Stiles sighed, dropping onto his bed, laying back flat. He felt heavy. He felt old. He felt used. He felt empty. He felt sagged. He felt useless. He shouldn't be feeling like this — he's only 16 for christ's sakes. But he couldn't just shrug the feelings off, he couldn't just go back to his happy, sarcastic self.
It's like the feelings were stuck him. There was another way he felt, he felt swelled, clammy, swear pouring from each pour of his body — he knew it wasn't, but it sure as hell felt like it. He felt disgusting, a simpler way to put it.
He tossed and turned on the bed, groaning as he couldn't find any position that was even slightly comfy, but he knew it was him, not his bed.
He thought back to what his councillor said that day at school, that talking to himself could help, if he admitted his own feelings to himself, cause he sure as hell wasn't ready to open up to anyone around him, even his own father.
He sat up on his bed, staring into his lap as his fingers twitched and fidgeted, was he really going to do this? Would it even help or would it make him think he's insane?
He took in a large huff of breath, the nervous dread heavy and stirring in his stomach. "So..." He sighed, his chest heaving with each deep, painful, long breath. "I guess, I guess now is better than never.." He mumbled quietly, referring to the fact his father wasn't home. He sucked his bottom lip into his mouth, "so tonight..." He began, it was hard to speak, but it was even harder to think, thinking never lead to good things. "It's the anniversary of mum's death." He blinked, feeling ridiculous. "I... I... I miss her... A lot." He nodded, his long breaths getting shorter and edgier. He quickly shook his head, feeling stupid. "No I'm not doing this." He mumbled, tossing himself flat on his stomach and nuzzling his face into the wet with tears pillow. 'It will help you, Stiles.' The words revolving around his mind. Over and over. Teasing him almost.
"Okay, okay!" He shouted, pounding his fists to his head, giving in to the taunts— he was right, it's much easier to talk than think.
"I hope, I. I hope that.." His breathing quickened, the feeling of sludge mixing in his stomach, his heart dragging down to his feet "I just really hope she's proud of me." He choked, trying to hold the tears back. Stiles wasn't going to let himself cry. Not now, not ever.
"Not that there's anything to be proud of I guess." He tilted his head, shrugging. That hurt. A lot. He seriously just hurt himself. There was a deep pang through his chest, making him literally cry out in pain, raking his fingernails down his cheeks, leaving red puffy lines. "Oh god," he gasped, his chest feeling tight, painful, restricting his breathing. He was going to have a panic attack wasn't he?
He threw himself down into his mattress, his back arching as he called out in pain, the thick strings of fears falling down his cheeks "she's not proud of me!" He cried out, his body jolting and throwing him off of his bed against his own will. He hit the floor hard, only adding to the pain. His ribcage felt as though it was pulsating as writhed on the floor, choking on his sobs, every now and then pounding his fist into the floor to relieve the anger and frustration.
Suddenly, his heart felt as though it was being squeeze and torn at, the pain excruciating as he screamed out for help. Not that he wanted anyone to see him like this.
"Stiles!" He heard someone call out but all he did was scream, his deep voice rattling and sounding torn. "Stiles!" The voice was louder and he heard a thud by his window.
"No!" He called back, his legs shaking and feeling non existent as his chest thrived in pain, tossing him, making him roll as if it would soothe the pain. He felt as though he was on fire as be buried his face into the scratchy carpet, screaming against it.
He felt two large, strong arms grab him by his biceps, forcing him up and into whoever's it was lap. Stiles looked up through the clouded years stinging his eyes, it was Derek. Derek was watching over him, Derek came to his aid when he needed it. Stiles forced his face into Derek's shoulder, crying into the fabric, soaking it but neither of them cared.
Derek wrapped his arms tight around Stiles, holding him to his chest and he continuously kissed the top of the younger boy's head "shhh, shhhh" he hushed him "what's wrong Stiles?" He whispered, running his fingers over the top of Stiles' fuzzy head but he simply shook his head, refusing to answer. "Please tell me." He demanded softly and Stiles looked up at him, his tear drenched face, lathered in pain making Derek's heart shudder. Stiles was always so strong, he thought.
"I just.." Stiles began, breathing in deeply "it's the anniversary of my mums death." Derek nodded as if to say he understands, if anyone understood it was Derek, considering his whole family had burned down in flames right in front of him. "She's isn't proud of me, is she?" He mumbled quietly, looking away from Derek's face in shame and embarrassment.
Derek stared at Stiles as if he had just said the most ridiculous thing he had ever heard. "Stiles." He said softly, but firmly, lifting Stiles' head with one finger on his chin, forcing him to look him in the eyes. "Your mother would be so proud of you, Stilinski. Everyone is proud of you. You've handled this so well. You've been so strong. So smart. Caring. You look out for all of us Stiles, we all need you. You're a role model. If there's anything a mother wants, I tell you one thing it would certainly be that. She's proud of you Stiles. I'm proud of you."
Stiles stared at Derek, his mouth slightly agape, tears flowing town his cheeks, he had nodded along with everything Derek had said. "T-Thank you." He stuttered.
"You don't need to thank me." Derek pressed his lips hard to against Stiles'. He was never going to let Stiles hurt ever again, ever.