Work Text:
Ten years had passed since Aang last saw his first-born son and he regretted every single second of it.
He should have seen the signs. He should have recognized the biases within himself and corrected them. He had grown complacent in his meditations and not done enough introspection, or else he would’ve seen himself making the fatal mistakes that he had made with his children.
Bumi had left them when he was eighteen, starting a new life in the Fire Nation as part of the Royal Guard, where he was quickly assigned to Princess Izumi’s personal guard; he still served as her primary body guard now. Zuko’s letters mentioned him often and always in a tone of glowing pride and fondness. Aang was ashamed that his best friend was closer to his son than he was, purely through the strength of their characters as fathers. He never thought he would see the day where he would need Zuko’s advice for parenting, but that day had long since past them by and Aang had done nothing.
Aang was cruel, the day that Bumi left. He had been so angry and so blind to the hurt he had caused that he lashed out and practically banished his son from their home in the South Pole. Bumi had simply stood there and got the last word.
“If you leave now, you are turning your back on your heritage! You leave now and I will never see you again!” Aang had shouted. Bumi hadn’t even looked back at him when he responded.
“Good. I don’t want to see you again.”
The last thing Aang saw of his son was his back as he left for the docks, heading for a ship bound for Kyoshi. Suki sent him a letter that night asking what had happened that he never found the courage to answer himself. He was too distraught and angry to even think about talking that day through with anyone, not even his wife. All he could think about was Bumi… and Zuko.
Bumi and Zuko were not alike in many ways, at least not that Aang had observed. But in that moment in the village ten years ago, they were one and the same: a less favoured first born son leaving under the burden of banishment.
No wonder Bumi had run straight into his Uncle’s arms when his father didn’t treat him like a son. It was almost ironic, seeing the roles reversed. Zuko was as good an Uncle as Iroh had been, may his spirit rest, if not more so.
But now, ten years and some change to the day, Aang was going to see his son.
Princess Izumi had gotten married two years prior. Aang and Katara were in attendance at her wedding, but neither had seen Bumi. They later learned from Ty Lee that the Princess’ guard was stationed in hidden alcoves all around the wedding venue, close enough to watch the ceremony and hidden from view to ambush anyone who dare to try wedding crashing. Bumi was somewhere closest to the alter, completely hidden from everyone but the happy couple’s view. And now, the Princess had given birth to her first child. Aang and Katara had been personally invited to the baby’s presentation ceremony. Bumi would be there and this time, Aang was going to see him.
“What if he doesn’t want to see you, Dad?” Tenzin pointed out timidly from his seat on Appa’s saddle. Kya hissed a warning to her brother, but Aang waved her concern away. He wasn’t angry with Bumi anymore. He was angry with himself.
“I just need a moment to speak to him and if he doesn’t want to see me after that, I’ll… I’ll respect his wishes,” Aang replied. Katara hummed in sympathy and rested her head on his shoulder. She had as much to apologize for as he did and she had her own plans on speaking to their son in private.
They touched down in the Fire Nation capital at dusk. The baby’s official presentation would be at sunrise the next day. Kya and Tenzin went to bed almost immediately after landing, while Aang and Katara left to find Bumi. They found Zuko instead.
“Aang, Katara,” he greeted them warmly, bowing low before opening his arms to receive Aang’s hug. He bent to let Katara kiss his cheek. “It’s good to see you.”
“You’re looking well,” Katara said.
“You know, for a grandfather,” Aang added. Zuko beamed.
“I can’t wait for you all to meet him. He’s wonderful.”
“It’s a boy?”
“Yes. But don’t tell anyone else. I’m not actually supposed to talk about it until after the presentation ceremony tomorrow.”
Aang snorted at the sheepish look on his best friend’s face.
“My lips are sealed.”
“Thanks, Aang. How are your children?”
A chill went down Aang’s spine. He knew Zuko was only talking about Kya and Tenzin. After all, Zuko would know best how Bumi was doing. Izumi was rarely far from her father and Bumi was never far from her.
“They are well,” he replied tightly, “Tenzin is close to becoming a master. Only three more forms and he’ll be there.”
“Kya visited the Northern Water Tribe last month, to train in healing with my old Master Yugoda,” Katara added, “She’s picked it up very quickly.”
“Hmm. But how are they doing?”
Aang and Katara looked at each other in confusion. Zuko sighed.
“You’ve told me how their bending has progressed. But how are they doing? Do they have friends? Girlfriends, boyfriends, partners of any kind? Have they discovered their new favourite food on your travels? Did they get into trouble with a good story behind it? Tell me something about them, not their bending.”
Aang blanked. He didn’t… he didn’t know what his children did in their spare time. He used to know, back when they were still young, but now, they kept to themselves. They were together for meal times and training sessions, but when the children went out and came back, they didn’t tell their parents what they had done or what they had seen. He didn’t know their friends’ names. He didn’t know… anything.
“I know that Tenzin has been exchanging letters with a girl from the Earth Kingdom,” Katara offered, “He hasn’t told me her name or how they met.”
Zuko hummed thoughtfully. Aang could practically feel his judgment weighing down on him.
“I know that Bumi is eager to see his siblings,” Zuko said after a moment’s silence.
“He is?”
“Yes, he’s spoken at length about it. He’s missed them in the last two years.”
“Two years?”
“Well, yes, they saw each other at my daughter’s wedding. Tenzin was pretty emotional, from what I remember, but I really can’t blame him. He was only a child when Bumi left.”
That was true. Tenzin had been eight, almost nine years old when Bumi left for the Fire Nation. He had been in the crowd that watched Aang essentially disown his son and his son disown him right back. He went to bed crying that night and Aang only knew it by using seismic sense because Tenzin didn’t come to either of his parents with his tears. Aang was only now realizing that Tenzin probably thought that he couldn’t. By the way Katara grasped for Aang’s hand, he guessed that she was only just beginning to figure it out too.
“We messed up,” Aang blurted.
“You did,” Zuko agreed easily.
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
“Anything I could have said would have been hurtful.”
“What if I needed to hear it?”
“Would you have listened?”
Aang wanted to say that, yes, actually, he would have listened. But he knew himself better than that. Zuko was his best friend and Aang respected him deeply, but they had very different outlooks on how to raise their children. Aang had wanted to be a father, yes, but more than anything, he wanted to rebuild his people’s culture. He wanted a legacy. Whereas Zuko and Mai had simply wanted to be better than their parents had been. They wanted a person, any person, that they could love and raise to be better than they were. Aang thought that Zuko’s approach to fatherhood was sweet, well-meaning, and a little naïve. He wondered what Zuko thought of Aang’s approach. He was almost scared to ask. And now… the results of their differing parenting styles laid before them.
Izumi loved her father deeply and was never far from his side.
Bumi had not seen or spoken to his father in a decade.
“Tell me what I did wrong.”
Zuko sighed and gestured to a spare office room to the side. This was a conversation that required delicacy and privacy.
“Okay, what I’m about to say is going to hurt you,” Zuko stated sagely, “I want you to know that going into this.”
“I know. Tell me, please,” Aang begged.
“…You started to remind me of Ozai.”
“…What?”
“Zuko, how could you—”
Zuko held up a hand to stop Katara’s protests. She stopped speaking, reluctantly.
“Obviously, Aang isn’t an abusive narcissist bent on world domination. But… he did remind me a lot of how Ozai was when Azula,” his voice cracked saying her name, even now, “and I were children. He clearly favoured her over me and I almost went crazy trying to get an ounce of his attention and love. But he never gave it, I grew up and… well, look where we are now. I didn’t speak to him for the last thirteen years of his life and I am so much happier because of that.
“Your situation is different, I’ll admit that, but not different enough. Aang, you might not have physically hurt your children, but you have hurt them emotionally. You gave your youngest the most attention and spared next to nothing for your oldest. And Katara… you never interfered, you just let it happen. How could you do that to your own children?”
“I… we didn’t… Aang?”
“…Zuko’s right.”
Both Katara and Zuko looked to Aang with match expressions of surprise. They shouldn’t have been confused, however. Zuko was, after all, correct. Aang had placed all his hopes and dreams of rebuilding his people’s culture on his youngest son, purely because he was an airbender. He was so ecstatic that one of his children could participate in this particular art of his culture that he neglected almost all his people’s other ways: non-violence, pacifism, empathy, their appreciation of nature, their mythologies and philosophies, their naming traditions, their language. He’d neglected all of it and he’d neglected his first born. He was the one who’d turned his back on his heritage, not Bumi. One could not turn their back on a heritage they knew nothing about.
Aang truly was no better a father than Ozai.
“So you understand why you might not be able to fix this?” Zuko asked at long last. Aang nodded mutely. “Good. You’re not as far gone as Ozai, nowhere even close to it. You have a chance to make things right, or at least better. Bumi is a wise man, he will do what is best. You just have to listen and give him the respect you should have given him as a child.”
Later that night, a mere few hours before the Sun was set to rise and the new baby would be presented to his nation, Aang was wide awake, praying to any spirit that might hear him that his son would give him just a moment to apologize. If he didn’t let Aang say more than a single word, then he was going to make sure that that one word was ‘sorry.’