Fanfic: "Ice-Bound" (PG-13)
Title: Ice-bound
Author: hello_scorpling
Recipient: ali_wildgoose
Prompt Used: various time period AU:s are hilarious and awesome
Summary: They meet on the ship to Iceland, Jet the Dane and Prince Zuko of the Saxons. A Viking age Jetko AU. No, really.
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers/Warnings for: No spoilers
Author's Notes: Since I managed to delete the first fic I had written for you the day before deadline, this was literally scrambled together at the last minute and I apologize for that. I wish I could have given you something other than panicked writing in between working night shifts, but I hope you'll find some parts to like in here somewhere. The prompts were all awesome and were a delight to work with.
They meet on the ship after Prince Zuko of the Saxons has let the foreign name roll off his tongue and walked up the gangway as Leif the Dane. The name doesn't fit. It chafes in his mouth, the sounds too harsh, too difficult to pronounce. Leif the Dane is from a small village near Birka and speaks with a heavy accent. Prince Zuko fists his hands under his cloak until the knuckles turn white, but doesn't lower his gaze.
He would call his uncle Muli now, if he ever called him anything but Uncle. Uncle is acting too happy for a refugee, too happy for someone driven from their homeland, from everything that was rightfully theirs. The scar on his face is old, but the wounds are still fresh and the anger inside him is burning hot, feeling as if it could burst through his fingertips at any second and explode into roaring fire.
In Iceland, they will be safe. In Iceland, his sister can't find them and kill them, earning the right to a crown that should have passed to him. No one in their right mind would think to look for them in Reykjavik. He will be alive and well, and so will the Avatar, far outside of his reach. His honor will never be restored.
Uncle tries on Danish helmets borrowed from other passengers, asking if they suit him with a jovial laugh, and the already rotten food tastes even fouler in Zuko's mouth. The wooden bowl makes only a small splash when he throws it over the rail, disappearing under the surface only to appear a few moments later, bobbing up and down on the waves.
"I'm sick of living like this," he says too loudly, staring grimly at the water. The bowl has it better than him.
"Who isn't?"
That's when they meet, though Zuko realizes he has been watched for a while. Maybe even followed. Irritation mixed with caution prickles on his skin as he turns around to see where the words came from, hand discreetly moving closer to the sword on his hip.
The man meeting his eyes is his own age, tall, tan, with messy hair and a broad, confident smile.
"My name's Jet," he says and steps forward, towards them. He isn't drawing his sword, no threat hidden in his posture, so Zuko turns toward the sea again, not answering. He doesn't feel up for small talk. He never does.
"These are my Freedom Fighters," Jet continues, unfazed by the silence. Zuko doesn't turn his head to look. "We've been planning to get some real food. Liberate it. People like us won't get anything other than bottom scraps if we don't go and take it for ourselves."
Zuko hears steps moving over the deck, and then Jet is right beside him, leaning over the railing.
"We only need one more person."
He shouldn't be too friendly to the Danes. Shouldn't draw any unnecessary attention, either, not from anyone. He shouldn't - but he also shouldn't be here in the first place and he feels no hesitation when he nods.
"I'm in."
The so called liberation is easy, ridiculously so. Jet's friends are stealthy, skilled, and they know how to make themselves invisible in the dark. Jet himself handles his swords as if they were extensions of his limbs, and when he jumps through the hatch down into the ship his movements are fluid, the landing silent.
Afterwards, they talk as they eat, Uncle and Jet. Zuko says nothing, but he still has the feeling Jet is addressing him as well as Iroh, and it's hard not to listen to him. He talks like that, in a way that makes you stop and wait for what's next to come.
He does some more listening in the following weeks. Sometimes with irritation, other times with interest. Now and then they talk, short conversations that go nowhere. There isn't much you can say when you live with someone else's name, pretending to have someone else's past behind you . He doesn't really care, Zuko tells himself and crosses his arms over his chest, pretending to sleep when Jet is nearby.
"We have to stick together," Jet says one day, as if it really were that simple.
Zuko says nothing and sticks to himself.
--
They meet again. And again. In Reykjavik, Jet is everywhere, or perhaps only where Zuko is, and that's enough.
Uncle somehow gets them jobs at a tavern, and Zuko spends his nights sweeping floors and carrying trash, the days failing to fall asleep, the sun too bright in his shadowed eyes.
"I think you'd be a good Freedom Fighter," Jet tells him, leaning against the wall, watching him dig a new hole for the waste behind the house. "Need any help with that?"
"No," Zuko growls. A blister in his hand chaps , clear, watery pus running over the palm of his hand. He not-quite-curses and throws the shovel away. Jet laughs. Jet always laughs, or smiles, even when there should be nothing to smile at.
"Come on." He reaches down, offering a hand. "Let's go do something better with your time."
Zuko stares at him for a few seconds, then wipes his fingers on his tunic and takes Jet's hand.
Jet's friends, he learns that night, are called Smellerbee and Longshot. Strange names for strange people. The girl looks and acts like a man, and the boy says nothing, only looks at him with eyes so dark they seem black. These are the Freedom Fighters, and he will never join them. He has nothing to do with the struggles of peasants and thieves. His own is a different kind, a search, a fight. Not that he has done much fighting recently.
It's impossible to relax, not to feel out of place. In the small house, barely more than a shed, the smoke from the fire hangs under the ceiling, and there's something gnawing in a corner until Jet
throws a shoe in the direction of the sound. It's not a home.
It still feels like one, once the porridge is simmering in a pot over the flames and Smellerbee cuts pieces of dried fish for them each. Zuko shakes his head when she reaches to hand him his share. He didn't come to eat their food or take advantage of their hospitality. Soon, he will be able to explain to himself why he's really there, he decides, and pretends not to notice the mocking gesture Smellerbee makes when she thinks he's not looking. Or maybe she wants him to see. Zuko has never been good at understanding girls, not even the manly ones.
"I'll walk you home," Jet says once they've eaten. Zuko wonders whether he should laugh at the joke, decides against it. He isn't sure it was even a joke.
They're silent on the way. It's a cloudy night, the air damp with tiny droplets of water , more mist than rain. The cold goes through his clothes quickly, and Zuko shivers involuntarily.
"Hey." Jet's voice is casual. "You can always come under my cloak."
It takes some effort not to stumble, the words throwing him a little off balance. Silence seems the only possible answer, and so he says nothing, keeping his eyes on his feet.
"Suit yourself. It was just an offer, man." There is a pause, the only sound the smacking of their feet in the mud of what's a decent road in dry weather. "You know, this is the same as with the Freedom Fighters."
"What?"
"You're freezing, right? I don't just mean from the rain here."
"I'm not joining."
"You won't even let me finish my metaphor? That's harsh."
Zuko feels the corners of his mouth twitch and looks the other way.
There is no natural way to say goodbye, so once they're at the house he shares with Uncle-- closer to the middle of town than Jet's hut, but still rather close to the outskirts -- Zuko doesn't bother to stop and try to exchange words that will only be awkward. Jet chooses not to pick up on his intent, and follows him all the way to the door. The frustration he feels isn't as strong as it used to be. Maybe he's getting used to this.
"No way you'll join?"
"No way."
"I don't get it." Jet spits on the ground and shifts his weight from one foot to the other. "Why not? What's so great about living like you are now?"
There's nothing great about it anywhere, and suddenly the fatigue pours over him, the frustration over meaningless tasks and days that all feel the same. Zuko feels himself nod, twice.
"Fine."
Jet's smile seems different somehow when Zuko looks at him, a little softer, maybe, a little deeper. The difference is small, but there, and he isn't sure what it means.
"Meet us at the harbor tomorrow night," Jet says, as if it really were that simple.
Zuko nods again and closes the door on that smile with what feels like hesitation.
--
He thinks of leaving many times, but despite the reprimanding looks from Uncle when he goes out in the middle of the night, he stays. Slowly, he eases into the Freedom Fighters and their ways. Longshot's expressions are still too subtle to decipher, but he can make out what the gestures mean by now, and Smellerbee watches his back as if it was the natural thing to do.
Jet is always somewhere close by.
One of the first nights, crouching in an alley, waiting for a carriage to pass by, he's startled by fingers moving up his lower arm, resting themselves in the crook of his arm.
"What are you doing," he asks, staying very still. They can't be spotted.
"Just being friendly," Jet whispers back, and his teeth are very white in the dark.
It takes time to get used to Jet's friendliness, to the touches and nudges, to the way he always sits down too close beside him, close enough for their thighs to press together. Sometimes Zuko moves away, sometimes he doesn't. Jet is always very warm.
It must be a Danish thing. When he starts looking for it, he notices the touches passing between them. Sometimes playfully, sometimes rough, sometimes with a tenderness that makes Zuko uneasy to watch.
"Your hair's growing like weeds," Jet says on the day the first snow falls, combing his fingers through Zuko's fringe and down the side of his head, thumb brushing against his ear.
"I guess." Zuko doesn't pull away or twitch, not now. Maybe he's getting used to this, too.
"Bet mine grows faster."
It turns out he's right.
"This beard-growing contest is ridiculous, and you both look it," Smellerbee says, as they're all wasting time in the yard behind Uncle's house, throwing balls of wet muddy snow at the icicles hanging from the roof on the nearest house.
"You're just jealous you'd be losing by default," Jet teases, ruffling her hair. She laughs, elbows him in the ribs, and he dramatically staggers backwards, clutching his side. Longshot's smile is warm behind his already thick, black beard, and he catches Jet's arm, giving him a look with one brow raised that sends the other two roaring with laughter.
Zuko draws his foot hard through snow and mud, stepping down until ice cold water soaks through his shoe.
"I'll go see what Uncle's doing," he mutters. There's no answer.
Uncle looks up from the chessboard when Zuko steps through the door, shaking the snow off his shoulders.
"Your friends seem to be in good spirits."
"They're not my friends!"
He shouts loudly, louder than he intended. He doesn't know why, but he is angry, and the laughter from outside makes something twist inside him. It almost feels like aching.
"My mistake then," Uncle says and adds: "Though if they were, you should consider yourself lucky."
--
When he goes back outside, only Jet is still there. It has started snowing again, and his hair and shoulders are covered in white. He doesn't look up when he speaks.
"Then what are we?"
"Huh?"
Jet blinks the melting snow dripping from his bangs out of his eyes.
"If we're not your friends. What are we?"
"I didn't--," Zuko starts, his tongue feeling a little numb. "I didn't mean for you to hear that."
For a while, it's very quiet. The sounds of the town are subdued by the snow, and the soft rustling of snowflakes landing on the ground, on the roofs, in his hair, is only drowned out by his own heart beating fat and loud in his chest.
Then Jet snorts.
"So what is this about? Are the others giving you a hard time or something? I can talk to them."
"No, no."
"Then what?"
He could always just go back inside. Shut the door behind him, shut out Jet's face and that hurt, puzzled frown and never talk to him again. It would be very simple.
"I'm not who you think I am," he says instead and once he has he cringes at the banality of it.
The snow doesn't crunch under Jet's feet when he walks up to Zuko. It's too heavy, too wet. He gets up close a little too close, as always, and when he speaks his voice is serious. Maybe his face is too. Zuko doesn't look.
"I've done things in my past that I'm not proud of. And as soon as I saw you, I knew you were the same. But don't you think we can change?"
"I don't know what I think!"
Jet kisses him then, grabbing his shoulder and dragging him forward, pressing his mouth against Zuko's. Their noses bump together, hard, and when Zuko sucks in his breath the air doesn't feel wintry cold, but warm.
It's not a good kiss. Even with his lack of experience, he can tell. Their lips don't match, and at first all he can feel is Jet's beard, harsher to the touch than it looks. Zuko doesn't open his own mouth, doesn't respond. Jet is smiling when he draws back, but his ears are bright red. There's a glint of disappointment in his eyes, and Zuko wonders what can be seen in his.
"We should shave off the beards," Jet says, as if it really was that simple.
Zuko says nothing and resists the impulse to lick his throbbing lips.
--
For a week he doesn't seek out Jet, and there's no word from the Freedom Fighters either. It gives him time to think. He pieces together the touches, the looks, the fingers lingering in his hair, the laughs, the smiles, and the picture ends up so clear he finds it hard to believe he never noticed before.
He doesn't think about the kiss. Not during the day.
Eight days have passed when he meets Jet on the street just outside his house. He refuses to believe it to be an accident. He could always pretend not to see him. Cross the street, look the other way.
Zuko draws the cloak closer to his body, and does so.
"Hey!"
Jet runs after him, up to him, and even if he tries his steps won't speed up. There's a hand on his shoulder, and he doesn't twitch.
"I've been looking all over for you," Jet says, then quickly shakes his head. "Okay, I haven't, but. I've been wondering what you've been up to. How you've been."
They end up at Jet's, in the cold, drafty shed with both their cloaks over their heads like a tent. It's surprisingly warm.
He keeps his hands on his knees, his eyes on the fire that doesn't make much of a difference in temperature today. Jet is very close.
Always very close.
"So." Jet's voice is a bit higher than usual. Zuko doesn't have to look to know his eyes are red, again.
"Yeah."
"I've been thinking."
"Me, too."
"But I'm done thinking now."
Zuko waits, wrapping his tongue around different possible answers. The one he ends up with doesn't really say anything. He hopes Jet understands anyway.
"Me, too."
This is where one of them should do something. Zuko could leave. That would be sensible. Or he could move his hand from where it rests on his knee, move it several inches to the left, to where Jet's hand is. He swallows, hard.
His hand has never felt so heavy.
"You know, it's okay if you don't want to be here. I'll be okay," Jet says.
After that, things change.
"I don't like men," Zuko murmurs into the nape of Jet's neck. "Not usually."
He can feel the other boy's laughter like a vibration against his lips, sending a tiny shiver through his body that isn't at all from the cold.
"Feels good, being the exception," Jet says, as if it really were that simple.
Zuko says nothing and pretends that it is.
--
Jet tells him things. About his past. About the Saxons killing his family, about fighting to survive and trying to find something else, something more. About failing.
Zuko listens, and there's a knot in his stomach that's drawn tighter every time. He doesn't feel it when they're close, not when Jet's lips are over his, when his hands are on Zuko's chest and lower.
On his own, his thoughts are tangled up. Leif the Swede kisses his lover without a care, but Leif the Swede is not real, and Prince Zuko stares at his feet with knitted brows as he walks home in the evenings. He doesn't wear his cross when he goes to see Jet, and when he puts it on again before going to bed, the cold silver stings on his bare skin under the nightshirt. He knows it's only his imagination, but it feels like it takes longer to warm up each time.
That's when the news comes, on the first day that smells of spring and the ice starts breaking down at the shores. The Avatar has been spotted in England.
The man who tells them has a long, dirty beard, and he looks at Zuko's shaking hands with confusion. Uncle thanks him and pushes him through the door, saying thank you and good day and aren't we lucky to have an early spring this year?
The Avatar is in England. So is Azula. Zuko is on Iceland, far from his throne, his honor and everything he ever wanted. He turns to face Uncle, slowly.
"I have to go back."
Uncle sighs.
"It's the wrong decision."
"It's my decision."
The bowls and spoons from breakfast clunk in the washing barrel whenUncle goes back to the dishes, his hands read and swollen from being soaked in cold water. Zuko takes a step towards him, hesitating.
"Should I tell him?" He doesn't have to specify. Uncle always understands what he means. This time is no exception.
"It's your decision," Uncle says, and the calm kindness in his eyes is a reassurance.
In Jet's eyes there isn't much at all once the whole truth is past Zuko's lips and hangs in the air between them, the back alley not quite as dark at this time of night as it would have been only a week ago. Winter is giving way to spring every passing minute.
"I'm leaving tomorrow. I'm sorry."
He waits for the answer. It doesn't come. Instead Jet lunges forward, without any warning. His face is twisted in a grimace of anger and hurt, and Zuko only barely manages to throw himself out of the way of the punch.
It all goes wrong from there. While Jet is the stronger, Zuko has better control, and the fight is intense, but short.
"I didn't mean to-," Zuko starts, panting, struggling to keep Jet's arms pinned down, to keep him from attacking again. Then he doesn't know how to continue.
There comes a sound from Jet, low and deep and mixed up with words Zuko is glad he doesn't understand, and then he rolls over on his back, pushing Zuko off him. The grip he has on Jet's hands slackens, is lost altogether, and Zuko feels himself getting lift off the ground. The throw is a good one and a half meters. He hits the ground with a thud that echoes through his head, and the air is knocked out of his lungs. Jet is on top of him within seconds.
There's a knife in his hand -- when he got it out Zuko doesn't know-- and he barely dares to breath when he feels the edge against his throat. In Jet's eyes there is still mostly emptiness.
It feels as if they stay that way for very long. Zuko holds Jet's gaze, meets it as steady as he can, only blinking when his eyes start burning from the dry air. He owes him that much.
Jet looks away first, taking the knife away. His movements are clumsy when he gets to his feet, and his chest heaves irregularly.
"Go," Jet says, as if it really were that simple.
Zuko says nothing and heaves his aching body off the ground.
--
The next morning is sunny and clear. They set off early with the first ship to leave Iceland that spring. Uncle doesn't ask about the bruises. Zuko is grateful.
It hurts to walk. Not much, just a little, but enough to make him grimace as they make their way through the morning crowd toward the ship. The last minutes in Iceland, and he's walking with his eyes down, counting every step, focusing on the numbers in his head instead of whatever is swirling in his chest. Zuko takes a deep breath of cool, fresh air, and pushes everything but the waiting journey from his mind.
He has one foot on the gangway when a pebble hits him on the back of his neck. It shatters the calm he's forced himself into all morning, and when he spins around his hand is already on the hilt of his sword.
Jet looks at him from twenty feet away, leaning against a barrel over by the boathouses. It's hard to tell his expression, but he isn't smiling. His shoulders look stiff. Zuko feels his own shoulders relax, unexpectedly.
The ship will leave shortly. There isn't much time. He could turn around now, sweep his cloak closer around him and never look back. It would be the easy way.
Prince Zuko of the Saxons fists his hands under the cloak to keep them from shaking, but his steps when he walks over the frosty ground are steady and fast.
"I, uh."
It's his voice that fails him. His voice, and his wit. Jet says nothing, does nothing, and there's too much space between them, too much silence that goes on and on until he starts wishing for punches and screams of rage.
"I'm sorry," he tries, and there is no reaction but a snarl.
The anger bubbling up inside him is irrational, but real nonetheless. Zuko straightens his back, shakes the hair out of his eyes. He tried. This, everything, is not all his fault. Not all his responsibility.
"I have to go."
"Yeah, Prince Zuko is a busy guy."
Jet says his name as if it tastes bitter on his tongue. That hurts more than any bruises.
When he takes a step forward Zuko braces himself for the hit, for the pain, wherever it will hit. He doesn't raise his guard. Not this time.
The kiss that comes instead takes him completely by surprise. It's hard, with tongue and teeth and hands pulling on the front of his tunic, closing the distance between them with angry tugs at the fabric. Jet's teeth pierce skin, and Zuko feels blood mix with the taste of him.
"Hope that doesn't heal for a while," Jet says when he pulls away, spitting red and frothy white on the ground.
"Probably won't. You bit deep."
"Good."
He doesn't understand. He doesn't understand, but the warmth is back in Jet's eyes, if only a little bit. Zuko takes another step closer, the hem of his cloak brushing against the other boy's feet.
"If I come back." He fights with the words, forcing them from his mouth, embarrassment throbbing in his veins. "Will you be here?"
"Wouldn't count on it."
"Oh."
There isn't anything he can think to say after that. Jet is staring at the ship. It's setting sail. No time left. Zuko turns and starts to leave.
"Hey, I didn't say it wouldn't be worth a shot."
He stops too fast to make it seem as if he wasn't hoping to hear it. At this point he doesn't care. Jet's smile is broad, warm.
"I'll see you," he says, as if it really were that simple.
"Yeah," Zuko answers. "Yeah, you will."
--
"He's not worth it," Smellerbee mutters, rowing in twitchy, impatient motions that mess up their rhythm and clearly give away her irritation. "And what do you think he'll say when you see him again, anyway?"
"'Hi, Jet, nice to see you again.'"
Smellerbee snorts. Longshot laughs his silent laugh and shrugs.
Jet tightens his grip on the oar, watching out for drifting ice floes as they set out towards open water.
The harbour was ice-bound not too long ago.
Author: hello_scorpling
Recipient: ali_wildgoose
Prompt Used: various time period AU:s are hilarious and awesome
Summary: They meet on the ship to Iceland, Jet the Dane and Prince Zuko of the Saxons. A Viking age Jetko AU. No, really.
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers/Warnings for: No spoilers
Author's Notes: Since I managed to delete the first fic I had written for you the day before deadline, this was literally scrambled together at the last minute and I apologize for that. I wish I could have given you something other than panicked writing in between working night shifts, but I hope you'll find some parts to like in here somewhere. The prompts were all awesome and were a delight to work with.
They meet on the ship after Prince Zuko of the Saxons has let the foreign name roll off his tongue and walked up the gangway as Leif the Dane. The name doesn't fit. It chafes in his mouth, the sounds too harsh, too difficult to pronounce. Leif the Dane is from a small village near Birka and speaks with a heavy accent. Prince Zuko fists his hands under his cloak until the knuckles turn white, but doesn't lower his gaze.
He would call his uncle Muli now, if he ever called him anything but Uncle. Uncle is acting too happy for a refugee, too happy for someone driven from their homeland, from everything that was rightfully theirs. The scar on his face is old, but the wounds are still fresh and the anger inside him is burning hot, feeling as if it could burst through his fingertips at any second and explode into roaring fire.
In Iceland, they will be safe. In Iceland, his sister can't find them and kill them, earning the right to a crown that should have passed to him. No one in their right mind would think to look for them in Reykjavik. He will be alive and well, and so will the Avatar, far outside of his reach. His honor will never be restored.
Uncle tries on Danish helmets borrowed from other passengers, asking if they suit him with a jovial laugh, and the already rotten food tastes even fouler in Zuko's mouth. The wooden bowl makes only a small splash when he throws it over the rail, disappearing under the surface only to appear a few moments later, bobbing up and down on the waves.
"I'm sick of living like this," he says too loudly, staring grimly at the water. The bowl has it better than him.
"Who isn't?"
That's when they meet, though Zuko realizes he has been watched for a while. Maybe even followed. Irritation mixed with caution prickles on his skin as he turns around to see where the words came from, hand discreetly moving closer to the sword on his hip.
The man meeting his eyes is his own age, tall, tan, with messy hair and a broad, confident smile.
"My name's Jet," he says and steps forward, towards them. He isn't drawing his sword, no threat hidden in his posture, so Zuko turns toward the sea again, not answering. He doesn't feel up for small talk. He never does.
"These are my Freedom Fighters," Jet continues, unfazed by the silence. Zuko doesn't turn his head to look. "We've been planning to get some real food. Liberate it. People like us won't get anything other than bottom scraps if we don't go and take it for ourselves."
Zuko hears steps moving over the deck, and then Jet is right beside him, leaning over the railing.
"We only need one more person."
He shouldn't be too friendly to the Danes. Shouldn't draw any unnecessary attention, either, not from anyone. He shouldn't - but he also shouldn't be here in the first place and he feels no hesitation when he nods.
"I'm in."
The so called liberation is easy, ridiculously so. Jet's friends are stealthy, skilled, and they know how to make themselves invisible in the dark. Jet himself handles his swords as if they were extensions of his limbs, and when he jumps through the hatch down into the ship his movements are fluid, the landing silent.
Afterwards, they talk as they eat, Uncle and Jet. Zuko says nothing, but he still has the feeling Jet is addressing him as well as Iroh, and it's hard not to listen to him. He talks like that, in a way that makes you stop and wait for what's next to come.
He does some more listening in the following weeks. Sometimes with irritation, other times with interest. Now and then they talk, short conversations that go nowhere. There isn't much you can say when you live with someone else's name, pretending to have someone else's past behind you . He doesn't really care, Zuko tells himself and crosses his arms over his chest, pretending to sleep when Jet is nearby.
"We have to stick together," Jet says one day, as if it really were that simple.
Zuko says nothing and sticks to himself.
--
They meet again. And again. In Reykjavik, Jet is everywhere, or perhaps only where Zuko is, and that's enough.
Uncle somehow gets them jobs at a tavern, and Zuko spends his nights sweeping floors and carrying trash, the days failing to fall asleep, the sun too bright in his shadowed eyes.
"I think you'd be a good Freedom Fighter," Jet tells him, leaning against the wall, watching him dig a new hole for the waste behind the house. "Need any help with that?"
"No," Zuko growls. A blister in his hand chaps , clear, watery pus running over the palm of his hand. He not-quite-curses and throws the shovel away. Jet laughs. Jet always laughs, or smiles, even when there should be nothing to smile at.
"Come on." He reaches down, offering a hand. "Let's go do something better with your time."
Zuko stares at him for a few seconds, then wipes his fingers on his tunic and takes Jet's hand.
Jet's friends, he learns that night, are called Smellerbee and Longshot. Strange names for strange people. The girl looks and acts like a man, and the boy says nothing, only looks at him with eyes so dark they seem black. These are the Freedom Fighters, and he will never join them. He has nothing to do with the struggles of peasants and thieves. His own is a different kind, a search, a fight. Not that he has done much fighting recently.
It's impossible to relax, not to feel out of place. In the small house, barely more than a shed, the smoke from the fire hangs under the ceiling, and there's something gnawing in a corner until Jet
throws a shoe in the direction of the sound. It's not a home.
It still feels like one, once the porridge is simmering in a pot over the flames and Smellerbee cuts pieces of dried fish for them each. Zuko shakes his head when she reaches to hand him his share. He didn't come to eat their food or take advantage of their hospitality. Soon, he will be able to explain to himself why he's really there, he decides, and pretends not to notice the mocking gesture Smellerbee makes when she thinks he's not looking. Or maybe she wants him to see. Zuko has never been good at understanding girls, not even the manly ones.
"I'll walk you home," Jet says once they've eaten. Zuko wonders whether he should laugh at the joke, decides against it. He isn't sure it was even a joke.
They're silent on the way. It's a cloudy night, the air damp with tiny droplets of water , more mist than rain. The cold goes through his clothes quickly, and Zuko shivers involuntarily.
"Hey." Jet's voice is casual. "You can always come under my cloak."
It takes some effort not to stumble, the words throwing him a little off balance. Silence seems the only possible answer, and so he says nothing, keeping his eyes on his feet.
"Suit yourself. It was just an offer, man." There is a pause, the only sound the smacking of their feet in the mud of what's a decent road in dry weather. "You know, this is the same as with the Freedom Fighters."
"What?"
"You're freezing, right? I don't just mean from the rain here."
"I'm not joining."
"You won't even let me finish my metaphor? That's harsh."
Zuko feels the corners of his mouth twitch and looks the other way.
There is no natural way to say goodbye, so once they're at the house he shares with Uncle-- closer to the middle of town than Jet's hut, but still rather close to the outskirts -- Zuko doesn't bother to stop and try to exchange words that will only be awkward. Jet chooses not to pick up on his intent, and follows him all the way to the door. The frustration he feels isn't as strong as it used to be. Maybe he's getting used to this.
"No way you'll join?"
"No way."
"I don't get it." Jet spits on the ground and shifts his weight from one foot to the other. "Why not? What's so great about living like you are now?"
There's nothing great about it anywhere, and suddenly the fatigue pours over him, the frustration over meaningless tasks and days that all feel the same. Zuko feels himself nod, twice.
"Fine."
Jet's smile seems different somehow when Zuko looks at him, a little softer, maybe, a little deeper. The difference is small, but there, and he isn't sure what it means.
"Meet us at the harbor tomorrow night," Jet says, as if it really were that simple.
Zuko nods again and closes the door on that smile with what feels like hesitation.
--
He thinks of leaving many times, but despite the reprimanding looks from Uncle when he goes out in the middle of the night, he stays. Slowly, he eases into the Freedom Fighters and their ways. Longshot's expressions are still too subtle to decipher, but he can make out what the gestures mean by now, and Smellerbee watches his back as if it was the natural thing to do.
Jet is always somewhere close by.
One of the first nights, crouching in an alley, waiting for a carriage to pass by, he's startled by fingers moving up his lower arm, resting themselves in the crook of his arm.
"What are you doing," he asks, staying very still. They can't be spotted.
"Just being friendly," Jet whispers back, and his teeth are very white in the dark.
It takes time to get used to Jet's friendliness, to the touches and nudges, to the way he always sits down too close beside him, close enough for their thighs to press together. Sometimes Zuko moves away, sometimes he doesn't. Jet is always very warm.
It must be a Danish thing. When he starts looking for it, he notices the touches passing between them. Sometimes playfully, sometimes rough, sometimes with a tenderness that makes Zuko uneasy to watch.
"Your hair's growing like weeds," Jet says on the day the first snow falls, combing his fingers through Zuko's fringe and down the side of his head, thumb brushing against his ear.
"I guess." Zuko doesn't pull away or twitch, not now. Maybe he's getting used to this, too.
"Bet mine grows faster."
It turns out he's right.
"This beard-growing contest is ridiculous, and you both look it," Smellerbee says, as they're all wasting time in the yard behind Uncle's house, throwing balls of wet muddy snow at the icicles hanging from the roof on the nearest house.
"You're just jealous you'd be losing by default," Jet teases, ruffling her hair. She laughs, elbows him in the ribs, and he dramatically staggers backwards, clutching his side. Longshot's smile is warm behind his already thick, black beard, and he catches Jet's arm, giving him a look with one brow raised that sends the other two roaring with laughter.
Zuko draws his foot hard through snow and mud, stepping down until ice cold water soaks through his shoe.
"I'll go see what Uncle's doing," he mutters. There's no answer.
Uncle looks up from the chessboard when Zuko steps through the door, shaking the snow off his shoulders.
"Your friends seem to be in good spirits."
"They're not my friends!"
He shouts loudly, louder than he intended. He doesn't know why, but he is angry, and the laughter from outside makes something twist inside him. It almost feels like aching.
"My mistake then," Uncle says and adds: "Though if they were, you should consider yourself lucky."
--
When he goes back outside, only Jet is still there. It has started snowing again, and his hair and shoulders are covered in white. He doesn't look up when he speaks.
"Then what are we?"
"Huh?"
Jet blinks the melting snow dripping from his bangs out of his eyes.
"If we're not your friends. What are we?"
"I didn't--," Zuko starts, his tongue feeling a little numb. "I didn't mean for you to hear that."
For a while, it's very quiet. The sounds of the town are subdued by the snow, and the soft rustling of snowflakes landing on the ground, on the roofs, in his hair, is only drowned out by his own heart beating fat and loud in his chest.
Then Jet snorts.
"So what is this about? Are the others giving you a hard time or something? I can talk to them."
"No, no."
"Then what?"
He could always just go back inside. Shut the door behind him, shut out Jet's face and that hurt, puzzled frown and never talk to him again. It would be very simple.
"I'm not who you think I am," he says instead and once he has he cringes at the banality of it.
The snow doesn't crunch under Jet's feet when he walks up to Zuko. It's too heavy, too wet. He gets up close a little too close, as always, and when he speaks his voice is serious. Maybe his face is too. Zuko doesn't look.
"I've done things in my past that I'm not proud of. And as soon as I saw you, I knew you were the same. But don't you think we can change?"
"I don't know what I think!"
Jet kisses him then, grabbing his shoulder and dragging him forward, pressing his mouth against Zuko's. Their noses bump together, hard, and when Zuko sucks in his breath the air doesn't feel wintry cold, but warm.
It's not a good kiss. Even with his lack of experience, he can tell. Their lips don't match, and at first all he can feel is Jet's beard, harsher to the touch than it looks. Zuko doesn't open his own mouth, doesn't respond. Jet is smiling when he draws back, but his ears are bright red. There's a glint of disappointment in his eyes, and Zuko wonders what can be seen in his.
"We should shave off the beards," Jet says, as if it really was that simple.
Zuko says nothing and resists the impulse to lick his throbbing lips.
--
For a week he doesn't seek out Jet, and there's no word from the Freedom Fighters either. It gives him time to think. He pieces together the touches, the looks, the fingers lingering in his hair, the laughs, the smiles, and the picture ends up so clear he finds it hard to believe he never noticed before.
He doesn't think about the kiss. Not during the day.
Eight days have passed when he meets Jet on the street just outside his house. He refuses to believe it to be an accident. He could always pretend not to see him. Cross the street, look the other way.
Zuko draws the cloak closer to his body, and does so.
"Hey!"
Jet runs after him, up to him, and even if he tries his steps won't speed up. There's a hand on his shoulder, and he doesn't twitch.
"I've been looking all over for you," Jet says, then quickly shakes his head. "Okay, I haven't, but. I've been wondering what you've been up to. How you've been."
They end up at Jet's, in the cold, drafty shed with both their cloaks over their heads like a tent. It's surprisingly warm.
He keeps his hands on his knees, his eyes on the fire that doesn't make much of a difference in temperature today. Jet is very close.
Always very close.
"So." Jet's voice is a bit higher than usual. Zuko doesn't have to look to know his eyes are red, again.
"Yeah."
"I've been thinking."
"Me, too."
"But I'm done thinking now."
Zuko waits, wrapping his tongue around different possible answers. The one he ends up with doesn't really say anything. He hopes Jet understands anyway.
"Me, too."
This is where one of them should do something. Zuko could leave. That would be sensible. Or he could move his hand from where it rests on his knee, move it several inches to the left, to where Jet's hand is. He swallows, hard.
His hand has never felt so heavy.
"You know, it's okay if you don't want to be here. I'll be okay," Jet says.
After that, things change.
"I don't like men," Zuko murmurs into the nape of Jet's neck. "Not usually."
He can feel the other boy's laughter like a vibration against his lips, sending a tiny shiver through his body that isn't at all from the cold.
"Feels good, being the exception," Jet says, as if it really were that simple.
Zuko says nothing and pretends that it is.
--
Jet tells him things. About his past. About the Saxons killing his family, about fighting to survive and trying to find something else, something more. About failing.
Zuko listens, and there's a knot in his stomach that's drawn tighter every time. He doesn't feel it when they're close, not when Jet's lips are over his, when his hands are on Zuko's chest and lower.
On his own, his thoughts are tangled up. Leif the Swede kisses his lover without a care, but Leif the Swede is not real, and Prince Zuko stares at his feet with knitted brows as he walks home in the evenings. He doesn't wear his cross when he goes to see Jet, and when he puts it on again before going to bed, the cold silver stings on his bare skin under the nightshirt. He knows it's only his imagination, but it feels like it takes longer to warm up each time.
That's when the news comes, on the first day that smells of spring and the ice starts breaking down at the shores. The Avatar has been spotted in England.
The man who tells them has a long, dirty beard, and he looks at Zuko's shaking hands with confusion. Uncle thanks him and pushes him through the door, saying thank you and good day and aren't we lucky to have an early spring this year?
The Avatar is in England. So is Azula. Zuko is on Iceland, far from his throne, his honor and everything he ever wanted. He turns to face Uncle, slowly.
"I have to go back."
Uncle sighs.
"It's the wrong decision."
"It's my decision."
The bowls and spoons from breakfast clunk in the washing barrel whenUncle goes back to the dishes, his hands read and swollen from being soaked in cold water. Zuko takes a step towards him, hesitating.
"Should I tell him?" He doesn't have to specify. Uncle always understands what he means. This time is no exception.
"It's your decision," Uncle says, and the calm kindness in his eyes is a reassurance.
In Jet's eyes there isn't much at all once the whole truth is past Zuko's lips and hangs in the air between them, the back alley not quite as dark at this time of night as it would have been only a week ago. Winter is giving way to spring every passing minute.
"I'm leaving tomorrow. I'm sorry."
He waits for the answer. It doesn't come. Instead Jet lunges forward, without any warning. His face is twisted in a grimace of anger and hurt, and Zuko only barely manages to throw himself out of the way of the punch.
It all goes wrong from there. While Jet is the stronger, Zuko has better control, and the fight is intense, but short.
"I didn't mean to-," Zuko starts, panting, struggling to keep Jet's arms pinned down, to keep him from attacking again. Then he doesn't know how to continue.
There comes a sound from Jet, low and deep and mixed up with words Zuko is glad he doesn't understand, and then he rolls over on his back, pushing Zuko off him. The grip he has on Jet's hands slackens, is lost altogether, and Zuko feels himself getting lift off the ground. The throw is a good one and a half meters. He hits the ground with a thud that echoes through his head, and the air is knocked out of his lungs. Jet is on top of him within seconds.
There's a knife in his hand -- when he got it out Zuko doesn't know-- and he barely dares to breath when he feels the edge against his throat. In Jet's eyes there is still mostly emptiness.
It feels as if they stay that way for very long. Zuko holds Jet's gaze, meets it as steady as he can, only blinking when his eyes start burning from the dry air. He owes him that much.
Jet looks away first, taking the knife away. His movements are clumsy when he gets to his feet, and his chest heaves irregularly.
"Go," Jet says, as if it really were that simple.
Zuko says nothing and heaves his aching body off the ground.
--
The next morning is sunny and clear. They set off early with the first ship to leave Iceland that spring. Uncle doesn't ask about the bruises. Zuko is grateful.
It hurts to walk. Not much, just a little, but enough to make him grimace as they make their way through the morning crowd toward the ship. The last minutes in Iceland, and he's walking with his eyes down, counting every step, focusing on the numbers in his head instead of whatever is swirling in his chest. Zuko takes a deep breath of cool, fresh air, and pushes everything but the waiting journey from his mind.
He has one foot on the gangway when a pebble hits him on the back of his neck. It shatters the calm he's forced himself into all morning, and when he spins around his hand is already on the hilt of his sword.
Jet looks at him from twenty feet away, leaning against a barrel over by the boathouses. It's hard to tell his expression, but he isn't smiling. His shoulders look stiff. Zuko feels his own shoulders relax, unexpectedly.
The ship will leave shortly. There isn't much time. He could turn around now, sweep his cloak closer around him and never look back. It would be the easy way.
Prince Zuko of the Saxons fists his hands under the cloak to keep them from shaking, but his steps when he walks over the frosty ground are steady and fast.
"I, uh."
It's his voice that fails him. His voice, and his wit. Jet says nothing, does nothing, and there's too much space between them, too much silence that goes on and on until he starts wishing for punches and screams of rage.
"I'm sorry," he tries, and there is no reaction but a snarl.
The anger bubbling up inside him is irrational, but real nonetheless. Zuko straightens his back, shakes the hair out of his eyes. He tried. This, everything, is not all his fault. Not all his responsibility.
"I have to go."
"Yeah, Prince Zuko is a busy guy."
Jet says his name as if it tastes bitter on his tongue. That hurts more than any bruises.
When he takes a step forward Zuko braces himself for the hit, for the pain, wherever it will hit. He doesn't raise his guard. Not this time.
The kiss that comes instead takes him completely by surprise. It's hard, with tongue and teeth and hands pulling on the front of his tunic, closing the distance between them with angry tugs at the fabric. Jet's teeth pierce skin, and Zuko feels blood mix with the taste of him.
"Hope that doesn't heal for a while," Jet says when he pulls away, spitting red and frothy white on the ground.
"Probably won't. You bit deep."
"Good."
He doesn't understand. He doesn't understand, but the warmth is back in Jet's eyes, if only a little bit. Zuko takes another step closer, the hem of his cloak brushing against the other boy's feet.
"If I come back." He fights with the words, forcing them from his mouth, embarrassment throbbing in his veins. "Will you be here?"
"Wouldn't count on it."
"Oh."
There isn't anything he can think to say after that. Jet is staring at the ship. It's setting sail. No time left. Zuko turns and starts to leave.
"Hey, I didn't say it wouldn't be worth a shot."
He stops too fast to make it seem as if he wasn't hoping to hear it. At this point he doesn't care. Jet's smile is broad, warm.
"I'll see you," he says, as if it really were that simple.
"Yeah," Zuko answers. "Yeah, you will."
--
"He's not worth it," Smellerbee mutters, rowing in twitchy, impatient motions that mess up their rhythm and clearly give away her irritation. "And what do you think he'll say when you see him again, anyway?"
"'Hi, Jet, nice to see you again.'"
Smellerbee snorts. Longshot laughs his silent laugh and shrugs.
Jet tightens his grip on the oar, watching out for drifting ice floes as they set out towards open water.
The harbour was ice-bound not too long ago.