A/N: Sooo... I've been wanting to do this story for quite some time, but haven't really wanted to add another WIP to the list of ones that I already finished, but I made a pact with myself: 500 words a day until class starts up again and by then I should actually have gotten something done this summmer, so!
Based off the webseries The Eastsiders which I am madly in love with. I am hoping to update a few times a week... we shall see...
Stiles
You were in love once, you're sure of it.
But lying back to back, silent in the dark, careful not to touch, you're all too certain that it's gone. It came slow and subtle, like affection was supposed to. And maybe that's why this all has happened, maybe this is what you deserve for doing it all so ass-backwards. You'd read too many books, seen too many movies, truly believed that great sex could and would turn into a greater love. It felt like it had, hadn't it? You'd put your tongue up his ass the first date, but it took months to hold his hand, and when you finally did, he'd smiled and squeezed back.
What else were you supposed to believe?
It didn't feel like withering, didn't feel like drying up, crumbling to the ground, blowing away. But somehow, now, when he so much as grips your shoulder— you flinch, feel ill. And you see that it hurts, somewhere there's still enough inside him that it hurts, but it doesn't change what he's done—what he's doing, and how sick it makes you feel. The worst part is that you don't even blame him, not really. You… understand, and so you allow it.
But you can't keep going on like this. It'll kill the both of you. You're tired all the time, you never eat, he never smiles. The house is always quiet, waiting for the tension to snap. You want it to, you're desperate for it. At this point, you're no longer afraid, no longer sad, no longer angry, you're just ready for it to be done. You think it might kill you, like the snap of a piano wire that catches your neck, draining what's left and leaving an empty husk behind. But anything is better than this. Anything.
Neither of you are asleep, but you're both pretending to be—shallow breaths, careful movement, shuttered eyes. When did it get so hard to talk to him? Used to talk about everything, argue about everything, be interested in everything. Now you can't even comment on the fucking weather. You remember the first time you saw him—so unerringly beautiful and perfect— it was like staring at the sun, and somehow that made up for the things he called you, the way he treated you that night. You hadn't known back then it was his first and only defense, but you hadn't cared.
You wish he'd go back to that, would spit fire and venom, whether he meant it or not. These sober smiles and careful conversations are nothing like the him you used to know and it makes it so much worse. You want him to be angry, you want him to be sweet, you want him to be anything but this absence—this black hole absorbing everything and reflecting nothing.
You can't stand to be around him, and yet you miss him all the time. You wonder if he misses you. You wonder if he is itching to talk, touch, remember. You wonder if he isn't. You wonder if he is giving Jackson all that he needs, if they're making new memories together—exploring, tasting, learning. You wonder if he's interesting, if he's attractive, if he's rich, if he's got a bigger cock, a bigger house, a bigger heart.
It's all you can think about.
It's all consuming.
It's killing you from the inside out.
Are they in love?
Like you used to be.