[ 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.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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.]