[Grief only climbs to a new height when he sees the effect of his own inability to respond, Synchrony severed, Stiles succumbed to sobs. He pictures what he wishes to do—how badly he would like to circle the couch, to sink down, to draw Stiles against him. He would say, "That isn't true" or "That doesn't matter." He would soothe that great depth of hurt and sorrow, shelter him with promises of a life in this dimension, a bubble outside the excruciating reality of their own respective worlds. The 'Ghost Riders', whatever they might be, are meaningless here on the planet of Noctium. Their magic cannot touch anything. Surely while they are in this place, they should make the most of the escape for as long as it lasts and think nothing of the harsh truths they will one day need to face.
But Itachi cannot act according to his own wants, not again. He must call upon the ugly strength of his past identity. Doing otherwise has only doomed them to more agony, more uncertainty than they had from the start. If the cold clarity of that last week has taught him anything, it is that he should have either remained in Aefenglom alone to continue his work in aid of that land, or he should have returned to death. For several moments he says nothing. Then that low voice comes, solidifying resolve. He had once watched his younger brother come apart at the seams, over and over, beneath the hand of his cruelty. Perhaps this is the same. Hurting himself by hurting others is the curse he lives to repeat.]
[ The panic attack has yet to subside. Caught in that powerful undertow, it requires all his meager focus to keep from drowning in the swell of pained anguish rising to greet him. Each breath hurts, chest aching from the force of his sobs and the lack of oxygen in straining lungs. Stiles clutches the arm of the couch with a bloodless grip, using it to prop his weight up when it feels as if his core cannot. Leaning there heavily, he gazes frantically at the splayed fingers of his hand, counting them one after the other. It’s not working. Each wet gasp brings him closer to the edge of passing out. His hysteria is becoming too unwieldy, driven to an extreme by the sense of hopelessness beating at his breast.
Distracted as he is, the question doesn’t immediately register. When it does, something cold lodges in his throat – the thorny stem of a wilted rose, frozen over in a winter too harsh for survival. Maybe it was never meant to, he thinks absently. Planting it in the first place was stupid, a half-baked idea doomed from the start. Did he not care well enough for it? Or perhaps the problem was that he showered it with too much attention, killing it with kindness. Regardless of the hows, Stiles thinks he can taste the end result in the back of his mouth. ]
Why…why is that wh-what you’re asking me? [ But the pleading tremor in his voice betrays the answer, guilt clear as day in the miserable expression contorting his face. ] I-Itachi, don’t.
[The situation may not be parallel, for what he did to his younger brother was lifetimes worse—and yet the sight of Stiles doubled into his own agony, physically overwhelmed, gasping wet through every heave of breath with one hand gripping the couch like a white mangled root, is all the same. He may as well have found the raw emotional wound and stabbed in the blade himself. It's all the same. In light of Stiles' confession, this is cruel timing. He knows that, but perhaps it stands as more reason to do it now. If he waits, he will lose the last shred of courage he possesses, and this will be infinitely more difficult later, suffering the result of indecision and passivity.
It's better if Stiles learns that he is cruel. That this is the man who slaughtered his entire clan, mothers and fathers and sons and daughters. That tormented his younger brother his entire life and warped him into a weapon of his own penitence and self-hatred. That tortured and killed countless others, that aided terrorists. He's never deserved anything else but death and pain. Kindness is another language, another world, one he wasn't born to live in. He can operate more naturally—more powerfully—against the fire of hatred.]
This was a mistake.
[The words are cold steel, and as he steps away from the couch he makes a point to keep his face away, to hide the brief flicker of regret, the fissures no doubt drawn to the surface after so many months of feeling again. He knows it'll pass.]
I'm sorry. [Quieter but losing nothing of that severity, that iron firmness.] I'd prefer to be alone. Perhaps we should not see each other for a while.
[ He knows it’s coming. Foreknowing, however, doesn’t even begin to adequately prepare him for the steel with which Itachi ruthlessly severs his last hope. Stiles flinches back as if struck, a crack in the blinds allowing a sliver of sunlight to knife through the room and highlight wide, red-rimmed eyes, dark lashes damp from crying. Dull shock has frozen his heart, pressure steadily building there until the overworked organ feels ready to burst from paroxysm. Were he in a better place mentally, Stiles would challenge the casual callousness that Itachi dons now like armor, would accurately recognize it as an obvious sign of what he predicted during a conversation weeks ago. “I must be cruel only to be kind,” he could recite. “Thus bad begins and worse remains behind.”
Stiles does not call out Itachi. He says nothing. Instead, eerily weightless as if his bones have all been hollowed out, the teen unsteadily stands and makes his way to the door. The sound of Russell’s shrieking cries falls on deaf ears; he exits the apartment quietly, door clicking shut with finality behind him. It isn’t until he’s reached the flight of stairs that Stiles is at last ill, his stomach heaving to empty itself in defiance over the landing. Gasping for air, he wipes bile from his mouth with the back of a hand and slowly descends to the first floor. The trek to the house is awful, with Stiles sick two more times – much to the disgust of nearby onlookers, who suspect the involvement of alcohol. After the third instance, he pauses while leaning against the side of a building, the bricks cool against his forehead. His hand fingers the folding knife tucked away within a pocket, turning the weapon over and over consideringly.
But it does not see use that day. Withdrawing the hand, he pushes himself along using the building for support. And when he reaches the house, he collapses on the bathroom tiles to weather the rest of his panic attack in lonely peace.
Only hours later does he realize that he never even asked about Sophia. ]
[After Stiles has left the building silently—uncharacteristically, a sign that something is very wrong yet not one he can follow when he is the cause—Itachi remains in the dark space like a pillar carved of icy stone, surroundings unseen, unfelt. It isn't until Russell leaps onto his shoulder, her significant weight burdensome, that he realizes his face is wet. A hand lifts to wipe the dampness from both cheeks with brusque swipes. His expression is unchanging except for the seemingly limitless flow of tears. Then it cracks, and he grimaces, waving Russell away, stumbling for the bathroom as a tickle in his chest thickens and erupts into coughing, sink soon splattered with fresh gore.
Hours later, a clone drops down onto the front terrace of Stiles' house and tucks a folded note into the seal of the door, its language universally translated. It leaves without a trace. Inside are instructions on Sophia's whereabouts: the teahouse in the Emerald District run by kindly Fern and Paprika, where Stiles will find his puppy happy, healthy, and well cared for in his absence.]
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no subject
But Itachi cannot act according to his own wants, not again. He must call upon the ugly strength of his past identity. Doing otherwise has only doomed them to more agony, more uncertainty than they had from the start. If the cold clarity of that last week has taught him anything, it is that he should have either remained in Aefenglom alone to continue his work in aid of that land, or he should have returned to death. For several moments he says nothing. Then that low voice comes, solidifying resolve. He had once watched his younger brother come apart at the seams, over and over, beneath the hand of his cruelty. Perhaps this is the same. Hurting himself by hurting others is the curse he lives to repeat.]
Did you remember me?
no subject
Distracted as he is, the question doesn’t immediately register. When it does, something cold lodges in his throat – the thorny stem of a wilted rose, frozen over in a winter too harsh for survival. Maybe it was never meant to, he thinks absently. Planting it in the first place was stupid, a half-baked idea doomed from the start. Did he not care well enough for it? Or perhaps the problem was that he showered it with too much attention, killing it with kindness. Regardless of the hows, Stiles thinks he can taste the end result in the back of his mouth. ]
Why…why is that wh-what you’re asking me? [ But the pleading tremor in his voice betrays the answer, guilt clear as day in the miserable expression contorting his face. ] I-Itachi, don’t.
cw: me hating itachi uchiha
It's better if Stiles learns that he is cruel. That this is the man who slaughtered his entire clan, mothers and fathers and sons and daughters. That tormented his younger brother his entire life and warped him into a weapon of his own penitence and self-hatred. That tortured and killed countless others, that aided terrorists. He's never deserved anything else but death and pain. Kindness is another language, another world, one he wasn't born to live in. He can operate more naturally—more powerfully—against the fire of hatred.]
This was a mistake.
[The words are cold steel, and as he steps away from the couch he makes a point to keep his face away, to hide the brief flicker of regret, the fissures no doubt drawn to the surface after so many months of feeling again. He knows it'll pass.]
I'm sorry. [Quieter but losing nothing of that severity, that iron firmness.] I'd prefer to be alone. Perhaps we should not see each other for a while.
cw: me loving itachi uchiha
Stiles does not call out Itachi. He says nothing. Instead, eerily weightless as if his bones have all been hollowed out, the teen unsteadily stands and makes his way to the door. The sound of Russell’s shrieking cries falls on deaf ears; he exits the apartment quietly, door clicking shut with finality behind him. It isn’t until he’s reached the flight of stairs that Stiles is at last ill, his stomach heaving to empty itself in defiance over the landing. Gasping for air, he wipes bile from his mouth with the back of a hand and slowly descends to the first floor. The trek to the house is awful, with Stiles sick two more times – much to the disgust of nearby onlookers, who suspect the involvement of alcohol. After the third instance, he pauses while leaning against the side of a building, the bricks cool against his forehead. His hand fingers the folding knife tucked away within a pocket, turning the weapon over and over consideringly.
But it does not see use that day. Withdrawing the hand, he pushes himself along using the building for support. And when he reaches the house, he collapses on the bathroom tiles to weather the rest of his panic attack in lonely peace.
Only hours later does he realize that he never even asked about Sophia. ]
no subject
Hours later, a clone drops down onto the front terrace of Stiles' house and tucks a folded note into the seal of the door, its language universally translated. It leaves without a trace. Inside are instructions on Sophia's whereabouts: the teahouse in the Emerald District run by kindly Fern and Paprika, where Stiles will find his puppy happy, healthy, and well cared for in his absence.]