she looks like the real thing/ she tastes like the real thing/ my fake plastic love/ it wears me out, it wears me out- (fake plastic trees, Radiohead)

"He broke up with me…" Scott trails off, crying a little. Stiles opens his locker, frowning.

"What are you being a baby about, McCall?" he asks, feigning annoyed confusion… but he has a pretty clear idea of who he's talking about. His frown deepens. Hale is going to fuck up his entire plan with this melodramatic bullshit.

"Derek broke up with me!" Scott exclaims loudly in the middle of the Goddamn school hallway, earning a few stares from the other students passing by. Stiles slams his locker shut with a loud bang, grabbing hold of Scott's arm hard, yanking it a little.

"Say it a little louder, McCall," he spits viciously as he shakes Scott's arm, letting his frustrations show. "I'm sure Principal Holden didn't hear you."

"I'm sorry… I'm jus-" Scott tries, but Stiles waves him off.

"You need to man up and stop being a bitch," he whispers softly, losing some of his fire. He slips back on his cool mask of indifference back on and loosens his hold on Scott's arm a little. He sighs and tells himself to calm down. This isn't anything he can't handle… He just has to let Mr. Hale know that this isn't acceptable… that this isn't a part of the plan.

This is Stiles' game and he'll be damned if some butt-fucking faggot is going to ruin it. "And don't worry," Stiles says with a flick of his flannel collar. "I'll fix it."

"No!" Scott's eyes widen in fear for a moment before tearful sadness takes over his puppy dog features again. "He doesn't know that I told you." He whispers, sounding frantic and desperate and, for a moment, Stiles feels a small ping of guilt for what he's about to do, for what's about to come… but he pushes the feeling aside.

He almost wants to slap himself for his moment of weakness. Derek deserves what's coming, he should been more careful about who he went around fucking and, while Scott is nice company and has been his best friend since kindergarten, it isn't his fault that he's stupid and gullible.

"It's okay… we'll find some way to fix this," Stiles says with a sickly sweet tone to his voice, making him want to vomit. He hopes that he sounds supportive and sincere.

"Nobody hurts my best friend." Stiles grins, gripping Scott's neck affectionately before pulling in him in for a hug and, after a few hesitant minutes, Scott hugs him back, his grip tight and seeking comfort.

Stiles wakes up with a start, burying his head into his pillow to suppress the screams that are threatening to leave his throat as another wave of agonizing pain builds up in his head and swipes through his entire body. It feels like a hot poker stabbing him repeatedly in the temple, making his whole being throb and ache with the white-hot jolts of searing pain that course through him.

"Does it hurt?" a familiar voice asks and Stiles stiffens. His whole body begins sweating. The doctor had said that, from where his tumor was pressing against his brain, he would begin to experience hallucinations… It only seemed fitting that he would begin to see him.

"I hope it hurts." Scott growls, his tall frame looming over him with his nose almost pressed against his face. Stiles could swear that he can almost felt the heat of Scott's breath brush against his face.

Stiles feels like sobbing, screaming… anything to wake up himself up from this dream—this nightmare. It has to be a dream; he refuses to believe that this little episode is anything but his mind playing tricks on him… because Scott McCall is dead and has been for the last three years.

He also pushes away the wave of shame and guilt that tries to take over him. It wasn't his fault that Scott killed himself… was it? He did nothing wrong; it was Scott's fault that everything happened the way it did. He shouldn't have been stupid enough to start fucking Derek Hale… right?

Besides, in his own sick way, Stiles had been trying to protect him. It was only a matter of time before someone like Derek Hale would break someone as sensitive and emotional as Scott… He had done what he believed was right… And so what if he had expected something in return? It was his right.

"Go away… You're not real," Stiles says firmly, pushing his irrational thoughts to the back of his mind. He's only dreaming… just dreaming.

"I'm as real as it gets," Scott says, inching closer to him. "Or as real as I can get for you." Scott chuckles gleefully, clicking his tongue. "Hallucinations," Scott adds.

He moves away from Stiles' face and walks over to his dresser, playing around and sniffing the colognes placed there. "I heard those are a bitch… they tend to rank right up there with traitor best friends, don't you think?" he asks rhetorically, pushing the cap to one of the colognes back on with a loud pop that makes Stiles flinch. His head suddenly hurts once again as another sharp, swift pain rushes through him.

Stiles has never felt this kind of pain before… it's debilitating. It's making him have weak thoughts; he wants to say a million stupid things… like how he's so sorry. That he never meant for things to get as bad as they did. How he wishes he could take it all back and start over… He doesn't realize until this moment how much he's actually missed Scott and, for some reason, he suddenly wants this 'Scott' before him to know that… to know all of these pathetic things that are swirling around in his mind, jumbling up his thoughts and making the throbbing pain worse.

Maybe if he apologizes… he can escape it. But before he can open his mouth to say all these things, Scott snorts, his face bitter and his lips curled into a sneer.

"I don't care about your half-assed apologizes, Stilinski," he bites out, sounding angry and vicious… nothing at all like the Scott he once knew. "It won't do any good where you'll be going… God judges and he's been judging you, Stiles, and he's not pleased," Scott finishes, grinning widely.

He's still smiling wickedly when he says, "But for now… I'm going to have fun."

Stiles fishes the phone out of his pocket, answering the call with a quick flick of his hand.

"What?" a male voice asks roughly on the other end of the line, making Stiles roll his eyes. Peter could be such a dick sometimes.

"Your nephew, that's what…" Stiles spits out, rubbing his forehead in frustration. "He's screwing up my plans." He finishes with a sigh.

"Oh, you mean, my plans…that I was generous enough to cut a deal with you on," Peter says irritably.

Stiles holds the phone away from his ear, trying to hide a loud groan. They were his plans and Peter knows it… Peter hadn't even known what to do when he had come to him with the information that he had… until Stiles had spoken the word 'Blackmail'. Peter was just too arrogant to admit when he was stupid.

"Not the point, Peter…" Stiles cuts in, trying to end the conversation. He doesn't like having to talk to Peter longer than he absolutely has to.

"What are we going to do?" He asks a moment later, his voice soft and small… though he wouldn't admit it… He was kind of hoping that Peter would call the whole thing off. He was starting to have doubts about the validity of this plan…Plus, Scott's face this morning had made a chink in his armor. He just didn't know if he could go through with this.

Peter sighs, long and hard, before saying, "You fix it, that's what… Now don't call me again until you have it all straightened out."

Peter hangs up the phone, leaving Stiles even more unsure and hesitant than before.

"Well, well, well… If it isn't my old friend, Stiles Stilinski …" Peter Hale smirks, his arms folded over his chest as he leans against his sports car. Peter hasn't changed a bit in the past three years; he still wears an arrogant and annoying smirk upon his face like a gold medal… like he's a god… and Stiles doesn't know how to feel about that. Even though Stiles himself hasn't changed much either, he still feels like he's better off than Peter. Peter can't hide who he is… he's a con artist. And Stiles isn't so sure that he ever was… or maybe he's the most cunning of them all.

Stiles acknowledges Peter's presence with a slight nod of his head, pulling out the folded paper that he has stashed in his back pocket.

"Aren't you going to ask how Derek is?" Peter asks after a few moments of silence and Stiles ignores his question.

He doesn't care… that's not why he's here; He holds out the piece of paper in his hand, but Peter doesn't take it.

"Here's my father's signature," Stiles says after a few minutes of waiting for Peter to stop smirking at him. He flings the neatly folded paper at him. "Learn it…"

"How rude, Stiles," Peter tsks, retrieving the paper from the pavement. "I thought we were better friends than that…" Peter smiles, knowing that he's getting underneath Stiles' skin. He wasn't going to make this easy; he was going to hold this favor over his head until the day he died—which was, thankfully, soon.

"Now, I ask again, don't you wanna know about Derek?"

"Peter…" Stiles snaps, glaring. He's not looking to go down memory lane with this bastard… He's not planning to go down that particular lane at all. They have business to do and he wants to get it done.

"Just learn the damn signature and I'll meet you at the hospital tomorrow." Stiles finishes, fishing the two-hundred dollars he stole from his father's wallet out of his pocket and throwing it at Peter before walking back to his own car and driving away.

Stiles never actually means to full-on stare at her… He likes to think that he's much more suave and evolved than that… or at least he is with all the other girls in his grade. But with her, he just can't help himself. She's too damn beautiful not to be a freaking creeper with and she fucking knows it. Hell, she's been torturing him for the past few months with her rocking body… ever since she heard about him asking around after her, seeing if she had a boyfriend or if she wanted to go out… At the time; he believed it would work exactly like it had worked on all the other girls he had pulled this routine on.

They would bat their pretty doe eyes at him and play shy and coy before they threw all the inhibitions out the door and let him fuck their brains out. The he tosses them aside and moves on to the next board… but, of course, Lydia Martin had to be different.

She hadn't come running to him with any of the usual reactions he tended to get. In fact, she hadn't reacted at all. She just shrugged her shoulders indifferently at his date proposal and went on her merry little way with Allison trailing behind her. It had angered him… It had made him so fucking hot that he couldn't even stand himself for the rest of the day.

Yes, Lydia Martin was different… and he fucking liked it.

"Are you going to take me out on a date already or just keep staring holes in the back of my head?" Lydia says out of nowhere two weeks later when they're sitting in AP English.

Stiles drops his pencil like it's on fire, a little ashamed of being caught off guard, before saying, "What?"

She sighs, her whole body tightening up in annoyance. "I don't like playing games for too long, Stillinski. I've had my fun making you all hot and bothered… Now, I just want to fuck you," she says with a roll of her eyes and a wicked smirk on her big, red lips and Stiles knows instantly that they are going to get along just fine… because Lydia Martin is a force to be reckoned with and Stiles is too.

"Now, I'm going to say this real slow so your perverted mind can understand it… Are you going to take me out on a date or am I just wasting my time?" She cocks her eyebrow, waiting impatiently for his answer.

And Stiles smiles slyly before answering. "How's the restaurant on Vine sound?"

He came with a hard grunt, falling on top of her as softly as he can. He buries his nose deep into her hair, breathing in her scent, relishing it. To Stiles, it was one of the best things about having sex with Lydia—the unique scent she put out after sex and her beautiful body and breasts combined to make Lydia a deadly combination. She always knew she was the shit and she let everybody else know it too.

They had never really talked much of importance after sex. Well, they never really talked much about anything personal… Sex is all they ever had and Stiles is fine with that. He isn't much of a talker anyway and Lydia always hated useless and aimless conversation. But for some reason as they lay there… limbs curled up around each other and breathing heavily… the silence has become suffocating. He suddenly wants to say something, to say everything he's been going through for the past two days, everything he's ever done. He wants to finally show Lydia his full deck of cards, to finally stop hiding… but he doesn't know how.

It isn't how their relationship goes… It's always been about the chase with them and, even after all this time, they still play the cat and mouse game. They've never been straight forward with each other… there just isn't any fun in that… and for the first time ever, it makes him sick to his stomach.

"Are you going to Malia's party?" he asks after awhile, when his breathing has gone back to normal and all the emotional shit swirling around his head has finally become silent. He rolls off of her, leaning over the edge of her queen-sized bed for his pants to retrieve the packet of cigarettes out of his back pocket.

He should probably stop smoking now that he's got cancer… but fuck it; he's going to die anyway. He flicks the Zippo open and pulls out a cigarette, lighting it and taking a puff.

Lydia coughs a little before raising her eyebrow. She's not stupid; she knows what he's digging at. He isn't as sneaky in his affair with Malia as Lydia is with Jackson. He doesn't know if because it's just not in his nature to be clever about these types of things or if it's because he just doesn't give a shit… Or maybe, it's because in the deepest part of his heart, he wishes she would say something or show some sign that she actually cares that he's banging one of her supposed 'Best Friends'.

Stiles silently scoffs; he would more than likely get a rise out of her if he sleeps with Allison than his carnal endeavors with Malia ever could… and he's thought about going there a couple of times just to piss her off when she's being a bitch…but he always stops himself. If he's being honest, he's always been too afraid that Lydia would never forgive him if he ever went there.

"Of course," she replies a few moments later, a cold mask stamped across her flawless face. Her whole body has stiffened for some reason and there's tension visibly rolling around in her shoulders. She feels even farther away from him than ever before… and once again, he wants to say something meaningful, something to make her feel better and become close to him again—or as close as Lydia can get to a person like him… but, as always, he says nothing at all.

"Cool," He retorts, taking a deep drag of his cigarette, blowing the smoke in her direction before saying. "You ready to go again?"

TBC...