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The moment Uncle shut the door to his cabin he was on him. No. Not on him– he– he hadn't moved. Iroh stood by the door, hand still on the knob. Heels against the steel. Both hands in sight, fingers loose and palms free. Close enough for his usual scent of spice, tea, and ash to press familiar and soothing against the back of his tongue– not close enough to touch him. He hadn't moved yet. He hadn't moved.

Zuko dug his bloodless fingers as deep as he dared into his knees and kept them there.

"Did you forget what happened the last time you challenged someone to an Agni Kai?" The older man asked. Despite how he had been stupid, so, so stupid, Uncle's tone was even. Low, patient, and quiet. The room remained as cool as Zuko could let it, untouched by any heat but his own– his and the eggs. Zuko refused to squeeze his eyes shut no matter how much he wanted to. Hidden under his cot, the heat of the eggs warmed the backs of his calves. It was a bare comfort. "Zuko. I am worried about how you have been acting, as of late."

So am I. "I have to win," He said instead. The words rasped out of him roughly, oddly strangled. It felt as if his tongue was too slow and heavy to form sentences. Everything feels wrong. Like my skin isn't pulling right. It was both familiar and not. It wasn't familiar in the same way he could remember Azula scratching, scraping over her shoulder blades like steel on steel rather than nails on skin. Not like the way his mother flexed her fingers, lips twisted oddly. It was him. His spirit didn't fit right, and no amount of scratching or stretching or biting would– there was nothing that could carve his body out to fit properly. It was just another way that he was different. Another reason he was a freak. It was infuriating. "He has to go." I need him to go. We need him to leave and not come back.

Zhao was more than an annoyance now. Zhao was a threat– not to Zuko, maybe, or Uncle, but he was to Zuko's– to the eggs. Those little heartbeats, hiding behind his legs. "He can't stay."

His knees creaked under the pressure. It physically hurt, trying to loosen his grip. "I don't want to be here," Zuko admitted quietly.

Unbeknownst to him, Iroh's eyes carefully flicked down. To the darkness under the bed. To the warmth he could feel radiating, even from across the room. As if an invisible fire had reached out for him. He wisely did not step closer and was grateful for how Zuko did not notice. "He won't find out anything," Iroh promised. "Not of the avatar, nor the eggs." His sharp gaze did not miss the way his nephew jerked at the mention of the Avatar. Blinking for a moment as if he could not understand why Iroh would have mentioned him at all before he was back to glaring at the floorboards. "...You have guarded our secrets well, nephew. You don't have to fight so far."

Zhao, thankfully, seemed to have had a stronger sense of where not to step than he appeared. It was normal to see men wary, but Iroh was more used to that caution being directed towards himself. He hadn't honestly considered Zhao attuned to his intelligence over his pride enough to think the man would stretch that same caution to Zuko, with none of the attributes–

Zuko was barely managing to maintain his breathing. Staying calm was always such a chore but everything seemed to become noticeably harder to control, once they had left the North Pole. "I have to," He choked out. "I will not back down."

None? Iroh thought again, carefully swallowing down a chuckle. His nephew would not be happy to hear it. Maybe I too am beginning to lose my sight...

Iroh sat down across the room, back to the door, and Zuko slowly lost the hitch in his breath as he continued to breathe.

He would win. He had no other choice.

Zhao was not allowed to remain anywhere near them.

"It will be an easy fight sir," Commented a dockhand warily.

Zhao very carefully did not yell. He did not snap, or snarl, or burn the fool to a crisp– it wasn't the lower class' fault that royal rumor failed to properly circulate. He doubted the healthy fear common in the capital would be present this far from the Fire Nation. Not to mention that Zuko was a particularly underestimated case.

No claws, no teeth. No legs to stand on when it came to bare-fanged smiles and scaled skin… and yet Zhao would not be so hasty as to dismiss the baby royal entirely. Zuko had none of the physical attributes of a true dragon. He was unclaimed by the Fire Lord himself– the mark on his face was supposed to be proof. Princess Azula would never have been able to burn the way Zuko had. No royal had ever been able to bear such a mark–– and yet Zhao had recognized the hiss in his voice for what it was– and just barely backed off with his eyebrows intact.

His nose, his cheeks, they all still burned from the singe of pure white fire.

The man flinched when Zhao stopped. "Never," He warned. Even Zhao could be kind. Could be forgiving, and generous. Agni let that be enough for his prayers to be heard, "Never let a member of the dragon throne hear you say that."

Because while none but Iroh was left to care about Zuko… He was still blooded to them. Zuko was a royal despite all his distance. Despite even the mark on his face. It seemed even an ocean's weight could not separate the scales from the dragon, whether Zhao could see them or not– and he doubted such a careless comment of weakness could be made in any other company so gracious. The connection was still there, and all of its implications.

Even when Ozai's hand itself could not prove it, could not declare that––

Zhao was a loyal man to his country.

He walked to where his men had hastily set an arena and hoped it was enough.

Zuko already stood on the opposite edge, caped and barefoot. While his sight was previously focused on the distance–– Zhao knew, even if he couldn't see it from the arena, that the Wani laid there in wait like a pit of viper-bats. He would not risk looking. The movement would be too sharp. Would draw too much of the worst kind of attention. But he knew, couldn't not know, not with how it loomed–– it snapped to Zhao the moment he stepped into the area. Dug and pinned with the same force and accuracy of a Yuyan arrow. The prince's eyes diligently followed Zhao's every move closer, unblinking in their intensity even as they turned away from each other to kneel.

Zhao heard, vaguely, the flutter of cloth to the ground as they stood. He could almost forget the feeling of the dirt under his feet and the buzzing strength of the sunlight on his bare shoulders.

Someone–– one of his own men, he was sure–– rang the gong. Beat it loud and clear and obvious and unmistakable and inevitable. Zhao bit back the overwhelming urge to scream, to rave at whatever man had just sent him to his death––

No, no. Zhao would not die. Not here. Not to Zuko. To die a death at the claws of a royal, as if he were not one of his own people? As if he were a traitor, as if he were not even Fire? He refused–

His feet shifted into stance all on their own. Zhao wished he could be half as confident.

Steam whistled out of Zuko's mouth. Rolling smoothly over his tongue and through his teeth, Easy as breathing, with none of the tight pain and rasping cry of a charring throat.

Zhao swallowed thickly. He had no time to allow for nerves to eat through his fuel. All he could have was hope that Zuko would burn through anything he could throw at Zhao before it left his hands (his feet, his mouth–– ) An angry firebender is a careless firebender. An out of control firebender. Ineffective, energy-wasting movements and weak flames–– Zuko swung down low, body arching in a way utterly removed from any firebending forms Zhao could recognize and sent a racing flood of flames straight towards him.

His body moved to part it but his mind knew to move. There was no place for pride amongst adrenaline–– not when instinct was all that managed to force his body to fling itself to the ground instead of risking being marked. It was humiliating scraping across the dirt.

Zhao risked a glance and swore the earth had bubbled where he had stood.

Lungs compressing, limbs clean through the air– Zuko less dodged Zhao's answering kick of fire than absorbed it, flames licking harmlessly over his bare skin and lighting his eyes in a whitened gold. No amount of heat managed to even scuff the prince. He was completely unharmed. Unburnt, as dragons were–

The dragon prince had flinched .

Unscathed, he stood, and he flinched .

(Zhao was not a man of the spirits but he would spare a thank you to Agni later, alone and alive in his own chambers.)

Zuko snarled as he advanced but he was hesitating . Lips peeled back, eyes glowing, the prince made a terrifying image caged in heat. He was young and already so terrifying, but he had flinched. Could he not even realize what he was? Was he so thoroughly marked that his blood itself was charred and unrecognizable, to flinch away from a flame–– Zhao took his chance. He leaped, fire burning a bonfire between his hands.

He was midair when his body began to scream its notice of Zuko shifting. Close enough to watch in definition as molten gold swallowed dark pupils to a thin line and teeth were bared in the echo of a snarl.

Zuko's chest heaved violently and Zhao was abruptly in the path of a supernova.

His stance was broken. He was disconnected. Zhao could barely redirect his own attack to push–– barely managed to fling himself back to the scorched earth in time to avoid being incinerated–– what in Agni's name was Iroh teaching the boy, to outright nearly carbonize his opponents–?! His eyes snapped to follow the peals of blue that crackled out between Zuko's teeth as his back hit the dirt, unable to tear away even as ash dug under his nails.

Panicked rage twisted the dragon prince's face. Near unrecognizable, pinched in cold fury. The fire caging the clearing burned tall and white and claimed.

You never cornered a wild animal. Just how long had Zuko been away from more civilized company? Enough for the prince to forget his royal mannerisms in favor of something far more feral. He doubted Iroh was bothering to even enforce the cub be proper, on a boat with a bunch of rejected thugs and a dragon decidedly unfit for the throne. Zhao had never seen him snap quite so strongly. Even invading, even trespassing on claimed territory, he had still stopped and listened and spoken. Here, hazy under white light and snarling... It was off-putting. More off-putting than Zuko already was, with his solid gold stare and unintended posturing–

"Zuko!" Iroh snapped out just as the dragon reared high and heated over Zhao, it's jaws parted and throat glowing behind its lying, deceivingly dull teeth.

Zuko did not exactly freeze. Zhao doubted it could fully hear the General anymore than it could see Zhao as more than a faceless, formless threat. But he was still alive to see it when its flames boiled to yellow in its hands. His exposed skin felt as though it would begin blistering before even the chance of contact.

Golden eyes blazed down at him. Iroh's order, unspoken, remained ringing in his ears. It was the barest of comforts. Twigs holding a crumbling dam. The heat brushed his face but he was not burning.

Zhao carefully pried his lips apart. They cracked and tore, dry skin wetting with blood enough for him to sluggishly move them around the shape of a surrender– no, not a surrender, the Fire Nation was not made up of weaklings who surrender, who gave up, who allowed floods and fires to be the best of them– A tactical retreat. A dead man was a useless one.

Zhao was loyal to his nation.

"I lose," He rasped. Agni, his throat was dry. Just two words were more painful than the burns running down his arms. "You win." Short, easy words. Fire was fueled by pride. Fire was made of passion, and anger, and the rage they all felt, at the dying of the light. Zuko's fire– Zuko did not feel like pride. Zhao would never admit it, that he had never felt the grip that true masters felt. That he could not feel the fire around him as naturally as his own. No affinity for the inner flame. He was taught and knew, intimately, that fire was pride and greed. That was simply what he understood, and if he, a general, chosen to protect his people, chosen to be recognized, to be claimed, understood that…

But Zhao could not see anything of pride, in the eyes that nailed through his flesh. Nothing of anger, or even hatred. Nothing but heat and brimstone and the wanting satisfaction of ashes.

(Was he not even worth it, to be acknowledged?)

Zuko finally blinked, expression slowly clearing. Time didn't move again until he did. Until the clarity returned to those eyes– until Zhao could see, with how close he was, how dark pupils widened and rounded into something falsely harmless– and the flames hissed out to silence.

(The weight of resolve, dissolved in a moment. Was that all Zhao was? Was that all he, a commander, an official, a claimed soldier of the Fire Lord himself––)

Zhao was mindful of his burns when he stood. There was dirt in his wounds. It smeared the new marks raw along his spine and burned into his front. The distraction pulled nicely when he shifted just right, stinging just sharply enough to pretend they were from a spar, or even a slip. Iroh eyed him disdainfully when Zhao held up a hand to halt a soldier carrying a jug of water to him, but frankly, the old dragon had no right to that expression. Did he think Zhao was so irredeemable and arrogant to just mindlessly bring his people into the range of that? Zhao was efficient, yes, and wholly human, but these were his men. A dead commander was useless. A dead squad was useless. He was not the F–

No, no, no. Zhao was– he was loyal. He was loyal, Agni damn them all–

"Your ship will be repaired by morning," He ordered. It wasn't satisfying enough to hear his men scramble behind him for their tools. There was nothing satisfying to be found by giving up. Still, even with Zuko still a breath away and jaw tense, he couldn't help himself, "...do allow my men on board this time."

They were Zhao's men first. Under his position, under his word. His. But they were also Zuko's men second. Zhao was no fool. The prince knew better than to swallow his own people, didn't he?

He very adamantly did not scream into his hands when those eyes finally turned away from where they burned him alive.

It was fine. It was going to be fine.

Zuko stumbled into the closed nest barefoot and trembling. He barely focused on anything beyond breathing in smoke and tea leaves and metal, and knelt to press his shaking hands to the curved tops of the eggs until their steady warmth simmered his heat down to something more manageable.

He did not notice Uncle quietly stepping around his mangled footprints, melted into the floor. He did not notice the long look the old man gave him. He did not notice when the door shut silently behind him.

The eggs pulsed, a fragile little heartbeat of heat under his calloused palms.

It's going to be fine. It's going to be okay. I will protect you.

They left before dawn. Zuko did not notice.

He didn't move until his breath had long since evened out. Even then, it was only because he had caught a whiff of something warm and spicy. Homey and familiar and just enough for Zuko to force himself away from the eggs. Leaving that warmth tore something gaping and raw in him, leaving him uncomfortably empty and cold. But this time, the smell was distracting enough to keep moving. Rubbing at his chest did little to relieve the ache. Maybe he was more bruised up than he thought, from fighting Zhao. Zuko couldn't remember most of it.

That should have been more concerning than it was. But no one, not even Uncle, had tried to stop him from going straight to his room. If no one thought he required medical aid, then he was most likely fine, wasn't he?

Zuko yanked open his door to a large bowl practically spilling over with soup. It still glistened with oil, rich and golden and swimming with fragrant spices–

"How are you feeling?" Iroh asked, and Zuko looked at the man actually holding the soup.

He blinked. It was rare Iroh had managed to sneak up on him– although Zuko was pretty sure that was more for the older man's lack of trying than a testament to his own skill– but… "How long have–" Zuko ducked his head with a cough, restraining the urge to rub at his throat. Why was his voice so hoarse? He hadn't been yelling. Hadn't even been speaking. "H-how–"

Iroh raised a brow and offered Zuko the soup. Zuko took it without another word. "It is good to see you up and about, Nephew," Uncle greeted warmly. He just smiled as Zuko tried not to flush, focusing on taking the bowl into his shaking hands. When was the last time he had eaten? It was hard to focus on anything but the soup, at the moment– the bowl swirled thickly to reveal large chunks of fish that made his mouth water, made him want to–

Jasmine scented fingers all too close to his mouth. A spoon clicked pointedly against the rim of the bowl. "Manners, Zuko,"

If he wasn't sure of it before Zuko was certain he was blushing now.

Instead of replying, he retreated into the room. It was pointless to keep standing and talking in the hallway when they had a perfectly good bed to sit on. Zuko needed to catch up on what he had missed in the hour or so he had been occupied. (...and maybe this way, Iroh wouldn't point out how Zuko's legs were shaking. Just a little. He blamed it on the strain of having held his position for so long. That could happen, right?)

He carefully balanced the soup in his lap. Iroh still had not walked in, hesitating at the doorway as if waiting. He did not move until Zuko looked back at him. The prince frowned. His Uncle was careful. Not wary, but definitely more cautious than others seemed to recognize; careful not to poke or prod too deep, careful to always be watching… but not this way. Not this controlled brand of careful, watching Zuko for a sign of– of something––

Zuko balked. "I kicked you out of your own room," he realized loudly. Had stormed in and slammed the door shut, and refused to leave. Uncle was an older man. He probably just wanted to rest after Zuko had failed to control himself around Zhao– "I– I didn't mean–"

Iroh shook his head. He pushed Zuko back down, the prince unaware he had even stood, and pointedly gestured to the forgotten soup until Zuko placed it back on his lap. But he couldn't just ignore it. "I'll go eat in my room," He muttered. Just mentioning the idea of leaving the warmth of Uncle's room made him ache like a bruise. As if he was yanking on a chain just by thinking it, choking himself in his efforts. But the look on Uncle's face, if he met his eyes and saw…

His mouth felt dry, tongue thick and slow in his mouth. The fragrant smell of fish and spices suddenly became nauseating.

Uncle smiled at him. So casually, with all the easy warmth Zuko had gotten shamefully used to. He had gotten ahead of himself. Three years and that was all it took to forget why entitlement never got him anywhere– "Even the hawk-moth cannot begrudge the cat-owl its nature," The older man soothed. Uncle heavily sat on the edge of the bed to better face him and only chuckled at the confused crease of Zuko's brow. "Now eat your soup. You must be hungry, you haven't eaten since lunch yesterday."

Zuko froze. Yesterday? Iroh shot him a look when he made to get up, soup sloshing dangerously as he jerkily moved to check outside. It softened when he redirected himself to instead take a large bite of fish, hastily sitting back down. Immediately he was reminded again how hungry he was. Bits of spice clung to his throat, but the broth was enough to get everything down smoothly. Hot, prickly, burning on the back of his tongue like the aromatic sting of air in the palace kitchens. The fish was unbelievably tender and soft, shredded as if it had been simmering for hours. It was a wonder that it was still hot enough to steam. The broth had been cooked down to something so thickly rich Zuko could almost chew it.

Iroh did not scold him this time, when he ignored the spoon and lifted the rim of the bowl to his lips.

Zuko slowly swallowed. "How long did I make you wait?" He rasped. Iroh had begun gently rolling his shoulders, back cracking quietly as he settled to meet Zuko's eyes. The prince felt his stomach twist. Still, he obediently bit into another chunk of fish at Iroh's chiding gaze. "You should have just come in," He mumbled around it. Uncle would never be someone he was– he wasn't his father. Uncle would never… Zuko shouldn't have felt so ashamed to meet the old man's gaze. "I– I wouldn't keep you from your own room." He doubted he would even be able to. Age did not stop Uncle from being a more capable fighter than Zuko was sure he would ever be.

Uncle gave him a look as if to say, wouldn't you? But Zuko knew he would not. Iroh was not a stranger or even a crewmate. Zuko would never even try to lay a finger on the last of his family alive who still felt something remotely positive for him. Even if it was out of obligation. Annoyance was still a better association than sadism, or hatred, or greed.

If Iroh saw that in Zuko's face, he didn't say. But he smiled, and when he leaned forward to touch Zuko's shoulder his hand was full and warm. "I will remember that," He promised. Every word held easy, unshakeable faith.

Zuko wasn't entirely sure what conclusion had been reached, if any, but he relaxed all the same.

Then the spoon was snatched out of his hand and brandished like the world's least threatening weapon. "Now eat your soup," Uncle ordered, "I came here with news, but I won't bother to tell you until I hear you asking Chun for seconds."

The avatar could wait. Eggs and dragons and endangered species and banishment could wait.

Just for a little longer, General Iroh wanted to take care of his nephew.