A/N: Well I completely missed Makorra Week due to it being in the same week as Kataang Week. This idea sort of popped into my mind, and I couldn't not write it. I suppose it's a combination of all of the themes plus my own. And yes, I do have plans for a sequel.

That said, I'm putting my fanon writing on hiatus for the next month or so while I try to struggle through all of the things that have piled up in my life so far. I swear I haven't abandoned anyone, and I promise I'll be back; I've got at least seven more ideas for one-shots, not to mention finishing Scarf and Book Two: Blood, in addition to starting on Batmako: The Dark Knight and amonster. And then there's Iron Chef Mako . . .

Rough. Unedited. Most likely awful.

The first time she notices him doing, he is quietly piling the remainder of his dinner in a small mound on the edge of his plate, the noise of his chopsticks quietly scraping the ceramic alerting her. Fluidly he unfolds himself from his sitting position on the floor and makes for the door, his footsteps silent on the wood. Confused, hurt, wondering if she's somehow done something wrong, she looks up at him desperately, her gaze riveted on the redness of his scarf standing out from the dull grey of the rest of him, a flash of fire in a world of ash. Her grip tightens on her chopsticks. "Where are you going?"

He hovers by the entrance, one hand on the doorknob, the chill of the winter air hissing into the room. For the longest moment, he says nothing. At last, though he's still turned away from her, she hears his words:

"Feeding strays."

And then he's gone into the night as if he never were here.

For a few moments she finds herself still staring at the closed door, blinking. She'd never have pegged him to be the kind of guy to feed the stray animals of the city; from what she's seen, they mostly care for themselves.

Shrugging, she guesses it's just him being sweet or sensitive or something.

It's only when she settles back to finish dinner that she realises his plate is no longer there.

A few nights later, and she understands the routine. Leave a portion of dinner. Walk out the door. Return after fifteen minutes or so. Lie down on the couch for a handful more, breathing deeply, eyes tightly shut as though blocking out the light. Animate abruptly, smiling and laughing and treating her like a princess, never once mentioning the strays.

But why?

"What does Mako mean by 'feeding strays'?"

Bracing her legs against the futon, she sighs. His Fire Ferret uniform clinging to his back from his perspiration, Bolin sits up from his curl-ups, propping himself up on his left elbow. The earthbender tilts his head to one side in a manner reminiscent of Pabu. Like pet, like owner. "Huh?"

"I didn't know Mako fed stray animals."

Bolin blinks. "Oh, I'm not really supposed to . . . talk about that."

She arches her eyebrow, surprised. "Why not?"

"It's sort of Mako's private thing." The earthbender taps his index fingers against each other, clearly uncomfortable. Suddenly his eyes brighten, the green sparkling like stars spangled across the night-time sky. "Hey, want to see a trick Jinora taught me?"

Closing her eyes, she sinks down lower into the futon, determined to get to the bottom of this.

Dinner that night is unusually cold. Their usual pleasantries have been accounted for—how are you? How was work? Beifong treating you well? Good, the usual, well enough—and not even her fingers travelling up his leg to stroke the tiny, soft hairs on his knee can snap him from whatever dark thoughts are weighing him down. Instead, he watches her in silence, his amber eyes betraying one a flicker of the inner workings of his mind.

As discreetly as possible, she manoeuvres food to the rim of the plate, her hands shaking slightly on the chopsticks, half-hoping that he doesn't notice and half-hoping that he does and finally tells her what this little nightly ritual is about.

"Is there something wrong with my cooking?" he snaps out of nowhere, startling her.

She looks at her plate, shame flushing her cheeks. "No, no, it's not that. I was just wondering where you keep running off to every night. Strays, Mako? Why won't you let me come with you?" A combination of confidence and indignity spurs her on. Defiantly she lifts her head and stares directly into his eyes, his eyebrows knotted together.

His voice is unusually rough. "Don't ask questions you don't want to know the answer to."

"Hey, I'm your girlfriend." She slaps her chopsticks down and crosses her arms, glaring at him, challenging him to try to shut her up again. "You shouldn't keep secrets from me."

"I'm not." He lowers his gaze to the pile of dinner quivering on the ceramic; his muscles coil and uncoil as he stands. Angrily she stares at his back while he makes for the door, daring him to leave, wondering why his clothing hasn't caught on fire yet from the sheer intensity of the hate in her glare. "I'm feeding strays. This conversation is over."

The click of the door shutting is unnaturally loud in the quiet of the apartment.

A minute passes.

Her plate flies from her lap and shatters against the wall, food splattering the new paint, no doubt staining it. "That jerk." Her jaw tightens as she scrambles to her feet, narrowing her eyes at the doorknob.

She's going to uncover his little secret whether he likes it or not.

Stars sprinkle across the dark expanse of the skies. Usually, their light has been dulled by the city glowing yellow and gold—one thing she dislikes about living in the crowded city—but out here, near the outskirts, she can see them almost as clearly as the stars of the South Pole.

Even if the constellations and positions are different, the stars are still the same.

The breaths hissing through her teeth become small clouds of fog, dissipated by the flickers of flame exhaled to keep warm and melt the snowflakes that settle on her face. If she thinks of herself as his shadow, she can soothe her rapid heartbeats, calm the hammering in her chest, stop the drum beating against her sternum painfully enough to cause her to wince. He is ahead of her by maybe ten metres or so, trudging through the snow with the plate on his right hand, his left shielding the food from the wind.

Maybe he really is feeding strays.

She wonders at how he can stand to be in weather this cold without so much as a jacket. Natural heating for a firebender? Sheer force of will?

Dedication to his strays?

Abruptly he pauses in front of an alleyway, and she immediately throws her hands up to create an artificial flurry of snow to hide her in case he looks her way. But he doesn't. Instead, barely moving, he kneels down in the snow in front of the alley; she can see his arm shaking as he sets the plate down, a faint orange-yellow glow informing her that he has heated the food upon it.

Would stray animals need a hot meal?

Shaking her head in her confusion, she quietly edges towards him, waterbending the snow out from under her feet to avoid crunching. "Mako," she whispers under her breath, low enough that there's no way he can hear her, "what are you doing?"

"It's okay to come out." His voice is unnaturally soft, his tone the one he uses to whisper in her ear when he thinks she's asleep. "It's okay."

Shadows stir at the mouth of the alleyway. She leans forward, trying to make out the movements, pondering what sort of animal it could be.

When she sees the two forms that creep hesitantly into the moonlight, her blood freezes into ice.

Children.

Still on the ground, the snow no doubt soaking through his trousers, he carefully moves backwards, his actions slow, steady, practised. "It's okay. Come here and eat." He continues his journey back, edging towards her, but she cannot look away from the two bags of bones in front of her, their ribs jutting out prominently, visible underneath the rags wrapped loosely around them, their forms collapsing on themselves like there's nothing inside of them at all.

Siblings, she knows.

Brothers.

Her heart clenches as they fall upon the food, ripping into it as if they were wild animals, as if this meagre meal is the only thing they will ever eat, as if there is no hope, no future—

Suddenly she realises that he is gazing at her from half a metre away. She inhales abruptly, prepared to explain, expecting rage, disbelief, even betrayal, but he silently wraps his arms around her, drawing her into a desperate embrace, her face buried in the warmth of his chest. "Strays." The word catches in her throat.

He closes his eyes, his breath carried away like a whisper on the wind.

"Strays."

So now they have a new ritual. Leave a portion of dinner. Walk out the door. Feed the strays. Return after fifteen minutes or so. Sit down on the couch. Hug. Hold hands. Talk about the strays. Talk about his past. Treat each other as the prince and princess of their own little world, a world of children more skin and bone than anything else, faces alighting with the purest joy she has ever seen.

Cuddle. Kiss. Touch one another with fire in their blood and fall asleep in each other's arms with warmth in their hearts.

And feed the strays.