A/N: this started as makorra fanfic, but kind of evolved into mako meta the longer it went on. if you're unfamiliar with it, i highly recommend checking out 0fficermako tumblr, which, besides being a fantastic blog overall, really helped form my opinion on mako (who gets unbelievably crucified by the fandom seriously guys wtf). i had a lot of fun writing it, but it was definitely one of my more difficult pieces, so any feedback is always welcome. thanks again and, as always, enjoy! ~TA

He's four years old when he learns the dangers of fire.

His mother had been a Fire Bender. He used to sit in her lap, his hands cupped within hers, as she made tiny flames dance along her fingertips, the golden hue the exact colour of her eyes. She would tell stories with the flames, make them tremble along the extension of her hands, always quick to snuff them out when his own got too close.

Fire, she had told him, was a beautiful, wonderful thing. But it could destroy, and it could consume, and it always, always had to be controlled.

The man in the park didn't Fire Bend like mama; his flames were not long and elegant, but full, and vivid, a contained chaos trembling on the edge of catastrophe. Mako watches him with wonder, tries to imitate the brutal thrust of his movements, tries to position his limbs just so, if only to make the same wonderful sight. He spins on his heel and throws his hand out, extends his fingers up, palm thrust into empty space -

- and a spurt of fire erupts forth.

He's young, too inexperienced to really make much more than a simple flame, yet it's more than he expected, and he stumbles back, is quick to lose control of it. He might have been seriously hurt if his mother hadn't heard his shout, hurried in and save Mako from harm.

Later, when she's washing the streak of ash that has crawled it's way up Mako's arm, she tells him again, her voice soft but solid steel. Fire must always been controlled.

He's eight, starting to hit another growth-spurt, always with his arm out to catch Bolin from falling into some mess, serious eyes in a child's face. His greatest aspiration is to be like his father, who has a smile that outshines the sun and laughter to shake the very earth. He's eight, just a child, older past his time, perhaps, but still just a boy.

He's eight, sandwiched between his parents as the three of them walk home, forgetting to be grown up and laughing as they swing him between themselves, his feet barely skimming the ground as his father's energetic swing contrasts with his mother's light grip.

He's eight, just a boy, doesn't see the man stop them from the alleyway, his greedy hands demanding gold they don't have, ready to take anything of value by force, ready to hurt Mako to ensure he gets clean away.

He's eight, thrown back by his mother to protect him from the flash of fire that erupts from the stranger, a wordless cry in his throat squeezed out by tears, watching his parents cut down in front of him. The glorious colours of scarlet and gold that he used to be so proud of are nothing more than tools for destruction. A weapon that should never have been unsheathed.

He stumbles home, covered in ash and blood, his father's scarf clenched tight in his trembling hand, unable to answer Bolin when his brother asks, voice pitched high with fear, where mommy and daddy are.

Fire must always been controlled.

He's thirteen when the Triple Threat Triads recruit him, silent and watchful, cheeks sunken in and bony body made more obvious by ragged clothing, too disgraceful to wear. He's been thrown around and tossed around and laughed at for years, taking the beating because Bolin needs to eat. The brothers pull scams and run errands for a group of thugs, careful not to think of the shame they're bringing to parents too dead to even consider.

He's afraid of his fire, terrified of its wrath. All that he knew from his mother, with the dancing flames on her fingertips, is destroyed by the slick tricks of Lightening Bolt Zolt, the passage of electricity that rockets out and obliterates everything in its path.

He's afraid of himself. He gets older, grows taller, learns to fend for himself in a world that offers him nothing but bruises. He's afraid of the fire he once thought he could cherish, afraid of being consumed by the flame and turned into ash. He's afraid of losing his cool, of missing just one step up, and setting everything he's worked so hard for ablaze.

He has to be cold, has to be strong and firm, has to stay rooted to the earth.

He has to have control, because what else is there?

He's eighteen when he meets Korra, and it's like someone has painted the lines of his life, smoothed out the ink and ran it through a clean sheet of parchment, before setting the whole thing on fire.

He seeks control and order; she's reckless and impetuous, rarely plans ahead and upsets the established hierarchy. He strives to be calm and rational; she's impatient and ferocious, a temper boiling just an inch under the surface. He closes himself off to keep the hurt at bay; she breaks down walls and throws her heart into every single smile.

He's locked himself away from the fire for fear of having it burn him down, has made himself cold to the world, even to Bolin, in an effort to keep the world stable, if only for a little while. He picks the safe routes: pro-bending with a solid team instead of running errands for gangsters, the beautiful girl with plum lips who is kindness and patience all wrapped up with a pretty bow. He won't risk being consumed by the fire, not again.

He's eighteen, afraid of the blaze, and Korra is fire incarnate, strength and stubbornness that will not yield. Fire is his element: it is his beginning and his strength. Once, a long time ago, he could feel the flame without being afraid.

He's afraid of the fire, afraid of the flames that cut down his parents, afraid of the blaze that he's kept locked away inside of him, hidden and kept covered, afraid of letting go, of losing control.

He's afraid of the fire, the way he learned to grip it tight and lash out with it, hurt others to achieve his own ends, scar them so he can afford to feed Bolin, just one more night, one more time.

He's afraid of the fire that sparks inside inside him when Korra meets his gaze, afraid of the way she sets him ablaze and he can't put himself out.

He smothers the flame and buries it deep within him, locks himself away until he's cold and alone, content to live with his fire buried if it keeps the ones he loves safe.

Fire must always be controlled.