i just hate myself°

thanks to you and your fic and a lot of pain and feelings that are entirely your fault, i spent a good 30-minute drive this morning thinking about older zukka, and sokka developing dementia, and it's the worst thought i have ever had and i am so mad about it and also very, extremely distraught at my own train of thought. D':

why-- why would you-- blee

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“Morning, sweetheart.”

Sokka’s gaze stays clouded, like he hasn’t even heard. Zuko sighs, gently running his hand along Sokka’s temple.

So, it’s going to be one of those days, then.

Over the last few years, their morning routine has been chiselled down to three simple parts: bathroom, dressing, breakfast. Routine is mundane, and mundane should blend all its edges together into one blur, but still Zuko finds himself treasuring the way Sokka’s hair feels in his hands, wet and soft, the white of the lather disappearing into the white of his husband’s hair. Still Zuko finds himself smiling softly when, halfway through a fight between Sokka’s arm and the sleeve of his well-worn sweater, Sokka falls against Zuko’s neck and snuffles like a disgruntled cat. Still Zuko finds himself memorising the little humming sound Sokka always makes around his first mouthful of cereal, even if Zuko’s the one holding the spoon to his mouth now.

All these moments still feel hard-won, inches clawed back from the tug of war Zuko plays with fate every day. He knows he’s losing—knew it the second they’d sat in the doctor’s office, Sokka’s hand clenched tight in his as they’d stared down at the black-and-white report sentencing them, in such clinical terms, to the beginning of the end— but still he pulls onto the rope with every ounce of every shred of determination his own failing body possesses.

(That’s not to say there aren’t times when Zuko doesn’t wish to let go, to stop the chafe that rubs at him raw whenever Sokka looks at him without looking, unseeing in a way that makes Zuko want to lie down and disappear completely, if only to match the way he exists in Sokka’s eyes.

Sometimes, Zuko finds himself wishing for some slack to the rope, if only enough to hang himself with.)

Today’s flavour of Bad Day is Quiet Day, it seems. Quiet Days are better than Loud Days, which are filled with belligerent shouting and smashing of trinkets and tears, of lost words and forgotten memories and Zuko’s fingers itching to reach inside Sokka’s head and tear out whatever it is that’s ripping away the love between them one harsh word at a time. Quiet Days are composed of shuffling around with one slipper missing, poking and prodding at food with disinterested fingers, and many, many hours spent in bed, staring at the ceiling together. If asked, Zuko could probably point out all 43 paint chips with his eyes closed.

Quiet Days may be better than Loud Days, but he still really hates this particular shade of beige.

He stares at it now, tracing patterns in Sokka’s hand with one languid finger. It’s strange, he thinks, coming to peace with this. He’d gotten the call an hour ago, though he’d felt it within himself for a while now. Stage IV, maybe a year if he’s lucky. Zuko had to stop himself from scoffing down the line— luck and him have never gotten along.

Well, that’s not quite right. Zuko turns to the man lying next to him, tracing with his eyes the way his fingers are doing. There are the crow’s feet he’s seen deepen over the years one laugh at a time, the lines on his forehead from too much squinting at blueprints and notebooks and occasionally at Zuko when he was being particularly dim. There’s the slant of his eyebrows and his beautifully wide nose and the full lips that Zuko’s lavished years of his life on, yet never had his fill of. And there’s his eyes, warm and endlessly deep, the same shade of brown as the earth he’s tripped on when he’s laid his own gaze on Sokka for the first time. It wasn’t the ground’s fault for the way Zuko’s had entire life had shifted then, his compass shifting to find its true north in the steadiness of Sokka’s eyes.

The same eyes look at him now, one eyebrow raised slightly.

“Hello, you,” Zuko says, letting his hand drop on Sokka’s with a soft smile.

“Hey.” Sokka’s voice is scratchy from disuse. It’s still the most beautiful thing Zuko’s ever heard. “You’re here.”

“I am.”

Sokka’s hand tightens around Zuko’s, and something pulls at Zuko’s chest.

“Do you—” He breaks off. He hasn’t asked this in a long time, too afraid of the answer he’ll receive. Now, he doesn’t have the time left for fear. It’s a small consolation. “Do you remember who I am, love?”

Sokka says nothing for a long moment. Just turns his head back to face the ceiling. Zuko does the same.

“No,” says Sokka eventually, regretfully.

Zuko swallows around the shards in his throat. Maybe dying will be less painful than this, he thinks, and can’t tell if the ache in his lungs is from the hurt of being forgotten or the cancer.

“But… I think I knew you, once?” Sokka’s forehead dips into a frown briefly, before it smooths out. “I know I— forget things. I’m sorry.”

“That’s alright.” Zuko forces a smile on his face. “Don’t worry about it.”

“I might not remember your name,” he says, tugging at Zuko’s hand weakly, “but I think I remember something else about you.”

“Oh?”

When Zuko looks over, his breath catches. Sokka looks at him the same way he’s done hundreds of thousands of times, with soft eyes and the slightly lopsided smile that makes him squint a little. It’s Zuko’s favourite smile of his, linked in his memories to ice-skating dates and take-outs after burning dinner and bickering in the car, to the sound of his own voice saying want to get lunch? and hey take an umbrella it’s raining outside and go to bed idiot it’s late and Sokka, I do, god, yes, of course I do, to knowing he’d follow Sokka to the ends of the earth if only to trail helplessly in the wake of that smile.

“I remember that you’re someone special to me,” says Sokka quietly. “I remember that I love you.”

It’s not enough and more than anything Zuko could dream off, all at once.

He twines their fingers together before bringing them to his lips, kissing the wrinkled softness of the back of Sokka’s hand. “Love you too,” he says, breathing his truth into the crevices of Sokka’s skin. And when Sokka smiles at him, he feels like the sun has made its home in his chest, expanding with glowing warmth. Figures; decades of sunrises, and still the curve of Sokka’s lips is the most radiant thing he’s ever seen.

He was already ready to follow Sokka to the ends of the earth after this smile. What’s a few more steps off it?