Happiness was short lived. It was a knife that kept twisting. They were the last of their pack. It was funny how things worked out seeing how Derek hated him, or so he told him every night when he grabbed him by the arm and pulled him close. His stubble made his mouth red and itchy and his hands left bruises. Stiles had his fingerprints on his jaw and neck. He wasn't like Derek. He still felt pain. He wasn't strong. He wasn't fast. He wasn't even that smart. He was armored in sarcasm. That's what hurt. Even after everything he could still joke. Sometimes he even made Derek smile.
They knew how to survive. It was in their blood. They did what they had to. For what purpose, to what end. For another day, it was a weakness to want to live so badly. They kept each other warm. His fingers traced softness where there should have been none. His lips touched burning skin. He slept in the indentation Derek left in the bed when he got up to wander the darkness. He was calling for something that had been taken from him. Something that couldn't be gotten back, but he always came back to bed.
They grew old in their ways. And when it got bad, really bad, they didn't talk about it. Stiles stared at his naked, sweat drenched back. His shoulders heaved from the nightmare he had woken up from. He didn't have to wonder what he was thinking. He had his own ghosts.