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You are eight years old when you first learn the world does not want you to be the way you are.
Or– this isn't exactly true. You've known, since you were old enough to know anything, that there is something wrong about you. You can see it in the way your mother looks at you.
But you don't know this part, not yet, not really. Not until the day when you are eight, and you sit with Ty Lee in a palace corridor, hidden beside a cabinet.
The two of you are laughing. You don't laugh often, but you teamed up to prank Mai and Zuko and the look on their faces was enough for even you to break.
You are laughing, and Ty Lee's eyes are so bright as she looks at you. There's a flush in her cheeks and her hair's coming out of its braid and you should say fix that, you're friends with a princess but she looks pretty, you think dizzily.
“Do you think he and Mai will actually get married?” Ty Lee whispers.
“They can't get married yet,” you whisper back, dismissive. “They're not old enough.”
“But they like each other,” Ty Lee says. “Do you think they'll kiss? That's what people do when they like each other.”
You shrug. Even that gesture is sharp. Your skin itches. “I don't know. Does everyone do that?”
Ty Lee considers. “Maybe. I'm not sure. The adults do. But we don't kiss. And I like you.”
You are red-hot, now. You are burning alive. You are the princess of the Fire Nation. You are not supposed to like people.
“I wonder what it feels like,” Ty Lee muses. Wriggles her feet happily, a dreamy grin on her lips. “It must be so romantic.”
“It's just faces,” you snap. “Pressed together. What's so great about that?”
“I dunno.” Ty Lee turns to you still beaming. There's a gap in her front teeth. You will remember this later. “It's just nice, isn't it?”
“How would you know?” you say. “Have you ever kissed someone?”
And Ty Lee shakes her head, still grinning. And then, and then– “Wanna try? It might be fun.”
You freeze, but that's a strange word, because you are burning inside, burning and melting and ember-hot, blazing up so hard you think you might be firebending by accident, except your control is perfect, except except except–
And you are about to say no, because you shouldn't care about Ty Lee and pressing faces together is weird and you've never heard of a girl kissing a girl, but then–
“Then you can tell Zuko,” Ty Lee says. “That you know what it's like.”
And, and. You have grown up being better than Zuko, in your father's eyes. You are a better Firebender than he is. You are a better princess than he is a prince. You are better at strategy, for what you know of it at eight years old.
But in your mother's eyes, you know already, you are somehow broken. You are not better than Zuko at loving things, at being loved. And you don't want to be, shouldn't want to be. You are hard edges and fire, you are a symbol more than a child, you are a future more than a girl– but you would like to be better at this, too, somehow. You would like your mother to see that you, too, are loved and not just feared. You would like Zuko to see it.
(You would like, maybe, to be loved. But you will never admit it.)
And so you say– “Fine, then.”
Ty Lee shuffles forward, and you think, again, that she has pretty eyes. That she is pretty. That you would like to curl your hand in hers, maybe, fight to defend her and not against her, see her smile for the rest of your life.
She leans forward, eyes squinching shut, lips pouted outwards. You do the same.
Your noses bump. Ty Lee giggles. She shifts angles. Your lips press together for a single second, and she pulls back in fits of laughter.
It's weird, you still think, to bump faces. But her mouth is nice and soft. And you like how she looks when she laughs, after.
“Try again,” you say, still sharp.
Ty Lee grins and does. Two seconds, this time, and then she pulls back, presses her lips to your cheek instead, a big smack and you should hate it, hate her, it's uncomfortable, really, but you like her being close and–
“Azula.”
It's your mother's voice, and when you look up from Ty Lee's face, her eyes gone wide, you see Ursa standing at the end of the corridor, the side visible from the lee of the cabinet, and she is staring at you with a look you will soon learn to label as horror.
You get to your feet. “Mother.”
It is supposed to be sharp, petulant, careless. It comes out, instead, on a shake. You are trembling. You feel, suddenly, that you have done something very wrong, and you do not do wrong things, not you, not Princess Azula of the Fire Nation, fire-edged steel–
“Come with me,” she says, firm, and you follow. Ty Lee stands. Makes to scramble after you. Ursa turns to her. “Not you.”
Ty Lee subsides. Her lip is wobbling, you will remember afterwards. Her eyes are big and brown and filling with tears. Later, you will wonder if she knew that you would never let yourself get truly close to her again.
Ursa leads you into a room. Shuts the door. “What were you doing?” she asks, intent.
“Playing,” you say, head lifted high, and your knees are shaking, your hands are shaking. “With Ty Lee. Father likes Ty Lee to be my friend. She's a nobleman's daughter.”
“Father would not like,” Ursa says, and her voice is low and has a note that later you will call warning, “what I saw you do with her.”
“It was a game,” you insist. “It was a joke.”
“You cannot make that kind of joke,” your mother says. “Not ever. This is the Fire Nation, Azula. Girls kiss boys, and boys kiss girls. Nothing else. You understand me, don't you? You mustn't ever do that again.”
You shake your head. “It was a joke,” you insist, your shaking hands curled in your skirt, and you can feel them heat, feel smoke leak between your fingers. You are losing control. “And I don't care what you say. You're weak just like Zuko.”
“I'm your mother,” Ursa says, and it is sharp. “For better or worse, Azula, you are my daughter, and you will listen when I tell you this. You cannot do that here. Not ever again. It's dangerous.”
Many years after this, you will learn the specifics of why. Later still, it will occur to you that your mother might have been trying to protect you. That the disgust in her tone was not for you alone.
Now, all you hear is that your mother thinks you are a monster.
You knew this. You have always known this. But now she thinks you are a monster for doing something other people call love.
Now she thinks you are a monster for Ty Lee, and that is a sin you don't understand.
You turn, make to exit with a sharp dismissive walk, your hands still smoking, trembling.
Ursa catches your arm, curls your wrist in a vice grip. “Azula. Promise me. Never again.”
You grab her wrist in your other hand, make it smoking. She yelps, drops you, presses fingers to the burn. “I don't know what I did,” she says, as you leave, “to raise you so wrong.”
And she speaks of the burn, perhaps, but you think, always, of the kiss.
You promise her nothing. But you promise yourself. You monster, you bitter burning broken thing. You will never kiss a girl again.