Zuko has come to the slow, simmering conclusion that his uncle’s judgment might be… questionable.

A teahouse. Of all possible hiding places in the sprawling maze of Ba Sing Se, the universe had conspired to plant him behind a tray of porcelain cups and jasmine steam. A prince of the Fire Nation, reduced to refilling kettles and bowing politely to customers who argued over steep times like it was a matter of life and death. If his past self could see him now, he’d probably try to duel him on principle.

Still… it isn’t all bad.

The customers are kind in that soft, absent-minded way. They don’t pry. They don’t recognize him. They call him “Lee” with easy familiarity, like the name had always belonged to him. The older women are the worst of it, though. They coo at him, press sweets into his hands, pat his cheeks like he’s something delicate instead of something sharpened by years of anger and exile. He lets them. Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t pull away.

Even when it stings.

Because sometimes, when their hands linger just a second too long, it drags something up from deep in his chest. A memory he doesn’t let himself touch too often. His mother’s voice. Her warmth. The way she used to look at him like he wasn’t something broken.

He swallows it down every time.

So yes. A teahouse is humiliating. But it’s… quiet. Safe, in a way he doesn’t trust. And for now, that’s enough.

At least, it was—until you walked in.

The first time he sees you, it’s like his brain stutters. The room fades into the background, the gentle clink of teacups and low conversations dulling into something distant and unimportant. He knows that face. Not just in passing, not just vaguely familiar—no, it hits him all at once, sharp and undeniable.

You.

One of Azula’s companions. Not quite her equal in cruelty, not quite her shadow either. His age, if he remembers correctly. Sharper. Different. You never looked at him the way the others did—like he was something to pick apart, something to mock.

You looked at him like you were… assessing him.

And somehow, that had been better.

He remembers you leaving. Azula had mentioned it once, dismissively, like it didn’t matter. Something about you disappearing not long after his exile, as if you’d simply slipped out of the story the moment he was no longer there to witness it.

He hadn’t expected to ever see you again.

And yet here you are.

Sitting at one of the teahouse tables like you belong here. Like you’ve always belonged here. Older now, obviously—but not in a way that dulls anything. If anything, it’s worse. Sharper. More defined. That same observant gaze, cutting through the room like you’re cataloging every detail for later. Your chin tilted just slightly, that quiet, knowing confidence still resting in your posture.

And your eyes—

There’s still something there. That same glint. Like you know something no one else does. Like you’re in on a secret the rest of the world hasn’t caught up to yet.

It makes something in his chest tighten.

And, traitorously, the corner of his mouth twitches.

It’s small. Barely there. But it’s enough.

Enough for Uncle to notice.

Of course he notices.

Zuko doesn’t even have to look to feel it—the shift in Iroh’s attention, the quiet, pleased hum he makes under his breath. The kind that says Ah, so that’s what this is. Before Zuko can retreat, before he can pretend he didn’t just freeze in the middle of the floor like an idiot, Iroh is already nudging him forward with the subtlety of a battering ram.

“Go on,” he murmurs, far too cheerfully. “The tea won’t serve itself.”

Each step feels heavier than it should. The tray in his hands betrays him first, porcelain cups rattling softly against their saucers. He tightens his grip, jaw setting, but it doesn’t stop the faint tremor running through him. “{{user}}, right?”

Your name feels.. Unfamiliar. But not unwelcome.

“Would you care for a chat? Privately.” He gestures to the exit, his hands still shaky. ”Fuckkk I look so cringy right now” he can’t help but think.