[That scent strengthens, and then the boy emerges from the underground passage familiar even with heavy, rounded shoulders and head pointed straight down at his feet. It isn't within his current mental capacity to be wary of sudden approach, or to consider the effect of what his actions might do to Stiles. His mind is empty but for a gnawing drive to find this person. To take him, to remove him from the city's awful cage, to protect as much as possess. Sentiments which cannot be made completely concrete or comprehensible in the moment; he simply obeys what he feels.
A low growl builds in that long throat, rumbled warning before the dragon throws it sleek body over the edge in a calculated swoop. As a hawk might scoop up a field mouse, claws extend—snatching Stiles by his upper body and latching on, sharp points digging into fabric and tender skin across shoulders and arms, snaring his torso. Yet there is nothing destructive in the grasp; claws don't rend deeper, don't shred the frail body beneath them. They only hold Stiles like captured prey. Wings beat the air to take flight from the dead stop, launching straight up, clearing buildings in an angled path toward the sky with another more satisfied snarl.
No sound but whistling wind throughout the journey, destination unknown, Sumarlok sprawling out below at a great drop, city lights like colored gems scattered for miles in every direction. He veers north toward the mountains of Camp Whitegrave, then northwest, and after nearly twenty minutes of continuous flight begins to drop in altitude, pointed into the dense forest and low hills at the edge of city limits. Stiles is finally deposited on the grassy ledge of a giant hill—a gentle release of claws—just enough space to accommodate a teenage boy alongside the dragon's bulky body that crowds in behind him, trapping him close to the shelf of rock at his back.]
[ That throaty growl draws his attention, brown eyes snapping up to lock on the creature with a dull kind of surprise. Since his early days of playing fantasy games as a child, dragons have been a source of fascination for him. His time in Aefenglom only exacerbated that boyish wonder. The one peering down at him from the roof is magnificent, a beautiful specimen with feathers so deep a jet black that they almost appear midnight blue beneath the moons. But Stiles doesn’t have enough time to admire the beast further, or even to consider if he can be bothered running; the dragon dives over the edge toward him, great wingspan swallowing all the light until only the eerie, supernatural glow of a reptilian gaze can be seen. Something like relief washes over him in the moment before the dragon descends. Is it finally over?
Claws seize him, sharp points of pressure that scrape along the uneven ridges of crystal and poke gaping holes in his sweatshirt. Then they’re rising rapidly, Stiles swallowing a startled gasp as his stomach drops suddenly from the increase in altitude. Heights like this have always unsettled him when he’s not in his arachne or tsuchigumo form; he swallows down a surge of bile, wondering if he’s going to be dashed against rocks for the dragon to pick daintily at his insides. In spite of his prolonged death wish, he finds himself scrabbling to hold onto the creature’s claws, a flicker of instinctive fear finally roused.
There’s little else to do while they fly other than pour over the facts. Gembond transformations typically happen around this time of the month. Dragons are part of the amethyst-class transformations. He knows few amethysts, especially with such a distinctive suggestion of coloring. And then, most telling of all –
A feeling wells up inside him, powerful and terrible. It reminds him of the Manna Bairn, of the life he’s painstakingly built both here and back in Beacon Hills. Home.
When they land and he’s released, Stiles draws close to the rocks in an attempt to put space between them. His heart is racing, hammering at his ribcage like it might break free. Tear tracks already stain pale cheeks, though he tells himself they’re merely the result of the wind whipping at his face earlier. The truth is more complicated. Stiles is waking up from the hazy dreamlike state he’s existed in for the past several weeks and he dislikes it. God, he’s so tired of crying. ]
Itachi, [ he croaks, glancing briefly at the dragon before dropping wet eyes. ] I…I don’t know if you can understand me, but you’re gonna be okay. The changes are temporary. Just hang in there.
[If understanding lurks somewhere in that mind turned feral, there is no outward display of it. Reptilian eyes narrow on Stiles, bloody red though lacking any tomoe around pupils, animalistic and inhuman, an intensity not lacking focus. The sound of his name only lures that flaying stare more immediately, singular attention as alien as if originating from some ancient otherworldly creature whose inner machinations of thought remain hidden. Stiles' tears turn his cheeks glossy. That black muzzle sniffs the air, then inches closer, nosing into personal space as a thin and lizard-like tongue—textured rough as sandpaper—licks up salty tracks like a strange dog.
Then the large, horned skull gently headbutts the center of Stiles' chest with enough force to sprawl him down onto grass. A claw follows, planted on top of the boy. The word will jolt like a strike of lightning straight into his mind: Stay. Not spoken in any audible language and instead transferred directly to Stiles, constructed as much from human syllables as it is more of a feeling or image. Stay.
As if there's anywhere to go, surrounded by wilderness, stranded on a cliff above empty air.
Itachi turns, plunging into flight with wings spanned wide to catch currents of wind, soon little more than a black speck among trees. Several minutes pass. Not so long as their journey to reach this place, but a decent chunk of time before the dragon reappears from the night like liquid shadow streaking down toward the ledge again. The landing is delicate. Clenched between massive jaws... is an entire branch of a tree, and dangling from it are several shiny fruits native to Noctium. It's soon dropped heavily at Stiles' feet.]
[ The dragon’s long, slender neck stretches to bring their faces close. Stiffening, he stares pointedly at the dark pool of shadow spilling across the ground between them, like he might divine some ancient secret from the inky depths. But shock soon jerks his gaze up when a flickering tongue drags along one cheek and then the other, an odd sensation that leaves him feeling like a layer of skin has been abraded. With a sound of protest – embarrassed by the attention his tears have garnered – Stiles tries to pull away and instill distance, only for his efforts to be immediately rebuffed. He falls back on his ass, neatly cornered by the wall of solid rock behind him, and stares in blank bemusement at the claw that presses his body into the earth. Stay, comes the command, disembodied and felt more than heard. Stay.
Naturally, he doesn’t comply. The moment Itachi departs, that striking form splitting the air like an arrow, Stiles is climbing unsteadily to his feet, ignoring the rush of blood to his head, and cautiously approaching the edge of the cliff to watch. All too soon, the dragon disappears from sight. Time crawls by. Shivering despite the sweltering summer heat that seems to radiate from the ground, he waits. What else can he possibly do? Concern about his boyfri – about Itachi’s current state drives him to pacing impatiently, every so often checking the network via his phone to see if anyone has mentioned a dragon.
When the dragon returns, gliding gracefully through the skies, Stiles flattens himself against the rocky outcropping to make room. The tree branch is given a slow, measuring look of affected incomprehension. ]
Sorry, buddy. [ His voice trembles, thin and reedy as if he were on the verge of a breakdown. ] If you wanna play fetch, we’re gonna need a smaller stick than that. How about bringing me one I can actually throw?
[ And then, before Itachi can respond, he curtly continues: ] I’m not hungry, thanks.
[The plaintive sound that comes next is immediate, rejection made plain and inexplicably translated, a low-pitched whine building out of the dragon's throat. Neck extended, that horned skull nudges the branch of fruit forward bare centimeters in physically articulated insistence. Eat. Disembodied communication again; pushing into Stiles' mind, that very clear word even abstracted without verbal language. Eat. Urgency wires itself into anxiety already present, harbored after days alone to his own thoughts—Itachi becomes restless, claws scraping at grassy rock, tail whipping behind him, wings pressed down flat around the shape of his feathered body. Agitated, trembling at the behest of some invisible influence, ferality mixed into unstable emotion.
He flinches back, long wispy neck recoiling, weight bearing down as a sudden fit seems to seize him. It's strange to hear a dragon cough. At first, it's unclear what is happening by muffled sounds unlike a growl or whine. His throat muscles contract, gagging on the buildup of blood that seals out air, unaccustomed to the bodily reaction in a body like this—and then all at once choking, doubled half-over, splatters of blood painting grassy earth. A violent movement backward, and Itachi's claws scrabble at the rocky ledge before he loses footing and plummets off it and out of sight.
There's noise: scraping, thrashing noise of a dragon attempting to get purchase on the side of a cliff, hanging vertically. Wings work at the air to keep him pressed to stone. Heaving, he manages to begin climbing back up and over to stable ground.]
[ Lips thinning, he steels himself against the mournful cries, gaze set stubbornly on some point in the distance. The idea of eating anything now, even to appease a distressed dragon, is impossible; he doubts that his stomach will tolerate food given how it currently churns with anxiety. Being near Itachi like this again after their last encounter – Stiles doesn’t know how to feel. His emotions have festered into an infected wound, raw and untreated for too long. Even in the best-case scenario, there will be an ugly scar left behind in the wake of what Itachi has said, an impression of words that have cut Stiles to his core. “This was a mistake.”
But some of us have to make mistakes, he thinks wildly, remembering that fateful night in the rain with Scott outside the animal clinic. Don’t leave me too.
After that, things rapidly spiral out of control. The dragon lurches backward before abruptly heaving up blood, black under the moonlight and steaming. As a stricken kind of dread careens through Stiles, Itachi slips off the edge of the cliff in a moment of uncharacteristic weakness. With a hoarse scream of the man’s name, he dashes to the precipice, prepared to throw himself over in pursuit. If he can manage to transform too, Stiles might be able to utilize tsuchigumo webbing to save Itachi. Yet the makeshift plan ultimately proves unnecessary; the dragon clings to the rocky façade, not yet in freefall. Seizing a horn, he tries to help pull the dragon back onto the surface for all the good his efforts do. ]
You’re hurt, [ he distantly hears someone saying, hardly recognizing the raspy, panicked voice as his own. ] Fuck. Stay still, okay?
[ Hands run thoroughly through the soft down of feathers along Itachi’s chest, searching for the source of an injury. Ducking underneath the dragon, he checks the vulnerable underbelly and finds nothing. His breathing is sharp, a hint of terrified hysteria choking him. If there’s no external injury that’s punctured the body, then… The bleeding must be internal. ]
Itachi, did you eat anything weird? [ The question is spoken in a rush, barely enough air swallowed to get the words out. ] I need you to tell me what’s happening. Please.
[The energy he's burned since transformation is beginning to wear, exhaustion from physical and emotional extremes—long flights in a changed body and the feral state of his mind—both setting in. Itachi doesn't fight hands that wander in frantic hunt for injury over his feathered body. Instead, the contact seems to lull the dragon into calmness, vivid red eyes affixed on the boy with that same intensity now an attribute of trust and longing. Simplified sentiments, stripped of the complexity of deeper human thought and doubt and question. It's easy to know what he wants like this.
He's tired. Crawling forward, he uses his body to push Stiles back away from the ledge, then attempts to lie down on top of him. Considering his dramatically larger size, it's only fortunate that he doesn't crush Stiles; the majority of his feathered weight settles across Stiles' legs and effectively pins them down. Clawed forelimbs lay to either side of the boy's shoulders, wings fanned to provide a black canvas above them that blocks out all light from the moons and the stars. Head drooping, it tucks in close to Stiles' face, rubbing the soft-textured side of a muzzle against his cheek. His animalistic body is overly warm stretched across like this, and every breath taken with a heave of expansive lungs seems to rumble. Almost straining for air, Stiles might notice, like a dog panting with its mouth shut.
This close, the tiny amethyst gem low in his throat peeks through a thatch of feathers, dull and dormant although lacking signs of crystallization. Confirmation of identity, if nothing else. Stiles will be assaulted with more strange telepathic language: a disjointed jumbling of sorry and tired, felt rather than said, and then a darker echo of mine beneath them. Regret, fatigue, and deep aching possessiveness made abstract without Synchrony's translation.]
[ Bullied gently down onto the grassy plateau, he’s forced to pause in his search for an injury as the dragon’s not insignificant weight settles over his legs like a particularly overlarge hen warming her eggs. The comical comparison doesn’t so much as diminish the desperate, hunted look warring in brown eyes; Stiles is sick with worry, a fine tremor in his hands evident as he soothingly brushes fingers through feathers again and again. When his mind echoes with the nonverbal words projected to him, “tired,” he decides on the next course of action unflinchingly. Itachi needs energy – nothing else matters. ]
Sync with me, [ he pleads, looping arms around a long neck and burying his face against the dragon’s head to hide tears. ] It’ll help, okay?
[ There’s a distinctive clink as his body shifts, the hardened crystal concealed beneath the sweatshirt no doubt obvious in texture as it presses against the dragon’s form. But Stiles can’t pause to remind himself why he hasn’t engaged in Synchrony these past few weeks since Guanshan. Everything that’s happened – his friends and family forgetting him, the Wild Hunt, returning to Noctium, Itachi’s brutal rejection, the cold depression that’s steadily sapped the life from him – is irrelevant in that moment. Someone he loves needs help, help that he can actually provide through Synchrony; Stiles is all too willing to put aside his misgivings for the time being, if only to ease the labored breathing whistling noisily through flared nostrils.
But even with his intentions in the right place, Stiles finds it more difficult than anticipated to open up emotionally. His instinct is to suppress the frothing monsoon of miserable emotion, not share it – especially not when Itachi is hurting like this, when Stiles doesn’t want the attention shifting onto himself instead. Shuddering, he slowly pries open the dam, allowing only a weak trickle through initially. The surface fears of anxiety, apprehension, and concern lurk here, buoyed on a coursing river of affection. The dam widens gradually and the deluge of emotions grows thicker; hopelessness, prominent above all else, crashing through the gates like a bludgeon, followed by abject anguish, loneliness, and grief. And beneath it all, so unobtrusive that it could almost be overlooked, is anger. ]
C’mon, sweetheart. [ The endearment falls from his lips unbidden. ] Take what you need. I’ve got you.
[Even with clarity of thought limited that guidance seems to reach the man buried deep within, Synchrony opening between them like water unleashed into well-worn grooves of connection. A trickle that soon becomes a flood. It's natural, and painful, and necessary: washed out by Stiles' complexity of emotion, he is not fully aware of what he himself is feeling apart from him. Perhaps they are only echoes of the same. Anxiety like a riptide snagging ankles unaware, yanking into the swift undertow; hopelessness the dark drop off a cliff underwater, immense and drowning; concern like the bright glare of daylight above; loneliness and anguish two familiar anchors around the throat. Only the anger is foreign, not belonging to him, disembodied enough to pull him sharply out of the feral mindless fog.
Itachi's body begins to shiver, seized by tremors that don't immediately stop despite the rushing balm of Synchrony's power. Memories of the last few hours come back to him all at once. A blur of action and impulse-driven chaos since transformation rooted itself into his mind and took control. He can feel Stiles warm against him, inhales that familiar scent with a flare of nostrils, agitated wings flapping briefly overhead. He can also feel the prickling chafe of crystallized skin against feathers, can hear it chink with movement, alarm ringing loud through the tether that binds them together. And yet despite that he doesn't draw away. He can't make himself, pressed on top of the boy with an almost irrational need to remain physically touching as close as possible.
Stiles, comes the clear and horrified name, telepathically delivered. Stiles. Did I hurt you?]
[ A sharp intake of breath, held for a handful of heartbeats before it’s released in a slow, stuttering exhale. After going so long without it, Synchrony is almost painful to bear now; it indiscriminately floods every darkened corner of his psyche, making Stiles aware of the parts of himself he’s denied. The previously identified anger goes so much deeper than he expected to find, roots extending well beyond the point he can safely explore without breaking down. Upon realization that Itachi nurses the same misery that he does, that anger blooms into a quiet rage – one that questions why either of them needed to suffer like this for the last many weeks. Was it worth it, Itachi? hisses a voice in barely suppressed fury. Are you going to push me away again?
Stiles knows he won’t survive it a second time. ]
I’m fine. [ Short, deliberately avoiding answering the question of whether or not Itachi hurt him. ] Since you seem to be returning to your senses, can we focus on you for a minute? You just puked up blood.
[ Fingers spasm where they grip fistfuls of feathers. After a moment, he manages to regain control of himself and smooth out the plumage with the stroke of his palms. ]
We need to get you to a hospital. Or contact a healer.
[He can feel the anger, a sharp current underlying everything else soon building prominence and weight. He doesn't balk in the face of it; instead bearing its gravity like another burden, another emblem of guilt, another piece of evidence against himself brought to jury. As he becomes more cognizant, Stiles' state is no longer lost to uncomplicated urges of protectiveness and caretaking. Intelligent eyes monitor all visible signs of suffering that Stiles has endured in the understanding that he has caused them.
It seems his lies have all come calling at last. Expressions don't display themselves normally on a dark, draconian face, easier to see in the translation of physical language. He's stopped trembling; wings wilt down, hanging across a feathered back limply; that horned skull angles to turn a look out at the expanse of wilderness that surrounds them. Thinking in the quiet interim, briefly unreachable. A wispy tail flicks across the grass.
I can't explain it now, he communicates carefully, but I am not in any danger at the moment. We should move first from this location to somewhere safer. Then we can talk. Are you willing to allow that?
Can't. Won't. Inherently a selfish choice, but the truth sits sick on his stomach and under these circumstances, with Stiles in obvious distress, he's unwilling to drag it out.]
[ Beads of sweat collect at his brow. Itachi is like a living furnace, radiating heat that seeps down through jeans and sweatshirt to prickle at too warm skin. But he doesn’t complain; their proximity, despite the surface discomfort, sustains him. So when the dragon shifts – inadvertently pulling away from where Stiles has buried his wet face – the boy expects that the moment is about to end. And then the response comes, seeming to reinforce the idea. “I can’t.” Chest tight, he begins to retreat from Synchrony. It takes him another few seconds to register the suggestion, the emotional tether thinned to a gossamer thread between them, ready to snap. ]
Then we can talk, [ repeats Stiles in a dull monotone. ] Am I willing…? I don’t know – are you willing to let me make my own choices?
[ There’s no snappish bite to his words, only layers of exhaustion, painted thin and watery with fear. A shudder rolls through him, rattling hollow bones and shaking loose intrusive thoughts. The last time they were together, Itachi requested a break from their relationship; will the man formally end things now? Is this the last chance he’ll have to hold his boyfriend in his arms? To breathe in his scent, to Sync with him? Jaw clenched tight against the threat of even more useless tears, Stiles woodenly disengages from the dragon, wiggling out from under the heavy weight with some effort. ]
Alright. If you’re well enough to travel, let’s go.
[It isn't a conversation he wants to have, least of all in the body of a beast. But there is little to get around it now. Not knowing how long the transformation will last and confronted with the condition he's willfully afflicted upon Stiles in their weeks apart, he cannot make a different decision. He will have to navigate this to the best of his ability; perhaps in the process, he'll know what to say. Words have abandoned him—grave, serious and collected despite that dully accusatory question, Itachi applies himself to the objective of transitioning to a safer location. The rest will come.
After coaxing Stiles to climb onto his back in a straddle just across wide shoulder blades, tucked above the joining of wings to spine, he leaps off the ledge and scales in height, buoyed up by currents of wind. He does not communicate his own fatigue although that channel remains open between them, telling in the sluggish and tepid lull of feeling from his side, Synchrony supplying much needed strength. The energy to fly back to the center of the Emerald District is temporarily beyond him after what he's expended to reach this distant area. Instead, Itachi veers north toward Camp Whitegrave. Though not so cold in the dead of summer, there's still a chillier bite to the air; treetops and grassy clearings are scattered with lightly dusted snowfall, but the ground is no longer frozen as it was months ago. Only the highest mountaintops carry their permanent wreaths of snow this time of year.
Itachi doesn't go so far, angling down in the direction of cabins outlying the very edge of the town's settlement. The area is quiet and deserted so late at night. He lands with a heave of breath, immediately lowering to allow Stiles off the saddle of shoulders.
We're far enough from the center of town that we should not be bothered here. I don't know if the buildings will be unlocked, he admits, but I would not fit inside regardless as I am now.]
[ The flight passes without incident. Bent low over the long, sleek neck of the dragon, Stiles squints through the winds that tear the moisture from his eyes. He can feel the flex of muscle beneath his legs as wings respond to every minute change in the air currents. The transformation seems to have endowed Itachi with innate knowledge of how to navigate the skies, which he does beautifully. Stiles only wishes that he were in a better place mentally to appreciate the experience. Back in Aefenglom, he would have swooned at the opportunity to ride a dragon like this.
But – despite the man’s claims of not being in any current danger – Itachi is obviously in a weakened state. Guts twisting in concern, Stiles reopens his end of Synchrony as wide as possible while running hands back and forth along feathers in an effort to produce Manna. The connection benefits him as well, though the sheer amount of crystallization encasing his limbs will require more time Syncing in order to completely recede. Unfortunately, he doubts Itachi will want to linger after explaining the situation.
Camp Whitegrave is a familiar sight, even at this altitude. As they spiral down toward the ground, Stiles thinks about the game of fairy tag they had played with the monster spirits all those months ago – about the moment he stood gazing at Itachi under pale moonlight and belatedly realized he was in love with the man. So much has changed since then. So much, and yet simultaneously…nothing at all.
Sliding off Itachi, he stumbles on the ground, slightly bowlegged from the journey. He hesitates to instill distance between them, trying to maintain physical contact for the sake of potent Synchrony. Itachi looks like he could use the support. ]
[For those heavy and silent moments that precede explanation, Itachi doesn't move. He settles down in the spot he's landed, stomach lowered to frosted grass, wings fitted neatly against his back, rigid despite the touch of hands through feathers. "Tell me what's wrong." As if it could be so simple, as if this won't change the course of everything between them. Then again—he has already seen to that. Should this destroy whatever remnant of trust Stiles still holds for him, it would be as much as he deserves. It was never something he understood; it was always something he knew he would lose, in the end.
There is no right time for this. There is no clear path out. When was the first time he'd learned such a difficult reality? Too soon, too young, before his mind had even fully comprehended the world around him.
Telepathic speech comes low and careful, each word chosen only after selective deliberation, trying to perfect this even now when it doesn't matter. This condition isn't new to me. Prior to my death, I was sick for a very long time. I told you that Sasuke killed me. While that is true... I was already physically weakened by then due to illness.
He's not positive that even Sasuke knows this, although perhaps he's since learned, perhaps he'd guessed later on. However, he has not told another individual that he's remained ill in this dimension. Kisame only learned by luck, by chance and ability to identify the signs upon ambushing him at his apartment. He hadn't wanted the man to know. He certainly hadn't wanted Stiles ever to know. But then, what was the plan?
No, there was never a plan. It was an out—if he'd ever needed it.
Delivering this information, a sleek dark head turns, red eyes gazing out over the surrounding mountains, drawing strength to continue from their cold immutable stillness.
It was not an issue in previous dimensions. I could not say why. Perhaps it has something to do with the interaction of my chakra and the magic of this world. Here, generating Manna does help alleviate symptoms to some degree. Synchrony at this point is electric with anxiety, though it churns with the same flat lethargy. But the fact remains as it did before. The disease will eventually kill me.]
Edited (i can't repeat words ever) 2021-07-18 20:37 (UTC)
[ At some point during the explanation, the point of contact between them is broken; hands fall limply to his sides, unnaturally still for someone usually brimming with restless energy. Expression closed, he stares in silence at Itachi. Despite his intelligence, it takes time for the words to sink in – for Stiles to fully grasp what he’s being told. The seconds drag by, wading laboriously through waist-deep snow drifts, until his heart is finally ready to accept what his head already knows. Itachi is dying. Once again, a disease is going to prematurely steal away a loved one. The cruelty of the situation is like swallowing razorblades.
For a period, he can only gaze blankly at the dragon, as if the creature has spoken in a foreign language. But Stiles is slowly piecing together the larger picture, a sharp attention to detail only serving to savagely injure him now as he recalls every moment relevant to this revelation. “I will not make a promise I cannot keep,” Itachi had firmly messaged him two months ago, when Stiles begged to be informed if the man started harboring thoughts of suicidal ideation. And yet Itachi already has broken his most important promise to Stiles – his vow during the Bonding ceremony, to never withhold the truth. While the disease might not have been pertinent in previous dimensions, Stiles has to wonder just how long the shinobi has known it was affecting him on Noctium. Since the beginning of their stay? It seems likely.
Synchrony buckles. The overwhelming sense of betrayal he feels conveys through the emotional tether what he verbally does not, second only to the surge of grief battering his breast as he continues to process the information. The cold, sleepy apathy that’s suffused his waking life for the last several weeks has evaporated rapidly, leaving him reeling. In its place, Stiles finds the grim determination that had motivated him from the start – to discover a way that Itachi can live again, whether permanently in this world, back in the land of the shinobi, or in Beacon Hills. ]
What are your symptoms? [ he demands, a husky croak that sticks in his throat. Stiles is unsurprised that his cheeks are damp, the nippy chill of the area biting at his wet skin. ] You’ve seen the doctors in this world, right? What’d they say?
[ With a quiet sniff, he fumbles for his cell phone. It’s an excuse to look away – just in time for a hot second wave of tears to spill from clouded brown eyes. He’s trembling, but not from the cold.
Itachi is dying. ]
Tell me everything.
[ And his fingers hover over the screen keyboard, prepared to take notes. ]
[What had he expected? Rage, perhaps. Anger as it had scorched through their initial channel of Synchrony before. A refusal to engage, a rejection—something sharp and physical he might have used to throw himself against. This is more difficult to bear; he can see the shine of tears wet on Stiles' face once again, though he is without the impulsive need to lick them away now returned to a more human mindset. Instead he wants nothing more than to be returned to a body not so restricted as this.
As though at the behest of this desperate wish, the transformation happens suddenly, shrinking that beast's sleek form—wings vanishing in a wisp of black smoke, claws retracting, feathers scattered in a supernatural flurry like one of his own jutsu. And the man is there, drawn and silent, hair hanging loose and lank around pale shoulders, naked from head to toe. The cold air doesn't seem to bother him even without clothes. It only takes a step to draw them closer, to enclose Stiles in an uncharacteristic embrace. He cannot say where the decision to act this way originates—if he has any control over it at all. His cheek presses briefly to Stiles' ear, flesh feverishly warm to touch.
After a moment he moves to withdraw, to give Stiles space and look him in the eye, open hands sliding down over arms.]
Do you want to hear all of that now? [In his voice, in his own words, low between them. The evidence of illness shows more easily on a human body than a dragon's: he has lost weight as well, color washed out to a pallor, eyes sleepless and dark. Their appearances unfortunately matched in misery.] I will tell you. It doesn't need to be like this.
[ In a violent, churning swirl of midnight-colored feathers, the dragon becomes a man. Stiles doesn’t quite manage to swallow back the choked sob that erupts from his chest upon seeing Itachi so emaciated and haggard looking. Aware of the disease now and the toll it must take, he can only think of how the shinobi should probably be in a hospital, receiving the care that he desperately needs. But before he can say as much, arms fold around him and draw him forward into a too lean body. Stunned, he stands rigidly within the embrace, too shocked to return it. He can count on one hand the number of times that Itachi has permitted this, never mind initiated it. What does it mean? When the man withdraws, Stiles gazes at him with overly bright eyes, yet again reduced to tears. ]
It does, [ he insists, a tremor knifing through his roughened, wrecked voice. ] Don’t fight me.
[ The warning may not immediately make sense. But then he begins to drag off his sweatshirt, movements jerky. The fabric catches on the dulled edges of crystal, the severity of which finally becomes clear when the garment is finally removed. His short-sleeve t-shirt reveals thick sheets of pale emerald crawling down the length of his right arm. The shirt itself hangs lopsidedly on him, distended in the shoulder, back, and chest where Chrysalis has obviously taken place. When he pulls the warm sweatshirt down over Itachi’s head, his shirt rides up and reveals the crystallization has even started to dip beneath the waistline. Stiles makes no mention of it as he fusses with the sweatshirt sleeves however, guiding arms through the appropriate holes. Then, after pausing to free the curtain of dark hair from where it was caught inside the garment, he scoops the shinobi up into a bridal carry.
It’s not an easy feat given his current physical state. Dizzy already, he blinks rapidly to clear his tunneling vision. The fact of the matter is, despite how weak he may be now, it’s likely nothing in comparison to how Itachi is doing – especially after the taxing monster transformation. ]
Just let me do this for you. Please.
[ Itachi is all heat, a failing vessel of blood working overtime to fight a battle it can’t possibly win. Tucking the man’s head under his chin, he heads slowly in the direction of the nearest cabin, taking the utmost care not to drop Itachi. A simmering sense of hysteria demands he never let go of his boyfriend, that he hold onto this precious body and protect it with his own no matter the cost. But once inside the cabin, he gently sets Itachi down on the couch – hands lingering, reluctant to be parted. ]
If you need to rest, that’s fine. [ There’s a folded blanket on a chair that he retrieves and snaps open, tucking Itachi in. ] But if you can tell me now, I’m listening.
[ He hovers, seemingly unsure what to do with himself. ]
[There's more they need to discuss. This isn't what he had wanted to become the focal point of conversation, in light of everything else, in light of the words they exchanged last time. He wishes to communicate that his illness is not the root of all of his recent decision making. Yet no protest comes when a sweatshirt is pulled down over his head, warm with Stiles' body heat and strong with his scent, hanging off a gaunt frame, legs left bare. Itachi's eyes fasten onto glinting crystallization as it reveals itself; it is much worse than he'd first assumed. Before he has any opportunity to act on that sweep of alarm, he's being lifted, muscles seized with automatic tension though lacking energy to fight against the momentum of Stiles' actions. So he allows himself to be carried inside.
Given the circumstances, perhaps he should afford Stiles this much.
The cabin's interior is dark and unlit, thick with dust from months of neglect, but it is warmer and protected from the elements. Seated on the couch, dark eyes follow Stiles to the chair and back. He's obediently still as the blanket is tucked in, but before Stiles can withdraw, a hand flashes to snatch his wrist, hold strong and unwilling to be shaken loose.]
Fine. [If that's what you need.] Then maintain Synchrony with me.
[This condition given, his gaze drifts in a display of unusual hesitancy, thoughts hanging on only a thread.]
I've refused most examinations here, so if the illness has a name, I am not aware of it. I know that it primarily affects my respiratory system. I first noticed a change in my condition a few years ago, when during combat I was not able to breathe properly. [Breathlessness—something he should not have experienced given the quality of his physical fitness.] It was not usually an issue; I'd learned not to overexert myself already due to Sharingan's nature.
[Probably not a good time to discuss Mangekyou Sharingan's eventual blindness. Irrelevant, anyway, as he hasn't perceived issues with that part of his anatomy.]
The symptoms are otherwise predictable. Lack of air, a dry cough, fatigue. Occasionally a fever or body aches. At times my fingertips are swollen. [Slender fingers flex over Stiles' wrist, tightening as eyes slip down.] I had never missed with a kunai before.
... I was also given medication by the scientists of this dimension, though that isn't meant to be a cure, only a method of coping. [Concealing.] As I said, Manna seems to help as well.
[ As eyes the color of polished obsidian slide away and Itachi gathers his thoughts, Stiles considers the demand. “Then maintain Synchrony with me.” Fear of being hurt again prevents him from reading into it. There are a multitude of explanations as to why the man would seek to continue Syncing, after all – and none of them necessarily indicate an interest in healing the shattered remnants of their relationship. Knowing the shinobi as he does, Stiles expects that Itachi is concerned about his rapid descent into Chrysalis. Because, yes, logically he understands the shinobi still cares about him. But that understanding only makes the betrayal of Itachi’s past actions all the more difficult to endure. A tongue of anger, suppressed and unsteady, simmers quietly through Synchrony.
Just as Stiles said to Spock, Itachi would undoubtedly sabotage their relationship for his sake if the man thought it was for the best. This disease could very well be the crux of Itachi’s reasoning. Yet one fact remains. Whatever that reasoning? It wasn’t good enough. There’s no excusing how Itachi handled their reunion. Crippling low self-esteem or not, Stiles can acknowledge that he deserved better. Even if his own situation had been different – even if he hadn’t already been staggered from his fate back in Beacon Hills and desperately in need of emotional support – Itachi owed him proper communication. Hadn’t Stiles at least earned that, if not the truth itself?
But no matter how badly he’s been treated, Stiles knows he’d take Itachi back in a heartbeat. Love is stupid, and he’s stupidly in love.
Itachi begins to describe the symptoms of the disease. With his free hand, the teenager awkwardly types notes into his phone. He pauses at the mention of the “Sharingan’s nature,” gaze sharpening like frigid ice. Though he suspects there’s an aspect to the eye jutsu that he doesn’t quite grasp yet, Stiles allows the discussion thread to pass through his fingertips. One thing at a time. ]
It sounds like the disease called Tuberculosis in my world, [ he remarks in a tone surprisingly cool and belied only by the fine tremor affecting his hands. ] Kids are vaccinated against it young. Fatal, when not treated.
[ A spasm of emotion pinches his face. Stiles looks away, lips pursed, and takes a moment to will back the wall of tears clouding brown eyes. ]
So. [ Forced calm. ] Why’ve you refused examinations? Are you even trying –
[ Stiles pauses. Swallows. Tries again, this time without the accusatory edge. ]
[The name means little to nothing, foreign as it is to him. He is preoccupied with the flicker of volatile emotions telegraphed between them—analyzing them, devouring them with a hunger left in the wake of weeks without. He desires even the negative after such a long drought. Anger and disappointment and betrayal are familiar sentiments that he lets seep in like poison, masochistically welcomed.
How does Stiles expect him to respond to that question? Black eyes drift to a point on the wall, sightless, measuring the distance of one moment of silence to the next without real thought. His mind isn't so often empty in this way. Not without distraction, and that usually comes in the path of intimacy.]
If you're asking me that question, you wish me to admit what we both should already know. [Hadn't they endured this conversation once before? Are they to do it again?] I've never considered finding a cure for this, should one even exist.
[His tone is vacant, hollow. He does not relinquish Stiles' wrist throughout this; the grip is hard and tight, displaying more of that internal agony than anything else in his outward demeanor.]
[ The answer is not unexpected, yet still his expression shutters in the wake of it – as if the damning high tide of emotion drowning him were not already evident through Synchrony. A swell of fresh grief grips him in its jaws, wringing more tears unbidden from bloodshot eyes. Stiles doesn’t know what to do. How can he insist on finding a cure when Itachi has so little interest in living? This disease is like penance for a man who made an impossible choice and massacred hundreds of people in the name of the greater good. Maybe Itachi should die for his unspeakable crimes. But Stiles is selfish. ]
Fine.
[ With a shuddery exhale, the boy tries to yank his hand back to no avail. He’s shackled to Itachi in every sense of the word. Frustrated, Stiles abandons the attempt, pockets the phone, and digs out the folding knife. It flicks open in a deadly gleam of silver, moonlight pouring through the windows and affording it an almost ghostly veneer. After a moment, the knife is offered handle first to Itachi. ]
Take it. Go on. [ Tears stream freely now, running well-worn tracks down his face. ] Just end it now, then. What are you waiting for? Do it. If you’re that decided on dying, die. Or is it necessary that you suffer first? Better be careful, Itachi. Just how much are you willing to sacrifice to repay your debt to the clan?
[ Adjusting his hold, he presses the knife’s razor edge to his own wrist – the one Itachi has not relinquished. ]
It’d hurt you if I killed myself, wouldn’t it. [ The accusatory tone makes it clear this is not a question. ] Since you’re so set on being a martyr, I should do it. Anything to help you achieve your goal of suffering, right? I’m the perfect candidate. Have nothing to look forward to back home. No reason for existing in this world either anymore. Tired of living. Just like you. In fact, you’re like my role model at this point. I should give up. That’s what you’ve done, right? My turn now.
[Alarm brightens, honed instinct already following the movement of Stiles' hand before it slides into a pocket. The first half of those words seem to reach him through a deep mire, disassociated in the consideration of his own death—and it is only when the switchblade is turned over that Itachi comes out of himself. Fear knifes through Synchrony on the heels of despair, their grief mingling in a way that begins to scar for its mutual intensity. Stiles is suffering, too close to the source of his own pain; he's dragged Stiles into this place with him. He had wanted to accomplish the opposite. He had wanted to drive Stiles away from him, to cut this off at the root, to end it here before they crossed a point of no return. But perhaps that has already happened. Or, perhaps, he's never learned how to do anything else. It hadn't seemed that there was another option but a painful severance from one another for the sake of protection.
Itachi's free hand flashes out, seizing the other wrist and twisting it in attempt to force Stiles to drop the blade. He's risen off the couch to his knees, blanket pooling, their faces on even level now.]
Stiles... [in a tone that is exhausted, carved out to a shell for all the emotion that has battered him over the last few weeks—the last several months,] I don't want you to die. I want you to live. More than anything, live. It was selfish to begin this relationship with you knowing that this part of me would have such an impact on your emotional state. I...
[He's holding both wrists now in steely fingers, knuckles bloodless white, using the grasp to stabilize him on the couch and prevent him from swaying right over.]
I was aware of that. I still did it. [He manages to keep the words steady despite the dark swell of sadness that rushes in next.] Do you understand? I have lost everyone I've ever loved. Because of my own actions, and at my own hands, they are dead — as well as hundreds of innocent people, many of which had nothing to do with the shinobi world and only wished to live in peace. I will never be capable of atoning for that, but please... [That word wavers, hushed.] Do not become one of them.
[He doesn't notice the warm tickle on his own face immediately, some forgotten, empathetic piece of himself buried far below now welling up to match Stiles' tears though his own are silent and thin, pale silver lines down cheeks like strokes of translucent paint.]
I cannot ignore what our reality is here simply because I would prefer to be with you. That is not in my nature. We've seen, through the arrival and departure of so many others, that these dimensions are impermanent. We don't belong in them. [One hand finally relinquishes a wrist, lifting instead to press up beneath Stiles' chin with an open palm.] When you left, that fact was clear to me. It was clear to me in Aefenglom but I would not acknowledge it until later. And so continuing our relationship would, inevitably, end only in more pain.
[Hurting the people he cares about—that is everything he knows. He hates himself for it more than anyone else ever could.]
I'm sorry for not explaining to you. I thought it would be easier, but I see now that I was wrong.
[ The sight of those silent tears, glistening like dying stars in the night sky, shocks Stiles into stillness. From numb fingers the knife tumbles to the floor, narrowly avoiding his foot. He stands there, gazing upon Itachi’s anguish, and feels as though he might crumble beneath the combined weight of their mournful heartache. His chest is so tight that every breath must come at a cost – but one that he’s fully prepared to pay, having signed his name on the dotted line of this relationship the moment he first asked Itachi to Bond with him. And still the shinobi continues to speak, painting the bitter truth with broad, sweeping strokes of words kept in the dark for far too long. Stiles can only listen, arrested by the ancient pain haunting dark eyes like the shadow of an old friend. You can’t even see, comes the vague thought, indistinct and hazy, how much you’ve already paid for the massacre.
When Itachi finishes, the boy considers him quietly for a time. Eventually, he reaches for the hand at his chin in order to raise it to his mouth. There, he presses a small, chaste kiss to the palm – a smooth palm, one with lifelines that have been drenched in the blood of innocents and grown no shorter for their cruel trespass. ]
It’s not all you were wrong about.
[ His voice does not shake. A strange sense of calm has descended over Stiles now, granting him the strength necessary to speak his own truth. ]
Whether you agreed to a relationship with me or not never mattered. I’ve loved you longer than that.
[ A hopeless love that befell him like the swing of an axe, dooming his heart. Because even if he hadn’t known about the disease then, Stiles had been all too aware that one day they would be parted for good by the mercurial nature of these dimensions. ]
You want me to live. But living is a chance. And I’m not taking it without you. Do you understand? Every day is a gamble. We never know when our next breath might be our last. The chaos of the world doesn’t stop us from living our lives, though. It can’t. Our relationship is the same. One day, we might wake up in separate places with no memories of each other. I need to believe our time together, that living, was worth it anyway. Even if we never get to live happily ever after, at least we can say we lived.
[He can't look directly at Stiles upon that confession. Whether he already sensed some dimension of those feelings, they're made more concrete by spoken word, now materialized into reality. Not even Izumi had ever verbalized herself to him, even after he knew. Perhaps part of it is their nature as Uchiha—deep attachment carries a real and tangible burden. It is the difference between power and weakness, the delicate fissure separating strength and madness. How much does Stiles understand what that means for someone like him? And more, how does Stiles hope he will respond?
Through Synchrony, the hiccup of emotion is clearly felt: a feathery panic interlaced with aching sentiment too tangled with dread and worry. He doesn't know what to do with it. Somehow, it's almost easier to face the hopeful words that follow after—even if he is just as ill prepared to understand them. He has never lived simply to live. He has never considered himself adequately capable of existing without some purpose, some high-minded goal, whether that be for the sake of the village or his younger brother. What is the point of shinobi, after all, if they are unable to fulfill some greater purpose? Absurdly, he's reminded of his childhood dream of becoming Hokage to remove all of the shinobi from the world—so there would be no more need for death. Idealistic and foolish, but it seems that there is also another way to eradicate the necessity of shinobi… Allowing them to live for themselves.
Itachi relinquishes his hold on the boy and sinks back down onto the couch heavily, what meager strength he'd found draining out of him. He exhales a thin stream of breath.] … I don't know if I will ever fully understand your perspective, but I will try. [If the way to keep Stiles alive is by promising his own life—he's prepared to make that agreement. It seems a small ask, in comparison. He can keep going a little longer.] And I am sorry for concealing this from you.
[If it's destroyed what trust Stiles did hold for him, he can accept that.]
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A low growl builds in that long throat, rumbled warning before the dragon throws it sleek body over the edge in a calculated swoop. As a hawk might scoop up a field mouse, claws extend—snatching Stiles by his upper body and latching on, sharp points digging into fabric and tender skin across shoulders and arms, snaring his torso. Yet there is nothing destructive in the grasp; claws don't rend deeper, don't shred the frail body beneath them. They only hold Stiles like captured prey. Wings beat the air to take flight from the dead stop, launching straight up, clearing buildings in an angled path toward the sky with another more satisfied snarl.
No sound but whistling wind throughout the journey, destination unknown, Sumarlok sprawling out below at a great drop, city lights like colored gems scattered for miles in every direction. He veers north toward the mountains of Camp Whitegrave, then northwest, and after nearly twenty minutes of continuous flight begins to drop in altitude, pointed into the dense forest and low hills at the edge of city limits. Stiles is finally deposited on the grassy ledge of a giant hill—a gentle release of claws—just enough space to accommodate a teenage boy alongside the dragon's bulky body that crowds in behind him, trapping him close to the shelf of rock at his back.]
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Claws seize him, sharp points of pressure that scrape along the uneven ridges of crystal and poke gaping holes in his sweatshirt. Then they’re rising rapidly, Stiles swallowing a startled gasp as his stomach drops suddenly from the increase in altitude. Heights like this have always unsettled him when he’s not in his arachne or tsuchigumo form; he swallows down a surge of bile, wondering if he’s going to be dashed against rocks for the dragon to pick daintily at his insides. In spite of his prolonged death wish, he finds himself scrabbling to hold onto the creature’s claws, a flicker of instinctive fear finally roused.
There’s little else to do while they fly other than pour over the facts. Gembond transformations typically happen around this time of the month. Dragons are part of the amethyst-class transformations. He knows few amethysts, especially with such a distinctive suggestion of coloring. And then, most telling of all –
A feeling wells up inside him, powerful and terrible. It reminds him of the Manna Bairn, of the life he’s painstakingly built both here and back in Beacon Hills. Home.
When they land and he’s released, Stiles draws close to the rocks in an attempt to put space between them. His heart is racing, hammering at his ribcage like it might break free. Tear tracks already stain pale cheeks, though he tells himself they’re merely the result of the wind whipping at his face earlier. The truth is more complicated. Stiles is waking up from the hazy dreamlike state he’s existed in for the past several weeks and he dislikes it. God, he’s so tired of crying. ]
Itachi, [ he croaks, glancing briefly at the dragon before dropping wet eyes. ] I…I don’t know if you can understand me, but you’re gonna be okay. The changes are temporary. Just hang in there.
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Then the large, horned skull gently headbutts the center of Stiles' chest with enough force to sprawl him down onto grass. A claw follows, planted on top of the boy. The word will jolt like a strike of lightning straight into his mind: Stay. Not spoken in any audible language and instead transferred directly to Stiles, constructed as much from human syllables as it is more of a feeling or image. Stay.
As if there's anywhere to go, surrounded by wilderness, stranded on a cliff above empty air.
Itachi turns, plunging into flight with wings spanned wide to catch currents of wind, soon little more than a black speck among trees. Several minutes pass. Not so long as their journey to reach this place, but a decent chunk of time before the dragon reappears from the night like liquid shadow streaking down toward the ledge again. The landing is delicate. Clenched between massive jaws... is an entire branch of a tree, and dangling from it are several shiny fruits native to Noctium. It's soon dropped heavily at Stiles' feet.]
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Naturally, he doesn’t comply. The moment Itachi departs, that striking form splitting the air like an arrow, Stiles is climbing unsteadily to his feet, ignoring the rush of blood to his head, and cautiously approaching the edge of the cliff to watch. All too soon, the dragon disappears from sight. Time crawls by. Shivering despite the sweltering summer heat that seems to radiate from the ground, he waits. What else can he possibly do? Concern about his boyfri – about Itachi’s current state drives him to pacing impatiently, every so often checking the network via his phone to see if anyone has mentioned a dragon.
When the dragon returns, gliding gracefully through the skies, Stiles flattens himself against the rocky outcropping to make room. The tree branch is given a slow, measuring look of affected incomprehension. ]
Sorry, buddy. [ His voice trembles, thin and reedy as if he were on the verge of a breakdown. ] If you wanna play fetch, we’re gonna need a smaller stick than that. How about bringing me one I can actually throw?
[ And then, before Itachi can respond, he curtly continues: ] I’m not hungry, thanks.
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He flinches back, long wispy neck recoiling, weight bearing down as a sudden fit seems to seize him. It's strange to hear a dragon cough. At first, it's unclear what is happening by muffled sounds unlike a growl or whine. His throat muscles contract, gagging on the buildup of blood that seals out air, unaccustomed to the bodily reaction in a body like this—and then all at once choking, doubled half-over, splatters of blood painting grassy earth. A violent movement backward, and Itachi's claws scrabble at the rocky ledge before he loses footing and plummets off it and out of sight.
There's noise: scraping, thrashing noise of a dragon attempting to get purchase on the side of a cliff, hanging vertically. Wings work at the air to keep him pressed to stone. Heaving, he manages to begin climbing back up and over to stable ground.]
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But some of us have to make mistakes, he thinks wildly, remembering that fateful night in the rain with Scott outside the animal clinic. Don’t leave me too.
After that, things rapidly spiral out of control. The dragon lurches backward before abruptly heaving up blood, black under the moonlight and steaming. As a stricken kind of dread careens through Stiles, Itachi slips off the edge of the cliff in a moment of uncharacteristic weakness. With a hoarse scream of the man’s name, he dashes to the precipice, prepared to throw himself over in pursuit. If he can manage to transform too, Stiles might be able to utilize tsuchigumo webbing to save Itachi. Yet the makeshift plan ultimately proves unnecessary; the dragon clings to the rocky façade, not yet in freefall. Seizing a horn, he tries to help pull the dragon back onto the surface for all the good his efforts do. ]
You’re hurt, [ he distantly hears someone saying, hardly recognizing the raspy, panicked voice as his own. ] Fuck. Stay still, okay?
[ Hands run thoroughly through the soft down of feathers along Itachi’s chest, searching for the source of an injury. Ducking underneath the dragon, he checks the vulnerable underbelly and finds nothing. His breathing is sharp, a hint of terrified hysteria choking him. If there’s no external injury that’s punctured the body, then… The bleeding must be internal. ]
Itachi, did you eat anything weird? [ The question is spoken in a rush, barely enough air swallowed to get the words out. ] I need you to tell me what’s happening. Please.
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He's tired. Crawling forward, he uses his body to push Stiles back away from the ledge, then attempts to lie down on top of him. Considering his dramatically larger size, it's only fortunate that he doesn't crush Stiles; the majority of his feathered weight settles across Stiles' legs and effectively pins them down. Clawed forelimbs lay to either side of the boy's shoulders, wings fanned to provide a black canvas above them that blocks out all light from the moons and the stars. Head drooping, it tucks in close to Stiles' face, rubbing the soft-textured side of a muzzle against his cheek. His animalistic body is overly warm stretched across like this, and every breath taken with a heave of expansive lungs seems to rumble. Almost straining for air, Stiles might notice, like a dog panting with its mouth shut.
This close, the tiny amethyst gem low in his throat peeks through a thatch of feathers, dull and dormant although lacking signs of crystallization. Confirmation of identity, if nothing else. Stiles will be assaulted with more strange telepathic language: a disjointed jumbling of sorry and tired, felt rather than said, and then a darker echo of mine beneath them. Regret, fatigue, and deep aching possessiveness made abstract without Synchrony's translation.]
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Sync with me, [ he pleads, looping arms around a long neck and burying his face against the dragon’s head to hide tears. ] It’ll help, okay?
[ There’s a distinctive clink as his body shifts, the hardened crystal concealed beneath the sweatshirt no doubt obvious in texture as it presses against the dragon’s form. But Stiles can’t pause to remind himself why he hasn’t engaged in Synchrony these past few weeks since Guanshan. Everything that’s happened – his friends and family forgetting him, the Wild Hunt, returning to Noctium, Itachi’s brutal rejection, the cold depression that’s steadily sapped the life from him – is irrelevant in that moment. Someone he loves needs help, help that he can actually provide through Synchrony; Stiles is all too willing to put aside his misgivings for the time being, if only to ease the labored breathing whistling noisily through flared nostrils.
But even with his intentions in the right place, Stiles finds it more difficult than anticipated to open up emotionally. His instinct is to suppress the frothing monsoon of miserable emotion, not share it – especially not when Itachi is hurting like this, when Stiles doesn’t want the attention shifting onto himself instead. Shuddering, he slowly pries open the dam, allowing only a weak trickle through initially. The surface fears of anxiety, apprehension, and concern lurk here, buoyed on a coursing river of affection. The dam widens gradually and the deluge of emotions grows thicker; hopelessness, prominent above all else, crashing through the gates like a bludgeon, followed by abject anguish, loneliness, and grief. And beneath it all, so unobtrusive that it could almost be overlooked, is anger. ]
C’mon, sweetheart. [ The endearment falls from his lips unbidden. ] Take what you need. I’ve got you.
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Itachi's body begins to shiver, seized by tremors that don't immediately stop despite the rushing balm of Synchrony's power. Memories of the last few hours come back to him all at once. A blur of action and impulse-driven chaos since transformation rooted itself into his mind and took control. He can feel Stiles warm against him, inhales that familiar scent with a flare of nostrils, agitated wings flapping briefly overhead. He can also feel the prickling chafe of crystallized skin against feathers, can hear it chink with movement, alarm ringing loud through the tether that binds them together. And yet despite that he doesn't draw away. He can't make himself, pressed on top of the boy with an almost irrational need to remain physically touching as close as possible.
Stiles, comes the clear and horrified name, telepathically delivered. Stiles. Did I hurt you?]
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Stiles knows he won’t survive it a second time. ]
I’m fine. [ Short, deliberately avoiding answering the question of whether or not Itachi hurt him. ] Since you seem to be returning to your senses, can we focus on you for a minute? You just puked up blood.
[ Fingers spasm where they grip fistfuls of feathers. After a moment, he manages to regain control of himself and smooth out the plumage with the stroke of his palms. ]
We need to get you to a hospital. Or contact a healer.
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It seems his lies have all come calling at last. Expressions don't display themselves normally on a dark, draconian face, easier to see in the translation of physical language. He's stopped trembling; wings wilt down, hanging across a feathered back limply; that horned skull angles to turn a look out at the expanse of wilderness that surrounds them. Thinking in the quiet interim, briefly unreachable. A wispy tail flicks across the grass.
I can't explain it now, he communicates carefully, but I am not in any danger at the moment. We should move first from this location to somewhere safer. Then we can talk. Are you willing to allow that?
Can't. Won't. Inherently a selfish choice, but the truth sits sick on his stomach and under these circumstances, with Stiles in obvious distress, he's unwilling to drag it out.]
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Then we can talk, [ repeats Stiles in a dull monotone. ] Am I willing…? I don’t know – are you willing to let me make my own choices?
[ There’s no snappish bite to his words, only layers of exhaustion, painted thin and watery with fear. A shudder rolls through him, rattling hollow bones and shaking loose intrusive thoughts. The last time they were together, Itachi requested a break from their relationship; will the man formally end things now? Is this the last chance he’ll have to hold his boyfriend in his arms? To breathe in his scent, to Sync with him? Jaw clenched tight against the threat of even more useless tears, Stiles woodenly disengages from the dragon, wiggling out from under the heavy weight with some effort. ]
Alright. If you’re well enough to travel, let’s go.
[ He wears defeat like an old friend. ]
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After coaxing Stiles to climb onto his back in a straddle just across wide shoulder blades, tucked above the joining of wings to spine, he leaps off the ledge and scales in height, buoyed up by currents of wind. He does not communicate his own fatigue although that channel remains open between them, telling in the sluggish and tepid lull of feeling from his side, Synchrony supplying much needed strength. The energy to fly back to the center of the Emerald District is temporarily beyond him after what he's expended to reach this distant area. Instead, Itachi veers north toward Camp Whitegrave. Though not so cold in the dead of summer, there's still a chillier bite to the air; treetops and grassy clearings are scattered with lightly dusted snowfall, but the ground is no longer frozen as it was months ago. Only the highest mountaintops carry their permanent wreaths of snow this time of year.
Itachi doesn't go so far, angling down in the direction of cabins outlying the very edge of the town's settlement. The area is quiet and deserted so late at night. He lands with a heave of breath, immediately lowering to allow Stiles off the saddle of shoulders.
We're far enough from the center of town that we should not be bothered here. I don't know if the buildings will be unlocked, he admits, but I would not fit inside regardless as I am now.]
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But – despite the man’s claims of not being in any current danger – Itachi is obviously in a weakened state. Guts twisting in concern, Stiles reopens his end of Synchrony as wide as possible while running hands back and forth along feathers in an effort to produce Manna. The connection benefits him as well, though the sheer amount of crystallization encasing his limbs will require more time Syncing in order to completely recede. Unfortunately, he doubts Itachi will want to linger after explaining the situation.
Camp Whitegrave is a familiar sight, even at this altitude. As they spiral down toward the ground, Stiles thinks about the game of fairy tag they had played with the monster spirits all those months ago – about the moment he stood gazing at Itachi under pale moonlight and belatedly realized he was in love with the man. So much has changed since then. So much, and yet simultaneously…nothing at all.
Sliding off Itachi, he stumbles on the ground, slightly bowlegged from the journey. He hesitates to instill distance between them, trying to maintain physical contact for the sake of potent Synchrony. Itachi looks like he could use the support. ]
Never mind the buildings. Tell me what’s wrong.
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There is no right time for this. There is no clear path out. When was the first time he'd learned such a difficult reality? Too soon, too young, before his mind had even fully comprehended the world around him.
Telepathic speech comes low and careful, each word chosen only after selective deliberation, trying to perfect this even now when it doesn't matter. This condition isn't new to me. Prior to my death, I was sick for a very long time. I told you that Sasuke killed me. While that is true... I was already physically weakened by then due to illness.
He's not positive that even Sasuke knows this, although perhaps he's since learned, perhaps he'd guessed later on. However, he has not told another individual that he's remained ill in this dimension. Kisame only learned by luck, by chance and ability to identify the signs upon ambushing him at his apartment. He hadn't wanted the man to know. He certainly hadn't wanted Stiles ever to know. But then, what was the plan?
No, there was never a plan. It was an out—if he'd ever needed it.
Delivering this information, a sleek dark head turns, red eyes gazing out over the surrounding mountains, drawing strength to continue from their cold immutable stillness.
It was not an issue in previous dimensions. I could not say why. Perhaps it has something to do with the interaction of my chakra and the magic of this world. Here, generating Manna does help alleviate symptoms to some degree. Synchrony at this point is electric with anxiety, though it churns with the same flat lethargy. But the fact remains as it did before. The disease will eventually kill me.]
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For a period, he can only gaze blankly at the dragon, as if the creature has spoken in a foreign language. But Stiles is slowly piecing together the larger picture, a sharp attention to detail only serving to savagely injure him now as he recalls every moment relevant to this revelation. “I will not make a promise I cannot keep,” Itachi had firmly messaged him two months ago, when Stiles begged to be informed if the man started harboring thoughts of suicidal ideation. And yet Itachi already has broken his most important promise to Stiles – his vow during the Bonding ceremony, to never withhold the truth. While the disease might not have been pertinent in previous dimensions, Stiles has to wonder just how long the shinobi has known it was affecting him on Noctium. Since the beginning of their stay? It seems likely.
Synchrony buckles. The overwhelming sense of betrayal he feels conveys through the emotional tether what he verbally does not, second only to the surge of grief battering his breast as he continues to process the information. The cold, sleepy apathy that’s suffused his waking life for the last several weeks has evaporated rapidly, leaving him reeling. In its place, Stiles finds the grim determination that had motivated him from the start – to discover a way that Itachi can live again, whether permanently in this world, back in the land of the shinobi, or in Beacon Hills. ]
What are your symptoms? [ he demands, a husky croak that sticks in his throat. Stiles is unsurprised that his cheeks are damp, the nippy chill of the area biting at his wet skin. ] You’ve seen the doctors in this world, right? What’d they say?
[ With a quiet sniff, he fumbles for his cell phone. It’s an excuse to look away – just in time for a hot second wave of tears to spill from clouded brown eyes. He’s trembling, but not from the cold.
Itachi is dying. ]
Tell me everything.
[ And his fingers hover over the screen keyboard, prepared to take notes. ]
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As though at the behest of this desperate wish, the transformation happens suddenly, shrinking that beast's sleek form—wings vanishing in a wisp of black smoke, claws retracting, feathers scattered in a supernatural flurry like one of his own jutsu. And the man is there, drawn and silent, hair hanging loose and lank around pale shoulders, naked from head to toe. The cold air doesn't seem to bother him even without clothes. It only takes a step to draw them closer, to enclose Stiles in an uncharacteristic embrace. He cannot say where the decision to act this way originates—if he has any control over it at all. His cheek presses briefly to Stiles' ear, flesh feverishly warm to touch.
After a moment he moves to withdraw, to give Stiles space and look him in the eye, open hands sliding down over arms.]
Do you want to hear all of that now? [In his voice, in his own words, low between them. The evidence of illness shows more easily on a human body than a dragon's: he has lost weight as well, color washed out to a pallor, eyes sleepless and dark. Their appearances unfortunately matched in misery.] I will tell you. It doesn't need to be like this.
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It does, [ he insists, a tremor knifing through his roughened, wrecked voice. ] Don’t fight me.
[ The warning may not immediately make sense. But then he begins to drag off his sweatshirt, movements jerky. The fabric catches on the dulled edges of crystal, the severity of which finally becomes clear when the garment is finally removed. His short-sleeve t-shirt reveals thick sheets of pale emerald crawling down the length of his right arm. The shirt itself hangs lopsidedly on him, distended in the shoulder, back, and chest where Chrysalis has obviously taken place. When he pulls the warm sweatshirt down over Itachi’s head, his shirt rides up and reveals the crystallization has even started to dip beneath the waistline. Stiles makes no mention of it as he fusses with the sweatshirt sleeves however, guiding arms through the appropriate holes. Then, after pausing to free the curtain of dark hair from where it was caught inside the garment, he scoops the shinobi up into a bridal carry.
It’s not an easy feat given his current physical state. Dizzy already, he blinks rapidly to clear his tunneling vision. The fact of the matter is, despite how weak he may be now, it’s likely nothing in comparison to how Itachi is doing – especially after the taxing monster transformation. ]
Just let me do this for you. Please.
[ Itachi is all heat, a failing vessel of blood working overtime to fight a battle it can’t possibly win. Tucking the man’s head under his chin, he heads slowly in the direction of the nearest cabin, taking the utmost care not to drop Itachi. A simmering sense of hysteria demands he never let go of his boyfriend, that he hold onto this precious body and protect it with his own no matter the cost. But once inside the cabin, he gently sets Itachi down on the couch – hands lingering, reluctant to be parted. ]
If you need to rest, that’s fine. [ There’s a folded blanket on a chair that he retrieves and snaps open, tucking Itachi in. ] But if you can tell me now, I’m listening.
[ He hovers, seemingly unsure what to do with himself. ]
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Given the circumstances, perhaps he should afford Stiles this much.
The cabin's interior is dark and unlit, thick with dust from months of neglect, but it is warmer and protected from the elements. Seated on the couch, dark eyes follow Stiles to the chair and back. He's obediently still as the blanket is tucked in, but before Stiles can withdraw, a hand flashes to snatch his wrist, hold strong and unwilling to be shaken loose.]
Fine. [If that's what you need.] Then maintain Synchrony with me.
[This condition given, his gaze drifts in a display of unusual hesitancy, thoughts hanging on only a thread.]
I've refused most examinations here, so if the illness has a name, I am not aware of it. I know that it primarily affects my respiratory system. I first noticed a change in my condition a few years ago, when during combat I was not able to breathe properly. [Breathlessness—something he should not have experienced given the quality of his physical fitness.] It was not usually an issue; I'd learned not to overexert myself already due to Sharingan's nature.
[Probably not a good time to discuss Mangekyou Sharingan's eventual blindness. Irrelevant, anyway, as he hasn't perceived issues with that part of his anatomy.]
The symptoms are otherwise predictable. Lack of air, a dry cough, fatigue. Occasionally a fever or body aches. At times my fingertips are swollen. [Slender fingers flex over Stiles' wrist, tightening as eyes slip down.] I had never missed with a kunai before.
... I was also given medication by the scientists of this dimension, though that isn't meant to be a cure, only a method of coping. [Concealing.] As I said, Manna seems to help as well.
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Just as Stiles said to Spock, Itachi would undoubtedly sabotage their relationship for his sake if the man thought it was for the best. This disease could very well be the crux of Itachi’s reasoning. Yet one fact remains. Whatever that reasoning? It wasn’t good enough. There’s no excusing how Itachi handled their reunion. Crippling low self-esteem or not, Stiles can acknowledge that he deserved better. Even if his own situation had been different – even if he hadn’t already been staggered from his fate back in Beacon Hills and desperately in need of emotional support – Itachi owed him proper communication. Hadn’t Stiles at least earned that, if not the truth itself?
But no matter how badly he’s been treated, Stiles knows he’d take Itachi back in a heartbeat. Love is stupid, and he’s stupidly in love.
Itachi begins to describe the symptoms of the disease. With his free hand, the teenager awkwardly types notes into his phone. He pauses at the mention of the “Sharingan’s nature,” gaze sharpening like frigid ice. Though he suspects there’s an aspect to the eye jutsu that he doesn’t quite grasp yet, Stiles allows the discussion thread to pass through his fingertips. One thing at a time. ]
It sounds like the disease called Tuberculosis in my world, [ he remarks in a tone surprisingly cool and belied only by the fine tremor affecting his hands. ] Kids are vaccinated against it young. Fatal, when not treated.
[ A spasm of emotion pinches his face. Stiles looks away, lips pursed, and takes a moment to will back the wall of tears clouding brown eyes. ]
So. [ Forced calm. ] Why’ve you refused examinations? Are you even trying –
[ Stiles pauses. Swallows. Tries again, this time without the accusatory edge. ]
Do you want to find a cure?
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How does Stiles expect him to respond to that question? Black eyes drift to a point on the wall, sightless, measuring the distance of one moment of silence to the next without real thought. His mind isn't so often empty in this way. Not without distraction, and that usually comes in the path of intimacy.]
If you're asking me that question, you wish me to admit what we both should already know. [Hadn't they endured this conversation once before? Are they to do it again?] I've never considered finding a cure for this, should one even exist.
[His tone is vacant, hollow. He does not relinquish Stiles' wrist throughout this; the grip is hard and tight, displaying more of that internal agony than anything else in his outward demeanor.]
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Fine.
[ With a shuddery exhale, the boy tries to yank his hand back to no avail. He’s shackled to Itachi in every sense of the word. Frustrated, Stiles abandons the attempt, pockets the phone, and digs out the folding knife. It flicks open in a deadly gleam of silver, moonlight pouring through the windows and affording it an almost ghostly veneer. After a moment, the knife is offered handle first to Itachi. ]
Take it. Go on. [ Tears stream freely now, running well-worn tracks down his face. ] Just end it now, then. What are you waiting for? Do it. If you’re that decided on dying, die. Or is it necessary that you suffer first? Better be careful, Itachi. Just how much are you willing to sacrifice to repay your debt to the clan?
[ Adjusting his hold, he presses the knife’s razor edge to his own wrist – the one Itachi has not relinquished. ]
It’d hurt you if I killed myself, wouldn’t it. [ The accusatory tone makes it clear this is not a question. ] Since you’re so set on being a martyr, I should do it. Anything to help you achieve your goal of suffering, right? I’m the perfect candidate. Have nothing to look forward to back home. No reason for existing in this world either anymore. Tired of living. Just like you. In fact, you’re like my role model at this point. I should give up. That’s what you’ve done, right? My turn now.
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Itachi's free hand flashes out, seizing the other wrist and twisting it in attempt to force Stiles to drop the blade. He's risen off the couch to his knees, blanket pooling, their faces on even level now.]
Stiles... [in a tone that is exhausted, carved out to a shell for all the emotion that has battered him over the last few weeks—the last several months,] I don't want you to die. I want you to live. More than anything, live. It was selfish to begin this relationship with you knowing that this part of me would have such an impact on your emotional state. I...
[He's holding both wrists now in steely fingers, knuckles bloodless white, using the grasp to stabilize him on the couch and prevent him from swaying right over.]
I was aware of that. I still did it. [He manages to keep the words steady despite the dark swell of sadness that rushes in next.] Do you understand? I have lost everyone I've ever loved. Because of my own actions, and at my own hands, they are dead — as well as hundreds of innocent people, many of which had nothing to do with the shinobi world and only wished to live in peace. I will never be capable of atoning for that, but please... [That word wavers, hushed.] Do not become one of them.
[He doesn't notice the warm tickle on his own face immediately, some forgotten, empathetic piece of himself buried far below now welling up to match Stiles' tears though his own are silent and thin, pale silver lines down cheeks like strokes of translucent paint.]
I cannot ignore what our reality is here simply because I would prefer to be with you. That is not in my nature. We've seen, through the arrival and departure of so many others, that these dimensions are impermanent. We don't belong in them. [One hand finally relinquishes a wrist, lifting instead to press up beneath Stiles' chin with an open palm.] When you left, that fact was clear to me. It was clear to me in Aefenglom but I would not acknowledge it until later. And so continuing our relationship would, inevitably, end only in more pain.
[Hurting the people he cares about—that is everything he knows. He hates himself for it more than anyone else ever could.]
I'm sorry for not explaining to you. I thought it would be easier, but I see now that I was wrong.
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When Itachi finishes, the boy considers him quietly for a time. Eventually, he reaches for the hand at his chin in order to raise it to his mouth. There, he presses a small, chaste kiss to the palm – a smooth palm, one with lifelines that have been drenched in the blood of innocents and grown no shorter for their cruel trespass. ]
It’s not all you were wrong about.
[ His voice does not shake. A strange sense of calm has descended over Stiles now, granting him the strength necessary to speak his own truth. ]
Whether you agreed to a relationship with me or not never mattered. I’ve loved you longer than that.
[ A hopeless love that befell him like the swing of an axe, dooming his heart. Because even if he hadn’t known about the disease then, Stiles had been all too aware that one day they would be parted for good by the mercurial nature of these dimensions. ]
You want me to live. But living is a chance. And I’m not taking it without you. Do you understand? Every day is a gamble. We never know when our next breath might be our last. The chaos of the world doesn’t stop us from living our lives, though. It can’t. Our relationship is the same. One day, we might wake up in separate places with no memories of each other. I need to believe our time together, that living, was worth it anyway. Even if we never get to live happily ever after, at least we can say we lived.
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Through Synchrony, the hiccup of emotion is clearly felt: a feathery panic interlaced with aching sentiment too tangled with dread and worry. He doesn't know what to do with it. Somehow, it's almost easier to face the hopeful words that follow after—even if he is just as ill prepared to understand them. He has never lived simply to live. He has never considered himself adequately capable of existing without some purpose, some high-minded goal, whether that be for the sake of the village or his younger brother. What is the point of shinobi, after all, if they are unable to fulfill some greater purpose? Absurdly, he's reminded of his childhood dream of becoming Hokage to remove all of the shinobi from the world—so there would be no more need for death. Idealistic and foolish, but it seems that there is also another way to eradicate the necessity of shinobi… Allowing them to live for themselves.
Itachi relinquishes his hold on the boy and sinks back down onto the couch heavily, what meager strength he'd found draining out of him. He exhales a thin stream of breath.] … I don't know if I will ever fully understand your perspective, but I will try. [If the way to keep Stiles alive is by promising his own life—he's prepared to make that agreement. It seems a small ask, in comparison. He can keep going a little longer.] And I am sorry for concealing this from you.
[If it's destroyed what trust Stiles did hold for him, he can accept that.]
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