Control
Somehow, he knew he shouldn't do this. He knew it was wrong, he knew it was crazy. But those few thoughts of protest were quickly smashed by the memory and the longing for the silence that he had been allowed to experience the last time. Still, that one time he hadn't done it on purpose, hadn't been quite conscious.
Now he was.
His legs cramped from tension, shaking. His body whipping back and forth, back and forth. He was so incredibly angry. There was so much rage and anguish boiling inside of him, ripping him apart on the inside. It took up all the space in his body, pressing against his stomach, making it churn, constructing his lungs, making it nearly impossible to breathe. He couldn't even close his eyes, which were reduced to angry slits by now.
Ripping up the sleeve, he stared down at his arm, at the scars still dark brown and grey. He could do it… he had the control. He would show the anger that he was still the one in command, that he would not give in and ruin the teashop's furniture or uncle's precious cups like he wanted to. He would not let his anger ruin his uncle's luck. He had let that happen for long enough.
Without really deciding to, he snatched the knife out of his boot, deliberately not looking at the inscription.
The first cut was hesitant. Not out of fear of pain, but because he had no idea if it was the right thing to do.
But then pain rushed through his elbow, up his arm and blood was collecting on the cut, red, crimson like his father's robes and, suddenly, he snapped. With all the fury inside him, the knife cut and hit and stabbed. Every red stream numbed the noise, every gasp numbed the pain inside. Until there was nothing left. No anger, no noise, no fury, no tension.
Sudden exhaustion washed it all away, letting the knife slip out of his stiff fingers and it fell to the ground with a loud clatter. He didn't care. He didn't care about anything. For once, he was calm, free of everything.
For a while, he just sat there, looking down at the red, taking deep slow breaths. With a sigh he let his heavy eyes slide shut, his body finally relaxing, every muscle void of tension.
When he opened his eyes again, it was with some difficulty, a throbbing headache pressing them shut. His throat was dry, and his face felt sticky and hard to move as if his skin were too tight. Slowly, he sat up from where he was lying half on the floor half on the green hard couch. A sudden pain flashing through his left side let him fall again with a hiss through clenched teeth.
Oh.
That.
Still feeling dazed, Zuko looked down at his arm. It was covered over and over in dried blood and he couldn't even make out the individual wounds. But he definitely felt them now, after putting the pressure of his body weight on the limb.
In silent acceptance of what he'd done, he sat up slowly again, this time more carefully, blinking a few times to bring his mind back to full concentration.
Okay, what to do now? Hiding, keeping this from Uncle, so much was clear.
Otherwise doing this to preserve the old man's luck would have been for nothing.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, Zuko would have known that this was just a pretence, that the reason was a different one entirely.
But not now.
Fighting dizziness and nausea, he tip-toed to the living room, all attention to his surroundings, searching for a noise, any indication that Iroh already had come home. But he was alone. Swiftly he snatched the medical supplies from the kitchen counter and made his way back to the room he was sleeping in.
He still refused to think of it as his room. This was not his room, since this was not his home. The only room he would ever really claim his own was back in the fire palace, right next to his mother's atelier and… pain.
He yanked his arm from where he'd set a bowl with water on it. Out of tea-service habit probably. Another problem he'd have to find a solution for. Damn it. Why did every good thing, every salvation have to bring much more problems with it?
Could there never be anything easy? Anything simple in his life?
Who was he kidding? Of course, there couldn't. Wasn't that what his father had said all along? That… No, no, no. He wouldn't think of this now. He had a task at hand. This was important now, he had to concentrate.
He filled the bowl with water anew, gulped down some from the sink and then headed back to his destination, only letting his mind relax once the door had closed behind him.
Before, he had been too out of it to assess the whole situation, but now he took in the whole room, noting, with immense relief, that at least the couch had been spared of the stains. The carpet, on the other hand, would need some scrubbing, not to speak of the floor. Still feeling immensely tired, Zuko let himself sink to the floor, leaning his back against the door.
Pulling one leg up to his chest, he put his arm on top of the knee. With as little pressure as possible, he started to tab at the crusted blood with a rug he'd dipped into the bowl of water. Slowly all the excess red vanished, giving him an open view of the damage itself.
For a moment, his mind went blank as he stared at a dozen slits and holes, where the peak of the knife had stabbed, and probably twice that number of cuts, crisscrossing on his arm. At least five of them should get stitches, he could tell. But he also knew that badly, unprofessionally stitched up wounds could get more dangerous than those left open and properly cared for.
He could take some more ugly scars on his body. He had stopped caring long ago.
Again, he ignored the tiny voice, whispering that that wasn't true, that he still felt self-conscious and insecure, whenever a small child jumped or looked away or even started crying when it saw him. Other people staring, whispering he could take, he could stare right back and would win, because they'd feel uncomfortable themselves, being stared at, being caught or even intimidated. But children… What would people think of these scars? Would they know? Not that it mattered. Nobody would ever see them. Uncle the least.
He kept cleaning and wrapping up and was long finished when he finally heard the front door screech open. Although he was sure every evidence had been destroyed, he still couldn't meet Iroh's eyes when the old man asked him cheerfully how his day off had been.
"Fine," he mumbled. "Exhausting", he said and didn't even have to feign the yawn that underlined his answer.
He felt drained, still thankfully free of emotions, but also of energy. His uncle assessed him for a moment.
"You do look quite pale. Go get some rest. I'll get you for dinner."
Zuko knew that, for appearance, he should protest, should shout angrily at his uncle that he was fine, that he didn't need rest. But just like back at the North Pole, he really did need it. So, all he gave was a short nod and then he slipped out of the cooking area.
But instead of going to his room, where he for sure would not have found any rest, not with this afternoon still so fresh, he went to his uncle's room, climbed out the narrow window and up the gutter, which, he had to find, was way more exhausting and challenging with only one arm to use.
But even though he felt ready to sleep for a week, after finally pulling himself over the roof's edge, he could not close his eyes. Laying down on the brown tiles, still warm from the day's sun, he stared up into the darkening sky of dawn.
Startled, Zuko sat up.
Darkness.
Chirping.
It took him a moment to fully come to his senses. The sun was gone and with it the pleasant heat from the tiles under his back. Apparently, he had fallen asleep after all.
"Zuko?"
Iroh's questioning voice was more a whisper than anything else. Then again, they were in no location to shout their real names out into the night.
"Nephew, where are you?" His uncle's voice grew louder now and clearly carried worry.
Oh no! Had he forgotten something? Had Iroh noticed that supplies were missing, obviously used for a reason he had no knowledge of?
Then he caught himself. In that case, his uncle would not whisper in worry, but shout in anger, cry in disappointment. Wouldn't he?
"I'm up here, Uncle. I'm down in a moment."
Up and down, his life would always be an up and down.
But at least, he now had control.
