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Sokka never thought this day would come.
They'd talked about it, of course–kind of hard not to, when they'd laid their hearts bare in their vows. And yet here he was:
Blindsided.
For better, for worse, they'd each said. Well, this was just about the worst thing Sokka could ever imagine happening.
Zuko–his husband, his lover, his best friend–gone at 30 years young.
Sokka had assumed they would grow old and gray together. Even in his hospital bed, Zuko had still looked brave and strong–all the way through to the end. He was the bravest, strongest person Sokka had ever known.
He had really, truly thought Zuko would get better. That he would survive this. Because who is Zuko, if not a survivor?
(Dead, apparently.)
For richer, for poorer. It hadn't mattered to Sokka, that Zuko came from wealth he couldn't even begin to comprehend. No, what mattered to Sokka was that his father treated his son like he was worth nothing.
(Zuko was worth everything.)
Ozai was a monster. Sokka couldn't count how many times Zuko had come running to his house after particularly nasty fights with the man. Always bruised, sometimes bloody. They'd been teens back then–neither one exactly sure what to do, except be there for one another.
But when they slowly and carefully fell in love, when they moved in together, when they got married–things seemed like they were getting better. Zuko's father harassed him less and less with every passing day. Zuko was getting better. He ate more, he laughed more–he became so full of life. It was a beautiful transformation to watch.
Things, at one point, were really good. So good, they had started to talk about adoption.
They'd had one reservation, though.
Ozai was abusive.
So after 11 years of marriage, when Zuko confessed he wanted to leave his father behind once and for all–that he didn't want their child to ever, ever meet Ozai–Sokka couldn't have been prouder.
Zuko had insisted he needed to talk to his father alone. And, after a bit of hesitation, Sokka let him.
(Ozai was abusive, but he wasn't a killer.)
In sickness and in health, Sokka had fed Zuko: Chocolate-covered strawberries on their sexy Valentine's Day date earlier this year. And afterward, Zuko had bent him over the dresser and fucked his brains out.
Just last week, Sokka had fed him Chocolate-flavored meal replacement shakes. Zuko had been too weak to properly sit up. Even with the head of his bed raised, some had spilled down the front of his flimsy hospital gown.
“Hey!” Zuko had hissed in anger. Sokka knew it wasn't directed at him, though. Sokka was angry, too–he just couldn't show it, because Zuko needed him. Sokka couldn't afford to let any cracks in his facade shine through. So he put on a brave face, and he helped the nurse change his husband into a clean gown.
Sokka had admired how, even after being bedridden for a week, Zuko still looked as toned and lithe as ever. He moved with grace–just weak with pain. The left side of his face and neck were swathed in bandages, as were both his hands.
He must have fought viciously, the doctors said, even as he was being held down, face-first, into his father's fireplace.
Sokka could picture it, sometimes, if he closed his eyes. The pattern and intensity of the burns told a horrific story. Despite his eye literally melting in its socket, Zuko had shoved his hands into the hottest part of the blaze to push back against Ozai. For all that Zuko had been depressed, he had very clearly wanted to live.
And he had.
He had fought and struggled and screamed. Zuko had found the strength to free himself. He had escaped–begged a neighbor to call 9-1-1.
The burns were extensive. But Sokka knew Zuko would live.
At least, until infection came just a few days later.
To love and to cherish, till death do us part.
What bullshit.
The doctors had left them alone for a private goodbye–Sokka with Zuko’s body. He leaned over his husband, softly brushing the hair out of his unbandaged eye.
“I love you, Zuko,” he whispered, voice firm and fierce. “And I will love you through this life and into the next.” Tears rolled down his cheeks as he took his lover's cold, white hand. “I know I said ‘til death do us part, but that's bullshit, and you know it.” He finally broke down as a sob escaped him. He plucked the gold band off Zuko’s ring finger and pressed it to his lips. “This isn't goodbye.”
He straightened, pocketing the ring that matched his own. He strode toward the door, determined not to leave the room as a total wreck, but something stopped his hand just inches from the door handle.
He took a deep breath, and promised himself:
“I will see you again.”