Nothing In This World

Prologue –Some Other Beginning's End

He was striding toward him and grabbing his collar before he even realised he was angry.

"Where were you, Scott?" he yelled, and yeah, okay, now he could feel the rage flowing through him, making his limbs tremble as he gripped Scott so tightly that he could feel the blood draining from his fingers.

Stiles spun on his heel, slamming Scott bodily into the wall and then using the momentum to send him crashing to the floor. Later, he would realise that Scott must have been holding back, but right then he was too caught up in the anger making his head spin and the tearing pain in his chest to notice. So he didn't hesitate, instead bringing himself closer to Scott's face and yelling so loudly that his throat burned. "You trusted him, you believed him, so where were you?"

Scott finally responded, holding Stiles' shoulders firmly and pushing him back a few inches. Stiles snarled, trying to twist out of Scott's grip, but Scott wasn't letting go and he didn't have a hope of breaking his grasp.

"Stiles, please, just let me explain," Scott said in that earnest puppy-dog voice of his, and the words were fuel to Stiles' livid fire.

"Don't!" Stiles roared. He couldn't move his torso, but his legs were still free so he jerked his knee up and smashed it into Scott's groin with a viciousness that he hadn't realised he possessed. Scott's eyes widened, and he released him with a grunt. Stiles scrambled backward, throwing himself away from Scott and climbing to his feet.

Scott was doubled over on the floor, his features twisted by pain and disbelief. The expression was remarkably similar to that night outside the animal clinic, before Stiles had lifted the wrench and Scott had flinched backwards in fear and Stiles' world had collapsed around him. That night was seared into Stiles' memory, and could almost feel the way his breathing had come in rapid bursts and his chest had split open with terror at the thought of losing his best friend. But despite everything, after Scott had closed the door behind him and Stiles was left with the echo of his words ringing in his ears, a small part of him had desperately clung to the small thread of hope that maybe something could be salvaged, that thirteen years of friendship couldn't shatter so completely.

Now, Scott lay panting on the floor in front of him, and all Stiles felt was rage.

"Just stay away from me, okay?" he demanded in a rough voice.

Scott finally raised his eyes to meet Stiles' gaze, and whatever he saw there caused his eyes to widen in shock. "Stiles," he started in a small voice, but Stiles didn't want to hear it.

"Just go," Stiles bit out, and then he walked away.

Hours later, as he traced the outline of his dad's fingers and listened to the comforting rhythm of the heart monitor, Stiles noticed the beginnings of guilt swirling in his stomach. It was an all-too-familiar pattern, and he knew that with time the guilt would fester, building until it consumed him and he was forced to bend to its will.

But no, Stiles thought. Enough. There had been too much hurt, too much blame, and he was sick of feeling guilty. So maybe he had been a reckless idiot when he dragged Scott into the woods in search of a dead body; he didn't deserve this.

His father's chest was rising and falling at a steady rate, so Stiles narrowed his world until that was all that existed. All the emotion, all the confusion faded into the background as he timed his breaths with his father's. Enough was enough.

"You're sure about this, kiddo?"

Stiles bit his lip, a nervous habit that he had never been able to shake. He exhaled softly, glad that his back was to his dad so he couldn't see his expression. "Yeah, Dad," he said, "I'm sure."

There was a shuffling noise behind him, then a gentle pressure on his shoulder and Stiles let himself be turned. His dad was watching him with shrewd eyes, and Stiles shifted his weight uncomfortably. Thankfully, it only lasted for a few seconds before his dad's face softened. "I just want you to know that we don't have to do this if you've changed your mind," he said carefully.

A warmth spread through him and Stiles couldn't stop a grateful smile from appearing on his face. Sometimes, it was nice to have it reaffirmed that people still cared about him, even if that list extended only to his dad.

"I know," Stiles said, and for once he was sure of himself. "I haven't changed my mind. When was the last time you were actually happy here?"

His dad narrowed his eyes at him and Stiles stared right back, raising one eyebrow in defiance. It was a trick he had perfected as a child, and it worked like a charm every time. As expected, his dad relented after only a few moments and gave Stiles a quick one-armed hug. "Alright then," he said, before releasing him. "But I'm nominating you to carry the box of kitchen stuff out to the car. My back's killing me, and I don't feel like stopping by the hospital on our way out of town."

Stiles smiled and clapped his dad on his shoulder as the Sheriff walked out of the room. Turning back to the box in front of him, Stiles considered his options. It was almost full, just an inch or so spare at the top. He could fit something else in there if he tried. Stiles stepped to his right, glancing around his room for any possible objects. It was stripped bare, but no doubt there were a few bits and pieces he had missed. Dropping to his knees, Stiles put his head to the ground to check under the bed. Sure enough, he spied a few dark outlines under there, and with a few grunts, multiple bangs and the occasional muttered curse he finally managed to pull them out.

Sticking to his hand were some candy wrappers from a brand Stiles hadn't eaten since he was twelve – ugh, gross. Stiles wrinkled his nose in disgust as he picked them off his hand and dropped them to the floor. Turning his attention to the other objects he had pulled out, Stiles felt a fond nostalgia warm his chest. There was a video game disc that he had spent months turning the house inside out searching for before his dad finally gave in and bought him a replacement. A book that he had started when he was fifteen and lost interest in, and hadn't even noticed when it disappeared. An old, faded lacrosse glove that he had accused Scott of stealing when they were fourteen. It was one of their rare real fights, and Stiles had given Scott the silent treatment for a week before he heard rumours of an old hermit living in an unexplored area of the Preserve and had forgiven Scott in the excitement of dragging him out into the woods to search for it.

Stiles placed the glove carefully onto the carpet, studying it for a moment. The memory had come out of nowhere, and there was a dull ache nestled in his chest. It was different, though, to his usual pains. When he was anxious, he felt as though his heart would beat its way out of his chest. Despair gave way to a tearing sensation, as though he was falling apart. This was different. This was the ache that he felt on those odd occasions when his thoughts wandered to his mother, when he remembered her laughter and missed her with an intensity that he didn't think he could bear. This was the ache that he felt when he thought about Allison, when he remembered her smile and her bright eyes and he realised that he would never see them again.

It was grief, and Stiles swallowed slightly before forcing the feelings aside. Grief Stiles could deal with; he'd had more practice than most.

Picking up the glove, Stiles tossed it into the garbage bag beside him.

Then he folded the top of the box closed, taped it down firmly, and picked it up.

When the door closed behind him for the final time, the sound reverberated in time with the ache in his chest. Stiles took a deep breath, then focussed on putting one foot in front of the other. One step at a time, until the grief faded away.

He'd done it before, and he could damn well do it again.