Chapter Text
The sky bled into dusk, soft streaks of amber and violet dripping behind the jagged silhouettes of the trees. A hush had fallen over the village. Not silence, but something gentler. The hush that follows relief. That aching, suspended exhale after fear has passed, but before the body remembers how to rest.
The tide had quieted too. Waves curled against the shore like they were apologizing for the day’s violence. Gentle. Contrite. The sand was still littered with prints and dragging lines from frantic feet; evidence that something had gone wrong. And then, somehow, right again.
The scent of sea salt hung heavy in the air. Smoke curled in lazy ribbons from the mouths of marui pods. Fish spines sizzled over open fires. Shadows stretched long and thin, drawing the world out slowly into night.
Above it all, the forest watched.
Neteyam walked through it like he was still underwater. Like the pressure hadn’t left his lungs yet.
Lo’ak had returned home, eventually.
His limbs were covered in salt, sand dried into the seams of his skin. His face slightly bruised, arms and legs covered in small scrapes, but undeniably, he was alive. Neteyam swore he felt his own lungs finally begin to breathe again. The way Lo’ak collapsed into their mother’s arms, rambling that he was fine, just lost, just tired, had almost shattered him.
He had paced the reef until his soles hurt. Scoured the shores. He’d kept his panic beneath the surface, smooth as glass, because he had to. Because that was what was expected of him.
But now, in the cooling quiet of night, Neteyam allowed himself that moment of stillness. His brother was safe. He was whole. The storm, for now, had passed. Tuk slept against his shoulder, thumb half-curled by her cheek, mouth slack in the innocence of dreams. Her weight was familiar. Grounding. A memory from another life, when things were simpler. When his presence had been enough to protect the people he loved.
His steps were quiet, measured, bare feet brushing over the damp wood of the walkway. He made his way back to the mauri in the dark. The ocean whispered at his side, and stars bloomed overhead, unbothered by his grief.
As he approached closer to his families’ mauri, two familiar voices murmured. Neteyam slowed, pausing at the edge of the reef-light.
Just beyond the glow of firelight, two figures stood beneath the soft lean of a marui’s woven arch. The smaller of the two leaned slightly back on his heels, arms crossed. The other taller, broader, shoulders tight with something unspoken.
Lo’ak.
And Ao’nung.
Neteyam’s blood cooled.
Lo’ak didn’t speak much at first. He rocked slightly on his heels, arms still folded across his chest. His gaze was low, trained on the sand, but his posture lacked the tight coil of anger. There was no fire left in him tonight. Only the tired, aching kind of exhaustion that seeps into the marrow when fear has drained out completely.
Ao’nung’s voice came quiet, rough.
“I didn’t think it would go that far.”
A pause.
“It was wrong of me, I didn’t mean to— I shouldn’t have let it go that far.”
Lo’ak huffed something between a breath and a bitter laugh. “You didn’t even turn around. Didn’t care enough to come back for me. You only cared about yourself when I didn’t return.”
Ao’nung took a half-step forward. “I know. It was wrong of me.”
Another pause. Longer.
Then, softly, “I owe you an apology. The moment I understood the situation had spiralled beyond what we’d expected, I went straight to Neteyam. You didn’t have to speak on my behalf out there on the shore, but you did. And I appreciate it. I want to make things right. Not just with you, but with your brother. Especially with him.”
Neteyam’s grip around Tuk shifted. Not too tight. Not rough. But enough to steady the tremble in his jaw.
He didn’t move. Didn’t speak.
Lo’ak finally looked up. His expression was unreadable in the low firelight. For a long moment, he just stared at Ao’nung.
Then, he shrugged. Gave a small smile, and straightened his posture. “Look, it’s fine. I get it. We’re cool.”
Ao’nung’s brows lifted, just slightly. “You’re sure?”
Lo’ak gave a small nod, slightly nudging the other with his shoulder. “Yeah. I get it. It’s done.”
And just like that, the air had shifted. Something settled between them. Not warmth, but closure.
Neteyam stepped forward.
The sound of his footfall was barely more than a whisper on the wood. But Ao’nung’s head snapped toward it like a pulled thread.
Their eyes locked.
Neteyam’s gaze held no fire. No ice. Just distance. A blade polished to perfection, reflecting nothing. No words passed between them. Only that look. Cold. Controlled. Calculated.
Ao’nung flinched. And for a moment, he forgot how to breathe.
There had been a time, just days before, when Neteyam would have met him with something more. Something real. A breath of trust. A half-smile in the shadows between lessons. The careful beginnings of something unnamed and soft and dangerous between them.
But now, Neteyam looked at him like he was no one at all.
Not an enemy.
Not even a memory.
Just an apparition, fading in the light.
He walked past the pair without a word. Without a glance back.
Ao’nung stood frozen in the halo of the fire, jaw clenched, fingers twitching at his sides.
Lo’ak said nothing. He just sighed, rubbed the back of his neck, and turned toward the pod.
The hush returned.
But this one, this silence, wasn’t gentle.
༄༄
Later that night, Ao’nung sat on the ledge of his marui pod, the ocean stretched wide and endless beneath his dangling legs. The moon was fractured in the water; broken light scattered across the surface like shards of something once whole. His hands were clasped tightly between his knees. His jaw ached from clenching.
Rotxo moved to sit beside him, chewing something leathery and dried, the rhythmic sound somehow more irritating than comforting.
“You keep sulking like that, your face is gonna get stuck,” Rotxo mumbled, not unkindly.
However, Ao’nung didn’t respond. Didn’t blink. His eyes were fixed on the sea, like if he stared long enough, it might swallow him whole.
Rotxo sighed. “Alright, fine. I’ll ask and get this over with. Is this about Neteyam again?”
Silence.
“C’mon, you know you can talk to me. You apologised to Lo’ak, didn’t you?”
“Yes, I did.”
“And he forgave you?”
A nod.
“Alright. So then… what’s the problem here?”
Ao’nung’s throat tightened. “It’s not him I can’t reach.”
Rotxo was quiet for a moment. “You’re still thinking about the look he gave you.”
“It wasn’t a look,” Ao’nung bit, voice rough. “It was quite literally nothing. That’s what it felt like. That’s what’s getting to me. He looked through me, like I was a shadow passing in the corner of his vision. Like I didn’t exist. Like we never— like none of it ever mattered.”
Rotxo turned toward him fully now, face softening.
“Look, I’ve been around Neteyam. He seems quite nice. But he’s protective of his siblings; you established that the first time, with the brawl on the beach.”
Ao’nung didn’t respond.
“You miss him, Ao’. It’s undeniable. You miss his friendship.”
“I didn’t even know I had anything to miss,” Ao’nung admitted. “Not until it was already gone.”
He scrubbed a hand down his face. They had been good. After the fight. After the blood had dried and Ao’nung’s pride lay gutted on the shore.
He had approached Neteyam quietly, humbly, and for once, said the right things. No smirking deflection. No cruelty disguised as charm. Just honesty.
And Neteyam, in his infinite grace, forgave him. Maybe not fully, not all at once, but enough. Enough for them to be able to train side-by-side again. Enough to trade breathless laughter after diving too deep. Enough to linger, sometimes, in moments that almost felt like more than friendship, though neither dared to name it.
Ao’nung hadn’t realized he was falling until the silence began again.
Until Lo’ak didn’t return, and Ao’nung frantically spat the truth out to Neteyam in the middle of training. Neteyam had looked at him like he was someone else. Someone unrecognizable. And now, no matter how close he stood, how loud he tried to be, Neteyam was distant. Cold. Gone.
Rotxo was right. He missed him. Not in the way one misses a companion, but in the way one misses warmth in the dead of night. In the way one aches for something sacred they know they’ve ruined.
Rotxo considered him. “Maybe you just need to be patient. Keep showing him you mean it, but don’t push. That you’re not who you were.”
Ao’nung let out a breath that was too sharp to be a laugh. “I don’t want to wait. I can’t. Every time I try to talk to him, he gives me nothing. I brush past him, he doesn’t flinch. I look at him too long, he looks away. It’s like he’s not letting himself feel. And I… I need him. To feel something. Anything.”
“You want him angry.”
“I want him honest. I want to see something that isn’t that mask he wears like a second skin. I want to see the real him. Even if it’s rage. Even if it’s hate. At least then I’d know he still cares.”
Rotxo stared for a long beat. “So make it right.”
“Didn’t you hear me? I’ve already tried.”
“Then try again.”
“You don’t get it.” Ao’nung stood abruptly, pacing a short line across the wood. “He’s shut himself off from me completely. I say something, I get nothing. I brush against him, I get nothing. I tease, I push, I try to make him see me again and he just….won’t.” His voice cracked, barely a whisper. “I need to know I didn’t ruin everything.”
Rotxo leaned back. “He thought he lost his brother, Ao’. That’s going to be a hard shock to both him and his family. Plus, I hear the way their father speaks to and about Neteyam. He expects a lot from him. Imagine the hounding he’ll get from letting Lo’ak out of his sight.”
Rotxo sighed, leaning back. “Maybe he’s not ready to forgive you.”
“I don’t care.” Ao’nung’s tone was sharp, raw. “I mean, I do. But I need something from him. Anything. I need him to get mad. I need him to feel. I want him to stop pretending he doesn’t care.”
༄༄
It wasn’t just that Neteyam ignored Ao’nung.
It was the way that he did it.
The precision of it. The patience. Like the silence was calculated, and Ao’nung was simply being taught a lesson.
The next morning, Ao’nung lingered by the shore while the Sully siblings trained. He didn’t say much, just hovered near Neteyam’s periphery, offered a glance here and there, a half-smile when their paths crossed in passing. But Neteyam’s gaze skimmed past him like light over water. Never stopping. Never settling.
Later, when Neteyam was alone, repairing the woven harness of a ilu saddle, Ao’nung approached him once again.
“Need a hand?”
A pause. A beat too long.
“No.”
Not even a glance. Not even a shift in his body language that might suggest the presence beside him meant anything.
Ao’nung crouched down anyway, a little too close. He reached for the weave, brushing Neteyam’s hand by accident, or on purpose, he couldn’t say.
Neteyam pulled away without flinching. Without a word.
Just continued working, as if Ao’nung were made of smoke.
Each time he tried, the reaction was the same; quiet, unreadable deflections. No heat. No spark. Just that same, agonising stillness.
And the stiller Neteyam became, the more frantic
Ao’nung started to grow. It crawled beneath his skin. Made him reckless. Made him crave a crack in the armour; just one glimpse of the boy he knew. The boy who used to laugh at his jokes when no one else did. Who’d leaned into him during long, sun-drunk afternoons, shoulders touching like it meant nothing. Like it meant everything.
Now, all Ao’nung got was that mask.
Composed.
Controlled.
Completely unattainable.
And it was driving him mad.
༄༄
The sky had darkened into a bruised indigo by the time it happened.
The evening air was thick with brine and smoke. Inside the Sullys’ marui pod, raised voices crackled through the woven walls, tense and clipped.
Ao’nung hadn’t meant to overhear.
He’d just come to the shoreline out of habit now, drawn like a moth to a flame that no longer acknowledged its pull. He hadn’t expected to hear Jake’s voice, low and sharp, biting through the quiet.
“You were supposed to be watching him.”
“I was.”
“You weren’t. If you had been, he wouldn’t have gone missing in the first place.”
There was a pause. Heavy.
“I did everything I could—”
“Not everything. Not enough.”
Silence.
Then Jake again, tired now. Dismissive.
“Go. Clear your head. I don’t even want to look at you right now.”
“Yes, Sir.”
The words struck like a stone to the chest. Unfair, yes, but cutting in the way only a father’s disappointment could be. There was movement inside. A sharp breath. A scuffle of footsteps.
Then Neteyam stepped out.
He didn’t slam the flap. He didn’t storm off. In fact, he moved with the same controlled quiet as always, but Ao’nung saw it. felt it; the tremor just beneath the surface. Like a storm held behind too-thin glass.
He followed him without thinking.
“Neteyam.”
No answer.
Ao’nung quickened his pace, caught up as they reached the tree line just beyond the shore.
“Teyam.”
That stopped him.
Slowly, Neteyam turned, his face half in shadow. His breath was shallow. Shoulders tight. His expression unreadable, but his eyes, Ao’nung thought, his eyes looked dangerously close to cracking.
“Please, just talk to me.”
Neteyam was looking right at him, but still—still—he gave him nothing.
Ao’nung stepped closer, voice low and careful.
“You wear your pride and vigour like armour, Neteyam. But even armour cracks.”
A beat.
“I’ll be waiting to see where you break.”
That did it.
The words landed like a flame on dry kindling.
In a blur, Neteyam halted, turned, and surged forward, shoving him back, the force driving Ao’nung down into the sand. Ao’nung stumbled back, half-laughing, half breathless, heart hammering like a drum. The breath rushed from his lungs, but he didn’t fight it. Didn’t move. Just stared up at him as Neteyam’s hands fisted into his chest and slammed him into the sand.
“You don’t get to know me,” Neteyam hissed. “ You lost that right the moment you decided Lo’ak wasn’t worth turning around for. You want to see me crack? You don’t even deserve to see me. Not now. Not ever. Stay away from Lo’ak. Stay away from me.”Neteyam spat, eyes wild now, fury blooming in his chest.
Ao’nung’s breath caught in his throat. But still, he didn’t push back. Didn’t resist.
His hands were still clutching Ao’nung’s chest. Holding him there, pinned to the sand. But, something shifted.
Ao’nung wasn’t struggling. Wasn’t angry.
His chest rose and fell in sharp, ragged breaths, but his eyes; his eyes were glowing.
Not with fear.
Not even with shame.
With hunger. Lust. Awe.
Neteyam hovered above him, breathing hard, chest heaving with all the fury he’d kept beneath his ribs for days, weeks, maybe forever. His hands were still fisted in the chords of Ao’nung’s neck piece, shaking with restraint, with rage, with the need to feel something solid beneath his hands.
And Ao’nung—damn him—was smiling.
Not mockingly. Not with that smug twist Neteyam had come to hate.
It was soft. Split open. Reverent.
“There you are,” he whispered.
And then he surged up, closing the space between them like he’d been waiting his whole life for the permission.
Hard. Breathless. Desperate.
Neteyam didn’t move. For half a second, he froze; lips pressed, unmoving, heartbeat stuttering wildly.
But then, then his hands loosened in Ao’nung’s neck piece, not in retreat, but in something closer to disbelief. They hovered, trembled, then slid, slowly searching, upward. Across collarbones. Around his throat. To the angles of his jaw.
And he melted.
It wasn’t soft at first. It was a gasp into Ao’nung’s mouth, an exhale that sounded like a breaking point. His mouth moved with urgency, a clash of breath and lips and salt, desperate to claim something he hadn’t dared to want. And Ao’nung—
Ao’nung whimpered.
Not loud. Not dramatic. Just a small, broken sound in the back of his throat, like something sacred had cracked open inside him.
He kissed Neteyam like he was parched and this was the only water left in Awa'atlu. His hands came up, shaking, cupping Neteyam’s face like it might vanish if he wasn’t careful. His thumbs brushed under the hollow of his cheekbones, reverent. Memorising. Like he’d dreamed of this touch a thousand times and didn’t trust it to be real.
Their bodies pressed together, sand sticking to skin, to limbs, but neither seemed to care. Ao’nung kissed him deeper, slower now, with a kind of reverence that tasted like longing. Every pass of his lips said please. Every tilt of his head said I’m sorry. Every shiver said don’t leave.
And Neteyam let him.
For the first time in what felt like forever, he let himself feel.
His mouth parted, breath catching on a soft moan he didn’t mean to let slip. Ao’nung swallowed it like a prayer, mouth opening wider, hungrier, but still gentle, like he knew this moment was fragile. Like he knew it could vanish any second.
Neteyam’s hands threaded into the thick braids behind Ao’nung’s ears, pulling him closer, anchoring them together like gravity had lost its rules. He kissed back now, truly kissed, deep and aching, mouths slick and hot, breath shared between them like they didn’t know how to breathe on their own anymore.
It wasn’t just passion. It was panic. Relief. Grief. Want.
Ao’nung’s fingers skated down his sides, not greedy, but needy, tracing the sharp lines of muscle with reverence. Like he was grounding himself. Like he needed to know Neteyam was real and right here. That he wasn’t just a fever dream in the dark.
Their noses brushed. Their foreheads bumped. Teeth clicked for a second before finding rhythm again. And still they kissed.
Harder. Slower. Deeper.
Until Neteyam shuddered.
A full-body tremor that started in his chest and spilled into every nerve. The pleasure bloomed too fast, too bright. It overwhelmed him, made him breathless with how good, how right it felt. Too good. Too right.
And that was what did it.
That was what broke the moment.
He pulled back, gasping. Eyes wide. Lips swollen. Chest heaving.
Ao’nung chased him, instinctively, just an inch, his lips brushing Neteyam’s again like a whisper. A question.
But Neteyam turned his face away. Not violently. Not cruelly.
Just enough.
His breath came fast. Erratic. His hand rose, slow and trembling, and pressed flat against Ao’nung’s chest—not to push. Not really.
Just to stop.
A pause bloomed between them. Heavy. Electric. The aftershock of something irreversible.
Ao’nung stared up at him, stunned. Lips parted. Eyes wrecked. He didn’t speak.
And Neteyam didn’t look at him.
He was still straddling him, still touching him, but it felt like the moment had shifted again.
He whispered, voice hoarse with everything he couldn’t name.
“I can’t— we can’t..” Neteyam breathed, the words barely more than a rasp, like they’d been dragged from his throat against his will.
But his hands hadn’t moved.
They were still gently holding Ao’nung into place. Still grounding himself in the shape of the boy beneath him, as if his body hadn’t gotten the message his mouth was trying to say.
Ao’nung’s voice came low. Gentle. Almost reverent.
“You’re still holding me.”
Neteyam didn’t answer.
Couldn’t.
His gaze had dropped, like he couldn’t bear to meet Ao’nung’s eyes, afraid of what he might see in them; affection, forgiveness, want. But Ao’nung didn’t push. Just reached up, slow, deliberate, fingers brushing over the sharp line of Neteyam’s jaw, feather-light. Almost testing if he was real. If this moment was still happening.
“Neteyam, don’t speak like this is something we don’t both want,” he said softly, thumb ghosting over the corner of Neteyam’s mouth. “You’re allowed to feel it. Just for now. Just for this.”
Something inside Neteyam cracked, silent but seismic. He didn’t nod. Didn’t respond.
But he allowed Ao’nung to reach back up, and kiss him again.
He returned the kiss once more. Slower this time. Not the same explosion of heat and fury, but something heavier. Deeper. His lips moved with aching deliberation, like he was trying to memorise the shape of Ao’nung’s mouth, trying to imprint this moment onto something permanent before the world reminded him who he had to be again.
Ao’nung let out a quiet sound, barely audible, his hand fisting in the back of Neteyam’s braids. His other palm mapped the curve of Neteyam’s back with open awe, tracing reverently down the tension of muscle and the rise of each breath. It was like he couldn’t get close enough. Like he wanted to crawl inside the silence between their ribs and stay there.
Neteyam pressed closer, chest flush to chest, hips slotted together as if they’d done this a thousand times in a thousand lifetimes. His hands had lost their grip on Ao’nung’s neck piece, but they didn’t retreat. They wandered. One traced the line of Ao’nung’s jaw, the other slid down to his waist, curling there like it belonged.
There was no battle in the way they kissed now. Only surrender.
Ao’nung tilted his head, deepened it, gasping softly against Neteyam’s lips as their mouths slid together with a friction that sent a tremor down his spine. He kissed like he was starving. Like this was the first thing that had made him feel whole in days.
And Neteyam, he let him.
He let the hunger in.
He drank in every inch of Ao’nung’s need, met it with his own, devoured it with aching, wordless desperation. His composure unraveled at the edges. His breath shuddered. His hands trembled. Every time Ao’nung’s fingers touched skin, Neteyam pressed harder. Every sound Ao’nung made was like flint to a spark.
And for a long, breathless moment, Neteyam forgot.
Forgot the expectations. The guilt. The weight. Forgot the way his father’s voice echoed in his head. Forgot everything but the way Ao’nung’s mouth fit against his own like it had always belonged there.
He let himself feel.
Pleasure. Longing. The sharp, overwhelming ache of being wanted without condition.
But then, He broke the kiss.
Breathless. Shaking. Chest heaving, lips still tingling with the taste of Ao’nung. The space between them felt sharp, electric, like the air itself protested the distance.
His eyes fluttered open, dazed, pupils wide in the dark. Ao’nung still clung to him, lips flushed, chest rising and falling in uneven gasps. The fire had gone soft and low behind them. The tide hushed.
Neteyam’s voice came rough, cracking on the edges.
“No,” he whispered. “No, we shouldn’t— we’ve done enough damage, this can’t continue.”
Ao’nung’s eyes softened. He reached out carefully, gently wrapping his fingers around Neteyam’s wrist, not to restrain, but to anchor. His touch was warm. Steady.
“Teyam,” he said, voice low, coaxing. “Look at me.”
Neteyam didn’t. His eyes flicked everywhere but at him, breath unsteady, hands curled into fists at his sides like he was fighting something.
Ao’nung stepped closer. Not forceful. Just present. Then, slowly, backed Neteyam until his spine met the rough bark of a tree. The moonlight caught the tear tracks drying against Neteyam’s cheek.
“Neteyam,” Ao’nung whispered. “We didn’t do any damage. Not here. Not in this.” His thumb brushed against his pulse point, light as breath. “I want you. In every way you’re afraid of. I want you to take me.”
Neteyam shuddered.
“I can’t,” he choked. “I can’t— I need to be focused. My siblings— they need me. I don’t get to be selfish. I don’t get to be… this.”
Ao’nung leaned in, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “It’s not selfish to want,” he murmured. Then pressed a soft kiss just beneath his jaw. A gentle nip followed, not demanding, just there. A whisper of devotion. “You’re allowed to feel this, just once. For you.”
Neteyam moaned softly, the sound a mix of ache and resistance, his body betraying the discipline he’d built so carefully.
“Ao’…” he breathed.
“Don’t you want me, Teyam?” Ao’nung whispered, mouth tracing the line of his throat, voice full of longing. “Don’t you want this?”
Neteyam finally looked at him. And the anguish in his eyes nearly undid Ao’nung completely.
“Yes,” he said, voice cracking. “Yes, Ao’. I want you. It’s you. It’s always been you. But I— we— can’t.”
Ao’nung’s hands found his waist, grounding him again. “Why?” he asked, not accusing, just aching.
Neteyam’s lips trembled. A tear slipped down his cheek.
“You don’t understand.”
“Oh, Tey…” Ao’nung’s thumb wiped the tear away. “I don’t. Not like you do. But I want to. I want to understand. Let me. Help me understand.”
Neteyam’s whole body was trembling now, breath caught somewhere between collapse and restraint. He gave a broken nod, hands finally unclenching, allowing them to shake freely. Letting Ao’nung see the mess. The storm.
And just as Ao’nung stepped forward, arms rising like he was about to gather Neteyam into something safe—
“Neteyam!” came the call, cutting through the trees like a blade. Ao’nung recognised the voice. It was Kiri, though she sounded moreso worried than usual.
Neteyam’s whole body stiffened. Ao’nung flinched at the transformation; how fast it happened. The walls. The armor. The mask.
In a blink, Neteyam straightened, breath sucked in through his teeth. He wiped at his face quickly, erasing every trace of emotion, of softness, of vulnerability. His eyes went distant.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispered, so quietly Ao’nung barely caught it. “I have to go.”
Then he was gone.
Vanished into the dark, toward his sister’s voice, leaving behind only the ghost of his warmth, and Ao’nung standing still, yearning echoing in the hollow space between his hands.
Ao’nung stayed there long after Neteyam had gone, rooted to the spot like the trees themselves had claimed him. The breeze carried the last whispers of his scent, but the warmth, the weight, was gone.
His fingers drifted up, brushing his lips.
They still tingled. From the kiss. From the breathless confessions. From Neteyam.
He let out a slow exhale and turned, moving through the darkened forest in silence. The village lights were distant now. Flickering. Unimportant.
By the time he reached home, the sky had deepened to indigo. Everyone else was asleep.
But he couldn’t.
Ao’nung lay flat on his back, eyes wide open, heart thrumming too loud in his chest. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw it:
The way Neteyam looked at him. Like he was starving for something he thought he didn’t deserve.
The way his hands trembled.
The way his voice broke, and then—
How fast he rebuilt himself.
Like he had to. Like the world would collapse if he didn’t.
Ao’nung turned over sharply, shoving his face into the woven mat, trying to bury the ache rising in his chest.
He hadn’t known.
Not really.
He’d seen Neteyam’s control before, his perfect posture and clipped words, his quiet strength. But he hadn’t realized that beneath it all was someone so… tired.
So afraid to fall apart.
So afraid to want.
Ao’nung pressed a hand to his chest, willing the hurt to stop climbing up his throat. He thought about Neteyam’s voice, the crack of it, the tear that slipped past his defenses like it had been waiting there for years.
And eywa, the way he said his name.
“Ao’…”
He sat up suddenly, breath shaking. The room felt too small.
He wanted to go back. Find him. Wrap his arms around him and say, “It’s okay. You don’t have to hold everything together.”
But he couldn’t.
So instead, he whispered into the night, like a promise:
“I’ll be there for you, Teyam.”
Even if Neteyam didn’t ask for it. Even if he kept trying to push him away.
“I’ll help you feel like yourself again.”
Because Neteyam deserved that.
And Ao’nung would fight for it, for him, even if he had to do it quietly.
Even if the only battle he could win was making sure Neteyam never had to fight alone again.