[fic] Method Acting
Title: Method Acting
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1,400
Pairing: Jet/Zuko
Summary: Ba Sing Se at night; a figure crouched on a rooftop; a window left unlocked. We've all been here before, Dear Reader. And so have they.
Written for Megan Kitsune as part of the Annual Exchange of Jetko. Many thanks to jlh for the super-fast beta!
On AO3
***
Ba Sing Se. City of walls and secrets, city of stone and tile, city of closed eyes and open purses. The inner rings stank of perfume and hypocrisy; the outer ones of garbage and backed-up sewers. Everywhere he went, the air was thick with city smells and city noise, too many people and too few trees, enough to make his stomach wrench with nausea. He escaped to the rooftops whenever he could. The solidity of terra cotta beneath him wasn't the same as the broad maple branches of home, but it helped. On windy nights the taller towers would sway, just as the old tree houses had.
This night, Jet perched on the topmost tier of a grand apartment building, hot breezes swirling up from the sun-warmed streets and stirring his unruly hair. The air was sticky and close, his worn cotton tunic clinging to him beneath his armor. In the east, an ominous mass of purple-blue clouds sat on the horizon. The stalk of grass between his teeth dipped and bobbed in the updraft.
Comfort wasn't what Jet had sought when he'd scaled this tower, and the barren landscape of red tile and shuttered windows offered none besides. What he needed - what he craved, with frightening urgency - was harder to accept than sentimental nostalgia for the forest. Even now, with the worst of his Freedom Fighting days long behind him and a new life stretching out ahead, certain parts of himself still roared with the old intensity. His chest ached with a frightening hunger; his veins thrummed with foolish, thoughtless desire. He balanced at the roof's edge like a bird of prey, his hands gripping the gutters with white-knuckle strength, his eyes flickering over the human shapes below, dim and vague in the twilight.
A childhood spent shuttling between hunter and hunted, years of watching from treetops and laying in wait, meant he knew how to spot his prey from above. Jet would have been hard-pressed to explain how he could recognized a particular silhouette, dark and distant against the cobblestones - something about the length of his stride, or the width of his shoulders, or the precision with which he moved through the crowd, quick-footed but never jostling. And alone.
Jet's pulse quickened. A line of sweat trickled down his spine.
The figure disappeared beneath the eaves of the stories below. Jet counted the seconds, following the other man's progress in his mind - up stairs, along hallways, through sliding wooden doors. Now, he would be slipping off his shoes. Now, placing a kettle on the heavy iron stove. Now, lighting it with a flick of his fingers.
Jet waited, slick with sweat and humidity, wisps of hair stuck to his forehead and the back of his neck. He savored the guilty, insistent heat that had settled low in his stomach.
The sky darkened from pink to violet to indigo. Over the distant lake, a tendril of lightning flashed. Thunder rolled across the rooftops. The first, fat drops of rain hit his face.
The downpour came as he lowered himself past the building's third tier, the eaves erupting in crisscrossed arcs of water as drops ricocheted off the tile to come at him from below. By the time he'd reached the apartment window, he was soaked through to his skin - tunic and trousers heavy and uncooperative, hair flat against his forehead and catching in his eyelashes.
The shutters had been pulled shut against the weather, cutting the soft lamplight within into strips of buttery yellow. Jet crouched on the narrow sill and peered through bamboo slats. He could see a small kitchen; a cast iron teakettle; a porcelain cup on a low table by the window; a scroll held open with small, flat stones; a folding screen, painted with flowers and birds.
A figure in green robes, stretched out on the woven rug.
His eyes were closed; his features relaxed. His shoulder rose and fell with a slow, regular rhythm. He lay with his face half-hidden by his arm, but Jet could see the angry scar that stretched between his brow and cheek. In the warm, flickering light, it almost seemed to glow. As if the fire within him ached to show itself; to reveal what he kept so carefully hidden, here in this earthen city.
Hidden from others. But not from Jet. He had seen the truth in a steaming cup of tea what felt like a lifetime ago, and he had carried it with him since.
Jet closed the shutters behind him. The floorboards creaked beneath his weight, but the figure on the floor did not stir. Rainwater pooled in his footsteps as he crossed the room, sloshing out of his leather boots, dripping from his chin and his hair. His breath came quick and shallow. His heart crashed against his breastbone. His body was hot beneath his wet clothes.
The man before him stirred in his sleep.
Fire breather. City burner. Monarch of flame and ruin.
Jet crouched beside him; reached out; brushed trembling fingers along a slim, white throat. His head buzzed with a mix of old anger and fresh desire, both of them screaming for the body laid out before him.
He ground out a feral snarl, grabbed the other man's shoulder and wrenched him over onto his back. Yellow eyes fluttered open, but sleep-dampened reflexes were too slow to react. Jet pinned the man's arms to the floor with his knees, one hand gripping the sharp, white jaw as the other pulled a dagger from his belt.
He pressed the blade against the man's neck. "Not a sound, Firebender," he growled.
Their breath mingled. A drop of water rolled down his nose, lingered, then splashed on the man's scarred cheek.
For a long, breathless moment, the two of them stared at each other.
Then Zuko abruptly dissolved into laughter.
"Oh, come on!" Jet grumbled, sitting up and shifting so that he straddled Zuko's waist. "Seriously?"
"I'm sorry!" Zuko gasped, already out of breath. "I'm sorry, I can't!"
"You're terrible." Jet smacked his dagger down onto the table and crossed his arms over his chest. "I sat up there for two hours!"
"I know! I know, I'm sorry, I just…" Zuko shook his head, still laughing too hard to manage a whole sentence. Tears streamed down his temples. "It's just so silly!"
"If you thought it was silly why'd you say that you'd do it?!"
Zuko wiped his eyes with the heel of his palm. Then he smiled up at Jet, wide and uncomplicated, his good eye crinkling at the outside corner. Neither of them were as young as they used to be. "You asked me to," he said. "I had to try."
Jet scowled, although he only half meant it. "Well, now I'm wet and cold and horny, and the neighbors probably think I came in and murdered you. So I hope you're happy." He sighed, bent down and kissed Zuko's forehead. "You could've at least held out until after I'd fucked you."
Zuko's cheeks flushed. Even after all their years together, some things hadn't changed. He mumbled something that might have been either "sorry" or "sexy." Both probably applied.
Jet unhooked the larger of his armored shoulder plates, pulled it off and dropped it onto the floor beside them. The other followed a few seconds later. "So what am I supposed to do now?" He asked. He undid the fastenings of one bracer, than the other. "I smell like a wet crowdog and I've ruined the carpet." He tossed them aside, tugged the hem of his outer tunic out of his belt and slipped it off of his shoulders. He pulled the next two layers of tunics off over his head. "And you owe me."
Zuko reached up and lay one hand along Jet's chest, warm against his cool skin. "I have some ideas."
A part of Jet hadn't yet shifted back to this safe, familiar place. A part of him was still - would always be - the scared and angry boy from the forest, who watched from shadowy corners and stormed into tea shops and screamed for Firebender blood. A part of him had needed this.
He smiled; leaned down; cupped his hand around the back of Zuko's neck and kissed him, softly, their stomaches pressed together.
"Could you at least call me a filthy peasant?" he murmured, brushing Zuko's lips with his own.
Zuko's body shook with laughter beneath him.
Jet punched his shoulder.
***
Not directly intended as a sequel to the Something to Hold Onto universe, but certainly not incompatible with it. ;)
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1,400
Pairing: Jet/Zuko
Summary: Ba Sing Se at night; a figure crouched on a rooftop; a window left unlocked. We've all been here before, Dear Reader. And so have they.
Written for Megan Kitsune as part of the Annual Exchange of Jetko. Many thanks to jlh for the super-fast beta!
On AO3
***
Ba Sing Se. City of walls and secrets, city of stone and tile, city of closed eyes and open purses. The inner rings stank of perfume and hypocrisy; the outer ones of garbage and backed-up sewers. Everywhere he went, the air was thick with city smells and city noise, too many people and too few trees, enough to make his stomach wrench with nausea. He escaped to the rooftops whenever he could. The solidity of terra cotta beneath him wasn't the same as the broad maple branches of home, but it helped. On windy nights the taller towers would sway, just as the old tree houses had.
This night, Jet perched on the topmost tier of a grand apartment building, hot breezes swirling up from the sun-warmed streets and stirring his unruly hair. The air was sticky and close, his worn cotton tunic clinging to him beneath his armor. In the east, an ominous mass of purple-blue clouds sat on the horizon. The stalk of grass between his teeth dipped and bobbed in the updraft.
Comfort wasn't what Jet had sought when he'd scaled this tower, and the barren landscape of red tile and shuttered windows offered none besides. What he needed - what he craved, with frightening urgency - was harder to accept than sentimental nostalgia for the forest. Even now, with the worst of his Freedom Fighting days long behind him and a new life stretching out ahead, certain parts of himself still roared with the old intensity. His chest ached with a frightening hunger; his veins thrummed with foolish, thoughtless desire. He balanced at the roof's edge like a bird of prey, his hands gripping the gutters with white-knuckle strength, his eyes flickering over the human shapes below, dim and vague in the twilight.
A childhood spent shuttling between hunter and hunted, years of watching from treetops and laying in wait, meant he knew how to spot his prey from above. Jet would have been hard-pressed to explain how he could recognized a particular silhouette, dark and distant against the cobblestones - something about the length of his stride, or the width of his shoulders, or the precision with which he moved through the crowd, quick-footed but never jostling. And alone.
Jet's pulse quickened. A line of sweat trickled down his spine.
The figure disappeared beneath the eaves of the stories below. Jet counted the seconds, following the other man's progress in his mind - up stairs, along hallways, through sliding wooden doors. Now, he would be slipping off his shoes. Now, placing a kettle on the heavy iron stove. Now, lighting it with a flick of his fingers.
Jet waited, slick with sweat and humidity, wisps of hair stuck to his forehead and the back of his neck. He savored the guilty, insistent heat that had settled low in his stomach.
The sky darkened from pink to violet to indigo. Over the distant lake, a tendril of lightning flashed. Thunder rolled across the rooftops. The first, fat drops of rain hit his face.
The downpour came as he lowered himself past the building's third tier, the eaves erupting in crisscrossed arcs of water as drops ricocheted off the tile to come at him from below. By the time he'd reached the apartment window, he was soaked through to his skin - tunic and trousers heavy and uncooperative, hair flat against his forehead and catching in his eyelashes.
The shutters had been pulled shut against the weather, cutting the soft lamplight within into strips of buttery yellow. Jet crouched on the narrow sill and peered through bamboo slats. He could see a small kitchen; a cast iron teakettle; a porcelain cup on a low table by the window; a scroll held open with small, flat stones; a folding screen, painted with flowers and birds.
A figure in green robes, stretched out on the woven rug.
His eyes were closed; his features relaxed. His shoulder rose and fell with a slow, regular rhythm. He lay with his face half-hidden by his arm, but Jet could see the angry scar that stretched between his brow and cheek. In the warm, flickering light, it almost seemed to glow. As if the fire within him ached to show itself; to reveal what he kept so carefully hidden, here in this earthen city.
Hidden from others. But not from Jet. He had seen the truth in a steaming cup of tea what felt like a lifetime ago, and he had carried it with him since.
Jet closed the shutters behind him. The floorboards creaked beneath his weight, but the figure on the floor did not stir. Rainwater pooled in his footsteps as he crossed the room, sloshing out of his leather boots, dripping from his chin and his hair. His breath came quick and shallow. His heart crashed against his breastbone. His body was hot beneath his wet clothes.
The man before him stirred in his sleep.
Fire breather. City burner. Monarch of flame and ruin.
Jet crouched beside him; reached out; brushed trembling fingers along a slim, white throat. His head buzzed with a mix of old anger and fresh desire, both of them screaming for the body laid out before him.
He ground out a feral snarl, grabbed the other man's shoulder and wrenched him over onto his back. Yellow eyes fluttered open, but sleep-dampened reflexes were too slow to react. Jet pinned the man's arms to the floor with his knees, one hand gripping the sharp, white jaw as the other pulled a dagger from his belt.
He pressed the blade against the man's neck. "Not a sound, Firebender," he growled.
Their breath mingled. A drop of water rolled down his nose, lingered, then splashed on the man's scarred cheek.
For a long, breathless moment, the two of them stared at each other.
Then Zuko abruptly dissolved into laughter.
"Oh, come on!" Jet grumbled, sitting up and shifting so that he straddled Zuko's waist. "Seriously?"
"I'm sorry!" Zuko gasped, already out of breath. "I'm sorry, I can't!"
"You're terrible." Jet smacked his dagger down onto the table and crossed his arms over his chest. "I sat up there for two hours!"
"I know! I know, I'm sorry, I just…" Zuko shook his head, still laughing too hard to manage a whole sentence. Tears streamed down his temples. "It's just so silly!"
"If you thought it was silly why'd you say that you'd do it?!"
Zuko wiped his eyes with the heel of his palm. Then he smiled up at Jet, wide and uncomplicated, his good eye crinkling at the outside corner. Neither of them were as young as they used to be. "You asked me to," he said. "I had to try."
Jet scowled, although he only half meant it. "Well, now I'm wet and cold and horny, and the neighbors probably think I came in and murdered you. So I hope you're happy." He sighed, bent down and kissed Zuko's forehead. "You could've at least held out until after I'd fucked you."
Zuko's cheeks flushed. Even after all their years together, some things hadn't changed. He mumbled something that might have been either "sorry" or "sexy." Both probably applied.
Jet unhooked the larger of his armored shoulder plates, pulled it off and dropped it onto the floor beside them. The other followed a few seconds later. "So what am I supposed to do now?" He asked. He undid the fastenings of one bracer, than the other. "I smell like a wet crowdog and I've ruined the carpet." He tossed them aside, tugged the hem of his outer tunic out of his belt and slipped it off of his shoulders. He pulled the next two layers of tunics off over his head. "And you owe me."
Zuko reached up and lay one hand along Jet's chest, warm against his cool skin. "I have some ideas."
A part of Jet hadn't yet shifted back to this safe, familiar place. A part of him was still - would always be - the scared and angry boy from the forest, who watched from shadowy corners and stormed into tea shops and screamed for Firebender blood. A part of him had needed this.
He smiled; leaned down; cupped his hand around the back of Zuko's neck and kissed him, softly, their stomaches pressed together.
"Could you at least call me a filthy peasant?" he murmured, brushing Zuko's lips with his own.
Zuko's body shook with laughter beneath him.
Jet punched his shoulder.
***
Not directly intended as a sequel to the Something to Hold Onto universe, but certainly not incompatible with it. ;)