[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.]
[ That same strange sense of calm from before continues to steadily steer him now. Expression placid – tear tracks drying on cheeks that have slowly returned to normal coloring – he settles down on the couch beside Itachi, close enough that their legs brush. There are no expectant looks contorting his countenance. No prying glances shot in the shinobi’s direction. Stiles doesn’t require reciprocation; his love comes at no price, after all. It simply is. A fact, rather than an admission. In some ways, he’s an old hand at this; this isn’t the first time he’s fallen in unrequited love. Even now his last words to Lydia ring in his ears. “Remember I love you.” And still he does. Another day, he can agonize over the unintended betrayal to both Lydia and Itachi. Tonight, he’s content to accept his feelings for both.
Stiles says nothing, gaze lost somewhere Itachi can’t follow. Because while he may not require requital, he needs reassurance of a different kind. ]
Here’s the bottom line.
[ His voice is soft, a faint whisper in the hungry dark that seeks to swallow it. ]
I can’t do this a second time. Don’t cut me off and leave me in limbo again like that. Talk to me.
[ Forgiveness is not offered. Itachi’s actions have wounded Stiles too deeply, a hurt that almost proved fatal. It will take time to heal, to scar over – and that’s assuming Stiles will even let it, prone as he is to picking at his own pain in paranoia. It’s too soon to say how heavily the betrayal will affect him in the future; this conversation, if nothing else, is already doing well to help stanch the bleeding. ]
You refused to promise me something before. But will you promise to try and talk to me from now on? Will you uphold the vow you made to me during our Bonding ceremony?
[It doesn't seem punishment enough for his cruelty. In light of what he has done to Stiles, forgiveness isn't something he seeks. Truthfully he wonders why he would be offered this second chance at all; there's no purpose to it, no relief, the blot of his mistakes always in the corner of his mind, visible and raw. How can he live for this one moment when there is always the certainty that Stiles will leave and forget him, and that he is destined for the grave? He doesn't understand.
But he's said that he would try. As Stiles sinks down onto the couch beside him, his body slants in that direction automatically, cheek coming to rest on one rounded shoulder. Exhaustion is a constant ache now that transformation has worn off and his body's ailments are made obvious. His head is pulsing with pain; concentration is difficult.
What if he can't do it? Failure is the yawning void beneath his feet. Would it be better to admit that, knowing the pattern of his own behavior, or should he promise simply because it will mean Stiles doesn't get up and leave him here now? The anxiety is chewing him up from the inside. He would rather feel nothing, cauterized to the core. When did everything become so bright and painful? He doesn't trust himself not to hurt Stiles again.
He doesn't want Stiles to go.
Talking. It's such a small request, and yet he's gone his entire life denying it to everyone he's known.
Why do you love me? There is nothing I can ever be that is worthy of it.]
Yes. [The word feels like gravel in his throat, eyes closing against Stiles' shoulder.] ... Even if I wished to put an end to this, I don't believe I will have the strength to attempt it again.
[ Peace finally alights on his weary soul for the first time since returning to Noctium when Itachi’s head comes to lay on his shoulder. In some ways, it’s an answer to a question that he hadn’t dared to utter, not even now during a candid conversation about the state of their relationship. Though there have been hints to indicate otherwise, Stiles had still feared the shinobi would be determined to end things. The physical contact – this display of vulnerability from a man with the strictest sense of self-discipline he knows – settles his doubts for the time being. Itachi isn’t going to leave him. They’re going to be okay.
Synchrony bubbles over with anxieties not his own. With a quiet murmur, he adjusts his seat. One leg worms behind Itachi while he guides the two of them to lie lengthwise along the couch, the other man propped up against his front. Sliding an arm around a too thin waist in a possessive manner that’s not entirely conscious, Stiles nuzzles his boyfriend’s cheek tiredly. There’s so much left to discuss, but their joint exhaustion is wearing them thin. Itachi especially needs rest, given the illness taxing his body and the recent transformation. Everything else can wait. ]
Good.
[ He finds himself hoping that Itachi means the strength of emotional fortitude and not strength of body as sapped by the disease. Aware that he’ll likely be awake for hours yet obsessing over this illness and their options to address it, he sinks into the couch heavily. The newly born hope in his heart shies away from scrutinizing the truth of the disease too closely, afraid that the candle flame will gutter in even the weakest breeze. ]
Sleep. I’ll be here in the morning. We can talk more then.
[ A kiss is pressed to the crown of a dark head, tender and sweet. The folding knife glares up at the ceiling where it has been abandoned on the floor, forgotten. ]
[I'll be here in the morning. A mild promise, though it hooks in his chest and refuses to budge, gaining significance. There's no protest as their bodies are slotted closer on the couch, an allowance of intimacy he's yet to engage with another person—ever, really. It reminds him of that first night they had spent in the storage closet on the station. Stiles propped on the floor and unwilling to leave, eventually coaxed to join him on the mattress. A first step past all of the physical boundaries he's held against everyone else. They've come a long way, perhaps.
Itachi's eyelids flicker at the pressure of a kiss at his brow. He says nothing at first—it seems as though he's content to allow them both to drift off to sleep just like this. Instead, Itachi's low voices comes a few moments later, ghosting gently across Stiles' chin.]
You are important to me. More than you can imagine. [Verbalizing this is crucial, even if it feels unnatural. Even if it is one of the hardest things he can do.] Know that.
[Easier now to sink in against Stiles' half-embrace, to let his eyes fall fully close, and to give into the heavy burden of fatigue.]
[ Night marches steadily onward. Still as stone, he does not move from his position – not even when the dead weight draped along his body begins to become uncomfortable. Stiles gazes over Itachi’s head, staring out the window at the stars that blink innocently amid a black, limitless sky. Sleep does not come, regardless of how fatigued he may be; his mind churns in rapid calculation, organizing dusty shelves where pieces of a forsaken psyche have waited patiently these last few weeks. In some ways, he’s only just starting to properly wake up from a long, restless slumber. And upon stirring, Stiles has realized how much there is to do.
Sophia will need to be collected, of course. The elderly couple who has watched over her deserves some kind of gift in recompense. Maybe tickets to an upcoming orchestra concert? He’ll ask Itachi about their tastes tomorrow. The house must be deep cleaned, which will probably take at least a full day’s work. While he could hire a service to do it for him, Stiles believes strongly that he should take care of his own home himself, especially after neglecting it for so long. A landscaper might be necessary to evaluate the sorry state of the garden, however. He’ll have to call a specialist this week and see what can be done. Some of the plants are undoubtedly dead, but hopefully they can save the ones still clinging to life. And on the topic of life, his social life has suffered greatly in the wake of his depression; he needs to apologize to the friends he’s blown off and get reinstated in the classes he’s dropped out of. At least Worse Dragon is in decent shape.
This slurry of thoughts is just a flimsy film, feebly concealing the real matter he obsesses over. Right on time, an echo of Itachi’s words pierces his mind.
“You are important to me. More than you can imagine.”
Stiles exhales raggedly, breath teasing a few strands of dark hair. He’d known. Of course he’d known. But still, to hear Itachi admit as much aloud… It had seemed impossible. More than he could have ever hoped for. Despite how emotionally drained he feels, the memory of the confession continues to elicit a powerful flare of affection and protectiveness within him, urging him to gently hook loose locks off his boyfriend’s face and behind an ear. You’re going to be okay, he wills. You have to be. ] [ When Itachi finally begins to stir come morning, Stiles has fallen into a light doze. He snaps to attention almost immediately, fingers clenching over the two hands he’d examined and cupped at some point during the night. It takes a moment for him to remember where he is, to remember what’s happened. Shaking himself awake more fully, he checks on the shinobi with a voice roughened from dehydration. ]
Hey. How’re you doing?
[ Meanwhile, the pads of his fingertips trail over the relatively fresh, twin scars decorating Itachi’s hands – front and back. Impalement. Stiles doesn’t know what to think, only that he’d like answers. The idea that someone could have recently defeated Itachi in battle…he doesn’t want to believe it. But the alternative is worse.
Itachi let himself be impaled.
For once, he doesn’t harass the man for information right away, limbs unlocking from their hold to allow Itachi to sit up. ]
[He slept hard and dreamless, waking only when pale light begins to cut through the blinds on cabin windows, finding himself intertwined with another body—a waking that then becomes abrupt and startled, limbs stiffening with tension as his conscious mind returns. Even when they would share a bed, more and more frequently over the past few months, Itachi hadn't been much for extensive physical contact. Having Stiles curled up against his back was an extent of intimacy miles beyond anything he was accustomed; it was a compromise.
It isn't long after this recovery of awareness that his body makes its pain known, headache pulsing back to life behind eyes in a feverish strain. He's sweated through Stiles' hoodie sometime in the night. The sensation is unpleasant, but one that is easier to ignore than being pressed up against someone else. His mouth is thick and tastes somewhat rotten with the flavor of blood. Familiar hallmarks he'd come to know so well in those last years of his life.
Once released, Itachi heaves himself into an upright position. One hand rubs bleary eyes, hair mussed with sleep, overall much less put-together than he would ordinarily try to appear.]
We should return to Sumarlok soon. [Dark eyes stray to a rug on the ground beside a cold fireplace some distance away, then lift to look at Stiles.] ... I have medicine in my apartment.
[Medicine he hasn't taken in several days. Eyes narrow, expression not yet masked fully to disciplined composure.]
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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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Stiles says nothing, gaze lost somewhere Itachi can’t follow. Because while he may not require requital, he needs reassurance of a different kind. ]
Here’s the bottom line.
[ His voice is soft, a faint whisper in the hungry dark that seeks to swallow it. ]
I can’t do this a second time. Don’t cut me off and leave me in limbo again like that. Talk to me.
[ Forgiveness is not offered. Itachi’s actions have wounded Stiles too deeply, a hurt that almost proved fatal. It will take time to heal, to scar over – and that’s assuming Stiles will even let it, prone as he is to picking at his own pain in paranoia. It’s too soon to say how heavily the betrayal will affect him in the future; this conversation, if nothing else, is already doing well to help stanch the bleeding. ]
You refused to promise me something before. But will you promise to try and talk to me from now on? Will you uphold the vow you made to me during our Bonding ceremony?
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But he's said that he would try. As Stiles sinks down onto the couch beside him, his body slants in that direction automatically, cheek coming to rest on one rounded shoulder. Exhaustion is a constant ache now that transformation has worn off and his body's ailments are made obvious. His head is pulsing with pain; concentration is difficult.
What if he can't do it? Failure is the yawning void beneath his feet. Would it be better to admit that, knowing the pattern of his own behavior, or should he promise simply because it will mean Stiles doesn't get up and leave him here now? The anxiety is chewing him up from the inside. He would rather feel nothing, cauterized to the core. When did everything become so bright and painful? He doesn't trust himself not to hurt Stiles again.
He doesn't want Stiles to go.
Talking. It's such a small request, and yet he's gone his entire life denying it to everyone he's known.
Why do you love me? There is nothing I can ever be that is worthy of it.]
Yes. [The word feels like gravel in his throat, eyes closing against Stiles' shoulder.] ... Even if I wished to put an end to this, I don't believe I will have the strength to attempt it again.
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Synchrony bubbles over with anxieties not his own. With a quiet murmur, he adjusts his seat. One leg worms behind Itachi while he guides the two of them to lie lengthwise along the couch, the other man propped up against his front. Sliding an arm around a too thin waist in a possessive manner that’s not entirely conscious, Stiles nuzzles his boyfriend’s cheek tiredly. There’s so much left to discuss, but their joint exhaustion is wearing them thin. Itachi especially needs rest, given the illness taxing his body and the recent transformation. Everything else can wait. ]
Good.
[ He finds himself hoping that Itachi means the strength of emotional fortitude and not strength of body as sapped by the disease. Aware that he’ll likely be awake for hours yet obsessing over this illness and their options to address it, he sinks into the couch heavily. The newly born hope in his heart shies away from scrutinizing the truth of the disease too closely, afraid that the candle flame will gutter in even the weakest breeze. ]
Sleep. I’ll be here in the morning. We can talk more then.
[ A kiss is pressed to the crown of a dark head, tender and sweet. The folding knife glares up at the ceiling where it has been abandoned on the floor, forgotten. ]
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Itachi's eyelids flicker at the pressure of a kiss at his brow. He says nothing at first—it seems as though he's content to allow them both to drift off to sleep just like this. Instead, Itachi's low voices comes a few moments later, ghosting gently across Stiles' chin.]
You are important to me. More than you can imagine. [Verbalizing this is crucial, even if it feels unnatural. Even if it is one of the hardest things he can do.] Know that.
[Easier now to sink in against Stiles' half-embrace, to let his eyes fall fully close, and to give into the heavy burden of fatigue.]
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Sophia will need to be collected, of course. The elderly couple who has watched over her deserves some kind of gift in recompense. Maybe tickets to an upcoming orchestra concert? He’ll ask Itachi about their tastes tomorrow. The house must be deep cleaned, which will probably take at least a full day’s work. While he could hire a service to do it for him, Stiles believes strongly that he should take care of his own home himself, especially after neglecting it for so long. A landscaper might be necessary to evaluate the sorry state of the garden, however. He’ll have to call a specialist this week and see what can be done. Some of the plants are undoubtedly dead, but hopefully they can save the ones still clinging to life. And on the topic of life, his social life has suffered greatly in the wake of his depression; he needs to apologize to the friends he’s blown off and get reinstated in the classes he’s dropped out of. At least Worse Dragon is in decent shape.
This slurry of thoughts is just a flimsy film, feebly concealing the real matter he obsesses over. Right on time, an echo of Itachi’s words pierces his mind.
“You are important to me. More than you can imagine.”
Stiles exhales raggedly, breath teasing a few strands of dark hair. He’d known. Of course he’d known. But still, to hear Itachi admit as much aloud… It had seemed impossible. More than he could have ever hoped for. Despite how emotionally drained he feels, the memory of the confession continues to elicit a powerful flare of affection and protectiveness within him, urging him to gently hook loose locks off his boyfriend’s face and behind an ear. You’re going to be okay, he wills. You have to be. ]
[ When Itachi finally begins to stir come morning, Stiles has fallen into a light doze. He snaps to attention almost immediately, fingers clenching over the two hands he’d examined and cupped at some point during the night. It takes a moment for him to remember where he is, to remember what’s happened. Shaking himself awake more fully, he checks on the shinobi with a voice roughened from dehydration. ]
Hey. How’re you doing?
[ Meanwhile, the pads of his fingertips trail over the relatively fresh, twin scars decorating Itachi’s hands – front and back. Impalement. Stiles doesn’t know what to think, only that he’d like answers. The idea that someone could have recently defeated Itachi in battle…he doesn’t want to believe it. But the alternative is worse.
Itachi let himself be impaled.
For once, he doesn’t harass the man for information right away, limbs unlocking from their hold to allow Itachi to sit up. ]
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It isn't long after this recovery of awareness that his body makes its pain known, headache pulsing back to life behind eyes in a feverish strain. He's sweated through Stiles' hoodie sometime in the night. The sensation is unpleasant, but one that is easier to ignore than being pressed up against someone else. His mouth is thick and tastes somewhat rotten with the flavor of blood. Familiar hallmarks he'd come to know so well in those last years of his life.
Once released, Itachi heaves himself into an upright position. One hand rubs bleary eyes, hair mussed with sleep, overall much less put-together than he would ordinarily try to appear.]
We should return to Sumarlok soon. [Dark eyes stray to a rug on the ground beside a cold fireplace some distance away, then lift to look at Stiles.] ... I have medicine in my apartment.
[Medicine he hasn't taken in several days. Eyes narrow, expression not yet masked fully to disciplined composure.]
Did you sleep?
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