Contact

 

            Zuko didn’t like the idea of working as a tea server, but, for the time being, he had resigned himself to his fate.  It was humiliating enough that he was doing the work of a commoner, so he was determined not to embarrass himself (or his uncle) any further by making any mistakes on his first day on the job.

 

            For this reason, when his uncle presented him with a copy of the establishment’s menu, he tucked it into the front of his shirt instead of throwing it away, like the trash that he honestly felt that it was. He carried it with him for most of the day, and when he was alone he finally took it out of hiding and studied it properly, committing the contents to memory. 

 

            Zuko was seated on an otherwise empty public bench when he heard the sound of soft footsteps behind him.  The rattle of metal plates scraping against one another told him that it was Jet, the boy he had met on the ferry into the city.  The sounds stopped a short distance behind him, but Zuko didn’t turn.  He had grown accustomed to the other boy’s habit of moving in close to people when he spoke to them. 

 

But Jet didn’t speak.  Instead he hovered behind the scarred boy in silence. 

 

            A moment later, Zuko felt something – a gentle tickling sensation against the side of his neck.  The sudden contact caused him to suck in his breath, and something passed through him, something close to a shiver that made his stomach flip unexpectedly.

 

            “What’s this?” Jet asked him, his voice very, very close to Zuko’s good ear.  He felt something brush against him again, moving up his neck and chin to his earlobe.   

 

            Heart racing, Zuko jerked back, whirling around to face the other boy.  It was only then that he realized that Jet hadn’t touched him.  The freedom fighter had been leaning over his shoulder, hands immobile at his sides.  Diverting his attention from the sheet of paper clenched in Zuko’s hands, Jet gave him a curious look.

 

            “What?” he asked. 

 

Zuko watched the long, thin stem of grass in the corner of Jet’s mouth bob up and down as he spoke.  The soft tip dangled limply at the end of the stalk, a testament to Jet’s innocence.   

 

            “It’s nothing,” the exiled prince said quickly, folding up the menu and tucking it back out of sight. 

 

            “Must be important,” said Jet, an odd sort of smile on his face, “for you to want to hide it like that.” 

 

            “What?”  Zuko asked him, still assembling his thoughts. 

 

            Jet frowned.  “It’s nothing,” he echoed.