Chapter Text
Faster. Higher. Stronger.
For years, Sokka’s prepared for the Olympics. He’s trained physically, increasing his speed and agility and stamina. He’s trained psychologically, sizing up every challenge in his way, plotting out his strategy with a chessmaster’s precision. He’s purchased an armory of name-brand equipment. He’s even experimented with performance-enhancing chemicals, because a carefully timed can of coffee from one of Tokyo’s vending machines can mean the difference between victory and humiliating surrender.
He’s going to be the best spectator at the entire 2020 Olympics.
Sokka’s assembled a clear stadium bag to get him through security easily, and he’s bought all the official goodies, even the little plushie mascots (no, Katara, they’re not stuffed animals, and yes, it’s a good idea to spend $100 on what are definitely two stuffed animals, once you consider the projected resale value a couple decades down the line). He’s laid out his schedule, ranking each event by priority, crafting an intricate 24/7 plan with viewing times and estimates with confidence intervals for each line’s wait-times.
Sokka plans to follow most of the action from his computer, but he’ll make it to a few live events, come hell or high water. He’s bought high-end binoculars and staked out the best spots to watch long-distance boating events for free. Via luck and actual money, he’s also gotten a seat at the Olympic men’s walking final.
(Which is maybe not the most sporty-sounding of all the sports. Still, it’s an official Olympic event, requiring years of practice and elimination rounds and medals, and Sokka intends to enjoy himself to the fullest.)
Most importantly, he’s got tickets to women’s springboard diving, a.k.a. his little sister’s Olympic debut.
Sokka could stay awake the whole two weeks and never get tired.
/
By the time Sokka finishes his second day, he’s dead.
He watched the opening ceremony with a crowd at a bar and came back to his apartment at 2am, fizzing over with adrenaline and the spirit of international togetherness. Unfortunately, said fizzing sensation refused to die until 4am, and so he ended up getting a solid four and a half hours of sleep before the alarm woke him up, just in time for a heart-pumping, nail-biting game of softball, which left him so wide awake that he had no choice but to text Katara about getting that special brother-of-the-VIP tour of the Olympic Village. Which led naturally to Katara guiding him around the Village, pointing out athletic celebrities, yanking him away before he could weave through the obstacle-course crowds and fanboy at his favorites.
(“But Katara, she’s the judo champion, I gotta-”
“You were going to ask Toph Beifong. Blind Paralympian. For her autograph.”
“...Maybe just a selfie?”
“Sokka, I am begging you to stop.”)
They couldn’t make it more than five minutes without spotting a reigning champion or world-record-holder, and Sokka took pictures of everything, and he swears the Big Mac he got at the Village McDonald’s really was the best he’s ever had. After that Katara kicked him out so she could go train, and he wandered around the giant parties that Tokyo’s putting on for regular people and met a bunch of fellow sports fans from four different continents and gave out recommendations for some great local restaurants that could use the support, and then he checked his schedule and caught up on the highlights from women’s soccer and-
Yeah, Sokka’s dead now.
As he lies on his bed, his two little plushies tucked in each elbow, he feels weirdly tired and hollow. Hopefully coffee can patch him up in time for tomorrow.
/
“But what is the point of having a brother who lives in Tokyo if you won’t meet up with me?”
“I know you were looking forward to this-”
“I had meats on sticks! And fresh-baked fish cookies with beans inside!”
“...And as wonderful as those sound, don’t you think we could go after the Olympics? I’m sticking around anyway, we’ll have plenty of time to hang out.”
Sokka sighs, closing his eyes. “I knew Coach Pakku was strict, but is he really banning all fun at the Olympics?”
There’s an ominous silence.
“Katara?”
“Uh,” she admits, “technically it’s not Pakku’s fault.”
“Then who screwed up my schedule?” demands Sokka.
“Uh...a guy named Aang?”
“Who?”
“Heskindamyboyfriendnow?”
Sokka wonders for a moment if he’s hallucinating due to sleep deprivation. But no, he did a risk assessment on his grueling schedule and there’s no chance of hallucinations until next week at the earliest.
“What?” he says.
There’s an audible inhale on the other side of the line. “Aang Gyatso, Team USA? He’s the favorite to win trampoline, he’s got the world-record for-”
“Katara!”
“...So we met a couple days ago and he asked me to go out with him.”
“Go out where.”
“To a tempura place in Asakusa?”
Sokka sputters. “I was going to take you for tempura in Asakusa!”
“I know,” comes her plaintive response, “but he’s so sweet, and he’s vegetarian so he’ll let me keep all his seafood, and he’s going home right after the Olympics which means we only have two weeks together, so please, Sokka-”
Sokka admits, privately, that there’s a certain allure to the whirlwind love story she’s got going on here. Two lovers, brought together by a grand show of international unity, stealing their moments of romance until country lines once again tear them apart...
Out loud, he says, “Is he older than you?”
“No, younger.”
The grizzled gymnast of Sokka’s nightmares gets replaced by a twelve-year-old kid.
“Still, I’ve heard stories about the Village. All you gorgeous Olympic athletes confined in a small space-”
“Ew, Sokka!”
“I’m just saying-”
“I’m going out with Aang for dinner. That’s it.”
Sokka’s not convinced, but he’s performed his duty as a protective big brother and he doesn’t really want any further details. So he teases her just a little more (“Is he nice? Does he have a bouncy personality?”) and hangs up. Then, he takes this unexpected break as a chance to update his schedule.
There’s a lot of updates.
First off, he’d blocked out an awful lot of time to hang out with Katara around Tokyo. He’d labeled every night after her first competition with her name, because he has to be available with a hug and a box of cutlets from the nearest convenience store, freshly fried for optimum comfort, just in case of disaster. Apparently, his services are rendered unnecessary by her new Olympian boyfriend.
(How does she have a boyfriend before Sokka does?)
(He looks Aang up on Wikipedia and takes in that megawatt smile. He’s 99% sure he was right about the “bouncy personality” thing.)
Second, the Olympics have barely begun and Sokka’s ragged around the edges. That means he has to cut some of the sports from his schedule, or he’ll burn out before his time. With a sigh of self-pity, he redoes his rankings and decides which sports to jettison. Good-bye, table tennis, it was nice knowing you. With a sigh he lets himself keep the first fencing competition- a women’s team competition using the weighty epée blade- and cuts the eleven other fencing disciplines that’ll follow it. They join a handful of other sports that he’d never even attempted to follow.
(Sports like pentathlon and decathlon, which both have far too many sub-sports wrapped up inside them. Even Sokka’s brain has its limits).
Third, he promised himself he’d catch up on soccer tonight, and now he’s got more time because Katara’s cancelled, yet he can’t bring himself to start the video. He’s not a bitter person by nature- nitpicky and prone to whiny cynicism, but never bitter- and it’s probably just the sleep deprivation dragging him down. Still there’s been something strange about wandering amidst all the crowds. The happy couples. The Olympic athletes.
Something unspeakably lonely.
Sokka frowns down at the calendar app that suddenly glows too bright, then shuts it off and abandons the schedule just for tonight.
/
Sokka doesn’t like this feeling. All his Olympic energy’s disappeared, and the sudden void’s left him drifting. If he wants it to stop, he’ll need a plan.
Step 1: Change out of all his rainbow-ringed Olympic gear.
Step 2: Trade the stadium tote for his usual gym bag.
Step 3: Take the subway to the outskirts of town.
Far from the sleek city center, there’s a gym tucked down a narrow side street, with a mess of wires tangling overhead. As Sokka gets off the train and weaves through the crowd and ducks under the dim black-and-white sign, he feels calmer than he has since Katara landed and the games shifted from a mirage in the distance to an actual thing happening right now.
This gym might just be his favorite spot in Tokyo.
It’s an eccentric establishment- open at the oddest hours, with classes during the day and free spaces for practice open late into the evening. Some serious athletes train here, but it’s relaxed all the same. The air always smells comfortably familiar, a little stale and worn, with a hint of the boss’s favorite lemon soap. On some nights, the boss- Piandao, a thoroughly-retired swordsman who’s long since left his Olympic days behind- blasts heavy metal, which in Sokka’s opinion makes all work-outs ten times cooler.
But tonight, as Sokka steps inside and takes a deep citrusy breath, he’s thankful to hear nothing but quiet chatter and the odd grunt of exertion. He throws a quick wave to Fat by the door and makes a beeline for the historical weapons display. There’s a new array of shuriken, little star-shaped throwing knives that are unfortunately extra-dull due to newly discovered liability issues (thanks, Jet). There’s also a fancy replica of an old-fashioned jian, a gorgeous double-edged sword with a crimson tassel dangling off the end. Sokka picks it up and finds that it too is dull and made largely of unrealistically light plastic, probably also because of liability issues. With a sigh, he retreats to an empty mat and starts running through a sequence of serene tai chi exercises...
Out of the corner of his eye, he spots a woman.
She’s browsing the standard weapons, rifling through the whole collection like she’s not sure what she’ll find. Lingering too long in one pose, Sokka sneaks a longer look. She’s young, with a brown bob and killer crimson lipstick, and Sokka definitely hasn’t seen her around before. She’s from out of town, he realizes. A fellow sports enthusiast seeking respite from the bustle of the Olympics in Sokka’s gym. Piandao had mentioned that the gym would temporarily be open to aspiring sportsmen from around the world, in the spirit of international cooperation.
In a rush, Sokka regains all his lost enthusiasm, because this is his territory, and as the girl picks out plastic nunchaku and starts flipping it around she looks awfully confused, and it’d be wrong of him if he didn’t show her the utmost hospitality.
He bounds over to her, makes a snap judgment, and starts chattering away in heavily-accented-but-syntactically-perfect Japanese: “Hello, welcome to our gym.” She looks at him with surprise but not confusion, so he figures the Japanese was the right call and continues, “Sorry to bother you, but I noticed that the nunchaku are giving you the slightest trouble. It’s wonderful to have you visiting our gym, and I would be happy to explain to you how they’re used!”
He ends with a bright smile. Her expression slides from confusion to a smile of her own, but there’s something off about it.
“Actually,” she replies, “I’m just checking how the plastic changes the motion.”
“Oh,” Sokka says slowly. “Do you already know how these work?”
“Mm-hmm.” Her smile gets even sweeter. “I’m representing Japan in karate this year.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah.” Her eyes take on a mischievous glint.
“...Good luck in the Games!”
Like any sensible man facing a karate expert, Sokka runs. Once he gets far enough away that he can’t hear her chuckling, he looks up Team Japan’s karateka and, yep, that’s Suki Shima, who’s sparring for Japan in the Olympics.
The weird loneliness-insecurity-combo kicks him again. He forces himself to put down the phone and return to his tai chi, now with extra emphasis on all the calming breaths.
Out of the corner of his eye, he spots another stranger by the historical weapons display.
Sokka scoffs at himself. He takes a couple deep breaths and then flows like water through a few more poses. He’s unbothered. Unruffled. Immune to distractions.
But the guy’s still there, peering at something Sokka hadn’t noticed- a new pair of dao swords. He takes them out of the scabbard and swings them around for a second, visibly hesitant. Sokka orders himself to leave him alone.
But the Olympics are about connection, aren’t they? About making friends in the unlikeliest places?
Also, what are the chances he’ll embarrass himself in front of two random Olympians in the same hour?
“Good evening,” he says, opting for Japanese once more.
The guy nearly drops the swords. He doesn’t, simply replying in thoroughly American-sounding English. “Uh, hi there?”
“Oh,” Sokka says, switching back easily. “Sorry about that. And for bothering you.”
“It’s okay, can I help you?”
Sokka gapes for a second, because first of all that’s definitely his line. Second, this guy’s not just a mysterious stranger, he’s a good-looking mysterious stranger. Warm brown eyes with flecks of gold. Glimmering ink-black hair, swinging from a high ponytail. Frankly enviable muscles.
Third, the left half of his face looks like it’s been blown off by shrapnel.
Sokka’s not one to stare- he can hear Dad like it’s yesterday, saying yes, that’s from the war, and no, please don’t ask my new boyfriend how he got it- but his brain makes a couple deductions before he can stop it. The stranger’s left eye doesn’t open quite as wide as the right. That means it’s a contracture scar like Bato’s, probably also from a severe burn. It’s a faded pink with light lines running through it, almost the same color as his ordinary skin if you stand far enough away. That means it’s an old wound.
Even though he’s a young guy.
“I was wondering,” Sokka says, determined not to let any of those observations creep up and show in his behavior, “if you needed help with those swords. I can tell you more about them, show you a couple moves?”
The guy reacts with confusion, but it looks like genuine bewilderment at unexpected kindness, not Suki Shima’s- justified- stare of judgment.
“Uh,” he says after a second. “Yeah, actually, that’d help. I’ve never tried this before.”
He thrusts them out, offering Sokka the hilts. Their hands brush as Sokka takes the swords from him.
Then, Sokka backs up onto a mat, stepping into a pool of light so his pupil gets a better view. “So first off, this is how you grip the hilt. You always want a proper grip.”
“More stability,” his guest offers, “plus less chance of injury.”
“Exactly,” Sokka says with an encouraging smile. “The next thing to know is that these swords are just partners in the same dance. Think of them as the same weapon. They flow together.”
He whips them around, hoping he looks half as cool as he feels. A smile whips across the stranger’s face, so fast Sokka might’ve imagined it.
“Beyond that, get creative. Offense, defense, the sky’s the limit. Throw in some fancy footwork-” Sokka spins around in demonstration- “if the mood strikes.”
He passes them back. The mystery man takes them and adjusts his grip.
“Is this right?”
“Whoa.” Sokka grins, doing his best to encourage his new Padawan. “Nailed it on the first try.”
He steps onto the mat. Immediately, Sokka takes a healthy step back, out of accidental stabbing range, but maybe he needn’t have worried.
After a few experimental flicks of the wrist, his student lunges forward, both hands working in synchrony. There’s a gorgeous symmetry to all his movements, almost like they’ve been choreographed by an expert.
“Wow,” Sokka says, “you sure you haven’t used broadswords before?”
He shakes his head. “Never. We have some at home above the fireplace, but they’re just decorative.”
Then, the mystery man lifts the left sword and slices through the air. It emits a piercing whistle, the sign of a perfectly angled strike.
Sokka’s eyes widen. “Anything like a broadsword?”
He frowns down at the swords for a second. “Closest I got was high school. I had this one phase where I thought I could handle a sabre.”
Sokka nods in understanding. “That’s useful. If you learned to slash with a sabre, I bet that’d help with dao-”
“I didn’t learn anything,” he interrupts with a snort. “I never had the speed for sabre. Didn’t last a year.”
“Oh.” Sokka’s face falls. “Still, if you’ve got a little sparring experience, I’d be down for a friendly bout.”
He freezes. “I...probably shouldn’t. It might not be safe.”
Sokka shrugs. “Your call. But if you’re worried about injuries, there’s foam swords.”
(Sokka may play with knives in his spare time, but he’s always careful about it.)
“Plus,” he adds, “I promise I’ll be gentle.”
The guy’s eyes flick up to meet Sokka’s, and he bites his lip, considering. “You sure it’s okay? You don’t have to stop what you were doing for me-”
“Dude, you underestimate how much fun it is to introduce people to swords.”
“...Let’s try it.”
Sokka roots through the cabinet where Piandao keeps equipment for the children’s classes. It’s a long and dangerous quest through several suspicious-smelling boxes, but eventually he finds two vaguely dao-shaped pieces of foam- one mildly cracked from use, the other still in mint condition. He keeps the sketchy one for himself and hands over the new sword.
“By the way,” he says, “my name’s Sokka.”
“Oh. Um. Call me Lee.”
Sokka beams at him. “Okay, Lee! So I don’t know if you remember this from your sabre days- and technically this is more of a European fencing thing- but in a duel? First one person says, ‘en garde.’”
Lee snaps into a classic en-garde opening pose, knees bent. His right foot’s forward, and his sword’s up, gripped in his right hand. A second later, Sokka drops into the same stance.
“And then you say, allez.”
Sokka barely finishes the word before Lee lunges, driving his swordpoint right into Sokka’s chest, to the left of his sternum. Then he recoils, good eye going wide.
“Sorry,” he stammers, “there’s usually three words, and we didn’t say what the target area was, my bad-”
“No worries!” Sokka says brightly. “You’re so right, I forgot there were three words. Let’s say the first person to get their blade on the other person’s body wins?”
“Anywhere on the body?”
“Sure.”
Lee’s gaze slides slowly down Sokka, with a brief glint of hunger. But then it flicks back up, cool and calm, and he nods. “Got it.”
“Awesome.” Sokka slides into his opening stance. “En garde. Allez. Pret!”
For an instant, Lee’s brow furrows in confusion, and Sokka charges. Not too fast, he has no intention of intimidating his newfound pupil. It occurs to him that he should be setting a good example for Lee, and keeping his feet further apart for proper balance. Still, it should be fine for a first- second- round, and they can have a little chat about footwork after this…
Lee leans like he’s about to step to his left. Then he thrusts his blade out of nowhere from the right, the foam lightly grazing Sokka’s cheek.
Sokka’s mouth falls open.
“Wow.” He finally recovers, blinking a little. “There’s really nothing like beginner’s luck.”
Shyly, Lee rubs the back of his neck with one hand. “This probably isn’t your idea of a fun night.”
“Are you kidding me? Let’s go again!”
/
It takes five rounds, but finally, finally, Sokka lands a hit. Lee drops his guard, and Sokka sneaks right through the hole in his defenses to jab him in the chest and send him stumbling back. He lets out a loud whoop of joy that echoes around the now nearly empty gym.
“Uh,” Lee says.
“What?” Sokka frowns. “Wait, I didn’t hurt you, did I?”
“No, it’s just that I got you first on your hip. Or I thought I did.”
“...And that’s why you quit defending.”
“No,” Lee says. “I mean, yes, but maybe I imagined it. You can have the point!”
Laughing breathlessly, Sokka takes a moment to collapse dramatically on the floor and evaluate the night so far. Lee has thoroughly, inarguably destroyed him, with such grace and kindness that Sokka can’t even feel bad for himself. Hell, Sokka feels bad for Lee, who feels compelled to apologize every other time he wins a point.
(He’s impossibly delicate about it. It’s no wonder Sokka didn’t even notice the last time he lost- dao are meant for slashing, yet Lee’s attacks land like featherlight pinpricks, the point of his sword barely brushing Sokka’s skin.)
“You have really good reflexes,” Sokka comments. “But I bet you hear that a lot.”
“Not really. Pretty much never.”
Wow.
Lee, despite having never picked up a broadsword before, is better at this than Sokka is. The obvious next question is why- what aspects of his technique let him reign supreme? He seems like a solid tactician, noticing the gaps in Sokka’s defenses and immediately striking, and his feints are convincing enough to fool him. Though the arm motions are jerky and a little awkward, like he really is just a beginner, Lee always parries Sokka’s strikes successfully and occasionally lands a lethal counterattack. Throughout it all he switches seamlessly between offense and defense, between charging and stepping away, and that’s the real magic, isn’t it? His footwork is magical, intricate, with carefully placed steps that seem impossibly elegant...
“I know why you’re so good at this,” Sokka exclaims, propping himself up on his elbows.
Lee, who had been blithely twirling his foam sword around, freezes mid-spin.
“You’re a dancer, aren’t you?”
His good eye goes big and round. “Yeah. Yeah, in college I minored in dance.”
“Buddy, that is so cool.”
“Dabbled in stage combat, too,” he adds tentatively. “That’s the dream job right there.”
“You know,” Sokka says thoughtfully, gazing up at him, “if you put in the time and you really keep working at it? I could see you being famous for-” he waves vaguely around them- “sword stuff one day.”
Lee grants him the world’s softest smirk.
“I really appreciate that...buddy.”
/
Emerging from his office, Piandao kicks them out a couple minutes after that.
But he adds, “You two can come back tomorrow if you want.”
“Yeah, I’m showing him his way around a dao,” Sokka says. “Just some basics, but we can try something more advanced tomorrow.” He glances at Lee. “You’re already awesome for a beginner.”
Piandao gives them both a weird look, but it slips away before Sokka can parse it.
“...I shouldn’t even be here tonight,” Lee says apologetically. “I sort of messed up my schedule.”
“Oh,” Sokka replies, careful not to let his smile falter; he’s in no position to judge anyone for protecting their schedule. “Well, for the record, I’ll let you wreck me anytime you want.”
Now Piandao’s eyebrows shoot up, though Sokka can’t imagine why.
“I’m-” Lee starts to say “sorry,” but he catches himself- “glad I ran into you.”
Awkwardly, he sticks out his hand. Sokka tilts his head in confusion before realizing he’s offering a handshake. With a smile he grips Lee’s hand firmly, overwhelmed by sudden warmth.
/
Sokka tries to untangle his feelings on the way home. He feels warm, head to toe, and cozy and uplifted and hopeful. This must be what everyone talks about- the grandeur of the Olympic spirit, where sportsmanship brings people together across national lines.
Still, there’s something like melancholy tugging at him, far below.