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The silence is too much. It carves unspoken words onto Sokka’s skin, gently scoring him with a testimony of his mistake. He suppresses the jangle of his knee and forces himself to stillness in the passenger seat. He’d like to reach over and flick on the radio—even ads for used cars would be better than this—but he appreciates each of his appendages where they currently are. He swallows against the dryness in his mouth and takes a long breath to speak.
“You don’t even want to think about talking to me right now,” Zuko says. Flat and controlled, but no less terrifying for the anger that simmers under the words. Sokka closes his mouth and glances over to where Zuko is near-strangling the steering wheel. His knuckles are white peaks across the back of each hand. If Sokka listens close, he can imagine the leather screaming under his grip.
He turns his head to look out the window. Dinner had been wonderful, good food and good conversation at their favourite place downtown. It’s finally warming up, and they’d be able to sit on the patio to enjoy the mild sun of a mid-spring evening. Zuko had been loose, not quite unguarded—he’s never quite that—but content. Smiles were coming easy on both sides. Sokka had enjoyed the comfort of Zuko’s calf pressed against his own under the table, savouring the sensation as much as he had savoured the food on his plate.
Now his meal sits heavy in his stomach. It pisses him off. Sokka doesn’t deserve to feel guilty, dammit. He didn’t do anything wrong.
Zuko turns into their neighbourhood and slows to twenty, despite the Kids Play Here signs that only ask for forty. Sokka’s cheeks twitch as a grin threatens. It’s adorable how incapable Zuko is of being anything other than considerate of the rules. It wasn’t that way a decade ago, not even close. Now, though, road rage isn’t remotely an option—Zuko has that shit locked down tight. They can debate the long-term sustainability of that approach, but it’s where they're at.
When they’re two houses down from their drive, Zuko lifts a hand to mirror the enthusiastic waves of the Jepson twins playing in their front lawn. Cadi—Sokka thinks, he can't always tell them apart—waves a butterfly net to emphasize her greeting. Guaranteed that the next time Zuko walks by to get to work they’ll have any number of creatures to show him, and he’ll be late to his shift rather than not indulge their budding entomological interests.
Christ. Sokka loves him. The strength of it still surprises him most days. And yet, here they are.
They haven’t had an episode like this in a long time. Part of Sokka had naively hoped that they were past it, set on a path of smooth sailing with only the most minor waves. Argument-free for life. Sokka knows it’s not realistic, but he hates the way it feels when Zuko shuts him out enough to wish for it anyways.
Zuko parks with measured care, engages the parking brake despite their perfectly level driveway, and steps out of the car. He stands with the keys in a hand that does not shake and waits for Sokka to scramble out after him before locking the car and unlocking the house’s front door. Sokka follows him inside and eases the door shut again. It’s a little slammy if they don’t catch it, and while a minute ago Sokka was begging for sound, now he’s afraid the noise would startle them out of this tenuous calm. A wrong move and Zuko’s tether on his feelings is bound to snap.
Sokka watches Zuko’s back as he stalks through the living room to the kitchen. He’s frozen to the mat in the entryway, his next steps undecided. A laugh blooms in his throat and threatens to spill over. It’s not a fucking funny situation, that’s for sure, but the pressure is building in his chest, tight and achy. He needs a release. Sokka swallows it all back and runs a hand over his hair to smooth down the loose strands tickling his forehead. Breathes out hard through his nose and walks into the kitchen without taking off his shoes.
“Hey, babe, what’re you up to?” he asks, voice low. Zuko doesn’t glance up from where he’s crouched in front of the cabinets under the sink.
“The bathroom is disgusting,” Zuko murmurs. Sokka’s stomach clenches as he watches Zuko pull out a bottle of some cleaning solution Sokka didn’t even know they owned, a pair of gloves, and an unopened pack of sponges.
Well, shit. If Zuko’s about to rage clean, their odds of salvaging tonight are slim.
Zuko stands and frowns at the back of the bottle in his hand.
“Do you wanna talk some more before you do that?” Sokka asks, nodding at the supplies.
The glare Zuko turns on him is blistering. “Now you want to talk? You sure didn’t care enough to do that earlier.”
Sokka makes an irritated noise, frustrated at the contradiction. "You just told me not to—"
"I meant at the restaurant."
“We did talk, that’s the whole—”
“No, you told me how it was gonna be. We did not have a conversation.”
“That’s not fair, and I’d appreciate—”
“You know what I’d appreciate? A boyfriend who uses his brain every once in a while before—”
“Okay, whoa—”
“—just doing whatever the hell he wants.”
Sokka takes another deep breath through his nose. So, that escalated. “I want to discuss this with you, but we both need to be calm. I think maybe I’m gonna take a walk and we can pick up later. Okay?”
That seems to mollify Zuko for about zero point seven seconds before his face hardens again because he’s decided to dig in his heels. Sokka braces himself.
“Not okay,” Zuko snaps. “You were an asshole, and I want to discuss that fact now.”
“Zuko,” Sokka says sharply, “We’ll continue this later.” Because you know what? Not cool. Name calling is not cool.
Zuko throws his hands up with an eye roll. The cleaner sloshes. “Glad you’re making these decisions for the both of us. You’re so good at it.”
Sokka’s own anger flares. “For the love of—I didn’t want the job, Zuko! What was I supposed to do? Dump you and move halfway across the country for—”
“It was a good opportunity.”
Sokka gawks at him. Un-fucking-believable. Sokka really thought they were past this you can do better than me crap. “Yeah, sure, and I didn’t care, because I didn’t want it.”
“Why not?” Zuko demands.
“Um, where to start? It’s a boring city, nowhere near any of my friends or family—I would’ve only seen Dad and Katara like twice a year—longer hours, less experienced management—”
“All things you could have dealt with.”
Sokka won’t lie, it smarts to hear that you. “My instincts told me it wasn’t a good fit. I’m not sure what else you want from me, here.”
Zuko scowls. He’s breathing a bit hard. The fine, dark hair near his temples is curled a little from when it had been warm enough in the afternoon to sweat. He’s beautiful and absurd, with his blue gloves and organic cleaner and way too many sponges. Sokka stares back at him with all the defiance he can muster when he just wants to smooth the angry lines out of Zuko’s face and go back to before this happened.
“You don’t get to just make a call like that,” Zuko says.
“Decisions about my career? Pretty sure I do.”
A high-pitched, annoyed sound comes from somewhere in the back of Zuko’s throat. He tosses his armful of cleaning supplies into the sink where they clatter against the empty basin. From the corner of his eye Sokka sees Druk dart off his warming rock into his hidey log, startled. Zuko follows Sokka’s gaze. His face crumples with guilt when he realizes what happened.
“Druk’s fine,” Sokka assures quickly.
Zuko ignores him and walks around the kitchen counter to crouch in front of the terrarium. He peers through the glass to where their bearded dragon is tucked in the shadows.
“I’m sorry, baby,” Zuko murmurs. He strokes the back of one finger up and down the glass for a few minutes, as if to coax the lizard out. Sokka lets him cool down in silence. Druk doesn’t emerge. Eventually Zuko lets out a small sigh and stands.
Sokka waits a few more moments, but Zuko’s gone glassy-eyed as he stares at the top of Druk’s tank.
“Listen, babe,” he says. He keeps his voice soft and walks to Zuko’s side to watch as Druk tentatively pokes his head out of his hiding place. “It’s going to work out, okay?”
Zuko doesn’t answer. Instead, he spins on his heel and walks into their bedroom. Sokka trails behind, more out of concern than any desire to continue this interaction.
He closes the door behind himself and waits. Zuko is facing the bedroom window, which looks onto their meager backyard. The small lawn is fuzzy and grey in the weak light of the day’s final sun. Sokka can see from here that soon he’s going to need to cut the grass for the first time this year. He can also see the tense set of Zuko’s shoulders and the fists at his side, and he doesn’t need to work hard to picture the thin press of his lips or the furrow between his eyes.
“I understand that you’re upset,” Sokka starts, “But you don’t get to tell me how to feel about things related to my job, and—” He cuts himself off as Zuko turns abruptly to glare at him.
“Just—god, stop talking,” Zuko says. He swerves around the corner of the bed and crosses their tiny bedroom in a handful of steps to crowd Sokka back against the door.
Sokka’s brows scrunch in confusion, and he gets as far as, “What are—” before Zuko places a hand across his mouth. And, alright, he’s getting pretty tired of being interrupted so much tonight.
Sokka’s temper flashes again. He reaches up to grab Zuko’s wrist and move it away just as Zuko leans in further to bring their bodies together. Sokka stills.
Oh. Oh. Sokka was trying to be an adult, use his words, but if Zuko wants to save words for later, Sokka’s not stupid enough to say no. His chest is still tight with the pressure of trying to not fuck up the situation further and the frustration of not knowing what he did in the first place. He could really use a release.
Zuko’s ragged exhales ghost across Sokka’s face. Sokka holds his gaze while he pants shallow little breaths against Zuko’s palm. They don’t have air conditioning, and it’s just warm enough that Sokka can feel the collar of his shirt sticking to the back of his neck a little. He’s overheating along the line of their bodies pressed together. It hasn’t diminished his cock’s interest in the proceedings.
Zuko slowly slides his hand away from Sokka’s mouth, down his throat, drags it across his chest to bunch the fabric of his shirt into a ball at his hip. Sokka tilts forward for a kiss. With that slight motion, the taut cord of wanting between them snaps.
The pressure on his hips vanishes as Zuko leans away from him. Sokka hums and curves forward more, chasing Zuko’s mouth. Zuko turns his face aside. Apparently they’re not going to use their mouths for talking or kissing.
Sokka doesn’t have time to process the sting of it before his air gets punched out of him as Zuko uses his free hand to push Sokka back against the door, a palm to the center of his chest. Not hard, but firm—and with a look that says stay. Sokka stays.
The sight of Zuko dropping unceremoniously to his knees is enough to pull a low groan from Sokka. Zuko doesn’t waste time getting Sokka's belt undone and his pants pulled down to mid-thigh. That’s where he stops, not bothering with the underwear other than to tuck them down far enough to be out of the way. Sokka doesn’t care. He’s already greedy for air, head tipped back against the door. He hasn’t even been touched and he needs this, needs Zuko to put his mouth to use if he won’t fucking talk, needs—
Thought evaporates as Zuko sucks him down in one easy slide, one hand holding him firmly at the base.
“Holy fuck,” Sokka breathes. Zuko hums around him and releases the shirt with his other hand, instead sliding it up under the fabric. He splays his fingers out wide, a brand on the overwarm skin of Sokka’s lower stomach. Zuko doesn’t put any pressure into the touch. It’s more than enough to keep Sokka’s hips steady despite his desperate urge to thrust forward.
Sokka threads his hands gently into Zuko’s hair as he pulls back. He cut it short last month, but it’s still just long enough for Sokka to get a good grip on the inky strands and hold on for dear life as his soul tries to leave his body.
Zuko’s working him like it’s a challenge, an I dare you to argue with me now. Or maybe he just needed to relieve the tension somehow, too.
“Shit, babe,” Sokka murmurs, “God, that’s good. So good.”
Zuko opens his eyes and glances up at him from under dark lashes. He still looks furious. Sokka vaguely thinks that if he were a better person, that would be a deterrent. At least a mild damper on the pleasure burning a hole low in his belly. Right now, with Zuko’s spit-slick lips around him and the way it feels when his cheeks hollow at the top of every pull, Sokka can’t manage an ounce of the will to stop. He brushes the tips of his left fingers down Zuko’s temple, over the slope of his cheekbone.
“Beautiful,” he whispers. Zuko makes an aborted whining sound and slams his eyes shut. “You’re so good for me,” Sokka says, louder. This time he savours the feeling of Zuko’s groan as it vibrates around him.
Sokka can’t tear his eyes away. When they both have their heads screwed on right again he’s going to owe Zuko big time. Both to make up for this fight and to treat him, just because he deserves it. He always deserves it. Well, maybe not ten minutes ago, but definitely now.
A startlingly loud moan tears its way from Sokka’s throat at a particularly adept flick of Zuko’s tongue. “Zuko, babe, I’m getting close,” he says. He rubs his thumbs in circles on Zuko’s scalp, their usual signal.
This isn’t a usual encounter, though, and Zuko ignores him. He hums again and bobs faster, with renewed intention. In moments, Sokka’s head slams back into the door as sparks race down his spine and he comes with a drawn-out groan on his lips. Zuko doesn’t relent. He works Sokka through it at a punishing pace, swallowing hard and moving around him until it's barreling towards too much. Sokka’s hands are white-knuckled against dark hair. He’s shuddery with overstimulation by the time he gently urges Zuko’s head back.
Zuko lets up with an obscene noise, and Sokka’s shoulders slump down, his body acquiescing to gravity. He feels weight in his chest, head, on his tongue. He got release—a fantastic one, top ten, physically—but not clarity. The air feels damp and heavy, a miasma of unresolved bitterness. As the static clears from Sokka’s head, the guilt creeps back in. He feels it the way he feels the burn in his thighs—a reminder of a muscle that needs more conditioning.
Sokka looks down at the rustle of another belt. Zuko’s fingers are moving roughly to work the leather free of the clasp.
“Here, sweetheart, let me,” Sokka says, shifting a hand to wrap around Zuko’s bicep and tug up gently. He still feels crummy, but he’s not going to leave his boyfriend out to dry. “Let me.”
Zuko shrugs his arm free with a grunt and manages to shove his pants down a few inches, only barely enough to pull himself out in a hard grip. Sokka brushes away the bite of another rejection and relents. He shifts on his feet and cups the back of Zuko’s head, drawing him back in and encouraging him to rest his forehead on Sokka’s hip. He rests his other hand on the juncture of Zuko’s shoulder and neck. Zuko allows it, and Sokka can feel the gentle slide of their mingling perspiration on his skin.
Zuko was so hard when he started this, must've been so hard the whole time. Sokka mentally winces—restricted in his jeans while he was on his knees like that, it couldn’t have been comfy. Zuko doesn’t hesitate to get to work now, but Sokka wouldn’t call him eager. He’s near frantic, rough with himself, stripping his own cock with a brutal efficiency. Sokka can just barely make out the way Zuko’s face is screwed up where it’s pressed against Sokka's leg. He squeezes Zuko’s shoulder in a steady rhythm.
“Easy, babe. Want you to feel good,” he murmurs.
Zuko snorts against his leg and moves faster.
Sokka feels the instant of heightened tension in the muscles under his hand before Zuko goes loose and spills over his own fist. His breath comes out in a series of little huffs, punctuated by the smallest of whimpers, each one a bit softer than the last until he finally stills.
Sokka’s harsh breathing is too loud in his own ears. Intimacy with Zuko has always been easy, comfortable. Fun. That? That was not on par, emotionally speaking.
The room seems suddenly smaller. Sokka’s torn between wanting desperately to drag Zuko into his arms and wanting to be anywhere but here, and he’s rooted to the spot for the space of a few thundering, ashamed heartbeats. He hasn’t decided what to do before Zuko draws in a deep, shaky breath through his nose and presses his forehead harder into Sokka’s hip. Already the ever-present strain is seeping back into his body, as though Zuko’s muscles are determined to emulate steel fibres rather than something pliable. It would be impressive if it weren’t so damn frustrating. Sokka sweeps his thumb across Zuko’s collarbone and resists the urge to sigh.
Sokka shifts again, tries to make enough space between them so he can get down on his knees, his desire for more contact winning out. Zuko doesn’t move, even as his face knocks a little against the bone of Sokka’s hip. Sokka frowns and looks at the mess they’ve made of their room while he waits.
“Good thing our carpets are cream coloured,” he muses.
That, of all things, spurs Zuko out of inaction. He rears back, wobbles a little before he rights himself on his knees, and darts a baleful look up at Sokka.
“This doesn’t mean we’re good,” Zuko says. His face is still flushed and his voice is raw. Sokka recognizes the fraying around the edges of the words as hurt rather than the more pleasant aftereffects of an enthusiastic blow job. Something in his chest plummets even deeper.
Zuko only holds Sokka’s eyes for another second before looking away to focus on getting his pants done up again. Sokka follows suit, hastily tucking himself away and retying his hair higher on his head to catch his flyaways.
“Good thing I kept my shoes on,” he mutters, and strides out of the house.
He’s three blocks away before he manages to slow down to a normal walking speed. He’s not looking to scare folks who are out trying to walk their dogs or enjoy the weather, and judging by the sore tension of his own jaw, his face is not giving off friendly vibes right now. The brief, satisfied haze of his orgasm has long evaporated. He reaches for anger, has to settle for sadness. He doesn’t have the energy for anger anymore. He’s actually not entirely sure of the taxonomy of his emotions right now.
Sokka meanders to the closest park. It’s blessedly empty, most people gone home now that the sky is a canvas of slowly deepening violet. It rained yesterday, and when he stops and throws himself onto the ground, it’s damp beneath him. He stretches out flat on his back, breathes deeply and lets the cool moisture permeate his shirt and the back of his pants. Sokka wants to stay out here, steep in the feel of the grass and the chorus of newly-galvanized cicadas until the jittery sensation in his bones goes quiet.
He should have taken a walk when he first said he would. Instead he let himself get baited, let his temper meet Zuko’s. That never ends well. Zuko can be incendiary—depended on it for a long time, Sokka knows—but that doesn’t excuse his own reaction.
Sokka screws up his face and grinds the heels of his hands into his eyes. God, he was stupid. Anger bubbles up again, dark and bitter. He slips his phone free of his pocket and stabs at the touch screen as if it’s going to yield under his fingers.
Katara answers on the third ring.
“Sokka?” Her voice is laced with confusion. “Is everything okay?”
Sokka can hear the bustle of people and the beeping of various monitors in the background. “Yeah, yeah,” he says quickly, “Sorry, totally forgot you had a shift tonight.”
“It’s the same as the past month.”
“I know, I’ll let you get back, we can talk later.”
“Wait, just a second—” the sound on Katara’s end of the line muffles. A moment later she comes back clearer, the ambient noise of the maternity ward significantly diminished. “I have a few minutes,” she says. “What’s up?”
She doesn’t have a few minutes. Sokka’s hit with a pang of affection for his sister, who not only answers the phone on shift but carves out space to listen to him complain. He huffs out a weak laugh and smiles despite himself. “Nothing, really. Zuko and I had a fight. It’ll probably be fine.”
“It will be fine,” Katara says with total confidence, “once you figure out how you were being an idiot and apologize.”
Sokka laughs for real this time. “Yeah, if only I could figure that bit out.”
“We’re all wondering.”
“Shut up.”
“I thought you had a date tonight?”
“Not really anything special, just dinner."
"And...?"
"It didn’t go well. Remember that interview I had a while back, for that job out west?”
“Of course. It sounded interesting.”
“Yeah, well. They offered it to me and I turned it down once I saw the full package. I thought Zuko would be happy to hear about not needing to relocate, but he totally shut down. Bad. Like he used to. Then we got home and it just...I don’t know.” Sokka sighs. “It didn’t go well,” he repeats.
He can hear the shape of Katara’s frown in the hush of their connection. “You turned it down before you talked to Zuko about it?” she confirms, slowly.
Sokka shrugs to himself. “I mean, there wasn’t much to debate. It wasn’t a good fit, in the end.”
Katara’s sigh crackles its way into Sokka’s ear. “Sokka, I love you, but you can be so nut-brained sometimes that I worry about our shared genes.”
Sokka rolls his eyes. “If you’re saying I should have talked to him first, fine, but it wasn’t a big deal. Zuko wouldn’t have wanted to move anyways,” he explains. He feels defensiveness welling up in his gut, tries to push it back down.
“That’s not the point. The point is that you made a big decision without consulting him. You guys have been together for almost three years, you live together—if Aang did something like that without talking to me, even if it was an obvious choice, I would be really hurt that he didn’t want my opinion before doing something that affects both of us. Same thing goes for me making decisions without him. I’d never want him to think I didn’t value his input, no matter what.”
“I was trying to act considerate,” Sokka says. Even to his own ears it’s a thin excuse.
“You were acting like you know what’s best for him better than he does.”
Sokka closes his eyes tight and swears under his breath.
“Yeah, pretty much,” Katara says, sensible but not unkind. “Did you talk after dinner?”
“Tried to,” Sokka admits. “Then we kind of ended up having sex instead—”
“Ew, Sokka.”
“—and then we fought some more. It was sort of a shitshow, to be honest. I was maybe a tad dramatic and stormed out.”
“How unlike you,” Katara says drily.
“Whatever. I’m at the park now.”
Katara hums. “Well, you know your boyfriend better than I do. What’s the next move?”
“He definitely needs to sleep off the edge,” Sokka says. “Me too, actually.”
“Fair enough.” Fabric rustles on Katara’s end of the line. The noise of the ward swells again, overlaid by a brief muffled exchange. She comes back with an apology in her voice. “I gotta go,” she explains. “But just say you’re sorry, talk it out. You’ll be fine.”
“Yeah. Thanks, sis. Love you. Go kiss some babies.”
Katara laughs as she hangs up. Sokka allows another two minutes of wallowing before he drags himself to his feet and sets off in the direction of home again. It’s near full dark now. Low lights from their living room spill through the blinds as Sokka approaches the bungalow. The small square of red bricks is like every second place in this part of town, just one more aging house on a postage-stamp lawn. They don’t even own it—it needed a lot of love when they first moved in, and Sokka’s pretty handy, if he does say so himself, so he convinced the landlord to give them a break on their first year of rent for tackling some of the minor repairs that needed doing. Now Sokka can see the improvements in the steps that he built to replace the rotted boards of the previous ones, the new trim around the windows. He can also see Zuko’s touches in the deep maroon paint of their front door and the planter boxes they’d built together last summer. Just this past weekend Zuko had mentioned it was almost time to transplant his tomato seedlings.
The house is quiet when he slips inside and locks up. The bedroom door is closed, but the cleaning supplies are back where they belong and the bathroom mirror definitely has a new sparkle. Sokka doesn't necessarily appreciate the clarity with which he sees himself while he brushes his teeth. He hears the rustle of sheets in the room, Zuko settling in to read. It’s still relatively early, but Sokka’s tired. He wants to crawl under the covers with Zuko and cocoon in the refuge of their bed.
He sleeps on the couch.
“Motherfu—shit. ” Zuko’s whispered curse is punctuated by the clatter of a frying pan on the stovetop.
Sokka blinks awake. The first thing he registers is the smell of badly burnt bread. The second is the nasty crick in his neck from sleeping on a too-small couch. He rubs his fingers hard into the meat of his shoulder as he sits up, trying to find the worst of the knots to work out. He glances over the back of the couch into the kitchen. It’s clearly later than he usually sleeps. The sun is warm and full as it fills the house and gives Zuko’s sleep-mussed hair a halo. Zuko himself is still pajama-clad and barefoot, scowling at whatever he’s managed to concoct on the stove.
“Whatcha doing over there?” Sokka asks.
“Trying to make that ‘birds in a nest’ thing you do. For breakfast.”
Sokka grins and rises, pads into the kitchen to lean against the counter and survey the damage. The bread is burnt to shit. Zuko looks strained, bruisy circles under his eyes. And yet he’s trying to make Sokka breakfast. After letting him sleep in. All after a fight.
“‘Eggs in a nest,’” Sokka corrects gently. Zuko nods wordlessly, eyes glued to the food. Sokka takes a few steps forward and loops his arms loosely around Zuko’s waist, slowly, so Zuko can move away if he wants to. He doesn’t, and when Sokka tucks his face into the crook of Zuko’s neck he leans back into the embrace.
“I’m sorry,” Sokka murmurs. He wants to press the words into Zuko’s skin.
Zuko rests his hands over Sokka’s. “I’m sorry. I was, fuck, I was so—”
“Hold that thought,” Sokka says. He brushes his nose along the underside of Zuko’s jaw. “Want to make the tea while I cook? I’m starving.” This might be easier if Zuko’s hands are busy and he doesn’t have to make eye contact.
Zuko nods and steps away to pull what he needs from the cabinets. Sokka chuckles at the mess in the frying pan before scraping it into the compost. “You know, butter or oil generally helps,” he tells Zuko.
“It’s supposed to be like toast. You don’t butter toast before you put it in the toaster,” Zuko replies indignantly.
“A pan is not a toaster.”
“It’s hot bread. I don’t see the difference.”
Sokka’s grin broadens. “I didn’t make the rules.”
“I’m just saying, I don’t understand the—” Zuko waves a hand in a vague gesture, “—physics or whatever of why it doesn’t work the same way. It’s silly.”
“And I’m not saying I disagree with you.”
Zuko hums his disbelief. Sokka smirks and butters some new slices of bread as Zuko measures tea. A few easy moments pass before Zuko blurts, “I was such a fucking jerk yesterday. I should never have said those things to you.”
Sokka glances over to where Zuko has his back to him. He shrugs. “I know you didn’t mean it.”
“Doesn’t make it okay.”
“No,” Sokka allows. “It was a bit of a backslide, for sure. For both of us. We’re better than that.”
Zuko lifts a shoulder.
“We are,” Sokka says, more forcefully. “Ninety percent of the time we do better than we did last night. You know that’s true.” They don’t argue much to begin with, but these days a disagreement hardly resembles those fights from two years ago. It’s a major improvement, one Sokka thinks Zuko doesn’t give either of them enough credit for putting in the work to achieve.
“Yeah. I guess so.”
“Besides, I started the whole thing in the first place. You had every right to be pissed.”
Zuko turns, tilts his head over his shoulder to look at Sokka. His eyes are narrow with skepticism. “What?”
Sokka reaches over to grab the eggs before saying, “I should have spoken to you before I turned down that job offer.”
Zuko glances at the floor. “Well, like you said, you didn’t want it.”
“Yeah, and I don’t regret the decision. I just regret not making it with you. We’re a team, and I didn’t act like it yesterday. I’m sorry.”
Zuko turns away to pour the boiled water slowly into their individual pots, then turns back to face the stove and crosses his arms over his chest. He leans back on the counter but doesn't look up at Sokka again. A long moment passes.
“I was afraid you would go without me,” Zuko eventually says. His voice barely carries over the sizzle of the eggs as Sokka drops them into the pan.
“Um, excuse me?”
Zuko gives another one-shouldered shrug. “It really did sound like a good opportunity at first, and of course they were going to want you. You’re amazing.” The matter-of-factness of the statement sends Sokka’s stomach for a tumble, but Zuko goes on, “It just sounded like, whenever you talked about the logistics of it, that you were thinking you’d go by yourself if you took it. That I wouldn’t come with you.”
“But I knew you wouldn’t want to move,” Sokka says.
“Yeah, but I would have for you. With you. If you’d asked me to,” Zuko says.
“Babe, I’d never want you to uproot and move somewhere you didn’t like.”
“I know, Sokka, that’s not what I’m saying.” Zuko takes a deep breath and visibly forces his rising shoulders down. “I appreciate that you considered my preferences, and I love how well you know me. I agree with the decision you made, for the record. I just wish that you would have wanted to talk it through with me. You know? Just to, I don’t know, work it out. As a team, like you said. My feelings were hurt because I felt so out of the loop, like it wouldn’t have mattered what I said anyways.”
So many words at once—Zuko’s therapist deserves an award.
“I made you feel like I didn’t value your opinion,” Sokka summarizes. His sister also deserves an award, and she can never know.
Zuko cocks his head. “Yeah. Yeah, kind of."
Sokka’s heart hurts, because that couldn’t be farther from the truth. He turns the heat of the element up slightly and rubs sleep out of the corner of an eye. “That makes a lot of sense. I get that,” he says. “Of course it would have mattered what you said. It always does. I’m sorry I made you feel any different.”
Zuko nods his acknowledgement, not necessarily his acceptance. “I, uh. I know you’re a planner,” he adds. “You have this whole idea of what you want your life to look like, and you’re going to get it. I don’t really have that.” Zuko shrugs. “I guess it just feels like eventually there’ll be a new plan, and—”
“Stop, stop stop,” Sokka interrupts. He shakes his head and catches Zuko’s eye, holds his gaze as he says, very firmly, “Absolutely not. Every single one of my plans includes you. I promise.”
“Sokka, come on. I’m probably never going to really want to leave this town for longer than a vacation. I don’t make a lot of money. I don’t know what I want to do after this contract, and I’m probably always going to help Uncle as much as he needs at the shop. You could be doing more than this. Not tied to some sad case of arrested development.”
“Not true, first of all. And as if I give half a fuck about any of that,” Sokka says. “I knew what I signed up for. My life is here.” You’re here. “I meant what I said. All of my plans have you at the top. And if you don’t like them, we make new plans—our plans. Okay?”
The smile that finally dawns on Zuko’s face is small and tenuous, his lips tipping up syrup-slow. Sokka beams. “Okay,” Zuko agrees. “Okay.”
Sokka steps forward and leans heavy into Zuko, banding his arms around Zuko’s back. Zuko does the same, holding them together loosely. Sokka smirks as Zuko’s face goes through the motions of trying and failing to wrangle his grin into submission. He’s glad to see the failure.
Sokka tips forward to connect their lips. He intends to collect the kiss he was denied yesterday, with interest.
Any lingering distress dissipates at the first brush of their mouths, replacing the leaden weight in Sokka’s chest with fresh air. Zuko sighs against Sokka’s lips. Sokka slides a hand to the nape of Zuko’s neck to angle his head and deepen the kiss.
Zuko lets him direct the show with a pleased hum, nails scraping gently through the short hair at the back of Sokka’s head. He fingers the longer, loose strands and gives a playful tug. Sokka wants to drink up Zuko’s every sound, every touch, carry them tucked neat and safe behind his ribs where he can pull them out whenever he dares to forget how goddamn lucky he is. He slips a leg between Zuko’s, drags his thigh up just enough to tease.
“Sokka,” Zuko murmurs. On his lips, in the sanctuary of their kitchen, Sokka’s name is a reverent trace of a word.
Sokka hums and pulls back just enough to speak with a graze of his mouth against Zuko’s. Any more distance is unacceptable right now. Call him clingy, see if he cares. “I missed you last night,” he says.
“Mm. Don’t sleep on the couch again.”
Sokka tilts down to nuzzle the soft spot behind Zuko’s ear. “Won’t. Swear.”
“Also, um, about last night—”
“Yeah, no. No more angry sex. Make-up sex is definitely on the table, though.” Sokka nips at an earlobe and slides a hand down to grip Zuko’s hip, rubs a thumb into the hollow.
Zuko whimpers a little, goes just a little more boneless where Sokka’s pressing him into the counter. “Sokka,” he says again. “Your breakfast is burning.”
Sokka straightens and looks over his shoulder. “Oh, shit.” He disentangles himself from Zuko and lunges to turn off the stove, lifts the pan in an effort to salvage their food. Zuko’s vindicated laugh rings out behind him.
“Hey, your tea is going to be oversteeped and bitter, I hope you know,” Sokka points out.
Zuko only snorts. “As if you can tell the difference.”
Sokka scowls at the pan. It’s not as bad as Zuko’s attempt, but it doesn’t look great. The bitter tang of smoke in the air is pretty strong. “Wanna just go out?” he asks.
“Eggsemplary Cafe?”
“Sure thing.”
Zuko smiles and kisses Sokka’s cheek before heading down the hall. “I’ll get dressed.”
Sokka leaves the kitchen in disarray to deal with later. He cracks open the patio screen door to let some air in and drags on the pants he stripped out of last night, still piled at the end of the couch. He frowns as he pats himself down and glances at the surfaces around him. No telltale jingle. Nothing. “Hey, Zuko?” he calls.
Zuko’s voice floats over from the bathroom. “You left your keys in your work bag yesterday.”
Sokka digs through the bag at the door and finds the keys immediately. He calls back, “This is why you’re my butter half!”
A beat. Then Zuko, pleased and amused, says, “That was absolutely waffle.”
Sokka ugly laughs—he doesn’t spare guilt for startling Druk, he’s used to it—and goes to find Zuko. He’s trying to coax his hair into obedience when Sokka bats his hands away and nuzzles into the back of his neck.
“Hey,” Zuko protests.
“I’ve never been more proud. I love you,” Sokka says.
Zuko rolls his eyes at Sokka in the mirror, but his smile is sustenance enough.