lostjuliette

You blinked slowly. “I look a bit what?”

“Knackered,” he repeated, as if it was the most normal word in the world.

“I don’t know what that means. Do I look sick?”

“No, baby. Just tired. Fancy a cuppa?”

You stared at him, still half-asleep, his words feeling like a foreign language.

“Genuinely, what are you saying?” you asked, looking at him in confusion.

Lando had to bite the inside of his cheek to stop himself from smiling too much.

“Nothing complicated,” he said, leaning against the counter. “Just asking if you want tea.”

“Then say tea,” you muttered.

“I did.”

“No, you said… cuppa.”

“That is tea.”

You stared at him. Properly stared. “Did you hit your head?”

He tilted his head, still fighting his grin. “Nah, I’m sound.”

You squinted. “You’re… sound?”

“Yeah. Fine. All good.”

“…That’s not a real sentence. You are not a musical instrument, Lando.”

That did it.

Lando broke.

A laugh slipped out before he could stop it, and he quickly turned his face away like the counter was suddenly the most interesting thing in the world.

“I’m not a musical instrument,” he repeated, still laughing under his breath. “You’re killing me.”

“You’re the one speaking in riddles,” you said, pointing at him accusingly. “First knackered, then cuppa, now… I’m sound? What’s next, are you going to tell me you’re chuffed about the kettle?”

He turned back, eyebrows raised. “Actually, yeah. The kettle’s class.”

You blinked. Slowly.

“I’m going back to bed.”

“No, wait—” he said quickly, stepping closer, but the grin on his face ruined any seriousness. “I’m only joking.”

Your eyes narrowed. “So you are making things up.”

“Not making them up,” he corrected. “Just… British-ing them up.”

“British-ing them up,” you repeated flatly.

He nodded proudly.

You sighed. “I hate you.”

“No you don’t.”

“…I strongly dislike you.” You said, mocking his accent. 

“Bit dramatic, that.”

You grabbed a pillow from the sofa and threw it at him. He caught it easily, laughing properly now, completely unbothered.

“You’re enjoying this way too much,” you said.

“Yeah,” he admitted, setting the pillow aside. “Bit of fun, innit.”

You pointed at him again. “Don’t.”

He leaned in slightly, voice softer but still teasing. “Fancy a brew, then?”

You froze.

“…A brew is tea, isn’t it?” You were guessing, or you heard it somewhere before, you weren’t really sure.

He smiled like he’d just won something.

“Finally!”

“Just because I guessed one word doesn’t mean you’ll speak British. We speak English in this household, babe,” you warned him.

Lando pressed a hand to his chest like you’d deeply offended him.

“English?” he repeated. “I am speaking English.”

“No, you’re speaking British.”

“I remember how you told me my British accent is hot.”

“Two years ago.”

He gasped. Properly dramatic.

“So now it’s expired?”

“Yes.”

“Like milk?”

You pointed at him. “Exactly like milk.”

A few minutes later, you were in the kitchen making coffee for both of you. Not tea. You had trauma now.

You turned slightly toward the couch where Lando was sprawled, watching TV like he hadn’t just mentally destabilised your entire morning.

“Want some biscuits, baby?” you called out.

Silence.

Then—

Lando slowly turned his head.

“Biscuits?” he repeated, a grin already spreading across his face.

You froze.

“I meant cookies,” you said quickly, rolling your eyes. “Don’t think much of it.”

“I’d love to fancy a cuppa with biscuits, darlin’,” Lando said with a smug little smile, clearly enjoying himself way too much.

You stared at him for a second.

Then you pointed a spoon in his direction.

“I hate you.”

Lando laughed, pushing himself off the couch and walking over, still grinning like he’d just won a race.

“No you don’t,” he said softly, taking the spoon from your hand before you could accidentally weaponise it further.

You tried to stay annoyed. You really did.

But then he bumped his shoulder lightly against yours, voice dropping into something gentler.

“You’re just upset you’re losing the British language battle.”

“There is no battle.”

“There is now.”

You rolled your eyes, but the corner of your mouth betrayed you.

Lando noticed immediately.

“Oh, look, she’s smiling,” he whispered. “That means I win.”

“You are unbearable.”

“And you love me.”

A pause.

“…Unfortunately.”

He laughed, pulling you into him before you could protest, arms wrapping around you like it was the most natural thing in the world. In fact, it was.

“Fancy that cuppa anyway?” he murmured against your hair.

You sighed into his hoodie.

“…Yeah. But you’re making it.”

© 𝐋𝐕𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐋𝐒 ：𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐝 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟔. all works are my own. do not copy, translate, repost my works on any platform. requests are closed.

his hands finding your hips, his lips against your neck, and his front pressed flushed against your ass. lando always found himself entangled with you, so much it might one day drive him crazy. he's sure of it. the way your eyes glitter underneath even the awfullest of club lights, made his heart want to jump out of his chest.

and then when you turn to look at him, eyes fluttering with your glittery eyeshadow and it sends a warm rush all over his body. and yes, he's pretty sure it's not the alcohol running through him, but the need for you.

"lan! dance correctly," you shout over the music, turning to face him and your hands on his shoulders.

"i am dancing correctly, baby!" he laughs, your hands trailing down his arms until your intertwining your fingers together and throwing both yours hands up.

lando felt like he’s falling under some type of spell as he watched you enjoy yourself. your eyes closing, smile on your glossy lips – that he wanted to so badly kiss and ruin – and down to your hips that moved like waves in the ocean. god, he was completely entranced by you. watching you, letting you effortlessly draw him in closer in ways that you probably aren't even aware that you're doing.

when the bass in the music changes, lando immediately pulls you closer thanks to your still intertwined hands. you stumble a little into him, your face pressing into his chest as he wraps his arms around you. you can't help but giggle against his chest, and lando can tell just how tipsy you are from the wide grin you have when you look at him.

his hands move to rest low on your waist before moving to grab your ass over your mini dress. the two of you moving your bodies to the beat of music, your arms around him – eye locking onto his in a way that made lando not want to look anywhere else.

he then leans closer, lips against your ear so you can hear him over the overly loud house track playing. "you are... entirely too dangerous for me, you know that, princess?"

you don't even try to hide the grin that paints your glossy lips, "how so?" you ask innocently, but lando knows better than to trust that tone.

"you're like a siren," he breathes, his lips pressing against yours in an almost kiss. he can feel your lip gloss starting to smear against his lips. and he knows there's probably a hundred different cameras pointed at and recording the two of you, but lando doesn't care. he wants the whole world to know how utterly obsessed and devoted he is too.

especially if that means smearing and wearing your cherry-flavored lip gloss.

"luring me in with those eyes and hips," he continues, your hand coming to run through his damp curls. when you give a playful tug, he groans against your mouth before he's finally kissing you.

the kiss is messy and drunken, the two of you giggling and laughing the entire time as lando tries to pull you even closer to him. "lan..." you moan against his lips before he's trailing his lips down from yours to your jaw and neck. "lando! my lip gloss," you laugh, as your other hand comes to teasingly smack his shoulder that makes him laugh before he's kissing you again.

"it's fine~" he says, totally ignoring how smeared your lip gloss was. no longer on your lips, but on lando's instead – along with your jaw and neck. "do you want another drink?" his thumb coming up, trying to wipe away the gloss from your skin.

"oh my god, yes please~" you say with a smile, eyes wide and bright against the club lights. "margarita~"

"of course, come on," he says before he's leading you off the dancefloor and over to the bar.

when he gets you both new drinks, you are happily taking your margarita and immediately sipping from it. you always did have a weakness for a good, fruity drink.

"careful, baby," lando says, taking a sip of his own drink, "or your lightweightness will kick in sooner than you hope it will."

you can't help but pout as you drink from your straw, lando guiding the two of you away from the bar. his arm comfortably around your shoulders as he guides you over to a where the rest of the people you had partying with are.

"do you want a sip, baby?" you ask, holding your drink towards him and lando immediately leans over, his lips wrapping around the straw as he takes a big sip from it. "hey, hey, hey! not that much!" you whine, pulling the straw from him and cradling the glass close to your chest.

lando can't help but let his eyes wonder from your pouty lips to your breast that are becoming much more prominent in the moment thanks to the low-cut of your dress, and with how your arms are pressing them together. he takes a deep breath when he notices the condensation from the glass is suddenly rubbing against your skin, dripping and disappearing between your breast. when he licks his lips, he gets the taste of your cherry gloss and his own drink on his tongue, and it only makes him want to taste you even more.

and once again, he's realizing just how enamored lando is with. he's catching himself watching you – letting the sound and taste of you consume him. so here he is, feeling like a helpless sailor being dragged under by his beautiful siren. lando wraps an arm loosely around your waist, pressing his body against yours as he rests his head against yours – watching as you happily talk with one of your friends.

"lando, someone's waving at you," he can just barely hear you over the noise of the crowd and music, but your voice acts like a lighthouse – bringing him back to you.

"where?" he asks, even though he obviously didn't bother trying to look for whoever was trying to gain his attention.

he watches you lift your arm, his eyes following in the direction you're pointing to see – what lando assumes a fan – waving towards him. he cracks a quick smile before waving back before his attention is immediately dragging back to you.

so hours later in the early hours of the morning and probably too many margaritas later, lando is letting you giddily hang onto him as he walks the two of you out of the club. he's surprised he could even get into the car with how much you cling to him, but he happily lets you.

lando lets you pull him closer to you, lips pressing against his cheek as you press a drunken kiss there. "i told you that you were a lightweight. how many drinks did you have?"

"toooooooooo many," you giggle as lando nuzzles his face into your neck. your perfume is still clinging to your skin and he can't but groan as your scent fills his senses.

"i say you did," he laughs, kissing your neck, "racked up a pretty good tab, princess. that i had to pay no less."

"i'm sure your bank will be fine," you tease as your fingers start to run through his curls.

"hey now, i'm not just your bank account, you know. how you going to pay me back?"

lando lifts his head just enough to see you already look at him. those beautiful eyes that even after hours of partying, still has your make-up intact enough to draw him in deeper.

"i can... think of a few things~" you say, giving him that damn smile that makes his heart pound harder than it probably should.

"i'll keep you to it," he whispers against your lips, giving you a long, slow kiss. your lips moving together in sync as lando slips his tongue inside your mouth. you let out a small whine as he pulls away slightly. the dazed look in your eyes gives you a sultry look and the heat from the alcohol makes your breath short and whole body warm.

like you're luring him into you, making him want to mold his body into yours.

You confessed it all while sitting on the circular woven mats that are laid out before the fire, in the comforts of sweet-smelling burning plants and herbs to ease the mind.

It started with your doubts that Ao’nung had actually wanted to court you, that he had found more faults in how you were protected and shielded than he had let on. That, because you were spoiled and the princess of your family, he had thought there would be greater burdens placed upon him when your courtship was over.

Self-doubts about your relationship had shifted toward the next factor that made you want to leave. The story had shifted focus from your doubts about Ao’nung to the hunter who had insulted you, who called you young and soft, who implied and accused you of being no more skilled than a child.

And Ao’nung had only barely defended you by telling his hunter friend that he had liked the softer things about you.

However, that defence felt like it was only spoken to save his reputation as the metkayina who was courting you, and less about how you had felt. You told her about how hurt and broken hearted you were when he teasingly called you a brat—someone who had demanded to spend time with him like it was something you were owed, instead of wanting to be around Ao’nung because you were falling in love with him.

By the end of your explanation the wounds of your heart were ripped open wider, leaving you with fractured pieces that carried the sharp pain that disabled you. Words had become painful whines and whimpers, drawing out sounds that were no more verbal than they were comprehensible.

The night of your return to the Omatikaya, you had unloaded in your grandmother’s arms until your throat felt like it was rubbed raw from crying, and your body physically felt weighed down by the events of your heartbreak.

It takes reality longer than you would like to sink in; to replace the world that is deep within your dreams. While your eyes are closed you are hovering above a place where the beauty of the forest conjoins with the beauty of the ocean.

It is a place where you can hear the sound of the waves hitting the shoreline; the screeching cry of the birds that soar above the water before diving to the surface to catch fish. When your eyes are closed you are surrounded by family.

Little Tuk who is dragging you along the shore to pick pretty shells for your mother, to decorate a necklace she wants to make for her. The jewelry is almost finished but Tuktirey needs one more shell; one more pearl.

Lo’ak is sitting with Tsireya, talking amongst each other like the lovers they are and long to be. His hand is on her cheek, thumb grazing the bottom edge of the tattoos she has earned while her smile brightens in his presence.

Neteyam is fishing, holding a spear gun in one hand while his other is shielding his eyes from the sun. Behind him are the Metkayina girls who think he is so pretty, so handsome and countable; they desire him more than their own hunters.

Ao’nung…he is standing with his back to you, hair pulled up and out of his face, talking animatedly. The hunter is there, the one who said all you are, all you have, is beauty and that is where your skills lie. In making pretty things, in crafting dainty materialistic objects that do not matter.

Reality hits before you see Ao’nung turn around, and you don’t get to see his face. You don’t get to see the expression he makes before the sting of the real world settles upon you.

When you open your eyes, you are greeted by the fibre covering of your family’s old kelku. There are no ocean waves that lap at the sandy beach, no blazing sun that beats down upon the water, no chirping of ilu’s.

It is the sound of your people, the Omatikaya that are busy with their mornings. Hunters preparing for the trip into the forest to provide meat for their families, mothers who are rising to take care of their little ones.

Somewhere in the village Tarsem will be kissing his mate goodbye and attempting to leave his children who cling to him. He will be donning the toa guard that is tradition for the Olo’eyktan to wear, and he will be finding your grandmother.

You lie in the hammock of your old family home and stare at the fibre-spun roof, listening to the sounds of the forest that you had thrived in. It is startingly jarring to be back in a place that you can navigate so easily, a biome on Pandora that you had been born to be in rather than feeling so out of place on the ocean.

Even lying here, you can listen to the sounds of life outside the kelku, and you know what lies beyond the walls of this home. The animals that scurry along the forest floor, birds that flutter their wings to rid themselves of the dew that settles upon them, and the nantang’s that will be out for a hunt to feed their freshly born pups that are too young to hunt for themselves. You know that there will a group of hunters who will be heading out into the forest to find the sturmbeasts that are migrating through the area, and they will return to the village with fresh kills.

You know that Neteyam will be among them; and so, will you.

It is with a determination not to wallow in your hurt, which has you rising from your bed. You need a distraction from the grief that is like nettles boring deeply into your flesh, and being out of the village feels as if it will be the best medicine you can have. Despite every instinct that screams at you to lie back down and to allow yourself to be grieved and to embrace the hurt, you cannot allow yourself to do that.

To lie here would do you no good, your mind would wander back to Ao’nung, and you would only hyper fixate on his words, driving yourself to a place of hurt madness. You will renumerate on the hunter that had insulted you so, and his defence that you did not receive but should have.

Part of you knows that it is too early for you to be joining a hunt but there is also a recognizable need not to wallow, to not allow Ao’nung’s image to ingratiate itself into your mind, furthering your sting. Even though it takes you combatting instincts that urge you to stay in bed, you pick yourself up from your hammock and you take slow and calculated steps. You move with the heaviness of weights that seem to be strapped to your feet but reach the wooden rack anyway, the place where your family had stored weapons.

There are a few that were left behind, because your family had always planned to come back. And there, at the top of the rack was your old bow that was carved from wood of the Hometree before it was destroyed. It lies there like an old friend that is just waiting to be picked up, to help ease the sting of rejection and anguish from Na’vi who had overlooked every good quality you have.

Your hand settles upon the bow, and you lift it from the rack to feel it upon your palm. Your fingers wrap around the wood, and you think that there is warmth that radiates from deep inside, a comforting embrace that you need.

You may have been skilled at weaving, capable of creating beautiful pieces of clothing that was highly sought after even in Awa’atlu, but you were part of the Omatikaya. You had passed your iknimaya, you had skills that allowed you to bond with an ikran and earn your place here.

You were raised under the protective shield of your brothers and your father, spoiled and a princess obvious, but you were not without skills to hunt. You were not raised without the ability to defend yourself or take down a smaller animal with quality precision—you just hadn’t need to, because your brothers and your father had done it for you and Tuk.

Your hand tightens around the bow, and you lower it to your side as your golden eyes take a slow and speculative glance around the kelku of your old home. You find the emptiness of the home to be comforting and eery—a contradiction of itself that makes little sense. But the silence and the quietude also feel freeing.

This is your chance; your opportunity to prove Ao’nung and that hunter wrong. You are stronger than they think you are, and you are capable of more than they accuse you of.

You make the decision then and when you hear the sound of the hunters preparing to leave, you move before you have the opportunity to change your mind. You step outside into the familiar, beautiful forest and allow your feet to carry you toward the hunting party that is preparing to leave.

None of them look at you as if you are crazed for being here, they greet you respectfully as is tradition. Neteyam furthers your acceptance by slinging an arrow pack across your back and using the knuckles of two of his three fingers to nudge your jaw; accepting you here as if it is where you had always belonged.

He feels as if he ready to lose his mind or pull out his hair from the frustration of searching for you in every frequented place your visit and finding you nowhere. It is an increasingly aggravating feeling, to be looking for the pretty forest girl he is courting and not finding you anywhere you should be.

Ao’nung has been working on this courting gift for almost three weeks, creating something in secret for you that he knows you would love. Made from the shimmering reeds that are only found near the cave of ancestors, the tewng and top he made for you will match the other dainty little things you made for yourself.

He had wanted to give it to you before the First Breath ceremony, so you could wear it when you meet his spirit brother, but you have become incredibly illusive. He has not been able to find you anywhere, and you are either incredibly adept at avoiding him or you are having your friends and family help you hide from Ao’nung.

He knows he screwed up by not defending you like he should have when his hunter friend had insulted you and he was sorry for it; he wanted to apologize.

Ao’nung didn’t think you would be so offended by what she had said, it wasn’t as if you had every wanted to be a hunter before. You had enjoyed your weaving and crafting; you loved being able to take something ordinary and turning it into something that seemed to have come from the hands of Eywa herself.

And when Ao’nung had called you demanding, told you that you were a brat, he was teasing you with the truth. You were a brat and you were demanding but that is one of things that he had loved about you. The way that you demanded his attention, the spoiled little brattiness that had made you irrevocably kind and naïve, were just one of the many things he had loved about you.

But the longer you had gone without speaking to him, without trying to find him, it had made him realize that you had not taken what he had said as jokes. Or teasing. And that maybe what his hunter friend had said to you was more offensive than it was meant to be—that was the kind of humour that hunters like Ao’nung and his friend had. They were used to taking shots at each other, that was part of what had made them more culpable as hunters and warriors.

He thought you would take it as a joke, which is what his hunter friend had meant when she had said that the daughter of Toruk Makto was soft. Ao’nung was certain that his friend was trying to tease you like she had teased him and other hunters.

Ao’nung had seen no fault in your softness or that femininity that you chose to lean into, opposed to the strength that was required of hunters. He had longed for someone who was soft and pretty, and by Eywa did Ao’nung ever think you were beautiful. You were harboured the kind of beauty that made the sea and all it’s creatures seem greyscaled in comparison.

He loved you, his forest girl that he was courting. He loved you and your bratty attitude that he knew only he could embrace without being ramrodded by your princess behaviour. It was a match made in Eywa—Ao’nung who was the strong and mighty hunter of Awa’atlu, and the beautiful daughter of Toruk Makto who had an innate gift of weaving.

He had missed seeing you these last two days, and his searches for you had all come up empty. He had initially thought that you needed space, that you needed or wanted time alone and he had given it to you.

But now he was getting worried, now every time he had looked for you and came up empty, it had filled Ao’nung with increasing tangible worry. There had been very few days where he wouldn’t be able to talk to you or at least see you somewhere in the village and now it seemed as if there was a gaping hole where your bright sunshine-light should have been.

And it made him concerned.

Concern that made him think to hunt down one of your family members, seeking out the first he could see. He had started at your family’s marui and when he had seen that no one was home, Ao’nung had made the decision to try finding someone in your family at the market. There was a flash of darker blue striped skin, a thinner tail that twitched in tune with those sharper ears, and a glint of teeth as his lips stretched into a smile whenever Tsireya was around.

Ao’nung had seen it from the outskirts of the market, your brother Lo’ak was helping Tsireya carrying baskets.

“Lo’ak!” He calls your brother’s name when he sees him in the centre of the trading market, and he sees your brother’s ears twitching in acknowledgement of Ao’nung calling for him, but he does not turn his head.

When he goes ignored, Ao’nung calls his name again and is left to resort to pushing his way through the crowd of Metkayina, navigating his way toward your brother. When he comes in close proximity with him, Ao’nung reaches for Lo’ak’s shoulder and sets his hand upon it to grab his attention.

Lo’ak turns sharply and casts a piercing glare back toward Ao’nung, settling the hardened expression upon him with furrowed brows and a pursing of his lips.

“Where is your sister? I have been looking for her for the past two days, and I haven’t seen her.” Ao’nung asked the question and he receives nothing but a silent and brooding stare that feels like the starting point of an escalation that will lead to a fight. However as quick as Lo’ak’s expression becomes that hardened glare, it is replaced by schooled neutrality and a look of indifference for Ao’nung.

“Tuk is with our mother—” Lo’ak knows what he is doing when he gives an answer that is both correct and debilitating for the cocky metkayina hunter that is looking for you.

“—skxawng! You know who I am asking about!” Ao’nung bares his teeth and hisses at Lo’ak, stepping closer and presenting himself as a threatening presence; to which Lo’ak responds by putting his hands on Ao’nung’s shoulders and shoving him away.

“Pxasìk!” Lo’ak curses Ao’nung out in the middle of the market, the curse and the shove drawing eyes that speculate whether the two will fight. The tension between Lo’ak and Ao’nung is heavy and both males are known for their tempers. Although they had only fought once in their youth, the tension that boils between them suggests they may be willing to fight again. “She doesn’t want to see you, not after what you did.”

After what you did…

“Lo’ak, Rutxe—”

You brother turns away from Ao’nung with a single motion thrown over his shoulder, the middle of four fingers risen while the rest are curled and tucked against his palm. A symbol that is human made and delivers a message of animosity and hate.

The pandoran shells are thick and heavy with food of Awa’atlu that he knows you love. Ao’nung had been helping his sa’nok all afternoon as she prepared for the communal meal that his family would have with yours. He had been intentional when he had gone out that morning to find you flat snake fish, the thickest and biggest one he could find, and he had been careful to prepare it.

Ao’nung had felt guilty for what had happened between you and his friend, and he had been rightly scolded and reprimanded by his family for it. The way he had been acting to someone he wanted to court was reprehensible, to allow his future mate to be treated so terribly by another in the village was admonishing.

This was his chance to apologize, not just to you but to your family as well. To show them that he was sorry for the way he had allowed you to be treated and to prove to them that he would do better. Eywa, he would do right by you if it killed him, he would have a better sense of respect for the gifts you had—kindness, gentleness, the radiance that you seemed to exude naturally, everything that made Ao’nung fall in love with you.

When your family had arrived to his family’s marui, Ao’nung was ready to grovel. He was prepared to ask for your forgiveness and lay out the promise to defend you vehemently in the future, and then he would give you that gift he had been working on for three weeks.

However, when your older brother and Tuk had entered the marui with your parents, and there was a distinct lack of your pretty face, Ao’nung knew there was something wrong.

That sense was strong; it had become a pit in his stomach that was unsettling and poisonous. It is like one of the Sky-People’s sirens that blare from the sea-dragons that do nothing but destroy, that is the same kind of sick twisting of his stomach that makes Ao’nung feel as if he is going to vomit.

He stands in his family’s marui holding onto that cursed bowl with your favourite flat-snake fish, waiting for someone who is not going to show up. Were you that angry with him? Were you never going to speak to him, the man that you were courting? Was this how it was going to be, you becoming a phantom somewhere on the island while he waits eagerly for you to return?

“Where is your sister?” He doesn’t recognize his own voice, and his hairless eyebrows furrow as his eyes narrow. He speaks with a voice that is taut and although he asked the question he isn’t sure if he wants to know the answer.

Not when Lo’ak’s face contorts into a look of barely controlled anger, and his ears fall flat to his head. His tail swishes behind him in a manner that Ao’nung had seen on you before, but your anger was enticing and adorable. Your brother’s anger was the pre-emptive catalyst that would cause a fight.

“She left with Neteyam, back to the Omatikaya.” Lo’ak’s jaw tenses and his eyes become fixed into a look that is rife with potential danger. He spits the answer to Ao’nung’s question with a kind of poison that settles over the marui, sending not just Ao’nung but his whole family into silence.

Silence that is heavy, that densely falls over the marui. No one moves, no one speaks, until there is the sound of cracking wood from beneath Ao’nung’s palm—the bowl he is holding of flat-snake fish, specially caught for you, cracks under the force of his hand.

“What do you mean she left?” The tone of Ao’nung’s voice shifts from a state of shock to confusion before it becomes something closer to panic and fear. Fear that he lost you clashes with Lo’ak’s rising temper.

“Skxawng, you know why.” Lo’ak takes a step forward and your mother reaches for him, settling a hand upon his wrist to prevent him from acting violently.

“Lo’ak, stop.” Neytiri tries to ease the tension, attempts to calm Lo’ak down and prevent him from physically assaulting Ao’nung like she knows he wants to.

“-my sister should have ended the courtship when it started. You don’t deserve her; you could never deserve her.” Lo’ak’s temper rises and he moves with a forcefulness drives the animosity and the tension to a level that becomes dangerous for more than just Ao’nung.

“When did your sister leave?” Ao’nung’s hands, still holding that bowl, begin to shake but it is not from the stress of holding a position like when he was training for his iknimaya. Now they tremble due to the knowledge, the understanding, that he made one of the biggest mistakes of his life. “I wanted to apologize—”

“You can take your apology and shove it up your ass!” Lo’ak is grabbed before he can lunge; before he can tear into Ao’nung like his body language suggests.

“Lo’ak!” Jake grabs onto his youngest son and uses as much force as necessary to toss him toward the entrance of the marui, to create distance between Lo’ak and Ao’nung. “Your sa’nok told you to stop!”

“You think this is okay? Your daughter, my SISTER, left because he is a bitch! Because he is a pussy who cannot defend his mate from his fucking—!” Lo’ak is not finished with the insults, he is not finished with the degradation he is throwing toward Ao’nung, and he continues until his father has to physically drag him out of the marui. “—if Eywa has any mercy, she will make sure you never see her again! Bitch!”

There are beads of sweat that roll down the sides of his head as he focused his attention on throwing the spear toward the target, using enough force that it pierces the other side. The tension that he feels in his shoulders is radiating throughout his entire body until there is a metaphysical protest from his muscles that beg him to stop.

He had been at this all afternoon, throwing his spear against the targets, training endlessly until he had broken out in a sweat and his body was screaming at him.

But he could not stop, he would not stop. Ao’nung was relentlessly trying to negate the self-inflicted anger that he had felt surging through his body as he reminisces about what an idiot, he had been. Every mistake, every error is flashing in his mind over and over, repeatedly mocking him and his damned ego for getting himself into this disaster.

As if he had been entirely isolated from the chaos that he had created by being a bitch, to quote your brother. Ao’nung hadn’t defended you like he should have and it was Ao’nung who had allowed his friend to insult you instead of telling her to shut up and not speak of you that way.

It was Ao’nung who had tried to push you further than you were ready to go, and it was his fault for trying to make you into a hunter when you were perfectly content being the soft Omatikaya woman that you were.

And it was his fault for screwing up the courtship that should have been celebrated and treated as valuable as it was, but no—he was a skxawng who had inadvertently lost the woman he was in love with.

“Ma eylan—” the spear leaves his hand and cuts through the air with a sharp hiss, a whistle that is sparsely caught by the hunter who speaks to him.

The hunter who had called Ao’nung’s beautiful mate to be “soft” as if that was an insult instead of a compliment; something tender to be revered.

“You are in a bad mood.” The hunter catches the spear and swings it around in her hand, measuring the weight and the craftmanship behind the well-made weapon. “Is this because your courtship with the soft one is over?”

"Tìfnu si ngeyä kxar.” Ao’nung bares his teeth and hisses at the hunter who, he feels, is equivocally responsible for your departure. The hunter who had insulted his mate, his yawne, by calling her sift and suggesting that you could never be a hunter.

The words and the blame he places on her feel like acid, they feel as if they are going to consume him from the inside out. There is a shadow that is overcasting any residual warmth he feels from the things you had left behind for him—things you did not want to take with you. It wasn’t just courting gifts that you made for him that you had refused to take with you when you left, it was gifts for his family.

That is the kind of warmth your exuded, the kindness that you had wholly leaned into instead of focusing on becoming a warrior like him. Like your brothers.

Like the hunter who had insulted you.

“I am only coming to see how you are ma eylan, since your courtship is over. Should you not be happy that you can find someone else? Someone who you will not have to protect…provide for?” She heralds no remorse, no guilt for what she has done. Rather she seems to hold a sense of pride over what she had said, thinking that she was helping free Ao’nung.

“Eywa ngahu ke zola'!” He turns and calls her out in a manner that is distinctly Na’vi instead of mimicking the Sky-Person’s manner of cursing. He knows that she would not understand the colloquiums of telling her to “go to hell” or to “get fucked” like Lo’ak tells Ao’nung anytime he sees him.

Instead Ao’nung tells her he hopes “Eywa will not be with her”, as good of a curse as he knows she will understand. And in cursing her the Na’vi way, he sees her face twisting into an expression of harshness, the curling of her lips and the pinching of her eyes. Her hand tightens around the spear, and like before, she spins it in her hands to weigh the quality of the weapon.

“You think you would be happy with such a soft thin-tail?” the hunter and warrior that Ao’nung had spent time describing as dependable and strong, as someone who did not have to worry about defending, had insulted you again.

The words were reminiscent of his own insults he would throw at your family when you first arrived, calling you and your brother’s forest-boy and forest-girl.

“Rä'ä krrpxì oeyä yawne.” His lips curl and he bares his teeth as a hiss follows the demand that she respects you, that she stops insulting Ao’nung’s future mate.

“Oeyä yawne?” The hunter scoffs and rolls her eyes with indignation as she crosses the distance between herself and Ao’nung, for the sole purpose of handing his spear back to him. “The soft daughter of Toruk Makto is not your “yawne”, ma eylan. That courtship is over and I suggest that you spend your time and effort trying to court someone who bears the same value to the clan as you do.”

He grabs the spear from her with haste and a rising foul temperament, his fingers tightening around the spear. He glares at her, this hunter who he had once considered a friend and someone he could trust and grinds his teeth. The manner of which she is speaking is as prideful as he anticipated and Ao’nung knows that she means to suggest herself as an alternate to you.

Or, at the very least, someone who is at least of the same clan.

Ao’nung waits until she is gone and he is alone, and only then does he pivot and throw the spear back at the target. The force he uses is enough to send the entire blade through the target, while the firm polished and carved hilt gets stuck in the middle.

He is left alone; you are gone back to your clan. You had been driven from the shores of Awa’atlu by his inaction and lack of bold defensiveness. He knows that he should have done more to make you feel appreciated and understood; loved for everything you were and not what he wanted you to be.