Little Milk Bread

[littlemilkbread]

So yesterday when I was looking for a good heart wrenching Zuko fic, I realised that we don't have enough angsty one with the original angsty boy (not that he deserves more, the poor baby has been through enough).

Enjoy the poor execution of this idea that popped in my mind.

TW: blood, graphic violence, severe physical trauma, and medical distress. If you are sensitive to body horror or medical trauma, please proceed with caution or skip this post.

~~~~~~~☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆~~~~~~~

The smell of scorched earth and wet iron was already thick in the air, but it was the silence that truly terrified him.

Zuko’s boots skidded on the slick moss, his breath coming in jagged, uneven hitches that burned in his throat. He had lost sight of the Earth Kingdom scouts minutes ago, the forest swallowing their shouts, leaving only the oppressive drip of humidity and the pounding of his own heart. Then, he saw it—the splash of crimson against the vibrant, mocking green of the ferns.

“No,” he breathed, the word a fractured thing. “No, no, no.”

You were slumped against the roots of an ancient great-oak, your hands pressed firmly against your side, but the dark, viscous fluid was already winning. It seeped between your fingers, painting your knuckles in a gruesome, shimmering glove of red. It was a deep, jagged gash—a polearm’s parting gift—and every time your heart thundered in your chest, the forest floor drank more of you.

Zuko collapsed to his knees beside you, his hands hovering uselessly. He was a prince of a nation built on ash, a master of the most destructive element known to man, and yet he felt like a child reaching into a storm.

“Don’t look,” you rasped, your voice thin, like parchment tearing. Your face was the color of sea-foam, eyes fluttering as you tried to catch his gaze. “Zuko, look at me.”

“I have to stop the bleeding,” he choked out. He tried to tear a strip from his tunic, but his hands were shaking so violently the fabric wouldn't yield. He was drowning in the sight of it—the way your skin was beginning to cool, the way the ‘wet smack’ of blood hitting the leaves sounded like a death knell. “I can’t—I don’t have any bandages left, the supplies were on the ostrich-horse—”

He looked at the wound again and his stomach turned. It was too wide. Too deep. A tourniquet wouldn't work here. The realization hit him like a physical blow to the sternum, leaving him gasping.

“You have to close it,” you whispered.

Zuko froze. His golden eyes went wide, reflecting the flickering, dying light of the canopy. He knew what you meant. He had seen it in the infirmaries of the Fire Navy—the last resort of the desperate. Cauterization.

“No,” he snarled, a visceral rejection. “I won’t. I can’t.”

“Zuko, I’m fading,” you said, and the terrifying calm in your voice was worse than any scream. You reached out, your bloodied hand cupping his jaw, leaving a smear of warmth on his pale skin. “You have to. Use your fire.”

“I will kill you!” he burst out, a sob finally breaking through his chest. He thought of the scent of his own burning flesh on the day of the Duel. He thought of the screaming in the arena, the smell of the charcoal that had become his face. “I don’t know how to be gentle with it! It’s destruction, it’s—it’s a curse! I’ll burn you, I’ll hurt you—”

“You could never hurt me,” you interrupted, your thumb brushing over the edge of his scar. You looked at him with a terrifying, unwavering devotion, even as your eyes began to glaze. “You’re not him, Zuko. Your fire... it’s life now. It’s what keeps us warm at night. It’s you. I trust you.”

“I’m going to cause you so much pain,” he whispered, his forehead dropping to touch yours, his tears falling into the blood on your shirt.

“I know,” you breathed, your grip on his hand tightening with the last of your strength. “But you’re going to save me. Please. Do it before I can’t ask you anymore.”

Zuko pulled back, his face a mask of absolute, agonizing grief. He shifted, his movements mechanical and stiff, as he moved your hands away from the wound. The sight of the raw, pulsing tissue made his vision swim. He felt like he was back in the palace, watching the sun disappear, knowing the world was about to end.

He inhaled, a shaky, shuddering breath, and called upon the spark.

Usually, his fire felt like a roar. Today, it felt like a sickness. He focused everything he had—every ounce of control Iroh had ever beaten into his stubborn skull—into the tips of his fingers. The air began to shimmer. A low, orange glow began to emanate from his palms, the heat radiating outward until the moisture on the nearby leaves began to hiss and curl.

“I love you,” he whispered, a final apology.

He pressed his hand down.

The forest didn't just hear your scream; it felt it. It was a sound that didn't belong in the world of the living—a raw, guttural shriek of the soul being torn apart.

The sound of hissing meat filled the air, a thick, cloying white smoke rising between Zuko’s fingers. The smell—the horrific, sweet-and-acrid scent of burning flesh—hit Zuko’s nostrils and he nearly retched. His eyes were blown wide, fixed on the way your back arched off the ground, your heels digging into the dirt as your entire body went rigid with a pain so absolute it transcended consciousness.

“I know,” Zuko chanted, his voice a broken litany. "I know, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

He didn't pull away. He couldn't. If he stopped now, the wound would only be half-sealed, and you would bleed out in the middle of your agony. He had to be thorough. He had to be a monster to be a savior.

You were sobbing now, the screams breaking into high-pitched, wheezing gasps for air. Your hands flew up, clawing at his forearms, your fingernails digging into his skin deep enough to draw blood, but he didn't feel it. All he felt was the heat traveling up his arms, the vibration of your agony shaking his very bones. He watched your face contort, your eyes rolling back until only the whites showed, your teeth bared in a silent, horrific grimace.

He was the one doing this. He was the flame. He was the scar-maker.

The guilt had fangs, biting into his organs, twisting his stomach until he felt the bile rise. He was staring at the visceral ruin he was creating, the black, charred edges of what used to be soft skin. Every second felt like an eternity in the Boiling Rock.

Finally, the bleeding stopped. The liquid red had been replaced by a blackened, puckered crust of charcoal and trauma.

Zuko jerked his hands back as if he had been the one burned. He fell backward, his hands held out in front of him, glowing orange as they cooled. He stared at them with utter loathing. They were shaking so hard they were a blur.

The forest returned to its oppressive silence, save for your ragged, wet whimpers. You had collapsed back into the dirt, your body still twitching with aftershocks, your face drenched in a cold, grey sweat. You didn't look at him. You couldn't.

Zuko scrambled toward you, but stopped inches away, afraid that even his shadow would hurt you. He looked at the ruin of your side, then at your face, which looked ten years older than it had five minutes ago.

“I did it,” he whispered, the words tasting like ash. “You’re—you’re alive.”

But as he watched you shiver, your breath coming in tiny, terrified hitches, Zuko knew the truth. He had saved your life, but he had broken the world. He sat there on his knees, hunched over himself, the white noise of horror roaring in his ears. He had become the nightmare you told him he could never be. He had used the gift of the dragons to turn the person he loved into a casualty.

He wanted to hold you, to pull you into his chest and tell you it was over, but his hands... his hands still smelled like you. Like the fire. Like the end of everything.

He stayed on his knees in the dirt, a prince of nothing, watching the smoke rise from your skin into the cold, uncaring sky.

[littlemilkbread]

**You Loved Him While He Was Falling**

I’m going to warn you gently before I do this to you. This is not comforting. This is not soft.

Oikawa x reader hurt & angst

Love that doesn’t save him.

Love that *stays anyway*.

---

The first thing you learn about loving Oikawa Tōru is that he is always running.

Toward something.

Away from something.

Usually both.

You fall in love with him in the margins—between practices, between laughter, between the moments where he forgets to perform and just breathes. Those moments are rare, and you treasure them like something fragile.

He kisses you like he’s afraid time will steal it if he doesn’t.

He laughs like the sound is a shield.

He trains like stopping would kill him.

You don’t tell him you’re scared at first.

You tell yourself love is supposed to be patient. Supposed to wait. Supposed to believe.

So you do.

You believe him when he says, “I’m fine.”

You believe him when he jokes about pain.

You believe him when he promises, “After this match, I’ll rest.”

But there is always another match.

You start noticing the way he winces when he stands. The way he doesn’t let you touch his knee anymore. The way he goes quiet when you ask how he’s feeling, like the question itself is dangerous.

One night, you press your forehead to his back while he tapes his leg, your arms wrapped around his waist.

“You don’t have to be invincible,” you whisper.

He freezes. Then he laughs, soft and tired.

“That’s a shame,” he says. “Because that’s the only thing I’m good at.”

You don’t know how to argue with that.

---

The night it happens, you’re in the stands.

You don’t remember standing up.

You don’t remember screaming his name.

You only remember the sound.

Not the crowd.

Not the whistle.

The sound he makes when he hits the floor.

It’s small. Broken. Human.

You’re out of your seat before you realize it, pushing past people, vision blurring as panic crashes through you. By the time you reach the court, he’s gripping his knee, face pale, mask gone completely.

“Hey,” you breathe, dropping beside him. “Hey, hey, don’t move.”

His eyes find yours.

For the first time since you’ve known him, he looks scared.

“…I’m sorry,” he whispers.

Your chest aches.

“It’s okay,” you say, even though it isn’t. “I’ve got you.”

He grips your sleeve as the medics arrive, knuckles white.

“Don’t let them bench me,” he pleads quietly. “Please.”

Tears sting your eyes.

“Torū,” you whisper, forehead pressing to his, “your body is begging you to stop.”

His grip tightens.

“…I didn’t mean for it to get this bad.”

“I know.”

The stretcher feels like surrender.

He only looks at you as they carry him off, and for the first time since you’ve known him, he doesn’t smile.

That’s when the fear finally reaches you.

Not sharp.

Not sudden.

Heavy.

---

Recovery strips him bare.

Without volleyball, Oikawa doesn’t know how to exist. He stares at the ceiling for hours. He snaps at you, then apologizes like he’s ashamed of needing you so much.

“I don’t know who I am like this,” he admits one night, voice barely there.

You curl into him carefully, afraid of hurting what’s already broken.

“You’re still you,” you say. He doesn’t answer.

Physical therapy is cruel. Progress is slow. Some days he comes home shaking, frustration leaking out of him in quiet, ugly ways.

One afternoon, he throws his brace across the room.

“What if this is it?” he asks, eyes red. “What if this is as far as I go?”

You kneel in front of him, hands trembling as you take his face.

“Then we’ll face it together.”

He closes his eyes. He doesn’t say *we* back.

---

The doctor is kind. That almost makes it worse. The words come carefully, gently wrapped so they won’t cut too deep.

*Permanent damage.*

*Reduced mobility.*

*Competitive play unlikely.*

Oikawa nods like he expected it.

You feel like the ground has vanished.

Later, in the car, he laughs. It’s hollow and sharp and wrong.

“Guess I finally found my limit, huh?”

You reach for his hand. He pulls away.

That’s when you realize something terrifying.

He’s already leaving.

---

He doesn’t break down.

He doesn’t cry.

He withdraws.

He stops talking about volleyball. Stops watching matches. Stops letting you see him when the bitterness surfaces, when the anger eats at him from the inside out.

One night, he tells you he’s applied overseas—for school. A coaching program. Something adjacent to the dream he lost.

“It’s a good opportunity,” he says. “I’ll be busy.”

You force a smile. “When were you going to tell me?”

He shrugs. “I didn’t want you to worry.”

You’re always worrying.

The distance starts before he ever leaves.

---

The goodbye is quiet. No fight. No dramatic confession.

Just two people standing in a station, holding hands too tightly.

“I’m proud of you,” you tell him.

He swallows. “You shouldn’t be.”

You shake your head. “I love you.”

For a moment, you think he won’t say it back.

Then, quietly “I love you too. That’s why… this can’t come with me.”

The words don’t register at first.

“…What?”

He looks away.

“I can’t be who you deserve anymore,” he says. “Every time you look at me, I remember what I lost.”

You feel something inside you crack.

“I don’t care about volleyball,” you say desperately. “I care about you.”

“I don’t,” he whispers. “Not yet.”

He lets go of your hand.

That’s the moment you understand:

Love can’t save someone who doesn’t want to be seen while they’re broken.

---

Years later, you see him on a screen.

A commentator mentions his name. Former prodigy. Brilliant mind. Career cut short.

He smiles for the camera.

It’s the same one he always used.

You turn the TV off.

Sometimes, late at night, you think about the boy who ran himself into the ground because he was afraid of being ordinary.

You loved him while he was shining.

You loved him while he was breaking.

You loved him even when he couldn’t stay.

And that has to be enough.

Because sometimes, the saddest thing isn’t losing someone, it’s loving them exactly as much as you could

and still watching them walk away.

---

If you’re crying, I did my job 🫰

[littlemilkbread]

Oikawa Tōru Does Not Rest

Oikawa Tōru learned very early that talent was a cruel thing.

It was something you were either born with or spent your entire life chasing, fingers bleeding, lungs burning, heart pounding in your ears while someone else soared effortlessly ahead of you.

He had chosen the second option.

That choice came with a cost.

The gym lights were already on when Oikawa arrived.

They always were.

The custodians had long since stopped asking why the Seijoh gym was occupied before sunrise. They simply unlocked the doors, flicked on the lights, and let the familiar echo of a volleyball hitting hardwood fill the building like a heartbeat that refused to rest.

Oikawa dropped his bag near the bench and rolled his shoulders once, twice, loosening muscles that never truly relaxed anymore. His knee throbbed faintly as he stretched, a dull ache that had become background noise over the past few months, like the hum of the lights above or the squeak of his shoes on the floor.

He ignored it.

Of course he did.

“Just one more,” he muttered, setting the ball in the air.

The toss was perfect. It always was. Years of repetition had carved the motion into his bones. Jump, arch, snap. The ball slammed into the wall with a sharp crack and rebounded cleanly back into his hands.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Each jump sent a ripple of pain up his right leg, sharper than before, but Oikawa’s jaw tightened and his smile stayed plastered firmly in place, even though no one was watching.

Especially because no one was watching.

Being alone was dangerous. Alone, there was no audience to perform for, no teammates to distract him, no laughter to hide behind. Alone, all he had was the echo of his thoughts—and the quiet realization that no matter how much he trained, no matter how perfect his sets were, someone like Ushijima Wakatoshi would always exist.

Natural monsters didn’t need to break themselves to win.

Oikawa did.

By the time the rest of the team arrived, his shirt was soaked through and his knee had gone numb in that unsettling way that meant it was very much not okay.

“Oi, Oikawa-san, you’re early again,” Iwaizumi said, eyes narrowing slightly as he took in the scene—the discarded jacket, the sweat, the faint limp Oikawa tried to mask by leaning casually against the wall.

“Early bird gets the worm, Iwa-chan~,” Oikawa sang, flashing a grin. “Besides, I can’t let my oh-so-reliable ace slack off, can I?”

Iwaizumi snorted, but his gaze lingered on Oikawa’s leg. “You’re limping.”

“I am not.”

“You literally are.”

“It’s called a stylish walk.”

“Idiot.”

But Iwaizumi didn’t push further. He never did—not directly. Oikawa was too good at deflecting, too practiced at turning concern into a joke. And besides, they had practice to run.

Practice was brutal.

Oikawa made it that way.

Every drill was faster, sharper, more demanding than the last. He chased perfection like it was oxygen, like if he stopped moving for even a second he might drown in the realization that perfection was still not enough.

“Again!” he called, wiping sweat from his eyes. “That timing was off!”

His knee screamed when he jumped to set, white-hot pain lancing through the joint, but he bit down hard enough that he tasted blood and forced his hands steady.

The set was flawless.

The spike hit the floor.

Point.

No one noticed the way Oikawa landed a fraction too carefully afterward, weight shifting awkwardly to his other leg.

By the end of practice, the ache had grown into something deeper, uglier. His knee felt swollen, tight, like it didn’t quite belong to him anymore. He wrapped it quickly before anyone could comment, laughing off Iwaizumi’s glare.

“I’m fine,” he insisted. “Seriously. You worry too much.”

Iwaizumi’s fists clenched. “You say that every time.”

“And I’m always right.”

That night, Oikawa lay awake staring at the ceiling, knee propped up on a pillow, ice melting slowly against his skin. Every movement sent a reminder through his body—a warning, maybe.

He ignored that too.

Because if he stopped, if he rested, if he let himself slow down—

Someone else would get ahead.

The days blurred together.

School. Practice. Extra practice. Matches. Scouting reports. Film review. Late nights and early mornings and the constant, gnawing fear that no matter how much he gave, it would never be enough.

His knee deteriorated quietly.

It locked sometimes when he stood up too fast. It buckled once during practice, just for a second, sending a jolt of panic through him that he buried beneath laughter and a dramatic flop to the floor.

“Whoa~ Guess gravity hates me today!”

The team laughed.

Iwaizumi didn’t.

“You need to sit out,” he said flatly.

Oikawa waved him off. “And miss practice? What if someone messes up the tempo without me?”

“You’re not irreplaceable,” Iwaizumi snapped before he could stop himself.

The words hung heavy in the air.

Oikawa’s smile flickered—not gone, but thinner. Sharper.

“…I know,” he said softly.

That was the problem.

The match that broke him was supposed to be routine.

Not easy—but manageable. A team they’d studied, prepared for, anticipated. Oikawa felt good during warm-ups, adrenaline masking the pain, his body humming with the familiar thrill of competition.

He told himself it would be fine.

The first set flew by. His sets were crisp, his serves vicious, his smile bright and unbreakable.

The second set was tighter. Longer rallies. More jumps.

By the third, his knee was burning.

Every landing felt wrong.

Every push-off was slower, weaker, and panic crept into his chest like cold water.

Not now. Not now. Not now.

Mid-rally, he jumped for a quick set—something he’d done a thousand times.

His knee gave out mid-air.

It wasn’t dramatic at first. Just a sickening shift, a feeling of something slipping where it shouldn’t, followed by an explosion of pain so intense it stole the air from his lungs.

He hit the floor hard.

The gym went silent.

Oikawa tried to stand.

His leg refused.

Pain roared, blinding and absolute, and for the first time in years, his smile shattered completely.

“I—” His voice broke. He laughed weakly, breath hitching. “Haha… guess I really messed up that landing, huh?”

Iwaizumi was at his side in seconds, hands gripping his shoulders. “Don’t move.”

The world felt too loud, too bright. His knee throbbed violently, already swelling, already betraying him.

The stretcher felt like defeat.

As they wheeled him past the court, Oikawa turned his face away, biting his lip hard enough to draw blood.

He hated this.

Hated the weakness. Hated the way his body had chosen now, of all times, to fail him. Hated the thought that everyone could see it—that they would remember him like this.

Broken.

The hospital smelled like antiseptic and disappointment.

The diagnosis came quietly, clinically.

Ligament damage. Severe strain. Possible tear.

Weeks. Maybe months.

No volleyball.

The words echoed in his head, hollow and unreal.

Oikawa stared at his knee, wrapped and immobilized, and felt something inside him collapse.

“What do you mean ‘no volleyball’?” he asked, voice light, too light. “You’re joking, right? Doctors love exaggerating.”

The doctor didn’t smile.

Iwaizumi’s fists shook.

That night, alone in his room, Oikawa finally let himself cry.

Not pretty tears. Not quiet ones.

He sobbed until his chest ached and his throat burned, hands clutching the blankets like they could anchor him to something solid.

If he couldn’t play—if he couldn’t train—

Who was he?

Recovery was hell.

Rest felt like punishment.

Watching practice from the sidelines was worse than pain. Every set thrown by someone else felt wrong. Every mistake felt personal.

He smiled. He joked. He cheered.

And every night, he lay awake terrified that the world was moving on without him.

That someone stronger, faster, more talented would take his place.

That all his effort—all his suffering—had been for nothing.

One evening, Iwaizumi sat beside him in the empty gym.

“You don’t have to destroy yourself to be worth something,” he said quietly.

Oikawa laughed weakly. “Then why does it feel like that’s the only way I can keep up?”

Iwaizumi didn’t have an answer.

Neither did Oikawa.

But for the first time, as he rested his aching leg and listened to the echo of the gym, Oikawa wondered—just maybe—if surviving mattered as much as winning.

And if learning to stop might be the hardest battle he’d ever fight.