It's not exactly the best moment for Zuko to realize that he has the sudden, burning desire to kiss Sokka—and maybe run his fingers through his hair and under his shirt and also trace his name on his chest with his tongue and—

Whoa.

He is in the middle of a meeting, surrounded by old men bickering about politics and trade routes, and his brain suddenly decides that that is a good thing to think about? Zuko feels his face heat and ducks his chin into his collar, glancing at the Water Tribe ambassador to his left.

Sokka, of course, is oblivious to Zuko's predicament, as he is too busy passionately arguing with a council member about the importance of women in positions of power. Sokka is on his feet, gesticulating wildly with fire in his eyes, and there is an air of confidence surrounding him that has the elder man looking on in speechless, stony silence—and that, for some reason, Zuko finds ridiculously attractive. He tries to swallow around the dryness in his throat and focus his thoughts.

Zuko knows it's not really Sokka's place to be making such a fuss, but he doesn't do anything to stop it. Councilman Yu is a bit of an asshole anyways, and besides, Sokka is in his element, and he looks really, really good…

Zuko groans inwardly. This needs to stop. This is not the time, this is not the place, this is not the person. Spirits, this is so wrong—it's Sokka, for crying out loud. Sokka, his best friend. Sokka, who he should definitely not be daydreaming about in the middle of a council meeting. Sokka, who he should not be daydreaming about at all.

Zuko wants to press his face into a pillow and scream. Where did these thoughts even come from?

From his right comes a chuckle. Uncle Iroh leans over to nudge Zuko in the side, a slight grin playing on his lips.

"Who knew that Sokka was so talented with his mouth?" he says.

Zuko nearly chokes. He looks over at Iroh in disbelief, wondering if that…phrasing was intentional. But Iroh sips innocently at his tea, eyes trained on the argument playing out before them.

Zuko sighs and reaches for his own cup of tea, wishing desperately for a cold bucket of water to dump over his head.

…

It's late. Zuko sits hunched over his desk, a brush balanced between his fingers, blinking blankly at the scrolls spread out before him. A candle flickers by his hand, and he toys idly with the flame, weaving it between his fingers like a trickster with a coin.

The night drags on.

He sighs, drops the brush, and scrubs at his face. They've been reviewing the scrolls for hours, and his eyes burn from reading and rereading new laws and trade requests from all corners of the world. All he wants to do is sleep.

Zuko peeks between his fingers at Sokka, sprawled on the floor of Zuko's chambers, scrolls scattered every which way. He has the end of a brush caught between his teeth, and his hair has come partly undone from its usual wolftail, several strands hanging and framing his face. As Zuko watches, he moves to jot down something on the scroll in front of him, his face screwed up in concentration, the tip of his tongue poking out from between his lips. Zuko smothers a grin at the sight.

He feels a sudden surge of gratitude towards Sokka, who had taken it upon himself many months ago to help with the endless paperwork that was sent in the Zuko's direction—even though he wasn't really supposed to be helping him. Nobody really seems to care, though. So long as it meets the Fire Lord's approval, they don't give a damn about how it gets done.

He's startled when Sokka suddenly scrambles to his feet, a scroll clutched in his hands, and saunters over to Zuko's desk to unceremoniously slam it down in front of him. He opens his mouth, to yell at him, maybe—Sokka, what the fuck?—but Sokka places a finger to Zuko's lips before he can get anything out.

"Look at this: I found something weird. Trade request from Ba Sing Se…"

Zuko freezes at the contact, but Sokka doesn't seem to notice, and he continues blithely on. Zuko thinks he might be saying something—his gaze is trained on the scroll in front of him, his lips are moving, and he seems to be pointing something out. It's probably important.

But Zuko is a bit…distracted. Because Sokka is really, really close, one hand braced on the back of Zuko's chair, and he's leaning over him to gesture to the characters painted on the page, and there's something that smells like ice and the sea and Sokka and Zuko can hardly focus. His eyes are locked on Sokka's face—he looks exhausted, but there's a light in his eyes and a tilt to his lips that Zuko finds himself drawn to. He has a dab of ink smeared across his cheekbone and his hair is falling into his eyes and Zuko can't help the pull in his gut—because Sokka is really, incredibly attractive.

And, spirits help him, Zuko must be really tired, because he finds himself wanting to lean over and kiss Sokka until they're both breathless and hot and panting.

Not again.

His gaze drifts down to Sokka's lips. He's still talking—Zuko really should be listening—and Zuko stares openly at the way his mouth forms the words. A baring of teeth, a pursing of the lips, a flick of the tongue. Zuko wants to trap the words with his tongue and swallow every syllable, wants to bite down on Sokka's lip and hear the sounds he makes—they're bound to be more interesting than what Sokka has to say now. Zuko wants to pin Sokka to his desk and run his hands up his chest, pull his hair loose from that ridiculous wolftail, mark a path up his neck. Zuko wants to—he wants—

Sokka then chooses that moment to pause and dart his tongue out to wet his lips, and Zuko almost chokes at the sight, because holy shit. He pulls in a sharp breath, his pulse hammering. Sokka glances over at him.

"Zuko, are you even listening to me?" he says.

Zuko doesn't think he's capable of forming words, so he smiles sheepishly and shakes his head. Sokka laughs—Oh, fuck, Zuko thinks—and leans back, extending his hand.

"You know, I think it's a bit past your bedtime, oh great and mighty Fire Lord," he teases. "You should probably go to beddie-bye." Zuko shoots him a half-hearted glare but allows Sokka to grasp his hand.

He steadfastly ignores the flutter in his gut at the contact and, instead of using Sokka to pull himself up, he leans over and plants his lips on the back of Sokka's hand in a mocking kiss of servitude.

It's not exactly the kiss he's looking for, but he's not about to tell that to Sokka.

"Your wish is my command, Ambassador Sokka of the Southern Water Tribe," Zuko says, head bowed, peering up at him through his eyelashes. Sokka laughs and pulls away, swatting at his head. Zuko ducks and grins, then sweeps smoothly to his feet to poke Sokka in the side.

He wants to sigh in relief. This is normal—this casual, playful banter between them. Not…whatever it was that was running through Zuko's head earlier. He needs to put that behind him, because Sokka is his best friend, and nothing more. He really shouldn't be fantasizing about doing…that to him.

Zuko determinedly quashes the fluttering in his stomach and the giddiness in his chest when Sokka slings his arm over his shoulder as they stumble over to Zuko's bed. He tries to avoid looking at Sokka's lips, too. Because Sokka is his friend. Sokka is his friend, and that's it.

But Sokka is apparently also his friend with no concept of personal space, because he's pushing Zuko back against his mattress, flat on his back, and then sprawling across Zuko's chest like some sort of entitled feline.

Zuko's breath catches in his throat, because having Sokka's weight pressing down on him like that is definitely not helping matters. He moves to shove him off before he does something incredibly stupid, like flip them over and kiss Sokka senseless. But before Zuko can move an inch, Sokka brings his hands up over his head and stretches, all long limbs and taut muscles.

He stiffens. The feeling of Sokka's shoulder blades digging into his abdomen would be enough to make him lose it, really, but then Sokka makes some sort of unholy noise, and Zuko can almost feel his pupils dilate.

Sokka yawns and smacks his lips, still stretched out over Zuko. "Man, I'm bushed," he groans, and then he makes the noise again.

Spirits.

There's a flurry of movement, and suddenly Zuko finds himself looking down on Sokka, his hands gripping Sokka's wrists and pinning them to either side of his head.

"Don't ever do that again," Zuko snarls.

Sokka looks rightfully terrified and confused.

"I—I—what?" he babbles. "What did I do?"

And Zuko leans down, close enough to feel Sokka's breath puff over his jaw, hot and damp and sweet. He feels Sokka's wrists flex in his grip, pulse thrumming between his fingers, and Sokka's throat bobs as he swallows, audibly, nervously. Zuko is painfully aware of every movement Sokka makes; the rise and fall of his chest—his legs pressing, shifting against his own—the slight, anxious curling of his fingers. Sokka's eyes are wide with alarm and something that Zuko can't name, and they flicker over Zuko's face, searching, searching, waiting…

He can feel his pulse racing through his veins, and Sokka is so, so close, so tempting, so warm, and Zuko feels reckless, stupid and curious and reckless—

So Zuko brings his thigh up, pressing between Sokka's legs, and watches as his eyes flutter shut, soft as a feather, and there's a gasp and a small sound coming from Sokka's lips.

Fuck.

Zuko kind of wants to die.

He brings his lips down to hover over Sokka's. It's so close, so tantalizingly close, so excruciatingly close, and Sokka's breath ghosts over his mouth, his jaw, his tongue, his teeth.

Zuko exhales, a flame tickling the back of his throat.

"That," he says.

Sokka pulls in a shuddering breath through his nose, eyelashes flickering. Zuko wants to press closer, close the distance until they're sharing the same breath, gasping and hot and wet and not enough.

And he could, really. There's nothing stopping him and he wants it so badly, and Sokka—Sokka is—Sokka is tilting his chin up and it's almost an invitation and he could do it, Zuko could do it, he wants to do it, needs to do it—

But—

Shit.

He can't.

Not like this.

And he's pulling back and dropping Sokka's wrists like they've burned him, and he's scrubbing at his lips—but nothing happened, nothing happened—but it almost did—

He's halfway across the room before Sokka realizes what has happened. Sokka's cry of "Zuko!" follows him, and it sounds confused and desperate and angry all at once. Zuko doesn't want to look at him, but he does anyways, and he instantly wishes he hadn't. Because Sokka's hair is sticking up in every direction and his clothes are rumpled and he looks incredibly frustrated and Zuko wants nothing more than to stalk back over there and press him into the sheets and have his filthy way with him.

Instead, he turns away and, fists clenched, grinds out, "Sokka, I think you should leave."

There's the sound of Sokka's feet hitting the ground, and then his voice, "Zuko, what the fuck—"

Zuko cuts him off. "Sokka, please. Just—" He stops and fists his hands in his hair. "Please," he says, his voice small.

He hears Sokka sigh in defeat. Out of the corner of his eye, Zuko watches as he pads over to the door, pulling it open and throwing Zuko one last look before stepping out.

The door clicks shut, and Zuko buries his face into his hands and groans. He wants to throw something across the room and then set himself on fire. Maybe jump out of a window, for good measure.

Instead, he flops face down onto his bed and screams.

…

"You seem awfully troubled recently, nephew."

Zuko glares at Iroh from across the table. He wants to make a snappy retort, but his uncle has already directed his attention elsewhere.

"And Sokka, you've hardly touched your food! If there's something wrong with it, I'm sure I can alert the cooks." He chuckles. "If there is one thing I cannot stand for, it's bad food."

Zuko steals a glance at Sokka. He has his head down and is poking diligently at the contents of his plate. At Iroh's words, he lifts his head and flicks his eyes towards Iroh, then briefly to Zuko, before staring down at his plate again. "No, it's fine," he mumbles, voice quiet.

Zuko shifts uncomfortably in his seat. The tension in the air is overwhelming, and he wants nothing more than to be excused. He feels sick.

"Ah, that's good, then," Iroh says, seemingly oblivious to the awkward situation. He gestures to the teacup clenched between Zuko's fingers. "More tea, Zuko?" he asks.

Zuko wants to strangle Iroh. Nearly a week after "the incident", his uncle had invited him to breakfast, assuring him that it would be a private affair. Zuko had accepted, grateful for a break from the paperwork that he had buried himself in. Of course, Iroh had neglected to mention that Sokka would also be attending. Sokka, whom Zuko had not spoken to since "the incident". Sokka, who was the reason why Zuko had holed himself in his office to lose himself in paperwork. Sokka, who was the reason for Zuko's "troubled" appearance.

And of course Iroh knew, because Iroh knew everything.

Zuko forces himself to breathe. Instead of lashing out, as he would very much like to do, he places his teacup on the table and says, as calmly as he can, "Thank you, Uncle. That would be nice."

Iroh lifts the teapot and makes an exaggerated expression of surprise. "Oh dear, it seems as if we're all out of tea. If you two will excuse me, I must go make some more."

Zuko's eyes widen and he rushes to assure Iroh that the servants can take care of it and that there's no need for him to get up.

"Nonsense," Iroh says. "None of them know how to make tea properly; they can hardly even tell the difference between oolong and green tea. I must do it myself." And he leaves, muttering about the subtle variances in tea from the different rings of Ba Sing Se.

Zuko seethes and grips the edge of the table, knuckles whitening. That stupid, conniving bastard. Of course he had planned this all out, to leave Zuko alone with Sokka. That asshole, he's going to set his wrinkly ass on fire when he gets back—

Sokka clears his throat from beside him. "Look, Zuko, I can just…leave, if you want," he says, gaze trained on the table.

Zuko suddenly has a hard time swallowing past the lump in his throat, and he struggles to find something to say.

"I, uh…" He coughs. "No, it's okay. You can stay. I mean, if you want, that is." Zuko has to resist the urge to plant his face into the table. He's so stupid, why does he have to be so awkward—

"Okay," Sokka says quietly.

They sit in silence, and Zuko fidgets nervously as the seconds drag by. Should he say something? He sneaks glances at Sokka, but he seems preoccupied with pushing his food around his plate, his head propped in his hand and staring at the far wall. But Zuko can feel the tension lingering in the air, so thick that it's almost hard to breathe. And he should say something, he really should say something, because he'll hate himself forever if he doesn't.

But instead he sits there, heart in his throat and palms sweating, because what the fuck can he say? Apologize for pinning him to his bed and almost kissing him the other day? Admit that he can't stop thinking about what Sokka's lips might taste like? Absolutely not.

Sokka makes it easier for him by breaking the silence first.

"So…are we going to talk about it?"

Except that's not much better, is it? Zuko feels his heart stutter before picking up again.

"Talk about…what?" he asks. Maybe if he plays dumb Sokka will drop it.

No such luck. "Zuko," Sokka sighs, exasperated. "You know exactly what I'm talking about."

Zuko huffs and looks over at Sokka, who's fixing him with a stare that is almost but not quite a glare. He drops his gaze, because there's something else there that Zuko doesn't really want to read into.

"Yeah," he mutters, "I do."

And then there's more silence as Zuko tries to figure out what to say. He can feel Sokka waiting, expectant, but Zuko feels frozen. Trapped. He digs his nails into his palms and waits, because he can't think of anything else to do. His mouth tastes like ash and disappointment.

He can hear the resignation in Sokka's sigh. "Zuko," he starts, and then stops.

Zuko looks up. Sokka is toying with the ends of his arm wrappings, his gaze distant. When he speaks again, his words are halting, hesitant. He doesn't look at Zuko. "Okay. I know that…this isn't really something you want to talk about. So, I won't pressure you. I can wait, no matter how long it takes. But, for now, how about we just…put it behind us?"

He looks at Zuko then, and his eyes are so piercing and earnest that Zuko almost forgets how to breathe.

"Zuko, I hate this. I hate…not talking to you. I hate not being around you. I mean…you're my best friend, right? And I—I don't want that to change." He swallows and looks away. "I miss you."

Zuko's heart hammers, and he opens his mouth to say something, anything to reach out to Sokka, anything to let him know that he's there, that he feels the same, that he misses him too. "Sokka—"

"So, let's just forget about it, okay?"

Zuko freezes, his hand stopping inches away from Sokka's arm. He exhales quietly, curling his fingers into a fist and dropping his hands into his lap. His voice is quiet when he answers, "Okay."

They stay like that until Iroh comes back: Zuko looking at Sokka, and Sokka looking away.

…

It happens so slowly that Zuko almost doesn't notice it.

At first, there are still moments when Zuko has to fight the overwhelming urge to lean over and run his hands under Sokka's shirt and his lips across his neck. All too often he finds himself swallowing past the dryness in his throat when he's with Sokka; when they spar—when they eat—when Sokka pulls off his shirt, complaining loudly about the heat—when he pulls out the tie from his hair and runs his fingers through the strands—

But then—slowly—gradually—imperceptibly—it becomes more than that.

Sokka laughing, and Zuko blooms warmth from deep in his gut to the tips of his fingers. The light catching, turning Sokka's hair to dancing waves of flame, and Zuko's heart stutters in his chest. Their hands brushing, innocently, as they walk through the plush halls of the palace, and Zuko's stomach ties itself into desperate, incomprehensible knots. Sokka grinning, his eyes alight and bright and beautiful, and Zuko loses the ability to speak.

It takes a while, but Zuko finally figures it out.

It's not abrupt and jarring, a splash of freezing water sending him sputtering and reeling, his mind spinning with the realization. It's not a sudden, grandiose epiphany striking him in the middle of the day, overriding his thoughts and seizing his soul.

No. It's soft, and it's warm and welcome and inevitable. It's the truth, and it feels like coming home.

He's in love with Sokka.

…

"Zuko?"

Zuko doesn't bother opening his eyes, and tips his head back drowsily against the trunk of the tree. "Hmm?"

Sokka has his head nestled comfortably in Zuko's lap, and Zuko cards his fingers lazily through the other boy's hair. It's soft and smooth, flowing between his knuckles like water, and though Zuko would never admit it, he prefers it when Sokka leaves his hair down like this.

Sokka's weight shifts and settles against Zuko's legs, and he mumbles something that Zuko doesn't quite catch. He cracks one eye open and squints down at Sokka, dutifully ignoring the way his breath snags and stumbles when they lock eyes.

"What?" he says.

Sokka shifts again, his eyes flitting away from Zuko's, and Zuko would almost be disappointed if it weren't for the unmistakeable blush blooming across Sokka's cheeks.

"I, uh, I said, um…" Sokka stops and squeezes his eyes shut, his breath leaving him in a long, drawn-out sigh. Zuko's hands still in Sokka's hair, and he waits, counting every nervous beat of his heart.

Sokka blinks his eyes open, and he fixes Zuko with his icy blue stare. Zuko freezes—there's something there, something hard and defiant and determined—and for a moment he's terrified. But then Sokka speaks, and his voice is soft and uncertain and shy: "I said, can I kiss you?"

Oh.

And now Zuko feels like he's burning, burning from the inside out, every inch of him sparking with tiny bolts of lightning. All he can do is stare at Sokka, his cheeks hot, mouth open in a silent "o" of surprise, and try to come up with something to say, because his mind has apparently decided to replay Sokka's words on a loop and nothing else.

Sokka looks both parts expectant and terrified, his eyes flicking between Zuko's, as he waits for an answer. But Zuko can't move, can't breathe, can't think, and Sokka's face seems to crumple, bit by bit. He drops his gaze, sighing, and lifts himself up from Zuko's lap. Zuko only belatedly registers the loss of Sokka's warmth against his legs, and it's just as he feels Sokka's hair slipping from his fingers that he manages to react, his hand darting out and catching Sokka's arm before he can stand and—spirits forbid it—leave. Zuko's chest tightens.

"Sokka, wait, I—I didn't mean," Zuko stammers, heart pounding. Sokka stops, but he doesn't turn around. Zuko abruptly realizes how warm Sokka's skin is under his palm, so warm he feels like it might burn him, but he doesn't let go.

"Sokka, no, I—I meant, um." Zuko clears his throat and steels himself, blushing furiously. "What I meant is, will you—will you please kiss me?"

Sokka turns around then, and Zuko's breath catches, because he looks beautiful: his eyes bright and clear, his smile nervous and soft, his cheeks flushed an endearing shade of red, his hair tousled and flopping clumsily over his forehead, and all Zuko can think is, I'm so in love with him.

Then Sokka laughs, a relieved, pearly laugh, and Zuko can breathe again, the nervous knot in his chest unraveling—and now it feels like a ribbon, bright red and glistening, looping out to tie Sokka to him and tugging, tugging, tugging, a gentle insistent pull. Sokka follows, turning and settling to trap Zuko's legs between his knees, and Zuko holds his breath until Sokka is close enough that he can feel the warmth radiating from his skin.

"Of course," Sokka whispers, and Zuko smiles. He exhales shakily, every muscle and nerve drawn tight enough to snap, his skin tingling with anticipation.

Sokka leans in, his breath dusting across Zuko's heated cheeks. This close, Zuko can see the nervousness laid bare on Sokka's face. "Is this okay?" Sokka asks, hesitant. His eyes flicker between Zuko's, searching and searing, and they're so endlessly blue and bright that Zuko feels like he's losing himself in the sea. He swallows and nods, a breathless "Yeah," escaping his lips. He stares at Sokka's mouth as it quirks into a small smile.

Sokka takes a deep breath, his eyes fluttering shut for the briefest of seconds, and whispers, "Okay, okay," a quiet reassurance. Then his fingers are against Zuko's chin, a feather-light touch, gentle and flighty, only the slightest tremble betraying his nervousness. He tilts Zuko's chin up, pressing closer.

"Good?" he says, millimetres from Zuko's lips. Zuko's breath hitches, and he clutches at the grass beneath him.

"Good," he breathes, barely audible. His blood pounds in his ears, and it feels like his fire is rising up, flowing from his core to the very edge of his existence. Sokka is so close, so close…

"Good," Sokka echoes, barely a whisper, and Zuko's eyes slide shut a mere second before he feels Sokka's lips against his own.

It's soft and tentative and so, so gentle that Zuko is afraid to move, for fear of ruining it. Sokka's lips are light against his, light and tender as a butterfly-moth. Zuko thinks he could melt into a puddle with the way warmth is blossoming through his chest, spreading all the way to the tips of his fingers. They stay frozen like that, the barest brushing of lips, suspended in a single moment. There's a crystalline stillness to it that both of them are reluctant to break.

It's shattered when Sokka pulls away after spirits know how long, drawing in a long, shuddering breath. Zuko sucks in a gulp of air and slowly opens his eyes, blinking in the sudden brightness. Sokka lets out a breathless chuckle and rests his forehead against Zuko's, dropping his hand from Zuko's chin to brace his arm against the trunk of the tree behind Zuko.

"Good?" Sokka asks, his voice quiet.

"Good," Zuko says, and grins, lips tingling from the kiss. He feels euphoric, a bubbling happiness rising up in his chest and threatening to spill out as laughter.

"Good." And Sokka grins, too, bright and genuine. Zuko feels the flush spread across his face, and then they're both laughing, deliriously happy.

"Zuko?"

"Yeah?"

"Can I kiss you again?"

"Yeah."

"Good."

Sokka cups Zuko's cheek and leans in, tentatively brushing his lips against Zuko's, a split second of hesitation, before he's pressing in closer, harder. Zuko's heart stutters in his chest, and then he's pushing back, lips moving against Sokka's. He feels weightless, the only thing anchoring him to the earth the feeling of Sokka's mouth on his own, the bark digging into his back, the give and take of their kiss.

It's different than before. It's a bit clumsy, sure, their noses bumping when they try to deepen the kiss, both of them pulling away to share a brief moment of laughter before leaning back in—but it's easier, more natural, bolder. There's no hesitation—only certainty.

Zuko slides his hands up Sokka's thighs, up, up, to clutch at his tunic, fingers digging into the fabric. Sokka hums and slides his fingers from Zuko's cheek into his hair, and then grips, and Zuko draws back with a gasp. Sokka takes this as an invitation to bite at Zuko's bottom lip, and Zuko's stomach drops. He sighs and pulls harder at Sokka's tunic, because oh spirits.

There's a noticeable hitch in Sokka's breath, and then he pulls away the tiniest fraction to whisper against Zuko's lips. "I, ah—" he starts, his voice almost a moan, and then pauses to press a kiss against the corner of Zuko's mouth. "Mm, Zuko." Another kiss. "I, ah." Another. "Really like." And another. "Kissing you."

Zuko smiles, his chest light and giddy, and presses back against Sokka's lips. "I really like kissing you too."

He pulls back with laughter on his lips, and when he opens his eyes, he finds Sokka staring at him with the utmost look of adoration on his face. Zuko feels himself flush.

"You look stupid," he says, and pushes Sokka's face away with a laugh.

Sokka reels, laughing, and ducks back in press a sloppy kiss to Zuko's cheek—the unscarred side—and then whispers teasingly into Zuko's ear, "You know you love it."

Zuko's heart skips, and then hammers wildly in his chest. Oh, you don't even know, Zuko wants to tell him.

But then Sokka reaches for Zuko's hand and presses it to his chest, his fingers splayed over Sokka's heart, and Zuko can feel every breath he takes, every heartbeat. And then Sokka kisses him, and Zuko feels the hitch in his breath, the stutter of his pulse, the warm, warm press of his lips; and he thinks, or maybe he does.