It's all about control.
When you're a kid there isn't a lot you can control in life. You have a bedtime and its strictly enforced. There's a time you have to get up and a time to eat your meals and god forbid if you don't brush your teeth.
You can pretend that you have some say in the matter, but you really don't. When you're getting dressed you can choose what to wear, but you're still limited to what's in your closet and what they think is okay because no matter how comfortable it is, you can't wear your favorite t-shirt to church or your board shorts to school.
And Stiles hates it. It's not that he wants to make decisions about every little thing in life, but he'd like the opportunity every once in a while. And it all comes to a head the time his mom served brussels sprouts.
Brussels sprouts are disgusting. They look like brains and smell like feet and he isn't going to eat them. He isn't. But he can't leave them on his plate either so whenever no one's looking he palms one and then shoves it into the pocket in his hoodie. And it works. His mom looks so HAPPY he cleaned his plate without complaining that she even gives him an extra fifteen minutes of TV before bedtime.
This is something he can work with.
It becomes a game to him, how many places can he hide food. Besides pockets and his napkin there's the baseboard on the wall, the lip under the table, the rip in the mat on the chair. And suddenly Stiles no longer has to worry about things like liver or wilted spinach (which, yuck) and it's so easy and it's something that is his and his alone. He might not have a say over what is put on his plate, but he sure has a say as to whether he eats it or not.
Then his mom dies and his father is a mess and Scott is always dragging him over to his house to eat and there's nowhere to hide the food there, or if there is he doesn't know where, and he pleads an upset stomach or claims that he ate at home or something, anything that will give him a bit of that control back because everything else in his life is wrong and he needs this, this one thing, to be right.
Scott notices. Of course he does. He notices and whines about it and needles and complains and Stiles almost stops. But he doesn't because he can't. His mom is gone and his dad is coping by burying himself in work and school sucks and it's just too much. He knows how miserable his dad is and he sees what a wreck the house is in and this teachers all look at him with these stupid frozen smiles and he doesn't know what to do except grab on to the one thing he can control and hold on for dear life.
"Dude, come on." When Scott grabs his arm his hand wraps entirely around Stiles' wrist. Stiles is kind of amazed at that. "My mom made cookies. Chocolate chip cookies. They're your favorite."
And they are. There was a time that Stiles would have killed for one of Mrs. McCall's chocolate chip cookies, but that was before and now being able to say "Eh, you can have mine," is more important than having one bite of that chewy chocolatey goodness. He can tell Scott isn't going to stop bugging him about having one though and Stiles knows he'll cave eventually because, well, cookies so he does the only thing that he can do in a situation like that and gives Scott a shove and then a wet willy and yells, "Can't catch me!" and the chase is on.
It works and Scott's distracted, but there's only so many times that'll work and besides, Scott can catch him too easily these days. He used to be able to outrun Scott, but not anymore unless Scott's asthma is really bad, and if Stiles stops to think about that it kind of worries him a little so he purposely doesn't and instead just finds reasons not to be near Scott any time food might be involved. It's not a great solution, but it works. Mostly.
Until it doesn't.
In the end it's Mrs. McCall who not only notices, but does something about it. Stiles' dad is still too wrapped up in his grief and the job to see past the lies and hoodies and sleight of hand. But Scott's mom isn't, she's always had a soft spot for him and ever since his mom died she's been that much more mothery with him.
She's subtle and all sneaky about it too. Instead of just sliding a chunk of lasagna onto his plate she puts the whole pan on the table and tells everyone to serve themselves. And instead of just offering some kind of veg with it she pops her head into Scott's room before dinner and asks Stiles if he'd rather have salad or steamed green beans. And since he chose the beans he kind of feels he has to eat them, at least some because otherwise he'd be kind of a butt about picking them in the first place. And when the whole tray of lasagna is just sitting there he can control how much he puts on his place.
He can.
And it doesn't always work, not by a long shot, but Mrs. McCall doesn't push and she doesn't tell his dad, but she does ask if he'd like cookies before or after they go work on the tree house and there isn't room for a different response because when the question is now or later there's no chance to say "no" especially when she's there, watching to make sure he eats.
So he does start to eat. Most of the time. And most of the things that are on his plate. He still avoids stuff he hates, but it's not like his dad would serve brussels sprouts, in fact Stiles isn't sure his dad even knows what brussels sprouts are and it's not like Stiles is going to tell him if that's the case. And it's not like he's given up control, he decides when to eat and how much and that's enough. Mostly.
It has to be.
Elementary school makes way for junior high and he and Scott are still inseparable and sometimes Stiles can tell Mrs. McCall is watching him and he can feel the combination of her mother tinged magic and nurse radar combining to work on him but he doesn't falter. He doesn't need to.
But then his dad's boss retires and his dad gets elected sheriff and is happy, if really busy, and school's almost interesting and Scott is, well, Scott and while things may not be great they are okay and that's enough, most of the time. If, occasionally, Stiles slips and needs that extra bit of control of skipping meals or saying no to Scott's favorite snack (a combination of Doritos, Pop Rocks and M&M's which is kind of gross and even Scott admits it's an acquired taste) it doesn't mean anything because he's a teenager now and he's allowed to be a little emo if he wants to be.
But then it's high school and, if that on principle wasn't bad enough, there are werewolves and who the hell ever thinks, I know what'll make this year more interesting, how about having your best friend bitten by a freaking werewolf?! No one, that's who. And suddenly Scott needs him, needs him in ways no one's ever needed him before.
But Stiles can handle it. He can prevent Scott from turning into a person killing rage monster (even if he can't stop Scott from being a bunny eater, which was disgusting, but he'll take what he can get). And there's Scott's sudden skills on the field and the fact that Stiles still sucks at lacrosse because he doesn't have special wolf powers so he's stuck on the bench while Coach drools over Scott, but it's not like he can complain about it or anything since werewolf isn't something anyone is really going believe as an excuse or explanation. Not that he'd want them too, either. Because, again, werewolf.
Also, there's Allison. Allison is beautiful and perfect and, according to Scott, hung the moon. It's a bit sickening just how much of a lap dog (hee, lap dog) Scott has turned into about her, but considering how Stiles himself is with Lydia, it's not like he can complain. Much. Of course, Scott wouldn't even notice any complaints even if he were to make any, since he's so wrapped up with Allison and so stupidly in love.
It would be adorable if it didn't make Stiles feel like such a useless third wheel.
Everything gets harder and spins further out of his control and there doesn't seem to be anything he can do except watch. Watch his dad drink. Watch Lydia get hurt. Watch the people he love be in danger and watch them fumble around in the dark.
He tries. He researches everything he can and tries to make up the rest, but no matter what it's never enough, and he feels that everything is slipping away so he grabs control of the one thing he can- what he eats.
He skips meal after meal and most of the time no one notices. His dad is too busy and going into work earlier and earlier and staying later and later so even though Stiles doesn't eat dinner himself, he still makes sure to make something and leave leftover in the fridge because the last thing he wants is his dad to live on fast food and have his cholesterol go through the roof.
Lunches should be more complicated, it's the cafeteria after all and Scott's right there but somehow it isn't, Scott's so busy prattling on and on with "Allison this" and "Allison that" that he doesn't notice Stiles has been mostly tearing apart his peanut butter and jelly instead of eating it and crushing his cheetos into little piles of pulverized powder. When it comes down to it, Stiles is a little amazed how easy it is and how little Scott notices.
Stiles knows what he's doing is stupid, that food is important and people need to eat, but every time he pushes away from the table with half his meal left behind it gives him a sense of accomplishment. He did this. He succeeded. It may not be much in the overall scheme of things, but he doesn't care. Something, even such a little thing, is better than nothing.
Until he passes out.
To be fair, that wasn't really Stiles fault. Coach Finstock had been running them hard and it was really hot out and the entire team (except for Scott and Jackson, damn them) had been looking a little ragged around the edges for the last twenty minutes when Stiles suddenly notices that the ground was sort of swaying and kind of fuzzy and then the next thing he knows he's flat on his back staring up at Scott's aneurysm face and Coach is yelling and everyone's standing around him staring at him.
"Stilinski?" Coach actually sounds concerned, not angry, which is really bizarre.
"'M fine, Coach," Stiles replies, but his voice is weak and shaky, even to his own ears.
"McCall, take him to the nurse."
Scott goes to grab him, but Stiles manages to sit up on his own. "No! Coach, no, that's not necessary! See? I'm fine, completely fine."
"If you're so fine, then what were you doing lying down? What do you think this is? A Motel 6?"
"Sorry, Coach. Hey, a little help here, man?" Stiles turned to Scott and grabbed his arm, trying to pull himself to his feet.
"Hey, hey. Easy, Stiles, easy." With almost no effort at all, damn werewolf abilities, Scott has Stiles on his feet and a death grip on his arm. "I'm taking you to the nurse," he says to the coach as he drags Stiles off the field.
"No. Scott, no, I don't need the nurse."
"Yes, you do. You smell weird," Scott hisses at Stiles once they're far enough away that no one will hear.
"Okay, what? You know, I take offense at that. I do not smell bad, I will have you know I showered just this morning." Stiles tries to get his arm free, but Scott's got it in some sort of death grip and there's no way of getting out of it without breaking his arm or maybe distracting him by throwing Allison in his general direction.
"I didn't say bad, I said weird." Even though the locker room is completely empty and there's no one around hear Scott's voice is still soft and wavering.
"Scott, man, what's wrong? You're kind of freaking me out here."
"You're doing it again. I can't believe you're doing it again and I can't believe I didn't notice."
"Doing what? Scott, what-"
"Your," Scott gestures randomly with his free hand, "thing. With food. Your food thing."
Oh, crap. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Stiles, you fainted."
"I did not. Stilinskis do not faint."
"Stiles!" Scott shoves Stiles against the lockers and rips off the lock, opening Stiles locker and shoves clothes at him. "Get changed. I'm taking you to the Sheriff's office and we're talking to your dad."
Stiles is a little dumbstruck by the whole 'rip the lock off' thing and he starts to protest but Scott freaking GROWLS at him and he may not be the sharpest tool in the shed, but he knows not to poke the pissed off werewolf so he just plunks his butt on the bench and starts changing into his regular clothes.
By the time they're both ready and heading to the jeep, Scott's no longer about to explode with the anger or worry or whatever it was, Stiles goes for broke and pleads, "Don't tell my dad." He gets one of Scott's patented stares in reply. "Scott, I'm serious. Please. He's already got so much. You don't understand, after the thing at the Rave and the restraining order and his job, I can't. What if-" and fuck, but there's so much that could go wrong if his dad found out. It'd be worse than Hunters and werewolves and kanima and what if his dad couldn't deal? He could ground him or make them move or-
"Stop! Stiles breathe. Come on, breathe!" It's only then that Stiles realizes he really hadn't been breathing, not really, but instead had been working up to a panic attack and it's still got his claws in him because if his dad finds out it'll mean he'll lose control and he can't. This is all he has control of, what the hell will he do when he doesn't even have this any more.
"Scott, no. My dad. He can't. Please. No. That would be bad. That would be so bad."
"Okay, look. What if... what if we don't tell your dad, but work on it ourselves? Can we do that? Maybe. Maybe there's something I can do? Or. Or, hey. Look." Scott leans up against the jeep and pins Stiles with his 'serious face'. "You have to eat. I know I haven't been. Well, I've been, let's call it distracted, lately. But, I'll be better. Lunch, every day, you and me, okay? We'll eat and talk and it'll be like the old day, okay?"
It's not okay, not by a long shot, but Scott is so sincere and worried and Stiles really doesn't like having people worry, not about him, not when he can help it. And he thinks, maybe it won't matter if Scott is watching him. He can still control things, as long as he's careful. Lacrosse is bad enough when he's running on all cylinders and he needs some fuel in his system for that so... lunches. He can do lunches. He can just make up for it with being extra careful during breakfast and dinner. That'll work.
"Okay," he agrees, his mind already whirring as he plans. It'll work.
It has to.