Bitterroot Valley space is about to fold

@Kratos had promised him a training session this morning, and when Zephyr wakes it's all he can think about — well, that and the fact that he can't breathe, but that's not the Most Important, so it gets shuffled to the side for now. He's been itching for more improvement lately, bothering his mate about it whenever he gets a chance. They're probably both a little sore, but the ice-wraith hardly notices it. He's getting stronger, he thinks; not much, but it's still progress. And he's eager to continue with it.
Unfortunately, his dragon is still sleeping, difficult to pry himself away from when he finally decides he needs to move before he dies. It takes him a few minutes to untangle himself from his mate's suffocating grasp, but when he finally escapes the cage of thick limbs, he breathes a little easier. He turns to leave, first deciding to let Kratos get a little more sleep — but then he changes his mind.
His pace picks up as he turns back, running for a moment before he launches himself at his sleeping dragon, aiming to grab one ear between his teeth and give it a good tug while he simultaneously knocks the air out of him. Not a very pleasant way to wake up, but Zephyr is just returning the favor, sort of. And he's really impatient to get to training.

It isn’t like him to not awaken at the drop of a hat—maybe allergies had ‘em, or he was getting a cold, but Zephyr manages to slip past him. Kratos blissfully unaware until abruptly he is pounced on, split ear held onto by the silver coywolf.
Breath knocked from him, the dragon awakes in a fit of fury and fire. He rises to his feet, uncaring for the attacker that may have resided on or near him, along with the ripping it does to the ear in Zephyr’s grasp. He aims to knock his shoulder forth, using it akin to a battering ram and teeth go for whatever is closest—in this case, should Zephyr not move, it would be his forearm.

He doesn't anticipate the reaction he gets, so he doesn't think to move even as Kratos snaps to wakefulness with a fiery storm of movement. Stunned, he loses his grip on the ear he'd managed to snag. Guilt strikes at him briefly when he tastes blood. The thought is lost in the next moment as his mate slams into him, teeth sinking into the more sensitive of his forelegs, the one still healing from how thoroughly it'd been chewed weeks ago. He doesn't expect it to hurt as much as it does. A snarl bursts from him, more instinctive than anything. He snaps at Kratos several times, certain his leg is bleeding and desperate to loosen his mate's iron grip.

It is instinct—pulled between the thin line of fight or flight after being disturbed so violently. Takes him back to teeth, to tail pulled and ear ripped, to flesh and blood being the alarm bell every morning after the young pup passed out. A mind scrambled from fear and sleep deprivation.
He has his attacker in his clutches, holding onto the forearm harder than he would have—if he knew who it is in his clutches. The snapping, however, makes him release eventually, one such snap snags his nose, hanging on for a moment until the release is done—no damage done but a gasp of breath and a heaving of his chest. Kratos pulls away with a growl in his throat, spine spiked and tail uncharacteristically tucked.

The pain intensifies with each second that passes, making him more desperate until the grip finally falls away. He staggers back several feet, gasping, leg held awkwardly above the ground. The smell of blood hangs in the air. His ears flatten as his gaze finds Kratos, chest tightening when he notes the tucked tail. I'm sorry. I didn't think... He falters, ashamed and in pain, and fails to find his voice again.

Pale gold eyes take in the attacker—finally, it dawns on him. He isn’t in any danger; what happened he is uncertain of, but the damage he’d done to Zephyr lays in the forefront.
Didn’t know it was you— A rushed apology comes out, but it wouldn’t ever be enough.

The adrenaline starts to fade, and Zephyr's injuries hit him like a train, the worst of it being the puncture wounds in his leg. His side feels rather bruised, too, but that's easier to tolerate. He sinks back onto his haunches as Kratos speaks, blood running thin rivers down his limb and dripping from his paw. I know, He murmurs, voice strained, and closes his eyes. He hadn't really known, actually, but he'd figured — same thing.

Mixed emotions bubble to the surface; Kratos forever difficult with them, more likely to ignore and deny than face them directly. Unfortunately with Zephyr he cannot do so. Slowly, he approaches, moving towards him to press his sore nose to his cheek, and then to clean the punctures.

Kratos approaches, and fear sends sharp pinpricks along his spine for a few moments. It fades quickly, though, and he relaxes under his mate's touch. Even when he starts cleaning his wounds, a painful process, Zephyr takes comfort in it. His eyes open slowly, and he leans forward to gently clean Kratos's bloody ear — gashed, but not torn through again, to his relief. He wouldn't want Kratos to end up like that weirdo with the shredded ears.

His ear twitches, flicking first away with the shy duck of his head—an instinctual movement that leaves Kratos frustrated, for typically he can resist. It is swiftly remedied by him shoving his head stubbornly back in his mate’s direction, while he does what he can with cleaning the wounds upon Zephyr’s sensitive forearm.

Kratos's movements confuse him at first, but he manages to keep up with the shifts enough to avoid any accidental collisions. What exactly just happened registers a moment after he continues grooming his mate's ear. The realization relaxes him a little; despite whatever caused what just happened between them, their relationship seems intact. When his ear is clean, his grooming continues down Kratos's neck, softer than he's ever been with him. The undertones to the touch are the same as always, though.

Both uncharacteristically gentle—where teeth and nips would have been shown in other situations, they are quiet and tender. Nothing will change how things went; Kratos knows there is no forgiveness, either. But how kind they are to each other now must be something akin to it.
He eases down, eventually resting back upon the ground and continuing his cleaning, tucking one paw towards his chest while the other fans out between Zephyr’s.

Could be wrapped if you want

No words are exchanged; none are needed, as is often the case between them. He creeps closer when Kratos settles, craving as much closeness as they can manage. It's awhile before either of them move.