The study of rainfall is basic; usually included in the first grade curriculum if Lydia remembers correctly. Clouds are composed of water vapor. Water vapor becomes too heavy for clouds. Water vapor falls from clouds in wet drops called rain. Fascinating.
However, what interests Lydia even more at the moment is why the particular drops racing down her cheek, sneaking into the corner of her mouth, finding a home in the indent of her tongue taste so salty. Beacon Hills rain does not taste like salt. Beacon Hills rain tastes like dirt roads and fresh creeks and playground swings mixed with magic.
That's how Allison would describe it. And she would not say it in a way that would make her seem childish or whimsical but sentimental and true. Lydia had never tasted magic rain until Allison came along.
A light tap on the shoulder pulls Lydia from her thoughts and back to earth. It's still raining, she notices, just as it had been when she woke up, and when she left home, and when she arrived at the cemetery in the back of Stiles' jeep. And apart from the toes of her boots, Lydia is still completely dry, shielded from the weather by her too-big umbrella. What she was tasting, she realizes, was not rain at all.
Slowly, she turns to see who was trying to get her attention. Kira; timid smile, rain soaked shoes, soft white tissue extended forward. Lydia has grown used to small kindnesses being thrown her way – it's one of the perks of being in Scott McCall's pack, after all – but she is still surprised by the gesture. She has hardly spoken to Kira before, and when she has, it has been with snark and disinterest. If Lydia was talked to that way, she would not be offering the perpetrator a tissue.
When she has still not moved to take it, Kira's smile falls into something more nervous, and quietly, she begins to babble. "Your mascara isn't running or anything," she whispers. "I'm sure your mascara is waterproof, anyway. And expensive. It's very pretty. I'm sorry, just – I heard you sniffle. I thought you might need this."
Lydia cannot help the amused twitching at the corner of her mouth. She takes the tissue and turns back around, her tongue catching the tears caught in the crevice of her lips as she dabs at her eyes. Then, without thinking, she turns back around. "It's not expensive," she says. "Eight dollars at CVS." Kira's eyes light up, and Lydia smiles back at her before turning around once more.
She is staring straight at the silver coffin holding Allison, now. Holding the only best friend Lydia ever had. The pastor is speaking over her hidden body. His voice is strong and steady, like the raindrops falling around them. Lydia's gaze shifts to Scott, who is standing nearby with his parents, Stiles, and the sheriff. His eyes are dull, his jaw slack, his shoulders slumped forward and pulling him down. He is void of color; not like Stiles who is still not in perfect health and is paler than the moon, but like all of the happiness has been sucked out of him. Scott was a bright yellow. A burning red. The sun. Now, he is gray.
From the corner of her eye, Lydia sees something moving. Allison's casket is being lowered into the ground. As it sinks below the mud, Lydia's heart falls with it. Any hint of a smile has vanished from her face.
Somehow, time is moving both too fast and too slow. Lydia does not want to see this anymore. She does not want her memories of Allison Argent to be tainted by a wet cemetery and a cold casket. She does not want to stand here any longer and watch her best friend's body find a new home in the ground. She wants this to end.
But she doesn't.
She doesn't want this to be it; she doesn't want it to finish like this. There are still so many things left for Allison and Lydia to do together, so many things Lydia never had the chance to say. They had planned on going to the planetarium next week, and they were going to drive across the state to check out that small archery museum Allison kept talking about. Allison was going to tell her about a strange dream she had the night before she died, and Lydia was going to ask for her opinion on a shirt she bought for Danny. Who else is going to take Lydia down a peg when she needs it? Who else is Lydia going to help shoot arrows in the woods? Who else is going to talk to her about school and boys and werewolves and hunters and banshees? Who else is going to be Allison?
Lydia does not even realize the service has ended until Danny comes over and gently wraps his arms around her. On impulse, she stands on her tiptoes and hugs him back, but her heart is not in it. Her heart is with Allison, six feet under. From over Danny's shoulder, Lydia watches the procession of people walking away from the gaping hole in the ground, making their way to their cars.
Chris Argent stands alone, staring at the spot where his only child will sleep forever. A little ways behind him, Scott stands too, still in his catatonic state. He's alone. Lydia is ready to go over to him. She's ready to run to Scott McCall and bury her head in his chest and cry with him and for him and for Allison. Because she is sure Scott is the only one who could have ever loved Allison the way Lydia did. The way Lydia does. But before she can even release Danny and excuse herself, Stiles is by Scott's side again, draping his lanky arm over his best friend's shoulder and saying something into his ear. Lydia watches as Stiles squeezes Scott's bicep, turns his body, steers him away.
Danny gently kisses the top of Lydia's head. "Call me when you get home, okay?" he says, and he is gone before she can find the strength to at least nod her head in response. And now she's alone. She has no one. No Allison. No Aiden. No Jackson. No one. Never in her life has Lydia felt so utterly, completely isolated.
She wills herself to stay strong, if not for anyone but herself, and she hastily wipes at the tears threatening to spill from her eyes again. Don't cry, don't cry, don't cry, don't cry. Her lips quiver, her eyes shut tight, she squeezes the handle of her umbrella like it is the hand she wishes she was holding. She only settles down when she feels a familiar hand slide across her back and rest comfortably against her waist. She does not need to hear his voice to know who it is. Still, her eyes flutter open when he says her name. "Lydia."
Stiles hugs her closer, still supporting Scott on the other side of his body. "I'm your ride," he reminds her, and, though it kills her, she knows she must leave with him now. Lydia takes one last glance at Allison's father, one last glance at her friend's grave, before hiding her face in the crook of Stiles' neck. She lets him guide them the rest of the way to his jeep.
Somehow, Stiles manages to get Scott in the passenger seat and Lydia in the back without either of them completely realizing what is going on. Lydia is unsure what is running through Scott's mind, and, if she is being honest, she's not quite sure what is running through her own mind either, but it's enough to keep them occupied and oblivious to their surroundings. Just don't cry, Lydia tells herself. Don't ruin your pretty eight dollar mascara from CVS.
Stiles gets in the jeep, slams the door shut. There is no sound; nothing but the rain beating frantically against the car. The silence surrounds them, engulfs them, fills them whole. The silence becomes them. And Lydia wonders why they are trying so hard to stay quiet, to stay strong. Who are they pretending for? Who are they trying to fool? No one. No one but themselves.
She catches Stiles' eye in the rearview mirror. His jaw is shaking, eyes blinking fast. Lydia knows it won't be long until he breaks down. But she beats him to it. Her face crumples as an aching sob wracks her body, and immediately tears begin to stream down her face. God, screw her cheap mascara. Let everyone know she cried. Let everyone know she wasn't weak enough to act like this hasn't shattered her heart into a million tiny microscopic pieces that can never be put back together again. Let them know.
Because just like the clouds cannot hold rain forever, her heart cannot contain this pain.