#cruria

In response, Aang presents the palm of his hand, a thick strip of elaborately woven threads in the middle of it. “Hemp fibre,” he mutters, picking up another thread from a pouch next to him, before hanging it between his teeth to measure, a little cross-eyed. “From the Earth Kingdom, I got it from that agricultural village we went to last month.” He twists the stiff threads with quick precision. 

“You’re making a bracelet,” Zuko says. Watching Aang’s technique jogs his memory. “...Like the monks’ lucky bands you told me about.” 

Aang glances up with a grin, brief but dazzling. “Yeah. You remembered.” He hands the item to Zuko for inspection. Zuko takes it carefully, trying not to tangle the loose ends. He holds it up to the firelight. It’s impressive – he can spot several types of knots and twists with no clue of how they could be combined so elegantly. 

“Gran-Gran offered me seal-gut string which is smoother, but I don’t think the monks would have liked that.” 

Zuko laughs and hands it back. “For Katara?” He can guess easily enough from the sheepish way Aang looks at him, not to mention the rapt attention he gives the task. That’s why they aren’t sitting together. 

“Yeah. So it’s not really for luck, I guess, it’s just– a gift.”  

Zuko nods and continues observing Aang braid the threads in silence. 

The scraps of conversation around the circle merge into one hazy murmur as he watches. Zuko relishes the peace and quiet, the opportunity to simply watch. It’s a peculiar thing to observe an Air Nomad tradition, just as it’s peculiar to be invited to the Southern Water Tribe, and to be there willingly in the depth of winter. The strangest parts of his new life as Fire Lord are in the little details, not the big responsibilities. 

Aang scrunches up his eyebrows and curses lowly, undoing a knot he just made. Zuko smirks to himself. When he thinks of Aang in action, it’s the sheer prowess of the Avatar’s fighting skill that crosses his mind; or alternatively, his skill of mediating. He never really gave thought to Aang’s hobbies, though watching him now, it seems to entail the same eerie patience that Zuko finds equal parts frustrating and inspiring.

Zuko thinks he’s the opposite. Uncle would probably say he hasn’t had the privilege to think about mundane arts and crafts in years, but Zuko doesn’t think that’s true – he’s just not that kind of guy.

He remembers he used to like fire-writing when he was a kid, though he was never any good at it. The tsungi horn, too, was something he reluctantly came to enjoy, once he stopped having tantrums over being forced to learn it. 

Anything so frivolous disappeared forever with his banishment.  

Aang’s eyes reflect the low firelight as they flit across the threads.

“How long is it gonna take you?” Zuko asks, if only to distract himself from the sneaking ache that seeps into him, watching Aang in focus. How does someone go through all that he has – all they both have – and still get excited about making trinkets? 

“Pretty long... I’ve been working on it at almost every gathering this week,” Aang says. He adds meekly, “it’s a complex braid, but I want her to have the prettiest one so…” He laughs nervously, his expression morphing quickly as he thinks of something to change the subject. “Wait – let me show you something – hold this for a minute.” 

Zuko holds on to the bracelet again while Aang digs around in the pouch. It’s ludicrously simple and plain compared to the kind of jewellery he’s grown up around – everything here is. He imagines it tied around Katara’s skinny wrist; how suitable it would be. He imagines tying it around her wrist himself, a thought so abrupt and unjustified that he blames it on all the ceremonial hand-clasping they’ve been doing for the past few weeks – as pioneers of the new, restorative relationship between their homelands. Zuko had promised to see it done before the anniversary of the end of the war, gravely underestimating how many lengthy community discussions and presentations it would take. That’s why he’s here, six months later. He can’t say he minds. 

“This,” Aang says, carefully unspooling another thread, so delicate that Zuko’s eyes can only make out the thin lines when they catch the light of a wayward flame, “I got this from Toph– well, I got her to make it.”

Zuko might have judged prematurely about the plainness. It’s silver – probably pure silver, like the embroidery on the expensive robes worn in court parties. Glinting like sunlight trapped by the ocean. Zuko finds it hard to believe there’s even a trace of impurity in that, marvelling as ever at Toph’s abilities. “That’s gonna be the finishing touch,” Aang says.

Zuko nods approvingly. He wonders idly how Mai would have reacted to something like that. “It’s a really nice gift for your girlfriend.” 

Aang recoils slowly, shaking his head. “What–no. It’s not really for that, it’s just a nice thing to do. I mean, it’s special, obviously, but that’s not because we’re dating – I think we are, anyway – but that wouldn’t make sense since I’m making—” he stops short, “Uh.” 

“What?” 

“Nothing,” Aang says, his voice rising an octave. He looks away from Zuko and straightens his posture, staring into the distance as if something foreboding just dawned on him. “Nevermind.” He scratches the back of his head before returning to Zuko with a strained smile.  

Zuko frowns. “Sure, okay. Whatever.” He doesn’t bother to even pretend to know what goes on in Aang’s head. “Do you want to go get something to eat?” 

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