Chapter Text
'Cause this house don't feel like home
If you love me, don't let go
If you love me, don't let go
Hold
Hold on
Hold on to me
'Cause I'm a little unsteady
A little unsteady
- Unsteady, X Ambassadors
It's a biting winter’s night, so Zuko brews a thermos of tea on his way out to the treehouse. He’s in the mood to read, but he knows there are probably some of Katara’s books already stashed somewhere under the floorboards. He just has to look.
He hasn’t seen Katara since he pulled the splinter out of her finger when they were younger, nevertheless she comes into his thoughts sometimes, and it’s impossible to ignore her presence whenever he’s in the treehouse. She seems to have made herself rather at home, though he can’t say he minds.
They’ve built it up over the last few years, each adding something to the treehouse so that when the other returns, there’s always a surprise there that complements the room. It’s her he has to thank for his exposure to painting, and though Zuko thinks he would have found that path one way or another, he’s glad he found it through Katara.
Zuko shrugs on a hoodie over his sweater, but doesn’t bother bringing any blankets. He knows there’s already a stack waiting for him that they cobbled together two winters ago. Perhaps the Spirit World trilogy is due for a re-reading.
His shoes crunch in the light layer of snow blanketing everything, and it’s quiet, so quiet. The moon is full tonight, so he doesn’t need a torch as he makes his way across to the huge tree, where...the lights are on?
Zuko’s heart thumps a little harder against his ribcage. If the lights are on in the treehouse...it means Katara’s in there. And he hasn’t seen Katara for almost three years, even though it feels like he knows her better than a lot of people. Their unspoken dance of colours and carving, of pages and ink, their two souls threaded throughout the treehouse for the other to see: Zuko has known fragments of Katara and pieced them together in his mind, but never before with a face to go with it. Will she recognise him? There’s only one way to find out, he supposes.
In the space of a few breaths, Zuko has scaled the branches (he’s grown quite a bit, which makes it easier, although he does have to go slower in case he slips on the snow) and is preparing to duck in through the window when he stops. There are soft sounds coming from inside the treehouse, and for a brief few seconds he thinks Katara might be snoring, but they’re too frequent for them to be the sounds of someone asleep. Zuko listens a little bit harder, and then-
Is she crying? He strains his ears, and catches a shuddering breath. Definitely crying. He freezes, now reconsidering his entry into the treehouse. He hasn’t had much experience at all dealing with crying people. He’s never seen his father cry, though he remembers hearing noises from his mother’s room through a haze of sleep, and god forbid Azula let a single tear fall in front of anyone. She didn’t even cry when Mom left. No, his family appears to be made of steel, so Zuko’s never had to comfort someone before.
He thinks about returning back to his nice, warm bed; he can come out here and read another night. Maybe, he reasons, she wants to be left alone. Maybe that’s why she came out here in the first place, and if he walked in on her now, it would make things awkward.
Something holds him in place though. Something keeps him there, foot resting on the windowsill, and for a while he stands, half hunched, listening to Katara’s shaky breathing. He can’t bring himself to step inside, but Agni help him if he’s going to pretend he never heard her and go back to bed. It’s the thought that something has upset Katara enough to make her cry, that makes Zuko hesitate.
Katara - this fascinating mystery girl of vibrant colours, of intricate swirls of wood, of kindness and creativity, a constant bright light against the backdrop of some of his darker days - in pain? Before he can fully consider what his body is doing, Zuko is dropping into the room, feet thudding against the planks.
His eyes instantly find Katara, huddled near the entrance to the house on her side of the garden, arms wrapped around her knees, toes poking through the bottom of her pajama pants. She looks up at the noise he makes, and he sees her tear-streaked face for the first time. Her hair is down now, compared to the braid and loopies it was in the last time he saw her. It tumbles over her shoulders in coffee coloured waves and hangs almost to her waist. He has an inexplicable urge to run his fingers through it. Her eyes are as blue as ever, albeit swollen red and puffy from tears, and it might just be the light, but he swears she’s even more tan than before.
As Zuko takes all of this in, her eyes widen in recognition and she quickly swipes her sleeve over her eyes, and then her nose. He wants to tell her that it’s alright, that she can cry in front of him if he wants, because that’s what friends do, when he remembers he’s only spoken to her twice.
“Zuko?” Her voice is waterlogged and her nose sounds blocked. “What are you doing here? It’s late.” Her voice wavers on the last word.
“Um. Hi, Katara. You remember me. I, uh, couldn’t sleep, so I came to read. Are you, uh, okay?” Stupid, Zuko, stupid. He regrets the words almost as soon as they’ve left his mouth. Obviously she’s not okay, she’s crying, for Agni’s sake. Katara lets out a wild laugh, which is choked by another catch in her breathing, causing more moisture to leak out of her eyes. She inhales unsteadily, scrubbing violently at her nose with her sleeve, and turns her head away. Message received, loud and clear.
“I’m, I think I’ll, uh just leave you-”
Her interruption is so quiet he almost misses it and turns right around to go back to bed.
“...Don’t go?”
“You want me to- Oh. Okay.”
Blue eyes peek at him from over shoulder as he tentatively closes the space between them. Standing directly in front of her, with Katara still hunched on the ground, Zuko realises how slight she looks.
“Can I...?” He gestures weakly at the space beside her. Silence stretches before them until he glances down and catches the tail end of her nod of confirmation. Awkwardly, he folds his legs under himself and turns to face her. She’s in the midst of sopping up more water that leaks from her eyes, turning away from him again , and Zuko cannot bear it anymore. His hand shoots out to gently grasp her wrist, stopping her movements.
“It’s okay to cry in front of me, you know. You don’t need to hide it,” he blurts.
“Oh, I-”
He pulls his hand away before she can finish her sentence, feeling his ears burn.
“...Sorry,” he mutters gruffly, and he is definitely not thinking about how delicate the bones of her wrist felt under his fingertips.
Try as he might, he cannot help but wonder what has affected her so deeply. He hates himself for even posing the question, but he has to know, he has to. Scrunching up his nose and looking away from her, he throws the dreaded words into the stretching silence between them. “What’s wrong?”
For a minute, he thinks she didn’t hear him, because there is no change in her behaviour to indicate that she even registered his question. She simply stares blankly at a point in the wood, dull gaze boring holes into the bark as tears streak her cheeks.
If he hadn’t been listening for a response so intently, he would’ve completely missed the single word that crawls its way up her throat, sounding like she’s been punched in the stomach.
“Mom.”
It’s Zuko’s turn to feel like he’s been punched. The breath leaves his lungs, his mind trying to wrap around all that that single word entails. Katara’s mother...
“How?” He instantly regrets the question for the way it makes her react.
Katara shakes her head violently, beginning to rock back and forth from where she sits on the floor, as if by not answering his question, it won’t make it real. A small, pained noise escapes her.
“Shot. Parking lot.” The hollowness in her voice doesn’t suit the frantic little movements now racking her small frame.
Zuko’s throat begins to burn. Shot?
“Why?”
“Why? Why? ” Her eyes are suddenly chips of ice, blazing with a hurt he has never seen there before. “I’m asking the same damn question.” Her voice raises, and he can tell she is struggling to restrain herself. He listens to her swallow, hard, and from the corner of his eye he can see her face pucker like she’s swallowed something bitter. A muscle in her jaw clenches. Then-
“She wasn’t even the right person!” Katara whips around, tan skin blotchy, nose running in earnest now. “They were looking for someone else. She was just there, she wasn’t doing anything !” Her shout pierces Zuko’s heart to the core, and it rings hollowly in frigidity of the winter air, absorbed by the lightly falling snow. Katara’s breath comes in fast gasps, wisps of hair beginning to stick to her damp cheeks.
“Do they even know what they’ve done? How dare they, how can you just take someone away from the people that love them , how-” she chokes slightly, voice ragged. “And now she’ll never be here, she’ll never be home, she’ll never tuck me into bed, or tell Sokka off or kiss Dad before she leaves for work, she’ll never- she’s not ever-”
Before he can think it through, Zuko pulls her around to face him. He is just about to snatch his hands away from her again because Agni, the last thing she probably wants is her strange neighbour touching her , when she barrels into him and suddenly his arms are full of Katara. Her hands grasp his shirt like she’s drowning, and he is her life jacket, nails scraping across his torso.
A small “Oh” registers in his brain. So maybe she doesn’t mind so much.
Nevertheless, he freezes for several long moments, unsure what to do with so much physical contact. Eventually, he shuffles backwards so his back is leaning against a wall. She doesn’t move except to tighten her grip around his middle until it’s painful, as if by squeezing hard enough, she can bring her mother back. He takes the pain, because it is only small compared to what she must be feeling; he would take more pain from her if he could. Zuko can almost feel her heart breaking as she shivers against him. Hesitantly, he brings one hand up to thread gently through the hair that hangs in a cloud around her head. He strokes her hair softly, running his fingers back and forth, occasionally scraping lightly across her scalp.
He lets her tears soak through his sweater, breathing in the smell of her hair even as her ribcage shudders next to him, so hard he can feel it even though there are several inches between them. It’s as if her very lungs are unable to grasp the oxygen in the air around them, and Zuko finds himself wishing he could breathe for the both of them, if only to calm her racing heartbeat.
He holds her until he feels the tears slow, then halt, until his foot has fallen asleep. He listens to her breathing as it steadies, though it still hitches every so often. Katara raises her head from his shoulder, bloodshot blue eyes meeting his, and blinks. A small twitch of her eyebrows and then she is pulling away in confusion, jerking out of his hold. His arms feel suddenly bereft at her absence after holding her for so long.
“I’m...sorry you had to see that,” she mutters, letting her hair hide the crimson beginning to stain her cheeks. “And, uh, about your sweater.” She gestures awkwardly to the considerable wet patch now on the front of his hoodie.
Not knowing what else to say, Zuko tilts her a small smile. “It’ll wash out.”
More shaky breathing fills the biting air, and she leans back onto the wall next to him him, letting her head thunk against the wood. Their combined exhales stutter briefly as steam against the cold, before vanishing into the night. He knows he could throw out platitudes and empty words of comfort, but something tells him Katara isn’t one to be fooled by them. He chooses to let them sit in silence, figuring she can talk if she wants to.
For a while, she doesn’t say anything, but the quiet between between them is not the razor-sharp, knife edge tension of his own family’s living room. Despite the fact that this is the first time they’ve spoken since they were children, he is already so much more at ease in her presence than he ever is in his sister’s. Ever so slowly, he feels the warmth of her shoulder inch closer and closer to his. Zuko pretends not to notice - he’s done enough unsolicited touching for one night. It’s only when he feels the ghost of a small shudder through the fabric of his jacket that he finally allows himself to glance at her.
Katara shivers angrily, she shouldn’t be cold; it was freezing where she used to live, if only she could. Just. Stop. Shaking. Although in hindsight, it was probably a stupid idea to come outside in the dead of winter wearing only a thin t-shirt. A part of her isn’t sure if the shaking is because she’s cold or if it’s the weight of her mother that refuses to sink in. She pushes that thought away, away from the little bubble of the treehouse, away from the brief respite Zuko has helped her find. Still staring resolutely ahead, she unconsciously edges toward the only other warm thing in her vicinity.
It’s definitely not because it’s Zuko. It’s because she’s cold, and he’s warm, and warm means safety and pretending like today never happened at all. She’s going to wake up, and this will all just be a horrible, twisted nightmare the spirits have seen fit to bestow upon her as a cruel joke.
The smell of cloves washes over her, (even the scent of spice is warm in the winter’s air), accompanied by faint undertones of...oranges? Katara glances over to see Zuko’s unruly black hair emerge from the bottom of his hoodie. Blood rushes to her cheeks again.
“You don’t have to-” she starts, but he’s already shaking his mussed up hair and shucking the jacket off his arms.
“Don’t be ridiculous.” He hands her his hoodie, and Katara struggles with herself for a second, before pulling it on. Her need for warmth wins out over her pride - this time. The cloves, oranges and the hint of boy intensifies as she shrugs on the hoodie, still warm from where it was on him seconds ago. It’s so much bigger on her that she almost laughs. Almost.
As it is, she’s confident she could fit another one of her inside the jacket, with room to spare. Nevertheless, there is something comforting about the way his hoodie swallows her; it’s a hug that reminds her of when she was a small child. She risks a glance over at Zuko, only to find him on the other side of the treehouse, picking something off the ground.
He takes a seat again next to her, and unscrews the lid of a canteen. It’s an uncanny coincidence- she had been wishing for a hot drink ever since she came up here. It was snowing, after all. An amber liquid streams into the cup, steaming in the frigid air. She barely registers the brush of his fingers against hers as he hands the cup to her. The tea burns her lips and tongue when she drinks, but it’s nothing compared to the sharp throbbing that still resides in her chest.
“Jasmine?” She manages a watery smile.
“It’s one of Uncle’s favourites.”
She cups the thermos cap and sips, the sleeves of his hoodie wrapped halfway around her hands, like little paws.
“Thank you,” she whispers into the tea, almost as an afterthought. She looks over at him again, but his face is unreadable except for the burning warmth in his eyes. Katara drinks her tea, coming to the bottom of the cup sooner than expected. The warmth begins to spread through her body, and Zuko reaches over to refill it without her having to say anything.
She smiles weakly again in thanks, and tucks her knees up to her chest to keep herself warm. It presses her arm into his, and there is something comforting about those few inches of solid understanding, the only real thing anchoring her to the treehouse, to the world. The simple touch prevents her from spiralling.
After her second cup of tea, she passes the cap back over and rests her chin on her knees, hugging them. Now that she’s aware of the body next to her, she can feel his gaze on her. She feels the edges of a blush begin to heat up her face.
“C’mere.”
Her head snaps to look at him, unsure if she heard correctly.
The boy gives a jerk of his head, and gratitude floods through her at the kindness behind the gesture.
Scooting closer, Katara leans her head against the comfortable nook between his chin and collarbone, stealing the heat of the warm body next to her. Subconsciously, she lets out a little sigh of contentment.
After a while, Zuko breaks the silence again.
“Still cold?”
She looks up at him sheepishly, and nods. Legs shifting, Zuko wriggles out from underneath her and crosses to their collection of pillows and blankets.
“Come and help me, then.”
They spread the blankets out on the floor, and Katara is quick to nestle in beside him, head coming to rest in the soft place between his neck and arm. He brings his other arm up around her and resumes his slow stroking of her hair. Zuko radiates heat; she didn’t think it was possible for someone to be this warm - and he’s only wearing a jumper. The gentle, constant motion of his fingers and the warmth seeping through her thin pyjamas cocoon Katara, and she is vaguely aware of the rhythm of their heartbeats aligning as they breathe in tandem.
“I’ve got you, Tara,” he murmurs into her hair, barely loud enough for her to hear.
Against her will, her eyes become heavy. She shouldn’t be falling asleep, not out here in the cold, not when there’s snow falling and an empty bed in her empty house that she knows will be checked in the morning. But Zuko is hopelessly warm - more importantly, she knows she is safe - and her tired, aching self wins out against the rational part of her.
The life and growth that comes with spring slowly thaws the garden, gently wresting the last of the morning frosts from their clutches around the delicate flowers that are beginning to emerge.
The absence of winter doesn’t do much to unfreeze the painful tightness in Katara’s chest, but there’s something about the appearance of new beginnings around her that never fails to bring a little more light to her eyes.
Humid breezes chase birds through the leaves of the trees in the garden; both Katara and Zuko, unbeknownst to the other, take to bringing pitchers of iced tea up to the treehouse whenever they do their homework. The slow drips of condensation that gather at the base of each glass become a familiar presence on the floorboards, yet neither of them think to bring out coasters. There is something comforting in the knowledge that the other person was probably sitting in the exact same place, a few hours ago, pen scratching out history essays or algebra equations.
Paint and carvings continue to bloom in tandem with the garden springing up around the treehouse - it crosses the mind of both teenagers that they might, one day, run out of space - but this does nothing to stop their creativity.
The large reproduction of Da Vinci's Vitruvian Man causes Zuko’s eyebrows to raise the first time he lays eyes on it, but it quickly grows on him, especially after a closer look in the top right corner reveals an arrow pointing to him and a single scrawled word: Bob.
Different books begin to trickle into the treehouse, gathering in piles as the two progress through their school years. There is a little less headspace for the long epics and series that they both love; the treehouse becomes a haven to study biology and new kinds of math. Trigonometric equations throw Katara for a loop at first, but Zuko is helpful enough to leave formula shortcuts for her. In exchange, she leaves behind sheets with animal physiology mnemonics for him.
Katara can see Zuko’s confidence grow in the increasing boldness of his brushstrokes and colour choices. She allows herself to feel tiny tingles of pride every so often - she cannot take credit for his talent, but she can occasionally remind herself that they do this together - this precarious, fragile space of safety they have created.
When summer storms blow in, winds blustering and rain falling in sheets over their houses, puddles take to forming in the over-saturated grass. Katara still splashes her way over to the treehouse sometimes, making good use of the pair of wellies she found at the op-shop. She knows Zuko detests this sort of weather; he’s had something against too much water ever since they were kids. So she takes the liberty of putting up curtains over the windows, ones that can be tied down so less rain rushes in with the gusts of wind.
Zuko, though he frequents the treehouse slightly less if it’s raining, is nevertheless still appreciative of the gesture, though he never gets to tell it to her face. Instead, they fall into the habit of leaving each other little notes around the house. Tucked under books, rolled around a paintbrush, wedged between wood planks - they start with simple thank yous, and progress into something akin to conversation.
Thanks for the curtains, K
-Zuko
I did remember correctly, right? Rain is yuck?
-Katara
Yes, rain is yuck. What’d you think of The Blue Lotus? I never got to ask you if you finished reading it or not.
-Zuko
I’ll be honest with you, I didn’t see that twist coming. Sokka tells me he did, but I refuse to believe anyone could have predicted what happened. Have you guys studied the lionturtles in class yet? I’ve taken notes, but I’m still a little confused as to how it all works.
-Katara
Yeah, we’ve done the lionturtles. Don’t worry, I got stuck on it the first time too. Here’s a cheat sheet I made - sorry about the handwriting.
-Zuko
Your cheat sheet actually saved my butt, Zuko. Thank the spirits for you. Here are some seaweed crackles I made as a token of my appreciation. They’re Water Tribe specialty. Mom used to make them all the time.
Eternally grateful,
Katara
The crackles are a hit, Katara. Don’t think I’ve ever had something quite so salty before, but I’m sure your mother would’ve been proud. Try these fire flakes. I think they’re the equivalent of your crackles, where I’m from.
-Zuko
Spirits, Zuko, those are so spicy. You should’ve left milk with them. How on earth do you eat them??
Absolutely astonished,
Katara
They’re the most wonderful snack ever. They will be forever immortalised in my new tribute to them. Please see the left corner of the window on your side for reference.
Take that,
Zuko
If it weren’t for the great choice of colour palette and my respect for your work, that would’ve been gone by now. I mean, fireflakes? Really?
I’m watching you, mister.
Katara
Well, what if I told you I installed security cameras in here? What would you say then? Hmm?? Two can play this game.
Zuko
Oh, it’s on, fire boy.
She may have accidentally mentioned Zuko in passing to her brother, which in hindsight may have been the worst mistake she could’ve made.
“Zuko and Kat-Kat, sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I- ouch! That hurt! I’m telling Dad!”
“...Sokka, we’re not five anymore. Come on.”
“You just can’t appreciate my artisanal music abilities .”
“One, that’s not a thing. Two, that song is awful.”
“You love me, Kat-Kat. I know you do. Now can you pretty please with a cherry-on-top fix my shirt?”
“Some nerve you’ve got. Do it yourself, lazybones. And stop leaning on my biology textbooks!”
Once, she comes across a fire lily in the treehouse, almost as if it was left on the bench by accident. She wouldn’t have thought anything of it, except for the fact that it was placed purposely on top of their shared stack of Avatar playing cards.
The next day, he finds an eye that looks just like his in the middle of the floor, a fire lily spiralling from the iris.
Katara takes to focusing more on the human form; it started with Bob and has progressed to anatomy studies. Some of them she leaves permanently etched into the wood, others take up home amongst the stacks of overflowing sketchbooks. Pages upon pages of carefully studied proportions, of graceful fingers, sharp jawlines, tousled hair, lithe muscles, skin of all colours. Zuko knows she leaves most of them free for him to look through, and sometimes he makes a point of tacking a particularly striking piece of work to the wall of the treehouse, as if to quietly say, ‘I see you, I know you’re here, I think you’re wonderful.’
Autumn is a breath of fresh, crisp air, tree branches beginning to bow with ripening fruit, the whole garden blushing brilliant shades of red and orange. Fallen leaves rustle and crackle under their feet on the way out to the treehouse.
Katara’s afternoons become filled with spices wafting from the house as her concoctions cook in the oven, her evening study punctuated by the crunch of apples gathered from the other trees in her garden. She isn’t sure if Zuko has any fruit trees in his garden, so she makes sure there are always a few nestled on top of a stack of books whenever she leaves the treehouse.
Small plates of apple muffins or apple cinnamon bread are sometimes left for Zuko to find, and in exchange he treats her to jam that is curiously warm on her tongue, with just the right amount of spice. If she closes her eyes hard enough, Katara likes to imagine that this is what he smelled like when he held her all those months ago.
Both are grateful for the blankets that have accumulated in the house over the years; though not as chilly as the winter days, the autumn winds still carry a bit of bite. Katara makes a pair of fuzzy slipper socks for herself to wear in the treehouse, and cautiously fashions a pair for Zuko as well, hoping the size of her brother’s gargantuan feet holds true for all teenaged boys. Zuko disappears for a fortnight, and makes his presence known again with a rug covering the floorboards that is as rich in colour as the leaves surrounding them, as well as sachets of tea that warm Katara’s insides with much more than hot water.
Where’d you get the tea from? It’s delicious.
-Katara
My uncle thought I would like it. Father hates it, so that’s why I brought it here.
-Zuko
Your dad doesn’t know what he’s missing.
I’m glad it’s autumn. Winter is far too cold. This is just right.
-Zuko
You don’t like the summer rains, you don’t like the winter cold; what do you like, Goldilocks?
You want me to be totally honest, Tara?
He hesitates, the only time he has since talking to her in note form.
This. Here. This treehouse.
-Zuko
A small voice in the back of his head whispers “You, Katara.” But he is too busy swirling colours the same hue as the leaves around him onto the wood floor, and it goes unheeded.