It was a slow day for Stiles, making only about eleven paintings opposed to his usual twenty or so. As it turned out, however, he was down to his last full can of black paint and was running low on clear, white, purple, and dark blue. If he had done his normal amount, he may have run out of something he needed. The day's pay was 170 bucks altogether, which would have been good if Stiles didn't have so many expenses. It was times like this he was sort of happy to not have a home to pay for, or a car, or bills. Nope, just food, water, and his art supplies.

Oh yeah, and his father, who was lying comatose on the other side of the country.

The old drunk didn't have a job, or any sort of insurance that came with one- not like he did back when he was a police officer. All he had was government assistance to keep him afloat, counterbalancing the alcohol addiction and the loneliness. He hadn't always been like this. No, he had been lively and happy and kind, surrounded by the wife he loved and the son he adored.

But then his wife had died, and died angry and paranoid. Died leaving her eight-year-old son with a lost, heartbroken father and crippling guilt. Leaving her husband with a kid she accused of killing her, a kid he couldn't look at without seeing her, a kid he knew didn't deserve his neglect and hate and abuse. But he couldn't stop, not with the surplus of alcohol entering his body replacing the money entering his bank account.

He had been let go, his judgment not being anything compared to what it used to be. That's when the abuse part kicked in, literally. One night right after getting fired, John Stilinski was getting drunk in front of the television and his son was hungry. He hadn't had breakfast and John certainly wasn't in any state to make dinner, so Stiles decided to make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. He was walking to the table, balancing the jelly, peanut butter, bread, knife, and plate in his hands, and the jar of grape jelly just… slipped. It shattered upon impact, shards of glass and sticky jelly going every direction. Stiles yelped and jumped, then yelled again when he landed on the glass, but then went silent as he heard the television volume go down until it was inaudible. He stood there, frozen, as the heavy, uncoordinated footsteps staggered closer and closer. Stiles watched with tears already forming in his wide eyes as his father rounded the corner, looked at his son, the mess on the floor, and back up. John's eyes narrowed and Stiles' widened further. The shaky and urgent apology had barely passed his lips before he felt himself being shoved brutally backwards, the table digging painfully into his bony shoulder blades.

"Look what you've done, you little shit! The hell's wrong with you?!"

Stiles stared at his dad with hot tears spilling over onto his cheeks, utterly terrified. Moving carefully, not wanting to feel trapped between the table and the enraged man, he avoided the glass and whispered, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry Daddy, I didn't mean to, I'll clean it up-"

"Hell yeah, you'll clean it up! What the fuck else would you do, you dumb shit! Did you think I was going to?!" Then his voice abruptly dropped from it's booming bellow to a harsh, quiet hiss. "After all I've done for you, all I've sacrificed, and you want more. You don't deserve more, you don't deserve anything I've given you, anything I've given up for you!" The stranger, drunk with whiskey and rage, stepped forward and his boots crunched the glass under them. He reached out for Stiles, grabbed him by the shirt, and yanked him closer, making his bare feet drag through the glass and jelly. "You killed your mother, you hear me? You ruined her, just like you ruin everything! She hated you, she fucking hated you! Just like me."

Then he dropped Stiles to the floor, kicked him in the side, and walked back to the living room. Stiles lied on the floor, clutching his side and sobbing silently from the pain in his side and the pain in his heart. From the living room, the stranger yelled, "That shit better be cleaned up in ten minutes! And don't think I won't check! And if it's not…"

Stiles didn't need to hear the rest of the threat before he was scrambling to the cupboard under the sink, pulling out rags and wood floor cleaner. He scooped up as much of the mess as he could with just some rags and paper towels, dumping it into the trashcan. The shards of glass were cold and sharp, but he managed not to cut his fingers as he carefully picked them up one-by-one. His feet and knees on the other hand… Well, they would need some band-aids. After successfully cleaning the kitchen floor with just a minute to spare - he had been obsessively checking the time - Stiles rushed upstairs to the bathroom, dug out the first aid kit, and covered all of his little knicks with band aids after rinsing them with water like his mom used to. Only this time, she wasn't there to kiss the pain away.

So he went to bed aching.

Things continued like that for ten more years. Sometimes the stranger would just call him names, or ignore him altogether, and sometimes he would beat him into oblivion. Whenever Stiles had any visible injuries that his father could see when he was blessedly sober, he would break down in tears of his own, gasping out apologies and excuses and "I love you's". And Stiles would forgive him. Every time.

After all, when the stranger became his father again, even for just a few moments, the pain and guilt he felt were already so real and so crushing. Stiles didn't want to cause him any more.

And the thing is, Stiles never really blamed his father for turning into the stranger. For forgetting himself and his obligations and his love in turn for something a little easier to comprehend. And deep down, Stiles knew that his father and the stranger were the same person. He knew that they were both right. Stiles ruined everything, but his father still loved him, and that was enough. Stiles would be waiting for him when he finally realized that becoming the stranger didn't make anything easier, just preventing him from finding closure and finally starting to heal. That was the mindset that had gotten Stiles through life until his 18th birthday, when he could finally get away from the stranger and maybe allow his father some space to move forward. When he finally got out, Stiles moved to New York City with his best friends, Scott and his girlfriend Allison. They all needed a change of scenery, desperately, and NYC seemed perfect.

Stiles' father called every once in awhile to get an update on how they all were. Sometimes the stranger would call, shout a few accusations, and then Stiles would hang up.

The stress and guilt was still a very prevalent part of Stiles' life and he needed an outlet. After many cases of trial and error, he somehow stumbled upon spray art. It was spontaneous and free and imaginative and improvised and amazing . Stiles fell in love with it instantly. He practiced and practiced, getting so good he could make an amazing painting in just a few minutes.

Scott and Allison got married just a few months after moving out there. Stiles moved out and found his own apartment close by, allowing them to have their well-deserved privacy. Sure, he was a little lonely, but nothing bad enough to impose himself on the newlyweds. Then they had a kid, and then another. Stiles became 'Uncle Stiles' to the little girls, as well as Godfather, and his name also went on the papers that detailed whom the children would go to in case something happened to their parents. Things felt perfect in a way they hadn't in more than 15 years.

And then one night he got a call asking for a Mr. Stilinski, telling him 'we're sorry to inform you that your father, John Stilinski, has had a major heart attack and slipped into a coma.' And then came all the medical bills. Bills for surgeries and scans and the machines helping keep him alive. Stiles couldn't afford it all, and he didn't technically have a job. At that point, he was already selling his art out on the streets, which paid more than the few jobs he'd had while in New York, so he stuck with it. But it would never be enough. So, he moved out of his apartment and onto Scott and Allison's couch, but that only lasted for about two weeks. Neither of them had extremely high-paying jobs, and they had two children to care for on top of themselves; they didn't have the money for Stiles. Of course they never said this to him, but he saw it in the way their eyebrows furrowed in worry as they stared at their checkbook or in their refrigerator.

So from the couch he moved to a bench a few blocks away from his old apartment. Stiles was 24, and he was homeless. Scott and Allison pleaded with him to come back, saying they would be fine, they would make it, they would all be okay. But Stiles couldn't do that to them, he wasn't willing to. Those kids deserved the best damn life they could get, and if that meant Stiles had to huddle for warmth under his two shirts, two jackets, and hoodie every night to not freeze then so be it. It was that or tell them to take his father off the machines, and he wasn't willing to do that either.

Scott convinced him to sleep over at least once a week and Allison made him come take a shower at least twice a week. Each time he was over, they would make sure he ate something. His nieces, Audrey and Sammy, would squeal and laugh every time they saw him, talking about anything they could think of in that mindless babble Stiles loved so much. They asked why he didn't live with them anymore, and he said that his adventure was pushing him in a different way for a little while. They were still sad, though it had been enough to temporarily satisfy them, but Scott and Allison had tears in their eyes. Stiles fought the urge to tell them off, to say 'You should've expected something like this to happen. You've known me my whole life. You know I always manage to ruin things somehow, it's all I ever do.' But he didn't, because he didn't want to make them even more upset. That's also why he didn't tell them he had let a few horny creeps fuck his mouth for some extra cash, or that he cried himself silently to sleep almost every night, or that his nightmares were getting worse, or that he was always hungry, always stressed, always always always putting on an act for someone.

He said none of this. It wouldn't help anything - nothing would.

And then he'd met Derek, who, after just a few minutes, had made him feel things he hadn't felt in what seemed like forever. In what probably was ever. Stiles had never been in a relationship with anyone before. He'd never gone out on a date, or fallen in love, or anything of the sort. Sure, he'd fucked around his fair share, figured out what he was into, but he'd never looked at someone and thought, 'Wow, I could fall for you,' and he was completely fine with that - happy with it, even.

But Derek was nice, and funny, and had fucking gorgeous greenhazelblu e eyes, and talked to him in a way that made Stiles think they could talk for hours and not get bored or run out of things to say. Stiles had only ever really felt that way about Scott, who was a brother to him, and it had taken them years to get to that point.

So what was so special about Derek? Maybe it was the fact that he'd given Stiles some reassurance about how he was handling life, even if he didn't do it knowingly. Or maybe it was because he said he would come back.

Or maybe you're just being fucking stupid , Stiles thought to himself. Get your shit together, man, you've gotta catch at least a few hours of sleep.

So he packed all of his stuff up and dropped it off at Scott's, like he did every night to ensure it wouldn't get stolen. Stiles sighed as he slung his backpack over his shoulders, slowly making his way the few blocks to his bench where he pulled on his other jackets and hoodie, placed his bag under his head like a pillow, and curled up for the night. He knew he would probably only get three to four hours of sleep at the most due to the noises of the city making him flinch and his nightmares making him flinch even harder, but he had to try. And three hours was better than nothing, after all. After a while of simply lying there, staring at the back of his eyelids, Stiles fell into a fitful sleep. He dreamt of Scott and Allison, locking the door while he screamed from the other side. Of those perverted creeps, forcing him onto his knees as they forced open his mouth. And lastly, of those beautiful eyes staring at him, picking him up and wiping his wet cheeks.

Stiles slept for five and a half hours that night.