Chapter Text
“I’m really sorry about this, Avatar.”
Like his title is a curse. Like what once brought hope now only bears hate.
But she’s still doing it. His head feels fuzzy, some consciousness finally starting to fade back in, and Smellerbee’s face whirls like a million messily splotched colors over his face. He’s dizzy. His head hurts, and actually, everything kind of hurts here and there and everywhere. He tries to talk, but his throat is dry and nothing comes out.
Never, ever get knocked out. Or drugged or whatever just happened to him, what does it say he can’t even remember?
“But if you’re not going to help us, I can’t have you getting in our way.”
“I thought we were friends?” Aang tries, still dizzy, trying to push himself up. Drugged, yep, but how did anyone get close enough for that? Gah, his head hurts. (Is that how Ozai felt, lost and blind and struggling in endless endless darkness without his fire?)
“Me too,” Smellerbee answers, flatly, relatively uncaring, and backs out. The door slams.
It’s metal. Aang can do nothing against metal – he’s not his sister, he’s not Toph, steady and stable and brilliant and utterly unshakable. He handles conflicts by dodging and running and he can’t do either here, he has no idea how to metalbend.
Why did the Fire Nation never try locking him up like this? Not that he’s complaining, those aren’t memories he wants, but when he thinks of the Fire Nation, he thinks of Zuko. Kind, passionate, overly-driven Zuko, who’s somehow made himself their enemy, again.
He gets up, dizzy, braces a hand on the wall. Slams his palm on the metal and tries to feel. Reaching through is hard. There might be dirt on the other side, or maybe it’s air, but he can’t tell and everything is too messy, and… there are no cracks. They did this thing seamlessly, almost. No way out. Not even for the Avatar.
“You have a looong ways before you learn to metalbend, Twinkletoes.”
But the fight’s going on out there, and people are getting hurt and Aang is trapped again, doing absolutely nothing to help when he’s needed the most. Not unusual for him, actually.
He takes a deep breath and, completely pointlessly, yells a “let me out of here!”
Nope. Nothing. Reaches inside, jabbing in irritation at every former Avatar he can feal, question plain and simple, how do you get out of a metal box?
I’m not a metalbender, Kyoshi answers uselessly.
Don’t use fire, or you’ll run out of air. Yes, thank you, Roku. Reassuring.
And it’s just Aang staring at the dark walls of the metal cell, the room entirely dark though he can feel the coolness of metal beneath his hands, and it’s just like Toph said. Just that once, trapped and caged and he can’t break out. It’s ridiculous. Metalbend. Toph, where are you?!
Triple monkeyfeathers.
“Come onnnn.” He slams his hands against the wall again, but all he hears is the pointless, useless thumping. It’s pitch black, but he’s still seeing darkness, still hearing instead of feeling, instead of seeing the vibrations echoing around the walls. That was how Toph started.
Aang can’t even do that.
It’s dry in here – he doubts he could wave a handful of water from the air like Katara can with such ease, another thing he hasn’t learned, doesn’t know, and he slams a frustrated hand against the metal again. He has no water. Water can slice metal, but there’s nothing. Smellerbee has really nicely thought everything through. She had an entire gang with her, of course they knew how to contain the Avatar. The people he’s fought right alongside with.
King Kuei couldn’t have agreed to this, could he?
“How many times will I have to hit this before I figure out that vibration thing?” he yells pointlessly with no one to answer except his own echo. “Uggghh! Toph.” And drops his forehead against one of the walls that might be the door, but he’s turned and turned enough he doesn’t know which way’s up or down or sideways anymore.
Also, he’s getting tired of yelling at the walls.
His head hurts.
Aang slams his hands down again, closes his eyes for more effects than usefulness and tries to feel. He can feel the earth, but he has no idea how to twist it, how to be stronger and sturdier than metal itself. People are out there and dying and need him and Zuko’s gone crazy and Aang made a promise and maybe it’s good he’s not out there right now, but he needs to know if his entire family is okay. He’s probably never gonna figure this out.
Stop. Seeing.
Feel.
Feeeeeel – ugh, he hasn’t done this since back in the Ozai days when it was still him against the Fire Nation and soldiers chasing him everywhere and Zuko chasing him everywhere.
The thing is pretty much impenetrable. No fire, no water, no earth just means air. Air which will do nothing to metal but bouse right back off, not for lack of trying. And he’s still dizzy.
It wasn’t a blow to the head, it was some sort of stupid drug, wasn’t it? Thank you, Smellerbee, believing less and less in that friendship. They still aren’t being much better than the Fire Nation itself.
But. But they just want peace.
And all Aang’s doing is growing more and more frustrated until the door finally, finally opens again and –
And he’s instantly flooded by the sheer amount of light, even if it’s just a small torch or maybe only something else that’s just dimly glowing –
Aang notices the semi-unconscious form for as rumpled and messy as it looks now. “Zuko?”
They just throw him. Zuko hits the ground, lands on his hands, panting heavily. He looks like he was hit with the same stuff Aang was. But is maybe a bit more conscious. Pure spite is Aang’s best guess – Zuko is really, really good at that.
Zuko, who was restarting the war, who went back on his promises, lied to everyone.
Zuko, his best friend, his firebending teacher, his family.
“What did you do to him?” Aang yells, bolting forwards. He’s angry, can feel the edges of the Avatar State burning in, temper drained past what he can stand over the last few days between Zuko and Kuei and the fighting and now all of this, the power buzzing right beneath his skin with screaming and fire and burns like Azula’s lightning.
“We thought, with the Fire Lord in custody, maybe there were some arrangements we could make,” Smellerbee, shadowing behind the guards. She looks angry, but still just as cold and calmly collected. For all she said they started a new life, she’s everything Jet used to be. Would he be proud of her now, if he could see what she’s become?
“They won’t,” Zuko answers, coughing. Aang stops at that, the first hint he’s still awake, but he is. He’s picking himself up, shaky and unsteady but still somehow making it to standing, mostly. “I won’t trade my people for myself, I won’t let them.” He sounds vicious, furious with the sort of burning rage that Aang remembers on him from long, long ago. Back from before he changed. Like he’s somehow slipped right back the moment Aang flew out of his life again. Like – like – he should have been there to help him to stop him to save him, but wasn’t.
Again.
“You won’t be able to give them orders in here,” Smellerbee answers.
“I won’t be in here.” The fire comes next.
Aang bolts forwards instinctively, yelling a sharp, angry “Zuko, no,” but the girl is already dodging. He hasn’t seen her fight in long enough he’s forgotten how good she was, how fast she dodges Zuko’s next fire kick, rolls right beneath it and around him. Zuko turns. Aang moves to tackle him, to make him stop before he kills her, rage burning alive, but she’s already dodging and spinning and one of the guards is yelling something and then there’s the clang of metal and Zuko drops with a strangled cry.
It’s not a scream, it’s something – something gutted and pained and horrifying, and the sort of thing Aang already knows will be echoing in his head for the rest of his life.
“Zuko!” Aang grabs his shoulders, and his brother’s weight slumps against him, caving and dropping with strangled, pained gasping. His shoulder sinks against Aang’s chest, and he’s too big to properly hold. He goes down, and Aang goes with him, grunting and trying his best to keep him upright.
“Really?” Smellerbee sounds as disgusted as she does angry. “You’re the Avatar, you’re supposed to protect us, but you care about the Fire Lord more?”
He should’ve seen it earlier, should’ve reacted faster, but he’s too slow, again, too busy gripping Zuko’s shoulder to keep him from falling the rest of the way and hurting himself even more – her hand is moving, slender fingers wrapping over the hilt of the knife imbedded and glinting in Zuko’s side..
And realizes a second late, again, that he’s just as incapacitating him and holding him for Zuko to be hurt again, just long enough that Smellerbee rips the knife out. No hesitation, just grabs it and wrenches like she’s not tearing it from a living, breathing person who’s feeling every second of that agony. Like that doesn’t come with a gutted wail.
“What is wrong with you?!” Aang yells at her, and he can see himself starting to glow.
“He’s the Fire Lord,” she says, simply, and walks back out.
If Zuko weren’t half sprawled across his lap, he would’ve gotten up, would’ve flung them back and stood and fought, but all he saw was Zuko hurt and it was enough to cut off sense and any plans of reasonable escape. Sokka’s the idea guy. That’s why they can’t do anything without him.
And now it’s just him… and Zuko. And the pitch-black walls again.
The Fire Lord wears this stupid, stupid shoulder-piece thing that’s something fancy when it’s being looked at, and uncomfortably painful being ground into Aang’s chest. He scoots sideways, wraps an arm around Zuko’s chest and hauls him onto his back and really, really hopes it doesn’t tear anything further.
She just. Stabbed him. Like he was nothing.
He’s breathing in shaky, strangled gasps, hissing through his teeth. It’s hard for him to breathe. It is for Aang, too, for entirely different reasons.
He’s not Katara. He’s not a healer. Aang isn’t a healer, Zuko is bleeding out, all they have to yell for help at are nice, thick metal walls, and no one is coming. It’s just them, and he has no idea what to do.
And Zuko’s in so much pain.
Aang’s free hand hovers uselessly over him. “Okay, just –” Just, what? He has no idea what to do. “I…”
He coughs again, gasps and all but sinks into Aang’s grip like he’s too tired to fight, or maybe somehow relieved even if he so, so clearly asked Aang to kill him in a dream just about a day ago. Like seeing Aang here means somehow just relief. “Hi, Aang.” He sounds strangled and worn, voice tight with pain but far, far too calm.
“It’s gonna be okay, Zuko,” he says, hands flailing utterly uselessly. He can’t even see where the wound is, and it’s going to be bleeding too fast and he can smell the blood, distinct and coppery and entirely unforgettable against the already vaguely tangy scent of metal walls. “Let – let me just –”
“It’s okay.” Pain or no, he sounds so, so soft. Like he’s not the one dying, like Aang is somehow the one in pain who might need comfort or reassurance, because that’s just so plainly Zuko. Always worrying about everyone but himself.
And Aang remembers the war, and something in him just breaks. Whatever’s been strung together by tape and Katara since he heard about the colonies comes cracking and tearing down and a strangled, broken sob bubbles up, tears spilling helplessly.
“It’s okay.” Zuko’s still breathing shaky and uneven. His hand finds Aang’s first, darkness or no, fingers curling gently over Aang’s much smaller one, still warm through and through even if he’s slowly bleeding out. “Do it, I know you’re strong enough.”
It takes his mind a few seconds to catch up to that. This isn’t reassurance, this is a promise. It’s a I won’t hate you if you kill me with all the calm, soothing adoration that only Zuko could look at his would-be murderer with.
“If you ever see me turning into my father, I want you to – I want you to end me.”
“If you ever see me go bad, end me. Promise me, Aang.”
And he’s ripping his hand free of the Fire Lord’s like it burned him, which it didn’t, but it feels like something inside is breaking, a fractured fragment torn through his chest and it actually honestly aches. “No! I’m not going to kill you, Zuko, why would you even –”
“You promised.” Zuko sounds confused. Actually confused like someone refusing to hurt him is the most mind-boggling thing he’s heard in his life. “You promised me –”
“No.” His answer might’ve sounded fiercer and far more reassuring if his voice weren’t shaking something awful. But, seriously, he cannot believe he’s sitting here, stuck in a pitch-black box while the war restarts, or holding Zuko as he bleeds out and his ridiculous, infuriating older brother is looking him in the eye and seriously asking to get killed. “I’m not going to hurt you, I’m not –”
“Then, why’m I – why’m I here?” He sounds so confused. “Why would they… bring me to you?”
Zuko thought Aang was going to kill him from the moment he saw him? And he’s not even scared, or maybe he is and it’s just hidden between layers of pain and the room’s endless darkness. All Aang can see is the glinting gold of his brother’s eyes as his head rests on Aang’s chest, blinking up at him in something but exhausted and adoring.
That’s love. Though and through. And he’s still just waiting to be killed.
Aang wants to run. To get as far from this as he can, but he can’t because he can’t get through these stupid metal walls and he’s shaking and shaking and Zuko’s breathing all wrong and still muffledly gasping from pain, and he’s – he’s. Going to die.
But the Fire Nation soldiers won’t care, they’ll withdraw probably if they have a threat over Zuko’s head, because his people love him and they know he’ll sacrifice himself for them in a heartbeat. He would do it for anyone.
The bleeding, he needs to stop the bleeding.
Zuko flinches when Aang flickers a little flame into existence between his fingers, just enough that he can see, but Zuko’s entire body’s gone stiff like he’s immediately expecting pain, and Aang remembers the scars and the nightmares and how many times he’d wake screaming or pleading for the pain to stopmakeitstop when they were camping out in some random woods or another or Ember Island or his quarters in the Fire Nation palace when Aang slept-over.
And then all he can think of is the dream and flames gathering in his hands, and Zuko “go ahead, Aang! Do it!” and the flames curling over his hands into the jagged spiral fire-sword he would never have brought down on Ozai, and Zuko just waiting and waiting for the flames to burn him, wide-eyed and terrified and just standing there and refusing to fight because he’s –
Zuko.
Endlessly loyal, compassionate, loving, stupid, infuriating why are you like this, Zuko.
Of course, when he sees fire and is mostly immobile, he flinches. I – it’s not a big deal, and Aang is definitely not crying about that, and he’s not going to throw up either, or they’ll be stuck with that, too. Nope, not doing that, yuck.
One of Zuko’s hands is pressed over the wound, but blood has already seeped through his fingers and it’s soaking his sleeve, stained the side of his robes, and that’s when he’s wearing armor. He’ll have more blood outside than inside him soon.
Aang presses his hand over it. Lets the fire die, because he doesn’t need it, but the thick, warm blood is pushing anyway, even if he tries pushing, tries pressure. Zuko makes a strangled little noise at the strain. It must hurt. And everything Aang can do will make it hurt even worse. Not like he’s a blood bender, and what can he do? Wouldn’t pressure do more inside damage?
“I don’t know why they brought you here,” Aang answers, finally remembering the earlier question. “But. I’m not.”
“The world’s safety net, Aang.”
“I don’t care!” he yells back rawly. “I didn’t kill Ozai and he was the evilest man in the world.” Zuko told him he wishes he had. That maybe the voices would’ve stopped. It was a dream, but it was so, so real. He saw the flames lashing outwards, saw Zuko just standing there, hands raised, doing nothing but waiting with gutted but motionless terror for a horrifying, agonizing death and he won’t, won’t ever. “You’re my family. I’m definitely not going to hurt you.”
“Aang –” the idiot continues, because he’s absolutely amazing at digging his own graves and what is wrong with this person why is he begging for someone to kill him how could he want that –
What Zuko needs right now is Katara, someone kind and soft and gentle who can heal him, not Aang, never Aang because all he’s good at doing is fighting and he hates fighting and he never, ever wants to do this again.
“Stop talking,” he orders firmly, pressing his hand down tighter, squirming back enough that Zuko can actually lay a little better, keeps his non blood-covered hand under Zuko’s head in what he really, really hopes is somewhat comfortable. (Their sister was right about one thing, his hair is really, really soft. Thanks, Toph, he’ll be thinking about it for a while, and how do you even know that, you crazy earthbender who should-be-here-but-isn’t.) It’s not, for either of them, and if it were, he’d just as rather shove his idiot brother into a bundle of fluffy soft feathers were nothing could touch him but feathers are flammable and in Aang’s dream he used fire –
Why is it always fire?
Aang closes his eyes and tries to breathe. Zuko won’t have long, an’ if he doesn’t do something soon…
He’s not a healer. He’s not a healer, why in the name of every spirit alive did he not learn how to heal? That should be the Avatar’s job. Healing. Not fighting. Not murder.
There has got to be some Avatar that’s a healer. Somebody, somewhere, they can’t all be as stupid as Aang.
“Try to hold on,” he pleads, “I’m going to get some help, I hope.”
Zuko makes a little sound of assurance and he’s shaking, shivering or maybe – maybe, probably crying, too.
He can’t think about that right now.
Aang closes his eyes and reaches inwards. He can’t meditate properly right now, but hopefully his halfway into the Avatar State with pure desperation is enough for him to know. He reaches and pulls and searches and there’s no answer, no one answers, because, yeah, every one of his past lifetimes are either as dumb as Aang, or they just don’t want to answer to help because no one cares enough about Zuko to help him.
“Roku? Roku, please. I know you’re there.”
He sees a flicker and the last Avatar’s blur-coated form morphs off, the dim glow lighting everything and nothing.
“Priorities, Aang. It’s your friend, or the world.”
“I don’t care about the world!” Aang screams back, and he knows that’s not true, but he’s hurting and terrified and his brother’s blood is soaking through his pant leg now, and it’s coated one of his hands and it won’t stop and Zuko is dying and no one cares. “I need to save my brother!”
“Aang.” Roku has this way of being firm without angry or cruel but everything feels cruel right now. The world is cruel, and Aang finally sees what Sokka’s been trying so hard to hide from him. “You are the Avatar. Protecting the world is what –”
“What I’m supposed to do, I know.” And that gets out without screaming or sobbing, anyway, but he’s still on the edge of both. “But – but Zuko –”
“Was going to upend the balance in the world,” Roku replies firmly, “Perhaps it is best like this. It frees your hand from the act, while the ending is the same. At least you can be with him in his final moments. I know it’s what you want.”
Because. Roku, Zuko’s great grandfather, wants him dead. Everyone wants Zuko’s dead, even Zuko, except Katara who doesn’t even care but doesn’t want Aang’s hands covered with guilt, and Sokka, who isn’t even here.
It’s just Aang. Aang, who loves too much, and doesn’t care because – it’s who he is.
There has to be something he can do. At least if they stop the blood flow and keep it closed, he’ll survive until Aang figures out a way to get out and find Katara. If you can’t stop blood flow by pressure, then…
Yeah. You can cauterize it. Aang just never thought of it, because he hates fire, and even if fire is beautiful and he sees the life it’s meant for, he can’t use it to fight or hurt because people do that enough. If he used fire, that means he’d have to – to burn Zuko?
That’s. He. Can’t.
But it’s that or Zuko dies.
Roku has faded. Aang looks down at Zuko’s face, takes a shaky breath, and ignites one of his hands again.
His hand is shaking, anyway, the flame flickering with every bit of how much he hates it. He burned Katara, saw her fall to her knees and crying and Sokka yelled at him and Sokka never yells at him. And now he’ll have to do that to – to –“Zuko?”
His face looks so, so pale, even with golden light dancing and reflecting shadows off of it. “Aang.”
He shifts again. Lets Zuko’s head drop, scoots carefully out from under him.
The knife went into him. Does he just need a surface burn or does he need to – ughyikesgross – to somehow figure out how far inside the blade went and burn it all the way down?
Zuko looks tired. Worn, pale, his face wet, yes, he’s crying. The water’s glinting off his face.
He’s not going to throw up, he can do this, he has to do this. Even if he feels another stubborn tear drip off his face. “I’m sorry, this is, uh, probably going to – okay, when you cauterize something, how deep do you need to go? Is it all the way or –”
Maybe Zuko isn’t quite as out of it as Aang thought he was, because he still has energy to slap a hand to his forehead and moan. “Aang –”
“No,” he says seriously, “Where do I…?”
He sighs. “Okay, I don’t understand. You promised. I’m doing exactly what my father would’ve done, why…?”
Like. Love and pain aren’t mutually exclusive. But Zuko hasn’t had anybody he cares about who hasn’t fought or hurt him. Aang’s just adding himself to the list. He pretty much already did.
“I lied,” Aang tells him, shamefully, “I wanted you to relax, but I lied. I’m not going to kill you, I can’t.”
“But if I live, I’ll keep fighting, and the movement will fall. And – and I don’t want to die, but I’m still starting another war.”
“I’ll deal with that,” Aang tells him, and really, really hopes that’s gonna work. “You gave me hope in the Fire Nation again, and for the world, not Roku or anyone else, and I’m not letting you die. I love you, Zuko.”
He somehow manages a smile, anyway. “Okay.”
Like, the best response to I love you and won’t kill you is just that. okay.
Aang squares his shoulders, braces himself and peels Zuko’s blood-covered hand from the wound. Clings to his hand, forces himself not to hesitate and desperately prays Zuko will actually, somehow look at him the same way after, tries not to think about how he already has a messy mass of scarring over the area from Azula’s lightning, and lowers the flame.
Zuko does scream.
Apparently, he won’t actually scream at getting stabbed, but when someone comes out fire-y, he does. His hand clenches tightly over Aang’s, who doesn’t let go either, tears stubbornly streaking down his face and jaw clenched and he tries to keep going. Fire is so, so hard when your emotions are fraying and cracking and falling and breaking.
Aang can feel the buzzing warmth in his hands, hates it’s so destructive, hates everything about it and that he can’t stop or make it go away until he’s done, and the sizzling and Zuko’s screams, and, spirits, the smell.
And Zuko is rambling, words broken and frayed and desperate and semi incoherent and Aang wishes they were incoherent, because he hears too much, understands too much –
“Father,” is all Aang makes out, really. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please –”
Because he thinks. He’s in the past. With Ozai.
And Aang is doing this to someone. To him. to Zuko.
His stomach heaves. He swallows desperately. And tightens his other hand in Zuko’s.
He yanks the fire out as quickly as he can. Somebody should’ve told him firebenders didn’t catch flame like paper. It’s hard. But the area is blackened over and he lets the fire die, shaking, chest heaving and stomach heaving and – oh, no, no, no, he was not supposed to throw up in here!
Zuko’s rolled onto his good side, curling up in a way that looks genuinely agonizing. But he let the fire die and he can’t see anymore, just hear his older brother panting and genuinely, outright sobbing.
And he’s crying, too. He’s the Avatar, he’s supposed to be calm and levelheaded, unshakable and all-powerful but he can’t even save his own family, can’t protect them from anything or anyone, can’t keep them safe from the pain they fall, and he still is doing absolutely nothing but crying even if he isn’t the one being hurt.
And, honestly, how much can one person possibly cry?
(He’s thirsty. He wonders if Zuko is. Are they going to get water?)
(It’s vaguely smokey in here. Will they even be aired out?)
One of his hands aches, the one Zuko was holding onto until he ripped away when he rolled over, aches from where it was being grinded, bone on bone.
“Zuko?” Blood-covered and ash-streaked or no, he tries to touch his shoulder, gets as far as a gentle shake to the Fire-Lord fancy clothes-thing that probably has a name of cultural significance but Aang still couldn’t repeat to save their lives.
He says nothing, shifts, curling tighter like he’s trying to pull away, and Aang is panicking now. His heart is racing and he feels so dizzy. That’s the feeling Zuko used to give him. Back at it again, aren’t they?
“Zuko!” He doesn’t answer to the name.
He wouldn’t be sure he was still conscious, even, if he weren’t gasping still, if he didn’t let out a quiet, strangled moan that makes Aang’s heart clench up all over again. No words, just quiet little mostly muffled crying. Zuko doesn’t really cry, or at least he’s really good at hiding it, trying so hard to be strong and reassuring until he cracks through and through, the same front Sokka showed, but in a way only Zuko could.
Burning him, what was Aang thinking, he has one of the world’s most impressive scars on his face from his own dad and Aang just set him on fire, again, like everyone he loves tries to hurt or kill him and Aang just nicely added himself to the fire-list. “I’m sorry,” he tries, gutted and desperate. “Say something to me. Please, Zuko –”
He wishes he knew what was going through his head, also doesn’t want to, probably a million, never-ending nightmares that never fade away.
“Please,” Zuko fumbles out in a desperate, gutted whisper, “Make it stop.”
He’s only half lucid. The pain, the blood loss, probably – and Aang wonders if he’s more hurt than he looks. Though all the armor, it’s hard to tell.
Still shaking, he braces his hands on the floor and scoots forwards.
Tries not to think about how wet the floor feels, about the smell or the screams still echoing in his ears and the everything about this.
Is Zuko’s mind still flash-back-ing? Aang’s seen that before. His own does it. Like those times where they were together at first and Zuko was just too close and his mind just flashed, and all he could remember was smothering streaks of fire or the click of his door locking or…
Everything.
Honestly. It took his brain forever to catch up to remembering Zuko wasn’t a threat, and Aang still feels awful about that. Katara had been even slower, though, so he also doesn’t feel too bad. Sokka had hugged him and told him it was natural, Toph had just punched him with a ‘you got this, Twinkletoes.”
Got this.
Ha.
He does not got this, he’s not his sister, he can’t do anything with the same fluid, uh, hard-core straight-ness? Or something. But anyway, he’s not Toph, and he has no idea how to relieve anxiety, which is ridiculous when Toph is the one raised by some of the world’s most messed up parents, and it’s not like Aang ever had anything bad even happen to him.
Not like he’s the one who lived through the war.
Just like Katara fussed and fussed about his underwater dreams back at the start, but it’s not like it mattered – sure, it was smothering and terrifying and he remembers fighting for air and waves crashing over and over him and he couldn’t breathe and he’s an airbender with no reach of air and water was flooding his lungs – but he’s the Avatar, he never dies, anyway. It wasn’t like it even mattered.
But. He knows the flashing-back thing.
He tries to shake Zuko’s shoulder again. All it does is make him flinch and curl away.
“Don’t,” he murmurs, pleads, like Aang could somehow not have had enough of hurting him, of getting people hurt. Of getting Zuko hurt. But he would have, wasn’t he? He was gonna kill him. “Please, father –”
“It’s me,” he tries, desperate, “It’s Aang, please tell me you hear me? Zuko.” He’s almost tired of saying it, of whispering his brother’s name like it’s a plea, like it might bring him back somehow, like it might fix everything, like it might, somehow, restabilize the world and bring back the person he knew who would never start a war. “I – it’s just me.”
And tries nudging his leg under Zuko’s head so he doesn’t have to lay all the way on the floor and just prays that’s familiar enough.
It’s just, he wants to say, but doesn’t know how, your brother.
He doesn’t know if Zuko can even hear him.
And all he can see is a dim, glinting gold. His eyes. That nearly glow, fire light, even in the darkness. And knows if he tried fire again, all he’d see is a pale, tear-stained face and it’d make Zuko flinch and panic all over.
But he’s still in so much pain, and that’s Aang’s fault in the first place and he could have stopped this, should have stopped this and seen things changing and Zuko falling and been there when he needed him.
Is this ever how Roku felt? When he realized Sozin started losing it? The same, the guilt, the grief? Did he ever wonder, if he sat and talked, that things could have been different?
It doesn’t really matter. Because Aang’s not Roku, and Zuko definitely isn’t Sozin.
Zuko’s not like anyone in his family.
He loves.
So, so much.
Love that’s only been met with pain.
He strikes his non-wet fingers through Zuko’s hair, prays he feels it and finds it at least mildly reassuring, because Aang would bet his life that Ozai never did anything like this in his life, and wonders all the while if Ozai felt anything as he burned his son’s face, if it was anything at all, if it was even half the sickening unstoppable horror that Aang did every second.
That was Zuko, and he – he hurt him, and saved his life but it doesn’t matter when – when –
But his brother’s still shaking, and Aang is still crying, and he’s just. So, so tired.
He presses his other hand to Zuko’s cheek, holding it upside-down and desperately prays the gentleness is enough to remind him of something, hopes the bit of what he feels inside shows. Fingers pressed to his jaw and gently rubs at thumb across his cheek, mumbling a string of useless somethings, I missed you, you’re safe, it’s just. Just me.
And tries to pretend, after the last few days, that should reassure anybody.