Fleurdeau and fanfic

Jake Sully stood at the center of that new life now.

Olo’eyktan.

The title fit strangely and perfectly at once, as though it had been carved into him by battle and loss. He wore leadership in the way he had once worn uncertainty: visibly, honestly, with effort. He was not born to it, and perhaps that was why the People could see exactly how much of him it cost. They could see him learning where to stand, when to speak, how to listen before issuing commands. They could see Neytiri beside him, fierce as ever, daughter of the former olo’eyktan and now mate to the new one, her strength woven into his like vine around bone.

And you could not look at either of them without feeling something inside you twist.

Because this should not have been a surprise.

That was the cruelest part. If it had come from nowhere, perhaps the pain would have been cleaner. Instead it arrived as the final shape of something that had been growing for longer than you wanted to admit. A thing you had watched happen with your own eyes while still daring to believe you were not being left behind.

You had known Neytiri longer than anyone still living would ever understand.

Before the war. Before Jake. Before the schoolhouse burned and Silwanin bled out on the ground while the world split open. Before grief hardened Neytiri into something sharper and quieter. Before she learned how to carry rage in her spine like a second weapon.

You had known her when laughter came easily.

You remembered racing her and Silwanin along the roots beneath Hometree while the evening light turned everything gold. You remembered the way Silwanin always cheated and then insisted she had won fairly, chin lifted with shameless pride, while Neytiri argued and you laughed until your side hurt. You remembered sleeping tangled together after long training days, all three of you too exhausted to make it back to your own family mats, Silwanin talking half the night while Neytiri threatened to smother her and you listened to the sound of their voices and thought there could be no world beyond this one.

Silwanin had been the sun of those days, all brightness and motion, and Neytiri had always turned toward her without thinking. So had you. Then Silwanin died, and for a long time Neytiri did not know where to place all the love that had nowhere left to go.

You had been the one who stayed through that.

Not because anyone asked you to. Not because there was honor in it. You stayed because Neytiri was half-feral with grief and fury, and everyone else gave her space, but you knew space was not what she needed. She needed someone who would sit beside her in silence without demanding words. Someone who would stand watch when nightmares drove sleep from her. Someone who would not flinch when she snapped, or struck a tree hard enough to bruise her hands, or vanished for hours because she could not bear the sound of other people breathing around her.

So you stayed.

You brought her food she did not eat and sat with her anyway. You trained with her until both your arms shook. You followed her into the deep forest when she walked too far and too recklessly and pretended it was only because you wanted to hunt. Some nights she fell asleep against your shoulder without meaning to. Some mornings she woke already angry and never apologized. You learned every shade of her silence until they became as familiar as language.

You never told her then.

You never said what she was becoming to you, because grief made everything sacred and dangerous, and you would rather have stayed at her side in any shape than risk losing even that. But the feeling rooted itself in you all the same, slow and stubborn as a tree growing around stone. By the time it had a name, it was too late to dig out.

Then the dreamwalker fell from the sky and changed everything.

At first, you hated him on principle.

That was almost a relief now, looking back. Hatred was simple. Safe. He was sky people, or close enough, and that should have been the end of it. He was awkward in his blue body, too large in all the wrong ways, moving through the forest with the gracelessness of someone who had not been born to it. He asked questions at the wrong times. He looked at things too directly. He spoke too much when silence would have served him better. You were certain, in those first days, that Neytiri would lose patience with him and leave him to his own foolishness.

Instead she came back from each lesson talking about him with anger bright in her eyes, and you knew that brightness too well.

Not indifference. Never indifference.

Interest.

He was impossible to ignore. That was his talent, perhaps. He stumbled through what should have been sacred with such obvious determination to learn that it became difficult to dismiss him entirely. He listened when Neytiri corrected him, even when pride clearly stung. He kept trying after failure. He let himself be humiliated by the forest, by the clan, by his own body, and still rose each time with that infuriating persistence. You watched him fail at hunting and fail at riding and fail at listening quickly enough, and you watched him continue anyway.

Somewhere in that, your disdain grew cracks.

The first time you laughed at him without meaning to, he had nearly fallen from a low branch trying to show off after a morning lesson. Neytiri had rolled her eyes so hard you thought she might injure herself, and you had meant only to smirk, but the sound had escaped you before you could stop it. Jake had looked at you then with surprise, like he had uncovered some rare thing.

“Well” he had said, breathless and grinning, “good to know that you can smile.”

You should have walked away.

Instead you had stayed, arms crossed, pretending you were only there to make sure he did not break his neck.

Later there were other moments. Too many. Small things that should have remained small.

Jake asking clumsy questions about the old hunting routes and listening more carefully when you answered than when anyone else did. Neytiri watching the two of you from the corner of her eye, amusement hidden badly at the edge of her mouth. Evenings when training ran long and the three of you ate together with the easy discomfort of something not yet named. Jake trying to understand jokes he had no place understanding and looking absurdly pleased whenever you allowed him to. Neytiri resting shoulder to shoulder with you while speaking to him across the fire, as though the space between all three of you had begun to fold inward.

One afternoon, the three of you had climbed higher than was necessary just to watch stormlight gather over the floating mountains.

The air had smelled of rain and moss. Distant thunder rolled through the sky like a warning too old for any of you to heed. Neytiri sat with one knee drawn up, braiding and rebraiding a loose strand of your hair without asking, while Jake leaned back on his hands and stared at the horizon with open wonder, as if the world still surprised him at every turn.

“This place doesn’t look real” he had murmured.

Neytiri snorted softly. “It is real. You are the one who still looks false.”

Jake grinned. “You always know how to make a guy feel welcome.”

You had laughed quietly, and Jake turned toward the sound. For a moment he did not look away. Neither did you. There had been lightning somewhere in the distance, a pulse of white in the clouds, but the real electricity was there on the branch with you, alive in the stillness.

Neytiri’s fingers paused in your hair.

Then, very lightly, they started moving again.

You thought about that touch for days afterward.

There had been another night by the fire when the hunters had returned late and bloodied from a difficult kill. The clan was restless, the air thick with woodsmoke and fatigue. Jake sat across from you cleaning a blade he still handled with too much thought, as though every movement had to be chosen manually. Neytiri was beside you, hip against yours. At some point her head tipped to your shoulder. At some point Jake looked up and saw it. At some point your eyes met over the firelight, and the look that passed between you felt far too intimate for something that had never been spoken.

You should have understood then what danger lived in hope.

Instead you let yourself believe there was space for you in whatever this was becoming.

Perhaps that was the worst foolishness of all. Not that you loved them. Love could not be helped. It came where it pleased and rooted where it could. The foolishness was believing that because they looked at you with softness, because they sought you out, because sometimes silence with them felt like belonging, it meant they would choose you too.

Then came the night everything changed, though at the time you did not know it had already happened.

Jake and Neytiri were gone longer than expected. People noticed, of course. The clan noticed everything. There were looks passed between older women, glances from hunters who knew more than they said, a subtle shift in the air like the forest itself was listening. By the time they returned, no explanation was needed. Even before the whispers began, you saw it.

The bond between them had settled into place.

Not just desire. Not just affection. Something deeper. Sanctified. Recognized.

They had mated before Eywa.

The knowledge struck so hard it left your body cold.

You remembered exactly how Neytiri looked when she stepped back into the glow of the fires. Her face was calm in that particular way that meant her emotions were running too deep to show cleanly. Jake walked beside her with the dazed gravity of someone who had crossed a threshold he could never recross. They did not touch, not openly, not in a way meant for others to see, but they did not need to. The change between them was visible in the air itself.

You had stood very still and thought, for one suspended heartbeat, that one of them would turn toward you. That Neytiri would seek your eyes first. That Jake, awkward and earnest Jake, would at least look guilty.

Neither happened.

That was what split something in you.

Not the mating itself, though that hurt enough to hollow out your chest. It was that the truth had belonged to them before it ever reached you. They had crossed into that new life together while you were still standing outside it, unknowing, carrying all your hope like an offering to a doorway already closed.

Then war came, and there was no room left for private heartbreak.

The sky people turned greed and iron upon the forest. Hometree fell. Eytukan died. The People scattered and rallied and bled. Jake betrayed them, then returned changed, carrying Toruk and war and repentance in equal measure. The world cracked open under everyone’s feet. You fought because there was no choice. You fought because grief was easier to wield if it had a target. You fought because survival demanded movement, and movement was the only thing keeping you from drowning in all the rest of it.

Still, even in war, the betrayal did not leave you.

It moved with you.

Every time Jake and Neytiri fought back to back, there it was. Every time their hands found each other in the chaos of regrouping, there it was. Every time Neytiri looked at him with that terrible, fearless devotion and you had to pretend not to see, there it was. You killed men and machines and mourned your dead and still the old wound kept bleeding beneath the new ones.

After the battle, when Jake became olo’eyktan and the clan began learning how to live again, you thought perhaps time would numb it.

Instead time sharpened it.

Because now there was peace enough to notice what had been broken. Peace enough for longing to speak. Peace enough for all the moments you had ignored to come back and stand in front of you demanding to be named.

So you pulled away.

You took longer patrols. You trained with younger warriors until your muscles screamed. You volunteered for every watch that kept you at the edges of the camp and away from the center, away from leadership, away from the mated pair everyone now looked to for direction. You made yourself useful in every possible way because usefulness required no tenderness and invited no dangerous conversations.

When Neytiri sought you, you found a reason to leave.

When Jake approached, you looked through him as if he were smoke.

At first they let you.

Perhaps they thought you needed time. Perhaps they were granting the dignity of silence. Perhaps they were cowards. That thought fed your anger most nights, when sleep refused you and the forest hummed softly with life that did not care if your heart was being torn apart from the inside.

Then came the evening when they finally cornered you.

You had taken your knife and a whetstone to one of the high outer platforms, far enough from the center of the encampment that only the most determined would follow. The night was deep blue around you, wet with the scent of leaves after rain. Below, the forest glowed in scattered pulses, bioluminescence drifting through the darkness like breath made visible. You sat cross-legged, sharpening a blade that did not need sharpening, because the scrape of stone against metal kept your hands busy and your mind from going entirely feral.

You heard them before you saw them.

Two sets of footsteps, one lighter and quicker, one heavier but careful.

Of course they came together.

That nearly made you laugh.

Neytiri stepped into the dim light first, Jake close behind her. He had changed since the war. Leadership had settled into his posture, into the way he held his shoulders and measured his stillness. He still carried too much human bluntness in him to ever be fully Na’vi in manner, but there was no denying what he was now. Olo’eyktan. Warrior. Mate. Beloved by the woman you had loved longer than he could imagine.

Your fingers tightened on the knife hilt.

Neither of them spoke at once. The silence stretched. Forest song rose and fell beneath the platform.

At last Neytiri said your name, and the sound of it in her mouth made something ugly coil tighter inside your chest.

You did not look up immediately. “You should not be here.”

“That is not your choice” she said, though her voice was gentler than the words.

You dragged the blade over the whetstone again. “You have your olo’eyktan to attend to.”

The moment the sentence left you, you felt Jake go still.

Good, you thought, with vicious satisfaction. Let it cut.

Neytiri took a slow breath. “Look at me.”

You did, because refusing her directly had always been more difficult than it should have been.

Her face was unreadable at first. Then you saw the hurt beneath the control and hated her for bringing it into your sight. Hated yourself more for caring.

“You leave whenever we come near.” she said. “You do not speak. You do not sit with us. You do not even look at us unless you must. Tell me why.”

The audacity of the question nearly shattered what little restraint you still had.

“Tell you why?” you repeated, rising abruptly to your feet. “You ask me that now?”

Jake’s jaw shifted. Neytiri’s ears pinned slightly, but she did not move back.

“Yes” she said.

You laughed then, a sharp broken sound that had no humor in it. “You stand there together, mated before Eywa, as though I am blind, and ask me why.”

Neytiri’s expression changed. Not surprise. Something worse. Recognition.

Jake took a half-step forward. “We thought-”

“You thought what?” The words came out like a strike. “That I would smile and bow my head and be grateful for whatever scraps of kindness you still offered? That I would simply understand? That because I am strong, because I am a warrior, because I stayed silent, it means I do not bleed?”

“No one thinks that” Neytiri said.

“You should have told me.”

Your voice cracked on the last word, and that only made the rage hotter. You had not meant to sound wounded. You had wanted to sound sharp, untouchable, beyond humiliation. Instead you sounded exactly what you were: betrayed.

Jake stared at you, and you could see guilt beginning to move across his face, but it was too late for guilt. Too late for any of it.

“You should have told me” you said again, quieter and infinitely more dangerous. “Before. Not after. Not once it was done and sacred and too late for me to be anything but the fool who thought I mattered.”

The word hung there between all three of you.

Fool.

Because that was what you had called yourself in the privacy of your own head, over and over until it lost meaning. Fool for every look you had treasured. Fool for every accidental touch that had kept you awake. Fool for believing Neytiri’s hand in your hair meant anything more than comfort. Fool for believing the firelight softness in Jake’s face had anything to do with love. Fool for building a future in your mind out of gestures that had never been promised.

Neytiri crossed the distance between you before you could retreat. “Do not call yourself that.”

You jerked away from her outstretched hand as if burned.

“No. Do not touch me now.”

That landed hard. She drew back a fraction, pain flashing openly across her face. Jake’s expression darkened with something like anger, though whether at you or himself you could not tell.

“You think we never loved you” Neytiri said, and it was not a question.

The fury that had been climbing finally broke loose.

“Well did you?” you said, and then louder when neither of them affirmed it quickly enough “What else should I think? You chose each other. You made your bond. You let me stand there smiling like an idiot while everyone else could probably scent the truth on you both. Do you know what that felt like? To look at you and realize I was the last one to understand that I had never been part of it?”

Jake flinched.

The sight of it only fed your rage. You turned on him next, because if this wound was going to tear open fully then let it.

“And you” you spat. “You came into our lives like a storm and I was stupid enough to let myself care whether you lived or died. I watched you change. I watched you become someone worth trusting. I watched you look at her, at me, at both of us, and I thought-” You broke off, chest heaving, then forced the words out anyway. “I thought maybe I was not imagining it. I thought maybe the way you stayed near me meant something. I thought maybe all those moments mattered to you.”

“They did” Jake said immediately.

You rounded on him with enough fury that he stopped speaking.

“Do not lie to make this easier.”

“I’m not lying.”

“You are too late.” Your voice shook now, no longer with anger alone but with something rawer, more humiliating. “Both of you are too late.”

Silence crashed down.

The forest seemed to lean in around the platform. Somewhere below, a night creature called once and went quiet.

When Neytiri spoke again, her voice was low and ragged. “There was never a moment when you did not matter to me.”

You laughed bitterly. “You mated with him.”

“Yes.”

The simple honesty of it nearly stole the air from your lungs.

Neytiri did not look away. “I loved him.”

The word was a knife. You felt it go in and held yourself upright through sheer spite.

“And I loved you” she said.

Your whole body went still.

No. No, because if she said that now, after everything, it would undo you worse than any rejection could.

“You do not get to say that now.”

“It was true before I said it.”

“Then why was I not enough?”

The question came out before you could stop it. Childish, wounded, bare. It hung there between you, and suddenly you hated yourself more fiercely than you hated either of them.

But Neytiri’s face changed completely at hearing it. Something broke open in her expression, grief and love and horror all at once.

“There was no not enough” she said. “Never that.”

Jake drew nearer, carefully, as though approaching a wounded animal that might still tear his throat out. “I should’ve said something” he said. “I know that now. I knew things were changing between us, all of us, and I kept waiting because I didn’t know what the hell I was allowed to want. I was afraid of wrecking it. Afraid of reaching for too much. Afraid you’d both look at me and see exactly what I was.”

You stared at him, breathing hard.

“A coward?” you said.

A shadow of pain crossed his face. “Yeah. That too.”

Neytiri closed her eyes briefly, then opened them and fixed you with the kind of honesty you had always trusted most in her, even when it cut.

“I loved you first” she said.

The words fell into the night and seemed to remake it.

You could not speak.

“When Silwanin died, I thought that part of my heart would die too” she went on, voice shaking. “You stayed. You carried me when I was full of poison and grief. You knew me before this war, before this life, before I knew how to be daughter and sister and warrior all at once. I loved you then. I did not know what shape it would take. I only knew that when you were gone, the world was wrong.”

Tears burned behind your eyes, hot and unwanted.

“And when Jake came” Neytiri whispered “I did not stop loving you. I hated that I could feel both things. I hated not knowing what honor demanded of me. I hated that every path felt like betrayal.”

You swallowed hard enough to hurt.

Jake’s voice came quieter now, stripped of everything except truth. “I fell for her first. I’m not gonna pretend otherwise. But I fell for you too, and it scared the hell out of me because I thought I had no right. Not as sky people. Not as the outsider you both should’ve shoved off a cliff. Not when she and I were already headed somewhere I barely understood. I kept thinking there’d be a moment to say it right. There wasn’t.”

“There was” you said. “You let it pass.”

“Yeah.” He looked wrecked admitting it. “Yeah, I did.”

That should have satisfied you. It should have eased something, hearing him confess fault so plainly. Instead the ache only deepened, because this was exactly what you had wanted and feared in equal measure: proof that what lived between all of you had been real, and proof that they had still chosen without you.

You turned away from them both, suddenly unable to bear their faces.

Below the platform, the forest glimmered softly, uncaring. The world was wide enough to hold your grief without bending for it. That truth had always been cruel.

When you spoke, your voice was quieter, but no less torn.

“Do you know what it did to me” you asked “to see you come back from the Tree of Voices and understand in one breath that whatever I had hoped for was gone? Do you know what it was like to stand there and realize all those moments before the war had belonged only to me? That I had built love out of nothing?”

“They did not belong only to you” Neytiri said.

You shook your head sharply. “Then why did you not come to me first?”

That silenced both of them.

Exactly, you thought, nausea curling low in your stomach. Exactly.

The tears that had threatened finally spilled, and your anger flared viciously in response. You wiped at them with the back of your hand as though you could erase the weakness by force.

“I loved you both” you said, and now that the words were loose, there was no stopping them. “I loved you before the war. I loved you while the sky people were burning our home. I loved you while I watched you hold each other after battle. And all that time I thought I had imagined the way you looked at me. I thought I was mad. I thought I had been made into some foolish child chasing affection where there was none.”

Jake’s face crumpled into something close to anguish.

Neytiri moved again, but slowly this time, giving you every chance to reject her. When she was close enough, she sank to her knees before you.

The sight of her there, proud Neytiri kneeling in apology, nearly undid the last of your anger on the spot. Nearly. Not entirely.

“I did come to you” she said. “Too late, yes. But I came because I knew I had wounded you.”

“After” you said.

“Yes. After.”

“And if I had not pulled away? If I had smiled and swallowed it?”

Her gaze did not falter. “Then I would still have known I had hurt you.”

The answer was not self-protective. Not clever. Not meant to save her. That made it harder to resist.

Jake kneeled as well, close enough now that his presence felt warm against the night air. “We messed this up” he said. “No way around that. We should’ve trusted you with the truth before anything was decided. We should’ve trusted ourselves with it too. We were scared, and we were selfish, and you got cut open on the edge of that.”

You laughed wetly. “That is a terrible way to say sorry.”

“Yeah.” He gave the ghost of a humorless smile. “Still figuring some things out.”

Despite everything, the corner of your mouth threatened to move. You hated that. Hated him for still being able to reach the part of you that wanted to soften.

Neytiri saw it and rose slowly to her feet. Her hand lifted once more, not touching yet, waiting.

“When Silwanin lived” she said softly “she used to tell me that you were fiercest when you believed yourself unloved. She said one day someone would mistake your teeth for the whole of you and lose the chance to know your heart.”

At the mention of Silwanin, something in your chest gave way.

You had not let yourself think too long about how she would have seen all of this coming long before any of you. She would have laughed, probably, then scolded every one of you for being idiots and locked you in the same space until the truth came out.

A broken sound escaped you. Not quite a laugh, not quite a sob.

Neytiri stepped in closer. This time, when her fingers brushed your wrist, you did not pull away.

“She loved you” Neytiri whispered. “And so do I.”

Jake’s voice came from your other side, low and unsteady. “So do I.”

You shut your eyes.

The tears came harder then, because rage was easier to carry than relief, and what they were offering now was too dangerous to touch without believing them. Belief was what had ruined you the first time.

“What do you want from me?” you asked.

Neytiri’s thumb traced once over the inside of your wrist. “Truth.”

Jake answered after her. “Choice.”

You opened your eyes and looked at them both.

Neytiri, who had been your home long before she had any right to become your ache.

Jake, who had arrived like an intrusion and somehow become something you could not cut out of yourself no matter how fiercely you tried.

You could still walk away. That was the terrible, beautiful thing. They were not binding you with guilt or duty. They were not demanding forgiveness as payment for their love. The choice stood open before you, painful and real.

And you discovered, with something like fury, that even now you still wanted them.

Not because your anger was gone. Not because the wound had closed. You wanted them because love remained stubbornly alive beneath all the hurt, because some truths survive even betrayal, because the heart is not honorable and does not care what pride deserves.

“I am still angry” you said.

Neytiri nodded at once. “You may be.”

“I do not forgive easily.”

Jake huffed softly. “Yeah, I got that.”

You ignored him, though the sound nearly pulled another unwilling smile from you. “And if this is pity, I will leave.”

Neytiri’s whole face sharpened. “Never pity.”

Jake shook his head immediately. “Not even close.”

You looked between them, measuring. The night stretched wide around the three of you, dense with leaf-shadow and distant glowing spores. In another life, perhaps this moment would have happened before the Tree of Voices, before war, before grief layered itself over everything. But this was the life you had, bruised and uneven and still beating.

Slowly, carefully, you lifted your free hand and touched Neytiri’s face.

She leaned into it with a softness that made your chest ache.

Then you turned and touched Jake’s jaw.

His eyes closed for one brief second, and in that second all the careful control in his face nearly broke.

The breath you took after that shook all the way through you.

“You will hear all of my anger" you said.

Neytiri’s mouth curved with sorrow and relief. “Then we will hear it.”

“You will not look away from it.”

Jake’s fingers brushed yours. “No.”

“And if I tell you that I hated you” you said, looking at him now “for making me love you too-”

“I’d say I hated myself for the same reason” he answered.

That struck so cleanly you had no defense against it.

Neytiri moved first. She stepped into you fully, one hand sliding to the back of your neck, the other settling at your waist, and kissed you with the same ferocity with which she did everything that mattered. Not tentative. Not apologetic. Certain. Her mouth was warm and trembling, and when you made a startled sound against her she held you more firmly, as though she had been waiting too long to do this and would not waste another heartbeat.

The kiss tasted like grief and love and rain.

When she drew back, her forehead rested against yours. Your breathing had gone ragged. So had hers.

Jake stood close enough now that the heat of him pressed at your side. He did not interrupt. He waited, every line of him taut with restraint.

You turned to him on instinct more than thought, still caught between fury and want and disbelief. For a heartbeat you only looked at each other. Then you kissed him too.

Jake answered carefully at first, almost reverently, as if afraid one wrong movement would shatter the fragile permission you had given. But when your fingers fisted in the cord at his throat, something in him gave way. His hand came to your waist and held there, strong and steady, while his mouth moved against yours with a hunger made gentle only by effort.

You broke away breathing hard.

Neytiri’s hand slid through your hair. Jake’s thumb traced your side. You stood between them, held in the space you had once believed did not exist.

The old hurt flared once more, fierce and sharp, because this was what you had wanted and what had wounded you. To finally have it was almost unbearable.

“I cannot just forget” you whispered.

Neytiri kissed the corner of your mouth. “We do not ask you to.”

Jake pressed his forehead briefly to your temple. “We build from here.”

There was something sacred in the honesty of that.

The decision, when it came, did not feel clean. It felt like stepping barefoot over broken ground toward something worth bleeding for.

You looked from one to the other and saw your own fear mirrored back at you. Not certainty. Not perfection. Only love stripped raw and offered without armor.

Then you nodded.

Everything after that moved with quiet inevitability.

They led you deeper into the forest, away from the sleeping clan, away from watchfires and duties and the eyes of others. The night wrapped close around you, rich with wet earth and blooming things. Underfoot, roots twisted like old memory. Above, the stars showed in fragments through the canopy, bright and distant. The place Neytiri chose was half-hidden by hanging vines near a grove where the air pulsed faintly with luminous seeds drifting on the breeze.

It was not the Tree of Voices.

That mattered. You understood the choice without asking. This was not about replacing what had already been made between them. It was about making space for something new, something chosen together and in full truth.

Neytiri turned to face you first. In the dim glowing light, her eyes looked almost liquid, gold deepened by shadow.

“If you wish to stop” she said quietly “we stop.”

Jake stood just behind your shoulder. “Any time.”

You nodded once, unable to trust your voice.

The trembling in your hands had returned. Neytiri saw it and took them both, pressing your palms briefly to her chest, over the wild beat of her heart. Jake’s hand settled at the small of your back, warm and grounding.

No one rushed.

That, more than anything, made the moment feel real.

They undressed you by degrees, with the sort of care that bordered on worship. Fingers learned skin they had only imagined before. Kisses followed old scars, the marks of battle and training, the places where your body remembered every life you had survived. Neytiri touched you like she was reclaiming something precious she had once feared lost. Jake touched you like he still could not believe he had been trusted with this at all.

You kissed them both as if trying to make up for every unsaid thing that had nearly destroyed you.

At some point you were crying again, though more quietly now. Neytiri caught each tear with her mouth. Jake held your face in both hands and kissed you until the shaking eased. The three of you sank down together onto a bed of woven moss and broad leaves, the forest breathing softly all around.

When the moment came to join your queues, the air itself seemed to still.

You had seen tsaheylu all your life. Between rider and ikran. Between hunter and mount. Between mates. You knew what it meant. To join. To open. To trust another with the unguarded self beneath flesh and words.

Your queue trembled in Neytiri’s hand.

She looked into your eyes as she brought hers forward, asking again without speech. You nodded, and when the bond took, your whole body jolted with it. The feeling was immediate and overwhelming: warmth, recognition, memory, the fierce shining thread of everything she had ever been to you. Child-laughter beneath Hometree. Grief in the dark after Silwanin’s death. The first fracture of longing. The wound of betrayal. The terrible endurance of love. All of it rushing through at once until you could barely breathe beneath the force of being known.

A broken sound tore from your throat.

Neytiri cried out too, forehead falling to yours, tears bright on her cheeks now.

Then Jake joined with you.

The second bond hit differently but no less deeply. His presence came in with astonishing intensity: stubbornness, awe, guilt, devotion, the ache of a man remade by love and war and choice. You felt the memory of his wonder beneath the floating mountains, the sharp cut of his fear when he first realized he wanted too much, the weight of leadership settling onto shoulders that had once only carried regret, the fierce helplessness of how deeply he had already fallen for both of you.

Suddenly there was no room left for lies.

No room for pride either.

Only truth, bright and merciless and tender beyond endurance.

You felt them feel you in return.

Not the strong warrior you showed the clan. Not the composed silence you had worn like armor. They felt the depth of your love for Neytiri stretching back years, rooted in girlhood and grief and loyalty. They felt how Jake had carved his way under your guard piece by piece until resistance turned into need. They felt the humiliation of standing outside their bond and believing yourself unwanted. They felt the rage that had scorched through you, the self-contempt, the loneliness, the desperate hope you had tried to kill. Nothing could be hidden there.

Neytiri sobbed once, openly.

Jake’s whole body shook.

And because there was nothing left to conceal, you let them have all of it.

You let them feel the devastation of that night when they returned from mating without you. You let them feel how small and stupid and shattered you had felt. You let them taste every splinter of it, not out of cruelty but because this was what truth meant now. If they loved you, then they would know what their silence had done.

They took it.

Neither turned away.

Instead Neytiri pressed her mouth to yours and sent back the full force of her grief, her love, her remorse, her certainty. Jake wrapped himself around both of you and gave back devotion stripped of every excuse, every cowardice, every failed attempt at control. Their emotions poured into you until the hurt inside your chest began, not to vanish, but to change shape. No longer a hidden blade. No longer yours alone to carry.

The three of you stayed joined as you moved together, slow at first, learning each other through touch and breath and the flood of bond-deep feeling. Every caress echoed through tsaheylu. Every kiss became more than flesh. Neytiri’s hands on your body came with years of buried wanting. Jake’s mouth at your throat came with awe so intense it bordered on reverence. When you reached for them in turn, they shuddered with the force of what traveled across the bond.

There was nothing neat in it. Nothing polished. It was too emotional, too raw, too full of old grief and new love to be graceful. At one point you laughed through tears because Jake nearly lost all sense the moment both of you touched him at once. At another, Neytiri hid her face briefly against your shoulder because the bond made every feeling too intense to bear cleanly. You held each other through it all, bodies and hearts and queues joined, until pleasure and sorrow and relief became inseparable.

When you finally cried out, it was with both of them holding you.

Neytiri’s forehead was pressed to yours. Jake’s mouth was at your neck, his arms wrapped around both of you. The bond flared bright enough to leave you shaking, your pleasure carrying into them and theirs into you until the three of you seemed to break apart and come back together in the same breath.

Afterward you remained tangled in the moss, still linked, unwilling to sever the connection too quickly.

The forest murmured around you. Luminous seeds drifted lazily through the air and settled in your hair, on your shoulders, across Jake’s back. Neytiri lay half over you, one hand spread over your ribs as if confirming you were real. Jake stayed close at your other side, his breathing slowly evening, his fingers absentmindedly tracing patterns over your skin.

Through the bond there was quiet now.

Not emptiness. Peace.

Exhausted, bruised peace. The kind earned only after truth has done its worst and found you still alive.

You turned your face toward Neytiri first and kissed her gently. Then you leaned into Jake and kissed him too. Both answered with a softness that made your throat tighten again.

“I am still mad” you murmured at last, because it mattered that this be said here too, in the aftermath, in the tenderness.

Neytiri smiled against your skin, tired and luminous and achingly familiar. “I know.”

Jake let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “Would’ve been worried if you weren’t.”

You looked at him, and this time when the corner of your mouth lifted, you did not fight it.

“It will take time” you said.

He nodded. “Then we take time.”

Neytiri kissed your temple. “Together.”

You lay there with them beneath the living night, joined first by pain, then by truth, and now by something that at last had room enough to hold all three of you.

Not innocence. That was gone.

Not simplicity. You doubted any of your lives would ever be simple again.

But love, finally spoken in full. Love that had survived silence, betrayal, war, grief, rage, and the terrible risk of being known. Love made sacred not because it had never wounded, but because all three of you had chosen to stand inside the wound together and call it truth.

Far above, beyond the leaves, the stars burned on.

And for the first time since everything changed, you did not feel outside of anything.

You were inside it now.

Chosen.

Known.

The elder’s breaths were slowing, the chest rising more from will than its usual habit. A man held together by tendon, and even those were loosening.

You lifted your gaze to her, a soft frown creasing your features.

“It’s time.”

Those two words carried the finality of the situation. The kind that meant a soul would not return through the roots of the Tree, not tonight, not ever. Time meant the moment Eywa reclaimed what was left—unless, as in Sapok’s case, He refused. 

Sapok had been split open long before his body began to fail—grief hollowing him when fire took his children, then his grandchildren, then the home his mothers grandmother had woven and built. Some wounds refused to close.

Grief had rotted him from the inside, until madness carved out his eyes with his own hands.

“I curse Eywa,” he’d spat at Varang once, voice shredded. “Do not let me return. Let my energy be mine, and mine alone.”

And she had promised.

Varang lowered herself beside you, knees against the soft earth. With deliberate care she drew her blades—curved shypers that caught what little light seeped through the smoke. Sapok could not see her, could not know whose hand would free him—but she swore his breath steadied, as if some part of him knew she was there.

She angled the blade.

Then she opened his throat.

With a second practiced motion, she severed his queue. The neural tendrils sparked with a frantic, chaotic flutter before collapsing.

Varang laid the queue against her hip, another to the collection.

“To the fires we will see you,” she murmured, pressing a kiss to the cooling skin of his brow, “and in the ash of your remains, we will carry you.”

You joined her in the ritual. Together you washed his body in ash, coating every wound, every ridge, every piece of him that grief had kept. You bound the flesh with cloth and quiet hands, sealing him for the journey he had chosen.

Tradition demanded quiet before the flames rose, and so you held your breath. Thinking.

Varang leaned in first (she always did) and brushed a soft kiss to the curve of your neck. You shifted, shy. “Not now,” you muttered.

But she only hummed and wrapped an arm around your waist anyway.

“Why not?” she whispered against your skin. “Life should be savored when death sits so close, no?”

You shot her a look. Annoying. So annoying. You gathered your tools, bowls—your things, and packed them into a hollowed gourd. “Do not be like this.”

One ear flicked. “Like what?”

“Crude,” you snapped.

Varang smiled. She always smiled. It never meant anything except whatever she wanted it to.

“You’re angry,” she said. She caught your hand and pressed her mouth to each knuckle, slow, though her eyes never left yours. “Tell me. What have I done?”

Your lips thinned. Your tail gave you away.

“The sky-person,” you grumbled. “The one with the strange voice and the uglier face.”

Varang paused. And for the first time, her smile shifted into something fond. Now that angered you. You pulled your hand away and turned, jaw tight.

“Oh. Him?” she said at last. “Miles Quaritch.”

She reached for you again, palms gliding up your forearms, barely touching. She tried to catch your eye again.

“Him?” you mimicked her airy tone. “Yes. Him.” With a sudden twitch to your tail you groaned. “Eywa preserve me. I will not have a lovers quarrel beside Sapok’s dead body.”

“He would laugh,” she offered lightly.

You hissed and shoved her back with a flat hand. She pouted, and somehow that made it worse. “I need to do some things.”

You slipped out of the hut, brushing past the hanging beads. Of course she followed. Her stride matched yours.

“That is very vague, Y/n,” she said, tone almost sing-song.

You turned your head back, hands failing about. “Oh that's very vague?! You-”

You suddenly hit someone's chest. “Oh!”

Your eyes looked up. Golden eyes, hair along the brows and a meatier, softer impact. Who else other then:

“Miles Quaritch.” You said his name clumsily. It was the demon language, English. But it earned something of a smile from him. Like Varangs, cocky. Unlike Varangs, surprisingly warm.

“Watch where you’re going, cupcake.”

You barely understood him. Varang seemed to, though. Her demeanor changed, she tilted her head. “Demon.” She briefed a nod, and he tilted his head back, gesturing to a nearby Yurt.

“We got some things to discuss.” He grumbled.

Varang soothed a hum, before gently taking a strand of your hair and pinching it. “I’ll see you in the evening.”

You watched as she led him, and glared at Miles Quaritch, who eyed you before following her.

Great.

.

.

.

You had seen death stare at you.

It wore a woman’s face—pleasant, almost gentle. Golden-amber eyes that caught the light, hatred folded neatly behind patient lips. Black against black: wax-dark hair braided with bones of past loves.

Death came as kisses pressed to your cheek, as queues offered in submission, heads bowed. Death had a name here.

Varang.

Quaritch was not death, but the feeling curled similar in your chest. It lodged beneath your ribs and dragged its way down your spine, coiling into your legs until instinct screamed. Move, idiot. Move until he catches you.

You stared at him as he stared at you, the bonfire crackling between. Varang had told you his story: human once, died, reborn na'vi. That's why the pair made sense together, you supposed—he'd crossed the threshold and returned, and if Varang was death itself, then he must be the one who guards her door. Gatekeeper. Guardian. Something worse.

Now the spirit would not stop looking.

You turned away first, fixing your attention anywhere but him. Your mouth pulled into a soft pout as you drank from the skull-cup—nectar cut with water. Too sweet, you felt your teeth ache.

“Your pet has a staring problem.” You grumbled. 

Varang lifted an eye, her smile widened, and she played with your beaded top. “He is curious.”

“He should be curious somewhere else.”

“Now, Y/N,” Varang chided softly, “do not be hostile.”

You almost laughed at that. Do not be hostile. When has Varang ever uttered such words?

You flickered back at him, and he winked. His lips quirked up at your sneer, too-perfect-teeth reflecting the orange of the fire. Like stained blood. Then he drank from his cup, and then lifted up.

You had actually flinched at the movement, cocked your head to Varang in slight panic, but she only laughed. He moved, settling heavy beside her. “Evenin’, girls.” He tipped his head in your direction. You scowled back. “Mhm, not so touchy huh?”

“She does not understand you, Quaritch.”

He paused, cup halfway to his mouth. "Huh." A beat, then that grin widened. "Well. Guess I oughta teach her. She'll be talkin' to human grunts soon enough."

Varang's grin widened. She glanced at you, and you felt the weight of her attention like a hand at your throat. "He says he will teach you the demon language, Y/n." You knew that tone. "Take it."

"But Varang—"

And there it was. 

The shift. The moment her eyes turned sharp and her smile crooked just enough to bare a hint of fang.

Your ears flattened. You looked at Quaritch—that stupid, shit-eating grin still plastered across his face—and swallowed every word clawing up your throat. Barely managed it. 

Varang's fingers—meanwhile, found your hip, she dug in hard enough that tomorrow you'd wear the shape of them in bruises and adorn them like a kiss. That’s all you could do, anyway. She wouldn’t allow for anything else.

You bowed your head before you could stop it, face twisting despite yourself.

"F-Fine."

You turned the glare on Quaritch instead. Poured every drop of frustration and helpless fury into it, let it burn there where Varang couldn't track it. Never at her. Never where she could see. She wouldn't forgive that.

Her grip released. She rose—graceful and already dismissing you. She shoved you toward him with one careless hand. The push sent you stumbling forward before you caught yourself with Quaritch’s bicep.

"She'll do it, Quaritch."

"Atta girl," he drawled around a mouthful of meat.

You hissed at him. “Teylupil,”

.

.

.

Quaritch was everything you'd imagined and worse—arrogant, obtuse, swaggering through life with the blissful ignorance of someone who’d never met a problem his fists couldn’t solve. Worst of all, though? The man was charming, and with the several weeks spent between you two… fond.

You'd never say it aloud. Eywa could strike you down first. His ego needed no more compliments, it was swollen enough to crowd a room. Yet there it was: he made you laugh.

"Aww, c'mon. Like this." His tongue curled with exaggerated precision. "Patient. Pati-eee-nt. Feel that? The tongue goes up, not back."

You mimicked the shape of his mouth, lips pulling awkwardly. "Pati-eee-nt."

A low chuckle rumbled from his chest. His palm landed twice against your thigh—approving pats. "That's right. Good job."

Your ears flicked traitorously forward. Heat crept beneath your skin as a smile tugged at the corners of your mouth. Varang had never been this patient, this rewarding. Good things from her meant extra morsels of food. But Quaritch kept a pocket full of those wrapped things—candy, he called them, and handed out those small, colorful spheres when you or another na’vi did something good. 

"Patiee-nt. Patiee-nt," you murmured again, testing it.

One brow arched. His mouth quirked. "You're picking up my accent. That's a Kansa's special right there."

"Accent?" The word felt strange on your tongue. Your grasp on this language remained amature at best. You frowned. "Accent... what?"

"What's an accent," he corrected, softening his tone. "What is an accent, you mean, doll."

You tipped your head forward, eyes wide, a question within the angle. Something in that expression pleased him—his thumb caught your chin, tugging playfully. "It's like... hm. Well, not everyone talks the way I do." A laugh escaped him, warm like the sun. "S'funny, actually. You and the other Na'vi pickin’ up my way of speaking. All of you runnin’ around sounding like cowboys. The guys'll lose their minds if they hear you."

"Funny." You paused, tail curling uncertainly behind you. "Not... normal?"

He nodded, something careful entering his expression. "You ever listen to Wainfleet talk?"

"Bald one?"

Quaritch barked a laugh. “Yeah, the bald one. But don't let him hear you say that or he'll yank your tail."

That drew a smile, even if you struggled processing the words.

"Speak—" your tongue was slow and clumsy against the language. "—sloowwwlly." You tapped at your flickering ears. "Hear. Is trying to."

He hummed, tilting his head in consideration. "Yeah, that's right. Alright, I think that's done for the day." He lifted himself up and carefully reached for your hand.

The fourth finger still felt strange against your palm—foreign in the way the knuckle was twice your size. But it was nice, too. Bigger than any of the other males in your clan. No wonder Varang liked holding it. She always liked different.

"You're a quick learner, cupcake. Better than I ever was learnin' Na'vi." His voice carried some old frustration. "My boy, Spider—he tried getting it through my thick skull. An' I could barely string a sentence together."

"Spider. Son." You gave a distant nod. Varang had mentioned him once. He had a son. Wanted him back. No harm to come to him, you remembered that much.

"Mhm." His gaze drifted somewhere past your shoulder, through the woven walls to a place you couldn't follow. For once the mask of bravado slipped, and beneath it was grief of missing someone.

You didn’t really care. That was his business. And yours…

Your lower lip jutted forward in a small pout. Hand reaching out, expectant.

That snapped him back. The grin returned, easier now, and he dug into his cargo pants before pulling out the small bag. "You really like Skittles, huh?" He poured a few into his palm, fingers sorting through the colors before plucking out the red ones. You seemed to really like those. "There you go, little lady."

The taste was different from anything on Pandora, but you liked it. "Mh, good." You nodded. You immediately plopped them into your mouth and chewed. Yum.

He watched you for a long moment—longer than necessary—then bit his lower lip and reached over to tug gently at your cheek. "You're the cutest of the bunch, y'know that? Not so bad when you're like this." His thumb brushed the edge of your jaw, voice dropping quieter. "No wonder Varang keeps you around."

"She is, isn't she."

Varang sauntered through. Her body shifted like the dancing of flame, but you knew her enough. You saw her for the fire, not the warmth. You bowed your head and drew your shoulders in. Small gestures for necessary ones.

Varang's mouth was a thin, bloodless line—aimed directly at Quaritch.

She stepped to your side and pressed her hip against yours. You felt the decorative bones pricking your side, stabbing your soft skin. The contact pinned you there while her gaze carved into him. "I told you to teach her."

"And what am I doing?" Quaritch's head canted, dismissive. He wasn't the yielding type.

“Making her weak.”

He scoffed—an amused sound that bubbled into genuine exasperation. His hand found your forearm. “Hm? And how am I makin’ her weak, buttercup?”

Varang hissed.

That surprised you both. 

She hauled you back, fingers tight enough to bruise. "You may see. Not touch." Then she stepped closer to him, and the tension in her shoulders melted into something silk-smooth. Run, Quaritch. You tried telling him with your eyes. You are prey. But Varang had a way about her, captivating.

"Besides," Varang murmured, trailing one finger along the freckles of his throat, "you already have me." her lips ghosted over his pulse, and her fingers trailed down to cup the front of his pants. He hissed, a different one—a pleased one. "Do well to remember that."

She turned then, and the sultriness drained from her the moment her back faced him. Her hands found your arm again and you winced as she dragged you forward. 

You cast one glance back at Quaritch. His face had gone stony.

Her grip on your arm tightened and you winced, allowed yourself to be turned.

"Varang—" you began, stumbling to keep pace.

She didn’t slow. She dragged you into her yurt, shoving you down onto the woven mat with a force that knocked the breath from your lungs. Firelight dnced along the walls, casting her in molten gold as she paced before you.

You breathed slowly, words aching to come, yet withheld under her stare.

She paced forward, steady. You lowered your head, looking anywhere but her—the woven floor, the yurt’s wooden beams, the way ash fell between the light. Her fingers found your chin, and forced your face upward. "See me."

You did. You looked up. "I... I do see you."

That made her calm, just a bit. Her heart gentled and her expression softened into something sweet. She tilted her head, studying you with the intensity of someone memorizing a dying lover, before pressing a kiss against your lips. Her eyes never shut. They watched for your reaction, golden and unblinking, and you knew exactly which one to give.

You closed your own eyes, kissing her back, hands gripping her shoulders. Warmth bloomed where skin met skin—hers fever-hot, yours clammy. "You make me weak," she finally whispered against your mouth.

That gave you pause. She either didn't notice or didn't care.

"Varang." You tilted your head up, felt her lips brush underneath your jaw, trailing heat. Your eyes felt particularly hazy—fatigue, pain, something else entirely. She slowly brought her own queue over her shoulder, and your eyes caught the restrictive tie wrapped around the tendrils.

You glanced, freckles flashing in slight embarrassment. "R-Right now...?"

She gave a nod.

You brought your own queue forward with trembling fingers, a headache already forming. She let the tendrils bond together. The both of you shuddered. Her anger crashed over you first—the frequent memory of the volcano. The screams of her mother, the passive voice of her father: “If it is Eywa’s will, Varang… be like your sister, Varang.” Then her hate followed, the taste of salt and rock.

But underneath it lay something girlishly needy, embarrassingly seeking. A vulnerability she showed no one else. Only you were allowed such a look into her soul.

"Hm."

She walked backward then, pulling you with her until she hit the hammock. It swayed under the combined weight as she settled, then drew you into her lap, tugging at your hair. “Shhh,” She cooed.

Varang pressed a hand underneath the wrapping of your top, lifting it to kiss the skin there. You’d pierce your nipples months ago, and the bone that settled between the nubs made her mouth water. “Such fear,” she whispered against your damp skin. “But you love me. I see it. I know it.”

She licked a broad wet stripe across the sensitive areola, then drew the tight bud between her mouth, swirling her tongue around the piercing and faintly tugged. 

You whined, frowning, fingers finding the ridges of her collarbone. "You always question it."

"Naturally." She nuzzled your shoulder, breathing in the ash still clinging to your skin. Her lips switched to its twin, finally fluttering her eyes close to gently suck, saliva coating your breasts. You grinded against her thigh, pressing your face against her shoulder. “Such a needy little thing, come—”

“Tsahik,”

Yepa stood where the privacy cloth was, eyes cast down. He knew better than to interrupt Varang when she kept you to herself. Her eyes sharpened, fingers pausing where they'd been toying with the piercing.  Heat crawled up your neck. You looked away, cheeks burning. 

"Speak." She said.

Her hand drifted lower, tracing the edge of your loincloth, circling just above your mound while her mouth pressed dizzying kisses along the curve of your cheek. "Forgive me, Tsahìk," Yepa murmured. "We've spotted a new caravan. The windtraders."

Varang exhaled through her nose. Her touch stilled. For one fleeting moment, she looked at you—something almost apologetic flickering behind her eyes.

Then it was gone.

You made a soft, plaintive sound, fingers curling around her wrist. "Stay." The word came out smaller than you meant it to, and you hated yourself for it. Varang despised weakness. You were weakness.

She pushed your hand away with her usual ease. "Others hunt the meat you eat, Y/n." She didn't look at you again, said it in a cooing tone that made it all the worse.

You rewrapped your chest with fumbling hands, tail lashing hard enough snap at the air. You shoved past Yepa without meeting his eyes, head bowed low.

Not fair. The thought curled bitter in your head. She could refuse you. You could never refuse her.

Around you, the clan stirred with new activity. Warriors readied their ikran, voices risingto prepare. Blades were sharpened, the new demon-weapons brandished with eager hands. 

You weren't allowed on raids. Varang forbade it.

So instead you sat on the edge of camp and kicked rocks, watching them disappear into the embers of the sun.

"You're not going?"

You froze mid-motion, glancing back.

Quaritch.

Your frown deepened.

"Varang angry," you said quietly. She’s angry, and doesn’t want you near me. Is what you meant to say. But how could you? He was an idiot. Or maybe it was you, for not knowing how to say it.

You moved to walk past him, but his hand caught your shoulder—firm, four fingers pressing and encompassing most of it.

"So?" He snorted. "She throws a hissy fit and what? Law doesn't apply to me."

They do. Your eyes narrowed. You are one of us now. They apply.

But you didn't say it. Instead, you sighed and looked away, fingers tapping absently against the skin where your heart was underneath. "I…" You hesitated. "Weak. Not strong. Varang worry."

A pause.

"Don't tell," you grumbled.

Quaritch gave a slow nod, tail tracing a lazy arc. He leaned forward, weight shifting onto the balls of his feet. "You ever use a gun?"

You blinked. "Gun…?"

He lifted one of those compact metal bows from his holster, blocky and compact—nothing like the carved wood your people used. "Yeah. A gun. You've seen Varang use it." He jerked his chin toward the distant yurts. "Come on. I'll show you. Just don't blow my tail off."

Your gaze drifted to Varang's yurt, then skyward where the war party had departed hours ago, her Ska'avum among them. She'd be gone until dusk at least. You pressed your lips together.

"Yes. Okay."

.

.

.

The first shot made you jump, ears pressing flat against your head.

"Yeah! Booyah!" Quaritch's hands landed on your shoulders, shaking hard into your frame. "Clear damn shot. You're a natural at this, kid."

He thrust his palm upward, some human gesture you'd never seen before. 

You stared at it, confused.

Then lifted yours suspiciously, mirroring the angle.

His hand met yours with a sharp smack.

"High-five. Well—high-four," he amended, grinning wide enough to show molars. His palm found your spine, a push that was encouraging and commanding. "Come on. Again. Let's see if it was a fluke."

He was close now. Close enough that if Varang were here, if she saw—

You swallowed the thought. No. This isn't about Varang.

You adjusted your stance the way he'd shown you: shoulders angled, weight forward, breath held. The target swam into focus. You squeezed.

Bullseye.

Your tail betrayed you, wagging before you could stop it—then his hand cracked against your ass and you squealed. "Ngh!" The hiss tore from your throat, glaring at him. You almost forgot he was an asshole first, friend second.

He was already moving past you, plucking the gun from your slack grip. "And she calls you weak." A scoff.  He studied the target, grinning like some prideful mentor. "Feel pretty powerful, huh?"

You nodded slowly, studying the cluster of holes punched through the painted target. When you glanced back, he was counting the rounds with his usual efficiency.

"Think we'll add firearms to your training rotation." He didn't look up. "No point wasting time on that bow sissy-shit when you've got real stopping power available."

You stepped closer, watching his hands work. "What doing?"

"What are you doing," he corrected. "Grammar, kid. Makes me sound like some kind of assh-shat teacher." He whistled. "Anyway, I’m cleanin’ and reassembling. Maintenance. All this volcanic shit clogs the mechanisms. Messes with the equipment."

This was news to you. You paused.  "Varang…knows?"

The question landed betwene you two.

His lips peeled back—too much teeth. "Nah." He didn't look up. "Keep it that way."

A secret. You had a secret now. The thought bloomed warm, and Quaritch must have seen it written plain across your face because he chuckled, low and knowing. "You're a little minx, aren't'cha?"

You didn't know what that was, but nodded anyway.

He dug into his pockets again, fingers closing around the crinkled bag. Your hand shot out before you could think to stop it, palm up, giddy. 

He caught your wrist to steady it—the tips of his fingers padded in callouses. “You’re spoiled, you know that?” He shook the bag near your ear, grinning. "Never had much of a sweet tooth myself. Spider did, though." A pause. His jaw worked. "I traded my good socks for this."

The silence came. Then he pressed the entire bag into your palm, closing your fingers around it like it was something precious.

"Just keep it." It came out rough, almost embarrassed. "And don’t let the others see." He looked away.

You stared at the bag. Bright red plastic stamped with the strange alien letters from his world. Red. Yellow. Orange. Green. Purple. You traced each color with your eyes before lifting your gaze back at him.

You didn't know what you were thinking.

You kissed his cheek.

Quaritch actually stumbled back half a step. His ears snapped forward, eyes gone wide and startled as a spooked hexapede's. Before he could recover, you pressed another kiss to the corner of his mouth. You felt reckless, daring. The power that Varang held, you wield it now.

You skittered backward, clutching the candy to your chest, a shy smile blooming despite yourself.

"Thank you, Quaritch," you whispered.

His lips quirked, just a bit. He tilted his head back, pushed air between his teeth in a low whistle that might've been a laugh. "Yeah," he muttered, but you think it was more to himself than you. "Yeah, alright."

You left then, the bag pressed tight against your chest, tail swaying in wide arcs all the way back to the yurt.

Another secret.

.

.

.

Things were different now. You felt different, you supposed.

This shared secret between you and Quaritch had festered into something physical. It lived in the space between breaths, in the pause before he spoke your name.

And Quaritch? Quaritch was all physical.

You couldn't walk past him without a slap to the rear or a pinch to your side, something too boyish for a man his size (and his age, as you liked to remind him). But there it was anyway, that grin splitting his face, the wink that followed. "That's it, baby girl." The words dripped easy, thick as the molasses you once tasted.

The lessons were no different. Or rather—no different in how he touched you now. Instead of sweet candy he'd nudge your lips apart and kiss.

"Say it. Patient."

"Patient."

Quaritch just grinned against your mouth. "Still got that accent. It's cute." Your eyes fluttered shut. You licked away the chapness of his lips, tasted salt and something faintly bitter.

Evening meals were distant, of course. Formal. When Varang sat beside you, eating whatever meal she'd presented—she’d present a kuru, sometimes several, gifts of power and affection—you'd accept with the usual grace. The usual smiles.

And later, after you'd ignored him through dinner and feigned disinterest, Quaritch would return. That all-too-easy smile waiting for you in the dark.

Varang wouldn't know. You were happy with that.

"Stop moving," you grumbled.

You painted the whites and reds against his face in careful strokes, slapping his hands when they wandered.

"It's damn cold," he hissed. But he remained still, huffing through his nose. The pigment was thick, it had to be. Smelling just a bit of crushed minerals, rendered fat, and berries. You had to change the recipe for him, he sweat too much and smeared it everywhere—too impatient to let it dry.

You rolled your eyes. The two of you were tucked beneath the newly constructed yurt. Varang had moved everyone to the RDA base, and Quaritch had been more than eager to accommodate the clan into the facility's sprawling guts. If he wasn't with her, or the strange pink-skins, then he was with you.

"It's cold because you take too long." You swept your thumbs in parallel lines along his cheeks, forming a sharp V that cascaded down the bridge of his nose. The pattern was traditional, though your hand trembled slightly as you worked. 

You watched him through your lashes, heat creeping up your neck when you realized he'd been staring back. "What?"

Quaritch clicked his tongue, angling his head low. He pressed his cheek against your palm, the paint smudged just a bit, but you didn’t correct him. "Nothin'... just—sweet is all. You're sweet."

Your fingers drifted to your songcord almost unconsciously, tracing the amber bead you'd added most recently. Inside, suspended in golden resin, a single red skittle.

"I didn't think you'd be so sappy," you murmured, a smile tugging at your mouth.

"Sappy? Now where'd you learn that word?"

"Lyle." You said innocently. “The bald one."

Quaritch grinned, and his hand found your back—thumb pressing the base of your tail. "Course it was. The bastard—"

"Do you think I am a fool?"

Your tail went rigid mid-sway, ears swiveling before the rest of you caught up. You turned, careful, already knowing what you'd find.

Varang stood at the threshold, stripped of her usual paint and accessories. She looked exactly as she had when you were both girls and the forest still held its green—Vulnerable.

"Varang," you started, placating. "We were almost—"

A hiss tore from her throat. Her nose wrinkled, lips peeling back from her teeth. "Do not." She lifted one hand, fingers curling through the air in a white-knuckled clench.

You'd never seen her this furious. Not even since—

Your ears flattened against your skull.

"You do not ask permission, sky-man." She began to circle Quaritch now, and her hands drifted to the twin buugeng blades strapped at her hips. 

Quaritch's expression didn't shift. If anything, it settled into something lazier. Bored, almost. He tracked her with his eyes, then let out a low chuckle that rumbled through his chest. "And when have you?"

He rose slowly, joints popping, and your handprint still blazed red across his cheek.

Varang faltered as she eyed the paint. For just a heartbeat—her brows pinched into something wounded—but then she shook her head, and the mask slammed back into place.

"Seems to me, cupcake," Quaritch drawled, stepping into her space, "that you and I are too similar."

His gaze slid to you.

Then his hands found Varang's shoulders, turning her to face you instead. "She don't seem too concerned." His voice dropped rough, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. "And I bet she'd take both of us sweetly. Hm?"

Varang stared. Her expression smoothed into something unreadable, eerily calm, yellow eyes locked on yours.

"Have you two bonded?"

Your stomach dropped. "No. Varang, we—"

"Nah." Quaritch's answer came quicker than yours, easier. "We haven't. You can keep that if you want." His lips grazed the curve of Varang's neck, breath hot against the delicate skin there. His hands slid lower, palms molding to her waist, then dipping to the swell of her hips. "If it makes you feel special."

He grinned.

Varang twisted free in one fluid motion, closing the distance between you in two strides. Her hand fisted in your hair, dragging you close enough that you could see every fleck of amber in her yellow eyes. "You smell like him."

Then she kissed you.

Hard. 

Her canines caught your lower lip, tugging until you tasted copper. A sound escaped you, swallowed just before it turned pitiful..

Behind you, Quaritch shifted closer. You couldn't see him, but you felt the heat of him, the broad wall of his chest almost brushing your shoulder blades. His hand came down heavy on the curve of your ass, grabbing an absolute fistful.

And you, you felt multiple hands now. Varang's fingers worked the braided top, peeling it free until your breasts were bare beneath her palms. They bounced just a bit, purple nipples perking. Behind you, Quaritch's thumbs traced the curve of your ass before lifting the weight of each cheek. He let them plop down, and groaned.

"Fuck," he muttered, voice dropping to gravel. "Won't you look at that." His knuckles grazed the stripes that contoured around the flesh, mesmerized.

Miles…" You turned your head, the syllable half-formed. Instinct seeked his face, but Varang's fist caught your braids and wrenched you back. 

Her teeth found your lower lip.

"Not at him." The growl rumbled against your mouth. "Me."

Quaritch's laugh was low, almost lazy. "Think she likes me better. I ain't so punishing." His palm cracked against your rear—only once, but something purple was already forming. "Say my name again, doll."

"Miles—" But Varang swallowed it, mouth sealing over yours, and she shot him a look that could've drawn blood.

"You ain't playing fair," He had that smile, you knew he did even if you couldn’t see it.

Both hands rose to cradle your jaw, now. Thumbs stroking the jaw where tension pooled. She pressed kisses all over—the corner of your lips, the hollow of your throat, the slope of your shoulder where your scent glands were located. Marking you with her own scent.

"If you can only win by fairness," she whispered, lips brushing your shoulders "you are no true warrior."

Then she kissed you again

Quaritch's mouth twitched. Without warning, he hauled you back against him, fingers sinking into your hips, grinding you into the hard line of his pelvis. "So you wanna play like that?"

Varang pulled back with a hiss, chest rising. She looked at you—just once—then stepped forward. She wore seduction in her hips now, curling her lips, tasting her skin. "Only if you think yourself capable."

"Hm. Challenge accepted." His attention dropped to your chest, dismissive for just a moment before he took another look. He pinched a nub. "Fuck, baby girl. You had these the whole time?"

He flicked the other with his thumb, feeling the bone piercing. Your body jerked, a gasp wriggling out. “O-Oh…” His mouth went lower, descending a hot trail while his hands lazily hooked your loincloth to the side. His calloused fingers found your clit, the rough pad of his thumb circling.

"Miles, please…" Your head fell forward, brows pinching together, and the sound that left you was barely coherent.

Before you, Varang sank to her knees.

You'd never seen her like this—all that fierce pride folded into something softer, reflective of her soul. Her palms smoothed up your thighs, reverent. When she looked up at you through dark lashes, blinking slow, you blushed.

“You beg for him,” She undid your loincloth properly now, throwing it over her shoulder to the fire nearby. “Now you will beg for me” She simply lowered her mouth and licked—a long, flat, possessive stripe from your entrance to your clit, pushing Quaritch’s thumb aside with the force of it. 

He only grunted. His fingers traced your ribs, mapping each curve, each rise of skin. Up, then down. Feeling. Always feeling. He nudged your legs apart. Varang needed room, afterall.

She took it.

Varang nudged her face, nuzzling the purple flesh and mouthing your pussy. Suckling the flesh. When she looked up, her eyes were hazy with peace—and if you dared to call it—love. You watched her tail sway behind her. A soft huff escaped you.

She spread your pretty pussy lips with her thumbs, then spat. You watched the silver strand descend, sliding down your slit in complete arousal.

“So pretty,” she cooed. “You like this, yes?”

Her finger brisked along the opening, pinching your folds together. They were undeniably swollen, plump. She always liked how engorged they became when you were aroused. Like a dumpling. She thought.

She pressed one fingertip to the left lip, and watched it bounce back. “Varang.” You pushed your hips forward, pouting.

Both chuckled. “What did I say?” Quaritch mused. “Spoiled. Absolutely spoiled.”

He lifted you—just slightly—and chucked his loincloth aside. You glanced down.

Your mind emptied of everything but his cock.

Your hands flew to his forearms, fingers digging into the muscle there just as your legs kicked in a brief instinctive pedal. “Wait—wait!”

He went still, swallowing. “Somethin’ the matter?” He glanced over your shoulder to look at Varang, who now leaned back on her hands, head cocked into something teasing.

He settled you on his thick thigh instead, tracing numbers over your stomach. 

You dragged your gaze back down, helpless. It was… big. Long, thick, veined with ridges that made your mouth water and your lips tremble all the same. The head was a broad, blunt crown, flushed a deep, violent purple, and below, his balls were heavy and full. 

A low, involuntary sound escaped you as you gave a tiny, shameful shuffle, the slick heat of you grinding against the muscle of his thigh. You bit your lower lip until you tasted the copper hint of blood.

“Well… it’s…”

“She’s never taken a man.” Varang’s murmur was matter-of-fact. Her eyes shifted to you, her smile softening.

For once, he seemed surprised. “What? But you and her have—”

“I have never allowed a man to touch her.” Varang’s scoffed, as if the idea was ridiculous. “Any who’ve tried I’ve killed myself.” She leaned forward now, before going on a crawl. Her eyes, now heavy-lidded, inspected his cock. 

She bit her own plump lip, then leaned in to press a soft, lingering kiss to the tip. Her eyes fluttered shut as she did it, and above you, Quaritch hissed—no doubt pleased.

“It doesn’t bite, Y/n.” Varang stroked your trembling thigh, her touch gentling, before she turned back. She opened her mouth, suckling the broad head, wetting it thoroughly, then licked a long, torturous stripe from root to tip. The sound was obscenely wet.

“Ngh, fuck…” The groan was torn from Quaritch’s chest, you never thought you’d hear such a sound from him.

It felt right, strangely.

He buried his face against the junction of your neck and shoulder, his arms locking around you, binding you to the solid wall of his heat. His breaths came in uneven puffs. His large, warm hands splayed across your stomach, fingers pressing in rhythmic, almost absent-minded taps. “Not so much now…” he managed, voice strangled.

Varang only scoffed around him, the vibration earning another jerk of his hips. She bobbed her head, taking him deeper, her cheeks hollowing. “This is not for you,” she shot back, pulling off with a wet sound. “So weak. Cannot even last.”

That earned a guttural grunt. He fluttered his eyes open, the yellow within them hollowed by the black of his pupil.

He turned his head and bit the shell of your ear. “You listenin’ to her?” he hummed. You felt his pout. “So mean to me. But you ain’t, darlin’. You’re good. All good and sweet stuff.” He nuzzled, then placed a softer, startling kiss on your cheek.

You both watched, mesmerized, as Varang returned to her work. Your own hands reached and took what she couldn’t. He groaned then, thighs bouncing, dragging against your clit. 

“Ngh,” You whined.

Finally, she withdrew with a slick, echoing pop. She slowly unraveled her tongue, giving one last lon lick from across his shaft.

“There.” Her cooed. “Nice and wet for you to sit on, my beloved. A proper throne.”

“T_Thank you, Varang.”

You thought it was so strange, how someone like Quaritch could be so… gentle at times. His hands found the back of your knees, planting a squeeze against the delicate hinge. Then, he pressed your cheek against his.

“You ready, buttercup?”

You felt the vibration of his voice against your back, rumbling from his chest to your bones. He was like that, of course—all consuming.

Your eyes found themselves downward before you managed the smallest nod. “Y-Yes.”

It was all he needed. “Good girl.” The praise sent warmth all around your body. “Knew you could.” He pat your thighs.

Then he lifted. It was an easy strength he had, lifting as if it were nothing. He shuffled, bringing your knees to your breasts, cocking his head to the side to see. Instinctively, your hands flew behind you, fingers searching for the anchor of his shoulders.

You felt it first, the wet head jutting against your cunt. The broad slick head grazing your slit, parting it just enough to make it audible. Your pussy clenched, and you drew in your breath. 

“Shh… relax.” He cooed. “I won’t move until you want to.” 

He began the slow work of getting you used to it. His hips rolled in a shallow, circular tease, moving his hips so his dick coated itself with your slick. 

Then, with a controlled shift, he gathered both your knees in the vice of one formidable arm, the other hand wrapping around the base of his shaft. 

A groan, raw and deep, tore from his chest as he notched himself at your entrance.

Varang watched, transfixed at the sight.

He pushed.

The burn was instant.

Your eyes flew wide, seeing nothing and everything. “Big—it’s big, Miles—” You babbled, already trying to claw away.

He grunted, and his teeth found the end of your flickering ear.  “The more you squirm, the more it’ll hurt. Shh… shh, it’ll be okay, sugar.”

You tried to obey—really you did, but you couldn’t help the tears that flowed down in wet fat blobs. “Thats it.” He settled you down slow, inch by inch. “See? Its not so—Fuck!”

Varang pushed your hips down, and naturally you screamed, suddenly impaled. Miles, caught off guard, bucked upward with a startled hiss, his ears pinning flat against his skull. Varang’s giggle was a light, airy thing that quickly boiled over into a full-throated laugh.

“So weak,” she snarled, the sweetness evaporating. She patted your trembling thighs before pushing them wider, folding you open and giving herself a perfect, obscene view of either sex.

“You’re fuckin’ crazy,” Miles breathed.

Your belly was full of him. A distinct, visible bulge swelled at your lower tummy. Your cunt was stretched to a painful pink halo around the thick blue of his cock. You just breathed, glancing down—at her, at him.

“Ngh… j-just go…. Please, Miles.”

The words left you in spent sigh, so fragile.

He shuddered where he held you—and nodded. “Alright, buttercup.” He pressed a single fat kiss to the crown of your head, then moved.

Miles Quaritch did nothing by half-measures. His hands locked around the curve of your hips, fingers biting into flesh as he pulled you down and drove himself up. You swore you could feel the tip bristle against your cervix. 

“Oh… fuck.” The curse was low, a rumble you absorbed through your spine. “So fuckin’ tight.”

The force of him made your world condense to sensation. To the deep, stretching fullness, the slap of skin, the dizzying bounce of your breasts. One of his palms slid up to capture a peak—holding it to a squeeze.

And then, because he relished in it, he buried his face against your shoulder, his breath coming in delicious puffs. You could feel every stifled groan turn into a grunt, only to dissolve into a moan.

He likes this. He likes me. You blushed.

Varang shifted closer. Her cool fingers traced the sweat-slicked tension of his balls, cupping the heavy weight before her tongue swept over your clit.

You squealed. “Oh!” You pressed both hands over her head, eyes wide. 

“You look so pretty, Y/N,” she murmured, her voice a honeyed smoke against your fevered skin. “So perfect, split open like this.” You heard the rustle of her loincloth, the wet sound of her own fingers working between her legs, the slick rhythm of her thumb on her clit. 

Her moan was low, and the vibration of it against your most sensitive nerve sent pure pleasure tearing through your core.

“I love you—” The confession was a needy thing, meant for both, owned by neither. But they knew, you were sure they did. “I’m…ah…!”

Miles stole most of your speech, dragging your hips to meet his punishing pace, folding your body to fit him deeper. The angle was brutal, perfect. “Fuck. Gonna cum inside this pussy,” he growled. “Gonna flood you.”

Varang’s mouth left you with a soft pop. “No,” she hissed. “You will not.”

He laughed, somehow teasing and joyful…maybe a bit disbelieving. “Fuck yeah, I will. Gonna pump this tight cunt full. Gonna fuck a baby right into her.” He was sneering at her, a direct challenge even as his hips began to lose their rhythm, succumbing to a ragged, urgent pounding.

“Thrones do not talk, Quaritch.”

“T-This one does.” A stutter from him, a victory for her.

You could feel it. The ache of release. His balls drew up tight against you. Varang felt it too. Her hand tightened around a ball sack, vise-like warning.

He hissed. “Agh—Shit! Woman, don’t you—!”

And then you clenched. Not a voluntary act, your inner muscles clenching around him in a series of frantic, milking pulses. 

A broken yelp escaped you as you came, turning liquid and mindless around his huge dick. Now he was trapped: between Varang’s iron hand and your sweet, convulsing vice.

“Ngh—Christ!” His whole body locked, eyes rolling back in a spasm.

Varang moved, she wouldn’t allow him. She hauled you off him, a gasp torn from your lips at the sudden emptiness, and her fist was around him, stroking, pumping, directing. His release shot in thick, pearlescent ropes across her cheek, her chin, the proud arch of her neck.

She blinked slowly, unimpressed. A single, sticky strand dripped onto her collarbone. She caught it on a finger, flicked it away with utter disdain. “You will not get her pregnant,” she stated, and it was final.

Miles was a spent force, chest heaving. He let out a winded puff, then a low, sated laugh. One eye slid open, crinkled with admiration. “You’re evil,” he rasped, pulling your boneless form against his solid thigh. He nuzzled into your hair, both hands coming up to weigh your breasts, holding you to him as if claiming spoils. 

You on the other hand were dazed, trying to remember how to breathe.

Varang scoffed. “Well.” In one smooth motion, she took your wrists, pulling you from Mile’s slackened grip toward her. He yielded with a grunt, shifting heavily on the mat, already feeling exhaustion in his bones.

“Our turn,” Varang said. And she smiled, a true sweet thing.

You blinked. “...Uh… What?”

She laid you back on the woven mat, the fibers imprinting on your sweat-slick skin. Her loincloth fell away. “You haven’t made me come yet,” she pouted. “It’s no fair.”

You offered a weak, sheepish smile. “Let me—Oofmp!”

She pushed you flat, and climbed over you. “Shhh…” Her thigh brushed your cheek, then she settled her weight, the hot, musky scent of her arousal enveloping you. She sank down onto your waiting mouth with a soft, shuddering moan.

Then she glanced over at Miles, already snoring softly. She scoffed, rolling her eyes, and her hips began a slow, commanding grind against your lips.

“Weak.”

"Psycho. Genuinely psychotic."

"You wouldn't be on about a certain girl again, would you bro?" Lo'ak asks, rolling his eyes and thinking he wouldn't catch it.

"No," Aonung grumbles. He pulls the net taut, perhaps a little too tight, because it snaps straight and spurts water all over him. Lo'ak and Spider protests and flick him back. "Why would I be talking about her?"

"Hmmm, I don't know," Spider leans forward on his ilu, looking out at the empty cove. "Maybe because you've spent the entire morning making cryptic throwaway comments and then shutting it down when we call you out on it."

"That and the million hickeys."

He shoots Lo'ak a glare, and the Sully boy bursts out laughing. He hadn't really thought about what he might look like returning to the village that morning, but when he entered the marui to find the boys, they and Tsireya had looked up in pure shock. Of course everyone had assumed something dirty and he had to quash any insinuations about make-up make-outs, but some deep part of him stirred when the words nothing happened and just medicinal healing were spammed from his mouth.

"Come on bro, who do you think you're fooling. You spend all day with her, then you get in a fight last night, crash back at your family's place, leave the village super early to do whatever you do before sunrise and run into her, refuse to tell us anything about that, and then return in the morning to come fishing looking like you've been attacked by a fucking octopus."

"Firstly, I don't even know what the hell an octopus is," Aonung scowls. "Secondly, I will continue to say nothing because you two are insufferable and I don't trust you not to repeat anything back to your girlfriends. Thirdly, it was hardly a fight."

"Call it what it is," Spider examines the glint of his new Metkayina knife in the sunlight, "it was a fight."

"How would you know?"

"Tuk saw you sitting together at the edge of the reef," the human shrugs. "She was collecting shells on the edge of the village and thought she heard raised voices."

"How do you know we weren't just-"

"What, singing?" Lo'ak laughs. "What else would raised voices mean other than a fight, skxawng. Besides, we saw you storm off and swim away and leave her behind."

"I didn't leave her behind."

Aonung was really starting to regret agreeing to this fishing trip, but it was either this or risk the chance of running into Ikari again. After this morning and the weird, terrible way it ended, he's starting to dread ever seeing her again.

He can still feel the ghost of her lips along his collar. She had burned him wherever she touched, sharper than the stings and smoother than the tight press of the hollow. She had been on him, against him, every incredibly intimate place no one should ever be in whatever platonic, co-dependant, half-detesting, part-educative sort of thing they have going on, and the comfortable trajectory they had towards decent interaction had suddenly dipped into the darkest pits of irreparable unknown.

"Well maybe she wouldn't have cried if you stayed."

Spider's voice jolts him straight back to the cove. 

"What?"

"I said, maybe she wouldn't have cr-"

"I heard what you said," Aonung waves away the little boy's words. "What do you mean, though? She cried?"

"Well... I mean..." Spider shifts awkwardly under his sudden attention. "She sort of... threw something into the ocean and curled into a little ball."

Something twists hard and heavy in his stomach. He didn't expect to feel so guilty at that.

You are the broken one.

God, what had he been thinking saying that to her? She'd pushed him - too far, sure - but he was supposed to be better than that. He was meant to be patient, as insurmountable as stone, so comfortable in himself he could not be baited to anger.

"It's probably not that bad," Lo'ak hurries to say, noticing the way Aonung's face has screwed up in regret. "What were you talking about?"

"We were talking about life. Our clans, you know, and love."

"Okay," Lo'ak shrugs. "That's not so bad. What did you say?"

"I sort of... told her she was broken."

"Dude," Spider whistles lowly. "That is bad. Like, really bad."

"Shut up," Aonung swipes a hand over his face. "She was really angry, saying some really crazy stuff, and it just slipped out."

"How. What else did you use to cushion something like, oh hey, you're broken?"

"Uh," he wrinkles his nose, "I might have said I pity her."

"Oh jesus," Spider laughs in horror. "Aonung, what the fuck were you thinking?"

"I wasn't."

"Okay, maybe it's not that bad," Lo'ak offers helpfully. "What happened this morning?"

Aonung hesitates. There's no way he can admit his secret tsurak training, and he also doesn't want to throw Ikari under the akula for flying either. But he also doesn't want to spend the rest of his life avoiding her, so these two idiots might be his biggest hope.

"I found her in the woods," he starts loosely, ignoring the skeptical look on his friends' faces. "We were just talking, then these crazy stinging beetle wasp things attacked us out of nowhere."

"Nowhere?"

"Well, we were throwing fruit. Not aggressively," he says quickly, as they frown at him. "Just playing, you know. Maybe they liked the smell of the juice or something, because they were stinging us and stinging us and the only place we could hide was in this tree hollow. So we're waiting it out but our stings are throbbing like a bitch, and she tries this healing remedy of-"

"- sucking the venom out of the wound," Lo'ak finishes. "Yeah, we used to have to do that in the forest."

"Right," Aonung swallows. "So there. It's a very professional approach."

Lo'ak and Spider share an infuriatingly snide look.

"Very professional, given the way you're hot just thinking about it."

"I am not," he retorts. Hotly. 

"Please, that shit-eating grin is fooling nobody," Spider laughs. "You're telling me you two were hiding in a small enclosed space, lips all up on each other, and you felt nothing?"

Aonung stalls. Nothing. What an interesting concept. So black and white. On the one hand, it would be the correct answer to agree that he didn't feel a thing. On the other, correct did not mean truthful, and he's suddenly glad truth was never his strong suit.

Her tail tangles around his leg. Somehow her hand finds its way to his arms, sliding up the muscle and curling into it. Her mouth is so, so warm on his shoulder. He swears he feels the rough slide of her tongue against his skin. He can feel her lips part and round when he sucks tender dip of her throat, and he'd be lying if he said he didn't do it again to hear her bite back a sigh and press back into him.

"Look at him, day-dreaming about it again."

"No," he forces out, blinking wide to force the sunlight in and burn away the stupid images in his mind. "No."

"No what? You didn't feel anything?"

"Well... I..."

"You did feel something?"

"God, give the guy a break," Lo'ak splashes Spider. "This is him realising for the first time that girls don't naturally just fall at your feet."

"Alright, alright," the human holds his hands up in defeat. "But I'm surprised by you, Aonung. I've never seen you at a loss when it comes to a woman."

"I am not at a loss."

"Right. This is all intentional obsession."

"Who said anything about obsession?"

"Your entire being this last week?" Lo'ak offers. "We've barely seen you."

"I've been busy."

"Yet you want to get busier- OW!"

"Worry about your own catches," Aonung laughs, drawing the butt of his spear from where he'd just prodded his friend. "Leave me to figure out my own problems."

"She's a problem alright," Spider massages his poked stomach. "A big bad grey one."

"Not so bad," Aonung.

"So how did it end, then?"

Right. The ending. The one where they were definitely safe to go outside, the one where her eyes had been so bright and gold and she couldn't have been closer if she tried. The one where a second too safe, she ran away.

"I don't know," he sighs. "She just left."

"What do you mean she just left."

"Exactly that. One moment we're so close and..." he swallows, ignoring the hot sourness of the words before adding, "then the next, she's just gone."

"Eywa," Lo'ak runs a hand through his braids. "What is up with this girl? Did you do something?"

"No."

"Okay, god, just asking. Are you sure you didn't say something or-"

"No," Aonung snaps. "She was apologising."

"Apologising? She really doesn't seem the sort. What did she have to be sorry about?"

"Nothing," he forces a shrug. "She didn't do anything. It's probably good she left then. I'm glad we didn't do anything we'd regret."

Lo'ak laughs in celebration as his net tugs. He draws out the writhing fish he'd caught. 

"It sounds like you still have regrets though, bro. Otherwise you wouldn't be thinking this much."

Aonung mulls that over in his mind. Learning patience has been a testing journey, but along it, he's found that it often helps to consider people's words before just blowing the fuck up at them. So, while he wants nothing more than to cut this conversation off here, he's not immature enough to pretend it didn't help to get something off his chest. Better her than everything else.

Thankfully, they let him drop it until they finish fishing.

"So what now?" Spider asks, once they've pulled out around the rocks and Awa'atlu comes back into view.

He doesn't ask what the human means.

"No clue," he shrugs. "I don't want to stress her out. She looked pretty freaked when she left, so give her space, I guess."

"That's nice," Lo'ak narrows his eyes. "You're not nice."

"Fuck you too."

"No," his friend exhales, "I just mean... that's not the shit you do Aonung. You're not a space-giving, time waiting person."

"How do you know that?"

"Because I know you and that is not what the same boy who teased Kiri or left me outside the reef would have done."

"I was a kid then. I'm grown now." Aonung hesitates. "You know I can't afford to make any mistakes here. Not now. So... I need to be careful."

Lo'ak blinks. Neither had expected to grow so close over this last year, but they'd found some odd reflection in the other when again, Aonung's idiocy had taught him another lesson.

"This is not Aonung's fault. This was my idea. Aonung tried to talk me out of it."

Babytail's voice made him look up sharply. He had been waiting for the blow, for the blame. As always, he had fucked up, and he had braced himself for his parents' disappointment once more. But the forest boy had stepped in and taken it, even though Aonung had left him good as dead.

He was surprised to feel that twisting guilt as he watched Lo'ak get dragged away. He didn't miss the fury in Jake Sully's eyes, a look so familiar it made him flinch from afar.

He found himself chasing after Lo'ak when the boy stormed away, through the woven walkways and down to the soft sand.

"Why did you speak for me?" Aonung asks, catching up as the firelight fades behind them.

Lo'ak has this glinting coldness in his eyes as he looks over at him. In between the jade and onyx, he finds the same pain. That secondary feeling, the shadow of a greater shame. 

"Because," the forest boy shrugs, "I know what it's like to be one big disappointment."

He's taken aback by that. No one had ever dared to call him disappointing before. He had always been accomplished, daring, strong, handsome. He had of course seen the frustration he so often brought to his family, but their words and punishments had always fallen short of actually saying the words.

Babytail was the only one to say it; the cold, hard truth he had always struggled to accept.

Disappointment.

And, surprising them both, Aonung laughs. 

"Perhaps you are not so bad, forest boy," he claps a hand on Lo'ak's shoulder. "I am sorry for my behaviour earlier."

He half-expects Lo'ak to brush him off, but the shorter boy just grins back.

"Nah bro, us disappointments gotta stick together. Can't live in our father's shadows forever."

"Okay," Lo'ak nods, accepting Aonung's final answer. He knew enough about duty, no matter what his father said. "I trust you, bro."

Aonung nods gratefully back at him. He liked Spider enough, but without Neteyam or Rotxo- well, it was strange to have Lo'ak be the only familiar face to count on.

Awa'atlu is busy today. The hunters are out, but the weavers and artisans are all out enjoying the sun and the sand. Harvesters busy themselves in the rock pools, and as they glide through the bay, he can see the divers darting through the depths. They haul their net out onto the docks and get several reef boys to prepare the meat to pass around the village; one upside of being respected meant an enviable supply of willing labour in the clan's young men.

"Hey," Lo'ak says excitedly as they enter the Tsahik's hut and he spots Tsireya. "How was your morning?"

Aonung smiles as Lo'ak darts over to his sister, touching her face fondly and dropping to the floor next to her. While he hadn't approved of them at their arrival, he couldn't deny that Lo'ak and Tsireya were a sweet couple, and he wouldn't question anyone that made her that.

"Busy," Kiri sighs, smiling too as Spider tugs at her tail. "Hey- stop that, skxawng."

"With what?" her love-struck assailant asks. 

"Oh, you know. Patching up some coral scrapes, sound therapy for some elder's migraines. We were going to go find more herbs for burns, because these new training fisherman do not know how to drag a net without roughing themselves up, but Ikari said she'd get him."

"Ikari?" Aonung's ears prick up from where he'd been ignoring the stupid affection of the couples surrounding him. "She was here?"

"Yes, she was here. Which, by the way," Kiri folds her arms and raises her hairy brows at him, "brings me to my question. What the hell did you do to her?"

Spider snickers. 

"Nothing," he grumbles, tired of what everyone seems to have decided was today's only topic of conversation.

"Nothing?" Tsireya tilts her head. "You'd think she was attacked by how red she was all over. She looked like someone had been trying to suck the blood from her."

"Not blood, just venom." He groans at the waiting gazes. There's no way he has to explain this again. "We were attacked this morning by these weird beetles, had to seek shelter, had to suck out the venom so we didn't die or something. Does everyone's minds need to be so filthy, or can we look at this professionally and medically?"

"Well, that's not that hard to explain," Tsireya frowns. "I don't know why she couldn't just tell us that."

"She didn't?"

"Well, she wasn't exactly keen on conversation this morning," Kiri offers. "We came by this morning after breakfast and found her looking through these. I think she was trying to make something to put on her stings, but she jumped halfway to Earth when she saw us and then was super quiet and skittish after that. So when we said we needed herbs, she volunteered and left."

Aonung frowns. "Did she say anything?"

"Only that she wanted to walk. Clear her head."

Right.

"Do you know where she went?"

"Left side of the bay. I told her paywll grows behind the unidelta grove. I didn't really question it, she looked glad to be able to go off alone somewhere."

"Is she alright?" Tsireya asks, looking a little worried. "She didn't come to dinner last night, after all, and-"

"- I'll go find her," Aonung says.

Lo'ak frowns at him. He raises his brows. "Bro..."

"Bro," Aonung replies dully.

"Did you not just say you were going to give her space?" 

"Space?" Tsireya questions. "I think she's lonely."

"Mhm," Spider agrees. "It doesn't feel great being the only one of your kind. She must feel intrusive. Outcast, too."

Of course Aonung had considered that before, but she'd brushed it off so easily he'd hesitated to pick that thought back up. 

"So..."

"Go find her," Kiri suggests. "Check on her. She did seem to be... off... this morning."

"Good luck," Lo'ak smiles. Aonung exits the marui. Behind his back, so busy thinking about her, he misses his friends' laughs as they watch him leave. "He's going to need it."

The luck must never have reached him, because only a few walkways past his friends passing the war hut, he's caught by the sound of his father's voice.

"Aonung."

"Yes, father?"

This was ridiculous. He is a great warrior, a skilled hunter too. He is miles ahead of anyone his own age. He had earned his right to assurance. So why does the growl of his name still manage to quicken his pulse?

Tonowari is alone, a rare occurrence these days. His father always likes to busy himself when times are tough, and whenever he is not helping the people, they are doing their part for him with meals or gifts or condolences.

"Come here, son. Come. Sit."

Aonung follows his father's gestures, crouching on the woven mat. His knee presses sharply between the reeds. 

"This girl," Tonowari booms. "You spend your time with her?"

"Yes," he says tightly. "I have been training her like you instructed, in the ways of our people."

He meets his father's gaze. He doesn't find the disappointment he was expecting, but there's something unreadable in the blue.

"What have you learnt of her?"

Surprised at the simple question, Aonung has to take a moment before answering.

"She is a proficient warrior, even after being severely wounded. She is not naturally strong in the water, but she improves each day at a fast pace. Everything on land she picks up."

He watches his father's reaction to his words. Is this information detailed enough? Is it useful? Is he doing well?

"What about her?" Tonowari presses beyond the changes since her arrival.

"I still have not learnt her purpose in her clan. She has implied she has not been assigned any general role, and she says she is still in training despite having passed her iknimaya. She has tamed a nightwraith, rather than the ikran most Mangkwan bond with, and she is a very skilled rider. Archer, too. She was surely in some role of conflict, she is too precise too not hunt or fight. No, not fight," he amends. "She doesn't fight. But she is also not a gatherer or artisan, despite also being proficient at both."

"What use is she?"

That question catches him again. He hates the way he always seems to. His father never fails to keep him in bated breath.

"She was at the demon headquarters," he murmurs. "She knows the sky man, Quaritch. She sounds like her people respected her."

"So how do we trust her, Aonung?"

This one's a test, he knows that much. The lilt of his father's voice towards something harder, intent to understand. Tonowari is looking for an answer now.

"She has brought no harm to anyone. I doubt she intends to. And she is getting bett-"

"No," the Olo'eyktan holds up his hand to stop him. Aonung's voice stalls in his throat. "Why do you trust her, son?"

He swallows. "Because I can see she tries to fit what she thinks I expect of her. She hasn't yet let go of what she has been taught, so I can see she has a strong heart, but a hollow one. She has been made to think she should always be hard, yet that's what makes her broken. They have hurt her, father. I can see it. She's hurting, and tired, and sick, and so confused. She has been lost, and she doesn't want this to be where she is found. She fears it being here because of what her people would think."

Tonowari listens as he talks. He misses the careful tilt of his father's face as he notes his son's calming voice when he speaks of the girl. Preoccupied with pleasing Tonowari, Aonung doesn't notice the reckless understanding that creeps into his words. 

"Aonung," he finally speaks. His voice is low and cautious, that mild restriction that withholds true meaning. "You have grown close with her."

"I only-"

"Let me finish. You have grown yourself. I have seen you speak with her, share food with her, educate her and perhaps most importantly take the time to try and understand her. These are things I would not have thought you capable of last year" - Aonung flushes -  "and yet you have shown an outsider kindness and patience. For that, my son, you have made me proud."

He looks up in surprise. His father is smiling in the way that lingers in his eyes.

"You have found what I would not be able to in her. You have found some softness in stone, but I urge you not to crack in pursuit of it."

The stupid little curl of hope unfurls in his chest. That had been a cushioning.

"These are dangerous times, and our people cannot risk losing you."

"They will not."

"They already watch you. And now, they watch her. It can be risky, proximity. While the Metkayina respect geniality, our people are grieving. They are not whole. And aligning so closely to her, so publicly and personally... I urge you, son, do not lose sight of who we are. You are the future of our people. You will lead and learn from me, just as your children will learn from you." 

Aonung doesn't miss the insinuation there. While he may welcome the outsiders, his blood is insular. Tsireya already has Lo'ak. The Metkayina must maintain some culture, after all, and their Olo'eyktan must always be an example.

"Yes, father," he murmurs. "I will be more careful from now on."

"It is not only about care."

To his surprise, his father's hand falls to his shoulder. It is firm and rough, a reminder that no matter how big he tells himself he is, he is still not the man that the clan reveres. But it is also tender, and beneath the warm palm, Aonung can feel the thrum of the blood he carries in his own veins.

"I need you to stay here," Tonowari says. "I need you to stay safe. You are my son before my heir. If anything should happen to you..."

Aonung reaches up and presses his own hand atop his father's. 

"I will be careful, father," he promises. "I will make you proud."

No matter what. No matter the cost. I will find a way to body your burdens.  I will be what I must.

Even if that means pulling away.

Ikari had drawn back first, anyway.

You had known Megumi Fushiguro for years now, but the very first day you saw him had been nothing more than a fleeting glance in the park. You were just a kid then, legs scuffed from running around, hair messy from the wind. He was sitting alone on the edge of the sandbox, knees pulled up, a faraway look in his eyes that didn't belong to a boy his age. No one was talking to him, and he didn't seem to care. Still, you'd marched over, a smile stretching across your face, and asked if he wanted to play tag. He didn't even look at you. Just turned his head slightly, like the sound of your voice was nothing but background noise, and stared at the ground.

It was strange-almost funny-how fate seemed determined to make you cross paths with him again. A week later, you joined the same middle school. You spotted him in the hallway on the first day, hair a little longer, uniform perfectly in place. He walked alone, sat alone, and when the other boys invited him to join a game of soccer, he shook his head and left without a word. You didn't understand it, but something about his quiet, untouchable air made you curious. Maybe it was the way he seemed untethered, like he could slip away at any moment.

So you started following him around-not in a way you thought was creepy, just... persistent. Every day you'd slip him one of the colorful candies your dad always brought home for you, the kind wrapped in shiny foil. You'd hold it out to him with a grin, and every time, he'd just blink at you, say nothing, and keep walking. Days passed like that. You thought maybe you were wearing him down, but then one afternoon, just as you pressed a candy into his palm, he frowned and muttered, "You're annoying."

The words had hit harder than you expected. You weren't sure why. Maybe because you'd really believed you could be friends. The teacher, catching the tail end of the exchange, scolded him gently, saying, "Don't be like that, Fushiguro, she's just trying to be nice."

You told yourself he hadn't meant it-after all, you were both kids, and kids said careless things-but still, the sting lingered.

So the next day, you didn't talk to him. Or the day after that. You kept your distance, busying yourself at lunch with your own group. It was on the third day, as you were halfway through a sandwich, that a small, familiar hand placed something on your desk-a candy, wrapped in the exact foil you used to give him.

"Hurry up so we can play," he said, his tone flat, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

You blinked up at him. "Play?"

He met your gaze, eyes steady. "Didn't you say you wanted to play with me?"

For a moment, there was only silence between you, the kind that makes the air feel thick. Then you felt your lips stretch into the widest grin you could remember, a smile so bright it made your cheeks hurt. You shoved the rest of your sandwich into your mouth like the world might end before you finished. That was how it started-how Megumi Fushiguro went from the boy who ignored you in the park to the boy you called your friend.

-

High school wasn't all that different, at least not at first. You and Megumi had ended up in the same one-of course you had, it almost felt inevitable by then. The routine between you both never really changed. You settled into your own rhythm, making friends easily in your class, chatting with anyone who was willing. You didn't mind group projects or presentations, and most of the time you were the one carrying the conversation while everyone else half-heartedly nodded along. Megumi, on the other hand, was the same as ever-quiet, uninterested, refusing to work with anyone unless you dragged him in.

"Come on, Fushiguro," you had said once, tugging his sleeve during a history assignment. "Don't just sit there, be in our group."

He didn't even look up from the desk, muttering under his breath, "I don't like it..."

You sighed but smiled anyway, dropping into the chair beside him. "Fine. Then you're stuck with me again."

And that was always how it went. He never tried to get along with the others, no matter how many times you nudged him toward them. You'd laugh with your classmates during breaks, joke around, and every so often you'd glance back at your desk, only to find him still there, chin resting on his hand, eyes trained on you in a way that was hard to read. When you excused yourself to the playground, you could feel it-that weight of his gaze from the classroom window, watching while you joined a game of badminton or sat in a circle of chatter with your friends.

It wasn't strange to you anymore, having him so close. Sometimes he even came over to your house. Your parents were so used to him by then that they stopped asking questions. He'd quietly sit on the floor of your room, flipping through a book or half-listening to you ramble about your day. He never invited you over to his place, though, and you never pushed. It felt like one of those things you weren't supposed to bring up.

So you thought that was just how it was, how it would always be-until the shift happened.

It started small. One morning, you bounced into class with a cheerful, "Good morning!" to the group of girls you usually sat with. They glanced at you once, then went back to their conversation, laughing like you hadn't spoken at all. You blinked, confused, and tried again later during lunch, sliding into their circle. "Hey, did anyone start the math homework yet? I swear that last question-"

They stood up before you could finish, one of them brushing past your shoulder as if you weren't even there.

You froze, staring after them, the smile slipping off your face. Maybe they hadn't heard you? Maybe it was just a bad day. You told yourself not to think too much of it.

But the next day, it was the same. And the day after that. Every time you approached, every time you opened your mouth to speak, it was like you didn't exist. People you'd laughed with, eaten lunch with, studied with-all of them walked past you now, their eyes sliding over you like you were air.

"What...?" you whispered to yourself one afternoon, clutching your books tighter against your chest as you stood in the middle of the hallway. The noise of chatter and laughter filled the air, but none of it was directed at you.

You thought maybe you had done something wrong, maybe someone was mad at you, but no one would even give you the chance to ask.

And then you noticed something else. Megumi.

His desk had been empty for the last two days. No quiet figure sitting with his arms crossed, no silent gaze following you when you left the room. He hadn't shown up in the hallways, hadn't walked with you to the gate after classes. You hadn't seen him at all.

-

The next day felt no different at first. You walked into the classroom with your bag slung over your shoulder, bracing yourself for the silence you knew was waiting. Sure enough, the chatter of your classmates carried on around you like you weren't even there. A girl bumped into you on her way to her desk without so much as a glance, and a boy you used to copy homework from stepped around you like you were invisible. Your chest tightened, but then-

Your eyes caught on something familiar. Megumi.

He was in his usual seat near the window, elbow resting on the desk, chin propped in his hand. The faint morning light filtered over him, catching the dark strands of his hair. Relief washed over you before you even realized it, and your steps carried you toward him.

"Good morning," you said softly as you slid into the chair beside him, trying to sound brighter than you felt. "Well, Why were you absent yesterday??"

He hummed lowly, a sound of acknowledgment, but didn't look up right away. Only after a pause did he add, "Had some business to do."

You tilted your head. "Business? What kind of business?"

"Just... something." His answer was short, clipped, as if he didn't want to elaborate.

"Oh..." You lowered your gaze to your book, fiddling with the edge of the page. The words swam in front of your eyes, not that you were really reading.

For a moment there was only the quiet between you, then Megumi's voice cut through. "You're not going to sit with them today?"

Your head snapped up, startled. "W-what? Oh, uh... no." You shook your head too quickly, the lie slipping out before you could stop it. You didn't want him to know. Didn't want to admit how alone you felt.

He only watched you for a moment, eyes narrowed slightly, but said nothing more.

At lunch, you stayed in your seat next to him, unwrapping your food in silence. Usually you'd run off to the playground with the others, laugh, share bites, but today you just kept your head down, chewing mechanically. Megumi ate quietly too, though you could feel his gaze flicking toward you more than once.

Finally, he spoke. "Not going to play?"

You swallowed hard, forcing a smile that didn't reach your eyes. "...I'm not feeling well."

That made him pause, chopsticks hovering midair. His brow furrowed. "Do you want to go home early?"

"No," you muttered quickly, dropping your gaze to your lap. Your fingers clenched around the hem of your skirt. "It's fine."

He didn't push further, but the silence that followed was heavier than before, like he was holding back words he wouldn't say.

After school, you walked home together. It felt strange, almost nostalgic-something you hadn't done in a long while. The air was cooler in the late afternoon, the sound of cicadas humming faintly in the trees.

"It's been a while," Megumi said suddenly, his voice quiet but steady. "Since we walked home together."

The words made you falter. You realized then how true it was. For months, maybe longer, you'd always followed after your other friends, letting him trail behind or go off on his own. Now it was just the two of you again, like back in middle school.

Your chest ached with a mix of guilt and frustration. Before you knew it, your fist clenched tight at your side, and you spun around in the middle of the road, facing him with a burst of emotion.

"Fushiguro!!" Your voice cracked louder than you meant it to. "You're my only best friend from now on! Everyone else sucks!"

The declaration hung in the air, raw and unpolished. You realized too late how desperate you sounded, how it had slipped from you without thought. Heat crept up your neck as your breath hitched, and you froze, embarrassed.

For a heartbeat, Megumi only stared, his expression unreadable. Then-softly, almost unexpectedly-he chuckled.

"......." he muttered something under his breath, the corner of his mouth tugging into the faintest curve.

Silence lingered between you after his soft chuckle, your outburst still hanging heavy in the air. Your cheeks burned as you stared at the ground, lips pressed tight together, wishing you hadn't yelled like that. But before either of you could say anything more, a faint, cheerful jingle drifted down the street-the tinny little melody of the ice cream cart that always passed around this hour.

Your head shot up immediately, the embarrassment forgotten. "Popsticks!!!" you blurted, pointing so suddenly your bag nearly slipped off your shoulder. "Let's get it!!"

Megumi blinked, slowly turning his head toward the sound. The corner of the street glimmered with the small cart, colorful boxes stacked high and the vendor ringing a bell to catch attention. He hummed quietly, expression unreadable, before stepping ahead of you without a word.

"Wait-hey, don't leave me behind!" you laughed, jogging to catch up.

By the time you reached the cart, he was already speaking to the vendor, his voice low, crisp, handing over the coins without hesitation. You fumbled with your bag, tugging open the zipper to find the small wallet your mother had slipped in that morning. "Oh-hold on, I've got change! I'll-"

But your words trailed off when he turned and pressed the cold treat into your hand. A bright, icy-blue popstick glistened under the sunlight, condensation already forming on the wrapper.

"Eat before it melts," he said simply, as if there was nothing more to it.

You blinked at him, mouth opening and closing before you stammered, "Ah-thank you...! I'll pay you back later, promise!" You tore the wrapper open, licking the edge with a grin. "Oh wow, this is so good-it's lemon but like, not too sour? Actually sweeter than I thought, I really like this one-"

Your words tumbled over each other, your eyes sparkling as you devoured the treat, completely absorbed in the simple joy of it. But Megumi wasn't listening. His gaze stayed fixed on you, steady and unreadable, watching the way you smiled around the melting ice. For a second, something shifted in his expression-sharp, fleeting, like a shadow flickering across his face.

And then, without warning, he reached out, plucked the popstick right from your hand, and flung it to the ground. The stick hit the pavement with a dull thud, melting sugar pooling against the asphalt.

You froze, tongue still halfway out, eyes wide in disbelief. "...Huh?"

Megumi's voice was calm, almost detached, as though nothing strange had just happened. "You'll catch a cold. I'll buy you another next time. Let's go home."

He didn't wait for your response. His hands slipped back into his pockets as he turned, walking ahead with his usual quiet stride, the picture of nonchalance.

You stared after him, utterly bewildered, your heart thudding against your ribs. "What... just...?" you whispered under your breath, glancing down at the ruined treat on the ground. But you didn't have time to piece it together. He was already further down the road, not even looking back.

Shaking your head, you quickly wiped your mouth with the back of your hand and broke into a small run, footsteps echoing against the street as you hurried to catch up.

-

The days that followed felt strangely... calm. You didn't really notice the silence around you anymore, or maybe you just chose not to. Having Megumi beside you was enough; you told yourself you didn't need anyone else's company. Not when he was always there, steady and unchanging. It was fine. That's what you thought, at least.

But what you didn't expect-what you never could have imagined-was that after all your kindness, after trying so hard to befriend everyone, those same smiles would twist into something cruel.

Megumi had mentioned that morning he'd be absent. "Some business," he'd said again, and though you pouted, you accepted it. So you spent the day on your own. It was manageable-quiet, a little lonely, but manageable. You told yourself you'd just head straight home, maybe call him later.

The sun was dipping low when you walked through the narrow street on your usual route back. Your bag swung against your hip as you hummed softly to yourself, trying not to think too hard about the empty seat beside you in class. That was when you heard them.

Laughter. Low, mocking, far too familiar.

You froze mid-step. Slowly, you turned, and there they were-the faces you knew so well. The same classmates you used to eat lunch with, the ones who once greeted you every morning. Now their smiles looked different, sharp and cruel.

"Hey," one of them drawled, tilting their head. "Where's your little shadow today?"

Your mouth went dry. You opened it, but no sound came out. Before you could even think of responding, hands shoved at your shoulders, slamming you against the rough wall of a building. The impact rattled your bones.

"W-wait-" Your words stumbled out, weak.

Something cold and sticky poured over your head, seeping into your hair, dripping down your cheeks. A fizzy sweetness burned your nose-it was soda, maybe cola, the cheap kind sold in bottles at the corner store. Their laughter rang out louder as you gasped, blinking through the wet sting.

"What's wrong? Thought you liked sharing food with everyone," another sneered, tossing the empty bottle aside with a clatter.

Your chest tightened, fear clawing up your throat. You wanted to scream, to run, but your legs refused to move. They were closing in, voices overlapping, hands reaching-

And then everything stopped.

The sound of a fist connecting with flesh cracked through the air. One of the boys stumbled back, clutching his face with a strangled shout. The laughter died abruptly, replaced by curses and startled cries.

Your wide eyes darted past them, and there he was.

Megumi.

He moved fast, faster than you'd ever seen, his expression unreadable as he struck again. A sharp kick sent another sprawling to the ground, his groan echoing against the narrow alley. The others tried to grab him, but he was relentless-silent, precise, every movement efficient. They didn't stand a chance. One by one, they faltered, retreating under the weight of his blows.

You were frozen against the wall, heart pounding, unable to process how suddenly the world had shifted.

When it was over, the bullies scrambled away, limping and cursing under their breath, too shaken to look back. The alley grew quiet again, save for your ragged breathing.

Then Megumi was kneeling in front of you. His jacket was in his hands before you could even blink, draped gently over your shoulders, shielding you from the sticky mess. His face softened, though his eyes still burned with something sharp.

"Are you okay?" His voice was low, urgent, almost uncharacteristically so.

Your lips trembled. You wanted to answer, but your throat locked up, the tears spilling before you could stop them. Everything you'd held back came rushing out in quiet, broken sobs.

"Hey..." His hand hovered near your face, hesitant but close enough to feel the warmth. "It's fine now. They won't touch you again."

You couldn't think straight-you didn't want to. All you could do was lean into the comfort of his presence, the familiar scent of his jacket grounding you as you pressed your face into the fabric.

Megumi stayed still, letting you cling to him, his hand finally resting lightly on the crown of your head. His voice was steady when he spoke again. "I'll take you home."

And in that moment, you didn't question anything. You just nodded, too scared and too tired to do anything else, holding onto him like he was the only safe thing left.

-

Yet... you never went back to that school again.

After what happened in that alley, you couldn't bring yourself to return. The stares, the silence, the sudden cruelty of people you once trusted-it haunted you. Your parents noticed, of course. They noticed the stains on your uniform, the way you flinched at shadows, the nights you cried yourself to sleep. You hadn't told them everything, but they knew enough. And so, after hushed conversations behind closed doors and paperwork that blurred before your tired eyes, you were transferred.

You didn't call Megumi. You didn't tell him. Not even a goodbye. It wasn't like you didn't think of it-you did. Many times. Your fingers hovered over the phone, your words formed on your tongue. But something stopped you every time. Maybe it was fear, maybe guilt, maybe something deeper you couldn't name. At the time, you told yourself it didn't matter. You just... left. Quietly.

How rude of you, really.

But you didn't know why, back then. Didn't understand why your chest twisted so tightly when you thought of him. So you turned away, convinced it was for the best.

And maybe your fate was cruel, because after all those years-after all that distance-you ended up stuck with him again.

-

Snap.

Your eyes blinked open to the sound, the sharp flick of fingers breaking through the fog of half-sleep. You startled, blinking at the dimly lit room before your gaze settled on the figure standing in front of you.

Megumi.

Not the boy you remembered, but a man now. Taller, broader, his features sharper. His voice carried the same low timbre, but deeper, steadier. He was watching you with that familiar, unreadable gaze, though time had only honed it into something more intense.

"Fell asleep on the couch again?" he asked, tone casual, like this was routine.

You rubbed your eyes, groaning softly. "Ah... I was... trying to read something. Guess I dozed off." You glanced at the open book lying facedown on your chest, embarrassed. "Geez..."

Megumi hummed in quiet acknowledgment, the sound the same as always. He moved closer, lowering himself into the seat beside you, the cushion dipping under his weight.

When you glanced over, expecting him to be skimming through one of his old novels, you caught the faint glow of his phone screen. He was scrolling intently, his thumb flicking across the glass. You leaned in curiously.

Your breath caught.

Photos. So many photos. White silk drapes. Tables adorned with flowers. Cake samples. Decorative arches wound with delicate lights. You scrolled further down the page with your eyes, each image more ornate than the last.

Wedding decorations.

Your wedding.

With him.

The realization hit like ice down your spine, though Megumi's expression didn't falter. He glanced at you, his tone calm, as though discussing something perfectly ordinary. "What do you think of this one?"

The screen glowed between you, casting its pale light on the sharp edges of his face. You could barely hear over the sudden rush of your heartbeat, the weight of his words pressing against the years you'd tried to forget.

"Lost in thoughts again?" Megumi's voice drew you back, low and smooth, his phone screen now dark as it rested on the table.

You blinked, realizing you'd been staring at nothing, words caught in your throat. "Ah... maybe a little."

His hand reached for yours with a quiet certainty, his fingers lacing through yours before you could react. He lifted your knuckles slowly, pressing faint kisses along them, one by one. The brush of his lips was warm, steady, and his gaze never wavered from your face.

"Tomorrow," he murmured between those kisses, "we go shopping. For us. For our special day."

Your chest tightened, caught between the tenderness of the moment and the weight of his words. You swallowed, unable to find an answer, but Megumi didn't seem to need one. He only let your hand rest against his, as though that gesture alone was enough.

-

The next morning came quickly, and true to his word, you found yourself at a bustling shopping center, slipping into the rhythm of stores and chatter. The racks of dresses and suits glittered under the warm lights, the air filled with the hum of customers and the faint strains of music overhead.

You tried to lighten the mood, filling the silence with your voice since Megumi-as always-wasn't much of a talker. "You should really try this one-it'd look good on you! Oh, and this-Megumi, come on, humor me a little!"

He let you drape jackets, button-downs, even a tuxedo across his arms, his brows drawn ever so slightly in disapproval. "I can try them at home," he muttered once, the corner of his mouth tugging faintly. Then, softly, "Why don't you instead-"

The unfinished sentence made you falter. He didn't have to explain; there was something in his tone, in the way his eyes followed you, that said everything. You laughed it off quickly, shoving another blazer at him. "Nope! Trial room. Now."

He obeyed with a quiet exhale, vanishing behind the curtain with an armful of clothes.

You lingered outside, rocking lightly on your heels as you hummed to yourself. But after a moment, your gaze drifted toward the display across the store-rows of delicate heels glimmering under the light. "Shoes," you whispered to yourself, stepping away before you could second-guess. "Can't forget those."

Your fingertips skimmed the smooth leather of one pair, the heel glittering faintly, when a voice cut through the air.

"Y/n?"

The tone was sharp, startled, as if dredging up something buried. You turned, brows knitting in confusion.

A young man stood a few feet away, his eyes wide as he stared at you. His features were older, sharper, but something about them struck familiarity you couldn't place at first.

"You're Y/n, right?" he pressed, taking a step closer.

You hesitated. "...Do I know you?"

His lips parted, incredulous. "Don't you remember me? We went to the same high school!"

High school.

The word froze you in place. Memories you had locked away pressed hard at the edges of your mind-the laughter, the stares, the sting of soda dripping down your face. Slowly, your fist clenched at your side.

You turned on your heel, ready to leave, but his voice cut after you again.

"Are you really marrying Megumi!?"

Your steps faltered. You looked back sharply, confusion etched across your face. "...How do you know that?"

The man drew in a heavy breath, shoulders tense. "Because-he's the one who told the whole class to bully you."

The world went silent. Your heart stopped, thudding painfully in your chest. He kept talking, his words spilling fast.

"He's... he's not what you think, Y/n. I'm sorry-I couldn't tell you before, I should've, but-"

"Shut up." The words tore out of you, louder than you intended, your voice shaking.

He froze.

"I know him more than you!" Your fists trembled, nails digging into your palms as you glared at him. "He'd never-he's not... he's not a low person like you!"

The man's eyes widened, taken aback, before narrowing in disbelief. "I just wanted to help you, but... guess you're just as crazy as him." His voice was laced with disdain now, his lips curling into something bitter. "You're going to regret this, sooner or later, Y/n."

And with that, he turned sharply and walked away, his footsteps fading into the crowd.

You stood frozen in place, breath uneven, your chest heavy with a tangle of emotions you couldn't untangle. Confusion, hurt, denial-they all pressed against your ribs until you could barely breathe. The bright lights of the store seemed too harsh now, the chatter too loud, as you stared at the spot where he'd disappeared.

-

On your way back toward the trial rooms, your steps slowed as you caught sight of Megumi. He wasn't standing still the way he usually did. Instead, he was pacing-eyes darting sharply from aisle to aisle, jaw clenched. The suit jacket you'd insisted he try on hung slightly crooked, the collar twisted askew against his neck as though he hadn't even bothered fixing it before stepping out. His fists were tight at his sides, and the sight of him-so uncharacteristically unsettled-made your stomach dip.

"Megumi!" you called quickly, weaving through the racks until you were close enough.

His head snapped toward you, relief flashing in his expression for the briefest moment before it darkened into a frown. His voice was low, edged, almost angry. "Where were you?"

You blinked at the intensity, taken aback. "I-I was just checking out the shoes..."

A heavy silence stretched between you before he exhaled, long and quiet, his shoulders slumping as though forcing himself to let it go. "Couldn't you wait for me to be done? This is why..." His eyes shifted away, his tone flattening. "I don't like to come outside."

You softened at that, offering a sheepish smile. "Ah... sorry. I didn't think. I'll wait next time, promise." Gently, you reached up, straightening the collar of his jacket with careful fingers. "There. Better. Let's go check the shoes together, okay?"

For a moment, his eyes held yours-steady, unreadable-before he finally gave a quiet hum of agreement.

The two of you made the purchase, a neat pair of shoes tucked into the shopping bag, and soon you stepped out into the bright evening air beyond the mall doors. The world felt busier outside, filled with rushing footsteps and city chatter.

That was when a woman passed by with her two children in tow, the younger one darting ahead with wild energy. In a split second, his foot caught on the pavement, his body pitching forward. You lunged instinctively, catching the child by the arm before he could fall.

"Whoa there!" you exclaimed, steadying him upright.

The mother rushed over, breathless. "Oh my goodness, I'm so sorry! Thank you so much!" She turned quickly to her son, her tone sharp. "What did I tell you about running? You almost hurt yourself!"

You chuckled softly, crouching to pat the boy's head before he shuffled sheepishly back to his mother. "Geez... kids these days," you muttered with a smile, straightening.

Instinctively, you glanced toward Megumi, expecting-hoping-to catch him smirking at the scene, maybe shaking his head at your softness like he sometimes did when you babbled too much.

But his face was blank. Unmoved. His eyes flicked past you as though the moment didn't matter at all.

"I'll wait in the car," he said flatly, already turning away. His footsteps were slow but certain, his shoulders set.

You stood rooted to the spot, your smile faltering, the air suddenly heavy around you. The echo of his retreating steps filled the silence left behind.

Today had been... too much. Too many things happening all at once-old wounds stirred up, words you didn't understand, and now Megumi's mood twisting in ways you couldn't read. You hugged the shopping bag tighter to your chest, staring at his back until he disappeared into the parking lot.

You couldn't understand it. Not any of it.

-

The drive home was swallowed by silence. The soft hum of the engine, the faint whoosh of passing cars, and the rhythmic flicker of the streetlights were the only sounds keeping you tethered to the moment. You sat with the shopping bag in your lap, fingers twisting the handles, sneaking glances at Megumi's profile. His expression was unreadable-jaw tight, eyes fixed on the road, as if nothing existed outside the lane in front of him.

Then, without warning, his voice broke through, low and startling.

"Y/n," he said, not looking at you. "Let's go to the church. Right now."

Your head snapped toward him. "Huh? What... what's wrong?"

He didn't answer right away. His grip on the wheel tightened, the leather creaking beneath his hands as the headlights stretched into the distance. You shifted uneasily in your seat, trying again. "Megumi? What are you saying all of a sudden? Did something happen?"

He stayed quiet for several long seconds, the tension stretching unbearably, until his lips finally moved-barely, just enough for you to hear.

"...Let's get married now."

The words hit like a thunderclap, heavy and absolute.

You blinked at him, dumbfounded. "W-what? Now? As in... right now? Megumi, our wedding's already in a few days-" you laughed softly, trying to lighten it, "-can't you wait just a little longer?"

"No." The reply was immediate. Calm. Final. His eyes never left the road, but the weight of his voice pressed against you, leaving no space for humor.

The car jerked slightly as he pulled over to the side of the road, the sudden stillness of the stopped vehicle making your pulse race. He turned then, his gaze finally locking onto yours, sharp and unblinking.

"Don't you want to?" His tone was steady, almost gentle-but beneath it, a thread of something raw, something desperate. "Don't you want to be with me? After everything I've done for you?"

You froze. His words tangled in your chest, too heavy to untangle. Was he serious? He had to be-Megumi wasn't the type to joke, especially not about something like this. And yet... his intensity made your thoughts scatter.

"I..." You swallowed hard, forcing a smile that didn't quite reach your eyes. "Geez, of course I do. You know that. But we made all these plans, didn't we? The guests, the ceremony, everything. Wouldn't it be a waste to-"

"Then give me a kiss," he interrupted, his voice slicing through yours. "Like we're going to do in the hall."

You stared, your mouth parting, but no words came. The request lingered between you, heavy, pressing. And still, your hesitation slipped through, your confusion written plainly on your face.

Megumi's eyes narrowed ever so slightly. He tilted his head, a quiet chuckle slipping out-but it wasn't warm. It was cold, empty, the kind that prickled your skin.

"You were fine with holding some random kid," he murmured, his tone laced with something you couldn't quite name. His eyes darkened, searching yours. "And now you can't even give me a kiss? After everything we've shared together?"

"......." Hesitantly, you leaned in, the distance between you shrinking as you closed your eyes. Your lips met his, soft and brief. It was a chaste kiss, almost innocent. Almost. You pulled back, but Megumi held fast, his hand coming up to cradle the back of your head, tangling in your hair. His mouth slanted over yours, deepening the kiss, his tongue pushing past your lips to stroke along yours. Your breath hitched as you felt yourself yielding, melting into the heated press of his lips on yours. His other hand slid down to the small of your back, pulling you closer until you were half in his lap, your body fitting against his.

He tore his mouth from yours to blaze a trail down the column of your throat, his breath hot against your skin. "Not here," he muttered, his voice rougher, more insistent. You knew what he wanted and you were tempted. You had never seen him so intense, so single-minded in his desire.

"Take off your panties," he ordered, his hand sliding up your thigh to cup you through the fabric of your skirt. You gasped at the sudden intimate touch, your body jolting with a shock of pleasure. "Now," he added, his voice leaving no room for argument.

With shaking fingers, you reached down to unzip your skirt and shimmy it off, taking your panties with it. Before you could think twice, Megumi pushed your skirt up around your hips and your panties down your legs. You felt the cool air on your bare skin, followed by the hot press of his palm cupping you, his fingers finding your slit.

You moaned softly as he stroked through your folds, your body already wet and ready for him. "Megumi~..." you gasped, your hips shifting restlessly against his touch. He pushed a finger inside you, then another, pumping them slowly in and out.

Megumi's breath grew heavier as he worked his fingers inside you, his thumb finding your clit and rubbing tight circles around it. The car filled with the sounds of your breathy moans and the slick, obscene noises of his fingers plunging into your soaked folds. His other hand gripped your hip, holding you still as he fingered you harder, faster, determined to make you come undone.

"Megumi, wait..." you gasped, even as your body arched into his touch, chasing the pleasure he was giving you. "s.. stwop...not so deep-..."

But he ignored your half-hearted protest, too focused on driving you towards your peak. "Megumi, please!..." you whimpered, your inner walls starting to flutter around his invading fingers. He captured your lips in a searing kiss, swallowing your cries as he rubbed your clit harder, pushed his fingers deeper, until your orgasm crashed over you like a tidal wave.

You came with a loud, guttural moan, your body convulsing and your sex clenching rhythmically around him. Megumi worked you through it, his fingers not letting up until the last aftershock left your trembling body. Panting, you slumped against him, your chest heaving against his. Megumi pulls out his fingers, bringing them to his lips and sucking your juices off with a smirk. "Mmm, you taste good," he murmurs, his eyes dark and hungry.

But then he reaches down and unzips his pants, pulling out his hard, thick cock and positions himself at your entrance.

"w..wait-!" you panted, "wear the condom...!" You bit your lip, looking up at him with pleading eyes. Megumi paused, then nodded, his expression softening. "Ah... Of course, I'm sorry... I didn't mean to rush you." He stroked your cheek tenderly, soothingly.

He positioned himself at your entrance once more, the tip of his sheathed cock pushing against your sensitive folds. Then with a swift, hard thrust of his hips, he buried himself deep inside your aching, needy sex. You cried out, your head falling back against the car seat as he started to move, his thick length pumping in and out of your tight channel.

Megumi set a relentless pace, his hips slamming against yours with each deep, powerful stroke. The car rocked with the force of his thrusts, the old suspension creaking in protest. You could feel every ridge and vein of his cock rubbing deliciously against your inner walls, even through the thin barrier of the condom.

Lost in the throes of passion, neither of you noticed at first when his thrusts grew suddenly slicker, smoother. Until Megumi suddenly stopped, his cock pulsing and throbbing deep inside you. At the same time, you felt a warm, wet gush flood your channel. The condom had broken.

"Oh- Shit," Megumi cursed under his breath, his face a mask of concern and apology. "I'm so sorry, Y/N.... I didn't mean for this to happen." He brushed your hair back from your face, his thumb gently stroking your cheek. "I'm really really sorry... I didn't mean to come inside you like that. I lost control." His brow furrowed with what appeared to be genuine regret, but you couldn't help noticing the glimmer of satisfaction in his eyes.

You panted heavily, chest rising and falling in uneven waves. The world around you seemed hazy, muffled, as though you were drifting between dream and reality, too overwhelmed and dazed by the intensity of your orgasm to even think of moving. Every muscle in your body slackened, and you barely had the sense-or the strength-to care about anything beyond the lingering warmth coursing through your veins. Your head lolled to the side, lips parted as faint trails of drool glistened against your mouth. It was in that fragile, vulnerable state that Megumi leaned closer, his shadow falling over you before his lips brushed against yours in a fleeting kiss. He lingered just long enough for you to feel the softness of his breath, then pulled back, a rare smile curving at the corner of his mouth as his eyes softened. "So cute..."

-

Your marriage was over. Done. Sealed and wrapped with a neat bow like one of those glossy fairytale endings-at least that's how everyone else seemed to see it. The ceremony had gone smoothly, almost painfully smoothly. Nearly everyone from your side showed up: distant cousins, neighbors you hadn't spoken to in years, your parents' colleagues who only knew you as that sweet little girl from down the street. Smiles, polite laughter, clinking glasses-all of it blurred together.

From Megumi's side, only one person came. An old lady. Frail, hunched, her eyes sharp yet weary as if she had seen far too much of the world already. She sat quietly in the back, hands folded over her cane, and when you asked Megumi later who she was, he simply told you she had raised him when no one else could. That was all. No siblings, no parents, no crowd waiting for him. Just her.

And then-it was done. You were Mrs. Fushiguro.

It had been three weeks since, and if anyone asked how marriage was treating you... well. You'd probably say something sarcastic like, "Oh, we're just busy. You know, doing nothing but fucking." Except, really, that was exactly the truth. Almost your entire honeymoon blurred into nights tangled in sheets, his touch etched into your skin like he was writing his name over and over again. By now, you barely had the energy to move sometimes, your body sluggish and weak from it all.

So Megumi picked up every little chore without complaint. You lay sprawled on the sofa, curled under a blanket, munching your favorite snacks as your favorite show played in the background. And every now and then, your eyes would flick toward the kitchen where he moved effortlessly, sleeves rolled up, washing dishes or stirring something on the stove. He always made sure you were full, always pushed water toward you, always hovered close as if letting you out of his sight for too long might break something.

You weren't sure why, but lately, you'd been feeling hungrier than ever. Snacks disappeared in hours, meals barely seemed to settle before your stomach growled again. And it wasn't just food-it was... that itch. That pull in your body that never really quieted, making Megumi sigh and say, "You'll wear yourself out." Still, he never refused you.

Even when he was out, you weren't exactly free. Your phone buzzed constantly, his name lighting up the screen twelve-sometimes fifteen-times a day. Did you eat yet? Did you drink water? What are you doing now? Always checking, always there. And you... you loved it. The care, the love, the attention. The way he made you feel like the center of his world.

You were mid-bite into a chocolate bar, smiling faintly at the thought, when your stomach twisted. Hard. A sudden churning, violent enough that you dropped the snack onto your lap.

"Ugh..." you groaned, pressing your palm to your abdomen. Was it too much food? Probably. You had been stuffing yourself silly all day.

But the nausea didn't fade. It sharpened, clawed up your throat. You tried to stand, but your legs trembled beneath you, your vision spotting at the edges. "Megu-" His name slipped weakly from your lips, but your voice didn't carry beyond the walls. The sound of running water from the kitchen drowned it out.

Your knees buckled, the half-eaten chocolate rolling onto the carpet as your body crumpled. The last thing you registered was the sharp taste of bile rising, the room tilting violently-then, nothing. Just black.

-

Tick. Tock.

The sound of a clock somewhere nearby ticked steadily, pulling you back from the dark. Your eyelids fluttered open, heavy and stubborn, until a blurry world swam into view. At first all you caught were white walls, the faint hum of machines, the prick of disinfectant stinging your nose. Then a face leaned over, framed by tidy glasses and neatly tied-back hair.

"Ah," the woman said softly, her voice calm yet professional. "You're awake. How are you feeling now?"

Groggy, your tongue felt too thick in your mouth to answer. But before you could even try, another presence tugged gently at your palm.

"Look at me."

That voice-you knew it instantly. You blinked until the blur sharpened into Megumi's face hovering close, his eyes locked on yours with a terrifying mix of relief and raw fear. His thumb brushed over your knuckles, a trembling stroke, before he lifted your hand to his lips and pressed a kiss into your skin like it was the only way he could breathe.

"W-what... happened to me?" Your voice cracked, small and unsure.

Megumi didn't answer right away. Instead, he turned his head toward the doctor, his tone steady but firm, almost demanding: "She's awake now. Tell me."

The doctor hummed, flipping through the chart in her hands, scanning the sheets before her lips curved into a reassuring smile. Her eyes softened on you.

"Mrs. Fushiguro..." she began, her voice warm. "Congratulations. You're pregnant."

The word hung in the air like a fragile bell chime.

Your breath caught, eyes widening, heart stumbling over itself. Pregnant? The edges of your vision sharpened in sudden clarity, as if every nerve in your body had just lit up. Your lips parted on a whisper. "R-really...?" Your voice shook, but your chest filled with a strange, fragile joy. "Really...?"

You turned instinctively to Megumi, searching for his reaction-waiting for that same joy to mirror yours. But his face... it wasn't lighting up. Not at all.

He stared at you as if the words hadn't made sense, as if they were foreign. His dark lashes lowered, shadowing the storm in his eyes, his expression unreadable. The doctor noticed, a flicker of confusion crossing her features before she let out a polite chuckle.

"Mr. Fushiguro," she said brightly, trying to bridge the silence. "You're going to be a father now."

But the room froze. Dead quiet.

Megumi's grip loosened, and slowly, deliberately, he let your hand slip from his hold. It dropped back against the sheets with a soft thud that felt far too final. He looked down, his lips curving-not in joy, not in relief-but in something darker. A chuckle, low and sharp, cut through the sterile quiet.

It wasn't happy. It wasn't proud.

"I... see," he murmured, voice trembling with something you couldn't name. Then his gaze flicked up, narrow and unblinking, his words like ice against your skin.

"So now, You're... trying to bring a third person between us?"