( open + some closed prompts )

[figureitout]

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! ]

Comments

[figureitout]

[ a nod is all he manages; he tries his best not to collapse into the chair, knowing that jostling his arm needlessly is the last thing he should do, yet the relief of not having to be standing or walking is almost too great. his head swims.

still, he manages to take his jacket off, at least halfway, with minimal movements, biting his lip as he tries to distract himself from the pain.

when Fugo gets back, he mutters, ] ... what's your name? I can't — I shouldn't... just keep calling you Giorno's friend in my head. [ because apparently this is more important than his broken arm?? ]

[unholey]

[Oh, thank god, he's actually sitting down. That's Fugo's first thought when he comes back to Stiles with a hideously overpriced ruler and t-shirt in one hand and a box of gauze tucked into the pocket of his jacket.]

Believe it or not, it's Pannacotta. [This is not something Fugo would ever admit in normal circumstances. But he's using it as a distraction: something for Stiles to focus on instead of the pain. Before he gets started with putting the makeshift sling together, he reaches out to help ease Stiles' jacket the rest of the way off. His tone of voice is casual, but his movements are slow, easy, and incredibly careful. He's doing his best not to jostle or jar the injured arm.] Which is why I prefer to be called by my surname, Fugo.

[figureitout]

[ Fugo answers, and all Stiles can think of is, well, you're shit out of luck, too, aren't you. he swallows a groan as Fugo helps him out of his jacket, trying to focus on everything that isn't his arm, the sharp stabs of pain like knives inside his skin and flesh.

he wonders if Fugo is the same as him — if his own name tastes as strange in his mouth, if speaking it aloud is like finding an old photograph you'd forgotten at the back of a drawer, shoved out of sight. ]

... you ever considered a nickname? It's worked for me. [ his voice is wry yet full of the kind of sympathy someone only has when they've been through the exact same thing. granted, his name doesn't have any weird meaning, just as Fugo's has likely never been something he couldn't have pronounced... but a shared inconvenience it still is. ] ... though Fugo's just fine, too.

[unholey]

[Broken bones hurt. That's a simple fact, but one that Fugo didn't completely understand until he came to, heaving seawater out of his screaming lungs, on the stony shore of Siracusa, bothered by a sharp pain in his side. But they're not an unbearable sort of pain, not as it's not a limb necessary for keeping balance and moving forward.

Still. He tries to be careful, while handling Stiles' arm. His touch his firm and his movements certain (because hesitating and stuttering here would just make it worse) but neither does he hurry the process along, or try to force it in a direction that's obviously painful.]

When I was younger, everyone called me Panni. [Using the gauze to hold it in place, Fugo wraps up the ruler around the arm Stiles has been favoring.] But that was a long time ago. "Pannacotta for Panni". It just sounds childish, you know?

[Fugo looks up towards Stiles and wrinkles his nose at the memory. It's an expression that's both odd and not: odd because Fugo is very severe, not because it's a persnickety gesture at home on any teenager's face.]

Giorno, though. He's got a nickname.

[figureitout]

[ he breathes out something that could be a laugh if the sound itself was less painful — as it is, it's an exhale, a huff, sympathetic and annoyed on Fugo's behalf at once, an agreement of sorts — yeah, that is not a nickname he'd choose for himself, either.

he marks the change in Fugo's expression, different enough to cut through the haze in his mind; even more so are the words that follow. despite the way the movement sends a sharp jolt of pain through him, he looks up, eyes just a touch more focused now. ]

Does he? Really? [ it's clear Fugo's line of distracting facts is a great one. ]

[unholey]

[The worst of this procedure is over now. What's left is fashioning a sling out of the shirt. Fugo reaches into a back pocket for a knife; too small to be of any use in a fight, which is just fine because Fugo mostly uses it for hotwiring cars. Today he uses it to cut a starter hole in the shirt, which he uses to help deconstruct it with the goal of making it less of a tube and more of a long length for a makeshift sling.]

"Giogio". [It's an odd nickname, one that almost sounds like Jojo-- but in Fugo's mouth, said in the Italian way, it's much softer.] It's from his full name: Giorno Giovanna. Pretty goofy, isn't it? But he told me not to be formal with him, so I use it sometimes.

[figureitout]

[ given that this is the first time he and Fugo have spoken to each other, perhaps he should be more alarmed by the sudden appearance of a knife... but he's not. even without the obvious dedication Fugo has shown to making sure he'll make it, there's a special logic inside his head that goes from "Giorno trusts Fugo" to "I trust Giorno" and finally to "ergo, I can trust Fugo". or something of the sort, anyway. granted, he's not always so quick to trust those his friends do...but in Giorno's case, he feels he can trust his judgement. Giorno doesn't seem like someone who'd trust easily, after all, and so it follows the trust must be earned.

(but really — hasn't Fugo earned his, too, with all of this?)

he breathes out... and smiles. the smallest of smiles, but very real nonetheless. ] ... Giogio. I don't know what I expected. That's — that's so like him and not like him at all, at the same time.

[unholey]

[Trust is such a funny thing. Fugo is never quite sure what to do with it once he has it-- mostly because he knows it isn't reall. If anyone knew what he was really like, no one in their right mind would want him around. It's nice to have while it's there, he supposes. But he never expects it to stay.]

I think that was the moment it started to sink in that Giorno my age. Before that moment, he seemed unknowable-- the kind of person who was untouchable. [With the sling as about as constructed as it gets, he looks up at Stiles.] I'm going to have to adjust your arm to get it in the right position. It's going to hurt.

[figureitout]

Yeah, [ he mutters, ] I know what you mean. [ it's the perfect way to describe Giorno — only it isn't. or it is and isn't, because Giorno seems to be many things at once: untouchable, unknowable, confident... and yet, Stiles remembers his quiet surprise when they first met, the uncertainty, the edge of not enough that was so familiar to him in Perdition's Rest.

pressing his mouth together into a line, Stiles nods a go-ahead for Fugo. ] It's fine. [ it has to be. then, to distract; ] How old are you guys, actually? I don't... I don't think I know. [ please. keep talking, give him something to focus on. ]

[unholey]

[Fugo rises from his crouch to hang one loop one end of the sling around Stiles' neck.]

There's some time nonsense mucking things up-- [Fugo works while he speaks, calm and measured; after the sling is settled, he doesn't give Stiles any more warning than he did before when he reaches to carefully but quickly tuck his injured arm into the sling.] -- but I'm seventeen and he's sixteen.

[figureitout]

[ he's prepared — at least enough to have raised his good arm, the back of his hand against his mouth, so that when Fugo moves his arm he can bite down, muffling the shout of pain that escapes him no matter how much he tries to swallow it down.

his voice is hoarse when he response, ] Seriously? I'd thought we're more or less the same age. I mean, I guess we still are, I'm just a couple years older, but still. [ maybe it's the airs they give — Fugo with his quiet seriousness, and Giorno with his charm and confidence. ]

... thanks. [ for the sling. for all of this. ]

[unholey]

[Fugo critically examines his work. He's confident that the arm is as secure as it's going to be with the makeshift sling, but he wouldn't be himself if he didn't check and then double check to make sure it's all clear. When he's done, he looks up at Stiles again; Stiles' face is drawn with pain, but there's a sense of resolution about him. Even though he clearly needs more help than this, Stiles isn't going to let himself get it until he's accomplished what he's meant to do.]

Don't worry about it. I get that a lot. [Fugo rises back to his feet, tucking the knife out of sight again and brushing the dirt off of his knees. Then he offers a hand to to Stiles to help him up.] And no problem. This sort of thing-- it's why I learned about emergency first aid.

mebe wrap here or at yours?

[figureitout]

[ only after a couple seconds of hesitating does he grab the offered hand, almost like he thinks he should be able to get up on his own. he's accepted help up to this point, though...one more won't hurt.

(or perhaps he just won't feel it, one more grain of sand lost on a beach full of it.) ]

... 'm glad you did. I — I've got to go now. [ he's got someone to find. ]