A/N: Thank you guys for the favorites, likes and reviews! It's been so long since I've written anything, let alone a fanfiction, so I greatly appreciate it! Truthfully, I have no idea where I'm going with the plot of this story, but with the reviews I've received, you guys want something different and new and cutting edge—so I'll do my best to deliver! I won't lie, there will be predicable moments and probably some familiar tropes. But I'm trying my hand at writing a more mature relationship than what I have in the past (probably because now I'm an adult and I've been in a relationship for going on two years now). So I want very in-character, realistic twenty-somethings who have a lot on their plates. So here's the second chapter, and I hope it lives up to your expectations.

Two

"Morning" came too fast for Zuko. He'd fallen asleep without changing, and now he regretted that decision. By the time he had encountered Katara in the hallway that night, Zuko's sea-salted clothes had dried and nearly stiffened against his skin. He couldn't wait to get out of them. But when Katara doused him with water, they became soft again, and clung uncomfortably to his body. When he laid down he had every intention of getting up and changing his clothes and washing himself before crawling into bed and passing out, but the bed was so comfortable and it smelled like flowers and vanilla beans. And as he dozed off he promised himself he would get up in five minutes. Just five minutes to rest his eyes. Just five.

Five hours later, he opened his eyes. His back hurt and his skin felt itchy. Through the smell of his own sweat and rejuvenated sea water, he was still breathing in the scent of flowers and vanilla beans. His right arm was folded across his chest and weighed heavily on his lungs. Discomfort. He squeezed his fingers into his palm—what was that? Lifting his hand, Zuko found that he was still holding the engagement piece that Katara had thrown onto the floor. He wondered, for a moment, through the tired fog that was his mind, what had happened. What had been so bad that they—Katara and Aang, the literal power couple of the world—couldn't work out? For a brief moment, he saw flashes of his relationship with Mai. He saw their fights and their cuddles. Their heated moments and their—other heated moments. And for a split second he caught himself missing her. Missing the stoic, pale-faced girl with knives hidden in her sleeves and between her words. He missed the rare occasions of sweet affection that they shared—almost in secret because it wasn't their style. He missed the way his blood rushed when she refused to yell at him. When her lack of emotion fueled his. But then again, maybe he was just lonely.

Out the window, the sky was still black. No sign of sunlight danced on the horizon—he thought maybe it was gone forever. And maybe it would take his burden of bending with it forever, too. He exhaled warmly, and a tiny flame flickered from between his lips. He wasn't so lucky.

With a groan, Zuko sat up. Every muscle in his body ached. He thought that sleeping in a bed—an actual bed with a soft mattress and ample pillows—would feel like heaven. And it had. When he first laid down. But the muscles in his back had grown used to the hard, thin mattress in the ship, and through the night had worked too hard to keep him still on the plush mattress. Cringing, he stood up. He'd fallen asleep in his boots. In his damp boots. It was a disgusting feeling. Zuko dropped Katara's necklace on the bedside table and made his way to the bathroom. The candles he'd lit hours ago were still burning steadily, as true Fire Nation made candles did. They were made with a special, dense tallow that was cultivated from the fat of pure-bred cattle, whose meat was served to only the richest, most elegant families in the Nation. There was a small village that made its living off of these candles. Each family had their own special scented recipe. One family used cinnamon and cocoa. Another family used lavender and black pepper. And there were dozens of other intricate smells from the good people of that village that tickled his nose throughout his lifetime. Some brought back fond memories, and others not so much. The particular combination of scents in this bedroom had been one that his mother carefully chose, and it reminded him of her.

When Zuko entered the bathroom, he saw a fresh basin of rose water sitting in front of the mirror. Katara must have been expecting to wash her face before his unexpected arrival. He was glad she hadn't emptied the basin, though, because after the night he had, all he wanted was to feel clean. An ugly feeling of shame twisted itself in his stomach. He splashed water onto his face. It was cold, but not unpleasantly so. It felt refreshing. Clean. And how he craved cleanliness. As he raised his eyes to meet their reflection, he felt sick. How could he have sought comfort in her? How could he have let himself sink that low? How could he take advantage of someone like that—even if he was drunk?

The night replayed in his head in quick blurs. There was paperwork. A lot of it. And there was wine. Even more of it. He'd gone through a bottle by himself, and blamed it on stress. But he knew why he turned to the bottle so easily; he wanted to forget. He wanted to forget Mai, and the papers, and the whole world. But he, too, forgot himself. And when a pretty young maid came into his office and became a little too friendly, he didn't stop her. Didn't stop himself. And in his office they committed the most heinous of acts.

Sex was never something that Zuko took lightly. He never thought it was just something fun to do—it meant something to him. But that night it was just a way for him to escape. And he hadn't felt clean since. He knew that the maid was whispering about their affair—how could he not, when half his staff refused to look at him? Hell, he didn't even want to look at himself. He hadn't slept through a whole night since his drunken lapse in judgement, partially out of fear for his life. The staff was like a huge family, if one was hurt, they were all hurt. And that poor woman that he'd taken advantage of was someone's daughter—someone's sister. Someone. And he was sure that someone wanted him dead because of it. So he jumped on the first ship he could out of the Fire Nation, hoping to find some peace.

Or maybe he was giving himself too much credit.

Then again, maybe he wasn't.

Unable to look at himself any longer, Zuko blinked and spun away from the mirror. He stripped off his shirt and pants and undergarments and turned around briefly enough to get a towel from the shelf under the counter. He filled the tub with water from the faucet—running water was one of the few luxuries he missed on the ship—and lowered himself into it. He submerged himself fully once, allowing the water to close over his head and engulf him. He held his breath for thirty seconds, then came up for air. With full lungs, he slipped under the water again, this time opening his eyes and staring at the ceiling through the stilling water above him. He wasn't sure how much time he spent under there this submersion, but his lungs began to burn and his heartbeat filled his ears through the serenity of the silence of being underwater.

And he was drowning. His lungs weren't filling with water, but the feeling was no different. Everything was pressing down on him. Thousands of pounds all at once. All over. Infiltrating his body. His soul. Blackness crept into the corners of his vision. Hot red, too. But he was cold. So. Very. Cold. He was dying.

Zuko's face burst out of the water, sending a wave onto the floor. His breath came in sharp pants and his fingers curled around the edges of the tub. He never felt so naked—so vulnerable. And he'd been on the verge of death twice before. But that was death by fire. Death by water was a whole different beast. He coughed. His nose burned and his eyes watered. Fire and water at the same time.

Katara.

She was just down the hall. He wondered if his coughing woke her. He stood up and stepped out of the tub. Dried himself, and dressed in fresh clothes. He pulled the plug and drained the tub, never wanting to be surrounded by water again. Still shaken, Zuko grabbed his razor from his bag and took it roughly over his face. The stubble of a beard that had grown over his jaw came away cleanly, but so did little bits of his skin. In his haste, Zuko had not paid attention to the small red beads that were collecting across his skin. And when he finally took his face in as a whole—droplets of blood and all—he no longer saw the Fire Lord that took advantage of a staff member, but a young man who was far too thin and hadn't seen a good night's sleep in too long.

He saw in himself what Katara must have seen in him. She knew nothing of his escapade with the maid, and for now he wanted to keep it that way. He knew she would hate him for it. Hate him again. Think he was a monster. And he needed someone to just be Zuko with. He didn't want to be the Fire Lord. He didn't want to be that awful man. He just wanted to be himself. With someone who knew him better than anyone. Even though they hadn't kept in touch over the past few years, Zuko was sure that Katara would understand him. She probably already knew something was wrong. He looked a fright, and he knew that.

But then again, she looked like she'd been through the ringer too, though she wore it much better than he did. Zuko always admired Katara's poise and presence in a room. She always seemed to know exactly how to carry herself to elicit any given emotion from him. She could make him feel happy, sad, angry, or—well, anything just by the way her shoulders hung. He patted his face dry with a towel, the pressure stinging the tiny cuts he'd made, and pinched out the candle burning on the wall.

Standing in the doorway, Zuko decided he would go check on Katara, just to make sure she was okay. He was sure she would be sleeping by now, so he walked as quietly as he could, avoiding the floorboards that he knew would squeak under his weight. The door to the next bedroom was shut, and since the empty rooms were all kept open, he knew she'd settled in this one. He raised his hand to knock on the door, but stopped himself when he heard a soft gasp come from inside. Furrowing his brow, Zuko angled an ear toward the door and held his breath. He heard uneven, shallow breaths and quiet sniffles through the wood. She was crying. Zuko wrestled with himself for a moment. Did he go in there and try to comfort her, or did he pretend it never happened? If he knocked and she said to come in, she would pretend she was fine, he knew that much. But he wasn't going to go in unannounced either.

Tomorrow, he thought. Over breakfast.

Zuko turned his back to her door, and took a few steps toward his own then stopped. His throat was dry and sore, and his Uncle had taught him well that tea could fix almost anything. So he made his way to the kitchen, and lit a fire in the pit. He could easily heat a single cup of water with his hands, and it would be a much faster process. But in addition to the healing effects of drinking a good cup of tea, Uncle had also taught Zuko the healing effects of making a good cup of tea. There was something therapeutic in brewing a pot of tea the "right" way.

As the fire warmed the kettle, Zuko found a painted clay mug from the cabinet. He was busying himself with the task of finding honey when he heard a small, but familiar voice coming from the other side of the counter. "You couldn't sleep either?"

Zuko looked up from the mass of jars that he had pulled from the cabinet, and stared at the young woman before him. Her nose was pink and so were her cheeks. Her eyes were still glassy and her hair frizzed up around the back and sides. "You couldn't either?" He decided to play stupid. Like he knew nothing.

"Nah." She leaned her elbows on the counter and side eyed the kettle on the fire. "Can I join you?"

"Of course." Zuko grabbed another mug and sat it on the counter in front of her. They stood in silence for a moment, then Zuko ran his tongue along his top lip and inhaled. "So," he said. "Its officially 'tomorrow.'"

"And?" Katara grasped her mug.

"And tea is part of a healthy breakfast."

"I guess it is." She didn't look at him. She knew exactly what he meant—and his heart gave a leap. They still understood each other. After all this time. "I don't really know what I'm supposed to say," Katara admitted. "Things were fine and then they weren't and now we're done. That's how relationships go."

Zuko wasn't buying it. He knew there was more hiding behind her hazy eyes. He knew, to an extent, the pain that she felt. The freedom. All the conflicting emotions that came with a break up. "But this was you and Aang. You were engaged. What happened?"

"It just wasn't working," she said. Tension filled the air. He could feel it on his shoulders. On his neck. "I couldn't make him happy anymore."

"Was he making you happy?"

"No." For the first time, their eyes met. Sharply. Fiercely. And it finally dawned on Zuko that she hadn't thought of it that way. Or she hadn't felt valid placing the blame on Aang until someone else did it for her. "He wasn't." She sat with that thought in silence for a minute before she spoke again. "And I feel," she started. "Wrong? For feeling the way I do about this."

Zuko rested his palms on the counter opposite her. "How do you feel?"

"Relieved? I don't know." Her eyes started to water.

"You know that it's okay," Zuko said. "To not know what to feel. Or do. Or say. Right?" He hesitated for a moment, then put his hand on hers. "It's okay to be confused."

Katara stiffened at the gesture. Though it was not unwelcome, it was unexpected, and she almost felt as if he had slapped her. She withdrew her hand swiftly.

The tea kettle whistled.