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Being old sucks.
(That’s literally the best way Sokka can put it.)
It probably has something to do with the fact his joints are just starting to creak or the reality that walking up a hill can be slightly challenging nowadays. Sokka’s not complaining, of course. He likes to think that he’s still pretty spry for a sixty-seven year old guy, but even that has its limits. There’s only so much someone can do when they’re at that age besides sitting around in their home or taking naps or spending way too much time thinking about their life. Most times, Sokka drifts into thinking about how empty his apartment is, how quiet everything around him seems to be, and a twinge aches in his heart.
He doesn’t want to say he’s lonely.
Really, Sokka isn’t. I mean, he has a lovely nephew who swings by to hang out with him and he has his weekly mahjong gatherings and he has one hell of an energetic dog to look after—but even an old man is allowed to feel lonely from time to time, yeah?
It’s probably because you don’t have someone you cherish, his inner self cackles maniacally. Sokka instinctively reaches up to bat away the thoughts. Of course he has people he loves.
(He just doesn’t love them, y’know, like that.)
It hadn’t seemed like a big deal in the past, when Katara would bug him about getting married and settling down with someone, but Sokka’s always been more of the free-spirit type, going wherever the wind takes him and never settling down for a long enough time to anchor his roots before he’s off again. Being a concert pianist had its perks, with endless opportunities to travel around the world and sharing music with people worldwide, but Sokka doesn’t really do much of that anymore.
Sometimes, Sokka likes to walk down to the turtleduck lake next to his apartment with Hawky and just… sit there for a bit. Sure, his joints might protest during the entire walk and his loyal malamute might be a tad frisky (or downright naughty at times), but it’s good exercise.
You should go out more often, unkie! And there’s Bumi talking in his head again. If Sokka closes his eyes, he can almost imagine his nephew’s boisterous grin as he thunders through Sokka’s apartment. He’s always been close to his oldest nephew, probably because both of them enjoyed marathoning chess matches or reading ancient war strategies in their free time. Bumi’s also the only one who visits Sokka on a regular basis besides the rest of the family, with Katara and Aang living halfway across the country and Tenzin off studying Tui-knows-where and Kya always off on some far-flung adventure with her girlfriend. It’s probably a good thing that Bumi comes by so often just to update his uncle on everything that’s going on.
(Sokka had tried using Facebook once, only to nearly chuck the iPad across his living room in frustration. Goddamn apps and their goddamn touchy-touchy, wishy-washy I-want-to-know-everything-about-you thing. There’s no way in hell that Sokka’s just going to go around giving his personal information to just anyone, let alone a stupid screen.)
(And don’t even get him started on the bajillion pages of—what’s that called again?—terms of service crap that appears on literally every single thing these days. That’s just asking for trouble. Sokka’s a musician for a reason. He’d rather sightread the entirety of Beethoven’s Hammerklavier than touch a terms of service thing with a five-foot pole.)
A sudden string of chirps jolts Sokka out of his thoughts about useless disclaimers, and he looks straight into Hawky’s shining walnut eyes. The malamute continues chirping happily as Sokka reaches down to rub his head and nuzzles, tail thumping against the blanket of sunset leaves on the ground. Sokka remembers getting Hawky as a birthday present from Bumi a few years back, smiling as he imagines the fluffy ball of fur barreling against his chest and licking all over his face when he first opened the box.
(Bumi tells everyone that Sokka named the dog after Tony Hawk. What he doesn’t know is that Sokka actually named Hawky after a childhood pet, a squawky African grey parrot who had wreaked havoc all over the house before escaping one night and never coming back.)
The lake sparkles in the autumn sun and the resident family of turtleducks quack from the banks. Sokka fumbles around in his pockets for the bag of dry bread he had brought from home and tears up the slices of bread into chunks, tossing them out onto the lake and watching the turtleducks rush in for a bite to eat.
It’s been a pretty good life, all things considered. So Sokka may have traded in that generic white-picket-fence-family dream for a set of ivory keys on a piano and a mischievous dog, but he doesn’t regret it at all—until times like this.
“Who’s a good boy?” He wiggles a finger at Hawky. The malamute sneezes. Sokka laughs as they make their way back to his apartment, fixing up a small dinner and setting out some dog food for Hawky. The two of them eat in silence until Sokka gets up to clean everything before shuffling towards the piano in the corner of his living room. The baby grand had been a housewarming present from Katara when Sokka first moved in, and he makes sure that he practices every chance he gets. With all the chaos possible on a mere eighty-eight keys, he’s lucky that he hasn’t gotten a noise complaint from his neighbors yet.
(Then again, they’re probably geriatric retirees like him, so there’s that.)
Wouldn’t want to lose that magic touch now, would I?
And as the first chords of Rachmoninoff’s Morceaux de fantaisie ring out in his apartment, Sokka loses himself in the rolling chords and arpeggios, his mind wandering as the music takes over. It’s all muscle memory at this point, the way his fingers skim over the keys just so, and Sokka’s reminded of why he loves music in the first place.
It’s not until Sokka decides to take a quick break during his practice that he spies something shoved under his front door. He pulls on his glasses and squints, snapping his fingers to get Hawky’s attention.
Sokka points to the thing by the door. “Can you go get that for me?”
Hawky yips and trots over to the door to tug the object free from the door and brings it back to Sokka, tail wagging while Sokka picks up the object to examine it. It’s a neatly folded piece of paper, the handwriting thin and spindly blue against stark white.
To the lovely pianist in 504,
A humble request for Suite bergamasque.
- An admirer
So people are listening. Sokka can’t help but puff up a little, his back straightening with a few creaks and cracks. Of course he can play Suite bergamasque, even if the third movement is a little overdone with all those TV commercials and cell phone ringtones.
(Not that Sokka actually knows, though. He doesn’t like to watch TV, and the closest he’s got to a cell phone is the Jitterbug he got as a joke from Bumi last year but turned out to be his favorite gadget to fiddle around with.)
When the familiar melody of Debussy’s Clair de lune sings from the Steinway, Sokka can’t help but smile.
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Sokka is chaotic.
Or at least he used to be, back when he was always flying around to different places to play in different venues and hanging out with so many different people. Being old really does wear a body out, especially with the aches and the pains he’s still getting used to. By some small miracle, Sokka’s lapsed into a routine of sorts, peppered with daily walks around the lake with Hawky and futile attempts at solving the daily sudoku and crosswords in the newspaper.
(Today’s brain-stumper is fifty-three across: “Like cooking that goes whole hog.” What in the frickety-frack is that supposed to be?)
Sokka’s outside now, feet planted firmly into the ground as he unclips Hawky’s leash and watches his dog go absolutely ham on the leaves fluttering all over the ground. If Sokka was feeling just a few years younger, he might’ve brought out his rake to sweep over the leaves, maybe making a gigantic leaf pile for Hawky to flounce around in. He can already imagine the malamute going absolutely ham, throwing leaves this way and that and creating chaos in the park.
(Sokka hasn’t actually raked leaves in such a long time. He misses the feeling.)
As Hawky bounces around in circles and chases after fluffy squirrels, Sokka continues along the path, eyes squinting when he nears the normally-empty chess tables. There’s someone sitting there, an old man with long-gray hair blowing in the autumn breeze and the most curious scar dappled across his cheek. The man’s eyebrow is furrowed, the glint of a monocle over his right eye—
Hold on.
A monocle?
(Isn’t that the thing that the Planters Peanuts mascot wears? Sokka can’t remember the last time he even saw a peanut, let alone tasted one.)
I gotta find out!, his inner voice cheers excitedly as he heads over to the chess tables determinedly.
(At this point, it’s safe to say that Sokka doesn’t ascribe to the “curiosity killed the cat” saying regardless of his old age. After all, why should he? What was this other old man going to do? Kill him with his monocle?)
But as soon as Sokka reaches out to introduce himself, the other man is watching at him, hazel eyes widening with a look that’s equal parts awkward and downright funny.
Clack.
(The monocle falling onto the table is just an added bonus.)
By Tui’s left pelvic fin, he’s cute.
(Sokka’s pretty sure his heart is beating at a pace so fast, his cardiologist would be mildly panicking right about now.)
“Can I help you?” The other man smiles warmly, and oh my spirits, is my face going numb? because Sokka can’t tell if it’s just his nerves talking or if he’s legitimately having a stroke right about now.
“Um—” Sokka begins, because he’s all smooth like that, “—you look like you’re having fun. The game, I mean—I mean, that game looks really interesting.”
“Oh?” The man gestures at the empty board in front of him, two bowls of white and black stones at his fingertips. “Have you played go before?”
(Go? What the hell is that?)
Sokka opens his mouth to say no, actually I don’t, is it anything like checkers?, but the earnest look on the man’s face, all wide-eyed and hopeful and that scar crinkling just like that, is just enough for the words to disappear from his mouth.
(Are you sure you aren’t having a stroke?)
“Why, yes.” Goddamnit. “Yes, I can. Play go, I mean. I mean, we’re all going someplace, aren’t we?”
(Sokka Qanik, you are a sixty-seven year old man. You ain’t no spring chicken. What the hell do you think you’re doing?)
But Sokka is nothing if not stubborn—you gotta live up to that old-person stereotype somehow—and he sits down on the opposite side of the table with a muffled thump, ignoring the aches in his knee. (Bumi can buy him more Joint Juice later.) He reaches out and thumbs a white stone before sniffing it cautiously.
“This looks just like a Mento,” Sokka says, resisting the urge to bite down. “Coulda fooled me.”
He immediately wishes he didn’t say anything at all. The other man looks at him curiously with a bemused smile, chuckling as he retrieves the bowl of black stones.
“Are you sure? I can go easy on you for this round,” the man replies, dipping into the bowl and retrieving a black stone. “We can start easy as a warm up.”
Oh, you’re on.
Sokka penguin-puffs up as straight as his spine will allow him and smirks. He’s always up for a good challenge now and then. “Nah, I prefer to go fast, if you know what I mean.”
Turns out, Old-Go-Man (I mean, what else is Sokka supposed to call him?) is ridiculously good at go. (Go figure.) It’s taking all of Sokka’s brain capacity (or what’s left of it) just to keep up, his nerves wiggling at an astonishing speed just to cling on to Old-Go-Man’s every move. And go is such a frustrating game to play. The stupid daily brain exercises on Lumosity are definitely not helping him out.
The game ends in a short ten minutes— nine minutes longer than Sokka expected. He swears Old-Go-Man must’ve dragged it out for fun just to see him fumble around and drop the stones everywhere, barely missing the ground. (Sokka’s not that clumsy, okay? His fine motor skills are all relatively intact; how else is he supposed to play piano that way?) The sheer embarrassment of royally fucking everything up is not lost on him as he helps Old-Go-Man clear off the board.
“Well that was certainly interesting,” Old-Go-Man begins. “You weren’t lying when you said you prefer to play fast.”
“Hm, I guess.” More like fast and furiously flawed.
Old-Go-Man holds out his hand. “I don’t believe I’ve introduced myself yet. My name is Zuko.”
(Who knew that it would only take one humiliating round of go for him to finally put a name to the face?)
Sokka grasps it firmly. “Sokka. It’s a pleasure meeting you.”
“No, it was my pleasure,” Zuko replies. “It seems like everyone’s far more interested in video games these days. You’re the first person I’ve played go with in a while.”
“Really?”
“Really.” Zuko picks up a white stone and blows on it, rubbing it between his hands. “I used to play quite a bit of go with my uncle until he passed away. Now I usually just play by myself.”
“That’s too bad,” Sokka says, chest slumping a little. It sounds like Zuko’s just as lonely as he is. Maybe I could— “Maybe we could play together again sometime?”
(Well ain’t that an open mouth, insert foot thing to say.)
But the grin that Zuko gives Sokka is more than enough to vaporize any of his remaining doubts. “I’d love that, Sokka. I really would.”
(Be still, my tachycardic heart.)
Hawky chooses that moment to come charging back towards them, his excitement over squirrels and leaves lost over the ten minutes Sokka’s spent hunched over the chess table. The malamute leaves sticky trails of slobber all over Sokka’s face before freezing, eyes trained directly on Zuko.
Oh, no.
“Hawky? Hawky—NO!” Sokka orders, but it’s too late. He watches in horror as his dog launches towards Zuko and it’s suddenly a mess of fur and sleeves and dog drool everywhere. By the time Sokka manages to drag Hawky off of Zuko, he’s panting harder than his dog is.
“Zuko? Are you okay?” Sokka leans down to offer a hand and braces the other against the table for support. “I swear Hawky doesn’t usually do that to people.”
“I may be old, but I definitely have some fight left in me.” Zuko grabs on to Sokka’s hand and lurches upwards, wincing slightly. “I’ll be fine.”
“Are you sure? I actually live close by, y’know. Maybe I could help—”
Zuko shakes his head. “That’s a very generous offer, but my daughter is coming to pick me up soon.”
“Oh. I see.” Sokka can’t help but sag down a little, ego deflating. He feels like he’s missed his shot, even though he didn’t really, well, take a shot in the first place. (Either that, or his aim’s just gotten a lot worse in his old age.)
Sokka whistles and Hawky bounces right up to him, the malamute wagging its tail silently. “Well, I guess I’m going to head back first, then. Maybe I’ll see you around?”
Zuko nods slightly. “Of course. I have a feeling we might see each other around sometime soon.”
Another note appears that night while Sokka’s eating dinner. He tugs it out of Hawky’s mouth and shoos the malamute away, stooping slightly and unfolding the note. It’s the same smooth handwriting, this time in black.
To the lovely pianist in 504,
My compliments to the maestro.
Might I suggest a bit of Kinderszenen?
- An admirer
Sokka snorts. Schumann? Really? He’s more of a Liszt guy, honestly, but he’ll do anything for his fans single fan. He steadies his fingers, the rolling notes from the first movement swimming around his living room. Hawky chirps quietly before flopping down next to Sokka’s feet, a gray and white ball of warmth that curls near the pedals.
This time, Sokka truly plays himself into a foreign land.
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There’s one day that Sokka looks forward to the most during his week.
(No, it’s not senior discounts at the local bar on Thursdays—and no, it’s not the free admission to the zoo on Saturdays.)
Sokka looks forward to Wednesday the most. It’s the one night where he has another excuse to leave the house that isn’t: (a) taking Hawky on a walk, (b) pretending to go grocery shopping, or (c) going to the bar or the zoo for the aforementioned benefits. No, Wednesdays are for option (d): mahjong night at the community center.
(Because the community center is way too cool for bingo, alright? Besides, bingo’s such a boring game, something that’s completely up to probability. Sokka likes to play something that involves a little more of a mix of strategy and probability. What’s more fun than that?)
(Plus, he hates the stupid bingo blotters. They get ink everywhere.)
Wednesday night is pretty much the only time when Sokka doesn’t play piano, and he isn’t surprised to find another note at the door while he’s putting on his shoes.
To the lovely pianist in 504,
Your playing is impeccable, as always.
Perhaps some of Chopin’s Nocturnes?
- An admirer
Oh, crap. Sokka sends up a silent apology to whoever his fan is. I’ll play them later, I promise.
He toddles his way to the center that brisk night, Hawky nipping at his feet and wailing when Sokka scolds him for trying to chase after a squirrel. It’s just sheer luck that the community center actually allows dogs inside, and Sokka thanks his lucky stars as he walks through the doorway, waves at the friendly receptionist in front, and heads straight for the pavilion in the back.
Sokka sees Suki first, his face falling when he realizes that his friend is rubbing her hands together in glee as she takes her place in the dealer’s seat. Jet’s right next to her, hands trembling as he struggles to open the mahjong case.
“Did y’all already decide winds?” Sokka ties Hawky’s leash to the side of his chair and sits down before helping Jet pull out the pans of mahjong tiles. “You’re supposed to wait until we all get here.”
“Glad to see you could make it today,” Suki offers as a greeting. She tugs on the scarf hanging loosely around her neck. “My granddaughter made this for me and insisted that I had to wear it to mahjong night.”
“I think it brings out the colors of your eyes,” Jet says, shoulders dropping when Suki turns a hard glare at him. “I mean, it does look nice on you, okay?”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“You should.” Jet shuffles around his pockets and pulls out a crumpled piece of paper, smoothing it against the table. A row of Chinese characters peeks up at him.
Suki shakes her head. “Isn’t it about time you stopped playing with a cheat sheet?”
“Well, it’s not my fault I can’t read Chinese characters!”
“Sokka doesn’t use a cheat sheet, either.”
“I’m not Sokka!”
“There are literally only so many characters you need to know for mahjong, dumbass.”
“Who’re you calling a dumbass, you hag?”
But before Sokka can even move to break the argument up (a fight between two sixty-something year olds is nothing to scoff at, especially if one of them used to be a personal trainer and the other one fought fires for a living), a manicured hand slams down on the center of the table, tiles clacking against each other. Jet squeaks and shuts up almost immediately.
“You kids can’t even go ten minutes without me around before you’re already at each other’s throats?” and there’s Azula in all her glory, amber eyes glimmering with annoyance as she pulls Suki and Jet apart. “Agni knows why the child becomes the parent.”
“Stop making me feel so old,” Jet whines. “You’re literally only two years younger than me.”
“So?” Azula raises an eyebrow. “Well maybe if you stopped trying to fight with Suki all the time, we’d get to play more mahjong.” She rolls her eyes. “Plus, I brought my brother today. The least you can do is give him a good impression.”
Huh? Azula has a brother? Now that he thinks about it, Sokka doesn’t think Azula has ever mentioned anything about having a brother before.
Suki looks confused. “Your brother?”
“Yeah, my brother.” Azula turns around and motions towards someone. “Zuzu! Get your butt over here!”
Sokka’s still wondering about the whole Azula-has-a-brother thing when a shadow falls over the table. Startled, he looks up, straight into the eyes of—
My stars must really be lucky tonight.
Zuko’s staring straight at him, his eyes blinking in confusion when he seems to realize that Sokka’s sitting at the table. “You—”
“You’re the guy I met at the lake,” Sokka interrupts him. “Zuko, right?”
Zuko scratches his head. “I remember you. We played that ten minute go game, didn’t we.”
Azula looks at both of them like they’ve lost their minds. “You two already know each other?” She turns to Sokka. “Ten minutes? I’m impressed.”
(Why is she bringing up that humiliating go game?)
“Well then.” Suki claps her hands together. “Since y’all already seem to know each other, can we get started? I could sit out this round if Zuko wants to play.”
“Oh, don’t mind me.” Zuko shakes his head. “I can just watch.”
“You sure about that?” Jet asks. “I mean, I’ve already gotten enough crap from Suki about using a cheat sheet—”
“I wouldn’t have a problem if you didn’t end up winning with a cheat sheet.”
“—like I said.” Jet rolls his eyes. “A problem. Do you want to play?”
“I think I’m fine. I’ll just sit here and watch, if everyone is fine with that.”
“Zuzu, come sit here,” Azula’s pulling a chair towards the table. “You can sit next to Sokka.”
She winks conspiratorially in Sokka’s direction. It takes all of Sokka’s willpower not to spontaneously perish when Zuko scoots in next to him and leans over his shoulder while they shuffle tiles. The first few rounds go by in a flash, with Suki picking up her usual wins, much to Jet’s frustration and Azula’s amusement. Sokka’s too busy trying to avoid eye contact with the handsome man sitting next to him, fumbling over his tiles and making the most basic mistakes even novice players have learned to avoid. (He even makes a mental note to make an appointment with his cardiologist next week because there’s no way his insanely high heart rate could be healthy for him.)
It isn’t until the fourth round—when Sokka’s debating which piece to throw into the center—that the smell of jasmine wafts over his shoulder. Zuko reaches out and taps a tile with his index finger.
“This one,” he whispers under his breath, and the only thing in Sokka’s mind is oh my spirits, he’s going to be the death of me.
“Okay,” Sokka responds, his hands moving mindlessly as he tosses the tile into the discard pile.
“Hey!” Azula pokes Zuko in the shoulder when it’s her turn. “You should be helping me instead. That’s cheating.”
“It’s not cheating if he didn’t move the tile by himself,” Suki shrugs.
“Says the hag who gets mad at me when I even glance at my cheat sheet for a second.”
“Who do you think you’re calling a hag—”
“It’s really not a big deal.” Azula raises both of her hands. “I was just teasing you, Zuzu.”
(Zuzu. What a cute nickname for a cute guy—Sokka Qanik, what the hell do you think you’re thinking about? Don’t even go there, mister.)
But to be honest, Sokka does think that Zuko looks more charming in the soft light of the pavilion. (At least, from the glances he sneaks in Zuko’s direction whenever it’s someone else’s turn.) Even the scar seems to be glowing at the edges, ruddy pink mottling into red around Zuko’s eye. It takes a minute for Sokka to realize that Zuko isn’t wearing his monocle today, how his hazel eyes flicker over the sea of mahjong tiles on the table.
“Sokka?” Oh, what does Azula want now? “Sokka? It’s your turn, dude. You can take a break from staring at my brother, can’t you?”
Oh, there’s definitely a blush creeping up over Sokka’s face now. He hurriedly reaches out to pick his tile, turning it over and realizing that—
“Hah! I won!” Sokka proudly flips his tiles over, exposing his winning hand. “Take that, Suki!”
As chaos erupts around the table, Sokka pumps his fist in the air, completely unaware of the tiny smile growing on Zuko’s face.
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It takes a week for Sokka to finally see Zuko sitting at the park again, and it takes another two weeks for his heart to finally settle down in Zuko’s presence.
(It’s about time, his brain thinks. Shut up, Sokka thinks back.)
They start out with short walks around the turtleduck pond, with the sunset leaves floating this-way-and-that in the calm autumn breeze and Hawky running figure-eights in the grass. Zuko’s always dressed in some oversized coat and wooly red scarf—“my daughter is always worried that I’m going to catch a cold”—while Sokka shivers slightly in his jacket. On their fifth walk, Zuko surprises Sokka with his very own scarf, the knitwork lumpy and uneven but very clearly loved.
“Did you make this?” Sokka asks, hands shaking as he runs his fingers along the blue yarn. “Is this for me?”
The blush on Zuko’s pale cheeks tells him everything.
By their tenth walk, Sokka steels himself and reaches out for Zuko’s hand, right as they cross the bridge of the narrowest part of the lake. Zuko’s fingers are cold and dry, the skin wrinkled and rough—but Sokka holds on anyways, rubbing his thumb against Zuko’s knuckles and watching as the other man’s face lights up with a blush.
On their twelfth walk, Sokka’s joints decide to give up completely and he finds a bench to rest, pulling Zuko along with him. Sokka watches as Zuko pulls out a thermos and unscrews it, placing two cups in his lap and carefully pouring hot tea into both, the fragrance of sharp sencha blending with the smokiness in the air. The two of them sit in silence, Zuko sipping quietly from his cup and Sokka blowing on his cup furiously to cool it down.
Sokka nearly jumps when Zuko leans against him, silver hair fluttering in the breeze. “Zuko? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” Zuko waves a hand. “Just tired.”
“You can sleep a little, if you’d like,” Sokka murmurs as Zuko laces their arms together and closes his eyes. He resists the urge to fall asleep himself, content to watch Hawky zoom around with a ridiculously large stick in his mouth.
Sokka’s completely lost track of time, his fingers idly tapping out a Bach invention against his thighs when a tall, raven-haired woman strides towards the bench, eyes narrowed in determination as she stops right in front of Sokka.
“Who are you, and what are you doing with my father?” The woman asks, her tone curt. Sokka suddenly gets a chill along his spine.
So this is Zuko’s daughter.
“I’m Sokka,” he says, and by the look on her face, the woman looks surprised.
“So you’re the one my father talks about all the time.” The woman muses. “My name is Izumi. It’s very nice to meet you.”
Sokka thinks that Izumi is one of the most intimidating people he’s ever met. “Uh, it’s nice to meet you, too.”
Izumi crosses her arms slightly, the wind blowing against her coat. “May I ask what your intentions are with my father?”
(Oh, she’s definitely frightening.)
But it’s a fair question, honestly. Between all the walks and the piano-playing, you’d think that Sokka would’ve had some time to think about whatever he’s having with Zuko—but he really hasn’t. He’s just been having too much fun hanging out with the other man, especially when Zuko smiles or laughs or does that funny little head scratch of his whenever he’s embarrassed—
It almost makes it sound like Sokka’s halfway in love with the guy.
(Am I? In love?)
(Another thought pops into his head: what kind of sixty-seven year-old experiences a freaking schoolyard crush at this age?)
“Did you hear what I said?” Izumi’s voice crashes through Sokka’s mind.
“Oh, of course. Of course, I did.” Sokka sighs. “I just want Zuko—I mean, your father—to be happy. That’s all.”
Izumi doesn’t say anything, and for a moment, Sokka thinks he’s ruined everything once again. He braces himself against anything she’s about to say, but it never comes. Izumi merely bows towards him gracefully and adjusts her glasses, the golden frames glinting in the sunlight.
“I appreciate your honesty,” Izumi finally remarks. “If you wouldn’t mind waking my father for me and telling him that I’m waiting for him in the car? Somehow, I have a feeling he’d be happier if it was you instead of me.”
“Oh! Oh, yes. I can definitely do that,” Sokka lets out a breath he didn’t even realize he was holding. Thank Tui that’s over, he wonders to himself as the woman walks away towards the parking lot. Now I just have to wake Zuko up.
Waking Zuko up is harder than it looks. The entirety of Sokka’s left arm has practically fallen asleep, with Zuko clutching it so tightly and cutting off whatever circulation Sokka had left. Sokka reaches over to brush a stray thread of gray away from Zuko’s face before poking him slightly.
“It’s time to wake up, Zuko,” Sokka whispers. “Your daughter is here to pick you up.”
“Hm—mhm?” Zuko blinks wearily. “My—you said Izumi’s here already?”
“She is,” Sokka continues stroking Zuko’s hair. It’s soft and smooth, a velvet gray that practically gleams in the waning sunlight. “She’s waiting for you in the car.”
“Thank you for waking me up,” Zuko mumbles, finally loosening his grip on Sokka’s arm and rubbing his eyes. “I appreciate it.”
Sokka flexes his fingers, a sense of relief washing over him as he realizes his arm is still fully functioning. He heaves himself to his feet before pulling Zuko upwards. “Don’t worry about it. Same time tomorrow?”
“Same time tomorrow,” Zuko says, and the gummy smile on his face, all dimples and wrinkles, is enough to make Sokka’s eartips tinge with pink.
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Sokka’s in the middle of finishing up his daily crossword when there’s a knock on the door. He looks up at the clock—8:30 PM—and back at the door. Who could it be at this late of an hour?
Hawky’s already there, tail beating frantically against the floor as Sokka unlocks the door and peers out.
“Bumi?” He squints at his nephew. “What’re you doing here?”
“Just paying you an impromptu visit, unkie!” Bumi grins. “And also to let you know that I caught this kid—” he tugs on something just out of the door frame, a hazel-eyed teenage boy tumbling into view, “—slipping something under your door.”
The teenager scowls.
Sokka’s flabbergasted. A kid? A kid’s the one slipping notes under my door?
“Just to be clear, I didn’t write these notes,” the teenager huffs. “My grandfather did.”
Grandfather? Sokka looks more closely at the boy. “Then why are you the one slipping notes under my door?”
“Uh, because he told me to?” The teenager shrugs. “Look. Gramps just really likes your piano playing, okay? So he told me to, y’know, go around and figure out who was playing all the nice music and to leave them these notes. So that’s what I’ve been doing. Sorry if that was kinda stalkerish or something. I can stop.”
So someone out there actually enjoys my music, eh? There’s a small surge of pride in Sokka’s chest, and he puffs up just a little. “Would it be all right for me to meet your grandfather? I’d love to talk to the person who’s been enjoying my music so much.”
“Uh, I guess?” the tenager says. “I mean, I’ve told him to come with me every time but I think he’s just shy. Maybe it’s a good thing that you’re coming to meet him instead.”
“Are you sure about this, unkie?” Bumi looks concerned. “I’m gonna come with you. Maybe this kid’s just trying to play a prank on you or something.”
The teenager bristles. “Can you—”
“Hold on,” Sokka’s already slipping on his loafers with his shoehorn. “It’s fine. I want to go.” He turns to look at the teenager. “What’s your name, kid?”
“Iroh,” the teenager replies as the three of them walk down the hallway towards the stairs. “I was named after my great-granduncle. At least that’s what Gramps told me. Apparently he used to play go a lot, like the game with the black and white pieces?”
“Oh, you mean the game where the white pieces look like Mentos?”
“Exactly!” Iroh replies enthusiastically. “See? I’ve been telling Gramps that they look like Mentos, but he has no idea what I’m talking about.”
They’re standing in front of an apartment door now, and it takes Sokka a few moments to realize that the apartment number—404—is right below his. No wonder this person’s been listening to me play, Sokka thinks. He lives right below me.
Iroh’s fumbling with a key, twisting and turning the door handle and pushing through. “Gramps?” he calls out. “Gramps? I brought you the piano player.”
“You did?” A voice calls out from inside, and Sokka’s ears perk up in shock because that voice—wait, no—wait, it couldn’t be—
He pushes through the doorway without a second thought, ignoring his nephew’s warning and Iroh’s surprise. The room is quiet and dark except for a few candles glowing on a table. There’s an ink brush perched against an inkstone, a string of characters dancing in dark ink over an unfurled piece of parchment—but Sokka only has eyes for the figure standing near the window.
He’d recognize that hair anywhere.
“Can I help you?” The man asks as he turns around.
Sokka waves with a gigantic grin on his face and a chuckle lodged in his throat.
“Um—” Sokka wobbles, because his heart is caught in his throat and his thoughts are rushing a million miles an hour, “—I’m not sure? I mean, I hope I’m not bothering you or anything.”
Zuko’s voice trembles. “Trust me, Sokka. You aren’t.”