#jet writes

The sharp intake of breath that punctuates the question is Ramattra’s only indication that Hanzo has heard him, the archer otherwise not even turning to acknowledge him from where the omnic stood beside him. 

In the silence of his mind, Hanzo attempts to stir up age-old recollections, grasping for an answer, something to tell his companion— struggles, and fails. Genji’s face blurs in every scene, shaky smears across the canvas of his memory that refuse to focus and take shape. He remembers a time when he would have given anything to forget his brother’s face— but now, the prospect terrifies him. How could he forget? 

The pair are briefly enveloped once more in wintry quiet, silhouettes painting solitary figures against a backdrop swallowed in white by snowfall. Hanzo interrupts this time with a quiet huff that has the air misting around him in the cold, gloved fingers rubbing absently over the bridge of his nose. 

“In our youth, our father would often send me in search of my brother. He was… seldom home when he was needed.” Hanzo begins hesitantly, “Reliably—around this time of year—he could be found at one of the izakayas in town. 

“The noodle shop that he frequented was a shared favorite, the Rikimaru. It was his preferred haunt after a night out drinking or wandering the party districts. I had the opportunity to dine with him on one such occasion,” a flake of ice drifts from his eyelash and into the palm of his hand as he blinks slowly, “I had caught him during the early hours of the morning and had intended to drag him back home. 

He crushes the cold shard between two fingers. 

“Instead, I stayed and shared a meal with him.”

Genji tilts his head from where it rests on his knuckles, momentarily quiet as Hanzo finishes eating. There is a loose-limbed, self-satisfied glow about him, and a smudge of rouge just under the curve of his chin that Hanzo has to stifle an urge to wipe away. The soft crinkle at the edges of his lips betrays his intention to speak before he even opens his mouth. 

“You won’t tell Dad, will you?” 

Hanzo hums, setting down his lacquer chopsticks on the rim of his now empty bowl. 

“There is very little he does not already know.” 

“He could stand to worry a little less,” ventures Genji, “and so could you, anija,” 

“If you expect for me to turn a blind eye over a bowl of ramen, dear brother,” warns Hanzo, “you will find yourself sorely disappointed.” 

This coaxes a laugh out of Genji—each one bubbling out of him always like they take him by surprise—and he finds his resolve softening in spite of himself. Haloed by the warm haze of electric lights, knees bumping together under their cramped table, Hanzo has never wanted to forgive anyone so badly. 

“Then the next ones will be my treat.” 

(If Hanzo had bothered to remember, he would recall it as the last time they would eat a proper meal seated together.)

 He thinks he sees it when Jet’s lying on his back, that first night on the boat. It’s not too cold but still Jet sends small jets of steam when he breathes, his chest rising and falling in sync with the rock of the boat. He doesn’t notice, pretending it’s like those cigars on the mainland. Zuko sees Jet pretend he’s smoking, pressing two fingers to his lips and blowing. In the quiet of the ship, the hours before dawn, Jet laughs to himself.

Zuko slips across the wood of the ship deck. He’s used to sleeping outside, and so is Jet. He sleeps with everything on, armour and shoes and his hair spread out along the wood. His head’s resting on his forearm, the moonlight spilling out across his face, his other arm reaching for some stars that are clearer than Zuko has ever seen.

 Jet barely blinks, staring at the sky. All he does is puff on his imaginary pipe and channel strengths, secrets that only a boy like Zuko would recognise. Because he was there once too.

 “Can’t sleep either?” Jet asks, jolting Zuko. He didn’t even need to look, but Zuko sees the way that he watches everything without turning his head, the way he keeps himself there against all that’s left of his family. He finally turns his head slightly, making eye contact. First he looks at the scar, and then down over the rest of his face.

 “I never can,” Zuko says, and Jet sits up, undoing the clasps and metal of his armour. Off goes the armour, and then goes his shirt. There are bandages wrapped tight around his chest, rough and matching the ones that Zuko once wore. Now he wears fabric.

 He slides his shirt over to Zuko, just smiles and leaves it. He watches Jet, his skin turning milky in the moonlight, the rise of his crooked ribs, the harsh way he drags his breath in, swallowing around char. Smoke. Embers.

 “I didn’t ask for this,” Zuko says quietly, and Jet shoots him a smile because he knows, of course he does. Zuko reluctantly pulls on the extra shirt, glaring because here Jet is, naïve, as he doesn’t even get goosebumps in the breeze. His stomach keeps rising, his mouth lets out more steam.

 -

 In the daylight, Jet watches the sky. He says he’s looking for wolf-doves, because they always fly toward the shore. It’s only been a day, so any wolf-doves will be going in the opposite direction. The sky is the colour of blue paint.

 “What do you think Ba Sing Se will be like?” Jet says, predicting Zuko’s arrival as always. 

“How do you do that?” Zuko says, and notices the way Jet’s fingers leave dark marks on the wood. “How do you know it’s me, every time?”

 Jet turns to look at him, grinning. “I could be talking to anyone. But, just to be clear, I did know it’s you. You walk different. Not like any Earth boy I’ve seen- or heard.”  He looks away again, the line of his spine almost seeming to tremble. “Not like any soldier I’ve seen, either.”

 The truth feels hot and heavy in Zuko’s stomach, but he bears it. He has held this weight for almost four months, excluding those two plus years on his own. Only this boy seems to start things he can’t begin to understand, like the burning of his gaze on their first night, or the way Jet’s hands left burning tracks as they slid past. The heat in the air when his face came too close. It made Zuko want to cup his face in his hands, to tell him that Jet too was lying.

 Instead he bites his tongue and leans against the railing, tracking the movements of Jet’s body. Of course, he thinks, he needs to make sure he’s ready for an attack. You never know when a boy like Jet will strike. He is predator, curled and coiled. He could easily spring; go from still as stone to tearing at Zuko’s throat.

 Zuko forces himself to think of other things, like Ba Sing Se. “I think it’ll be hot and dry. Like everywhere else.”

 “It wasn’t like that for me,” Jet says, and there’s almost offense on his tongue. He quickly smooths it over with a gentle smile. “I think our Earth kingdoms are a little different.”

 -

 And it is flame, too, that makes Jet kiss him on the roof of the boat. They’re sitting over a restless ocean, and Jet carries that same restlessness inside him. Zuko suspects that he can’t stay still for long, suspects that this restlessness has been here for as long as time has possessed him. Still, it takes Zuko by surprise when Jet turns his head, presses his lips to Zuko’s.

 There is a part to Jet that can’t be peaceful in anything. Even his peace is violent. Everything in him revolts against the person he doesn’t know he is, the fight of hands and fists and burning in chests and in stomachs and in somewhere lower than Zuko thinks it’s okay to think about. That’s why the most surprising thing isn’t the kiss, but the gentleness. It’s nothing like Jet at all, just the slightest silent brush of lips against lips. A heat not boiling hot, but a soft warmth that leaves Zuko’s mouth tingling.

 Jet pulls back and winces, for once in his life completely still. “I think I misread the situation, huh,” he whispers. He turns away, an awkward smile on his face as he tries to pull himself together.

 Whether it be drink or evening, Zuko rests a hand over Jet’s. Then he brings those calloused fingers to his lips, so Earthy and yet smelling distinctly of smoke.

 Later, Zuko will yell at himself . Later, Zuko will wonder why he thought that any of this was a good idea. And even later than that, he’ll miss it.

 -

 Zuko’s confusion turns into anger, and anger has always been wanting of retribution. And thus, curled in the shadow of the kitchens as the guards patrol after the thieves. Shoved right into the belly of winding under-deck kitchens, store rooms, captain’s bedrooms. Food under their arms for the second time, Zuko pulls Jet into a store room and shuts the door. Slams it, more like.

 His hands gripping Jet’s shirt, he presses his nose into the soft warm skin of Jet’s throat. He feels the other boy flinch as Zuko touches the only non-armoured part that’s left. He doesn’t kiss him. He feels like this whole thing is a betrayal, and when the door of the storeroom opens he bites down on the thrum of Jet’s pulse.

 The noise that comes from Jet is somewhere between a moan and a cry. His skin rises in goosebumps, and he keeps his gaze away from the chuckling soldier who thinks that this is normal. The door shuts and Zuko feels Jet’s skin, salty and too soft between his teeth. Jet doesn’t push him away, doesn’t even try to fight him off, just sits there with his throat between Zuko’s teeth.

 “Didn’t know you were into that,” Jet rasps, his voice sounding far away. “No, that’s a lie. That’s exactly what I thought you were into.”

 Zuko pulls away, closes his eyes and tries to think of something other than the taste of sweat.

 “Is that why you didn’t kiss me back?” Jet asks next. He’s stepped closer, Zuko thinks, his face illuminated only by the crack in the door. “Should I have kissed you differently?”

And then it’s Zuko who kisses him. He grabs that irritating shirt collar, pulls their mouth hard and sharp against each other. Zuko pulls himself up, grabs for purchase on the back of Jet’s shirt, bites down on Jet’s tongue. That’s what it takes for Jet to push back, growling slightly. His hands are too hot against Zuko’s sides. A hand slips beneath the hem of Zuko’s shirt, making him flinch. Something burns in the pit of his stomach and he makes some regretful sound.

Then Jet pulls back, his mouth red. Burned, even. Zuko slumps against the shelf, gasping quietly.

Jet sighs, smiles, laughs.

“Neither of us is as strong as we wish we were.”

 -

 Jet looks best when he’s doing something. He’s one of those weird guys who look good when their face is covered in sweat, when his mouth is pursed in concentration, when his eyes are alight with action. Zuko sits on the edge of the boat and watches him pace. When he’s anxious, his hands go to his swords. He doesn’t draw them, but he finds comfort in the roughened leather.

 “How long have we been on this damned boat,” he hisses, and Zuko thinks he sees sparks.

 His anger is temporary, it’s only a manifestation of his restlessness. There are only two directions for him in this boat, all of him is surrounded and he can’t swim well. There’s the glimpse of a bruise peeking beneath his shirt collar. I did that, Zuko thinks and crosses his legs.

 “It’s sea travel,” Zuko says, “And these boats aren’t very good. My guess is a week and a bit.” He pats his hand against the railing and Jet watches it for a moment, looking like a caught bird. He purses his lips, maybe thinking of Zuko’s.

 “And then we end. Is that the plan?” Jet asks quietly, as if he truly has no idea or plan.

 Zuko doesn’t know what to say to that. He thinks that Jet must be his halcyon, the eye of the storm. On either sides of this boat there is tragedy and then there is the shield of tragedy. This is his last moment of peace, but he doesn’t know if Jet realises that. For his sake, though, he humours the idea of sneaking out in walled streets, kissing beneath lamplights, saying goodbye in hushed voices so no one can find out.

 But that’s just a humouring. Still, he thinks he sees Jet thinking of the same thing.

 “Yeah,” Zuko says, his voice feeling hard and hot in his throat, “Then we end.”

 -

 Naked, sleeping, Jet only seems to get rest when it’s forced. They’re below deck and Jet has passed out, his shirt as a blanket across his chest. He looks different like this, less like the softness is a farce. His chest trembles when it rises. Zuko finds that he can’t sleep, and the only light comes from the crack beneath the door, where candlelight glows across the floor and presses against Jet like a wall of gold.

 Jet’s eyelids move, imagining some far off dream. Is he imagining his parents? Whatever happened to them, he hasn’t said. There’s almost the air as if he believes it’s obvious, which in a way it is. Who hasn’t lost their parents on this boat?

 Watching the boy, he can’t quite help the temptation of reaching out, brushing his palm over Jet’s cheek. He can tell that Jet wakes, the slight jolt of his shoulders, but then there’s no more proof. He stays quiet and still, even if his eyelids are more tightly clenched.

 “Where do you come from, Li?” Jet whispers, almost as if he doesn’t want to be heard. “Why are you nothing like the others?”

 “I got on this boat to flee my story, not to tell it. That’s what we agreed.” They never did make that agreement.

 “Are you going to miss me when we part ways?”

“No. Now be quiet.” Jet laughs but he shuts up anyway. He pretends he was sleep-talking. Zuko ignores the way it burns in his chest, as if he already knows he’s lying. But, he thinks, what’s one more burn.

 -

 Pressed against the wall with a handsome boy above him, Zuko almost forgets his anger. Add to that a mouth that can do way more than speak, and hands that can do way more than wield weapons, and you’ve created a perfect disaster. Still, it doesn’t feel like disaster when he’s like this, Jet’s hand trapped between Zuko’s head and the wall behind him. He keeps mumbling the wrong name, Li, Li, but it’s okay when Zuko pretends he’s saying something else.

 His mouth feels like it’s burning him. It moves to neck, and his hands are skirting beneath his tunic, and Zuko feels like there is nothing on earth beyond this room, beyond this ship, beyond these endless waters. No, closer. Nothing feels close enough to compare. There is just Jet and his mouth and his hands. Fingers slipping expertly into his pants, pressing somewhere Zuko’s only ever been told about. For once in his life, Zuko feels holy, and when he tilts his head back he feels his noises coming from somewhere deeper than he thought existed.

And then he comes back to Earth, and Jet is still there. Still kissing the soft skin of Zuko’s throat, probably tasting salt and ash. Jet tastes like salt and ash too, and sometimes at night his hands are too light for the darkness around them.

 “Was your father a firebender?” Zuko chokes before he can stop himself. Jet’s hands freeze against him, one still buried in his underwear. “I’m sorry.”

Jet shakes his head, closes his eyes. “The one who got my mother pregnant was a firebender. My father was an earthbender. And my dad was a nonbender.”

 Three parents, Zuko thinks. He could hardly handle one. And there was Jet, who had lost all three of them. Still, he quickly pulls together a smile, pulling his hand out of Zuko’s pants and wiping it on his own pants. Zuko thinks about Jet and his hatred for those- his- people. It would be nothing if not cruel to tell him the truth. He would collapse.

 Jet starts to turn away, but stops midway. “There’s only a day before we land. I heard they’re gonna send us… people far away from each other.” The silent truth runs between them that they will never see each other again, and Zuko feels less joy than he wants to feel. He feels more pain than he ever expected, but he’ll be okay, he knows. This is going to be okay. And yet, it burns.

-

 With only two hours left, Zuko has no time for sentimental time spent looking for that far-off horizon. Instead he tracks the shadows on Jet’s skin, the burn mark on his shoulder, the slash of a knife across his hip. The risen, pink scar from a boarpig’s tusk, dodged a little too late. Both of them naked, his fingers traverse the valleys of Jet’s skin, the dimple above his hip, the jut of his ribcage. His head tips back and he makes a sound like a low keening. It doesn’t sound like his usual sounds, however. No, he sounds like a sad, lonely animal. A whimper, maybe.

 “I suppose it’ll be a bit of a relief when we part ways?” Jet whispers, pretending he’s not aching. His hands let off subtle bursts of smoky smells. They’re not having sex, though, that’s not what this. This is just applying to memory.

“No,” Zuko admits, and he presses a kiss to Jet’s smoky, still mouth. He only purses his lips when Zuko’s pulled away again. Perhaps conceding to some lower desire, he pulls Zuko down again; simply holding their bodies against each other. Chest against chest, stomach against stomach, silence against silence. Jet forces his breathing to match Zuko’s.

 His neck smells of husk and sweat. Neither of those are permanent things. Jet rests a hand on Zuko’s naked back, slides it down to his hip, and then slides it up again. He clenches his fist in Zuko’s hair.

 Zuko doesn’t know why, but he always expected the collapse of something with someone like Jet would be dramatic. He expected smoke and flame and empires crumbling. He would’ve done that, he expects. He wishes he could’ve had that, teeth and crashing buildings. Maybe Jet could crash into him, call him Firebender, and then Zuko could say he was actually Zuko the whole time. Then they can crash, and burn, and fight.

 But this, this is worse. This hurts more. The slow swan-dive into a pain that rests at the pit of his belly, only sent away when Jet touches him, or kisses him, or calls him by his fake name.

 I’m going to miss you too much, Zuko thinks, but then he stops because he’s already missing him too much.

 -

“Thank you, Li. Look after yourself.”

The burning, as Jet’s hands hold his, isn’t as bad as the one in his chest.

-

In the afternoon they arrive, and the sun is thick on the back of Zuko’s neck. He almost misses Jet’s slow descent down the ramp to the harbour. Zuko has to hang back, but he suspects Jet has come here through less than legal means. He walks over to the edge of the boat, sees Jet pause in the light. He’s talking with his siblings as if nothing happened at all, he’s laughing. An arm wraps around Smellerbee’s back, and he yells something triumphant.

 They turn to go, but Jet stops midway. He turns back, a look of uncertainty crossing his face. Zuko sees him searching through all the people, before finally their eyes meet and he smiles that old swansong smile. He starts to shift, and Zuko wonders if this will be like one of those Ember Island plays. The boy runs onto the boat, the boy returns, the boy kisses you and that’s the end of the story.

 But this isn’t a story and Jet isn’t a boy like that. His eyes drift to Zuko’s mouth for a second, he’s thinking about it, but Smellerbee says something behind him. He looks back one last time, raises a hand, and turns away. He pushes through the crowd, and too soon he is lost from Zuko’s sight.

 For some reason, it aches far too much. He can’t stop looking, as if there’s anything for him to miss. But Jet is too far, spirits know how quick his legs carry him away. Besides, the others are going down the ramp before him. Zuko is the lowest of the low, here.

 “Li,” Uncle says in that clumsy liar’s way. Zuko wants to block it out, because the last person who called him that is gone.

 Finally, his gaze slips to his hands. The places where Jet’s fingers actually left subconscious marks. Pink circles the size of fingertips, in arch formation over the tops of his wrists.