[ 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.]
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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.