Surfacing

He wakes up thinking that Hell must have come for him early. His skin burns with a terrible, dry heat, the seared edges of his gills trembling as they want for water that isn't there. His head throbs; his vision is blurred and oversaturated as he forces his heavy lids open to try and gauge his surroundings. Every part of him weighs four times again what it ought to. And then, just as he becomes aware of a mercifully cool cloth passing across his temple, pain erupts in his head afresh as a bright female voice pierces his mind: /we're on our way!/

He forces himself up onto his elbows. There is a woman beside his bed, blonde-haired and masked in green. He does not know her, though at the moment he's not sure he even knows himself.

"Who are you?" he demands, defaulting to English as his fragmented brain pieces together that he can't possibly be in Atlantis. "How did you get inside my head?"

The voice responds from within his skull again, but he doesn't even process the words this time. It's all just pain. He lets the unfamiliar woman push him back to the bed, finding he's too weak to resist even the gentle press of her palms on his chest, and the change in position makes his vision swim. Afraid he might be sick, he closes his eyes.

A moment later, he is sure he will be sick.

Unbidden, a dammed-up tide of memory has broken loose in his mind. Six months of his life have come flooding back, a great wave he could not possibly withstand even at his best; were he not already on his back, it would bring him to his knees.

Tula, his thoughts whisper jaggedly, the name echoing through the hollow space inside him, that is him. He feels Artemis (yes – that is her name) reach across him to check his IV, and feigns unconsciousness, the world inside his head too vivid for him to pay the world outside it any heed. In his mind's eye, as clear in this moment as his physical sight is not, he sees Tula's face turn away, sees her hand pulled from his, sees Poseidonis crumble and feels himself follow suit all over again. Ceilings crumble and pillars buckle and foundations crack. All is ruins, and he is ruined.

Dimly, he hears Superboy and Miss Martian arrive. The others' voices rejoice at their safe return, questions and answers flying fast, but Kaldur keeps his eyes shut. He does not see, and soon he does not hear. He is leagues away and sinking by the second, down into his own broken heart, down into the depths of the feelings that Tula and the hope she represented once staved off, down until the light of the surface cannot possibly disturb his darkness.

He doesn't cry, even though he's been holding these tears back since the day he left Shayeris five years ago. There's just not enough moisture in his body to manage it.

They try to make him stay in the Cave medbay, after they've docked and disembarked and debriefed.

"You nearly died of dehydration," Wally tells him as he sits on the cot they wheeled in from the Bioship, his bare feet flat against the floor where his gaze is also anchored. "You can't just walk out of here."

"Seriously, Kaldur," says Artemis, setting her hand on his shoulder. The touch stings. "You know I hate to agree with Kid Presumption over here, but you need to rest. You went through four rehydration drips – four. I mean, I don't know what that means with your physiology, but..."

"Please," says Kaldur, lifting his eyes to stare at the spot on the wall behind Conner's head. He feels like he's supposed to go on, but the word burns in his mouth and he can't manage more.

"Aqualad?"

They stare, the five of them all in a close little circle around him. He is suffocating. A lifeless panic grips his throat, the pressure on his windpipe choking off his voice and his breath; he rises from the cot, his legs shaking.

"Please," he manages to repeat, looking up at the two of them blocking his path.

Robin is the one to step back, and even though his eyes are hidden behind his mask, Kaldur can tell that he is watching closely, amassing clues. To the Atlantean's relief, though, he doesn't speak, and the rest of the team follows his lead, silently shifting to allow their leader to pass.

/Kaldur?/

M'gann's voice in his head, gentle and worried as it may be, has never been more unwelcome.

/Is everything all right? I – I can feel.../

/It is a private matter,/ he thinks back to her. /I wish to attend to it, alone./

A moment later, he feels her mind disengage from his, a flicker of her embarrassment jumping the link before it does – she regrets intruding.

Squaring his shoulders, he begins the walk to the zeta tubes, the eyes of his teammates following him with every step. As he crosses the room, he deliberately straightens his back, lifts his head, trying to remember what it feels like to act like himself, so that they will not worry. If they worry, they will follow.

"Kaldur, your jacket," says Artemis, sounding hesitant. "Unless you're going to Atlantis...?"

He has no wish to delay his departure, but he recognizes the wisdom of her words and halts his progress. His wallet and keys are in the pockets; more to the point, he'll be recognized too easily on city streets in his uniform. And he can't go to Atlantis right now. He cannot face his parents, and he certainly cannot face Garth or –

"Yes," he says. His voice sounds distant, unfamiliar. "I...it is..."

Currents be damned, he doesn't remember where he put it. But before his sentence is even over, a rush of air and a whooshing sound announce that Wally is on his way, and sure enough, a moment later the garment is being pressed into his hands as the yellow blur stills into the form of the speedster.

"Hey," Wally says, voice lower, more serious than usual. "You sure you're feeling okay? You don't look so good, buddy, I – "

" – leave him alone," Conner's voice cuts in. Both of them look to him, Wally with surprise, Kaldur with gratitude and relief.

"Thank you for your concern," Kaldur remembers to say to Wally, pulling his jacket on and forcing himself not to wince as the fabric scrapes against his too-sensitive skin. "I...I will leave my communicator on, if you wish to contact me."

The others nod, but Kaldur barely registers the gesture, and with a flash of light, he is whisked away from them.

The moment the zeta-transporter lands him in Seattle, he switches his communicator off. The lie stings his conscience, but the thought of conversing with any of his teammates burns worse. It is not that he does not register or appreciate their care, but at the moment, he wants nothing more than sink back into his desert oblivion, to escape the needling memories of his disastrous visit home.

No, not home, he corrects himself as he slips on his shoes and exits the alleyway. Not anymore. The current has flowed on in his absence, and in his absorption with his life on land, he has lost claim to the life that preceded it. The Academy, the Palace, the Sunken Garden – all these things are no longer his, if ever they were in the first place.

If only he had realized it sooner.

He walks, body aching, head swimming. He needs water still, he knows, but water will not be enough to quell the grief he fights. There is a store nearby that sells sæstrus, the drink of his hometown. It is not far out of his way, and the liquor will keep his mind from going places where it should not. As the sun begins to set, he adjusts his course, and the Seattle sky darkens from silver to slate.

By the time he reaches his apartment building, he is too tired to take the stairs, as he would usually (trekking up eight flights is a bonus, a supplement to his usual training regimen). So instead, he tucks the brown bag he has acquired under his arm, summons the elevator, and lets himself be carried up to the ninth floor. From there, it is a short walk down the hall to his corner apartment, the "home base" King Orin gifted to him when he began his apprenticeship. While he works the key into the stubborn lock, he wonders if he should have found a flat in Atlantis instead, to keep his ties to his homeland from withering as they apparently have. But as soon as the thought enters his head, he lets it go. It is far too late to entertain it.

He opens the door. The apartment is dark and drafty, a cool breeze blowing in from the open kitchen window. As he sets his bag down on the countertop, he reaches over to flick on the light above the kitchen table, and sees that everything is just as he left it – floor swept, dish cloths folded, a few clean plates placed neatly in the drying rack. Usually, after a mission, the sight is comforting, a reassurance that no matter what sort of madness came about in the field, he is capable of maintaining order in his personal life. Now, it just makes him wonder how much time he has wasted maintaining his apartment when he ought to have been maintaining his connection with his old life.

He removes his shoes, setting them carefully beside the door anyway. As makes his way to the bathroom, he shucks his jacket and pulls his battered uniform top over his head, grimacing as the snug neoprene clings to his dry skin. Into the hamper it goes, followed quickly by his pants, though he takes care to remove the insignia communicator from the belt first, and in a few short moments he's stepping into the shower and turning the spray on full blast.

The water is cold and rich and perfect. It seeps into every inch of him, caresses his skin, runs in eager little pathways down his face and shoulders and chest. It's like his body is sighing in relief as it drinks in each drop, and unbidden, a choked sound escapes his throat, though whether it's from physical release or emotional anguish he doesn't know. He isn't sure how long he stands there, letting the water wash his mind blissfully blank, but eventually his tired legs begin to protest, and he recalls that land-dwellers are in the habit of conserving their fresh water (an intelligent practice, as their bodies cannot desalinize as Atlanteans' can). He washes up quickly, shuts off the nozzle, and goes to find fresh clothes.

Finally, in track pants and a loose tee shirt, he finds himself at the kitchen table, a glass and the bottle of sæstrus before him.

He pours himself a glass, and silently toasts his own idiocy.

The first drink hits him quickly, as he knew it would. He should drink more water, or at least eat something, but he can't bring himself to. The day's events have left him with a sort of emptiness that isn't going to be filled with food, and besides, he finds a sort of masochistic satisfaction in failing to care for himself this way, as though in depriving himself he can deliver suitable punishment for his failure to earn Tula's affections, to protect Poseidonis, to lead his team in Bialya. It gives him a sense of justness, of control. And he so thirsts for control.

The second drink leaves the edges of his vision blurred, the shadows of the apartment bleeding into one another. Straight-backed, he sits in the lonely circle of light cast by the overhead kitchen lamp, bottle in one hand, glass in the other. Outside, a siren wails, but he pays it no heed – if it is an emergency, a worthier hero will attend to it.

The third drink breaks his perfect posture, curving his spine over the table. He bids himself to weep, but still he can't, as though his emptiness is just that complete, that there is room not even for tears inside him.

The fourth drink leaves his hands shaking.

As he goes to pour the fifth, a sound at his back – immediate, not from the street below – interrupts his reverie. Lacking the coordination or the will to turn and face it, he merely pauses, back slowly straightening as he tries to lift himself into a presentable stance. His mind, slowed by the weight of the liquor and his thoughts, attempts to piece together what might be the source, but it's not until he registers the tell-tale whir of a retracting grappling line that he realizes what is happening.

A clang on the fire escape outside. The scrape of the kitchen window as it's opened further.

"Hey," a familiar voice greets, followed by the sound of someone dropping onto the linoleum behind him. "Nothing doing in Star tonight, thought I'd drop by and see what you were – "

Roy falls abruptly silent. That moment stretches on wretchedly, a gaping hole in the normal fabric of their friendship – this is not the script, not the plan, not how they are accustomed to addressing one another. He shouldn't be here. Kaldur does not turn to him, as though if he holds very, very still, the other hero will somehow un-notice his presence, but a hand descending on his shoulder renders that hope null.

"You okay?"

When there is no answer, Roy drops his bow, letting it clatter to the kitchen floor as he rounds the edge of the table.

Kaldur turns his face away. He can't bring himself to meet the archer's eyes, perhaps out of a desire to be left alone, but more likely out of shame at having been caught wallowing like this. Suddenly, with another present, it seems absurd to have thought that such a course would in any way help except to engender further worry from his teammates.

"Jesus, Kal," Roy mutters. He's picked up the bottle and is holding it up to the light, checking the proof, and how much is gone.

"I am sorry," Kaldur blurts out instinctively. It is supremely uncomfortable to have someone witness him this way, and yet suddenly, the last thing in the world he wants is for Roy to leave. He cannot face this alone.

Roy sets the bottle back down.

"For what?"

Kaldur closes his eyes, head hanging forward. He doesn't know.

Without warning, Roy steps closer, and a warm hand descends on the back of Kaldur's neck, thumb gently brushing over the base of it.

"Hey," says Roy, voice softer. "Hey, Kaldur. C'mon."

Kaldur's face twists as he tries to wrest control of what he's feeling. He cannot make a fool of himself like this in front of one of his only friends in the world, cannot betray the weakness he's worked so hard to overcome, cannot allow himself to –

"Kaldur," Roy's voice repeats. His hand slips down to Kaldur's shoulder, arm creating a protective brace across the Atlantean's back, holding him upright. Instinctively, and against his better judgment, Kaldur lets his head fall against Roy's side, eyes still closed. The world is still shifting around him, but suddenly Roy has begun to feel solid, warm, safe beside him.

"Hey," Roy murmurs, squeezing his shoulder lightly. His voice is softer than Kaldur has ever heard it. "It's okay. I got you."

Drunk and desolate, Kaldur tries one last time to convince himself to hold back. It is unbecoming, to allow Roy to see him like this, to force him to shoulder a burden that is in no way his. And yet the hand on his shoulder is warm and strong, and Roy has come this far and not run from him, and the feelings inside him are frothing ever higher, building to a flood that threatens to sweep him away entirely.

Slowly, clumsily, Kaldur lifts a hand up, finds a grip on the strap of Roy's quiver, lets his fingers twist tightly into it. Perhaps this is not how he ought to proceed. Perhaps this will destroy the last of his sustaining relationships. But in this moment, he cannot find an alternative.

With a shuddering breath, he turns his face into the archer's chest, gives himself up, and lets the dam burst.