Stiles had been cutting for a while, a few years, if not more. It became more frequently when this whole werewolf shit started. Blood was streaming down his arm, from the fresh wound. Putting the knife to his wrist again, he pressed, and he could finally breathe. It was like magic.
Stiles heard some noise from the window, and there he stood. The man he secretly loved, seeing him cutting himself. He dropped the knife as the man crawled in through the smaller window. "Please, i-it's not like it looks-Derek please" Stiles was crying out as Derek stood over by the window, looking for air.
"How long?" Said the Werewolf. "Since-since mom died." The boy responded.
Derek took a step forward; looking at the wounds, picking Stiles' arm, taking his shirt of and wrapping it around the younger boys arm. Bringing his thumb up to Stiles face, wiping away the tears. "I'm here, Stiles."
"I-it doesn't hurt you know.." "Cutting?" "Yeah, well I mean, at first it doesn't, you feel f-free." Stiles took a deep breath "But after, you just feel like shit again." A moment went by, "I know." Derek said, caressing the wounds. "What do you mean, Derek?" Derek shifted, and showed Stiles the scars on his side, Stiles looked up at Derek, with his red puffy eyes, "Thank you. Thank you for making me feel less lonely Derek." The werewolf picked him up, carrying him to the bed, softly laying him down, and laying down next to him.
Stiles woke up the next day, and Derek was still there, his arms were still around the smaller boy, and the emptiness was filled, by something much more pure, and honest; Love.
Derek sat up, and kissed the boy, The Boy who Ran With Wolves.