Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/510072.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Avatar:_The_Last_Airbender
  Relationship:
      Jet/Zuko_(Avatar)
  Character:
      Jet_(Avatar), Zuko_(Avatar), Sokka_(Avatar), Jee_(Avatar), Haru_(Avatar)
  Additional Tags:
      Fic_Exchange, Alternate_Universe_-_Modern_Setting, Alternate_Universe_-
      Boarding_School, Teenagers, POV_Male_Character, POV_Third_Person
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-09-12 Words: 29845
****** Follow the Smoke ******
by youremyqueen
Summary
     Jet's trying to change, he really is, but Zuko's sudden presence
     isn't helping matters. (modern!au, boarding school.)
     Written for jetko_exchange.
–
 
Day One
 
–
 
Jet thinks it's a joke, at first.
Thinks it's a mask or face paint, or some kind of mistake - a really huge,
ugly, blaring red mistake - just a trick of light and shadow, because people do
not have things like that on their faces. Or, well, people do, maybe, but not
anyone who'd end up here at Ryswell.
But there he is, standing tall and taut at the front of the classroom while Mr.
Simmons snaps his fingers for quiet.
He doesn't get it. Probably because the rest of the guys in the class are doing
the same math Jet's been doing - although he likes to think he gets it done a
little quicker - and have come to the same conclusion. The new kid has a scar
on his face. The new kid is scarred. Deeply, almost unbelievably, and as the
stilted whispers rise into full-out excited chatter, Jet's not quite sure how
to look away from it.
There's a low whistle from the seat next to him. "Ouch."
And it's not like Sokka normally has a way with words or anything, but this
time he's pretty damned apt, because probably the only thing worse than having
a giant ugly scar over your eye is however it got there in the first place. Jet
squints, trying to look closer, not bothering to pretend like he's not. It's a
burn, definitely a burn, and that makes something in his stomach drop and shake
a little bit.
Fuck, he needs a smoke.
Mr. Simmons introduces the kid by name, but Jet wouldn't be able to hear him
over the din even if he was listening, which he's not, really. Just looking.
The class does finally quiet down when Simmons asks the kid to say something,
by way of introduction or some bullshit, and suddenly they're all ears. Like
he's really gonna open with how he got his scar or something.
Jet see the kid's throat contract and he makes a kind of sharp, stilted noise,
like maybe he was gonna clear his throat and then gave up halfway through.
"Hello," he says, looking straight into the crowd, though not at anyone in
particular, like he knows what they're all thinking. Of course he does. Same
thing everybody probably thinks when they see him. The scar looks old enough.
He's got to be more than used to it by now.
And that's all he says. "Hello." And then just stands there.
Simmons pauses, maybe waits for him to continue, but when he doesn't, he just
coughs into his hand and nods with that same encouraging smile he gives
everyone.
"Ah, thank you, Zuko. You can go ahead and take a seat."
There's stilted laughter and he can hear Sokka snorting slightly to his left,
but Jet kinda likes, "Hello." It's straight, to the point - he can respect
that.
Zuko, he thinks, as the kid walks down the desk aisles and Jet can get a better
look at him, beyond the scar. Asian, most likely, from the look of him. Which
isn't really that shocking - they've got an enough Asian kids at Ryswell to
build a small museum. It's one of the few boarding schools on the East Coast
that cares more about your scores than who your parents are. Not that it's not
full up on rich kids, too, or rich Asians, just that there are enough
scholarship students to nearly balance things out.
Jet kind of hopes the new kid isn't on a scholarship. If you're gonna have a
face like that, you ought to at least have some money to compensate for it.
The seat next to Jet is open, but Zuko doesn't take it, instead sitting down at
the one a row over, and Jet frowns at that. He wants to talk to him, wants a
better look at him. He chews idly on a pen. Oral fixation. He really needs a
smoke.
Everyone's still murmuring and glancing over at the poor kid, even as Mr.
Simmons starts the lecture. No one explicitly uses the word 'scar,' but it's
obvious what they're talking about.
"Where do you think he got it?"
"Looks rough, man."
"Dude, if that was me, I'd never leave the house."
"You shouldn't leave the house anyway, you dumbfuck."
Commentary courtesy of the brilliant minds of Ryswell's Academy for Boys.
Sometimes Jet spends entire classes fantasizing about burning the whole place
to the ground. More often, he just wants to go home.
And then he remembers why he came here in the first place, and reins it in, and
tries to make the best of the situation. Like now, waiting for Simmons to turn
to the chalkboard so he can slide, easy and casual-like, into the next seat
over, the seat right next to scar-faced Zuko. He does it all in one motion,
drawing on that quiet fluidity that he'd had to teach himself as a kid, barely
attracting more than a few glances. Would have attracted less if half the class
weren't constantly glancing back at the new boy, like he's some kind of zoo
animal.
Jet guesses that makes him the boy who pokes at the lion cage.
He can't tell if Zuko's noticed the move, thinks he must have, from the way
he's tensed up - back straight as the edge of a blade - but he's been tensed
from the start. Jet waits for the class discussion to get going, lazily playing
with his pen, getting a, "What the fuck are you doing and why are you doing
it?" look from Sokka when he glances back at him. He just shoots him a smirk
and a shrug, and when a couple of hands go up to answer the question Simmons
has posed to the class, he leans over close to that scarred ear and says,
"Hey."
Kid doesn't jump like Jet had kind of hoped he would, but his posture - if
possible - goes about ten times more rigid. He doesn't turn his head, but his
eyes slide over to Jet and the look there is steely and so, so familiar.
Haughty and a little bit insulted that Jet's even deigning to breathe his air -
and yeah, definitely a rich kid - but there's also a frail sort of nervousness
in it, which makes Jet pause, and maybe that combined with the scar is what
makes Jet go a little easier than he might have otherwise.
"Zuko, right? I'm Jet."
He's leaned back a bit now, so that the conversation - one-sided as it's been
so far - won't be so obvious. Zuko still doesn't turn his head, just eyes him
sort of suspiciously, like he can't figure out the catch to that sentence.
"Hello," he says again, quietly, and Jet's starting to wonder if he's really,
really Asian, like, straight off a plane Asian, and maybe doesn't know anymore
English than that. But no, he can clearly hear all the not-so-quiet whispers
around the classroom - "God, it's just fucking scary, is what it is," - fingers
visibly digging deeper into his palms at every half-mumbled word and Jet can
see it building, knows what it feels like when you just want to punch someone,
flood something, light something up, and so he can't decide whether he's being
cruel or kind when he just comes right out with it, just goes straight for the
bleeding wound.
"So," he says, drawing the word out, "how'd you get the scar?"
Jet hears more than sees the pencil snap in Zuko's hand, and then he's finally
turning, scarred side spreading into smooth, white skin and Jet has less than a
second to notice how pretty his eyes are - even the fucked-up one - before he
sees the rage boiling in them. Like he's found somewhere to direct all that
anger, and Jet sort of wonders if he'll get punched, if they'll just throw down
right here on the first day of the kid's classes, if he'll shove him and yell
something besides, "Hello."
But then a voice cuts through. "Jet," Mr. Simmons is saying, without looking up
from the board - and Simmons is only teacher that refers to Jet by his
nickname, instead of the usual 'John' he gets from the rest of the staff - the
given name that still sounds so unfamiliar, even after a year at Ryswell. And
maybe Jet could find decency in Mr. Simmons' attempt to connect on his level,
but mostly he just finds it presumptuous and suspicious, an intrusion. "I
appreciate the effort to welcome a new student, and I encourage it, but perhaps
it could be saved for after class?"
Simmons would probably be a lot less encouraging if he'd actually heard what
he'd said, but Jet still shoots him a slightly mocking smile and a, "Yessir,"
as pretty-eyed Zuko visibly deflates next to him. The teacher nods and poses
another question to the class, seemingly not having noticed that Jet's still in
the wrong seat.
Zuko's certainly noticed, though, and for every moment he appears to stop
himself from glancing back, Jet's smile grows a little more genuine.
 
–
 
When class lets out, Jet takes it slow, not in any rush, but he keeps the back
of Zuko's head in his sight as it heads for the door, swinging his bag over his
shoulder and following leisurely. He doesn't quite notice when Sokka falls in
line beside him, catching his line of sight, but what he says gets Jet's
attention.
"I'm not criticizing here, Jet, but in my experience with making friends, you
shouldn't open with, you know, talking about their worst physical
imperfections."
He's got an eyebrow cocked when Jet looks at him. Heh, so he'd caught the
conversation - good for him. Jet laughs. "What experience, Scholarship?" he
asks, not unkindly, keeping one eye on pretty, scarred Zuko as they duck out of
the classroom.
"I have friends," Sokka shoots back, mostly feigning insult. "I mean, not you,
obviously. I don't mean you."
"Hmm," Jet says, because he's only sort of paying attention, but also because
it's all he really needs to say. Sokka is his friend, or, at least, the closest
thing he's got at Ryswell. Sharing a dorm room sort of promotes bonding, and
it's not like Sokka's a bad sort of guy, he's just kind of… soft. Undamaged.
Not Jet's usual.
"So," Sokka calls, turning to head the other way, the way Jet ought to be going
for his next class, but isn't, too busy following the new kid around. "You, me
- lunch on the bleachers? You bring your nasty-ass cancer-sticks, I'll bring my
irrepressible personal charm."
"Yeah, yeah, it's a date." Jet mock salutes without looking back.
Anyone else - anyone who hadn't spent several months sharing a confined space
with him - would probably find Jet's sudden preoccupation with the new kid kind
of strange, but Sokka takes it the way he takes all of Jet's habits, with a
joke and a shrug and a grain of salt. Jet should probably appreciate that, but
there's a part of him that likes shocking people, likes making them frown and
flush uncomfortable. The thought that Sokka knows him this well is vaguely
unnerving, like he's slipped up somehow, but he's a bit busy right now, so he
files the thought away for later.
Zuko's stopped in the middle of the hall, frowning down at what is probably a
map clutched tight in his hands, and this time he really does jump slightly
when Jet leans over his shoulder to take a look at it. "You're right here," he
says, tapping lightly on the map, and shooting Zuko a smile when he glares.
He seems to be trying to keep calm, which Jet just thinks is kind of cute. "I
know," he grits out, and hey, proof that he does know more than one word. Jet's
stupidly proud of achieving even this much.
"Here," he says, smiling, and digs a hand into his bag to put out one of his
least-chewed pens and hold it out to Zuko. "Sorry about your pencil. That was
my fault." Zuko just eyes the offering like it's a bomb set to go off, and Jet
can't help but laugh. He slips it into the front pocket of the kid's uniform,
throwing off the tidy perfection of his clothes.
"What do you want?" Zuko snaps, then clams a bit immediately after, as if he
hadn't meant for it to slip out, hadn't meant to dignify Jet's existence by
asking him a question. He pulls back, turning away to glare at his precious
map.
Jet doesn't answer the question directly, doesn't know that he could if he
wanted to - what does he want from this kid? - and just says, "What's your next
class? Come on, I'll walk you." He leans over, trying for a glance at his
schedule, and Zuko leans away in turn, probably making them both look silly and
cartoonish for a few seconds, him moving with the other boy as if connected by
a string, until Zuko seems to realize this, and straightens up to stand his
ground.
"I don't need your help."
"That why you're on the completely wrong side of the building?" Jet asks,
cocking an eyebrow. "Physics is in the west hall." He taps a lanky finger onto
Zuko's class schedule, pointing out the room number - mostly just to be a pain.
Zuko frowns, looking as if he means to protest, but when he takes another
glance at where Jet's pointing, it seems to catch him off-guard. As if Jet
actually helping is a strange and unnatural occurrence that ought to be closely
examined by modern science. Jet tries not to laugh out loud, and only barely
succeeds.
"Come on," he says again, starting down the hall. "My class is the same way."
He tries to make it seem as casual and non-threatening as possible, and is
maybe helped by the fact that it's actually the truth. Not to say that Jet
wouldn't lie about this sort of thing to get something he wanted - he totally
would, and has - but it just so happens that in this situation he doesn't have
to.
Zuko still looks suspicious, but he catches up with Jet, probably only because
he doesn't want to walk behind him. Jet smirks softly, and tries not to keep
glancing at the other kid's face, with only minimal success. He keeps quiet,
though, doesn't pester Zuko with more questions. From this side, he can barely
see the scar, and his profile is surprisingly, strikingly attractive. Sharp and
structured, but there's that edge of vulnerable uncertainty lingering at the
edges of his expression, and when it's not distorted by the scar, it looks less
malevolent and more, just, really hot. Jet looks him up and down, idly
wondering what he's like under all the layers of his uniform, but tries not to
be too obvious about it.
They walk in silence for a few minutes, and Jet attempts to keep it
comfortable, attempts not to come on too strong, but the kid still looks
terribly awkward about the whole situation. He sighs, is about to try some
smalltalk to maybe ease him into it, when out of nowhere Zuko snaps, "Aren't
you going to ask about it again?"
Jet finally turns to fully look at him, still keeping pace. "Ask about what?"
he replies calmly, casually.
Zuko sneers, turns so that his whole face if visible. "You know what."
And yeah, Jet does, but he's trying to be accommodating here, and this guy's
really not giving him much to work with. "Your scar?" he says, keeping his
voice unconcerned. "Sorry if I made you uncomfortable before, man," he
continues, not even trying to sound like he means it, "I was just asking what
everyone else was thinking, but was too scared to say out loud."
"Or maybe they just have common manners," he replies, turning away again.
"Manners? These guys?" Jet laughs. "No, that definitely wasn't it." He stops
then, briefly, because they're about to pass his next class, but then he
continues on anyway. He can just double back after he drops off his new friend.
"No, they were just scared."
"Of me?" Zuko phrases it like a question, but he already looks sure of the
answer. His brow creases even deeper and Jet briefly wonders how he'd look
smiling, happy. He doesn't even look like his facial muscles know how to
accomplish such an expression.
"A bit, yeah," Jet agrees, but he plays it down like it's nothing. "I don't
know if you know this, but you're kind of intimidating." He purposely doesn't
use the word scary, like that dickhead in class had, because it sounds like a
direct reference to the scar. Which is, admittedly, kind of scary, but Jet is
kind of also getting used to it, and he's not even sure if he'd like Zuko's
face better without it, anymore. No, he says intimidating, because it implies
superiority, which Zuko looks like he likes. It's also true. He's tall, almost
statuesque, and has Jet mentioned fucking hot? He's obviously rich, and he acts
like it - it's in the way he walks, in the way he speaks. And then there's his
eyes. Pretty, yes, but angry, too. Intimidating.
Zuko looks at him, and his face twists slightly, like he can't decide if he's
extremely insulted or not. That's when Jet just flashes him a smirk. "You don't
scare me, though," he says, then nods to a doorway a few feet ahead. "This is
your stop."
It seems as if Zuko's going to reply to the first statement, but whatever he
means to say is cut short by the second. He glances over at the door, then down
at the map, then nods slightly at Jet. "Thank you," he says, maybe just out of
common manners, because he doesn't really look like he means it.
"No problem," Jet replies, spinning on his heel, heading back the way they'd
come. He flits his eyes over his shoulder, and his smirk can't help but grow.
"I'll see you later, Zuko." He puts particular emphasis on the name, sharpens
the 'k', pronounces each syllable audibly. If it's possible to tongue-fuck a
word, Jet does it then. Zuko frowns even more at that, and Jet tries not to
laugh his way down the hall. He has only a minute to get to class, has
completely missed any chance of a smoke break, but somehow, he thinks it was
probably worth it.
 
–
 
"Jet," he hears, in the familiar, kindly tone as he grinds his cigarette into
the pavement under the toe of his boot. His shoes, like all his non-uniform
clothes, are cheap, and always on the edge of falling apart. They never do,
though, he makes sure of it. He can barely afford his nicotine habit as it is;
he's in no position to be spending money on anything else.
He looks up, shooting the most obviously fake smile he can manage. Mr. Simmons
smiles back, and it doesn't look fake, but Jet knows never to trust that. In
fact, if something looks harmless, there's usually a 90% chance that it's very,
very harmful, and probably out to get you. "What," he says, and it's very much
not a question, even if he's not actually sure what Simmons wants. He could
bust him for smoking, sure, but Jet's out here behind the west corridor almost
every day, sometimes more than once, leaning against the bricks and sucking up
as much smoke as he possibly can between classes. He's not careful about it,
either, and there are windows all along the hall, Simmons is sure to have seen
him before, and unless he's still pissed about class - unlikely, the pussy lets
everything go - there's no reason for him to suddenly choose today to get down
on Jet's chronic rule breaking.
Simmons smiles that honest smile at him, so honest Jet knows it has to be a
lie, and shuffles around in his cheesy briefcase, pulling out a stack of
papers. "I was wondering if we could talk about your last essay?" he asks, like
this isn't a disciplinary session, like he and Jet are just friends, chatting
over a cigarette break.
"Then set up a conference," Jet says, wondering if he can get away with
lighting up again. "Isn't that protocol or something?" He decides against it,
instead just plays with his lighter, flicking it on and off. He thinks about
telling Simmons to get fucked and walking around to the east side - still has
about ten minutes until his third class - but doesn't. Simmons tends to let
things go, sure, but there's a difference between breaking the rules on the sly
and doing it right to a teacher's face. As much as Jet would love to see that
kind - fake - smile crumple, he needs to keep his record as clean as possible.
He needs to.
"It is," Simmons says, "And I have, but you never seem to show up. Now, you
know I don't take points off your final grade for that, but most other teachers
do - "
"Which is why I only skip yours," Jet tells him, lifting a smug eyebrow and
flicking his lighter on again.
He wants to make Simmons angry, at least make him frown, but all he does is
smile slightly, seeming almost amused. "Ah," he says. "Well, I see no reason to
deduct points for something that has nothing to do with your understanding of
the material. Especially, since I know that your situation is somewhat - "
Jet interrupts him again, this time not just as an show of insolence, but
because he literally needs Simmons to shut-up right now. "You don't know
anything about me," he nearly barks, feeling his lip curl. The fuck is wrong
with this guy? His 'situation?' His situation is his own damned business.
Even though Simmons is right. He does have to keep his grades up, and he does
have to keep out of trouble. He'd made a promise, and he has no intention of
breaking it. Jet huffs a breath, tries to even out his expression, shoves the
lighter back in his pocket. "Was the essay that bad?" he replies finally,
defeatedly. He'd much prefer to do this with one of the other teachers, most of
which make their dislike for him perfectly obvious instead of hiding behind
plastic pleasantries. But if there's an issue with his work, he'll have to get
it sorted out eventually, so might as well get it out of the way before
lunchtime.
Simmons shakes his head, though, softly, like placating a wild animal. "No, no,
quite the opposite. It was well researched, well articulated, and demonstrated
a thorough understanding of the narrative arc."
Jet tries not to scrunch his brow. "Then what's the problem?" he asks, almost
cautiously. He's not sure what's coming, but knows it can't be good.
Mr. Simmons adjusts his briefcase again, then takes off his glasses, pulling
out a small cloth from fuck-knows-where to wipe at them. Simmons cleans his
glasses a lot, usually right before a very long lecture, and if Jet hadn't
already been tensed and on the defensive, he would be now. "I always say that
literature is more than just enjoyment," Simmons begins, slipping his glasses
back onto the bridge of his nose. "If we identify with it, connect to it, it
can reveal truths about ourselves that we never would have otherwise realized."
Jet rolls his eyes as noticeably as he possibly can. "I'm in your class, I know
what you always say." He also knows complete sugar-coated bullshit when he
hears it, but he doesn't say that out loud.
Simmons smiles softly, like always, and Jet hates the way he always looks like
he knows something you don't, like he's got it all figured out, is a clever
adult, and Jet's just some angry, confused kid. "From what you wrote, it seems
as if you connected especially with the protagonist - which is good, of course
- but, considering the subject matter…" He slows down here, seems to be picking
his words carefully, and Jet can feel his brow creasing with vague confusion
and the barest edge of insult. "I suppose I was just wondering if you'd be
interested in speaking with the guidance counselor?"
"Oh, no," Jet barks, stopping him right there. "No, no, no." He is not going to
go there, even fucking Simmons should figure out that he just shouldn't go
there.
"Jet," and there's his nickname again, spoken with the familiarity of a friend
and not just another asshole who wants to poke at him and his past until he
breaks, until he just floods the whole damn place - and no, don't think about
that.
"No," Jet says again, firmer this time, an end to the conversation. He looks at
Simmons now, finally fully meets his eyes. "Look, you wanna talk about my
schoolwork, my grades? Call a conference, I even promise I'll show up this
time. But anything else? Any other 'concerns?' Keep them to yourself." He grits
his teeth, wants to spit, wants to punch the brick at his side until something
breaks. Instead he just starts walking, shoving past Simmons like he couldn't
give him detention for it. "I have to get class," he says, voice flat, and
doesn't look back.
 
–
 
Ryswell Academy requires a minor psych evaluation for all its applicants before
considering them for admission - and considering how fucking maddening it is
spending all your time on a fairly small, testosterone-addled campus with
little more than wall-to-wall rich assholes for company, Jet sort of
understands the need. He'd also barely passed.
The thing about sending yourself off to boarding school in order to get away
from your life, is that it doesn't actually work; your life comes with you. Try
as he might to pretend that he isn't, Jet's still the same person now as he was
back in the city. Just because he doesn't have to squat in dilapidated
buildings and has a steady source of food doesn't really mean shit in the grand
scheme. He's still just as uncontrollably, unreasonably angry.
And as he stomps his way into third period, he has no idea how to stop it.
He knows how he would have stopped it last year, knows how he'd focus it. Knows
a few pints and a few too many scathing words would have found him out in an
alley behind some sleazy, second-rate bar kicking someone's ass or having his
ass kicked. Can practically feel the tender bruises aching on his ribs the next
morning, as he'd wake up in whatever pile of rubble he'd be calling a bed that
week. Sometimes he just wants to say fuck it - fuck the straight, fuck the
narrow, fuck getting his act together. Sometimes he wants to hop a train back
to Brooklyn and beg his crew to take him back.
But if being at Ryswell has proven anything, it's that he's not, in fact,
stupid - whatever else he may be.
So, he just tosses his bag at his feet, with perhaps a little more force than
necessary, and slumps into his seat in the back of the classroom, pulling out
his notebook and a pen. His grip is rough and his notes are taken is heavy,
rushed handwriting, ink bleeding all over the page. Fucking Simmons and his
fucking smile, his fucking 'concern.' Jet had worked his ass off on that damned
essay, only to have it thrown back in his face, like some evidence of his
failing mental state. Like Jet can't take care of himself, like he's some
cushy, sheltered little rich kid who needs to cry to his school guidance
counselor every time something goes wrong. Like rich kids have problems, beyond
Daddy taking the car away, or -
Oh. Yeah.
He hadn't noticed him before, too soaked up in his own ongoing, self-invented
drama, but when he glances up to take a look at the board, his eye catches on
the scar. It's kind of hard to miss. Now that's a problem. Jet has scars of his
own, psychical and otherwise, but none so obvious, and none that had hurt as
bad as that must have. A fucking burn to the eye. How does that even happen?
Zuko seems to notice him as well, after a few moments of Jet's shameless
staring, and when he glances over his shoulder, it's not like he smiles or
looks even vaguely happy to see him, but he doesn't frown, either - and that's,
well, that's pretty nice. Jet's stomach dips a little bit and the rage
dissipates as quickly as it had come, the oncoming storm quelled with nothing
more than a look.
And that's the moment when Jet knows - not just idly considers, not just plays
with the idea - but knows what he wants from this kid.
He shoots him a charming smile, raises an eyebrow, and mouths, "Hey." Zuko does
frown then, turning back to face the front, but it's half-hearted at best, less
annoyed than it is confused. Jet's smile doesn't let up, just melts smooth and
easy and genuine across his whole face, as he chews on his pen and forgets to
take anymore notes.
 
–
 
Zuko's barely out of the classroom when Jet catches up to him, slowing his
quick steps to a causal stroll and stationing himself at Zuko's side with ease.
He ends up on the left, through chance more than any machinations of his own,
but he pointedly stays there, where the scar is blaring and obvious, right in
his face. But he likes Zuko, he's decided, and that includes his ugly parts.
Everyone's got scars, and if anything, it's good that Jet's got a vague idea of
what his new friend's are before going in.
He stiffens briefly as soon as he sees Jet, but doesn't speed up or run away,
just continues at the same steady pace, face forward, head held proud and tall.
Jet smirks, and rolls up the sleeve of his school blazer and the haphazard
button-down shirt underneath, revealing the light brown expanse of his arm.
Zuko glances at him, brow quirking slightly, but mostly trying to feign
disinterest, and Jet rolls his elbow to bring in the view the raised, damaged
skin on the bottom of his forearm - and at that Zuko seems to forget not to be
paying attention.
"Fell out a window when I was nine," Jet tells him, keeping his voice even and
unassertive, like they're a couple of buddies chatting about the game. "It was
a first story, so no major damage, but I went through the glass and some of it
got lodged in my skin. Tried to pluck it out by myself with a pair of garden
shears, but my hands were so unsteady that I just fucked the wound up even more
and passed out in a puddle of my own blood. A homeless man had to call an
ambulance for me."
He flashes a winning smile after that, like it's an amusing story instead of a
horrifying one, and Zuko's looking at him like he can't tell if Jet is screwing
with him or not. "What -" he begins, but Jet just shakes his head, still
smiling.
His walk gets a bit clumsy when he tries to keep pace with Zuko while
simultaneously bending down to lift his pant-leg and pull back the lip of his
boot, showing a couple of pale scars around his ankle. "And this is from when
some lady sent her monstrous fucking pitbull after me, and it dragged me a
block and a half by the foot, just ripping in with its teeth, before a couple
friends of mine finally beat the thing off. Which is kind of a fun anecdote in
hindsight, but at the time it was unimaginably painful." He just keeps smiling,
standing up straight again to lift his shirt up to show his bare flank. "I
guess there aren't any marks, but this is the rib I broke twice in as many
months and it never really healed right, so it -"
"What," Zuko cuts him off, finally stopping and turning to face Jet fully, "are
you doing?"
Jet's grin expands. He thought maybe he'd never ask. "It's quid pro quo. You
know, I show you mine, you show me yours - that sort of thing. I figure, your
scar is so obvious that it's not really fair, so I thought I'd even out the
playing field a little bit."
They're just standing there in the middle of the hallway, the bustle of bodies
pushing past and around them, but they've stopped - a stationary point in the
buzz of the daily rhythm, still and unmovable. Jet chews on the inside of his
lip and the pain sends little sparks through his mouth. He's got a pen in his
jacket pocket, cigarettes in his pants, but he's afraid to reach for them,
afraid to fracture the moment. Zuko's just staring at him like he's not sure
what to say, like Jet's a book he can't understand the words to, a math problem
he doesn't know how to solve. Jet likes that thought, it tingles through the
back of his neck and down his spine, and he feels a sudden, barely containable
urge to lean in and nibble at the edge of Zuko's lips.
He figures that'll probably fuck without moment, too, though, so he stays stock
still, watches the volley of emotions on Zuko's face as his brows go from
raised and uncertain, to drawn down and sharp, and he's only barely registered
the movement before Zuko's got a hand twisted in Jet's shirt collar and is
shoving him back with unaccountable force. Jet has two simultaneous,
independent thoughts as the small of his back hits the wall - along the lines
of fuck, he's quick, and fuck, I hope he kisses me - that meet in the middle
and get all tangled up when Zuko leans in close, glaring and huffing warm air
into his face.
Jet's first instinct - ingrained by nights on the street where if you found
yourself pushed against a wall you were as good as a goner by morning - is to
snarl back, to bare his teeth and fight. But Ryswell isn't that kind of place,
and unless Jet's severely underestimated the kid, Zuko isn't putting him in any
real danger. It's a simulation, a scare-tactic, a show of macho bravado that
rich kids, Jet's learned, seem to love. Most of the boys who end up here have
been sheltered their whole lives. Even those lower on the totem pole - like
Sokka - are, at worst, one shade or another of middle class. They can't
conceive of any real danger, can't conceive of fighting just to stay alive, of
vomiting up the only thing you've had to eat that day because you're sick and
you can't afford a doctor. Can't conceive of a real fight.
But, then again, there's something in Zuko's face - not just the obvious, the
scar that marks him as damaged goods, a bruised fruit that you'd skip over in
the market - there's something in his eyes. Those pretty, pretty eyes.
Jet quashes the thought just as he quashes the urge to fight back, not taking
more than a few seconds before he relaxes his posture, going easy and almost
boneless in Zuko's grip. He leans his shoulder blades against the smooth tiling
of the wall behind him, angling his hips forward in a gesture that he hopes
isn't lost on Zuko. Zuko, who just keeps his fingers wrapped tight in the
material of Jet's loose shirt, breathing heavily in his face, but not doing
much else. They've attracted a few stares by now, but Zuko either doesn't
notice or doesn't care.
The warm air ghosts against Jet's lips, flutters along his eyelids, and he
drenches his smirk in as much baiting, over-the-top raunch as he can when he
again says, "Quid pro quo," and nods at Zuko's scar. "Don't you wanna play?"
Zuko shoves him back, letting go, and proceeds with what Jet thinks might be
some kind of anger management routine - closing his eyes and breathing out
before flashing them open again, looking quite a bit more calm than before, if
not anywhere close to relaxed. "I'm not telling you anything about my - about
anything."
"Fine," Jet smarms, not letting the abject and somewhat violent rejection
dissuade him, or the pronounced sexual undertones he's trying to lend the
situation. "Then I'll just play with myself."
Zuko stiffens at that, and good thing, too, because he'd have to be deaf and
blind as well as scarred not to catch on this time. Jet licks his teeth and
pushes up off the wall, so he's not sprawling while Zuko stands over him,
looking angry and a little bit insulted. It's seems almost as if he's going to
get violent again, really hit Jet this time, but his fists release almost as
soon as they clench and he does that deep breathing thing again, before turning
around, pulling his bag closer on his shoulder and saying, "Please leave me
alone," in a quiet, firm voice before walking away.
And Jet, he stands there and suddenly feels like an enormous fucking jackass.
 
–
 
Leave me alone - okay, he's heard that one before. Heard it from starving kids
curled up in the gutter who'd thought their lives could only be made worse by
taking his offered hand, heard it from a ten-year-old girl who'd tried to crawl
away from him at the same time as she'd clutched her stomach - appendix
bursting and still too terrified to accept his help. He's always ignored leave
me alone, because he knows where it comes from, knows the fear that feeds it
because he'd said it himself, nearly fucking screamed it at the social worker
who'd just stood there and taken it, before handing him a pamphlet for East
Coast boarding schools and giving him her number. So, he's not put off by leave
me alone.
It's the please that does it, not uttered in politeness this time, maybe so
much as desperation. Like Jet's harmless flirting is somehow seriously
detrimental - and fuck, maybe it is? He knows less than shit about the kid,
knows only what he sees on his face and in the stiff set of his shoulders. He'd
tried to go easy, tried not to push too much. Then again, he's been told more
times than he can count and by more people than he can remember that easy for
Jet is hard for everyone else, and that he always pushes too much.
He skips up the tinny rows of the bleachers lightly, not really paying any
attention to where his steps land, and throws himself in a heap close to where
Sokka, armed with a vast array of sandwiches, is waiting for him. The metal
bench stings cold against his back, even through the layers of his uniform, as
he leans down, head landing somewhere next to Sokka's elbow. It's cold as fuck
today, even for November, but the way their breath mists in the air will make
the smoke less obvious when he lights up, so Jet doesn't much mind.
"If you die of lung cancer," Sokka says, by way of greeting, not bothering to
finish chewing his sandwich, "I reserve the right to claim all of your earthly
possessions."
Jet huffs a laugh around that first glorious puff. "What earthly possessions?"
Sokka chews noisily, then shrugs. "Touche. We'll go into town this weekend and
you can buy something for me to inherit. I mean," and he says it casually, so
that Jet doesn't immediately hear the implication, "if you don't already have
plans."
Jet meets the sidelong glance that follows the words and tries not to frown.
"Why would I have plans?" Jet's lived most of his life laying on the charm like
a second skin wherever he goes, but when he'd first enrolled at Ryswell, he'd
still been reeling, still been suffering through the aftershocks of - of what
had happened. Making himself likable hadn't been on the top of his list, and
most of the assholes in this place never would have taken to him either way.
Not that everyone's awful - a few of the other guys Sokka hangs out with are
pretty okay, and Jet joins in every so often. Most of his time, though, is
spent on his own.
He'd had a crew before, he'd had people he'd been close to. It hadn't worked
out so well.
"You tell me," Sokka says, screwing up one eye and circling his finger around
it in a crude approximation of a large, familiar burn. "Scar-boy's your type,
huh?"
The crease of Jet's brow melts as his eyebrows lift with exaggerated suggestion
and he leans up on his elbows, shooting a smirk at Sokka over his shoulder. "I
don't have a type," he tells him, by way of confirmation. "And his name's
Zuko."
"Yeah, yeah, I've heard. I've heard a lot today. I just hope you don't get too
attached - apparently he's the son of some international businessman, moves
around all the time. Filthy rich, too. Like, disgustingly. Like, could feed
half the population of Africa and still have some cash to spare rich." Sokka
appears not to notice the irony of making the disparaging comment while
shoveling a second sandwich into his mouth.
Jet ignores the caution, catching right on the details, and turns around to
fully face Sokka. He inhales, holds his cigarette clenched between his lips he
maneuvers himself into a sitting position. "What else did you hear?"
Sokka shrugs, doesn't comment on what Jet's sure is his almost embarrassingly
rapt attention. "Not much of substance. Mostly just theories about you-know-
what." He taps his temple in indication, and Jet's a vaguely surprised that he
notices that he's gesturing at the wrong eye - Zuko's scar is on the other side
- but he, thankfully, stops himself from correcting Sokka. "He tell you how he
got it?"
Jet laughs. "No. I think he's shy." He scratches the back of his head somewhat
sheepishly. "Also, he doesn't like me."
"There's a shocker," Sokka says, but there's no malice in it, and Jet gives him
a chuckle, because he's not wrong. He used to be able to charm anyone he set
eyes on, and maybe he still can when he needs to - had smiled and schmoozed his
way into a decent-paying job and cheap room in town over last summer break,
because he'd had nowhere else to go - but being at Ryswell, off the streets and
in a place where it's no longer necessary to check over his shoulder at every
turn, to endear himself as much as possible to the locals to avoid getting the
cops called on him each week for squatting, or petty theft, or - in the later
years - gang violence, he'd let up a bit, and maybe lost some of his touch.
Especially in the beginning. Those first few weeks here, he still hadn't gotten
over what he'd - what had happened, and the aftereffects combined with his
reaction to the completely foreign environment had put him in a foul mood that
had recommended him to no one, staff and students alike.
He'd felt so guilty, so angry and miserable and sorry - for what he'd done to
his crew, to himself, to - to them. He'd swung his way around campus, being as
horrible as possible, just aching for them to throw him out, even after he'd
worked himself half-crazy in order to get accepted into this damned place.
Sokka had been the one to pull him out of it, in the end. His obnoxious new
roommate, quirky and loud and carefree, who hadn't been able to stand him, and
vice versa. Jet had come back to their room late one Sunday night, reeking and
drunk and bruised from a bar fight, had woken Sokka up stumbling his way in,
and made some lewd offhand comment about the perky little sister that he'd seen
Sokka with at orientation - one which they'd later agreed never to repeat - and
that had been it.
A fist to his face and another bruise to add to the collection, and then they'd
been tussling across the floor, throwing insults and punches with equally rapid
succession, but considering Jet's state of intoxication, he'd been severely
disadvantaged, and the night had somehow ended with him alternately sobbing and
vomiting into the dorm hall toilet with Sokka holding his hair back and telling
everyone who'd been awoken by the disturbance and come to check on them that
Jet was sick with the flu.
He's pretty sure he'd said some things that night that he'd never wanted anyone
to hear, that he'd never admit to in the light of day, but Sokka had never
brought them up again, just spread the flu excuse to all his teachers for the
next couple days while Jet's bruises had healed and he sorted himself out. He'd
come out a different person, or maybe the same person he'd been before - before
all that shit had gone down back in the city - and even though he hadn't
started laying on charm again quite as thick, he'd tried to be reasonably
pleasant as he could to everyone at Ryswell, and just get on with his life.
He and Sokka had been something like friends ever since.
Jet's smiles again, shakes his head a bit, flushes the thoughts out because he
doesn't want to think of them. Not now, not today. He has moved on with his
life, he's different now, but the conversation with Simmons had dredged up the
memories, and they're not fading as quickly as he'd like.
"Just wait," he says, trying to keep the conversation flowing as it had been
before his rather pronounced pause. "I swear by next week he'll be down on one
knee," he says, referring to Zuko, and after a pause, "or two," with a snort
and overly suggestive wink.
Sokka wrinkles his nose, and if he'd noticed a lull in conversation or anything
off in Jet's voice, he doesn't let on. "Ew," he says, and Jet lifts an eyebrow,
because even though Sokka's sells himself as straight as an arrow, he's never
particularly had a problem with Jet's occasional preference for guys.
Especially in a place like this, where there's not really much else to choose
from. "No," Sokka clarifies, "I mean, there's no accounting for taste and all,
but don't you think, I don't know, it's kind of ugly?" And it's obvious what
he's talking about when he says it.
Jet shrugs, feeling vaguely uncomfortable, because he definitely had at first,
and objectively, it's still a damn unattractive mark - angry and pink,
distorting half of his face horribly - but, after looking at it, at him, so
much today, Jet can't really picture Zuko without it. And when he tries, it
just looks wrong. "I like it," he says after a moment. "It looks - it shows
that he's experienced something, that he's suffered." He's not looking at Sokka
when he says it, but he can imagine his expression going squirrely.
"Yeah," Sokka says, around another bite of sandwich that distorts the sarcasm a
little, "that's not fucked-up at all."
Jet smirks, like it's a joke he's in on, one he doesn't mind, but it makes him
feel weird. In the same way that thinking of last year does. Because he'd lied
- he does have a type.
"Mr. Simmons joined me on my smoke break today," he says out of nowhere,
changing the subject and not being at all discreet about it, and steals some
chips off of Sokka's plate before his hand is slapped away. They serve lunch in
the dining hall, and not for any charge, but even after a year, Jet is still
kind of uncomfortable with waiting in lines, or crowds, or having things given
to him without any strings attached. Mostly he poaches from Sokka, who always
serves himself enough to feed a family of six, or he sometimes breaks into the
kitchens after hours for leftovers. Old habits.
"Funny," Sokka says, going along with the subject change like it's nothing, "he
doesn't really strike me as the cigarette type. He bust you?"
"No, but I would have preferred that to the cheesy, 'let's talk about our
feelings,' shit that he did pull," Jet say, between chewing and smoking, and
then rolls his eyes out toward the browning green expanse of the makeshift
football field, because he knows what's coming next.
Sokka huffs in that way he does. "Mr. Simmons is cool, man. I don't know what
your problem with him is, but he's, like, the chillest teacher in this whole
place."
Jet shakes his head, flicking ash into the soft whistle of the wind. "I don't
buy all that mushy, 'I wanna be your friend' bullshit," he says. "There's
something sketchy about it. He's working some angle."
"Dude, he's not a criminal mastermind. He's an English teacher."
"How do you know what he is? You don't know anything about him - just what the
school tells you, and who says the school knows anything?" A few of his near-
mental breakdowns had been along these lines, when he'd first come here. He'd
spent nights drunk and terrified, babbling incoherently on the phone to his
social worker, because they'd just packed him in with hundreds of people he'd
known nothing about, expected him to share a room - to sleep in a room - with
some guy he'd just met, and maybe that was par for the course for most people,
but he hadn't been able to comprehend opening himself up to that much possible
danger.
It had taken a few weeks for him to come to the realization that no one at
Ryswell was at all interested in killing him. Apparently, normal people didn't
usually entertain thoughts like that. "He could be anyone," Jet continues, not
that he really believes what he's saying, but he wants to drive the point home,
"he could be a terrorist, or a pedophile, or a -"
Sokka does this disbelieving laugh that Jet kind of hates, interrupting him. "I
seriously doubt Ryswell hires pedophiles."
"I'm just saying," he tells him, "you never know. Safer to assume that
everyone's your enemy, than that everyone's your friend." They've had
conversations like this before, and Jet knows it's like talking to a brick
wall. Sokka may not be filthy rich, or anything close, but he might as well be.
He can't even comprehend the possibility of true danger.
"And if we were in a James Bond movie, I'd agree with you." He pauses for a
moment. "I wish we were in a James Bond movie."
Jet snorts a halfhearted laugh, flicking some of his ash at Sokka. He doesn't.
 
–
 
Day Two
 
–
 
His eyes fly open as soon as the alarm starts up, as with most mornings. Up and
out of bed with ease, then showered and dressed before Sokka's even done more
than squint at the sunlight that peels in through a crack in the blinds,
hitting the specks of dust that swirl lazily through the air. Jet still finds
it a bit ridiculous to wash everyday, but Sokka had insisted way back at the
beginning, and he's more or less in the habit of it by now, strange and
unnecessary as it seems. He throws his bag over his shoulder and pulls Sokka's
comforter off of him, and onto floor, earning himself a few mumbled protests.
"You've got twenty minutes," Jet calls, not glancing back, as he slides his way
out the door, and into the dorm hallways.
Ryswell's an old building, red brick and high ceilings and all that, was a
Catholic academy or something before it got converted into a regular boarding
school. There's still a church on campus, though, old and boarded up - if any
of the students and staff are religious, they're free to go into town on
Sundays - but Jet knows how to get in through one of the higher windows with
only a bit of climbing and some serious tenacity. It's nice and empty, and he
likes to smoke in there sometimes.
They've started using the fireplaces early this year, considering the cold
front - don't need to, of course, but apparently rich people like old world
charm - and about half the east dorm is gathered around the one in the common
hall. In spring they'd be outside, makeshift football games in progress, but
not at this time of year. Jet's about to step out anyhow - this kind of cold
doesn't really get to him anymore - but he stops short, changes his mind.
Zuko's in one of the chairs, notebook open on his lap, but he's not looking at
it. Rather, he's got his eyes, scrunched and vaguely suspicious, trained on the
tall, well-groomed boy that's leaning against his chair, saying something down
to him. There's a few others gathered around, all of them straight-A, sports
team, multi-million dollar types, and really, Jet should have expected this. If
Zuko's as rich as Sokka had said he is - and even if he isn't, the rumors are
still going around - then of course the sweater-vest brigade would be all over
him. No chance of them passing up a possible future business leader, facial
scars or no facial scars.
Jet makes his way over, catching Zuko's eye before any of the others even
notice him.
"Morning," he says, and it's not directed to the rest of them, but it's what
makes them aware of his intrusion, the whole group turning at once, like some
little plaid army.
When Luc - Luc with his neat blond hair and near-constant sneer - sees him, his
lip just curls even further. "Hey, queer," he says casually, voice even, as if
he's not throwing what he likes to think is an insult. Jet doesn't really mind,
too used to it by now, and not exactly offended by the concept in the first
place, but he's not quite sure how he feels about it getting tossed around in
front of Zuko. If he hadn't been sure Jet had been hitting on him yesterday,
this is more or less as bulletproof a confirmation as he needs to figure it
out, and subsequently tell Jet to go fuck himself.
He doesn't let any of that show, though, just throws Luc a smirk and an over-
the-top, slightly scathing wink. "Hey, sexy," he tosses back.
Luc scoffs, surely well acclimated to that kind of response, because Jet has
never done anything but feed the homosexuality rumors as much as he can, mostly
just because it's fun, but also because they're at least fifty percent true.
Jet doesn't give him time to shoot a response, continuing quickly as he turns
his eyes back to Zuko.
"So, recruitment, huh?" Jet directs the question to the whole group of them,
but never spares them a glance. It's mostly just for show, anyhow. "You in,
Zuko?" And he makes a point to fully pronounce the name, not half so lewdly as
yesterday, but still, enough to make it obvious that he's familiar with it,
that they're familiar with each other. "You gonna join the soccer team? Run for
class president?"
Zuko's got this look on his face, like he's about to shove Jet against another
wall, or at least tell him to go to hell. His brow is drawn and his fingers dig
deep into the material of his notebook, and he's tensed - whether to attack or
to high-tail it out of there, Jet's not sure - but he's pretty certain he's
working himself up to respond, swallowing his unease, poised to say something,
anything - before he stops. Whatever's boiling under the surface, making the
skin around his burnt eye taut and angry, he holds it back, quashes it down. He
waits a beat, then shrugs.
Whether because Zuko isn't waving pom-pomps in favor of their little group, or
just because he hadn't told Jet to fuck off, Luc's nostrils flare and he turns
to Jet more fully, otherwise keeping his face the perfect mask of hatefully
civility. That's the thing about these kinds of people - they don't fight in
the ways that Jet's used to fighting, with fists and feet and hooks made of
old, rusted metal that he'd found in abandoned buildings. None of it's
physical, and none of it's even blatantly aggressive. It's all please and thank
you and can I help you? said with as pleasant a smile as possible. Which are
actually translations for fuck you, you asshole, if you know how to listen
right.
So, when Luc says, "Is there something that you wanted, Jet?" with that look on
his face, his eyebrows raised expectantly, Jet knows exactly what he's really
saying. Haru's standing a little bit behind him, looking half-amused, half-
apologetic, because Haru's actually a pretty decent guy - hangs with Sokka
sometimes, and less often, Jet by extension - but he's still one of Ryswell's
golden boys, rich as all hell - some diplomat's son, or something - and he's
still one of Luc's group, so he says nothing.
Haru knows, though, he must know, from the look on his face, how bad Jet tends
to be at this sort of combat. He could bash Luc's face in easy, but, satisfying
as that would be, he'd get himself kicked-out, and probably sued in the bargain
- and even shutting the little shit the hell up isn't worth that. Still, it's
usually a trial for Jet to contain himself, enough polite bating and it tends
to be all he can do to hold back. Lately he's just been keeping himself out of
the line of fire, doesn't have any reason to socialize his was through the
school, so he doesn't. But Zuko, Zuko he does want to socialize with - so to
speak - so by coming over here he'd opened himself up to a hailstorm of
concealed insults and fake smiles.
"What?" he asks, playing dumb. Playing along, much as it pains him. "I'm just
welcoming a new student. You know, making friends and influencing people." He
doesn't bother to make it particularly believable, says it with just enough
pretense of courtesy not to sound outright aggressive, finally lifting his head
to scan the the whole group of them, if only briefly. He leaves just enough of
a pause for Luc's mouth to open again - no doubt poised for another barely-
veiled jab - before he continues. " Hey," he says, turning back to Zuko and
smiling slightly, like the two of them are in on some joke that the rest of
them could never understand, like he's completely sure of the answer he's going
to get. "Mr. Simmons has been kind of up my ass lately. Have to get to class
early today." He turns, ducks around Haru with a quick nod, than glances over
his shoulder at the boy who's still just siting there, looking vague and
uncomfortable. "You coming?"
There's a long, taut silence - well, nowhere near silence, really, because
there are plenty of other students in the common hall that have nothing to do
with this conversation, but still, no one who's watching the exchange speaks -
until, finally, Zuko - who's still kind of looking like he wants to punch Jet
in the face - nods, and stands up.
"Okay," he says, with that familiar air of contained anger. And follows Jet out
of the room.
 
–
 
"Hey, man, sorry about yesterday, I -"
They're not a few yards down the side hallway, Jet leading them the long way
around in what is probably an obvious ploy for some time alone, before Zuko has
him by the throat.
And not just a vague grasp around the neck-area like the day before, but
actually by the throat, hand wrapped tight, fingers crushing his windpipe in a
bruising hold. Jet flails, shoulder meeting the door of an unused classroom, as
he throws out his limbs with no particular purpose in mind but to get the fuck
away. It takes a few seconds for his brain to catch up with his muscle
movement, and reroute the aimless strikes into something like an effective
defense. He jams his knee up, missing Zuko's groin, but slamming into the flesh
of his mid-section, and he puts as much force into it as possible.
Zuko's eyes, previously narrowed with grim determination, go wide and almost
shocked as his grips grows loose, maybe surprised that Jet had gotten a good
hit in. He shoves Jet back against the door again quickly, though, and, really,
Jet doesn't quite have the time to be properly impressed by his speed and
strength at the moment, but it registers vaguely as he continues to struggle.
Zuko's hands let go of his throat - leaving him to gasp in choked relief -
instead fighting to pin his wrists above his head, and that gives Jet just the
shortest window of time to angle an elbow up and strike at the tender skin
around Zuko's left eye. He doesn't waste it.
Zuko stumbles back, and Jet follows without thinking, pushing off the wall to
slam him to the floor and plant himself on top. Angry as the pain has made him,
he can't quite manage to appreciate the position they end up in, with Zuko's
legs crushed beneath Jet's hips, his pale wrists gripped in the palms of Jet's
hands, flat on his back and squirming violently beneath him.
"Okay, you're angry, I get it - but this a bit of an overreaction, don't you
think?" Jet snaps, still struggling with the adamant thrashing of Zuko's limbs.
He tries to make light of the situation, but he's pissed, and knows it bleeds
through in his voice - but can he really be blamed? The imprints of Zuko's
fingertips still burn a sharp pressure around his neck, the beginnings of
little purple bruises.
What's worse - maybe the worst part of all - is that he hadn't seen it coming,
hadn't been prepared for it at all. Jet prides himself on being able to gage
threats, to read people. Displeased as Zuko had obviously been by his probing
questions yesterday, Jet hadn't expected anything like this from him. Nothing
even close to this level of uncontainable, irrepressible rage, but he sees it
now, burning up at him from Zuko's pretty golden eyes, where they smolder
beneath him, but he truly can't for the life of him actually understand why.
Jet quashes the urge to return the favor and deliver Zuko his own ring of
bruises, breathes out and tries to keep the anger in check. "Look, can you just
- ow!" He's cut off when Zuko does some karate-like hand chop that catches Jet
in the jaw, and it jolts like fuck, but he doesn't wince, and doesn't let Zuko
out from under him. "Can you just fucking stop that for a second?"
"What's he paying you?" Zuko snarls out of nowhere, and the way the scarred
side of his face morphs with anger is close to monstrous, left eye just a slit
of bristling, burning hate that Jet's not sure how to react to. "Huh? How
much?"
"What?" Jet asks, pausing momentarily, but it's one moment too many, because
before he can blink, there's a fist meeting his face, and then the pain in his
cheek is monumental, bursting under his skin and clouding over everything for a
few seconds, and by the time he's opened his eyes, he's the one on his back
being crushed into the floor.
"My father," he hears Zuko nearly yell, and then there's a hand in his hair,
jerking his head up to meet those narrowed eyes. "He sent you, didn't he? To
watch me. That's what this is, isn't it?" Zuko shakes him. "Isn't it?" Jet's
not sure. He's not sure what Zuko's even asking, even talking about. The
substance of this whole situation is bleeding fuzzy around at the edges of his
mind, and he thinks he must have hit his head, because pain splits like ice
cold water through the back his skull and nothing really makes conceivable
sense, and there are a few moments there where he can't even remember what's
happening.
"What are you talking about?" he tries to demand, but it comes out quiet,
trapped on the edge of a breath that scrapes rough through his throat.
Zuko ignores it, just shakes him again, and the movement spins sharp and
unsteady through all of Jet's limbs. "How much is he paying you? Answer me."
"What," Jet tries, but whatever he'd meant to continue with gets caught in the
aching cycle that swirls through his head, extinguishing his thoughts and
replacing them with a pain that quickly reveals it's sickening underbelly of
sharp, familiar anger, the kind that's served as a constant companion for most
of his life. He coughs, can taste copper in his mouth and feel his shoulder
blades digging into the hard stone of the floor, and, really, that's just about
enough of this.
"How much?" Zuko repeats with a desperate sort of insistency. He looks almost
as distressed as Jet feels, but that's not enough to muster him any sympathy,
not enough to stop Jet from bucking up in one swift, sharp movement and
knocking Zuko off and over onto his back, following him in an undignified
scramble to get the upper hand, regain some semblance of power in this
situation. He lands on Zuko in something like a sprawl, notes his reactionary
groan of pain only enough to take a vague, unbalanced satisfaction in it,
before pushing himself up on his knees, one planted on either side of Zuko's
hips.
And it's strange, the way he has a front row seat to the ongoing battle between
his common sense and the adrenaline shooting it's way through his veins.
Logically he know that whatever's going on is probably not going to be solved
by him pounding Zuko's face into a bloody mess - that it'll only get him in a
shitload of unwanted trouble - but then there's that animal instinct, that
roaring demand for violence that springs through his every muscle, silencing
any commands from his brain.
All Jet can do is sit back and watch, a spectator in his own body, as he pulls
his arm back for the blow, angles it at Zuko's face and waits to see how badly
this will end. It's just like all those other times, those days when he'd swear
he was going help people, was going to do something good, but it would all
inevitably end up with rage spitting wild through him as he bruised his
knuckles on somebody's face, or flicked somebody's lighter into a puddle of
kerosene, or watched while somebody went under the water and didn't come up.
It's always like this, and things have been calm for so long - he's been good
for so long - that he should have expected it all to spiral eventually.
He just hadn't thought anything of the sort when he'd first set eyes on Zuko,
and even now, braced to bash his face in, he still can't quite believe this is
happening, that any of the last few minutes have happened. Like his mind is
only now catching up with the rest of him.
He clenches his fist and unclenches it, held back the way it is, poised to
strike. He tells himself to stop, to let it go, to just drop his arm and let it
go.
Instead his fist is flying downward with a rapid, animal force that he doesn't
know how to properly account for, given his frame, and god dammit, it hurts so
fucking much when his knuckles slam heavily into the floorboards.
He thinks maybe he hears one of his finger bones crack, as the strength of the
collision ricochets down his arm and through his whole body, the pain spreading
out as if from a well, and quickly trickling its way into every limb, every
organ, every corner of his mind. He's so swallowed up in it that he doesn't see
the look that Zuko gives him, that confusedly relieved gaze that hasn't quite
caught up with events, beyond the fact that he's not going to be wearing big,
purple bruise to go with his scar.
"Aghh," Jet's cry is strangled and inhuman when it echoes through the empty
hallways, and he pushes off of Zuko and to the side to collapse on the floor
next to, half on his back, half on his side. "Fuck."
Their breathing is the only sound for several minutes, coming heavy and
desperate in the stillness, and it takes a while for Jet to come back to
himself. When he does, despite the pain, despite the absolute ridiculousness of
the situation, all he can feel is blessed, dizzying relief. He hadn't done it.
He hadn't done it. Something in him, some shred of common sense or decency, had
won out in the end, had changed his course, had stopped him from starting
another day with blood on his hands. Sure, rerouting his fist to hit the floor
instead of Zuko had probably not been the most beneficial way of redirecting
his anger, but it had gotten the job done. It's maybe the first time he's ever
stopped himself.
"Fuck," he repeats, to no one in particular.
Zuko glances at him, his face awash with maybe a different sort of relief
altogether, but he also looks vaguely confused, and maybe a little guilty. He
doesn't sit up, doesn't shift his body at all, just stays where he's lying
parallel to Jet, breathing slowly calming down.
After what must be several minutes, he finally breaks the silence that's
mounted without Jet even noticing, too caught up in his own head. "My father
didn't send you," he says, like a question he already knows the answer to, and
is only asking out of some twisted form of courtesy.
"No," Jet breathes into the air, through what must be a split lip, from the way
it hurts. He thinks maybe Zuko nods, but he doesn't look at him.
There's a few minutes - less than minutes, maybe, but it feels like a long,
long time - where they just lie there next to one another, slumped on the
ground, practically sharing the same air-space, but off in completely different
places. Jet's not sure what Zuko's thinking, and in this moment, unlike those
of recent days, he doesn't actually really care. The other boy barely registers
on his radar. Whatever this encounter had started off as, it's spiraled into
completely different territory, leaving Jet reeling from something that feels
like a minor epiphany, a blow to the gut - an upheaval of whatever unsteady
calm his life had settled into over the last year. It's brought up things that
would have been better kept down, and now he's so lost in his own head, caught
up in a replay of those last few tenuous seconds before he'd diverted the
course of his fist, that it takes him a moment to notice that Zuko has stood
up.
His back is to Jet, and he stands still for a moment or two, like maybe he's
going to say something. Like maybe he doesn't know what to do next. He stays
silent, though, and resumes his slow pace to trudge, more than a little
unsteady, down the hall and back the way they'd come. Jet watches him go
without really seeing him, then sits up slightly, balances on his elbows. His
feet are unsteady when he makes it onto them, and he's not really sure where
he's going, but he stumbles off, barely remembering to pull his bag back over
his shoulder to take with him, and thinks vaguely that he should maybe find a
mirror to inspect the damage.
He's not sure if there's anyone in the bathroom when he pushes in, and doesn't
bother to check, just falls over the sink, hands catching on either side of the
porcelain bowl to hold him up, wincing with the impact to his right hand. After
a while he gets it up to look at his reflection.
Cut lip, like he'd thought, and the beginnings of a large, unappealing bruise
forming on his cheek. He's still vaguely dizzy, too, and feels at the back of
his head just to be sure, but he's had concussions before and he's pretty
certain that this isn't one. He washes his face one-handed, staining the water
red as it circle's it's way down the drain, and after standing there for a few
moments, getting his bearings, there's only one main thought that spins through
his head.
What the fuck had that even been about?
His father? What fucking father? What the hell kind of father does the kid have
that makes him go around hitting people for no reason? If Zuko had just beaten
up on him a bit, he wouldn't have really thought that much of it - after all,
it wouldn't be the first time that some manly man had taken insult at Jet's
advances and tried to kick his ass, the only difference being that it would
always end with Jet walking away with more bruises on his fists than anywhere
else - but, but the way he had said it. My father.
The look in his eyes had been almost frightening, and Jet's not a type to be
put of by a few turbulent emotions, but the sheer rage and panic he'd seen
there, in those pretty golden eyes, had hit almost harder than Zuko's punches.
Jet shakes his head. He needs to get to class. Zuko he can think about later,
if at all, though it's probably best if he just lets this whole thing go.
 
–
 
The bleeding has stopped by the time he gets to class, but that doesn't really
have any effect on the number of heads that turn when he slips into the room a
few minutes late. Simmons glances at him, and his eyebrows go up a whole few
inches, but he doesn't say anything, just nods to Jet's desk and looks
disappointed. Asshole.
Jet meets the eyes of everyone who stares at him as he walks to his seat,
sending most of their glances flying elsewhere, only to flit back in a few
seconds. Normally he'd pop a smirk, eat up the attention, but his mind still
hasn't quite settled from the experience, and he's not exactly up to playing
into the image at the moment. At most, he probably looks exhausted.
Zuko's in the seat he'd taken yesterday, and although he doesn't look nearly as
disheveled as Jet feels, it doesn't take much extraneous deduction for most of
the boys in the class to come to a fairly correct conclusion. Jet had tussled
with the new boy. Jet had stirred up trouble. Jet had fucked shit up.
He doesn't bother to correct them. He's not sure he'd even be telling the truth
if he did.
Simmons eyes the both of them, obviously making the connection as well, but he
doesn't bring the subject up, and Jet appreciates at least that courtesy. He
motions for quiet, and the whispering dies down, but not by much, so he results
to drowning it out with his own voice, starting in on Dickens or some shit. Jet
slumps at his desk, itching to chew on something, but not interested in
irritating his lip, and feels Sokka's eyes on the back of his neck. He glances
over and sees an expression caught somewhere between concern and amusement.
"Things seem to be working out well between you two," Sokka mumbles, and Jet
can see his lip straining not to curl. Normally he'd join in on his amusement,
even at his own expense, but at present he feels so far from up to it, he
barely gives any effort into appearing cool and unaffected.
"I may have miscalculated slightly," he replies quietly, not looking up from
his notes. Like, he hadn't taken into account the fact that Zuko is a fucking
crazy person. There's that.
Sokka looks pointedly at Jet's bruises, then at Zuko's own. "Slightly?"
Jet nearly winces, reaching for a pen, then deciding against it when the pain
spikes through his fingers at the contact. He shrugs. "Slightly."
 
–
 
Jet knows it's coming, so he doesn't even bother getting up when the bell
rings, just kicks his feet up on an empty chair, lounging at his desk as the
rest of the guys file out. Zuko doesn't seem as sure of his fate, moving toward
the door, but at slower pace, looking almost wary.
"Zuko, a minute?" Mr. Simmons calls, giving his glasses a quick swipe before
slipping them back onto the bridge of his nose. Zuko stops, then follows
Simmons' hand when he motions him to his desk. "You too, Jet."
Jet makes his way over at a much more leisurely pace, treating the whole
situation as casually as possible, like he doesn't have a very large, obvious
bruise forming on his face. Like this is nothing out of the ordinary. For him -
once upon a time - it hadn't been. Zuko glances at him very quickly, then looks
away. He's scowling, but it's so mild compared to the expression he'd worn
before, in the hallway - that hate - that Jet barely notices. If anything, it's
close to his normal expression.
Jet barely looks at him once. "What," he says flatly to Mr. Simmons, like a man
already resigned to his fate.
Simmons seems to consider him, then Zuko, looking back and forth between them
as he files his papers, setting them aside. "So, boys," he says, keeping his
tone level, not sounding particularly angry, but Jet can see the reprimand in
the hard look he gives him, more pointed by a half than whatever's in his face
when he looks at Zuko. "What happened?"
Zuko's eyes shoot up, and his mouth starts to open, but Jet speaks first. "What
happened what?"
"Jet," Simmons responds, patiently, avoiding the long suffering sighing that
most of his teachers like to employ when dealing with him, and instead sounding
as sympathetically stern as possible. Jet takes pains not to roll his eyes.
"It's obvious that you and Mr. Li had some kind of… disagreement."
"Mr. Li?" Jet repeats, before he can stop himself, mind blanking on anyone to
associate the name with. It hits him quickly after, when Simmons darts his eyes
over to Zuko, then back to Jet, seemingly vaguely surprised by his surprise. He
supposes it's common courtesy to know the names of the people you get in fights
with.
Zuko Li. Huh. It's kind of a nice name, if strange, in that way foreign names
usually are. Jet likes it, likes the way it sounds, wonders how it will feel on
his tongue - and then cuts those thoughts off as soon as he realizes he's
having them. This is not the time for this, and considering their interaction
this morning, Jet doubts that it ever will be. Yeah, he has a type, but he also
has a survival instinct, and a nose for trouble, and maybe his radar had been
off when he'd first met Zuko - pretty and scarred and interesting as he'd been
- but if this morning had been any indication of his usual mood, Jet will
gladly sacrifice the possibility of a hook-up. He's got to make things work
here, he's got to get his shit sorted out, and he can't do that while thinking
about kissing this kid one moment, and fighting not to punch his face into a
bloody mess the next. Jet's not that strong of a guy.
Simmons is looking at him expectantly, still with that gentle, understanding
edge that makes Jet want to piss him off, just to see if he can crack it, but
he knows his position in this fancy shithole is precarious already, and that
he's only a false move or two away from being kicked out, so he can't afford to
stir up anything else.
When he doesn't speak immediately, Zuko starts up. "I - " Jet doesn't let him
get far.
"It was just a misunderstanding," he says, shrugging it off. He's pretty sure
the only thing keeping him from immediate expulsion is the fact that, of the
two of them, he's the more injured, and he'd rather let Simmons keep whatever
assumptions he'd made based on that than have to give a detailed explantation.
He's not sure how Zuko's going to play it, but considering how bad the truth
makes him look, he can wager an educated guess.
Simmons frowns. "Jet," he says in that understanding tone of his, and Jet
really wishes he'd just use his real name, because hearing John said with that
sort of emphasis probably wouldn't have much effect on him, distanced from the
name as he is. "I know that you've said you're not interested in speaking to
the counselor, and I want to respect your preferences, but if you're starting
fights, you could be looking at expulsion from the acad -"
"It was me," Zuko's voice cuts in, sharp and firm and a little unsteady, but
with a strange sort of submissive pride threading the edges. "He didn't start
it. I did. I attacked Jet, without provocation. I'm sorry. If you're going to
expel anyone, it should be me." He bends his head forward, almost in a bow,
eyes cast downward, as Simmons looks on with mild shock and Jet's jaw nearly
hits the floor.
Whatever he'd been expecting, it hadn't been that.
"Right," Simmons coughs slightly, adjusting his glasses. "Right. Well, Zuko,
picking a fight on your second day is, obviously, not a great way to start out
at a new school, but considering this is your first offense, I think it would
be fair to let you both off with only detention for the next week or two."
More than reasonable, Jet thinks. They'd threatened his expulsion after every
meal back when he'd first come to Ryswell, even on those few occasions when he
hadn't even been doing anything wrong. If he'd so much as touched another
student - not to mention choked them for no actual reason - he'd have been
chucked out of the place so fast he probably would have gotten whiplash. The
only reason he's managed to stay on this long is because he's stayed as far
under the radar as possible, and refrained from getting caught in whatever rule
breaking his lifestyle insists he continue in.
The importance of Zuko's family must be considerably higher than Jet's
comparative zero, then. He guesses the rumors are true. Luc will be thrilled.
"Whatever," Jet mumbles as Simmons fills out the detention forms, and he's
pretty sure Zuko almost bows again before he catches himself. “Can I go now, or
do I have to wait around for the lecture on the benefits of pacifism?” Jet
can't quite hold his tongue on that last bit, even though he probably should.
Simmons gives him an almost humorous smile as Zuko shoots him a look that
communicates something along the lines of, “What the fuck are you even doing?”
that Jet pointedly ignores, but also takes a secret sort of pleasure in, low in
his gut. It's that shock-factor thing again. He likes that.
“No lecture,” Simmons tells him, “But I am sending you to the nurse's office.
Both of you. Maybe he'll have a lecture for you.” He glances over at Zuko, too,
who appears to shrink under his gaze slightly in guilt, before he realizes that
he's doing it, and flattens his expression.
Jet rolls his eyes. He doesn't have time for this. He doesn't need to see the
damned school nurse, he needs a smoke. That'll make him right as rain. Or as
right as he ever can be.
“Look, I'm fine,” he begins.
“Jet, you're going to the nurse.” Simmons' voice manages to be firm while
becoming no less friendly, and that just makes Jet resent him a little more. He
signs the detention forms with a flourish, then flicks his eyes back to the two
of them. “I'll file these with the front office, and you two will be meeting up
with,” he pauses to glance at the schedule, “Mr. Brunn in room 201 at 3:30 this
afternoon. And for every following afternoon this week, and the next.”
Zuko nods like a good little soldier and takes the disciplinary pass that's
handed to him. “Alright,” he says simply. He's not one for over-discussing a
subject, is he?
Jet rolls his eyes and takes his own pass with an air of resigned impudence.
“Yeah, yeah, I'll be there.”
 
–
 
“You didn't have to do that,” is the first thing Jet says, speaking to the back
of Zuko's head, voice dull. “Take the blame, I mean.”
They're about halfway to the nurse's office, the journey having been steeped in
awkwardness and not much else thus far, and this is Jet's rather unenthusiastic
attempt to break the silence. It's not that he's terribly inclined to converse
with Zuko at this point - and okay, maybe he actually is, but he's not going
to, because he's at least bright enough to tell when something is more trouble
than it's worth. It's just... he really can't stand the taut stretch of the
atmosphere of the scene, with nothing but their footsteps as background noise.
It almost hurts more than his face does.
Not his fingers, though. Those fucking ache.
Zuko almost jumps at the sound of his voice, steps stopping in a dead halt. He
doesn't turn around, his whole countenance radiating something like
uncomfortable guilt.
“It was the truth,” he says, after a few moments, seemingly choosing his words
carefully.
It's an answer Jet doesn't truly understand. “Yeah, sure, but…” He shakes his
head. He's not going to task himself with explaining the concept of lying for
your own benefit to the kid. “Whatever.”
Zuko looks like he's about to say something else, something like a protest, but
then he stops. “Right. Whatever.” He enunciates the word, almost like he's
testing it out. Like whatever is a foreign concept to him.
They walk the rest of the way without speaking. It seems after getting in a
fist fight with the guy you were trying to pick-up, silence is far less awkward
than making conversation.
 
–
 
Sokka's always sworn that the school nurse - a man, because all of the staff at
Ryswell are male, which Jet thinks is pretty antiquated, but fuck it, it's not
his choice - is some kind of random criminal they'd pulled off of the street
and stuck in scrubs. Jet jokes about it with him, but he knows better. He's
been around enough hardened street criminals in his time to know the
difference, to know that Nurse Jee isn't one. He's just kind of... brusque in
his ways.
“What have we got today, boys?” he asks, without looking up. “You get a paper
cut or something?”
“Or something,” Jet says immediately, responding before Zuko - who's face had
twisted with insult as soon as Jee had spoken - can say whatever he's going to
say, or start beating people up, or something. Jee glances up, and upon
catching the state of the two of them, barely contains his shock. The worst
thing he's used to treating in this place is football injuries and minor
accidents, so the signs of an actual fight probably make an impression.
He looks between them, and the surprise quickly melts into gruff amusement.
“Something, indeed.” He looks Zuko up and down, then back at Jet. “He do that
to you, John?” he asks, and Jet still almost unconsciously flinches at the
sound of his real name, before shrugging it off.
“Caught me off guard,” he says, smirking at Jee like they're in on some joke
that Zuko's conveniently left out of. Jet can see the thought pinched in the
scrunch of the other boy's brow as he frowns.
“Are you going to treat us or not?” he interrupts, before the banter can even
really get going. Jee's eyebrows raise, and he gets that look on his face that
he gets around most of the snotty little brats in this place, like he really
wants to smack them, and knows he can't, and is perpetually frustrated by that
fact.
“Patience is a virtue, kid,” he says, pulling out a hokey looking stethoscope
from god knows where, and motioning them to sit on the bench. He glances at
Zuko again as he examines the few cuts and bruises on his face. “New injuries
aside,” he says, “you look like you're doing better.”
Jet's brow twists up at that and Zuko's mouth forms into a grim line. He wants
to ask what Jee's talking about, but Zuko beats him to speaking. “I'm fine,” he
mumbles, almost petulantly, looking neither Jee nor Jet in the eye.
“Been to the nurse before?” Jet mumbles at him, trying to seem like he doesn't
care and is only asking out of vague, disinterested curiosity.
Zuko shrugs. “I had to get a physical exam in order to enroll.”
“And a psychological,” Jee adds, smirking slightly, which makes Zuko flash him
a burning glare that Jet only barely catches, and doesn't really understand.
Jee holds his hands up in reaction, a somewhat mocking gesture of surrender.
“What? I'm legally obligated as a doctor not to share any of your personal test
results with anyone else. Don't freak out, boy.”
“You're not a doctor,” Zuko tells him, with an icy sort of dislike in his voice
that burns around the edges. “You're a school nurse. And don't call me 'boy.'”
He snaps the last bit, and Jet can't help the laugh that bubbles out of him,
catching himself off-guard as much as it does Zuko. Jee just seems unfazed,
like maybe he hadn't heard a word of what had been said, or, either way,
doesn't care.
Jet shakes his head, but doesn't say anything to Zuko, even though he kind of
wants to. Everything about the other boy makes Jet want to say something, do
something, fills him with an inane sort of pleasure that he hasn't felt in a
long time. He remembers this, though. This is what it feels like to want
something.
He tries to quash it down, looking away as Jee sets down whatever tool he's
poking and prodding Zuko with. “You're fine,” he says, tossing a small tube
over to Zuko. “Put some of that on the cuts and don't agitate them for a few
days. The bruises will fade on their own.” Then he turns to Jet. “Your turn.”
Nurse Jee examines him in various ways and with various methods, and Jet tries
to pay attention to what's being done to him, but he can't stop his eyes from
drifting over to Zuko at irregular intervals, watching him dab at his face and
neck, admiring the pleasing bulk of his arms visible from his rolled-up
sleeves. Jet, for all his height and wiry muscle, can now see how clearly
outmatched he had been this morning. He used to be able to take out five guys
twice his size without breaking a sweat, and he's still got the ability, he's
sure, stored somewhere deep in his muscle memory, but he's so far out of
practice and so completely off his guard at this point, that he knows it would
take quite a bit of effort to dig it up. Zuko, on the other hand, looks like he
works out every day. God, those are some nice arms.
Jet swallows and looks away. He's over this. He's so over this. Yeah. Sure.
“Oh. Yeah, okay,” Jee says after a few minutes, “I'm pretty certain this one is
broken. Maybe this one, too.” He's got a couple of Jet's fingers held in a
light grip, and Jet winces more with every investigative prod.
“Fuck,” he says. He really does not have time for this. Zuko's glanced over,
forehead wrinkled with something almost like concern, and Jet would probably
appreciate that if the cause of said concern wasn't enough of a goddamn
inconvenience to take up most of his thoughts. “Are you sure?”
“Can't be positive without an x-ray, but yeah, seems like it is. The ring and
the middle finger.” He steps back, and throws a heavy metal vest at Jet. “I'll
set up the equipment, so we can be sure. We'll take a look at your ribs, too,
just in case.”
“Man, I need to get to class,” Jet tells him, stepping back as discreetly as he
can.
“So you can what? Write notes with your broken fingers?” Jee asks him gruffly.
“Sit down.” He glances over at Zuko, like he'd only just remembered he was
there, waving him off. “You can go, though.”
Zuko nods, goes to pick up his bag, but Jet can feel his eyes still trained on
him, running smooth chills up and down the back of his neck, even as
preoccupied as he is with his diagnosis. “Look, they really don't feel broken,
so,” he starts, only partly admitting to himself that it's a lie.
“Are you a doctor?” Jee asks, and answers his own question without a pause.
“No. So, shut-up, and put the damned vest on.” He doesn't even bother looking
up at Zuko, who's still standing there in the doorway, looking indecisive and a
little insulted. “And you,” he says, “get gone already. You'll be late.” That
appears to jar him out of whatever thoughts he's lost himself in. He scowls at
Jee, before taking his advice and slipping out the door. “And don't go breaking
anyone else's fingers,” Jee calls after him, apparently amusing himself
terribly, from the hitch of his lips.
Jet waits until Zuko's steps have faded completely and he's sure he's out of
hearing range, before he says, subdued and not necessarily aiming to be heard,
“He didn't break them.”
Jee cocks and eyebrow, dragging him over into the other room - containing an x-
ray machine, Jet assumes, and fuck this ridiculously rich school and all the
ridiculously expensive equipment in it. “You broke your own fingers then?” he
ask
Jet has a flash of earlier this morning, of crashing his fist into the
floorboards and the surge of pain that had shocked through him. At this point,
it seems less monumentally affecting and more just plain idiotic.
He shrugs. “Yeah.”
Jee shakes his head, mumbles something scathing and sort of sarcastic along the
lines of, “Fucking kids these days,” as he positions Jet in front of the x-ray
machine. “Stand still,” he says, barely a second before the flash.
 
–
 
The splint itches where it's taped to his fingers, and he mentally measures the
pros and cons of ripping the damned thing off. He cannot afford two broken
fingers. It's not his schoolwork that he's worried about - though that'll
suffer, too, but he'll deal - it's that damned construction job he's been
working on weekends for the past couple of months, and how having two broken
bones - small as they are - will more or less cost him it. It doesn't pay
particularly well, but a little money is better than no money, which is what
he'll end up with now.
It won't be so bad for him personally - he's got a roof over his head and food
to eat, not to mention he's pretty adept at stealing cigarettes - but there's
no fucking way he's mailing an empty envelope back to Brooklyn this month. No
fucking way. His crew might not want to see him, might not want anything to do
with him, might not even realize where the money comes from, but he's sent them
every single dollar and cent he's bee able to spare each month since coming
here, and he's not about to stop now.
It's only Tuesday, so he's got time to figure it out before the weekend, but
not a lot of time, and he's never been particularly good at planning, anyway.
He's much better suited to coming up with crazy schemes on the fly, thinking on
his feet, improvising when situations go south - which is more or less always.
If he's given time to think, to agonize over it, he'll only drive himself into
a fit of doubt and frustration.
He'd been late to his second class, had tried his hardest to avoid staring at
the back of Zuko's head in his third, and almost doesn't even bother going to
his fourth. But fighting and skipping class in the same day would only end with
him having to beg not to be kicked-out, and since he has too much pride to
stoop to that, he'd just end up homeless and diploma-less as well as jobless,
and that's something he can afford even less. The class passes in a blur,
though, and afterwards he only has a couple of minutes to catch Sokka in the
hall to tell him that he'll be back late today, not having had occasion to talk
to him at all since their brief exchange in English class.
He'd missed lunch on the bleachers, had spent the entirety of the break slumped
behind the west hall trying to figure out how to light his cigarette with his
broken - now splinted - fingers, and only managing it due to dumb luck more
than anything else.
Sokka's eyebrows go up, but he doesn't look particularly surprised about the
detention, so much as he does by Jet's various bandages.
“Whoa, man,” he says, trying to keep pace with Jet, who'd relayed the news
without bothering to slow his steps, “are you going to tell me what happened?”
“Maybe later, Scholarship,” Jet says to him over his shoulder, taking a turn
down a side hall that he thinks is vaguely in the direction of room 201. “I've
got things to do. Run along.”
“Uh-huh,” Sokka calls, not unkindly, from where he's stopped, “have fun in
detention, jerk.”
Jet gives a quick wave and continues on, dodging down another side hall, and
wonders not for the first time what the fucking idiots who built this place
were actually thinking. Is there some special private school requirement that
your building must be designed like a labyrinth, or were these specific
architects just drugged-up when they drew the plans? He huffs, but quickly
finds the door he's looking for.
Considering the small student population at Ryswell, Jet probably shouldn't be
shocked that there's no one else in detention this afternoon, especially this
early into the year, but he is. Not shocked by the fact of it so much as he is
by Zuko, just sitting there, silent and slumped over his desk, face a mask of
withdrawn displeasure. Jet spends a few extra seconds just standing in the
doorway staring at him - admiring, a voice in the back of his head whispers. A
voice that he promptly shuts up. He only snaps out of it when Zuko looks up at,
not sparing him more than a cursory glance before facing his desk again.
Jet walks in and throws his bag down on top of a desk on the opposite side of
the room, and a few seats back, so that there's no possibility of Zuko thinking
that he's in danger of being talked at some more. Jet slumps into the seat, and
that's when - only about a minute before 3:30 - Mr. Brunn enters, looking as
scruffy and disassembled as usual.
Brunn is the head of the math department, and brilliant with numbers, Jet
knows, but fairly incompetent at just about everything else. He's Austrian-
born, and his heavy accent makes it difficult to understand what he's saying
most of the time, which is probably one of the principal reasons why he doesn't
speak much. He bursts into the room, hair a mess and loose papers flying around
in his wake, and writes SILENCE on the board in all capitals. Then, almost as
an afterthought, he scrawls detention underneath it.
He glances at the two of them, nods sternly, and then sits down and commences
working on whatever the hell it is crazy math teachers do in their spare time.
Probably math.
Zuko, likely not having had occasion to be introduced to Mr. Brunn yet, looks
vaguely offended by his presence, but follows the directions and stays silent
about it. Jet slumps further into his seat, pulls out some homework, and starts
studying lazily, but it's made somewhat difficult by his bum hand.
The minutes drag on, until about halfway through the hour, Brunn gets up, looks
at them, looks at the door, taps the board sternly in something like a reminder
- SILENCE - and walks out of the room. The minutes drag after that, too, until
Jet's pretty sure Brunn's must have gotten his sleeve caught in the copy-
machine again, or something, because he's been gone for a while.
He glances at Zuko, then back down to his desk. Out of the corner of his eye,
he sees Zuko glancing back at him. Jet takes a deep breath, decides he'll risk
the possible repercussions in exchange for breaking this damning, awkward
silence. “You know, if you wanted to sneak out the window, I doubt he'd
actually notice.”
Zuko stills, then turns slowly to face him. “What?” It's tentative, like
testing the waters.
Jet shrugs in his seat, feet propped up on the chair to his side. “Just
saying.”
Zuko frowns at him for a few minutes, then turns back to the front, saying
softly, “I can't afford to get in anymore trouble.”
Jet can't either, but he doesn't say that, and he's still considering the whole
window thing, idly, while more or less completely ignoring his homework. He
stands up and walks over to it, unlatching the pane. The building's so old that
it opens outward instead of up, and there's no screen. He glances back,
smirking almost conspiratorially at they way Zuko looks like he's about to
legitimately freak out. Like he'll either drag Jet back to his seat, or shove
him out the damned window himself. Jet's smirk just grows, as he pulls out his
pack and lighter.
Zuko's growing agitation seems to crumble into a slight simmer when he realizes
why Jet had actually opened the window. Can't have the place smelling like
smoke when Brunn – only possibly – comes back. Jet struggles to get his
cigarette to light, failing twice in a row and sneering at the way his fingers
fumble with the lighter.
“I'm sorry,” Zuko says, after a few minutes of nothing but the sound of a few
clicks and Jet's huffs of impatience. “About your fingers.”
Jet's head flicks up, and he knows his shock must show on his face. Thus far,
he and Zuko's - very brief - relationship has been based on Jet talking at
Zuko, and Zuko reacting to it. The only thing he'd actually initiated, before
now, had been the fight. And Jet's not really counting that on the same scale
he's counting the banter and the flirting.
Jet shrugs. He doesn't say, “It's not your fault,” because it totally is, but
he does tell him, “Hey, you're not the one who slammed my hand into a wood
floor.” Clicks his lighter again, but isn't really paying attention when it
doesn't light properly. He's just looking at Zuko, maybe trying to gauge if the
expression on his face is truly as guilty as it appears. Ashamed almost. It
nearly makes Jet feel like the bad guy in this situation, which is ridiculous,
because he's not the one who goes around randomly choking people, but that's
beside the point. He may have the broken fingers, but the look on Zuko's face
is making him want to comfort the other boy. Which is pretty stupid, and so not
what he should be doing if he likes his sanity how it is.
“Why did you?” Zuko asks, after a few more minutes of silence, and Jet has to
quickly trace the conversation back in his head to figure out what he means.
“So I wouldn't hit you,” he says, looking at Zuko like it's obvious. And it is,
isn't it?
“But why?” Zuko asks again, and the weird thing is, is that he seems completely
ernest about it, more genuine, perhaps, than Jet has ever seen him thus far. “I
would have deserved it.”
And it's a weird mix of hilarity and a sort of twisted sympathy, that makes Jet
toss his head back and laugh at that. Zuko flushes slightly, shifting
uncomfortably, but Jet can't stop the amusement from pealing off of him in
waves. “Probably,” he says, sobering slightly. And god, does he know that
feeling? That awful knowledge that you've done something so, so wrong, and you
don't have any idea how to make amends. So you seek out punishment, and then
just feel sick for stooping so low. He thinks about his life before Ryswell,
thinks about all the shit he's done, all the things he wishes he could take
back,and decides then and there, that however bad Zuko had hurt him - and
honestly, it's not that bad at all - he'd probably deserved every inch of it.
He looks away and out the window, tries to light his cigarette again.
“Probably,” he repeats, “but it wasn't really about you.” At that, Zuko's
expression grows even more downtrodden, which makes Jet feel like an enormous
jerk. He kind of just wants to take Zuko's hand, to pull him closer, kind of
wants to say fuck-it and see what would happen if he touched him - and in a
non-violent way, even - but instead he just plays it down with a comment that
could be slightly mocking, and would be if it weren't also very, embarrassingly
true. “Oh, come on, don't look at me like that. I swear, the rest of my
thoughts for the past 24 hours have been utterly and completely centered around
you.”
He tops it off with a smirk and a raise of an eyebrow, and Zuko simultaneously
colors and scowls. “Why do you say things like that?” he snaps.
“Dunno,” Jet says lazily, flicking at his lighter and not even minding so much
that the damned flame won't light, “Maybe because the look you get on your face
when I do is just so cute.” He says it just sharply enough for it to come off
as cruel, and he mentally scolds himself, because that hadn't been the
intention at all. Quite the opposite in fact. Dammit, he used to be so good at
this.
Zuko stands up, stands up and is standing in front of him before Jet even
realizes it's happening. But there he is, tall and appealingly muscled, scarred
and pretty, frowning and planted not a foot from Jet, fists clenched. And that
- well, maybe it should bring up cringeworthy flashbacks to their tussle in the
hall this morning, but all it really reminds Jet of is why he'd become so
quickly enamored with Zuko in the first place. There's fire in his eyes, and
there's fire on his tongue when he speaks.
“What the hell do you want from me?” he nearly barks, and the anger, the
confused passion in his voice fills Jet with this obnoxiously warm feeling,
that spreads from his stomach out to all his limbs, until he can feel his skin
heating up, his heart beating faster. Jet loves the fire, has spent most of his
life chasing it. Doing crazy things for the sake of craziness - every off
moment not spent fighting to stay alive was spent getting himself into life-
threatening situations. That's just how he is.
There's a part of him that thinks - hopes - that Zuko's that way, too.
But he's trying to be better, he's trying to change. He'd spent the past year
making progress, snuffing out that deep-seated desire for carnage day-by-day,
but it's still a work in progress, and obviously he hasn't made much if he can
be thrown around so easily by this one minor infatuation.
So instead he tries to shrug it off, like he's taught himself to do with
everything. He holds up his hands. “Whoa, whoa, you get violent really easily,
don't you?”
He knows he's dodged the question, but he doesn't exactly know how to answer it
at this point, and anyway, Zuko doesn't appear to notice, too caught up in his
offhand comment about violence. He seems to take it to heart, reeling back a
few steps and glaring out the window, before commencing what Jet had previously
decided must be some kind of calming breathing exercises. They only seem to
stress him out more, though, and he looks on the precipice of stomping back to
his desk to ignore Jet for the rest of the hour, which immediately makes Jet
panic and say the first thing that pops into his head to try and calm him down.
“That's something we have in common.” The words spill past his lips before he
can stop them, and he instantly feels like kind of a dope, but he runs with it
anyway, slipping his cigarette back between his lips for a distraction - so he
can look at his lighter and his useless fucking hand instead of staring Zuko in
the eyes. “I've just had a lot of time to work on trying to change.”
His cigarette almost lights this time, but not quite, and he considers just
crushing the damned thing underfoot and saying to hell with it, finding a pen
to chew on, but when he finally glances up at Zuko, he sees his hand reaching
out and slipping into Jet's. There's a moment where everything spirals and the
pressure of Zuko's fingertips against his palm is like a punch in the gut and a
kiss at the same time, sending Jet's heart into his throat with embarrassing
speed. Like a fucking schoolgirl.
It becomes even more mortifying when he realizes that Zuko had been reaching
for the lighter, slipping it out of his fingers with an expression of almost
intense concentration and pressing the lever himself, lighting it up easily.
Jet leans forward without thinking, cigarette still stuck in his mouth and too
desperate for a smoke to really care about how it makes him look. The frown on
Zuko's face as he ignites Jet's cigarette is less angry now, and more focused,
all his attention seemingly held captive by the task.
That first puff of smoke is like finally breathing again, like surfacing from a
hazy pool that he hadn't realized he was drowning in until he's out. It swirls
through his lungs, and his head feels more clear already. God, he really is an
addict.
He breathes in, then breathes out, letting it all drift out of the side of his
mouth so as not to hit Zuko in the face where he stands, not a few inches away.
It doesn't completely work, and he watches Zuko's eyes water uncomfortably, but
the other boy doesn't appear to notice.
Zuko's still holding onto the lighter. And the lighter is still cupped in Jet's
hand.
Even the relaxation of the long-awaited cigarette can't keep Jet's breath from
jittering erratically in his chest at that. He waits. Zuko doesn't move his
hand. Their faces are already close, and they're virtually the same height with
Jet slumped as he is, so it doesn't take much for him to lean in, slowly,
softly - giving Zuko plenty of time to spook and run - and press their lips
together.
He can practically feel the sharp breath rattle through Zuko's chest and Jet
waits for him to pull away, to jump back, to give him another bruise to add to
the collection. He doesn't, though, and Jet can only wait so long for
catastrophe to strike before he gives in to his baser urges and slides a quick
hand up to grab at Zuko's collar, his grip simultaneously demanding and
steadying. Zuko jerks and freezes slightly, but when Jet opens his mouth a bit
to gently suck at his lips, he melts into it easily.
Maybe Jet should pull back, maybe he should check to make sure it's all okay,
maybe give Zuko a chance to come to him - maybe he shouldn't be doing this in
the first place. But the whole situation is so volatile, and he can't quite
risk letting go when there's a chance he'll never be able to do this again. Jet
swaps his still-burning cigarette to his right hand - his broken hand - as his
left comes around to clutch at the back of Zuko's neck, pulling him closer,
tonguing at the seam of Zuko's lips, and he feels him shake slightly at the
shock - wet and warm and visceral - but then he parts his lips, opening up to
Jet, letting him in.
Christ, and Jet wants it. He wants it too much.
Zuko makes a slightly spooked sound in the back of his throat when Jet's teeth
drag along the edge of his lip - and he probably shouldn't be getting so into
it, so lost in it, but fuck, how his he supposed to help himself when Zuko is
flush against him like that, warm and solid, shaking slightly, but on and off,
like he's trying to pretend that he isn't. Jet smooths a calming hand down the
back of his neck as he sucks at his tongue, and that earns him a slight jerk
forward and what might be a moan.
Jet's hand strokes back up his neck, twisting in his hair, pulling maybe too
hard, but then Zuko's pulling him back, grabbing Jet by his loosened tie to
jerk in him forward, closer, shifting the angle so that Zuko can have more
control, and as much as Jet wants to fight back, play the game and keep the
upper hand, he also really doesn't want to stop, doesn't want to let go.
He does eventually, of course, but only because Zuko pushes him back, knocking
him not exactly gently into the window-ledge - and god, this kid really likes
knocking him around, doesn't he? But Zuko is flushed and his eyes are lidded
and his mouth looks fucking obscene - chapped and spit-slick - and so Jet
really can't bring himself to mind. Hell, Zuko could shove him out this window
here and now - and he really wouldn't put it past him, because the guy's
obviously not terribly stable, and thus far very prone to violence - and Jet
still probably wouldn't mind.
Zuko looks frail and slightly unsure, so Jet leans up and whispers, breath
ghosting against his jaw in a voice that is kind and non-threatening, while
still being slightly smug, “That's all I wanted from you.”
Zuko frowns, stepping back a bit, and if anything, he looks even more unsure.
“You -” he starts, but cuts himself off, looking away. And is it's just Jet's
overactive imagination, or does he sort of look like he's just been rejected?
Jet rolls his eyes, forcing himself not to laugh. “Well, not all I wanted from
you, but it's a start.”
Zuko's head jerks up and he looks slightly relieved and slightly embarrassed,
then quickly crosses his arms, turning resolutely to stare out the open window.
The cigarette is still burning down between Jet's fingers.
“You taste like ash,” is all Zuko says, and Jet's not quite sure how to take
that, until he sees the slight curve of Zuko's lips marring his face, and Jet's
not caught off guard so much by the fact that Zuko is making fun of him - right
after making out with him - but that he seems to be doing it in good humor.
Like a joke between the two of them. The expression looks so unusual on his
face, almost cute, and that just makes Jet want to kiss him again.
Fuck, fuck, play it cool.
He takes another puff from his cigarette, breathes the smoke out the window.
“That's the usual, I'm afraid,” he tells him, knows he's not quite selling
super casual coolness, but given the expression on Zuko's face, he's not sure
he needs to.
Zuko shrugs slightly, glancing up at Jet from the corner of his eye, then
quickly back out the window. “I don't really mind.”
And Jet's not sure if that's permission to grab him again, to kiss him again,
but then there's loud, slightly off stomping coming from the hallway - because
Brunn has a bit of a limp on top of everything else - and there's no time for
Jet to do anything but stub out his cigarette and toss it out, waving a quick
hand through the air before shoving the window closed and flying back to his
seat.
By the time the door opens, both Zuko and Jet are slumped at their respective
desks, looking as bored and innocent as possible. Jet sells it easily, but Zuko
looks nervous as fuck, avoiding Mr. Brunn's eyes and looking as guilty as if
he'd just committed some heinous crime. Bad liar, huh? That's kind of
endearing.
Brunn doesn't seem to notice anything, though, just goes about his usual
ridiculous business, and Zuko and Jet spend the next ten minutes or so
awkwardly glancing at each other, and then looking away.
Jet's acting like a blushing schoolgirl again. And the worst part is, he's not
even sure that it bothers him.
 
–
 
Day Three
 
–
 
Wednesday's detention is in room 127, and it's with Mr. Kane, a completely no-
nonsense asshole who teaches chemistry and couldn't make his dislike for Jet
more obvious if he tried. He spends half the period lecturing them, and every
few minutes afterward, he'll come up with another thing to add on, some other
point to drive home, so the whole damned hour is just spent listening to Kane
give reasons why Jet is awful, all the while giving Zuko this sympathetic,
disappointed look - like he's a good boy that's just been led astray by falling
in with the wrong crowd. Jet considers unbuttoning his collar to show Kane the
fingertip-shaped bruises on his neck. Maybe that'll shut him up.
Instead his just stares at the back of Zuko's head, spends the whole hour
admiring the way his hair curls at the ends, the way his neck arches, the sharp
contrast of his burnt, pink skin against the pale white of the rest of his face
- and then pauses every few minutes to concentrate really hard on whatever Kane
is currently going on about, if only to keep from getting hard at his desk.
Yes, Jet is embarrassingly enamored. So what? Worse things have happened to him
- far worse things. If anything, he considers this a break. A reward from
universe, for all the shit he hasn't stirred up in the last year, all the
people he's refrained from hitting, all the things he's been able to just let
go. He's been good, and Zuko is his prize. He should be allowed to have at
least one nice thing. He's not even put off by the fact that Zuko hasn't spoken
to him all day. He's felt glances tickling the back of his neck at every odd
moment, every time he'd turned around, and that's enough for now. He can give
him some space, he can play it cool - the only repercussions are this antsy,
almost nervous feeling dancing in the pit of his stomach, and a bit of sexual
tension that makes concentrating in class even more difficult than usual.
Sokka will just have to play the audience to his masturbatory fantasies, should
he happen to wake up in the middle of the night. No harm, no foul. That's what
living in a boy's dorm is like.
They're standing outside in the hallway, shortly after the hour that wouldn't
end does, in fact, end, when Jet finally decides to chance speaking. “Hey,” he
says. Smooth.
“Hey,” Zuko returns awkwardly, and it's nice to know that at least they're
equally matched when it comes to social skills. Or a lack thereof.
“I -” Jet starts, but what exactly does he plan to say? 'I know some good broom
closets - wanna go make-out in one?' or 'Hey, I really, desperately want to
feel you up, is that cool?' God dammit, he used to be so good at this. “I need
a smoke,” is what he finally comes up, which is true, but also sounds like an
order for Zuko to get lost, which is the exact opposite of what he wants, so he
continues with, “come on,” as he leads them toward a side door out of the
building.
Zuko follows him, and Jet counts his blessings for that, considering how much
of an idiot he's being. Blushing schoolgirl, he thinks again, cringing.
He lights up as soon as they're out of doors, sighing with relief, and suddenly
the words come easily, that gnawing, cynical, self-defeating humor rearing it's
familiar, ugly head. “You know," he says, "I've been rejected by a lot of
people, and in a lot of interesting ways, but no one's ever tried to asphyxiate
me before.”
Zuko's eyebrows shoot up at that, but, although it could have been spoken as a
confrontational statement, an instigation for another fight, that's not how Jet
means it, and that's not how Zuko seems to take it. He he appears be choosing
his words carefully, brow crumpling in that familiar expression of
concentration, and Jet - as he does most of the time, when Zuko is talking, or
moving, or anywhere near him - has this unreasonably strong urge to shove him
against the nearest flat surface and kiss him breathless. He shoves it down,
takes another drag.
“I wasn't rejecting you,” Zuko says, finally, looking away with what might be
the lightest hint of a blush on his face, and Jet's chest twists strangely at
that. This is eating away at him, it really is, because it's been so long since
he's felt anything this easy, this freeing, this good, and the knowledge that
it probably won't end well - given who Jet is, given who Zuko is turning out to
be - is constantly nagging at the edges of his mind, hiding in the ghost of
their every interaction, in every word that they exchange. He should probably
stop the conversation right here, he knows, he should probably let this whole
thing go, because it's only been three days and he's already in deep, he's
already sinking, and Jet knows how these things go. Soon he won't know how to
get back out again. Soon he'll be sunk.
He doesn't let any of that show, though, just snorts and pushes it all to the
back of his mind, pushes it far away. “Really?” he says, with a feigned sort of
disbelief that isn't necessarily all fake. The punch to the face certainly
didn't feel like a reception of his advances, after all, but maybe Zuko just
works that way. In fact, Jet is starting to suspect that that is exactly how
Zuko works.
“I wasn't even thinking about that,” Zuko says, scowling and clearly
uncomfortable with the subject. “I - I thought you were someone else.”
“I kinda got that,” Jet says, but he lets his expression melt kindly, as he
breathes out his smoke, and doesn't look Zuko too hard in the face when he
continues with what he assumes it going to start another fight. Maybe he
shouldn't keep poking the lion cage, maybe he shouldn't be looking for trouble,
but he has to ask this sometime. And he's choosing now. "Hey," he starts, "feel
free to tell me to fuck-off, or that it's none of my business - but all that,
about your father -”
“It's none of your business,” Zuko says firmly, instantly, looking him directly
in the eyes now, and standing straight up. There's not fire in his eyes, or
anger, but there is stone, like a blank wall going up, like he's shutting Jet
off directly from that line of communication - and that's okay. Jet knows what
it's like to have things you don't, under any circumstances, want to talk
about, especially to some guy you've only just met. That doesn't necessarily
mean he'll stop asking, about his father or his scar or anything else that puts
Zuko off, because that's just how Jet is - but he does understand.
He shrugs, nodding. “Okay, sure. But trust me, I'm not one to judge. I don't
even have a father,” he says, and after some vague consideration of the
subject, he adds, like an afterthought, like none of it even matters, “or a
mother.” It doesn't matter. He hasn't let it matter for years. If he reopens
that old wound, it'll never stop bleeding.
Zuko's eyes squint, and he looks at him closely then, like he doesn't quite
believe that Jet's telling the truth, but doesn't quite think he'd lie about
it, either.
“Yeah, yeah,” Jet nods, “I know what you're thinking. What's a dirty street
orphan doing in a place like this, right?” He takes another long puff, and
blows the smoke out into the cold wind. “I ask myself the same thing every
day.” Not as much these days, actually, but enough that he'll never forget
where he comes from.
“That's not what I was thinking,” Zuko says, then after a heavy pause, he adds,
“well, the dirty part, yes,” nodding at Jet's filthy shoes, caked with mud and
splitting apart at the edge, and fuck, was that Zuko's attempt at a joke? At
trying to lighten the situation? The slight smile twisting his lips points to
yes, and that just makes Jet want him even more, makes him sink even further.
Zuko's smile fades quickly, though, but the lost expression that comes over his
face is just as nice to look at. “I don't know what I'm doing here, either.”
“I can tell,” Jet says to him, because, apart from the obvious, it's one of the
main things about Zuko that had struck him from the beginning. “I could tell
the first time I saw you. We're the same, you and me. Probably in more ways
than you'd think. That's why I like your scar,” he says, and given past
experience, that's probably a mistake, but the words are out before he can stop
them, and he probably wouldn't take them back if he could. That's just how Jet
is. “Like I told you,” he continues, tapping at the place on his arm where he
still has the marks from the window-glass, “I have a few of my own.”
As he should have predicted, Zuko spooks at the first mention of the burn on
his face. “You,” he starts, looking vaguely affronted, like Jet had broken some
weird pact by mentioning it, which is ridiculous of course, but then this whole
situation of being head-over-heels for the boy who had attacked him just
yesterday is a but ridiculous, anyhow. Zuko cuts off, looking away, and Jet's
not sure if turning so that his unscarred side is all that's visible had been
on purpose or not, but it's still striking. “I have to go.” Turning around, his
hand is on the door handle before Jet even manages to realize what's happening.
“Hey, hey, Zuko, wait,” he says, stubbing his cigarette out and following him,
“I didn't mean -”
“I have a lot of studying to do,” Zuko tells him firmly, without turning
around, and his footsteps fall heavy on the hallway floor. He doesn't sound
angry, so much as he does embarrassed, like maybe he'd forgotten he'd even had
a scar, and having it brought up so blatantly in conversation was something he
hadn't been expecting - which is also ridiculous, because that's almost half of
what Jet has ever spoken to him about - but, ugh, either way, Zuko's
disappearing down the hall, and Jet just stands there feeling like an asshole.
Again.
“Okay, yeah,” he calls after the other boy's back, “I guess I'll see you
tomorrow." He's trying to play it cool, like it's not important, like he
doesn't care - but he does, and that's the worst part. There's a pit in his
stomach where the heat had been before, and he wants to follow Zuko more than
anything.
Always chasing fire.
His feet don't move. Maybe this is for the best. Maybe Zuko isn't good for him,
and he's not good for Zuko, and they'll both be a lot better off never
speaking, or kissing, or touching again. Maybe. Jet doubts it, though.
 
–
 
Day Four
 
–
 
Thursday's classes take far too long, and it's embarrassing how desperate Jet
is to get to detention. Sokka mocks him for it, and Jet throws paper airplanes
at his head, and in that way it's just like any other day. The pit of anxiety
that gnaws at him is a bit out of the ordinary, though.
They're in room 56 today, with Mr. Pao, who teaches culinary arts, which is
kind of a hilarious blow-off class that Jet would totally take if he didn't
need to keep his academic record as spotless as possible to maintain his
scholarship. Pao is pretty chill, though, and generally lets them do whatever
they want, as long as they don't speak. Jet writes several paragraphs of an
essay with his left hand before giving up, but the room is nice, and the chairs
are comfortable, and, if not for the swirling feeling in the pit of his
stomach, the hour might have passed fairly quickly.
As it is, it's with utter impatience that he shoves out of the room, catching
up with Zuko as quickly as possible and forgoing all attempts at subtlety. He
may have agonized over it for an embarrassing amount of time the night before,
but, in the end, he'd come to a conclusion. He likes Zuko. And he's pretty sure
Zuko likes him. He wants Zuko. Zuko wants him. Complicated as it may be, the
situation is also very simple, so when he catches up to him, he just grabs Zuko
by the arm and pulls him down a side hallway, shoving him against the nearest
wall and crushing their mouths together. He fights the urge to slip a knee
between the other boy's legs, not wanting to push too hard, and his broken hand
fumbles uncoordinatedly at the material of his tie. The kiss is sloppy and
uncoordinated, especially because Zuko seems thrown-off by the whole situation,
but he doesn't push Jet away, doesn't punch him or choke him or tell him to
fuck-off, and Jet takes that as the closest thing to an invitation to deepen
the kiss as he's going to get.
It's a few minutes spent like that, slick and warm and dizzying, before Jet
pulls away, breathing a soft, “Hey,” against Zuko's mouth as he breaks the
kiss. He barely gives him any room to breathe, or to think straight, or to
remember that he's currently pissed off at Jet.
“Hey,” Zuko sighs back, seemingly without thinking, sounding dazed and
breathless, and Jet takes that as permission to kiss him again. This time it's
less rushed, more drawn out, almost lazy. He gives himself time to savor the
feeling of Zuko shoving forward against him, pulling at his lapel to get him
closer, and the deep, desperate sounds he makes in the back of his throat.
“So,” Jet says, when he finally pulls back fully, giving Zuko some room, if
only to see what he'll do with it.
Zuko seems to think on it. “So, I'll see you tomorrow,” he says after a few
long moments, stepping back and away, out of the side hallway, but the words
don't sound like a brush off. If anything, they're more like an invitation, a
sort of assurance, that yes, Zuko wants to see him again, yes, Zuko wants him
to touch him again.
Yes, Zuko likes him.
 
–
 
Day Five
 
–
 
Jet has a plan for Friday, and it's made all the easier by Mr. Simmons
assigning them some bullshit peer editing work for the day - one of the many
hokey little activities he sets them up with regularly, because Simmons is just
that kind of teacher - that requires groups of two to four. He grabs Sokka by
the arm, not bothering to ask if he wants to work together, and drags him a few
desks over.
Zuko's still sitting down, looking perturbed and maybe a little bit helpless.
Jet supposes - other than himself, of course, and a few odd members of Luc's
posse - Zuko doesn't really know anyone in the class. He's not exactly one for
reaching out, and the scar, combined with his usual, fairly threatening
expression, probably isn't winning him many friends. Jet gets that. He'd been
the same way when he'd first come to Ryswell. Hell, he'd been worse. At least
Zuko's hasn't exploded anything in the science lab yet.
“Hey,” he says, catching Zuko's attention as the chair Jet pulls up next to his
desk scrapes against the floor with an uncomfortable screech, “you can work
with us.” He makes it sound like he's offering, like it's just a casual
invitation, but he doesn't actually plan to give Zuko a choice in the matter.
He glances at Sokka, who's eyes flit between the two of them, before he sighs
and sits down next to Jet, looking resigned to his fate. “Yeah,” he agrees, but
he doesn't exactly seem particularly enthusiastic about it. That's fine. He'll
find a way to like Zuko. He'd found a way to like Jet, after all. Or, at least
tolerate him fairly congenially.
Zuko glances at Jet warily, and Sokka suspiciously, but most other people have
already partnered up by this point, so it's not like he has much of a choice,
apart from them. “Alright,” he says finally, not even finished with the word
before Jet snatches the draft of his essay up off of his desk and begins to
read it. Zuko frowns, looking off to the side as he mumbles, “This is
ridiculous.”
“Hmm?” Jet glances up.
“I don't need you or anyone else to correct my work.” He seems moodier than
usual this morning, and Jet's not sure if it's because of Sokka, or maybe
because Jet had deigned to approach him outside of their secret, little
detention-bubble. Given that the story of their fight had spread like wildfire
since Tuesday, most people are probably operating under the assumption that Jet
has made an enemy of the new kid - and not that he's making out with him at
every available opportunity. Maybe Zuko prefers that assumption to the truth.
On the other hand, maybe it's just something completely unrelated that's got
his panties in a twist.
“Chill out, would you? I'm just checking,” Jet tells him, shrugging off Zuko's
slight jab at his pride and playing it like they're friends. They must be
friends at this point, at the very least. “I'm sure it's perfect.” He rolls his
tongue around the words in a sort of mock-seduction, smirking to himself, which
makes Zuko frown and Sokka gag.
“Do I have to be here for this?” Sokka asks, making a face as he doodles on the
edge of his paper.
“You're welcome to fuck off, as far as I'm concerned,” Jet says lightly, but he
means nothing by it. They toss insults at each other so constantly, they're
practically terms of endearment, at this point. "I don't know if Simmons would
approve, though.” He doesn't look up until he's done speaking, popping an
amused eyebrow at Sokka, who just shoots him a corny glare, and Zuko a slightly
more genuine one.
“Jerk,” he says to Jet, but lets it go there.
It's a few more moments of awkward silence between them, before Jet turns back
to Zuko, leaning in and over his desk a bit. “So, are you going into town
tonight?” he asks, making Zuko's brow quirk. “Almost everyone does on the
weekends. You should come with Sokka and me.”
“He should?” Sokka asks him, looking vaguely scandalized that Jet would soil
the sanctity of their weekend plans. Jet elbows him. “I mean, yeah, totally.”
Zuko looks between the two of them blankly, obviously just as keen on hanging
out with Sokka as Sokka is on hanging out with him. He doesn't even look
particularly interested in hanging out with Jet. “I can't. I have to study,” he
says simply. Sokka nods quickly, like it's not a completely paper-thin excuse.
“Come on, it's only your first week,” Jet argues, rolling his eyes.
“Which is why I have to catch up with everyone else.” Zuko's doing that stone
thing again, putting up that blank wall, and Jet's starting not to like it. He
misses the fire. He loves the fire.
He huffs. Zuko is making this unreasonably difficult. “In what class?”
Zuko glares at him, clearly annoyed by the insistence, but rolls his eyes and
answers, anyway. “Mostly just physics," he mumbles.
“Oh, well, Sokka's great at physics. He can totally tutor you,” Jet tells him,
smiling brightly, knowing that the suggestion is probably going to be promptly
rejected by both of them, but throwing it out there anyway. What can he say, he
wants the two of them to get along. He's not sure who Zuko's roommate is, or
how said roommate would feel about Jet crawling in his dorm window in the
middle of the night, so instead he plans - should the need for a bed arise, as
he hopes it will - to drag Zuko back to his own room. It'd be nice not to have
Sokka freak out about it too much,
Who's he kidding, Sokka will freak out no matter what - and probably complain
about it often and loudly - but at least if he likes Zuko, he'll still allow
it. He's a good guy like that.
Zuko, of course, doesn't react exactly well to the suggestion, becoming
defensive in an instant. “I don't need his help.”
“Yeah, come on, Jet,” Sokka says, moodily, glaring back at Zuko in reaction to
the comment, “I'll hang out with your boyfriend if you really want me to, but I
draw the line at teaching him science. Science is sacred.”
Jet winces, and maybe Zuko would have taken some insult at the entire sentiment
of the comment, at the idea that Sokka could have anything at all to teach him
that Zuko doesn't already know, but it's fairly obvious that his mind gets
stuck on one single word and stays there.
“Boyfriend?” He repeats, and he's practically using the same voice he'd used
while he'd had his hands wrapped around Jet's throat in a chokehold, angry and
a little disbelieving, and more than ready to kick Jet's ass.
Shit.
 
–
 
Zuko had dropped the subject in class immediately after he'd spoken the word -
boyfriend - and hadn't said much to anybody for the rest of the period, but the
way he takes off out the door when the bell rings, not even sparing Jet a
glance, makes it obvious that he's pissed off. Jet bets he can guess why.
“Hey, hey,” he calls, catching up with Zuko, and fuck, it feels like fifty
percent of their conversations involve Jet chasing after him, “wait up.” Zuko
does no such thing, but he doesn't speed up or try to get away, either, so Jet
decides he can't be that pissed. Why should he be, anyway? Just because of that
one word?
“What?” Zuko says flatly, not sparing Jet a glance, even as he falls into step
at his side.
Jet's hand catches him by the shoulder, stopping his brisk walk and turning him
so he has to look Jet in the eyes. He's not just going to let Zuko run away
anytime he wants. It opens that pit in his stomach, and it opens it wide, and
he can't have that. Jet's not going to let some stupid, broody kid with a scar
make him feel like this. He's just not.
Too late, a voice whispers. Jet ignores it.
“I swear, I have never used the word boyfriend in relation to you. Ever.” He
opens his eyes wide, giving Zuko as honest an imploring look as he can manage,
which isn't that difficult, considering he's telling the truth. He talks about
Zuko, a lot, he knows he does - will mention something that he's done or said,
or made Jet think, and it's gotten to the point where Sokka probably just hates
him because he's so tired of hearing Jet talk about him all the time - but he's
never done more than make slightly suggestive jokes, never mentioned any
kissing or touching, or any of his over-the-top sexual fantasies. Even Jet's
not that crass.
Besides, Sokka would probably choke him, too, if he did.
“Well, he obviously got that idea from somewhere,” Zuko snaps back. “What have
you been telling people?”
Jet had been prepared to explain that he isn't exactly subtle about his
interests - infatuations - and Sokka's not a complete idiot, after all, but
there's something in the way that Zuko asks the question, the way he spits
'telling people' like he expects Jet to be going around shouting from rooftops
about how they're planning to run off to Vegas and elope or something
ridiculous like that. Like it's a horrible crime. Like being at all publicly
associated with Jet is the very last thing he wants.
“I haven't been telling anybody anything,” he grits, cornering Zuko slightly
against the wall as other boys stream past, headed to their next classes. “But
even if I had, what would it matter? Why do you even give a shit what anyone
thinks?”
“I don't,” Zuko bites back, shoving away from the wall to stand face-to-face
with Jet. “I just don't like people knowing my private business. Especially
when it's not true.”
The uncomfortable ache that's growing inside of Jet 's chest is quickly being
overtaken - as is usually the course of things - by steaming anger. Where the
hell does Zuko get off saying something like that? Where the hell does he get
off looking at Jet like that? The anger is much easier to latch onto than the
hurt, besides, and at least it's something that Jet knows exactly what to do
with.
“Oh, it's not?” He sneers, so disdainfully that he barely even recognizes his
own voice.
“No,” Zuko snaps back, “of course not. I wouldn't – I would never...” He trails
off, whether because he realizes the hypocrisy inherent in the assertion, or
because he doesn't actually want to say the words, to put a name to whatever he
would never do with Jet.
"Wouldn't what? Kiss me,” Jet says, and more loudly than he probably needs to,
if only to see the look that forms on Zuko's face in reaction. There's anger
there, but the redness in his cheeks also holds embarrassment, and if Jet
wasn't so pissed off at him right now, he'd probably find it adorable. “Because
the ship has already sailed on that one, Zuko.” He speaks his name with relish,
enunciating seductively, tauntingly, and Zuko's face flushes so bright that -
on top of giving him an intense sense of satisfaction and simultaneously making
him feel like kind of a cruel jerk - it also makes Jet a little hard. But fuck,
he just goes with it. “Or no. No, I get it. Kissing's fine, it's just the idea
of dating me that's the problem, right? It's all good if it's kept on the down-
low, but of course, you wouldn't want your spotless reputation of randomly
attacking people to get marred by a little homosexuality, would you?”
Zuko just stares at him for a few moments, expression welling with something
that might be rage and might be confusion, before it all goes flat, stone.
Whatever he's feeling - and Jet hopes he's feeling something, goddammit,
because he sure as hell is - Zuko shuts it down, and doesn't let a bit of it
show on his face.
“That's not it,” he says quietly, but his voice is vaguely apologetic, and that
only makes Jet feel like an asshole, and where is that even coming from? Zuko's
the one who's freaking out over some stupid, little word. Zuko's the one who's
being unreasonable here.
Not Jet. Definitely not Jet.
“You don't understand,” Zuko continues, looking away. There's something so
defeated in the words that Jet's anger can't help but deflate, and he leans in
closer, trying to get a better look at Zuko without cornering him.
“Then explain it to me,” he says, asks it like a question, lets his voice go
gentle, coaxing. Same as talking to a stray a dog, or a staving kid. Zuko look
up at him, and Jet's on the burned side, so the scar is right up in his face,
the tender skin not three inches from his mouth - and fuck, it probably would
not help them work through the situation if Jet just started kissing him, would
it? Then again, anything's worth a shot...
Zuko takes a step back, though, and any window of opportunity Jet might have
had is gone. “I don't owe you any explanations,” he says, and it's not the
truth of that statement that really hits Jet in the gut - it's the sentiment
underneath it, barely hidden behind the words. The I don't trust you inherent
in them, like a truth so obvious it doesn't need to be spoken.
Jet sighs. “Fine,” he says. He sounds tired even to his own ears.
But when Zuko nods and starts to walk away, Jet still shoots his hand out,
catching him by the arm and catching up with him. “What are you doing?” Zuko
asks, unscarred eye glaring suspiciously at him over his shoulder.
Jet keeps walking, pulling him along. “Walking you to class,” he says, trying
to keep the edge of aggravation out of his voice, and continuing - before Zuko
can protest - with, “as a friend.”
Zuko stumbles after him, arm still caught in the grip of Jet's long fingers,
and as he tries to right himself while keeping up, he gasps the words back at
Jet, sounding almost hilariously shocked. “A friend?” he says, like it's a
completely foreign concept to him, like he must have misheard. Jet's annoyance
fades into what might be amusement, and he smirks, turning back a bit so that
Zuko can see.
“Yeah,” he says. “We're at least friends, aren't we?”
Zuko's steps stop, and Jet stops with them, not in any rush, even though
they're in danger of being late to class, at this rate. Zuko's looking him up
and down, almost examining him, like maybe he hadn't actually ever seen him
before. It's almost a minute before he nods and says, “I guess.”
“Good,” Jet says, feeling better, feeling that ache let up a bit, still
dragging Zuko along a bit. “Now come on, we'll be late.”
And Zuko - for once - doesn't put up a fight, doesn't back off or scare easy,
he just hurries his steps, keeps up with Jet all the way too class, and never
once tries to remove his hand.
 
–
 
Detention today is probably more awkward than any before it. The silence is
mandatory, and since the teacher stays in the room the whole time, it's easily
enforced, but even if it hadn't been, Jet's not so sure they'd be speaking to
one another. They've been through their pointed, angry silences, their awkward
silences, and ones taut with sparking emotion and barely contained need - but
this one, this one is just shy.
Even when the hour ends and they're let out into the hall, it's embarrassingly
childish, the way they act. Zuko keeps glancing at him, and looking away, and
Jet finds himself doing the same back. Tells himself it's because he doesn't
want to spook Zuko, doesn't want to freak him out with some stray word or turn
of phrase, doesn't want to send him running and have to drag him back. Not this
time.
So they just stand there in silence, Jet waiting to see what Zuko's going to do
or say, and Zuko likely doing the same. After what must be at least a minute of
that, Jet finally just sighs and nods his head in the direction of the nearest
side door, slipping an unlit cigarette between his lips as he starts walking.
It's not more than a moment before Zuko follows him.
The air is more sharp than crisp when it hits them in their respective faces,
the cold of not-quite-winter seeping under their clothes and into their bones
easily. Jet's used to the cold, barely feels it at this point, and Zuko doesn't
look like he's even noticed a difference in temperature. Jet glances at the
burn scar. It figures that he wouldn't necessarily be opposed to a lack of
heat.
Jet's gotten the hang of lighting up with his left hand by now, and he does,
his right hanging more or less useless at his side. He breathes in the smoke,
and sighs again, leaning back against the brick wall.
“Look, I know you don't...” he starts, but then trails off, because he realizes
how lame it would be to say 'wanna date me.' Instead he takes another puff,
starting again. “I'm just saying, you should still come out with Sokka and me
tonight,” he says, quickly adding, “just to hang.” Zuko's still just looking at
him, and Jet vaguely wonders if he'd even paid attention to any of that, or if
he's just opting to tune him out for the rest of forever. Jet's uncomfortable
with that thought. He's also uncomfortable with how uncomfortable it makes him
feel. “You can't study all the time, right?” he continues, more than a bit
awkwardly. “It'll be fun, I swear.”
He scratches at the back of his head with his left hand, trying to look casual,
so he doesn't quite notice that Zuko's started moving, until he finds himself
pinned lightly to the wall, cigarette plucked from his lips, and a warm mouth
sealing itself to his. Zuko's body is warm against him, solid and grounding,
and any doubt Jet's feeling regarding the situation - although it still lingers
vaguely in the back of his mind - is mostly overshadowed by the gentle weight
of Zuko's touch.
He freezes for a second, more shocked than he probably should be, considering
the fact that they've done this twice already, but that was before this
morning, before Zuko had been spooked so easily and Jet had been so pissed off
about something so inconsequential. Zuko's movements are measured at first,
unsure, but the more Jet responds - and Jet does respond, dammit, hips angling
unconsciously toward the other boy in a light thrust – the more comfortable
Zuko seems to become with taking control of things.
Jet lets him, just sits back and basks in it, in the heat of his mouth and the
tentative grip that grows more firm with each aching, hungry second. He tries
not to rush, tries not to tighten his fingers into the strands of Zuko's hair
when he wraps his hand around the back of his neck, but holding off the
ingrained urge to scramble for control is difficult, and he hears Zuko groan
uncomfortably into his mouth at the force of his grip. “Sorry,” he mumbles,
words wet and spit-slick, loosening his fingers, but Zuko barely seems to
notice, just deepening the kiss to press closer, get more, and Jet knows that
if he doesn't pull back soon, he's not going to be able to contain the desire
to flip them over and shove Zuko back-first into the wall.
After what feels like hazy hours, but probably isn't any more than a minute or
two, Zuko steps back, letting go, and just stands there, breathing heavily and
looking uncertain about what to do next.
Jet thinks losing the clothes is probably a good step, but it might be best to
do that indoors, and in a less public place. So, he just smirks, cocking a
clever eyebrow. “So, was that a kiss of friendship, then?”
Zuko scowls, but there's no malice behind it. If anything, he seems almost used
to Jet by now, like he's acclimating to all the obnoxious things he says. Jet
figures that's probably for the best. No, Zuko, doesn't look truly upset by the
comment, blunt as it is regarding all their current issues - if anything, he
looks almost resigned. Almost sorry.
“It's not what you think,” he says softly, looking down at Jet's cigarette
still held in his hand, like he'd almost forgotten it was there. He stares at
the red tip, not appearing to notice the smoke floating off of it in thick
waves, mixing with the wind and blowing past his face. “It's not that I don't -
”
He's abruptly cut off by the door next to them being pushed open, and then
Luc's there with a couple of his buddies - probably on their way into town -
flushed with laughter and already looking slightly drunk. Alcohol isn't allowed
on campus, of course, but that rule somehow doesn't seem to apply to the kids
with parents who regularly make large donations to the school. Or to those who
manage to keep it hidden well enough, like Jet. Luc looks as surprised to see
them there as they are to see him, but covers it quickly, looking between their
flushed faces, and then at the cigarette in Zuko's hand.
“Don't tell me you've taken up smoking, Zuko,” he says, voice as pleasant as
usual, but the glance he shoots Jet as he say it is pointedly snide. “It's a
filthy habit.”
Jet snorts at that, not bothering to make any show of politeness. He plucks the
smoke easily out of Zuko's fingers, sticking it back in his mouth. “Nah,” he
comments idly around it, “he was just holding it for me.” He probably shouldn't
be inserting as much suggestion into his voice as he is, but there's just
something about Luc that makes pissing him off so damned satisfying.
Luc wrinkles his nose. “Figures.” His eyes fly back to Zuko easily. “So, we're
taking Omar's Porsche into town for something to eat. You're welcome to come,
if you like.”
“Thank you,” Zuko says, bowing slightly, and fuck, he's never been this polite
to Jet, “But I'm going to go with Jet,” and after a brief pause where he maybe
realizes how that sounds, given Jet's reputation, he adds, “and Sokka.”
Luc's eyebrows rise, and he glances between them again. “Suit yourself.”
And then he and his friends are walking off in the direction of the parking lot
that's full to the brim with ridiculously expensive cars. Jet rolls his eyes
after them, catching the door with his free hand and pulling it open. “Come
on,” he says, nodding as he stubs out his cigarette. Zuko follows him in doors,
and then that enclosing silence is back, hovering over everything, but less out
of awkwardness, and more because Jet is trying to formulate what he's thinking
into a coherent sentence.
It's only once they make it to the dorm hall that he stops, not far from his
and Sokka's room, and Zuko stops with him, obviously waiting for him to speak.
There are a few people around, but most of them have already left for the
night. Curfew is 11 on weekends, so they want as much time out as they can get.
“I get it,” Jet says finally, catching Zuko's eyes. “I mean, I don't get it,
but I get it. I do. And it's cool.” He breathes out, feeling kind of like an
idiot, but also kind of like he really needs to say this. “It's not like I'm
asking you to prom, or something. I just... I like you, Zuko, and I think you
like me pretty well, too.”
Zuko's brow is wrinkling uncomfortably, and his face is flushed slightly, but
he's not punching Jet in the face, so he takes that as a good sign. “I don't
even know you,” he says after a while. “You don't even know me.”
Jet shrugs. “Well, I was trying to get to know you, but then you beat me up,
so...” He says it with a straight face, but his expression cracks soon after,
and he even earns a slight smile from Zuko.
“I am sorry about that,” he tells him earnestly, and Jet finds that kind of
adorable. “I was... confused.” He presses a hand to his forehead. “I'm still
confused. I didn't come here to make friends - or anything like... this.”
“Why did you come here?” Jet asks, not completely expecting an honest answer,
but trying it out anyway.
Zuko's not looking at him anymore, just staring at the wall like he's seeing
something else. He shrugs. “I didn't have anywhere else to go.”
Jet almost huffs a laugh at that, cynical as it is. “Fuck, I know how that
goes.” That's more or less how he'd ended up here as well, but he doesn't feel
like telling this story at the moment, probably won't ever, so he just says,
“Ryswell's a pretty alright place, though. You could have done much worse.”
Zuko nods, and maybe he's about to say something else, but then there are
familiar voices drifting down the hall, and Sokka's approaching them, and Zuko
stops, turning away to look at anything else.
“Hey, man,” Jet says, holding up a hand to Sokka in greeting, “you ready to
go?”
Sokka looks slightly sheepish. “Uh, yeah, I'm gonna hang with Haru tonight.”
“Oh, come on,” Jet says, but he probably should have expected this. Zuko just
looks kind of offended, but not particularly surprised.
“It's not what you're thinking,” Sokka tells him, holding up his hands. “It's
just, you guys seem like you have a lot of... issues to work through. And I
really kind of don't want to be around for that. But, uh, you know, have fun,”
he says, giving that big, idiotic Sokka smile that Jet couldn't help but grow
to kind of like, “doing whatever completely heterosexual things you guys like
to do together.”
He's turning around after that, catching up with Haru, while calling over his
shoulder, “And don't do any of them near my bed!” before disappearing down the
hall.
Jet pauses for a moment, before throwing his head back and laughing. Zuko just
stares down the hall, face almost blank. “I really dislike him,” he says.
Jet just shakes his head, trying to shove down his amusement. “He sort of grows
on you,” he says, then, after a brief moment in which his eyes catch on Zuko's
face, slightly rumpled and recently-kissed as he clearly is, his smirk fades
into a lazy smile. “So,” he continues, switching subjects. “I guess it's just
you and me tonight,” and the suggestion in his voice is teasing and completely
unsubtle, and the dubious look Zuko gives him in response just makes him want
to push it harder, flirt more. “Anything in particular you want to do?”
Zuko shrugs, looking away and flushing slightly. Or more than slightly. “Stop
by my room and change,” he says. “I'm not going out in this uniform. It makes
me look ridiculous.”
Jet looks him up and down, at the way the slacks fit him, the way his shirt and
tie are slightly disheveled, hanging off of him in loose rumples and revealing
bits of skin that peak out from between the folds of fabric. 'Ridiculous' isn't
quite the word Jet would use. He nods, though, cocking his head in the
direction of the dorms, and starts walking. “Sure,” he says, “where's your
room?” and, almost as an afterthought, “And hey, who do you share with? Don't
tell me it's Luc or something.” Jet's not actually sure he could survive that
possibility.
“No,” Zuko says, making a face. “He just follows me around because he knows who
my parents are.” The way he says the sentence, almost pointedly, makes Jet
think that he's supposed to take note of the fact that, if you take off the
part about the parents, it's virtually a summary of his and Zuko's
relationship, as well. Not a complete summary, though. “I'm down here,” Zuko
continues, leading him to a door at the end of the hall, and, without looking
at Jet, “I guess there are an uneven number of students, because they didn't
assign me a roommate.”
He unlocks the door, as Jet's mind takes a moment or two to catch up with what
had just been said. He swallows. “You have a single.”
“Yeah,” Zuko says, slipping inside, and Jet follows him, because he's not quite
sure he believes it. Back in the city, back with his crew, he'd always been the
leader, always been the one in charge - and so he'd gotten his own room,
obviously. One of the biggest changes from there to Ryswell - besides
everything - had been sharing a room. Sokka's a good guy, and all, but being
shoved into living with him on his first day had been so damned jarring, and
worse, had been one more great, big reminder that Jet had just become one of
the masses. He's not the leader of anything anymore, not special or important,
not making a single difference to anyone. He's just a number in the system now,
and he'll never have any privacy again.
That's how it feels, anyway, and so the glorious freedom of Zuko having a room
to himself strikes Jet as more of a luxury than it probably is. He pushes
inside, pushes past him, to get a look at the place. There are two beds, but
only one of them looks lived-in, and Jet goes straight for that one, not
thinking twice about his instinctive desire to look through Zuko's stuff. Aside
from the basic amenities that come with the room, the décor is sparse, but what
is there of Zuko's is kind of a mess. His perfectly pressed shirts and coiffed,
upper-crust appearance don't give any indication that when he comes home, he
just throws all his clothes in a big heap on the ground, but there there they
are, strewn most everywhere.
“Don't touch anything,” Zuko snaps, but there's less fire behind it than there
is casual annoyance, as he closes the door.
“I'm not,” Jet insists, even as he starts picking things up and examining them.
There's not really much to examine, though, just clothes, and a couple books,
and... a pile of crumbled up papers spilling out over the edge of the trashcan,
which Jet notes, but doesn't mention, or make any show of having seen.
Zuko sighs long-sufferingly, and grabs Jet lightly by the edge of his jacket,
pulling him back. “Just stand here,” he says. “Don't even move.” He faces him
toward the wall, and then he's gone, walking over to start rifling through the
closet. “And don't turn around.”
Oh, fuck, Zuko should have just left him outside the room if he was going to be
all shy about changing, because as soon as he hears the rustle of fabric and
the sound of a zipper, there's no way Jet can contain himself. He glances over
his shoulder, just in time to catch Zuko's button-down shirt being pulled off
of his broad shoulders and thrown across the room in some random direction.
He's pale, really pale, and that alone makes Jet want to mar that pretty skin.
But then again, he's already marred, isn't he? Zuko's back is to him, so he
can't see the scar, but he knows it's there, obvious and damning, like a brand
on his face. Jet wishes he'd turn around. He wants to see it. Wants to touch
it.
Wants to touch him in other places, too, of course, and that ever-present
desire is just renewed full-force by seeing him shirtless, hands poised at the
button of his slacks. He stops, though, doesn't continue undressing and doesn't
turn around, just sighs. “You're looking, aren't you?”
Jet can't help but huff a laugh. “No.”
Zuko glances over his shoulder. “Liar.”
Jet scrubs a hand - the good hand - at his hair. “Would you hurry up and change
already?” But he doesn't turn his eyes from Zuko's form, and Zuko doesn't look
away from him. “Unless you'd rather stay in?” He cocks an eyebrow, and Zuko
goes an all-too-appealing shade of red that is probably only half aggravation.
“No thanks,” he says, looking away again, but he doesn't finish removing his
pants. Maybe he's waiting for Jet to turn back around, and maybe Jet probably
should, but he's never exactly been a gentleman, and he's not about to start
now. Not when he doesn't have any assurance that he'll even get a view like
this again. Here's hoping, and all, but Zuko's moods aren't exactly
predictable, and even if they were, Jet would still probably piss him off often
enough, just for fun.
He's fine with just hanging out and getting to know Zuko, he really is, but
that doesn't make his pants any less tight, his cock any less hard, or desire
to reach out and touch any less overpowering - and Jet's never been good at
controlling himself. Steering away from violence is one thing, something he's
been working on for the better part of a year, but it's been a long damed time
since he's wanted anything so badly as he does Zuko, and a little something
like decency isn't enough to make him shove down his baser urges.
He barely notices himself moving as he steps forward, hands coming up to wrap
around Zuko's hips in a light grasp. Light, because his right hand is fairly
useless, but also because he doesn't want to spook him - though Zuko still goes
shocked and stiff in his arms, regardless. Jet smirks, lining his lips up
against Zuko's burnt ear and purring, voice soft and amused, “You sure?”
He presses his hips forward, grinding against him lightly, and barely
containing his aroused glee at the gasp of breath he receives in return. “Ah,”
Zuko says, tensing under Jet's touch, “Positive.” But he still presses back
against Jet's cock, maybe involuntarily, moving against him with an uneasy,
feverish squirm that's so fucking hot that Jet's pretty sure there's no way
he's going to be able to walk out of here in the state he's in.
Jet drags his tongue along the damaged skin of Zuko's ear, sucking it between
his lips, then pulling back to breath onto it, making him shiver. “Positive?”
he asks, snaking his hand down in what's maybe a bit of a gamble, but he can't
quite help himself, cupping Zuko's bulge in the palm of his hand and admiring
the way his hips snap forward, head dropping back as he groans low in his
throat.
“Don't -” he starts.
“No?” Jet asks, before leaning down to suck a mark onto his neck, breathing him
in, loving the way he feels, the way he smells, the way he groans and leans
into Jet, shaking his head weakly, like he can't quite remember what he's
objecting to, but is definitely trying his hardest anyway. “You don't want
this?” he asks, voice teasing, soft.
Zuko's cheeks are red, his eyes hazy when they glance down at the way Jet is
touching him, and shakes his head, and Jet - lets go. He's not a gentleman, but
he's not a complete creep, either, and even if he's fairly certain that Zuko
doesn't actually particularly want him to stop, he still steps back, giving him
plenty of room.
“Alright,” Jet says.
Zuko's eyes fly open wide and he looks like he's caught somewhere between
embarrassment and anger, turning around to glare at Jet, even as his face
flames bright and he stumbles back. Jet attempts not to let his smirk show, but
he's not sure how well it works.
“Hurry up and get dressed, then,” Jet continues, “and we'll go.”
He can't really decide if the look on Zuko's face means that he's going to kill
him or kiss him, and honestly, at this point, Jet wouldn't be surprised by a
combination of the two. The only thing he's certain of, is that they're
definitely not going out tonight. Zuko may have a lot of pride, but he's also
just as much of a teenage boy as Jet is, and if the amount of furious jerking
off that Jet's been doing in the last few days is anywhere near equivalent with
Zuko's, then the kid is probably seriously sexually frustrated at this point.
He looks it now, cheeks stained and breath heavy and eyes glowing in Jet's
direction, and even though all Jet really wants to do is hold him down and
touch him, make him come, make him beg, he waits for Zuko to come to him. What
can he say, he's a little tired of chasing fire; it's about time fire chased
him.
Zuko glares. Jet smirks.
And then it's a little something like a quick flash of deja vu, with Zuko
grabbing him by the collar at lighting speed, but instead of shoving him back
this time, he pulls him forward, right up until they're nose-to-nose and
breathing each other's air. Zuko smells like warm skin and tea, and Jet just
wishes he would dispense with trying to uphold his dignity already and kiss
him.
Instead he just leans in real close and whispers, in a voice more full to the
brim with a challenge than any he's heard Zuko use before, “Why don't you take
off your shirt?” The words flow through Jet, just flit down his spine, taking
over him, devouring him, making him want to do obscene things - things he's
supposed to be better than, now.
But all he responds with is a cock of his eyebrow and, “Why would I want to do
that?”
And this time, Zuko's the one who smirks, and it's simultaneously scary and so
fucking hot that Jet's not sure what to do about it. He watches him glance down
at his own bare chest, then over to Jet's clothed one. “It's quid pro quo,” he
says simply, but there's a growing sort of triumph in his voice that tingles
through Jet's whole body - and there are those obscene urges again. “Don't you
want to play?”
And fuck, Jet could kiss this boy. And does.
Almost as soon as the words have left Zuko's mouth, Jet is grabbing him by the
face, slamming their lips together and barely pausing to enjoy the pained,
wanting groan Zuko gives, before he's shoving his tongue past his lips, trying
to get in, get as close as possible. His mouth is more than warm, it's hot, and
wet and absolutely glorious. Zuko moans around Jet's tongue, and his hips are
shoving forward, grinding into Jet's until they're practically on top of each
other. It's sloppy and completely without technique, but somehow still so good.
Jet doesn't really have time to think it through, or to bother with slow
sensuality or any kind of seduction. Zuko doesn't seem to mind, though,
squirming and gasping frantically under Jet as he's shoved down onto his back.
“Fuck,” Jet gasps, leaning over Zuko with a grin to charm the devil stretched
across his face, “I thought you'd never ask.” He pulls his tie over his head,
and it comes off easily, already loosened as he tends to wear it. The shirt is
more difficult, and Jet quickly decides that buttons are a severely overrated
invention, struggling to get them unfastened as quickly as possible with only
one hand. He wants his clothes off. He wants Zuko's clothes off. There's
something in him, something rabid and hungry, that seems to think that if they
could just both get naked, if they could just get closer, all of life's
problems would be solved.
Though, when Zuko's fingers detach from Jet's hair to tangle with his own,
shoving away his left hand to undo the buttons himself, quickly and
meticulously, if not a little impatiently, Jet realigns his opinion. Buttons
might not be all bad.
Once they're both bare from the waist-up, kissing and sliding overheated skin
against overheated skin, Jet decides that he really can't take anymore of this,
shoving Zuko down on his back and straddling his thighs, position not so
dissimilar from the one he'd assumed during their fight, but rather than buck
to try and push him away, the unsteady cant of Zuko's hips is undoubtably based
on a desire for more contact.
Jet chuckles as he watches him, flushed and desperate, even though he probably
looks exactly the same. Sliding down Zuko's body, he runs a hand over his
chest, giddily anticipating his reactions, as he brushes against one nipple
with a finger and sucks at the other one. He watches him shiver, feels him tilt
his hips to get closer, get more friction, and Jet drags his tongue up to his
neck and says, “Shh, be patient,” with a taunting smile in his voice.
“You be patient,” Zuko grits back, which doesn't really make particular sense,
but given Zuko's obvious frustration, it doesn't really need to. He wants it,
he wants it so much, and to Jet, watching him want it is almost as good as
giving it to him.
Almost, but not quite.
He nibbles his ear, presses kisses to his scarred cheek, and even though Zuko
almost winces at the contact to his damaged flesh, Jet can't help but enjoy it,
anyway. He really is such a fucking beautiful person, even with the burn. It's
kind of unfair, Jet decides.
“Can you just -” Zuko gasps, then cuts off shortly after, whether from
embarrassment or inability to form coherent thoughts, Jet doesn't know.
“Please.”
And there's that please again - not please leave me alone this time, at least -
ragged with need, and fuck, Jet can't think of a single thing at that moment
that would be better than giving Zuko what he wants.
He moves the rest of the way down Zuko's body, until he's kneeling between his
thighs instead of on them, and slides his hand up until it wraps around his
cock. Even through the fabric he's so fucking hard, nearly keening at the
pressure as soon as Jet touches him. He squeezes harder, catching him in the
firm grip of his left hand and watching the explosion of desperate pleasure
flow through his face, making him helpless to it, helpless to Jet.
A few more squeezes, and then he's shoving Zuko's slacks off of his hips, not
bothering to do more than let them pool around his thighs, as Jet takes his
bare cock in hand. “Oh god,” Zuko chokes on his own breath, head pressed back
into the mattress, and Jet doesn't even give him time to get used to that
situation, before he's leaning down and taking him in his mouth.
Zuko goes absolutely silent, air stuttering in his throat as Jet licks at his
cock, pumps him and sucks him and has him absolutely mindless with sparks of
pleasure set to burst behind his eyes. Jet's going to assume he's never done
this before - or had this done, rather - considering how easily, how
desperately he responds. Sweat shines on his chest now, pale in the dim evening
light, and Jet thinks idly about swiping a finger through it. He doesn't,
though, doesn't pull his mouth away, just takes him deeper, gives him more,
uses all the skill he'd picked up on the street - and some that he'd picked up
in the town here last summer - and, with a few extra brushes of Jet's firm
fingertips against the underside of Zuko's cock, has him spilling in no time.
He has to hold his hips down as comes, to keep Zuko from thrusting too far down
his throat, and all in all, it's kind of messy and haphazard - though there's
not a quarter so much swearing as when Jet had gotten his first blow job - but
the blissed-out, hazy look that floats through Zuko's eyes as he falls back,
breath coming heavily, body cooling rapidly, makes it obvious that he has no
qualms with the performance.
Jet is still aching and hard, and he shoves down his zipper hastily, taking
care of himself almost as an afterthought. It's an even worse performance,
unskilled as he is with his left hand, but Zuko watches it blearily, looking
all-around well pleased with how the situation had turned out. When Jet finally
pumps himself to completion, he can't be bothered to move, or lie back, just
collapses where he is, half on Zuko, half on the mattress and does his best to
catch his breath.
He doesn't move his head for several minutes, just lies there, soaking in the
relief, the tension that had been building all week finally broken, if only for
a little while. Because he wants more. He always wants more. Jet always chases
fire, and Jet always wants more.
Finally, he tilts his head up, eyeing Zuko, who's slumped there, not much more
prettily than he. “So,” he says, not quite able to get it up to smirk, so just
shooting him a lazy smile, “still want to go out?”
Zuko groans, throwing a hand over his eyes, and rolling on his side to face
away from Jet. And Jet, he wants more, but for the moment, this is enough.
 
–
 
And then they do hang out - as friends. Jet breaks out his stash of various
liquors - about half of which were procured from Nurse Jee's locked desk
drawer, the other half from the local mini-mart - and they drink, and they do
play quid pro quo, they do talk. Jet talks about his parents' death, about his
life in the city, and Zuko tells him about being born in Japan, about moving to
the States when he was a kid, about living in Europe until recently. They talk
about music and movies - a subject which Zuko has embarrassingly limited
expertise on - and they talk about fighting, and martial arts - of which he is,
unsurprisingly, a lot more informed.
He doesn't talk about his scar, though, or his father, and Jet gets that. Just
this once, he doesn't ask. Maybe one day - if they don't kill each other in the
meantime - Zuko will tell him how he ended up in a boarding school on the East
Coast of the U.S., with a burn on his face and no intention of making friends.
And maybe, just maybe, Jet will, eventually - a long, long time from now - tell
him about how he'd ended up here. About what he'd done, about who he'd become,
about the innocent people he'd almost killed, about how he'd fallen so, so low
and is only now trying to find his way back up.
Maybe. He supposes he'll have to wait and see.
 
–
 
Fin.
 
–
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