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1.
Kiri is good at noticing things. She has always been good at spotting patterns.
She notices the way vines grow toward the light without being taught, the way water pulls sand into soft, repeating curves along the shore. She notices how animals scurry before a storm, how the forest holds its breath before rain. And she notices people—how they breathe, where their eyes linger, the small changes they don’t think anyone else will see.
It’s why she catches it before anyone else does.
The change is small. Almost nothing. Threaded quietly into Neteyam’s hair.
They’re by the water when she sees it.
Neteyam kneels at the shallow edge, fingers careful as he sorts through wet sand for the shells and smooth stones Tuk asked for. Sunlight filters through the water and catches on something near his temple—smooth beads woven neatly into his braids. Soft blues. Pale greens. Polished. Reef-made.
Unmistakably Metkayina.
Kiri squints.
“…Those weren’t there yesterday.”
Neteyam flinches, shoulders tensing like he’s been called out for something he didn’t know was visible. “What?”
She points. “Your hair.”
He lifts a hand automatically, fingertips brushing the beads as he tucks his hair behind his ear. He pauses. Just a second.
“Oh,” he says. “These?”
“Yes,” Kiri says dryly. “Those.”
Neteyam hesitates, a beat too long before clearing his throat. “They’re just… uh… beads.”
“They’re made from coral,” she says, reaching out to touch them.
He nods. “Yeah.”
Kiri lets her fingers linger. The beads are warm from the sun, smoothed down from handling. She notes the inconsistency in size, the subtle unevenness that tells her they were shaped by hand. They’re not perfectly spherical—handmade, most likely by untrained hands.
“You didn’t trade for them,” she says.
“I didn’t,” Neteyam admits.
She tilts her head, eyebrow lifting in silent invitation.
“I—” He clears his throat. “Someone gave them to me.”
“Someone?”
Neteyam nods, gaze dropping to the sand as he pretends to search for more shells, placing his finds in a basket. “Mm.”
Kiri hums, letting the conversation drift. Her attention does not.
Because now that she’s looking, she notices more.
A necklace rests against Neteyam’s chest—thin cord, familiar knotwork, but strung with something new. A tooth. A large one, most likely an akula’s, polished and woven skillfully into the string. It sits against his skin like it belongs there.
That’s new.
She’s seen Metkayina hunters wear those. Seen Ao’nung wear them.
She looks at Neteyam. Since their arrival months ago, he’s never worn anything Metkayina, choosing instead to stick to traditional Omaticaya clothing. Even while recovering from the gunshot wound, he refused to trade his old clothes, still wearing his cummerbund.
Her gaze dips lower.
At his waist, half-hidden beneath his sash, are thin strings of beads—subtle, easy to miss unless you’re looking for them. Blues again. Greens. Woven in a Metkayina pattern, not Omaticaya.
Kiri blinks. Another Metkayina accessory.
Neteyam shifts slightly, as if he feels her stare, tugging his sash back into place. Not hiding it exactly. Just… adjusting.
Interesting.
Her gaze drifts past him.
Ao’nung is farther out in the water, perched on his ilu near the deeper end, teaching younger Metkayina children how to float and tread water. Rotxo helps corral them, laughter bubbling up whenever someone splashes too hard or sinks too quickly.
Ao’nung’s voice carries—sharp, bright, teasing but encouraging.
Neteyam looks up at the sound.
It’s automatic. Immediate.
When Ao’nung glances back, his eyes land on Neteyam just as easily, like that’s where they’re meant to settle. Like he’s checking something. Like he expects to find him there.
Neteyam smiles without realizing it, then looks away a half-second later.
Kiri watches it settle into place.
“…They suit you,” she says quietly.
Neteyam startles slightly, then ducks his head. His ears warm. “Thanks.”
She doesn’t say anything else.
Instead, she watches.
She watches how Neteyam laughs under his breath when Ao’nung makes a joke that doesn’t quite land with the kids. How he shakes his head fondly when Ao’nung and Rotxo clash over teaching methods.
She notices how Neteyam still dresses Omaticaya—still grounds himself in home—but lets these new things weave in. Not replacing. Adding.
Kiri doesn’t comment on it. She doesn’t ask for explanations or names.
She simply stores the information away, another pattern forming.
And she remembers.
2.
Tsireya is Ao’nung’s little sister. She has grown up with him her entire life.
She knows his rhythms the way some people know tides, the sharpness of his tongue, the teasing that skirts the edge of mean, the way he enjoys poking at others just to see what kind of reaction he’ll get back. Ao’nung has always been loud with his presence, unapologetic about taking up space. He challenges. He provokes. He pushes until someone pushes back.
So when that edge dulls, she feels it immediately.
She notices because the absence is louder than the presence ever was.
It happens on the docks.
Lo’ak stumbles, his foot slipping on damp wood, balance tipping just enough that Tsireya braces instinctively. She’s already anticipating Ao’nung’s voice, sharp, mocking, something along the lines of “Such a skxawng. Can’t even walk properly, forest boy?” or worse.
The comment never comes.
Instead, Ao’nung’s hand shoots out. He catches Lo’ak by the arm, steadying him before he can fall.
“Watch your step,” Ao’nung says. Neutral. Almost gentle.
That’s it.
Lo’ak blinks, clearly thrown. “Uh. Thanks?”
Ao’nung nods once and lets go, already turning away.
Tsireya just stares.
It’s small. It could mean nothing. Ao’nung isn’t cruel all the time—she knows that better than anyone—sure, they’ve made up and become friends after they had to fight against the sky people, but this? This restraint? This deliberate lack of commentary?
It was a perfect set up for her brother to make fun of Lo’ak in front of her, yet he doesn’t.
It lingers.
Later, during lessons, Tsireya finds herself drifting closer to Lo’ak. They’re waiting their turn, watching others practice, the water lapping softly around them.
She keeps her voice low. “Has Ao’nung been… normal with you today?”
Lo’ak frowns. “Normal how?”
“He hasn’t called you skxawng once.”
Lo’ak pauses. “…Huh.”
“And he didn’t shove you into the water earlier.”
“That’s new,” Lo’ak admits, glancing back toward the docks.
They follow the same line of sight.
Ao’nung stands a short distance away, teaching Neteyam how to use the crossbow. He’s positioned close behind him, adjusting his stance, correcting the angle of his arms. His hands hover just shy of Neteyam’s waist, careful, restrained, like he’s very aware of exactly how close he is.
Neteyam, for his part, is… quiet.
He doesn’t snap. Doesn’t roll his eyes. Doesn’t tell Ao’nung to back off like he used to during early training. Instead, he listens. Nods. Asks questions in a softer voice, checking for approval before he fires again.
Ao’nung murmurs something Tsireya can’t quite hear.
Neteyam adjusts his grip. Tries again.
Ao’nung grins.
Tsireya narrows her eyes.
This is not how Ao’nung teaches everyone.
He’s usually loud, demonstrative, more likely to mock a mistake than patiently correct it. But here, his voice is lower, his movements measured. There’s no audience for his teasing. No performative sharpness.
Just attention.
“…Oh,” Tsireya murmurs.
Lo’ak glances at her. “What?”
She shakes her head, eyes still on them. “Nothing.”
But her mouth curves slightly, thoughtful. “Just… interesting.”
She watches as Ao’nung steps back to give Neteyam space. Watches Neteyam glance over his shoulder, a smile tugging at his lips before he schools it away. Watches Ao’nung tilt his head, pleased, like he’s just accomplished something important.
Tsireya exhales slowly.
She knows her brother.
And something about this feels deliberate.
3.
Rotxo knows Ao’nung’s habits better than most.
They’ve been inseparable for as long as Rotxo can remember. They’re best friends, they’ve been together longer than they’ve ever been apart. He knows what Ao’nung likes, what he hates, what he tolerates, and what he loudly complains about. He knows Ao’nung’s moods by the flick of his tail, the tilt of his ears, the cadence of his voice.
It doesn’t help that the future Olo’eyktan is painfully predictable.
Which is why Rotxo stops dead in his tracks when Ao’nung comes back from the trees carrying fruit Rotxo has never once seen him willingly eat.
“What’s that?” Rotxo asks.
Ao’nung doesn’t slow. “Fruit.”
“That’s not your fruit.”
Ao’nung snorts and looks at him as if he’s grown 5 fingers. “You don’t own fruit.”
Rotxo looks at him incredulously. Oh yeah, totally, he’s the weird one.
“You hate those,” Rotxo presses. “You said they’re too sweet.”
Ao’nung shrugs, unbothered as he reasons with him. “I don’t hate them.”
“You called them mushy,” Rotxo points out, eyeing him quizzically. “Multiple times.”
“People change.”
Rotxo watches him walk away, unease curling low in his gut.
Ao’nung doesn’t veer toward their usual spot. Instead, he heads straight for Neteyam, seated outside the Sully’s marui, carving arrow shafts with practiced ease. His shoulders are loose, posture relaxed in a way Rotxo rarely sees. He’s seen how much he struggled during his recovery.
Ao’nung drops beside him and hands over the fruit without a word.
Neteyam looks up, surprised for half a second before smiling. It’s soft, fond, familiar.
“Thanks,” he says.
Ao’nung grins. “Eat.”
They fall into quiet conversation, voices low. Neteyam gestures with his knife, Ao’nung listens, nodding along like nothing else around them matters.
Rotxo stares at them from a distance, sensing that he shouldn’t get too close.
This isn’t casual generosity. Ao’nung isn‘t a bad person, but he doesn’t do charity. He doesn’t go out of his way to be nice to someone. He never gives without comment, never without making it known.
Rotxo ponders for a moment, before chalking it up to Ao’nung just being nice to Neteyam since he was injured and is apologizing for being a dick to him when they first got here.
He rationalizes with himself that that was it. That’s all it was.
Until he hears a giggle.
A soft, faint, giggle.
He looks over, squinting his eyes. He can’t hear what kind of bullshit Ao’nung was spewing, but he has eyes, and he can see that whatever it was, it made Neteyam laugh.
The Metkayina boy runs his hands through the Omaticaya boy’s braids, stopping to feel the beads. He says something that causes Neteyam to push him away out of embarrassment, his tail flicking rapidly.
When Ao’nung eventually returns, Rotxo squints at him suspiciously. “You didn’t take any.”
Ao’nung shrugs again, walking away. “Didn’t want it.”
“You climbed trees for fruit you don’t want?”
Ao’nung pauses. Just barely.
“…Yeah.”
Rotxo opens his mouth.
Closes it.
There are a lot of things Rotxo can call Ao’nung—reckless, loud, stubborn—but this?
“…You’re weird,” he settles on.
Ao’nung flashes him a grin. “Yeah.”
Rotxo watches him go, a slow realization settling in his chest.
He doesn’t know what’s going on.
But whatever it is?
It’s new.
4.
Tuk is arguably the closest to Neteyam. That’s her big brother, she looks up to him in every sense. He’s practically her second parental figure with how attached to the hip she is to him.
Like now, Tuk finds herself sitting in Neteyam’s lap as the group have their lunch, taking a break from their training
They’re all eating together when she suddenly starts noticing something, eyes bright.
Ao’nung skillfully debones a fish as he stays in conversation with Rotxo and Lo’ak, something about riding a skimwing, as he places the meat of the fish in Neteyam’s plate.
Neteyam himself is absorbed in his conversation with Kiri and Tsireya to not acknowledge the food placed in his plate but he eats regardless.
Tuk silently chews on her fruits as she watches the exchange.
She watches as her brother peels fruits with practiced ease, breaking them into smaller pieces and places them in her plate and Aonung’s plate.
Huh, Aonung’s plate?
She stops eating for a moment.
Tuk looks down at Ao’nung’s plate, then back up at Neteyam’s hands. Her brother doesn’t even hesitate when he does it—peeling fruit the same way he always does for her, neat and careful, breaking it into pieces small enough that no one has to struggle with the tough skin.
He slides the fruit onto Ao’nung’s plate without looking.
Ao’nung doesn’t react either. He just nudges the plate closer with his elbow, still mid-conversation, tail flicking lazily as he laughs at something Rotxo says.
No “thanks.”
No comment.
No pause.
Like it’s normal.
Tuk blinks.
She shifts slightly in Neteyam’s lap, pretending to adjust her seat, just so she can look again. Ao’nung reaches for the fruit without breaking stride, popping a piece into his mouth as he talks.
Neteyam glances over then, not fully, just enough to check. Their eyes meet for half a second.
Ao’nung grins.
Neteyam looks away first.
Tuk squints.
That’s… new.
She watches closer now, chin propped on her hand. Ao’nung pushes the fish closer to Neteyam again when he notices the plate’s half empty. Neteyam takes it without thinking, still talking to Kiri, nodding along like nothing strange is happening.
Tuk tilts her head.
She’s seen Kiri share food with Spider without thinking. She knows what casual looks like and she can tell whatever her brother and fishlips has wasn’t that.
It looks… familiar.
It looks like her parents.
Like how Dad always takes the time to do the annoying parts for Mom—picking out the bones, tearing the meat into smaller pieces so she can eat without stopping whatever she’s doing. Like how Mom, in turn, always slides fruit or greens into Dad’s hands, sharp-eyed and unyielding, until he eats properly.
Not because they have to.
Because they’re looking after each other.
She waits for someone to comment on it.
No one does.
Kiri’s eyes flick over once, then away, like she’s already filed it somewhere. Tsireya smiles faintly at nothing in particular. Rotxo keeps talking. Lo’ak is too busy arguing to notice.
Tuk feels something click.
“Why do you and Ao’nung keep trading?”
Neteyam chokes slightly. “Trading what?”
“Food,” Tuk says cheerfully. “You took his fish and he took your fruit.”
Ao’nung laughs. “That’s normal.”
“No it’s not,” Tuk replies. “Lo’ak growls when people touch his food.”
“That’s because Lo’ak is feral,” Ao’nung says.
“Hey!” Lo’ak flicks his tail to hit Ao’nung.
Tuk’s mouth curls into a slow grin as everyone laughs and piles in on the fun, forgetting about her question.
She doesn’t add anything more.
She keeps eating her fruit, swinging her legs gently, watching her big brother share the way he only does with people he trusts completely.
5.
Lo’ak is competitive by nature.
It’s in the way he counts strokes without meaning to, the way he clocks how long someone stays under, the way his chest tightens when he realizes he’s losing and can’t immediately tell why. He’s always measured himself against others, especially Neteyam.
Neteyam, who used to only tolerate the water. Neteyam, who dragged his feet during early reef training and complained that Ao’nung was a terrible teacher, that the Metkayina methods made no sense, that everything was too hard, too quiet, too different.
Lo’ak remembers that version of his brother clearly. The stiffness in his movements, the frustration he tried to hide behind discipline and patience. And when Lo’ak realized that this, at least, was something he was better at, he clung to it. Relished it, even. A small, selfish victory in a life spent standing in someone else’s shadow.
So when Neteyam suddenly moves through the water like it’s an extension of him, like it welcomes him, Lo’ak feels it like a personal offense.
They dive together, slipping beneath the surface in near-perfect sync. Lo’ak pushes himself harder than he needs to, muscles burning as he kicks deeper, longer, refusing to be the first to surface.
Neteyam doesn’t rush.
That’s the unsettling part.
He glides instead, controlled, like the water knows him now. His movements are practiced, no wasted motion, no frantic adjustments, letting the current carry him where he needs to go.
Lo’ak feels it in his lungs first.
Then in his chest.
Then in the sharp, unavoidable realization that Neteyam isn’t struggling.
When Lo’ak finally has to surface, lungs screaming, he breaks the water hard, gasping for air and Neteyam surfaces beside him, quiet and composed, barely winded.
Lo’ak sucks in a breath. “Since when can you hold it that long?”
Neteyam rolls onto his back, blinking water from his lashes. “What?”
“That dive,” Lo’ak says, treading water aggressively. “You didn’t even flinch. You usually start panicking halfway down.”
“I don’t panic,” Neteyam says automatically.
“You absolutely panic.”
Neteyam scoffs, giving in. “I used to.”
Lo’ak squints at him. “Used to.”
Neteyam shrugs, eyes drifting toward the horizon. “I’ve been practicing.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It is,” Neteyam insists. “Practice makes you better.”
“You used to hate dives,” Lo’ak presses. “You complained every time. You said Ao’nung was a bad teacher and his methods were pointless.”
Neteyam opens his mouth.
Closes it.
“That was before,” he says finally.
Lo’ak pounces. “Before what?”
Neteyam hesitates, just long enough for Lo’ak to clock it.
“Before I figured it out,” Neteyam says.
Lo’ak snorts. “You’re being weird.”
They tread water in silence for a moment, waves rocking them gently. The reef hums beneath them, distant movement, soft currents, life everywhere.
Ao’nung swims past not far away, heading to where his sister is, his tail slicing through the water in a lazy arc. He doesn’t slow, doesn’t stop, but his eyes flick back, quick and automatic.
Straight to Neteyam.
Neteyam watches him go.
Lo’ak exhales sharply through his nose. “…Okay. Again.”
They dive once more.
Lo’ak pushes harder this time, counting strokes with a vengeance, refusing to lose. His muscles burn faster, the water pressing in on him, but he keeps going.
Still, Neteyam stays steady, he doesn’t rush.
When they surface again, the result is the same.
Lo’ak coughs, dragging in air. “How?”
Neteyam frowns. “How what?”
“How are you suddenly better than me?” Lo’ak demands. “Who’s been training you?”
Neteyam answers without thinking. “Ao’nung.”
The word slips out easy. Natural.
Lo’ak freezes mid-breath.
“…Huh?”
Neteyam blinks. “What?”
“You said his name,” Lo’ak says slowly.
“So?”
“So you used to call him annoying,” Lo’ak says. “Or loud. Or a terrible teacher.”
Neteyam bristles. “He’s changed.”
“Mmm,” Lo’ak hums. “Or maybe you have.”
Neteyam glares. “He’s been helping me. The same way Tsireya helps you, or Rotxo helps Kiri.”
Lo’ak crosses his arms in the water. “Since when?”
Neteyam shrugs. “Since after the war.”
“That doesn’t explain why you’re suddenly better than me.”
Neteyam rolls his eyes. “Maybe if you stopped flirting with Tsireya during your lessons and actually practiced, you wouldn’t be so sloppy, baby bro.”
Lo’ak splashes water at him. “Rude.”
“You started it.”
Lo’ak glances past him again.
Ao’nung is floating nearby now, half-listening to Rotxo and Tsireya argue about technique. He laughs at something Tsireya says, then looks over, checking at something (or someone?).
“There you go again, you’re staring at Tsireya like a love sick puppy” Neteyam splashes water at him again.
Lo’ak grunts and hisses, “Bro I am not! Fishlips was looking at us”
Neteyam just scoffs and swims away, “Yeah whatever you say baby brother. I’m gonna head back now.”
“I think you should stay here longer, y’know practice some more to get to my level” Neteyam adds, teasing his brother, giving him a shit-eating grin as Lo’ak splashes him with more water in annoyance.
Lo’ak watches him go, irritation simmering, confusion buzzing just beneath it.
Something’s different.
He just can’t figure out what.
+1.
Fresh markings sit dark against teal-blue skin, still tender, still new. The air hums with laughter and pride, voices overlapping as families gather close, fingers brushing over ink as if to reassure themselves it’s real.
Tsireya is practically vibrating.
She circles Ao’nung and Rotxo with barely contained excitement, hands fluttering as she talks over herself. “I told you both it would look good,” she insists, eyes shining. “I told you. The lines fit perfectly! Mother said the ancestors must have guided the hands.”
Ao’nung snorts, rolling his eyes fondly. “You say that about everyone.”
“That’s because it’s true,” she fires back, then beams at Rotxo. “And yours, oh, yours is so strong. Very warrior-like.”
Rotxo laughs, rubbing the back of his neck, clearly embarrassed but pleased. “Thank you, Tsireya.”
She hugs them both tightly, one after the other, before darting away without warning.
“I’m going to find Lo’ak!” she announces over her shoulder. “He hasn’t seen mine yet!”
And then she’s gone, already weaving through the crowd.
Neteyam stands a little apart with Kiri, watching the Metkayina people celebrate their newly marked warriors, those who have passed their iknimaya, bonded with their tsurak, and stepped fully into adulthood. There’s a softness to the gathering, a sense of something earned rather than displayed.
“They do it differently,” Kiri murmurs, eyes tracing the patterns inked into skin. “But it still feels… sacred.”
Neteyam nods. “Yeah.”
Before he can say more, Rotxo approaches with Ao’nung just behind him.
“Hey,” Rotxo says, grinning.
“Congratulations, bro.” Neteyam reaches out, dapping him up easily. Since the group have grown closer, gestures like this have come naturally—human slang and movements woven seamlessly into their conversations. Lo’ak and Neteyam had taught them half as a joke, and the Metkayina kids had learned faster than expected.
“Thanks, bro,” Rotxo replies, then hesitates. “You don’t mind if I steal your sister for a bit, do you?”
Neteyam flicks his gaze toward Kiri, already suspecting a sly smile on his face. She doesn’t even look at him, just steps forward, grabbing Rotxo’s wrist and tugging him away.
“Come on,” she says briskly. “You’re late.”
Neteyam watches them go, snickering to himself.
“I think he’s going to tell her now,” Ao’nung says quietly.
Neteyam smiles. “I hope it goes well for him.”
Ao’nung shifts, then holds out his hand. “Come on. Let’s go somewhere else.”
Neteyam takes it without hesitation.
Ao’nung leads him toward the ocean, away from the warmth of the fires and into cooler air. They wade deeper, water rising up their thighs, then their waists. Ao’nung pauses, lifts his chin slightly, and clicks his throat—a sharp, melodic sound that carries over the waves.
The water stirs.
Moments later, Ao’nung’s tsurak breaks the surface, sleek and powerful, wings slicing through the water before it settles beside them.
Neteyam laughs, breathless. “Show off. Too good for an ilu now?”
Ao’nung grins unapologetically. “You jealous?”
“Hmm,” Neteyam pretends to ponder, tilting his head playfully. “Nah, my ikran is still better.”
Ao’nung climbs on first, then leans down, helping Neteyam settle behind him. “Hold on tight,” he instructs, wrapping Neteyam’s hands around his waist. “She’s fast.”
The tsurak launches forward, cutting through the water with ease. Wind whips Neteyam’s braids, tangling them with Ao’nung’s. The shore fades behind them, and for a moment, it’s just the two of them—the roar of water, the cry of seabirds, the rush of air. Ao’nung keeps one hand on the reins, the other on Neteyam’s thigh, steadying him, and Neteyam leans into that steady presence without thinking.
They head for a cluster of rocks rising from the water farther out, isolated and quiet.
They’ve been here before. It’s where Ao’nung first asked Neteyam if he could court him, where they shared stolen conversations and shy, awkward smiles. Now, it feels different.
Dismounting, they sit side by side, feet dangling above the waves, the tsurak swimming lazily around them.
Ao’nung turns his head slightly, exposing the fresh markings along his temple. “Wanted you to see first,” he murmurs.
Neteyam’s breath catches.
Up close, the markings are breathtaking, lines flowing naturally with the curve of Ao’nung’s face, bold yet elegant. They frame his eye, accentuate the sharpness of his features, grounding him even more firmly in the reef.
“They’re beautiful,” Neteyam murmurs, voice low.
He reaches out without thinking, one hand cupping Ao’nung’s chin, the other tracing the ink with feather-light reverence. His thumb follows the curve above Ao’nung’s right eye, careful not to press too hard.
“They suit you,” he adds softly.
Ao’nung swallows. His voice comes quieter than usual. “I hoped you’d say that.”
Neteyam smiles, committing every line to memory. “You look… good,” he says after a moment, his tone teasing. “Can’t wait to see more of this on you.”
Without warning, he leans forward, pressing a gentle kiss to Ao’nung’s lips.
Ao’nung stiffens for a heartbeat, then melts into it, tilting his head to deepen the kiss. The ocean laps quietly beneath them, the wind passing through them like a gentle embrace. When they finally pull back, Neteyam’s hands linger on Ao’nung’s shoulders, thumbs brushing along his collarbones.
“You’re… really something,” Neteyam breathes, voice husky.
Ao’nung grunts, pulling Neteyam into his lap, making him gasp.
“You get your first mark and suddenly you’re so bold, reef boy” He teases him, sitting down as he feels Ao'nung's hand holding his waist.
The Metkayina boy says nothing, admiring the gifts he had given the darker Na’vi, appreciating the way it adorns his body.
“You look good in Metkayina accessories” He whispers, brushing his thumb along the waist beads.
Neteyam hums, playing with his hair, loosening the bun in his hair. “I am still Omaticaya”
“Never said that you weren’t. But you are also one of us now.” Ao’nung leaves soft, lingering kisses along his shoulder. “You are Metkayina, so is your family. You fought with us, protected our land from the sky people.” He stops at Neteyam’s bullet wound, pressing a light kiss against it. “You almost died for us.”
“Oh, Eywa…” Neteyam shivers under the gentle press of Ao’nung’s lips, letting out a quiet hum. His hands wander a little, brushing along the ridges of Ao’nung’s back, feeling the warmth beneath his skin.
Neteyam swallows, chest tightening at Ao’nung’s words, at the soft pressure of his lips over the old wound. He shifts slightly in Ao’nung’s lap, leaning into him, letting the smaller touches and whispered affirmations sink in.
“You—” he starts, but the words catch in his throat. How do you reply to someone telling you that you belong somewhere, that you’re seen, that you’re wanted, when every part of you has been taught to doubt it? So instead, he lets his hand drift over Ao’nung’s, fingers brushing the marks along his temple again, tracing the lines he’s already started to memorise by touch.
He leans in to kiss him once more, unable to find the words.
Ao’nung tilts his head slightly, catching Neteyam’s lips in a slow, deliberate kiss, letting the ocean and wind wash over them as if the world beyond this small cluster of rocks doesn’t exist. Neteyam melts against him, pressing closer, hands sliding along Ao’nung’s back and shoulders, feeling the lean muscle under his skin, memorizing every ridge, every line. The kiss deepens, gentle at first, then more urgent, a careful exploration, a silent conversation between them.
When they finally pull apart, foreheads resting together, breaths mingling in the salty air, Neteyam lets out a soft laugh, shaky and warm. “You always make me forget everything else,” he murmurs, voice low, almost awed. Ao’nung hums against him, brushing his thumb over the fresh markings at Neteyam’s temple, a tender echo of the ink he’s just admired.
“You’ve earned this,” Ao’nung whispers, lips tracing a line along Neteyam’s jaw, down his neck. “Every part of you. The fight, the scars, the fear you faced and conquered… It’s all yours to be proud of.” His hands roam slowly, purposefully, holding Neteyam steady against him, grounding him in the moment.
Neteyam shivers, tilting his head back into Ao’nung’s touch, eyes half-lidded. “I… I’ve never had someone see all of me like that,” he admits, voice soft, vulnerable. “And not just see me… want me anyway.”
“Oel Ngati kameie, Ma’Teyam.. I see all of you..” Ao’nung murmurs, voice low and roughened by emotion. “You don’t have to say anything. I can feel it.” He presses their foreheads together, cupping his face.
His hand traces down his neck, before firmly stopping at his chest, by his heart, “You have a strong heart. Good soul.” Ao’nung whispers.
Neteyam’s expression crumples just slightly—the muscles above his eyes tightening, drawing together in that familiar, involuntary way when emotion threatens to spill over.
“Oel ngati kameie” He whispers back, lips parting as he leans forward, closing the remaining distance between them.
Ao’nung responds immediately, one hand sliding up Neteyam’s spine, fingers splaying wide as if to anchor him there. The rock beneath them is cool, the air salted and damp, but between them there is only heat and the steady rhythm of shared breath.
When they part, it’s barely an inch. Ao’nung doesn’t pull away. Instead, he noses gently along Neteyam’s cheek, brushing his lips against the corner of his mouth, then down to his jaw. His touch is reverent, almost careful, like he’s memorizing Neteyam the same way Neteyam has been memorizing him.
Neteyam exhales a quiet laugh, shaky but fond. “This was supposed to be your moment.” He brushes Ao’nung’s hair. His hands move down to Ao’nung’s cheeks, thumbs gently rubbing his skin. “Did I ever congratulate you?”
Ao’nung laughs, holding Neteyam’s hand in his to kiss his palm, “No, but I’ll consider the kiss as one”
The sea shifts below them, gentle waves slapping against the stone. Ao’nung’s tsurak circles lazily, occasionally breaking the surface with a flick of her wings, as if keeping watch. Neteyam becomes acutely aware of how alone they are out here, how far the laughter and firelight feel, even though they’re still well within sight of the village.
Ao’nung’s hand returns to his waist, thumb tracing slow, idle patterns just above the waistband, never crossing a line but making Neteyam painfully aware of every inch of skin beneath his fingers. “When I was out there,” Ao’nung says quietly, gaze drifting toward the horizon, “during my iknimaya… I kept thinking about this.”
Neteyam tilts his head. “This?”
Ao’nung gestures vaguely between them. “Being able to come back. To sit here. To choose who I sit with.”
Neteyam studies his profile, the strong line of his nose, the fresh ink still dark and tender against his skin. “Were you scared?” he asks softly.
Ao’nung lets out a slow breath. “Yeah,” he admits, without bravado. “I’d be lying if I said no. The reef isn’t forgiving. Neither is the open water.” He glances back at Neteyam, eyes sharp but open. “But it felt… right. Like I was stepping into something I’d been waiting for.”
Neteyam gets off his lap, shifts to sit beside him, legs brushing Ao’nung’s, posture easy now. “Well,” he says lightly, a small smile tugging at his mouth, “you did it on your first try.”
Ao’nung huffs a laugh. “You make it sound like I had a choice.”
“I’m serious,” Neteyam insists. “That was impressive. Even my father said so.”
Ao’nung clicks his tongue, pretending to think. “Pretty sure he only said that because you were standing right there.”
Neteyam snorts. “He meant it.”
Ao’nung glances at him from the corner of his eye, grin turning sly. “You said you passed yours on the first try too, didn’t you?”
Neteyam stiffens just a little. “That’s not the point.”
“Oh, it absolutely is,” Ao’nung says, bumping his shoulder. “Didn’t want to lose to you.”
Neteyam laughs despite himself, shaking his head. “You’re impossible.”
Ao’nung grins, unrepentant. “And yet,” he says, like that settles everything. “You chose me.” He pulls Neteyam closer to him, hooking his arm around his waist.
Neteyam feels the warmth of Ao’nung’s arm settle against him, the steady pressure grounding him in a way he didn’t realize he needed. He leans into the embrace, head tilting slightly to rest against Ao’nung’s shoulder, letting the night air and the soft murmur of the ocean fill the space between words.
“You’re really smug, you know that?” Neteyam murmurs, a small smile tugging at his lips despite himself.
“Maybe,” Ao’nung admits, voice low, teasing, yet somehow tender. “But only because it’s true.” He nudges Neteyam gently with his side, careful, deliberate, as if testing the boundaries of this closeness.
Neteyam laughs softly, shaking his head. “I don’t know whether to punch you or kiss you.”
“Why not both?” Ao’nung replies smoothly, fingers brushing over Neteyam’s side, making him shiver. “We’ve got all the time in the world out here.”
Neteyam tilts his head back slightly, eyes catching the moonlight. The ocean stretches endlessly before them, but for once, he doesn’t feel small, doesn’t feel the weight of expectation. Only this.
He squeezes Ao’nung’s hand gently. “I’m glad,” he admits softly, voice almost drowned by the sound of the waves. “That I chose you.”
Ao’nung hums against him, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to Neteyam’s temple, brushing over the beads and the faint swell of muscles beneath. “And I you,” he murmurs, letting the words settle between them, unshakable, like the tide that circles the rocks at their feet.
++1.
The water shifts.
Ripples spread fast, disturbed by multiple bodies cutting through the sea. Voices carry over the water, bright and unmistakably excited.
“Hey! I found them!”
Tsireya’s voice rings out, sharp with triumph.
Neteyam startles, shoulders tensing on instinct. He turns toward the sound just as several shapes break the surface—ilu fins, the unmistakable chaos of people who absolutely were not meant to find them yet.
Ao’nung groans softly, tipping his head back. “Of course she did.”
“It was only a matter of time,” Neteyam bites back a laugh. “We did run off before the rest of the clan could get a good look at you.”
“I was hoping for at least five more minutes,” Ao’nung mutters, though there’s no real annoyance in his voice.
Tsireya swims closer, eyes bright, scanning the rocks before zeroing in on them. Her grin widens immediately. “There you are! We’ve been looking everywhere.”
Behind her, Lo’ak surfaces and squints up at the rocks, hands braced on his ilu. Kiri and Rotxo follow close behind.
“…Why are you both out here?” Lo’ak asks, suspicion already creeping into his voice.
Neteyam shifts, forcing casual into his posture. “What’s the matter? We were just talking, baby bro.”
Tsireya hums, exaggeratedly thoughtful, gaze flicking between them. Neteyam’s flushed ears, Ao’nung’s too-easy calm, the way they’re still sitting far closer than strictly necessary.
“Talking,” she echoes. “Right.”
Rotxo narrows his eyes. “You dragged him all the way out here just to talk?”
“Why are you all piling on me?” Ao’nung shrugs, finally pushing himself to his feet and offering a hand to Neteyam without hesitation. “You all had your own one-on-one moments. Seemed like a good place for me to have my own moment.”
Neteyam takes it.
The contact is brief, simple—but Tsireya’s eyes widen just a fraction.
“Oh,” she says again. Soft. Satisfied.
Lo’ak follows the gesture, then freezes. “Wait.”
Neteyam rolls his eyes, cuts him off before he could say anything else. “Don’t make it weird, Lo’ak.”
His younger brother drags his hands through his hair. “Bro, seriously? Out of everyone?”
Neteyam flicks Lo’ak’s forehead. “Pipe down, skxawng. Don’t turn it into a big deal. Mom and Dad already know.”
There’s a beat of stunned silence.
“…They know?” Lo’ak repeats, voice cracking just a little.
Kiri exhales slowly, something like vindication settling into her expression. “Of course they do.”
Lo’ak looks betrayed. “Kiri, you knew too?”
“I had my guesses,” Kiri says calmly. “They weren’t exactly subtle about it.” She steps closer, brushing her fingers briefly against the beads in Neteyam’s hair and the necklace resting his chest.
“Don’t take it personally, bro,” Neteyam says, patting Lo’ak’s shoulder. “We didn’t want to tiptoe around our parents. For Eywa’s sake, we’re both the eldest sons of important people—it’s not something we could easily hide.”
“And… they’re just okay with that?!” Lo’ak blurts.
“Why wouldn’t they be?” Ao’nung replies easily. “I can still be Olo’eyktan, Tsireya will be Tsahìk, and your children will be the future heirs.” He gestures between Tsireya and Lo’ak.
That shuts them up instantly.
Tsireya freezes mid-breath, ears flushing a deep, unmistakable purple. Lo’ak’s face follows suit, color blooming across his cheeks as if someone had lit him on fire.
“W–what?” Lo’ak sputters. “Who says we’re seeing each other?!”
Tsireya whirls on Ao’nung. “You cannot just say that!”
“I just did,” Ao’nung replies, unapologetic.
“We are not—” Lo’ak gestures wildly between himself and Tsireya, nearly tripping over his own feet. “That’s not—we’re just—”
“Friends,” Tsireya cuts in quickly, nodding far too hard. “Obviously.”
Kiri hums. “Sure. Everyone will believe that.”
Neteyam smiles into his hand.
Rotxo laughs outright. “You two are terrible liars.”
Lo’ak groans, burying his face in his hands. “I hate all of you.”
Ao’nung claps him on the shoulder. “Relax. You’ll figure it out.”
Tsireya refuses to look at anyone, staring very intently at the water. “…Eywa help me.”
Lo’ak straightens suddenly, pointing accusingly at Ao’nung. “Okay.. But I’m still against this.”
Neteyam blinks. “This?”
Lo’ak gestures between them, scowling. “You. Him. This whole—thing. Neteyam is way too good for you.”
Ao’nung raises a brow. “Ouch.” He says in the most deadpan voice ever, not taking Lo’ak seriously.
“I’m serious!” Lo’ak presses on. “He’s responsible, and honorable, and actually thinks before he does stuff. You—” he waves a hand vaguely at Ao’nung, “—throw spears at problems.”
Neteyam snorts. “I do that too.”
“That’s different,” Lo’ak insists. “You do it with purpose.”
Kiri tilts her head, eyeing Lo’ak with open amusement. “Wow,” she says lightly. “You sound really homophobic right now.”
Lo’ak stares at her, aghast. “What? No! Dad say’s the Na’vi are more accepting than the sky people—” He goes into a tangent, defending himself.
“Homo-what?” Rotxo echoes, genuinely confused.
“It’s sky people language,” Kiri replies, waving it off. “Don’t think too hard about it.”
Ao’nung grins, sliding an arm comfortably around Neteyam’s waist. “For what it’s worth,” he says, voice smug, “he chose me too.”
Neteyam leans into him without hesitation. “I did.”
Lo’ak groans again. “I’m surrounded by traitors.”
Tsireya finally looks up, peeking at them through her fingers, and despite herself, she smiles.