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The Fire Nation palace is quiet except for the echo of Sokka’s footsteps and Zuko's unsteady laughter. Victory over Azula should feel triumphant, but right now all Sokka feels is the solid weight of the Fire Lord slumped against his side, his breath warm against his neck. His fingers trace lazy patterns up his arm while he giggles at absolutely nothing. Sokka’s carried him from the celebration hall to his chambers, but he refuses to let go. Every few steps he stops to poke Sokka’s cheek, his gold eyes unfocused and shining with something that makes Sokka’s heart stutter. The rice wine has stripped away every careful wall he's built, and now he's looking at Sokka like he hung the moon. He's never been this close. Never touched Sokka this freely. Never said Sokka’s name like it's something precious. The confession hovering on his wine-loose tongue could change everything between them - if he even remembers this in the morning.