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The salt water is supposed to calm him down, but tonight it just feels heavy, pressing against his skin like a second, tighter skin he can’t shed.
Lo’ak sits on the edge of the low rock shelf near the edge of the village, knees pulled up hard against his chest, his tail lashing the sand in short, erratic snaps. Every breath feels like work, scraping against ribs that feel too small for the mess caged inside them.
He’s replaying the argument from earlier that afternoon. It wasn't even a big deal to anyone else—just another stupid mistake, another moment where he couldn't keep his mouth shut or his hands still. He had tripped over a net line while helping haul the catch ashore, sending half a day's work spilling back into the shallow tide.
The immediate, sharp pinch in his dad's expression had been enough to make Lo’ak want to crawl out of his own skin.
His dad hadn't even yelled. That’s what always made it worse. No shouting, no explosive anger like the kind Lo'ak was used to provoking. Just a heavy, exhausted sigh, a tired pinch of the bridge of his nose, and a quiet, “Watch it, Lo’ak.”
Just four words. But they’d echoed inside his skull ever since, bouncing around like a ricocheting bullet.
You're useless. You can't do a single thing right. Everything you touch, you ruin.
He digs his fingernails into his forearms, biting down hard on the inside of his cheek until he tastes copper. It’s pathetic. He’s fifteen, practically an adult by clan standards, and a single disappointed look from his father is enough to send him spiraling into a pathetic, shaking mess in the dark.
And then there was Neteyam.
Lo’ak squeezes his eyes shut, a fresh wave of humiliation burning hot behind his eyelids. Neteyam had immediately stepped in, of course. Perfect, reliable Neteyam, who always knew how to smooth over the edges of Lo’ak’s disasters with a calm word and a steady hand. He had crouched down beside him in the surf, gathering the spilled lines, and shot Lo’ak that soft, sickeningly patient look. The kind of look you give a toddler who dropped his cup, or a wounded animal that might snap if you move too fast.
Lo’ak had hated it. He had hated the pity, hated the silent reminder of how much bigger, smarter, and better his older brother was. So he had shoved Neteyam’s hand away, barked something sharp and venomous, and bolted into the jungle before anyone could say another word.
Classic Lo’ak.
He rests his forehead against his knees, letting out a ragged, shaky breath that hitching midway. He’s a walking catastrophe. Every good intention he ever has twists itself into something awful by the time it reaches the surface. He wanted to prove himself, wanted to show his dad that he wasn't just the screw-up brother, that he could handle a warrior's responsibilities. But instead, he just kept proving every single fear his father had about him right.
Footsteps crunch softly on the wet sand behind him.
Lo’ak doesn’t look up. He doesn’t need to. He knows the light, even tread, knows the exact cadence of those footsteps better than his own.
"Go away," Lo'ak mutters, his voice cracking, rough and hollow.
"Nice try," Neteyam’s voice comes back, quiet and devoid of any anger. "Mom sent me with food. You missed dinner."
"Not hungry."
"You skipped lunch, too." Neteyam’s shadow shifts over the rock as he sits down a few feet away. He doesn't crowd him, giving him just enough space to breathe, which somehow makes it worse. If Neteyam yelled at him, if he punched him for being a jerk earlier, Lo'ak could handle that. He could fight back. But this quiet, enduring patience? It feels like an accusation.
"Just leave me alone, Neteyam," Lo'ak snaps, lifting his head, his ears pinning back defensively. "Go back to being the golden child. Go tell Dad what a great job you did managing your idiot brother today."
Neteyam flinches, just a fraction, but his eyes stay steady. "I didn't come here to lecture you, Lo'ak."
"Then why are you here?" Lo'ak fires back, his voice rising, thick with a bitter self-loathing that scratches at his throat. "Everyone would be better off if I just stayed out of the way. You know it, I know it. I'm just waiting for the day Dad actually says it out loud instead of just looking at me like I'm some kind of disease he can't cure."
"He doesn't look at you like that," Neteyam says, his tone hardening just a bit, though there’s a raw edge of worry beneath it.
"You didn't see his face," Lo'ak spits out, a bitter laugh escaping his lips. "You never see it because you never screw up. You’re perfect. You’re the heir, you’re the warrior, you’re everything he actually wanted when he had kids. I’m just the leftover scrap."
The silence that follows is heavy, broken only by the gentle lapping of the tide against the shore. Lo'ak stares out at the dark ocean, his chest heaving, wishing he could take the words back as soon as they leave his mouth. He didn't mean to say it—not out loud, not to Neteyam.
But the truth is a caged beast, and tonight, it's tearing its way out of him whether he wants it to or not.
Neteyam doesn't answer right away. He stares down at his own hands, resting loosely over his knees, the bioluminescent dots on his skin pulsing faintly in the dim moonlight. The wind carries the sharp, salty scent of the reef, mixing with the damp earth of the nearby forest.
When he finally speaks, his voice is quiet, stripped of any defensive posturing.
"You think I want this?" Neteyam asks, and the bitterness in his tone catches Lo'ak off guard.
Lo’ak blinks, his ears twitching backward in surprise as he looks up. Neteyam is staring out at the dark water, his jaw tight.
"What are you talking about?" Lo’ak mutters, his voice losing some of its aggressive edge.
"You think it's some kind of prize being the one who never messes up?" Neteyam turns his head, his dark eyes locking onto Lo'ak’s with an intensity that makes Lo'ak shift uncomfortably. "You think I like knowing that every single thing I do is being watched, measured, and compared? If you screw up, everyone writes it off as just Lo’ak being Lo’ak. But if I slip up—just once—the whole sky falls. Dad looks at me like the ground is opening up beneath him because I’m supposed to be the one holding this family together."
Lo’ak opens his mouth, but no words come out. He’s never heard Neteyam sound like this. To him, Neteyam had always been bulletproof. A machine built by their parents to be everything they needed.
"You get to be angry," Neteyam continues, his voice trembling slightly with a suppressed frustration Lo'ak had never suspected was there. "You get to rage, you get to fight, you get to mess up and try again, even if it takes you a hundred times. People expect it from you, yeah, but it also means you're free, Lo’ak. I’ve never had the luxury of being just... me. I’ve been guarding your back for so long I don't even remember what it's like to just fall flat on my face and have someone pick me up without expecting me to fix it first."
The words hang in the heavy night air, settling over them like a physical weight.
Lo’ak stares at his brother, the anger that had consumed him moments ago draining away, replaced by a cold, hollow shock. He looks at Neteyam—really looks at him—and for the first time, he sees the exhaustion etched deep around his brother's eyes, the rigid set of shoulders that never quite relax.
"I didn't... I didn't think about it like that," Lo’ak whispers, the confession tasting like ash on his tongue.
"I know," Neteyam says softly, his shoulders dropping just a fraction as the sharp edge bleeds out of him. He reaches over, shifting closer on the rock, and nudges his shoulder against Lo’ak’s. It’s a small gesture, unforced and entirely without condescension. "You never think about anything except how much you hate yourself."
"Hey," Lo’ak grumbles, half-heartedly swatting at his brother's arm, though there’s no real heat behind it.
"Am I wrong?" Neteyam offers a small, tired smirk, the tension finally breaking just enough to let the night air back in. He reaches down beside him, picking up the woven pouch their mother had sent. He unties the cord and pulls out a flat, warm parcel of wrapped leaf, offering it out. "Eat. Before I tell Mom you starved yourself to death out of pure stubbornness."
Lo'ak looks at the food, then up at his brother. The heavy knot in his chest hasn't completely vanished, and the sting of the afternoon's failure is still there under his skin. But as he takes the parcel from Neteyam’s hand, the suffocating isolation eases just a little bit.
They sit together in the dark, the ocean roaring quietly at their feet.
The food is simple—smoked fish wrapped in broad, salt-cured leaves, seasoned with coastal herbs that leave a sharp, clean taste on the tongue—but as Lo'ak finishes the last bite, the heavy, cold knot in his stomach finally loosens.
Neteyam watches him quietly, wrapping up the leftover leaves and tucking them back into the pouch. The silence between them isn't suffocating anymore. It feels wide, breathable, like the open stretch of the sea before the reef breaks into the deep water.
"You're not planning on sleeping out here on the rocks like a stranded ilu, are you?" Neteyam asks, a faint trace of his usual teasing tone returning to his voice.
"Depends," Lo'ak mutters. A reluctant smile tugs at the corner of his mouth as he brushes a few crumbs from his chest and shifts his weight. "If I stay out here, I don't have to listen to Mom lecture me about missing dinner or Dad look at me like I'm some kind of problem he has to deal with."
"Mom's already asleep, and Dad's down at the pod talking to Tonowari about the patrol routes," Neteyam says, getting to his feet and brushing the sand from his loincloth. He looks down at Lo'ak, his expression softening. "And you're not a problem, idiot. You just... feel everything way too loud."
Lo'ak looks up at his brother. For years, he had hated that description—hated the idea that he was too loud, too reckless, too much of a storm compared to Neteyam's calm, deep ocean. But hearing it now, without the judgment or the heavy weight of expectation, it just sounds like a fact.
Neteyam holds out a hand, fingers spread wide, palm up.
It’s the same gesture he’s offered a thousand times before when Lo’ak has stumbled, fallen, or gotten in over his head. But tonight, it feels different. It’s not an older brother pulling along a burden. It’s an invitation between equals.
Lo’ak stares at the outstretched hand for a second, then reaches up and grips Neteyam's wrist, the traditional warrior's clasp, before letting his fingers slide into his brother's palm. Neteyam pulls him up effortlessly, steadying him as Lo'ak's legs wobble slightly from sitting too long on the cold stone.
They don't let go right away. They stand there in the dark, shoulder-to-shoulder, listening to the rhythmic breathing of the reef and the gentle rustle of the wind through the fronds overhead.
"Come on," Neteyam says quietly, starting back along the path toward the family's marui pod. "Before Mom realizes I'm gone and sends Kiri out to drag us both back by our ears."
Lo'ak lets out a short, genuine laugh, shaking his head as he falls into step beside his brother. The night is still dark, and the weight of tomorrow—with all its expectations, trials, and inevitable mistakes—is still waiting for them when the sun comes up. But as they walk back together through the glowing bioluminescence of the village, Lo'ak realizes something important.
He doesn't have to be Neteyam. And Neteyam doesn't have to carry it all alone, either.
The walk back to the family’s marui pod is shorter than it feels. The village is mostly asleep, save for the low, rhythmic hum of the tide against the woven pilings and the occasional soft phosphorescent flash of a passing school of fish beneath the boardwalk.
As they step onto the platform, Lo’ak instinctively slows his pace, eyeing the curtained entryway with mild dread.
"If Mom's still up, you're doing the talking," Lo’ak murmurs, keeping his voice low as he wipes sand from his ankles.
Neteyam pauses, tossing a sideways glance at his younger brother with a dry look. "No way. You're the one who bolted like a startled skimwing into the dark. That's entirely on your tab."
"You're the golden child. She won't yell at you," Lo'ak mutters, though there's no real bite behind it anymore. "She'll just give you that look. You know the one. Makes you feel like you've ruined her entire life."
"Yeah, well, maybe you shouldn't give her a reason to look at either of us like that," Neteyam whispers back, though he reaches out and shoves Lo'ak's shoulder lightly, a silent signal that the tension from earlier has burned out.
When they slip through the hanging woven panels into the pod, the interior is warm and dimly lit by a single hanging lantern filled with glowing sea-moss. It smells faintly of woodsmoke, dried herbs, and salt.
Kiri is sitting cross-legged on her mat in the corner, her fingers absentmindedly twisting a long strand of woven kelp. She looks up the second the reeds rustle, her sharp eyes instantly locking onto them.
"Look who decided to crawl back from the edge of the earth," Kiri says, her voice dry, though her shoulders drop by an inch.
"Shut up, Kiri," Lo'ak grumbles, kicking off his cloth bindings and tossing them toward the corner.
"Go wash your face, Lo'ak, you look disgusting," she fires back without missing a beat, though a faint, teasing smirk plays at the corner of her mouth. "Dad checked on you twice. I told him you probably fell asleep in a coral bush because you have the survival instincts of a rock."
"Thanks for the cover," Lo'ak mutters, rolling his eyes as he heads toward the back washing basin.
Neteyam sinks down onto his own sleeping mat with a long, heavy sigh, pulling his hair beads loose and letting his dark braids fall free around his shoulders. He looks over at Kiri, who lowers her voice so as not to wake their parents in the adjoining sleeping alcove.
"Is Dad still awake?" Neteyam asks quietly.
"He was," Kiri replies, her tone softening as she sets the kelp aside. She looks between Neteyam and Lo'ak, her gaze probing, taking in the subtle shift in the air between them—the lack of the usual bristling friction. "He went out to check the net lines again about ten minutes ago. Said something about making sure the new moorings hold before the morning tide."
Neteyam nods slowly, resting his forearms on his knees.
A moment later, Lo'ak steps back out from the washing area, his skin damp, his dark hair clinging to his neck. He hesitates for a second near the center of the pod, looking at his brother and sister, before walking over and dropping heavily onto his own mat right next to Neteyam's.
He doesn't say anything. He just pulls his woven blanket up over his waist, staring up at the curved wooden ribs of the ceiling.
Across the room, Kiri watches them for a long beat, her expression softening into something uncharacteristically gentle. She doesn't ask what happened down on the rocks. Some things don't need to be dragged out into the light; they just need time to breathe.
"Don't snore tonight, Lo'ak," Kiri whispers, lying back on her own mat and pulling her blanket up. "I mean it. If you sound like a dying tulkun again, I'm kicking you outside."
"I don't snore," Lo'ak grumbles into the dark, closing his eyes.
Beside him, Neteyam lets out a quiet, tired huff of laughter, shifting onto his side.
"You definitely snore, little brother," Neteyam murmurs, his voice fading into the quiet murmur of the night outside.
The weight in Lo'ak's chest has finally eased. Today is over, at least. Tomorrow can wait. Whatever comes next, they'll figure it out together.
The dawn comes slowly across the reefs of Awa'atlu, painting the surface of the shallow water in long, shimmering strokes of pale gold and soft lavender. Inside the marui pod, the air is cool and still, carrying the clean, fresh scent of the open ocean mixed with the earthy fragrance of damp woven reed mats.
Lo’ak wakes up before anyone else. For a long moment, he just lies there, staring up at the curved wooden beams overhead, listening to the rhythmic, comforting slap of the tide against the vertical pilings beneath them. The heavy, suffocating knot that had choked his chest the night before is gone, replaced by a quiet, steady emptiness that feels less like despair and more like room to breathe.
Beside him, Neteyam is still fast asleep, one arm thrown out over his mat, his breathing deep and even. A few feet away, Kiri is curled into a tight ball, her dark hair spilling across her shoulders like a spilled inkwell.
Carefully, so as not to wake them, Lo'ak slips out from under his blanket. He rolls quietly off his mat, grabs his cloth wrappings, and steps out onto the outer platform.
The morning air hits him instantly, cool and sharp against his skin, making him shiver slightly. The village is just beginning to stir. Down on the lower docks, a few Metkayina hunters are unmooring their skimwings, checking their harnesses and speaking in low, rumbling murmurs that carry across the water. The sky overhead is a vast, clear expanse of blue, stretching out endlessly toward the horizon where the sun is just beginning to peek over the edge of the world.
Lo’ak walks to the edge of the platform, resting his hands on the smooth, weathered railing. He takes a long, deep breath, filling his lungs with the salty air, and lets his shoulders drop.
"You're up early."
The deep, gravelly voice comes from behind him. Lo’ak doesn't need to turn around to know who it is. He feels the familiar, heavy presence of his father approach, footsteps falling with the quiet, practiced weight of a warrior who has spent a lifetime moving silently through the jungle—and now, learning to navigate the sea.
Jake Sully steps up to the railing beside him. He’s wearing his morning loincloth, his skin scarred from years of battle, his dark hair pulled back loosely from his face. He looks tired, the faint lines around his eyes etched a little deeper than they used-up yesterday, but his expression is calm. He holds two small, carved wooden cups filled with a steaming, herbal brew that Neytiri usually prepares for the mornings.
Jake extends one of the cups toward Lo'ak without looking at him.
Lo’ak hesitates for a second, then reaches out and takes it. The wood is warm against his palms. "Thanks, dad," he mutters, keeping his eyes fixed on the water below where a school of neon-blue fish darts past the pylons.
Jake takes a slow sip from his own cup, leaning his hip against the railing and following Lo’ak’s gaze out toward the reef. For a long time, neither of them speaks. The silence isn't tense or heavy like it was yesterday afternoon. It’s wide and open, filled only with the sounds of the waking village and the gentle wash of the waves.
"Your brother told me you spent most of last night out on the rocks," Jake finally says, his voice low, steady, and devoid of any accusation.
Lo’ak feels a sudden, sharp pinch of defensive heat rise in his chest, but it fades almost as quickly as it came. He stares down into the dark liquid of his cup. "I just needed some air," he mumbles, bracing himself for the inevitable lecture about responsibility, about listening, about not running away when things get complicated.
Instead, Jake lets out a quiet sigh—not the exasperated, tired sigh of yesterday, but something softer, heavier with thought.
"Your mother and I were worried," Jake says simply. He turns his head, his sharp golden eyes fixing on Lo'ak’s face. "And... I wanted to apologize."
Lo'ak blinks, his head snapping around to look at his father in pure disbelief. "Apologize? For what?"
Jake looks out at the horizon again, his jaw working for a moment before he speaks. "For yesterday. For how I handled the nets. You were trying to help, Lo’ak. You didn't mean to drop the lines. I know that." He pauses, shifting his weight against the wood. "Sometimes... I look at you, and I see so much of myself when I was your age. The same stubbornness, the same refusal to stand still, the same way of jumping headfirst into things before looking at the drop."
Lo'ak stays completely still, barely daring to breathe. He has never heard his father talk like this—not about himself, not to him.
"And because I see it, I get scared," Jake continues, his voice dropping an octave, rougher around the edges. "This place is different from the forest, Lo’ak. The dangers here are different, the rules are different, and the margins for error are razor-thin. I push hard because I’m terrified that one of these days, your impulsiveness is going to get you into something you can't fight your way out of."
He turns fully toward Lo'ak then, reaching out to place a heavy, scarred hand firmly on his son's bare shoulder. The grip is warm, grounding, and completely steady.
"But pushing you until you feel like you don't belong in your own family? That’s my mistake," Jake says, his eyes searching Lo’ak’s face with an unvarnished honesty that makes Lo’ak’s throat tighten. "You’re not Neteyam. You shouldn't have to be. You’ve got your own way of seeing things, your own way of fighting. I just need to remember to give you room to do it without making you feel like every mistake is a permanent mark against you."
Lo’ak stares up at his father, the burning sting behind his eyelids threatening to spill over. For months—maybe for years—he had convinced himself that he was the disappointment, the broken piece of the family that everyone just tolerated. Hearing his father say those words, seeing the genuine, unshielded pride and worry in his eyes, cracks something wide open inside him.
"I didn't mean to mess up the haul," Lo’ak whispers, his voice cracking slightly despite his best efforts to keep it steady. "I was trying to show that I could keep up. That I'm not just... useless."
Jake’s hand tightens on his shoulder, giving him a firm, reassuring shake. "Hey. Look at me."
Lo’ak looks up.
"You are never useless, Lo'ak," Jake says, his voice fierce, leaving no room for argument. "You’ve got a good heart, and you’ve got more courage than you know what to do with. Just... next time, try using that courage to stay put and talk to us instead of bolting into the dark, alright?"
A faint, watery smirk pulls at the corner of Lo’ak’s mouth, and he lets out a breath that sounds half like a laugh and half like a sob. "Yeah. Okay, Dad. I can try that."
"Good." Jake gives his shoulder one final squeeze before stepping back, finishing the last of his herbal drink. "Now, finish your tea. Tonowari wants us down at the southern reef before the midday sun hits. There's a school of migratory skimwings coming through, and I want you and Neteyam on the second patrol boat."
Lo’ak’s eyes widen slightly, a surge of genuine excitement and disbelief chasing away the last remnants of yesterday's shadow. "Me? On the second patrol boat? With the main group?"
"Don't sound so surprised," Jake says, a rare, genuine smile touching the corners of his mouth as he turns back toward the marui interior. "You wanted to prove you can handle warrior responsibilities. Time to show me."
As his father slips back inside the pod, Lo’ak stands alone on the platform for a moment, the warm morning sun washing completely over him. He takes a long sip of the herbal tea, the warmth spreading through his chest, clear and strong.
Behind him, the reed curtain rustles again, and Neteyam steps out onto the platform, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, his dark hair messy and wild around his shoulders. He looks at Lo'ak, taking in the small, real smile on his younger brother's face.
"What are you looking so happy about?" Neteyam grumbles, stretching his arms up toward the sky with a loud yawn. "You look like you just won a battle."
"Nothing," Lo’ak says, turning around with the wooden cup in his hand, a lighter, easier feeling settling deep into his bones than he has felt in a very long time. "Just ready for the day."
Neteyam narrows his eyes suspiciously, then a slow, knowing grin spreads across his face. "Right. Well, come on then. If we're going down to the reef, I'm not waiting for you to tie your loincloth."
"Shut up, I'm faster than you and you know it."
"In your dreams, little brother."
As they head back inside together, shoulder to shoulder, the morning light spills over Awa'atlu, turning the village gold. There would be more arguments. More mistakes. More things Lo'ak wouldn't know how to handle. But maybe things didn't have to be figured out all at once. Maybe he could just take things as they came.