killjoy @jetii - Tumblr Blog

Jul 9

Wildflowers in Caldera

Chapter Eight: Climbing the Walls

Chapter Tags/Warnings: court drama, political machinations, Zuko being kinda cringe, angst

Chapter WC: 12,296

A/N: Unfortunately I keep forgetting to post here but I'm trying! Thank you to those who commented on the last chapter, it means a lot ♥️

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The deliveries come, fast and furious, over the next few days. Zuko had approved all your purchases with barely a glance at the bottom line, and now the fruits of your efforts are flowing in through the walls of the palace, tracking dirt over Shoji’s sparkling floors. You make sure to give him your brightest smile when one of the servants accidentally tips a bag of soil on the rug boasting the emblem of the Fire Lord, just to see his eye twitch.

First comes the lumber. Lengths of dark, fragrant rosewood from the southern islands, and sturdy fir from the foothills of the mountains. It’s stacked neatly in the corner of the garden, ready for the two of you to get to work as soon as the negotiations conclude. Zuko had promised.

Next comes the earth. Dozens of sacks of rich loam from the Shadow Forest. Bags of white sand from Ember Island. Crushed seashells for the pond, and smooth, round river rocks for the path. You spend an entire day moving it all, spreading the soil over the newly cleared ground and mixing in the sand and ash to create the perfect blend of nutrients and drainage.

Then the plants arrive, and your excitement reaches a fever pitch. A large cherry tree that took three men to carry. Fragile jasmine vines that you carefully wind around the new trellis by the garden gate. A dozen varieties of roses, some of which are more thorn than flower. And the seed pods for the panda lilies, which you take into your possession immediately and squirrel away in the study off the Sun Chamber, where you’ve set up a small terrarium to experiment with. You send word to Zuko that he is forbidden from touching them under threat of horrible, unspeakable things.

You work from sunup to sundown, too full of nervous energy to sleep or eat. You're creating. You're breathing life back into this corner of the world, and the thought of it, the sheer, glorious potential of it, keeps you going long after your muscles start to scream in protest. You don't care. You'll sleep when you're dead. Or when you have to attend another banquet. Whichever comes first.

You see Zuko briefly, in passing. He looks as tired as you feel, but he always stops to ask about your progress. You give him quick, breathless tours when you can, pointing out the new paths and plants you've laid, and the general shape of the teahouse you've marked out with string and stakes. His eyes light up every time with a familiar hungry curiosity, and every time, you’ll start to convince yourself he'll abandon his duties to work alongside you.

But the moment never lasts. A guard or Shoji always appears, clearing their throat and reminding him of his obligations, and Zuko always just gives you an apologetic smile and disappears back into the belly of the beast.

You try not to let it bother you. But it's hard. You miss him. You miss his company, his quiet presence, his dry commentary on your methods. The garden feels empty without him, a play without its lead actor, and you find yourself constantly glancing towards the palace, half-expecting to see him leaning against the gate, watching you work. But he never is.

And you have no right to be disappointed by that. Zuko has a country to run. You have a garden. The two are not compatible, and it was foolish of you to think they ever could be.

It’s on the fourth day, as the sun is starting its slow descent, casting long shadows across the garden, that the gate creaks open behind you. You're on your knees, your hands deep in the dirt as you transplant a row of fire lilies along the new path, and you don't bother to look up.

“You can just leave it on the bench,” you call over your shoulder, not breaking your concentration as you carefully pat the soil around the fragile roots of a bulb. “I'll get to it later. Unless it's that taro tea again. You can take that back.”

A low chuckle is the response you get, and your head snaps up. You know that laugh.

You scramble to your feet, wiping your dirty hands on your already filthy trousers as you turn. Zuko stands just inside the gate, dressed in the simple robes he wears when he's not holding court. Even though he looks just as exhausted as he did the last time you saw him, there's a lightness to him that wasn't there before. A spring in his step that makes your heart leap.

"Zuko!" you call out, your face splitting into a grin. "What are you doing here? I thought you had another meeting."

"I did," he says, and he steps further into the garden, his eyes taking in the changes you've made. His gaze lingers on the new cherry tree, the sapling already stretching towards the sky, and the neat rows of herbs and vegetables you've started in the southwest corner. "It just ended."

"And you didn't go straight to bed?" You raise an eyebrow. "You must be feeling better."

"Something like that," he replies as his eyes finally land on you and the grass stains on your knees. "You look like you've been living out here."

"I practically have," you admit with a shrug. "There's too much to do. I can't stop now."

Zuko walks over to the raised bed where you were working, and he reaches down, picking up a small trowel and turning it over in his hands. "You're going to work yourself into the ground," he says, his voice soft with a concern that makes your stomach flutter. "You need to rest."

"I'll rest when the job is done," you say, moving to stand beside him. You take the trowel from his hand and set it back down, your fingers brushing against his in the process. "Besides, I'm having too much fun."

He lets out another amused huff. "You're insane."

"I know," you reply, smiling up at him. "So, how did the meeting go? Do you have your trade agreement?"

He shakes his head, and your smile fades.

"They're stalling," he explains, rubbing his temples. "Guo keeps finding new objections. The jade tariffs were just the beginning. Now he's demanding the return of a set of ancient scrolls that were 'liberated' from a library in Ba Sing Se during the siege. The scrolls are currently in the royal archives, and he knows it. I‘d give them to him in a heartbeat, but Izeron and Morao are throwing a fit about setting a precedent. They say it makes us look weak."

You frown. It sounds like a headache. A big one. And you can see the toll it's taking on him. The lines around his eyes are deeper, and the set of his jaw is tight with tension.

"Is there anything I can do?" you ask. "I could go talk to Minister Guo. He seems to like me."

"No," Zuko says, a little too quickly. He shakes his head. "No. This is my mess. I'll handle it. I just… needed a break."

You nod, and you turn to look at the garden. It is a break. A small, quiet corner of the world where the weight of history and politics doesn't reach. And Zuko needs that more than anyone.

You reach out and place your hand on his arm. "Well, you've come to the right place. The Ministry of Flowers is always open for business."

He looks down at your hand, and you pull away, suddenly feeling awkward. But he doesn't let you go. He catches your wrist, his fingers wrapping around it, and he turns your arm over, pulling up your sleeve.

"How is it?" he asks as his thumb traces the line of shiny pink skin on your forearm.

"It's fine," you say, resisting the urge to tug your arm back. His feather-light touch is making your spine tingle. "Just tender. But I've had worse. Remember that time Sokka fell out of the sky on Appa and hit me? That was much worse. I couldn't feel my legs for hours."

He gives you an exasperated look. "I'm serious."

"So am I," you insist. "I can bend. That's what matters. And in a couple weeks, the scar will fade. So you can stop beating yourself up about it now. We have more important things to do."

You gently pull your arm free, and he lets you go with a sigh. He follows you as you walk over to the flat rock where you keep your tools.

"More important things like breaking your back trying to single-handedly re-landscape a royal garden?" he asks, leaning against the rock. "You've been out here for four days straight. You're going to burn out."

"And you've been in meetings for four days straight," you shoot back, grabbing a watering can and filling it from the pump. "Don't talk to me about burning out."

"It's not the same," he argues. "This is your project. You should be enjoying it."

"I am enjoying it," you insist as you haul the watering can over to the fire lilies. "But there's a lot to do, and I want to get it done before the rainy season starts. And before you have to go back to your life, and I have to go back to mine."

The words are out of your mouth before you can stop them, and you immediately regret them. They're too honest, too revealing, and you feel a familiar flush of shame creep up your neck. You turn away from him, focusing on the task at hand, but it's too late. You've said it.

Zuko doesn't say anything for a long moment. You can feel him watching you, and you brace yourself for the question, for the gentle prodding about your plans that you've been dreading. But it never comes.

"Then we'll just have to work faster," he says, and you look up, surprised. He's shrugging off his outer robe, draping it over the rock, and rolling up the sleeves of his tunic, revealing the strong, corded muscles of his forearms. "Which bed is next?"

"What are you doing?" you ask, your brow furrowed in confusion. "You're supposed to be de-stressing."

"I am de-stressing," he insists, grabbing the other watering can and heading to the pump. "This is much better than sitting in my study reviewing the price index of jade. What do you need me to do?"

You stare at him, completely dumbfounded. This is not the reaction you were expecting. You were expecting guilt, or pity, or that careful, measured concern he's been showing you since the sparring incident. Not... this. This cheerful, almost eager determination to get his hands dirty with you.

"You don't have to do this," you say, but you can't keep the hope out of your voice. "I'm sure you have better things to do."

"I don't.” Zuko smiles at you as he carries the full bucket over to join you, the kind of smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes and makes him look years younger. "This is exactly where I want to be."

You can't argue with that. You can't do anything but smile back, your heart swelling with warmth, and you lead him over to the next plot of land, where the rose seedlings are waiting to be planted. You give him a quick lesson on how deep to dig the holes and how to space the plants, and he listens with an intensity that makes you laugh.

He glances up from the dirt, his brow furrowed as he balances a rose seedling in one hand. "What?"

"Nothing," you say, shaking your head and turning back to your own plants. "It's just... you. Here. Like this. It's nice."

"Nice?" he repeats. Out of the corner of your eye, you see him raising an eyebrow, a small smirk playing on his lips. "You're not impressed by my newfound agricultural expertise?"

"Oh, I'm impressed," you assure him, letting a grin spread across your face. "Truly. The way you're handling that trowel... it's art. They'll be writing poems about you."

He snorts, but you can see the pleased flush creeping up his neck as he returns to his work. "Just keep digging, smart mouth."

The rest of the afternoon passes in a blur of easy conversation and comfortable silence. You show him how to build up the soil around the base of the cherry tree to help retain water, and he listens with a rapt attention that makes your chest feel tight. He tells you stories about his childhood here, about the games he used to play in the orchard, about the time he tried to carve his initials into the trunk of the old oak tree and his mother caught him and made him apologize to the tree. And you surprise yourself by sharing a little about your own childhood. Little things you’d forgotten about, brought to light by the comfort of his presence.

“We used to have a huge pumpkin patch,” you tell him as you work side-by-side to fill the rose bed with mulch. The sun is starting to set, painting the sky in streaks of orange and pink, and the air is cooling rapidly. "My dad would always bet my mom that he could grow the biggest one. He never did. Hers were always twice the size. I think she used earthbending to cheat."

Zuko laughs as he dumps another shovel of mulch for you to pack in. “So that’s where you get it from. Your flagrant disregard for the rules.”

“I’m not breaking any rules!” you protest, swatting his leg with the back of your hand. He grins, dodging your half-hearted attack. “I'm just... creatively interpreting them."

“Mhm. I'm sure that's what you'll tell the council when they find out you've been importing illegal plants.”

"They're not illegal," you argue. "They're just... restricted."

"Because they're incredibly difficult and dangerous to cultivate," he counters. "I'm pretty sure that makes them illegal for people who aren't world-renowned earthbending masters."

"I'll have you know that I am considered a highly-respected agricultural consultant in several rural Earth Kingdom provinces," you say with a huff of indignation. "The panda lily will grow. I just need to find the right soil composition. With a little bit of lavabending, I'm sure I can replicate the volcanic conditions of Mount Makapu in the garden.”

The words tumble out of your mouth before you can stop them, casual and unthinking. Zuko freezes mid-shovel, the implement clattering against the stone path as his hands go slack at his sides. His head snaps toward you, eyes wide with disbelief.

"You can... you can lava bend?" he asks, his voice barely above a whisper. "Since when?”

Oh no. You squeeze your eyes shut, cringing internally. You hadn't meant to say that. It's not a secret, exactly, but it's not something you advertise. It's a rare and dangerous ability, one that most earthbenders never even attempt to learn. And you've barely mastered it yourself. You've used it exactly once in a real fight, and that was out of sheer desperation. You were hoping to surprise him with it, maybe, when you actually managed to grow the stupid lily.

"Since... a while," you say, trying to sound nonchalant as you turn away from him and start patting down the mulch. "It's not a big deal. I've never really had much use for it. It's a bit dramatic for farming."

"A bit dramatic?" he echoes. "You can bend lava, and you've just been... keeping it to yourself?"

"I didn't keep it to myself," you mumble as you focus on smoothing the mulch around the base of a rosebush. "I told you about the time I redirected that volcano in the western Earth Kingdom. The one that was going to wipe out that village."

"I thought that was a joke!" he exclaims, throwing his hands up in the air. "You told me you just 'pushed' it a little. I had no idea you meant you actually bent the lava!"

"Well, I didn't want to sound like I was bragging," you say defensively. "And people tend to get nervous when they find out you can melt rock. It's not exactly a marketable skill for a farmer."

"I can't believe you,” he scoffs, shaking his head in disbelief. "You've been holding out on me."

"I haven't been holding out," you protest, and you finally look at him. He's staring at you like you've just revealed you can fly, his eyes wide and bright with an excitement that makes your stomach flip. "It's just... not relevant. I'm a gardener, Zuko. I make things grow. I don't destroy them."

He makes an exasperated sound low in his throat and shakes his head again. You expect him to argue, to press the issue with that stubborn determination you know so well, but he doesn't. He just lets out a slow breath, his gaze softening, and he picks up the shovel again.

"That's... very you," he murmurs as he resumes his work. "It's impressive."

You feel a blush creep up your cheeks, and you duck your head, focusing on your task to hide the smile that tugs at your lips. "Thanks."

The two of you fall back into your rhythm after that, but the air between you has changed. It's charged with a new energy, a new understanding. You've shared a piece of yourself that you rarely show anyone, and he hasn't run away screaming. If anything, he looks more intrigued than ever. It's unsettling, but not in a bad way.

You work together in silence, finishing the last of the beds and spreading the rest of the mulch around the base of the trees. It feels easy. It feels right. It feels like the two of you, the way you've always been. And for a little while, you let yourself forget that this is borrowed time. That you're a guest in his world, and that one day soon, you'll have to leave it. You bury that thought deep, under the rich, dark earth, and you focus on the simple joy of working side-by-side with your best friend.

The peaceful bubble is shattered when the gate to the garden creaks open again. This time, it's Shoji who appears, his face a mask of utter horror that even surpasses his reaction to the stream incident. He stands frozen for a moment, his eyes wide as he takes in the scene before him: the Fire Lord kneeling in the dirt, his hands and robes covered in soil and mulch, and beside him, you, not much better off.

"Fire Lord Zuko!" he calls, hurrying over as soon as he manages to shake off his shock. "There you are. I've been looking everywhere for you."

Zuko lets out a long-suffering sigh and gets to his feet, brushing off his trousers as best he can. "What is it, Shoji? I told you I wasn't to be disturbed."

“Forgive me, my Lord, but the hour grows late." Shoji wrings his hands, his gaze darting from Zuko to you and back again. He looks like he's just swallowed a lemon. “The state dinner is set to commence in two hours. You must prepare."

“I know.” Zuko runs a hand through his hair, dislodging a clump of dirt. “I’ll be there soon.”

Shoji bows, but he doesn’t leave. He hovers, his gaze now fixed on you with a thinly veiled disapproval. "My Lord, perhaps it would be best if..." he trails off, his meaning clear as crystal. He wants you gone. He wants you to disappear back to your own rooms and leave the Fire Lord to his lordly duties.

A surge of defiance rises in your chest, hot and sharp. You’ve spent the entire afternoon working to make this moment happen, to give Zuko a slice of the peace he deserves, and this stuffy old man wants to take it away with a look and a few pointed words. But Zuko speaks before you can tell him to stick it.

"Shoji, I think you're needed in the kitchens," he says, his voice deceptively calm. But there's a glint in his eye that you recognize from his more impulsive days. "There seems to be a mouse problem. The head chef was quite distressed."

Shoji blanches. "A... a mouse problem, my Lord?"

"Mmm," Zuko hums, and he claps the man on the shoulder. "I'm sure you'll handle it. Now, we have some work to finish up here. I'll be along shortly."

He turns his back on the Grand Chamberlain, effectively dismissing him, and you have to bite your lip to keep from grinning. Shoji stands there for a moment, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. Then, with another stiff bow, he turns and scurries out of the garden, his shoulders hunched and his robes billowing behind him.

Zuko watches him go, and once the gate is firmly shut, he lets out a snort of laughter. "Did you see his face? I thought he was going to pass out."

"That was mean," you say, laughing. "He's probably going to spend the next hour searching the kitchens for imaginary mice."

"Good," he says, grinning as he turns to you. "He's been getting too big for his boots lately. A little mouse hunt will do him good."

You shake your head, your heart feeling lighter than it has in days. He's still in here, the old Zuko, buried under the weight of the crown, but not gone. You just have to dig a little to find him.

Zuko picks up his shovel, and he looks around the garden, his expression softening as he takes in the results of your shared labor. "I should go," he says, his voice quiet. He doesn't sound happy about it. "I have to change. And... be Fire Lord. For a few hours, at least."

You nod, trying to ignore the pang of disappointment in your gut. "I know."

He walks over to the bench where he left his robe, and you follow, your hands hanging awkwardly at your sides. You watch as he picks it up and shrugs it on, his fingers fumbling with the clasps. You can see the reluctance in his every move, the way he keeps glancing back at the garden, at you.

"Thank you," he says as he finishes with the last clasp. "For today. This was... I needed this."

"Me too," you admit. You offer him a smile, hoping it doesn't look as sad as it feels. "It's been a good day."

"The best," he agrees. He hesitates, glancing down at the ground before his eyes flick back up to you. “You should come tonight. To the dinner."

You blink, surprised. "To the dinner?"

"Yeah," he says, and he takes a step closer. "It's just the council and a few visiting dignitaries. It’ll be boring, but... the food is good. And you could use a meal that isn’t cold tea and rice cakes. You’ve been living on those."

"I like rice cakes," you mutter as your heart starts to beat faster. You haven't been to a state dinner since that first awful banquet. You're not sure you're ready for another one, with all the scrutiny and the politics and the way everyone looks at you like you're some kind of exotic creature making a mess on the royal carpets. You’d thought you’d had your fill of that for a lifetime, and now he wants you to do it again? Why? Because he feels guilty for leaving you?

"I... Zuko, I can't," you stammer, shaking your head. "I don't belong at those things. You know that."

He frowns, and you can see the flicker of hurt in his eyes before he masks it. "You belong wherever you want to be. And I want you there."

You look away, unable to bear the intensity of his gaze. It's not that simple, and he knows it. You don't belong in his world, no matter how many times you pretend. You're just a guest, a temporary distraction, and sooner or later, you have to go back to your own life, where things are simpler and you don't have to worry about which fork to use or who you're offending with your table manners. The invitation feels like a test, one you're sure to fail.

"I'm a mess," you say, gesturing at yourself. Your clothes are covered in dirt, your hair is a mess, and you're pretty sure you have a smudge of mud across your cheek. "I can't just... show up like this."

"So change," he says, and there's an edge of frustration to his voice now. "You have a whole room full of clothes. Use them."

"It's not that easy," you insist. You feel like you're being backed into a corner, and your own frustration is rising to meet his. "You know it's not."

"I do know," he snaps, and he turns away, running his hands over his face. "I know you don't like it. I know it's not your... scene. But I'm asking you. I need you there."

The words make your heart stutter. He needs you. Not wants, not would prefer, but needs. And it's that one word that breaks your resolve.

Because you need him, too. You need to see him, to be near him, even if it's just for a few hours across a crowded room. Even if it means wearing a dress that feels like a costume and smiling at people who think you're a joke. You can do that for him. You'd do a hell of a lot more than that.

You let out a defeated sigh and nod. "Okay."

Zuko turns back to you, his eyes searching your face for any sign of deception. "Okay?"

"Okay." You give him a small smile. "I'll be there. But I'm not promising to be good company. And I'm definitely not promising to use the right fork."

A brilliant, relieved smile breaks across his face, and it's like the sun coming out from behind a cloud. "Deal. I'll send Lan to help you get ready. She's been dying to get her hands on you again."

"Oh, joy," you mutter, but you're still smiling. It’s hard not to when he looks at you like that.

Zuko moves to the gate and pauses, his hand on the rusted iron. He looks back at you, his expression turning serious. "I'll see you tonight, then."

"I'll be there," you promise.

He looks like he wants to say more, but in the end, he just gives you one last lingering look before he turns and walks out of the garden. The gate shuts behind him with a soft clang, and you're alone.

You look down at the dirt on your hands. The promise of the panda lily, the future of the garden. It all seems so small and insignificant now, dwarfed by the looming reality of the dinner and the man who will be sitting at the head of the table. A man who is, you're slowly starting to realize, just as lost as you are.

You take a deep breath and finish packing your things, your heart pounding a nervous rhythm in your chest. You have a state dinner to get ready for. And you have a feeling it's going to be a lot more complicated than just making faces at the boring parts. It always is, with him.

Lan is waiting for you when you slip through the doors of the Sun Chamber, and she ushers you into the bath before you can even get a word in. The water is scalding and scented with jasmine, and it does little to soothe the frantic energy humming under your skin. You feel like a dragon hawk in a cage, pacing and restless. This isn't you. This whole situation—the dinner, the politics, the clothes—it's not the life you've chosen. And yet, here you are, letting yourself be swept along by it, because the alternative is walking away from him. And that's not a choice you're ready to make.

You emerge from the bath to find Lan holding up a garment that is, thankfully, not the emerald green monstrosity from before. It's a much simpler jade robe, the color of new leaves, with a pale gold under-robe and a wide, darker green obi embroidered with golden dragons. It's beautiful and elegant, but it still feels like a costume.

"This will look wonderful on you," she says with an approving nod. "Dignified, but not severe. Perfect for the occasion."

"And what is the occasion?" you ask as you allow her to help you into the layers of silk. "Is it someone's birthday? A national holiday? The anniversary of the invention of the chopstick?"

"It is the Fire Lord's pleasure," Lan replies, her voice carefully neutral as she cinches the obi around your waist. "He has invited the most senior members of the council and the visiting dignitaries from the Earth Kingdom to a private dinner. It’s... less of a performance. More of a discussion."

"A discussion," you repeat. That sounds even worse than a performance. Discussions involve talking. And listening. And not making faces. And in close quarters, where everyone can see your every move.

"Yes," she confirms, stepping back to admire her handiwork. "The Fire Lord hopes to foster a more... informal atmosphere. To build bridges outside of the council chambers."

She means he's trying to get them drunk and off their guard. A good strategy for any negotiation, but it also means you'll be trapped at a table with a bunch of powerful, stuffy men who see you as an inconvenience at best, a threat at worst, up close and unfiltered.

And Zuko. You'll be trapped at a table with Zuko, watching him play the part of the Fire Lord again. A part that he seems to fit better every day, and a part that you feel less and less connected to.

Lan starts on your hair, weaving it into an elaborate knot at the nape of your neck, and you stare at your reflection in the mirror. The woman staring back is a stranger. She looks poised and elegant and utterly out of her depth. Her eyes are wide and a little wild, and she's clutching her hands in her lap so tightly her knuckles are white. You take a deep breath and try to will her to be braver.

“Stop that,” Lan chides as she places a simple golden pin in your hair. “You look beautiful. And the Fire Lord will be very pleased to see you.”

Your stomach does a nervous flip at her words. It's not his approval you're worried about. It's what his approval does to you. The way it makes you want to please him, to be the person he sees when he looks at you. It's a dangerous feeling. You're not meant for this kind of life, for these kinds of games. You're a farmer. You belong in the dirt, with your hands in the soil, not in a silk robe, trying to navigate the treacherous waters of Fire Nation court politics.

But you're also a woman who made a promise. And you're a friend who is worried about the man at the head of the table, the one who carries the weight of a nation on his shoulders. You’ll just have to power through.

“You know, I overheard Minister Morao and Minister Izeron today,” Lan starts, her hands delicately adjusting the hair around your face. “They’re calling you the gardener.”

You frown. Not ‘the earthbender,’ not ‘the dirt farmer,’ or any of the other, less flattering names you’ve been called. The gardener. It feels... small. Reductive. But it could be worse, you suppose.

"That… doesn’t sound so bad,” you venture.

Lan gives you a knowing look in the mirror. "It does when you hear the way they say it.”

A huff of laughter escapes you, but there’s little humor in it. "Let me guess. With a sneer?"

"Like you're a pet he’s brought in to entertain himself," she confirms with a sad little smile. "Don't let them get to you. They're just old men who are afraid of change."

You nod, but her words don't bring much comfort. You're not afraid of them. You're afraid of what their whispers might do to Zuko. You know how much he cares about his public image, how hard he works to be taken seriously. And having you at his side, a constant reminder of his past and his... softer side, might be undermining all of that. It’s a thought that’s been gnawing at the back of your mind for days, and Lan’s casual observation has just given it teeth.

You should have stayed in the garden. You should have told him no.

"I don’t understand what their problem is. It’s been weeks,” you mutter as Lan finishes with your hair and moves to collect her cosmetics. “I’m not asking for anything. I’m just here to work on the garden. Once it’s done, I’ll be out of their hair. You'd think they'd be happy about that."

“They’re afraid of you,” she says simply, dabbing a bit of rouge on your cheeks.

Your laugh is incredulous. "Afraid of me? Why? I'm just... me."

"Exactly," she replies, her dark eyes meeting yours in the mirror. "You’re not one of them. You’re not... controlled. You came here, and you just started doing things. You talk to the servants. You walk on the walls. You upended a meeting in the throne room. And, most importantly, you have the Fire Lord’s ear.”

She finishes the rouge and picks up a brush to paint your lips, and you sit there, stunned. You’ve never thought of it that way. You’ve just been doing what you do, what comes naturally. You haven't been trying to make a statement or challenge anyone.

But maybe that’s the problem. Your very existence is a challenge to the order they’ve built, the rigid hierarchy they thrive on. And Zuko, by inviting you in and listening to you, is validating that challenge. No wonder they don’t like you.

“I don’t have his ear,” you protest, though you know it's not entirely true. The two of you have discussed policy more than once since you arrived, usually late at night, over a pot of tea. He values your opinion, he's told you so. But that's just friendship, isn't it? That's what friends do.

Lan just gives you a mysterious little smile. "Hm. If you say so."

She finishes the last touches on your makeup and steps back, her head cocked to the side as she surveys her work. "You look perfect. A true vision of Earth Kingdom elegance."

You look at your reflection again, and you have to admit, she’s right. The stranger is still there, but she looks a little less like a frightened girl and a little more like a woman who is ready to face a room full of powerful men who don't want her there. A little.

"Thank you, Lan," you say, turning to face her. "Really. You've been very kind to me."

"Just doing my job," she replies with a formal bow, but her eyes are warm when she straightens up. "Shall we?"

You nod, and you follow her out of the Sun Chamber, your heart beating a nervous tattoo against your ribs. As you walk, you try to channel her confidence, her poise. You try to be the woman in the mirror, calm and collected. But it’s hard when you pass clusters of guards and servants who stop and stare, whispering behind their hands as you go by. You straighten your spine and keep your eyes forward, pretending not to hear the words "gardener" and "earthbender" hissed like insults.

The door to the private dining room is open, and the low rumble of conversation spills out into the hall. There’s no music this time, no grand announcement. Just a small, intimate gathering, as Lan had said. But as you say goodbye to her and step over the threshold, the room stills.

Every head turns to look at you. You recognize some of the faces from the banquet: the fussy Fire Nation ministers, the stoic military generals, and the ever-present Ambassador Fang, with a very full glass of wine in his hand. And Minister Guo, who raises his eyebrows in surprise and then gives you a slow, approving nod. But it’s the man seated at the head of the table who holds your attention, your eyes drawn to him like a compass to true north.

Zuko is already there, sitting at the head of the long, low table, dressed in formal robes of deep red and gold. A dragon in flight wraps around one sleeve, the embroidery so detailed it seems to move in the candlelight as he turns slightly to face the door. He looks powerful, and untouchable, and completely at home.

When his eyes land on you, that composed mask cracks, just a little. A flicker of warmth, a softening of the sharp lines of his face. A private smile meant just for you.

He nods, and you nod back, your heart giving a painful thump in your chest. Then you pull your gaze away, scanning the table for an empty seat. There are placards in front of each setting, each one carefully calligraphed with a title and a family crest. But as you walk down the length of the table, you notice your own seat is not there. There is no place for you.

A flush of embarrassment rises up your neck, and you feel the weight of the room's gaze on you again. You stop, halfway down the table, feeling foolish and exposed. Of course there isn't a seat for you. This is a state dinner, not a casual supper. You're not a dignitary or a council member. You're not even supposed to be here. You're just Zuko's... friend. And in this world, that doesn't warrant a place at the table.

You look back up to Zuko, who seems to just now be realizing the same thing. His eyes dart from the placards to you and back again, and you see a flash of anger cross his features, quickly suppressed.

“Move,” he says to the man sitting to his right, Minister Morao, a man whose department you don't know but whose sour expression you remember well. His topknot is pulled so tight you're surprised his eyes don't pop out of his head. He looks from Zuko to you, and his face contorts with offense.

“Excuse me, my Lord?” he says, his voice dripping with false politeness.

“Move. Down,” Zuko repeats, waving his hand. A cushion has materialized on the floor at the end of the table nearest the door, and the guards have sprung into action to bring another place setting. Morao’s face turns a mottled purple-red, and he looks around the table for support, but finds none. Even the other council members are averting their eyes, unwilling to challenge their Fire Lord on this.

With a huff of indignation, Morao grabs his placard and his wine glass and moves down, his every movement a theatrical display of insult. Zuko doesn't even watch him go. His eyes are on you, and he pats the seat to his right, the place of highest honor after his own.

Your feet feel rooted to the spot. This is not a good idea. This is making a scene. You can already hear the whispers: the Fire Lord and his earthbender pet, flaunting tradition, disregarding protocol. It’s exactly what you didn't want to happen.

But Zuko is still looking at you, his expression open and expectant, and there's no regret in his eyes. Only an unwavering faith that you'll come and sit beside him, that you'll take the place he's offering you, no matter what anyone else thinks. You can’t refuse him. Not in front of all these people. You can't let him make this gesture and have you reject it.

You take a breath and walk towards the head of the table. Every step feels heavy, weighted down by the silent judgment of the room. As you pass, you catch the eye of Minister Guo, who gives you a small, conspiratorial smile. And you see Ambassador Fang, face pinched with disapproval as he takes a long, pointed sip of his wine. The rest of the room is a blur of judgmental stares and hushed whispers.

You reach your seat, and you lower yourself onto the cushion, the silk of your robe rustling in the quiet. Zuko immediately pours you a glass of wine from the carafe in front of him, and he pushes the plate of steamed buns towards you.

"Thank you," he murmurs, his voice low and for your ears alone. "I'm sorry about the confusion. Shoji must have forgotten to add your place."

"It's no problem," you lie, giving him a smile you hope is convincing. You can feel the stares on the side of your head like an arrow poised to let fly, and you wish more than anything that you could just sink into the floor. Your hand finds your wine glass, and you take a heavy sip. "I'm sure it was an honest mistake."

Zuko gives you a look that says he knows you're full of it, but he doesn't press. He just inclines his head and turns to address the table, his voice taking on the formal, commanding tone of the Fire Lord.

"Let's begin, shall we? We have much to discuss."

The dinner is, as Lan predicted, less of a performance and more of an intense, awkward negotiation. The food is excellent, but you barely taste it. You're too focused on not saying anything stupid, on keeping your expression neutral, on not reaching across the table to strangle Minister Morao every time he makes a snide comment about "wasteful spending" that is very clearly aimed at the garden. Zuko handles it all with a stoic patience that you find both admirable and infuriating. He's letting them get away with it. He's playing politics, and you're just the poor soul sitting next to him who has to listen to it.

As the meal progresses, Zuko engages the table in a discussion about trade routes and tariffs. He's in his element now, the Fire Lord holding court, and you watch him with a detached sort of fascination. He's so different like this. Every argument is met with a logical counter, every demand balanced with a compromise. He's firm but fair, authoritative without being arrogant.

He's a good leader, you realize. A great one. He's exactly what his nation needs. And the thought makes your chest swell with pride, even as it makes you feel more distant from him than ever.

You also notice that he keeps turning to you, his eyes seeking yours out after he makes a point, as if checking to see if you’re still there. Or maybe to see if you approve. You give him small nods of encouragement, even though your mind is starting to drift. The talk of harbor improvements and shipping lanes is mind-numbing, and you find yourself studying the patterns on your plate instead of listening.

They’re on their third argument about rice imports now. Surely there has to be something more interesting to discuss, you think, taking another sip of wine. Maybe you could bring up the weather or the cute messenger hawk you saw in the roosting tower. Or the fact that you’re pretty sure you saw Ambassador Fang slip something into his wine that looked suspiciously like a sleeping draught.

“…the harvest reports from the western colonies remain disappointing,” a voice drones on, and it's then that you realize you've missed a crucial transition in the conversation. The speaker, you think it’s Minister Izeron, who had sat next to you at the banquet, gives a pointed look to Zuko. “Perhaps it is time to consider a change in agricultural policy.”

“The reconstruction grants have already been distributed,” Morao chimes in. “If yields remain low next season, we may need to encourage larger operations.”

“Encourage?” another voice snorts. It’s an older man in a military uniform, General Shin, the most sour-faced of the three generals present. “You mean mandate. Small, family-run farms are inefficient. It’s time we move to larger-scale production. Consolidate the land.”

Your head snaps up, your wine glass frozen halfway to your lips. This is no longer boring. This is, in fact, incredibly dangerous. You know this game. You've seen it played out in a dozen different villages across the Earth Kingdom and Fire Nation colonies. The powerful taking from the small, all in the name of "efficiency" and "progress."

Zuko’s eyes flick toward you at your sudden movement. He takes in the set of your jaw, the tight grip of your hand around the stem of your glass, and a look of understanding crosses his face.

“Something to add?” he asks you quietly, and the entire table goes silent.

You open your mouth, and then close it again, your gaze sweeping over the assembled men. They look at you with a mixture of curiosity and condescension, waiting for you to make a fool of yourself. But when you look back at Zuko, you see only interest. He’s not doing this to embarrass you. He’s doing this because he trusts you. He values your opinion, even if no one else in this room does.

“Maybe,” you admit carefully, letting go of your iron grip on your wine. You turn back to Minister Maoro. “Which western colonies?”

He blinks, taken aback. “Er… the Lan-Wun and Kucheza prefectures, mostly. Along the Mo Ce coast.”

You nod slowly. You figured that would be his answer. “I was there last year.”

“The floods?” Minister Guo asks, his voice surprisingly gentle. His eyes have been fixed on you with an analytical curiosity for most of the evening.

You nod again. “The floods.”

“Those were nearly two years ago,” Morao protests. “The land should have recovered by now.”

“Not necessarily,” you counter, finally stepping into the ring. You lean forward on your cushion, resting your elbows on the table. “The soil composition along the Mo Ce coast is very specific. High in clay, low in organic matter. When you get a flood that severe, it doesn't just wash away the topsoil. It fundamentally changes the structure of the earth. The drainage is compromised. It can take years for the micro-fauna in the soil to recover and get things back into balance.”

You see General Shin roll his eyes, but Morao is listening with a frown. “Micro-what?”

“The worms. The bacteria. The fungi,” you say with a wave of your hand. “The things that make dirt into soil. The floods killed them. You can plant all the rice you want, but without healthy soil, the yields will always be disappointing.”

You watch as the men at the end of the table exchange a look that clearly says, she's crazy. Minister Guo, however, is nodding thoughtfully, and Zuko is watching you with an expression of open pride.

“So what are you suggesting?” he asks you, his voice cutting through the whispers.

You shrug, picking up a steamed bun and turning it over in your hands. “I’m suggesting that instead of taking land from people who have farmed it for generations, you invest in remediation. Amend the soil. Introduce new crops that can handle the changed conditions. It takes time, and it's not as profitable in the short term, but it’s better than creating a class of landless farmers who will just end up moving to the cities and straining resources there.”

You take a bite of the bun, chew, and swallow. The table erupts into a cacophony of voices. "Impossible!" "Too expensive!" "The logistics!" "We don't have that kind of time!"

You just listen, your expression calm, as they argue over your head. You know your argument is sound. You’ve seen it work, in villages with far fewer resources than the Fire Nation. You’re not worried about them. You’re watching Zuko.

He lets them go on for a few minutes, his expression impassive as he drums his fingers on the table. Then he raises a hand, and the room falls silent again.

“Draft a proposal,” he says, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Councilman Morao, I want a report on the soil composition of the Shu Jing prefecture and every viable farm in the region. General Shin, start looking into the feasibility of a public works program to amend the soil. Minister Guo, I’d appreciate your input on how the Earth Kingdom has handled similar situations.”

Guo gives a nod and a small smile. The rest of the men stare at their leader, and you can see a flicker of the old Zuko in the defiant tilt of his chin as he stares back. The one who never backed down from a fight.

"But my lord—" Morao starts to protest.

"This is not a request," Zuko interrupts, his voice firm. “We'll re-evaluate the harvest projections in six months. Until then, no land is to be consolidated without my direct approval. Is that clear?”

A chorus of “yes, my Lord” echoes around the table, and you hide your smile behind another bite of your bun. You feel a nudge from your elbow, and you turn to see Zuko looking at you, his eyes sparkling with a familiar, mischievous light.

“Good job,” he mouths, and you feel your cheeks flush with warmth.

The conversation moves on to other matters, to the rebuilding of the navy and the ongoing negotiations with the Southern Water Tribe for fishing rights. You listen with half an ear, your attention still buzzing from the small victory. You didn't change the world, but you did something. In just a few minutes, you've potentially changed the course of thousands of farmers' lives. And you did it from a cushion at the Fire Lord's table.

The dinner drags on, course after course, and the wine flows freely. You can see the effect it's having on the council. Their arguments become more spirited, their opinions less filtered. Even Ambassador Fang's perpetual scowl has softened into a drunken stupor. Zuko, you notice, barely touches his glass. He's as sharp and focused as ever, navigating the conversation with a sober clarity that makes you think he's had a lot of practice at this.

You, on the other hand, are feeling pleasantly warm and relaxed. The tension you've been carrying in your shoulders has melted away, and you find yourself laughing along with the others at a particularly bawdy story from Admiral Jee, who is red-faced and slurring his words. Minister Guo is in deep conversation with one of the naval officers about the merits of Earth Kingdom versus Fire Nation ship design, and the atmosphere has shifted from stiff formality to something almost... friendly. It's like being at a very exclusive, very boring party. With your best friend. Who is also the Fire Lord. It's all very surreal.

Zuko leans in close to you as the dessert is brought in, his shoulder brushing against yours. "Having fun?" he asks, his voice low and amused.

"I am," you admit, giving him a grin. "Though I think Ambassador Fang is asleep with his eyes open."

He follows your gaze to the end of the table, where the Earth Kingdom ambassador is indeed swaying slightly in his seat, his eyes glassy and unfocused. Zuko chuckles and lifts his glass to his lips. “Did you see him slip that powder into his wine earlier? I thought he was going to pass out right there in his soup.”

You raise your eyebrows. "So I wasn't imagining it."

"No," he confirms, and he takes a small, controlled sip. “It's going to be a long negotiation tomorrow.”

You watch the ambassador, feeling a flicker of pity. "He's going to have a terrible headache."

"Serves him right," Zuko mutters, but there's no real venom in his voice. Just weariness.

You reach under the table and find his hand where it’s resting on his thigh, and you give it a gentle, reassuring squeeze. He turns to you, his expression softening, and his fingers curl around yours.

"You okay?" you ask, your voice low so no one else can hear.

He nods, but his eyes tell a different story. "I'm fine. This is just... a lot."

You know what he means. Just this one dinner is already leaving you exhausted and drained, and you don't have to get up again in the morning and do it all over again. You can't imagine how he does it, day in and day out. No wonder his fire has dimmed. He's burning himself out to keep the whole nation warm.

"Well," you say, giving his hand another squeeze before letting it go. "Maybe you can take a break tomorrow. Come work in the garden. I could use some help laying the foundation for the teahouse."

The hopeful look that crosses Zuko’s face is almost painful to see. He looks at you like you're offering him a life raft in a stormy sea, and maybe you are. You certainly feel like you're treading water right alongside him.

"I wish I could," he says, his voice heavy with regret. "But the negotiations with the Earth Kingdom are at a critical stage. I can't just... abandon them."

"Right.” You force a smile. You knew it was a long shot. "Of course. Just an idea."

"I'm sorry," he adds, and he looks genuinely pained. "I promise, as soon as this is over, we'll get back to it. I'll clear my schedule."

"Zuko, you don't have to apologize," you tell him, trying to sound casual. You reach for your wine glass, but you stop yourself, remembering how loose your tongue is already feeling. You don't trust yourself to have this conversation with a clear head, let alone a tipsy one, and certainly not with an audience. "I understand. This is your job. And you're doing great at it."

He doesn't look convinced, but Admiral Jee is already dragging him into a discussion about patrol routes in the eastern seas, and the moment is lost. You turn your attention to your plate of lychees, peeling the fruit with a focus you don't feel, and you let the noise of the table wash over you.

You're happy for him. You are. He's a good Fire Lord, a great one, and he's doing what he was born to do. But it's hard not to feel a little… left behind. Like you're watching him sail away on a ship you're not allowed to board. You told yourself you wouldn't get attached, that you'd just enjoy this time with him while it lasted, but it's easier said than done. Especially when he looks at you like that, and then turns back to his duty like it's a wall you can't breach.

You’re friends, you remind yourself. This is what friends do. They support each other, even when it hurts. Even when it feels like you're the one being left behind. You just have to be patient. And strong. And maybe drink a little less wine.

You're just considering making your escape, a polite excuse about early morning duties in the garden ready on your lips, when a voice cuts through the low hum of conversation. It's sharp and slurred, and it carries all the way down the length of the table.

"It seems our guest has lost her tongue."

You look up. Minister Morao. His face is flushed a deep, unbecoming red, and he's leaning heavily on his elbow, his wine glass held aloft like a weapon. He's staring right at you, and his eyes are hard with an ugly sort of amusement.

"Or perhaps she's simply run out of dirt to talk about," he continues, a sneer twisting his lips. "Nothing to add on the subject of naval patrols, gardener? No earth-shattering wisdom to impart from your vast experience with... well, earth?"

A ripple of uncomfortable laughter travels around the table. Minister Guo studiously examines his wine glass, while Admiral Jee simply looks bored. Zuko goes utterly still beside you, the pleasant warmth in his eyes vanishing, replaced by something cold and hard. You've seen that look before, usually right before he sets something on fire.

You, however, are not intimidated. You've dealt with bullies your whole life, from the schoolyard to the highest halls of power. They're all the same: small men trying to feel big by putting others down. And you've never been one to back down from a challenge.

"Actually, Minister," you say, your voice deceptively sweet. You pop another lychee in your mouth and chew slowly, letting the silence stretch. "I was just thinking about how fascinating it is to watch men who have never set foot on a farm dictate agricultural policy for an entire nation. It's like watching a fish try to climb a tree. You're just flopping around, making a mess, and getting nowhere."

The silence that follows is absolute. The smile on Morao's face curdles into a snarl, and the room seems to shrink, the air growing thick with tension. Zuko's hand has clenched into a fist on the table, and you can feel the heat radiating off of him. This is it. This is the moment it all goes wrong. You've just insulted a high-ranking council member in front of the entire court. You’ve ruined everything.

But then, to your shock, Minister Guo lets out a low, rumbling chuckle. "She has you there, Morao," he says, shaking his head as he looks down the table at the fuming minister. "Perhaps you should spend less time in your office and more time in the fields you're so eager to manage."

Morao's face turns an even deeper shade of purple. “This is an outrage,” he splutters, pushing himself to his feet. "I will not be mocked by some backwater—"

"Minister Morao."

Zuko's voice cuts through the room like a blade of ice. He hasn't moved, hasn't raised his voice, but the power in those two words is absolute. Every person at the table flinches, even the generals. Morao freezes, his mouth hanging open.

"Fire Lord Zuko," he begins, his tone switching from anger to placating in an instant. "I meant no disrespect. I was merely pointing out that—"

"I know what you were doing," Zuko interrupts, his voice dangerously quiet. He slowly turns his head to look at Morao, and the flames in the lanterns spread around the room flicker and gutter, as if recoiling from his gaze. "You were insulting my guest. My friend. In my home. At my table."

The last word is delivered with a soft finality that is more terrifying than any shout. Morao visibly pales, and he sinks back into his seat, his bluster deflating like a punctured war balloon.

Zuko holds his stare for another long, excruciating moment. No one says a word. You can hear the clink of Admiral Jee's glass as he takes a very pointed sip of his drink. You hold your breath, your hand curled tightly around your own wine glass, as you watch the man you know and the Fire Lord he’s become wage a silent war in the space of a heartbeat.

A war on your behalf.

The thought should make you feel safe. Instead, it makes your heart pound in your chest and your skin prickle with heat. This is not what you wanted. You didn't come here to be his project or his charity case. You came here to help him. But now you've just become another problem for him to solve, another political landmine he has to navigate. You feel foolish and small and suddenly, overwhelmingly, out of place.

"I think," Zuko says, turning back to the center of the table, his voice regaining its composure, "we have all had a bit too much to drink. The hour is late, and we have a long day of negotiations ahead of us tomorrow. I believe it's time to adjourn."

There are no arguments, only a rustle of cloth and a murmured chorus of "Yes, my Lord" and "Thank you, Fire Lord" as the men practically trip over themselves in their haste to stand and bow. Zuko gracefully unfolds himself from his seat and rises to his full imposing height, and he turns to hold out his hand to you, his face still hard with anger. But when his eyes meet yours, you see a flicker of apology.

You take his hand and let him help you up, your body moving on autopilot. You feel numb, detached, as he folds your arm through his and begins to lead you out of the room. You don't look back, but you can feel the weight of their stares, the whispers that will no doubt be flying the moment you're gone. The gardener and the Fire Lord. The rumors are already writing themselves.

He doesn't say anything as you walk. He leads you through the dimly lit halls, past guards who snap to attention and bow as you pass. You're not sure where you're going, and you don't care. You just want this night to be over. You want to go to your room and pull these heavy silk robes off and scrub the makeup from your face and pretend that none of this ever happened.

As the two of you round the corner, you hear the sound of fervent whispering, and your hold on Zuko’s arm tightens. A pair of servants, two young girls, are huddled together by a tapestry, their heads bowed together. They see you, and their whispers die in their throats, their faces paling as they scramble to bow.

Zuko doesn't even seem to notice them. He just keeps walking, his jaw set, his pace unwavering. The girls remain in their deep bows until you reach the doors to the palace gardens, and then you hear them start up again. You have a sinking feeling you know what they’re whispering about.

You pass through the doors and into the cool night air. The garden is quiet, bathed in the silver light of the moon. He leads you down a winding path, away from the main palace, and you realize he’s taking you to the garden. To your garden.

Zuko stops at the gate, his back to you as he fumbles with the lock. The chain rattles, loud and jarring in the stillness. You watch him, your heart aching with a feeling you can't quite place. This is why you can’t stay. You’re not just a distraction for him. You’re a liability.

The gate finally swings open, and he gestures for you to go in before he follows, closing the gate behind you with a final, decisive clang. The two of you stand there, in the shadows of the garden you’ve built together, the moonlight painting streaks of silver on the dark soil.

Zuko stalks past you to the center of the garden, his hands in his pockets, his shoulders hunched. He stops by the empty space where the teahouse will one day stand, and he stares at the piles of lumber, his whole body radiating a tightly coiled tension.

"Sorry," he says at last, his voice rough. "About that. Morao. He's..."

"He's a drunk with a small mind and a big mouth," you finish for him. "It's fine. I've heard worse."

Zuko turns to look at you over his shoulder, his expression shadowed. "It's not fine. He insulted you."

"I'm used to it," you say with a shrug. You move to sit on one of the stacks of lumber, the rough wood digging into your thighs. You’re too tired to stand anymore. "It comes with the territory."

He lets out an angry huff. "You shouldn't have to be."

You give him a sad smile and wrap your arms around yourself. He's not wrong, but he's not right, either. The world is cruel, and people are cruel, and you've learned to live with it. You don’t spend your entire life fighting and building and watching everything you love burn down without developing a pretty thick skin. Though, usually, you’re allowed to throw a punch about it. That's always been your solution to insults.

But you couldn't do that tonight. You couldn't defend yourself, not without making things infinitely worse for him. So you just sat there and took it, and let him fight your battle for you. And you hate it. You hate feeling weak, and you hate watching him be forced into the role of your protector. It's not fair to either of you.

And now, the damage is done. The court will be buzzing with this for weeks. You've just given Morao and his ilk all the ammunition they need to question Zuko's judgment and your presence here.

“I can see why you’re so tired all the time,” you say, your voice quiet. "It's exhausting, all this... pretending. All this politics. How do you do it?"

He shoves his hands deeper into his pockets and kicks at a loose stone on the path. "It's my job."

“Some job,” you scoff. “No wonder you want to come play in the dirt.”

Zuko looks up at you, and there's a flash of hurt in his eyes. "I'm not playing. I like being here. With you. It's the highlight of my day."

I know, you want to say. And that’s the problem. Because the more you like it, the more you want it, the harder it's going to be to leave. And you are going to have to leave. It was always the plan. The garden will be finished, Minister Guo will have a position for you, and you’ll go. You’ll go back to your real life, and he'll stay here, in his. And you'll both pretend that this little interlude was just that. An interlude.

But you can't say any of that. Not now. So you just nod and look away, staring at the dark outline of the cherry tree against the stars. "I like it, too. Being here with you."

The silence stretches, heavy and uncomfortable. You wish you could go back in time, to this afternoon, when you were working in the dirt together and everything was simple. When you weren't dressed up like a doll and sitting at a table full of vipers, making his life harder. You wish you could undo the damage you've done tonight.

"Zuko..." you start, but you don't know how to finish. What can you say? 'I'm sorry I exist?' 'I'm sorry I'm not what you need?' 'I'm sorry I'm not her?’ The words lodge in your throat, and you swallow them down with a shudder.

He seems to sense your distress, and he takes a step toward you, his hands finally emerging from his pockets. "What is it?"

You shake your head, unable to look at him. "I'm just... I'm tired. And this was a mistake. I should have known better than to open my mouth.”

“What?” he says, his voice sharp with disbelief. "You were brilliant in there. You know more about agriculture than Morao and Izeron combined. You were right.”

“Being right isn’t the point,” you say, and you finally raise your head to look at him. He’s standing just a few feet away, his brow furrowed in confusion, and you feel a surge of frustration. He doesn't get it. "The point is that I was never supposed to be there at all.”

Zuko blinks at you, as if this is a revelation he’s never considered before. And maybe it isn’t. He’s so used to being the Fire Lord now, to having people listen to him because of his title, that he’s forgotten what it’s like to be on the outside looking in. To have your competence dismissed because of who you are, or in your case, who you aren't.

He takes another step closer, and now he's standing right in front of you, his boots almost touching the tips of your slippers. "That's not true. I wanted you there. I invited you."

“I know,” you reply, and you do. But that doesn't make it any easier. “But you can’t just… drag me into your world and expect everyone to be okay with it. They’re not. And they’re never going to be.”

“Then who cares what they think?” he argues, his voice rising with frustration. “I’m the Fire Lord. I get to decide who sits at my table. And I want you there. Always.”

You close your eyes, and you will your heart to stop aching. Always. It’s the sweetest thing anyone has ever said to you, and it feels like a knife twisting in your chest. Because you know he means it. But you also know it can’t last. You can’t be the exception to his rule forever. Eventually, the crown will win, and you'll be the one left behind.

“It’s not that simple,” you tell him, your voice pleading. "And you know it.”

“It is,” he argues. He braces his hands on either side of you on the lumber, caging you in. You open your eyes and find his face inches from yours, his expression fierce and desperate. "It is that simple. You’re one of the smartest people I know. You’re kind, and strong, and you see things no one else does. You’re just as good as any of them. Better.”

“I know that,” you whisper. “But I’m trying to be realistic here, Zuko.”

“Realistic is what’s gotten them a hundred years of war and a broken country,” he shoots back. “Realistic is safe. I don’t want to be realistic. I want to be better.”

You stare at him, your breath caught in your throat. In the moonlight, he looks wild, his eyes shining and his hair falling loose around his shoulders. He’s beautiful, and he's passionate, and he’s fighting a battle you’re not sure he can win.

You’ve always thought Zuko was the one who was too jaded, too angry for his own good. But maybe it’s you who’s the pessimist. Maybe you’ve spent so long fighting for small victories, for just a little bit of good in a broken world, that you’ve forgotten how to believe in anything bigger.

You want to believe with him. You want to believe that this thing between you, this friendship, is strong and bright and brilliant, a fire that can burn through all the prejudice and politics, and a hundred years worth of pain. But it's hard. Harder than it’s ever been. Being here has only made you see the chasm between your lives more clearly, and you're not sure how to build a bridge across it.

You drop your gaze, staring at the dark fabric of his sleeves. You can see the tension in his hands, his knuckles white where he grips the lumber on either side of you. He's waiting for you to agree with him, you know, to be the optimistic, fearless person he remembers. But you don't have the energy. You're too tired, and your heart is too full of doubt. So instead, you do the one thing you've gotten very good at over the years. You deflect.

"Zuko, look," you say, your voice thick with emotion. "It's late, and we're both exhausted. And... emotional. Let's just... not, okay? Let's not do this right now."

Zuko lets out a shaky breath, and his shoulders slump. He straightens up, his hands falling from the wood, and he takes a step back. He looks... defeated. And it's your fault. You’ve done this to him. You've taken the fire that was burning in his eyes and snuffed it out with your own cowardice.

"Okay," he murmurs. He turns away from you, staring out into the dark garden. "You're right. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have... I'm sorry."

He starts to move towards the gate, but you push yourself off the lumber and grab his arm, stopping him. He turns to you, his face shadowed, and you can see the pain in his eyes. It mirrors your own.

"Don't apologize," you say softly. "You have no reason to. I'm the one who's sorry. I just... I need some time. To think."

Zuko nods, his throat working as he swallows. "I understand."

You don't think he does. But you let him believe he does, because the alternative is too painful to consider. You let go of his arm and step back, putting some space between you. The night air feels suddenly colder, and you wrap your arms around yourself again.

"I'll see you tomorrow," you say, though you’re not sure that’s true. You have no idea what tomorrow will bring, but it feels like the right thing to say.

"Tomorrow," he echoes. He hesitates, his hand twitching, but he shoves it in his pocket again. "Goodnight."

"Night, Zuko," you whisper, and you watch him walk away, his silhouette fading into the darkness. The gate creaks open and then slams shut behind him with a finality that makes you flinch.

You stand there alone for a long time, staring at the gate, your chest aching with a grief you can't quite put a finger on. You’ve lost track of time, lost track of the plan, and now you're just lost. And you're not sure how to find your way back.

taglist: @cyaretra @scaraenthusiast1 @witchbybirth @chubbyhedgehog @seppys-return-to-madness @vaderxvibes @cloudzin00 @physicsisphantastic @maee67 @sugarxspic3 @stxrrielle

#atla #zuko #atla zuko #fire lord zuko #zuko x reader #prince zuko #avatar the last airbender #roy writes #wildflowers in caldera #ugh this chapter and i are not friends #it's like watching your parents fight #i think i'll spam upload the next couple chapters so we can catch up here!

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