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It's easy to forget that Wind is a big brother. Wind doesn't forget. He can't. Big Brother is a title that has been a part of him for far longer than "hero" has. Though Aryll is five years his junior, that's five years of kissing bruises, drying tears, telling silly stories, and keeping secrets. Five years of laughing and teasing and taking over for Grandma when her hands hurt too much to braid Aryll’s hair.
It's hard suddenly being the youngest. He doesn’t miss the way the other heroes treat him, as if he's more fragile and in need of protection. It irks him. Even more so when he does need help, because so what? Everyone needs help now and then. It doesn’t make him special. That's not to say the sailor is mad at his fellow heroes (sometimes, not always, just sometimes). He's a big brother - he gets it. It's not like he has much room to talk about taking risks for the sake of someone else. Wind remembers the way he nearly ran off a cliff trying to reach Aryll and knows in his heart that it's much the same thing as when Wild took the blow to the head in his place.
Wind embraces his newfound position as youngest pseudo-sibling with as much grace as he can muster. He thinks of Aryll and what she means to him; how her energy and her smile and her love of birds can drive him spare while still being the best part of his day. He thinks of what it means to be able to help her, teach her, and watch her grow. If that’s how the others have come to see him, it's not so bad of a role. Sometimes though he misses being the older sibling.
The chain has stopped at the edge of a river for the day, taking the time to refill canteens and generally scrub off a layer of the grime that has accumulated during their time on the road. Wind had made quick work of his bath, not wanting to spend more time in the glacial river than he had to. As a result, Wind is one of the first back to the camp, vigorously running a hand through his hair in an attempt to speed up the drying process. The others are not far behind, the cold waters proving to be too much to withstand for very long for even the most intrepid of their ranks.
Hyrules' teeth chatter as he starts a fire, his skin pink from the cold water and the bath combined. Wind, having been raised in the tropics of his world, gladly lets himself gravitate to the warmth offered. The rest of the heroes settle in to camp in various states of dress, some having taken the time to do laundry. Clothes are scattered on tree branches and bushes to dry, and for all that they are in the wilderness, the sailor is struck by the comfortable domesticity of the display around him.
Smoke curls into the sky, lightly scenting the air. Time hums as he attends to his armor, the soft melody mixing with the occasional snap from the fire. It is pleasant background noise, occasionally drowned out by the good-natured bickering between Legend and Four as the two discuss the benefits of pants versus skirts. At some point, Sky takes pity on Hyrule and drapes his sailcloth around the travelers still shivering shoulders. In all, the scene is relaxing, and with the chill of the river slowly leeching from his system the sailor thinks he might be able to enjoy the rare quiet day.
That is until he spots Wild attempting to pull a comb through his hair.
The mass of wet locks snag on the comb, yanking the fine golden strands with alarming force. The sailor cannot help his horrified gasp, his scalp itching in sympathy from just watching the brutal treatment. Wind springs to his feet and marches over to the cook without thought.
“Give me the brush.” Are his first words when he reaches his destination, hand outstretched in front of the owlishly blinking Wild. The scarred hero makes no move to hand over the grooming implement, frozen mid-motion with a mass of hair stuck to the comb, and the sailor huffs.
“It's hurting me to watch, please just let me help.”
Wilds lips quirk upwards with amusement at the impassioned declaration.
“I’m serious,”
The cook shrugs and the glint in his eyes tells the sailor that the older hero is only humoring him. Wind wants to be upset, but he has achieved his goal so he can't complain.
Wild's hair is incredibly damp and the white tunic the cook wears is just shy of being soaked. Wind takes a moment to wring as much of the excess moisture as he can from it before starting to tackle the mass of hair before him. He begins at the bottom, carefully working out minor tangles and knots with practiced motions. Satisfied, he moves his way up, now and then having to tuck the comb under his arm to pull apart the more persistent knots with his fingers. It’s nice to do this again, even if Wild has far more hair than Wind is used to managing. The motions are familiar, and even though the smell and sounds of the world are wrong (there is no salt tang to the air, nor is he surrounded by squealing pigs and crying gulls) the young sailor finds himself getting lost in the process just like he would at home.
"How many braids would you like?"
Wind is already sectioning off hair when the familiar question slips out, and it's only when Wild turns to look at the sailor that the young teen realizes what he is doing.
"Oh uh-" Wind drops his hands from the still damp hair, his face turning red as the sailor fights the urge to fidget with the hem of his shirt. "Sorry, force of habit."
Wild smiles kindly, though the younger teen can see the amusement glinting in the other's eyes as Wild takes in Wind's embarrassment.
" I only have the one tie, so one please? "
Wind lets out a breath he wasn't aware he was holding and nods.
"Okay, what kind?"
Wild blinks, his head tilting slightly as he casts his blue eyes around in thought.
" There are different kinds?" The champion signs.
"Uh yeah?" The young teen responds, nonplussed by the question. "I'll...I'll just pick one for you."
Wild gives a thumbs up, and the sailor can feel his excitement rise at the sheer number of possibilities available to him that Aryll would never let him try. He reminds himself to take a breath before he can get carried away.
"How much leeway are you giving me exactly?"
" Just don't cut my hair ." Is the laughing response, and soon enough Wild has passed over his blue leather tie.
With that incredibly low bar set, the champion turns back around and Wind gives in to the urge to once again bury his fingers in the long golden hair. He works methodically, separating the strands and weaving them back together. He is limited by the tools at his disposal, but Wild is willing to lend his hands when instructed. By the time the sailor is done, Wild has two french braids that swoop down from his temples and join at the base of his neck in one uniform plate. It's a little messy, but the delighted smile that stretches across Wild's face as he runs a hand over the braids is heartwarming.
" Do you think you could teach me?"
"Yeah!" Wind whoops delighted. "Next time you want your hair done let me know and I can show you a simple one."
Wild wears the braids overnight and when he finally takes his hair down it curls around his face in waves befitting the champion's nickname. The chain has a good laugh at the new hairstyle, and Wild indulges the humor with an occasional flip of his unruly hair. The next few weeks are rough, and Wind's offer to teach the other how to braid his hair is forgotten in the slog of battle and monsters.
The next time he gets a chance to tie Wild's hair back is under less enjoyable circumstances.
It is a harsh reality of traveling on the road, between exposure to the elements and the sheer exhaustion that can creep up on even the most seasoned of adventurers, illness is a foregone conclusion.
Wild has been sick for almost three days, with no signs of getting better. His fever is low but persistent, and the myriad of scars look pale compared to the flush that colors the champion's face. He looks like hell, with sweat beading on his forehead and Twilight's fur pelt draped over the cook's narrow frame.
The rancher himself hovers at Wilds side, the same place he has been ever since the cook did not wake on the second day. He is worried - they all are - but with the Ordonian's constant care, none of them feel the need to step in too often.
Wind approaches the pair, two bowls of the night's meager meal in hand. The soup, if it can even be called that, is simple. It's light on flavor and watery, and the chunks of overcooked vegetables add a sporadic mushy texture. By their usual standards from before Wild joined the group, it's positively gourmet, and Wind has no problem with offering the warm food to the worn-down rancher.
"How is he?"
Twilight sighs, accepting the bowl without looking up.
"Sleeping. His fever hasn't broken, but it doesn't seem to be getting worse."
"That's something at least."
The rancher doesn't look comforted, if anything his face falls further into sadness.
"I haven't been able to wake him today. Not even to drink water. I-" Twilight takes a shallow breath, "I've never seen someone sick like this. His lungs are clear, he isn't injured. He just-"
With each word, Wind can see the hopelessness deepen in his friends' eyes.
"Hey," the sailor says softly, setting his bowl to the side and wrapping his arms around Twilight's shoulders. "He'll be alright. Wild's tough and you've been taking excellent care of him."
Twilight's body tenses for a moment before going boneless in the younger man's embrace. The rancher sags with the weight of his concern, and Wind is reminded of holding his sister after a nightmare. He starts to sing, a random verse from a random song, something he learned from his time at sea. It's not particularly cheerful but the melody is simple and soothing, and five verses in the sailor feels Twilight's breathing change. As gently as he can, Wind lays the older hero down beside Wild. The Ordonian's bedroll isn't too far away, so it takes only a moment to drag it to where the hero of Twilight sleeps. Getting the other hero onto the bedding is more tricky, but Wind manages. He pulls off Twilight's boots and dirty socks, then starts carefully tucking blankets around the sleeping man. All the while, Wind sings, switching to new songs whenever the last one reaches its end.
When he looks up from his task, the sailor finds Warriors and Time watching him with soft smiles. Wind nods once in their direction then retrieves his things, taking up Twilight's sentinel over Wild.
His soup is cold, but he eats it anyway, and when his spoon scrapes the bottom of the bowl, Wind eyes Twilight's abandoned meal. He's started to reach for it when a raspy groan catches his attention.
Under the pile of furs and blankets, Wild blinks groggily in the dim light of camp. Wind abandons his pursuit of more food, instead helping the sick hero sit up.
"Twi-", Wild croaks, his raspy voice worse than normal.
"He's right there," the sailor soothes.
Wild's glossy and unfocused eyes rove over the man beside him. His body sways slightly, unsteady from the fever and from being on his back for so long.
"Sleeping?" The champion eventually asks, and the word trails off into a whisper.
"Yeah," Wind confirms, reaching for his canteen. "He hasn't left your side once. I don't think he's slept much."
Wild thinks for a moment and something that might be fondness tugs at the corners of his lips.
"Hey," Wind asks when the cook seems to zone out, "Do you think you could drink something?"
Wild blinks slowly as the question processes, and the act of nodding his head seems to take a great deal of effort with how deliberate it is. Wind places the canteen in Wild's trembling hands, and when the act of raising it to his lips proves to be too much for his overtaxed body, Wind does that for him. After a few sips, Wild shakes his head and the sailor recaps the canteen.
Before Wild can zone out again, Wind picks up Twilight's bowl and holds up a spoonful of the cold food.
"And how about a few bites?"
Even with his skin flushed and eyes that don't quite focus on his face, Wild manages to convey deep suspicion at the offered meal. Given their usual track record with cooking, Wind doesn't blame him.
"It's soup," he informs the skeptical hero, then looks down at the mushy grey slop. "Well...probably. Time made it, and I ate a full bowl and I still feel fine."
It's the best he can say for it, unfortunately, and the champion does not look convinced.
"Please? Only a few. You've been asleep all day and…" the sailor casts around his mind for an idea, and falls back on one that always got his little sister to comply. "And if you do I'll brush your hair and sing to you."
You'd do that anyway, a traitorous part of his mind whispers. Wind pointedly ignores it and resigns himself to having to come up with some other method of persuasion. Wild is not, he reminds himself, a seven-year-old girl who can be bribed with quality time and a nice ribbon. So he is surprised when the champion nods and reluctantly opens his mouth.
Five spoonful's of questionable soup do not offer much as far as nutrients are concerned, but Wind feels better having seen the sick man eat. Setting the bowl aside, the sailor goes to his bag and rummages for a few moments before returning with his brush in hand.
Wild's hair is disgusting: three days of sweat and dirt have matted it in places, and the oils leave the sailors' hands feeling vaguely waxy. It's almost impossible to get the blue leather tie out of the long hair, and when he does manage it Wind resolves not to give it back until it and the cook's hair have had a proper cleaning. Wind rummages through one of his pouches for something he can use as an alternative and comes across a piece of string. It's not a fancy ribbon, but it will do.
He keeps his voice quiet as he starts to sing again. He isn't sure where this song comes from, but it's familiar and he's been singing it to Aryll when she is sick for as long as he can remember. It's fitting, the sailor supposes, to share this song with another sick member of his family. Gradually Wild's hair detangles, and Wind quickly twists it into a simple braid.
He puts a hand on Wilds shoulder when he is done, and the champion offers no resistance as he is guided into laying down. As soon as his head hits the pillow, Wild is asleep again. The young sailor brushes his fingers over the cook's flushed skin and smiles when the older hero turns slightly into the touch.
He doesn't remember falling asleep, only waking up the next morning curled into Wilds side with Twilight watching over them both.
Wild does eventually recover and the next time he comes back from the river with hair that isn't full of sweat and mud, he taps Wind on the shoulder. The sailor takes the offered comb and tie with a grin.
It's still hard being the youngest, but it's not so different anymore.