DISCLAIMER: I know this oneshot may raise concerns, so I'm here to say that I am very, truly, actually fine.
Now, I just want to say that I honestly don't know why I wrote this oneshot. It feels OOC. It doesn't have a plot or character development that adheres to canon. It's very disjointed and convoluted and very, very messy. It's admittedly a self-insert (which sounds very weird). It doesn't add much value to the fandom in general.
But it's something I felt the need to get out. Maybe because the best way for me to process emotions is to write them out.
This fic is one that is very personal to me, so if you're about to read this: thank you.
When Aang was young, his smiles came easily. His laughs were as careless and free as his element. His dance was as light as the breeze that twirled the leaves around him. His joy shone like the brightest star on the darkest night.
When Aang was young, he bared his emotions without a second thought. His tears fell like the rain when nature mourned. His rage roared with the thunder, and his grief filled a vast ocean only his friends could see.
When Aang was young, he had that spark within him, that spark of life and joy that lit the path he walked. He was life itself and everything worth living, and the world desperately reached for him, wanting that tiny spark.
When Aang was young, living was as easy as breathing.
standing on the edge, looking out to the dark ocean
He walks the halls, pressing a hand against the polished mahogany overlaid on the royal red of the walls.
A hundred years.
A hundred years of war ended overnight. A hundred years of pain and suffering and loss, and now there was healing and mending and rebuilding.
A hundred years.
It has been so long.
And yet, when he closes his eyes, Aang can still see their smiles, hear their laughs, smell the wind as they glide freely among the currents. He can still see him, standing among the pupils and smiling benevolently, the father he never had.
It is almost like he only saw them yesterday.
Aang's heart clenches.
With every smile he sees on their faces, his own fades away.
(how can he smile when they never will again?)
(how can you ever think you deserve to smile?)
rocks crumbling beneath his feet
Aang used to laugh.
Used to.
He remembers what it was like to laugh—like he could fly above the clouds without ever leaving the ground. He remembers the simple joy of laughing, like releasing all his woes and pain for just a moment, only a moment, to revel in the joy of life and having something to live for.
But when he tries now, the sound only rings hollow. The lightness that had once filled him no longer takes away the heavy ache in his chest, the yoke that hunches his shoulders and chains him to the ground.
He wonders when was the last time he truly laughed.
When his friends look his way, he forces out a laugh. That hollow sound rings out again, and he flinches when he hears its emptiness.
(he wonders how his friends can't hear it)
giving way
He wanders the halls, looking at everything and finding nothing.
But how could he find anything, Aang wonders, if he doesn't know what he's looking for? Maybe he is searching for a ghost of his past, maybe a phantom of his innocence, an echo of his joy, a shard of his freedom, something, something, anything—
Nothing.
He wanders, he looks, but he never searches.
He has a feeling he won't find anything.
scrambling back
He wonders why they still stick around with him.
He has made too many mistakes ("You turned your back on the world!") and hurt too many people ("You burned my sister!") for anyone to ever want to be around him.
Do they only stick around, he wonders, because they pity him? Because they see how pathetic he is without anybody by his side and stay only out of obligation?
His head tells him it is because they care, they care, but his heart refuses to believe. How could anyone care about him, the Avatar who abandoned the world to war, who had failed over and over and over again, who let his own people die to the Fire Nation?
How could anyone ever want to stay by his side?
(how could anyone ever love him?)
But still, he is grateful that they do stay by his side, because he isn't sure he can bear the weight of the world all by himself.
(but is that what he really deserves?)
They'll leave you soon enough, a voice whispers in his ear, once they see who you really are.
They all will.
He shuts out his heart and paints his face blank.
It's only a matter of time.
not fast enough
Aang used to smile.
Used to.
He remembers how it felt to smile—like he could feel all the joy in the world with that simple act. He remembers how it would light up his friends' faces, like a candle in the darkest night. He remembers how the world would always feel just a bit brighter, a bit more hopeful.
But when he tries now, the curl of his lips feels foreign, as if someone else was stretching his mouth in a pale imitation. It feels hard and cold, like a mask that has been slipped over his head and fused to his face.
He wonders when it became harder and harder to smile.
When his friends glance at him, he forces his lips to curl, if only so they wouldn't worry about him. His cheeks ache. His mouth feels twisted, contorted, wrong.
(he wonders how they can't see the mask)
rock plummeting into the depths of the sea
He lays awake at night, staring up at the ceiling, and thinks.
Would anyone notice, he wonders, if he just disappeared one day without a trace? Would the world mourn him if he vanished? Or would they carry on, like they had when he disappeared for those hundred years?
(no one will ever notice you're gone)
Did they even need him?
(there will always be another Avatar)
He turns to his side, staring out to the lightening sky and feeling something hot carve its way down his face.
(would the world have been better off if he never existed in the first place?)
clinging on with both hands, kicking, fighting
Katara asks him to dance.
Aang isn't sure why—maybe she just wants to have a good time, maybe she wants an escape from the officials (maybe she pities you)—but nevertheless, she holds out her hand with a silent request in her eyes.
He responds by taking ahold of her hand.
But when he tries to follow her lead, his feet no longer feel as light as they used to, his movements lacking the fluidity he used to have.
He remembers a candle-lit cave, surrounded by prying eyes and hushed whispers, when he felt nothing but the thrill of the dance, the lightness of his element, the fluidity of hers, the joy of freedom.
He wonders when he stopped finding the joy in dancing.
(he wonders why he no longer feels as free as he used to)
arms aching, straining to hold on
Toph notices.
Of course she does.
(but why should she?)
She comes up to him afterwards and pulls him aside.
For an airbender, you sure aren't very light on your feet today, she says. Teases, even. But Aang wonders if he imagined the undertone of concern in her voice.
(of course you did)
He forces his voice into cheeriness (wrong, wrong, wrong) and says that it's nothing to worry about, that he's just tired.
Toph is quiet for a moment. Then she shrugs and says okay before wandering off to find Sokka.
He doesn't think she'll ever understand just how tired he really is.
(or maybe she just doesn't care)
fingers slipping, scrabbling for a hold
He flinches as the barbed words pierce his heart, and the room explodes.
Zuko's angry bellow rises with Sokka's indignant shouts, Katara's enraged yells, and Toph's furious rebukes. The official who had spoken looks as though he regrets his words, cringing and shrinking back when fire shoots out of the Fire Lord's nostrils.
He can feel the hot, heavy sting of tears behind his eyes ("Why should we listen to you? The Hundred Year War was all your fault!") and he knows, he knows, he knows it deep in his heart, his bones, his soul.
(you don't deserve to cry)
He squeezes his eyes shut against the tears.
(show no emotion at all)
He smooths his face over.
(don't let them see how you really feel)
The mask slips into place, covering how his heart cracks in two.
(feel nothing at all)
loosening grip
Aang used to cry.
Used to.
He remembers how it felt to cry. It was releasing, freeing, like the rushing rapids sweeping away all muddied filth from the rivers. He remembers how his heart always felt a little lighter, his hope a little brighter, his spirit a little higher, when he let his sadness run down his cheeks.
But now, that sadness has become something else, something that keeps his eyes dry but his heart and hope and spirit as dark and heavy as they have always been. It wasn't sadness, exactly—there was sadness, but that wouldn't be enough to describe it. He felt hollow, empty, numb, like someone had taken all his joy and sadness and rage from him and left only an empty shell behind.
He wonders when he stopped feeling.
(but maybe it's better this way)
muscles burning, straining to pull himself up
Katara approaches him one night on the roof of their residency.
I'm worried about you, she tells him. He can see it in her eyes, the crease in her forehead, the way she fiddles with the ends of her hair.
(or maybe it's all a ruse)
She says if he needs someone to talk to, she's always around to listen to him (lies). She fidgets, saying she cares about him and wants to make sure he's okay (more lies). She looks up at him expectantly, as though waiting, hoping, he would say something.
(say nothing)
He smiles—twisted, contorted, wrong—and says that he'll be okay (please help me). He tells her that everything is alright and that his work as the Avatar is just stressing him out (I'm drowning). He says he just needs to adjust to this newfound peacetime (save me).
Katara is quiet for a moment, her eyes searching his face. Finally, she sighs, strokes his cheek, and tells him to get some rest.
(don't you see the mask I wear?)
He forces out a chuckle—hollow, hollow, hollow—and follows her back down into the guest bedrooms.
(can't you hear my calls for help?)
can't do it
If there is one thing he knows best, it's how to avoid.
Redirect violence. Dodge blows. Deflect the conversation. Hide the pain. Pretend the tears don't exist. Mask the expression.
Avoid, avoid, avoid.
He has the Air Nomads to thank for that.
(the people you should've saved)
He knows it drives Toph insane. Zuko, too. Sokka, to an extent. Katara is the most forgiving—that isn't surprising, considering her element—but sometimes it drives even her to her breaking point.
But if it means not being a nuisance to them, not bothering them with his problems—isn't it all worth it?
(don't burden them with your mistakes)
what's the point in trying?
Aang used to be seen.
Used to.
He remembers how it felt to be seen—like the world cares about him. He remembers how it felt to be noticed, to be wanted, to be loved.
But how could he be loved, he wonders, when he's made too many mistakes, hurt too many people, been too much of a coward?
(maybe it's better this way)
But still, he wonders why no one sees him, no one hears him, no one cares. He wonders how they can't see him drowning, how they can't hear his lies.
Never has he felt more alone while surrounded by people.
And so he walks among the crowds, unseen and unheard—never wanted, never known, always alone.
aren't you tired?
Another sleepless night, staring up at the stars that glittered in the navy-indigo sky.
He wonders if Aang will matter as much to the world as the Avatar will.
(no one will remember you when you're gone)
He clenches jaw, balls his hands into a fist, shuts his eyes against the heavy, familiar sting.
(why would they?)
A few traitorous tears escape his eyes.
(you're nothing to them)
His fingernails bite into his palm.
(they hate you)
Something warm and sticky pools in his hands.
(they want nothing to do with you)
And deep in the darkest recesses of his heart, hidden from Yue's light, a voice, mocking and scornful and sneering, whispers:
So why don't you just end it all?
give up
Aang trails behind Sokka, wondering how he ended up here.
Sokka babbles on and on, looping an arm around his shoulders and squeezing him against his side. Aang can't follow what he's saying—something about Zuko's drink, a pepper, and the entire hall burning down?
Something like that.
Sokka suddenly stops and turns to face him, the mirth that had filled his face seconds ago all but gone now.
Aang wonders if it's because he didn't laugh.
(he wonders if he should've tried harder)
Katara's worried about you, Sokka says. Toph, too.
(why would they be?)
You haven't smiled for a long time, he says. You don't laugh either. You used to laugh all the time.
(maybe it's because I don't deserve to)
Sokka's brow furrows as he asks Aang if he is okay.
(your problems and yours alone)
Yes, Aang says, he's fine (lie), he's just tired (truth). He tells Sokka he's still adjusting to the war's end (not a lie), and he just needs more time (not a truth).
Sokka is silent for a moment as he looks at Aang with a strange expression on his face.
You know you can tell me anything, right, he says in a low voice. We're all here for you: me, Katara, Toph, Zuko. You can tell us anything.
The mask wavers for a moment.
(say nothing)
Through his twisted smile of lies, Aang tells Sokka there's nothing he needs to talk about, but he appreciates the offer.
(show nothing)
Sokka's eyes search his face, but Aang keeps his face perfectly blank—perfectly masked.
(feel nothing)
As they continue down the street, Aang wonders why this lie was easier to tell than the others.
let go
The quiet is broken only by the soft crackle of flames and the occasional swish of a brush against paper.
Aang looks over to see Zuko rubbing his temples, looking as tired as Aang feels.
(he isn't sure, but sometimes he thinks he feels Zuko's gaze on him)
Suddenly, Zuko stands up and announces that he's going to get some tea and goes to the kitchen.
He comes back with two steaming cups, hands one to Aang, and sits across from him.
You looked like you also needed it, Zuko says.
Aang only nods into his cup, not wanting to say anything.
The silence between them is deafening. As he sips, Aang observes Zuko's furtive glances towards him, how his finger taps an unnamed rhythm against the side of his teacup. He seems nervous, but about what, he isn't sure.
This is exhausting, Zuko suddenly blurts out. Aang pauses, sending a confused glance towards him. Seeing his look, Zuko explains that being the Firelord is exhausting. It's hard work, maintaining the peace within an entire nation and dealing with politicians all the time.
Aang wonders what prompted this train of thought.
Then Zuko says that although being the Firelord must be exhausting, it's probably nothing compared to the Avatar's work. He says that if Aang ever needs time off, he can always take it.
(you don't deserve rest)
Aang puts down his cup and bluntly asks Zuko where this is coming from.
Zuko fidgets, glancing away and back, over and over again. But Aang is patient, and so he waits quietly.
Finally, Zuko sighs. He says that he's noticed how Aang seems so tired all the time now. You barely laugh, he says. You barely smile, you look like you haven't been sleeping at all.
Zuko's voice is low as he asks if Aang is alright.
(why does everyone keep asking me that? I'm fine!)
Aang covers his face with his mask as he reassures Zuko that he's completely fine (help me). He says that he just needs to get to bed earlier (I'm too tired to sleep) and that once the craziness dies down, he'll be back to normal in no time (everything hurts).
Zuko studies him closely. Aang holds his gaze, unwavering, unflinching.
(unfeeling)
Finally, Zuko sighs. The jasmine tea might help you fall asleep, then, he says. Uncle always said jasmine tea is calming for the soul.
Aang only nods, not trusting himself to speak.
Silence fills the space between them.
(he wonders why Zuko didn't push harder)
(because he never cared)
the world will still live on without you
He wonders if he imagines Katara's hugs growing tighter and longer with each passing day.
(she doesn't care)
He wonders if he imagines Sokka's attempts at making him laugh growing wilder each time they meet.
(he hates you)
He wonders if he imagines Toph's usually gruff exterior softening when she speaks to him.
(she wants nothing to do with you)
He wonders if he imagines Zuko's trips to get tea and chat with him are becoming more frequent.
(he wishes he never met you)
He wonders if they'll miss him.
(they won't)
He wonders if they'll remember him.
(they aren't)
He wonders if he matters to them.
(you don't)
He wonders if anything matters anymore.
(nothing does)
no one will miss you when you're gone
Boxed in, pressing down on him, suffocating.
Thousands of eyes, glaring down at him.
You should've saved them.
Why didn't you save them?
Collapsing on his knees, clasping his hands to his ears.
They don't need you.
They never cared about you.
Squeezing his eyes tightly against the sting of hot tears.
How could anyone love someone like you?
The world would've been better off if you never existed.
Screams. Fire. Tears. Typhoon. Mistakes. Flaws.
They hate you.
You bring nothing but misery wherever you go.
Fear. Anger. Hatred. Rage. Disgust.
You're nothing.
A nobody.
An accident.
A freak.
Forgotten.
Unloved.
Unwanted.
Alone.
Stop, stop, stop, Aang wants to scream. He keels over, squeezing his eyes shut and feeling hot, biting tears sear their way down his face.
You'll always be left behind.
Everyone leaves eventually.
They wish they never met you.
They don't want anything to do with you.
Menace.
Coward.
Weak.
Flawed.
Monster.
The voices blend together until Aang cannot tell one voice from the other, roaring in a cacophony of hatred and rage. He isn't sure if the rising screams are from them or him.
And above the crashing waves of angry, hateful, accusing voices surging all around him, Aang hears one voice, kindly and old, speak:
What do you want?
The voices go deathly silent. The emptiness echoes loudly in his ears.
And deep in the darkest recesses of his heart, hidden from Yue's light, a voice, quivery and sad and hopeless, whispers:
To be free.
He visits the apothecary, taking care to hide his tattoos.
The pharmacist glances up at him, no recognition in his eyes. Good. "What can I help you with, young man?" he asks in a kindly old voice.
"I'm having trouble sleeping, sir," Aang hears himself say. The words flow from his mouth automatically, almost as though he has said them before. "Do you have anything for that?"
"Ah, yes." The pharmacist rummages through his stores before producing a package of yellow powder. "Now, be careful with this one. Any more than a pinch can be lethal if not caught right away."
Aang wonders why he feels like he's been here before.
"Understood." He hands over two silver coins.
As he steps out from the apothecary, a dizzying, overwhelming sense of déjà vu hits him.
("I'm sorry.")
He wonders if this is a good idea.
(no one will remember you when you're gone)
Then he wonders what's the point in even trying anymore.
Aang breathes out.
He sits on the rooftop, his only company the lonely stars that glittered in the nighttime sky. Nestled in his hands is a steaming cup of jasmine tea, its color oddly dark.
There is no one to stop him.
The thought doesn't fill him with sadness as he thinks it should have.
(but maybe it's better this way)
They flash through his mind. Cerulean. Deep blue. Pale jade. Amber.
(make it stop)
One by one, they fade away into nothingness, leaving him alone in a broken world.
(take it all)
He lifts the cup to his lips.
I'm sorry.
I'm sorry I couldn't be the Avatar the world wanted me to be. I'm sorry I couldn't stop the war, or save all your loved ones, or be the hero the world needed. I'm sorry for being a coward and hurting all of you.
I'm sorry I couldn't be the friend you wanted me to be.
He let himself fall.
And no one was there to catch him.
He sees them beyond the veil of light.
He sees him standing there in front of him and smiling as though nothing had happened at all.
He falls to his knees and weeps.
I'm sorry, he cries. I'm sorry I couldn't save you.
It wasn't your fault, Aang hears him say, but he can't, can't bring himself to believe.
I should've saved you!
You were only a child.
Then maybe, he thinks bitterly, maybe if he had been less of a child, he would've saved them all.
It was always meant to be, he says in that kindly voice that echoes in his nightmares over and over and over again.
Don't you hate me? Aang asks, quivering. Don't you hate me for letting you die?
I could never hate you.
Why?
For the first time in a hundred years, he feels his gentle hand on the crown of his head.
Because it wasn't your fault.
Aang shuts his eyes.
Because you were only a child.
He curls in on himself, trembling.
Because you were given a responsibility you weren't ready for.
The hot tears rush down his cheeks when he hears the words he never thought he would hear:
Because I love you.
He clutches at Gyatso's robes, finally letting the mask slip from his face. He weeps, long and hard, and he feels Gyatso's soothing touch rub circles in his back, holding him tight.
It could've been hours, days, minutes—time was but an abstract indefinite. Finally, he hears him whisper, They're waiting for you.
Aang pulls away and wipes the tears from his face. Can't I stay with you? he begs.
Gyatso chuckles sadly. They need you more. The world needs you more. He rests his hand on Aang's shoulder. You're still young yet. You have so much to live for.
Aang turns his head away. How can I live when you're here? he asks bitterly. How can I live when you no longer can?
All the more reason for you to live, Gyatso says. He gently turns Aang back towards him. Live for those who never will again. He presses his hand to Aang's chest, over his heart. Live so that the Air Nomads will live on with you. Live for the people you love the most.
Aang hugs Gyatso.
I love you, he cries.
Gyatso rubs his back and whispers, I know.
As Gyatso's touch fades with the light, Aang thinks that maybe, maybe that's all he can do.
Live on for the people he loves the most.
a hand clasps his
When he wakes up, he wakes up surrounded by his friends.
Katara is the first to reach him. Her body slams into his, her arms interlocking around his torso. Her entire body is shaking.
(why is she shaking?)
Sokka's hand closes around Aang's arm in a vice-like grip that threatens to cut off his circulation. Toph's grasping fingers claw at his robes. Zuko's trembling hand clenches into Aang's shoulder.
Their tears drench his skin, soak his clothes.
He can't hear Katara's sobs, but he can feel them like an arrow to his heart.
He can't hear Sokka's yells, but he can feel them like a sword to his chest.
He can't hear Toph's screeches, but he can feel them like a punch to his gut.
He can't hear Zuko's bellows, but he can feel them like a mace to his ribs.
With each sob from them that resonates deep in his chest, a crack forms in his mask.
(feel nothing)
(let yourself feel)
Why, Katara asks as she looks up at him with red-rimmed eyes, why would you do this?
Her sorrow pierces the cold porcelain of his smile.
(tell them nothing)
(tell them everything)
What were you thinking, Sokka asks, his voice rising.
His fear cracks the smooth clay of his joyous expression.
(show nothing)
(show everything)
You're an idiot, Toph yells.
Her wavering voice splits through his upturned expression.
(smile through the tears)
(don't hide the pain)
Zuko says nothing.
His stricken expression breaks his laughing eyes.
(you don't deserve to cry)
(you're only human)
Why, they ask again. Why would you do this?
He opens his mouth.
Say you're fine.
Admit you're not.
Excuse it.
Confess it.
Dismiss it.
Answer it.
Why say anything?
They deserve to know.
They hate you.
They love you.
They want nothing to do with you.
They stayed by your side all this time.
They think you're pathetic.
They never pitied you.
They think you're a monster.
They never feared you.
They'll be happier without you.
They'll miss you.
They'll all leave you one day.
They're still here.
They'll forget you when you're gone.
They love you too much to forget.
They don't care.
They do.
Say nothing.
Say everything.
Lie to them.
Tell the truth.
Stay silent.
Speak out.
The roar of conflicting voices rise with each heartbeat until it deafens his ears, blindsides him to all else around him. He isn't sure if he hears it inside his head or outside his ears.
And above the crashing waves of hate and love and defeat and reassurance, Aang hears one voice, sad and tired and weary, speak:
What do you want?
The conflicting voices fall silent. The quiet is deafening.
And deep in the darkest recesses of his heart, revealed by Yue's light, a voice, kindly and old and warm, whispers:
To live on.
The mask shatters.
He sits and watches as red and orange streaks break through the indigo.
Katara's hand is warm in his, grounding him to reality. Her shoulder is pressed firmly against his, her head nuzzling into his neck. Sokka's hand is firm on his arm. Toph's shoulder is wedged against his other side. Zuko's legs brace Aang's back as he leans back.
Silently, the five of them watch as the sun rises to a new dawn—a sight Aang didn't think he would see ever again.
Maybe in time, Aang's laughs will be as careless and free as they once were. Maybe in time, Aang's smiles will stop feeling like a mask. Maybe in time, Aang's tears will flow freely and unashamedly once more. Maybe in time, he will find it in himself to dance and live and love again.
But he knows that the road to healing will be long, and he knows he won't ever be the same again. He can still feel the vestiges of sadness and guilt linger in his chest, a heavy weight that may not ever disappear. He can still hear the voices in his head, whispering in the undercurrent of his thoughts, lurking and probing and prowling.
But for now, he lives on. He lives on for all those who couldn't find it in themselves to live. He lives on for his family now, who still need him, who still love him. He lives on for his family then, when they never got the chance.
He lives on for the people he loves most.
That would have to be enough.
Tell the world your story,
and know that you are never alone.