chokuto

[Stiles is not prepared to answer the question, so he ignores it entirely.]

I'm in Broken Wing. No clothes. They're kicking me out soon and I'd prefer not to do the walk of shame through the whole resort. Can you bring me something to wear? Sorry, I know it's kind of weird.

[A beat, then:]

If you've got anything with a high neck, that'd be awesome.

[He sees that avoidance.

Broken Wing. No clothes. A high neck to cover something? The dread in him only increases, stitching deeper.]

It's not weird. It's fine. I'll be there soon, Stiles.

[No matter what he's feeling, this isn't the way he would choose to have a conversation about the other boy's well-being — and so he heads toward the resort's clinic without hesitation, stopping at his room only to gather a folded bundle of clothes. Broken Wing isn't a place he's personally visited, but he's aware of the location now, having scoped it out weeks ago; it is no task to reach in single-minded pursuit.

The lights are bright overhead as he slips in through the entrance, standing in a clean and clinical lobby that almost transports him to a place of memory seen only under ugly circumstances — Konoha Hospital. Ignoring the woman at the desk when she tries to speak to him, he walks right into the back, where several cots have been curtained off for privacy.]

Here.

[The voice drifts from behind a curtain on the left. While Sasuke may walk too softly to be audibly detected, the American teen can still hear the receptionist shouting after the shinobi—trying to offer her contact information. It inspires no amusement in Stiles. When the other boy joins him, he’ll find Stiles on the cot, sheets carefully adjusted to conceal his lower body. At first glance, he looks to be healthy. But Sasuke will undoubtedly notice the brutal bruising that paints an otherwise pale throat.

And the two distinct holes buried over the carotid artery there.

Stiles drags his gaze away from the floor. For a moment—perhaps a trick of the light—those brown eyes are deadened, sizing up Sasuke with violent, predatory intent. Then the teen smiles, a brief quirk of the mouth only, and the illusion dissipates.]

Hey. Thanks, bud. I appreciate it.

[The damage is stark at once, but Sasuke doesn't shy from it — it is the change in Stiles' face that draws a momentary pause, as if he's walked into view of a wild animal rather than a person, a friend. The feeling fades as quick as it comes over him; for the sake of Stiles' modesty, he approaches the side of the cot to deliver the folded clothes. They're his own: dark sweatpants, a pair of warm wool socks, clean underwear still inside the packaging from a recent trip to the mall for necessities, and a black turtleneck sweater he's used in the past to cover his own bruises.

Mismatched eyes hover on Stiles' throat, scrutinizing discolored skin and the points of two holes. What sort of injury is that?]

I want you to tell me what happened, [emerges his low, careful voice,] but not here. I'll take you back to your room. Can you walk?

[As soon as the clothes are set down beside him, Stiles is standing to dress. The sheet crumples to the ground, forgotten. In this moment, his haste to leave Broken Wing supersedes his self-consciousness. With sharp movements, he slides each garment on. The two of them are of an approximate height, though Sasuke’s physique is far more toned than his own; because of this, the clothing fits well.

There’s only a small blip in his expressionless façade as the turtleneck is pulled over his head. As the fabric settles against his neck, he flinches—a hand immediately flying up to adjust the sweater. It doesn’t seem to help with his apparent discomfort.]

I can walk.

[Stiles pauses, glancing around the space—searching for anything useful to steal. Nothing catches his eye.]

Alright. C’mon. The sooner we’re outta here, the better.

[And he’s shoving the curtain aside, stalking out from the clinic with an energy that speaks of restrained aggression. The nurses wave him goodbye, some blowing kisses; if possible, that intangible aura only darkens.]

[No matter the immodesty demonstrated, Sasuke averts his eyes, providing the other boy privacy to dress. And then his gaze returns — sharply observant, watching Stiles, gauging the tone of those words and the lack of expression that accompanies them. There's too little evidence to tell what has happened, beyond the fact that it is serious, so he can only hope that Stiles will say more once they're gone from the clinic.

Following, Sasuke brings up a cautious rear behind the other boy. It is more visible here, out of the cold light of the clinic, Stiles leading the way in front of him — and without conscious awareness the red of the Sharingan blooms to life in his right eye. There's something. Not like chakra, not like energy signatures he's sensed upon individuals across these dimensions; it is darker and more sinister, shaped around Stiles like the clinging shroud of a veil. Less evidence of power than it is simply a mark, or a scar, worn down the groove of a soft surface.

He doesn't say anything, allowing Stiles to navigate them back to their floor, sensitive to the silence and unwilling to break it until they have a door shut behind them.]

[The trip to his room is spent in silence—one that clings oppressively to Stiles even as the young man shoulders his way through the usual bustling crowds of the resort. By the time they reach the suite, he seems no less wound up. He unlocks the door, shoving it open fully to step inside. The space itself is a disaster, so unlike the tidy chaos Sasuke has seen in passing when the American teen has been moving in or out of the room.

Atop the bed, which is unmade with visible footprints trampling over it, is perhaps a familiar handmade guitar: one of Cyram’s. Strewn around it and across the floor are various loose pieces of paper, all with sharp, slanting handwriting in English. Books pile at their feet, titles ranging from music theory to helping sex abuse victims, corners dogeared. In the corner, an ostentatious shelfing unit stands proudly—clearly borrowed from a more luxurious suite—with a single exotic flower potted on the topmost surface.

Stiles drops to his knees at once, digging under the bed to retrieve two items: a shoebox and a first-aid kit. Both are dumped onto the bed. From the shoebox he pulls out a small handheld mirror, which he uses to check on his neck with a critical eye. The area looks irritated now, likely from the sweater textiles. Wordlessly, the teen begins the process of securing a piece of gauze over the bite marks.

Not once does he acknowledge Sasuke's presence.]

[The reveal of the inside of Stiles' suite is only more evidence that there is something very, very wrong.

Sasuke stands near the closed door — even if he wished to enter further, there is little room for it, cramped area further restricted by the disordered mess. His eyes pass over each feature in a careful study, as if he might turn up clues from the puzzle of Stiles' belongings, but truthfully it is more a curiosity toward the boy's personality based on what he's come to own.

Then his gaze hooks, and hangs, on the guitar. It is exactly as he remembers. He saw that guitar being carved; he saw it nearly finished. How did Stiles come to possess it? The question rises in his mind like a flag, but it's set aside for the sake of the other boy's current condition. That is a more dire predicament.

Taking one short step forward, limited by the space, he kneels.]

Stiles. What happened? Were you attacked?

[Sasuke’s voice, low with quiet urgency, drags brown eyes sideways to regard the shinobi. There’s something not quite natural in the unblinking stillness with which Stiles considers the other boy, like millennia of evolution have been systematically unseamed from his hindbrain until only animalistic instinct remains. But then he’s himself again, face rippling beneath the crater impacts of too many emotions all at once. Looking away, he finishes tending to his neck and then closes the first-aid kit.]

No.

[The answer is reluctant—not in a manner that suggests Stiles is lying, however. For a moment, he takes time to put everything away under the bed again. The guitar is then moved from the bed to the free corner of the room, where it is carefully propped up. There’s now more room for them to sit.]

…Okay, you’re really not gonna like what I’m about to tell you. And I can’t stress how important it is that other people—[a pause]—people you don’t trust… They can’t find out about this.

[Stiles shoves papers away and seats himself. The words don’t immediately come. Then, as if thinking of something, he leans back and searches the wall for his monthly calendar, which he yanks off and shows to Sasuke. It’s still on February. The American teen flips to March, double checks the date of his conversation with Carmilla, and then points at an early date.]

This is the last day I remember. I'll explain more, but... You still with me?

[The look is unnerving — he has seen something like it before, but not on Stiles, and the change is an uncertain one. It causes Sasuke's caution to rise; it does not take the place of his concern, but it's still present, as if in proximity of a wounded animal with an unpredictable temperament.

He won't like what Stiles has to say? In silence, he observes the other boy, watching as the calendar is retrieved and drawn down.]

I won't tell anyone I don't trust. [Truthfully, it may only be one person he tells, depending on the severity of the information Stiles has obtained. To that question — he nods his head curtly.] Yes, go on.

[The last day he remembers? Questions arise, but Sasuke doesn't interrupt.]

[Another pause as Stiles consults with the Watch again, this time to ascertain the current date. His finger slides over days on the calendar accordingly.]

One of the latest arrivals here threatened to rape me—a vampire. [At the blank look from Sasuke, Stiles explains further:] Vampires are undead creatures who need to feed on blood in order to survive. Their powers range depending on cultural mythology, but all you need to know is that they’re capable of some pretty nasty shit. Anyway, this vampire fed on me and was able to hunt me down in the resort because of that. So, a friend stayed with me for a while in case she showed up. The whole thing got me thinking, though…

[The calendar is set aside. Fingers folding, he looks at his hands and realizes they’re shaking.]

Inevitability, y’know? Like…he couldn’t babysit me forever. In the end, she’d eventually get what she wanted. The House would damn make sure of that. [After all, every time he’s tried to contact Cyram in a tricky situation, the Watch has conveniently refused to activate.] Then… I finally talked to Jin Mingming. The Red Cardinal owner? Yeah.

[Stiles hasn’t eaten since waking, yet feels his stomach churn regardless. Swallowing heavily, he tries not to dwell on his father.]

My dad needs me back home. His health depends on it. And I just—

[A harsh sound, torn as if from his soul, in the confused shape of a laugh and a sob.]

Let me just put it this way. I’ve got some problems. [He taps his head pointedly.] Hallucinations. Parasomnia. Alexia. Dissociation. It’s been getting worse. And I’m not…I’m not telling you that for pity points, okay? It’s because—there was a time in my world where I couldn’t differentiate between dreams and reality. So, I started to wonder here: what if this is all a dream? What if I can wake up? What happens if I die?

[Stiles angles his head away, unwilling to meet Sasuke’s gaze as the shinobi begins to put the pieces together.]

I wanted to do it myself, but I was too much of a coward. Didn’t wanna die alone. I went to her instead. Figured if anyone would be willing to kill me, it’d be the rape-happy vampire.

[It is not news to learn that dangerous creatures exist in the resort, but it is the first he's heard about an attack — concern clawing to a better height inside of him as he listens to Stiles describe the encounter. Fed on him, granting the ability to hunt him down? It is too gruesome. Sasuke reflects on his own considerations for the relative safety of the resort. Perhaps, for someone like him, it is true — but not for Stiles.

A friend. Unbidden, a pair of mismatched eyes flicker to the guitar, then down to the calendar as it's set aside. The timeline aligns with those three days Cy left. The explanation fits into what Stiles admits now. Perhaps it's a leap of assumption, but Sasuke doubts this. So the person that Cy spent time with, triggering the first conflict in their relationship (mild and constructive as it proved a discussion in the end), is Stiles.

There's no jealousy. Sasuke had worked through that already, standing on more certain ground than ever. Instead, he feels grateful that Cy was able to protect Stiles, even temporarily. Because there is no other person he trusts more. It would be wise to tell Stiles of this connection, but — then the other boy continues. And there are more important matters at the forefront of the conversation.

His father, who he had mentioned to Sasuke once before. The list of symptoms. Couldn't differentiate between dreams and reality, a brutal admittance. Perhaps it isn't a terrible conclusion, because if Sasuke did not have his eyes, he might wonder the same. It could be an illusion.

What if I die? At this, his gaze does not move from Stiles' face. The rest is clear.]

And she abided this request? [hello, I am not a fan of this 'vampire'] You say feeding on blood... How? Is that the wound on your neck?

Yup.

[Unbidden, he moves as if to touch his neck—then forces the hand back down. The scars on his wrist where she first fed are still healing. Following their meeting in the elevator, Stiles had often traced those puncture wounds.]

Vampires have fangs. They drink blood like that. So, as you can probably imagine, I eventually lost consciousness while she drained me. That’s the last thing I remember.

[The boy makes a thoughtful noise, then bends over to once again dig beneath the mattress. Tucked away against the bed frame is a knife—the same poor consolation prize he and Cyram won from their elevator misadventure.]

Here’s the problem. According to lore, vampires can turn humans into new vampires by feeding the human their blood when the human is on death’s door. [Twisting at the waist to face Sasuke, he offers the knife handle first.] Can you… Can you just nick your arm or something? I wanna make sure I don’t have a weird reaction to blood, and I don’t think I’d be able to tell off my own.

[As he considers the shinobi, the lighting in the suite makes apparent what he had missed earlier: the faint dusting of a fading bruise kissing the jaw. It takes effort not to tense, his thoughts immediately swiveling to that mystery partner of Sasuke’s. Fuck. And, now that he’s more clearheaded than he was leading up to his death, Stiles feels guilt; what if he had disappeared from the resort and Sasuke continued to suffer from an abusive partner? That’s something that needs to be addressed, and hopefully soon. He just needs to be careful not to alienate Sasuke again.]

[It can't be a good memory, that death. Yet Stiles states it factually, along with the description of the vampire so unfamiliar a creature to Sasuke. Eyes follow the movement of hands — attention rapt at the first flash of a blade, silver in the light. Not a common commodity in the resort.]

... If you believe it will help you determine that, I will.

[It makes sense; Stiles wouldn't be able to know unless he tested it. So he turns his right hand over, offering it out, the heel of the palm presented forth.]

Cut here. It'll be easier than doing it myself.

[He could use teeth on his thumb to achieve the same effect, if it's only to draw blood, but this allows Stiles to have control over the outcome he wants.]

[The suggestion unnerves Stiles. Frozen with indecision, he gazes down at the calloused palm presented between them, suddenly hyperaware of how easily the knife might be fumbled and slice the delicate, pale skin at the wrist. But this abrupt cognizance doesn’t stem from any kind of sanguine hunger to feed on Sasuke; instead, there is something darker and more sinister lurking out of sight beneath the surface of his consciousness. The American teen feels his flesh pebbling with goosebumps as he slowly flips the knife around to grasp the handle.]

The tip of your finger, [he says, a gentle warning, and tries to subdue the roar of triumph howling in his ears as the knife eases closer.] I’ll get you a band-aid after.

[But as the point hovers over the index finger, Stiles forces himself to pause. He’s struggling with himself—pupils dilated alarmingly, teeth grit against baser urges. When he finally sets the knife on the rough finger pad, his arm trembles with the restraint necessary to maintain a light prod. At last, a tiny bead of blood wells up. Stiles hurriedly pulls the knife away.]

Uh. Okay. Just—

[Cringing, he leans down and tries to scent the air. There is no reaction—nothing beyond the swell of vague disappointment still stewing in his heart for having failed to remove the finger altogether.]

Huh. I mean…I kinda doubted she turned me, but…

[The knife is returned to its spot. And as he said, Stiles takes a moment to dig out the first-aid kit once more.]

Here. [An appropriately sized band-aid is peeled open, decorated in flowers that are clearly meant to resemble female genitalia. Despite how trivial the cut may be, Stiles is tender as he dresses it.] Okay, this is just more proof for my current working theory. (Remember what I said about only telling people you trust?) The resort nurses claimed the doctor saved my life. But there’s no fucking way. Not with how much blood she would have drained me of. I think… I think I seriously died.

[Solemn, he looks up at Sasuke.]

There’s…another reason I’ve got this theory. I should give you a minute if you’ve got any questions first, though.

[That isn't a normal reaction, yet Sasuke struggles to place what it could mean — whether it suggests a deeper, lingering trauma to having his own blood drained, or whether it is something else. Stiles has endured too much in the past few weeks; it wouldn't be a reach to assume that his sensitivity to violence is heightened overall. Still, the reasoning doesn't quite settle in his own mind. It feels like there is something else laid underneath the dark of the boy's eyes.

The knife doesn't hurt at all, more of a pinch than true wound. He's bitten his own thumb countless times on the battlefield, let alone actual injuries he's suffered, so he looks indifferently at the swell of blood drawn. More important is Stiles' reaction — and it does not seem the boy is suffering any bloodlust.

Before the band-aid can be administered, Sasuke lifts his hand and licks off the drop of blood. Again, habitual as he would a nick he's created on his own finger for use in jutsu.]

I don't believe it would be in her best interest to turn you, if she could simply feed on you in the future. It would be smarter — to maintain that food resource. But I don't know what her motivations actually are.

[He watches Stiles, however, through that explanation, and through the gentle care of that band-aid wrapped around his finger. Needless, but kind.]

No. You can continue. What is it?

[Fortunately, Stiles had been busy fetching the first-aid kit when Sasuke licked the blood away; the American teen’s libido would have made an inappropriate entrance otherwise.]

She’s got a resort full of perverted assholes who’d gladly let her feed on them.

[That, and Carmilla stated something along the lines of Stiles making a good vampire—but he doesn’t want to give Sasuke a reason to worry.]

Okay, so… I know I’m dropping a ton of information on you—sorry, by the way—and I’ll try to keep this brief. Back home, I volunteered to die in a ritual to save my dad. The idea was that I’d be revived if everything went according to plan. Except there was a catch. (There’s always a catch.) The ritual would leave a…“permanent scar of darkness” on my heart. It’s what causes all those, uh, issues I mentioned before.

Here's the thing: I can feel it. As in—it feels worse now, somehow.

[His hand settles over his sternum, pressing there.]

I know it’s not really conclusive evidence, but my gut’s telling me it’s proof I died again.

[And maybe Sasuke is still lingering on what that “scar of darkness” might mean. Stiles, however, is charging ahead.]

Sasuke, do you get how bad things would get if certain guests learned we can be revived here? It’d be a friggin’ massacre. No real consequences for killing people.

[As Stiles predicts, his mind hangs on that phrase — permanent scar of darkness. It can only be what he sensed before, and if it is worse, then it is no wonder Sasuke picked up on it. Yet something severe enough to cause so many symptoms? The foreign influence of Stiles' world is unknown to him. He doesn't want to interrupt and ask whether there is some cure to it, but the other boy's logic is sound: if the ritual of death created the scar the first time, likely a second death would intensity it.

The other comment furrows his brow, somber with the consideration.]

It might. We don't know that we're the only two aware of this, and even if we are, it's only a matter of time before someone else learns. But I agree it isn't a fact we should share with the wider public.

[He hasn't moved from his kneeling position beside the bed in some time, and the look he turns up toward Stiles remains serious.]

You don't remember anything from that time you lost? Can you tell if there's anything else different for you?

[The questions invite Stiles to comb carefully through his memories.]

…No. [Frustration is evident in his tone; he feels like there are missing puzzle pieces here that could easily help them solve the mystery.] I’ve got nothing.

Last thing I remember? She’s holding me in her arms and I’m talking nonsense. Things started to get woozy. Then I’m waking up in the clinic, except it’s like a week later.

[Stiles can’t recall anything to suggest awareness during that time. Nor can he sense what Sasuke seems to be hinting at in regards to something different.]

Hey… I don’t really get how your, uh… [A general gesture at Sasuke’s eyes.] What can you see, exactly? Like…

[As open and honest as he’s been so far, this is a threshold he’d prefer not to cross. Explaining his fears of repossession—of the Nogitsune—might strain Sasuke’s good will.]

I dunno. Can you see anything, uh, weird?

[And this time, Stiles points at his head—oblivious about the tangible scar the shinobi has been able to detect.]

[A week without any recollection of what had happened, and with the clinic denying a serious injury. Sasuke believes the vampire must have done what was asked; what would be the purpose otherwise? And Stiles has further evidence to attest to it — marked by his question now.

Gaze turning up to look at the other boy, a line of thought wrinkles his brow.]

The red eye is called the Sharingan. [Dormant, now, but he knows Stiles has seen it.] The purple is the Rinnegan. They're something called dōjutsu, unique to my world, and the Sharingan in particular belongs to my family's bloodline. As for what they can see...

[Weird is one term for it, perhaps.]

It depends. They don't sense things reliably from other dimensions as they would where I come from, due to a few reasons, but — when we were returning from the clinic, I did notice... an aura around you. It was dark and oppressive. It didn't feel like power, which is what I expected when I first sensed it. I had never noticed anything of that nature around you before.

[He also didn't look for it, but he's certain he would have been able to tell.]

Edited 2024-03-18 00:01 (UTC)

[Quiet, he absorbs this new information. Sharingan. Rinnegan. Dōjutsu. Despite his current duress, Stiles remains fascinated by these abilities—and even begins searching for a notebook in order to record the details. But Sasuke continues speaking. Stiles finally locates a journal, binding so tight as to suggest it may be brand new, only for the teen to freeze as he’s picking it up. After a moment, it slips from nerveless fingers back to the floor. Thoughts of shinobi dōjutsu scatter like snow in a whiteout.]

Oh.

[It’s happening again, isn’t it? A sharp noise snaps out of Stiles—a bark of semi-hysterical laughter that only manages a few notes before its swallowed ruthlessly into stilted silence. Almost unconsciously, the boy practices deep breathing in an effort to thwart any potential panic attacks. And as he draws each pocket of stale air into his lungs, Stiles counts each digit of each hand, hoping desperately for proof that he’s dreaming.]

That’s a problem, [he says, voice too steady, and then there’s a whirlwind of movement as he all but throws himself off the bed again, tearing the shoebox out from under the mattress and throwing the lid over his shoulder.] This place plays tricks too, though. So who can say…?

[Seizing the mirror in a white-fisted grip, he tries to angle it so he can check the resort’s tattoo on the side of his neck. Unfortunately, the mirror’s smaller size makes it impossible.]

Sasuke. [Again, with that misleadingly calm voice—belied by the frantic look rounding out his eyes until color is devoured by white sclerae.] The mark on my neck. With my suit. Is the kanji for “onore” still there?

[Indeed it is, with the inking of the tattoo darker now than it should have been if totally inactive.]

[He doesn't know what his words have triggered in Stiles, but he can see the effect plainly, and concern only mounts higher. That scar of darkness — it must be tied into the problem, but how? Stiles produces a small mirror in a flash of silver, and his eyes fall to it reflexively, brow furrowed with question.

Onore. He looks to the place where Stiles indicates, then slowly nods. It is kanji he can read on Stiles' body, strange as that is given their different cultures. Oneself?]

Yes. It is. Why?

[The fear is stark on the other boy's face. He can recognize it now because Cy has told him what it means — that panic. Clearly, this holds heavy meaning to Stiles.]

[The confirmation does little to calm him. So what if the resort’s parody kanji still lingers? It proves nothing. And, in the wake of his experiences with Carmilla—where his Watch conveniently refused to activate—Stiles remains convinced the seemingly omniscient House will employ whatever tactics necessary to force cooperation among guests. Unless the oni somehow make an appearance here and rebrand him with an official “onore,” he can’t deny the possibility of possession.

But these are not problems to burden Sasuke with.

With a wordless nod in acknowledgement, he goes through the motions of returning the mirror to the shoebox and sliding the container under his bed for a final time.]

I don’t have answers yet.

[That, if nothing else, is a confession he owes the other boy.]

If I figure anything out, though… I’ll let you know. [Stiles has to remind himself to look at Sasuke—to offer a wan smile.] Thanks, buddy. You’ve helped me out a ton today. Don’t be a stranger, okay?

[It’s a clear, if gentle, dismissal.]

[The disengagement is acknowledged with a nod of his head, but Sasuke does not leave yet.]

Stiles. I'm not far. If you need assistance in the future, I'll be there.

[Only a room away — and suspecting who it is that had helped Stiles once before, he feels compelled to go on. If he knows Cy at all, he knows this is true for them both.]

There are people here who don't wish to see you hurt. You aren't alone in this.

[Then, rising to his feet, Sasuke is respectful to give the other boy space and privacy. He does not know him well enough to persist in his worry, or feel justified overstaying his welcome given what Stiles has just endured — so with that he will slip out, shutting the door gently behind him.]

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cw: ref to noncon threats

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