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More Than Strangers, Less Than Friends - Neteyam // Part Two

You are the eldest daughter of Ronal and Tonowari. Several months after his recovery from a bullet wound that rendered him comatose, your parents have arranged a bond-pact between Toruk Makto's son and you to be mated. It wouldn't be such a problem if not for the glaring issue—your lover.

Warnings- ooc Neteyam, obsessive, slight-nsfw elements towards the end

A/N- Part two! You guys are amazing. Truly didn't think I'd get the response from the last one. That being said, I was going to say that this part is my favorite... but after rereading and rewriting the third part I am dead wrong--I think you guys will like the next one very much... just gotta finish rewriting all of it (Somehow the quality got worse and worse with each installment), but the bones were good!

Part One, Part Three

Two months had passed within the clan.

Your father and Jake Sully having conspired on some plan to unite the People of Pandora during it all. You were naturally filled in, as well as Neteyam. Both of you tasked with things that felt simple on the surface: Chart the outer reefs, mark where sky-people wreckage drifted, note which routes stayed clear.

Which wasn’t a problem in itself. That part was easy.

It was everything else that wasn’t.

The leather came first. Supple and boiled, it was gifted to you, still faintly warm from working. “Warriors in our clan," Neteyam said. "Wear the torso cleft. It’s Thanator skin, best quality." His hand swept to his own chest, and the gentle thumb traced the beaded work of his battleband. “As I have one, so does my father.” Then he smiled, and you had opened your mouth to refuse—to remind him, gently, that you were not of his clan.

But your father spoke first. Then his.

"Could you two see to the western islands? We got some sightings."

Another favor, of course.

It was like this often, too often. Sometimes he would give you new beads for the hair, other times green wrappings coiled to fit your tail. Most times, it was seaglass braided to wrap your ears. All the while the plans and journeys became more and more intricate. Your parents watched, though. So did his. Chuckling in that way adults do when they think they already know the ending of a story.

You and him became naturally closer. Closer, in your mind, than you ever meant to be—but closer nonetheless.

Friends, you decided, because any other word felt far too large.

“Like this, Neteyam.” You’d gently correct his stance. If you two were not out, then it was this. The training beneath the mangrove roots of your home. Hand over his nape. “I can feel the stress here.”

“I doubt our parents would care for it.”

That quirked your lip, and a faint smile appeared. “What do you mean? You don’t like watching the sea for demon-ships to appear?”

He smiled, relaxed. “No.”

Time reshaped him. His shoulders broadened, muscle gathered across his back and arms in strong lines. He grew taller—tall enough that you had to tilt your head slightly when he stood too near. His technique sharpened. His aim steadied. Every movement became leaner, surer, until even the smallest gestures carried some kind of efficiency you’d applaud.

He's stronger than he used to be. You noted. Stronger, maybe, than he realized. And in three days, he would prove it.

His rite of passage.

The work had changed. No more scouting missions with Neteyam, your father had disposed you to another chore. Instead of fighting sky people, or kicking rocks with Neteyam you were trapped in a hot filled room beading armbands tactically.

Same color. Same width. Same pattern.

By the great mother my fingers are killing me…

Your knuckles ached in that deep-bone way that promised pain later in the evening, yet you volunteered each time to make sure neither your sister or brother had to go through it. Better you than your sister, who had real work—grinding medicine, scraping hides for the injured. Better you than your brother, who’s arrogance far outstripped his patience with thread.

You smiled a bit. He'd snap the cord within an hour, then sulk.

So here you were sighing more and more often. You and a few other ladies were underneath a thin tapestry which hardly blocked the sun, one of eight groups. The women around you had grown used to your silence years ago.

A murmured greeting when you arrived, a soft farewell when you left. It was enough. They never pressed.

“Ah,” A girl broke the silence. Everyone glanced at her as she momentarily stopped. “Do you think Neteyam will complete the Passage this year?”

Then it began, the raised brows paired with eyes that never left their work.

Gossip was comeplace to overcome boredom and pain.

“How could he not…have you seen him!” The others went into laughter, hands rising to cover their mouths as their freckles pulsed brighter. "His arms, his shoulders—and his thighs, Eywa has blessed that boy." She pressed a hand over her mouth, but her freckles betrayed her, flaring across her cheeks.

The others joined in, glances darting.

Another joined in "And his hands—"

The eruption of giggles drowned out whatever came next.

You kept your gaze fixed on your work. Thread looped through the hole, pulled taut. Bead slid into place.

This conversation does not apply to me. Even though your body felt incredibly warm.

How could you pretend not to notice the very same things these girls did? Because you did. You’d noticed those same things too—quietly, reluctantly, when missions left you both alone under a sky too wide to hide your thoughts.

In those times, all alone and far away, you would look at him. (As any woman would, you'd remind yourself)

Primitive instinct tugged your gaze where respect said it shouldn’t. His back flexing beneath a load. The way he brightened when you praised him. The subtle roll of his hips—

No.

And there it was. Even mid-thought, the reflex kicked in: wrong, inappropriate, unacceptable. He was a person, he deserved respect.

"—more ways than one, hmm!"

The sudden voice broke you out of your thoughts. One of the girls—bare-chested in the casual way of the reef people—set down her half-threaded armband and leaned with a small smile.

"He's so protective of his family. Imagine how he'd be with a mate?" She drew the word out, savoring it, then pitched her voice lower, though everyone was already leaning in. "Remember? Few months back, when we saw him and his brother heading toward their marui?"

Heads bobbed in agreement. Yours too, though your hands kept working.

"Ao'nung and his crew showed up right after they left." The girl's tail flicked with emphasis. "Completely wrecked. Lips split, eyes swollen shut, bruises all around their body. Four against two—and the brothers won."

She sat back, fingers resuming their work. "With those skinny arms, too. Makes you wonder what if someone threatened his mate?" A theatrical sigh. "I'm just saying, whoever he chooses is lucky. Truly, truly lucky."

You glanced at them, tying the bead and moving on to the other as you picked up a shiny one.

They weren’t wrong, the bullying didn’t stop there, even if Ao’nung commanded them to. You'd watched Neteyam return from the reef more than once with split knuckles and a jaw set tight enough to crack teeth. Hours later, some reef boy would limp into the healing hut nursing worse wounds, hissing while Tsireya pressed bandages.

"Who do you think he'll choose for the fertility festival?"

For a moment, everyone paused, thinking, silenced. Then the names began.

"Aui." The girl across from you sighed, a sound halfway to dreaming. "It has to be Aui. She's a natural leader. So lucky—no wonder Neteyam hunts with her so often."

Agreement rippled through the circle. "She's pretty too," another added, toying with the edge of her loincloth. "Great at dancing, riding the ilu. Good practice for riding something else…" Her tone turned playful, wistful.

Laughter. But it was different. You paused, lifted your eyes.

Their eyes found yours. One girl cocked her head, the question already forming. "What do you think, Y/n? Does Aui have a chance?"

This was rare. Their inclusion, that is. Not for spite nor for cruelty. Just acknowledgment that you usually held yourself apart from such talk, that you watched but did not participate. Yet today, apparently, the topic seemed too irresistible.

You squeezed your eyes shut, genuinely searching. Your mind turned over memories, looking for Aui's name attached to his. Nothing came.

"I'm not sure," you said slowly, setting the armband in your lap. Your fingers stilled. "He hasn't shown interest in girls. Not during training, at least."

"What?" Disbelief colored every face. "But you're always together!" They shuffled closer. One leaned forward, elbows on knees.

"Well—not… not always together.” You grumbled, ears flickering. “I mean—Yes, but it's professional." You traced the grain of an unfinished shell, feeling its ridges. "Either we're busy with our duties, or we're too focsed. There's no space for that kind of talk."

"But—?" One girl gasped. "You've been training him for nearly a year! You must talk about something."

"We do. His family, my family. His home, mine. Stories from the forest." You paused. "That's all."

A pause. Then laughter.

"Let me train him then!" One slapped her thigh, bright.

"Ask him for us!"

"Eywa, what did we expect?" Another shook her head, grinning. "You're so serious, and he's so quiet. Plus you have Tey!" Her tone gentled, almost teasing. "I bet you find it disgusting, being around another man when you have a future mate."

A smile tugged at your mouth, but it was small and reflexive. "I can't say it's disgusting," you admitted. The words felt careful in your mouth, like carrying water in cupped palms. "But definitely strange."

Strange didn't quite capture the weight of Neteyam's presence during training, though.

The truth of it settled between your ribs: Neteyam was duty, discipline. He was the clean lines of spear-work, and the warmth of a fire.

Strange didn't account for the relief you felt in that distance you put, or the faint unease that came from not understanding why it mattered at all. Questions upon questions. If Neteyam was not a threat to your love for Tey, why push him away?

Suddenly, a hush fell over the room.

Each girl bent to her work, fingers moving with the kind of focus a child may reflect if a parent or elder stood too close.

“Y/n?”

Your name arrived funny in your ears, and your ears flickered to the door to compensate.

You lifted your gaze, and Neteyam stood above you smiling something too small to be considered anything but polite, yet too earnest to be innocent.

Heat prickled beneath your cheeks. Idiot, you thought, and meant yourself.

Nearly a year together—training, sparring, the occasional shared meal—and still your name in his mouth felt like something new and precious.

"Neteyam?"

You fumbled for the handful of beads scattered beside your knee, fingers clumsy as you pretended to sort them. The girls across from you murmured low greetings,

Behind you, Neteyam shifted, hesitated. Right, the girl who was topless. His gaze skittered away and she laughed.

She winked, adjusting the fabric back across her chest. "So shy. I forget your forest people hide everything."

You shot her a look, then returned your attention to Neteyam. "Why are you here?"

The words came out sharper than you'd intended, like you didn't want him near. Which wasn't true. Or maybe it was. You couldn't decide.

Neteyam didn't flinch. He never did .He picked his way through the chaos of your workspace with that politeness he always carried, just until thigh hit thigh, and he grinned.

"Ao'nung told me to help you." He played with some thread.

You didn't know whether to thank your brother or throttle him. As Neteyam's trainer, you were responsible for his preparation—for ensuring he was ready for the trials ahead. Not for dragging him into ceremonial busywork while the rites came closer and closer.

You tightened your grip on the fastener. "Shouldn't you be training Neteyam?” The words came clipped, deliberately sharp. "The passage is tomorrow. Surely you have better things—"

Instead, a pout ghosted across his face as he crouched lower, fingers reaching for a few scattered beads. His head dipped, but his eyes—those eyes—glinted with something playful, as if accepting a challenge.

You relented with a huff.

Cupping your hands around his, you opened your palm. The beads caught the light, little sparks of color against your skin. Neteyam stared at them, quiet, his expression softening. "Thank you," He grumbled.

With one hand he took the beads. With the other, he tucked a strand of hair behind his ear, gaze lifting to yours and holding. His touch lingered, and you quickly looked away.

Behind you, the weaving circle had gone quiet.

You felt their attention, you felt their eyes tracing along the three fingers curled against your own. Heard the rustle of fabric as bodies shifted, leaned, and traded glances. They were watching, of course they’re watching.

"It will be difficult," you said, reaching for a simpler pattern. "You don't know these sequences. Perhaps something else—"

He leaned closer.

His fingers left his lap, traveled slow and deliberate up his stomach, his chest, the hollow of his throat. The whole time, his eyes never left your face. Something faint tugged at his mouth, gone the instant you met his gaze.

"I made all the clothes I wear," he murmured, voice pitched low so you'd have to follow every word. "Except my songcord. My mother helped with that." His hand rose, guiding yours to the delicate choker at his neck. Warmth folded around your fingers. "This one, I made."

Your fingers twitched, you focused solely on the piece. The beads were impossibly small beneath your fingertips, each one threaded with a precision that spoke of hours bent over firelight, of patience you hadn't credited him with. Master-level work, if you were honest. The kind of detail that required not just skill but devotion.

Your tail flicked. You hated that it did.

Damn him.

Heat crept up your neck. You'd underestimated him—again—and the realization sat uncomfortable in your chest. But what less could you expect from someone blessed by Eywa herself?

"It's beautiful," you said, and meant it. "I thought your mother made this. You have... remarkable talent." He leaned closer still at the praise, shoulders dropping, gaze searching yours for something you weren't sure you wanted to name. Like an Ilu. Cute.

But the moment passed. You pulled your focus back with a cough. "You still need to learn the design.” You thought of your mother then, when your father became too touchy and she couldn’t help but be shy. "Watch closely," you said, fingers already threading cord through shell. Your tone returned to its usual efficiency—clipped and functional and safe.

Neteyam nodded, seizing the opportunity to drift nearer. His chest pressed near your shoulder, body curving over yours with the excuse of a better view. His hands hovered at your back—close enough that you felt the heat radiating from his palms.

He let out a small—“Yes,” and, “I understand.”—Every now and then, just to show he was listening.

But his gaze flickered: Armband to your face. Face to lips. Lips to eyes. Then it stayed on your eyes, two seconds, before drifting back to the work.

You were single-minded by nature—both of you were—and the women in the circle knew it. Soft giggles escaped mouths hidden behind working hands. Knowing looks passed between them, cataloging every unspoken thing you'd failed to notice. Small mercies.

When you finished and glanced up, Neteyam was still staring. His eyes snapped left a beat too late, landing on the weaving with performative interest.

Your friends were quiet, focusing on their own armbands.

Things felt weirdly tense.

“Do you understand? Try it now.”

He did. Easily. Too easily. You wondered if you'd wasted both your time on something he already knew—wondered, too, how many offerings he'd receive at the fertility rites. How many girls had already practiced their smiles for him?

"Is this good?"

He tilted his head. Braids slipped off his shoulder, exposing the long line of his throat, the lean muscle of his chest. Those golden eyes half-massed, long lashes shadowing the sweetnes of his look.

Around you, unmated girls stole glances—cheeks flushing in biolumienscence. They pressed palms to cheeks, trying to cool the glow before he noticed.

Eywa, you thought, then stopped the thought before it could finish.

Tey wasn't as broad-shouldered, but his body had its own—

You dropped your gaze to the floor.

Well, actually. It wasn't as heavily muscled, but his body was attractive too. Lean and capable. That's what mattered. Practicality. Compatibility.

Right?

Neteyam's tongue clicked. He moved to the next knot. At a glance, his expression stayed flat—neutral in the way stone is neutral. He’d offer you a hum sometimes, or a nod when you spoke. For everyone else, he simply looked.

It reminded you of your first meeting. Your father had commanded you and your siblings to assist his family, and the eldest was naturally paired with the eldest. Both so flawless in temperament it seemed inevitable.

Until it wasn't.

Neither of you had much use for small talk. Training. Missions. Occasionally—like something sweet and forbidden—he'd offer a fragment of his forest life. You'd return the gesture. Then silence would come back.

From golden child, to golden child. A love letter of actions.

Neteyam's heart hammered against his ribs, though his face betrayed nothing. Your reaction hadn't been what he wanted, but knowing you felt something—even this small flicker of awareness—was enough. For now.

He frowned slightly, gaze falling to the completed armband you'd set aside.

When everyone turned to gather fresh materials, he moved. Swift and silent, he swapped it for his own unfinished piece and tucked yours inside his loincloth, pressed against his hip where it would stay warm.

.

The beads held you captive for hours—shell and stone strung in patterns older than the clan itself.

Your fingers moved with usual efficiency. By evening, when the last strand lay coiled in its basket, exhaustion had seeped so deep into your bones that standing required audible effort. A groan escaped as you straightened.

Your gaze drifted to Neteyam.

He hunched over his work, all concentration. The armband beneath his hands showed promise—clean knots, even spacing—but his fingers told a different story. His hands cramped visibly, fingers seizing mid-motion before he forced them to continue.

Unlike you and the others, his hands had not gotten used to the feeling.

He was still new to this.

"Neteyam," you said, keeping your voice low. "You can rest now."

Guilt pricked at you. You should have offered him gloves—it was normal for beginners, but you'd forgotten, distracted by deadlines and your own exhaustion, and now his knuckles bore the evidence of your apparaent selfishness.

He looked up, releasing the half-finished work from his grip as if receiving an order. Tired, yes—you could see it in the way his shoulders sagged—but he smiled anyway. Color rose faintly across his cheeks as his gaze dropped, fingers fidgeting against each other.

"No, it's fine."

His help had cut the work in half. You knew that. Still—

"Look at your hands," you pressed gently. Small cuts marked the pads of his fingers where the cord had bit deepest. He followed your gaze to them, then back to your face.

"You can do more tomorrow—" Please don't, you thought, but didn't say. "—but right now, heal. You deserve that much."

He stood. Immediately. The speed of it caught you off guard. This tall, silent warrior rising as though you'd pulled a string. Obedient. Trusting. It was almost comical.

Around you, heads lifted. Brows raised. Your companions had noticed.

"Of course," Neteyam grinned.

You offered a small smile, nodding once to the others. "Get a good sleep, everyone." You bid them farewell, giving one final look as the beads would wait patiently for your return.

.

The path stretched ahead, empty save for usual corals and distant sea-spray. You'd been walking for thirteen minutes, maybe more when the footsteps finally registered. Persistent as an itch you couldn't place.

Neteyam.

Thirteen minutes you'd been walking. Maybe less. And only now did you notice him, trailing just far enough to look normal.

Except his home lay in the opposite direction.

You knew this. Everyone knew this.

You looked over your shoulder. Stopped.

The eclipse caught his face just so—half-light, half-shadow—and the familiar lines of him turned strange. Beautiful, as always.

"Is everything alright?" Your voice came out smaller than you intended, and it came with an uncertainty that didn't belong to you.

He didn't falter, nor did he pause. Instead, he closed the distance with easy strides, almost jogging, his smile warm in a way that’d make any woman gush.

The wind stirred the beads in his hair. His ornaments clicked softly with each step. Each sound too crisp in the absence of other voices.

The village had emptied behind you both, and you were only now noticing.

"Can I walk you to your marui?" He stood beside you, hands loosely clasped, lips pressed together as he waited.

You hesitated. Your eyes swept the surroundings, a hunter's habit, you told yourself. Checking for people, weighing distance.

Neteyam couldn't hurt you. Not directly. But some animal part of your brain whispered otherwise. Why do I feel weird about this…? This was Neteyam. Son of Toruk Makto, Eywa’s blessing.

A couple of seconds. Great mother, you needed to respond before it turned awkward.

"Why not." You managed a thin smile, forced the tension from your shoulders. "Though if you're worried for my safety, you should know I can handle myself."

“I know.” He smiled.

Neteyam kept quiet. You appreciated that. Though his sideway glances made your freckles flicker just a bit. The way he looked at you was just… it was as if he’d memorized the angle of your jaw, of your eyes, and was checking his work against the original.

What you didn’t know—of course, was Neteyam’s pulse hammering. Giddy that your arms were brushing.

He was closer than necessary, and you felt the heat of his skin through the thin material of a wrap he provided. The contact should have been forgettable. It wasn't.

A low hum built in his throat. Contentment, you realized. The sound made your jaw tighten.

Of course he's pleased with himself.

Weeks of watching, of careful distance, of swallowing words that crowded his mouth—and now this. Your arm against his. He'd take it. He'd take whatever small intimacy you unknowingly offered and hoard it like a fool.

Take that, Tey. He thought.

He felt as if he suffered well enough. Bits of shame, wonder and heartache traveled to him easily these past months.

He was troubled on what to do, what to say. He'd asked his father for advice, face hot, voice low. Just the two of them, late one evening. The man looked more excited than Neteyam felt, which was saying something.

"Walk her back to her place," his father had said, counting on his fingers. "Ask how she's doing. Pull out her chair if there is one. Make her laugh. Smile at her. Keep doing it until she tells you to stop—and if she doesn't, keep going anyway." He'd leaned in, eyes bright. "Flirt with her, boy.”

Flirt.

Right.

Neteyam cleared his throat. "Your skin," he began. "it's—it's a beautiful color. Like the ponds near my home." He hesitated, tail twitching. "Maybe I could take you there one day? On my ikran?"

Your gaze slid toward him.

"Thank you," you said. You didn’t smile, but your eyes softened. He knew, he could tell the difference. "But I prefer yours. It's a nice deep color. Like the night sky."

Heat crawled up his neck.

Damn it.

It seemed that every attempt at flirting, every playful gesture he mustered, backfired on him. His jokes were met with confusion, his efforts to make you grin resulted in frowns. "That makes no sense, Neteyam, Ilu don't have legs."

Hell, he didn’t even know what a chair was! He was so frustrated, so… so frustrated at the gap between what he wanted to say and what actually came out.

He wanted you to smile. Just once. For him.

So he sought his mother instead. She would know, surely. She fell for his skxawng of a father, so there must be something he can do.

"Show her what you are," she said finally, fingers working a torn net. "Not what you think she wants. Gifts that mean something. Let her see your hands at work, your heart in the details." She touched his wrist, thumb pressing the pulse-point there. "Treat her as if the Great Mother herself walked in her skin." She paused. "Show her your skills."

So he did. He strung his bow at dawn and put three arrows through a breadfruit leaf at sixty paces. You watched, arms crossed, then turned back to whatever held your attention. Competent, your silence said.

He brought down a yerik with a single spear-thrust and carried it home across his shoulders, still warm. You clapped—actually clapped, like he'd performed a trick—and thanked him for "working so hard." As if effort were the point. As if you hadn't seen the kill was clean.

He wove you a satchel from stripped reed, dyed the strap with beetle-wing iridescence, lined it with cured hide soft as a atokorina. You accepted it carefully, almost confused, and wore it twice before it vanished into your hut. He never saw it again.

Responsibility, strength, patience, wit—he offered them all. You smiled. You nodded. You drifted just out of reach.

Except once.

Once, he'd carved an earring from fishbone and feathered it with three blue plumes—the kind that only appeared after storm season, when the lortsyal molted. The wire was braided, not twisted, so it wouldn't catch in your hair.

He'd heard you sing at your sister's Dance of First Breath, and the memory lodged in him like a splinter. So he made something that might hold it.

When he offered the earring, fumbling the words, you'd covered your smile with both hands as if it were something precious that might escape. But he'd seen it anyway, caught in the corners of your eyes.

“Thank you,” you said. “Thank you, thank you.”

Was it then I decided I love you? He glanced at you now, still wearing it, even now. Yes. He decided. The day you wore his gift. That's the day he knew.

You must love pretty things,. he assumed. And in desperation, he asked your brother what those things might be.

Ao’nung’s response had been a slow grin and an elbow to the ribs. "Metikiayna women love pretty things, sure. But mostly?" The grin widened. "Pretty men. So, will you give my sister a pretty boy, hm?"

Pretty boy.

Neteyam could manage that. He thought he could, anyway.

During those missions, he made sure to show interest. All alone, the both of you far away. You two could’ve done something, and no one would know. And oh great mother, he tried, he really did. He wore his thinnest loincloths, bands that sat tight against his ribs, braided his hair thick to add length and volume. Anything to make you look twice,

He imagined you would break first. Give in to whatever heat simmered beneath your skin and take what you wanted from him. He would let you. Great Mother, he would let you do anything if it meant having you, even for a moment.

And if you felt guilty afterward—guilt for betraying Tey—then he would be there to comfort you. To press his calloused palms to your cheeks, to smooth over your shame until it dissolved beneath your touch. You deserved release, didn't you? After waiting so long for a boy who barely deserved your heart.

Kiri said this was plan A, that she had a plan B, and C in case it didn’t work but still.

Shouldn’t that make you want him?

…He never struggled like this before…

Now his chest felt tight, and frustration tangled with something bitter and shameful. You stood right there, and the ache of wanting you—of not having you—carved itself an anger towards your weak and clumsy beloved.

“You are staring.” You finally said.

His tail whipped, he stumbled. “Oh. Sorry.” You watched as his ears lowered.

You bit the inside of your cheek. Concern softened your features. You mistook his silence for nerves, maybe, or uncertainty. Your hand found his forearm. "Hey," you said quietly, offering a fragile smile. "It's okay."

You tugged a bit, reassuring. Just like you did to Tsireya when she felt stressed, or Ao’nung after failing his responsibilities.

You opened your mouth to speak, then paused. What to say? “About our conversation a few months back, when I helped carry some baskets for you..."

His tail wagged. “Yes…?”

"I just want you to know..." You paused, searching for the right words. "I have faith in you, Neteyam. In what you can do." The words came out softer than he’d ever heard it. Your hand slipped from his arm. "To become a warrior twice... that must feel strange."

You understood more than they gave you credit for. He'd earned his place once, bled for it, stood before his people and been born twice underneath his clan. Now the reef demanded he prove himself again, in unknown waters, among people who measured strength by different marks.

His eyes found yours, and he dipped his head just enough to bridge the height between you. "What brought this on?" He was bold. He took your hand and squeezed. “Hm?”

“I’m worried.” You flinched at the admission. “The rites are… difficult. You barely had any time to heal.” Your eyes found the bullet scar, you found yourself reaching.

He gently put his own hand over yours and pressed it against his chest. You felt the steady beat, increasing, strong.

You couldn't hold his gaze. Your focus slipped to his hands, the knuckle of his fingers. Three, not four like Lo’ak, not wide like Tey’s. You bit the inside of your cheek hard enough to taste the blood, then forced yourself to look up again.

Neteyam's eyes were wide—amber bright as eclipse-light, and the sight of them gave you pause long enough to forget what you'd meant to say.

"You are worried about me?" His smile came slow, bashful at the edges, charming in the way dangerous things often are. "I will be fine, Y/n."

"You—"

"I will be fine because you worry for me." The words came soft, teasing. His hand found your cheek, thumb brushing the skin beneath your eye. He dipped his head—close enough that his breath went warm against your skin. His other hand found yours, the fingers threading through more fingers until the gesture became familiar. A dangerous kind of familiar that made your pulse stutter.

You hated how easily it worked.

You pulled back, walls snapping into place. Tey. Black wavy hair. Tey. Skin like sea-foam. Tey. Tey. Tey.

"Right."

His hand fell away.

Neteyam stared, mouth parting as if to speak, then thought better of it. The boy—still a boy, despite everything—closed his eyes and squeezed them shut. His fingers twisted together, clenching until his knuckles paled into a skin-tone reminiscent of yours.

"Sorry…" The word came slow. He cleared his throat. "Can I ask you something… personal?"

The shift caught you off-guard. Still, you heard yourself say yes.

His face smoothed inot something you recognized—the impassive mask of strangers. "I've decided to participate in the..." He faltered, fingers worrying at the beads woven through his hair. His gaze drifted left, then down. "...forgive me, I have forgotten the name... er... the ceremony."

"The fertility ceremony?"

"Yes." His voice dropped, barely audible. He wouldn't look at you. "I am not well-versed in your culture's… courtship." The word sat awkwardly on his tongue. "I want to understand what to do—how to respond if someone approaches me. Or if I approach them." His eyes found yours again, those dying-star freckles fading to nothing. "I thought you might help me."

He appeared hesitant, lost somewhere behind his own eyes. Maybe there was a particular Metikaya girl in mind.

"Well first,” You cough. “You’'ll have to present your arm band and ask what she requires to earn her love. You clasp them like bracelets, tie them together, hand to hand, and then—"

"Mate." The word left him flat, his gaze wandering toward some fixed point in the distance. His brows drew tight, yet his skin looked faintly clammy.

His people were modest by nature. Intimacy and its implications lived in whispers, behind closed lips, if discussed at all. But your culture wove together the intertwining of Tulkuns, the intertwining of bodies, the act of sex itself—all spoken with the pursuit of parenthood, shared without shame.

"Yes," you said slowly. "But I want to be clear, Neteyam, you're not obligated to participate."

A sharp indigo flush crept up his cheeks. You didn't look away.

"I—" He stopped walking, eyes closing. "I want to. I just need to be certain she's ready."

She. Perhaps Aui, then.

"Even those who participate sometimes choose not to complete the ritual. The dangers are real." You paused, letting the weight settle. "That's why this will be my first year. The person you pursue must meet two conditions: they must be twice-born, and they must stay close to you throughout."

He glanced over, waiting.

"Once you've completed the Passage, you can choose any mate—as long as they've passed their own. It's a reward for achieving your second birth." Your voice dropped, threading through the humid air. "But when multiple warriors want the same person, they must fight for their chosen. Sometimes those fights don't end cleanly. Sometimes they end in blood."

You paused, voice dropping. "That's why this year will be my first time. As the daughter of the Olo'eyktan many would expect me to bear their child. I cannot refuse such requests—not according to our customs.” You played with your hands now. “But… well, I want Tey.”

Neteyam’s jaw clenched. "It's similar to what we once practiced. But my father forbade it—said we shouldn't spill each other's blood while the sky people still walk our sacred ground."

"It is tradition more than law," You said carefully. "A way to honor the cycle. The fertility ritual follows the Tulkun's breeding season—your child born when your spirit sister or brother brings new life to the sea." You paused, letting that settle. "But it doesn't lock you to anyone. No queue, no bond.

"So you'll be in it this year." It didn’t sound like a question, and yet you nodded all the same.

"Only if Tey wants it. He's never cared much for tradition.”

A pause.

"I understand," he said finally. It sounded swallowed.

It struck you then—this was the first real conversation you'd had beyond missions and training. Strange, how foreign it felt. Strange, too, how easy.

.

BY the time you reached your home, shadows moved inside. Your family within the privacy curtains.

Neteyam drew the curtain aside with careful courtesy, stepping back so you could enter first. You stepped through, and there, Tey was waiting. You felt warmth bloom in your chest, and you crossed to him before kissing him. “Tey,”

He kissed back. “You came late.” He hummed, nuzzling his nose.

Behind you, your mothers expression shifted. Her features tightened, lips pressed into a thin line.

"Neteyam? What brings you here?"

His gaze found yours first before shifting back. "I wanted to ensure she arrived safely."

Ronal and Tonowari exchanged a look, something unreadable passing between them. Guilty and apologetic, but then something in Ronal's expression softened, the sharp edges of suspicion dulling to acceptance. "I see,"

Tey released his grip on your shoulder and crossed to Neteyam, landing a light punch against the warrior's arm. "Thank you, brother."

Neteyam merely glanced. "I must continue my training." His tone was polite, and his eyes touched each face in turn—Ronal, Tonowari, Tey—before landing on you with something softer. “Rest well, Y/n.”

Tey laughed. "You're just like her! Always focused on training."

Then Neteyam was gone.

The meal that followed was simple: roasted fish, sea vegetables that tasted of salt. You heard murmured thanks as Tsireya passed one meal for another.

You felt alert.

You chewed without really tasting, smiled only to be polite. Something was wrong, you just didn’t know.

With sleep came the usual bid of goodnight. Foreheads touching, gentle notes of love before you retreated to your sleeping quarters.

Tey’s arms wrapped around you, anchoring you against his chest. His snores came soft, the sweet kind a lover would gaze and feel comfort by. Instead, you lay rigid in his arms, pulse ticking against your throat like something caged.

Prey, you thought. I feel like prey.

Sleep when it came, brought no rest.

Figures moved in the dark behind your eyelids. A warning through the vision, that you knew. It was urgent and incomprehensible, as though Eywa herself were trying to speak through static. You strained to understand, but the message slipped. You slipped. And then you woke.

Beat. Beat. Beat.

Your heart beat.

For a second you felt Neteyam’s heartbeat again, underneath your palms. Why am I thinking of him again…? You rubbed your eyes.

“Y/n?”

You glanced off to the side, Tey frowned. “Come here,” You turned. Tey laid watching, brow sharp with concern. Without a word, you moved into him, letting your weight settle against his chest. Beat, beat, beat. Slower this time. You didn’t need to say anything, Tey allowed you silence. His fingers stroked your back.

“...I love you.” You whispered.

Then he stopped, his tail wagged. “I love you too.” He turned his head and kissed you, deeper this time.

His hands drifted beneath your ribs, trailing up until his fingers just barely caught the swell of breast. He shifted his weight, hovering above you now, and pressed his lips to the line of your throat. "I love you," he breathed against your skin.

“Tey,” You frowned. This felt wrong too. You turned your face away. "We… we should sleep. My family—" Heat crawled up your neck, and you let the excuse die there.

His ears flattened, then came forward again. “Sorry. Sorry.” He kissed your cheek, wet and loving. "I love you, Y/n. Tomorrow, then."

“Tomorrow.” You echoed.

He settled beside you, one arm draped loose across your waist. Within minutes his breathing deepened, lengthened, until you knew he'd slipped into sleep.

Sleep would not return tonight.

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A/n-thanks to everyone who wanted to read part two, you guys are amazing and so sweet. Any author would be happy to have so many invested in their story!

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