epidemiology | ( open + some closed prompts )

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( open + some closed prompts )

CHARACTERS: stiles and YOU, stiles and a bunch of ppl
DATE: between march 17 and march 23
WARNINGS: injuries, panic attacks, more or less zombies, idk man i'll update
SUMMARY: peter's infection finally reaches the more serious symptoms, and like any well-adjusted individual, he runs away after lashing out unintentionally. stiles deals with the injuries and tries to mobilize a search for him (mostly by doing the searching all by himself, good job??)

i. i'm frozen to the bones — university

[ it isn't a common sight, to see Stiles out and about so early in the morning it can barely be called morning — sure, he makes a point to be at the station early enough, but never without complaining about the time and increasingly desperate attempts to drown himself in coffee. now, though, he looks wide awake, despite the heavy circles around his eyes.

no, the sight isn't a common one, but it certainly is alarming, especially when one pays careful attention to the way each step he takes is somehow less steady than the one before it, the way he cradles his arm at an awkward angle and winces when moving forward jostles it slightly. still, he isn't stopping — he makes his way across the university grounds, then to where the cars are parked...

... yep, you guessed it, he's totally going to drive his car like this, with one arm out of commission and looking like he might actually clock out any minute now.

someone.

should probably stop him. ]

ii. i'm a million miles from home — random city location of your choosing

[ he's no longer sure how long he's been walking around. hours, days — he's trying not to count how long it's been since his ill-adviced decision to try and tranquilize a sleeping super-powered individual, seriously, just how did he think that was a good plan?

(he didn't, that's what. he didn't think, because he had no plan. none... just like he doesn't have a plan now. for someone whose strength tends to be coming up with plans, he sure seems to be lacking in that department lately.)

the magitek is of no help, because what good is a locating system built in when you can just leave your magical jewelry in a lab, right? right. quietly, he mutters, ] You just had to remember that too, didn't you? Great.

[ as if talking to himself in the place of the one he actually wants to talk to, making dry comments about the situation, made it all somehow easier to deal with. (spoilers: it doesn't.)

after another block, Stiles finally has to sit down, finding the nearest bench that's empty. it's cold, but he doesn't care, curling in on himself as he leans his head in his hands. this... isn't working. he has no plan, no idea where to look for Peter, no clues to follow. nothing. it's like he's disappeared into thin air and all he can do is walk around the city until his legs give out under him, until the curfew once again forces him back inside — back to the dorms, to his room, in the faint hope that maybe, maybe this time it won't be empty.

breathe, he reminds himself. it'll be fine. it's fine. it's — ]

Fine. It's fine. I'm fine, [ he whispers out loud, his voice brittle, barely there.

(spoilers: he's not.) ]

iii. wildcard!!

[ feel free to wildcard me with whatever strikes your fancy!! or poke me over at celen for a closed starter! all closed starters will be their own comments, just bear with me as i write them up...

also, the explanation (and plotting post) for "how not to deal with being infected: a guide by peter parker" is here in case none of this is making any sense! ]

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[ being infected is the furthest from his mind — not by accident but by design, has been ever since that encounter with Jason, the blood smeared all over his hands. you never know who might be catching. it had been a warning, a warning he'd ignored, because as ever, the safety of a friend... was far more important than anything else.

it had been a possibility, then — after realizing Peter had been fighting the infection for weeks... the possibility turned into something else, a tangible reality. even if he'd escaped it from the blood, there was no way, no way he'd be that lucky twice.

but he has no presence of mind to spare for that, for the eventuality that he, too, would surely lose his mind, slowly yet undeniably; right now, all he can think is the pain that sparks every time he so much as twitches, his wrist still bent at an unnatural angle, the way his head spins and spins and spins — ]

I... it's all my fault.

[ without realizing, Stiles leans his head against Giorno's hand, closes his eyes. he's.. he's so tired. he can't think. still, he keeps speaking. ]

Of course he'd hear me, you know? I forgot. I didn't... didn't think. [ briefly, he laughs, a sound that's both hoarse and alarming. ] He threw me clean across the room. Can you believe that? It's... it's so easy to forget. That he's not a normal human. [ he doesn't even seem to realize he hasn't once said who he's talking about. with a sigh, he tries lifting his head. ] It's fine... it was my fault, anyway. Just like it's my fault he's gone. [ he pauses, his voice drifting away. a second, two, three — he blinks his eyes open, trying to focus his gaze on Giorno. ]

You... help? [ his speech is slower, a struggle for words. running around for half a day with a severe concussion, broken arm, no painkillers... it is finally catching up to him. ] ... no, it's — it's not worth it. You, I won't... it's, I have to keep —

[ and there, right in the middle of the sentence, he quite simply stops speaking, suddenly slumping forward. it seems the fight to remain conscious has finally been lost. ]

[Giorno catches him.]

[It's a foregone conclusion. Of course he's going to catch him. This is what he does: catch people on their last legs, at the end of their rope, and raise them high again. Stiles loses consciousness, tumbles forward, and Giorno is there.]

[This is what he does.]

[It takes him a moment to get properly stabilized, to adjust his posture so they aren't about to fall over in the street. Once he does, he tips Stiles's chin up a bit, pulls his eyelid back to check his eyes, tests his pulse. Clucks his tongue, sighs.]

I am not very happy with you, cucciolo.

[Gold Experience lifts Stiles into the backseat. Giorno could, probably, but he doesn't want to hit Stiles on the doorframe--that's absolutely the last thing he needs--so better safe. And this way, he can sit in the back, too, with Stiles's head in his lap, and work.]

[Gold Experience watches anxiously from the front passenger seat, close enough to reach out and touch when Giorno needs him to. It isn't difficult work, at least; he's healed worse before. But it's tedious. And there's something in the midst of the normal things, the broken bones and the concussion and infection, that seems wrong. Feels wrong.]

[He's just being paranoid, probably. Probably, right? He just has to focus.]

[There isn't any hair on Stiles's forehead to brush back, but the gesture comes automatically, more comforting to Giorno than Stiles, who won't be able to feel it for a bit. His brow furrows as he works, a soft glow of gold rising under his hands, under Gold Experience's, as the bone resets itself, the concussion damage reverses.]

[After he's done, all he can do is wait. So he sits in the car, with Stiles in his lap, idly smoothing down his hair and singing. He doesn't know any lullabies, or he'd sing those. Instead, he hesitantly, imperfectly hums Ode to Joy, while he looks out one window and Gold Experience looks out the other. Always watchful.]

[ he doesn't remember closing his eyes. that is the first thought that flits through his mind, there one second, gone the next; replaced by the realization of a voice, a melody that sounds vaguely familiar, the sensation of a hand running through his hair. it's soft, calming, making him wonder if he's still sleeping — if he's awake at all. if he was ever asleep.

it takes several heartbeats for him to realize that nothing hurts.

slowly, he blinks his eyes open to a vision of gold. ]

Is that... Beethoven?

[ it's an inane question, one that doesn't really require an answer, said only to let Giorno know he's awake. Stiles makes no attempt to sit up — unsure how the healing has affected him, whether it's safe, and yet... it's a comfort, Giorno's hand in his hair, the physical contact, as much as he knows he'll feel awkward about it the second he allows himself to dwell on it more. but for now, he remains where he is, offers a quiet, grateful smile to Giorno and his golden companion. ]

... thanks. [ softly, still, but with a heavy weight; he knows well that the debt he owes to Giorno now is one he can't easily repay. ]

[Giorno isn't worried about feeling awkward. The truth is that he doesn't have the context to know that this is a situation he should feel awkward in. He doesn't understand he should, so he simply doesn't. This isn't the first time he's inserted himself too close to someone; shoulds are abstract, and he is so terribly present, refusing to acknowledge his past in the least.]

[In this moment, this perfect present moment, Stiles is here. Stiles is waking up, and he exhales sharply, so relieved.]

Oh. Is it? I think so. It's just something Fugo played for me once.

["Once," not long before they both arrived here in their staggered way. A day or two. Not long at all. Giorno sighs and resumes the careful movement of his fingers through Stiles's hair, albeit a bit slower this time.]

Please--don't thank me. Or if you're going to, do it by not being so reckless next time. I wouldn't forgive you if you died in my arms.

[ perhaps that is what does it, the fact that Giorno seems to not feel awkward in the slightest — Stiles simply sighs and closes his eyes for a moment. if Giorno feels it's alright... then maybe it is. it's something that will stick with him, later, when he thinks back to this, how Giorno so often simply does, without any sort of cognizance over his actions being anything but normal; but now he lets it pass, focuses on his words instead, his soothing tone, the hand that still combs through his hair. ]

Fugo helped me earlier, you know. This morning. I was going to drive... he didn't let me. Not without binding my arm first.

[ now, in the absence of all that pain, it seems impossible to think he'd ever thought it would be possible, driving like that... that he managed to do it in the first place. he makes a mental note to thank Fugo later — perhaps ironically, what with Giorno's response to his current offering of gratitude. ]

I'm sure my ghost would be really sorry about that, [ he mutters, eyes blinking open again. ] I won't, I promise. I'm not going to die on you. I wouldn't... do that to you. [ turning his head slightly, he looks at Gold Experience, still on the front seat. ] You, too. Thanks, I know you helped.

[Giorno's unseen smile is a complicated thing: fond and pained and wistful and tired and always, always worried. The pace of his fingers slows a bit before picking up again when he remembers himself, remembers how important it is to remind himself that this time, he hasn't failed.]

He's a sweet boy. He worries. He hates to see people in pain, you know.

[He must still be worrying, Giorno thinks, and resolves to pass along to Fugo that Stiles is all right after all--but then it's, Gold Experience, Stiles is speaking to him, and the strange-ugly mix of awed delight and turned-inward disgust hit him in the gut, make him instantly nauseous.]

[His shoulders stiffen. He forces his smile to stay, pushes the hair back off Stiles's forehead again, and just. Chooses not to acknowledge it.]

Did someone hurt you?

Yeah. I kinda got the impression.

[ there's more to it — there always is. but it isn't his place to ask, or at the very least not the moment for it; there will be time later. just as there will be time later for him to puzzle over just why Giorno stiffens all of a sudden, his expression freezing just for a short moment. maybe he wouldn't have noticed, if the way Giorno showed his feelings were less... obvious, less forward.

he does connect it to Gold Experience, but the reason is a mystery — he clearly recalls seeing Giorno in that tent, him introducing Stiles to his stand, the way Gold Experience touched his cheek, both unnervingly alert yet childishly curious. it's a mystery... but one he won't forget about. there are many mysteries his friends seem to hold; he refuses to let go of even one.

even as Giorno's question serves as a pretty good way to shake him away from his thoughts. ]

... he didn't mean to. [ it's a yes, as much as it is an explanation, a defense. ] Peter's infected. He — I tried to... sedate him. It didn't go well. [ he says in the faintly dull tone of someone who finds what he's saying humorous in its obviousness but can't quite feel the humour, regardless. he has no idea if Giorno really knows Peter, but he figures he's at least seen or heard him over the network the various times he's addressed the team, or heard that he's part of the select team of four working on the cure. ]

[He didn't mean to. Of course Giorno sees the response for what it is: both a defense and a true response. His lips tighten a little. He pushes the hair back on Stiles's forehead again, a little more focused.]

I see.

[It's not judgmental; nothing like that, but--it isn't really a good response, either. Not from Giorno. It means he's thinking, and he doesn't like what he's thinking about.]

[Peter was kind, every time Giorno ever spoke to him. But kindness can conceal plenty. It doesn't always mean the person in question is truly kind.]

[He glances out the window, then down at Stiles. He didn't mean to.]

I believe you.

[At least--he thinks he does. He wants to. He wants to believe that Stiles wouldn't find himself in a situation where he had to defend someone cruel like that.]

You don't have to defend him to me. I believe you.

[ he isn't sure, with his head still hazy like this, why it is so important to him that Giorno gets it — that he doesn't blame Peter for something that was all his own fault.

and with the fog inside his mind, he doesn't hear Giorno's tone, or if he hears it doesn't register... and so when he breathes out, it's with relief. ]

... good. [ without really meaning to, he lets his eyes fall closed once more — he may have been healed, now, but that doesn't mean the ball of exhaustion-stress-pain is gone; if anything, Giorno's healing has made it more apparent, and his mind has a hard time keeping up.it does enough, though, to remember Fugo helping him, a detail he'd forgotten when telling Giorno about him before... words that had been said to distract him then, he knows. and yet — ]

Thanks... Giogio. [ the words are quiet, barely there as he struggles against sleep,but his tone isn't anything like one might think — no teasing edge, nothing. just a genuine thank you and a nickname used because he heard it and wanted to try how it feels. ]

[Oh.]

[Oh, he thinks, feeling all the breath go out of him at once. Oh. I don't mind that so much. He's punched in the gut with the feeling of familiarity, which he didn't ask for but for once doesn't mind so much. It doesn't feel like an invasion, it feels--right.]

[He shouldn't let himself feel so fond of someone he really doesn't know anything about. But in this moment, he'd fight a whole army of infected for Stiles.]

Ah, [he manages, after a helpless couple of seconds when he didn't have words.] He told on me, didn't he? [Chewing his lip, he goes back to running his nails carefully along Stiles's scalp. Fugo trusts him . . . And his breath catches again. It's easier to feel nothing; it's so much overwhelming than moments like this.]

[ he feels the pause, hears the pause — it registers even through the post-concussion haze, though slowly enough that he's just started wondering if using the nickname was a mistake, if maybe he should have asked, when Giorno finally speaks.

faintly, Stiles smiles as the anxiety he'd managed to gather in the seconds that passed dissipates. ] ... yeah. I think he was trying to distract me. [ a breath that could be a laugh. ] I'd say it worked.

He told me about his name, too... his full name. [ and it's just about as bad as his own; though he doesn't say as much, the thought is evident from the understanding sympathy in his tone. ]

He did?

[Wow. That's--he wonders if Stiles understands what that means, for Fugo to share his full name when he hates it so much. Fugo's feelings about his family are so muddy (where Giorno's are so sharp), but his feelings on his name are straightforwardly negative.]

. . . He must really like you. And trust you. He hardly tells anyone that.

[There's a subtle approval in his voice. He wants Fugo to trust people. To like people. To have friends. To not isolate himself and drown in his own grief, bury himself alive in it.]

If he likes you that much, then it's only right for you to call me Giogio.

Yeah. I suggested he try a nickname, it's worked well so far for me... that's how we got to it. The subject, I mean.

[ it's still hard, for him to string longer sentences together, but it's starting to work better — a combination of the knowledge he can't keep still like this for long, and hearing Giorno's tone are enough to push him through it. slowly, he opens his eyes, let's wryness leak into his tone. ] I think he just — wanted to help. He seemed to get it. [ that he needed to keep going, no matter what.

still... the smile on his face turns just a touch warmer. ] I like him. He seems... different. Nice. But different. [ which isn't a bad thing. then, after a pause, ] ... okay. [ if it's what Giorno wants. ]

He always wants to help.

[Mm. His expression fluctuates between melancholy and amusement and fondness. His Fugo, Fugetto, is--nice, but different. Why does hearing that make him happy and sad at the same time?]

If you asked him, he'd say he's very mean. But I agree with you. Fugo is one of those people who never had the chance to be normal--same as me. But he cares so much.

I'm glad he cares about you. You deserve so many people caring about you.

... neither of those are bad qualities to have. [ caring much... or being mean. it's possible to be both at once, in his experience.

the comment about himself passes, and Stiles doesn't comment — it's not something he can say anything about, not about deserving anything at all, because he's not quite so sure. instead, what he says is something else, almost like those last two sentences were never said. ]

It's good you've got him here. With you, I mean. [ just hearing Giorno talk about Fugo like that, seeing the understanding flash in Fugo's eyes, the halted sentence, you have someone you'd do anything for, too — he's glad. ALASTAIR hasn't divided the two of them, at least. ]

Mm. Well, you know I agree.

[Giorno sees you not answering that, Stiles. But he lets it pass, too. Stiles is far too weak for an argument, and the situation not nearly life-threatening enough to push it.]

[He presses his palm against Stiles's forehead, just to check. It's a little paranoid. He knows the fever's gone down; it's not a surprise, because he did it.]

I don't do so well alone. But then again, people don't in general, do they? We're all social creatures in the end. [Whether we want to be or not.] I'm glad you have someone here for you, too, Stiles.

Yeah... I guess. [ no, he doesn't — he knows Giorno is right. he doesn't do too well alone, either.

quietly, he breathes out as Giorno checks his temperature; again, the remark about Stiles himself passes without comment as instead, he says, ] ... I'm alright. Whatever you did worked. Just... give me a minute. [ and then he'll be back in working order... ready to continue his search. ]

Of course.

[Giorno's not happy that Stiles is going to go out and probably get himself hurt again. Not by a long shot. But at the very least it seems like Stiles knows he can ask for help.]

[It'll at least occur to him. One must make do with what one has.]

[He sighs a little, quietly, and goes back to running his fingers through Stiles's hair.]

Take as much time as you need.

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