(open) breathe, cold, another bad dream

[mensrea]

Who: Stiles Stilinski and YOU
When: Night of Aereuer 13
Where: The shared dream
What: "Dream a Little Dream" event catch-all
Warnings: Language, check individual prompt tags

[ Deep within the Looking-Glass House, there is a mirror framed in ancient-looking oak that’s pocketed with holes, like something has eaten through the wood. Depending on your relationship to Stiles, you may notice at first glance that it seems the mirror frame is decorated only with unsmiling, weary faces. These faces belong to: Noah Stilinski, at the crown; Scott McCall; gaze pointedly averted; Claudia Stilinski, the details of her features erased by time; Malia Tate; Lydia Martin; Melissa McCall; Allison Argent, eyes closed and expression lax as if asleep; Kira Yukimura; and Liam Dunbar. Upon closer examination of the mirror, you might realize that the frame itself is constructed from the upward-winding roots of a massive tree stump at the bottom.

The mirror’s glass ripples. Enter? ]

i. research | open | cw: none | video

---

[ You enter a modern teenage boy’s bedroom. A calendar pinned to the wall indicates that the date is January 2011, even though the view from two windows suggests pleasant, balmy temperatures. Stiles, sporting a buzzcut and younger than his current self, is seated at a desk, poring over information on his laptop. Around him on the carpeted floor are dozens of books and printed-out pages, all related to the topic of werewolves. With manic energy, Stiles takes a moment to compare notes from one text before returning to the laptop, fingers skidding over keys.

Eventually, a knock on the door startles him. Looking nervous about who his potential visitor is, Stiles opens the door, only to immediately relax upon seeing the grinning face of his best friend, Scott McCall. After some initial gossip, they get down to the reason for Stiles’ desperate research: He believes that Scott is turning into a werewolf. The conversation dissolves quickly into an argument about whether or not it’s safe for Scott to keep his date with Allison Argent on the night of a full moon. Deciding to cancel the date on Scott’s behalf, Stiles takes his best friend’s phone. In a clearly uncharacteristic bout of rage, Scott slams Stiles into a wall, pulls back a fist as if to punch him, and then directs his fury on the desk chair instead. They both freeze.

Scott apologizes, regaining control over his emotions. As he moves to depart, you’ll find Stiles – Mirrorbound Stiles, that is – watching the scene from where he’s leaning against the closet door, expression closed and guarded.

Once Scott leaves the room, the memory of Stiles sets the upturned desk chair right, showcasing the claw marks that have gouged the leather. ]

You know, [ begins Mirrorbound Stiles, voice deceptively casual, ] no one ever thanks you for being right all the time. Go figure.

ii. my cousin, Miguel | open | cw: Derek half-naked from the waist up | video

---

[ Another sunny day, another memory set in Stiles’ bedroom. This time, the calendar on the wall indicates that the date is February 2011. Three young men are already present, one of them obviously a younger version of Stiles. But another may also be familiar to you – Derek Hale, seated in a chair away from the other two, bloodstains evident on his Henley shirt. The third is Stiles’ classmate Danny who, despite being lab partners with Stiles, has apparently not been invited over to discuss lab work. Stiles tries to wheedle Danny into tracing a text, which he allegedly knows Danny is capable of from snooping through Danny’s previous arrest report. Danny refuses and they settle down to do lab work. When Danny inquires about Derek, Stiles lies and claims that Derek is his cousin, “Miguel.”

Danny asks about the bloodstains on Derek’s shirt, which prompts Stiles to suggest that “Miguel” can borrow one of his clean shirts. However, given the distinct size difference between Stiles and Derek (read: noodle versus tank), none of the shirts fit. Danny, who is gay, becomes flustered and distracted by Derek’s godly body. Noticing this, Stiles uses it to his advantage in order to convince Danny to trace the text for him. Danny finally agrees and Stiles smugly celebrates. ]

Listen. [ Mirrorbound Stiles is loafing around on the bed, paging aimlessly through a magazine on skateboards. ] It was for a good cause, alright? Don’t get judgmental on me. Derek was totally fine with it.

[ Actually, Derek smashed his face against the jeep steering wheel for this little stunt, but that’s neither here nor there. ]

iii. when is a door not a door | open | cw: none | video

---

[ A school bell signals the start of a new period. Stiles, appearing closer in age to his current self, rushes into the classroom and makes a beeline for his usual desk – only to find it already occupied. A creature of habit, Stiles asks the girl seated there to switch, but she just responds to him in what seems to be sign language. Perplexed, he sits down at another desk and waits for class to start.

The room grows unnaturally still and silent. No one moves. A heavy atmosphere descends upon the scene, like you’re being watched despite your relative safety as a visitor to this memory. When Stiles looks at the front of the room, the teacher – his lacrosse coach – is staring directly at him with unblinking intensity. Coach begins signing, the exact hand motions signed by the girl earlier, which Stiles fails to understand. Becoming increasingly unsettled, Stiles excuses himself from the class.

As he goes to leave, Stiles glances over his shoulder; the entire class is now wordlessly signing the same phrase over and over at him. As one, they pick up the pace, signing at Stiles more frantically. Coach’s eyes are wide and imploring, as if begging Stiles to take heed. Disoriented, he stumbles away, and then startles violently into awareness back at his desk, Coach blowing a whistle to get his attention. Was it all a dream?

Next to him, Scott is staring at Stiles uneasily. Stiles dismisses the visible concern, saying he just fell asleep. Scott says that Stiles wasn’t asleep, nodding at Stiles’ desk. There, written in his own hand, is a notebook page covered with line after line of “WAKE UP.” ]

“When is a door not a door,” [ recites Mirrorbound Stiles, staring out the classroom windows. He won’t look at the scene. ] That’s what they were signing – a riddle.

iv. next of kin | open | cw: blood | video

---

[ Stiles – nigh identical to his current self, down to the clothes that he arrived in Aefenglom wearing – is standing at a hospital admissions desk, more agitated than usual. The on-duty nurse there can’t seem to find his father’s insurance information, which aggravates him further. He heatedly informs her that his father is the Sheriff of the county and is definitely covered. Another woman, Melissa McCall, steps in to let Stiles know she’s contacted her son Scott and that she can message Malia. Stiles hurriedly rejects the idea, not even seeming enthusiastic about Scott arriving.

Behind them, the nurse asks if there is anyone else who needs to be notified about the Sheriff – a next of kin. Voice trembling, Stiles says it’s only him.

Mirrorbound Stiles has no pithy quips to offer. He’s at the edge of the memory’s bounds, hand pressed against doors that would bring him into the ER if he could only open them. ]

---

( ooc | CR & plotting comment. If you want to figure out a specific prompt for your character, hit me up! Here’s a playlist of other scenes I’d be willing to do! )

Comments

closed to jonas

[mensrea]

[ The scene opens on a Halloween black-light rave, held in the spacious, industrial loft of one Derek Hale, who conveniently has been out of town. Over a hundred scantily clad teens and young adults writhe to the synthetic beat pumping out from the DJ’s mixer, skin coated in a special glow-in-the-dark paint. Lights flash, briefly illuminating a corner of the room where Stiles – dressed normally and without any body paint – is seated on a spiral staircase next to a young woman named Caitlin in a fluorescent-colored wig. Though she’s gazing at him intently, his attention seems to be on a key held in his hand. When he glances back at her, she seizes her chance to kiss him.

Surprised, Stiles questions her, stating that he thought she liked girls. Caitlin agrees that she likes girls, turning the question back on him. After agreeing that he likes girls, Stiles asks if she also likes boys. Caitlin confirms that she also likes boys, then once again turns the question on him. Like a deer caught in headlights, Stiles stares at her in panicky indecision without answering. With a laugh, Caitlin leans back in to continue making out with him. ]

Jonas?

[ Mirrorbound Stiles is weaving through the crowd, body paint smudged on a cheek. When he spots his former self kissing Caitlin, a strange look of consternation passes over his face. ]

Wh-what’re you doing here? [ he wheezes in embarrassment, trying to steer Jonas away from the scene. ] Didn’t think you were a peeping Tom, damn.

[coherer]

(no mirrors are as clear as stiles' and sasuke's, two of the starkest frames that stop him as he roams and roams and roams the aisles. he's seen so many and gone into so few, trepidation preventing him from peeking into the lives of others and their memories that he'd prefer they describe. to trust their point of view unconditionally is a mark of loyalty, to go against that is cruel, but in this dream he's so fooled into believing that these won't count; there won't be any secrets except for the ones he's conjured up himself. manifestations, maybe, of stories they've told him.

the pockmarked wood of stiles' gets a featherlight touch, intent on memorizing every detail—since he's worked it out, so easy when the placement of sasuke's is so obvious and exactly where it'd been before—even crouching to get the things he might miss. a tree stump, sleeping faces, disdainful stares, impressions of people and their opinions. two stand out: a boy turning away, gaze carved into a look elsewhere; a woman, features gone and existing as an eerie, blank slate that forces him back. then in, boldly stepping through with a half-smile, knowing full well his nosy best friend will be off to experience his.

jonas hasn't heard the bass of heavy music in what feels like ages, having only his android phone to play tinny tunes on for him and stiles in their daily excursion to the living room and kitchen. this– this moves him, briefly closing his eyes against the harsh burn of black light that almost surprises a laugh out of him. it's a pleasant shock, as are the people dancing in revealing costumes that tighten his throat. been a while, since he's seen anything like it at parties he's only ever crashed.

to his left, a mass of writhing bodies. to his right, two teenagers kissing in the corner. a painted girl in a neon wig gets hands on the soft jawline of a guy notably overdressed and underprepared for the occasion. the bright colours hold jonas' attention until recognition takes over, immediately squinting in a mirror of his confusion until the expression comically widens at his best friend getting some sugar. she leans in, he tilts back, and they come together in a leaving of orange makeup that clings to their lips. the only feeling preventing him from letting out an "ooo, buddy," is a desire to see them sit apart, taking an immediate step forward the moment they start speaking below the speakers' volume.

the questions come and go, leaving the witch as indecisive as his friend who seems to struggle with a frown. it's a fair question, after the decidedly prying ones caitlin's asked, yet so indescribably intimate when sealed by another kiss that the song's ending note curls like a fist in his stomach and sets him on edge. did he answer her and he misheard? was he watching her mouth or his? shoulders curving with a quick look away, there's no accounting for the mirror's owner when he breaks through the crowd. jonas nearly jumps out of his t-shirt.

a carbon copied—an original? an original—stiles calls for him, and he's defensively clutching at bare arms as though cold.) Oh, Jesus! Y-You scared me, dude, I– I've already– I'm, like–

(not wanting to address the scene, not yet when his head's a mess with thoughts of past actions that could've been misconstrued at the time, jonas allows himself to be dragged away and decides he'd be better off having a fucking drink.) You know you can't harp on me for this, right? 'Cause you're probably in mine right now, deleting my GTA files or something! (close, it's easy to shout over the next song.)

[mensrea]

Dude! [ The most scandalized tone. Stiles pauses in towing Jonas away to face him and clutch at his own chest as if agonized by the very suggestion. ] I would never. [ A beat. ] Too amateur. What am I, nine? No, I’d just sell all your vehicles, spend all your cash, and then log you off in the middle of the ocean with a five-star wanted level. It’s like you don’t even know me!

[ Smirking, he releases Jonas to lightly cuff the Witch’s shoulder. ]

Or, I guess you do, [ he admits sheepishly, gazing around at their surroundings with no small measure of chagrin. ] For the record, I was only at this party for, like, thirty minutes.

[coherer]

... that's... diabolical, actually. Touché, dickhead. (sounding mildly impressed, most certainly playful, even if it's not at all the clap-back he wanted to burn stiles with. he's still distracted by the lights and sounds and smells and people—) I would kill for a drink right now. Are we, like, ghosts in these? Am I gonna' phase through the alcohol?

(probably, his mind supplies helpfully as stiles tags him on the shoulder. has half a mind to get him back, but something stays his hand. an unwillingness to touch, weighed evenly with a desire to be close.)

Why? Like, not that it's weird or anything. It just doesn't seem up your alley to be at one of these. (unlike stiles, jonas doesn't have a speck of paint on him. he's shrouded while his best friend boasts a neon cheek, drawing his eye.) Is this one of those fun facts I'm gonna' learn right here, right now, when you start losing clothes?

closed to sasuke; cw: blood and disturbing themes

[mensrea]

[ In a gloomy, abandoned basement where the only available light trickles in from above through a metal grate, a scene unfolds. Stiles, dressed in sleepwear and damp with sweat, is propped on a side trying desperately to coax life into his dead cell phone. You don’t need to be a chemosignal-scenting werewolf to detect the sheer terror rolling off him in waves; he’s trembling from head to toe, eyes wide and breathing frantic. A moment later, it becomes obvious why – his bloodied left leg is caught in the jaws of a large steel trap, which he tries to pry open with a broken cry of pain. As he fails, a shadow passes over him. Someone is in the basement with him.

Stiles, throat rusted over, demands roughly to know who’s there. A raspy voice answers in Japanese. Once the silhouetted figure begins to use accented English, it points out to Stiles that they’re slowly succumbing to hypothermia and insists they will die if they don’t get out of the basement. Stiles angrily protests the continued usage of “we,” then says it’s impossible to escape because of the trap. The figure comes into the light, heavily swathed in bandages except for its mouth, which is bared in a grimace of gleaming black fangs. It gaslights Stiles, telling him that the trap was originally on the other leg. Though Stiles initially argues, when he next looks down the trap is now enclosed on his right leg.

“What is this?” the Stiles in the dream begs. “What are you doing?”

The Nogitsune lies and tells him they’re trying to save his life. As it limps away, out of sight, there’s a harsh exhale from the center of the room – Mirrorbound Stiles stands beneath the metal grate, staring after the Nogitsune in resigned dread. ]

…Sasuke, [ he begins weakly, only to say no more. The sight of the Nogitsune has him frozen with trepidation. ]

[eyeforaneye]

[ The faces are unknown to him, each one studied in turn as fingers trace the edges of a pockmarked frame. Still, he remembers well the description Jonas had given him of his own mirror and knows intimately what to expect from his brother's; who else has he become close enough to to see so much of their mirror? It's then that he starts guessing names.

Scott. Lydia. Allison. His father.

The first and last are the ones he's fastest to find. The way that face turns away from any approaching, any identifying themselves as part of Stiles's pack, is an unmissable detail with what he's heard about him. Noah, the only mature male face in the group. To determine which might be Lydia between her face and Malia's is impossible for him, but for the final name he knows... If she's here, her face is one either obscured or placid. He remembers the way Stiles had placated him after telling him of her death, the line of his mouth drawn tight when he suddenly pushes past that memory and into a new one.

His eyes are immediately drawn to the teenager on the floor, taking two hurried steps forward before he remembers himself. A dream, a memory. He can't affect anything, can't reach him, can't touch him or help him like this. All he can do is watch as he shudders and fights in vain to free himself. Sasuke's brow is knit, teeth gritting with a need to put a white-knuckled fist to use but any power he has is useless here. At a time when Stiles needed someone, he was alone... alone but for the rasping wraith of a man who comes into view, commenting on Stiles's youth with an amused appraisal that he instantly finds eerily familiar. ]

Get away from him, [ he urges quietly, words he knows will go unheard but biting them back feels even more abhorrent. The fact that this creature speaks his native tongue isn't even noticed by him, Stiles's inability to understand his meaning chalked up to the nature of the words themselves.

He knows what he is. Beyond a tormentor, a beast, a sadistic supernatural force that he watches abuse and trick Stiles when he's at his most vulnerable. And when the Mirrorbound Stiles addresses him, his own gaze slow to drag back over to him, he only has one question readied. ]

Is he dead?

[mensrea]

No.

[ Shadows shift as the Nogitsune returns. Its strange, shuffling gait arrests the attention of both versions of Stiles – one with an increasingly listless gaze as hypothermia sinks claws in, one with a closed expression belied by the tremble in his hands. The creature crouches in front of the wall opposite of the younger Stiles, drawing a familiar symbol there in chalk. ]

I don’t know if it can die, [ he admits, turning away from the Nogitsune to instead fix a thousand-yard stare on his counterpart. ] But it isn’t in Beacon Hills anymore.

[ The kanji for “self” is sketched in slow, deliberate strokes. All too aware the dark kitsune will shortly engage his young self again soon, Stiles asks a question that’s eaten away at his sanity in darker moments. ]

What was it saying? Before. You can understand it, right?

closed to itachi

[mensrea]

[ A group of teenagers sit at a table in the high school library, the stage for this scene. Stiles is approaching the table at a brisk pace, barely concealed agitation evident with every stride. Once he reaches his friends, he wastes no time in placing two pieces of paper down on the table’s surface for them to review – explaining that one is Theo’s father’s signature on a speeding ticket from eight years ago and one is Theo’s father’s signature on a transfer form for Theo just a few days ago. After some questioning, Stiles shamelessly admits that he broke into the administration office to get the latter.

Despite the inconsistencies Stiles points out, his three friends remain unconvinced by the evidence. ]

Alright, Mr. Shinobi. [ Mirrorbound Stiles waltzes up to the table, dragging the pieces of paper over to Itachi. ] Let’s see what you think. Did the same person write these signatures?

[anbu]

[The mirror isn't familiar to him, although it carries interesting detail in pock-marked wood, enough to catch and hold his attention as he approaches. The etching of a face is most striking: an older man with worn features, weary at the crown. Itachi doesn't recognize him, of course. Still, there's little else to do in this place but to venture through these mirrors, and he feels compelled enough by this one to see it through.

On the other side, Itachi looks around at the knot of younger students, feeling almost as though he's walked into Undermael College, only displaced somewhere in time and setting. And then that voice.

Is it too late to turn around and go back...?

No, it's a memory playing out, and Itachi moves toward the table to get a better view of what's being discussed. His eyes study the papers laid out. He only lifts his head when the real Stiles strolls around and into view.]

What is the significance of Theo's father? [Explain me pls.]

[mensrea]

More like, what’s the significance of Theo.

[ Their one-sided argument in the streets of Aefenglom last week doesn’t hold a candle to the raw, visceral emotion that Stiles manages to pack into this single name – spat out like something truly foul and loathsome. ]

He’s a guy we knew when we were ten. [ The acidic vitriol only increases. ] His older sister died and his family moved away. But now he’s back, suddenly a werewolf, and wants in with the pack.

[ Never mind the fact that he hasn’t discussed any of the details about his world with Itachi. That’s all irrelevant. All that matters is – ]

I didn’t trust him. So, I started digging.

i. research

[itsjiaheng]

[ it's actually difficult for jongdae not to get distracted but not for the reasons someone might expect considering werewolves are on the table here. he's never been inside the bedroom of a modern teenager when that teenager is also seemingly a reasonably normal person with reasonably normal interests. it's true that there isn't much to the room besides posters and whatever's strewn all over the floor, but he can't help but be curious anyway. this is a perfectly average room but it's also apparently what the inside of an american house can look like and he's never seen one of those either!! this room is so big!! and what a colour scheme and honestly what are these blinds even..

but.. he should focus probably.

there's clearly something going on.

he's reminded of that when he steps on one of the print outs while he'd been trying to play with a lamp of all things which has a cool lampshade he's never seen before okay so let him live. he looks down at the strange images on the paper and steps over to read over stiles' shoulder while he keeps on googling. when the knock sounds at the door jongdae startles right along with stiles, backing away like he's been caught somehow.

of course all of the scene plays out around him, both of them completely unaware of his presence there as an observer. but he's drawn in, glancing from scott to stiles and back again as he follows the flow of their argument. he doesn't need all the details to figure out what's going on here, able to draw more than enough out of the context of their words to have a basic idea. even so, it doesn't prepare him for the moment when stiles ends up against the wall and jongdae startles again because he's jumpy here doing things he's not supposed to, reaching out a hand like he wants to intervene somehow. it's the reaction of someone who expects something specific to happen when they stretch that hand out, rather than just being an empty gesture of concern. with a frown he tucks his hands back into his pockets and keeps watching until it's over. of course nothing is going to happen just because he waves his hands, he's still here in aefenglom which means he's traded all that for looking half-dead instead with this whole vampire flu business. ]

Ah—.. you—..

[ belatedly, he looks a bit guilty seeing as he's standing here, caught red-handed peering into the memory of someone he hasn't met. well, he might as well roll with it because he's here and also... not sure how to make a quick exit. ]

Were you right about the other part too? The bloodlust?

[ possibly not the best question to ask, but he's curious. ]

[mensrea]

Sure was, bud.

[ Despite the guilty look that Jongdae wears, Stiles doesn’t look particularly offended by the presence of a stranger in his mirror; it would be fairly hypocritical of him (not that he’s above blatant hypocrisy). ]

Couldn’t you tell? [ He shakes his head at himself. ] No, I guess you don’t have anything to work off of. Well, Scottie isn’t the aggressive type. This was pretty wild for him.

[itsjiaheng]

Ah..

[ it's possible he took the meaning of 'bloodlust' to mean the worst possible outcome because he looks a little grim right now. was this memory just the prelude to some other one where his friend potentially killed someone ?? ]

Yeah, I don't know anything about werewolves. If we had that flavour of weird shit going on where I'm from, I didn't know about it..

[ now he stands there and looks terribly awkward, especially when he remembers that at one point he was playing with a lamp. ]

It's a nice.. uh.. room.. [ he looks like he's trying not to say something else, but it's only a few seconds before he fails. ] Was being a werewolf rare? 'Cause like that's a lot of research to make a point..

[ not that there's anything wrong with being thorough ]

iii

[turmoiling]

[The modern era is completely unfamiliar to Jin Guangyao, and while most of his contemporaries might find many commonalities of the classroom setting familiar, he never sat in one more than once or twice. He learned to read and write in his mother's room, and everything else from watching and personal advice, not formal education.

So unlike Mirrorbound Stiles, he finds the whole scenario a curiosity, alongside with the environment in general. Strange wall paintings, the banner of some foreign clan, all red white and blue. Other curious objects on desks and tables.

When he does notice Stiles himself here with him, he gives a slightly embarrassed smile, even if the fellow isn't looking at him yet.]

Pardon my intrusion. I couldn't help my curiosity.

[His fingers brush over the notebook's lines of writing, and only if Stiles doesn't turn, he'll flip a few pages back to see what else is there, or for how long those two words had droned on. Just casual snooping.]

I can only assume you solved it.

[mensrea]

[ The notebook won’t reveal any writing beyond the currently opened page, though previous pages prove to be penned in the messy, unfocused notetaking of a distracted student. Only once the ghosts of the memory disappear, leaving an empty classroom, does Stiles finally turn around to face the stranger. He didn’t recognize the voice, so it comes as no real surprise to find that he doesn’t recognize the man by sight either. ]

No worries, dude. We’re all being nosy little bastards tonight.

[ Stiles leans his hip against a desk. ]

Anyway, I didn’t solve it. An acquaintance of mine did. Looked into sign language for me.

[ Deaton had explained that his subconscious was trying to warn him of something; that part, Stiles keeps to himself. ]

[turmoiling]

Does that kind of thing happen to you often?

[Jin Guangyao asks with a faintly concerned look, coming up to look out the window and see the schoolgrounds outside. It's not even half a beat before he adds with a slightly chagrined look:]

Of course you don't have to answer that if you don't want to. I think at times I am too curious for my own good.

i

[beguiledcard]

[ ... He feels like he reeeeeeally shouldn't be seeing something this personal.

And he had started to move forward to try grabbing Scott's wrist. Fortunately, nobody was hit. Fortunately, this is just some memory. There's a frown as he rubs at the back of his neck, though his expression manages to return to calm soon after. Not that his gaze moves away from that chair. ]

Yeah... I can't say I don't know how that feels.

[ A hint of sheepishness is in his expression. ]

Sorry for invading, by the way. I actually have... no idea how I wound up here.

[ Congrats on being his first memory share encounter, Stiles. ]

... Werewolves, huh?

[mensrea]

It happens.

[ The apology is accepted easily; of all the memories that a stranger could have stumbled across, this is like a pleasant picnic on a warm autumn day. Flopping on his bed with a groan – god, this is his old mattress, it’s so uncomfortable – he addresses the next question once he’s rolled over onto his back. ]

Werewolves, [ he agrees, a bit glib considering the topic. ] And all sorts of other things that go bump in the night. But mostly werewolves.

[ Stiles squints at the stranger, trying to place him. ]

I don’t think I’ve seen you around the city before.

[beguiledcard]

[ ... Even with everything he's encountered, it's crazy trying to imagine coming from a world where werewolves and other creatures could just... exist?

Crazy but some tiny part of him still finds it cool. Though he doesn't imagine actually living through it would be remotely so. Especially not in this guy's situation, from the looks of how it seems to have started? He hopes it got better. ]

Akira Kurusu... New guy.

[ He tilts his head at the stranger. ]

How long have you been here?

iv.

[accoltellare]

[Finding himself in another dream so soon after the last one is annoying. Once he realizes what's different about the Looking Glass House this time, he starts poking at the glowing mirrors; relatively new as he is, he doesn't see many decorations on any of them.

Winding up in Stiles', then, is all but random.

Narancia has two distinct memories of hospitals: his mother's illness, and then his own. Unlike his mother, he'd been lucky enough to survive. So when he spots the guy with the telescope from the festival arguing with the receptionist, he watches. Spots the mirrorbound version standing behind those doors after that, and it clicks what's happening. It's still bizarre to him that Giorno says there are no Stands at work here; how else could any of this be possible? But Giorno's a lot smarter than him--if that's what he says, it has to be true.

Narancia wanders over to Stiles, tone and expression mild.]

Did he survive?

[mensrea]

[ Thus far, Stiles has been fairly understanding of the people who meander through his memories. He’s been doing the same thing to others, after all – and deliberately. But unlike older memories, Stiles doesn’t quite know how this chapter will end yet. Considering that it’s about the fate of the one person who means more than the world to him, he’s not quite at his best when Narancia casually asks if his father survived. ]

Of course he did, [ he snarls, pulling away from the doors to turn a nasty look on the other teen. ] Don’t ask me something so stupid again, or…

[ Or what, Stiles? Faltering, he stares at Narancia blankly for a moment. ]

Never mind. Just…just shut up.

[accoltellare]

[Getting threatened is kind of just like a Tuesday for Narancia, so the anger kind of rolls off him; if Stiles had gotten physically vicious about it, he'd have responded in kind, but otherwise it doesn't mean much to him. That's just how people get when they care about things.]

That's lucky.

[Demand to shut up noted and ignored, he peers out at the hospital staff milling about, and those unopened doors. The first time he'd been here, it had been a lot lonelier -- left to his own devices, more or less, to brace for what was coming. The second time...well, it was probably because of Buccellati that the staff was so kind to him.

Was it lonely for Stiles? He finds himself more sympathetic than he'd expect; it was because of a cop that he'd nearly died, after all--but Abbacchio used to be a cop too. Things were always complicated, more than he'd care to think about, usually.]

Maybe it's a stupid question, but it's okay if you were scared, you know. I was, when it was my mom.

i

[yesdoubt]

[Momo's stuck his nose into enough memories to know that he can't intervene with the fight, so while the focus of his gaze sharpens a bit when it breaks out, he doesn't actually move to do anything about it. There's something almost more weighting or calculating about it - considering the intentions on both sides, the seeming absurdity of the information, the clearly disproportionate strength on someone Momo can see isn't really of a size that should be typically throwing someone like Stiles around.

He moves closer to the desk chair when Stiles straightens it up, running his pink nails over the gouge marks curiously. He even follows the depth of one with his thumb, seeing what kind of damage was involved.] Here I was thinking your world might be as mundane as mine. How'd your friend's date go?

[Also deceptively casual, but he can pick up that kind of manner from someone else, so his first assumption is that things may well have gotten worse after this particular confrontation.]

[mensrea]

I used to think my world was mundane too.

[ Pushing away from the closet, Stiles joins Momo by the chair. Before his dad could notice, he remembers having to remove the ruined chair covertly and then replacing it with a near replica from his own pocket of limited funds. Good old Scott. Always leaving Stiles to clean up his messes. ]

The party was great. [ Maybe for other people; Scott was sick the whole night and Stiles too worried about his best friend to have any fun. ] He ended up running out on her with no explanation and then getting attacked by hunters. Honestly? It went better than it could have.

[ Better than it did the following full moon. That one, Stiles will not be discussing. ]

[yesdoubt]

[Momo spread his hands in a broad, almost comical shrug at that first remark, as if to say "oops" in a very dramatic way. And also that it seems like a very bad way to find out that your world isn't mundane. It's bad enough having to keep normal kinds of secrets.

It's a relief to hear the party didn't go that badly, though, and Momo nods in agreement.] Yeah, my brain was going down all the horror movie scenarios I've seen that something like that could've turned into, so that sounds way better. Except for the getting attacked part. That's not the kind of thing kids your age should be getting dragged into.

[Momo's tone isn't that of someone condescending to his age, it's the tone of someone who's seen way too many people that age get dragged into the deep end in ways that didn't always end particularly well.] He at least got out of it okay, right? Gave you your chance to say "I told you so"?

[He has a feeling this memory would be more melancholy if that wasn't the case, but he's trying to avoid making things too serious anyway.]