Flare

By Foxy Pentapus

Title: Flare
Fandom: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Pairing: Zhao/Zuko
Spoilers: Season 1 up to episode 19, "The Siege of the North, part I"
Warnings: slash, mild non-con
Word count: 1500
Notes: Admiral Zhao has more than one vice.

His body ached all over from what felt like a hundred bruises and lacerations. Zuko had barely escaped from the explosion. He was lucky to be alive. Lucky. His father had always said he'd been lucky to be born. Now he'd finally been lucky again. Luck was overrated. He'd never needed it. Zuko was continually aware of the ache that covered him like a second skin, but although he could not ignore it, he could refuse to be affected by it. What did it matter? It was only his body. No matter what was done to his body, short of killing him, it couldn't stop him.

He walked down the corridor quietly, alert for any sound of someone approaching. He tried to avoid the real soldiers as much as he could. He didn't want to call attention to himself. He also didn't like to stay in one part of the ship for too long. There was always the chance that someone would notice him, would ask him questions. Fortunately for him, the Fire Nation fostered relative anonymity among the enlisted benders; it helped them to avoid forming close ties, which made them to fight better. Like machines. Mechanization, after all, was the key to the Fire Nation's military success.

Still, the soldiers weren't stupid, and he wouldn't lose his life through carelessness. Zuko kept his helmet's faceplate fastened on, except during his whispered conferences with Uncle Iroh. He refused to speak to his honored uncle through one of the skull masks, but although he hated to wear it, he had to keep it on the rest of the time. He was no ordinary stowaway. Most of the men in the army knew his face. Especially his scar. There was no way to hide that scar, no way to disguise himself without covering his face completely, as he was doing now.

"You."

The voice brought him up short. He was passing an open door--it was pitch black inside, and he'd assumed the room was empty. This part of the ship was nonessential, relatively quiet: a few staterooms, some crew quarters. That was why he was here, to keep his low profile. "You," the voice spoke again, more sharply. "Come here."

Zuko's body stiffened. He knew that voice. That voice certainly shouldn't be speaking to him from a darkened room in this part of the ship. He didn't dare reply. But he didn't dare ignore the command. He turned, taking a step towards the open door. His heart began to pound.

Few places in the world were darker than an unlit chamber in a Fire Nation ship. Zuko stepped inside. There was a strange, sickly sweet smell there, mixed with the ever-present soot scent that was born in the fiery engines and spread throughout the rest of the ship, making everything smell of ash. Zuko liked the smell of ash; it was comforting. The sweet smell was less so. He wrinkled his nose behind his faceplate.

He felt blind in the darkness. He didn't want to see the speaker, but he didn't like the sense of helplessness that came with the blindness. It reminded him of things he would rather forget. He moved his hands instinctively, about to light the nearest lantern, but a curt word arrested him. "Stop."

Zuko stopped. He lowered his hands. He stood silently in the dark.

"Do you know who I am?" the voice asked him from the darkness.

His mouth dry, Zuko opened it, although he was unsure if he could disguise his voice sufficiently. He was saved as the voice instructed him, "Don't say anything."

Zuko heard a noise, as of someone shifting on a bed. "I'm the admiral," said the voice, proud and now strangely slurred. "Admiral Zhao."

If not for the situation he was in, he would have engulfed Zhao in flames. Zhao had tried to have him killed. If he hadn't been so lucky, he'd be dead now. But killing Zhao wouldn't win him the Avatar. If he tried to fight Zhao now, it was likely he wouldn't get off the ship alive. They were far below deck, deep inside the network of linked passages which were the veins and arteries of every Fire Nation ship.

"Come here," said Zhao again.

Every inch of Zuko's body burned with hatred, but he followed the admiral's order, moving through the darkness towards his voice. The sickly sweet smell grew stronger the closer he came, and Zuko realized Zhao must have been drinking. The thought disgusted him. What was Zhao doing, lying here drunk in this forsaken part of the ship? He was the admiral. There was work to be done, a war to be fought.

"I like to come here sometimes," said Zhao, as if answering his unspoken question. "It's quiet."

Zhao's desire for quiet struck Zuko as something quite unlike his Uncle Iroh's enjoyment of peace and solitude. There was something about the way Zhao said it, an ugly note in his voice. "You're young, aren't you?" Zhao asked him, once again not seeming to require an answer. "You walk like a young man. And your build.... Come closer."

He hadn't been this close to the admiral since the day Zhao had come to commandeer his crew. He remembered Zhao's hands on his sword, the admiral's offhand comment ("I didn't know you were skilled with broadswords."), the fear that had seized his chest, widening his eyes for a moment before he was able to feign disinterest. It was in that moment, he knew, that Zhao had decided to kill him.

Zuko was afraid now, but he fought the feeling down, stepping closer. If he was careful (and lucky), he could yet escape unscathed. The sweet scent of whatever Zhao had been drinking was so strong in his nose now. It was no wonder Zhao was hiding himself away in this darkened room. No one would respect a leader who allowed himself to sink to such a state.

Suddenly, Zhao grabbed him around the waist, and Zuko made a startled noise before he could catch himself. "Quiet," hissed Zhao, pulling him down.

Zhao could move dangerously fast. Zuko found himself lying on his back upon the bed, breathing hard behind his faceplate. Zhao was above him, straddling his waist. "I don't want you to speak a word about this, and that's an order," he said, slurring his words again. Zuko couldn't think. Confusion paralyzed him. He remained motionless as first his faceplate and then his helmet were pulled off. His features were hidden only by the darkness. A single spark of light could kill him now.

"That's better," said Zhao, his voice low.

Zhao leaned down, and Zuko was shocked to feel the man's mouth press against his own. He was too shocked to resist as Zhao's tongue forced its way between his lips. It was a repulsive sensation, warm and wet, the tongue slithering through his mouth. Once he had regained his senses, Zuko gave a grunt of displeasure. His hands came up, and he tried to push the man off of him, but Zhao kept him down, kept his mouth where it was for another few moments. Horribly, he felt Zhao's hands slide over his body. He was still wearing his armor, but he could feel it, even through that barrier. He shuddered.

When Zhao came up for air, he laughed. Zuko hated him for that, and the hatred flared within him. It was so hot he could feel it inside him, building; his breath seemed to be turning to fire in his lungs. If he so much as breathed, he'd envelop Zhao in fire, wouldn't stop until all Zhao's flesh was burned, then charred, then gone. He wanted to let it out, but he held his breath.

"You are young, aren't you? Must be one of the new recruits." Zhao touched him--touched his face. He pulled away, but it was too late. Zhao's finger's brushed his scar. Zuko froze. Above him, Zhao too was motionless. Zuko waited, his body tensing. Then Zhao, amazingly, laughed. "I didn't know I was that drunk." He kept laughing, leaning back, until he was, almost hysterical. It was disgusting. He was completely out of control.

Zuko pushed him off, and this time Zhao allowed it, sliding off of him without resistance. Zuko got to his feet, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Bending down, he felt around in the dark for his helmet and faceplate. Zhao's laughter petered out. There was silence for a moment, then the soft, incongruent sound of snoring. Pathetic.

Zuko put his helmet on. He took a step towards the door, then hesitated. Zhao lay defenseless in an empty room. It would be easy to kill him now, to set his bed on fire, watch him burn. He wiped his mouth again, then attached the faceplate to the helmet. No. There was no honor in killing a sleeping man. He would face Zhao in battle. He stepped through the door.

Once he was out of the room, Zuko sagged, resting his shoulder against the wall. He let all his breath out in a rush. The empty corridor filled with fire.

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