So, new to the TW fandom, love it and first story for it. Hope you all enjoy! Sorry for any mistakes, those are mine and mine alone. Trigger warnings. Based off of a song I heard that reminded me of Stiles and how undervalued he can be!
Don't give me something to hold in my hand
Something else to believe in
'Cause I'm over it
And your reasons for wanting to stay
Your reasons for wanting to change
My reasons for everything are dull to you…
Stiles remembers. He remembers everything the Nogitsune did. Everyone he hurt and all the mistakes he…No! The Nogitsune…made. He remembers the faces, the noises, and the cries. Stabbing his best friend, watching Allison die, seeing his friends ruined over it. He felt it all. But, he remembers Derek. How the Nogitsune had went to him one night. It propositioned Derek, wanting to take what Stiles wanted but knew he could never have. He remembers how Derek punched him- the Nogitsune- or was he really punching Stiles? He didn't know anymore. All he knew then was the rejection. Stiles knew that even though he didn't have a chance, he liked to hope and dream, which was why he never acted upon his feelings. But this hurt deeply, and when the Nogitsune was gone, Derek was cold and even harsh with Stiles, so he eventually stopped hanging around when Derek would be there, unless absolutely necessary.
I have tried but I don't fit
Into this box I'm living with
Well, I could go wild
But you might lock me up…
It had been months since the Nogitsune was captured. Stiles was himself, at least he tried to be in front of his friends and dad, but everyone was acting different with him. He thought it was just because they weren't sure it was finally over for good. Or maybe they were still mourning over their fallen friends, or any number of reasons. Really there was no shortage of explanations for how everyone was acting, but after a while, Stiles realized that it was he was the problem. He couldn't talk to them about anything he was going through. The nightmares, the lack of eating and sleeping, the voices that told him everything was his fault.
They only acted this way when he was around them. He had physically seen the group atmosphere change as soon as he was around, but this was not new either. They had always treated him differently, mostly because he wasn't a werewolf, or a banshee, or a hunter or anything special. He was just human Stiles, and then he was a psychotic Nogitsune and then he was a nuisance. He was never taken into notice for the work he had done. His advice, which was always tossed aside, was repeatedly seen as a joke, but most of the time he had been close to hitting the nail on the head. He had been left out of specific plans or meetings because they thought he couldn't handle the tasks. Eventually he stopped trying to be a part of the pack because it was so very obvious that he was not wanted around.
And I've tried but I don't fit
Into this box you call a gift
When I could go wild and free
But God forbid that you might envy me…
Soon enough, it had been weeks before he had spoken to anyone of the people he once called his family, albeit a makeshift one of so many differences, but it worked- at least for them, or so Stiles thought. They hadn't tried to talk to him and he avoided them whenever possible, although it didn't matter. He had passed them everyday now and it was like they had never met them. When he saw them eating lunch and laughing he would end up throwing his away and going somewhere else. When he would notice them missing from classes he knew something was up, but never gave it a second thought (at least that's what he told himself when he was near panicked out of his mind, but would never admit it).
That was all he felt though, scared, worried, and alone. After the first month of no contact, he had started getting into his fathers whisky. It was just so he could get good nights sleep every once in a while. Except every once in a while turned into every night which then turned into everyday. He eventually stopped going to school altogether. His father would yell at him, scold him, but in the end would let Stiles stay home. He didn't know any better. He didn't now that this was just making Stiles worse.
One night, Stiles got hungry after he was well and plastered, so he decided it was a good idea to make a sandwich. He ended up with a long, red gash over the top of his left hand. He doesn't remember much after that except for the amazement he felt. He must have looked at it for hours, although it was probably more like a couple of minutes; however, what he remembers the most was how while he watched his hand bleed, he had forgotten all of his problems and all of his worries. All that mattered in those moments was the pain and the throbbing that gave him something else to focus on. This was how Stiles started cutting himself. It was the same story. What stared with a few small lashes on his arms every now and then when it got real bad turned into a nightly ritual. Eventually it was all he could think about.
So don't give me love with an old book of rules
That kind of love's just for fools
And I'm over it
And my reasons for walking away
My reasons for wanting to change
My reasons for everything are lost with you…
He had lost everything. He no longer had a best friend. He no longer cared what that once special girl thought of him. He didn't ever think about what that one special guy thought of him. The new friends he made were of no importance and his dad was never around long enough to talk with Stiles. Instead of looking forward to the next baddie he and his pack would defeat, he was looking forward to his next drink or his next cut. He had no future to look forward to because he didn't want one where he had no one to share it with, be it friends or a significant other. He knew it wouldn't last forever, but he thought he would have had a little more time with the people he had been with so much though. In the end, though, Stiles knew they couldn't handle it. So, that's why he now found himself in the woods, where everything had begun to fall apart. He had taken one of his father's guns from their safe, because really, how original was his birthday as a password. He was kneeling by a giant tree with a not to everyone. It wasn't an apology because he wasn't sorry for what he was about to do, just a goodbye and a thanks for the few good memories they had made together. Of course, he had brought his final bottle of whisky, which was now empty and holding the letter down so it wouldn't drift away. Stiles was crying for both all he had lost and all he was letting go. The last things he heard before he pulled to trigger were a piercing scream and a very familiar growl.