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The inner gardens were always the most quiet place in the palace, no matter the day or the time in which Zuko visited them.
The gentle rustling of the leaves acted like a balm to his soul, the Fire Lord had concluded some time ago, while watching the birds fly from one tree to another, as if something had displeased it greatly. As if it was not its place to stay from the very beginning, which was a rather upsetting thought, Zuko concluded by the end, because no being should flee its home due to distress or danger.
Alas, Zuko also thought many days on end, while watching the flowers shift on their own, the change had already been done and the bird flew from its nest. Maybe, it would have died otherwise, he thought of that too. But, he would never know, because, in the end, it escaped the cruel fate.
There were more and more light pink petalled flowers living in the garden, for it had upset Zuko’s eyes greatly to have so much red or yellow. Diversity was an important factor in managing a society, after all; even, if it was a barely sentient enough one. And, thus, the buds blossomed not under the harsh summer sun, that dried his own skin and the soil underneath the plants, but best if flourished under the soft spring rays, that were barely warm.
The flowers would bloom endlessly, one after another, basking in the light, and the garden would soon drown in the ocean of something alike a sunset, if one would call it so.
Zuko always enjoyed such slow processes, for it brought stability into the world, carefully balancing it out. He never had the thought to intervene into it, for fire had destroyed much more with its tongues, than saved, and only Agni was to know that, but, oh, Zuko didn’t want to have those flowers wither under his touch, to die so painfully in the matter of a few minutes.
Fire was an ever-hungry thing, too; and thus it would consume not only the flowers, but all around it. It would jump onto the trees and eat them alive, while the leaves and the bark would wail and creak from the unimaginable pain, unable to escape it, for fire was strong and stubborn.
And, thus, Zuko scarcely touched the soon-to-bloom buds, and only observed from a distance, keeping his hands tucked into his sleeves, them dark and heavy. He would stand near the flowerbed, looking down on them, and a soft smile would creep onto his face, pulling at the scar.
It would itch.
Zuko would furrows his eyebrow a slight, before turning away and moving to sit down by one of the trees in the garden.
The scar always itched, no matter the season it was. It did not care for the time of day, did not care for the salves massages into it every sunrise and sunset. Why would it, if the man who burned it into Zuko didn’t not care? The fire always listened to its bearer, after all, for it was the mirror of their soul.
Zuko stopped wishing that it ceased its itching, for it never would. It was just as useless as asking his father to love him as he once did. Because no one is born power-hungry or with a strong desire to hold onto your own, no matter would it be your wife or your honour.
Some battles simply could not be won, or the victory would never be worth the losses it brought. That was another important factor in managing a society, no matter how obedient it was on the first glance.
And, thus, Zuko would let his head rest on the dark bark of the tree, his hair cascading down his back, like a mountain stream. The birds’ songs would fill his ears, and a small respite would be found.
However, as he became the Fire Lord after the war, less and less he had the time to visit the gardens properly, for many papers piled up on his desk, almost breaking it; and many people desired to be listened to and not discarded with a wave of a lean hand. And so, the dry summer had passed, slowly dragging its feet, and winter came into the land, drowning the soil with endless rain.
It would drop down the leaves, and the birds would hide under the upper branches of the tree, trying their best not to get wet. Their would sit close together, staring with their button-eyes onto the rain and not move.
The sun would rise as quick as it would set some hours later, and Zuko would stare into the inner gardens for some time.
But he was no bird, and had no wings to fly, or a tree to escape, no matter how much he had desired to. He had a kingdom to rule and people to manage and always will. That was another stability of the world, for people craved order and society no matter the Age.
He was no bird, and had no golden cage to live it, looking out into the blue skies.
He was not a bird.
And, thus the Fire Lord would return to the reports with his ink brush carefully held, and read through them, one by one. The stack would diminish by sundown and grow strong by midday of the next day, as it always did.
Too, by midday, Zuko often found his head lying down on the table, with his eyes briefly closed, for the aches cut his skin clean off, leaving him bare to the world. On fire he mostly found himself due to the sun rays looking into his office chambers, with his temples pulsing akin to the bronze gongs of the many temples.
Oftentimes, just as this one, his momental respite would be interrupted by a knock onto the doors, and the Fire Lord would lift his head and straighten up, before calling out for the servant to enter.
This time, a tall woman stood by his side of the door after a second, with herself lowly bowed and her hands — folded in the long sleeves of light gray.
“Correspondence for Your Majesty arrived this morning. Shall I bring it in?” Her voice was steady though not soft, for the woman knew her place in the palace and took immerse pride in the position, just as she should.
“That would be greatly appreciated.” Zuko sighed, rubbing his palm lightly across his nose bridge. “Please, set the letters down by the suzuri.”
The parchment was soon stacked up near the ink-stone, rustling slightly from the movement. Some of them were thicker than the others, and that warmed up Zuko’s chest, for rarely did officials sent such filled messages, thus answers from his dear friends had finally arrived after a long month and a half of waiting.
“You can go, and thank you for the fast report.” Zuko said.
The servant only bowed quietly and stepped out of the chambers, shutting the heavy doors behind herself with a light ‘thud’.
The Fire Lord glanced once more at the multiple letters before him, before exhaling softly with his mouth and returning to the most recent grain report.
There was much time in the evening hours for personal matters, no matter would they all be read at the bronze mirror or standing on the terrace, with the wind nipping onto his skin.
— — — —
By the time that the Sun had finally caressed the horizon with her lips, the stack of reports had decreased significantly, with only a few thin ones remaining on the table. The Fire Lord also remained at the table, for his soul stubbornly demanded for the work to be finished before the sweet sleep could take his mind into its clutches.
There was nothing of major interest in those papers, but a ruler could simply not be one, if they would not care for their people. And, thus, if they had to listen to their people’s concerns and findings, like a parent to a child, they would do so with much patience and understanding, nodding to their words in a caring manner. And if the child was displeased or saddened, if the people were suffering, who was the ruler not to cradle them in their own arms? Who was the ruler but a parent wiping the tears of their child’s reddened face?
As Zuko read through them, and as the ministers talked of rice fields and their shortages, or education lacking severely in some distant province, the stars arose in the sky, swanking it fully up. There was nothing sun to look up to, and the moon was hidden somewhere on the other side of the palace, just beneath the thin clouds.
The final report was soon signed with his hand, before getting gently put down onto the high stack by his right hand that faced the doors. There would be new documents to look into by the morning, of course, for the time did not stop its flow in the night, but for the Fire Lord his job was finished for the day.
Zuko stood up slowly, for his lower back pained him much, being under pressure for so long, and moved to the small and round bronze mirror near his bed. It fit itself onto a top of a bedside table, with a wide sitting daybed to accompany it. Zuko sat down on it in one fluid motion, already reaching out with his hand into his hair, that was not only held by the golden headpiece, but also tightly secured by washi-made hair tie. Zuko wasted to time, far too eager to take it out by his own opinions: It held the locks too tight for his comfort. Though whom he was to complain of it proved his status and worth as a leader? Alas, all were soon disposed on the table with a soft clinking sound.
The hair fell down his back in a straight sprint stream, reaching almost down his waist. The locks glimmered slightly in the torchlight, rich in colour and heavy in weight. They were rather thick, filling in Zuko’s fist with ease, as the wooden comb gently went through them, trying its best not to rip even a strand out. Zuko did not love his hair in particular, though it did not mean that he hated them with burning passion. It was simply hair, thus a part of him that dictated his public well-being, and thus it needed to shine.
The comb was soon put down on the table, it clicking against the surface, and stood up once more. Zuko looked at himself in the mirror, observing how the bronze painted his skin a few shades warmer and darker, and his hair were more of a coffee colour than of an ink one, too; a fine man looked back at him, though no smile graced his lips and dark shadows hung under his only unscarred eye. Only if the nose and the jawline made him look like a well-crafted and beloved by many statue, that stood proud near a temple, and to whom many bowed.
Limited he was, and scarcely would he be enough. No matter was he a Lord of the Nation or a lost soul, that found refuge in the at-last welcoming arms of his dearest family, no matter their relation. It was never enough at the end - documents and unrests would be endless, all while the most treasured to him travelled far and away.
Zuko, feeling the scar itch quite stubbornly once more, for it did not have enough in the early morning, grabbed the sweet-smelling salve just right his hand, and scooped some of it onto his fingers. It was cool to the touch, and painted in light yellow but the torches behind the Fire Lord, as Zuko continued to stare at it for some time more.
A stain of scorched, angry-red alas no more swelled, covered a half of his face. It spread out to his ear, and he often heard very little if addressed from that side. Little more could be said about his eye, for it was permanently half-shut, and vision, thus, limited. It would result in a fatal outcome for him, if admitted, for a shortcoming of Zuko it was, and the people still held little trust in him, not after all of the terrors committed by Ozai's rigorous hands.
And it all itched, ached, every wake moment, making Zuko grit his teeth until his jaw throbbed, and the behind of his eyes pulsed.
Would those pains ever cease and leave him to rest or was he forever to ache, for no amount of ointments rubbed into that scar would help? No amount of honey-smelling and slightly sticky medicines would soothe those pains, unless he was to die altogether much sooner than he hoped for.
Though, to entertain that thought, he had not hoped to live up to this moment, being certain to perish at least a dozen times. Either by the hand of his father, howling on the stone floor, or by the lighting of his sister, who lost herself in the futile desire to make Ozai proud. Or slain due to rightful distrust by the means of his friends' revulsion and rage.
But, he was not. Because, and he still wonders for exceptional kindness was shown to him despite all the deeds committed by the Fire nation or under his command. Or, and it would be an iniquity to lie, by his own hands.
Strange thing the Fate was.
The Fire Lord blinked slowly, observing to the salve, warmed up, started to run down his fingers in an unhurried manner, and quickly pressed it around the left eye, gently massaging it into the rough surface.
Hope was needed, no matter how pointless it seemed, for its absence was felt too greatly by many at all times. He was not a blinded in desperation boy to deny it any more.
Zuko started to hum some tune under his breath, it filling the air around him with tranquility, for it brought it into his chest, that tune. The salve was soon absorbed into the skin and the small jar - lit to the side. And, thus, he stood up and with steady steps he went back to his table, and picked up the letters sent by his dearest friends.
The papers were unexpectedly heavy and many in his hands, and thus he had to put some of them down on the bedside table in order to take a proper look at the letters.
Turning one of them around (the one that was in the very top of the pile), Zuko felt his heart freeze for some time, before starting to beat in a much faster pace, hitting and bruising itself against his ribs.
In Sokka’s slightly crooked handwriting, for the letter was sure signed by him in a hurry, or when his hands were rather busy with one or another invention (Sokka’s genius mind was always full of wonders), was written: “To Zuko” with a small heart going up out of the ‘o’ and to the left, before the swirl soon ended.
Zuko felt as a gentle smile planted itself on his face, as he shook his head from light wonder and unfolded the letter, careful not to crumple it.
Oh, how he loved this man. This brave, kind man. Zuko loved his warm hands and sometimes outright mischievous smiles (though those started to vanish in the recent years more and more).
He loved all of the trinkets crafted for him by Sokka’s wondrous hands, and kept all of them nicely put away, safe for two. For the comb he used on a regular basis, feeling the carefully cut out lilies bloom under his fingers, and the locket he wore ever around his neck, letting the cool metal brush his chest under his robes.
Zuko loved this man endlessly and would follow him into the Spirit Realm without a request, waking shoulder to shoulder with him. He would cut his chest open and give Sokka his bleeding and beating heart if asked, though deep down he knew that the latter would never ask this of him. Never would such thought would grace Sokka’s mind, though, sometimes, Zuko hoped that it would; such it would be easier to lay down his love for this man in the terms understandable, for sacrifice was a theme familiar to them both. Sometimes, staring into the dark ceiling above his bed, Zuko hoped that his heart in Sokka’s hands would be enough for his own mind to find peace, for love would need no proving, and Sokka would know for sure that Zuko is terribly smitten by him.
But Zuko would be dead in that scenario, for a man cannot live without a heart even for a minute, and thus how could he do that, while still wanting to spend as much of his life as possible with Sokka? And though that death would be a peaceful one and much more than he ever would come to deserve, Zuko knew that Sokka would be devastated at it, for he loved Zuko just as much.
Or, he hoped that he knew, for worms often plagued his mind, no matter how many times had he staved them to death or tried to butcher up.
Zuko loved this man terribly so, and ached for him all the same. For both of them were busy and had responsibilities to perform for their people, and while letters helped immensely, little could be done about the craving of physical touch. The Fire Lord could only imagine so much of Sokka’s fingers threading through his hair in the shade of the inner garden’s tree, while the birds sung their merry tunes. He could only imagine so much of Sokka’s warm breath against his skin and so much of his voice filling his ears to the fullest.
He could only hope, that Sokka’s mind was brilliant in this type of fantasy to, for, maybe, thus Sokka would not ache too much.
As Zuko blinked, resurfacing from the flight of thought, his eyes landed on the first sentence of the letter, written in a rather near script.
“My dear Zuko…”
— — — —
The springtime was a season of magnificent changes, with many of them coming along due to the Southern Water Tribe Representatives arriving in the first few weeks, as it was established somewhere in the records.
In the last week Zuko had made sure that a minimal amount of reports would be set down on his table for the period of the Ambassador’s stay. He delegated some of the lesser decision-making to the local ministers, promising them his full trust and support, and thus ended up with all but up to two two-fingers tall piles by the end of the week, which was a true miracle by itself.
By the dawn of the second day of the annual meetings, the stacks have decreased even more, and all of the immediate responses have been given. Thus, the Fire Lord had exhaled heavily and set down his brush, before standing up from the table.
The sun shone rather calmly, its rays gently caressing the trees of the inner garden, and gifting the sunset flowers some of its grace too. The birds chirped merrily in their high tunes, flying from one branch to another and preening each other’s wings with utmost care.
There was a man just entering the garden, with his dark-brown hair tied up in a high ponytail, and his blue-white robes shifting gently from the light breeze. Zuko could not take his eyes off the man for a few moments, as if frozen in time by some spell. His gaze followed every man’s step, gulping any action down, as if he was long starving of the sight and now crumbs got thrown into his face.
For a moment more the Fire Lord did not move, and for a moment more the man beneath the tree crown stood still, looking at something.
Then, there were endless corridors and stairs leading away from is office for Zuko, for he almost ran to the garden, much mindful of the servants that did not retire to a, well-deserved, break from their nightly duties still. He could feel his heart beating heavy in his chest, trying to break away from his ribcage, but the bones were strong and stubborn.
By the time the Fire Lord reached the inner gardens, Sokka had his back turned to him, and was much busy looking at the swollen buds of the pink flowers to turn around. His eyebrows were slightly furrowed, coming together at the edges, as if the young man himself was in deep thought, while Sokka was crouched down near the flowerbed, leaning into it.
“They are adjusting quite well.” All that Zuko managed to murmur, his voice slightly hoarse, as he watched as Sokka sprang to his feet in the next second, and turned around just as fast.
Neither of them spoke for quite some time, just drinking the sight of each other. An eight-months long parting contained only about sixteen letters to soothe the aches for one another. That was barely enough, and, mayhap, a much more generous count than the truth; for not all hawks could make the journey fast enough or at all, and not all letters could be answered, being simply put away for later due to the exhausting workload, and then just forgotten.
But the men could only wait so much being at an arm’s length from each other, and thus the two forms collided in a blur, melting into one another.
Sokka’s arms rested somewhere along Zuko’s chest, holding him tight, and the Fire Lord could do little but let himself be held by this man. Sokka felt to safe, so right, as if the wooden puzzle piece finally found its nook and had all the edges fit just as was intended.
Zuko, feeling the calming beat of Sokka’s heart, allowed himself the small mercy for once, for if was Sokka, and hid his face in the crook of the young man’s neck, feeling as the barely-there scent of the sea envelops him, with a more prominent smell of the inked parchment, with which Sokka always spent much time. Zuko also felt as the young man froze for a moment at the close contact, before, too, relaxing into the touch.
How truly blessed he is, to have friends that didn’t abandon him and a lover that holds him in his arms with ease, without pushing Zuko away. How truly lucky he managed to get, to find those people and for them to accept him in the end.
With that gentle thought still swimming in the ocean of his mind, Zuko pulls slightly away, and meets Sokka’s eyes almost immediately, as if looking for them by instinct.
As the young man stared into his very soul with those beautiful irises, that took all of the water’s beauty to themselves and decided to stay in that young man, to settle themselves there, Zuko managed to all but smile softly, shifting slightly so that their foreheads were to touch lightly, even if a slight askew.
Sokka was warm, truly, he was.
And maybe it was the ointment finally deciding to work, or the Spirits that had concluded between each other, that not every soul deserves never-ending suffering in order to prove themselves, but Zuko did not feel any ache lacerating his left eye or all the damaged skin around it. He felt no itching, no pulling of the sensitive flesh, despite the fact of a soft smile blooming across his face.
Could love conquer all?
There was no answer yet that Zuko could give, nor there was any desire to ponder on such a topic, for the love was in his arms and he felt no pain.
As Zuko opened his eyes once again, he found Sokka staring right at him, with the pupils drowning out the mesmerizing irises. It would not be strange, for Zuko found hie be stared at many times by this man, only that his brows were still slightly furrowed at his dark nose bridge.
"Is something wrong with my face?" The Fire Lord managed to ask, growing even more perplexed by the situation when Sokka only blinked for a few times as if resurfacing from a daze and shook his head gently.
"Nothing is wrong," said Sokka softly, "only one breathtakingly beautiful Fire Lord." By the end of the phrase, a smirk planted itself firmly on the young man's face, with playfulness glittering in his eyes.
A prayer for Agni giving him strength was the only thought ringing loudly enough in Zuko's head, as it suddenly grew devoid of any worthy comeback at the flirting. Heat quickly surged up his cheeks, as the young man opened his mouth at least to lightly curse the fool, for they were in the inner gardens, and everything had eyes and ears.
"Not here." The Fire Lord concluded after a brief pause, making a step back from Sokka, no matter how hard his heart was pained by the action.
The esteemed Ambassador only blinked, before humming in some thought, or, perhaps, in agreement. He, suddenly, was once again preoccupied by the snowstorm flowers, though did not crouch this time.
There was silence for a few minutes, ductile and not hurried, before Sokka cleared his throat.
"I am glad that the flowers are adjusting well. It was a worry before, of course you know that…" Sokka trailed off, turning to face the Fire Lord instead. His face was still in deep thought, probably trying to figure out how the flowers managed to survive the harsh summer, which was, truly, a miracle once more even with all the extensive care provided.
Zuko hummed in acknowledgement, shifting his gaze to the buds that stood strong against the gentle breeze, refusing to bow their small heads.
He vividly remembered his own confusion when Sokka presented him with the idea of planting those flowers in the royal gardens. It was not an issue that they would be planted here specifically, but more of an "in the hottest Nation of the World" issue. Because, truly, how did Sokka expect for the flowers that grew in the Oasis of the South Pole to survive the dry summers and the rainy winters?
Sokka, as it was found out a few hours later, while they laid themselves down on one of the well-made carpets in Zuko's chambers, wanted to cultivate the version of the pink flower that would withstand those conditions. Was it for the sake of boredom or not, Zuko decided not to ask, for he had placed his head too comfortably near Sokka's side, and was all but half-asleep through the long monologue.
Of course, later on the question of "Why?" came up again, for genuine curiosity had won over any type of rational thinking, such as "agricultural advancements are an important factor of managing a stable economy and content society". After the question was asked, Sokka had stared at Zuko for some time, not blinking, before saying the simplest:
"I want a part of me with you."
And his voice was still raspy from all the prolonged talking, thus the words were said rather quietly. But Sokka was met with even more confusion from the Fire Lord, for there were so many things gifted already, how could it be not enough? Zuko did feel Sokka with him through all of the crafted.
"But is it alive? Would it calm your head like the flowers?" Those blue eyes stared into his soul, peeling a layer after layer, as if carving out the softness out of a dragon paw fruit with a wooden spoon. Zuko could only look at Sokka silently, for, suddenly, there was no strength in him to answer.
They were still lying on the carpet, though Sokka was sitting with one hand still in Zuko's hair. He did not comb through it anymore, just rested it atop the young man's crown, shifting his gaze from him — forwards, and doing it multiple times.
"Plus, it is a great agricultural advancement and I am sure that many more things could be done if I will fully figure out how to succeed in this one…" Sokka continued on, with his free hand rubbing his chin.
Zuko could only hum in agreement, though it sounded more akin to a plea, to continue the conversation.
Sokka's voice had a calming timbre in it, one that made Zuko's eyes feel heavy and chest — warm. A nice voice his love had, full of wonders and safety.
In all those hours spent on the soft carpet, Sokka went through multiple options for the adaptation of the flower to the Fire Nation's climate, on all while actively gesturing with one of his hands, for the other was threading through Zuko's silky care and pressing onto his scalp from time to time.
It was a very peaceful evening, which both men recalled often in their minds, for they were together; and even if Zuko did doze off towards the end of the monologue, Sokka held little grudge against him, for the bag under his eye was rather dark and face in itself — pale. And, of course, Sokka had no issue in repeating the last bit, for he knew that the Fire Lord slumbered off to the very end, having listened to all of the important conclusions or plans made exclusively in Sokka's mind.
"Did they ever bloom? Please tell me that they did and I did not spent weeks of my life producing something that failed in the end ." Sokka's voice rang out clear in the garden, snapping Zuko out of his thoughts.
"Not yet. I think that they are still adjusting." The Fire Lord murmured, and suddenly Sokka was much closer to him, taking his hand in both of his own.
Did he mention that Sokka was astonishingly warm?
"Hm. That's a shame."
And although Zuko had impeccable memory and Sokka's full attention, the moment of them sitting down the tree escaped him. There was a rustle of the fabric, and then they were in the shade, with the young man still holding his hand gently in in his own. Sokka was studying his face, it seemed, with his brows slightly furrowed, though the gaze that the man blessed him with was nothing short of boundless adoration.
Strange, truly. Zuko felt the blood rush once again to his cheeks, before deciding, that the early morning was peaceful and tepid enough for them to sit so. The smile that lit up his face matched Sokka's own just right.
"The gardener said that their season is soon to come. In a fortnight or so, the flowerbeds shall be covered in sunset-pink." Zuko broke the eye contact with Sokka, gazing at the slightly swaying from side to side buds.
Sokka huffed a laugh, his eyes twinkling.
"Then, I can't wait to see them bloom."
Zuko hummed in response, drowning himself in the sight of Sokka.
They sat under the shade of the tree for a long time, relishing the moment until the chilled spring breeze got to them, and the two men had to flee from it into the palace walls, their cheeks heating up with gentle blush, though none were embarrassed. No morning gong had yet drummed out, but the Fire Lord knew, that the palace was barely a few moments from waking. In just a few hours there would be meetings to hold and more reports to review, with meals served and the halls filling in with buzzing of daily life.
They quietly moved through the corridors, with Zuko nodding to the passing servants from time to time, with his movements considerate and eyes - gentle. Their fingers were intertwined, fitting just right - similar to wooden puzzle pieces. Sokka's hand was warm against his.
However, those moments were not due just yet, and thus selflessness could be allowed. And they turned to the left, the fabrics of their clothes shuffling along in a measured-out dance, and in a few moments more the carved wooden doors were pushed open with Zuko's shoulder.
It was quiet in chambers, only with light gusts of wind barely moving the clasped together curtains back and forth.
Sokka let go of his hand, and at the absence of sensation Zuko turned his head around, a silent question appearing in his eyes.
The man only smiled at him, it shining brighter than the fire from his own hands, and huffed suddenly through his nose. Zuko raised his eyebrow at the action, and felt warm hands on his shoulders. They laid there gently, with but the wrists of the man actually touching the clothing and fingers - dangling in the air. Zuko felt himself pulled in closer, and let his feet carry him forward.
Sokka's nose was a breath away from his own, when loud knocking from the other side of the doors made everything freeze in place.
Zuko thought, before giving Sokka an apologetic look and calling out to whichever servant was behind the doors, that would there be any sensation left in his burned bottom eyelid, it would twitch continuously.
Reports from the Earth Kingdom were handed to him, sitting quite heavy against his chest, and the doors got closed once again with a soft click. In a few moments more the Fire Lord placed the documents down on the dark table, shifting them such no paper would topple down and towards the floor.
He swallowed down a small lump in his throat, killing it before it had the chance to fully form, and turned around once again, his eyes finding Sokka's in mere seconds.
"Sorry for this." Zuko said; and before he could move closer to the door where Sokka still stood, the young man shifted himself, coming to the table instead. That it was a wise decision the Fire Lord concluded in the next few seconds at the back of his head.
"Not your fault." Sokka said, almost huffing. His hand moved to cup Zuko's left cheek, but still itself in consideration - after all, the young man did not know if the scar pained his lover today, if he wanted his cheek to be touched at all. Zuko all but smiled at the pause and lowered his face into Sokka's hand, closing his eyes for a moment.
Sokka let out a long hum, dragging his thumb just under Zuko's bottom eyelid, his touch featherlight.
Did he mention just how warm were Sokka's hands and how pleasant it was, to be held in them?
The Fire Lord turned his head slightly to the side, and thus his dry lips found the other man's palm soon enough. A warm kiss was placed on it, somewhere closed to the side than to the centre of it.
The humming stopped short and Zuko opened his eyes once again, for the man before him was not only outstanding in mind and brave, but also well-looking, and Zuko was at no fault, if he wanted to appreciate and admire all of it.
Sokka's eyes, the colour of midday Antarctic sky, glimmered with love as much as the icy waters of the South Pole would under the sun rays.
The birds began to chirp once again, and the room got engulfed in the melodies, for every corner of it was filled with them, and the high sounds found their ways into the men's souls, breaking the ribs apart and settling themselves somewhere in the warmth of their bellies.
"May I kiss you?" Sokka's voice rang heartily against his chest, the timbre setting itself down too, wrapping itself around his own beating heart. Zuko smiled gently at the question and pulled himself away from the young man's hand.
"Mn. Of course." Zuko bent a slight closer to Sokka, letting the man take over.
Slightly chapped lips grazed his own, no less dry, in a slow kiss, Zuko found himself melting at the sensation. And as Sokka gently sucked on his lower lip, the Fire Lord's eyelashes fluttered. The kiss was a thing savoured thoroughly.
Zuko felt Sokka's hands slowly descend from his cheeks to his neck and stop at the pulse point. The man felt it beating against Sokka's fingers alike a bird desperate for freedom, hitting against the skin-cage again and again, its chirps escaping through Zuko's own throat in sighs.
After some time, the Fire Lord lost count of it, the deep ringing of the gong spread around the palace walls, travelling as far, and Zuko knew it, as the small fishermen huts just nearby the harbour.
They parted with the third hit, their cheeks slightly flushed, and Zuko could not help but smile brightly at the man before him.
"Good morning, Ambassador Sokka." Zuko said. At that, Sokka laughed incredulously, it leaving him in small huffs.
"It is indeed good, Your Majesty." Sokka answered.
And before Zuko could add anything more, his knuckles were pressed to Sokka's lips, in a less than a kiss, though not a touch it was.
'Yes,' Zuko contemplated with his thoughts flowing akin to honey, 'it would, truly, be a good day.'