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The sun had long since dipped below the treetops, but Wind Archer Cookie still hadn’t returned. Fire Spirit Cookie stood by the window, arms crossed, staring into the fading horizon where the moonlight scattered across leaves like silver dust.
Then—rustling. A gust of wind. The soft creak of the door.
Wind Archer stepped inside, cloaked in shadows and silence. His steps were slow, heavy. A familiar weariness clung to his frame like burrs in a storm—his quiver half-empty, his green hair dusted in pollen and bits of twigs. A faint gash ran along his forearm, wrapped hastily in leaves and cloth.
“You’re late,” Fire Spirit said coolly, not turning to face him.
“I had to finish tracking the serpent pack north of the forest. Their numbers are growing again.”
“You were tracking all day yesterday. And the day before.” Fire Spirit pivoted. His eyes glowed with low flame, not bright with rage—just lit enough to show he was done holding back. “You’re not just exhausted. You’re breaking yourself.”
Wind Archer Cookie placed his bow gently on the wall hook, deliberately not meeting Fire Spirit’s gaze. “It’s necessary. The prey around there isn’t safe. The more I can do—”
“No.” The word cracked like lightning between them.
Wind Archer finally looked up, and Fire Spirit stepped forward, close enough to feel the tension in his husband’s frame. “You think this is noble?” Fire Spirit continued, voice low, controlled, deadly. “Coming home covered in blood and dirt, too tired to even eat properly? What’s noble about that?”
“It’s not about me.” Wind Archer’s voice sharpened. “If I don’t push harder, others will pay the price. You know that.”
Fire Spirit Cookie flared briefly with a rising heat, his cape rustling as if caught in invisible wind. “And if you fall, what then? I won’t stand here watching you burn yourself out, just because you think pain is the price of duty!”
Wind Archer's jaw tightened. “Then what would you have me do? Sit here and let danger creep closer while I rest in comfort?”
Fire Spirit Cookie didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he reached out and pressed his fingers gently against Wind Archer’s chest—over the frantically beating heart beneath cracked armor and tired muscle.
“I would have you live,” he said quietly. “I would have you here. Whole. Alive. Not a ghost of yourself with a bow and a mission.”
Wind Archer didn’t speak. He looked exhausted—beyond tired, worn to the soul. And something in his shoulders sagged. He stood there, amidst smoke and silence, his whole purpose stripped away.
Then he whispered, “...What do you want me to do, Fire?”
Fire Spirit reached for his hand. His touch was warm—no longer searing with fury, but glowing with something gentler. “Come to bed. Just tonight. Rest.”
Wind Archer hesitated. His eyes flicked toward the hallway, then to the window. “I can’t sleep.”
“Then I’ll make sure you do,” Fire Spirit said, voice quiet and full of unshakable promise.
He stepped back, and without warning, his form began to shift. The fiery cape collapsed inward, the blaze of his eyes dimmed—and within seconds, Fire Spirit Cookie vanished into a soft, glowing ember: the Red Dragon’s Bead.
The faint throb of magical fire pulsed within the jewel. It hovered in the air before Wind Archer—silent, still.
Wind Archer’s throat tightened.
“…That’s not fair,” he murmured. “You know I can’t—” Damnit. Fire Spirit knew exactly how Wind Archer couldn’t protest against this form of his.
He reached out and caught the bead in his hand, holding it close. The warmth of it bled into his skin and spread through his chest, cradling every exhausted nerve. He felt it—not just heat, but presence. Fire Spirit was still inside, watching, waiting.
Wind Archer sighed, holding the bead to his forehead. “You win.”
Later, in their shared bed, Wind Archer lay on his side, the Red Dragon’s Bead pressed against his chest. He wasn’t asleep, but his eyes had closed. His breathing had slowed. The tension in his shoulders had begun to dissolve.
Then, slowly, the bead shimmered—and Fire Spirit reformed beside him, careful not to startle him. His body was smaller now, dimmer, curled against Wind Archer’s side like a flickering flame finding its hearth.
Wind Archer’s arm instinctively wrapped around him.
“I’m still angry,” he mumbled into Fire Spirit’s hair.
“I know,” Fire Spirit murmured, tracing slow circles along his husband’s back. “You’ll thank me later.”
Wind Archer huffed a breath, half-asleep. “You’re unbearable.”
“Only because I love you more than your arrows do.”
A long pause.
Then, finally—Wind Archer chuckled. Just once. Quiet and tired, but real.
They fell asleep like that. Tangled together. One wind-tossed, one flame-bright. And—for the first time in many days—there were no battles. No scouts. No mission.
Only the sound of shared breath in the dark.