Zuko hates the water and its endlessness, hates the long ferry ride and the dirty refugees he's packed so tightly with ("but, we are refugees," Uncle gently reminds him). He hates falling asleep at night because falling asleep only leads to waking up again, drenched in sweat and plagued by the dregs of a dream about a little sister with a razor smile and lightning at her fingertips.

"I can see a fire in you," Jet tells him, hands curved around the rail (fingers pressed against his throat). Jet is familiar to him- ragged edges and a massive Go-complex, all smug smiles and calloused palms. "You'd make a good freedom fighter."

"No, I wouldn't." The water is a murky green and stretches out into the horizon. Jet looks at him like there's something to laugh about, like he's got something to hide.

"There's something off about you. You act all high an mighty one minute and humble the next," Jet tells him.

He shrugs, a parody of nonchalance, and looks. "I just don't think I'm what you're looking for."

"Oh, I wouldn't say that." That smirk again, so different and familiar. It reminds Zuko of his sister, a girl who could break him into pieces with choice words and a plastic smile (but, he's sure Jet wouldn't want to break him, jaded idealist that he is).

When the ferry docks at Ba Sing Se they part ways, Zuko with his uncle and Jet with his two freedom fighters, a pair of ragged child-refugees that look at him with wary eyes. He doesn't expect to see Jet again, not down in the city-slums already so overcrowded by the impoverished.

"What a great new life this will be," Uncle says, cupping his withered palms about the steaming cup of tea.

Zuko says nothing because really, what can he say when his sorry life has been reduced to squandering in the Earth Kingdom ghetto.

"This is a pretty posh job you've got," Jet observes. Zuko is taken aback when he finds the boy in the teashop; head resting on his laced fingers and crooked smile curling the corners of his mouth.

"It's alright," he says. "What do you want?"

"I don't drink tea."

"Then, go home. Tables are for paying customers only." He goes about his business, serving tea to stooped old men and kind, portly wives, and when he turns around near an hour later Jet is still there, still watching him with intelligent eyes.

"I think I've figured you out," Jet tells him, very matter-of-factly.

"There's nothing to figure out," Zuko retorts. There is still a porcelain pot of tea in his hands and the surface is beginning to burn against his palms.

"So you say."

"What do you want, Jet?"

Jet opens his mouth like he's really going to answer, but Uncle calls him, something about a tray of cups toppling over, glass everywhere, and he needs to help clean it up. Zuko runs back with more fervor then he should really have and drags out the cleaning as long as he possibly can.

When he gets back to Jet's table it is empty. He can't decide if he's relieved or disappointed that he doesn't see Jet after that (because he'd half-hoped that he'd find the freedom fighter waiting outside, leaning against the wall with a straw hanging lopsided from his mouth).

He goes to the market for Uncle a few days later and Jet is behind him, breathing against his ear.

"Are you stalking me?" Zuko asks. His body is stiff, muscles tight and fists clenched.

"Maybe," Jet replies amiably, smirking around his straw.

"Leave me alone."

"How long do you think you can keep this up?" Jet follows him past homeless children begging with their dirty palms open, shady, crooked men haggling over their shit merchandise.

In the back of his head, Zuko knows, this is his fault. His father's fault, his sister's fault, his nation's fault. His fault. He turns his head away from them, to the smirking boy with eyes filled with hatred, the boy who looks like he wants to break him.

"Keep what up?" Zuko feigns innocence, but inside his heart is beating hummingbird-quick against his ribcage (and he hopes his hands aren't shaking too noticeably).

"I think you know." The road before Zuko's apartment is deserted- hardly anyone lives in this particular area of slum. In the mouth of an alleyway Jet presses his rough hands to Zuko's throat as if he might try to strangle him.

"Your skin is so hot," he murmurs. "Like a firebenders."

Zuko swallows. "Leave me alone."

And Jet smiles. "Not a chance."