Scott rang my doorbell that night at around 10.
I opened the door, expecting yelling or crying or something. But all I got was—
"I brought CoD and Halo, or—oh! I also brought some pizza because who the fuck doesn't want a little late night pizza, and by a little I mean you're gonna help me eat this entire motherfucker in one sitting." He cut himself off and took a deep breath.
"Okay, I'm cold and I'm coming in now."
He stepped past me and kicked off his shoes, leaving me standing in the doorway wondering what the hell just happened. I turned around, half of me still waiting for him to start with the questions or the yelling and the scolding. The other half, however, remembered that this was fucking Scott McCall, and he wasn't about to come over with video games and pizza just to bitch at me in the comfort of my own home. No, this was Scott, and he came over to hang out with his best friend. Who was me. Who was still standing in the doorway like an idiot.
"Dude, drag ass some more. Get over here and pick your guy." He said, gesturing at the Halo screen with his Xbox remote.
He had half a piece of pizza hanging out of his mouth, and it made me smile because for a second there, I forgot that I had just bought a box of new blades at the hardware store, and that they were sitting ten feet away from Scott on the kitchen counter.
"Uh, y-yeah. Coming. I'm coming. Sorry." I mumbled.
We played Halo, and then Call of Duty, and then a little more Halo, until Scott and I finally swallowed the last bites of our pizza and decided to call it quits.
"Dude, when the fuck did you get so good? Like honestly I came over for a pick me up, you know, down some pizza, kick your ass a couple of times, drink all of the soda in your fridge and totally steal your pillow just to piss you off. But damn," Scott laughed. "major props to you man."
I laughed along with him, really laughed. "Okay first of all, no one touches that pillow, it is mine. Second, in case you forgot, you're kinda the only person I hang out with…like ever. I have a shit ton of free time to practice so I can make sure I'm the one kicking your werewolf ass."
"True that, my man. True that."
We sat in a semi-comfortable silence for about 30 seconds, until my inevitable curiosity kicked in and I spewed out my question like word vomit.
"Why did you come over?"
"Hmm?" Scott hummed from across the couch.
"Why tonight? Why all of a sudden?"
"What, I can't hang out with my best friend?"
"No, no it's not that it's just, at school you seemed almost…like, like you were determined to come home with me that very second." Scott remained silent. "I dunno," I continued. "It just seemed…off, or someth—"
"I can smell you."
"Uh, yeah." I said slowly, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "That's kinda part of the whole werewolf premium package."
"Stiles you know that's not what I mean. I can smell you. Your scent." He paused. "Your blood."
"Oh."
"Yeah."
I didn't say anything.
"I'm not, like, mad at you, Stiles."
"I know."
"I'm just, I dunno, I just feel like I should do something. That's, kinda why I came over tonight. To see if maybe…this…me…I could help?"
"Scott you don't need to worry about it. Or me. Or anything. Everything's fine, or at least it will be. So just, please, just leave it." I kept my eyes trained to the floor, unable to bring myself to look at Scott.
Scott sighed, and I thought that was the end of it. Part of me was relieved. Part of me was burning with anticipation for what would happen next.
"I can't." Scott whispered. "I can't just let you—"
"Let me what?" I snapped, sharper than I intended.
"Do this!" Scott grabbed my wrist and held it in between us. "I can see the cuts, I can smell the blood and the pain and the relief it brings you. It's like a drug to you, I know that. Okay? I do. But it's not right, dude. You can't just, hurt yourself like this and be okay with it, alright I'm not okay with it. But that's not what matters. I want you to stop, to let yourself heal, but you can't do it for me. It has to be for you. You have to want to quit the drug, and I know. I know how hard it's gonna be for you. I know that eventually you might slip up. But that's okay because I sure as hell will be there to fight with you and help you heal. Okay, you know I will. So please, dude, just let me."
I was crying now. Full fledged, ugly, heavy, hot tears crying. With the shaking and the hiccups and the sobs and all that shit. That's what it felt like. Shit. Complete and utter shit. But I knew he was right. God, of course he was right. How could he not be? I pointed, shakily, to the plastic Walgreens bag sitting on my kitchen counter. I tried to talk in between sobs.
"T-there. In there, you…you have t' throw them, please you gotta j-just…get them out." I stood up and began walking towards the bag, Scott trailing behind me.
"Get them out." I sobbed. "Get them out." I picked up the bag and started towards the bathroom. I walked in and Scott flipped on the light behind me.
"Get them out! I don't want them anymore!" I yelled, still crying and shaking and hiccupping. I flipped up the toilet seat and took out the box of sharp, fresh blades. I picked one up and twirled it in between my fingers, almost smiling to myself, remembering not only the relief they brought me as I sliced through my skin, but also the pain. The stinging, ice-cold pain that came after. The part that lasted for days. The part that I hated.
"Stiles…" Scott said behind me, placing his hand around mine, guiding it down towards the toilet. "Let it go"
And I did. I dropped the blade into the toilet. I watched as it sank to the bottom, creating little ripples in its wake. I dropped another one. And another one. And then the entire box.
"Get them out." I whispered. And Scott reached around me and flushed the toilet.
"They're gone." Scott said. "They're all gone, man. You did that. You let them go."
I closed the toilet seat and sat down on top of it. I stared at a spot on the wall just beside Scott, and I smiled. I fucking smiled. Because they were fucking gone. And I was fucking free. The smile turned into a laugh, and the laughter turned into crying.
But it was okay because Scott just tucked my head under his arms, against his torso. I wrapped both arms around him and twisted my fingers into the fabric of his shirt. He traced his thumb along the hair at the bottom of my neck and just breathed.
"I can't…I can't take another step." I whispered "Not alone."
"You're not alone, Stiles." Scott whispered back. "You never were."
And things were kinda okay again. But for me and Scott, kinda okay is better than what was to be expected. Kinda okay was, and continues to be, the place we both want to be.