Stuff. What a mundane word. It can mean so much and so little at the same time. Overused, to the point that it doesn't match up to its dictionary definition anymore. Used to explain everything, from missed dates to unfinished work projects. Everything and nothing, all at once.
Stiles used the word 'stuff' a lot. For the whole werewolf thing, for instance. The supernatural in general, so unexplainable that no one else was allowed to know. Most days, he wished he didn't know. Ignorance is bliss, after all, just as knowledge is power. And pain. That was what it seemed to Stiles, anyway. The supernatural had beat him up hundreds of times, all because he knew what he shouldn't.
Scott, of course, was the reason for this. If it wasn't for Scott, he wouldn't know anything. But then again, he wouldn't have his friends, or indeed, his girlfriend. So really, the supernatural wasn't all bad. Just a pain in the ass at times. Thanks to the unknown, Stiles was now a talented liar (well, to pretty much everyone except his Dad), which he sometimes had to call on with homework situations. Situations that wouldn't occur without the supernatural anyway...
To Stiles, life seemed to run in circles. Relentless, harmful circles. He helped Scott save the town, he didn't sleep, he forgot his homework or didn't do it at all, he got yelled at by teachers who wouldn't even be alive without Stiles. Then something else would come up, they'd save the day, he wouldn't sleep... It just went on and on and on.
And Stiles was sick of it. Sick of all of it. The lying, the bruises, the stress, the sleep deprivation, even Scott, at times. The guy was great, most of the time, but ever since he went all alpha-y and the world went to shit, Scott had been... distant. He didn't seem to have time for Stiles anymore.
Sure, there was Kira and the pack, he guessed, but still? Stiles sometimes went days without even talking to Scott - well, as in, he talked, but Scott wouldn't exactly reply. Stiles was even excluded from pack meetings sometimes. Sure, it was hard to get the message to everyone in the now very extensive pack, but surely the Alpha's best friend would be invited?
And the times Stiles was included in meetings he usually didn't speak - there didn't seem to be much point, since he wasn't really needed. Except for research. Stiles had noticed a suspicious correlation between the pack meetings he was invited to and whenever research was needed. It seemed that the high and mighty werewolves couldn't be bothered to do their own googling.
Come to think of it, the human in the pack was pretty much the only one who did anything involving a sleepless night. Lydia sometimes did stuff to help, but since her life (and homework) was mostly under control, she could afford a little extra work.
For Stiles, though, it wasn't so easy. He felt like he was slowly spinning out of control, being buried under work and stress. Of course the werewolf work had to go straight to the top, it was usually vitally important and needed for the next day. Underneath, though, all the schoolwork Stiles had been putting off was starting to build up. Deadlines were nearing, and Stiles had started losing out on precious hours of sleep in order to catch up on it all.
He felt like he was drowning, slowly and surely, in the workload.
He was even starting to have fainting spells. Mostly at home, these 'fainting fits' as he was starting to call them, resulted in lightheadedness for pretty much the rest of the day.
But Stiles didn't really think that anything was wrong until the panic attacks and anxiety started up again. It was mostly stupid stuff; deadlines and tests, but recently it had started to really affect him for some reason. It must have been the workload, the stupid werewolf research. Not that he'd tell the pack of course, as much as they annoyed him. He still didn't want to worry them - they didn't need to waste time on him.
He preferred it that way anyway - silence was the best coping mechanism for him. No questions, no harassing. Coping in peace. It'd started to get bad, though. His Dad had started to notice, but he was too busy at the station to do anything about it, thank God. Stiles was slipping, letting the mask fall. Pretty soon, even Scott could find out. And then there'd be the looks, the special treatment. It would be like the nogitsune all over again.
His friends looking at him like he was about to break, as fragile as a porcelain doll and twice as breakable. Like he was about to scream, cry or both. They'd look at him and see a human, a weak vulnerable human. And sure, he sometimes felt like that. But that didn't mean he needed shit from his friends. He knew what that was like.
Overprotective care - making sure he ate, slept, asking him if he was okay 24/7.
It was only recently that they'd started to treat him normally again. It was only recently that he'd figured out how to wake up from nightmares without screaming. How to ignore to panic attacks. How to behave like a normal human being. And now all that hard work was going to waste, because of some stupid research that Scott wanted him to do. No, because of him. Stiles. He was losing it. He was drowning, drowning in work, anxiety, exhaustion - drowning in life. His messed up, painful life. Yet whenever questions came his way, whenever people asked what was wrong, he couldn't say what really was the matter. Instead he used the word 'stuff'. Because how else could he describe it?