It's not that they're crazy, some whisper, staring not so discreetly at those two silhouettes side by side, eating lunch at the edge of the forest.They're just a bit off.
A bit off.
(nice way of putting it, as true as it is)
They just sit together, soundless, red against black, wind blowing through unkempt curls, never shivering despite the cold weather.
It would look beautiful if it wasn't so sad.
"Scott's waiting, you know."
"I know."
"Don't you care ?"
"I don't care about anything anymore."
Once, they walked through the forest and ran into the solitary man, proud alpha turned lone wolf; Lydia knew more than she saw that her friend was tensing, stone-cold fury reaching for a weapon.
"It wasn't me." After a short while, he clarifies. "Who bit her. It wasn't me."
Her only answer a long, cold, hard stare.
Truth is : it doesn't matter.
(truth is : rage and pain-driven revenge became her first and only way to cope, and she doesn't know how to deal anymore.
she settles for icy silence and dismissed agony)
It still doesn't change anything
(as they wander about, quiet and tragic, a ghost seeking solace in a red-haired hurricane)
it's worse.
crossposted on ao3, written for the rare pair teen wolf ficathon on lj