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Hakoda rolls his shoulders, trying surreptitiously to stretch out the muscles in his back which have grown tense over the course of a long afternoon meeting in the heart of Caldera City. He is thankful that, over the years, these meetings have become far less tense affairs with far fewer instances of Ozai sympathisers launching attacks on the young Fire Lord for ending the war. Now, he has the privilege of being bored by the long-winded, political manoeuvring of government officials, and having the worst injury in the room be his own aching shoulders.
Though, the Fire Lord’s shoulders roll back in a similar, subtle way as Hakoda glances over at him. Perhaps he’s not the only one whose body protests the endless sitting after years of fighting for his life.
Finally, when the sun has long since set, the Fire Lord rubs the back of his neck, huffs out a soft sigh through his nose and declares, “That’s quite enough for the evening, I think. Minister Kuei, please provide my chamberlain with your documents and I will be sure to find the time to read them thoroughly before you return to Ba Sing Se.”
Minister Kuei, a young and rather passionate young woman, looks quite downtrodden at the prospect of the meeting’s end. Hakoda is quite sure she’d happily talk the Fire Lord’s ear off about wastewater systems for three straight days given half the chance.
Hakoda takes his time standing, stretching out his back and his tingling legs with slow, methodical movements. He is not as young as he once was, and nowhere near as lithe as he’d been while commanding his crew across the endless sea. As a young man, he’d thought hunting in the South Pole to be strenuous, but now he found it a welcome retirement. War changed people in many unexpected ways; it had made Hakoda grateful for the life he’d spend his teenage years complaining about.
As the foreign and domestic dignitaries begin filtering out of the counsel room, Hakoda notices the Fire Lord has made no move to stand. Without the imposing shoulder guards of his ceremonial robes, he looks smaller, more approachable. No doubt this had been the intention. In the early months, Zuko had wielded the trappings of his rank as a shield against those who would call him weak, who would usurp him to return his father to the throne. Now, among people who finally trusted him to lead with empathy and grace, he wore robes of red and gold which did a fine job of striking the balance between strength and gentleness.
There was far more gentleness in Zuko than most would ever know. Hakoda felt very privileged to have borne witness.
Under the watchful eye of the palace guards, Hakoda approaches Zuko from the right and offers his hand.
“Long day, Fire Lord?” He asks with a smile.
Zuko looks up at him slowly and huffs out a laugh. “Much like every day, Chief Hakoda,” he replies, catching Hakoda’s forearm in a mutual hold and rising gracefully to his feet. He sways a little on his feet and blinks quite firmly. A head rush, Hakoda assumes. They have been sitting for quite some time.
At 22, he still stands a little shorter than Hakoda, and the hair which is not pulled into his headpiece reaches almost to his waist. His face has lost much of the tension it carried at 16, even his scar seeming to smooth a little, lessening the permanent scowl which had adorned the left side of his face.
Hakoda doesn’t allow his gaze to linger on the scar. The truth of its origin still made him feel queasy and, besides, it was rude to stare.
When Zuko lets go of Hakoda’s arm his fingers seem to tremble slightly. Hakoda’s stomach growls. It’s been a long time since lunch.
“May I join you for dinner?” Hakoda asks. A look flashes briefly across Zuko’s face, mostly concealed by years of court training, and Hakoda quickly clarifies, “I promise not to talk politics. My children miss you. I’d like to bring them some news of your life that doesn’t revolve around sewage systems.”
Zuko’s carefully curated façade of politeness crumbles away at this and he wrinkles his nose. “I’d like if less of my life did revolve around sewage systems,” he grumbles, sounding closer to 16 than he had in many years.
A laugh jumps into Hakoda’s throat and he patted Zuko on the back in commiseration. “At least we’ve reached the stage where these types of things are at the top of the list. It seems not too long ago that we thought the war would never truly end.”
Zuko laughs then too. “I do remember ducking quite a few large boulders during those first international summits.”
Hakoda remembers too, though more vividly he remembers the look of utter terror on the attacking general’s face when a little blind girl had planted herself in front of the new Fire Lord and shattered the rocks into pieces.
“You’ve come a long way since then, both as Fire Lord and as a nation,” Hakoda muses. “You should be proud.”
“I am extremely proud of my people,” Zuko agrees, a fond smile settling onto his face.
“You should be proud of yourself too,” Hakoda says.
Zuko doesn’t answer. Hakoda doesn’t push.
They start towards the door and it’s as though walking just a few steps drains the colour completely from Zuko’s face. The speed at which the gentle pink disappears from his cheeks sends a spark of utter terror through Hakoda’s chest. Even his scar begins to look ashen and Hakoda’s paternal instincts kick in immediately, reaching to steady Zuko with a hand on both his biceps.
“Chief Hakoda,” Zuko breathes, his voice thin and ragged. “Would you be so kind as to help me sit down? I think… I might be about to faint.”
The formalities are so out of place that Hakoda almost laughs. Instead, he pulls the Fire Lord into his side and sits them both down on the floor as gently as he can. He tries to aim for one of the cushions they’d been sitting on before, but he can’t quite reach. Zuko rests his weight firmly against Hakoda, cheek pressed heavily against his shoulder, one hand clutching blindly at his tunic as his breath comes in struggling pants.
The guards by the closest door come rushing over and try to pry Zuko away, perhaps fearing espionage or political intrigue, but Zuko only clings tighter.
“Stand down,” he whispers, a strangled little sound. “He’s safe.”
The guards exchange a look. One kneels next to them, one hand on their spear, the other gently touching the Fire Lord’s forehead in a way that even Hakoda feels is too familiar for their stations. The Fire Lord, however, seems not to mind. Hakoda isn’t sure if this is due to the action being expected, or because his heart is racing and head spinning so fast he can’t stand.
The guards exchange another look, different this time.
“Sir,” says the kneeling guard. “The solstice is tomorrow.”
Hakoda’s brow furrows, completely bewildered. What importance could the date possibly have right now? Surely there are more pressing matters to attend to?
“Already?” Zuko sighs.
This must be some sort of code. The Fire Nation must have some way to protect its secrets from foreign visitors, after all.
“I will have Lan bring your evening meal to your chambers,” the guard continues.
It is not a question, though the Fire Lord still says, “No. That won’t be-” He cuts himself off with a soft groan, his distant eyes searching for Hakoda’s face. “I still feel- I’m dizzy.”
With the guard’s help, Hakoda manoeuvres Zuko carefully onto his back on the floor and lets his spinning head fall into Hakoda’s lap. Zuko’s glassy eyes look up at Hakoda as though they can’t see him, darting around fervently as though unable to focus. Hakoda lifts a hand to settle on Zuko’s head, stroking the shorter sections of hair that frame his face away from his cheeks. Some strands stick, damp with sweat.
It’s then Hakoda registers that Zuko is hot.
It’s a myth that firebenders run hotter than everyone else. Well, not exactly. There is a slight difference in the natural internal temperatures of firebenders compared to other people, but it’s mere tenths of a degree, barely enough to register. Firebenders, despite what the war had the rest of the world believing, are still people and there is a limit to how hot a body can be before it starts to shut down. The consequence of this is that firebenders have less distance to cover before a fever becomes dangerous.
Hakoda recalls this information from one of Zuko’s animated discussions with Katara during an official visit to the Southern Water Tribe. He remembers filing the overheard titbit away in case it ever became relevant.
“Zuko,” Hakoda murmurs, pleased when Zuko’s eyes appear to focus on him for a moment. “How long have you had a fever?”
Zuko blinks sluggishly. His lips part, a ragged exhale, then his eyelids flutter shut and his body goes limp.
Hakoda looks to the guard who has finally stood up again to rejoin his partner. “Please, send for a healer,” he says, searching for his Chief Voice and finding only what Sokka calls his Dad Voice. Apparently, there is a difference.
“The royal physician is already aware,” the second guard says. “We’ve been expecting this for a few days.”
So, Zuko has been sick for a while.
There is a tiny gasp from Hakoda’s lap as Zuko worms his way back to consciousness, barely out for ten seconds in all.
“You’re alright. I’ve got you,” Hakoda soothes, deft fingers freeing Zuko’s topknot from his crown. He hesitates with the headpiece in his hands, unsure if putting it on the floor would be disrespectful, until the first guard takes it from his hand.
“Ch’f ‘Koda,” Zuko mumbles, struggling weakly against Hakoda’s hands as though he’s trying to get up, to bow, to run through the formalities they’ve already covered.
Hakoda shushes him. “Don’t worry about all that.”
The first guard kneels again. “Sir, we need to get you to your chambers. Ake and I are here to assist.”
Zuko blinks. He still looks ashen. “I-I’m fine, just… so dizzy. I just… need a moment.”
The speed with which Zuko has gone from holding a complex conversation on international affairs to barely able to hold his head up is, for want of a better description, freaking Hakoda the fuck out. In war, he didn’t see soldiers progress through fevers this quickly without also seeing them die.
“If you can help him up, I can carry him,” Hakoda says, eyes flitting between the two guards.
This seems to be the right thing to say.
It takes a few minutes, and a little negotiating since Zuko is trying too hard to be self-sustaining once on his feet, but soon the Fire Lord is wrapped around the Chief of the Southern Water Tribe like a kitten-sloth, arms clinging round Hakoda’s neck and legs dangling either side of his torso. His forehead is pressed very deliberately into Hakoda’s neck and his soft, controlled huffs of breath puffing across his chest.
The journey does seem to perk Zuko up a little and he’s lifting his head to see his surroundings by the time they reach the door to his chambers. His eyes have regained some of their focus and there’s some pink returning to his cheeks. In short, he no longer looks as deathly ill as he had on the floor of the counsel room and for that Hakoda is immensely thankful.
“How do you feel?” He asks as the guards perform a final sweep of the room before they can enter. Hakoda tries not to think about how many assassination attempts Zuko faces in any given year.
“Better,” Zuko says, and Hakoda supposes this is technically the truth. “Still dizzy but I think I could stand now.”
Hakoda smiles tightly. “Let’s not push our luck, hm?”
Zuko grimaces. “I’ve never been the lucky one.”
There is no argument about walking. Hakoda sets Zuko down on his feet next to the bed and the young Fire Lord sits down heavily the moment he’s under his own steam. With another groan, he leans forward, elbows on his knees and face in his hands. Hakoda sits down next to him and places a hand on his back.
The guards at the door – different than the ones who had guided their route from the counsel room – give Hakoda twin nods before they slip back outside. Hakoda feels an immense wave of responsibility and pride that he’s been trusted with something as precious as Zuko.
Zuko who clearly feels much worse than his behaviour in the meeting would have anyone believing.
“How long have you had a fever?” Hakoda asks again.
“It started yesterday,” Zuko admits. His voice sounds like it’s scraping in his throat. “It’s always like this. I feel tired for a day, sometimes longer, and then suddenly…”
Hakoda’s hand, quite of its own accord, starts tracing Zuko’s spine, rubbing up and down his arched back tenderly as though soothing his own children. It doesn’t pain him to admit anymore that Zuko – and the rest of their ragtag crew – is as much tribe as the children he raised himself. It helps that neither Toph nor Zuko nor Aang has much in the way of supportive adults in their lives. It’s something his own children have been able to take for granted, having grown up so steeped in the love of so many. He knows, because they’ve told him as much, that they’ve come to appreciate the warmth of their upbringing all the more after learning of the more troubling lives of their closest friends and allies.
“It’s the winter solstice tomorrow,” Zuko sighs, and this time, Hakoda understands.
“Are you often sick in winter?”
Zuko lifts his head out of his hands and a frown furrows its way onto his face. “Always a fever over the solstice. Ozai always said it was a sign that I was weak.”
It has been years since Zuko has called Ozai Father.
“You aren’t weak.”
Zuko’s face softens. “I know. He was wrong about many things.”
“Especially about you,” Hakoda says emphatically.
A nod. Then, quietly, another soft groan.
“Shall I fetch someone to help you change for bed?” Hakoda asks because, as familial as he feels about Zuko, he doesn’t think Zuko feels quite so comfortable with him.
Zuko shakes his head, then seem to regret it when he lists to the side with another apparent wave of dizziness. Hakoda catches him with his body and wraps his arm tight around Zuko’s shoulders.
“Do you feel faint again?”
“It’ll pass,” Zuko mumbles, eyes closed, temple propped up on the edge of Hakoda’s shoulder. It’s not a position that looks terribly comfortable but Hakoda doesn’t dare move him.
The sweat beads return to his brow, his cheeks paling again, and Hakoda considers lying them both straight down on their backs in the hopes of preventing another full faint but Zuko comes back to himself much more quickly than before. Perhaps because they hadn’t been standing, or perhaps just the ebb and flow of a fever. Hakoda doesn’t dwell on it.
“Feel up to changing into something more comfortable?” Hakoda asks, giving Zuko a gentle squeeze.
His heart aches a little at how desperately Zuko melts into his touch. It reminds him too much of the touch-starved 16-year-old who’d keened into every fatherly pat on the shoulder. If the fever brings out that aching child, starved for love, desperate for touch, Hakoda worries that perhaps that little boy had never truly healed. Perhaps he was always inside Zuko, locked away behind manners and formalities, breaking free only when Zuko didn’t have the strength to hold the floodgates closed.
Hakoda makes a mental note to investigate that further another time, when he isn’t busy trying to wheedle a very feverish Fire Lord into putting on his pyjamas.
“I think so,” Zuko says, soft and uncertain. “I, uh, I mean-”
The tips of Zuko’s ears flush an impressive scarlet, stark against the rest of his fever-pale face. He clears his throat.
“Would you mind, uh, staying? I mean, not to help, just…”
“Of course,” Hakoda says before Zuko can waste his strength defending a perfectly reasonable request.
With more fiery blushing (and more gentle assurance), Zuko points Hakoda to where his sleeping clothes are kept and slowly strips off his robes while Hakoda politely turns his back. He stays sitting on the bed, still within arm’s reach, just in case.
There’s a knock at the door just as Hakoda is pulling back the covers for Zuko to climb under.
“Enter,” Zuko tries to say but the word comes out as a choked whisper and the effort of talking and moving at the same time causes him to all but tumble against his pillows.
“Enter,” Hakoda echoes as he’s pulling the thick, winter blankets up over Zuko’s legs.
An older man with greying sideburns enters carrying a tray with steaming broth and a cup of tea which smells medicinal.
“My Lord,” he says with a low bow before bringing the tray to Zuko’s bedside and setting it down. “The tea is by order of Healer Panji and is non-negotiable. The broth is by order of Chef Jin and is negotiable if you are willing to face her in combat.”
Zuko huffs out a breathless laugh. “I may have to take my chances. I might just stay awake long enough to make it through the tea.”
Watching Zuko with his staff gives Hakoda a feeling of great relief. It’s clear the palace staff care for their Fire Lord very much, above and beyond the call of duty. There is a calmness, a playfulness he’d never have associated with any royal palace, let alone that of the Fire Nation. But Hakoda is glad to have been wrong.
“I shall prepare your dao for battle then, sir,” the servant says with an indulgent smile. “And since it is unlikely you will be well enough to hear it tomorrow, I’d like to pass along my good wishes for your birthday.”
“Thank you, Lan,” Zuko says, his voice losing strength with every syllable, eyes fluttering shut. “My best to your family.”
“My Lord,” Lan says, bowing again as he leaves.
It’s Hakoda’s turn to blink owlishly.
“Your birthday is the winter solstice?” He asks, stunned that he hasn’t gathered this information in the past six years.
A different sort of smile tugs at Zuko’s lips, almost mocking. Sardonic. “A bad omen for a Fire Nation royal.”
Something uncomfortable twists in Hakoda’s gut; those words don’t sound like they’re his own. Quickly, he pushes the thought away. That is a conversation for when Zuko is fully lucid. Frantically, Hakoda searches for something else to say before Zuko decides to elaborate and settles on: “You said you were always sick on the solstice.”
Zuko cracks one eye open, looking puzzled.
“You’re always sick on your birthday? Every year?”
It sounds awful. Birthdays are an important part of Hakoda’s culture and demand celebration. The thought of poor Zuko shivering away his birthdays in bed, likely alone…
“Not every year,” Zuko sighs, both eyes open again, dazed but valiantly seeking to hold Hakoda’s gaze. “On my ship, I was fine. Even the first year back in the palace, nothing happened. I thought I’d grown out of it.”
“And every year since?”
“Without fail,” Zuko confirms, looking quite put out.
Hakoda is as sure as he can be that Zuko has not told anyone outside his staff of these ongoing fevers. If he had, Hakoda is certain at least one of his friends, or even his uncle, would have returned to care for him on his birthday. With this certainty, he doesn’t ask. He will, when Zuko is well again, but guilt won’t do him any good right now.
“Come on,” Hakoda says at last, sliding an arm around Zuko’s back again. “Let’s get this tea down you and then you can sleep.”
With Zuko’s somewhat pathetic help, Hakoda is able to lever his upper body off the bed and shove a few extra pillows behind him to prop him up enough to drink. The effort of helping seems to drain Zuko’s remaining energy and it’s with obvious effort that he takes the cup from Hakoda and holds it steady to drink.
Hakoda deliberately does not hover, instead busying his hands with unwinding the ribbon that holds Zuko’s topknot in place. A soft moan of relief echoes from Zuko’s teacup as his hair falls loose, so Hakoda takes this as an invitation to run his fingers over Zuko’s scalp the way he does when Sokka has a headache. Again, Zuko leans into the touch like a man half-starved.
“Still dizzy?” Hakoda asks softly, once Zuko’s tea is halfway gone.
Zuko hums. “Yes, but better. Thank you for helping me to bed.”
“Anytime, son,” Hakoda replies and Zuko, just for a moment, tenses as though ready to run. Hakoda blinks, and the fear is gone, and Zuko just looks weary.
“I shouldn’t ask,” Zuko says, the ancient look in his eye battling with the sudden childlike cadence of his voice. His eyes are blown wide as he catches Hakoda’s gaze, glassy and bright. “But please would you stay?”
Hakoda gets the feeling Zuko has asked this exact question before, begged on his sickbed for someone to hold his hand, and was denied.
“Of course,” Hakoda says immediately, mentally cancelling his plans to set sail for Republic City tomorrow evening. “Would you like to stay just like this?”
Zuko looks torn and so, so young. Hakoda doesn’t wait for the answer that will never come; it’s written all over the poor boy’s face.
“Once you’ve finished your tea,” Hakoda says, gently nudging the hand holding the teacup to remind Zuko of its presence, “I will ask after some sleep clothes for myself and we’ll get you comfortable.”
Hakoda gently scratches Zuko’s scalp as he slowly sips the rest of his tea. His strength is fading again, eyelids fluttering as he struggles to stay awake. Plucking the teacup from his pliant fingers, Hakoda speaks with a guard outside the door to relay their plans and is surprised to be presented with waiting sleep clothes in exactly his size. He is once again struck by how warmly the palace cares for its master and does his best imitation of a Fire Nation bow, hands tucked into the same flame he has seen Zuko make countless times. He’s sure he bows too low by the flustered look on the guard’s face.
He changes by the door and sets his clothes down on a chest of drawers before he settles down next to Zuko again. The boy immediately curls into him, seeking his body as though it were the sun.
Though Fire Nation winters are not cold by Hakoda’s standards, he still finds himself chilled in just a layer of thin cotton. Zuko is apparently still awake enough to realise this too.
“You’ll get sick too, dressed like that,” he mumbles against Hakoda’s shoulder. He tugs pathetically at the blanket, trying to free it from under Hakoda’s weight with minimal success.
Hakoda chuckles fondly, catching the fumbling hands to still them. “Alright, I can manage that. You just rest.”
So Hakoda, Chief of the Southern Water Tribe, slips under the covers where a very cuddly young Fire Lord promptly wraps himself around him, thoroughly acquainting Hakoda with just how hot his skin is. The fever is burning through him, radiating in swollen waves.
Heart clenching, Hakoda calls for the guard who seems not the slightest bit fazed by the scene before him. “Please could you fetch us a rag and some cold water?”
Hakoda sweeps Zuko’s sweat soaked hair back from his face, picking at the stubborn strands which stick to his damp cheeks. The guard returns moments later to find Hakoda halfway through awkwardly braiding Zuko’s hair while still tangled in the clingy firebender’s arms. A fond look crosses the guard’s face as he sets down the bowl and he takes the half-finished braid from Hakoda’s hands, deftly weaving the remaining hair in the same pattern until the braid begins to thin at the ends. Here, Hakoda produces the ribbon he’d removed from Zuko’s hair and the guard swiftly ties off the braid before bowing and taking his leave.
It takes everything in Hakoda not to imagine Zuko growing up with his own children, face unmarred by cruelty and a braid like this tumbling down his back.
Hakoda plucks the rag from the bowl and squeezes the excess water with one hand.
“Zuko?”
Zuko hums, or possibly groans, against Hakoda’s shoulder.
“Hopefully this will make you feel a bit better but it will probably be unpleasant at first,” Hakoda says quietly, and gently wipes the sweat from Zuko’s face with cold water.
The effect is immediate. Zuko’s entire body shudders like he’s trapped in a polar ice cave wearing nothing but his pyjamas, and he tries to bury his face in Hakoda’s chest to avoid the cloth. Hakoda switches to running the cloth over the back of his neck and gets a pathetic whimper of protest.
He dunks the cloth back into the bowl and wrings it out once more before folding it up, with some difficulty using only one hand, and gently extracts Zuko’s face from his chest so he can place the cloth across his forehead.
This time, Zuko sighs into the feeling, though his body still trembles slightly under the blankets. Hakoda pulls him closer and adjusts his position slightly so that Zuko can rest his head on his chest rather than his bony shoulder. The boy slots under his arm like he was born to be there and a rush of affection swells through Hakoda’s chest, unbidden but not unwelcome.
“Thank you,” Zuko whispers, barely audible.
Hakoda’s hand finds the end of Zuko’s braid and he tangles the loose ends through his fingers, letting his eyes close as Zuko’s body starts to go limp against him again. This time, however, Hakoda welcomes the sensation as one of safety rather than fuelled by overwhelming dizziness.
“Anytime, son,” Hakoda says again and, this time, Zuko is calm.