You know that Ancient Greek story about finding your soul mate? How people had like, eight limbs or something gross like that, and then the gods split them in two for seemingly no other reason than to make everyone on earth miserable? Then you can find your soul mate if you just believe, or – something. It's all very magical and romantic and full of steaming, stinking, rotting bullshit. It's clearly something people made up to make themselves feel better about being alone. If you're feeling lonely now, don't worry, because your literal other half is out there! Confetti, it's a lonely day parade!
Seriously, you can smell the bullshit a mile away.
Despite his best efforts at cynicism, however, Stiles is certain that if anyone was to be his, you know, one, then that person is Scott McCall. He knows that Scott is, he's – Scott's his everything. It's an overwhelming thing to realize when you're fourteen years old, but Stiles has had his time to process. He's okay now, he thinks.
They're okay now.
It wasn't always like that. Just like that stupid Ancient Greek story, you don't simply appear on this earth with your soul mate readily attached to your body. You have to find them first. Not just in person, of course, but in that deeper, sappier way that poets and popstars write about. That takes time, practice, and so much patience that Stiles still isn't sure he has. Luckily, Scott has enough for the both of them, bless his fuzzy puppy heart.
Though they're not sewn together or anything else awkwardly disgusting, Stiles knows that Scott will never leave him. Leaving Scott behind was never an option, either. Sometimes he wishes he could walk away. It would be easier for both of them, better for Scott if Stiles wasn't in his life. This, whatever that they have – it's overwhelming, and sometimes Stiles just wants to get in his jeep and never stop driving because it's too goddamn much weight to carry inside his chest. But no matter how he feels, he knows Scott's his person. That makes it worth it.
So, Stiles might actually be a sap. Sappy like a tree that looks totally cool on the outside but has sugary blood in its veins for days. He blames Scott for that one. He blames Scott for a lot of things, actually, like that time in Ms. Grindle's garage, and – okay, so it's mostly that time in Ms. Grindle's garage. As it turns out, Stiles actually pins most of his problems on himself and Derek Hale. He blames himself because he can be an idiot, and Derek because he can also be an idiot.
Then again, Derek Hale is the reason he and Scott are together now. Well, sort of. Unless you believe in that whole fate and destiny thing, which Stiles doesn't. Then again, there's the werewolves thing.
Maybe he should just start at the beginning.
Stiles is five years old, and he knows with absolute certainty that kindergarten is bad. Not just bad, but evil. Like, like the Joker and sweet pickles and the guys his dad sends to jail. To Stiles' mind, well developed on Cocoa Puffs and Scooby Doo, school is actually worse than jail. They make you sit still for hours and talk about the alphabet and math. There's no cartoons or video games - not to mention that Mom won't be there. If that's not a sure sign of evil, then Stiles doesn't know evil. And he does. Oh, he does. know. evil.
Worst of all, he'll be forced to be with other kids all of the time. He's expected to play with them, to make friends. Stiles Stilinski does not need friends, thank you very much.
He'd tried it once, when he was four years old and still the paragon of innocence. He walked right up to the other boy in the sandbox and asked if he wanted to play. Jackson Whittemore promptly pushed him into the dirt and told him he was stupid. Since Stiles knew he wasn't stupid (his father had told him so, cradling him in his arms and placing brightly colored band-aids on his knees), he'd concluded that it must be friends who were stupid. Friendship might, in fact, be the stupidest thing there ever was.
Except for kindergarten, that is.
Stiles sinks lower in the back seat and brings his backpack up to cover his face. If they can't see him, he thinks to himself, maybe his parents will forget about this whole, rotten school thing.
"Looks like we're here, kiddo," his father announces cheerfully from the driver's seat.
Stiles gives a groan and kicks his feet uselessly through the air, the laces on his bright red sneakers flopping in an unhappy rhythm.
"Come on, now, Stiles," his mother says, voice sweet like honey and endless patience. "I'll take you inside."
Stiles shakes his head, his face still buried deep into the fabric of his backpack. "Do I haaaaave to?" he whines.
His mother chuckles. The sound is positively rank with treachery to his ears. "I thought you were a big boy, now."
"Yeah, and I'm too big for school," Stiles insists.
The Sheriff laughs, too. He's surrounded by heartless traitors. "That's too cool for school, son."
"Then I'm too cool for school, too! I bet Batman didn't have to go to kindergarten. He just sat under waterfalls and beat up bad guys and said, 'I AM BATMAN.' I don't have to go to school to learn how to say that. You should find me a waterfall to sit under, and - "
"You know, you're right."
Stiles' mouth audibly snaps shut. "I am?"
His father nods with sincere dignity. "Yes. You're absolutely right. A proper Batman-in-Training like you shouldn't have to go to kindergarten."
"YAY!" Stiles crows.
"Now, John – " his mother starts in a warning voice.
"No, no. It's his choice. Like you said, he's a big boy. He's old enough to make his own decisions."
Stiles grins and begins to swing his feet with more force. He completely misses the way his father meets his mother's eyes, nor does he see the sly wink he gives her.
"But," the sheriff sighs with a dramatic flair perfectly suited for his son, "big boys who go to school... They get to ride in police cars."
Suddenly, Stiles' feet go completely still. One small, bright brown eye slowly peeks out from underneath the searing neon yellow Batman backpack strap. He stares fixedly at his parents, distrust falling easily into unabashed excitement. He chews his bottom lip, and he waits with bated breath for the other shoe to drop.
And then his mother adds, "In police cars – with the siren on!"
The sheriff startles. "Claudia – "
His objections are cut off when Stiles squeaks, "All the way home?!"
His mother bares every all of her teeth with a wide grin. The sheriff shakes head, but he can't stop himself from smiling down at the practically vibrating five year old in the back seat. "All the way home," he agrees.
"Really?!" Stiles cannot keep his voice from shrieking up at least an entire octave and a half.
His mother laughs again. The sound does not scorch Stiles soul as it did before. "Really," she affirms.
He looks between them with wide eyes, his backpack mere inches away from sliding off his lap. "You have to promise," he insists.
"Okay, I promise."
Stiles shakes his head back and forth with furious ferocity. "I mean a real promise, Dad!"
The sheriff obligingly holds out his pinkie. Stiles hesitates, then grabs it with his own, giving it a solemn shake. He knows he going to hate it here, but, well - Evil is totally worth the coolness that is the sirens blaring above him all the way home.
In a confusing turn of events, school is both better and worse than he thought.
His teacher isn't the devil. It's like a twisted ending of a Scooby Doo cartoon, where the hideous monster he was so (not at all not ever) scared of turns out to be a nice lady who gives them dinosaur books and has pictures of Harry Potter plastered on the walls. She lets the "meddling" kids put glitter all over their drawings and she has no trouble recognizing the black and yellow symbols on Stiles' backpack. She knows Batman.
Stiles' entire worldview is tilting on its axis. He's going to need a moment. Or two. Or three. Possibly five gazillion and a half.
Then recess comes around, and he goes right back to hating everything. He sits on the ground with his shoulders hunched angrily to his ears, his brown eyes glaring at everything. The girls who are playing hopscotch on the sidewalk, the boy hanging upside down on the monkey bars, the group of children crowing over their Pokémon cards - no one is spared from Stiles' razor sharp laser glare of disgusting disgust. He spares a particularly fearsome look to Jackson, who seems to be busy playing kickball with kids he didn't find as stupid as Stiles. Stiles hopes with all of his five year old might that the other boy falls down and splits his knee clean open, hopes he cries like the whiny baby he is. He hopes that the bell will sound and he can just go inside away from all this stupid stupidness. He hopes that he can go home soon.
He hopes that the shadow hanging in his ring of hatred will go away.
Stiles turns his glare not so much upward as right in front of him. Small is too small a word for the other boy standing there. He's tiny, wearing a purple and white striped shirt that hangs off his pudgy frame. Floppy locks of wild brown hair frame an uneven face and an even more uneven smile, and his bangs try to hide brown eyes that don't burn with the hatred of a thousand fiery suns but instead twinkle somehow. A blue pail and a bright red shovel sit in his chubby hands.
Stiles, to put it mildly, is unimpressed.
"Hello!" the other boy says, as if it is appropriate to greet Stiles in such a manner. "My name's Scott. Do you wanna play in the sandbox?"
Stiles doesn't respond right away. He tries pushing Scott down with his mental powers, wills him to turn into a ferret like Draco Malfoy. As it turns out, Stiles hasn't come into his magical abilities yet. He huffs and hugs his knobby red knees close to his chest. "Why?" he sneers.
"To dig for dinosaurs. They say there's bones down at the bottom." Scott leans in and Stiles leans away, though Scott is undeterred. "One girl says that one kid this one time dug all the way to China. And then they never. came. back."
Stiles tries very, very hard not to find this the coolest thing that he's ever heard (and it's only because of Batman that he succeeds. Maybe). He swallows and scowls and demands, "Well, what if I don't wanna play?"
Scott frowns and tilts his little head. It reminds Stiles of the puppies in the window his father says he can't have, but he wants to take home and roll in the dirt with and love forever anyway (but only a tiny bit – tiny, like Scott). "Why wouldn't you wanna play? Aren't you bored over here by yourself?"
"No!" Stiles snaps, face gone bright red. "I'm not!"
"You're not?"
"That's what I said." Stiles hunches his shoulders up to his ears and buries his face in his knees. He doesn't want to look at Scott's stupid face anymore. "Now go away."
The shadow lingers in his vision. Stiles counts all the things he hates instead of acknowledging the other boy. Eventually, the shadow does move… from Stiles' front to his left side. In fact, Scott has plopped himself down next to Stiles on the sidewalk. This is the most unacceptable thing that has happened in his entire life.
"What are you doing?" Stiles demands.
"Sitting," Scott replies.
Stiles rolls his eyes. "Duh-doy. But why?"
"'Cause."
"That's not an answer!"
"Is too."
"Is not."
"Is too!"
"Is. Not."
"Is - " Scott leans forward and places his tiny palm on Stiles' forehead, gives him a polite shove. "Too. TAG YOU'RE IT!"
And then he takes off running.
Stiles thinks that he's the weirdest kid he's ever met. He probably shouldn't indulge him at all. He should keep his head down and continue on his life plan of having no friends ever. Batman doesn't really have friends, after all, and he's awesome.
But then again, Stiles really doesn't want to lose at tag.
He chases after Scott, and he never really stops.
Stiles is seven years old and he and Scott are where they shouldn't be – in the woods. Again.
The first time they wandered off was about a year ago, just after Scott's dad left. What a douchebag. (They don't really know what that word means, but Stiles heard his mother use it a lot in reference to Scott's dad, and so it stuck like Elmer's Glue.) Scott didn't want to stay at home, and Stiles, being the brilliant six year old he was, suggested that they try running away into the woods to become hobos.
Their parents caught them within the hour, told them to never do it again, and thus the woods became known as the coolest place in the history of ever. They weren't supposed to be there, and they totally were, all. the. time.
Yeah. Stiles and Scott are totally badass seven year olds - and they know what badass means.
Their badassery is slightly ruined by the lunches Stiles' mother insists on bringing them every time they come out here, and the first-aid kit that Scott's mom packs them, but you know, whatever. The point is that they are out, alone, as in by themselves, exploring the wilds of Beacon Hills. They've captured stick bugs in jars, chased after bunny rabbits into the brush, and discovered whole bushes of poison ivy.
Guess which one of those was less fun than the others.
Today's adventure, though, is going to be a whole lot better than their last one. Miles and miles better, actually. Like, better than anything except the Sheriff's chocolate chip cookies (bought fresh from the grocery store). Today, they're going to capture frogs in the stream.
Stiles has positioned himself in the water, completely unaware that it's soaking through his red tennis shoes and straight down to his socks. His knees are bent at the ready, his fingers wiggling anxiously at his sides, and his bright eyes never leave the surface of the stream. Scott, meanwhile, perches on the bank. He's adopted the idea of calling to the frogs by sitting like one, his hands and feet flat on the dirt while his knees stick out at the sides.
"You got one yet?" Scott asks hopefully. His legs are starting to ache.
"Shhhhh," Stiles hisses. "You'll disturb them!"
"Oh. Sorry."
Stiles continues to stare into the water. He stares and stares, and then –
He stares some more.
Scott falls back onto his butt and begins to pick at the flowers beside him. He hums the Power Rangers theme song as he plucks the pink petals off, one, two, three -
"AHA!" Stiles shouts.
It's all the warning Scott has before he finds himself covered in water. He sputters and shoves his bangs out of his eyes, all the better to view Stiles' legs flailing about in the stream. He's fallen flat on his stomach, propping himself up on his elbows while his skinny fingers clutch at something slimy and green.
"I've got it, Scott!" he crows. "I got one!"
The frog croaks in protest.
Scott scrambles up on to his feet and nearly trips over his shoelaces as he races to help Stiles out of the water. Stiles' grin stretches from ear to ear, his joy radiating from his flushed, dripping wet face. "Look, Scott!" he says. "I got one!"
Scott stares down at the green amphibian in awe. "It's so gross," he whispers excitedly.
"I know," Stiles preens. "You should touch it."
Scott runs his index finger up and down the frog's back. It's slimy, cool to the touch, and he wants about fifty of them to take home with him.
"I'm gonna give it to my mom," Stiles announces. "She says frogs are her favorite animal."
Scott blinks at his friend. "Your dad's gonna let you have a pet?"
"No, silly. But he'll let my mom have one… I think!"
"Ohhhh."
Stiles looks down at the frog wiggling in his hands, keeping his eyes hidden away from his best friend. "Scott?" he says in a small voice.
"Yeah?" Scott pokes at the frog's weird mouth and its flopping, webbed toes.
"I think… I think my mom is sick."
Scott glances upward. Stiles' gaze is fixed firmly at his soaked shoes, while his shoulders are hunched, pushed up towards his ears. His body has gone eerily still, not even the slightest fidget, and Scott knows that this is serious. "Like a cold?" he asks.
Stiles' shakes his head. "Dad won't tell me. But – They keep talking about going to hospital. Something about scans. And Mom keeps saying that she's fine, but Dad says she's not, and they don't talk about it when I'm in the room, and they won't tell me anything, and I'm – "
"Hey." Scott puts his hand on Stiles' shoulder, squeezes as tightly as a seven year old can.
Stiles swallows. "Sorry," he murmurs.
Scott just shakes his head and tries squeezing a little tighter. They stand there in the not quite quiet of the forest, birds in the air and bugs in the grass doing all the talking for them.
Then the frog lets out the loudest, most tremendous croak in the universe.
Scott tries not to, he really does, but his shoulders start to shake and the laughter comes bubbling up out of his mouth without his permission. Stiles looks indignant for all of a second before he starts laughing, too. They end up falling to the ground and holding their bellies because they're giggling so hard. The frog and the tension are all but forgotten, and for a moment, everything is wonderful.
Stiles is thirteen years old and his mother is dead.
He hasn't left his room but to slam the door shut, as if that simple act of violence is enough to sate the grief burning in his gut. He thinks he's eaten, but he can't remember. Finds that he doesn't really care. What good is food if he can't taste it?
The house has gone eerily quiet. The wallpaper, the curtains she picked out, the picture on the mantle turned to face the wall. It's like when the life went out of Claudia Stilinski, it left everywhere else, too. If Stiles closes his eyes and listens, he thinks he can hear the sound of glass clinking, of whiskey sloshing out the bottle and down his father's throat. He doesn't listen very carefully. He hasn't spoken to his father since before the funeral, before they buried his mother in the ground, before the hospital when the heart monitor screamed and Stiles screamed, too, before Mrs. McCall dragged him out the door while the doctors called the time, before the world ended.
He sits on his bed and stares down at his carpet. He tries not to think about who will do the vacuuming now, about how he'll have to wash his own sheets. Maybe that's what thirteen year old boys are supposed to do.
But thirteen year old boys aren't supposed to lose their mothers.
Stiles draws his knees up to his chest and whimpers. In his head, he chants over and over that he won't cry, mustn't cry, can't cry.
There's a knock on the door. He ignores it. The knock comes again. Then again. And again. Stiles remains silent.
Slowly, the door creaks open. Scott stands in the doorway, still wearing his too small dress shoes and too big tuxedo. "Stiles?" he says. "Can I come in?"
Stiles won't look at him. He can't.
Scott steps carefully into the room. "Stiles?"
'Go away,' Stiles thinks. 'Just go away.'
"Stiles. Talk to me."
He shakes his head, doesn't look up. Scott inches his way towards the bed, his worried gaze boring into his best friend like he can simply will him to lift his head up, to look at him, say something.
He's a foot away from the bed, now. Stiles keeps still.
Scott swallows thickly. "I don't – I don't know what to do, Stiles. I know you don't either, I know I can't make – " He takes a sharp inhale through his nose. "I don't know what to do."
Stiles squeezes his eyes shut, tries to bury his face deeper into his bony knees. His body begins to tremble. 'Go away, go away, go away.'
A hand reaches out and grabs his shoulder. "Stiles," Scott chokes. "Please."
"She's dead," Stiles whimpers. "Scott, she's dead. She's dead, Scott. She's dead, my mom's dead, she's – "
Arms wrap around him and Stiles snaps. His hands draw into fists and he just starts swinging at Scott, beating into his chest while he retches out sobs, and he can't quite scream because he hasn't spoken in over a week, but he tries. Scott never once lets go of him. There will be bruises tomorrow, he knows, but he doesn't let go. Stiles' hard fists eventually fall apart and turn into clawing fingers that cling and tear at Scott's jacket. He hides his face in Scott's shoulder and he cries, and cries, until there's nothing left.
Stiles is fourteen years old, and high school is the best thing that ever happened to him. Sure, no one knows who he is, Harris is worse than the literal worst, and he gets called loser a lot, but still! There are perks! Vending machines, lockers just too small to get stuffed in... All sorts of stuff.
The fact that Lydia Martin is across the hallway is a definite perk.
He's not a stalker. He knows the law like the back of his hand, better than actually. Stiles is not one of those creeps who stares after the girl he can't have and looks outside her window and takes a million pictures for his scrapbook that he's planning to finish with scraps of her hair and fingernails. Or - something.
He took his Adderall today, he swears.
The point is not actually Lydia Martin. The point is a diversion. Stiles isn't a great liar, but misdirection? Why, that's his forte. So he's thankful that Lydia's across the way in the same way he was grateful to sit next to Danny last year in English - because that way, he can misdirect all that sighing he's (not) doing over Scott.
Yeah. Scott. His best friend. His eternal compadre, best buddy forever, the peanut butter to his jelly. Holy brothers in arms, Batman! Which is why this not crush thing is definitely not happening. Because - because.
His logic is undeniable.
It's not because Scott is a boy. Please, Stiles never had a big bisexual freak out. Not that there wasn't freaking out, it was just mostly of the, "WHY DIDN'T ANYONE THINK TO TELL ME EVERYONE WAS HOT" variety. It started with Lydia Martin and her pink plush mouth, moved to Jackson Whittemore's biceps to Danny's dimples, the flare of Harley's hips and Thomas' absolutely incredible thighs. It hopped from person to person with the finesse of a ballet dancing rhinoceros, and Stiles was just there to enjoy the ride.
And then the rollercoaster of his libido decided to make a permanent stop with Scott McCall. Suddenly, the loop-de-loops in his stomach weren't so fun anymore. He sees that ridiculously floppy hair, his body gone all elbows and too knobby knees. His limbs are too skinny, his face is ridiculous, and his smile –
It's like ice cream sundaes and watching Star Wars for the first time, and Stiles can't believe that he's feeling these things for his best friend.
So he pretends he's not. It's the easiest thing in the world, to pretend. Give 'em the old razzle dazzle! Nothing in his eyes but friendship, ladies and gents. He's staring at Lydia across the way, not at Scott's jaw. Oh, yeah, ten year plan for getting with Lydia Martin, not a ten year plan to bury his feelings so deep they'll just have to cease existing. Love is a word he saves for Darth Vader, Black Widow, his mother in the ground and his father in the sheriff's station. There's nothing to see here, nothing at all.
"Dude." Scott snaps his fingers in front of Stiles' face. "You okay?"
Stiles blinks. "Oh. Yeah, totally, why wouldn't I be?"
"You were just staring at me."
Keep calm, breathe in through your nose. "Oh, dude, I was just – " Stiles swallows while his brain starts roaring into overdrive, "thinking of punching Jackson's face in?"
Scott smirks. "No, you weren't."
CODE OH SHIT. CODE OH FUCKING SHIT. Stiles chokes a laugh and scrambles backward, fingers tight on his eyes flitting about looking for the nearest possible exit. "Wh – What makes you say that, buddy?"
"Dude, don't even try to fake it with me. I've known for years." Scott steps closer and Stiles doesn't have anywhere he can go. He can't do anything but stand there while Scott leans in until his face is only a few inches away, and Stiles' heart is about to burst out of his chest it's beating so fast. This is it, this is the end, oh god, oh god, oh fu–
"You were totally thinking about Lydia, weren't you?"
Relief and disappointment settle together awkwardly inside his stomach. "Yeah! Yeah. Yeah, she was just, uh, walking to class with her perfect strawberry blonde hair and I must've zoned out thinking about – "
Scott holds up a hand and shakes his head. "Please, spare me the details!" he says. He's smiling that perfectly lopsided smile that matches his perfectly lopsided jaw, and Stiles swallows down the lump in his throat and laughs along.
Stiles kind of really sucks at lying. Pretending, though, is as simple as pie. His job is made all the easier what with Scott being utterly oblivious, but that doesn't mean he can ever let his mask slip. So he pretends, and he pretends, and he pretends some more, until even he can no longer tell the difference.
Stiles is fifteen years old and his best friend's a werewolf. He really, really didn't see that one coming. Lydia becoming President of the galaxy? A shoe-in. Jackson being a douchebag when he's seventy? You betcha. The zombie apocalypse? Slim chances, perhaps, but Stiles had a ground plan should the day come.
For werewolves, well, he had nothing.
At least the (practically nonexistent, honest) butterflies in his stomach become easier to will away once he starts putting all of his focus on the supernatural. He pores every webpage, every movie and television show for a grain of truth. He even tries reading Twilight. Tries being the operative word – he doesn't get past the first chapter. Teenage supernatural romances are not really his thing, despite the fact that he's living in one.
The fanfiction, however, is strangely compelling.
The research turns out to be worth absolutely nothing when it comes to, you know, not dying. First it's just keeping Scott from eating his Juliet whole, which is a barrel of laughs for all parties. Then there's the whole mysterious alpha business and the completely messed up werewolf hunters who - despite their claims - seem to be lacking in any moral code. Stiles doesn't trust any of them as far as he can throw them, and he's a freaking benchwarmer. Research doesn't prepare him for the goddamn killer lizard that appears less than a month later, or Lydia being haunted, or Gerard Argent. It may not actually be useful for any of his fucked up supernatural life.
It helps to keep the nightmares at bay, though. When he can't stop seeing Lydia's body drenched in blood on the lacrosse field, when he feels Gerard's boots crashing into his gut, when he thinks of his father dying because of this – That's when Stiles opens up his laptop and reads everything he can on trolls and vampires and fairies (who actually have shark teeth, who knew). Maybe if he does this, he'll stop living things to have nightmares about.
Then the Darach happens. Then –
Then the Nogitsune happens.
Stiles is sixteen years old and he can't get clean. He takes a thousand showers, scrubs his hands until the skin starts turning red. He buys sheets that aren't coated in the stink of fear and a layer of sweat, rips the yarn down off his wall. His skin still feels like it's turning inside out, like blood is soaking through his fingernails, his hand still on that sword inside Scott's chest –
He can't stop throwing up, either.
He's in his room, like he usually is these days. No music blaring, no idle muttering to himself. The space that Stiles left when he – when the Nogitsune – he's back now, but that space hasn't filled back up. There are holes, now, gaping cracks that no one knows how to repair. The silences stretch strangely around them, choke what few words they have left. Stiles knows it's his fault. What is there left to say? Oh, how are you Lydia? Still having nightmares about burying Aiden's corpse? How about you, Kira? You adjusting well after I almost killed your mother? And Scott, hey, sorry that Allison nearly bled out in your arms. I'm sorry, so sorry, so goddamn sorry –
Stiles rubs his hands over his face and leans back against his wall, legs splayed out over the fresh sheets on his bed. Breathe in, breathe out, in and out.
There's a gentle rapping at his door. "It's fine, dad," Stiles calls out. "I'm not really hungry.
The door opens – and it's not his dad. "Hey," Scott greets.
"Oh. Hi." Stiles lifts his hand in a weak version of a wave.
"Can I come in?"
Stiles wants to scream at him that no, he can't, it's not safe here, turn around, turn around and never come back. "Sure," he says instead with a thin smile. "Make yourself at home."
Scott enters the room slowly, as if there are literal landmines in the carpet instead of the emotional ones hanging in the thick air. Stiles can't look at his best friend directly, but he watches him from the corner of his eye. He looks good, despite the rancorous past few months. The bags under his eyes are more pronounced, perhaps, his shoulders slumped forward and his mouth twisted like he's forgotten how to properly smile.
Stiles thinks they should start a club.
Scott ends up sitting at the foot of Stiles' bed, his legs hanging off the edge and his elbows resting on his thighs. His gaze remains fixed on the floor while Stiles stares at the ceiling. Neither one moves to speak.
Finally, Scott clears his throat. "So. Allison's moving to France."
"Once she's out of the hospital, you mean?" Stiles asks.
Scott glances up, then, but Stiles won't meet his eyes. "Yeah, I guess."
Stiles snorts. "You guess. Yeah, they're definitely gonna let her move to France with a giant hole in her stomach. No healing or recovery required there, no siree, no major blood loss or – "
"Stiles – " Scott interrupts sharply.
"I know, I know." Stiles' closes his eyes, wills himself to breathe in and out, in and out. "Sorry."
Even with his eyes shut, Stiles knows that Scott's staring at him, feels that gaze bore into the front of his skull. He just keeps staring, and Stiles wants to shout at him to get on with it already.
"You okay?" Scott asks at last.
"I'm fine," Stiles answers. He opens his eyes and counts the speckles of plaster on his ceiling. "Peachy, even."
"I just – Everyone's worried."
"Everyone as in you and your pack?"
Scott bites his lip and scratches the back of his head. "I – Well. Everyone, I guess. They really are, I mean, even Derek, who sent me here to – "
"Wait, what? Derek? As in Derek Hale? 'I'm gonna rip your throat out with my teeth'? That Derek?" Stiles snorts and shakes his head. "Sorry, man, but I'm calling your bullshit. No one's worried, are they?"
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"I mean that no one's worried. They don't have any reason to. They're probably glad I'm never around anymore."
Scott stands up abruptly, clenches his fists at his side. "Or maybe it's making things worse. We almost lost you, you dumbass, and now that you're back, you just sit in your room all day."
Stiles' eyes snap from the ceiling to stare at Scott. "What do you expect me to do?" he demands.
"I don't know! Talk to us! Talk to me!"
"About what? What am I supposed to talk to you about? How many people I killed? How much I liked it?"
Scott shakes his head. "It wasn't you."
"No, but I was there." Stiles raises himself off the bed, stalks towards Scott while he spits, "I felt everything. Heard every scream, saw every corpse – I stabbed you in the chest, Scott, remember that? I felt the life leaving you, tasted your fear and pain, and I wanted to drain you dry until there was nothing left. I wanted to kill you."
"It wasn't you," Scott insists.
"God damn it, Scott!" Stiles roars. His hands fist the front of Scott's shirt, his grip so tight it nearly rips the fabric into pieces. "I could've killed you, don't you get it? You would be dead, and it would be my fault, and I couldn't live with – I can't live without – You fucking – " He surges forward and slams their mouth together. Stiles attacks Scott's lips with his own, with his teeth, biting, pressing, demanding.
Then his mind starts working again, and he's stumbling backwards with a start.
"Oh god," Stiles whispers. "I – Scott, I – Fuck."
Scott stares at him.
"Scott, you have to – Just go, please, I – I fucked things up, I know, and you – You gotta go. Just go."
Scott keeps staring at him.
"God damn it!" Stiles snaps. "Stop with that look and get out already!"
"So that's what Derek meant," Scott murmurs.
"What was that? You're talking about Derek? I kissed you, and that's the first thing that comes to mind?!"
Scott steps forward and cups Stiles' jaw, his thumbs rubbing back and forth across flushed cheeks. It's Stiles' turn to stare, his throat closing up and heart seizing in his chest. "I'm sorry," Scott says.
"You're sorry?" Stiles sputters. "I'm the one who should – "
Scott kisses him then, a firm, unyielding pressure against Stiles' mouth.
"Was that what you were sorry for? Because I don't think you have to apologize," Stiles breathes. His hands have curled around Scott's biceps, fingers rucking up the fabric of his shirt.
"I didn't know," Scott says, his eyes caught on Stiles' lips. "I mean, I knew, but I –" He looks up to meet Stiles' gaze. "I'm an idiot."
"If you stop kissing me, then yeah, you really are."
Scott laughs softly, bends until their foreheads meet. "I didn't realize it, Stiles. But I – You and me – "
"Look, we can have the deep confessions later. For now, let's focus on getting your tongue inside my mouth."
Scott lets out a full belly laugh at that, and the sound is at once too loud and the best thing Stiles' has ever heard. "As you wish," Scott murmurs. He's licking into Stiles' mouth before the other boy can voice any protest.
Stiles finds he has none to make.
Stiles is seventeen years old and exactly where he should be – in the woods with Scott. Again.
There's an old tree by the stream with low branches, strong enough to support someone. They used to shimmy up the bark when they were kids, nary a care until Scott broke his arm when they were nine. Actually, they tried climbing back up it immediately, neon pink cast and all, but that's beside the point (and no one tell Melissa McCall about that, if you please). The climb is both easier and more difficult almost ten years later. There's the added bonus of werewolf strength on their side, but as for the flexibility… Well, Stiles is wondering if he was an actual monkey back in the day.
It takes some awkward wiggling, but eventually they make it up to a long, fat branch about halfway up. Scott straddles it so that he has a leg on either side, while Stiles simply hangs his feet precariously off the edge. Some might call it reckless, but Stiles prefers to think of it as trust. Scott would never let anything bad happen to him.
As soon as there is the slightest hint of breeze, Scott's arms wind around Stiles' middle. "You don't have to," Stiles protests, even as he leans into the warmth of Scott's chest.
"I know," Scott replies. He rests his chin on Stiles' shoulder, his mouth brushing against Stiles' cheek.
They don't say anything for a while after that. Instead, they enjoy the almost stillness of the forest. The soft flutter of autumn leaves as they fall to the ground, the whistle of a bird in the air.
A frog croaks in the distance below and Stiles can't contain his grin. "Dude, remember that time I totally caught one of those suckers?" he asks cheerfully. "I was the king of the amphibians."
"Didn't it get away like after five minutes?"
Stiles flaps his left hand through the air. "Details!"
Scott laughs, his breath tickling the side of Stiles' neck. Stiles shivers and turns his head so he can press his mouth to Scott's. There is nothing in this world that he loves more than kissing his best friend, except maybe when his best friend kisses him back, or maybe curly fries.
Stiles pulls away, looks up through his lowered lashes. Scott smiles back at him, brings his hand up to curl around Stiles' neck. He licks his lips and leans back in –
Only to have Stiles pull away, exclaiming, "Oh! Dude! I just remembered why I said we should come back here!"
"I thought that was what we were doing?" Scott says wryly.
"No, you dork." Stiles shoves his hand into the front pocket of his jeans and pulls out his iPod. One earbud he takes for himself, and the other he offers to Scott.
Scott takes it, but he does have to ask, "Music? We can listen to music, like, whenever. Any time."
Stiles shushes him. "This is the soundtrack of our lives, man. You can't just play this wherever, whenever, willy nilly."
"Now who's the dork?"
"Shut up and listen, dumbass," Stiles commands.
Scott thinks Stiles is the weirdest person he's ever met. If he were smart, he wouldn't have befriended him that day on the playground. He could've just walked away and dug a hole to China by himself in the sandbox.
But he would have missed out on everything if he did that.
Scott follows after Stiles, and he never really stops.