[It isn't the time or place to criticize those people in Stiles' life back home, although the desire nags at him, distaste for the treatment the boy faces by those he would call his companions. As always, Synchrony paints a truer color of feeling. Though he may have the urge for correction—Stiles is not as they may see him—it won't be heard well now. So he waits, and continues to listen.
The souls of the dead hunt the living. It's clear to him that Stiles was targeted, but the method does not appear to be immediate. If these supernatural creatures are so powerful, why do they bide their time in selecting a victim and snatching them up? Either time is what they require to be successful... or, perhaps more sinister, they enjoy the hunt. Itachi has met men of such an inclination; he would not put it beyond the whim of these Ghost Riders, although he knows too little yet to make the assumption.
Part of this is to walk Stiles through the trauma of what had occurred to him, another is to give Itachi as many pieces of the mystery as possible. He could have taken these memories straight from the boy's head, but that would not have offered the same relief of speaking the words aloud. Being heard as he was not heard so many weeks ago. Outside the issue that they can be sent home at all, bereft of the memory of these dimensions, is the problem that Stiles now faces: he does not have a home to return to. Like Itachi, he is facing the fate of a dead end. One much less deserved than his own.
Their walk slows, then stops, leading Itachi to step around in front of him. His free hand finds its place on Stiles' shoulder.]
[ The story is coming to a close. They both know how it ends. Lost in thought now, Stiles remains eerily silent as he replays those final moments in his head. But then a body moves to stand in front of him, interrupting the view of a seemingly unending path that tunnels his glassy vision to nowhere. Shaken free from the rabbit hole that he was unconsciously tumbling down, he starts in muted surprise. The sight of Itachi, solid and real and present, quells the spark of wild fear trying to ignite in his breast. But still the seeds of grief linger, exacerbated by the unearthed memories he’s tried so hard not to dwell on since returning to Noctium. ]
Me and Scott…we went back to the school, to warn everyone about the Ghost Riders. We split up to cover more ground. [ A pause. Brown eyes begin to shine behind a wall of unshed tears. ] That’s the last time –
[ He reaches up, scrubbing at his face with a trembling hand. ]
No one recognized me. Not Lydia’s mom. Not Liam, Hayden, or Mason. And then…
[ Looking away from Itachi, he gazes at some point in the distance while trying to dam the flood of anguish welling up in his heart. The tears spill down his cheeks, only to be angrily wiped at seconds later. ]
My dad, [ Stiles croaks miserably, voice breaking. ] He was there. He had…no idea who I was. I was a complete stranger to him. My own dad. It was like something out of my worst nightmare. I called Scott, but when Scott picked up, he didn’t know me anymore either. So, I knew then. It was obvious. The Ghost Riders were coming for me.
[ A shiver born from deep within his soul crawls upwards out of him. Stiles glances back at Itachi, the line of his mouth wobbling. ]
Lydia was the only one who still remembered. We ran, but the Ghost Riders were surrounding us. She couldn’t see them. I was afraid that, if we kept trying to escape, they might let her see them. That she might be next. I told her she was going to forget who I was, but that she had to try and remember me. I t-told her…I told her to remember that I love her. And then they took me. There was a flash of lightning, this weird feeling in my gut, and then…nothing.
[ He searches Itachi desperately for some kind of reassurance – reassurance that he’s not even emotionally equipped to tolerate, so ironclad is his belief that he’s doomed. ]
I woke up in the Burnished Crater. After I got back to Sumarlok, I…went to see you.
[The grief is an ocean bleeding through that empathetic tether, crashing over rocks, tunneling along the well-worn grooves of their familiar connection. He can feel the pain in Stiles' confession—those final moments of unrecognition from his father—as though that pain is his own. The sensitivity he has to Stiles' emotions is no new experience. Over time it has heightened, his detachment eroded by the Bond and even further by Synchrony, binding him closely to every hitch and hiccup in Stiles' emotional world. Every hurt, hurts one another. Every pleasure is compounded. Perhaps it is some masochistic thing, to be this attached to another person that he might move entire worlds in the effort to ease some of the suffering he feels in Stiles now. That he had ever considered they could live apart. That he would go to the ends of his ability to fix this problem, and that he despises himself with restored vitriol for what he did when Stiles came to see him.
That he would unleash himself upon these supernatural creatures, the Ghost Riders, at any cost, if only he could.
Itachi extracts his hand upon the story's conclusion, but only to lift both arms and enfold the boy in an embrace. One not unlike what he had offered after his transformation in the mountains. In the shade they stand together, a little off from the path, and he doesn't move, grasp strong enough that Stiles will have to fight him if he wishes it to loosen. A warm cheek presses in against the side of the boy's head.]
I am sorry. [His voice is quiet, low, nearly lost.] You came for comfort and I was cruel. I suppose, often, it is easier for me to be that way. I was wrong. It is not the first time.
[How Stiles has managed to fish him out of his own head and anchor him into the world... he doesn't know, but he expects there are too many others who would be more worth that brilliant, tenacious devotion. Not a man like him, who cannot seem to interact with reality in a way that is not painfully debilitating—every sharp, jagged edge of his psyche is designed like a weapon to turn against an opponent. Of course Stiles would suffer from it.]
You deserve someone better, but I fear that I wouldn't allow it now, even if you never forgive me. [Even if Lydia, who the Stiles of another world loves, tried to take him back.] When I believed you were gone... It was difficult. I was not prepared for that feeling, and it ultimately affected my judgment.
[A sick, dark plunge off a cliff, too similar to his initial glimpses of his family's curse in childhood.]
Stiles, you are the only good part of any life I have ever had, before or after. I understand you're afraid. It's all right. [He keeps his voice even, slow and deliberate, picking words with precision.] You are here, and so am I. Will you bear with that for now?
[ Warm, capable arms cradle him – inviting Stiles to weather the storm of his raw emotions, to be weak in the shelter of Itachi’s steady strength. He quits trying to compartmentalize his overwhelming grief; breath hitching, the teenager begins to quietly weep against a shoulder, tears soon drenching the fabric of the shirt that Itachi wears. He thinks of the father he may never see again, a bloody hole in the shape of Noah Stilinski scarring his heart. Nothing has been crueler than this terrible fate. But somehow even worse yet is the ever-looming possibility of losing Itachi, whether to disease or the mercurial whims of these dimensions. It seems inevitable, as if Stiles is doomed to watch all his loved ones pass beyond his reach again and again.
He can still count on one hand the number of times that his boyfriend has embraced him like this. The rarity of the gesture wrings him inside out. When the shinobi speaks, the tender words murmured against his ear become the lifeline to which he painstakingly tethers himself. Were it only possible, he would bind their souls together in a union more complete and intimate than matrimony. He cannot imagine a future without Itachi anymore. He has no desire to. This unhealthy codependency upon each other has reached culmination.
And so, Stiles recognizes the true meaning lurking beneath the surface of Itachi’s speech now. It’s as fulfilling as an explicit confession – Itachi is in love with him. ]
St-stay with me, [ he begs hoarsely, clinging for his life’s worth to the slender, lean body that’s more weapon than man. ] I don’t care about an-anyone “better.” I just need you. Nothing else matters.
[ Trembling, Stiles slips his arms around Itachi’s neck. ]
C-can…can we go home?
[ Home. Not in Beacon Hills, but a quiet suburban neighborhood in the Emerald District – where Sophia patiently waits and the old t-shirt of Itachi’s lies buried within his pillowcase. ]
[He can feel the warm tears begin to saturate his shirt, hiccups devolving into sobs that shake the boy's frame in the aftermath of hurt—he doesn't move until those grief-stricken tremors become littler shivers, and Stiles begins to ease, at least partially, into his hold. The arms are loose around his throat; he enjoys the simple warmth of their shared embrace in a way he has not experienced since early childhood, when exchanges of affection were still permitted between himself and Sasuke. It doesn't feel unnatural. He wonders why he'd ever begun to avoid this.
Well... he knows.
Yet it's the easiest decision in the world, answering that question. It shouldn't be, because the gravity of the word home cannot be understated, and he has never thought of this world as that. Aefenglom was not home. Hell was not home. To him, home existed in a place he would never reach—in a corner of the village hidden in the leaves, haunted by ghosts.
But now, it makes perfect sense for him to consider Stiles' request as an exception. An addendum. This world isn't home, either, but the boy in his arms is the closest he may ever get to it again, and wherever he is, Itachi will go. So he turns, gently beginning to steer them in the direction of that house.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
The souls of the dead hunt the living. It's clear to him that Stiles was targeted, but the method does not appear to be immediate. If these supernatural creatures are so powerful, why do they bide their time in selecting a victim and snatching them up? Either time is what they require to be successful... or, perhaps more sinister, they enjoy the hunt. Itachi has met men of such an inclination; he would not put it beyond the whim of these Ghost Riders, although he knows too little yet to make the assumption.
Part of this is to walk Stiles through the trauma of what had occurred to him, another is to give Itachi as many pieces of the mystery as possible. He could have taken these memories straight from the boy's head, but that would not have offered the same relief of speaking the words aloud. Being heard as he was not heard so many weeks ago. Outside the issue that they can be sent home at all, bereft of the memory of these dimensions, is the problem that Stiles now faces: he does not have a home to return to. Like Itachi, he is facing the fate of a dead end. One much less deserved than his own.
Their walk slows, then stops, leading Itachi to step around in front of him. His free hand finds its place on Stiles' shoulder.]
What happened after that?
no subject
Me and Scott…we went back to the school, to warn everyone about the Ghost Riders. We split up to cover more ground. [ A pause. Brown eyes begin to shine behind a wall of unshed tears. ] That’s the last time –
[ He reaches up, scrubbing at his face with a trembling hand. ]
No one recognized me. Not Lydia’s mom. Not Liam, Hayden, or Mason. And then…
[ Looking away from Itachi, he gazes at some point in the distance while trying to dam the flood of anguish welling up in his heart. The tears spill down his cheeks, only to be angrily wiped at seconds later. ]
My dad, [ Stiles croaks miserably, voice breaking. ] He was there. He had…no idea who I was. I was a complete stranger to him. My own dad. It was like something out of my worst nightmare. I called Scott, but when Scott picked up, he didn’t know me anymore either. So, I knew then. It was obvious. The Ghost Riders were coming for me.
[ A shiver born from deep within his soul crawls upwards out of him. Stiles glances back at Itachi, the line of his mouth wobbling. ]
Lydia was the only one who still remembered. We ran, but the Ghost Riders were surrounding us. She couldn’t see them. I was afraid that, if we kept trying to escape, they might let her see them. That she might be next. I told her she was going to forget who I was, but that she had to try and remember me. I t-told her…I told her to remember that I love her. And then they took me. There was a flash of lightning, this weird feeling in my gut, and then…nothing.
[ He searches Itachi desperately for some kind of reassurance – reassurance that he’s not even emotionally equipped to tolerate, so ironclad is his belief that he’s doomed. ]
I woke up in the Burnished Crater. After I got back to Sumarlok, I…went to see you.
no subject
That he would unleash himself upon these supernatural creatures, the Ghost Riders, at any cost, if only he could.
Itachi extracts his hand upon the story's conclusion, but only to lift both arms and enfold the boy in an embrace. One not unlike what he had offered after his transformation in the mountains. In the shade they stand together, a little off from the path, and he doesn't move, grasp strong enough that Stiles will have to fight him if he wishes it to loosen. A warm cheek presses in against the side of the boy's head.]
I am sorry. [His voice is quiet, low, nearly lost.] You came for comfort and I was cruel. I suppose, often, it is easier for me to be that way. I was wrong. It is not the first time.
[How Stiles has managed to fish him out of his own head and anchor him into the world... he doesn't know, but he expects there are too many others who would be more worth that brilliant, tenacious devotion. Not a man like him, who cannot seem to interact with reality in a way that is not painfully debilitating—every sharp, jagged edge of his psyche is designed like a weapon to turn against an opponent. Of course Stiles would suffer from it.]
You deserve someone better, but I fear that I wouldn't allow it now, even if you never forgive me. [Even if Lydia, who the Stiles of another world loves, tried to take him back.] When I believed you were gone... It was difficult. I was not prepared for that feeling, and it ultimately affected my judgment.
[A sick, dark plunge off a cliff, too similar to his initial glimpses of his family's curse in childhood.]
Stiles, you are the only good part of any life I have ever had, before or after. I understand you're afraid. It's all right. [He keeps his voice even, slow and deliberate, picking words with precision.] You are here, and so am I. Will you bear with that for now?
no subject
He can still count on one hand the number of times that his boyfriend has embraced him like this. The rarity of the gesture wrings him inside out. When the shinobi speaks, the tender words murmured against his ear become the lifeline to which he painstakingly tethers himself. Were it only possible, he would bind their souls together in a union more complete and intimate than matrimony. He cannot imagine a future without Itachi anymore. He has no desire to. This unhealthy codependency upon each other has reached culmination.
And so, Stiles recognizes the true meaning lurking beneath the surface of Itachi’s speech now. It’s as fulfilling as an explicit confession – Itachi is in love with him. ]
St-stay with me, [ he begs hoarsely, clinging for his life’s worth to the slender, lean body that’s more weapon than man. ] I don’t care about an-anyone “better.” I just need you. Nothing else matters.
[ Trembling, Stiles slips his arms around Itachi’s neck. ]
C-can…can we go home?
[ Home. Not in Beacon Hills, but a quiet suburban neighborhood in the Emerald District – where Sophia patiently waits and the old t-shirt of Itachi’s lies buried within his pillowcase. ]
/fin
Well... he knows.
Yet it's the easiest decision in the world, answering that question. It shouldn't be, because the gravity of the word home cannot be understated, and he has never thought of this world as that. Aefenglom was not home. Hell was not home. To him, home existed in a place he would never reach—in a corner of the village hidden in the leaves, haunted by ghosts.
But now, it makes perfect sense for him to consider Stiles' request as an exception. An addendum. This world isn't home, either, but the boy in his arms is the closest he may ever get to it again, and wherever he is, Itachi will go. So he turns, gently beginning to steer them in the direction of that house.]
Of course.