It was the breathing that got him.
Hot. Thick. Imbued with alcohol and drugs.
I mean, the hurting happened, it did, but Stiles was in a place far enough away that he didn't have to experience it anymore. But the heavy, sweaty breath drenching the back of his neck like the bloom of purple crawling across his skin… Gods, it stayed forever.
He didn't remember walking. He didn't remember coming into Scott's house – he was nearest there, anyways, he was on his way there in the first place, he was, he was – or pushing away reaching arms for fear of their breath. He didn't remember reaching for his wallet, for his keys, even though they weren't there because there was a giant tear in his-
Scott was shaking. "Who did this to you?"
It was very like Scott to ask all the wrong questions. Scott could smell it, you see, but he didn't know what to do with the information. That was supposed to be Stiles' job: to make something of information. Mrs. McCall, unlike her son, knew just what to say.
"Are you alright?"
Stiles shifted. He did not speak.
"Let's get you something to drink. Why don't you tell me about the most recent Lacrosse match?" Mrs. McCall murmured with a sad smile. Then she was ushering Stiles up from the couch, cleaning him up as she ordered Scott around the kitchen, and Stiles knew precisely what she was doing. She was giving him time. Stiles appreciated the gesture, he really did; but at the moment, even as he raved about the stupid thing Jackson did for the fourth time this week, he wasn't sure how much time he had left.
Stiles' dad was called eventually. Mrs. McCall was clever. She had obviously talked to him beforehand.
Because for all the anger he exuded, he said nothing about anything pertinent, instead driving Stiles home and tucking him in and stationing his own sleeping mass into the chair beside Stiles' bed as if he were a bodyguard, to protect his boy from nightmares where he was unable to offer protection anywhere else. It was a damning experience – one Stiles was not numb to, for once, but it made his shoulders shake, and his heart clenched so hard he thought it would pop like a pimple.
Then Derek.
Stiles wasn't positive how Derek found out the truth. Not through Stiles, surely, Stiles was going for mute on this subject. But Derek, the fucking magical werewolf, he disappeared for four nights promising to "take care of it" and reappeared with suspiciously clean clothes and scrubbed skin. Even Stiles could smell the sharp copper tang of a killer.
And then, then Stiles was furious.
"You piece of shit," he hissed. Derek's face twitched in confusion. "You fucking, worthless, useless, motherfucking piece OF I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHAT TO CALL YOU! YOU MEAN NOTHING TO ME, DO YOU HEAR ME, NOTHING! COMING IN HERE, DRESSED ALL FUCKING ADORABLE AND NEW AND YOU THINK, YOU REALLY THINK THAT "TAKING CARE OF IT" MEANS NOT LETTING ME RAPE THE MOTHERFUCKER BACK? NOT LETTING ME STAB THE SHITHEAD WHERE HE DESERVES? HUH?"
Stiles knew his dad downstairs could hear him. Scott stood with his back to the bedroom door, looking lost as usual. Derek just took it all. "SO TELL ME, BIG BOY, HOW THIS IS SUPPOSED TO GO? THIS COMFORT THING? ARE YOU NEW TO IT, HUH? ARE YOU NEW TO THIS, THIS, THIS FUCKED UP THING WE CALL HUMANITY?" And Stiles was crying now as he screamed, but he didn't know what else to do because he was just so fucking mad at him. Mad at him for not being there while Stiles suffered alone. Mad at him for not knowing what to say. Mad at him for not trying to fucking touch him because while Stiles loathes to admit it, Derek makes him feel safe. Damn it, Derek makes Stiles feel real again, and even the hurting would be worth Derek's touch.
And then Stiles realized, he had said all of this out loud.
"Goddamnit Derek," Stiles croaked, voice withered like dried plants under too much sun. Derek had fallen to his knees at one point, Stiles couldn't remember when, and Scott had left at some point too. And Derek, fucking monstrous beast, appointed dark knight of this fucked-up town, he remained on his knees, arms stretched against his sides, staring up like a man in the face of a necessary purgatory. "God damn it."
Suddenly arms wired with heat and muscle were encircling him, pulling in Stiles like quicksand sucking in its victims, drowning Stiles in their unending oppression. And this is okay. Stiles was shaking, snot getting all over Derek's shirt, but this was still okay.
Derek's breath, warm and sweet with salted meat twisted itself across the back of Stiles' neck, removing and marking anew. "I'm so sorry, Stiles," He whispered into Stiles skin. "I am so sorry." Because Stiles was a man who was strongest as a human, and while it was this humanity which left him vulnerable, it was this courage which made Stiles that much more godly.