this thing is four years old i made it as a naive junior in high school. i am now a junior in college.
anyway hi, I’m Ena. i’m incredibly neurodivergent and i fall under the asexual umbrella and i love women (ALL women, none of that terf crap). CisMen and minors DNI.
i occasionally exist on here to complain about being chronically and mentally ill. im a studio art major and art history minor barely surviving college.
you can send me asks, doesn’t mean i’ll reply to all of them but most of the time i will
sources: l.e.s. by donald glover // this year by the mountain goats // maya hornbacher, madness // watchisjawdrop on tumblr // wuntrum on tumblr // kim kardashian // unknown // godblessryankent on tiktok // nayyirah waheed // unknown // lev st. valentine
Morning dew still clung to the petals of the fire lilies, making them glisten like tiny flames caught in crystal. The warm sun had only just begun to climb over the palace roofs, and for once the courtyards were quiet, no ministers chasing servants, no guards changing shifts with too much armor clanking, no tutors shouting bending forms.
Just you. Your flowers and your watering can. And ten blissful minutes of peace.
You bent to pinch away a yellowing leaf, smiling to yourself. This little patch of earth had become your sanctuary over the years.
No royal titles here, no Fire Lady speeches, no “Your Majesty.”
Just soil under your nails and flowers that demanded patience.
A rare thing in this palace.
You had just begun humming softly when-
“Mommyyyyy!”
The shriek ripped through the garden like a battle horn.
You closed your eyes.
There goes the peace.
A second later came the frantic thunder of tiny feet slapping against stone.
You turned just in time to see Iroh Jr. barreling toward you like a launched cannonball, hair sticking out in six different directions, slippers half on, clutching a stack of papers to his chest with the intensity of a messenger hawk carrying state secrets.
“Woah-!”
He collided with your knees.
You dropped the watering can into the grass and scooped him up before momentum took you both down.
“What is this emergency, little dragon?” you asked, adjusting him on your hip.
Iroh gasped dramatically.
“It’s business, Mom. Big business. Very serious business.”
His eyes were wide with such sincerity that you had to bite your lip not to laugh.
“Oh? Shall I summon the council?”
“No time mommy!” he cried, grabbing your hand. “Come now!”
Before you could protest, he was dragging you through the palace corridors, nearly dislocating your shoulder in his urgency.
“Iroh, slow down!”
“We can’t! Deadlines!”
He said, his voice and tone imitating his father's.
You laughed despite yourself and allowed yourself to be towed all the way to Zuko’s study.
The room still smelled faintly of sandalwood, warm parchment, and your husband.
He had only left for Republic City yesterday for a summit with Aang, but somehow his absence was already stamped all over the place: the untouched tea cup on the side table, the stacked council scrolls, the ridiculous mountain of documents he had sworn he finished.
Liar.
Iroh shoved the heavy study door closed behind you with both hands.
Then pointed dramatically at the desk.
“We work.”
You blinked.
“Oh, do we?”
“Yes.”
He marched to the oversized mahogany chair and patted it.
“Sit Mommy.”
You obeyed, lowering yourself into Zuko’s chair.
It swallowed you whole.
Iroh immediately scrambled into your lap like a tiny demanding supervisor and reached for the expensive cream colored parchment stacked neatly in the corner.
“Baby-no, no, no-”
You caught his wrist just in time.
“That’s Daddy’s important paperwork.”
Iroh turned to you with an expression so solemn it belonged on a general before war.
“Dad said I can use these for important business, the papers on this side are fir me, daddy's words I promise.”
You narrowed your eyes suspiciously.
“He did?”
“Yes. He said I’m his Chief Assistant, if he is missing I'm in charge!”
You snorted.
That sounded exactly like something Zuko would say to get his son to stop stealing ink brushes during council.
You lifted the top page.
Blank.
Very expensive, gold embossed blank parchment.
Of course.
You sighed in mock resignation.
“Alright, Chief Assistant. What urgent state matter requires our attention?”
Iroh leaned in and whispered:
“I made a drawing.”
He glanced at the walls.
Then whispered louder.
“And now I have to write a letter to go with it.”
You had just smoothed the parchment onto the desk when the study door creaked open.
There stood Zumi.
Arms crossed. Skirt immaculate.
Tiny face set in a look so severe it was honestly offensive coming from a four yearold.
She looked exactly like Zuko when he was about to reject a tax proposal.
“Where is Dad?” she demanded.
You leaned back in the chair.
“He’s in Republic City, sweetheart. He’ll be back in a few days.”
Zumi sighed with the melodrama of a woman whose husband had gone to war.
“Wonderful.”
You bit back a smile.
“Did you need him for something?”
“Yes,” she said sharply. “I need to make a report to Father.”
You exchanged a glance with Iroh.
“Oh?”
“A maid left a pinch in my skirt while helping me dress this morning.”
You nodded.
“Uh huh.”
“I want her out.”
You blinked.
“Out?”
“Dismissed,” Zumi clarified, with a little royal flick of the wrist. “Immediately.”
You stared at her.
Iroh stared at her.
Somewhere in the spirit world, Ozai probably sneezed.
“Zumi,” you said carefully, “Ms. Lee is seventy.”
“She pinched my skirt.”
“It was an accident.”
“It could have pinched me!”
“Did it?”
“No! That’s why I said could!”
She rolled her eyes so hard you nearly laughed.
Definitely picked that up from Toph last time she visited.
You rubbed your forehead.
“I will speak to Ms. Lee about being careful with your royal skirts.”
“Good.”
“But no one is being dismissed.”
Zumi huffed like this was a failure of governance.
Then her eyes landed on the parchment.
You saw the interest immediately.
Ah.
There it is
You smiled.
“We are writing letters.”
“Why would I want to write stupid letters?” she scoffed.
But she took one step into the room.
Then another.
"Don’t you want to say hi to someone?"
"Write to Uncle!" Iroh chirped. "He said next month he takes us to The Jasmine Dragon and maybe fishing and maybe turtleduck racing and maybe tea and maybe-”
“Tea?” Zumi deadpanned. “You are excited to watch Dad’s stinky uncle boil leaves?”
You inhaled.
Slowly.
“I beg your pardon?”
Iroh gasped dramatically.
“She insulted Uncle!”
Zumi shrugged. “He smells like old people.”
You pointed a warning finger.
“Watch your tone young lady. This is your great uncle that you are talking about and you will refer to him with respect”
Zumi made a face.
You stood, walked over, and without ceremony scooped her up despite her immediate stiff indignation.
“Mother-!”
“Nope.”
You returned to the chair and settled back down with one child on each lap.
Iroh on the right.
Zumi on the left.Both squished.Both mildly outraged.
Perfect
“This chair is too small,” Zumi complained.
“This chair is enormous,” you replied.
“For one person.”
“Well, today it holds me and my two royal correspondents.”
“Can you give your sister a page, Iroh?”
“No,” he said instantly, hugging the stack. “Dad said only I’m his helper, so only I can have them.”
You raised a brow.
“And what does Mom say?”
Iroh hesitated.
Your brow rose higher.
He groaned like a doomed man.
“Mom says share…”
“Correct.”
He peeled one sheet off with all the agony of surrendering national treasure.
“Sorry, Zumi.”
Zumi snatched it.
“What do we say?”
“…thanks,” she muttered.
Progress.
You dipped both brushes in ink.
“Alright. Who is going first?”
“ME!” iroh said excited.
“Okay iroh first”
“YES!” He said way to excited for just a simple letter.
"Are you going to try on you own first?"
"Yes! I can do it."
He leaned over the desk so hard you had to grab the back of his tunic to keep him from face planting into the parchment.
His tongue stuck out.
His eyebrows nearly touched.
He wrote each character with the determination of someone carving laws into stone.Ink blobs formed.
One character was sideways. Another looked like a caricature. Finally he slapped the brush down.
“DONE!”
He shoved the paper in your face.
...
Hi unkle iroh
Its me. I want to ask when are you coming hiar again. Dad is with unkl ang. When you com bring toys from ba sing se. Mom say now to say pleas. Pleas bring toys. When you com we wil go fishing and get big fises. Come soon.
Princ Iroh
(a deeply concerning fish drawing followed by a smiling blob)
...
You burst out laughing.
“Oh, sweetheart, this is magnificent.”
“he will like it mom?”
“You wrote uncle wrong,” Zumi said without looking up.
“And fish,” she added.
“And prince. I'm surprised you got your name right.”
Iroh’s face collapsed.
“No I didn’t!”
“You did. Also that fish looks like a sick bear.”
Iroh gasped in betrayal.
“Mom!”
You immediately wrapped an arm around him.
“It is a very handsome fish-bear .”
“It is just fish!”
“Exactly.Yes, A very handsome fish.”
Iroh sniffled.
Zumi rolled her eyes but you caught the tiny twitch at the corner of her mouth.
Interesting.
Was that almost amusement?
You filed that away.
“Your turn, Princess Criticism.”
“I am not criticism.”
“it seems like you are today.”
She sniffed.
“Who are you writing to?”
“I don’t know.”
“What about Aunt Katara? She sent you that beautiful Water Tribe dress.”
Zumi visibly recoiled.
“It looked like a peasant's curtain.”
You shut your eyes.
“Zumi.”
“It did.”
“It was handmade.”
“It was handugly..”
Iroh wheezed.
You turned to him and he stopped.
"and I doubt that she made it herself, based on those clunky necklaces she tried to show us last time," Zumi said.
"Zumi!" you said sharply.
"Imagine if Kaya (Katara's daughter) saud that about mom!. How would you feel? Mom would be upset."
"Iroh, I’ve got this," you said softly, rubbing his arm. You turned your full attention to Zumi.
“Aunt Katara made that with love. When someone gives you something with love, we do not insult it. Never!”
“But-”
“No but.”
She sighed as if kindness was a difficult task.
“Fine.”
She began writing with much neater, sharper strokes than her brother.
Very Zuko. Very annoyingly elegant.
...
Dear Aunt Katara,
Thank you for the Water Tribe dress. I liked it. I wore it in Ba Sing Se. Tell Kaya I said hi.
Princess Zumi, daughter of Fire Lord Zuko and (yn).
.....
You laughed.
“She knows who you are, darling.”
Zumi looked defensive.
“Maybe she forgot.”
“Dont be silly, katara loves you”
Iroh bounced. “Can I write to Uncle Aang next?!”
“Yes.”
“ok but not Uncle Sokka,” he added darkly. “His hawk bites!”
You snorted.
“Fair.”
And before you knew it, all three of you were laughing in the middle of the Fire Lord’s office, surrounded by ink stains, crumpled parchment, misspelled diplomatic disasters, and two children leaning against you while dictating increasingly ridiculous letters to half the world.
Messy, loud, crowded, warm.
Exactly what this palace had once lacked.
Part 4
Operation Honey Cake
Night in the royal nursery was usually peaceful.
Usually.
Tonight, however, peace lasted exactly three minutes after you tucked the blankets beneath two squirming children.
You leaned over Iroh Jr.’s bed first, pressing a soft kiss to his warm forehead.
“Goodnight, my little dragon.”
He smiled sleepily and curled into his pillow.
Then you crossed to Zumi, who was lying unnaturally still with her hands folded over her blanket like a tiny corpse prepared for burial.
You narrowed your eyes, watching her carefully.
“Are you asleep already?”
No response. Not even a twitch.
You leaned down anyway and kissed her temple.
“Goodnight, sweetheart.”
Silence.
Then, very faintly:
“.. I am asleep...”
You bit back a laugh.
“Of course you are.”
You straightened and moved toward the door.
“Mom?” came Iroh’s little voice.
You looked back.
He was sitting up now, hair wild against the pillow, lower lip already threatening to protrude.
“Yes?”
“I want honey cakes.”
You crossed your arms.
“At this hour?”
“Yes”
“No.”
“But I really, really want them.”
“And I really, really want you not to throw up in my bed at midnight.”
“I won’t throw up.”
“You said that last time.”
“That was because I ate too much too much too fast.”
“Exactly. In a late hour too”
He pouted so dramatically his entire face seemed to collapse inward.
“Please?”
“No sweets before bed, honey.”
“But-”
“not this late, you can have some tomorrow.”
You walked over, kissed him one more time on his stubborn little forehead, tucked the blanket back around his shoulders, then dimmed the lanterns.
“Sleep tight”
He groaned as though deeply oppressed.
You slipped out of the room.
The door clicked shut behind you.
Darkness settled.
For a few moments there was only the sleepy chirp of night insects outside the nursery windows.
Then
Iroh flopped violently onto his side.
“This is the worst night ever,” he muttered to no one.
He turned toward the wall.
Then rolled back onto his back with a sigh heavy enough to concern physicians.
And nearly screamed himself into the spirit world.
A face was hovering inches from his.
Wide gold eyes.
Straight black bangs.
Expression blank.
“AAAAAAAH-”
A tiny hand clamped over his mouth.
“Stop screaming, dum dum!” hissed Zumi. “Mom will hear!”
Iroh’s eyes bulged.
He shoved her hand away.
“What are you doing?!” he whisper yelled. “Why are you in my bed?! Get off!”
Zumi crawled backward with all the eerie stealth of a palace ghost.
“Fine,” she said coolly. “I’m going to get honey cakes alone, I guess.”
Iroh froze.
Honey cakes?
His outrage flickered.
“Mom said no sweets.”
Zumi rolled her eyes in the dark.
“If we are quick, she won’t find out, dah?”
Iroh sat up slowly.
This was beginning to sound less like crime and more like destiny.
“…but how are we gonna get them?”
Zumi’s lips curved. excellent.
The fool was in. She leaned close.
“We need a plan.”
Five minutes later, two tiny barefoot figures crept through the palace corridors.
No slippers.
Just stealth
Or what they believed was stealth.
In reality:
Iroh’s nightshirt kept swishing, and Zumi kept having to physically drag him away from decorative armor so he won't knock them down,
“I said quietly!!” she said whispering-yelling
The stone floors were cool under their feet.
Moonlight spilled through tall windows, making silver pools they leapt across dramatically as if guards were stationed every two feet.
“Why are we going from the dark side?” Iroh whispered.
“So no one sees us.”
“but it’s dark.”
“Exactly.”
“..Im scared... I saw something moving.”
“Shut up and walk iroh!”
He kept walkibg. Poorly.
Instead of heading straight to the kitchen, Zumi abruptly turned down the hall toward Zuko’s office.
Iroh blinked.
“Why are we here?”
“Because,” she whispered with immense superiority, “all important missions need headquarters.”
She pushed open the office door with both hands.
The room loomed large and shadowy.
Father’s giant desk sat in the middle like a mountain.
Moonlight striped the papers.
Ink bottles glinted.
Iroh gasped.
“This feels illegal.”
“It basically is.”
That made it much cooler in their little heads, they slipped inside.
Zumi shut the door.
Then pointed.
“We make fort.”
“Fort?”
“Yes. Secret commander fort.”
Using cushions stolen from the couch outside, one throw blanket, and an alarming amount of determination, the children crawled under Zuko’s desk and constructed a lumpy hideout.
Pillows to the left.
Blanket roof half hanging.
One chair pushed sideways to make an “entrance.”
Iroh stared proudly.
“It’s beautiful.”
“It’s tactical,” Zumi corrected.
They crawled inside.
Immediately there was a problem.
“I’m the commander,” Zumi announced.
Iroh gasped.
“No! I’m Dragon King.”
“You can’t be Dragon King.”
“Yes I can.”
“This is a military operation.”
“Dragon Kings are military.”
“No they’re dragons.”
“They can still be kings!”
Zumi glared.
Iroh glared back.
Finally she sighed like someone making an impossible diplomatic compromise.
“Fine. I’m Commander and you’re Dragon King.”
“Yes.”
“But I’m still in charge.”
Iroh considered.
“…fine.”
Treaty achieved.
Zumi wriggled toward the edge of the desk and grabbed one of Zuko’s important parchments.
Iroh gasped.
“That’s Dad’s.”
“We need map paper.”
“That looks expensive.”
“All good paper looks expensive we need those ”
She flattened it dramatically.
Then uncorked an ink bottle.
Too enthusiastically.
The bottle tipped.
Ink spilled across half of what was almost certainly a tax report.
Both children froze.
Iroh whispered, horrified:
“..oh oh..”
Zumi slapped paper frantically over the puddle.
“It’s fine! Clean it!”
“With what?!”
“With another paper!”
“That’s more Dad paper!”
“Then use your sleeve!”
“...I'll use more Dad paper..”
Panic cleaning commenced.
Ink smeared wider.
Now the report looked diseased.
Zumi squinted.
“…he probably won’t notice.”
Iroh looked unconvinced.
“Put them here.”
Fair.
They shoved the ruined papers behind a desk leg and continued.
Zumi drew a very crooked line.
“This is us.”
She stabbed another point.
Another crooked line.
“This is the kitchen.”
Iroh leaned over importantly.
“We should draw danger.”
“Good idea.”
He added what looked like six angry potatoes.
“What are those?”
“Guards.”
“They look weird.”
“They are dangerous guards!”
“Whatever.”
Map complete.
Mission approved.
But before leaving, Zumi paused.
“Oh!”
She scrambled back out.
“Where are you going?” Iroh hissed.
“we need distraction, stay here.”
Two minutes later she returned looking extremely pleased holding a pesr of glasses.
“What did you do?”
“I took the old maid’s glasses, she surely will start looking for them at some point.”
Iroh stared at her in awe.
“That is evil.”
“Thank you!”
The kitchen infiltration began.
They moved low against the corridor wall.
Iroh was breathing like a winded ostrich horse.
Zumi stopped.
“Stop breathing so loud.”
“I’m not breathing loud!”
“You sound like Appa.”
“No I'm not”
“Yes you are”
“No im-”
“JUST BE QUIET”
“...rude...”
They reached the kitchen door.
Inside, one sleepy cook was humming while putting away bowls.
Another maid was muttering, patting around the counters.
“My glasses… where are my glasses…”
Zumi smirked.
Excellent.
The diversion worked.
She yanked Iroh behind a flour sack just as the cook turned.
Iroh squeaked.
The cook narrowed her eyes.
“Thought I saw something…”
The Other maid sighed. “Probably your bad eyesight.”
“Wgere did those glasses went? Did you lost them perhaps?!?”
“Me?!”
Adult bickering erupted while moving to the living room to look for them.
The children exchanged thrilled looks.
“Go go go!” Zumi hissed.
They scampered toward the sweets cabinet.
Iroh nearly slipped.
Zumi caught his sleeve.
He nearly knocked over a tray.
Zumi shoved him.
He opened the cabinet.
Angels sang.
Honey cakes.
Rows of them.
Golden.
Sticky.
Glorious.
“Take everything,” Zumi whispered.
“Everything?”
“E-VE-RY-THING.”
Tiny hands stuffed cakes into pockets, sleeves, nightshirts, and directly into mouths.
Iroh grabbed one and took a giant bite immediately.
Honey smeared across his cheek.
Zumi grabbed three.
Before they knew it flour Burst onto their heads.
They looked at each other.
both were dusted white.
“Run!”
They fled leaving little flour footprints behind them.
Back under Zuko’s desk fort, panting, sticky, and victorious, they dumped their stolen treasure into a pillow pile.
“Yes!” Iroh shouted. “We made it!”
“We were like ninjas!” he added, karate chopping the air.
Zumi rolled her eyes.
“You looked stupid.”
“No I don't.”
“You do.”
“NO I-.”
“You tripped over a spoon.”
“BUT I DIDN'T FELL”
Zumi Shoved a cake into his mouth.
They dissolved into muffled giggles and began eating.
Honey everywhere.
Crumbs in the fort.
Flour in hair.
At one point Iroh had icing on his eyebrow and Zumi laughed so hard she snorted, then immediately denied doing so.
Everything was perfect.
Until-
the office door opened.
Both children froze.
Footsteps.
Slow.
Measured.
A servant? Cleaning?
They held their breath.
The door clicked shut again.
Silence.
Iroh exhaled.
“Phew. That was clo-”
They looked up.
“AHHHHHHH!”
You were standing over the desk, hands on hips.
Looking down.
The image before you was extraordinary:
your husband’s state office destroyed,
ink-stained reports,
a blanket fort under the desk,
two powdered sugar goblins blinking up at you.
Iroh still had half a honey cake hanging out of his mouth.
Zumi had three hidden in her sleeves.
Neither looked remotely innocent.
You inhaled slowly.
Very slowly.
“What,” you said in your most terrifying mother voice you could possibly do, “is this?”
Iroh swallowed so hard you heard it.
“I didn’t have any.”
You stared at the honey literally dripping from his chin.
“Really?.”
He nodded.
Honey fell onto his nightshirt.
Zumi straightened.
“The servants let us have one.”
You raised a brow.
“One?”
She looked at the mountain of cakes.
“…each?”
You wanted to laugh.
God, you wanted to laugh.
But you did not.
Instead you narrowed your eyes, crouched down, and delivered a lecture about:
1.sneaking out after bedtime,
2. stealing sweets,
3. making messes,
4. hiding maids’ glasses,
5. vandalizing the Fire Lord’s official paperwork.
Both children wilted.
“Yes, Mom…”
“Sorry, Mom..”
You marched them back toward the nursery, one in each hand.
Behind your stern face, though, warmth bloomed quietly in your chest.
Because yes they had disobeyed.
Yes they had created approximately six disasters.
Yes Zuko might faint when he sees the ink stains. (You have to try and clean everything before he arrives)
But for the first time:
they had done something together.
Planned together whispered together.
Even protected each other.
Shared stolen honey cakes like tiny bandits.
You glanced down at them.
Iroh sticky and sniffling.
Zumi trying to look unbothered while sugar clung to her nose.
And despite yourself
you felt absurdly proud of your little criminals.
Three days later Zuko arrived home.
“why are my international trade reports sticky?”.....
Bonus (homecoming)
It was well past midnight when the palace gates finally opened.
The torches in the courtyard had burned low, their flames small and sleepy against the dark. Most of the servants had already retired only a handful of guards remained at their posts, straightening when the royal carriage rolled in.
You had been awake for an hour longer than you should have been.
Waiting.
You told yourself you would sleep.
You even tried.
But every little sound from outside made your heart jump, and after two weeks with your husband gone in Republic City, your body refused to rest before seeing him walk through those doors.
So when you finally heard the muted voices below and the familiar tread of boots in the corridor, you were already halfway to the chamber entrance.
The door slid open.
And there he was.
Zuko looked exhausted.
Travelworn robes.
Hair half loose.
Shoulders heavy beneath the weight of too many meetings, too many signatures, too many hours pretending not to be tired in front of diplomats.
Yet the second his eyes landed on you
he smiled.
Small, crooked.
Home.
“My love,” he exhaled.
You barely gave him time to set down the satchel in his hand before you were in his arms.
He caught you instantly, pulling you close with a soft grunt, burying his face in your hair.
God, he smelled like wind, smoke, ferry wood, and himself.
You hadn’t realized how much you missed that until now.
“You’re late,” you mumbled against his chest.
“I know.”
“You said evening.”
“The council of the United Republic apparently has no respect for husbands trying to get home.”
You laughed into him.
He kissed your forehead.
Then your cheek.
Then your lips, slow and tired and lingering.
When he pulled back, his thumb stroked beneath your eye.
“Did you sleep?”
“Not really.”
He sighed. “You should have.”
“I could say the same to you.”
“That would require me to have control over old men arguing about shipping tariffs.”
You snorted and finally let him step inside.
Only then did he bend to lift the travel satchel.
“I brought things.”
You raised a brow.
“Things?”
He nodded solemnly.
“Diplomatic necessities.”
Inside: two carved wooden dragon toys, one painted turtleduck puzzle, a little spinning toy from downtown markets, Six folded dresses in soft Republic City fabrics, and an alarming amount of candied sesame sweets.
You stared.
“Zuko…”
“What?”
“You went to an international summit.”
“Yes.”
“You came back as a merchant.”
He looked offended.
“I am capable of statecraft and shopping.”
“Mhm.”
“These are for the children,” he said, pulling out the toys. “And… these are for you.”
He held up the dresses.
You touched one, smiling at the delicate stitching.
“They’re beautiful.”
“Apparently the use different sizing for the women in Republic city than in the fire nation so I described you to the shopkeeper until he guessed your size, this one looked right.”
You burst out laughing.
“That poor man.”
“He survived. I'm sure more husbands have done the same before.”
“surely.”
You leaned in and kissed him again.
“Thank you.”
He set everything aside and rolled his neck with a wince.
Only now, under the warm room light, did you notice how tense he was.
Every muscle in his shoulders looked carved from stone.
You frowned.
“Sit.”
He blinked.
“What?”
“Sit on the bed.”
He obeyed with suspicious caution.
You moved behind him, placing your hands on his shoulders.
They were hard as armor.
“Oh, spirits, Zuko.”
“Bad?”
“You feel like you fought the Earth King barehanded.”
“Worse, politicians.”
You dug your thumbs into the knots.
He hissed.
Then groaned.
Then actually slumped.
“Marry me again,” he muttered.
You laughed.
“As many times as you want.”
For a while there was only the quiet rhythm of your hands kneading tension from him.
The room glowed softly.
Outside, the sea wind whispered through the carved screens.
Zuko closed his eyes.
Finally breathing.
Finally letting the Fire Lord fall away.
After several minutes he spoke, voice low.
“How were you?”
You smiled.
“Quite busy, you sure want to know?”
“I asked it.”
You grinned
He cracked one eye open.
“Well. Your children have turned into criminals.”
His other eye opened.
“What?”
You continued massaging.
“They snuck out at night.”
He turned halfway.
“They what?”
“Mhm.”
“For what reason?”
“Honey cakes.”
He stared at you.
You nodded very seriously.
“They built a fort under your desk.”
“My desk?”
“Yes.”
“In my office?”
“Yes.”
Zuko put a hand over his face.
“Of course.”
“They also hid Ms. Lee’s glasses as a tactical diversion.”
He made a strangled noise somewhere between horror and pride.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“They planned this?”
“Together.”
That made him pause.
You felt it in the way his shoulders shifted under your hands.
“Together?” he repeated, softer.
You smiled.
“Together.”
And then you told him everything that has been going on these past few days.
How Iroh and Zumi now drew side by side on the nursery floor, arguing the entire time, but sharing crayons.
How they stole snacks into their shared room and held secret feasts under blankets.
How some nights, after bad dreams or thunderstorms or simply because they wanted to, both children dragged pillows all the way to your chamber and climbed into your bed, one on each side, until you woke up trapped between tiny limbs.
How Zumi still got angry, still snapped, still rolled her eyes like a tiny tyrant
but now she said things.
Now she admitted when she was upset.
Now she stomped into rooms to announce: “I am mad because Iroh touched my doll,” instead of simply going cold and silent.
She was trying.
Awkwardly
But trying.
Zuko listened to every word without interrupting.
You watched his reflection in the mirror.
The way his tired face softened.
The way some invisible weight eased.
“They’re becoming children,” he whispered.
You kissed the top of his head.
“They always were.”
He covered your hand with his.
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For staying. For trying. For… all of it.”
Your chest tightened.
You leaned around him.
“There’s one more thing.”
He looked up.
“Oh?”
You smiled.
“I have a surprise.”
His brows rose.
“At this hour?”
“Mhm.”
You reached to the bedside drawer and pulled out a folded piece of soft cream cloth.
He looked confused.
You placed it in his hands.
He unfolded it.
Tiny sleeves.
Tiny neck opening.
Tiny embroidered little dragon on the front.
A onesie.
Zuko stared.
Once.
Twice...
Then looked up at you so fast you almost laughed.
“…is this”
You were already smiling too hard to speak normally.
“The healers say four weeks.”
For a second he simply sat there.
Frozen.
Golden eyes wide.
As if the information had entered his brain but all functioning systems were still buffering.
“You’re pregnant?” he whispered.
You nodded.
He stood so abruptly you nearly lost balance.
“What- really?”
“Yes.”
“Really really?”
You laughed through sudden tears.
“Yes, really really.”
He made a sound that was half laugh, half broken exhale, and then his arms were around you so tightly it stole your breath.
He buried his face against your neck You felt him shaking lightly
Not from exhaustion now.From emotion too large for words
Another baby.
Another little life.
Not as replacement or as repair.
But as proof. Proof that this family, messy and loud was still growing. Still choosing tomorrow.
When Zuko finally pulled back, his eyes were suspiciously wet. He pressed both hands to your stomach like he could feel time itself there. Then he laughed softly.
“I leave for two weeks,” he murmured, “and this palace turns into chaos.”
You sniffed. “It was already chaos.”
He looked at you. At the little onesie. At the children’s toys scattered nearby. At the life waiting in every corner of this room. And smiled. This time with his whole heart. “Good,” he said.
GENDER? (In the comments please)
Okayyy, this is rushed for sure 😃... There are probably mistakes and I also ended it differently than what I want to, since my drafts keep getting deleted and I got frustrated 😭 (I wrote this three times already, hopefully it isn't too bad) 🤞🏻
Reaching for a star ✨ This one turned out christmassy and summery at the same time. Did you know that Christmas in July is a thing? Consider this my contribution 🎄
“You’re late,” you told him, slapping a dough ball onto the floured board. “I was starting to think you’d actually learned to sleep like a normal person.”
Zuko’s footsteps were almost silent, but you had spent seven years learning to read the spaces between sounds. He stopped at your prep station, just inside your peripheral vision, and you could feel the weight of his gaze on the back of your neck.
“I had a thing,” he said.
“A thing.”
“A diplomatic thing. With Ambassador Kuei. It went long.”
You snorted. “Let me guess. He wanted to renegotiate the trade agreement for the seventeenth time, and you wanted to set his mustache on fire.”
A pause. Then, very quietly: “…his mustache is very flammable-looking.”
You finally looked up. Zuko smiled at you. That should’ve told you he was up to no good.
Because he was holding a radish.
Not just a radish. Your radish. The one you’d been saving for the garnish on tomorrow’s soup, because these particular radishes came from a specific farm in the northwestern province, and they had exactly three of them left, and they tasted good without being boiled and—
“Put it down,” you said icily.
Zuko took a bite. Loudly. Crunchily. Maintaining eye contact the entire time. What an idiot.
“You glutton,” you hissed, grabbing for it. He danced back a step—lithe and quick, because of course he was; years of being banished and he still moved like a flame—and took another bite, chewing with deliberate slowness.
“It’s good,” he said, around a mouthful of radish. “Crisp. Tell the royal kitchen to buy more of these.”
“It was for the soup.”
“What soup?”
“Oh, you know. The soup I’m making tomorrow for the council luncheon, which you insisted had to be ‘impressive’ and ‘diplomatically neutral’ and ‘not the same thing we served last time,’ and now I have to figure out what to do with two radishes instead of three, so I hope you’re happy.”
Zuko thought about what you’ve said. Then he held out the remaining half of the radish. “Do you want it back?”
“Of course not,” you replied, scoffing. “That’s disgusting. I want you to leave.”
“You don’t mean that.”
He said it so simply, so matter-of-factly, that you felt stunned by the sheer audacity that he was absolutely right. You turned back to your dough, attacking the next ball with more force than strictly necessary. “I absolutely mean it. Go away. Be the Firelord somewhere else. I have work to do.”
You heard him move closer. He stopped right behind you, close enough that you could smell the faint smoke-and-ember scent that always clung to him, like a hearthfire banked for the night.
“You’re doing the rolls wrong,” he murmured.
You had to suck in a deep breath to keep yourself from rolling your eyes to the back of your head.
“I am not.”
“You are. You’re making them too small. The one on the end is going to burn.”
You looked down at your perfectly shaped, uniformly sized rolls. They were fine. They were perfect. You had been making these exact rolls for seven years, and he had never once—not once—thanked you for making them, and now he wanted to criticize?
You picked up no more than a palm of flour and threw it at him.
Zuko could’ve dodged. He knew what was coming. He’d dodged worse things than flying flour—fire, knives, and the occasional well-aimed shoe from his friends. But he didn’t dodge. He stood there and let the flour hit him square in the chest, a puff of white dust blooming across the dark silk of his formal robe.
He looked down at himself. Then back at you.
“That,” he started, “was a three-hundred-year-old ceremonial robe. And perfectly good flour went to waste.”
“Good,” you huffed. “Maybe it’ll teach you not to critique my baking.”
He brushed at the flour, succeeding only in smearing it around.
“You’re so childish.”
“Childish? I’m not the one who sneaks into the kitchen at midnight to steal vegetables and complain about portion sizes.”
“I wasn’t complaining. I was merely stating my opinion.”
“Opinion that I did not ask for, Firelord.”
Zuko frowned at the title. You knew just how to get him to sulk and pout.
“I was being helpful.”
You made a sound of pure, undiluted exasperation. “You don’t know the first thing about cooking besides the basics, Zuko.”
“I also know how to make tea.”
“That doesn’t count.”
Zuko’s mouth pressed into a thin line—the one that meant he was trying not to smile and failing miserably. He looked ridiculous, standing there in his flour-dusted ceremonial robes with a half-eaten radish in one hand, hair loose that pooled behind his back, his cheeks flushed with something that might have been embarrassment or might have been the warmth of the kitchen.
You ignored the incessant feeling that clawed at your chest. Maybe it was the exhaustion getting to you.
“Sit down,” you sighed. “If you’re going to be in my way, at least be in my way sitting down.”
Zuko sat. He always sat, eventually. That was the thing about these midnight visits—he, for all the power he had as Firelord, was utterly compliant when it came to you.
You finished shaping the rolls in silence, your hands moving automatically, your mind somewhere else entirely. You could feel him watching you with something that you knew all too well. Something that had been there for so long you’d stopped questioning it.
“You look tired,” he said, finally.
“I look like I’ve been cooking for fourteen hours,” you replied. “Which I have.”
“You should sleep more.”
“I could, but the prep wouldn’t finish all of this, now would it?”
“I hired a lot of people in the royal kitchen for you not to do all of this.”
“Well, I like doing all of this my way,” you hummed. “It helps when I’m alone. Have you eaten?”
He didn’t answer. That was answer enough.
You sighed, reaching for a covered dish by the pantry. You set the dish in front of him with a spoon.
“It’s still warm.”
Zuko looked at the noodles. “You saved these for me?”
“I saved them for the compost,” you noted flatly. “You just happened to be here.”
He ate them. All of them.
“(Name),” he said once he finished.
“Don’t,” you said, because you knew that tone. You’d heard it a hundred times, in a hundred different ways, and you weren’t ready for whatever was coming next.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t say something that’s going to make this weird.”
Zuko huffed. “I’m not going to make it weird.”
“You’re always going to make it weird. You have a gift.”
He frowned—not his angry frown, but the one that crinkled the unscarred side of his face and made him look softer. “I was just going to say thank you.”
“For the noodles?”
Oh. That was new.
“For… everything. For being here. For putting up with me.” He gestured vaguely at the kitchen, at the flour on his robes, at the half-eaten radish now on a clean tray.
“For all of this.”
You felt your throat tighten. You turned back to the dough, even though the rolls were already finished and covered and ready to just set. “You don’t have to thank me. It’s my job.”
“It’s not your job to throw flour at me.”
“That part’s a bonus,” you told him smugly. “Perks of being employed by the Firelord, I guess.”
There was something in the air; you were sure of it. It could be the dust motes or the warmth of the fire burning until it reaches its last embers.
Something that you were scared to address because you didn’t want to ruin what you already had.
“You’ve got flour on your face,” Zuko said.
“So do you.”
“No, I mean—” He stood up, crossed the few steps between you, and before you could react, his hand was cupping your jaw, his thumb brushing gently across your cheekbone, wiping away the streak of flour you’d forgotten about.
His hand was warm. They were always warm, firebenders—Zuko especially, like a banked coal that never quite went out. But this warmth was different. This warmth was certain. His thumb lingered for a moment longer than necessary, and his eyes—those impossible, burning gold eyes—were fixed on yours, and you swore you forgot how to breathe.
“There,” he murmured. “Got it.”
You should have stepped back. You should’ve deflected and went back to familiar territory. That was the dance you and him had been doing for seven years—push and pull, bicker and banter, never quite crossing the line into whatever lay beyond.
But you didn’t step back. And he didn’t let go.
“Zuko,” you said, and his name came out wrong—too breathless—like the longing you tried so hard to bury had finally resurfaced.
“(Name),” he replied, and there was something in his voice you’d never heard before. Something that sounded like fear, like hope, like the moment before a flame catches.
It’s something. And that something was both terrifying and something that you now wanted to name. To acknowledge and finally be honest.
“You should go,” you whispered, but you didn’t mean it, and he knew it.
“I know,” he said, and didn’t move.
His hand was still on your face. His thumb was still tracing slow, absent patterns on your cheekbone. You could feel the calluses on his fingers—sword calluses, firebending calluses, the hard-won scars of a boy who’d had to fight for everything he’d ever gotten.
“If you’re going to kiss me,” you started, because you had gotten tired of waiting and because you’d never been good at keeping your mouth shut, “you should probably do it before I change my mind.”
Zuko’s breath caught. You thought you’d misread everything—thought you’d finally pushed too far, broken the fragile thing between you with your bluntness and your sharp tongue and your inability to just let things be.
Then he kissed you. Soft and chaste. You swore that feeling in your chest had never been happier.
You broke apart eventually, foreheads resting together, breathing the same warm kitchen air. Zuko’s hands had moved to your waist, his fingers curled into the fabric of your apron like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go.
“That was—” he started.
“Seven years overdue,” you finished, smiling.
He laughed. “I was going to say ‘nice.’”
“It was nice,” you agreed. “But you can do better.”
His eyes widened, settling upon the realization. “Is that a challenge?”
“It’s an observation.”
“You and your observations.”
“You and your—mmph!”
He kissed you again, rude to not have let you finish, and this time it wasn’t shy at all. The dough lay forgotten for a while, but that’s okay; you’ll have the Firelord’s help to help you remake another batch.
summary: firelord zuko's hair is a mess after a mission with team avatar. his disheveled appearance sparks concern—but his refusal for any help reveals that the only person he allows to take care of his hair... is you.
pairing: firelord! zuko x reader
content: his hair is so beautiful and luscious and i just can't, fluff, zuko yearning
"Zuko, your beautiful—lushious hair!" Sokka gasps. "It's a bird's nest!"
Zuko’s hair is in a haphazardly tied bun, barely hanging on through sheer willpower—and his loosened strands are a tangled mess. He runs his hand through his bangs, and his fingers catch onto the knots.
Shrugging, he tugs his hand away from the mess he’s worsened with a singular touch. “I don’t mind it.”
“You could use Katara’s help.” Sokka offers, desperately staring at Zuko’s hair as if it were his own. “She’s good at untangling hair knots, though I can’t guarantee it’ll be painless—”
“No, it’s fine.” Zuko waves it off. “I prefer—”
His voice shuts down immediately, lips clamping into a thin line. That was close, dancing too near to what would certainly be his demise.
Sokka, half-digging at his ear, cocks a brow. “Huh, prefer what? If there’s a particular hairstyle you want, you’ll have to ask nicely.”
“No, I don’t have a style I prefer.” Zuko answers with a deadpan. His words trail off before eventually settling on a semi-truth. “…My hair will be redone once I return to my nation.”
Sokka’s brows furrow together before his lips part. “Ah! How could I forget? The Fire Lord probably has his own team of personal hair stylists.”
Zuko restrains a sigh. He doesn’t let just anyone touch his hair, much less an entire team of strangers. It doesn’t matter if they’re the best in the entire nation, he would not have them, not when he has… you.
He’s gotten used to your delicate touch, braiding intricate braids into his hair—or even a simple bun. The habit of being pulled by the wrist to rest in front of you, your skilled movements undoing your own work once you’re tired of the previous one—brushing your hair comb through his locks before starting on a new pattern.
He misses that. Misses you.
“Something like that.” He settles on instead.
”Man, you’re lucky.” Sokka sighs in discontent. “All I got when I was younger—was a bunch of pulling and tugging into the tightest bun possible.”
Zuko blinks at the information before casting Sokka a side-eye. “And you wanted me to ask Katara for help?”
Sokka grins sheepishly. “I never said it didn’t come without sacrifice.”
If Zuko had known his brief mention of having a hairstylist would backfire on him when his hair becomes a topic of conversation, he would have just kept his mouth shut and dealt with the teasing.
His hair has become an unbearably, obvious distraction by the end of their mission. Every wash during stay-in nights at inns has led to its own self-assured destruction, with each shower complicating the knots, wounding them tighter and tighter till the point of no return.
“Looking at that makes me grateful I don’t have hair.” Aang winces.
“Why?” Toph whips her head around, eyes widening in curiosity. “What does it look like? Describe it to me.”
“A bird’s nest. A genuine nightmare.” Sokka snorts. “You might have to shave it off and start over.”
“We’ll be matching.” Aang grins.
“It’s barely in-tact. Hanging by a literal loose rubber.” Katara sighs, hand reaching out. “Let me fix it.”
“Don’t.” Zuko’s voice breaks out—defensive and panicked, before he can stop it.
Everyone freezes at his sudden outburst.
Katara pauses—retracting her hand, brows pulling together in confusion. “You prefer not being able to see past your bangs?”
Zuko pushes his bangs back, and his fingers catch once more in the knots. “See? It’s perfectly cooperative.”
Sokka scoffs. “Yeah, at least try getting your hands untangled from your hair before convincing us.”
“We’ve almost reached.” Zuko sighs in exasperation. “It’ll be sorted once we’ve landed. I don’t mind the mess, so just—look away if it bothers you.”
“You keep mentioning that.” Sokka mutters, catching onto Zuko’s slither of frustration. “What’s waiting for you back home? A five-star hair stylist to sort out that monstrosity?”
Zuko doesn’t answer, gaze lingering on the map. Anytime now, he estimates they’ll be landing within the hour. He can only hope his impatience isn’t obvious to the others, not when he’s barely restraining the bouncing of his leg in anticipation. Partly from the mess that was his hair, but mostly because he’s itching for your warmth, your hands unravelling his knots, your nails scratching into his scalp as you part his hair into sections.
He misses you… desperately. Time spent away from you, and the constant reminder that he can barely function without you being a part of his daily routine—till the point where he’s forgotten how to take care of his own hair and yet, still automatically refuses to let anyone assist him? Yeah, he’s done for.
“Hey! Earth to Zuko?” Sokka’s hand waves in front of his eyes.
Zuko barely restrains a groan. “What?”
“I was asking if I could get a free, personal booking with your hairstylist—”
“Absolutely not.” Zuko’s gut flares with an irrational temper, something he’s long retired since his youth. Or at least, he had assumed so that this familiar fury had been left behind in the past. Yet, just the thought of you working on anyone else’s hair except for his… leaves a dreaded, sinking feeling in his gut.
“Yikes, possessive much?”
He shrugs noncommittally. Maybe he was being overly protective. His self-control always slipped when it came to you, or the thought of anything endangering the soft, rare intimacy and vulnerability he only shared with you. Your soft hums, your random ramblings as you did his hair—it was all precious to him. He’ll send a talented hairstylist to Sokka if need be, but in regards to you? Is it truly a selfish wish, if he wanted to keep you all to himself?
A large crowd has gathered for Team Avatar, mostly for Aang, who has grown in popularity—especially among children. The cheering, the excitement all falls flat on Zuko’s ears. His gaze fleets over the numerous unfamiliar faces in search of one in particular.
His breath stops when he spots you, waving your hand enthusiastically so you’ll catch his eye. Not that you needed to, how could he not notice you? You’ve been the singular anchor that his thoughts have been warping around throughout the entire mission.
It doesn’t even occur to him that there’s still people around—or that the sight of the Fire Lord running towards a stranger in a crowd is unbecoming. Who cares if they’re staring—or if they notice the absolute unkempt chaos that was his hair.
When you’re within reach, his hands make contact with your waist and he wastes no time pulling you into his embrace.
“Zuko!” You gasp, fingers coming up to caress the loose strands come loose from his loose bun as you hang onto him. “Your hair—it’s a mess!”
He doesn’t care, still gripping you tight in his arms. It’s been awhile since he’s gone this long without you near—that the very sight of you consumed his rationality.
“I couldn’t.” He mutters, burying his nose into the crook of your neck.
“Couldn’t what?” You whisper, fingers resting softly on the nape of his neck, and he sighs at the touch.
“Let others take care of it.” He admits shamefully, twisting his head so you could hear him more clearly. “…That’s your duty.”
Your lips part and close, processing his admission. After a moment, you let out an amused chuckle. “You missed me taking care of your hair?”
“Yeah.” He lets out a breath. “It was driving me crazy.”
“The hair?” You guess.
“Not being able to see you.” He answers honestly. There was more, there always was when it came to you. Still, he was never good with his words, so he’ll have to settle on that.
”You…” You exhale, sounding content as you relaxed in his hold. “I’ve missed you too, Zuko.”
Your admission is a warm, soothing reminder of just how much he cherishes you. Only you could make him feel seen, or have such a strong desire to allow only you to take care of him. He’s meant to be a symbol, a strong leader—but there’s nothing more than he wishes for than to be whisked away to the privacy of his palace gardens, with you alone.
A loud whistle cuts through the roaring of the crowd.
Almost begrudgingly, Zuko lifts his head from the crook of your neck to meet Sokka’s smug expression.
“Sokka.” He warns, sensing mischief before it has even struck.
“What?” Sokka replies. “Just wondering when you’re gonna introduce us to your personal hairstylist.”
“What’s this about being a hairstylist?” You cock a brow.
“He’s twisting my words.” Zuko groans.
“No, I’m not!” Sokka huffs. “You’re the one bragging about having a whole team of hairstylists, even refusing help to fix that disaster messing up your good looks.”
“Bragging?” You muse, much to Zuko’s chagrin. “I’m honoured, but if you’re thinking of a team, then it’s sadly a one man show.”
Sokka grins. “Even more impressive! Could I book your services sometime—”
“No.” Zuko‘s hand out-stretches, tugging you by the waist back to his side. There isn’t a single gap left between you and him, and his gaze narrows. “Her hands are to only touch my hair.”
You blink rapidly, trying to process this rare side of Zuko that you’ve never truly seen before. A slow smile teeters on your lips, a happy satisfaction lingering in your gut as you lean into Zuko’s touch. “Sorry, Sokka. Fire Lord’s orders.”
“Oh man!” Sokka stomps. “I was so close to getting a free service from the Fire Lord’s personal hairstylist. Great going, Zuko.”
“Who said anything about it being free?” You grin innocently.
“Oh…” Sokka scratches at the nape of his neck, chuckling nervously. “Two birds of a feather do truly flock together. The price only the Fire Lord is willing to pay…. Consider my request retracted, M’lady.”
Zuko’s irritation—his desperation wound up in his chest, finally unravels the moment he’s alone with you.
No, it wasn’t just a simple unraveling. He has never felt so unconditionally happy—than in a mundane, normal manner like this. From the moment you’ve dragged him into his bedchambers, snapping the rubber that’s loosely holding onto his bundle of hair and grabbed for your comb and a new set of rubbers, he’s been needlessly pliant and cooperative.
“I appreciate the loyalty sentiment, but you’ve got to bring a comb with you next time, Zuko.” You mutter, lips bitten in concentration as you untangle his knots with your brush.
Zuko half hums in acknowledgment, too caught up in the feeling of your nails unintentionally scratching against his scalp as you re-do his hair. He’s gone so long without these secluded moments in his room, with your thighs over his shoulders as he sits on the floor, your skilled hands combing through his locks.
In the quiet, he feels the weight of all the expectations of being the Fire Lord roll off his shoulders with every brush of your fingers through his hair, and he just becomes… Zuko again.
It’s a peace he’s only had a taste of in the briefest moments of his childhood. Between the terror, the expectations—there was once where his mother used to comb through his hair in a similar fashion, and he would cherish it deeply in his heart.
You tug playfully when you notice he isn’t listening, caught in a daydream, and he whines.
“You listening, Fire Lord?” You tease. “Don’t you know the saying that if you leave your hair this tangled, you’ll lose it all before you’re fifty? That means you won’t be able to ask for my professional help anymore.”
He stiffens at the thought of never having your aid, your presence in his room over mere excuses of touching up his hair. He barely survived these past few weeks, much less forever. “I’ll bring a comb.” He answers obediently.
Humming a sound of approval, you resume your hand work. ”You know..” You murmur, beginning on your first braid. “Now that it’s been mentioned, I did notice that you don’t have a hairstylist.”
He furrows his brows. “Why would I need one?” Not when I have you.
“It’s just that..” You pause, voice softening. “Well, I’m no expert. Only the simple braids and buns, y’know? Even for your coronation as Fire Lord, and your yearly banquets, you called for me to do your hair.”
“…I don’t want anyone else.” He answers truthfully.
Your hand falters over your braid, and he feels you start over as your fingers thread through the top of his scalp. “Even if I put your hair into pigtails?” You tease, but it’s a silent prodding, a test to see how far he’d let you go.
”You can do whatever you wish.” He shrugs. “I have no complaints as long as you’re not providing your assistance… to others.”
“Still sour from that incident earlier, huh?” You snort. “I don’t know. I could charge a high price if I revealed that I’m your only, personal hairstylist.”
His hand catches your fingers right as they moved to begin the second braid. Caressing your hand gently, he slots his fingers between your own and interlocks them. “I won’t allow it.”
“Banning my business before it even starts?” You’re poking fun, but there’s a delight in your tone that tells him you’re enjoying this. “Don’t tell me you’re switching to a dictatorship.”
“I’ll offer you everything I own if it means being the only one who gets to have this. What’s mine is yours.” His voice is brash—quickened in his decisiveness, his other hand tracing the braid you’ve left that brushes past his shoulder. “My hair, my personal quarters, my trust—it’s all given only to you.”
Your lips part, not expecting him to take your words words so seriously. Swallowing your shock, you smile gently as your hand runs through his locks again. “Is that why you’ve been refusing to cut your hair?”
“You—” His ears redden, and he averts his gaze. “You mentioned before that you liked men with long hair.”
You’re silent. For long enough that he’s beginning to writhe slightly under the long minutes of sitting still on the floor. Zuko feels the heat burning at the back of his neck, and he thinks the long distance away from you for these past few weeks has finally run its course and fried his brain completely.
He’s caught up in his shame, his impudence to admit something so embarrassing that he didn’t have time to think of a proper excuse—when he feels your lips peck against the crown of his head.
He blinks once. Did—you just kiss him? If his brain wasn’t fried before, it definitely is now.
“I only mentioned that—” You reveal slowly, head still lowered so he can hear your hushed voice. “—because I like your long hair. Not anyone else’s. I wouldn’t trade this for anything else, so don’t get it confused.”
His heart stutters, quickening in its pace as he processes your words. A small smile spreads over his mouth as he leans further back, letting you do as you pleased. You’re right. He wouldn’t trade this for anything either.
He’d already quietly kept it as a promise that he’ll never cut his hair if it means you’ll stay here with him like this, tying childish braids into his hair that’s unbefitting a Fire Lord. No matter what comments his chamberlain tries to advise him, he’ll never undo them for as long as it’s to your design and liking. He’ll even go as far as to forget how to tie his hair into a minuscule bun if it meant having the excuse to feel your touch. He’s long past the point of rationality, but here in this moment, he finds having you do his hair is all that he needs to feel contentment.
He’s never felt more thankful to outgrow his old haircuts, than he did in this present moment.
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