Greatwater Lake 'cause i don't believe in the things that i do

forward dated a bit in zeph's timeline but doesn't have to be for @Riley's, im flexible LOL <3

The healing process has always seemed a sluggish, agitated fever dream to Zephyr. A nightmare in which all your enemies surround you and all your punches fall too slow, too soft, feathers against cotton. That infuriating silent helplessness, that slow-burning rage, has left him restless, unable to settle the way he knows he should. He finds himself wandering in spite of his need for rest, away from his companions again — though not quite as far. He's careful to stay within calling distance, anxious about the distance between them even as it conflicts with his desire for it.
The view of the lake is worth it, at least. He keeps his distance for now, uncertain how the water may affect his still-closing wounds, though he longs to get closer. A chilly swim sounds perfect right about now, if only to soothe the heated itch in his neck and shoulder, and perhaps calm the angry swelling at the base of his tail. But the fear of infection continues to hold him back, along with an acute awareness of his own weakness. He'd come close to dying, he knows; he's done that often enough to recognize it by now. It will take time to regain his strength, and age has tempered his recklessness enough to keep him from pushing himself too far too fast.

His wandering brings him within sight of another — a stout dark boy with fur like freshly churned earth, sun-bleached to chocolate tones on the surface layers and saturated to midnight hues below. Intriguing enough to draw him in further, slowly, chuffing to gauge a reaction to his presence. Closer now, fierce eyes capture his attention; the sun itself flaring within, the crackle of scathing predatory brutality. Hello, He offers simply, guarded yet curious. He's torn between an all too common attraction, and a growing wariness, but for now he favors neither. First, he'll see what kind of person this stranger is.

The slip does not go unnoticed, but Zephyr gives no reaction; the first thing he feels, strangely, is a flash of sympathy, and this keeps him from acknowledging it. He knows what it's like to say the wrong thing. Nice to meet you, Riley, He tosses out the formality with all the defiant indifference befitting his youthful outcast persona, yet there is a certain comradery in it, a subtle invitation to join the equally-subtle mockery. Just two kids sticking it to the man with irony, or something like that. His next words are far more genuine, tinged with the barest hint of curiosity. What're you doing out here?