Summary: Stiles is gone. Not missing, just gone, as if he vanished into thin air. To make matters even more complicated, no one but Lydia seems to remember he ever existed.
Disclaimer: Don't own Teen Wolf. 'Nuff said.
Author's Note: Here's my probably-completely-wrong sort-of prediction fic for what I think will happen next season.
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ties that bind
Dissonance (Part 1)
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Dead leaves crunch beneath naked feet as he wanders through the woods. It's dark, the only source of light coming from moon peeking through the canopy of trees above him. He can barely make out the path in front of him, but he can feel the cold ground under his toes, the dirt and twigs, the jagged stones that prick his skin and should hurt but don't. It's as if his body doesn't even register the pain. His legs simply keep moving, an invisible force pressing him forward.
He zigs and zags along the trail, seemingly no destination in mind, until finally he reaches a clearing.
The Nemeton stands tall and full and imposing, towering over the surrounding trees like a giant.
He approaches slowly. From his peripheral, tiny lights – fireflies? – dart past but he pays them no heed. A gust of wind picks up, rustling the leaves around him, and amidst the breeze a voice calls out, barely above a whisper.
"Mieczysław."
oOo
The sound of an alarm, loud and obnoxious, jarred Stiles violently from his slumber.
Jerking up, he managed to knock over his beside lamp as he groped around for his phone. Thumbing at the "snooze" button while trying to detangle himself from the sheets coiled around his limbs proved to be a challenge but at long last, the blaring noise came to an end. He tossed the phone lazily across the room before falling back against the headboard with a groan.
His heart was still pounding and he was drenched in a cold sweat, making his shirt cling uncomfortably to his skin. Worse yet, every muscle in his body ached in a way they hadn't since he joined the lacrosse team freshmen year. Those first few practices had been brutal.
Raking a hand through his hair, Stiles sat up further, throwing the covers off his legs and swinging them over the edge of the bed. He was about to get up when he noticed the trail of dirty footprints on the floor, leading directly to him. His brow furrowed, eyes flickering to the culprit.
His own feet. Covered in dirt and grime and possibly dry blood. The sight jogged his memory and he thought back to the dream, now a blurred mishmash of nonsensical images. Except for one, which he recalled in vivid detail: the Nemeton.
A knock at the door snapped the teen back to reality.
"Hey Kiddo, you up?"
Stiles cleared his throat. "Yeah, I'll be down in a minute!"
"Alright." His dad called back. "Well, I'm heading to the station. Call me if you need anything."
"'kay."
He waited until he heard his father walk away before finally getting up and chancing a glance at his reflection in the mirror.
Hollow eyes and sickly pale skin stared back.
He looked like shit.
oOo
"You look like shit." Was the first thing out of his ex-girlfriend's mouth when she saw him.
Stiles rolled his eyes, closing his locker and turning to face her with a strained smile. "We talked about this, remember? You can't just –"
"And you stink."
In one ear and out the other…
"Gee, thanks." He said dryly.
Malia scoffed.
"Not like that. Like… anxiety." She narrowed her eyes suspiciously and Stiles knew instantly that he was about to be interrogated. "Why are you anxious?"
"I'm not!"
"Then why do you smell like it?"
"I don't know. One of the many wonders of the universe, I guess, now can we drop it?" He asked, sounding more exasperated than he would have liked.
Fortunately, before Malia could protest, the bell rang. She winced, covering her ears, and he would have felt bad if he weren't so relieved.
"Why is it so loud?" She grumbled, glaring upward.
"You can issue a complaint later but right now: class. Let's go."
They reached Econ just as the second bell sounded, and Stiles slipped into his usual spot behind Scott and across from Lydia. The Banshee smiled in greeting before turning her attention to Malia and striking up a conversation about a possible sleepover. Stiles zoned out as soon as he heard "mani-pedi" – Lydia's nails might have been perfect, like most everything else about her, but he wasn't all that interested in how they came to be that way. Instead, he flipped open his binder and began skimming through his notes in an attempt to refresh his brain.
Until his vision blurred. It only lasted a second, and a quick eye rub brought it back into focus, but apparently the brief spike in his pulse was enough to alert the werewolf in front of him.
"Dude." Scott turned, frowning. "What's wrong?"
"See?" Malia hissed from behind.
"Oh my God!" Stiles threw his hands up in frustration, much to Scott's confusion. "Seriously? Both of you need to knock it off with your were-…" he stopped when he noticed his outburst had garnered attention from their classmates before reluctantly meeting Scott's gaze once everyone went back to their own business. "Nothing's wrong, okay dude? I'm fine. Happy as a clam!"
"Glad to hear it, Stilinski, 'cause you're not gonna feel that way for much longer." Finstock remarked, walking through the door with a stack of paper and dropping it on his desk. Loudly. "Time for a pop quiz!"
A collective groan echoed throughout the room, wiping the gleefully sadistic grin from Finstock's face.
"Quit whining or I swear to God, I will fail you all. I'm serious. Just ask Greenberg if you don't believe me."
That seemed to shut everyone up.
Once he had the test in front of him, Stiles wasted no time getting started.
He breezed through the first half like it was nothing. And it really wasn't. Even if he didn't know the answers (which he did. Because when he wasn't dealing with all the supernatural craziness that plagued their town, or catching up on sleep because of said supernatural craziness, he actually did do his homework) going off on tangents that had nothing to do with Economics had proved surprisingly successful in the past. With Harris being the exception.
Because Harris was a dick. So much so that literally no one at school questioned his disappearance or cared when his corpse finally turned up after Jennifer – Julia? Whatever – was dealt with. Least of all Stiles, who had been his main target for two years.
Good riddance. One less asshole in the world.
Snorting to himself, Stiles shook the thought of his former History teacher from his mind and focused back on the quiz in front of him.
He was midway through reading a question when his vision began to blur once more. He rubbed his eyes, but to no avail. He grit his teeth, trying to stay calm as the letters danced across the page in a way that was far too familiar.
This isn't real. He reminded himself, as if that would make it stop.
His pen fell to the floor with a clatter. All around him, the sound of lead and ink scratching against paper echoed in his ears as his classmates scribbled down answers in a trance-like state. No one seemed to notice he was breathing harder, or that his hands were trembling, or that –
.
.
.
"Mieczysław, don't go too far. Make sure I can still see you."
.
.
.
The room began to spin. His chest tightened painfully. It felt as if someone had reached in and grabbed his heart in a vice-grip, squeezing until he couldn't breathe.
He was having a panic attack, he realized, eyes darting frantically around the room in hopes that someone – anyone – would notice.
He stood abruptly, clutching the front of his shirt as he stumbled out of his seat and toward the door.
Stiles heard Finstock shout something after him, but he ignored him.
He had to –
.
.
.
He looks up and sees a beautiful woman standing at the edge of the forest, not far from where he's been playing. She smiles at him, vibrant eyes twinkling mischievously, and beckons him over.
"Come. Let me show you something."
He knows he shouldn't. His dad is always telling him not to go anywhere with strangers, but she doesn't look scary or dangerous. He feels… drawn to her. Like a moth to the flame, he gets up and makes his way over, leaving his toys behind.
.
.
.
"Mieczysław? Mieczysław, where are you?"
.
.
.
"Mieczysław? Stiles!"
.
.
.
"Time's up!"
Stiles blinked, coming to. He was back at his desk.
Had he fallen asleep? Had an out-of-body experience? As everyone quickly scribbled down last-second answers before Finstock came to collect, he slumped back, feeling… disoriented. Hazy. Like his mind was trapped in a fog.
"Stiles? Are you okay?"
He glanced over to see Lydia watching him, brows pinched together.
"I'm fine." He lied.
"Really." It was more of a statement than a question, like she knew he was lying.
When he followed her skeptical gaze to the test in front of him, he understood why.
It was blank.
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