AN: Another older Sciles fic I wrote. I own none of the characters. ~ "Rip you off and sew me up/The wounds will heal in time." – Eli Lieb, Undone.
1. Rip You Off.
The action that was taking place in Into the Wild was picking up when Scott heard three knocks on his bedroom door. His mother was swamped with work, and she wouldn't be back until well after he had fallen asleep. Scott rose from his bed, placed the book on its face, and crossed over to the door, pushing aside shirts with his bare feet. Then his ears pricked. Unsteady heartbeats, pounding; ragged breaths, stifling sobs. Then he smelled the memorable scent of sweat and Irish Spring shower gel. He opened the door.
Stiles stood in the hallway, his brown hair matted to his forehead like a wet dog, his clothes clinging to his thin frame like a sheet, water dripping down his arms and falling to the ground, splattering on the hardwood floor. The tears that fell from his eyes caused the pupils to turn a bright red. He sniffled but tried to manage a smile when he looked at Scott. His hands loosely held a duffle bag that sagged to the ground.
"You mind if I crash here for a while?" he asked. "I just had an argument with my dad and things aren't really looking so good and—"
"Stiles," Scott cut him off, taking the duffel bag in his hands and making a way for the wet teenager to come in. "You don't have to explain yourself to me. Come on, you need a shower. You smell like wet dog." Stiles stifled a chuckle and took off his shoes, pacing the middle of the floor as Scott stuck his hand out. "I can wash your clothes with mine." Stiles began to peel his shirt off until it rose over his head and his bare skin was exposed. He handed the brown lump of cloth to Scott.
Scott went to the hamper, full of dirty clothes and cross-country gear, and tossed the shirt in the mix. Stiles then handed him the pair of soggy pants. Scott dumped the contents of the pockets onto his desk. He folded the pants and put it in the hamper. He then closed his eyes as Stiles took off his underwear and handed it to him.
"I'll be back up in five minutes," Scott said, eyes still closed, exiting the room. Outside, he could hear Stiles walking across his floor, turning on the light in the bathroom and locking the door. A smile flashed across Scott's face, but it was thin. He was Stiles' best friend. Being best friends always meant that you were there for each other, whatever the situation, big or small. That was the promise he and Stiles made together.
But his mind then traveled to thoughts of Sheriff Stilinski, and how he'd feel with his son hiding at his best friend's house. Scott loved Sheriff Stilinski like a father. In all of those years, without having his real father at home, the Sheriff filled the empty void in his heart. He'd take Scott and Stiles to baseball games when they were younger, and then would get them ice cream after the game. And the Sheriff never showed favoritism.
And then there was the time he hugged Scott for the first time. Scott felt like crying right there. A father figure hadn't embraced him in a long time, and it felt good to bury his face in someone who cared about him. So it made sense to feel like he was going behind the Sheriff's back. He dismissed the thought as best he could once he reached the washer in the basement.
He dumped the clothes in the tub, poured the detergent, and set it to start. He sat on top of the dryer as the washer rumbled, jerking marginally. He really cared for Stiles, but he wondered if it was selfish of him to be doing this. He had broken up with Allison months ago, and somehow, Stiles had filled that void—not romantically, but then again, not platonically. He cared about Stiles as much as he cared about his mom, and that was saying something. Stiles was his best friend—his brother—after all.
He took the hamper and ascended the stairs, thinking about Stiles once he turned down the hall to his room and opened the door. Stiles was standing there in his sleep pants, hiding the thick bunny trail with a gray t-shirt that fell down his chest. He caught Scott's eyes when he crossed over to the desk to check his phone.
"You can sleep in my bed tonight, if you want." Scott said. Stiles tore his eyes from his phone. The tip of Scott's mouth rose a bit, showing the subtle sighs of a grin. Stiles nodded stoically, and found himself crossing over to the bed, pulling back the sheets and getting underneath. Scott took his book and sat down at the desk, writing up an old English assignment he forgot to turn in, even though it was a Friday night.
He looked over at Stiles, who was staring at the ceiling, his arms folded. He wondered if he'd speak, at least say something, like what he and his dad argued about, what was so horrible that it brought him over here—not that being here was a bad thing, but Scott had to know.
"He forgot the anniversary," Stiles said finally, "How can he do that, you know? As if it were just some regular day. He didn't even want to hear me out." Scott knew what the anniversary was. He knew when his mother had told him the night she got home from work. It was long after his father had left, when he still had to stay over the neighbors' house until she rang the doorbell to take him home. It was the night where she had said, 'Honey, you know things happen for a reason,' and he nodded, and she then told him the worst news in the world. 'Stiles' mom isn't coming back.'
"Maybe he was just swamped at work," Scott offered from across the room, "I mean, hasn't there been a lot of traffic at the station lately?"
"Are you siding with him?" Stiles asked, the tension building in his voice as he sat up in bed. "Are you seriously doing this, Scott? This town is only but so big, how much work does he really have?" Scott crossed over to his bed when Stiles' voice broke, and the tears were falling from his face. Scott sat on the other side of the bed, putting a hand gently on Stiles' back, rubbing it.
"Hey, it's okay," Scott said, "I know how you feel, and your dad means well. He cares, okay? Maybe he's handling it differently this year." Every year before this one, the Stilinskis would visit Claudia Stilinski's grave. Devoted wife, loving mother, the town's best writer. That's what it said on her tombstone. Stiles would take flowers—carnations, her favorite—and the Sheriff would say a few words. It was a sacred moment between the two of them. Even Scott couldn't interrupt their moment with Mrs. Stilinski.
"I just feel like he doesn't care anymore," Stiles cried, "I don't think he cares about any of it. I know we've been doing this for as long as I can remember, but come on. One day. He can't sacrifice one day? Not even a full day, more like half an hour. He can give up thirty minutes of his life each year to recognize his dead wife, my dead mother? It's like he doesn't even care about her anymore, let alone me."
"Stiles," Scott used his words lightly, "your dad loves you, more than anything in the world. He'd be terrified if anything happened to you. Why do you think he doesn't care? He might be going through something. I know he doesn't want you thinking that things are going south." Scott pulled tissues from a shelf and handed them to Stiles, who dabbed at his eyes and blew his nose. He balled up the tissue in his fist, his skin turning white as it clenched the cloth.
"But it's hard to think that way," he cried, sniffling some more, "I just don't know anymore, Scott. I just wish he would've at least apologized. You know what he said to me? 'We have other things to worry about.' That's what he said. Right there in the kitchen before he left for work. And I'm standing there like an idiot, trying not to cry in front of him, wanting to just lash out. But I couldn't. I couldn't do it. Jesus, I couldn't do it." Stiles fell down on the pillow, crying into it.
Scott was judging his next moves, wondering what to do. He lowered himself on his bed next to Stiles, staring at his back. Stiles shook softly, and then turned over until his eyes met Scott's. They were staring at each other in silence. Scott then realized he truly loved Stiles, even in his vulnerable states.
"You're going to be okay, do you know why?" Scott asked. Stiles shook his head. "Because you're my brother, and I love you." Scott brought a hand to Stiles' cheek, and inched closer until his lips met Stiles' forehead, pressing slightly, then forcibly kissing the skin. When Scott pulled his face away, Stiles didn't know if he should've returned the gesture or just gape awkwardly.
"I love you, too," Stiles returned, giving a weird weak-hearted smile. "Thanks for letting me stay." He turned over and turned off the light, leaving Scott to his thoughts. His stomach was doing somersaults, making him ache. He felt like he couldn't move. He could even shift his feet. What did he do that for? He had never kissed Stiles before.
Actually, there was that one time when they were kids, and they wanted to see what it was like. That was his first kiss, but it didn't really count, because it wasn't a kiss shared between two teenagers. It was a kiss shared between two kids who were curious and comfortable enough to share that moment with each other. It was harmless. It was an experiment. It was something that they both agreed to do.
But this one…this one was different. Scott did it willingly, without the consent of Stiles. He did it because he felt it was necessary. It was true that he loved Stiles, but did he love him like a best friend, a brother, or something more? The faint light at his desk tore him from thought temporarily as he went to shut it off. The room would've been completely dark if it weren't for the blinds that were slit, letting the moonlight in.
As long as they had been friends, Stiles had always been there for Scott, and Scott had always been there to return the favor. They knew each other longer than they knew the others. Before Lydia, before Allison, before Jackson, before Derek, before Erica and Boyd, and before Isaac.
It was just the two of them, fighting the world together. But their monsters weren't werewolves or hunters. Their monsters were cooties, and bullies on the playground, and teenagers who tried to buy the last copy of the Spiderman comic. Their monsters were Scott's dad when he walked out on him and his mom, and the cancer that consumed Claudia and took her from Stiles and his dad.
What could've happened to make Scott want to do that? It was a simple kiss on the forehead, a sign of love, platonically and brotherly. But the feeling in the bottom of his heart signified more than that. He returned to his bed, lying on his side as Stiles' soft snores came from the other. He looked at his back once more, the way his hips rose up and down with each breath of air that escaped his nose.
He didn't feel awkward with the kiss. It was something he had thought would be normal between the two of them. Friends did it all the time, right? Small things that showed that they still cared about their relationship, that they didn't want it to change? But Stiles' face…Scott couldn't tear that image from his mind. It was a look of shock, but also a look of honest pleasure.
Did Stiles like the kiss? Not romantically…no, not romantically. But did he understand what it meant to Scott? That they were more than best friends, more than brothers even? That Scott thought, even when they went off into the world and had families, that they could still be the greatest friends in the world? That maybe Stiles would have a kid or two, and Scott would be the godfather, or vice versa? That they would go to the golf courses and play a game before their kids had to be picked up from elementary school?
Scott was feeling all of these things as he lay there, staring at the ceiling. He felt his cheeks sting from the tears that fell from his eyes. He couldn't dare think about asking Stiles if he was okay with the kiss. He didn't want to.
He wanted to believe that it was okay, because he knew deep down that he and Stiles would be together until they decided to start a separate chapter in their lives. That, before any of those future events that played like a movie in Scott's mind could happen, it all started that night when Scott showed Stiles how much he loved him.
Scott didn't reach out to Stiles. He didn't do anything that'd alarm the boy from sleep. He just turned on his side, facing Stiles' back, crying silently to himself as Stiles continued to sleep. He couldn't stop the tears from falling, because he knew how it felt to be one half of the same coin. And when the other half was hurting, you couldn't help but hurt, too.