He's been hungry before, but never like this.

This kind of hunger is constant, nagging. The thirst accompanying it isn't the kind easily quenched by swallowing saliva. Sometimes when he's half asleep he sucks on the end of his scarf. It tastes like smoke and bitter cologne, left from his father only months ago. Sometimes he sucks on it. Sometimes he sniffs it, inhaling deeply and holding his breath. It used to be a form of comfort. Now, smelling the scarf only leaves another kind of crippling hunger.

He and his brother have gotten good at rifling through dumpsters. They know which mold makes them sick and which can just be picked off. They know how to check for maggots and they definitely have learned to stay away from meat and cheese. They've learned to live off bread and old fruit. Learned to drink from the fountains at night when nobody is watching. Sometimes when they pass a sweetshop his brother becomes entranced by the tempting window displays, and he has to drag him by the collar with a breaking heart. Other times, kind vendors leave them the food they couldn't sell that day, and he thanks the spirits that someone cares enough to give them some scrap of food.

Bolin is still too young to understand. He hasn't quite grasped the concept of death yet, doesn't understand that Ma and Pop are never coming back. He does know what alone means. He knows what hunger means, and is slowly learning that no matter how much he complains, big brother can't fix it.

Their family never had much to begin with. Everything they owned, they kept on them, and the rogue firebender either burned or took what his parents had, including the apartment key. With his dying breath, his father wound his treasured red scarf around his neck and told him as long as he had that, he'd be safe. He rarely feels safe with the scarf; only bitter emptiness and cold, gnawing hunger. Hunger for his family.

"Mako, I'm cold," says Bolin, a puff of air forming in front of his mouth. He looks up and beckons him closer, and his brother curls into his emaciated body, thick black hair tickling his chin. He wraps the too-big scarf around the both of them, their huddling forms curling into each other, and Mako rests his head on his brother's and focuses all his warmth into him, breathing through his mouth into his hair, trying to bend heat through his skin into Bolin's. Bo is all he has and all he really wants. He's the image of his mother, the only thing left of her that Mako has, and he will protect him at all costs.

He can't see him now, but Mako knows that soon his green eyes will flutter shut and he'll fall asleep, not waking as long as he's warm enough. Mako will go sleepless again, finally succumbing to sleep under a bush in the park the next morning while Bolin plays with the fish or chases turtleducks. The two will continue to skulk through the inner city, picking up food and odd jobs for yuans which will be spent on food. Mako will warm his brother into slumber yet again, keeping a watchful eye out from their hole in the alley, and the circle will continue.

There is no version of this story where the boys are not hungry, are not cold, are not exhausted. Mako will push through his own instincts of self-preservation to keep his baby brother alive. Bolin will learn not to ask questions and do as his brother says. Someday, Mako wildly hopes, a day will come where the brothers will not have to dig for their food or huddle to sleep. Mako only knows that day is not tomorrow.