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“Come at me.”
The words make Tamtey blink across the sandy little circle, squinting at him.
It’s a beautiful day — a little too beautiful, if he’s being honest. The sun is shining, fkio chirp and chitter from the treebranches, and So’lek’s best student is drenched in sweat and terminally exhausted under the midday sun. The rest of the Sarentu have bodily given up at this point in the group training session, and lay in a tangled puddle under the shaded edge of their sandy training pit.
Only Tamtey had stubbornly remained standing, dripping in sweat and sunburnt purple, desperately trying to catch their breath as So’lek stretches. He eagerly shifts from leg to another in a deep crouch, before stretching his arms across his chest, tail quivering in satisfaction.
Tamtey is watching him rather intensely, and the purple on their face is deepening. He’ll need to make sure they get out of the sun after this.
“What? Why?”
“We have been focusing on archery all afternoon. While most of our exchanges with the RDA happen at a distance, hand-to-hand combat still may be imperative to your survival someday.”
The Sarentu’s squint deepens into bafflement.”Really? Now? After three hours of consecutive bow training?”
So’lek hums noncommittedly. “I understand if you’re hesitant,” He offers, grinning. Tamtey’s squint turns into a halfhearted glare. He knows well enough by now they very rarely refuse to rise to a challenge — if not for their deeply-buried competitive streak, then simply the joy of a new experience. “Your stamina has very much improved since you acquired your ikran, but if you don't think you can keep up with me, then…”
“Don’t fuckin- try to bait me. You wanna fight? You really wanna fight?” They mutter, shaking the exhaustion limb from limb as they straighten up. Across the circle, Nor snorts. “You know I’m the only one of us that has any hand-to-hand training, right?”
So’lek smirks fondly. That wasn’t even baiting — that was barely teasing.
“Really now?” He echoes back inadvertently. Unusually cocky for one
Tamtey gives a one-shoulder shrug, settling themselves back onto the balls of their feet, five-fingered hands brought up close to their chest and balled loosely into fists.
“Bring it.”
If he’s being truthful, So’lek isn’t expecting much.
So’lek is…. big for a Na’vi. He has a hand of height over most males, more muscle mass from years of nothing but fighting, and has at least sixteen years of combat experience on his opponent. Tamtey sits at exactly average height (which means they come up to his collarbone), is on a human medic-mandated diet to regain the weight they lost in cryosleep, and is mostly still upright through sheer force of will.
He can see the way their legs are trembling.
So’lek returns the shrug, and moves.
So does Tamtey.
He’s expecting a bowl-over. One or two clumsy punches with the way they’re holding their arms to their chest, he’ll dodge, dip down, and knock them right over onto their tail.
He doesn’t expect them to go in low, grappling his knee midstep, shoving their cheek right up against his inner thigh. He barely has a second to realize the magnitude of his mistake as the other Sarentu start to snicker, as Tamtey steps back in one-to-three steps forcing him to hop and stay upright until they hook his free ankle with their own and shove-
He goes down and they follow, reaching out as they go and knocking the breath straight out of him, sprawling sideways across his chest with one arm pinned under their bare stomach and his other wrist caught in their five-fingered deathgrip.
So’lek blinks. His back is flat to the sand and eyes to the sky. The other Sarentu’s snickering has erupted into full-blown laughter, and he can’t even bring himself to mind. Tamtey’s chest bounces as they start to giggle, going lax across his torso as they let go of his wrist and go limp.
He chuckles.
If So’lek’s being honest, he could get used to their weight.