His hands shook as he held the pencil in between his thumb, and pointer finger. Scott always would tease him about the way he held his pencils. Stiles would always say that it was comfortable, and he should put a sock in it. Now there was just silence in the air, the overall depression of losing his best friend still flooding through him as if it had happened yesterday.
It felt like it happened yesterday.
Making a swift curved motion with his hand, he is quick to repeat the motion nearly a dozen more times. The page in his incredibly worn sketchbook filled up in nonsensical scribbles in a matter of minutes, and all he did was flip his wooden pencil around, now using his eraser as his medium.
Carefully, oh so carefully, he carved the shape of a body. Moving to the facial structure, he was gentle as he created the slightly off center jawline.
"You love it," Scott teased, poking his friend playfully in the side.
Stiles had barked out a laugh, and batted away his beloved companion's hand, a fond smile blossoming onto his face. "Nah," he replied coolly, "but I guess it suits you my dear Scotty."
He then moves to the more intricate details, like his warm, but a bit crooked grin. And his dark puppy dogs eyes, along with his faint, but still noticeable beauty mark.
Stiles' amber hued irises become blank, and glazed over. He tosses his sketchbook off to the side, abandoning his work.
His grief was unbearable, slowly tearing him into pieces, until he felt like there was nothing left.
A disgruntled groan bubbles past his lips, as he tries to push back the tears. Wane them away. Anything to stop himself from turning into a sobbing mess for the fourth night in a row.
Or was it the fifth?
Stiles had stopped counting a while ago.
Standing from his leather clad spinning chair, he wobbles over to his bed, flopping onto it with an almost comical bounce.
Stiles had lost his sarcasm, and wittiness. He lost his smiles, and his bright behavior. He stopped taking Adderall, and he always felt tired and hyperactive. Everything distracted him, and he found it hard to focus on anything. But then again, nothing distracted him some days, and he was left with the mind numbing reality of his world.
He lived in a small apartment in San Francisco, insisting that he move away as soon as his friend died. Beacon Hills just didn't seem as welcoming as before. So he packed his bags, and moved away almost immediately upon Scott's passing.
The gory details of how his dearly departed friend came to shake hands with the damn grim reaper was something he couldn't bear to think of at this time and moment.
Grasping the edge of his comforter, he slipped underneath the warm covers, and just drowned himself in comfort. At least, whatever comfort his bed brought him.
Which, surprisingly, was quite a lot.
Stiles can still recall the screams of Melissa, and Isaac's own shouts. He can still remember the looks on their faces.
Melissa's own twisting into one of utter shock and pain, and the glint in her eye that said her whole world was crumbling around her. Her knees hitting the ground as she collapsed, and the terrible shaking of her hands.
Isaac's was more stoic, mouth slightly parted as hot tears streaked his cheeks.
He crumbled to the ground before Melissa.
It was almost poetic: the mother who had finally lost everything, and the boy who had been constantly broken only to have the one thing that made him happy be torn from his tight hold.
When Scott finally breathed his final goodbye, Stiles had locked himself in his room, refusing to eat, sleep, and drink for days on end.
He missed Scott's laugh. He stopped being himself when Scott left. He stopped living, and it was like all the air was ripped from his lungs at one point in time.
Nowadays, Stiles was barely living, selling his artwork to anyone who would buy. He wasn't famous, but he got by.
Feeling an all too familiar wetness slip down his temples, due to the position he was lying in, he sits up and frantically wipes away the tears.
He supposed he was depressed. He supposed he was losing his fucking mind. Stiles figured that he would end up just like everyone else.
Okay.
Because okay was the only word in Stiles' vocabulary that truly conveyed how he was doing, or how he felt. He was just doing okay. If okay meant barely eating, and sleeping in too late, and crying himself to sleep most nights. He even had a few panic attacks.
So, yeah, he was okay.
If okay meant thumbing through his contacts until he lands on Scott's, and presses dial, before hearing the cheery voicemail flood his ears.
Melissa had insisted they didn't cancel the number, and everyone had agreed.
Stiles left messages. Lots of messages. Saying he missed him, or just crying, and it was a habit now. To call and expect an answer.
It was stupid.
Everything was stupid, he figured.
Dragging himself from his bed, Stiles tugged off his sweatpants, and put on some random light wash, ripped jeans. He threw a flannel on over his black shirt, and slipped on his extremely used converse.
Stuffing his sketchbook, and assortment of utensils into his dark shoulder bag, Stiles also places his phone and wallet in the front pocket of his jeans.
And finally, after what felt like an eternity of wallowing, sets off to the local coffee shop where he had grown accustom to spend the days where he wasn't in his apartment crying.
Hale's Coffee was tucked in between a brightly colored boutique, and a tattoo parlor. Stiles liked the area because it had a nice rustic, and welcoming aura to it.
It would be a lie to say he didn't like the people either.
Sure, he had grown distant to society, but society had said 'hell no,' and threw a shit ton of amazing people his way, making it difficult for him not to make friends.
Like Lydia Martin, the sassy redhead who ran the boutique. She was really pretty, and although she was a bit bossy, Stiles really liked her company. If Stiles didn't bat for the other team, he was sure he would he all over her. But instead, he was content with her sisterly presence in his life, and found solace in just being near her.
There was Vernon Boyd, who ran the tattoo parlor, and insisted that everyone call him Boyd. Why? Stiles never really asked. Besides, it wasn't his place to question why he wanted to be called by his last name, especially since his own name was just as screwed up. Boyd had a nice smile, and although he was inked up and seemed extremely intimidating, was actually the biggest softie Stiles knew.
Well, besides Scott, but Stiles didn't want to think of him right now.
Entering the quaint shop, his nose is immediately pummeled by the scent of ground coffee beans, and freshly baked pastries. For a moment, he just stood there, basking in the glory of the smell. It was so heavenly, and he remembered why he liked coming here so much.
Liam Dunbar was the cute barista who always greeted Stiles with a smile, and an excited glint in his eyes.
"Usual?" The boy asked a bit too eagerly, slightly bouncing on his toes.
"Uh- yeah... Yeah, the usual is fine," Stiles replied, dropping his stuff in a seat by the window. He would normally sit near the door, but he supposed it was time to change up his style a bit. Plus, something was telling him that he needed to sit here. Like a sixth sense or something like that.
"Derek!" Laura, the owner of Hale's Coffee, shrieked out. "Stop being so- so, you! Can't you just listen for a moment?"
There was a muffled reply, in a deep and gruff voice that sent shivers down Stiles' spine. Turning his gaze to Liam, he noticed the other boy was unfazed. Was this a regular occurrence?
The sound of a door creaking open, and Laura's heel tapping against the floor made Stiles perk up.
"Stiles," she said, exasperated beyond belief, "can I ask you a question?"
Another sound appeared, a more shuffling type and then confident steps. Stiles looked away from Laura, and towards the noise, to be met with probably the most gorgeous man he's ever seen in his life. The man had an almost Greek God like body, with broad shoulders and muscles that were hinted with his tight shirt. Dear god, did he have to wear a tight shirt? It was like he knew he was attractive, and wanted to flaunt it to people like Stiles. Moving to his facial features, his jaw nearly dropped. There was light stubble that Stiles just really really really wanted to run his hand over, in fact, he wanted to run his hands all over the mysterious male. The man had a face that was sculpted by the angels themselves, with a strong jawline and nice cheekbones.
Before he could analyze the male further, Laura cleared her throat, and Stiles snapped his head back to her direction blushing an embarrassing shade of red.
"Anyways," she murmured, a light smile playing at her lips, almost like she knew exactly what Stiles had been thinking moments ago, "the question, is it okay if I ask you it?"
He nodded mutely, and shrugged a bit, still embarrassed beyond belief. That was probably Laura's boyfriend, and he had just been worshiping him with his eyes.
"Could you watch the store with my baby brother while I'm gone? I mean, I trust Liam, but he still has high school to go through, and you're in here everyday it seems like since-" Laura cut herself off, knowing that it was a still a sore topic, "oh, shit! Derek, this is Stiles. Stiles, this is Derek, my brother."
Her brother. This god was her brother. Well, that was even worse. He respected Laura beyond belief, and the fact that he just wanted the m- Derek- to bend him over one of this tables right now was definitely not okay.
"How long will you be gone?" Stiles finally asked, trying to keep his composure intact, and his usual sour attitude up. It would seem odd for him not to be in a rather dreary mood.
"Just… Just a week, or maybe two, I haven't decided yet," Laura responded, placing her perfectly manicured pointer finger against her rose red bottom lip. Out of the corner of his eye Stiles could see Derek shift uncomfortably, pale blue eyes darting towards the wall to his left. Stiles raised a brow at the nervous action. So, Mr. Tough guy was intimidated by his sister. Interesting.
"And can I know the reason why you're leaving?" Stiles inquired, leaning over the table a bit, and reaching towards his bag. Two elegantly long fingers pinched the zipper, carefully sliding it open, and taking out his sketchbook. Then, he reached in only to pull a few pencils out. All varying from different hardness, which meant less graphite, and black- which, is a literal title, meaning a more prominent black shade would be left on the paper.
Derek seemed to watch every movement with interest. Stiles knew why of course, he didn't seem like the artist type. All long limbs, and radiating a dorky nature. At least, he used to be a huge geek. Not since the incident.
The woman across from him raised a filled in brow, and grinned. He knew that grin. She was planning something. But as soon as that cheshire like smile appeared, it vanished. Like some dust in the wind. "Nope," she replied, all playful in her tone. But, since this was Laura, she turned serious. Stiles' eyes caught her hand twitch, and then move towards his own, and wrap her fingers around his knuckles. "Look," she was hush, worry evident in her gaze, "I know you've been hard on yourself lately. Just… Take a break. You can just sit behind the counter and let Liam take care of the store with Derek keeping watch. I just need you to be that extra man around. This shop is all I have, besides my family. Please, Stiles, do this for me."
He froze, snapping his hand away from her, a look of confusion and understanding crossing over his expression. What the hell? How did she know about Scott, and was she begging? In that moment Stiles understood how serious she was being.
"Okay," he whispered, and bobbed his head slightly.
Her smile reached from ear to ear, "Great! You start today, love you!" Jumping up from her seat, she pecked Derek on the cheek, and then darted out of the shop.
"Order for Stiles!" Liam's voice sounded off, bringing Stiles back to reality.
Closing his eyes, he waned off a headache.
"Shit…"