Chapter 3: Hot Spring Revelation
The silence on the balcony was a living thing, thick with the weight of everything unsaid. Sokka could feel the imprint of Zuko’s hand on his, a brand that pulsed in time with his heartbeat. He was about to speak, to finally give voice to the years of longing compacted in his chest, when the sharp click of boots on stone echoed from the archway behind them.
They jumped apart as if scalded, their hands separating like struck flints.
A palace guard stood at attention in the doorway, her helmet obscuring her eyes. “Firelord Zuko. Forgive the intrusion. A dispatch has arrived from the Earth Kingdom border. Minister Shinu requires your immediate counsel.”
Zuko’s face, which had been soft and open moments before, sealed shut. The Firelord’s mask descended, smooth and impenetrable. His posture straightened, shoulders squaring under the weight of the interruption. “Of course,” he said, his voice flat and official. “I will be there directly.”
The guard bowed and retreated.
The spell was broken. The warm, private night had been invaded by the cold machinery of state. Sokka felt the loss like a physical draft. He shoved his hands into his pockets, the ghost of Zuko’s touch already fading.
Zuko let out a long, controlled breath. He didn’t look at Sokka, but his jaw was tight. “Duty,” he muttered, the word laced with a familiar, bitter resignation.
“Yeah,” Sokka said, forcing a grin that felt brittle. “Can’t keep the world waiting for its most attractive world leader.” The old tease fell flat, hanging lamely in the charged air between them.
This time, Zuko did glance at him. A flicker of something—amusement, frustration, apology—passed through his gold eyes. He turned and walked back inside without another word.
Sokka stayed on the balcony until the cool air chilled the last of the warmth from his skin. He listened to the distant hum of the Well, which now sounded less like a mystery and more like a taunt.
The next two days were a masterclass in diplomatic evasion. Sokka was swamped with ambassadorial paperwork—trade ledgers, cultural exchange proposals, a surprisingly petty dispute about fishing rights near Kyoshi Island. Zuko was embroined in the border situation, visible only in flashes: striding through corridors with ministers, his brow furrowed in concentration, or glimpsed across courtyards, always moving away.
The joined hands on the balcony felt like a dream. Had he imagined the pressure of Zuko’s fingers? The meaning in his words? Katara’s knowing looks and Hakoda’s patient silence offered no clarity, only more pressure.
On the evening of the third day, Sokka was in his chambers, viciously stabbing a brush into an inkwell while composing a rebuttal to a particularly obnoxious Earth Kingdom magistrate, when his door slid open without a knock.
Zuko stood there. He was out of his formal robes, dressed in simple, dark trousers and a loose, sleeveless black tunic that left his arms bare. His hair was down, a dark waterfall over his shoulders. He looked weary, but his eyes were clear and intent.
“Hey,” Zuko said. His voice was quiet, rough from hours of discussion. “Let’s go somewhere.”
Sokka nodded dumbly, the inkbrush forgotten in his hand. He stood up, his previous frustration evaporating.
Zuko led him not to the royal stables or a palanquin, but through a series of increasingly secluded palace corridors Sokka had never seen. They descended a narrow, spiraling staircase carved into the volcanic rock itself, the air growing warmer and damp with each step. The distant hum of the Well grew louder, transforming from a background note into a deep, resonant thrum they felt in their bones.
Finally, Zuko pushed open a heavy wooden door banded with iron, and they stepped outside into a hidden grove.
Twilight painted the sky in shades of violet and charcoal. The grove was alive with gnarled, ancient trees whose leaves were a deep, fiery orange even in the dim light, shimmering as if holding embers within. The source of the heat and the hum was before them: a natural hot spring, its water a milky, opalescent blue that glowed from within, reflecting the first few stars above. Steam rose in lazy, fragrant plumes, carrying the mineral scent of sulfur softened by night-blooming jasmine. The rocks surrounding the pool were smooth and dark, radiating a comforting warmth.
“Private royal reserve,” Zuko said by way of explanation, his shoulders loosening for the first time since the balcony. “No ministers. No dispatches.”
Sokka’s excitement was immediate and palpable. This was it. A real chance to talk, to unravel the knot of everything that had happened. To relax, with Zuko, without an audience. “This is amazing,” he breathed, already pulling at the ties of his tunic. “My back is killing me from hunching over those scrolls. I swear, Earth Kingdom officials write with rocks, not pens.”
He made quick work of his clothes, stripping down to his practical, dark blue Water Tribe underwear—essentially snug shorts—and, not wanting to seem hesitant, slid into the water with a sharp, grateful sigh. The heat was perfection, seeping into his muscles, melting the tension from his neck and shoulders. He sank up to his chin, leaning his head back against a smooth rock. “Spirits, yes. Okay, Your Royal Hotness, you have officially redeemed yourself for the last three days of ghosting.”
Zuko gave a soft, almost inaudible laugh. He stood at the pool’s edge, methodically untying the sash of his tunic. “The border issue was more complex than anticipated. It required… focus.”
“Focus, sure,” Sokka said, closing his eyes, a smile playing on his lips. He was ready to talk. Ready to finally ask what ‘for the long haul’ really meant. He heard the soft rustle of fabric.
Then his brain caught up with his ears.
His eyes snapped open.
Zuko was pulling the black tunic over his head. The movement revealed the lean, powerful lines of his back, the tracery of old scars pale against his skin in the glowing light. Sokka’s breath hitched, but he’d seen Zuko shirtless a hundred times. This was fine. This was normal.
Then Zuko’s hands went to the fastenings of his trousers.
Sokka’s concept of relaxation evaporated. It fled the grove, screaming. His own skin, submerged in near-scalding water, suddenly felt too tight. He watched, paralyzed, as Zuko pushed the dark fabric down his hips and stepped out of it.
The steam and the low, luminous glow of the water played tricks. For a second, Sokka’s mind refused to process what it was seeing. Zuko stood there, completely at ease, his back still to Sokka. He wore nothing but a stark, simple band of tight black fabric that sat low on his hips, following the deep line of his pelvis before disappearing between the taut curves of his—
Sokka’s brain short-circuited. A strangled, wet sound escaped his throat. He jerked upright, water sloshing violently, and immediately sank back down to hide the sudden, traitorous heat flooding his own body. He was pretty sure he was having a heart attack. His face was on fire. The steaming water was ice compared to the inferno in his veins.
It was a thong. Zuko, the serious, dutiful, gruff Firelord of a nation still steeped in conservative tradition, was wearing a fucking thong.
Zuko, utterly oblivious to the seismic crisis happening three feet away, turned and stepped gracefully into the spring. He sank into the water with a deep, pleasurable groan that did absolutely nothing to help Sokka’s situation. The water rose to his chest, but Sokka had already seen. The image was seared into his retinas: the sharp cut of hip bones, the smooth plane of stomach, the provocative line of black fabric against golden skin.
Zuko settled on a submerged rock shelf, close enough that their shoulders almost brushed in the water. He tipped his head back, eyes closed, the lines of stress finally leaving his face. “This was a good idea,” he murmured.
Sokka could only stare, his mouth agape, every clever word, every strategic question about their future, utterly annihilated by a strip of black cloth.