CaSophie

It was nice woodwork, Aang thought, his eyes fixed upon it. With a slight tilt of his head, he managed to catch the passing of details—swirling golden flames, dancing blue dragons and people firebending—all of it carved into the sharp lines of the desk’s edges.  

The wood was reddish, yet bore hints of usage on the other side, where the Headmaster’s armchair stood empty. Perhaps originating from Ember Island? Although Aang couldn’t be really sure. He’ll have to ask Kuzon about it once these unpleasantaries are behind him.

It was a truly fine piece of furniture. Shiny, where the sunlight glided across the surface. Sturdy. Reliable Just like everything in this room, really.

The Headmaster didn’t seem like the type to waste resources on frivolous things, unless it served him purpose. He could—

The door behind Aang’s back opened and then closed with the sort of finality one would experience during a funeral. 

Aang’s spine stiffened reflexively, his nails digging into the armrests of his own chair, clawing at the mahogany. The air, an element that always represented freedom, stilled at the elderly man’s mere arrival. 

A shuffle of a boot scraping against the floorboards. 

A rustle of robes gliding towards him. 

Aang forced himself to stare ahead, to keep his trembling pale hands still.

“I knew it’d be only a matter of time until you sat in this chair, singing your confession,” the Headmaster began, his voice a sharpened blade hidden by faux tenderness, “although I must admit to have you here is certainly… disappointing. You are, after all, his star pupil.”

The Headmaster walked around the desk, hands clasped behind his back. The small stripes of sunlight caught the edges of the broad red sleeves of his robes, the golden embroidery at the edges glittering for a moment.

“He always spoke highly of you, he did, yes. Truly a shame…” 

A pause. 

“But, I suppose, life is just one long line woven from betrayals.”

He lowered himself into his armchair in a way a king would seat his throne. From a drawer, the Headmaster produced what had to be records he kept about all of the high school's delinquents. All the while he kept his hollow golden eyes fixed on Aang’s pale face.

“Your merry band of misfits broke the school rules, my rules, in such grand scale in a single semester, it made the Freedom Fighters look like innocent angels in comparison,” he separated the files, five of them—one was empty—all wrapped in differently dyed leather (Aang tried not to wince) with yellowed labels plastered upon them. Names, Aang realized as he squinted at the black kanji, written in flowy penmanship.

“Most common offenses include physical assault with waterbending, forgery, theft—” okay, that sounded a lot like Katara, “—vandalism, impersonation of authority—” and that was most likely Sokka, “—illegal earthbending tournaments in the gym, attempted homicide, blackmailing of the faculty members—” that was definitely Toph, “—and arson.”

“Wait, Zuko's there too?” Aang looked up, his eyes wide, but immediately regretted his brash action when the Headmaster graced him with scathing glare. 

With one bony finger, the elderly man tapped the empty crimson file.

Aang’s thin brows twitched in a slight frown. 

Why was it empty? Sure, Zuko didn’t hang around them as much, but got into a lot of trouble with them too! And he wasn’t subtle about it either.

“Naturally. I requested an additional file from the school’s councilor the moment I heard rumors of the boy’s latest endeavors,” the Headmaster’s eyes narrowed a fraction, “And the company he keeps these days.”

“But you don’t have a file on me.” 

A statement, not a question. 

“You had a certain form of immunity gifted to you by the faculty on behest of the Republic City’s councilmen. Due to your… backround—” here the Headmaster made a vague motion with his hand, “—I found it prudent to give you more chances than most people in my position would find agreeable.”

Aang’s face fell, his lashes lowering as he glanced down at the back of his hand, and the sharp point of the blue arrow tattooed into its skin. His fingers curled into a fist so tightly his knuckles turned paper-white. 

Through gritted teeth, the monk of the Southern Air Temple took a breath in, ignoring the sharp pang in his lungs. He held it in until his chest started to burn, until his surroundings blurred and the colours blended like flavours of tea. 

Aang blinked away the tears welling up in the corners of his eyes. It was no use. Lamenting over his loss wouldn't fix the hollow pit that was left in the wake of his home’s desecration. He and Gyatso, and the remaining survivors already mourned their dead… still.

Aang raised his gaze, hands still balled into fists.

The Headmaster’s face was composed. Blank. As if Aang’s grief was nothing but a mere (and very dull) part of a theatre play. A charade. 

Aang’s jaw clenched. What a bastard.

The Headmaster went on, in the same soft, dry voice as if no interruption occurred: “But now, the evidence gathered from the camera footage and testimony of the students that were present to witness the moment of the assault bear a certain weight your excuses cannot withstand—were you to defend yourself, of course.”

The Headmaster’s carefully built composure cracked only a little, as his white bushy brows drew into a deep frown, expression darkening.

“Well? I’m keen on understanding why, in Agni’s holy name, you had thrown Coach Zhao out of the cafeteria window.”

“Self-defense… sir,” Aang hissed out the title with thinly veiled venom. It didn’t go unnoticed. “He harassed me and my friends in gym class. When I tried to talk him out of it, he retaliated with force. By using firebending. So I airblasted him. Hard.”

“He broke his right forearm’s ulna and radius, fractured three ribs and sprained his ankle while trying to land.”

“Zhao called Katara and Sokka filthy savages, so pardon me, sir, for standing up for my friends!” Aang spat out, nearly bolting from his seat.

A whirlwind of dust, which was collected from the top of the bookshelves behind the Headmaster’s back, rose to a wild dance, staining the crisp air with its filth. The Headmaster barely paid it any mind.

“Coach Zhao informed me your friends maimed one of the volleyball team players. Chang, I believe?” He adjusted the embroidered cuff of his broad sleeve. “Yes, a fine player. He won this school several awards in the Youth’s League. Popular. Wealthy. Hm… as witty and resourceful as a turtleduck stuck in a small pond, but I suppose we all have our own talents.”

“His father—an admiral of your nation’s fleet, mind you—took part in the naval assault on the Southern Water Tribe six years ago.”

Aang received the news days after it happened. He and Gyatso were cleaning the alcoves—a small ritual the two of them chose to turn into a weekly  routine—when the monks told him. He wrote letters. Dozen of them. To Katara. To Sokka. To Hakoda. To anyone who might’ve survived. Katara’s reply only came a week later. 

A little quietly, Aang added: “Amongst the civilian casualties was their mother, Kya.”

“Yes, I’m aware. But a personal loss doesn’t excuse such crude behaviour.”

“He stole Katara’s necklace! The only possession her mother left her!” Aang fumed, already red in the face. “He stole it and then threw it in the bin, calling it asymmetrical nightmare and a thing only uncultured plebeians would wear.”

“That aside, you still physically assaulted a member of the faculty. You broke the rules. You must be punished.”

Aang opened his mouth to speak, but decided against it. No need to make his situation worse. Not that it wasn’t bad already.

The Headmaster took a clean sheet of small paper—a detention slip, Aang realized—from another drawer and an inkwell with a calligraphy brush from another. He opened the inkwell, expertly rolled his sleeve up to his elbow, dipped tthe brush in and started writing.

“You shall serve detention for the next week with Coach Zhao, every morning from 4.30 to 6.30 in the gym. You’ll also write him an apology letter and deliver it personally. You are also forbidden from attending the high school’s music band—wether you’ll be expelled from the other afterschool clubs will be up to the majority vote by the faculty. You’ll be informed by Head Secretary when that happens The other two weeks of detention will be supervised by the cleaners—communal service around the schoolgrounds. And one last thing: you may no longer bring your pet into the school. It stays home.”

“What? No! You can’t… it’s outrageous, unfair! Appa is my flying bison—my best friend, you can’t just separate us!”

“Oh, but I can,” the Headmaster replied, his tone casual, “and I am.”

“You—”

Someone knocked at the door, before opening them just enough to let a slight man dressed in wrinkled red-and-black uniform slip inside, his sharp amber eyes darting from Aang to the Headmaster. It was the Head Secretary.

“Pardon my interruption Your M—ehm!” he coughed into his sleeve. “Pardon me, Headmaster, but Professor Roku is… well, he’s here and demands to speak with you immediately. He says it’s urgent and—”

The door slammed open and into the office stormed Aang’s philosophy Professor, eyes of dying embers immediately fixed upon the detention slip.

He was dressed in finely crafted robes of dark red silk held together by a sash of yellow wool wrapped around his waist, not unlike the colour the Air Nomads had for their own robes. His white hair tied into an impeccable topknot, Professor Roku looked like a picture of a regal nobleman. At least he would’ve been, were he not talking hundred miles per minute.

“Before you start yelling at me about impropriety and the three-knock-rule, allow me to interrupt you with a reminder that Aang cannot serve detention for the next two weeks due to the upcoming Golden Dragon Festival, which you are surely aware of, is next Thursday.” Professor Roku leaned over, one hand firmly planted against the desk, supporting his weight, the other placed close to the Headmaster’s own.

Aang’s confused gaze jumped from one man to the other, thin brows arched high. 

It didn’t escape his notice the way the Headmaster’s shoulders slumped ever so slightly, his golden eyes lowered and pointedly staring at the detention slip, watching the ink dry. He looked uncomfortably stiff sitting in that chair; spine coiled, lips drawn into a tight line, tips of ears tainted pink, like roses.

Wait.

Aang blinked, focusing his squinted eyes on the Headmaster’s face. No. It surely was a trick of light. He couldn’t…

Oh.

Oh, Great Spirits, was the Headmaster flustered? Their hands were barely touching! And yet, he still wouldn’t aknowledge the Professor, stubbornly avoiding his pleading eyes, his fingers restlessly tapping the sturdy wood. He was white like the ink-stained sheet sitting before him, mocking him.

Oh, Aang’s lips curled into a knowing smile. This is good.

“Aang is an irreplaceable member of the school band, his skill on wind instruments are legendary and his presence is expected. He needs to be in top shape to perform and…” Professor Roku clasped the Headmaster’s hand, his eyes locked with the other man's distressed face, “Why are you frowning at me like that? You know this is important, we’ve been making plans and preparations for months!”

“I…” the Headmaster’s voice failed him, and he transformed the sputtering noises into an old man’s cough, covered by the sleeve. 

The rose flush traveled from tips of ears to his sharp cheeks and then sides of neck. He appeared to be in want of a swift death. Aang would’ve gladly helped him… with choosing the spot where he’d like to be cremated, of course.

“Fine,” the Headmaster rasped. “He’ll serve detention in two weeks. Just… hmpf… You are all dismissed.” He made a vague gesture with his hand.

Professor Roku smiled, that familiar smug curve of his, the one he used when he knew he got what he wanted. It was awfully reminiscent of Gyatso's expression whenever he won a game of pai sho.

Leaning back, Professor Roku placed his opened left hand on top of his right hand's closed fist and bowed.

The Head Secretary and Aang hastily did the same. Aang almost forgot the man was even here, he’d been so quiet the entire time.

“You are most gracious, Headmaster.  We won’t disappoint you.”

“May Agni’s blessed light guide your path,” the Head Secretary squeeled, before slipping away.

Professor Roku turned to look at Aang, head inclined towards the door. “Come on, we’ve got work to do.”

Aang nodded hastily, bolting after the tall man, relief washing over him the moment the door closed behind him.

“They were what?!”

“Together, yes!” Gyatso’s warm laughter resonated through the living room. His storm-grey eyes, always crinkled in a mysterious knowing smile, shone with delight.

With a graceful sweep of hands he poured two cups full of ginseng tea, the smell enrapturing Aang’s senses. It was their little tradition at this point; tea time after school. Just the two of them, relaxing and simply talking about their respective journeys each underwent through the day, and then discuss plans for the afternoon and tomorrow.

Their evenings were full of quiet prayer. A whisper of dying winds. Names repeated in the dead of night, whispered to no one but himself and Gyatso. Names of their peers, friends, loved ones, family.

Besides the names, the two monks engraved faces into the clear depths of their memories. Carving their features into the hollow of their bones, because no one else but them would care to keep their spirits alive, no one else but them to mourn the people—their people, the way they deserved.

“But that was decades ago,” Gyatso made an exasperated gesture with his free hand, the motion dismissive. Cutting. As if the concept of the Headmaster’s and Professor Roku’s togetherness was a dying bird. Better killed by a merciful hand than to exist in a shadow of its own misery. “Back when they both attended the Royal Academy for Boys back in Fire Nation.”

He placed the tea pot and the cups on a small wooden tray. For a singular moment, Aang’s mentor stared at the shabby cream wall and its peeling tapestry, at the dusty cupboards and half-empty shelves. Gyatso shook his head, his kind smile widening a fraction, and yet it carried only half of its usual warmth, as if someone stole his carefree spark and replaced it with this alien blankness.

The elderly monk carried the tray towards the tatami mat placed on the creaky floor. Both he and Aang sat down, the wind rustling around their robes, singing for its surviving children.

The temporary flat they’ve been graciously given by the Republic City’s government was small and old, and damp, with two bedrooms and one living room, with a small kitchen counter built in the corner, right opposite of the sad-looking door. It was fine. More than fine, really. They had a roof above their heads, and food to put in their mouths.

Gyatso sighed, shaking his head. A flash of worry flickered in his eyes, his long, bony fingers stroking the tea pot’s ceramic lid. It was one of the only things Gyatso managed to save from the ruins of Southern Air Temple. That and their gliders.

“I had no idea he still harboured such feelings towards Roku,” Gyatso whispered against the rim of his cup before taking a strong sip. “I thought the flame died out after their fight… and yet, the heart still seems to burn bright and true.” Gyatso’s voice lowered to a malicious serpentine hiss, the tone of his voice made Aang’s skin crawl with revulsion.

“It should've disintegrated with the rest of his rot. But the cancer still keeps on thriving. He can’t ruin him, can’t take away his happiness. Not again. Not after everything.”

Aang has been aware of Gyatso’s immense dislike for the Headmaster in a way a person is aware of thunderstorms. That it was real. Dangerous. Loud in ways only silence inside one’s own mindscape could be, or in silence of small children crying over a grave of their parents, siblings, friends, angrily clutching the remnants of their old life now torn apart, cursing the world. Fate. The people responsible. Swearing vengeance upon anyone whom they deem an enemy.

But Gyatso’s anger wasn’t a curse born of envy—if it were, it would’ve been directed at another person entirely—but of fear that someone he loved might be carved open and left to bleed out in a puddle of guilt and grief.

That Professor Roku might find a part of himself willing to forgive this man, the person who supposedly nearly brought him to ruin, and might reach out his hand; trusting once more all too easily. And then, once he gets too close, he’ll burn.

“I… don’t think Professor Roku’s aware of the, um, effect he still has on the Headmaster. When he dragged me out of the office, he only seemed preoccupied with the preparations for the festival.” Aang said, choosing his words carefully, eyes strangely hypnotized by the steam rolling from his own cup. It resembled a rising cloud of smoke.

“He didn’t seem to care about the Headmaster’s… subtle interest. In that way, at least.”

Gyatso took another sip—Aang mirrored him— before placing their cups down, the clicking sound echoing in harmony.

“Roku has always been rather clueless about the effects he has on people. Not all the time, of course. Only when he’s absorbed in something he becomes… disinterested about anything else.”

“I don’t think Aunt Ta Min would let any of that slide, though. If she finds out—”

“When she finds out,” Gyatso corrected with a grin.

Aang nodded, his own smirk badly hidden by the less-than-graceful sips. “Right. When she finds out, we’ll be standing on the Square of Justice, witnessing the first public execution of a royal in centuries.” he said half-jokingly. Because as much as he hated the man, Aang… didn’t want him dead. Not like Gyatso or Aunt Ta Min did.

“It’ll be a bloody spectacle. Banners of red-and-black flying in the wind, bouquets of fire lilies decorating pots, their crimson petals staining the pristine pavement like droplets of blood already spilled. Not dramatic. Not a theatre. Just a clear message to the masses. Something very Ta Min-like.”

Aang didn’t wince at the horrific description, because Gyatso’s tone was warm and full of humour, and yet beneath it all, a whisper of bloodlust lingered still.

An error.

A flaw in the mask.

How unlike everything Gyatso was. Kind, full of humour and childish whimsy that matched with Aang’s adventurous nature. Mentor. Caretaker, Father. Friend.

Aang looked away, because the grey eyes of the man who taught him that all life was sacred were condemning the life of a man Aang knew only little about.

Aang looked away, for the guilt that shone in his eyes was far too bright, far too real; Gyatso would easily read him and figure out his scheme. Call him selfish. Tell him Aang was wrong and that he should be ashamed of trying to fix a garden that has been abandoned decades ago; now a wild jungle full of unstable greenery, with vines of poison growing over the rotting fence, and blue flowers of reluctance mixing with white blooms of hatred.

“Why did they part in the first place?” Aang asked, finishing his tea in a sloppy manner, the liquid—still running hot—burning his tongue. Aang welcomes the sharp stings with a content sigh.

“I was told that the cause of their quarrel was Ta Min,” Gyatso spoke up after a while, the tone of his voice grave. A form of ancient grief settled over him; his shoulders slumped, his spine coiled inwardly like a snailbeetle’s shell. Aang has never seen his mentor grow so old in a matter of seconds.

“Sozin… He did something unspeakable to her, something Roku was—and still is—unable to forgive.”

Aang frowned. But the Professor was acting like he and the Headmaster had been old friends? Surely they wouldn’t have been so chummy if… if.

“Spirits, you should’ve seen him,” Gyatso rasped, finally finishing his tea. “Murder in his eyes, so vicious, so wrong. A blade carved from a broken heart. Whatever Sozin did, it changed Roku in a scale only before unimaginable.”

“But that’s enough sadness for today. I don’t wish to frighten you more with stories of another’s past, now a black-and-white memory. We still have evening and tomorrow ahead of us. Bright warm tomorrow. Let’s focus on that, Aang.”

He smiled at Aang then, the familiar reassuring curve of lips that made Aang’s stomach twist in the nicest of ways, made him remember that there was still some good in this world left that was worth fighting for.

“Okay,” Aang smiled back.

He talked to Gyatso about the lectures, both the boring ones; sociology, chemistry, mathematics, and the more exciting; P.E., music class, philosophy, history.

Described the endless drone of Professor Pakku’s dull voice, the excitement buzzing through the class as Katara argued with him about some stupid sexist stuff (again), and the way both the student and the Professor rose up into a bullheaded yelling match. Naturally, it earned Katara detention. Again. But not before she froze Pakku’s entire left arm against the blackboard.

Aang talked on and on, his voice and excited chirp; talked about running around the library, stealing books on engineering from the forbidden section, carefully creeping behind the oblivious librarian.

He talked about Toph and Suki causing trouble together, talked about the food fight the Freedom Fighters started (it was sponsored by Ozai Corp, which got a… reaction… out of most). It was a blast.

The atmosphere in their flat grew considerably lighter, as some weight finally fell off of both their shoulders. Warmth returned, and so did Gyatso’s gentle smile and easy laugh.

But the guilt festering within Aang’s chest only grew, festered. Still, he kept smiling. Pretending all was well. Not yet, but soon enough, Aang reasoned.

All will be well soon enough.

Because Aang’s plan started forming way before Professor Roku dragged him out of the Headmaster’s office.

Because the spark lit up the fireworks in the back of his mind the moment their fingers brushed, the moment he caught the crack in the Headmaster’s composure—the rose-coloured flush. The way he hesitated, ever so slightly, stumbling over his words like a turtleduckling learning to walk. How he avoided his eyes, those warm loving eyes.

An idea has been formed in Aang’s head. Reckless. Foolish. Brilliant. The sort of plan that will ruin lives the way a forest fire does; swiftly, fatally, irreversibly.

Yet the hope of better tomorrow outweighed the possibility of ruin.

And Aang, despite being a child of winds and bright heavens could be as stubborn and as unmoving as a rock.

So, he decided, he’ll fix it. The broken heart of one cruel and bitter man that never moved on, forsook love for power, who decided that it wasn’t worth it.

Tomorrow, he’ll inform the rest.

Today, he won’t think about the consequences and laugh until the bitter taste of regrets is washed out by tea and cakes Gyatso liked to bake.

When he settled down to sleep, Aang dreamt of a boy his age disappearing beneath the surface of a cold lake.

He dreamt of the Southern Air Temple alight like a funeral pyre, and a comet—a scarlet wound oozing into this world, sailing through the starless sky.

He dreamt of a beautiful girl with bright-green eyes, laughing, inky waterfall of raven hair flowing in the wind.

When he woke up, he was unable to recall his dreams.

It won’t come off.

No matter how hard he scrubbed himself the fathom touch still lingered; seeped deeply into his skin, his flesh, his very bones. Roku’s warmth, his presence burned against the fingers of his hand like a brand made by a piece of molten iron. A ghost of something long lost yet still very much alive, breathing, surviving in the most unconventional and despicable forms.

The abandoned sentiment settled inside his shrunken heart of stone like an ancient battlehardened dragon, curling its tail around its serpentine body like a lazy cat. Not in defeat, not adjusting to the inevitability of death. Simply waiting. Expecting an answer once it graces the world with its roar.

Sozin despised Roku and the treacherous ache that came with every encounter he was forced to endure, with every smile aimed at him he was forced to dismiss. To store away, deep into the singular half-forgotten corner of a heart that forgot what love was.

Ridiculous, he thought.

He scrubbed himself harder.

The pale, wrinkled flesh of his hands and forearms went from a flushed pink to angry red, burning in the most unfamiliar ways.

Sozin clenched his teeth.

Not enough.

He bit the inside of his cheek until it stung, until beads of copper dripped onto his tongue.

He scrubbed harder, and harder, and harder.

He needed to rid himself of Roku, of the sweet memory of his touch,

(warm hand fitting perfectly against Sozin’s own as the shorter boy leads the two of them through the dance, the music a slow romantic waltz. The Crown Prince doesn’t flinch as his best friend rests his head against his shoulder, a small sentimental smile gracing his lips. Sozin simply laughs—perfect and effortless—before leaning down, murmuring something against the crown of Roku’s head.)

his voice,

(Roku’s laughter is infectious; rich and full of life, the kind Sozin would never hear in the palace or during council meetings. It’s real. Real and human and so unlike every other nobleman, and Sozin loves the way it rings through the gardens after they spar, his best friend his something more rolling in the grass, breathless, sweaty and beautiful.)

his lips.

(Their kisses were sweet and hungry, and eager. All of the ‘I love you's’ which are never said but understood, because Roku loves Sozin and Sozin loves Roku, and it’s simple and as real as the fact that Agni rises in the east and falls in the west. All is bright and perfect in their world, and nothing can take Roku—his Roku away. Then she comes into Roku’s life, bright and gentle, and full of fire unlike anything Sozin has seen before.. And the first cracks start appearing around the edges of their perfect world.)

So he kept on scrubbing with fury so hot the water in the shower started boiling. He ignored the sharp pain, the bite of sand paper against his tender fingertips. Ignored the scarlet beads forming on his palms, then dripping down and breaking over the marble floor.

His hands were marred with small red lines after he finally deemed himself properly clean.

It still wasn't enough.

It'll never be enough.