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Jake Sully did not notice the absence all at once.
That was the thing about absence.
It didn’t always announce itself. Sometimes it crept in quietly, one small habit lost after another, until one day a man looked around and realized something precious had been gone for years.
He noticed it on an ordinary afternoon.
No battle. No blood. No sky-people overhead. No screaming ikran, no shouted orders, no smoke in his lungs.
Just the village settling after a hunt.
People moved through the clearing in the warm gold of late day, voices overlapping, children running underfoot, hunters laughing as meat was divided and cleaned. The air smelled of crushed leaves, rain-damp earth, smoke, and the rich iron tang of fresh kill.
Jake stood near the edge of the crowd, one hand resting against the bow slung over his shoulder, listening with half an ear as one of the hunters gave a loud, exaggerated retelling of how he had “single-handedly” driven the animal toward the waiting line.
Several others loudly objected.
Jake smiled faintly.
Then he saw it.
Across the clearing, a little boy went sprinting toward his father.
The kid couldn’t have been more than six or seven. Too young to be graceful, all long legs and waving arms, shrieking something Jake couldn’t make out. His father turned just in time to brace himself before the child crashed into him.
The man laughed.
Not a polite laugh. Not a tired one.
A full, bright, belly-deep laugh.
He dropped to one knee, caught the boy with both arms, and hauled him close like it was the easiest thing in the world. Like his body knew what to do before his mind had to think about it. One hand spread over the boy’s narrow back. The other went to the back of his head, fingers slipping between small braids.
The boy kept talking, words tumbling over one another, but as soon as his father’s arms tightened, his body changed.
The wild energy drained out of him.
He sagged.
Melted.
His cheek pressed to his father’s shoulder. His fingers clutched at the hunter’s chest. The father murmured something against the side of his head and rocked him once, just once, a tiny motion full of fondness.
Jake stopped breathing.
It was such a simple thing.
A father hugging his son.
Nothing remarkable.
Nothing worth staring at.
And yet Jake stared.
Something cold and heavy slid into place behind his ribs.
Because the sight was familiar.
Too familiar.
Not because he had seen it lately.
Quite the opposite.
Because he remembered doing it.
Long ago.
He remembered small arms around his neck. Little feet kicking against his ribs as he carried one boy on his hip and another over his shoulder. He remembered Neteyam’s tiny fingers gripping his ear, Lo’ak drooling asleep against his collarbone. He remembered nights when he could barely lie down without two little bodies crawling over him, demanding space that they absolutely did not need but took anyway.
He remembered grumbling, “A man needs to breathe, boys.”
And Lo’ak, barely old enough to string words together, patting his face and saying, “No.”
He remembered Neteyam trying very hard to be dignified at four years old while still falling asleep in Jake’s lap with one hand tangled in his songcord.
Jake remembered all of that so clearly it hurt.
And then the question came.
Sharp.
Sudden.
Cruel.
*When did I stop?*
The clearing around him seemed to blur.
The father across the way pressed his nose into his son’s hair, still smiling. The boy leaned harder into him.
Jake’s fingers tightened around the strap of his bow.
‘When was the last time I held Neteyam like that?’
He searched his memory.
After a hunt?
No.
After Neteyam made a clean shot for the first time?
Jake had clapped his shoulder. Said, “Good work, son.”
After an injury?
No.
He had checked the wound. Given orders. Told him to be still. Told him he was fine.
After a scare?
No.
He had yelled.
After Lo’ak came home late, bruised and muddy and half-defiant, half-terrified?
Jake had chewed him out.
After Lo’ak took down a fish bigger than his own torso and came stumbling back with a grin so wide it nearly split his face?
Jake had told him to clean up and stop dripping water everywhere.
Jake swallowed.
His throat felt tight.
‘Not after a victory. Not after an injury. Not even casually.’
The realization landed with ugly force.
He couldn’t remember.
He could not remember the last time he had hugged either of his sons.
Not the quick arm-around-the-shoulder kind. Not a real one. Not a hold. Not the kind where his hand cupped the back of their heads and they knew, without question, that they were safe.
Jake looked toward his own boys.
Neteyam stood near the weapons rack, speaking with another young hunter. His posture was straight, chin lifted, expression attentive. Responsible. Controlled. So much like an adult that Jake’s chest ached.
Lo’ak was crouched nearby, trying to fix a frayed strap and pretending not to listen to Neteyam’s conversation. Every few seconds, his tail flicked with irritation.
Jake watched them both.
His sons.
His boys.
They were tall now. Strong. Nearly grown.
But suddenly all Jake could see were little hands reaching for him.
And himself, somewhere along the way, teaching them not to.
———————————————
That night, he could not sleep.
Neytiri slept beside him, breath quiet and even, one arm tucked beneath her head. Tuk had long since stopped trying to wedge herself between them every night, though she still did it when upset. Kiri came and went like a forest spirit, appearing wherever she wished.
The boys had their own spaces now.
Their own blankets.
Their own lives.
Jake stared up into the darkness.
The village around them breathed. Wood creaked softly. Distant insects sang. Somewhere, someone laughed quietly and was shushed.
Jake lay very still, hands folded over his stomach.
His chest hurt.
He tried to count backward.
There had to be something.
Some recent moment.
Maybe after the raid last season when Neteyam had taken that hit to the ribs. Jake remembered kneeling in front of him, pressing careful fingers along his side while Neteyam kept insisting, “I am fine, sir.”
Sir.
Jake flinched in the dark.
He had told Neteyam to stop moving. Told him to breathe. Told him it wasn’t broken.
Had he hugged him?
No.
He had been relieved. So relieved his knees had nearly gone weak.
But he had not hugged him.
What had he said?
Jake squeezed his eyes shut.
‘You gotta be more careful.’
That was what he had said.
Not ‘I’m so glad you’re alive.’
Not ‘come here.’
Not ‘I was scared.’
Just…
‘Be more careful.’
Jake inhaled slowly through his nose.
Lo’ak, then.
Surely Lo’ak. Lo’ak was always crashing into danger. Always scraping himself up. Always looking at Jake with that stubborn, wounded expression that made Jake angrier than it should have, because it looked too much like looking into a mirror from twenty years ago.
There had been the fall from the lower cliff path two months ago.
Lo’ak had come home with one knee torn bloody and his shoulder bruised dark. Jake had been furious. Terrified, yes, but mostly furious because terror had never known what to do with itself in Jake’s body except turn sharp.
He remembered grabbing Lo’ak by the arm and demanding, “What were you thinking?”
He remembered Lo’ak jerking away and snapping, “I’m fine!”
He remembered Neteyam stepping between them, quiet and tense.
Had he held Lo’ak?
No.
He had sent him to his mother.
Jake turned onto his side, jaw tight.
He used to hold them.
He used to pick them up like they weighed nothing.
Neteyam had been a clingy baby. People forgot that now. They saw the perfect son, the responsible older brother, the steady hunter. But Neteyam had been a soft, serious little thing who wanted Jake’s hand on him constantly. He would sit in Jake’s lap during strategy meetings, solemnly chewing on his own fingers while Jake spoke over his head. He would fall asleep with his cheek pressed to Jake’s chest, soothed by the vibration of his voice.
Lo’ak had been different.
Lo’ak had climbed Jake like a tree.
No warning. No request. Just small feet digging into his thigh, hands gripping his waistcloth, determined little grunts as he hauled himself upward.
“Monkey boy,” Jake used to call him, laughing.
Lo’ak had loved that.
He would bare his baby teeth and say, “Again!”
Again meant Jake had to throw him into the air.
Again meant catch me.
Again meant prove you will not let me fall.
Jake covered his face with both hands.
“Ah, hell,” he whispered.
Because he remembered the last time Lo’ak had asked to be picked up.
Not exactly, maybe. Not the date.
But the shape of it came back.
Lo’ak had been maybe eight. Too big, Jake had thought, but still small enough. He had come stumbling in after a long day, exhausted and cranky, and leaned against Jake’s side while Jake sharpened a blade.
“Carry me,” Lo’ak had mumbled.
Jake had laughed.
Not cruelly.
Just distracted.
“You’re too big for that now, bud.”
Lo’ak had gone quiet.
Jake remembered ruffling his hair.
“Go on. You’ve got legs.”
Lo’ak had gone.
Jake had not thought about it again.
Until now.
His hands dropped from his face.
The dark above him swam slightly.
‘You’re too big for that now.’
He wondered how many doors he had closed without meaning to.
He wondered how many times they had reached, been gently brushed aside, and quietly decided not to reach again.
A soft sound came from beside him.
“You are awake,” Neytiri murmured.
Jake turned his head.
Her eyes were open, reflecting faint blue light.
“Yeah,” he said.
She watched him. “Your heart is loud.”
He let out a humorless breath. “That obvious?”
“To me.”
Jake looked back up.
For a long moment, he said nothing.
Then, quietly, “When’s the last time you saw me hug the boys?”
Neytiri did not answer immediately.
That was answer enough.
Jake’s throat worked.
“Yeah,” he whispered. “That’s what I thought.”
Neytiri shifted closer, propping herself on one elbow. “You are their father.”
“I know.”
“You love them.”
“I know that too.”
Her gaze sharpened. “Do ‘they’?”
Jake closed his eyes.
The silence was terrible.
Neytiri softened, but only a little. She had never been one to soften the truth past recognition.
“You are hard with them,” she said.
“I’m trying to keep them alive.”
“Yes.”
Jake looked at her.
Her voice lowered. “But children do not live only because their bodies keep breathing.”
The words slid between his ribs and stayed there.
Jake looked away.
“I screwed up,” he said.
Neytiri’s hand came to his chest, palm warm over his heart.
“You can do better.”
He gave a faint, broken laugh. “Just like that?”
“No.” Her mouth twitched. “They will look at you as if you have been bitten by madness.”
Despite everything, Jake huffed.
“Probably.”
“Lo’ak may accuse you of dying.”
“Also probable.”
“Neteyam will wonder what he did wrong.”
Jake’s brief smile vanished.
Neytiri’s hand pressed more firmly against his chest.
“So you must be clear,” she said. “Do not make them guess.”
Jake nodded slowly.
His eyes burned.
“I miss them,” he admitted.
Neytiri tilted her head.
“They are here.”
“I know. I mean…” He swallowed. “I miss holding them. I miss when they’d just crawl all over me and not think twice about it. I miss when Neteyam would fall asleep on me and Lo’ak would drool down my shoulder and I’d complain like an idiot, but I loved it.”
His voice cracked on the last words.
Neytiri’s expression gentled.
Jake pressed the heel of his hand to one eye.
“I didn’t even notice I stopped.”
“That is how fear steals,” Neytiri said quietly. “One small thing at a time.”
Jake breathed in.
Then out.
“Tomorrow,” he said.
Neytiri’s ears flicked.
Jake nodded again, more to himself than to her. “Tomorrow I fix it.”
She gave him a look.
“Begin to fix it,” she corrected.
Jake gave a weak smile. “Yeah. Begin.”
————————————————
Morning came too bright.
Jake had faced gunships with less nerves.
He saw Neteyam first.
Of course he did.
Neteyam was already awake, already useful, already carrying too much firewood because apparently one bundle was for normal people and Neteyam had something against normal.
Jake watched him cross the clearing with that careful, quiet strength of his.
His eldest.
His first son.
Jake remembered the first time he had held him.
Neteyam had been tiny. Furious. Screaming like he had personally been betrayed by existence. Jake had been terrified he would hold him wrong. Terrified his hands were too big. Neytiri had laughed and guided him.
“Support his head, ma Jake.”
“I am supporting his head.”
“You are holding him like a weapon.”
“I’m not… okay, maybe a little.”
Neteyam had quieted the second Jake pressed him to his chest.
Like he had recognized him.
Like Jake was safety.
Jake’s chest twisted.
Neteyam caught sight of him and straightened.
“Sir.”
There it was again.
Jake almost physically recoiled.
“Morning,” he greeted as normally as possible.
Neteyam shifted the firewood higher against his hip. “Do you need me for something?”
‘Yes,’ Jake thought. ‘I need you to be ten years old again for five minutes. I need a redo. I need to know I didn’t ruin something I can’t get back.’
Instead he gestured to the wood, “Put that down a second.”
Neteyam glanced at the wood, then back. “I can take it to Mother first.”
“Neteyam.”
The boy stilled.
Jake winced at himself.
Too sharp.
He gentled his voice. “Please.”
That got Neteyam’s attention more than an order would have.
His ears tipped back slightly, confused.
Slowly, he set the wood down.
Jake stepped closer.
Neteyam stood very still.
Too still.
Jake hated that.
He lifted one hand.
Neteyam’s eyes flicked to it.
Jake saw the calculation pass over his son’s face.
‘Did I do something? Is he checking an injury? Is this a correction?’
Jake nearly stopped.
Coward, some part of him snapped.
He pushed through.
His hand settled on Neteyam’s shoulder.
Neteyam’s breath caught.
Jake kept it there.
Warm skin. Solid muscle. His son was practically taller than Neytiri now, nearly Jake’s height, but beneath Jake’s palm he suddenly felt impossibly young.
“Hey, kid,” Jake said softly.
Neteyam blinked.
Kid.
Jake had not called him that in a long time.
“Dad?”
The word slipped out small and uncertain.
Jake’s throat tightened.
“Come here.”
Neteyam stared.
“…What?”
Jake gave a shaky little smile. “Yeah, that’s fair.”
Neteyam’s brow furrowed. “Did something happen?”
“No.”
“Are we in danger?”
“No.”
“Is Lo’ak in trouble?”
“Not currently, which is a miracle, but no.”
Neteyam looked even more confused.
Jake’s hand slid from his shoulder to the back of his neck, careful, slow enough that Neteyam could pull away.
He didn’t.
He just froze.
Jake tugged gently.
Neteyam resisted for half a heartbeat. Not because he didn’t want to come closer. Jake knew that suddenly, horribly. He resisted because he didn’t understand what was being offered.
Then Jake pulled him into his arms.
Neteyam went rigid.
Completely rigid.
Arms trapped awkwardly between them, spine stiff, cheek hovering near Jake’s shoulder but not touching.
Jake wrapped both arms around him anyway.
“Oh,” Neteyam breathed.
One tiny syllable.
It broke Jake’s heart.
Jake tucked a hand behind his head, fingers threading gently through his braids.
“Yeah,” Jake whispered. “I know.”
Neteyam did not move.
Jake held him.
The village moved around them. Someone passed nearby and then very quickly pretended not to look. A child laughed in the distance. Leaves shifted in the morning breeze.
Neteyam remained stiff for so long Jake started to panic. Did he fuck it up more? Did he have no right anymore? Was he too late?
Then his son’s hands moved.
Slowly.
Carefully.
Like he was approaching a wild animal.
One hand touched Jake’s side.
Stopped.
The other curled against his chest.
Jake tightened his arms.
That was all it took.
Neteyam folded.
Not dramatically. Not all at once.
But piece by piece, every hard-trained line of him giving way.
His forehead dropped to Jake’s shoulder.
His fingers clenched in Jake’s hunting sash.
His breath shuddered.
Jake’s eyes burned.
“There you go,” he murmured, rocking him once. “I’ve got you, baby boy.”
Neteyam made a sound.
Not a sob.
Not quite.
But close enough that Jake shut his eyes.
“Dad,” Neteyam whispered, voice muffled.
“I’m here.”
“Why?”
Jake’s hand paused in his hair.
The question was so quiet.
So confused.
So painfully careful.
Jake drew back just enough to look at him.
Neteyam immediately tried to straighten, tried to compose himself, tried to become the son Jake had trained him to be.
Jake did not let him.
He cupped the side of Neteyam’s face.
Neteyam stared at him, eyes too bright.
“Because I wanted to hug my son,” Jake said.
Neteyam’s mouth parted.
Something flickered across his face.
Hope, maybe.
Fear of hope.
“That is all?”
Jake shook his head slowly.
“No,” he said. “Not all.”
Neteyam swallowed.
Jake brushed his thumb along his cheekbone.
“I realized yesterday I couldn’t remember the last time I held you. Or your brother.”
Neteyam went very still.
Jake forced himself to continue.
“And that’s on me. Not you. Not Lo’ak. Me.” His voice roughened. “I love you. I have always loved you. But I’ve been… bad at showing it. Worse than bad.”
Neteyam’s eyes dropped.
Jake’s chest tightened.
“Talk to me, kid.”
Neteyam gave a small, helpless shrug.
“I know you love us.”
Jake waited.
Neteyam’s jaw worked.
“I do,” he insisted, as if Jake had challenged him. “I know. You protect us. You teach us. You…”
He stopped.
Jake’s hand slid back into his hair.
“I what?”
Neteyam’s lips pressed together.
Then, barely audible, “You do not… want that from us anymore.”
Jake inhaled sharply.
Neteyam’s ears pinned back, as if he regretted saying it.
“I thought,” he said quickly, “it was childish. That we were too old. That you would not… that you would wave us off.”
Jake stared at him.
The clearing seemed too bright.
“Neteyam,” he said, and his voice came out wrecked. “No.”
His son’s face twisted.
Just for a second.
Then he mastered it.
Jake hated that too.
He pulled Neteyam back in hard.
Neteyam gasped softly, then clung.
This time without hesitation.
“I’m sorry,” Jake whispered into his hair. “I am so, so sorry.”
Neteyam’s hands fisted tighter.
“I missed it,” he admitted, so softly Jake almost missed it. “But I thought you did not.”
Jake shut his eyes.
“I did,” he said. “I just didn’t let myself know it.”
Neteyam huffed a broken little laugh against him. “That sounds like something Lo’ak would say is stupid.”
Jake laughed wetly. “Lo’ak would be right.”
Neteyam’s shoulders trembled.
Jake held him closer.
For a while, neither of them moved.
Then a voice from behind them catched, “Uh.”
Neteyam jerked like he’d been caught stealing.
Lo’ak stood several paces away, holding a half-eaten fruit, eyes wide.
His gaze bounced from Jake’s arms around Neteyam, to Neteyam’s death grip on Jake’s sash, to Jake’s face.
Then he pointed.
“What is this?”
Jake did not let go of Neteyam.
“A hug,” he said.
Lo’ak narrowed his eyes. “I know what a hug is.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
Lo’ak’s mouth dropped open. “Wow. Okay. Rude.”
Neteyam tried to step back, embarrassment flushing dark over his cheeks. Jake kept one arm around his shoulders.
Lo’ak looked between them again.
His expression shifted.
The banter slipped for half a second.
Something raw and wanting showed through.
Then he hid it under a scowl.
“So, what, Neteyam gets hugged now because he’s perfect?”
Neteyam sighed. “Lo’ak.”
“What? I’m asking.”
Jake turned fully toward him.
Lo’ak’s chin lifted.
Defensive. Braced.
Jake knew that posture.
He had helped build it.
“No,” Jake said softly. “Neteyam got hugged because I saw him first.”
Lo’ak blinked.
Jake opened his free arm.
“Get over here.”
Lo’ak stared.
The fruit dropped from his hand.
Neither of them looked at it.
Lo’ak gave a short laugh that did not sound amused.
“Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
“You’re not going to, like… turn it into a lesson?”
Jake’s heart twisted.
“No lesson.”
“No ‘be better, Lo’ak’?”
“No.”
“No ‘you should listen more’?”
Jake shook his head. “No.”
Lo’ak’s ears twitched.
His voice got smaller, despite his obvious attempt to keep it casual.
“No ‘you’re too big for this’?”
Jake felt the words hit him like an arrow.
Neteyam’s hand tightened against Jake’s back.
Jake’s mouth went dry.
Lo’ak looked away immediately, like he had not meant to say that.
Jake remembered.
Eight years old.
Tired little voice.
‘Dad! Carry me!’
‘You’re too big for that now, bud.’
Jake took a step toward him.
Lo’ak stepped back.
Not far.
Just enough.
Jake stopped.
“Lo’ak,” he said carefully.
Lo’ak shrugged, too sharp. “I don’t care. I was just saying.”
“You did care.”
Lo’ak’s eyes flashed. “You don’t know that.”
“You asked me to carry you.”
Lo’ak froze.
Jake swallowed hard.
“You were little. Tired. You asked me to carry you, and I told you that you were too big.”
Lo’ak’s face changed.
Anger cracked open to reveal something younger.
Something hurt.
Jake’s voice dropped. “I remember now.”
Lo’ak looked furious suddenly.
“Great,” he snapped. “Good for you.”
Neteyam said quietly, “Lo’ak…”
“No.” Lo’ak pointed at Jake, though his hand shook. “No, he doesn’t get to just…just remember and then act like…”
“I know,” Jake said.
Lo’ak stopped.
Jake nodded slowly. “I know. You’re right.”
That stole some of Lo’ak’s fire. Not all. But enough.
Jake stepped closer again, slowly this time.
“I should’ve carried you,” he said. “You were my little boy. You asked for me, and I made you feel like you shouldn’t.”
Lo’ak looked down.
His jaw clenched hard.
Jake’s voice broke. “I am so sorry, baby.”
Lo’ak’s ears flattened.
“Don’t call me that,” he muttered.
Jake nodded. “Okay.”
A beat.
Lo’ak’s eyes flicked up.
“…I didn’t say stop forever.”
Jake almost smiled.
Neteyam did, softly.
Lo’ak glared at him. “Don’t.”
“I said nothing.”
“You were thinking it loudly.”
Jake opened his arms again.
No command this time.
Just invitation.
Lo’ak stared at him.
His chest rose and fell quickly.
Then he crossed the distance in three hard steps and slammed into Jake so fiercely Jake grunted.
“Oof. Okay. Still got elbows.”
“Shut up,” Lo’ak mumbled into his chest.
Jake wrapped him up.
Lo’ak clung immediately.
No slow surrender. No careful testing.
He grabbed Jake like he had been drowning for years and had finally found something solid.
Jake’s arm tightened around Neteyam too, pulling both of them in.
“My boys,” he whispered.
Lo’ak’s fingers dug into his back.
Neteyam leaned in again, face tucked near Jake’s neck.
For a moment they were all tangled together in the middle of the village like the world had narrowed to three heartbeats.
Then Lo’ak muttered, muffled, “This is so weird.”
Jake laughed. “Yep.”
“Like, really weird.”
“Still hugging me, though.”
“Shut up.”
Neteyam, voice suspiciously thick, said, “You are also squeezing him very hard.”
“I’m making sure it counts.”
Jake pressed a kiss to Lo’ak’s hair before he could think better of it.
Lo’ak went absolutely silent.
Jake froze.
Then Lo’ak’s grip tightened so suddenly Jake nearly lost his breath.
“Oh,” Jake murmured, understanding. “Okay.”
Neteyam shifted closer.
Jake kissed his hair too.
Neteyam exhaled shakily.
Lo’ak’s voice came small.
“You can do that too.”
Jake closed his eyes.
“Yeah, bud,” he whispered. “I can do that too.”
————————————
It did not magically become easy.
That was the part Jake had to learn.
Love did not erase awkwardness.
The first few days were full of strange pauses and badly timed attempts.
Jake would reach for Neteyam’s shoulder, and Neteyam would freeze like he was being inspected.
Jake would ruffle Lo’ak’s hair, and Lo’ak would slap his hand away on instinct before leaning back into it half a second later with a scowl.
“Pick a reaction,” Jake told him once.
“Pick a personality,” Lo’ak shot back.
Neteyam choked on his water.
Jake pointed at him. “Don’t encourage him.”
Neteyam straightened instantly. “I would never.”
Lo’ak grinned. “Liar.”
But things changed.
Small things first.
Jake started sitting closer.
He stopped letting space form automatically.
When Neteyam reported on patrol, Jake listened, then squeezed the back of his neck and said, “Good work, son,” with warmth instead of command.
The first time, Neteyam looked dazed for ten full seconds.
Lo’ak noticed and, because he was Lo’ak, immediately said, “Careful, bro, your brain’s leaking.”
Neteyam shoved him.
Lo’ak shoved back.
Jake watched them wrestle in the dirt for five seconds before saying, “You break anything, your mother gets both of you.”
They froze.
Then Lo’ak, still pinned under Neteyam’s elbow, said, “Dad, help. Your favorite son is being murdered.”
Jake pretended to consider.
Neteyam looked up, indignant. “Favorite?”
Lo’ak gasped. “You thought it was you?”
“I am objectively less trouble.”
“Boring is not the same as favorite.”
Jake folded his arms. “You’re both my favorite pains in the ass.”
Neteyam’s mouth fell open.
Lo’ak stared.
Then Lo’ak whispered, “Did you just call mighty warrior Neteyam a pain in the ass?”
Neteyam’s ears darkened.
Jake shrugged. “I said what I said.”
Lo’ak wheezed with laughter.
Neteyam tried very hard not to smile.
He failed.
Jake felt something warm bloom in his chest.
———————————
The first real test came after a hunt.
Lo’ak got clipped.
Not badly.
A grazing wound along his upper arm from a panicked animal’s horn. Shallow, but bloody enough to make Jake’s heart leap into his throat.
Old Jake rose fast.
Old Jake wanted to bark.
‘What were you thinking? Why weren’t you watching your left? You know better.’
Lo’ak came toward him already braced for it, shoulders high, jaw set, eyes defiant and wounded before Jake said a word.
Neteyam hovered behind him, anxious.
Jake saw all of it.
And stopped.
He took one breath.
Then another.
“Come here,” he said.
Lo’ak blinked.
“I know,” he said quickly. “I messed up. I saw it too late, but I…”
“Lo’ak,” Jake said softly.
Lo’ak’s mouth shut.
Jake reached for him.
Lo’ak stared like he didn’t understand.
Then Jake pulled him into his chest.
Careful of the injured arm.
Lo’ak made a small, startled noise.
Jake held the back of his head.
“You’re okay,” Jake murmured. “I’ve got you.”
Lo’ak went boneless so fast Jake had to tighten his stance.
“Dad,” Lo’ak whispered.
“Yeah, baby boy.”
Lo’ak shuddered.
“It’s not bad,” he said.
“I know.”
“I didn’t mean to…”
“I know.”
“You’re not mad?”
Jake closed his eyes briefly.
“I’m scared,” he admitted. “Not mad.”
Lo’ak was silent.
Then, very quietly, “You usually sound mad.”
Jake’s arms tightened.
“I know.”
Lo’ak pressed his face harder into Jake’s shoulder. “I hate that.”
“I know,” Jake whispered. “I’m working on it.”
Neteyam stood a few feet away, watching with an expression that was equal parts relief and longing.
Jake looked over Lo’ak’s head.
“You too,” he said.
Neteyam startled. “I am not injured.”
“Did I ask?”
Lo’ak snorted wetly. “He’s got you there.”
Neteyam hesitated.
Jake opened his arm.
That was enough.
Neteyam stepped in, more reserved than Lo’ak, but no less desperate once Jake pulled him close. His hand found Jake’s shoulder and held on.
“My brave boys,” Jake murmured into their hair.
Lo’ak mumbled, “I’m brave and injured. I should get special treatment.”
Neteyam scoffed. “It is a scratch.”
“I could’ve died.”
“You could die tripping over your own feet.”
“That was one time.”
Jake kissed Lo’ak’s forehead.
Lo’ak stopped talking instantly.
Neteyam’s ears perked with obvious amusement.
Jake kissed his forehead too.
Now Neteyam stopped functioning.
Lo’ak, recovering first, grinned against Jake’s chest.
“Oh, mighty warrior broke.”
“Be quiet,” Neteyam whispered.
“Nope. Saw that. Dad kissed your forehead and your soul left your body.”
Jake laughed.
Neteyam groaned and hid his face against Jake’s shoulder.
Jake held them both tighter.
There it was again.
That ache.
But this time it was not only grief.
It was healing.
Slow and clumsy and real.
-———————————————
The cuddling started by accident.
Or at least, Jake thought it did.
A storm rolled in three nights later, heavy and sudden, shaking the woven walls with rain. The whole family gathered close, the way they used to when the kids were little.
Tuk crawled into Neytiri’s lap without shame. Kiri leaned against her mother’s side, eyes half-closed, listening to the rain as if it were speaking to her.
Neteyam and Lo’ak sat nearby.
Not too close.
Close enough to be family.
Far enough to be safe.
Jake watched them in the dim glow.
His sons were pretending not to want.
They were terrible at it now that he knew what to look for.
Lo’ak kept glancing toward Jake’s open side. Neteyam kept catching him doing it and then looking away like he had not been considering the same thing.
Jake sighed.
“You two are exhausting.”
Both boys looked up.
Lo’ak frowned. “What did I do?”
“Existing suspiciously,” Jake said.
“That’s not a crime.”
“It is when you do it that loudly.”
Neteyam’s lips twitched.
Jake leaned back against the wall and opened both arms.
“Come here.”
Lo’ak’s eyes widened.
Neteyam went still.
Tuk immediately popped her head up. “Me too?”
Jake grinned. “Always, baby girl.”
Tuk scrambled over first, flopping across Jake’s lap with zero hesitation.
Lo’ak stared at her like she had performed an act of impossible bravery.
Tuk looked back at him, unimpressed.
“What?”
Lo’ak scowled. “Nothing.”
“You are jealous.”
“I am not jealous of a child.”
“I am your sister.”
“That’s worse.”
Jake patted the space beside him. “Lo’ak.”
Lo’ak’s scowl faltered.
He came slowly, like he was trying to preserve his dignity.
Then Tuk grabbed his wrist and yanked.
He stumbled and half-fell into Jake’s side.
“Traitor,” he hissed at her.
Tuk beamed.
Jake wrapped an arm around him and pulled him properly against his ribs.
Lo’ak went stiff for maybe two seconds.
Then he tucked himself close.
Neteyam still had not moved.
Jake met his eyes.
No teasing now.
“Neteyam.”
His eldest swallowed.
“There is not room.”
Jake gave him a look. “Son. You used to sleep on my head.”
Lo’ak wheezed. “He did?”
Jake grinned. “All the time. Like a weird little hat.”
Neteyam looked mortified. “I did not.”
Neytiri, from across the space, said calmly, “You did.”
Kiri smiled. “A very serious hat.”
Tuk giggled.
Neteyam covered his face.
Jake reached out with his free hand. “Come be a weird little hat again.”
Lo’ak lost it.
Neteyam groaned. “I hate this family.”
But he came.
Carefully, awkwardly, folding his taller body down beside Jake. He tried to sit upright at first. Jake allowed that for about three seconds before pulling him down until Neteyam’s head rested against his shoulder.
Neteyam inhaled sharply.
Jake’s fingers slid into his hair.
“There,” Jake murmured.
Neteyam’s eyes fluttered.
Lo’ak noticed.
“Oh, he likes that.”
Neteyam did not open his eyes. “I will throw you into the rain.”
“You’d have to move first.”
“I can move.”
“Can you?”
Neteyam did not answer.
Jake chuckled and continued stroking his hair.
Lo’ak shifted closer.
Jake glanced down.
“You want some too?”
Lo’ak scoffed. “No.”
Jake waited.
Lo’ak’s tail flicked.
“…Maybe.”
Jake smiled and moved his other hand to Lo’ak’s braids, combing carefully through them.
Lo’ak’s entire body softened.
“Oh,” he whispered.
Jake’s smile faded into something tender.
“Yeah?”
Lo’ak’s face was turned away, hidden against Jake’s side.
“Feels nice,” he muttered.
Jake pressed his cheek briefly to the top of Lo’ak’s head.
“Used to knock you right out.”
Lo’ak grumbled. “I was a baby.”
“You were my baby.”
Silence.
Then Lo’ak’s arm slid across Jake’s stomach and held on.
Neteyam, eyes still closed, whispered, “He still is.”
Lo’ak kicked him weakly.
Neteyam smiled without opening his eyes.
Jake looked down at them.
Tuk in his lap. Lo’ak curled against his side. Neteyam tucked under his arm. Kiri leaning into Neytiri, watching them with soft, knowing eyes.
Something in Jake settled.
Not fixed.
Not completely.
But settled.
The rain came down harder.
Jake held his children.
And this time, when Lo’ak fell asleep drooling against him, Jake did not complain.
Well.
Not much.
“Seriously?” he murmured, looking down. “Still?”
Neteyam’s sleepy voice answered, “Some things do not change.”
Jake huffed.
Then he kissed Lo’ak’s hair.
“No,” he whispered. “Some things don’t.”
-—————————————
Later, when the fire had burned low and the storm had softened to a hush, Neteyam was the only one still awake.
Jake knew because his breathing was too careful.
Lo’ak was out cold, one arm locked around Jake like a trap. Tuk had been carried back to Neytiri. Kiri had disappeared into her own thoughts, though she still watched the rain from the entrance.
Neteyam lay against Jake’s side, head on his shoulder.
Jake’s hand continued moving slowly through his hair.
“You okay, kid?”
Neteyam was quiet for a long time.
Then he said, “I thought I had done something wrong.”
Jake’s hand stilled.
Neteyam did not lift his head.
“When you stopped,” he clarified. “I thought… maybe I was too needy. Or not disciplined enough. So I stopped asking.”
Jake stared into the dim light.
His eyes burned again.
“Neteyam…”
“I know now,” Neteyam said quickly. “You said it was not us.”
“It wasn’t.”
“I know.”
But his voice still carried the shape of old hurt.
Jake shifted carefully, making sure not to wake Lo’ak, and turned enough to pull Neteyam more fully into his arms.
Neteyam came without resistance.
Jake held his face between both hands.
“You listen to me,” Jake said quietly. “You never did anything wrong by wanting your father. Never.”
Neteyam’s throat bobbed.
“You were a child,” Jake continued. “You are still my child. You do not have to earn being held. You do not have to be perfect for me to love you. You do not have to take care of everybody to deserve care back.”
Neteyam’s eyes shone.
Jake brushed his thumbs beneath them before the tears could fall.
“My good boy,” he whispered.
Neteyam’s face crumpled.
He tried to turn away.
Jake pulled him in.
Neteyam pressed his face to Jake’s neck and silently shook.
Jake held him through it.
No orders.
No corrections.
No telling him to breathe unless he needed it.
Just arms.
Just warmth.
Just the steady stroke of a hand over his hair.
“I have you,” Jake whispered again and again. “I have you, Neteyam. I’m not letting go.”
Lo’ak stirred against his other side.
His eyes blinked open, unfocused.
“What happened?” he mumbled.
“Nothing,” Jake said softly.
Lo’ak saw Neteyam’s shoulders shaking.
Instantly, he woke more.
“What’s wrong?”
Neteyam tensed.
Lo’ak didn’t tease.
Didn’t poke.
Didn’t grin.
He just reached across Jake and grabbed the back of Neteyam’s arm.
Neteyam’s hand found Lo’ak’s wrist.
Jake looked down at them, chest aching.
Lo’ak’s voice was rough with sleep. “You’re okay, bro.”
Neteyam nodded against Jake’s neck.
Lo’ak shifted closer until the three of them were tangled again.
Then he muttered, “For the record, I also thought Dad stopped because I was annoying.”
Jake made a wounded sound. “Lo’ak.”
“What? I am annoying.”
“You are,” Neteyam whispered.
Lo’ak squeezed his wrist. “Not helping.”
Jake cupped the back of Lo’ak’s head too.
“You are annoying,” Jake said, voice thick with affection. “And reckless. And stubborn. And you make me age ten years every week.”
Lo’ak huffed.
Jake pulled him closer.
“And I love every single part of you. Even the parts that make me want to yell into a tree.”
Lo’ak went quiet.
Then, very softly, “Every part?”
Jake kissed his forehead.
“Every part, baby boy.”
Lo’ak’s eyes squeezed shut.
He pressed closer.
Neteyam’s breathing slowly evened.
Jake held them both until they slept.
And long after.
-——————————————
After that, the boys started testing him.
Not on purpose at first.
Or maybe on purpose. Jake wasn’t dumb. Mostly.
Lo’ak began appearing beside him at odd times.
While Jake repaired a saddle.
While he ate.
While he was speaking with another hunter.
He would hover, pretending he needed something.
“Dad.”
“Yeah?”
“Have you seen my knife?”
“On your belt.”
Lo’ak looked down.
“Oh.”
Then he would continue standing there.
Jake would sigh, open one arm, and Lo’ak would drop against him like he had been waiting years.
Because he had.
Neteyam was subtler.
Painfully subtler.
He would linger after reports. Stand too close but not close enough. His hands would flex once, then still. His gaze would flick to Jake’s arms and away.
Jake learned to stop making him ask.
“C’mere, kid.”
Every time, Neteyam looked relieved.
Every time, he came.
One afternoon, Neteyam approached while Jake was sharpening arrows.
“Father?”
Jake looked up. “Yeah?”
Neteyam stood stiffly.
Too stiffly.
Jake immediately set the arrow down.
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
“That sounded like something.”
“No. I only…”
Neteyam’s ears lowered.
Jake softened.
“Come here.”
Neteyam released a breath like he had been holding it since sunrise.
He sat beside Jake.
Then, after a long hesitation, leaned his shoulder against Jake’s.
Jake wrapped an arm around him.
Neteyam closed his eyes.
“Bad day?” Jake asked.
“No.”
“Good day?”
“No.”
Jake smiled faintly. “Medium day?”
Neteyam huffed. “Yes.”
“Ah. Dangerous kind.”
Neteyam’s mouth curved slightly.
Jake stroked his hair.
They sat in silence.
Then Neteyam said, “I like when you call me kid.”
Jake looked down.
“Yeah?”
Neteyam’s eyes remained closed.
“It makes me feel…” He searched for the word. “Not like I must be older than I am.”
Jake’s heart clenched.
He kissed the top of Neteyam’s head.
“Then I’ll keep calling you kid.”
Neteyam leaned harder into him.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
-———————————————
Lo’ak was less graceful about it.
“Can I ask a weird question?” he said one evening.
Jake looked up from tying a strap. “That has never stopped you before.”
Lo’ak dropped into a crouch in front of him. “Would you actually carry me?”
Jake froze.
Lo’ak instantly looked away.
“Forget it.”
“No,” Jake said quickly.
Too quickly.
Lo’ak’s ears flicked.
Jake set the strap down.
“You mean now?”
Lo’ak shrugged with one shoulder, trying desperately to appear casual and failing so hard Jake wanted to hug him already.
“You said… before. That you should have. I just wondered if that was one of those things adults say because they feel bad.”
Jake stared at him.
Then he stood.
Lo’ak’s eyes widened.
“Wait, no, I didn’t mean….”
Jake bent, hooked one arm behind Lo’ak’s knees and the other around his back, and lifted.
Lo’ak yelped.
“Dad!”
Jake grunted. “Eywa, you are heavier than when you were eight.”
Lo’ak grabbed Jake’s shoulders, face shocked.
“You’re actually doing it.”
“Yeah, well, don’t get used to being light.”
“I am light.”
“You are all elbows and bad decisions.”
Lo’ak’s laugh burst out of him, startled and bright.
Jake almost stumbled from the force of hearing it.
Lo’ak wrapped both arms around his neck.
For one second, he looked younger than he had in years.
Jake adjusted his hold and started walking.
Lo’ak’s eyes went wide. “Where are we going?”
“Don’t know. You asked to be carried. I’m carrying.”
“This is embarrassing.”
“You asked.”
“I didn’t think you would do it!”
“Sounds like a you problem.”
Neteyam appeared at the entrance of their home and stopped dead.
Lo’ak, still in Jake’s arms, pointed at him. “Don’t say anything.”
Neteyam’s mouth twitched.
“I would never.”
“You’re smiling.”
“I am not.”
“You are.”
Jake glanced at Neteyam. “You want a turn?”
Neteyam’s entire face changed.
Lo’ak gasped. “Oh my Eywa, he does.”
“I do not,” Neteyam said immediately.
Jake lifted a brow.
Neteyam looked away.
Lo’ak grinned viciously. “He does.”
Jake put Lo’ak down.
Lo’ak immediately protested. “Hey.”
Jake pointed at him. “Share.”
“With ‘him’?”
Neteyam looked scandalized. “I am your brother.”
“Exactly.”
Jake turned to Neteyam.
His eldest backed up one step.
“No.”
Jake smiled.
Neteyam narrowed his eyes. “Father.”
“Kid.”
“No.”
But he was smiling now too, embarrassed and helpless.
Jake stepped closer.
Neteyam’s ears went dark.
“I am too big.”
Jake’s expression softened.
“Never again,” he said quietly.
Neteyam went still.
Lo’ak’s grin faded.
Jake touched Neteyam’s cheek.
“I’m never using that as a reason not to hold you again.”
Neteyam swallowed.
Then, very quietly, “Okay.”
Jake did not carry him the same way.
Neteyam was too tall for it to be easy, and Jake’s back was not what it once was, despite him refusing to admit that publicly.
But he wrapped his arms around Neteyam’s waist and lifted him off the ground.
Neteyam made a strangled sound.
Lo’ak screamed laughing.
“Your face!”
Neteyam clutched Jake’s shoulders, mortified. “Put me down.”
Jake considered, even if his back was protesting. He was enjoying being able to make his sons laugh and feel like kids again.
“Dad.” Neteyam laughed.
Jake sighed and put his oldest down. But before Neteyam could retreat, Jake pulled him into a firm hug.
Neteyam hid his face in Jake’s shoulder immediately.
Lo’ak, still laughing, crashed into them too.
Jake grunted.
“My back,” he complained.
“You are old,” Lo’ak said.
Jake tightened his arm around him. “Careful. I still know where you sleep.”
Neteyam’s voice was muffled. “He sleeps everywhere.”
“Traitor.”
Jake laughed into their hair.
-————————————————
There was no single moment where everything became healed.
No clean line.
No perfect ending.
There were still arguments.
Jake still messed up sometimes. His voice still went sharp when fear hit too fast. Neteyam still apologized for things that weren’t his fault. Lo’ak still flinched when he expected anger.
But now Jake saw it.
And when he saw it, he reached.
After harsh words, he came back.
After fear, he explained.
After distance, he closed it.
One evening, weeks after that first hug, Jake found both boys sitting outside after everyone else had gone quiet. Neteyam was repairing a strap. Lo’ak was pretending to help by handing him the wrong tools.
“You are doing that on purpose,” Neteyam said.
Lo’ak widened his eyes. “Me? Never.”
“You handed me a fish hook.”
“You might need it.”
“For a saddle?”
“You don’t know.”
Jake leaned against a post, watching them.
His chest felt full.
Lo’ak noticed him first.
“What?”
Jake shook his head. “Nothing.”
Neteyam looked up. “Is something wrong?”
“No.”
Both boys stared at him with identical suspicion.
Jake sighed. “Can a man not look at his sons?”
Lo’ak wrinkled his nose. “Not like that. You look emotional.”
“I am emotional.”
“Oh no.”
Neteyam set the strap down. “Are you well?”
Jake laughed softly.
“Yeah,” he said. “I’m good.”
He crossed the space and sat between them.
For a second, neither moved.
Then Lo’ak leaned into his left side.
Neteyam leaned into his right.
No asking.
No fear.
No bracing.
Jake wrapped an arm around each of them.
Lo’ak tucked his face against Jake’s shoulder.
Neteyam’s head rested lightly against Jake’s temple.
Jake closed his eyes.
There they were.
Not little anymore.
Not the same.
But still his.
Always his.
“I love you,” Jake said quietly.
Lo’ak mumbled, “We know.”
Neteyam said, “We love you too.”
Jake opened one eye. “That easy, huh?”
Lo’ak shrugged against him. “Don’t make it weird.”
Neteyam hummed. “It is already weird.”
Jake smiled.
“Yeah,” he whispered, holding them close. “But it’s ours.”
Lo’ak’s hand curled into his sash.
Neteyam’s tail wrapped loosely around Jake’s ankle.
The forest glowed around them.
The night breathed.
And Jake Sully, who had spent years forgetting how to hold what mattered most, finally let himself remember.
He held his sons until the stars shifted overhead.
And this time, neither of them let go first.