Chapter Text
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Right after the rebirth, Fire Spirit sleeps like he’s bracing for impact. Curled tight with his wings wrapped around him, he hugs his tail to his chest like an anchor with his flames pulled so far inward it’s barely a glow – more like smoldering embers than fire, as if he’s afraid that if he lets go even a little, the world might decide he’s too much again and snuff him out.
Pitaya notices this immediately, yet for the first few nights, they don't push. Settling a careful distance away from him in the den, their wings fold up on their back so their heat is present but not invasive. Before him, they would stretch and spread out, but now, they’re careful where they lie. They keep one eye cracked open, listening to the way their new heir’s breathing stutters in his sleep, how his flame spikes whenever the volcano groans or lava shifts below. They hardly have a normal sleep with him around.
Fire Spirit wakes up a lot, almost every night. Every time, he checks: Is he still here? Is the fire still listening? Is anything trying to take him or his stuff away again? Every time he looks towards the dragon, they seem to be asleep, not getting any closer. That stings a little, but the flame chalks it up to niceties.
The first attempt to get closer was…not the best attempt.
Shifting in their half-sleep state – slowly and deliberately trying to offer warmth – their fiery heir jolts awake with a flare of instinctive flames, his wings snapping open defensively as his breath comes fast. He scrambles up and backward on the stone, eyes wide as his tail lashes behind him. Pitaya freezes where they were awoken, not offended or angry with him, more like a little confused by the reaction. It takes the flaming god a moment to remember where he is, who he is now.
“…Easssy little flame,” the dragon murmurs, voice low and steady as if calming a volcano rather than commanding it. “You’re sssafe. I won’t touch you.”
Fire Spirit doesn’t answer, lying down and curling back in on himself, farther away than before, as his heat flickers erratically.
Pitaya lets him be, figuring that he needs more time.
So, that’s the pattern, at first. The dragon tries again many nights later, and then even later. Each time, Pitaya inches closer only when their flaming heir is already asleep, never wanting to cross the invisible boundary he seems to draw around himself when conscious. Sometimes Fire Spirit wakes and scoots away, and other times he pretends not to notice, yet he tightens his wings until the joints clearly ache. Progress, for the dragon, is measured in inches and trust, not time.
Then, the first real breakthrough happens by complete accident.
Fire Spirit falls asleep hard one night – exhausted from his practice, from existing without pain for the first time. His flames dim too much, retreating too far inward. Pitaya feels it instantly, the way one feels a hearth going cold in winter.
So they do the only thing that makes sense to them. Getting up, they move closer to him, close enough to lie down and drape a wing over him, letting their own heat radiate outward. The fiery god stirs slightly, but doesn’t wake. His wings loosen around him as he murmurs something before falling back asleep.
After that, things change awkwardly, unevenly.
Some nights he still sleeps alone, curled tight like a knot that refuses to be untied. Other nights, he drifts closer without realizing it, tail uncurling just enough to brush against the dragon’s scales before snapping back like he’s been caught doing something embarrassing. Pitaya never comments on it, giving him the space to get used to it. Eventually, Fire Spirit starts sleeping with one wing stretched out instead of fully wrapped around himself. Then both wings are stretched out. Then his tail stops being a lifeline in his sleep and starts being…just a tail.
The night he finally accepts the dragon’s care, it’s quiet and unceremonious. He’s half-asleep, flaming hair low and steady, when he murmurs, barely conscious, “It’s…warmer over there, mm?”
Pitaya hums in agreement but doesn’t move from their resting place, giving him the time and space he needs. When Fire Spirit scoots closer on his own – slow and tentative, like he expects the offer to vanish – they adjust, carefully curling just enough around him to block drafts and falling ash.
Stiffening briefly, he slowly relaxes, one wing draping slightly over Pitaya’s head without fully meaning to. His tail loosens from his leg, resting on the stone floor instead, as his flaming hair simmers quietly.
The dragon exhales, smoke curling softly toward the ceiling. “There you are,” they whisper, not with possession but relief threaded through their words.
It still takes a long time for their fiery heir to stop feeling like care is something he has to earn. Night by night, he curls less tight, and his breathing gets more even. He learns that being held doesn’t mean being trapped, and that the warmth stays even when he falls asleep.
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Fire Spirit is thriving. Wind Archer said it, out loud, with witnesses. Sure, it was with the same tone he uses for facts that do not bend, but it’s all the same to the flaming god. Friend.
After riding that high for weeks, the panic began to set in. The zephyrus god is green, like, Leaf-green – sky-green even – and life-fed and feathered and gentle in ways Fire Spirit is very aware of. And the flame is…well, fire. Eternally divine, though occasionally a walking OSHA violation if he forgets himself.
So he starts catching his own hands, literally. He’ll reach without thinking – fingers twitching toward the zephyr’s head, his wrist, the edge of a wing – and then snap, he yanks them back like he’s touched hot iron instead of being the hot iron. Yet he laughs it off, pretends it’s nothing, shoves his hands into his own belt, crosses his arms over his chest, lies on his hands, anything. It becomes a habit.
Wind Archer notices it, but he doesn’t comment on it at first. It doesn’t really bother him much while Fire Spirit visits. Their time together is usually filled with the fiery god’s voice. However, there’s one day when they’re walking through the Grove together when it finally breaks. The flame reaches out again – as if it’s instinct, muscle memory, like warmth drawn to wind – and stops himself midair, fast and sharp. His flaming hair gutters in embarrassment as he pulls his hand away. The wind god finally looks at him, puzzled. “…You do not have to do that,” he states, observant as he is.
Freezing up, Fire Spirit stares back at the zephyr like he’s the crazy one. “I kinda do,” he replies, rubbing the back of his neck now. “I mean– look at me, Windy,” He gestures at himself, heat pulsing low and controlled. “I’m literally a hazard on a mild day?”
The windful god finally stops walking, which makes this worse in the flame’s mind. He’s ready to bolt when the gales still, focused yet curious. “You pull away from touch every time,” he observes, his bow disappearing into the gales when he lets go of it. “Why?”
Opening his mouth, nothing comes out, so the flaming god closes it, his wings twitching behind him as he crosses his arms. “Because I don’t wanna hurt ya,” he finally admits, quietly. He really means it. “You finally call me your friend, and I– what, scorch you by accident? No thanks.”
Wind Archer blinks once before he sighs, as if Fire Spirit has just said something deeply obvious and deeply stupid at the same time. “…Fire Spirit,” he starts, stepping closer into the flame’s personal space.
The fiery god tenses instinctively, but he doesn’t back away; he knows that the zephyr wouldn’t hurt him. His flames do pull in a bit more, however, being careful as the other gets closer.
“I am wind,” Wind Archer continues, “I cannot be burned.”
The words land strangely solid and certain for Fire Spirit’s ears as he stares at the other, “Ya say that like it’s supposed to fix everythin’.”
“It does,” the zephyr replies calmly before – stars help the flame – reaching out and taking the flaming god’s wrist.
The flaming god’s breath vanishes. The gales don’t recoil, and the forest doesn’t flinch; instead, the gales slide around the flame’s heat as if it belongs there. Like it always has.
Wind Archer’s grip is steady, warmed, sure, but unharmed. “You will not hurt me,” he says, evenly. “And if you wish to touch me…” His head wings flick, adjusting themselves before uncovering his eyes, “…you may ask.” He finally lets go of the other’s wrist, but he doesn’t step back.
Fire Spirit’s brain bluescreens. Ask? Ask him?? “…You’re serious,” he finally murmurs.
“Yes.”
Swallowing, his hair’s flames dim, watching the zephyr for a moment before offering his hand to the other. “…Can I,” he starts, voice rough, “hold your hand?”
While not answering with words, Wind Archer takes his hand and intertwines their fingers. Fire Spirit exhales like he’s been holding his breath since the day he was reborn. His grip is careful at first, then a little firmer, as he realizes he’s allowed to hold on. His touch is wanted. “Oh,” he murmurs, a little stunned. “Oh, wow, okay. This is– yeah. This is way better.”
The wind god huffs, amused, and does not let go. He simply pulls the fiery god along to continue their walk to their glade. Fire Spirit follows along willingly, still quiet from the discovery of the wind not fearing his fire, not burning from his hotter touch. It still amazes him.
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Fire Spirit absolutely starts respectfully, truly. It’s his best gold star behavior, asking before touching, checking Wind Archer’s expression like it’s a weather report, keeping his heat dialed pretty down. He gets more hand-holding, an arm around the shoulders, the gales playing more with his flames. He even gets to lean in close enough to feel the breeze curl around him instinctively.
Even more shockingly, the zephyr never pulls away. So, the asking slowly…fades. Not because the flame stops caring – stars, no. It’s because Wind Archer starts reaching first.
A hand at the fiery god’s back during meetings, fingers catching his arm when Sea Fairy teases too hard – even the gales slip between them in fights, positioning them shoulder to shoulder without a word. By the time the fiery god realizes he’s draped half over the other during hangouts, it’s already mutual. The cling is reciprocated, enthusiastically he may note.
Moonlight notices this immediately during one of their joint hangouts, while Sea Fairy clocks it a little later on. From what the wind god has heard, they have started placing bets on them, for some reason.
On missions, Fire Spirit stays close too – very close by divine standards. His warm hand finds Wind Archer’s wrist when the terrain shifts, fingers hook lightly into feathers when the air turns violent. Yet, the zephyrus god never comments, simply adjusts himself to it, wings angling to shelter the flaming god without breaking stride.
When they’re alone? Oh. Oh, it’s bad.
Fire Spirit ends up with his head in Wind Archer’s lap once – purely accidental, truly – and then never leaves that configuration ever again. He stretches out along the grass, wings loose, tail flicking lazily, head resting right there like it’s always belonged there. The windful god hesitates exactly once before his fingers sink into Fire Spirit’s hair.
It’s over. The fiery god melts fully into the touch. All his thoughts are cleared out as any remaining tension slips away.
Wind Archer’s touch is careful but unrestrained now centuries later – twirling the warm strands around his fingers, scratching lightly at Fire Spirit’s scalp, smoothing a hand over his head in slow, absent motions like he’s calming the wind itself. Sometimes he traces the base of the flame’s horns. Sometimes he just rests his palm there atop the other’s head, steady and grounding.
Fire Spirit rumbly-purrs at the touch. Every time, his flames soften, heat sinking low and content, like a hearth instead of a blaze. His eyes slip shut, wings twitching as he leans harder into the contact, absolutely shameless about it. He lives for it.
Yet the wildest part? The zephyr lets him be, playing with the fiery hair like it’s second nature. Like this – this closeness, this trust – has always been part of the wind’s rhythm. Like Fire Spirit is something precious the wind refuses to let go of.
The flaming god doesn’t question it, just tilts his head better into Wind Archer’s hand with a pleased smile to himself, thinking, Yeah, this. I could burn like this forever.