kitska !

★ IMPORTANT — the amazing art in the header is not mine! unfortunately, i was not able to find the artist to give adequate credit, so this is my disclaimer !! all i did was edit the coloring.

may blabs: this is long as hell i need to find employment.. sorry for any typos! i've been looking at ts waay too long, and does anyone text perfect anyway. consider it realism

btw inspired by an actual date i went on chat 🥹 there was SM more to it i couldn't add..🫩🫩🫩

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Messengers spoke of their arrival in passing, of the Omatikaya seeking refuge among the reef people, of a man who had ridden legend itself into war. 

It was a week before your eyes finally found them.

When you returned, the village greeted you as if you had never truly left. Voices rose at the sight of you along the woven paths, hands brushing your arms and shoulders in brief, familiar greetings. That night, your father and mother prepared a larger meal than necessary. It was tradition—one you did not remember beginning, only that it had always been done for you.

Between mouthfuls and murmured approval, you shared what you could, voice steady despite the fatigue still clinging to you. And in return, they told you everything you had missed.

And as always, being home did not mean rest.

“I am certain you have heard of Toruk Makto’s family,” your father said as his gaze settled on you. 

You nodded once. Of course you had heard.

“Your brother and sister have begun teaching the children,” he continued. “They do well—but the Omatikaya learn differently. Their roots are in forest and stone, not tide and current.”

You feel your mother’s gaze settle on you, your sibling’s attention following soon after. You busy yourself with another bite of fish, chewing slowly, as if it might delay what is coming. You wondered, briefly, what your mother truly thought of Toruk Makto’s family, and tucked the question away for later.

“They will adapt faster with your guidance.”

There it is.

“I am sure Ao’nung and Tsireya have done well,” you said at last, lifting your gaze toward them. “They know the ways of the water better than most.”

Ao’nung let out a quiet huff at that, rolling his eyes. The sight drew a small chuckle from you before you could stop it.

Tsireya, ever gentle, smiled and leaned forward. “They try,” she said. “They listen. Some learn fast and some forget to keep breath when water grows deep.” She glanced at you then, you could almost see the hope in her expression. “But they wish to learn, That is good beginning.”

You smiled at Tsireya, pride settling warm and familiar in your chest. 

“As if,” Ao’nung scoffed before the moment could linger. “They are still like babies. I bet even you cannot teach them how to be better.”

“Yeah? Maybe you’re just a bad teacher,” you shot back, tilting your head to further tease him.

Tsireya joined in before anyone could stop her, a quiet, lilting laugh. “They listen, yes… but sometimes—ehhh.”

Ronal’s hand lifted, a soft but firm shush that cut through the teasing. “Enough, all of you.”

The three of you exchanged glances, chuckles softening into quiet smiles.

“Tomorrow, you will show them how to ride an ilu. You guide them carefully.”

You inclined your head once, shoulders settling under the weight of responsibility that always seemed to arrive with home. “I understand.”

Morning comes with salt on your skin and the sharp tang of the sea in your lungs. You kneel beside the baskets, sorting the catch you caught earlier that morning with the hunting party. 

The catch had been large that day, plentiful enough that the baskets groaned under its weight, scales glinting like liquid sunlight.

“We have missed you, tsmuke,” one of the older hunters called, balancing a particularly large fish. “Big fish come in plenty when you are here.”

“I have missed you too!” you replied lightly, laughing. “Maybe Eywa is kinder this morning, or you are just a really good hunter.”

The group agreed, the sound rolling like the tide over the reef. Your attention, however, was caught by a familiar voice calling from across the sand.

“Sister! Come quickly!”

Tsireya jogs toward you, water dripping from her hair, eyes bright. Behind her, farther back along the edge of the shallows, you could see the Sully children, their skin a darker, richer blue than yours. 

“Ready for your lesson?” Tsireya called, slowing as she approached. “They’re waiting, and I think they are quite curious about you. They keep asking.”

You hesitated, hands still tangled in the nets, the baskets of the morning catch at your feet. The warmth of routine tugged at you—the familiar weight of the day’s work, the laughter of friends, the steady rhythm of the reef under your skin. It felt good to return to this, even if only for a moment, and part of you wanted to linger, just a little longer.

Tsireya, patient at first, let her frustration show in the softest way. She stepped closer and tugged gently at your wrists, removing your hands from the nets. “Please,” she urged, voice light but firm. “Come now. They will not wait forever.”

You looked back at your friends, offering a small, fleeting smile. “I… will be back soon,” you promised.

With nothing left to stall you, you set the nets aside and began walking with her, feeling the subtle pull of responsibility settle over your shoulders once again. The Sully children shifted slightly, curious eyes fixed on you, and you allowed yourself one last glance at the morning’s catch and the laughing hunters.

The Sully children greeted you in unison, their hands moved in the careful gesture of “Oel ngati kameie.” You returned the greeting, offering a smile.

From their vantage, it was easy to see why Tsireya had spoken of you with such excitement. Like her, you were beautiful but where Tsireya’s beauty was open and bright, yours carried a quieter maturity. Even before you spoke your presence held authority, it reminded them of your mother when they first came. And unlike her, whose sharpness was well known, you had shown them no hostility at all.

Some features mirrored your siblings, but one mark set you apart unmistakably. The tattoo, black and intricate, traced one half of your forehead and extended toward your cheekbone, earned first as the eldest upon completing your iknimiya. It marked your seniority, a quiet sign that you had already walked the path your younger siblings were just beginning.

Ao’nung’s voice cut through the quiet moment, impatient as ever. “We going or not?”

You exchanged a glance with Tsireya, and both of you let out quiet chuckles.

“Alright,” you couldn’t help the small smirk that tugged at your lips as your eyes flicked to Ao’nung. “Looks like someone is the most excited.”

The Sully children fought to suppress their smiles, chuckles spilling out despite their best efforts. Ao’nung finally stomped forward, muttering something under his breath, and you laughed at him softly.

You lingered a moment, letting them move ahead, their footsteps stirring the sand beneath the shallow water. Only once they had gone a few paces did you follow, letting Ao’nung take the lead.

A small sigh escaped you, soft enough that only Eywa could hear. Grant me patience today. Today would be long, you knew, but necessary.

Your siblings moved with practiced ease, each stepping toward one of the Sully children. The group slowly divided, voices overlapping with quiet instruction and encouragement, until you found yourself standing apart.

The smallest of them lingered near the water’s edge, eyes darting between her brothers and sisters as they were led away. Excitement practically spilled from her—fidgeting hands, bouncing steps, a tail that betrayed her eagerness even as she tried to stay still.

Warmth bloomed in your chest at the sight.

You beckoned her closer with an open hand. “Come here, little one,”

She hesitated only a moment before padding toward you, bouncing slightly to move faster. As she reached you, her hand lifted instinctively, fingers stretching toward yours. You caught it, steadying her before she could stumble, her grip small but eager in your palm.

She looked up at you then, eyes bright, breath quick with excitement.

“Fyape syaw fko ngar?” you asked. What is your name?

“Tuktirey,” she said proudly, then quickly added, softer, “But you can call me Tuk.”

She proved to be an eager student from the start, curiosity spilling from her. You answered each question without hurry, never growing tired of her wonder. There was no fear in her, only excitement, and it made the lesson flow easily.

“See how it circles first?” you said softly, nodding toward the ilu gliding nearby. “Ilus are very curious beings. They are trying to know you.”

Tuk’s fingers curled in the water as she watched it, eyes wide. “Is it looking at me?”

“Yes,” you smiled. 

She nodded solemnly, then whispered, “What does it like?”

“Kind hands,” you replied. “Slow breath. And respect. Ilu are not tools, they are partners. They help us hunt, travel, protect the reef. Without them, the sea is harder to listen to.”

You clicked your tongue and whistled. The ilu’s head lifted slightly, turning toward the sound.

“They also like gliderfins,” you added.

Tuk glanced at the ilu again, awe softening her features. “Do they like playing?”

You laughed. “Some do. Especially the young ones. I think this one is just as young as you.”

She reached out again, more careful this time, brushing the ilu’s skin just as you showed her. The creature responded with a low, pleased trill, and Tuk’s face lit up.

“It likes you too now,” you said gently.

Her smile grew impossibly wide. 

For a while, it was easier than you had expected. Once Tuk had grown comfortable with the ilu, you began teaching her how to ride, guiding her through each step. 

You soon called Roxto over from where he had been teaching Kiri, thinking the youngest should stay within reach of her older siblings. He joined you without fuss, and Kiri followed easily. She was good company—quiet at first, then comfortable with a few exchanged words. You noticed how at ease she seemed around Roxto, and you couldn’t help thinking he was one of the few good friends Ao’nung kept.

“You’ve been very kind,” Kiri said as she glanced between her brothers then back at you, eyes bright with barely-contained amusement. “But I think… my brothers might need you more right now.”

She tipped her chin toward them, lips pressed together as she tried not to smile. One was struggling to find balance, slipping again and again, while the other had already gone rushing off too fast only to tumble into the water. Kiri ducked her head, a quiet laugh escaping despite her effort to stay composed.

You winced as one of her brothers was promptly rewarded with a splash of water straight to the face when the ilu darted away. Even you had to turn your head for a moment, shoulders shaking with restrained laughter.

“I see” you said, still smiling as the laughter faded from your breath. Your eyes flicked briefly to Roxto, a silent understanding passing between you, before you looked back at the girls.

“You’re in good hands,” you told Tuk and Kiri gently, giving them one last reassuring nod. Then you turned and waded toward the others, already bracing yourself as another splash and a string of complaints rang out from the group ahead.

That’s how you find yourself in charge of the oldest Sully, Neteyam—whose name you’d learned from Kiri. Tsireya had told you so much about Lo’ak the night before that you wouldn’t dare steal her chance to spend time with the other boy.

“You are not in the forest anymore,” you said softly, surfacing through the water where Neteyam had just fallen from the ilu. Your eyes swept over him quickly, taking in his posture, the set of his shoulders, checking for any real injury.

Frustration seeped through his expression despite himself. His nose scrunched, gaze shifting away from you as you called for the ilu to return. The tilt of his jaw and the tension in his arms told you he was used to control and was not used to being unseated so easily.

“I know,” he snapped, wiping the water from his face with a quick swipe of hand.

You went silent, tending to the ilu instead, letting him work through it without adding pressure. The water lapped quietly against your arms, and for a moment, neither of you spoke.

After a moment, he spoke again, quieter this time. “Sorry… I’m just not used to this.”

You looked back at him then, and heat crept into your chest. It was embarrassing to admit, but you found him… personable. Even now, after only knowing each other for a while, there was a weight to him—different from any Metkayina you had known. His sharp features and darker skin marked him as not one of your people, and yet, somehow, that made him easier to watch, easier to notice than you had intended. You caught yourself looking at him more often than you liked, a small, guilty awareness settling in your stomach.

“It’s alright,” you said, eyes steady on him. “But you are trying to fly. Ilus do not fly.”

He scrunched his face at your words, and you allowed yourself a small, amused smile.

“It is like your ikran, yes,” you continued. “But flying isn’t the way with an ilu. You do not fight against the water, as it would only pull you under. You go with it. Feel the current, its weight, its flow. The water is the ilu’s home; try to make it yours.”

“Again,” you mentioned for him to mount once more. He hesitated only a second before obeying, settling onto its back with more care than before—but still too  stiff.

“No,” you nagged, moving into his space. “You are holding yourself like you expect to fall.”

Before he could respond, you reached out. One hand pressed lightly between his shoulder blades, encouraging him to lean forward just enough, while the other adjusted his grip—fingers loosening, then settling where they should be. 

“And remember,” you added, “tsaheylu is trust. That is more important than holding tight.”

The moment tsaheylu is formed, the ilu stilled. He drew in a slow breath, shoulders relaxing, and then he looked at you as if he’s waiting.

For a heartbeat, his world seemed to hold. Salt air, sun on water, the way light caught the planes of your face just right. 

You met his gaze and gave a single nod.

“Go,” you said simply.

You stepped back, giving him space as the ilu surged forward once more. This time, he moved with it, posture aligned, body following the current instead of fighting it. Water parted cleanly around them, and he stayed mounted.

You had spent the past month helping the Sully children adjust to life among the reef—teaching them your way of living, showing them how to move with the ilu, guiding their eager hands through the unfamiliar waters. It had been exhausting in the best way: laughter, splashes, and small victories marking each day, and yet, you still cherished moments where no pressure or responsibility rested on your shoulders.

Later, when the sun dipped lower and the lessons were done, you found yourself sitting cross-legged beside Tsireya in your family’s marui pod. Strands of dried seaweed and polished shells spread between you. Your fingers worked from habit, weaving and knotting as easily as breathing, the familiar rhythm easing the last of the day’s tension from your shoulders.

Tsireya hummed softly as she helped you thread a line of shells together, passing them to you one by one. “You always choose the prettiest pieces,” she said, smiling.

“They last longer,” you replied. “And they sit better against the skin.”

She nodded, watching your hands for a moment before glancing up at you, eyes bright with something playful. “So,” she began carefully, as if it were only a passing thought, “what do you think?”

Your hands slowed, just slightly.

You resumed your work after a moment, fingers tightening a knot before moving on to the next strand. “They are… fine,” you said evenly. “A handful, but that is nothing new to me.”

It was the truth. You had stood beside your mother and the elder clan members when voices rose and patience thinned, when children pushed limits and learned the weight of correction. Compared to that, the Sully children were spirited—yes—but hardly unmanageable.

Tsireya huffed a quiet laugh, tilting her head. “You know what I mean.”

“Do I?” you asked innocently. “You asked about the family. I answered.”

She narrowed her eyes at you, a smile tugging at her mouth.

You finally glanced up at her then, a soft chuckle slipping past your lips. “Just ask what you want to ask, Tsireya.”

She opened her mouth, then hesitated.

You smiled wider, unable to resist. “Or maybe you cannot,” you added lightly, “because you know I will ask something in return.”

Tsireya groaned, half-laughing as she shook her head. “You are impossible.”

You shrugged lightly, a small, knowing smirk tugging at your lips. You had learned long ago that your little sister would never be able to stop herself from asking.

“Neteyam,” she finally said, “I noticed… you always seem to go to him first.”

You let the moment hang for just a beat, then replied, tilting your head slightly, “Well, I am more fit to teach the most difficult of them.” Your lips curved into a teasing smirk. “But you seem to handle him… quite well already.”

Tsireya flushed slightly, averting her gaze. “Don’t make this about me!” 

You tilted your head, smirk softening into something gentler. “Well, he is easy to teach. A fast learner,” you said, fingers brushing lightly over the shells as you continued working. “And, we seem to relate to each other more.”

She peeked at you from the corner of her eye, curiosity breaking through her flustered expression. “So… you’ve talked a lot to each other then?”

You paused, brow lifting in mild confusion, standing to grab more shells from your mother’s basket—always the bigger, more useful pieces. “What’s with the questions?” you asked, a hint of amusement in your voice.

“Just curious.” “Right…”

You can see her hovering before she then leaned a little closer, lowering her voice. “He is handsome, no?”

You rolled your eyes, chuckling. “Just help me with this, ‘Reya,” you said lightly, returning your attention to the shells.

Of course you wouldn’t say it.

Not after all the times you had teased Tsireya about Lo’ak—about the way her eyes followed him even when she pretended otherwise, about how quickly she volunteered to help whenever his name was mentioned.

And it was not as if it were a bad thing to admit he is handsome.

You had heard it from Kiri, as she told stories from when they were in the forest, that many of the na’vi girls admired him, that Neteyam Sully had always drawn attention without ever seeming to seek it. You supposed that made sense. 

Handsome, yes, but more than that, simply… good company.

That was all.

And even that truth stayed tucked behind your teeth, because saying it aloud would tell Tsireya more than she was asking. It would tell her about how lessons sometimes stretched past their ending, how paths crossed again when everyone else scattered to their own corners of the reef.

At first, it had been a coincidence.

You had been tasked with cleaning the dishes after the evening meal, your hands submerged in cool water near the shallow edge, your thoughts far away. You hadn’t noticed him at first, only the faint shift of movement in your periphery.

When you looked up, he was there. Sitting on one of the larger rocks half-submerged by the tide.

You did not know what possessed you to call out to him. Perhaps it might help him feel more at ease here, in a place that was not yet his.

You called his name then, standing and lifting your arm higher so he could see. “Neteyam!”

He looked up then, surprise flickering briefly across his face.  After a moment, he rose from the rock and made his way toward you, careful steps sending small ripples through the shallows.

As he drew closer, you could see his bioluminescent markings better for the first time. It’s something you had seen on countless others, yet something about his made your chest tighten. It was a foolish thought, you told yourself. You had grown up surrounded by Na’vi; there was nothing new in this. And still, you found yourself admiring it just long enough before he could notice.

He stopped at your side and glanced down at the dishes, then back at you. “Do you… need help?” he asked, gesturing toward the stack. 

“Ah, you do not have to,” you shook your head slightly, the question catching you off guard.

He smiled anyway, already lowering himself into a squat. “I don’t mind.”

You tilted your head, watching the ease of his movements as he reached for one of the bowls. “I am guessing you do this often?”

He let out a quiet huff of a laugh, rinsing the dish with a practiced swirl of his hands. “Too often,” he said, shaking his head slightly. “At this point, I just volunteer before anyone can tell me to.”

That earned a small smile from you. “I wonder how many times I would need to be told before I start volunteering myself.”

“It is better that way,” he replied, grin softening. “Less arguing. And it is nice to have time alone, if you are into that.”

It should have ended there. You both were there at the same time during that night and you weren’t expecting it to happen again.

Instead, it became routine.

There was never an agreement spoken between you, no glance that lingered long enough to promise anything, no words exchanged when the lessons ended and the others drifted away to their own activities. And yet, somehow, you would find him again. Near the shallows. By the rocks. In the sea.

The reef was wide, but somehow your paths crossed easily. And you thought it was because he was new here, after all, still learning where to belong.

One evening, he had asked about your tattoo. You had been sharpening your speargun’s bows atop a rock set slightly apart from the clustered marui pods. The sun had dipped low, painting the reef in golds and soft purples. You didn’t bother asking how he had found you.

His eyes lingered on the dark ink tracing one half of your forehead as he sat beside you, your knees knocking into each other when one moved. He hovered his hand close, almost brushing the skin above the tattoo, the heat of his skin radiating toward your cheek made your face tingle. You were startled by the sensation, and yet you didn’t move away.

You told him of your iknimiya, how you earned the mark after taming your tsurak, your first great hunt, and the bonding with your tulkun spirit sister. Your words carry all the pride of that path you had walked. And he listened, attentively, eyes widening at each detail, absorbing it as though it were a story meant for him alone.

“The fish was nearly bigger than me,” you said, hands stretching apart in the air. “It could have dragged me through the water.”

Neteyam let out a low, impressed sound, eyes following the movement of your hands. “You caught it anyway,” he said, something warm in his voice. “That takes strength.”

You shrugged, though a small smile curved your lips. “And multiple tries.”

He smiled back at that. “Still,” he added, glancing once more at the tattoo before meeting your gaze, “you earned it.”

You asked for his story in return, and he had told you about it, his first hunts and the rituals in the forest, the taste of water after it had flowed from the leaves, the way the sunlight would peak from the branches, the wind tangling his hair as he flew between big rocks of Ayram alusìng. 

You found yourself imagining it all, the brightness in him when he was truly in his element, bathed in sunlight and shadow, how he looked among the trees, and a quiet, selfish wish that you could see it for yourself.

Then you noticed the waiting. Oh, how much you disliked it. The way your eyes would drift toward the water’s edge before your hands were even dry. The brief pause in your steps when the sun dipped low, anticipation settling in your chest before you were fully aware of it. You found yourself expecting him—half-listening for the sound of careful footsteps, half-watching for the familiar silhouette against the tide. How he slipped into your evening as naturally as the tide returning to shore.

And, quietly, almost shamefully, you wished he suffered from it too.

You told yourself it was nothing more than familiarity. That it had been a long time since you’d had company like this. That Neteyam was a good friend. With him, your words did not need to be softened or guarded. You spoke, and he understood. You existed, and he did not ask you to be anything else.

“You work too hard.”

You huffed a quiet laugh, seated in your usual place—the far side of the reef where the marui pods thinned and the waves struck the rocks hard enough to leave salt in the air. A large stone jutted from the shallows there, smoothed by time and tide, where you and him have told stories long enough for it to finally become yours without ceremony.

You were rubbing a thick, pale salve into your palms, the scent of crushed leaves and rendered fat clinging to your skin. It was a simple mixture of soothing oils and ground kelp you helped your mother make, meant to ease the sting left behind by too many hours of handling rough nets, and hauling, knotting, weaving alongside your father and brother.

That was before you heard his steps before you saw him, the soft scrape of feet against stone and wet sand so familiar now that it made your shoulders ease even before you turned. When you did, he was already close.

You flinched when he reached for you, instinct tightening your shoulders before you could stop it. For a heartbeat, you considered pulling away.

But he didn’t rush you. He waited—close, quiet, clearly wanting to help. You were close enough that you knew he’d scold you if you refused, and you were tired enough that you didn’t want to argue. Your hands throbbed anyway.

So you let him take them.

“I had to,” you said quietly. “You know why.”

He looked up at you then. Just understanding. The kind that came from being the eldest, from carrying expectations that were never asked for but always assumed. From being told, again and again, to be steady, to watch, to protect. His hands never stopped moving, thumbs pressing the salve into your skin.

“I don’t think I’ll ever be ready,” you admitted, words tumbling out before you could stop them. “No matter how much I learn. The chants, the rituals, the histories—I memorize them, repeat them until they sit perfectly in my mouth, and still…” You exhaled, shaky. “I look at my mother and all I feel is how small I am next to her.”

You swallowed. “They say I will make a good tsahìk someday. That it is only a matter of time.” Your fingers curled faintly in his hold. “But I do not feel driven. I feel afraid. And I hate that—because I should want it. I should be ready.”

Neteyam stayed quiet for a moment, covering the last exposed part of your hand with balm. Then, carefully, he brought both of your hands into one of his own. You hadn’t realized how close you were sitting, but as he scooched slightly neared, any remaining distance vanished. You kept your gaze on your hands, feeling the heat of his palm spread into yours.

After a long breath, his other hand hovered for a heartbeat above your hair, which had fallen to the sides of your face as you looked down, hiding a little of yourself. Gently, hesitantly, he brushed the strands back, tucking them behind your ear. 

“Being scared does not mean you are unworthy of what they see in you,” he murmured, voice low and steady, as though he were speaking to himself as much as to you. “It means you understand how much it matters.”

He gave a small squeeze of your hands. “Your mother stands where she does because she walked through that fear. Not because she never felt it. And you do not need to be her—not now, not ever.”

At that, he lifted your chin gently between his fingers, tilting your face so you could meet his eyes. There was a telltale flicker of nervousness in the way his jaw tensed and the corners of his mouth twitched, but it was subtle, and you barely registered it. You only noticed the warmth of his hands, the care in his touch.

Neteyam’s gaze held yours, as if to remind you that nothing was demanded beyond this moment. “When the time comes, you will not wake up ready. You will step forward afraid. And that will not mean you are failing. It will mean you are brave.”

“You only have to keep going,” he said, finally placing both of his hands over yours, encasing them between his. “ And you do not have to do that alone.”

Your eyes flickered from his gaze down to your hands, still held in his, before returning to him. He tilted his head slightly, a small, playful smirk tugging at his lips.

“Come on,” he said your name softly, teasing, “let me see your smile.”

It took a moment, but you allowed yourself a slow, reluctant smile. “Where’d you learn that?” you asked, amusement in your voice.

“My mother,” the pride in his tone was unmistakable.

You couldn’t help but admire him then, as you have been doing quite often, bathed in the silver glow of the moonlight, his bioluminescent patterns tracing faint dots across his skin, the crinkle at the corner of his eyes as he spoke. 

“Is something wrong?” he asked softly after a moment, concern in his voice. His hand lifted, brushing gently over the space between your eyes, as if to soothe the lingering tension there.

You let out a light laugh, gently pushing his hand away. “No,” you said, meeting his gaze. “I’m fine.”

Your eyes held his for a moment longer, steady and sincere, before you signed the word carefully—hand moving from your chin outward in the motion for thank you. “Thank you, Neteyam.”

He followed the motion with his gaze, eyes flicking to your mouth for a brief second as your hand reached forward, and a small, appreciative smile tugged at his lips.

“Always.”

You knew someone would eventually notice why it sometimes took you longer to wash the dishes, or why fetching something your parents had asked for seemed to stretch on forever. You’d been careful these past nights, cautious when returning from your meetings with Neteyam, pausing at the edges of the marui pods to make sure no family member was lingering outside.

But that night, you hadn’t been as discreet as you thought. Carrying the balm back to your pod, a smile tugging at your lips and a lighter step in your pace, you froze when you heard your father’s voice calling your name.

“You’ve been gone a long time,” his voice carrying that quiet edge of concern that always made your stomach tighten.

“Just… busy,” you said, shrugging lightly, “thinking.”

Internally, you let out a small sigh of relief as you saw him nod slightly, seeming to accept the excuse. He stepped closer, placing both hands gently on your shoulders, his thumbs brushing against your skin with a familiar, grounding touch.

Then, unexpectedly, he knelt down on one knee, letting go with one hand as he waited, gaze intent on yours. Confusion flickered across your features.

“You can tell me anything, maite,” he said softly, voice low but full of warmth.

A small, soft smile tugged at your lips, and you chuckled quietly, not surprised by his theatrics.

“I know, sempu,” you replied, touching one of his hands resting on your shoulder. “You always tell me that.”

He straightened, smiling now, the weight of the day easing from his expression. “Good. I was just worried. Now, come inside. It’s late.”

You nodded, though a pang of guilt tugged at your chest. You hadn’t told him about Neteyam, about the small stolen moments that made the days feel lighter, the hands brushing balm into yours. But it wasn’t something your parents needed to worry about—at least, that’s what you told yourself.

Your relationship with him and with the rest of the Sully children had grown in these past weeks. There were long afternoons spent chatting with the girls about everything and nothing, weaving strands of seaweed and shells into necklaces, bracelets, and little adornments inspired by the reef. 

You had been especially proud when Tuk finished her first necklace entirely on her own. She pressed it into your hands proudly, and you couldn’t say no. It was a delicate little thing, shades of purple and blue catching the fading light, and you wore it with a smile that carried your pride.

Kiri’s progress was slower but steady, and you were happy to hear she was doing better—though not without complaints, especially when it came to your younger brother. You could only do so much as his older sister, after all.

And then there were the moments teasing Tsireya about Lo’ak, which never failed to make her blush.

“Lo’ak’s been making me teach him how to make a necklace,” Kiri said one afternoon, half-annoyed, half-amused. “It’s probably to impress you, Tsireya.”

You laughed, the sound easy and light. “How sweet,” you said, watching them fumble with threads and shells, the reef sun glinting off their hair, their smiles, and their earnest attempts.

As for Lo’ak, he was just as difficult as Kiri had made him out to be, but at his age, it was hardly surprising. You saw too much of your younger brother with him: the quiet desire to be seen and admired even when it came out as trouble. Still, there was something almost endearing about it.

You only hoped he wasn’t giving your younger sister too much headache.

And, you almost took the thought back one day as Tuk came barreling toward you, breathless and wide-eyed, tugging at your arm and babbling about her brothers fighting other metkayina. 

Sure enough, when you followed her and looked at where she pointed at, you found ruckus sprawled out on the farther edge of the village—sand flying, voices raised, bodies tangled in a way that was far more chaotic than threatening.

“Ao’nung!” you shouted, stopping at the edge of the mess.

Your eyes caught Kiri on the sidelines. She only shrugged at you, utterly confused as well, before calling out, “Stupid!” and laughing like it was all entertainment.

You sighed, rolled your eyes, and shouted Ao’nung’s name again, louder this time. It finally pulled a few heads your way—just long enough for someone to get yanked backward by the tail and another to catch a careless punch for losing focus.

You might have laughed if you weren’t painfully aware of the scolding waiting for you later. After all, you were supposed to be the one watching out for them.

Luckily, or perhaps mercifully, their father arrived before things could spiral any further. His presence alone was enough to cut through the chaos, his voice sharp and commanding as he stepped in, hands separating bodies, pulling his sons back with Kiri on their tail.

You didn’t catch the look Neteyam sent your way then. Your attention was already on your own brother, grabbing him by the arm and hauling him upright when he nearly stumbled back into the fray. He tried to wrench himself free, teeth bared, clearly mistaking you for one of his friends.

You hissed sharply, grip tightening. “Skxawng,” you snapped under your breath, eyes narrowing. “What did you do?”

Before your brother could answer, one of Ao’nung’s friends spoke up from behind him, voice loud and indignant. “Lo’ak started it—”

“I didn’t ask you,” you cut in sharply, turning to look at his group of friends. Your tone was calm, but it carried enough bite to make him falter. “Go. Get yourself treated by tsahìk.”

They hesitated, exchanging glances, clearly unused to being dismissed so easily. When none of them moved, you rolled your eyes and stepped closer to Ao’nung instead.

Your fingers brushed lightly beneath his eye, where a bruise was already darkening. He hissed and jerked back on instinct, and you finally released your grip on his arm.

“Why do you assume it was me?” he demanded, scowling. At your silence—at the way you only frowned at him, confused more than accusatory—his expression twisted. “Don’t tell me you’re going to side with those freaks.”

“Ao’nung,” you snapped, his name a warning all on its own. “Enough. Come with me. That bruise will swell if you leave it.”

He scoffed, turning away and starting off in the opposite direction.

“Ao’nung,” you called again.

He didn’t stop—but neither did any of his friends move to follow him. You glanced back at them, lifting a brow in silent challenge, daring any of them to speak. None did. One by one, they started to follow your brother.

You watched him walk away and for a brief moment you wondered if there had been something you could have said to stop him from spitting those words.

The thought didn’t linger long as your mind was already racing ahead of the inevitable, your mother’s voice, sharp with disappointment, the weight of it settling heavier than any bruise. With a quiet exhale, you turned back toward your marui pod.

You felt as though you were walking on eggshells as you stepped inside your mother’s marui pod.

Her back was turned to you, shoulders relaxed but purposeful, hands busy sorting through bundles of dried leaves and woven pouches. The familiar scents of herbs and sea-salt clung to the air, usually comforting—now making your chest tighten. You moved slowly, carefully, each step measured as if the floor itself might betray you.

Quietly, you crossed to her storage chest and lifted the lid just enough to peer inside, fingers hovering over the neatly arranged jars of healing balms. You held your breath.

“What are you doing?” she asked without turning.

“Just—checking,” you said, voice soft. “Seeing if we still have enough healing balm.”

She finally glanced over her shoulder, eyes sharp but calm. “For what, child?”

You paused, shoulders sagging slightly as you exhaled. “Ao’nung and his friends… they got into trouble. With Lo’ak and Neteyam.”

Her hands stilled.

“What happened?” she asked, tone leaving no room for deflection.

You felt the fight drain out of you at once. There was no point in circling it, so you had told her of what happened. You didn’t know what caused the fight, but you told her everything you know.

The words settled heavy between you, and you waited for whatever would come next.

Your mother let out a long, tired sigh, the kind that carried more weight than anger ever could.

“Get whatever you need,” she said, “then come sit with me.”

You did as you were told. You gathered the jars of balm and set them aside before lowering yourself to the woven mat across from her, legs folded neatly beneath you. You knew better than to look anywhere else when she spoke like this. So you lifted your chin, met her gaze, and waited.

“Why did you let him go without treating him?” she asked.

You didn’t answer. You also knew better than to argue, sitting in silence as the weight of her words settled over you.

“You know your brother tends to seek trouble,” she continued, her hands frantically moving. “You should have been there to stop him.”

Even though you knew it was impossible to be everywhere at once, the blame sank into your chest like a stone. You promised yourself silently that you would do better next time. You thought back to the look your brother had given you before walking away—the hurt, the accusation—and it stung more. You wish to know what you could have done differently.

After a long moment, you lowered your gaze and whispered, “I’m sorry, mother… I’ll do better. I promise.”

For a moment, she said nothing.

“When they first came to us,” she began at last, voice calm but edged with honesty, “I was hesitant. They are of the forest. What use are forest skills in the reef? What could they offer our people, other than more mouths to protect?”

“Your father feared something else,” she continued. “That Toruk Makto would bring his war with him. That his enemies would follow. And you know this—your father and I are charged with keeping our people safe. Even when kindness is costly.”

She looked at you then, truly looked, and something softer entered her expression.

“But that is not why we turned them away,” she said quietly. “Nor why we chose to welcome them in the end.” Her voice lowered, thoughtful, measured like a lesson meant to last. “We gave them a home because the ocean does not ask where the rain was born. It only knows that all water returns.”

Her hand came to rest over her heart.

“They came seeking refuge, willing to learn, willing to bow their heads to ways not their own. And people who can do that are not weak.”

You felt something loosen in your chest as she spoke, answers to questions you had carried far longer than you realized.

“As Tsahìk,” she said, “I do not look only at who someone was. I look at who they are trying to become. And Eywa listens to those who choose growth over pride. Your brother does not realize it yet. He is young. But you, you can let him know.”

Her gaze softened, but it did not waver. “Remember that, child.”

You let her words settle, each one sinking deep, weaving itself quietly into you. For a moment, the sting of blame eased, softened by her steady presence, though it still lingered faintly at the edges. You marveled at how she could turn even this into a lesson, how every moment with her became a stepping stone rather than a reprimand. With her, nothing was wasted. Every mistake, every fear, every conflict was shaped into something that could guide you forward.

You realized, with a warmth that spread through your chest, how grateful you were to have her as your mother. To be taught not just how to heal wounds, but how to see people.

You nodded, a small hesitant smile forming as you met her eyes. “Yes, Mother. Thank you.”

She returned the smile then said, “Now go on, call them. I will be out for a while.”

Helping her to stand, you offered your arm, mindful of her pregnancy as she rose slowly. She brushed a hand over your head once more, a gentle, lingering caress, before letting you go.

“Be careful,” she added.

“You too, Ma,” you said as you stepped back outside the pod.

It didn’t take long to find Neteyam. He was seated on the walkway in front of their marui pod, one leg swinging lazily over the edge as he gazed out at the water. 

When he saw you call his name, his face brightened instantly. Without hesitation, he pushed himself up, legs folding neatly beneath him for a moment before standing fully. Careful, measured steps carried him toward you, the familiar rhythm of his movements making your chest ease despite the tension still lingering from your earlier conversation with your mother.

You reached up slowly, hands resting on his shoulders as you studied him, eyes travelling over the tense line of his jaw and the slight swell of his bruises. “You don’t look fine,” you said, a mix of concern and exasperation in your tone.

He tilted his head, smirking, a trace of humor lighting his features. “Well, I look better than your brother’s friends.”

You couldn’t help it, a soft laugh escaped you as you smacked the top of his head playfully. Then, grabbing his wrist, you tugged him gently back toward the tsahìk’s pod. “Doesn’t seem like you regret what happened earlier,” you said, glancing at him briefly before turning your attention to weaving through the Metkayina passing by.

Neteyam shrugged, his grin widening. “Only a bit,” he said, his eyes never leaving the back of your head as you led the way.

His wrist, which you still held, eased slowly until his hand finally rested on yours. You didn’t look back, but the warmth of his hand and the pressure of his fingers fitting against yours made your own smile widen. You didn’t let go, and neither did he.

Once inside the pod, Neteyam settled onto the woven mat, shoulders slumped just enough for you to see the tension in them. You knelt in front of him, jars of salves and cloths spread around you, the soft scent of herbs filling the small space.

You dipped a cloth in the water and began gently cleaning the dried blood along his cheekbones. He flinched away just a little at your touch. Frowning, you held his face lightly with your hands to keep him from moving. 

“What happened?” you asked softly, eyes scanning his bruises.

“My brother… he was being a skxawng,” he replied shortly.

You paused, raising a brow. He said nothing further, his gaze flicking to the floor.

“You’re not going to tell me more?” you prompted gently.

Neteyam shook his head, offering a small, reassuring smile. “You don’t have to worry about it. I’ve got it handled.”

You rolled your eyes at him but didn’t respond, bending closer to continue cleaning the stubborn bruise along his cheek. Every so often, his gaze caught yours, steady and curious, and each time you quickly dropped your eyes back to the cloth, pretending to be entirely absorbed in the task.

You only notice the slight tremor of your hand, and the faster beats of your heart when you finally reach the dried blood at the corner of his lips. Carefully, you dabbed at the skin, very much aware of the small space between you.

Don’t you dare speak. You chant in your head as you do, because you know that if he speaks, it’s over—

“You’re very gentle,” he murmured in a low, breathy tone. His breath fanned across your knuckles, sending a shiver through you. Your eyes instinctively move toward his lips. And, you suddenly became conscious of him adjusting the loose pearl accessory of your necklace with quiet fingers. Just right above your heart.

It was all too much, every sense alert, but you didn’t pull away. This was your responsibility; as a future Tsahìk, you would not let it unnerve you! You swallow, forcing yourself to stay focused on the task at hand, determined to finish tending to him before your thoughts betrayed you further.

When you finally pulled back slightly, you felt his hand graze your collarbone as he let go of the pearl. Taking a quiet, internal pep talk, you grabbed the balm and faced him again. The small, teasing smirk on his face irked you—you could almost see him enjoying this torment.

Finally, you broke the silence as you pressed the balm gently into the abrasions along his skin. “Why did you join them?” you asked, your voice quieter than before, but edged with something sharper. “I thought you were supposed to be the responsible one.”

Neteyam’s jaw tightened. For a moment, you thought he might pull away. Instead, he stayed still, eyes flicking anywhere but your face. “I… had to,” he said, the words barely more than a breath.

You felt something twist in your chest. You pushed, unable to stop yourself. “No,” you said, firmer now. “You didn’t have to. If you had stopped your brother, it wouldn’t have escalated. None of this would’ve happened.”

The moment the words left you, you wanted them back.

He finally looked at you then. Not angry. Not defensive. Just tired. Hurt. “So you’re saying it’s my fault?”

Your hands stilled, the cloth hovering uselessly between you. The air felt too tight to breathe in. “That’s not—” You swallowed. “That’s not what I mean.”

But the damage was already done.

He nodded once, slowly, as if accepting something he hadn’t wanted to hear. His shoulders eased—not in relief, but resignation. “Right,” he murmured, and his gaze dropped again, shutting you out.

Silence settled heavy and suffocating between you. You forced your hands to move, to finish what you’d started, even as your chest ached with every careful touch. Neither of you spoke. The tension didn’t fade—it pressed in, filling every corner of the pod.

When you were done, you pulled away and returned the cloths, jars, and balm to their places. The soft clink of pottery sounded too loud in the quiet, each noise echoing like a reminder of what you’d broken. You straightened, drawing in a slow breath, foolishly hoping that he might say something. Anything.

Instead, you heard him rise behind you, the woven mat shifting beneath his feet.

“I have to go,” he said quickly, as if staying even a second longer would undo him.

You didn’t turn around. You only exhaled, the breath leaving you heavier than it should have. His footsteps faded, and with them went something fragile you hadn’t realized you were holding onto.

And somehow, despite knowing better, a sharp, unwanted pang of disappointment bloomed in your chest. You didn’t know why you’d expected him to stay after that.

The truth struck you all at once, merciless in its clarity: you had taken your own fears, your own sense of responsibility, and placed them squarely on his shoulders. You had expected him to be steady when you were unraveling, to bear the weight of expectations that were never his alone.

The guilt settled deep, sour and crushing, curling tight around your heart.

You let your shoulders slump, fingers curling uselessly at your sides. The pod felt smaller now, the silence louder, pressing in from all directions. And you couldn’t shake the thought that maybe, just maybe, you had made this harder than it needed to be for both of you.

If things couldn’t get any worse, your brother took Lo’ak beyond the reef.

The news reached you as the sun dipped low, the sky bruised with fading light. The earlier confusion over Ao’nung’s words resurfacing at the back of your mind, along with Neteyam and your mother’s words. It all tangled together until it curdled into something raw and frustrating.

By the time dinner was served, your patience was already threadbare.

“So,” you said at last, not looking at him, “did it ever occur to you that you put his life in danger when you brought him there?”

He shrugged. “He seemed fine. You’re overreacting.”

That did it. You finally looked at him then, eyes sharp. “You don’t get to decide that,” you said quietly. “Not when everyone else has to deal with the consequences.”

He pushed his food away, irritation flashing across his face. “Why are you suddenly on my back about this?”

Tonowari’s voice cut cleanly through the air before you could answer.

“That is enough.”

His gaze moved between you and your brother, heavy with expectation. “Your mother has already told me you were to tend to both Neteyam and Lo’ak,” he said. “So I will ask plainly—how did the boy end up with Ao’nung?”

The question turned, subtly but unmistakably, toward you.

You felt it then—the weight of it settling squarely on your shoulders.

“I didn’t see him earlier,” you said quietly. 

Ao’nung scoffed. “Maybe you didn’t look.”

The words struck sharper than you expected. A hiss slipped past your teeth before you could stop it, your hands curling in your lap. “That’s not—”

Tsireya murmured softly beside you, your name spoken like an anchor. Her fingers wrapped gently around your arm, not restraining, just there.

“Enough.” Tonowari’s voice was harsher now, steel beneath the calm. He said your name once, firmly, a warning more than a reprimand.

It burned, being looked at like this, like the fault might belong to you simply because you were there, because you were supposed to be watching, healing, fixing. As if you could be in all places at once. As if responsibility meant omniscience.

You lowered your gaze, jaw tightening as something sharp lodged in your throat, barbed and unforgiving. You swallowed hard, but it did nothing to ease it. 

It was not fair, and you knew it, but fairness had never spared anyone before. Still, the sting lingered, because somehow, again, the blame had found its way back to you.

And you wondered if this was how Neteyam had felt too.

Over the week, you made yourself scarce.

You stopped teaching the Sully children, stopped lingering by the shallows or sitting in on their lessons. When asked, you said your guidance was no longer needed. They had been here long enough, learned enough. Other times, you claimed you had more important duties to attend to. Things only you could help with.

Tsireya could attest to it. Whenever the Sullys asked after you, she found herself answering honestly: that you were almost always at your mother’s side now, as you had been before they arrived. That even before them, you rarely had time to simply be with your own siblings.

She remembered fondly that when the Sullys first came, you had changed just a little. You had stayed longer by the water with them. You had laughed more easily. You had been less rigid with yourself, allowing small reprieves you rarely took. And Tsireya had been happy then, happier to spend more time with you than she had in a long while.

She wasn’t sure what had happened in these past few days to send you retreating back into yourself.

Her eyes often drifted to Neteyam, who’s quieter now, more reserved, his presence dimmer than it had been. She wanted to believe it was coincidence. She wanted to believe it had nothing to do with you.

But you had never told her anything. And so she assumed, as she always did, that it might be many things at once or something else entirely.

But, Tsireya could see it—feel it, almost, whenever the two of you were in the same space.

Not side by side. Never that. Just… near enough for the air to grow tight, for conversations to stumble and quiet. Even with others around, the tension clung stubbornly. It frustrated everyone, though no one said it aloud.

You barely looked at Neteyam anymore.

When you had to interact, it was efficient and clipped. A tool passed into his hand without your fingers lingering. A short instruction. A single sentence, nothing more. And then you would turn away as if there were nothing else to say.

Neteyam, on the other hand, kept looking at you.

Not openly, never enough to draw attention, but with a quiet, aching focus, as though his eyes kept finding you without permission. Like there were words lodged somewhere in his chest, pressing hard against his ribs, waiting for the smallest opening. Like he was memorizing the way you moved, the way your shoulders stiffened whenever you sensed him near, the way you avoided meeting his gaze as if it might undo you both.

Tsireya noticed every time.

And each time she did, she rolled her eyes, more often than she had all week, exasperation bubbling beneath her calm. Because whatever this was—this silence, this careful distance—it was unbearable to watch. For everyone.

And Tsireya was this close to doing something about it.

So, inevitably, she turned to the only other person who had front-row seats to the mess.

Lo’ak.

And honestly? He didn’t even need convincing.

From his point of view, Neteyam had been absolutely insufferable.

Not loud-insufferable. Worse. Quiet. Hovering. Always somehow in Lo’ak’s space—too close, too present—like he was searching for company the way someone reached for noise when they didn’t want to think. Like if he stayed busy enough, surrounded enough, he wouldn’t have to notice the one person who was suddenly missing from his orbit.

It was stupid. Lo’ak knew it was stupid.

Still, he couldn’t help laughing about it.

Because at some point, he’d snapped.

Cornered Neteyam face-to-face, hands on his hips, incredulous. “Bro. Go find her or something. I can’t hang out with you all the time.”

Neteyam’s reaction had been priceless.

Blank. Tight-jawed. That painfully neutral look he got when he pretended not to know what the hell anyone was talking about—like he’d swallowed a rock and was trying to pass it off as dignity. Not defensive. Just uncomfortable in the most obvious way possible.

Lo’ak had almost lost it.

Because yeah, Neteyam could pretend. But Lo’ak wasn’t blind.

He’d seen the difference. Felt it, even.

Neteyam had been happier since you arrived. Lighter. Like something in him had finally loosened. The responsible son who suddenly laughed more, who snuck out at night thinking no one noticed. As if Lo’ak didn’t know exactly where he was going.

So, when Tsireya brought it up, he didn’t argue. If this kept up—this avoiding, this yearning, this walking-in-circles-around-each-other thing—someone was going to have to intervene soon. 

It was a few days later that you found yourself tasked once again to travel. South, this time, to another clan where you were to study under a different Tsahìk and lend your help to their village.

Oddly, there were no complaints from you this time. You accepted the decision quietly, almost gratefully, even if you had protested to Tsireya before every time this happened. It was a convenient excuse to distract yourself from the lingering ache in your chest every time you thought of Neteyam, from the tension that tightened around your ribs whenever his gaze brushed yours, and the gnawing guilt of knowing he was likely still mad at you.

No matter where you went, your eyes betrayed you, constantly flicking around, searching for him even when you knew you shouldn’t. You realized you couldn’t continue like that—not while you carried the weight of unspoken words and bruised pride, not while every shared space felt charged with what you refused to say. The distance, you told yourself, was necessary.

That was why you didn’t understand why you stayed out so late the night before you were meant to leave. You found yourself perched on the smooth stone you and he had claimed as yours. You waited.

Waited for the scrape of his feet on stone. Waited for any sound, any movement that might tell you he still thought of you—that you had not been so easily set aside, that the space between you still meant something to him.

And yet, you knew the truth—you had no right to expect him to come. 

The frustration burned away. Part of you wanted to be angry at him: for leaving so quickly without letting you explain yourself, for allowing silence to stand where words should have been. You clung to that resentment for a while because it was easier than facing the other truth. That you had built the distance yourself and then recoiled when it widened.

Sitting there alone, the night pressing in around you, it stung to realize that you had wanted him to cross a distance you had created. That you had wanted reassurance without risking vulnerability. That you had wanted him to stay, while making it impossible for him to know how.

The space beside you stayed empty.

“Do not forget to bring extra pots and knives. And do not stray from the path without telling someone.” Ronal’s voice guided you through the last minutes before departure.

You nodded along, murmuring your responses where appropriate. “Yes, it is already there. I know the path.”

“Do not forget your herbs and your healing salves,” she added, leaning closer to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “And remember to eat. Do not let yourself weaken.”

“Yes, Ma,” you said softly, forcing a smile.

The clan had gathered to see you off. Some of the Sully family were there, eyes bright with curiosity and concern, and a few older members of your own clan had come to accompany you on the journey. You put the last of your belongings into the canoe, your hands lingering over each item as if to memorize it.

It was your sister who approached first, pulling you into a firm hug. You smiled into her shoulder, but it didn’t reach your eyes. One by one, your family followed, each embrace warm and heavy with unspoken love. You stepped back, giving small nods to the clan members gathered along the shore.

Finally, you turned toward the Sully family, standing together on the opposite bank. Your eyes swept past them, still avoiding his. You offered a polite nod to the group, forcing your gaze elsewhere, though your mind—and your heart—betrayed you, tethered to the figure you could not seem to fully ignore.

Even as you climbed onto your tsurak and felt the bond take hold, your muscles tense with anticipation, you couldn’t stop the pull of curiosity. The way your heart ached with the need to know he was still there, watching, waiting. Your breath caught slightly as you dared, at last, to glance toward him.

And there he was—already watching you. The sharp awareness in his gaze mirrored your own, a silent acknowledgment of the same pull, the same unspoken hesitancy. A flicker of shock hit your chest and you masked it immediately, offering a small, careful smile instead.

You could feel the subtle shift in the way he held himself as if waiting for any sign from you. And though your mind told you to look away, to stay composed, there was a strange, almost terrifying comfort in knowing that he was as present in that moment as you were, that your absence did not erase you from his thoughts.

"Ugh. They're so cute," you said now, watching from your friend’s couch as she and her fiancé posed beneath the cheap banner you and Suna had volunteered to hang two hours earlier. "When is it my turn to meet a hot, eligible stranger at a bar?"

"Well, for one, you'd have to go to bars," Suna said, returning from the crowded kitchen with two solo cups of champagne. "Which I don't see happening anytime soon, considering I had to drag you here."

"No, you're right. I didn't go to nursing school to find a husband," you murmured, taking your drink before downing a generous sip. The carbonation fizzled down your throat. "Wouldn't mind a boyfriend, though."

"What about that one guy from Tinder? I thought you guys hit it off."

"You mean the one who takes bed selfies with his dog?" you snorted. "I had an asthma attack after sleeping with him. My eyes were red; I found fur between my ass cheeks. It was bad."

"For fuck's sake," Suna laughed into his cup, a rare dimple appearing as he did so. "You didn't take your Allegra?"

"I had a few drinks that night,” you admitted. “I care about my liver a little bit."

“Clearly,” Suna chuckled, shaking his head.

He reached into the back pocket of his jeans for the pack of Zyns he’d bought from the gas station on the way here. You rolled your eyes as he popped one into his mouth and pushed it into his gums with his tongue.

"I thought I told you to quit using those," you told him.

Suna merely lifted his shoulders. "I'll stop using them when you delete your dating apps."

"I — that's not fair.”

"Isn't it, though?" he asked, eyes flicking over to yours in that lazy, teasing way. You crinkled your nose at him in protest.

"You can't pursue a volleyball career with a habit like that.”

"And what makes you think I wanna do that?”

"Come on, Rin. I see the way you look at Atsumu when we go to MSBY games."

A second passed before Suna said, "I'm not jealous of him."

“I know. You’re not bitter about it,” you replied, voice softening. "A little wistful, maybe. But not bitter."

The precision of your words made him bristle in discomfort. It wasn't often you accused him of not going after his dream job. You were Miss Practicality, after all. The girl who chose study sessions over parties. Who prioritized her career over her love life, no matter how much she complained about it. He probably would've given up on nursing if he hadn't met you in pharmacology freshman year — what with your iron-clad work ethic, color-coded flashcards, and stupid, unwavering belief in him.

Still, none of that stopped you from noticing the quiet want that flickered across Suna's face each time he watched a volleyball game. Or the folder on his desktop titled Tryout Forms.

"Just because nursing is my thing doesn't mean it has to be yours," you told him in the library one night, after you'd caught him scrolling through the website of your city's adult volleyball league.

Suna had only huffed in reply, though the strain in his voice was painfully obvious.

"What kind of a study buddy would that make me, then?" he said, closing the tab, uncapping his highlighter, and returning to his notes without another word.

Now, as the two of you finished your drinks and hugged your classmates goodbye, you silently wished him the courage to go after what he really wanted. Volleyball or otherwise.

“You know that was our fifth engagement party of the year?” you asked him on the walk back to your apartment.

“Really?” He shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his jacket. “I haven’t been counting.”

You snorted. “Figures.”

He blinked at you. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I dunno. You don’t care about that kind of stuff. Ring by spring, dating apps — you think it’s all dumb.”

“I do think it’s dumb,” he said without missing a beat. “Doesn’t mean I plan on being single forever, though.”

“Okay,” you laughed. “When’s the last time you liked someone, then?”

Suna fell quiet, then, the sound of crickets and passing cars rushing to fill the silence.

"See?" you hummed, the amusement on your face clear as day despite the late hour. "You don't even remember."

He kicked a loose pebble down the sidewalk, flashed you a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

"Guess not."

Your keys jangled as you shoved open the door to your apartment, evidence of your and Suna's latest study session splayed out across the coffee table: NCLEX prep books bathed in highlighter ink, stacks of color-coded flashcards. Half-eaten bags of microwave popcorn and empty cans of sugar free Red Bull.

You'd both sworn to pick up exactly where you left off after the engagement party. But as you kicked off your shoes and yawned, all you could ask was, "Want to watch a movie?"

It wouldn't be the first time a study session with Suna turned into an impromptu sleepover. It was why he kept a change of clothes in the bottom of his gym bag. Why you bought a two-pack of toothbrushes instead of one. Hell, you were pretty sure you saw him more than you did your actual roommate.

But as he eased into the opposite end of your couch and put on Set it Up for the millionth time, you couldn't help but notice how...comfortable you both had gotten. How domestic. Were you doing him a disservice, forcing him to study with you? When was the last time he came up for air? Went on a date?

He was an objectively attractive person, and you'd be blind not to notice the way his voice dipped after a ten-minute power nap, or the way his back and shoulders filled out a pair of scrubs...

Doesn’t mean I plan on being single forever, he'd told you.

Would he have found someone already, had you not held him hostage the past four years?

"You paying attention?"

You snapped out of your thoughts, Suna's observant stare meeting yours from across the couch. On the television, Zoey Deutch and Glen Powell bickered in the lobby of a New York City office building, fueled by caffeine and a collective fear of their bosses.

"Do you think I'm Zoey Deutch in this movie?" you asked abruptly. "A little pathetic? Desperate for love?"

"What?" Suna said behind his laugh.

"Or maybe I'm more like her boss, Lucy Liu. So all-consumed by work that I forget what it's like to be touched by a man."

"Would you stop? You're twenty-two. You have the rest of your life to find your six-foot-five husband."

"Maybe I'll poach him from your future volleyball team," you said dreamily. “You know, when you eventually go pro.”

At that, Suna shook his head.

"What?" you laughed. "You don't think I would?"

"No, I know you would," he retorted. "It's me I’m unsure about.”

His words, the slight vulnerability they carried, softened your expression.

"Well, you could always be more honest with yourself about what you want," you said. "You're only helping yourself out in the long run."

"Yeah, I know," he sighed, picking at a loose thread on one of your throw pillows. "I gotta get better at that."

"You will." You flashed him that same, reassuring smile you used during exam days, or particularly grueling clinical rotations. "Just like I will get better at picking romantic partners."

"Right. Remind me to pack you an epipen for your next date."

"God — " Your laugh was enough to make his chest twinge in affection. " — why can't I be allergic to something low-stakes? Like cedar? Or mangoes?"

"You love mangoes."

"Yeah, but half the men on Tinder don't make them their entire personality!" you cried. "I swear, it's impossible to find a guy who either doesn't have dogs or doesn't want them in the future. It's like finding a needle in a haystack."

Now, Suna probably should've kept his mouth shut. Or continued to tease you like he normally did. But as you continued to watch the movie with those soft, expressive eyes of yours, he figured now was as good a time as ever to heed your advice.

So he took a deep breath, braced himself, and spoke before he could second-guess himself.

"Well, I have no plans to own a dog."

The words, loud and resounding, clamored between you like one of those stainless steel water bottles that always fell in the middle of lecture. His breath hitched. Your face went blank. Glen Powell looked like he was about to have a conniption.

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying..." Fuck. This was a lot scarier than he thought it would be. "Go out with me. After the NCLEX. I'll take you to dinner."

"I — " You blinked, the earnest expression on his face making the color rise into your cheeks. "Are you being serious?"

"Do I look like I'm joking?"

"Are you just saying this so I'll stop complaining?"

"Maybe."

You grabbed the nearest throw pillow and shucked it at his face. He threw his arms over his head and laughed, the sound unfurling from his chest like a deep sigh of relief.

"In all seriousness," he began, hitting pause on the television remote. "I hate hearing about your crappy dates because...you deserve to go on good ones. And I've been wanting to ask you for a while now."

You pursed your lips to one side, the idea of you and Suna together taking shape in your mind. It wasn't as if you hadn't thought about it before. If anything, Suna was the only good thing to come from the most difficult four years of your life. He'd listened to you cry when you'd failed your first exam, squeezed you tight when you'd witnessed your first patient death. He was good at hearing you complain and even better at calming you down.

You couldn't find that kind of devotion just anywhere. Didn't want to, you realized.

"...okay," you said after a long while, nodding at him through the dark. "Sure. I'd like that."

"Great. I'll make a reservation," Suna said simply, standing up from the couch to grab the clothes from his gym bag.

You watched him move throughout your apartment, now painfully aware of how attractive he was and how easily you had accepted your fate.

"Oh, and Y/N?" he asked before disappearing into the bathroom to change.

"Yeah?" You met his hazel eyes across the apartment. Gulped back at the way they gleamed at you in amusement.

"I lied when I said I don't remember the last time I liked someone," he confessed. "And I meant it when I said I'll be more honest with myself."

With that, he ducked into the bathroom and clicked the door shut.

You later found his pack of Zyns at the bottom of your trash bin.

there’s a folder in sakusa’s notes app titled drafts.

it looks boring at first glance—just another folder among the other plain, lowercase ones:

practice schedule

laundry list

groceries (motoya stop eating my yogurt)

but click it open and there’s a different kind of disaster.

forty. forty unsent messages to you.

one says,

“i’d die if you smiled at someone else like that.”

another just says,

“you looked nice today.”

and the last one—just your name, like he typed it out just to see what it looked like next to his cursor.

he rereads them every night. deleting nothing. not even the typos.

it’s kind of tragic, if you think about it—how this six-foot wall of volleyball perfection spends his evenings whispering digital love letters to the void (the void being the ‘you’ who keeps replying “ok 👍” to his texts about the practice schedules).

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

komori finds out first, of course. he has eyes everywhere, especially at the mcdonalds discount for chicken nuggets.

“bro, what’s this?” he snorts, leaning over sakusa’s shoulder mid-bus ride home, snatching his phone faster than sakusa can scowl.

“don’t—”

too late. komori’s already giggling like he just found out santa’s real. “oh my god, kiyoomi. forty?”

“give it back.”

“forty drafts? bro. these are—holy crap, these are POEMS. why are you writing like you’re about to drop a heartbreak album?”

sakusa’s ears turn red. “they’re not poems.”

“‘i wish i was the hoodie she’s wearing— to feel her warmth without asking, to hold her close without speaking, to catch her sighs and call it breathing.’”

komori reads out loud. “if this isn’t a poem, i don’t know what is.”

he glares. “motoya.”

but komori just grins, shaking his head in pure disbelief. “no no, you’re in love. like, terminally. i’m calling iizuna.”

and because komori has no sense of self-preservation, ten minutes later iizuna’s reading the same draft with an amused, too-knowing smile.

“you wrote ‘if she ever gets cold i’ll kill the wind.’” iizuna looks up. “kill the wind, kiyoomi?”

“i was tired.”

“you’re dramatic.”

“shut up.”

“you’re in love.”

and sakusa, despite himself, glances out the window. watches the sky blur past like it’s trying to outrun him.

quietly, barely audible, he mumbles, “yeah. i guess i am.”

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

he didn’t mean to fall for you.

you’re… soft, somehow. in the kind of way that makes him feel like his chest is a too-small box and you’re the light spilling out of it.

you laugh too loud at komori’s jokes. you tuck stray hairs behind your ear without noticing him staring. you smell like something clean and nostalgic—like powdered sugar and early mornings.

you don’t notice him much, not like that.

you text him for notes sometimes.

you thank him after practice when he helps you carry boxes for the team.

you once said “you’re nice when you want to be,” and it made him forget how to breathe for three whole seconds.

and that’s it. that’s all it took.

now he’s the kind of person who types things like,

“you smiled at me today. i pretended not to notice because i think if i did i’d forget how to walk.”

and never sends them.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

it happens by accident—how you find out, almost.

it’s late. gym’s empty except for you two. you stayed behind to help tidy up, and he stayed because “i don’t trust motoya with the mop.” (in which, fair.)

he sets his phone on the bench. you’re sweeping when it buzzes, screen lighting up with a notification:

drafts — last edited 1 min ago.

you glance, teasing, “you journaling or something?”

he freezes. visibly.

“no.”

“oh?” you grin. “sounds like a yes.”

“it’s not.”

“so if i look—”

he steps forward so fast you nearly drop the broom.

“don’t.”

his voice isn’t angry—it’s desperate, raw, like you’ve threatened to read his heartbeat aloud.

and that’s when you realize it’s something real. not a joke, not a to-do list. something that could crumble him if you saw too much.

but you soften, smiling a little. “alright, i won’t.”

you don’t.

you go back to sweeping, humming quietly, pretending like the silence isn’t dripping with everything unspoken.

he stares at you like he’s trying to memorize the outline of your shadow.

and later, when you leave, he writes another one:

“she promised not to look. i think that’s the first time someone’s ever protected something of mine without knowing what it was.”

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

the next day, komori is still trying to convince him to just say something.

“dude. you’re dying over there.”

“i’m fine.”

“you’re not fine. you looked at her for five minutes straight and almost walked into a vending machine.”

“that’s because you distracted me.”

“kiyoomi. please. she’s literally the only person you let talk to you before 9 a.m. that means something.”

“it means i tolerate her.”

“you tolerate her so hard you write essays about her smile.”

sakusa sighs. “motoya, i will—”

“—kill the wind? yeah, i read that one.”

he throws a towel at him. komori dodges, laughing so hard he almost trips over the bench.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

you’re walking out of practice together, both holding water bottles, talking about nothing—your favorite way to talk.

you tell him about how your phone storage is full because you keep forgetting to delete old notes.

“me too,” he says, without thinking.

you smile. “really? what kind of notes do you even have?”

and he should lie. he should. but something about the way your eyes meet his—bright, curious, open—makes the truth spill out before he can stop it.

“you.”

you blink. “me?”

“yeah.”

there’s silence. then a small, surprised laugh slips from you. “i—what does that mean?”

“it means…” he exhales, runs a hand through his hair, eyes darting anywhere but yours. “i write about you. things i can’t say out loud.”

you don’t tease. you don’t laugh again. you just tilt your head, smile soft. “that’s actually really sweet, kiyoomi.”

he looks at you like you just told him gravity doesn’t apply to him anymore. “sweet?”

“yeah. i mean—i write about you too. just not in my notes app.”

he freezes. “you… what?”

you grin, walking backward as you talk. “i draw. sometimes. i doodle people i like.”

his brain promptly forgets how to function. “people… you like.”

“yep.” you give him a look so gentle he thinks he might combust. “you’re my favorite one to draw.”

he stands there, completely still, like a computer blue-screening.

and later that night, there’s another draft.

“she said i’m her favorite. i think my heart’s trying to jailbreak out of my chest.”

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

after that, things change.

not dramatically—no fireworks, no big confessions. just… quiet shifts.

he lets you tie his mask strings when they get tangled.

you save him the last lemon drink from the vending machine.

he starts walking you home without saying he is.

komori catches him once, texting under the table, smirking. “writing her another note?”

“no.”

“then why are you smiling?”

“because she just said goodnight.”

“bro, that’s… wow. you’re gone.”

he doesn’t even deny it. just shrugs, cheeks pink.

and the next morning, a new note appears in drafts:

“if loving her this quietly is all i get, i’ll let my pulse speak for me— it already says her name.”

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

you finally see the folder one day—not by accident this time, but because he lets you.

he hands you his phone, careful, shy. “here. you can read them.”

you blink, startled. “are you sure?”

he nods.

and so you do.

one by one.

forty little pieces of him—some silly, some tender, some heartbreakingly sincere.

“her laugh could make a funeral feel like a sunrise— grief would forget its name, and even the dead would turn just to see who made the light sound like that.”

“she borrowed my hoodie today— it hangs on her like sunlight on silk, the moon wearing my favorite cloud.”

“i’m trying not to love her too loud— even echoes feel dangerous, when her name sounds like home.”

when you’re done, you look up at him. he’s tense, fingers fidgeting.

“kiyoomi,” you say softly, smiling like you can’t help it. “you’re unbelievable.”

his eyes flick to yours. “in a bad way?”

“in the kind of way that makes me want to kiss you.”

the look on his face could make angels jealous.

you laugh, reaching up to cup his cheek. “can i?”

he doesn’t answer—just leans in.

and when your lips meet, soft and warm and unbearably real, he swears the air tastes like the word finally.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

that night, he opens his notes app again.

he doesn’t start a new draft.

instead, he edits the last one.

“you read them all, then kissed me— every word i never said found its way to your lips.”

and for the first time ever—

he hits send.

♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

a: my shitty relationship is taking a big toll on me 🤞🏻

<taglist>

@the-bloopsters @nelinkythoughts @kukikoooo @sleepykeijiii @averys-place @sxnnee @anzuuhoshi @evilari111 @rabbitcola @whimsybloom @yeonette @forgottensniper @katzline @michexoxo @pelicanpizza @han0vyc @george-russell-defender @meikstv @babybird-meena @depressinglyobsessed @ghostwifeyy @bigdaddyyaoii @perpetuallydone @qardasngan @crystal-lilac @methiart @chikuwasushii @wensurr @alyriaschoenheit

© showhay — don’t copy nor translate without my permission. i do not own any of the photos that i have used. credits to all the rightful owners. (˶ˆᗜˆ˵)

“maybe california changed him,” mattsun yawns, refilling his drink, and then yours. “sunshine, beach bodies. maybe he’s less picky now.”

you poke at the toppings in your bowl, appetite gone. “he probably spends more time working than flirting.”

“what’s he even doing again?” makki asks, half to himself. “something with sports medicine?”

“yeah,” tooru answers through a mouthful, stealing a pork chop from your bowl. “he works with a college team. sends me articles sometimes.”

“and you?” you ask, grateful for the shift. “still pretending you’re too busy to come home?”

“guilty,” he smiles into his cup. “but someone bought me a ticket this time. kind of rude to waste it.”

that earns a few laughs.

“you know,” makki starts again, “we used to joke that if hajime ever moved away, he’d last two months tops. but now it’s been—what? three years?”

“four,” you correct. you don’t even have to think about it. tooru glances at you, then looks away.

“he doesn’t even text back half the time. if he did meet someone, we’d probably find out three years later.”

“he’s busy,” you say automatically, then regret how easy it comes out. too defensive for someone who hasn’t texted him at all since he left.

“busy,” makki repeats, waggling his soup spoon at you. “the classic excuse. just say you miss him.”

“we all miss him,” tooru says, gentler than you expect. the years have sanded down his usual brightness, but not completely. maybe argentina changed him. maybe growing up did.

“maybe he did meet someone,” mattsun says, voice quieter. “someone who makes him want to stay.”

makki throws a napkin at him. “cornball.”

“i’m serious,” he dodges, glaring. “people leave when they find something worth leaving for.”

“you think he’ll ever visit?” you push your bowl away, eating a gyoza off of makki’s plate instead.

“maybe,” tooru says. “he talks about it sometimes. says he misses japan.”

“what about us?” mattsun asks, half-serious.

“yeah,” makki chimes in. “doesn’t he miss us?”

your old friend hesitates—and you already know the answer before he even says it.

“yeah,” he answers finally. “all the time.”

"that's because our little maestro's hard at work," tamaki michio, eita's college senior and the band's drummer, approaches from behind the younger man, ruffling his hair affectionately. semi leans away with a laugh, reaching out towards the eldest on the other side of the room, who passes him his aforementioned cellphone wordlessly.

as eita unlocks the device to check his missed messages, he goes very silent. his bandmates watch curiously as a blush floods his cheeks, and his nose scrunches up. he rubs his hands over his face and lets out a little groan of frustration. "ah, geez."

kazuhiko sighs. "reset the clock."

michio clicks his tongue. "that's gotta be a new record."

"what's a new record?" inoue asks, blinking owlishly as he glances between the three older men in the room. the most recent addition to the band's lineup, and the youngest of them by far, he's still learning the ways of the world.

"inochin—come, come," kazuhiko waves the baby of the group over, and the teen obediently shuffles to take a seat next to the man on the sofa. michio joins too, flopping down so inoue is sandwiched between then—all with a front-row seat to poor eita's breakdown. kazuhiko plucks the (still unlit) cigarette from his lips and holds it between his knuckles. he points to semi on the other side of the room, hunched forward with his head in one hand and his cellphone in the other. "eita-kun's got a problem."

"a problem?" inoue repeats curiously.

"a problem," kazuhiko confirms.

"what kind of problem?" there's concern in poor inoue's tone, clearly worried about his beloved senior. michio snickers a little at inoue's side.

"a girl problem," the second eldest chirps.

"which is the worst kind," kazuhiko adds, nodding sagely.

"semi-senpai!" inoue gasps, a hand flying to his mouth as his eyes sparkle in amazement. "i didn't know you have a lover!"

kazuhiko and michio both sigh wearily, their heads hanging.

"he doesn't—"

"i don't—!"

all three men speak at the same time, and inoue's enthusiasm visibly deflates a little—quickly replaced by a (rightful) look of confusion.

"see, inoue," michio slings an arm around the teen's shoulders and tugs him a bit closer. "eita's got this crush—"

"it's not a crush!"

"this thing—" michio corrects himself half-heartedly, casting a skeptical glance eita's way, "with his ex-girlfriend."

inoue gasps again as the plot thickens.

"it's not like that," semi insists to the younger man, but his face is still scarlet and it really undermines his credibility.

"every time we put out a new song, like clock-work, eita gets a little—"

as though ordained by the gods—or whatever cosmic force is out there, and likes to see semi suffer—michio's explanation is interrupted with a cheerful little PING! as eita's cellphone chimes with a new notification.

it's painfully silent in the wake of the alert.

"you gonna answer that?" kazuhiko asks wryly.