#neural queue

“We are almost neck and neck by now! If the wind hadn't shifted and caught my ilu’s belly, I would have left you in my wake. You’re just lucky the Great Mother gave you a win for your pride.”

“In your dreams, forest boy!” Ao’nung barked back, his tail giving a sharp, arrogant flick against the wood, the tip of it nearly hitting Rotxo’s leg.

As the argument escalated, your focus narrowed. The world around you began to fade out—the sounds of Tsireya’s melodic giggle, Rotxo’s rebuttals, and Kiri’s occasional snarky comment all became background noise. Your eyes wandered, tracing the intricate patterns on Ao’nung’s skin before landing on his kuru.

The braid was a masterpiece of Metkayina tradition, thick and dark, adorned with small, bioluminescent shells— likely the work of his sister. Almost mindlessly, your hand wandered toward it. Your fingertips were cool against his warm skin as you began to lightly follow the spiraling patterns of the braid.

The moment you made contact, Ao’nung flinched. It wasn't a small movement; it was a full-body jolt, a silent shock that traveled from the base of his neck down to his heels.

His voice, which had been mid-boast, died in his throat for a split second. He gasped, a sharp intake of air that made his ribs expand. It was unfamiliar for him to feel anything just from his kuru, he was not a child or some pervert.

“And—and another thing!” he stammered, his voice jumping an octave as he recovered. He didn't pull the queue away. He stayed exactly where he was, though his ears were now swiveling wildly, trying to track your every move without him having to look back.

You were too tired to care about the whole thing over touching someone else’s kuru. You lifted the braid entirely from his back, cradling the weight of it in your palms. It was heavy and smooth, and as you ran your thumb over the weave, you could feel the faint, rhythmic pulse of his nervous system underneath.

Ao’nung couldn't maintain the facade for long. The sensation of your fingers—gentle, curious, and persistent—was driving him to distraction. He stopped mid-sentence, ignoring Lo’ak’s latest jab about his diving form, and swung his head around.

He had meant to look terrifying. He had intended to give you mean mug that usually sent the younger kids scurrying away. But as he turned, the words died in his throat.

He froze.

From his position, looking up at you from his seat on the floor, you looked like something out of a dream. The setting sun was behind you, creating a halo of gold around your head.

You were so focused, your brow slightly furrowed as you traced a specific shell in his braid. Your curls were falling forward, framing your face in a messy, beautiful tangle that caught the light.

And your eyes—they were still so wide even though they were half lidded, so focused, and so devastatingly pretty that he felt the air leave his lungs entirely. You had a small, unconscious pout on your lips, the kind of expression someone makes when they are deep in thought.

Ao’nung’s heart did a strange, violent thud against his ribs. A heat crawled up his neck, a deep violet blush that bypasses his cheeks and settled intensely at the very tips of his ears. He looked at you, and for a moment, he wasn't the arrogant son of the Chief; he was just a boy who had forgotten how to speak.

He forced his expression back into a scowl, though it lacked any real heat.

“Do not touch that, it is not a toy,” he spoke in a hushed, strained tone.

You didn't flinch. You didn't even look guilty. Instead, you noted the lack of aggression in his body language. His nose wasn't scrunched up in a real snarl, his tail wasn't stiff or rigid, and his ears weren't pinned back against his skull. He was attempting to appear mad, but he was failing miserably.

You shrugged at him, your voice sarcastically sweet as you tilted your head. “It is just dangling here in my face, Ao’nung.” You waved the end of the braid in his face, the bioluminescent shells clicking together. “What do you expect me to do?”

You watched as his ears twitched back, a visible sign of his internal struggle. He breathed harshly out of his nose, a sound that was supposed to be a huff of annoyance but came out more like a frustrated sigh, and he turned back around abruptly.

The conversation among the others had moved on, but the shift in the atmosphere was palpable. Neteyam was leaning back on his elbows now, his golden eyes flicking between the two of you with a look of extreme amusement. He knew his friend was struggling.

“So, the migration patterns of the ilu,” Tsireya said, her voice a bit too bright as she tried to bridge the awkward gap. She kept glancing at her brother, watching the way he was sitting—shoulders hunched, his tail lying perfectly still on the deck, almost as if he were holding his breath.

“I think they are moving further south this year,” Rotxo added, though his eyes were fixed on the way your hands were now idly petting the braid as if it were a domesticated animal.

Ao’nung tried his best to ignore you. He really did. But the feeling of his kuru being handled by you was overwhelming. Every time your skin brushed his, the tiny, pale pink tendrils within his queue reached out instinctively.

They were sensing your proximity, yearning to make a bond, to make tsahaeylu just from the warmth of your palms. It was an intimate, buzzing electricity that made his skin prickle.

He stopped dead in the middle of a sentence about the reef's tide. He stayed silent for a three-beat count before slowly, almost reluctantly, looking back at you again.

“Must you act like a child?” he quipped, his eyes narrowing as he tried to regain his cool.

Tsireya gasped softly. “Brother! Be kind!” she scolded, though there was a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. She knew he wasn't actually angry.

You didn't back down. You leaned back, looking down your nose at him with a defiant glint. “Must you be so selfish?”

Ao’nung looked genuinely bamboozled. The look of utter confusion on his face was almost comical. “How is it selfish if it is MY kuru?”

“Because I am well content with playing with it,” you replied, your fingers curling around a particularly thick section of the braid near his neck. “Do not be selfish and take away my entertainment. I am tired, and this is helping.”

Lo’ak let out a loud, bark-like laugh. He saw the opening and he dived in, a predatory grin spreading across his face. He caught Neteyam’s eye and gave a quick, sharp wink.

“Yeah, bro,” Lo’ak chimed in, leaning forward and poking Ao’nung’s shoulder. “Don’t be selfish. If Y/N wants to play with your hair, let her. Why are you being so difficult? It’s not like it’s hurting you.”

Ao’nung’s head whipped toward Lo’ak, his fangs bared in a warning. “I am not being—it is a part of my body, skxawng!”

“And it’s a very nice part of your body,” Rotxo added, his voice dripping with mock-sincerity. He reached out as if he were going to grab the braid too, and Ao’nung reacted instantly. Leaning further back— onto you, to avoid roxto’s reach.

"Stay back, Rotxo! Your hands are covered in stinky fish scales," Ao'nung snapped, though his body was now settled comfortably against you.

"Oh, but Y/N's hands are fine?" Neteyam asked, his voice low and teasing. He watched the way Ao'nung's tail gave one singular, content thud against the wood.

You didn't hesitate. You were beyond the point of being shy; the exhaustion of the day had stripped away your filter, leaving only a sleepy, playful boldness. You lifted the thick, dark braid from your lap, holding the end of it between your thumb and forefinger like a pointer.

With a slow, deliberate movement, you pointed the end of the kuru back toward your own chest. You puffed your chest out proudly, a smug, triumphant grin spreading across your face as you looked Neteyam and the others right in the eye.

“In fact, they are,” you continued, your voice ringing out with mock authority over the sound of the waves. “Because Ao’nung loves

The reaction was like a physical shockwave hitting the circle. Lo’ak, who had been leaning back, lost his balance and nearly tumbled off the dock, his tail splashing into the water as he scrambled to right himself.

Rotxo’s jaw hit his chest, his eyes darting between you and Ao’nung as if he were watching a collision in slow motion. Kiri let out a sharp, surprised bark of laughter, her yellow eyes glowing with wicked delight.

But it was Ao’nung whose world seemed to tilt on its axis.

His face didn’t just drop; it fell into a state of pure, unadulterated horror. He didn't hiss, he didn't snap, and he didn't move away. Instead, he let out a strangled, muffled sound and slapped his large, teal hand over his face, dragging it down slowly until his fingers were digging into his cheeks.

He swung his head around to look at you, his eyes wide and shimmering, the pale blue of his irises almost swallowed by his blown-out pupils. The blush was a deep, bruised violet now, spreading from his neck to the very tips of his ears, which were twitching so fast they were practically a blur.

“You... are too unserious,” he finally managed to choke out. His voice was thick, lacking any of its usual sharp edge. He shook his head, his hand still partially covering his eyes as if he could hide from the truth of your words. “You are a menace. A literal plague upon my house.”

“A plague he’s currently using as a pillow,” Lo’ak wheezed, finally regaining his seat. He pointed a finger at the way Ao’nung was still braced firmly against your knees. “Bro, your face is the color of a berry. If you don’t love her, why are you still sitting there letting her use your kuru like a pointer?”

“I am paralyzed by her stupidity.” Ao’nung argued, though even he knew how weak it sounded.

“He is not paralyzed,” Neteyam added, his voice smooth and teasing. He leaned forward, catching the light of the bioluminescent shells you were still twirling. “Look at his tail. It’s practically trying to tie itself to her ankle. That’s not paralysis, Ao’nung. That’s utter devotion.”

“It is not!” Ao’nung shouted, though he made no move to pull the tail away. In fact, the tip of it gave an involuntary, happy curl right around your calf. “It is a reflex! Like a fish flopping when it is caught!”

“You’re the one who got caught, brother,” Tsireya giggled, her eyes bright with affection. She leaned over, whispering just loud enough for everyone to hear. “He didn't even deny it. Did you hear that? He didn't say he didn't love her. He just said she was unserious.”

You didn't let go of the braid. In fact, as they teased him, you leaned closer, your fingers mindlessly twirling the dark hair around your knuckles. You looked at him—really looked at him. Up close, his face was a map of beautiful contradictions.

He was trying so hard to look annoyed, his brow furrowed and his lips pressed together, but the way his eyes kept darting back to yours told a different story.

He was incredibly handsome in this state of total fluster. The bioluminescent dots on his skin were pulsing in a frantic rhythm, like tiny stars under water. You watched the way his throat moved as he swallowed hard, his sharp jawline tightening as he tried to find a comeback that wouldn't make things worse.

“Must you all gawk at me?” Ao’nung muttered, his gaze finally dropping to your hands. He watched your fingers work through the braid, and his expression softened for a split second before he caught himself.

“We’re not gawking,” Kiri said, picking up a small shell and tossing it at his shoulder. “We’re witnessing a historical event.’”

“whatever!” Ao’nung barked, but he immediately leaned back into your touch as if seeking comfort from the very person teasing him.

You gave the kuru a gentle, rhythmic squeeze, feeling the faint vibration of his nervous system. “It’s okay to admit it, Ao’nung,” you teased, your voice a soft, low murmur meant only for him, even though the others were leaning in. “The shells don’t lie. Your sister made this braid, and it’s telling me everything.”

Ao’nung let out a long, shuddering groan, his head falling back until it rested against your shoulder. He looked up at the darkening sky, his eyes full of a mixture of embarrassment and a strange, quiet peace. He’d given up.

“You are all insufferable,” he repeated, but this time his tail didn't just curl—it settled firmly over your feet, anchoring you both together. “Especially you, Y/N. You are the worst of them all.”

“The worst?” you asked, tilting your head so your curls brushed his cheek.

He didn't look back, but you saw the ghost of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “The worst,” he whispered. “Now keep doing that. My head hurts from all this shouting.”