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He’s still the one Lo’ak wanted to run to. The one he wanted to whisper all his secrets and reveal all his truths to in the dead on the night. When his parents and sisters would be asleep and only Neteyam’s eyes would glow in the dark. Listening and assuring. He was the one he wanted to ask all his stupid questions and tell all his stupid jokes to. Lo’ak would feel proud whenever his brother would find him funny, despite knowing that Neteyam would laugh at everything.
He was the one Lo’ak belonged to. In every sense and every way. They shared blood- shared a name- shared loyalty. Neteyam was his right arm, his conscience- his voice of reason. He was the one Lo’ak copied in everything, from the way he walked to the way he kept his hair. From the way he spoke to the way he smiled. The one whose beads he had braided into his hair proudly. Because Neteyam was confident and respected. Attentive and kind. Loyal and honest. Everything Lo’ak wanted to be. Everything important and good in this world. He used to follow Neteyam’s every step and word religiously as infants- he wondered why he’d ever stopped.
Neteyam would always be the one Lo’ak would want for life. No matter how many years that would be- no matter how short his time with his brother had been, Lo’ak would never crave anyone else’s presence the way he craved Neteyam’s for the rest of the days Eywa granted him. His absence felt like a hole in the universe- where was his brother? How could the planets still spin and the moons still orbit when his brother was gone? Did Eywa not see- Neteyam was everything good. What was left worth keeping? Certainly not himself.
Neteyam was still the one Lo’ak loved. Even now when he thought back to how much he pushed and shoved and shouted at his brother- he couldn’t recall a single moment Neteyam had hurt Lo’ak back- even when he deserved it. He was all gentle words and knowing looks. Careful guidance and patient tones. His brother had never done anything deserving of ill or wrong- never to him or to their sisters. Neteyam carried everyone’s burdens on his own two shoulders, never once complained, just thought of everyone else. Lo’ak should have thought about him. Should have been a better brother. The guilt kept him up at night. It crawled at his skin, infected his bones, made him ache all over.
So when he inevitably gave into his exhaustion, Neteyam was the only one he dreamed of. He dreamt of flying on the Ikran with him- the times he got to see his brother being the only moments his lungs would fill completely and his lips would curve. Those nights were the good nights. The ones where he wasn’t plagued by the sound of gunshots or strong currents. By his mother’s wails- by the slippery feel of blood between his fingers or by the sharp rock beneath his knees.
The only thing that helped was praying to Eywa and asking her to wish Neteyam goodnight. It could never substitute the nights he’d slept with his brother’s elbows in his ribs or his shoulder in his face. But it was better than nothing. It was better than death. Only once he’d prayed would he let his eyes close. Only then would he put aside his guilt- his fault- and just grieve.