Scott drew the curtain. Dust motes hovered in the air, illuminated by rays of light. Scott closed his eyes as dawn broke through the window, and let it soak into his skin. He stood this way for a moment before heading downstairs. The kitchen floor was cool beneath his feet. A note was stuck on the fridge, scrawled in her familiar messy handwriting:

Working late. Take day off school, go out if you want. There's $50 on the counter. All my love,
Mom xxx

Scott sighed into his coffee. Everyone had been overly affectionate with him lately. They handled him like china, as though he would shatter into a million pieces if they didn't coddle him. He gulped the scalding coffee down, ignoring the searing pain that snaked along with it. He could already feel the burns on his tongue healing as he dropped the mug in the sink. He was anything but breakable. His grades, however, were another story entirely, and his mom was literally broke. Shopping was the last thing Scott would dare to dream of, so he slung a backpack over one shoulder and headed towards the door.

Stiles had been stuffing a copy of Othello into his bag when his friend's locker swung open.
"Scott, what are you doing here?"
"I'm a student here, Stiles. Its not like I'm doing a Derek."
Stiles smirked proudly at his friends Stiles-style comment, but the grin faded fast as a memory surfaced. He recalled a conversation he's had with a therapist as a child, shortly after his mom's death. He'd sat on the old brown couch in her office, clutching his favourite red car in his hands.
"Everyone keeps crying but I don't feel sad. I want to play racing like I played it before, like normal again."
Stiles had looked up at the lady, wide-eyed, pleading for reassurance.
"Am I bad?"
The therapist shook her head.
"Stiles, your mind is protecting itself by shutting out sad feelings, so they don't hurt you."
"Like when my racing car stops running when it gets too hot?"
The lady laughed.
"Yes, Stiles. Exactly like your car."
Stiles thought about that for a bit before answering with a frown. "Mom always used to fix it."

Now Scott was the one running like a machine. He was a robot, and "it wasn't your fault", seemed to be all he was programmed to say. It was always in the same monotonous voice. He used that voice all the time now, as though every inflection in his speech had died along with her. Scott skirted around Allison's name, avoided its painful taste. And though those words were just as flat as any other that left his mouth, Stiles knew Scott fully believed in them. Because Scott McCall liked to think there was good in everyone, and that naivety, that innocence slashed Stiles' core. It punctured an artery, the guilt pooled out like blood. Blood should have stained his shirt after he played his final card: the Divine Move. The misnomer would have saved Scott his repressed pain. Because Stiles (Dark Spirit/Void/Nogitsune/Whatever-Label-Scott-Tried-To-Sugar-Coat-The-Shitty-Truth-With) murdered Allison, and he was far closer to the demonic than divine. The bell sounded, students hurried down the hallway. Stiles snapped out of his reverie and turned his attention back to Scott. This was not about him. It had been about him for the past fortnight. For the past ever. No, it was Scott who mattered.

"I thought we said you'd take a day off, dude?"
The last thing Scott needed to deal with right now was school.
"You said." The only thing he wanted to deal with right now was school. Yet he'd been in the place not five minutes, and was already sick of Stiles' guilt-ridden gaze.
"Scott, wait!" Stiles yelled as his friend shut his locker and walked away. Stiles elbowed people out of his way as he followed Scott down the hallway. Scott picked up the pace. He really wasn't in the mood to listen to Stiles apologise. Everyone was too fucking sorry these days. They were all so very full of remorse that they probably didn't need his own pity for their many well-meaning, but bullshit, attempts to help. "Reach out" as Kira called it. She was the only one who had kept her distance from Scott, and he appreciated that. Everyone else suffocated him with their concern, but Kira was a breath of fresh air, never settling for too long, unlike Stiles who constantly breathed down his neck.

Literally.

Stiles gasped for air as he caught up to Scott inside the classroom. It was unnaturally quiet. Students were crowded around a desk, staring at it intently. Lydia backed away from the it, arms wrapped around herself, shivering as if she were cold. But she wasn't, she was burning up. Her cheeks were flushed burgundy as she backed away from her best friend's desk. It was cluttered with flowers and cards.

"What the fuck is this?"
Miss Brown, who had been arranging the display, turned around.
"Today we're making cards."
"I see that. But this isn't kindergarten craft class, this is her desk."
"Was her desk. Past ten-."
Miss Brown choked on rest of her generic grammar correction at the sheer rage on the student's face. Lydia shuffled uncomfortably for a while before stepping forward to calm her friend.
"Scott, we thought-"
"No you didn't think," Scott stated flatly, "this is her desk, Lydia."
Stiles placed a hand on Scott's shoulder. He shrugged it off.
"I know," Lydia's voice cracked, "Scott I know. But-"
"Shut up Lydia, just shut up."
The room filled with whispers. Stiles eyed his friend anxiously while Lydia suddenly became intrigued by the ground. After all, she thought, studying the cheap flooring was more beneficial to Scott than her talking. How did she expect to calm Scott when she couldn't stop her own legs from shaking? Why did she expect Scott to calm down? She was having enough trouble keeping it together without her best friend. But Scott... That was different. Different to how it hurt her when the slightest possibility of love had been incinerated along with Aiden's ashes. Different, even, to sensing Allison's death; Allison whom she'd truly loved. Because Scott hadn't only loved her-he'd been in love with her.

Lydia knew from experience (with a cold-blooded creature, no less) that that love didn't just die along with a loved one.