I wrote this a while ago because obviously I love to feel pain.

I apologize in advance.

The grey clouds hanging over head was a lucid indication that rain was about to fall over Republic City. At first, it fell lethargically, small drops of water creating darks spots on the concrete. It was sufferable, even in the winter cold.

Nobody paid attention to the two boys walking languidly along the water spotted side walk. Beads of water clung to dark heads of disheveled hair and tattered, shoddy coats. One was six years old with green eyes like summer leaves. One of his front teeth was missing, but his smile gleamed contagiously. He knew how to let go of pain like most young children did, there was a vulnerability of a restless child, and the bounce in his small clumsy steps were proof to this. Bolin threw his head back, admiring the vast grey cloak of clouds. He could see the sun shining through the thickness of the impending storm, a ray of white light beaming through the sky. But that was the thing about Bolin. To him, the sun was never that far away.

The other boy, holding Bolin's small hand as he carted him along from behind, was eight. His eyes were heavy, seen too much to easily forget. In a way, the amber of his eyes were aged―always watching, always alert, always careful. Age was just a number, and Mako was proof of this. Over the weeks that followed the tragedy that threw them to the streets, Mako had to know how to survive. It was hard. Tasked with keeping Bolin fed, healthy, rested, safe, and happy was no easy thing. He often forgot about his own hallow stomach when rustling up something for Bolin to eat, but Mako understood well enough that Bolin had to come first. There was not a thing Mako wouldn't do if it meant to keep the light in Bolin's eyes

Mako, though far from materialistic, had one significant worldly possession. It was a strip of soft red fabric, no longer than four feet long. It was wrapped loosely around his neck, just slack enough for Mako to duck his lips behind the fabric and inhale that familiar scent. His father smelt like his crisp fresh cologne that he had spent countless mornings watching his father spray carefully onto his neck and wrists. He had developed an attachment to the smell, reveling in the familiarity before he had to open his eyes back up to the remorseless realization that in this city full of people, they were alone. Mako took one last savoring inhale, knowing well that with time, the smell would fade.

In seconds the rain was torrential, soaking their hair, their clothes, their faces. Mako broke into a run. "We have to get out of this rain." He called over his shoulder as he pulled Bolin along by his hand. His small legs were having trouble keeping up with Mako's quick and easy strides.

Bolin's boots thumped on the damp sidewalk, the buildings passing him in a blur. The rain seeping into his coat made him shiver, his heavy breath visible as the air left through his paling lips. Bumps rose on his bare hands, the tips of his fingers losing feeling. "Mako, I'm cold." Bolin sputtered, still struggling to keep pace with Mako.

"I know. Let's just find a place to get out of the rain okay?"

Bolin almost lost his footing as Mako skidded into a dank and dark alley way. Bolin's nose scrunched at the revolting smell of garbage waste, his stomach curling. Mako shoved Bolin under the shelter of a large cardboard box before Mako yanked a plastic tarp from a trash pile and placed it above the box. He noticed the tarp had a hole torn into it, but it would have to do. It would keep the box dry long enough to last the night.

Mako slid easily into the box his hair dripping cold water. The rain beating hard against the plastic tarp caused a frown upon Mako's lips. Bolin shivered beside him, his legs pulled to his chest and his arms hugging himself. Rain drops slid down his small pale face, stinging his eyes and numbing his lips.

Mako clapped his hands together, rubbing them together until heat warmed under his skin. He blew hot air into his cupped hands before motioning Bolin. "Let me see your hands."

Mako cringed as he sandwiched Bolin's hands between his own. The bite of cold snuffed the heat of his hand for the slightest second. Mako tightened his hold on his brother's hand, focusing more heat to his fingers until his pinks of his palms were glowing orange, similar to firelight.

"You're warm." Bolin said sluggishly.

"I should be. I'm a firebender." Mako released his hands and nodded to Bolin's coat. "Take off your coat."

Bolin frowned. "Why? Won't I get cold?"

"Not as cold as you're going to be if you stay in that. It's wet. Just take it off, and I promise that I won't let you get cold."

"Do you promise?"

Mako nodded, undoing the buttons of his own sopping jacket.

"Okay." Bolin shed his coat to reveal a lightly damp dark green tunic. Mako took Bolin's hands back in his own, fulfilling his promise of warmth. Even when Bolin fell asleep against his shoulder, he kept the small box warm, and when Bolin awoke the next morning to the soft pitter patter of rain against plastic, he wasn't cold.

Bolin found Pabu, one sunny, bright, warm afternoon, curled on his bed―still. His red fur was still fluffy, still soft. His black beady eyes were shut, his body curled like he was taking a peaceful nap. And Bolin thought that was all it was, but when he returned to his room after lunch, there Pabu laid unmoving.

Through the tears, Bolin knelt beside his bed and stroked Pabu's back slowly then hastily, as if he could pet life back into the fire ferret. Bolin gathered Pabu into his arms, sobbing harder as his limp body molded into his arms so easily.

Pabu hated being held that way.

He called out to Mako, loudly and desperately. Almost moments later, Mako burst through the door, knowing there was something wrong instantly. Mako approached Bolin quickly, taking notice to his shaking shoulders. When Mako saw the bundle of fur cradled in Bolin's arms, he knew the fire ferret was dead.

"He's dead." Bolin choked still running his fingers along the fuzzy red fur.

Mako nodded, placing a comforting hand on Bolin's quivering shoulder. Mako sank to his knees, his own hands petting the fur of the fire ferret he had grown so fond of over the years.

Mako helped Bolin bury Pabu under a billowing oak on Air Temple island, Pabu's favorite place to take his afternoon naps. Mako dug the small hole with a shovel and Bolin placed the small wrapped bundle into the soil. Bolin took a handful of earth from the dirt pile and sprinkled it over Pabu.

"Goodbye buddy."

Mako then shoveled the dirt back into the hole, sealing Pabu peacefully by the roots of the tree.

The two brothers sat under the tree for hours, ignoring the uncomfortable blaze of the sun. Bolin wept silently, Mako's hand rubbing comforting circles into his back. Even at age twenty two, Bolin still drew comfort from the small action.

"He was the last thing I had y'know." Bolin finally managed to say through his heavy cries.

Mako shook his head, disagreeing with the anguish stimulated statement. "What are you talking about? You have a lot of things―"

"I meant from my childhood." Bolin said in a broken whisper. Mako could feel the heartbreak in every word. "Pabu was the last thing I had from when I was little. He was my best friend and now he's gone." Bolin slammed his fist down onto the grass, more fresh sobs choking from his throat. "It isn't fair."

Mako bit back tears, his hand still soothing on Bolin's back. "Everything and everyone eventually dies, Bolin. Pabu was no exception."

"It isn't fair." Bolin doubled over in life a new fit of tears.

"I know. But it's going to be alright. Just think about it. Pabu lived longer than expected and he lived a real good life. You gave him a real good life. Pabu will always be in your memories. He isn't truly gone."

Mako sat there with Bolin for many hours after that, under the shelter of the tree, reflecting and mourning.

The question dropped from Bolin's lips like an unanticipated bomb from the sky. The explosion ripped open wounds Mako had closed years ago. It hastened the otherwise constant beating of his heart. His bare neck suddenly felt cold, vacant of the red scarf that, from what he remembered, would have still smelt faintly of his father's cologne.

"Can you tell me about Mom and Dad?" He asked with those vulnerable green eyes. "I mean, I was just so young when they, y'know, and I want to know about them. I don't know much."

Mako dropped his chopsticks into his bowl of noodles and broth, suddenly not feeling very hungry. "Sure." He said, swallowing. "What do you want to know?"

Bolin's eyes lit up from across the wooden table. "Everything."

Mako cleared his throat. "Uh, I'm not sure where to start."

"From the beginning would be nice."

Mako chuckled. "Dad was a sculptor. He used to make these really nice statues for people to buy. He was really good at it too. He used his earthbending to make them. He once made one for mom, but it was lost when…" He trailed off, flashes of the small marble figure sitting on his mother's cluttered vanity showing in his mind. He shook his head. "Our mom, she stayed home to watch after us. She used to love singing, painting, knitting and baking. She actually made dad's scarf."

Bolin's mouth fell open. "No way."

"Mhm." Mako nodded. "If there was ever a loose button on my clothes, she would sew it back on, or there was this one time I was playing outside with you and I ripped my pants. Mom wasn't happy, but they were fixed the next morning." He recalls his mom's smile as she presented him with his fixed trousers. Her amber eyes were gleaming proudly at her work. "She also used to make these little cherry pies. I helped her make them, but I was never any help 'cause I always ended up eating the cherries." She always let Mako snack on the cherries, but after long, she had reprimanded him for almost polishing off the pie filling. It was the best thing he has tasted in all his life.

"I remember!" Bolin exclaimed with a wide spread smile. "She used to sprinkle powdered sugar over them!"

Mako nodded, a smile tugging his lips apart. "Yeah, she did."

Bolin pursed his lips. "I also kind of remember mom reading to us."

"Actually, that was dad."

"Oh," Bolin pursed his lips. "Well what were their personalities like?"

"They were both very kind. Mom was kind of short tempered though."

Bolin laughed. "Well I can see where you get it."

Mako ignored Bolin's comment with a waning frown. "But she was head strong, gentle, fearless, and very nurturing. Dad was also gentle, but he always had this light humor to him. He was always making someone laugh."

Mako looked across the table at Bolin who looked as if he was fighting back a fit of tears."Now I see where I got it." Bolin smiled, giving in to the burn of tears clouding his eyes. "I know I don't remember them much, but I miss them."

Mako nodded, the tightness in his chest unraveling. "I know bro." Me too.

Mako learned of his grandmother's death through a carefully written letter of black ink. It arrived in the mail one cloudless evening. With the letter came a package wrapped vigilantly in brown paper. He expected it to be from his grandmother. They had always exchanged letters as often as his work schedule would allow. He had yet to write her a correspondence of soon finding time to visit Ba Sing Se to see the family. His request for time off was approved and he would have been flying out in three weeks time.

Something inside Mako collapsed as his eyes scanned over the writing.

I'm sorry…

Your Grandmother Yin passed…

…peacefully in her sleep…

She wanted you to have…

We all love you guys so…

Always, Uncle Chow

Mako's hands gripped the edges of the parchment paper, the letter wrinkling and bending beneath the pressure of his fingertips. His skin burned, a glow of orange light flickering to life as the edges of the paper charred and crumbled. Before Mako could extinguish the lick of flames swallowing the letter, the paper is a pile of ember and cinders at his feet.

Bolin heard a strained cry from the other side of his bedroom door. As his heart leapt into his throat, he sprung from his chair. On the other side of the door he found Mako kneeling on the wood floor, his closed fist clutched to his chest holding a strip of red fabric. He was hunched over, his breathing labored, his eyes dry and wide.

"Mako?" Bolin rasped, taking small steps forward.

Mako said nothing, his ears still ringing, gut wrenching gasps tearing free from his throat.

Bolin kneeled beside Mako, his hand hesitant and trembling as he placed it on Mako's back. Bolin knew as soon as he spotted his father's red scarf held tightly in his brother's hands that his grandmother was gone. He drew Mako's quivering body into his arms, his own cries muffling as he buried his face into his brother's coat. Mako's arms ribbon tightly around Bolin, his hands still holding the scarf fisted his green tunic.

Hours could have passed before Mako was able to strangle out a sentence through the thickness of his grief. "I should have been there." He said still holding tightly to Bolin. "I should have been there to tell her goodbye."

Bolin raised his wet face from Mako's shoulder and nodded. "We both should have been there." He whimpered.

"I didn't even get to write her back." He grated through his clenched teeth. "I kept putting it off because of work. I didn't know." The pressure building behind his walls becomes to great and in one wash of weakness, his walls shatter like fine glass. Mako blinked, tears escaping in rivers down his flushed cheeks. "I didn't know." He wept hiding his eyes into Bolin's tunic, soaking the soft fabric.

"How were we supposed to know?" Bolin inhaled a garroted breath. "We couldn't have known." He whispered.

After several seconds of copious silence, Mako feebly said, "She left me Dad's scarf." The red scarf was well the same as he remembers―soft, tattered, red. Though it no longer smelt like his father's cologne. It smelt sweeter, like his grandmother.

Seventy Nine years was Mako's killer. He went peacefully in his own bed―a room of family and friends at his bed. His wife held one hand, his brother held the other and they sung him to sleep with words of adoration, recollection of memories, and praise of achievements. The last he saw was cerulean and emerald eyes before his own ripened amber eyes shut.

They scattered his ashes across calm waters on a crisp morning. Bolin held the ornate box to his chest, an expression of grief plain on his features. "I remember that you once told me that everything dies. But the thing is Mako, I thought you were the exception." Bolin leaned over the railing of the boat, catching his reflection swelling on the water. "I never saw anything knock you down, so I painted this indestructible image of you. And now that you're gone, it's like a giant slap in the face." He swallowed a sob that threatened to choke off his words. "Not even you, the strongest person I know was the exception."

He let his lips part into a small smile. It was a lot like his brother's smile―crooked, an overbite. "But I'm happy because looking back, your achievements were great. I mean you managed to raise me single handedly, you were a honorable detective, and not to mention you married Korra!" The smile was gone, replaced with bared teeth as he doubled over in fits of cries. "But I'm going to miss you, Mako. Ever since we were children surviving on the streets, there was nothing you wouldn't do for me, and for that, I thank you."

Bolin straightened his posture and wiped the tears from his cheeks. "You'll always be in my memories. You're not truly gone." He tossed the ashes from the box and watched the ashes float atop the rippling white water. His wrinkled fingers wrapped tightly around the railing of the boat. Tears fell from his chin and joined the cinders in the water. A dark hand of fine wrinkles covered his own, and he looked over to find eyes of bright blue, still burning with youth. If it wasn't for her age defining marks and her silver hair, she would still look nothing but a day over thirty.

She offered a closed lip smile, her eyes filling with salty tears. Pulling Bolin into a grasp, they wept into each other's shoulders.

"I never wanted to see this day, Bolin." Korra whispered looking out into the sun lit water. "I've seen a lot of terrible things, but this is the worse." She let lose a heart wrenching sob, her feeble arms strengthening around Bolin's back. "I never wanted to see a world without Mako."

"And what a terrible world it is." He said numbly.

Days passed slowly and torpidly for Bolin. The sun rose every morning, and fell every night. Rain would sometimes fall, the wind would sometimes fall. The pain was still raw, still hastening his heart, still clouding his eyes.

He found it harder to lift himself from his bed. Often when something made him laugh, he would look over his shoulder in search of sharing the joke with his brother. But he would come up widely disappointed to find he wasn't there. When he slept, he would find his memories of a red scarf, cherry pies, lame pickup lines, embraces, and amber eyes. When he awoke, he would find his wife beside him in a world without Mako.

He saw Korra every other day. From what he could evaluate, she was having a hard time grasping the reality of her husband's death. She looked tired. Often times they would get together, they would talk about Mako as if he could hear them. They would talk of his habits, jokes he would make, times where he would act like a complete "dork" as Korra once put it.

"Has anything come in the mail for you?" Korra asked Bolin one afternoon.

Bolin shook his head. "Should something be coming?"

Korra's craggy pink lips spread into a smile. "I guess we'll see."

Three days after his lunch with Korra, a package wrapped in brown paper arrived at his door. He sat down at his sofa and tore the paper off the box. He opened the box slowly, reached in and drew out a red scarf.

His breath caught in his throat as his eyes burned. The box dropped into his lap and Bolin turned the scarf folded over in his hands, drinking it the familiarity of the scarf. The frayed ends were the same, it still was soft to touch, still a deep shade of red. It was still Mako's scarf. Bolin unraveled the scarf, and the ends fell and pooled to the floor. A small piece of parchment paper fell from the folds of fabric.

Bolin retrieved it from the floor and slowly read it over and over again until his vision was blurred with tears.

Keep this safe for me little bro.

Bolin wrapped the scarf around his neck loosely before ducking his mouth behind the red fabric. He inhaled slowly, reveling in the smell imprinted into the weave of the scarf. It smelt like Mako.

If you aren't too mad at me, feedback is appreciated. Even if it's bad. As always, thanks for reading!

~Megan~