Disclaimer: I do not own Avatar: The Last Airbender, for if I did it would definitely not be able to be aired on Nick.

A/N: Sorry this took so long, I've been rather busy. I know it seems that Zuko is digging his own grave, but trust in the story, you'll hopefully be rewarded with what you want. I do warn that smut will not come for awhile, but do try to stick with me. Also, this is not a KIDS fic, it is extremely dark, and maybe disturbing to some...as you might find in this chapter. I thought it was about time I did a chapter in Aang's point of view, so here you are. Thank you to all the wonderful reviews. Much Love!

TillThatTime

Warning: Rated Mature for a reason!

The Stench of Comfort

It hurts.

Every part of his body, internal and external, screams with a type of agony that he had never deemed possible. He would have thought that the pain would have ended after the first few minutes of taking the vile drug, but no, the unbearable ache lingers.

It feels like every vein in his body has been frozen and shattered to the point of complete destruction, and the shivers that course through his spine feel like thousands of needles shoving their way harshly and relentlessly into his skin.

The sound of someone screaming echos in his ears and he covers them with his palms in an attempt to block out the terrifying sounds. He feels something hot and sticky seep onto the hands that he has clamped around his ears and he only faintly realizes that it's blood, whether it be from the poison or the rupturing effect of the piercing screams, he is not entirely sure, but that doesn't stop him from pushing harder against his blood soaked ears, trying desperately to escape the horrified cries. Yet, despite his best attempts to block them out, the screams remain in his head. It's only after one of the guards slams his hand against the bars of his cell and promptly tells him to "Shut the fuck up" does he realize that the pained screams are his own.

He trembles as he covers his mouth with his hand in an attempt to muffle the cries the rip from his throat, and he retches at the coppery taste of blood that invades his mouth, promptly emptying what little content he has in his stomach onto the cold floor.

At least when he's vomiting he isn't able to scream.

He feels his tears travel across the broken skin of his cheeks, and though he wishes to be anything but, he's scared. Scared, because he doesn't know what this damned drug is doing to him. Scared, because he isn't sure how he's going to get out of this place. Scared, because he has no idea if Katara's alright, and scared because he's only a kid and there's no one there to soothe the pain the courses through his body and tell him that everything will eventually be ok. He's cold, broken, terrified, and fifteen fucking years old. It isn't fair, and it hasn't been since the day they told him that he was to be the protector of the world.

It isn't as if he is one to complain, quite the contrary actually, but it's difficult not to feel bitter as he lies there on the freezing, uneven stone. He might even be pissed if he wasn't so god damn petrified.

However, despite the blinding pain that clouds his thoughts, in the back of his mind, past the fear and the hurt, the image of the man who did this to him etches its way into his memory, and permanently stains itself there.

Prince Zuko.

The man who had laid his hands upon his skin, who had eaten away at his dignity by causing him to cry out and plead for him to stop. The man who he had relinquished his pride to by begging with his eyes and his cries for him to kick him, spit on him, do anything, but that. No amount of time would ever be able to drive away that image of Prince Zuko fumbling with the strings of his torn and faded pants. Zuko had wanted to see fear in his eyes and, Gods damn him, he had gotten it.

For that man, and that man only, he could work up enough energy to be thoroughly pissed.

As he finally finishes emptying what they had given him to eat onto the floor, his falls back with a painful 'thud', his cheek resting against the cold floor, something that he finds oddly comforting. Though the screams have stopped, he cannot seem to halt the tears the fall relentlessly from his eyes. Never in his life has he wished so much for death. It isn't like him. He is strong, and immature, and happy. He is the boy that people look to when their own lives seem to be spiraling out of control. He has always been their rock.

And now he is breaking.

Death seems like a warm welcome compared to the hell that devours him now. The thought of starting over and being rid of this pain almost brings a smile to his cracked lips.

Almost.

He knows that no matter how much he currently might wish it, he cannot die. He cannot die because if the Avatar is anything, he is selfless. Dying is his own selfish desire and what good would it do the world for him to give up trying and waste his last breaths in this fucking cell?

Though death is out of his reach for the time being, he settles for sleep, not even attempting to fight it as his eyelids drift closed from the exhaustion that weighs them down.

He's screaming again, and this time not from the pain that lingers throughout him, though that is plenty of reason in itself. This time it is for an entirely different type of pain. He had seen her, had seen Katara, burning in front of him. He had seen her flesh begin to peel away from the bone, and the beautiful face that had brought him so many moments of happiness, engulfed in the heat of the flames.

He had reached for her, tried desperately to save her, but was held back by invisible bindings that, no matter how hard he struggled against, would not break. So he had settled for screaming. Screaming over and over again until his throat was raw and her body was marred beyond repair.

And then he had awoken.

But now he does not open his eyes, for he fears what will be brought by doing so. So he settles for keeping them tightly sealed shut, the blackness a slight comfort as he continues to let loose the screams that he is vaguely aware that he cannot stop.

He trembles in a ball on the floor, his clothes being further soiled by the dirt that clings to the stone.

And then he stills.

He feels a cool rag on his forehead and his breathing hitches, and still he does not open his eyes, because surely when he does this little ounce of comfort will vanish and the demons will return to consume him. The cloth moves lightly across his skin, wiping away dirt and caked on blood, and lingers on his lips and he welcomes the dampness of the rag into the cracks of his skin. He lets out a small whimper as the rag is pulled from his face and he fears that this is all he will receive, but is surprised when warm hands replace the cloth. He hears someone speaks and he is almost certain the words he hears are, "I didn't know it would be this bad." but he can't be sure. The warm hand rests gently on his forehead and he unconsciously leans into the touch.

This must be Katara, it has to be, only she could have this much warmth in her touch. With a small cry of delight, he blindly flings himself on the person, ignoring the painful protest of his body. He wraps his arms around the person's shoulders and buries his face in the crook of their neck. He feels the person stiffen, their hands resting straight at their sides, before they let out a hesitant breath and slowly rest their hands upon his waist.

It's comfort in one of its purest forms.

A fresh wave of tears roll down his cheeks and his entire body shakes with relief as he clings even tighter to this source of comfort.

"Katara..." The names slips peacefully off his tongue and once again, the body in his arms stiffens. Slowly, he feels hands being placed on his shoulders as he is pushed almost gently away by the person that is supposed to love him the most, and he decides to finally open his eyes to confront her, to ask her way she would push him away when he needs her so much.

As his vision clears his own eyes meet with amber ones. These eyes are uniquely beautiful, entrancing and cold...

These eyes do not belong to Katara.

A ragged sob falls from his lips as he falls away from Prince Zuko, his back brushing against the rock that makes up his prison walls. He looks into those eyes that he wishes he could escape. His own eyes are pleading for an answer. How dare he touch him like that after everything he's done to him? He wants to know, needs to know, and all Zuko can manage is a soft, "I couldn't stand the screaming."