avoidant, twitchy, whittaker had woken up on the wrong side of the bed and the whole day was destined to be ruined. he angrily rubs out his eyes until he sees nothing but dark fuzz, but the world slowly comes back to him.
just because he could, he changes course to walk into the riverbed, impulsive like a car swerving to drive through a puddle. the air is still cold. winter was stubborn as hell this year, but the chill helps him wake up.
he squints— up in the distance was a small grey coywolf-looking thing. and he doesn't see him yet, but another larger man even further ahead. just because he could, he changes course to approach the silver stranger, impulsive like touching a stranger on the shoulder in the metro to let him know he has dandruff on his suit. hello, he calls out, uncertain and tired, before realising he had no idea where to push the conversation after.

just as he'd predicted, the conversation screeches to a halt before it ever gets off the ground, like an airplane on the runway bursting into flames. close your eyes and you would hear the whistle of his brain cells falling through open sky.
he sighs with all the world-weariness he can muster and brings his hand up to his face.
do you need anything? his eyes, resentful and tired, reflect the stranger's apathy. another sigh. apologies for stepping on your coattails, sir.
he's turning and about to walk away when it hits him— he's just called a girl a sir. he grits his teeth and rolls his eyes. granted, she was pretty boyish for a girl. what the hell. i'm running on an hour of sleep and i'm not even using. slowly, he turns back around again, looking a good deal more reserved. uh, sorry. about the uh, thing.
if the conversation before was a plane on fire, now it was a plane on fire carrying a shitton of explosives with a baby strapped to the cockpit. jesus.

the creases bunch and gather around his eyes. he was squinting harder, if that was possible, mouth half-open in confusion. y'know, the thing. he gestures lamely.
he does a double take. a weak scoff. do you seriously not know? 'cuz i called you sir. asshole move of me, i know. he scuffs the bottom of his foot on the floor. if he had hands, they'd be shoved unrighteously into his pockets. when he speaks again, his voice is markedly softer. sorry.
yet again, another sigh, this one longer and more heated— his thin shoulders sag with it. um. what's your name. he does not look particularly excited to engage in conversation, but he figures that it'd be best to come away with at least a name attached to a face. he treats it like he's a zookeeper to a cage full of lions: gingerly, wincing, half his foot out the door in case things took a turn for the terrible.

she— he's not a girl? what? he frowns, chews his lip, and his face folds deeper into confusion, but he remains silent. this guy— he was so clinical and collected, a pair of gloved and powdered hands holding a scalpel, and whittaker felt like a chipped mallet next to him. dingy and vaguely pathetic.
more than anything though, he's impressed.
church, dude, he mutters. i'm whittaker. so we can shake on not, like, biting chunks out of each other, right? because that's seriously the last thing i need. he scratches the back of his head, still distant, still skeptical, but a couple notches more comfortable. despite the haphazard (and largely unsuccessful) tough-guy aura he tries to exude, anyone could see the fundamental naivety in his eyes from a mile away.

zephyr smiles, or at least, tries to smile, and whittaker flashes back a toothy smirk, like he's on the verge of a fistbump. he's starting to whistle— a disjointed, off-tune melody, when a question juts out in between them.
he has to open and close his mouth a few times, searching blindly for words and the structure for a sentence that won't be completely incomprehensible. what comes out of him is a passable attempt at doing so. just, y'know. he kicks at the ground and scuffs up dirt. passing.
his head ducks down in something like embarrassment. what had really happened involved an exasperated mother and her taking away the keys to his own house, but zephyr didn't have to know all that shit. he looks back up. you?

as much as whittaker fails to deal with subtlety, he's smart enough to notice what's implied. it took another level of obliviousness to not notice the air, steeped in suggestion. he glances up, skeptical. or maybe that was how he always looks. evidence was rapidly growing to support the latter. so, uh, you asking me to tag along and shit? he cocks a brow, cocks his head, lets the expression settle in for a few moments before he breaks into a smile. hell yeah, man.
he walks closer with dragging, almost arrogant steps. let's shake on it. in between them, he raises a hand, pale and streaked with dirt, more knuckles and veins than anything else.