Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Bring me some hope
By wandering into my mind
Something to hold onto
Morning, or day, or night

You were the light that is blinding me
You're the anchor that I tie to my brain
'Cause when it feels when I'm lost at sea
You're the song that I sing again and again

- The Anchor, Bastille 

The car pulls up outside a lovely looking house, with a sweeping front lawn and white shuttered windows. Katara presses her nose against the car window, her breath fogging up a small circle on the chilled pane.

"Alright kids, we're here!" Her father's voice breaks through her brother's snoring and Sokka gives a jerk, startling awake.

"Whassgoinon?"

"Wake up, lazy butt," Katara jabs her fingers into her brother's side, and then pushes open the door, scrambling into the cool air.

Sokka's indignant cries and her mother's yell of "Katara!" follow her as she races across the grass to come to a screeching halt in front of the front door. She can see her reflection in the windows as she jumps to try and get a glimpse of the rooms inside, but the curtains are drawn.

Too impatient to wait for her parents to unlock the door, she skips back down the stairs and round the side of the house, where there is a fence.

Beyond, she can see a lush garden, with great big trees that have laid a crunchy carpet of leaves onto the ground. Katara frowns at the fence. Looking around, she can see an old tree stump by a hedge, which sparks an idea in her mind. The stump is high enough that Katara can swing one of her legs over the fence and drop to the other side. She thumps to the ground, but she does not cry out. Making noise will send her mother running, and she has not yet had the chance to explore the garden yet. Katara brushes damp leaves from the front of her blue dress, blows a few strands of hair off her face, and marches into the garden.

Trees so tall she has to crane her neck to see the canopy of leaves they make edge the garden. Their branches spread wide and broad, Katara is pleased to note. They will make for excellent climbing. One tree, the oldest tree she thinks, has branches curiously spread over the high hedges separating the house from the one next door, almost like the tree is sharing itself between the two gardens. Katara skips closer, and sees that planks have been nailed into the trunk of the tree. Her gaze travels upward, and-

She squeals, just a little. She doesn't care how awful this new neighbourhood might be, this makes up for anything that could possibly go wrong.

A treehouse. Her very own treehouse. Sokka can have her bedroom for all she cares, this is hers. She can feel it. The treehouse is meant for her.

Eagerly, she pulls herself up the planks, climbing steadily higher and higher up the tree. The entrance of the treehouse nears, and she hoists herself up onto the platform through the doorway. The house is spacious; the far corners are partly in shadow. The house has been built around the tree, here and there are gaps in the wall where parts of the tree poke through. The ceiling is high enough that she wouldn't be able to touch it even on her tip toes. Someone made benches into the structure of the house too, looking out through windows in the sides of the walls into the garden. Katara thinks this would be a marvellous place to come to read when-

"What are you doing here?"

Katara jumps and startles. The voice came from one of the shadowy corners.

"Who's there?" She asks.

"Me," says the voice. "This is my treehouse. Who said you could come in?"

"Your treehouse?" Indignation sparks in Katara's voice and she takes a step towards the other person. How dare they. "What do you mean, your treehouse? The tree is in my garden. It's my treehouse."

"It is not your treehouse. I was here first. It's mine."

"No, it's mine now. My parents bought this house, which means they also bought this tree. So there."

"I don't care what your parents did. Go away."

Footsteps scrape along the floor; whoever is speaking has risen and is walking towards her. Katara folds her arms and lifts her chin stubbornly.

"Make me."

A boy walks into the light spilling in from the window. He has the palest skin she has ever seen, and his unruly hair is as dark as his skin is light. He's a few inches taller than her, which she doesn't like at all, because Sokka is taller than her already and she doesn't need one more person to look up at. The last thing she notices is his eyes. Katara has never seen eyes like his before, having only seen the blue eyes that define her family. They are... light brown? Yellow? Gold, she decides, liquid gold. Or amber. For the second time that day, Katara is surprised. She was not expecting a boy. She quickly schools her features into a scowl, which is matched by the one on the face of the boy opposite her.

"Oh, I'll make you leave." The boy leans down, hands on his hips.

Katara lifts her chin higher, so her face is right in his and their noses are almost touching. She fights to remain un-crosseyed. Amber eyes turn to slits as the boy squints. Katara doesn't back down. This is quickly becoming a staring competition. She can feel her eyes begin to water, but Katara refuses to blink. Her gaze remains fixed on the boy's face until-

Black lashes touch, just for a second, in the tiniest blink. If she hadn't been standing nose to nose with him, she would've missed it.

"Aha!" Katara shrieks triumphantly, straightening and scrubbing moisture from her eyes with the back of her hand. "I win. I can stay." The boy's face has sunk into a scowl once again. Katara thinks that he scowls too much.

"Well, you don't have to be so happy about it," she pouts.

His features un-scrunch, and a pale hand extends towards her, an olive branch in the space between them.

"Zuko."

Katara isn't given anything else to go with the single word that now hangs in the air, so she couples it with a word of her own.

"Katara." Her small fingers meet his, and they shake. His fingers are very warm. The boy - Zuko - lets go of her hand and rubs the back of his neck.

"That’s a funny name."

"Your name is the funny one," he counters. Katara nods. He makes a fair point.

"Why were you up here?"

"It's funner than being inside the house. No one will play with me."

"I can play with you," Katara offers. "My brother doesn't exactly like playing with me either.”

She stares out the window at the leafy canopy, and feels Zuko's stare on her back. What she doesn't see is the small upward turn his lips make. A pleasantly puzzled expression skips across his features for a second.

Katara attempts to break the ice a second time, and turns back to face Zuko.

"What do you play, then?" 

His gaze shifts towards the dimmed corner he emerged from before. Katara can almost make out a handful of rocks and twigs.

"It's called Melon Lord," Zuko mumbles.

Katara kneels down and scoots forward.

"The biggest rock there is the Melon Lord. The smaller rocks are the Melon Lord's soldiers.” He holds up two stubby twigs. “The twigs need to stop him using the other twigs they have, otherwise Melon Lord will destroy the world as we know it." Zuko nods solemnly, having finished the game's explanation.

Katara laughs at how serious he is all the time. "Fun. I get to be Melon Lord first."

After several rounds of them alternating back and forth playing Melon Lord, Katara is forced to consider the slight possibility that Zuko might be winning. She chalks it up to the fact that he’s had more experience playing this game before.

A small grin begins to dance across his face as Zuko wins his fifth round of Melon Lord. His gap-toothed smile riles her for some reason, and she pokes her tongue out in defiance.

“You’re not better than me.”

He tilts his head at this small, curiously blue eyed girl, who has just revealed she is equally as competitive as he is on the inside.

Wind dances through the treehouse, sending some of the smaller twigs away from their positions. Zuko stands up and stretches, and Katara follows suit, glad for a change in activity. At least, this is what she thinks until he makes his way over to the window and begins to climb outside.

“Hey! Where are you going?”

Suddenly, she is reminded of how small she is compared to the tree, and how high above the ground they actually are. Really high. She doesn’t think she’s ever been this high before, except for a faint memory she has of tripping on a hill of snow and rolling down into her brother. But the snow was soft. The ground here isn’t.

“Come on outside. It’s fun.”

Katara hesitates; there weren’t many trees where she used to live, and she’s never been this high up before. Zuko is perched on the branch right outside the window, his legs dangling.

“Okay, but if I fall, it’s your fault.”

“You won’t fall.”

She scrunches her forehead. “You don’t know that.”

One foot follows the other out of the window, and Katara quickly plops down so she won’t lose her balance. With one leg on either side of the branch, she shuffles forwards until she reaches Zuko, who looks as if he belongs up here. Katara thinks it’s very unfair that he gets to be so comfortable so high off the ground.

“Told you.” She chooses not to reply to that, and instead keeps both hands firmly planted against the branch. The ground is still very far away, after all.

“Mom would kill me if she saw me up here,” Katara bites her lip.

“She doesn’t know you’re here,” he points out. He makes a good point.

They sit in silence with nothing but the gentle rustling of leaves to fill the space between them, but it's with the easy silence of companionship rather than a stressed one. She’s only been here for an hour, and she already has a friend who isn’t Sokka. Except her brother doesn’t really count as her friend.

She feels the rain begin to spatter on her skin before she hears it.

Zuko sticks out his hand, a small frown creasing his forehead. “Rain. Yuck.”

“Rain is not yuck! Rain is good.”

“Wet. Cold. Nuh-uh.” His shaggy black hair flops around as he violently shakes his head.

“Water is fun,” Katara counters, but Zuko is already halfway across the branch into the treehouse.

“I think I need to go.”

“Okay, Melon Lord.”

Zuko chortles, and ducks out of sight into the treehouse, mop of hair disappearing from view.

Katara swings her legs from the branch and stretches her arms out to the steadily increasing rain. Splashes of water reach her hair and down the back of her shirt, filtering through the leaves that are whispering in the increasing wind. Eager to enjoy the full extent of the water surrounding her, Katara carefully inches her way back across the branch, through the treehouse and down to the ground.

The dirt is soft beneath her feet, and if she didn’t know her mother would kill her for ruining her new shoes, Katara knows she would be jumping in puddles.

Her laughter is muffled by the sheets of cascading water falling from the sky. Katara spins in the rain. The downpour is cleansing, refreshing; soon she is entirely soaked through and she cannot bring herself to care in the slightest.

The rain is the closest she’ll ever get to snow, after all.

Chapter Text

Do you feel the same when I'm away from you?
Do you know the line that I'd walk for you?
We could turn around, or we could give it up
But we'll take what comes, take what comes

Oh, the storm is raging against us now
If you're afraid of falling, then don't look down
But we took the step, and we took the leap
And we'll take what comes, take what comes

 Feel the wind in your hair
Feel the rush way up here

We're walking the wire, love

- Walking The Wire, Imagine Dragons 

 She clenches the handle of the lantern so hard she thinks it might snap under the pressure. And if it does? Well, good. She won’t be the one buying a new one.

Steam floods off her in waves, through her nose and her ears. There’s a murderous glare plastered on her face that anyone at eye level with her would be wise to avoid.

“Katara? Katara! Where are you going! Don't you walk away from me while I'm talking to you, young lady.”

Katara continues stomping down the stairs as hard as possible.

“You are being very disrespectful right now. Get back here!”

She ignores the words shouted at her back as she storms from the back door into the garden, slamming it ferociously behind her.

Katara is furious. How could they, how dare they, her own parents! Clearly, Sokka was the better sibling after all. Clearly, she didn't pull enough weight around the house. When it had been her doing the laundry and hanging it out, her vacuuming dust and crumbs from every available surface, her scrubbing the carpets when Sokka tracked mud all over them after his stupid league match, her preparing breakfast every morning, waking herself and her brother up in time for school every day, all gone in the face of one smashed sculpture. Some daughter she was turning out to be. She was going to be a disappointment to the family. Sokka had better goals, Sokka knew where he wanted to go, art was a useless pastime that she needed to give up right now, because she was never going to get anywhere.

“Never going to get anywhere?” Katara seethes. She'd show them. Tui and La, they'd regret the day they ever doubted her.

Katara tucks her book snugly into the waistband of her shorts and clamps the lantern between her teeth. The rough planks and bark scrape her knuckles and nails as she climbs angrily, but she doesn't care. The small cuts fuel the fire raging inside her right now.

She slams the book and then the lantern onto the floor of the treehouse as she nears the top, before flinging herself into the room and crashing violently down onto the wood planks in a seating position. Katara yells in frustration, stands up, spins around and punches a knot protruding into the house. The skin on her knuckles is ripped off and she can feel a splinter work its way deep into the meat of her finger. She clenches her teeth and relishes the pain. Katara takes a deep, shuddering breath.

“Hello again.”

Katara is ashamed to admit that she shrieks when she realises she is not alone.

“Aah! Who’s there?” She asks, voice a little more unstable than she'd have liked.

“Hey. Remember me?”

It's a boy, sitting cross legged on one of the built in benches in the treehouse, who must have seen all of Katara’s tantrum. Katara’s definitely seen him before... but younger, much younger, with a softer face. The explosion of black hair atop his pale face has not changed, and neither have his amber eyes. He raises his eyebrows.

“Zuko.” She tilts the end of the word up a little to show the slight hesitation she has in remembering his name.

“Katara.” His response is no nonsense, and leaves no room for her to doubt whether he remembers her name or not. Zuko gestures blandly to her torn knuckles.

“What happened?”

Katara grimaces. “You should see the other guy.”

“Oh yes, the tree that you punched is in much worse condition actually.” Zuko rolls his eyes. “I think it may have hurt feelings, where all you have to deal with are potentially broken fingers and a hell of a splinter. It's obvious who won the fight.”

“Cut back the sarcasm will you? I was just angry.” She turns to leave, “I'm going to get something to get this splinter out, I'll see you arou-”

“Don't sweat it, I have supplies here.” Katara looks incredulously at him.

“You. Have medical supplies. Here. In the treehouse.”

“Our treehouse,” he points out, “As you so adamantly told me the first time I met you.” He lifts a first aid kit out of a loose board in the floor.

“What else do you have in there?”

He throws her a wink, replacing the floorboard. “Shh...”

“Don't shush me, mister!”

Zuko’s golden eyes sparkle. “I wouldn't dream of it, your highness.”

Katara feels herself blush at his teasing tone, and angrily stomps aside the smile that wants to creep across her face. It’s similar to what Sokka would say, but something tells her Zuko isn’t anything like her brother. He’s not smelly, at least. As far as she can tell. Not that she’s smelled him or anything.

The smile vanishes when she sees Zuko armed with tweezers and alcohol swabs. Now that she takes a proper look at it, the splinter is really far into the meat of her finger. It looks like a painful extraction is imminent. Well, she supposes, all of this is her own fault, so the least she can do is to sit still and let Zuko get it out for her.

Zuko beckons to her from the bench thing, and Katara crosses the floor to sit next to him. Her hands nestle in her lap, trying to delay the inevitable for as long as possible. Zuko gently takes her hand, and turns it palm down so the splinter is facing somewhat upwards. He rips open an alcohol swab, pausing just before it touches her skin.

“This might sting a little,” he warns.

Then the cool swab is touching her finger as Zuko cleanses the area around the splinter. Katara hisses slightly when he presses too hard, but otherwise it hurt less than she expect she would. She sits up straighter, proud of herself.

“Okay,” Zuko puts down the swab, “Now for the hard part.”

Fascinated, Katara leans down and watches the silver arms grasp the sliver of wood and tug backwards. In fact, she is so mesmerised that the splinter is almost all out before it even occurs to her that she should be feeling pain. With one last pull, the splinter is freed from her finger.

“That's a hell of a splinter,” Zuko says, and throws the wood out the window. “Now for a band-aid.” Even though Katara is perfectly capable of putting a band-aid on by herself, she lets him do it. It would be rude if she didn’t. He wraps the plaster around her finger, and gives it an awkward pat.

“Good as new,” he mumbles.

“Thank you, Zuko.” He looks surprised at her thanks, and Katara wonders why. Surely people say thank you to him at some point. Amber eyes narrow again and he grabs her hand once more, squinting at her skinned and bruising knuckles. Zuko scowls, turning her hand left and right.

“Where did you learn to do all this?”

Katara's voice breaks through his concentration, and a slight crease appears between his eyes.

“I’ve seen father patch up Azula enough times to get a basic idea,” he evades.

Katara nods to herself, and makes a note to ask more questions later. Questions like: Who is Azula? And also, Why does Azula need patching up?

Satisfied with his examination of her battered hand, Zuko straightens.

“You're going to need to put ice on that when you get back,” he notes.

She rolls her eyes at his fussiness. “Sure, Doc.” Zuko grins embarrassedly. It's been a long time since he's interacted with anyone other than his sister for more than five minutes. Most of those interactions were never really...pleasant. This friendly conversation is a nice change.

“So why were you so angry? It must've been pretty bad if you came storming up here like you did.”

Katara starts a bit; she had almost completely forgot about her anger in the first place. It melted away in the face of Zuko’s simple kindness.

“I was angry at my parents. They’ve been away for some sort of trip where they sit with a bunch of other adults in stuffy rooms and talk about nothing for hours, so it’s just been Gran-Gran, Sokka, and me,” Katara lowers her voice to a stage whisper, “Gran-Gran’s getting old though, but she still came to babysit while Mom and Dad were away. I still had to most of the house things, I even had to clean up after smelly Sokka. I think all boys are smelly. ‘Cept for you, of course. You’re not smelly. Um.” Katara snaps her mouth shut after that last bit.

Zuko’s face and most of his neck have gone almost as red as his t-shirt. He opens his mouth to say something, but Katara rambles on to cover the awkward pause.

“So, they get back, and I’m chasing Sokka up the stairs because he took one of my paintings and it’s not fair that he gets to get away with things, just cause he’s older, and I may have knocked over one of Mom’s sculpture thingies. It was very expensive. Also a wedding present. They aren’t happy,” she finishes.

Zuko nods sagely. “It’s not fair that he can get away with taking your stuff just because he’s older. I’m older than Azula, but she usually gets away with stuff for the opposite reason. My parents love her.”

Katara’s nose wrinkles. “Siblings,” she sighs.

“Sometimes I wish I was an only child. Then maybe I could actually do things that I want to do.” Zuko looks so sad as he says this that Katara’s next question of

“Like what?” bursts from her before she can help it.

“You ask a lot of questions,” he chuckles.

She pokes her tongue out at him. “Got a problem?”

He smiles at her, before answering, “Nope. And art.”

“Art?” Katara tilts her head. She doesn’t see anything wrong with wanting to do art.

“Azula is obsessed with inventing things, and my father thinks there’s a better “career path” there than painting. Or something. I don’t know what it means. But he won’t let me get any colours.”

Katara’s mouth gapes. She couldn’t imagine life without her pencils and paints. “No colours?” She says, aghast.

The boy opposite her shakes his head, black hair falling into his eyes. “Nope.”

“That’s awful.”

“Tell me about it.”

“I don’t have any pencils with me...you can still draw here, though.” An idea springs into her mind.

“How?”

“With these.” Katara twiddles her fingers. “Look.”

She grabs his forearm, and traces two dots and a curved line onto his skin.

“Guess what it was.”

“A smiley face?”

Katara beams at him, swinging her legs in delight. “See? You’re already so much better than Sokka. He sucks at this game.”

Zuko shifts closer, intrigued. “My turn.”

Katara obligingly holds her arm out to him. His fingertip outlines a series of curved lines, and she puckers her lips, before guessing, “Flower?”

He nods. “Fire lily.” Katara claps her hands.

They continue alternating turns, the drawings getting more and more elaborate, until they have to switch to drawing on each other’s backs because the pictures won’t fit on their arms. Sokka was never this good, or this creative, plus the feeling of Zuko’s fingers running over her shirt is oddly relaxing.

“Garden.”

“Fish.”

“Campfire.”

“The moon.”

“The Sun.”

“River.”

“Forest.”

“Ocean.”

“A teapot.” Katara giggles at that one.

“Saturn.”

“You know Saturn?”

“Of course I know Saturn,” Zuko grins at her. She grins back, teeth gleaming against her tan skin, and for the first time, Zuko notices the small gap in her smile where she’s lost a tooth.

They move from drawing to talking, lying on the floor, and she tells him about her old home, of snow and ice and cold, and he tells her what he can remember of scorching summers and turtle-ducks in a pond.

The treehouse gets steadily darker as night blankets sky, and it’s only at Zuko’s yawn that Katara finally notices the time. The milky glow of the moon through the leaves on Zuko’s cheek should have been obvious before, but she was too absorbed in conversation. It must be late, hopefully she can go to bed without being yelled at. She’s just opening her mouth to say that she should probably go, when she hears her name being called.

“Katara? Are you out there?” Blast. Her absence has been noticed. She grimaces at Zuko, and he makes a face back. Katara giggles, sitting up.

“Mom’s calling. Gotta go. Wish me luck.”

“Good luck, Agent Katara.” Zuko solemnly holds out his hand for her to shake, which she does.

“See ya!” She jumps up, dashes across the room, and wiggles herself onto the trunk of the tree. Just like that, she’s gone. Zuko looks around the treehouse, suddenly much darker and much emptier without Katara’s bubbly energy. His eyes fall on her lantern and her book. A quick glance at the title tells him it’s Ice Sculpting For Beginners, something he’s never heard of before.

Zuko calls after her. “Hey, Katara, wait! You left your-”

But her back door has already slammed shut. Zuko crouches next to the lantern, pondering. It's due to go out anyway, might as well replace it.

Replace it? For a moment, he questions his thought processes. Yes, it's the right thing to do. He leaves the book where it is, spread open on a page about blade movement.

The next day, he asks his mom to take him to the store, and buys strings of paper lanterns to hang up in the treehouse. (He tells her it’s for a science project.) He wires the switches together, like the video online said to do, and mounts them on a wall so they can be turned on and off with ease. Feeling satisfied, Zuko climbs back into his own garden to finish cutting the grass.

The niggling feeling at the back of Katara's mind that she's had for the whole day solidifies as she remembers: she left her book and her lantern in the treehouse yesterday. She glances from the diagram of the water cycle she's drawing, and the stack of long division worksheets that lie underneath it, to the back door, which Sokka has left enticingly ajar. She can just make out the treehouse through the frosted glass at the top from her position perched on the stool at the kitchen countertop. Her thoughts whirs for a few seconds as she thinks, and then a lightbulb goes off in her head.

“Mom! I'm going to finish my homework in the garden!”

The sound of the vacuum cleaner shuts off and Kya’s face pokes around the corner, long brown hair tied up with a piece of cloth.

“Okay, but I expect all the long division to be finished before dinner so you can ask me any questions you have.”

Katara nods, already packing up the paints and pencils she had been using to detail her diagram. She bundles it all into her arms using an old sheet, and carries it like a knapsack on a stick out into the garden.

Her book is exactly where she remembers leaving it the night before, open on the floor of the treehouse, but-

Someone has strung lanterns all across the rafters. The slightly empty wooden box is now that much more welcoming as Katara flips the switch mounted into the wall of the treehouse. The lanterns click on, illuminating the whole house, even the dark corner where she first met younger Zuko almost five years ago.

Katara gapes a little at the huge difference the light makes to the small space, then makes her way over to her lantern. Despite everything she does, it will not turn on. Katara allows a smile to spread across her face. This must have been Zuko. She shakes her head in wonderment at the kindness and intuition of the boy she has really only met twice. Still smiling, she unpacks her things onto the floor, lays out a pencil and her maths problems, and starts to work.

The rustling of the tree leaves and the inviting glow of the lanterns make it easier for Katara to concentrate than the backdrop of vacuum cleaner noises back inside the house. She works steadily through the problems, but marks two of the ones dealing with remainders to ask her mother once she heads back inside. The maths out of the way, Katara quickly finishes the water cycle diagram for science the following day. It was stuff her mother had taught her when she was in kindergarten, but they were only learning it in school four years later, so she doesn’t really have a choice.

She sets her schoolwork aside, and pulls her box of acrylics towards her. She’s feeling adventurous today, though, so she forgoes the sketchbook she brought with her and puts her brush straight to the wooden floor.

Blues and purples swirl across a few planks in an intricate mandala, then Katara washes her smallest brush and adds sprightly green leaves in a border around the design. Painting is always astonishingly calming for her, and she can feel how relaxed she is already.

A few small geometric patterns later and Katara smells dinner wafting from the house. She gathers up her school things, but decides to “accidentally” leave the sheet she brought her art supplies in folded up neatly on the bench where Zuko removed her splinter the day before. He might come here to read sometimes, and she knows all too well the numbing sensation in one’s nether regions that come with sitting on a hard surface for too long. The sheet would serve well as a makeshift cushion until she could make some real ones.

Recalling what he said yesterday, Katara dashes back into the house for some bottles of poster paint and other supplies. She might just “forget” them in the treehouse too so Zuko can use them if he comes back. She wiggles with excitement at the prospect of returning his favour. This is fun.

Zuko clambers into the treehouse, books under his arms, and crosses to turn on the lantern switch. Underneath the switch lies a battered shoebox filled with bottles and other items that look like art supplies. He shakes his head fondly, she really is awful at remembering to take her things with her.

A quick sweep of the treehouse reveals Katara didn’t just leave art supplies here, she also left artwork. He crosses over to the flourishing patterns she left on the floorboards, eyes skimming over the symmetrical shapes and fluid colour changes. Zuko feels a small spark deep inside his chest, in a corner of his heart kept dark by his father and overshadowed by Azula.

His fingers twitch minutely, eyes flickering back to the bottles of paint. Surely she wouldn’t notice if he used just a little bit? Knuckles brush the cap of a bottle and before he knows it, there is a brush dipped into brilliant yellow and hovering above a dark knot in one of the planks. The tip of the brush meets the wood and Zuko circles his wrist, watching paint spiral outwards, and a tingle flows up his arm and down his spine when the small sun finishes blossoming against the wood.

In that instant, he knows there is no turning back.

He spends the next few hours absorbed in experimenting with Katara’s paints, though he makes sure to leave his creations small so as not to use up too much of her supply. He’s moved to peer out of the window for some more inspiration when his eyes fall on the books he brought, lying forgotten next to the light switch. Maybe it’s time to take a break.

Zuko packs away the brushes and makes his way over to his customary reading position, this time with the addition of a folded sheet. He thinks it’s meant to serve as a makeshift cushion, though with Katara’s tendency to leave things here, he can’t be sure. Regardless, it will provide something softer to sit on as he whiles away the remaining daylight, engrossed in his books.

It’s cost her three pricks to her thumb and a shouting match with Sokka about “girly sewing” (which nearly resulted in her brother becoming a pincushion), but Katara thinks the resulting product is worth it.

Six cushions, in cornflower blue, vermillion, indigo, mahogany, powder blue and an almost tawny yellow that she won’t admit reminds her of Zuko’s eyes. She takes them to the treehouse in one go, cocooning them inside a throw rug along with a couple of books with the intent to sit there for a few hours and read.

Katara’s arranging the cushions near a window when a flash of red and white catches her eye. Leaning closer for a better look, she sees graceful, outward moving brush strokes. The lines look awfully like the disguise of the Painted Lady, the heroine in the second book of the Spirit World trilogy. She has yet to read the final installment, though she knows from photos of the cover that the last book is where the Painted Lady meets the Blue Spirit, mysterious protagonist of the first novel.

Tracing the paint with her fingertips, Katara knows it certainly wasn’t her that drew this. Which could only mean Zuko was the one who had. Looking more carefully, Katara notices more spots of colour in addition to her own scattered around the room. She smiles. Looks like her “lost” art supplies are being put to good use.

Zuko presses the thumbtacks into the wood, hoisting up Katara’s old sheet between two protruding sections of bark until it drapes like a canopy when he lets go. He nudges two of her cushions underneath the tent, grabs his copy of Dawn of the Blue Spirit, and flops down to continue the story.

He glances up every few pages despite the gripping plot to gaze fondly at the spirals of blue and white next to his Painted Lady. So what if they had similar taste in books? It didn’t mean anything, he reasoned with himself. Wouldn’t it be a coincidence if he left the final book in the trilogy here for her to read? A coincidence indeed.

She can’t help the squeak she lets out the next time she enters the treehouse. Katara’s heart stops the instant she sees The Blue Lotus under the half-tent that has been assembled. It’s almost as if Zuko can predict her thoughts, knowing what she has need of before she even thinks of it herself. But the Spirit World finale will have to wait; she is positively trembling with creative excitement.

Ice Sculpting For Beginners struck her hard with inspiration the previous night, and she has a sudden urge to put the techniques she’s read about into practice, though on wood rather than ice. If her father notices various carving implements and sandpaper missing from his toolbox, he doesn’t say anything, for which Katara is grateful for.

It takes her a long time to figure out what she’s supposed to be doing, to learn the names of the tools and their individual uses. She didn’t know this many kinds of carving instruments even existed.

It’s in the long hours she spends hunched over a section of wood in the treehouse that Katara truly appreciates Zuko’s lanterns. Without them, she definitely wouldn’t be able to spend as much time carving as she would’ve liked.

Many sore joints, scraped fingers, and near-misses with a knife later, Katara finally produces engravings she’s satisfied with. She flexes her fingers, stiff from remaining clenched around handles for so long, and allows herself a smile. Wood chips scatter the floor of the treehouse, but the branches bear the fruits of her work. Small flowers flourish in the bark.

There are imprints in the tree bark that weren’t there before, Zuko marvels at how fast she seems to be gaining control over this new medium.

The limbs of her people jump out of the wood, the petals of the flowers gleam and the texture her animals have make them feel alive. A quick stroke of pigment across one small leaf and his heart skips a beat; it looks real enough to be one of the actual leaves rustling on the branches outside.

Slowly, he adds spots of colour to her carvings, slow enough that she could stop creating them if she wanted. To his delight, she doesn’t. If anything, the woodwork becomes more open, as if she is consciously leaving bigger gaps for him to fill in as he wishes.

Zuko will forever relish the way the colour seems to hum under his fingertips, the way the treehouse gains sentience as he and Katara swirl their souls inside it.

If it had been anyone else messing with her art and her creations, Katara knows she would've thrown them so hard out of the tree they wouldn’t be able to walk once they hit the ground. But it was Zuko, and he was different.

This particular rule didn’t seem to apply to him. It was blade and brush coming together in a way Katara never expected, but for whatever reason, it didn’t feel invasive. It felt right, it felt complete. He lifts her carvings, makes them more alive, and with every inch of sanded wood that he brightens, Katara feels something inside her do the same.

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.

Chapter Text

 We are the gangsters and paradise
Our hearts are pure and our love is bright

We are the kids of the
We are the kids of the sun

We got we got we got we got
We got the light
Those summer nights
We had it right

- Kids of the Sun, The Wild Wild 

Katara now has to duck every time she pulls herself up the side of the tree and into the house. It takes her a while to adjust to this, and her forehead bears the brunt of her mistakes for several days before she gets into the habit. The walls are wonderfully bright and full of colour, and their reading corner is still stacked full with familiar books, though dust is beginning to gather on some of the older volumes. 

The carefree days of childhood seem so far away, she muses to herself, unloading her backpack full of books and notes onto the treehouse floor. Long gone are the hours spent lost in fictional worlds, in paint and colours. Every waking moment instead is filled with thoughts of the future, of graduation, looming ever closer with each passing month. School remains amicable enough, she is beyond the shyness of being the new student in primary school and instead has a close circle of a few friends. There is Suki, who is captain of the girl’s judo team and probably Katara’s closest female friend. Toph, whose blunt honesty and brusqueness leads people to give her a wide berth, but that Katara appreciates. Aang, a spritely, light-hearted boy with a shaved head, who she always turns to for advice. And Zuko, always Zuko. Though they don’t attend the same school together, she feels more connected to him than anyone else. 

Shaking her head to clear her thoughts, Katara spreads out her mat across the floor, opposite to the boxing pad she has strapped to one of the tree limbs. She throws her hair into a ponytail before sinking into a series of warm up stretches, focusing on activating all the major muscle groups. At times when school and thoughts of after become too much, Katara finds boxing in the treehouse becoming her sanctuary against stress. Time seems to stand still when she works through her routine, a mix of tai chi, boxing and meditation to ground her thoughts and clear her mind. It’s hard won peace, but it is hers, and she is grateful for it. 

As she moves into her punch combinations, she feels herself settle into the comforting rhythm, sweat beginning to form a light sheen across her body. Jab. Left cross. Right hook. Uppercut. Uppercut. Left hook. Right cross. Uppercut. Uppercut. Jab. Keeping her footwork light, the only breaks she takes are to rehydrate herself. She becomes so lost in the movements that she barely registers the sound of someone climbing up to the treehouse. 

“Woah there,” says a voice, as Katara wipes the sweat from her brow. She doesn’t need to turn around to know that it’s Zuko - who else would it be? - but her heartbeat still gives a little jump at being interrupted so suddenly. 

She bends to grab her water bottle, letting the cooling liquid cascade down her throat in huge gulps before turning to face him. 

She didn’t think it was possible, but Zuko has grown even more in the last few years. He’s beginning to fill out the long limbs of his pre-teen years, shoulders broader and face sharper. The untameable ebony hair and piercing yellow eyes are the only constants Katara can rely on. The small flutter her stomach gives at the sight of him is immediately squashed by her subconscious. Zuko is her neighbour, and her friend. Nothing more. 

She throws him a wink as she catches her breath. “At least it’s not the tree this time.” 

His laugh catches her entirely by surprise; it fills his whole face and spills over into the space between them, washing over her like a warm puff of air. 

“New hobby?” He gestures to her wrapped knuckles. 

She nods in response. “Suki actually gave me the idea - she was talking about doing self defence or some form of martial arts, so I took it up. I’ve been doing tai chi as well as some boxing on the side, hence these.” She holds up her fists. 

“Well, from what I saw, you’re doing really well so far.” 

“You think so?”

He glances down at his feet, before his stare flicks up to meet hers again. 

“Yeah?” 

“What would you know about it?” Her tone could come off as challenging, but she lets him know it’s only gentle teasing through a quirk of her eyebrow. 

“I’ve done martial arts too.” 

“Colour me interested,” she crosses her arms and saunters forwards. “What sort?” 

“Mostly kung fu,” he replies, gaze flickering over her again as she draws closer. Her sharp eyes clock the light pink that stains his pale skin, and she hides a grin. Is he embarrassed?  

Nodding her approval, she comes to a stop in front of him, having to raise her gaze a little higher than she remembers to look him in the eyes. 

“You any good?” 

He frowns at that, unconsciously mirroring her as he crosses his arms. 

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

Katara shrugs, knowing it will irk him even more. “I haven’t seen you practicing here. Who knows? You might be bluffing.” 

“Whatever, you’re just scared that I might be better than you.” 

Standing this close, she can feel the warmth emanating from his skin, suddenly aware of her own damp, sweaty clothes. 

“If that makes you feel more secure, sure,” she smirks. 

He sighs in exasperation, hair falling into his eyes, but a small smile darts around his lips, and she knows he didn’t take it to heart. 

“No boxing this time?” comes the voice from behind her a few weeks later, interrupting her concentration. Katara brushes loose pieces of hair out of her face, looking up as Zuko folds himself in through the window, looking almost comical as he squeezes into the treehouse. 

“No, no boxing,” she replies, desperately trying to stretch out the crick in her neck. 

“Instead, we have....a paper explosion.” He gestures to the booklets strewn around her like a weird halo. 

Katara wrings her hands. “I have a field first aid exam that I need to study for and Sokka isn’t making it easy to decide whether the person I’m practicing on needs a compression bandage or a defibrillator. We have unseen practice scenarios but...well, my brother isn’t exactly thespian material. He always makes up parts that make no sense at all.” 

“Woah, first aid?” A dark eyebrow raises in her direction. 

“Mhm,” she hums, absentmindedly looking around the treehouse, trying to remember where she put her flashcards. 

“Do you, I mean, would you like, help?” This makes her glance up from reshuffling booklets.

“How do you mean?” There’s a hint of challenge in her tone; she wants to see how far she can push this before he dissolves into a pile of awkwardness. 

“You could, um, youcouldpracticeonme?” All the words come out in a rush. On me? She thinks. On him? On...Zuko... her thoughts wander to places they probably shouldn’t go before she catches sight of his face again, evidently still waiting for a response. Katara forces herself back to reality. Mouth: open, words: come out. 

“...O-on you?” It’s her turn to sound awkward. She swallows, hard, already feeling the blood rush to her face, her heartbeat unusually loud in her ears. This shouldn’t be happening, she tells herself sternly. She is calm and in control. She is not in any sort of position to be blushing when her next door neighbour asks her a simple question. Katara pushes down the familiar flicker of frustration, and plasters a smile on her face. 

Zuko rubs the back of his neck, coughing slightly. “I-I could be, uh, your practice... patient, or whatever. If you really need to, yeah.” The tips of his ears are burning red. Katara forcefully stifles a small grin even as her own pulse tattoos its treacherous rhythm against her ribs. Who knew that tall, scary Zuko could be reduced to such a babbling mess at even the slightest hint of innuendo?

He clears his throat, regaining some of his composure. “One condition. You spar with me.”

She blinks in surprise; she hadn’t been expecting that request at all. She is quickly being reminded of how perceptive and shrewd he is; he keeps her on her toes, twisting and turning and fleet-footed. Something about that ignites tendrils of curiosity within her. Katara hesitates. This could go either of two ways, and it is entirely up to her. Heartbeat thunderously loud in her ears, she teeters on the edge of the unknown. Spirits above. It’s not like she has anything to lose. “Okay, I’ll take you up on that.” 

He grins at her, fast and hard and bright, before holding his arms open. “Where do you want me?” 

Swallowing hard, she points at the floor. “There, I guess.” She turns away under the pretence of looking for her flashcards, willing away the burning in her cheeks with a scowl at herself. “Here. These are for you.” 

He scans the first flashcard briefly before settling into a cross legged position. 

“Hey, Doc,” he rasps out of nowhere, looking up at her pitifully through the hair already slipping into his eyes. “I don’t...feel so good.” 

Exhaling sharply in a fruitless bid to extinguish the warm buzzing beginning to worm its way into her stomach, Katara folds her arms, not making eye contact with the dangerous pull of his amber eyes.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” she gets out, voice slipping smoothly into the clinical tones of a medical professional. “Are you experiencing any discomfort?” 

A pale arm moves to wrap across his abdomen, and Zuko winces. “Yeah,” he says stiffly. “Right- right here.” 

As she crosses over to him, crouching down, she marvels at how seamlessly he falls into his role as her patient. This close, she can see the flecks of copper that ring his pupils, and she forces her gaze away, down to his torso. 

“Is the pain here?” 

Her slender fingers press gently into his side, probing his ribs.

Zuko quickly glances at the flashcard he’s supposed to be reading off of. “It’s a deep pain inside my chest. I can’t move my fingers and there’s... frothy blood on my shirt. Frothy blood? I hope you know what that means,” he mumbles the last part in an undertone to himself, breaking character. As an afterthought, he begins wheezing slightly. “This is the sound of ‘air sucking through my windpipe’,” he says in a stage whisper. 

Despite the fact that this is supposed to be a first aid scenario, Katara still lets a smile creep across her face before focusing on the task at hand. Frothy blood and air sucking through the windpipe? The answer springs to mind - highly likely it’s broken ribs and maybe even a punctured lung. 

“Okay, I’m going to have to elevate you slightly,” she starts, walking over to their pillows and grabbing a few. She puts her hands on his shoulders and lifts him gently, using one hand to hold him in place mid-air before she slides pillows under him. 

She taps her chin, mumbling to herself. Zuko hides a small smirk. “If there’s punctured lungs... the injured side should be facing down... with bandages...” Her hands are at his shoulders again, her grip strong and sure. “I’m just going to roll you onto your side here,” she says, and manoeuvres him effortlessly so he is reclining on his side. 

“Now for the bandages...” she reaches into a kit he didn’t even know she had and pulls out a large gauze pad, before swiftly lifting his shirt to press it firmly into his side. Her movements hold none of the hesitance she exhibited before; there is an air of confidence and efficiency about her brisk movements that prevent Zuko’s usual blush from emblazoning his cheeks. Fingers dancing over his abdomen, she begins to to thread the bandage over and around his chest. The light brushes of her fingertips as they graze his sides are far from uncomfortable, in fact he has to resist the urge to squirm with each pass she makes. The compression bandage is surprisingly snug as well, like a strong, concentrated hug around his ribcage. 

“This is to reduce the pressure on both your ribs and your lungs,” she informs him seriously, and he nods obediently in response, heart in his throat. 

When she sits back on her heels after tucking the ends of the dressing into a neat knot, he looks over the flashcard one more time, nodding and mentally checking off all the steps. 

“Perfect score,” he tells her, and she says nothing, but rocks back and forth excitedly before leaning forward to untie the compress.  

They run through several more situations, from snake bites to heatstroke to drowning. Her confidence grows each time Zuko nods, confirming her responses with the prescribed ones on the flashcards. 

“I think we might be done,” she says after a while, voice hopeful. That was more studying than she ever would have gotten done with Sokka. 

“Thanks, Doc.” He gives her a mock salute, sitting up from what had been cardiac arrest. “I feel better already.” 

Katara whacks him lightly on the head with her stack of notes, shaking her head fondly. She winces slightly at the movement, rolling her shoulders to try and loosen the tension there, built up from hours of studying. A shadow of movement out of the corner of her eye is the only warning she has before she feels fingers pressing into the base of her neck. 

Instinctively, her eyes close, head tilting back into the touch. Her mouth falls open. 

“Oh...” 

She can feel Zuko’s laughter as he scoots closer to her, but she can’t muster the energy to feel irritated. 

“Shut up,” she mutters instead, not opening her eyes. 

“But I didn’t say anything,” he shoots back, his voice falsely innocent. 

Choosing to ignore him, Katara focuses on the methodical pressure of his hands as he digs into the tension strung up her back. She slowly feels her muscles loosen, knots she didn’t even know she was carrying dissipating one by one as Zuko works his magic. It feels as if she could melt into the floor, if only it weren’t strewn with paper. Her back begins to feel warm, molten honey trickling through every fibre of skin as she relaxes. Too soon, his hands stop moving, and his hands tap her shoulders lightly to signify the end. 

“You should get paid for that,” she comments absently, still floating. 

An awkward laugh comes from behind her, breath huffing over her hair. “It was nothing, really. Uncle taught me...”  She looks back, not surprised to see him rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly.

“Shut up and take the compliment, you dolt,” she sighs, swinging her hair over her shoulder. She quickly braids it, standing up, rolling her shoulders and feeling pleased at how loose they seem. 

“Now for my end of the deal.” Zuko flashes her a smile, springing lithely to his feet, his discomfort vanishing in an instant. 

An irrational nervousness flickers in her briefly at the thought of sparring with him. She shakes her head, trying to clear it. She shouldn’t be nervous. It’s just Zuko. Zuko, who pulled a splinter out of her finger, who refused to dance in the rain, who left her lanterns and fireflakes. Nothing out of the ordinary. Katara takes a steadying breath, and sinks into a stance. 

Zuko isn’t sure when they start. One moment, he has exhaled, and the next, her feet are darting forwards towards him, a fist thrown out of thin air. In his next breath, they are no longer in the treehouse, and they are sparring. 

He barely manages to dodge her first move, his feet dancing lightly to keep his balance. Throwing out a punch of his own, he can’t contain his surprise when her forearm shoots up to block him before slipping away, using his momentum against him so that he stumbles forward. He whips around quickly, shooting his fist out to jab at her ribs. His fingertips graze her tank top and she counters with a punch to his solar plexus. 

Some of their nervous energy wears away as they get more comfortable, settling into familiar patterns and instincts. Zuko knows he doesn’t need to be worried about breaking her, because she meets each move he throws at her with one of her own. They weave across the floor of the treehouse, stepping around pillows and bookshelves, their bare feet spread comfortably across the painted floorboards. With every fleeting glance and narrow miss, they learn each other’s movements, charting reflexes and predicting patterns. Too quickly, it becomes second nature, as easy as breathing. It is a dance that only they know the steps to. 

They fight to a stalemate, her thighs bracketing his hips and his hands pinning hers to the floor. He freezes, suddenly uncomfortably aware of the weight of her pressing into him, the way their rib cages rise and fall in unison as their lungs grasp for oxygen. 

Thankfully, she pushes herself off, brushing sweat from her brow, laughter still chasing across her face. Pulling up her shirt, she wipes the rest of her sweat off her face, seemingly unaware that most of her hair has escaped and now frizzes about her face. Zuko shifts to sit next to her, absentmindedly rolling up his sleeves in an attempt to cool himself down. He nudges her with his shoulder, eyes trained carefully above her collarbones and not at the brief expanse of brown skin.  

“Not bad,” he says appreciatively. The pit of his stomach tingles when her face lights up at his words. He finds himself treasuring every single one of her smiles. 

“Not bad yourself,” she quips back, and something about her is entirely genuine. Zuko relishes the novelty; bathes in the warmth of her candor. 

She hesitates, then, expression folding inwards on itself, hand outstretched as though about to grab his wrist. Heart sinking, he looks down, the faint lines of bruises standing out against his flushed skin much more than they usually would. He curses under his breath, but it is too late to pull his hand away. 

Katara doesn’t say anything at first as she holds the bones of his wrist in her light fingers. Zuko does everything in his power not to jerk his hand out of her grip. He can feel his brows begin to draw together, the breathless glow of their spar immediately soured by the memories conjured by the bruises. He risks a glance at her - if he sees pity there he knows he will not be able to stomach it - and finds only gentle sadness in her blue eyes. Still holding his hand, she runs her fingertips ever so faintly across his skin, her touch like a cool breeze. He resists the urge to tense up. 

“Zuko…” she says, and he shivers involuntarily, twisting out of her grip. 

“It’s nothing,” he replies, yanking his sleeves down again, rough and hoarse and bitter. All it took was one moment of letting his guard down. One moment, and she probably learned more about him than he ever would have shared. An ugly feeling begins to bubble up inside him, ugly yet familiar with the way it burns in his throat. He hates his father for worming his way in, for tarnishing a moment that had been wholeheartedly his. For an instant, the sharp echoes of a slap ring in his ears, the crushing pressure on his wrists unforgiving. A door slams, he is tripping up the stairs to his room, nose dripping scarlet, and Azula’s cold laugh peals behind him. His mother’s voice, saying “Remember this, Zuko.” His room, frigid and empty except for the pounding of his head. 

“Zuko,” Katara repeats, firmer this time. “You know you can talk to me.” 

“Do I have to?” he snaps, knowing that it isn’t her fault, that it could never be her fault. “Can’t we just pretend you never saw that?” Because if we talk about him, he wins. It means he will forever be connected to this memory of you, to the spar we just had, to this treehouse, the one thing that is truly mine. 

She stays silent, giving him a choice, and he softens ever so slightly, anger dissipating. 

“My father,” he grits out, and that is all he says. Katara only nods, moving to kneel in front of him. Very deliberately, she cups his face in her hands, and he blinks at the startling intensity in her eyes. 

“I’m here,” she says. “I will always be here.” It almost hurts to look at her. Don’t make promises you can’t keep.  

But he bows his head in acknowledgement, and she leans forward, resting her forehead against his. He is conscious of the fact that her hands are still around his face, and if there’s anything that will make him break, it is this. 

It takes all Katara’s strength to rein in her anger. Anger will do no good now, not when Zuko is here with that look in his eyes, one that makes her want to burn entire cities down. She breathes through it the way her mother taught her, focusing on the warmth of his face against her hands, the way his hair barely grazes her fingertips. 

She thinks instead of how grateful she is that he would share this part of himself with her, however painful those memories may be. She thinks of the way he pulled the splinter out of her hand, the way he lit up at the word ‘Saturn’. She recalls being engulfed by his cloves-and-orange sweater, feeling comforted and safe in his warmth, the electrifying feel of every laugh she coaxes from him. The mere memory of him melts her fury into fondness, and she marvels at the way it feels like the winter sun heralding the arrival of spring. Being this close to him makes her a little breathless, a little dizzy. She has him - literally - in the palms of her hands. His golden eyes burn into her, his lashes a dusting of shadow on his cheeks every time he blinks, and suddenly all she can think is, oh. 

It happens in heartbeats. 

His eyes flick downwards and back up to meet hers, just as she does the same.

Her breath catches in her throat, the silence deafening.

The millimetres between them are miles across, a chasm stretching and begging to be bridged. 

Zuko leans in, and then he is there, for the briefest of seconds, a faint brush against her lips. He pulls away slightly, eyes widening, and Katara can almost see the panicked thoughts flying across his mind, so she quells them by pressing back into him. He is soft and warm, and she pushes her fingers into his silky hair, leaning into him, feeling the press of his hands as his arms come to the small of her back. He becomes a little more insistent, tugging her bottom lip gently, and she can’t help but smile into it, feeling him smile back. She pulls away first, her smile widening at the flush of crimson now high on his cheeks. Brushing her thumbs over his cheekbones, she leans in and kisses each side of his face, short and sweet. He pulls her into a hug, burying his face in her neck, and she can feel him exhale with incredulity as he begins to laugh. She feels light as air, like she could float away if not for the pull of gravity keeping her tethered. It’s as though she’s leaped off a cliff only to find herself soaring into the setting sun. 

It happens in heartbeats, and Katara swears she can feel the thunder of his pulse against hers. 

He burns bright, so bright, sometimes it hurts to look at him. Sometimes, he smoulders, red hot like embers amidst burning ash, racing unchecked over charred treetops, other times he paints the sky in warm, brilliant hues that streak across her eyelids as she dreams. Her golden boy of passion and conviction and fire. 

She is shining, more radiant than the full moon, resplendent in the stars scattered across the night. Sometimes, she is wild, wilder than the waves that crash across the ocean during the most violent storm, other times she twists and flows, filling parts of his heart he didn’t even know had holes. His incandescent girl of spirit and creation and ice. 

They are flame and flood, spark and storm, inferno and frost, both healing and destruction, forever circling each other, sustaining but never quite touching. To them, in this little world they have built, they are infinite.

Chapter Text

There's a fire inside of my bed
Made of coals that I deeply regret
Oh, you left me burning with the embers
And I barely made it out alive

Oh, whatever you do
Don't come back for me

-Come Back For Me, Jaymes Young

Zuko and Katara sit in the treehouse one day, each lost in revision for some long-dreaded exam. Hours pass with few words spoken between them, save for the brief exchanges they have during breaks to stretch or grab snacks. 

As the sun begins to set, staining the treehouse a brilliant gold, they both stop, an unspoken agreement. Packing their books away for the day, they shift towards the window to gaze out at Katara’s backyard, content in their silence. 

“They caught the man who killed my mother, you know,” she says abruptly, as the humid spring air hangs stagnant around them.

Zuko’s head jerks up to look at her, eyes tracing the hard set of her jaw. This is not the first time they have had painful conversations with each other. He knows, now, the value of remaining quiet and listening, from the hours of patience Katara has lent him in the past. He tilts his head ever so slightly, a silent gesture for her to continue. 

“I had to go to court, to be there when he testified. I-” she breaks off, a light sheen of sweat on her brow. His throat is suddenly tight, and it has nothing to do with the lack of breeze. For a while, she doesn’t speak, and he simply watches emotion after emotion roil across her face. He wonders if she knows just how much of an open book she is to him. 

After several long moments, she inhales, hands balled into fists, knuckles white. 

“For the longest time, I was determined to get revenge. I thought revenge was what he deserved. This man - he was a monster. There was no forgiveness for what he did, ripping apart my family, for leaving such a gaping hole. I wanted to find him myself. I wanted to make him pay.”

 She spits the last word out, venom colouring her voice and completely changing her complexion. Her warm, blue eyes are jagged shards of ice, and her mouth thins into a hard line. Suddenly, she is made of steel. Zuko feels a thread of unrest coil through him before he immediately quashes it. He doesn’t think she’s ever let him see her this bitter, and he is glad he is not on the receiving end of her ire. 

“I always wondered what kind of person could do such a thing. Even standing there, looking at him from across the room, I wondered. But as soon as I saw him, Zuko - I understood.” Her hands are shaking. “He was empty. There was nothing inside him. He was pathetic, and sad, and empty, and there was nowhere else for my hate to go.” Her teeth clench; he can see her jaw working.

And still, Zuko says nothing, letting her anger wash over him, a crashing wave, recognising that this is probably the first time she’s ever shared this with anyone, including even her brother. 

Pain and anguish slices through the air with each word she expels. “I could’ve made his sentence so much worse. I wanted to make him suffer for what he did. I wanted to do it. Spirits, did I want to. And yet, as much as I hated him - I couldn’t do it.” 

Only now does she turn to him, mouth twisted in pain, eyes flinty. He looks at her straight on, meeting her piercing gaze, silently willing her to continue. 

Voice hollow, Katara’s voice rings in the small space once again. “I don’t know if it’s because I’m too weak to do it, or if it’s because I’m strong enough not to. But I didn’t forgive him.”

He has a sudden flash of memory, of a much smaller Katara clinging to him on a freezing night as her tears soak his sweater. The strength in her eyes belies the infinitesimal quaver in her voice.

“I’ll never forgive him.” 

“You don’t have to,” he says forcefully, quietly, thinking of his mother and the way she never fully met his father’s eyes, pushing down the glare of his temper that bubbles in his chest. “You’re not weak, either. You’re the strongest person I know.” Quietly, he marvels at the sheer intensity of her person, the way she is equal measures of tempered resilience, defiant grit and steady compassion. 

She scoffs, dismissive and derisive in her frustration, and he reaches out to grab her hand before he can stop himself. 

“Katara. I mean it.” 

She holds his stare, unblinking, and he pours every ounce of sincerity he can into this one look. 

After long, drawn out seconds of stiff silence, she relents with a jerk of her chin, turning so her face is half hidden by her hair once again.

Moments later, he feels the press of her shoulder into his arm, a wordless nudge of firm understanding. He leans back into her, and they sit together in uncomplicated silence, content to let the swirling vortex of a thousand things left unsaid simply sweep over them. 

They don’t need words, he thinks to himself. Not really. Not when discovering her is the most natural thing he’s done since breathing. She peels away in layers, each more mesmerizing and enthralling than the last.

He has the sudden urge to know her - to truly know her, beyond these fleeting meetings in this treehouse they share. Beyond the confines of the lives bestowed upon them. Something deep within him yearns to be close to her, and to have her see him for who he is in return. With Katara, he doesn’t need to hide. There are no façades, no false pretenses, only them and this treehouse, and it’s all he could ever ask for. 

He feels her move to reach into her pocket and glances down at her hands balled in her lap, still tense and charged with emotion. Yet again, he remains silent, tracing the slender lines of her fingers with his eyes instead. 

Her clenched fist eventually opens, and nestled in the hollow of her palm is a necklace.

“Dad gave this to me. For my sixteenth. I haven’t… I haven’t touched it until now.” It’s all she offers by way of explanation, but he knows without asking that it belonged to her mother. The round pendant glints silver-white in the rising moonlight, almost ethereal. 

She is smaller now, her frame once again slender as the weight of anger leaves the lines of her body, replaced by a sort of weary sorrow. Zuko hesitates before speaking. 

“Would you like to put it on?” 

She nods wordlessly, shifting in her seat. He leans over and lifts the necklace from her upturned hand, pausing to watch the way the light glances off it as it swings gently from his hand. Gently, he reaches around her to lay the pendant against her neck, his hands brushing through her hair as he feels for the clasp at each end of the necklace. With a small click, it settles into place, and he passes his hands once over her curls before squeezing her shoulder once.

“Done.” 

Her hands move over the ribbon, the clasp, double checking that it is secure. Turning to look at him, she murmurs a soft “Thank you.” 

Silently, she shifts closer to him. The muscle of her back and the rigid angle of her shoulders soften against him, and he freezes as she leans her head back into his chest, her hair curling around his fingertips. She is warm and steady, lithe with muscle under soft, soft skin. 

“I’m just so tired, Zuko,” she whispers. “So tired.” Her hand twitches, moving to thumb the pendant that now lies in the hollow of her throat. 

“I know,” he murmurs into her hair, resting his cheek against her head, cradling her under his chin. “I know.” 

“Will you stay with me?” The simple question sends pangs straight to his heart, and he drops his head quickly, pressing a kiss to her hair. 

“Always,” he replies unthinkingly, because at least in this moment, there is nothing that could take him away from Katara.

The last shred of tension seems to slip from her shoulders at his response. She curls into him, her breath ghosting as light as butterfly wings across his skin. Warmth drips down Zuko’s spine. He thanks Agni for the privilege of being able to be so close to her like this, even if she never lets him again. He breathes in the soft, floral scent of her shampoo, imprints into his mind the way the strands of her hair catch slices of moonlight from the sky above. Zuko is walking on the edge of a tightrope, stretching the moment for as long as he dares. 

He lets her doze for a while before waking her gently, conscious of the fact that both of them need to be up early tomorrow. She stretches endearingly as she rouses herself, wincing slightly as she moves, joints stiff from being still for so long. They don’t speak except to say goodnight - they don’t need to. He knows the wordless story her eyes tell as they part ways from the treehouse.  

Lost in the storm that is the last year of school, neither of them know that this is the last they will see of each other in a good while. 

Zuko is shaken awake one night from dreams of phantom pain. In the dream, hot, searing fire races over the side of his face. A venomous, reptilian voice orders him, You will learn respect. His sister’s laugh rings high and cold. 

When he wakes up, unable to see out of his left eye, he remembers the dream is real. When he wakes up, pain welcomes him with open arms. 

He does the only thing he remembers how to - he runs. Away from his room, away from the oppressive heat of his house, away from the dark corridors that mock his retreating footsteps. Without realising it, he finds himself in front of the treehouse, the windows dark and empty. He scales the tree without a second thought, sliding in through the window, quiet as a shadow. 

Zuko’s heartbeat throbs its treacherous tattoo throughout his body, a spiteful refrain reminding him that he is alive, alive, alive. If only his father had succeeded. If only he hadn’t been so stupid as to talk back. If only his mother were still here-

A noise yanks Zuko from his thoughts and he whips around, his working eye trying to compensate for the lack of vision in his other. It’s Katara - who else would it be? - and she is just as limber and graceful as she always is when she clambers into the treehouse. 

“Sorry, I just came here to think-” he starts, but Katara cuts him off. 

“Spirits, Zuko, what happened to you?” 

He turns away from her, refusing to witness the pity in her eyes. 

“Agni, of all the times...” he mutters under his breath. She hears him; of course she hears him. 

“What is that supposed to mean?” she says, voice sharp like frost on a winter’s night. 

“Nothing,” he says, voice rough even as his throat begins to burn. Do not cry. 

“Clearly it's not nothing,” Katara snaps, and he stiffens instinctually. He can feel her pause from behind him before she moves closer, her tone softening. “I’ll be here,” she reminds him instead, and then she waits, quiet and measured patience that seems infinite. 

Every part of him rebels against the possibility of her seeing him like this. The ugly, twisted parts of him have never been as freely on display as they will be if he tells her. For all his desire to not have to hide in front of Katara, surely her comfort and friendship does not extend to this. This was not supposed to happen. This was not supposed to happen. The moments stretch ever longer, as Zuko clenches and unclenches his hands, his heart warring with his body. When he finally opens his mouth to speak, he does not look at her. 

“My father.” 

“Your father?” 

Don’t make me say it again. Please. Zuko nods curtly and listens to Katara’s sharp intake of breath. 

“Zuko… it’s been years. Has this been going on–”

He nods again, cutting her off, and waits for her next move. 

She reaches her hand out and up, he watches it come into his space from the corner of his eye. 

“...Can I?” 

“Yes,” he whispers, the sound barely there. 

His jaw clenches as her fingers ghost over the place where the bandage intersects with what remains of the left side of his face. 

Katara’s breath is forced from her lungs as Zuko’s face finally catches the light. On the side of his face is a livid red burn, stretching across his entire eye and covering his ear. She can barely make out the golden irises she knows so well; his injured eye has been reduced to a slit. The wound is still raw and shiny, the skin barely beginning to stitch over itself. 

“It’s bad, isn’t it,” he grits out, bitterness already seeping into his voice as he follows the path of her gaze. 

“Oh, Zuko,” Katara breathes softly, eyes burning with a mixture of sadness and anger. She can’t bring herself to answer his question. 

Both his eyes bore into hers. “If you’re here to pity me, you can leave right now.” 

She grips his face with her fingertips as gently as she can, forcing his chin down slightly so he can get a full look at her expression. 

“After all this time, Zuko? You think that’s what I’d do?” There is no venom in the rhetorical question, only the slightest hint of sadness. When did he become so broken that he questions even her intentions? 

His throat bobs as he swallows, and only then does he break eye contact with her. 

“Sorry,” he mumbles gruffly. “I didn’t mean that.”

Her fingers move slightly towards the edge of his ruined skin, before she thinks better of it. The last thing she wants to do right now is touch him when he probably doesn’t want to be touched. She’s likely already crossed that line already. Katara lets go of him suddenly, leaving her arms to dangle awkwardly at her sides. 

“I haven’t seen it yet. You’re...you’re the first person who’s seen me without the bandage. I don’t think I could take any more of the looks Uncle gives me.” 

Her mouth is dry, with anger or heartache she does not know. “Well... thank you. For showing me,” she says simply, and that is all she says on the matter. 

He nods curtly, re-wrapping the bandages clumsily. If she didn’t know him better, she would be offended by his brusqueness. As much as she wants to, she does not offer to help. 

Katara is silent for several long moments while Zuko covers his face again. He avoids her eyes, quietly hoping to himself that she would do the same. 

“I can’t believe he would do this,” she says once he finishes, defiance seeping into her tone.

“Well, I can,” he fires back.

“He’s going to pay for this. We’ll make him pay.”

“How exactly do you think that’s going to work? We’re kids, Katara. We’re just two stupid kids. That means nothing to someone like him.”

“It’s your face against his word,” Katara argues, ever the optimist. “Child abuse is serious. They could have him put in prison.” 

“Yeah right,” Zuko scoffs. “As if there isn’t a person out there he couldn’t bribe.”

“It would work. And you’d finally be safe, from Azula too, you can finish school and it’ll all be okay-” 

“And how do you know what’s going to happen next?” he half shouts, his good eye narrowed with frustration. “How can you possibly say that things will be okay? Could you ever have predicted this?”

Katara opens her mouth to reply, but no words come out. 

“That’s what I thought,” he says, turning away again, shoulders hunching and acid coating his voice once more.  

“We’ll be gone soon,” she promises vehemently, not to be deterred. “We can finally get out of here - you can get out of here, Zuko, you never have to see him again. You’ll never have to even think about him ever again.” 

He winces at her words, and she only catches it because she’s come to know him so well. “Katara... I’m leaving, actually.” 

“You’re... you’re what?” Her blue eyes go wide with shock, her surprise threatening to splinter his resolve. It gives him some small gratification. At least she doesn’t want to see him go. 

“I’m leaving. I’m moving away. With Uncle.” He forces more conviction into his voice the second time he says it. 

“Why now?” she whispers, upset. “Why? We’re so close, Zuko. We’re almost there.” 

“I can’t... I can’t live like this anymore. Not now that I know what I know. Not after...” he gestures at his face, hating the way he can feel the burn tug painfully each time he moves the muscles of his mouth. 

“So you’re just going to give up? You’re not going to say anything? You’re just going to leave?” His non-answer is all Katara needs for tears to start welling in her eyes. “Will you at least let me say goodbye?”

The word tears a piece of his soul as she says it. Goodbye. It is an ugly word, Zuko decides. There is nothing good about this; he never wanted any of this.

He reaches out for her hand, a peace offering, and tugs her gently down, down towards the pillows and rug, down to where the world makes sense again.

They lie on the floor of the treehouse for the longest time, watching the stars glimmer from between the gently rustling leaves. They lie there, pressed shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip, fingers gently twined together, just as they did when they were children. After moments, or perhaps hours - neither of them can tell, Zuko shifts onto his side to rest his head in the space underneath her collarbones.  

He didn’t think it was possible to feel so comforted by the mere presence of one person. Katara drops a kiss to the crown of his head, and then tilts his chin up to look him in the eye, bandages and all. 

“I’m yours, if you want me,” she breathes, and he does, Agni he does, and everything is so, so unfair. Stopping himself from saying “yes” is the hardest thing he’s ever done. She tugs at him, pulls him into her orbit. Zuko’s eyes close instinctively as she leans in, her fingers on his jaw sending warmth straight to the pit of his stomach. Every press of her lips slowly feels a void inside him he did not remember he had. When they stop to breathe, Katara rests her forehead against his.

Come with me, she implores wordlessly, even as she knows she cannot ask him to stay with what remains of his family. 

Come with me, he urges with his eyes, even as he knows he cannot ask her to leave what remains of her family. 

“Come back to me,” she whispers, her face mere centimeters from his, sending shivers prickling down to the base of his spine. He presses lightly into her, brushing their noses together, his mouth ghosting over hers. I can’t promise that, Katara.

But instead he says nothing, joins their mouths together once more; he lets himself fall into her, breathing her in like the very air itself. He memorises every inch of skin he brushes over, the small little exhales through her nose, the curve of her lashes, her warmth that envelopes him. He is floating and spinning and soaring all at once, and yet she brings him down to earth, grounds him; she is the lighthouse he follows home. 

Every fibre of his being calls out to her, trying to say with his eyes and touch what he cannot bear to voice out loud: Thank you. For everything. I’m sorry. For everything. I’m sorry. I wish it didn’t have to be this way. I will miss you. I hope you miss me. I hope you move on. I hope you’re happy. If it means you are happy, I hope you forget me. 

He leaves no way for her to contact him. Knowing Zuko, she supposes this is entirely intentional. He probably wants to leave all memories of that house, of his childhood, behind. And that means leaving her behind, too. It cuts her deep to know that to be away from the grief his father has caused, he has to sever the whole limb of his childhood, including the parts she is woven into. For a few brief moments, the selfish part of her wishes he wouldn’t go. She will have to live with the knowledge that one man’s twisted actions ripped her best friend away from her, but then again, he has to live with all that he now knows about his family. 

The day she knows he is due to leave, to be gone from the treehouse forever, Katara cannot bear to go around the block and see him off. Doing so will make it final. She holds the small shards that remain of her hope close to her chest, burying them deep in her heart - the hope that their goodbye is not truly a goodbye, but merely an “I’ll see you again”.

Katara does not see him off. She does not listen to the slam of the car door. She does not hear the gentle rumble of his uncle from through the trees. She does not hear the sound of tires pulling out of the driveway. 

Katara does not wrap her knuckles, one last time. She does not slam her fists, punch after punch, into the walls of the place where she met her best friend. She does not let her split skin dry in the air, blood flaking from her skin. She does not pull out her paints, all shades of fiery amber and jagged ebony, and slash them across the floor, until her knees are bruised from pressing into the floorboards. She does not sit, hours later, slumped against the tree, her arms streaked with charcoal, staring into his glowing eyes as they burn into her soul. She does not cry. 

She does not.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Nothing's broken inside of me for good, I'm healing in time the way I should
I can see it if I keep my head held high
Arms open wide
Heart full clear eyes
All the doubts, all the lies
Are too heavy to hold, so why even try?
You don't have to do this all on your own

- Why Even Try, Colony House

Come and play. Come and play with me, little one. Share this space, this house; let it be your shelter in the storms you will inevitably weather. 

Come and talk. Come and talk together, little ones. Trade stories and memories of homes long ago; find common ground in the act of recollection. 

Come and read. Come and read with each other, little ones. Lose your grasp on reality; dive headfirst into the fantastical worlds that exist right next to this one. 

Come and paint. Come and paint around me, little ones. Surround yourselves with colours and narratives; swirl your souls on my branches and planks for each other to see. 

Come and cry. Come and cry side by side, my children. Let the grief choke your throats and burst the floodgates; may you be there to soothe each other’s pain on the coldest of winter nights. 

Come and shout. Come and shout in unison. Raise your anger to the heavens; let your voices burn with fury at everyone but each other. 

Come and sleep. Come and curl up. Run, leap, jump and fly in your dreams; free yourselves from your earthly chains, the burdens of day to day life. 

Come away. Come away from the safety of my boughs, away from this haven of laughter and remembrance. Come into the wide, wide world; forge your own path, do not look back. 

In the quiet evenings, when you find each other once more, reminisce. Cast your mind to me, if the echoes of your childhood have not yet faded beyond your reach. Remember the worlds you built together, beneath my canopy. Even as your hair greys and your joints grow brittle, I will be there. When the time comes, release your hold, relinquish the weight, and soar into the unknown. 

Come back to me. 

I will always be waiting.