Chapter Text
The first time he tastes the back of his father’s hand, he is five.
The parchment shakes in his hand, his lips struggling to form around the words so clear in his mind. “And then Fire Lord…” Sozin, says his mind, sharp and quick.
“… Thothin,” says his tongue, thick and clunky.
His father’s hand tightens on his shoulder. “Sozin. It’s pronounced Sozin.” His shoulder grows uncomfortably warm, but he bites back on his wince. Weakness will not be tolerated— this, he already knows. “Say it right.”
His breath hitches, fear catching his throat and holding it hostage.
“Say. It. Right.”
You can do it. Just one word. Just one word.
“…Fire Lord… Tho—”
The crack echoes through the room. His knees hit the ground in prostration, in penance.
(His mouth runs with warm iron. It will soon become a familiar taste.)
“Pathetic,” says his father from high on above. “I should have drowned you at birth.”
I’m sorry, he thinks, but doesn’t dare say.
He knows it would only come out wrong.
The first time he tastes the back of his father’s hand, he is five. It is not the last.
“Thothin.”
Father hurls a vase off the table.
“S—Thoth—Sozin.” Not good enough. Another vase suffers the same fate.
“So-zin,” he says. “Sooo-zin. So-zin.”
He pauses. Eyes the last vase standing. Breathes in, breathes out.
“S—Thothin.”
The clay shatters against the wall. Once priceless, now worthless; how quickly its value changes, when something is broken.
“Sozin,” he says muffled into his pillow, one small fist rubbing at his eyes.
“Sozin,” he says to Agni’s first rays, blinking blearily at the window.
“Sozin, Sozin, Sozin,” he sing-songs under his breath, chasing after the turtle-ducks. They waddle away so quickly, but his legs are faster now. So is his tongue. “Sozin, Sozin, Sozin.”
“Sozin,” he says. Azula babbles on his lap. “Azula, say Sozin,” he tells her.
“Shu-zhin.”
He laughs, though something cold pokes at his chest. “No, silly, So-zin.”
“Sho,” she tries, amber eyes narrowed in earnest. “Sho-zin.”
It’s okay, he tells himself. Tries to keep his smile from sliding off his face. She’s too little, it’s okay.
She’ll get it soon.
A tiny hand grabs at his cheek, pinching the skin. “Zuzu?” she asks, brows furrowed.
He turns his face to kiss her palm, making her shriek in delight.
“Sozin,” he whispers against her hair. It is already shiny and thick. Perfect, just like her. She has to be, to make up for him. “Sozin.”
“Fire Lord Sozin,” he says. It hurts to try not to smile; his cheeks demand it from him. Soon, he tells them, tightening his lips. Even so, he can’t stop the bubble of pride that expands in his chest, glowing and warm.
His father stares back at him, impassive.
“I— Sozin,” he repeats, faltering.
“Am I supposed to be impressed,” drawls Father, “with the bare minimum?”
The bubble bursts, leaving him chilled.
“Continue.”
The parchment will shake in his grip. His knees will soon bend. His cheek will sting.
The familiarity of this refrain never makes it hurt less, somehow.
He is nine, the first time he realises his father will never love him like his sister. It is not the last.
“Zuzu,” Azula calls out. He has grown to hate the nickname by now; Azula wields it like a dagger, two sharp jabs against his defences. It always makes them crumble.
“Don’t call me that,” he mutters, tripping over his katas. He’s been trying, and failing, to get them right for hours. At least the lisp has been beaten out of him, by now; Azula would never let him live it down. Not anymore.
She sneers at him. It comes easy to her. He remembers a time when her smiles would come just as easy. It becomes harder to picture those smiles with every day that passes— her lips have unlearnt that softness.
“Why don’t you give up already,” she asks, echoing the thoughts that unearth themselves in his mind with every failure.
“Just— go away!” he yells out, wobbling on his feet. “Leave me alone!”
“You’re failing at that so bad.” Within seconds, Azula completes the same katas with lazy perfection. Fire bursts forth from her fists, and she laughs at the rage in his eyes. “Hopeless, as always.”
He turns his back on her, intent on ignoring the sight of her flames. It is a mistake he soon learns not to repeat.
The burn along his back isn’t too terrible, all things considered, but it still makes his katas harder to perfect.
“Again,” says his father that evening, and Zuko tries.
He tries so hard, he truly does. But his skin pulls at his back, despite the salve spread liberally over the angry patch of red. He ends up faltering, slipping, falling.
Azula’s delighted laughter peals out across the hall, ringing childish and high in his ears.
A hand fists in his hair, wrenches back his head. His eyes water.
“Useless.” His father’s breath blows warm against his ear, though his voice scratches freezing nails down his back. “Azula? Show him how it’s done.”
Though his gaze is too blurry to see the flames, their brightness still imprints itself on the back of his eyes.
“Your sister was born lucky,” says his father, and all Zuko sees is gold, gold, gold. “You were lucky to be born.”
It is not the last time he hears that, either.
“Lu Ten,” roars Uncle Iroh across the courtyard. “Give me back my pai sho tile!”
Zuko startles from where he’s hiding up on the tree from Azula, barely clinging on for dear life.
The Dragon of the West sounds angry.
“Catch me if you can, old man!” yells back Lu Ten, speeding across the grass.
From his vantage point, Zuko looks on with mounting terror as Uncle Iroh gains on his cousin, chasing him swiftly across the yard.
Will he burn him, a voice pipes up from the back of his head, or beat him? Mark him in some other way? What will Lu Ten lose, once he’s caught?
He likes Lu Ten well enough. His cousin sneaks him mochi, sometimes, even though he knows Zuko isn’t allowed to have any; children’s teeth suffer from it, Father had said, and had banned Zuko and Azula from ever touching it.
And Lu Ten lets Zuko play hide-and-seek with him, which is a much better version of the game than hide-and-explode. Zuko’s eyebrows hadn’t grown back for months after the last time Azula had convinced him to participate.
So, Zuko likes Lu Ten a lot. He likes Uncle Iroh as well, though the man scares him sometimes. More often than not, he’s surrounded by generals seeking his opinions on the war, their faces serious and sombre as they discuss casualties and infantries and other -ies that go straight over Zuko’s head.
Plus, Uncle Iroh’s a dragon killer. Who knows what else he could be capable of? Zuko tries to stay out of his way as much as possible.
He regrets it now, just a little, as he watches Lu Ten slip on a wet patch of grass. His cousin falls in a tangled heap, hands already raised in defence.
Maybe if he knew what Uncle Iroh was capable of, he might be able to help his cousin get away.
Useless, taunts his Father in his head. Maybe he’s right. Zuko can never do anything right. And now, his cousin will suffer for it.
A scream builds up in Zuko’s throat as Uncle Iroh stalks closer, rage in his eyes.
“Get away,” he whispers instead, voice choked by fear’s stranglehold, “get away get away get away.”
The mantra does not help. Uncle Iroh raises one hand.
Zuko closes his eyes, futile tears already threatening their presence.
A short guffaw jerks them back open. He stares through the leaves as Lu Ten is tugged upright, his lips curled into a reluctant smile. Uncle Iroh brushes the grass off his back (so gently, Zuko wonders, where is the hurt?) before holding out his palm, gaze expectant.
“Fine, fine, I admit defeat,” Lu Ten says, rolling his eyes. “You and your precious pai sho tiles. You’re supposed to pay attention to me, not your silly little game! I leave for Ba Sing Se in a few weeks!”
“Hush, quit your whining,” says Uncle Iroh, pocketing the tile with a satisfied grin. “Can’t a father get some me-time around here? You’ll drive your old man around the bend with your chatter, someday.”
He brings up a hand. Zuko flinches, but all Uncle Iroh does is flap it in a pinch, imitating a mouth. He puts on a falsetto, pitching his voice a little higher. “Pay attention to meeee,” he warbles, as Lu Ten huffs, the corners of his mouth twitching. “Father loves me not! He cares for me not! Oh, how I will die if he does not spare me some of his precious time. Woe is me! Agni, you forsake me so!”
“I do not sound like that,” mutters Lu Ten, crossing his arms over his chest.
Uncle Iroh laughs, a full belly guffaw. “You know I love you, really,” he says, and it’s the ease with which he says it that punches Zuko in the sternum, driving all the breath from his lungs.
Lu Ten’s super-impenetrable mask finally cracks, lopsided grin peeking through. “I know,” he replies, tugging at his father’s arm for a hug. Demanding affection; Zuko could never even dream of such insolence.
But Uncle Iroh comes willingly, uncaring of watching eyes. Their embrace looks warm and soft and inviting, everything Zuko has never even allowed himself to want. He feels like a voyeur; it brings a strange taste to the back of his mouth, a bitterness that only ever makes itself known when he spots Father’s hand on the back of Azula’s neck, the touch light. Father never touches Zuko like that. Zuko only gets heavy hands pressing down on him, hunching his back. Making him smaller. Lesser.
“You know I’ll be right behind you,” Uncle Iroh says, his voice a low rumble that barely reaches Zuko. “I’ll always follow you, wherever you go, my son. I’ll always have your back.”
“I know,” Lu Ten again, his hands rubbing gentle circles on Uncle Iroh’s back. Though Zuko cannot see his cousin’s face from this angle, the loose contentedness of his shoulders drives the same bitterness all the way down Zuko’s throat, until it is all that he can taste. “I know.”
And as he watches them walk away together, arms slung across shoulders, Zuko begins to wonder.
“Why doesn’t Father love me?” he asks his mother the next night.
She inhales sharply. Doesn’t breathe back out for a long second.
“What makes you think that?” she asks carefully.
“Mom,” he says, turning to her, but doesn’t have it in him to finish the sentence. What is he even supposed to say? Father doesn’t chase me across the yard? Father doesn’t tackle me into the grass and pull me back up and hold me close? Father has never let the word “love” cross his lips?
They’re in his bed. She’s not supposed to be here, he knows. He’s not a baby anymore, and there’s no reason for her to come to him every other night and lie by his side. And yet, he can’t find it in himself to send her away. Doesn’t stop her running her hands through his hair, ever so gentle. Can’t make himself say the words to stop this, the only time he is touched with the softness that his soul aches for.
“Oh, my sweet turtleduck,” his mother says when she spots the look on his face, holding him close. “He does… love you, in his own way. It’s just hard for him to show it, sometimes.”
It is the first time his mother ever lies to him. It will not be the last.
“Besides,” she says, “You know I already love you more than anything in this entire world. What else do you need?”
She pokes him in the ribs. He giggles, a short, helpless sound, and she laughs softly next to him.
(Neither of them notice Zuko’s door slowly creaking shut, the quiet padding of feet back to their own silent quarters.)
(It will be years before Zuko will wonder if Ursa ever visited Azula in her bed. If his sister was ever held like he was. His father’s love was a sharp-edged thing; no wonder she was all cut up inside, with no one to patch up the hurt.)
When they quieten down, Ursa presses her lips against his forehead.
“I’ll be everything you’ll ever need,” she promises quietly. Something loosens in his chest, a tight knot of tangled emotions that straighten out into relief. “I love you so much, sunshine. And I’ll always be here for you. Always.”
Then Lu Ten dies, and takes a part of Uncle Iroh with him to the grave.
Then his grandfather dies, and his mother disappears. She takes her softness with him. Leaves behind everything sharp for him to trip over, again and again, their spikes catching at his seams. Ripping him open one stitch at a time, until he feels like he’s a single breath away from unravelling at any given moment.
Everything changes. Nothing does.
It has been two years since he was touched with anything close to tenderness. Eleven was too young to learn to live without it. By thirteen, he has learnt how to cope in other ways.
More often than not, he is found hovering near his father. Listening from behind the doors as he talks to his generals; following him from hall to hall, a silent shadow copying his mannerisms, his every tick; waiting for the moment Father’s eyes land on him, however briefly, with anything close to approval.
(Like a starving dog, the servants whisper, eying the prince with quiet pity, begging for scraps of affection.)
He might not be the perfect bender like his sister, but his mind is sharp. Alright, maybe not as sharp as his sister, but it’s still something. He has so much to offer to his father, he knows this.
All Father needs to do is look at Zuko. At him, not through him. Just once— it’ll be enough.
Zuko just needs to be seen.
“And Master Piandao said that I was getting really, really good with the dao,” Zuko chatters excitedly, pulling the basket of freshly baked rolls towards him. “Better than any of his other students. Ever, he said.”
Azula puffs her lips across the table at him. “Yeah, well,” she says, “Master Takahashi told me I was a firebending prodigy. He said I could bend lightening in the next five years, if I tried hard enough.”
Her smirk is a slow, devious thing, like honeyed poison thumbed across her lips. “And I heard him tell Master Ito that you kept failing even the most basic katas for your level. What’s the matter, Zuzu? Too busy playing with your metal sticks to practice your forms?”
Their father finally looks up from his food, gaze switching from disinterested to knife-sharp within a fraction of a second. “Is this true?”
Zuko swallows, throat dry as pounded glass. “I— Father—”
“I didn’t ask you for an explanation. I asked if it was true.”
His heart has dislodged itself from behind his ribs. Shifted to somewhere in his throat. It threatens to strangle him with every beat. “Yes,” he whispers.
Father’s gaze screams violence, but there are too many servants around. Even so, Zuko feels the phantom touch of his father’s palm on his back, quietly smouldering against his flesh. He is a patch of handprints, nowadays, each imprint a testament to his many failures. He wears every single one resolutely, promising himself that the last will be the last.
(He has been promising himself this since the very first. Ah, well. His father will soon run out of skin to brand, anyway.)
For a long moment, Father says nothing. Then:
“Your lessons with Piandao are to end, effective immediately. Those hours will be spent with Master Takahashi; I expect glowing reports from him within the next few weeks.” He leans closer to Zuko, gold eyes piercing, like hooks catching on soft flesh; Zuko cannot look away, caught in their unforgiving hold. “I will not be the nation’s laughingstock with a non-bending failure of a son.”
It’s only because he loves me, Zuko tells himself, eyes burning. He’s doing it so I can be better.
I will be better. I will prove myself. I will show him I am worthy.
He’s doing it because he loves me.
Father wraps his fingers around Zuko’s teacup. Steam froths from the bubbling surface. “Drink,” he says, “then go practice.”
Zuko raises the cup with shaking hands.
His father’s love burns his tongue.
His father’s love burns his face.