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.