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Fire Spirit usually spends his winters in the Greenish-Red Dragon’s den. It isn’t because of weakness; it’s tradition for him. The Dragon’s Valley doesn’t know snow, not really, but winter still presses in. Days shorten as ash clouds linger lower, and lava rivers thicken and slow as their glowing dulls, like coals banked for the night. Even fire rests when the world exhales.
Pitaya’s den sits high, carved into the crown of the tallest volcano, where heat is held close by stone older than most gods’ names. It’s where the flaming spirit god waits out the cold seasons with his parental dragon – and now, lately, little Snapdragon, who insists on curling up far too close to open flame for anyone’s peace of mind. So, it has been many winters since Fire Spirit has gone out during this freezing time.
Instead, he is curled comfortably within the den, tucked against the massive coil of Pitaya’s body. Their warmth is deep and steady like a slow lava flow, the kind of heat that doesn’t burn, only holds. However, Fire Spirit is awake, lying half-draped along Pitaya’s side. One arm rests against warm scales while the other is lifted just enough to trail flickers of flame through the air. Small, controlled sparks bloom at his fingertips – never enough to be dangerous, they’re just bright enough to catch attention. And catch attention they do.
Snapdragon chirps, a tiny, delighted sound, wings fluttering as the hatchling toddles across the stone floor. Their body is a soft gradient of pink bleeding into fresh green, petals unfurling along their neck and tail like living blossoms. Each step is clumsy, enthusiastic, and entirely fearless.
The fiery god lets a spark drift, and Snapdragon pounces. Yet, the spark vanishes in a harmless pop, and the hatchling stumbles, rolls, then pops back up with offended dignity before immediately trying again. Fire Spirit’s flame dims slightly at the edges – not weaker, just gentler – as he laughs under his breath and sends another flicker skimming low across the ground.
Cracking one eye open, a vibrating rumble rolls through the den of mild amusement as Pitaya’s tail shifts just enough to corral Snapdragon before the hatchling can wander too close to a lava seam. Sparing a glance up at the dragon before looking back at the kid, he sighs, fond and unhurried. “Careful,” he murmurs, though there’s no real concern in it. Snapdragon squeaks in protest, already wriggling free from the corralling, petals shaking as they chase the next spark with unwavering determination.
Pitaya shifts beneath him, a slow, deliberate movement that sends a low ripple of warmth through the den. One massive eye opens fully this time, obsidian-black and far too perceptive. “You’re awake,” they murmur, voice deep and echoing. “You ssshouldn’t be.”
Fire Spirit doesn’t look at them right away as another ember drifts lazily from his fingertips, wobbling as if unsure where to land. “I know,” he says, quietly. “Winter makes the hours…longer.”
Exhaling a slow breath that fogs the stone with heat, the dragon moves their wing. “It makesss you restless,” they correct as their tail coils a little tighter around the space behind him – protective without being possessive. “You only ssstay awake like thisss when sssomething isss bothering you.”
The flaming god huffs a soft laugh, more heat than humor. “Or when I have an audience that doesn’t rest.”
That’s when both of them glance toward where Snapdragon was. The den is suddenly too quiet. No chirping, no clumsy wing-flutters, not even any enthusiastic pursuit of embers. Pitaya’s open eye narrows as Fire Spirit’s flame falters, just for a heartbeat.
Behind him, something small, floral, and deeply committed to poor life choices crouches low. Snapdragon’s petals fold in tight, their pink-to-green body blending surprisingly well with the glow of reflected lava. Tiny claws grip the stone as they line up their target.
Lifting his free hand, another gentle spark forms from the fire-being’s fingertips when– CHOMP!
Snapdragon clamps down on his fingers with a triumphant squeak, teeth meeting warm fire and embers in a bold act of hatchling hubris. The ember pops out of existence as Fire Spirit freezes. However, Pitaya laughs, its echo rumbling through the den, sharp and delighted, shaking loose a few pebbles from the ceiling. “Well,” they say, unmistakably pleased, “that’sss one way to learn.”
Refusing to let go, the flower hatchling’s tail wags furiously, petals trembling as they gnaw with the fierce pride of a dragon who has successfully hunted a god.
The fire-being stares at his hand, then at the hatchling attached to it. “…Pitaya,” he says slowly, carefully, “I appear to be under attack.” Snapdragon squeaks again, biting down harder, just in case.
Pitaya does not move; not an inch, not a claw, not even the courtesy of pretending they might intervene. They simply settle their chin more comfortably against the stone and watch with open, ancient amusement as their flaming son tries to very carefully not set the dragon hatchling on fire.
“Alright,” Fire Spirit murmurs, voice pitched low and coaxing, fingers twitching despite the floral menace latched onto them. “Easy now. That’s– mm, yes, very brave of ya, but we don’t bite–”
Snapdragon answers with a string of chirps and squeaks, words only loosely recognizable as language. A few syllables echo Pitaya’s cadence, stretched and wobbly, like a hatchling remix.
Blinking, the fiery god looks over at Pitaya, “Did they just–”
“They repeat what they like,” they reply, entirely unhelpful with the menace trying to eat their son’s hand. Their tail gives a lazy flick as they continue, “You sound interesting when you’re distressed.”
“Wonderful,” Fire Spirit mutters, deciding to switch tactics. With his free hand, he lightly tickles along the floral menace’s side, just beneath the petaled frill of their neck. It’s a gentle, carefully controlled flame cooling to warmth, fingertips brushing in tiny, playful motions. Snapdragon squeaks sharply, jaw loosening for half a second as their wings flutter in offended surprise. Seizing the moment, he grabs them to pull them off. “There we go– yes, that’s it–”
Snapdragon immediately reattaches with renewed determination. Pitaya laughs again, the sound rich and echoing. “They like you,” they say. “You’re warm and reactive.”
“This is not affection,” Fire Spirit says, deadpan, as the hatchling gnaws with dramatic intensity. “Thisss is a hostage situation.”
That’s when the air shifts, and the warmth of the den falters – not cold, but moving. A thin current slips through the stone like a held breath finally released. Ash stirs as embers lift, suspended by the zephyrus current.
A winter breeze coils gently around the flaming god’s shoulders, cool and clean, carrying the scent of pine, distant leaves, and open sky – wild and unmistakably familiar. It brushes his ear like a whisper meant only for him.
My flame. The voice follows, soft and melodic, threaded with wind and antlered grace. Come to the Maze Grove. The breeze curls again, playful and affectionate, brushing his simmering waves as the snow-kissed air hums with invitation. I would like to see you. Fire Spirit exhales, a slow burn of warmth in his chest that has nothing to do with flame.
Tilting their head just slightly, the dragon senses the intent of the message even though they cannot hear it themself. “Little wind,” they say, amused. “He has a talent for timing.”
Snapdragon finally releases Fire Spirit’s hand with a pop, distracted by the sudden swirl of moving air. They chirp excitedly, petals fluttering as they snap at the breeze, as if it might bite back.
Fire Spirit flexes his fingers, ember marks fading as he looks toward the den’s opening. “…The Maze Grove,” he murmurs.
Pitaya hums, low and smug, watching Fire Spirit push himself upright. “Ssso,” they say lightly, “winter finally winsss.”
The fiery god snorts as he rises to his feet, heat rolling off him in a slow wave. Stretching from tipped horns down to the end of his tail, his spine arches as his wings flex with a quiet crackle, embers scattering and fading from them. The motion is unhurried, indulgent – the kind of stretch one only takes when they know they won’t get another chance for a while. “I was invited,” he says, pointedly. “That’s different.”
“Mm,” the dragon replies, unconvinced. “You were lured.”
Fire Spirit ignores that, walking towards the entrance where his cloak, the heavy, fire-resistant fabric he’d gotten ages ago, hangs. Pitaya’s voice continues to follow him, warm and teasing.
“Don’t forget it,” they add. “Winter may not freeze you, but he will complain if you show up smoking.”
Swinging the cloak over his shoulders with a huff, the fire-being rolls his eyes. “He likes the smoke.”
Pitaya’s grin is audible as they retort, “He likes pretending he doesn’t.”
The moment Snapdragon notices that their fiery brother has moved, they don't hesitate, toddling straight into the space Fire Spirit vacated. Curling up with a satisfied chirp, they press their small, petaled body against Pitaya’s side as their tiny wings tuck in, petals relaxing. The bigger dragon glances down, surprised for half a heartbeat before going still, allowing it. Snapdragon snuggles closer, tail flicking once before going still, already half-asleep in the steady heat. Pitaya exhales, slow and content. “Perfect menace,” they murmur fondly.
Fire Spirit pauses at the den’s mouth and looks back. He watches Snapdragon settle in, watches Pitaya angle their body just enough to shield the hatchling from any wandering drafts. The den feels fuller for it, and quieter, too. “Keep an eye on them,” the flaming god requests softly.
Pitaya doesn’t look up, draping their wing over the tiny body next to them. “Always do.”
Outside, the winter air waits. Fire Spirit turns toward it, cloak settling around his shoulders, clipping into place around his wings, the echo of Wind Archer’s invitation still threading through the breeze.
For the first time in many winters, the fiery god steps out into the cold, willingly.
➽───────────────────❥
Wind Archer waits on the balcony platform overlooking the Maze Grove, snow settling quietly around him like the world is holding its breath. He is, by any reasonable standard, dressed insufficiently for winter.
His sleeveless tunic hangs loose against his frame, fabric stirring with every small shift of air. No leggings, not even the wraps he usually has around his talon-feet. The cold bites eagerly at skin and fur and feathers, but he doesn’t move to correct it. His wings curl around him just slightly – not enough to block the cold, just enough to keep from freezing outright. He exhales, and his breath comes out fogged.
Six minutes, give or take. He knows better than to count too closely, as his flaming partner does not like being timed. Still, his ears twitch as the breeze shifts, carrying with it the faintest hint of warmth. Not enough to thaw the snow, but enough to make his chest lift with anticipation. “Any moment now,” he murmurs, mostly to the Grove.
The Maze answers with quiet creaks and sighs, branches arching overhead like a living labyrinth, frost clinging to every leaf and vine. Snow gathers in the curves of antlers and branches alike, painting the world in a pale hush.
Then he sees it, a red blaze – sharp and unmistakable – slicing across the setting sky. The wind god’s wings loosen at once, feathers flaring despite the cold. A soft, pleased laugh escapes him as he tilts his head, eyes tracking the familiar streak of flame.
There you are.
Time slows as the red blaze cuts closer, heat rippling through the frozen air, snow lifting in startled spirals as Fire Spirit descends. He doesn’t stop, nor slow nearly enough, because Wind Archer is already there, arms open, wings unfurling in instinctive welcome.
Impact comes like a heartbeat.
Crashing into the other’s embrace, the momentum carries them both back a half step as their wings flare wide, feathers and flame bursting outward in a brilliant, balanced chaos. Wind coils around fire as the fire grounds itself with the wind. Together, they steady – hands gripping, wings braced, breath caught between them. Snow hisses where it comes in contact with the fiery god’s heat, melting away to nothing.
For a suspended moment, nothing else exists.
Then Fire Spirit laughs, low and breathless, warmth flooding the space between them, and the zephyr’s wings draw in reflexively, curling closer, greedier, as if to trap every spark. “You’re freezing,” the flame murmurs, bringing a hand to Wind Archer’s cheek. The wind full god doesn’t bother denying it, instead leaning into his hand before pushing up. Fire Spirit grins before meeting him halfway, kissing him – deep, unhurried, and steaming. Heat blooms at the contact like a promise kept as warmth rolls through Wind Archer’s chest and down to his talons, thawing skin and fur and feathers, and fogging the air between their faces.
It’s the kiss the wind god has missed since winter began – fire-touched, breath-warmed, and reckless with affection. The zephyr sighs into his flame, hands tightening at Fire Spirit’s cloaked back, wings folding around them both as if the world might intrude if he doesn’t block it out. Snow melts beneath their feet when the fiery god’s feet finally touch the floor.
Wind Archer does not let go. Not when his fiery partner shifts, nor when his wings relax and the flames go out, not even when Fire Spirit very clearly tries to step back and fails because there is now an antlered and winged god fully latched onto him like a very dignified woodland creature-shaped scarf. “Mm-mm,” the zephyr hums, arms firm around the other’s waist, wings folding in to trap every last degree of warmth. “No. You just got here.”
Fire Spirit laughs, heat rolling off him in lazy waves. “I crashed into you.”
“Exactly,” Wind Archer replies, cheek resting against his flame’s shoulder, voice smug and perfectly content. “You can’t leave immediately after a dramatic entrance. That’s rude.”
Glancing down, the fiery god takes a double take, seeing his zephyr’s bare legs and his uncovered talon-feet. “…You did this on purpose,” he notes with fond amusement and concern.
Humming briefly, the zephyrus god is entirely unapologetic. “I dressed for anticipation.”
“You dressed for hypothermia.”
“I dressed for you.”
Fire Spirit snorts, one hand sliding up to lightly tap his windfall partner’s thigh. “You could have worn the wraps. Or, wild thought here, your thicker leggings.”
“And miss this?” Wind Archer lifts one wing just enough to gesture at his flaming partner’s warm body, “Unthinkable,” then he wraps his wing back around the other.
Shaking his head, the fiery god is smiling despite himself. “Now who’s being impossible?”
The zephyr god tilts his head up, eyes bright as frost melts from his lashes. “And yet,” he tightens his hold just slightly as his wings seal them in, warmth pooling between feather and flame. “You are still here, though you knew this would happen.^
Fire Spirit sighs and gives in, leaning back into the embrace as his heat flares just enough to make the snow around them hiss again. “Next time,” he retorts, “I’m bringing you a coat.”
Wind Archer smiles, slow and fond. “Next time,” he replies, lightly pressing his face into his fiery partner’s neck and frills, “I’ll still be cold.”
After a couple more minutes of standing there, embraced in each other, the fire-being nudges him – subtle and insistent, just a warm press of shoulder against chest. “Inside,” he says, low and fond. “Before you decide to prove a point and freeze solid.”
Chuckling a bit, the zephyrus god lets himself be guided, wings shifting to shepherd them both through the balcony doors and into the quiet warmth of his home. The Grove’s hush fades behind them as Fire Spirit steps back just long enough to shut the doors firmly.
Click. Locked. The winter breeze rattles uselessly against the glass now, shut out along with the cold. Drawing the curtains closed next, the heavy fabric falls into place and seals the world away – only firelight from his flame and softened shadows remain. When the other turns back around, Wind Archer is already there, catching Fire Spirit by the cloak. Pulling him close is easy, with a grin across the zephy’s fire-lit face that says I waited all winter for this. The flaming god barely has time to laugh before Wind Archer steers him backward, guiding him until the backs of his legs hit the edge of the bed.
They tumble together, wings half-unfurling, feathers brushing warmth as they land in a tangle of warmth and quiet laughter. The bed dips beneath them, catching their weight as the fiery god braces himself on one arm and the zephyrus god pulls him closer again.
“Locked the doors,” Wind Archer murmurs, breath warm now with satisfaction.
“Good,” Fire Spirit replies, smiling down at him. “I’m not leaving.”
They fall asleep tangled together like that, somewhere between breaths and embers. The zephyr is cocooned in his flame’s arms and wings, tucked close like something precious that might drift away if not held just right, as Fire Spirit’s heat settles into a steady, low burn – no roaring flame along his hair or wings or tail. He’s just warm enough to keep winter far, far outside. Wings overlap as feathers rest under the warm cocoon of patagium wings.
Time does what it wants after that. They sleep half the day away.
➽───────────────────❥
When the zephyrus god finally stirs, it’s because the light outside has changed. The faint glow, barely filtering through the curtains, has shifted from pale to gold to deepening amber. Outside, the sun is finishing its slow descent, setting the snow aglow one last time before night claims the Grove once more.
Wind Archer blinks awake, yet he doesn’t move. The fiery god’s arms are still around him, secure and instinctive, as one wing is currently draped protectively over his side. Warmth seeps into every place winter had dared to touch earlier – his feet, his legs, even the tips of his ears. Exhaling, feeling content and still heavy with sleep, the zephyr nestles just a fraction closer before he can stop himself. I should get up, he thinks vaguely. Put something adequate on. Be responsible. Yet, he does none of that; he cannot bring himself to. Instead, the wind god stays exactly where he is, listening to his flame’s slow, steady breathing, feeling the quiet rise and fall of his chest beside his own. The idea of leaving this warmth, even briefly, feels deeply offensive. Wind Archer’s eyes close again, just for a moment more.
Fire Spirit wakes slowly, awareness drifting back in pieces as his heat stirs low and lazy beneath his skin. Instinct hums quietly in his chest, insistent and ancient, telling him he should still be asleep. Curled up and resting, hibernating through the cold hours with something warm held close. He shifts instead, wings flexing just a little as he stretches slightly. That’s when he feels it – Wind Archer is awake. His zephyrus dove is still, breathing normally, yet he’s aware with that subtle tension in his body that the flame has learned over centuries. The way the air around his partner always changes when his mind is awake and active.
However, even spotting this, the fiery god doesn’t call him out. He smiles faintly and leans closer in with his favorite plan as his arms tighten around Wind Archer. The first kiss lands at the other’s temple, near the base of one head wing, as light as a spark. Then another kiss lands along his brow, then his cheek, then even the bridge of his nose. Each kiss is unhurried, affectionate with all of the heated softness inside of Fire Spirit. His zephyr remains perfectly still, so the flame hums quietly, amused, and continues peppering gentle kisses across Wind Archer’s face down to the corner of his mouth, then back again like he’s mapping familiar terrain.
“Mm,” Fire Spirit hums, voice still heavy with sleep, “You’re bad at pretendin’.”
The wind god lasts exactly one more kiss before he cracks an eye open. “You woke up,” he says, fond and smug, hands tightening just a little where they rest against his flame’s back.
Softly chuckling, low and warm, he presses one last kiss to Wind Archer’s forehead before settling his chin there. “Someone else woke up first.”
“I was going back to sleep,” the zephyr replies, fully opening his eyes now. “I was almost asleep again.”
Fire Spirit snorts, “Ya weren’t. Your mind was runnin’ away again, the air reflects that.”
Sighing dramatically, Wind Archer relaxes back into his partner’s warm arms anyway. “Unfair advantage.”
The fiery god’s wing curls in closer without thinking, dragon instinct satisfied now that its warmth is awake and accounted for. “Go back to sleep feathers,” he murmurs. “Sun’s already gone.”
The zephyrus god considers it for exactly half a second before smiling a bit. “Fine,” he relents, eyes already drifting shut again. “But only because you are comfortably warm.”
Fire Spirit smiles too, closing his eyes with a hum. There’s no denying that fact. He doesn’t mind being his dove’s personal heater for the winter.
➽───────────────────❥
They wake again much later, the night settled deep and quiet around the Maze Grove.
Wind Archer once again stirs awake first, but not because of light or sound. No, instead, his stomach betrays him with a very undignified, very mortal complaint. He freezes, trying to recount when he last ate. He made food after his morning patrol route, left it to cool down while he did some targeting practice in the slow-falling snow…Then he sent that invitation to Fire Spirit, and then bathed and changed before waiting for the flaming god. He never actually ate.
His partner’s arms are still around him, wings curled close, warmth perfect and uninterrupted. Leaving this cocoon would be a crime, punishable however his flame sees fit. The zephyr sighs softly and presses his face a little deeper into Fire Spirit’s chest. “…Fire Spirit,” he resignedly murmurs.
“Mm?” A low hum answers him, drowsy and instinctive, as the fiery god’s tail flicks once over their legs.
“I’m hungry.”
There’s a long pause before Fire Spirit shifts just enough to tighten his hold, clearly not interested in letting go either. “An’ whose fault is that?” Wind Archer does not answer him, knowing that he really should have eaten before the other had shown up. The flame opens his eyes, surveying his zephyr’s state in their cocoon before exhaling, amused. “You,” he starts fondly, “are starvin’ because ya refuse to dress like a sensible being.”
“I dress like a romantic being,” the wind god counters, voice muffled but smug. “This is the price of devotion.”
“The price of devotion,” Fire Spirit repeats, laughing quietly, “is apparently feedin’ ya at midnight.”
Wind Archer tilts his head just enough to look up at him, “You love me.” He smiles, knowing that he’s already won this small debacle.
Fire Spirit doesn’t deny it, shifting again as he pecks his dove’s awaiting lips. Warmth flares slightly as his draconic instincts do the mental math between hibernating and feeding his beloved immediately. “…Stay,” he finally says, his wings unwrapping from around them. “I’ll get ya somethin’ to eat.”
Smiling more, victorious, the wind god relaxes back into the bed. “See? Problem solved.” He vaguely registers the loss of heat when Fire Spirit finally disentangles himself, tail brushing softly over his legs as the flame gets out of bed. Wind Archer makes a small, displeased sound, to which he receives a gentle, warm brush of fingers against his wing’s feathers, and he settles back into bed. He starts to drift in and out of consciousness while his partner is out. Not fully asleep, but just hovering there, warm and heavy, as thoughts slip sideways every time he gets too comfortable.
Meanwhile, Fire Spirit moves quietly through the house, padding barefoot across the floors with practiced ease, his sickle-like talon tapping twice on the floor when he stops in the kitchen. There on the counter is a container of squash and sausage gnocchi that had been prepared likely earlier in the day, something that was warm and hearty, meant to last through winter nights. He picks it up and, rather than bothering with another dish, cups the portioned container in his hands as he walks back toward the bedroom. Heat seeps from his palms, controlled and gentle, warming the portioned meal in its container. By the time he reaches the door, steam curls lazily upward as the meal is warm enough to eat.
Then he pauses, glancing toward his zephyr’s closet. Clicking his tongue, Fire Spirit detours, opening it to snag a pair of Wind Archer’s pajama pants and a long-sleeved top without hesitation. The clothes are made of soft fabric and are actually insulated, exactly what his partner should have been wearing hours ago.
Finally entering the room, he sets the warmed food down and turns his attention to the bed.
Wind Archer is curled in on himself now, wings slack, breathing slow – clearly doing that thing where he pretends he’s asleep to avoid being told what to do. He knew his flame had stopped outside the room when he spotted his closet.
The fiery god folds his arms, “Nuh-uh. Sit on up feathers.”
Cracking one eye open, the wind god looks at him. “Mmh?”
“You’re changing,” Fire Spirit says, entirely non-negotiable, “before you get to eat.”
Wind Archer groans softly and buries his face back into the pillows, “Fire–”
“No,” the flaming god interrupts, already holding up the clothes. “Ya have fur, congratulations. But it doesn’t cover all of you. I know you are colder than you pretend you are, and I am not listenin’ to arguments.”
Looking over from the pillows again, the windful god pouts faintly, “I’m warm now.”
“Because of me.”
“Yes,” the zephyr agrees, sweet and smug. “Exactly.”
Sighing, fond but unyielding, the flame sits on the edge of the bed. “Humor me, dove. Pants, shirt, then food.”
Wind Archer studies him for a long moment, then finally relents, sitting up with a soft rustle of wings. “You’re bossy.”
Fire Spirit leans in and presses a brief kiss to his cheek, “An’ you’re freezing.”
Exhaling, defeated, the zephyrus god takes the pajamas. “Fine, I will change.”
The fiery god smiles, satisfied, and reaches back for the meal container as his partner changes. His dragon instincts are fully appeased now that his zephyr is dressing for the weather, they’re rested, and he’s provided food for him.
Wind Archer finishes tugging on the pajamas and immediately pauses, examining just what he put on. “…You grabbed the tiger-printed ones,” he notes, squinting slightly.
Fire Spirit doesn’t even look guilty, sitting back on the bed with the warmed meal cradled in his hands, heat still faintly steaming from it. “You’re the one who has them in the first place.”
Huffing a quiet laugh, the wind god’s tail feathers flick once behind him, “They were a gift.”
“Mhm,” the flame hums in response. “An’ now they’re doin’ their job.”
Wind Archer does not argue further, climbing back onto the bed and settling close – close enough that Fire Spirit’s warmth is unavoidable. He eyes the food with renewed interest, his stomach grumbling again. There’s no silverware, but neither comment on it. The zephyrus god simply digs in, talon-nails making quick, precise work of it, utterly unbothered. He eats with the easy confidence of someone who has never needed utensils and sees no reason to start now. After a few bites, he glances over at his flame. Then, without asking, scoops a piece and holds it out.
Fire Spirit blinks, “You’re feedin’ me now?”
Smiling, soft and sleepy, and entirely pleased with himself, Wind Archer presses it closer to his mouth. “You can have some too, since you warmed it and are holding it.”
The flaming god hesitates for half a second before opening his mouth, accepting his partner feeding him. The warmth of his breath curls around Wind Archer’s fingers as he takes the bite, careful of his dove’s talons.
Wind Archer hums, satisfied, and takes another bite for himself. Then another for Fire Spirit. They fall into an easy rhythm after that – the zephyr eating then sharing, and the flame letting it happen with fond amusement, wings tucked in close around them both. The night presses gently against the windows, cold and distant, completely irrelevant in their minds.
“This is unnecessary,” Fire Spirit says eventually, though he doesn’t stop accepting the food.
Wind Archer glances over at him, eyes warm. “You warmed it, brought it over for me, and you dragged me into clothes.” He offers his partner another bite. “Let me take care of you, too.”
Exhaling, something soft and quiet, the fiery god leans in just a little closer. “Fine,” he murmurs. “But don’t tell anyone.”
The zephyrus god grins, “Never in my eternal life will I share this with anyone.”
When the food’s gone, and the last warmth of it settles comfortably in his chest, Wind Archer slips out of bed to wash his hands. The bathroom light flicks on briefly, water running, the quiet sounds of the night filling the space. Fire Spirit doesn’t bother leaving the bed. He waits, setting the empty container dish on the nightstand to be dealt with later.
Padding back into the bedroom moments later, his hands clean, the wind god’s feathers slightly fluff from the cooler air. He barely makes it three steps past the edge of the bed before his flame’s hand shoots out and tugs him down in. Wind Archer goes easily, without resistance, letting himself be pulled back onto the mattress with a soft laugh and an instinctive, pleased little ee-chup that slips out before he can stop it.
Fire Spirit freezes for half a second, then smiles. There’s something deeply fond in the way he pulls his zephyr closer, wings folding back around him like this was always the plan. “You do that on purpose,” he murmurs.
The zephyrus god grins, already settling into his partner’s warmth. “Do what?”
“That,” his flame repeats, amused and utterly smitten. “The bird sounds.” Another quiet ee-chup rings in the air between them, this one deliberately made from Wind Archer. Fire Spirit laughs, low and warm, and presses his forehead to his zephyrus dove’s. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet,” Wind Archer replies, already curling back into his flame’s chest, “you keep holding me.”
The fiery god doesn’t argue with that, just tightens his hold on the other, his wings sealing them in again with steady heat. His zephyr relaxes instantly, satisfied, as they settle back into stillness, the bed warm and quiet again. Wind Archer is already halfway to sleep again, body loose and trusting in his flame’s hold, feathers relaxed once more.
Fire Spirit watches him for a moment, then, softly, experimentally, he mimics it. A quiet, careful ee-chup.
Jolting just enough to be noticeable, the zephyr’s feathers puff instantly – along his wings, his tail, even the fine plumes at the sides of his head flaring out in pure, instinctive reaction. Not too startled, not alarmed, just…surprisingly pleased.
The flaming god bites back a laugh, absolutely undone. “Oh no,” he whispers, delighted. “That did something, hmm?”
Wind Archer makes a small, embarrassed sound and tries to burrow closer, feathers still fluffed despite himself. “You– don’t–” he mutters, voice already fuzzy with sleep.
Yet Fire Spirit does it again, ee-chup, softer this time.
The windful god gives up entirely, feathers fluffing even more as a tiny, content sound slips out of him, tail feathers flicking once before going still. He presses his face into his flame’s chest like he can hide there.
Wrapping his wings tighter, the fiery god’s smiling so wide it almost hurts. “You’re adorable, Windy,” he murmurs, kissing the top of his partner’s head. “Ya know that?”
Wind Archer doesn’t answer, as he’s already fallen back asleep again – warm and safely held – his feathers still puffed like Fire Spirit slightly broke him. The flame presses another kiss to the zephyr’s head before resting his head between the other’s antlers, closing his eyes again. His draconic instincts purr with satisfaction, causing a deep rhythmic churr to start as the fiery god falls back asleep.
Winter can do whatever it wants. The wind is right where he wants to be with his flame.