[And again, Minato was reading his mind, picking apart the thoughts he couldn't voice himself and laying them flat for him to examine, talking through them in a way Zuko couldn't.
Move forward.
Of course, it was silly to be hung up on it still since he was back. Death was meaningless here.
But no, Zuko corrects himself silently. That's not what Minato is saying. The man never once insinuated Zuko was stupid to be stuck like this, never once voice even a single syllable in a critical tone. Zuko had spent his life bearing punishments and criticisms, but Minato isn't seeking to find his faults.
He wants to help. Genuinely and truly, he wants to understand, and there's no catch, no politics, no hidden consequences.
Move forward. Let it go.
It's not a criticism or an order. It's an extended hand, reaching out for him, pulling him gently to safety.
He doesn't need to put up a front, doesn't need to keep up any sort of image, doesn't have to be afraid of letting somebody down or showing weakness. Minato's voice is gentle and sincere. He's not being judged or used or threatened. Even with his uncle, Zuko felt the weight of family, politics, past failures. That wasn't to say he thought Iroh hadn't forgiven him or that his uncle held anything against him because he knew it wasn't the case. But his blemished past was there, his wrongdoings still existing somewhere in the background. It wasn't the same kind of freedom he was being offered now, through no one's fault but his own, but still the feeling remained.
Minato doesn't know what Zuko has done, doesn't know his past or his family. He takes Zuko at face value, and he's only known him a few months, but somehow, that makes it easier. Because he knows Minato isn't lying when he speaks that last sentence. And he knows Minato's right.
So, quietly, slowly, Zuko reaches back, grasping the offered hope. Dropping his head, his bangs fall over his eyes, and he lets his body lean into the offered embrace, realizing belatedly he's trembling. But it's too late to pull away or hide again, too late to be ashamed, and--as if from far away--he realizes suddenly that he isn't. Still, he can't bring himself to look up, and the tears fall, hot and wet, upon his knees, staining the fabric.
How silly. He's too old to cry. But right now, somehow, he doesn't care.
Zuko makes no sound, the sobs catching silently in his throat.]
[commentlog \o/] / novel party ftw! \o/ (and I made an icon just for this! XD)
Move forward.
Of course, it was silly to be hung up on it still since he was back. Death was meaningless here.
But no, Zuko corrects himself silently. That's not what Minato is saying. The man never once insinuated Zuko was stupid to be stuck like this, never once voice even a single syllable in a critical tone. Zuko had spent his life bearing punishments and criticisms, but Minato isn't seeking to find his faults.
He wants to help. Genuinely and truly, he wants to understand, and there's no catch, no politics, no hidden consequences.
Move forward. Let it go.
It's not a criticism or an order. It's an extended hand, reaching out for him, pulling him gently to safety.
He doesn't need to put up a front, doesn't need to keep up any sort of image, doesn't have to be afraid of letting somebody down or showing weakness. Minato's voice is gentle and sincere. He's not being judged or used or threatened. Even with his uncle, Zuko felt the weight of family, politics, past failures. That wasn't to say he thought Iroh hadn't forgiven him or that his uncle held anything against him because he knew it wasn't the case. But his blemished past was there, his wrongdoings still existing somewhere in the background. It wasn't the same kind of freedom he was being offered now, through no one's fault but his own, but still the feeling remained.
Minato doesn't know what Zuko has done, doesn't know his past or his family. He takes Zuko at face value, and he's only known him a few months, but somehow, that makes it easier. Because he knows Minato isn't lying when he speaks that last sentence. And he knows Minato's right.
So, quietly, slowly, Zuko reaches back, grasping the offered hope. Dropping his head, his bangs fall over his eyes, and he lets his body lean into the offered embrace, realizing belatedly he's trembling. But it's too late to pull away or hide again, too late to be ashamed, and--as if from far away--he realizes suddenly that he isn't. Still, he can't bring himself to look up, and the tears fall, hot and wet, upon his knees, staining the fabric.
How silly. He's too old to cry. But right now, somehow, he doesn't care.
Zuko makes no sound, the sobs catching silently in his throat.]