Disclaiming Banner: I do not claim ownership of ATLA. Or the Plaza hotel. Or the Sun.

Grief

Chapter 3

I have been remiss in my gratitude.

Thank you 69moans. Thank you Hl-ee-09. Thank you Fireun Feather. You help this feel less like a runaway one-shot.

When he finally got back to his hotel room, he was welcomed by the smell of nicotine and tar. His room at the Plaza turned out to not be smoking permitted, but he was a little worried to light up anywhere else. At the hotel, all he would have to do is pay a fine. Outside...he didn't want to get arrested, American prisons were supposed to be terrible. And he didn't want anyone to see him flinch when he lit up, or the way he had to bring the smoke down to the lighter. He couldn't handle fire that close to his face lately.

He rested his lighter on the bathroom counter to get a cigg ready. Once it was burning sufficiently well, he took a deep drag and held it as long as possible. The familiar sweet ache filled up his lungs and his memory. Lu Ten had smoked, and prompted by school friends an eight year old Zuko had stolen his first cigarette from his cousin. More than a decade later he still smoked the same brand, (cloves, imported) and left a pack at the cemetery every year for his spirit.

What was he going to leave for Azula?

His hand shook, and he dropped the smoke into the sink. It went out, so Zuko picked up the lighter, again, lit up as far away as he could manage, again. But didn't let the flame go out. He brought it closer, closer, and closer to his face, until his hand shook enough to drop the lighter into the sink as well.

He'd managed to get almost 3 cm closer today. If he kept this pace, he'd be able to light up without flinching at all by the time he went home. Uncle would be pleased, Father wouldn't notice. Funny, how Zuko had started smoking to be like his father and his uncle had given it up because it interfered with the taste of his tea. Zuko wasn't ready to give it up.

Finishing, he stubbed the butt into a coffee cup that was his impromptu ashtray and thought about ordering room-service. But between several days improper sleep and the chemical bouquet calming his nerves, Zuko fell asleep on the couch before he could make the call.

Some hours later, he was awoken by the hotel butler. A politely gruff man, Jee spoke Japanese with only a slight accent. He had been well trained in service, but not likely from a servant family. He was awfully forward; Uncle must have requested him specifically.

"Master Zuko. It is time for your breakfast." The man in question started awake. He discovered that he was still on the couch in the suite's first floor living room, his lower body threatening to slide off and the whole side of his face buried into the upholstery. In the dining room behind him, a full breakfast service, (possibly the same type he had ordered yesterday but not been able to eat) was laid out with mathematical precision. The scent of rice, miso, and tea helped him resolve to eat no matter what this morning.

He was going into surgery tomorrow after all, and he would need calories while he could get them. Banishing such thoughts, Zuko tried to get up from his vaguely embarrassing sleep position with some grace, and failed.

"Where there any messages for me yesterday, Jee?" He managed to ask once settled down to eat.

"Two calls, sir, from Master Iroh. He left a message asking you to call him back after each. You also had a letter addressed from a Miss Mai. I've left it next to the telephone in the master bedroom." Like any good butler, Jee seemed to manage with his tone of voice to imply that he was disappointed in his young charge for not replying to his family's last three attempts at contact.

As if on command, Zuko cringed. It wasn't that he didn't want to speak to Iroh, (he desperately wanted to hear the man's voice) he couldn't. He wasn't ... wasn't whole yet. When his face was more normal, when he knew if he could see out of his right eye, then he would have the fortitude to speak with his closest family. And Mai, he didn't know when he'd be able to face her, so to speak. They had met through Azula. He might have gone to a marriage broker by now if it hadn't been for his dead little sister's play-dates.

He'd send them both emails today; after his jujutsu practice. For now, he took a pill from the bottle that had appeared beside his tea. He read the instructions, again, and took half the recommended dose. Again. He didn't enjoy pain, but the stuff muddled his brain. It was more difficult to translate all the English around him, let alone practice without harming himself.

Zuko finished eating, and went out onto the terrace that came with his hotel suite. He tried meditating for forty minutes, but his thoughts would not rally to his command. He finally began his physical practices. Using every square millimeter at his disposal, he jerked through blocks, strikes, and kicks. When his vision doubled, he began using the wall as counter-point in going through the basic footwork of a fundamental throw.

The only exercise he seemed to really be getting, was in futility. Balance off and depth-perception nonexistent, his limbs didn't even feel like they were really there. Despite the setbacks, he practiced until Jee brought out some kind of sports drink, a fruit array, and another telephone message. The day was warm and he stayed on the terrace to snack. He liked having "tea" out here in the sun. The old, old stories about Amaterasu-sama felt real that way.

Eventually he got around to reading the telephone message. In fact he read it once, twice, still couldn't believe it, and read it again. He looked to Jee and could see a trapped grin somewhere under his beard.

"Did you take this message yourself?"

"I did, sir. His Holiness has an excellent command of English for one so young."