#starkkat

When he had taken control of the nation and released those imprisoned for defiance to Lord Ozai, you had fled the country’s capital without a shred of hesitance. You can only remember the hurt in his eyes as you swore to never return, and that ever since, you’ve noticed a royal messenger present at your performances; even despite his best efforts to remain hidden within the crowds. There’s not much you could imagine is worth him sending along but far be it from you to call into question the Fire Lord’s motives. Returning today was nothing but obligation. You would attend, perform, and watch as your first love chose a bride for the Fire Nation. All the more reason to wash your hands of the guilt you felt for abandoning him as soon as your chains were undone.

You’ve come to a stop outside of the door to the banquet hall. The court ladies surrounding you fuss with their hair and gowns and whisper nervously to each other. A handful of them ask you if they look alright, and you nod and smile: adjusting hairpins and murmuring reassurance that each one of them looks like the embodiment of sunlight.

And you mean it, every woman called to court possesses beauty worthy of royalty. Even those who are rejected by Fire Lord Zuko are sure to find themselves approached by the soldiers and nobles in attendance. It would be surprising for any in your group to leave the palace tonight without a marriage proposal. Even if it is only a consolation prize when compared to being made wife of the Fire Lord, it guarantees a lifetime of ease to be wed to a noble. Finally, the rustle of silks and whispers of the girls fade back to silence, and the doors of the hall are pulled open.

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The banquet hall is overflowing with members of the court, bustling with movement and conversation that hushes as the candidates enter.  The crowd of officials from all four nations part to allow you all to pass and approach the Dais to present yourselves to the Fire Lord. The wait in line feels agonizing, you want this whole event to be over.

The air feels heavy with whispers of guests as you step up to the dais and kneel, the silk of your gown settling across your lap as you sink into your most reverent bow.

“My Lord, I’m most grateful to have been deemed worthy of even a moment of your attention.”

 “You have my gratitude for attending. Please, stand.”

 Your pulse hammers in your ears so loudly you nearly miss his instruction, his voice achingly familiar and gentle. As you stand, you finally take a moment to take in the man seated on the throne ahead of you.

Zuko’s build and demeanor are a drastic change from the awkward prince who had returned from exile mere years ago; despite wearing his heavy formal robes, the very way he moves speaks to the powerful corded muscles concealed beneath the layers of silk. He lounges comfortably on the throne and for a moment you are reminded of a crueler man who once occupied this space, but his eyes lack any shadow of his father’s malice, they are kind and concerned as he seems to take in every detail of you standing before him. You feel a wave of relief wash over you as you realize there is none of the anguish or resentment you feared would have lingered with Zuko, and your relief must be present on your face, because the Fire Lord’s lips quirk up the slightest bit into an awkward smile.

Perhaps he hasn’t changed quite as much as you thought.

You have some time to mingle, to eat and drink and prepare before the candidates are given the floor for their skills showcase. You find a quiet corner away from the chaos of the noblemen, all balancing precariously on the verge of drunkenness, and try to get your breathing under control as you stretch. When you turn back towards the dais as a guard calls attention to the center of the room and announces the beginning of the skill showcase, you’re startled to see the Fire Lord’s eyes on you, his beautiful features pulled into a sad smile.

 “Would you care to start?” His voice carries across the hall, and it’s not as if you can really decline. You plaster a smile on your face and make your way towards the dais once more, Zuko’s eyes never stray from you as you approach.

“It would be my pleasure, Lord Zuko.” His cheeks tint pink at the use of his name.

You take a moment to speak with the musicians at the base of the dais and approach the padded mat that had been set out for the girls to perform on. You breathe as slowly as you can in an attempt to quiet the roar of blood rushing in your ears.

And then music fills the hall.

Your body sheds the tension you’ve felt the entire evening as you step through a basic fire-bending combination, the warmth of the flame familiar and comforting as you wield it like a silk ribbon. Flame Dance isn’t unlike the kind of fire-bending taught for combat, and the skill is certainly not uncommon for court ladies who can bend.

Before Zuko’s banishment, when Ozai had still hosted events in the palace, you had been a favorite performer of the royal family. Flame Dance was supposed to be a testament to the elegance and power of fire-bending; and though Azula had always sneered at you with your flowing silks and feminine flames, Zuko had always been your biggest fan. As children he would tear you away from the festivities and into the courtyard, begging you to teach him to fire-bend like you did. When he struggled to match the style of the dance he would pout endlessly, until his uncle Iroh would come wrangle the two of you back into the halls of the palace.

But after his banishment the event became suffocating. Talk of foreign policy you couldn’t understand began to sink in, the hatred brewed into every mention of the other nations tainting the only expression you had ever had.

Your art was supposed to be about showcasing what made fire-bending unique, not superior. Your style warped and became harsh as it took the shape of your anger, your distrust of the message that the Fire Nation was above all others. That’s what prompted you to develop the style that led you to be imprisoned for defiance, the style you’ve returned to for tonight.

You shift your stance, close your fists, and blunt your sharp movements so that you launch the flames as if they were solid earth. You’ve traded the technique of fire for the strength of earth-bending. The crowd of officials begin to murmur, but you focus on the rhythm of the music and again morph the flames into a new style.

This time you loosen your limbs, draw the fire around your body as if it’s become a liquid, recreating the gentle flow of water-benders. The whispers tick upwards in volume again. You can’t seem to slow your heart rate as you finish another verse of dance and exchange styles one final time.

This is what had warranted imprisonment under Ozai’s rule, technique mimicked from stolen scrolls hidden away in the palace archives. A scrap of an art he wanted erased from the world. You step lightly, twirl as your flames surround you and mix in your vision with the blended colors of robes from every nation, and finally the whispers silence as you adopt the movements of an air-bender.

 It could never truly compare, not without a teacher or example to learn from outside of static illustrations worn by time, but it’s the sincerest attempt you can make. With one final flourish, you let your fire dissipate and go still in the absence of the music. When you finally bring your eyes to the man sitting on the throne your heart skips at the expression on Zuko’s face. He’s beaming like he’s the same little boy from the performances of your childhood, eyes full of excitement.

“Beautiful.” He speaks softly, with such fondness in his voice that it causes your heart to ache. You can’t even form a response and opt to simply bow to the Fire Lord before you escape to the edges of the hall.

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You step out into the courtyard and swallow a few lung-fills of the cool night air. The air inside the palace doesn’t scorch your lungs as horribly as it used to, the decorative flames in the gathering spaces toned down from the heights they had once burned, but you need a moment away from the confines of the place regardless.

The guards hadn’t been too keen on letting you exit into the garden at first, but something had prompted them to step aside and release you into the night air. Perhaps it had been the panic on your face when they barred your exit, or perhaps it had been a stern look from royalty.

You tilt your face up towards the moon, reveling in the silence of the night. The constant buzz of conversation in the hall had begun to weigh on you. That, and the constant feeling of Zuko’s eyes on you had become too much to bear. Every lull in conversation you couldn’t help but steal glances at the dais, and throughout the entire night each stolen peak resulted in you catching the Fire Lord observing you. It looked like it almost pained him; to sit and watch showcase after showcase as you mingled with his court.

At one point a young man from the military officers approached you to express his admiration as a longtime fan of your art, and you could’ve sworn the flames in the hall had burned hotter for a moment; right before the man turned white as linen and hurried away from you like you had caught fire.

To be away from the eyes of the Fire Lord for a moment was what you needed to shake the longing from your heart, to remind yourself that you simply needed to survive him selecting a bride so you could flee the capital one final time. But your peace is short-lived; footsteps approach from the doorway as the guards shift once more to let someone pass.

“You dance even more beautifully now than when we were teenagers.”

Speak of the devil.

You glance over your shoulder to see none other then the Fire Lord himself standing a few paces away from you, his long hair swaying gently in the cool breeze. Your heart aches as you smile at him and bow politely.

“Thank you, I’ve not had such an honorable audience in a long time.” Zuko returns your smile, taking a step closer.

 “Could you make one final attempt at teaching me to bend so gracefully?” The word final hangs between the two of you, bitter and unpleasant, but you nod.

As you walk him through the movements of your routine, it becomes even more apparent that this is not the prince you knew before; Zuko’s movements are precise and elegant, despite the bulk of his frame he is as nimble as you. When he finishes his practice, he places his hands on his hips and flashes that beautiful smile at you.

“It only took me 23 years to pull it off.” He laughs.

 “You’re a far more graceful man than you were in your youth, My Lord.”

At the sound of his title from your lips the comfortable smile disappears from Zuko’s face. “I wish you wouldn’t call me that.” His tone is mournful, and he casts his gaze away from you.

“I’ve missed you, you know?”

You open your mouth to respond, but choke on the words as they form. “I’m sorry.” Is all you can manage. Sorry for not leaving with him when he was banished, sorry for fleeing the second he undid the shackles Ozai had condemned you to, sorry for returning.

“I understand why you left. I trust you’ll believe me when I say this palace is as haunting to me as it is to you.” There’s a sadness in his voice that causes your heart to ache; you long to reach out to him and comfort him.

“I would imagine it is even more so my lord.” You feel selfish for having made your discomfort so apparent knowing that this is his home, that he’s been made responsible for cleansing it of the cruelty steeped into it by the generations before him.

“I can’t undo the things that have happened here. I’m ashamed to have once believed my father’s ruthlessness to be a true love of his people.” Zuko’s voice is barely audible, and he scratches uncomfortably at the base of his skull, eyes cast downward to avoid your gaze. “It pains me to request you stay here knowing how desperately you fled from the capital.” He takes a deep breath and finally meets your eyes.

 “But know that I would rebuild the palace, the Fire Nation, the entire world to make it a place kind enough to be worthy of your presence in it.”

Your breath catches in your throat and Zuko’s cheeks burn scarlet as silence hangs between you. “I’m not fit to stand at your side, Majesty. I don’t have the skills to lead that the rest of your candidates do.” Speaking the words feels like swallowing white hot embers, but they’re true enough. You have no grasp of foreign affairs, or diplomacy and trade. Zuko shakes his head and steps towards you, his hands reaching for you.

“You have a love for the people in our nation. And respect for those outside our borders. You were willing to be imprisoned, to be executed, for learning the styles of benders my father saw as sub-human.” His hands find yours, strong and warm, and you blush terribly and drop your gaze. But he won’t allow you to avoid him, releasing one hand to lift your chin and bring your eyes back to his pleading expression. “You can be taught to participate in the affairs of the nation; you will always have my support as you learn to lead. I don’t want a diplomat as my wife, I want you. I want your kindness and your warmth to remind me that fire can be nurturing instead of destructive. I need you by my side to keep our people from returning to cruelty.”

Your heart is thundering in your ears as you stare at the man before you. Zuko’s face is flushed and you can feel the heat of his body radiating from him in the chilled evening air. His eyes are desperate and searching your face for a clue to what you’re thinking, and you can’t help but reach out and touch his face. Your fingers skim his cheekbone on the scarred side of his face, and he leans into your touch, his eyes fluttering shut.

“I won’t force you to stay, I could never bring myself to cage you here.”

But you haven’t felt more at ease this entire night than you have here with him. Perhaps the cage was never the palace itself, only the man within it; because Zuko feels like home in a place you thought could never be hospitable.

When he opens his eyes again you take another step towards him, closing the gap between you. For a moment he’s still as you press yourself into him, leeching from him his warmth, and then he wraps his arms around you. His touch is gentle and unsure as he holds you.

“It would be too torturous to leave you behind a second time.” You whisper, and you can hear his heart thud louder against the solid muscles of his chest.

 “Tell me to stay. Ask me outright to be your wife.”

You need to hear it again, that he would choose you to stand by his side as he faces ruling the Fire Nation, because you can’t quite grasp it. Zuko wraps you tighter in his arms, and when he speaks his voice seems to hum through you.

 “Please. Stay with me.”

 He releases you for a moment and sinks to his knee before you, his hands on your hips as he looks up at you.

“Take me as your husband and know I will never let harm come to you again. Help me be the ruler our people deserve.”

You reach out to touch him again, running your fingers through the untied part of his hair. “I accept your proposal, my lord.”

The smile that breaks across his face is dazzling. Zuko stands and pulls you to him, pressing his lips to yours and clutching at your waist like you might disappear if he lets go of you. When you pull away for air, he buries his face into the place your neck meets your shoulder. “My queen has no need to use my formal titles.” He says against your skin.

“Call me by my name, my love.”

 Before you can respond, he sweeps you up into his arms.

“Zuko!”  you throw your arms around his neck, startled by his strength as he lifts you up as if you weigh no more than a feather.

“That’s much better.” His smile lingers as he strides towards the palace, the guards at the entrance to the hall parting as he approaches. “Zuko, I can walk. If you waltz through the banquet carrying me people will talk.”

“Let them talk, they were going to anyway.”

He crosses the threshold of the hall and is immediately approached by guests, all staring incredulously at the two of you. Fathers of candidates begin to request awkwardly if he would spare a moment to speak with their daughters. Court ladies ask with skepticism if something has happened to you that prompted his chivalry.

It is rather improper to have reentered a court festivity with one of the candidates cradled in your arms, blushing with embarrassment. But Zuko hardly slows his pace as the people crowd around him, striding past and towards the main entrance.

“I’ve made my selection.” His voice rings out over the chatter of the room.

“Stay and celebrate, or feel free to leave for home. I’ll be retiring for the evening with my partner.”

At the word partner some of the candidates begin to fuss and weep, you feel a pang of sorrow for the girls. You had come here with every intention of uplifting and supporting the other candidates, setting them up with worthy nobles if the Fire Lord rejected them. From within the crowd you hear Uncle Iroh consoling some of them.

“Now don’t look so sorrowful, we’ll find you a wonderful husband among the nobility in attendance tonight. Rejection is simply the spirits guidance towards destiny.”

 As he reaches the door Zuko lowers you to your feet, hand lingering on the small of your back as he turns to address the stunned crowd, speaking one last time to the dejected candidates.

“As my Uncle has said, feel free to connect with the bachelors of the court. You are free from your obligation to devote your attention to me. I’m afraid I’ve wasted your time, and for that I need to apologize. I knew my choice from the moment she stepped into the palace.”

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TAGSLIST

ALL: @champagnesbiggestproblem

The dull white noise of conversation in the parlor, muffled by the cloth divider in the kitchen’s doorway, lulls your senses as you brew a new pot of tea for the noble who had just arrived. You rarely got to brew the shops’ finest Jasmine tea, the leaves saved for only the most honored guests. Beyond the partition, you could hear Iroh chatting idly with the newcomer, though you couldn’t make out who exactly was on the other end of the conversation.

You’ve been The Jasmine Dragon’s main server for years now, even doing a stint as acting manager when your boss, a man you knew as Mushi then, disappeared with little warning. The locals had been crestfallen to see the shop absent of its jolly owner, but you had made your best effort at keeping the place up and running on your own. Honestly? The most difficult part had been handling the return of Mushi; the whiplash of the admittance that he had been using a fake name, the now constant whispers of the patrons that the fiery young man you had worked with, Mushi’s nephew Lee, was actually the disgraced Prince of the Fire Nation.

It felt bizarre to picture Lee in anything other than his earthy colored uniform and apron with his scowling face, even if you had seen the illustrations of him in the regal garb of The Fire Lord that Iroh brought back with him after travelling home for his nephew’s coronation. The illustration was still pinned up there in the kitchen, the harsh rendition of those soft golden eyes always peering down at you as you worked.

“Fire Lord Zuko; Bringer of the Dawn of a new Fire Nation” Read the script that was scrawled down the side of the scroll. It was the only way you could really be reminded that Lee wasn’t his real name. In his ink rendering, Zuko was only slightly older than the last time you’d seen him in Ba Sing Sei. As the steam of the teapot swirled gently upwards, you were trying to picture how he might look now.

“How is it going back here?”  Iroh’s smiling face emerges from behind the cloth divider, jolting you back to reality.

“Almost finished, would you like me to fetch some pastries too?” You loaded the tea set onto the serving tray, already well aware that your indulgent employer would want a snack to go with the tea.

“That sounds lovely,” you could hear the smile in Iroh’s voice. “I’ll be taking our guest to the private parlor if you would be so kind as to join us once you’re done?” When the graying man sees you nod in response he ducks back out into the shop, leaving you to finish assembling the tray.

It’s not until you emerge back into the main parlor that you realize the ambience of chatter that typically fills the place is hushed. Patrons whisper excitedly at their tables and watch you like hawks as you carry the serving of tea and treats towards the closed private tearoom. The silence rings loud in your ears as you draw the door open to step inside.

The sight of him, sitting elegantly at the low table, knocks the breath from your lungs.

 He’s massive; a hulk of toned muscle with posture that made it clear he was royalty. Gone was the wiry boy you had bussed tables with, the slouched awkward teenager trying too hard not to look comfortable in the Earth Kingdom.

“Lee?”

The sound of his old alias brings an amused smile to the Fire Lord’s lips, and you feel your face set ablaze with embarrassment.

“Sorry. Fire Lord Zuko, it’s a pleasure to see you again.” You set the tea tray down on the oak wood table, kneeling to pour two cups of tea.

“It’s nice to see you too.” Zuko’s hands brush yours as you pass him the cup, and he fixes those gentle golden eyes on you.

“I hope my dear Uncle hasn’t been piling too much work on you as of late.”

Iroh scoffs as he scoops the teapot up from the tray and pours a third cup, gesturing for you to join them. You sit hesitantly.

“I wouldn’t have to drown the poor girl in so much work if I could find some other decent help.” He raises an eyebrow at his nephew, as if to imply that running the Jasmine Dragon should take priority over running the Fire Nation.

“Sorry Uncle, if I could trade council meetings for serving tea you know I would do so in a heartbeat.”

You can’t help it. You let out an embarrassing snort, choking on the swig of tea halfway down your throat as you try to hold your laughter. The Fire Lord furrows his brow at you and cocks his head to the side like a confused puppy, which only makes you giggle harder.

“You hated customer service.” You manage between gasps for air.

“Every shift you had something to complain about!”

You cross your arms and scrunch your face into a replica of the scowl he wore for his entire stay in the city and summon your best impression of Lee.

“How insufferable can they get?! They just want Jasmine tea; but they must want it brewed in a crystal teapot with the light of the full moon to imbue it with peaceful energy, because they’re never happy with how I make it!”

Iroh is doubled over with laughter. Zuko drops his face into the palm of his hand, his silky curtain of hair the only barrier concealing the scarlet flush creeping up his neck at your mocking performance.

“They kept saying they could feel my negative energy steeped into it.” He groans pathetically.

“If anyone in all of Ba Sing Sei could have steeped their grumpy energy into someone’s tea, it would be you.”

“Whatever, the point is somehow the Fire Nation nobles are worse.”

“Do they nag you about your negative energy as well?”

The sound of Iroh chuckling at your familiar bickering somehow returns you to your senses. You’re mocking The Fire Lord about his customer service skills, or lack thereof. You open your mouth again to apologize, but Zuko’s expression halts you. He looks at ease, eyes alight with his laughter.

“Politics is just customer service without a friend to complain to.” He shrugs.

“My only real reprieve is my letters to my friends; no one would intercept and read through my correspondence with the Avatar. I treat him like a private journal at this point.”

“You know you’re always welcome here!” Iroh reaches across the table to pat a hand on Zuko’s shoulder reassuringly. “Come visit whenever you need to let off some steam.”

Zuko rolls his eyes, but the smile lingers on his face. “Of course, I can always halt the rebuilding of the Fire Nation, the work on the reparations to the other Nations, the domestic humanitarian efforts; all projects I can put on the wayside. In fact, why don’t I tag in another member of the royal family to help me! Do you think Azula would take an interest in the infrastructure repairs in the Northern Water Tribe?”

A glint of mischief appears in Iroh’s kind eyes. “Alright, so you can’t just take time off to visit your aging uncle. At least spend some time with the lovely ladies of the Earth Kingdom while you’re visiting! Who knows, we may just find you a Fire Lady. That would relieve some of the council’s worry, wouldn’t it? I’m sure they would let up on you a bit if they knew you had at least a chance of producing an heir.”

You choke on your tea for the second time today. Zuko’s face has returned to the embarrassed pink color it was minutes before, and Iroh is grinning smugly as he looks between the two of you. You huff a strangled chuckle, starting to gather the empty dishes back onto the tray. Easiest to take this as your cue to leave; the idea of listening to Iroh rib Zuko about his love life sounded mortifying.

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When you stepped behind the partition the next morning, gathering your hair up into your hairpiece to keep it out of the way, you were stopped short by the figure occupying your place at the counter. Zuko had traded his scarlet silk robes for the muted cotton uniform of The Jasmine Dragon. His long hair was pulled into a neat knot at the back of his skull, lacking the gilded hairpiece he had worn yesterday. His calloused fingers handled the ceramics with a delicacy you wouldn’t have expected from him.

The Fire Lord was working his old customer service job.

And he looked obnoxiously good. Not that he hadn’t looked divine in his royal attire; but there was something about how human he looked, with his head free from the weight of a crown and a serving apron tied snugly at his hips, that made him painfully handsome.

“Come now, there’s work to get done!” Iroh bustled past you, the hint of laughter in his voice undisguised as he scolded you. “Help my nephew prepare for the group in the private parlor, would you?”

“Right, okay.” You’re quick to sling your own apron around your waist as you join Zuko at the counter.

“Hope you’ve been thinking happy thoughts while you brew.”

“Of course, all sunshine and rainbows over here.”

The soft chuckle your quip earns you sets loose butterflies in your stomach. It’s strange to have him here again. You feel hyper-aware of his every move, the way he radiates heat in the small kitchen, the sound of his breath as he lights the stove with his fingertips.

You try to let the rhythm of work take you over, to soothe the tension in your chest, and finally feel the weight of his presence lift slightly as you focus on the pastries you’re shaping. You feel more comfortable in the silence of work than the awkward pauses in conversation from yesterday, happy to let the clink of tea sets and the muffled ambience of the parlor be the soundtrack of the space.

The feeling of a hand on the small of your back, feather-light and cautious, jolts you from the flow of work. The warmth of Zuko’s palm bleeds through your shirt as he steps behind you. And then it’s gone, the only evidence of it happening at all is the blush burning bright on your cheeks.

“Sorry; I’ve got a tray of ceramics, didn’t want you to step back and bump into me as I passed.”

He’s balancing a full serving tray of cups on one hand, smiling softly at you over his shoulder. “Yeah, of course.”

Really eloquent today, aren’t you?

The rest of the day passes without a return to your mental sanctuary of workflow. You’re once again painfully aware of every movement Zuko makes, as if the air he shifts with each breath sets your every nerve on fire. When you step into the parlor to deliver a tea set to the newest arrivals, the place is packed. Not with the usual flow of nobles and couples on expensive dates, but with what must be every bachelorette in all of Ba Sing Sei. Their heads snap to the counter when the sound of your footsteps reaches them, fast enough to evoke a sympathetic pang of whiplash in your own neck, but as soon as they register it’s you the return to their whispered gossip. It’s almost unsettling to watch them perk their ears like dogs whenever the cloth divider shifts.

What a bizarre aura for the usually peaceful shop to have. It felt uncomfortable now to know that the patrons were waiting so intently for a glimpse of the Fire Lord.

“You might want to be careful going out there.” You tell Zuko as you duck back into the kitchen. “The ladies are prowling like huntresses.”

Zuko’s golden eyes are narrowed when he looks at you, brows furrowed in what you can only guess is confusion.

“Hm? What do you mean by that?”

You roll your eyes at him. As if he doesn’t know. “The court ladies in the parlor; they aren’t our regulars.”

That gorgeous scarred face stayed clouded by puzzlement, maybe he really hadn’t changed that much. Even when you were teenagers, girls had crowded into the shop to try and flirt with the angsty mysterious barista. His ignorance of their attempts to snatch his attention had only made him a more enticing individual.

“You’ll see when you take the next order out.” You sighed.

The spectacle of throwing Zuko to the wolves was too good to miss, so you lurked behind the counter as he assembled the tea tray you’d tasked him with bringing out. The second he emerged from the kitchen, brows still knit together with confusion, the parlor seemed to buzz with whispers. There was a heaviness to the air itself as the crowd of women watched Zuko cross the room to set the tray down on the nobleman’s table; and when he returned to the counter all hell broke loose. Girls flocked to the counter, all chattering over one another in an attempt to talk to the poor bewildered man behind it.

You were struggling to contain your laughter, wishing you could get a portrait made of the panicked expression on the Fire Lord’s face to tack up next to his royal flyer in the kitchen. But in some dark corner of your heart there was a twinge of jealousy you wished you could extinguish. It was that same childish resentment you had felt towards any dolled-up girl who had come in to the shop years ago asking for “that beautiful boy with the scar”, it felt ridiculous to feel it resurface now.

But through the cacophony of voices, Zuko seemed to pick out your laughter. He glared at you over his shoulder, but it was lacking any real fire behind it. Though he tried to maintain the scowl all the attention had put on his face, it softened at the sight of your smile.

“Don’t look so much like you’re enjoying this.” He pleaded.

“Oh, but I am enjoying it, Your Highness. Besides, wasn’t this the goal your dear uncle had in mind for your visit?”

The look of horror and the deep red shade that took the place of Zuko’s scowl just made you laugh harder.

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Iroh and Zuko departed early in the evening, leaving you to close The Jasmine Dragon on your own. You didn’t mind; the quiet of the empty shop was soothing. After all the dishes were set out to dry and the parlor had been swept, you tucked a parcel of leftover teacakes into your bag and began to lock up the shop.

Your heart plummets into your stomach when you turn from locking the front door to see a man leaning against the door frame, and your pulse only slows slightly when you register that it’s Zuko.

“Should you really be lurking outside the tea shop without any sort of royal guard?”

You glance around suspiciously for signs of the soldiers who had accompanied him and Iroh when they left earlier. “Seems kind of unsafe for The Fire Lord to be wandering the Earth Kingdom alone.”

“Should you be making the journey home alone this late at night?” There’s that ridiculous amused smile on his lips again as he quirks an eyebrow at you. “I think you’d be in a bit more trouble than me if someone decided to pick a fight.”

As badly as you want to conjure a rebuttal, you have to admit that he’s right. Compared to him you would be relatively helpless in a fight. His smile remains as he steps away from the door, gesturing for you to follow. The streets of Ba Sing Sei were lit by the gentle green glow of the lanterns strung between the shops lining the street. The only noise that broke the silence was the occasional clatter of a passing wagon and the sound of your footsteps.

What kind of small talk do you make with royalty?

The silence felt like a chasm between you two; your boldness to tease and joke with the Fire Lord now gone despite your best efforts to recall it to use. This was a man you’d spent lunch breaks and evening rushes with. The same guy you had chattered at endlessly a few years ago.

The same boy you’d even had the courage to kiss the last time he had walked you home like this.

You shiver at the unpleasant memory of that night; at the frown he had worn after the kiss, the awkward dodge of your request to go out together after your shift the next day. The way you two had parted had been humiliating; Zuko mumbling something about not being the kind of man you wanted before disappearing the next day after a huge fight with his uncle.

Maybe that was the real problem. Not that Zuko was royalty, or the son of a war criminal, or a close friend of the Avatar, just that he was almost like an ex.

But maybe you were being a bit delusional thinking one kiss would make you important enough to be awkward around.

It takes you an unbearable amount of time to finally speak, a feeble attempt to spark conversation. You feel almost childish asking, sheltered and naïve, but it was all you could think of discussing with him to ease this awkwardness between you two

“What is the Fire Nation like?”

You’ve been curious since Iroh returned from that first visit home, weighed down by spiced treats and beautiful formal garments. The Fire Nation felt to you like a far-off world, untouchable here in a land that hadn’t even been willing to acknowledge it when it had sent armies to its doorstep. You know Iroh would have happily talked of his homeland, but you had just never felt there was a good time to ask; to try and really understand who he and his nephew were. The lunch rush certainly wasn’t the time to ask your boss to divulge such personal things.

“Well, it’s much warmer, though I’m pretty sure you could already guess that much.” Zuko’s voice held no mocking tone, much to your relief.

“It’s a lot of urban area, especially in by the royal capital, shopping districts like this part of Ba Sing Sei. Our buildings are more Imperial style though, with bright red pillars and yellow roof tiles.” He glances sidelong at you, smiling softly with pride. “Lots of Dragon statues. And we throw lots of festivals, as a kid my favorite was the Solstice Revelry. Mother always had to keep me from eating too many spice cakes.”

“I think your uncle brought some of those home; I’d need to be cut off from them too, they were delicious.” Iroh had mentioned they were Zuko’s favorite, chuckling to himself as he reminisced on what you could now assume was an embarrassing story about Zuko eating too many sweets.

Zuko was laughing now too, a gentle sound tinged with embarrassment. As if reading your mind, he turns to you and asks, “Did he tell you about the time I tried to command a shop keeper to smuggle me more sweets after my mother asked the vendors to cut me off?”

“Now you have to tell me.” You grinned wickedly at the Fire Lord, eager to hear what was clearly a mortifying story. He grimaced half-heartedly, he was the one who brought it up, so it was only fair he tells you the whole story.

And he did. He confessed, face bright pink the entire time, that when he was a boy, he had eaten enough spice cakes to make himself sick. His mother had given the sweets vendors at next year’s festival strict instruction that he was not to be given any cakes.

“None at all?” you feigned horror, hand pressed dramatically to your chest. “How could they do that to you? Such disrespect!”

Zuko rolled his eyes at you, though the adorable awkward smile he had worn since he began the story stayed present on his lips. “That’s exactly what Azula said. That I couldn’t accept such coddling if I wanted to be respected as a member of the royal family; that it would be shameful to allow the vendors to refuse me service.” He shook his head, his raven hair swinging with the movement.

“I can’t believe I actually took her seriously, but I threw a whole fit at the next stall demanding that they not treat me like a toddler. It made me look even more childish than overeating the year before. Father was furious with me, I’ve never seen Azula look so pleased.”

You’ve done your best not to laugh as he’s been speaking; beneath your amusement you’re surprised he’s been willing to indulge you so far as to share such an embarrassing story. But when Zuko suddenly crosses his arms and halts, morphing his beautiful face into a pout, and begins to recreate his childhood attempt at a demand, you can’t contain yourself. He’s stomping his foot as he complains that he can’t be told no, he’s the Prince of the Fire Nation. You laugh so hard it hurts, and he doesn’t stop his ridiculous display until you’re doubled over and begging him to give you a break.

After minutes of gasping to regain your breath, you finally find your voice again. “Oh, I would have taken that to the grave. I can’t believe Iroh never told me that story.”

“I think he was trying to spare me the embarrassment of you having even more to poke fun at me for. Probably thought it would give me excuse not to visit the Jasmine Dragon.”

“I would have thought you didn’t need excuse to avoid returning to the city,” a slight frown tugs at the corners of your lips. “Didn’t think you would be inclined to visit a place you were miserable in.”

Zuko gave you no response, the silence once more taking weight as you creep slowly closer to the street your apartment was on. You’d likely overstepped in mentioning his discontent living in the earth kingdom, even if it was true.

“I always thought the stars in Ba Sing Sei were beautiful.” 

The sound of Zuko’s voice cutting through the din of the night again surprised you. And even more surprising was the admission that he liked something about the city. The fondness in his voice. He had always seemed to harbor a quiet resentment of the city; one you had always attributed to struggling with life as a refugee.

“The stars?” You craned your neck to look up into the sky, at the glimmers of light floating in the ink pool above your heads. They were beautiful, but you couldn’t quite understand what made them any more special than the others in the sky.

“They’re so bright here; in the Fire Nation capital the lanterns are usually kept burning bright late into the evening, so the stars are harder to see. It was one of the things I liked most about this place, even if I would’ve never admitted then that I liked anything about living here.”

“Oh wow, I didn’t realize even the stars in the Fire Nation could be different.”

You finally turn your gaze from the sky to find that Zuko isn’t even looking at the stars. He’s staring at you, smiling like you’ve done something endearing. A betraying blush finds its way onto your face as you knead the back of your neck to ease the strain of twisting it to view the sky.

The two of you continue walking, the silence now a bit more comfortable. You manage to break it occasionally with talk of the shop, of Iroh, and complaints about the customers that come into the shop. Zuko listens like your voice is siren song, never taking his eyes off you. When you reach your apartment, he continues to chat idly with you at the doorstep, easing the anxiety you had been brewing that perhaps you had upset him.

“I missed that sound.” He says suddenly, barely a whisper.

You had been laughing at a joke he’d made about what a pain the Chamberlin would be as a customer. The air in your lungs seems to freeze, like risking a breath would erase the sound of those words. You’re not even sure if he meant for you to hear.

“I missed you.”

You’re almost appalled by the vulnerability of it, that you would confess such a thing so readily. You hadn’t expected to ever see him again, especially once you had been told who he really was, but his absence from the shop had felt massive. Even once Iroh had returned and you weren’t drowning so completely in the loneliness of being in the shop alone.

“I thought you had simply forgotten me in putting your life as Lee behind you. Seeing as you seemed to hate life here so much.”

“I never forgot you.” Zuko didn’t look hurt by your selfish complaint, which almost makes you feel worse. “Even if I was bitter and angry living here, it never meant I wanted to leave you behind. I was so angry because I was lost, I had to find my place in the world.”

He’s looking at you with such sincerity that it’s almost painful to meet his gaze.

“I found myself, I’m less angry now.”

His smile is cautious, like he’s afraid you might run from him. “It’s uh… actually part of why I chose to visit. I thought maybe now that I know who I am and where I belong in the world, I could be deserving of your time.You were another thing I always loved about Ba Sing Sei.”

You feel your mouth drop open. “What?” Your voice is barely a croak, your shock robbing it of any volume. Zuko scrubs awkwardly at the nape of his neck, smiling shyly down at your dumbstruck expression.

“I never really gave you an answer on going on that date you asked about. If I recall correctly, I reacted pretty poorly and then disappeared the next day.” You nod.

“If you’re willing to forgive my broody teenage self for that, I’d really like to have another chance.”

You want to respond, but your brain is short-circuiting. You open and close your mouth, still stunned, trying to force your vocal cords to produce sound. The word yes seems to lodge itself firmly in your throat, unwilling to rise any further, so you just nod again. The smile that takes over Zuko’s face is blinding.

“Amazing. You have no idea how long I’ve been thinking about this; seeing you again, I mean.”

“Really?” Your voice shakes pitifully, but Zuko still beams at you. “Really.”

“I’ve thought a lot about it too.” You feel sixteen again, blushing and mumbling like you’ve never spoken to a boy before.

“Well, I wouldn’t want to make you sick of me in one night, you should probably get to sleep.”

You unlock the door and turn to step into your home, but before you can shut it, Zuko calls your name. He hovers at the threshold of the apartment steps, brow furrowing briefly before he returns to you in the door frame and takes your hand in his. A whispered gasp escapes you as he presses his lips against your knuckles. Even after he had dropped your hand, the warmth of his touch lingered.

“I’ll see you at work tomorrow?” The quiet awkwardness you had found so endearing as a teenager had crept its way back into Zuko’s voice. You nod, mute once more, watching as the Fire Lord retreated down the steps with an impish grin on his face.

“Wonderful, sleep well then.” He glances over his shoulder a few more times as his hulking figure shrinks into the distance; you stand there on the steps long past his departure.

The Fire Lord just asked you on a date.

──────•✦•──────

The rain is heavy, almost deafening as the droplets strike the canopy of leaves above your head, but the silhouette of the witch you’re tailing is shielded from the downpour by a sphere of shimmering magic. He’s stooped over in his little bubble of sunshine, plucking some mushrooms from the ground into a basket. It’s been hours of this, lurking just out of sight as you battle internally over whether you really want to speak to him. Whether it would break or mend your heart to hear his voice again.

Your body is beginning to protest the cold of the rain, joints groaning in discomfort as you shift up from the crouch you had held in the brush. You step carefully from the cover of the trees and make your way towards the grey cloaked witch, your approach concealed by the pattering of the rain until you step into the protective bubble.

“Mind sharing your umbrella?”

Qifrey recoils from the sound of your voice as if he’s been burned. As he turns to fix his gaze on you, the glowering expression on his face intensifies when he sees the brimmed cap rested on your head. You should be used to that look by now, but it still sends a brief pang of hurt through your chest.

“Must you always look so venomous when I visit?”

“What do you want?”

Despite the scowl he’s still wearing like armor, there’s a tinge of gentle sadness in his voice as he straightens up. You pout half-heartedly at the way he’s withdrawn his hands into his cloak, obviously in search of his components.

“Just to talk,” You lift your hat from your head, beginning to wring the rainwater from your soaked hair. “To see how you’re doing; how the girls are.”

Qifrey scoffs coldly. “I’m swell, thanks for your concern. We’ve developed a conscience now, have we? Or are you here to collect information for your higher-ups?”

His mocking tone sparks an anger that burns deep in your chest. To suggest you possess no real regard for their well-being, knowing you abandoned witch society in pursuit of the goal he is only willing to chase in shadow, that is a disrespect that cuts deep. You place your cap back onto your head, ignoring the way the crease between his brows deepens as it obscures your eyes.

“Don’t take a moral high ground against me, Qifrey. Don’t you dare accuse me of trading the safety of those children for reputation points among the Brimmed Caps.”

“I’m supposed to believe you joined the Brimmed Caps just for the aesthetics?”

The air buzzes with a simmering tension, as if the forest itself is waiting to see which of you will escape your standoff unscathed. These trees had seen the two of you in every stage of your relationship; the awkward first kiss, the stolen moments away from the responsibilities of teaching, the fallout of realizing some things are too painful for love to mend.

“I did it for us. For you.” Angry tears pool at the edges of your eyes, hot and infuriating in their testament to your emotions. You grit your teeth and force the wavering from your voice. “Not all things can be cured within the confines of the Pact, you of all people understand that; I’m not sorry for having the sense to seek out a solution you’re too cowardly to even consider.”

“Oh, I’m the coward?” Qifrey takes a threatening step towards you, his one eye wide with frustration. “You want to accuse me of cowardice as you hide beneath that brim?”

This was not how you wanted this encounter to pan out. As delusional a hope it was, each time you came you wished for a happier reunion. It never was. You begin to retreat, to put some distance between yourself and him, but Qifrey lunges forward as if on instinct and captures your wrist in his hand.

“Face me and tell me what makes your path deserving of my respect, Brimmed Cap.” He spit the words at you with such vigor that it must knock all sense from your mind.

A tidal wave of emotions crashes through you, and your hand closes around the golden pendant that joins the two halves of his cloak together. You yank him to you, and before your lips have even met, he’s thrown his willowy arms around you, holding you so tightly it hurts. The kiss is desperate and harsh, it’s almost cathartic. You feel your anger dissipate, as if it was merely a toxin you needed Qifrey to siphon from your bloodstream. You lock your arms around his neck, desperate for this to last forever. If you could not have his love, you would drown yourself in his hatred. This messy, hostile tension would have to substitute for the gentle kind of companionship you had once before. He pulls away from you, breathing heavily, and you can only afford enough time for a few gulps of air before you’re pulling his face back to yours. It’s as if the second he withdraws you’ll come unraveled, too fragile to return to the bitter reality of who you both are. This kiss tastes like salt, warm tears that you can’t determine the source of. He’s released his grip on your waist, tangling his long slender fingers up into your hair and knocking your hat from your head.

And then the rain drops onto the two of you like a sheet.

The seal Qifrey had drawn to ward of the water is crumpled in the palm of his hand, ruined in the intensity of your embrace. The drenching is a harsh return to earth; Qifrey shudders with the sudden cold and pulls away from you, sucking in gasps of air as he tries to process what just happened between you. There’s a pain in his expression that makes you want to reach for him, but it feels wrong to now that the moment is over.

“Tell me it’s worthwhile.” Qifrey is boring holes into you with the intensity of his gaze, that blue eye zeroed in on you as if he can see the doubt laced into your heart. You pick up your cap, anxious to replace the shield of the brim onto your head. “Tell me the shred of hope to find some way to be healed with magic was worth throwing your life away. That you don’t regret giving up all you’ve lost in accepting forbidden magic.”

He doesn’t need to elaborate what exactly you gave up. The words hang unspoken in the damp air of the forest.

Tell me it was worth losing me.

Now that his spell is gone, the moisture feels suffocating; though that might just be your heart lodged in your throat that’s making it hard to draw breath.

You’re grateful that the very cap he’s condemning shields your face some as you feel the tears you’ve been collecting again finally cascade down your cheeks. He would take them as surrender; as evidence that you thought you’d made a mistake in pursuing forbidden magic to try and revive the practice of healing witches.

He would be wrong.

“We could have found ways to ease the pain.” Qifrey’s voice is still stern, but it lacks the bite of true anger. “Olly could have made you some contraption to help you manage it, to help make drawing easier.”

You flex your hands anxiously within your cloak, the dull ache you know will crescendo into agony after a day spent in the chilling rain making itself known with each movement. No number of herbs, Healing Spire visits, or warming contraptions from Olruggio could rid you of that horrible pain nestled deep in your bones.

“We would have kept looking for our antidotes together. You would have had my love to soothe your pain.” The slightest crack is there in the words my love.

“Your love was never going to be my cure.”

The guilt that strikes you as you say it seems to tilt the earth beneath you; you feel sick.

“Then why do you return to me like a moth to flame? Why torture us both with ghosts of what was?”

There’s no good answer you can give. He’s a vice to you, a reprieve from the darkness of your world that you selfishly seek out like an antidote to your fear. He can’t save you, but he’s like the umbrella spell in a way, a patch of sun to retreat to when the sky unleashes a downpour.

“Until next time, Qifrey.” You tug the brim back down to conceal your eyes, closing out your own umbrella spell and once more shielding the small clearing from the heavy rain. You leave behind the seal as you turn your back on the silver-haired witch, a feeble attempt at an apology for ripping open old wounds.

Perhaps one day there will be a world in which you two can reconcile your differences. But for today, you must leave him. Even if it’s a pain more agonizing than any physical ache you’ve ever experienced.

──────•✦•──────

 His voice is gravelly with exhaustion. “Hope I didn’t keep you up waiting for me.” You laugh softly, he always said that even after three years of the two of you living together, even though he would have been up just as late if it had been you out at work.

“How bad is it?”

You try to get a good look at him, try to see where the worst damage has been done. Leon sighs and makes a respectable attempt at distracting you by tugging you into a kiss.

“Nice try, but that just convinces me it’s worse than I thought.”

When he finally gives in, lifting his shirt to show you the state of his ribs, you curse under your breath. It’s the worst state he’s been in since the initial outbreak in Raccoon City.

“How did this happen?” You grimace as you notice a gash along his side deep enough to warrant stitches. He tells you it’s not a big deal, he took some hits to shield the girl he was sent to rescue.

“What was I supposed to do?” His tone is harsh, you know this is ramping up to become a nasty fight.

“Maybe don’t take a machete to the side? How about we try that!”

“I’m a grown man, I’m a trained government agent. I don’t need you to helicopter parent me, Jesus Christ.” Leon grumbles and steps past you into the kitchen.

Most nights this would be the end of the argument; you’d split to shower and change for bed, exchange whispered apologies and I love you’s, rinse and repeat the next time he came home battered and bruised. But tonight you can’t let it go.

 “God dammit Leon.” Angry tears threaten to spill from your eyes.

“You are so. Fucking. Selfish.”

His beautiful face twists into a scowl as he turns to face you from the kitchen, but beneath the armor of his anger is the survivors guilt you know he carries. And you understand, you truly do, but when he does stupid shit like this; when he presents you with this clear disregard for his own life, it fucking terrifies you.

“Making yourself into a martyr doesn’t help anyone.”

“What the fuck am I supposed to do, then?” He asks angrily. “I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t show up for the cause. It’s not like you’re any farther from the front lines than I am.”

“I don’t do field work the way you do.”

And that’s part of the problem. You want to have the kind of selfless dedication Leon has to work, to helping others, but you can’t always act as a human shield like he does. He’s always been willing to die if it means saving a life, and even if it comes from a dark place, you know that he’s the exact man you would want to show up when you face the kinds of horror Umbrella Corp. sends you in to.

Maybe you’re the selfish one.

This is the root of the problem. You’re both coping with the same feelings in ways that sit so opposite from each other that it feels painful to try and understand.

Do we really deserve to be alive?

Guilt sends Leon barreling into danger, willing to use the life he feels he doesn’t deserve as a bartering chip to spare others. It terrifies you.

Because the same guilt paralyzes you into caution, because whether you deserve to survive or not, you want to. You want to so badly that it sets your nervous system ablaze. You want to come home. To wrap yourself in Leon’s clothes and crawl into bed with him. To have normal nightmares about mundane fears.

You want him to come home too. You really are the selfish one.

“I don’t do fieldwork like you do.” Your throat feels like it’s closing as you repeat yourself. “I can’t throw myself in front of every bullet. Even if the guilt eats me alive, I want to live. I want to see Sherry grow up, and spend time with Claire, and come home to you. Even if I don’t deserve it, I can’t go back and trade for someone else who did.”

The silence you sit in now feels like a chasm between you.

“Why are you so convinced you should be dead?” Leon flinches at the sorrow in your voice.

“I just think someone more grateful to be alive should’ve made it out… sometimes I really consider just ending it. Thinking maybe it would be better than living with the guilt and the fear everyday.”

You reach out and take his hand, running your thumbs across the ridges of his knuckles. “But you can’t do it.” It’s not really a question, but Leon nods solemnly.

“I can’t follow through with it knowing how many people would’ve given anything to get out of that damn city alive. So maybe if I die to help someone who wants life more than I do I’ll feel less guilty about it.”

There’s not much you can say in response, but you grasp at words anyway. “Is there anything that helps you hold on? You said sometimes you think of… leaving; what helps you in the times when you’re not thinking of it?”

“You,” He squeezes your hand. “And the idea that if I keep living I can help more people. When I’m not focused on someone else’s survival, I realize I wouldn’t be very useful as a corpse.”

You can work with that.

“Then can you promise me that the next time you’re feeling like you don’t deserve to survive you’ll talk to me? Let me remind you that you’re still helping; you of all people deserve to keep breathing. And you help the people who love you by coming home, for what it’s worth.”

Leon nods. “I can try.”

──────•✦•──────

It’s not perfect, no timeline to healing is, but Leon really does try. He comes home from assignments just as damaged as he always has, but he talks. He tells you about the little boy he meets on the verge of infection; the mother who shoves her baby into his arms before she limps back into whatever alley she hid in, angry teeth marks marring her shoulder. You don’t always have words to comfort him, but you cradle his head against your chest as he weeps and pick up his pain killers when he’s too worn and sore to go to the pharmacy the next day.

Tonight though, there’s something about the evening that causes anxiety to creep into your chest. You can’t tell what, but something just feels wrong. And then your phone goes off.

 The caller ID that lights up your phone causes your heart to plummet.

Leon’s dispatcher never calls you. It takes you a few tries to hit accept, the tremor of your hands betraying the fear that has sunken its claws further into you.

“Leave the light on,”

Leon’s breathing is labored; each syllable sounds like it saps him of all his energy. “You never leave it on when I come home.”

You clutch the phone tighter in your hands, to keep from dropping it as your hands shake violently.

“I’m always afraid that if I leave it on I’ll be the one to turn it off the next morning… if you don’t come home.” There’s no response from him, just the ambience of whatever hell he’s trapped in and the sound of his breath.

 “Don’t you dare die on me Kennedy.”

 There’s a huff of laughter on the line, and somehow that’s what sets you off. Hot tears streak down your cheeks. “I mean it Leon.”

“Did you think I’d ask you to leave the light on for a ghost?” The laugh that bubbles up from your throat mixes with a sob into an ugly gasp.

“You think you’re so damn funny.”

“The implication that you don’t think I’m funny stings, Gorgeous.”

“Come home. Please just come back in one piece.” The longer he stays on the line the more concerned you feel.

“I will. I just needed my reminder.” Theres the sound of his body shifting, a groan as he stands.

“I love you, remember to leave the light on.”

──────•✦•──────

When you hear the lock turn this time, you nearly give yourself whiplash in the attempt to lay eyes on him. Leon steps into the hall, the light left on for once, and in seconds you’re across the room. He grunts in pain as you crash into his arms, and you mumble an apology as you loosen your grip on his torso.

“Hope I didn’t drive up the electric bill leaving the light on.”

Even though he’s exhausted, you can hear the smile in his voice. You help him take off his layers and follow as he walks stiffly into your bedroom, wait patiently for him as he showers and changes. When he finally crawls into bed you let him get comfortable; draping his arm across your waist and laying his head on your chest, and you press a soft kiss to his forehead.

“Do you want to talk about it?” You ask quietly.

“Tomorrow I will. For right now I just need to appreciate that I made it home to you.”

──────•✦•──────

The months after the Atelier was completed were filled with small upgrades; new furniture in the living room, a growing collection of cooking utensils and enchanted pots, sprouts in the garden. Qifrey and Olruggio were slowly but steadily filling the place with evidence of life. The most consistent changes though, were in Qifrey’s library. He made trips to and from the Great Hall, lugging back with him his grimoires to fill the beautiful oak shelves Olly had built into his workspace.

The clutter of magical tools and contraptions in the shared spaces of the place were the only tangible evidence of Olruggio’s existence in the atelier. The scruffy man had slept for the entire day following their completion of the atelier’s construction, and since then had been cooped up in his workshop working away on his backlog of orders.

As much as Qifrey hated to admit it to himself, the atelier felt lonely with Olly shut away working. He found himself preparing extra helpings of meals in the hopes that his friend would emerge from his workshop to share a meal, and each night found himself crestfallen at the sight of the empty chair across from him.

Tonight, Qifrey had filled a single bowl from the magic cookpot, resigned to his fate of solitary meals, when Olruggio appeared in the kitchen. The dark circles under his eyes made evident his exhaustion. Shuffling across the kitchen, he threw an arm across Qifrey’s shoulders and peered down at the stew in the cookpot.

“Would you mind spooning out a bowl for me?” He asked gruffly, dropping his chin onto Qifrey’s shoulder.

“Of course,” Qifrey tried to calm the nervous tremor in his hand as he dipped the ladle back into the cookpot. “I hope the portions I’ve made for you have stayed warm until you finish work for the day; I’d hate for my attempt at kindness to just be a cold supper.”

Olly grumbled as he took the bowl and slumped down to the tables level, shoveling a spoonful into his mouth before responding.

“Nope, they stay piping hot at least for the few hours between then and my inhaling them.” He huffed a tired laugh and continued to scarf down his dinner.

“Thanks for leaving them out for me, Qifrey.”

The silver haired man froze briefly in his travel towards the table at the sound of Olly’s thanks.

“Think nothing of it, my friend.” The soft sound of the wooden bowl meeting the table punctuated his words, and for a moment there was only the sound of the two of them eating in comfortable silence.

“What have you been working on? I’ve hardly seen you leave your workshop as of late.”

Olruggio let loose a defeated sigh, pressing the heels of his hands against his tired eyes. “Some posh nobleman wants the entire ballroom floor in his estate to be laid with glowstones. I’ve been etching seals until my fingers go numb.”

Qifrey winces sympathetically at the thought of his friend hunching over pavers until the early hours of the morning.

“You mustn’t work yourself to death dear friend.”

“Aye, I’m well aware darlin’. There’s no need to fuss like a doting wife, Qifrey.”

Qifrey laughs at the domestic nickname, though his ears burn red at its use. He dismisses the flipping sensation in his stomach as the work of the Silverwood, to free himself of the burden of unearthing why darlin’ sounded so lovely when spoken in Olruggio’s rugged and lilted accent.

“Simply save me from my concern by taking care, Olly; it would certainly put my mind at ease to have you eat at a reasonable time each night.”

It was a bit selfish that his request for his friend’s health also served to quell his own loneliness.

“Alright, I’ll try to remember to join you for supper more often.”

Another short period of silence passes between them before Olruggio yawns, the reflex warping his voice as he speaks. “Hiehart and his little sidekick, Jujy was her name if I recall correctly, they’ll be helping me lay the glowstones tomorrow.”

“How kind of them, I’ll have to put together some lunch for you three to take with you.” Qifrey made a mental note to bake something sweet to tuck away in the young girl’s lunch; lost in thought while stirring the dregs of his stew and pondering what he could throw together tonight to be taken along with them in the morning.

The dull thud of Olruggio nodding off, his head dropping onto the table perilously close to his still occupied bowl, shakes Qifrey from his thoughts. Worry clouds his eye briefly before Olly sits back up with lightning speed; a bright red mark at the center of his forehead and his hair pushed aside as he rubs at his eyes. Olruggio looks like a teenage apprentice who’s dozed off mid-lesson, and the sight of him groggy and bewildered shakes a brisk laugh from Qifrey’s chest.

“What’s so funny?” Olly rubs at his forehead and frowns gently at the chuckling witch across from him.

“I think you’re in dire need of some rest, you seem ready to drop like a stone.”

In a rare moment of compliance, Olruggio mumbles his agreement and tries to stand. Almost at once, he stumbles over his own two feet and slumps back into his seat with a soft grunt.

“Now there’s no need to commit so fully to my analogy Olruggio.” This time the concern lingers on Qifrey’s face despite his joking. Olruggio’s head bobs weakly as he fights sleep, his eyes heavy as lead.

Qifrey, eyes still shining with worry, steps from his own seat at the table and drops to one knee to better see Olruggio’s face.

“Alright then, let’s get you to bed.” He tugs the rugged man’s arm across his shoulders, huffing with the effort of hoisting Olruggio up off his seat.

“Told you… not to fuss so much…”

It takes what feels like ages to get Olruggio out of the kitchen and into the living room. With his friend finally settled semi-comfortably on the worn couch, Qifrey retrieves a warm quilt from his own room to keep Olly from catching a chill overnight. The last thing he needed was for his companion to fall ill ahead of an important deadline.

With Olruggio now tucked neatly beneath the quilt and snoring softly, Qifrey drew a pyre ball seal in the hearth to ward off the chill in the living room before retreating to the kitchen to begin his night of cooking.

──────•✦•──────

It wasn’t until the sun had reached the crest of its path the next day that Olruggio stirred from his slumber. Tucked beneath the quilt, enveloped in the scent of sandalwood and clove, he wondered foggily how he had ended up in Qifrey’s bed of all places. It wasn’t until he summoned the energy to open his still-heavy eyes, squinting against the sun, that he recognized his surroundings as the living room of the Atelier.

What a ridiculous notion, that Qifrey would have put him to sleep in his room instead of Olruggio’s own bed.

As the clarity of wakefulness returned to him, the smell of food reached him from the kitchen, delicious enough to convince Olly to abandon the comfort of the couch in search of its source.

“Welcome back to the world of the living.” Qifrey didn’t divert his attention from the omelet he was preparing as he greeted Olly.

He sat at the kitchen table, running his hands through his ruffled raven hair to smooth out his bed-head. “Any chance you’ve got extra eggs?”

In lieu of a response, Qifrey placed a second helping of omelet in front of him. Of course. A bit foolish to ask, knowing Qifrey always cooked for two. “Meals just aren’t as enjoyable when they’re not shared” had been his response when Olruggio had asked why he always cooked for the both of them.

“Did Hiehart stop by this morning? You might’ve bother to wake me rather than send the poor lad off to lay all those glowstones on his own.”

It hadn’t occurred to him in the fog of exhaustion that he had likely missed the young man’s visit to acquire the stones early this morning.

“Not to worry, I made sure to send him and Jujy off with only half the stones. They’ll be back by first thing tomorrow to collect the rest to finish the job once you’re rested up.”

Olruggio’s mouth hangs open, the half-chewed bite of omelet inside it causing Qifrey to grimace and avert his gaze.

“Qifrey.” His gravelly voice was a low growl, the two syllables more than enough to convey his frustration. “That nobleman wanted the ballroom laid by tomorrow evening!”

“And it will be!” Qifrey raised his hands in a plea for his friend to calm himself. “We’ll leave before dawn tomorrow. Between the four of us I’m certain we can finish by midday.”

“The four of us?”

Qifrey smiled awkwardly. “I’ll tag along to help you wrap up the job, if you don’t have any objections?”

Olruggio gave an appreciative grunt as he shoveled another forkful of omelet into his mouth.

“No lecture about my work schedule?” He asked skeptically after swallowing.

“I’ve been told recently that I fuss like a doting wife. I’ll spare you my nagging today.” Qifrey laughed, a light airy sound that seemed to brighten the rays of sunlight pouring in through the kitchen window. “I’m afraid I’m well aware that it’s in your nature to work until you physically can’t. I’ll simply need to be ready to pick you back up when you collapse.”

Qifrey smiled, eyes gentle and warm as they fixed on the sleep deprived witch before him. Olruggio gave only another gruff chuckle, though he could feel his cheeks warm with embarrassment.

──────•✦•──────

“You’re not going to stay in the Great Hall?” Olruggio’s brow scrunches.

“I’m afraid not, I think I’d like to build an atelier somewhere in the countryside. It would be good for me, you know, to get out from under the ocean.”

 Qifrey tried his best to make his smile look genuine, even if he can’t truly shake the grief of parting ways with his closest friend. He’d been putting it off long enough, clinging to the delusion that he could fend off the feeling of peace that being here with Olly brought to him.

“I see…”

He couldn’t quite decide if he was hurt by the lack of sorrow in Olly’s voice. On the one hand, it was easiest for him if there was no objection to his departure; but a small, selfish part of him had wanted Olly to ask him to stay.

“Not to worry though; I’ll come back to visit with my apprentices.”

That got Olly to smile, a small but wonderful lift of the corners of his lips, but it did little to quell the knot of anxiety tangling in Qifrey’s gut.

──────•✦•──────

It wasn’t until the morning of his move that Qifrey was looped in to why his closest friend had reacted in such a subdued manner.

Olruggio had spent the days between then and now peppering Qifrey with a never-ending torrent of questions.

“Where are you planning to build your atelier?”

Out in the countryside, perhaps in the meadow the two of them had found as apprentices.

“Would you build a window-way?”

Of course, how else would he travel to and from the Great Hall?

“Have you been assigned a watchful eye yet?”

It was this last question that puzzled Qifrey the most. He hadn’t even thought about being assigned a watchful eye, a witch living at the atelier to ensure the safety of the apprentices, why was Olly so keen to know what poor soul had been banished to the countryside with him?

Now it made sense.

Olruggio stood, grinning from ear to ear and weighed down by his luggage, waiting for him at the window-way. Beside him was Beldaruit, smiling impishly at the shock plastered across Qifrey’s face.

“Surprise!” Beldaruit chirped, gesturing grandly at the raven-haired witch. “Your trusty watchful eye, ready to accompany you out into the world of education.”

For a moment, Qifrey’s heart soars, but it’s cut short by the twitch of Silver-wood branches somewhere deep within him. His gut turns at the feeling, anxiety clutching at his heart and returning him to reality.

Olruggio cannot come with him, it defeats the whole purpose of relocating from the Great Hall.

But the idea of turning him away is agonizing.

So instead Qifrey smiles back at his friend, asks why he hadn’t been filled in on Olly’s plans to come with him to build his atelier, thanks him for accompanying him on this new chapter of life.

Olly shrugs humbly, unwilling to accept the thanks he’s offered.

“I need a consistent paycheck between contraptions.” He rubs awkwardly at the nape of his neck. “Besides, you really think I’d let my best friend go out and adventure in the countryside without me?”

Qifrey simply couldn’t find it in him to turn Olruggio away.

 ──────•✦•──────

The night sky is lit by scattered stars when the two witches step through the window-way to the island above the Great Hall. A Pegasus carriage stands waiting for them, and at the sight of it Olruggio barks a relieved laugh.

“Oh thank the gods, I was worried we would be stuck hiking all the way to the meadows. I was starting to really reconsider if I needed all my tools.”

“Put your mind at ease, my friend, we don’t have to rough it quite yet.” Qifrey chuckles, lifting Olly’s luggage pack from his shoulders to stash away in the carriage.

The flight over the countryside is filled with fond reminiscences of past mischief and adventures; reckless treks into the outside world travelled by a moody childish Qifrey and an Olruggio identical in kindness and stubborn nature to his current self.

The branches of the Silverwood churn within Qifrey’s chest; stretching uncomfortably at the sound of Olly’s laugh, writhing at the warmth he feels when the man across from him speaks his name. When the carriage thuds against the grassy floor of the meadow, it is a relief to put some space between himself and his companion. The two stand at the crest of one of the rolling hills, the shimmering green landscape before them taking shape as the sun broke the horizon.

“You know, I forgot how beautiful it is here.” Olruggio’s face was drawn into a soft smile.

Though Qifrey could acknowledge that the fading of the stars in the sky was a result of the ascent of the sun, to him it seemed Olruggio’s arrival had dimmed their light.

“I’m thankful to be lucky enough to come with you, old friend. I’m afraid my envy would have drowned my fondness for you if I’d stayed at the bottom of the sea while you built yourself a new life in such a peaceful place.”

“It was foolish of me to ever consider leaving you behind. Life here could never be fulfilling alone.”

──────•✦•──────

As a builder at heart, Olly wasted little time before setting to work on the Atelier

“Right, so I’ve gone through the trouble of drawing you some schematics for the construction of the atelier.”

Olruggio unfurled a large scroll of paper across the rickety picnic table they had patched together with spare materials delivered the evening before. Qifrey sat, mouth agape, taking in the delicate designs his rugged friend had laid out before him.

“Happy to make changes if you think it needs some adjusting, I know my interpretations of what you wanted for the place can only be so accurate. I’m a witch, not a mind reader after all.”

There are no words Qifrey could summon in response. The blueprints were stunning illustrations of the atelier Olly had designed, complete with footnotes on landscaping for Qifrey to consider.

 It was true that the floor plans weren’t quite as he had imagined his atelier to look, in fact they were far better than the simple cottage he had been picturing when he had envisioned his life in the countryside. Dormitories for apprentices, a spacious kitchen for Qifrey to cook meals, and a garden in the yard to grow herbs and ingredients. The only addition that wasn’t a direct improvement on his vision was the attached workshop and extra living space. Noticing his extra attention to that alteration, Olly shifted awkwardly on the bench.

“I hope you don’t mind my adding a separate space for myself; figured I would be up late into the night and didn’t want to keep you, or your apprentices, awake tinkering with my contraptions in the main atelier.”

“It’s… it’s perfect.”

Qifrey grinned so widely his entire face ached with the effort of it, and Olly flushed bright red at the sight.

“It’s nothing, really just a project to fill idle time between orders is all…”

But all the humility in the world couldn’t erase the thought and energy poured into this. The kindness of Olruggio to have created such a beautiful space for them was something he could never shrug off or convince Qifrey to dismiss.

This was what made having him here so dangerous to Qifrey.

“Looks like we have quite the project ahead of us old friend.”

The days following were a slow grind of labor; the lack of magic to assist in building making the process feel tedious and unending. What made the whole thing bearable was the company. Meals cooked on open flame with foraged ingredients and conversation during the work kept the two from letting exhaustion get the better of them.

That, and a good night's sleep, even if it only truly benefitted Olruggio.

Before the atelier’s structure was complete, their nights were spent in a canvas tent covered in rain repellent seal. Qifrey lay awake, listening to the soft snores of Olruggio beside him, unable to convince himself to sleep for fear that when Olly woke, he would be shaded from the morning sun; not by the tent, but by Qifrey’s branches fanned out above his head.

The worst of these nights had been when, in the lull of sleep, Olruggio had murmured Qifrey’s name. The sound had been barely audible; had he not been wide awake with anxiety, he might not have heard. But there it was, nestled between thunderous snores.

“Qifrey"

So sleep was little comfort to Qifrey. But soon enough the atelier took shape, finally inhabitable, and he was given the relief of nights spent safely distanced from his best friend. Not that distance could truly shake from his mind the sound of his name whispered in the tent.

──────•✦•──────

Finally, they had reached their last task before they could settle into their new home, the etchings on the atelier’s window-way. Qifrey would have been content to etch the symbols onto the circular frame on his own, let Olly sleep in through the dawn and into the afternoon. But when he descended the stairs to the window-way landing, with the sun just beginning its ascent into the sky, he found his friend already at work.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you up so early.”

At the sound of his voice, Olly glanced over his shoulder, his tired eyes fixing on Qifrey, who stood lingering on the last stair before the landing.

“I’m always eager to see a project completed, it’s the greatest part of building something.” His voice was gravelly with the remnants of sleep.

Qifrey just nodded, drawing his sear-needle wand from his belt and joining the other witch at the window frame. They worked in a comfortable silence, the soft hiss of turning the nested stone circles and the steady whisper of the sear-needles were Qifrey’s only reprieve from his keen awareness of the man beside him. The way he held his breath with each line drawn, the warmth radiating from him in the chilled basement air. The Silverwood, twitching threateningly every time he fixed his one good eye on Olruggio, made him feel nauseous with anxiety.

And then it was done. The raven-haired witch stood to rotate the frames, and with the alignment of the seals, the window-way opened to the landscape of the Great Hall’s Island. Olly grinned over his shoulder and, before Qifrey could sidestep, threw his arms around his frame in celebration. The Silverwood swirled angrily in his chest.

“We did it! Finally connected back to the outside world.”

When he was finally released from the bear hug, Qifrey sucked in a gulp of air in an attempt to quell the churning in his gut.

“Are you eager to escape the countryside already?”

He asked playfully, though he was bracing himself for the answer despite being unsure which would be the more distressing response; confirmation that Olly yearned to leave his side already, or that he was committed to staying here.

“Not at all, just thrilled to not have to use sylph shoes to trek to and from customers anymore.”

Olly laughed, a warm genuine sound that vibrated through Qifrey’s chest and stirred up the Silverwood limbs once more.

“Glad to hear you haven’t grown sick of me yet.”

“We have a while yet before we begin to bicker like an old married couple.” Olly continued to chuckle. “We haven’t even left the honey-moon phase, my dear Qifrey.”

An old married couple.

Qifreys stomach twisted again, though this time it wasn't the work of the cursed wooden sapling in his gut.

This arrangement was going to be torturous.

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Chapter 2

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