Irrel's AU #021 - #030 (closed)
The third post containing drabbles written for Irrel's AU comic; batch #021-#030.
Concrit welcome & appreciated.
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021 Visitor
It's late in the evening when someone rings the door bell. Rita hurries to answer the door because Mr. Sozin is currently having dinner with one of his lady friends. Mr. Sozin has a lot of lady friends but it is not Rita's place to criticize him - even if she wants to. Instead she crosses herself alot and prays for the poor man's soul.
When she opens the door the first thing she sees is a pair of feet clad in white sneakers, a pair of faded blue jeans, an untucked white shirt and a marron leather jacket. Then she notices the young man's face. The fine black hair is brushed to cover half of his face, but Rita can see the scarred tissue of his skin peeking out underneath it. The eyes are the exact same shade as Mr. Sozin's but this pair has a warmer glow to them.
"Good evening," he says in a polite voice. "My name is Zuko Sozin. Is my father in? I would like to talk to him."
Santa Maria, Rita thinks. An illegitimate child. She should have known. Sodom and Gomorrha.
"Of course," she says quietly because even though she's a good catholic, Rita loves drama. No way is she letting Mr. Sozin out of this one.
She steers the young man into the salon and offers to take his jacket and the bags he is carrying. He entrusts her with his bags (gift bags, she notices) and asks her to place them in Azula's room as they are hers. Rita's mind is in a jumble trying to figure the situation out.
"I shall fetch Mr. Sozin in a moment and then take these upstairs," she tells the young man and hurries off. She places the bags into the kitchen because that's the safest place she can think off at the moment.
She informs Mr. Sozin of his visitor right afterwards and he excuses himself. She gives him a 15-second head start before apologizing to the lady in the napkin, but she has to keep an eye on the dessert, sorry.
Mr. Sozin and the young man - his son, Zuko - are facing each other in the salon.
"Zuko, what a surprise," Mr. Sozin says and smiles a tight, uncomfortable smile.
"Good evening father," Zuko replies. His voice is rather pleasant and Rita can very well imagine him to be a favorite among the ladies (she hopes he has a better taste than his father). "I hope I am not inconveniencing you." Rita smiles fondly. What a polite young man.
"No, not at all. Never. ... How are you?"
"I'm fine, thank you. How are you?"
"Likewise, likewise. Umm... so to what do I owe the pleasure? Have you" - a pause, Mr. Sozin, Rita realizes with a start, is uncertain - "have you changed your mind about coming home?"
Rita's ears perk. Changed his mind? Did the boy run away? Funny, he doesn't seem the kind.
"I... yes and no," Zuko replies evasively. "I won't be moving in because Katara and I share an apartment and I don't want to leave her alone with the rent."
"Katara?" Mr. Sozin echoes and Zuko smiles.
"We're dating."
"Do you need something? Money? Furniture? Anything?" Mr. Sozin offers immediately but his son declines.
"We've got all we need."
They talk for a while, the young man dutifully answering all the questions his father asks him about his job (waiting tables; 8.75 per hour + tips), her job (barrista at the selfsame cafe), his scholar activities, where they live, how much the rent is (200 a month, utilities go extra; the neighborhood is ok, but he doesn't want her to walk the streets alone at night) and everything else the usually so reserved man can think of.
Mr. Sozin seems to be starving for information and he is so focused on the boy that he completely forgets about his date until the young lady dressed in a napkin (alright; 3 napkins and bits of string sewn together but no more) makes herself known. Rita curses her timing. Zuko apologizes and is immediately invited to join them for dessert. Every attempt to decline is shot down skillfully and Rita hurries to set the table for one more person.
Little talk ensues over dessert, but much praise is given for her buttercream tart. Coffee and tea is served in the salon and Miss 3-Napkins-and-bits-of-string is starting to become uncomfortable. Neither man pays her any attention and they talk more about Zuko's plans for the future. They are both at ease, but Rita (still nearby to spy) can tell that they are both surprised by this.
"I didn't mean to ruin your evening," Zuko finally says and sets down his cup of tea. "I merely wanted to tell you that I'd like to start over. I know last time didn't go over so well but I want to try again. I'll be in the neighborhood from time to time and I thought that maybe you wouldn't mind if I... occassionally came to visit."
Rita has never seen Mr. Sozin smile like that.
"I would very much like that, Zuko," he says.
* * * * *
022 Distance
Jin loves Zuko with all her heart. And it hurts her that he will never love her back like that. There is always Katara who hovers between them like a ghost of the past.
At first, when they met, Jin had an advantage. Because in Zuko's mind Katara was still 12 and chasing him with waterballoons, calling him 'Zuzu' and avidly discussig 'The Blue Spirit'-episodes with him. Jin however was a blossoming woman, with sensuous curves and pouty lips. She could give Zuko things the memory of a 12 years old girl could not.
There was still a distance between them, an invisible bubble that could be only penetrated by his former best friend and Zuko himself, but the gap between them, her and Zuko, had become much smaller.
Until she showed up in Spanish Class. It made her regret not having taken that class herself to keep an eye on them.
At first, Zuko was merely elated to have his friend back and Jin, although wary, was happy for him. For a while, that gap that had been there seemed to have disappeared entirely. They made an effort to include her in their shenanigans. She was surprised to find that Katara's boyfriend and Zuko were old friends, too (stalker and stalker victim Jet insisted). It made double-dates a lot more interesting because neither Jet nor Katara were shy about all the outracities they committed when they (or Zuko respectively) were younger.
It was all good fun until the gap opened again. And now, it was even wider than before. Zuko became withdrawn, sullen almost. His kisses lacked fire, enthusiasm, passion, pleasure - you name it, it wasn't there.
Jin knows she is pretty, but in Zuko's eyes, Katara is perfection and Jin realizes that she can't compete with that. Not with over 10 years of friendship, loyalty and repressed love. And it hurts even more than before because although the battle is lost, she doesn't want to let him go. She can't.
So she keeps on loving him, even as they drift further apart, and prays.
* * * * *
023 Yellow (White III)
The general harmlessness of door handles is glaringly obvious - not only because of a distinct lack of razor sharp talons, beaks, poisenous fangs or other pain-promising features.
And even if door handles had all these things - well, who is to say that they wouldn't be either peaceloving predators or viscious vegetarians?
Iroh shakes his head. Teeth, claws, beaks and talons are not what scares him so.
What does scare the grey-haired man so much that he has been seen standing in front of this door handle for 3 days in a row is the door attached to it, the room it leads to and the child trapped within.
Iroh is scared because he doesn't know what to expect but once he opens the door he will have to deal with it. He doesn't know if he is ready, doesn't even know if he is suited for something like this, whether his strength is enough to carry both of them through this nightmare.
"Pull yourself together," he whispers harshly and places a heavy hand on the handle.
Because there's a forsaken child behind that door, he realizes, and it doesn't matter whether he is the right person for this job or not. What matters is that there is something who will let that child belong.
And so he opens the door (accepts the task - never a burden).
"For Zuko."
* * * * *
024 Hold on
His arms are strong, his hands are calloused and rough, a stark contrast to the silky soft skin she is used to touching her.
His lips are imprinted on every centimetre of her torso: the planes of her stomach, the curve of her ribs and dip of her waist, the slope of her breast and the peak of her nipples. But she can't shake the feeling that his hands are actually playing with another's hair, not hers.
(Hers.)
Still Jin doesn't let go of him.
Because right now he is the only thing she can hold on to.
As he slides into her, whispering her own name, she concedes that the same might hold true for Jet, too.
* * * * *
025 Bad Girl (companion piece to 019 Nice Guy)
Azula looked gorgeous and she knew it. She had a mirror at home, thank you very much and even if she didn't the way boys had been drooling over her left and right ever since she stepped into the decorated gym was a dead giveaway. She was easily the prettiest, most beautiful girl in the whole room and if only Jet weren't such a prick and keep his eyes glued to her for one damn night-- but no, Mr. Irresistible had to jump at stupid Mika's stupid flirt attempt. Stupid Jet. Stupid Mika and her stupid double D t-- Azula sighed.
He knew she was insecure. She was delicate, she was slender, she was petite. She was barely a handful - of course she felt threatened by someone like Mika! And her date went and drooled all over her. It was practically the worst thing you could do when arriving to prom with the Prom Queen to-be.
Gods, at times like these she regretted being with Jet. Sure, he drove her father insane (and that was what she wanted), but was it really worth risking her own sanity? The make-up sex was nice but also no longer enough. Azula wanted more.
She glanced over her shoulder; yep, the prick was still head-first down Mika's more than daring neckline. Azula frowned, wishing for a way to release all this anger. "How awesome would it be to just breathe fire on Mika's stupid, cheap dress?" she thought to herself and barely suppressed a chuckle.
That was when she bumped into something firm and warm and felt a cool liquid rapidly spreading over chest.
"Azula! Oh I am so sorry," Haru exclaimed, hurridly setting down the two cups he was holding. "I am so clumsy, I ruined your dress, I am so, so sorry."
Before Azula could even react, the brown haired teen pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and began to dab away the cold wetness without hesitation. Which had spilled over her breasts and - shouldn't he be blushing like mad? This was Haru after all. Instead, there was this tiny smile playing around his lips, a tiny naughty smile that Azula liked very much and that he did not seem to be aware of.
As if suddenly realizing what he was doing, Haru withdrew his hand again. His face was carefully apologetic and Azula couldn't help but smile.
"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have," he began and trailed off. Azula would have believed that voice, if she hadn't seen his smirk only a few moments ago. Now there was something in Haru's eyes, something challenging, something - dare she say it - seductive and Azula felt her blood tingle in anticipation.
"It's ok," she said, her voice a lot less harsh than she intended it to be. "But you owe me." She gestured at the stain on her white satin dress, only now realizing that what had spilled on her had not been punch at all but rather a cup of water.
"I'll make sure to make up for it. Do you want some," Haru asked and offered her the other cup (the one that was still full and did in fact contain punch). "It's not spiked."
She thought she heard him mutter 'yet', but took the cup.
Azula should have walked away at this point (later Haru told her that this was the only thing that had worried him that night - her walking away after he let her catch a glimpse of who he really was), but she didn't. Because Haru was intruiging and so she struck up a conversation. His statements seemed innocent enough but they were laced with hidden innuendo, her name rolling from his tongue in a way that made her shiver.
It was like a game they were playing under everyone's nose (and he knew how to push every single goddamned button) yet no one noticed.
A dirty game, that much was for sure, because somehow he managed to keep touching her in ways that seemed accidental but were too frequent to be anything other than purpose. A brush of hands against her breasts, a gentle squeeze on her hip, something hard and firm rubbing against her thigh (too brief for her liking) - Azula found herself flushing with every caress bestowed upon her while her classmates and teachers where standing all around them, unaware of what was truly going on and gods-- she wanted him. Now.
If this were Jet, she'd tell him exactly what she wanted, in the bluntest and most frank way possible. But this was Haru and they were playing his game so instead she admitted to being a little too hot and needing some fresh air. Haru substituted the offer to take her some place less crowded.
She hadn't expected that 'some place less crowded' translated for Haru into skipping out on the rest of the prom - hell, Mika could substitute for her as Prom Queen for all Azula cared - and taking her to the exact hotel where her father's company usually housed important business partners.
Or to spending the night there.
* * * * *
026 Enthusiasm
The only reason he is here is because his uncle asked him to. Not because he likes helping or something like that. Zuko has enough problems of his own and feels no desire to add those of others to his pile.
He soon changes his mind because the White Lotus is often the last hope of those who come to seek out the organization's help. He sees something in those haunted eyes, something he recognizes because he had it as well; something that his uncle chased away.
Zuko remembers those days well even if they have been a memory for some time (but not yet long enough).
"Your nephew is truly astounding," a friend of Iroh comments offhandedly one afternoon, watching Zuko heave a handpainted sign out of the car's trunk.
"Yes, he is," Iroh says, feeling oddly touched by his nephews satisfied expression as the old sign overlooking the main entrance is taken down and replaced with the one Zuko has crafted himself.
* * * * *
027 'F' stands for 'fear', 'failure' and 'father' (99 razors)
Zuko is barely a month out of hospital when Iroh takes him back there.
"He won't eat," a deathly-pale Iroh tells the doctor fearfully and they sabotage his attempts of self-starvation by adminstering nourishment through his veins. They tie down his arms so he cannot pull the needle out - neither purposefully not accidentally. He can see it clearly under his skin and he hates it, straining against the needle, accepting the pain it causes as his punishment. Because he deserves the pain if they won't let him have death.
He wonders why Uncle Iroh is so cruel and denies him the one thing he truly wants, next to his mother.
The cuts appear later. It is immensely satisfying: watching the shiny silvery razor (the old fashioned kind, the ones that are so damn hard to get a hold of), dark against his skin, cut through the blinding white to release the red liquid underneath.
Red like his nightmares.
Iroh notices, of course. He takes the razor away (because he's cruel; he doesn't understand, doesn't want to but he has to hate Zuko very much to be so cruel), the first of many. He also takes Zuko to see another doctor because the one he's been with proofs to be a failure (like Zuko). He never got the gist of the silent treatment it seems.
The next doctor is a woman, the one after that a very young and pretty woman and after that he sees three old man who all smell kind of funny: of onions, fish and tobacco respectively.
Zuko remembers none of them, except for Dr. Tobacco, who understood. He constantly yelled at Zuko during sessions.
"You're worthless. You're scum. You don't deserve to live."
One afternoon Iroh comes home and the house is deathly quiet. He finds Zuko, wrists slashed open, lying in the living room. Iroh doesn't remember what he did, runs on auto-pilot. When he comes back to himself, his clothes are stained with Zuko's blood and his eyes are raw from crying. When his uncle is allowed to visit him a couple of days later, Zuko asks him why he cried.
"It's almost like you care," he says detachedly and Iroh can't stop himself from reaching out and nearly crushing the boy in his embrace.
"Because I do! I was so scared, Zuko, so so scared," his uncle says, his voice breaking.
But Zuko can't feel the love Iroh tries to show him.
He begins to hide a few razors at home. Sometimes, Iroh finds them. The cuts don't stop. His arms are littered with scars. And then the razor slips and his life is flowing out of him and Zuko thinks that this time, it's for real. But he is found and saved.
Again.
Staying at the hospital this time around is not so bad. There are two nurses who are both rather funny. They usually work their shift together and visit the patients every now and then. They are the first ones Zuko talks to. He confides into them that it doesn't matter that he's still alive, that he has almost a hundred razors hidden at home where his uncle won't find them.
"I won't be here for long," he tells them.
He should have known that they'd turn traitor on him.
Iroh literally tears the house apart to find each and every one of them. They are hidden in the soil of the flowers, are ductaped carefully to the backside of the bathroom mirror, slipped between drawings Iroh has never seen and that give him nightmares for years to come.
"Once you have recoverd, you can't come home," Iroh tells him one day and he sounds rather defeated.
"Of course not. Father won't have me," Zuko responds. His uncle shakes his head.
"You can't come home with me," he stresses.
"Your place isn't home, it's hell," the boy replies, stressing the last word in the same manner. Iroh feels like the ground has been knocked away from under his feet.
"I'm a failure," Iroh tells the attending physician afterwards.
* * * * *
028 White, revisited
Blinding, blinding white.
Pure as snow.
A perfect pearl.
Tranquil.
Serene.
Here and there rhinestones sparkle.
Under bits of lace rosey skin can be seen.
White.
So white.
Beautiful white, Zuko thinks and glances at Katara sideways, imagining her in his sister's wedding dress.
His breathing hitches.
* * * * *
029 Hero(ic)
They are teens, similar to himself (but not like him because none of them killed their mother), with scars on their arms similar to his. They talk and joke and try to include him.
Their every attempt is thwarted by a wall of silence. It follows Zuko around and cannot be penetrated.
One of the girls (a rather cute one whom he learns is anorexic) likes to give people nicknames; when she suggests 'Zuzu' for him, his scathing glare scares her so much that she refuses to be in the same room as him from then on until he apologizes. Zuko does no such thing. He's stopped speaking altogether because he's 15 and his uncle hates him enough to abandon him and put him in a place like this. So no apology coming forth. Nope, sorry; no can do.
Until Iroh brings him the letters. Three letters for every week spent in this hateful, hateful place. And a parcel.
His birthday has come and gone without as much as a 'Happy Birthday'.
Zuko reads the letters in a corner of the game room that people have come to dub as 'his', the parcel in his lap. The familiar curling of the letter 'Z', the tiny Blue Spirit Mask drawn next to the sender's address - everything about the letters screams Katara and he is happy and thankful for it, although it hurts.
He doesn't notice that he's smiling while reading. It's only a little smile, but it's a true genuine smile and it's the most emotion he has shown in a long time.
The letters are quickly read and he begins to open the parcel.
"What did you get?" a timid voice asks, as if scared of scaring him and Zuko looks up abruptly, almost guiltily schooling his face into a mask of blankness. The curious gaze remains. He sighs a little.
"Twinkies," is the whispered reply. "And a cookbook."
"A cookbook?"
"'200 ways to improve your Twinkies'", he reads, a little louder.
"Never heard of that... who wrote it?"
Relunctantly, Zuko holds the handmade scrapbook out to his therapist Leslie.
"The Blue Spirit?" Leslie asks and Zuko nods.
"A true hero," he adds and thinks of waterballoons.
* * * * *
030 Longing / Desire (too much) (for loveroftheflame and smillaraaq; and for everyone else who likes it!)
Hands, hands everywhere. Tiny licks and bites ghost over her body and she can't tell anymore whether this is pleasure or pain. It's all a haze of hot and cold, of hard and soft. Haru hovers just over her, his body brushing sensually against hers.
Breathless gasps and moans - who is that woman begging and pleading?
Blood pounds in her ears, the heat rushes through her veins. So unberably hot, hotter even than his breath as he pants against her ear.
"This is how you make me feel... never forget that," he grounds out and a shiver burns across her spine because no man has ever talked to her in that tone of voice. She strains against the body over her, pressing herself into his chest, catching a whiff of his cologne and kissing his lips and chin desperately.
And then they move, almost as one (almost, because Azula has never moved like this and her body simply can't keep up with Haru's rhythm).
When he takes her home in the morning, they tell her father that she needed time to think (about Jet and herself, she says but she knows that Jet is old news and that Haru is here to stay) and Haru kept her company. She holds his jacket close to her body, as if fearing that taking it away might reveal the marks he left on her (although he was careful not to) and inhales the scent of him.
Her father doesn't notice a thing and tells her to take a nap which she does seeing how little sleep she was able to catch the night before.
Late in the afternoon, Azula wanders into the kitchen and watches Rita prepare dinner.
"Do I look any different," Azula asks her curiously and the petite hispanic eyes her carefully.
"Not to a man," Rita replies evasively.
"And to a woman?" the teen inquires.
"To a woman, you look like a woman."
Azula frowns and the house aid chuckles.
"Yesterday, you were a child," she adds in a tone of voice that makes the girl blush. "You fell hard and fast, eh?"
Concrit welcome & appreciated.
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021 Visitor
It's late in the evening when someone rings the door bell. Rita hurries to answer the door because Mr. Sozin is currently having dinner with one of his lady friends. Mr. Sozin has a lot of lady friends but it is not Rita's place to criticize him - even if she wants to. Instead she crosses herself alot and prays for the poor man's soul.
When she opens the door the first thing she sees is a pair of feet clad in white sneakers, a pair of faded blue jeans, an untucked white shirt and a marron leather jacket. Then she notices the young man's face. The fine black hair is brushed to cover half of his face, but Rita can see the scarred tissue of his skin peeking out underneath it. The eyes are the exact same shade as Mr. Sozin's but this pair has a warmer glow to them.
"Good evening," he says in a polite voice. "My name is Zuko Sozin. Is my father in? I would like to talk to him."
Santa Maria, Rita thinks. An illegitimate child. She should have known. Sodom and Gomorrha.
"Of course," she says quietly because even though she's a good catholic, Rita loves drama. No way is she letting Mr. Sozin out of this one.
She steers the young man into the salon and offers to take his jacket and the bags he is carrying. He entrusts her with his bags (gift bags, she notices) and asks her to place them in Azula's room as they are hers. Rita's mind is in a jumble trying to figure the situation out.
"I shall fetch Mr. Sozin in a moment and then take these upstairs," she tells the young man and hurries off. She places the bags into the kitchen because that's the safest place she can think off at the moment.
She informs Mr. Sozin of his visitor right afterwards and he excuses himself. She gives him a 15-second head start before apologizing to the lady in the napkin, but she has to keep an eye on the dessert, sorry.
Mr. Sozin and the young man - his son, Zuko - are facing each other in the salon.
"Zuko, what a surprise," Mr. Sozin says and smiles a tight, uncomfortable smile.
"Good evening father," Zuko replies. His voice is rather pleasant and Rita can very well imagine him to be a favorite among the ladies (she hopes he has a better taste than his father). "I hope I am not inconveniencing you." Rita smiles fondly. What a polite young man.
"No, not at all. Never. ... How are you?"
"I'm fine, thank you. How are you?"
"Likewise, likewise. Umm... so to what do I owe the pleasure? Have you" - a pause, Mr. Sozin, Rita realizes with a start, is uncertain - "have you changed your mind about coming home?"
Rita's ears perk. Changed his mind? Did the boy run away? Funny, he doesn't seem the kind.
"I... yes and no," Zuko replies evasively. "I won't be moving in because Katara and I share an apartment and I don't want to leave her alone with the rent."
"Katara?" Mr. Sozin echoes and Zuko smiles.
"We're dating."
"Do you need something? Money? Furniture? Anything?" Mr. Sozin offers immediately but his son declines.
"We've got all we need."
They talk for a while, the young man dutifully answering all the questions his father asks him about his job (waiting tables; 8.75 per hour + tips), her job (barrista at the selfsame cafe), his scholar activities, where they live, how much the rent is (200 a month, utilities go extra; the neighborhood is ok, but he doesn't want her to walk the streets alone at night) and everything else the usually so reserved man can think of.
Mr. Sozin seems to be starving for information and he is so focused on the boy that he completely forgets about his date until the young lady dressed in a napkin (alright; 3 napkins and bits of string sewn together but no more) makes herself known. Rita curses her timing. Zuko apologizes and is immediately invited to join them for dessert. Every attempt to decline is shot down skillfully and Rita hurries to set the table for one more person.
Little talk ensues over dessert, but much praise is given for her buttercream tart. Coffee and tea is served in the salon and Miss 3-Napkins-and-bits-of-string is starting to become uncomfortable. Neither man pays her any attention and they talk more about Zuko's plans for the future. They are both at ease, but Rita (still nearby to spy) can tell that they are both surprised by this.
"I didn't mean to ruin your evening," Zuko finally says and sets down his cup of tea. "I merely wanted to tell you that I'd like to start over. I know last time didn't go over so well but I want to try again. I'll be in the neighborhood from time to time and I thought that maybe you wouldn't mind if I... occassionally came to visit."
Rita has never seen Mr. Sozin smile like that.
"I would very much like that, Zuko," he says.
* * * * *
022 Distance
Jin loves Zuko with all her heart. And it hurts her that he will never love her back like that. There is always Katara who hovers between them like a ghost of the past.
At first, when they met, Jin had an advantage. Because in Zuko's mind Katara was still 12 and chasing him with waterballoons, calling him 'Zuzu' and avidly discussig 'The Blue Spirit'-episodes with him. Jin however was a blossoming woman, with sensuous curves and pouty lips. She could give Zuko things the memory of a 12 years old girl could not.
There was still a distance between them, an invisible bubble that could be only penetrated by his former best friend and Zuko himself, but the gap between them, her and Zuko, had become much smaller.
Until she showed up in Spanish Class. It made her regret not having taken that class herself to keep an eye on them.
At first, Zuko was merely elated to have his friend back and Jin, although wary, was happy for him. For a while, that gap that had been there seemed to have disappeared entirely. They made an effort to include her in their shenanigans. She was surprised to find that Katara's boyfriend and Zuko were old friends, too (stalker and stalker victim Jet insisted). It made double-dates a lot more interesting because neither Jet nor Katara were shy about all the outracities they committed when they (or Zuko respectively) were younger.
It was all good fun until the gap opened again. And now, it was even wider than before. Zuko became withdrawn, sullen almost. His kisses lacked fire, enthusiasm, passion, pleasure - you name it, it wasn't there.
Jin knows she is pretty, but in Zuko's eyes, Katara is perfection and Jin realizes that she can't compete with that. Not with over 10 years of friendship, loyalty and repressed love. And it hurts even more than before because although the battle is lost, she doesn't want to let him go. She can't.
So she keeps on loving him, even as they drift further apart, and prays.
* * * * *
023 Yellow (White III)
The general harmlessness of door handles is glaringly obvious - not only because of a distinct lack of razor sharp talons, beaks, poisenous fangs or other pain-promising features.
And even if door handles had all these things - well, who is to say that they wouldn't be either peaceloving predators or viscious vegetarians?
Iroh shakes his head. Teeth, claws, beaks and talons are not what scares him so.
What does scare the grey-haired man so much that he has been seen standing in front of this door handle for 3 days in a row is the door attached to it, the room it leads to and the child trapped within.
Iroh is scared because he doesn't know what to expect but once he opens the door he will have to deal with it. He doesn't know if he is ready, doesn't even know if he is suited for something like this, whether his strength is enough to carry both of them through this nightmare.
"Pull yourself together," he whispers harshly and places a heavy hand on the handle.
Because there's a forsaken child behind that door, he realizes, and it doesn't matter whether he is the right person for this job or not. What matters is that there is something who will let that child belong.
And so he opens the door (accepts the task - never a burden).
"For Zuko."
* * * * *
024 Hold on
His arms are strong, his hands are calloused and rough, a stark contrast to the silky soft skin she is used to touching her.
His lips are imprinted on every centimetre of her torso: the planes of her stomach, the curve of her ribs and dip of her waist, the slope of her breast and the peak of her nipples. But she can't shake the feeling that his hands are actually playing with another's hair, not hers.
(Hers.)
Still Jin doesn't let go of him.
Because right now he is the only thing she can hold on to.
As he slides into her, whispering her own name, she concedes that the same might hold true for Jet, too.
* * * * *
025 Bad Girl (companion piece to 019 Nice Guy)
Azula looked gorgeous and she knew it. She had a mirror at home, thank you very much and even if she didn't the way boys had been drooling over her left and right ever since she stepped into the decorated gym was a dead giveaway. She was easily the prettiest, most beautiful girl in the whole room and if only Jet weren't such a prick and keep his eyes glued to her for one damn night-- but no, Mr. Irresistible had to jump at stupid Mika's stupid flirt attempt. Stupid Jet. Stupid Mika and her stupid double D t-- Azula sighed.
He knew she was insecure. She was delicate, she was slender, she was petite. She was barely a handful - of course she felt threatened by someone like Mika! And her date went and drooled all over her. It was practically the worst thing you could do when arriving to prom with the Prom Queen to-be.
Gods, at times like these she regretted being with Jet. Sure, he drove her father insane (and that was what she wanted), but was it really worth risking her own sanity? The make-up sex was nice but also no longer enough. Azula wanted more.
She glanced over her shoulder; yep, the prick was still head-first down Mika's more than daring neckline. Azula frowned, wishing for a way to release all this anger. "How awesome would it be to just breathe fire on Mika's stupid, cheap dress?" she thought to herself and barely suppressed a chuckle.
That was when she bumped into something firm and warm and felt a cool liquid rapidly spreading over chest.
"Azula! Oh I am so sorry," Haru exclaimed, hurridly setting down the two cups he was holding. "I am so clumsy, I ruined your dress, I am so, so sorry."
Before Azula could even react, the brown haired teen pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and began to dab away the cold wetness without hesitation. Which had spilled over her breasts and - shouldn't he be blushing like mad? This was Haru after all. Instead, there was this tiny smile playing around his lips, a tiny naughty smile that Azula liked very much and that he did not seem to be aware of.
As if suddenly realizing what he was doing, Haru withdrew his hand again. His face was carefully apologetic and Azula couldn't help but smile.
"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have," he began and trailed off. Azula would have believed that voice, if she hadn't seen his smirk only a few moments ago. Now there was something in Haru's eyes, something challenging, something - dare she say it - seductive and Azula felt her blood tingle in anticipation.
"It's ok," she said, her voice a lot less harsh than she intended it to be. "But you owe me." She gestured at the stain on her white satin dress, only now realizing that what had spilled on her had not been punch at all but rather a cup of water.
"I'll make sure to make up for it. Do you want some," Haru asked and offered her the other cup (the one that was still full and did in fact contain punch). "It's not spiked."
She thought she heard him mutter 'yet', but took the cup.
Azula should have walked away at this point (later Haru told her that this was the only thing that had worried him that night - her walking away after he let her catch a glimpse of who he really was), but she didn't. Because Haru was intruiging and so she struck up a conversation. His statements seemed innocent enough but they were laced with hidden innuendo, her name rolling from his tongue in a way that made her shiver.
It was like a game they were playing under everyone's nose (and he knew how to push every single goddamned button) yet no one noticed.
A dirty game, that much was for sure, because somehow he managed to keep touching her in ways that seemed accidental but were too frequent to be anything other than purpose. A brush of hands against her breasts, a gentle squeeze on her hip, something hard and firm rubbing against her thigh (too brief for her liking) - Azula found herself flushing with every caress bestowed upon her while her classmates and teachers where standing all around them, unaware of what was truly going on and gods-- she wanted him. Now.
If this were Jet, she'd tell him exactly what she wanted, in the bluntest and most frank way possible. But this was Haru and they were playing his game so instead she admitted to being a little too hot and needing some fresh air. Haru substituted the offer to take her some place less crowded.
She hadn't expected that 'some place less crowded' translated for Haru into skipping out on the rest of the prom - hell, Mika could substitute for her as Prom Queen for all Azula cared - and taking her to the exact hotel where her father's company usually housed important business partners.
Or to spending the night there.
* * * * *
026 Enthusiasm
The only reason he is here is because his uncle asked him to. Not because he likes helping or something like that. Zuko has enough problems of his own and feels no desire to add those of others to his pile.
He soon changes his mind because the White Lotus is often the last hope of those who come to seek out the organization's help. He sees something in those haunted eyes, something he recognizes because he had it as well; something that his uncle chased away.
Zuko remembers those days well even if they have been a memory for some time (but not yet long enough).
"Your nephew is truly astounding," a friend of Iroh comments offhandedly one afternoon, watching Zuko heave a handpainted sign out of the car's trunk.
"Yes, he is," Iroh says, feeling oddly touched by his nephews satisfied expression as the old sign overlooking the main entrance is taken down and replaced with the one Zuko has crafted himself.
* * * * *
027 'F' stands for 'fear', 'failure' and 'father' (99 razors)
Zuko is barely a month out of hospital when Iroh takes him back there.
"He won't eat," a deathly-pale Iroh tells the doctor fearfully and they sabotage his attempts of self-starvation by adminstering nourishment through his veins. They tie down his arms so he cannot pull the needle out - neither purposefully not accidentally. He can see it clearly under his skin and he hates it, straining against the needle, accepting the pain it causes as his punishment. Because he deserves the pain if they won't let him have death.
He wonders why Uncle Iroh is so cruel and denies him the one thing he truly wants, next to his mother.
The cuts appear later. It is immensely satisfying: watching the shiny silvery razor (the old fashioned kind, the ones that are so damn hard to get a hold of), dark against his skin, cut through the blinding white to release the red liquid underneath.
Red like his nightmares.
Iroh notices, of course. He takes the razor away (because he's cruel; he doesn't understand, doesn't want to but he has to hate Zuko very much to be so cruel), the first of many. He also takes Zuko to see another doctor because the one he's been with proofs to be a failure (like Zuko). He never got the gist of the silent treatment it seems.
The next doctor is a woman, the one after that a very young and pretty woman and after that he sees three old man who all smell kind of funny: of onions, fish and tobacco respectively.
Zuko remembers none of them, except for Dr. Tobacco, who understood. He constantly yelled at Zuko during sessions.
"You're worthless. You're scum. You don't deserve to live."
One afternoon Iroh comes home and the house is deathly quiet. He finds Zuko, wrists slashed open, lying in the living room. Iroh doesn't remember what he did, runs on auto-pilot. When he comes back to himself, his clothes are stained with Zuko's blood and his eyes are raw from crying. When his uncle is allowed to visit him a couple of days later, Zuko asks him why he cried.
"It's almost like you care," he says detachedly and Iroh can't stop himself from reaching out and nearly crushing the boy in his embrace.
"Because I do! I was so scared, Zuko, so so scared," his uncle says, his voice breaking.
But Zuko can't feel the love Iroh tries to show him.
He begins to hide a few razors at home. Sometimes, Iroh finds them. The cuts don't stop. His arms are littered with scars. And then the razor slips and his life is flowing out of him and Zuko thinks that this time, it's for real. But he is found and saved.
Again.
Staying at the hospital this time around is not so bad. There are two nurses who are both rather funny. They usually work their shift together and visit the patients every now and then. They are the first ones Zuko talks to. He confides into them that it doesn't matter that he's still alive, that he has almost a hundred razors hidden at home where his uncle won't find them.
"I won't be here for long," he tells them.
He should have known that they'd turn traitor on him.
Iroh literally tears the house apart to find each and every one of them. They are hidden in the soil of the flowers, are ductaped carefully to the backside of the bathroom mirror, slipped between drawings Iroh has never seen and that give him nightmares for years to come.
"Once you have recoverd, you can't come home," Iroh tells him one day and he sounds rather defeated.
"Of course not. Father won't have me," Zuko responds. His uncle shakes his head.
"You can't come home with me," he stresses.
"Your place isn't home, it's hell," the boy replies, stressing the last word in the same manner. Iroh feels like the ground has been knocked away from under his feet.
"I'm a failure," Iroh tells the attending physician afterwards.
* * * * *
028 White, revisited
Blinding, blinding white.
Pure as snow.
A perfect pearl.
Tranquil.
Serene.
Here and there rhinestones sparkle.
Under bits of lace rosey skin can be seen.
White.
So white.
Beautiful white, Zuko thinks and glances at Katara sideways, imagining her in his sister's wedding dress.
His breathing hitches.
* * * * *
029 Hero(ic)
They are teens, similar to himself (but not like him because none of them killed their mother), with scars on their arms similar to his. They talk and joke and try to include him.
Their every attempt is thwarted by a wall of silence. It follows Zuko around and cannot be penetrated.
One of the girls (a rather cute one whom he learns is anorexic) likes to give people nicknames; when she suggests 'Zuzu' for him, his scathing glare scares her so much that she refuses to be in the same room as him from then on until he apologizes. Zuko does no such thing. He's stopped speaking altogether because he's 15 and his uncle hates him enough to abandon him and put him in a place like this. So no apology coming forth. Nope, sorry; no can do.
Until Iroh brings him the letters. Three letters for every week spent in this hateful, hateful place. And a parcel.
His birthday has come and gone without as much as a 'Happy Birthday'.
Zuko reads the letters in a corner of the game room that people have come to dub as 'his', the parcel in his lap. The familiar curling of the letter 'Z', the tiny Blue Spirit Mask drawn next to the sender's address - everything about the letters screams Katara and he is happy and thankful for it, although it hurts.
He doesn't notice that he's smiling while reading. It's only a little smile, but it's a true genuine smile and it's the most emotion he has shown in a long time.
The letters are quickly read and he begins to open the parcel.
"What did you get?" a timid voice asks, as if scared of scaring him and Zuko looks up abruptly, almost guiltily schooling his face into a mask of blankness. The curious gaze remains. He sighs a little.
"Twinkies," is the whispered reply. "And a cookbook."
"A cookbook?"
"'200 ways to improve your Twinkies'", he reads, a little louder.
"Never heard of that... who wrote it?"
Relunctantly, Zuko holds the handmade scrapbook out to his therapist Leslie.
"The Blue Spirit?" Leslie asks and Zuko nods.
"A true hero," he adds and thinks of waterballoons.
* * * * *
030 Longing / Desire (too much) (for loveroftheflame and smillaraaq; and for everyone else who likes it!)
Hands, hands everywhere. Tiny licks and bites ghost over her body and she can't tell anymore whether this is pleasure or pain. It's all a haze of hot and cold, of hard and soft. Haru hovers just over her, his body brushing sensually against hers.
Breathless gasps and moans - who is that woman begging and pleading?
Blood pounds in her ears, the heat rushes through her veins. So unberably hot, hotter even than his breath as he pants against her ear.
"This is how you make me feel... never forget that," he grounds out and a shiver burns across her spine because no man has ever talked to her in that tone of voice. She strains against the body over her, pressing herself into his chest, catching a whiff of his cologne and kissing his lips and chin desperately.
And then they move, almost as one (almost, because Azula has never moved like this and her body simply can't keep up with Haru's rhythm).
When he takes her home in the morning, they tell her father that she needed time to think (about Jet and herself, she says but she knows that Jet is old news and that Haru is here to stay) and Haru kept her company. She holds his jacket close to her body, as if fearing that taking it away might reveal the marks he left on her (although he was careful not to) and inhales the scent of him.
Her father doesn't notice a thing and tells her to take a nap which she does seeing how little sleep she was able to catch the night before.
Late in the afternoon, Azula wanders into the kitchen and watches Rita prepare dinner.
"Do I look any different," Azula asks her curiously and the petite hispanic eyes her carefully.
"Not to a man," Rita replies evasively.
"And to a woman?" the teen inquires.
"To a woman, you look like a woman."
Azula frowns and the house aid chuckles.
"Yesterday, you were a child," she adds in a tone of voice that makes the girl blush. "You fell hard and fast, eh?"