what am i supposed to say, here you go, here's a really long chapter, also exams are over so i actually have time to write now?

hope you like it? i really don't know what anyone is doing in this chapter, everyone's a mess and so is my writing

Crossing the River

Sokka stared deliberately down into his teacup, feigning preoccupied fascination in an attempt to disappear into nonexistence. Not that he really needed to try much at the moment, since the only other occupants of the room were completely ignoring him anyway in favour of continuing their heated discussion. Sokka couldn't technically call it an argument yet, since Zuko was still seated and fairly rational, which meant that however acrimonious the discussion was becoming, it still hadn't (yet) crossed Sokka's mental boundary out of conversation territory.

He supposed, in the back of his mind, that he should be kind of flattered that they felt comfortable enough to engage in familial disputes in his presence. God knows how many times he and Katara had kept their argumentative mouths shut in the company of guests.

Zuko interrupted his idle thoughts with an exasperated roll of his eyes from across the table at whatever new tactic Iroh had just tried to employ. He huffed out angry bubbles. "Uncle, how many times-"

"I know, I know," Iroh consoled in a sympathetic tone, almost as if he were agreeing, despite the fact that everyone in the room knew the opinion he held on the matter starkly opposed Zuko's protests.

Zuko's lip curled in annoyance. "Obviously you don't know, otherwise you wouldn't keep suggesting it!"

Iroh sighed plaintively into his tea. "Zuko, I am not asking much of you-"

Zuko scoffed.

"-just that, perhaps," Iroh prodded tentatively, "you begin looking for a spouse."

Zuko had his mouth open to object, but Iroh promptly cut in before he could get a word out.

"When you were a child I made my decision not to arrange a marriage for you so that one day you would be able to choose for yourself. But time is marching on, nephew. If my bloodline is not secure, the people will worry for the future of this nation, and an unhappy people makes for an unhappy country."

Zuko fixed his uncle with a dry grimace. "You know I'm grateful about that. But it's not like I haven't got plenty of time left, uncle." He turned his gaze to his food, face twisting awkwardly, before muttering, "I'm sure I'll find someone eventually."

Iroh grinned fondly. "I only ask that you try." Zuko made a small, incoherent noise, maybe of protest (or maybe of agreement - pretty much everything Zuko said managed to sound angry and mildly affronted). Iroh seemed to think it was the latter, and took mercy on him and diverted the subject away from Zuko's marriage troubles.

He turned to Sokka. "So, Sokka," he began casually, and Sokka felt his stomach drop out. "A fine young man like yourself must be married."

Zuko's head snapped up.

Sokka cleared his throat, taking a long swig of water. "Um, no, actually," he mumbled, avoiding eye contact with the other occupants of the table.

"Really?" Genuine surprise shone in Iroh's voice. "But you must be of marrying age. Is your kingdom not so concerned with producing an heir?"

Sokka resisted the initial sting of the words, because they only served to remind him what a big fat liar he was, and he was so not in the mood for a guilt trip right now. So instead he focused on the muted panic of having to spout out a stream of completely impromptu lies and make them sound legitimate.

"Uh, well," he said, buying time, "people generally get married a bit older in my kingdom. You know, just a couple of years, but I mean, I'm only just eligible for marriage so no one's too worried yet..." he mumbled, pushing half-eaten urchins around on his plate.

"Ah," Iroh said with understanding, nodding sagely, and Sokka breathed a silent sigh of relief. "I see. Different customs, I suppose." He tipped his head slightly in thought, before asking with a pleasant smile, "Are you seeing anyone?"

Sokka shook his head, wishing the floor would open up its massive jaws and eat him alive, because this was absolutely not an okay conversation to be having with someone like Iroh, in front of Zuko.

"Hm," Iroh said thoughtfully, before a devious smirk crept onto his face. Zuko was beginning to look rather alarmed, and then Iroh barked out a laugh and looked pointedly at Zuko. "Too bad you can't just marry Sokka here and be done with it!" Iroh guffawed.

Sokka felt his entire face burn, and a surreptitious glance at Zuko revealed a similar colour flooding his pale cheeks.

The faint buzz of panic began to fade as the conversation moved haltingly forward and Sokka realised it had only been an innocent joke, and he wasn't actually busted. Thank fuck, because if anyone - let alone Iroh or (god forbid) Zuko himself - found out about this stupid goddamn crush he would die of humiliation on the spot.

He hadn't felt this silly since high school, which was way, way over, and he didn't know why on earth he'd expected adult crushes to feel any less ludicrous than teenage ones, because they didn't. At all.

You know, Sokka thought to himself as he was once again blasted across the training court into the opposite wall, maybe I'm getting kinda good at this.

Zuko pursed his lips. "Sloppy," he called out, full teacher mode. He glided slowly over as Sokka dragged himself up and picked bits of gravel out of the kinks in his scales

"If I'm so sloppy today," Sokka challenged, overcome with an odd wave of self-assurance, "then how do you explain that?"

Zuko's gaze followed Sokka's finger, pointing to an amorphous eggplant-purple bruise on his upper arm where Sokka had actually landed a firm hit with the flat of his blade.

Zuko's eyes lifted heavenwards with irritation. "Yes, congratulations Sokka, you actually managed one hit out of two hundred. Your skills are overwhelming."

"I'll have you know I don't appreciate your sarcasm."

"And I don't appreciate your overconfidence." Zuko handed him back his sword, and there was something in his voice betraying his cold exterior. Maybe Sokka was just imagining it - though embarrassing to admit, it wouldn't be the first time he'd invented an entire epic romance out of thin air - but when he took the sword and Zuko's fingers brushed against his for just a little longer than necessary, Sokka thought, maybe not.

Zuko swam back to the opposite side of the court, sinking fluidly into position. "Again."

"Oh, Sokka!"

He turned at the sound of Iroh's voice as he hurried rather haphazardly down the corridor. "Yeah?"

Iroh held out a wad of official-looking papers. "Could you find Zuko and give these to him? He was supposed to look over these notes before the next meeting, but for some reason he hasn't found the time, and I'm afraid if he doesn't receive these papers very soon then he will be rather at a loss in the meeting this afternoon." Iroh quirked his lips in fond annoyance. "It will be the first meeting he will lead by himself, without me there. Nothing too important for the future of the world, of course," Iroh joked mildly, "but it is rather a continuation of a previous meeting over crop exports which was never resolved." He gestured for Sokka to take the papers, and he belatedly did. The stack was surprisingly heavy. "I would give them to him myself, but I have a meeting scheduled to start in five minutes." Iroh shot past him then, down the corridor, with only a brief wave over his shoulder. "Thank you, I'm sure Zuko will appreciate it!"

Sokka was left just a bit dumbstruck. He hadn't even had the chance to say anything - to protest, to say he had no idea where Zuko was, what he might be doing right now, how to contact him, whether he would even be able to find him in time for Zuko to read over the notes. But here he was, in the middle of the corridor, holding the key out of a very embarrassing situation.

He had to find Zuko.

The logical first course of action was to check Zuko's wing. Unfortunately, Zuko's wing was too fucking big, and Sokka managed to get lost a total of three separate times before he found Zuko's private quarters.

And when he finally, finally got there and knocked impatiently, there was no answer.

He even walked straight in when he realised the door was unlocked, but still no Zuko. No Zuko in the lounge, no Zuko in the bedroom, no Zuko in the bathroom.

No Zuko.

He stopped a passing servant outside the quarters and asked, trying to sound as casual and not-desperate as possible, "Would you happen to know where Zuko went?"

She answered, "I believe he was on his way to the royal baths, sir."

Royal baths. "Royal baths," he echoed, voice slightly strained with dread, "as in, bathing?"

She fixed him with a sharply neutral expression. "That would be the point of the baths, sir."

Sokka could feel a spike of heat at the base of his neck, but stubbornly ignored it. Now was not the time. He had to deliver important work-related papers to Zuko, right now, location be damned - even if he was bathing. Which, nope, Sokka was not thinking about. Not one bit. "Where - I mean, do you know where the royal baths are?" he asked, pretty sure he'd mumbled too much to be audible. He shifted his weight around with antsy embarrassment, like she could hear all the inappropriate thoughts flashing through his head.

She pointed down the corridor, towards the main wing. "First floor, second door on your left when you get to the entrance lounge."

Sokka could visualise it. "Thanks," he said quickly and rushed towards the main wing. As he shot through doorways and down corridors and across lawns, he couldn't help but wonder why Zuko had chosen to bathe in the main wing, where there was comparatively little privacy, rather than in his own bathroom. It wasn't like it was small or grotty or anything. In fact, it was the roomiest, fanciest bathroom Sokka had ever seen, gold inlay everywhere, and the bathtub had been generous enough to fit at least two people. How much better could the communal royal baths really be?

Answer: so much better.

Sokka nearly dropped the papers when he opened the door. A massive, huge, gigantic room, easily twice as big as the meeting hall, and smack bang in the center of it was a yawning chasm of a bathtub, built right into the floor, and made of solid marble.

There was a merman in this bath, but it wasn't Zuko. He turned when Sokka entered the room and fixed him with a stare Sokka decidedly did not like.

"Why hello, Prince Sokka," the merman said, and Sokka recognised him now - it was the burly man who'd led the palanquin when he'd first arrived a month ago. Sokka hadn't liked him much back then - his pompous attitude made his skin prickle with irritation - but now he really, really disliked him. And his stupid fucking sideburns. Didn't he know they went out of fashion, like, forty years ago?

Sokka watched as the merman let his gaze drift right over Sokka, eying him up like he was prey ready to be ripped apart, and cold chills streaked through him despite the humid warmth. He wanted to shrink into his skin and away from those beady vulture eyes.

Sokka wanted to punch that smug smirk right off his face.

He swam past, not deigning him with a reply, and through the nearest archway.

The relief that swept through him when he was out of sight was doused as soon as he saw who was lounging in this particular bath. The room and the tub mirrored the previous, with one crucial difference.

Well, Sokka thought, at least I found Zuko.

"Uh," he said intelligibly, and fumbled with the papers in his hands.

It was enough to alert Zuko to his presence. Zuko turned, his back no longer facing Sokka, and leant his elbows up against the rim, his arms folding in front of him. "Sokka," he greeted, his tone indicating both surprise and confusion. Understandable, really, when someone walks in on your bath without warning.

Sokka had learned during his time in the palace that this was a place where people routinely bathed together in large groups, which was pretty cool, even though Sokka hadn't quite worked up the courage to use the communal baths yet. (Although, looking at their sheer luxury now, he might be persuaded to take a dip later.)

Still, knowing it in theory didn't make Sokka any more accustomed to walking in on people in the bath.

He shifted slightly, trying to keep as casual as possible, because come on it wasn't even as if he could see anything, so there was really no need to feel so uncomfortable. Really. Absolutely no need to clear his throat as he watched the droplets that refused to mix with the ocean rolling down Zuko's arms. Definitely no need to take a deep breath at that blazing look in Zuko's eye.

He tried to remind himself of the absolute lack of bath-related discomfort he'd felt in the burly man's presence, but of course it didn't work, because that man wasn't Zuko. The problem here wasn't the bath, or the bathing, or even just the shimmering water on Zuko's skin. The problem was that Sokka was ridiculously infatuated with a man who was allergic to shirts. The wet and damp thing just made the whole situation even worse.

Zuko tipped his head to the side, probably still waiting for Sokka to stop gawking and start getting to the point of this visit, and lazily out of the water flipped a shiny tail. It gleamed with a sheen of dazzling gold that Sokka hadn't seen on anyone else in the palace and was secretly quite in awe of. Not that he would actually tell Zuko that.

Sokka gazed at the tail swishing smoothly through the water, and he wondered if Zuko was even aware he was moving it. Maybe it was the mermaid equivalent of the knee jiggle or foot tap.

One of Zuko's eyebrows rose, and Sokka felt himself flush. "Are you okay?" Zuko asked, sounding somewhere between amused and apprehensive, blissfully ignorant to the thoughts running through Sokka's head. "You looked like you had something to say when you came in, but you've been standing there staring for a while now."

"Yeah, I, uh-" he stumbled, trying to look somewhere that wasn't Zuko and the steam-heat flush on the bridge of his nose but absolutely not managing it at all. "Papers," he said, shoving the notes forward and hoping Zuko would miraculously know what he was talking about, because Sokka sure as hell didn't. It was getting pretty annoying to deal with, actually, this whole thing he had going on, because he distinctly remembered something similar happening during training yesterday when Zuko had suddenly and abruptly torn off his shirt and thrown it across the court, and Sokka had actually dropped his sword. Did Zuko have some sort of bet going with himself on how many times he could disrobe in a single day?

The other eyebrow rose to meet the first along Zuko's hairline, and they knitted together in bewilderment. A strand of hair had eased itself loose of his topknot, and Sokka stared at the way it curled in the heat. "What?" Zuko asked, totally perplexed, eyes flitting between the stack of notes in Sokka's hands and his face, which Sokka was sure was burning redder than that time he'd eaten an entire chili pepper in one go on a dare. His mouth felt even drier, too.

"The meeting," Sokka tried his best to clarify, focusing on getting the words out in the right order, though all sensible trains of thought had left the station five minutes ago and were now very far out of sight, bye bye, farewell, I'm going to hell. "The papers. For the meeting."

Zuko looked a bit less nonplussed now. "The one this afternoon?"

Sokka nodded jerkily.

Zuko reached a hand up to take the notes and Sokka nearly threw them right at him, because no, no he wasn't looking at the writhe of muscles under glistening skin.

He didn't throw them, and Zuko took them calmly, side-eyeing Sokka over the notes. "Are you sure you're okay?" he asked cautiously, and there was something in his gaze that Sokka couldn't quite identify, but it made his heart hammer in his chest. "You're bright red."

Sokka puffed out a slightly hysterical and dry-throated laugh. "Yeah, wow, just, it's like a sauna in here, phew," he said, shaking his head in mock disbelief and making a show of fanning himself with his hands.

Zuko didn't look for one second like he believed him, but he graciously let the subject drop and glanced down towards the papers, attention now (finally) diverted away from Sokka's bizarre behaviour.

Sokka stood by, awkwardly watching as Zuko rifled through the leaves of notes, gaze now focused and intense. "Thanks," he murmured distantly, mind already sucked into the pages.

Sokka took that as a dismissal and quickly turned, throwing a final glance over his shoulder in case Zuko said something else, and as soon as he was through the door he high-tailed it out of there as fast as he could swim.

"Left, duck, jab," Sokka muttered, thrusting his sword forward with one sharp motion. The practice dummy creaked in protest as it was impaled right through the heart, but Sokka didn't let himself preen too much. If the dummy had been Zuko, he would have swung up and slammed the flat of his blade against Sokka's right side hard enough to make him drop his sword, and it would have bruised for three days. Too slow, Sokka could hear him scold, as his rib twinged with a phantom ache from Zuko's sword. Stop leaving yourself wide open like that. If this were real combat you'd be dead.

Sokka dropped out of position, bringing a hand up to ghost along his unblemished right side. Training alone was always kinda strange, because the court seemed so empty and silent without Zuko there to snap at him - and, very occasionally, blink in impressed surprise. Those moments were becoming a little more frequent, now, due to all the spare time Sokka was putting into training by himself.

If he was being perfectly, completely, painfully honest with himself here, he could maybe just a tiny little bit admit that all the effort he was putting into training had a bit less to do with the actual swords, and a bit more to do with the astoundingly amazing feeling of earning Zuko's admiration and respect.

"Sokka!"

Sokka nearly jumped out of his skin. Speak of the devil.

Zuko swooshed over the railings, stopping rather too close for Sokka's comfort, and he was now uncomfortably aware of his own shirtless state. Zuko seemed not to have noticed, thankfully (unfortunately?), his golden eyes locked onto Sokka's and his face split in an uncharacteristic grin that made Sokka's heart jump into his throat. "Sokka, thank you so much," he said with deep emphasis, hands reaching to squeeze Sokka's bare shoulders and wow his head was spinning.

"Um, you're welcome," Sokka murmured, gravel in his throat. "But - what?"

"Those notes you gave me," Zuko clarified, hands still on his shoulders, thumbs resting against his collarbone, as if Zuko had forgotten he'd put them there. "If you hadn't - I had no idea there even were any notes. I would've just gone straight in there and made a massive fool of myself in front of all the generals and probably never would have been able to leave my room again out of embarrassment." He looked pretty self-conscious now, his earlier gusto diffusing out of him.

Sokka blinked. "Oh, right. Well, you're welcome, I guess. Iroh actually sent me, but, y'know. I'll take some credit."

"Well, still. I owe you. I guess your kingdom is a lot better organised than this one, with a prince like you who's actually competent," Zuko joked, but it sank Sokka's stomach like lead. The guilt washed heavy through him as he was reminded yet again that he was incongruous with this place, that the comfortable little niche he'd made for himself here was built entirely on a lie.

Yeah, Sokka thought ruefully, a prince like me.

Zuko still wasn't retreating, which was a little odd really, considering his constant need for personal space and general aversion to physical contact, and yeah Sokka was definitely overthinking this but how could he not, with Zuko mere inches away from him and still not breaking eye contact, and his golden eyes were burning -

- and Zuko was leaning forward, hands snaking around to Sokka's shoulder blades, and he was kissing him.

Zuko was kissing him.

Zuko was kissing him.

Sokka needed some oxygen at this point, he really did, because clearly this was all some bizarre hallucination, Zuko's lips so firmly pressed against his own, insistent and soft with just enough aggression to make Sokka's eyes roll back into his head. No way was this actually happening. This was fantasy material right here, he knew that, not reality material. Zuko just didn't like him that way. He'd almost come to accept it.

The tentative swipe of a tongue against his bottom lip wrenched him back into reality, and god help him he opened his mouth. Somewhere along the line his hands had found Zuko's waist, he realised distantly, as his fingers trailed down his sides and his thumbs dipped under the silken hem at Zuko's hips and he finally found the sense to kiss back properly. He matched Zuko's every movement, every stroke, every twist of tongue, and when Zuko tugged at his hair for better access he complied, pressing forward with a fierce hunger. Urgent heat streaked through his veins, and when his hands skimmed Zuko's smooth abdomen he could feel his rapid pulse in his stomach, and he felt more than heard the rasping low whine in Zuko's throat when he licked along the roof of his mouth. Zuko's breath against his lips and tongue was ragged and quick, and the hot scent of warm and Zuko enveloping him was intoxicating.

They broke contact only for breath, loose-limbed and light-headed from the dizzying slide of tongue, and as Sokka dragged his teeth along Zuko's lip he moaned.

The sound cut through his haze of primal instinct, and Sokka was hit with a brutal awareness of where they were and what they were doing.

He pulled back jarringly, and judging from the shock forming in Zuko's expression, he'd realised the same thing.

Zuko disentangled himself hurriedly, glancing anxiously around them to check they'd been alone, and Sokka was flooded with ice, skin tingling with cold where Zuko's heat had been pressed against him. Sokka folded his arms across his chest to try to keep the warmth in, but with every passing second, the chill only spread.

Zuko's mouth was open (still open, saliva on his lips) as if he wanted to say something, and Sokka could see the words swimming in his eyes.

But whatever the words were, he swallowed them. "I'm sorry," he said instead, voice flat, eyes averted.

And there it was, finally, the chilling, overwhelming feeling of what the fuck just happened. He wasn't sure what to say, really, because what did you say in situations like this? The only people he'd kissed like that had been people he'd already been dating, people he'd already established a mutual attraction with. Not people he'd been mooning over for a week who'd given him a total of minus three signals, proceeded to kiss him out of his mind, and then apologised for it.

So Sokka said nothing instead, because that was so much better than saying something stupid like he always did. His throat burned with the urge to call out as Zuko turned, to tell him there was nothing to be sorry about, that it was the best damn kiss he'd ever had, but something must have glued his tongue to the roof of his mouth because instead he just stared and watched Zuko swim away.

The next few days were hell.

It was obvious that Zuko was trying his best to forget it ever happened, which would have been okay if he wasn't so incredibly shit at it.

Whenever their eyes met over the table, or they passed each other in the corridor, or Zuko turned up at the training ground while Sokka was practising solo, it was like the kiss replayed itself all over again. Sokka could almost see it play in his eyes like a film reel, and every time it happened Zuko froze, choked roughly if he was unfortunate enough to have been eating, and flushed an impossibly deep shade of incredibly embarrassed.

Sokka tried a few times to leave subtle hints, because Zuko clearly wasn't getting it with all of the extra brooding he'd been doing lately, that the whole thing was okay. That there was no need for brooding, or apologies, or seriously awkward avoidance tactics. But it didn't help, because Zuko was the most hard-headed, stubborn and infuriatingly oblivious person Sokka had ever met in his whole life, and when he saw the dark shine of guilt in Zuko's eyes he wanted to break something, smash something fragile into a million sharp little pieces, because Zuko had absolutely no right to feel so guilty. It was Sokka who was the guilty party here with the secrets and the lies and the completely accidental torch he had no right to be carrying for a fucking mermaid prince.

He figured it was over, then, their friendship. The friendship Sokka had sacrificed his legs to gain. That everything had been for nothing, and that he should probably go back to the boat, get his legs back and go on with his life and eventually the weighty clench in his chest would loosen and this whole thing would just fade out into some super weird dream.

But then, six days afterwards, something amazing happened.

One particular meeting was really dragging on, and Sokka actually caught one of the general's heads dipping in fatigue at one point. He and Zuko had been seated beside each other, everyone crammed together around the long table like sardines to make room for the entire entourage of their guest from the neighbouring kingdom.

They were pressed shoulder-to-shoulder, and Sokka would be lying if he said Zuko's shoulder plates weren't digging uncomfortably into his flesh. Zuko's head was turned away, towards the guest at the end of the table, and Sokka honest to god had no idea how he was still concentrating at this point in the doze-fest. He himself was on the brink of sleep, actually, and could almost see the dark tendrils of dreams swimming in his vision before he was jerked harshly awake -

- by the feeling of Zuko's hand over his own.

At first, fighting the urge to hyperventilate and/or pass out from shock, Sokka tried to be logical about it. They were sitting very, very close together. The way everyone was kneeling, there really wasn't that much room between anyone, and some hands, if they happened to move in a similar direction at the same time, would surely bump into each other. That was the price to pay for having too many people seated around the same table, Sokka reasoned. Zuko wasn't looking at him, had no way to tell where Sokka or his hands were. He'd probably just moved his hand absentmindedly, and it had unfortunately landed right over Sokka's. That was obviously what had happened here.

So Sokka kept his cool and remained statue-still, almost afraid to breathe in case the world turned inside out and everyone's eyeballs imploded. Zuko's hand didn't move either, which meant that he wasn't particularly bothered about this outcome. Which annoyed Sokka slightly, truth be told, because if Sokka was going to continue to beat himself up like this he at least wanted the satisfaction of seeing some mild discomfort on Zuko's end, considering it was him who'd gotten them into this mess in the first place with that goddamn kiss.

But then Zuko's hand shifted slightly, somehow managing to totally swamp Sokka's despite the fact that his hands were actually slightly smaller (not that Sokka had been keeping track) and his fingers curled between Sokka's own, and holy shit Zuko was holding his hand.

Real, genuine hand-holding, interlaced fingers, the lot.

And, okay, Sokka wasn't usually the hand-holding type, because it was generally pretty awkward trying to hold someone's hand and eat a bag of chips with the other, but right now he wasn't trying to eat anything one-handed, and Zuko's hand was really, really warm and not in a sweaty way, and actually felt super soft despite the callouses. And then Sokka realised something, and immediately wanted to slap himself for not realising it a week ago, because it was actually not really a realisation at all and more like a connection between two completely obvious things, both of which he'd known for ages.

Obvious Thing Number One: Zuko wasn't very talkative. He never had been. He'd loosened up in the time that Sokka had known him, but he was still on the quiet side, his speech limited to the bare necessities plus the occasional sarcastic jab. It had been pretty obvious from their first meeting that Zuko wasn't exactly the smoothest guy around, was in fact possibly the most socially awkward person Sokka had ever met, and from his reluctance to talk about anything serious or personal Sokka had just kind of assumed Zuko was one of those meticulously private people, you know, never put anything on their desk at work, never change the desktop background from default, has three separate locks on their phone and a strip of masking tape over the webcam. Zuko didn't like talking about his deep feelings, which was just as well really because he was pretty shit at it. This consequently led to a strong tendency to do rather than say. When he was angry (as he frequently was, though thankfully not often at Sokka), he threw things, slammed doors, growled aggressively at anyone who tried calm down and let's talk about this on him. Zuko was the physical incarnation of the phrase "actions speak louder than words".

Obvious Thing Number Two: Six days ago Zuko had kissed him, and about a minute ago had reached over to hold his hand.

As Sokka felt the heat of Zuko's palm seep into his skin and flood his insides with fluttering warmth, he made the connection. Zuko might not have spoken to him at all lately, but it wasn't because he'd been avoiding him, or trying to forget what had happened, or anything like that at all. He'd been wondering what to do about it.

And here he was, holding Sokka's hand, doing something about it.

Sokka couldn't believe he'd been such an idiot.

He shifted his hand, untangled Zuko's fingers from between his own, and he saw the tendons in Zuko's neck tense. But before Zuko could get the wrong idea - because no way was Sokka going to let that happen now after he'd finally cleared up this landslide obstacle of a misunderstanding - he turned his hand over, palm-up, wiggled his fingers between Zuko's and crushed Zuko's hand in the firmest, most certain handhold he'd ever experienced.

He saw the corner of Zuko's mouth quirk up.

Iroh was staring at him.

Iroh was staring at him very suspiciously.

It made Sokka really incredibly nervous, actually, because Iroh's eyes were sharp and almost narrowed as he covertly sized Sokka up over the rim of his teacup.

"I can't help but notice," he started neutrally, sliding a Pai Sho tile across the board, "that you and my nephew seem to be getting along very well as of late."

Sokka wasn't sure what to say without accidentally incriminating himself, so he just nodded. The board provided a useful excuse for avoiding eye contact as he distractedly considered his next move.

There was a significant pause before Iroh spoke again. "You must have realised by now, after staying here for so long, that Zuko does not make friends very easily. In fact, he finds it rather difficult even making acquaintances, since he has the unfortunate habit of becoming quite rude when confronted with an uncomfortable situation." Iroh smiled at Sokka, letting out a pleased sigh after taking a sip of tea. "Now don't get me wrong, Zuko does have friends, but never have I seen him take such an interest in someone before as he has done in you. He rarely talks about you, but only because whenever I bring you up in conversation he seems to get rather flustered."

Oh shit. Sokka swallowed. He'd been busted. He could see it in the way Iroh was raising his eyebrows meaningfully at him.

"Now, I understand that I am probably the last person with whom you want to discuss the - special interests you share with my nephew," Iroh continued, and Sokka had to restrain himself from wincing in embarrassment. "And correct me if I'm getting the wrong idea, I do have a tendency to occasionally jump to conclusions," Iroh chuckled, "but I want you to know that I think you are a fine young man, Prince Sokka-"

Sokka cringed with guilt at the title.

"-and that any relations you and my nephew choose to share will have my support." Iroh winked at him as he placed a tile onto the board, and with a bright grin exclaimed, "Ah, I'm afraid you lose this game, Sokka."

Sokka kept his eyes fixed intently on the board, because he was afraid that if he met Iroh's mischievous gaze he would actually explode from humiliation, and he really didn't want to mess up the pretty lounge by coating it in blood and entrails. The servants would certainly throw a fit if they had to spend the next week wiping his organs off the furniture.

Still, despite the deception on Sokka's end, he was still touched by Iroh's sentiment, so he mumbled in a faintly strangled tone, "Thanks."

Iroh's deep chuckle rumbled through Sokka's shoulder when he reached forward to pat it.

Sokka turned over again, throwing the sheets away in frustration as he gave up his valiant attempts to sleep. This was getting pretty ridiculous now. He'd never been the insomniac type - he usually fell asleep pretty much the instant his head hit the pillow. Unless it was too hot and humid, like it sometimes was in the summer, when he could never sleep more than a half hour at a time, and it always left him in the foulest mood. (And that was why Katara didn't invite him round on hot days.

But right now, it wasn't too hot. In fact, with the sheets kicked down, he could actually feel the icy pinpricks of chill, and so he reached down and pulled the covers back up to his chin, burying his face further into the silk pillowcase.

Right now, it wasn't the heat keeping him awake. It was guilt. Stupid dumb guilt which, in hindsight, he really should have anticipated before setting off on this trippy adventure in the first place.

Because sometimes, when asked about his country's national delicacies or legal system over breakfast, Sokka wondered what Zuko saw when he looked at him. A grand foreign prince, drowning in luxury and spoils of another land, a royal ambassador to the court. All great, respectable, impressive things, which would surely be attractive to a fellow prince. Someone suitable for Prince Zuko to befriend. Someone suitable for Prince Zuko to love.

Someone Sokka wasn't.

And yeah, okay, maybe he was getting unreasonably down about the whole thing. Or at least, it really wasn't stay-awake-at-night worthy. Prince or no, Zuko didn't give off the snobby vibe, and he'd never said anything nasty about the lower classes. In Sokka's presence, anyway. And even back on the boat, which was uncomfortably cramped for two people, stank of fish and was never cleaned frequently enough, Zuko had never turned his nose up at the state of the place, or at the coffee and towel he'd been offered, or at Sokka. But that didn't stop Sokka worrying every night until he tossed and turned in his sleep, lurid nightmares of Zuko's distorted face jeering with disgust Fisherman Sokka as he held Sokka's human form under the water until his lungs gave out.

Sokka had a vivid imagination.

Of course that wouldn't happen, obviously, for a lot of different reasons, but there was still an overwhelming likelihood of Zuko not speaking to him again.

Drowning would be easier to handle.

Sokka couldn't keep doing this; he couldn't keep looking Zuko in the eye and lying to him. It wasn't fair to Zuko. And he knew, if he continued on this way, that no matter what developed between the two of them, he'd never be able to shake the niggling feeling at the base of his skull that maybe Zuko didn't like him - maybe Zuko liked Prince Sokka of the Southern Subatlantic, not just plain old Sokka. Maybe Fisherman Sokka wouldn't be good enough, and he would never know if he could never be honest with Zuko.

But at the same time, the thought of telling Zuko the truth, that he was just a lowly fisherman and no prince at all - not even a mermaid - and watching Zuko's face fall and crumple with betrayal and hurt -

No. He couldn't do that. Nope, cross his heart, stick ten needles in his eyes, no way.

Sokka had to stop this, whatever they were doing, before things got too serious and he couldn't tear himself away.

He slid out of bed, resigned and determined. He couldn't tell Zuko the truth, he couldn't inflict that pain on him. But he couldn't keep lying to him, to everyone, either - he'd thought his morals were grey enough for this, but obviously they weren't. He unlocked the window and pushed it open, double-checking for guard patrols before slipping unnoticed out of his room, out of the palace, out of the city.

If he couldn't tell the truth and he couldn't keep lying, then he had to leave.

Zuko blinked groggily awake. Something had woken him up, but he wasn't -

There. That sound.

He sat up in bed, fully alert now, all lingering wisps of light sleep vanished, and pricked his ears.

He heard it again, this time louder, closer, and most definitely not a remnant of a dream, and the rush of adrenaline washed through him, accompanied by the distant gnawing of fear. It was the distinct creaking of a door. The palace was rather old, and its doors, when not properly oiled, tended to make a lot of noise. Ordinarily, the sound wouldn't bother him - servants were everywhere, after all, and opened and closed a lot of doors as they moved around his wing.

Another metallic squeal of protest - very near, now - had Zuko reaching under his pillow and drawing out the knife. He clutched it in clammy palms and tried to keep his breathing deep and slow. Breathe in. Breathe out. Freaking out now would not help one bit. He had to stay calm.

It's probably a servant, messenger, palace guard, he tried to tell himself, tried to remain rational and just think for a moment. Servants, guards, they were everywhere, yes - but only during the daytime. There were no servants' quarters in his wing. They were all located in the main building. Guards on the grounds encircling the wing, but no guards posted within the wing itself. No one else but him should be in his wing at this hour

He heard the door to his suite open with a quiet hush, just one room away, and his breaths grew quick and shallow with panic because that door was locked.

His hands shook as he got out of bed and headed for the window, and god fucking damn it he just had to have three separate locks installed, and had he not been near hyperventilation with panic at this stage he would've laughed at the irony because they were supposed to keep intruders out not lock them in and why the fuck had he thought that was a good idea he should have anticipated this, and the bolt was undone but his hand was slipping, fumbling, he couldn't get the latch -

He couldn't breathe, his nose and mouth smothered in cloth that smelled horrifyingly pungent and chemical, I didn't hear anyone come in, and he tried to struggle, kicked back, held his breath, but whoever had him was far stronger and the knife clattered to the ground and his vision was fading, darkening, sparkles at the edges, help -