#as you can see i lost the battle against gibing him long hair

[damsxlette]

the photographer is plaguing my thoughts

[swishandflickwit]

a million nights i've lived this quiet (i need to know if you hear this too) — 1/1

Summary: “That looks dangerous.”

“I eat danger for breakfast,” he snits, tone dry as a desert and the effect just as unpleasant.

She raises an unimpressed brow.

“You’ve been spending too much time with Toph.”

He smirks.

“That one’s on your brother, actually.”

“Figures,” she mutters with a roll of her eyes.

zutara + haircut

Ratings: General Audiences

Words: 2.8k

Warnings: unbeta'd, fluff, fluff without plot, haircut, hugs, hand holding, canon divergence (i think?), sozin's comet, set somewhere in the old masters (because as usual, we throw canon in the blender), generally a lot of wholesomeness all around, gratuitous use of sun and water metaphors (as you do when it comes to zutara), basically zuko and katara share a quiet moment before canon hits the fan lol

AN: i see a lot of zutara post agni-kai but what about zutara pre-agni kai huh?

Title from: wanna know by sabrina claudio

Other song inspirations include: frozen also by sabrina claudio and this version of chasing cars originally by snow patrol, covered by the wind and the wave. highly recommended listening.

Also on: ff.net | AO3

Other writing

Tagging: @jerkbend by request! hope you enjoy this one bb <3

-//////-

"That looks dangerous." 

He doesn't chuckle, but neither is he quick enough to suppress the tug curling at the right corner of his lips—his mirth incontestable even through the warped looking glass from which she views him, stood as she is at the opening flap of his uncle's tent.

By the time she fully steps into the living quarters, his face is schooled into the deeply discontented, partly pained-to-be-alive glower he so favors.

"I eat danger for breakfast," he snits, tone dry as a desert and the effect just as unpleasant.

She raises an unimpressed brow.

"You've been spending too much time with Toph."

He smirks.

"That one's on your brother, actually."

"Figures," she mutters with a roll of her eyes. "What with half his brain being in his stomach..."

The laughter that the gibe yanks from the firebender is biting and brief, but Katara's breath hitches at the sound all the same. She latches on to it, holds it somewhere between her throat and chest, not too distant from the pitifully hollow space in her heart that she isolates from the bitter, ugly parts of her that are forged in battle and conflict.

"Should you…" is there a delicate way to phrase such a question? No, judging by the dirty look he throws her way, guessing at her thoughts, no there is not. She stifles the giggles bubbling at her throat with herculean effort, before remarking rather bluntly, "Are you qualified to handle that?"

He maintains his glare a second more before bowing his head and releasing a hot huff of air towards the ground in resignation. He places the mirror—from which the whole of their interactions had been exchanged thus far—atop the low table in front of him, then shifts so the entirety of his figure faces her. When he lifts his gaze, the veil of gloom that so frequents his visage has dissipated enough to allow a brittle smile to peek through.

"Probably not," he concedes with an amiability uncommon to his appearance. "Will you help me?"

But she likes the way the expression settles on him. It quells the ragged contours of his scar, somehow—his eyes seemingly unburdened by the sorrow he often declines to share, for once. As if in putting breath and voice to the request, he's quieted the ghosts of his troubled past for the moment to be fully present, here. 

With her.

So when his metal-ladden hand falls almost shyly towards her, his stare gentle but no less piercing in its signature, sun-blessed intensity—obscured as they are by his unruly, ebony tendrils—she smiles. It is a fragile thing, muscles straining as they pull from the recesses of memories she also staunchly refuses to be tainted by war, but there—its sweetness shaped after her mother's loving lullabies, built in her father's effervescent embrace, and fashioned from each of her friends' unconquerable spirits. 

She catches him, fingers winding into the shears in his grasp, and there is nothing for her than to accept.

"So what do you wanna do," she starts, eager to dispel the solemn atmosphere. "Some more layers? A buzz cut? Oh!" she nicks at the air experimentally, gleefully. "How about we just cut everything off?"

"You look way too happy to have an excuse to point that thing at me. That very sharp, very death-inducing thing."

"Shut up!" This time she lets her laughter loose, shoving at him playfully so that he's once again turned to the wooden chabudai. "Seriously," she cajoles until he picks up the mirror and through it, she glimpses his sedate mien. The levity in her demeanor fades, pitch dipping instead to match his contemplative stare. "What do you want?"

"I've been asked that a lot this past year," he sighs, bending his legs into a lotus position before slumping in on himself. "Yet I don't think I've ever really given a straight answer."

Task temporarily forgotten, she abandons the scissors at her feet to squeeze both his shoulders in reassurance. "Well whatever it is, I won't judge, if that's what you're worried about."

"I know. You're a great friend," he leans into her touch, and she beams at both the declaration and the rare show of guileless affection. "Fortune rarely sees fit to favor me but I'm really lucky I get to call you so."

The gravity of his proclamation has distress roiling like a tsunami underneath her skin, tempered only by the tinge of whimsy that weaves itself into his articulation. More curious than concerned now (although the stale taste of it lingers on her tongue), she lets her alarm abate at his unexpected resonance. She folds into a seiza at his left, fingers trailing the stalwart line of his back as she goes before placing them serenely on her lap, in absolute symmetry to their figures from last night. And just like she did then, she does so again now, ears at the ready and heart wide open so she can be the friend he needs, someone deserving of his reverence.

(Someone, she thinks as flickers of retrospection—of fighting against him slowly evolving into fighting with him—burst into brilliant clarity, worthy to be at his side.)

"You asked what I wanted," he rasps, low and tenuous.

He meets her stare and she hopes the encouragement in her chest burns soft like an ember through her eyes, enough to fuel the feeling of safety that ignites all too easily the more they orbit each other's presence. He inhales deep in a way that is familiar from his meditations then releases, a surrender in the exhalation—as if his apprehensions could drift away in the warm gale.

"Peace," he whispers, breaking their connection to look down at his fidgeting hands. The revelation is wrapped in such unfettered fear, as if in admitting the longing he has secured its impossibility instead of the inevitability she knows it to be, and she aches for him. "I want to put a stop to the bloodshed, an end to the suffering of both my people and yours and the rest of the nation. I want there to be a place for my soldiers to come home to. I want my mom," he sighs shakily, "and for no child to ever feel what it's like to lose a parent and for no parent to have to fear for the lives of their children as they're forced to this—this—needless slaughter. I want Toph's parents to see her for the capable woman that she is and for Suki's fellow warriors, her family, to be okay. I wish Sokka's plan succeeds, whatever it may be, and that I could guarantee your father's safety and that of your tribe. I wish my sister wasn't so messed up and that I didn't have to keep relying on my uncle to clean up after me when he's already lost so much to this fight. I wish the Spirits weren't so cruel as to put the fate of the world on the shoulders of a twelve-year old. I wish—I wish I could take back the past year, the past hundred years. I wish I could make up for all of it. I wish…" his gaze darts to her neck, digits hovering just shy of the luminescent pendant there, but not touching. 

"I wish I could bring her back for you." He drops his fingers before he can make contact. His whole body wilts with the motion before he tightens his hand to a fist at his thigh. He shakes his head, craning it towards the ceiling where he directs his smile, devoid of any humor when he adds, "But yeah, a trim should do it."

Her heartbeat is loud in her ears in the wake of the silence his confession inflicts. The weight of his monumental aspirations sits heavy on her chest yet strangely enough, it doesn't leave her shaky. If anything, it strengthens her, grounds her, lends fire to the ice in her veins so when she moves, it's with the lofty grace she knows she possesses but doesn't always feel—the skill of a master and the experience of a hardened soldier encased in her fourteen-year-old bones.

But she is grateful for it anyway, when she positions herself at his back and the scissors don't tremble in her grasp when she loops her fingers around it.

"Yeah," she murmurs right back, smoothing her digits through surprisingly silky locks. "Yeah, I can do that."

She doesn't deign to push her skill given how dim it is—both inside and out, the sun sequestered by its billowing companions like it's taken refuge because it knows the blazing, celestial wildfire to come—and that there isn't much to cut in the first place. His tresses are at that awkward length of too long to be considered short but too short to be tied up into a bun or tail. So she merely evens out what she can, tidying stray tufts and snipping at scraggily ends, grappling at any excuse to keep her hands on him. And when that same excuse runs thin—because there's only so much she can cleave before she makes good on her drollery and indeed hacks it all off—she summons the dew drops hugging the blades of grass from outside the former general's tent. She glides the ribbon of water where her hands cannot reach, siphoning the severed hairs from his person and his clothes, before discarding the soiled glob completely.

"Thank you, Katara," he mumbles, though his focus remains on the distortion his image projects on the once cast-aside mirror, particularly on his marred skin. She wants to do something about the melancholy etching his warped effigy—a stark contrast to the hue of near-tranquility that had painted itself beautifully across his pale, elegant features—so she resumes her place at his left, sitting side-saddle with her left hand propping her up and her legs curved comfortably behind him. She narrows her vision onto his profile—the pucker of his mouth, the acuate bridge of his nose, and the graceful sweep of his jaw—then lays down her query with dogged finality.

"Will you do something for me?"

"Name it," he vows in that inordinately earnest manner of his, his countenance brightening enough to keep the deceitful umbrages at bay, that she feels almost bad for asking. "Name it and it's done."

She tuts. "I can't promise it will make up for everything, and it certainly won't be easy."

"I'm used to the fight." There is no arrogance in his enunciation, only a steeliness and determination that is uniquely Zuko. "I'll do whatever it takes."

"You promise?"

"I swear it, on my uncle's life—my mother's, wherever she may be—my nation—"

"Your honor?"

He chuckles—a little broken, a little watery and not enough amusement—but does accede. "Especially on that."

"Then forgive yourself, Zuko." He drops the looking glass in shock, head abruptly swiveling towards her in a dazzling collision of blue and amber, though she does not cower—her own renowned stubbornness stoking her fortitude when she simply holds his scrutiny. "And live. Live to see your soldiers come home. Live to reunite families, to find your mother. Live long enough to create the peace you seek, and to revel in this new world you will help rebuild, help heal. Because Aang's going to save the world. But you? You're going to change it."

I hope I'm there with you when you do, she wants to say, for he may not be able to alter the past but the future—

The future will be his to shape.

So she blinks back the mysterious haze in her eyes and swallows against the lump in her throat, and teases him instead, "I mean, you're not half as useless as I thought you were after all, so you could definitely do it."

"Your vote of confidence is astounding," his inflection is wry, but she is an excellent student and he had fast become her favorite subject. She knows him, and sees the carefully cultivated rancor for the barrier that it is, hoarding all the anguish and the grief but all that overwhelming love, too, that he is so hesitant to give. And who could blame him? When he's been shunned to darkness for every moment he's attempted to part with his vulnerability. All that radiance too afraid to shine, and she wants to tell him to let the light in.

(If Aang won't kill Ozai then she will convince—not that it would take much—Toph to dig the deepest, murkiest, most rodent-infested hole for the monster who dared to smother his own son's flame.)

"And I guess," she toys with rescinding, then thinks better of it, trading banter for sincerity when she unfurls his still-clenched fist and slides her fingers in the spaces between his. "Maybe I like having you around."

And, oh, but there it is—the soaring of the dawn, and all the exaltation of new beginnings it brings with it, in the exquisite harmony of his golden gaze.

"So," he hums, twirling the tawny ringlet right by her collarbone round his pointer before tucking it behind her ear. She reels with the gesture, tilting into his space. "Forgive myself, huh?"

"And live, of course," she miffs, albeit wetly. "If not for yourself, then for your uncle who loves you dearly." She tips her chin up defiantly, daring him to contradict her. "For all of us, who love you dearly."

"Is that all?" He rolls his eyes but that elusive, frolic quirk toils with his lips. He inclines his head until their noses are but a scant few millimeters apart, buzzing impishly, "Anything else I can do?"

"Actually," she hems, stroking at a badly-hewn strand by his cheek with just a pinch of regret before resolving not to volunteer for the act of cutting his hair again in the foreseeable future. "There is." 

She bites her lip, wondering if she should request it at all before ultimately throwing caution to the wind. "We still have some time. Can we just pretend for a little while…" but no, the thought of ignoring the war even for a few minutes reeks too much of Lake Laogai so she amends. "Just stay here with me, please? Just—" 

She brings their joined hands to his chest where she can sense his heartbeat, as strong and as steady as the soul it vivifies. With the tip of her finger from her other hand, she traces the frame of his too-tense lips until it is slack with repose, trails a featherlight pathway to the outer ridges that make up the border of his scar. 

"Be quiet with me."

Those scorching orbs dance about her visage like the flickers of a candle—except he is more wax than flame when she cups his scabrous flesh, and he melts into her caress.

"I would do it just because you asked," he utters in the most dulcet of notes, and she is honored, for she recognizes the tenderness for the offering that it is. "Whatever happens out there, I'm glad it's you," he sighs, just once more. "I'm glad it's you with me."

"Together," she agrees, chin slumping onto his shoulder for purchase at the alluring giddiness his words incite. She is whirling, unmoored, until the digits of his own free hand anchor at the downy arch of her waist. He nudges, and she ebbs into a pool of untouchable calm on his lap, awash as she is in the current of him.

She closes her eyes, and when he follows suit, content to flow at her pace like he always does in return, a piece of her she hadn't even realized was aslant slots right into place.

They are hours away from the most important battle of their lives, one in which its outcome could very well destine the course of the next hundred years. Katara will not know the caliber of her entreaty, the importance of his promise, until the comet is at its zenith and her life is a paroxysmal brand seared across his middle like a supernova.

But for now, foreheads touching and their fingers seamlessly twined right above his vibrantly thrumming heart, she stows this moment beneath her ribcage, right in that war-untouched trove that pulses to the rhythm of his heart.

They are steeped in stillness, disrupted only by the din of the busy camp, and even that fades away as their breathing syncs.

Somewhere outside, the sun coasts along the heavens, beams of brilliance wrestling against its adumbrate prison. 

The clouds part, feeble rays snagging at the canvas archway of their shelter.

The light pours in.

The shadows recoil.

And together, they shine.

-//////-

AN: okay this was supposed to be an exercise in brevity and restraint but uh, i don't think i succeeded?? but given that my goal was less than 2k and we're clocking this in at 2.8k, all things considered, i see this as an absolute win lmao so if you would be so kind as to let me know if you liked it, that would be stupendous!

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