Archive of Our Own ^beta

There was always an awkward grace period of recovery after a battle. An air of grief for those who died fighting, a collective breath of relief from the survivors, the immediate will to help each other as good neighbours do. 

Lo’ak has experienced it before. Once, twice, thrice—he can’t say how many times it’s been, just that it’s been enough to get used to it, practically having built an autopilot setting just for the aftermath by the second time.

Back then, when he was really, really small, he would follow Neteyam into the medical area of the camp and watch as his grandmother bandaged the wounded Na’vi. Neither of them was allowed there—their parents weren’t exactly thrilled about introducing them to such violent sights at their young age—but stubbornness ran in their blood, so the warnings weren’t heeded.

That had led to Lo’ak getting nightmares for three nights straight. Jake had been furious at him, but softened every time his ears pulled back and tears filled his eyes. He’d gone from a scolding “Why don’t you two ever listen to me?” to a quiet, soothing “Come here, boy” as soon as Lo’ak’s lips wobbled.

That tactic worked the next few times he returned to that area of the village after a horde of ikrans came back. Neytiri never had the heart to yell at him, but she’d pull at his ears and tail and threaten to tie him to his hammock if he did it again. She never did.

It stopped working after some time, but only because he started training with his dad. 

He’s not sure why he kept returning. It gave him bad memories and flooded his sleep with nightmares of blood and screaming, dying Na’vi. Neteyam had even tried to ban him from joining at one point, even though his older brother had been just as shaken. Kiri joined them once and never again—she had burst into tears the moment she saw so many Na’vi crying and grunting in pain. She was empathetic like that. A crybaby, if you’d asked younger Lo’ak.

Kind, if you asked him now.

Annoying, if you asked him at any point in time. He’ll… get back to that.

It had become a routine by now. After every battle, whether he’d been fighting in it or otherwise, he would tail after Neteyam. Back then, mostly out of morbid curiosity. As he got older, mostly to be helpful—the best he could, at least.

Somehow, Kiri ended up being the most useful of the three when it came to aiding the injured.

That was fine. Kiri had her way, and he had his. When he was younger, his task had mostly been delivery. But, one time, they’d been short on help, so Jake had made him and Neteyam lift a few broken jets off the dead bodies so they could be properly buried and respected. Since then, that'd become a more prominent job. Sometimes, afterwards, they’d collect the weapons too. And while none of it had any of the healing qualities like Kiri’s herbs and medicine did, it had its own effects on that awkward grace period.

It brought rest to grief. It brought comfort to relief. It fulfilled his will to help.

So when this battle ended, he hopped in to help the way he had always known how. This time, the clean-up was much rougher than usual, mostly because the casualties had been pretty… catastrophic, and there were far more Na’vi to account for.

Thankfully, with the extra number of Na’vi, there were also more people who could help.

Kiri had offered to join the healers, but she first took the time to check on her family, who amused her by letting her do it. Their parents had the worst of the injuries, but nothing grave or immediately life-threatening, so she did the best she could with what little she had before sending them off to see a more trained healer. Neytiri went without much complaint—though Lo’ak suspects it was so she could visit little baby Pril right after. Jake hesitated, but then Kiri subtly threatened to use her kuru to make him go, and he conceded with a chuckled, “Alright, fine.”

Tuk, despite having been held hostage for the—what was it, fifth time now?—didn’t have many injuries other than a few scratches on her shoulders, neck, and face. None of the cuts were deep enough to be a concern, and most had already healed, so Kiri simply rubbed her all over with herbs while she giggled.

Spider had a lot of bruises and cuts, but again, nothing deeply concerning. He was let off with a few herbs and a kiss to the cheek. Which. Okay. Lo’ak would need an update on that. What the hell did he miss while he was out searching for Payakan?

Then she checked on him. He told her he was fine, just like Spider and Tuk, only a few bruises and cuts. They’d heal smoothly while he ran his usual system to help other Na’vi around. He expected her to slather him in herbs and tell him to leave, like she had with the others.

But she didn’t.

Well. She did slather him in herbs. But she didn’t let him go immediately, even after all his cuts had been bandaged over. She held him firm in place on the ground, unblinking.

Lo’ak furrowed his brow. “What is it?”

She doesn’t answer for a few good seconds before shaking her head and letting go, like she hadn’t been practically trying to fuse him into the ground with her upper body strength moments ago. “Nothing. Go—help the others. Keep an eye on Dad and make sure he doesn’t…”

A small pause, like she was considering her words. “…hurt himself.”

He let out an amused huff. “If that happens, I’m either dreaming or I’m dead.”

He expected a chuckle back. Maybe a small sigh with a push to his shoulders in pretend annoyance. At the very least, an eye roll. He got nothing.

Her lips thinned, and her ears folded back against her scalp.

Maybe she just wasn’t in the mood. He shrugged and left to do exactly what he always did after battles. 

The first few days were easy. He was young, so most of them sent him off to grab medicine, ferry bandages back and forth, help carry an injured Na’vi over—whatever needed doing. It was the usual stuff. He stole glances at his dad whenever he got the chance, but it seemed the injury was bad enough that Jake wasn’t pushing past the pain to do any heavy work.

When people, including his parents, had healed enough to return to the waters where the battle took place to retrieve the bodies, he went with them. Some families of the fallen Na’vi wanted to bring them home so they could rest in their village; a small number didn’t mind letting the waters take them instead. Lo’ak wasn’t allowed into some of the more gruesome areas, even though he was sure he could stomach it, but he still helped the adults carry the bodies onto the ilus and boats.

At some point, it became impossible to shield him from those sights. He was desperate to be helpful, though, so his father sent him out on weapon-gathering duty instead—this time less to redistribute to other Na’vi, and more just to clean the ocean and return them to the labs back home. He would’ve invited Tsireya and Aonung, but…

They'd only buried Ronal a few days ago. Rotxo as well. It wouldn't be right to make them work while they were grieving.

(He was too, but that was fine. This was his way of grieving. His way of coping.)

(Skxawng.)

Besides. They had a whole new baby to take care of. 

It would be fine. He would be fine.

Truthfully, he wasn’t used to doing it alone. He used to have Neteyam, and then Tsireya, but he didn’t have anybody now. His dad was still busy digging dead bodies out from underwater, and his mother was out collecting more herbs for medicine. Everyone was busy, but everyone was helping—so Lo’ak would suck it up and do his part.

He just… couldn’t help but feel lonely.

That was another thing about that awkward grace period after a battle.

There was always silence. And there was always loneliness.

Sometimes, it’s because people are still on edge from the battle. Sky people weapons leave traces, in the sound that clashes against nature, in the ground where life is supposed to sprout, in the blood that is spilt on bodies. 

Sometimes, it’s because people have lost someone dear to them. Even when a battle is won, the lost will always be mourned, and the silence that comes with grief is louder than the firearms that had been aimed at them. 

Sometimes, it’s because people don’t have anything meaningful to say. Adrenaline has died down. They want peace to return. It takes a while before your mind accepts that it has. 

Lo’ak understands it. When… When Neteyam had died, the battlefield had been silent for him too. No, he remembers hearing the guns firing off in the background. He remembers hearing Na’vi shout and holler as they shot and pierced through the sky people. He remembers hearing his mother cry and scream while she held onto her dead son’s body. 

But, still. It was silent. It was quiet. And, despite being surrounded by his family, being on a battlefield full of humans and other Na’vi, it was lonely. 

The aftermath of that battle had been awful. Because, for once, it was he who felt the grief. And it hadn’t just been grief, it hadn’t just been the silence and the loneliness—Nobody else talks about this because most people don’t feel it after a battle, but he’d felt guilt. 

It was his fault Neteyam died. People can try telling him otherwise, but he knows it’s true. If he hadn’t been stubborn and reckless, he’d still be alive. If he just used his brain to think, he would have tried to find his dad or mom and tell them that Spider was still in there, and maybe they’d be able to save everyone without any casualties. 

But he hadn’t. Guilt and grief made it difficult for him to help during the aftermath of that battle. Tsireya told him he didn’t have to, that he should take his time to rest, reconnect with Eywa, grieve. But it was hard to. 

Their marui was quiet. Home felt lonely. His mom didn’t speak often, and had a difficult time looking at Lo’ak for the first few nights. Tuk cried a lot, and Kiri had been even worse. 

But dad kept busy. Dad still helped with the aftermath. 

And he knows Neteyam would too, if he had been alive, so he’d forced himself to work through the grief anyway. Even then, when he was out collecting weapons with his dad, it felt lonely. 

He hated the silence. He hated the loneliness. Despite how often he broods and storms off after a fight or an inconvenience, he always wants someone there with him. Neteyam knew this; it was why his older brother always bothered him when he was sad or angry, sitting firmly next to him even when he cried and pushed him in an attempt to be left alone. 

Because, when he’s alone, his only company is himself. And he’s not very pleasant company. When it’s too quiet, his brain speaks for him, and it's a type of loud that makes him wary, makes him sad. 

Something bitter and ugly climbed past his chest and into his throat. Not quite a sob, not quite a yell, not quite anything at all. He let out a shuddering breath, closed his eyes, and took a deep one, forcing himself to calm down.

In. One, two, three, four. Out. One through eight.

A system his father had come up with when he first woke up from his nightmares as a little boy. The numbers were easy to count. He just had to look at his fingers.

The process repeated for a few more seconds before he managed to push that ugly feeling back down. He could deal with it later, when he wasn’t in the middle of the ocean collecting used weapons.

The boat was full of guns and mags by the time eclipse fell. How his ilu still managed to pull them all back home was a feat he couldn’t understand.

Considering none of the reef people liked the guns or the metal—and that it would probably dredge up some unpleasant emotions for a good chunk of them—he didn’t bother heading for the shore or the front of the village. Instead, he led the ilu to his marui, muttering his thanks to the creature before letting go of their bond. The ilu churred happily before diving away, waving its tail as it went.

He managed a small wave back before getting to work. The guns weren’t heavy individually, so he easily tossed them into the empty pod, counting in his head so he could report to his dad as soon as he returned.

One, an M4. Two, an MK something, he wasn’t really sure, since it was practically cut in half. Three, a…

He was beginning to realise he didn’t know that much about guns.

He should probably ask his dad to teach him more. It was good information to have, especially since the sky people were unrelenting in their quest to hunt them down. That way, he could be useful properly. 

…

Lo’ak didn’t like being alone. It was scary to only have his thoughts as company.

…

Four, an AK something. He’d seen it in the labs back home before. Five, wasn’t this the same type of gun the fire Na’vi tsahik used? Short, but it worked like it had unlimited bullets… He wondered if—

The weapon was suddenly yanked from his hands from behind.

Instinct kicked in. He straightened, reached for the nearest gun, and spun around in alarm.

Instead of a sky person—or one of those terrifying ash people—it was Kiri.

Yeah. Annoying.

His entire body sagged with relief, but his brows stayed furrowed as he let out an irritated hiss. “What?”

Her eyes were wide as saucers, her tail raised in caution—as if she were the one startled. Something about her breathing was off, far too fast and shallow compared to her usual calm, deep breaths. She didn’t answer.

Lo’ak frowned, but he didn’t ask. He just held his hand out. “Give that back, weirdo.”

A few more tense seconds passed before Kiri finally responded, her voice shaky. “What are you doing?”

He gave her a confused look. “Sorting… the guns?” When he received nothing in return, he tentatively added, “Dad told me to do it.”

When she didn’t give it back, he rolled his eyes and simply returned to his task. That was five, so the one he was holding was six. Honestly, he wasn’t even in the mood to try to identify them anymore. He just emptied the guns and tossed them inside.

Seven, eight, nine, ten… That one was super broken; he wasn’t even sure if it should count. Whatever. Eleven, twelve, thirteen—

“Hey, guys!”

That was definitely Spider. Lo’ak clicked his tongue at the interruption and, for a moment, considered calling his ilu so he could continue somewhere quieter. But… he didn’t want to be alone. So he swallowed the thought and kept counting.

Where was he? Thirteen, right. Fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen—

“Uhh, hello? Did anybody hear me?”

“Stop talking, bro,” Lo’ak groaned, turning around to scowl. “I’m trying to count the guns.”

Spider didn’t seem bothered, probably already used to Lo’ak’s bad moods, and just shrugged, hopping forward to peer over his shoulder. “Cool. Want me to help?”

Lo’ak grunted, neither a yes or a no, but Spider seemed to take it as an affirmative and squatted down beside him to reach the boat full of guns. 

…Eighteen, nineteen, twenty, twenty-one—

“Uhh, Kiri, you gonna sit with us and help, or…?”

Lo’ak was fairly certain she would say no. This kind of work wasn’t typically how she helped out, and like most other Na’vi, she wasn’t the biggest fan of sky people weapons. She didn’t usually stick around to watch him and Neteyam do this either. Normally, a question like this would have gotten a quick, easy “no.”

But she hesitated. Her eyes flicked between the two of them before she frowned and sat down to Lo’ak’s left. “I will.”

Lo’ak’s ears perked up in a mix of confusion and shock. Judging by the way Spider’s eyes widened, he hadn’t expected that answer either.

“What is wrong with you?” Lo’ak asked, the irritation from moments ago gone, his eyes squinting in disbelief. “Did you hit your head on a rock?”

She didn’t take offence. Reaching over the deck, she grabbed a gun and stared at it for a few seconds before turning to look at Lo’ak with that… weird expression. “I just… remembered something.”

Both Spider and Lo’ak waited for more, but she didn’t elaborate. When Lo’ak turned to give Spider a what-the-fuck-was-that look, he was met with a shrug that clearly said I don’t know, bro—just leave her be. It was the same kind of wordless exchange they always had when Kiri was having her moments with Eywa, so… Lo’ak figured that was probably it.

He shrugged back and returned to sorting the guns.

…What number was he on?

…

Damn it.

He restarted the process, grabbing the guns from the pile behind him. He clicked his tongue.

Kiri was so annoying.

Then, for some reason, being bothered by Kiri and Spider became part of his routine. He’d come home after collecting weapons, and they’d already be there waiting, before he could even get off his ilu. Well, Spider was late sometimes, but Kiri was always there, standing at the edge of their pod, staring at the boat full of guns for far too long.

It shouldn’t have been a big deal. Spider helped him count faster, which usually meant more free time to visit Tsireya and Ao’nung, sometimes even Payakan. 

Kiri was the one making things difficult. She never counted with them, despite all the staring. She’d just sit there and watch.

At first, Lo’ak thought it had something to do with whatever was going on between her and Spider. He’d get that. He liked staring at Tsireya too.

But she was rarely looking at Spider.

She stared at Lo’ak. At the guns in his hands. Back at the boat. Then at him again. Over and over.

And it was more distracting than it was helpful. The way she hovered just over his shoulder made his stomach churn. Every single time, his thoughts spiralled into the same questions.

Was he counting right? Was he doing his job right?

He had to be doing something wrong if Kiri was watching him this closely. Right?

Shit. He’d been grabbing and tossing guns for several seconds now. He didn’t even know what number he was on anymore.

Then he’d have to restart.

Which only made the whole thing take longer.

One time, she’d straight-up yanked a gun out of his hands while he was inspecting it. It looked fully functional, so he’d been giving it a longer look—which, apparently, was a mistake. Instead of saying anything, Kiri just took it from him.

Honestly, he’d rather she just say “Stop doing useless shit” than do… whatever this was.

That night, he actually hissed at her. It earned him a quiet apology, but she still didn’t give the gun back.

The day after that had been even weirder.

The morning itself was normal enough. He ate breakfast with his family, listened as Tuk excitedly talked about the secret handshake she’d made with her friend. They waited about an hour after eating before returning to their tasks. Neytiri gave them all kisses on the forehead—including Spider, which, whoa. Lo’ak really had missed a lot, huh?—before leaving on her ikran.

Jake did the same, but instead of a kiss, he patted Lo’ak on the shoulder and pulled him closer to the opening of their pod.

“Alright, boy,” he began, letting go. “Same thing as yesterday. You’re on weapon duty.”

Lo’ak really wanted to argue that he could be doing something more useful, but the way Jake’s eyebrow rose and his chin tilted forward told him that argument would get him nowhere. He sagged in defeat. “Yes, sir.”

Then, seemingly out of nowhere, Kiri stood up, dragging Spider with her. “We’ll help.”

The look on Spider’s face went from a startled we are? to an immediate I guess we are when he turned to look at Kiri. Lo’ak frowned, opening his mouth to protest, but his father spoke before he could.

Jake’s voice carried the same confusion and disbelief Lo’ak felt. “You… wanna help Lo’ak find guns at the bottom of the ocean?”

“Yes,” Kiri said. “We don’t have anything to do here anyway.”

Jake shifted his gaze to Spider, who nodded in agreement despite the clear I’m just as lost as you are look in his eyes. “And Spider?” He added. “I don’t think he can hold his breath for very long.”

Kiri pulled out the growing, braided kuru from Spider’s head. “Gill mantles.”

A beat passed. Jake turned his gaze to Lo’ak, nudging his chin forward like he was asking for his input. Or maybe he thought Lo’ak knew why Kiri was acting all weird and annoying.

Lo’ak’s frown deepened. “I don’t need the help.”

“Too bad,” Kiri pressed, walking over to stand beside him and Jake.

Lo’ak scowled at her, almost tempted to hiss. Logically, he knew getting help from his sister shouldn’t make him this mad, but it did. It was childish. It felt like she was trying to force him into sharing his toy with her.

He couldn’t think of any reason she’d want to help him. It wasn’t like it was his first time handling this kind of thing, and even when he’d shown signs of struggling before, she’d never wanted to do the work he and his brother did. The only explanation that came to mind was that she thought he couldn’t do it alone.

Especially after last night.

And it felt… patronizing. Probably not intentionally—Kiri was too nice to be condescending like that. She probably just wanted to help because she knew he didn’t usually do this alone. 

Which wasn’t really any better.

His scowl deepened, ears pulling back in annoyance. Kiri didn’t back off, crossing her arms and furrowing her brows at him. Jake looked between the two of them and shook his head, stepping in and spreading his arms to separate them slightly.

“Hey. No fighting, okay?” he said. “If your sister wants to help—”

“But I don’t need—”

Jake shot him a look. “If your sister wants to help, then she can. You’ll get more done if someone’s with you.”

That gross, ugly feeling clawed its way back up from Lo’ak’s gut, scratching at the walls of his throat. His stomach churned the way it always did when he felt incompetent. Useless. He swallowed it down.

Biting back a growl, he spat, “Fine. Whatever.”

At Jake’s unapproving chin tuck, he forced his body to slacken. “Okay,” he muttered. “Yes, sir.”

“Good,” his dad said, nodding. “I’m heading out now. Be back by night, you hear me?”

Lo’ak pushed out another ‘yes, sir’ while Spider and Kiri both nodded. 

Lo’ak didn’t talk to either of them while they rode out to the outer area where the battle had taken place. Spider had tried at first, but after receiving two blunt, curt responses, he seemed to realise Lo’ak’s irritation wasn’t going away anytime soon. Kiri didn’t bother, and for that, he was grateful.

He figured he could get through the task—even in a shitty mood—if they stayed quiet. That way, he could pretend they weren’t there. Pretend he wasn’t so incompetent and useless that his sister, his father, thought he needed help. Pretend the gross, ugly ball of emotion in his gut didn’t exist.

And for a while, it worked.

For a good hour, Spider mostly spoke to Kiri, only directing the occasional short sentence at Lo’ak—testing the waters, seeing if his mood had improved. It didn’t. Because, every time Lo’ak managed to forget they were there, he’d feel a pair of eyes on him from somewhere above or behind.

It was so annoying.

After an hour of this, Lo’ak started staying longer and diving deeper, just so he wouldn’t have to see either of them as much. It worked for about five minutes. Then his sister started diving deeper too, and with her better breath control, she always managed to stay down just as long as he did.

And that pissed him off even more.

He very nearly resorted to immature sibling-fight tactics and pulled Kiri’s hair. At least then he wouldn’t be the only one annoyed. Common sense stopped him, so instead he swallowed the irritation down every time it clawed its way up.

Another hour passed before his patience thinned completely. When Lo’ak resurfaced, he tossed all three guns he’d found into the boat and spun around to face Kiri. She surfaced seconds later—with nothing. Not a single gun. So what the hell was she even doing here?

He growled, sharp enough to make Spider jump as he broke the surface too. “Kiri, what are you even doing here? You’re not getting any guns. If you’re just here to annoy me, can you do it when I’m not busy?”

She looked startled for half a second before recovering. “I’m not here to annoy you.”

“Yes, you are!” Lo’ak hissed, almost childishly, the same way he used to when they fought over who got to sleep in Mom’s hammock. “You’re just following me around and watching me grab guns! You can just say it to my face if you think I’m—”

Useless. Incompetent. Incapable.

He swallowed the words down with his pride.

Kiri didn’t seem to need them anyway. Her brows furrowed, like she was offended by the accusation.

When he swallowed again, something bitter coated his tongue. “I don’t need supervision.”

She stared at him for a long moment. Then huffed. “You do.”

His ears flattened to his scalp as Spider hurried over, hands waving. “Woah—Kiri, okay, you definitely didn’t mean that the way it sounded. Lo’ak, bro, she doesn’t mean it like—”

“Fine!” Lo’ak snapped, squaring his shoulders, ignoring the burn spreading through his chest. “Then just stop hovering over me so I can focus—”

“I can’t stop hovering over you,” Kiri cut in, voice suddenly tight, desperate. Her own ears pulled back, distress written all over her posture. “There are too many guns! And I…”

And before he could even process whatever that meant—

“I don’t want you to kill yourself!”

Lo’ak froze. 

Shit… Yeah, he’d totally forgotten about that.

Most of that night had been wiped from his mind. It was only days later that he left to find Payakan, after all, and the battle that ensued gave him too many things to keep track of. There wasn’t enough space or time to think about something that had happened so briefly. 

It’s the type of memory that only comes when you force it to. But he remembers. 

The sky had glistened with a thousand stars. On his body, small dots did the same. Sand was usually soft, but, that night, it’d felt cold and sharp against his legs. His arms felt heavy, and the cool metal in his hands hadn’t helped much with the drag. The barrel hadn’t been any less cold. The trigger was even colder. 

And it was quiet. It was lonely. 

…He could see where the connection was coming from.

Horror filled his gut. He swallowed again. This time, when that ugly knot of emotion surged into his chest, he couldn’t force it back down. He didn’t speak because none of the words he tried to form were able to go through the sharp, aching feeling in his throat. 

Kiri didn’t seem to like his silence, her face crumpling with something he couldn’t name. Her breathing became laboured, chest rising unevenly. Somehow, she still managed to push past that to talk. 

“A lot of stuff happened after. We didn’t really have time to talk about that,” she rushed out. “And then you disappeared—”

“I was looking for Payakan,” he weakly attempted. Kiri’s face crumpled even more. 

Her voice wavered a lot, like she was about to cry. Because she was empathetic like that. “You disappeared. I prayed to Eywa that you would not do anything stupid and dumb because I didn’t want another brother I wouldn’t be able to talk to.”

Lo’ak frowned guiltily, moving around the boat so he could wrap an arm around himself. “I… That was just a bad night. I’m not gonna do it again.”

Stupid. Now it really sounded like they were fighting over a toy. 

Kiri’s bottom lip wobbled before she schooled herself and grabbed Lo’ak by his shoulders. “I don’t know that you won’t do it again. You did it once, and I didn’t think you would. I didn’t know you would.”

Lo’ak didn’t really have anything to say to that. 

They were quiet for a few seconds. Even the ilu they rode on here had stopped chirping. 

Kiri fixed her breathing. Lo’ak recognised the pattern. 

In. One, two, three, four. Out. One through eight. 

He mirrored it until she could speak again, this time her voice the shakiest it’s ever been. “If Tsireya and I hadn’t found you, would you have done it?”

Lo’ak’s blood went cold, but he pushed a response out before she’d assume worse. “No, I– I stopped before you guys were there.”

Kiri shook her head. “But if… If we weren’t there, would you have picked it back up?”

He didn’t know what to say. Something sharp dug into his chest, deep like it was searching for the answer. 

He might’ve. That night, he’d only stopped because he hadn't been brave enough to press the trigger, and then Tsireya and Kiri seemed to appear out of nowhere, so he’d let go of the idea because he couldn’t bear the thought of traumatising them with the sight of his death. 

But he knows he would’ve been able to build the courage. He doesn’t know if that meant he would’ve tried again.

The silence was answer enough. Kiri’s expression morphed with pain, into something like heartbreak. Lo’ak’s chest seized, breath hitching when Kiri lets out a tiny, muffled sob. 

It wasn’t his first time making her cry.

As kids, it happened every few arguments. Over favourite toys, where they’d explore, who got to do what. It wasn't a hard thing to achieve. He’s never been able to stop her once she started. The moment her lips wobbled and her eyes filled with tears, he knew there was no consoling her until she wanted to stop. It was the whole reason he thought of her as such a crybaby. 

But he always tried anyway.

“Sorry” was probably his most spoken word since birth. He hesitated now. It had never worked with Kiri when they were younger, and it would feel wrong—cheap—here.

So he tried reassurance instead.

The words came out rushed, just like they used to when he was trying to calm her before their parents came back, except this time there was no lightness to soften them. “I probably would’ve shot wrong.”

The second it left his mouth, he knew it was wrong.

Kiri’s face crumpled like she’d been gutted. Even Spider frowned.

“I mean-” Lo’ak bit his tongue, scrambling. “No, I… It doesn’t matter. You guys found me. I didn’t— I didn’t do it.”

A few seconds of silence passed. Kiri sniffled with every attempt to stop crying, and Spider’s jaw was tense with a hesitation to speak. Lo’ak didn’t know what to say either, so he stayed silent, looking at his hands as he fiddled with his fingers. 

He counted. 

One. Two. Three. Four. 

Then up to eight. 

Back to four. 

He was on his third eight when Kiri managed to force the words past her sobs. “Dickhead. If you hadn’t been found, I’d have to bury a second brother.”

“I won’t do it again,” Lo’ak blurted, fast. “I won’t, okay?”

She shook her head. Maybe she didn’t believe him. Maybe his promise wasn’t enough. He could never tell.

His heart thundered against his ribs.

“I swear,” he tried again, lowering his head to catch her gaze. “I won’t try to kill myself.”

Kiri looked up and her eyes met him there. Despite the tears that cornered them, her gaze remained firm. Not fierce. Still. “You have to tell Mom and Dad.”

His heart dropped into his stomach. His shoulders squared on instinct. “No. No. I said I won’t do it again. I don’t want to put this on Mom. She’s already sad enough. And dad’ll get mad at me, and I—” His voice cracked. “I don’t like it when he’s mad at me.”

Kiri's lip wobbled again. A sob slipped free. That sound alone had been an argument. Wordless, but Lo’ak understood it all the same. 

His throat felt tight when he tried for what felt like the billionth time. “I’m telling you, it’ll just make things worse.”

Her sob trailed off into something between a sigh and a growl. Lo’ak straightened when Kiri suddenly looked up at him with a glare, and flinched when she reached for him.

Instead of a punch, she pulled him into a hug.

His body was still wet from the water, but he could feel the damp trail of her tears soaking into his shoulder as she sniffled. His shoulders stayed tense, his hands awkwardly hovering behind her back, unsure whether he should return the hug or just let it happen.

Then, in a voice so quiet it hardly even passed as a whisper, “What would be worse than losing my little brother?”

A pit formed in his stomach. Not the usual bad kind that forced his lungs to puff out air before they could settle, forcing his heart to sink below his gut. Not the kind that formed with the other ugly, gross emotions he hated feeling. Not the kind that always eventually appeared when it was quiet, lonely. 

It was just a pit. Open, void, waiting to swallow everything down. But the pit was filling, closing, with every passing second he remained in Kiri’s warmth. 

His throat tightened. His arms went limp at his sides before he could hug her back. A choked breath slipped out between his teeth as he bit his tongue.

Kiri didn’t let go. She didn’t say anything either. Her hold alone had filled the silence. 

Lo’ak tried with all his might not to cry. Because, just like his sister, it always takes a lot to get him to stop crying once he’d started. He held his breath, counting up to four and then to eight, and forced his eyes shut to deny the tears from forming. Part of him — the small, childish part that refuses to look weak — wants to push her away. A bigger part misses being held like this. 

Spider, who’d been watching their interaction with a mix of disbelief, shock and worry, swam over. He waited until Lo’ak opened his eyes to look at him before wordlessly offering his arms, tilting his head in silent question.

That did it.

Lo’ak’s eyes filled with tears immediately. A shuddering breath broke into a sob as Spider clumsily pulled them both into a hug, struggling a bit against the waves. Lo’ak choked out a weak laugh at the sight, then kept crying into Kiri’s neck.

Her body sagged at his first sob. One of her hands slid from his back to his head, pulling him closer, cheek brushing against his. “I don’t want to lose you. I can’t lose you.”

An ugly sob tore out of him at that. Lo’ak snivelled. “Stop.”

“No,” Kiri immediately responded, annoyingly. Kindly. She pulled back for a second to look at Lo’ak’s face. “I care about you, skxawng. You’re my baby brother. Let me care.”

“You’re so corny,” Lo’ak said weakly, finally moving his arms so he could pull Kiri back into the hug. It didn’t take longer than a second for her to wrap her arms back around him, so he forced his words out before sobs overtook him once again. “...Thank you.”

Kiri shook her head. Spider hit him gently on the shoulder.

“You do not thank me for caring,” Kiri said, her voice the steadiest it had been in minutes. “Don’t be an idiot.”

He didn’t argue. He settled into her arms and stayed there until all that was left of him were small, hiccupped breaths and tear-stained cheeks. Kiri and Spider held him while he shook—no longer from crying, but from the cold beginning to seep in.

That was when Spider pulled back, just for a second. He grabbed something large enough to disturb the water before shifting behind Lo’ak and tugging his shoulder. “You’re getting cold, bro. Let’s go back.”

“We barely got any guns,” he mumbled half-heartedly, practically sinking into Kiri’s body. 

“You are hanging off my shoulder,” Kiri said, slightly amused, fingers brushing gently through his braids. “The guns can wait.”

He pressed closer anyway. Part of him wanted to be stubborn—but after all that crying, the thought of diving back down felt impossible. He tipped his head to the side, nodded weakly, and grunted. “Fine.”

He didn’t even have the energy to store the guns when they got back. He fell asleep on the matted floors with Kiri and Spider beside him. 

Keeping it loud. Keeping him company. 

The next day, when Kiri and Spider offered to join him, he didn’t argue. Didn’t cross his arms. Didn’t even roll his eyes. He was quiet and slightly grumpy, the way he always was whenever he fell asleep crying. Neither of them minded. 

They gave him the entire travel distance as a grace period. The moment Lo’ak stopped, Kiri immediately dismounted her ilu and climbed onto the boat, patting two empty spots beside her. He rolled his eyes at that—but, begrudgingly, he listened and sat.

“We talk,” Kiri said, like she was setting the rules.

Lo’ak swallowed his stubbornness and nodded. Because he’d let her care. “We talk.”

“Okay, first of all,” Spider started, glancing between them, “I need you guys to fill me in a little. Yesterday was, uh…”

“What’s there to fill in?” Lo’ak said, tilting his head. “I tried to kill myself.”

Kiri smacked his leg. Lightly.

He grumbled, then sighed. “Fine. I—” He hesitated before continuing. “The night the tulkun elders held that council meeting, when they exiled Payakan, after Dad and I fought, I… took one of Dad’s guns and went to a nearby island.”

Spider’s eyes filled with a bit of horror, but there was considerably less shock in them than there had been yesterday. Past a dry mouth, he managed to whisper out, “…And then you tried to…?”

“I didn’t get very far,” Lo’ak muttered, wrapping his arms around himself. “I couldn’t do it. Then Kiri and Tsireya found me, so I didn’t try again.”

Kiri’s ears folded, and she reached over to grab Lo’ak’s hand, like she was trying to make sure the memory he was describing was just a memory. Spider swallowed, looked away for a few seconds, then schooled himself to look back at Lo’ak. 

“Okay,” Spider whispered. “Okay. Why did… Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t want to talk about it,” Lo’ak admitted, scowling. I still don’t, went unsaid, but it was heard. “Everyone was busy with bigger things. Mom was still grieving Neteyam, and Dad…”

He trailed off, then shook his head. “Tsireya wouldn’t leave me alone either, and I didn’t want to talk about it in front of her. And then I just… forgot.”

“You forgot,” Spider repeated, stunned.

“Bro, I had to ride through some crazy currents in a storm to find Payakan. I almost got eaten by tsyongs. And then the huge battle happened,” he paused again, trying to think in his mind if he’d missed any other big events, before continuing, “I didn’t really have time to think about it.”

A beat passed. Spider’s mouth opened, then closed. When he finally spoke, there was hesitation in his voice. “Can I… can I ask why?”

“Why what?” Lo’ak mumbled. “I feel like it’s obvious. Payakan was exiled, and I couldn’t do anything about it. I thought I…”

He held his breath. Exhaled with force. “I thought I lost another one of my brothers.”

The memory made anger flare hot in his chest. He glared down at the boat beneath him. “And Dad didn’t even try to fight for it. He just sat there and listened to them kicking my only other brother out. I asked him to speak up, and he looked at me like I was crazy. And then he got mad at me, and he said—”

He choked on a breath. All the anger disappeared in an instant. A pit formed. Bitter, ugly. His fingers curled into his palms. “He said some stuff that made me feel worse.”

Kiri looked surprised at that, eyes widening before they narrowed. “What did he say?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Lo’ak muttered, arms tightening around his chest. 

She shook her head, pulling his arms apart. “No. What did dad say?”

Stubbornly, he kept his mouth shut, chin raised in a way that silently protested against her. Kiri scowled, but it lacked any real heat or anger. Her eyes turned glassy like she was about to cry. And he was really trying to avoid that this time, so he clicked his tongue and forced the words out. 

“He said If I… If it wasn’t for me, Neteyam would…”

The rest of the words got stuck in his throat. He didn’t really have to continue. Just like Jake had done that night, the sentence trailed off without needing a fullstop.

Kiri looked stricken, her eyes wide, and, damn it, they were extra glassy this time. Spider’s breath hitched like somebody had pulled him backwards by the hair. Lo’ak refused to meet their eyes, slouching like he was trying to hide himself from them in return. 

“How could…” Spider’s voice sounded tight, like he was forcing all the emotions out of his words. “I can’t believe he’d say that.”

“You know that’s not true, right?” Kiri said, grabbing both of Lo’ak’s hands. “Neteyam didn’t… His death isn’t your fault.”

Lo’ak didn’t respond. He kept his head down. 

Her voice wobbled. “Dad doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

He scoffed, turning toward the water. “Sounded like he meant it.”

“Well, Dad’s stupid,” Kiri shot back, tightening her grip. “Neteyam would yell at him if he knew he said that. Dad is a fucking idiot.”

Lo’ak looked up, startled at her language, eyebrows shooting up.

She didn’t take it back. “He shouldn’t have said that. It’s not true. And you shouldn’t have believed him.”

“I didn’t,” he muttered, only half-honest. “I just… I already felt like shit. So Dad saying that just made me…”

Kiri closed her eyes, like she was trying to steady herself. Spider did the same, holding his breath beside them.

Lo’ak tried. “It doesn’t matter anymore.”

“I almost had to bury you because of that,” Kiri said tightly, opening her eyes just to glare at him. “Do not tell me it doesn’t matter.”

He didn’t have a counterargument. The pit stayed where it was.

Spider let out a slow breath before asking, with the careful gentleness of someone approaching a startled animal, “Is that why you don’t wanna tell Jake?”

Lo’ak huffed like it was obvious. “Yes. Dad’s not… He’ll get mad.”

And when he’s mad, he’s mean. 

He gets it — He’s not exactly the best son anyone could ask for, especially after Neteyam, but he tries. He might fail more than he succeeds, but he tries. But Dad doesn’t see that for what it is, and he gets mean about it when he messes up. 

Sure, Jake had told him he was proud during the battle. Told him he needed him. But how permanent were words like that, really? Jake had told him he saw him, then weeks later turned around and blamed him for Neteyam’s death.

Lo’ak hated it when Dad was mad at him.

The pit that came with the shame and anger didn’t eat him alive. It just stayed empty, leaving him dull and numb. Like he didn’t exist.

Like he didn’t deserve to.

“He might,” Kiri said suddenly, snapping him out of it. “But he’ll try to help you, Lo’ak.”

“He won’t.” He was sure of it.

Kiri shook her head, her hand tightening around his wrist like she was grounding him. “He will. Dad is stupid. Dad says dumb things all the time, even stuff he doesn’t mean. But he’s still Dad. Our dad. He’ll try. I’ll make sure of it.”

Her last sentence had edged on a promise. It sounded almost like a threat. Lo’ak’s tail thumped against the boat twice before he looked away. “He’s not gonna care.”

A soft, broken sigh slipped from Kiri. She looked torn between anger and sadness—but at least she wasn’t crying.

She took a breath in four, let it go for eight. 

“He will, you skxawng,” she whispered, firm despite how quiet it was. “But you have to let him care too.”

The pit closed up for a second. Lo’ak let out a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding. 

“Talk to him,” Kiri added, her thumb brushing over his palm, “the way you’re talking to us.”

A beat passed. Four. Eight. Four. Eight.

Lo’ak nodded slowly without looking at her.

It stayed quiet—but the pit didn’t swallow him. The ugly knot didn’t rise. Kiri pulled him into a hug and didn’t say anything to fill the silence. She didn’t have to.

He hugged her back after a moment. Then spoke.

“But I tell him in my own time,” he said quietly. “Mom too.”

When he pulled back, he forced her eyes to meet his. “And you have to quit hovering over me.”

“Lo’ak—”

“No,” he cut in. “I’ll talk to you. I’ll let you care. But you have to trust me too.”

“I do,” Kiri said, brows knitting together. “I just worry. You almost—”

“Almost,” Lo’ak repeated, steadying his voice. “You can… You can join me sometimes. But you can’t keep watching me all the time. It makes me feel…” He hesitated, searching for a gentler word, before settling on: “Bad.”

And ‘bad’ meant a lot of things. Lo’ak knows Kiri understands what he means though, despite the broad word. 

She hesitates. Glares at the ground as she contemplates in her mind. Lo’ak fully expects her to argue, but he’s not backing down either, so he braced himself to disagree. Not a second later, she pulls her gaze up and opens her mouth. 

“Fine.”

“No, Kiri, you—” Lo’ak paused, blinking a few times in disbelief. “...Fine?”

“Fine,” Kiri repeated, saying the word like it strained her throat. “If… If you promise you’ll talk to me, to us, when you need to, I’ll agree.”

Let me care. 

Lo’ak’s breath gets stuck in his throat. It’s hardly even a compromise; it’s not like he hadn’t already agreed to let them care about him, but it felt weird to acknowledge it this way. With words. Outloud. 

It’s not a bad weird though. It’s a weird that fills the pit and makes him feel full. He let the words settle for a few seconds before answering quietly, “Okay.”

“Okay,” Kiri echoed. Then, because she’s empathetic, because she’s annoying, because she cares, she pulls him back into a hug. 

It was quiet, but he had company. Lo’ak hugged her back, twice as tight.