It took almost ten months but we're back at it again with more High School AU. Light on the "high school" in this chapter. But for a good cause? There's going to be one more chapter after this, so we're in the home (ahahahaha bad puns) stretch. Thank you again for all the kind feedback on my trash and a reminder that you can hit me up on Tumblr if you want to like, actually interact with me, idk?

Uncle doesn't complain that he spends a lot of their remaining vacation taking pictures and texting. Actually, once Uncle catches on that it's Katara on the other end, he makes a game out of finding things for Zuko to tell Katara about. It's both obnoxious and endearing. Because he feels generous, Zuko decides it's more endearing than obnoxious, and humors his Uncle.

(It helps that Uncle found the weird statue of a crab in hula gear that had Katara laughing so hard that Sokka was able to steal her phone and get a picture of her mid-cackle.)

But their last night in Ember Cove, Zuko leaves the phone in their room and goes out onto the porch. It's not that he doesn't want to talk to Katara it's just that he's realized soon they're going to have to actually talk about things that matter again instead of whatever dumb thing they just snapped a picture of. Uncle is out on the porch with a cup of tea. When Zuko takes a seat on the porch steps, Uncle says, "It is a beautiful night. Very peaceful."

With a sigh, Zuko lets his head thump back against the railing and wonders how he's supposed to explain any of this. Part of him had hoped Uncle would pry. Instead, it seems that his Uncle is feeling philosophical enough to let Zuko come to him. Fuck.

It takes almost a half hour for Zuko to figure out what he needs to say. During that time Uncle finishes his first cup of tea in slow, deliberate sips. Then rises and disappears back into their rented cabin to make himself another cup. Zuko finds the exact words as Uncle emerges back into the humid night and takes a seat in the well-worn rocking chair he favors. There's a creak from the chair and a satisfied hum from Uncle as he takes the first sip of his fresh cup. Zuko breathes in deep and says:

"Katara knows about Mom. I didn't tell her but she knew. That's why she became my friend. Because she felt bad for me and wanted to fix me. Help me. I don't know." The old frustration surges up. Fresh and raw as it had been the first time. He can feel his hands curling into fists but he doesn't try to stop it. Just lets the feeling rush through him because he needs to do this. Bleed the poison out of this wound. He just doesn't want to hurt her again. "That's why I didn't talk to her. Because it's fucked up. Making someone your friend so you can fix them. But she called. Christmas morning. Told me that her mom died and she blames herself and that's why she does it. Fixes people. Helps them. Whatever it is she does. I don't want to be a fucking project to her but she needs me and I don't know how to forgive her but I can't—"

There are no more words and he's honestly amazed he made it this far. It feels like the inside of his mouth has been all cut up with razor blades, like he needs to punch something to focus the pain, like he's exactly the kind of wounded creature who needs a beautiful girl to save him. Zuko knows his eyes are pleading as he looks at his Uncle.

"Katara is?" Uncle says. Philosophically.

Zuko launches to his feet and begins to pace across the width of the porch. "I don't know. Katara's…Katara." Pacing isn't helping but he knows he can't vent his anger by hitting something. So he growls, and tangles his fingers in his hair, and clenches his eyes shut. "Katara is someone gentle, and smart, and fierce. She sees all the worst things about life and then decides she can somehow change it. She takes in people because they need it, not because they deserve it. She stays kind even though nothing else is kind. She demands a better world." Without meaning to his feet come to a stop. He opens his eyes. His hands slide from his hair to fall to his sides. "She makes me want to demand a better world."

Out here the light is pretty shitty. Reliant on the small lamps that light the pathways between cabins and the heavy moon above them. But Zuko's pretty sure he's not imagining the faint gleam to Uncle's eyes. Or the hoarse edge as he says, "Then the question is, nephew, if your pride is worth more than all that Katara is."

No. It's not.

Zuko Himura 11:48PM we need to talk when i get back

Katara Foster 11:49PM i know

It takes them all day to get back to Republic City. They nearly die once because Uncle sees a tea shop and whips their car across five lanes of traffic to get at it. When they pull into the driveway there's a good six inches of fresh snow that'll need to be cleared tomorrow. Zuko goes straight upstairs because a week and a half solid of socializing with Uncle is exhausting. (It's good, too, in a way that he can't articulate.) After kicking the door shut and dropping his bags, he collapses face first onto his bed, ready to take the world's longest nap.

The world's longest nap is only about three hours long.

Zuko wakes up blearily to the faint whine of the tea kettle. It stops but he's awake, now, so he half rolls onto his side. For a while he just lays there. Cocooned in the warm dark, looking out the window, at fresh snow that swirls backlit against streetlights. Somehow the room feels safe, and cozy, and less like a place he just goes to fall asleep or do homework. The therapist would call that progress if he still went to them every Tuesday.

Falling snow reminds him of Katara. Of that day when they went to the coffee shop. With a groan that sounds more like a growl he rolls onto his back and puts an arm behind his head. The hand resting on his stomach taps out a rhythm.

Even a month later his body remembers her—warm and small and laughing—cuddled against him. It had seemed like too much to handle at the time. What kind of loser jerks off to the memory of giving a girl a piggy back ride? But now he wonders what would've happened if he'd pulled her into an alley that day and kissed her. Maybe everything would've been different if he'd been braver. Probably not.

Reaching into the front pocket of his jeans, he fishes out his phone and turns it on. Light flares brilliant and white and makes him squint. It's almost eight. He ignores the next texts from Sokka, the Ultimate Frisbee group chat, and an unknown number to pull up Katara's conversation.

Katara Foster 2:49PM text me when you get home k?

Feeling a little like a jerk, he taps in, got home a couple hours ago but needed a nap. Then he erases that and sends home instead. That makes him feel more like a jerk but he's barely had time to feel the full weight of his jerkish behavior when the three little dots that signal an incoming response pop up.

Katara Foster 7:53PM good

Katara Foster 7:54PM are you like super tired?

Even with the nap he feels kind of worn at the edges. But he dutifully says not really why? She reads the message immediately but it takes a full six minutes for her to reply. Zuko imagines it might be because Sokka started doing something obnoxious or GranGran needed help with something. That doesn't help the nerves. Especially when the three dots pop up and just. Stay there. Taunting him.

Katara Foster 8:02PM meet me at the coffee shop

Katara Foster 8:02PM please

Of course she's beaten him there. She's hunched over a steaming cup of coffee that's cradled in her hands. When the bell above the doorway goes off she looks up, instinctively but not hopefully, like she's already done this a few times. Except this time it's actually him. Or at least he assumes that's why her entire face lights up and she straightens her shoulders and the coffee cup is left forgotten on the table. Zuko barely has time to brace himself and open his arms before she's in them, face pressed tight into his chest, fingers digging deep into his leather jacket.

"Hey," he says. It feels like the air's been knocked out of his lungs and it's not just because she slammed into him. One arm's curled around her waist reflexively but he tries to smooth the other over the back of her skull because he's fairly certain she's shaking. "Hey, are you okay?"

Katara pulls back very carefully but stays in his arms. It's okay. Now that he's touching her, he's not sure he could let her go, even with everyone in the coffee shop eyeing them. He can't remember if she's always felt this delicate or if maybe he only thinks she feels that way because he knows she's not invincible now. Zuko wants to pull her closer and wrap her up in his jacket. Keep her safe for once.

"I'm okay, I'm just so glad you're here," she says. There's a very soft lilt to her voice that makes him think she's holding back tears.

Not thinking about the consequences, he leans down and presses a soft kiss to her forehead, lets himself stay there for a moment as he breathes in the scent of her. He pulls back. Katara's got her eyes closed. The lines of her face are still and easy in a way they hadn't been before and he realizes suddenly how tense she'd actually been. Slowly, like someone coming up from a deep dive, she opens her eyes.

"I'm here," he says. Their eyes lock. It occurs to him that she is steel and glass layered together so firmly that he's not sure if he's glimpsing the vulnerability beneath her strength or the courage beneath her fragility. "I'm here," he promises.

Somehow they manage to completely avoid talking about it.

At first, in those hazy moments in the coffee shop in the hour before closing, Zuko thinks maybe it's because they're still too raw. Or because the coffee shop is too public. Or even because they're too enamored of being around each other again, their knees bumping under the table, her hand eventually settling on his bare forearm like an anchor.

But the last three days of winter break go by and they're around each other constantly. They have the opportunity. It's just that they don't want to, maybe. So it's like:

One day, they're sledding in the park with everyone from the Foster's neighborhood, including one boy with a shaved head who watches Zuko with intense suspicion. Another day, they're walking through the mall with Sokka and Suki, playing with the Christmas decorations that haven't been stripped down yet. That last day, they're going to the indoor pool at the local YMCA so Katara can do some back to school thing for underprivileged elementary students, and Zuko can't even remember how he got dragged into this when he hates the pool but it's worth it for the way Katara smiles at him over the heads of thirteen shrieking eight year olds.

After the YMCA, Katara offers to drive him home but Zuko says he'll walk. It's only a mile and a half. It's not even snowing now. What he doesn't say is he needs time to think because it finally occurred to him as she ruffled her towel over his chlorine damp hair that she's waiting on him.

Walking is a bad idea. He wakes up the next morning with a sore throat, a stuffy nose, and the kind of vague headache that feels like being underwater. Uncle takes one look at him and says to text Katara for the homework.

The door to his bedroom creaks open. Uncle left him alone after lunch to nap. He's not sure if he actually slept. It feels like maybe he has.

"No more tea," he groans. Uncle force fed him an entire pot, he's pretty sure, and his throat feels better but if he never has to drink another cup it'll be too soon.

Someone laughs and says, "You sound terrible." Dread, or mucus, clogs his airways as he turns over to face the doorway. Hazy winter sunlight softens her edges. Zuko watches, feeling bemused and enchanted, as she pushes up the sleeves of her loose cable knit sweater to her elbows and puts her hands on her hips. Purposeful. Amused. Fond. Home improvement stores don't have paint that can match the blue of her eyes. Zuko can't breathe and he's pretty sure it's not just because he's needed to blow his nose for the last nine minutes. "You look terrible."

"You're awful," he says. Rolling away from her, he fishes around in the covers for his little packet of Kleenex. Nothing immediately meets his fingers. So he tries to sniffle without it being loud just to get the worst of the snot controlled. Which of course means it seems to echo off every available surface.

Another laugh, muffled this time. "Wait, I need a picture for Sokka." Floorboards creak beneath her weight and he hears a heavy bag dropping to the floor. The bed dips beneath her as she puts a knee on the edge.

"No," Zuko says. With great feeling.

"Aw, c'mon," she says. One day he's going to figure out how she can sound teasing and worried at the same time. Leaning over him, she grabs the packet of Kleenex and puts it into his hand. "A picture for me then?"

"No," he says. With even greater feeling.

Katara's lower lip juts out just a bit. If she's trying for a convincing pout then she's failing because he knows what he genuine pouts look like. They involve a slight crinkle at the corners of her eyes, like she's trying not to cry. It's a manipulative pout and he's on to her. "But…" she says. "I need it."

"Why?"

One of her shoulders lifts in a shrug. "To prove a point. Mostly to Song and Jin. This would prove that you are not handsome and brooding at all times." Arguably, he's not handsome at any times. He can't say much about the brooding. Why Katara would care about any of this in the first place he can't imagine. "None of the girls at school would think you were some mysterious bad boy if they could see you with a runny nose."

Since he clearly has no fucking dignity left as she looms over him and confirms that he looks exactly as pathetic as he feels, and that she plans on letting everyone relevant in his age group know as much, he makes deliberate eye contact and blows his nose in a fresh Kleenex. Being herself, Katara maintains eye contact, and then once he's done goes, "Feel better?" It's a challenge. Like he's ridiculously gross and she knows they're both acknowledging that fact. But also like she wants him to know she saw that petty display of pissiness and she's above it. Zuko could tell her she doesn't have to bother. Everyone already knows she's the most terrifying girl in school. Reaching toward his nightstand, she grabs an entire box of Kleenex, probably one that Uncle left during one of Zuko's many naps. Handing it to him, she says, "I think you need these."

"I might hate you," he says, batting the box away so it thumps onto the floor.

There's a flicker behind her expression. Fleeting helplessness writ large in the way her eyebrows nudge toward one another and her teeth catch her lower lip. Gone before most people would really catch it. But he caught it and now he's reminded that she's not the most terrifying girl in school when it comes to him.

Feeling like a jerk, again, he reaches out and wraps a hand around her wrist. It's cool to the touch because of his fever. Rubbing a thumb over the soft skin of her inner arm, he says, "I didn't mean it that way."

"Don't be," she says. "I shouldn't have pushed. You don't…" It kills him a little, how she pauses, her eyes settled on some loose thread in his comforter. Even though he knows she won't say it he knows what she's thinking. You don't let yourself be vulnerable. Disappointment clings to those unspoken words. Because Katara's waiting on him. After giving him all the rawest parts of herself on a silver platter. Katara's waiting on him. Or maybe not, because her eyes are shuttered and her smile now is strained, and she's saying, "I'm sorry," like it's an absolution.

Panic claws at him and he fumbles for explanations. Zuko's never been good with words and sick muddled as he is they refuse to come at all. In his mind there are the memories—of being sick after his mother left and burning his hand on the stove while he made chicken noodle soup because his father would not feed him if he was weak and he hadn't eaten for two days—that he needs to share with her so she'll understand but he can't figure out how and she's standing up with that same strained smile as she murmurs goodbyes about letting him rest.

If he lets her go now, he thinks, there will never be another chance.

Zuko uses his grip on her wrist to tug her hand to his face. Most of the skin of his scar is dead, nothing to feel there but pressure and the occasional pain that comes with sudden weather front, but he swears he can feel the rasp of her fingertips as they settle over the ruined skin. Katara doesn't look like she's breathing. "Stay."

Now she sucks in a shaky breath. Her free arm wraps around her own waist like she's trying to hold herself together. "Why?" she asks. "You haven't forgiven me. You haven't even asked if I still—"

Focusing on her glassy eyes, he says, "It doesn't matter."

Katara lets out a choked sound and pulls her hand free of his grasp. Wraps her other arm around herself. "The hell it doesn't," she says.

Later, he thinks he'll try to figure out how things went this bad this fast. How they got from gentle teasing to restrained tears. How they even managed to reach this point in the first place instead of exploding or fizzling out so much earlier.

But this, at least, he has words for. Zuko's voice is hoarse and awful and steady and he tries to gentle it for her but he has to say it, whether she wants it or not, because he can't lose her like this. "I realized I'm going to choose you being in my life because I can't imagine not choosing you." In the hazy winter sunlight, she's still soft at the edges and so beautiful it aches, and he's willing to beg. "Please," he whispers, "Stay."

Tears build like a flash flood in her eyes and go spilling down her cheeks. One of her knees bumps his ribs as she scrambles onto the bed and tumbles into him. Ignoring that he's sick and gross and wearing a sweat stained tee she crawls under the covers and presses against him full length. All their limbs are tangled up together. It feels natural to wrap his arms around her and pull her closer. Anchor her into him so that maybe the world will stop tilting wildly on its axis or maybe that's just his inner eardrums protesting. But when she touches his scar again it's achingly gentle and she's saying "I'm here, I'm here, I'm here."