[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.]
[ Cartilage popping noisily from stiff joints, Stiles gently untangles their limbs until he’s able to swing both legs over the side of the couch. Already, the cold air swarms to leech the warmth on his front left behind by an overheated body. He suppresses a shiver, determined not to give Itachi a reason to give back the sweatshirt. Right now, the other man desperately needs it – and his medicine, which Stiles is relieved his boyfriend mentions. ]
Nah, [ he answers honestly, bending down to retrieve his folding knife from the floor. Closing it, he returns it to a pocket. ] I’ll crash later. Had too much on my mind to sleep.
[ With a groan, he pushes himself up onto his feet. It feels like he might require a steamroller to knead out the kinks in his back from laying down on that couch all night. Later, a bath is definitely in order. But first – ]
Gimme a sec.
[ Stiles disappears, mobile in hand. The sound of tired pipes creaking to life echoes through the cabin a moment later. Itachi may catch a few muffled sentences as the teenager speaks into the phone, ostensibly calling someone about the shuttle schedule at Whitegrave. When he walks back into the room, the device is cradled against his ear, both hands otherwise occupied with glasses of water. One is offered to Itachi without a word. The other is sipped as he waits to be transferred to the relevant department over the phone. He doesn’t know how his boyfriend planned to travel to Sumarlok, but Stiles refuses to entertain the idea of walking or flying. Not in Itachi’s condition. It’s just a matter of finding out what hour the shuttles are available. After another few minutes, he finally receives an answer and hangs up. ]
Okay, the shuttle here can bring us back to the city in about thirty minutes. The driver is just waking up. You’re gonna need something to wear.
[ Knocking back the rest of his water, Stiles shucks off his pants and silently drapes them on the couch beside Itachi. The black boxers he wears underneath are hardly appropriate to be seen in, but they’re better than having the shinobi walk around with his dick out. Not for the first time, he’s glad to share clothing sizes with Itachi. ]
We need to talk, though. [ Unconsciously, he folds his arms over his chest, defensive body language he can’t quite help. ] If you’re gonna take your medicine, does this mean you’ll agree to talk to a doctor about the disease? I… I gotta know. If there’s a chance to cure you, will you take it?
[Silent, he watches Stiles default immediately to business. He takes the proffered water in one hand, fingers feeling wooden around cool glass, and does not yet drink from it. There's little guesswork needed to determine who Stiles is speaking to on the phone once words are exchanged; so they're taking the shuttle. He doesn't protest this decision.
As the pants are laid out, Itachi studies them, gaze transitioning from the boy to the couch in a calculated look, a frown beginning to work lips into bent shape. Another decision he'll accept—setting aside untouched water to pull on Stiles' pants without protest, fabric warmed with body heat. Head down as deft fingers fasten the zipper and button, hair slides like a curtain to conceal his face when Stiles begins to question him.]
… I will speak with a doctor. [That low voice remains carefully neutral despite a slight gritty rasp.] A cure isn't guaranteed or even likely. You shouldn't anticipate it.
[Now dressed, he twists around to take a folded woolen blanket off the couch, rolls it loose, and steps over to Stiles in order to drag it around his shoulders like a makeshift cloak. The action is almost identical to the last time they were on these very mountains, when he'd wrapped Stiles' hands in his own scarf. Then he moves to reclaim the water, words coming only after a few shallow swallows.]
Even if I found a cure in this dimension, do you believe it would be guaranteed in the next? My illness could return. Additionally, what if treatment proved dangerous? Would you still wish me to pursue it?
[ Oversized blanket draped over his shoulders, he feels more than a little ridiculous – but nonetheless gladly cinches it shut over his chest with one hand, soaking in the warmth it offers from the drafty cabin. They probably should have started a fire last night before settling down; fortunately, the summer months have staved off the biting chill of the mountains. Stiles glances out the window to gauge the weather before settling back down on the couch, nodding absently in response to Itachi’s warning about an unlikely cure. His stubborn refusal to believe in such a worst-case scenario should be obvious. Like how he latched onto discovering a way to ensure Itachi lives beyond these dimensions, so too has Stiles grounded himself firmly in the idea that Itachi will survive this disease. His typical pragmatism has its limits where loved ones are concerned; he absolutely cannot handle the alternatives.
The slew of theoretical questions does draw him up short, however. Expression twisting unhappily, he stares down at his feet and pours over the options. ]
…All these places will have the power to cure you, [ he eventually begins, meeting dark eyes with solemn determination brightening his own. ] Think about it. These dimensions can revive people from the dead. There’s no way they can’t cure your disease too. It’s all just a matter of finding the one with that power. If the doctors can’t figure things out here, then we’ll work on getting an audience with Malachite. And in other dimensions, we’ll adjust as needed. This is doable.
[ Stiles hesitates. Reaching out, he fiddles with his empty glass of water on the coffee table. ]
But if the treatment is dangerous… I don’t – I’m not trying to make you suffer –
[ A pause. He swallows, throat clicking. ]
My mom died from a disease. [ The glass is knocked askew, where it tumbles toward the edge of the table. Stiles catches it in time. ] There’s no cure for it. And the treatments…they had nasty side effects. I was young then, but looking back…I wonder if the medications were even worth it. Her quality of life was terrible.
I don’t want that for you. [ Quiet and soft, with the air of a confession. ] We can talk about it on a case-by-case basis. And you have the final say. Let’s just…consider all the cards on the table before we make any plays, okay?
[Stiles' logic on a cure is reasonable, lacking the fact they do not fully understand how these dimensions work in the reanimation of the dead. It has occurred to him already that the body he is in might instead be a vessel, not his original body, but he has found little evidence for that idea so far. And any damage appears to be permanent, given that he has carried scars from one dimension to the next. Whatever form he inhabits, it's one that remains consistent across time and space. One which can have its chakra sealed, its illness suppressed, and then unlocked again—nothing ever fully erased or removed. Is it possible to find a cure? … They don't have enough information to assume.
Drawn from these considerations at Stiles' next confession, he is momentarily struck still and quiet, staring. He did not know about Stiles' mother. Context on the boy's life—the presence of only his father in all of the memories he's witnessed firsthand—has assumed the absence of a mother, but he didn't know why. In much of their earlier history, it was not his place to question (or he wasn't interested in doing so, with as much space as he struggled to put between them).
Itachi watches the glass fall, takes an aborted step forward, freezes again.]
… I am sorry about your mother. [It feels a weak and paltry statement. It seems unfair, and unkind, for Stiles to be in this position again. It is not something he would have wanted for him; if there's anyone to blame, it is himself.
He could have refused to Bond with Stiles. He should have, knowing what he does now, yet even he did not have the foresight to predict what would happen to them following that decision. Ever since arriving in Aefenglom, he's been possessed with the sensation of being unable to predict the future—unable to know what he needs to know. And it is debilitating. And here he is, again, causing someone he cares for to suffer. Will he ever be capable of anything else?]
We'll consider the possibilities. [A slight give; we instead of I. Itachi crosses to the couch as though to sit again, then hesitates.] … Is that all you wished to discuss?
[ Lips quirk upward in a small, tired half-smile at the condolences, though he doesn’t otherwise comment. But in spite of the nonchalance with which he moves beyond the subject now – as if to insist the death is ancient history – the fact of the matter is that the loss of Claudia Stilinski continues to cast a foreboding pall over his every motivation here and now. Stiles has never recovered from his mother’s premature passing. As a result, he clings in a desperate, uncompromising manner to his remaining loved ones, driven to a point of near obsession about their safety and wellbeing. This facet of his personality will no doubt become glaringly obvious to Itachi as they tackle the shinobi’s health in the coming weeks. And Stiles appreciates that his boyfriend has purposefully addressed them as a team on the topic. It’s heartening to hear, after everything that’s happened.
When prompted about what he wished to discuss, he falls silent. A bubbling froth of wild fear threatens to pour forth from his mouth about his fate back home; he’s yet to come to terms with it. Even if Itachi can do nothing about it, simply being able to vent would likely be beneficial for Stiles. But he hesitates. They’re both still exhausted – it seems selfish to dump his troubles on Itachi when the man is already dealing with so much. And considering the cold response his explanation had earned last time, he isn’t sure if he’s ready to broach the subject again so soon. Unhappily, he shelves the conversation. ]
There’s…something you need to know. [ Guilt sits heavy as a stone in the pit of his stomach, forcing the uncomfortable confession up his throat like bile. ] I did forget everything that’s happened in these dimensions when I was back home. If I hadn’t, I never would have –
[ He cringes. A hand passes over his face and lingers there. ]
My friend, Lydia Martin... [ The words taste like ash on his tongue. ] Right before I was taken, before I was erased from existence, I told her I love her. And I’m pretty sure she loves me too.
[ The urge to pace sinks its teeth in him. Stiles doesn’t budge from the couch, ashamed and miserable. ]
You deserve to know. And I know…I know it’s not my fault. But it feels like a betrayal.
I’m sorry. I can’t tell you how bad I wish I remembered everything. Remembered you, and how important you are to me.
[It's clear before Stiles has even spoken that the confession has weighed heavy through the days of their separation—another burden in addition to all of the rest. Itachi is not surprised to hear it, had accepted this eventual outcome since their agreement months past, but his own reaction is a shock. Where he anticipates cool, clear resignation is instead a dark and murky well miles deep, broiling with an emotion that feels disembodied for the fact that he can't recognize it as belonging to him. He's never experienced it before. It hits hard: an excruciating pressure in the chest like a hand has reached in and taken hold of his heart, gut turning with nausea, disorienting dizziness as though the floor has dropped out beneath his feet. The keen feeling of loss, too, as acute as a blade between ribs but easily tempered. More easily understood than this alien sensation of something else, strangely shaped and volatile, triggering his body with a stress response impossible to immediately process.
Though not choosing to engage Synchrony in that moment, the bleed between them is as unconscious as always—and Stiles will feel some of that hard, sinking feeling as Itachi attempts to smother it down. Where he was about to sit on the edge of the coffee table, he redirects himself, agitated energy used to collect both of their water glasses and carry them to the attached kitchen still in Stiles' line of sight. He refills both. Brings them back. Sets them down together on the table. Moving again, picking up a pillow that tumbled to the floor sometime in the night, uncharacteristically unable to keep still, unable to look Stiles in the face.]
It's all right. [It's not.] You did nothing wrong. [I don't like this.] …
[What else can he say? Making the attempt is somehow excruciating. This is what he expected. This is what is meant to be, what will always happen, because Stiles belongs to another world with someone else.
Yet sick, unrecognized jealousy continues to eat him alive.]
That is the nature of dimensions like these, it seems. Memories are not kept. We should expect it to be a reoccurring trend.
[ Even without Synchrony active, the bond between them proves powerful enough that Stiles is afforded a clear, unobstructed view into Itachi’s internal reaction to the unwelcome news. As he processes the jealousy filtering through their connection – incorrectly identified as grief – Stiles watches his boyfriend quit the living room in favor of the kitchen. The rattled, restless energy exuded from the man is disturbing, so unlike the frigid composure that Itachi typically holds himself to a standard of. He doesn’t know what to make of it, honestly. But obviously, whatever the shinobi may claim, it isn’t alright. If Stiles were feeling more confident, he might have reached out to catch a hand and steady the absent movements Itachi tries to distract himself with. Instead, the boy remains where he sits on the edge of the couch, huddled in the soft folds of the blanket and looking smaller than he is.
There’s a separate thread of discussion possible here on the topic of memories, tied inextricably to Jonas and Sasuke’s promise to save the young man upon escaping Aefenglom. If losing memories of these dimensions is a common rule – which it would need to be in order to prevent spawning alternate universes of home worlds – then Sasuke will not remember that promise. In fact, the younger Uchiha brother won’t remember Jonas or Stiles at all. The reality of these dimensions is crueler than Stiles imagined. But he suppresses the desire to bring this up in response to his boyfriend’s comment. During the month they were estranged, he had the time to mourn the sad fate of Jonas. Speaking up on the topic now will only serve to distract them both from the current pressing matter: Lydia. ]
It might mean nothing, but…
[ Stiles glances at the water, eyes tracking a bead of moisture as it slips down the side of the glass. ]
If she was here, I’d tell Lydia I’m with you. I wouldn’t change our relationship for anything. Not even her. [ An admission that does not come easily; either way, he’s betraying someone. While it’s true that he’s in love with Itachi, that love does not detract from his feelings for Lydia Martin. The two sentiments sit heavily in his heart, impossible to reconcile. ] It’s like what I said in my vows. I chose you. I’d still choose you.
[It doesn't mean nothing. Neither does it bring the hot, sinking sensation inside him any relief. If she was here—here in this impermanent place, this murky in-between that would not last forever. It's not the place where Stiles belongs, yet they are fated to remain for an indeterminable time. The binding nature of their vows had dissolved with the Bond; Stiles is no longer under any obligation to stay with him. Looking at him, Itachi can only see the negative impact he has had on the boy—the weight loss, the dark and sleepless circles around soft brown eyes, the childlike huddle beneath the blanket. Stiles would choose him, but would it not come with regret eventually? Would he not see the potential of a relationship with someone from his own world easier, better? Someone who would understand him, who would be able to meet his needs for affection and reassurance? Itachi has always known that he would not be good at this. And living in the moment, to make the most of what little they have together before it is inevitably lost, is too unnatural for him to do with any ease.
He won't abandon Stiles again, knowing the cost of that decision. He is certain now that he would not live much longer without him. An acceptable fate—if only it could happen in a vacuum where Stiles didn't have to suffer as a result. He will cling to this for both of their sakes until Stiles is returned to his father, Lydia, and his friends. Then he can die in peace.
It will just take some time to convince the irrational part of him mind, still burning over the thought of Stiles with this unknown woman, to accept it.
Decided, Itachi finally calms and crosses back over to the couch, sinking down at Stiles' side. His weight barely depresses the cushion; they're close, arms almost in contact through the woolen blanket.] Making that choice right now isn't necessary, but I believe you. [He believes Stiles would do it, at least, even at the cost of his own happiness.] I would not blame you for your lack of memory. It's fine.
How much time do we have before the shuttle arrives?
[ Lambent brown eyes, reflecting the light of the rising sun from the windows, flicker away as Stiles swallows an objection. Making that choice is necessary, whether Lydia is here or not. He simply can’t continue to lead two lives. The Mieczysław Stilinski of Beacon Hills, lacking memories of these dimensions, doesn’t represent his real self anymore. It’s a crossroad he’s stood at for some time now – has even broached in topic with various acquaintances for advice on. Who is he? Where is home? ]
Not long. We can probably head over.
[ Hesitantly, he eases his hand over Itachi’s, a question in the gesture. But he knows the answers before his boyfriend reciprocates, twining their fingers. He’s Stiles, and home is wherever Itachi is. The rest? They can figure out together. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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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?
no subject
Nah, [ he answers honestly, bending down to retrieve his folding knife from the floor. Closing it, he returns it to a pocket. ] I’ll crash later. Had too much on my mind to sleep.
[ With a groan, he pushes himself up onto his feet. It feels like he might require a steamroller to knead out the kinks in his back from laying down on that couch all night. Later, a bath is definitely in order. But first – ]
Gimme a sec.
[ Stiles disappears, mobile in hand. The sound of tired pipes creaking to life echoes through the cabin a moment later. Itachi may catch a few muffled sentences as the teenager speaks into the phone, ostensibly calling someone about the shuttle schedule at Whitegrave. When he walks back into the room, the device is cradled against his ear, both hands otherwise occupied with glasses of water. One is offered to Itachi without a word. The other is sipped as he waits to be transferred to the relevant department over the phone. He doesn’t know how his boyfriend planned to travel to Sumarlok, but Stiles refuses to entertain the idea of walking or flying. Not in Itachi’s condition. It’s just a matter of finding out what hour the shuttles are available. After another few minutes, he finally receives an answer and hangs up. ]
Okay, the shuttle here can bring us back to the city in about thirty minutes. The driver is just waking up. You’re gonna need something to wear.
[ Knocking back the rest of his water, Stiles shucks off his pants and silently drapes them on the couch beside Itachi. The black boxers he wears underneath are hardly appropriate to be seen in, but they’re better than having the shinobi walk around with his dick out. Not for the first time, he’s glad to share clothing sizes with Itachi. ]
We need to talk, though. [ Unconsciously, he folds his arms over his chest, defensive body language he can’t quite help. ] If you’re gonna take your medicine, does this mean you’ll agree to talk to a doctor about the disease? I… I gotta know. If there’s a chance to cure you, will you take it?
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As the pants are laid out, Itachi studies them, gaze transitioning from the boy to the couch in a calculated look, a frown beginning to work lips into bent shape. Another decision he'll accept—setting aside untouched water to pull on Stiles' pants without protest, fabric warmed with body heat. Head down as deft fingers fasten the zipper and button, hair slides like a curtain to conceal his face when Stiles begins to question him.]
… I will speak with a doctor. [That low voice remains carefully neutral despite a slight gritty rasp.] A cure isn't guaranteed or even likely. You shouldn't anticipate it.
[Now dressed, he twists around to take a folded woolen blanket off the couch, rolls it loose, and steps over to Stiles in order to drag it around his shoulders like a makeshift cloak. The action is almost identical to the last time they were on these very mountains, when he'd wrapped Stiles' hands in his own scarf. Then he moves to reclaim the water, words coming only after a few shallow swallows.]
Even if I found a cure in this dimension, do you believe it would be guaranteed in the next? My illness could return. Additionally, what if treatment proved dangerous? Would you still wish me to pursue it?
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The slew of theoretical questions does draw him up short, however. Expression twisting unhappily, he stares down at his feet and pours over the options. ]
…All these places will have the power to cure you, [ he eventually begins, meeting dark eyes with solemn determination brightening his own. ] Think about it. These dimensions can revive people from the dead. There’s no way they can’t cure your disease too. It’s all just a matter of finding the one with that power. If the doctors can’t figure things out here, then we’ll work on getting an audience with Malachite. And in other dimensions, we’ll adjust as needed. This is doable.
[ Stiles hesitates. Reaching out, he fiddles with his empty glass of water on the coffee table. ]
But if the treatment is dangerous… I don’t – I’m not trying to make you suffer –
[ A pause. He swallows, throat clicking. ]
My mom died from a disease. [ The glass is knocked askew, where it tumbles toward the edge of the table. Stiles catches it in time. ] There’s no cure for it. And the treatments…they had nasty side effects. I was young then, but looking back…I wonder if the medications were even worth it. Her quality of life was terrible.
I don’t want that for you. [ Quiet and soft, with the air of a confession. ] We can talk about it on a case-by-case basis. And you have the final say. Let’s just…consider all the cards on the table before we make any plays, okay?
no subject
Drawn from these considerations at Stiles' next confession, he is momentarily struck still and quiet, staring. He did not know about Stiles' mother. Context on the boy's life—the presence of only his father in all of the memories he's witnessed firsthand—has assumed the absence of a mother, but he didn't know why. In much of their earlier history, it was not his place to question (or he wasn't interested in doing so, with as much space as he struggled to put between them).
Itachi watches the glass fall, takes an aborted step forward, freezes again.]
… I am sorry about your mother. [It feels a weak and paltry statement. It seems unfair, and unkind, for Stiles to be in this position again. It is not something he would have wanted for him; if there's anyone to blame, it is himself.
He could have refused to Bond with Stiles. He should have, knowing what he does now, yet even he did not have the foresight to predict what would happen to them following that decision. Ever since arriving in Aefenglom, he's been possessed with the sensation of being unable to predict the future—unable to know what he needs to know. And it is debilitating. And here he is, again, causing someone he cares for to suffer. Will he ever be capable of anything else?]
We'll consider the possibilities. [A slight give; we instead of I. Itachi crosses to the couch as though to sit again, then hesitates.] … Is that all you wished to discuss?
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When prompted about what he wished to discuss, he falls silent. A bubbling froth of wild fear threatens to pour forth from his mouth about his fate back home; he’s yet to come to terms with it. Even if Itachi can do nothing about it, simply being able to vent would likely be beneficial for Stiles. But he hesitates. They’re both still exhausted – it seems selfish to dump his troubles on Itachi when the man is already dealing with so much. And considering the cold response his explanation had earned last time, he isn’t sure if he’s ready to broach the subject again so soon. Unhappily, he shelves the conversation. ]
There’s…something you need to know. [ Guilt sits heavy as a stone in the pit of his stomach, forcing the uncomfortable confession up his throat like bile. ] I did forget everything that’s happened in these dimensions when I was back home. If I hadn’t, I never would have –
[ He cringes. A hand passes over his face and lingers there. ]
My friend, Lydia Martin... [ The words taste like ash on his tongue. ] Right before I was taken, before I was erased from existence, I told her I love her. And I’m pretty sure she loves me too.
[ The urge to pace sinks its teeth in him. Stiles doesn’t budge from the couch, ashamed and miserable. ]
You deserve to know. And I know…I know it’s not my fault. But it feels like a betrayal.
I’m sorry. I can’t tell you how bad I wish I remembered everything. Remembered you, and how important you are to me.
no subject
Though not choosing to engage Synchrony in that moment, the bleed between them is as unconscious as always—and Stiles will feel some of that hard, sinking feeling as Itachi attempts to smother it down. Where he was about to sit on the edge of the coffee table, he redirects himself, agitated energy used to collect both of their water glasses and carry them to the attached kitchen still in Stiles' line of sight. He refills both. Brings them back. Sets them down together on the table. Moving again, picking up a pillow that tumbled to the floor sometime in the night, uncharacteristically unable to keep still, unable to look Stiles in the face.]
It's all right. [It's not.] You did nothing wrong. [I don't like this.] …
[What else can he say? Making the attempt is somehow excruciating. This is what he expected. This is what is meant to be, what will always happen, because Stiles belongs to another world with someone else.
Yet sick, unrecognized jealousy continues to eat him alive.]
That is the nature of dimensions like these, it seems. Memories are not kept. We should expect it to be a reoccurring trend.
no subject
There’s a separate thread of discussion possible here on the topic of memories, tied inextricably to Jonas and Sasuke’s promise to save the young man upon escaping Aefenglom. If losing memories of these dimensions is a common rule – which it would need to be in order to prevent spawning alternate universes of home worlds – then Sasuke will not remember that promise. In fact, the younger Uchiha brother won’t remember Jonas or Stiles at all. The reality of these dimensions is crueler than Stiles imagined. But he suppresses the desire to bring this up in response to his boyfriend’s comment. During the month they were estranged, he had the time to mourn the sad fate of Jonas. Speaking up on the topic now will only serve to distract them both from the current pressing matter: Lydia. ]
It might mean nothing, but…
[ Stiles glances at the water, eyes tracking a bead of moisture as it slips down the side of the glass. ]
If she was here, I’d tell Lydia I’m with you. I wouldn’t change our relationship for anything. Not even her. [ An admission that does not come easily; either way, he’s betraying someone. While it’s true that he’s in love with Itachi, that love does not detract from his feelings for Lydia Martin. The two sentiments sit heavily in his heart, impossible to reconcile. ] It’s like what I said in my vows. I chose you. I’d still choose you.
no subject
He won't abandon Stiles again, knowing the cost of that decision. He is certain now that he would not live much longer without him. An acceptable fate—if only it could happen in a vacuum where Stiles didn't have to suffer as a result. He will cling to this for both of their sakes until Stiles is returned to his father, Lydia, and his friends. Then he can die in peace.
It will just take some time to convince the irrational part of him mind, still burning over the thought of Stiles with this unknown woman, to accept it.
Decided, Itachi finally calms and crosses back over to the couch, sinking down at Stiles' side. His weight barely depresses the cushion; they're close, arms almost in contact through the woolen blanket.] Making that choice right now isn't necessary, but I believe you. [He believes Stiles would do it, at least, even at the cost of his own happiness.] I would not blame you for your lack of memory. It's fine.
How much time do we have before the shuttle arrives?
/fin
Not long. We can probably head over.
[ Hesitantly, he eases his hand over Itachi’s, a question in the gesture. But he knows the answers before his boyfriend reciprocates, twining their fingers. He’s Stiles, and home is wherever Itachi is. The rest? They can figure out together. ]
Let’s go.