Chapter Text
“I’m sorry I wasn’t good enough.”
Sokka blinked when the first drop of liquid slipped off his wrist and crashed against the desk in an explosion of bright red misery. It used to bother him, seeing that color coat his arm and slide down his fingers, feeling the tingly sensation as it escaped out the splits in his skin, but not anymore. Not when every look in the mirror was a look into the lives his reckless decisions had cost them. Not when he was arguably a mass murderer and everyone refused to accept it. Not when the only punishments he could get were the ones he inflicted upon himself. He didn’t deserve anyone’s sympathy, but they gave it to him anyway.
“I’m sorry nothing I try seems to end this.”
At that point, Sokka was fully aware that he was making bad decisions, but he didn’t know how to stop. Salty clear droplets joined the splashes of blood on his desk when he leaned over it, shifting his hand just to the right. He could cut as many times as he wanted, but he wasn’t allowed to go too far. He wasn’t allowed to walk away and escape when everyone else still had to deal with the consequences of his actions. So, he didn’t. Sokka didn’t just deserve the punishment, he craved it. The relief, the comfort, the familiarity that came with the blade. The edge was the only thing that kept him sane those days.
“I’m sorry that you’re dead because of me.”
He inhaled sharply when he pushed too deep. Three years Sokka had been clean before that. Three short years where he was happy and okay and doing everything he ever wanted to. Then the world decided to fall apart and drag him right back into the mud. Sokka pulled the knife away quickly, sniffing colored as drops crashed to the wood beneath him. He wasn’t intending to do anything permanent. He just needed a distraction from the mental pain. A few moments where he could focus on something that wasn’t the war.
“I’m sorry.”
No matter how many times he apologized, no matter how many times he begged them to go, the shadows wouldn’t leave him alone. The figures of the soldiers stood behind him in the mirror, not moving, not blinking, but stealing from him a tear apiece. Sokka knew he deserved to have them there, he knew he deserved to be stalked by the people he’d killed, but he wanted more than anything for them to go away. He wanted more than anything to be able to focus on his task without being stuck on his failures. Slowly, Sokka pressed two fingers to the open wound on his wrist. The warmth felt disgustingly nice.
“I’m so fucking sorry this happened.”
It would be a lie to say that Sokka never considered pushing the knife down deeper. Sometimes he wanted to turn it, to drag it down the other way along the opposite side of his arm and watch as his life dripped out of his skin. The only reason he’d resisted the urge so far was because he always had something to live for. When he started hurting himself after the war, there was always someone there for him. Always someone to talk to. But now he was in the middle of a war zone again and there was nothing he could do but drag the knife across his skin until there was nothing left to spill out of him.
“I’m so sorry for everything. Just leave me alone. Please.”
They didn’t move. Not one of the shadows, not one of the reflections. They stayed in front of him, hidden only by his loose hair and the tears that clouded his eyes. A sob escaped Sokka’s lips as his fingers curled around the edge of his desk, scratching at its surface, and scraping apart the last of his fingernails. He chewed them down to nothing ages ago. There was nothing left to destroy but his skin. Nothing left to cry over but the spirits of the dead that wouldn’t leave his side whenever he was left alone. Whenever he found himself sick to his stomach and aching to end it all.
“Please. Just let me be alone.”
If the only way out was to push the knife down deeper, maybe it was what he should do. Sokka reached back down, two fingers still dripping with thick red pain as he lifted the handle of the blade. He turned his gaze to his left hand, squeezing his hand around the knife and twisting it to press against the inside of his left wrist. The back of his arm dripped on the desk but he didn’t so much as glance down to it. Sokka pulled his eyes shut, a tear escaping each eye as he took a deep breath and started to drag the blade down his arm. Just a minute longer. Just one more minute and he’d never have to fight again.
“Sokka?”
The moment he heard the voice calling to him, Sokka lurched backward; his hair whipping in the air and sticking to his tear-stained face. His knife went clattering to the ground and he reached down to grab it, only for a stabbing pain to attack his left leg. It was stupid that he was trying to cope by adding more pain when he had so much to deal with already. When half the days he couldn’t get out of bed and the other half, he could move only with his cane. He forced himself to do what he needed to regardless, dropping the knife down on his desk and dragging a heavy coat around his shoulders to cover himself before walking over to the entrance of the tent and poking his head outside.
“What?” he asked sharply, his voice breathier than he intended. It was stupid how worn out he got from one pathetic little task. From just a few small cuts across his wrist.
“I just came to let you know that dinner was ready,” said Katara, holding up her hands in defense. Her sleeves slipped down to reveal clean arms. Devoid of a single self-inflicted scar. It wasn’t fair. “But if you’re going to be such a sourpuss, then maybe I’ll just give your share to Appa.”
They didn’t want him. He had a poor attitude and no matter how hard he tried to act like everything was okay, his sporadic temper and irritable mood were getting in the way. Katara might have been joking then but that didn’t stop it from being true. That even if they did want him at the moment, they wouldn’t want him when they realized the standard they held him to was something he could never meet. That he was inadequate at everything they’d ever asked him to do. That he was nothing but a disappointment and a failure and there wasn’t a thing he could do to change it.
“Sorry, I just have to finish some things here,” said Sokka, glancing down to his covered arm. The fur burned against his open wound and he knew he was permanently staining it, but the other option was letting his sister know he’d intentionally mutilated himself. That wasn’t a hard decision to make. “I’ll meet up with you guys in a bit. Can you just let the others know I’m running late? I don’t want Dad to worry, I swear I haven’t been skipping meals on purpose.”
That was a lie. Sokka had been skipping meals as often and as willingly as he’d been skipping out on all his other simple forms of self-care. He hadn’t cut his hair in ages, he shaved maybe once every few days (both partly due to the fact that if he didn’t actively want to self-harm, he didn’t trust himself with the blade), and sleeping was hardly a possibility when he couldn’t close his eyes without being haunted by the faces of the bodies they pulled from the battlefields. Not that having his eyes open seemed to be a significantly better solution. At that point, he was suffering regardless.
“Yeah, sure, but…” Katara’s voice trailed off, her brow furrowing in concern. Sokka glanced down to his feet, adjusting his injured arm around his stomach, and hoping she assumed the issue to be with his shoulder. If she was going to scrutinize him, he wasn’t going to meet her gaze while she did it. “Are you okay, Sokka? You look a little sick.”
He was a little sick. More than a little sick. More like he was ready to double over and throw up on their feet right then and there. His head was pounding, the world was spinning, and all he really wanted was to go back. Go back to the time when everything was okay. To the five years when there was no war, no battles, just a calm era of peace. Everything that Aang strove for and everything that Sokka sacrificed his childhood and his life to achieve. But it was gone. There was nothing he could do to turn back the clock, to bring back the peace, no matter how much he wished there were.
“I’m fine,” he assured his sister quickly, though he knew his tone sounded off. He could tell his posture was wonky as well, but again, all he could really do was hope that Katara assumed that stemmed from his bad leg and not his bleeding forearm. “Just go to dinner. I don’t want your food getting cold because you were standing here talking to me.”
“Okay.” Katara hesitated, barely starting to turn around before she looked back again. “Listen, Sokka, I know this isn’t easy, and if you need anything—”
“Just go, Katara. I’ll be there in a bit.”
Despite how cruel his words came out, Sokka didn’t stop for a moment to care. The second Katara was gone, he dragged the tent shut and slid down, allowing the blanket to slip down his waist as he shoved his hands through his hair and yanked his knees up to his chest. He was a mess. He was pretty sure nobody had figured it out yet so he felt okay, at least for a while, but there was blood on his face, his leg, the floor, everywhere he’d dropped his knife. It was getting out of control. He didn’t want to admit it, but he was spiraling.
No.
He already had spiraled and was in far too deep to get himself out.
Sokka took a deep breath before trying to stand up again, the lightheadedness immediately taking over and sending him for a loop. He leaned forward on his knees, heart pounding, and squeezed his eyes shut tight. It was his fault. He cut himself too many times and let too many drops fall loose. If he were selfish, he would’ve admitted to Katara that he had a problem and he relapsed, but he wasn’t. He might have been stupid but he wasn’t cruel enough to drag her into his mess when she thought he was past his period of self-hatred. When she thought he kept his promise not to be mean to himself again.
Though he should’ve been concerned with getting himself cleaned up so he could go over to breakfast, Sokka couldn’t care less and only lazily wrapped a cloth around his forearm before turning back to his work. He had way too much to finish and not nearly enough time to do it in. Plus, it wasn’t like he even wanted to eat anyway. Sokka never ate regular meals unless he was forced to do it anymore. Not since they were made to go back into hiding. He tried for a while, but it made him too sick to his stomach. Everything did.
He wrapped his bleeding arm around his stomach as he leaned back over his maps and half-finished strategies, searching again for the best course of action. It was hard to determine which way would be the most effective for shutting everything down, but he had to try. People were counting on him. Everyone was counting on him. His family, his friends, the colonies, the world. He sacrificed fucking everything to save them once before and here they were, begging him to do it again. Begging him to fix everything because they couldn’t do it themselves.
Admittedly, Sokka was pretty great at planning and strategizing. He knew that. That was the reason Aang and Zuko thought to get him involved in the first place. But that didn’t suddenly make it any easier to be in the middle of a budding war. To watch as the Fire Nation colonies destroyed themselves over stupid and selfish disagreements. As they ruined the era of peace they all fought so hard for, that Sokka fought so hard and sacrificed everything for. He didn’t get to be a kid. He didn’t get to have a mom. He didn’t even get to walk anymore because the injury from the airship made it nearly impossible without a cane even five years later.
“Fuck.”
Sokka yanked his hand back suddenly, his eyes going wide when he realized his hand was covered in his own blood. He hadn’t even noticed he was holding it over his open wound until he squeezed down and the pain seared through his wrist. He took a deep breath, sliding back away from his papers to grab a towel from behind him. Cleaning up the blood was never fun, especially when he had to go back and scrub it off the desk the best he could, but there was no way out of it. Either he left the blood there for everyone to find, he let himself bleed out and left himself for everyone to find, or he went ahead and fixed nothing and left everyone to find both. That didn’t feel like an option. If he was going to end it, he at least didn’t want anyone to have to find him.
Despite how much his hands were shaking and how much he had to fight with his overgrown hair to properly see, Sokka managed to get his arm adequately cleaned and wrapped. Every touch to it stung, but never as badly as when he’d let the blade split his skin. Never as badly as the mental traumas and pain which drove him to that place initially. Still, it was painful, and Sokka allowed himself a few moments to get past the pressure from the bandage on his arm before he dragged a shirt over his head and yanked the sleeves down in his palms. He couldn’t risk letting anyone see what he’d done, even if he deserved it.
Once his wounds were finally taken care of and his blood was scrubbed away, Sokka rose to his feet and took a deep breath before walking outside his tent. He hated the campsite they were stuck in. He hated how much it reminded him of his time back in the Hundred Year War. When him and his friends were constantly hiding out and on the run. It wasn’t technically a war going on then, but it felt like it. It felt like it when Suki suggested they all go into hiding. It felt like it when Aang and Zuko asked Sokka to come and help them because they were desperate. It felt like it when his whole family got dragged along despite the Water Tribe having nothing to do with the conflict.
Though he knew he should go meet his friends for dinner like he’d promised Katara, just standing there and staring at the campsite made Sokka feel sick so he opted for a walk instead. He went for a lot of walks those days, just for time away from everything to help him think about his plans, and every walk ended up taking him to the same place. Every walk, regardless of which direction he started in or where he intended to go, ended at the edge of the cliff they were hiding near. Just past the side of the trees that shaded them and over the world of emptiness and endless height below him.
“Hey.”
Sokka blinked when he heard Zuko’s voice behind him but didn’t tear his gaze from the rocky ledge. His legs were hanging over the cliff, dangling and aching to slide just a little farther. Honestly, Sokka had no intention of jumping. Absolutely not. But sometimes, when it really hurt, he liked to look down there and think about the possibility that he could. Remind himself that if the battles became too much, he could end it all in a second. He forced himself to smile as he turned back to look at Zuko, waiting for him to say something and begging the universe to make it nice. He didn’t, only sitting down at Sokka’s side and pulling his knees into a cross-legged position.
“Hi,” said Sokka lamely, knowing full well how stupid he sounded. He tugged his sleeves down again, squeezing the edge of the fabric in his hands. “You feeling any better?”
The reason he was asking was, of course, because Zuko’s arm was still wrapped up even several days later. He hadn’t been too seriously injured and thankfully the assassination attempt was a failure, but Zuko did come out of it with a broken arm and more than a few scratches and bruises. They were healing well, thanks to Katara, but he still wasn’t allowed to move his arm much while the bone was still broken and he had a few scrapes left on his jaw and his hand that were a little too painful to look at. Sokka turned his gaze back to his feet as they swung over the edge. It was easier than looking at the injuries.
“Yeah, I’m fine.” But his arm was still hanging in a sling and his hand was pressed against his stomach stiffly. Sokka lifted his arms to help Zuko get comfortable, as he was clearly not used to functioning with less support on one side. His heart fluttered a little when they touched, but he didn’t let himself focus on that feeling. He didn’t deserve what they’d been building before it all went downhill again. “It still burns a little if I move it too much, but Katara said it’s healing well, so yeah. I’m not too worried about it. What about you? You all right, Sokka?”
No. He wasn’t. Sokka was stuck in a loop of despising himself more than anything and feeling guilty that he did. Knowing he needed to put aside his personal issues and deal with everything that was happening, but not knowing how to do that. Not knowing how or even if he would be able to make it through the situation. There were a thousand things Sokka needed to take care of, a thousand levels of quality that he needed to reach, and he didn’t think he could do any of it. He’d already gone through a war and it was looking like he’d have to live through one again. It wasn’t fair.
“Of course.” Sokka nodded quickly, hoping he looked as confused as he wanted to. As if he didn’t understand why Zuko was asking even though he knew full well that he looked like absolute shit. “I was just thinking about our plans. Or my plans, I guess. I’m still trying to figure out the best way to approach this whole situation. The more I think about it, the more I feel like there’s no way out of it, at least not without more casualties. It’s just too personal of an issue for everyone. They won’t listen.”
“I know it feels like that, but you have to keep an open mind.” Zuko reached out for Sokka’s hand, but he shifted away. It was him who nearly got Zuko killed in the first place. It was him who was distracting and stole his eye. He didn’t deserve to touch the Fire Lord anymore. “These people’s opinions are strong but they’re not set in stone. You’re an incredible strategist, Sokka. Whatever happens, I know you’re going to get through to them. You always do.”
That wasn’t true. Maybe Zuko believed that Sokka was better than he really was for some messed up reason, because he falsely convinced everyone to trust him, but he wasn’t. Sokka didn’t have an idea how he was supposed to fix anything, let alone everything. He didn’t know how he was supposed to convince two entire nations to change their minds when he couldn’t even convince himself that he was worth it. That he shouldn’t just lean forward and let himself fall. The only reason he hadn’t done it already was because it wasn’t fair to everyone else. Because the pressure reached a point where it didn’t just cripple him, it kept him going. It held him in a state of unrest and adrenaline he couldn’t escape from.
“I guess,” was all Sokka could say. Because it wasn’t true. He couldn’t believe it, no matter how hard he tried. “Thanks, Zuko.”
The kiss on his temple hurt more than it should’ve. The hand on his cheek burned in a way he couldn’t explain. The problem wasn’t that he didn’t like it, but that he liked it far too much. That he craved the love, comfort, and feeling of security that Zuko’s hand on his cheek gave him, but he knew he didn’t deserve it. He knew he didn’t deserve to let himself indulge in the nice movements. Didn’t deserve to turn and kiss him even if that was all he wanted to do. Sokka looked away, his gaze spinning to stare back at the cliff beneath his dangling feet. He ached to push himself just a little more forward. He ached to let his legs slide over the edge. But he didn’t because he couldn’t.
After the obvious rejection, Sokka thought for sure that Zuko would just get up and walk away, but he wasn’t that daft. Instead, he turned beside Sokka, bouncing his broken arm a little against his stomach and dropping his good hand into his lap. Sokka bit down on his lip as he glanced over at Zuko, not turning his head but stealing a glance out of the corner of his eye. He used to do that a lot before everything went to shit. It was one of those little motions that got Zuko distracted in the first place. One of those stupid, pathetic little motions that gave the assassins the perfect opportunity to strike.
“You sure you’re okay?” There was something in Zuko’s tone that was different from usual. It wasn’t aggressive, sarcastic, or condescending in the least. He just sounded concerned, gentle, and like all he really cared about was knowing that Sokka was all right. He didn’t respond with more than a shrug. “Sokka, I know things have been weird recently, but you know that you can talk to me, right? I’m still your friend.”
“Yeah.” Sokka nodded quickly, shoving a hand through his hair. It was the arm he hadn’t just cut, of course. He couldn’t move that one more than aninch without it tingling at the very least. “I know.”
“Then why aren’t you doing it?”
Because he didn’t deserve the relief. He didn’t deserve to let Zuko in—to let anyone in—and drag them down even further with his insignificant little issues. He tried to talk to his family about it once, to explain to them how much he hated himself and how hard it was just to go about his days stuck in a body with stupid fucking Sokka, but he barely explained his anxiety before they looked so emotional he forced himself to stop. He didn’t tell them about his issues with food. He didn’t tell them about his issues with the knife. He just accepted it when they compared his examples to his struggles with public speaking. Sokka had problems with anxiety and that was all they needed to know. That was all he could tell them without the guilt making him want to explode.
“I’m just worried about the plans.” Business. That was the one subject Sokka could talk about without feeling like he was pushing his problems on anyone else, because he knew others shared the same concerns. Still, he reached up to chew on his thumb, stress overwhelming his senses. “You know how many casualties we’ve had already? Not just on our side with the mediators, but… people are dying out there, Zuko, and all I can think about is how many more are next.”
“I understand what you mean,” said Zuko. He shifted uncomfortably, his gaze shifting down to his broken arm. “I’ve probably mentioned it at some point in the last five years, but that’s how I got my scar, you know? How I got banished too. My father wanted to sacrifice a whole division of men and I spoke out against him. I was thirteen and I couldn’t imagine so many people dying. At some point on the ship, I convinced myself I would get over it, but I never did. My crew died and I mourned them. Soldiers die here and I mourn them too. I know how hard it is, but death is inevitable, Sokka. All we can do is try our best not to think about it and remind ourselves it’s not our fault.”
“What if it is our fault?” Sokka blurted out the words too quickly and he squeezed down on his left forearm as a punishment. That was a dead giveaway to Zuko that he was struggling with internal feelings of self-hatred and not a general worry about the circumstances. He swallowed hard, trying to find a way to make it sound more impersonal. “I mean, not our fault, but like— these are our plans, right? We’re the ones telling these people what to do. We’re the ones sending them out into the battlefields not knowing whether they’ll come back. In a way, we are responsible for what happens because when our soldiers die, they die doing what we told them.”
“You can’t think of it like that.” He almost laughed. As if there was any way he could stop himself. “You’re not telling them to walk to their deaths, Sokka. You’re giving them a strategy that could go south depending on what happens with the people. That’s not anyone’s fault. Shit happens. Everyone who takes orders from us is well aware of what could happen. They know the risks of being in their positions and they do it anyway. To blame yourself for that isn’t fair. To blame any of us for that isn’t fair. You just have to keep trying and keep moving on. Whatever happens, happens. We may not have signed up for another war but we sure as shit signed up to end it; whatever it takes.”
“Whatever it takes.”
Sokka continued to stare out in the distance when Zuko gave his hand a squeeze and slowly rose to his feet. He continued to swing his legs over the edge and do whatever he could to convince himself not to fall when Zuko walked away. He hoped that if he watched the skyline long enough, something would happen. That there were ideas drifting in the clouds and one of them had to fall and hit him if he just waited. If he just kicked his good leg back and forth and chewed on his nails until there was nothing left but skin and blood.
They didn’t.
He had to figure it out on his own but he couldn’t and he was crumbling. Sokka was already cracked, broken, and each step took him further in the wrong direction. Each decision he made was worse and ripped and tore at his wounds until there was barely anything left. Until his arm was splitting open, his head was pounding with every step, and the very action of thinking about his responsibilities and self-care made him want to hurl. It was pathetic. He wasn’t a kid anymore. He wasn’t the victim anymore. He needed to get over himself and get his head back in the game.
Sokka didn’t talk to anyone else who tried to find him that day, despite his whole family attempting to convince him to eat dinner. He lamely accepted a plate of food so they wouldn’t be too worried about him, but nothing else before returning to his tent. He needed to finalize his plans. He needed to find a way for them to get into the villages and convince everyone on both sides to just let it go. That they were overreacting and the only way to bring peace was to come to an agreement. A compromise. Something other than the raging war they were on the brink of. The dangerous territories they’d created and the world so awful that after five years of peace, Sokka was forced to go back into hiding. They all were.
It must’ve been half past midnight when Sokka finally gave into the urges. When he glared down at the tear-stained papers beneath him and chose to rise to his feet. Sokka sneaked around the best he could, doing everything to make sure none of the watch caught him sliding into the storeroom. He didn’t want dinner. He didn’t even want food. But he did want a distraction and that was what it gave him. Energy and something else to focus his mind on. Even if it wasn’t healthy, even if it had everyone asking what animal got into their food at night, it was the one thing he had left that made him feel better and that didn’t leave him with hideous scars on his arms. So, despite every rational part of his mind begging him not to do it, he ate.
And when he inevitably got sick not twenty minutes after the binge, he allowed himself a moment to stay out in the forest and cry. If nothing else, at least the trees would never judge him for his fears.