Chapter Text
The meeting room is dim, lit only by the sharp flickering of the sconces. They are a remnant of the original palace design, left there as an homage. Zuko remembered learning about them from his history tutor. Zuko loved history. But he was meant to be focusing, so he scrunched his eyes tight to stop the motion of the lights - flashing this way and that as the shadows they cast shift and convulse - it works a bit, the spinning of his vision obscured. But when he opened his eyes, the room was still dim. The lights still pulsed. The meeting had gone on so long, they always did, the light from the windows had been chased away by the heavy din of voices.
Zuko felt like he was drowning in all of it. The unwanted opinions, the thinly vailed insults, the constant pushback from everyone his father had kept close to the throne. The more he heard, the angrier it made him. He didn't like feeling angry, it made his whole body hot and itchy, and he always said and did things he would regret later.
Zuko tried to take a deep breath, but it came in more like a gasp, and out more like a sob. He tried to unclench his hands from the fabric of his robes, but they shook with an energy felt inside of his bones. He shook them out under the table - attempting to regain his composure - but it only made his insides itch more when he forced his hands back down into his lap.
His vision continued to flicker in time with the fire in the sconces. Light, dark, light, dark.
The voices of his advisors only seamed to get louder and louder, but it wasn't real. It wasn't. This just happened sometimes. When Zuko let his emotions get the better of him. The noises would rise in his head, no matter what he did, and the itchy feeling inside him wouldn't go away until he burst. But he couldn't let that happen any more. He was the Firelord now. He had responsibilities, he had a nation to run. He wasn't a silly child.
Zuko took another deep breath, but it made his eyes prick and a panic rise in his chest.
Not now.
Not now.
Not now.
He could do this. He just needed to hold himself together until the meeting was over. Until he was alone.
He ran his fingers through the fabric of his robe, trying to breathe evenly.
It's not fair.
He's just trying to fix things.
Things he didn't even break.
Why is everyone so mad at him.
It's not fair.
Gulping down the saliva that pooled under his tongue, Zuko took another shaky breath and clenched his eyes shut again.
Abruptly he stopped himself from moving back and forth. He had been rocking subconsiously, but that wouldn't do. He would look weak. Like an upset child.
But it made everything worse. Like pluging up his veins.
Just stop it.
It's not fair.
Stop it.
Zuko's hands shook. He opened his eyes again. No one was looking his way though, they were all arguing across the table. Like he wasn't even there. Like he was the head of a nation, but couldn't control his own advisors. Like he was a useless child. A failure.
He was rocking back and forth again, but couldn't stop.
His next shaky, sob-like breath was cut short by a hand on his shoulder. It moved down to grip him under the elbow and in that moment, he would have very much liked to skin himself. When Zuko looked up again, he saw Sokka - stood up and clearly addressing the room, but the words didn't reach him, only the sound, like the noise hadn't entered his brain quite right. It was a nicer sound though, nicer at least than the sound of the arguing advisors. And at his voice, the others fell silent, and Zuko took a full breath.
He felt in a daze as the hand - attached to his personal guard - guided him out of the room and down the hall to a seating chamber. He fell heavily down onto a settee when the hand moved away, but it was far too much and he instead slid down to the floor, cold against his wrists.
Zuko wasn't sure who could see him now, but he rocked back and forth anyway, no longer able to keep up his facade.
He was vaguely aware of a figure sitting down on the settee, legs landing next to his curled, rocking form. But it was a few minutes before he processed what that meant.
Zuko turned sharply and took in the sight of Sokka looking down at him. Looking down on him, perhaps.
He felt the wave of shame that always came after one of his tantrums. But it was worse that it was Sokka watching this.
He stood shakily and shook out his arms. His head twitching involuntarily.
"So-sorry, sorry" He stammered, voice shaky and weak.
He tried to explain himself, to excuse his behaviour, but every time he opened his mouth, his throat tightened and only a hiccupping sound came out. It was then that Zuko noticed the stretch of the skin on his cheeks and the noticible tear tracks making their way down, pooling liquid under his chin. This - the feeling of his skin and the rapidly spiralling thoughts about how pathetic he must look - set him off sobbing again, the only words forced out of his mouth being broken "sorry"s. The embarrassment and guilt settling deep in his stomach.
Sokka had risen from his seat and had his arms held out, open and inviting. Zuko couldn't help himself. He fell into Sokka's waiting embrace. His arms wrapped around Zuko's back and held him tight against his chest.
The pressure felt good, grounding. Zuko's head stopped spinning as he sobbed against Sokka's steady heartbeat.