Chapter Text
The fire was doing that soft, steady crackle that meant the night had finally decided to be kind.
No alarms. No distant shouting from the reef. No frantic footsteps pounding the woven bridges. Just the hush of the forest and the long, slow rhythm of water moving somewhere below them, breathing around the roots of the village like it owned the place,which it did.
Jake sat with his back to a thick post, legs stretched out, rubbing oil into a strip of leather that had started to dry and split at the edges. He was half listening to the night, half listening to his own thoughts, which had a nasty habit of getting louder when the world finally went quiet.
Across from him, Neteyam was sorting gear into neat piles with the focused, almost reverent care he put into everything. Lo’ak was… also sorting.
In the sense that he was throwing things into a pile and calling it sorting.
Neteyam kept sliding a glance at him, correcting the mess without comment, like he’d accepted this as a lifelong sentence.
Jake watched them for a while with the quiet, tired fondness that always snuck up on him when he wasn’t braced for it. He’d built this, by accident, by stubbornness, by love and fear and a whole lot of dumb luck. Two boys who were too big too fast, with hearts that still stumbled like kids sometimes.
Lo’ak picked up a strap, squinted at it like it had personally offended him, then looked at Jake.
“Hey, Dad,” he said, casual. Too casual. The kind of casual that meant there was something coming.
Jake didn’t look up. “Mm.”
Lo’ak twirled the strap around his fingers. “Is it true you used to have… like… soft clothes?”
Neteyam’s head lifted immediately. His ears angled forward.
Jake snorted. “Yeah, it’s true.”
Lo’ak’s eyes widened, delighted. “Like…like what? Like woven leaves but…soft?”
Jake dragged the leather through his hands, feeling for weak spots. “Cotton. Fabric. Stuff you didn’t have to make yourself.”
Neteyam blinked, slow. “You did not make your clothes?”
Jake glanced up then, catching the expression on Neteyam’s face. Genuine, careful curiosity. He wasn’t mocking, wasn’t teasing, just trying to understand a world that didn’t fit into his own.
“Nope,” Jake said. “You went to a store. Picked what you wanted. Paid for it. Left.”
Lo’ak looked like someone had just told him the sky was actually water.
“A store,” he repeated, like tasting the word. “Just… for clothes.”
“And food,” Jake added without thinking.
That did it.
Neteyam’s gaze snapped to him, sharp and bright. Lo’ak froze mid-twirl.
“Food?” Lo’ak echoed.
Jake paused, strap in hand. He hadn’t meant to say it like that. It had just slid out. Easy. Familiar.
Neteyam set down the pouch he was holding a little too carefully. “Dad… you miss… the food?”
Lo’ak’s mouth quirked. “No way.”
Jake stared at the strap for a beat, then blew out a slow breath.
“Yeah,” he admitted, and it came out quieter than he expected. “Sometimes.”
Lo’ak’s eyes went huge. Neteyam’s whole face did that stunned stillness he got when something didn’t compute. Like his brain was trying to rebuild the world around new information.
“You miss being a sky person,” Neteyam said slowly, testing it. “Because of… food.”
Jake gave a short, helpless laugh. “When you say it like that, it sounds pretty damn stupid.”
Lo’ak exploded.
He doubled over, shoulders shaking, laughter bursting out of him like he couldn’t physically contain it.
“You crossed the stars…” Lo’ak wheezed, clutching his stomach, “you changed bodies… you became blue!”
“Lo’ak,” Neteyam warned automatically, but he looked like he wanted to laugh too. Like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed.
Lo’ak pointed at Jake, still laughing. “And you miss snacks!”
Jake flicked the strap lightly at him. It smacked Lo’ak’s shoulder with a soft thwap.
“Watch it,” Jake said, but his mouth was pulling into a grin despite himself. “I didn’t regret it for snacks.”
Lo’ak sat back up, still grinning, eyes sparkling. “Okay, okay. What then? For… dessert?”
Neteyam’s lips twitched. “Lo’ak.”
“What?” Lo’ak demanded. “He said he misses the food! I’m just, I’m trying to picture it.”
Jake shook his head, amused in spite of the little ache that had settled under his ribs. “You two are ridiculous.”
Neteyam leaned forward slightly, the way he did when he was genuinely curious. “What food did you have?”
Lo’ak’s laughter faded into an eager grin. “Yeah. Like, what’s so special about sky food? Does it glow? Does it bite you back?”
Jake snorted. “It does not glow. It mostly kills you slowly.”
Lo’ak’s eyes widened again. “What?”
Jake held up a hand. “Not like poison. Like… it’s full of stuff that’s bad for you. But it tastes good. That’s the problem.”
Neteyam stared. “Why would you eat it if it is bad?”
Jake opened his mouth. Closed it. Then he laughed, quiet, rough. “Buddy, you ever watched your mom eat a whole handful of roasted seeds even after she said she’s full?”
Neteyam blinked. “That is different.”
Lo’ak’s grin sharpened. “No, it’s not.”
Jake pointed at Lo’ak. “Thank you.”
Neteyam made a frustrated sound, but his eyes stayed on Jake. Steady. “Tell us.”
Jake hesitated. He didn’t know why he hesitated. It was just food. It wasn’t a battlefield confession. It wasn’t a story that ended in blood.
But it was… him. A version of him they’d never known. Human, tired, lonely, clinging to little comforts in a world that didn’t fit.
He ran his thumb over the leather again and then, like ripping a bandage off, he started.
“Okay,” Jake said. “I miss coffee.”
Lo’ak blinked. “Cough-ee.”
Jake nodded. “Coffee.”
Neteyam tilted his head. “Is it a drink.”
“Yeah.” Jake’s mouth lifted at the memory. “Hot. Bitter. Smells… like morning.”
Lo’ak frowned. “Why would you want bitter.”
Jake pointed at him again. “Because it wakes you up.”
Lo’ak scoffed. “Just… sleep more.”
Jake stared at him for a long second.
Neteyam’s eyes widened a little, as if he could feel the weight in that look.
Jake huffed a laugh. “Yeah. Sure. ‘Just sleep more.’”
Lo’ak’s grin faltered, just a touch. “Okay, okay. Bad joke. But…coffee. Bitter hot drink. Smells like morning.”
“Mm-hm.”
Neteyam’s voice went gentler. “Did you drink it every day.”
Jake nodded. “Yeah. Every day.”
Lo’ak leaned in, elbows on knees. “Did it taste good?”
Jake exhaled. “No. Not at first.”
Lo’ak looked vindicated. “Ha!”
Jake kept going, because the truth was complicated and he didn’t want them thinking it was just a joke.
“But after a while,” Jake said, “you start to like it. You start to… need it. Not just for waking up. It’s like—” he searched for the right words, tapping the strap against his thigh, “like a ritual. A thing that’s the same, even when everything else is a mess.”
Neteyam’s gaze sharpened again. Not amused now. Not laughing.
Lo’ak’s grin softened into something more cautious.
Jake felt that shift like a change in wind.
He cleared his throat and tried to steer it back into lighter territory.
“And bread,” he added. “I miss bread.”
Lo’ak’s face brightened again instantly. “Bread I know!”
Neteyam nodded. “We have bread.”
Jake pointed at him. “Yeah, you have Pandora bread. I mean… old Earth bread. Fresh. Warm. Crunchy crust. Soft inside.”
Lo’ak made a face like he could almost taste it. “That sounds like ours.”
Jake laughed. “No, man. Yours is… dense. Like it’s trying to prove something.”
Lo’ak’s jaw dropped. “Hey! That’s… that’s because it’s real.”
Jake lifted both hands in mock surrender. “I’m not insulting the bread, Lo’ak. I’m saying Earth bread was… different.”
Neteyam’s eyes flicked up and down Jake’s face, reading him like he always did when Jake accidentally revealed more than he meant to.
“And you miss that,” Neteyam said, not quite a question.
Jake nodded again, slower.
Lo’ak shifted, restless. “Okay, but, you said store. You just… go and get food? You don’t hunt it?”
“Nope.”
“No gather?”
“Nope.”
Neteyam’s brows drew together. “Then who..?”
“Other people,” Jake said. “Farmers. Workers. Cooks. People in kitchens. It’s a whole system.”
Lo’ak whistled. “That sounds lazy.”
Jake arched a brow. “Excuse you.”
Lo’ak shrugged, grinning. “Just saying. You sky people had it easy.”
Jake stared at his son. This big blue teenager who had never felt winter without a fire he built himself, who had never had to eat ration bars that tasted like chalk and regret, and he snorted.
“Easy,” Jake repeated, amused. “Yeah. Sure.”
Neteyam nudged Lo’ak with his shoulder, subtle but firm. “Do not tease.”
Lo’ak opened his mouth to argue, then caught Neteyam’s expression and closed it again with a soft huff.
Jake’s chest tightened a little at that. At how fast Neteyam protected him, how instinctive it was. Like Jake was something fragile that might crack if Lo’ak pressed wrong.
It made him want to laugh and apologize and hug them both until their ribs creaked.
Instead, he rolled his eyes and kept talking.
“I miss cheese,” Jake said.
Lo’ak blinked. “Cheese.”
Neteyam repeated it carefully. “Cheese.”
Jake nodded. “Made from milk.”
Lo’ak recoiled like Jake had said it was made from poison. “Milk from what.”
Jake laughed. “Cows.”
Two blank stares.
Jake sighed. “Big animal. Four legs. Eats grass.”
Neteyam looked horrified. “You drink what comes from an animal.”
Lo’ak’s nose wrinkled. “That’s… that’s disgusting.”
Jake leaned back against the post, laughing now. “Okay, okay, listen. I know it sounds gross. But it’s, it’s normal. You grow up with it, you don’t think about it.”
Neteyam’s expression was still deeply offended. “It is not normal.”
Lo’ak jabbed a finger at Jake. “This is why the People don’t trust sky people.”
Jake pointed right back. “You asked.”
Lo’ak grinned, pleased. “I did. And now I regret it.”
Neteyam was still stuck on the milk part. “You… take from an animal and then you turn it into food.”
Jake nodded. “Yeah.”
Neteyam stared, then said quietly, “Is that why you made a face the first time you ate ilu.”
Jake froze.
Lo’ak snapped his head toward Neteyam. “You noticed that?”
Neteyam ignored him, eyes locked on Jake. “You did not like the taste.”
Jake opened his mouth, then shut it again.
“Yeah,” Jake admitted. “I didn’t like it at first.”
Lo’ak’s grin returned. “Because you missed your cow-milk rock.”
“It’s not a rock,” Jake said automatically.
Lo’ak’s eyes glittered. “It’s a rock.”
“Do not diss the cheese!”
“Milk rock.”
Jake flicked the strap at him again. Lo’ak dodged easily, laughing.
Neteyam didn’t laugh. He was still watching Jake like he’d found a thread and couldn’t leave it alone.
“Dad,” Neteyam said softly. “Is food the only thing you miss.”
Lo’ak’s laughter died halfway, like someone had closed a door on it.
Jake felt the shift again—heavy this time. The way a simple question could suddenly make the air feel different.
He stared at the strap in his hands, then at the fire. The orange light painted his fingers in warm, human colors for a second, like a lie.
He could’ve said no. The easy answer. The safe one.
But Neteyam’s eyes were too honest for that. And Lo’ak’s curiosity had gone still, sharp with a kind of fear he tried to hide under jokes.
Jake exhaled.
“I don’t… regret leaving,” Jake said carefully. “Not for a second. But do I miss things? Yeah.”
Lo’ak swallowed. “Like… people.”
Jake’s jaw tightened.
Neteyam’s ears angled forward, but his posture stayed calm, steady. Grounding. Like he was giving Jake space to answer or not.
Jake’s throat felt thick.
“Some,” he said. “Not many. Most of the people I knew… weren’t really my people.”
Lo’ak frowned. “How.”
Jake let out a short, humorless laugh. “Because Earth wasn’t built for guys like me, kid. Not really. I spent a lotta time… being alone in a crowd.”
Neteyam’s eyes softened in a way that made Jake’s chest ache.
Lo’ak shifted closer without thinking, like his body moved before his brain could decide it was okay.
Jake noticed. Pretended he didn’t, because if he acknowledged it he might not be able to stop himself from pulling Lo’ak into his lap like he used to when he was small.
“What’s ‘alone in a crowd’,” Neteyam asked quietly.
Jake rubbed a hand over his face. “It means… you’re surrounded by people, but you still feel like there’s no one who really sees you. Like you’re just… there.”
Lo’ak’s brow furrowed hard. “That’s stupid.”
Jake gave him a tired look. “Yeah. It is. That’s Earth.”
Neteyam was silent for a beat, then asked, “So food was… what. The thing that saw you.”
Jake blinked.
Lo’ak stared at Neteyam like he’d just said something illegal.
Neteyam didn’t flinch. He watched Jake steadily, patient and relentless in the way only a good firstborn could be.
Jake swallowed.
“Not… saw me,” Jake said, voice rougher. “But it grounded me. Kept me… in my body. Reminded me I was still here.”
Lo’ak’s grin was gone now, replaced by something too young in his eyes.
“Dad,” Lo’ak said, quieter than normal. “That’s… sad.”
Jake huffed out a laugh. “Yeah, well. Life’s sad sometimes.”
Neteyam’s hands curled into fists in his lap, small and controlled. “You did not deserve that.”
Jake’s chest tightened so hard it almost hurt. He looked away, blinking fast.
“Hey,” Jake said, trying to lighten it, “I’m here now. I got you guys. I got your mom. I got a whole village of people who won’t shut up about whether my knots are good enough.”
Lo’ak made a small sound that could’ve been a laugh if it wasn’t shaky.
Neteyam’s mouth twitched, but his eyes stayed wet-bright in the firelight.
“Tell us more,” Neteyam said. “About the food. What else did you have.”
Lo’ak blinked at him. “Bro.”
Neteyam didn’t look away from Jake. “If he wants to talk about it, let him.”
Lo’ak opened his mouth, then shut it, chastened.
Jake watched them both and felt something in him soften and break at the same time. The fact that Neteyam was protecting him from his own son’s teasing was ridiculous… and also so damn sweet it made Jake’s throat sting.
“Okay,” Jake said, voice quieter. “Okay. I’ll tell you.”
He leaned back, eyes on the fire, and let the memories roll in. They were old and sharp-edged, but they smelled like warm kitchens and cheap paper bags and mornings where the world hadn’t punched him in the face yet.
“I miss… fries,” Jake said.
Lo’ak blinked. “Fries.”
Neteyam repeated it. “Fries.”
Jake nodded. “Thin strips of potatoes…” he paused when he saw their blank stares. “Uh. A root. Grows in the ground. You cut it up, you fry it in oil until it’s crispy.”
Lo’ak’s ears lifted. “Crispy.”
Jake smiled faintly. “Yeah. Crispy.”
Neteyam frowned. “Oil.”
Jake nodded again. “Yeah. Oil.”
Lo’ak squinted. “So you… cook food in fat.”
Jake held up a finger. “Listen. Don’t act like you haven’t eaten fish cooked in its own fat and gone back for more.”
Lo’ak opened his mouth, then closed it with a grudging noise. “Okay. Fair.”
Neteyam’s eyes were bright with curiosity again. “What do fries taste like.”
Jake stared at the fire, chasing the right memory. “Salt. Heat. Comfort. Sometimes you dip ’em in ketchup.”
Lo’ak immediately perked up. “Dip.”
Jake nodded. “Dip.”
Neteyam looked suspicious. “What is ketchup.”
Jake chuckled. “It’s…” he paused, realizing how ridiculous this was going to sound. “It’s like… a sauce. Made from tomatoes. You squish it and add sugar.”
Blank stares again.
Jake sighed. “Red fruit. Kinda.”
Lo’ak’s face scrunched. “Red fruit sauce.”
Jake pointed. “Yep.”
Lo’ak leaned back, eyes wide, grinning again. “Sky people are insane.”
Neteyam, however, looked like he was filing away every detail like it mattered.
“And you miss that,” Neteyam said again.
Jake nodded. “Yeah. I do.”
Lo’ak tapped his fingers on his knee. “Okay, but— is there, like… good food. Not cow milk rock.”
Jake barked a laugh. “Cheese is good.”
Lo’ak made a gagging noise.
Neteyam’s eyes flicked to Lo’ak. “Do not.”
Lo’ak threw up his hands. “I’m sorry! I just…milk! From cows!”
“You don’t even know what a cow is!”
“Exactly!”
Jake laughed again, shaking his head. “Alright, alright. I also miss… pizza.”
Neteyam’s head snapped up. “Pizza.”
Lo’ak’s grin came back instantly. “I’ve heard that word.”
Jake blinked. “From who.”
Lo’ak shrugged. “Norm. He said it once. When he was trying to explain something about Earth and you told him to shut up.”
Jake groaned. “Sounds like me.”
Neteyam leaned in. “What is it.”
Jake tried to describe it. Flat bread, sauce, cheese, toppings—only to get interrupted by Lo’ak making increasingly appalled noises until Jake tossed the strap at his face.
Lo’ak yelped, laughing, dodging, then leaned in again anyway because he couldn’t help himself.
“Okay, okay,” Lo’ak said, eyes bright. “But…why does this matter. Like… why miss it if you have food here.”
Jake’s smile faded a little. Not completely. Just enough.
“Because,” Jake said quietly, “food isn’t always just food.”
Neteyam’s gaze softened again. “It is memory.”
Jake blinked, surprised.
Neteyam shrugged slightly, like it was obvious. “When I eat certain things, I think of Mom. Of when she first taught me. When she laughed. When she was proud.”
Lo’ak scoffed, but it was half-hearted. “You think about Mom all the time, bro.”
Neteyam didn’t even deny it.
Jake felt his chest tighten again, but this time it was warm.
“Yeah,” Jake said softly. “Exactly. Food is memory.”
Lo’ak’s grin faded into something thoughtful. “So… fries are… memory.”
Jake snorted. “Yeah. Dumb, greasy memory.”
Neteyam shook his head. “Not dumb.”
Jake looked at his firstborn and felt something in him loosen, some tight knot he’d carried from a world where tenderness was weakness.
“You’re a good kid,” Jake said.
Neteyam froze like he hadn’t expected praise in the middle of a conversation about cow milk.
Lo’ak made a loud gagging sound. “Ew.”
Jake aimed the strap at him again. “You want it, too?”
Lo’ak’s eyes widened in immediate panic. “No! I mean, yes! No! I mean…”
Neteyam made a small, startled laugh, like it escaped him.
Jake smiled, soft.
Then Lo’ak, because he couldn’t leave anything alone, asked the question again, but different.
“Dad,” Lo’ak said, voice deliberately casual, “do you ever… wish you could go back. Even for a day.”
Jake’s smile slipped.
Neteyam went still beside him.
The forest seemed to hush, like it was listening.
Jake stared at the fire until it blurred.
He didn’t want to scare them. Didn’t want to make them think he was half out the door. Didn’t want Lo’ak, with all his fear of not being enough, thinking he had to compete with a planet.
But lying to them felt worse.
“I don’t… wish to go back,” Jake said slowly. “Not to stay. Not ever.”
Lo’ak swallowed. “But.”
Jake exhaled. “But if I could visit? Yeah. For a day. Just to… see it. Smell it. Eat the food. Remember who I was.”
Neteyam’s voice was very quiet. “Who you were. Or who you had to be.”
Jake looked at him sharply.
Neteyam held his gaze, calm and steady.
Jake’s throat tightened again.
“Both,” Jake admitted.
Lo’ak’s eyes had gone shiny again, and he looked angry about it, like he was fighting his own face.
“That’s… unfair,” Lo’ak muttered.
Jake frowned. “What is.”
Lo’ak gestured vaguely at the air. “All of it. That you had to be alone. That you had to…” his voice cracked slightly and he cleared his throat, scowling at himself, “…that you had to drink bitter morning drink just to… be okay.”
Jake stared at him.
Neteyam shifted closer too, subtle, but there.
Jake’s hands went still on the strap.
“Hey,” Jake said, voice low. “I’m okay.”
Lo’ak scoffed. “You were not okay.”
Jake opened his mouth, then shut it, because Lo’ak wasn’t wrong.
Neteyam’s hand moved, slow and careful, and rested on Jake’s forearm.
Just a touch.
A grounding anchor.
Jake’s breath hitched like his body recognized comfort before his brain did.
He looked down at Neteyam’s hand, then up at his son’s face.
Neteyam’s eyes were steady, not pitying. Just… there.
Lo’ak watched like he was afraid to blink.
Jake swallowed hard.
“You boys,” Jake muttered, trying to sound annoyed and failing miserably, “are gonna be the death of me.”
Lo’ak’s mouth twitched. “Good. You deserve it.”
Jake barked a laugh, then reached out and grabbed Lo’ak by the back of the neck. Not hard, just enough to tug him closer.
Lo’ak made a startled noise, then immediately leaned into it like he’d been waiting for permission.
Neteyam’s hand stayed on Jake’s arm.
The three of them sat like that for a moment, the fire popping softly.
Then Lo’ak, because he couldn’t help himself, muttered into Jake’s shoulder, “So… this coffee thing. Can you make it?”
Jake snorted, laughter muffled. “No.”
Lo’ak pulled back, offended. “Why not.”
“Because coffee doesn’t grow here.”
Lo’ak scowled at the forest like it had personally failed him. “We could find it.”
Neteyam blinked. “Lo’ak.”
“What?” Lo’ak insisted. “If it makes Dad happy. ”
Jake’s chest tightened so hard it almost hurt again.
“Hey,” Jake said quickly. “No. Don’t, don’t do that.”
Lo’ak frowned. “Do what.”
Jake struggled for words. “Don’t make it your job to… fix what I miss.”
Neteyam’s hand tightened briefly on his arm. “We are not fixing. We are… understanding.”
Jake looked at him, grateful.
Lo’ak’s frown softened into something uncertain.
“We just wanna… know you. All of you.”
Jake stared at both of them.
He didn’t trust his voice for a second.
So he did what he always did when emotion got too close: he teased.
“Okay,” Jake said, forcing a steadier tone. “Then you gotta be ready to hear about the worst thing Earth ever invented.”
Lo’ak’s eyes lit. “Worse than cow milk.”
Jake pointed at him. “Do not disrespect the cheese.”
Neteyam’s lips twitched.
Jake leaned forward conspiratorially. “Earth people invented something called… diet soda.”
Lo’ak blinked. “Diet… soda.”
Neteyam frowned. “What is soda.”
Jake grinned. “A drink that fizzes.”
Lo’ak’s ears perked. “Fizz.”
Jake nodded. “Fizz.”
Neteyam looked suspicious. “Why would you drink something that bites?”
Jake laughed. “It doesn’t bite. It tickles.”
Lo’ak looked delighted. “Tickle drink.”
Jake pointed. “Yep. And then Earth people said, ‘What if we made it taste sweet but also like chemicals and sadness.’”
Lo’ak stared, horrified. Neteyam looked offended again on principle.
“That sounds like a weapon,” Neteyam said flatly.
Jake laughed so hard his shoulders shook.
Lo’ak shook his head slowly. “Sky people are… wrong.”
Jake wiped at his eyes. “You’re not wrong.”
Neteyam’s hand slipped away from Jake’s arm, but he stayed close, still angled toward him. Still listening.
“What else,” Neteyam asked, softer again. “What else do you miss.”
Jake’s laughter faded into something gentler.
He stared at the fire and let himself be honest.
“I miss… eating without thinking,” Jake said quietly. “I miss grabbing something hot in a paper bag and walking down a street with lights everywhere. I miss… sitting in a place full of people and not having to talk. Just… being there. Being anonymous.”
Lo’ak’s eyes narrowed. “Why would you want that.”
Jake smiled faintly. “Because sometimes being seen is exhausting.”
Neteyam absorbed that like it mattered. Like he was storing it away for later, when Jake was tired and quiet and pretending he wasn’t.
Lo’ak shifted again, restless. “But you said you were alone.”
Jake nodded.
Lo’ak scowled. “So you wanted people but didn’t want people.”
Jake pointed at him. “Congratulations. You understand being human.”
Lo’ak huffed a laugh, despite himself. “That’s stupid.”
Jake’s grin softened. “Yeah.”
Neteyam’s gaze flicked over Jake’s face again, careful and precise.
“Dad,” Neteyam said, voice low, “did you eat alone often.”
Jake’s throat tightened.
Lo’ak’s eyes widened, the joke dying again.
Jake tried to shrug it off. “Sometimes.”
Neteyam didn’t accept that. “Often.”
Jake blew out a breath, then nodded once.
“Yeah,” Jake admitted. “Often.”
Lo’ak’s face did something. Tightened, like anger and sadness collided in the same space.
“That’s…” Lo’ak started, then stopped, jaw clenching.
Neteyam’s eyes were bright again. “You should not have.”
Jake laughed quietly, not amused. “Wasn’t exactly a lot of options, kid.”
Lo’ak’s voice came out rough. “You could’ve had us.”
Jake froze.
Lo’ak looked like he wanted to punch himself for saying it, like it was too raw, too much.
Neteyam’s ears angled back slightly, worried.
Jake stared at Lo’ak for a long second, then reached out and pulled him closer again.
“Hey,” Jake said, voice low. “Don’t do that.”
Lo’ak swallowed hard. “Don’t do what.”
“Don’t act like you could’ve fixed my past by existing sooner,” Jake said, tone gentle but firm. “That’s not how time works. And it sure as hell isn’t your job.”
Lo’ak’s eyes squeezed shut briefly, like he was fighting tears. “I just…I hate it.”
Jake’s grip tightened on the back of his neck. “Yeah. Me too.”
Neteyam shifted closer until his shoulder brushed Jake’s other side.
They sat like that, sandwiched around him, heat and weight and presence.
Jake’s chest felt too full.
He cleared his throat and forced his voice lighter again, because he could feel them spiraling.
“Alright,” Jake said. “You want details? Here’s details.”
Lo’ak sniffed, offended. “You’re changing the subject.”
Jake arched a brow. “I am absolutely changing the subject.”
Neteyam’s mouth twitched. “Let him.”
Lo’ak scoffed. “Traitor.”
Jake smirked. “Okay. Earth had this thing called… burgers.”
Lo’ak perked up instantly. “That sounds like a warrior.”
Neteyam blinked. “A… burger.”
Jake nodded. “Meat. In bread. With stuff on it.”
Lo’ak leaned in, eyes bright again. “What stuff.”
Jake grinned. “Pickles.”
Two blank stares.
Jake sighed. “Little green things.”
Lo’ak recoiled. “Green things in meat bread.”
Jake laughed. “Yeah.”
Neteyam frowned. “Why would you put green things.”
Jake shrugged. “Because it tastes good.”
Lo’ak looked deeply betrayed by the concept of tastes-not-making-sense.
Jake kept going anyway, describing fries and burgers and pizza and the way cheap food could feel like home even when home wasn’t.
Neteyam asked questions like he was building a map in his head. Lo’ak interrupted constantly, reacting dramatically, demanding Jake rank foods from “least disgusting” to “most sky-person cursed.”
Jake played along because it was easier than sitting in the heavy quiet.
But the tenderness threaded through it anyway.
Because every time Jake’s voice went too soft, Neteyam’s hand would brush his arm again, grounding.
Every time Jake’s gaze went distant, Lo’ak would crack a joke, then edge closer like he didn’t want Jake’s memories to pull him too far away.
Eventually, the fire sank lower. The night deepened. The village around them settled.
Jake realized he’d stopped rubbing the leather a long time ago.
He was just… talking.
Being known.
Lo’ak yawned, trying to hide it and failing miserably. “Okay,” he muttered, rubbing his face. “So. If you could have one last sky-person meal.”
Neteyam’s eyes lifted, suddenly serious again. “What would you choose.”
Jake stared at the fire.
He expected some big answer. Something important.
Instead, his mouth curved into a small, helpless smile.
“Honestly?” Jake said. “A greasy bag of fries. Hot. Too salty. And a coffee.”
Lo’ak groaned. “Still with the bitter morning drink.”
Jake smirked. “Always.”
Neteyam’s gaze softened. “We can make you something… like that.”
Jake immediately shook his head. “No. Don’t.”
Neteyam held up a hand. Calm. “Not to fix. To honor.”
Jake blinked.
Lo’ak nodded, surprising him. “Yeah. To honor. We can make you… salty crispy root strips.”
Jake barked a laugh. “That is the worst description of fries I’ve ever heard.”
Lo’ak grinned, triumphant. “Thank you.”
Neteyam’s mouth twitched, then he said quietly, “And you will not eat alone.”
Jake’s breath caught.
He looked at Neteyam. Then at Lo’ak, who pretended he wasn’t listening and absolutely was.
Jake’s voice came out rough. “Yeah?”
Neteyam nodded once. “Never.”
Lo’ak scoffed like it was obvious. “Duh.”
Jake swallowed hard.
He leaned forward and pulled them both in, one arm around Lo’ak’s shoulders, the other around Neteyam’s back.
They resisted for exactly half a second out of habit, then melted into it like they’d been waiting for permission all along.
Lo’ak muttered into Jake’s chest, muffled, “You better not start crying, old man.”
Jake huffed a laugh. “I’m not crying.”
Neteyam’s voice was quiet, warm. “You are lying.”
Jake squeezed them both tighter. “Okay. Maybe I’m…shut up.”
Lo’ak laughed, soft and relieved.
Neteyam made a small sound that might’ve been a laugh too.
And Jake closed his eyes and let himself sit in it.
The heat of the fire. The weight of his sons. The steady rhythm of their breathing.
Not alone.
Not anymore.
After a long moment, Lo’ak pulled back just enough to look up at him, eyes bright with mischief again.
“So,” Lo’ak said, grin returning, “you miss food.”
Jake rolled his eyes. “Yes.”
Lo’ak’s grin widened. “You’re telling me the great Toruk Makto is just… hungry.”
Jake leaned down and bumped his forehead lightly against Lo’ak’s. “I’m telling you if you call me hungry one more time, I’m making you drink imaginary coffee.”
Lo’ak recoiled dramatically. “No! That’s cruel!”
Neteyam’s lips twitched. “He would do it.”
Lo’ak stared at Neteyam. “Why are you on his side.”
Neteyam shrugged, calm. “Because you deserve it.”
Lo’ak made an offended sound and tried to wriggle away, but Jake held him tight.
“Too late,” Jake said, grinning. “You asked. You got answers.”
Lo’ak huffed. “Next time I’m asking about something normal.”
Jake arched a brow. “Like what.”
Lo’ak thought, then said brightly, “Like whether sky people ever tried to ride a shark.”
Neteyam pinched the bridge of his nose. “Lo’ak.”
Jake laughed, full and warm, and the sound felt strange in his own chest. Like something he’d forgotten how to do and was relearning.
He looked at his sons, curious, stunned, fierce, loving, and felt the nostalgia settle into something softer.
Not longing.
Just memory.
Just proof he’d survived long enough to be here.
“Alright,” Jake said, voice gentle. “C’mon. Bed. Before you two start inventing new ways to give me gray hair.”
Lo’ak yawned again, pretending he wasn’t already half asleep. “You already have gray hair.”
Jake smacked his shoulder lightly. “Move.”
Neteyam stood first, gathering the gear with practiced ease. Lo’ak dragged his feet, sticking close to Jake like he didn’t even realize he was doing it.
Jake rose with them, joints protesting, and for a second he caught the scent of smoke and night and something sweet on the breeze, fruit, sap, life.
Not Earth.
Not the old world.
But home.
As they walked, Lo’ak nudged him with his elbow.
“Hey,” Lo’ak said softly, like he didn’t want Neteyam to hear even though he definitely would. “Tomorrow… you tell us more.”
Jake glanced down at him.
Lo’ak tried to look casual and failed.
Neteyam’s voice floated from the other side, calm and certain. “Yes. More.”
Jake shook his head, fond and tired and full.
“Yeah,” Jake said. “Tomorrow.”
And if he missed a few things from his old life—
Well.
He had his boys beside him now, asking him questions like they weren’t afraid of the answers.
Holding him steady when his memories got heavy.
Making him laugh when he forgot how.
That was worth more than any coffee in the universe.