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Very angsty 😢 Fluff ending 🩷
It starts small. It always does.
Neteyam walks beside you after patrol, bow slung loose over his shoulder, shoulders relaxed in that way he only ever allows when the danger has passed. He talks about Lo’ak — always Lo’ak — frustration threaded with affection, worry wrapped in humor.
When he laughs, something warm blooms low in your chest, quiet and treacherous. You don’t tell anyone. You don’t even tell yourself — not fully. You let it exist as a feeling without a name.
But then you start noticing things.
The way you save the softer fruits for him without thinking.
The way your gaze finds him in every gathering before it finds anyone else.
The way your body turns toward him instinctively, like a plant seeking light.
And one evening, sitting near the fire while the children play and the elders speak in low voices, Neteyam leans back on his hands and sighs.
You glance at him. “You never say that.”
He smiles at you — soft, familiar. “Only to you.”
The words slip out without weight. Without intention.
Something inside you shifts, quiet but irreversible.
After that, you try to be careful.
You don’t say anything. You show it instead, in ways small enough to deny.
You mend the tear in his arm wrap and say it was bothering you to look at.
You sit close enough at the fire that your shoulders brush, then pretend not to notice.
You bring him water after training and say Jake asked you to.
Sometimes, when you’re both still — really still — your tail drifts close to his.
Just close enough to feel the warmth.
A question you’re too afraid to ask aloud.
Neteyam never pulls away.
But he never notices, either.
He is gentle with you in ways that make it worse.
He waits for you when the group moves too fast.
He stands between you and danger without hesitation, like it is instinct.
Once, after Lo’ak does something reckless and Jake’s anger crackles through the clearing like lightning, Neteyam finds you later, sitting alone.
“Are you okay?” he asks quietly.
You nod. “I was worried about him.”
Neteyam sits beside you, close enough that your knees touch. “You always are.”
You look at him then — really look — and for half a heartbeat, you think he sees it.
But he only smiles and says, “You’re good to us.”
You smile back because that’s what you do.
Later, alone, you press your hand to your chest and wait for the ache to pass.
The move to the reefs changes everything.
The water is unfamiliar, vast and open in a way the forest never was. The Metkayina are kind but watchful, curious in the way people are when you don’t quite belong yet.
Neteyam struggles more than he lets on.
You see it in the way his jaw tightens when he falls from his ilu. In the way he watches Tonowari and Ao’nung with quiet calculation, trying to learn, trying to be worthy.
You help him practice breathing techniques underwater, hovering just ahead of him, reaching back to steady him when he falters. Your fingers curl around his wrist, grounding.
“You’re doing fine,” you murmur through the water.
He squeezes your hand once, grateful.
That night, you sit on the edge of the platform, feet dangling over the sea. Neteyam drops down beside you, water still clinging to his skin.
“Thank you,” he says. “For earlier.”
You glance at him. Moonlight turns his eyes silver.
“For… always being there.”
The words hit harder than any rejection could.
You swallow. “That’s what friends do.”
Neteyam nods, relieved. “Yeah. Exactly.”
Your chest caves in a little.
One afternoon, while you help her weave nets, she watches you for a long moment before speaking.
“You love him,” she says simply.
“No,” you say too quickly.
Tsireya hums. “You look at him like the tide looks at the moon.”
You laugh weakly. “That doesn’t mean anything.”
“It means you are waiting,” she says gently. “And he does not know.”
You stare at the net, blinking hard. “He knows. He just… doesn’t care.”
Tsireya’s brows knit. “Neteyam cares too much. That is the problem.”
Because caring too much still feels a lot like being invisible.
The gathering happens a few nights later.
Firelight. Laughter. The easy chaos of young voices mixing with the hush of the waves. You sit in the circle because Tsireya pulls you there, because it’s easier than explaining why you’d rather be alone.
Neteyam sits across from you, relaxed, laughing at something Lo’ak says.
You watch his mouth move and think, Say it. Just say it.
Truth or dare begins as a joke.
Someone asks who he would choose, if he chose anyone at all.
The moment stretches too long.
Neteyam laughs, awkward. Looks around.
His eyes pass over you — brief, unseeing — and move on.
“If I had to,” he says lightly, gesturing toward one of the Metkayina girls, “probably someone like her.”
You don’t hear the laughter. You don’t hear Tsireya swear under her breath.
You hear only the quiet, final sound of something breaking.
Your voice shakes, but it doesn’t stop.
“I keep trying,” you say, words spilling like blood. “I keep showing you. Over and over. And you don’t see it. Or you don’t want to.”
Neteyam stares at you, stunned.
“You’re stupid,” you snap, tears burning. “Because I have been standing right in front of you.”
Then laughter — sharp, cruel, from girls who don’t know the cost of loving quietly.
You don’t wait for Neteyam to speak.
You start doing things alone.
At first it’s small: collecting fruit without asking anyone, swimming farther out, staying away from the central fire.
You stop sitting beside Neteyam.
You stop bringing him things.
You stop weaving little pieces of him into your days.
Your heart keeps reaching anyway—stupid, desperate—only to crash into the fact that he still hasn’t come to you.
Each day that passes feels like another confirmation.
He does, but not like you.
Three days after the gathering, Lo’ak tries to sneak away.
You see it the moment you spot the tension in his shoulders, the way he looks around like a thief. He’s heading toward the edge of the reef, toward the open water.
“Lo’ak,” you call sharply.
He freezes, then sighs like you’re the problem. “What?”
“You are not going,” you say, stepping in front of him.
He rolls his eyes. “I am.”
Your hands clench. “Neteyam will get in trouble if you do something stupid again.”
Lo’ak’s face hardens. “It’s not your job to—”
“It is my job,” you cut in, voice cracking, “because no one else is stopping you!”
Lo’ak glares. “I just want to see Payakan.”
Your chest tightens so hard it hurts to breathe. You think of Neteyam’s shoulders, always carrying weight. You think of the way Jake’s anger lands on Neteyam first. You think of the way Neteyam stands between Lo’ak and consequence every single time.
You step closer, eyes burning.
“Do you ever think of your brother?” you whisper.
Lo’ak flinches, a flicker of guilt.
You hate that it makes you feel worse.
“Do you ever think,” you continue, voice shaking now, “that every time you run off, every time you disobey, it is Neteyam who pays for it?”
Lo’ak looks away. “It’s not—”
“It is,” you snap. “It is always him. He always covers you. He always protects you. He always stands in front—”
You try to swallow it down. You try.
But your tears come anyway, hot and humiliating.
Lo’ak’s expression shifts from anger to alarm. “Hey—”
You wipe at your face furiously, shaking your head like you can deny it back into your body.
“No,” you choke out. “No, you listen. Because I— because I see what he does. I see how he holds everything together. And you keep pulling at the threads like you want to watch him fall apart.”
Lo’ak’s eyes widen. “I don’t—”
“You don’t mean to,” you interrupt, voice raw, “but you do it anyway. And it hurts. It hurts because he doesn’t complain. He doesn’t ask you to stop. He just… takes it.”
You inhale sharply, trying to breathe through the ache.
“I can’t—” you whisper, and your whole body shakes. “I can’t watch you ruin him.”
Your voice drops to something small.
Because you almost say it.
The words sit in your throat like glass.
Lo’ak stares at you, stunned.
And then you hear footsteps behind you.
You don’t turn around immediately. You don’t want him to see you like this—wrecked and messy and exposed.
But his presence presses into the air anyway.
Neteyam’s voice is quiet. “Lo’ak.”
Lo’ak swallows. “I was just—”
Neteyam doesn’t raise his voice. He never has to. “You were going to leave.”
Lo’ak’s shoulders slump. “I—”
You squeeze your eyes shut. Your breath comes in shaky pulls. You can feel the ocean’s damp breeze on your skin, the salt sticking to your tears.
Neteyam’s footsteps come closer.
You brace for him to be angry.
You brace for him to tell you to stay out of it.
Instead, his hand reaches around you—slow, careful—and touches your wrist.
A steady point of contact, like a heartbeat you can hold.
Neteyam’s eyes are on your face.
His expression is unreadable in the way storms are unreadable—full of movement behind stillness.
He sees the way your chest rises too fast.
And something in his gaze shifts, like a door finally opening.
Lo’ak mutters, “I didn’t know you cared that much.”
You laugh, broken. “Of course I care.”
Lo’ak looks between you and Neteyam like he’s suddenly realizing he walked into something bigger than him.
Neteyam doesn’t speak to Lo’ak again.
He just nods once toward the village, a silent command.
Lo’ak hesitates, then shuffles off, looking guilty in a way you’ve never seen before.
When he’s gone, the world feels too quiet.
Just you. Neteyam. The ocean breathing.
Your hands tremble at your sides.
You open your mouth—ready to apologize, ready to run, ready to say anything—
And Neteyam steps closer.
So close you can feel his warmth.
His chest rises and falls—one breath, then another—as if he’s trying to keep himself steady.
“You cried for him,” he murmurs.
You swallow hard. “I cried for you.”
Neteyam’s eyes widen, like the words are a spear.
Your throat tightens. You look away, shame flooding you. “Forget it.”
“No.” His voice is sharper now, not angry—desperate. “Don’t.”
You shake your head, eyes stinging again. “You didn’t want to hear it before.”
Neteyam’s hand slides from your wrist to your fingers, threading them together like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he doesn’t hold on.
“I heard you,” he whispers, voice breaking. “I just… I didn’t let myself understand.”
Neteyam steps even closer, forehead nearly touching yours.
His tail brushes yours—careful at first, like he’s asking permission.
Your tail curls toward his on instinct, wrapping softly around it, a trembling confession your body makes before your mouth can.
Neteyam exhales like it hurts.
“I love you,” he says, so quiet you almost don’t hear it. “I have. For a long time.”
Then speeds up so fast it feels like it might crack your ribs.
You whisper, broken, “Then why—”
Neteyam’s eyes close for a moment, as if the answer is something heavy he’s been carrying alone.
“Because if I had you,” he admits, voice raw, “and then I lost you… I don’t know what I would become.”
Your chest aches so fiercely you press a hand to it.
Neteyam’s fingers tighten around yours. His tail squeezes yours—gentle, anchoring.
“I thought if I kept it here”—his free hand presses to his chest—“then it wouldn’t ruin anything. It wouldn’t complicate my duty. It wouldn’t—”
You stare at him, stunned, tears sliding down your cheeks again.
“You thought ignoring me would hurt less?” you whisper.
Neteyam opens his eyes, and they shine with something that looks like regret.
“I thought it would hurt only me,” he says. “I didn’t realize I was hurting you every time.”
You laugh shakily, almost a sob. “You were.”
“I’m sorry,” he breathes. “I’m so—”
You shake your head, because you can’t take apologies right now. Not when your whole body is trembling with the need to be held.
Neteyam’s gaze drops to your mouth, then back to your eyes—asking without words.
Neteyam leans in and kisses you.
It’s not rushed. Not hungry. It’s gentle in the way dawn is gentle—soft, careful, like he’s learning you with reverence.
Your entire body goes electric.
Your tails tighten around each other like they’ve been waiting for this for months.
You can hear your own heartbeat.
You can hear his too—fast, uneven, right there between you like a shared secret.
Neteyam pulls back just slightly, forehead resting against yours.
His voice is a whisper against your skin.
“I see you,” he says, shaking. “I see you. I see everything.”
A sound breaks from your throat—half laugh, half sob.
“You’re late,” you whisper.
Neteyam’s eyes squeeze shut. “I know.”
His hand slides to the back of your neck, thumb brushing the edge of your jaw like he can’t believe you’re real.
“I am late,” he repeats, softer. “But I am here.”
You exhale, shaking, and press your face into his shoulder.
Neteyam wraps his arms around you fully—tight enough to be real, gentle enough not to hurt.
Your tail flicks against his, a shaky, relieved movement, and his tail answers, curling around you like a promise.
You whisper into the warmth of him, voice muffled. “Don’t let me do this alone again.”
“Never,” he says, voice fierce and broken. “Never again.”
And for the first time in what feels like forever, the ache in your chest loosens—not because the pain wasn’t real, but because he’s finally holding it with you.
The ocean keeps breathing.
But in this moment, wrapped together—hands, tails, heartbeats—you feel something you thought you’d lost.
