So, this was my very first atla fan fiction. I started it like five years ago. Since then, my writing has grown and changed. As such, this fic is in the process of being rewritten, before I continue it.

Please note: does not have a good tagging system, and as such is it difficult to give proper trigger warnings for a story. I'll list the general ones here that you can expect, although there are some that I won't, for the sake of spoilers. I'll let you know the chapters where those come up, and will tag them at the bottom of the chapter, so you can scroll down and read them before continuing.

This story has no romantic relationships, as its about found family and recovery.

TW for: Depression, anxiety, self-harm, alcohol abuse, suicide, PTSD, reference drug use, panic attacks, and general mental health issues.

Updated February 3rd 2020

It was black.

The darkness cradled him, like his mother's arms did so long ago. It snaked away his fears and anxiety, leaving nothing but a muted peace.

How long had it been since he had last felt so calm? Zuko didn't know, but soon, it wouldn't matter. Nothing would. He would be nothing but a name in the papers, disappearing into obscurity, nothing but a sad story, a lost face. He didn't matter. He would never matter.

Again, the darkness lulled him, pushing the thoughts away. Somewhere, Zuko could hear the sound of his own heartbeat, his last tether to morality. It was slow, stuttering, and unsteady. He was dying.

The knowledge wasn't a concern to Zuko, not when it had been his goal all along. How many times had he tried? It wasn't even worth counting anymore. That time, it would be enough. Nobody would find him until it was much too late.

Zuko wondered what would happen. Who would find his lifeless body - the empty bottle of pills and hand written suicide note. No doubt his father would turn it into a political campaign, playing the part of a grieving parent. He could practically hear the man's solem speech.

Senator Ozai would express his anguish over the loss of his eldest child, his only son. He'd talk about how if only they had kept drugs off the street, if only he could have done more, how it is an issue that affects everybody. Azula would be close by, of course, dabbing her eyes and hiding her smile. The perfect heart broken sister.

Even in the darkness, Zuko wanted to laugh. They'd fool them all, that much he knew. His death would be nothing but a political agenda, but he couldn't bring himself to care. Not when it was also his escape.

Suddenly, there was something in the distance - was there even distance in the void? - The darkness answered for him, a ripple. He heard noises, voices, all beyond his comprehension.

No

There was yelling.

God, please no.

The darkness started to fade.

Please, please I can't do this. Please don't make me wake up.

The dark nothingness disappeared, replaced by a blinding pain, and sickly awareness.

Everything hurt, the opposite of that calming darkness. It was bright, and his body ached. An unfortunate reminder that he was, indeed, alive.

Why?

He'd felt this way far too many times. Each attempt ended with him growing further away from life, only to be snapped back like a rubberband.

Somewhere through the haze, Zuko recognized the feeling of a hand holding his, and... humming?

Familiarity blossomed within him, only to be washed away with his slight consciousness.

The pain was less, allowing other sensations to drift into his mind.

Scratchy sheets, a cold room, the pinch of an IV in his right arm, and a soft beeping from nearby. The hand from before still held his, rough and calloused from work. Another was combing through his hair.

A soft voice whispered in his ear, quiet and comforting.

"Please nephew. Please wake up," the voice said.

Zuko recognized it, he knew he did.

"Come back to me, Zuko."

They sounded so sad, why would they be?

"I love you, please."

Were they crying?

Zuko groaned.

Christ, he was sore. His muscles ached, and his throat felt like sandpaper. Had he drank too much again? It seemed like the most likely reason for the way his head pounded against the confines of his skull.

"Zuko?" a worried voice asked, and fuck okay, that was new. Since when did people worry about him? Yell at him? Yeah. Hit him? Sure. But worry?

Where the fuck was he?

He let his eyes flutter open, only to be blinded by bright, fluorescent lights. He flinched in pain. Blinking, Zuko waited for his irises to adjust against the onslaught.

When they finally did, Zuko looked around. The room was white, which was really not helping the headache pulsing behind his eyes. He licked his dry lips, and let his eyes wander to the IV in his arm, and the dying flowers in a vase next to his bed.

A hospital.

Right. He'd tried to kill himself again, hadn't he? Fuck. Of course it hadn't worked. He couldn't do anything right. Was always the useless one, the stupid one. The worthless one.

No, stop.

He refused to cry. Refused to break down like some fucking child. He took a steadying breath, ignoring the prickle at his eyes because that was not fucking happening, and looked to the only other person in the room.

To his left sat somebody Zuko hadn't seen in years. Not since before his mom abandoned him left; before his cousin died.

Iroh, for his part, hadn't changed much in the years since they'd last seen each other. His hair and beard were still grey, in the same style he had worn them all of Zuko's life. It seemed that some things, at least, didn't change.

What was new, however, was the simultaneous look of both worry and relief.

"Uh," he said, ignoring the way his voice sounded as if it hadn't been used for a month. "H-Hi Uncle." He tried to keep the questioning tone from his voice. It would be better to wait, asking questions only ended badly.

His uncle's hand tightened on his own. It was probably meant to be reassuring, grounding. The contact only made Zuko nauseous.

"How are you feeling?" Iroh asked softly. His gaze was still concerned, although less so since Zuko had spoken.

Zuko wondered idelly if brain damage had been a concern.

"Thirsty," after a moment, "head hurts." Fuck, he really wished he hadn't woken up.

Iroh nodded and stood. "I'll find a nurse and let them know you're awake." The movement was jolted and awkward, as if Iroh himself was just as unsure of the situation as Zuko..

As he disappeared through the door, Zuko glanced down at the call button. Although, he couldn't bring himself to blame his uncle for needing air. After all, having been stuck with himself for the past seventeen years, Zuko knew full well how terrible he was to be around.

Sighing, he closed his eyes. He was so tired, which honestly wasn't surprising. It wasn't as if it was his first time around this particular block. It wasn't nearly as scary as it had been the first time, thirteen years old and all alone.

He remembered being so thankful he'd survived, sobbing as the kind nurse spoke to him. Back then, he'd believe them when they said it would get better. It didn't.

Every time since, he had only felt disappointment upon waking up. Always alone.

Speaking of which, why was his uncle there anyways? It was kind of odd. His father hadn't spoken to Iroh in years, and even before everything that happened the two hadn't been particularly close. For him to show up next to his hospital bed? It wasn't surprising that his father and sister weren't around. Azula would rather die than turn up in a public hospital, and Ozai never did. He had work. He always had work. (Zuko silently reminded himself that work was better than home. Never seeing his father would always be better than the constant fear. Better than the ever present reminder that he would never be good enough, would never make his father proud. Maybe one day he'd actually believe himself).

Lost in thought, he hardly noticed the door to his room opening again, nor the footsteps that followed.

"Zuko?" a decidedly different voice asked, young and feminine.

He opened his eyes to see a nurse. Her black hair was tied with a purple scrunchie into a low ponytail. It matched the purple of her scrubs, the shirt of which was covered in butterflies. She held a clipboard, a few papers secured to the front.

She smiled sweetly at him as he looked at her, and pulled a pen from the pocket of her scrubs.. "It's good to see you awake!" she told him happily, "my name is Lalarsa, and I'll be your nurse. I'll get you some water, but I was wondering if you'd be willing to answer a few questions for me, just to confirm what we have here." She held up the clipboard so he could see the brown back.

The questions were always the worst part. Well, second worst. The first being the look of complete and utter disappointment his father would give him upon returning home.

Zuko remembered the last time, when his father told him that the next time he tried to kill himself, he'd better save them the embarrassment and succeed. Well, so much for that.

"Sure," he answered, closing his eyes again. Fuck, the lights were killer.

Carefully, the nurse moved the bed so that Zuko was sitting up, and handed him a paper cup of water with a bright, green straw sticking out of the top. He sipped at it slowly, trying to ignore the growing feeling of nausea in his stomach.

"Can you tell me your first name, last name, and birth date?"

"Zuko Sozin, July 22nd."

"Address?"

He listed it off with practiced ease, along with his phone number, and emergency contact (his father, not that the man would bother answering if Zuko called him). Next came the date (turns out he had been unconscious for two days. Unsurprising, considering how shitty he still felt), and if he knew where he was (the answer was yes, the hospital).

"Now Zuko, can I ask you what brought you here?"

He suppressed an annoyed groan. Why did they always insist on having him spell it out to them? There was no way they didn't know how he'd ended up there. Hell, they probably knew more than he did. He glanced at his uncle out of the corner of his eye. The nurse seemed to understand.

"Would you like him to step out?"

It didn't really matter. Zuko was sure that Iroh already knew, but it still wasn't exactly something he was a fan of admitting. "Oh yeah, I tried to kill myself because my life fucking sucks, how have you been Uncle?"

"Yes."

Iroh didn't have any complaints. He just smiled softly at Zuko and left with a soft click of the door behind him.

Finally alone, the nurse re-asked the question.

Zuko looked down, and noticed for the first time that his arms were wrapped in clean, white bandages. They perfectly covered what he knew was scarred and mangled flesh. The same as his thighs. "I tried to kill myself."

She at least looked at him sympathetically. "Was this your first attempt?"

"Nope."

"Have many previous times have you attempted suicide?"

"Don't know. I don't exactly keep track of my failures. I've got enough of those already," he cracked an empty smile, and knew she saw right through it by the way her mouth twitched downward. Her pen scratched across the clipboard as she made note of his response, and Zuko tried to suppress his irritation.

He always hated the way doctors, nurses, and therapists hid their notes from him, as if his mind wasn't his own. Always picked apart and put back together for the sake of "helping" him, as if they could do anything but make it all worse, like that time a doctor called child protective services. It hadn't ended well for him.

"Do you want to hurt yourself right now?" Lalarsa asked.

Zuko shrugged. "I don't know. I haven't really had time to think about it." His voice was flippant, apathetic. It was how he always tried to keep it. Smothering the fire that always wanted to burst forth, kept it unwraps until he could escape the world on his own time.

She nodded, and flipped a page, reclipping it in place.

"We found evidence of both illegal and prescription drugs in your blood. Some in high concentrations, while others just in traces," her eyes scanned what is no doubt a list. "Do you abuse substances often, outside of suicide attempts?"

Zuko couldn't help it, he was getting annoyed. Or maybe just defensive. He'd already been told several times that he was lucky he hadn't formed an addiction yet. "Yes." he answered, trying to keep himself from snapping.

"Can you be more specific?"

He thought about it, "Weed and alcohol mostly, some ecstasy. Xanax, ativan, or valium when I need it, but not super often. I've tried cocaine a few times, but didn't like it. Heroin once and oxy once or twice."

She definitely wrote that down. "Why did you stop taking opiods?"

Biting the inside of his cheek to keep from rolling his eyes he answered, "the high sucks." It made him itch.

Nodding, she changed back to the original topic. "How often do you engage in the consumption of illegal or prescription drugs?"

"Few times a week."

"What about alcohol consumption?"

"A lot," it came out as a mix between exasperated and angry. "I drink a lot, okay?. Excessively in fact. Just ask my father, or my sister, or hell, probably half the goddamn city."

Realizing she hit a nerve, she changed the topic. "How long have you been cutting?"

Zuko hated that question, hated that term. So few people knew that it threw him off whenever people asked about it, not to mention the only people who called it 'cutting' were angsty thirteen year olds and therapists trying to bond with their patients. "Five years or something. Since I was twelve."

The anger was simmering. It was always the easiest emotion for him to pull on, the easiest to defend himself with.

She asked several more questions, until it became clear that Zuko was done co-operating. His headached and he was exhausted. He just wanted to go to sleep and never wake up. Of course, he'd already tried that, and failed. Fuck.

Finally, the nurse excused herself. No doubt to give a rundown with his uncle, and call whoever his doctor was. Fuck.

Zuko was laying down wihen Iroh came back into the room. For a man of his size, it was amazing how quiet he could be on his feet.

He could hear the sound of the chair as the man settled back into it. The smell of tea drifted through the air. Jasmine. Zuko always remembered how much his uncle loved tea. Remembered the two of them pouring it from Iroh's porcelain pots, how his mother used to laugh and thank him when he brought her the drink.

Zuko really hated tea.

They sat in silence for a time, while Zuko stewed in his emotions. He felt like a petulant child and he hated it.

Eventually, Iroh spoke. "The doctor wishes to keep you here for a time, nephew."

Zuko didn't answer.

"When you're released, they will refer you to an outpatient therapy program."

"Don't want therapy," he muttered without opening his eyes. Fuck his head was aching. "Besides, even if I wanted to, father would never allow it. Something about his image." A hospital stay was easy enough to cover up. Continued therapy? That would be harder.

"Ah," Iroh said, as if something just occurred to him. "Well, in any case, your father no longer gets an opinion."

That caused Zuko to open his eyes. Sitting up, he stared at his uncle. "What?" There was a harsh edge to his voice.

"Your father..." his uncle sighed, putting his tea down. "Your father decided it would be in your best interest to stay elsewhere for awhile. He asked me to take custody of you."

That stunned him into silence. After so long, Zuko had forgotten just how easy it was for his father to hurt him, without even lifting a hand. "He doesn't want me anymore?" he hated the way his voice shook, desperate and needy.

"He wants what's best for you."

Zuko could tell that neither of them really believed that.

Fuck, he wished he had a drink.

"I'll also be re-enrolling you in school when we have a better idea of when you'll be home."

Nevermind, make that an entire bottle.