Chapter Text
“What do you think?” said Zuko, inspecting himself from the different angles of the mirrors in front of him. A pair of seamstresses hovered at his waist, pinching the fabric together with invisible stitches.
Behind him, Azula leaned back in her chair. The front legs wobbled dangerously off the ground. In her plain acolytes’ robes, she stood out amid the palatial furnishings, but Zuko was gratified to note that even after so many years away, she had settled in comfortably: she was picking idly at a bowl of rambulongans, spitting the seeds with unerring accuracy into a spittoon. “Who expected you’d become such a peacock, brother.”
It was the closest thing he’d get to a compliment from her. If anything, it relieved him to hear that old snark, now defanged. It had taken a while, but he had managed to convince her to visit for the upcoming holiday. There were stipulations: she wouldn’t have to interact with their mother, she would stay at the temple, and the kitchens would definitely serve squirrel-fish, deep fried the way she always liked it. But she was here, of her own accord and everything, and that counted as a win in his books.
“I think you look great, boss,” said Osha from her perch by the doorway. “I’ll have a chat with the hairdresser later, but I was thinking—”
“Hey, sunshine!”
In the mirrors, Zuko could see Sokka’s reflection bounce into view of the doorway. Druk pounced on him first, twisting around his ankles. Since Yu Dao, the dragon had only grown, now the approximate size and weight of two ferret-retrievers. It made carrying him difficult, though Zuko was determined to keep doing it.
“Hi, little noodle,” Sokka cooed.
“Babe!” Zuko divested himself of the seamstresses; fabric trailing, he tumbled into Sokka’s waiting arms. Zuko held his familiar weight. “You’re here!”
“Right I am,” Sokka said. “And happy early birthday!”
After a busy couple of months apart, it was joyous to see him again. The second settlement of Yu Dao had been consuming Zuko’s days. Even the Earth King had finally deigned to make an appearance, bear in tow, though he had little choice after the major insults that had been dealt to two world leaders at Yu Dao in his name. Zuko did not doubt it would take a long time to heal that particular geopolitical relationship, but the combined displeasure of the Fire Nation and both Water Tribes had effectively shamed Kuei into reentering the Yu Dao talks in good faith.
In some ways, Zuko could see where Kuei was coming from. Here was a ruler who had been for decades a puppet of the Dai Li, kept ignorant of the war raging beyond the walls of Ba Sing Se. Perhaps he had felt humiliated after the truth had been unveiled, perhaps he felt a need to reassert his power and authority. But, gripped by some kind of misdirected nostalgia, he had wreaked so much harm. There, Zuko had come to realise, the line must be drawn.
So this was the result: Yu Dao re-ran its elections, and was now boasting a brand new legislature. Hoilam proudly represented a small residential district. As predicted, the pro-Ba Sing Se crowd was all but decimated, left with just a pocket of representation in the city. All the big players had turned up to the swearing-in ceremony: Aang, resplendent in his formal yellow robes; the elders of the Southern Water Tribe alongside Hakoda, who roped Zuko into conversations about his son whenever they had a spare moment; even the elusive Yee Kwan of the neighbouring Cranefish Republic had showed up in his modernist Tang suit, a certainly charismatic man whom Zuko couldn’t work out whether he liked or disliked.
In the midst of all that, Sokka had returned to Shu Jing. They had only managed to snatch a few moments together amid the political drama. Now, Zuko let Sokka tuck his nose into his neck, press a kiss against his throat. He had missed this.
“Are these the new robes I see?” said another voice.
Zuko stepped back. “Sifu!” He made the sign of the flame and bowed. “You came too.”
Piandao bowed back, fluid and elegant as ever. “Of course. I had to inspect what I paid for in person.”
“I have to thank you,” said Zuko. “They’re so beautiful.”
“Yeah, you look great,” Sokka enthused. “Give us a twirl?”
Zuko obliged. The ceremonial robes Piandao had commissioned for him all those months ago were in their full glory, in anticipation of his twenty-sixth birthday celebrations tomorrow. In shades of red and gold, the batik panels were painstakingly dyed and embroidered to depict fire lilies and volcanic islands and the symbols of all four nations along the hems. The outer garment was sleeveless and open, the shoulders creased and starched to replicate the sharp shape of his old pauldron. Then there was the pièce de résistance, the portrait of Druk splayed in full glory over the back. The light fabric swirled around his ankles as he turned to let Sokka and Piandao take in the robes from every angle.
“You look incredible,” said Sokka.
“Worth every tael,” said Piandao, eyes sparkling with humour.
Zuko flushed. He let the seamstresses usher him back before the mirrors. The remaining alterations were minor; since the last fitting, Zuko had—gratifyingly—put on some bulk. Osha took credit for that: Look at the world of good our sparring sessions have done you!
“Hey Azula,” said Sokka, looping behind her chair.
She had paused in her snacking, eyeing the visitors warily. “Hi.”
“Sifu,” said Zuko as Osha set about fetching extra teacups, “have you met my sister, Sigu Azula?”
“I don’t believe so. Good afternoon, Sigu.”
Azula’s eyes darted to Zuko’s. He nodded back. “Hello,” she said.
“This is Master Piandao, I’ve told you about him,” said Zuko. “Sifu, Azula helped redesign the new temple complex at Crescent Island.”
“Indeed?” said Piandao. “How fascinating. Tell me more.”
Azula’s eyes found Zuko’s again. “What do you want to know?”
“Well,” said Piandao, taking a meditative step in her direction, “I do have a passing interest in early dynastic architecture. Did you have any major inspirations?”
“Oh,” said Azula. She plucked another rambulongan from the bowl, twisting the spiny skin between her fingers. “I—I mean. I was reading through some of the annals and found this description that completely diverged from that old building they had…”
“With no consideration of the history of the site?” supplied Piandao
“Yes. That, exactly.”
Piandao pulled up a chair beside her. She hesitated, then nudged her bowl towards him. “Rambulongan?”
Sokka drifted over to Zuko, smiling. “Look at those two nerds go,” he said in an undertone.
Zuko let his eyes linger over him. The quivering energy of his body, his bronzed skin, the blue of his eyes that Zuko saw in the sky and seas of the hot-dry. How familiar this all was, how dear. “You’re here early,” he remarked. “I thought you’d come at night, or tomorrow.”
“I had something on,” said Sokka. In the mirror, Zuko saw the coyness cross his face. “I—it’s a bit of a surprise, actually.”
“Tell me.”
Sokka twisted his hands together, met Zuko’s eye in the reflection. “I had a job interview. Here. In Caldera.”
“An interview!” said Zuko. “You didn’t mention.”
“It’s a surprise, as I said.” Sokka cocked his hip against the frame of the mirror. “I didn’t really expect anything. I sent the models and experiments of my geothermal engine to a few places and—yeah. I heard back.”
It was a surprise. “Good luck,” said Zuko earnestly. “I hope they hire you. You’re the best. They’d be crazy not to.”
Sokka ducked his head. “It’s because of your urban planning initiatives they’re hiring, anyway. I was seeing this transport company, they were thinking of adapting the engine for a cable car, you know, like at Boiling Rock…”
“What about Piandao?” said Zuko. “What about the—you know?”
“He encouraged it, actually. Wrote my references. He says it’s good to have personnel across different sectors. So yeah.” He was smiling, a little soft flush creeping up his neck. “I’m relocating. Here.”
Zuko’s heart thudded against the lotus-flax. “You’re coming to live here. In the capital. With me.”
“That’s the plan.”
Seamstresses be damned. Zuko flung himself onto Sokka, a whirl of burgundy fabric. He pressed his face hard against Sokka’s cheek. “I really want to kiss you right now,” he murmured.
“Why don’t you?”
So Zuko did. A hand cupping his nape, scuffing against the shorn hair there, Sokka bending him backwards with reciprocal enthusiasm. “Get a room!” came Azula’s dismayed cry, and they broke apart laughing.
“That’s why,” said Zuko as he let the seamstresses reel him back.
“Your Majesty,” said one of them, a little put upon, “you may step briefly out of the robes while we put on the finishing touches.”
Apologetic, Zuko climbed out of the robes so they could pin them to a dress form. Sokka ushered him away from the mirror, pressed a cup of tea into his hands.
“So I take it that’s a royal endorsement of my move?” he said.
“Yes,” said Zuko. “I’ll stamp it, if you want. Make it official.”
Sokka grinned at him over his own teacup. “I figure I ought to save you the air fares.”
“Considerate.”
“I mean, no one’s offered me a job yet,” Sokka said. “But even if they all reject me, I’ll keep applying. I don’t—” He gripped Zuko’s hands. “I don’t want to be away from you as long as we were, if I can help it.”
“You don’t have to get a job just to come and live with me,” said Zuko, even as he squeezed back.
Sokka laughed, then a wistful expression crossed his face. “It’s not— Truth be told, I don’t know what to expect.”
“What about?”
He sighed, pulling his hands back towards himself. “It’s a leap of faith, I guess. When I started that volcanic engine project, it was just a bit of fun. Then I realised I…love this. I love creating things. I want to keep doing it, doing it seriously, even after all of…what happened. But I don’t know if…”
“It’s not the same place,” Zuko said at once. He put his arm around Sokka, stroking his side. “It’ll be different. They’ll welcome your brilliance. You’re reclaiming something you love for yourself. And if they dare bully the Fire Lord’s partner…”
Sokka huffed. “Yeah, yeah, you’ll rain down your righteous fiery vengeance upon them.”
“Exactly,” said Zuko, steely.
Sokka rolled his eyes, but his twitching mouth betrayed his fondness. “Alright,” he murmured, casting Zuko a look from the side. “Hey, and how was your meeting with that healer?”
“Oh! That.” The healer of the mind whom Dr Khoo had recommended. He had mentioned the upcoming appointment in his last letter to Sokka. “Yeah, I think it’s promising. Just the first meeting, she asked me about my family and how we interacted growing up. Seems…nice. We’ll see.”
“I’m glad you’re getting all that out.”
Zuko smiled thinly. “Yeah. Matter of time, I guess. That’s what she told me, at least.”
“You’re taking the right steps, sunshine.”
A clearing of the throat. “Your Majesty? May we interrupt?”
Zuko looked up. It was the seamstresses, flanking the robes laid out over the dress form. “It’s finished. Please, observe.”
They helped Zuko back into them, draping them onto him layer by layer.
“You’ll be wearing these for the celebrations tomorrow?” said Piandao.
“Yes,” said Zuko. “I’ll be opening the Archive to the public.”
“The Archive?”
“We kept all the confiscated materials from the war there,” said Zuko. “I dunno. Councillor Po floated the idea before. I never thought I’d let anyone in, I didn’t know whether they’d feel remorse looking at those objects, but now…” He smoothed a hand down over the glossy red fabric. “Now, I think we’re finally ready to confront that past.”
“Well, I think I have the perfect thing to go with that opening,” said Sokka.
He dug through his bag and offered Zuko a huge, thick scroll of paper. His hands vibrated with excitement. “Your present!”
“What’s this?”
“Osha, please,” said Sokka, beckoning. He handed her one end.
“Give it here,” said Azula, sticking out a hand for the other end.
“Not with all that juice!”
She wiped her hand on her tunic, rolling her eyes. “There, happy?”
Azula anchored, Osha unfurled. The characters stood stark against the crisp paper, mounted on a shining gold backing: 龍德年華. The Age of the Dragon’s Virtue.
“You wrote this?” said Zuko.
“Of course I did. My seal’s on it.” Sokka pointed. There it was indeed, to the side, the red stamp of his name with the little boomerangs around the character for water. Beside it was a small, smitten subscript: For my beloved Zuko. “I was thinking you could display it over a doorway. The Archive’s? It’s probably good enough for that.”
“It is,” Piandao supplied.
“There you have it. From the master himself. It’s about—well, what you’ve achieved.”
Zuko hugged his arms to his chest, as though to contain the swelling of his heart. He let his eyes trace the sweeping trails of ink. There was a nonchalance to the calligraphy, and he knew Sokka well enough to know that he would’ve ruminated over the curve of each stroke before committing it to paper. “About—me?”
“Well, I didn’t write it for Kuei.”
Zuko pressed his knuckles to his mouth. Sokka was looking at him with a face that told Zuko he knew everything he was feeling; that without a word, he could still feel the echo of Zuko’s emotions thrumming against his heartstrings. “This is— I— I don’t know what to say. It’s beautiful.”
“One final thing to complete the look,” said Sokka. “Osha, do you have his hairpiece somewhere?”
“Right here,” said Osha, reaching for the ornament where it had been resting on a stand. Sokka took it from her.
“Put it in for me,” said Zuko, and he did.
“Resplendent,” said Piandao. “Every bit the Fire Lord you are.”
“It suits you!” cried Osha.
Even Azula nodded with rueful approval.
Sokka turned Zuko back to face the mirror. Looking back at him was a young Fire Lord on the cusp of twenty-six. Some things were the same: the scar, the sheets of black hair, the pointed chin. But his robes told the story of his love for his nation, for the world, for the lifegiving fire that burned in his core. A man who had inherited a brutal legacy but by the spirits, was he trying to shed it. He would give his life for this, and he would give it happily: for the first green shoots that unfurl from the scorched earth.
“What do you think?” said Sokka, looping his arm around Zuko’s waist. “Handsome?”
Zuko grinned back at the mirror, smiling so widely their reflections became blurs of red and gold. “This is it.”
“What is?”
It was everything, it was the whole tableau. Behind him, Piandao was pointing out to Osha the flourishes of Sokka’s calligraphy while she pursed her lips in appreciation. Azula tossed Druk a rambulongan with her free hand. When he caught it in his mouth, zapped the fruit with fire, the force of her smile split her face open. And Sokka, his love, steadfast by his side. Zuko gripped his hand, threaded their fingers together. “Yeah,” he said. “This is how it’s meant to be.”
完