Work Text:
Zuko stares up at the ceiling, watching the fan over Sokka’s bed spin.
Around.
Around.
Around.
Around.
Ar–
“Holy shit, dude, are you alright?”
“Mmm.” Zuko keeps staring at the fan. If he blinks every time it goes around he can see the individual arms.
“Zuko, buddy?”
“Mmm, I’m good.”
And the lights are on. And fucking bright. Hurrah. Zuko covers his eyes with his arms. “I said I was fine, Sokka.”
“You are so clearly not fine.”
Zuko carefully maneuvers his arms to fold across his chest and sees Sokka’s concerned face peering down at him. He tries his best to glare but it turns out as more of a blank stare. “What makes you think that?”
Sokka scoffs, eyebrows raised. “You want to know? Well for starters, you kind of disappeared on all of us without saying anything, and then when I finally go looking for you, I find you on the floor of my bedroom with the lights off, just staring up at the ceiling. I’m pretty sure that constitutes as worrisome.”
Zuko tries to close his eyes, but it’s too much effort. Instead he lets them unfocus, softly blurring Sokka’s own too-caring eyes and furrowed brows. “I’ve said I’m fine.” It manages to sound both hollow and harsh. “What more do you want from me?”
“Well forgive me for–” Sokka inhales sharply and Zuko braces for the coming flood of anger.
Even when he’s not trying to, he can’t help but incite conflict.
Sokka releases his breath with a slow precision. “No, I’m sorry. That’s not what you need right now. Would you like to move to the bed? It’s softer.”
And–
Zuko knows Sokka is too kind and too patient with him at his worst moments, it’s been that way for so long, but wrongness settles in his bones at the gentleness in his voice.
“How the fuck do you know what I need?” This time he’s trying for harshness, but it falls short, only sounding like sharp splinters in dry wood.
Fuck, fuck! It’s just–he can’t do anything right, not when he actually puts in the effort, not when he tries. His best isn’t good enough, it wasn’t good enough, it will never be good enough, and now he’s gone and fucked up a good thing. Sokka is a good thing, and Zuko just pushes and pushes and someday his well of patience is going to run dry, with Zuko continually stealing so much of it.
“Hey, Zuko, please come back.” And there it is again, why is Sokka’s voice so soft and how is Zuko supposed to comprehend the puzzle of where all this caring comes from when his head is so full of empty?
“Zuko, you’re right. I don’t know what you need. Do you think you can tell me?” Zuko shakes his head slightly. Should he be crying right now? It feels like he should be doing something.
“Okay, okay, that’s alright. Do you think if I ask, you can tell me yes or no? You can just shake your head if that’s easier.” Zuko nods this time, slow and hesitant. His thoughts are coming too slow, like bitter molasses, which doesn’t even make sense when he’s having so many of them.
“Great, okay, let’s see. Would you like to lay on the bed? It’s softer.”
Zuko shakes his head quickly, but feels the need to explain. “I–the floor is easier. Low to the ground. Could I have–you don’t have to, um if you have a spare blanket?” His voice tapers out, like words getting smaller to fit on the end of a page. It feels ridiculous, humiliating even, asking like a blanket for that. What is he doing?
He should get up right now, just go back to his friends, have a few drinks, loosen up.
Better yet, go home where no one is looking gently at him and pulling the comforter straight off the bed–
“Is this okay?” Sokka’s not even mocking him, just asking with genuine concern after he messed up his fucking bed, and Zuko knows how many steps making it up is. It’s such a stupid (and unnecessary!) thing, but it’s so shamelessly thoughtful.
“I didn’t–Sokka, shit, you didn’t have to–” Sokka’s eyebrows catch (his apology? his excuses?) like a fishing net, tangling up his words until all Zuko can do is sigh softly, and latch on to the thick blanket, his voice a paper-thin whisper. “It’s good. Thank you.”
The quick ray of happiness that flashes across Sokka’s face is like a glaring beam of sunlight and Zuko wants to chase it across his face to catch selfishly for his own. What good deed did he do in another life to deserve this man’s happiness, being directed at him of all people? It’s insane, and he sorely hopes this isn’t some cruel and masterful joke of the universe, even if probably should be.
Zuko pulls the comforter over himself, curling into it like a wounded animal, disappearing into the soft folds. The texture is good, soft and smooth and fluffy and most importantly not overwhelming. He finds himself wanting to just become smaller and smaller and smaller until the weight of it would become enough to crush him, maybe compress him into something not so vast and empty. Turned on his side, he can see under Sokka’s bed, and it takes effort to resist crawling under it. It makes no sense, wanting to be restricted and confined like this but he thinks maybe it would chase away some of the numbness in his mind.
Sokka drops down from standing next to him. He sits with his legs tucked to his chest and his back against the bed frame, his head content to rest on his knees and his eyes content to watch Zuko. Calmly, quietly, focused, like a predator watching his prey but too soft for that.
In a moment of weakness and impulse, Zuko can’t help the next words that come out of his mouth.
“Will you hold me?”
Zuko immediately cringes, hating how pathetic and needy he sounds, but the damage is already done. And yet, as Sokka studies him with the same relaxed intensity, he doesn’t look upset.
“Of course.”
Zuko stares blankly at Sokka, not quite registering his words.
“Of course,” Sokka repeats and this time it sings through the thick fog and makes it to the functional part of Zuko’s mind. He nods.
“Okay.” He sounds like he’s trying to convince himself of its truth. “Okay.”
Sokka inches towards Zuko, and slowly but steadily makes his way under the blanket. His presence is warm and grounding as he settles in behind Zuko, spooning him, reach out his hands to pull Zuko close to his chest and–
Zuko tries not to cry out in agony when Sokka’s hand grazes his bare arms, biting down fiercely on his lip to muffle the sound. It’s scorching sunshine, everything he wants to want, but the warm touch is completely unbearable in this state. Sokka pulls back frantically.
“What happened? Are you okay? Did I hurt you?” Sokka fires off questions in rapid succession as Zuko shakes his arms to get the feeling out.
“I’m sorry, your hands, they’re too–it hurts, Sokka, it hurts, I’m sorry.” Zuko trips over his own words like they’re stones lodged in his throat.
Sokka instinctively reaches for Zuko’s hands but aborts the move in midair, settling for a meaningful and slightly sad look in Zuko’s direction. “Zuko, Zuko, please don’t be sorry. It’s completely okay if it’s too much. I think I have a solution but if it’s still too much please, please tell me. The last thing I want to do is hurt you.”
Sokka’s face is perfectly earnest, a rare but downright beautiful sight. With all the sarcasm and joking that Zuko knows provides him a layer of protection, it’s astounding when he just lets his guard down and gets so sincere like this.
Sokka shuffles to get up, and Zuko already misses the sunny warmth. He closes his weight-heavy eyes, and listens as Sokka rummages around somewhere, probably his closet.
Zuko lifts his eyes back open as Sokka returns, a slightly triumphant expression splayed across his face. In his hands is a piece of ocean blue fabric, which he offers out to Zuko.
“Here, it’s one of my hoodies, the softer one you like. It might help with the physical contact.”
Zuko reaches out to take the hoodie, hands cradling it like it’s precious as he tries to tug it on with valiant effort. Even with his limbs sluggish and heavy, he manages to get it on correctly. It’s oversized and comfy, and it swallows him up, fingers just barely poking out of the sleeves. If he wasn’t so tired he’d probably manage a smile.
“Good?” Sokka asks, when he sees Zuko has it on.
“Good,” Zuko confirms, and Sokka goes back to pulling him close. He’s slower, even more careful this time, putting his arms around Zuko like he’s fragile, but with the hoodie in place it no longer burns.
“Good?” Sokka asks again, looking carefully at him.
“Good,” Zuko replies, snuggling close, mind still foggy but less cold.
Zuko relaxes into the comforting pressure of Sokka's arms, letting himself get lost in the nothingness of his mind, no strain on him to talk or perform or do anything. It’s an easy silence, one that he sinks into as he once again stares under the bed.
He doesn’t know how long they’ve been there, maybe a minute, maybe an hour, before Sokka lightly threads his fingers through Zuko’s hair. Zuko looks back at him sharply, not upset but surprised. He sees an absent minded laziness on Sokka’s face before his fingers are left empty and hovering over Zuko’s head in uncertainty.
The contented expression is quickly wiped away by panic. “Shit, I’m sorry Zuko,” Sokka says, worry lacing his voice. “I wasn’t thinking.”
Somewhere in the cogs of his mind, he snorts. Too little thinking is Zuko’s entire problem here.
It felt nice though.
It felt really nice.
(It reminds him of another gentle touch, stroking his hair, all soft hands and high-necked collars and apologetic smiles as she walked away.)
“You can continue, if you want to,” Zuko says, voice wavering slightly.
“Are you sure?” Sokka asks.
This time, Zuko’s voice is still small but just a little bit steadier. “Yeah.”
When Sokka resumes gently twisting and twirling his fingers in Zuko’s hair, he can’t help but sink into it. For a little while, he can let himself go.
He can let himself be.