Hearth's Warming (Spit)Fire
Bathed in Hearth's Warming Lights
Suddenly, there was a knock at the door.
Spitfire was immediately lifted from her blissful state of hyper-focus. Groaning loudly, she reluctantly removed her gaze from the spreadsheet in front of her and leaned back in her chair. “Come in,” she called, her voice grating with annoyance.
A squeak accompanied the opening of the door to the captain’s office. In walked a muscular, navy-blue maned stallion sporting the Wonderbolts’ trademark uniform. “O Captain, my Cap’n!” he called, trotting over in front of Spitfire’s desk and skillfully clicking his hooves together to stand at mocking attention.
Spitfire blinked twice, the expression on her face thoroughly bemused. “What do you want, Soarin’?”
“The rest of the team has left for break,” Soarin’ responded without skipping a beat. “I figured you’d still be in your office, though, and I was right.”
“Expense reports, next season’s preliminary schedule, and disciplinary forms,” Spitfire cut back tersely, returning her gaze to the papers spread across her desk.
“Right, very important,” Soarin’ mocked. “Come on, Spitfire. Tomorrow is Hearth’s Warming Eve! The rest of the team just finished your exercises and are heading back to their families, but if it was up to you the Wonderbolts wouldn’t even get Hearth’s Warming Day off!”
Spitfire flicked her gaze up toward her old friend and shot him a dead-serious glare. “Just let me finish my forms.”
“Fine, I will,” Soarin’ said, pouting. “But, I’m not leaving your office until you leave with me.” Trotting to the far corner of the room, he pulled a chair up to the front of Spitfire’s desk. Sitting down in it, he kicked up his back hooves and placed them on his boss’ desk.
Spitfire scowled up past Soarin’s blue-latex covered hooves and toward the smug grin on his face. Then, looking down, she began to write numbers into the cells on her sheet.
The two sat in relative silence for a while, the only sounds being the scribbling of Spitfire’s pen and an occasional clearing of Soarin’s throat.
When Spitfire had finished her first set of paperwork, she set her pen down and sighed deeply. Craning her neck to one side, she cracked it sharply.
Sensing an opening, Soarin’ spoke up. “So, Hearth’s Warming with your Mom again this year? Or are you finally going to meet the parents of that secret coltfriend you don’t tell us about?”
Spitfire scoffed once at Soarin’s very stale joke. “Good one. I guess it depends on whether or not you’re finally going to go see your bastard foal and spurned lover during the holidays.”
Soarin’ scrunched up his muzzle. “You know, you can joke around without making things dark.”
Spitfire filed her papers and brought out the next set of forms. “You’re right, I’m sorry. I know that no mare could ever love you.”
“I’m sorry too. Even if you did have a secret coltfriend, I know your fear of commitment would keep you from meeting the ol’ in-laws.”
Spitfire let out a single snort and grinned very slightly, which prompted Soarin’ to flash a wide smile at her.
“There’s that smile,” he gushed as if to a foal, pulling his hooves down from the desk. “There’s the Captain’s pretty smile! Aw!”
His words caused Spitfire’s smirk to grow as she shook her head. “You’re not going to let me get this done, are you?”
“Probably not.”
Spitfire leaned back in her chair and kicked her hooves up, mirroring Soarin’s position from before. “Well, to answer your question, my mother is on vacation in the Paradise Islands with her new love interest.”
Soarin’ cocked an eyebrow. “Third one this year, huh?”
Spitfire bared her teeth at shot him a glare which told him not to press the question.
“Alright,” Soarin’ continued, holding up a hoof slightly to defend himself just in case Spitfire decided to throw something at him. “So...who are you spending Hearth’s Warming with, then? Your cousins, or something?”
“Nopony,” Spitfire replied softly. “I’ll sleep in. Maybe go see a movie.”
“Well, that’s ridiculous,” Soarin’ scolded her. “Why don’t you come and spend Hearths’ Warming with me and my family?”
Spitfire snorted again, although this time much more sharply. “You mean you and your three wild-ass younger brothers?”
“And my parents,” he added, as if punctuating a crucial detail that should never have been forgotten.
“I’ll take a rain check.”
Soarin’ looked solemnly at his longtime friend. “Come on, Spitfire. Nopony should have to spend Hearths’ Warming alone.”
Spitfire regarded Soarin’ blankly for a few moments. “I don’t like imposing.”
“It’s no imposition.”
Spitfire raised an eyebrow and frowned slightly. “Are you sure about that? Don’t you need to ask your parents?”
“Nah. Mom’s always happy to have more ponies around, gives her an excuse to cook more. Besides, I run the show in the family.”
“Yeah, I bet. Soarin’ the family patriarch makes perfect sense,” Spitfire drew out with her trademark deadpan sarcasm.
“Exactly!” Soarin’ shot her a wink. “Come on, worst case scenario, you get some free food and go home.”
“No,” Spitfire groaned. “Worst case scenario, one of your brothers hits on me.”
“And then you’ll get to knock him silly!” Soarin’ cried happily, leaning forward and slamming his hoof on the desk as if Spitfire had just proved his entire case.
Spitfire bit her lip. “I’m going to pass.”
“Alright then,” Soarin’ sighed, leaning back in his chair and spinning around in it aimlessly. “What movie are we seeing tomorrow?”
Spitfire froze for a moment before shaking her head as if to clear it. “What are you talking about, featherbrain?”
“You said you’re gonna see a movie. So, what movie are we seeing?”
“You mean what movie I’m seeing?”
“Noooooo,” Soarin’ hummed, allowing his chair’s spinning to slow down before halting it in place so he could face Spitfire. “I mean we. I’m staying with you.”
Spitfire groaned audibly. “No, Soarin’, you’re not.”
“Yeah, I am,” he spat back, echoing her tone. “I’m not leaving a pony I’ve been friends with since foalhood to rot alone on Hearths’ Warming.”
“You have a family to spend time with. Plus, the eighth grade is hardly foalhood.”
Soarin’ pursed his lips. “Agree to disagree. Point is, Spitty, you’re my work family. And a friend. So, no, I’m not leaving you.”
Spitfire looked into Soarin’s eyes tiredly, the bags below her own clearly visible. “If I agree,” she half-moaned, “Will you let me finish my paperwork?”
“I’ll go change out of my flight suit and shower,” Soarin’ chirped, getting up from the chair and walking behind Spitfire’s desk. Positioning himself behind her imposing chair, he leaned down and wrapped his forehooves around her neck in a hug. Placing the side of his face on the top of her mane, he nuzzled her jokingly. “Come meet me in the locker room when you’re finished. If you run, I’ll come to your house.”
Spitfire hung limply in his embrace, her patience with Soarin’s antics largely exhausted. “Alright,” she groaned, her cheek pressed against her teeth by Soarin’s foreleg.
“You won’t regret it,” he sang as he trotted out of Spitfire’s office.
As Spitfire began working through disciplinary forms for the latest batch of Wonderbolt Cadets, her thoughts began to wander to Soarin’. They had been competing in flying contests together since their formative years. They joined the Wonderbolts at the same time, and rose up the ranks together. Soarin’ had even been in the running for becoming the new Captain, but had ducked out immediately upon hearing that Spitfire was the other candidate. Why he did so, she didn’t know. She hadn’t ever bothered to ask.
Regardless of that fact, their long history together meant that Spitfire trusted Soarin’ with a lot of responsibility. It also meant that Soarin’ was exceptionally adept at teasing Spitfire, since he was so comfortable around her.
“Maybe too comfortable,” Spitfire grumbled to herself, running a hoof through her mane to restore order to what Soarin’ had disheveled.
A diffuse cloud of steam hit Spitfire in the face as she walked into the Wonderbolt’s locker room. Immediately, she could hear the roar of the showerhead and Soarin’s voice as he sang.
The Wonderbolts’ unisex locker room and barracks were a cause of much confusion in society. Ultimately, they came from a history grounded in military tradition, but Spitfire always explained it as based on a unique ‘workplace culture’. Thankfully, there had been no adverse events associated with having mares and stallions crammed together in such a way. However, it did make for some interactions that would appear very strange to the uninitiated.
“You alright in there, Soarin’?” Spitfire called over the crashing of water against the tiles. “Did you fall and hurt yourself?”
“The fire of friendship lives in our hearts, as long as it burns, we cannot drift apart…” he sang back slightly off key, ignoring his boss.
Spitfire rolled her eyes and leaned back against the lockers to wait for Soarin’.
After another few moments, the roaring echo in the locker room abruptly stopped, and Soarin’ trotted into the main locker bank. His wet mane sticking to his neck and his coat plastered tightly to his body, he leaned into a tile-covered wall and wiggled his eyebrows up and down at his boss. “You like what you see, Captain?”
Soarin’ was an attractive and fit pony, but Spitfire would never vocalize such sentiments. Slowly, she shook her head side to side, as if ashamed. “You are just as ugly as the day I laid eyes on you.”
“Aw, you too, ‘Cap.” He waltzed over to her, hooves sliding across the tile floor. “I could really use your help drying off, though.”
Spitfire frowned as Soarin’ spun in place and began backing up to her tail-first. His rear end pressed her into the lockers. “Gross, Soarin’. Quit it.”
“C’mon, Spitfire!” he cooed, wiggling his hips into her. “I’m so attractive and wet, I can’t dry all this hotness off on my own!”
Grimacing, Spitfire leaned forward and nabbed the towel Soarin had wrapped around his neck in between her teeth.
“Ah good, you’ve decided to see reason!” he cheered.
After whirling the towel around a few times, Spitfire snapped her head rapidly, whipping the towel sideways.
Soarin’ let out a yelp as the towel’s edge smacked into his face.
Spitfire unclenched her jaw, dropping the towel on the floor of the room. “Giddyup,” she mocked, slapping Soarin’s cutie mark and sending him scurrying across the floor to the other side of the locker bank.
Soarin’ looked up angrily at Spitfire. “My eye!” he hissed between clenched teeth. Slowly, he removed the hoof covering the injured organ, blinking repeatedly to stem the pain.
Spitfire observed his bloodshot eye coolly. “You look pretty with that red eyeliner on. Now, dry off and get your things together before I change my mind about all this.”
“Fine,” Soarin’ grumbled, still blinking irregularly as he nabbed his towel from the floor of the locker room. “I still got you to touch my flank.”
“If it meant causing you severe pain, I’d touch you anywhere.”
Soarin’ grinned cockily and lifted his good eyebrow at her. “Is that so?”
Spitfire rolled her eyes and headed to the door of the locker room. “Nevermind. You’ve got two minutes to meet me out in the hall before I leave and go home.”
It didn’t take Soarin’ any more than forty-five seconds to exit the locker room after Spitfire, dry as a bone. Along with his saddlebags, he was wearing his Wonderbolt-issue lined leather jacket, as was Spitfire. Without speaking another word, he skipped down the hallway and threw the door of the barracks open, revealing a blizzard raging around the Wonderbolts’ base.
“It’s been snowing outside?” Spitfire asked incredulously, tilting her head sideways.
“It’s been snowing all day,” Soarin’ tutted. “Why do you keep your blinds closed? Do you like feeling like your office is a prison cell?”
“I wouldn’t get anything done if I was admiring the weather all day,” she muttered defensively.
Soarin’ led the way out the front door and onto the nearby cloud path, and Spitfire followed. “So, we’ll head to your house first so you can pick up your stuff, and then we’ll head down to Whinneapolis to catch the train.”
“Wait, what?” she interjected, halting in place. “Your parents live in Cloudsdale!”
“Lived in Cloudsdale. They moved out of my childhood home a few years ago when my Dad took a new job near Chicacolt.” Soarin’ sniffed and shrugged. “It was a money thing. He only stuck around here for us kids, and as soon as my youngest brother was out of school, bam.”
“Great,” Spitfire groaned at the sky, flexing her wings. “An awkward Hearth’s Warming and a long commute. And to top it all off, it’s snowing.”
Soarin’ siddled alongside her and wrapped a wing over her back. “We’ll be there before 1 am! And, c’mon, the snow makes everything better! Oh, the weather outside is frightful!”
Spitfire kept her gaze pointed at the black sky, snowflakes coming to rest and melting on her face. “Please, no.”
“But the fire is so delightful!”
“Let’s just get through this in one piece, Soarin’.”
Soarin’ bumped his flank into Spitfire’s and goaded her to walk forward to the edge of the cloud with a few gentle prods of his muzzle against her neck. “And since we’ve no place to go, let it snow, let it snow, let it snow! And it doesn’t show signs of stopping, and I’ve got me some corn for popping-”
“I’ve never liked popcorn,” Spitfire muttered disdainfully, although her friend’s silly behavior was causing a slight grin to play at her lips.
“The lights are turned way down loooooow~” Soarin’ crooned suggestively into her ear.
Spitfire let out a giggle that she couldn’t suppress and wrapped one of her wings around Soarin’ in a similar fashion to how he had done to her.
“Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow!” they sang together before leaping off the edge of the cloud and into the night sky.
“Two hot chocolates, please,” Soarin’ ordered.
“No, just one,” Spitfire protested from behind him.
“Don’t listen to her, she doesn’t know what she’s talking about. Two, please.”
The Celestrack employee working the beverage cart gazed back at Soarin’ tiredly for a moment before taking his bits and exchanging them for two steaming drinks topped with whipped cream and marshmallows and garnished with white chocolate shavings and a miniature candy cane.
Soarin placed one of the cups on a tray table between him and Spitfire. “Drink your hot chocolate, Spitfire.”
“No,” she protested, crossing her hooves over her chest. “I don’t want it.”
“Yes, you do. Stop resisting the holiday spirit and drink up.” As if to accentuate his point, Soarin’ lifted his own hot chocolate to his face.
The train jostled as it went over a rough portion of track, sending whipped cream and scalding liquid directly into Soarin’s muzzle. Yelping in pain, he covered his muzzle with a hoof reflexively.
Spitfire immediately launched into a fit of chuckles and seemed to relax in her seat. “Rough luck, Soarin’. You can have mine, if you want.” She used a hoof to press her Styrofoam cup over to him.
Soarin’ glared at her. “You are a terrible friend. I can’t believe I got you a Hearth’s Warming present.”
Spitfire’s cocky expression softened as she took in his words. “You got me a present?”
Soarin’ hit his saddlebags with a hoof to accentuate them. “You bet, it’s in there. That’s why I stopped by today, to drop it off. Now, it can wait until Hearth’s Warming.”
Spitfire was quiet for a moment, seemingly very interested in the stripes of the candy cane topping the untouched hot chocolate. The clicking sounds of the train’s wheels against the track echoed through the largely empty passenger cabin. “...I didn’t get you anything, though.”
“Well, yeah,” Soarin’ responded, seemingly confused. “You haven’t gotten me a Hearth’s Warming gift like, ever.”
Spitfire furrowed her brow. “Well, what made you get me a gift this year?”
“I’ve gotten you gifts every year since I’ve known you.”
Spitfire frowned and glanced out the window. The night outside was intense; the only color that could be seen was the frantic white of individual snowflakes that were close enough to the train to be illuminated by its exterior lights. “Wow. I am a terrible friend.”
“Well,” Soarin’ sighed, kicking his back hooves up and sliding them onto Spitfire’s lap on the opposite bench. “If you’re looking for a last-minute gift idea, I’d never say no to a hoof massage.”
Spitfire bared her teeth at him. “Get those things off of me.”
“Now, now, Spitty,” he scolded, wagging a forehoof back and forth in paternal discipline. “You’re only a terrible friend if you don’t give me a hoof rub.”
It was indeed around one in the morning when Spitfire and Soarin’ arrived at his parents’ home in the Chicacolt suburbs. The snowfall in the area was steady but much slower than it had been on the train journey across the country, yielding a scene that was absolutely silent save for the crunching of their hooves. The blackness of the neighborhood was cut only by the glow of occasional street lights stretching into the distance.
Soarin’ turned and began heading up a slight incline of snow that was, Spitfire thought, almost certainly a walkway or something similar when uncovered. She halted tentatively at the edge before proceeding up it.
At the end of the snowy path, Spitfire climbed a single step to join Soarin’ on a covered porch. Softly, she ruffled her feathers and stomped her hooves to clear herself of snow.
“Alright,” Soarin’ told her in a hushed tone. “Wait here for just a sec. I’m going to go in and let my parents know that you’re here and will be staying with us. Then, I’ll come down and get you.”
Spitfire nodded. She turned to watch the snow fall as Soarin’ jiggled with his keys and disappeared inside.
Spitfire exhaled into the cold, watching as her breath spiraled up into the air. She repeated this cycle several times, the novelty fading with each cycle, before turning her attention back to the thick clumps of snowflakes gently falling on the road a few dozen feet away. Cocking an eyebrow, she watched her hoofprints carefully. Over time, they slowly began to fill in, becoming less defined as the snow continued to accumulate.
The door next to her creaked open again. “Alright,” Soarin’ whispered. “It took a little to wake them, but they know you’re here. Come on in.”
Spitfire wiggled her body to clear off any snowflakes that might have still been sticking to her jacket and walked inside. She examined Soarin’ with a tired expression, noting the green and red-striped lounge pants he had put on. “Really? You changed?”
“I had to put on my PJs,” he explained with confidence, as if such a fact would clear him from all guilt.
“While leaving me out in the cold?”
Soarin’ shrugged. “You’re tough. You can handle it.”
Spitfire rolled her eyes. “Alright. Whatever. So, where am I going to sleep?”
Soarin’ closed one of his eyes and scrunched up a muzzle in thought. “I hadn’t given that much thought. What about-”
“And don’t say with you in your bed.”
Soarin’ remained silent, with the same strange expression plastered on his face.
Spitfire let out a quiet groan.
“Let’s have a coffee and we can figure it out.” Soarin’ leaned his head sideways, presumably in the direction of the kitchen.
“Do you have decaf?”
“Of course not.”
Spitfire closed her eyes and inhaled slowly before releasing. “Then I’ll sit while you have a coffee.”
“Alright,” Soarin’ agreed, turning and waltzing slowly down a dark hallway. Spitfire followed him, looking into the rooms they passed on either side.
As Spitfire looked to her left again, she froze dead in her tracks. An eight foot tall Hearth’s Warming Tree lay at the end of a rectangular room, dazzlingly decorated with multicolored lights and hung with ornaments of many shapes, sizes, and colors. The lights and ornaments cast a complex network of lights and shadows on the walls of the otherwise dark room.
Spitfire felt Soarin’s presence off to her right. “Neat, huh?”
“Woah.”
Soarin’ chuckled. “Yep. That’s Hearth’s Warming personified, right there. Usually they wait for me to get home before they decorate, but, uh…” He snorted. “Guess they didn’t bother this year.”
Spitfire took a single step forward into the room. “Is that a real tree?”
“You bet. We always get a real tree.”
Spitfire walked deeper into the room, a light pine scent filling her nostrils as a sense of calm washed over her. “It’s so pretty…”
Soarin’ walked in and halted beside her. “Sure is.”
Spitfire pursed her lips. “We never had a real Hearth’s Warming Tree…”
Soarin’ tilted his head and looked down at her. “Really?”
Spitfire shook her head slowly. “Only plastic.” Gently, she backed up and took a seat on a couch against a wall in the room, her attention still fully on the magnificent display.
Soarin’ sat next to her, groaning softly. His ear flicked once at a faint creaking sound echoing from the floor above; no doubt one of his younger brothers skulking about, as they were apt to do at this hour of the night.
Suddenly, his ears perked up. Sticking his muzzle into his saddlebag, he pulled out Spitfire’s wrapped present, a small box, and put it under the tree, on a blanket of fake snow that, aside from a few other small packages, was devoid of gifts.
“There we go,” he groaned as he sat back down. “Now you’ve got something to open when the time comes.”
“...Where are all the presents?” Spitfire asked. “Tomorrow is the day!”
“Tomorrow is Hearth’s Warming Eve.”
“Doesn’t your family open presents on Hearth’s Warming Eve?”
Soarin’s expression was aghast. “Absolutely not! Hearth’s Warming Eve is for church, the pageant, and old holiday movies. We open gifts on Hearth’s Warming Day! That’s why the only presents there are from like, aunts and stuff. Your family seriously does presents on Hearth’s Warming Eve?”
Spitfire nodded. “Yeah, of course.”
Soarin’ shook his head. “Your family is messed up.”
Spitfire sighed forlornly. “Yeah. It is.”
Realizing his faux pas, Soarin’ bit his lip as he searched for a remark that would redeem his position.
“Soarin’, why do you stick around?”
Caught off guard, Soarin’ took a moment to react. “...Wha-what? What do you mean?”
“You were right,” Spitfire sighed, gazing pensively at the little gift Soarin’ had gotten for her. “I’m a terrible friend.” Slowly, she turned her head to look up at Soarin’. “I couldn’t even let you host me for the holiday without fighting you. Why...Why do you even bother with me?”
Looking affectionately back at his friend, Soarin’ extended a wing to wrap around her. “Y’know, every great pony in history has had a number two. Commander Hurricane had Private Pansy, General Firefly had Admiral Fairweather, and Princess Celestia has her Chancellor. You can’t have a great pony without somepony being there to support them.”
Spitfire pouted skeptically back at Soarin’.
He cocked an eyebrow. “Be honest, Captain. Would you rather be remembered by millions, or be remembered by the pony who is remembered by millions?”
Spitfire’s gaze narrowed. “I’d rather be remembered by millions. Is that, like, a trick question or something?”
Chuckling quietly, Soarin’ shook his head. “Point is, you’re going places, Spitfire. And I’m here to support you wherever you go, ‘cuz I like you.” Accentuating his point, he tapped the center of her barrel with his hoof. “Supporting you means I don’t let you spend Hearth’s Warming alone, and that you have to finish your hot chocolate.”
Spitfire looked down at the fabric of the couch as she thought, before wiggling out of her lined jacket. Throwing it on the ground, she leaned into Soarin’s wing and rested her head against his barrel. “Thanks, Soarin’.” A few tears leaked from her eyes and onto his coat. “I don’t deserve you.”
Soarin’ hummed happily. “Nah, you don’t. But you get me anyway, and I’ll always have your back, ‘Cap. That’s a promise.”
The small wet patch on Soarin’s barrel grew slowly as the two sat together in silence, bathed in the glow of a thousand prismatic lights. Spitfire sniffled once and inhaled sharply. “D-do you remember when we were teens, and you asked me out?”
Soarin’ moaned in shame. “Don’t remind me.”
Spitfire giggled and wrapped her hoof around Soarin’s far side, pulling him into a seated hug. “You’re a good stallion. Maybe it wouldn’t have been the worst thing if I had said yes.”
Soarin’ shuffled a little in place. “Oh-ho-ho, really? Is that so?”
“Don’t get any ideas, smart guy. I’m just musing, is all.”
“It’s not too late to kiss under the mistletoe, Spitfire. I might have some in my saddlebags.”
“Okay, get it.”
Soarin’ froze in place, Spitfire’s head still resting against his muscular barrel. “...What? Are you serious?”
Spitfire shrugged, a motion which she used to wiggle her way closer to Soarin’. “Why not? It’s the holidays, I’m feeling vulnerable. One kiss won’t hurt.”
Soarin’ shuffled uncomfortable on the couch. “Okay, well...If I’m being honest, I was just teasing you. I don’t have any in my bag.”
Spitfire looked up at him. “Does that matter? Do we need it?”
Soarin’ bit his lip. “I guess not. The, uh...the team doesn’t have to hear about this, do they?”
Spitfire lifted her muzzle toward Soarin’s. “Absolutely not. This didn’t happen.”
Gently, Soarin’ lifted a hoof and ran it through Spitfire’s mane. “Okay, good. D-do you remember that time at the end-of-season party for the Cloudsdale Flying Team, that one year? We like, made out or whatever?”
Spitfire let out a shaky breath, exhaling over Soarin’s muzzle. She cringed slightly and closed her eyes, but smiled. “Don’t remind me.”
Soarin’ swallowed loudly. “We seem to be wasting a lot of time and not doing this.”
“Yeah. Okay.” Spitfire cleared her throat. “H-happy Hearth’s Warming, Soarin.”
“Happy Hearth’s Warming.”
For just a few moments, the two brought their lips together. Then, they parted.
Spitfire unfurled her wing and wrapped it around Soarin’, and resumed her previous position with her head resting against his barrel. Together, the two sat and drank in the lights on the tree in relative silence.
Soarin’ spoke up first. “How did that feel?”
Spitfire nuzzled Soarin’s neck softly. “It felt just like any other moment we’ve spent together, actually.”
“And, uh...what does that feel like?” Soarin’ asked. Through the coat on his barrel, he could feel Spitfire’s lips curl into a smile.
“Pretty good,” she admitted nonchalantly.
Pursing his lips, Soarin’ nodded. “Yeah.” Leaning down, he nuzzled the top of Spitfire’s head. “Are you warm enough?”
Spitfire nodded. “Yeah. You’re nice and warm. Actually…”
Awkwardly, Spitfire pushed Soarin’ over and clambered on top of him, shifting their cuddling from a seated to a supine position. Resting her head against his neck, she let out a warm breath that tickled his coat.
“That’s better. My hooves weren’t getting enough of the warmth.”
Soarin’ relaxed his body to deepen the contact between the two of them. Reaching out with his hooves, he wrapped one around Spitfire’s body just above her tail, and ran the other one gently through the feathers of her left wing.
Spitfire hummed happily. “Can we sleep here, Soarin’?”
The larger pony nodded, his eyes already closed.
“Are your brothers going to take a picture of us like this in the morning and blackmail us with it?”
Soarin’ nodded in the same manner as before.
Spitfire wiggled in Soarin’s grasp, working her body upward so that she could whisper in his ear. “Can I open my gift tomorrow?”
This time, Soarin’ shook his head.
“Darn,” she muttered.
“Are you going to let me take care of you from now on, without fighting me?” he asked softly.
“...I might.”
“Then I might let you open your present tomorrow.”
Spitfire kissed Soarin’ on the cheek. “...Happy Hearth’s Warming, big guy.”
“Happy Hearth’s Warming, ‘Cap.” He yawned. “Now, go to sleep. I can’t rest with you yammering like that.”
Together, the two ponies chuckled gingerly, then fell asleep in the sea of soft colors.
Author's Note
I hope you enjoyed this Happy Holiday Story! Merry Christmas to all!
I just announced Round 2 of CategoricalGrant's Cuddlefic Contest, and there are a bunch of great prizes, including $50 for the Winner! If you're a writer, or like cuddles, or just want to win something, I'd really encourage you to join! You can find all the rules and information at this link here.
Even if you don't want to compete, please do join the group so you can read all of our great entries as they come in- and feel free to promote the contest! <3
