Chapter 4: Afternoon Interlude
The diplomatic breakfast had been a special kind of agony. Sokka had sat through two hours of trade negotiations with the Earth Kingdom, smiling with his teeth while every cell in his body was still back in Zuko’s bedchamber, humming with the memory of heat and skin and broken sounds. The love bite on his neck throbbed under his high wolf-tail collar, a delicious, persistent secret.
He finally escaped, pleading urgent ambassadorial business, and all but sprinted through the gilded halls. The noon assembly loomed, a storm cloud on the horizon. He needed to find Zuko, to see the determined set of his jaw, to share a silent look that would ground them both before the performance began.
He pushed open the heavy door to Zuko’s chambers without knocking, a habit born of five years of friendship and one night of something else entirely.
The scent of sandalwood and sex hit him first, warm and heavy in the sunlit air. Then, the sight.
Zuko wasn’t pacing. Wasn’t scowling over scrolls. Wasn’t shrouded in imperial robes.
He was sprawled face-down in the center of the massive bed, deep in sleep. The morning sun streamed across him, painting his skin in bands of gold. He was naked except for two things: a scrap of black lace that did vanishingly little to cover the curve of his backside, and Sokka’s own old Water Tribe tunic.
Sokka’s breath left his lungs in a silent rush.
The tunic was faded blue, well-worn, from Sokka’s early days at the palace. It was too big on Zuko, the neck slipping off one shoulder, the hem rucked up to the small of his back. The fabric was stretched tight across the broad planes of Zuko’s shoulders, and it had ridden up, revealing the dangerous dip of his spine, the lace of the underwear clinging to his skin. One of Zuko’s arms was flung over his head, the other tucked beneath a pillow. His face was turned away, his scar stark against the red silk, his lips slightly parted in sleep.
The evidence of the night was on glorious display. The dark purple love bite Sokka had left on the column of his neck. The long, red scratches Sokka’s fingers had raked down his back, standing out vividly against the pale skin. They were marks of possession, of passion, a stark contrast to the peaceful vulnerability of his sleep.
A slow, undeniable warmth spread through Sokka’s chest, thick and sweet as honey. His. This magnificent, impossible man was his. The Fire Lord, who could reduce ministers to ash with a look, was asleep in his shirt, wearing his marks.
He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, and just drank it in. The rise and fall of Zuko’s breathing. The way a sunbeam caught the dust motes drifting above him. The absolute, unguarded trust in the way his body was surrendered to rest.
He should wake him. The assembly. The ministers. The world.
Instead, Sokka pushed off the doorframe and crossed the room on silent feet. He knelt on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. He reached out, not to shake, but to touch. His fingertips, feather-light, traced one of the scratches he’d made, from the knob of Zuko’s shoulder blade down to where it disappeared under the blue fabric.
Zuko stirred. A low, sleepy sound vibrated in his chest. He shifted, nuzzling into the pillow, and the movement made the lace stretch even more tantalizingly.
“Your meeting with the Earth Kingdom dignitaries went long,” Zuko mumbled, his voice gravelly with sleep. He didn’t open his eyes.
Sokka’s lips quirked. “You’re wearing my shirt.”
“It was on the floor.” A pause. “It smells like you.”
The simple statement landed like a physical blow to Sokka’s heart. He let his hand flatten, palm warm against Zuko’s scarred back, feeling the living heat of him. “You look good in blue. Controversial, but good.”
Finally, Zuko turned his head, cracking one golden eye open. Sleep-soft and pleased. “You’re late. I was waiting.”
“You were snoring.”
“I do not snore.”
“You do. It’s very imperial. A low, rumbling decree.” Sokka bent, pressing his lips to the highest scratch on Zuko’s shoulder. “We have to be in the throne room in twenty minutes. The Head Minister is probably having an aneurysm.”
Zuko groaned, the sound full of genuine dread. He rolled onto his back, and the sight was even better. The old blue tunic was open, revealing the smooth expanse of his chest, the ruby piercings, the smudged evidence of their earlier passion on his stomach. The black lace was even more ridiculous and wonderful from the front. He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. “Tell them I’ve been assassinated.”
“Tempting.” Sokka’s gaze wandered. “But then I’d have to share you with the state funeral planners. No thanks.” He leaned in, bracing his hands on either side of Zuko’s head, caging him in. “Come on. Up. Time to put the Dragon King face on.”
Zuko’s hands came up to frame Sokka’s face. His thumbs stroked the arch of Sokka’s cheeks. “I like this face,” he said, quietly. “The one I see right now.”
Sokka’s smirk softened into something real. He kissed him, a slow, deep, tasting kiss that had no business starting when they were already this late. Zuko responded lazily, humming into his mouth, his fingers sliding into Sokka’s hair.
Sokka pulled back first, breathing uneven. “Nope. No. That’s a trap. You’re a seductive, lazy trap. Get up.”
It was a chaos of movement after that. Zuko stumbled to the bathing chamber. Sokka riffled through the ridiculous, organized closets, pulling out the layers of formal Fire Lord regalia: the heavy crimson robe, the black undercoat, the ornate belt. He laid them out on the bed.
Zuko emerged, hair damp, water sluicing down his torso. He’d changed into simple black pants. He eyed the robes like they were a particularly complex enemy formation.
“Here,” Sokka said, picking up the undercoat. “Arms up.”
Zuko complied, standing still as Sokka helped him into the garment, his movements efficient and gentle. He smoothed the fabric over Zuko’s shoulders, his fingers lingering. Then the heavy outer robe, settling the weight onto him. Sokka fastened the belt, his knuckles brushing the hard plane of Zuko’s stomach. He adjusted the drape of the sleeves, his touch unconsciously proprietary.
Zuko watched him in the room’s full-length mirror, his expression unreadable. “You don’t have to do that.”
“I know.” Sokka met his eyes in the reflection. “But the servants would gossip if they saw the scratches. And I,” he finished the clasp at Zuko’s throat, his voice dropping, “don’t want anyone else touching you right now.”
A faint blush crept up Zuko’s neck. He turned, catching Sokka’s hands in his own. “The neckline doesn’t cover everything,” he said, his eyes flicking to the love bite on Sokka’s throat.
Sokka grinned, wild and unrepentant. “Good.”
“Sokka.”
“Let them see, remember?” He stepped back, giving Zuko a once-over. The transformation was complete. The man who’d been soft and warm in his bed minutes ago was gone, replaced by the stern, imposing Fire Lord. Only the faint bruise on his neck and the subtle wince as the robe settled over his scratched back gave him away.
Zuko took a deep, centering breath, and his posture shifted, shoulders squaring, chin lifting. The vulnerability shuttered behind a wall of quiet authority. “Ready?”
“Almost.” Sokka darted to the rumpled bed and retrieved the iron dragon pendant from the tangle of sheets. He came back, lifting it over Zuko’s head. The cool metal settled against the rich red silk, a familiar weight. “There. Now you’re dressed.”
Their walk to the throne room was a silent parade through a whispering palace. Sokka kept pace half a step behind Zuko’s left shoulder, the formal position for a chief advisor or honored guest. He could feel the stares of the guards and stewards, saw their eyes dart from Zuko’s impeccable, forbidding front to Sokka’s own disheveled, marked neck.
The massive double doors of the throne room loomed ahead, already open. The murmur of dozens of voices spilled out—ministers, nobility, foreign delegates. A wall of expectation and political scrutiny.
Zuko didn’t pause. He never did. But as they crossed the threshold, his hand, hidden by the long, draping sleeve of his robe, brushed against Sokka’s. Just for a second. A spark of heat, a silent transfer of courage.
Then he was gone, striding down the long carpet toward the dais, every inch the sovereign. The room fell into a hush.
Sokka took his designated place to the right of the throne, folding his arms behind his back. He let his gaze sweep the crowd, meeting calculating eyes with a bland, unreadable smile. He spotted the Head Minister, whose pinched face was a masterpiece of disapproval.
Zuko reached the throne but did not sit. He turned, facing the assembly, his golden eyes cutting through the haze of incense.
“This session of the High Assembly is now in order,” he announced, his voice carrying, cool and absolute, to the farthest corners of the room.
Sokka watched him. He saw the rigid line of his spine, the controlled lift of his chin. And he saw, because he knew where to look, the faint, proud abrasion on the side of Zuko’s neck, just above the stiff collar. A badge of honor. A declaration.
Let them see, Sokka thought, his own bite a throbbing echo on his skin.
As Zuko began to speak on mining rights in the colonies, Sokka kept his face diplomat-neutral. But inside, he was back in the sun-drenched bedroom, with the smell of sandalwood and sex, and the feel of soft, faded blue cotton under his hands.
The game had changed. The secret was out. And as he watched the most powerful man in the nation command the room, Sokka knew, with a thrill that was equal parts terror and triumph, that there was no going back.