Give and Take
If there's one thing he's learned that people take. They scower wounds and fish out the things that make him, then slowly he's left with nothing but hollow holes. Zuko knows this, and he knows it well. His father took everything and tossed him out to sea, nothing but an iron hull and unfamiliar faces to call home. Mother took his childhood, she kept it tucked under her arm when she left, and quietly he wonders if she'll ever give it back. Azula took what was left, scooped his courage into a jar and hid it where he couldn't see.
The thing Mai's learned is that people give. They give until they're gone and she's buried in it, buried in their advises and their gifts and their kind words that are are just as empty as the air she breathes. They give priviledges, obligations and the like, things she's offered and ordered to take regardless of pay-off or opinion.
For some time they've known they've been in an endless game of give and take. She takes gifts offers them to fill his hollows, and he accepts, only on the condition that she takes his. And after some time, they become whole. Taking and exchanging what they can in equal measure, through peppered kisses, embraces, and scolds-always tearing down and rebuilding one another but never quite allowing them to collapse.
And he thanks her for that. For teaching him that it's okay for people to take-and she thanks him, for teaching her that it's okay to give.
