Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

There is an old fisherman’s port that sits on the furthermost island away from the Fire National capital. For decades it bears no name. Sailors and merchants coming and going call it all manner of things: ‘The Quiet Wharf’, ‘Old Maid’s Harbor’, ‘The Port of Wood Rot’.

It’s the last that sticks the longest and so it stays. Wood rot. Woodrot. Woodrott. The wooden piles that hold its pier together had long ago turned gray, their splitting grooves riddled with the warts of barnacles. The village of tin shanties bears the soul of an old man. Sensible, for old men born here tend to die here, wind-dried or pickled, and so it is fitting that the air smells of salt and vinegar and neglected things.

To Jee it smells like home.

In the beginning, it was him, his father, his mother, and little brother. His father fishes, as most men do, while his mother gathers reeds for baskets, as most women do. They live in a home made of rusting scrap metal. When it rains, it is not pleasant. It is cold, drafty, and loud. But they sleep through it because they have no choice. If his brother curls into him, Jee holds him tighter. He is the only firebender in his family. He has the strength to share his warmth. He has the will to provide it.

There are no schools here. Most people do not know how to read. Jee manages it, but it is not the first thing he learns.

No, what he learns first is how to speak without speaking. His father owns a pipa, given to him by his father and his father before him. Her wood is battered and bruised, just like the village, but it does not matter. She sings well as long as fingers are kind to her.

Jee learns to read backwards. That is, he goes about it the wrong way. He plays music by watching, then mimicking. He knows nothing of notes or lyrics, but he knows they come from somewhere deep. Father only has so many songs. They are melodies about ships and harvests, sometimes a good drink or two. With time these ditties get tired and Jee grows bored.

A world builds inside him—spinning, pressing—with nowhere to go, no one to listen. Jee feels more than what he says. He wants someone to hear him.

One day a merchant brings his little boat to the mooring. In his trunks he carries scrolls of poetry, plays, and songs. They are to be brought to Ember Island, he is only here for a stopover, but that doesn’t stop Jee from sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong.

“I have one copper,” Jee tells the merchant. He is a ten and already working, his skin tight and tanned by the sun. “What can that get me?”

The merchant pities him. Jee knows it, sees it, but he holds his head high because he earned this copper and he will make his purchase.

“What are you looking for?”

“A song.”

“Can you read?”

“No.”

“Then what songs do you know?”

Jee tells him. He knows nine. The merchant searches through his trunks until he finds a scroll of one of them.

“But I want a new one,” he tells the merchant, “something I don’t already know.”

“You may buy a new one when you can read this one.”

He agrees. He might be ten and small and poor, but he is clever enough to follow logic when it is not explained to him.

If I can read this one, I can read others.

The song becomes his cipher. He teaches himself to read, then to write, and—because music is also numbers—how to measure, subtract, divide, and add. The villagers turn to him for help, which Jee is happy to give, and Father grows proud of him. Good head on him, this one, he says. At this rate, he’ll be going places. If for once Jee feels there might be some hope for his family, he doesn’t say. He’s long learned to never count picken eggs before they’ve been laid.

At sixteen, he meets a boy. A nice boy, a sweet boy, a boy worthy of writing music for. They are young and stupid, which means they think they can get away with things they could be hung for. But there is romance in the forbidden. A certain excitement that comes with crossing the line. Jee kisses the way he sings (with everything he has) and touches the way his fingers pull on string (gently).

But in truth he loves the way it feels when fingers trace his spine. Down, down, down below, where he burns hottest. Just before Jee can say his name in a voice thick with honey, the door creaks open. Light pours in. The bright white is unkind, glaring. He and him lie in a tangle of legs and netting, in a shed that reeks of fish, because it is the only place where no one might see them. It is the only place where they might be a little free.

(Like the nets, it’s a trap.)

His father belts him. Across the ass until there are wet red lines that make it painful to walk and sit. Filthy. Unmanly. Illegal. You could be hung!

Jee is not thrown out, his family cannot afford the loss of income, but the household changes. It will never be the same again. Mother purses her lips whenever he talks to her, while Father cannot bear to look at him at all. Little brother, Huan, cries because he does not know what’s wrong. Jee hushes him with hugs. Do you want to learn how to read? Let’s read together.

Three days later, his father slices his hand open on a fishing line. The cut runs clear across his palm. Blood flows until his whole arm is red. He tries to stop the bleeding with a dirty rag because dirty rags are all they have.

This is a mistake.

The cut grows, eating Jee’s father from the inside-out. It blooms from red to green to purple and black, a motley of pretty colors like the coming of a storm. But the wound is far from pretty. It is monstrous. A hateful thing that smells rancid and weeps thick pus.

They walk out of the village to the closest doctor, who lives in the mountains miles away from home. The physician is an old woman retired from Caldera. It is said that she is the wife of the warden who owns their island. She adjusts the glasses perched on her nose, then rotates his father’s angry limb between her gloved fingers.

“Why did you not come sooner?” she asks.

They don’t answer. They never answer because everyone knows what that answer is. No money means waiting until it is too late.

A fisherman with one hand is a fisherman who catches half his earnings. They cannot continue this way. Huan is only nine, not big enough yet to bring in a man’s income.

Jee knows what he must do.

The following morning, he packs his meager belongings. Before he leaves, he kneels before his brother with both hands on his scrawny shoulders. Jee tells him:

“Take care of our family. Not just mom and dad, but everyone else here. The butcher? He’s your uncle. The seamstress? She’s your aunt. Your friend down the road? Think of her as your sister. Whenever things are bad, we help one another. That’s how we make it, and you’re gonna make it. You’re gonna learn and teach yourself and help others. You understand?”

Huan nods. For one so young, he understands plenty. He knows more than he should.

With that Jee sets sail for Caldera. He ignores the looks he gets: stares, wrinkled noses, brows raised in either humor at his expense or shock at his gall. It is a good thing living on the edge of survival ages the face. He is seventeen when he lies on his enlistment application for the Fire Nation Navy. Looking at him, one would think he were at least mid-twenty.

Running a battleship is different from sailing a humble outrigger. He hears other sailors laugh behind his back when he struggles to acquaint himself with all the equipment, gears, and readings. At night, when everyone else is sleeping, he has a small fire in one palm and a copy of the engineer’s manual in the other. In two weeks, the other sailors stop laughing.

But some of them still spit.

He works hard and in some ways that is easy. Working hard is all he knows. There is a serenity in scrubbing decks, fixing pipes, and helping where he is needed. Among the crew, there are others like him. Low-born people who had dreams, once, but have no means to achieve them. What they do have are loved ones back home who need them and being needed is its own kind of honor.

They sit together in mess halls, trading tales of their roots. Listening to them, Jee remembers the way his mother and father had been happy even when they had nothing. They had sung and danced together, shared kisses the way they shared meals, leaned on each other when everything got hard.

Mother used to say, Money can buy you freedom, but it cannot buy you love.

Jee loves the crew he gets close to. It’s a love that flows out from his chest and into his hands, when he helps them lift something heavy, teaches them the sequence of levers to push or pull, shows them how to read the maps and navigate the stars. But the Navy is built on assignments from the Fire Nation. Men and women come and go, and Jee does, too. Every assignment changes his makeshift family. Some faces repeat, but that sort of luck is few and far between.

There are pauses within each assignment. A ceremony when a light shines on the most accomplished able seamen. They would stand straight, single-file, row by row, all facing the sun rising over the horizon, as an Admiral walks down a line of young faces standing across them. They wait to receive their stripes and flames, maybe even a medal, too.

With each passing year, Jee hopes he might be chosen. (Look at me.) Yet no matter how hard he tries, he is passed over for someone younger, more charming, more connected.

He is thirty-four when he’s finally promoted to Lieutenant. In a fair world, it should not have taken this long. If he were high-born with smooth hair, nice skin, a natural air of proper breeding and grooming, he would have been Captain by now. Commander, at least. Yet he is none of those lofty things. Roughness clings to him like seaweed, obvious despite how well he follows military etiquette and shines his armor.

It is maddening. Infuriating. But Jee understands: he is wood rot. Beaten down. Neglected. Overlooked.

(Accept it.)

Of all the men who rises faster than he deserves, it is Zhao Jee scorns the most. For now, they are equals in the hierarchy, never mind that Zhao is five years younger with fifteen years less practical experience. Zhao’s lack of wisdom shows in how easily he throws away his vessels and his men, letting them all catch fire in the name of grand achievements that will only raise him—and no one else—higher.

The disdain is mutual. When they pass one another, Zhao offers a slippery smile and compliments that mask insults. “Congratulations, Lieutenant. At this rate, you might become admiral while collecting your handsome pension.”

“Sir.” Never rise to the bait. Zhao eats what he catches, if he doesn’t play with it first.

Jee serves for seventeen years, sending money home as soon as the money’s paid. How his family spends his earnings, he doesn’t know. They don’t know how to write and so cannot tell him, and he rather suspects they have nothing to say.

But one day he receives a letter from little brother, and Jee remembers why he is doing this at all.

Jee,

It’s been a long while, hasn’t it? I know you’re always on assignment, but maybe you can take leave some time. Mom’s fingers aren’t what they used to be. They’re all swollen now. She can’t weave without feeling pain. I’m still out there working with Dad. We do okay. As long as we’re both on the boat, we make ends meet. I know they don’t say anything, but they’re getting on in age and they miss you. I miss you, too.

Thank you for all the money you send. We were able to save and buy a proper house a little more inland. Was able to pay tuition for a real school, too. That’s why you haven’t heard from me. Had to sail to another island to get educated, just like you say is important. Not sure what I’m going to do with what I’ve learned yet.

What I do know is the Earth Kingdom recently placed trade sanctions on the Fire Nation for ore. There’s a shortage in Caldera now. Fire Lord Azulon has deployed soldiers to rip metal from any place that can afford to lose it. They were here recently. Pulled the sewage pipes right out of the dirt.

But you know, the town’s the town. No matter how tough it gets, we all watch out for one another. No one else will. So I wanted to say, your money, it’s helped a lot of people, Jee. A little girl caught pneumonia last winter, and her mom was able to buy the medicine she needed with the money we gave her. There was also the butcher’s son, do you remember him? He took over his father’s shop. There’s a tax you have pay when handing down property here. He couldn’t afford it, but we helped him make up the difference. The shop’s still in the family, thanks to you.

And that’s just who I remember, off the top of my head. They don’t know where the money comes from when we give it to them, but I do.

I know you’re out there fighting for all of us. I hope, someday, you don’t have to fight anymore. That you can come home.

Your Brother,
Huan

Jee folds the letter into quarters. He keeps it in his breast pocket so he can reach for it whenever he starts to doubt. He will keep going, despite the fact he hates it, because he has the warmth to share and the will to provide.

With room and board on a battleship, Jee requires very little. It took time, but he managed to set aside enough coin to buy a pipa of his own. Tonight, with his brother’s heart resting against his, he finds a reason to play. A reason to sing.

When he sings, he must be careful. Dancing is forbidden in the Fire Nation. He’d known it once, when he was little, before Fire Lord Azulon decided to ban that piece of him, too. Though music remains, it is a shadow of its former self. Anthems. Marches. Songs that swell with pride and pump the heart, these were allowed. They strengthened soldiers, emboldened them to die for their country.

Songs that are soft, Jee sings softly. (Don’t hear me.) Like many things about him, these, too, are banned. (Unmanly.) Even when he creates his own music, he never writes it down. Too dangerous. Better to memorize the words and take them to the grave. (I do not know you, but I will love you until I am no more.)

The Navy is due to claim a port village in the southern reaches of Earth Kingdom when Jee meets the first love of his life.

His name is Guozhi. He has brown hair that stops at the shoulders. His eyes are hazel, green with flecks of gold. I am of the hearth, Guozhi smiles when they first meet. Wood and fire combined. The soul of the household. Smoky, safe, warm, and kind. By day Guozhi presses ink into sailor’s skin. By night he lets those same sailors press into him.

It is one thing to love a man, quite another to fuck one for relief. Jee is sick of whorehouses and the smaller establishments towards the back, in the worst alleys, offering certain services for people like him. He hates them. They are loud and fake, smelling strongly of harsh perfume and desperation.

And Jee is tired, exhausted, of feeling desperate.

When he meets Guozhi in his shop, he tells him:

“I don’t want to pay you for your time.”

“Well, that’s unfortunate. Time is money. I need money. Are you sure there isn’t something you want?”

Guozhi tilts his head to the side. It is a coquettish move, one that is well-practiced. His straight hair slides over his eyes, just so, and dances over his lips as he breathes. His green and orange haori slides off his bare shoulder. Another practiced move. Jee reaches out to put it back in place.

There are many things he wants. A kiss, which Guozhi is happy to offer for free. An embrace, which Guozhi claims will cost him a drink. And …

Guozhi’s hand slides down Jee’s back. Lower and lower still. Jee is hot. He is burning with want. The touch feels so good until it doesn’t, and Jee has to pull away, shaking, feeling the lash of the belt.

“No?”

“No.”

“Do you not like—”

“No.”

Lie.

It’s a lie. Guozhi doesn’t ask further. He only nods in understanding. “Listen. I get a lot of visitors, and you’re not a bad one, but I meant it when I said I need the money.”

Jee nods. The mad scramble for money, this he sees no shame in. He knows that pain acutely and does not want it for this man. “Can I pay you for something else, then?”

They settle into the back of the needle shop. Not upstairs, where Guozhi sleeps, or down below, where Guozhi fucks. He has Jee remove his shirt as he prepares his tools of the trade. Ink, of course, and a long bamboo stick with a needle grouping tied to the tip.

“What were you thinking?”

“I don’t know,” Jee shrugs. “You decide.”

Guozhi’s eyebrows rise to his hairline when he turns away from his equipment. His eyes trail up Jee’s torso, to his face, then down again.

“What?”

“You have a nice body.”

That does not sound right. Jee shakes his head. He must have misheard. “What?”

“You heard me. Turn around. I need to appraise my canvas.”

With a wary sigh Jee suspects has become old hat for him, he does as he’s told. After a full circle, Guozhi smiles at him as he approaches. He steps up close, chest-to-chest, right arm wrapping around Jee’s broad shoulders, left arm swinging around his tapered waist to playfully rub at his lower back. Guozhi taps the base of his spine.

“I want to put it right here.”

“There.”

“Yes.”

Jee laughs a little. “Is this some kind of revenge for earlier?”

Guozhi looks at him a moment longer. The mirth from earlier dissipates, replaced with a gaze that is too shrewd by half. Jee suddenly feels as though he is being slowly pried open. He holds still, military stance, feet shoulder-width apart, parallel to one another, hands pulled behind the back. Straight posture. Confident chin. Despite his efforts, a look of recognition fills Guozhi’s face. The man droops with the weight of it.

“No,” he replies. When Guozhi touches his back again, his fingers are soothing. “This part of you is beautiful. I am only going to make that more apparent.”

“What are you going to give me, then?”

Guozhi pats the table. Jee levers himself up on it.

“You know, my family is a mix of Fire Nation and Earth Kingdom heritage. I am the third generation in our little tree. Light?”

Lifting a hand, Jee obliges. Guozhi holds the metal needle over the flame, sanitizing it.

“I carry the essence of Agni with me, just as I carry the essence of Tudijun, the Ruler God of the Soil. You, however, are all Agni. I can see it in the way you move. The way you hold yourself. You are burning with so many wants.” He purses his lip, looking heavenward. “Hm … I think I will give you a humming-moth.”

Jee raises his brow, then his eyes travel to the array of insects flying into the paper lamp above them. “Inspired by the bugs hitting your lantern?”

Guozhi’s grin is mocking. “You caught me.” He smacks Jee’s shoulder with the back of his hand. “Now, shut up. Lie down on your stomach and listen. This will take a while.”

On his belly, Jee crosses his arms beneath his head. The light in the room is invitingly orange and smells of the sandalwood incense burning on another table. He hears the quiet clatter of Guozhi drawing ink into his needle and closes his eyes when he feels the first press into his skin. It feels like a pinch.

“Agni is a god of unification,” Guozhi goes on, “their fire creates as well as destroys. We sense Agni’s absence in winter, when everything dies, and their emergence in Spring, when everything grows. But it is those in-between months when Agni’s flame becomes most alive.”

Guozhi presses and presses. Every so often he withdraws to fill the needles with more ink. The pain mounts upon itself slowly, in warm buzzing layers, until the throb of it is so deep Jee’s eyes glaze and he feels a little like he’s floating.

“The humming-moth is drawn to Agni. They are Agni’s humble servants, flying between the land of the living and the dead. In the spirit world, there are souls who love so passionately the spirit world cannot contain it. The humming-moths carry that love on their wings and find their way here, to the people left in mourning.”

With a clean cloth, Guozhi dabs Jee’s back, wiping it of blood.

“But it is said, the purest devotion draws the humming-moth into Agni’s fire itself. They become fearless in the face of burning. They feed the fire, and the cycle of the seasons continue.”

“Four seasons, four loves,” Jee murmurs, a bit dazed. An old song. A favorite. Illegal. Maybe there was a reason for it.

“Yes,” Guozhi says. “Exactly.”

Jee glances at the floor-length mirror hanging from one of the walls. He can see himself and Guozhi in it. In the silver plane of glass, with him shirtless and Guozhi leaning over him, their voices quiet as the light flickers, it feels more intimate than any brothel Jee had ever visited. “You think all that, when you look at me?”

Guozhi scoffs. “I see all that when I look at you. You have a lot of fight running in your veins, but right now you are in jar.”

The needle’s tossed onto the equipment tray. Guozhi nudges his side before he leans back to admire his work. Jee sits up. The movement stings where the tattoo is, but it does not hurt much at all compared to a firebending burn. Guozhi gives Jee a smaller mirror. Jee turns around with it to look at the ink permanently laid across his back.

The design is simple: a humming-moth drawn in black with eyespots on each wing colored fire nation red. There are little flames fanning out on either side of it. He meets Guozhi’s gaze in the mirror.

“I hope one day, you will not be so constrained by the lot your life has given you.”

Jee stares at his humming-moth a moment longer. It is pure and lovely and means something precious. He feels the whisper of a song curling in his chest. Turning back to Guozhi, he returns the mirror. Guozhi cocks his head to the side, this time with none of the flirtatious theatrics.

“Yes?”

“Can I … pay you a little bit more to … balance me out?”

“Balance you out.”

“Yes.”

“And that means?”

Jee rubs his hand self-consciously along one of his biceps. “Can you put something here that’s … less delicate?”

Guozhi rolls his eyes and mutters something insulting about Fire Nation culture Jee pretends not to hear. “Fine. How many bar brawls have you won?”

Five, it turns out, against fellow Fire Nation soldiers no less. Guozhi inks a long red bar encircling his left arm and draws five triangles below it. On the right, he makes a similar pattern, this one green for Earth Kingdom: three triangles.

“You seem to favor punching your own.”

Jee snorts. “We have it coming.”

When Jee returns the following evening, he pays for drinks. The evening after that, he pays for dinner. After that, enough food and supplies to last Guozhi a week. He does not take him to bed, not yet. (Love cannot be bought. It is earned.) But he asks to shut all the curtains in Guozhi’s bedroom and to light a few candles the next time he visits.

“Why?”

As if it were explanation enough, Jee stands before him and lifts one arm. When Guozhi mirrors him, he lets his other arm fall on Guozhi’s waist. He pulls him close. Guozhi starts to giggle. It is not a mean laugh. Instead, he blushes and seems pleasantly taken aback.

“Dancing?”

Jee leads him around the small bedroom, mindful to not hit the scant furniture. “Yes.”

The man in his arms grows shy. He looks down but can’t seem to resist resting his head against Jee’s chest. Good. Jee likes it there. It feels like it belongs.

He cannot play his pipa and dance at the same time, but he can hum the right melody and that will have to do. They sway lightly, swinging apart like birds only to spool together again.

“This feels so elegant.”

“It should. It’s supposed to be used by the Fire Lord and Fire Lady for opening ceremonies or festivals in Caldera.”

Guozhi balks. “This is a dance for royalty?”

A nod. “Yes.”

Jee spins him. Guozhi unwinds. “How did you learn it?”

He reels him back in. “The way all commoners learn anything about that kind of life: through the servants who tell their friends, and the friends who tell their friends, all the way down to the bottom.”

To as low a place as Woodrott.

Standing this close to one another, they are about the same height. But there is something special about knowing how your partner moves when there is hardly any space between you. It changes the air in the room. Fills it with a kind flavor not unlike a long kiss. Guozhi’s eyes are dark, but they sparkle, too.

“I thought dancing was banned in the Fire Nation?”

“It is. But I was a kid when it was still allowed.”

“Long time ago. You still remember.”

They fall into a deep turn that Jee uses to lift Guozhi up. His lover (whom has not yet loved) laughs down at him, both palms pressed flat onto his chest, as Jee completes the rotation, lowering him slowly, letting him drip over his body until their lips catch.

There is no pipa, no song, but a melody vibrates between them. Jee holds Guozhi’s hands in his. Earnest.

“I was …” Jee looks away, hating the flush he feels on his cheeks. “… hoping to share it with someone special, some day.”

When Guozhi kisses him, it’s with a fierce pull that throws them both into his bed.

Jee slows him down. He likes to take his time. He wants to remember. His hands stroke along long swathes of skin, thumb brushing a nipple, index finger outlining a rib. Their wriggle out of their clothes like snakes shedding old skins.

He makes love to him for free. It is what he wants and what he feels.

(And he is tired of feeling desperate.)

Later, they lie together, nose-to-nose. It is the closest thing Jee has felt to happiness in a long time. He idly lets his fingertips run up and down Guozhi’s bare hip. Enjoys the way their ankles bump as their legs lace. When they talk, he can drink their breaths, heady with rice wine and the taste of sex. Jee’s eyes threaten to shut, but he’s not sleepy. Not at all. Now Guozhi sings, and he listens, listens, and listens.

“Would it be so bad? To be poor and together?”

“I know what not having enough can do to a marriage,” Jee whispers.

“Well, maybe we can have just enough.”

He combs his hand through Guozhi’s hair. “What would that look like for you?”

“Hm. Someone to be the first and last thing I see every day.” He closes his eyes, pushing his face into Jee’s palm. “Someone to laugh with. Someone to argue with. A home with tea, plenty of rice, and good work to be proud of. Maybe a child to call my own.”

Jee sits up on his elbow and looks down on him. “You want children?”

“This war has taken away so many parents. If I could, I would give one a home, where they could be safe and receive all the love they deserve.” Guozhi pulls him down and over him, until Jee is a thick blanket that Guozhi can kiss. “What about you? What do you want?”

Too many things. Everything but ultimately nothing. There are no words for them. Only ballads. He settles on, “I want to make music.”

Guozhi chuckles. His fingers brush back Jee’s unruly hair, already faded ahead of its time. “You already do that.”

“I know. But I want someone to hear it.”

They’re about to kiss or say something more, when they hear rattling armor and boots grinding gravel in a familiar march. Quietly, they put on their clothes and move to the window, where they lift the curtain just enough to peek through.

Outside, Fire Nation soldiers, moving line by line with artillery rolling between them. Jee frowns.

“We’re not supposed to attack.”

Next to him, Guozhi scoffs. “Does it ever really turn out that way?”

No, it never does, but Jee was fool enough to hope it might not happen this time.

When the last of the soldiers pass, Guozhi waits a moment before opening the window.

“You need to leave.”

Jee does not argue but stops with one leg halfway through the open frame.

“So do you,” he whispers, leaning in for one last kiss.

A hand (that had touched him, that had loved him) falls against the curve between his shoulder and neck. “This is my home, Jee.”

He grabs Guozhi’s elbow. Holds it like a starling-dove ready to flee. “Come with me, then.”

“Where?” his lover laughs. “To your battleship?”

Jee doesn’t know what to say. He has nothing but poor excuses. Money. Family. Responsibility. What was all that compared to the utter ruin of war? Guozhi’s hand slides up his neck to cup his cheek.

“Promise me,”Guozhi tells him , “No matter what happens, you keep making music. Find reasons to sing and dance.”

They hold one another’s gaze for a long time. This is a ballad. He knows it. Something is being said without being spoken. Jee swallows. “I promise.”

He slides out and runs for the dock, to the safety of the battleship cabins. When he wakes up the next morning, half the port village is on fire. They are ordered off the vessel to assist the infantry in sweeping the village. His chest feels empty. He places two fingers against his jugular. A pulse. It’s his. It doesn’t feel like his. He holds his breath to check.

As Jee walks through the village, he does not feel all there. He is outside his body, watching himself, as he feigns indifference. (Don’t get caught.)

But his feet don’t care. They lead him to the small shop where a few good things happened, and he might have fallen in love.

The shop is there, but it is gone, a husk of itself. Frantic, he kicks the half-collapsed door in. The stairs to the bedroom have been burned. The table and all the tattooing tools have been turned over. The door leading down below, it’s been blown open. No one’s there.

He isn’t anywhere.

It’s not until late afternoon, when the sun has begun its descent, that he finds Guozhi hanging from a tree.

Filthy. Unmanly. Illegal. You could be hanged.

His body is charred, barely recognizable. But Jee would know Guozhi’s hands anywhere, would recognize the burned calluses on the balls of his feet. The haori, too, green and orange despite the soot, almost hazel like his eyes.

There are soldiers around him. He cannot afford to cry. Not now.

(Later.)

When they are called back for the night, he passes several carts of missiles ready to be brought aboard. They would not have caught his eye if not for the peculiar etching along one of the missiles shells. He breaks away from the others, he has the rank after all, to look more closely.

The shells are not made of clean sheets of metal. They had been hastily cobbled together from a mishmash of scraps. One of them reads FN6:WR – East End. Fire Nation Island #6: Woodrott – East End.

Jee swallows. His fingers run up his chest, reaching for the worn sheet of paper that had been folded and unfolded so many times there are holes where the pressed lines intersect.

Thoughts of Guozhi fly to thoughts of his family. Something is wrong.

(Too many things are already wrong.)

His instincts are confirmed upon entering his cabin. There he finds a letter waiting for him on his desk. He recognizes the seal. It’s from home. A message from the warden of his island, written by his secretary.

The contents of the letter blur before Jee’s eyes. He can only make out a few words. Many died ... More than half the town ... Unforeseen disaster … Mass burial ... Burned to stop the spread. He sits with the letter hanging from his limp arm and pinched fingers for over an hour, staring at nothing.

Sickness had swept through Jee’s home village. People, young, old, and in between, turned blue, shitting themselves dead from the water they drank, the food they washed, the water they bathed in.

The letter is boilerplate. The Fire Nation’s elite have more important business to attend to than drafting individual letters. The second page is a list of the dead. The village is small. It does not take long to find the names of his parents and his little brother, who now would have been twenty-six.

Tao
Huan
Liqin

Guozhi

Jee rises from his chair. A maelstrom churns in his stomach. It rises to his throat, then his eyes. He locks the door then walks calmly to his lavatory. Once inside, he locks the door there, too. He turns the shower knob and the water runs. His back hits the wall as he slides to the floor and sobs and sobs and sobs.

That evening, after his eyes are dry, Jee checks-in with his crew in the mess hall. He does this every supper, when the day is over and his crew can be people instead of cogs in an unforgiving machine. He would sit for a moment at each table, address each one casually, learn about their lives and their troubles. Share a laugh when nothing is funny, when really it is all rather mockingly sad. It is a practice Jee has taken upon himself since he was promoted, a small act of care he has never failed to fulfill. Tonight is no different.

He smiles through the birth of his deckhand’s nephew.

He offers to advocate for a pay advance for his bosun, whose sister is getting married soon.

He listens intently as his cook laments the loss of another family member. Also military, died in a battle on the other side of the Earth Kingdom continent.

No asks after him, and he’s glad of it. When he’s finished he takes his plate to his quarters, not intending to eat it at all but wanting to make a show of it. The Admiral finds him alone, pushing his food around with disinterest.

“Negotiations along the coast were, as expected, unproductive.”

“Sir.”

“We will be attacking the southwest half of the port village tomorrow. I expect all the missiles to be prepared tonight for timely launch.

“Sir.”

In bed, stomach empty, mind racing, Jee does not sleep. He thinks of his mother, who had taught him everything he knew about how to care for others. He thinks of his father, who had taught him everything he knew about honest work. He thinks of Huan, who had so much promise. He thinks of Guozhi and how he saw straight through him even when he didn’t say a thing.

He thinks of the missiles that killed the people of his village, the same missiles that will kill the people of Guozhi’s.

In the morning, Jee decides: he hates the Fire Nation. It is a land that consumes everything and cares for no one. Arrogant. Selfish. Spoiled.

His hands are steady on the helm. The waters are shallow here. Jagged rocks the shape of tiger-shark teeth hide beneath the surface. It is a hidden maze that requires a deft hand and a knowledgeable mind at sea. Jee might be getting older. He might be low-born, rough, and poor, but he has both these things in spades.

He is clever, too.

He brings the battleship too close to the ridges. With one arm, he reaches for the handle on engine order telegraph and pushes the lever to FULL-AHEAD. One minute they are positioning to launch the missiles. The next, underwater rocks shred the hull, ripping the ship open like the pathetic can it is. The sound of shrieking metal pierces their ears. The vessel shakes with the violence of a slow strangling.

Water bursts through. Crewmen and soldiers scream. Jee stands where he is. He lowers his hands from the bridge’s control panel. Reaching into his pocket, he withdraws a switchblade. With one hand, he unfolds it, with the other, he pulls tight on his top knot. Then knife slices straight across the crown of his head. His bundle of hair and the red ribbon holding it together fall next to his boots.

Jee puts the knife away and crosses his hands behind his back, standing with neither regret nor emotion as the ship sinks.

Just his luck, the ship does not sink all the way. It lists to one side, and he is humiliatingly rescued.

Word of Jee’s monumental ‘mishap’ inevitably reaches the ears of General Iroh. Jee is not nervous when he’s told to meet him in private, in a swiftly erected tent pitched along the coast made explicitly for this purpose. No. He has nothing to fear. There is nothing left to lose. (There are no reasons to sing.)

“General Iroh, Sir.”

General Iroh is a big man behind a big desk, but there is something invisible on his shoulders that somehow shrinks him. Iroh has a folder in hand. He peeks over it to look at Jee.

“Your personnel record shows impeccable attention to detail, the work ethic of three men, and a certain regard for honor, duty, and fairness.” Iroh lowers Jee’s file. “What happened?”

What happened. There are no words to describe what happened.

“I lost someone.”

He does not add anything else. Iroh’s eyes grow big and bright when he replies, “I see.”

After Iroh excuses him, Jee searches for Guozhi’s tree. He finds it within a couple of hours. It stuns him how such a peaceful place, just a few days ago, strangled the man he loved until he couldn’t breathe.

(You put him up there.)

He carves Guozhi’s name at the foot the tree, as close to the trunk’s roots as he can manage, in the event someone somewhere decides to chop the whole thing down. In his pocket he has a bag of seeds. He burns the grass (gently) then smothers it, turning the soil warm and black. His fingers dig a small hole in which he drops the seeds, buries them like the bodies he doesn’t have.

Jee retains his military title, a small mercy for someone who is also banished. If his compatriots and superiors laugh about all this, which Zhao certainly will, he could not care less.

It is not long after when Iroh sends him a hawk with a request for a favor.

Chapter Text

Past the Great Gates of Azulon, in the mouth of the mainland where all ships come home to roost, the Wani groans and rumbles in the shadows of port. It had been built ten years into Fire Lord Azulon’s reign. What was once a grand destroyer is now dwarfed by descendants four times its size. Jee stands on the water-sluiced docks with his orders from Iroh in hand.

He eyes the ship he’s to captain with reasonable apprehension. Corrugations ripple in uneven patterns across the hull’s surface. Where the metal runs smooth there are scars, old ruptures melded shut with soldering slashed across the panels. His boots clap across the wooden planks as he examines the ship from another angle. He does not see any holes, but that is a low bar for anything deigned seaworthy.

His finger runs down the list of his crew, which is less a crew than it is a skeleton of one.

Shan – Helmsman

Donghai – Bosun

Qianfan – Deckhand

Kenzou – Deckhand

Aki - Mechanical

Taiki – Medical Purser

Cook – Cook

Jee rubs his forehead before turning to the crew standing behind him. With the exception of Aki, all of them are men who have seen better days. Their heads are gray or bald or both, with not a single top knot honoring their lineage among them. They are all older than Jee, old enough to be grandfathers. Few have all their original teeth. But they are strong. A certain stoic hardness fills their eyes, and in those eyes Jee can see the spark of stubbornness that can only be borne at sea. Big veins wrap around the tops of their hands and up their arms. Their threadbare clothes tell him: we know you, too.

Aki twirls a wrench in her hand like a baton. She smiles at him from beneath her uneven fringe the way a sister smiles at her brother: in on the absurdity, ready to ride along. They haven’t spoken, but Jee knows he will like her. Not even on the ship yet and grease streaks her face and arms, proud as war paint.

Hustling footsteps patter across the dock. They turn in unison to watch two attendants carry a stretcher. Upon that stretcher lays a white sheet, and beneath that sheet, a small body. Years at sea and at war turn on certain instincts. Jee whispers a soft prayer. But no, the body isn’t dead. It breathes. It rasps. He hears the pained whine of a child, and then he sees who that child is.

The Fire Nation’s banished prince.

General Iroh follows not far behind, his face pinched with worry. As the group approaches, Jee bows with the sign of the flame. He senses his crew follow suit behind him, and as they rise the stretcher passes.

The smell hits Jee first. A mix of rot and antiseptic. Father’s dead hand.

He looks down and finds not a stub at the end of a man’s arm, but a young face half wrapped in gauze and bandages. The smell of charred skin is familiar. The injury is a burn. He reaches out to touch Guozhi’s cheek but stops himself mid-motion. Not Guozhi. A boy. The prince winces beneath the shadow of his palm.

Lowering his arm, Jee tucks it safely behind his back. “General Iroh, Sir.”

Iroh turns to him. The man is a manifestation of loss. He has lost his son. He has lost his crown. He stands on the edge of losing his nephew. There is a kinship between men who know price of loving. Jee wants to rest a hand on his shoulder, but Iroh straightens himself, says, “Lieutenant Jee, thank you for accepting this assignment on such short notice.”

Jee inclines his head. “The pleasure is mine. I owe you a debt.”

One he could never repay. A destroyed ship and sabotaged mission should have cost him his neck.

“No debt,” Iroh replies. “Our journeys have led us to interesting places. Hopefully, Prince Zuko’s journey will lead him somewhere unexpected as well.”

He’s not sure what to make of that, so he nods. “Once our prince has been settled in his cabin, shall I have Taiki attend to him? The bandages need to be changed.”

“Yes, yes. That would be most appreciated. As observant as your file states, I see.”

“Only doing my job, Sir.”

The attendants carry the stretcher up the gangplank. As they take the prince to his cabin, Jee instructs Taiki to follow Iroh and the crew to man their stations for setting sail. The Wani grumbles as she digests heaps of coal. She moves across the water with a painful lurch before finding her breath and picking up speed. Before long, the place they once called home recedes to nothing behind their backs.

They drift for six days with no destination awaiting them. The lack of an end point makes Jee ill at ease. Oceans are not meant to be wandered. Tight quarters. Narrow corridors. Windowless bulkheads. The same faces with shortening tempers day after day. Long voyages breed a kind of madness.

But Iroh tells them that it is the prince who will guide their journey, and so they travel on as the boy sleeps, putting as much space between them and the Fire Nation as possible.

They are running away, Jee realizes. They are running away, and perhaps that is why Iroh had chosen them, this ragtag group of misfit castaways. Each of them has something to leave behind.

*

In his cabin, Jee steps out of the shower and sees his lower back in the mirror. Two red eyespots on humming-moth wings stare back at him in judgment. He wraps a towel around his waist.

Passion. Wanting. Fearlessness. (Make music.) Guozhi had looked at him and saw all these things, but where is Jee now? Empty. Ambivalent. Desperately adrift. He wonders how he managed to trick Guozhi without meaning to and tries not to think about how much he has in common with this rusting ship.

Iroh hasn’t left his nephew’s side since they boarded days ago. Jee knocks thrice on the prince’s cabin before turning the wheel and opening the door. He finds that Iroh has been weeping. Out of respect he looks away.

“Apologies.”

The general does not bother to wipe his eyes or the wooly beard that has collected beads of tears in it. “No need. Did you require something, Lieutenant?”

“Sir, I stopped by to ask you the same. Can I get you anything?”

The man shakes his head then pauses as something comes to mind. “Have you any tea aboard the ship?”

Tea. Simple enough.

“I’ll see what Cook can find, Sir.” He pauses at the threshold. “May I recommend taking a break? You’ve been at his side nearly a week. Some air will do you good.”

Iroh looks back at his nephew. “It is almost time for me to apply his salves.”

Perhaps the madness has already set in. Listlessness is the first symptom. Hopelessness, the second. Jee straightens.

“I can do it. It would not be the first time I’ve treated serious burns.” When the man hesitates, he adds, “General, he will be all right. You can return to him once you’ve had your tea.”

The General takes a last glance at his nephew before nodding to himself in agreement. He makes his way to the door and lays a hand on Jee’s arm. Iroh’s grip is warm, gentle. But there is a spit of threat, too, lurking in the fire inside him.

When he’s gone, Jee approaches the bed. Prince Zuko cannot be older than thirteen, his right cheek still soft with lingering baby fat. When he wakes he will be frightened, as all children are when far from home. He will need kindness. He will need stability.

A crew might not be blood, but it can be family.

The remains of Prince Zuko’s hair, wrapped in a phoenix tail, clings to his neck with fever sweat. Jee pulls it free to dry on the pillow, then reaches behind the prince’s head to unwind the yellowed dressings.

He cannot help the hiss that escapes him. Lifting the bandages reveals a war. The boy’s face is ravaged with jutting crags and deep valleys, the kind only seen after a bomb has blown. The burn had eaten straight through the prince’s skin. Exposed flesh remains, warped like melted wax that folds one layer over another, dripping. Under these ridges he can feel the sharp edge of the prince’s cheekbone. It is too close to poking through the thin sheet of muscle. A blow would break the shell open. Reveal the white beneath.

The scar extends to the prince’s ear, fusing it to the side of his head. Jee doubts his hearing and sight have survived intact. Firebending will likely require relearning.

The nightstand by the bed may as well be an apothecary. Bottles, jars, and tinctures scatter over its surface, each helpfully labeled. Jee finds the antiseptic and salve. In his sleep, the prince flinches from the sting of silver sulfadiazine.

He reaches for Prince Zuko’s fingers. Squeezes them the way big brothers do when the youngest starts to cry. The furrow on the boy’s brow smooths away. His breathing evens. 

Adrift they are, but here is a purpose, a singular star to keep the twin horrors of time and nothing at bay.

Jee opens the second jar and applies the salve.

“Poor kid,” he hushes. “You’re okay. You’re all right.”

It’s not true. The child is a horror. But he is alive and living is a victory.

*

When the prince wakes, he roars. His bellows reverberate down the corridors. Pipes rattle. Nuts and bolts shake free.

It is 1100 on their seventh day at sea. Jee sprints out of the bridge taking two steps down at a time. Prince Zuko’s cabin sits just above his. He stops on the fifth floor of the superstructure and finds his crew running in from both directions. The prince’s door has been thrown ajar.

They discover their prince kicking and screaming beneath his uncle’s hold. His right eye is so wide the white around the iris shows. Whatever he sees, it is not uncle.

Another kick sends the general tumbling backwards. The prince scrabbles backwards like a crab until his back hits a corner. His chest rises and falls. One hand covers the right side of his face. His left side finds protection against the cold bulkhead.  

“Prince Zuko!” Iroh pleads. He crawls forward on his knees. “It’s me! Your uncle! Please, let me help you!”

He reaches out with one hand, and that is a fatal mistake. Prince Zuko screams a long piercing ‘NO!’ that has Donghai and his deckhands jumping back.  

This a wound Jee has seen before. It does not bleed, but it festers, deep in the mind where old terrors slumber, only to flare without warning. Even his father had had it, after they held him down to cut off his hand before the dying tissue could get to the rest of him.

Jee crouches. “Sir, we need to let him be until he realizes no harm is coming.”

“But—”

“—You can stay in the room, but I wouldn’t touch him. Not yet.” He peers at their physician, who has his medical bag in hand. “Taiki?”

“The Lieutenant is right, General. We must give him space. If you insist on getting close to him soon, I could give him a mild tranquilizer.”

“No!” Iroh snaps, then he catches himself. “No. He just woke. A sedative might only confuse him more. I will wait for him to calm.”

Taiki nods while Jee looks at his deckhands. “Qianfan, you are posted here, outside the prince’s cabin, for afternoon watch. I will take first dog, then Donghai will switch with me for second. First watch begins with you, Kenzou. If the General needs anything, we are to respond immediately. Understood?”

Everyone nods, “Sir.”

“Good.” Jee turns back to Iroh. “We will be just outside. I will take the ship along the Earth Kingdom’s northwest coast in the event we need to find a neutral port and hospital.”

He follows Iroh’s gaze toward the child still huddled in the corner. The screaming has stopped, but his body shivers. The cabin smells sour. Stale with sweat.

“Thank you, Lieutenant.”

*

Their prince calms after three days. On the third day, at the sixth bell 0300, Jee wakes to the sound of a teenager pounding on his cabin. He shuffles out of bed half-asleep and half-dressed. When he opens the door, the kid storms in.

“Set course for the Western Air Temple. I am going to capture the Avatar.”

Jee blinks once, twice, then resists the urge to kick the kid out and slam the door in his face.

“Sir?”

Prince Zuko growls. “Was I not clear?”

He takes in this kid with his cracking voice and rumpled sleep clothes and half-scorched face, and sighs. Reasoning with him now would do no good, and Jee strongly suspects the screaming was not an isolated incident limited to distress.

Grabbing his gray jacket, he throws it over his shoulders, walking barefoot in his sleeping pants to the ash-cursed bridge with the young prince stomping behind him. After consulting the maps, he walks down seven flights of stairs and out onto the main deck. Agni’s tits, it’s fucking cold. All the while, the prince follows him, watching as he does the two-to-three-person job of breaking out the anchor.

“What are you doing?”

“Getting our anchor. So we can move.”

“Oh.”

The kid has the grace to blush with embarrassment.

Massive chain links rattle as the windlass rotates, lifting the anchor out of the seabed. Jee stands at starboard bow, watching the chains rise until the anchor finally emerges. He thanks his luck they only dropped one anchor instead of both.

With the anchor hanging safely from the hawsepipe, Jee walks back to the superstructure, climbs seven flights of stairs, and returns to the bridge. He studies the ship rotation schedule before leaning toward the brass speaking tube. Shan, who groans at any posting that isn’t the helm, is going to have words with him for waking him up in the boiler room.

A groggy, agitated voice answers his call. “Now, Sir?”

Jee peeks at Prince Zuko and pinches his nose bridge. “Yes, Shan. Now.”

He pulls the lever on the engine order telegraph from ‘FINISHED WITH ENGINE’ to ‘SLOW-ASTERN’.

The Wani grumbles in complaint as well. Everyone is complaining. All everyone does on this purgatory of a ship is complain. As the ship backs, Jee turns the wheel to port, angling them west. Once they’re oriented, he reaches for the E.O.T. again, this time pushing the lever from ‘SLOW-ASTERN’ to ‘SLOW-AHEAD’, then ‘HALF-AHEAD’, then ‘FULL’.

Jee rubs his lower back before settling into the captain’s seat. He closes his eyes.

But he cannot doze. The prince is still there, standing awkwardly not knowing what else to do.

“How long will it take to get there?”

“Based on our coordinates, about four to five days if we don’t anchor, Sir, weather conditions willing.”

“Can’t this ship go any faster?”

Jee opens one eye. “Even with all the coal in the world, this ship caps at sixteen point five knots.”

Zuko is quiet.

“That’s nineteen miles per hour, Sir.”

“URGH!”

He opens his other eye to catch Prince Zuko raising both hands in the air before throwing them down. It looks as though he wishes to break something. Perhaps the ship. Agni, Jee can’t blame him. He considers joking about getting him a vase for emotional satisfaction but thinks better of it.

Finally, the kid stomps out of the bridge. Jee shuts his eyes again and steals a few more minutes of sleep.

*

Upon the fourth day, the roaring returns, this time with words. Yelling appears to be the prince’s sole mode of communication. When they arrive at the Western Air Temple to find nothing, he shouts to head for the Southern Temple, then East. With every outburst, the ceilings rain screws. At this rate, the Wani will shrink to a single panel of sheet metal. Aki curses the kid’s lungs.

“I have a flaming boiler room to feed!” She throws her hands up, spraying retrieved bolts and nuts like confetti. “I don’t have time playing maintenance!”

“Do you see any other mechanics on this ship?” Jee asks, marking the next port for refueling.

“I didn’t realize using a socket wrench was so complicated, only I can do it.”

“Ask one of the deckhands, then.”

“Can’t. The prince is running them through drills. Been at it for three hours.”

Jee covers his eyes with both hands and pulls them down his face until his fingers press together in prayer.

“You’re gonna give yourself jowls if you keep doing that, Lieutenant.”

Setting down the map he’d been studying, he abandons the navigation station and heads out the bridge. Aki follows him.

“He’s still off balance on his left. We just fixed the turret he blew up.”

“By ‘we’, I hope you mean ‘me’.”

“I seem to recall shutting down the engines and manually disabling the remaining explosives before you crawled into the gun barrel.”

“Say that sentence again. Emphasis on the last part. You know, starting with ‘you’.”

A weary laugh bubbles out of him as they run down the stairs. On the forecastle of the ship, Zuko launches a barrage of lopsided fire blasts from his fists. The flames are weaker than the uncontrolled burst of rage that nearly blew the turret and their asses out of the ocean, but the prince exerts a measure of focus that keeps the fire from doing anything more than singing the deckhands.

Jee shakes his head. “Where does he get the energy?”

“Eh. This is nothing. He snapped a railing in half with the heel of his foot yesterday.

“What?”

“Oh. Shit.” Aki runs a greasy hand through her short hair. Tufts of it stick together, going upright. “Guess I forgot to tell you about that. Yeah. The prince had a temper tantrum with his uncle. Something about pai sho. Had to weld three and a half inches of steel back together.”

He drags his palm across his face.

“You really need to stop doing that, Lieutenant.”

Qianfan and Kenzou are more than a little winded. Sweat soaks the armpits of the clothes beneath their armor. Across them, Prince Zuko attempts a spin kick. The blaze that spews out of his heel sputters like an exhaust pipe connected to a bad engine. He overbalances, left side crashing toward the deck.

Jee runs. He catches him by the shoulders. Crouched with the prince’s back lying on his bent knee, he’s greeted with an upside-down face that’s wrinkled in confusion before twisting with outrage.

“Don’t touch me!” Prince Zuko yells, wrenching himself free only to nearly fall over again. Jee doesn’t touch him but keeps his hands out and ready. “I don’t need your help!”

Royalty or not, the kid is feral. Barking. Snapping. Growling.  Below deck the Komodo-rhinos grunt in fellowship. But Jee knows a cornered deer-dog when he sees one. Beaten strays wander the dirt paths of Woodrott nipping at hands that try to pet them. The boy does not want a kind touch. (Lie.) He does not want stability. (Lie.) He wants it known he cannot be harmed.

(Also a lie.)

 “Prince Zuko, Aki needs Qianfan and Kenzou’s assistance. Might we conclude training for today?”

The Prince swings at him, jaw clenched and lips curling over his teeth, revealing canines ready to bite. “Are you patronizing me, Lieutenant?”

“Sir?”

“You saw my firebending,” Prince Zuko snaps. “It’s weak! Not just the fire but the forms! If I’m to catch the Avatar, I have to be ready. I am not ready!”

“Sir, you are adapting to … ” Jee pauses. He’s never been good at being anything less than forthright, but they cannot afford another explosion. “… using your dominant side. You will hurt yourself and set yourself back if you push too hard too fast.”

Two faces look at Jee. One is half-lidded, forged into a perpetual scowl. It is still scabbing, and when the prince yells too forcefully, the flesh splits mid-speech, blood trickling anew. The other is no less angry but also wide-eyed and flinching. The element that had harmed him lives in his lungs, in his stomach. When he calls upon a flicker, one of fear flashes in the yellow of his eye, too. Still the prince pushes and pushes and pushes.

The boy is alive and a horror. Jee’s gaze darts back and forth, uncertain of where to look.

“You think I can’t handle it?” The prince’s right hand balls into a fist at his side. Smoke rises from between his knuckles. Sparks crackle.

Jee keeps looking. At night, when it’s his turn on watch, he hears screaming. These are the screams of nightmares. They seesaw between pleading whimpers and the shrill cries of someone too close to dying. Everyone has heard them. No one speaks of them. That vulnerable child and the one who stands before him now, spoiling for a fight, they are one in the same. He tells himself that. Reminds himself of this singular truth. (A lone star.)

“Prince Zuko!”

They both swivel to find Iroh descending upon them in disapproval.

“Uncle.”

The General lays a hand on the boy’s shoulder. It has the temporary effect of deflating him. “You should listen to the Lieutenant, Nephew. Sometimes it is the slower path that is indeed the faster one.”

The kid frowns in concentration. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

But Iroh smiles, somehow managing to look serene and jolly despite the telltale signs of an agni kai ready to be declared. He ushers his nephew off the deck. “Come now, Prince Zuko. Let the men rest. We shall have some jasmine tea and discuss your plans for tomorrow.”

Jee watches as the refuse of the royal family walk the length of the ship toward the galley. Once they are out of earshot, Kenzou sighs.

Thick-armed, thick-legged, and big bellied, despite his size Kenzou still startles at the child they call ‘prince’. “That was close. Thanks for the intervention, Lieutenant.”

“Of course.” Straightening, Jee folds back his arms. “However, I meant what I said: Aki needs help. I know we are each doing three separate jobs as it is, but we don’t really have a choice.”

Qianfan collapses against the deck railing. Lean, long-limbed, and the right side of wiry, he is the complement of Kenzou in every respect. Wiping perspiration off his forehead, he flicks the residue out to sea. “Can we take a shower first?”

“That should be fine.” Jee glances at his mechanic. “Aki?”

She waves her hand, shooing. “Yeah, yeah. Just don’t break anything.”

When the deckhands depart, Aki leans up, perching one arm over Jee’s shoulder and one hand on her hip. “I dunno, Lieutenant. I’m thinking one of these days, someone is gonna crack.”

He takes in her worry. Turns it over in his head. “Whatever the Prince has been through, he has been through an ordeal. Give him time.”

Aki’s weight lifts off his side as she takes a step back to stare at him. Wry humor paints her face mixed with a bit of worry. “You like the kid.”

Prince Zuko is sweet-hearted by nature, Iroh once said, with time you will see he is gentle.

But the Fire Nation does not breed gentle things. The soft are hardened or discarded, thrown on a dying ship with a fool’s mission, never to be acknowledged again. Prince Zuko is here. He is one of them.

And Jee always watches after his own.

He shrugs. “I find his fighting spirit endearing.”

*

The prince turns fourteen. Then fifteen. Then sixteen. He grows taller, the top of his head coming up to Jee’s eyeline. What baby fat he had left on his right cheek is replaced with the smooth, sharply angled lines befitting of one so high-born. The hair, however, remains the same. The prince brings the edge of a blade to his scalp each morning. It is a private ritual Jee witnesses once.

Each day, Jee brings the prince’s breakfast, being one of only two people high enough in the hierarchy to be allowed in his quarters. Perhaps he arrives too early, for the young man hasn’t finished grooming. He points to the table where Jee may settle the tray.

Jee looks up once the bowl of millet porridge with sesame paste clatters against the counter. Prince Zuko studies his reflection in the mirror, touching the remnants of his face with sad fingers. He cannot see well out of his left eye. Its lid had been forced halfway down and melded in place. The ear isn’t an ear but an outline of what it had been, its hole in the middle filled with ringing, ringing, ringing. Jee has never seen Prince Zuko cry, but when his hand abandons tracing his ear to wrap around the handle of a razor, it is a close thing.

Their eyes catch in the mirror. For a second, Jee thinks he sees it: the gentle boy this prince had been.

“Sir, on the Wani, you are not required to shave your head.”

“It is a reminder of humility,” Prince Zuko replies. His voice rasps, low and exhausted. “I cannot forget the reason why I am here.”

Jee does not ask what that reason is, never has. If the prince wishes to share, he may, though he never does. When the prince lifts the blade, his hand shakes. Jee steps up to him. He offers an open hand.

“Sir?”

They continue to observe each other. Not eye-to-eye but through the mirror. The prince purses his lips before depositing the knife in Jee’s palm.

Jee scrapes the razor across Prince Zuko’s scalp. The short stubbles shave away easily. When he is done, he folds the knife, returns it to the nightstand, and brushes the fallen hairs off the prince’s shoulders.

He hadn’t meant to touch him. It is improper. Jee stands back. “Apologies.”

“It’s okay,” the prince says. His voice is different this way. Soft and almost searching. “Thank you.”

He takes care to not act surprised by the gratitude. A nod, then he is out of the cabin. When he returns the next morning with breakfast in hand, the prince is waiting for him with the razor lying flat across his fingers.

A smile. A small one. There is a question. (A song.) Jee answers without speaking.

*

They’ve circled the earth three times, checking every corner.  With each year that ended in failure—failure to master firebending, failure to find the Avatar, failure to capture the Avatar, failure, failure, failure—Prince Zuko’s fighting spirit simmered into something sullen and bitter.

It does not take much provocation for that resentment to boil over. Spite taints that fury. He yells at the crew. Degrades them. Thinks nothing of them even when they run themselves into the ground to meet his every demand. When the Avatar emerges, it is not satisfaction that Jee sees in the prince’s eyes but desperation. And so the miserable chase begins.

It is the job of a good leader to bear the brunt of a demanding superior. There is an art in protecting one’s crew while fulfilling the wishes of command. Jee inserts himself where he can. He takes the prince’s orders and strips them of their insults. He brings the heart of the desire back to the crew. If they balk, he returns to the prince, proposes solutions, offers compromises. The strategy works for the first two years.

It expires on the third.

“You are not the captain of this ship, Lieutenant! I am! All you are is redundant!”

Jee did not expect to feel as slapped as he does. What did titles matter on the Wani anyway? But to him, he finds it means a great deal. Stricken, he walks away, rubbing the left side of his chest where Huan’s letter once lived. He sits on his bed, elbows on knees, head in his hands.

His mind swims with memories of the dead. Of stripped plumbing hammered into missiles. Of a hand that traced the base of his spine, stoking a desire Jee smothers like a mouth behind a hand.

Failure. Failure. Failure.

He’d tried to get close. Give himself a purpose. He’d forgotten that stars burn.

*

Zuko scowls. Something has shifted.

It is not Lieutenant Jee who arrives with his breakfast but Uncle. He wants to ask where Jee is. Did something happen? Is he busy? Is he sick? A thought occurs to him. He shoves it down. Is he mad at me?

Did I hurt him?

What comes out is: “Where is he?”

“Hm?” Uncle glances at him from the two cups of tea he’s poured.

“The Lieutenant.”

His hands tighten around the closed razor. He hasn’t shaved his own head in three months. It was for humility, of course, humility. But somehow it has become something more: a light touch with a well-placed excuse. Doing it on his own now reminds him he is not supposed to look forward to this, and Zuko has had his fill of shame.

“Ah. Lieutenant Jee informed me yesterday that the demands of the bridge require his attention. He asked if I could deliver your breakfast moving forward, and I was happy to agree. Everyone here needs help after all.”

Uncle looks at him with pointed eyes that betray his warm smile. He was there when Zuko had yelled at the Lieutenant.

Zuko would not call Lieutenant Jee an expressive man. The emotions he shows are limited to calm, irritation, and relief. But he is a kind man. This Zuko knows. Uncle is more forward in his care. A hand on the shoulder. Wise words that require too much thought to parse. A hearty laugh that has his hands settling on the round of his belly, his whole body shaking with mirth.

Lieutenant Jee says very little. What comes out of his mouth is all that is required. But there is too much being said in his silences. Something heavy thunders in the man’s chest. It flows through his arms and out of hands. Warm and sure and strong. His cup of soup pushed in Zuko’s direction. A gray jacket dropped on his shoulders when it is cold. A razor, shaking, carefully taken.

But there are nights when the Lieutenant’s voice does more than field orders. Zuko refuses to participate in ‘music night’. It is a distraction he cannot afford. Yet the sound of instruments braiding their notes around each other draws him from his cabin. He can be quiet when he wants, so he listens from hidden places. From the support beams beneath the bridge wings or behind the boiler room’s smokestacks, he learns how much Jee loves his pipa. He learns how beautifully Jee can sing.

“He wasn’t at music night either,” Zuko comments. He realizes too late that he’s given too much away. Uncle arches his brow at him.

“Perhaps you should seek him out then, Nephew. Even busy men make time to make amends.”

“But I am the commander of this ship!”

Uncle sighs. “And what do good commanders do, Prince Zuko?”

Zuko knows the answer. Yet the answer is something Father would never do. He growls and storms out of his cabin. If he hears Uncle call after him about breakfast, he ignores it.

He ignores Lieutenant Jee, too. And the ache in his chest, the one that had echoed when the Lieutenant turned away from him, rubbing his heart.

What does his opinion matter anyway? The man is low-born. There is a roughness about him that Zuko can sense but cannot describe. It brings to mind the smell of fish.

 No. He does not care. He does not need him, and two can play this game.

*

Weeks pass. Jee navigates around the brat the way cat-owls hiss over territory. It becomes harder for him to focus on the side of Zuko’s face that tells the truth. It is the side that lifts its eyebrow in interest, one golden eye glinting with dark humor or dulling with unhappy thoughts. It is the side that Jee has seen look at him with remorse.

“Why does he do it?” he asks Iroh. “Why does he do it if he knows it’s wrong?”

“Prince Zuko is practicing what he has learned from others,” Iroh replies. “He does not realize it, but he is pretending to be someone he is not. It is why firebending is not easy for him. He calls upon it using violent intent, but that is not what my nephew wants.”

Jee sits across him wishing Iroh would speak more plainly. “How do you call upon your fire, General?”

Iroh sips his tea and hums. “I think about how the flames, in truth, live in everything. It pours from the sun into our water and our trees. It feeds us. Keeps us warm. Provides us with the will to begin and end all things, just as nature intends.” He looks down into his empty cup. “There is peace in knowing that the fire can burn away our sins, even when those sins—ironically—involve fire itself.” They contemplate that in shared quiet, watching the sun sink through the empty mess hall’s windows. “What about you, Lieutenant? How do you call upon your fire?”

The first time Jee learned he could firebend, he’d immediately lit his family’s leaking hearth during a storm. “I think of the people I must protect.”

It is a simple answer, but it is true enough. Iroh smiles.

“Very good, Lieutenant.”

*

A storm is coming, and Zuko shouts: “The safety of the crew doesn't matter!”

Tight quarters. Narrow corridors. Windowless bulkheads. The same faces with shortening tempers day after day. Three years of this, and Zuko has learned how to sense who is around him. Every person’s movement has its own signature. Jee’s is measured. Precise to the point of perhaps trying too hard. Zuko looks behind him. Sure enough, the Lieutenant stands there.

He does not know what his expression reveals. Jee’s brow goes up in question. No, not a question. A challenge. Strong rulers do not shy away from a challenge, and so Zuko martials his will. He ignores his racing heart. It all but clamors for him to stop, stop, stop.

But he looks Jee in the eye. Tells him, “Finding the Avatar is far more important than any individual's safety.”

Zuko marches for the ship’s superstructure, slamming the door behind him. He does not see the resignation in Jee’s eyes get overtaken by a stronger emotion, one he is all too familiar with.

It’s hours later when dark clouds roll in their direction. The crew has come out on deck to observe with concern. The clouds are thick with water, and the sea is a wretched place when it rains.

When Zuko comes out to join the others, Jee remarks, “Looks like your uncle was right about the storm after all.”

A taunt laces his words. Unusual for the Lieutenant, but it is there, defiant. Zuko whirls around and strides in his direction, two fingers pointed the way Azula channels her lightning. He can be like her, too. They can both be like father.

“Lieutenant!” he barks, “You'd better learn some respect—” the fingers jab Jee’s chest, hard enough to be felt through armor “—or I will teach it to you.”

He lets that threat hang in the air before he walks away. That should have been the end of it. It isn’t.

“What do you know about respect?”

Zuko stops.

Anger does not come easily to Lieutenant Jee. Annoyance, certainly. Frustration, often enough. But hot-blooded anger that seizes the whole body, Zuko has never heard it before.

And Jee keeps speaking, demanding to be heard.

“The way you talk to everyone around here, from your hard-working crew to your esteemed uncle, shows you know nothing about respect! You don't care about anyone but yourself! Then again, what should I expect from a spoiled prince?”

The last words cut. The damned Lieutenant does not know what in Agni’s name he is talking about. At length, Zuko turns, one arm outstretched. How dare he? How dare this lowly subordinate make him feel—

The Lieutenant responds in kind. He places himself between Zuko and the crew, one arm raised to either launch fire or dissipate it. The crew looks worryingly at Jee, and Zuko knows who it is that has their loyalty.

“Easy now,” Iroh says.

His attempt to calm them does nothing. Their wrists clack together, forearms crossing, movement blocked. Smoke emanates from Zuko’s palm. His eyes fix with Jee’s. No mirror this time. The man’s eyes are brown. Plain. Common. And though they look at him in anger, it is an anger Zuko is not familiar being the recipient of.  

Yet there is something he recognizes in it.

His breath hitches.

It is a protective anger. An anger on behalf of others.

“Enough!” His uncle commands. It is Iroh’s general voice that fills the deck. Everyone takes notice. Jee does not relax, but he disengages. Uncle sags once it is clear they will not come to blows. He drops the military tone and returns to his nattering. Something about tiredness and noodles.

Lieutenant Jee walks away. Zuko’s eyes follow him. He knows what he is feeling. It is the same feeling that landed him on this purgatory of a ship in the first place.

*

Jee sits in the boiler room and stews. The crew follows him in not long after he enters, and soon they are gathered around the blazing burner drinking Cook’s homemade spirits. It tastes like flaming engine oil and cat-owl piss, but taste has never been what the swill is for. No, it’s the rush of heat that hits you like a punch in the face.

His hands run through his hair. He does not know how or when he let the prince crawl under his skin. All he knows is he wants to pry him out like a bed bug-tick that’s been feeding on him too long.

“I'm sick of taking his orders!” he slurs, “I'm tired of chasing his Avatar! I mean, who does Zuko think he is?”

There are three rounds of boiler room hooch sloshing in his stomach. It is likely the reason why he is too slow to notice someone new has entered the room.

“Do you really want to know?”

He stands, immediately sobering. Fuck. “General Iroh. We were just—”

But Iroh shakes his head. His patience is infinite. Jee wishes he had it.

“It's okay. May I join you?”

“Of course, Sir.”

Iroh lowers himself onto one of the barrels. His large hand strokes his beard. “Try to understand,” he begins. “My nephew is a complicated young man. He has been through much.”

The mood of the room tilts in a different direction. They lean in, for this is the story that they’ve only speculated about, and as Jee listens, the alcohol he’d consumed quickly sours. Thirteen years old. The only child in the war room, and the only man brave enough to speak out against a plan so devastatingly wrong. The forty-first were young, no older than the age Zuko is now, the children of commoners and expendable in the eyes of nobility. How many of them had been conscripted? It’s better to not know. Huan could have easily been one of them.

Then to be challenged to a duel by his own father. Burned for the so-called cowardice of his love. Yet the punishment did not end there. Not even healed, and his prince had been thrown on this ship with no memory of how he’d gotten there. The ticket home had been an impossibility until only recently.

“Prince Zuko.”

Why hadn’t Iroh told them sooner? He takes another shot of swill to chase the exasperation away. He knows some wounds are too personal to reveal. There are lines of propriety that should not be crossed, questions that should not be asked and answers that should not be given. Near-mutiny appears to be a risk that allows for an exception. A near-mutiny Jee almost caused.

He covers his eyes. He’s about to pull his hand across his face when Aki scolds him.

“Lieutenant!”

Her reprimand goes half-muffled by the sound of thunder, swiftly followed by a blast and the violent rocking of the ship. The sound of metal warping from destruction pierces their ears. They look up at the ceiling. Not here. Somewhere else.

*

Zuko’s eyes fly open. He rushes out of his cabin, but the storm buffets the ship violently from side to side. He grabs onto rails and pulls himself along until he reaches the deck. His crew dashes out at the same time. Their heads dart about in search of damage that might kill them all.  

“Where were we hit?” Zuko calls out. The downpour is ruthless. He can barely hear himself.

Jee shakes his head. “I don't know!”

“Look!”

It is Uncle, of course, who notices before everyone else. His arm shoots up, pointing at the bridge. Lightning had blown apart the room. The metal flares out in giant petals. Everything inside burns before turning black with rain. Outside, Shan hangs by a ripped guardrail. The rain keeps pouring. He’s slipping.

“The helmsman!”

He races up the ladder. Even in these conditions, he senses Jee following not far behind. The bars are icy and slippery. His fingers cramp as he pulls himself up seven stories as fast as he can. Thunder drums in warning. Another bolt of lightning flashes in the clouds before it shatters across the sky.

The helmsman falls.

Zuko catches him. The momentum tears his arm right out of its socket. He grunts in pain but holds on.

Jee reaches him. He opens an arm. Gestures with his fingers that he can take him. Zuko lowers Shan, and Jee …

… Jee smiles.

It is big and warm, and ready to receive him. It is as good as any embrace. Zuko isn’t sure if he’s ever seen Jee smile. He mustn’t have. Because he is cold and wet and ready to crumple, but his insides feel light. The sensation bubbles across his chest. He smiles back.

They make their way back down the ladder. Taiki comes running, bandages and a lecture at the ready. Aki looks up through the deluge of rain. The bridge is inoperable. She curses herself and curses them and curses the spirits-damned storm.

Through her rant, Zuko spots the familiar shape of a sky bison. His swings around to follow the beast’s flight.

“The Avatar!”

Lieutenant Jee, somehow, is never far behind. “What do you want to do, Sir?”

He pauses. He thinks. He looks at the state of his ship and his crew. He remembers the way Jee’s whole face changes when Zuko does what Father would never do.

“Let him go. We need to get this ship to safety.”

*

Piloting the ship into the eye of the storm is no easy feat with a damaged helm. Still, Jee manages it, and once they are in the clear he takes stock of how everyone is doing until he ends with the prince.

Zuko sits on a giant bitt cradling his right arm. He has gotten too adept at hiding pain, and even more adept at building a tolerance for it. Jee disregards the petulant scowl. He offers his open palms, and Zuko reluctantly deposits his arm into them.

“We’re gonna have to pop your arm back in, Sir.”

“Great.”

Jee holds the arm horizontally, keeping it as level as he can. “Ready?”

“Just do it alre—” He shoves the arm back into its socket. He hears the joint click back into place. Zuko’s face twists. “Ow! Son of a bastard’s rutting hog-monkey!”

Jee grins. His eyes sweep the immediate area for a pair of ears that would rather not hear such things coming out of his nephew’s mouth. “‘Rutting hog-monkey’. Huh. Cook would like that one. Roll you shoulder?”

Zuko does so. He grimaces but otherwise does not whine. Jee tilts his head in thought.

“Well, at least you can shrug now. I’d lay off anything more strenuous than that for a while, Sir.”

He expects the usual impudence. Something annoyed or testy. This time Jee’s ready. He is armed with an understanding he didn’t fully have.

But Zuko looks at him with what one might call tenderness.

“Yes, Captain.”

His hands freeze where they inspect Zuko’s sore shoulder. Embarrassment, of all things, rushes hot to his face. Jee thanks blasted Tu and La for approaching nightfall. He clears his throat. Nods once in acknowledgment.

“My prince.”

After Iroh retires for bed, the crew regathers around the burner in the boiler room, looking every bit as homeless as they feel to get warm. A new flask of Cook’s boiler room hooch makes it rounds between their hands. Jee leans against one of the weight-bearing beams, arms crossed, nursing a cup of tea. He’s had enough earlier today, and with the ship being what it is now, he needs to stay sober for the foreseeable future.

The watertight wheel spins, a rusty sound, before the door’s pulled open. He sees Zuko’s scar peak in first, and that’s when the crew falls silent. The prince stops short when eight pairs of eyes roll in his direction. His own eye widens, yellow iris shockingly bright.

“I was—” Zuko shakes his head. He frowns. “Cabin’s cold.”

He begins to retreat, but it’s been a day, and Jee would rather see him smile again.

“Prince Zuko.”

He looks back.

Jee puts his boot on a nearby barrel and slides it over with a measured kick. A silent invitation. The crew waits with bated breath.

The prince approaches the barrel. He perches on it. The rain has soaked Zuko to the bone. His phoenix tail twists and sticks to his skin. Firebenders might run warm but being waterlogged for hours can render even their lips blue, and the cold has a way with making Zuko look paler.

They’re out of spare blankets from the hold. Jee shrugs off his gray jacket and drops it on Zuko’s shoulders. It is not a new gesture but is apparently unexpected. The prince looks away, his fingers absently running along the red trimming.

Cook hunches over. Tilts the flask from side to side. Another silent invitation. Jee purses his lips. He’s certain Iroh would not be pleased with a hungover prince, but Zuko eyes the bottle with marked interest. It is not about the drink, not really. The prince seems to understand this. He takes the proffered flask and tips his head back as he gulps from the spout.

They all lean back, fully expecting their fearless leader to spit the stuff straight through his teeth. To Zuko’s credit, he swallows, whole body shuddering with the taste. The crew waits expectantly for his verdict.

“Tastes like engine oil and cat-owl piss.”

It’s the right thing to say. The crew wheezes.

“It’s good for you,” grins Cook. He thumps his chest. “Hardens the liver.”

“Pretty sure the liver is supposed to stay soft.” Zuko coughs, eyes watering. “Agni, I can taste it in my nose.”

“You need to burn it out.” In demonstration, Jee releases a low breath of fire. The exhale produces two plumes of smoke that curl from his nostrils. “Wakes you up. Makes it taste better.”

Cook shakes the flask back and forth again like it’s some sort of tempting treasure. Whether out of pressure or morbid curiosity, Zuko accepts the bottle and takes a second swig. After swallowing, he blows as instructed.

And nearly sets half the crew on fire.

Everyone bursts laughing. Some of them clutch their stomachs as they fall to their knees and punch the floor for dear breath.

“Packing some real heat there, Prince,” Jee grins. “Maybe turn it down a click.”

Zuko’s face reddens. He pulls Jee’s jacket tighter around his shoulders.

*

The crew, for the first time, feels whole. Zuko is still moody, at best, but no longer so completely insufferable. More often than not, Jee finds himself tripping over the prince, who’s taken to following him around between confronting the Avatar and cursing him in defeat.

Jee exits the boiler room. He nearly collides with Zuko after he seals the door and turns.

“Fuck!” He staggers back, leans against the bulkhead. “Don’t—How? How are you so quiet? The ship is made of flaming metal!”

Zuko does not blink, impassive. He holds up a map. It’s one Jee doesn’t recognize from their collection. He suspects it’s stolen. The prince points to one of the icons in the legend.

“What does this mean?”

They settle into a routine. Chase the Avatar. Lose. Kill time with research. Repeat. It is the research that has Zuko picking Jee’s brain. If more mysterious objects obtained from potentially dangerous places make their way to the bridge, Jee does not bother to question it.

When the moon is out, Zuko joins them for music night. He does not play the tsungi horn, no matter how much Iroh needles him with how good he is, nor does he sing and dance. But the prince does stop by to listen, and at times he will clap along or close his eyes, face tilted up to the stars. Sometimes he will even say, ‘One more’.

On ‘game night’, the prince is bad at cards and even worse at mahjong, but he drinks with the best of them and crows whenever Jee wipes everyone clean. On ‘story night’, Zuko recites old plays from memory. The prince might be a terrible liar who cannot feign a straight face, but he is dramatic, if nothing else, and Jee admits it is nice to see it come out in this way.

When the sun rises, Jee takes breakfast run back from Iroh. He thanks him for the help but insists it’s his responsibility and he now has the time. As Jee returns to the prince’s cabin, he takes up the razor. He stands behind the prince’s shoulders and Zuko closes his eyes. The room is serene, as if Jee were combing his prince’s hair instead of cutting his pride one stroke at a time.

Life aboard the Wani is still somewhat miserable. The ship makes strange sounds that the crew swears are ghosts. Watch shifts are difficult for a crew of eight, though still doable. Food rations fluctuate between slightly stale to slightly moldy but nothing a knife can’t fix.  Everything is held together with jerry-rigged solutions and a prayer. But it no longer feels like a sort of purgatory.

It feels a little more like home.

*

Zhao boards the Wani on music night when the moon wanes crescent. Zuko’s eye narrows, and his body uncurls from its comfortable perch on the gunwale. He glances at Jee, whose long fingers drop from their pipa strings. Even Uncle stops singing. The words of ‘Four Seasons, Four Loves’ trail off until they cut.

The ash-eating admiral is taking his crew. They are to remain on board the Wani only long enough to collect their belongings. Zhao keeps Zuko on deck, oily smile slicing across his lips. For once, when Zuko returns his glare, he thinks clearly. Without a word, he turns on his heel for the superstructure.

“My, wherever are you going Prince Zuko? Assisting with luggage is much too below your station, even for a banished prince such as yourself.”

He takes a deep breath, clenching his fists at either side to keep himself from doing anything phenomenally stupid.

“I wish to say ‘goodbye’ to my crew.”

Zhao feigns blinking as though he were touched. “Goodness. Sentiment for the rank-and-file working stiffs? Perhaps being at sea has softened you further, like a nice marinade.”

He continues walking but cannot resist the bait. “They are good people. Don’t take them for granted.”

“Oh? Good people, are they? I seem to recall that your medical purser had the gall to rescue a water tribe civilian in the middle of a firefight five years ago. How treasonous.”

His feet lock onto the deck

“Shut up.”   

“But I suppose that hardly compares to your bosun and deckhands. They are a rather infamous trio, aren’t they? Defrauded multiple Fire Nation banks, I heard. Stole all that money and dumped it in the colonies.”

“Stop it.”

“Then there’s your cook, who has no name other than ‘Cook’—rather suspicious, that—and your mechanic. Word has it they conspired to sabotage one of our steel plants.” Zhao tsks. “All that ore wasted when we could have made more armor and artillery.”

Zuko bites the inside of his cheek and pivots on his foot. He knows who is coming next. If he must hear it, he will look at Zhao dead in the face.

“And, of course, we mustn’t forget dear Lieutenant Jee. Now there is an embarrassment. Captained his ship too close to the rocks and ripped open the entire hull of one of our largest battleships. Oily fingers, I suppose. Only a filthy, backwater fisherman’s son could manage such a slip-up.”

A growl rises from Zuko’s chest, transforming into a roar that finds its way out of his mouth, nostrils, and fists. But he reins in his fury, doesn’t let the flames get any further than two feet from where he stands.

“I am going to say ‘goodbye’ now, Admiral.”

He swings away from him and marches to the superstructure door as fast as he can without looking desperate. The second he’s in the stairwell, however, Zuko sprints up the steps to the fourth floor, where he runs through the corridor and bangs on Jee’s cabin.

The door opens. Jee’s expression is pinched in annoyance, but it lifts once he sees who’s come to interrupt him.

“Sir?”

“Captain.”

Zuko pushes his way in. Jee allows him and shuts the door.

His eye rakes over the Lieutenant’s quarters. A rucksack sits on his bed, listing to one side. It is half filled. Next to it lays the pipa. There is nothing else.

He turns to face Jee and swallows.

“I have one last order before you step off my ship,” he declares. “If you’re gonna share a vessel with an existing crew, there won’t be enough life vests for all of you if something goes wrong. So … so I want you to have everyone take one from the Wani before you disembark and bring these, just in case.”

Reaching under his chest armor, Zuko withdraws two pieces of metal the size and shape of books. He’d ran to the portside and starboard compartments where they were stored, slipping them onto his person for safekeeping while Zhao paraded around the ship as if it belonged to him. Jee takes the items. His gaze flickers between them and Zuko.

“The emergency rafts.”

“If you ever see a weird blue light,” Zuko breathes, “abandon ship. Immediately. Get out of there as fast as you can. If you stick around, you won’t get a chance to even worry about desertion. You’ll be dead.”

Jee looks down at the rafts again. His entire face is unreadable except for his eyes. The brown of them glistens.

“Thank you for thinking of us, Sir.”

Zuko swallows again. Nods. He moves stiffly toward the door. Stops with his hand on the wheel. “Jee.”

The man across him looks up from where he’d been tucking the rafts into his bag.

“Don’t die,” Zuko finishes. “You have your orders.”

When the door whines shut behind him, Zuko does not look back. He does not tremble with fear. He does not worry.

(Lie.)

Chapter Text

The bowels of the Jishin twist and turn, a labyrinth of endless metal that digests Jee little by little. Zhao’s flagship is not the Wani. It is not crewed by people who have lived in each other’s pockets or found laughter between the oil and grime. No. The ship is a paradox. There is anonymity yet no privacy. Noise bustles through the corridors yet the absence of life seems a crime. But most of all, for all its people, there is no family. Whatever faults the Wani had, in this she was never wanting.

Jee sleeps in quarters crammed with fifty bunks. He bathes in showers with twenty men and eats in a mess hall where no one looks familiar. Zhao had plucked his crew and blown them across his ship like a dandelion. They scatter amongst all the faces, hide behind the bulkheads of their stations, and sweep away with schedules that never align.

As they churn their way to the North Pole, Jee does what is asked of him. But when no one is looking, he jams equipment, breaks artillery, and mixes up documents out of spite. If they are going to ruin more lives, he won’t let it be easy, and he thinks, by silent agreement, the others are doing the same. One week, the medical bay runs out of pain killers. Another week, the fleet treasury is short of its books. This week, after refueling, there is not enough coal.

Zhao, the bastard, is not angry but amused.

All this must be a game to him. In the grand scheme of things, their little acts are nothing more than petty children’s pranks. Zhao’s fleet is one hundred ships strong. What damage can eight wayward traitors possibly do to a lion-leopard with six paws?

Jee enters the crew bunks pulling a light shirt over his head. He has one emergency raft. Aki has the other. Before they had disembarked the Wani, he’d passed along Prince Zuko’s orders.  The crew had stood in a circle, silent as it dawned on them: the brat was theirs and they didn’t want to leave him.

The Jishin is so large it rarely rocks. What it lacks in creaking it makes up for with snoring. The darkness fills with the sound of hard-working people, piled on top of one another just the same as missiles. Singular in focus. Unthinking. Destructive. Death might not come for them in the north, but it may come in the east, or west, or south. Death is always coming, but what do most people die for? It seems to Jee that the people of Fire Nation are too eager to self-detonate.

But somewhere out there, there is a soul that burns too brightly to be snuffed out by force. He thinks of Prince Zuko stranded on his lonely ship, his dreams of home snatched by a grown man too arrogant to let a sixteen-year-old have one win. He misses the boy who had been both a root in his ribs and a thorn in his side. Nightmares. Screaming. Soaked bandages and razors shaving … Explosions. Sparring. Music and singing. Drunken laughter as they looked at their lives wondering, ‘Sweet Agni, why?’ All those moments he had palmed his face, Jee looks back upon with tired affection. He remembers the young man who had thought of his crew, armoring them with a love unspoken. (Life vests, rafts, a plea to abandon.)

Jee clutches the raft against the fire in his gut and hopes that precious soul, Zuko, is all right.

*

“You’ve requested my presence, Sir?”

Jee shuts the door to the Admiral’s office behind him. The room is opulent in a way that makes Jee less impressed. Gold and dragons everywhere. Enough red that the walls seem to bleed. He takes his disgust and balls it into fuel. For now, he is professional and compliant, if cold enough to be rude.

“Yes. Thank you, Lieutenant.” Zhao remains seated behind his desk. There are stacks of papers on it. He takes the one on top bearing Fire Lord Ozai’s seal, eyes skimming the missive as he speaks. “I have good news: the day we seize the north rapidly approaches. When we win, the Fire Lord will be issuing pardons to those in my fleet with … less than admirable records. In other words, your banishment would be null and void. You can go home, Lieutenant.” His gaze rolls up along with an unspooling grin. “No reaction? You must be speechless.”

A trap has been laid. How will he spring it? Jee chooses his words carefully. “Sir, with all due respect, things may not go so smoothly. Where the Avatar goes, the prince follows.”

The grin turns hungry. Zhao’s eyes dilate with anticipation. Jee’s insides tighten. Caught already? How?

“I appreciate your concern, Lieutenant, but Prince Zuko will no longer be chasing the Avatar.”

Agni, what did this shit-eating picken-fucker do now? “Sir.”

The Admiral turns in his chair and crosses his legs. His brow furrows in mock sympathy. “Oh. Did I forget to mention? How thoughtless of me. The poor Wani was on its last legs, was it not? I’m afraid a group of thieving pirates captured the ship. Sadly, the blasting gel they brought along was too much for it to handle.”

Jee doesn’t move, but his eyes widen. Years in the military send his mind into a cold, calculating spiral. Blasting gel: packaged in one-and-a-quarter pound demolition blocks. Blocks are sold in satchel charges of seven units, eight-point-eight pounds, and demolition charge assemblies of sixteen units, twenty pounds. A satchel charge can take out a medium-sized Fire Nation tank. A demolition charge assembly can blow out the center of a steel bridge. To destroy the Wani, five demolition charge assemblies would be needed.

One hundred pounds of blasting gel.

Blast radius of eighty-two feet.

Five hundred and fifty-four degrees of heat in all directions.

He does not mean to, but his lips part. His gasp is near-silent. It does not matter. Zhao notices all the same. The corners of the admiral’s lips turn down, but the appetite for suffering is there in his eyes, and his next words drip like savoring.

“The prince was present at the time of the attack,” Zhao goes on in a lower voice. He looks askance, shaking his head. “All that shrapnel.”

Jee breathes out. Shuts his eyes. A ship of metal blown into millions of daggers, thousands of needles. Both flying at the detonation velocity of fifteen thousand feet per second.

“I’m afraid nothing remains,” the Admiral sighs. He makes a show of looking at his boots. “I do not look forward to delivering the unfortunate news to our Fire Lord. Alas, the world is a cruel place and tragedies happen.”

His throat bobs as he swallows. Jee opens his eyes. His voice is hoarse.

“Permission to be dismissed, Sir.”

The admiral blinks up at him. He rises from his chair, arms held out in concern but never touching. Jee is too low-born, too filthy to touch.

“My goodness. You look quite pale, Lieutenant.”

His teeth grit. His hands ball into fists, trembling at his sides, ready to burn, burn, burn. (Don’t die.) He needs to get out of here. He needs to leave. “Permission to be dismissed, Sir.”

“So soon? I had thought you might be more sympathetic. Before we disembarked, Prince Zuko expressed his rather generous sentiments toward you and the crew. Called all of you, ‘Good people’.” Zhao parts from his side, pacing toward his office window. He looks out to the ocean’s horizon with hands clasped behind his back. His demeanor is every bit the navy authority. Yet his words. The way he says them. The way his eyes light up as he plays with his own power. “This surprised me, of course. I was under the impression that the relationship between the two of you was more than a little hostile. I did not know you had come to care for him. This news must be …” The craven, boot-licking, prick cannot help himself. He smiles with relish. “… devastating.”

Monitoring his breaths becomes imperative. Jee has one raft. One of only two. The crew depends on it. He has his orders. (Don’t die.)

Zhao departs from the window and comes to face him. It is a taunt. A challenge. Hit me, the action says. Hit me. Hit me so I can shame you. Your name. Your family. Your misplaced loyalty. Your very existence. You. The Admiral is hungry. He is never sated. His head looks up and about in feigned curiosity. More.

“Hm. Is it me, or is the temperature in my quarters rising? Are you upset, Lieutenant? Is there something you would like to say? Something you would like to unburden yourself with?”

Trapped. Trapped. (Nothing but netting.)

“Permission to be dismissed. Sir.”

Delighted, Zhao circles him, a shark scenting blood, before striding for the wet bar installed at the corner of the room. A decanter of baijiu sits on its counter. He flips two cups, pouring into one of them.

“And here I thought you might want to toast Prince Zuko’s memory with me.” When one cup has filled, Zhao straightens, grin ever-present as he sips. “Very well. You may go, Lieutenant.”

*

His feet move quickly. Down the deck. Down the ladders. Down into the cargo hold. Down into the food stores. Down into the meat cooler. With every descent, Jee locks the door behind him, cocooning himself from the world, click-click-click.

No one would search for him here. No one would hear him. Not for a while. His breath smokes into the chill of this ice box. Food surrounds him. Sustenance. But all he sees are hanging carcasses. Hanging bodies. Guozhi’s burned foot. Father’s arm stump.

Prince Zuko, in the water, floating in pieces.

Jee covers his mouth with both of his hands and screams.

And that scream turns flaming.

His fists hit the slab of meat hanging before him. With each blow he sees a face. Mother. Father. Huan. Guozhi. Half of all the people from his barren home, and a banished prince who only ever wanted to return to one. Beating the carcass is like beating stone. Skin peels off his knuckles. Blood freezes on the rib bones. But he hits again and again until something surely is broken.

We must watch out for one another. No one else will.

He had said that, hadn’t he? He had told his brother, ‘Whenever things are bad, we help one another. That’s how we make it, and you’re gonna make it.’

None of them made it.

Jee is pathetic. Unable to help anyone. Unable to protect anyone. Unworthy of anyone. All talk of honor and respect and duty with nothing to show for it. His back stings with red eyes that always watch him. The humming-moth knows he is a fool, a fool, a fool.

Breathless, he steps back.

A lone meat hook hangs from a bar. His eyes gravitate to it.

Yes, he might be a fool, but all fishermen know: hooks are made for gutting.

*

Jee emerges from the meat cooler too haggard to care what is in front him. His face collides with something warm, solid, and smelling faintly of rice.

“Lieutenant?” Cook rests both hands on his shoulders. Shakes him. When Jee doesn’t respond, Cook’s amber eyes drop to his naked knuckles. His mouth gapes. “What happened to your hands?”

He’s too tired to explain. He pulls his vambraces down, tucking his knuckles beneath the fingerless gauntlet where the armor protects the top of his hand.

But Cook is the most observant of his crew. The kitchen might be where he works, but it is the mess hall where he lives. There is something about feeding others that makes people easier to read. “Jee, what’s wrong? What happened?”

“He murdered him.” Jee glares at Cook’s bald head and white beard, his old apron ever an abstract assortment of splotched colors. “He murdered our prince. Blew up the ship and—”

Cook’s forehead creases as his brows rise in shock. For a moment, they do nothing but stand there, breathing fast, until Cook’s gaze drifts to the peculiar object clutched in Jee’s right hand.

“Oh, Agni … What are you thinking?”

His fingers grip the hook tighter. Into the mouth it will go, that horrid vile mouth, pulling down quick, like a thread wrenched from fabric, down to the belly and out. Tongue torn. Intestines unraveled. Easy.

“What is necessary. What is just.”

The anger, once hot, is now ice cold. Jee does not feel anything. All that remains is a clarity of mind. The electricity of it courses down his neck into his limbs. He can move without thinking, and it is liberating. There is only one place he needs to be. One person he needs to strike.

The hands on his shoulders squeeze. “No. You can’t.”

“Why not?” Jee hisses. “I happen to be very good at killing people when I’m not even trying. Often the opposite, in fact. Imagine what would happen if I put some effort into it.”

Cook’s eyes fill with sadness. Jee does not want to know for whom. “We need to live.”

He scoffs and retrieves the raft from beneath his plackart. He presses it into Cook’s chest. “Here. Take it.”

His friend shakes his head, pushing the raft back. “You promised.”

“He’s dead.”

“You promised. You never break your promises, Jee. I know you are angry. I know Zhao, of all bastards, flaming deserves it. But if you kill him, even if you survive escape the person Zuko knew would be dead.” Cook follows Jee’s line of sight when he looks away. “We-we all loved that little shit, too, you know. Don’t act like you’re the only one.”

“I know I’m not the only one!” Jee snaps. “But I captained the Wani. Everyone on that ship is my charge. My responsibility. My—” Family. He cuts himself off. “The captain dies before anyone else.”

“You aren’t on the ship anymore, Jee.”

“I should have been.”

He never should have bent to the Fire Nation’s complete debasement of hierarchy. He never should have followed orders. He never should have left that ship.

The look on Cook’s face tells him he knows what he’s thinking. How impossible that gesture would have been. How Zhao would have found a way to make it worse.

“Don’t say it.”

“I won’t.” Cook sighs though his nose. “Listen. I know you are a level-headed man until the crew’s best interests get crossed. But you’re forgetting that when the prince was part of our crew, he challenged Zhao to an agni kai. Remember what he did when he won?”

The iron grip Jee has on the hook suddenly wavers.

Prince Zuko had spared him. A warning ball of fire to the ground. Next to Zhao’s face. Nothing else.

Seeing the realization in his eyes, Cook reaches out and takes the weapon from his numb fingers.

“I will not dishonor him,” Jee says.

“No,” Cook tucks the hook into his sleeve, “you won’t.”

*

When General Iroh boards the Jishin, Jee is not sure what to make of it.

Either Zhao lied for the simple pleasure of playing with him, or Zhao told the truth and Iroh is playing Zhao a longer, more purposeful game.

Jee suspects it’s the latter. He wants to seek him out, confirm if the story Zhao told him is true, partner with him, somehow, to turn the direction of this battle around.

But while Jee’s title remains, his station aboard Zhao’s flagship is low. Unless Zhao decides to bring them within vicinity of one another, he will remain unseen in the guts of the ship.

Which is why it comes as a surprise to him when Iroh seeks him out in the mess hall—a place Zhao would never deign to enter. The general wears a hooded cloak. Instead of concealing him, the unforgiving length of scarlet flags him out of a sea of nameless people. Jee stares too long. Good. Iroh feels it. His golden eyes move in his direction. The gaze is surreptitious. The quality of his movements toward Jee, disinterested. Calm.

Becoming of a Fire Nation general rather than a loving uncle out for blood.

Iroh reaches his table. Jee rises to his feet and bows.

“General Iroh, Sir.”

“Lieutenant Jee,” a nod, “it is good to see you again.”

The general moves past him. With this dismissal, Jee sits down. He thinks of ways to orchestrate another run-in when a hand on his shoulder interrupts his thoughts.

He looks up as Iroh looks down. The general leans slightly to whisper in his ear. The clamor of the mess hall curtains his words.

“Just as the moon changes the tides, so does the wind change the path of fire.” Iroh’s other hand slides something round and flat into his palm. “Find Piandao. He will take you to where the wind is blowing.”

Then Iroh straightens and throws his head back in a bark of laughter. Suddenly, everyone is looking at them.

“You are most amusing, Lieutenant!”

Jee laughs along, sweating beneath his armor, then clears his throat and returns to his food once Iroh has left him. He does not dare look at what is in his hand. Not here. There are too many prying eyes.

He finds an excuse to visit his bunk. There, in the empty cavern filled with skeletal bedframes, he unfolds his fingers.

 A white lotus tile.

*

They arrive at the North Pole with tanks and catapults, missiles and grappling hooks, but the bombardment from the Northern Water Tribe rocks even the Jishin across glacial waters. Chaos floods every deck and corridor with stampeding feet and lights flashing red. Attack! Attack! Attack!

In one such corridor, Jee sees a helmeted soldier and that soldier sees him. He does not recognize the compatriot. (But also, he does.) They are shorter than most. Slight in build and form. Together the two of them pause in whatever they had been doing, looking over the heads of yelling men and women running between them.

The soldier takes a step forward. Hesitates. Stops and turns around. Just like that, they disappear.

It is a foolish thing, (and Jee is a fool), but for a moment he thinks, maybe it’s him.

Maybe he made it. Maybe he lived.

And the hope is so stupid, the odds so low, the strategy so mad, that Jee curses himself as soon as he thinks it.

*

Water Tribe soldiers board the Jishin dressed in full Fire Nation armor. In the mayhem, Jee’s path removing chemical components from incendiaries crosses with Cook, Aki, and Taiki. They don’t have a moment to speak before a water tribe kid with chin-length hair and a certain air of nobility presses into their circle. The young man looks as though he is about to say something appropriately snide when Taiki beats him to it without a blink.

 “Admiral Zhao?”

The water tribe kid, if bewildered, nods.

All four of them point up.

“Upper floor on the main deck,” Aki says.

“Balcony on the observation tower,” Cook adds.

“Past the bridge, toward the stern,” Jee finishes.

He looks at them, his face a funny concoction of grateful and horrified. “Um, thank you?”

“You’re welcome.”

*

This is no weird blue light.

No. The night sky turns crimson, and the moon vanishes.

Gone. Winks away. One moment it is there, the next it isn’t. Jee looks out the porthole in disbelief. On many an assignment, he’d heard sailors’ tales of twin spirits, Tui and La. Push and pull. Water and moon. Entities so compassionate toward mankind, they chose to leave the spirit world and guide the seas’ currents in mortal forms. Waterbenders rise with the moon just as firebenders rise with the sun. Zhao had crowed about defeating all water tribes once and for all.

That moron.

Jee slaps his palm over his eyes, drags it down his face.

“That ash-making, picken-fucking, moron!”

He runs out of the gun deck, fists pounding on the bulkheads, shouting, “Wani to main! Wani to main!”

Fellow soldiers and seamen ogle at him as if he’s lost it.

A few, however, piece together what is happening. Someone too smart for their own good rings the emergency bell furiously. Jee hurls a whip of fire at him before jumping high and kicking the damn thing off the wall.

When he lands on his feet again, he doesn’t stop running. He doesn’t stop calling.

Aki pops her head out of one of the engine control rooms. She joins his side, keeping pace, throwing fire, shouting their emergency call to abandon ship as loud as he is. Across the corridor, Taiki hears them. He drops the bandages in his hands before hunching down to bring the priceless supplies with them.

The doctor turns, running ahead, continuing their path toward the stern, in the direction of Cook, Shan, and the deck crew.

More soldiers take notice, giving chase. A second wave of them rush down from the upper deck, blocking the way forward. They stop at a ladder.

“Get through the hatch,” Jee orders. “Stick to the plan. I’ll follow.”

He waits for Aki and Taiki to make it up and onto the main deck before dropping to one knee and spinning fire from his feet. The cyclone of flames blows the soldiers back. Jumping, he catches one of the rungs, climbing quickly. It does not take long before heat surrounds him. A roaring bellow follows. Fire chases him—an angry, billowing current. He heaves himself out of the hatch and rolls out of the way before the flames burst through the opening.

Aki and Taiki have already gathered Cook, Donghai, Qianfan, and Kenzou. Together, they run to the gunwale abeam to port, where they unearth their life vests from where they had agreed to hide them. After strapping them on, they face southwest. If they are lucky, they will make it to the Fire Nation colony east of Serpent’s Pass and north of Crescent Island.

Jee takes out the raft in his possession. Aki does the same. They pull the quick release pins and throw the metal blocks out to sea. The metal deploys in mid-air, unfolding like origami into two rafts just large enough to fit four people each.

A fusillade of fire rains upon them. Jee yells at his crew to go, go, go! They jump over the gunwale. The fall is high. The dive is long. Balls of fire race after them. The water hits. It punches the air out of Jee’s lungs. He resists the urge to gasp for breath, holding it instead, as the vest lifts him toward the surface.

Air returns. It freezes. It stings. Jee inhales deeply.

“Get down!” Qianfan warns.

Fire rains. A stray spark grazes Jee’s ear. He ducks beneath the surface. Finds the twin shadows of the rafts. He swims for the closest one, pushing it forward from behind, away from the salvo. But just as quickly as they had come, the flames disappear. The ocean becomes dark and terribly silent.

He resurfaces, coughing, shaking water out of his ears. Jee glances about. It is too dark, but all officers know: if all is clear and you cannot see your crew, find them by ear.

“Shan!”

“Lieutenant!”

“Donghai!”

“Lieutenant!”

“Qianfan!”

“Lieutenant!”

Jee calls the names in the order he knows by heart as he swims with the raft. He grabs the edge of it. Holds it in place. Then, in horror, he realizes: no current. The water is deathly still, not a single ripple, wave, or swell. The only movements are of their own making.

“Kenzou!”

“Lieutenant!”

His mechanic strokes toward him, gasping for breath. Her hair sticks to her pale head in jagged blades.

“Aki.”

“Lieutenant.”

He grabs her arm, pulls her toward him, and hauls her onto the raft. Cook comes next, then Taiki. One after another, he pushes them in. Out of the cold. Away from the wet. Rotating in the water, he locates the second raft. Shan, Donghai, and his deckhands are already in it. Four in raft two. Three in raft one. There are eight. Eight. Someone is missing.

“Jee.”

Swinging behind him, he finds Cook and Taiki reaching for him. He grabs their hands. They pull him in. He rolls across the raft and lands on his back. Jee blinks water out of his lashes.

For a moment, it is peaceful. The sky is black yet stars still light it. The sounds of war grow distant, but it does not last.

“Oh, Agni …” Donghai breathes. “What is that?”

Jee pushes himself up. Lights a flame on two fingers. In the distance, he sees it: a strange blue light and a monstrous creature. Not human, yet human-like. Not of the sea, yet very much so. It stands a giant among mere mortals. Such a thing, it lives at the heart of every sailor’s tale. A tale of terror and caution. A tale of humility.

A long dorsal fin crowns its head and trails down its spine. When it moves, the earth rumbles, and the blue veins that undulate across its piscine body shimmers with every step, every angry blow. Its eyes, without irises, gleam in a way that tells Jee it sees everything. Out of the Northern Water Tribe fortress it rises, looking down at their shameful souls.

And there, at the center of this beast, levitating in a white ball of light, Jee discovers the silhouette of a small boy. The Avatar.

(Don’t. Die.)

He throws himself onto the raft’s stern, both arms outstretched. “Aki! Need your help!” A glance at raft two tells him the rest of his crew is paying attention. “Donghai! Qianfan! Firebend! Firebend away from here! Now!”

They lean over the raft, blasting jets of fire from both their palms. Jee orders Cook to steer. Cook does not protest, but he knows nothing of seafaring. Their little boat wobbles erratically between port and starboard, yet they are moving and moving fast, weaving through a fleet of one hundred ships bearing the lives of thousands of people.

A deafening roar overtakes the night. The screaming follows. One voice over another over another, until the voices become so indistinct, they merge into a singular discordant moan. Metal crunching. Steel popping. It always surprises Jee, for vessels so massive to make such a loud but dull noise. His mind goes to Iroh and Iroh’s safety, and that inevitably topples him into thoughts of their dead prince.

No. Not now. He promised.

There is no way to avoid looking at the slaughter that unfolds. He cannot ignore it. Not with his head facing the stern and his hands guiding his flames. And he knows he shouldn’t look away. Mustn’t. This is his warning. This is his final chance. Jee’s eyes drift from the sunken ships and unmoving bodies, floating face down in the water. They move up, up from the collapsed buildings, up toward the spirit’s eyes.

The spirit stares back at him, and Jee swears …

It nods.

Chapter Text

The ocean is a soup of blue bloated bodies, blood, and dismembered limbs. Gulls fly down to peck at easy meals, their white feathers turning pink as they bob upon the water’s stained surface. The cold might have locked away the smell of decay, the price, however, is the sight of faces frozen in terror, their vacant eyes jelly black and their noses dripping with icicles.

There are so many dead that their rafts run into corpses more often than ice. They do not have oars. Each time they are trapped, they must move away the bodies with their own hands. Jee’s crew takes turns vomiting over the sides of their tiny vessels. He does not know what it says about him that he isn’t affected in the same way. That he can look at all of the dead and feel this is more of the same, except his nation deserves it.

They keep warm with breath of fire and huddling together. Jee gives Aki his jacket. She might be well-muscled and tall enough to reach pipes overhead, but she is as slight as a doe. At night, he tucks her under his arm and into his left side while Taiki wedges against his right. Cook sits across him, and they each take turns on watch, holding a small fire over their palm.

Food isn’t a problem. As they continue moving southwest, the mass graveyard draws the interest of plentiful fish. They nibble at fingers, at earlobes, at anything that isn’t covered, leaving behind tattered flesh that looks more like snagged fabric than skin. Kenzou has a crisis. He sputters about eating the fish, which are eating the dead, which means he is eating the dead, too. The deckhand weeps, then bawls, and Jee sighs as he pulls the other raft astride his, switching places with Shan to hold Kenzou still and talk some sense into him.

Only he does not talk so much as clutch this tired man of sixty against his shoulder, letting him cry into it as much as he needs and smear mucous everywhere. Jee imagines they are quite a sight, but he assures Kenzou with a whisper:

“We’re not eating them. We’re gutting the fish. That means we’re taking out their stomachs. Okay? You’re not eating anyone.”

Kenzou slides the side of his hand against his nose and curled mustache. Sixty years-old. Bald except for the sheet of gray hair that curtains from the back of his scalp, ear to ear. Head kept warm with a green bandana Jee has never seen him without. Sobbing like a newborn. Jee frowns. Kenzou should be somewhere peaceful, enjoying retirement, not living this nightmare.

The deckhand sniffs. “Can we say prayers for them?”

Jee rubs firm circles over Kenzou’s back. Kenzou hiccups. “Of course.”

His dreams are too literal. What Jee sees during the day, he sees behind sleeping eyes, too. Sometimes he dreams he is still awake, prying frozen limbs off the raft’s bow, only stopping when he notices he has Father’s hand. Only he would realize this wasn’t how Father lost his hand, and the limb would change shape. Sometimes it would be Guozhi’s burned foot. Others, Prince Zuko’s burned face.

Ironically, it is only once they’ve left North Pole waters that the situation becomes dire. As the number of corpses thin, so do the fish. They resort to sharing small pieces of survival rations Cook managed to steal before they evacuated. The rectangular blocks of dehydrated glutinous rice chip at their teeth and taste vaguely of parchment. Water is another concern. Boiling saltwater with firebending and capturing the steam in a cup yields little to drink for enormous calories. For now, it’s the only option they have, so Jee instructs giving a larger share of rations to whoever will be boiling water for the day.

Time drags as they drift for hours with nothing to do beyond sleep. Sleep exhausts Jee. With daylight out, he’d rather stay awake, even if that means having thoughts run him ragged instead. He gazes up at the sky with the lotus tile clutched tight in his hand. Perhaps murdering Zhao was off the table but taking down the Fire Lord isn’t.

“I’m gonna kick Ozai off his blood-soaked throne.”

He says it suddenly, without preamble, his voice sandy with thirst. The crew glance at him, likely wondering if they’d heard him right or if the hunger is making them hallucinate.

Qianfan squints at him. “You realize whose father that is, right?”

“Yes, and may he rot in Agni’s flaming rectum.”

Shan sits up straighter. “Lieutenant, did something happen?”

Jee’s eyes slide to Cook, who sighs and tells them. If they were quiet before, they certainly are not now. Outrage has a way with invigorating people. 

“Spirits above and below, Zhao wouldn’t dare commit regicide if the Fire Lord didn’t authorize it,” Donghai growls. He leans his head against his fist, adding more wrinkles between his bushy brows. “If he got caught, it’d be his own neck on the line.”

“The banishment was a long death sentence.” Jee has been thinking it over. Taking into account the agni kai and burning, the logic is too convenient to ignore. “Guess Ozai got impatient. Who better to finish the prince off than the highest officer in his navy?”

“But his own son?” Shan shakes his head. “Why? What purpose would that serve?”

“The prince valued lives over conquest. Over power. In his eyes, that is a weakness that must be eliminated.” Jee looks at the lotus tile and runs his thumb over the wooden grooves. He remembers how much Prince Zuko hated this game, but also how much he loved his uncle. Enough to humor an unnecessary port stop in search of a missing tile. Enough to halt pursuit of the Avatar to rescue him from Earth Kingdom soldiers. There had always been signs pointing toward what kind of heart Prince Zuko possessed, but they had been drowned out by the noise of imitating his father. “Ozai’s killing everyone, each and every one of us. I can’t let him do that anymore. It’s cost too much.”

Aki lays a hand on his shoulder. “What’re you gonna do?”

His gaze returns to his crew, not breaking eye contact with any of them as he decides, “When we hit land, I intend to join the Avatar. I realize some of you might disagree with that, but there is nothing to keep you with me. You may all choose your own paths. Start new lives. I only wish I had something to help you on your journeys.”

Taiki scoffs. His long mustache and beard swing as he rolls his eyes. “What makes you think we’re not coming with you, Lieutenant?”

He almost replies titles do not apply to him anymore, but Taiki shoots him a grin like ‘Lieutenant’ isn’t just a title when it comes to Jee.

“We might not win.”

“I’d say we’ve already lost.” Cook says, gazing at the empty space between his knees. “The Fire Nation’s soul is at stake. Maybe each of us have turned our backs on it, in our own ways, but it’s still home. It’s still home, and there are people there who need to be freed just like everywhere else.”

Aki leans back, stretching her arms and cracking her knuckles with interlaced fingers. “Don’t forget about revenge.”

Qianfan nods, picking dirt from beneath his fingernails with a knife. “The most important part.”

“Sounds near unanimous to me,” Shan observes. He peers at the second deckhand, who has been quiet. “Kenzou?”

Kenzou had not been doing well since the aftermath of the North Pole. He ate and slept but ever since his nervous collapse, he had never spoken again, and when he prayed his lips moved without saying the words. His eyes track to each of them before he reaches up to untie his green bandana. With a few quick movements, he twists the fabric, knots it, holds up a noose.

“Looks like it’s settled, then,” Taiki smiles. “Where are we going?”

We have no one but each other, Jee thinks. For the first time in many weeks, he feels full despite his wailing stomach. He holds up the lotus tile. They lean in, peering at it with instant recognition of who would give Jee such a thing.

“To the great castle in Shu Jing. To Piandao.”

*

Their raft hits the coast southwest of the Northern Air Temple, where the mountain ranges taper off into beaches too rocky and frigid for pleasure. They find a river running east, which Jee recognizes flows from Serpent’s Pass western lake. The river brings goosepimples to their skin, but after too much time living in their own stink, they dive into the fresh water, relieved to feel human again.

Donghai, Qianfan, and Kenzou—the experienced thieves—share the money they’ve taken from Zhao’s coffers. With it the crew trades their reds and blacks for greens and browns. The former they throw into a bonfire, and Jee relishes the smell of a hundred regrets turning sweet with scent of glowing firewood.

They follow the river, marching down the Earth Kingdom on blistered feet. Saltwater and sun have shrunk the leather of their boots. Qianfan takes his off to walk on grass. It is a relief, at first, until the trees grow thick and fallen debris poke and prod at his soles. His blisters pop. His heels and toes go bloody. He can hardly walk, but Qianfan has always been thin and life on the raft only made him thinner. Jee hoists him over his back with one arm under each knee. He thinks of carrying his pipa between taverns as they continue walking. When he grows tired, he thinks of the rides he once gave Huan, too.

Taiki wraps Qianfan’s feet with gnarled hands and grubby bandages. Not ideal, but it will have to do. As they rest at an inn with bowls of soup to warm them, they overhear the barkeep speak to guests with the gruff theatrics that keep the booze pouring.

“And there he was,” the man says, “wide-brimmed dǒulì over his head. Dual broadswords. Big ugly scar on his face—”

At this, Jee sits up and turns.

“—Beat the living shit out of those thug soldiers.”

“Then what happened?”

“Well, that’s the thing. The kid could firebend. Village he saved ran him right out.”

Jee remembers the soldier on the Jishin. The one that had hesitated in the middle of a corridor, looking straight at him. He hadn’t seen that soldier on the ship again. Now a tavern tale about a kid, a kid with an ugly scar on his face, and two broadswords Jee knows Prince Zuko has always favored. But when it comes to hope, his heart is cautious. How many kids has the Fire Nation burned? More than plenty. How many bastard children have Fire Nation soldiers left in Earth Kingdom? Enough. Dual broadswords, however …

He takes long pull from his tankard of huangjiu. Lets the sharp flavor rest on his tongue. The crew watches him. He can feel it. With a shake of his head, he dismisses the possibility. The last thing they need is a deluded change in plans. They will not chase ghosts.

Yet as they continue their journey into the Fire Nation colonies, the stories grow. At first blush, they seem ridiculous, the kind of folktales peasants cling to for comfort. But there is a spirit of truth at the heart of each telling: a boy, wounded, rises up in rebellion, and sees for the first time where all tyrants had failed. A boy, alone, finds himself in others, casting away his selfishness, lifting the meager and frail.

Then the Day of the Black Sun arrives. The eclipse robs them of their fire, but not that of the prince whose voice, dragon hot, roars.

“Did you hear?” a weaver asks at her market stall, “The Banished Prince has returned! He has forsaken his father and joined the Avatar. He will come for his crown. He will come for his nation. He will come for his people! The dynasty is falling, and the bells will ring!”

The prince lives. He lives. There are too many accounts to disprove it is true.

A spark ignites. Jee’s fingers itch. His knee bounces. He cannot stay still. His feet wander into a musician's shop. An assortment of string instruments hangs from the merchant’s ceiling. Months of odd jobs fill his pockets. There had been no desire to spend coin on frivolous things, but this moment is not frivolous. (Promise me. Keep making music. Find reasons to sing and dance.)

He buys a shamisen. It is smaller and lighter than a pipa. Easier to carry as they see this through. He plucks its three silk strings with a bachi. The shamisen replies. Its notes tickle his ears. That night, around a fire, Jee has a reason. His crew claps and swings one another around as he plays under the moon.

This story is an epic. A ballad. Jee knows this song, and he knows it well. It is the drum of revolution beating harder and louder. It is the cry of commoners resisting the boot. Here come the heroes marching toward inevitable triumph. Those who cannot read will know the truth: a prince, banished, changes sides in war. He will ride into fire with a monk and a fighter, a sorcerer and an artificer. They are the children of wounded nations, carrying with them banners of yellow and green, blue and red, too. The winds are changing. A horn is blowing. There is light in the darkness, and Jee must follow.

It is what humming-moths do.

Jee might not be anyone, but he knows when history is unfolding.

And he will be there to ensure destiny comes true.

*

Their vessel sets sail for Shu Jing. The boat is modest, but suits Jee better than any of metal cruisers have beneath his calloused palms. Working the lines and adjusting the sails comes back to him with muscle memory, and for once he has more than enough crew. His biceps flex as he catches the wind. Pulls it to his bidding. They ride the waves swiftly with a breeze in their hair and sun on their faces. Aki laughs as she leans back with both arms spread over the gunwale. Cook makes them grilled squid, freshly caught. Taiki reads to Kenzou with the man’s head in his lap.

Jee observes his family and thinks this is what a real ship should be. He chuckles as Donghai spears a piece of squid into his mouth since both of Jee’s hands are busy. Shan mans the wheel. Qianfan assists with the boom. In the distance, an island grows with their steady approach.

Piandao meets them on the docks as though the seas had whispered to him their arrival. The master of blades takes Jee into his arms. Jee has never met him before, but Piandao holds him with knowledge. What did Iroh tell him, he wonders? All exaggerations, surely. Yet the gaze he is given is one of pride and understanding. You are like me, it says. An outcast. A deserter. I am like you, too.

Inside his castle, Piandao has them served tea. He wastes no time telling them what is coming.

“The Fire Nation intends to attack the Earth Kingdom’s when Sozin’s Comet flies overhead. He will drive civilians from the coasts inland with his navy, then burn everything to the ground with his airships, slaughtering innocents like corralled goat-sheep. The Avatar must confront the Fire Lord, just as the prince must confront the princess. The White Lotus will liberate Ba Sing Se, but for air and sea--”

 “You know our history,” Jee says. “We know where we are needed.”

The other man smiles. “Indeed. We have made contact with the Southern and Northern Water Tribes. They might not have the artillery, but their ships are fast and nimble. Your knowledge of Fire Nation ships will be invaluable.”

“What about air?” Aki asks.

“We are uncertain. We hope to convene everyone at our base in Ba Sing Se within a week’s time.”

“Everyone?”

There is a specific name that Jee thinks but cannot voice. Piandao hears it.

“Our reconnaissance tells us that Prince Zuko has trained the Avatar in firebending. He is with the bounty hunter June and the Avatar’s allies. They are already on their way. They will likely already be at the White Lotus encampment once we arrive.”

Jee shuts his eyes. To hear the prince’s survival from strangers is one thing, but to hear it from General Iroh’s friend and Prince Zuko’s former teacher is something else. “He made it.”

“Yes, Lieutenant. He did.”

*

“You’re in a good mood today,” Zuko comments to his uncle, “which is definitely saying something.”

Uncle has been wearing a grin and humming a pleasant tune since this morning. It’s the sort of behavior that usually sets Zuko on edge. There’s a surprise somewhere, Zuko thinks, and he worries what kind it will be. But the timing is strange. Aang is still missing. They are two days away from Sozin’s Comet. Anticipation fills the air like static, but Uncle, who had been somber yesterday, fusses with flowers and loose tea leaves.

“Sometimes the calm before the storm is a time of celebration, Nephew. It means we have time to enjoy the present, and the present bears good news.”

“What sort of news?” Sokka pipes up.

“You will see soon enough.”

Sokka arches one brow and glances at Zuko, who shakes his head. He has no clue. On the ground, they return to the map of their world laying between them, marking with a brush where the Fire Nation’s air fleet lies in wait. With or without Aang, they have no choice but to split up. The Fire Lord will strike from multiple directions at once.

“I hope Dad’ll be okay,” Sokka murmurs as he marks where several Fire Nation battleships have been sighted. “I know Suki, Toph and I need to deal with the airships, but I still wish I could go with him …”

His friend swallows as he trails off. Zuko lays a hand on his shoulder. “Your dad’s a great warrior and he knows the seas better than anyone. He’s fought the Fire Nation Navy for three years, Sokka. Anyone who can do that and live to talk about it is not gonna go down easy.”

Reaching up, Sokka squeezes his fingers. Zuko smiles at the touch when murmurs ripple across the campsite. They look up and wave excitedly as Piandao enters the White Lotus settlement. The master swordsman has finally arrived, but he is not alone. Zuko’s arm slows, then falls to his side as someone familiar emerges from behind the broken wall. He wears nondescript Earth Kingdom attire with a sleeveless Tangzhuang that reveals a pair of tattoos, one circling each arm. Tall. Broad shouldered. Whiskered. Black hair faded to slate much too early. A face unimpressed by everything.

Zuko rises to his feet, moving slowly as though afraid to scare a skittish ostrich-horse. He takes one step, then another, and as the man draws close, he knows his eyes are not failing him. It’s him. The captain. His lieutenant. A smile pulls wide as he watches him. Jee moves as he always does: measured, purposeful, but his brown eyes rove over the encampment in search of someone.

“Lieutenant!”

Jee’s gaze darts his way. Several different emotions flit over his face in rapid succession. Shock, relief, exhaustion, and … happiness? The lieutenant’s stride hastens, moving past Piandao.

Zuko does the same. He runs, giddy, his hands and feet tingling. Jumping over small campfires and logs made for sitting, he meets Jee at the center of all the tents, where the field clears for food and memories. (Music night.) Remembering his manners, he stops a few feet away. Zuko bows deeply, straight from the waist, and offers the sign of the flame. Jee mirrors him, and when they both rise, Zuko finishes his trajectory, leaping head-first into a chest he never thought he’d hear the heartbeat of.

The embrace is big and long and crushing. They’ve both lost weight. Zuko’s arms wrap around Jee too easily, and he knows Jee is thinking the same thing about him. But they are both here, taking up space because they deserve to. He closes his eyes as his chin hooks over Jee’s shoulder and his nose presses against the man’s neck. The scent of the ocean always lingers on him. Smoke and the warmth of wooden instruments, too. Zuko feels his eyes prick.

He’d thought he’d died. Everyone in the north had died. He can’t believe it.

“You’re alive.”

It shouldn’t be possible, but Jee squeezes even tighter. “I had my orders, Sir.”

Zuko laughs. When he looks up, he realizes: he’s gotten taller. Jee’s eyes flick down, their corners bright and wet, but he doesn’t cant his head downward like he used to. “You don’t have to call me that anymore.”

“Force of habit.” The lieutenant’s easy grin holds a second longer before it slips away. His hands move to his shoulders, pushing him back just enough to look him over from head to toe. It’s a serious look. Assessing and worried. Zuko had seen it many times before, when someone on the crew tripped or bled or banged themselves good.

But he’s fine. Nothing’s wrong. Zuko blinks. “What?”

“Zhao said the ship—”

Zhao told him. That sick picken-fucker. Of course, he did.

“Oh. I, uh …” He rubs the back of his neck a little embarrassed. “... I guess I’m pretty hard to kill.”

A growl rises to Jee’s throat. Zuko feels it vibrate through his sternum. “You were on it?”

His shoulder rises and drops. The same one he had dislocated six months ago. “Shield of flame. Saved my life.”

Jee purses his lips. He probably has something incisive to say about Zuko’s careless shrug. His right hand moves from Zuko’s shoulder to his hair, tugging gently at some strands hanging over his left eye. The touch must have been unintentional, for Jee seems to come to himself, dropping the hair and his own fingers. He takes a step back. “Apologies.”

“No. No, it’s okay.” He suddenly remembers all those mornings Jee used to shave his head for him. How different he must look now, on top of everything else. Zuko grins. “I think I kinda like it better this way.”

They stand together, words all tangled up and stuck in their throats. It is not awkward, but it is loaded. Behind Jee, Zuko sees the rest of the crew. Shan, Donghai, Qianfan, Kenzou, Aki, Taiki, and Cook. They all look a little worse for wear, but no one’s missing. Their faces are a mix of cautious smiles and sheer bewilderment. It occurs to him that the last time they were together, he’d been mean and petulant, and almost always arguing with Jee. Despite everything, it seems they’ve missed him, too.

An arm swings up and over his shoulders, elbow hooking around his neck to bring him in close. Zuko flushes as Sokka leans against him. Rib to rib. Hip to hip. Like Jee, his friend smells of waves but in place of smoke and wood are grass and leather. His heart picks up speed. He hopes Sokka doesn’t notice.

“Hey, buddy. This the crew that rammed your ship into my village?”

He tenses and holds both hands up in the air. “In their defense, it was under my orders.”

Zuko glances at Jee to see what he makes of his friend. The grin is back, though it is more of a smirk now, and his chin lifts in amusement.

“So …” Sokka goes on, “Zuko here says you all broke a whole bunch of Fire Nation laws.”

Aki cocks her head to the side. “Before or after the Wani?”

“Wani?”

“Our old ship,” Donghai explains.

Sokka looks at him, incredulous. “Wani. Your ship was called the Wani?”

“It’s not like I got to name it!” Zuko snaps. But there’s a laugh in his voice, and he moves aside for introductions. “Sokka, this is Lieutenant Jee. Lieutenant, this is Sokka, son of Kya and Chief Hakoda of the Southern Water Tribe.”

Jee inclines his head. Not quite a bow but respectful all the same. “Hello, Sokka. I apologize our first impression wasn’t the best.”

His friend flaps his hand. “Eh. What can I say? Life is weird.”

Zuko glances back at Jee, who’s still looking at Sokka with pleased curiosity. “We were strategizing with the White Lotus. Uncle thinks it would be a good idea for you and the crew to team with the Chief and his fleet.”

“Yes, Piandao mentioned. It would be an honor to fight at their side.”

“Oh! Sokka, we should show them the warrior’s greeting, so they’re ready when your tribe gets here.”

“Oh yeah!” Sokka releases him and turns so his profile faces Jee in demonstration. “So, I know you got your whole ‘sign-of-the-flame’ thing. We in the Water Tribe have got something of our own.”

“Goes like this.” Zuko grabs Sokka’s inner forearm as Sokka grabs his, they pull each other in, opposite shoulders bumping. They giggle at the contact. It’s quick but bracing.

Before they can say anything more, something flies through the air and latches onto Zuko’s back. He stumbles forward but doesn’t fall, hands flying up to hold onto the legs wrapped around his stomach.

“Oof! Toph. How are you so heavy?”

“Muscle mass, baby. Hey, why’s your heart beating so fast?”

*

He never expected to be greeted with a smile, much less an embrace so strong he staggers backwards. Jee catches him, and the prince feels too small in his arms. Yet he is breathing and well, smelling of sun and salt. His hair has grown. So has his height. When he talks his eyes gleam, brightening their gold. Prince Zuko has made it. Along with Iroh, he’d done it on his own.

Jee looks him over in search of scars or something broken. The prince is one piece, he assures him so, though the confirmation he had been on the ship does not please him. Another boy approaches. Clearly water tribe by clothes and looks. He acts too casual to be natural, and Jee senses a healthy amount of vigilance. But around Prince Zuko, the boy—Sokka—is playful. If the prince blushes when he’s pulled close, well, Jee will promise he won’t tell anyone.

His eyes grow round as a little girl crawls all over Prince Zuko’s back, teasing and laughing, while the prince holds onto her as one might a younger sister. They continue to squabble, which draws the attention of two more teenagers who introduce themselves as Katara, master waterbender and Sokka’s sister, and Suki, leader of the Kyoshi Warriors.

Jee’s crew continues to watch in dismay as the girl—Toph—cajoles the prince into running around breathing flames.

And the prince, despite his half-hearted grumblings, goes along with it. He runs around them in circles as if this sort of ostrich-horsing around happens every day.

“Muwahahahaha!” Toph cackles, arms thrown up in the air in make-believe glory, “I am Melon Lord! Fear me and my faithful steed!”

Zuko skids to a halt. He looks up at the girl curled over his head. “But. Steeds are horses. I’m supposed to be a dragon.”

She points ahead, undeterred. “Onward, steed!”

Now he gallops—fucking gallops—but doesn’t stop blowing fire for Toph’s amusement.

Jee peers at his companions, half wondering if he’d been drugged on the way here, only to find multiple jaws hanging from their hinges.

It’s then that General Iroh steps out from his tent, face positively beaming.

“General Iroh,” Jee greets. “What in Agni’s name did we miss?”

They clasp hands. Iroh shakes his between his palms. “He’s bloomed, Lieutenant. Our prince has finally bloomed.”

Together they glance back at their future Fire Lord, who’s thinner, yes, but glows with a peace and self-assuredness Jee did not know was possible. Prince Zuko laughs as he topples onto Sokka, who squawks upon impact.

“Why?” the boy screeches. He punches the dirt with his fist. “Why do you do this to me?!”

These appear to be the magic words. Upon saying them, Katara and Suki pile on top, and poor Sokka ‘oomphs!’ with each slam of body weight.

“You just make it so easy!” Katara needles.

“Yeah! Plus you’re a warrior!” Suki adds. “We ladies are light as feathers.”

“Zuko’s not a lady!”

“There’s just one of me, Sokka.”

“And I’m only twelve. Haven’t even had my growth spurt yet! Man up, Snoozles.”

Sokka flattens his face against the grass. “Tui and La, would you all stop?”

The teenagers giggle before Prince Zuko chooses mercy and rolls off. The movement has the effect of pulling a brick out of a building. Everyone else slides away until Sokka is free. He pushes himself up on his elbows, face covered with dirt. Zuko crouches down to pluck a twig off his nose.

“Yes,” Jee smiles. The prince has friends now. Real friends his age, who all seem to love him. “He has.”

*

Iroh did not exaggerate when he said today bore good news. Not long after the arrival of Zuko’s old crew, Dad and Bato also arrive. Sokka and Katara run to them in much the same fashion as Zuko had earlier. It’s their third reunion. Katara says something about luck and good things coming in threes. Sokka rolls his eyes at superstition, then gets distracted by the sight of Zuko catching up with the people who had all but raised him for three years.

Most of them are men, old men, save for a woman they call ‘Aki’ who looks to be in her thirties. He beholds the group with equal doses of skepticism and benefit of the doubt, but if Zuko trusts them—when Zuko trusts very few—they must be all right.

It’s the lieutenant, however, that Sokka is most curious about. His friend regards him with a certain respect that’s rarer than his trust. It’s a good sign, Sokka thinks. He only hopes these Fire Nation misfits will get along with his people. After all, fire and wooden boats don’t mix well, and the scars of sorrow run a century deep.

Sokka takes his father’s hand. Leads him to their new allies. At first, he and Bato welcome more aid with open faces, but their bodies tense upon noticing these newcomers’ eyes. Aki’s are gold. Taiki’s are amber. The rest of them are various shades in between. Only Jee’s are brown, but Zuko told him no one else here carries a military title, and he’s a firebender, besides.

The lieutenant pauses mid-motion, his right arm extended slightly, hand ready to clasp and pull in warrior’s greeting. His gaze is sharp. It jumps from the hesitation in Dad and Bato’s feet to the strain in their shoulders to the grim downturn of their lips. It pauses briefly at the bandages wrapping the burn on Bato’s arm and half his torso. His eyes only stop when they reach their blue ones. What Jee sees there, Sokka is not sure.

A calculation is made. Dropping his arm, Jee brings both feet together and bows fully, deeper than he had with his own prince. Seconds later, he is on his knees. From his knees, he folds over, arms outstretched, forehead kissing the ground.

Everyone is speechless. Sokka’s eyes leap to Zuko, who thinks quickly and follows Jee’s lead. It’s Zuko’s participation that triggers a tidal wave. Those of Fire Nation prostrate themselves: the crew, Jeong-Jeong, Piandao, and Iroh, too.

Katara’s eyes water. Sokka blinks. Blinks. And blinks again. When had his own begun to well and sting? He wipes away the tears with the back of his wrist. He cannot afford to miss this. He must see it. Witness it. Commit this to memory for days that are hard.

“I am sorry for what our people have done to yours. I am sorry for what I have done to hurt you.”

“Please,” Dad replies, and Sokka thinks he sounds embarrassed, “on your feet.”

“I have served the Fire Nation Navy for seventeen years,” Jee explains. “This apology is a pittance.”

“Seventeen years?” Bato asks. His tone is hard. “Why did you enlist?”

Sokka watches as Jee swallows. His mouth twitches—a private man, Sokka decides— but he commits.

“I come from a poor family in a small village. My father was a fisherman, my mother a basket weaver. I was seventeen when Father lost his hand to necrosis. I had to support them and my little brother.”

“When did you leave?”

“Three years ago.”

Dad’s brow furrows. “Why did you leave?”

“The Fire Nation cares nothing for its commoners. When the Earth Kingdom enforced sanctions against my country for ore, Fire Lord Azulon ordered the removal of metal from anywhere that could spare it. That meant the pipes in my village. They turned them into missile shells.”

“I would have thought your people would support such a sacrifice,” Bato retorts.

Jee shakes his head. His forehead smears across grass and soil.

“We had no choice. Soldiers came and took everything. We were fortunate they spared our homes. The loss of plumbing caused cholera to breakout and decimate half my village. My family did not survive.”

“So it was only when you lost your own that you changed your mind?” Dad asks.

“No.” Another swallow. His hesitation lasts too long. They are all waiting for an answer. Jee pushes it out. “I lost someone from Earth Kingdom, too.”

It feels as though the world has shrunk to this singular moment. Breaths hold. Sokka startles to find his chest has caught, too. Dad and Bato look at one another. Together they nod. Dad moves closer, dropping to one knee. He pulls the lieutenant up by one arm. Now that Jee’s standing, that arm is tugged into a proper greeting, shoulders brushing. When they pull back, Jee goes on:

“We are at your disposal, Chief Hakoda.”

Dad studies the lieutenant a moment longer. Like Jee had done before, he searches his eyes. There is a quality within them that Dad recognizes. Dad peers at the crew. There is loyalty there, the kind won by love rather than fear. Sokka understands now, why Zuko respects this man, why he might throw all dignity away to run and embrace him.

“In that case …” Dad lets the preamble draw out. It makes everyone take a deeper breath, but Sokka knows what’s to come. They share the same humor, after all. “I hope you brought sailor’s swill. Tonight’s the only night we’ll get to drink.”

Chuckles break the frost that had descended over the encampment. Those of Fire Nation finally rise to their feet.

“Got you right here!” A big man, bald, bearded and wearing a stained apron shouts. He holds up a flask of something Sokka has feeling smells and tastes rank. “Cook’s one-of-a-kind, homemade boiler room hooch!”

“Oh, no …" Zuko mutters, covering his face with his hand. Then he straightens. “Wait a minute. How can you make boiler room hooch if there’s no boiler room? You’ve been grounded for months!”

“Don’t question my methods.”

Qianfan winces. “Really, you don’t want to know how he makes it.”

Cook ambles over and hands Dad the bottle. Dad uncorks the flask and throws his head back in admirable recklessness. He pulls a face.

“Ugh! Spirits, that’s terrible,” Dad gags then laughs. “I love it.”

Soon the camp swells with the merriment of celebration. They hunt bear-boar, pheasant-quails, and squirrel-rabbits, then bring them all over a large fire to roast. With so many Fire Benders, cooking is easy, and making rice has never been faster. The air teems with all things savory. Well-cooked meat. Chargrilled vegetables. Old sea shanties. Bawdy jokes and stories not meant for young ears. They sit together in interconnecting circles, filling themselves with food and company as the sun sets, the war so close but somehow distant.

“It’s nice to see so many Fire Nation people on our side,” Katara says, eyes flickering with the firelight.

“I admit,” Suki leans back on their shared log, “I never thought I’d see anything like this ever. Look at us! Eating together. Drinking together. Just partying!”

Toph sucks sauce off her sticky fingers. “Gotta say. Fire Nation cooking is the real deal.”

Zuko, of course, decides to turn this conversation into something serious. “It should be like this. This is what our world was like, wasn’t it? Before the war. As Aang remembered it. We can make it that way again and even better when we win.”

“You think Aang is gonna show?” Sokka asks.

“He will,” Katara replies with a determination only she can muster. “He always comes back when it matters most.” She looks up to the clouds, where the stars begin peeking. “We have to have faith in him.”

*

Across them, Zuko watches Jee eat with his crew. There’s an instrument strapped to his back. It’s not a pipa. It’s smaller with a longer neck and box-shaped body. He’s about to ask about it when Aki looks up. The clouds are not black, but they are gray and beginning to churn.

“Looks like rain, Lieutenant.”

He sets down his plate. “Sowing Dance?”

Aki reaches into her pocket and pulls out a small paper bag. When she shakes it, it sounds like seeds. “Way ahead of you.”

Jee lifts the strap across his chest, bringing it overhead to free his instrument. Once he has it in front of him, Zuko can see it’s a shamisen. The lieutenant loops the strap behind his neck and digs around his pocket for the bachi. The second he strums, the entire White Lotus has their interest piqued.  

Aki and Jee walk over to an open patch of land not far from the rest of them. Kicking off their shoes and rolling their pants up to their calves, they stand about six feet apart, facing one another as though ready to duel. Jee strikes the shamisen again. Whatever song this is, it doesn’t bother warming up. The lieutenant’s wrist moves lightning quick, his bachi plucking strings that sing a series of complex notes too fast for Zuko to identify without playing the instrument himself.

As Jee plays, he dances, throwing small bursts of fire from the bottom of his heels that Aki smothers into the ground with mirroring footwork of her own. Together they move forward and backward, individually turning in circles before facing one another again, exchanging flames and taking turns between lighting fire and smothering it with their feet. Very quickly, the grass turns black.

“Oh, the Sowing Dance!” Uncle observes with delight. He makes himself a seat between Zuko and Sokka. Zuko grimaces a little at being moved aside. “This is going to be exciting!”

“I thought dancing wasn’t allowed in the Fire Nation?” Sokka blinks. “When we were there, no one knew how.”

“Yeah, we had to show a bunch of kids what to do,” Katara continues. “Good thing Aang knew some from, well, a hundred years ago.”

Zuko looks at Iroh. He’d known about the ban, lived with it while in the palace, but hadn’t thought much of it while his felonious crew broke more laws on the Wani.

“Fire Lord Azulon banned dancing when they would have been children,” Uncle explains. “A lot of it has been forgotten, especially by the nobility. But the working class,” he nods at Aki and Jee, “the people who must work on their hands and knees to make sure everyone is fed, some of them still remember.”

The camp claps along, whooping and cheering as the dance only seems to grow faster. Even Dad and Bato stand from their seats, copying the moves and laughing themselves silly when they trip over themselves trying to keep up. Aki reaches into her paper bag. As she sways her hips and moves in another circle, she lifts her arm, letting seeds rain from her hand. The seeds fall onto the burned soil, pressing into the ground under the balls of her prancing feet.

“They’re burning so much grass … ” Katara murmurs worriedly, but Uncle offers a comforting smile.

“True. But fire is not just a destructive force, Katara. When a fire consumes a forest, it makes the soil more fertile, allowing new life to grow and the forest to become even bigger than it was before. This dance is best just before it rains.”

“Ai yai yai yai yai yai!” Aki cries out.

Jee returns with a hoot of his own. “Reeeeyah!”

“That all you got, Lieutenant?”

“What? This not fast enough for you?”

She throws two very impolite fingers in the air. Jee laughs and hurls more fire at her. Above, thunder rumbles. It begins to sprinkle.

Jee keeps playing. Aki keeps stomping. Seeds bury with every barefooted step they take. They lunge themselves forward and back, creating a tidy strip of plowed dirt that reminds Zuko of the farm plots he’d seen while riding through Earth Kingdom.

At last, the shamisen’s notes swirl to their pinnacle. They go higher and higher, until they can only draw to an end. Jee swings his arm out with the last pluck. Zuko claps first, getting on his feet to bring his hands together firm and proud. An applause chases after him. Sokka whistles. He smirks at Jee when he catches his eye.

The lieutenant’s chest rises and falls, catching his breath. He turns to Aki with a cheerful grin. Thunder rumbles once more. The sprinkle turns into true rain, coming down heavier and harder than before. They tilt their faces to the drops, eyelids shut, reveling in the cool after so much moving.

Arm-in-arm, the two make a beeline for Zuko to return to where they had been sitting.    

“Great music and dancing out there,” Toph praises as they near. She waves a hand in front of her face. “Since I can’t see, that’s a god-tier compliment, so hang onto it.”

“Thank you,” Jee and Aki say together. But Toph has more to say …

“So, you two together?”

Zuko feels his brain screech to a halt. “Toph!”

Aki and Jee share a look. A beat later, Aki cackles, a response that does not surprise Jee but leaves him looking more than a bit long-suffering.

“Us? Ha! No. No no no no no. That’s—” she glances at Jee, eyes twinkling. “Unless you think I’m manly enough?”

The ease in Jee’s posture evaporates. His entire body goes rigid. Clearing his throat, he slips out of Aki’s arm. Aki’s face fills with horror.

“Jee, I …”

The lieutenant excuses himself with a mutter no one can hear but all can understand. He turns on his heel and makes a direct path to his tent.  

“Good job, Aki,” Donghai scolds.

“Flame off, Donghai!” She slaps her forehead. “Shit. Shit, oh shit, oh shit.” Her feet panic, beating the ground in a sad echo of the dance she had enjoyed only minutes ago. Eventually, she bolts, one arm reaching. “Jee! Jee wait! I’m sorry!”

“So … they’re not together?” Toph shrugs. “What was that about?”

*

He makes it to his tent only to hear the flap flutter back open behind him. Jee doesn’t need to turn around to know Aki followed him here.

“I’m sorry.”

She didn’t mean any harm. He knows. Aki is the kind of friend who is hard to stay mad at, and he wasn’t really mad so much as afraid in the first place. “I know.”

Jee sets his shamisen down against his cot. When he turns to her, she looks pitiful. Wet from the rain and hands worrying over each other.

“I have an ash-cursed big mouth.”

“You do.” He sighs. “Still makes me laugh. Please be more careful?”

Aki nods and leans in. The hug is light. Easy to return. As his mechanic’s wet hair drips against his cheek, he finds himself grinning with mischief.

“You smell like a sweaty arm pit.”

A theatrical gasp fills the tent. She pulls away from him and smacks his arm. “Oh, fuck you, Sir.”

They hear the tent’s tarp rustle. Jee scowls. There is more than one way to knock. The displeasure doesn’t last long when he sees it’s Prince Zuko awkwardly trying to make an entrance.

“Hey.”

“Hi.”

The prince’s eyes volley between them. “Are you both okay?”

“We’re fine.” Jee nods at Aki in tacit dismissal. She takes her leave, patting a hand on Zuko’s shoulder as she goes. Once she’s gone, he moves his attention to the prince in his tent.

“Did you require something, Sir?”

“No. Er … sort of. You don’t have to keep calling me that.” He fidgets. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”

“Of course.”

He comes in more fully. Jee supposes this is an improvement over all the times he’d barge into his cabin unannounced.

“That was really something, what you did out there,” Prince Zuko says. “Wish I thought of it.”

Jee’s confused, thinking Prince Zuko is referring to the dancing, then puts the pieces together and concludes the prince is talking about the apology.

“You did it all the same. That’s what counts. You also inspired the others to follow.”

“Yeah …” His yellow eyes look everywhere but at him. “Speaking of, it reminded me that, um … that I wanted to apologize to you.”

What. “Apologize?”

“For the way I was. On the Wani. I was a real jerk.”

Too much has happened today, Jee decides. He’s tired, and it’s time to keep things simple.

“Apology accepted, and I owe you one of my own.”

“For what?”

“I should have stayed.”

Prince Zuko shakes his head. “That wouldn’t have been possible.”

They are both thinking of Zhao and are both reluctant to let that man’s slimy name roll off their tongues any more than necessary.

“Still, the sentiment stands. You saved our lives. I will never forget that.” Jee takes a seat on his cot, patting the space next to him for Prince Zuko to do the same. “It’s not late yet. Why don’t you tell me what you’ve been up to these last six months?”

*

Zuko doesn’t mean to stay as long as he does. He’s never been good at conversation. All the same, he talks Jee’s ear off. He tells him how his father tasked Azula with arresting him and Uncle, about how they had cut off their top knots and fled to Ba Sing Se, traitors of the Fire Nation. He tells him about the Blue Spirit and his life as a refugee, serving tea in the Lower Ring before doing the same in the Upper. His voice lowers when he recounts all his mistakes, all the awful things he’d done. Yet he brightens when he thinks of Aang, of Sokka, Toph, Katara, and Suki—all the friends he’s surprised he’s made. He worries about the future but reasons with wry humor he couldn’t do worse than Father, and he laughs when he tells Jee about the time he contemplated his place in the universe when he and Aang were stuck in tar.

When Jee listens, he listens fully. Not once does he look bored or ready to fall asleep. When Zuko asks if he’d done anything exciting, the lieutenant thinks for a moment and replies:

“I almost killed Zhao with a meat hook.”

He didn’t know he could snort while laughing. Zuko learns can do that tonight. “Almost?”

“Cook talked me out of it.”

“Bet thinking about it felt good at the time.”

“Yeah. Yeah, it did.”

Sokka and Toph stop by in search of him, demanding their human heater to come to bed. Zuko calls back he’s coming, then bids the lieutenant goodnight.

When the sun rises, they wake to find a patch of flowers growing where the scorched grass had been, their petals pearled with morning dew.

Chapter Text

The morning is wet, and Jee rises early. He crosses the White Lotus encampment with three large scrolls tucked under one arm. He’d burned the candle down to the nub last night, drawing what he remembered of Fire Nation destroyer and cruiser schematics. It had been three years since he officially piloted a naval vessel, and six months since he worked on a ship that was not yet decommissioned. There is no doubt the Fire Nation had updated their models since, but some information is better than none.

White Lotus members, Southern Water Tribe warriors, and Jee’s own crew trickle into a large tent standing at the far end of the settlement’s circle. Arriving there, he brushes aside the tent flap to enter their makeshift war room. General Iroh, Chief Hakoda, Bato, and three of Zuko’s friends—the girls—are already here. Jee nods to each politely, standing aside to let others gather.

As the tent fills and the naval meeting is about to commence, bickering can be heard just outside. Jee concentrates on the voices, and yes, that’s the prince and the chief’s son. He spares a glance at Chief Hakoda, who returns his look with an amused grin befitting of an indulgent father. Katara, however, rolls her eyes while Suki hides a giggle behind a closed fist. True to form, Toph leans against the war table as though it were the edge of a noodle stand instead of a secret society’s best-laid plans.

“I want to know what they’re planning!”

“So do I, but did you mention that to your dad before coming here?”

“No, but it’s not like I had time to think about it yesterday.”

“You had twenty-four hours to think about it yesterday!

“Look, he’s not gonna bite our heads off for just waltzing in.”

“They’re the leaders of our nations, Sokka!”

“And you’re a prince!”

“Crown prince! But I’m not—”

“Seriously, man. How do you Fire Nation people get anything done with all your hierarchy etiquette?”

Clearing his throat, Chief Hakoda nods at Bato, who pulls open the tent flap. The boys stumble in. Prince Zuko catches Sokka by the waist before he can fall face-first onto the ground and drop his platter of baozi.

“Sokka,” Chief Hakoda greets with a smile. “Prince Zuko. Will you be joining us this morning?”

Jee lifts a brow in the prince’s direction, then bites the inside of his cheek as Prince Zuko gets Sokka on his feet and nudges him forward to do the talking.

“Er … Yeah! Yup! And what a fine morning it is!” He dusts off his pants then freezes when his blue eyes land on his sister. “Katara?” His gaze slides across one side of the tent, finding Toph and Suki. “What are you all doing here?”

“Attending the naval briefing. What does it look like?”

“You were invited?”

“Obviously,” Toph scoffs. “You can see, right?”

“Chief Hakoda invited us last night,” Suki explains. “You were kind of busy arm wrestling with the Lieutenant’s crew when he mentioned it.”

Prince Zuko palms his face, murmuring, ‘I don’t believe this’ under his breath. Jee laughs behind a feigned cough.

“Well, good!” Sokka recovers. “Anyone still hungry since breakfast? Cook made extra.” He holds out the plate of steamed buns and performs a quick circuit around the war room as a peace offering. Jee takes one before making space for Prince Zuko and Sokka to sidle in beside him. General Iroh takes a patient sip of tea.

“Now,” the General begins, “as some of you may be aware: Fire Lord Ozai intends to have his naval fleet surround the Earth Kingdom along the western, southern, and eastern coasts.” He sets down three miniature ships painted black and red on the map. “In doing so, he will launch an attack that will force Earth Kingdom civilians to retreat into the mainland, where the air fleet will resume aggression from above.”

“With this kind of strategy,” Chief Hakoda continues, “there won’t be a place for non-combatants to escape. Fortunately, with King Bumi’s help, we have secured a company of earth benders who will create underground bunkers here, here, and here.” The chief arranges six green miniatures of the Earth Kingdom symbols, two in each of the three directions of assault. “This means we will need several task units whose sole purpose is to guide civilians to safety.”

Taiki raises his hand. “I’m a medic. I can go.”

“Me, too,” Cook volunteers. “Not a medic, but I’ve been told I have a very calming presence.”

Several more soldiers raise their hands. Bato makes note of them.

“Excellent,” General Iroh nods. “Another concern is the damage the Fire Nation navy can wreck on the ports. When the war is over, if all Earth Kingdom ports are severely compromised or destroyed, this will gravely affect our ability to dispatch assistance where it is needed.”

“We will therefore need to mitigate the navy’s artillery.” Chief Hakoda turns to Jee and gestures with one hand to the table. “Lieutenant Jee?”

War room meetings are not unfamiliar to Jee. Attending them and offering his piece are as familiar as washing his face in the morning. He could do it in his sleep. This meeting is different. These people care about the lives of others. They had always been on the side of what is just. Him, he had been the enemy. An enemy for nearly two decades of his life, too worried about his own problems to think much of the misery of others. His palms sweat, his stomach flips, but his military training masks the worst of his nerves with an upright posture, firm feet, and a flat voice.

Jee steps forward and unrolls the first of his three scrolls beside the map. His index finger taps his drawing of Zhao’s Jishin.

“Every fleet is led by a flagship upon which an admiral disseminates their orders via lamp code, fire flare, or messenger hawk,” he begins. “With three different directions of attack, we will have three fleets and three flagships to contend with.

“Flagships are the largest vessels and, in the recent past, were armed with three turrets on the main deck, eight torpedo launchers on both sides, and four grappling hooks beneath those, also on both sides.” His finger moves to the plan view of the Jishin’s schematic, pointing to where the arms are located. A loud yawn fills the tent. Jee pauses. His eyes finds the source: the earthbending girl. The prestigious Beifong’s only daughter. Toph blinks the tears out of her eyes and leans against Suki, who offers him a sympathetic shrug. Jee clears his throat. “I do not doubt the Fire Nation has increased the artillery since the last model I was on six months ago.”

“Six months ago?” a water tribe warrior scowls. “You mean to tell me the ships we fought then are already obsolete?”

“Yes, the Fire Nation constantly redesigns and builds new military units. In my experience, new models are released every quarter—that is, every three months. Retired units are returned to the homeland to either be dismantled and melted down or kept for engineering study. Fortunately, there’s been a pattern in how they’ve changed their designs.” Jee returns his gaze to the drawing with distaste. “This model was Zhao’s. Some of you might remember it from his attempted siege of the North. The model before this one had two turrets on the main deck, twelve total torpedo launchers, and six total grappling hooks. The model before that: two, ten, four. Based on this pattern and the fact that two quarters have passed, I think it is reasonable to assume we will see a flagship with five, twenty, and ten.”

Rerolling the first schematic, Jee opens his second. He tries to ignore Toph’s body language. It’s a bit of a trial. She picks her nose and flicks her findings with one finger.

“However, at a certain point it does not make sense to increase the number of a certain type of artillery. I have seen several proposed schematics in the engineering room of Zhao’s flagship. Torpedo launchers were almost always increased, but the grappling hooks were often reduced in number and replaced with other innovations.” He points to where a large, circular saw ejects from the ship’s sides in elevation then front section views. “There is a chance we might encounter underwater saws.”

“Underwater saws?” Katara gapes.

“Tear open a hull, sink a whole ship without wasting resources on missile and torpedo shell casings.” He purses his lips at the irony that his treason may have been a source of inspiration. “It’s a short-range mode of attack but would be highly effective in compromising immediate threats.”

Chief Hakoda studies the drawing with one hand cupping his chin in thought. “Well, this fortunately does not change our original plan: we must take over the Fire Nation ships to neutralize them. Our own ships must be faster than their weapons and act as decoys.”

“The three flagships are the ones you want first,” Jee advises. “Take over the flagships, and you become the queen of the ant-termite colony. It will take too long for the rest of the fleet to figure out something is wrong. By then, hopefully the tide of the war will be in our favor. Our greatest challenges will be boarding the ships undetected and ensuring no crew on the flagships become wise to us and warn the others.”

“So how are we gonna board the flagships?” Suki asks. She pushes Toph off her shoulder. The smaller girl grumbles about feeling ‘bored’. The Kyoshi Warrior prods a pressure point on Toph’s spine, forcing her to stand straighter.

Jee unrolls his final scroll. On it is a cutout view of the flagship’s superstructure. He opens the first scroll with the plan views and sets it next to the cutout view for reference. “Five crew are posted on watch rotations. Two at the stern, two abeam, one at the bow.” He taps each location on the plan view before moving his hand to the superstructure detail. There he runs his finger up two support beams facing the stern. “There are two blind spots in every ship’s superstructure here. We need to board the flagships just below abeam. Doesn’t matter which side. There are emergency ladders that lead up to the bridge either way. The important thing is to subdue the crew on the bridge and take over the helm without getting noticed.”

“Our goal in this endeavor is to protect the ports and the civilians.” General Iroh reminds. “To do that, we need to move the fleets away from the coasts to avoid collateral damage.”

“We will station several Southern Water Tribe ships here, northwest of White Tail Island and southeast of Fire Fountain City; here, south of Gaoling; and here, at the mouth of Chamelon bay, north of the Eastern Air Temple.” Chief Hakoda places miniatures of blue and white ships throughout the ocean. “They will await the redirection of the fleets and combat the ships furthest away from the respective flagship.”

Bato leans against the table with both hands, one finger tapping the wood. He peers at Jee. “Do you have a recommendation on how to best neutralize the fleet from the flagships?”

Jee opens his mouth to reply when Sokka beats him to it.

“It’d be too risky to attack the fleets outright with explosives,” Sokka says, curling one finger beneath his chin in an exact mirror of his father. “That would trigger an immediate counter-fire.”

Logical. Intuitive. Smart. Jee grins in appreciation.

“You are correct, Sokka. Once they are at an acceptable distance away from land, I would favor the grappling hooks for the closest ships. The offensive maneuver won’t be immediately apparent. If the saws are indeed part of the upgrade, that will make our mission move along a lot faster.”

“They will likely think they struck something from below and investigate,” Sokka comments.

“Exactly,” Jee nods. “By the time they discover the damage, we would have moved on to disabling the other ships.”

Katara moves in between her father and Bato for a closer look at the schematics. She frowns upon reading the height of the hull. “The main decks are well above sea level.”

“I know. We will need to use the jet step to make the jump on board.”

“Ooo …” King Bumi chuckles. “That sounds exciting! What’s a jet step?”

“Firebending using our feet to propel ourselves upward,” Prince Zuko elaborates.

Sokka’s head tilts back, eyes squinting heavenward. “So that’s what Azula did on Boiling Rock.”

“For ships these size, we will need at least two firebenders per flagship. With two, we could carry one more soldier between us. Sozin’s Comet will help make the lift.”

“You’re the one with the firebending crew, Lieutenant,” Chief Hakoda acknowledges, “and you know them and these ships best. How do you want to deploy?”

“I would like Aki with me taking over the western fleet. The coast they patrol is the longest of the Earth Kingdom and closest to the Fire Nation. Bombardment there will be the most severe. Shan’s a helmsman. He can take over the southern fleet, the second worst threat, with Qianfan. Donghai’s a bosan. He can take over the eastern fleet with Kenzou,” Jee’s eyes dart to Kenzou, “with Kenzou’s consent.”

Face grim, Kenzou says nothing. He only nods and offers a thumbs-up.

“And you said one additional solider per team?” Chief Hakoda’s eyes skim his men.

“That would be ideal. We will need someone to captain the bridge, someone to launch fire flares and possibly take over the gun deck, and someone to secure the bridge. It will be a lean unit, but it can’t be helped.”

Chief Hakoda turns to his second. “Bato, I would like you to accompany Lieutenant Jee.”

“Of course, Chief.”

“Amaruq, you will join Shan and Qianfan. Ikiaq, with Donghai and Kenzou. For each Fire Nation fleet, I want twelve ships waiting in open water. Lieutenant Jee, based on the speed of these ships, how long will it take to redirect the western fleet?”

“The Jishin traveled at a top speed of forty-five knots. These ships could be faster, but I would rather be conservative. From the coast, we’re looking at about fifty-three miles judging by the coordinates you’ve chosen. I’d say a little over an hour.”

The chief shakes his head. “An hour is too long.”

“This meeting is too long,” Toph whines under her breath. Jee exhales deeply through his nose.

“Assuming we take over the bridge in five minutes,” he plows on, “it will take another three to re-orient the flagship south by southwest.”

“And the fire flares?”

“A minute,” Jee and Prince Zuko answer together. Proud, and a touch mollified, Jee inclines his head at the prince to continue for him.

“The fire flares are code for travel coordinates,” Prince Zuko goes on. “Every ship has a Fire Flare Officer stationed on top of the superstructure. When the officers closest to the flagship see the flares, they shout a translation down a speaking tube to the bridge. After the immediate crew acknowledges the message, the same officer sends identical fire flares out, and that message is copied again, down the fleet until everyone knows the orders.”

“How long before the entire fleet would be aware?”

“Two minutes,” they answer.

“Three tops,” Jee qualifies.

“And after those three minutes, we add three minutes for each ship to orient themselves.” The chief worries his teeth against his lower lip, frowning at the map. “We need to do this well before the Fire Lord launches his attack, but not so early it appears suspicious.”

“Final orders are sent by messenger hawk to the admirals each dawn,” Donghai pipes up. He leans against one of the tent poles, arms crossed. “We could intercept them.”

“Annnnnd … I did become the proud owner of Hawkie!” Sokka chirps. “What if we send Hawkie just before dawn and, you know,” he makes a slashing motion across his neck and sticks out his tongue, “take out the other hawks with some arrows?”

“The message can say the Fire Lord is only sending one message to the admiral of the western fleet to ensure security!” Prince Zuko exclaims. “We can add that he’s relying on him to pass the orders along to his peers. Admiral Qiang would eat that right up.”

Sokka makes a pained face. “Are all admirals hams like Zhao?”

“Unfortunately,” Jee replies. He glimpses Toph. She drags her bare feet across the dirt, creating complex dioramas of villages and forests for her own amusement. “I think it’s a good idea. Believable, too. Chief Hakoda?”

“Hm. Any chance you’re any good at copying the Fire Lord’s ‘voice’ and handwriting, General Iroh?”

The general throws his head back and laughs. “We are brothers! Of course, I know how to forge his handwriting. How do you think I managed to organize Prince Zuko’s crew so quickly?”

Jee snaps his head at the general and sees the prince do the same off the corner of his eye. “What?”

“Oh, yes! I consider us lucky he never cared to look into it.” Jee feels himself blanch. They could have been bombed out of the ocean if the Fire Lord gave a damn. He peeks at Prince Zuko and observes him coming to the same horrifying conclusion. General Iroh, unperturbed by his own revelation, unpockets a brush from his sleeve and twirls it between his fingers. “Now, what shall His Majesty say?”

*

She is only a child, but her lack of respect gets under Jee’s skin. He wishes he were more forgiving. Better yet, he wishes he were more secure. But he is not Chief Hakoda, or Bato, or General Iroh, or any of the White Lotus members. Any respect he got, he’d fought doggedly for, and sometimes that effort carried the sour scent of desperation.

Toph, for all her poor manners, never lacked in confidence. She might have disdained her nobility, but she took it with her all the same. It was apparent in how she moved. There was a certain privilege in her carelessness.

Jee waits until the tent empties before he exits. He tells himself to let it go. Let her be. She is twelve and insolent and guileless, as is expected for her age. He has seen it all before. His feet take him a handful of yards back toward his tent before they pause.

Unbidden, he remembers the elaborate models she’d bended out of dirt with her soles and toes. Whole villages with little people, farm animals, and valleys. Vast forests composed of every type of tree and wildlife. The inside of an Earth Kingdom palace, sprawling and ornate. The girl is bright, very bright, and her element lent itself to building things.

And what are schematics for, if not to build?

He cannot let it go. Beyond his ego, he senses something amiss. It is an instinct honed from years of reading the body language of crew after crew after crew. Disengagement. Frustration. Annoyance. Perhaps he had been boring, but something else was bothering her. Whatever it was, experience tells him it’s best to nip it in the bud. Bitter sailors fester into lonely ones.

His eyes scan the camp until he finds Toph trudging toward one of the sparring rings she’d earthbended herself. Like a hawk he goes straight to her. Eager to sus out her attitude. Eager to pick apart with a prying beak what was wrong. (Eager to mend. Eager to provide.)

“Was my presentation less than satisfactory, Lady Beifong?”

“Ugh! Don’t call me that! Do I look like a lady to you?”

“You are nobility, and it is your title.”

“Titles are a load of salamander-toad stool.” Toph spins on the ball of one foot to face him. Her blindness renders her green eyes a milky mint, and he wonders what she imagines when talking to people. Toph regards him for a moment before batting her hand at the air. “Nah, you were okay. Just hard to sit still when I can’t see what the heck you’re all talking about.”

Ah. The young earthbending master felt excluded. She navigates the world with such surety, it is easy to forget her way of seeing was not theirs. Jee briefly considers stooping to meet Toph’s height. He decides against it. He has no interest in being the receiving end of a child’s fist. Instead, he sits down cross-legged on the grass and lays one the schematics between them. Intrigued, Toph settles as well.

“May I take your hand?”

“That depends. You’re not gonna cut it off and turn me into a pirate, are ya?”

Jee huffs. “No, I wanted to show you where the lines of the drawings are.”

The girl puts on a show of indifference by flipping a limp arm in his direction. He takes her wrist and wraps his hand over hers, coaxing her index and middle fingers into a pointing position. He then guides those fingers over the lines of his drawings.

“Do you feel where the ink is different from the paper?”

“Yeah.”

“This is the hull, the body of the ship. This is the stern, the back of the ship, and the bow, the front.” He traces the outline with her hand. “This is the superstructure. That’s the tower in most destroyers and cruisers.” He starts from the top of the tower and slowly makes their way down. “At the top is the bridge, where the helm is, beneath that are the officers’ cabins, the mess hall, and the crew bunks.” He lifts her hand and takes it to the other half of the parchment. “This view is from above, that is, a plan view.” He brings her hand back to the original image she had touched. “This view is from the side, that’s called an elevation view.” He releases her hand to present another scroll, then guides her fingers once more. “This is a cutout or a section. Feel how it’s similar to the elevation view of the superstructure but more detailed?”

Toph nods, mouth slightly open and the center of her brow creased as she translates what she’s feeling into a diagram in her head. She retraces all the lines. Then she stomps her foot on the ground.

The earth rises in response to her vibrations, creating a scaled-down model of the Jishin.

“How’s it look? Did I get it right?”

Jee inspects every angle. The model's is slightly larger than a toy sailboat, yet its details follow Jee's schematics down to every door and porthole. His eye inspects the bridge window. Through it he can see the helm, the engine order telegraph, and the navigation station. He’s not sure why he should be so surprised. He’d seen her bend before. Yet this is a miniature replica of something he’d been in. To say it is impressive falls unforgivably short.

“Perfect.”

Toph smiles wide. Dimples spot each cheek. She’s all teeth. “Normally, I can’t feel the difference between the ink and paper.”

Jee grimaces. It does not matter. She won’t notice. “I may have inked the lines more than once.”

“Why’d you do that?”

Anxiety. “Thoroughness.”

“Huh … “ Toph cocks her head to the side, her long bangs sliding with the motion. “If books were like this, I think I could learn how to read.”

“Sounds like a worthy project when all this is over.” Jee pushes the schematics to her in encouragement. “You can study these with your fingers, if you like. Return them to me when you’re done?”

The girl grins. It’s a small, surprisingly quiet thing for such a rambunctious kid. “Okay.”

*

Perched atop the elevated sparring ring, Zuko runs his whetstone down one of his broadswords. He glances at Sokka, who’s observing the lieutenant and Toph chatting in the distance.

“Huh,” Sokka muses. “Toph smiling at an adult. Will wonders ever cease?”

Zuko smirks to himself and brings the whetstone to his second sword. For a man who seemed perpetually fed up with people, Jee had a way with them.  “Quit stalling, Sokka. Are we gonna spar or not?”

He rises to his feet, thrusting both swords out to his sides. Sozin’s Comet is arriving tomorrow. They hadn’t much time left, but he wasn’t about to waste any of it. Even if Azula and most of the Fire Nation held contempt for the blade, wielding one is an art that blended seamlessly into bending forms.

“You that excited to get your butt handed to you?” Sokka taunts.

Zuko laughs. “Big words for someone who only started using the jian this summer.”

With that, Sokka lunges forward. Zuko ripostes the strike with a blow of his own. Sokka feints to the left, but Zuko doesn’t buy it. He reads Sokka’s eyes and footwork, seeing the bluff, and meets Sokka’s space sword with a parry to the right. Their blades spark, clean steal against the dark shadow of meteorite. They’re both working up a sweat, and Zuko realizes he is enjoying himself.

Undeterred, Sokka pushes back, teeth gritting but smiling. He jumps back before lunging again, beating his jian against Zuko’s dao so rapidly that the prince has no choice but to move back. His heel scrapes against the edge of the sparring ring. When the next blow comes, he spins out of the way. The momentum sends Sokka hurtling off the platform.

Peeking over the ledge, Zuko finds Sokka inelegantly sprawled on the ground with his bottom pointing at the sky. Zuko twirls his swords.

“Again?”

His friend rolls right-side up. “You’re on!”

He leans forward with an extended hand. Sokka takes it, and he pulls him back into the ring. “Best two out of three?”

They go more rounds than the original three that had been agreed upon. With each bout, Sokka improves in reading Zuko’s intentions, and Zuko must think creatively to avoid becoming predictable. By the time the sun has reached its apex, they’re both flushed from dancing about the ring. Zuko leading, Sokka following. They draw close as their swords cross, attack meeting attack with neither giving in. The distance between their faces shrinks as each pursues and resists. Zuko can feel Sokka’s breath mix with his.

He swallows. Sokka does, too. A twitch in Sokka’s wrist. For a precious second, his grip loosens. Zuko pushes him back, flicking the space sword out of his hand. The black blade arcs in the air then plants itself in the grass, a flag of defeat.

Zuko is about to congratulate Sokka for a good match when the other boy groans. His friend slumps into a seated position, both legs dangling off the platform, shoulders hunched, head bowed.

“You’re right,” Sokka mumbles. “Seems like all I got are big words.”

With a frown, Zuko sheathes his swords and takes a seat beside him. “Hey. Don’t be like that. I was just, you know … ‘jerkbending’ you. You learn really fast, Sokka.”

Sokka snorts, shaking his head. “Even with Master Piandao’s training, there’s only so much I can do. I keep pushing myself to do better, but every time I look around it’s like everyone else is always pulling ahead.”

“Well, you should know I've trained with Piando since I was six. That’s ten years of practice, and you can keep up with me. You’re a lot better than you think.”

“Yeah, but how can my sword or even my boomerang compare to, like, making a zillion floating daggers out of ice? Or turning boulders into full-body armor? Or making fire tornadoes?”

Zuko can’t help but laugh. “Fire tornadoes?”

“I don’t know what else to call your fancy leg spinning move, so fire tornado it is.”

He keeps his eyes on his friend, watching as his head dips down lower and lower in misery. It’s not the first time Sokka has doubted himself, and Zuko finds kinship in this, always comparing himself to his prodigious sister. He drapes an arm over Sokka’s sweaty shoulders.

“Sokka, you don’t need bending to be special. You already are.”

Blue eyes roll. “What’s so special about meat and sarcasm?”

“Okay, sure, those things are you,” Zuko shrugs, “but you’re also the smartest guy I know.”

Sokka peers at him. His big eyes fishing for more yet dubious about whether or not to believe it.

“Seriously,” Zuko bumps their heads together. “You figured out how escape Boiling Rock in a day. You invented the submarine. You plotted the attack on the Day of the Black Sun—”

“—Which failed.”

“Only because my sister told the Fire Lord about it.” He removes his arm from Sokka’s shoulder, placing his hand over his. Sokka glances down at their fingers. They fan out, slipping between each other’s spaces, tips curling. (Chrysanthemum petals.)

Zuko should feel self-conscious. He knows he shouldn’t look at another boy this way. Yet Zuko does, and his secret is this: when he looks at him, he sees the future. What it could be, how it would be better, and the things Sokka will do to make it so. He thinks of that night Sokka toasted him. Feels the moment he believed he could make a difference, and he wants Sokka to know what that feels like.

“Sokka, the things you come up with … no one else can. You’re inc—you’re ideas are incredible. It’s only hard to see because bending is flashy, especially fire. What you do—what you will keep doing—is create things that will change the world.”

His friend drags his eyes away from their hands. “That’s a tall order.”

“And you’re already doing it.” Zuko takes his hand away, neither knowing what the boundaries are, nor wanting to cross them needlessly. Friendship is new to him, perhaps newer than infatuation, and he dare not lose it. “Plus you’re not bad with that boomerang. Got me good the first time we met, remember?”

That wins him a laugh. A big barking one that has Sokka slapping his knee. “True! You did look pretty dumb when your stupid helmet landed on your butt.”

His face screws up in embarrassment even as his heart swoops with pleasure. “Please don’t tell anyone about that.”

*

Jee leans against a tree, one knee up with one arm draped over it. After Zuko and Sokka’s sparring session winds down, the others come to join them. He watches everyone practice their forms side-by-side, the prince adapting waterbending and earthbending systems for fire, creating fire whips that crawl up his arms and a magnificent twist of flame that rolls like a dragon in flight. One move—graceful, weightless, spinning—can only be inspired by the air nomads. Jee wonders what the Avatar is like, and what sort of friendship he might have with Prince Zuko after so many years lost chasing his specter.

“Lively bunch, aren’t they?”

Jee glances up. Chief Hakoda smiles down on him with two bowls of lunch and chopsticks in hand. Char-siu, bok choy, and rice by the smell of it. He offers his thanks and gestures next to him. The chief takes a seat.

“As lively as butter-bees.” He takes a bite from his bowl. “The prince has friends now. It’s nice to see.”

“You knew him when he was first banished.”

“He was quite different, then,” Jee admits. “He was never alone, but he was always lonely. Who wouldn’t be? Three years at sea with no one but old men and Aki. That couldn’t have been good for him.”

Across the way, Katara blasts a stream of water while Zuko responds with a jet of fire. Kneeling between them, Sokka holds up his sword which has, to Piandao’s endless amusement, a stack of steamer baskets pierced straight through. The collision of fire and water produces are large cloud of steam. When it dissipates, Sokka lowers his blade and lifts one of the bamboo lids. His friends gather around him to peek inside and cheer. Suki fans the contents until they’re no longer smoking. Once whatever is inside is cool enough, Toph plucks fresh dumplings out with her grubby fingers. She tosses one to the prince, who catches it with his mouth. Katara, Sokka, and Suki laugh. Jee shakes his head.

“Look at him now. I’ve never seen him ostrich-horse around like this. He was so morose I often forgot he’s still a kid.” Jee looks down at his bowl, moving rice around with his chopsticks in thought. “He’d been forced to grow up too fast. All of them, really.”

They share companionable silence, taking in the dynamics of these teenagers at a distance. Katara clearly mothers the lot of them. Her hands fall on her hips frequently enough to be second nature. Toph is everyone’s little sister. Ready to pull pranks and back-talk faster than Prince Zuko can groan ‘okay that’s enough, settle down, we’ve gotta be ready tomorrow’, as if he weren’t actively participating himself. Suki is harder to pin down. She is a protector and a leader, certainly, but not a caregiver. Jee assesses her as the most mature of the group. Sokka’s gaze darts to hers, and the fondness between them is mutual. The prince watches the couple, and Jee knows the intense but subdued look that fills his gold eyes.

“I wish we could keep them this way,” Chief Hakoda murmurs. His voice is heavy with regret. “Keep them out of the war entirely.”

“They never should have had to fight in the first place,” Jee scoffs. “But they may have their shit together better than we do. The war has never felt this close to finally ending, and you damn well know it isn’t because of us.” He sets down his bowl, appetite spoiled by his rising pique. “They grew up fast because anyone born in the last century has something at stake. Even if we tried to keep them safe, you know they wouldn’t sit still. They would find a way out. They would find a way to make sure their hands in ending all this don’t miss their chance.” Jee drags a palm across his face. “In some ways, knowing what they intend to do instead of holding them back is safer for them.”

He considers Chief Hakoda when he does not reply. The man is handsome, strong, and carries the mantle of tribe leader well. Yet looking at these kids—his son and daughter, who have not yet peaked in adolescence—has the weight of years away from home falling solidly on his shoulders. It occurs to Jee he has less right to be angry than the chief does, but he’d never been good at keeping his mouth shut once he knew something was unjust.

“I was thinking the same thing.” The chief leans his head back against the tree trunk. He shuts his eyes with a long sigh. “It’s scares me.”

*

By sunset, Sokka’s dirty, sweaty, and more than a little stinky. He pokes at Zuko to come along with him to the river. Zuko sniffs his underarm. He nods and his face is so solemn, Sokka’s tickled into another peal of laughter. His friend yells at him, ‘What’s so funny? Sokka, come on. Stop laughing!’, which only sends Sokka into another giggling fit that hurts his sides.

Before Zuko, he’d had Aang to goof around with. Then Toph. But Aang and Toph are both three years younger than him. Sokka loves them both, but there are some things he cannot share with them. Then Boiling Rock happened, and—

Zuko stops short after they weave around to the other side of the thicket. A man stands at the end of the river, bathing beneath the small waterfall. His backside faces them, tightly muscled from shoulder to shoulder, tapering to his narrow waist. Soapsuds slide down the vertical dip of his spine. The triangular plane of his trapezius. The space between his thighs.

Sokka glances at Zuko. His friend looks shocked. Shocked and frozen. If he manages to stifle a snort, it is only because Sokka considers himself a good friend, and he likes Zuko best when he’s blushing instead of sulking.

The man turns slightly, allowing a spray of water to wash the white foam off his lower back. The water uncurtains a tattoo of a humming-moth flying through flames. Red eyespots the shape of twin suns rest on its wings. The eyespots are eerie. They seem to stare back, following one’s gaze no matter where one looks.

And Zuko cannot stop staring. Sokka has half the mind to wave his hand in front of him to check for signs of life, when the stranger rinses the lather off his arms, revealing two inked bands around each bicep, one red and one green. 

The lieutenant senses he is not alone. He doesn’t startle when he turns his head to peer over his left shoulder. When he spots them, he doesn’t say anything. But his brow—the man’s most eloquent feature, Sokka decides—arches in question. Zuko shakes himself out of it.

“Lieutenant!” Sokka winces at how loud Zuko squawks. “We, uh … We didn’t know you were here.”

The man turns back to the waterfall, rinsing the last of the soap from his hair.

“It’s all right. I was just finishing.”

They approach the bathing area as the lieutenant reaches for a towel hanging from a nearby outcropping of rock. He wraps the towel around his waist and gathers his grooming items into a small basket sitting on the riverbank. Steam rises from his skin as he moves, drying him in short order with passive firebending.

“All yours,” the lieutenant says in passing.

Sokka hears Zuko clutch his own basket of soap, brushes, and towels against his stomach, hard enough to make the reeds crunch. A sly grin tugs at Sokka’s lips.

“Cool tattoo.” He comments, bringing the lieutenant up short. “What’s it mean?”

Next to him, he feels every hair on Zuko’s body rise like a perturbed cat. “Sokka.”

Surprisingly, the lieutenant pauses. His brown eyes go distant. At length, he replies, “I’ve been told humming-moths are servants of Agni. They symbolize devoted love, love that lives past death.”

“We have deep meanings for tattoos in the Water Tribe, too,” Sokka smiles. He ignores Zuko’s growing fluster. “There are traditional ones, patterns that symbolize bravery, accomplishments, things like that. But we can also ask our tribe’s artist to design one at our request. I hope to get a few someday. I just can’t decide what I should get one of. What made you pick a humming-moth?”

“Sokka.”

“I didn’t. A friend gave it to me.”

A humming-moth tattoo? On the lower back? Sokka leans in, voice going low and eyebrows wiggling in what he hopes is manly camaraderie. “Oh. Like, a friend-friend?”

“Sokka!”

There it is. Zuko’s ridiculous blush. Sokka knows he will be paying for it later, but when he sees the lieutenant turn gray before them, he realizes too late he’d gone too far.

“Something like that, yes.”

*

“And you say I suck at reading the room.”

“That wasn’t me. That was Aang.”

“Fine. But you agreed with him.”

“Well, it’s true.”

“Right. That conversation you just had didn’t go south at all.”

“Okay. I admit I may have been too nosy—”

“—may have?”

“I was trying to be friendly! You know, make friends with your friend’s friend? He is your friend, isn’t he?”

“Sort of. I guess.”

“‘Sort of.’ ‘You guess.’ Buddy, you were checking him out.”

Zuko drops the soap in his hands. It hits the river water with a heavy ‘plunk’. “No, I wasn’t!”

Sokka, in rare graciousness, kneels to retrieve the soap and return it to him.

“Give it up, you totally were. Don’t be embarrassed. You know I don’t judge.” Zuko snatches the bar from his hands, offering his friend a withering look. “Okay. Fine. I might judge a little.”

He knows Sokka is teasing. There is a certain rhythm and lilt in his voice that let’s others know not to take him seriously. It’s a quality Zuko appreciates, being literal and serious enough for them both. But this conversation is skirting too close to feelings Zuko tries not to think about too deeply. There is lust and there is love. Teenagers thrum with lust, and lust is not beholden to propriety. Love, however, was another matter entirely.

“It-it’s not like that,” Zuko stammers.

Sokka gives him an odd look. “What’s not like that?”

“I’m not like that.”

“… okay …?”

He bites his lip and tries to look anywhere but at his friend, who is funny and clever and charming. But then his mind wanders to the lieutenant, and suddenly he’s on the Wani, seeking any kind of affection without admitting it to even himself.

“The Fire Nation,” he mumbles. “Looking at … other men … It’s not allowed.”

Finally, Sokka seems to understand. His eyes widen before hardening. “But—”

“I’m not, okay?!”

His fist strikes the water, boiling it as it splashes. Sokka holds up his hands, placating, but he does not take a step back. No. He steps forward. He reaches out.

“Zuko, I know what you’re talking about, and I want to let you know that it’s okay if you are like that. There’s nothing wrong with it.”

This cannot be happening. This sort of thing … it is never discussed. Zuko covers his face with both hands. Why? Why had he gawked so long at another man’s body? He’s embarrassed. He’s ashamed. He hates that he feels things for people he shouldn’t, but somehow, he cannot seem to stop.

He retreats from Sokka until his thighs hit the riverbank. Water sloshes after him. Sokka follows. Zuko wishes he wouldn’t. Yet whenever he leads, always his friend follows. When Sokka leads, he’s never far behind. It had been that way at Boiling Rock. It is that way today. Whenever Zuko walks, he resists looking behind him, hoping Sokka might be there.

Two wet palms clasp the sides of his upper arms. They move up and down in a comforting motion. It makes the feelings worse.

“Listen, liking another man, loving him, even just thinking he’s attractive, that’s normal. The Fire Nation might have a law against it, but it’s law, not truth.”

Zuko wants to believe him. So many things the Fire Nation had taught him had been lies. Why couldn’t this be one more? But a bone-deep doubt wraps around his spine and cinches his heart with fear (Filthy. Unmanly. You could be hung.)

“How do you know that?”

He cannot meet Sokka’s gaze, but he can feel it. It is soft. It is kind.

“Zuko, do you think love is boundless?”

His head shoots up, affronted. For some reason, that makes Sokka smile. “Of course, I do!”

“Then if two men can’t be in love, or two women, doesn’t that mean love isn’t boundless?”

He blinks. He hadn’t thought of it that way. It is so simple, it seems too good to be true.

“Look,” Sokka lets him go to lean against the riverbank beside him, “when you become Fire Lord, you can get rid of that law. That and all the other stupid laws the Fire Nation’s got, but that’s a damn good place to start.”

The bar of soap in Zuko’s hands changes shape, forming ridges along its sides the more he squeezes it like a lifeline.

“Did you mean what you said? About me … being like that?”

“Yup.”

“It doesn’t … I don’t make you uncomfortable?”

“Nope.”

Zuko huffs. “You make it sound like it’s all so easy.”

“That’s because it is.” Sokka makes a fist and lightly knocks Zuko’s temple. His lips turn feline. Zuko braces himself. “So. Lieutenant Jee. You have a crush on him?”

“No!” He shouts too quickly. At Sokka’s unimpressed look, he deflates. “Well, I did on the Wani. Right after I turned sixteen. We had a fight and … Agni, that was a terrible time.”

“Hey. You were surrounded by old men, I was surrounded by babies and old ladies, plus Katara.” Sokka chuckles, and when he does, his shoulder brushes up against his. “Not gonna lie: leaving was good for me. Trying to get some private time was …”

Sokka’s squeezes his eyes shut and sighs. Zuko perks up, knowing exactly what his friend is talking about.

“Ugh … Yeah, I know what you mean. I was stuck on a boat in the middle of the ocean, and my uncle would just barge into my room whenever he wanted.”

“That’s what happened with my sister!”

“It’s like … Could you knock?”

“Right?!”

They laugh together, trading awkward stories they each swear to never tell another soul. Perhaps Sokka is with Suki and might never return Zuko’s affections, but at least, the prince thinks, they will always have this. The air grows chilly as evening descends. Zuko warms the water until Sokka sinks into it, chin deep and content.

“Shave my hair?” He asks. There’s a razor in Sokka’s basket. “I can do your ointment.”

Hair is sacred in the Fire Nation. It is an ever-growing thread that ties a person to their bloodline, their heritage, their loved ones. No one but family should touch it. The Water Tribes’ ritualistic braids and beads imply they hold hair under similar esteem. Zuko’s fingers go numb. He shakes them out.

“Sure.”

Getting back on land, Zuko dries himself and puts on his clothes. Once he’s through, he kneels on the bank, Sokka still in the water with his head between Zuko’s legs. It is a vulnerable position. His friend’s throat arches in offering. With the blade open in his hands, Zuko realizes how easy it would be to kill him.

He wills his still trembling hands to not betray this trust.

As Zuko drags the blade across Sokka’s scalp, the rough sound of hair sheering a pleasant sound, he’s thrown back to six months ago, when he’d been on the receiving end of such care. He tries to remember the way Jee had held his head, the way he’d angle it just so to ensure a clean shave and bloodless shoulders. He copies the motions and finds that, yes, the lieutenant had been thoughtful in this, too.

After Sokka dresses, he takes the jar of ointment from Zuko’s basket. He’d never done this for him before, but Zuko knows Sokka had watched him apply the medicine enough to understand what to do. They kneel across each other, knees touching, and Zuko closes his eyes as the first dollop of oily wax slides across his cheek.

His friend takes his time covering every harsh line and angle. Despite the wound being long healed, the flesh there tightens and cracks. Zuko still hates looking at the mirror. His hair might be back, but his face will never be. He tries not take Sokka’s considerate touches for more than what they are. Yet it is hard to not start thinking that his friend does not see him as ugly. That perhaps this part of him is the most intimate of all.

“Listen,” Sokka says as he finishes with an embrace. There is nothing blithe about his tone, “you can tell me anything, okay? I won’t laugh. You’re not the only one with a gifted sister, grave responsibilities, wack hormones and dad issues, buddy.”

Zuko hugs him back. He wishes he can stay here. Safe in the crook of this pulsing neck. “Sokka, thank you for being my friend.”

“Anytime.” A pause then Sokka smudges a generous glob right on the tip of Zuko’s nose. His eyes cross.

“Hey!” he goes pink, too indignant to notice that when Sokka gazes at him, he can’t look anywhere else.

*

Night comes. They will wake before dawn. The air is electric with anticipation. Jee paces his tent, picking up his shamisen, plucking it, only to put it down again, too caught up with tomorrow’s expectations to calm himself. He tries practicing firebending forms next. It lasts all of fifteen minutes before his mind entangles with all the ways their mission can go wrong. He wonders if it’s too late to bother Aki or Cook for company when a shadow casts itself across the tarp. The shadow fidgets before speaking. Jee already knows who it is.

“Lieutenant? It’s me. Can I come in?”

He pulls back the drape instead of answering. Before he can ask what the prince is doing here, Prince Zuko pushes into his tent. He starts rambling. Scratches the back of his head as he speaks. Nervous tick.

“Sorry about earlier. Sokka can be really curious. He likes knowing anything about everything, or everything about anything.”

Jee turns to his cot and sits down. Prince Zuko follows him. Last night replays itself. Jee finds he doesn’t mind.

“So I surmised. Explains why he’s rather intelligent.”

Prince Zuko brightens. “Yeah. He is, isn’t he?”

His lips quirk. “I asked about Boiling Rock. Chief Hakoda said you helped Sokka break him out.”

“Told you about that, huh?”

“You were both lucky Suki was there.”

“And Mai. Not gonna argue with that.”

Their small talk peters out. Neither of them had ever been particularly good at it to begin with. Jee leans on what is familiar.

“Did you need something, Sir?”

A conflicted look crosses the prince’s face. It doesn’t stay long enough for Jee to decipher. “I was kind of wondering … Are we friends?”

Jee starts. “Friends?”

“I mean … I don’t know. I was your superior before …”

“You are the crown prince,” He replies, his deference automatic. “You always will be.”

That answer gets an unexpected reaction. Prince Zuko wilts.

“Sorry, I—” He’s about to say something but appears to change his mind. “I should get going. Didn’t mean to bother you.”

The prince walks the short distance to the tent flap. Jee springs to his feet. (Fool.) He’s uncertain what he’s done wrong but knows he must rectify it.

“Wait. Why did you ask?”

Prince Zuko looks at the ground. He takes his time when he speaks. “I guess I realized I don’t know that much about you. Every time we talk, it’s always about me. What I’m worried about, what I’m afraid of, what I hope for. You never really talk about yourself.”

“There isn’t much to know. What I shared on my knees, that was my story, really.”

Another silence falls between them. Jee thinks about the day they’d found each other again. How hard they had embraced one another, and all the things he felt but could not begin to put into words. The quiet they have now feels much like that one.

“Sokka pinned you right: you’re private, but I also think you don’t give yourself enough credit.”

“I don’t believe in overselling.”

“That’s my point. You don’t ‘sell’ at all.” Frustration replaces his disappointment. Jee catches the way Prince Zuko rubs the back of his neck and worries his hands. “I want you to know, you were amazing at the naval briefing today. Wish I appreciated that more on the Wani.”

“You’ve already apologized, Sir.”

“I know. Still … you should know. You make a difference. Tomorrow, you’ll make a difference.”

“You sound so sure.”

“I am.” Gold eyes shift to him. They are bright enough to be molten. “As a friend, stay alive, okay?”

Jee bows. He keeps it small out of sentiment. “Likewise, Sir.”

The prince licks his lips. His eyes become hopeful. “You can call me ‘Zuko’, if you want.”

No title. No address of respect. Only his name. Of all the gifts royalty might bestow, this is one of the rarest. It feels too valuable to possess. At the same time, while accepting it, to Jee it does not feel like his at all.

“Thank you, Zuko.” The name feels strange in his mouth, but the prince smiles. Things feel righted, though not entirely. “Please understand,” Jee explains, “‘Sir’ is … more than an address. For me.”

(The only word I have when I think of you. The first word on my tongue when I see you.)

Zuko’s face warbles into something that could be amused. “Like a nickname?”

No, but …

“Something like that.”

*

They leave four hours before dawn.

Zuko and each of his friends have already decided their place in the war. Jee has his misgivings about sending Sokka, Suki, and Toph after the airships, but their resistance is small and in war, needs must. The three depart on foot while he, Zuko, Katara, and several of his crew and Water Tribe warriors board Appa’s saddle.

The sky bison is not the fastest beast by any means but traveling by air cuts lost time in half. Zuko and Katara drop him and the naval team off at Chin before making their way to Caldera. Leaving the two of them alone does not sit well with Jee any better than letting go of the other three, but Katara’s healing abilities add a level of reassurance.

A fleet of Water Tribe boats hide beneath burlap camouflaged with woven foliage. Bato grabs the burlap of one of the ships and throws it off with ease.

It’s an important day. A stressful one. All the same, Jee cannot help the smile that catches him unawares as he beholds the vessel before him.

Small. Wooden. Sleek. It reminds Jee of the outriggers he used to sail when he was a teenager. He steps up to the boat with reverence. One hand reaches out. Palm flat against the smooth hull. His fingers run across the sanded planks. The wood is dark and solid and inviting.

“She’s gorgeous.”

Chief Hakoda lays a hand on his shoulder. When he turns to him, the other man beams with pride. “Isn’t she?”

“I know now isn’t the time, but after,” and Agni, there can only be an after, “may I have the honor of piloting one for pleasure?”

“We would be delighted, wouldn’t we, Bato?”

Bato grins with mischief. “Ever heard of ice dodging?”

*

They board the boats and go their three separate ways. Jee’s vessel stops partway through the journey while the others continue onward to better encircle the Fire Nation fleet. Hawkie flaps her wings. Change crackles the atmosphere. She must feel it. Her feet move back and forth over Chief Hakoda’s leather gloves. The bird itches to fly.

They slip General Iroh’s forged letter into the message tube and seal it shut. Chief Hakoda throws his arm, and the hawk vaults off his hand. They watch with bated breath as the bird disappears into the sky, which has only begun to turn silver with early morning.

*

Another hour passes before they finally sight the western fleet.

Their boat glides across the water. Dawn blesses them with a marine layer. The thick veil of clouds hides their presence as they seek out the flagship. Jee spots it. He points to a vessel with a fore down dressing line hanging diagonally from stemhead to masthead. Numerous signal flags hang from the line. One of them is an admiral’s pennant.

Chief Hakoda takes the boat as close as he can to hull, abeam to port, and lowers the sails. Jee and Aki have their arms hooked through Bato’s elbows. They wait and wait, until …

“Now!” Jee hisses.

They jump onto the gunwale and leap into the air. A second before they start to fall, he and Aki summon their fire and cast it from their feet. They go up, up, through the marine layer toward the sky that Sozin’s Comet tinges a deep orange.

The flagship’s port side gunwale comes into view. They fly over it then gradually lower their fire. Their feet meet the deck. The alloy beneath them sings quietly. Jee hates how any movement can create loud vibrations. He holds a finger up to his lips and points to the superstructure’s blind spot. They stay within it.

A shadow materializes through the fog. A sailor on watch approaches them. When the figure comes too close for comfort, Bato kicks, seizes and bludgeons. His large hand muffles the sailor’s shout. He lowers the unconscious body onto the deck. A nod, and they climb up the emergency ladder.

“Five turrets,” Bato whispers.

Glancing below, past Aki, Jee follows where Bato’s finger points. One turret at the bow. One abeam to port. Another abeam to starboard. Twisting, he faces the stern. Two more. One for each crew member on watch, it seems.

Reaching the bridge, Jee kicks the door open. The admiral and crew swing their heads in confusion. He hurls a wave of fire that spirals around the cabin. Some burn. Some duck. Aki locks the door behind them and welds it to its metal frame with flames. Together with Bato, they twist heads, crush noses, and crack skulls open with a club, a wrench, and a fist.

Bloodied bodies lay limp all over the bridge. Jee slides a couple of them off the control panel and helm.

“Aki, get up there!”

“Yes, Sir!”

She runs out the door, locks it behind her, and welds it shut from outside. Not missing a beat, she climbs atop the superstructure. Bato places himself between the two doors on either side of the bridge, ready to defend in either direction. Jee pushes the engine order telegraph lever from FULL-AHEAD to HALF-AHEAD to SLOW.

The flagship goes into a tranquil drift. He and Bato look out the window as a series of flames, shorts and longs, shoot from above the bridge and arc in the distance.

“Aki to Bridge. Aki to Bridge,” the mechanic’s voice echoes through one of the speaking tubes. Jee leans toward it.

“Go for Aki.”

“Message launched, Lieutenant.”

Seconds later, similar flames flare from their neighboring ships. The message radiates out. Before long, the fleet rearranges itself, sailing in a concentric formation around the flagship.

“Bridge to Aki. Bridge to Aki.”

“Go for Bridge.”

“Fire flares received by all?”

“Affirmative. Formation complete”

“Take over the gun deck.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Behind him, Bato clenches his club. “Tui and La, I hope this works.”

“No choice, is there?”

They wait as the fleet formation remains in place. Five minutes pass. Jee’s about to ask Bato to run to the gun deck when an out of breath voice echoes from a different speaking tube.

 “Aki to Bridge. Gun deck secured. You might have some visitors.”

“Do we have saws?”

Jee and Bato look at one another as they await Aki’s reply.

“Affirmative. One on each side between two grappling hooks, below ten torpedo launchers. Two, eight, twenty, total.”

Shouting. Banging. The doors won’t budge. Crew surround the bridge from either side. They wrap their naval jackets around their fists, hurling them at the glass windows half-covering the doors. The door at starboard shatters first. Bleeding hands and scorched boots hold onto the emptied window frame to haul their owners in.

Bato raises his club. He crushes bones to powder with each blow. A few retreat, crying and screaming, but more keep coming. When breaking fingers and toes isn’t enough, Bato smashes teeth.

One of the sailors firebends. Jee swings his right arm out, blocking it.

“Bridge to Aki!” Jee shouts. “Deploy the saws!”

“Yes, Sir!”

Jee readies his hand on the E.O.T. Below, he can hear gears spinning, the sound of metal pieces contracting and extending.

“Aki to Bridge! Saws deployed!”

He yanks the E.O.T. to FULL-AHEAD.

The engines rumble. The ship picks up speed. Jee mans the wheel, steering them between ships. A thunderous moan. Their vessel slows. The saws eat through hulls, meeting resistance on either side.

“Bridge to Aki! Withdraw! Withdraw!”

The resistance disappears. The flagship speeds ahead. He and Bato nearly topple with the change in momentum.

More glass shatters. A sailor climbs through the door at port. He tears Jee from the wheel and throws him against the bulkhead. Knuckles crunch his nose. Blacken his eye. Crack his jaw. Staggering, Jee tries to block another blow when Bato intervenes. The warrior catches the fist. Twists. Pulls the sailor toward him and flips him over his shoulder with a devastating throw against the metal floor.

Jee smears the blood gushing out of his nose with his forearm. “Thank you.”

“No time for that! Get back to Aki!”

Bato counters the other intruders. He takes them out one, two, three at a time. Jee finds the speaking tube to the gun deck.

“Bridge to Aki! Deploy!”

The flagship stutters between two more ships. Then another two, then another. This is going too slowly.

“Bridge to Aki! Launch all grappling hooks!”

Four muted clangs—the sound of chains unspooling—hum from astern and bow.

“Aki to Bridge! Launched!”

The hooks strike. Their ship creaks with the four-point tugs.

“Recoil!” Jee yells back.

Through the windows, he watches as the flagship covertly reels in two ships in front and two ships behind. Tiny specks of people run around their main decks like blown upon ants. Their ships are moving, but their captains have nothing to do with it.

“Aki! Release!”

Another rumble. The grappling hooks let go. Their chains spin back, re-spooling. Jee hopes the hooks ripped enough metal to compromise the targeted ships. He sighs when an attacked ship off port side bow begins to sink.

And that’s when the flagship’s engines whir into silence. Jee checks the horizon. They’ve stopped moving.

“Bato!”

The other man slams two skulls together, then swings a rope with weighted balls, tying another soldier’s ankles with a single throw. The soldier falls on his face. The others fall to the ground, dead weight.

“Turrets!”

“Yes!”

“They’re gonna shoot at us the second we shoot first.”

“The engine room knows. We’re dead in the water, but the turrets rotate.”

Bato peers out the window. “I want the one down front.”

“Be my guest. Now, go! I’ll tell Aki.”

The warrior steps around the carnage of his own making and jumps through the broken window. Outside, Bato slides down the ladder’s rails and sprints for the bow turret.

“Bridge to Aki.”

“Lost the engines?”

“Yeah.”

“Flaming ostrich-horse shit! Fuck. What now?”

“Keep the saws running. Launch the grappling hooks again and fire all torpedoes. When you’re done, report to the main deck and take one of the stern turrets.”

“Yes, Sir!”

He abandons the bridge, throwing flaming fists to punch his way through another onslaught of sailors and soldiers, all Agni-bent on taking back their ship. He makes it to the port side ladder and slides down when the torpedoes dispatch.

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

The bombing is so loud and violent, Jee slips off. He falls three stories the rest of the way down. The metal deck makes for a mean landing. He strikes the floor with his right side. Bouncing once, twice, three times.

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

Twenty torpedoes. One after another they hit whatever target is in their way. The ocean explodes, water bursting yards high, sweeping sailors off their feet as the water descends and barrels across the decks. The same sea rains over Jee, drenching him from head to toe.

The world goes lopsided, but Jee doesn’t care. His eyes move to the bow turret Bato has commandeered. It rotates and fires, ejecting missiles topside from its three gun barrels. The ammunition whistles through the air leaving white streaks in their wake. They hit their marks, blowing up ships and neutralizing missiles coming their way. Jee closes his eyes. He sends a silent prayer to Agni for Chief Hakoda’s safety and gives thanks that he’d given him his best of men.

He coughs as he pushes himself up. A breathtaking, white hot pain screams from his right arm. He looks at it. It lays limp on the deck. The forearm bends at an unnatural angle, turning ninety degrees outward from the elbow. Worse, his radius is broken. The snapped bone stabs through his own muscle and skin in gory betrayal.

Jee presses his forehead to the ground. He concentrates on his breathing. He refuses to scream.

Once he calms, he sits up. Gets on his feet. Finds his balance. It’s absurd, but the only thing that scares him now is how he might never play music again.

Limping to the abeam to port bow turret, he collapses into the gunner seat. It takes two hands to squeeze the turret’s trigger. He doesn’t have two hands.

He does, however, have a belt around his waist. He unbuckles it with his left hand, loops it through the right trigger handle, slides it through the buckle without locking it, then bites the other end. His feet press the pedals on the floor, rotating the turret. In the distance he sees Water Tribe boats flying across the water. Their warriors hurl smoke bombs and poisoned arrows onto enemy decks while their captains cunningly take ships along a merry chase, away from the flagship and into collision courses with other destroyers.

Jee’s eyelids droop. He shakes himself.

(Stay alive.)

He must stay awake. He must.

Leaning forward, he presses his eye against the gunner’s telescope. One of the Water Tribe boats sails swiftly toward him. As it draws near, Jee recognizes the intricate patterns on the sail. It’s Chief Hakoda’s boat. He tilts the telescope until he finds the chief steering the wheel, shouting orders, his brow furrowed in snappy thinking.

A cruiser tails him. Jee wraps his fingers around the left trigger handle. He waits until the crosshairs align with his target. Three, two, one.

He squeezes the trigger.

He pulls the belt with his teeth.

The gunner seat shakes as the missiles fire. The vibration jostles Jee’s arm. He groans in agony. The belt falls from his lips.  

But his shot flies true, hitting the destroyer behind the chief dead-on. Flames and black smoke engulf the ship. It all but splits in half and sinks.

After catching his breath, he presses his eye against the telescope again, searching for the chief.

Chief Hakoda leads another cruiser toward a destroyer. Further off, a second destroyer makes a beeline for him as well. At the last minute, the chief pulls his sails and whirs his helm. His boat swerves out of harm’s way. All three vessels slam together. The sound of metal warping gets lost beneath the shriek of more soaring missiles, their roaring explosions, and the dying’s many screams.  

Despite the pain, Jee laughs. “Clever man.”

The victory is short-lived. Overwhelming all noise, a whistle consumes the air, growing louder and louder, until—

Jee never hears the explosion. One moment he’s in the gunner seat, the next, he’s underwater. The sea hooks up his nose. It muffles his ears and burns his throat. The deep is a kaleidoscope of terror. Scrap metal and adrift bodies litter the ocean. Disoriented, exhausted, Jee’s too weak to swim. He gasps for air. Large bubbles rush out of him. Too much water floods in. His eyes flutter. His chest fills. Bursting. Stinging. He sinks, sinks, sinks. Blood, dark as ink, mushrooms in the water. It takes a moment before he realizes that blood is his.

Something grabs him by his left under arm. It pulls him up towards the sun. The light glimmers above. So pretty with all its rays rippling. He’s died, Jee thinks. He’s died and somehow, he’s rising. Towards Agni and their sacred nirvana.

His head breaks through the surface. Hair plasters to his forehead. He vomits water as merciful air kisses his lungs.

“Jee! Jee!”

Jee knows that voice. It’s Bato. Bato saved him. He turns his head to find his savior and discovers a siren with long hair clinging to brown skin.

“Jee!” The siren pants. “Stay with me!”

His arm throbs like a heartbeat. The fiery pain burns something fierce. But how can that be? To feel hot while nearly drowning? It’s too complicated to parse, and Jee can’t think of anything he wants to do more than sleep.

(Stay alive.)

“Not going anywhere,” he mutters.

But the siren, Bato, swears. “La’s ass! What the flooding polynya happened to your arm?”

Jee’s head lolls like a doll’s. In delirium he smiles. “Promised him. Won’t.”

Bato says something. The words garble and fade. All goes black.

*

“Lieutenant!” Someone calls. “Lieutenant!”

He lays somewhere hard. Somewhere wet. The silhouette above him cups his cheek and cries, “Oh, thank Agni!”

That voice. It’s hers. “… Aki?”

“Is he awake?”

“Yes!”

He’s been here before, Jee thinks. This whole situation, he knows he’s already lived it. But before, it had been cold. Frigid. Here, now, it is hot. Almost humid. The weather, it feels like—

“Look!”

His eyes roll up. A giant shadow soars over them. It is strange in shape. Round. Six legs. A long flat tail recalling that of a platypus-bear’s. The beast lows as it flies, dipping to draw closer to whatever vessel Jee lays prone upon at present.

The shadow shifts in the light, transforming from a nebulous form to a sky bison. Atop its head, guiding the bison’s path, sits the prince of the Fire Nation. Prince Zuko.

Jee’s voice cracks. “… Sir ...”

As if he heard him, the prince peers down with a smile. The wind whips his tattered clothes around his bare chest. Jee squints at the star-shaped mark bursting above Zuko's diaphragm. Is that …? A scar?

He nearly bolts from his lying position, but his right arm is bound in a splint, hanging from a sling, and palpitating in protest. Jee makes it less than halfway up before he collapses. Someone behind him catches him by the shoulders.

“Easy! Easy …” Chief Hakoda. “They’re all right.”

Jee turns his head. Next to Zuko sits Katara. A tsungi horn wraps around her waist. She takes a big breath and blows into it. The horn blares long. Its notes ascend. They do not mourn. They celebrate.

“We won!” Katara shouts. Another inhale. She blows the large instrument once more. “We won!”

The Prince and Water Tribe Master fly past, away from the ocean toward the Earth Kingdom coasts.

Disbelief paralyzes the vessel’s passengers. The stillness suspends before it ruptures with a series of cheers and happy sobbing. People jump. They twirl around one another. The boat sways with every heartfelt hug and frolic. At one side, Chief Hakoda helps Jee to his feet. At the other, Bato balances him, allowing him to stand.

The sky bison’s body shrinks and disappears among the clouds. Yet the tsungi horn keeps bellowing, evidence that none of them had imagined the news two children—of fire and water—bestowed from the sky.

“Fuck.” The swear comes out in a rasp. Hardly a whisper. It’s the only word that captures what he feels. For once, Jee declares it with relief. “Fuck.”

A tear strays from his left eye. Jee erases it with the back of his free hand. Chief Hakoda looks upon him kindly. Then he levers him against Bato for support, taking a step back to bow with the sign of the flame. Astonished, Jee delays before returning the gesture. He struggles to do it in this state, but Bato holds him by the waist. Once they unbend, the chief has him in a warrior’s greeting. The contact turns into a delicate embrace that brings them temple to temple. Chief Hakoda might be shorter than him, but he is stable. Admirably strong.

“I know,” Chief Hakoda sighs, rocking them both. The embrace grows. Bato joins. Then Aki. Then many more warriors until Jee cannot feel the mangled bits of his arm. He is not drowning yet he cannot breathe. He cannot breathe yet it does not hurt.

And his fingers hunger for strings. His feet ache to dance.

(Find reasons. This is a reason.)

(Stay alive.)

(His heart sings a ballad for another life, another chance.)

Chapter Text

The air is still, the light is soft, and he wakes to the smell of oranges and lilies. Jee opens his eyes. Throughout his life, he’d been the resident of all manner of infirmaries. They were usually thrown together in a rush, their supplies understocked while their patients overflowed out the tent flap to the surrounding fields. On the Wani, the examination table was cold, the bulkheads were cold, and cupboards crept with spiders. In every case, he had been fortunate enough to have gotten the treatment he needed, but he had never been comfortable.

Wherever Jee is now, he does not recognize it. The mattress beneath his spine gives under the shape and weight of his body. The pillows and sheets feel fine enough for a royal.  Around him, red and gold light up every pillar, every wall. Auspicious colors. Good luck. Fortune. Jee thinks for a moment he might be in the Fire Nation palace, but that cannot be. The likes of him would never be welcome there.

He turns his head. On the table next to his bed stands a vase with three lilies. Orange with burgundy speckles, petals blooming wide and whiskered with yellow stamen, they remind Jee of a leopard-tiger's face. He wonders if he’d been mauled by one. His right arm throbs from the elbow, radiating out to a tingle at the fingers.

His eyes flick to a motion just at his periphery. A hand reaches out to pluck an orange from a plate resting beside the flowers. The fingers begin peeling in an efficient spiral. The rind is halfway off when the fruit falls to the floor. A chair scrapes on tile.

“Lieutenant!”

Two hands clasp his left hand and squeeze. Jee follows the path of touch until he finds his prince’s face. The window behind him casts a halo about his hair. His eyes and smile are more radiant than anything else in this room. It takes a moment for him to remember how to breathe.

Jee turns his hand. Their fingers slip and fold. When Zuko brings their hands to his chest, Jee feels his heart bloom.

“Sir?”

Zuko huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “We really need to stop having these close calls. At this rate, we should be keeping score.”

He keeps staring at their hands until he sees past them to the bandages wrapped around Zuko’s torso. His forehead creases.

“What happened to your chest?”

The prince raises his brow. Challenging, as always. “What happened to your arm?”

It comes back to Jee in pieces: the fleet, the missiles, the explosion, the war. Agni, the war. It’s finally over. He winces.

“Fell off the flagship’s superstructure. You?”

Zuko clears his throat. His eyes wander away. If Jee didn’t know any better, he’d say he was sheepish.

“... sister … lightning …"

“What?”

A puff of air. It blows up Zuko’s bangs. “My sister … hit me with lightning.”

The prince already has his palm on Jee’s sternum, keeping him down. The light pressure tells Jee he’s fractured a few ribs.

“You were hit with lightning?”

“I mean … Stuff like that kind of happens to me all the time, so …”

Jee, however, feels his temper rising.

“Burned on the face …”

“Jee—”

“Blown up …"

“It’s not—”

“Now lightning?!”

The door creaks open. A playful voice follows it.

“You should hear about the time he dove under ice with no idea where the next air hole was.” They turn their heads to find Sokka beneath the room’s threshold. Like the rest of them, he looks rather worse for wear, though thankfully in one piece. A crutch supports the left side of body. It’s wooden tip clacks against the floor as he hobbles toward them. “Or the time he went toe-to-toe with Combustion Man. Or—”

“What happened to your leg?” Jee and Zuko shout together.

Sokka rolls his eyes. He grabs the orange off the ground and finishes peeling it. He pops a slice into his mouth. “Okay. Let it be known that Fire Nation folk have the worst self-preservation instincts. The worst.”

*

The palace infirmary hums with activity as nurses and familiar faces bustle about. Zuko watches Katara treat her older brother, who’s taken the bed beside Jee. Her connection with water allows her to sense where arteries and veins have been displaced. It is not enough to determine what kind of break Sokka has, but it is enough to confirm he hasn’t torn any internal tissue.

For a standard examination, Taiki offers his services. With circumspect hands the doctor prods below Sokka’s left knee until he yelps.

“Hm.”

“It’s his fibula, isn’t it?”

Taiki nods, the long ends of his gray mustache bouncing. “You are right Master Katara.” Sokka clenches his hands and his teeth as Taiki’s fingers continue to poke. “You said you fell from a great height and landed on this leg, foot first?”

“Y-yes ...” Sokka squeaks.

More pressing. “Did you twist it?”

Zuko frowns as Sokka breaks into a sweat. “Yes!”

“Well, the good news is that the fracture is stable. Just from feel, I can tell the bones are lining up correctly. We need to set them with a better cast and make sure you keep your weight off them while they knit.”

“And the bad news?”

Taiki lets him go. Zuko realizes he’s been holding his breath when his friend sighs with relief.

“Based on how you fell and the type of bone you broke, I’m betting it’s a spiral fracture. Can’t say for sure without actually seeing the bone. Most breaks take about six to eight weeks. Spiral fractures wrap around, can cover more area. Could take a bit longer to heal up.”

“Don’t worry, Sokka,” Katara says, laying a hand on her brother’s shoulder. “If I use my healing with you at least once a day, I’m sure we can get you on your feet sooner.

Sokka blows through his lips. “Man. If only there was a way to look at a bone without, you know …"

“Having it poke out of your body?” Jee interjects.

They turn to the Lieutenant’s bed where the man sits up like an irate raven-crow. Zuko twists around from where he sits on its edge, between the two men he never expected to care for, bit by bit.

“Exactly!” Sokka agrees despite Jee’s unamused look. “Well, if I’m gonna be on the mend, I guess I’ve got some time to brainstorm.”

Zuko had the foresight to bundle a handful of brushes, parchment, and ink to keep Sokka occupied. He reaches into a pocket in his robe and hands the package over. His friend smiles. Their fingers brush. Zuko can’t decide which he likes best: the brief touches or the happy looks Sokka gives him. The parchment unrolls, and the drawing begins. Sokka’s tongue pokes out in concentration. It’s a funny look that makes Zuko grin.

Katara glances back at Jee in sympathy. “I’m just glad it wasn’t worse. Bato did a pretty good job putting it back where it belonged.”

But Jee doesn’t look any more optimistic. He looks down at his arm before closing his eyes and leaning his head against the bedframe. “I hope it’s not infected.” He swallows. “Agni, I hope it’s not.”

The Lieutenant’s chest rises and falls too quickly for his breathing to be anything less than anxiety. Zuko puts his hand on the inside of his elbow.

“Odds are not good,” Taiki grumbles.

“Hey,” Zuko warns, “that’s not exactly helpful right now.”

“You know what’s in seawater?” the doctor grunts. “Fish shit, fish piss, bird shit, bird piss, seal vomit, all kinds of blood—”

“Okay. Yes. We get the picture,” Katara cringes.

“If it does get infected, what then? Will I lose it?”

Necrosis. Jee’s father had lost his hand that way. (What I shared on my knees, that was my story, really.) Zuko tries to imagine a young Jee seeing his father with his hand one moment, and then nothing but a stub the next. He holds onto the Lieutenant’s arm a little tighter. “That’s not gonna happen.”

“Right! I’ll be using my healing with Sokka anyway. Since you’re both here, I can help you, too, Lieutenant.”

“That is very generous, Master Katara. But you’ll be expending a lot of energy.”

“I don’t mind. Any friend of Zuko’s is a friend of ours, too, right Sokka?”

“Hm?” Sokka’s wolf tail bobs as his head shoots up from his drawing. “What?”

Katara gazes heavenward.

“Anyway,” Taiki reaches into his medical bag and holds up a bottle of herbs. “Mix two tablespoons of this with one cup of water. Drink all of it, twice a day, once in the morning and once at night. It will help flush disease out of your system and keep any fever at a reasonable temperature.”

Zuko takes the bottle and smirks at Katara. “Guess I’m on healing duty, too.”

“I don’t need a nursemaid,” Jee sulks.

“Yes, he does.” Taiki points at the bottle. “Make sure he drinks all of it. Idiot thinks he can muscle through any malady with stoicism and sheer will.”

A chuckle bubbles up. Sokka’s still sketching, but he murmurs, “Wonder who else is like that?”

*

It takes a few more days before any of them are off enough pain medication to make an official appearance for the coronation. Jee stares at the Navy formals the palace tailors put together at a moment’s notice. The colors are purposeful, in direct contradiction of the armor and underclothes Jee had worn for too long. The attire lays on his bed: a red jacket trimmed with gold, white trousers, and black boots. Together they make a bright, hopeful combination.

The world needs to know not everyone in the military was bad, Zuko had said. They need to know some of them changed their minds and wanted to do what was right.

Jee sighs. He hates formals. He hates the pageantry of high society. Perhaps he fantasized participating in the vanity once, when he was naïve, but Zhao had spoiled the taste of it.

It’s only his prince’s words that convince Jee to allow a nurse to help him into these clothes. When he looks in the mirror, he does not recognize himself. The blacks and grays of his old uniform had cast him in shadow. Now it feels like too much light is on him.

He hesitates at being seen.

Yet when he walks the corridor to where Zuko had asked to meet him, the beaming smile that greets him is enough to put him at ease.

Very well. Fine. (For you.)  

Zuko introduces him to the Avatar, whom he’d only known in fleeting encounters and by word of mouth. The boy, Aang, is even smaller than Jee remembers. He is slight with eyes nearly as wide as his grin. Twelve years old. The balance of the entire world had rested on such narrow shoulders. Jee bows as much as his arm cast will allow him, and Aang, as generous as Zuko claims, provides one in kind before hugging him around the waist.

Jee freezes. Affection had never been offered to him so loudly and freely.

“Thank you for helping the Water Tribe fight the Fire Nation Navy, Lieutenant Jee, Sir!” The Avatar floats back a step with a bashful hand behind his head. “We wouldn’t have won without you and your crew.”

He isn’t sure about that. He’s fairly certain they would have won without them, one way or another, but it seems disrespectful to deny such praise. “I believe that’s what all of us have to say about you, Avatar.”

“Well, I like to think of it more as a group effort. It took all the elements to return us to peace. I just, you know …”

“Took down my dad?” Zuko jokes.

“When you put it that way, it does sound pretty weird, doesn’t?”

The boys laugh. There is a sweetness between them that has somehow remained innocent despite everything they had lived through. Jee clasps Zuko’s shoulder before taking his leave with a nod. The palace is a labyrinth of hallways, but he manages to find his way to the courtyard where soldiers of every land await the Avatar and new Fire Lord. His eyes skim the crowd until they land on his crew, Bato, and Chief Hakoda. Sensing his gaze, they turn to him with smiles and waves.

Jee joins them, gruffly accepting more embraces even as he scolds Aki for knocking his healing arm. When he’s finally free of the soppy reunion, he takes Bato into a warrior’s greeting.

“I owe you my life,” he tells him.

“Saved your ass so you can have it,” Bato chuckles. “You do owe me a drink, though. And maybe a round of ice dodging or two.”

“So you keep mentioning. ‘Ice dodging’, what is that?”

“It’s more fun if you don’t know,” Sokka pipes up with Katara in tow.

Chief Hakoda’s face glows at the sight of his children. His arms spread wide as wings before taking each of them in, under each arm and against his ribs, murmuring things that bring tears to the corners of his eyes. His children hug him back, and as Jee watches this little family mend itself one touch at a time, he hears his crew chatting excitedly of home, of nieces and nephews, of cousins and grandchildren, of all the people waiting to receive their love, behind him.

The war is over, Jee realizes, and so too, is the need for a crew. With no Avatar to chase, no war to fight, no ship to man or tyrant to enforce their banishment, there is no reason for any of them to stay. (With me.) 

Jee has a home but no one to return to. He thinks of the tin shanties of Woodrott and knows, like scales, the metal sheets making their walls must shed every few years. Even if the houses are still standing, they will not look the same, and after two decades, he suspects their inhabitants have changed one after another, too.

The knowledge of being at loose ends frays his good spirits in turn. He tries not to think about this now. Certainly not today. Today is Prince Zuko’s, and he is determined to celebrate him.

Before the ceremony begins, the crowd arranges themselves into rows. One for Earth Kingdom, one for Water Tribe, one for Fire Nation. Jee glances at Chief Hakoda and Bato. He finds he does not want to separate. With no words exchanged, they seem to understand. They follow Jee and his crew as they line up with their countrymen. Among their Water Tribe warriors, they still stand, though they’ve taken to the edge of their throng, close to Fire Nation.

At the front of the palace, atop its many steps, a hand sweeps aside the curtain, revealing Prince Zuko to his subjects. A gong strikes three times. Prince Zuko sinks to his knees. The Fire Sages say their prayers. They anoint this new reign with the harmony of bergamot and lavender, which are burned before their scent takes to the air. The crown flame of the Fire Nation catches the sunlight. Between wrinkled hands, its gold glints as it’s lowered into Prince Zuko’s growing hair. A gong strikes three more times. It rings six in total. A lucky number, six. May the years that follow flow.

The Fire Sages declare this young man Fire Lord. When he rises, they kneel, for now he is king. The people cheer; he represents a new beginning. But Fire Lord Zuko raises his hand, defers all credit, and brings onto the dais the boy with the blue arrows, the last airbender who saved them all.

Jee might not be anyone, but he knows when history is unfolding. It is happening now before his very eyes. These children of war will be the world’s healing.

The ballad keeps going. (It is a song, a song, a song.)

*

The palace is full. There have never been so many people freely moving in and out of its infinite halls or nested chambers. The colors they wear are not only of fire. They are of water and grass and—time willing—a touch of sunset in the sky. The different fabrics soften the overwhelming red. It had never been this way. Not when Fire Lord Azulon still lived. Not before Zuko had been banished nor after he’d returned for the first time in shame.

Yet for all that his home has become a busy hive, recovery moves at a snail’s pace. Meetings and hearings fill Zuko’s days. The problems in need of answers bleed into one another. Solutions proposed for one issue inevitably raise three more. He muses with Aang that they need four of each of them, with one Fire Lord and one Avatar on every land. Aang agrees. They agree on many things, lately. That they need a clear plan for rebuilding is another.

At night, different concerns reveal themselves. They break through windows, drop down from high ceilings, lace their deadly wickedness in soups and fine teas. The attempts on his life happen frequently enough that Mai puts her foot down and writes Suki. This pleases Sokka, who has decided to stay and help him untangle the ball of worms his family has left him with, but displeases Zuko, who makes the two women swear to not tell anyone.  

Between Agni’s curses by day and Tui and La’s curses by night, Zuko visits the infirmary as though it is an oasis. It is quiet there. He likes the company. Sokka makes him laugh. Jee makes him calm. They challenge his mind as well as get it off things. When he’s with them, the crown is off. He can lean against Sokka’s side, let his head fall against his shoulder. He can hold Jee’s hand, let his thumb over knuckles wander.

Once Taiki deems Sokka able to walk and Jee well enough to leave, his stomach twists. (Stay with me.) And he remembers, soon, the others will return home, too.

*

It is Uncle who is first to leave.

Between the beginning of his banishment and his coronation, Uncle’s hair had transformed from dark gray to a shock of white. Zuko does not know how he managed to miss such a startling change, but now that they have the time to sit together in peace, he sees how much Uncle has aged.

He looks upon the many wrinkles gathered at the corners of Uncle’s eyes and mouth. They look less like happy crow feet than they do loose gooseflesh. His forehead reminds him of a cracked desert. The lines crisscross every which way. Years of mourning, regret, anger, and worry chiseled them in place. But a spark of optimism brightens Uncle’s eyes. Zuko suspects it will always be there. Alongside it, there is tiredness, too. It is no longer a wary tiredness from months on the run. No. It is simply a declining well of energy.

“Are you sure you won’t have me stay?”

Zuko reaches across the low table in his private chambers. Evening has descended. The balcony doors are open, letting in the breeze and the sound of cicada-crickets crooning. Pouring tea buys him time. He thinks of what to say.

“Uncle, you know there’s nothing more I want than to always have you with me.”

Uncle sips his tea after his cup has been refilled. He stares at the leaves clinging to the bottom of the porcelain.

“I worry you might take too much upon yourself,” he replies.

Steam rises from Zuko’s own cup in thin tendrils. He thinks of dragon’s breath. Dragon of the West. The Dragon Dance. The Jasmine Dragon.

“Your tea shop is waiting for you. And pai sho. You’ve been dreaming about this a long time. Don’t you want your retirement?”

Uncle looks at him with so much love, Zuko thinks they might be in the White Lotus encampment again. He is on his knees, begging for forgiveness, but Uncle loves, loves, loves.

“You are far more important to me than any tea and games, Nephew. Those are simple pleasures. You are my pride, my joy. You are my heart.”

Zuko turns away. A tear slides down the side of his face. He does not bother wiping it. He never had to hide anything with his man. He is not about to start now.

“I love you, too, Uncle. That’s why …” his breath catches. His eyes snag against all of Uncle’s wrinkles. At the skin that sags around his shriveling throat. “… That’s why I want you to be happy. I want you to enjoy your little pleasures.” He looks back and thinks of how to appear strong when strong is the last thing he feels. He thinks of Jee. Of his squared shoulders and perfect posture. Eyes so firm in their soul’s conviction they seem to never blink. Zuko tries it on for size. He finds it gives him a small push in confidence. “You’ve always had faith in me, Uncle. Do you think you can have faith in this, too?”

His uncle hums as he studies him. “It seems my young dragon is ready for flight.”

He can’t help it. He groans. “Please don’t turn this into a metaphor.”

Uncle laughs, big belly shaking. Zuko loves the way his hands settle on his stomach as his body quakes. He comes around the table. Wraps his arms around the man who had raised him. He commits his laugh, his face, his smell to memory. Ginseng. Fire. A certain pungency that only comes with being old.

*

Zuko might not be his sister or his father—or his uncle, for that matter—but he’s learned enough from his family to know what he shouldn’t do. It’s for this reason he calls together a small civil council composed of those who’d known the world before Ozai’s ascent and those who’d known it after. The past cannot move forward without the future, Uncle once told him, nor can the future come to be without the past.3

He enters one of the palace’s many council chambers. Within stands a long table with seven chairs, and a flip chart waiting at one corner.

At one side of the table sits Chief Hakoda, King Kuei, and Lieutenant Jee.

At the other side of the table sits Sokka, Suki, and Aang.

He’d offered seats to Katara and Toph. Katara declined in favor of leading the salutary efforts. Too few healers exist to aid the many injured. If she could offer her skills, pass down her knowledge, and organize physicians, then, she declared, that is what she is meant to do. Toph declined for similar reasons. Instead of tending to broken bones, however, she saw to broken buildings, broken homes, things people needed to see the day through.

Zuko’s eyes fall upon Sokka’s left leg. Though no longer in a cast thanks to his sister’s tireless attention, he still walks with a minor limp. When it rains his joints complain, enough that Zuko would press his warmer body against Sokka’s side while they cram their heads with scrolls on governance in the library. The heat helps, it loosens his friend’s jumping muscles, and as they sit together well into the night, Zuko would remember: he has the power now. He has the power to make touch like this all right.     

Across him Jee writes with his left hand. He is not ambidextrous, but possessing musical talent moves adapting along more quickly. His arm is no longer in a cast, though the sling remains. Zuko had wheedled Katara into continuing the regular healing sessions. The lieutenant found it ‘unnecessary’. There are others who need help more than me, he’d said. They negotiated down to weekly sessions. Stubborn bastard.

These thoughts inevitably remind him of his own hurts. Zuko touches his chest. It twinges on occasion. A tight clench that snatches his breath away when he is too stressed. He peers at Aang and wonders what that sensation must feel like on his spine. The thought stirs guilt and feelings of dishonor.

(Move forward).

Looking around the chamber, he realizes no one but Suki would be standing here if not for Katara. He makes a mental note to have something specially made for her. Considering what he intends to do in a few months, it is only right.

“Thank you for making time to meet with me today,” Zuko begins. “I know it’s not easy, traveling so far, but this is important, and I could use some advice.”

“We’re happy to help,” says Hakoda.

“Of course!” Aang chirps. “You’re our friend.”

Zuko smiles and gets straight to the point. “It’s taken some time, but with Toph’s assistance I think we’ve finally weeded out the worst politicians from court. Now that we can finally get some work done, the first thing I want to do is recall all our military forces. The thing is, there are a lot of, um …”

“Dissenters,” Suki puts in. She opens and closes her metal fan. “And assassins.”

Palming his face, Zuko mutters to Suki between clenched teeth, “You didn’t have to mention the second part.”

“Assassins?” Sokka exclaims. His friend turns around in his chair to face him fully. “Wait a minute, wait minute, wait a minute. How do we not know about this? Half of us have been living here for the last two to three months!”

“I didn’t want to make any of you worry.”

“Oh for—”

“How many?”

He knew this would happen. If she were sitting in Sokka’s place, Zuko would have no qualms kicking Suki’s shin beneath the table. He turns to Jee. His impassive face belies the grip he has on his calligraphy brush.

“How many what?” Zuko stalls.

“Don’t play stupid. Assassination attempts.”

 He sighs. This is not what this meeting was intended for. “Fourteen.”

“Fourteen!” Aang blanches.

“Are you flooding kidding me?!”

“Language,” Hakoda chides. “Fire Lord, that’s more than twice a week.”

“Yes, that is most concerning,” King Kuei adds. “I’d offer my Dai Li to help but they’re going through a bit of an identity crisis themselves.”

As the table descends into mayhem, Zuko rises from his seat. “Listen, I appreciate your concern, but this is being handled. Mai and I have discussed enlisting a section of Kyoshi warriors. Along with Ty Lee, we currently have seven warriors at the palace.”

“We need to enlist more,” Suki comments.

“You didn’t tell me about this?” Sokka asks her, a hint of betrayal in his voice.

“I would have except Zuko asked me to hold off—

“—So much for that—”

“—Until you’ve fully recovered, which you have.”

Zuko falls into his seat. His arms cross. He knows he must look petulant, but time is precious. “As I was saying, this meeting was called regarding withdrawal.”

“Yes. Yes, we are discussing that,” Suki agrees. She jabs the table’s surface with her index finger. “And doing that requires ensuring your safety.”

“You can’t very well withdraw your nation’s forces if you’re not in one piece,” Hakoda adds reasonably.

“And,” Aang goes on, “we kinda like you alive to begin with.”

“Yeah, Jerkface. What the—”

“—Language.”

Zuko drops his head back and shuts his eyes. He takes a breath before reopening them and glancing at the Lieutenant. He’d been quiet during all the arguing and had set down his calligraphy brush. Now he has one elbow on the table, his left hand raised with his thumb rubbing circles against the curl of his index finger. His eyes look askance, away from everyone in the room, their intensity burning with thought.

“Lieutenant? You’ve got that look that makes me nervous.”

“Suki is right. You need a larger section of warriors.”

“Not you—”

But Jee cuts him off. “If I may finish, Sir? A full section: twenty personnel. Two teams of six and one team of eight with four shifts.”

The language is familiar. Zuko’s eyes widen in recognition. “A six-hour watch schedule.” He turns to Suki. “Can you spare that many?”

The Kyoshi warrior smiles. “The fate of the Earth Kingdom depends on it, doesn’t it? Yes, we can. We’ll make it happen.”

He sighs in relief. “Great. Now, can we move on?”

“One more thing.”

Zuko bites his lip to censure himself. Jee does not relent.

“Do you have incident reports of each attempt indicating when it occurred, where, who was involved, how it was pursued, how it was foiled, and the motive?”

“That’s right!” Sokka knocks his fist against the counter, snaps his fingers, and points at Jee. “We need to find patterns. Identify weaknesses and threats!”

Suki leans back in her chair. “Not a problem. I’ve been having the warriors write down summaries of everything that happens from the start. Daily and nightly reports, even when it’s quiet.” Her smile lengthens, shining like her elaborate headdress. She tilts with her wink. “Not my first time protecting a threatened community, Lieutenant Jee.”

Jee doesn’t smile back but acknowledges her skillset with a nod. He glances back at Zuko. “Sir.”

“Uh … Thanks. So. Withdrawal. Right.” He runs his hand through his hair. “I need to overhaul the Fire Nation’s military personnel the same way we did my court. If I’m recalling the Fire Nation’s forces, there’s gonna be resistance. I need my military to be on the same page as us to deal with, well, I guess we’d call them traitors now, right?”

“The Earth Kingdom’s army remains a large force. I would be eager to supplement your personnel as allies should you find yourself with many deserters.”

“Thank you, King Kuei.”

“And you know you have our ships. We are not as numerous, but the Southern Water Tribe has begun rebuilding its relationship with its sister tribe in the North.”

“Thank you, Chief Hakoda.”

Aang strokes his chin. “If people have a hard time believing your intent, I can come along with you for the messaging. Let everyone know you’re telling the truth about what you’re doing with the military.”

“What about the colonies?” Suki asks. “Will you be withdrawing occupation there, too?”

King Kuei nods. “They are on sovereign Earth Kingdom land.”

“Yes, I think we should, though I’m not sure how to coordinate that with the military withdrawal. I don’t want to mix civilians up with military force if I can help it.”

“You might not be able to avoid it,” Sokka points out.

“I know.”

“Would you use civilian Fire Nation ships, then?” Hakoda asks.

“What about civilian air balloons?” Aang scratches his head. “Huh … Is that even a thing?”

“If the order came from the crown, wouldn’t that be tantamount to using civilians for military purposes?” Sokka frowns. “That’s almost worse, isn’t it?”    

“I’m guessing the Fire Nation doesn’t have a militia?” Suki ventures. “Something like the Kyoshi Warriors?”

Once again, the Lieutenant has been silent. He tends to do that, Zuko realizes, listening more than speaking. He turns to him.

“What about you, Lieutenant, what do you think?”

Jee eyes everyone in the room. “While I do think you should return the land and its resources, I don’t think you should force withdrawal.”

“What?”

“Why?”

“What’s the point of returning the land, then?”

“Seems like an empty gesture to me.”

“Um … this is getting a little hostile. Maybe we should let him finish?”

To his credit, the Lieutenant doesn’t flinch at the barrage of questions. His eyes, however, go distant.

“I … Once knew someone of mixed heritage.” Jee pauses, his gaze refocusing as he chooses his words. “When people settle away from home, inevitably they will build families, or less … ideally ... leave behind a trail of children of questionable background. The first Fire Nation colony was established one hundred years ago. How many generations is that? Three? If you proceed with your plan as it is, you risk splitting families apart, and that will only result in a backlash that will hurt your cause and your rule.”

“So, what? Leave everything as it is?” Zuko shakes his head. “We can’t do that either.”

“That sets-up the risk of guerilla armies,” Suki agrees.

“I’m not saying you shouldn’t do it. You should, but you need to be careful about how you do it. Give voice to the people who’ve established lives there. Allow them the choice to stay or leave.”

“Do you really think Fire Nation people will return of their own will?”

No sarcasm taints King Kuei’s question. To Zuko, he sounds genuinely curious, though most here—including himself—seem to have severe doubts. Jee looks askance again, another habit it seems, to deliberate before replying.

“If we remove the Fire Nation politicians installed in positions of colonial power, yes, I think some will. The ones who will stay will do so either because it suits their business and they are neutral to either Fire Nation or Earth Kingdom polity, or …”

“Or?” Aang prompts. His eyes are eager as though he knows the answer.

“… Or they will stay for love.”

The Lieutenant’s last words take Zuko aback. Of the council, only Hakoda and Aang nod in understanding. Love, Zuko thinks. Love that transcends land and people. His gaze skates to Sokka. That kind of love would be—

“I had considered staying. Abandoning my—I still think I should have, but …”

Everyone stares, waiting for Jee to finish.

 (I lost someone.)

The pieces Zuko has are small, but they come together. This meeting has unwittingly touched a nerve. He must steer it back on course. Bring attention away from the Lieutenant long enough to allow him to collect himself without anyone noticing.

“I see,” Zuko says. Jee peers at him, relieved. “So ultimately, at least with the colonies, the main concerns are:”—he ticks off his fingers—“recalling and deactivating military, establishing citizenship options, and rewriting tax law.”

“In other words, reparations, decommissions, reconstruction, legislation, reform, and some ‘minor’ accounting.” Sokka pats his shoulder. “No sweat, buddy.”

Setting his elbows against the table, Zuko leans forward and groans into his palms.

“Breathe, buddy.”

“I’m breathing.”

“Maybe more calmly?”

He feels a gust of air. He thinks it’s Aang sending him a friendly breeze, but when he looks up, it’s Suki with her fan.

“One thing at a time, Fire Lord,” she quips.

“Yes. We’ll do this together step-by-step. Break everything down into smaller, easier to digest pieces.” Hakoda rises from his seat and makes a beeline for the flip chart standing to one corner. It occurs to Zuko how much Sokka takes after his father. He flushes. Hakoda is handsome. “What’s first?”

“I need to tell everyone what the Fire Nation plans to do.”

Hakoda writes ‘INFORM’ on the flip chart sheet with a brush.

“I should be there,” Aang insists, “as a supporter of the Fire Nation’s good will and honesty.”

The chief adds ‘AVATAR SUPPORT’ under ‘INFORM’. “What else?”

Zuko stares at the beginnings of their strategy. Even with only two words written, seeing them helps. “I need to announce this in person at each colony. Actually, I should start with the Fire Nation. Acknowledge where we’ve gone wrong, why, and our intention for atonement.”

“I think it would help to acknowledge the Fire Nation, especially its commoners, has suffered as well,” says Jee.

“Yes,” Zuko nods, “that’s true. I also need to visit the Water Tribes for the harm done to their people. I think all this is gonna mean … a tour?”

“A public relations circuit!” Suki cheers.

“Yes! Yes! That’s the lingo!” Sokka high-fives Suki. “I can help with drafting the schedules. That’s kind of my specialty.”

Hakoda writes ‘PR CIRUIT’ and ‘SCHEDULE’ under ‘AVATAR SUPPORT’.

“I can plot your route,” Jee offers. ‘TRAVEL ROUTE’ joins the list.

Stepping back from the chart, Hakoda examines their work. “Anything else? What about your safety?”

A pounding headache returns behind Zuko’s right eye. He ignores Sokka, Suki, and Jee looking at him particularly pointedly. “Ugh, not this again.”

“It would be a rather large startle if you appeared on our docks unannounced. I will ensure your arrivals throughout the Earth Kingdom are well-prepared for,” says King Kuei.

“I will ensure the same for the Water Tribes.” The chief adds ‘E.K. & W.T. PREP’

“Bodyguards,” says Suki. “Three Kyoshi Warriors?”

“What about five?” Jee suggests.

“That would leave only two at the palace for surveillance while we’re away.”

“Point. Four?”

“Four abroad, three here? I think that works. I’ll try to bring one more warrior to the palace. Even us out.”

Zuko throws his arms out. His sleeves billow with equal dramatics. “I have my own Fire Nation guards!”

“Two of them attacked you!”

“Two out of five hundred!”

“We haven’t even finished vetting all of them yet!”

“O-kay …” Hakoda includes ‘SAFETY’ regardless of how Zuko feels about it. “Does that cover the broad strokes?”

The chamber goes quiet as they take time to reread everything listed.

INFORM

AVATAR SUPPORT

PR CIRCUIT

SCHEDULE

TRAVEL ROUTE

E.K. & W.T. PREP

SAFETY

“This looks good,” Zuko says. He catches himself stroking his chin. Sokka and Hakoda are rubbing off on him. “But if there’s anything I’ve learned in the last year, it’s that I can’t just run into this without thinking everything through. I need to figure out where this … this …" His hands twirl and grasp in search of the right word.

“Operation?” King Kuei offers.

“Too military,” Sokka and Suki reply in unison.

“‘Mission’ has the same problem,” Jee observes.

“Project?” Aang suggests.

“Project!” Zuko points at him. The Avatar throws a thumbs up. “I need to figure out where this project fits with everything else that needs to be done. I also want to know what should come before and after this project. I need some kind of …” he stretches his arms out. “... timeline on when each project needs to be completed by before the next one can begin.”

Everyone pulls out their brushes. They pitch and scrap ideas, take notes, add sub-tasks under each category, and coordinate responsibilities. The meeting goes over by another two hours, but no one notices. The future is here. They are building it in this very room. 

*

By the time the meeting finally adjourns, everyone’s exhausted. This does nothing to affect their high spirits. The giddy anticipation that they are about to embark upon grand achievements accompanies them to the palace kitchens. There, they raid the pantry of savory sweets. Jee helps himself to shaobing filled with red bean paste and a piping cup of jasmine tea. Sokka favors bak kwa—pork jerky—while others pick through pineapple buns, youtiao dough fritters, and turnip cakes.

Jee eyes Zuko, who seems more at ease than when the meeting began but picks pensively at his turnip cake. Sokka peers at the nibbled square. Zuko snorts and hands the plate over. The snack disappears in seconds.

Their Fire Lord thanks everyone as the eating winds down and digestion takes with it the desire for a well-earned nap. Jee lingers after everyone else departs. He watches Zuko, and Zuko watches Sokka throw an arm around Suki’s shoulders and bring her close. Suki giggles when Sokka presses his nose against her temple. Lightly kisses her cheek.

“Are you all right?”

 Zuko starts. He settles quickly when Jee steps to his side.

“I think so.” He shrugs. “I don’t know.”

“The meeting went well today.”

At that, his prince frowns. “I guess that’s the problem. I didn’t have much to do with that.”

Jee turns to face him. “What do you mean?”

“Everyone has really great ideas and knows what they’re talking about. If I’m to be the leader of the Fire Nation, shouldn’t I have come up with some solutions on my own?”

“It was your idea to withdraw military.”

“That’s a pretty obvious starting point.”

“All the same, you realized you needed perspective on how to do it thoughtfully. You created this council for that very reason. No one gave you that idea. It’s a smart one.”

At length, Zuko smiles. It is small and uncertain, but it is a there. “That’s true.”

Zuko begins walking down the corridor. Jee follows him without a thought.

“Thirdly, it was your idea to announce our land’s intentions for withdrawal and reparations in person, wasn’t it?”

“Maybe, but the idea ended there. I had no clue what to do about—” He waves his right hand around.

“Logistics?”

“Yes.” Zuko huffs. His frustration adds sparks to his breath. “And that right there is another problem. I shouldn’t be stumbling through finding the right words.”

“Speaking well is a matter of practice,” Jee assures. “You will be doing it often. The skill will improve with experience.”

“You seem so sure.”

Jee scoffs. “Do I look like the kind of person who spoke well at seventeen?”

“I would have liked to meet that guy,” Zuko snickers. “I bet he gave a lot of lip to his superiors.”

“Constantly. He was a real ass.”

The Fire Lord’s laughter ribbons at a soft pitch when they stop before his private chamber doors. Jee realizes it is time for the conversation to conclude. He must return to his own temporary housing and begin the task of planning Zuko’s travel route. Consulting Sokka is necessary. He makes a note to seek him out in the library first thing in the morning.

“Sir, a leader does not need to know everything. What is expected of a leader is that they know the best people to consult and delegate work to. Fortunately, as you can see from the council you put together, you are already well-connected.”

“I know. I just want to make sure I’m doing my part and—and that I’m not too reliant on everyone else.”

“You? Too reliant? If that ever happens, I will eat my flaming boot.”

Zuko laughs again. They stand beside the doors longer than necessary. “Would you like to come in? I have a bottle of plum wine.”

Jee accepts the offer. There is a pull he feels but barely notices. It tugs at his gut, gently leading him wherever his prince goes. The gravitation is tender. Protective. (Wanting.) It fills him with a sense of direction, that perhaps he is not at loose ends as much as he thinks.

The chambers consist of four different rooms. They enter through a foyer that connects to a study to the right and a sitting room to the left. Toward the back of the sitting room stand sliding doors leading to the balcony. Zuko opens them before turning to the cooling cabinet at his left, from which he retrieves the wine bottle. Two more doors are located to the right of the sitting room. Jee suspects they are the bed chambers and guest lavatory.

On the balcony, they sit on two cushioned chairs facing the sunset. Jee takes a moment to enjoy the view. From here they can see nearly all of caldera from a marvelous height. Everything is clean and orderly, from the manicured gardens to the paved city streets. He imagines gazing upon Woodrott from this perspective. At this hour, the sun douses everything with rose gold. He wonders if their sun can make poor villages look beautiful, too.

A nudge against the back of his hand. He turns to Zuko and thanks him for his cup of wine. They sip together in silence as the sun yawns, tugging over its shoulder the sparkling blanket of night.

*

A ceremonial ship is too ostentatious for a journey meant to express humility. Jee selects a modest but respectable vessel for the Fire Lord’s circuit. Mai had kindly suggested her family’s pleasure ship as an option. Together with his crew, they remove the more opulent décor from its exterior. Her accompanying Zuko’s ever-growing entourage is a blessing. With her fighting ability and expert marksmanship, she adds one more layer of protection to the voyage.

Her closeness with Zuko provides a different kind of protection. Love, affection, and demure devotion kindle between them. At night, when the sea is black, they stand together at the bow, overlooking the twinkling lanterns from shore. More often than not, Sokka and Suki join them. They talk and chuckle the way adult couples do. It is not hard to imagine all four of them together like this five years from now. A decade. Two.

But Jee has long ago noticed the special attention Zuko and Sokka give one another. It is not his business, yet he hopes these friendships will endure whatever changes time deems necessary.

Aki punches his shoulder. A soft touch, really. He doesn’t look at her. Eyes on the difficult to discern line between night sky and sea.

“Take a break. Maybe we should join them,” Aki says.

“I would rather not have an old buzzard descending upon their merry chirping.”

“Hey!”

“I was talking about me, Aki.”

“You’re thirty-seven. Not an old buzzard. Plus they all like you.” She turns around, arms crossed, and leans against the helm board. “They never mind when the crew hangs out with them. Or Hakoda and Bato.”

“Chief Hakoda,” Jee corrects. Aki sighs.

“What’re you doing, Lieutenant? I feel like you’re pulling away.”

Sometimes he wishes she were not so astute. “My primary concern is ensuring this endeavor goes through smoothly.”

“What does that have to do with hanging out with us? You used to do it all the time on the Wani. Remember music night? Or games night? You even stuck around for story night, and that was Prince—ah, Fire Lord Zuko’s thing.”

The crew might be together now, but Jee knows it is only temporary. If they are to part ways at some point, it would be better to get accustomed to their limited contact sooner rather than later.

Aki continues to look at him with concern. “You know we still care about you, right?”

He returns her gaze out of respect, to say nothing of the fact that Aki is, indeed, his best friend. “I know. Likewise. Always.”

She pats his forearm. “Good. Music night’s still on, by the way.”

“Oh?”

Her grin turns sly. “We’re planning on get-togethers at Fire Foundation City since it’s kinda smack dab in the middle of where everyone lives. Gonna be a trek, but we’re thinking once a month won’t be a hardship. You coming?”

Gold eyes shimmer at him with fondness. This must be her idea. A mechanic’s mind is an engineer’s mind, and her talents are not limited to oil and metal. Jee can’t help but love her.

(Find reasons.)

“You tell me when and where.”

*

Their first stop is with the Southern Water Tribe. In the small civil council’s strategy meetings, they reasoned it would be best to start where they’ve already made some friendships. Beginning this project where they know support will be returned would be good for worldwide morale, Aang had explained in more lighthearted words. Everyone agrees, and Zuko adds it’s fitting: the Southern Water Tribe is where all his own misdeeds took root.

Jee brings their ship to a gentle docking. The Southern Water Tribe already await them with Chief Hakoda, Bato, and an elderly woman at the head. Zuko leads them down the gangway. They had organized the order of his procession with careful intent. His closest friends makeup the v-formation at the front of the entourage. The Avatar follows him close behind, to Zuko’s right. Toph, a step behind, also follows at Aang’s his right. To his left walk Katara and Sokka. Behind them, representatives of the Fire Nation march in five straight columns. General Iroh, Piandao, Jeong-Jeong, Mai, Ty Lee, the crew, a few trusted politicians, and Jee himself. Suki and the Kyoshi Warriors bring up the rear. They fan out once they’ve stepped off the gangplank, their feet crunching against snow.    

Fire Lord Zuko sets his gaze upon the elderly woman. Their eyes connect. Fiery gold to wet blue. Contrary to their irises, it is the Fire Lord whose eyes melt while the woman’s own stare is hard with bitterness.

The young man Jee had served on the Wani and still serves as his king is still a young man. Without a word, the ruler of ending one hundred years of agony drops to his knees. He folds over, arms outstretched, forehead kissing ice.

And they follow him down to their own knees, their own foreheads.

“I am sorry for all the pain I have brought to your people. I am sorry for all the violence my family has brought upon yours. I am sorry for all the crimes of the Fire Nation. We do not expect forgiveness but hope for your permission to make things right.”

“We apologize.” The Fire Nation says together, their words drifting out with heavy sincerity. “We have wronged you, harmed you, taken everything from you, and hated you. Everything we have done, was done with ill intent. We do not expect forgiveness but hope you might tell us how you would like recompense.”

They wait prostrated against the sticking cold. The silence that passes stings with each brisk breath.

Jee peeks through the space between his elbows and where his head touches the ground. The elderly woman walks up to Zuko.  She stops at his folded hands. One of her own, warmly gloved, reaches out. She takes one of his hands into hers. She pulls. Zuko falls against her heaving chest. The tears between them break the silence.

“We accept,” the old woman says softly. “Dear boy, we accept.”

She brings their Fire Lord to his feet with a strength befitting a queen. Zuko tucks against her shoulder. His face hides in her neck. His words are muffled. Hiccupped. But Jee is close. He can hear.

“I’m sorry for destroying your village with my ship. For grabbing you. For hurting you. For using you against your family. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

The woman turns his prince’s face towards her. She presses her mittened palm to his damp cheek. Twin streaks glisten on both sides of her wrinkled face, which dimple with a cleansing smile.

“I know. I believe you.”

“Gran Gran!” Katara and Sokka shout.

The two run to join their grandmother, who looks over their shoulders at the Fire Nation still on their knees.

“You may stand with us now,” she says.

When they rise, they are welcomed. They are gifted with thick anoraks to keep them warm and a dinner to ensure they will see their journey to its end. Around the campfire, the Southern Water Tribe sings. Their dirges mourn. Their hymns remember. Their melodies celebrate that, at last, their pain has been seen and life can begin anew.

With their ballads, their feet dance. One by one, tribe members invite them to join in their songs. Jee sits, watching the festivities, until Chief Hakoda and Bato take one hand each. Flushed with spirits, they rock side to side with arms woven over their bunched shoulders. Across the way, he finds Zuko in a similar position, wedged between siblings who tease his blush and kiss him the way family do. Together they all kick a silly dance around the campfire, which the firebenders feed beneath the full moon.

It has never been so warm in a place so cold.

*

They visit land after land with offerings of this earnest ritual. Jee learns with each visit that in Zuko’s journeys he’d touched a lives without meaning to.

A girl named Song is first to accept the apology. A horrid burn wraps around her ankle and crawls up her calf.

“I’m sorry I took your ostrich-horse,” Zuko tells her.

“Did she get you where you needed to be?”

Zuko nods.

“Forgiven, then,” she smiles slowly, “if you would buy us a new one.”

A child named Li is next to accept. The Fire Lord shares hushed words with him before offering a knife with an engraving. The child takes it, and Zuko is radiant, as lovely as the moment he’d taken Jee’s hand and pressed it to his heart.

The outer ring of Ba Sing Se brings to mind Jee’s own village. He never would have believed General Iroh and his prince living under such conditions, but the friends they had made here prove the story true.

A tea shop owner named Pao and a girl named Jin lift Zuko from either side. General Iroh joins them. They apologize for leaving them behind. Pao half-jokes about the despairing state of his tea. Jin laughs, saying she knew there was something special about Zuko, then titters about a sweet boy she’s seeing and would like him to meet.

The sail further north, where memories stir nightmares. They cross the sea that had once been bloodied. They cross the shore that had once been trampled with battle. They walk through the buildings a great spirit had once torn to pieces, on its path to vengeance.

Here, it is Hahn who helps Zuko to his feet. “I know this crew,” he remarks. “You sabotaged the engines and artillery.” He points at Jee, Aki, Cook, and Taiki. “And all you told me where Zhao was.”

“Desertion of the Fire Nation was per Fire Lord Zuko’s, then Crown Prince, orders, Sir.”

“Sabotage was his idea.” Still on her knees, Aki points at Jee with her thumb. “Wasn’t a hard decision to follow.”

Hahn smirks. “On your feet, then, you traitors.”

The final stop loops down at the Southern Air Temple. No one lives there. No one has lived there for a century. They march through the unnerving quiet, sensing horrors unseen but still silently screaming. Aang leads Zuko to a stone chamber. The skeleton of a monk rests there, their prayer beads hanging devotedly around their neck.

Zuko apologizes to Monk Gyatso no differently from how he apologizes to the living. As he speaks, the Avatar’s eyes brim with tears that spill down his small chin. Soon the chamber echoes with unrestrained bawling. Aang crumples to the floor, and Zuko crawls to him, taking the savior of the world into his arms. Together, they weep for everything the young boy had lost yet had no luxury of mourning. Not until now.

They proceed with properly laying Monk Gyatso to rest. The air temple’s stone walls whistle with the mountain winds. What are they trying to say? Jee wonders.

Perhaps they have nothing to say. (Only grief. A sad song.)

*

They return to the Fire Nation somber. Their work has only just begun. Zuko might be brash and hard-headed, but he’s learned a thing or two about a gesture.

Summer arrives. On its equinox he invites all the world’s peoples to his palace in Caldera. Standing on the same dais Zuko knows his father declared his title of Phoenix King, his ten close friends and allies wait single file. They face the crowd who include their own people, knowing what’s to come but unaware of how it is to be demonstrated. Only three are of Fire Nation.

Zuko stands to the left of the platform. Behind him, Mai, Ty Lee, Gran Gran Kanna, and King Bumi wait for their cue.

He takes to the center of the dais. He praises the people behind him, for their contributions to the war’s end and the healing’s beginning. When he turns around his heart skips at what he is about to do.

For Aang, he bestows an Air Nomad scroll from the Dragonbone Catacombs and proclaims all stolen artifacts to be restituted to the Avatar immediately.

For Toph and Suki, he gifts metal gauntlets, from which they may manipulate ripcords, projectiles, and shields to protect themselves and their own. King Bumi grins crookedly as he fastens the gauntlets around their slim but powerful wrists. Toph and Suki exchange excited looks, already playing with the weaponry by bending and hand.

For Katara, Sokka, Chief Hakoda, and Bato, he had hair beads crafted. Long and oval, they are made of whale bone and lined with gemstones. Sapphires for Water Tribe. Emeralds for Earth Kingdom. Citrine for Air Nomad. Ruby for Fire Nation. Katara’s bead has pearls on both ends, symbolling the moon and the act of healing oysters have mastered to turn sand into beautiful stone.

The Water Tribe warriors lower their heads as Gran Gran Hanna slides the beads up their braids. But Sokka clears his throat, says to Zuko, “I’d like it if you would put it on me.”

“Are you sure?”

His friend nods.

Zuko’s palms sweat. His finger tremble as he picks up the bead from its box. He drops it, but Sokka catches. They laugh lightly as Sokka deposits it back in his palms. Zuko feels Sokka’s eyes on him as he threads the bead onto his brown hair. Their eyes meet. Zuko wants to kiss him, but honor tempers his impulse. He buries his kiss in the tight embrace he can give. When he pulls away, Sokka’s a touch red.

For the Fire Nation, he had created special badges. Dispensing with his father’s legacy, he designs something poignant and new. Gone are the red and black ribbons. Gone are the hard-edged flames with points sharp enough to cut. Gold replaces the black. A sun replaces the flames, its rays radiating out in curled waves. Engraved on the sun rise growing flowers. The sowing dance had inspired them. He swears to bring that back to his people, too.

Mai and Ty Lee pin these over Piandao’s and Jeong-Jeong’s chests. Zuko stops at Jee to do the same. His right hand rests over the lieutenant’s heartbeat a second longer before he says, “I will need an admiral to command my reformed fleet as we bring the Navy back ashore. The position is there for you, if you want it.”

He purses his lips to stifle a chuckle at the loss of Jee’s emotionless mask. The lieutenant does not gawk or gasp or do any such thing that Sokka might with enthusiasm, but he does blink. His chest does rise and holds a breath.

“I-I would be honored, Sir.”

“Is that a ‘yes’?” Zuko knows it is, but he wants to hear it. His left hand digs into its pocket, clutching the box waiting there.

“Yes,” Jee whispers. Then, more happily, “Yes!”

He opens the box. Nestled within the black velvet is another badge, another re-envisioning of what the Fire Nation Navy could be. The ribbon is red, blue, and gold. Above it sails a ship toward the sun, a harsh tempest at its stern—a storm.

Jee’s eyes gleam at the significance.

With a smile, Zuko pins the second badge next to the first on Jee’s Navy formals. He knows Jee hates grand displays. He also knows Jee longs for appreciation. Jee’s hand goes up to touch the golden ship and the storm, as Zuko steps back.

“Then I look forward to working with you, Admiral Jee.”

Chapter Text

Jee spends the next four years journeying across the seas at the behest of his prince and his nation. With time, cruisers and destroyers return through the Great Gates without the shadow of Azulon’s statue looming over their decks. Crew members sit in the galleys nursing what could be their last drink. They are anxious for their futures. One hundred years of war had taught them to not look far ahead. Now they have all the time in the world to worry about what their judgment might be.

He sees himself in most of these people. Many of them left home to put food on a table they would never see. It does not make what any of them have done or were willing to do any more forgivable, but there is a sadness in what had brought them all here in the first place: the military is the Fire Nation’s largest enterprise. To do anything else meant a life of constant struggle unless one was born of nobility or the mercantile class.

Fire Lord Zuko puts an end to the family business. They’d discussed it many times during the small civil council meetings. Opportunities for work and re-education are put in place before the staggered return of veterans. Whether or not these policies and programs will succeed is anyone’s guess.

Each night, Zuko pores over a stack of personnel files. The majority of soldiers are entered into the Civilian Re-Entry Program (CREP). Others deemed capable and trustworthy are reassigned in the Fire Nation’s revamped military. The rest, those with the worst records, are tried in international court. The process is neither pretty nor pleasant, but Jee makes a point to attend every trial at Zuko’s side. Ambassador Sokka never fails to make an appearance either, nor does the Avatar.

Between assignments, Jee returns to the mainland with reports of war criminals who’ve fled Fire Lord Zuko’s call for justice. With a flick of the Fire Lord’s wrist, Jee’s released like a flying hook. The admiral sails waters calm and turbulent, docks with arrest warrants in hand, and deploys several search parties to comb the ground. Sometimes he catches someone. Sometimes he doesn’t.

All of it is grueling work. Tactical and meticulous and unforgiving of the limits of the human body. Yet each time Jee passes the harbor where Guozhi had lived and died, he tells himself this is only the glacial tip of his own penance.

When there is time for rest, Zuko invites him to his private chambers. His balcony and a bottle of something strong enough to loosen the knots in their shoulders have become ritual. After year one, a plate of food joins the bottle. After year two, a second table appears, this one supporting a pai sho board. Upon year three, Jee brings his shamisen. The hours they spend sitting and talking stretch until the first hours of morning.

What do they talk about? Work, mostly. (Then everything and nothing.)

How is your sister?

Struggling. I wish I could devote more time to her. Why isn’t there a doctor that treats the mind? Why doesn’t that exist?

Has she spoken to her friends yet?

Yeah. Last month. Didn’t go well. We’ll try again.

How was music night?

Good. Chief Hakoda and Bato have started coming. We have drinks and play snooker after. You should join us some time.

Busy.

You’re always busy. We’re all busy. Try again.

I don’t have an instrument.

Tsungi horn?

No.

Didn’t pass, I take it.

I really thought I’d convince them this time. Third time’s the charm and all that.

That law is a hundred years old. Change is hard.

It’s a cruel law. We need to stop being cruel. That shouldn’t be hard.

I know. You’re right.

So. How’s your sex life?

Sir?

Lieutenant?

And you are asking me, why?

Sokka says I need to work on my small talk. Apparently, I need to hone that skill for holding court.

I’m fairly certain asking after one’s ‘sex life’ does not qualify as small talk.

Listen. My upbringing wasn’t normal.

I know.

I wasn’t appropriately socialized.

You don’t say.

I spent my adolescence with hairy old men.

Hey!

What happened?

What makes you think something happened?

You look like a depressed iguana-toad.

Ha. Mai and I broke up. Don’t look at me like that. It was mutual, and we’re still friends. I think we outgrew each other, but—

--It was comfortable.

It was comfortable.

Jee loves talking to him. Talking to him makes him laugh. Listening to him takes his worries away. Even when they are silent, he enjoys knowing that his prince is there, right next to him, allowing him precious time when Zuko could be doing anything else.

And he thinks, yes, I love him. I love him as any man loves his friend. What’s more, he is easy to love. Zuko is bright and open and clever. He is obstinate and earnest and strong. Yet he is also dense and gentle and …

And.

“Sir?”

His prince has fallen asleep. What were they talking about? He doesn’t remember exactly. Something about ice dodging in the summer. Nothing important. (But everything that matters.)

It’s not the first time Zuko has fallen asleep mid-conversation. Jee rises from his chair, careful to not make a sound as what he’s about to do makes its way into ritual, too. He slides off Zuko’s boots. Shrugs off his gray jacket. Lays it across his prince’s shoulders and chest. He stands over him. Considers carrying him to bed. He leans over to do so. Stops.

This is what lovers do, and Jee knows boundaries should not be broken.

He fingers Zuko’s bangs, trying to tidy them, but they always fall over his eyes when he sleeps.

A whisper of ‘Good night, Sir,’ and he’s out the door with a grin on his lips, something wonderful growing steadily in his chest.

*

Jee doesn’t know, but whenever Zuko wakes, he looks for him. In place of the man, he always finds Jee’s jacket instead. The old one. The one from the Wani. Gray and red trimmed. He doesn’t know why Jee keeps it. It’s seen better days. But it’s soft and smells like him. Like sea salt. Smoke. Wood.

Jee doesn’t know, but whenever Zuko returns the jacket, that jacket had spent the night in his prince’s bed, on the pillow to his left.

*

Zuko is twenty-one when he asks him, “Agni, I just realized … Have you even had a chance to visit home yet?”

A bit of sake spills over the rim of Jee’s cup.

They’re in Zuko’s private study reviewing Jee’s final assignment before the last of the old navy is officially decommissioned. It’s an airy office thanks to the large bay window Toph earthbended to let more light in. That the interior’s modest is no accident. Reparations required the return of ill-gotten assets. Taking compounded interest into account, Zuko had dipped into the Fire Nation’s principal coffers and cut the palace budget in half. Jee can still hear the screams of court. A spike in assassination attempts lasted nearly a month.

He’s been silent for too long. Zuko’s eyes dart up from where they’d been studying a particularly obnoxious piece of legislation. From the Commissioner of Commerce, most likely. Only Rong would cheat length limits by writing infuriatingly small.

“Jee!”

“What?” He swats his hand across his lap in an effort to wipe some of the sake off his pants.

“It’s been four years! Are you flaming serious?” Zuko smacks his forehead. “I’m such an ass. Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I return at least once a quarter.”

“You return to the palace once a quarter. You’re at sea seventy percent of the time.” He cocks his head, his shoulder-length hair sliding over his gold cross collar. “Look: I don’t expect anyone to just suck it up whenever I give an order. I hope you know that. Agni, do you know that?”

“Please don’t drive yourself mad thinking you’re becoming your father. It’s not good for your health.”

“I didn’t drive myself mad!”

“You fainted, Sir.”

“And so will you if don’t let go of the helm for once. Why haven’t you?”

Jee contemplates his drink. “Priorities.”

Scoffing, Zuko leans back in his chair and wipes his palm across his face. Jee tries not to laugh. Once upon a time, he had been in Zuko’s seat. A joke about jowls sits on his tongue, but his prince plows on.

“And home isn’t a priority. Really. You know you’re entitled to leave, right?”

Leave. Home leave. Jee remembers Huan’s letter. He can barely read it now. It had taken a beating from all the turmoil it lived through, including a swim through the North Pole Ocean.

He lowers his head, closing his eyes as he presses his fingers to his suddenly aching temples. Working himself to the bone served dual purposes. One purpose is plain, the other … Well, it had only been a matter of time before he ran out of it.

Footsteps come around Zuko’s desk. He hears him pull up a chair to sit close.

“Hey. What’s wrong?”

“I don’t think anyone would remember me,” Jee admits, “and I don’t have any surviving family.”

Zuko stills next to him. He doesn’t need to look over to know his prince is awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck as he searches for the right thing to say.

“Even if they’ve … passed, you must miss them,” Zuko tries. “I think it might be good for you to at least say goodbye.”

He peers at Zuko, who offers an uncertain smile. And that’s the thing about him, Jee thinks. Zuko, if nothing else, always tries. The least he can do in return is make an effort to be honest.

“I’m not proud of where I’m from.” Jee grimaces. “That’s terrible, isn’t it? Being embarrassed of what I left behind? I’m not a selfless man, you know. Yes, I sent money home. Shit, everyone sent money home, but I wanted to get out of there, too. If I stayed, I’d just be another ‘barnacle rat’.”

“Barnacle rat?”

“It’s what the merchants stopping in from other islands would call us.”

Even after he’d left, the moniker followed him aboard iron ships ten times the size of his port village. Zhao had taken particular delight in throwing it in his face.

“You wanted respect,” Zuko murmurs, more to himself than to Jee. “You know you have it, right?”

“Not before destroying so many lives.”

He’s relieved when Zuko doesn’t argue with him.

“Remember how I told you, when I came home for the first time, it didn’t feel like how I’d imagined it? I think it might be the same for you, except the opposite.” He lays a hand on his knee. “Going home might actually bring you peace instead of dread.”

Sometimes Jee wonders if Zuko keeps his uncle hidden away somewhere, whispering proverbs from beneath his desk. He snorts at the thought.

No. Nearly half a decade running a country has made his prince well-spoken and more thoughtful, just as he said would happen with experience.  

“Since when did you become so wise?”

“I’m not. I’m just saying what’s possible.” He shrugs. Right shoulder. The one he’d caught Shan with. Some things don’t change. “What if I came with you?”

“What?”

“What if I came with you?” Zuko repeats, his smile growing. “I’d like to see where you’re from, and as Fire Lord it’s important for me to understand the smaller villages that are often taken for granted.”

Jee’s taken aback for a moment before recognizes what Zuko’s saying and why he’s saying it. He narrows his eyes at him. “You’re using my own words against me.”

“Yup,” Zuko sing-songs, popping the ‘P’. He rises from his chair, smacking Jee’s shoulder with the back of his hand as he goes. “Can’t get out of this now. Come on, let’s go.”

*

Zuko has never heard of Lànmùtou (Woodrott). Even after Jee showed him where his home village was located on a map, there was nothing to indicate that it existed at all. No dot with a name hanging next to it. No icon indicating a local resource. Not even an asterisk noting an operating port.

His chief advisor, Zhihao, balks at the sudden abandonment of his calendar for the next week, while his assistant, Shufen, coordinates their excursion with brutal efficiency. They make short work of packing their things before reserving a sailboat for Jee to pilot. Jee advises him to dress plainly. Zuko debates whether or not to wear his crown, ultimately deciding he should as a way of recognizing the village’s place in the Fire Nation.

They depart first thing in the morning, just before the sun winks up the horizon. Zuko stretches before slinging his bag over his shoulder. He loves pre-dawn. Everything is on the cusp of coming to life. Gulls call to one another for breakfast. Waves lap gently at the dock piles. Even the bell buoys are sedate.

Next to him, Jee rubs one eye with the heel of his palm. Zuko knows he’s a light sleeper. It comes with the territory of needing to wake up at moment’s notice.

“Rise and shine, Admiral.”

“Mmph.”

He presses a steel flask into Jee’s hand. It takes a moment for the older man to realize he’s holding something warm.

“What’s this?”

“Green tea from Uncle. Supposed to be a stronger variety. ‘Really bracing’ he says.”

Jee unscrews the flask and sighs in relief after his first sip. He blinks awake.

“There he is.”

A snort. “You are very fortunate strangling you is high treason.”

“Come on. Be a patriot. We’re supposed to ‘rise with the sun’, remember?”

Another sip. “Fuck whoever said that. It’s not literal, but now everyone thinks it is.”

Zuko chuckles and lays a hand on Jee’s shoulder as they make their way toward one of the boat slips. By the time they have everything in order, the sun is up and the last of the morning overcast evaporates.

There’s something about voyaging on a sailboat that feels a little like flying. Zuko closes his eyes as the wind whips his hair and puffs the headsail to life. The peace doesn’t last long. Jee moves around the boat as if he were on assignment rather than a mandated holiday. It looks strange on him when it’s just the two of them on such a small vessel.

“Anything I can do to help?” Zuko offers.

The lieutenant—admiral—shakes his head.

“You sure? I wasn’t all that bad.”

“You were a teenager,” Jee grunts. “By definition, you were awful.”

He laughs, throwing both arms over the backrest of the starboard passenger seat. “Hey! I can batten down the hatches!”

Jee’s brow arches. “We’re on a sailboat. How many hatches do you see?”

“Um …” He looks around and finds one on the deck just behind the bow. “One.”

“One. Hatch.”

“Better than zero.” Jee shoots him a look. Zuko lifts his palms, but his shoulders continue shaking with mirth. Jee is funny when he’s annoyed. “Okay, okay. Point taken.” He coughs and tries to settle down. “So. Anything else I should know about before we disembark?”

His friend breathes harshly through his nose. “To be honest, I don’t know how much—or little—Lànmùtou has changed. When I left, most of us walked barefoot.”

“You say that like it’s bad thing.”

“People not from there certainly thought it was.”

Zuko takes a moment to study Jee’s face. He’d known the man for eight years at this point, but he still has to suss him out. “Are you worried about what I’ll think of it?”

Behind the helm, Jee doesn’t reply. It’s all the answer Zuko needs. He considers what Aang might say.

“I bet the people are very kind.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Well, you’re from there, aren’t you?” The man gives him a funny look that falters between embarrassment and doubtfulness. “I guess I learned that wealth isn’t a good indicator of a community’s character. Or values. Caldera’s the worst example. Or the best, I don’t know.”

“You’re from Caldera,” Jee points out.

“Had to leave it to know better.”

“Hm.”

“It’s a bubble, that city.” Zuko leans his head against the backrest. “With Sokka and Toph’s help, hopefully we can get the earth tram from the bottom of the volcano to the capital running soon.”

“Court is going to love that.”

“Already asked Suki to up the bodyguard headcount next spring.”

“Proactively protecting yourself. Will wonders never cease?” Zuko good-naturedly offers a rude hand gesture. He feels a strange but pleasurable sense of victory when Jee grins despite himself. “I had to leave to know better, too.” He sighs and shakes his head. “All that garbage propaganda.”

“Yeah. We sure ate that shit up, didn’t we?”

“Like flaming egg tarts.”

*

Jee anchors at night, halfway through their journey. He tells Zuko traveling back will be swifter as they would be sailing with the current rather than against it.

Zuko putters around the boat’s tiny galley. To Jee’s surprise, he’s a decent cook. Zuko explains he’d throw on an apron at the Jasmine Dragon whenever he needed to get away from governance for a while. The tea house had recently added small food accompaniments to the menu. Turns out cooking is more fun than brewing, but don’t tell Uncle that.

“Egg foo young is easy. Mix some eggs. Add some scallions, mushrooms, and onions. Throw in a little soy sauce and sesame oil, and you’re done.”

Zuko’s knife claps against the cutting board with impressive precision. He uses the blade to slide the chopped vegetables into the frying pan, then hands the board and knife to Jee. He turns to wash the items in the sink.

“It’s the bladework, isn’t it? All that chopping? Your skillset overlaps.”

“Huh.” Zuko looks up in thought as he flips the scrambled eggs with a spatula. “Didn’t think of it that way, but I guess you’re right. Should mention that to Piandao.”

“You know, he started making dim sum the way you, Katara, and Sokka did it, back at the White Lotus Camp.”

“You’re joking.”

“I don’t joke.” He grabs a towel and starts drying. “He made a giant trident so he can steam nine containers at the same time. You should see it.”

They eat companionably at the table tucked into one side of galley. As they talk, some of the anxiety that had been tightening Jee’s spine like a corkscrew finally loosens.

Jee washes the remainder of the dishes after dinner while Zuko excuses himself for a shower. He goes in next, and when he comes out running a towel over his hair, he finds the other lying in one of the cabin beds reading a scroll.

“You brought work with you?”

“Helps put me to sleep, I’ll give it that.”

He pointedly clears his throat and holds out an open hand. With a sigh, Zuko hands him the document he’d been reviewing. Jee summons a small flame before settling in the second bed across Zuko’s.

“Limestone mining quotes.”

“Need it for cement.”

Dousing the flame, he rerolls the scroll. “Ash meet coal.”

“Huh?”

Jee points the scroll at him. “Why in Agni’s ass are you reading about cement while on ‘holiday’?”

“It’s your holiday.”

He drags his hand down his face. “I should throw you overboard for hypocrisy.”

“Treason.”

“Flame off.”

With that, Jee tosses the scroll out the cabin. It lands somewhere in the galley.

“You’re gonna pick that up in the morning, Lieutenant,” Zuko grumps.

“Sir,” Jee snarks. Before his prince can volley something back, he reaches for his shamisen and starts strumming a tune. He fiddles around a bit, not playing anything in particular to warm up, before the flow kicks in and he’s got a real song going.

Across him, Zuko has his arms crossed behind his head. He’s so quiet Jee thinks he might be dozing when he asks:

“Do you memorize everything you play?”

“You remember that one?”

“Yeah. Not something I’ve heard anywhere else, though. You wrote it?”

Jee nods. “Well, in my head, anyway.”

“Why don’t you get it on paper?”

“Force of—”

“—habit,” Zuko finishes. “You know, it’s been four years since we got rid of that ban. You can write anything you want now, if it pleases you.”

He purses his lips. The ‘Non-Patriotic Music, Dance, and Arts’ ban might have been struck down, but another more important one hadn’t yet. The Personal Relations Privacy and Protections law (PRPP) had been kicked back from court after Zuko’s four separate attempts to shove it through.

His prince could disregard court entirely, in fact he often considers it, but Zuko isn’t Ozai, and the small civil council had agreed that the Fire Lord’s control over the nation is still fragile. It would be politically shrewd to let the court officials weed themselves out and replace them with delegates more ideologically aligned. It is a waiting game. Zuko hates it.

Jee looks at him and thinks of the humming-moth on his back. (You’re in a jar.)

But this time someone has his hands on the lid.

“Not sure I want anyone to see the lyrics,” he says at length.

“You got lyrics?” Zuko sits up. “Not just notes?”

He points to his temple.

“Can I hear one?”

“No.”

A pout. It’s theatrical and should be obnoxious, but it isn’t.

“Why not?”

“Sometimes a man needs his secrets.”

*

Upon daybreak, they sail another eleven hours before a mishmash of tin shanties greets them like an uneven smile. Zuko stands on the bow pulpit with both hands on the rail. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting. Earth Kingdom was full of small villages, but even their most humble homes had been well-built with good materials. Here, every structure had been pulled together from rusted scraps. There are no doors or windows, only gaps between the patched-together walls. Some homes have fabric draped over their entrances for a veneer of privacy. Others hang clotheslines across the way for the dual purposes of drying laundry and hiding goings-on within.

Children crouch on the gray docks poking a hermit crab with a stick. The sight a new boat approaching steals their attention. They rise to their feet, and the hermit crab makes its escape with a watery plunk.

“Hello,” Zuko greets as Jee tugs on the halyard to lower the sail.

The kids scamper off spooked. Behind him, Jee tosses the spring line at a horn cleat on the docks. He then hops off the boat, moving quickly to knot the line with a cleat hitch. His hands fall on his hips.

“Welcome.”

Zuko huffs a laugh before making his way off the port quarter where he unhooks the cordon chain attached to the boat rails. Jee takes his hand as he makes the jump onto the dock. The wood creaks.

“So this is home,” Zuko hums. “Is it like you remember it?”

“Yeah.” Jee squeezes his fingers before letting go. “It is.”

Zuko looks beyond the village. Living conditions like this sit at the edge of big cities like Ba Sing Se. It made the lower ring what it was. But there isn’t a large migration of refugees flooding an already over-populated city, nor is there a city drawing an influx of rural workers with hopes of work and a better life. He notices, to his confusion, that there isn’t a tree line, either.

“No forest?” He asks carefully as his friend leads the way.

“No. Used to be when my mother and father were children. Sozin cut all the trees down. Needed the wood for his war efforts. There’s a path that leads to the mountains. If you go through it, you can see all the stumps.”

That explains the lack of natural resources. “Where do the metal sheets come from?”

“Dumped from elsewhere. Landfills are hard to come by in an archipelago.”

Jee doesn’t want or need pity, and pity isn’t what Zuko feels. Lànmùtou must have been a small but thriving fisherman’s wharf at some point in its history. It’s the only explanation for an isolated community to still be here. He doesn’t know what to say that except, “I’m sorry.”

The other man shrugs as he makes a right. The shanties cluster together, forming a maze that recall a gopher-shrew warren. “You’re here now. Maybe you can help where I couldn’t.”

With every turn they pass multiple homes, food stands, and market stalls, each difficult to distinguish from the other. People look up from whatever they’re doing to watch them walk by. They never say anything. Instead they go quiet, a weariness overtaking their expressions.

It’s when they pass a lopsided butcher’s stall that someone finally speaks out.

“Oi!” The big man behind the counter shouts, striking his meat cleaver against the cutting board. They stop and turn. “Who’re—” But the man doesn’t finish. His honey eyes go wide.  “Wait. You look like … Are you-are you Huan’s brother?”

Zuko senses Jee straighten next to him.

“Jee, yes.”

The man grabs a rag to wipe his hands in before coming around the counter and its mismatched stools. On his broad chest he wears an apron that looks like Cook’s—stained everywhere and beyond its last days—while atop his head sits a neatly tied top knot held together with twine.

Facing them, he bows with the sign of the flame.

“I am Yūdai, Isamu and Minato’s son. Huan gave me the money I needed to cover the property tax on father’s shop,” he rises, nodding at his store. “He said that money came from you. It was your earnings from serving. My family owes you much.”

Jee holds out his hand, shakes his head. “Please. The credit belongs to my brother. It was his decision. I had nothing to do with it, really.”

“But was it not you who told him, ‘Take care of your family. Not just mother and father, but everyone here. The butcher is your uncle. The seamstress is your aunt.’?”

Zuko glances at Jee. It sounds exactly like the sort of thing he would say about his crew. Jee’s speechless.

“What would’ve happened if you didn’t pay the tax?” Zuko asks.

“Debtor’s prison,” the other two say together. Yūdai smiles at Jee with compassion.

“Like I said: my family owes you much.” He smacks the counter. The wooden plank sitting atop a stack of cinderblocks rattles. “Here. Sit. I will make you something to eat, and then we will talk.”

The butcher searches his paltry inventory for his best cut of meat. He finds a couple of picken drumsticks, which he roasts over a small fire. While the picken cooks, Yūdai skips to one of his neighbors. The elderly woman he greets peers at Zuko and Jee with eager curiosity, then happily offers two cracked bowls of rice. Rather than returning to his stall, however, Yūdai visits another neighbor who donates two tablespoons of dried anchovies. By the time the butcher’s back, the picken’s done and the bowls are laden with enough bits and bobs to make a full meal.

Jee cups the chipped bowl in his hands as one might hold a starling-dove. “This is familiar, too.”

“What is?”

“A meal like this,” he replies quietly. “Everyone is here. In the bowl.”

Zuko looks down at the offering before him. A couple stalks of bamboo shoots. A tiny bouquet of enoki. A quarter of bok choy. The anchovies and the picken leg. It is both the most humble meal he’s ever seen and the most generous. He thanks Yūdai for his and everyone else’s hospitality, but the other man kindly brushes it off as if it’s nothing.

 “This is who we are, friend. It is our culture.” His eyes dart to the crown nestled against Zuko’s top knot. He clears his throat. “Can I call you ‘friend’, or should it be ‘Fire Lord’?”

“You may call me ‘friend’,” Zuko answers, appreciating this frankness court would find rude. “Jee is one of mine.”

“Then you are lucky.”

Jee turns red and pointedly ignores the attention heaped on him. Under normal circumstances, Zuko would have teased, but Yūdai means what he says deeply. Another thing that is just like Jee.

“I am,” he agrees.

*

Yūdai catches them up on the state of Lànmùtou. He says nothing’s been the same since the cholera outbreak. Huan’s death was perhaps the worst of all. He tells them Huan had started designing a new sewage system from scratch. The village only ever had communal bath houses and latrines. Huan wished to expand plumbing to each home. It was an ambitious dream on the heels of having their piping taken away, and it never went beyond half-drawn schematics before Huan succumbed to illness.

“Do you still have them?” Jee asks. “The drawings?”

“I don’t, but I bet Xiulan does.”

The butcher accompanies them to Jee’s old house before his family had moved more inland. Three of its four walls are shared with its neighbors. A tattered cloth hangs over the door. Through the square, pane-less window, they see a woman bustling around putting away things.

“Xiulan!” Yūdai calls out. “You have some visitors!”

Xiulan glances out. Her eyes go large at the sight of Zuko, which doesn’t surprise him, but they grow even bigger upon settling on Jee. With one arm, she pulls the cloth aside and rushes out.

Her bare feet stutter on the dirt. Remembering who is here, she bows and makes the sign of the flame.

“Oh,” Xiulan breathes. “You look so much like him.”

She’s a pretty woman. Tan, slight in frame, and lightly freckled on both cheeks. Her black hair has been rolled into a messy bun, loose strands falling in all the right places. Xiulan smiles, but the emotion behind it is infused with sadness. She lifts her hand as if to touch Jee’s face. She pulls back with a fidget.

“You are the Fire Lord and Jee, yes?”

They nod, and she bows again, deeper for Zuko.

“Thank you, Fire Lord, for returning Huan’s brother to us.” Xiulan turns to Jee. “Huan never stopped talking about you.” She laughs a little. “He, uh … When we were teenagers, he was afraid to ask me out because you told him to treat me like his sister.”

“Oh,” Jee winces. “I didn’t think that one through.”

“He figured out what you meant eventually.” Xiulan clutches her own arm and looks askance. “He was very sweet. Very tender. To be loved by him was—” Her eyes flutter with tears. She dabs them away with one knuckle. “I’m sorry. Please come in.”

They duck under the cloth she holds up for them to get inside. Zuko looks around. Jee’s childhood home is a single room. On one side, two stacks of three crates rest on their sides, creating a makeshift pantry. To its right waits a small surface for preparing food, and next to that sits a washtub that must serve as a basin, laundry cistern, and bath. In the middle, where Xiulan pulls out chairs, stands a wooden table with two legs too short for the floor. On the other side, the sleeping area. Clothes hang across a pole that has been welded to one corner. Beneath that lays a single sleeping mat.

Zuko eyes the mat. There is only one for one person, and already it takes up a quarter of the space. He wonders how three more people managed to fit in here. Two of them were growing boys.

“Have a seat. Huan left something for you.”

Jee swallows. “He did?”

“Mm. He said you might come back some day, so he asked me to watch over this until then.”

Xiulan pushes the hangers across the rack, revealing a chest behind her clothing. Zuko and Jee rise to help her, but she lifts it easily enough. She sets it on the rickety table and pushes it in Jee’s direction.

There’s no lock, Zuko observes, only a latch to keep the lid shut. Jee unhooks the latch and opens the chest. It’s hinges creak. When he freezes, Zuko moves around the corner of the table to see what’s inside.

A pipa. On either side of its wooden belly dance two long-necked birds. They mirror one another, hopping on one leg and raising one wing. The instrument is scuffed and has lost all its shine. Next to it lay a set of weaving tools and a bamboo flute.

That’s all there is.

Jee seems to hold his breath as he reaches in. It’s the flute he picks up first. His long fingers wrap around its length. His thumb rubs against the blow hole, which had once caught breath from Huan’s lips.

“We used to play together,” Jee says. His chest quivers as he exhales. “We used to play together all the time.”                                                                                                                                   

Zuko reaches out, but Xiulan beats him to it. She takes Jee’s free hand and brings the top of it to her lips. “We built something together,” she whispers, “using music.” Xiulan presses their joined hands against the side of her face. Tears run freely when Jee opens his palm to cup her cheek. “You need to see it.”

*

They leave the village for its inland outskirts. Jee brings his father’s pipa with him, fingers absently plucking the strings.

Just before the walking path leading to the mountains, they approach a large structure made of driftwood, tin sheets, and dried leaves. Within they find a four-by-four arrangement of buckets, boxes, and bricks with short planks atop them. It occurs to Zuko these are children’s desks and this building is a school. At the front of the classroom hangs a faded scroll that reads, ‘Friends from Afar, Anchor Your Stay’. There are music notes and lyrics beneath the title.

It's a song.

Jee walks up to the scroll. He touches one corner. “This is …”

“Yours,” Xiulan finishes. “You used it to teach yourself to read, didn’t you? After you left, Huan taught me the same way you taught him.”

“This is incredible. You did all of this?” Zuko asks.

“Mm. Me and Huan. When he came back from formal schooling on another island, he brought books with him.” She gestures to the small library at one corner of the room. “It’s not a lot, but it got us started. Most of the children can read and do a basic math now.”

Jee’s grip around the neck of his pipa tightens. “Huan was so ambitious.”

“Your brother worked very hard. He took everything you said seriously.” Xiulan clasps her hands together. Her fingers brush against the inside of her left wrist. “‘I’m gonna learn and teach myself and help others’, he said. I think your words gave him a sense of purpose. A lot of us didn’t have that. We only worried about getting by.”

Lifting his pipa, Jee takes a moment to read the scroll. It must have been a long time since he last played this song, Zuko thinks, but the passage of time doesn’t matter. When he starts playing the folksy tune, it’s as if he never stopped.

The air shifts when Jee sings. The sunlight pouring through the gaps in the ceiling brightens. Dust motes dance like fairies. Somehow the classroom feels bigger. His voice flies as high as a canary-goldfinch and dips as low as the rumbles at the bottom of sea. Even on Music Night, Zuko had never heard Jee sing this song. All the same, it makes him homesick.

Zuko and Xiulan clap after he plays the last chord. With a nod, Jee turns the pipa around and offers it to Xiulan. She hesitates as she accepts it.

“Keep it. For the school.”

“But it was your father’s …” Xiulan protests.

“It’s all right. The kids need it more than I do. I’d be happy if they have more music.”

She looks down at the instrument, her eyes caressing every scratch. “Thank you.”

*

Xiulan takes them to the gravesite next. The village had chosen a section of land from the decimated forest. The tree stumps Jee had mentioned are shrouded with moss and vines. At the foot of one hundred stumps lay one hundred white stones with names haphazardly carved onto them. Xiulan explains she made most of them. A few of the kids had helped, too, as did Yūdai, whom she steadfastly taught despite his struggles.

They walk along the many rows, taking a moment to offer a silent prayer for each name they read. When they reach Jee’s family, Zuko and Xiulan stroll a short distance away to let the man grieve in private.

“We all knew what it meant to join the Navy,” Xiulan says softly. “To enlist was to sign your life away. Your choices weren’t yours anymore. If you made one against orders, well, that was treason, wasn’t it?”

Zuko thinks of Jee’s banishment. Of the jagged rocks hidden beneath sea level. Of a shredded hull and the accident he’d feigned to stop missiles from decimating an Earth Kingdom harbor.

(His oily fingers slipped.)

He’s never heard Jee mention writing home after cholera had taken his family. He likely thought no one would be able to read, must less care about, what he had to say. Zuko wants to tell her—about his anger and his courage and his sorrow—but Jee’s betrayal of Ozai’s crown isn’t his story to tell.

But there is another story that Zuko can.

“He fought alongside us,” he replies, “the resistance, I mean. The Avatar, the Southern Water Tribe, the Earth Kingdom, the White Lotus, and me. He helped us take down the Fire Nation Navy. Now, he’s my admiral. He’s spent the last four years pulling back our forces at sea. By the end of this year, we’ll finally be done.”

Xiulan smiles. “We had a feeling his moral compass would win out.” She looks at her feet. “I know people from other lands won’t agree, but choosing to enlist wasn’t so simple for everyone in the Fire Nation. For a lot of us, it was choosing between poisons.”

Glancing behind them, Zuko checks on Jee. He finds him on his knees, head dropped in his hands. White rocks surround him. They are as pale and shapeless as little ghosts. Little ghosts that haunt at the feet of beheaded trees. Jee is a quiet crier. He doesn’t make a sound, but when his hands fall onto his lap and his head tilts to the sun, his cheeks shine brightly. He is a man in a garden of loss.

Zuko looks away.

“The thing is, he makes it look easy.”

“I’m not surprised,” the woman next to him sighs, “Huan was like that, too.”

*

They have dinner with Xiulan and Yūdai. Xiulan doesn’t notice, but the butcher gives up a portion of his share of food by depositing more meat and vegetables in her bowl. He washes the dishes, sweeps the floor, and lifts heavy things with a smile as the rest of them talk. Zuko deduces he must have feelings for her but refrains from being anything more than polite. There’s a joy in his quiet kindness, secretive to anyone who isn’t paying close attention. It’s as though not receiving anything in return is its own reward.

When Yūdai bids everyone goodnight, Xiulan confesses, “Your brother asked me to marry him.” She reaches into her pocket and lays a bracelet on the table. The band is made of woven leather meant to be wrapped around the wrist three times. At one end is a blunted fishhook, at the other, a bowline on a bight knot through which the hook can slip through and hold the bracelet in place. “I can’t bear to wear this anymore, but I can’t bear to let it be forgotten in a drawer either.”

Jee stares at the bracelet a terribly long time. He picks it up. Runs his fingertips across the braiding. He returns Huan’s gift into Xiulan’s hand.

“I wish I had been here. He should have lived. You should have married. I should’ve—”

Her fingers crush his. “No. Don’t. We all have our regrets, but we can’t change what happened. What’s done is done.”

Jee doesn’t disagree. They all know the pain of ‘what if?’.

For a while they sit in silence sipping diluted tea. Zuko studies the way Jee looks upon Xiulan with too many heavy emotions behind those brown eyes.

“I would be honored to have you as my sister,” Jee says, “If you might have me as your brother in turn?”

She looks at him. Holds his hand. Lets the bracelet get entangled between their palms, bereft of the man they will always love but will never, ever see again.

“I would love that.”

Jee and Xiulan wrap around each other, and Zuko knows when he should make himself scarce. He pats Jee’s shoulder, squeezes it, whispers that he’ll be on the boat.

When he gets to their cabin, he finds a blank sheet of parchment and begins writing all the resources needed to help Lànmùtou thrive, allow it to heal and grow.

*

Jee doesn’t mean to stay as late as he does. The day has been harrowing. His throat burns. His eyes burn. The inside of his skull is throbbing. Yet, he can’t say he regrets a single second of it. With his brother’s flute in his hand and his mother’s weaving tools in his pocket, he muses on Zuko’s intuition.

There’s a light in the boat cabin, a candle lamp left burning for its second occupant’s return.  Zuko’s asleep. His boots are still on. Jee slides them off and sets them aside. He’s about to pull a blanket over him when he finds parchment lying face down on his prince’s chest. He lifts Zuko’s limp hand and pulls it free. His eyes catch a few of the words written in royal calligraphy. It doesn’t take long to start reading.

Saplings

Starter livestock

Farming equipment

Construction equipment

Wood

Cement

Piping

Sanitation

Medicine

Books

School supplies

Art supplies

Labor *determine if residents are open to non-local assistance

1.) Have Shufen research what flora and fauna were indigenous to this area.

2.) Invest liquid assets for non-discretionary spending at Lànmùtou’s disposal. Check with treasury.   

3.) Who’s collecting the taxes? Ask Zhihao. Figure out how to oust them. This is ridiculous.

4.) Who’s dumping their garbage here? Schedule a meeting with the Commissioner of Health & Sanitation

5.) Are Xiulan and Yūdai leading this place? Is it a collective like the Southern Water Tribe? Who’s the head? Is there one?

6.) Find out if they want to participate in the global economy, expand to only domestic, or continue as-is.

7.) Talk to Jee about getting buy-in from residents and reestablish establish trust.

Jee looks between the notes and his prince, his heart beating a little faster. He fingers Zuko’s bangs. Smiles when it falls back in place. Without thinking he leans over, hovering above his forehead, before he inhales sharply and pulls back.

He sets the list down on the night table between their two beds and shakes himself out of it. It’s been a long day. He’s wrung-out and tired. Tomorrow, Jee decides, will be happier one.

*

The sun’s not up yet, but Jee lights the galley’s stove with two fingers and sets about making congee for breakfast. While the porridge heats, he unmoors the boat and sets sail for deeper waters. When the sky finally turns pink with daybreak, he returns to the cabin and puts a hand on Zuko’s shoulder, gently shaking until he wakes.

“Mm?” Zuko yawns. “You’re up before me?”

Jee crouches down so they’re face to face. “Ever been sea urchin diving?”

His prince becomes alert. He sits up with an eager smile. Perhaps he might have done well enough for a sailor.  “Is it exactly what it sounds like?”

They eat breakfast then prepare their gear, taking their time to allow the food in their bellies to digest. Jee gives Zuko a dive knife with a curved chisel tip and a catch bag. He tells him to look between rocky crevices and to not fight with a sea urchin with too stubborn a grip.

“Careful when you ascend,” he goes on. “We’re free-diving deep. Go up too fast and you can make yourself dangerously sick.”

Zuko rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I know. I’m a strong swimmer.”

“Strong enough to dive under ice with no way out, apparently.”

“I’m gonna kill Sokka for telling you about that.”

They undress down to their rokushaku fundoshi and dip their feet over the lip of the stern. Fire Nation air and water have always been warm. But in darkness everything cools, and the last nips of night stay well into morning. After yesterday, Jee looks forward to the shock of plunging over forty feet setting him to rights.

“I thought you get sea urchins from rocky shores?” Zuko sits next to him. Their shoulders brush.

“You can at most places. Grandmother said there used to be a lot them before the mainland started dumping their refuse here. We have to go further out like this where the water’s cleaner.” He looks down. The water is so clear, he can see the reef and all its creatures. “You ready?”

“Yup.”

Together they take large breaths, each one going deeper than the last, expanding their lungs. As they exhale, sparks fly, then smoke, then fire. With a final inhale, they tip off the vessel.

*

Jee leads the way. Zuko follows him from behind. The humming-moth on the older man’s back seems to move like a skate-ray. Up and down, up and down, flying in the water. The red eyespots on its wings turn an odd shade of green. Color disappears the deeper you go underwater. Red is the first to vanish. Then orange, then yellow. Fitting, Zuko reflects, that even when there’s no flame, water can still douse its colors.

They circle the reef until Jee points. Zuko looks down. A herd of sea urchins have congregated on the southwestern side. Jee swims to one within easy reach. He shows Zuko how to slide the blade under the echinoderm and slowly pry it off. Once it’s freed, Jee turns to his catch bag, stuffs it in, and pulls on the drawstrings. He gestures for him to have a go next.

Zuko looks for a big one. He finds a behemoth of an urchin hiding underneath a coral shelf. Flipping over, he swims to it with his knife and starts jimmying the poor creature off its home. Of course, with its large size comes more tube feet, and with more tube feet come greater resistance. Zuko blows bubbles with effort. Not a budge.

Jee had counseled him to move on, but Zuko prides himself on never giving up without a fight. He puts wraps both hands around the knife’s handle, kicks his legs up, and firebends from his feet.

The water boils, and the rapidly forming bubbles creates a blast of jet propulsion. The urchin comes free, but not before Zuko crashes headfirst into the reef and crumbles part of it in the process.  

He swims up from the debris. The weight of Jee’s stare hits his shoulders. He turns to him with his teeth clenched, an ‘ooops’ on his tongue if he could speak it. Jee palms his face but starts to laugh. Bubbles erupts from his mouth and nose. Zuko waves his arms around, Don’t!, but only manages to make Jee’s fit worse.

They need air. Jee, moreso. His feet push off the sea floor with a billow of sand. He exhales a little bit at a time as he makes his way to the surface. Zuko follows him up. They pace themselves every few feet.

When they break water, his friend is hysterical.

“You’re—You’re supposed to …” He gasps between laughs. “You’re supposed to be gentle! Not destroy the entire habitat!” He wipes the water out of his eyes and slicks back his hair. “Agni, you almost drowned me!”

“Well, I got it, didn’t I?”

Zuko holds up his prize. It’s so big, the creature slides off his palm and lands on the top of his head like a spiky hat. Jee laughs again.

“You look like a mushroom.”

He spits water at him. Misses. “Ha. Ha. So we got our urchins, now what do we do?”

Jee reaches for his catch bag and pulls his out.  

“We check the yield. Don’t want to waste our energy harvesting if they’re all small inside. If they are, we’ll have to swim to another area where they’re doing better.”

Zuko swims closer to observe. Jee flips the urchin over, holding it carefully so the spines don’t break skin. His friend slips the curved end of his knife into its mouth and cracks open the shell. Zuko watches as Jee rotates the urchin with one hand and peels off its casing with the other. The man’s biceps flex and drip with every small movement.

He’d always known Jee was strong. Drawing sheets and tying knots, climbing ladders and manning helms, a seafarer’s life is daily physical work, to say nothing of the firebending forms that are dutifully practiced each morning and night.

He snaps to when a particularly loud crunch emanates from Jee’s hands. He looks down to find that half the exoskeleton is gone and what’s left makes a natural bowl. Inside rest five orange petals curling inwards, their shape and bumpy surface recalling tongues. Uni. Zuko salivates.

 Jee rinses these treasures by dipping the half-shell in seawater and lightly shaking it out. He dips one finger in, plucking a petal, and licks it into his mouth.

*

The uni melts on Jee’s tongue. It is buttery, faintly sweet. It tastes of the sea and feels like the beach. Salty. Fresh. A little bit grainy, but smooth enough to go down like cream. Jee closes his eyes, sighing as the flavor slowly disappears from his mouth, only to return through his nose with an exhale. Kelp. Roe. The scent of a ship approaching its mooring. Coming home.

“Mm.” He nods in approval. “It’s good. Here.”

Jee scoops in again. When he has another petal of orange flesh on his fingertip, he holds it out.

Zuko blinks.

He returns the gaze, confused, until his better sense catches up to him. Jee’s stomach drops. This is an intimate gesture. He’d been enjoying himself so much, it hadn’t occurred to him he’s crossing the line of propriety. He’s about to say something to save face, when Zuko leans forward and eats off his finger.

Jee holds still. It’s hot and soft and wet in his prince’s mouth. When Zuko’s eyes close with pleasure, he drags his stare to the stern of their vessel.

He’d known the boat had been named ‘Bi Yi Niao’, but he hadn’t given it much thought. Reading the characters of its name painted in gold, he remembers now what Bi Yi Niao are.

When Jee was little, his mother would tell him stories of a beautiful bird that had only one eye, one wing, and one leg. The bird struggles greatly to survive, she said, for it cannot see or move well, nor can it fly. It is only when it has found its mate that each makes the other live to the fullest. Their long necks wrap around each other in an embrace. Their paired feet jump and dance. Their shared wings lift them into the sky. When the sun rises in the east, you can hear them sing. Their voice is one.

One day you will find someone to lean on, and they will lean on you in turn. You will feel light as a feather when you are with them. Together, you will both see the world more clearly.

And you will dance, my little one. You will dance and sing songs.

(I am a bird with one wing. You are a bird with one eye. Won’t you lay your head against mine?)

It’s cold. It’s been cold for quite some time. Zuko had long ago pulled away. His prince is beaming, effervescent and happy and beautiful with his wet hair hanging in a black sheet.

“Oh. Wow. That’s … That’s—”

Jee breathes. His eyes refocus. He takes back his empty hand. It curls close to his heart. His voice rasps.

“Fresh?”

“Flaming Agni … Fuck. That’s good.” Zuko reaches for more. Jee pulls back.

He can’t let him get too close. Not now when he feels a little bit lightheaded. Perhaps, even, a little bit lost. Forty-one years old. The years that had passed him by all melded into one long memory of iron, sweat, and heartbreak. But his prince is cheerful, and Jee loves his joy. Will it always feel like this to bring him happiness? He wants to know. He doesn’t want to be old or guarded or boring anymore.

He holds the urchin high above them with one arm and pushes Zuko back by the face with the other.

“You brat! Get your own!”

“Brat?! I’m twenty-one, Lieutenant!”

Zuko flails his arms, but Jee knows he’s playing. He’s holding back. He’s being dramatic to get a rise out of him. (If not a laugh).

“With all due, respect, Sir, you have your own!”

“Bastard! I thought we were sharing?”

“Sharing doesn’t mean eating mine and yours.”

They squabble in the water, Jee having the advantage of slightly longer limbs. Zuko relents with a grumble but not before flicking water into his face.

“Fine. Be that way.” Zuko digs around his catch bag. It doesn’t surprise Jee that he manages to poke himself on a spine. Once the urchin is in hand, its spines waving up and down in displeasure, Zuko looks up. “Could you show me how to crack them open again?”

*

Jee huffs but acquiesces. Zuko waits as he swims toward him. When the other man had offered to share, he’d hesitated. He’d caught himself hesitating and put a stop to it before Jee could interpret the situation as anything more than what it was.

But he likes knowing Jee is comfortable enough to let these small touches pass between them like second nature. It is familiar. Friendly. Not unlike their last months on the Wani before everything turned south. He wishes this silly, teenaged infatuation did not keep resurfacing like a weed.

Jee’s arms come up around him. A broad, wet chest presses against his back. Zuko should be startled, but he isn’t. Instead he monitors his breath, willing it to not betray him with its swiftness. Jee’s head cants over his shoulder as he guides Zuko’s hands with his own. Together they open the urchin, revealing its secrets, eating its gold.

When Zuko tastes uni, he thinks about Sokka. Windblown hair. Brown skin smelling of seafoam. Clothes raining sand from their travels. He thinks about Sokka all the time. He thinks about him and the rush of excitement he feels whenever they spend time together. (The flush of warmth whenever they touch).

But guilt seeps into these tender feelings when Zuko remembers he’s entrusted his life to Suki. He loves her, too, but not that way, and he worries his affections are a form of stealing. (You covet.)

“What’s wrong?”

He lifts his head and finds Jee looking down on him with worry.

“Nothing.” Zuko puts on a smile. “Come on, let’s get some more. We’ll bring enough for the whole village!”

“But—”

With that he dives below, taking his self-pitying thoughts with him.

*

On their way back to Lànmùtou, a fast-moving outrigger accompanies them at their port side. The two fishermen on the canoe work in tandem gathering their net and adjusting their sail. Agni smiles upon them today, for their net has captured a bounty of crabs, fish, and squid. Jee celebrates their success with a long, rolling cry, then hoists the over-full bags of sea urchin over his shoulders. The fishermen whistle back. They cheer.

That night the villagers gather to feast. Planks of wood are lain across empty barrels, while giant banana leaves fan across their surfaces with offerings of rice, grilled seafood, and vegetables spread over their green.  

When they eat, they eat together. They eat everything with their hands. Their fingers glisten with grease and the juices of crab meat liberated of their shells. Zuko observes as Jee easily slips into the etiquette of his people. He gathers rice between his fingers, cracks shells open, strips fish straight off their bones. As he chats with Xiulan and Yūdai, Jee leaves opened crab legs in front of Zuko, ready to eat.

Out of his element, Zuko politely dines on what is in front of him. In the palace, servants in the kitchen or at the table would remove bones and shells before Zuko could even ask. It is one thing to eat fruit off a tree or uni straight from the ocean. To eat with his hands at the table is considered uncouth. Even in the outskirts of Earth Kingdom or the lower ring of Ba Sing Se, Zuko had never eaten a true meal without chopsticks.

“So it is true: the Fire Lord is Jee’s guest.”

Zuko sits up as if caught. He turns to the elderly woman sitting to his left, heading one end of the long, makeshift table.

“It is an honor to be welcomed here and to this celebration,” he replies. “I don’t think we’ve met yet.” In his seated position, Zuko makes the sign of the flame and bows with only his head. “What’s your name?”

“Amihan,” the woman smiles. She is small and thin, her leathery skin creased with wrinkles. There is a sharpness in her eyes that matches the hook of her grin. “I know this is very different from what you are used to. Do you feel uncomfortable?”

“I wouldn’t say uncomfortable,” Zuko says. “More like I’m not sure what to do.”

“Hm …” Reaching across the table, the woman grabs a crab leg. She holds it up and snaps it at the first joint and pulls. Meat slides free. She repeats the same motions at the second joint, then the third and fourth. “You see? Now you. Don’t be shy. I know your friend showed you how to shell an urchin.”

He mimics her, though the meat he shells could come out more cleanly. When he scoops rice and eats with his fingers, her face grows young with pride.

“Like that?”

“Yes. Perfection.”

Zuko feels his chest puff up at her approval. He glances at Jee but finds he’d already been watching. For such a small thing, the admiral looks proud, too.

He’s about to say something when the sounds of chimes, rattles, and drums draw his attention. A group of musicians have gathered before the table. A woman sits at the center with a gabbang—a bamboo xylophone—standing at her knees. She strikes the bars in a playful melody. The chimes and rattles clap along, bringing with them the sound of rain. They harmonize at a steady beat until the drummer enters, following the gabbang’s rhythm before increasing the tempo. As another man strikes a large gong hanging from its wooden frame, five women surround the musicians with long sheets for fire trailing from their palms and feet.

The women twist and turn their fire as easily as silk, throwing flames over their shoulders then around their hips with every sway of their body. They chant as the music continues, singing words Zuko doesn’t understand but knows are old and sacred.

“This village has existed long before the islands became one.” The old woman remarks. Zuko turns to her. When she looks at him again, he wonders how much she had seen. How much she had watched vanish. “No matter how much time passes, some things always manage to survive. It saddens me that many things do not.”

“What do you mean?”

“People on the bigger islands think we’re dumb. Uncultured. Illiterate, they say. Perhaps it is convenient for them to forget that long ago, we had our own writing system.” She looks back to the dancers, the singers, the musicians—her people’s artists. “We read, we wrote, we taught one another no differently than any other civilization.”

The dancers spread their arms wide, opening their sheets of flame like wings. A flash of heat brushes against Zuko’s face. It dissipates as soon as flames wrap around the women again.

“What happened?”

“When Caldera declared the official writing of Fire Nation, ours all but disappeared.” Amihan’s shoulders huff a laugh with no humor in it. “Of course, just as it is easy to forget our history, it is also easy to forget our existence. Once our trees were taken, then our silver and our salt, it is hard to retain interest. How does a people read and write again, when the crown does not see us?”

Zuko swallows. Though he’d understood what Jee had meant about giving the smaller villages a voice, he hadn’t imagined the Fire Nation’s tyranny would wound its own people so thoroughly. “I’m sorry.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” Amihan assures him. “You are here, are you not? And do you not see us?”

The music fades. The dancers twirl into a bow. Everyone whoops and cheers for more. And Jee, so serious and reserved, is not really either of those things. Here he is, standing among his own, clapping and singing and throwing his head back in coyote-wolf laughter. He looks happier than Zuko has ever recalled seeing him, and much younger besides.

(He is trapped in a jar).

“I would like to see you all more often,” Zuko decides. “I would like to see this never die.”

*

They say their goodbyes the following morning. The people of Lànmùtou are not only gregarious but generous with their affection. Embraces are shared. Kisses are left on their cheekbones. On the docks, they bring a bag of prepared meals for their journey back to Caldera and shoo away Zuko’s insistence that their galley has plenty.

When they board the Bi Yi Niao and pack their things, Zuko takes a moment to read the list he’d created. He adds a new item.

Cultural preservation.

He jumps when something clatters next to his hand. To his right sits a large, round object covered with little bumps. Zuko picks it up. The bumps are symmetrical, as are the purple and violet stripes running from the small hole atop its center. A sea urchin shell.

“Very pretty.”

“It’s yours,” Jee says. He returns to his bag where he carefully tucks away his brother’s flute and mother’s weaving tools. “Souvenir,” he adds over his shoulder.

Zuko grins and blows the ink on the parchment. He didn’t have many expectations for this visit beyond the hope his friend might find some closure. That they’ve both received so much more is a blessing from Agni. He folds the list and rests the shell on top. “Thanks.”

*

Jee grips the helm because he needs something to hold onto. He’s leaving home again, but this time he knows he has a sister named Xiulan. He knows he is welcome to return whenever he likes. There are graves, he knew there would be, but it’s the weight of Huan’s flute in his hand that feels like human bone. And he didn’t realize, after so many years away, so many years being told what is superior, that there are things from his past that he is proud to call his.  

His prince rises onto the deck from their cabin. His crown catches the light of sunset, turning orange and blush whenever he moves. Jee discovers another thing he is proud to call his.

(My Lord. My Prince. My Friend.)

“Thank you for coming with me,” he says. Zuko drops himself inelegantly onto the passenger seat. “You were right. This was … I needed this.”

He’s used to Zuko looking at him. They’ve looked upon one another enough to think nothing of it. But Jee thinks of it now. He thinks of the way half of Zuko’s face lights up when he thinks he’s done something right, while the other half tries to join its brother yet strains beneath permanent wounds. Jee hates the scar. He abhors the pain behind it it. Yet gazing upon it now, he finds himself wanting to touch it. Kiss it better.

What can Jee call these past few days, if not his prince kissing it all better?

His fingers tighten around the wooden handles. That might have been what it felt like, but it isn’t what it was. His prince is young and valiant and impassioned. He would do this for anyone simply because it is right.

But there are moments that give Jee the small hope that he might be loved. The moments are fleeting. As quick as the palm that’s suddenly touching the middle of his back. One … two … three… Gone. Zuko stands beside him.

“I think I needed it, too.”

Chapter Text

The time is 0300. Two hours before Agni’s wake. The cursed hour. Too late to be considered night, too early to be considered morning. The hour when everyone and everything should be sleeping.

(The hour when you’d come to me, pounding on my door.)

Jee, of course, is not asleep.

The main deck ripples with rain. Rain is a lovely thing when you’re not in it, or so he’s told. It’s the best music to fall asleep to, bundled up warm in a blanket, safe and sound at home. Jee wonders what that must be like. For some reason, when the downpour comes, he’s always soaked.

He moves against the weight of his waterlogged uniform, his boots sloshing with water that had leaked through the tears in his pants. He is operating on a sleep deficit. Forty-eight hours, in fact. Such a feat had been easy in his twenties. Doable, even, in his thirties. Now, at forty-two, it’s touch and go. Adrenaline might keep him going, but it’s his lone star that sees him through.

Five days prior, he’d been in the desert. It had been hot and dry and miserable. He’d slogged through mountains of sand with a telescope burning beneath his fingertips, hunting for yet another wanted man. Now he is cold and wet and miserable. He drags his flip-flopping catch onto his ship with the same grim stoicism of the fisherman he was meant to be.

Burning. Drowning. Jee’s used to one more than the other, though he cannot say which way he’d rather die. All he knows is this day—or night—cannot end soon enough.

He spins the dog on the port leading to the Kyōfū’s main passageway. The wheel screeches until the air-tight seal releases the metal door. The two sailors behind him wrangle a disheveled man who could do with a shower between them. His name is Jianhong. Age forty-six. Five feet, ten inches. He’d been one of Zhao’s favorite lapdogs and possesses an appetite for fugu and human bone marrow. But years on the run have taken all the false shine away, leaving him long-haired, rotten-toothed, and mangy.

Dog wheels. Dog watch. Sea dog. Lap dog. Dog.

Working like a dog.

Jee rubs his eyes as he takes his men down three ladders where they arrive at the brig. He steps aside with practiced ease as Jianhong is thrown in his cell. The door is locked before the man can get to his feet. 

“Traitor!” Jianhong spits. “I bet you don’t even believe half the komodo shit that royal reject vomits! You’re just out to save your own ass!”

With a nod, Jee dismisses his subordinates. When they are out of earshot, he folds his arms behind his back. “Are you always this loud? It’s a miracle it took us this long to find you.”

The man hacks, drawing up phlegm, which is enough warning for Jee to tilt to one side. The sputum flies over his shoulder and hits his other brig resident right in the eye.

“Argh! Asshole! You Agni-damned, picken-fucker!”

Swears fly back and forth, each criminal cursing the other’s mother, whore, and bastard kids. Jee sighs. He cannot leave until he’s fulfilled his responsibilities. If he’d had more sleep, he’d yell them into submission. As it is, he needs his reserves to take him back to his quarters and collapse.

By the time they’ve run out of insults to trade, the inmates are exhausted and breathless.

“If that will be all, I will now declare your rights and obligations per international decree.”

“Flame off, barnacle rat!”

“Gladly. But first …”

He recites what he has told every fugitive he has captured. Jianhong makes recitation one hundred and sixty-two.

When Jee departs, he resists collapse a little longer. His work is not yet done. Sitting at his desk, he retrieves a sheet of parchment and his calligraphy brush.

Sir,

We’ve apprehended Jianhong in the Misty Palms Oasis. As of today, he is detained aboard the Kyōfū along with Dae-Seong, Isamu, and Yeong-Su. We have therefore successfully completed this quarter’s assignment and have set course for Republic City where they will be circumscribed pending trial. We shall arrive at our destination within nine days’ time.

I have reviewed the original mission document you provided me and issue you the below summary:

87% captured

6% found deceased

4% whereabouts unknown, likely deceased

3% whereabouts unknown

These numbers reflect an overall mission fulfillment of 93%.

I understand that our timetable dictates the final decommissioning of all war vessels, including my own, effective the end of the second quarter. It displeases me to not have 100% of the names listed accounted for. A mission fulfillment of 97% would be ideal. I am at your service to meet this number, though I understand the state of affairs in what used to be the colonies require my lord’s immediate attention. Whatever the case, the Navy is ready to pivot its attention as necessary.

Please advise if you have any questions per the aforementioned.

Sincerely,

Admiral Jee

He calls upon one of his seamen recruits to take the letter and have it sent via messenger hawk posthaste. Once that is completed, he still cannot sleep. He is sticky with rainwater. Smelling of sweat and grit. His clothes fall on the floor, forming a trail toward the hot shower he drags himself into. He leans against the bulkhead, forehead sticking to the tile as the space fills with steam. Absently, he thinks of Aki. This cannot be good for his receding hairline.

What happens between the shower and bed, Jee cannot remember. He wakes to a knock on his door and afternoon light glaring through the porthole. When he answers the knock, an ensign hands him two letters. The red and gold seals on each make it evident who they’re from.

Seeing them brings giddy anticipation. It swoops from his heart down into his stomach. Bubbling. Fluttering. Humming-moth wings. Jee smiles a little as he breaks the first seal.

Admiral,

Thank you for the update. 93% fulfillment is satisfactory. Consider your mission complete.

Please set course for Caldera upon conveyance of the war criminals. I would like to speak to you personally regarding next steps.

Sincerely,

Fire Lord Zuko

Jee sets aside the first letter and cracks the second seal.

In case I wasn’t clear: come home, Lieutenant.

*

Upon docking the Kyōfū, Jee takes the earth tram from Harbor City to Caldera. Completion of its construction had been delayed last spring due to an incident at an Earthen Fire Refinery in Cranefish Town. By winter, Zuko had written him saying there was an industrial boom. New buildings flew up. Residential areas expanded and sprawled. Where Cranefish Town once stood now stands Republic City.

Jee had been there for the renaming of the landmark and the groundbreaking of Central City Station. Fire Lord Zuko and Avatar Aang had stood before the gathered citizens and lit the fire signifying the birth of a fifth nation—the United Republic of Nations—a place where all were welcome to live in peaceful coexistence. The flames blazed in their eyes as the people cheered. Jee clapped surrounded by young faces and eager hearts.

He glances out the window. The tram creeps its way up the volcano’s slope. It passes the switchback path Sozin had paved in hopes of eliminating invaders single-file. An overgrowth of plant life consumes the trail. A breeze brings in the scent of wildflowers.

And, just beneath the summit, the capital city glistens.

*

A rap on the door. Zuko recognizes its rhythm. He rises from his desk, the legislation on worker’s safety regulations forgotten.

Once a quarter, Zuko would open this door and remember how much he’d missed the man on the other side. He opens it now. Jee’s eyes are warm, if weary. The admiral rarely smiles, yet there is a small quirk at the corner of his lips, tugging up into something wry. Each time Zuko sees him, he notices little changes. Jee gets a little softer, a little less severe, whenever they meet.

He returns the grin with a smile of his own.

“Admiral.”

“Sir.”

They bow for one another. The sign of the flame rises between them. Once they stand, Jee’s arms are always the first to open. Zuko steps into his embrace.

 “You look like shit.”

“So do you.”

“Have you slept at all?”

“Define sleep. Without hypocrisy.”

“Bastard.”

“Brat.”

Zuko chuckles and leads the way out of his office, through his living quarters, and onto the balcony. He swipes an unopened bottle of plum wine on the way out along with two cups.

Jee reclines in his designated chair, eyes closing and head already lolling against the backrest.

“Next steps?”

“Jee, it’s sunset. I’ve got dinner coming from the kitchens. Next steps can wait until it arrives.” He pours the wine and hands Jee his cup. “How’s it feel to be done?”

“It’s not done.” The older man grumps.

He rolls his eyes. Sometimes he thinks Jee acts difficult just for sport. “You know what I mean. A hundred seventy-three fugitives caught over six years is … Agni. I don’t know what that is, but you averaged, what? Almost thirty war criminals a year?”

“I didn’t get them all.”

 “Oh, for … You’re worse than I am.” Zuko nudges him playfully on the shoulder, but the affection doesn’t get its usual laugh. “Okay. What’s going on?”

*

Nothing, not really, but Jee is exhausted. He’d been so single-minded in trying to correct past wrongs, he’d lost track of the world rapidly moving on without him. Each time he’d made port in Republic City to refuel or change assignments, it kept changing beyond recognition. The station is a magnificent feat of engineering. Zuko has every right to be proud of it. It is beautiful. Sleek. Modern.

He scratches the corner of his beard feeling worryingly out of touch.

“I don’t mean to be in a bad mood.” That earns him a snort, which he ignores. “I think I just need a change of pace.”

They hear a few light taps from Zuko’s office. His prince excuses himself and returns minutes later with a tray of food that he settles on the table between then.

“I’m glad you say that. There are some things I need to update you on from the small civil council and the union of world leadership.”

Jee picks up his chopsticks and pulls on several strands of zhajiangmian. Savory, thick-noodled, and filling, Zuko has never forgotten his favorite comfort food upon return from sea. The man next to him smiles, patiently waiting for him to chew and swallow.

“Go on.”

“The union has officially agreed to the creation of the United Forces.”

“Will each nation be contributing personnel as originally planned?”

Zuko nods. “Yes, pulled from our existing military. This means the Navy will be split between domestic defense and international security.”

“In collaboration with the other three countries. How will this impact my current responsibilities?”

“Well, as admiral, both divisions would report to you. For now, at least, the moose-lion share of work will be in the United Republic. Your post would be moved to the capital.”

His hand pauses over his bowl, chopsticks hovering in mid-motion. Jee sets both items down.

After he and Zuko had returned from Lànmùtou last year, it had become increasingly difficult to go on assignment. Difficult to be on a large yet claustrophobic ship. Difficult to be miles at sea. Difficult to sleep. Difficult to eat. Difficult to feel anything but a terrible emptiness. An absence.

And the letters that Zuko had sent him, the ones addressing him as ‘Lieutenant’ with cheeky glee, had kept him afloat at odd hours.

I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know what in Agni’s tits I’m doing. Do you know what you’re doing? Does anyone know what they’re doing? It’s all a flaming lie.

Yours,

Zuko

The fire lilies are blooming. They’re beautiful in the palace—or they would be if Sokka didn’t keep sneezing their petals off! Anyway, wish you could see it. I’ll give you a tour of the updates we made to mom’s garden when you get back.

Yours,

Zuko

Zhihao blew it again. Remember how I requested to host the Northern Water Tribe for a week in the palace? I asked for water tribe colors on fire nation attire. I asked for a traditional water tribe menu alongside a traditional fire nation menu. I asked for front seats at the theater! Did he deliver? No! Of course not! Flaming fuck, I was THIS close from a complete disaster. If Sokka hadn’t been there to help me salvage the whole thing, we’d be all over the papers looking like total asses.

I swear to Agni, I think I’m paying Zhihao to get in my way instead of helping me. Did I mention I hate my advisor? How long do I have to keep him before I can fire him without an assassination attempt?

Ha. Fire.

So how are the idiots in your neck of the woods?

Yours,

Zuko

Typhoon has finally passed. Roof’s wet, but Sokka, Suki and I brought some of towels to sit on. Are you outside, looking at the stars right now, too?

Yours,

Zuko

Yours. Jee is not deluded. ‘Your Colleague’, ‘Your Friend’, ‘Respectfully Yours’. ‘Yours’ is nothing more than shorthand for a formality. He knows this. But he likes seeing the words addressed to him. They make him feel a little less wilted when he’s too tired to do anything but sit.

Yet there were only so many letters to read and reread. Every chance he had to catch his breath was a double-edged sword. He’d rest, yes, but his mind would not. Why was it—with his title and pay, his purpose and friends—that he wasn’t happy?

(Sing. Dance. Find a reason.)

He feels his prince observing him with an open curiosity that begins to fill with worry.

“Do you not want it?”

“I’ll think about it.”

*

There’s something Jee isn’t telling him. It’s one of few bad habits the older man can’t seem to shake. But Zuko honors privacy and does not press.

“Well, it’s going to take at least another year to put everything in place before the new division can be rolled out. I’ll need your expertise with that.”

“Of course.”

“While you decide, it’d be great if you can make shortlist of key officers you trust. And someone who can … take over your post if you decide to move onto something else.” Jee grimaces at that but does not protest. “In the meantime, talks with Lànmùtou have been going well. Xiùlán has been elected village head.”

Finally, Jee smirks. “Of course, she was. Good.”

Zuko nods. “Yup. I’m still making in-roads with other small villages throughout the archipelago. At some point I’d like to induct each head into court.”

“Last we spoke, you indicated we still have seventeen hold-outs from Azulon’s and Ozai’s eras.”

“Don’t remind me.” He sinks down his chair until he’s more off it than on it. “I need more of them to quit. Or try to assassinate me and get caught.”

“That’s not funny.”

“Hey! Suki’s amazing!”

“I’m not questioning her ability. Don’t make light of your safety, Sir.”

“Well, like it or not, I was able to replace half of the old guard because of treason.”

Jee’s grip tightens on around his cup. “It’s still not funny, Sir.”

His friend is deadly serious. Zuko cocks his head in concern but lets it go. This conversation is not unfolding as he thought it would. He’d been certain Jee would have been excited about the trajectory of his career. Mocking court is one of his favored pastimes, too. He’s not biting.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

The older man looks at him a long time. He watches his throat bob. When Jee reaches over to squeeze his fingers, Zuko frowns.

“I’m fine,” Jee says again. “Don’t worry about me.”

He needs to go about this another way. “Listen, I want you to know I appreciate everything you’ve been doing for me—for our friends and our nation. You’ve done far more good than anyone else in the history of our military. Is there anything I can do for you?”

“You’ve given me plenty.”

Zuko resists the urge to bang his head against the table. This man … “What about Lànmùtou? The unrestricted budget in one-hundred thousand gold has been approved. As are the raw materials for agriculture and housing. Everything's ready for delivery next week. Is there anything I missed?”

Jee sits up. “Yes, actually. The pipes in my ship. Since the Kyōfū is due for reclamation, I’d like the pipes sent to my home village.”

It’s barely a request. He wishes Jee would ask for more, but Zuko smiles from ear-to-ear anyway, pleased to grant this. “Consider it done.”

*

Jee stands aside in the shipyard as Toph assists in dismantling his decommissioned cruiser. The air smells of oil and the bright bite of steel. Workers on the ground and on scaffoldings pick apart his livelihood like ants on a carcass. Toph directs them with harsh efficiency. She summons pieces toward her and sorts them by sensing their size and shape. Jee observes everyone’s labor with a distinct lack of feeling.

There should be, he thinks, some sense of accomplishment. Rogue Fire Nation ships no longer scatter across the seas. All international harbors are secure. The last of the war criminals have been imprisoned and await their sentences. He has gathered all pre-peacetime military vessels for repurposing.

But there is a whisper behind his ear. It says: and then …?

Aki has made good on her promise. Music Night is once a month. Has been for the last six years. Under the full moon, Jee sees his old crew. Donghai has remarried. Shan has three nephews and three nieces who pop his ankles but keep his heart going strong. Qianfan takes care of his grandchildren while his daughter and her husband manage an inn on Ember Island. Kenzou still doesn’t speak but has learned sign language and teaches it to others part-time. Taiki remains in Zuko’s employ at the palace infirmary. Cook refuses to cook. They all bring their loved ones to the Lucky Hook Tavern to sing and dance at turns. Jee invites Zuko, hopeful despite his consistent inability to attend, then Chief Hakoda and Bato, who can spare a visit twice a year. Jee never misses a date and knows more dates are forthcoming. It is something to look forward to.

Yet the whisper taunts: and then …?

There is something after the ‘and then’. It is on offer, as so many things are under Fire Lord Zuko’s command. The work will be demanding, which he likes, and mentally stimulating, which he wants. He can continue doing what he is good at: safeguarding people and the seas. The prospect ought to be thrilling, but Jee finds himself staring down his future and seeing no port in the horizon.

And then …?

Sheets of metal that once made his ship’s hull and bulkheads stack into neatly packaged cubes. The nuts and bolts that had held them together collect into boxes for inventory. The guts of the ship, its pipes, form pyramids tied on top of wooden pallets. Jee runs his fingers along their sides. Reads the name of his vessel engraved onto each piece.

Toph elbows his ribs with too much force. He grunts but prides himself on not staggering forward. She has grown significantly since he’d last seen her, though not nearly as much as Aang, who now towers everyone like a bamboo stalk. The master earthbender sports a shit-eating grin.

“That’s the last of it,” she says. “You sure you don’t want me to come along?”

“We appreciate the offer, but the people of my village insisted.” He pats the pipes. “They want to rebuild Lànmùtou themselves.”

“Well, okay,” Toph shrugs her shoulders. “I’m just saying: I can make all that go a lot faster.”

“I know, but sometimes healing is best done slowly.”

Sparks fall from above. They look up at the exposed bridge, its helm forcefully taken from its place between the engineer order telegraph and the navigation station. How many hours had he stood there? Enough to fill another handful of years. He watches as a system of pulleys lowers the heart of his ship onto the ground.

“I get that. Earth Kingdom is still a mess everywhere you look. Getting better, though. A lil’ less burnt, a lil’ more ‘under construction’, but it feels like we’re gonna be ‘under construction’ for the next hundred years.”

Jee hums, unable to ignore that familiar twinge of guilt that needles him no matter what he does to make amends.

“How’s your metalbending school coming along?”

“Eh. Filled with the same lily-livered idiots as always. Amazing that any of ‘em can metalbend anything more complex than an elbow wrench. What about you? You gonna take the job in Republic City?”

His lips purse. “I haven’t decided yet.”

“Really?” Toph blinks. She sets her hands on her hips and lilts her whole body to one side. “Thought you’d take it for sure! Managing two fronts seems like the kind of challenge you’d be up for.”

Jee stares at the helm resting on the floor. His fingers flex.

“I signed up to clean after my own messes and the messes of the people I once served. That came with a set of headaches I was willing to deal with. I did not sign up to sit through galas and banquets and the pageantry of international politics.”

(And you would be far away.)

“So … What? You thinking about retiring?”

Jee growls. “Do I look sixty to you? I’m not of age to retire.”

“Uh … maybe not for most people, but I know where you are on Zuko’s payroll.”

“Master Toph, a little lower, please?” He hisses between clenched teeth. “There are workers here, more than half of whom are on the same flaming payroll.”

Her milky eyes widen in mock shock. “Oh, my spirits! I had no idea! Must’ve missed them. Y’know, being blind and all!”

Toph juts her elbow, but Jee is ready this time and sidesteps, smirking as she hits air. She huffs.

“You haven’t told Zuko yet, have you?”

“No.”

“Why? It’s not like giving him a piece of your mind has ever stopped you before.”

“That’s usually to let him know he’s being an insufferable monkey-ass.”

The master punches his shoulder. He grits his teeth. One of these days, he ought to take her to a seedy tavern, share a couple of drinks, and sort things out with a good, old-fashioned non-bending bar brawl.

“Just tell him. You’re not shirking your duties, Mister Military Man.”

Toph might be blind, but she sees straight through him.

*

Zuko is twenty-three when Suki submits her formal resignation.

They’re in one of the meeting chambers. She stands, as powerful and beautiful as her homeland’s namesake, before the floor-to-ceiling arched window. The green of her armored dress glows vivid beneath the sunlight. It’s summer. Life outside is radiant. As soon as Zuko shuts the door, she turns, golden headpiece tinkling like bells.

It’s the look on her face that tells him before she says it. Her gaze is longing yet resolute.

He’s not surprised.

The creation of the United Republic of Nations had a domino effect on public sentiment. The old must go. The new must be ushered in. Last year saw eleven of the seventeen holdouts in court dropping like mosquito-flies. With court majority finally in his favor, active threats against his life have diminished. All the same, Suki’s departure saddens him. He hides his tears behind their embrace.

“Are you sure I can’t convince you to stay?” Zuko asks as they pull apart, their arms still hanging from one another’s shoulders.

Suki smiles as she dabs her cheek dry. “I’m afraid so. It’s been a long time since I’ve been home.”

“I can’t tell you how grateful I am. You saved my life … how many times?”

“A hundred forty-four, give or take.”

“But who’s counting?”

They laugh.

“Remember that time they tried to get me with a poisoned pai sho tile?”

“I have to admit, that was pretty creative. But the theater mask coated with formaldehyde was more impressive.”

“Yeah, it was like they made an effort to actually get to know me.”

Their giggles trail into somber affection. Zuko’s arms drop, but he holds onto her gauntlet-covered hands. “Suki, whatever you, the Kyoshi Warriors, and Kyoshi Island needs, please don’t forget you have friends in the Fire Nation. I will be there for you, and you will always have a seat on the small civil council.”

Suki’s village was one of the first Zuko had provided reparations for. It will never be the same since he’d burned it to the ground, but it’s back and doing well. With time, he hopes, it will surpass even Kyoshi’s greatest aspirations

Behind her red makeup, the corners of Suki’s green eyes crinkle.

“I know. Likewise. If things get hairy, you know where to find me. Plus, I made sure that the contingent of warriors staying here have everything they need to keep things running.”

“I’m sure Ty-Lee will have her own interesting spin on things.”

“Oh, no doubt. I bet reading auras will be involved.”

They embrace again. Their touch lingers. It’s not goodbye, but it is a farewell for now.

*

What Zuko did not expect was Sokka and Suki breaking up.

They are in his office, sprawled on the floor reviewing at least three wheelbarrows’ worth of scrolls bearing laws Zuko had been meaning to overturn but had no likelihood of succeeding in court until now.

“We were kind of prepared for it.”

“How on earth does anyone prepare for a break-up?”

Sokka shrugs. “We talked about her going back to Kyoshi Island. At first, we thought we could do a long-distance relationship. But, I don’t know, as time went on it felt like things were fizzling out.”

His friend tosses another scroll onto one of the five piles they’ve been sorting their mountain of work into. Helping Zuko with this is completely outside Sokka’s role as ambassador, but when he’d seen the ball of worms to untangle, he’d rolled up his sleeves against Zuko’s feeble protests.

“That happened to me and Mai.” Zuko skims another scroll and tosses it into pile number three.

“And that’s not awkward?” Sokka arches his brow. “I mean, her house is right across the palace.”

“No. Actually, she’s been apprenticing under Taiki in the infirmary, so she’s at the palace more often than she isn’t.”

“And that’s not awkward?”

He shakes his head. “We’ve been friends longer than we’ve been together. I think it’s safe to say we’re basically family regardless of marriage.”

“Bet court threw their hands up when you broke the news.” Another scroll, another toss.

“It isn’t any of their business, but yeah. They keep poking me about ‘an heir’ and ‘succession’.” He frowns at the scroll in his hands. “I don’t get this one.”

“Can I see?”

Zuko hands it over. As always, the tip of Sokka’s tongue sticks out when he thinks. He tries to hide his laughing smile as he watches him.

“Okay, so. Maybe bring Jee in for this one? It’s all maritime law.”

He winces. “I’m trying to not bother him.”

“Why?”

“I dunno. I feel like I lean on him too much for stuff like this. I’d bug Uncle, but …”

“Yeah … I get it.” Sokka rubs his forehead. “But this is very definitely under Jee’s wheelhouse. I don’t think you’d be bothering him so much as, you know, asking him to do his job.”

That’s another sore point, but Zuko isn’t about to bother Sokka with his problems anymore than he already has. With a huff, he falls onto his back, laying on the floor like starfish facing the ceiling. 

“Looks like Katara and Aang are the things of destiny.”

His friend sets aside one last scroll before joining him on the floor. Sokka lays on his side, one hand supporting his head, the other resting on his hip. “More like an example of odds and probability.”

“Sokka.”

“What?”

“That’s so …” Unromantic. It’s mean so Zuko doesn’t say it.

“Logical?” Sokka pokes him on the nose. “If I’m gonna be chief, I need to be logical.”

“You also need to understand the hearts of your people.” Zuko pokes his nose in payback.

“Yeah, yeah …” Sokka waves his hand. “Good thing my sister is good at that stuff. If get chosen, I’ll just tag-team managing the tribe with her.”

Zuko’s grin shrinks. It’s hard to not compare his relationship with Azula to Sokka and Katara’s. He thinks about his sister’s failed treatment on Ember Island. The doctors had suggested seclusion away from the palace might be good for her. She needs to be somewhere calm, they had said, somewhere peaceful. Azula’s further deterioration, marked by silence rather than screaming, proved the opposite. As it happens, a quiet place does not guarantee a quiet mind.

He returned his sister to the palace immediately, allowing her some freedom to roam the palace’s north wing. Fire bending had been a concern. Zuko kept Ty Lee close as Azula reclaimed her room, which had been left untouched since Sozin’s comet. She gravitated to the broken mirror of her vanity. Picked up the brush laying on the floor. Still, she didn’t say anything. And she did not light her fire, not even a spark.

The look on Sokka’s face tells him his friend knows he’d stumbled upon a touchy subject. Sokka clears his throat. “I’ll ask the guard outside to get Jee.”

*

After the war, Jee had stayed in guest quarters in the west wing of the palace. When his arm finally healed, Zuko moved him into one of the east wing suites reserved for the Fire Lord’s extended family members, closest friends, and most trusted dignitaries. The gesture had been flattering—he certainly had not expected jumping six ranks to admiral, either—yet he could help but feel embarrassed by the excess.

He had underestimated Zuko’s increasing skill at foresight. The suite became a necessity in this year of administrative duty. Jee cracks his neck before returning to his documents. Implementation of the United Forces will take place at the beginning of the third quarter, one month from now. He has nearly everything in place except for who should replace him.

There are two candidates he has in mind: Passang and Sukhon. Both are physically and mentally capable. Both have exceeded expectations in their performance reviews as Vice Admirals. Both are morally aligned with Fire Lord Zuko. Either of them would be a good choice.

Jee, however, leans towards Passang. She might not have every regulation carved into her memory like Sukhon, but she is kinder, more flexible when circumstances demand it, and firm in commanding respect. It will take time to prepare her for the transition, but he will make himself available for consultation regardless.

He sets her record aside. Picks up Huan’s flute, which lays at the front of his desk, a silent companion. It sways between his fingers.

Forty-three is young by admiral standards. Most serve well into their late fifties. Ten years ago, if someone had told him wouldn’t die serving, he’d laugh his ass off then punch them in the face. Now, he’s putting off telling Zuko his intent to resign. Suki’s departure does not help matters, but he’s certain Zuko knows.

The windows in his suite offer a view of Harbor City. Jee suspects Zuko selected this room for that very reason. He gazes outside, at all the little sailboats and houses, and wonders what it might be like to build a life with someone.

He thinks about Guozhi and remembers he doesn’t deserve it.

Jee doesn’t know how much time passes before his prince summons him. He perks up at the prospect of their balcony. Of another sunset to share.

He stops short upon entering Zuko’s office. His brow crawls to his hairline. The room is utter chaos. Jee picks his way through the mess of scrolls, feeling strangely like a child playing ‘the floor is lava’ as he searches for open patches of floor. When he gets to Zuko and Sokka, both are trying their hardest not to laugh.

“Sir.”

“Lieutenant.”

Sokka rolls his eyes, muttering something about weird inside jokes.

“Did the Avatar blow in through here?” Jee asks.

“One would think,” Zuko replies. He throws his arm out. “Behold! One hundred years of my family’s bad decisions!”

“We’ve been sorting them into categories,” Sokka explains, then points an accusatory thumb in Zuko’s direction. “This idiot just dove right in, reading everything one at a time instead of, you know, prioritizing.”

“I was trying to be thorough!”

“Each scroll takes at least two hours to read! You were basically setting yourself on fire. With enthusiasm!”

“I was not setting myself on fire! Why would I even do that?”

“It’s a figure of speech!”

Jee sighs. “Sirs, you required my presence?”

“Oh! Right.” Sokka points to each haphazard stack in turn. “Looks okay but could give you indigestion. Looks okay but probably poison.”

“Terrible,” Zuko takes over pointing, “Horrific …”

“And Tui and La that’s flooding bad,” Sokka finishes.

His prince holds up a scroll. “This one has to do with maritime law. There’s so much naval jargon, we can’t make heads or tails of it.”

Jee takes it from his hand and unrolls it. He hisses through his teeth. “You will need to undo this one.”

“Great.” Zuko slumps. “Of course, I do.”

“What’s it say?”

“In so many words, it states that any foreign ship voyaging through Fire Nation waters is subject to either penalty or immediate seizure of cargo, whichever value is higher.” His eyes continue down the subsections. “I remember these laws. It essentially legalized our own piracy. There’s an exemption for licensed foreign trade ships, though that’s another scheme: to get licensed, the merchant would have had to pay an annual fee to the Fire Nation’s Commissioner of International Trade.”

“Or?” Sokka asks.

“Or take the long way around the globe to move shipments overseas. Not exactly doable for perishable items.”

Sokka glances at Zuko. “You’re not still doing that, are you?”

“We couldn’t be. The patrol vessels were among the first we retired.”

“Even if we’ve discontinued the practice,” Jee advises, “you would need legislation drafted to formally reverse and protect against this.” He waves the scroll from side to side. “Otherwise, someone down the line with less than altruistic aspirations may wave this around as an excuse.”

“Fine.” Zuko runs his hand through his hair. “Throw that one in the ‘Terrible’ pile.”

He does so but leans toward the ‘looks okay but probably poison’ pile with interest.

“These are the ones you’re having trouble parsing?”

“Yeah.” Sokka rolls his shoulders and cracks his back before grabbing another scroll. “Lots of flowery words and legal mumbo jumbo designed to just … make you stop reading.”

“May I?”

“Knock yourself out,” Zuko nods.

They work together in silence, tossing scrolls into piles that grow so large, Zuko has to ask his personal assistant, Shufen, to bring up boxes. As Jee sifts through the scrolls Zuko is uncertain about, it becomes clear why that uncertainty exists: these laws are legacy. So old that the commoners who’ve managed to make it into the mercantile class have forgotten all about them.

Jee reaches a scroll that makes his blood boil. His displeasure raises the temperature of the room, and Zuko and Sokka take notice.

“Found something interesting?” Zuko ventures.

“Island wardens,” Jee seethes. “The warden of my island is a glorified landlord. Doesn’t know the first thing about governance and doesn’t care. All his taxes are Komodo shit.”

He makes to toss the scroll into the ‘horrific’ box, when Zuko takes it from his hand. “Why do we have island wardens when we have court members? Even when fa—Ozai was ruling, I’ve never met one.”

“Remember the Camellia-Peony War? Well, power struggles between noble clans have existed centuries before the position of Fire Lord even separated from the Fire Sages. To ensure peace, Fire Lord Yosur gave the head of each family in possession of an island or part of it the title of ‘warden’. They were made up his royal court, but once we industrialized, the shape of court shifted. A few wardens are still considered nobility, but these days most don’t have any capital beyond land ownership.”

The additional context seems to have rendered the scroll comprehensible. Zuko frowns at its contents. “This says commoners unable to purchase land from the warden must lease it. If a commoner is unable to lease the land, payment may be made via regular contribution of harvest or hunt. Failure of mandatory tithe may be punishable with servitude or debtors’ prison.” His prince falls silent as he continues reading. “This gives wardens free rein to tenure land however they want.”

“Provided the warden pays a percentage toward the royal treasury, yes.”

Zuko pinches his nose bridge. He rises from his cross-legged position on the floor and opens the door to call upon a guard.

“Can you get Shufen and Zhihao in here for me? Thanks.”

The assistant and chief advisor arrive within minutes. Shufen stands poised with her brush and parchment at the ready, her long hair immaculate as always. Zhihao, however, turns blistering red.

“You mean to reverse this law and propose the Private Relations Protections Law tomorrow?!”

Jee stills. The law had failed to gain the support of court four times in a row. (We need to stop being cruel. That shouldn’t be hard.) He knew the law was on the docket for court review once more, but Zuko hadn’t mentioned it would be tomorrow.

The room suddenly feels warm for reasons unrelated to his own bending. His palms grow clammy. He swallows and resists the urge to fidget, to adjust the neckline of his collar. Jee’s fairly certain no one in this room knows. Aki had blabbed a long time ago, but Zuko and Sokka had been teenagers and no one has mentioned it since.

“Sure. Why not?”

“My lord, wardens are not just a title! They have historical and cultural significance in our society!”

“Maybe they did half a millennia ago, but they’re irrelevant at best now. Put this on the agenda. If we’re going to keep them, then their obligations to the crown and the people who live upon their land must change.”

Instead of obeying, Zuko’s advisor grits his teeth. “Please! Allow me to do my job and counsel you: you must think carefully! Our cultural traditions give the people of the Fire Nation not only a sense of identity but order, my lord. Your court will be in chaos dealing with two very radical—”

“Why is allowing people to live freely, radical?!” Zuko shouts.

Zhihao pulls back his shoulders. Unlike Zuko, who grows into a dragon in his righteousness, his advisor shrinks into a frog-toad with swelling cheeks. “My lord, I mean no disrespect. However, you are pushing the limits of how quickly people can accept change!”

“These changes are foundational to human dignity! It’s already been seven years since I took the crown. Now that these changes finally have a chance of getting support, you want me to back down? Are you kidding me?!”

Jee has seen Zuko fight with Zhihao on more than one occasion. His prince is passionate when he fights, whether with his body or his words. His gold eyes flash in warning. Blood rushes to his cheeks, flushing them pink. Yelling demands had never looked good on him. But this—

Prince Zuko must have been magnificent at thirteen, scolding men five times his age for throwing lives away like fodder. Jee’s gaze moves to his prince’s scar. The flesh there pulls taut when Zuko’s angry, and he is angry on Jee’s behalf without even knowing it.

He thinks of his pending resignation, of the house he’d like to own, and the hope that one day he might invite someone into it. In many ways, Zuko holds his life in hands. It occurs to Jee, far too belatedly, that he always has.

He steps closer to Zuko. Out of respect, he stands to the side, just behind him. Zhihao acknowledges him with a withering look. (Barnacle rat.)

“There is a fine line between consultive disagreement and insubordination, Zhihao,” Jee warns.

“Shorthand:” Sokka pipes up, “This isn’t up for debate.”

Zuko’s advisor purses his lips and pulls down on his ruffled robes. Shufen, on the other hand, adjusts her glasses as she reads tomorrow’s schedule “This will take at least another two hours in the assembly chamber,” she says. “Shall I cancel your lunch—”

“Yes.”

“No!” Jee and Sokka exclaim together.

“May I see the agenda?” Sokka walks over. Shufen turns it around between her hands.

“Okay, look. Zuko, you have a one-on-one meeting with the Commissioner of Education mid-morning. Push back that hour and turn it into a lunch meeting.”

“Then extend the court assembly session into that freed hour,” Jee nods.

Sokka points at him with a wink. “Exactly!”

“Your organizational skills are impressive, gentlemen,” Zhihao bites out, “but that does little to change the fact that our lord’s reputation is on the line should tomorrow’s assembly spectacularly fail.”

“But I have court majority now!”

“By a narrow margin,” Jee observes. Zuko and Zhihao swing in his direction. Behind them, Sokka leans against Zuko’s desk and pours Shufen a cup of tea. “A margin of three, actually. Sir, may I make a suggestion?”

His prince huffs smoke out his nostrils. “Go ahead.”

“You mentioned in one of your letters to me that Hideyoshi’s son recently married someone outside of his class: a woman of her own industry in Republic City, in fact.”

“Yes, that’s right. Her name’s Phượng. She operates a textile factory.”

“I think you should appeal to his sentiments. He has five close friends in court, doesn’t he? The Private Relations Protections Law would not only protect those romantically involved with the same sex, it would also protect those romantically involved with people of differing castes, social classes, and nations of origin.”

“Huh,” Sokka sips his tea. “That’s pretty clever. I like it!”

“Hm …” Zuko cups his chin. “And that law must in turn influence the role of the wardens … A relationship cannot be built without a house, and a house cannot be lived in if the land is too expensive!” He turns to his assistant. “Shufen!”

Shufen cuts a slice of purple sweet potato cake from the tea’s serving tray and offers the plate to Sokka. “Shall I set discussion on the wardens to immediately after the thirty-minute recess?”

“Yes! Yes, the PRPL will still be fresh on everyone’s mind. Thank you.”

His assistant nods, bowing before she excuses herself from the office. Sokka leans against the arm of his chair, chin in his palm and lips curled like a raccoon-cat that got the canary-finch. “Seems to me like you’ve been out-scheduled and out-maneuvered, Zhihao.”

Zhihao harumphs. He stomps one foot and spins on his heel. The door slams behind him.

“Well played, man,” Sokka extends his arm, offering a fist. Jee stares down at it in confusion. “You’re supposed to bump it,” Zuko’s friend explains. “You know, ‘fist-bump’? Get it?” When he doesn’t move, Sokka bumps his fist against his. “Go team!”

Zuko snickers behind him. But the laugh is kind, indulgent.

*

In the morning, after practicing his katas, Jee likes to take a walk through Harbor City. He takes Huan’s flute with him. It’s a wind instrument, something he is less skilled at and so he doesn’t play, but he enjoys feeling its smooth body in his palm.

He stops by one of the local inns, has a seat in its tea garden, and indulges in people-watching while having oolong and breakfast. The people of Harbor City are considered commoners by the residents of Caldera. That they live at the foot of the dormant volcano and at the edge of the island emphasizes this point.

Jee feels more comfortable here, where his face is not so familiar, and he can pass for a humble sailor, a blacksmith, or whatever else suits a man with grime under his fingernails. He finds living in the palace for long stretches chaffing. The nobles stare at him whenever he walks past. They whisper, ‘peasant’, ‘barnacle rat’, ‘backwater filth’. It does not bother him, he has dealt with this kind of treatment all his life, but when he tries to befriend the servants, they stare at his medals and shy away from his overtures with skittish propriety.

He drains the last of his tea and leaves his payment on the table. As he strolls through the neighborhood with the flute spinning in his hand, he imagines the performance Zuko is giving at this very moment. Their world is on the cusp of changing again, yet the people here are none the wiser. They continue their lives selling goods, making things, holding hands, kissing.

A newly built house stands only ten minutes away from Harbor City’s town square. He’d been eying it for a few weeks. It faces the docks and is unassuming in its design, traditional with its engawa walkways and shoji doors. His hand falls on the shou sugi ban fencing. Its wood is spruce, beautiful with its brown-gray planks arranged in a basket weave.

(And I would be close to you.)

On paper, his body belongs to Lànmùtou’s warden. He couldn’t live here much less purchase a home without continuing his military career. And what good was home with only one person?

Perhaps Jee doesn’t deserve it, yet experience has shown him there is harm in a life without warmth. Inner strength is a finite resource. It must be replenished somehow. He cannot afford to become bitter or mean or cynical. The Coast of Gaoling is still rebuilding. He owes it to at least Guozhi to take part in its repair. It would require sailing back and forth between nations, but he has the money to fund his way. A home to return to can be his port.

Jee closes his eyes. Dreams of living here. Of having someone to hold and kiss.

*

“It passed!”

“Holy shit! It did?”

“Yes!”

Sokka lifts Zuko off the ground and spins. Zuko laughs, his hands on Sokka’s shoulders, feeling high and heady with the rush of success. When his friend stops, Zuko’s long hair whips over his shoulders. It curtains them on either side. Crowds their faces beneath a veneer of privacy. Sokka’s chest heaves. His breath is warm. His blue eyes are glassy.

After a beat, the moment shifts into something tense. Sokka lets Zuko slide against his chest and onto the grass. The world expands from just the two of them to Mother’s garden. They stand at its center, where the edge of the pond and a plum blossom tree meet. The chrysanthemums are in bloom. The sun is setting. Everything is serene and perfect.

Zuko’s palms slide from Sokka’s shoulders to his clavicle.

His friend is taller than him by two inches. Almost Jee’s height. Sokka tucks hair behind Zuko’s ear, while he, in turn, reaches for the gleaming bead strung over Sokka’s braid.

Sokka clears his throat. “What about the other thing? The island wardens?”

“Court refuses to eliminate the title, but they are open to updating their duties and restricting their power.”

“That counts as a win, too, right?”

“Yes, it does,” Zuko beams. He can’t wait to tell Jee. “Thank you, Sokka. I couldn’t have done this without your help.”

“Eh,” Sokka flaps his hand. “Yeah, you could. You just would’ve done it the hard and impulsive way.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

A silence occupies the space between them. It’s filled with a static that gives Zuko some hope. He rubs the back of his neck. Feels the blush already growing there.

“So, I was thinking we should celebrate. Wanna go somewhere? Eat something fancy?”

Sokka’s gaze is searching. Zuko doesn’t know what he finds, but whatever it is makes him shy. His friend looks at the ground. He toes the tip of his boot against his. “You had me at ‘eat’, buddy.”

Zuko brightens. “Great.”

They remain standing, almost dawdling, when Zuko catches movement off the periphery. He leans to one side and finds Jee halted mid-motion.

The man’s face is difficult to discern. His right hand clutches his brother’s flute, while the left fidgets. Jee bows slightly, which Zuko returns, drawing Sokka’s attention. His friend swivels around and waves.

“Hey, Admiral! Did the news make it to you?”

“It has. Congratulations.”

Sokka chuckles. “You realize you get credit, too, right?”

Jee abandons the corridor to cross the courtyard and onto the grass. “I only made a recommendation,” he demurs, “none of the heavy-lifting.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Turning back to Zuko, Sokka’s voice is quieter. Intimate. “See you later tonight?”

“Mm-hm.” Zuko’s insides bubble. Flutter. Humming-moth wings. “See you.”

Sticking his hands in his pockets, Sokka ambles out the garden, a noticeable skip in his step. Zuko and Jee wait for him to fully depart. It’s Jee who speaks first.

“He is a good friend, isn’t he?”

“Yes. He is.”

“He is lucky to have your affection.”

Zuko startles. “Uh …”

Jee seems to realize he has once again overstepped. He hastily pivots, saying, “I-I have made my decision. Can we talk about it?”

“Of course. Balcony?”

“Yes.”

*

Zuko’s regard for Sokka had been evident to Jee from the moment he met the two of them at the White Lotus encampment. Seeing them standing together, less than a foot apart with arms draped in tenderness, should not have knocked the wind out of him.

It seems that everything is falling together very quickly. The sea no longer calls out. His purpose there has been served. Yet his lone star continues to beckon for his attention. It sings. It glimmers. There are vows he has made to it without even knowing the depth of their words. (You’re a fool. A fool. A fool.)

He wants to be close to his prince, that was never in question, but the little scene he’d stumbled upon cements his notion that some distance would be prudent.

Jee licks his lips as he looks upon Caldera’s skyline.

“Passang will make a great admiral,” he begins. “I will cross-train her for the next month, and she can reach out to me any time for guidance.”

Zuko nods. As suspected, he isn’t surprised. “Okay. I trust your judgment.” He crosses his legs and leans back in his chair, hands folded over his lap. “If you don’t mind me asking, what do you plan to do now?”

“That depends on what you seek to do with the wardens.”

“Oh?”

He hesitates. Jee has never dared to have dreams. Sharing one feels like too much like showing his belly. His hands roll Huan’s flute from one palm into the other. Back and forth. “There’s a house in Harbor City I’m interested in. I can afford it, but through legacy law I am unable to buy it.”

Zuko starts. He turns in his seat, strangely no longer calm. “You want to move to Harbor City?”

“Yes.”

“But you have a suite here. Are they … Do you not like them?”

“I appreciate them greatly. They’re perfect,” Jee replies, taken aback by his own backpedaling. “But since I’m turning down the post in Republic City, I would no longer be in your employ. It wouldn’t be right for me to keep my quarters.”

Zuko stares at him a long time. If Jee didn’t know any better, he would say he’s shocked.

“Sokka has quarters here. So do Aang and Katara. Suki, too … And Toph.”

“Their presence at court or otherwise is required more often than mine. It would be wasteful to reserve space for me when it can be given to someone who needs it.”

His prince’s palm goes up to drag across his face. This is the second time Jee has been on the receiving end of the gesture.

“What I mean is, I wouldn’t treat any of my friends differently, and you are my friend, Jee. I like knowing the people closest to me have everything they need.” Zuko pauses, seemingly catching himself. “You need the house?”

Need is a strong word. Jee could return to Lànmùtou, but it is a voyage away. Beyond that, while it is his birthplace, it is not where his heart wishes to be.

“I need something permanent,” he decides, and it is true enough. “Something that I can say, without reservation, is mine.”

*

And Jee cannot have it without Zuko’s word or brush of ink upon paper, sealed with red and gold ink. Zuko’s hands go numb. Improving the lives of his people has been a priority second only to war reparations. He knew he would be impacting lives, ideally for the better, but Ty Lee and Mai are born nobility and his closest friends are important figures in their own nations.

Then there is his lieutenant. A nobody from a faraway island and a village whose name means ‘wood rot’. A nobody who would have gotten nowhere, despite his capability, had it not been for royal intervention.

Zuko looks into Jee’s brown eyes. The power he has over him is terrifying.

“Okay,” he breathes. “Let’s review the legacy laws on wardens together. You have a lot of knowledge about the past that I’m, well, honestly lacking. I have some ideas for the future, but I need to understand the past to make sure I’m doing the right thing.” Inspiration strikes. Zuko rises from his chair. Its legs clatter behind him. “I have a proposition!” Jee blinks, bewildered, but he plows on. “Zhihao and I are-are …” He winces, searching for words that are less than scathing. “We’re …”

“Politically unaligned?” Jee offers with an arched brow.

“Yes! Would you like the job? You can commute from your house to the palace using the earth tram.”

His friend studies him with no small amount of skepticism. “Sir, I don’t think you’ve thought this through. I have zero political experience.”

“Not true. You have captaining experience, which means you know how to read people and get them to cooperate. You also have admiral experience, which means you can understand things at a high level and can strategize big picture stuff.”

“… Big picture stuff …”

“Listen, I just spent four hours in the assembly chamber pretending I can talk better than I can punch. Cut my brain some slack.”

“That’s fair.” Jee’s thumb rubs over the flute’s mouthpiece. “Are you sure I’m the best choice? This is out of the blue, even for you.”

“Yes, I’m sure,” Zuko says eagerly. Desperately. (Please don’t leave. I never imagined you wouldn’t stay.) “I don’t need another Zhao in that dying pit of vipers. I need someone who knows what the average life of a normal citizen looks like.”

His lieutenant thinks it over. The flute stops spinning between his fingers. “All right, but I have a stipulation to make.”

“Name it.”

“After my last day as admiral, I meant to visit the Coast of Gaoling for a few weeks at a time. I have unfinished business there.”

“Lieutenant, you barely used any of your leave time while serving. Yes, you can take off to Earth Kingdom whenever you want. You have that freedom. Why would I stop you?”

They say brown eyes are drab. A sign of lower Fire Nation blood. Unexceptional. Boring. Yet Jee’s eyes gaze upon him now with unmatched intensity. The color of wood burning in a hearth.

“By honor and duty, you come first, Sir.”

“You’re not my servant,” Zuko protests.

Jee looks away. He takes the heat of embers with him.

“It’s true all the same.”

*

It takes another quarter of sleepless nights, burned down candles, and their heads bent over the legacy scroll before Jee and Zuko have a revision on the role of wardens completed. During that time, two holdouts in the royal court quit. Their proposal passes with nary a complaint.

Jee stands before his house with the deed in one hand and his brother’s flute in the other. As he crosses the threshold, he sends sparks in the direction of every lamp, lighting his home with a warm glow. He takes off his boots and basks in the joy of walking barefoot across tatami-matted floors. A bedroom, living room, kitchen, dining area, and bath fill the house’s four walls. To anyone else with his income, this is a modest investment, but to Jee it’s an extravagance.

He sets down his bags. Places his flute and his mother’s weaving tools on a shelf where they can be appreciated. One day, he might invite guests. They will ask him about the flute and the tools, and he will tell them about his brother and mother. In that way, they can be remembered. People will come to know them, and they might live again.

*

Getting rid Zhihao is one of the best decisions Zuko has ever made. He provides his former advisor with a month to get his affairs in order and a generous severance payment to keep him comfortable for the next year. That no assassination attempts have come to pass is a milestone unto itself. Excited, Zuko writes Suki about it, to which she replies:

Finally! Good riddance! Please tell me this means we’ll finally celebrate the Peace Festival in Caldera this year. It’ll be an excuse for all of us to party at your place for a change!

He assures her yes, he will make it happen, or Agni help him, he’ll have Sokka go around spiking everyone’s tea with cactus juice.

With Zhihao no longer an obstacle, moving along less ‘controversial’ projects goes swimmingly. Sokka and Shufen make a practical team, while Jee knows far more than he lets on. Zuko’s convinced whoever didn’t promote him while he was lieutenant is an idiot. All things considered, however, perhaps it was for the best.

“I’m a little worried it’s over-the-top.”

Across him, Xiùlán sets down the schematics they’d been working on in secret. Planning had mostly been done via messenger hawk, but now that she’s been inducted into his court, seeing Xiùlán is a monthly occurrence. She shakes her head and smiles. “No, I think it’s perfect.”

*

Zuko asks Shufen to book the Bi Yi Niao and informs her that he and his advisor will be voyaging to Lànmùtou to review its construction progress. They had visited it together once before, after their first visit, but most of that time had been spent assisting with clean-up. Based on Xiùlán’s most recent update, the village is almost done.

He bounces his knee as they sail ever closer towards Lànmùtou. In the distance he can see that the scrap metal shanties have vanished, replaced with silt houses erected above water. Their frames have been built in the traditional fashion: with bamboo, wood, plant fiber, and leaves. Zuko tries not to stare when Jee gasps at the sight. Even the docks they approach have been fitted with new pilings and planks, and the discontinuation of dumping refuse here has rendered the water crystal clear. The village looks like a small piece of paradise.

“I’m—” Jee shakes his head. “Agni’s tits. I’m speechless.”

Zuko laughs but suppresses it enough to retain his royal decorum. He worries, sometimes, about the kind of company he offers. He might be Fire Lord, but he knows he is young and impetuous and loud. Things that Jee isn’t. Things that tend to exhaust him. On bad nights after working himself to the bone, he wonders if that was why Jee chose to move out of the palace, and the only things ensuring their friendship are honor, duty.

As opposed to fondness. As opposed to love.

Promoting Jee to admiral had been the sensible thing to do. Offering Zhihao’s job, if he’s being honest with himself, was more selfish than kind. Zuko has a gift for him today. A real one. As a friend.

Bubbles fill his stomach along with the flutter of humming-moth wings.

*

His prince is giddy. He tries to hide it, but Zuko has no talent for pretense outside of theater. Jee’s tempted to tease him. Zuko looks ready to vibrate right out of his skin. Then his home village presents itself like a vision: Lush trees. Sparkling water. The colorful flight of cockatoo-parrots and children’s rising laughter.

“I’m—” He shakes his head. “Agni’s tits. I’m speechless.”

Zuko chuckles behind him, a curiously hesitant thing. Jee steps onto a dock that doesn’t creak and offers his hand as his prince hops off the boat. With a smile, Zuko squeezes his fingers.

“I know there’s a lot to look at, but there’s something I’d like to show you first.”

They say ‘hello’ to villagers who have become familiar faces and pass beautiful houses meant for living in rather than surviving. It’s when they head further inland that it dawns on Jee that they are on the path to his family’s graves.

But it isn’t the gravesite Zuko wants him to see. No. It’s the building that stands just before it. A large, stone and cement building meant to endure the decades to come. Zuko’s steps hasten. He pulls Jee along, throwing sunny smiles over his shoulder.

Jee’s eyes fall to their joined hands. He’s convinced his heart is beating between their palms.

“Lieutenant. Lieutenant!”

He jerks out of his daze to find Zuko nodding at the wall. Despite his earlier enthusiasm, he looks embarrassed.

“So … What do you think?”

A square plaque has been mounted next to the building’s entryway. An emblem of a fishing rod, a calligraphy brush, and a flute is embossed at its center. All three objects fan out like petals. Beneath the emblem reads:

Huan and Xiùlán’s

School of Foundational Learning

His fingers reach out to trace the flute before dropping to Huan’s name and lingering there. Jee’s head spins. He reads and rereads the inscription.

“Sir …”

Zuko wraps his arm around Jee’s elbow. Tugs. “Come on. There’s more inside.”

School is in session. Xiùlán heads the class, nodding and winking at the both of them as they observe from the back. Jee discovers his song, ‘Friends from Afar, Anchor Your Stay’ properly framed next to the chalkboard. Shelves line every wall, filled to bursting with books of all sorts. Near the door are little cubbies where the children can put away their snacks and personal things.

His prince takes him into an adjacent room. There, two rows of easels face one another, their wooden drawers cluttered with paintbrushes and bottles of paint. Jee admires the paintings in progress. He doesn’t know why, but his gut twists at the sight of a child’s crab surrounded by seashells.

There is one more door. He lets Zuko lead him through it, already anticipating what waits inside.

Jee looks around him and isn’t disappointed.

The final room overflows with musical instruments. Each wall hosts a specific family: winds, percussion, and strings. Jee’s feet take him to the latter. There aren’t only pipa but liuqin, yueqin, banhu, zheng, kokyū, and shamisen, too. His father’s instrument has a home amongst them all. Tiny fingerprints spot its wood.  

Zuko waits. Jee knows he is holding his breath. He turns to face him, and Agni, with the sun sinking behind him like a royal cloak, with his earnest gaze and this mad generosity of spirit, Zuko is beautiful. His prince is gorgeous, and his smile is to die for.

(His heart, to live for.)

It would not do to kiss him, so Jee takes his want and wraps it with all the affection he has that is noble and chaste. His arms open, wide as wings, and fold around the waist of a king who was born to love yet had been forged out of suffering. Zuko’s arms come up to return his embrace. They slip beneath his elbows, curl over his spine, and clutch the blades of his tired shoulders.

“Thank you,” he murmurs into Zuko’s thick hair. A few tears get lost there, and Jee realizes with alarm that he does not want to let go. Not ever.

*

They return to the mainland in silence. There’s no need to talk. Not when Jee communicates things without saying them, and Zuko hears him just as well. In the tight galley, over dinner, their legs tangle. In the cabin, where they sleep, they touch the small of each other’s back. On deck, with the capital in sight, they lean against one another, hips slotted, ribs touching.

Jee looks down at his prince and his windblown hair.

And he wants, and he wants, and he wants.

But the spell breaks when they spy Sokka waving from the pier. He races to their boat, gathers Zuko under his arm, and catches him up on everything he’s missed in the last week. Drifting behind them, Jee rubs the soreness in his chest. Had all of that closeness, all of that pull, been in his head?

He waves goodbye as they board the earth tram to Caldera, then makes his way home once it departs. Jee’s house is quiet save for the cicada-crickets chirping in the garden. When he slides the shoji to his bedroom open, he steps back at the sight of a shadow on his bed. A ball of fire swirls over his palm, ready to strike.

His eyes adjust as his firebending illuminates the room. There is no intruder but a pipa with a red silk ribbon tied around its neck.

The instrument lays on his bed, so new and freshly lacquered, its wooden belly looks wet. Two pairs of bi yi niao adorn the panels on either side of the fret. Their long necks wrap around one another in mutual faithfulness.

(I am a bird with one wing. You are a bird with one eye. Won’t you lay your head against mine?)

Next to the pipa rests a notebook. A blue and silver segaiha pattern makes its cover. Inside, on the first page, he finds a note:

The school was mostly for your brother. The pipa is just for you. I know you don’t like writing your music down, but who knows? You might change your mind.

Anyway, can’t say I didn’t try.

Yours,

Zuko

Jee thumbs that special word, ‘yours’.

His desire turns white hot. The heat of it curls around his lungs, choking him, before it drops to his abdomen where it simmers. It should have stopped there, but it doesn’t. The hunger—the pleasure and pain of it—goes lower, still, between his legs.

He brings the pipa onto his lap. Embraces it. Leans his temple against its head.

Jee closes his eyes. He knows who it is he wishes were here.

To hold. To kiss.

Chapter Text

Sokka pulls the hood of his anorak more closely around his head. Staying in Caldera for months at a time has weakened his tolerance for the cold. It is winter in the south. The snow comes down more heavily with the season. Harsh wind refines the snow, and fine snow bears crystals that can interlock into compact forms. This time of year is perfect for building. Sokka supposes there is something poetic about that—something about strong things being made in the worst conditions—but his strength lies in rhyming haikus rather than symbolism.

His mittened hands rest on the guard rail at the bow of the Saku. It’s a medium-sized Fire Nation Navy vessel, imposing yet lacking the aura of immediate threat the pre-peace ships had carried. He glances behind him at the Fire Nation flag whipping from the masthead. It no longer bears a red flame on black but a golden sun on a field of red. Below, through the highest window of the superstructure, he can see Jee’s figure captaining from the bridge.

Life is weird. The war had taught Sokka that, if nothing else about the universe, this much is true. A decade ago, if someone had told him the man who had rammed Prince Zuko’s ship into his village would make a habit of personally escorting him home, he would have rolled his eyes and snorted. He would have said, ‘Yeah, right. The only way I’d be on the same ship as that guy is if I’m a hostage.’

Jee sees him through the glass. The older man offers a brief wave. Sokka waves back, smiling. It turns out the man who had captained the Wani knows a thing or two about regrets. Knows more than enough about the honor of leading men. The art in caring for them.

There must be something in the blood of those who know the seas’ waves like a lover’s hips. It makes them resilient, Sokka thinks, strong and dutiful. Jee, Bato, and Dad are thick as thieves whenever they’re thrown together. Fire Nation or Water Tribe, it doesn’t matter. They drink and laugh and roughhouse as if they’ve known each other all their lives. They share the blood of hard-earned experience.

Sokka doesn’t have that blood. He might ice dodge and hunt with the best of them, but cold waters don’t leave their mark on him the way they do on those three. He worries he needs to get it, somehow, that blood, if that’s what it takes to lead and lead well.

“How’s the view?”

Sokka turns as Zuko sidles next to him, his cheeks rosy from the biting wind.

Life is weird. If that same someone told him he’d become best friends with the guy he’d wanted to leave for dead in the North Pole, he would have doubled over laughing. He would have wiped tears from his eyes with one finger and between chuckles sigh, ‘Oh … Oh, that’s rich!’

Zuko tucks rebellious strands of hair under his hood. He looks pretty in blue. Indigo ignites his eyes. Their gold becomes cat-like. Sokka doesn’t know what it says about him that he must grip the rail to stop himself from reaching out, cupping his face, and touching his nose to his because …

… Life is weird.

“Thanks for coming with me to look at all the work we’re doing,” Sokka says.

“You don’t have to thank me,” Zuko laughs. “You led all the rebuilding efforts. I can’t wait to see what you’ve come up with.”

“About that … Everything that’s standing is based on my drawings. You know, the ones you thought were millipede-grubs?”

His friend sweats and rubs the back of his neck. “Well, your ideas are impressive when you see them in real life.”

Sokka snorts. “I guess I should throw in the towel when it comes to art. Hire a draftsman.”

“You shouldn’t stop drawing if you enjoy it, Sokka.”

There are moments that Sokka wishes he could capture under a glass slide and view under a microscope. He is all about big smiles, big laughs, big groans, big everything. If Sokka feels something, he’s either going to show it or bury it under sarcastic wit. Most people, however, have those in-between looks. Those fleeting expressions that Katara is so good at catching.

He thinks Zuko has one of those now. The head tilt. The smile. The eyes that soften like he’s about to tell a secret.

The look makes Sokka blush. He turns around and leans his arms against the railing. “Hey. If you pick-up a hobby, I’ll pick-up a hobby.”

Zuko drops his head. “Ugh. I don’t have time for hobbies.”

“Exactly.” He points to the horizon. “Look, we’re getting close.”

In the distance, the sun bleeds through overcast skies and catches the arc of a giant, translucent dome made of ice. The refraction of light sends rainbows bouncing northwest. Beneath this dome and its prism of colors rise multiple buildings. Whereas square and straightedge designs accentuate the Northern Water Tribe’s architecture, Sokka endeavored to stay true to his Southern roots. These buildings are round, cylindrical, evoking memories of bubbles and pearls.

Zuko lets out a long whistle. “That’s definitely no millipede-grub.”

He smacks Zuko’s chest with the back of his hand. His friend laughs and pulls him in by the same arm. They tug-o-war in their own sort of play, taking and giving until a hug would fit perfectly, right here between them.

Instead Zuko drapes his arm across his back. Lays his hand on his hip. His cat-eyes fall on his blue ones and that expression is back. Sokka sees it for less than a second before Zuko returns his gaze to the village, a private grin on his lips.

This ought to be less intimate than an embrace. Yet as they look out together, toward what must be a shared vision of the future, it feels like something else would fit perfectly, right here between them.

Below, Dad, Bato, Katara and Aang wait at the dock. It doesn’t escape Sokka’s notice that Aang has his arm around Katara in much the same way. His sister’s fingers touch the top of Aang’s knuckles. Without thinking, Sokka lifts his hand and does the same. He feels Zuko take a breath in. Hold it. The hand on his hip beckons him closer not in demand but in question.

Sokka answers that question. He leans against him. Swallows against the instinct that something important is about to shift.

The crew hustles through its anchoring and docking procedures. Jee comes down from the bridge and waits near the lowering gangway. Zuko’s hand moves to the small of Sokka’s back. He pushes lightly, encouraging him to take the lead.

But Sokka doesn’t want to abandon his side. He’d spent the last seven years living in Caldera six months out of twelve. He’d seen Zuko’s every stumble, near miss, and hard-won triumph. There had been a lot of laughs in between. After assembly meetings, over lunch, even by the quiet turtle-duck pond. As time went on, that seemed to have become their thing: pulling their hair out, laughing about it.

His arm goes up to wrap around Zuko’s shoulders. When he steps forward, they move as a pair. Jee follows not far behind. Sokka feels his eyes on them. The admiral might be a man with regrets, a man with a heart and good intentions even, but Sokka knows he’s also man of a different time.

He wonders what the Admiral must think of this. If Zuko has any idea of what he’s doing and how it looks.

These thoughts are shooed away by the sight of his father approaching with both arms spread open.

“Sokka!”

“Dad!”

Sokka lets go of Zuko and takes his dad into a warrior’s greeting. As always, the greeting morphs into a tight embrace. Dad’s eyes flick between him and the Fire Lord behind him, one brow going up in humorous question. Sokka shrugs but doesn’t stop smiling. Who knows?

Dad steps back and bows with the sign of the flame. “It’s good to see you again Fire Lord Zuko, Admiral Jee.”

“Thank you for having us,” Zuko replies. He holds out his arm, and Sokka’s chest puffs up with pride as his friend and Jee take everyone into a warrior’s greeting in turn. “We’re excited for the grand tour,” Zuko goes on, “though I’m sure Jee has seen much of it in progress these last few years.”

“Been a while, hasn’t it?” Bato pipes up. “Who’s holding down the fort?”

“Uncle is. He’s regent in situations like this, when neither Jee nor I are available at the palace.”

“Enjoying your role as advisor, Admiral?” Dad asks. “I hear you cow-goat contrary politicians with a single look.”

“Sometimes,” Jee allows, “when the cow-goating works.”

Bato adds, with a friendly elbow dig, “You up for some dodging while you’re here?”

“Always.” The admiral glances about. “Must be trickier these months. A lot more icebergs and drift ice than I’m used to.”

“Please don’t break anything,” Katara groans. “I’m the only one who can do a proper sea clean-up.”

“We’ll be good,” Bato promises.

“No, we won’t,” Dad laughs.

*

Sokka leads the way to the ice dome. Katara raises a hand, rendering part of the dome liquid. She parts the water like a curtain, gesturing with her other arm that they enter first. It’s warmer under this shield, though not so much it melts the ice. He glances at Zuko, who looks up and around, taking everything in.

“Sokka, this is incredible.”

“I’ve been meeting with the Northern Water Tribe to learn about their engineering techniques,” he explains. “A lot of waterbending is involved. A few more Southern waterbenders were born in the last few years, but they’re too young to help. Dad and I negotiated working with the North in exchange for hunt during their low-season.”

“How are you maintaining the ice encasement?” Jee asks. “It looks like glass.”

“It goes up in the winter to keep out the windchill. There’s enough air space inside and cold air outside to maintain the shield’s form. It comes down in the summer, though. Can’t be helped.”

He takes them through the tribe hall first, where everyone in the community gathers for important meetings led by his dad. Stained glass windows hang from the dome ceilings. Their mosaic pieces depict wooden ships set aglow by lanterns hanging from their bowspirits, hunters with spears riding polar bear-dogs, and vibrant weaves upon giant looms surrounded by the weapons of their trade. At the center of the dome swim Tui and La, forever circling one another.

Zuko smirks. “So that’s what you did with all that sand I shipped over.”

“I may have helped with some fire and airbending,” Aang grins. “Adding the dyes was the fun part.”

After the hall, Sokka shows them the library, which is half-finished, then the school, which is almost there. At the market district they stroll between the numerous stalls where everyone sells or trades their wares. They have made partnerships with merchants from Earth Kingdom and Fire Nation. Hard-to-get goods are now easier to obtain, with businessmen at home and abroad meeting one another halfway to exchange.

It takes Sokka by surprise how much his little village has grown into a metropolis in its own right. He’s proud. He’s helped built it, after all. Yet he’s gone half the year and wonders if he’s spent too much time being cerebral, as Zuko had pointed out, instead of getting to know the people who made these feats possible.

His favorite stop is the watch tower. It spirals up into a fine point, twisting like a narwhal-walrus tusk. From here, they can see the entire city and nearly all the south, where the grounded ice sheets extend into ice shelves haloed by calved and sea ice.  At fifteen, he’d made his first real watch tower. It was small and unstable but was just enough to spot Prince Zuko in the horizon.

He looks for the Saku. His heart ba-dums at the sight of it docked next to his father’s ship. When the time comes—if it comes—he wonders what it will be like to climb up this tower, to wait for Zuko to sail in, ready to receive him not with a stone club but with a soft kiss.

Dad lays his hand on his shoulder. Squeezes. “This is my favorite spot, too.”

*

When night falls, the villagers emerge with bounty laden across their arms or strapped upon wooden sleds. They bring baskets of cloudberries and crowberries, south pole cod, char, and capelin, too. For roasting they offer fresh whale meat and caribou-elk, all skinned and boned, nothing wasted.

Jee watches as this gathering unfolds. The details are different, but the rest is the same as home. People are happiest when they share food and drink together. There is something sacred about the affair. To be fed is to be cared for. To be invited to is to be trusted. (Loved.)

He approaches the campfire and sits before it with his legs crossed, knees folded. A woman passes him a slice of frybread—bannok—and a bowl of suaasat, which he accepts with quiet thanks. The soup pipes hot on his lap. Its scent hits his nose: savory like a stew, rich with seal-otter meat, seabirds, onions, and potatoes.

Across the fire, his prince and his friends huddle together. Katara waits to eat as Aang receives his share: bannok, a bowl of berries, and a plate of seasoned roots. It occurs to Jee that Sokka’s penchant for meat is not a quirk but an outcome of necessity. Meat fortifies the body. Keeps it warm throughout cold days and cold nights. Tundra soil is hard as rock. Agriculture is all but non-existent.

Zuko struggles to not make a face at his dinner. The food is different, Jee allows. It is unusual for their spicier palates but not strange. Sokka makes a show of slurping a strip of seal-otter meat. A drop of broth flicks onto Zuko’s nose. His prince’s eyes cross, and Sokka chuckles, offering him a piece of dried fish.

“What’s that?”

“Turbot,” Sokka replies. “That’s dried halibut. Come on. This one’s easy. I ate all those spicy noodles back at Caldera, didn’t I?”

“You cried the whole time,” Zuko points out. “You had snot running from your nose.”

“I did it all for you! … Annnnd maybe a few gold on a side bet, but the gesture stands!”

Sokka brings the dried fish to Zuko’s lips. Zuko leans in to eat it from his fingers in one bite.

Jee looks down at his soup. He thinks of warmer waters and sea urchins. Of a dripping prince pressed against his chest and nestled between his arms. Perhaps that had not been so special after all.

Giggles erupt over the crackling fire. Sokka pitches berries while Zuko leans forwards and backwards, side to side, to catch them with his open mouth.

“Hey! Over here!” calls Aang, jaw hanging wide.

Katara angles back before a berry can smack her across the face. Aang almost misses but summons a bit of air to change the projectile’s trajectory.  

“Your turn,” the Avatar says, and that’s all the warning Sokka gets before another flying berry zips past him and hits Zuko square on the forehead.

“For Agni’s sake! Why is it always me?”

Katara, sweet woman that she is, cackles.

His prince makes a petulant noise. Sokka crawls toward him. Between laughs, he wipes the mess off Zuko’s face and licks his purple-stained thumb. He says something to him. Too low to hear. Whatever he’s said, it quells Zuko’s temper. Sokka turns around, and Zuko pulls him in, against his stomach and between his legs. They resume chatting with their friends, each couple’s body language mirroring the other’s.

Watching them, Jee feels both his love and his age. There is a reason why these four are gathered together. They are peers with shared memories, whereas he sits near Chief Hakoda, among those who still remember the worst of Azulon’s reign, two decades before three of these four were even born.

The thought is troubling. The hearty soup in his gut suddenly spoils. Jee loves the Fire Lord as any man loves his king. He loves Zuko as any man loves his friend. But how could he love his prince as any man loves his darling? It is inappropriate, vulgar, and surely some sort of betrayal.

(You covet.)

And Sokka and Zuko have been close and are only getting closer. The amused looks the tribe members share proves what Jee sees to be true. When they walk side by side, red and blue, fire and water, it is like watching two cranes crossing the marsh. There is a rhythm in the way they move together, a lyric in the way they speak. They are a pair more than well-suited.

He rests his spoon in his half-finished bowl. Quietly sets them both aside on the ice.

“Mind if I join you?”

He looks up and his eyes meet Bato’s. The taller man smiles down on him. Without a word, Jee makes room. Bato uncorks his flask with his teeth and pours a good helping into Jee’s cup of muskeg tea. He sniffs.

 “Same stuff as before?”

“Yup.”

Jee takes a pull and winces. “Don’t tell Cook yours is stronger.”

Bato laughs. It’s a nice laugh. Warm and rumbling. “So. Tomorrow. Sunrise.”

“No. Absolutely not.” Jee grouses, taking another swig. “Why does everyone always insist on dawn’s first light?”

“It’s dramatic!”

“It’s unnecessary. And cruel.” He points at his face. “Do I look like a man who gets enough sleep to you?”

His friend snorts into his drink. “I thought you all ‘rise with the sun’?”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, that’s a load of Komodo shit. Sayings aren’t literal. You don’t see your own village sleeping until moonrise, do you?”

“True. Come to think of it, we get twenty-four hours of daylight during the summer solstice.”

“Sounds like agony.”

Bato sips from his flask. “What kind of firebender hates the sun?”

“The kind that generally hates people. People leave you alone at night.”

“Ozai hated people.”

“Nah. People only got in his way.” He holds out his cup, which his friend refills. “If he hated people, he’d’ve left us all alone.”

“If only he had cared less!” Bato snorts.

“If only!”

They’ve had this banter before. They have it every time they make plans to battle the waves for sport. Despite seeing one another only two or three times a year, it’s easy to pick up where they’ve left off. It’s like slipping into old boots. Jee’s grateful for the distraction.

“Fine, fine, fine,” Bato concedes. “Let’s do high noon.”

“That’s more like it.”

“You plan to sleep in that long?”

“I should be so lucky. No. My schedule is his,” he nods at Zuko.

“Ah.” Bato stretches out his legs and leans back on his arms. “And he literally ‘rises with the sun’, doesn’t he?”

“Yes,” Jee mutters into his spiked tea. “Tui and La piss on my life.”

His friend smothers another laugh behind his fist, then nudges him with a shoulder. “You done with dinner? If you brought your shamisen, I’ll bring out my tautirut.”

“Got a new pipa, actually.”

“Even better. Let’s go.”

*

They stop by the Saku to retrieve Jee’s pipa, then Bato’s igloo to get his tautirut. With their instruments in tow, Jee follows Bato away from the campfire toward the outer reaches of the village where it is quiet, and they can hear themselves play. As they walk, they pass the gravesite. Jee has seen it before. He has seen it enough times that he has lost count. Yet each time he passes it, its area grows.

The Water Tribes do not bury their dead. Beyond practicality, their people believe the dead must be free to move on, and the earth would only trap them. They therefore wrap their departed in sealskin shrouds, lay them atop the snow, and surround their body with all their belongings to take with them on their journey to the Spirit World.

For those never found—their bodies never returned, their belongings lost to fire and ash—offerings of mother of pearl, ulu knives, and stone are left in a circle, around where their bones would be. The practice creates great ovular outlines on the land. Each shape interlocks with its neighbor. They remind Jee of empty honeycomb.

He pauses here and stands a moment too long.

“Jee.”

“I’m sorry.”

He hears Bato exhale. It is not an impatient sound but a sad one.

“I know you are. You don’t have to keep saying it.”

“It must be said. Not enough of us have.”

A warm hand clasps Jee’s shoulder. Bato is a strong presence behind him. Unbidden, he remembers Zuko and Sokka at the bow of the Saku. They had both looked forward, to the future, while he and Bato, the previous generation, stand here looking back to the past.

Time doesn’t care about who or what or why or when. All it offers is a primal instinct that yearns to lean into touch. How long has it been since anyone has held him close? (Too long.) But Jee cannot make assumptions, and now is not the opportunity for selfishness.

“Why don’t we play something for them, then?” Bato offers. “Follow my lead?”

His friend lifts his bow, a rib of wood with a thin line of resined whale bone stretched between its ends. He slides it over three strings of sinew pulled upon carved birch. The instrument’s body is the shape of a large tear. Perhaps, in a way, Bato carries the grief of his people. When he plays, the music weeps for those who can no longer shed tears.

The tautirut is the Water Tribe’s zither. It buzzes when played, the sound of summer insects flying by the ear. Jee listens. He lets the notes sink into his chest and fill its cavity. He’s not sure yet when to join or how, until Bato walks around to face him and begins singing from deep in his throat.

There are no words, only sounds. A blow of air that bounces against the tautirut’s hum. But there are gaps in the rhythm. Spaces that need to be filled. Jee plucks his strings. Together they make the ba-dum, ba-dum of a heartbeat.

Jee has sung with lyrics. He has whistled, vocalized, and hummed. He does not know the traditions of this music, but this song feels like it is meant for two. Bato’s eyes look into his. He nods. Musicians know how other musicians think.

Jee opens his lips. He inhales sharply as Bato exhales. Again and again and again.

Ba-dum ba-dum ba-dum ...

Bato smiles wide even as he keeps going. Between playing an instrument and exerting his lungs, Jee tires quickly in his inexperience. His fingers abandon the fret of the pipa. He bends over, laughing as he catches his breath.

Next to him, Bato chuckles, patting his back. He helps him stand, and for a moment Jee has arms around him.

Want reemerges. It’s quieter, more subdued, but still there. The seas have starved him. His country forbade him. War murdered what seemed to be his only chance.

Bato’s gaze returns to the graves, and Jee wants to pull himself free of cold, unforgiving soil. 

*

When Zuko cannot sleep, he works. When he cannot work, he roams. The tribe hall suits this need nicely.

But it’s a habit Suki curses him for. Late night strolls around the palace are not conducive to personal safety. He’d always been a fidgeter. Even as a kid he had trouble holding still. It often got him in trouble with Father and Grandfather. Azula, on the other hand, can hold a pose with the ease of a statue.

He stops at an ice sculpture of Avatar Kuruk and runs a hand through his hair. Thoughts of his sister inevitably lead to ‘what to do with her’. It’s a shameful notion. Azula is not a task. She is a person and his sibling. The only immediate family member he has left.

Her doctors advise that physically, she is well. Her habits, however, are contradictory. Everything in her room is straight and collected and just so. She dresses tidily and ensures not a wrinkle can be seen on her garments. Yet she has stopped applying her makeup, a luxury she once enjoyed. She no longer brushes her hair or makes time to wash it. Her nails, once finely manicured, have been bitten to the quick.

Perhaps most concerning, Zuko observes, is Azula’s discontinuation of practicing katas. His sister has few interests and passions. Fighting is one of them. Firebending is the other. She does neither, not even to entertain herself as the days drag by in the palace.

When he’d last visited her room, he offered training together in Mother’s Garden. Azula’s fire returned. Her eyes grew wild. Her lips coiled over her teeth. She grabbed her tray and threw it at his head, splattering breakfast and shattering porcelain everywhere. Her breath came harsh and fast as she rasped, “Get out.”

If Zuko can’t connect with her using firebending, he’s at loss of how else to reach out. When they were kids, he used to carry her on his back, make shadow animals against the wall, pull pranks on Lu Ten. But they aren’t kids anymore, and from her perspective, he knows, he took away one of her friends.

He climbs up the spiral staircase leading to a balcony overlooking the village center. Aside from the watch tower, it’s a good place for stargazing, Sokka had said. He’s about to ascend the final step when he hears two voices talking.

“Did you ever imagine your home would be like this one day, Katara?”

Katara turns from the balcony ledge, her smile silvery beneath the moonlight. “No. Never. To be honest, I was so worried about getting by, I never really thought about the future. Now that it’s here, it …” She clasps her left arm in an embrace she gives herself. “It’s actually a little scary. Things are moving along so fast. But it’s exciting, too, seeing how much my people can create when we’re not plagued by war.”

Aang takes a breath, and with it one step closer. “I know what you mean. And you’ve done a lot, you know, teaching the next generation of benders. Giving women a voice in places where they didn’t have any before.” He reaches out, taking her by the elbow to draw her closer. “The world is changing, but I know one thing I don’t want to change, and that’s having you beside me.”

He reaches into his pocket and withdraws a necklace made of mother of pearl and ribbon. The pendant shimmers like the stars above. Katara’s eyes widen. She covers her mouth with her hand. Zuko can’t see what’s carved onto the pendant’s surface, but he has no doubt curls of waves would blend seamlessly with curls of air.

“Katara,” Aang’s hands slide into hers. The betrothal necklace fills the space between their palms. “When the world needed me most, I turned away from it because I was afraid. When you cracked the iceberg I was in, you woke me up. Not just from sleep but from all the nightmares I was trying to escape. Having you by my side … it makes me want to push forward. To face things. Because when we’re together, the unknown becomes an adventure. Katara, will you—”

Zuko realizes too late what it is he is witnessing. This moment is private. This moment is precious. He has seen and heard too much. He takes a step back, but the damned stairs are made of ice. His heel slides. He slips.

“Wh-whoa!”

He tumbles down the stairs until he lands on the ground floor in an embarrassing heap. From above, he can hear his friends rushing to help.

“Zuko?!”

“I’m okay!” Zuko shouts. He dusts off his royal robes and runs down the hallway before he can ruin things any further. “Congratulations!”

*

Frantic knocking on his door. Sokka bites his bottom lip, stifling a laugh. It can only be one person. When he turns the handle, Zuko barrels in. His friend paces his room with the heels of his palms pressed to his eyes, his spine arched like he’s praying to (or condemning) the heavens.

“Stupid, stupid! So flaming stupid! I can’t believe I did that!”

He lets a smile creep in. Zuko never steers away from dramatics.

“Uh … You okay there, buddy?”

“I walked in on a proposal! A proposal!” Zuko throws his arms out and turns to Sokka, face mere millimeters from his. “That’s supposed to be one of the most memorable, romantic things you get to experience in life, right? RIGHT?! Oh, Agni … I just—” His friend stops, eyes wide as though realizing he may have said more than he should have. “Has uh … Has Aang talked to you about him and Katara?”

Sokka takes him by the shoulders and sits him on his bed. He throws himself next to him, deeply amused.

“Oh, yeah. Couldn’t stop that talk from coming even with both mittens pasted to my ears.” He grabs a pillow and tosses it into Zuko’s stomach. “Sorry I didn’t tell you. Aang wanted to keep it hush-hush so only family knows. Sounds like he decided tonight’s the night.” That reassurance doesn’t seem to help any. Zuko buries his face in the cushion. “Hey. Come on, it couldn’t have been that bad.”

“… I fell down the stairs.”

He guffaws and rolls onto his back. “Of course, that would happen to you! You and your weird luck!”

Finally, Zuko’s face pops up, eyebrows scrunched with indignity.

“My luck? What about yours? You’re the one that got stuck chin-deep in the ground while a moose-lion almost ate you!”

He pokes his friend in the forehead. Once, twice, three times. “Need I remind you about the time you managed to get yourself paralyzed by the bounty hunter you hired?”

“It wasn’t the bounty hunter! It was her shirshu! At least I didn’t have to suck on a frog’s butt to get over a stupid fever.”

“Hey, that was me and Katara, so that doesn’t count.”

His friend smacks him over the head with the pillow.

“You sucked a frog’s butt. It absolutely counts.”

They stare at one another a beat before dissolving into snickers. Once they tire out, Sokka reaches for Zuko’s wrist.

“Better now?”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

“Good.” He throws his arms behind his head and lies back. “So. Did Aang do a good job?”

“It’s Aang. You know he did.”

“Yeah, but … I want to hear an objective answer. Katara would’ve been happy with anything.”

Zuko hums in thought, pursing his lips. “It was very sweet. Made me a little envious, actually. I guess we’re at that age.”

“Technically, you have until twenty-five to lasso a lady and pop the question.”

“Ugh … Please, don’t. The Fire Sages remind me enough as it is.” Zuko turns to his side. There’s a coil at the corner of his lips that spells retribution. “How’s it feel to have the Avatar for your brother-in-law? You ready to be an uncle soon?”

“They’re not married yet!” Sokka bursts.

“But they will be.” Zuko sing-songs. When he doesn’t tease back, his friend softens. And there it is again: that fleeting look. “Does it bother you?”

There are some things in life that don’t bear thinking about. Aang having his hands on Katara’s unspeakable places is one of them. But if he’s to be chief someday, Sokka supposes he can’t afford to be squeamish about anything.

“It doesn’t bother me,” he replies. “Aang’s a great person and an even better friend. I know I lucked out.” A furrow settles between his brows. “It’s just … she’ll always be my little sister, you know? We took baths together when we were kids. I love her, but I really, really don’t want to think about what goes on in their bedroom.” He smacks his forehead. “Oh, La, they’re definitely gonna do it tonight.”

Zuko sits up. “Your dad doesn’t mind?”

“Oh, Katara got that talk years ago. She had a fit, of course. Told him she’s a grown woman with her own mind and can make her own decisions about her own body. Made Dad cry like a baby.”

“I find that hard to imagine.”

“He said,” and here Sokka clutches the collar of his shirt, quivers his lower lip, and sobs: “‘I just want you to be safe and okay and treated with respect!’ And then they both started crying.”

They snicker again. It doesn’t last as long, and by the time it peters out, Zuko feels better. He twists around and sets his feet on the floor.

“Thanks for talking me down. It’s getting late. I better get going.”

Despite the words, his friend doesn’t rise. He lingers. His fingers clench and unclench the blanket. Sokka glances at the door.

“Do you want to stay?” he asks.

Zuko blinks at him. His voice is hoarse. “What?”

“You know, like a sleepover?”

“Sleepover? We’re not little kids, Sokka.”

“You do realize I was throwing berries at your dumb face a couple of hours ago, right?”

His friend slaps his thigh. That same hand then moves to Sokka’s shoulder, pushing him down.

“Don’t call me dumb,” Zuko whispers.

As he lays back against the pillows, eyes fixed on his friend’s lips, Sokka thinks of Aang and Katara, of odds and probability. He remembers when he and Zuko bathed together in a river. How Zuko had stared at the body of another man. The way his eyes traced the lines of a humming-moth tattoo. His friend had been nervous and wanting. Sokka had told him it was all right. It is and always will be. He wants to tell him that again, now, but this time he is uncertain.

Sokka worries he is misreading him. Zuko, who treasures his loved ones without reservation, has only ever treated him the way he would Aang, Iroh, or Jee. Late night talks. Snarky letters. Familiar touches. Grand gifts and concessions not given to anyone else.

So Sokka looks away from Zuko’s lips and pats the second pillow near his head.

“Okay, stupid. Time for bed.”

*

Uncle would caution him against his predilection for impulse. Yet there is something to be said about taking action instead of waiting for things to come. 

Sokka lies beneath him. His blue eyes are half-lidded. He looks warm and welcoming, ready to receive Zuko in whatever way he decides. The sight sends a shiver down his body. It follows a bead of heat that forms on his tongue, slides down his throat, and unfurls like a vine in his belly. He feels a twitch. An ache between his legs. Zuko swallows, hungry.

But the charge in Sokka’s gaze turns confused. He hesitates. He turns his head and gestures to the other pillow.

“Okay, stupid. Time for bed.”

As Sokka tucks his legs under the covers and pulls himself under, Zuko shakes himself out of it and follows suit. We need to talk about this, Zuko realizes. I need to tell him and do this right.

His friend blows out the candle, then turns around. They lay facing one another, their eyes adjusting to night. In the darkness Sokka’s brown skin looks blue, his teeth like pearls when he smiles. Zuko wants to kiss him and kiss him. He wants to swallow up that smile until Sokka laughs, tells him its ticklish, and wraps his arms around him in a bid to keep him still.

He wants all those things and to do all those things right, so Zuko clears his throat and tells him, “Goodnight.”

*

Jee wakes up naturally, in time for breakfast. A note rests on the floor near the door of his guest quarters. He picks it up.

Take your time today, Admiral. As we discussed prior to our voyage, the majority of our meetings will be in the afternoon to accommodate in-depth touring of the village in the morning. I can handle the morning with Sokka.

Our agenda for later today is as follows:

• 1 hour – Lunch
• 2 hours – Meeting: Katara and the International Women’s Liberty Alliance
• 2 hours – Meeting: Sokka’s engineering team
• 1 hour – Dinner
• 2 hours – Meeting: Chief Hakoda

I look forward to seeing you soon!

Sincerely,

Fire Lord Zuko

He flips the note over to find there is nothing more on the back. His eyes drop to the floor, searching for that familiar second letter that always accompanied the formal one. The one that would call him ‘Lieutenant’. The one always signed ‘Yours’.

There isn’t one.

Jee sets the letter on his nightstand. The twinge in his chest is difficult to ignore. The letter. Leaving without him in the morning. They’re small, insignificant things. He knows Zuko means nothing by any of them, and allowing him to sleep in was thoughtful, really. He pinches his nose bridge and squeezes his eyes.

“Don’t be an idiot,” he mutters. “Get a hold of yourself.”

He bathes, dresses, and has breakfast. He practices his forms and runs the perimeter of the village’s dome. The run is good, but Jee can’t escape his thoughts. It must be proximity. It must be. Between advising during the day and sitting on Zuko’s balcony at night, it stands to reason the boundaries between what is professional and what is personal have blurred. Their friendship is deep, genuine. That only serves to confuse matters.

It’s an infatuation, Jee decides. Nothing more. If he’d spent more time making room for others, surely his attention would latch onto someone else.

By the time he finishes training his body, it’s near high noon. He makes his way to the docks where Bato is already waiting, whittling something to pass the time. Jee searches for the third member of their crew.

“No Chief today?”

“Something came up,” Bato shrugs. “You know how it is, leading a whole people. You fine with just the two of us?”

“Sure.” He cracks his knuckles and the stiffness out of his neck. “Nothing like two less hands to make things more interesting.”

“That’s the spirit!”

*

They board one of the boats. Together they loosen the halyards to lower the jib and main sails. Once they confirm all the sheets are good and tight, they set sail northeast where the South Pole winds blow hardest.

Bato laughs from behind the helm, his long hair whipping as a strong gale greets them. Their boat skips forward like a flat stone across a pond. They fly, break ice, hit water, and fly again. Sea water splashes across the deck. Shattered ice comes down on them like hail.

Jee shields his eyes from the downpour of sleet. In the distance he sees a maze of icebergs ready to smash them into bits.

They are going too fast. He runs to the sheets, attaches the outhaul and the Cunningham to the reefing cringles, and pulls with all his strength. The mainsail goes up one quarter. With two square knots, he keeps it in place. He’s reefed the sail, catching less air, and their boat eases into a swift yet controllable drift.

“Nice work there, Admiral,” Bato salutes. “Thought office work might’ve made you soft.”

He snorts. Gives him an impolite finger. “Flame off, Bato. Not a chance.”

His friend spins the wheel with practiced grace, and they glide through the icebergs, nimble as a hawk soaring through treacherous canyons. With every close call, they curse. With every adept dodge, they crow. From the mainmast, Jee perches on a mast step and hangs from one hand. He calls out, trilling his island’s holler, and his heart eases with the thrill of danger, of wind and camaraderie on the open seas.

The end of the iceberg maze comes too soon, and the return to the village is a more tranquil affair. Jee takes over the helm as they voyage the safer way around. Bato turns to him after he finishes rotating a winch.

“So. Have you found them yet?” Bato asks, crossing his arms and leaning against the gunwale. “Guozhi’s family?”

Jee sighs, shaking his head. “I spent the last couple of visits doing nothing but searching. No luck. Made reeling in war criminals look like a stroll through the park.”

“Like a needle in a haystack, I imagine. Earth Kingdom is a huge place.”

“Well. I guess I have the rest of my life to find them.”

Bato makes a face. Jee would describe it as somewhere between pained and resigned.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Don’t lie to me. Spit it out.”

His friend looks down at his boots. Chews on his lip. “I worry for you sometimes, Jee. You take a lot very seriously. Now, don’t misunderstand me: I like that about you. If there’s a man from Fire Nation I would bet my life on keeping a promise, it would be you. But it would do you good to be kind to yourself.”

Jee scowls. “What do you mean?”

Bato looks up again. Gentle eyes, regal nose, high cheekbones—altogether he’s a handsome man with beautiful features. Jee concentrates on ignoring the whispers that nag at him.

(It’s proximity. It must be.)

“We’ve all been through some version of perdition during the war. Putting the pieces back together again isn’t easy, but life doesn’t always have to be about honor and duty. You can allow yourself some joy. More than just this, anyway.”

His fingers tighten on the helm’s handles. “You think I deserve that?”

“Tui and La, Jee. You don’t think you do?” 

A vast ocean speckled with ice caps stretches out before them. Jee doesn’t see any of it. The floating white blotches are white stones at the feet of tree stumps. A blink, and they are the glittering shells, ulu, and rocks surrounding empty sealskin, too. The graves on Earth Kingdom look no different. Their markers are tall, pale slabs of granite that smoke with incense. They are the most numerous of all.  

Jee pilots the ship more out of instinct than sight. A motion off his periphery catches his attention. His left hand abandons the helm to ball into a fist of fire.

But someone takes his wrist into their fingers. The touch is friendly, seeking.

(Sir?)

Jee turns his head. Longing. Seeking. Bato swims into his vision. He swallows the disappointment like lead.

“You do. You deserve it.”

He looks down at their hands. His fire has dissipated. What’s left is steam. His skin is hot. Bato touches him anyway, despite all the terrible burn scars on his body. The connection is faint: two fingers around his wrist, a thumb on his pulse.    

It’s comforting, the contact. Jee lets his fingers curl. Touches Bato’s knuckles in turn.

*

Zuko taps his foot on the docks.

Jee and Bato are late. Lunch started fifteen minutes ago. Sokka had offered to keep him company, but his eyes kept meandering to the platter of diced blubber and cured caribou-elk meat laid out for the taking. Zuko had smiled and shooed him off, promising to join him soon.

Touring with Sokka alone may not have been the best of ideas. He’d intended to feed two birds with one hand by indulging Jee’s sleeping needs and finding ways to help Sokka reach his aspirations for the South. Yet having slept next to Sokka, rising with him, sharing a sink, and laughing about bedhead had warmed Zuko to certain flights of fancy.

Instead of paying attention, he’d begun daydreaming about what it would be like to start and end each day exactly as they had this morning. It’s a warming thought. Addictive. He thinks of what Sokka might look like, grumpy and hogging the blankets, in his bed at the palace.

Zuko sighs. He’d known Boiling Rock had been the beginning of his woes, but this is getting ridiculous. If he doesn’t do something about this now, he’s bound to do something ill-advised later.

“Come on, Jee,” he mumbles. “Where are you?”

He begins to worry that something might have happened when a speck in the horizon begins to grow in size. The boat draws near, coasting neatly into one of the vacant boat slips.

“There you are.”

“Here I am,” Jee greets, looping a line between his hands. The admiral finishes the last of the rigging before hopping onto the dock. He dusts his calloused palms. “Did you need something, Sir?”

Jee’s eyes crinkle at their corners. His lips pull into a small, barely-there smile. The idea of these disappearing fills Zuko with fear. He does not know how Jee might feel about any of his questions. He’d run straight here without a thought. “I could use your advice.”

The older man huffs a laugh. “That is my title and job description, if I’m not mistaken.”

“True, but this is more … personal.”

His eyes slide to Bato, whose eyebrows shoot up as he disembarks.

“I see. I’ll be on my way then, Fire Lord Zuko.” He taps the side of his fist against Jee’s upper arm as he passes. “Your advisor’s still got it, by the way. You should join us next time.”

As Bato strides off the dock and onto shore, Zuko mulls over how to best broach his question. He asks, “Does it bother you? The law I passed?”

“Which one?”

“The Private Relations Protections Law.”

“Ah,” the admiral nods. “No. It was the right thing to do.”

Zuko swallows. His palms turn clammy with sweat. “Then, would it bother you if … I benefit from that law?”

Jee’s posture changes. He jerks faintly, as though startled, then his shoulders square into a familiar disciplined stance. His eyes become vacant. He’s silent for a long time. An awful feeling turns all of Zuko’s bones hollow, but no sooner does he begin to feel regret does Jee exhale through his nose.

“That would be highly hypocritical of me,” his gaze returns to him, its quality resolute, “and you know how I feel about hypocrisy.”

This man says things without saying them. It takes a moment before Zuko fully understands. His blinks.

 “Oh.”

The gulls caw. They flap their wings, abandoning the water to fly overhead, toward land. Lunch is over.

Jee crosses his arms and leans against one of the pilings. He bends his knee, the tip of his boot hooking against the rough planks. “Feels strange, doesn’t it? Talking about it when for so long we had to hide it.”

Zuko balls his hands into fists. He hadn’t meant this conversation to veer in this direction, nor to induce a confession so private. “I’m sorry you had to live through that.”

“Don’t apologize to me. You did away with it.”

“Then I’m sorry for cornering you like this.”

The neutrality in Jee’s eyes melts into something sad. “You didn’t corner me. I chose to tell you, just as you’ve chosen to tell me.”

He nods, feeling dizzy. Perhaps he’d been careless. Despite all the conversations they’ve had over the years, not once had Zuko thought to inquire if Jee had someone special in his life. The admiral, for his part, had never volunteered such information either.

His friend waits for him to recover from this revelation before adding, “Was that all that you wanted to ask me?”

“It’s … Agni, I should know what to do, shouldn’t I? I can’t be sixteen all over again.”

Jee cringes in mock horror. “Spirits forbid.”

That gets a laugh out of him. It shatters the tension, and Jee spares a crooked smile. Zuko has seen wicked smirks before. Conspiratorial grins and wry curling lips, too. This smile is new. It’s vulnerable. There’s a quality to it that is somehow terribly young.

“You’re in love,” Jee says.  

“Shit. Am I that obvious?”

“As obvious as you are dense, Sir.”

Zuko groans, sliding his back against the piling Jee leans against to sit on the frosted dock. Jee joins him. The other man brings his knees to his chest. Rests his elbows atop them.

“How do you tell someone you have feelings for them, if you’re not even sure they’re the same as you?”

“You would deduce from little signs,” Jee replies. Zuko peers at him. The man’s eyes have fallen shut and his voice is soft. “The way he looks at you. The way he talks to you, touches you. His thoughtfulness on things other people don’t notice. His trust. His affection. How he lights up the moment you give him a bit of attention.”

He rubs his temples. There are at least a handful of people in his life he would ascribe to such a description. “That sounds a lot like friendship.”

When Jee opens eyes his eyes again, they seek his out and don’t break contact. His dark irises shift. They study him. “It’s hard,” he says at length. “It was safer, back then, to find paid companionship abroad. It lowered the risk of getting caught.”

“Was that what you did?” Zuko bites his tongue. “That was rude. Forget I asked.”

“That was rude, but you can ask. The answer is yes.”

The reply shouldn’t take him aback. He’d been around the Wani’s crew long enough to know they had no scruples when it came to working off pent-up urges. When he was thirteen, Uncle used to cover his ears whenever Aki, Donghai, and Cook shared their bawdier exploits over several tankards of boiler room hooch. Jee had listened and laughed along with them, but that was all.

“Bet you didn’t expect this to be a part of our agenda, huh?”

The piling thumps when Jee lets the back of his head fall against it. “You’ve always steered the ship at a sharp angle when you wanted something done and done immediately. Good thing I’m used to that.”

“Ha. Thanks.”

“Three years previous experience,” he holds up three fingers. “I have stellar references.”

“Yeah. Okay. I get it.”

“That said, when you’re not being a little shit—”

“—Bastard—”

“—Brat. As I was saying, when you’re not being a little shit, you care a great deal about doing right by others. That’s why this is urgent, isn’t it?”

Zuko turns where he sits. He moves closer. On the planks, their fingers touch. “I know there are other people I can turn to about this, but you always seem to know exactly what I need to hear. Guess you’re more of a people-person than you think.”

“I make exceptions for my crew.”

“I’m not crew.”

“You know what I mean.” Jee looks down on their hands, then at the clouds pregnant with snow. “It sounds like you are desperate to tell him.”

“I don’t think I can wait anymore.” He jiggles his leg. Notices. Forces himself to stop. “It’s been a long time.”

“You’ve dated Mai. Why should this be any different?”

“This is going to make me sound like a monkey-ass—”

“Oh, no. I can't imagine.”

“—But I never told her. And she never told me. We kissed once and off we went.”

“As easy as that, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“Hm.” Jee’s mouth opens, closes, then opens again only to stop short. The admiral seems to be at odds over what he wants to say. Ultimately, he asks, “May I make a suggestion?”

“Sure.”

“Find the time to do something alone together. Choose things you both enjoy and a few things he enjoys specifically. You will get a better read on how he feels about you by the time you need to say ‘goodnight’. You can try telling him then, if it feels right.”

“And if he’s not interested?

His friend doesn’t reply right away. Instead, he turns his attention to the nesting sea birds. Jee’s smallest finger reaches out. It coils over Zuko’s, and Zuko turns his hand over so their pinkies can hook.

“Then, because you care about him—because he’s important to you and you love him—you will respect his wishes and ask if you can still be friends. If he doesn’t want that either, you must respect that, too.”

“Well,” Zuko breathes. “That’s not scary.”

“You’ve faced worse.” A pause. Jee squints. “That wasn’t intended to be a pun.”

“Ouch.” He smacks the admiral’s chest. “Way to be a jerk.”

Jee catches his other hand as it falls away. Holds it loosely. “It’s a feature, not a defect. I’m afraid there are no returns.”

He doesn’t know how Jee can says these things with a straight face. Zuko chuckles. “They still manufacture you at the old toy soldier factory?”

“Not anymore, no thanks to the first pacificist Fire Lord in a century.”

“Sounds like a swell guy.”

“He has his moments.” Jee’s thumb runs across the side of Zuko’s index finger. After a moment, he lets both hands go. “You don’t need to answer, but do you mind if I ask who it is?”

Zuko licks his lips. The admiral hasn’t cast judgment on anything he’s said so far. It feels safe to tell him, and he needs someone to tell.

“Sokka,” he whispers. Once the name leaves his lips, his lungs feel like they can expand again. He says his name a second time. Louder. With conviction. “It’s Sokka.”

His friend nods. The movement is brief, controlled, while his face is entirely unphased.

“I am not a mind-reader, and I don’t want to get your hopes up if I’m wrong, but I think your chances are very good if not excellent.”

He sits up on his heels. “You think so?”

Jee’s smile is crooked again. “Yes.”

Excitement replaces the nervousness Zuko had felt not an hour ago. With a lunge, he embraces him, heedless of crowding the admiral with his arms, his body, his absurdly thick winter coat. Jee’s neck is warm despite the weather. A faint trail of stubble scrubs against his cheek. Jee smells of sea salt, wood, and smoke.

“Thank you, Lieutenant,” he pulls away and finds that Jee’s face is pink from the cold. “I’ll see you at the lodge for the meeting with Katara?”

“I’ll follow. I’ll be only a moment.”

Zuko gets onto his knees, then onto his feet. He crosses the dock and steps onto the gangway for shore when Jee shouts:

“Sir!”

He pivots on one foot and looks back. Jee has one hand atop the piling. He leans against it as though the physical strains of ice dodging have finally caught up to him.

“I hope you know you can tell me anything,” he says. “Your friendship … It’s precious to me.”

Zuko’s father was wrong. He has incredible luck, to have found and kept friends like Jee who love him unconditionally. He beams.

“Your friendship is precious to me, too.”

*

After their second night in the South, Jee prepares for the voyage home.

He’s in the bridge, at the navigation station, plotting their course around where he predicts there will be turbulent waves. He rubs his eyes. Touches the side of his neck where Zuko’s head had been yesterday. Even when the temperature is below freezing, his prince still smells like the sun. Like summer.

His hand falls onto his lap.

His head hurts.

(His heart hurts.)

Out the window, he notices Bato directing several villagers carrying a few boxes of cargo. As he watches, Jee thinks about his house in Harbor City, of how quiet it is when everyone sleeps. Ships are never fully quiet. They groan, they creak, they hiss, and they bellow with the sounds of people snoring. Eight bells ring for each half-hour of a four-hour watch. Ding-ding, ding-ding. Ding-ding, ding-ding. There is always noise because there are always people, and there are no people in Jee’s home.

He sets down his scratch compass.

*

“Bato!” Jee calls out, marching toward the man with unnerving recklessness. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”

His friend blinks at him in surprise, but he takes Jee by the tip of his elbow and guides him away from the procession of loaders. Once they have some semblance of privacy, whatever courage that had swept Jee onto his feet vanishes. He stands, words lost, feeling like a stammering child. 

But Bato waits patiently with his kind eyes and teasing grin. It untangles the knot in Jee’s throat. He takes a chance.

His fingers reach for Bato’s wrist. Two around, thumb on the pulse, the same as his friend had held him the day before. Regardless, it’s difficult to face him, so Jee stares at his boots as he leans forward and whispers, “Are you seeing anyone?”

The other man pulls his arm back as if scalded. “Oh. Uh. No. But I’m not—I’m not ...”

The ground turns unsteady beneath Jee’s feet. His vision blurs. The world around him sways and ripples as though underwater. He lists to one side. Staggers.

(Filthy. Illegal. Unmanly. You could be hung!)

A belt across his buttocks. He’s bleeding and can’t sit. A slice across a palm. Green. Purple. Black. The smell of decay. A dying hand. A stub. No money. No choice. Seventeen in Caldera. Barnacle rat. Peasant. Backwater filth. Seventeen years at sea. Bombs. Gunsmoke. The screaming, the screaming. Sweat. Blood. Humming-moths. Lanterns. This part of you is beautiful. Dance with me. Pipes. Missiles. They’re all dead. A tree. A rope. A charred foot. They’re all dead. Cholera. Mother. Father. Huan. They’re all dead. The smell of decay. Bandages. Pus. An eye melted half-shut. He’s not dead. A fight. A storm. A razor in his palm. You’re redundant, Lieutenant. A look. A command. A meat hook in his hand. Don’t die, Lieutenant. He killed the moon. Darkness. Explosions. Falling, falling, freezing. Shan! Donghai! Qianfan! Lieutenant. Kenzo! Aki! Taiki! Cook! Lieutenant. Gulls. Fish. Bodies. They’re all dead. You’re alive! You’re alive! Don’t die, Lieutenant. Sinking. Drowning. It’s over! We won! Lilies. Oranges. A medal. A storm. Admiral? Yes. Yes! His face. His eyes. Yours. His hands. His smile. Yours. Hold me. Kiss me. Yours. I love you. I love you. I love you. I’m yours.

(Sing. Dance. Find a reason. Promise me.)

Jee’s hands tremble. Everything is too bright. Too overwhelming. He covers his eyes. Shakes his head. He clutches his chest with his other hand. Tries to right himself.

“Apologies. I thought—it won’t happen again ...”

He turns on his heel and walks away as best as he can manage. White noise roars through his hears. He can’t understand what the villagers shout to one another as he pushes through them. In retreat, he checks his posture and counts each step. If he can pass for normal, he might be able leave with some dignity.

The ramp back onto the Saku feels steeper than he remembers. He tumbles but someone catches him from under his arm, stands him up, and swivels him around. Disoriented, Jee’s eyes dart everywhere but at Bato’s face.

“Whoa! Hey. Are you all right? You look … you look a little sick.”

“I’m fine.”

“Do you want to sit down?”

He yanks his arm away. “I said I’m fine!”

People are staring at him. (Did everyone see? Did everyone hear? They know. They know.) Sweat trickles from his neck to his spine. He can feel it absorb into the fabric of his clothes. Jee can’t imagine what he must look like. He wants to run. He wants to hide. But he can’t see or hear. His heart races outside of him. He can’t feel it anymore. Is his chest empty? How is he alive? He can’t be alive.

“Okay. Okay, Admiral. We’re just gonna head to your quarters. Sound good?”

Bato doesn’t wait for him to agree. They wobble to his cabin where the other man eases him onto his bed and pushes on his back, forcing Jee’s head between his knees. He buries his face in his hands. Bato grabs his wrists. Squeezes. The pressure is grounding. When he looks up the walls around them slowly stop spinning.

“You with me now?”

“Yes,” he croaks.

“Good. What happened back there? It was like you went away. You scared me.”

“I don’t know.”

“Can I get you anything?”

Jee laughs, but it’s almost a sob. “I think I’ve troubled you enough.”

They sit together in silence. In spite of everything, it isn’t awkward. That is, until Bato coughs.

“We’re still good right?”

“I don’t know.” Jee’s fingers slide from his face to his hair. “Are we?”

 “I hope so.” His friend looks at him, his worry deepening. “I’m sorry about my reaction earlier. You just—you surprised me.”

You recoiled, Jee thinks, though he doesn’t say it. “It won’t happen again.”

Bato sits back. All physical contact withdraws with him. “Jee, I don’t think any differently of you. I promise.” When he doesn’t respond, his friend asks, “How long have you been hiding this?”

What a question. “All of my life.”

“That’s …”

“Pretty fucking horrible,” Jee snarls. “I know. I didn’t have a choice. Not until recently, anyway.”

The other man nods in understanding. “I’m glad … that you felt you could trust me with that.”

“There aren’t a lot of people that I trust.” Jee dares to look up. Bato offers a rueful smile. He finds his tongue and sharpens it. “Consider yourself twice flattered: once for looks and once for character.”

 A blush suffuses Bato’s cheeks. “I’m sorry. If I were interested—"

“No. Don’t do that,” he grumbles, waving a hand. “Just take the damn compliment. Call it a day.”

His friend chuckles, and for the first time since this disaster unfolded, Jee thinks he will escape with their friendship intact.

“Okay.” The twinkle in Bato’s eyes turns thoughtful. “This may be prying, but your friend from Earth Kingdom. Guozhi. Was he …?”

“Yes,” Jee rasps. There are few bright spots in his life. Guozhi had been one of them. To not share who he had been to him had left bitter barbs in his throat. But finally, someone knows: he had loved once, and had been good enough to be loved in turn. “Yes,” Jee says, “he was.”

*

They return to Caldera with little fanfare, which Sokka has come to appreciate. In the early days of peace, he’d reveled in the attention, blowing kisses to anonymous admirers while sitting upon the broad shoulders of Earth Kingdom soldiers. Yet, as with everything, what had been thrilling soon became a chore. He didn’t understand why Zuko took advantage of Caldera’s underground network of tunnels as often as he did, but once the most zealous of adorers began cutting pieces of his hair and clothing right off his person, the benefits became more than apparent.

The tunnels will be made of use tonight. Sokka stands before the wardrobe in his palace suite with his hands on his hips. On the Saku, Zuko had knocked on his cabin door. His friend seemed nervous but earnest. Sokka assumed he’d had a breakthrough on a piece of legislation he’d been working on. Instead, Zuko asked: “After we settle back home, do you want to hang out in Caldera? Take a break from work?”

Zuko had bounced his right leg and rubbed the back of his neck—two telltale signs of nervousness that are difficult to miss. He then leaned against the doorframe in what, Sokka hopes, was an awkward bid for seduction. It looked terrible and goofy on him. Naturally, he’d replied, “Sure.”

He yanks clothes off their hangers, gives each garment an appraising look, and dumps them at his feet.

“Too boring. Too warm. Too last season. Looks the same … Looks the same … Nope. Nope. Nope.” Fabric flings over his shoulders. The deeper he gets into his closet, the angrier he gets. “Fuck. Shit.” He tosses yet another blue tunic with particular disgust. “Spirits damn it!”

“Oof!”

The floor is not supposed to react with contempt. Sokka glances over his shoulder. Jee stands at his open door. He pulls the shirt off his face and holds it out like a cat by its scruff.

“Spring cleaning?”

“I wish ...” Sokka ambles to him and snatches it back. “Sorry about that.”

Without invitation, Jee steps into his bedroom. His eyes sweep the mess. Socks litter the floor like leaves. Robes and pullovers hang off the bed, chairs, and desk. Pants tangle with one another in twisted ropes. The room may as well be painted blue and that, Sokka knows, is his problem.

“I know for a fact the Avatar did not blow in through here,” the man observes. “We left him to his secret engagement.”

“Zuko told you?”

“Believe it or not, he can swear to secrecy when it’s important. No. Her necklace was different on the second day of our stay.”

“Sharp eye. You needed to see me?”

Jee reaches for the three scrolls tucked under his arm. “I’ve reviewed these to the best of my ability. There are sections in each that are concerned with ethical engineering practices. I thought you might want to look at them before they are approved.”

“Thanks.” He takes the scrolls and sets them on his workspace, next to an old pair of sleeping pants he should discard but can never find the heart to. His delivery completed, Sokka expects the admiral to take his leave, but he idles.

“It seems you have plans tonight.”

Sokka flushes. “Uh. Yeah. Kind of important. Want to make a nice impression and all that. I need something, you know … Fire Nation-y."

“You can’t decide what to wear.”

“More like I can’t find anything decent. Everything looks the same.” He sighs and leans against his desk. One arm goes up, gesturing all around. “I got an ocean of … ocean.”

“What’s wrong with the ocean?”

“Nothing. Just. Too much blue.”

To his surprise, Jee scours through his belongings. He picks up a shuhe ensemble with chrysanthemum embroidery along the overlap collar. “This has red in it.”

Jee offers it to him. Sokka eyes it with skepticism. “Still a lot of blue, though.”

“And? You should wear the colors of your people. A little red is respectful enough.”

Sokka takes the garment. He unties the inner ribbon of the ru—the top—and slips the sleeves over his arms. It’s looks fetching enough, he supposes, yet it doesn’t feel special. He nibbles his lower lip before blowing through both.

The admiral crosses his arms. The piercing scrutiny of his stare makes the hairs on Sokka’s arms stand on end.

“Try leaving your hair down.”

With that, Jee walks out the door without so much as a farewell. Sokka huffs.

“Yeah. Sure. Like that will make a difference.”

He takes up his leather strap and ties his hair with three agitated loops. Yet as he passes his mirror, he hesitates. He chews on his lip. Changes his mind. A tug and he pulls out the leather, allowing his hair to hang free.

*

Zuko waits in the throne room, crown hidden in his breast pocket and pressing against the pleasant anxiety building in his chest. He hopes this goes better than some of his less than successful outings with Mai or awkward small talk with Jin. Jee had all but talked him out of climbing the ceiling.

‘Red, red, red!’ He’d shouted. ‘It’s like a murder scene in my closet!’ His friend had palmed his face before shooing him to the side. Jee’s fingers flipped through the hangers. Eventually, he produced a yuanling pao. Upon the front of the vermillion, round-collar robe leapt a golden carp over a rolling blue wave.

‘Perseverance over obstacles,’ Jee had mused, pressing the clothing into Zuko’s arms. ‘Don’t panic. You don’t need to try as hard as you think.’

He looks down on the leaping fish now, thinking of Uncle’s proverbs, and picks at nonexistent loose threads. When there’s nothing left to fuss over, Zuko rocks on the balls of his feet, takes a deep breath, and blows out slowly. The surrounding excess of pillars puts him in the mind of being ten years-old, waiting for his turn to impress Grandfather Azulon.

It’s a terrible memory. The throne room must become a happier place. It must reflect the Fire Nation’s new values. It should be open, warm, and welcoming. Suddenly, he remembers Suki’s letter about the Peace Festival, and makes a note to reach out to Toph before the end of the year. The throne room will entertain guests from all over the world. He will make sure of it.

One of the giant floor-to-ceiling doors creaks open. Zuko pulls his shoulders back and straightens his posture. Sokka edges in, uncommonly shy, his chin-length hair swaying about his face.

Zuko gasps. He’d seen Sokka’s hair down once before, but he had been too busy fighting his sister upon crashing airships to pay much attention. His friend looks softer this way. Pretty.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

“I like your—” they say together, pointing to one another’s dress. The high ceilings echo their laugh.

“Ready to go?”

Sokka brushes his hair behind his ear. “Yup! Ready to paint the town blue—red, uh both.”

Grinning, Zuko leads the way behind the throne and taps three times on a tile with his foot. The tile slides in and reveals a flight of stairs lit with sconces. Zuko climbs down a few steps. He turns and, with no small amount of faith, holds out a hand for Sokka to take. Sokka gazes at this open palm. Slides his hand into his. Their fingers lace.

Zuko’s heart bunny-hops against its ribcage. He smiles hard and wide, unable to contain himself.

They wind through the warren, idly chatting about nothing of import, until they arrive at a ladder leading to a hatch. They climb up and push the hatch open. Incandescent light and the indiscernible mumblings of a happy crowd pour in. Together they rise into an alley within which hang zigzagging strings of paper lanterns that swing with golden tassels.

Today is a day of rest for Zuko’s people. They make merry by gathering around food stands selling treats sweet and savory or buying drinks at distinguished watering holes supplying the finest spirits. Caldera is posh, and their entertainment district is no different. Zuko smiles as Sokka’s eyes light up at the many gilded stores selling boots, bags, knives, and jewelry.

“So … I have a plan.”

“You have a plan?”

“Yup.”

Intrigued, Sokka tilts his hip and lays his hand on it. “Walk me through it.”

“Tonight, we’re going to have omakase for dinner.”

“Oma … ?”

“Omakase. It means chef’s choice. The chef will serve us raw fish however he likes, and he will keep serving us until we tell him to stop.”

The cocky look on Sokka’s face wavers. “Go on.”

“We’re gonna visit my friend’s smith shop. She’s working on a whole bunch of projects designed by this really gifted inventor. The world has never seen things like this before. I thought you’d might like to be the first to see them.”

His throat bobs. “And then?”

“We’re gonna go shopping,” Zuko declares. “You can pick out whatever you want. My treat.”

Sokka’s eyes not only glow but grow round with wonder. “Are you serious?”

“I’m serious.”

“Are we committed to a certain order?”

“No, that’s your job,” Zuko laughs. He pokes his chest then at himself. “You’re logistics guy. I’m the idea guy. So what’s it gonna be, logistics guy? What do you want to do first?”

His friend stares at him, a certain energy building within. His hands ball into fists. His feet drum against the ground. He squeals. Zuko chuckles as Sokka grabs his wrist and they run through the square.

The square thrums with the noise and colors of life. Young children dash to and fro about them with steamers and dragons flying in their wake. Couples walk arm-in-arm with tanghulu in their hands, stopping short as they pass. Families gather in clusters beneath burning streetlights saying hello, saying goodbye, saying I can’t wait to see you again. People stare at them. This is new, after all, to show affection like this with another man out in the open. But eventually they look away. They move on.

The air smells of curiously of innocence. Bubbles. Sugary things. The pinch of copper that smokes from lit sparklers.

And as they run, Zuko’s feet float off the paved path. Desire burns. It ignites. It smolders. Now it kindles gently, so tender, as Sokka glances over his shoulder with golden lights reflecting in his blue, blue eyes.

*

They buzz from store to store, the stack of boxes and bags growing in both of their hands. In front of mirrors, they try on different things, making fun of so-called ‘high fashion’ and shocking offended sellers with pouches of Zuko’s gold.

It’s when they come upon jewelry that Sokka slows down. Aside from the priceless bead that Zuko had gifted upon his hair, he’s never owned anything extravagant. His eyes linger on a silver earring from which drops a single red stone.

He flits about the store, looking at less expensive items, but he keeps returning to the earring like a butterfly-bee to a flower.

“Do you like that?”

“My ears aren’t even pierced.”

“We can get that done, too, if you want.”

Sokka’s eyes dart to their purchases. “I-I don’t want to take advantage of you. You’ve been incredibly generous all night.”

Zuko gazes at him. There it is again: that fleeting look. “It’s a special night.” His line of sight moves to the shop keeper. “Excuse me? Can we look at this?”

The shop keeper smiles and reaches for the earring beneath the glass case. “Now, this might look like silver, but it’s actually white gold. The stone is exquisite: pyrope. It means ‘fire eye’. A member of the garnet family.”

His friend picks up the earring from its velvet bed. He stands behind Sokka, nearly chest to back, and holds it up to his ear.

Sokka swallows. He can feel Zuko’s breath against his neck. His other hand rests on his shoulder, holding him close. The earring glimmers in the light. Its line of cool metal hangs down before ending with what could be a drop of blood from Zuko’s finger. The world feels like it’s shrinking. Caldera, the square, and the store all disappear. Sokka feels lightheaded, drunk.

“It looks beautiful on you,” Zuko whispers.

Then his friend pulls away. The air releases. Zuko pays for the earring and the shop keeper packages it in a box meant to be given to lovers. He points in the distance—something about a piercer—and the next thing Sokka knows he’s holding Zuko’s hand as an artisan lances his left earlobe.

*

They have dinner next. The course begins with simple yet delicate flavors before increasing in depth and complexity. Yellowtail. Salmon. Tuna belly. Mackerel. Amberjack. Sea Bass. Octopus. Squid. Cuttlefish. Red Snapper. Sweet shrimp. Snow Crab. Eel. Herring roe. Clam. Scallop. Sea urchin. All cut with precision and laid on rice so tartly sweet it glistens with vinegar and sugar.

He covers his face with his hands. “I can’t!” Sokka cries. “I’m so full, I can’t!”

Zuko leans against the backrest of his floor cushion. The jerk arches his brow at him while calmly sipping his sake. “That’s it? You’re done?”

“What, like you can keep going?”

“Maybe.”

“No. Uh-uh. Nope. Nope.” He throws out his arms, crossing them and uncrossing them like scissors. “Not gonna fall for that. I know when I’m beat.”

His friend sets his napkin on the low table and calls for the bill. “Let’s walk it off, champ.”

“Don’t call me champ.”

With the infuriating grace of Aang’s lemur, Zuko rises from his seated position on the floor. He offers both hands and Sokka takes them. “Would you prefer chump?” Zuko teases as he pulls him up.

Sokka laughs. “Shut up!”

*

Aki’s smith shop stands across the jewelry district, next to competitors of her trade who sell swords, shields, and the like. The main work area is open-air with a roof to shelter from the worst of the elements. Zuko knocks on one of the wooden bearing posts. Behind the forge, Aki’s head pops up. She lifts her welding mask. Covered in soot and grease, she smiles.

“Zuko! Sokka! It’s good to see you.”

They chat a little bit about what they’ve been up to. Aside from crafting all sorts of metalware and taking commissions, Aki engineers passion projects on the side. She tells them the old crew still meets for Music Night, once a month on the full moon. With a wink, she needles Zuko to join them.

“I thought you played?”

“Used to play. Don’t have the time. Plus the tsungi horn isn’t exactly the easiest instrument to carry around.”

“You definitely have the lungs for it,” Sokka jokes.

Zuko slaps him on the back.

“Ow! Hey—"

He gives his friend a half-annoyed, half-amused look. In truth he tries to mask his anticipation. Everything has gone well so far. Yet this particular part of the evening is more personal to Sokka than all the rest. Zuko worries he may have presumed too much.

“It’s ready, right Aki? The box?”

Sokka looks between them. “Box? What box?”

“Ah, yes,” Aki smirks. “Follow me.”

She takes them out of the work area and into the shop proper. It’s a small space cluttered with product ranging from weapons to vehicle parts to cookware and everything else under the sun that can be forged from metal. It occurs to Zuko that he should put Aki in touch with Toph, another thing to add to his correspondence.

Behind the sales desk, Aki bends down to retrieve something locked up in the cabinet below. She rummages and curses. Her head of short, unevenly cut hair pops up again, and she presents a curious contraption made of wood and brass. On one side of a box, a tube with a lens pokes out, not dissimilar to the first two inches of a telescope.

Sokka’s forehead creases. A hint of recognition crosses his expression. “That looks like …”

Aki flips open a brass hinge. The wooden ends of the box pop open. Between them stretches a length of leather that unfolds like an accordion.

“Remember when you were stuck in the infirmary with Jee?” Zuko asks. “Broken leg and broken arm?”

Bending, Sokka inspects the device on the table for a closer look. “… I drew something like this. It would show you what your insides would like …”

Aki chuckles and runs a dirty hand through her bangs. “Uh, we haven’t made it that far yet, but this would capture portraits. You had a second design just for that. You called it—”

“—A photography box,” his friend finishes. He peers through the eyepiece. “Light travels in straight lines. If it passes through a small opening, like a hole, it naturally projects flipped images onto a flat surface.”

A pause. Sokka turns to him. “You said, ‘gifted inventor’. You were … You were talking about me?”

“You idiot,” Zuko smirks. “Of course, I was talking about you.”

The bewildered expression on his friend’s face transforms, a closed flower in bloom. Sokka has many smiles. Huge. Silly. Laughing. Sardonic. Sentimental. This one is embarrassed. It looks lovely on him.

He watches as Sokka appreciates every angle of the photography box. He sees his fingers twitch, itching to touch. Aki picks it up and hands it to him. ‘You’re the inventor, after all!’ Upon receiving it, his eyes harden with concentration. There’s a fire in them, too, a passionate curiosity. A smile creeps onto Sokka’s lips as he holds the viewer to his eye and scans about the room for interesting subjects.  Zuko hangs back, allowing Sokka and Aki to share notes, talk shop, experiment.

He loves the way Sokka loves everything. Like a magpie-jay, he’s enamored with shiny objects, not just luxuries but clever, purposeful things, too. And he’s observant, always learning, hoarding information the way he hoards food. Zuko loves Sokka, and Sokka is easy to love. He’s smart and brave, yet humble. He’s innovative and sensible if a bit hard-headed. He can be lazy despite his work ethic, exaggerating and blunt. But he’s kind and loyal and funny and …

And.

“I haven’t figured out how to best get this to work at night,” Aki comments.

“Not enough exposure,” Sokka replies. “You’d need to bring more light onto the subject instantly. Like a flash of lightning.”

“Hm …”

“What materials are you using to capture the images? Did the plate with silver iodide work?”     

“It did. I fixed the picture with salt solution in a dark room. Came out sharp, but the details didn’t hold. Looked like a charcoal drawing of shadows. You could tell what you’re looking at though.”

“Maybe we can play around with other chemicals. There’s a talented mechanist in Earth Kingdom who invented the hot air balloon and created the submarine I designed. I’ll reach out to Teo. Get some suggestions! Can I see the pictures you took?”

“Of course! Technically, they’re your photos.”

Sokka raises both hands. “Hey. You’re the engineer. My ideas are daydreams without you.”

“Guess together we make one brain!”

The two talk excitedly, late into the night. Zuko is happy to take up a stool and listen.

*

By the time they leave Aki’s, it is well past midnight. Families have cleared the square, leaving only adults without children to continue in their revelry. Sokka looks down on the photography box in his hands. Zuko is close behind, carrying all their purchases despite his insistence to help. When they draw near the hatch in the alley, Sokka stops under an oil-lit streetlight.

Humming-moths bump against the glass casing of the lamp. He looks up at them and their devotion to things that burn brightly.

“I hope you had a good time.”

He turns and catches Zuko setting down their things for a moment. Sokka carefully deposits the photography box with the earring, the boots, Zuko’s thoughtfulness, his magnanimity, and everything else.

“I did.” Sokka looks down at his hands, his fingers now fiddling with nothing between them. “It was … Amazing.”

*

Zuko takes a breath and with it, a step closer. His hand slides under a curtain of brown hair, finds the jaw hidden there, and cups. Sokka of the Souther Water Tribe looks up at him. His eyes, like the shore waters of Jee’s island, are clear and bright. Their pupils, however, have expanded, turning the sea around them dark.

“Then, I hope that means you’d like to do it again?” He tries. “Maybe, even, all the time?”

When Sokka stares at him, he doesn’t break contact. It’s easy to tell when his friend is thinking carefully. Sokka’s throat works when he decides. He asks, “What are you saying Zuko?”

He knows. They both know now. The knowledge gives Zuko the last push he needs.

“I’m saying … I’m saying that I like you. Have been, for a while now. And if you like me too, then maybe—”

Sokka doesn’t let him finish. He closes the distance between them. Their lips touch, dry but soft, tasting faintly of dragon beard candy. He sucks in with surprise, and Sokka follows the air path. The kiss turns wet and pressing. A brush of tongues. Warm. Smooth. Tender. There’s no sensation like it. They both shiver as they melt into one another.

Zuko’s arms move of their own volition. This is a soft tug-o-war, their own little game of give and take. But now, the thing that was missing fits perfectly, right here between them.  

When they pull back, it feels too soon. So they kiss again and again—more quickly, more chastely—in little blinks that reminds Zuko of dragon-fireflies in a jar.

Chapter Text

They are in love. Laced hands. Peppered kisses. Quick glances. Laughter, laughter, laughter. They are in love and together, and it shows.

Jee is no stranger to envy. It has plagued him for much of his life, and this circumstance is no different. Yet unlike the youthful, naïve longings for money, esteem, and prestige, the hunger for affection is primal. Taiki once told him that pain drives survival. Burns teach you to avoid fire. Cuts teach you to take care around sharp, pointy things. Poisons teach you what to eat and what not to.

This sort of pain does not inspire avoidance. Quite the opposite. It seeks out. It reaches. In some ways it is worse. Running away from what is dangerous is easy. Running straight into the fire is something else.

The ache strikes deepest when Jee is alone. His house, with its empty kitchen and empty bedroom, its empty garden and empty bath, suddenly feels like a curse hanging around his neck, a dead albatross. Why did he buy it? Perhaps his heart had known all along whom he wanted for his port (To hold. To kiss.), but his mind had been too busy crying no, no, no. (You’re a fool.)

He finds himself working long hours to avoid the silence waiting for him at the end of the day. Despite his protests, Zuko insists on keeping Jee’s palace quarters available even when he doesn’t need them. Staying the night becomes tempting. There are more bodies in the palace and thus more noise to fill the empty spaces. But the sight of Sokka and Zuko giggling before their door snicks shut causes the traditional pain. For his own sake Jee must step aside. Escape it.

Which is why, Jee snorts into his tea, he finds it deeply amusing to find himself sitting at their balcony, idly trading moves across Zuko’s pai sho board.

He must have been born with a penchant for punishment.

Picking up his boat tile, Jee moves it into the white lily tile’s position on the board, then moves the lily two spaces vertically and two spaces horizontally, blocking Zuko’s chrysanthemum harmony. Zuko reclines his cheek against his fist.

“Damn it.”

“Take your time, Sir.”

“Don’t get cocky, Lieutenant.”

Despite his words, Zuko refills Jee’s tea. Their fingers brush as Jee accepts his piping cup. The touch is brief, but it pulls at his insides. To be in his prince’s company staves famine just as much as it exacerbates it.

“Any plans for your day of rest?” Jee inquires.

“There’s a new show opening at the theater tomorrow night,” Zuko beams. “Sokka got us tickets. I’m kinda surprised. The storyline leans more dramatic; usually, he prefers comedy.”

“He takes your tastes into account. That’s good.” He peers at the leaves sinking to the bottom of his cup. “It sounds like things are going well between the two of you.”

Zuko blushes as he places a wheel tile, rotating all adjacent tiles one space and knocking Jee’s white jade off the board.

“It is. To be honest, I never expected to be here. I thought he and Suki would marry one day. But then again, I once thought the same thing about me and Mai.”

“Best laid plans …”

“Exactly. Sokka keeps saying ‘life is weird.’ I think he’s right. Who’d’ve thought the kid who knocked me with a boomerang would get my attention?”

“People change. They grow,” Jee murmurs. “You did a lot of that. So did he.” He holds up a white lotus. “Sometimes we transform in ways that allow us to fit one another when the moment is right. It’s why life is so messy. Perhaps fortuitous, too.”

Zuko’s eyes follow the white lotus’s placement on the board. Jee’s move rebirths a disharmony of lilies and jasmine into a harmony.

“What about you? Any plans tomorrow?”

“It’s the full moon. Gonna be at The Lucky Hook.” Lifting his teacup, Jee masks one kind of swallow for another. “You and Sokka are welcome to join us. We have dinner and drinks before sunset. If you leave early, there should be enough time after to make it to the theater.”

He watches Zuko, stomach braced for the inevitable refusal. He doesn’t know why he keeps asking, but everyone else brings their loved ones. And so, he asks him and asks him because ...

(You’re my loved one.)

“Thank you for the invitation,” Zuko replies, “but I’m afraid I need to preemptively bow out.”

Jee sets down his teacup and focuses on the board. “Oh?”

“I get the feeling the crew is gonna rib me into playing the tsungi horn,” Zuko cringes. He stares at his hands. “I know it’s ridiculous, but Azula used to make fun of me for it. Said it’s a waste of time and that I looked like a stupid blowfish.” He puffs out his cheeks to prove the point. “Hard to shake her voice in my head.”

He frowns. “Do you still believe that?”

“Yes and no. I’m more worried about how I use my time. I realize this is irrational but spending it with Sokka instead of focusing on governance and my sister … it feels selfish.”

His hand reaches out, seeking him, because there is a sadness in these words that Jee cannot allow. He takes his prince’s wrist. The pulse there skips in surprise.

“Zuko, you must stop thinking that way. Seeking happiness isn’t selfish, and whatever your responsibilities are to our people, you only have one life to live. You should enjoy it when you can.” Once they make eye contact, confirming that Zuko is indeed listening to him, Jee releases his hand. “Your work is difficult, time-consuming, and maddening. To succeed at it, you must have things in life that allow you to refill your inner strength. It doesn’t matter what those things are as long they make you happy.” He pauses. “Does Sokka make you happy?”

He’s met with stunned blinking. Jee waits for the answer. The answer is important to him. He knows what it is, but he must hear it.

“Yes. Of course, he does.”

“Then that’s all that matters,” he says, voice firm. “Be happy, my prince. You met him for a reason.”

Zuko continues to stare at him, his eyebrows jumping. Jee wonders if he’d said anything amiss, but the befuddled expression fades as Zuko discovers a winning move on the board.

“Looks like I have you, Lieutenant.”

Jee sighs. Truer words were never spoken.

*

The Lucky Hook Tavern sits in Fire Foundation City, tucked between the mainland and the rest of the archipelago. Its patrons are, of course, the salty kind. People who know how to enjoy a good game of snooker and a proper smoke burned from the hardest liquor. Despite all the rough-looking men and women sporting tattoos and scars alike, the tavern is no stranger to children. Rough folk have families, too, after all. That the children learn how to swear like a sailor sooner rather than later is of little consequence.

Jee rubs a cube of blue chalk over his cue tip. Blows it clean. He takes a sip from his glass of lao khao, a crude rice whisky that hits him in the chest just right. Snooker balls of various colors scatter across the table’s green felt. He puffs a stream of smoke out the corner of his mouth as he prowls around the corner, seeking the best shot.

Aki potted a red on her last turn. It’s a mere point, but her team of Shan, Cook, and Kenzou are already ahead. The cue ball had come to rest touching a blue, five points. Damn thing is at a bad angle. Jee lays his cue against the wooden side rail. Leans to line-up his shot. Blue isn’t likely to pot, but he can get it to knock the pink and yellow sitting side-by-side. Getting the pink to sink in the corner pocket would be ideal, six points.

He takes his shot. The cue slides between his raised thumb and index finger. Its tip strikes the cue ball with a snap. The cue ball clacks against pink. Pink ricochets off yellow. Yellow plunks into the side pocket. Jee grunts and takes a disappointed swig.

“Flaming shit.”

“Hey, that was a hard shot, and two points is two points,” Aki chirps.

“We’re still behind you.”

Shan rolls his eyes as he screws the two halves of his cue stick together. “Relax, Lieutenant. It’s just a game.”

“Say that all you like, Shan” Taiki scoffs. “Man’s got a competitive streak worse than an ostrich-horse at the races.”

“You’re just bitter I wiped you clean at cards last month.”

Taiki wobbles on his stool, gesticulating with enough enthusiasm to spill alcohol over the rim of his tankard. “You see? He’s heartless, I tell you. Heartless! Robbin’ an old man with arthritis and stigmatism!”

Jee laughs. “Don’t cry.” His chin lifts to the game they’re playing. “You’ll win it all back at this rate.”

“I’m on your Agni-damned team, dumb ass!”

He takes a step back, feeling a bit fuzzy himself, and looks between the division of their group across the snooker table. “Oh, yeah. Huh. Forgot about that.”

Taiki swipes the back of Jee’s head, which he accepts for the long-suffering affection that it is. Jee slants against his cue stick, watching the game unfold between rounds of refills and oily tavern food that’s no good for his heart. With the way they drink, they never make it to the music portion of the evening sober. But there’s a special bond that comes with singing off-key. Something intimate about being fools together.

Out one of the smudged windows, the sun has fully set. Zuko’s play will be starting soon. Jee glances at Donghai. His second wife—Purnama—perches on his lap. She whispers coy things into his ear. His old bosun blushes on top of his drunken glow. With a giggle, Purnama pulls Donghai’s sailor’s cap over his eyes. She kisses him sweetly on the nose, on the lips.

They look good together. Jee is happy for them. If he sighs, well, the tavern is loud and no one can hear him.

“That could be you, you know,” Cook mutters at his shoulder. Jee closes his eyes and leans his forehead against his cue-gripping fist.

“Not my type.”

“Pfft. Don’t you hate it when people dodge by playin’ stupid? Don’t do that. You hate—”

“—Hypocrisy. Yeah. Sure.”

“There’s a big ol’ world out there,” Cook goes on. “You’ve seen it, but you’ve barely lived in it.” He nods at Qianfan, who lifts his grandson onto the foot rail of the snooker table and shows him how to hold a cue stick between his little hands. “Lots of happiness to be had.”

“Who said I wasn’t happy?”

It’s a careless thing to say. Cook levels him with an unimpressed look. “’Member what I said? About havin’ a sense for people in the mess? Well, nothing’s easier to spot than a lovelorn sailor.”

“Oh, great.” Jee finishes the rest of his drink in one go.

“You should date around, Lieutenant. Nothin’ to stop you.”

Cook takes his leave when Qianfan waves him over for his turn at the table. Jee lets the hubbub wash over him and relaxes into warm browns and reds of the tavern walls. It is a big world. Odds are good there’s someone out there who’d fit against him just fine. He thinks about his prince and decides that as long as Zuko’s safe, happy, and well, he can be all those things, too. He only needs to try.

*

Zuko unbuckles Sokka’s belt, sliding it out of its loops in one smooth movement. Sokka laughs into his mouth as they kiss and kiss. Their feet stumble backwards from the living area to Zuko’s bedroom. The candles snap to life with a wave of Zuko’s hand. The light does nothing to stop them from hitting the bed’s mattress and tumbling into it in an awkward tangle.

He presses his nose into Sokka’s neck. Inhales his scent. Memorizes it: sea air, leather, grass. He kisses there and the spot just under his lover’s chin. His fingers tug at the cord tying Sokka’s hair, and that hair comes down on either side of them, tickling Zuko’s cheeks.

They have made each other arch off beds and chairs and floors with the deep trill of pleasure. Zuko knows how Sokka’s mouth feels on his skin. How his tongue glides over all the most sensitive places, and how his hands wrap around him in painful want. But he has yet to know what it is like to have him in his body, touching him the way he wants him.

Zuko presses his palm against Sokka’s bare chest. “I need to tell you something.”

“Uh oh,” Sokka teases, “that’s your serious voice.”

“Sokka.”

“I’m listening.”

He loves the way Sokka looks at him, even when they’re not being playful. Eyes soft but heavy, tracking every movement. On his face: lines of worry, lines of mirth. All stretched to the fullest but somehow relaxed, too. The way his chest moves. The heart below drumming a specific beat. A certain change in breathing, just for him.

Sokka waits patiently. Zuko knows he can tell him anything. Always has.

Yet there are certain things that feel embarrassing regardless. Zuko inhales, shoring up his courage, “This might surprise you … But I’ve never had sex all the way.”

A blink but otherwise no reaction.

“Oh.” The cloudy look with drunken grin stays a moment longer. Zuko watches in amusement as the information he’s conveyed sinks in. His friend springs to attention. “Wait!” He holds up his palm as if to physically stop him. “Wait, wait, wait... You’ve never had sex before? You? The Fire Lord? The most eligible bachelor in, like, the world?”

Zuko’s eyes roll. “I wouldn’t say most eligible. Pretty sure at least half of humanity would rather murder me in my sleep or marry an ox-cow.” He rolls onto his side, resting on his elbow. “And in case you haven’t noticed, being the Fire Lord is a full-time job.”

Sokka’s eyes move up and down his body as if he’s out of his mind. “B-but … You’re twenty-four! And you were with Mai! For years!”

“So? Not everyone is into sex, you know.”

“Sure. Fine. But you two were pretty big on the PDA.”

“PDA?”

“Public Displays of Affection? Come on, buddy. Keep up!”

“I’m trying!” Zuko bursts. He pushes off his elbow and onto his back, resting his wrists over his forehead. He closes his eyes. “I’ve always been a little behind. Academics. Martial arts. Firebending. Making friends. Sex, too. Late bloomer, Uncle, says.”

“Please, let’s not talk about your uncle while in bed, half-naked.” Sokka pinches his nose bridge. “Okay, well, odds and probability, I guess. If there are bunch of people who love sex, then there’s a pretty good chance there’s a bunch of people who don’t. I can wrap my head around that.”

“Good.”

“And you were okay with it? You never felt, you know … felt like you were missing out on something?”

“Obviously, or we wouldn’t have been together that long.”

“So, you have no experience. None?”

“You mean apart from what we’ve been doing?” Zuko shrugs. “Eh. I wouldn’t say that. I kinda fooled around a bit when I was a refugee in Ba Sing Se.”

“Okay. That’s … good. Long dry spell, but—hang on!” Zuko tries not to laugh as Sokka has another epiphany. “Who in Ba Sing Se? Was it someone I knew?”

He cringes. “If I tell you, I will never hear the end of it.”

“Well, now I gotta know.” His friend collapses beside him, giddy with curiosity. If Zuko were wearing clothes, Sokka would be clutching his cross-collar and shaking him. In lieu of that, he paws at his chest. It would be arousing if it weren’t so annoying. “Come on, tell me! Tell me, tell me, tell me!”

It’s his turn to pinch his nose bridge. “Will you promise to not shout? The whole palace doesn’t need to know.”

Sokka pantomimes sealing his lips, locking them, and throwing away the key. Zuko doubts this promise will be kept for more than two seconds.

“Jet.”

“JET!”

He knew it. He absolutely knew it. Yet because he knew, Zuko isn’t really mad at him. He makes a show of indignity. For principal’s sake. “Sokka!”

To his credit, Sokka lowers his voice to a whispering hiss. “Jet? Seriously? Zuko, your taste in men concerns me!”

“Wouldn’t you be included in that?”

“Yes! And I don’t like the implications!”

Sokka crosses his arms and contemplates the ceiling with a look that might be despair. With a huff, Zuko rolls over and crawls on top of him, straddling his legs on either side of his waist.

“It was a long time ago, and I was lonely.” He takes Sokka’s hand and kisses his palm. “So are we gonna do this or not?”

His lover laces their fingers together, then he flips them over with a pull to Zuko’s arm and a gentle push against his hip. Zuko follows Sokka’s lead on instinct. Years of sparring together have made reading physical cues second nature. Push and pull. Lead and follow. Love might burn like Agni, but it moves like Tui and La.

Zuko bangs his head against the bed’s wooden headboard.

Love also hurts like an avalanche of Toph’s rocks.

“Ow.”

“Sorry. Miscalculated.”

“No shit.”

Sokka kisses the top of Zuko’s head. His hand crawls up the back of his neck and cups his scalp. The fingers there rub slowly, mussing Zuko’s hair. In turn, he kisses Sokka’s bare sternum. Skates his hands along his ribs.

Zuko slides down the mattress to nip and lick a wet trail down Sokka’s stomach, stopping once he reaches the drawstring of his pants. His teeth pull on the string, untying it, and once the waistband is loose, Zuko pushes it down Sokka’s thighs and off his feet.

His lover’s cock strains toward him. The narrow slit on its head dews white. Zuko kisses the head. Licks it. Takes it into his mouth to suck gently at salt and desire. As Sokka hardens against his tongue, Zuko hums with pleasure, touching himself through his own pants.

“Mm …” Sokka’s arms begin to shake as he holds himself above him. “… If you keep going, you’re gonna make me come.”

He pulls his mouth away but spares a moment to pet the velvety skin hanging below his lover’s cock. Then he reaches behind. Presses his thumb against the sensitive spot there, just before Sokka’s own entrance.

“Oh …” Sokka closes his eyes. Zuko presses a little harder. “… Oh … Do you still want me to …”

“Yes,” Zuko gasps. His fingers ghost over his lover’s little hole, touching him there the way he’d like to be touched. When Sokka shivers, he shivers, too. Zuko licks his lips. Thirsty. Hungry. Aching. Everything trembles with anticipation. His breath hitches. “Yes. Right now. Please.”  

Sokka follows Zuko’s path downward, leaving small bites of his own. He pauses at one of his nipples, and Zuko sighs as his lover laves his tongue across it. The air feels cold when Sokka pulls away, but the heat returns to the dip of Zuko’s naval.

He buries his hands in Sokka’s hair. The laziness with which they touch one another is a special indulgence. He forgets that he is Fire Lord. That he has power and responsibility and all the worries that come with each. When they’re together like this, he can concentrate on one wonderful thing, and that is Sokka, Sokka, Sokka.

His lover kneels then hooks his thumbs under the band of Zuko’s pants. Zuko lifts his hips, allowing them to be pulled off him with little fuss.

The pants drop on the floor. Sokka pulls open the drawer in their nightstand and retrieves a bottle of oil. He coats his hand generously, rotating the liquid between his fingers a few times to warm it. Zuko moans as that hand wraps around him and strokes until his moans turn into whines.

Hitching Zuko’s knees over his shoulders, Sokka continues stroking him as he ducks below. His lips kiss his balls. His tongue wets his entrance. His nose nuzzles against the inside of his thigh and breathes him in.

Sex can be a funny thing. Zuko thinks he should feel shy, having Sokka press his face in places that most might think of as filthy. But he doesn’t. He welcomes the touch. Wants it. Hopes he gets the chance to return the love in kind.

He feels a finger nudge at his entrance. It circles teasingly, applying just enough pressure to make Zuko’s body crave more. When the finger slides in, it slides in easily. The second it hooks up, however, Zuko keens.

“Oh …”

His insides, they’re tightening, going round and round into a golden coil ready to be released. Sokka touches him there again. And again. The rhythm matches Zuko’s heartbeat. Slow, at first, then faster and faster still. Zuko pushes down against him.

(Need you. Want you. More.)

The finger slides out, replaced by a thicker thumb. Sokka can’t reach that special place inside him, but he presses in the opposite direction, toward his spine, opening Zuko up while making him hungrier. Zuko’s cock slides between them, hot, heavy, and leaking.

“Sokka … I want it.”

His lover comes up to kiss him deeply. Their mouths open, tongues meeting, the taste of sweat and musk sweet on Sokka’s lips.

He gasps as Sokka pushes in. It doesn’t hurt, but the pressure—the stretch—is shocking. Heat roars to Zuko’s chest and face. He presses his forehead against Sokka’s neck, finding safety there.

Sokka whispers, “… okay?”

Zuko nods. His exhale quakes. “Mm. Give me a minute.”

Kisses on his cheeks, his nose, his lips. He feels Sokka’s fingers card through his hair before trailing down the back of his neck, to the small of his back, and up again, around his hip. The touches are gentle but firm. Yielding. Demanding. Both. Zuko chases after Sokka’s mouth. Catching it, he brings them under with an intoxicating kiss. Their breaths merge. Their bodies merge. A white-hot need replaces the shock.

He rocks against Sokka’s cock. Sokka understands. He begins to thrust. His touches inside of him are much like the touches outside. Slow and tender, yet smoldering, gaining in force and abandon as the room around them goes blurry around the edges. Zuko throws back his neck as Sokka hits him there, that special place, again and again, in a rhythm that matches his heartbeat.

Sokka reaches down. Rubs the pad of his thumb across the head of Zuko’s weeping cock.

Zuko cries out as his whole body seizes. His toes curl. His legs squeeze. His arms crush Sokka against him so ruthlessly he worries neither of them can breathe.

He senses rather than sees or hears when Sokka comes after him. The snap of his hips turns erratic. His spine convulses. With a long moan of release, Sokka’s collapses into Zuko’s embrace. Their chests stick together, damp with sweat and semen. Breath puffs warm against the side of Zuko’s neck. The room smells like the two of them. A little bit bitter. A little bit sweet.

Zuko trembles, the hairs on his skin rising.

(To be made love to, so this is what it is.)

*

Every place has its rhythm. Villages, markets, factories, ships—where people bustle with work to do, there is a thrum of highs and lows. The palace is no exception.

When there is time to catch his breath, Sokka heads to the palace library, performing research in aid of international affairs. He comes upon Jee in the cultural arts section. The admiral's elbows plunge deep in a cart full of books retrieved by the archivist. Sokka picks up a tome and reads its spine.

“‘Dancing Through the Ages’.” He flips the book open somewhere in the middle. “Wow. These steps are pretty elaborate. Thinking of taking Aki ballroom dancing?”

“This is the first year the Fire Nation will be hosting the Peace Festival,” Jee explains. “The Fire Lord aims to not only please our guests but return long-forgotten traditions.”

Sokka returns the book into the cart. “Fun ones, I hope?”

“There will be no decapitation and head-rolling in the halls, I assure you.”

He snickers. Jee’s glances at him but otherwise doesn’t move.

“You must be good at card games,” Sokka blurts. The admiral, true to form, arches one brow at him. “You have, like, three expressions,” he elaborates, because once he starts, his mouth does not know when to stop. Sokka raises his hand, palm facing his face, and swipes it from his right ear to his left. He flattens his features into a dull look. “Unimpressed.” He slides his hand again, left to right. His left eyebrow twitches. “Annoyed.” And a third time; he scowls. “Pissed.” His hand falls to his side. “That’s two less expressions than Mai.”

“She has two more?”

“Pleased and amused. It’s subtle. You can barely tell the difference, but you can see it in how the little smile reaches her eyes.”

“Hm. Something to aspire to, then.”

A snort escapes him. He can appreciate Jee’s dry sense of humor. “Don’t hurt yourself.”

For a second, Sokka worries he has crossed a line, but to his surprise, a smirk tugs at the corner of the older man’s lips.

“Tui and La, you’re amused.”

“Am I?” Jee’s face blanks in an instant. Sokka cannot parse what he’s thinking or feeling at all. He shakes his head.

“That’s scary, man.” Crossing his arms, he leans against the table Jee has spread open books across. “Hey. By any chance, did you have a lunch meeting with Zuko today?”

“No. I was an in a session with the Commissioner of Agriculture.”

“Shit. I was in a different meeting, too. Guess he didn’t eat, then.”

Jee frowns. The admiral might never admit it, but Sokka’s caught onto the fact he’s a man of action rather than words, and what actions he’s seen are quietly considerate. It’s easy to miss if one doesn’t pay attention, but it’s there: in the silent way Jee helps without being asked. In the way he never says ‘no’ when he is. 

“I’ve asked Shufen to deliver food regardless of what the Fire Lord is doing,” the admiral bites out. “I told her to leave it in the room even if he refuses.”

Sokka drops his head. Shakes it. “No good: You need to make her stand there and give him the stink-eye until he takes a bite.”

“He’s twenty-four. He can feed himself.”

“Not if he thinks he has something more important to do.” Sokka lifts his head again, this time tilting it all the way back as if he can divine Zuko’s lack of self-preservation from the ceiling. “This is Zuko we’re talking about. Everything is more important than, you know, basic survival.”

Jee palms his face. “I can’t believe I have to spoon-feed him.”

“I can't believe I have to drag him to bed before the sun comes up. Guy’s like a raccoon-cat with his nails in the carpet.” With a thumb, Sokka opens the leather folio he has tucked under his arm. Clipped to one side lays a neatly drawn chart. He taps it with the end of his calligraphy brush. “Swap schedules? I know yours; you know mine? We can loop-in Ty Lee if both of us don’t overlap with Zuko whenever it’s meal time. Give him the old …"  

Sokka points two fingers at his eyes, then twists his wrist and points those same fingers at Jee’s, then back at his own eyes again. Nodding, Jee reaches for his own folio and retrieves his agenda for the next week. Their heads bend over the table, copying dates and times and circling gaps. After an hour of this, Jee rises from his hunched position. Rubs a new crick in his shoulder with a wince.

“Ugh.”

“Pain in the ass, right?”

“Sometimes I want to shake him.”

Sokka laughs. “Yeah. He brings that out in a lot of us.”

The admiral smiles at him. His hand drops on his shoulder and squeezes briefly. “Thank you for thinking of this. It’s a good idea.”

Between the two of them, Sokka thinks, the Fire Lord ought to live through the century. Spirits know the world needs him to. As Jee’s hand falls away, it strikes Sokka that he actually likes him. Given his generation, he had worried what the man thought of his relationship with Zuko, but he’d always addressed them with deference. The man is also steady and resistant to rash decisions, qualities both he and Zuko need when the absurdity of politics pops their tempers. He hopes they can be friends.

Jee’s fingers slide behind the silk cross-collar of his zhiduo and withdraws a small key ring. Two identical keys hang from it. The admiral removes one, offering it to him.

“What’s this?”

“The key to the liquor cabinet in the palace kitchens.” He taps the air with the key once for emphasis. “Welcome to my ‘Strangling Prevention Program’.”

Sokka blinks as he takes the unspoken gift.

Maybe they’ve been friends all along.

*

Jee settles into an unspoken partnership with Sokka of the Southern Water Tribe. On the evenings of their second day of rest, just before the beginning of a new week of labor, they meet in Sokka’s office. There, they trade schedules, hearsay, and hard-won political tricks of experience.

The young man is brilliant. Brighter and more innovative than any other man Jee has met in his life. The swiftness with which Zuko’s lover can assess any problem and solve it leaves him astounded. That Sokka’s self-deprecating humor and accident-prone habits lead most to underestimating him only works to his advantage.

And he is good man. Funny, energetic, impassioned. In some ways, it is difficult knowing Sokka suits Zuko beautifully. In others, Jee admits, it is a relief that his prince has someone deserving, that they are mutually well-loved.

Where do men like him go to find one another? Jee has no idea. His prior dalliances were limited to less than savory resources. He’d ask around, but he doesn’t know who to ask. In the end, Jee decides to stop by a nice bar in Harbor City, the kind of place where ambitious gentlemen go to network professionally or otherwise. ‘The Old Well’, it’s called. Not the most original name he’s heard of, but at least it’s not pretentious.

He takes a seat at the counter and orders a glass of baijiu. Groups of men in nice clothes spread around the establishment like raven-crows gathering around carrion. They keep voices their voices politely low—save for the occasional hearty chuckle—doubtlessly exchanging work gossip and calling it ‘news’. 

A new patron enters with his coat folded over his forearm. He is tall, well-groomed, and moves with the sort of exactness that brings to mind an implacable accountant. But the man smiles when his eyes and Jee’s align. He seems warm and friendly enough. With a slight bow, he asks Jee if the stool next to his is taken. It isn’t.

Jee clears his throat. “You, uh, come here often?”

Oh, Agni. Kill him now. If this is the best he can do, he’s done for.

The man raises his brows at him as if he misheard.

“I moved here recently,” Jee goes on. “Not sure where the best places to go are.”

That’s not entirely true, but it makes for safe conversation. Small talk, mostly. Weather, best places for bargains, worst places for service, upcoming public events, what they do for work, and the like. About fifteen minutes in, it’s clear to Jee that this man wouldn’t be interested. Finishing his drink, he thanks the stranger for his insight then pays the bill, feeling uncertain about striking another conversation with someone else.

*

Duty demands Zuko to visit the Foggy Swamp, north of Kyoshi Island and west of Gaoling. The venture is a five-day diplomatic affair, and the resident mosquito-gnats make no effort to hide their thirst for royal blood.

Zuko smacks the back of his neck. It’s hot, humid, and smells like damp fungus. The seventeen bug bites that mar his skin have swollen into welts the size of silver coins. He appreciates the people who live here. He’s impressed by their waterbending techniques and the resilience of their culture. But he hates the environment. As a leader among leaders, he wishes he would come to love it, but he can’t.

“Stop scratching,” Jee scolds as they return to their ship.

“But it itches!” Zuko whines.

“If you break skin, you’ll get an infection.”

“Why are you so obsessed with infections?”

“Get a fever or lose a body part, and you’ll understand why.”

He reaches for a particularly angry bite that’s warm and turning bright red on the inside of his forearm. Jee grabs his wrist.

“Hey!”

“Hold still! We’re going to the infirmary. Taiki has ointment.”

“I already used it!”

“Then use more!”

They bicker all the way to the sick bay, where Taiki slathers more green stuff over Zuko’s agitated flesh and wraps him up with bandages.

“You look like you’ve been embalmed,” Taiki quips.

Zuko gives him the finger before storming to his quarters where he can sulk. They’re going home. His lieutenant will ensure the fastest course. He can’t wait to get back to a place where the insects aren’t the size of squirrel-rabbits.

But his relief is short-lived. Four days into re-settling back into the palace, he loses focus during a court assembly meeting, feeling strange.

“Before we adjourn, Fire Lord, there is still the matter of the line of succession,” Fire Sage Hachiro reminds. “You are to be twenty-five next year. Two and five, auspicious numbers. Two for harmony, balance, and all good things coming in pairs. Five for the five elements, including spirit. This number is the symbol of our world and your reign within it. With such good fortune, it will be an ideal year for you to wed.”

The Fire Sage’s words warble in his ears. Zuko rests his elbow on the table and leans his head against his splayed palm. His hair is wet beneath his fingers. The scroll in front him goes double, the words written upon them swimming into indecipherable black lines. He squeezes his eyes shut and opens them again. It doesn’t help. He feels nauseous.

“Sir?”

Jee’s voice is soft. Zuko wishes he can lie down in it.

He can’t lie down. He’s working. The court is waiting for him to respond. His people depend on him.

Say something!

Zuko rises from his chair. Lists to one side. He opens his mouth and realizes, in horror, he needs to vomit.

“Excuse me.”

He abandons the assembly chamber without explanation. The air in the hallway hits his face, cool and fresh, a relief from the stuffiness of his meeting. He loosens his collar as he makes his way to his suite, his steps quickening as the urgency to throw up rises.

Even after all this time, he can sense Jee trailing after him, just as he did on the Wani, in the Storm. He wants to shoo him away, but his lieutenant’s presence is reassuring. If he falls down, Zuko knows Jee will catch him.

He pushes the door to his office open, walks through it to the living area, then his bedroom. He does not make it to the bath. Falling on his knees, he vomits on the carpet.

“Sir!”

Jee grabs him by the shoulders. Steadies him. He’d be embarrassed by his state, except another wave of nausea hits and squeezes his insides. His friend’s fast. The older man grabs a wastebasket, throwing it under his chin before more vomit can hit the floor. Zuko retches again. And again. The air smells sour. A fourth heave relieves him of nothing but bile.

Exhausted, he slumps onto the heels of his feet. A hand slides over his forehead.

“You’re burning up.”

Jee moves aside the wastebasket and helps him stand. The floor feels like jelly. Zuko doesn’t let that stop him.

“... Gotta get back …”

“No, you don’t.”

He’s so weak Jee holds him in place with little effort. Brown eyes dart from his face to his body. Up, down, and around so fast Zuko worries he’ll be sick again. The foul smell in the room does not help matters. There must be puke on his clothes. Despite that, Jee cups his cheek, his thumb running under his left eye.

“Don’t go anywhere,” he whispers, the heat of his breath brushing against his ear. “I’ll get Taiki. You change and rest.”

It’s sensible advice, and Jee is his advisor, isn’t he? Zuko’s eyes pinch. He rubs his nose bridge. The impulse to soldier on is there but depleted. Today is not the day to be contrary.

Zuko’s hands drop to the sash around his shenyi. With the fog his brain is in, he can’t make sense of the knot around his waist. He fumbles with it a few times before Jee’s fingers slide under his. The knot unties quickly. The sash slides away. More ribbons hide behind his cross-collar. His lieutenant reaches under there, pulling on the end of each tie until his shenyi falls open.

His eyes flutter. He shivers and sweats, feeling hot and cold at the same time. A trickle of perspiration runs from his collarbone, down the center of his chest to his belly.

The warmth of Jee’s touch drifts away. The man clears his throat before opening a few windows to let more air in. He pours a glass of water from the pitcher on the nightstand. Presses the glass to Zuko’s forehead, then into his palm.

“I’ll be right back.”

*

Jee curses himself for taking extreme liberties, but now is not the time to ruminate over what’s over and done with. He runs to the infirmary, bursting through the double-doors to find not Taiki but his apprentice, Mai. She looks at him from the surgical equipment she had been sharpening, unperturbed.

“Can I help you?”

“Where’s Taiki?”

“He’s visiting family for a week.”

“You’re covering for him?”

Mai nods once. Jee waves her over as he turns back to the doors. She grabs a medical bag and follows him out without complaint. When they return to the Fire Lord’s private suite, they find Zuko sitting half-dressed on his bed, eyes glazed and staring at the glass of water in his hands.

The woman next to Jee sighs as she sidesteps vomit both on the floor and in the wastebasket. She draws close to Zuko, laying a sharp-nailed hand over Zuko’s forehead. Watching them like this, Jee can see how they were a good couple, once upon a time. Mai is the calmer half of the equation. Pragmatic. Efficient.

“Symptoms.”

“Fever. Dizziness. Body aches,” his prince recites. “Chills and sweats. Vomiting. Fatigue.”

“When did it start?”

“I dunno. About an hour ago?”

“Knowing you, the fatigue, body aches, and dizziness started sooner than that.” Mai lights a candle with a match and brings it close to Zuko’s eyes. Their dilated pupils thankfully constrict. Again she asks, with hard-won patience: “When did they start?”

“Um …" Zuko squints in concentration. “I dunno … maybe three days ago?”

“You idiot,” Mai chides. She shakes a thermometer and shoves it under his tongue. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because he’s complete shit at taking care of himself,” Jee grunts, crossing his arms.

It’s worrying that his prince doesn’t have the energy to snark back. They wait three minutes to get a stable reading. As they wait, Zuko wilts. They help him lie back in bed, bringing the blanket up to his thighs so he might lift it and lower it as he likes. By the time the temperature reading stops rising, Zuko has fallen asleep.

Mai slips the thermometer out of his mouth. Even with her neatly trimmed fringe, Jee can see her frown.

“How high is it?”

“High. If it goes up any further, we’ll need to draw an ice bath.” Her eyes move to Zuko’s chest, which has flushed with heat. “You both traveled recently, didn’t you?”

“Yes. We were in the Foggy Swamp for about a week.”

She puts away the thermometer and pulls on a pair of gloves. With care, she lifts one of Zuko’s arms, examining it. Her gaze stops at a small puncture wound on his inner arm.

“He got bit.”

“Yes, numerous times.”

Mai continues her examination, finding more tiny scars on his neck, shoulders, and legs.

“We need to monitor him closely. As I see it, this can go three ways. One: he has a typical flu, which should resolve itself in a few days. Two: he contracted a disease through a mosquito bite. What kind of is too soon to say.”

“And three?”

“Three: he has infection affecting one of his major organs. I don’t think that’s likely. He’d be in pain if his appendix or gall bladder were inflamed. Still...” Mai withdraws a scalpel from one of her long sleeves. The blade gleams like a mirror. “I can remove it myself if it comes to that.”

Jee eyes the knife, surprised to not feel apprehension but assurance in her skill. Nevertheless, “Let’s hope it doesn’t.”

Mai tucks the knife away. “Don’t worry. I’m known for my precision, and Taiki is a good teacher. Besides, I won’t have a firm diagnosis for you until a couple of days or so pass.”

“Is there anything we should look out for?”

Her eyes narrow. “Yes.” She points to his chest. “His skin is flushed. If a rash featuring small red spots develops between days four through seven, it’s breakbone fever.”

The disease is endemic in the tropics. Jee’s known a good number of sailors who’ve survived the illness, and another bad number that didn’t.

“Breakbone can last a long time. Almost a month in some cases.”

A wash basin sits next to the water pitcher. Mai fills it. “Let’s not jump to the worst-case scenario now, Admiral.” She folds a washcloth and soaks it in the basin. “It wouldn’t do us any good.”

She is right, of course, and so he takes her advice to heart. For the next two days, they take turns tending to their Fire Lord’s needs. They press cold washcloths to his forehead, bring food and drink to his lips, wipe away sweat. The more intimate responsibilities, such as bathing, have been relegated to Zuko’s personal servants, though Jee would have not hesitated to assume this care, were it his place.

When Jee is not at his prince’s side, he is at his desk, reviewing documents Zuko would have made a final determination on. As a matter of royal tradition, with Princess Azula indisposed, General Iroh should be signing on Zuko’s behalf. Zuko, however, took great pains to avoid dragging his uncle away from the Jasmine Dragon.

Jee dabs his seal in red and gold ink.

To do this, his prince had made him procurator, should the need arise.

He presses the seal down. Blows it dry. He marvels seeing his name in such expensive ink, surrounded by powerful words that carve the Fire Nation’s future. A younger version of himself would have been elated with honor. (With Power.) But Jee does not like what it means when he must bear this responsibility.

*  

On the fourth day of Zuko’s illness, he and Mai both keep vigil. Mai makes use of Zuko’s writing desk, going through a sheaf of prescriptions in need of filling. She moves between reading Taiki’s abysmal handwriting and the bottles in her medicine bag, measuring appropriate doses into envelopes and writing the patient’s name atop them.

With the windows open, a few humming-moths find their way into Zuko’s bedroom, drawn by the lanterns and candlelight. One gets too close to the candle on the writing desk. It catches fire. Mai hisses as the humming-moth's wing crackles like burned parchment. The poor creature flutters helplessly before falling at her feet, dead as a leaf.

“Silly things,” she mutters. “I don’t know why they insist on self-immolating.”

Jee’s gaze falls onto Zuko’s prone form. “It’s in their nature.”

Something catches his eye. He leans closer. A blot of red drips out Zuko’s right nostril. Jee grabs one of the fresh washcloths from the pile on the nightstand. He dabs the blood. When he pulls the cloth away, the blotch on the fabric is larger than it should be. Jee frowns. A dark line of liquid fills the space between Zuko’s lips. With his thumb, Jee tugs gently on Zuko’s chin. There’s blood in his mouth. It stains his teeth pink.

“Mai.” His voice is hoarse. His breathing turns shallow. “He’s bleeding.”

She joins him from the other side of their fire lord’s bed. Together, they open his robe and pull it open.

A rash. It’s massive. Everywhere they look, there are red spots. On his chest, his stomach, his sternum. He’s as speckled as a bird’s plume.

Mai’s nose wrinkles. “I think he just had an accident.”

A sniff. Pungent. Warm. Profoundly human. The scent is unmistakable. Jee lowers the blanket from Zuko’s waist. His sheets are soiled. So are his clothes. He takes Zuko’s hand and folds his lifeless fingers with his, willing him to wake up with nothing but his thoughts.

“This is serious. What do we do?”

“First, we need to get him clean. The bleeding and the rash are from broken capillaries. It’s the fever’s doing. There’s isn’t much we can do to stop it.” Mai crosses her arms and tucks her hands into their long sleeves. “I can give him medicine to keep his fever under control. Other than that, all we can do is make sure his body gets what it needs to see this through. That means continuing what we’ve been doing: keeping him hydrated, keeping him fed.”

Jee laughs without humor. Hides what might be a small sob behind a cheerless gasp. “We’ve already been doing that when he’s well.”

Mai reaches for Zuko’s long hair and tucks it behind his ear.

“We?” she asks, not unkindly but pointedly.

He has been kneeling at Zuko’s side, holding his prince’s hand not like a friend but a lover. It’s when he feels Mai’s eyes burning a hole between his shoulders that he realizes someone else should be here.

(This is not my place.)

Looking away, he squeezes Zuko’s fingers, lets him go, and rises.

“Take care of him. I will get Ambassador Sokka.”

*

The wind gusts, flapping one corner of Sokka’s latest schematic of a hospital. He sets down his mug of rhododendron tea. The corner holds still beneath its weight.

Before him, two cranes loaned from the Earth Kingdom balance iron beams on their hook blocks. The Southern Water Tribe hadn’t been happy about the introduction of mass-produced metal in their architecture, but Sokka had managed to convince his father, who then managed to convince their people, that building a hospital resistant to collapse was critical for the safety of the most vulnerable among them.

The iron beams would be hidden by ice, of course, but knowing they were using building materials and construction techniques favored by the Fire Nation left a bad taste in the mouths of many.

Sokka sighs. He’d hoped they’d made enough progress in nurturing a positive relationship with their former enemy, but some wounds are too difficult if not impossible to heal. A hospital, it seems, was only a reminder of past transgressions.

“Headache?”

He turns to Ikiaq, his foreman for this particular construction project. “I think there might be a vice in my head. And that vice is made of contradictory logistics and anxiety.”

Ikiaq sips from his own mug of tea. “I’d offer you chamomile, but we need to be awake for this. If it helps any, just remember—”

“—Take the estimated years to completion and add two years to it,” they say together. Sokka chuckles.

“Yeah, I know.”

For a moment, they say nothing as they watch the cranes twist on their towers, their trolleys sliding forward and backward along their jibs with loads moving up and down cables.

“Tui,” Sokka breathes, “I hope this is successful. Breaking a lot of traditions here for modernization’s sake.”

A woman approaches their draft table. Like Ikiaq, she is a few years older than Sokka. Her face is familiar. The beads in her hair and the way she wears her braids are familiar. Yet for the life of him, he cannot remember her name.

“Hey,” he greets. “Something come up?”

“The framing for the second and third floors is complete. The team was wondering if they could break early before starting on the fourth.”

“Sure! Of course …" Sokka has to try. He’s been working with her on-and-off for months now. “That’s no problem, Yuka.”

Her face goes still. It’s the wrong name. She purses her lips.

“My name is Tikasuk.” She points to the construction area where a different woman takes stock of their inventory. “She’s Yuka.”

Sokka winces. “Sorry. I promise I’ll get it right!”

He might have made that promise already. Almost six months ago when he had just returned from Caldera and resumed oversight. His suspicion is proven correct when she turns away and mumbles, ‘yeah, right …' under her breath. Ikiaq pats him on the shoulder.

“You know, if you stayed in the south full-time, you might actually remember the names of the people you order around.”

“I still have important work to do as ambassador,” Sokka replies.

“Yeah, I don’t doubt that, but how long are you gonna keep that position? I mean, it’s been almost a decade. Someone else could fill the post, if you wanted.”

He bites his lower lip. Worries on it. Before he can reply, they hear a high-pitched scree from above. Sokka shields his eyes from the sun. A messenger hawk dives for them, flapping into a brief hover before landing on Sokka’s outstretched arm.

A red and gold seal. Not Zuko’s rising sun, but Jee’s ship escaping a storm. Sokka unties the letter. The artic winds still as he reads the admiral’s words.

Fire Lord Zuko is gravely ill and requires your presence. Meet me at 45 degrees south latitude and 105 degrees west longitude. These coordinates are the halfway point between the South Pole and the Fire Nation. Depart immediately.

Admiral Jee

The letter crumples in Sokka’s clenched fist. He bolts for the docks.

“Shit.”

*

Jee had Shufen deliver him the fastest ship in the Fire Nation. He pushes its engines, throwing an exorbitant amount of coal into the boiling room burners. The ship tears through deep waters. It leaves a wake so large and white against the dark, dark blue, Jee is certain that if Agni is real, they must see it from the stars above. In twenty-four hours, he makes it to the meeting coordinates just as Sokka’s boat arrives.

From the main deck, he signals to the helmsman to bring their ship as close to the other vessel as possible. Once only a few feet separate them, he grabs the gangplank and lays it across, hurrying Sokka on board.

The young man crosses the plank. When he’s close enough, Jee takes his hand and eases him safely onto his ship.

“What happened?” Sokka asks, not missing a beat.

He leads the way to the superstructure. Together they enter its port and climb seven ladders to the bridge.

“Breakbone fever. As of now, he’s five days into it. He hasn’t left the bed on his own once.”

Sokka halts in the middle of a landing. “Wait a minute. If you’re here, who’s taking care of him?”

“Mai. I sent a second hawk to Ba Sing Se. General Iroh is on his way as well.”

“I’ve heard of breakbone fever, but I’ve never seen it. What do I need to know? Will he recover?”

“Zuko is strong. He will. He has to. But until then, you must know what to expect.”

He brings Sokka up to speed on Zuko’s condition just before he had set sail. Unconscious. Bleeding. Incontinent. Fevered. Sokka, who had already looked grim, shrinks with dread. His shoulders hunch. A shadow darkens his eyes. He backs into the corner of the ladder landing.

“Mai said he may enter a critical stage in the next week or so,” Jee goes on. “There’s a risk of internal bleeding, which may lead to shock. It’s survivable, but even the recovery period is concerning. His heart rate will be slower. There have been cases of patients experiencing seizures.”

Jee rests both hands on his shoulders. Braces him the way he might a crew member who had just lost their friend. But neither of them will let that happen. It can’t. It won’t.

“Don’t despair, Ambassador Sokka. Zuko will feel better with you at his side.”

Sokka scoffs. “Pretty sure I’m not gonna wake him up with a magic kiss.”

There are moments, Jee has noticed, when Sokka’s cynicism rivals his own. It rears its head when odds seem bleak and manifests into self-belittling jibes. Zuko loves this man. Jee won’t have anyone insult him.

One hand moves from Sokka’s shoulder to his upper arm. Jee pulls Sokka to his full height. Drags him out of his dark corner. His fingers squeeze hard enough to make the other man wince.

“I sought you because I know what you mean to him,” Jee replies, voice shaking. “Don’t take me for a fool. I am older than you. I know we don’t live in a stupid fairy tale with happy endings. But I also know having someone to … to hold you when you are weak can mean the difference between giving up and hanging on. I have a ship to run, Sokka. I don’t have time to spout trite platitudes neither of us want to hear. So will you do us all a favor and start believing your love for him is a powerful thing?”

His words seem to have stunned him. Sokka’s eyes grow wide, then solemn, before he nods like a man who’d been issued a sacred duty. Perhaps that is what has transpired. An oath, from one warrior to another.

When they reach the brig, they do not talk again.

*

Once they arrive at the palace, they run down the halls for Zuko’s chambers. Jee opens door after door for Sokka to pass through. When they reach the bedroom, the final door, Jee knocks three times before pushing it open. Mai rises from her chair and greets them both with the sign of the flame.

Sokka returns the gesture quickly before sliding onto one knee. He takes Zuko’s hand. Kisses the top of it. Folds it between both of his. As though his prince had heard their conversation from afar, Jee watches with wonder as Zuko opens his eyes and speaks lucidly for the first time in days.

“Sokka?”

Zuko’s voice croaks from lack of use, and a surprised laugh huffs out of Sokka’s lungs in response. Sokka moves closer, his other hand brushing Zuko’s hair aside. His prince smiles, leaning into the touch.

“Hey.”

Jee feels the moment the world vanishes and all these two see is one another. He glances at Mai, who possesses a rare smile. Jee notices what Sokka means now: how that smile changes the light in her eye. She’s pleased.

He finds he’s pleased, too. He’s done it. He’s brought his prince’s beloved to his side. But much like the world, Jee knows he has disappeared from everyone’s attention. There is no more reason to stay. Without a word, he turns the door handle behind him. He withdraws. The second the door clicks against its frame, Jee turns and sags against it, the adrenaline in his veins finally draining. He tilts his head back. Closes his eyes.

A fist wraps around the songbird in his chest. He can feel the fingers of love and envy, desire and resignation, choke ballads out his ribs.

(Sing. Dance. Find a reason.)

He covers his mouth. Ignores the ache of suffocating.

*

The road to recovery is slow and shaky, but Zuko feels himself returning to his body a little bit at a time. Sokka’s presence becomes an ethereal thing. He feels his weight sitting or lying next to him. He senses when he’s moving about the room. The sheets smell like him. The air tastes like him. His voice, normally so boisterous, wraps around him with tender whispers. Among all these, it’s the kisses Zuko loves most.

Get better already! Zuko begs his body. I need to see him … I want to wake up!

A month passes before he is well enough to sit up and perform light desk work in bed. He expects Shufen to drive a wagon into his bedchamber, loaded with scrolls instead of hay, but he’s stunned when she enters bearing only a handful of items.

He cocks his brow at her as she lays the reading material across his breakfast tray. “That’s it?”

Shufen nods. “Admiral Jee managed most of the administrative work while you were in convalescence. Your Uncle Iroh provided guidance on the more complex internal affairs, while Ambassador Sokka assisted with international concerns. The admiral was able to keep your desk on schedule for the most part.”

“Thank you for the update.” He counts five scrolls. Zuko never expected Jee to take on this much work on his behalf but can’t say he isn’t relieved. “My uncle … is he still here?”

Uncle visits minutes later. Together they share a cup of ginseng—good for the immune system, Uncle says.

“You gave us quite the scare, Nephew. You are fortunate to have so many people who care about you at your side.”

“Sometimes I can hardly believe it,” Zuko admits. “When I started this journey eight years ago, I was convinced only my feet could walk the path.” He blows at his tea before sipping. “How arrogant.”

“Ambassador Sokka has been particularly insistent on seeing to your health these past few weeks. Mai often threatened him into taking a break.”

He chuckles. “Nice to see she still won’t stand for any stupidity.”

“Speaking of, I hope this means you will be taking better care of yourself in the future.”

“Oh, not you, too. Jee and Mai already gave me a proper scolding today. I bet Sokka has a long speech ready for me.” Zuko palms his face. “He’s gonna go on a whole bunch of tangents, isn’t he?”

Uncle takes both his hands into his. It strikes Zuko that time has managed to shrink what were once big, meaty hands into frail ones. “Nephew, please take what they are saying seriously. When you do not take the time to eat, drink, and rest, you create more worry and work for others.”

His eyes move away from Uncle’s mortality. His mind latches onto something else. “Breakbone fever is transmitted through mosquito bites. I don’t think there would’ve been much to protect against that.”

“True, but better health means a stronger body, and a stronger body is better equipped to combat disease.”

Zuko sinks against his upright pillows with a grumble. “Okay, okay. I know when I’ve been beat.”

His Uncle laughs and pats his shoulder. “Good. Now, tell me more about Sokka.” Uncle lifts one hand up near his mouth, feigning secrecy. “Word on the street is that you are making a very handsome pair.”

He does not need a mirror to know he has turned a bright shade of red. Nevertheless, Zuko takes another sip of ginseng and tells him.

*

Iroh exits Zuko’s bedroom just Sokka is about to enter it. He makes to bow with the sign of the flame, but Iroh waves it off.

“No need for that. I should like to think we are as close as family now, yes?”

Sokka blushes. “Is there a secret handshake I should know about?”

“No …” Iroh brightens, his smile stretching from ear to ear. “But now that you mention it, I should make one!” The older man tucks his hands into his sleeves and laughs. “My nephew anticipates a reprimand from you. I would say ‘go easy’, except he is so hard-headed only another hard head will get through to him.”

“Uh … thanks?”

 “I will remain in the palace a little longer, until Zuko is strong enough to yell without tiring himself out. You should pay me a visit at the Jasmine Dragon some time, Sokka. I would like to hear more about my nephew without the ‘Fire Lord’ title attached. Good night!”

With that, Iroh takes his leave. Sokka watches him for a moment before allowing himself in. He finds Zuko still in bed, both arms raised as he smells himself.

“Ugh! I smell like death.”

“Eh, I don’t think it’s that bad,” Sokka grins. He approaches his lover, bracing his arms on either side of him. “Just a cocktail of sweat, indigestion, and morning breath.”

“Gee, thanks, buddy”

“I got you, pal.”

Despite his scathing commentary, Sokka kisses him with enthusiasm. Zuko’s awake. He’s alert and talking. He didn’t know it was possible to miss someone while they were right next to you, but it turns out you can.

Like a cat lavished with too much affection, Zuko peels away. He’s about to complain when Zuko grabs his wrist. 

“Thank you for coming all the way here just to be with me,” he says. “I know being at the South Pole means a lot to you. You didn’t have to do that.”

This idiot. He sits next to him and bumps their shoulders. “Hey, I love you, you know?”

“I love you, too.” They’ve said the words to each other before, but this time Zuko turns shy. His friend purses his lips, absently running his fingers up and down the stitching in the bed sheets. Zuko stares at his knees. “You know how I hold a quarterly banquet for my court?”

“Yeah?”

“I’d like you to come.”

“Really?” The banquet is exclusive to the court, and the court is exclusively Fire Nation. “Are you sure that’s okay?”

“It is if I say it is.” Zuko looks up again. When he’s earnest, his eyes spark. They spark now, all but crackling with determination. “Sokka, after everything that’s happened, I want them to know what you mean to me. That you’re more than just a colleague and friend. I want them to know I take you—us—seriously.”

Katara had warned him Zuko never takes anything lightly. He knew that already, but when it comes to himself, Sokka always has doubts. “When you say ‘serious’ … What do you mean?”

Now that he’d started on this path, true to form, Zuko’s earlier shyness vanishes, replaced by blunt force.

“I mean, I’d like to marry you someday, if that’s what you want, too.” Zuko’s gaze moves to the open balcony, his eyes dreamy. “I can’t tell you how much I miss you when you’re away. I know it’s selfish but having you here when I couldn’t even help myself, it—it made me realize how good life is simply because you’re in it.” His hand slides from Sokka’s wrist to his palm. Sokka looks at their folded fingers. “The idea of calling you ‘husband’, having you sit next to me on the throne, it excites me like nothing else.”

“You and me?” He chuckles. “The brave new leaders of fire and water?”

“Why not?”

It all sounds too good to be true, and Zuko is nothing if not an idealist. “And kids?”

Zuko laughs. “Maybe we should start with a couple of pets first.”

“A polar bear-dog,” Sokka muses. “Always wanted one. Never had enough space, though.”

“Plenty at that palace.” Zuko leans his head against his shoulder. “What if we had a dragon, too?”

“You think?” He tries to imagine it: he, upon a great white beast galloping through snow, and Zuko, riding on a serpentine back, soaring through the sky. Sokka relaxes against Zuko’s head. “Man, that would be flooding majestic.” He marinates in the flight of fancy a little longer before clearing his throat. “Okay, serious … we’re being serious! Kids. I’d like two. A girl and a boy.” When Zuko doesn’t respond, he turns and asks softly, “What?”

“I’m just nervous about … I don’t want what happened to me and Azula to happen to our kids.”

“Then we won’t let it happen. We’d love each of them for who they are, no matter how different they might be.” Sokka blinks, surprised by his own surety. He walks it back. “... But I’m sure the Fire Sages have something to say about the royal blood line.”

“We’ve changed a whole bunch of laws and traditions,” Zuko sighs. “What’s a couple more?” He tugs at Sokka’s arm. “So, you’ll come? You’ll sit next to me at the banquet?”

“You really have to ask? Of course, I will. I wouldn’t miss it.”

Zuko pushes him onto bed and kisses him hard. The kiss tastes acrid, but Sokka doesn’t mind. The hardness growing between them, however, gets his attention. He combs his fingers through Zuko’s sweat-matted hair.

“Hey, aren’t you still under the weather?”

In foolhardy rebellion, his lover begins rubbing against him until his own cock grows hot in response. “Pretty sure I’m gonna feel a lot better after.”

“Or just exhausted.”

“Wanna bet?”

“Always.”

They make fast work of removing their clothes, laughing as their sleeves somehow get knotted in the process. Zuko massages his shoulder before prodding it, beckoning him to turn over. Sokka does so, hugging a pillow against his chest as Zuko lays kisses along the slope of his back.

He clutches his pillow as a tongue replaces lips, its tip slipping into the pleat of his buttocks and poking against his entrance. Sokka groans.

As Zuko licks into him, a hand sneaks under his hip, fingers searching until they find his throbbing erection. It’s ridiculous, Sokka thinks, how fast Zuko stirs this kind of want out of him. But he has no time to analyze why before Zuko begins stroking him and consuming him in perfect synchrony. He whimpers as the first drop of pre-come trickles out and into Zuko’s palm.

His lover pulls his hand free to lick the small stain Sokka left him. Sokka whines at the loss of touch but Zuko soothes him, kissing his shoulder briefly before leaning over to get the oil. Seconds later, the hand returns, moving up and down at a leisurely pace. He jumps when Zuko nips his buttocks, the only warning he gets before a wet finger circles his hole and pushes in.

Not many people have noticed that Zuko is a sharp observer. He might think himself a slow learner, but in truth he learns quickly, if given the chance to watch without judgment. Sokka closes his eyes. He remembers these touches. He’d taught Zuko them. Gentle and firm. Yielding and demanding. Zuko’s finger hooks, touching him there, and his thighs tremble.

“La!”

Zuko’s finger presses in a steady rhythm. Everything, Sokka thinks, dances to a silent song. Palaces, villages, seasons, friendships, love, sex. They all have heartbeats.

The other hand returns to Sokka’s throbbing erection. The synchronicity returns. He doesn’t expect it when Zuko licks him. Between his hole and cock, nose nuzzling against the humming space between.