He'd been hoping to close up early. The shop had been nearly empty for hours, save for a single college student situated in a plush armchair in the corner, who, with headphones in his ears and his face illuminated by the glow of his laptop, seemed completely unaware of Iroh's aspirations for an early closing. Oh well. He was a low-maintenance customer, at least. Iroh took advantage of the lull to sweep the back room.

The doorbell (an actual, physical bell, positioned to ring whenever the door was pushed ajar) jingled, and Iroh's customer service reflex kicked in.

"Have a seat wherever you like, I'll be right with you!" He called through the linen curtain that separated the disaster that was his kitchen from the cozy ambiance of the tea room.

He didn't get a reply, so the customer must've been surveying the shop. Iroh swapped out his stained apron for a cleaner one, replaced the broom in the cupboard where it belonged, brushed the wrinkles from his clothes, and went out to meet the new arrival. He grabbed a laminated menu from the stack by the cash register on his way.

Welcome to the Jasmine Dragon. My name is Mushi, I'll be your server. Iroh rehearsed his typical speech in his head. The Jasmine Dragon had other employees, of course, mostly teenagers and college students looking to make some extra cash, but today was slow enough that Iroh decided he could run the shop alone. He worked as a tea server often enough that he had a speech prepared, but not often enough that he didn't have to rehearse it a little.

Except he never gave it.

He never gave it because the fidgety, overdressed man in a wicker chair near the window wasn't a customer. It was his nephew.

"Uncle," said Zuko, meeting his gaze. He didn't look well. He looked older, and not in a good way. He looked like the last time he got more than a few hours of sleep was probably on the flight here.

"What are you doing here?" Iroh ventured. The irony wasn't lost on him. This meeting was something of an inverse of their previous one.

Zuko hesitated, scowling at the tabletop. As the silence stretched on, it occurred to Iroh that Zuko didn't really know what he was doing here.

"This was a stupid idea," Zuko muttered, rising suddenly from the table. He made for the door, and Iroh didn't stop him, but of his own accord he paused.

"You left me," he accused, whirling around. "You left me. Mom left me. Father left me, even though that was your fault and not his. Everyone leaves me."

"Zuko…" Iroh began. From the corner of his eye he spied the college student, who, perhaps sensing he was intruding on a family matter, was now packing his bags. At least he probably didn't speak Fire Tongue. "You know why I left you. I did it for your own safety. And now that you know I am alive, we don't have to be separated anymore. You can always come visit me—"

"Well maybe you're not welcome back in my life after what you did, did that ever occur to you?" Zuko seethed.

Yes, it had occurred to him. He thought about it quite a lot, actually, but he didn't particularly want to admit that to Zuko at this moment.

"Why does everyone leave me?" Zuko lamented when Iroh didn't answer. His tone had changed. His anger had simmered away, leaving behind only the despair and loneliness that Zuko had been carrying around with him for over a decade.

He slumped back into the chair.

"Is there something wrong with me…?"

Of course. The journalist woman. He'd come here for her, and Iroh had been only an afterthought. He'd been abandoned again and at this point he was having trouble not viewing all the incidents as one, single, lifelong abandonment. How could he not start to feel like everyone he cared about was conspiring against him?

"There is nothing wrong with you, my nephew," Iroh said gently.

"Then why doesn't anyone ever stay?" Zuko pleaded.

"Zuko listen to me. The life you have led has been a highly unusual one. For most of it, you have not had any control over whether the people in your life enter or leave it."

Zuko listened, his face still contorted with hatred, as if he wished he weren't listening. But he was desperate, and so even through his quiet rage, he listened.

Iroh carried on, "But that is not your life anymore. I know you resent the role you have been forced into, but at least in this way, it is a gift. You can control your own destiny now. You no longer need to wait for events to happen to you."

"So, what? I should just use my powers as fire lord to force people back into my life?" Zuko was incredulous.

"Not at all. Becoming fire lord happens to be the way in which you were liberated from your disgrace, but it is your not political power I am referring to. You are a powerful leader, yes, but moreover, you now have the opportunity to live like an ordinary person. You can have relationships like ordinary people do, not colored by who you used to be, and just like anyone else, you can go to her."

"Her?" Zuko demanded. He was, apparently, fully prepared to feign ignorance on this matter.

"Her. She's the reason you travelled to Ba Sing Se, isn't it? I have been led to believe she was more to you than just a podcast host."

Zuko opened and then closed his mouth again. A rouge crept across his face, so that the un-burnt half was much more similar in hue to its scarred counterpart than usual.

"This was never about me, was it?" Iroh persisted. "You are angry with me, I know, and you have good reason to be. But this particular occasion is about someone else."

When Zuko's embarrassment dissipated, he gazed out the window, wrapped up in whatever he was thinking.

"I want to go to her, it's just… You're right. I do have more power than ever. I can try and win her back. But what if it doesn't work? If that happens, then I won't be able to blame it on my chronic misfortune. It won't be my royal title, or my bad luck, it'll just be… me. It'll be my failure."

"You're afraid to even try because you don't want to fail."

"Well, yeah."

"And that's the beauty about having choices, isn't it? You get to try. You may fail, and you may not. But so long as you try, you have a chance."

"I've never been allowed to try before," Zuko faltered.

"It's never too late to start." Iroh placed a hand on Zuko's shoulder. Zuko didn't recoil or shake him off. "Nephew. Go to her."