[katara makes a quip about zuko serving tea, and the poor kid starts spiralling
real angsty western air temple bit, posted here cause it doesn't really deserve a full fic or anything]
âPoisoned, maybe?â she asked pointedly, side eyeing the teacups.
And it was such a small thing, a comment that was totally understandable in its skepticism and from Katara, who absolutely hated his guts and probably just him as a whole, but something right then shriveled up and died inside Zukoâs chest.
His hands didnât shake because he didnât let them, but he knew that if he looked down, he would be able to see the tea in the cups simmering, probably burning the leaves and making the drink hopelessly bitter. At that point, it might as well have been poisoned, become just as disgusting and detestable as the person who had made it.
Tea was one of the only things he could think to share. One of the only things he took comfort in because it had been pure and untainted, something that reminded him of Uncle - the only person he had left. Zukoâs grip on the tray tightened, and another burning realization crashed over him, because what was he doing.
He had betrayed Uncle. He had turned his back on everything Uncle had taught him and all the kindness and unconditional love he had been given (which he hadnât and didnât deserve, see see see?) and here he was making tea like it was his to share.
âSo it is?â came Kataraâs voice, snippy and suspicious but he deserved it. âAnother one of your plans?â
He knew they were all looking at him now, expecting him to blow up in their faces and try to defend himself, or maybe throw away the tray in anger. But Zuko just let his grip tighten until his knuckles bled white, and he took a shuddering breath before he shoved the stabbing pain in his chest down. Down, down along with everything else because what was he even doing feeling like that? Like he had a right. Like he could feel that and think it was okay.
Long ago, maybe he would have said that he was a prince, and that princes shouldnât feel that way.
But now, as a traitor, as a coward who had done nothing but hurt people and chase a group of fucking teenagers and children around the globe for his own selfish desires (He had wanted to go home, he had wanted his family to love him. Had that been too much to ask?), Zuko felt like the scum of the fucking earth.
(For someone like him? Yes, it was.)
He wanted to laugh just as much as he wanted to cry, because what was he doing. There was no forgiveness here, he didn't have the right to ask for it at all. He had gotten this far on nothing but luck and sheer inane persistence. It was all bound to fall and crumble from underneath his feet, like all things did and eventually would.
Zuko didnât even want himself.
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