backdated to around the 18th
He stirs miserably, whining as he's greeted by the feverish feeling that has become all too familiar over the last few days. He lifts his aching head, feeling as if his skull has been filled with heavy rocks, and looks for @Kratos. He's never far lately. Yet when his gaze finds the other, he realizes he's forgotten what he wanted to say. He can't seem to focus on anything except the deep fiery itch in his leg, so fierce it's almost unbearable. He might have already gnawed it to bits just to get the itch to go away, if he had the strength to do it. Kratos...
He murmurs, clearly not remembering the dozen times he's repeated the words before as he continues. It burns. I don't like it.
His head flops back down heavily, ears folding, and he whines again.
A constant tingling settles on his back, and it isn’t pleasant in the least. Akin to stabbing pains, like the teeth of the bastard are still there to shred him asunder. The muscles on his back would twitch, irritating it further, causing them to tense and thus a vicious cycle born anew.
Yet the fever is mild compared to that of the silver coywolf. Oftentimes he finds Zephyr pulling close to him—trembling—and then, away as if burned by his touch. Attentive even in his injured state, he shifts towards him at the sound of his stirring. His name repeated on Zephyr’s tongue a mantra, until finally he chokes out his pain.
He crawls forward, clenching his jaw at the pain, and releases a breath when he reaches Zephyr. His eyes inspect his leg. However much time passed, he doesn’t know, but it looks a thousand times worse than it had since the last he checked.
What’d that bastard do,
he hisses under his breath, and wonders why the fuck he ever trusted someone else to care for Ghost—he’d trusted that fool of a girl back in the swamps simply because he had nothing to lose if she poisoned him, but now he has something to lose… someone rather.
The world dissolves into fire after a moment. Zephyr is unaware of Kratos's approach, his words; all he registers is the burning in his leg, the heat permeating his skull and radiating from his body. Panic starts to seize him, and he forces himself to his feet abruptly, overwhelmed by the urge to stand and move as if he might flee from the pain. It doesn't last long. He crumples awkwardly, yelping as he goes down and tears his scabbed chest wound. The pain jolts him back to himself, and he goes still for a moment as warm blood trickles through his fur. Sorry,
He mumbles. Hurts.
It hurts enough to drive him mad a million times over, but he can't find the words to say that right now, so he puts extra force into the word he can manage.
With Zephyr, he stands—an automatic response to catch the fall as the silver coywolf starts to crumble awkwardly back down, and Kratos shifts forward, placing his leg and chest to cushion the blow. It may do little, or perhaps the awkward position harms more than helps—but each action done so on instinct alone and the desire to protect.
Don’t stand.
You fool is implied by the tone, yet Zephyr’s is his to dote over—to care for, and he wouldn’t trade it for anything. He adjusts himself until he is able to guide Zephyr to lay on his not-fucked up side. This time, he curls around the silver coywolf’s back, pressing his chin heavily into his shoulder and one leg over top of Zephyr’s hip.
Kratos catches him, and the rest doesn't seem to matter quite as much. He lets the other move him without a fight, realizing that the vulnerability he'd felt before had been nothing; self-imposed more than anything, a choice he'd made to keep Kratos in his life. This is real vulnerability, true helplessness in a way he's never experienced before. It's terrifying, but his mate is shockingly gentle.
He shivers as Kratos curls around him, closing his eyes after a moment, and tries to focus on letting himself feel safe. But all he can think about is how nice the touch feels, and how much he wishes he could do more. It's better than focusing on the burning in his leg, at least. This... this is really nice,
He yawns, slurring. Can we do this when I'm not dying too?
Whether Zephyr trusts him, or simply has little fight left in him, he goes without struggle—allowing Kratos to manhandle and forcing him into this awkward cuddle. Although one in which originally planned to pin comfortably and keep the injured boy from moving again, it seems Zephyr melts into it.
Kratos ought to expect it, since he knows how much the other enjoys his cuddles and attention, but part of him is taken off-guard by the sudden shift of the mood. As if the pain is dulled just a touch by the distraction. Kratos realizes the searing pain across his back is easily shoved into the background, too, if only to help what matters more than himself.
You aren’t dying.
Kratos would uppercut the Reaper himself if he has to. And in ways, Zephyr’s answer; Yes.
In response, a huff is given and the two fall into silence, cuddling close until eventually, slumber takes them both. A rare feat, for Kratos feels the urge to guard whenever they are in such vulnerable positions. Guess being in a pack’s territory has its perks sometimes.