And when the girl bursts into the classroom (bedraggled, harried, out-of-breath), Zuko wonders seriously if he’s ever seen anything quite so beauti—

--pause--

*ahem*

--rewind--

When the girl bursts into the classroom, over half-an-hour late, Zuko does not recognize her for anything beyond her peculiar hairstyle (twin locks of dark hair looped back around her ears, long braid oscillating heavily, hypnotically--like the movement of a pendulum—behind her) and the –familiar?—pendant-choker around the brown, brown skin of her small neck.

She says,

“Sorry I’m late!” as she veers right along the back side of the classroom (opposite him, which will perhaps delay her discovery of his –surely perturbing—circumspection), and there is something so undeniably, unnervingly confident and unruffled about the way that she speaks, about the way that she subsequently maneuvers (with feline grace, wending her way about the jutting seats and haphazardly placed backpacks and texts with –what seemed like—practiced ease and polished grace) her way to her seat, that he finds himself suddenly on edge for reasons he can’t explain or understand.

Also, belatedly, he realizes that the tardy girl has a rather alarmingly large growth attached to the end of her arm, which trails along behind her like a lithe, fleshy tether as she drags the (ostentatiously, at the very least) unwilling thing –correction: the boy (whose profile, upon closer inspection, looks rather suspiciously like a stalker he’d once had because of a gaming device he’d once owned)—with her toward their final destination.

Inexplicably, (almost ardent) distaste for her attache simmers to the fore (he wonders if it’s really necessary for her to lead the boy to his seat like that, with her hand so assertively posited in his), but he catches himself before he starts to glare at the boy (honestly, he doesn’t even know the guy…or the girl, he reminds himself quickly, and clears his throat uncomfortably when he feels the weight of Jin’s eyes on his profile) and decides to refocus his attentions on the lecture –which had started back up again at some point without him having realized it.

“Zuko…” His companion whispers quietly, and he looks at her abruptly (and then he understands, far too late to make a difference, that this action must surely be suspect, and attempts to smile, though it comes out half-sheepish, half-apologetic, and all-forced, and her brows lift endearingly at the obnoxious expression that’s left on his face as a result of his efforts).

“Yeah?” He responds softly, his fingers twitching absently around the shaft of his pen.

“Are you okay?” She wonders, and one of her hands locates his clenched fist underneath the table, whereupon he immediately releases it to appease her (when had he tensed, anyway?), and then she’s familiarly threading her short fingers through his (a flash of blue and brownbrownbrown encased within pale white, and unbidden anger at the thought of having lost something he’d never even had) –and he jerks his hand away as if her touch burns him (and the look of pain that crosses her face makes him feel as helpless and clueless and unwittingly cruel as the first time she’d kissed him and he’d repelled her like she was some vile, unthinkable creature, and then tried to rectify the situation by running away from her as fast as his feet could carry him), and his hand snapping back catches the underside of the table and sharp pain lances up his arm and he’s trying to bite back the instinctive yelp of pain even as the sound escapes his lips before he can stop it and his reaction –predictably—draws the attention of the professor, who’s opening his mouth to speak (while Zuko stews in dread, because he knows that if everyone in the class isn’t already looking at him, then they will be, after either a query asking after his health or a terse order to shut up is issued), and he hasn’t been so nervous since the aftermath of the incident involving Katara and the Mysterious Case of Multiplying Bunny-Squirrels---

--pause--

Wait.

--rewind--

No.

No way.

He doesn’t wait for an opportunity to second-guess himself, instead responding automatically to the teacher’s concerned question and turning swiftly to see…to behold…

…that guy. That guy is looking right at him, with something akin to fascinated, disbelieving wonder, the way someone might look at someone who’s just been hit by a bus, but seems otherwise quite well, thanks, and Zuko’s mouth is suddenly dry because he realizes (with all the force of the aforementioned bus) that he knows this girl’s (heretofore inexplicably heinous) tall, frazzle-headed growth, and he knows that she wasn’t just hurrying him along when she was holding his hand, and, most importantly, he knows who she is.

Two names zip across his mind in a fractured instant, both of which he hadn’t allowed himself to think for years, and one of which he had hoped never to have to think again (because he’s lost her, and it’s his own fault because he gave up on her before she could be given the chance to reject him, like his father, like Azula, like everyone in his safe, happy world before he had burned it to the ground, and he can’t believe she’s sitting so close, so near because now she’s so untouchably far away from him and he hates himself anew and more profoundly than ever for ever having believed that maybe, just maybe, cruel Fate had finished with him). The boy –Jet—is still gaping openly, though perhaps now his brows are furrowed just slightly, and maybe Zuko is not just imagining the curling upper lip, but he’s only paying his old childhood chum passing attention; his focus is on…the girl, who is yet bent over the side of her chair, facing away from both of them, rifling through her over-large blue-green tote, long braid swinging languidly back and forth beside her face as she moves.

Katara, he thinks, and breaks a little.

“Zuko, hey Zuko…” Jin whispers frantically, worry –and fear—evident in her tone. “Zuko, is everything alright?” Zuko’s eyebrows, in direct contrast to The Other, plunge down at sharp angles as Jet turns to his companion, makes a quiet remark (at which she laughs softly, mellifluously, and he feels like his eardrums might shatter), and proceeds to dutifully ignore the substantive nature of their silent exchange, and all its many emotionally-explosive implications; he seems, in fact, to be conveniently forgetting that said exchange has even occurred. Then, to demonstrate that his memory is just fine, he carefully shifts in his seat in such a way as to obscure her (potential) line of sight, and engages her in a hushed conversation that alternately seems to amuse and annoy her, and Zuko is stricken by how much she has changed (though that creased quirk of lip –a smug, victorious sort of expression—had apparently not been lost with time, he thinks with a twinge) as well as he how incredibly agitating Jet has become in their time apart. “Zuko, Zuko, please…” Jin’s voice finally breaks through to him, and he whips around with residual ire still clearly etched into the planes of his face, and she looks shocked, hurt (again), and also a little angry. Immediately, he feels the resentment melt away to be supplanted by a look of shame, and he reaches out (the distance is too short; he touches her too much) to grasp her hand, to hold it firmly between the both of his.

“I’m sorry, Jin.” He says, and a wary smile lifts her full mouth. “I just…that guy…made me remember a time I thought I’d forgotten.” He watches her sneak a furtive glance at Jet and return quickly, sheepishly to him.

“Are you—“

“I’m fine,” He reassures her, and even manages to smirk somewhat convincingly. She doesn’t seem entirely placated, but he’s sure he’ll think of something to ease her anxieties.

Maybe.

“I’m just fine.” But later, when some semblance of normalcy has returned to the classroom and his gaze wanders back (as surreptitiously as possible, for the millionth time) across the room, where his past is sitting, he can’t help but to understand that he is slowly learning to hate Jet when the other boy slings his arm over Katara’s shoulder…and she doesn't appear to be in any hurry to remove the offending appendage.