[Glass goes opaque with the heat of water, tiny droplets tracking lines his eyes follow as Stiles molds against his spine in a warm and slippery press. Somehow the embrace is more intimate than anything they've yet shared, a brand of physical affection he abides for the first time in his life. No necessity in the proximity. The way Stiles' soft cock tucks into the crease of his ass, body hair tickling skin, hips framed together—Synchrony is a constant low pulse between them, mingling vestigial emotion in a wide channel like an open vein. The light of purple and green gems casts a pretty, electric-colored pattern on the white tile.
As hands push into the wet, heavy strands of hair plastered to his face and neck, Itachi's head obediently tips forward beneath the spray. His eyes close. The moment is a relaxed eternity. Stiles' words hang unanswered for an endured period of time; his slight weight leans, using the boy for support as much as he himself is used.]
Mmm. [The sound gives the vague impression of a cat purring. A lifetime's burden of tension seems to ease from the tight angle of slim shoulders, chin lowered to his chest. Speaking is slow and measured when it eventually comes.] ... I had to clean off. You'd managed to dirty my face and hair.
[There's no blame in the statement, only quietly threaded amusement and drowsiness.]
[ In the pregnant silence that follows his question, Stiles simply exists – enjoying the quiet victory of successful teamwork as they prop each other up through leaning against one another, weight gently seesawing back and forth between them. He tips at the perfect angle to nuzzle the skin joining neck to shoulder, mouth pressing lazy kisses there. It would be easy, too easy, to nod off like this. The idea tempts him as he cards his hands through wet tresses, raking the dried sweat out of Itachi’s hair in slow, methodical passes.
Ask about the tattoo, he thinks sleepily, exhaustion steadily claiming him even as his hips ambitiously roll forward into a firm backside. You always forget to ask about it.
But then Itachi speaks, low voice almost hypnotic in the curtain of steam and water pulled around them. It makes sense, given the man’s track record; after almost all their instances of intimacy, Itachi has made a point to shower afterward. Fastidious to a fault, it seems. Stiles sighs in exasperation, thinking back on his own teenage angst over why the shinobi had so abruptly departed from the storage closet, and then drops one hand to vengefully pinch a nipple. ]
You need to communicate that kind of thing, [ he admonishes without heat, fingers thumbing over the irritated, peaked nipple with the same care that his other hand still strokes through dark locks. ] I thought I did something wrong.
The shirt, though… [ Stiles trails off, pausing to consider how to answer. ] I wanted something of yours to keep. What can I say? I’m a sentimental guy.
[ Despite the nonchalant humor he injects into these words, there’s a slight tension to his body that hadn’t been present before. ]
Gonna let me have it? I’ll buy you a new one, if you want.
[A hiss answers the pinch, body flinching as fingers tweak at a sensitive nipple; his hand raises automatically to leash Stiles' wrist in a strong squeeze in case he should pursue other similar avenues of revenge. It hadn't even occurred to him to tell Stiles before he left - he assumed he would return soon enough, and the boy would be waiting. Yet it isn't the first time Stiles has ever acted against his expectations. It was easier to predict behavior in combat; this realm of interpersonal intimacy, on the other hand, is entirely new.
He could also argue that coming in his hair was a misstep, but it would not be true. At least not with the gravity Stiles suggests.]
No, that's all right. [The comment comes after a pause, as he considers what Stiles' attachment to such an arbitrary belonging as his shirt means. The clothing holds no significant meaning to him. It is easily replaced, less valuable by far than the boy's evident desire to possess it. A slight shift of movement has Itachi turning around in the shower, gently disengaging from hands in wet hair, so that they stand face to face. Eye to eye. His expression is relaxed, undemanding of an explanation. Pale fingers lift to pass once through Stiles' own hair, slick and short, almost black where it has pasted to temples and forehead.] I don't need it. Though I hope you've washed it since then.
[Soft, accusatory humor as he reaches next for soap to soak a clean hand cloth and begin lathering his own body.]
What conclusion did you come to, that time we were discussing Donovan? [Itachi's voice reverts to sober seriousness like the snap of a band. His mind has lingered on this question for days, now.] Was what I allowed too much?
[ The tension that had started to wind through his slender, trim frame abruptly unspools from his body upon hearing that Itachi will allow him to keep the shirt. Brown eyes slide shut, Stiles sighing in quiet contentment as a hand cards through his hair – tilting his head back to expose his flushed throat, the white scar there standing out in stark contrast to the pinkened skin.
It’s a relief that the other man chose not to pursue a line of questioning over the stolen article of clothing. Stiles isn’t quite ready to put into words his human need to own something real and tangible of Itachi’s. Something to keep him company at night when he wakes up from the nightmares. Something to hold when the homesickness begins to chafe his heart too raw. Something to cherish should Itachi ever vanish without warning from this dimension. If he could, he’d carry along with him a piece of everyone dear to his heart – his dad, Jonas, Sasuke, Itachi, Fenris. Oh, if only he could.
Stiles opens his eyes. ]
No, [ he answers softly, expression twisting with a bittersweet smile. ] It wasn’t too much.
[ For a moment, he watches the shinobi lather the soap in silence. Then he reaches toward the unfamiliar bottles sitting on the shelf, checking both before selecting the one labeled shampoo. Pouring a generous amount on his palm, he begins the painstaking process of washing Itachi’s hair. Both hands knead the mixture into the scalp, tendons flexing in his arms as he pays especially close yet gentle attention to the roots. ]
I don’t remember how much I’ve explained to you, but I broke up with Malia and my best friend Scott over what happened with Donovan. [ Somehow, what should be a fraught memory is recalled calmly, the bulk of his attention dedicated to what his hands are doing. ] Scott accused me of murdering Donovan in cold blood and refused to let me explain what actually went down. I guess part of me is still reconciling the fact I’ll never be what Scott wants me to be. I’m…different.
[ Touched by the Nogitsune, nursing a dangerous darkness in his soul. Stiles used to regret it; after Itachi, he’s not so sure he wants to, anymore. ]
[If Itachi notices the easing tension in that posture, he makes no comment of it. The reasons may still be nebulous to him, but that doesn't mean he'll deny any sentimentality attached to the boy's behavior. At this point it would make him an outright hypocrite. His simple indulgence in everything Stiles -- this shower, their relationship, the activities that had occured in his bedroom tonight -- is all driven by that same trench of sentiment. The measure of its expression is less important.
As Stiles goes on to explain, he angles his head obediently for careful hands at a sensitive scalp, chin jutted up to avoid any soap sliding into eyes. The moment is slow, quiet, meditative. Relaxation spreads through his limbs with a diffusive lull. It feels impossible to imagine turning someone away for murder, especially in the defense of one's own life; he reminds himself that their worlds are not the same. Their experiences are not shared.
He does not know Scott, but even though the tug of dislike is small, he still notices it.]
Stiles. [Low and calm in its certainty.] If you were not different, it's unlikely you and I would be here now.
[He transfers the sudsy cloth to Stiles' body, cleaning it off in meticulous drags, down arms and across shoulders, over his chest and flat belly.]
[ The tone of Itachi’s voice when he speaks commands Stiles’ attention. Fingers slipping away from the scalp that’s been thoroughly shampooed, he stares across the short distance separating them and listens to what the other man has to say. A strong emotion swells up in his chest, hotter than even the water descending on them from the showerhead. Had he the energy for it, Stiles might have cried. The idea that, after everything he’s done, there remains someone close to him who prefers him to be himself – no matter how fucked up he may have become – is honestly overwhelming. With a shuddery exhale, he leans forward to prop his forehead against Itachi’s shoulder. ]
…Thanks, [ he chokes out, throat tight, even as his thoughts instead form the words I love you with fierce, unyielding devotion. ] I…
[ Stiles trails off, unable to finish the sentence. But Synchrony conveys some of what he wants to admit, pouring a small flood of affection and gratitude over their open channel like thickened syrup. In the end, there’s little more to say; they continue to wash each other with methodical care, then eventually retire to the bedroom. Though Itachi presents him with his back, Stiles wastes no time in curling up against it, loosely curled fists pressed to skin and face nuzzling a shoulder. He sleeps better than he has in months that night, evidently too exhausted for nightmares or sleep walking. And when he wakes up and finds Itachi still in bed with him?
Smiling to himself, he gazes at the back of the man’s head on the pillow, black hair fanned out like rivers of spilt ink, and thinks those dangerous three words again. ]
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no subject
As hands push into the wet, heavy strands of hair plastered to his face and neck, Itachi's head obediently tips forward beneath the spray. His eyes close. The moment is a relaxed eternity. Stiles' words hang unanswered for an endured period of time; his slight weight leans, using the boy for support as much as he himself is used.]
Mmm. [The sound gives the vague impression of a cat purring. A lifetime's burden of tension seems to ease from the tight angle of slim shoulders, chin lowered to his chest. Speaking is slow and measured when it eventually comes.] ... I had to clean off. You'd managed to dirty my face and hair.
[There's no blame in the statement, only quietly threaded amusement and drowsiness.]
Why did you take my shirt?
no subject
Ask about the tattoo, he thinks sleepily, exhaustion steadily claiming him even as his hips ambitiously roll forward into a firm backside. You always forget to ask about it.
But then Itachi speaks, low voice almost hypnotic in the curtain of steam and water pulled around them. It makes sense, given the man’s track record; after almost all their instances of intimacy, Itachi has made a point to shower afterward. Fastidious to a fault, it seems. Stiles sighs in exasperation, thinking back on his own teenage angst over why the shinobi had so abruptly departed from the storage closet, and then drops one hand to vengefully pinch a nipple. ]
You need to communicate that kind of thing, [ he admonishes without heat, fingers thumbing over the irritated, peaked nipple with the same care that his other hand still strokes through dark locks. ] I thought I did something wrong.
The shirt, though… [ Stiles trails off, pausing to consider how to answer. ] I wanted something of yours to keep. What can I say? I’m a sentimental guy.
[ Despite the nonchalant humor he injects into these words, there’s a slight tension to his body that hadn’t been present before. ]
Gonna let me have it? I’ll buy you a new one, if you want.
no subject
He could also argue that coming in his hair was a misstep, but it would not be true. At least not with the gravity Stiles suggests.]
No, that's all right. [The comment comes after a pause, as he considers what Stiles' attachment to such an arbitrary belonging as his shirt means. The clothing holds no significant meaning to him. It is easily replaced, less valuable by far than the boy's evident desire to possess it. A slight shift of movement has Itachi turning around in the shower, gently disengaging from hands in wet hair, so that they stand face to face. Eye to eye. His expression is relaxed, undemanding of an explanation. Pale fingers lift to pass once through Stiles' own hair, slick and short, almost black where it has pasted to temples and forehead.] I don't need it. Though I hope you've washed it since then.
[Soft, accusatory humor as he reaches next for soap to soak a clean hand cloth and begin lathering his own body.]
What conclusion did you come to, that time we were discussing Donovan? [Itachi's voice reverts to sober seriousness like the snap of a band. His mind has lingered on this question for days, now.] Was what I allowed too much?
no subject
It’s a relief that the other man chose not to pursue a line of questioning over the stolen article of clothing. Stiles isn’t quite ready to put into words his human need to own something real and tangible of Itachi’s. Something to keep him company at night when he wakes up from the nightmares. Something to hold when the homesickness begins to chafe his heart too raw. Something to cherish should Itachi ever vanish without warning from this dimension. If he could, he’d carry along with him a piece of everyone dear to his heart – his dad, Jonas, Sasuke, Itachi, Fenris. Oh, if only he could.
Stiles opens his eyes. ]
No, [ he answers softly, expression twisting with a bittersweet smile. ] It wasn’t too much.
[ For a moment, he watches the shinobi lather the soap in silence. Then he reaches toward the unfamiliar bottles sitting on the shelf, checking both before selecting the one labeled shampoo. Pouring a generous amount on his palm, he begins the painstaking process of washing Itachi’s hair. Both hands knead the mixture into the scalp, tendons flexing in his arms as he pays especially close yet gentle attention to the roots. ]
I don’t remember how much I’ve explained to you, but I broke up with Malia and my best friend Scott over what happened with Donovan. [ Somehow, what should be a fraught memory is recalled calmly, the bulk of his attention dedicated to what his hands are doing. ] Scott accused me of murdering Donovan in cold blood and refused to let me explain what actually went down. I guess part of me is still reconciling the fact I’ll never be what Scott wants me to be. I’m…different.
[ Touched by the Nogitsune, nursing a dangerous darkness in his soul. Stiles used to regret it; after Itachi, he’s not so sure he wants to, anymore. ]
no subject
As Stiles goes on to explain, he angles his head obediently for careful hands at a sensitive scalp, chin jutted up to avoid any soap sliding into eyes. The moment is slow, quiet, meditative. Relaxation spreads through his limbs with a diffusive lull. It feels impossible to imagine turning someone away for murder, especially in the defense of one's own life; he reminds himself that their worlds are not the same. Their experiences are not shared.
He does not know Scott, but even though the tug of dislike is small, he still notices it.]
Stiles. [Low and calm in its certainty.] If you were not different, it's unlikely you and I would be here now.
[He transfers the sudsy cloth to Stiles' body, cleaning it off in meticulous drags, down arms and across shoulders, over his chest and flat belly.]
I wouldn't change that.
no subject
…Thanks, [ he chokes out, throat tight, even as his thoughts instead form the words I love you with fierce, unyielding devotion. ] I…
[ Stiles trails off, unable to finish the sentence. But Synchrony conveys some of what he wants to admit, pouring a small flood of affection and gratitude over their open channel like thickened syrup. In the end, there’s little more to say; they continue to wash each other with methodical care, then eventually retire to the bedroom. Though Itachi presents him with his back, Stiles wastes no time in curling up against it, loosely curled fists pressed to skin and face nuzzling a shoulder. He sleeps better than he has in months that night, evidently too exhausted for nightmares or sleep walking. And when he wakes up and finds Itachi still in bed with him?
Smiling to himself, he gazes at the back of the man’s head on the pillow, black hair fanned out like rivers of spilt ink, and thinks those dangerous three words again. ]