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You can catch traces of one on the other, like the vegetarian recipes the palace staff knew perfectly at this point, or the thick red sash that ties the light orange fabric at his waist, the little braids that scape from the high-top knot, like the bright golden pendant along the wooden necklace, the bison's fur in the fire lord’s elegant clothes or the little cut where less experienced hands helped him shave.
And yet he doesn’t care enough to heal it with waterbending, or brush the fur off of his clothes, he never retires the golden pendant or brushes through the braids, never gets his own sash or eat the meat he used to crave.
Instead when in deep thought he caresses the little burns after a kiss got too passionate, or meditates the way he taught him when he’s too upset, he uses the warm red coat instead of using airbending to level his temperature, an old slang will slip past him and they’ll both look at stars at night wondering if the other does too, they’ll stay in their side of the bed and imagine the other’s warmth as they close their eyes, they’ll remember the soft voice that lulls them to sleep where they’ll dream of their lover and yearn for the day they can see each other again.