Blackfeather Woods we would say anything just to hear what we want, right or wrong

Zephyr's sharp edges are all softened, consciousness fuzzy and fickle and too tenuous to be counted on; he doesn't notice Taikon until the greeting cuts through the air. The wraith flinches almost imperceptibly, gaze shifting with a sluggishness that doesn't quite match the feverish mania behind silver eyes. Taikon, It comes out more sharply than he'd intended, the word a crimson slash of hurt as if the pale wolf had greeted him with contempt rather than concern. He exhales abruptly, visibly frustrated. Sorry. He shifts and pushes himself to his feet, swaying a little, hind legs unsteady and fumbling. I'm not in much of a joking mood lately. He wants to say a million things. He wants to yell at Taikon for leaving without saying anything — he wants to apologize for not checking on him — he wants to cry at him about how many things have gone wrong since that ill-fated night in the mountains. Instead, he lets out another sharp breath and looks at the ground. They're both healing right now, and silence is safest.