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Hunger, Iroh has known: the pangs in his stomach those first weeks in the military as a young man, suddenly away from the Palace’s lavish banquets and subsisting on meager rations; as a more seasoned officer refusing to eat before his men; those long months after abandoning the Siege, wandering dazed among the Earth Kingdom wilderness, willfully forgetting to feed himself and apathetic to try.
Yes, Iroh has known hunger. But never, he thinks—counting Zuko’s ribs as the boy returns with a basket of no-doubt-stolen food—this young.
“Just eat, Uncle!” Zuko thrusts a stale bun into his hands, defensive, already anticipating a lecture.
But it doesn’t come. It would be pointless, now, when Zuko’s eyes burn with an indignant fire to cover his fear and unearned shame.
And Zuko too has known hunger, one that's never pricked Iroh's guts. It’s gnawed away at his insides, even as servants would present him with a thousand delicacies on golden platters: Ozai would scoff, or turn away, or glare, and the hole would grow...
So until Iroh can find the words to sustain his nephew, he’ll serve no rebuke. Instead, he simply replies: “You need to eat as well, Prince Zuko.”