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‘Aren’t you going to take that?’
Sokka’s phone buzzes again where it’s lying on his nightstand, but he’s pointedly ignoring it because below him, Zuko is naked and flushed this stunning rose all the way down his chest. It’s the early afternoon, so with the sunlight streaming through the window, he looks all glowing and dreamy on the white bed sheets. His hair fans out on the pillow below him. The last thing on Sokka’s mind is picking up his phone.
‘What?’ he returns. ‘While I’ve got my cock inside you?’
‘Mm,’ Zuko mumbles, eyes squeezed shut as he swivels his hips back onto Sokka’s dick. ‘Could be important.’
He rolls his eyes. ‘Fine.’ He has to awkwardly reach over to grab the phone, which means he must let go of that nice grip he had on Zuko’s hips. His dick also slides halfway out, but he fucks back inside before answering his phone.
‘Hi, Dad,’ he says, in a voice that thankfully doesn’t sound too out of breath. This could downhill really fast. He isn’t sure why he went along with this, but then he always does what Zuko asks. Not that he really asked, though—it was more like a dare. Sort of. ‘What’s up?’
Hakoda starts saying something about Christmas and wish lists, but Sokka’s only half listening because he’s looking at Zuko below him. He grinds his hips forward just a little, just to see what happens—Zuko digs his teeth harshly into his lip to stifle a whine. His eyes roll back.
‘Mm-hm,’ Sokka says because his dad is waiting for a reply. ‘No, I don’t really know anything off the top of my head.’
A devious smirk plays on Zuko’s lips, and that’s all the warning Sokka gets before Zuko lifts his hips to fuck Sokka’s cock deeper inside him, clenches around him.
‘Hhf—’ Sokka cuts himself off by squeezing the sheets tightly in his free hand. Zuko’s just beaming up at him with this self-satisfied smile because he’s an asshole like that. Fuck you, Sokka mouths, but Zuko only blows a kiss.
‘Yeah, Dad, I’m good,’ Sokka promises. ‘Just stubbed my toe against the table, you know how clumsy I am sometimes.’
Sokka death glares at Zuko while his dad chuckles on the phone.
‘Sorry, Dad, I’m kind of busy, but I promise I’ll get started on the wish list. Love you, bye.’ He hangs up after his dad returns the goodbye, then throws his phone aside.
‘That—’ Sokka stresses the word by digging his fingers into the meat of Zuko’s thighs and hauling him closer. ‘Was such a fucking asshole move.’
Zuko lets out a breathy chuckle and lets himself be manhandled as Sokka thrusts into him a few hard times. ‘Quit fronting,’ he returns with that asshole smirk from moments ago. ‘It got you all hot.’
Sokka rolls his eyes, but doesn’t stifle the groan when Zuko clenches around his dick again.
‘Got you so hot,’ he stresses, bites his lip. Bats his lashes a little. ‘Felt your cock throb inside me.’
‘Fuck,’ Sokka groans, and he hadn’t really meant to say it, but—he once thought Zuko would be kind of shy in bed, and sometimes he is, but sometimes he says shit like this like it’s nothing. Sokka grips his hips tighter and pulls him close as he fucks forward, this feral kind of thrust. Desperate for something. He gets a little like that sometimes, but only with Zuko. Blood thrumming in his veins, fingers shaking a little. Wanting him so much. All needy.
He leans down so they’re closer, chest to chest, and he swears he can feel Zuko’s heart hammering. Or maybe it’s his own. He’s out of breath by now, his voice all deep and rough, but his mouth is by Zuko’s ear now, so he doesn’t have to talk loudly at all. ‘Yeah?’ More groan than word. ‘Like you’re not the one clenching down on me, try’na get me deeper inside. What’s that about, huh? You want someone to catch us fucking?’
Zuko’s the one groaning now, this drawn-out, breathless sound. He curls his legs around Sokka’s ass, traps him there and fucks them closer. Wraps his arms around his back in a tight hug that would be sweet if they weren’t in the midst of this.
Maybe it’s still sweet.
Another whine rattles out his mouth as Sokka gives another precise thrust, stays inside and just grinds slow, tiny circles with his hips. Keeping Zuko nice and full.
‘Please.’ Zuko sounds wrecked by now—this raspy quality to his voice, but light at the same time. ‘Fuck, move.’
Sokka can’t help laugh a little, but presses a kiss to Zuko’s temple, sits back on his haunches. Slides out and grabs his own cock, teases the head against Zuko’s lube-slick hole. Fucks back inside in one smooth thrust.
Zuko moans again, and mutters something that sounds a lot like asshole. Sokka doesn’t worry about it, just smirks at him and grabs his dick where it’s lying flushed and hard against the flat pane of his stomach. He gives it a squeeze at the base, cups the balls and plays with them because it always makes Zuko all whiny.
‘What wouldn’t people think if they caught us, baby?’
Obviously, Sokka doesn’t want anyone to catch them, ever. He hasn’t really thought about it before. It’s on the wrong side of what he considers ethically okay, but the risk of it is still kind of compelling. And that base part of him wants everyone to know that yeah, he got to fuck Zuko, got to reduce Zuko into this barely coherent mess. Maybe there’s something to unpack there.
‘They’d think—’ Zuko cuts himself off with another groan. He clenches where Sokka’s inside him, smirks up at him when Sokka loses his pace and thrusts all sloppily. ‘Wow, didn’t know Zuko had it in him to get laid.’
Sokka snorts. Sex with Zuko is mind-altering, but it can also just be so fun. Wholly perfect.
‘Fuck off with that self-deprecation,’ he returns, swivels his hips. ‘Anyone would fuck you if you just spread your legs.’
‘I don’t know if you’re trying to be encouraging or what. Just tell me I’m hot like a normal person.’
‘You’re so hot,’ Sokka complies with a wink. ‘Especially like this. Fucked-out really suits you.’
‘Thanks,’ he deadpans. The effect is mostly lost when his eyes roll back and he moans again, all high-pitched suddenly. God, Sokka loves when he goes high-pitched. It’s crazy hot, like he’s really on the edge of losing control. ‘Feels good.’ He blinks slowly and looks at Sokka with bleary eyes, a dazed smile on his lips. ‘Your cock inside me. You fuck me so good.’
His cock gives another throb inside Zuko and he thrusts forward, grabs his hips hard enough to leave finger-shaped bruises. Fucks him like it’s the first time and last time, everything else blurred away. Just now. Sweat beads on his forehead and his hair slicks to his skin; the sound of skin against skin is filthy and so hot Sokka’s hips snap forward harder. Drives himself deeper into Zuko. Wants to become one with him, like this isn’t just sex any more.
‘Oh, fuck—’ Zuko’s really toeing the edge now and he’s letting go, his eyes roll back and he clenches around Sokka and he grabs onto the sheets. ‘Yeah, come on, inside, please—’
Sokka always loses it when Zuko begs him to come inside.
He groans, all fierce and hungry, and thrusts, and he isn’t sure what comes first—Zuko’s orgasm, body locked tight with it, or Sokka’s own. All the lines blur, their bodies melting together.
Sokka slumps down on top of Zuko. His dick is still inside him, getting soft now. He lets out a sigh and nuzzles his face against Zuko’s neck.
He knows they both need to shower. Everything’s gross—sweat and cum and lube all over them, and the sheets need to be washed, but now he just wants to cuddle. Wants to be close and soft and feel Zuko’s body in a different way.
Wants to pretend this isn’t just another hook-up in the long string of casual hook-ups they’ve shared since Zuko somehow ended up in Sokka’s bed that one time when they’d both had too much to drink at a party. They haven’t really talked about it—what this is. What it means. Whether it means anything at all.
It’s stupid, of course, to be friends with benefits with the guy you have a crush on. Especially when crush doesn’t even begin to sum up the tidal wave of feelings Sokka has.
He sighs again, reality hitting him. It’s always like this afterwards—he wants to bask in what just happened, wants to enjoy it and cuddle and pretend they’re dating, but it always feels bittersweet and a little wrong, because they aren’t dating. They just fuck sometimes.
Whenever one of them feels like it, to de-stress or whatever. No romance about it.
‘That was good,’ Zuko says after a moment, wiggling his hips so Sokka’s dick slips out. He shifts around so he can rest his head on Sokka’s chest. ‘What’d your dad want by the way?’
‘Um.’ Sokka tries to remember and Zuko breathes out this way-too-cute giggle. ‘My wish list for Christmas, I think?’
‘Shit, he’s right.’ Zuko shifts his head to catch Sokka’s eyes. He looks way too good like this—all soft and sex-dazed. Sokka kind of wants to nap with him now. He has this vision of Zuko wearing Sokka’s shirt and nothing else while Sokka bakes them pancakes.
‘What do you wish for?’ Zuko’s words pull Sokka back to the present.
This. You.
He doesn’t say those two words.
‘Haven’t decided yet,’ he says instead. ‘What about you?’
‘What more could I wish for?’ Zuko says, sounding so painfully sincere it makes something hurt in Sokka’s chest. Zuko is the best man in the world, trusting to a fault and committed to always, always going the extra mile—he’d do anything for you. But he doesn’t think he deserves anything in return. Sokka only just wants him to realise how beautiful he is, and not just physically. His soul is beautiful. He could wish for anything in the world and it still wouldn’t be enough.
But he doesn’t say any of that because it’s sappy. He just runs a hand through Zuko’s sweat-dampened hair and resists the urge to kiss his forehead.
***
The tattoo gun whirrs and the sound of it blends with the quiet background music. Sokka’s just adding the final touches—he’s been working on this piece the last few hours, small and large flowers blooming across the shoulder and down the upper arm of Seongmin, one of his regular clients.
‘There.’ He shuts off the gun and puts it down, rolls his neck till it gives a few cracks. She knows the drill, but he repeats it anyway while cleaning and wrapping the new tattoo in cling film.
The bell above the door chimes, so Sokka looks up from his work. He doesn’t have any other clients scheduled, but people can always walk in from the street.
‘Zuko?’ He’s confused to see him here. ‘Just a moment, we’re just finishing up.’
‘Sure.’ He sits down on the couch by the entrance and Sokka returns his attention to Seongmin.
‘Got all that?’ he asks with a smile.
‘Of course.’ She gets up from the chair to go check out the new piece in the mirror. ‘Fuck, it’s so dope, Sokka.’ She beams at him for just a second, before leaning closer to the mirror to get a look at some minor detail.
‘I’m glad,’ he returns, and he is. Proud, too. He likes art and he likes making people happy and being a tattoo artist really combines those two things most wonderfully. When he was fifteen and his dreams first started wandering this way, everyone thought it was a shit idea and tried to warn him away from it—you’ll be constantly broke, it’s not a real job, you can’t make a living that way.
But that’s the great thing about being underestimated—you can prove everyone wrong.
Seongmin pays and Sokka reminds her to come back in a few weeks to check if it needs any touch-ups.
‘Will do,’ she says with a smile, then gives a little wave. ‘Cheers, have a nice evening.’
When she’s gone, he turns his attention to Zuko who has been watching the exchange with a smile. He jumps up from the couch and grabs the bouquet he’d laid down on the small table. He hands them out for Sokka to take.
‘What’re you doing here?’ Sokka asks. He accepts the flowers but looks at him bewilderedly.
‘Bringing you flowers.’
If Sokka blushes (which is contestable), it’s definitely in a very masculine way. ‘Why?’
‘Florist was having a sale,’ Zuko explains, and there’s definitely a pinkness to his own cheeks, so Sokka’s less worried about himself. ‘Bouquets for one pound. They’d just have been thrown away otherwise—I couldn’t say no.’
Sokka can’t help but smile. He looks from his friend to the flowers—a bouquet of peach roses, white peonies, and greenery. It’s stunning, really. Sokka feels like he’s been looking at flowers all day—first the ones he inked on Seongmin, now this bouquet. He’s still a little hung up on Zuko bringing him flowers. It doesn’t seem very platonic, does it?
But then again, he’s had Zuko’s dick in his mouth. So, there’s that.
But they’re not dating. Sokka’s thought of giving Zuko flowers, sure, but he’s never done it, because it would send the wrong signal.
But the florist was having a sale and Zuko couldn’t resist, because Zuko can’t ever resist a bargain. Once, he bought ten tins of pineapples because it was 50% off, and he doesn’t even like pineapples.
Sokka does, though. He made Hawaiian pizza twice a week for a month straight.
‘Thank you,’ Sokka says finally, a bite lamely. He bites his lip and doesn’t look at Zuko because he’ll just accidentally kiss him or something. And Zuko isn’t bringing flowers as a romantic gesture, so it would be totally inappropriate to kiss him. He’s bringing flowers as a friendly gesture—probably he thought Sokka’s studio needed a bit of life.
‘Of course,’ Zuko says. He pushes a loose strand of hair behind his ear.
‘I’m done for the day…’ Sokka trails off. ‘You want to hang out?’
‘Would love to,’ Zuko says, and Sokka can hear the impending but. ‘But I’m drowning in work.’
Sokka didn’t listen when everyone told him to quit his tattoo artist dreams and go to college instead, but Zuko did. Not that Zuko ever wanted to become a tattoo artist. But he rebelled in his own way. He dropped out of Business Administration after one term and completed a literature degree instead. He’s doing his PhD now, which means that ‘drowning in work’ describes his life pretty much constantly.
‘You’re coming Saturday?’ he asks.
‘Duh.’ Sokka rolls his eyes to stress the point. ‘Like Katara wouldn’t kill me if I bailed.’
Zuko laughs with him, his eyes crinkled. ‘Then at least I’ll see you there.’ He fidgets with the sleeve of his tailored jacket, eyes darting from Sokka to the flowers to the door and back to Sokka. ‘I’ll miss you,’ he adds.
‘Yeah.’ Sokka sounds all choked up suddenly. He clutches the flowers tighter, kind of wants to hide his face in them. Feels like an idiot and isn’t really sure why—just everything. All of it. ‘Yeah, me too. Get home safe.’
‘You know, if I get hit by a car, at least I don’t have to grade any more papers!’
A snort bounces from Sokka and he shakes his head a little. ‘If you get hit by a car and die, you’ll have me to deal with, you wanker. Don’t think I won’t summon your ghost just to scream at you.’
Zuko smiles at him, this wonderful flash of white teeth that dimples his left cheek. He smiles the same way when Sokka runs his fingertips softly across the string of words inked across his ribcage. It’s one of the tattoos Sokka’s proudest of—not because it’s really his best work, just letters, no shading or anything special. But because it was the first he did for his friend, because Zuko trusted him with that. Marking his body for life like that, sought Sokka out and looked at him and said I want this and I want it be you.
Since then, of course, more black lines have been etched into Zuko’s pale skin—two shuriken for Mai, his mother’s birth flower across the back of his left shoulder, a silly cartoon style cup of tea for his uncle. Quotes from his favourite books.
All done by Sokka, of course. But the first one, the opening line of Fahrenheit 451, it’s special. Whenever they sleep together, Sokka will touch it and Zuko will give him this soft smile, the way he’s smiling now.
Sokka wants to make him smile like that forever.
‘I’d beat Death just to come back to you.’ It sounds sincere, almost heart-breaking, but then Zuko blows Sokka a kiss and winks at him, and that thing in the air disappears. Sokka laughs at him and shoos him out of the studio.
Zuko bundles his scarf tighter around his neck, waving again before strolling off. Sokka is struck again by how unearthly handsome he is—that sleek silhouette, the straight lines of his body like crafted marble. Back straight, steps confident.
Sokka shakes his head because it’s a little creepy staring at Zuko’s retreating body.
Gently, he places the bouquet of flowers on the table as he goes to clean up for the night. Looking at them makes his heart ache. It’s good and bad at the same time. He has nothing funny to say right now.
***
Sokka’s a bit of a sucker, so when he knows he’s going to see Zuko, he spends extra time getting ready. This means picking a great outfit and styling his hair for longer than he otherwise would. He wears black jeans and a blue jumper his grandmother knitted for him, then puts on a black choker because he’s feeling spicy. Katara will probably make fun of him for it, but so what. Like he didn’t notice how she started wearing turtlenecks all the time when she and Aang started dating.
Of course, Sokka is thrilled for the two of them, but he still gets a little jealous sometimes. He wants all that sappy stuff—holding hands, kisses on the cheek, wearing a turtleneck to work to hide the hickeys on his neck. All right, so he’s still got to do that last thing a few times but—it’s not the same. That’s just sex.
None of his friends know that he and Zuko fuck sometimes. He already knows how they’d react—Katara would call him stupid and Aang would tell him he should practice his communication skills and Toph would also call him stupid. And why would he tell them anyway? He knows he’s stupid. Besides, he doesn’t kiss and tell.
He sighs and spritzes cologne on his pulse points. In the hallway, he laces up his boots and pulls on his coat, wrapping a thick scarf around his neck. Grabs everything that he needs and locks the door behind him.
Tonight’s thing is at Aang’s place, since he’s the one insisting on doing this. Secret Santa. It’s a sweet tradition, really. Sokka isn’t sure which name he hopes to draw. Everyone seems pretty easy, except Zuko who seems ridiculously hard.
He’s overthinking it, but it would have to be perfect.
He has plenty of fine ideas, but he doesn’t have any perfect ideas. The perfect present to make Zuko realise that he wants more. He wants to give him everything.
Aang’s flat is thankfully warm. In the windowsill, there’s a handful of scented candles, so the place smells faintly of cinnamon and clove. He’s also tacked up a mistletoe in the doorframe, which does make Sokka smile a little. It’s cute and silly and Sokka’s pretty sure he mostly put it up to trick Katara into kissing him even more.
Speak of the sun and she shines—Katara pulls him into a hug, which is sweet, but then rubs her hand all over his head just to mess up his hair. He spent ten minutes on that!
‘Katara!’ he grumbles, but hugs her back.
Toph sits cross-legged on the floor, cradling a Mason jar with paper slips inside.
‘What’s up?’ Sokka asks as he plops down next to her, knocking their shoulders together.
The doorbell rings again and Aang goes to get it. When Zuko steps into the living room, Sokka thinks he’s going to have a heart attack.
It should get easier, right? After years of seeing him almost daily—Sokka should be used to it. His breath shouldn’t catch in his throat every time he looks at him, his mouth shouldn’t get all dry. And yet, looking at Zuko’s cheeks flushed pink from the cold, the tailored white shirt pushed up his forearms—Sokka sucks in a breath.
‘Close your mouth,’ Toph tells him. She sounds highly amused.
Sokka closes his mouth. Under his breath, he mutters, ‘he looks so good.’
Toph really does snort now, and pats Sokka’s arm. ‘Want me to rig the game so you get him?’ she asks. ‘You can give him a blowjob as a present.’
Sokka feels his cheeks turn red as he shoves Toph down and tells her to shut up. He really, really hopes she doesn’t use her freakish human lie detector skills and somehow figures out that he has, in fact, sucked Zuko’s dick before. Multiple times. He doesn’t want her to know that because she would never let it go again. To redirect her attention, he asks, ‘how would you even rig Secret Santa anyway?’
‘With the power of immense generational wealth, everything is possible.’
‘Yeah, I bet.’
‘Okay, everyone,’ Aang’s cheerful voice cuts through the room and Sokka shifts his focus from Toph to him. ‘Great to see you! I’m glad you all made it!’
They are literally five people here, but Aang sounds all sincere and grateful. Sokka knows for a fact that he keeps a gratitude journal, because he talked Sokka into keeping one as well. He tried it for, like, one week, then gave up because he felt stupid.
I’m grateful I got to come in Zuko’s ass last week! How’s that for gratitude, huh?
He shakes his head to refocus on what Aang is saying.
‘You will all draw a name from the Mason jar and then you have to give a present to that person.’ They’ve literally done this every year for almost a decade, but Aang still explains the rules every year. ‘For example, if I draw Toph’s name, I have to give Toph a present.’
If Sokka draws Toph’s name, he will give her a brick wrapped in four dozen layers of duct tape. Not because he hates her, but because he loves her and knows she will love the challenge of it. If he gets Aang, he’ll donate to a charity in his name. Katara? Well, he isn’t sure yet.
‘Under no circumstance are you allowed to tell anyone whose name you drew!’ Aang insists.
Sokka isn’t sure they’ve ever managed to not break this rule.
‘What if you can’t read?’ Toph asks.
‘I wrote all our initials in Braille using Katara’s nail polish,’ Aang says. This, he has also done every year, although the first years he used candlewax and not nail polish and Toph told him his writing was sloppy.
‘If there are no more questions, Toph, you can draw first.’
She does as instructed and hands the Mason jar to Sokka. He fishes out a slip of paper and passes the jar to Katara. He waits till everyone has a note in their hands, then unfolds his own. Please give me Toph, please give me Toph, please give me Toph, he prays.
He opens his eyes to read the name and of course, of course—he got Zuko.
He closes his eyes again and breathes out a sigh.
Toph elbows him in the side. Quietly, so nobody else hears, she says, ‘lover boy, huh?’
‘Fuck off,’ Sokka mumbles, just as Aang asks, ‘did anyone get themselves?’
Sokka steals a glance at Zuko and their eyes meet because Zuko is already looking at him. He swallows and looks away.
With the drawing of names completed, Sokka goes to the kitchen with Katara to help make hot chocolate.
‘So, who’d you get?’ she asks him conspiratorially.
‘Katara!’ Aang scolds as he drifts into the kitchen. ‘You can’t ask that; it’s not allowed!’
‘Sorry, babe,’ she says cheekily and presses a soft kiss to his forehead. They’re always all over each other like that, but in this soft way. Gentle kisses. Holding hands. Both of them blushing about it. ‘I just get so curious.’
‘I know,’ Aang says. He looks at her like she hung the moon. Sokka knows that he looks at Zuko the same way, but he isn’t supposed to. Aang is allowed because the two are practically engaged already. ‘But it’s called Secret Santa. It’s not called Known About Santa.’
‘Yeah, yeah.’ Katara stirs the pot with hot chocolate to keep it from burning. Sokka switches on the mixer to whip the cream.
He tries to think of what to give Zuko. Why is it so hard? He could give him literally any book and the man would be thrilled. Zuko would be happy about new socks or a bag of those nasty salmiac liquorice drops he likes. Sokka has tried them on multiple occasions, and they are vile. Like cleaning fluid mixed with petrol.
Back in the living room, they drink hot chocolate and update each other on what’s been going on recently. Again, his eyes dart to Zuko again and again, but he never lets them linger there, never lets himself stare at the shiny buckle of his leather belt or the swirls of ink up his bare forearms. He really looks like a hot professor. Sokka wonders if any of his students have a crush on him.
Probably they do.
‘Hey, Zuko,’ he blurts before catching himself, ‘do your students ever flirt with you?’
There’s a beat of stunned silence, then chuckles all around. Zuko’s cheeks flush a little and he braids his fingers together. ‘I wouldn’t fuck a student—’ he begins.
‘No, I know that—’ Sokka gestures vaguely with his hand. He suddenly can’t meet Zuko’s eyes any more now. ‘That’s not what I asked.’
‘Why did you even think of this?’ Katara asks next to him.
‘Dunno,’ Sokka lies.
‘Why, Sokka?’ Toph chimes in. ‘Would you be jealous?’
‘No!’ he insists. ‘I mean—no! That’s not why I asked. I just thought, like—’ He can feel how red his cheeks are. This is all so terrible. ‘I just wondered if Zuko had ever had a student come into his office and be all, like, “oh, I would do anything to get an A on my paper. Anything.” You know? It’d be funny. I’m not jealous. Why would I be jealous? Because I’m not.’
Toph cackles so loudly she falls to the floor and gasps for breath. Katara, too, is shaking, eyes shiny as she and Aang keep giggling.
Sokka chances a glance at Zuko. He’s looking at him, this smile playing on his lips. Sokka doesn’t look away, just lets his own mouth curve into a smile, too. ‘Well?’ He arches an eyebrow. ‘You haven’t answered.’
‘Please say yes,’ Toph implores.
‘No,’ Zuko says. ‘My life isn’t a bad porn flick.’
‘I hear a but,’ Katara says, and Aang lets out another squeal of laughter.
Zuko turns this deep red and looks at his clasped hands.
‘Oh my God.’ Aang sounds breathless. ‘Your students totally flirt with you. Right?’
‘No,’ Zuko insists, but he’s only blushing more. He scratches at his ear. ‘Okay, there’s one girl who always seems very—I don’t know how to describe it.’
‘Like she wants to suck your dick?’ Toph suggests. ‘I know the type.’
Sokka’s jaw tenses but he stays put, because any movement would be suspicious.
‘I would never,’ Zuko says again. He finally looks up from his hands and his eyes land on Sokka and he feels electrocuted for a second, all wired and hot everywhere. He can’t help but lick at his lips. Can’t look away from Zuko’s flushed cheeks and wide glittery eyes.
He’s so pretty. Sokka kind of can’t even judge that chick in his class. If Zuko was his teacher, yeah, maybe he’d come to his office hours and drop to his knees like some kind of horny cliché. What about it?
Zuko’s voice pulls him back. ‘I’ve been trying very hard to make it obvious to her that I’m gay.’
Katara snorts again and they all collapse into another bout of laughter.
‘So, if it were one of your male students—’ Toph suggests, waggling an eyebrow.
‘No!’ Zuko says again. ‘I told you, I wouldn’t fuck a student! Sokka, do your clients flirt with you?’
Now everyone’s attention is suddenly on Sokka. ‘Yeah, sometimes,’ he says, playing it cool. He gives a shrug that hopefully seems casual and very suave. He swallows. ‘What can I say? I’m irresistible.’
He can’t read Zuko’s expression. Their eyes stay locked for a moment that feels endless. His mouth feels dry and his hands tremble slightly. He grabs his mug and chugs down some hot chocolate, finally breaking eye contact. Why is this whole thing getting to him so bad?
When he looks back up, Zuko isn’t looking at him any more. He isn’t sure how that makes him feel.
***
Sokka spends a week trying to think of what to give Zuko for Secret Santa. The verb trying could very easily be swapped for the verb failing, because seven days later he is no closer to a great idea.
So, he calls Suki. He’s just closed up for the day but he’s too unmotivated to go home yet, so he collapses on the studio couch and dials her number. He puts her on speaker and places the phone on the table.
‘I have a problem,’ he says in lieu of greeting.
‘Guy problem?’
‘Of a sort.’ He sighs and rubs at his eyes. This week has been too long. He’s been taking on too many clients, which means more time in the studio and long nights awake working on new designs, perfecting each detail. He puts a lot of work into each design, prides himself on that perfectionist streak, but it does take its toll on him. He needs to slow down, maybe rest a little. He hasn’t even seen Zuko since last Saturday, although he could’ve used the stress relief. That, and just the company.
But over Christmas, he’s taking two weeks off. He’ll spend time with his family, his friends, sleep in late and only work on personal projects. Draw some art for himself again.
‘Zuko?’ Suki asks.
Suki is the only person who knows they’ve gone from friends to friends, who sometimes have sex with each other, and she only knows because one time three weeks ago, Sokka got smashed and started crying on her couch. It all blurted out and it was deeply, deeply embarrassing, but Suki has been a real bro about it. She promised not to tell anyone, and Sokka is pretty sure she hasn’t. She can keep a secret. She’s the best.
‘I got him for Secret Santa.’
Suki laughs. Not meanly, just this pearl of joy that makes even Sokka’s lips curve into a smile.
‘Well,’ she says finally. ‘That’s a smaller problem than I anticipated.’
‘What’d you anticipate?’
‘Disposal of a body kind of problem,’ she says casually. It’s a running joke that Suki may or may not be an assassin. As said, she can keep a secret. ‘Well, why is it a problem?’
‘I don’t know what to get him.’
‘What does he like?’
‘Old books,’ Sokka says. ‘Shitty liquorice. Joan of Arc. Post-impressionist art. Poems that make him cry. Scented candles, but not the ones that smell like vanilla, because he’s weird. Listening to Prokofiev on vinyl. Did I tell you he brought me flowers last week?’
‘What?’
‘Last week,’ Sokka repeats. ‘He brought me flowers to the studio. I thought I’d die.’
‘And you’re sure you’re not already dating?’
‘Yeah. I think I would remember if the love of my life liked me back.’
Suki snorts. ‘He does, though. You’re just stupid about it.’
They’ve had this conversation before. ‘Anyway.’ Sokka runs his hand through his hair and lets out a yawn. ‘He likes lots of things, but it has to be perfect. I don’t know what to give him that’s perfect.’
‘Well,’ Suki says, ‘what’s something only you can give him?’
‘My dick.’
‘Thanks for the image.’
Sokka snorts because he can picture her eye roll so perfectly.
‘He already gets that on the reg,’ she goes on. ‘So come up with something else.’
‘I’ve tried,’ he whines. ‘That’s why I’m calling you.’
‘Sokka,’ she says, suddenly this firmness in her voice. She’s serious now. Sokka’s ears prick up. ‘What is something that you do exceptionally well?’
‘Uh.’
‘How do you earn your money, idiot?’
‘Oh.’ He swallows. ‘I can’t give him another tattoo.’
‘You can draw something for him,’ she says. ‘Write out his favourite poems all pretty and add illustrations. Make a dozen and bind them into a small book. Et voilà! Don’t make this harder than it has to be.’
‘Wow.’ He’s silent for a moment, just thinking about it. It’s not a bad idea. It’s actually—really good. Almost perfect. This is something only Sokka can do for him. ‘Suki, you are such a bloody genius.’
‘I love when you sweet-talk me, babe.’
‘You’re the smartest woman alive,’ he says. ‘And the most beautiful. A goddess among us mere mortals.’
She smacks a kiss to him and laughs. ‘Always a pleasure. You can pay for my coffee next time.’
‘I will,’ Sokka promises.
‘You know how you could really repay me?’ Suki asks, that seriousness suddenly back in her voice. ‘By telling Zuko how you really feel.’
‘Yeah, let’s go with coffee instead. Maybe a biscuit.’
She snorts and tells him he’s being an idiot. She isn’t wrong, so he doesn’t contradict her.
But in the back of his head, a thought starts to bloom—this could be a way. A lot of Zuko’s favourite poems are, well, love poems. If he creates this, if he writes out these poems that always make Zuko cry and decorates them with swirls and flowers and whatever other little embellishments that fit, and if he binds the pages into a proper book and designs a stunning cover—well, it doesn’t get much closer to a confession than that, does it?
That thing Sokka doesn’t know how to say—I love you; I love you; I want to love you louder if you’ll let me—maybe he can use someone else’s words to say it.
***
The project quickly eats up all Sokka’s free time. It’s exciting—he digs through his memory to remember every poem Zuko has ever mentioned he loved, then plugs the titles into Google and reads them over and over. He searches for other poems too, reads some of Shakespeare’s sonnets, and Whitman and Keats and O’Hara and he doesn’t get all of them, not even close, but some lines make his heart ache.
Having a Coke with You is an obvious first choice because he knows Zuko loves it, and after reading it a few times, Sokka thinks he understands it, at least he likes it, and it makes him smile. He usually shies away from poetry because it feels inaccessible and he never feels like he gets it, but this one—it’s simple and sweet.
Sokka would rather go to ALDI with Zuko than Côte d’Azur with someone else. And he would rather look at Zuko than all the portraits in the world. Sokka gets where O’Hara is coming from.
It takes eleven tries before he’s fully happy with his writing. Next to the title, he draws a little soda can with a straw and around the body of the poem he doodles other small things. This poem calls for that cartoony style—silly, simple drawings of hearts and tulips and the sun and a framed painting.
He spends two evenings just on that one poem, but at the end, he’s happy with it. More importantly, he thinks Zuko will like it.
He finishes Rainer Maria Rilke’s Love Song and Shakespeare’s Sonnet 18. By then, they’re halfway through December, which means he doesn’t have a lot of time left.
Zuko comes over one night and they order a pizza, then fuck on Sokka’s couch. Sated and pliant afterwards, Zuko looks all angelic. Messy hair, a handful of fresh bruises blooming purple right above his collar bones and up his neck. So Sokka got a little into it.
It’s blasphemy, of course, to think of him as seraphic when he’s still got a thin sheen of sweat across his chest and his eyes look all faraway and dopey. Sokka’s usually not big on portraiture, but he kind of wants to draw him.
He runs his fingertip along the Bradbury quote across his ribcage. Their eyes lock and Zuko flashes him that slow, nice smile of his. Sokka smiles back, smoothing his finger up his chest—he circles his nipple with a grin before pressing into one of the new hickeys. Hard, hard enough to draw a startled, choked-off sound from Zuko.
He straddles his thigh and cocks an eyebrow. Pokes at another hickey. ‘Can you go again?’
Zuko bats at him and rolls his eyes. ‘You’re insatiable.’
‘That’s why we’re such a good match,’ Sokka returns with a wink. ‘C’mon, professor. I’m so eager for an A.’
He snorts now and shoves at him again, but his cheeks do colour this nice pink. ‘Piss off. I told you, I don’t fuck my students.’
Sokka leans down to cage in Zuko. His breath catches in his throat and Sokka cocks an eyebrow. ‘Good thing I never went to college then, huh?’
Zuko rolls his eyes and squirms a little. He runs his hand up Sokka’s arm, grabs his bicep. Pushes his hips upwards, bites down on his lip. His pupils are so blown Sokka could drown in them.
‘You keep bringing this up.’ Zuko’s voice is a little breathy. ‘Want to unpack that?’
It’s Sokka’s turn to laugh. He grinds down, feels how his cock is getting hard again. Zuko isn’t wrong—he’s insatiable.
‘You want to roleplay or something? Want me to spank you with a ruler?’
He just chuckles, then sits back on his haunches and wraps his fist around both their cocks. It draws a whine from Zuko and his hips jump. Sokka groans when he smooths his palm around the head of his own cock, plays his thumb against Zuko’s. He wants him in his mouth, he decides. He pushes at Zuko to get him to sit up.
Kneeling between his legs, he jerks his dick a few times, then licks across the head.
Zuko spasms and lets out this needy whine because he’s already come so he’s all sensitive and jittery. It’s addictive.
‘Impress me—’ Zuko’s voice is all winded and raspy, fingers digging into the couch. ‘And I’ll give you that A.’
Sokka laughs, but swallows Zuko’s cock down his throat easily. He hums around it, blinks up at him. He bobs up and down, moaning, lets himself get a little lost in it.
‘Fuck—’ Zuko keeps whimpering, this string of high-pitched broken sounds as Sokka focuses his attention on the head of his cock, digging his tongue into the slit. ‘Fuck, fuck, hngfff—’
A string of spit loops from his lips to Zuko’s dick as Sokka pulls away just enough to say, ‘come on, baby.’ He speeds up the pace of his hand where he’s jerking him off. ‘I want you to come again. I want to make you come again.’
‘Hnfg—’
Zuko stills looks angelic. On the brink of a second orgasm, all wired and oversensitive, mouth dropped open and that wet, pink tongue. Sokka thinks of that poem again, that one line—he would rather look at Zuko than all the portraits in the world. The fact that he moves so beautifully. He’s the right person, the one he wants to be with when the sun sinks.
So maybe he more or less memorised the poem. Maybe he wants to spend the rest of his life memorising each of Zuko’s expressions, wants to fuck him till he forgets his own name, wants to laugh about bad jokes and go to ALDI and listen when Zuko rambles about things Sokka doesn’t even understand.
‘Please—’
He isn’t sure if Zuko said it or if he did or maybe both of them at the same time, both drowning in this moment.
‘Give it to me, baby—come on, be good for me now—’
Zuko comes all over Sokka’s hand with this cry that sounds on the edge of pained. For a moment, his eyes look as shiny and wet as Sokka’s own, but it’s probably just the light.
Touching his own cock, he only has to jerk his wrist a few times and he’s coming too. He slumps down, head on Zuko’s knee, heart kicked into his throat. Tries to catch his breath.
He stays awake until three that night to finish the next poem—O Small Sad Ecstasy of Love.
***
On the night of December 21st, he’s finally done. He prints all the poems on thick paper stock, eggshell white. The cover he’s kept simple—the word poems written in the middle with simple, floral embellishments around it.
His heart is in his throat when he takes a photo of it and sends it to Suki. What if it’s too much? What if it’s not enough?
She texts back a few minutes later.
it’s perfect!!! he will love it so much
Sokka has to trust that. He has to trust this whole thing and see it through.
They’re meeting up again the next evening to swap Secret Santa presents. Sokka’s excited to see what the others came up with this year. He’s wrapped his present for Zuko in the most obnoxious wrapping paper he could find and finished it with a huge white bow.
He wears the black jeans again and a cashmere jumper. No choker this time, just two small hoops in his left earlobe.
This time, he’s the last one there.
Aang’s flat smells of chocolate and cinnamon, and it’s not just from the scented candles. On the table, there’s a big tray with a variety of Christmas biscuits. He grabs two at once and munches happily as Aang begins his welcome speech.
‘Thanks for coming everyone,’ he says. He’s wearing a knitted jumper with a snowman on the front. ‘I was going to say something else, but I forgot it because I’m so excited. So, let’s just get started!’ He claps his hands. ‘Toph, do you want to go first?’
‘I’d love to,’ she says. ‘I got Katara.’ She hands her a big present. She must’ve wrapped it herself because it looks pretty bad. ‘Merry Christmas.’
‘Aw.’ Katara accepts it and gently begins to unwrap it, careful not to rip the paper. Inside is a full gym set: shorts, a sports bra, a T-shirt, and a pair of dumbbells. There’s even a headband. Everything in hot pink. Katara looks at Toph.
‘I got everything in pink,’ Toph says brightly. ‘Because I know you like girly things. I hope it’s actually pink. I would’ve checked, but I’m blind.’
‘Thanks,’ Katara says, an amused smile playing at her lips. ‘Yeah, everything’s pink.’
‘Great. This is me subtly telling you to come to the gym with me, by the way.’
Toph has a home gym. Not just a treadmill and a few free weights—no, she has a huge ass room with a dozen professional grade exercise machines. She spends minimum two hours there every day, so she is built as fuck.
‘I’d love to,’ Katara says. ‘Thank you so much.’ She puts down the dumbbells and gets up, pulls Toph into a tight hug.
‘You’re welcome! Now let me go,’ she says, but Sokka sees the way she’s smiling and how she’s not really adding any force where she’s pushing Katara away.
‘Katara,’ Aang says, ‘then it’s your turn.’
‘Well,’ Katara says, ‘I got Toph. Merry Christmas.’ She hands Toph a present which is clearly a bottle.
Unlike Katara, Toph isn’t careful about not ripping the paper. She tears it off and reveals what’s inside—as expected, it’s a bottle.
‘Thanks,’ Toph says. ‘What did I get?’
‘I made you blueberry schnapps. I hope you like it.’
‘Wicked,’ Toph says excitedly. She runs her fingertips up and down the clear bottle. ‘Thanks, Katara.’
‘You’re welcome.’
Sokka grabs another biscuit and eats it in two bites.
‘Zuko, do you want to go next?’ Aang asks.
‘Uh, sure.’ He tucks a stray of hair behind his ear and Sokka does not lose his breath. He really doesn’t. Zuko doesn’t even look that good. (He totally does, with this fitted black silk shirt and a gold chain around his neck). He hands a small present to Aang and says, ‘this is embarrassing, but I hope you like it.’
Aang claps his hand in excitement and rips open the present. Inside is a small clay figure, clearly homemade. ‘Is that—Appa?’ Aang looks back at Zuko with the widest grin, eyes blown wide in excitement.
Hearing his name, Aang’s big, fluffy therapy dog lifts his head and lets out a small yip.
‘It’s supposed to be,’ Zuko says, a soft smile on his lips, his cheeks dusted pale rose. ‘I’ve never made anything with clay before, so it’s kind of—’
‘It’s perfect,’ Aang interrupts. He leaps at Zuko and pulls him into a hug that lasts at least a minute. ‘Thank you so much.’
‘You’re welcome,’ Zuko says shyly.
Aang settles down and spends another minute showing off his new clay figure to Katara. ‘Okay, my turn then,’ he says. ‘I got Sokka. Here you go.’ He hands Sokka a thin, square present, beaming at him.
Sokka accepts it with a smile and unwraps it.
Oh, shit.
It’s a signed record of his favourite album. ‘You’re kidding?’ He looks up at Aang, mouth wide open. ‘How’d you even get this?’
‘It’s a Wang Fire album,’ Katara tells Toph. ‘You know, that shitty emo band Sokka’s really into?’
‘Oh,’ Toph says. ‘Yeah, I liked my present better.’
‘Aang, this is sick.’ Sokka runs his hands across the cover adoringly. ‘It’s signed.’
Aang is still beaming. ‘You’re welcome.’
‘Come here, what the hell—’ he puts the record down and goes to give Aang a hug. ‘Thanks, man.’
‘That leaves just one left,’ Aang says when Sokka’s settled down again.
‘Oh, I wonder what Sokka could possibly give Zuko.’
‘Piss off,’ Sokka tells Toph. He does his best to ignore how his cheeks suddenly feel warm.
It’s suddenly harder to breathe, too; his throat feels dry and clogged-up. He’s so nervous. What if he doesn’t like it? What if he thinks it’s stupid or ugly or—
‘Here,’ he says, handing the small present to Zuko. ‘Merry Christmas.’
‘Thank you.’ Zuko looks at him for a moment that feels way too long. He sounds all sincere and it makes it even harder to breathe. He hasn’t even opened the present yet.
‘What did he give him?’ Toph asks.
‘Zuko hasn’t opened it yet,’ Aang and Katara say in unison.
Zuko turns his attention to the present and gently pulls the bow apart. When it comes to unwrapping presents, he’s just like Katara: meticulous, torturously slow.
Come on, come on. Just get on with it.
Or maybe it’d be better if this moment slowed down even more. It could stretch on forever.
He finishes unwrapping the present and puts the paper aside, runs his finger across the one word printed on the cover. He looks up at Sokka and raises an eyebrow. Sokka’s heart jackhammers against his ribcage but he doesn’t look away—his eyes are glued to Zuko’s face, taking in every tiny expression. The twitch at his eye. His lips parting. The tiny, tiny sound when he opens to the first page where Sokka wrote a short foreword.
He doesn’t remember his exact words although he read it so many times, re-wrote it so many times. He didn’t outright say he loved him, but it’s there all the same. In the poems he picked. In the time he devoted to creating this.
‘The suspense is killing me,’ Toph groans. ‘What’d he get?’
‘It looks like a book,’ Katara says.
Zuko isn’t saying anything. He’s reading the first poem, the Frank O’Hara one, the one Sokka knows by heart by now.
And he’s—oh, fuck, is he going to cry? Is he crying? Did Sokka make him cry?
Oh no. That’s bad, right? Or is it good?
Please say something, Zuko. The suspense is killing everyone right now.
He looks up at Sokka, eyes shimmery with unshed tears. ‘Thank you.’ His voice is choked-up, all wet and mushy. ‘God, thank you so much.’
‘Of course,’ Sokka says. It doesn’t feel like enough. It feels so lame and stupid. He hates that the others are here, that they’re all bearing witness to this. It feels too personal, too much. He should’ve given it to him later.
‘Is Zuko crying?’ Toph asks. ‘What is going on?’
‘I have no idea,’ Katara says. ‘It just looks like a book.’
‘I think,’ Aang says, ‘we should refill the biscuit tray. Katara and Toph, can you help me out?’
‘Of course,’ Katara says. She grabs Toph’s hand, and they get up together.
Zuko’s leafing through the booklet, absorbed in it. Sokka just looks at him.
‘I hope it’s not—’ He begins, but he isn’t sure how to finish the sentence. Too much? Weird?
‘You made this?’ Zuko says, looking up at him. A tear spills down his right cheek and he doesn’t wipe it away, hands still cradling the poetry booklet. He’s smiling—maybe they’re not sad tears. Maybe they’re just the kind of tears he sheds every time he reads a poem he really loves. ‘For me?’
‘Of course,’ Sokka says. He scratches at the back of his head, runs his fingertips against the freshly buzzed hair. He wants to bridge the distance between them and wipe away the tears on Zuko’s cheeks, but he stays put. ‘It’s—okay?’
‘It’s beautiful,’ Zuko says. ‘How’d you—it’s beautiful. I’m going to die.’ He wipes at his tears and suddenly he’s laughing. ‘This is the most beautiful thing anyone has ever done for me.’
Sokka smiles at him. He doesn’t know what to say. He should say what he’s always trying to say but never brave enough to. He should say he always wants to give him beautiful things because Zuko is the most beautiful thing. He should say—
‘You look like a better happier St. Sebastian,’ he quotes. He looked up St. Sebastian, his martyrdom and how he’s contemporarily been crowned the patron saint of homosexuality. Pierced by all the arrows, such striking imagery. Sokka can’t tear his eyes from Zuko; his own breath catches in his throat when Zuko lets out a soft sob and wipes his palm across his cheek. ‘Partly because of my love for you, partly because of your love for yoghurt—’
‘I’m lactose intolerant,’ Zuko says, hiccups out a wet laugh that makes Sokka laugh in return. He’s put the book down, probably as to not get tears on it, and he’s grasping his own hands tightly. ‘What does this mean?’
‘You know what it means,’ Sokka says. He sounds like he’s begging.
‘I don’t,’ Zuko says.
‘You do.’
He wipes at his eyes again. Sokka leans forward, crawls close to him. Their knees bump against each other.
‘Tell me.’
‘Zuko,’ he breathes out. ‘Come on.’
‘I don’t want to assume anything.’
It’s so ridiculous, Sokka has to laugh. ‘Please assume something.’
‘I thought you just wanted—you know,’ he waves his hand between them.
Slowly, he puts his hand on Zuko’s knee. All tenderness. His heart is bigger than his body, eating up everything so he can barely breathe. ‘I love you,’ he finally says. His voice breaks, and Zuko sobs again.
‘Kiss me,’ Zuko asks. ‘Please.’
Sokka cradles Zuko’s face, smooths his thumbs across his wet cheeks. Smiling, he presses his lips to Zuko’s.
It’s familiar—the slick slide of their lips, Sokka’s tongue against Zuko’s. He slides his fingers into his hair and tugs gently, bites down on Zuko’s bottom lip when he lets out a whiny sigh. They’ve done this so many times by now, but it still feels different—Sokka can get lost in it and there’s no fear any more, no ache in his heart because he wants more than he’s getting. Right now, he’s getting everything he’s ever wanted.
‘Fuck,’ he groans. ‘Merry Christmas, man.’
‘Don’t call me that,’ Zuko grumbles. He wipes another stray tear away. ‘Should we let the others back?’
‘Nah,’ Sokka says. ‘They can wait.’
Zuko grins at him and locks their mouths together for another kiss.
‘It’s been half an hour, assholes,’ Toph calls sometime later, barging back into the living room. ‘When I told you to give him a blowjob, I didn’t mean you should do it in Aang’s living room!’
Sokka snorts at her. ‘Did you guys finish refilling the biscuits or what? We’ve been waiting.’
‘Yeah, I’m sure you’ve missed us all loads,’ Katara deadpans, looking to where Zuko is straddling Sokka’s lap.
‘So, does this mean you’re dating now?’ Aang asks.
Sokka looks at Zuko. He arches an eyebrow; Zuko tilts his head slightly.
‘Yeah,’ Sokka says. ‘Yeah. We’re dating now.’
‘Pay up, motherfuckers,’ Toph says, turning to Aang and Katara.
‘You guys bet on us?’ Sokka says indignantly.
‘Duh,’ Katara says. ‘God, you couldn’t have waited till after Christmas? Three more days and Toph would’ve owed me one hundred quid.’
‘Told you it’d happen today,’ Toph says with a smirk. ‘It’s a bloody Christmas miracle.’