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Spider is still laughing when he hits the ground.
He stumbles out of the undergrowth, breathless and flushed, mask fogged faintly at the edges, and drops onto the plush bed of hoverleaf clusters like gravity finally remembered him. High above, the Omatikaya hammocks swayed between the trees, smoke from the evening fires threading lazily through the canopy. The forest hums around them, leaves and distant water, but Spider's laugh cuts through it. Bright, reckless, earned.
Lo'ak follows a heartbeat later, skidding to a stop and nearly tripping over Spider's painted legs.
"Hey—hey, don't fall asleep," Lo'ak says, though he's grinning too hard for it to be real. "You're gonna regret it later, bro."
Spider sprawls out on his back, arms flung wide, chest rising fast beneath the straps of his mask. The cool terrain feels wonderful. "Can't," he pants. "Legs stopped working."
Lo'ak snorts. And then, without hesitation, drops down beside him and deliberately scoots closer, long body folding in until his shoulder presses into Spider's side. He hooks a leg loosely over Spider's calves, casual but possessive, like he's staking a claim.
"Too bad," Lo'ak says. "You're stuck with me now."
Spider laughs, breath hitching again. "Wasn't complaining."
Kiri lowers herself more gracefully on Spider's other side, kneeling and immediately noticing the way Lo'ak has already crowded in. Her mouth curves, unimpressed. She reaches out and brushes debris from Spider's hair anyway, fingers gentle and familiar.
"You're squishing him," she says mildly.
Lo'ak shifts just enough to press closer. "He's fine."
"I am right here," Spider adds, voice muffled by a grin.
Kiri slides closer, shoulder nudging into Spider's other side in quiet defiance. Her long leg folds near his knees, effectively boxing him in. "He was sitting with me earlier."
Lo'ak glances at her. "He ran with me."
"That was hours ago."
Spider turns his head slightly, eyes flicking between them. "You guys are ridiculous."
Neither of them listen.
Lo'ak drops down fully now, half draped over Spider, thigh pressed into his side, sweat-slick skin warm and unashamed. The size difference is absurd. Lo'ak's arm alone feels like a weighted blanket, but he settles there like it's the most natural thing in the world. Kiri counters by resting her hand lightly on Spider's chest, careful of the mask straps, fingers splayed as if to say mine. She leans in, cheek brushing his hair.
Spider exhales, laughter dissolving into something softer.
His hand drifts, idle and familiar, tracing the memorized patterns of stripes on Lo'ak's ribs where his arm crosses Spider's middle. The peach-fuzzed flesh pleasant beneath his fingers, grounding. Lo'ak doesn't stop him, just hums low in his chest, content. Spider knows that he loves when he does it.
"You climbed too fast again," Kiri murmurs.
It's true. Climbing was one of the things he excelled at most. One of the only things, really, where he surpassed both Na'vi and humans. Today, he pushed too hard. Faint but fresh indentations and scratches marked his hands and feet, both heavily callused from years of adapting to free-soloing the relentless jungle.
Spider smiles without opening his eyes. "You love it."
Lo'ak huffs. "You're not supposed to out-climb us," he says. "It's rude."
"Get better," Spider murmurs back, already fading.
Lo'ak adjusts, tucking Spider in more securely, forearm heavy and protective across his stomach. Kiri's fingers slip into his dreads, smoothing them back slowly, deliberately.
The forest keeps breathing around them.
Spider interlinks his fingers with Kiri's, giving them a reassuring squeeze, and then nestled his body deeper against Lo'ak.
Lo'ak watches him go still and sighs through his nose. His hold tightens just a fraction. Kiri smiles, soft, and stays exactly where she is.
Soon, reluctantly, he will have to retreat back to High Camp. Back to filtered air and metal floors and scientists who love him loudly and worry at him constantly. Back to Norm counting calories and tapping his datapad, back to half-serious scolding about hydration and protein intake and how he smells like sweat and sap again.
He knows they mean well. He knows they're scared for him in their own way. always counting, always correcting, always trying to keep him human enough to survive. But it's different. Their care comes with schedules and warnings and the quiet panic of adults who know too much.
For now, the Sully kids are enough.