[ 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
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. ]