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We do not own Avatar: The Last Airbender, nor are we profiting from this fan fiction in anyway.

Happenstance in a Prism
The Aftermath
By Qian Mausumi

"Suki!" Sokka shouted as he jogged down the school corridor. "Hey, hey—wait up!"

"Hm? Oh!" The brunette stopped and turned to face her friend. She was carrying a stack of books in her hand and looked overwhelmed by their weight. A lock of hair fell into her face as she readjusted her load. "What is it, Sokka?"

"Can I talk to you for a minute?"

"Sure! Let's walk and talk; I'm headed to the library to return some books." The two fell into stride as they made their way to the school's library, Sokka wordlessly relieving Suki of half of her hardcover burden.

"So, what's up?"

"Um, wellllll. Ya know how I told you that I sorta . . ." he trailed off as he double-checked the hall for eavesdroppers, "told you that I like Zuko?"

"Mmhm, yep! All caught up on that revelation of yours, hehe."

"Yeah, so. Um. He and I hung out last Friday."

"Really?!" Sokka didn't need to look Suki in the eye to know that his best friend's eyes had grown twice the size they had been the moment before. "Omigod and you didn't tell me earlier? How could you fail to keep me in the loop of this major development, Sokka?!"

"Suki! I—I'm telling you now aren't I?!" He hissed. "Just listen!"

"Okay, okay. So, go on. What happened?" She pressed as the two of them pushed open the library's double doors.

Sokka took a deep breath as the past day's events weighed on his chest. Voice lowered just above a whisper he continued, "Well. It was going really well. Great actually. We went to dinner at the Moon Peach Parlor—"

"I bet that was romantic—"

"Suki!" He growled sharply, eliciting sideways glances from fellow students who were trying to study.

"Sorry, sorry!"

Sokka wasn't sure if Suki was apologizing to him or to their peers. But no matter. He continued. "Yeah, so dinner. Dinner was amazing. The food was great, I got to know Zuko a lot better during the course of the meal and I think he started to feel a lot more comfortable around me too. Suki, I dunno. I thought we were just hanging out, but then—then he picked up the tab."

"He paid for both of you?"

"Yeah." He breathed.

She rolled her eyes at him, "That's definitely a date, Sokka. No guy would buy his male friend dinner just out of the blue! Especially if they were only just getting to know each other. If you two were best friends that might be a different story."

"Yeah, yeah! That's what I thought too! And then we went to the movies—we saw Bite of the Virgin Vampire."

"Uhh typical date movie, Sokka."

"Suki."

"Okay! Backing off the commentary!"

"Anyway . . . the movie was awful . . . but he—he held my hand and I don't know, Suki. Everything about the night just screamed date even though I just meant for us to hang out."

"So what's the problem? I thought you liked him?"

"I do! That's the problem!"

Suki's slender eyebrows bowed in confusion. "Wait—I think I'm missing something."

"Ugh, sorry—well, after the movie I walked Zuko back to his house—his mansion—Suki have you ever seen that place? Whatever, so since he kept giving me all those vibes like he liked me too, I—"

"You . . .?"

"Suki, I, I—kissed him!" he whisper-yelled, face flushed a perfect tomato-red. "And, and I thought—he seemed to—he kissed me back, but then he just shoved me away!"

"Oh, Sokka . . ." Suki sighed, "Come here . . ." Awkwardly, she managed to maneuver the books from their place in both her arms to cradle them neatly in one hand. She pulled Sokka into a tight, one-armed embrace. Blue eyes slid shut, and Sokka exhaled deeply. What a relief it was to get that off his chest. He had been thinking about that awful evening all weekend, but hadn't had anyone to confide in. He forgot how easily Suki could assuage his worries.

After some time, Sokka became more and more aware of the increasing number of eyes settling on their intimate embrace. "Suki, Sukiiii," he whispered, growing antsy as he gave his friend quick pats on the back. "I appreciate your support, but if you haven't noticed we're hugging in the middle of the library. People are starting to stare."

Just as he was about to push his friend off of his body the brunette leapt away on her own, "Ah, right! I still need to return my books! Wait here."

Sokka breathed a sigh of relief as the students began to draw their attention back to their books.

"All right, now that that's taken care of—" Suki locked arms with her friend and steered the two of them to a deserted corner of the library. "Now, Sokka. Let me just make sure I heard you correctly. Did you say he kissed you back?"

The blue-eyed teen looked startled. "Well—yeah, I mean his tongue—"

"His tongue?"

"Suki, I just told you I made out with him!"

The girl crossed her arms and shot a skeptical look at Sokka. "You did not tell me you made out with him, you told me you kissed him. Big difference! Was there or was there not tongue involved?"

"Fine, we made out! And yes, there was tongue involved!" Sokka whisper-yelled back, his face going red in embarrassment.

"And for how long would you say you two made out?"

"I don't know, it wasn't like I was timing this with a stopwatch! But I guess maybe around ten seconds?"

"Ten seconds? And then he shoved you away?"

"Yeah, basically. I mean, it was totally out of the blue. One second we were making out, and it was awesome, and the next he pushed me to the ground and was all like 'I'm not like that'. I mean what the hell was that!?"

Suki took a deep breath and exhaled. "Okay, Sokka. Well. Here's my analysis; I want you to listen very carefully, okay?"

"Okay. . ."

Suki cupped Sokka's face in her hand and drew closer to his ear.

"HE'S GAY!" she bellowed in a deafening tone.

"SHHHH!" Several students glared at the offender as the librarian shook her head and pointed her finger disapprovingly.

"Sukiii!" yelped Sokka, clapping a hand to cover his ringing ear. "We're in the library!"

"Just trying to get my point across!" she said defensively. "He's gay! Completely and totally gay!"

"Okay, okay I got your point, but I don't agree with you! Look—"

"No, Sokka. Listen to me. I'm not taking into account the fact that he paid for your dinner. And I'm not taking into account the fact that the two of you went to see a date movie together. Hell, I'm not even taking into account the fact that he held your hand. But there's one thing I know for sure. No man can truly and honestly call himself a heterosexual when he makes out with another man for ten whole seconds!"

"Welll—maybe it wasn't ten seconds, maybe it was five, or—Suki, if he's gay, why would he shove me to the ground and walk away like that? It doesn't make any sense."

"Sokka, don't you get it? He's in the closet! He's in denial! He doesn't even know that he's in the closet!"

Sokka took a deep breath and closed his eyes, wanting so much—with every ounce of his being—to believe Suki's words as truth. But he couldn't. He had already strung out his emotions for everyone to see, for Zuko to see. He couldn't get back in the game and keep trying, not when he'd been shot down in such a harsh and unforgiving way. It would take more than just a few kind words of encouragement to build up his confidence again.

"Suki," he began slowly, "I appreciate what you're trying to do, but I don't think this is going to work out for me. Zuko just—doesn't like me the same way I like—I mean, the same way I liked him. It's over now."

Suki shot Sokka a sympathetic look and rested a comforting hand on his shoulder. "No, it's not," she said gently. "Even if neither of you are ready to pursue a romantic relationship with the other, that's okay. But promise me one thing. Promise me that the two of you will still be friends after this, okay?"

"Suki, it's pointl—"

"Do you promise?" she asked, more sternly this time.

Sokka sighed in defeat.

"I promise."

It was time; phase three of the plan was about to commence. Jet quickened his pace when he spotted his target seated at the other side of the cafeteria. Soon, Jet told himself, Sokka would be his, and Zuko would no longer present a threat.

And for matters concerning Zuko, there was absolutely no one better to consult than—

"What do you want?" Azula barked sharply, affording Jet only a split-second glance of acknowledgement from her seated position at a cafeteria table. "You're blocking my light."

"I'm not here to discuss what I want. I'm here to talk about what we want." Jet placed both hands on the table and leaned towards the girl. "I believe that you and I have common interests."

Azula looked nonplussed and began to inspect her cuticles. "And what might those interests be?"

"Oh, it's just a little something to do with your brother, Zuko," Jet said airily, pacing in a circle around the girl.

Azula stopped examining her nails and looked up at Jet, her curiosity piqued. "Yes, it is rather unfortunate that we are related, but that's how these things are. What's it to you, anyway?"

"What's it to me?" asked Jet in mock incredulity, "Oh, believe me, this is everything to me."

Azula's eyes narrowed as she curled her hand into a fist. "Just spit it out; I don't have all day."

Jet scoffed before reluctantly obliging. "What if I said I could take him out of the running for your inheritance," he paused, gauging the girl's reaction. "What if I said that all of that power and prestige could be yours, and yours alone?"

Azula raised an eyebrow. "I'm listening."

"Well, according to my most trusted, ahem, sources, your brother seems to have made an interesting friendship of sorts."

"Friendship?" asked Azula sharply. "What do you mean, friendship? Zuko doesn't have any friends. What kind of friendship are you referring to?"

"Oh, you know," Jet began, adopting his irritating, airy tone once again, "The kind of friendship that would destroy the public image of the CEO of any major corporation. The kind that would cause the most damage if that CEO has built a reputation on upholding traditional family values. The kind that would completely ruin him if he were planning to launch a career in politics under a conservative, right-wing platform. You know, that kind of friendship."

"Has Zuko gone and befriended some lower class ingrate again?" Azula rolled her eyes in annoyance. "Father's put an end to that sort of behavior before, and he can certainly do it again. Now if you don't mind, I'd like you to stop wasting my time."

Jet smirked and remained standing beside Azula, who had turned away from him in favor of the cuticles of her left hand. "Oh, but this isn't a regular kind of friend," he effused, "This is a special friend. A special male friend."

Azula's hand stilled, her eyes widening in surprise for just a split second before a maniacal leer crossed her face. "Oh, Father's going to love this. I just know it."

"I have no doubt," Jet said, eyes gleaming with satisfaction at Azula's reaction. "But we'll need to work together to end this little tryst of his."

Azula regarded him for the first time during their conversation, leaning back in her chair with her arms crossed over her chest. "State your terms. And clarify your motives. What do you have against little Zuzu?"

"To business as usual, I see." Jet smirked, pleased with the prospect of their alliance. "Well I don't have anything against him, per se—it's just that he's taken something of mine. And I want it back."

"And that something is...?"

"Just that sexy-ass, lower class ingrate," Jet growled. "He's mine."

"I see."

If Azula was surprised, she didn't show it; but if one looked closely, it was possible to detect the slightest hint of disgust in the way her upper lip pulled back just the tiniest bit—like a draught of foul air had suddenly spun up her nostrils. Nevertheless, she pulled her cell phone from her pocket, and began to rapidly compose a text message as she spoke.

"We need to devise a plan of action," she stated authoritatively, like a military tactician formulating a brilliant battle strategy, "and it is absolutely essential that we retain the element of surprise on our side."

Azula clicked her phone shut and stowed it in safely in her pocket. "What we need is a small, elite team. And I know just the women for the job."

"Do you?"

Azula smirked as Mai and Ty Lee materialized behind Jet, her eyes dancing with sadistic mirth.

"Ladies, we have a mission."

"Careful!" Mai hissed, "These recording devices are really delicate, do you want to break them?"

"Sorry, I'm sorry!" squealed Ty Lee, scrambling to recover the tiny flat square, no bigger than the nail on her pinky toe, from the floor. "Were you able to get Zuko's locker combination from the school's database?"

"Of course," Mai replied nonchalantly, "the security on these computers really is pathetic."

"Great work!" effused Ty Lee. "Now all we have to do plant these on Zuko's belongings, and we're set!"

"Yeah," Mai shrugged, "I just wish Azula had explained why she's decided to spy on her own brother. And spend the money on this top-notch equipment," she added as an afterthought, examining the tiny device.

"Well it's not like she's poor, is she? How do these things work, anyway?" Ty Lee had also begun to inspect the enigmatic squares, peeling off a strip of paper off of one side. "Hey, it's sticky!"

"It's just an adhesive," said Mai, rolling her eyes, "We stick them to Zuko's stuff, and they'll record sounds, which will be transmitted, received, and recorded on Azula's computer."

"Oh wow, that's really smart! Azula is quite the mastermind, isn't she?"

"An evil genius," Mai concurred, "I just wish I knew why she's targeting Zuko of all people."

"Ohh," Ty Lee grinned and shot a knowing look at her companion, "I see what this is about. You're worried about him, aren't you? You know, because you liiiike hi-"

"Be quiet, Ty Lee," Mai snapped, her cheeks aglow, "I do not. Besides, Azula's our friend. And even though I don't always agree with her, I still respect her and help her whenever I can. Now here," she said, thrusting the bag of recording devices towards Ty Lee, "you start sticking one on each of his books. I'll do his gym bag and athletic wear."

The two girls worked in silence for the next few minutes, placing the devices in the most inconspicuous places they could manage. They had just finished bugging the last of Zuko's belongings before they heard sharp footsteps approaching in an adjacent hallway.

"Quick, hurry up!" whispered Mai, shoving the items back in the locker, being careful to place them as they had been before.

They had just managed to slam the locker shut, before—

"All finished, then?" Azula asked, her manner brisk. "Perfect. Nice work, ladies." A sneer blossomed upon her face, transforming her delicate features into a mask of cruelty.

"And now, to let the destruction begin."

The high, white walls of Zuko's bedroom loomed over him as he lay on his bed. At one point, he had taken comfort in the simple decor of his room. "Minimal" he had called it, designed to reduce the number of distractions that might impede his mental focus. But now . . . he found it more austere. Completely depressing.

"Ugh. I can't think." Zuko groaned and pressed a pillow over his face in frustration.

Since his outing with Sokka the past Friday, Zuko had been holing himself away in his room. Over the weekend he didn't go out; after school he didn't linger either, instead heading straight home once practice was over. It was getting harder for him to focus on anything but the events that occurred that night. Even during training, when his concentration was usually impenetrable, reflections of bright blue eyes, dusky skin, and tender, yet chapped lips flashed through his mind. All the worse was the prickly sick feeling he got whenever he felt those same blue eyes boring into his back throughout practice when he wasn't looking. And he knew he couldn't meet those eyes with his own. Not yet, anyway.

Zuko clenched and unclenched the pillow over his eyes before tossing it to the side and staring blankly at the ceiling once more. The bare walls of his room mocked him. What he would give for just a little distraction now! "I have to get out of here," he said, and he rolled off of his bed.

Shoving his phone and wallet into his pocket, he headed out the door, grabbing a jacket on the way out. It was 5:03 pm, Tuesday, and his father was busy at Sozin headquarters and wouldn't be back until later that evening. Azula was nowhere to be found. Not that Zuko cared. He was just glad he didn't run into her on his way out.

"Master Zuko," the chauffeur bowed and started for the car door. "And where will we be headed this afternoon?"

"I—" Zuko had half a mind to hop in the car as he was so accustomed to doing, but restrained himself. Somehow he didn't think that was what he needed at the moment.

"No . . . I won't be needing a ride. Thank you."

So he took off—wandered through the black gates that safeguarded the mansion, off his estate, and into the street. He wasn't sure where he was going; all he knew was that he needed to get out of that damned room—that damned house—to clear his head. He needed to reflect on his evening with Sokka and think, rationally, about the proper course of action to take. What happened that night? How had they ended up kissing, anyway?

Calloused fingertips reached up to graze chapped lips at the memory of the boys' embrace.

"Sh-shit. Has he liked me all along?" he asked aloud. Suddenly everything made sense. All of those touches, the way Sokka leaned in as Zuko spoke, and how that blush crept onto his tanned cheeks every now and then while they were hanging out—those weren't just signs of a genuinely deep friendship. They were indications of, nudges of something more. Like a crush.

Zuko mentally scolded himself for not noticing before.

He kicked at the ground before walking down another block, his brain turning thoughts into knots. Having long since exited the wealthier district of the city, Zuko noticed that he no longer recognized, with absolute certainty, the area through which he wandered. Everything in this district was just a bit smaller, just a bit less magnificent, and just a bit less green. Instead of old-styled "gas lamp" street lights on every corner and wide expanses of perfectly manicured hedges lining the roads in front of well-kept manors, he now saw ordinary electric lights and sparse shrubbery that looked as if their keeper let them grow as they pleased along the roadside. Trees no longer stood wholly straight and trim, but grew without restraint, some arching over the pavement, and some meandering towards the sky.

It wasn't a bad area by any means; he just wasn't familiar with it. In passing he wondered if he was anywhere near where Sokka lived. He never did get the chance to ask.

"Sokka . . . What am I going to?" Zuko hadn't felt what it was like to have friends in years, but being friends with the other boy had changed that—changed him. A dull ache pressed into his chest and he winced at the foreign pressure. It made him think of what Sokka's chest must have felt what he had knocked him to the ground.

A shiver rippled through his body. Time was ticking away, and Zuko, while the fresh air had been good for his state of mind, still hadn't sorted through his thoughts. One by one the streetlights around him switched on, signaling the oncoming nightfall. He couldn't roam around aimlessly for much longer. But . . . which way was the way back?

Zuko squinted at the street signs at the end of the way.

"Omashu Lane and White Dragon . . . Drive? Shit." He didn't have a clue where he was, let alone how to get home from here.

He looked to his left, then to his right. After a moment he stepped uncertainly in one direction, but kept walking to the end of the street.

"Now which way? I don't—maybe I should have taken the driver . . ."

He fumbled for his phone and scrolled down to the driver's contact information, but he hesitated. It didn't seem right. He didn't really want to be home—back in that cold, barren room. Like a prison. Zuko shook his head and immediately scrolled to a new contact and pressed call.

"Hello?"

"Uncle? It's Zuko."

"Zuko! How are you, Nephew?"

"I'm—I'm lost. Can you come get me?"

"What's troubling you, my nephew?" Uncle asked, as he gestured Zuko to take a seat upon entering his home.

Zuko heaved a sigh, unwittingly running his fingers over his scarred eye. "Uncle, what do I do if—" he swallowed hard and took another sip of the tea he clutched in his hands, "You see, I—"

"Zuko, deep breaths."

He inhaled. He exhaled.

"I have this friend who might like me as more than a friend. What do I do?"

"Ah, and do you like this friend of yours as more than a friend as well?

"I—" Zuko frowned into his tea, the creases in his brow clearly visible in the rippled reflection. "No . . . I don't."

"But you still wish to be friends?"

"Yeah. I do."

A warm laugh rolled out of Iroh's belly. "It is better to cultivate the garden daily than turn a blind eye once it gives you a fickle crop."

"What? That doesn't—"

"Nephew, the answer is very simple. There is nothing to do. Be a good friend, my nephew. Show compassion even if you do not share the same feelings of love—"

"Wait, Uncle I didn't say that my friend loved—"

"Zuko. The quieter you become the more you are able to hear." Iroh gave him a firm look. "Now, you must listen to the voice within yourself . . . and you will know what to do about your friend." He paused and smiled. "Perhaps try meditation!"

Zuko rolled his eyes in obvious skepticism. "Meditation? I don't think—"

"Yes, Zuko," Iroh reiterated, "You must clear your mind of all thoughts, seek inner peace, and the right course of action will become known to you."

"I—don't think I can do that."

"Why not? Nephew, you have to try, let your mind open—"

"I said I can't, okay?" Zuko exploded, going red in the face, "Because—because I can't stop thinking about him!"

A momentary silence overcame the room.

"Him?" Iroh asked, his tone gentle.

"Yes, him," said Zuko miserably. "We were just . . . hanging out. And then—I don't know, we were saying good-bye and then he—he kissed me."

"And what did you do then?"

"I—I threw him onto the ground and walked away." Zuko hung his head in shame. "I left him out in the cold."

Iroh stroked his beard, looking thoughtful. "And how do you feel now?"

"Awful," Zuko admitted. "I think . . . I'd still like to be friends, but I don't want him to get the wrong idea. I mean, I don't—I'm not—"

"You mean you don't see men in a romantic manner?"

"Yes. Exactly," said Zuko, his face reddening once more. "Uncle," he began, his tone suddenly hopeful, "Do you think that maybe—would it be possible to . . . change him?"

"Change him?" Iroh asked sharply, "What do you mean?"

"Change him so that—you know. I mean, if Azula or my father ever found out I was friends with a—a—someone like that . . ." Zuko trailed off, shuddering at the prospect. "I don't know what would happen."

"My nephew," Iroh began sternly, "People are not bonsai trees that you can trim and shape in any way you want. If you choose to be friends with someone, you must accept them as they are. Now, I know that our family, in generations past, has largely supported values that promote divisiveness and hate." Here, he paused, looking as though he had just taken a swig of particularly offensive tea. "But it is a new era, my nephew. And it is up to you to teach the next generation to love, and to understand."

"But—how? How can I befriend someone who might jeopardize my relationship with my father?"

"You have never taken after Ozai. You have a big heart, Zuko. Find it within yourself to accept your friend for who he is, and give him the support he deserves."

"So you're saying I should go against what my father thinks is right?"

"It is more important to do what you think is right. Let your conscience be your guide. Now, I must excuse myself and make arrangements for a shipment of tea that is scheduled to arrive tomorrow morning. But before I go, there is one thing I would like to ask you."

"Yes, Uncle?"

"The cafe has been a great success, and I could really use an extra pair of hands around." Iroh shot a meaningful look at his nephew. "Would you be interested in helping me out on weekends and evenings after school? I think it would a wonderful experience for you."

A part-time job? With Uncle? It would be an excuse to get out of the house more, and he did enjoy spending time with his uncle . . .

"I'd love to, Uncle."

"Really? That's great! You can start as soon as you are ready. Good luck, my nephew." And with that, Iroh stood up and left the room, leaving Zuko to weather through the tempest of his thoughts.

A candle flickered in the corner of the room. Rising from his chair as if in a trance, Zuko seated himself cross-legged next to the burning wax, and began to meditate.

It's the last practice before try-outs, Sokka reminded himself for the tenth time that day. Pull it together. It was the last practice—and he felt like shit. Not physically, no. Physically, he was fine. It was his mental state that was the real issue.

He'd managed to keep a tight lid on his emotions the past few days, focusing intensely on learning and perfecting the techniques that Jet had taught to him. Sure, whenever he looked over at Zuko during the last few practices he'd feel a momentary pang of regret, but for the most part, he had numbed himself to such distractions.

Until today.

Today, of all days—thanks to his earlier conversation with Suki—his emotional floodgates had burst open, and left him in a state far from top fighting form. Doubt crept up within him, gnawing at his insides and tugging on his heartstrings.

Why was he still participating in tryouts, anyway? Wasn't the only reason he joined to impress Zuko? Now that that door had slammed shut, what was the point?

Sokka screwed his eyes shut and took in a deep breath. Jet's handsome visage floated across his consciousness—which surprised him, if only for a moment.

But it made sense. Jet had been the one pouring his heart into Sokka's training, spending a great deal of time and effort to ensure that his movements became fluid, his technique refined. And whatever the reason—and Sokka had a good idea of what that reason was—Jet had consistently demonstrated that he was emotionally invested in Sokka's success, and would do whatever it took to ensure that he made the cut.

So it made sense that Sokka still had the drive to succeed, still possessed the motivation and fierce competitive spirit necessary to beat his opponents. It was hard not to when he had someone who believed in him so intensely. He didn't want to let Jet down.

Until today.

Today, his feelings for Zuko, which he had valiantly tried to lock away these past few days, had come tumbling forth to the forefront of his mind and spilled into his heart. How could Suki possibly think that Zuko would ever want to be friends with him after Sokka had molested him like that? It had been totally inappropriate, totally—

...like Jet.

The realization distressed Sokka. His mind reeled—the kiss, the numerous touches—he hadn't meant to make Zuko uncomfortable, he had only done what felt natural to him. But maybe, by the same token, touching and flirting with Sokka was what felt natural to Jet.

A strange sensation coursed through Sokka's chest. Maybe Jet wasn't so bad after all. Maybe he was just misunderstood, just trying to find some love in his life—just like Sokka had been doing with Zuko. And though his speech was crude and his demeanor a bit crass, deep down, Sokka knew that Jet was a good-hearted individual. And, Sokka ventured further, wondering with some trepidation, why had he so staunchly refused Jet's advances for so long? After all, the guy was pretty hot, and—

Whoa, what? Since when had started finding other boys—Jet, of all people—attractive? He thought Zuko had been the exception, but now . . .

Zuko. Thinking about Jet had almost caused Sokka to forget how miserable he was. He sighed resignedly. If he wanted to be friends with Zuko, making the cut for the martial arts team was probably a good place to start. And if he wanted to make the cut, he had to buckle down and train . . . with Jet.

"Sokka!" Jet growled, "I've told you a thousand times already: you need to follow through more with your kicks. You're not generating enough force. Now do it again."

Jet was being hard on Sokka—he knew that. The other mentors were still focusing on basic techniques, moves which he had insisted that Sokka perfect within the first few days of practice. But the alternative—to relax, to ease the pressure off of the both of them—was unthinkable to Jet.

"I am following through," Sokka gritted out, "If I follow through any more I'll fall on my face!"

"That's not going to happen. Just trust me."

He wanted fiercely for Sokka to join the team, coaching the boy and drilling him on advanced techniques with an intensity that bordered on desperation. But maybe that's what Jet was. Desperate.

Desperate because he had never before, in his seventeen years, experienced so powerful an attraction, one that left him so dizzy with need that it was the least he could do to contain and prevent himself from pouncing on the unsuspecting teen.

"I do trust you, I just—"

"Less talking and more kicking. Now do it again."

Sokka complied with Jet's orders: pivoting, crouching, sweeping his leg out, and—

. . . following through.

Jet clapped a hand to Sokka's back, pleased. He rubbed and massaged the muscles he found under his palm just a moment too long before snatching his hand back, as though singed.

"Again," he ordered, his resolve hardening. He couldn't afford to let his hormones get the best of him. Not today, when there was still so much to go over before the end of practice. Just a bit of focus today would pay off when Sokka made the team, which would give Jet daily opportunities to woo and seduce the other boy.

But what was this, this infatuation that bordered on obsession?

This past week and a half of one-on-one training had done nothing but stoke the fires of Jet's lust, causing each casual brush of bare skin upon skin to send sparks to his groin, each glimpse of rippling muscle slowly unraveling him piece by shattered piece.

Jet was going mad with desire, and was growing, with each passing day, increasingly addicted to the mere presence of Sokka; to his lithe, leanly muscled figure; to his deep azure eyes; and to his infectious upbeat attitude.

In short, Sokka had no choice but to win, if for no other reason but to preserve Jet's sanity.

"Good. But it could be better," Jet stated flatly, following two more hastily executed kicks.

"What are you talking about?" demanded Sokka incredulously. "I did exactly what you told me to do."

"You did—the first time. Your follow through that time was great. But the next two, not so much. Your stance wavered. You need to focus. What's up with you today? Usually you would have nailed those kicks."

Sokka's shoulders stiffened visibly, arm reaching up to rub the back of his neck. Jet eyed the gesture knowingly. "I—I don't know. Just having a bad day I guess."

"Well get it together!" Jet growled, "The tournament's tomorrow, and you are going to make it onto this team. Understand?"

He glowered down at Sokka for a moment before his gaze softened—maybe he was being a bit harsh.

"But you know," Jet began, his tone comforting as he walked over and slung his arm around Sokka's frame, "if you ever have anything on your mind that you want to talk about—I'm here for you."

"Uh, thanks . . . Jet."

"No problem," he said, slipping behind Sokka to rub at his shoulders with firm, confident strokes. "You just need to re-laax."

"Jet, you really don't need to—aahh." Sokka gasped, as the tension in his neck began to gradually dissipate.

"Mm. You've got a great body." Jet worked his way down the other boy's spine and back up again; he was playing with fire and he knew it. If he kept this up he'd reach the point of no return—and then no one would win.

"Ye-ahh," Sokka breathed, "well thanks to you, I guess. You haven't even seen how toned ah—my abs have gotten."

"Is that right? I guess I should get around to checking out the rest of you, huh? You know, just to make sure everything's in working order."

"Ah, yeah. Maybe—ah, sometime."

Wait. What?

Was Sokka flirting with him?

No—it couldn't have been, Jet told himself. It was just his own hormones getting over-excited. Well whatever it was, he couldn't get distracted. Jet allowed himself one last squeeze of Sokka's muscles before tearing his hands away. But he could have sworn he heard a sigh of discontent escaping the other boy's lips as he disengaged—but he forced himself to ignore it.

"Now I need you to do the move again," said Jet, more gently this time, "two more times, no mistakes."

"Okay."

Was that a blush on Sokka's cheeks, or was he just red from overexertion? Something definitely was off about the other boy today, but Jet wasn't sure if that was entirely a bad thing . . .

"Good. That was good." Jet nodded approvingly after Sokka had rifled out two more flawless repetitions of the move.

"Okay, now, how abou—"

FWEEET!

"Alright, everybody, practice is over! I hope you all got a lot done today. Rest up well for the tournament tomorrow!"

Practice was over already? They had barely gotten to drill techniques, not to mention practice sparring in a real match setting!

Jet forced himself to calm down.

Sokka was good, he told himself, hell—he probably had the tournament in the bag. While many of the other newcomers tried to compensate their slow speed with brute strength of force, he displayed nimble footwork punctuated with quick, well-timed jabs. Agility would be Sokka's key to success tomorrow. But at the same time—Jet stole a glance at Sokka's leanly defined legs as he bent over to rewrap the tape that had come loose from his feet—he lacked consistent power behind his blows and the endurance to keep up his attacks for long, both traits being telltale signs of a novice fighter. It was Jet's job to build up Sokka's defenses against an opponent who would target him for those weaknesses. After all, the vast majority of newcomers who actually made it onto the team had had at least some amount of prior martial arts training. He'd have to develop his strength and endurance, if not for tomorrow, then at least for future matches. Jet smirked. Oh, he'd work the other boy, all right. Work him hard and make him last long.

"Hey, Sokka. Wait up."

"Yeah?" Sokka had just begun to gather his things when Jet called him. He grabbed his water bottle for a drink.

"Don't pack up just yet. We still haven't sparred yet today, and I'd like to get in a few rounds before you leave to make sure you're prepared for tomorrow."

Caught mid-gulp, Sokka considered him with raised eyebrows for a moment, index finger held up in pause. He exhaled deeply and shot Jet a grin that made his heart pound against his ribcage. "Ahh, what was that?"

"You okay with staying a little while longer to practice sparring?" Jet swallowed. Hard. Maybe this exclusive practice time with Sokka would prove to be more than he could handle.

"Oh, y-yeah. Of course!"

"Right. Since we just worked on kicks, be sure to incorporate those lower body movements into this round. And don't hold back—let me have it. Now ready your stance."

Jet's eyes settled on the rise and fall of Sokka's chest as the other boy primed himself to fight. Trim and taut muscles tensed underneath his shirt, tempting Jet to peel back the layers of cloth with the tendrils of his thoughts. How many times had he undressed Sokka with his mind? Too many to count. But he had to focus. Sparring or not, he couldn't let himself be distracted for a moment or else the practice would be of little help for Sokka's training.

He let Sokka make the first move—a quick swat to Jet's right hand to distract from the evasive circular footwork Sokka employed immediately after until the two of them were practically dancing circles around each other. This was unusual. Typically Sokka jumped in with the first kick or punch landed perfectly, throwing his opponent off kilter, which instantly set the tone for the match. However, it seemed he was taking a more defensive tactic this time. If this keeps up, he'll be a sitting duck—literally. Sokka needs to be the one to make the first real blow.

"C'mon, what're you scared of? Throw a punch already!"

Jaw tight, brow furrowed, Sokka swung. Jet parried and delivered a punch of his own to Sokka's shoulder quickly moving him to on the defensive. But Sokka, as usual, used his speed to his advantage laying hook after hook on Jet's upper body, pushing him back. Then suddenly, Jet was was knocked off balance, winded by a force more powerful than he anticipated coming from Sokka, but regained his stance, planting his feet firmly on the ground.

Sweat slid in rivulets down the nape of Jet's neck. It was far too early for him to be short of breath like this—a true testament to his sparring partner's improvement after only the first week of training. Jet smirked to himself. Sokka was sure to make a spot on the team, but he couldn't think about that now. Crouching down, he lunged his body at Sokka's. Strong hands grabbed sinewy biceps in a grapple. The two stared at each other in a heated lock, each struggling for dominance. Sokka was the first to break away. He moved to pivot his foot for a kick, but Jet was quicker, sliding his own foot underneath Sokka's and swiftly knocking him onto the blue mat below.

"Agh!"

"C'mon, you need to keep those feet planted on the ground. Don't leave me any room to enter," Jet smirked down at Sokka as he held out his hand to help him up. "You can't wait around for your opponent to attack you like you were doing. It builds up too much anticipation in the match—makes you look weak, and it doesn't provide you with any new information about your opponent. You learn most about your opponent and his weaknesses by fighting, not tiptoeing around him. But most of all, it's a bad strategy for your fighting style. Let's go—another round."

"Jeez, you don't need to be so rough, you know . . ." Sokka groaned, rubbing at his back.

Jet raised his eyebrows. "I'm rough because you're still a beginner, Sokka—I'm trying to train you. Do you think anyone's going to take it easy on you in the tournament tomorrow? Hell no! Besides," he paused, "you like it rough, don't you? You get what I'm trying to teach you, right?"

"Yeah, yeah . . . I get it. No pussyfooting."

"Exactly. Now, throw something at me." Jet readied his stance for the next round.

Sokka began with a left punch—a convincing feint, Jet knew—to his gut, before he immediately thrust his right fist towards Jet's jaw line. Close, but no cigar—Sokka's taped knuckles only managed to graze the side Jet's cheek as he maneuvered away, leaving Sokka stumbling forward with the trajectory of his throw. This is it. Seeing an opening, Jet grabbed Sokka's wrist and twisted him into submission, flinging the other boy face first onto the mat, and wrenching the arm still within his grasp upwards between Sokka's jutting shoulder blades.

"Ah! Shit!" cursed Sokka, eyes clamped shut in pain. With Sokka lying defenseless on the mat, Jet settled his knee atop the blue-eyed teen's lower back, Jet's own chest pressed low beside Sokka's shoulder, holding onto that same wrist all the while.

Jet leaned his head in, close enough to allow his hot breath wash over the back of Sokka's neck. "You shouldn't be letting me do this to you, Sokka," Jet breathed in the other boy's ear, becoming increasingly aware of all the places their bodies were touching. "You left yourself wide open." Slowly, his knee slid from its domineering position at the base of Sokka's spine, stretching back to nestle itself between his legs such that his body was flush with the other boy's.

His grip tightened around Sokka's wrist and he could hear the teen's breath catch—with pain? Or . . . desire?

"Or is it that you want me to do this to you?" Jet felt his own breath shudder past his lips as he struggled to bridle his carnal urges. Heat welled in his groin, and as his erection rose, Jet couldn't help but admire how well their two bodies fit together—their legs tangled, crotch to ass, chest to back, like lock and key. He fought against the overwhelming desire to grind into the firm globes of Sokka's ass—but failed.

Circle. Thrust. Circle.

"Ahh." Jet wasn't even sure who the gasp had come from; he became impossibly harder, his clothed member nestled firmly in the valley of the other boy's rear—rubbing, pressing, his mind a smoky haze, and—ohh, had Sokka really just pushed his ass back against Jet's crotch?

He's just wriggling to get free, some remote, rational part of Jet's mind insisted.

Or was he? Jet had to know.

Feverishly, he flipped Sokka's body while keeping the boy pinned so that the two of them were face-to-face.

And crotch-to-crotch.

He ground his hips in a circular motion—was Sokka hard?—forfeiting his clamp over the other boy's wrists in favor of gripping the muscular flesh of his thighs tightly with both hands.

His length met Sokka's—

—Once, twice; Sokka's eyes were closed, his back arched, three times, then—

Smack!

Sokka had managed to free an arm from underneath his body and strike Jet across the back.

"What," Sokka breathed, "are you doing?" he asked, not quite managing to sound angry. He was too winded. From sparring, or . . . ?

Jet still lay draped over Sokka's body, his exhaled breath tickling the side of the other boy's cheek. He engaged Sokka in a heated gaze.

"You shouldn't be letting me do this to you, Sokka. You're not going to let your opponents do this tomorrow, are you?"

Jet could sense faint uneasiness in Sokka's blue eyes. Uneasiness that stemmed from anxiety over the match tomorrow, or . . . ?

The boy squirmed under the heat of Jet's gaze before he tore his eyes away, using his free forearm as leverage to shove Jet to the side and quickly scramble to his feet.

"I-I just need to work on it more," Sokka panted, doubled over with his hands resting on his knees. "But I—I think that's enough for today."

Jet got to his feet and gripped the other boy's shoulder, feeling almost, but not quite, guilty at what had just transpired. "Don't worry about it, Sokka. You're a smart kid, you'll catch on. You'll do great tomorrow."

"Thanks, Jet."

Sokka turned to leave, but not before Jet trailed his fingers from Sokka's shoulder to catch the other boy's cloth-wrapped hand in his own. Wordlessly, with the fingertips of his free hand, Jet held Sokka's chin steady and drew close to the other boy. He laid a soft kiss upon the boy's cheek, lingering for just a moment before drawing back.

Their eyes met. Sokka wore a shocked expression on his face, his cheeks an impressive shade of red. But Jet could see something else in the other boy's gaze; an emotion he could discern, but whose name, at least for the moment, escaped him. He released Sokka's hand and instead moved to grip the small of his back.

"That was for good luck," he said, feeling almost drunk, Sokka's chin still clasped in one hand.

His head felt heavy, and as if drawn forward by a magnetic force, Jet leaned in to press his lips to the other boy's, his hand snaking around from Sokka's chin to grip the back of the his neck. He held the kiss for just a moment, long enough to savor, fleetingly, the taste of salt on his tongue before pulling away—with a light nip of the other boy's lip—a fraction of an inch to look Sokka in the eye, their sweat-slicked foreheads resting against each other.

"And that was because I like you."

Sokka's eyes were shut tight, while Jet regarded him with lowered lids. But the next thing he knew, Jet was being pushed away with soft resolution. He hesitated before meeting the other boy's gaze—but when he did, he noticed with a sudden pang of shocked pleasure, that Sokka's face had taken on a deliciously cute shade of red.

"I—uh—I—" Sokka stammered, mouth agape and clearly floundering. "I just, uh, remembered—" With a backward step, he stumbled over his bag before picking it up with trembling hands. "She's waiting—Katara, I mean—" He swallowed hard, his adams apple jerking upwards momentarily only to settle back into its place. Eyes fixated on Sokka's neck, Jet rubbed a calloused hand over his own, fighting back the sudden, nervous need to swallow too. "Shit—" Sokka shook his head. "I just—I—I gotta go."

Sokka pushed through the doors and left, echoes of his departure bouncing off the walls of the gymnasium until they dissipated into complete silence. Jet stared at the emptiness where Sokka used to be and chuckled to himself, softly at first, but soon he was doubled over heaving a deep, roaring laugh until he all but tumbled to mats below. He had kissed Sokka. He had actually kissed—no, more than just kissed—he had groped and grinded with and engaged in all sorts of delicious activities with Sokka! . . . finally!

As he sat on the floor, cradling his head in his propped up hand and still wearing a triumphant grin on his face, Jet couldn't help but notice the tightness in his chest or the way his heart was still pounding against his ribcage. How long had he been lusting after Sokka? How long had he been feeling so crazy, like a stupid schoolgirl with a celebrity crush? And now after all this time of pining after the boy, dropping line after obvious line, he had finally succeeded in baiting his catch!

Heh, if only he hadn't had to go meet Katara, we could've continued—

Katara.

Oh, fuck. Jet let out a groan and promptly threw himself spread-eagle to the floor. He really was an ass, wasn't he? He had falsely given Katara the impression that he returned her feelings of infatuation, but in reality, he honestly had no desire to pursue anything with the girl, nice as she was. Come to think of it, she probably felt just the way he did, fixated on Sokka for all of these years, only it was he who was the prize.

This wasn't good. He felt like total douchebag. Maybe Smellerbee was right; maybe his plan had gotten carried away. Either way, he had to end things with Katara since things were definitively heating up with Sokka. But how? Break things off cut and dry? No. Jet shook his head at the thought. He couldn't do that—not after he had built her up so much after their date and a few phone calls they had exchanged in between then and now. It had to be gradual, he decided. Just let her go slowly but surely with waxing disinterest. Surely she would be able to handle the let down better if he let them simply drift apart as if it had happened naturally, right?

Jet sighed, running his fingers through his hair. What made him feel worse was that his seduction of Katara had turned out to be a completely unnecessary part of his plan. He hadn't even needed to use her to begin with—Sokka was as good as his now.

No.

He had Sokka hooked, but now he had to reel him in. And after he reeled him in, he'd have to hold on to his prize. He'd have to step up his game and focus on the one person that did matter.

Zuko.

A/N:
Thanks everyone for reading! As always, please REVIEW! It really motivates us and helps us get out the next chapter for you all to read on time. :)