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let me hold your hand (and dance around the flames)

Another Ember Island Players Fic Word Count: 1956 Zutara one-shot Read on ao3

Zuko is sure his shame will consume him, obliterate him, turn him to ashes and blow him away in the wind. The only evidence of his existence will be that awful play and the wake of destruction caused by his own implosion.

And yet, it pales in comparison to the anger flowing off the water bender walking beside him. Fearing retribution, he keeps his gaze steadily ahead, focusing on the trio walking in front of them. Sokka, Suki, and Toph chatter about their portrayal; Toph lets out a roar that sends Sokka yelping into Suki’s side. Suki laughs so hard she snorts and slaps Sokka’s back as his cheeks tinge red. 

Zuko bites back a snarky comment. It’s simply propaganda, the events told with the inevitable agenda of a Fire Nation playwright, but at least they were written as comic reliefs. 

They weren’t failures and traitors. 

As they approach his family’s old vacation home, Katara’s sandal gets caught in the transition of cobblestone to sand. She loses her balance, but just as Zuko reaches a steadying arm out toward her, she rights herself on her own. Aang huffs behind him. 

Not to mention the resentment radiating off the young Avatar. Aang all but limps toward the house like a wounded puppy, head tucked into his chest. 

Katara pulls away from the group and storms off toward shore, back stiff, fists tight. Zuko slows to a stop as he watches her. She marches on to the beach, right where the tide stops overlapping the sand, and slumps to the ground, knees to her chest. 

The rest of the group carries on into the house. Aang sends one last glare at Zuko, then runs up the stairs and slams the door behind him, rattling the frame and sending an explosion of sound that evacuates nearby cicada-crickets from the trees. 

Zuko feels his chest constrict at the thought of following them inside the house. He isn’t claustrophobic–years spent at sea on a Fire Navy cruiser in close quarters with his crew desensitized him to any fears of being too enclosed. But there was a sort of heat burning under his skin. He was restless and itchy. Like if he walked into that house, he would explode, bringing the walls down around him in a terrible blaze.

Zuko glances over to the silhouette of Katara sitting in the sand again, still hunched, gently swaying back and forth with the tide. He’d seen her move like this once before, flying high over the ocean on Appa, the rain coming down around them. 

After confronting her mother’s killer, Katara had been near catatonic. They’d walked away from the quaking old man, but the further they got, the more she had withdrawn. Zuko had helped her climb onto Appa’s back, and she collapsed onto the saddle and stared blankly ahead. She might have been crying, but the rain had cast everything in a haze. As if it were all a dream. And then, like a child being comforted by a mother, she rocked herself side to side. 

She hadn’t spoken to him until they landed back at camp, and Katara had thrown her arms around him and granted him forgiveness. He remembers the warmth of her body against his, it had spread through his chest and she gave him a gentle squeeze before letting him go.

Zuko decides he would rather drown at her hand than suffocate amongst childhood memories. He approaches her as one would approach an injured turtle duck, softly and with no sudden movements.

“Go to bed, Aang.” Katara’s words are thick, tinged with finality that left no room for argument. It doesn’t escape him how maternal she sounds, as if she were scolding a petulant child. 

“It’s me,” he says. Karara peeks at him over her shoulder, then looks out toward the ocean. “I can go further down the shore if you want to be alone,” he offers, “but I’d rather not be in the house right now.”

He watches her shoulders rise as she fills her lungs with a long breath. Then, slowly, she places a hand on the sand beside her and gives it a pat. 

“You can stay.” She sounds tired now, but her tone is softer than her previous chiding. 

He sits cross legged beside her, sitting a little closer than intended, his shoulder brushing against hers. Zuko’s nerves were raw, his fingers had been trembling since the end of the first act. The gentle warmth of Katara’s arm against his was like an anchor, grounding him, giving him something to brace against. She doesn’t acknowledge it, she simply sways into him, then back, her chin resting atop her knees. 

“I’m sorry about tonight,” Zuko says. “That wasn’t a good play.”

Katara raises an eyebrow. “You didn’t write the play, Zuko.”

“No.” He grabs a handful of sand, it’s clumpy and coarse, still damp. Zuko squeezes it in his hand, then lets it crumble between his fingers. He does it again. “I'm just– sorry. I’m sorry you had to relive that. Relive me.”

She’s examining him. Zuko doesn’t dare make eye contact, but his skin prickles at the heat of her gaze on his face. It travels down his arms, to his hands, until she’s watching the grains of sand trickle between his fingertips. 

Again, he feels too large. He waits for his skin to burst open. 

“That wasn’t you on that stage, Zuko.”

“It was all the things I’ve done. All the ways I’ve hurt people.” 

How much good would he have to do to counter balance all the bad? Terrorizing citizens for any knowledge about the Avatar, burning down villages…

The Catacombs under Ba Sing Se.

The look of terror on Katara’s face, the smell of burning flesh, the cry that tore itself from her lips as she fought to get to Aang, fought to get them to the surface, fought against Azula, fought against him.

The look of anguish on Uncle’s face as he fought to keep Aang and Katara safe. 

Zuko chokes on a shuddering breath. His skin burns, his chest burns, his eyes burn.

“I’ve hurt so many people.”

So much blood.

Katara grasps his hand, grains of sand gently chafing against skin as she twines their fingers together. “Stop,” she whispers. “That was not you on that stage.”

His mind stutters, trying to pull himself from the memories. Katara squeezes his hand once and brushes her thumb over his knuckles. Back and forth. He sucks in a breath, then lets it whoosh out of his lungs. The tension in his shoulders drops. 

“You have done more than enough, Zuko.”

Enough. 

If there is wetness on his cheeks, Katara doesn’t mention it. She simply keeps rubbing soothing circles in his skin with her thumb. They watch the waves crash over the horizon.

 “Maybe I should apologize to Aang,” Zuko says, thinking of Aang’s glare. 

He can feel her deflate next to him, slumping into herself. Katara presses her face into her knees and heaves a sigh.

“He’s not angry with you,” she mumbles.  

“You didn’t see the look he gave me.”

Katara shakes her head and with a shrug says, “He’s angry with me. We had a fight at intermission.”

“What could he possibly be mad at you for?” Zuko saw the way Aang looked at Katara. He worshiped the ground she walked on, what could she have done that was so bad? And why would Aang take it out on him?

“It’s complicated.”

Zuko huffs. It’s not quite a laugh. “Try me.”

Katara gives him an uncertain look, then turns her gaze back to the ocean. Just when Zuko thinks she’ll ignore him, her voice breaks over the sound of the waves.

“Aang had… a hard time distinguishing between the play and reality. Ever since we met we’ve been really close. For months it was just me, Sokka, and Aang. And then Toph joined and it was the four of us. I always trusted them with my life, but it felt like Aang was on my side when Sokka and Toph pushed me too hard. He helped me through some pretty bad things, and I helped him, too.

“I found him in an iceberg, so I was possessive , I guess. He was going to save the world. My world. And I would have done anything–” Karata’s voice cuts off, followed by a frenetic breath. The waves wash higher on the shore, in time with her quick breaths. The water sweeps against their feet.

“I would have done anything to make him happy. He’s my best friend and of course I love him, but what he wants...” Katara heaves a shuddering breath. And then another. Her next words come quickly, garbled. “It’s too much. I’m trying to win a war, and so is he! But I can’t–I feel like I can’t even breathe.”

And then Katara makes an awful sound, a low whine cut off by a choked gasp. And then, even worse, she’s apologizing .

“I’m sorry,” she breathes, pulling her hand from his and swiping under her eyes. “This is stupid, just like that ridiculous actress.” Her hands leave behind grains of white sand on her cheeks. 

And for the first time, Katara looks defeated. Not even nine months ago, in a much colder continent, with her family's lives at stake and only a water whip to protect them did she look so small. She had built herself up with fury, indignation. She made up for what she didn’t know in determination. 

Now, with her eyes squeezed shut and shoulders hunched, there was nothing she could fight to make this hurt go away.

Zuko is at a loss for how to comfort her, and he hates himself for it. She so effortlessly brought him from the edge of panic. Forgave him when he was the face of everything that was taken from her. 

He thinks of her arms thrown around his neck. Her thumb brushing circles into his hand.  

And he does what he should’ve done when Katara sat numbly in Appa’s saddle. Zuko pulls Katara into his side, tucks her head into his shoulder, and hugs her. He winds his arms around her back, and sways her gently, his chin tucked over top of her head. Katara lets out a whimper, and then her arms circle around his waist. She buries her face into the crook where Zuko’s neck meets his shoulder. 

For a moment, all there is is the roar of the waves and his stiffness. He doesn’t want to jostle her, spook her. But her fists clench handfuls of his shirt and she is shaking, chest heaving with silent sobs. 

Zuko thinks of his mother and turtle duck bites and cries met with warm arms and soothing whispers. And he sways her, side to side, soothing a hand down her hair. She smells of sea salt and the old bath oils left in the wet room.

“Okay,” he says into her hair, “okay.”

It’s not okay. Zuko knows what it’s like to collapse under the weight of expectation, knows what it’s like to choke on the disappointment of others, knows the taste of desperation. It had almost killed him, back in that apartment in Ba Sing Se. And when he’d made it back to the Fire Nation on the basis of Aang’s murder, there were times he wished the fever had taken him. 

So much pain.

“Nothing like the actress,” he says. There is wetness and sand and shuddering breaths against his neck. “You are strong, this is strength.”

Katara takes a deep breath. Then another.

The waves wash back out to the ocean and quiet to a lull.

“You’ve given more than enough."

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