Chapter Text
The ever-pressing weight of life and being alive is an exhausting one. The rain hammers upon his crown, smearing hair flat against his scalp. As he sucks in a breath, the wind pushes him from the behind, and for a fleeting moment he loses his balance. He kicks his legs into the abyss below him, and the movement realigns hips he cannot feel.
He doesn’t fall.
Things have been… well. Things have been hard for a while now. He can’t look himself in the eye as he brushes his teeth in the evenings, showering takes hours each day. Something chews at his stomach, leaving him dizzy and restless at the best of times. He follows his daily routine strictly and mercilessly, and someone’s voice from years ago praises him for following the safety plan. He’s not sure what led him to this lake at this hour in this weather. He can’t recall when, exactly, he’d swung both legs over the railing. His ghost had just… adjusted itself into some kind of sitting position, and his legs did not report the dampness that sunk into his bones as fingers clutched the railing.
What he did know, though, is that no one was around. No one would be around. He could slip off easily, soundlessly, and fall for a minute at least, before sinking into the roiling river below. That was something he could do.
Another breeze licks at him, curling around arms and clutching at legs. It’d be so easy, the wind whispers, you can let go.
He swings himself backwards and forwards, hands still wrapped around the railing. His nails dig into it, and there’s the distant crack as one of them breaks. He leans forward just a breath too far, and his heart leaps into his throat.
It's the first sensation he’s felt in a long, long time.
He doesn’t fall.
His logic breaks away, spine arches, and he finds stability yet again.
Distantly, something cold brushes against his face. He doesn’t care to examine what it may be. In the same distant, foggy universe, something warm trails down his arms and pools at his fingers. Everything is shrouded in a blanket, like when he was a kid and afraid that a vampire would appear at his bedside. During those fitful moments, he’d curl his entire body under the duvet, tuck his head in under a blanket. He wasn’t religious, hadn’t ever been, but long nights filled with ice-cold dread always ended with tearful prayers.
Now, sitting upon a too-thin railing miles and miles away from his childhood bedroom and everything that matters, he finds himself murmuring equally tearful prayers.
“Spirits and Agni,” he mutters, “Please grant me the strength I need. Please make sure my soul reaches where it needs to be.” The prayer continues, and a lifetime away, a woman’s voice coaches him through it. He knows he’s prayed like this before, sent his wishes and hopes and dreams into the stars. They’ve never answered before. Zuko knows they won’t answer now. His mother always said that spirits do not give their blessings out to someone praying for harm. Does it count as harm if it’s for this? Does it count as harm if he’s removing himself from the equation?
Does the hurt and injury of one person count when no one else will feel the sting of loss, the ache of guilt, or the blanket of grief?
A lifetime away, a rumbling he hadn’t noticed comes to a sudden stop. A group of friends, he decides, have more than likely decided to spend some time at the park a few steps away. Airy and deep laughter enters one ear and out the other, and he begins to sway backwards and forwards again. Do people grieve strangers? Can one be traumatised by a strangers’ death? Doubtful.
Though he can’t recall it, past versions of him couldn’t grieve the loss of his mother and cousin, and he barely thinks about the way his father, uncle, sister, everyone left. His mind is too empty to put those pieces together, let alone flip the pictures over and sort gently through them.
Unlike last time, he doesn’t tip too far forwards. He doesn’t lose his balance or grip the railing tighter. He sucks one, long breath in. Holds it in his lungs for several beats.
He lets go of the railing, blue-tinted hands folding themselves on his lap. He lets air rise through his lungs, feels the oxygen and carbon dioxide and whatever else scrape their way through his throat. With one final violent exhale, he pitches one way.
He begins to fall.
-
The ever-pressing weight of life and being alive is a reassuring one. Sokka was planning on having a late-night smoke sesh in the perfect climate. Everything had fallen into place: the rain was falling in thick, heavy sheets with no sign of slowing down. The moon was wide and smiled down at him from its place high in the sky. His car had just gotten fixed. And, best of all, he’d scored a beautiful purple strain of the smoothest indica he’d ever laid eyes on. All he had to do now was find a covered place to park his car, sit his ass down on his car’s worn bonnet, roll a joint, and light up.
Things had been going remarkably well for Sokka recently. Yes, his girlfriend had broken up with him, but she’d gone for one of his closest friends (and exes) and just-so-happened to have discovered that she was a lesbian. It was amazing news – Love, Sokka knows, is one of the most purest forms of life. How incredible it must be to look upon Suki’s muscular, wise, and intelligent form and just know that she’s everything to you?
That’s not to mention the A+ he’d gotten few days ago from his calculus lecturer after he’d spent weeks studying for the final, and his favourite bakery had just started selling drinks.
Sokka had spent the entire drive to the playground blasting his favourite music, wiggling in his seat, and screaming the lyrics.
He'd barely even parked the car when his lights hit a deeply confusing sight.
The playground overlooked Ba Sing Se’s beautiful lake. It spread through the entire city, and was almost always a glittering, hypnotic shade of blue. He’d gone canoeing through it several times with many different people, and it was always a calming activity. However, it was well known for its danger. Like a cat showing its belly, the lake tells visitors and locals how lovely it is to swim in, how cool and refreshing it’d be. Little do many know, it’s threateningly deep and its bed is rocky and ready to pounce. Many tourists have lost belongings, limbs, and lives to its song. Sokka had tried to swim in it once, when his dad had brought them to the city as a present for his mum. He’d ended up with a skinned arm and a pricey hospital trip.
That’s why when he notices the hunched figure perched precariously on the safety railing, the breath leaves his lungs. He shouts for the person, but if they hear him, they don’t show it.
He barely registers slamming his door, or the way his body breaks into a run.
He's almost too late. They pitch to the side, and somehow, someway, Sokka is there. The person quite literally falls right into his arms.
Their eyes are closed, and the car’s headlights don’t illuminate anything. He stands there, shaking under the effort of holding dead-weight up and shivering as rain seeps deep into his bones.
After a long moment of dead-silence, the person’s eyes slowly open. They’re a piercing gold, and a dark shadow over one eye only makes their eyes brighter. Their mouth folds itself into a clearly unimpressed grimace, and quick as a whip they stiffen.
This movement takes Sokka wholly by surprise. He’s not sure what he’s supposed to do now, or even what the stranger was doing. His mind fumbles, Hey, you okay? Come here often? It’s a bit wet, don’t you think? I’m Sokka, what’s your name? How many raindrops are too many?
The seconds of trying to decide what to say drag on, and they look at each other – The person in what can only be described as abject horror, and Sokka in what he hopes to be concern.
“I’m Sokka, are you okay?” He finally settles on, adjusting himself to grip the person’s arms. This poor attempt at righting them both fails dramatically as the person gasps, Sokka starts, and somehow, they tumble to the concrete beneath them.