enjoy advertising their pain.”

“Not unless they’re pretending to be stronger than they really are,” Ailo intones. “But hey, it’s your opinion.”

Zhao shakes his head. “I still fail to see why sharing pain is a good thing. Not everything has to make sense. There doesn’t have to be an explanation for everything.”

“Then why are you fighting so hard against the idea of soulmates?”

“Because,” Zhao says, staring into the distance. “Love isn’t supposed to be this easy.”

Years pass. Zuko turns sixteen, and he is no closer to finding the Avatar than he was three years ago. It boggles Zhao how he still remains so determined, so sure his father would welcome him home with open arms as if he wasn’t the one to mutilate and banish him in the first place.

“Do you have a soulmate, Captain Zhao?” General Iroh pipes up.

“Yes,” Zhao mutters into his cup. He has no idea how he’d ended up on the Wani, having tea with General Iroh, Lieutenant Jee, and his… soulmate.

“You have a soulmate?” Zuko gawks, and rather rudely at that.

Zhao scowls, annoyance flaring hotly in his chest. If anything, it proves another reason why having the prince as his soulmate is quite possibly the worst idea fate has ever come up with. Not even the sight of Iroh’s elbow digging into Zuko’s side as a reprimand for his rudeness is enough to shave off a modicum of annoyance.

“Soulmates are an inconvenience,” Zhao announces. “Why the hell should I carry the burden of someone else’s pain? It’s not romantic, it’s not sweet, it’s not a comfort knowing someone you’ve never met is hurting and –”

Oftentimes,” Iroh interrupts. “It is strangely shared pain that brings people together.”

“I don’t see how.”

“We get stronger from pain. Pleasure is a wonder to share, but the deepest, most memorable lessons imparted on us often stem from pain.”

“I didn’t think you of all people would have a soulmate,” Jee pitches in, flakes of pastry crumbed in his facial hair making Zhao scrunch his nose up in disgust.

“And what is that supposed to mean?”

“I don’t know,” Jee shrugs. “It’s just odd trying to picture you being in love with someone.”

“Jee,” Iroh admonishes, but there’s no real heat to it. Despite himself, Zhao feels bitterness crawl up his throat. Of course Iroh wouldn’t fully defend him from rebukes and jabs.

He knew what the Wani’s crew thought of him. And he didn’t care. He didn’t. But it is strange to think that just because they see him as the antagonist of their story it means that he lacks the ability to love.

No matter.

“Soulmates are an inconvenience,” Zhao repeats, even though he’s certain the affirmation doesn’t help their assessment of him.

Zuko gets up, and as he’s coming around the table to get the plate of mochi, he accidentally bangs his ankle against the table leg. He yelps loudly, hopping in place and muttering angrily to himself.

Zhao grits his teeth, feels the responding throb in his bones, and growls lowly, “A pain in the ass.”

He didn’t see the arrow coming. Zhao was rallying the troops, calling out formations and barking out a stream of orders when one of the Earth Kingdom platoon archers snuck away from the rest, climbed onto a boulder that just so happened to be in his blind spot, and fired off one arrow before he was taken out by Zhao’s scouts.

But no one was fast enough to stop the arrow. It had pierced through his shoulder, and though it thankfully missed anything vital, it still hurt like a bitch. Zhao had gasped, stumbled, and then braced himself against the pain, continuing his orders and waving off concerned soldiers.

They pulled out the arrow shortly after, and yeah, hell, it stung like a bitch. Shoulder tightly wrapped and bandaged, he was strictly put under the orders of no heavy lifting until the wound fully healed.

Zhao could only grimace, call for his light shoulder pads, and begin the arduous procedure of pretending all was well.

Just his luck that the Wani hails them a mere two days later.

“General Iroh, Prince Zuko,” Zhao greets with a thin-lipped smile when the two of them embark onto his ship. He’d refused to walk across the gangplank to them. An insult to royalty, sure, but Zhao doubted their royalty extended beyond the titles tacked in front of their names by this point.

“Commander Zhao,” Iroh smiles back cordially. “We’ve been given some contradictory information about the boundaries of official Fire Nation waters. We were hoping you would be able to clarify?”

“Of course,” Zhao says, trying not to focus on the way Prince Zuko is idly rubbing at his shoulder. “It’s an unfortunate consequence of recent civil uprising. Some smaller islands want to claim de facto neutrality and have been spreading misinformation about their status.”

“Ah, that’ll explain it.”

“Come,” Zhao gestures to an open door. “We’ll discuss somewhere more comfortable. Have you both eaten?”

It’s nearing lunchtime, and really, Zhao just wants to set up in one of the more casual meeting rooms. His shoulder is panging again, and he’d much rather sit somewhere comfortable.

“We haven’t, in fact,” a hungry gleam appears in Iroh’s eyes. Iroh has always appreciated the finer points of life, and that hedonistic lifestyle has certainly worsened since his retirement.

“Well,” Zhao beckons. “We can discuss the updated boundaries after lunch, then. If you’ll follow me…”

“We don’t have time to stay for lunch,” Zuko scowls. “Can’t you just give us a map?”

“Prince Zuko!” General Iroh admonishes. “Commander Zhao is extending courtesy to us; you would do well to do the same.”

Zuko grumbles something unsavoury under his breath, which Zhao chooses to ignore. He’s careful with his shoulder, making sure he doesn’t jostle it any more than necessary. He briefly wonders if he should discreetly call for some pain medication, if it would reduce the chances of anyone connecting the dots between him and Prince Zuko.

The idea goes flying out the window when, just as they are about to enter the room, the doctor passes by them in the hall and exclaims, “Commander Zhao, remember you are due to change your bandages soon!”

Fucking…

“Are you injured, Commander?” Iroh asks with a concerned furrow of his brow. “We should not be imposing, then, if you are currently in pain.”

“I’m fine,” Zhao grits his teeth. “It’s a minor injury.”

“A minor injury?” the doctor repeats incredulously, “Sir, you took an arrow through your –”

“That’s enough, Doctor.” Zhao snaps, swinging open the heavy metal door with his good arm. “I’ll come see you in the infirmary after.”

The doctor opens his mouth to protest, but soon closes it again when he is pinned by a dark glare of warning. “Yes, sir,” he says, bowing, “of course.”

“An arrow wound,” Iroh tuts sympathetically. “That’s certainly a bother.”

“It’s fine. Doesn’t hurt much.” Zhao grunts, pulling out chairs for them.

“Prince Zuko here has a soulmate echo in his shoulder,” Iroh chuckles ruefully. “He also says it doesn’t bother him. Ah, the stubbornness of youth.”

Zhao forces a smile. The rest of the time flies swiftly, though he becomes acutely aware whenever Zuko winces every time Zhao’s shoulder decides to throb.

Shortly after Zuko’s seventeenth birthday, Zhao visits Piandao in Shu Jing.

He’s always liked the swordsman. It took a while to separate him from the association of Jeong Jeong shortly after said man’s desertion, but Zhao makes sure to come visit every so often. He has fond memories of the man sweeping in as the sun sunk below the horizon, taking a seat next to Zhao before proceeding to soundly trounce Jeong Jeong in the Pai Sho game Zhao was losing.

Somehow, their conversation winds up in soulmate territory.

“Have you found your soulmate yet, Zhao?” Piandao asks, pouring out the tea.

Zhao hesitates. Piandao knows he has a soulmate, of course, but Zhao has never told anyone who exactly his soulmate is. But all secrets have a burden to them, and this one has been weighing on him for years. Not that Zhao trusts anyone with his secret.

But maybe…

“Do you still feel Jeong Jeong’s pain?” Zhao asks quietly.

Piandao’s lips lift into a morose smile. “Yes.”

Still alive and kicking, then.

It hadn’t been hard to figure out. There were only so many reasons Piandao could use to come see Jeong Jeong, and even fewer yet to justify why they spent so much time alone, especially late at night. It’s a secret shared by precious few, Zhao included, and though he knows Jeong Jeong wouldn’t be surprised if Zhao ended up using it as fodder against him, Zhao never has, and he doesn’t think he ever will.

Because there’s a part of Zhao that is still reluctant to cause true harm to someone who had practically raised him, even though that very same person had been one of the few who got close enough to Zhao to leave scars on his heart. And Zhao hates that part of himself that loves so fiercely, he really does, but it’s just who he is, and he wonders if he is so pathetic that he’ll continue loving things and people long after they are gone.

“I don’t understand,” Zhao says, “why you haven’t tried to sever the bond.”

“I still love him,” Piandao answers evenly, truthfully.

“He left you.” In a much smaller voice, “He left me.”

“I know,” Piandao says soothingly. “But I understand why.”

“I don’t.”

“These things are hard to explain,” Piandao brings out the Pai Sho board. “Care for a game?”

“I’ve never managed to beat Jeong Jeong, much less you,” Zhao mutters petulantly. This is the only time he allows himself to act so freely. He keeps his home and work life separate, though lately it feels like there’s no difference at all. It’s only when he’s here, with someone who has known him since he was a child, that he feels he can say whatever he wants with little repercussion.

“You’ll only get better with practice,” Piandao chuckles, setting up the board. “But back to my question; have you found your soulmate yet?”

Zhao skirts around it. “I still don’t get what’s so great about soulmates. People spew all this nonsense about how they fell in love with their soulmate at first sight, how they felt something special the moment they saw them – it’s all so stupid. You don’t ‘feel’ anything until you happen to find out they’re your soulmate, and suddenly you’re all over them? People don’t work like that. We’re not as simple-minded as we like to claim when it comes to soulmates.”

“Everyone experiences love differently.”

“Yeah, well, there are plenty of people out there who are let down when they realise who their soulmate is,” Zhao sneers. “And then suddenly love is impossible.”

“Zhao,” Piandao says softly, and Zhao squirms at the pity he can see laced in dark grey eyes. “You shouldn’t fear love.”

“I’m not scared of love,” Zhao snaps indignantly, hackles rising.

“You’re not scared of love,” Piandao agrees, “you’re scared to love.”

Zhao clenches his jaw.

“I know you have loved,” Piandao continues soothingly. “I know you love fiercely. But Zhao, you don’t know how to accept people moving on.”

“There’s a difference,” Zhao hisses, fighting the tremor threatening to spill into his voice. “There’s a difference between moving on and abandonment.”

And there it is. The terrible, terrible thing he has known all his life. He is no stranger to abandonment, but it always takes him by surprise each time he experiences it, the wound aching just as deeply as the first time. It is a monster Zhao never wants to face, but faces it all the same, and not once has he come out unscathed.

It’s better to walk alone than to leave your back vulnerable to someone.

“I know you’re angry at him,” Piandao says sympathetically. “But Zhao, he couldn’t stay.”

“You’re so forgiving of him,” Zhao laughs bitterly. “He was your soulmate. Wouldn’t you have wanted him to stay?”

There is silence. The swordsman takes a slow sip of his tea, wetting his lips. It’s all the pause he needs to come up with an answer.

“Oftentimes, a soulmate is someone you need rather than someone you want,” Piandao advises. “Pain is a grounding tool. It shows you someone human, someone who goes through the ups and downs of life. Someone who isn’t a product of fantasy.”

“Some people prefer to live in fantasy than in the real world,” Zhao retorts. “Bit of a rude awakening, isn’t it?”

“But a necessary one,” Piandao points out. “Are you one such dreamer?”

“I never wanted a soulmate in the first place,” Zhao retorts. “You know this.”

“Either way, you will need to face reality sooner or later.”

“I already have.” Zhao makes the first move, sliding the rose tile forward. It’s the first tile he will sacrifice so the other tiles can move in. “I’ve met my soulmate. It won’t work out.”

“What makes you so sure it won’t work out?” Piandao asks.

Zhao smiles mirthlessly. “Because he’s Prince Zuko.”

Piandao’s eyes widen, and all he can proffer is a simple,

“Oh.”

Zhao loses his second-in-command in battle. Slain by an Earth Kingdom squadron leader. His second hadn’t gone down without a fight, and his last act was to throw a bolt of the hottest fire he could muster at his killer, striking him dead on the spot.

Zhao managed to reach him just in time to lay him to rest, carefully wiping away the sheen of sweat, whispering praise and reassurances before relieving him of his duty.

Two weeks after the funeral, Zhao has all his commanders lined up in front of him. He peruses them, having gone over their applications, interviews, and track record thoroughly. It’s difficult to narrow them down, but he had a feeling who he was going to choose even before the selection day. It had been a delight to pick up the application and see that name written neatly on top.

Commander Ling-Hua stands near the end of the line. She has been with him for many years, and he has watched her grow from a stumbling conscript to a formidable soldier.

He likes Ling-Hua. She’s quiet, but stronger than nearly anyone Zhao has ever met in his life. She is dependable, a little shy, not the best at social interaction, but she more than makes up for it in delivering on her promises without fail.

Zhao walks to the middle, looks at all these soldiers, and knows his decision is made.

“I am both humbled and honoured that so many candidates have put their names forward. But as we all know, I can only make one decision. Know that it was a difficult choice, and know that you have your nation’s gratitude for your faithful service,” Zhao says to the line-up. “I have come to a decision. Commander Ling-Hua, I ask you to be my second.”

He sees her eyes widen, a delighted, disbelieving smile tugging at her lips. She’s joyous, and she clearly hadn’t expected to be chosen, but Zhao’s decision is final, and the candidates clap and cheer her on along with the rest of the crew as she bows and accepts wholeheartedly.

The ceremony goes on without a hitch. They exchange bows, she reaffirms her oath and servitude, promising to be his support, promising to lead in his place when he cannot, promising to act as she needs to, not as she wants to.

They link arms, toast, and then she is officially named his second. The crew celebrates, and Zhao freely allows it. Later, when he has alcohol pleasantly abuzz in his system, she sees Ling-Hua grinning away and fiercely embracing her soulmate, Keilin, thanking her over and over again for supporting her throughout their entire careers.

They are a picture-perfect couple, and for the first time, Zhao wonders what it would be like to let himself fall, let himself love, let himself embrace the unknown.

Prince Zuko is eighteen now. If it isn’t for the permanent scowl etched into his face and his mercurial temperament, Zhao might’ve even been tempted to call him beautiful.

But he’s not, so Zhao refrains.

It’s easy to forget they are soulmates, especially when they have argument after explosive argument, forced politeness doing nothing to veil their intense dislike of each other. Sometimes, Zhao wonders if he should inform Prince Zuko of their bond, but the idea is always discarded when they prove to be nothing more than adversaries.

Zhao finds himself walking through relatively quiet streets, more than happy for a night of shore leave. It has been a long week, and he wants nothing more than a leisurely walk and a good night’s sleep.

He passes by a bar, and there is a drunkard shouting at the top of his lungs about the atrocities of Fire Nation rule. Normally, Zhao would do his duty and arrest the man, have him thrown into the local jail for a few nights for slander and sedition against the throne. But they are at a neutral port, so Zhao leaves him be. He’s not in the mood to deal with petty offences, especially when his heart isn’t particularly in it.

A familiar voice cuts through the acrimonious rant.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about!”

Zhao closes his eyes, praying to Agni to give him strength. The argument behind him continues, escalating in tension, until Zhao can’t take it anymore. He turns around just in time to see Zuko needlessly goading on the drunkard, not even noticing the flash of silver being drawn from behind their back –

Zhao barrels into the drunkard, slamming his elbow into the arm holding the dagger. The blade clatters to the ground loudly, and Zhao kicks it aside before sweeping the drunkard off his feet and forcing him to kneel on the ground, arms twisted behind him.

The local guard swarms over them, heaping praise on Zhao. It’s a testament to his tiredness that he doesn’t bother chewing them out for standing on the sidelines until someone else did their job for them.

He doesn’t do anything more than push the drunkard towards the guards before grabbing Zuko and hauling him down the street. Fury lances through his chest, and he has no doubt it is all over his face, as if stamped by a red-hot branding iron.

He ignores Zuko’s furious protests, viciously pulling him forward when the prince digs his heels into the ground. Angry is an understatement. Prince Zuko’s blatant disregard for his own safety irks Zhao more than he can describe. How many injuries could have been avoided if Zuko had been a little less headstrong?

“Prince Zuko!” Zhao thunders as soon as he roughly pulls Zuko into an alleyway. “What in the world were you thinking?!”

“My duty!” Zuko protests, trying to pull his wrist out of Zhao’s grip. “He was insulting my father –”

“He was drunk!” Zhao roars, “You didn’t have to provoke him; he was about to stab you!”

His hand tightens on Zuko’s wrist to the point of pain, and he knows because he can feel the echoing throb mirrored in his own wrist, but it’s so easy to brush off, so easy to ignore, because all he can bite out at this moment is a terror-filled reprimand.

“Never,” Zhao snarls, fingers closing in harder. “Ever, do that again. Do you hear me?”

With an impetuous noise of outrage, Zuko tears his hand out of Zhao’s grip and glares up at him. He’s hardly a beauty, especially not with the way he’s glaring, an ugly, feral glower twisting his mouth into a harsh curl.

“And why do you care?!” Zuko shouts. “I didn’t need your help!”

It all boils over. Zhao’s patience had never been a bountiful thing, but right here, right now, dealing with such an obstinate, ungrateful soulmate, Zhao finds he has at last run out of patience.

“Because you’re my fucking soulmate!”

Terribly strange it is, to feel so vindicated one moment and then so regretful in the next. Zhao had never thought Zuko would find out this way, in an alleyway behind a dinky little bar, their voices climbing and climbing in ever-increasing animosity. But it’s out, and Zuko’s face turns bloodless, his wrist falling limp in Zhao’s hold.

Zhao lets go, stumbling backwards.

It’s out, it’s out. The secret is out. A burden he has carried for years, and in one sudden rush, it is out.

Zuko steps forward and slugs him on the upper arm. Zhao hisses, taken by surprise, but Zuko gets the confirmation he needs. He pales further yet, clasping the exact same spot mirrored on his own arm.

They stare at each other for a long, long time.

And then Zuko turns on his heel, sprinting away into the night.

The Avatar has returned.

He and Zuko still haven’t spoken about that incident at port, and although they pretend all is well when Zuko docks with his battered ship, there is still an underlying tension between them brimming beneath the surface.

It’s a short stop. Zuko doesn’t stick around for long, and Zhao doesn’t look for a reason to delay him. For the first time, they cooperate with each other to get the Wani repaired as fast as possible, and then the prince is off again, continuing his now not so impossible quest.

Zhao doesn’t have the Avatar.

No, all he has to show for the whole debacle are a handful of traitorous Fire Sages and one petulant prince, who, for some fucking reason, is his soulmate.

“Let me go!” Zuko thrashes in his grip as Zhao drags him down a hallway. “You can’t do this to me! I’m –”

“You’re what?!” Zhao snaps, pinning a furious glare at the angry, scarred face. “You knew this would happen. You knew I’d have the right to arrest you if you were caught in Fire Nation waters. You knew, and you went for it anyway! Now look what’s happened; we lost the Avatar, we lost his companions, we don’t even have his fucking animal!”

“You can’t blame this on me!” Zuko protests, trying to yank his wrists away again. The rope biting into his skin is mirrored in Zhao’s own wrists. “That’s not fair – I would’ve captured him!”

“With what?!” Zhao roars, fed up with all this incessant arguing. “You plan to drag him kicking and screaming all the way back to your ship? You had nothing – nothing – except your own ridiculous obstinance –”

“Shut up!” Zuko screams. “As if you were doing any better, you ran as soon as you saw Avatar Roku too!”

They finally reach the door to a spare, unused cabin, and Zhao unceremoniously opens it and practically throws the prince inside before closing and locking it. It’s one of the only cabins locked from the outside, but it’s definitely a far better stay than the brig.

Even the thick metal door isn’t enough to drown out the prince’s continued raging.

“Don’t interact with him unless it’s to give him meals,” Zhao orders to the bewildered soldiers lingering in the corridor. “More instructions to follow.”

With that, Zhao stomps away, ignoring the pangs in his knuckles as the prince starts banging away at the door.

It’s a wonder how Prince Zuko thinks anyone could take him seriously when he acts like a child throwing a colossal tantrum.

“Sir,” one of his soldiers come up to him, holding an untouched meal tray. “He’s refusing to eat. Perhaps we should leave it outside?”

“The door is not to be opened,” Zhao growls. “If he’s not eating even when meals are provided for him, then he simply won’t eat.”

“Of course, sir.” The soldier hesitates. “What shall I do with this, then?”

“Give it away or eat it yourself,” Zhao answers flippantly. He barely refrains from rolling his eyes at the ensuing noise of delight emitted from the soldier.

It carries on like this for days. Zhao stops by once, and is met by such a slew of insults and tirades that he forces himself to walk away instead of engaging in a petty fight through the door in the middle of a corridor with a metaphorical (and he’s tempted to say literal) child.

So. That went well.

But of course, Prince Zuko being Prince Zuko, somehow gets it into his thick, thick head that he should try to escape when they are in the middle of a fucking storm.

Zhao is on the main deck when the message comes that Prince Zuko’s door is cracked open, the lock picked from the inside, and the prince himself is missing. Fantastic, really. Zhao had been in the middle of directing the soldiers around to batten down the hatches, and there’s still so much to do, but he has no choice but to shove the rest to his second-in-command and make a beeline to the lower levels where the skiffs are located.

The nerve of that fucking brat –

He finds the prince already preparing one of the skiffs to be lowered, turbulent waves sluicing into the holding area, drenching the prince. It doesn’t stop him from steadfastly checking the hinges and the pulleys, and Zhao desperately wants to scream.

“Prince Zuko,” he grits out, storming over. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Getting out of here,” Zuko huffs, ignoring Zhao as he unties and reties one of the fastenings. “Don’t even try to stop me.”

“Are you fucking kidding?” Right on cue, there is a flash of lightning, the ominous rumbling of thunder soon following. “You will die if you go out there on that tiny boat. Traitor prince or not, I do not want your blood on my hands.”

“Then it’s a good thing it’s out of your hands,” Zuko huffs stubbornly, pushing past Zhao. “Get out of my way.”

“Highness!” Zhao snaps, grabbing Zuko’s shoulder and forcefully turning him to view the open sea. “Do you not see that? Those waves are a fucking nightmare, even for a ship this size! What makes you think you can get through it on something that’s little more than a life raft?!”

Zuko’s bottom lip quivers, just for a fraction of a second, and then he tears himself out of Zhao’s hold, yelling up at him, “I have to try – I’m not going to be your prisoner, I’m not going to go back to the Fire Nation as a disgrace!”

There’s no sense to this plan, and it’s obvious when a wave, higher than any other, crashes against the ship, flooding the holding area in a powerful, eddying rush of water. Zhao grabs Zuko again, but this time it’s to shield him. He pulls Zuko into his chest and turns so his back is facing the onslaught of water. It’s not enough to prevent them from getting slammed into a wall, but Zhao bears the brunt of it, groping around blindly to hold onto something secure so they don’t get washed back out into the ocean.

The flooding seems to finally make Zuko see sense as Zhao can feel the prince slump in his arms, defeated. Without a word, Zhao drags Zuko by the arm back to his designated room, barking orders at soldiers to see about straightening out the hold again.

Trying to recover whatever dignity he has left, Zuko tears his arm out of Zhao’s hold, stomps into the cabin like the petulant teenager he is, and slams the door closed behind him.

Zhao brings clothes for Zuko. They are his own clothes, simply because he’s not about to go hunting for clothes that specifically fit Zuko. Since they’ve established Zuko can break out whenever he wants, Zhao simply knocks on the door, informs Zuko he’s brought clothing, patiently let the prince crack the door open and snatch them from him before hastily shutting it again.

Another hour later, Zhao returns to the door, this time holding a tray of food. He’d even gone ahead and requested fire flakes to be made, thinking that if anything, Zuko should probably at least be willing to have a snack.

He knocks on the door. There is silence on the other end.

Brat.

“Prince Zuko, will you finally stop being childish and talk to me?”

No response. Interesting. Zuko usually rose to bait as quickly as a shark detecting blood.

“Highness,” Zhao begins, deciding to go for the annoying route. “Princeling. Hellspawn. Pain in my ass. Brat. Spoilt –”

“Are you sure I’m the one being childish?” a grumble sounds from behind the door.

Finally.

Zhao leans his back against the door. “It’s nice to hear your voice again. I was wondering why everything seemed so peaceful in the world.”

An irritated sigh. “What do you want?”

“I want to clear the air. Clearly, that hasn’t been happening.”

“I don’t want to talk to you.”

Zhao sighs, “You can’t keep ignoring this forever, highness.”

“I can and I will.”

“I’m trying here,” Zhao glowers. “The least you can do is meet me halfway.”

Zuko lapses into silence. Zhao can’t even hear the rustle of clothes on the other side.

“Prince Zuko,” Zhao says. With his back still against the door, he slowly slides down to the floor. “I don’t know what more you want from me.”

There’s silence, and Zhao doesn’t expect an answer. But then, timid, like the first ray of sunlight peaking above the horizon, he hears the prince’s voice directly behind him through the wall.

“I don’t know what I want.”

The tea he brought is still steaming, gentle curls of vapour eddying through the air. Best to drink it quickly, especially after they had been caught in lashing rain.

“Then,” Zhao turns his head, staring at the cold metal door. “Can we at least talk?”

“Talk?”

“You know,” Zhao gestures in the air even though the prince can’t see it. “When we open our mouths and words come out of them.”

“Fuck off.”

Yeah, maybe he deserves that.

“I have tea,” Zhao sighs. “Red date longan. Good to reduce the risk of catching a cold.”

Zuko has no smart aleck remark for that. Zhao knows he’s been missing his uncle, and tea is pretty much Iroh’s most renowned personality trait by now.

“I have food, too,” Zhao continues, not sure why he has to sell himself to obtain a single conversation with his own soulmate. “You haven’t eaten in days.”

“I don’t want to eat whatever prison food you’re giving me.”

“I haven’t given you prison food at all,” Zhao scoffs. “You’d know that if you ever bothered to check.”

“What?”

“I’ve been giving you the same meals I’ve been having,” Zhao reveals. “Every time you reject a meal, it’s given to the soldier who delivered it. Because of that, I have people fighting over who gets to deliver your meal trays.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, oh,” Zhao mocks. And then he softens his voice, knowing he shouldn’t be aggravating the prince. “Will you let me in?”

Silence reigns over them for a long, long time. Zhao shifts against the door, not sure if he should just call it a day. Just as he’s about to stand back up and try again some other day, a meek voice says, “I’ll get the door.”

Zhao stands, picks up the tray, and waits expectantly. There is the click of a lock, a handle turning, and then the door slowly creaks open, revealing the prince in all his bedraggled glory. He hasn’t done much for his hair, but he has changed into Zhao’s clothes. It’s baggy on him, and he tightens the sash self-consciously, but Zhao takes it all in stride. Zuko steps aside, and Zhao wordlessly enters the small room.

There’s nowhere for them to sit. It’s a scant room with only a bed and a chair to its name. They sit on the floor, and Zhao pours out the tea, prodding the tray of food towards Zuko.

Fresh fruit, some steamed vegetables, and noodles. Zuko hasn’t eaten in days, so Zhao thought it wise to feed him something a little easier on the stomach. As soon as Zuko begins to eat, Zhao gently swirls the tea in his cup, wondering where the hell he should start with this mess.

“Why…” Zhao says, rubbing his temples with one hand. “Why did you decide to steal a skiff? In a storm?”

“I’m not staying here,” Zuko snaps after he’s swallowed a bite. Good to see he’s retained some semblance of manners. “You’re just going to take me back to the Fire Nation and… and… boast to my father about finally arresting me.”

“I’m not taking you back to the Fire Nation,” Zhao grits out. “I’m taking you back to your uncle. Was it not explained to you?”

Zuko skims over the latter half of that sentence in favour of sitting up, shocked. “You’re taking me back to my uncle? You’re not arresting me?”

“I’m giving you an official warning,” Zhao scowls. “One more strike and you are to be promptly returned to the Fire Nation to face trial. Do you understand me?”

“Why?” Zuko blurts out. “Why are you giving me an out?”

“Maybe because I don’t want to see what happens if your father is disappointed in you yet again,” Zhao says darkly.

“Father is always disappointed in me.”

It’s an inadvertent slip that takes them both by surprise. Zuko clears his throat awkwardly, putting down his finished bowl of noodles to start on the fruit instead.

But Zhao isn’t so willing to let the subject go.

“Prince Zuko.”

“Pretend I never said that,” Zuko mutters, averting his eyes.

“Prince Zuko.”

“It was a mistake. I didn’t mean it. Ignore me.”

Annoyed, Zhao hisses, “Prince Zuko.”

With a resigned sigh, Zuko looks up. “What?”

“I’m not going to ignore you. I just want to know why.”

“Why what?” Zuko is shifting uncomfortably now, clearly wanting to get away from this entire conversation.

Zhao tops up the prince’s tea to delay just a few more seconds. “I want to know why you still so blindly follow your father after all this time – no, don’t look at me like that. You clearly know he doesn’t favour you. What is it about him that’s making you try so hard?”

“He’s my father. Do I need any more reason?”

“Well, my father treated me like shit, and I wasn’t half as delusional about it as you are.”

Zuko’s head jerks up, attention caught, just as Zhao knew it would. “Your… your father…?”

“Neglectful parents,” Zhao waves a dismissive hand. “Was pretty much raised by someone else. I got over it.”

Not entirely true. There is a hateful fire that had kindled to life since he was a child, and he doesn’t think it’s ever stopped burning. It’s a hungry thing that feeds off spite, gnawing and gnawing until Zhao doesn’t think there’s any left, but then an incident could happen (don’t think about abandonment) which sets it off all over again.

“Do you… do you still talk to them?” Zuko asks in a small voice.

“No,” Zhao says, decisive and rough. “Mostly because they’re deceased, but I doubt I would even if they weren’t.”

“Oh.”

A lacklustre response, but Zhao doesn’t particularly care.

“Right,” he says. “So what I don’t understand is how you can remain so devoted to your father when he hasn’t given any indication of caring for you.”

“It’s me,” Zuko shrugs despondently. “It’s always been me. I’m just… I’m not good enough. He gave me a chance to prove myself, so I… I need to do that. I need to do that before he can say he… he…”

“Love isn’t meant to be conditional,” Zhao admonishes quietly, almost gently.

“What about us, then?” Zuko says dubiously. “Soulmates. Us. I still can’t believe it.”

Zhao grimaces. “Yeah, well, deal with it. I don’t see us going anywhere for a while.”

But Zuko appears lost in his thoughts, barely registering Zhao’s words.

“I just thought…” Zuko sighs, tipping his head back to look at the ceiling. “Everyone leaves in my life. First my cousin. Then my grandfather. My mother.” Zuko’s voice becomes strained for the last one. And then he clears his throat, “My father and sister, in a way. The only person who has truly stayed is Uncle. But sometimes I feel like he might leave one day too because he’d get tired, or sick of me, or…” he swallows. “Having a soulmate made me feel like… like I’d always have someone who will come into my life and stay in my life. But then it turned out to be you, and I… I just felt…”

“Disappointed? Upset? Angry? Wondering what the hell went wrong with the universe to have such an illogical choice in soulmate?” Zhao finishes. “That it had to have been a mistake?”

Zuko quietens, but the agreement is plain as day on his face. He’s always worn his heart on his sleeve, and it applies even now when he clearly wants to escape this conversation.

“Prince Zuko, tell me something,” Zhao grabs the fire flakes, throws a handful into his mouth, and chews them contemplatively. “When you were a child, you sprained your elbow. How did that happen?”

“What?” Zuko furrows his brows. “What does this have to do with anything?”

“Humour me.”

Zuko looks away. “I fell on my elbow during training.”

It’s so painfully obvious that it’s a lie, so Zhao prompts again, “The truth, Prince Zuko.”

Zuko plunges his hand into the bag of fire flakes, popping some into his own mouth in lieu of elaborating. But Zhao continues persistently staring at him, waiting for an answer.

Zuko caves. “He… pulled too hard on my arm, and…” lapsing into silence, he wraps his arms around his knees.

Zhao doesn’t even need to clarify who ‘he’ is. “What about the burns on your wrist?”

“Sometimes he’d supervise my training, and if I messed up too much, he would put his finger on my wrist and… you know,” Zuko mimes the action.

Zhao lets out a sigh. Maybe an experience of his own will finally get the prince to see sense. “My biological father gave me a concussion when I was nineteen.”

Zuko stares at him, wide-eyed. “What?”

“We had an argument. Things got violent. He bludgeoned me over the head with… fuck, I can’t even remember. I was blacking out every so often for the next few days. Couldn’t make sense of anything, babbled nonsensical things.”

“I remember,” Zuko whispers. “I was dizzy for days, and nauseous too. The doctors couldn’t figure out what was wrong with me. That was you?”

“That was me,” Zhao confirms. “That was the last time I spoke to my father.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I didn’t tell you that for pity,” Zhao sneers.

“Well, I’m not asking for pity either,” Zuko retorts. Lightning illuminates the room for a split second, and Zuko’s eyes seem to glow, as if they too held the cold fire in their depths.

“The point,” Zhao says, “is to ask if you think it’s normal for fathers to hurt their children like that. Because it isn’t. It’s not normal to freeze up at the sight of your parents. It’s not normal to plan escape routes whenever you’re in the same room as them. It’s not normal to strategize every word that comes out of your mouth because any misunderstanding is a risk that has potential consequences.”

Zuko gapes at him. Idly, Zhao wonders how mad Zuko would get if he tries to throw a fire flake into his mouth, like trying to toss a paper ball into a bin.

“I don’t…” Zuko finally starts moving his mouth. “I don’t…”

“Prince Zuko,” Zhao rubs at his eye in exhaustion. “Just… consider my words. That’s all I’m asking.”

When no response comes, Zhao lowers his arm, the tiredness multiplying by a hundred-fold. Not the silent treatment again.

“Prince Zuko.”

Nothing.

“Prince Zuko,” Zhao drags out the last syllable. “Princeling.”

Zuko finally deigns to look at him.

“Highness, did you get that?”

He doesn’t get an affirmation. No, what he gets is something he couldn’t have possibly anticipated.

“Say my name,” the prince suddenly whispers.

Confused, Zhao cocks his head. “I’ve said your name before.”

“Not Prince Zuko,” there is a shuffle, and the prince slowly crawls forward. “Just Zuko.”

It’s Zhao’s turn to remain silent.

“Say my name,” the prince implores again.

They wait there at a standstill. Prince Zuko watching him expectantly, and Zhao trying to accustom himself to the strangeness of dropping all titles and honorifics.

“Zuko,” Zhao eventually manages. It’s still strange on his tongue, definitely different to all the other times he’d said his name. It feels odd, like a foreign entity rolling out of his mouth, yet he can’t help experimentally saying it again. “Zuko.”

“Zhao,” Zuko inches closer, the gap between their faces slowly decreasing in increments. Lightning flashes again, and Zhao’s inner fire reacts, spreading through his limbs pleasantly.

He should stop this. He really should stop this. But there’s a tiny, budding curiosity that has been living inside his chest ever since Zuko found out about their bond. It’s a traitorous little voice that whispers at him when he’s weak, pondering what it would be like to act upon their bond, to see what was so good about soulmates, learn what the hype is all about.

He can feel Zuko’s breath on his lips, spicy from the fire flakes they had shared, and he forces himself away before he can fall into the temptation of closing the gap between their faces.

“No,” Zhao says roughly. “It’s… it’s not a good idea.”

The prince doesn’t argue for once, and Zhao is more than glad for it. Instead, he slowly backs away and curls in on himself, shrinking into a small ball.

“What do we do now?” Zuko asks.

“I don’t know,” Zhao answers. “I don’t know what I want. I don’t know what you want.”

“I want…” Zuko’s voice fades away. “I don’t know what I want either.”

Zhao shakes his head and stands back up, grabbing the tray. “No matter. We will be reaching port in two days. I believe it’s the likeliest place your uncle will be, what with the urgent repairs your ship needs.”

Zuko nods absentmindedly, still looking distant.

“If you need anything, call for a soldier, or come find me. I trust you won’t do anything reckless during the rest of your stay.”

He doesn’t wait for a response. Zhao exits the room, closes the door, but doesn’t bother locking it.

True to Zhao’s word, they reach port within two days. The Wani is outlined in the horizon, a tiny craft in comparison to Zhao’s own warship. It’s a wonder how Zuko still thinks his father cares about him when the ship he’s been supplied with is one that should have been put out of commission a decade ago.

No matter.

They dock, and Zuko makes his way down the gangplank with Zhao. Zhao has written up the official notice of warning, but he doesn’t hand it over to the prince just yet.

Instead, he waits for Iroh to finish hugging Zuko and giving his thanks to Zhao before he makes his move. It’s been something he’s been thinking about over the past few days, and he doesn’t even fully understand his own reasonings behind it.

“Prince Zuko,” Zhao begins, hardly able to believe what he is about to offer. “You stand a much higher chance at capturing the Avatar with help. I am willing to offer you full access to my resources at hand, also extended to your crew, should you accept.”

The Wani’s crew gapes at him, and he can see more than one longing look at the prospect. Zhao doesn’t blame them. He’s offering a nearly impossible opportunity at no cost to the crew, shouldering everything on himself instead.

Agni knows what’s gotten into him.

But Zuko bites his lip, slowly shakes his head, and says, “I need to do this alone.”

“So be it,” Zhao intones. “Good luck, Prince Zuko.”

He presses the notice of warning into Zuko’s hands, turns, and leaves.

There is fire licking at the roof of his mouth, sparks heavy on his breath, smoke filling his nostrils. In his anger, Zhao doesn’t even take notice of the echoes blooming in different parts of his body. He’s too busy being furious at the masked thief currently holding the Avatar captive.

“Open the gate,” Zhao barely manages to spit out.

“Admiral,” Shinu, the fool, stares, aghast, “what are you doing?”

“Let them out, now!” he bellows, not in the mood to entertain any more of these blundering fools.

The gates creak open, the thief leads the Avatar out, and Zhao allows a crafty smile to finally spread across his face when Shinu asks in disbelief, “How could you let them go?”

“A situation like this requires… precision.”

Because what’s the fucking point of having legendary archers if they aren’t used to their full potential? It’s almost ridiculous how utterly wasted they are here, guarding a stronghold that rarely sees any true threats. If it were up to Zhao…

Well, it’s a good thing it is up to Zhao now, isn’t it?

“Do you have a clear shot?”

The Yuyan Archer aims in answer.

Satisfied, Zhao turns his eyes back to the thief. “Knock out the thief. I’ll deliver him to the Fire Lord along with the Avatar.”

The arrow lets fly, the ping that echoes throughout the air announces a direct hit, and a burst of pain explodes in Zhao’s forehead, knocking the wind out of him.

Oh.

Oh, that little shit.

Thankfully, everyone assumes he is soothing his forehead and temples out of frustration, not from a stupid soulmate echo. Does it make a fucking difference, though? He’d thought Prince Zuko would have the sense not to interfere with Zhao’s own matters anymore, but obviously, he’s just been proved wrong.

“Look for them in the forest,” Zhao says, head still pounding. “But don’t hurt them more than necessary.”

He needs to lie down.

“I need to talk to you,” Zhao snarls without preamble, inviting himself onto the Wani despite Jee’s protests.

Zuko looks resigned, most likely because he’d been expecting it. It only serves to further fuel Zhao’s ire. Little brat knows exactly what he’s done wrong, and instead of owning up to it, he pretends all is well as he leads Zhao into his cabin.

“You cannot go around pulling stunts like that,” Zhao growls as soon as they are alone, grabbing Zuko’s upper arm none-too-gently. “What if that arrow had gone through the mask? What then? You are an impulsive, reckless –”

“Shut up!” Zuko screamed. “Shut up, shut up, shut up! I don’t need your lecturing! I don’t need any of this! I just want to go home!”

Zuko’s chest is heaving, he is near tears, and his voice is raw with anguish.

“You don’t understand what is at stake,” Zhao hisses, “there is more to this than you. Prince Zuko, you need to let go of your childish ambitions and –”

“And what?” Zuko challenges. “Let you take everything? Ruin my life? For a soulmate, you sure don’t act like one.”

“My sincerest apologies,” Zhao seethes, “I didn’t realise being your soulmate includes having to bend over for you whenever you fancy.”

Zuko stiffens, features screwing into anger. The scar marring his face seems to stand out even more, and it does nothing to curb Zhao’s temper. All this, for what? A father who doesn’t know how to love beyond his own image?

“Give up, Prince Zuko,” Zhao insists. “The Avatar is heading north. I am already making preparations to lead an invasion. What resources do you have to possibly beat me to it?”

The silence is frigid enough to freeze the ship over. Zhao waits, certain that Zuko is about to burst into an inferno, but instead, he slowly and deliberately turns to fully face Zhao, his face a stony mask.

“If you’re going to ask me to give up my destiny, then it’s only fair you give up yours,” Zuko says, oddly calm. “I give my word I’ll stop trying to capture the Avatar if you promise me you won’t invade the North.”

This is ridiculous.

“You can’t ask me to do that.”

“Then you can’t ask me to let the Avatar go.” Zuko tilts his chin stubbornly.

They are bad for each other. Fate decided to look at them, saw how incompatible they were, and decided, ‘Ah yes, here are the two souls that shall now be entwined.’ And it’s not fair. It’s not fair.

“Zuko,” Zhao grits out. “This isn’t a game.”

“I know,” Zuko raises his head, his eyes solemn. “That’s why I challenge you to an Agni Kai.”

“You would go so far?” Zhao raises an eyebrow, though he can’t say he’s surprised. “You don’t need to resort to such measures.”

“I know you,” Zuko sneers. “And I know that it takes such measure before you’re willing to call it quits.”

They are alike in that way, though Zhao decides against voicing it.

“An Agni Kai,” he repeats. “For what? You have not slighted my honour.”

“You have mine,” Zuko glares. “You like high stakes, don’t you? If I win, you agree to cancel your northern campaigns.”

“And if I win?” Zhao scoffs.

“Then…” Zuko swallows, the movement painfully tight. “Then I give up on my search for the Avatar.”

It’s not the first time Zuko has stunned Zhao speechless, but it is the first time Zhao looks like a gaping fool in front of him.

“Swear on your honour,” Zuko glowers, already extending a hand. “I swear on my honour that if you win an Agni Kai against me, I will no longer attempt to capture the Avatar.”

With his hand still numb, barely comprehending what he’s doing, Zhao reaches out and clasps Zuko’s hand, mouth on autopilot, “I swear on my honour that if you win an Agni Kai against me, I will withdraw from the northern campaigns.”

Steely-eyed, Zuko gives him a stiff nod, and Zhao leaves to prepare.

Usually, an Agni Kai is a public event. Until the fight at either sunrise, noon, or sundown, there would be merriment and excitement, since almost anyone could go witness the fight. It took certain clout to be a front-row spectator, of course, but no one cared if you clambered atop the parapets and watched from there.

But this fight is on a personal level no other Agni Kai could hope to compare. They select one witness each, banning anyone else from watching. Zuko has his uncle, and Zhao, for lack of better option, requests Ling-Hua.

The gong sounds.

The tippets flutter to the ground.

The arm bands cinch as Zhao tenses his muscles.

They fight.

It’s a blaze of fire and fury. When one blow lands, a responding echo blooms across skin. Every time they hurt each other, they hurt themselves, to the point Zhao can’t tell if the stinging and throbbing is his own or Zuko’s.

Yet still they can’t stop from throwing arcs of fire at each other.

Time seems to slow around them. The aggressive pace they had started out with slows into a sluggish blur. There are no sounds other than the roaring and thrumming of fire crackling past their faces, stinging at their skin like a whip.

Why are they hurting each other? Is there even a point to all this? Neither of them is going to win if every injury inflicted is copied to their own body. Zhao presses on, even as his fire gutters. He doesn’t have the heart to go in with all his usual destruction, not when… when…

When there’s no point.

Zuko drops to the ground, legs flashing, and Zhao distantly registers the foot hooking around his ankle, unbalancing him and sending him toppling to the ground.

The world returns. And now Zhao is aware of the harsh pants tearing out of him, the roar of blood in his ears, and Zuko standing above him, equally exhausted and sweaty, his fist aimed right at Zhao’s face.

Disbelief – confusion – anger.

Enough. Zhao has lost, he can acknowledge that.

“Do it!” Zhao roars, craning his head upwards, meeting his soulmate’s eyes through the haze of frustration – helplessness – confusion – “Just fucking do it! Finish it off!”

There are tears brimming in molten gold, and Zhao can feel responding heat stinging the back of his eyes.

He persists, not about to back down just because his soulmate is too much of a coward.

“Do it!” Zhao insists again, and now the tears are spilling from his and Zuko’s eyes. Why did everything have to be mirrored? Can’t he die with dignity?

Zuko’s lips part, tears dripping from his chin, and he falls to his knees, staring at Zhao with those sorrowful eyes. “I… I can’t.”

“Just get it over with,” Zhao chokes out. “Just do it. It’s fine. Do it.”

It’s the honourable thing to do, and for every Agni Kai Zhao has ever fought, he’s always been prepared to accept the consequences of a loss. But dragging it out like this makes it infinitely worse than it needs to be. He’s not going to lose his honour, especially not to a traitor prince. If it means death, then so be it.

But of course, Zuko defies his expectations over and over again.

Zuko grabs his head, surges forward, and mashes their lips together. It’s far from the best kiss Zhao has ever experienced in his life. No, it’s full of painful clashes of teeth, an awkward mesh of tongues, and the taste of salt from the tears trailing down their faces and running along the bow of their lips. It’s a terrible, clumsy kiss, but Zhao still finds himself hauling Zuko closer, pressing desperate kiss after kiss against each other, the need for air a distant thought.

He doesn’t understand Zuko. He doesn’t understand himself. All he understands is that he is furiously kissing the prince of the Fire Nation in front of his own uncle.

Fuck, he wouldn’t be surprised if Iroh decides to strike him dead after this.

“I don’t understand you,” Zuko echoes his thoughts when they part, panting, lips red and swollen. “I don’t understand you.”

“And you think I understand you?” Zhao retorts incredulously.

“I just…” Zuko bites his lip. “I can’t kill my soulmate.”

They must look a little ridiculous; Zuko practically straddling him, Zhao still on the ground, both questioning each other as if it would help them ignore the way they had made out right after an Agni Kai.

Probably realising this at the same time, Zuko abruptly stands up. He doesn’t bother offering Zhao a hand. Instead, he fidgets, so unconfident in comparison to how he stood on the other side of the arena when they began.

“A deal’s a deal,” Zuko says warily, as if expecting Zhao to break his word right that instant.

But Zhao doesn’t give his word lightly, and he is bound by his oath, so he grits his teeth, feeling the world crash down around him yet again as he says, “I won’t invade the North.”

Zuko nods, satisfied, and begins walking away, shrugging off his uncle’s touch to his arm. Just before he reaches out of earshot, he turns back and quietly says, “I won’t hunt the Avatar anymore.”

Zuko exits, and Zhao is in too much shock to demand him to stay and explain himself.

Maybe it’s because some part of him still wants to cling onto the remnants of his past ambitions, but Zhao finds himself sailing into the waters surrounding the northernmost colonies. There had been an emergency, and the nearest admiral was asked to take care of things.

Zhao had volunteered, out of some lingering wistfulness or some other unfathomable reason, he wasn’t sure.

But now it seems serendipity is on his side. The Wani looms in the horizon, battered and broken. They had been called to it by a signal flare, and as they approach, Zhao can see why.

The Wani had always been an old bird. An outdated model, an ailing little ship that seems to crumble just a little more each time Zhao sees it. But now she is crippled, her hull cracked, and she is steadily sinking, at long last unable to stay above the surface from the reaches of a watery grave.

They draw closer, enough for Zhao to see the sheer relief on the crew’s faces. Out here, so far from everyone except a few sparse colonies miles and miles away, there is little to no chance of rescue if one finds themselves stranded.

Even Lieutenant Jee looks anything but disappointed to see him. Zhao directs his crew to pull up the lifeboats, and the paltry group is ushered into warm blankets and tea. The medics stand ready in the infirmary, and the entire rescue operation goes without a hitch.

But there is a distinct lack of prince.

“What happened?” Zhao quietly asks Jee.

Jee hesitates. “We were attacked by the Northern Water Tribe.”

Zhao frowns. “Why were you in the North?”

“We were following the Avatar. Prince Zuko suddenly announced his intention to stop capturing him, but… I don’t know. The kid was in a bad state for days. I think we were following the Avatar because Prince Zuko had no idea what else to do.”

Zhao’s frown deepens. “But he wasn’t trying to capture the Avatar…?”

Jee shrugs. “Like I said. Kid didn’t know what to do anymore. He wasn’t going to capture him, but he just… I don’t know. Pursuing something gave him purpose.”

That might explain the dull pangs that had been coursing through Zhao over the past few weeks.

Only the bow of the Wani is visible now. Jee follows his line of sight, and Zhao manages to catch a wavery smile.

“She’s a piece of shit, but she’s carried us for four years.”

“She’s a miracle on her own,” Zhao acknowledges. “She might be the last of her model. Can’t believe she’s been running all these years.”

Jee chuckles wryly. “She had a lot of problems. Needed daily maintenance. The boiler was a bitch. The doors creaked like they wanted to grate your ears off. But she was home.”

“We’ll give her a proper send-off.”

Jee looks at him, surprised.

“But before that,” Zhao neatly glosses over the expression, “where are Prince Zuko and General Iroh?”

“They took a skiff out. When we got attacked, we tried to get them back on the ship, but in the ensuing confusion, we lost track of them, and…” Jee let out a sigh. “We have no idea where they went. We were forced to leave them behind. Barely made it far enough before the Wani gave up on us.”

“I see,” Zhao murmurs. His knee suddenly pangs, as if in reminder that his soulmate is still out there. And assuming from the lack of emotional echo, it appears Iroh has survived too. “We’ll drop you and your crew off back home. Unless… you wish to re-join our ranks?”

Jee hesitates. “I can’t speak for the rest of the crew, but home sounds great.”

“So be it. You best get yourself to the infirmary, Jee.”

“Thanks,” Jee says, mystified. “You’ve been awfully nice.”

A scoff flees Zhao. “Don’t get used to it.”

Ling-Hua loses her soulmate to a spear. She’d been standing next to Zhao, covering his blind spots as he sweeps swathes of destruction over the Earth Kingdom troop trying to fight them off in vain. It was an ambush, but the Earth Kingdom troop quickly found it to be their mistake. Though they outnumber Zhao’s platoon, Zhao is infamously destructive when let loose.

It’s when they’re beating back the last soldiers that Ling-Hua suddenly gasps and falls to the ground, clutching her chest. Everything seems to slow when the shouts of dismay reaches their ears, and as the people and dust clear away, they finally see the cause of the ruckus: a spear, streaked with blood, pierced through a stationary body.

Three days later, Zhao finds himself knocking on the door to Ling-Hua’s cabin. She lets him in, but she refuses the food he offers her. She takes the water, and even that seems to be a struggle to swallow.

“How are you?” Zhao asks, taking a seat at her desk.

She is listless, forlorn, and Zhao is at a loss for what to do.

“I will recover,” Ling-Hua manages to say. “I’m sorry, sir. I know I’ve been neglecting my duties.”

“There’s nothing urgent going on.” She doesn’t even lift her head in acknowledgement, so Zhao shuffles closer. “Ling-Hua, my offer of bereavement leave is still on the table.”

She shakes her head slowly. “I’ve nowhere else to go. Not… not without Keilin.”

“You need time to grieve,” Zhao chides gently, feeling like a hypocrite. When has he ever let himself properly bask in his sorrow? “Ling-Hua, I – listen, it is your choice, but… take it easy, alright? I’m not expecting you to take up your duties so soon after losing your soulmate.”

“Thank you, sir.” With haunted shadows under her eyes, she asks him softly, “Sir… have you severed your bond with Prince Zuko?”

“No,” Zhao admits.

“Why not? I thought you never wanted a soulmate.”

“I didn’t,” Zhao stares out the porthole at the clear sky. “I don’t know anymore, in all honesty.”

“It might be worth it if you’re willing to try,” Ling-Hua whispers. “Sir, I have made many regretful decisions, but Keilin will never be one of them.”

“Commander, you are still grieving. It might not be wise to talk about these matters.”

“Just because I am grieving does not mean I cannot talk about Keilin,” Ling-Hua says sharply. Then she winces and demurely murmurs, “Apologies, sir.”

Zhao shrugs, a casual gesture to show his subordinates, but he finds he doesn’t care. “It’s fine. I overstepped.”

“You didn’t, sir.” Ling-Hua lets out a slow sigh. “Sir, soulmates are frightening in that you never know who they are, what they’re like. But when you take the time to see them for who they are… you see something beautiful. You see someone to love, someone who could love you back. But it’s never easy, and you never know if it will truly work out. But… how would you know if you never try?”

Zhao shifts. It pulls at the echo currently panging in his chest, like the skin there is pulled taut as far as it will go. It’s a recent echo, and Zhao guesses it’s because Zuko had suffered a blow to the chest with a heavy object.

Idly, he wonders when he has become so attuned to Zuko’s injuries.

“If it’s not too much for me to ask; does it hurt?” Zhao asks. “They say the pain is unbearable once your soulmate passes. An echo right next to your heart for the rest of your life.”

Ling-Hua sniffles and shakes her head. “What they’re describing is simply grief. There is no echo. The echoes stop as soon as your soulmate passes. It’s more the pain of knowing you’ll never feel an echo again.”

Zhao rubs at his chest, and it only occurs to him then that he’s never wondered what it’d be like to never feel Zuko’s pain again.

Zhao hasn’t got the faintest clue what the hell Zuko is up to nowadays, but he knows it must be something stupid when over the course of the past few months, he felt like he’d been flung back by several explosions, starved more than once, tossed about, shamed, belittled, and now, the cherry on top, like he’s wading through a fever dream.

He’s been barely coherent these past few days, stumbling about like a newborn colt, speech more of a slur than actual words.

Ling-Hua shuts him in his cabin and tells him to get some rest, and he can’t even protest her insubordination.

Fucking hell, Zuko.

He’s not worried.

He’s not.

In a surprising turn of events, it turns out Prince Zuko fulfilled the stipulations of nullifying his banishment. There’s a strange feeling in his gut when Ozai gleefully informs him that the Avatar has been struck dead, and by Prince Zuko’s hand, no less. All this is gleaned from Princess Azula’s letter home, but somehow, Zhao can’t see Zuko as the killer.

A ferocious fight to the death, Azula claims. Such a display of power and struggle, yet Zuko emerged triumphant in the end.

Zhao had not felt any of that. No, his day passed by uneventfully. Yes, he’d sustained echoes, but none of them were severe enough to warrant such a fight Azula had claimed to witness.

Something isn’t right, my lord, Zhao wants to say. No signs point to a battle of epic proportions.

But to voice this aloud is suicide. Zhao is aware of what the precarious position of being Prince Zuko’s soulmate entails. While a relationship wouldn’t be forbidden per se, Zhao isn’t about to give Ozai any more leverage over them than he already does. He wouldn’t want anyone to take advantage of their bond regardless, but extra caution must be exercised in this case.

“I suppose this means we are to welcome Prince Zuko home, then, my lord,” Zhao says, keeping his tone light and neutral.

“Indeed,” Ozai looks him up and down. “Admiral Zhao, you will be overseeing the allocation of naval forces to Ba Sing Se, is that correct?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“As you are going to assess the situation, take one of the royal sloops. You will be commanding this ship for Crown Prince Zuko’s return journey home.”

An ostentatious display, as if to cover up the transgressions of the past.

“Yes, my lord.”

“What have you to say about Princess Azula’s recommendations for required naval employment?”

“The numbers are reasonable considering the availability we have at hand, although I may need to redistribute forces from the Mo Ce Sea to cover any deficits within higher risk areas.”

“How soon can that be done?”

“I have already sent the orders, my lord.”

“Good.” Ozai stands up and gestures towards the doors. “Get the royal sloop ready. You will depart by dawn tomorrow.”

“At once, my lord.” Zhao bows, and after his dismissal, leaves the council room, wondering how this reunion is going to turn out.

Zhao brings Ling-Hua with him to Ba Sing Se. There is a woeful lack of good company on the ship, and he doesn’t think that will change even after he’s picked up his soulmate. It’s probably a good thing he does bring someone competent. His patience runs thinner by the day when he has to deal with a whole new crew instead of his own. He runs a tight ship, after all, but this hastily put-together group is primarily made up of young recruits.

In the distance, Zhao spies two ships seemingly locked in some sort of confrontation.

Hell, he does not have time for this.

“Get us close,” Zhao orders. Ling-Hua bows and scurries off to relay the order to the helmsman, and Zhao prepares what little patience he has left to deal with the situation.

Turns out it’s to do with a misunderstanding. Or at least, an apparent misunderstanding after Zhao spies the ocean-blue eyes of a typical water tribesman.

The gangplank is set on the other side of the captured ship, and Zhao makes his way on board, flanked by his personal guard.

“Admiral Zhao!” the captain of the other ship gasps, bowing deeply. “What an honour – sir!”

The imposters bow as well, but with a distinct lack of the flame. Zhao grimaces, turning to address the captain.

“What’s going on here?”

“Sir, the commander claims that Admiral Chan sent one of his ships here to deliver cargo,” the captain reports. “However, we never got a message.”

Water tribesmen. What are they doing here? Zhao slowly scans the deck, noting it to be completely empty save for the two imposters.

He clears his throat. “Indeed? Admiral Chan, currently on leave?”

“I was not aware of that, sir,” the captain says slowly.

From the looks of things, the water tribesmen are currently trying to escape from Ba Sing Se, where the Avatar had been presumably slain. By Zhao’s own soulmate, no less. But… but apparently, they hadn’t been able to recover the body because one of the Avatar’s companions had escaped with it.

Namely, the Water Tribe girl.

Fuck.

“Which imbecile was it that told you you were carrying out your task on behalf of Admiral Chan?” Zhao aims his most irritated scowl at the water tribesmen.

“Admiral Zhao?” the captain asks, surprised.

“I commend your caution, Captain, but apparently there’s been a miscommunication. I allocated part of the eastern fleet.” Not a lie. “I’m not sure why this particular ship has received different instructions, but I’ll handle it from here. You continue on to Ba Sing Se.”

The captain salutes sharply. “Yes, of course, sir!”

The other ship is quick to depart, leaving Zhao to stare the two water tribesmen down.

“Commander… Hong,” Zhao says, testing it on his tongue. It’s a common enough name. “I’m going to be repeating some instructions for you, yes?”

The Water Tribesman nods. “Yes, of course.”

“Of course, sir.” Zhao corrects sharply, narrowing his eyes. It’s a wonder how they managed to fool the captain for as long as they did. “Show the proper respect to your superiors.”

“Yes, sir,” the tribesman amends. Good, he’s catching on quickly.

“You will wear your uniform correctly,” Zhao continues. “Polished and buffed where necessary, helmet on at all times. Preferably with a faceplate. You don’t know what kind of danger can be lurking around a recently captured city. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You are delivering urgent cargo. If you are stopped again, you will blow the horn four successive times; three long, one short. If they hail you anyway, repeat the signal, but add on five more short blows at the end. You should be left alone after that.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And finally,” Zhao scoffs, aiming a direct glare at the young Water Tribe boy peeking behind the corner. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

“Of course, sir.” There’s a hint of a smile on the tribesman’s face now.

Zhao resists the urge to roll his eyes. “I’d like to add that this is a monumental victory for the Fire Nation. The Avatar has at last perished. However, from my personal encounters with him, he’s a rather persistent fellow. If, say, he is still miraculously alive, it would probably be in his best interests to stay dead. Don’t you agree?”

“It would be a surprise if he returned.”

“Yes,” Zhao agrees. “In that case, I suppose he’d have the advantage, wouldn’t he?”

“You’re right, sir,” the chieftain says obediently, knowingly. “I understand, sir.”

“Good. I’ll take my leave, then.”

“Thank you, sir.”

It’s later, when Zhao is looking over their charted course that Ling-Hua comes up to him, a deep frown carved on her face.

“Sir, they weren’t Fire Nation, were they?”

“What gave it away?” Zhao retorts drily.

“Sir,” Ling-Hua sighs. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

“So do I,” Zhao mutters. “So do I.”

Zuko doesn’t exchange words with him throughout his embarkment. There is shame in his eyes, and a gnawing feeling echoes through Zhao’s chest. The reason becomes apparent when he sees Iroh being led away in chains onto Azula’s ship.

They still don’t talk. Not even during the celebratory dinner they have. Not even when the quartermaster gives Zuko the grand tour, showing him to his lavish accommodations.

Zhao finds Zuko on the main deck later that night, the wind tousling his hair. He has a full head of hair now, and Zhao needs a moment to get used to the sight.

“Congratulations,” Zhao says. It’s a bland remark, and Zuko avoids his eyes uncomfortably, so Zhao forces himself to continue. “It’s quite a feat. Slaying the Avatar.”

Zuko’s eyes widen. “What?”

“The letter we received from Princess Azula. She describes how you struck the Avatar with a devastating blow and killed him on the spot.”

“I didn’t…” Zuko falters. “It wasn’t me. A-Azula was the one who killed him. She used lightning and… and…”

It’s just as Zhao had suspected. If anything, at least his soulmate echoes occasionally come in handy.

“Your father currently believes you were the one who slayed the Avatar.”

Zuko’s confusion morphs into a glare. “You’re lying.”

Zhao shrugs. “You don’t have to believe me.”

“Well, I don’t.” Zuko turns away stubbornly.

“Zuko.” Zhao is ignored, but he presses on, moving forward until he is standing next to his soulmate. “Zuko. You seem to forget that I can feel what you’re feeling right now.”

That seems to finally get Zuko’s attention, as he looks up at Zhao, honesty spilling from his lips unbidden.

“I don’t know why it doesn’t feel as good as I thought it would,” Zuko confesses in a shamed whisper. “I should be happy. But…”

“It may pass in time,” Zhao says. “How long will you be staying out here?”

“I’m not tired.”

A while, then. Zhao shrugs off his cloak and drapes it over Zuko’s shoulders. “It’s cold. Try not to stay out for too long.”

Zuko curls his hands into the fabric, bunching it closer around his collar.

Satisfied, Zhao turns and heads for the door to return to his cabin. Before he enters, a soft, raspy voice stops him, almost inaudible with how quiet it is.

“… Goodnight.”

Zhao pauses at the doorway. This might’ve been one of the most civil conversations they’ve ever had. In truth, he’d been expecting a lot more yelling to be involved in their reunion.

He supposes it’s not a bad thing to be wrong every so often.

“Goodnight,” Zhao replies, taking in one last look of his soulmate outlined beneath the moon’s glow before heading inside once more.

“How is my son?”

There is only one acceptable answer, so Zhao dutifully reports, “Well, my lord. He is readjusting to life in the palace readily.”

“It seems his travels have finally pushed him to greater heights,” Ozai muses from behind the wall of fire. “What of the occupation of Ba Sing Se?”

“We have successfully crushed all opposition. The waters surrounding Ba Sing Se are ours now. We only await further orders.”

“Very good. Admiral Zhao, you will be retained in the capital for now. I need your involvement in several upcoming war councils.”

“Of course, my lord.”

“You will be staying in the palace. A room has been prepared for you.”

“You are too generous, my lord,” Zhao bows.

“Inform Prince Zuko I require his presence in the throne room at noon tomorrow. Do not be early, and do not be late.”

There’s a steely warning in the last sentence, sharp in the air.

Zhao bows his deference, and he is soon dismissed.

On the way to Zuko’s room, he passes Princess Azula, making her way to another royal spa treatment. Her gait is off, her face is pinched, her hand is lingering on her back, and she looks terribly ill.

“Your highness.”

“What?!” Azula snaps waspishly. She grimaces, straightens up the best she can, and says in a more amenable tone, “What is it?”

“You may want to see an acupuncturist,” Zhao intones, pretending he doesn’t notice her flinch. “Soulmate echoes can be treated far more effectively by them than other means.”

He doesn’t stick around to give her the opportunity to screech at him. Zhao bows hastily and makes his way down the hallway, turning the corner into the atrium.

A strike to the back. That’s what Azula had said in her letter.

It makes sense. This entire family has a track record of stabbing each other in the back.

A few more hallways later, Zhao finds himself standing in front of Prince Zuko’s ornate bedroom doors. As soon as the letter had come from Ba Sing Se, the entire room had been given a deep clean. It’s not to say there hadn’t been some sort of maintenance throughout the years, but Zhao is sure it had been neglected even by the servants.

He knocks on the doors, clears his throat, and calls out, “Prince Zuko? It’s Admiral Zhao.”

Shuffling on the other side, and then the doors crack open, the prince’s face peering up at him cautiously. He looks haunted, as if he doesn’t know if he’s even in the right plane of existence.

Zhao only intends to deliver Ozai’s instructions, but that plan comes screeching to a halt when Zuko grabs Zhao’s arm and hauls him inside.

“Prince Zuko –” Zhao sputters.

Zuko slams the doors closed very much not inconspicuously and practically drags Zhao to a chair, seating him with a quick push before slumping on his bed.

“Look,” Zuko sighs. “Tell me I didn’t do the wrong thing.”

Zhao gapes at him. “Excuse me?”

“Tell me I did the right thing,” Zuko repeats, now tinged with desperation. “Tell me I didn’t make a mistake by betraying – no, refusing to fall for Uncle’s treachery.”

Zhao stills in the chair. “… Do you want me to tell you what you want to hear, or what you need to hear?”

Zuko laughs bitterly. “Why can’t you just do what I ask for once? I’m not looking for you to preach about getting my uncle thrown into prison.”

“And I won’t,” Zhao says. “In the eyes of the Fire Nation, your uncle is a traitor. It doesn’t matter if he used to be one of the greatest generals. Even his royal status won’t save him. You did the right thing.”

“In the eyes of the Fire Nation,” Zuko repeats. “And what about in your eyes?”

Zhao shrugs. “It’s all relative, isn’t it? What does it matter to me that your uncle is rotting in prison?”

“It matters to me,” Zuko says miserably, picking at the blankets. “But I don’t understand. He should’ve helped me and Azula. Why did… why did he give up everything for the Avatar?”

Because Iroh never had an ounce of loyalty to the Fire Nation, much less to his brother.

Probably best that Zhao rewords that, of course. “Prince Zuko, if I may speak frankly?”

“You can drop the title,” Zuko smiles mirthlessly. “I’m not feeling much like a prince right now. But yes, you may.”

“Your uncle had his beliefs. And sometimes people will value their beliefs over all else. Even those closest to them. Sometimes… sometimes there comes a point where one must make a decision, and… suffice to say, even loved ones aren’t guaranteed picks.” He tries to keep the bitterness out of his voice, but he’s not sure if it works when even he can detect the acerbic notes.

“I thought he would stay,” Zuko whispers miserably. “I thought he wouldn’t throw it all away for someone he barely knows.”

Zhao remembers a time, sitting in a room, a tray of food and a pot of tea between them, rain pounding the portholes, the taste of fire flakes lingering on their tongues. Zuko doesn’t look that much different to that time now, but there is a defeated air around him and a mirroring ache in Zhao’s chest that almost stifles his heartbeat.

“I know how you feel,” Zhao looks away, watching faint light stream through the windows. “When someone you’ve loved your whole life turns out to be nothing more than a traitor. Sometimes it’s not even what they believe in, it’s the fact that they are willing to cast you of all people aside.”

“I heard about Jeong Jeong the Deserter,” Zuko says simply, knowingly.

“He didn’t choose me,” Zhao swallows. “He didn’t choose me. But what did it matter? I had my own path. He had his.”

Zuko lets out a strangled noise. “And what about me?! Am I so selfish to want someone to choose me for once?”

“Well… no,” Zhao says carefully. “But what do you want, Prince Zuko?”

Zuko flinches. A sore spot, then. An ache fills Zhao chest again, so he takes it as a sign to leave.

“You don’t need to come up with an answer immediately,” Zhao murmurs. He stands back up, and Zuko doesn’t stop him. “Your father wishes to speak to you at noon tomorrow. Precisely. Don’t go any earlier or later.”

Zuko nods in acknowledgement.

“And…” Zhao hesitates. “I will be staying in the palace. If you need me…”

Zuko nods again.

“Get some rest.” Zhao slowly reaches out and gives Zuko’s shoulder a squeeze.

When he leaves, the echo seems to have dulled slightly. It might be his imagination, but some intrinsic part of him knows it isn’t.

Noon comes and goes. Zhao is having lunch with a few magistrates, though he feels he barely has an appetite with how damn worried he is that a sudden pain will tear through his body if Zuko fucks up. There is no pain, but Zhao does feel a sudden swoop of dread in his gut.

He doesn’t eat much after that. Not when he feels like there’s a knot in his stomach clogging up all his other senses.

The hours pass in a blur of meetings. By the end of the day, late in the evening, Zhao’s hand is cramping, he has a massive stack of notes that he still needs to go through later, and his brain is a fuzz from the influx of information he’s forced into it throughout the day.

He finds himself in front of Prince Zuko’s door again. It makes sense to check on him. Soulmate or not, Zhao reckons Zuko would appreciate someone on his side. Not to say Zhao is definitively on his side, but…

Ah, whatever.

He knocks on the door, hollow thumps reverberating throughout the hallway. There’s silence on the other end, and then a familiar, raspy voice calls back, “Who is it?”

“Zhao,” he says simply.

Another pause. “Come in.”

Zhao lets himself in, closing the doors gently behind him. The prince is sitting in bed, curled into himself. The curtains aren’t drawn, and moonlight slants through the windows, highlighting the shine of his hair.

Zhao cautiously approaches. “How did it go?”

Zuko lifts his head from his knees, and Zhao falters when he sees the wet shine of tears under the moonlight.

“Terrible,” Zuko rasps. “Terrible.”

Zhao draws a breath, crossing the room with long strides. “What happened?”

“He said he was proud of me,” Zuko whispers, “he said he was proud I didn’t listen to Uncle. He said he was proud I helped Azula conquer Ba Sing Se, and that… and that… I killed the Avatar. But he didn’t say he was proud of me for being his son. He didn’t say he loved me.”

“Zuko,” Zhao says softly, slowly settling onto the bed’s edge.

“Maybe I’m overthinking, but… but… I’ve spent five years doing everything I could to regain my honour, but it doesn’t feel like enough. I don’t feel like enough.”

Zhao offers a half-hearted excuse. “Your father is hard to impress.”

Zuko wipes away a tear. “Azula does it like it’s nothing. I thought I’d be happy to be home, and I am. I’ve missed the palace. I’ve missed the city. But… but it doesn’t feel right. Does… does that make sense?”

“It makes sense,” Zhao murmurs. He reaches out for Zuko’s hand and places it over his own chest. “Remember? I can feel when you feel emotional pain.”

Lost – confused – turmoil.

Zuko’s hand curls into his clothes. “Am I wrong for thinking this way?”

“No,” Zhao says, letting go of Zuko’s wrist. The hand stays right where it is, and he allows it. “Prince Zuko. Zuko. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it now: your father isn’t proud of you because he loves you. He’s proud of you because of your accomplishments.”

“But…” Zuko falters. “Conquering Ba Sing Se? Slaying the Avatar? Those are nearly impossible tasks.”

“And that’s what it takes for him to even consider you worth his attention. He has expectations for you, and the moment you don’t live up to them…”

Zuko bows his head.

“I don’t say all this to dishearten you. Zuko, this is your father. This is who you’ve been trying to return to.”

His soulmate remains silent. Zhao sighs, reaching up to pry Zuko’s hand off him. “It’s rather late. I should get going.”

What happens next catches him by surprise. It’s a move that he would’ve never anticipated from his soulmate in a million years, but it happens anyway, and he is left speechless.

“Stay with me?” Zuko requests, grabbing onto Zhao’s hand. “Just for tonight?”

Zhao hesitates. It’s only a loose hold, but somehow it anchors him to the bed like Zuko had tied him to stones.

“It’s not appropriate for me to stay the night,” Zhao manages at last.

“No one will know.”

“I don’t…”

“Please,” Zuko begs. “I don’t want to feel alone right now.”

Zhao can feel it’s true. There is that gnawing feeling, like something in the centre of his chest is sucking him dry inside out. He parts his lips, another refusal on the tip of his tongue, but then Zuko’s hand tightens on his.

It’s a terrible idea, yet Zhao finds himself shucking off his shoes, pulling off his outer layers, and settling into the bed. Zuko wordlessly throws aside the covers in silent invitation, and Zhao ducks underneath, hauling them back over their bodies.

He slowly settles against Zuko, chest to back. Zuko’s hair is soft, silky, faintly scented with soap. He would’ve thought it’d be more awkward sleeping in the same bed as the prince, but the warmth is inviting, and he finds that their bodies easily slot together.

“I’ll need to leave before dawn,” Zhao murmurs, drowsiness creeping up on him.

“That’s fine,” Zuko replies, snuggling deeper into his pillow. “Thanks. For staying.”

“It’s only for the night.”

“I know,” Zuko’s hand seeks his under the covers, squeezing briefly before letting go. “But it helps.”

The last thing Zhao sees before he falls asleep are Zuko’s features, highlighted by the wan glow of the moon.

Zhao pays a visit to Piandao a few days later, having had enough of staying in the stifling palace. Piandao’s estate isn’t any less flashy, but it has a homely feeling, so that already makes it infinitely better.

They’re in the gardens, sipping on tea and having snacks. The flowers are in full bloom, and the cicadas are chirping in a cacophony. Fat bees are buzzing around, landing on the myriad of flowers for seconds at a time.

“Zhao,” Piandao starts. “How is your soulmate?”

Zhao palms his chest. The miserable feeling has faded slightly, but it comes in pangs, springing on him every so often and catching him unawares. Sometimes there is an almost crippling despair that pulls at his heart, strung taut like a bowstring.

He knows it’s because Zuko has been visiting his uncle. Zhao never says anything about it, not even when Zuko smuggles food from the kitchens. He’s honestly surprised Zuko hasn’t tried to sneak away a teapot yet.

“Zuko is… not great,” Zhao says honestly. “He’s miserable here.”

“Have you been talking to him?”

“Yeah,” Zhao sighs. “We talk. Sometimes spar. Occasionally take meals together. But I still don’t understand why he’s my soulmate.”

“Sometimes there is no reason at all.”

“Or,” Zhao says wryly, “I never had a choice in the first place.”

“You don’t have a choice in soulmate,” Piandao agrees quietly. He reaches out, touches Zhao’s shoulder, and he leans into it. Warily, but still. “Although you have a choice in how you respond to them.”

Strangely, Zhao thinks of Jeong Jeong. Autumn encompassing the forests they would train in, orange leaves fluttering to the ground. Piandao painting the scene while Zhao leaps about in leaf piles. Jeong Jeong would snap at Zhao, tell him to stop ruining Piandao’s concentration, but then the swordsman would laugh and say that he enjoyed a challenge. Soft smiles exchanged between the two men, polar opposites fitting together like missing puzzle pieces.

“Tell me about Zuko,” Zhao whispers.

Piandao smiles, and with it comes nostalgia.

Zhao is whisked away into meetings not even minutes after he arrives back to the palace. It’s a gruelling day; sometimes he doesn’t know when one meeting blends into another. Finally, late afternoon arrives, and the last meeting of the day is concluded.

Zhao wishes that would be the end of it, but he stands woefully corrected when Minister Ronhai catches him after he exits to talk to him about something or other. He’s like a mosquito buzzing insistently in his ear, chattering on and on about things Zhao has absolutely zero interest in.

A new voice pipes up from behind just as Zhao is pondering if it would be acceptable to dive out the window in a bid to get away from the blabbermouth.

“Zhao. Do you want to feed the turtleducks with me?”

Zhao turns around and meets Zuko’s apprehensive gaze. He stands, shoulders straight, hands behind his back, legs akimbo, as if he’d just called Zhao to war and not for something as simple as feeding turtleducks.

It’s something that is so Zuko, to stomp right up to Zhao without a word of greeting and phrase his question like a demand, looking the part of a drill sergeant, completely disregarding everyone else around them.

Minister Ronhai snorts behind Zhao and says, “Prince Zuko, I’m afraid Admiral Zhao has other pressing matters to attend to –”

Zhao has never liked anyone to speak for him, much less Ronhai of all people, but he doesn’t think it’s solely because of that that he cuts off the other man and says to Zuko, “It would be my honour.”

They leave Ronhai choking in shock, suppressing their laughter until they are out in the gardens, where they promptly burst into unrestrained laughter.

Zuko takes out a small loaf of bread, breaking it in half to share with Zhao, and sits at the pond’s edge, where a flock of turtleducks immediately begin swimming towards them. He teaches Zhao how to scatter the breadcrumbs for optimal spread, and Zhao humours him, pretending to be engrossed in the science of feeding turtleducks.

The braver ducklings waddle out of the pond, their mother close behind, and attempt to clamber into their laps. Zhao sits frozen, still as a statue. Having never been a fan of animals, he doesn’t quite know what to do when one, especially one so small and fluffy, is currently struggling to get a grip on his pants.

Zuko laughs and lifts one up, cradling it in his hands. Then without warning, he grabs Zhao’s hand and gently places it in the cusp of his palm. Zhao isn’t sure what makes him more surprised; the fact Zuko had boldly grabbed his hand, or the tiny ball of fluff now sitting there.

The duckling is a tiny, tiny thing, as fragile as the egg from which it hatched from. It nuzzles against his thumb, all yellow fuzz and delicate shell, webbed feet splayed along the lines of his palms. Surprisingly warm for such a small creature, it intermittently emits soft chirps and quacks.

“They’re cute, right?”

Zhao turns to look at Zuko, at the way he appears so much more at ease in comparison to a few nights ago, clinging to Zhao and tremoring with discomfit in his old bedroom.

“It’s… certainly a new experience for me,” Zhao says at last.

There are ups and downs.

Some days, Zuko is playful and warm, all light and laughter. Other days, he is gloomy enough to give Mai a run for her money.

It’s hard to tell when or why Zuko’s mercurial mood changes on a whim, but Zhao tries to take it all in stride.

Currently, he is on a ferry heading towards Ember Island. A vacation of sorts for the young royals and their companions, with Zhao acting as chauffeur. It’d been a last-minute thing; Ozai had commanded them to go to Ember Island for the weekend, roping Zhao into it because he was the only one in the inner circle who didn’t need to be briefed for the meetings about to be held.

Already, Zhao feels like he’d rather swim back to Caldera.

After getting thoroughly traumatised by Lo and Li in their swimsuits, he finds himself lounging on the beach soaking up sunshine. Zuko and Mai are seated under an umbrella, with Zuko awkwardly making stilted conversation.

He’d asked once if Zuko wanted to pursue someone else. All he’d gotten as an answer was a shrug and a muttered, ‘I don’t know.’

Oh well.

Zhao surveys the beach slowly. It’s chock full of teenagers, and he almost feels out of place amongst them. Still, he relaxes into his towel, preparing for a long nap in the sun.

The peace doesn’t last long.

Azula rounds them up for a game of volleyball, which Zhao staunchly refuses to participate in. No, he’d rather sit back and do absolutely nothing. If he’s forced to supervise teenagers, then he might as well enjoy his damn vacation.

It is rather funny watching them obliterate the other team, though.

It’s not as funny when a familiar boy saunters up to the group, inviting them to a party.

“Chan,” Zhao gets up and ambles over. “Nice to see you.”

Chan blanches, and all the onlooking teenagers stare between them curiously.

Zhao smiles, knowing it contains a little too much of a bladed edge than necessary. “Heard you were throwing a party?”

“Admiral Zhao!” Chan chokes. “S-sir, I can explain…”

“Oh, calm down,” Zhao snorts. “Your father’s been a right pain in the ass lately anyway. Listen, soon as he comes back home, you send him my way, yeah? It’s been hell trying to get a hold of him; I’ve nearly exhausted all the hawks in the rookery just to contact him, and I’m fucking sick of it.”

“Sorry, sir,” Chan apologises, cheeks turning crimson with embarrassment. “I’ll let him know, sir.”

“Do that for me, boy, and I won’t say a word about your little… soiree.”

“Yes, sir.” Chan hesitates, and then reluctantly asks, “Would you like to come –?”

“Fuck no,” Zhao wrinkles his nose in distaste. “Stay out of too much trouble. Hopefully I’m not asking for much.”

It’s a warning for Chan, and a warning to his charges.

Zhao doesn’t bother sticking around after that, instead taking it upon himself to find a better place to nap.

Call him old, but Zhao doesn’t bother waiting up for the others, instead deciding to retire early. Because of their hastily planned vacation, the only accommodations that can be prepared in time is a small building rather than the main house used by the royal family. As a result, Zhao shares a room with Zuko while the girls take the other bedroom.

It’s only for the weekend, and Zhao has slept in cramped barracks without issue, so he sucks it up. Two hours past midnight, Zhao jolts out of his light sleep by the sound of the front door opening, a smattering of footsteps heading towards the opposite end of the house, and Zuko’s footfalls approaching the bedroom.

Zhao briefly wonders if he should greet the prince, but then that might mean inviting conversation, so he closes his eyes and waits for Zuko to make a move.

The bedroom door creaks open. It closes, and then footsteps approach Zhao’s bed. The mattress dips, and a warm hand trails over Zhao’s shoulder.

“Had a good time?” Zhao asks, cracking an eye open.

It doesn’t look like it. Zuko appears incensed, a furious scowl marring his features. Zhao frowns and sits up, opening his mouth to ask another question, when Zuko suddenly surges forward, tilting his head as he slots his lips together with Zhao’s.

Zhao stays frozen, his mouth unmoving against Zuko’s, but then Zuko insistently presses closer, kissing him desperately.

It’s a sudden revelation, like a viper hidden underfoot, only realising what has happened after fangs have sunken into flesh, venom spreading through his bloodstream. An incipient attraction that suddenly blooms into a conflagration, and suddenly it’s so painfully obvious that he wonders how the hell he hadn’t noticed before.

He kisses Zuko hard, and Zuko grabs him by the hair, hauling him forward. They kiss like it’s their last, and there’s no technique to it at all. It’s a mess. A glorious, glorious mess of teeth, tongue, lips, and breath.

There are fingers playing at his robes, undoing the ties. He reaches up, stops them, and those fingers drift lower instead, tugging and pulling at his pants. Helpless, Zhao lets Zuko pull down his waistband, and then there are fingers touching his cock, half-hard with interest.

His own fingers hesitantly play at the hem of Zuko’s own pants, but the decision is made for him when Zuko grabs his hand and leads it downwards till he feels Zuko’s responding excitement. Somewhere within it all, a small vial of hair oil is grabbed from the nightstand, hastily unstoppered, and viscous liquid is poured all over the place.

What ensues is a slow act, bodies rocking against each other, hands stroking heated flesh. They find their release in their combined grips, and afterwards, they lie, panting, flush against each other, evidence of their completion drying between their abdomens.

He doesn’t know how long they lie there, coming down from their high, but when their breaths have long evened and sensation returned to their limbs, Zuko suddenly rolls into Zhao’s side and places a hand on his chest.

“Do it,” Zuko whispers sensually, sliding a foot up Zhao’s calf. “Please. I want you.”

Zhao tears himself away like he’s been burned.

The prince startles, evidently not expecting Zhao’s reaction. But how else is he supposed to react? His soulmate, who barely feels like his soulmate at times save for the pain, comes to him in the middle of the night, kisses him, brings him off, and then demands sex out of the blue?

“You’re not ready,” Zhao says, scooting further away.

“Who are you to tell me if I’m ready or not?” Zuko narrows his eyes, mouth already curling with anger.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Zhao laughs, feeling slightly maniacal as he does so. “You walk in like the world pissed you off, clearly not in your right mind, and now you want me to have sex with you? You’re. Not. Ready.”

Evidently, it’s the wrong thing to say. Subjectively, that is. Zuko jerks up like Zhao has just insulted him and pins him with such a glare that he’s surprised he doesn’t melt under the intensity of it.

“I’m ready!” Zuko shouts. “Just do it already! I know what I want!”

“You don’t know what you want!” Zhao roars back. “You thought you wanted to capture the Avatar and look how well that turned out!”

The prince’s nostrils flare, the scowl cutting deeper into his face.

“I’m letting you fuck me, and you won’t do it?” Zuko throws his head back in a scoff. “Are you serious?”

Oh.

Oh.

Well.

“Is that what you think of me? That I just want a fuck? Do you seriously think so little of me?” Zhao hisses, recoiling. It hurts. It really does. There’s a roiling in his stomach and it becomes evident Zuko feels it too when he blanches, his face paling.

“I didn’t –”

“You’re not ready,” Zhao interrupts, and then with a lump in his throat, admits, “I’m not ready.”

Because fine, he admits it. He’s scared, okay? He’s terrified of love, he’s terrified of commitment that is so capricious and so erratic. He’s scared of things that aren’t set in stone, that aren’t concrete. He can’t stand it when plans don’t go the way he wants them to, and that’s been the case with everything about the prince.

And just when he thinks he’s willing to try, Zuko decides to pull this stunt.

Zuko makes a keening noise, and then there is the shuffle of bedsheets, the prince flying out of the room shortly after.

Zhao curls into the blankets, miserable.

Zuko returns half an hour later, sooner than Zhao had thought. In truth, he’d expected the prince to never return, not until the next morning at the earliest.

He hasn’t slept. How can he when he is still reeling from what had happened?

He has half a mind to ignore the prince, but Zuko makes it impossible when he lingers at the doorway, his stare prickling Zhao.

“I’m sorry,” Zuko finally whispers. “I’m so sorry. You’re right, it was inconsiderate of me. I overstepped.”

Zhao is quiet for a while. Zuko comes a little closer, his footfalls timid. Finally, Zhao sits up and, seeing Zuko standing close, simply reaches out a hand.

Zuko takes it, and Zhao gently tugs him closer until they are sitting close together.

“I’m sorry,” Zuko murmurs, resting his head against Zhao’s shoulder. “I’m…”

“If you apologise one more time, I’m gonna slap you.”

Zuko shrugs, and Zhao can feel every shift in the motion. “Honestly, after that stunt? I’d probably deserve it.”

“It’s…” Zhao sighs. “It’s not okay. It wasn’t okay. But I accept your apology.”

Zuko hesitates. “Is there anything I can do to make it up to you?”

A lot of things come to mind. Most that would continue fuelling his ambition and wants. But somehow, Zhao finds himself saying instead, “Join me for a walk tomorrow morning?”

Zuko lifts his head to stare at him, astonished. But then a small smile blooms across his face, and he says, “I’d love to.”

The sky is dusted pink when they go on their walk. Dawn sees the gentle cresting of waves as they lap along the surf. Golden sand, glowing warm beneath the waking sun, pristine shells dotted here and there. They are barefoot, toes sinking into the soft, almost pillowy sand, leaving footprints when they walk across the surf, gentle waves playfully dancing at their ankles.

There are a few other people strolling, but they hardly notice them when it seems like they are the only ones in the world. Zhao has always had a soft spot for the beach, and he recounts to Zuko days where Jeong Jeong would take him sailing, how afterwards they would get ice cream or some other treat in the summers, while in the winters, they’d drink spiced tea and have something hot to warm themselves back up.

“Do you ever miss him?” Zuko asks.

“Sometimes,” Zhao forces himself to admit. “But most of the time it’s hard to get past all the anger. Especially since the last time I saw him, I…”

“I know,” Zuko says, touching his hand lightly. “You don’t need to say it. I… I felt it.”

Zhao coughs awkwardly. “You did?”

“Yeah,” Zuko murmurs, averting his eyes. “I did.”

Maybe it starts there. Or at least, it starts small. Features Zhao hadn’t thought were attractive, features he’d skimmed over and long forgotten, features that had never been particularly striking, suddenly became all there is to see. Whenever Zuko happens to be near, Zhao finds himself focused on these characteristics, a moth to a flame.

Golden eyes, exactly like Ozai’s – but they are warmer, far more expressive, fierce firelight that flickers not with cruelty, but with the same stubborn, staunch strength Zhao had always known but never realised.

Thick, black hair that catches sunlight within its strands, glowing soft like warmth trapped in spun silk.

Zuko’s smile becomes entrancing. He doesn’t smile often, but when he does, the world slows down around its axis, and suddenly, Zhao wants nothing more than to make him smile again, and again, and again.

Zuko is steel deceptively wrapped beneath silk. He is composed of roughened edges and anger and hurt, but so is Zhao. And somehow, when they’re together, it feels like they smoothen each other out, like how craggy rocks are formed into smooth pebbles by tumultuous waves, where jagged edges catch on jagged edges, leaving something new, untainted, in its wake.

This is how it starts.

And then it’s not just Zuko’s eyes, hair, or smile. Suddenly it’s the way he laughs, the way he feeds the turtleducks, the way he quietly thanks the servants for the most menial of tasks. Zhao finds himself fixating on how Zuko turns the pages of a book, how he furrows his brow when he’s confused, how he fights – almost dances – with his swords. This unnamed feeling bleeds into everything, and as the days pass, Zhao finds himself paying just a little more attention, walking just a little closer, touching his echoes just a little more gently.

He doesn’t know what to make of it, but it feels… nice. He finds he doesn’t want to stop, so he lets himself take it all in, a little uncertain, but willingly, nonetheless.

Ozai throws a grand event to celebrate the defeat of the Avatar. It’s a party reserved for only the elite of the Fire Nation, beginning at dusk and set to end in the late evening.

Some way or the other, Zhao finds himself standing next to Zuko, absolutely bored out of his mind. He’s barely eaten anything, and hasn’t yet touched any alcohol, needing to be sober while he networks.

Zuko is unfortunate enough to be the main attraction. There is a long line of people waiting to cosy up to him, ingratiation practically oozing from their pores.

“Prince Zuko!” the first sycophant of the night comes up to them in a haze of perfume. “Congratulations on your achievement, we always knew you were a worthy heir to the throne!”

Zuko’s smile is brittle. “Thank you… er,”

“Lady Silong,” Zhao mutters next to Zuko, raising his glass of sour plum juice to cover the movement of his mouth.

Zuko catches on. “Lady Silong,” he greets dutifully.

Lady Silong smiles, delighted, and continues with a coo and a bat of her ornate fan, sending a gust of her perfume at them as she does so. “Prince Zuko, I’m honoured you remember me! I haven’t seen you since you were a child; why, your memory is impeccable!”

“Thank you,” Zuko forces another smile.

It carries on like this for the next hour or so. It’s almost like a game for Zhao. He passes the names and titles to Zuko covertly, saving him from public embarrassment. It’s a good thing he does; Ozai is still in attendance, and it wouldn’t do for any of his children to fail at navigating the ruthless court.

“Minister Tian of Ma’inka.”

“Governor Lanzai of Dizin.”

“Governor Shikano of Kirachu.”

“Secretary Sunda of veteran affairs.”

And so it continues.

The hours bleed together. It is mind-numbingly dull, and Zhao laughs at droll joke after droll joke until at the very end, he can only muster a polite chuckle. When at last the main crowd is exhausted, Zuko lets out a long sigh.

“I don’t want to see any of these people again.”

“As the crown prince, you need to familiarise yourself with the elite members of the court,” Zhao drones. “Even if you lack such interest, networking and maintaining connections is an essential part of your duties.”

Zuko scowls. “I know.”

“But…” Zhao softens his voice now. “I can agree with you that Minister Ronhai is terribly boring.”

A look of disbelief crosses Zuko’s face before a ghost of a smile appears. “Is that so?”

Zhao shrugs. “He’s certainly far from entertaining.”

The smile widens just a little bit, and then drops back down into a frown. “I… I don’t feel comfortable here. There’s no one I know. These robes are stuffy, I feel like I can’t even take a single bite of food before someone comes up to me to talk about something I don’t even know about.”

Zhao furtively sweeps his eyes around the room. “Your father has long left. He often does this. Stays long enough to greet the appropriate people before he’s off again.”

“What about maintaining connections and all that?”

Zhao shrugs. He spies Princess Azula effortlessly weaving her way through a three-way conversation, juggling back and forth between her conversation partners. It’s sad in a way, how she can only talk so eloquently when the topic surrounds politics or battle strategies.

“The night is still young,” Zhao says, suddenly seized with an abrupt bout of playfulness. “What do you say to paying a visit to the night market?”

Zuko startles. “But my father –”

“Won’t be coming back,” Zhao assures. “You’ve already talked to the necessary people. And anyway, we’re at the point of the party where everyone’s aiming to get drunk. Trust me, we won’t be missed.”

Zuko looks conflicted, but when he looks around him at the partygoers imbibing with an enthusiasm that can’t be matched, he turns back to Zhao and says, another small smile appearing, “So long as we get some real food.”

Zhao laughs.

It’s almost like a fever dream, the way they scurry about like mischievous children, hiding behind pillars and people alike as they slowly but surely make their way out of one of the entrances. They keep out of sight, tiptoeing through shadows, hiding the rustle of clothing by pressing it tightly against their bodies. And then they are out of the palace, hijacking a carriage, the coachman startled by the appearance of an admiral and the crown prince himself hightailing it out of such an exclusive party. He is quickly appeased by Zhao shoving a hefty sack of gold at him, and snaps the reins to spur the dragon moose onwards without argument.

It’s fun. It’s juvenile, but it’s fun. They laugh in the night air after their grand escapade, the hooves of the dragon moose clopping rhythmically down the road, heading towards the true nightlife of Caldera. They stick their hands out the windows, letting their fingers entangle with the wind, and it’s a breath of fresh air in the literal and figurative sense.

The coachman is happy to wait for them after they finally arrive at the entrance to the night market, and they rush off without further ado. Sticking out like sore thumbs in their finery, there are no regrets, not when Zuko smiles his first real smile of the night, not when Zhao feels he’s finally out of that stifling, stifling room.

In the palace, they are caged by expectations and regulations, but here, out with the commoners, they can simply put down everything and be whatever they want to be.

Because Zhao has never forgotten his roots. And his roots lie in bustling crowds, weathered hands guiding his shoulders, a gruff voice telling him to stop fussing about, we’ll get you those damn candied tomatoes when we see them, I promise.

Sometimes there is a responding laugh, a hand alighting on the one on Zhao’s shoulder, a calm, teasing voice replying, he’s just excited, Jeong Jeong. And don’t pretend you’re not a fan of candied tomatoes too.

These are his roots, and Zhao has never forgotten them. He doesn’t go to night markets anymore, but they’ve always been something deeply personal to him. A bittersweet nostalgia that he is currently reliving, but with the prince by his side, it feels like he’s making memories anew.

It is lively tonight. Zuko has hidden his crown, looking more at ease than he has in a long, long time. They squeeze through throngs of people, grabbing each other’s sleeves, holding onto fingers and wrists when necessary so they don’t lose each other. The streets are packed tightly with people, and they can barely hear each other over the screams and shouts of children, the boisterous laughs of friends, the vendors yelling out their wares, but it’s a mutual agreement they’d rather this than the falsities of court.

Eventually, they come to a stall selling pepper buns. They watch them roll out the dough with strong hands, forming the pillowy cases as they pile on the meat and scallions. Even the scattering of sesame seeds on top seems interesting to them, and they join the gaggle of children watching the bakers stack their creations into the clay ovens.

They buy one to share, and it proves to be a nightmare to split in half. It’s flaky and there are sesame seeds falling all over the place, catching in between their knuckles and scattering to the floor. In the end, they alternate in taking bites just to save the mess. It’s steamy, it’s savoury, and it tastes completely different to palace food.

They make the most of it while they can. There is life outside the palace, and life inside the palace. Discrete units that, at times, even Zhao wishes can be merged. But it can’t. It won’t ever. And maybe that’s why their time amongst all the festivity becomes even more of a thing to be cherished.

When the night winds down, their hunger has long been sated, and they sip on their respective drinks as they meander back to the carriage –

“Bitter melon juice? Really?” Zuko laughs, poking his tongue out in distaste when Zhao requests it.

“Kindly take your guava juice and shove it up your ass,” Zhao sniffs.

“You’ll feel that if I did,” Zuko teases back.

There’s a pull in his gut, a swooping feeling that one would get from, say, falling from a great height. There is no greater height than the height from which one falls in love, but it’s not even that. It’s something indescribable, like the possibility of a future curiosity, a nascent attraction.

“I would,” Zhao agrees, wondering if he’s imagining the soft, soft smile on Zuko’s lantern-illuminated face.

Their hands accidentally brush as they walk close together, although they don’t pull away. Slowly, gently, Zuko links his pinky with Zhao’s.

And Zhao feels himself slipping closer to the edge.

“Zhao,” Zuko hisses, grabbing his arm and hauling him behind a pillar. It’s amusingly obvious, but Zhao plays along.

“Yes, my sweet darling?”

Zuko chokes. “What the fuck?”

Zhao cackles unashamedly, and Zuko punches him lightly on the arm.

“Stop that, ugh, you’re the worst.”

There is an undeniable blush lingering on Zuko’s cheeks though, so Zhao counts that as a win. Sighing, Zhao leans against the pillar and raises an eyebrow. “Yes? What is it that you’ve dragged me here for if not a midnight rendezvous?”

Zuko huffs up at him and practically buries thick rolls of scrolls into his chest. “This is the final testimony of Fire Lord Sozin. Read it. Azula said he died a very old and successful man, but I think he died an angry, pitiful man.”

And without further explanation, Zuko flounces off, disappearing as if he’d melted into the shadows.

Mystified, Zhao heads to his bedroom and reads.

And then reads again.

It’s strange, how a few scrolls can turn one’s life upside down. There is something so inextricably bittersweet and agonisingly painful when a veil of lies is torn from one’s face in one fell swoop, leaving the bare truth to sting against skin like a gust of frigid wind.

Zhao doesn’t understand.

Everything he’s fought for, everything the Fire Lord has promised, everything their ancestors had passed on… based off a petty squabble?

Share the prosperity of the Fire Nation with the world?

Where are the tales of Air Nomad armies, sweeping across the Fire Nation and leaving devastation in their wake? Where are the stories of brave men lost to ambushes the Earth Kingdom had set up in liaison with the Air Nomads? Where is it all?

This has always been about…

About…

About what? Power? Yes, power, because it is the strong who thrive in the world, not the weak, and the Air Nomads had proved themselves weak because… because… well, because they were apparently pacifists, and even pacifists should know when to fight back and… and…

Zhao takes a deep breath. No. Enough. He has a goal, and he’s not about to lose sight of it.

(What is his goal, truly? Where would he be if he did not have war bred into his blood?)

Somehow, the next day, he finds himself heading to Princess Azula’s room. She too is half of Sozin and half of Roku, after all.

She is arguably half of someone else as well.

His head aches at that thought. Zuko and Azula, destiny always entwined with the Avatar. And Zhao, forever chasing after their echoes.

Azula receives him with minimal tolerance, although her interest is piqued when he offers the scrolls with a hushed explanation of what they are.

She reads them with scepticism, like he did. The hours pass by, shadows lengthening from where they are cast against the ground. But still she reads, refusing to put it down until the last inch of the parchment has been unravelled.

He’s not sure how she’s going to react, but nothing prepares him for the way she starts giggling to herself quietly and pressing her palm against her eyes as if she’s trying to tamp down tears.

“Great,” Azula manages to say through the peals. “Oh, this is just great. Perfectly ironic, isn’t it?”

Zhao doesn’t even need to ask.

“The Avatar,” he still says. “He’s your soulmate, right?”

Azula bursts into shrill, almost maniacal laughter. Her head is thrown back, her hair an obsidian waterfall cascading down her back, and she laughs long and hard, painted lips stretched so wide he’s almost afraid her lipstick will crack.

“How did you figure?” she smiles humourlessly once she eventually regathers herself.

“You kept rubbing at your back when you came back, you were shaking,” Zhao lists. “You were ill for days. You hid it well, but I could tell.”

“Oh, you could, could you?”

“Yeah,” Zhao smiles his own brittle smile. “Because I went through something similar when I found my soulmate.”

“Zuzu,” Azula chuckles. “You might have even worse luck than that little fool.”

It doesn’t surprise Zhao that Azula knows. Still, he asks, “When did you find out?”

“At the Agni Kai,” Azula rolls her eyes. “You’re lucky everyone else was an unobservant dunderhead. The way you were trying not to curl up like a dying woodlouse… it wasn’t hard to put two and two together.”

“Hm.”

“I didn’t find out until I shot him full of lightning,” Azula says distantly. “It hurt so much. Physically and…” she pauses, shakes her head, and continues, “I looked it up in the library. There are case studies where soulmates don’t feel each other’s pain for a long time if one of them has been in a comatose state. It’s not understood why, but it explains why I didn’t feel anything during all our previous fights.”

Zhao looks at her, and his heart breaks, just a little, when he sees a scared little girl curled up on the bed, looking so small amongst the blankets and the pillows and all the damn finery. It’s a mask, everything about her is, and without the makeup, she looks like the sixteen-year-old girl she’s supposed to be. On the cusp of womanhood, although not quite there yet, but forced to take up the mantle anyway.

“Azula,” he says, and she doesn’t even mention that he’s dropped her title. She looks at him dully, and he hesitates for just the briefest of seconds before he opens his arms in wordless invitation.

Something breaks in her eyes, and suddenly Zhao has an armful of princess, her face buried in his chest, her back heaving with the exhaustion of having carried the world on her shoulders without rest. He closes his arms around her, remembering a time when he too thought it’d be better to be a nobody than a somebody.

“Our army is spread too thin,” Shinu gestures at the map. “But once the eclipse is over and the invasion defeated, we should transfer more domestic forces into the Earth Kingdom.”

Ozai hums contemplatively. “Prince Zuko, you’ve been among the Earth Kingdom commoners. Do you think that adding more troops will stop these rebellions?”

Zuko swallows nervously, the motion almost imperceptible, but Zhao knows his soulmate’s body language. “The people of the Earth Kingdom are proud and strong. They can endure anything, as long as they have hope.”

“Yes, you’re right. We need to destroy their hope,” Ozai says decisively.

Zuko startles at that. “Well, that’s not exactly what I –”

Underneath the table, Zhao pinches the back of his hand and twists.

Zuko shuts up immediately. Azula, with a knowing look subtly shot at Zhao, interjects, “I think you should take their precious hope and the rest of their land and burn it all to the ground.”

Well. That’s kind of fucking stupid, but Zhao supposes it’s better than throwing Zuko to the wolves.

Ozai then goes on a spiel about using airships and whatnot, and fuck, this plan is stupid.

“Admiral Zhao,”

Zhao straightens up, pretending he hadn’t been planning regicide because everyone was being fucking stupid. “Yes, my lord?”

“What is the current distribution of our naval forces?”

“Most of our forces are concentrated in the waters surrounding Ba Sing Se. We still have the blockades to consider as well. Our major trading and operations routes may be left vulnerable if there isn’t sufficient support.”

Ozai purses his lips. “We need men for the air fleet. See if there are any areas where we can pull forces from. Report back to me by noon tomorrow.”

“Of course, my lord.”

Zuko catches his eye, and Zhao smiles tightly, soothing the back of his hand.

The night before the eclipse, Zuko comes to him during the midnight hours. Zhao is on the boundary between wake and sleep, but his senses are strung on high alert as soon as the door cracks open and a figure slips in. Svelte but strong, walking with feline grace.

The mattress dips under Zuko’s weight, and then there is a warm hand on Zhao’s shoulder.

“You’re awake.”

It’s a statement, not a question, so Zhao sits up, watching his soulmate with wary eyes. “Yes?”

Zuko fidgets. Zhao waits patiently, knowing his soulmate won’t hold out for long, not when he’s clearly already made up his mind about something. Still, Zhao waits, and it doesn’t take long before Zuko straightens up, determined, and says his piece.

“I’ve been doing a lot of thinking. And… everything you’ve been saying, everything my uncle has been trying to say, everything that I’ve been lying to myself about… what I’m trying to say is that… is that… I think I’ve realised my true destiny. And it’s not to capture the Avatar.”

“You’ve been miserable here.”

Zuko nods, but before where he’d look ashamed as he did so, he only looks accepting now. “I have. I lost myself by coming here. I thought I had everything I wanted. My father’s love and acceptance… but that’s not it. That’s not what I needed.”

“The people we want sometimes aren’t the people we need,” Zhao says softly, like he’s having an epiphany himself. Perhaps he is, perhaps he’s been just as blind as the prince.

Zuko meets his eyes, and then –

There are lips pressing against Zhao’s, soft and chaste. It’s a tender touch, and Zhao can’t help kissing Zuko back, one hand reaching up to cup the back of his head, fingers sinking into soft, night-black hair.

Their kiss is a slow, sweet, gentle thing. They part, breath warm against cooling lips, and then they surge forward again, sharing another, and another, and another, until time is but a blur in the world, and the sheets have fallen to the floor as they cradle each other close. In this little corner of the world, they swap innocent touches, fingers skimming shoulders, the graze of a nose against cheek.

At last, they pull away for good, and Zhao says, almost losing his voice within his breathlessness, “What will you do now?”

Zuko’s tongue darts across his lower lip. His lips, red and swollen, and so, so tempting. “I’m going to join the Avatar.”

Zhao wishes he can say he’s surprised, but in truth, he is not. Perhaps he’d always known Zuko would never last here, not when it feels only now that the echo right next to his heart has finally been set free.

“Then,” Zhao murmurs, “I wish you luck.”

He sees Zuko’s face fall, his eyes wide, and Zhao feels an echo return in his chest. Or perhaps it’s not an echo, because he doesn’t think he’s ever felt one so poignantly before.

“You should come with me,” Zuko insists. “You don’t have to stay.”

Zhao shakes his head. “I won’t stop you. But I won’t go with you.”

Zuko leans in again, and Zhao avoids his eyes. “Stay with me? Please, I…”

“Do you truly want me to go with you?” Zhao challenges. “We are soulmates, yes, but if you are doing this for the sake of our bond and not for me, then perhaps you still don’t know what you want from me.”

Zuko falls silent. Zhao continues to stare somewhere off to the side, and after several long moments, in his peripheral vision, he sees Zuko stand up again. Quiet footfalls pad towards the door, followed by a click, a slant of light from the outside briefly illuminating the wooden floorboards. And then with another click, Zhao is left alone once more.

Zhao’s chest aches, and he can’t even lie about it being an echo anymore.

There is a strange dissociative feeling when Zhao’s inner fire suddenly extinguishes. He knows it’s temporary, but he still shivers when phantom curls of smoke are all he can feel.

He stands guard by the airstrip. There’s a private war balloon there. It’s the royal family’s emergency escape route if everything goes to shit and all other contingencies fail.

What wasn’t in his instructions is what to do if one of said royals is one of the aforementioned reasons for things going to shit.

Zuko barrels his way through the narrow corridor, a whirlwind of steel and fire. Soldiers are knocked out left and right, the warning horn is sounded, and Zhao is left speechless when Zuko comes up to him, one sword held out, panting as he says, “Let me through.”

“You won’t make it in time,” Zhao says. “Reinforcements are coming.”

“I have to try,” Zuko pleads. “I pissed off my father. He’s going to kill me if I don’t get out of here. He’s already tried to kill me.”

“Lightning,” Zhao murmurs. It’d been a tingling sensation, flowing through one arm, down to his stomach, and then out the other arm. He’d chalked it up to his inner fire returning, but… “Zuko. Do you realise what you’ve done?”

“I know,” Zuko says, eyes steely and resolute. “I know.”

Distant clamouring sounds behind them, the shouts of scores of soldiers drawing nearer by the second.

Zhao’s eyes flit back to Zuko’s. “Is this truly worth giving everything up for?”

“Yes,” something breaks in Zuko’s face, the delicate mask chipping away, “yes, it is.”

Resigned, Zhao opens the door to the field, where the lone war balloon sits. “You won’t make it in time,” he repeats, throat cinching as the realisation truly takes hold.

Fear swamps Zuko’s face now, but he presses onwards, leaving Zhao to stare after him, thoughts fleeting and erratic.

Zuko won’t make it in time. Any second now, the soldiers are going to swarm the entire area, ready to shoot down the balloon before it can even get off the ground. Zuko will be executed, and Zhao will be without a soulmate. It really shouldn’t be his business, but… but…

He thinks of warm laughter, turtleducks in his hands, lantern-lit night markets, Piandao saying, ‘He is a gentle soul underneath the turmoil. The eye of the storm. A sweet child, and now a confused young man. He is much like you in some ways.’

“Zuko,” Zhao calls. Zuko turns, fearful eyes wide. Zhao smiles grimly, and just as the first soldier rounds the corner, he warns, “Don’t make me regret this.”

He turns, and with a wide sweep of his leg, fells the incoming soldier with a destructive arc of fire. Two soldiers behind the first also crash heavily to the ground, yelling and shouting for back-up.

He fights. He fights until the entire field is crawling with soldiers. He fights until there are gashes and bruises blooming even underneath his armour. He fights until he sees Zuko’s war balloon disappear into the distance, too far for anyone to catch him. He fights even after that, with everything he has, tooth and nail, ignoring the injuries screaming at him to stop.

He buys Zuko all the time he can, and the bitter, bitter cost is his life.

When he finally does stop, it’s because he’s been pinned down, forced to kneel, arms and legs coiled in chains.

“Admiral Zhao,” Ozai’s voice booms across the field, steely and cold, the same voice he uses on the worst enemies of the state, which, Zhao supposes, of which he has now joined the ranks of. “Why… what has brought you to this?”

It’s almost flattering how much of an impact Zhao’s betrayal is if it renders even Ozai at a loss for words.

Still, he stays silent, slowly registering the pain.

“I never…” the betrayal is strong in Ozai’s voice, shaking with suppressed rage. “Never would have thought you of all people would turn out to be a traitor.”

Zhao lifts his head. He’s a proud man. That has never changed. But perhaps this time he can say he’s proud of himself for a vastly different reason.

“My lord,” Zhao says, mockery poisoning his tone. How interesting it is to see that same irritated clench to Ozai’s jaw, the same as the one Zuko did whenever Zhao spoke to him like this. “Believe me, this is as much a shock to me as it is for you.”

Ozai’s glare intensifies. “So why did you do it?”

Zhao shrugs. “Getting tired of your ways, is all. Kind of like how Jeong Jeong did. Like teacher, like student, I suppose.”

The disgusted curl of Ozai’s mouth deepens. “Unlike your illustrious teacher, you were not nearly as clever as he was to not get caught. You are to be thrown into the Boiling Rock, never to see the light of day again.”

And with that, he leaves, his robes billowing as if in reflection of his fury, but Zhao can’t bring himself to care. He can admit he’s surprised, though. Imprisonment at the Boiling Rock hadn’t rated as highly as execution on Zhao’s mental list of possible repercussions.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Azula hesitate, look at him, look at her father, then look back at Zhao, her lips almost imperceptibly parted as if to say something.

Zhao subtly shakes his head, and then her lips seal shut again, grimly understanding.

He is dragged away, and he wonders if Zuko would be happier if he had been executed after all.

It’s bitterly cold. So, so cold. It’s like the frost has burrowed itself deep into his bone marrow, freezing him from the inside out. He’s kept under twenty-four-hour surveillance, and his new home is a small cell which may as well be a block of ice.

Despite it all, he has a schedule.

Dawn is the first changing of the guard. Zhao learns to wake up when he hears booted feet clicking sharply against the door outside, audible despite the inches-thick metal that barricades him from the outside world.

One hour later is breakfast. Four guards come in, two flanking the door, two to unshackle the chains around his wrists and ankles so he can eat. He does so at a sedate pace, doing his best to get blood moving through his numbed limbs.

Then, he is allowed a bathroom break. They only give him cold water, and at this point, he’s cold enough that it feels warm.

Another few hours are spent chained in his cell. Lunch rolls around, following the same routine as breakfast. He gets his second visit to the bathroom here.

It’s in the afternoon, when there is just enough sun to be called warm but not enough to harness its full power that they let Zhao walk around the facility with his retinue of guards. They don’t want him to perish quickly, so he is allowed to soak up just enough sunshine to keep him going for another day.

Evening soon falls, and it’s back in the cell. Dinner, then sleep.

Sometimes he tells stories. There’s a young guard usually posted during the shift between dinner and midnight; a guard who is fresh-faced and young and everything that hasn’t been tainted by true war. The guard isn’t supposed to talk to him, but he obviously can’t resist, not when he cracks the door open just an inch, enough for Zhao’s voice to carry over. Without much else to do, he tells the guard stories. Stories of the world, stories of his life, stories of people long gone.

It’s something Zhao eventually starts looking forward to as well.

The days pass, and Zhao’s only consolation are the slight echoes that pang his body from time to time. They are signs that Zuko is still alive, still out there, still pursuing his goals with that single-minded stubbornness that now, for whatever reason, has become so endearing.

He thinks he can understand what Ling-Hua was talking about now, how it’s knowing that you wouldn’t ever receive an echo again that hurts so much. Zhao has never been glad to carry someone else’s pain, but now, it might be the only thing that brings him comfort.

Everything is routine, until Zhao manages to hear snatches of conversation during the changing of the guard. Something about a high-status prisoner, an escape attempt, the arrival of new prisoners first thing in the morning.

He doesn’t get anything else beyond that, but it’s interesting to know there’s another high-security inmate around this place. Maybe they can even be cell buddies.

Zhao lightly hits his head against the wall. He must be seriously going off the deep end, which doesn’t bode well for his state of mind, but he supposes he’s likely to perish here anyway.

Perhaps. Maybe. Zhao’s a stubborn bastard, as stubborn as his soulmate, and if there’s one thing neither he nor Zuko know how to do, it’s giving up.

A dangerous prisoner shouldn’t be left locked up with nothing to do, otherwise they might get… creative. Inescapable prison or not, Zhao learns how to harness what little sun they give him, maximising efficiency with the shrewdness he’s always been known for.

He falls asleep in the cold, but a cunning smile cuts across his face when he can detect heat signatures outside, even through the thick metal door.

“All prisoners in the courtyard, that includes you,” the guard stares down at Zhao contemptuously. “Up and at ‘em.”

Zhao languorously rolls his shoulders, lazily peering up at the guard. “Is that so? It’s noon, when the sun is at its zenith. Are you sure little old me should be out with everyone else?”

The guard sneers. “We know you’re dangerous, Zhao. But it’s the warden’s orders, so get your ass up.”

Zhao smirks. “Oh, I’d love to oblige, but you see, I’m currently chained down. If only someone knew how to do their job properly…”

The guard’s nostrils flare. A knock on the thick metal door prevents him from acting on his anger as a second guard calls, “Hurry up! The warden will be out any minute!”

Zhao allows himself a laugh. He makes a show of stumbling and wincing when he’s let up, careful not to appear too normal. His limbs don’t ache from the cold as much anymore, and it’d be so, so easy to reach out and sap the warmth from the guard.

A little humiliation goes a long way. He keeps this in mind when he pretends to stumble, much to the entertainment of the guards. It’s all worth it. They’re not as meticulous about keeping him restrained anymore. His hands are cuffed in front of him rather than behind, and he can see it’s a simple firebending lock.

Slackers. They’ve grown overconfident, thinking he’s completely lost his bending ability.

What a sight he makes with his guard detail, entering the courtyard like a celebrity. All of the inmates are out, and he draws more than one look when the guards forcefully clear a way, keeping him in their centre, the thick chains rattling with every movement.

The sun is warm on his skin. Already, he can feel his inner fire greedily reaching out for it, surrounding heat signatures becoming more acute. He can even feel the inner fires flickering within the guards surrounding him.

“Riot!”

Fire. Fire everywhere. It is glorious. Zhao bathes in it, leeching the strength out of the jets that blast past him. The foolish guards are unawares, and Zhao takes it all in, breathing it in, coaxing his inner fire to greater and greater heights.

“Zhao!”

It’s the familiar voice that snaps him out of his daze. Zhao turns, stunned, when he sees his soulmate running towards him, smiling widely.

Elation – relief – security –

These aren’t echoes. Echoes don’t reflect emotions like these. Zhao opens his mouth, Zuko’s name forming on his tongue, but then he is reminded of the guards still surrounding him.

Zuko takes care of one. The others are swept up by the other inmates.

Zuko crashes into him, arms looping around his frame, black hair tickling his nose. The only thing that prevents Zhao from reaching out and making sure Zuko is real are the manacles still keeping him bound.

But it is real. Zuko is real. He is here, and Zhao doesn’t know why, but he finds himself slumping into his soulmate, letting out a shuddering sigh because all feels right in the world again.

“We have to get out of here,” Zuko pulls away, his eye bright. “We’re commandeering a gondola, and there are others, but I’ll explain later, we have to go –”

A fireball narrowly misses them as it flies overhead.

Zhao gets the memo.

Zuko hurriedly unlocks Zhao’s restraints, and the chains clatter to the ground. Freeing beyond belief, Zhao can’t help the feral smile when he feels sensation returning to his limbs, the taste of impending battle already coating his tongue.

The battle to the gondolas is hard, and Zhao isn’t in top form. He fights anyway, and it’s to his immense pleasure that the guards balk at the sight of him free from his chains.

“Who the fuck let Admiral Zhao free?!”

He takes great pleasure in flinging a wide arc of fire at the irritating guard first sent to fetch him.

But all good things come to an end, and the exhaustion creeps up on him all too soon. He stumbles, and then suddenly a certain Water Tribe chieftain is by his side, knocking down the guard about to spear him before slinging one of Zhao’s arms over his shoulder.

Just in time, too. Zhao nearly sinks to the ground, adrenaline leaving him in a rush.

“Hey, nice to see you again,” the chieftain grins.

“Wish I could say the same,” Zhao grumbles back.

“Hakoda.”

“Does it look like I care?”

The chieftain – Hakoda – laughs loudly, practically dragging Zhao all the way to the gondola. It’s a nerve-racking procession; the warden is taken hostage, and the tension is thick enough to cut with a knife.

Zhao’s vision is beginning to swim. He needs the sun. He needs rest. He needs time to recover. It had been adrenaline that had kept him going throughout the fight, but it has long left his body, turning his legs into jelly, exhaustion trampling over him in a way it only does after a particularly gruelling battle.

“Are you okay?”

Hakoda’s voice sounds murky, as if he were speaking to Zhao underwater. It’s a struggle to drag his focus back to what’s going on around him. Distantly, he watches everyone clamber into the gondola, Zuko giving him a worried look when he is lowered onto one of the seats.

“Tired,” Zhao admits. “Just… need a breather.”

“We’re nearly out of here,” Hakoda says soothingly, just in time for the whirring of the gondola line to start up, the entire carriage jolting as it begins to move.

The warden is still bound and gagged, though he continues to valiantly squirm. They’ll need to keep an eye on that. Zhao may have the self-preservation to not give out orders that’ll put his own life at risk, but he’s heard stories about the extent the warden will go to to upkeep the Boiling Rock’s reputation.

It’s amazing, now that he thinks about it. He’s in the middle of escaping Boiling Rock. No one has ever managed to succeed in that endeavour.

If only he had the strength to gloat.

So, so tired.

“Zhao,” Zuko whispers. “Don’t fall asleep yet, stay with me.”

“Fuck off, ‘m not going anywhere,” Zhao groans.

There’s a small huff of laughter, fingers carding through his hair, and an amused remark, “Nice to see you’re still an asshole.”

Zhao grumbles but leans into the touch anyway.

“My sister and Ty Lee are coming up here. I need to go fight them off, but just… stay awake? Can you do that?”

Such a simple task seems so difficult now, but Zhao sighs and nods.

Another touch to his hair, and Zuko is off. Within seconds, there is the sound of fire blasting, limbs striking limbs, and the general clamour of a vicious fight. The gondola is rocking now, and there are resounding thumps echoing from the rooftop.

The sound of rope hitting metal floor snaps Zhao’s eyes open.

Fuck.

The warden has freed himself while the other, very much not incapacitated inmates are too busy watching the fight than, say, obeying the number one rule of holding someone ransom, which is, you know, always keep a fucking eye on the captive?

With the last dregs of his strength, Zhao forces himself forward, grapples the warden by the waist, and pulls him down to the ground, using his heavier weight to his advantage. Thankfully, Hakoda and the other prisoner finally take notice and work on tying and gagging the warden again.

“Nice save,” Hakoda grins brightly at him.

“Wouldn’t have had to if you two numbskulls were paying more attention,” Zhao glowers, deciding he’d rather lie on the ground until this whole affair is over.

“None of that now,” Hakoda tuts, grabbing Zhao and hauling him back up with a grunt of exertion.

So fucking tired.

“Leave me to my misery, please,” Zhao sighs, propping himself against the door.

A cry of surprise, a bolt of blue, and suddenly Azula slams into the ground next to the open doorway. For a moment, they stare at each other, shocked.

“You’re with them?” Azula scrambles back up, fists tightening.

“Azula,” Zhao grimaces, recovering just as quickly. “We both know I wouldn’t stay in a prison if I can help it.”

“I don’t understand,” Azula hisses, “I don’t understand how you can give everything up for Zuzu. What is it about him that makes everyone take his side?!”

“Azula,” Zhao repeats evenly, “I’ve taken your side too.”

Azula stiffens. Her face pales, and for a moment, Zhao is stunned silent when he sees her again, the way she looked back in her bedroom, tired of the world, tired of everything around her.

“Why?” Azula asks simply.

Such a broad question. Why did he betray Ozai? Why did he throw everything away? Why did he insist she didn’t speak out on his behalf? Why did he keep her soulmate secret?

He doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t think there is anything to say. The only thing he can muster is a soft, “I’ve been there. The… the things we’ve gone through are… I’m sorry.”

He doesn’t even know what he’s apologising for, but Azula’s lips purse, and suddenly she turns to Ty Lee, commanding, “Let’s go.”

In a flash of blue and pink, both girls leap onto the adjacent gondola. Azula stares at Zhao, just for a moment, unreadable, and then they are gone.

Cold. Still so cold. The Water Tribe girl had taken a look at him, shaking her head when she said it wasn’t something she could heal. Time was the only available method of recuperation.

Zhao curls closer to the campfire, tempted to just directly lie down in it.

A warm presence comes closer, unmistakeably his soulmate’s heat signature.

“How are you?”

Zuko sits next to him, and then those familiar fingers are running through his hair again, slow and gentle.

“Better,” Zhao hums. “Still can’t believe I’m out.”

“Well, I can’t believe you sacrificed yourself for me,” Zuko tugs at his hair reproachfully now. “You could’ve died.”

“You were guaranteed death if you didn’t escape,” Zhao sighs, sitting up. “At least I had a better chance of survival.”

“I still don’t understand you.”

“And sometimes you feel like someone I’ve known better than I’ve known myself,” Zhao shrugs. “So there we go.”

Zuko shakes his head, ducks in close, and surprises him with a peck on the lips. “I don’t understand you,” he repeats, before getting up and walking into the temple.

Really, Zhao thinks, raising his fingers to touch his lips. He doesn’t understand Zuko either.

It’s a blur between then and now.

They’re back at Ember Island again, hiding out in the royal family’s vacation home. Zhao has fully recovered, though he’s now found himself in the company of six teenagers. He’s not sure what to make of them, his soulmate included, and for the first few weeks spent in their company, he is constantly on edge, waiting for them to hold him captive or torture him for information.

They don’t.

The Avatar even looks horrified the one time Zhao raises the question to him.

But there’s something about them that slowly eases him, to the point Zhao no longer watches the food preparation carefully, or find strategic sleeping spots, or tense whenever the others have a training session.

He stays up some nights to keep watch, stunned that they did not have a roster for some sort of surveillance. And then he’s reminded that these are not trained soldiers; these are teenagers who have had their destiny thrust upon them without warning.

But here, with the anonymity Ember Island affords, Zhao finally feels somewhat at peace.

They’re walking along the beach again, him and Zuko. It’s their thing, now. Zuko would talk about summers spent on Ember Island with his family, back when things weren’t overrun with ambition and power. He’d talk about his mother, his cousin, his uncle, and sometimes, his sister.

“She was the one with all the friends and the smarts and everything,” Zuko explained sheepishly, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear. A stray wind blew it back into his face, and Zhao resisted the urge to reach out and stroke it away. “I didn’t have a lot of people in my life. So when I had them, I… I loved them with everything I had. I guess I never figured out what to do when they stopped loving me.”

“I know the feeling,” Zhao murmured.

“From an echo?”

“No,” he smiled a little ruefully, looking out onto the surf. “First-hand experience.”

In return, Zhao tells Zuko stories; anything from folk tales to personal anecdotes. Zuko listens to him raptly, and under this attention, he finds himself giving away just a little more each day.

“Have you ever been in love?” Zuko asks. Their pinkies are entwined like they were in the night market what feels like eons ago, and Zhao idly swings their hands between them as he carefully structures his answer.

“Once,” he says. “A long time ago. I was young. Maybe a bit too young for love, at least, in the maturity sense. But in the time we were together, I thought I had found my world.”

“It didn’t last?”

Zhao shakes his head. “He found his soulmate. I thought we could still work it out. You don’t need to be with your soulmate, you can find love elsewhere. But he didn’t agree. As soon as he found his soulmate, he broke things off.”

“You were hurting,” Zuko says sombrely, “I remember feeling this pain in my chest for a few weeks. The first time, at least.”

Zhao shrugs. “I won’t lie. It hurt like fuck. I was stupidly in love, and to have the rug pulled out from under me… it’s kind of stupid when I look back on it, but he was my first love. He wasn’t my first heartbreak, though.”

“My first heartbreak was when Lu Ten died,” Zuko mentions, pinky curling tighter around Zhao’s. “Shortly after, my mother disappeared, and… nothing was ever the same again.”

“Change can be good,” Zhao remarks, watching the way the wind tousles Zuko’s hair. “Sometimes it’s a long way to get there, but it can be good.”

A hint of a smile appears on Zuko’s face, blooming like a rosebud in spring. He’s been smiling more often lately. The tension that had always been present in his shoulders back at the palace has completely evaporated, and he looks… well, he looks…

“You’re beautiful,” Zhao blurts out before he can stop himself. “Do you know that?”

At once, Zuko’s face flushes pink, as pink as the seashells littering the golden sand. How perfect it would be, Zhao thinks idly, if he can bury himself in that warm, inviting sand, and only re-emerge when embarrassment has left his system, if it ever will.

“I’m…” Zuko laughs softly, averting his eyes. “No, I… I haven’t been called that in a long time. If ever. But thank you.”

Discreetly, Zhao tries to pull his pinky away so that he might run into the waves and swim to some uncharted island to live out the rest of his days. Zuko lets his pinky go, but in the next instant, he grabs Zhao’s hand instead, interlinking their fingers and pressing their palms together.

“What was his name?” Zuko asks, gently swinging their joined hands. “Your first love?”

It takes a little longer to remember than he’d like to admit, especially when he’s distracted by this new development. “Tyzin,” he says, “his name was Tyzin.”

“And how do you feel about him now?”

“You know,” Zhao laughs a little sheepishly. “I haven’t thought about him in a long, long time.”

He doesn’t even know when he let Tyzin go, but what a wonder it is to realise it doesn’t hurt anymore.

This play is ridiculous.

Zhao laughs at some parts, sure, but it’s terribly, terribly boring. Somewhat interesting to see where the Avatar’s travels have taken them, but boring overall.

Until the scene where Zuko betrays his uncle. Zuko stiffens next to him, his face pinched tight. Under the cover of darkness, Zhao reaches for Zuko’s hand, and he feels the responding grip tighten like he’s offered a lifeline.

“You okay?” Zhao whispers to his soulmate. There’s an echo that pangs next to his heart, something he hasn’t felt in a while.

“I just…” Zuko murmurs back. “He probably hates me now.”

“He doesn’t,” Zhao soothes his thumb over the back of Zuko’s hand. “Trust me, he doesn’t.”

“But how do you know?”

“Sometimes people stop loving. And sometimes…” Jeong Jeong crops up in his mind again. The man has been in his thoughts more frequently lately, and he can only postulate why. Zhao clears his throat, continuing, “And sometimes, people don’t know how to stop loving. Your uncle… your uncle is the latter. Trust me.”

He doesn’t know if his words have any impact on Zuko, but eventually, his soulmate slowly nods, whispering an “Okay…” before lapsing into silence once more.

Their hands remain joined.

During the intermission, Zhao tries to cheer Zuko up. There’s no reason for it, but he doesn’t care. All that matters is that it’s something he wants to do and it’s something he thinks Zuko might be grateful for.

“I bet,” says Zhao, “seeing that they seem to be omniscient, they’ll have a big reveal we’re soulmates and have either one of us commence a sappy love declaration.”

“Either one of us?” Zuko snorts. “No, I bet it’ll be both of us. And during your big sacrifice, I’ll be desperately trying to hold your hand for as long as I can while weeping.”

Turns out, they were both wrong.

“Why did you do it?” ‘Ozai’ thunders. “Why? You were one of my most loyal men. What could possibly have tricked you to the other side?!”

‘Zhao’ looks up, a defiant look stamped across his face as he proclaims, “Because I fell in love with the Southern Water Tribe chief!”

Zhao chokes on his drink.

Next to him, Zuko is howling with laughter, tears streaming down his face.

This whole thing should be mortifying, but when confronted with his soulmate trying to get his lungs working again, he finds that he doesn’t mind as much as he should.

The Avatar was a child.

Well, a teenager, but Zhao would be quicker to call him a child.

“Avatar,” Zhao said, all eyes turning to him. He wasn’t surprised in the least; this was the first time he’d spoken ever since this whole debate about killing the Fire Lord started. “I understand it is your destiny to defeat the Fire Lord, but if you will not deliver the killing blow, I am willing to stand in your place.”

The Avatar blanched, paling. “No.”

“I understand intentionally killing someone is difficult,” Zhao allowed. “The first kill is almost always the worst. But Avatar, out of all of us, I think it is safe to say that I can handle the burden better than any of you.”

“No,” the Avatar repeated, more firmly now. “I don’t care if you’re willing to do it for me. I’m not killing him.”

“But if you don’t, then –”

“When has murder become the norm?!”

Stunned, Zhao lapsed into silence, watching the Avatar’s chest heave in frustration.

“When has killing someone become the solution to everything? Hates breeds hate, it’s not going to be stopped by more violence,” the Avatar declared passionately. “No. I’m putting my foot down. I’m not killing the Fire Lord, and I’m not letting anyone else kill him either.”

That happened the night before. And now no one knows where the Avatar is.

But they have a lead for Iroh, which is why they find themselves outside of Ba Sing Se.

Sleep doesn’t come easy. In fact, Zhao is already awake when a ring of fire surrounds them. But there is something familiar about this fire, the wall of flaring orange reminding him of a technique Zhao has encountered time and time again.

No.

There, in the line-up, white hair and scars, a thin, drooping moustache, tanned, weathered skin –

“Zhao,” Piandao says nervously. It’s the first time Zhao has ever seen the swordsman look so out of place. “I know you must be angry –”

“Angry?” Zhao laughs bitterly, uncaring of the audience witnessing this shitshow. “Angry? Angry doesn’t even begin to cover it. You lied to me.”

Piandao flinches.

“All these years, when I’ve asked you about your soulmate, when I’ve asked you about that fucking traitor, you’ve been liaising with him all this time? You know, it’s funny, because I never thought to question you. I never thought to ask why you accepted his desertion so readily. I never thought to wonder why the hell you were coping a hell of a lot better than I did.”

It’s Jeong Jeong who steps forth now, and Zhao backs away, snarling like a wounded animal.

“Stay the fuck away from me,” Zhao warns. “I know you think I’m a savage. You told me that to my face. I know you’ve always thought of me as a monster, I know you were glad to be rid of me, I know you think I’m some – some sick, broken, fucking freak –”

“Zhao,”

Zhao stutters to a stop. That familiar, gravelly voice, soft yet rough at the same time, just like he remembers from a time long past. And he can’t help it, he chokes on his next words, distantly aware of Piandao ushering everyone away.

“Zhao,” Jeong Jeong repeats. “I’m sorry.”

Zhao explodes. The ground around him is set ablaze, a tight, concentric ring, a barrier he instinctively creates to protect himself, to shield him from a man who had once been his world, his saving grace when he had no one, absolutely no one.

“You left me!” Zhao accuses, letting his fire wrap around him. “You left me when I needed you most! Not a word, not a courtesy call, not even a fucking letter! Do you have any idea how it felt to wake up from a fucking concussion given to me from my so-called father, only to hear you’ve left my life as well?! Do you have any idea… did you even care? Or was all that a lie as well?”

He’s choking, fuck, he’s choking. He’s never let himself grieve, but now it all comes rushing out, a wave he can’t stop, and he’s choking and tearing up and why can’t he stop?

“I loved you,” Zhao says brokenly, voice cracking. “I loved you more than I loved myself. And when you left, I didn’t know how to grieve, because how could I grieve someone who was still alive?”

“You hinged yourself too much on others,” Jeong Jeong replies, but now his gruff voice is softening, and through the blaze, Zhao sees his old mentor cautiously approach.

“For the longest time, you were the only one I had,” Zhao chokes out. “What was I supposed to do? I had no one else. You know I had no one else.”

“I’m sorry,” Jeong Jeong steps forward. Zhao tracks his movements keenly through the blur of tears and fire. “I am sorry. Zhao, I never meant for us to end up like this.”

“Don’t give me that shit –”

“We both did wrong,” Jeong Jeong interrupts. “Zhao. My boy.”

Zhao shakes his head, cowering in his flames now. But Jeong Jeong continues approaching, step by step, until he’s reaching out, hands parting the fire, stepping into the circle, and –

Warmth. Incense. Weathered hands. Soft robes.

Exactly as he remembers.

Zhao buries his face in Jeong Jeong’s chest.

And cries.

They talk, somewhere within the tears and the screaming. Zhao exhausts himself that way, but it feels… freeing. He doesn’t know what prompted such an emotional reaction, but maybe it’s because he no longer has an image to maintain that he lets himself go with the first gut reaction.

“Did Piandao tell you about my soulmate?” Zhao rasps, sitting a few feet away from Jeong Jeong. They’re both on the ground, not directly facing each other.

“No,” Jeong Jeong replies quietly. “You found them?”

“Prince Zuko,” Zhao chuckles, rubbing at his eyes. They feel swollen and dry, and he’s suddenly, inexplicably exhausted. “I found out in the worst possible way.”

He mimics cupping the left side of his face. Jeong Jeong winces, touching the scars on his own face. It’s a story only select few know – how Piandao and Jeong Jeong found each other when Jeong Jeong got his face cut open.

“It is a strange thing, to realise just how easily shared pain can bring people together,” Jeong Jeong remarks quietly.

“Indeed.” Zhao still doesn’t think it’s an ideal form of love. He still doesn’t believe in the apparent inherent romanticism of sharing one’s pain. No, he found Zuko through learning and knowing him.

“I am… glad to see you again,” Jeong Jeong continues, stilted.

“You saw me something like a year ago. You didn’t seem very glad then,” Zhao retorts with a roll of his eyes.

“I meant… I am glad to see you again,” Jeong Jeong amends. “Not the you from before.”

Zhao can’t help the laugh that scrapes out of him. “That was still me. That was all me. You can’t discard one part of me and only acknowledge the rest.”

Jeong Jeong sighs. “I’m aware. But Zhao… the things you’ve said. The things you’ve done. Have you ever realised what you have wrought upon other people? Zhao, I can understand why you behaved like that, but – justify? You became… cruel.”

“What of yourself, then?” Zhao snaps irritably. “What of Piandao? Iroh? You have all built infamous reputations, and you did not do it without blood.”

“We did not,” Jeong Jeong acknowledges. “But we learned from our mistakes. We repented.”

Zhao stays silent, watching, waiting.

“I know you do not trust me,” Jeong Jeong continues. “I know you no longer trust Piandao. But Zhao, if you would just let yourself put down all judgement, let yourself trust –”

“I trust Zuko,” Zhao interrupts quietly. “That counts as something, right?”

Jeong Jeong closes his mouth, surprised. But then he smiles – and it is reminiscence all over again. “Yes,” he says, familiar warmth seeping into the same gravelly voice Zhao has always known. “It does.”

Zhao thinks of Zuko, of the way he struggled throughout his entire banishment, of the way he returned to the Fire Nation, jaded and hurt, of the way he’d treat the servants with a politeness not typically characteristic of his father and sister. He thinks of laughter in the night market, gentle scatterings of breadcrumbs to the turtleducks, nightmares melting into comfort – a reassurance that I’m here, I’m here, I can feel you, and I know you.

Even underneath the exhaustion and the rawness of his being, Zhao manages to detect the echoes from his soulmate.

Scared – anxious – ashamed.

Zuko must be about to talk to Iroh.

Jeong Jeong clears his throat. “Would you be willing to try again?”

Soothing his thumb over his wrist, Zhao slowly looks up at his old teacher, meeting his eyes. “Yes…” he says slowly, “I think I would.”

“The waters surrounding Ba Sing Se are currently occupied by fifty ships. There would be more, but numbers have been stretched thin,” Zhao taps the map. “Ozai’s airship fleet is coming from the west. We’re – the Fire Nation – is in the prime position for a pincer attack if their forces are mobilised quickly enough.”

“Our objective is to retake Ba Sing Se,” Iroh frowns. “If we retake the city, we can repel any attacks coming from the navy.”

“But you can’t repel attacks from the air,” Zhao protests.

“It won’t matter, because Aang will be there to fight the Fire Lord,” Water Tribe Girl – Katara – says confidently.

Zhao sighs. “Assuming the Avatar intercepts the Fire Lord, we would still have the rest of the fleet to worry about.”

“We can take care of it,” Sokka proposes, brave yet nervous. “Someone’s gotta do it. I guess that’ll be us.”

“And I’ll be fighting Azula. Katara will be with me,” Zuko adds.

“What of the aftermath, then?” Zhao questions. “The forces won’t retreat unless given a direct order. A full-scale retreat is only feasible in the event the Fire Lord is defeated or orders one. Unless…”

“Unless?” Zuko prompts.

Zhao licks his lips. “It’s a technicality. But Ozai told me that he is giving up the mantle to Azula in favour of becoming the damn Phoenix King. If, say, the navy is mobilised to order a retreat to all the major bases, it would prevent the rest of the Fire Nation’s forces from launching their own attacks. But the order will have to come from an admiral – and not just any one; the overseeing admiral.”

“That would be you,” Zuko points out. “You’re the overall leader.”

“I was the overall leader,” Zhao corrects.

“Did he officially strip you of the title?” Iroh asks. “There can only be one overall leader, and the position must always be filled. If you were not replaced, then you still have your rank. It’s much the same as how Zuko and I are still considered princes despite having defected.”

Zhao falls silent. It’s a small stipulation, one that is easily overlooked. But… but with everything that had been going on, could it be that easy? Ozai had been slipping, even before Zhao’s arrest. His increasing desperation what with the upcoming defining battles and the ever more frequent civil uprisings… could it be?

“You weren’t replaced,” Iroh smiles now, smug and self-assured. “Your friend Ling-Hua is still loyal to you and has been very upfront about the current state of affairs.”

For a moment, Zhao can only stare back at the old general, words drying up in his mouth. “I… what? How do you know Ling-Hua?”

“You ought to give her more credit,” Iroh chides teasingly, “she’s a very resourceful woman. Now, Zhao, Ling-Hua is willing to wait for you at one of the east ports, not too far from here. If you can begin setting up communications, you should be able to prevent the rest of the navy from attacking.”

Zhao shakes his head, mystified. “Ah, what the hell. Alright, sure.”

“It’s best you stay out of as much direct fighting as possible,” Zuko pipes up. “I can’t afford any distractions, especially if I’m fighting Azula.”

“Why would Zhao fighting distract you?” Sokka asks with a raised brow. “You guys are going to be miles away from each other.”

“It’s… fairly obvious, isn’t it?” Zhao frowns, confused. Carefully, slowly, so that Zuko might pull away, he links their hands together. Zuko doesn’t pull away, instead squeezing Zhao’s hand tightly. “We’re soulmates.”

There is coughing and choking all around. Belatedly, Zhao realises no, they had indeed never disclosed their soulmate status with everyone else. They hadn’t been obvious about it either, but that was a given seeing how they barely knew anything about their own bond themselves.

Oops.

“I asked you why you were looking for Zhao! You know, when you said you were coming with me to the Boiling Rock?” Sokka shouted at Zuko, gesturing between him and Zhao with an accusatory finger.

“Because he’s my soulmate?” Zuko raises their joined hands, clearly not understanding what the fuss is all about.

“You didn’t say that,” Sokka sputters. “You said he was the guy who helped you escape.”

“Oh,” says Zuko. “Well, they’re mutually inclusive, aren’t they?”

Zhao can’t help it. He laughs, loud and unabashed, and through his mirth, he sees Zuko flushing in what looks like embarrassment.

It’s surreal to see his ship again after what feels like a millennium of imprisonment. Ling-Hua meets him at the docks, uniform as impeccable as always.

“It’s good to see you again, sir,” Ling-Hua smiles widely, bowing. “Things became such a disorganised mess ever since your disappearance.”

“Have I truly not been replaced yet?” Zhao asks, folding his arms across his chest.

“No, sir,” Ling-Hua reports. “In fact, barely anyone outside of your crew and the Fire Lord’s inner circle knows what transpired. To everyone else, you simply disappeared off the grid. The new selection was up to Princess Azula. Fire Lord Ozai left it up to her, but lately, she has… been displaying concerning behaviour.”

“Concerning behaviour?” Zhao echoes.

“She’s slipping, sir. Several important tasks that have been assigned to her haven’t been completed. I’m afraid our princess can no longer meet her father’s expectations.”

A girl, lost in the world, clinging onto Zhao with everything she has, as if no one has willingly held her before.

“Prepare the fleet,” Zhao orders, knowing now is not the time to postulate. “We will be mobilising everyone shortly.”

“Yes, sir. All communications are open. Awaiting your orders, sir.”

“Get me a list of all the commanding officers. I’m ordering a full retreat once the comet reaches its zenith.”

“Yes, sir.”

It isn’t exactly how Zhao had pictured he’d be spending Sozin’s Comet, but if he plays his cards right, he’ll be emerging from the war on the victor’s side.

All is going well.

Zhao resettles back into the head of command seamlessly. Ling-Hua hadn’t been kidding when she said everything had turned into a disorganised mess. Admiral Chan had been struggling with keeping the eastern fleet in line. Much of Admiral Liang’s western fleet had been recalled to be transferred into the air fleet instead.

The navy had been falling apart.

But hopefully, not for much longer.

The comet is burning through his veins, merging with his inner fire. It’s breath-taking. It feels similar to standing outside during a thunderstorm, letting his inner fire reach out towards intermittent flashes of lightning.

When Zhao throws an experimental fire blast into the air, it sears the sky, amplified by a hundred-fold. It is the epitome of power, and it feels… unexplainable.

How easy it would be to turn the fleet around, order them to join Ozai’s quest in razing down the Earth Kingdom.

But Zhao doesn’t fancy himself a fool. There is only one side he can join now, and it just so happens to be on the pesky little airbender’s.

So it shall be.

It’s luck. It has to be. There’s no way Zhao would have retained his rank if things hadn’t been going south lately. Logically speaking, Ozai should’ve announced Zhao’s betrayal, but he supposes it’s just luck he decided to turn his back on the Fire Nation at the time everyone was too swamped. He guesses it helps that the sudden loss of an admiral would be kept hush hush, just until the proper administration could be carried out.

After all, Jeong Jeong’s desertion hadn’t been announced till weeks later.

Seemingly out of nowhere, a different type of burning spreads throughout his chest. Zhao’s limbs jolt as if electrocuted, and he stumbles – one step, two… the third has him slumping against the rails, twitching in the aftershock. The world is slowing around him, there are white imprints whenever he closes his eyes, and all his nerves are singed.

It hurts. Almost as much as it did during Zuko’s Agni Kai against his father.

Lightning. It has to be lightning. There’s no other explanation for the white-hot burn that disappears as soon as it appears.

Azula.

Zuko.

Ling-Hua’s panicked voice pierces through the fog in his mind. “… Sir? Sir! Can you hear me, sir?!”

“Set course for the Fire Nation,” Zhao gasps, clutching his chest. “Now.”

It takes a day or so of travel before they arrive at the shores of Capital Island. They travel at top speed, practically flying across the water.

Zhao doesn’t even wait to dismiss the crew. He commandeers the first available carriage and rides all the way to the palace with his body still aching and panging all over.

When he bursts into Zuko’s room, his soulmate is propped up on an abundance of pillows, and Katara’s hands are just lifting away from a red, red scar sitting right below his chest.

“Hey,” Zuko smiles, a little sheepish, abundantly exhausted. “I won. Well, Azula cheated and aimed for a third party, so Katara finished her off and –”

Zhao crosses the room, sits on the bed’s edge, and promptly flicks Zuko’s forehead.

“You,” Zhao proclaims, “are a fucking gigantic pain in my ass, and no, I’m not talking about an echo.”

Katara laughs and stands up. “I’ll leave you two to talk.”

“Appreciated,” Zhao nods at her.

“Thank you, Katara,” Zuko says sincerely.

Katara smiles, and leaves with a backward wave, the door gently clicking behind her.

Alone again, Zhao returns to berating Zuko. “Do you have any fucking idea how worried I was when you got struck by lightning? Fucking hell, Zuko, imagine that. Miles away from you, no idea how you were, the only thing to ease my mind were the damn echoes and I –”

“You what?” Zuko murmurs quietly, eyes knowing.

“… And I’m glad you’re okay,” Zhao sighs resignedly, reaching out to grasp Zuko’s hand.

Zuko smiles softly. It’s a beautiful sight, and Zhao wonders why he’d never thought to study that smile more.

“I’m okay,” Zuko reassures. “I’m okay. We’re okay.”

“What happened to Azula?” Zhao traces his thumb over the back of Zuko’s hand.

Zuko’s face falls. “She broke. We locked her away for now. When she realised she couldn’t hurt anyone, she started hurting herself. We had to sedate her.”

“Don’t treat her like a monster,” Zhao warns, thinking of those dark, dark years shortly after Jeong Jeong’s desertion. “Or you’ll find that she’ll live up to the expectation.”

“Of course,” Zuko squeezes his hand. “And Zhao?”

Zhao hums, shifting a little closer.

“Are you looking to be in a relationship with me?”

It’s a difficult question. This is his soulmate. His apparent destined partner. According to tales of old, he’s supposed to say yes immediately, and then he and Zuko will fall in love and live happily ever after.

But love isn’t like that, and Zhao would be doing him and Zuko both an injustice if he doesn’t answer honestly.

“I think…” Zhao says, meeting Zuko’s eyes. “I think I would like to be. But I’m not ready for the whole package. Not yet.”

Relief floods Zuko’s face. “I don’t feel ready either.”

“Then,” Zhao leans in, pressing his forehead against Zuko’s for the briefest of seconds. “Let’s take it slow?”

Zuko grins warmly, fingers curling around Zhao’s hand. The echoes are fading, replaced by lightness. Their bond is a tentative thing, and it doesn’t matter if it’s been there for years; it still feels like spring bloom, nascent and tentative.

Love isn’t easy, and it will never be easy, but as Zhao looks at Zuko who is supposed to be a should be, was labelled a maybe, and is now a could be, he thinks, scared as he is, that he’s taken many leaps of faith throughout his life, so what is one more?

Even though they are far from perfect, even though he’s heard so many spiels about how imperfection is the definition of perfection, he’s never believed in its practice, never given thought to how they could just… be. It is trite to him, these platitudes spouted by those who are dulled to the raw knowing of living and loving. And he still doesn’t believe in it. He still doesn’t believe in the idea that love comes easy to soulmates.

But.

And there it is, isn’t it? There’s always a but. Zhao’s life has always followed a schedule, but love never does. And of course he can love. Granted, he doesn’t love easily, but if he loves, then he loves with all his being.

It’s what scares him. He gives everything of himself. And when abandonment rears its head, he’s left trampled underfoot, a little wiser, a little more cautious, a little more guarded, a little more afraid as he builds barricades around his heart; the same heart that still has shrapnel embedded into it, that still dully aches whenever something tugs at it.

And then comes along Zuko, pulling them out piece by piece, and it still hurts, but it gets better, and it’s only after he’s staring at the shards does he realise oh, it’s better to have pulled them out than to jealousy guard the fragments, fuelling his own hurt like he’s stuck in a miserable cycle.

But the wounds don’t close over like magic, and he knows they will scar, he knows they will remain. Lessons imparted by pain, soothed over by acknowledgement. He’s learning, though. He’s slowly learning.

Because love takes time, love takes effort, and it’s never perfect, it’s never flawless, but Zhao likes it that way. He likes how they are rough around the edges, he likes how they aren’t idyllic, he likes how they aren’t the stuff of fairy tales. It makes everything feel so much more real, so much more visceral, so much more them.

“We need to start rebuilding the world,” Zuko says, eyes darting towards the window. “But you’re free from obligation now. You can do – be anything you want.”

“I’ve found what I want,” Zhao chuckles softly. Peace. Closure. A new direction. A better one. “I think… I think this can work out.”

Vulnerable gold eyes turn to him, the same expression he’d seen back on a ship sailing through a raging storm, back in this very same bedroom in the middle of the night, back on the airfield, confronted with a crossroad.

“I don’t want you to think I’m an obligation.”

“You’re not an obligation,” Zhao reassures. “You’re a choice. My choice.”

Zuko’s hold tightens around Zhao’s, as if afraid to let go. “And you will stay?”

He’s made millions of decisions before. Some he had regretted. Some he had made with all the certainty there is. Sometimes it doesn’t work out, but sometimes it does. In the end, however, they were all his decisions, and for this one, despite having been broken by the world multiple times over, he still has a part of himself to give away.

Zhao leans in, his reply vulnerable, a promise to his soulmate – to Zuko – lingering on his lips with certainty: “And I will stay.”