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Zuko is barely 16 when he learns about the disease.
He overhears the crew of his ship discussing flowers that grow in someone’s lungs and the agony they bring; how some people will choose to die rather than surgically remove the flowers and, by extension, their love.
“Don’t they know there’s more to them than who loves them back?” There’s an audible frown in the engineer’s voice.
“Maybe,” muses the cook. “But love is blindin’ and powerful. Unrequited love can mean the end o’ the world for some.”
“I know someone who passed because he didn’t want to forget his love,” says someone else, voice low. “I didn’t learn until after my ship got back. Apparently he got weaker and weaker as the years went by, and he just stopped breathing in his sleep.”
There’s a round of murmured condolences that moves through the crew, and Zuko slinks away.
He should’ve just gotten the surgery, Zuko thinks with a scoff as soon as he’s safe in his room. Why would you choose to remain weak?
The disease gets pushed to the back of Zuko’s mind the very next moment. He has honor to regain, an Avatar to capture, and a palace to return to; hanahaki is the least of his worries.
Zuko is nearly 17 when he finds his gaze catching on a certain Water Tribe warrior and following him around.
He doesn’t think much of it, even when he finds his pulse kicking for no discernible reason whenever Sokka flashes a wink and a grin as their eyes meet over the campfire.
At first, Zuko chalks it down to not having been around other boys his age before; Sokka’s the only one he’s ever talked to long enough to actually get to know, and Aang is younger than Azula and therefore firmly in the ‘much younger than Zuko’ category.
By the time Zuko realizes that Haru never made his stomach flip like Sokka had, he’s been crowned Fire Lord. He has a nation to reunite, debts to pay, and a world to fix, so he leaves Sokka’s brilliant smile and mind for another day.
Zuko is just past 18 when he wakes up to a scattering of tiny glacier blue petals on his red silk pillow.
Blinking his eyes open and sitting up, Zuko does a double take and brushes the petals into his hand, holding it up to his eyes.
“What-”
He rubs his eyes, sure they’re malfunctioning. Then he drops to squint at his pillow. Yep. Petals.
“What the fuck?” He sweeps the rest of them into his hand, panicked. “I don’t even like anybody!”
The petals really are pretty, though, and a tiny part of Zuko’s brain admires them while the rest of it freaks out. They’re the same color as Sokka’s favorite summer outfit, he thinks absentmindedly, then freezes.
“No way,” he says out loud, mind racing. Surely the cause of the disease isn’t… Sokka? The Water Tribe has obnoxiously loud laughter, and sure, he’s smart and passionate and caring and handsome and courageous and-
Realization hits Zuko with all the strength of one of Toph’s rare hugs, and he buries his head in his pillow with a loud, strangled groan. How has he not noticed this before? The hitching of his breath whenever Sokka shares a smile with him, the fluttering in his stomach whenever they brush against each other, the worrying thump of his heart that occurs when they spar, that is - when Zuko thinks about it more - definitely not only because of their sessions.
“Tui and La, I’m fucking oblivious.”
Now that Zuko’s realized how he feels about Sokka, all of his interactions with Sokka seem to highlight his glaringly obvious crush. Flushing and ducking his head whenever Sokka compliments him; the smile he always returns no matter how bad a day he’s had; the glances he always shoots at the other and the thrill he gets whenever Sokka catches his gaze.
Even living with this knowledge, not much changes in Zuko’s life. He doesn’t have to act differently since it will be more obvious if he does, but he also knows the petals’ meaning: Sokka only thinks of him as a friend.
It’s a weird kind of limbo, not having to hide his attraction but knowing that Sokka will never return his sentiments. Zuko will be fine, though. He always is.
Zuko is 18 and a month old when Iroh notices.
Zuko breaks off in the middle of his sentence to cough into his elbow, seeing a flash of blue against his maroon robes. He chances a glance at Iroh and exhales a sigh of relief when he finds his uncle still sipping tea placidly.
He freezes, though, when Iroh says after his sip, “So you have hanahaki, nephew?”
“What?” Zuko tries to look innocent, summoning up his best inner Ty Lee, but Uncle doesn’t seem fooled.
“Zuko,” he says patiently. “You do not have to hide it. I will not think any differently of you regardless of who the object of your affection is.”
Zuko exhales slowly, willing his heart rate to slow down. “Thank you,” he says eventually, wanting to tell Iroh so much more.
Iroh smiles at Zuko, orange-brown eyes warm. “Of course, Zuko.” Then a pensive look falls across his face. “I think I have a tea blend that may help soothe your lungs and chest. Would you like some?”
Zuko hesitates, then nods. “Yes. Please.”
Two hours later, Zuko is leaving Iroh’s chambers with a mix of tea leaves and instructions on how to brew them.
“Thanks, Uncle,” he murmurs when he’s drawn into a hug.
Iroh squeezes tight for a few seconds, then lets go. “Stay safe, Zuko,” he says.
Zuko nods with a smile and waves, his chest feeling blessedly light. “I will.”
Zuko is 19 and a half when Sokka waltzes into his office with a proposition.
“You want me,” Zuko says, temple resting on his fingers, “to appoint you an Ambassador just so you can, and I quote, spend more time together and strengthen our buddy bond.” He raises his eyebrow at Sokka, fondly exasperated.
Sokka beams, putting his hands on Zuko’s desk and leaning forwards to bring his face closer to Zuko’s. “Yes!” He’s already explained all the pros and cons, and Zuko is on board; he just wants Sokka to stick around just a little bit longer.
Zuko lifts his head off his hand. “You know, people might say appointing you as the first ever Ambassador was an act of favoritism and that you were only chosen because we were the Avatar’s companions.”
Sokka shrugs, pushing himself off the desk. “Sounds like a good reason to me. Those people are probably bitter loyalists who just want a reason to be dissatisfied with your performances as Fire Lord. Which, by the way-” he taps Zuko’s forehead and nose with a light finger, “-is absolutely phenomenal.”
Zuko frowns. “That’s only because the Fire Lords in the past century were worse than shit. The bar is below the ground, Sokka.” He’s about to say more but closes his mouth when Sokka raises an eyebrow and shakes his head.
“You’re a better Fire Lord than anybody could have ever hoped for, Zuko,” he says, delivery so earnest that Zuko wouldn’t have believed those words unless they were coming from Sokka.
Something inside of Zuko thrills at the compliment, but all he can manage to do is send Sokka a grateful smile. Sokka grins back like always, and Zuko wants to drown in his smile.
“Yeah, okay,” he says instead, because if he gives into his impulses flowers will start spilling from his lips. “I’ll appoint you Ambassador to the Southern Water Tribe.”
At that, Zuko’s graced with Sokka’s rarest, most radiant smile and a tight hug over his desk.
“I won’t let you down,” Sokka promises when he draws back.
“I know,” Zuko says softly, Sokka’s infectious grin pulling the corners of his mouth upwards.
Because Sokka has never let Zuko down and never will. It’s Zuko and his stupid feelings that’s making everything worse.
Zuko knows this with his entire being, and it makes the flowers hurt that much more.
Zuko is 20 and taking a break at Ursa and Ikem’s home when Kiyi finds him coughing under a tree, the wind blowing flowers into her mouse brown hair.
“Zuzu?” she asks, looking concerned. “Why are you coughing up flowers?”
Zuko’s head snaps up, and he frantically searches for an answer before reluctantly deciding on the truth. “It’s-” He clears his throat, spitting out one last flower and settling back into his seat. “Flowers grow in someone’s lungs occasionally. When they fall in love.” When they’re unfortunate enough to fall for someone ridiculously out of their league.
Kiyi clambers into his lap, which makes Zuko smile and pluck out a flower from her hair, offering it to her.
“What does it feel like?” Kiyi asks, brown eyes wide as she accepts the tiny flower and stares down at it. Zuko doubts she’s ever seen a flower that shade. He hadn’t either, until Sokka. (He thinks it’s kind of pathetic that his life has been divided into two parts because of the blue-eyed Water Tribe boy. But then again, flowers are growing in his lungs because of this boy.) (He doesn’t know which part’s worse.)
Zuko stares at the steely blue of the tiny flower. “Like my lungs are slowly filling up with flowers.”
Kiyi giggles like she thinks it’s a joke, the flower fluttering forgotten to the ground. “No, Zuzu! Being in love!”
Being in love feels the same as drowning. It’s all-consuming, and you can’t fucking breathe. Zuko traces the petals, eyes roving over the blue and white gradient he’s already committed to memory. “I’m not sure,” he says finally. “It hurts, kind of.”
“It hurts?” an incredulous Kiyi says, nose scrunching up.
Zuko smiles faintly and reaches out to tap her nose, smile broadening for a second when she sticks her tongue out. “Sometimes, in a good way. You want to be around the other person all the time and feel comfortable around them. You get happy and almost fizzy whenever you see them towards the beginning, but it settles into something steadier after a while. You know you can be yourself around them, and-” He breaks off and coughs twice, turning back to Kiyi with a grimace that passes as a shaky smile when he feels her tiny hands squeeze the front of his robes. He swallows hard against the flowers tickling the back of his throat, trying desperately to think of anything but blue eyes and white chokers. “And you begin to figure out that there are imperfect sides of them, that they’re not completely perfect.”
“That doesn’t sound like it hurts,” says Kiyi, hands still loosely fisted in his clothes.
“Well, okay.” Zuko relents, knowing he won’t be able to change her mind. “It doesn’t really hurt, but it can get… overwhelming sometimes, with how much you- you like them.”
“Don’t you mean love? You said flowers only grow in people’s lungs when they love other people.”
Zuko looks away, unable to meet his sister’s innocent but searching gaze. “I guess,” he says, flowers rough in his throat.
Kiyi seems satisfied with that, moving on to chatter excitedly about something she’s doing at school. Zuko smiles and asks questions at all the right places, but he can’t get her question out of her mind.
When Kiyi starts yawning, Zuko startles at the time and scoops her up despite her protests and her size. She’ll be too big to carry easily soon, he realizes as he places her on her bed. His littlest sister is all grown up.
Zuko closes his bedroom door after a quiet goodnight to Ursa and Ikem, falling down on his bed as Kiyi’s words loop in his head.
Don’t you mean love?
“Yeah,” he says softly, a bittersweet smile on his lips as he recalls Sokka’s bright smile with ease. “I guess I do mean love.”
He chokes on the last word, curling up on his side as a fit of coughing overtakes him and squeezes tears out of his eyes. Hearing noises out in the hallway, he grabs the nearest pillow and continues coughing into it, hearing a soft knock on his door as he sits up.
“Zuko?” Ursa calls. “Are you doing okay?”
Zuko inhales slowly, pushing down the second coughing fit that threatens to erupt. “I’m fine, Mom.” His voice is more gravelly than usual, but he prays Ursa won’t notice.
“Okay.” Zuko’s breath whooshes out in relief but catches again when Ursa continues. “Let me know if you need water or any of that tea Iroh gave to us. I don’t want you going through too much pain.”
Of course Uncle told Ursa about the disease. Zuko’s shoulders slump when his gaze falls upon the cluster of flowers perched on top of the pillows. “Yeah, okay,” he says, waiting for his mom’s footsteps to fade away before picking it up.
The disease has gotten worse; he’d only been coughing up individual flowers before, but now his body’s forced out an entire bunch of them.
Setting the tiny bundle on fire and throwing away the ashes, Zuko hugs the pillow to his chest and falls asleep, drained. His dreams are incoherent and completely disjointed, blue eyes overgrown with a sea of tiny azure flowers.
The final dream still leaves him with a powerful sense of want, though, strong enough to make his chest ache and hands turn into fists. He’d scream if he felt he could take a deep enough breath to do so.
Instead, scalding tears leak out of the corners of his eyes when he spits out sea blue flowers. Zuko lets them roll down his face and dampen his pillow, shutting his eyes.
Maybe the spirits will allow him to dream of Sokka again.
Maybe they’ll be pitiful, just this once.
Zuko is almost 20 and a half when the scars start appearing.
Sokka is the first to notice when Zuko takes off his shirt, panting in the sweltering heat. Why they decided to spar, Zuko has no idea. He regretted it at first, but now that he’s watching a bead of sweat make its way down Sokka’s chest out of the corner of his eye he’s not so sure about regret.
“What’s that?” Sokka asks, frowning as he reaches out to touch Zuko’s side.
Zuko ignores the kick of his heartbeat, instead looking at Sokka quizzically. “What’s what?”
“This.” Sokka is still fixated on Zuko’s torso, hand warm on Zuko’s skin. “It looks like… a scar?”
At that, a flash of alarm shoots through Zuko, and twists to look at his right flank, where there’s a dark slash approximately half the length of his pinky finger. “What...?” He brushes his hand over it but feels nothing, so he shakes his head and smiles at Sokka. “It’s fine. You up for another round?”
Sokka smirks at that, eyes dancing with a challenge. “You mean another loss for you.” He readies his sword. “You’re on.”
Zuko checks the scar later that day right before bed, frowning into the mirror. It looks the same as it did earlier, but when he looks closer it looks almost like a tattoo; fine lines are branching off from the slightly thicker main scar. It looks almost like…
No, that’s absurd.
But Zuko throws on his robes and makes his way towards Iroh’s chambers. Just in case.
When he shows Iroh, he’s not expecting his uncle’s eyes to widen in surprise, something sad swimming in his gaze as he says only, “Ah.”
“Uncle?” Zuko asks, perturbed.
Iroh sighs and steps back from the door, a clear invitation for Zuko to enter. “I’ll make us some tea.”
That’s not good. That’s never good.
Regardless, Zuko follows his Uncle deeper into his suite, taking a tentative seat as he watches Iroh measure out tea leaves, the smell of chamomile filling the air. He takes a sip of his tea - perfectly brewed, as usual - before clearing his throat awkwardly. “So, um. Why is this scar chamomile tea inducing?” Zuko can count the number of times Iroh’s brewed chamomile on one hand.
Iroh takes a sip of his own tea before placing his cup down with a solemn clunk , meeting Zuko’s gaze steadily. “Your hanahaki is getting worse, nephew. The scars only start appearing when someone is past halfway to their death.”
Zuko freezes, mouth full of tea. He tilts his head, considering Uncle’s words, then swallows and lowers his cup. “I see.” He doesn’t feel any panic when he thinks about his impending death, strangely enough.
“At this point,” Iroh says carefully, speaking as if he’s picking his way through a minefield, “most people get surgery. Are you sure you don’t want to, nephew?”
Zuko takes another sip before giving his uncle a simple shake of his head.
Iroh doesn’t seem surprised; he just purses his lips slightly and nods in acceptance. “But do remember that surgery is always an option, regardless of what the circumstances are.”
“I will,” Zuko promises. Then he gives his uncle a smile and changes the subject.
He gets asked about the scar a few days later.
“Hey, Z, did you ever find out what that mark on your side was?” Sokka asks once they’ve finished hashing out an improved version of a treaty. The meeting where the revisions had been suggested has been over for a while now, but Zuko and Sokka had been working in sync and had decided to move to Sokka’s room.
“Oh, yeah,” Zuko says, stretching back in his chair and tilting his head back in bliss when his back cracks. “Uncle says they start appearing when the disease is halfway through running its course.”
There’s silence for a moment. Then, Sokka says, voice unsteady, “What disease?”
“What?” Zuko lifts his head to blink at Sokka, eyes wide as he runs through what he’d just said. He groans when he runs his sentence through his head again, cursing his tired mind as he flops his head back against the chair.
“What disease, Zuko?” Sokka repeats, sounding tense.
“Hanahaki,” Zuko mumbles, slapping a hand over his eyes. I can’t believe I was so stupid. He’s going to figure it out now.
“Oh.” Sokka sounds strange. “The one where flowers start growing in your lungs and even the most skilled healers can’t get rid of them without actually cutting into you?”
“Yeah.” Oh, Tui and La, now Sokka’s going to start thinking I’m weak.
“Hey, I’m not going to start thinking about you differently or anything,” says Sokka with a strained laugh. “It’s just the fact that you’ve managed to hide the disease for so long. It takes a while to get used to knowing that your friend might die in the next few months.”
“Years,” Zuko corrects, sighing inwardly in relief. Sokka hasn’t managed to figure out his - for lack of a better word - crush. “I’ve got a few years to go.”
“Well, that’s good,” Sokka manages, still sounding a bit strangled. “But dude, I don’t want you to die on me. Be sure to get that surgery sometime soon, okay?”
Zuko frowns, sitting up in his chair and blinking in the sudden light as he opens his eyes. “Why?”
“Why?” Sokka repeats. “Shouldn’t you, I dunno, get the surgery if you’re going to die without it?” Zuko’s never had Sokka’s are-you-not-seeing-the-obvious-solution-here face directed at him. He doesn’t like it, so he carries out what he does best when he gets snappy.
He erupts.
“Loving them isn’t something I can just relinquish, Sokka!” Zuko yells, flowers crawling out of his throat. “It’s not something I’m willing to give up so easily.”
At that, Sokka scowls and swings his legs off the chair’s arm to stand up, chair legs screeching unpleasantly against the floor. “So you’re just going to sit back and let this disease murder you slowly while the people who love you - your country, your uncle, Aang, Katara, Toph, every single one of us - watch you die? Are you that selfish, Zuko? You’re going to allow yourself to wither away just because of a bit of unrequited love? People love you, Zuko, even if it’s not in a romantic sense.”
Zuko stands up as well, hands balling into fists and resisting the urge to set something on fire. He delves deep into his anger and curls his lip. “I have time,” he snarls. “I fucking have time to live, Sokka, don’t make this into some fucked up suicide plan. The scars only mean that I’ve passed the halfway point, and I plan on living longer than twenty. I plan on living better.”
“Better?” Sokka’s eyes are sharp enough to cut into Zuko’s soul. “What do you mean by that?”
“I’m going to spend more time with- with who I love,” says Zuko, meeting Sokka’s gaze confidently.
Sokka makes an angrily baffled face. “Why with just them?”
“Because I don’t spend enough time with them,” says Zuko simply, fists uncurling. “I want to spend more time with them, but I have too many responsibilities and too many people trying to talk to me. They all think they’re entitled to my time, to me, just because they were personally appointed by me to some high-ranking political position.” He scoffs, shaking his head. He spits out a large cluster of flowers and sets it on fire before Sokka can catch a glimpse of it, realize what the color means. “I don’t want to talk to them. I want to talk to who I love and spend more time with them, but I’ve got all these… these fucking parasites taking up all my time.” Zuko wants to stop before it’s too late, before he says too much. But he’s always been phenomenal at self-sabotage, so he digs in. Keeps going. “I hate it. I hate them .” Drained, Zuko looks down at Sokka’s feet and steadfastly ignores the urge to retch.
“Parasites,” says Sokka, sounding faint.
“I mean, yeah.” Zuko looks up, concern outweighing his anger, and frowns.
There’s a strange look on Sokka’s face, and despite all these years they’ve spent together, Zuko can’t decipher it.
“Sokka?” Zuko dares to ask, reaching out a hand to put on Sokka’s shoulder.
Sokka flinches away, and Zuko stares after him before realizing that his hand’s still up in the air like some idiot. He lowers it and moves closer, trying to understand what he’s done wrong.
“Sokka,” he repeats, as if it’ll help.
Sokka turns his head away, jaw clenched. “Leave.”
Zuko’s chest sends a hot bolt of pain through his left arm, heart picking up pace in apprehension. Surely Sokka doesn’t mean…
“Leave,” Sokka repeats, voice tight. “Leave my fucking room, Zuko. Get out.”
“But-” Zuko starts.
“Get the fuck out!” Sokka roars, swinging an arm towards the door.
Sokka’s hand passes inches from Zuko’s face, leaving him stunned and still feeling a phantom breeze on his face. Oh, he thinks as he feels his eyes widen. Okay. He closes his burning eyes, forces his expression into a mask. He wants to say something, try and salvage the situation, but one look at Sokka’s cold front and he retreats.
Fire and ice never mix well. He’s not sure why he was foolish enough to think that he would be the special one. It was only a matter of time before Sokka finally realized how little Zuko is worth, after all.
Zuko turns, closing the door quietly behind him.
Drifting through the halls, the world swims in his vision as the tears spill over. He barely makes it into his room before he gives in to his seizing chest, and he doubles over retching.
It’s tragically beautiful, really, Zuko thinks as he watches pale blue and scarlet blur in his vision. The idea that someone can start affecting you so much that their favorite flower will take root in your lungs and heart, sapping away your life.
A bunch of tiny glacier blue flowers makes its way out of his throat and into his hands, beautiful and all too innocent. Zuko stares as it goes up in flames, air burning his throat and freezing his cheeks.
He’s never hated the color blue more.
Zuko manages to go three days without seeing Sokka before he snaps at one of his ministers, eyes widening in the oppressive silence that settles over the room right after. Shit, he thinks as he hastily apologizes and receives an equally hasty “No worries, Your Highness,” in return.
The minister genuinely doesn’t seem troubled, which is a relief, but Zuko finds that he can’t focus on anything for the rest of the meeting, eventually calling an early end to it.
After everyone files out of the room with a bow, Zuko collapses back in his seat and tilts his head back, the top of his head connecting against the backrest. Breathing deeply, he comes to the conclusion that he has to visit Sokka and apologize for what he did, see what Sokka took so much offense to.
Mind made up and thankful that the meeting was the last one he had scheduled, Zuko rises slowly to his feet and makes his way over to Sokka’s suite after glancing over at the time candles; 8 o’candle. If Sokka hasn’t been held back by anyone, he’ll probably be in his rooms by now.
Feet guiding him to the ambassador’s wing on autopilot, Zuko decides to wait in Sokka’s room if there’s no response. There’s no way that Sokka can avoid him then, right?
All too soon, Zuko’s in front of Sokka’s door. Taking a deep breath and burning flowers on the exhale with a practiced flick of his fingers, Zuko knocks on the door with his usual knock.
No response.
Zuko sighs and opens the door, stepping into the room before stopping in his tracks. Sokka’s in the middle of the room on his hands and knees, head dropped down as if he’s waiting to be executed.
“Sokka?” Zuko asks, unease wrapping around his chest.
Sokka’s head shoots up, and his red-rimmed eyes meet Zuko’s own as he rises to his knees, looking ready to bolt.
“Sokka,” Zuko says again, feeling his breath get shorter. “What’s going on?”
Sokka opens his mouth to respond but then clamps it shut, coughing twice before shaking his head. He spits something red into his hand, and Zuko falls back against the door. It shuts and locks behind him with a few faint clicks.
“Oh,” he says faintly, Sokka’s motions familiar. “Um. Hanahaki?” he asks, regretting the words as soon as they’re out of his mouth. Why am I so unable to talk to the people I love?
Sokka’s laugh is a trembling, wispy thing. “Yeah. Hanahaki. What else would it be?”
“That, uh, sucks.” Zuko wants to set himself on fire. He forges on, though, because he’s always been good at talking through tense situations. (The rational part of his brain informs him that his talking usually makes the tension worse. Zuko promptly tells the rational part of his brain to eat shit.) He pushes himself off the door with his fingertips and cautiously takes a step towards Sokka. “What kind of flowers are they?” He’s being selfish here; he could’ve asked something that didn’t give him any hints as to who Sokka is in love with, but the back of his throat tastes like metal and his chest hasn’t stopped hurting for months and the skin of his torso darkens more and more each day, dark tendrils taking over his skin as a reminder that he’s only getting closer to falling into death’s hands and-
Zuko’s just one man. He allows himself this single thing, knowing he won’t be able to have more in his life.
Sokka’s jaw tightens as he stares miserably at the ground. “Camellias. Apparently.”
Jealousy snaking through his belly, Zuko frowns, trying to figure out what camellias would mean. They’re a beautiful flower, but they’re also notoriously sparse; whoever Sokka likes has expensive tastes, at least when it comes to flowers. He relays this to Sokka, who snorts with slumped shoulders.
“Yeah. They’re kind of the opposite of poor, though.”
Zuko’s frown deepens as there’s a pang in his chest, the snake in his belly hissing. He doesn’t know who the fuck Sokka could be describing, except for… “Toph?”
Sokka’s pained gaze shoots up to meet Zuko’s, disbelief clear in his eyes.
“What?” Zuko asks.
Sokka shakes his head, eyes sliding somewhere to the right of Zuko’s face. “You don’t get it, do you?” His words are bitten back and short, and the volume of his voice is rising seemingly without him noticing.
Zuko’s growing increasingly alarmed. “Get what, Sokka?”
Sokka huffs out a sharp laugh. “It’s you.”
Sure he’s misheard, Zuko blinks. “...What.”
“I said it’s you, you beautiful fucking idiot!” Sokka snarls, eyes brimming with fury and humiliation and unshed tears. “It’s always been you. You’re the reason I have my dad back, the reason I stay in a place this hot, the reason-” His torso heaves, and he drops onto his hands and knees as he gags. When he looks up, tears are running down his beautiful, anguished face. “The reason for this.” Sokka scoops up a single flower from the bunch now clustered on the floor, a vivid crimson against ocean blue. He glares at it before throwing it at Zuko, sinking into his heels and dropping his head in his hands, shoulders shaking.
Zuko doesn’t move, eyes wide as the flower flutters into his hands. He looks down at it numbly.
It’s a pristine red camellia, petals velvet under his fingertips.
Realization finally flashes through Zuko, leaving echoes and shadows that burn through his bloodstream and leave him feeling like he’s just been zapped by Azula for a second time. He lets flowers spill out of his mouth, then steps towards where Sokka is curled forward, one step at a time. His steps sound unusually loud against the floor, but Sokka doesn’t look up until Zuko drops to the ground in front of him.
“What?” Sokka rasps, as if the word is being tugged from the back of his throat. He turns his head to the side to cough up blood red petals, then keeps his head ducked like ignoring Zuko will turn back the clock and unfuck the mess they’re in.
Zuko’s heart and brain are agreeing for once, telling him to just fucking do something, ANYTHING, so he leans forward and crashes their mouths together briefly, Sokka’s lips burning and impossibly soft under Zuko’s own (Zuko misses them as soon as he draws back).
Zuko’s eyes shoot open and meet Sokka’s shocked gaze when he scrambles backwards, excuses and flowers piling up at the back of his throat.
Then, eyes burning brighter and more determined than dragon fire, Sokka leans forward. Their lips meet again, sweeter and softer than before, and Zuko lets himself fall into the emotion that had brought only tiny blue flowers before. Sokka kisses like he wants Zuko to drop everything in order to kiss back, passionate and with the drive that he exhibits so often.
Somewhere between the dozens of deepening kisses they exchange, Zuko finds the backs of his knees against Sokka’s bed. He all but collapses, Sokka leaning down to follow.
“Can’t believe it took us so long to realize we were pining for each other,” Sokka mutters when they part for breath. “Could’ve been doing this for so much longer. Fuck, I’ve wanted to do this for so long.”
Zuko meets Sokka’s gaze and smirks, scooting back on the bed to lay down and deliberately place his arms above his head, sending a clear message. “You have me now.”
Sokka’s eyes darken as they rake over Zuko, stoking the low fire burning in his stomach. “I do,” he murmurs reverently, climbing on the bed to press a kiss to Zuko’s collarbone. He grins and obliges when Zuko nudges him upwards so they’re face to face. “I do.”
The next morning, still in Sokka’s room with red and blue strewn about, Zuko inhales deeply and is finally able to keep the scent of sea and ice in his lungs for as long as he wants.
He had allowed himself to think of Sokka like this in his dreams only, under the cover of night. He’d imagined how he might feel, finally free from the grasping, consuming roots of the flowers - parraya, Sokka had told him hours earlier, both of them glowing and nestled into each other.
Fantasies and expectations always pale in comparison to the real thing when it comes to Sokka, Zuko has found.
He traces a fingertip over the dark scars the roots left all over Sokka’s chest, feeling the bumps of his skin. He’d expected his chest to feel hollow, empty, but he just feels light when he gazes down at a still slumbering Sokka, heart able to beat unhindered at last.
And as Sokka stirs and blinks his glacier blue eyes drowsily up at Zuko, a lazy but brilliant smile on his lips, Zuko is finally able to lean down and kiss him good morning, their hands finding each other to interlock loosely.
“He awakens,” Zuko says with a soft smile, squeezing Sokka’s fingers.
“Morning, baby,” Sokka replies, voice raspy.
Zuko smiles when Sokka snuggles closer to his hand, pleasantly warm as his eyes fall shut. He still wants to get to know Sokka more, catalog everything that makes him beam, but Zuko saves it for later.
They’ve got time, after all, and Zuko is long overdue for a break.