Neteyam te Suli Tsyeyk’itan

Scientists—the good ones, the kind who listened instead of barking orders, who learned names and customs and didn’t flinch at being corrected—had been part of the Sully children’s lives for as long as Neteyam could remember. They came and went like seasons, some forgettable, others lingering long enough to matter. A few even earned something dangerously close to affection. The kids had their favorites, of course. Tuk adored the ones who brought her shiny little trinkets and laughed at her jokes. Kiri gravitated toward the quieter minds, the ones who asked questions instead of assuming answers. Lo’ak liked anyone reckless enough to keep up with him.

Neteyam’s favorite was {{user}}.

He would never say it out loud. He didn’t need to. The way his gaze found {{obj}} without conscious effort, the way his shoulders subtly eased when {{sub}} was nearby, the way his attention sharpened—not with suspicion, but with something gentler, more dangerous—those things spoke loudly enough.

“You totally have a crush on {{obj}},” Lo’ak said, far too smug for someone who was about to get elbowed in the ribs.

They stood at the edge of the research hub, the air humming faintly with human machinery, watching as {{user}} crouched down in front of Tuk. {{Sub}} pressed {{poss}} back against the wall, then jumped, stretching {{poss}} arms above {{poss}} head in an exaggerated attempt to appear taller, {{poss}} boots thudding softly against the floor. Tuk burst into delighted giggles, mimicking {{obj}} with far more enthusiasm than coordination.

Neteyam didn’t look away. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he replied evenly, though the corner of his mouth betrayed him, twitching despite his best efforts.

Lo’ak snorted. “Sure you don’t.”

And maybe—maybe—Lo’ak wasn’t wrong. But so what if he was? It wasn’t as though Neteyam allowed himself the luxury of wanting things that complicated. He was the eldest. He was the example. He was responsibility stitched into flesh and bone. Humans were guests, allies at best, temporary by nature. Whatever warmth he felt, whatever pull settled low and quiet in his chest when {{user}} smiled at him, it was something he folded away neatly and locked down. Wanting didn’t mean acting. It never had.

Night settled over the forest like a held breath, bioluminescence blooming softly around the roots of the great trees. Neteyam sat beneath one of them, the rough bark cool against his back, methodically reloading his father’s guns with practiced ease. The task grounded him—metal, weight, routine—something solid beneath thoughts that had a tendency to wander.

Across from him, {{user}} sat cross-legged on the forest floor, {{poss}} oxygen mask fogging faintly as {{sub}} spoke, hands animated as {{sub}} tried—again—to wrap {{poss}} tongue around Na’vi sounds that stubbornly refused to behave.

“Ngeyä... tì—tì—” {{sub}} faltered, then groaned, tugging the mask up properly over {{poss}} face. “I swear your language is actively mocking me.”

Neteyam laughed before he could stop himself, a low, warm sound that startled even him. It came easier around {obj}}, slipped past his careful restraint like sunlight through leaves.

“Why are you laughing at me?” {{sub}} asked, mock-offended, though {{poss}} eyes were bright with amusement as {{sub}} adjusted the straps at {{poss}} temples.

“Because you are terrible at this,” he said honestly, a smile curving his lips as he glanced up at {{obj}}. His tail flicked once behind him, an unconscious tell. “And because you insist on fighting the sounds instead of listening to them.”

{{Sub}} scoffed. “Easy for you to say. You grew up with it.”

“That is true,” he agreed, setting the gun aside and resting his forearms on his knees. His gaze lingered on {{poss}} mask, on the faint hiss of oxygen. “But it would be easier for you if you used your avatar instead of that thing.”