Stiles had not moved from his spot in a long time. So long, in fact, that his leg had fallen asleep and all the grass within arm's reach had been uprooted by restless hands. So long, that he was going to either upchuck words or actually vomit.
He prays it's verbal and opens his mouth.
"So…I've been meaning to say something for a while. I mean a reeeally long time. Like 'since fifth grade' a long time. Like 'land before time' long time. That doesn't make sense. Shit."
Stiles feels like his train of thought exploded and he's currently picking his way through the wreckage, trying to find salvageable parts to demonstrate to someone who didn't witness the crash what a steam engine is supposed to look like.
"Ugh. I need to tell someone about this because I guess it's really friggin' important, but I'm a huge scaredy cat, like someone else we know, and I didn't know what would happen if I said it out loud. The thing is…remember when I told you that I was in love with Lydia Martin? Yeah. I guess 'love' is not the same as 'fear'. Who knew, right?"
Stiles feels himself speeding up in order to beat the tears that are threatening to win the race out of his body.
"I know you love me, but dammit-ooh, sorry for swearing-it's still scary. I have a right to be scared. How the hell am I gonna tell Scott? Or what's gonna happen if anyone at school finds out? You should see the resources that are out there for stuff like this. Sheesh. But I know that I need to tell you, even though I figure you've probably known this whole time and have just been waiting for me to pull my head out of my ass."
Stiles stifles his immediate response to laugh at the mental image. He's gonna get whiplash one day from his how fast his emotions volley.
Noticing the patient silence, he feels the surge in confidence. It's now or never. Or maybe just later, I guess. Why not tomorr—NO. It has to be now. Where did that confidence go?
"I'm gay."
He waits.
The wind picks up, and the trill of songbirds is carried with it, over the other stones set every few feet apart. Leaves skip and pirouette around each other as their edges catch the drifts. Looking down, he sees the blades of uprooted grass sift away in the breeze like sand. Stiles raises his head and can feel wind, warm wind, caressing his face and calming his pounding anxiety. He wants to wrap himself in it like the blanket he still has but keeps tucked inside his pillowcase.
Stiles calms considerably. He doesn't need to hear the words to know that he's still loved no matter what. He doesn't need to hear a rush of affirmations. He doesn't need to hear a silly impromptu song that embarrasses everyone involved. But he wants to, oh god does he want to.
The wind dies down, but Stiles is still basking in the comfort.
"So, um, I gotta go tell the boss man about it now."
He hauls himself to his feet, mindful of the numbness that will make him clumsier than usual on the flailing sprint home, but he allows his fingers to rest on the sun-warmed granite.
"Dad says hi, and….mom? Thanks. I love you. I love you to the moon and back."
As Stiles exits the cemetery, the rays of sunlight warm his bare arms, and reveling in it makes him forget about the sweatshirt he'd forgotten, thrown haphazardly next to his mother's grave marker.
And as he turns his face up to embrace the loving warmth of the shining light, he doesn't see the figure step from behind a small family plot not so far from the Stilinski area. He definitely doesn't see the figure stoop to collect the piece of cheap cotton clothing, fold it carefully, nor does he witness it stop to nod respectfully at the stone marked LENA STILINSKI before retreating.