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He can’t help but twist his head, puff out his chest, spread his legs- try his damn hardest to fill in the gap beside him.
But it stayed there like a relentless ghost, haunting every family photo they took since his brother-
“Leave room for me,” A thirteen year old Neteyam had said in the early mornings when he’d go patrol with their father, leaving Lo’ak and Kiri to finally stretch their limbs and take up the space he left warm in their nest.
No matter how much they would grow and change, there would always be a Neteyam sized space between them where their brother should be.
Tuk was almost the size Neteyam had been when he-
The texture of their sister’s hair was softer, easier than Lo’ak’s, easier to twist back and braid in any direction, just as Neteyam’s had been. He’d only noticed when he’d braided it for her before the funeral.
He’d stopped tying his back, it made riding the Ikran feel freer. It allowed the wind to brush his ears better, carrying Neteyam’s voice with it. The echoes of how they once flew midair bounced off of the mountain walls and danced in every breeze.
When he’d return to the ground, it made seeing the white paint on his father’s face easier. The mask he wore would be less transparent- less scary.
He recalled times where a mask didn’t exist, instead there’d been a shield, Neteyam’s broad shoulders, the ones that would brush his when they’d lay in the biggest grass after a difficult day, grass that stretched so far out they could only see their favourite tree standing out against the bluest sky.
That tree they’d lay hours under, sipping on the tea Lo’ak would steal and his brother would serve from their mother’s herbs, sugar water, Neteyam would call it.
And it was these memories, that reminded him of how dry his mouth had been when he’d held the rifle to his chin, and how his tears had tasted salty.