#avatarfic

The Tree of voices hums above you, its tendrils swaying gently as the forest listens to you walk its paths. Bioluminescent roots curl beneath your feet, glowing faintly with every step you take closer to the trunk.

So’lek stands beside you, arms folded, posture rigid in a way you’ve come to recognize. Yet this is not his normal battle readiness he seems to carry with him like a burden. This is something else, something unnamed. 

He brought you here, to the glade of light not far from home tree, when an irresponsible question or two slipped from your lips at the fire gathering at your camp. 

–

When Priya’s voice crackles through your comms, requesting help with a pack of ferals in the area, you don’t hesitate. You convince So’lek and a few others to join you on a friendly hunt. Just the group. The promise of fermented fruit and tree sap is enough to entice most of them, though So’lek needs no convincing at all.

It’s later, when the fire has been built and the night has settled in, that your curiosity begins to stir.

A Na’vi pairing you invited from Hometree makes themselves comfortable around the fire. Ateyo, a skilled hunter among the clan, sits easily beside Kala’te, a healer you’ve met only a handful of times. She is expressive and warm, tossing lighthearted jokes into the circle as the cups are passed. Ateyo wears an easy smile, his thumb absently brushing along her tail where it curls behind him.

As the forest darkens and the trees begin to glow, the two drift closer without seeming to notice. Ateyo presses his forehead into the crook of her neck as she laughs, and Kala’te responds by resting her own forehead against his, her hands moving idly across his chest.

You catch yourself watching them more than once.

There is something about their closeness that pulls at you. Something familiar and foreign all at once. A part of Na’vi life you have never experienced except from a distance. You have so many questions about your kind and no one you feel you can ask. Except for one…. The sight tightens something low in your chest, sharp and unexpected. You wonder, briefly, what it would look like if it were So’lek sitting there instead. If his touch were as easy. As absentminded. 

Your name, spoken quietly by So’lek, pulls you from your thoughts, startling you.

He holds out a cup toward you, watching you with knowing eyes. You hadn’t realized you were drifting until his presence steadied you like always, familiar in the way the rest of the circle isn’t. Somehow, without thinking, you’ve shifted closer to him than anyone else. He has seen where your attention keeps drifting. He shakes his head slightly, the hint of a smile tugging at his lips.

“It is rude to stare, Sarentu.”

Heat rushes to your face, sharper because it was him who noticed, your skin flushing a deep purple as you snatch the cup from his hand. You tilt your head back and drink quickly, the fermented juice sweet on your tongue, mild and warm, the fruit lingering long after you swallow.

This is already your third cup, and you have to admit it does little to curb your curiosity. If anything, it makes everything feel lighter. Funnier. You laugh softly at yourself, at the absurdity of being so distracted by something that must be perfectly normal.

“Amused?” So’lek asks, prodding gently.

“No, no—” you say quickly, searching for the right words. “I’m laughing at my own foolishness.”

He tilts his head, following your gaze across the fire toward the pair once more, trying to piece together what you mean.

You pass the cup to the warrior beside you, who is stretched out in the glowing grass, already half-asleep and staring up at the stars. When he doesn’t take it, you lean over him to offer it to the next one instead.

When you settle back into your place, you find So’lek watching Ateyo and Kala’te still, his elbow braced on his knee, his hand resting thoughtfully against his chin. You watch his expression instead of theirs, wondering what he sees. Wondering if he notices the same things you do. The realization that you want to know unsettles you more than the answer might. 

“Now you’re staring,” you say.

He snaps his attention back to you, blinking once. “I was curious.”

“So was I,” you counter, a little defensively. “There’s no need to look so puzzled.”

“Curious about what?”

“If that is… normal.” You hesitate, realizing how that must sound. “Being that close, I mean.”

Surprise flickers across his face, his brow bone lifting as his thumb and pointer finger rub together absently.

“They did not teach you of Na’vi bonds in that metal box?” he asks.

The heat creeps back up your neck, and you fumble for an answer that doesn’t feel like foolishness.

“No—Alma did; she just…” Your words trail off. Because Alma hadn’t taught you. Not really. Why would she? She must have believed you would never see another Na’vi again. What importance would it have held then?

The fire crackles, sparks lifting into the air as Ateyo and Kala’te rise together, hands linked, drifting quietly into the forest beyond the firelight. Something hot and unfamiliar twists low in your stomach, a sharp edge of jealousy you aren’t prepared for.

“When Na’vi choose each other,” you ask softly, “is it always that obvious?”

You don’t mean to ask him. Not really. The question is meant for the fire, for the night, for no one in particular. But when you speak, your eyes find So’lek first. 

He lets out a quiet, breathy laugh as he rises to his feet. “Not always,” he says, extending his hand toward you. “Let me show you something.”

–

The light from the tree dances across your vision, each trailing strand of glowing pink pulsing softly with the spirits of lives long passed. It is a sight that still steals your breath every time. Awe settles deep in your chest, reverent and heavy. Yet even as you take it in, a question lingers.

You aren’t sure why he has brought you here.

You have come to this place before. The first time, to stand beneath the voices of the ancestors and feel their presence wrap around you. To bond with your ikran, trusting her to carry you through the sky in the way you always knew she would.

So’lek trails a step behind you now, unhurried, letting you lead as the bioluminescent moss beneath your feet lights a soft path through the cavern for him to follow. You lose yourself in the sight of the tree once more, neck craning as you take in its vastness, its quiet power.

It isn’t until you feel his gaze on you that you turn.

He stands still, head tilted slightly as he watches you, not the tree. The glow paints his features in soft color, and something in his expression tightens when your eyes meet. As if seeing you here, bathed in Eywa’s light, has confirmed something he has not yet put into words.

“Why have you brought me here? ” you ask quietly.

“You said you were curious,” he replies.

Your ears flatten just a fraction, more in uncertainty than irritation. “Yes, but I know what this is,” you say, gesturing around you to the living presence of Eywa, to the whispering spirits threaded through the roots and air.

This place is sacred. And whatever he intends to say here must be as well.

So’lek smiles softly. “I brought you here to listen. You have questions; then perhaps Eywa has answers.”

You huff out a quiet breath, shaking your head. “I don’t think Eywa has the answers to my curiosities.”

He steps closer, slow and unthreatening, one hand lifting to brush along the hanging strands of the tree. The tendrils glow brighter where his fingers pass, responding to his touch.

“Then ask me.”

The words settle heavier than you expect. You open your mouth. Close it again.

It’s easier to look at the Tree than at him as you speak. “Back at the fire,” you begin, carefully, “the way Ateyo and Kala’te were together… it meant something. More than closeness.”

“Yes,” he says simply.

You swallow. “So when Na’vi choose each other… what does that look like? Is it always that way? ” Your ears flick back, betraying your uncertainty. “Is it something the clan decides? Or… something private? ”

The clan. It feels easy to say now, after everything that has come before. After all that you and So’lek have done for the Na’vi of Hometree and for Pandora itself. The Aranahe. The Zeswa. Even the Kame’tire. Each clan welcomed you in their own way, not with ceremony, but with certainty. A place made without needing to be asked for.

You and So’lek were outsiders once, accustomed to being watched, measured, and kept at a distance. Now, you are greeted as one of their own. Trusted. Expected. Looked to. You have fought beside them, learned their ways, and lived among them long enough for the distinction to blur.

The clan does not treat you differently anymore. They expect from you what they expect from everyone else.

This, too.

So’lek considers your words, gaze lifting to the glowing canopy above you. “Both,” he answers. “And neither.”

“That’s not helpful,” you mutter.

A quiet huff of amusement escapes him. “It is honest.”

You shift your weight, frustration and curiosity tangling together. “Is it… like marriage? ” The word feels strange on your tongue. Human. Clumsy. “Or mating? Are those the same thing here? ”

His expression grows more serious at that, not closed but thoughtful. “They are not the same,” he says. “But they are often tied.”

You glance at him now, heart beginning to beat faster. “Were Ateyo and Kala’te… already bound? Mated? ” You hesitate, then add more softly, “Or does that come later? ”

So’lek’s jaw tightens just slightly, the way it does when he’s choosing precision over ease.

“Sometimes a bond is seen before it is spoken,” he says. “Sometimes it is spoken long before it is acted upon. There is no single path.”

Your brow furrows. “So how do you know? ”

That question hangs there, suspended between you and the tree. How do you know when something is more than closeness? When does it become intention?

So’lek turns fully toward you then, the glow of the Tree catching in his eyes. Whatever answer you expected, it isn’t the one he’s about to give.

He exhales through his nose, slow and controlled.

“There is something I should explain,” he says at last, gaze now fixed on the drifting seeds between the roots. “Before misunderstandings are made.”

Your ears flick, curiosity sharpening. “That sounds ominous.”

His mouth twitches despite himself. “It is not meant to be.”

Silence stretches again. The Tree murmurs softly overhead, voices whispering in a language older than either of you.

“In Na’vi society,” So’lek begins, carefully, “to be muntxa is not a casual thing. It is not decided in haste, nor assumed because two walk closely together.”

You nod, attentive.

“To be muntxa,” he continues, “is to choose one another with the understanding that the clan will see you as bound. Your actions reflect on each other. Your futures are considered together.”

“That sounds… heavy,” you say gently.

“It is,” he agrees without hesitation.

You shift your weight, glancing at the roots beneath your feet. “And tsaheylu?”

His jaw tightens just slightly.

“Tsaheylu is sacred,” he says. “It is not exclusive to mating, but when shared between two who intend to be muntxa, it carries great significance. It is trust without barriers. There is no separation when it is formed.”

That, somehow, makes your chest ache.

“So,” you say slowly, “being close to someone doesn’t mean you’re expected to choose them.”

“No,” he says. “Choice matters.”

Another pause. Longer this time.

“So why tell me this now?” you ask.

So’lek finally looks at you. Because this part is difficult.

“There are… expectations,” he admits. “Sometimes suggestions. The clan believes it is practical to consider such things before conflict.”

You tilt your head. “Suggestions like…?”

He hesitates. The Tree’s glow paints his face in shifting blues and greens, catching the tension in his expression.

“There are many fine matches that the Olo’eyktan sees for us,” he says, echoing words you recognize even before he finishes. 

You blink. 

“Like Akeyu,” So’lek says after a pause. “Strong. A sensible hunter. He provides well.”

The words settle between you, heavier than they have any right to be.

Your chest tightens with a dull, unwelcome ache, the kind that blooms slowly and leaves no clear edge to push against. It isn’t anger. It isn’t resentment. It’s the simple, painful realization of what it feels like to imagine someone else standing where your heart has already wandered.

You turn away from him before the expression can give you away, your gaze lifting instead to the glowing strands of the Tree of Voices. They sway gently above you, patient and unmoved, carrying the echoes of countless lives that made choices like this every day. Sensible ones. Approved ones.

The thought of Akeyu beside you feels… acceptable. That is what makes it hurt.

“He would,” you say quietly at last. “He would be a good match.”

The words come out soft and practiced, as if you are agreeing with something already decided. You keep your eyes on the Tree, letting its light wash over you, afraid that if you turn back too soon, So’lek will see the truth written too plainly across your face.

Because it isn’t the suggestion itself that aches.

It’s the fact that your heart had already chosen something else entirely.

“He tells me Teylani is a skilled weaver.” He continues.

Something sharp and unexpected twists in your chest, a brief, breathless ache that catches you off guard. You hadn’t known there was anything there to bruise. You force your expression to remain neutral, schooling your face into something thoughtful instead of wounded.

“That sounds… sensible,” you say after a beat, the word tasting wrong in your mouth. “She would be stable, then. Someone good for you.”

You mean it as reassurance yet it comes out too carefully.

Your gaze drops to the glowing roots at your feet, as if the Tree might hide the way your heart has leapt and cracked all at once. The idea of him standing beneath this light with someone else presses uncomfortably against your ribs. The thought settles where it shouldn’t, unwelcome and undeniable. The thought of Akeyu… of Teylani…

You swallow, steadying yourself.

“That is what the Olo’eyktan wants, I suppose.”

The words may be easy to say, but the feeling behind them is not. It aches in a way you have never known before, sudden and disorienting, as if something inside you has been struck without warning.

When you hear the ground shift behind you and feel So’lek move closer, your body tenses instinctively. You steady yourself, holding tight to whatever composure you have left, afraid of what might spill free if he says anything more.

“I do not want Teylani.”

Your ears perk despite yourself, your heart stumbling with a foolish hope that flutters dangerously close before you can rein it in. At that same moment, a single atokirina’ drifts through the air, carried on a phantom breeze. You lift your hand without thinking, breath caught as you wait for it to land.

It doesn’t.

The seed glides past your outstretched fingers, brushing the space over your shoulder instead. You turn with it, and in doing so, find So’lek standing closer than before. Just a few steps away. Close enough that you can feel the warmth of him, steady and grounding.

The atokirina settles against his shoulder.

So’lek’s gaze drops to it, his expression unreadable, reverent. For a suspended heartbeat, it feels as though Eywa herself has paused to listen.

“It seems Eywa knows this,” So’lek muses, lifting his gaze back to you.

Your breath catches, uncertainty tightening your chest. “Eywa knows… that you have not chosen?”

So’lek smiles faintly, raising his hand as the atokirina drifts along his fingers. “She knows that I have.”

The words steal your breath completely.

He extends his hand toward you, palm open, the glowing seed hovering just above it. There is no rush in the gesture. No pressure. Only an unspoken question, offered with care.

“You wish to choose Akeyu?” So’lek asks softly, his eyes never leaving yours as he addresses the seed instead.

“No.”

The word leaves you in a hush, barely more than breath. And the moment it does, the atokirina’ lifts from his palm and drifts toward you, settling gently against your shoulder as if drawn there by certainty alone.

Eywa knows you speak the truth, and now it seems, so does So’lek. He watches it for a long moment. Then his gaze lifts, meeting yours. There is no surprise in his expression. No hesitation. 

Only relief. 

“Eywa has already answered,” he says quietly. 

Your heart pounds so loudly you are certain he must hear it. “So’lek….”

He takes a single step closer. Not enough to touch. Enough to matter. “I did not bring you here to ask you to choose for me,” he continues, voice low and careful. “I brought you here because I needed you to know that I already have.”

The tree hums softly around you, its voices weaving together in quiet approval. 

His eyes do not leave you when he speaks your name. Not Sarentu, but your real name. Just once, and somehow, that is worse than any declaration could be. 

You think of all the moments before this one. All the times you told yourself you were imagining it. The way your eyes always found him first. The way your body seemed to know where he was before your mind caught up. The countless small almosts you swallowed down. You were wrong all along. 

“So have I,” you admit. 

His brow bone furrows, not in confusion, but in concentration. Like he’s afraid to mishear you. “Have what?”

“Chosen,” You say. And there’s a tiny, breathless laugh in it because it still feels unreal. “I just didn’t know I was allowed to.”

That earns you a quiet huff of surprise from him. Not laughter. Something warmer. 

“You were always allowed,” he says. “I was only unsure if I was.”

That makes your chest ache in a way that feels almost fond. You step closer without deciding to, closing the space you’ve been circling for so long. “I kept telling myself I just felt gratitude. Or trust. Or habit.”

“So did I,” he admits, and there’s something almost sheepish in the way his ears flick back. “I told myself it was my duty to watch over you. That my concern was… practical.”

You snort quietly. “Very convincing.”

The corner of his mouth lifts. “I am excellent at lying to myself.” 

That breaks something open between you, the tension easing just enough to let warmth spill through. You feel it then, the simple, undeniable truth of it. 

“It was always you,” you say before you can stop yourself. 

The words don’t feel frightening once they’re out. They feel right. Settled. Like setting something down you’ve been carrying for too long. Your hand hesitates, then finds his, fingers brushing his in a question you no longer need Eywa to answer. 

So’lek exhales, slow and steady, as if he’s been waiting for permission to breathe. “Then we are both very foolish,” he says gently, “for pretending otherwise.”

The tree hums above you, the atokirina’ lifting at last, drifting away now that its work is done and for a long moment, neither of you speaks. 

So’lek doesn’t step closer right away. He just looks at you. Really looks. His gaze drags over your face as if committing every detail to memory, pupils darkening as something unguarded flickers through his expression. It isn’t hunger exactly. It’s focus. Intention.

You feel it like a pull in your chest.

His hand tightens slightly around yours, not to hold you in place, but to steady himself. When he leans in, it’s slow. Deliberate. Close enough that you can feel his breath first, warm against your mouth, his forehead brushing yours as if grounding himself before the final step.

You don’t move away.

That is answer enough.

His lips meet yours with quiet certainty, a kiss that feels less like taking and more like arriving. Gentle at first, almost reverent, as if he’s still half-afraid this might vanish if he moves too quickly. When you breathe into it, when your fingers curl at his wrist, the kiss deepens naturally. Unrushed. Earnest. Full.

There’s nothing desperate in it. No claiming.

Just the release of everything you’ve both been holding back.

His hand slides to your jaw, thumb warm against your cheek, and you tilt into the touch without thinking. The forest hums around you, low and steady, and you’re suddenly aware of the soft glow blooming along your skin, answering his in a way you don’t bother trying to stop.

When he finally pulls back, it’s only far enough to rest his forehead against yours again, breath uneven now, eyes still locked on yours.

As if checking that you’re still here.

As if he always knew you would be.

You smile, small and a little breathless, and lean in to kiss him again. This time, there’s no hesitation at all.

As if the first kiss is all the sign he needs, both his hands come up to frame your face as you gravitate toward his chest, needing him closer, needing this to last. His kisses deepen, turning possessive in a way that tells you he needs this just as much as you do. Breath turns rapid, shared between you, stolen and given back in uneven rhythm.

His mouth never leaves your skin. When your name falls from his lips again, something in you gives way completely, your body softening under his touch as his kisses linger, drifting along your jaw and down the curve of your neck. His hands settle at the small of your back, firm and grounding, guiding you down until the forest floor meets you beneath a scatter of glowing moss.

Pinks and purples bloom at the edges of your vision as he follows you, bracing himself above you, his kisses trailing lower along your chest before slowing. His hands move gently against your skin, reverent rather than rushed, until he stops and lifts his head.

He looks at you then.

Really looks at you.

“Do you choose this, Sarentu?” he asks quietly.

His hands continue their slow, reassuring paths along your skin even as he sits back onto his knees. The absence of his weight makes you move instinctively, lifting yourself toward him as if chasing the warmth he’s pulled away.

“Yes,” you breathe. “So’lek. I choose this. Us.”

You lift your hand to his face, tracing small circles into his skin with your thumb. The touch feels right. Familiar.

“I choose you.”

Something in his expression breaks open at that. Completion. Clarity. As if a fog has finally lifted from his eyes. You realize, suddenly and with certainty, that he needed to hear it spoken. Needed the choice named.

And you feel the answering need in yourself. The urge to make him understand fully. To show him that no one else has ever reached you the way he has.

Your hand drifts back over your shoulder, fingers finding your kuru.

So’lek notices instantly.

His hand closes gently but firmly around your wrist, stopping you, his breath hitching as his eyes lock onto yours.

“Nga yawne—”

You don’t pull away.

Instead, you finish what you started.

Your fingers close around your kuru, heart hammering as you draw it fully into your hand. The motion feels deliberate. Certain. When you lift your gaze back to him, your voice is steady even as your chest aches with the weight of it.

“This is what I choose,” you say softly.

For a moment, So’lek doesn’t move.

Then something in him gives.

It’s subtle. Almost imperceptible. The tension that has lived in his shoulders for as long as you’ve known him finally loosens. His breath leaves him in a quiet, unguarded exhale, and when he looks at you again, his eyes are different. Clear. Warm. Alive in a way you’ve never seen before.

He smiles.

Not the restrained curve of his mouth you’re used to. Not the guarded acceptance. This is slow and genuine, like it surprises even him. Like it’s the first time in years he’s allowed himself to feel something without bracing for loss.

You realize, distantly, that this may be the first time he’s been happy in a long time.

His hand lifts, and he lets you finish. Lets you guide your choice where it belongs. He watches you the entire time, reverent, breath unsteady, as if committing the moment to memory.

Then, with the same care, he reaches up and draws his own kuru free from where it rests behind his back. 

The sight of it steals your breath.

He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t claim. He leans forward instead, close enough that your foreheads nearly touch, and rests his free hand over your heart. His palm is warm. Steady. Grounding.

As if anchoring himself to the truth of you.

“So this,” he murmurs, voice thick but certain, “is what I have chosen as well.”

The forest hums around you, alive and witnessing. Somewhere above, the atokirina’ drift, glowing softly, satisfied.

And for the first time in a very long while, So’lek closes his eyes.

Not in pain or vigilance, but in peace.

So’lek’s breath shudders as his fingers curl gently around your wrist, not to stop you now, but to steady you both. His gaze never leaves your face as you guide your kuru forward, the bioluminescent tendrils quivering with a life of their own.

When your kuru meets his, there is a pause. A breath held by the forest itself.

Then they connect, and the world breaks open.

It isn’t sight or sound that comes first, but feeling. A rush so sudden it steals your breath, flooding through you in waves too large to name. You feel him—not his body, not his hands, but the weight of his history. His vigilance. His grief. His loyalty, sharp and unwavering as a blade. It hits you all at once, so intense you gasp, clutching at him instinctively as you threaten to give.

He catches you immediately.

Arms wrapping around you, solid and anchoring, as if he knew you would need it. As if he needs it too.

Your forehead presses to his chest as the connection deepens, and suddenly you are aware of yourself as he feels you. Your fear. Your stubborn hope. Every moment you chose him without realizing it. Every time you wished, silently, that he would see you the way you see him.

He does.

You feel it in the way his breath stutters. In the way his arms tighten around you, not possessive, but reverent. As if holding you is the only thing keeping him grounded while the bond unfolds.

It is overwhelming. Too much and perfect all at once.

You don’t lose yourself, not in this, not in him. Now, you are known.

So’lek lets out a broken sound, halfway between a breath and a laugh, and buries his face against your hair as if the sensation has finally cracked something open inside him. You feel his relief like sunlight after years of storm.

“This…” he murmurs, voice rough with emotion. “This is—”

He can’t finish.

“Us,” You murmur against him. 

He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes shining, unguarded, alive in a way you’ve never seen before. His hand comes up, resting flat over your heart once more, grounding himself in the steady beat there.

“I am yours,” he says simply.

Not as a claim, but as a truth. Truth you waited so long to hear. 

You lift your hand to his chest in mirror, feeling his heart racing beneath your palm, still tethered to yours through the bond.

“And I am yours,” you whisper back.

The words settle into the connection like they were always meant to be there.

The forest hums around you, satisfied. Eywa listens. And held in each other’s arms, bodies steadying while souls remain intertwined, you know this is not something that can be undone.

Not by fear. Not by time. Not by anything at all.

You are forever entwined, and you wouldn’t have it any other way. 

Pigments stain your fingers as you work the colors together in the bowl. Ochre, deep blue, and a green pulled from crushed leaves and ash. They smell like home. Warm sap and the bark of trees that still remember song. The scent clings to you, resin-deep and humming, as if the forest itself has leaned close to watch.

So’lek sits with his back to you, spine straight, shoulders bare. Still as stone. He has already given consent. That alone tightens something in your chest.

Since leaving TAP behind, starting anew, you’ve felt like a young babe. Unsteady. Learning how to exist in a world that was never meant to keep you caged. Learning to walk again on the two feet below you as the colors change and shift beneath your toes. This was no different. Learning to understand, to grow accustomed to the ways of the Na’vi like you never had the chance to before. 

War paint was a warrior’s way of telling Eywa and the clan why they stood to fight. I am ready; I accept the cost.  It says. Yet the application is done by oneself in preparation for the battle ahead. 

When So’lek asked you to apply the pigments, you paused, giving him a moment to reconsider. 

It was an understanding the two of you were new to, something you had yet to push past, the timid glances and gentle touches. 

“Oe sngä’i ngaru.” He had said. I trust you.

He had taken your hands and pressed them against his chest, feeling the cool metal of his vest chill your skin. Was this his way of accepting Eywas' will? Accepting your hands across his skin as an acknowledgment? He was allowing you to witness his readiness and his fear. 

His hands hesitated at the fastening of his vest. Just for a breath. Then he stilled, shoulders squaring, tail unmoving, as if he had already made the choice and would not insult it by wavering now. 

“Zola’u,” you murmured softly. be still.  The pigments finally mixed, creating a bright teal that seemed made for him. 

The word hangs between you, fragile as breath. Asking him to be still feels heavier than asking him to move. There is power in it and risk. You are suddenly aware of how easily this moment could fracture if either of you shifts too soon, speaks too loudly, or decides against it now. The air feels charged, thick with sap and silence, as if the forest itself is holding still with him.

Once you touch him, there will be no pretending this is only a ritual.

He inclined his head. Nothing more.

Then, dragging your fingers through the paint, your hand met his skin. Warm. Solid. 

The heat of him surprises you because the warmth settles into your hands, grounding you in a way you weren’t prepared for. Your fingers feel suddenly clumsy, too aware of themselves, as if they have forgotten their purpose now that they are pressed to living skin instead of memory. For a heartbeat, doubt flickers. Am I allowed this?

Then his stillness answers for him.

The first touch was ceremonial, flat and steady, spreading color across his upper back. A mark of readiness. Of unity. Your hands move with care, not because you fear making a mistake, but because you understand what it means to mark someone who may not return. Paint can be washed away. Memory cannot. Every line you draw feels like a quiet promise you are not sure you are strong enough to make, and yet you make it anyway. This was not something given lightly among the Na’vi, and both of you knew it. The silence hums with that knowledge as you trace the muscles of his back with patterns and streaks. 

You trail your hands lower, leaving open prints like echoes. His breath changes. Just slightly. Perhaps in recognition, knowing your handprints will be on display as he flies. As he fights. You picture it without meaning to. The lift of his ikran, the rush of air, the way the light will catch along his back as he moves through the sky. Your handprints will glow there, faint but unmistakable, painted into motion. Anyone who looks up will see them. Will know he does not fly alone. The thought tightens something in your chest, pride and fear tangling together until you cannot tell where one ends and the other begins. Who he fights for is now imprinted across his syuratan, the glow answering your touch. 

Your fingers slow when the texture beneath them changes.

The scars are old. Some of them you recognize. The cruel precision of RDA weapons leaves a particular kind of mark, even years later. Others are older, cleaner, and earned in ways that speak of trials and survival rather than cruelty. And some you cannot place at all. They tell stories you were never meant to hear, histories he carries without offering explanation. You do not ask. Your hands learn what they can and leave the rest untouched. Your hand lingers without meaning to, thumb brushing along the edge of one long mark that crosses his shoulder blade as you circle the pigment around the area. 

So’lek’s muscles tense as he turns his head slightly, watching your hand brush across his shoulder.

His breath leaves him slowly through his nose, measured, as if he is holding himself in place by will alone. The rigid movement was not from anger, but rather control. 

“They remind me why I endure,” he said at last, voice low and measured.

Your hand stills.

Endure. Not survive. Not heal. The word settles heavily, reshaping what you thought you understood about him. Endurance is not hope. It is will. It frightens you a little how easily he carries it, how naturally it seems woven into him.

Then, gently, you press your palm over the scar, pigment and all. Not erasing it. Honoring it. “Lu Lor, So’lek,” you said. It is beautiful. 

The word feels right in your mouth. Feels complete. If there were only one reason to learn the language of your people completely, it would be him. To tell him this now. 

For a long moment, he does not move, and you think he may disagree. Then he exhales. Slow. Careful. As if letting go of something he has carried alone for too long.

“Nì’ul nga,” he murmurs.

The words settle slowly, as if they are meant to. Only you. Not a promise. Not a confession. Something quieter. Something heavier. Your pulse stutters, then quickens, each beat loud in your ears as you try to understand what he is giving you and what he is not. Whether it is a truth spoken in passing or one he has carried longer than he is willing to admit. Among the Na’vi, words were not taken lightly, and neither were they claimed without care. To misunderstand would be to dishonor them. So you do not speak. You let the meaning breathe between you.

He was right. He would only ever let you think that. Let you be the one to see him as he was. In all his anger and all his vengeance, he has found his way back to what it means to share light with another of his kind.

In the end, you choose the only response that feels right. You return to the paint. To the patterns. To the work he trusted you with. Some truths, you realize, are not meant to be answered immediately. You’re softer now, tracing patterns meant for protection, for endurance. When your fingers skim the base of his spine, he shifts just enough to remind you that he is aware of you. Of every breath. Every touch.

When you finish, your hands are stained, your heart louder than it should be.

So’lek rises and turns, sitting forward for you to continue your work on the front. 

Up close, his eyes search your face, unreadable and heavy with things unsaid. Before you can reach for new paint, he lifts your paint-marked hand and presses it briefly to his chest.

“Irayo,” he says. 

Not for the paint.

For the witness.

For you.

His hand lingers there for a heartbeat longer than necessary, as if memorizing the contact. You resist the urge to turn your palm beneath his, to close your fingers around the warmth of his chest. Is this as far as he will go? You understand that instinctively. Restraint is not distance for him. It is care. It is choosing not to take more than he is ready to give.

“I am not finished yet.” 

Though time was not in your favor this day, perhaps Eywa would be.

Send him back to me. Send him home, you think.

The clans begin to gather beyond the clearing, their voices rising and blending together. All of them. United to defend their home. To defend Pandora. You and So’lek met here, in the husk of an old resistance lab you had powered long ago during your travels across the land. Word had spread quickly. Mercer’s drill had been sanctioned. Its purpose is clear. To destroy everything in its wake.

You could not allow it. Not after everything you had only just begun to remember. Not after finding your way back to a home that had never stopped waiting for you.

So’lek stands with you now. All the clans do. And it is time to go to war.

“Same color?” you ask, adding more crushed leaves and mineral ash to the bowl, stirring slowly.

So’lek does not answer at first.

His gaze has gone distant and hooded as he watches the subtle twitch of your ears, the way your tongue passes briefly across your lower lip as you work. Lost in something quiet and internal, like a child momentarily distracted by light.

“Ftxozä,” you murmur, your tail flicking against his calf. Focus.

He glances down at the spot you struck, unfazed by the sting it must have left, then looks back at you.

“Sarentu,” he says, voice steady. “You may do what you please.” His eyes linger now, darker with something unreadable. “I will not fuss like a babe.”

Your mouth curves upward as you finish the mixture, drawing your fingers through it once more before gesturing for him to lift his chin.

“You would not want me to have my way with you, ma So’lek.”

Something hums low in his chest at the sound of his name on your tongue.

You graze your fingers across his cheeks, slow and deliberate, thumbs brushing faint traces of paint along his skin.

“Close your eyes.”

You pass your fingers across his eyes from ear to ear, streaking the pigment into a mask across his features. You allow yourself a moment to admire him while he is unaware, just for that breath of stillness. With him seated before you, you stand tall above him, his head lifted to the height of your chest.

His syuratan glows brightly against the dark markings of his forehead, catching along the places where two of his braids are threaded through scavenged bolts. It is a small thing. Two pieces of metal. And yet it always makes you smile. Perhaps because you know it tells a larger truth. A harder story. One he carries without explanation.

“You can open them now.”

When he does, his eyes shine the brightest yellow you have seen yet, pupils widening as they adjust to the light. The sight of him looking up at you, unguarded, draws a soft smile from your lips.

“Nìltsan,” you murmur. Just right.

The air between you seems to warm, the space narrowing until it feels intimate in a way neither of you names. You pull back slightly, gesturing instead to his arms and legs, giving him the choice.

He offers his arms without a word. The exchange silent and instinctive.

So’lek relaxes beneath your hands, allowing you to take your time with the designs, with the steady rhythm of your movements. You save his chest for last. When you finally reach it, you pause, fingers hovering as you consider what pattern belongs there. The handprint you had left before stood out against his blue skin. 

You linger too long.

“You are thinking too hard, Sarentu,” he says, a quiet tease threading his voice as his tail flicks impatiently behind him.

“It is not hard to think about paint,” you reply, though your gaze remains fixed on the print.

“Then why do you hesitate?”

Perhaps he knows it is not the paint or the pattern that makes you still, but the nature of it all. What it means. Why he allows you to trace your marks along his skin and yet does not claim what could be his?

In your heart, that is how you wish it. The two of you, together. Yet the words remain lodged behind your teeth, too heavy to force free.

“Quiet. Or by Eywa’s will, I will take all night.”

You gather the last of the teal and draw clean lines along his torso, avoiding the handprint, even and deliberate patterns that mirror one another and meet in harmony at his center. When the teal is finished, you reach for another bowl, this one filled with stark white that will cut sharply against the darker paint.

So’lek watches you and the pigment with narrowed eyes, his expression shifting toward something faintly unimpressed.

“More?”

You laugh softly, offering no answer as you begin to outline your work, accenting the lines with careful dots, letting yourself sink into the rhythm of it. Into the art. Your movements grow fluid, instinctive, as if your hands remember something your mind does not.

So’lek lets you drift. Lets you create. Sits patiently before you as his gaze wanders, returning to you again and again.

When you reach the last of the paint, you drag your entire hand through the bowl, coating your palm completely. You hesitate then, hovering just short of his chest and the mark from before.

He notices.

Whatever hesitation once lived in your eyes, he seems to understand it now. Without a word, So’lek reaches for your wrist and guides your hand forward, pressing your painted palm to his chest, directly over his heart where it was before.

When skin meets skin, it feels inevitable. As if it was always meant to be this way. Something settles between you, something unspoken that never found its way through the spaces between before.

“So’lek—”

You lift your gaze to him and find something different there. Something unfamiliar. His lips part as if to speak, but no words come. For a moment, he looks caught between instinct and restraint.

Then he says your name.

Just once.

You feel it vibrate beneath your palm, carried on the steady beat of his heart, and suddenly it comes in waves. This feeling. This connection. To lose it, if he did not return, would be to lose everything you have only just begun to understand. To lose the comfort of your own skin—if his hands were not there to steady you, would feel like the end of something essential. Of yourself.

Through his pain, through his vengeance, from scars to burdens and everything in between, you want your very being entwined with his.

You have spoken through danger before. Through pain. Through loss. Yet now, with him this close, the words feel far heavier than any arrow or bullet ever did. Naming this thing between you feels like tempting fate, like daring Eywa to take notice. If you speak first and he does not follow, you are not sure you would survive the distance it would create. War can take a body. Silence can take everything else.

Your pulse beats loud in your ears as you draw breath, knowing that once the words leave you, they cannot be called back.

“So’lek, I—”

His grip tightens around your wrist, halting you. He lifts his other hand and places his palm over your own heart, warmth spreading through you where he touches, steady and grounding. The words you were reaching for dissolve, silenced by the way he looks at you. By the certainty in him now.

“Nga yawne lu oer,” he says softly.

Something leaps violently in your chest. The air catches in your throat, breath stolen as understanding crashes over you all at once. You are beloved to me. Stunned. Dazed. Your heart races as So’lek rises from the bench, closing the space between you. When he steps closer, just enough that your breaths begin to overlap, you realize this was never just ceremony at all. For the first time since leaving TAP, you realize survival is no longer the only thing you are fighting for.

He releases your wrist, his hand finding the hollow between your jaw and neck, his thumb brushing slowly along your cheek. His proximity feels overwhelming in the quiet, every sense sharpened to him alone. The warmth of his body. The faint hum beneath his skin. The awareness that this is the closest he has ever allowed himself to be.

“I will not fly before I say this,” he says softly, his grip unwavering. “If it is Eywa’s will for this to be our last journey, to move on, then it is her will for us to do so together.”

He draws his hand from your chest to cradle the other side of your face, his touch steady, certain.

“Oel ngati kameie,” he breathes.

I see you.

The welling in your eyes cannot compare to the warmth blooming in your chest as you lean forward, resting your forehead against his. Both your hands come to his painted skin, grounding yourself in him, in this moment. You have been looked at your entire life. Measured. Cataloged. Watched for what you could provide. At TAP, eyes followed you constantly, yet never truly saw you. Here, with one quiet phrase, he strips all of that away. He does not see what you were made to be. He sees what you chose to become. The weight of it nearly brings you to your knees.

“Oel ngati kameie,” you whisper back.

The forest outside hums, distant and patient, as if giving you this moment before demanding anything else. Whatever comes next, you know this moment cannot be taken from you. Not by war. Not by loss. Not by time. To be seen once, truly seen, is to be changed forever. Even if you are parted, even if the world demands its price, this truth will remain. You will carry it with you, as surely as he carries his scars.

“You will come back to me, Sarentu.” He pulls back just enough to look into your eyes, his hands steady despite the tremor you feel beneath them. “Just as I will fly with your mark on me, knowing I will come back to you as well.”

He lifts a hand, brushing away the tear that slips free before you can stop it. Your fingers trail upward across his chest in answer, warm skin beneath your palms, until your hands find their place at the back of his neck, resting there as if they have always known where they belong.

“Nìwotx,” you say, nodding through blurred vision. Always.

For a moment, he does nothing.

He studies you as if committing you to memory, as if this is something he must carry with him into the sky. Then his forehead rests briefly against yours, a quiet grounding touch, his breath warm against your lips.

When he kisses you, it is slow.

Careful.

As if he is asking permission even now.

His lips brush yours once, barely there, a question more than a claim. When you do not pull away, when your hands tighten just slightly at his neck, the kiss deepens. Not hurried. Not hungry. Just full. Present. His thumb settles along your jaw, anchoring you as if he fears the world may tilt if he does not.

The taste of him is familiar in a way that startles you. Like home rediscovered. Like something remembered rather than learned.

There is no desperation in it, only certainty.

A promise carried in the press of his mouth to yours, in the steady way he lingers before pulling back just enough to breathe you in again. His lips rest against your forehead for a brief, reverent moment, as if sealing something sacred.

When he finally draws away, his hand remains at your neck, his thumb brushing once, gentle and grounding.

Nothing more needs to be said.

The forest hums softly around you as the beat of wings in the distance grows closer and for this moment, before the sky calls him away, you are held.