[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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/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.