Chapter Text
The mixed zone was a special kind of hell designed specifically to overstimulate every sense Neteyam possessed.
After the quiet program on the ice, and the weird but surprisingly chill interaction with that snowboarder dude, the tunnel was a sensory assault. The lights were fluorescent and humming, the air smelled of stale coffee and body heat, and the wall of noise from the reporters was a physical weight against his ears.
Neteyam adjusted the collar of his Team USA jacket, pulling it up high enough to cover the nape of his neck, his ears pinning back flat against his skull in a subconscious attempt to dampen the noise.
The familiar shouts surrounded him, camera flashes assaulting his eyes in a way he knew all too well.
“Neteyam! Neteyam! Over here! NBC Sports!”
“Neteyam, about the landing on the quad lutz… did you feel the edge slip?”
“Any comments on the other programs Neteyam?”
He stopped at the designated mark, clasping his hands nervously in front of his body without realizing. The posture was automatic. Spine straight, chin up, tail still. It was the pose of a soldier, not a skater.
“The lutz felt good,” Neteyam said, his voice smooth, practiced. It wasn't his real voice; it was his Media Voice. “The ice is fast today, I had a slight check on the landing, but the rotation was there. We're just getting started with these games, I'll just keep getting better over the months I bet.”
He gave a small smirk, gaining a few laughs. The press always eats the confident shit up.
“Your father, Jake Sully, is watching from the stands. Does his presence add to the pressure?” A reporter asked, shoving a microphone a little too close to his face. His tail involuntarily flicked as he backed up slightly.
He smiled, baring just enough teeth to look polite, but not enough to look mean. “My father is my biggest supporter. I'm just happy to be here representing my country.”
Liar.
The interview dragged on. Questions about his diet, his costume, Lo’aks latest movie, him carrying on the Sully sports legacy. They asked about everything except how he felt. Which was good, because he felt like his brain was vibrating inside his skull.
By the time his coach, a broad Metkayina named Ronän who's been working with his family for years, finally steered him away from the cameras, Neteyam felt hollowed out.
“Good answers,” Ronän muttered, checking his clipboard. “You have physio in twenty, then a team debrief at six. You need to ice that right knee, I saw you favoring it on the step sequence.”
“It's fine.” Neteyam said shortly, his tail twitching behind him.
“Its not fine until you're on the podium, Teyam. Go, I'll see you at the debrief.”
Neteyam did not argue. He just walked. He walked past the other athletes, keeping his head down until he reached the sanctuary of the athlete dorms.
The room was small, sterile, and blissfully quiet.
Neteyam locked the door and didn't just lean against it; he slumped. The mask finally shattered. His ears drooped, the tension draining out of his shoulders so fast it made him dizzy. He kicked off his skates, not bothering to line them up perfectly like he usually did, and dragged himself to the bed.
He just wanted to sleep. He wanted to sleep through the entire olympics. Or the rest of his life.
But his phone buzzed in his pocket.
Neteyam grumbled and yanked it out, staring at the screen. The caller ID flashed a picture of his dad, grinning, wearing a Team USA hat.
Jake Sully (Dad).
Neteyam let it ring a few times. He considered not answering at all. Maybe pretend he was in the shower or something. He considered throwing his phone out the window. But the guilt– that heavy, golden chain of guilt that had been around his throat since birth– tightened.
He answered.
“Hey, dad.”
“Teyam!” Jake's voice was loud, booming through the speaker. “Great program out there, son. Really strong opener.”
Neteyam sat up, rubbing the back of his neck. “Thanks. It felt… okay.”
“Just okay?” Jake chuckled, but the tone shifted. It became Coach Jake. “Listen, I watched the replay. You're rushing the entry into the Axel. You're getting the height, but your axis is tilting just a fraction to the left. That's why your landing looked a little scratchy.”
Neteyam closed his eyes, his hand tightening around his phone. He had just skated a near-world-record short program at the Olympics. He was currently sitting in first place.
“I know, sir,” Neteyam whispered, unconsciously letting the name slip from his early training days. “I know. I'll work on it.”
“And the spins,” Jake continued, oblivious. “Speed was good, but your centering on the camel spin drifted. You gotta lock that core, son. You know this. Mom says you looked amazing, obviously, but were talking points here. That Mikhail guy is only two points behind you. You can't afford to drift.”
Can't afford to drift. Can't afford to slip. Can’t afford to breathe.
“I'll fix it. You know I will.” Neteyam said, his voice sounding robotic even to his own ears. “I have to go, dad. Ronän wants me in physio.”
“Alright. Stay focused, Eye on the prize, teyam. We're proud of you.”
“Yeah. Love you.”
Neteyam hung up and tossed the phone onto the mattress. It bounced harmlessly, but he wished it had shattered.
Proud of you. The words felt like stones.
He sat there for a long moment, the silence of the room pressing on him. It went from peaceful to deafening quickly. His skin felt too tight for his body. His knee throbbed. His head ached. He knew this feeling too well; he needed it all to stop. He needed the noise in his head— the constant replay of his fathers voice, the judges whispers, the screaming fans— to just shut the fuck up.
He stood up and walked to his suitcase.
It was buried deep, wrapped inside a thick wool sweater at the very bottom. A hydroflask. Matte black, unassuming. To anyone else, it was water. Maybe electrolytes.
Neteyam unscrewed the lid. The sharp smell of expensive vodka hit his nose, and his ears twitched.
He knew the rules. He knew the athlete code of conduct. He knew that alcohol dehydrated the muscles, slowed reaction time, and was generally terrible for recovery. He's heard it a million times. He knew he was supposed to be the golden child who drank kale smoothies and meditated.
But the golden child was tired.
He took a sip. Just one, he told himself. The burn was unpleasant, searing his throat, but the warmth that bloomed in his stomach a second later was worth it. He took another. And another.
Twenty minutes passed. Then forty.
The sharp edges of the room began to blur. The throbbing in his knee faded into a dull, distant feeling. The voice in his head, which sounded suspiciously like his fathers, finally went quiet.
Neteyam let out a long, shaky breath. His tail was calm. He felt heavy. He felt… fine. Truly fine.
He heard a distant ding, taking a moment to realize it came from his phone. He turned and climbed onto the bed, reaching for it. The brightness was aggressive. He had a notification. A text.
Unknown Number: hey, my sister is bugging me for that video. Her name is Pril. no rush but she's threatening to burn my board.
Neteyam blinked at the words. They swam slightly.
Unknown Number: sorry, should've been more specific. It's the guy from the hallway. The snowboarder. Ao'nung.
Neteyam snorted, a sound that was not like him at all. He opened the keyboard, his thumbs feeling a little disconnected from his brain.
Neteyam Sully (Skater): Cannt do it.
He hit send. He stared at the message. It looked rude. He should explain.
Neteyam Sully (Skater): i lpok like shit. tell her tommorrow.
He took another swig from the bottle. The room was definitely tilting left now. Maybe his dad was right about his axis. He giggled at that. God, he was funny.
His phone buzzed almost immediately.
Unknown Number: you just gonna keep using that excuse? I bet you look fine.
Neteyam frowned. He typed slowly, holding the phone close to his face to focus better.
Neteyam Sully (Skater): shut up. I had long day. peopl sceraming at me. dad screaming at mw. Judge s staring.
Unknown Number: are you drunk?
Neteyam froze. His ears pinned back defensively. Was it that obvious? He wasn't drunk. He was just… it was his emotional support buzz.
Neteyam Sully (Skater): no. im exchausted. typOs happen.
Unknown Number: uh huh sure. how much have you had?
Neteyam scoffed. Who did this guy think he was? His mother?
Neteyam Sully (Skater): none of yoir busines snow-eatrr. You knopw wht im gonna make thsat your contact nam.
Unknown Number: is this what elite athletes really do? get drunk right at the start of comps?
Neteyam didn’t answer for a few minutes. He was busy adding Ao'nung's contact as “Snow-Eater.” It took him more concentration than he'd like to admit.
He hadn't been paying attention to the texts he got during that time.
Snow-Eater: hello…
okay dude answer
seriously how much have you drank?
have you eaten anything since you skated?
dont tell me you drank on an empty stomach dude
Neteyam stared at the question. Had he eaten? He had a protein bar at 6AM. Then a banana before the warmup. Then maybe something else. He couldn't really remember.
Neteyam Sully (Skater): vodka is m ade of potates. tchnically imm eating right neow.
He hit send and immediately regretted it. That was an admission.
Three bubbles appeared. Then disappeared. Then appeared again.
Snow-Eater: oh eywa your drunk
drink water right now
please
and put the potato juice away…
Neteyam rolled his eyes, taking another sip just to be spiteful. But the concern in the text, even from a stranger, felt weirdly… nice. It wasn't about his medals. It was just… basic human concern.
Neteyam Sully (Skater): ur annnoying. im alone in mu room. leave me be.
Snow-Eater: you are alone and drinking on an empty stomach after burning like 2000 calories. thats a recipe for disaster. come outside.
Neteyam blinked.
Neteyam Sully (Skater): what
Snow-Eater: im at the vending machines near the north elevator of building B. come here. we can film the video. and i can make sure you don’t die of a hangover tomorrow.
Neteyam stared at the screen. Building B. That was his building. The north elevator was just down the hall.
Logic told him to stay put. Logic told him he was Neteyam Sully, and he did not go meet strange snowboarders at vending machines while intoxicated. Logic told him his PR team would have a stroke if they knew.
But the alcohol made him reckless. And Neteyam was really, really, hungry.
Neteyam Sully (Skater): if you tske a pohto of me i will killl you with my skate blade.
Snow-Eater: deal. bring your face, leave the vodka.
Neteyam sighed, dragging himself off the floor. The room spun, then steadied. He capped the bottle and hid it back in the suitcase. He moved to the mirror.
He looked rough. At least he thinks he did. His vision was already shit normally and the vodka made it worse. His eyes were red-rimmed. Did he cry earlier? Maybe. Who cares?
He stumbled slightly as he opened the door, his tail knocking into the frame. He hissed at the sensation but corrected his balance. He moved down the hallway, the fluorescent lights harsh against his sensitive eyes.
He rounded the corner to the vending machine alcove. Ao’nung was there.
He was sitting on top of a low radiator, legs stretched out, scrolling on his phone. He was wearing a different hoodie now. This one was oversized and purple. It was accompanied with baggy sweatpants. He looked comfortable. He looked normal.
Ao’nung looked up as Neteyam approached. His eyes widened slightly, scanning Neteyam from head to toe. He took in the messy braids, the slight sway in his step, the glassy look in his eyes.
Ao’nung didn't mock him. His ears didn't perk up in amusement– they swiveled back in genuine concern.
“Woah,” Ao’nung mumbled softly, pushing off the radiator. “Hey there, drunky.”
Neteyam leaned against the wall, crossing his arms to hold himself together. ‘Don't call me that.”
“You look…” Ao’nung paused, searching for a nice word.
“Like shit. I know.” Neteyam slurred slightly. He hated how thick his tongue felt.
“I was gonna say normal,” Ao’nung corrected with a small, crooked smile. He fished his credential badge out from under the neck of his hoodie and walked over to the vending machine.
“So, what do you want?” Ao’nung asked, glancing back at him. That concern Neteyam had read in Ao'nung's texts was now clearly visible in his eyes, and it made Neteyam’s heart do a weird, traitorous little flutter. He blamed it on the vodka.
“Just pick random shit. You’re gonna make me eat it anyway.” Neteyam pushed off the wall, stumbling slightly as he moved to stand next to Ao’nung. He squinted at the glowing rows of snacks. They all made his stomach flip, but he knew it was inevitable.
Ao’nung shrugged, punched in a few numbers, and scanned his badge against the reader. A few seconds later, a bag of pretzels and a blue Gatorade thudded into the retrieval bin.
Ao’nung reached in and then held them out to Neteyam, like it was a peace offering. “Here. Breakfast of champions.”
Neteyam stared at the food, then up at Ao’nung, his ears flattening slightly. “I hate pretzels.”
Ao’nung rolled his eyes, but there was no heat in it. His thick tail just swished lazily behind him. “You told me to pick random shit. You’re going to eat them, seeing as you’re currently trying to drown a demon in vodka. I can’t watch the ‘National Sully Treasure’ destroy his liver and not do anything about it.”
Neteyam huffed, taking the gatorade with a weak glare. His hands were shaking slightly as he twisted the cap.
“Im not drowning a demon,” Neteyam muttered, taking a long drink. The electrolytes tasted like heaven. “Im just… unwinding.”
“Right. Unwinding,” Ao’nung said, his tone skeptical but gentle. He ripped open the pretzel bag and held it out. “Eat. Seriously. Or you're gonna throw up on my shoes, and they were expensive.”
Neteyam took a pretzel. Then another, He hadn't realized how starving he was until the salt hit his tongue.
They stood there in the humming quiet of the hallway for a few minutes, Neteyam eating pretzels like a squirrel and Ao’nung watching him with a weirdly protective look on his face.
"So," Neteyam said, swallowing a mouthful of dry pretzels. "The video."
"Right," Ao’nung said after blinking, he hadn’t realized he was staring. He pulled out his phone. "You think you can handle it? You don't have to do a backflip or anything. just say 'Hi Pril, stay in school'."
Neteyam straightened up, trying to summon his Media Persona. He smoothed his hair back. "I can do it. I'm a professional."
Ao’nung snorted. "Okay, professional. Ready?"
He held the phone up. Neteyam forced a smile. It was a little crooked, a little glassy-eyed, but it was dazzle-worthy.
"Hi Pril," Neteyam said to the camera, his voice dropping an octave into his smooth charm. "Ao’nung told me you're a fan. Keep working hard on the ice. Maybe I'll see you at the Olympics one day." He winked.
Ao’nung stopped the recording and paused to look at Neteyam for a second. “...That was a terrifyingly good switch-up.”
Neteyam slumped back against the wall, the energy instantly leaving him. "It's the job," he whispered.
Ao’nung stared at him for a second, then lowered his phone. He stepped a little closer. He smelled good. Good enough for Neteyam to notice.
"Hey," Ao’nung said, his voice dropping low. "You good? Like, actually?"
Neteyam looked up at him. Ao’nung was taller, broader. He felt solid.
"My dad thinks my axis is off," Neteyam blurted out. He didn't know why he said it. He never told anyone that.
Ao’nung frowned, his brow furrowing. "Your axis? You spun four times in the air and landed perfectly. Your axis is fine. Your dad needs glasses."
Neteyam let out a startled laugh. "He's an Olympic gold medalist. He knows what he's talking about."
"He's being a hard-ass," Ao’nung corrected firmly. "You're in first place, Neteyam. You killed it."
Ao’nung reached out, hesitating for a split second before his hand landed on Neteyam’s shoulder. It was heavy and warm. "Seriously. You were amazing. Don't let the old man get in your head."
Neteyam looked at the hand on his shoulder, then up at Ao’nung’s soft blue eyes. For the first time all day—maybe all year—the tight knot in his chest loosened. Just a little.
"Thanks, Snow-Eater," Neteyam murmured, his eyelids drooping. The alcohol and the food were conspiring to make him incredibly sleepy.
Ao’nung grinned, giving his shoulder a squeeze before letting go. "Anytime. Now, go to sleep. Drink that whole Gatorade. If I see you at the bar tomorrow, I'm telling your mom."
"You wouldn't dare," Neteyam threatened weakly, pushing off the wall.
“Try me.” Ao’nung laughed.
Neteyam turned to walk back to his room, but he paused at the corner. He looked back. Ao’nung was still standing there, watching him to make sure he made it back safely.
Neteyam raised the gatorade bottle in a toast. Ao’nung returned with a small thumbs-up.
As Neteyam stumbled back into his dark room and fell face-first onto the bed, he realized two things.
One, he was definitely going to have a headache tomorrow.
And two, he couldn't wait to text Ao’nung again.