Grains of sun-bleached sand shift and spiral until the last joins the dune at the bottom.
"Time!" They proclaim simultaneously, Isaac smashing the pencil against the paper, while drops hers entirely with both hands raised.
"Alright kiddo - whatchu got?"
Isaac eyes her, very tempted to grumble, "You first," but chokes it back knowing he wouldn't win that fight. He lists off all twenty-three words he scanned off the Boggle tiles. He smirks and smugly announces ones he was proud of - assemble, treble - quirked brow daring her to do better. Once he rats off his list, he gestures, your move.
Melissa looks genuinely impressed. "Okay," she whispers as she began her own. Isaac feels a surge of confidence, sensing the defeat in her voice. They had played several games prior. He needed this win to tie up the score. But as she went, as more and more words crossed off his list, his confidence dwindles. His face scrunches up as he put a line of granite through assemble. Hers just lights up, a lion racing toward the kill.
"And tin. Tally up," concludes, diving into her paper to rack up her score.
Storm strained wind billows through their hair and Isaac becomes distracted by the serenity and warmth of the sound - a thousand times softer and more welcoming than tiny little blades of grass shimmering with the current.
"No way."
"Ha! Mama McCall wins again!" she exclaims, thrusting her arms in the air in victory. Her fist clenched around the mechanical pencil sticks out to Isaac for no particular reason, and his eyes scale the length of her arm down to her face exuberant. He smiles a scowling smile, squinting against the storm brewn wind.
"I swear, most of those aren't even words," but there was a point where he'd contest her entries with an old-fashioned dictionary. He learned fast that she played to win and wasting time on made up words wasn't the way to do it. "If it weren't about to rain something ungodly, and it wasn't nearing your bedtime, this wouldn't be over," he teases as he crumples his score sheet as he gets up. "You win this time."
"Damn right I do. Reigning Boggle queen right here," she teases right back, making a show of pointing both thumbs at herself as she heads inside. As she passes Isaac on the way however, she stretches up on her tiptoes and kisses him on the cheek.
"Nice try, champ. Loser cleans up." speaks softly, enduringly as she pats his other cheek, disappearing inside.
He hears the rain falling long before the first drop splashed against the roof. Something like a whispering, ghostly moan which put him more at ease, strangely. The bubbling happiness that settled in his stomach fizzles and pops as if synchronizing with the splatter against concrete and grass and window panes. Isaac would have been perfectly fine dozing off out there on porch, but he couldn't even the score with a ruined Boggle set. Among the laundry list of items on his to-do, that was... top five.
Listening to the world around him with his newfound hearing became his favorite past time. His transformation into a werewolf introduced him to heightened senses beyond anything he would have ever dreamed. Smells became stronger aromas of their previous selves. Apples smelled sweeter. Trash smelled viler. Trees more woody and heady. He could almost taste the bitterness as Lydia sliced open a grapefruit during lunch. His hearing, though drastically better than when he was human, had never been so frightening. It scared him, at least it used to. He learned quickly, recognizing some of the horrifying sounds as utterly mundane and inconsequential. The rasp and tug of metal tumbles and locks sounded like a vast and whirring beast with razor appendages and a straining, crooked moan. Unlike his sense of smell, things sounded not only louder, but different. Isaac no longer had to concentrate to drown out the overwhelming sensory input, for the most part. He still loses it. Though the fight for control had been exponentially more painful than his initial turn, it had also been a quicker acclimation.
Isaac has no idea why it's happened to him, but he's glad for it. As far as he knows, this isn't normal.
He flops onto his bed and waits. It's a Tuesday night, 9:37, so it confuses him. He waits all the same.
He nearly sleeps, waiting for familiar footsteps amid the tranquilizing downpour. Isaac jolts awake at the sudden knock, disoriented in the haze of fleeting nightmares, but quickly regains his bearings. The door - not the window - and the rain had come down in earnest, nevermind the running shower squealing several doors down.
Isaac winces and heads downstairs.
"Hi."
Stiles is drenched from head to toe and embracing himself, as if desperately attempting to hide away his heat from the thieving cold. He waves, and a little - too much for Isaac's liking - leaks out and washes away with the torrent.
"What are you doing here, Stiles," Isaac asks curtly, arms folded as he leans against the door frame.
"Hanging out. You and me. Y'know, doing buddy buddy stuff. Together. Me and you. Typical, normal, friend stuff," he shrugs. Says it like it's the most obvious thing in the world, as if trekking through the crack of thunder and misting rain for video games and pizza were the most normal thing in the world.
"It's nearly eleven. On a school night."
"Sleepover?"
It might have passed Stiles' thought, once or twice, that maybe Isaac would turn him away. The prospects seemed immensely greater the longer their conversation dragged on. Panic and fear crept in steadily with the chill biting his bones.
Isaac sighs.
"You're gonna look silly wearing my clothes."
Stiles' ears shift with a loopy grin as Isaac guides him indoors.
When Stiles is dried off and draped in one of Isaac's much-too-big sweaters, the question comes again. This time in pointed looks and rolled eyes. His scowl lingers prominent, but Stiles isn't remiss of the inward smile when Stiles covers his mouth absently with the sleeves of his sweater. He stifles a yawn and regrets it - it shows just how worn he is when the notion fails, and it ruins the feigned ignorance to Isaac's silent inquiry.
"Stiles..."
But he interrupts, knowing where that sympathetic look and morose tone was heading. He didn't need to be reminded just how easily his emotions could be read, what with his betraying body. Stiles thought he had it down pat, the ability to pose honesty but lie underneath.
"I was looking for information, okay?" he stresses, tensing his supinated hands. The bite to his demeanor is diminished with how silly he looks. He calms, pushing the sleeves past his elbows. "You know, it sucks feeling powerless to help the ones closest to you. I've been out all night looking for him and you know what I find? Nothing. And my best friends risk their lives on nights I'm not even part of. And you know what? That sucks too! "
By the end of it, Stiles had pushed off the corner of the bed and started pacing frantically as his anxiety built up. The waistband of the Woody Woodpecker pajama pants Isaac would never get back sunk below his hips, and Isaac respectfully ignored the accidental show of skin. Isaac stood, arms folded, and watched worriedly as Stiles broke down, voice defiantly unquivering.
His heart wasn't so bold.
"I broke into the old library on the other side of town," Stiles confesses, the sudden sombre turn of his tone alarms Isaac, "Deaton wasn't at the vet's, which is weird 'cause he's there all the time like doesn't he live there?" At Isaac's patient glare, Stiles desists with the rambling, "I was walking home, alone," and suddenly his voice isn't so bold anymore, "and of all the things to let get to me after everything I've been through. It's so stupid."
Isaac offers a tense, thought ridden embrace. Stiles wastes no time melting into his broad chest and Isaac wraps his arms safely around him, one securely around the small of Stiles' back, the other across his shoulders.
"I'm afraid. Didn't want to be home alone."
Tears well up and Isaac hears the hitch as they spill and stain his shirt.
Isaac squeezes tighter.
He doesn't give any trite excuses. No I didn't want to get you hurt, or I didn't bring you along for your safety. They both knew it would be a silly and stupid lie. Isaac wasn't even sure if he liked Stiles, or he him. No, Stiles was barely on his radar. Scott was all that mattered.
He does nothing else - just stands there with Stiles, breathing. There's an overwhelming urge to spill a pantheon of unforged promises, the desire to clad Stiles in impregnable safety. But they've seen too much to gamble on such hope. A little bit of his time and attention, and a sturdy hug is all he can honestly offer. He hopes it's enough.
Stiles shifts, places his palms against Isaac's chest and pushes - just enough so there's space enough between them for Stiles to step back and peer at him. Isaac stares back.
"Now that we've established how pathetic I am, I think it's probably time for me to go." He sucks in an uneven breath and glances behind himself, as if suddenly all this were a mistake and the door offered the only escape. He sniffs, wiping his haggard eyes with the sleeve.
As used to the shining glare Stiles had become, the idle, haughty beauty leering through lidded eyes paralyzes him. But then Isaac smiles warmly, and the phantom disperses.
"Can't very well let one tiny little breakdown get in the way of ruining Wednesday morning with whatever the hell you want to do all night. Buddy."
Isaac really does have a shining smile.
Stiles notices he's gaping and shuts his mouth with a jolt, "Right, yeah. Okay. Let's do that." His surprise at himself and how things turned out had muted his elation. But their unbidden happenstance, the realization of it, hits and he smiles too.
Though both would be perfectly fine falling into a routine of intimacy, neither presumed the other would. Instead, they kept it casual and friendly - as far as overly snide and sarcastic teenagers could.
"Popcorn me," Stiles demands, leaning his head back against the bed. Isaac grabs a handful from the steaming bag, crisp and buttery.
"Cute, what you did right there. Totally saw that one coming," he sputters, shaking off bits from his hair and chewing what few actually landed in his mouth.
"Shh. Hogarth is just about to meet the giant."
Stiles grunts from his spot between Isaac's legs, popping a piece that landed on Isaac's pajama pants into his mouth, crunching.
"So... Are we ever gonna talk about your wolf-scapades, or are we filing that under unsolved mysteries forever?"
Isaac's gaze remains glued to the screen.
"Are... you going to talk through the whole movie?" Though he actually wouldn't mind if he did. He's seen Iron Giant more times than Isaac is willing to admit, and as much as he loves the movie, and as much as he wanted to experience the film together, he didn't want Stiles to feel ignored when he had only moments ago sought Isaac's company.
Isaac taps his shoulder and holds a popped kernel above Stiles' gaping mouth.
"I might."
Surprisingly, Stiles says nothing until after the movie finishes. Personally, he had more fun sneaking upward glances, relishing the childish grin plastered to Isaac's face.
But soon as the DVD slid out of the Xbox, he geared up ready to fire his questions.
"I've talked to everyone I could think of. I've talked to Deaton. I've talked to Derek. Hell I've even asked Ethan if he knew anything about what's going on with me! I don't know Stiles."
"What about the Bestiary? Was there anything remotely close to your situation in there?" Stiles offers, clearly miffed about being read so abruptly.
"I can't read Latin. Deaton probably knows everything in that dusty old book anyway."
Stiles vibrates at the prospects of teaching him, but contains that ephemeral fantasy and pockets it for later.
"If this is entirely new - or something that only happens once in a millennia - we should probably be documenting it. Test your limitations or something."
"Oh?" Isaac raises slim arches and leans back as he languidly chews on a popcorn seed, "So you want me to jump some hoops, blow some horns," he shrugs with his mouth and with his shoulders, "bark while I'm at it?"
Stiles points to Isaac, "You said it," then to himself, "not me."
He flutters, running his fingers through the length of his soft brown hair.
"Wouldn't mind watching you do things either, quite honestly."
Isaac smiles brightly at that and saunters up behind him, wrapping his arms around Stiles' chest, hooked under his armpits.
"Oh yeah? And when should I start doing such things?" Isaac whispers against the panes of Stiles' exposed neck.
"Tonight?" Stiles answers breathlessly.
That night ended with Ms. McCall yelling for them to turn the music down, go to bed, and Stiles to go home. They got a little carried away testing his hearing, and blasted Zedd so loud the whole neighborhood could hear. Stiles didn't go home. Isaac wouldn't let him. Instead, they dropped the testing for the night and played a Halo campaign the until morning broke.
It went unsaid, but they both knew perfectly well for what they continued their nightly experiments. Besides sating Stiles' curiosity, there lied some key, some secret weapon they could use to not only find Scott, but defend themselves against he who calls himself the Demon Wolf.
Isaac sometimes wonders what happens after they find him. Aiden too. What becomes of them? Maybe Stiles won't be so lonely. Maybe Stiles forgets about him.
He still wants to find Scott.
"Extraordinary. But not by werewolf standards. Alphas can hide their scent, so we probably can't rely on your sense of smell." Stiles says, jotting down his findings up the underside of his forearm with a green sharpie, the scent of it making Isaac a little light-headed.
"So far everything seems normal," he thinks about it for a half second then adds, " as far as prowling creatures of the night go anyway. "
They had tested his strength last night, getting him to do reps with cars of varying sizes. When Stiles asked him to curl an eighteen wheeler, Isaac barked a courteous fuck you between grit teeth and muscles straining to the point of ripping. So that hadn't worked out. It was better than the smell test, oh by a long shot. Stiles, Isaac knew but hadn't quite comprehended until then, is completely and totally evil. Through cycling between throwing up in the toilet and the sink, and a burning nose, they did manage to find out that even though Isaac could smell different types of wolfsbane just as effectively as normal, he just wasn't as affected.
Isaac dry heaves the last bit of contents into Stiles' sink.
"Okay, there's one last thing," he says, capping the sharpie with a rubbery snap. Isaac glances at him wearily, wipes his mouth with the last bit of tissue paper.
"Alright," pushing off the open toilet cover, Isaac straightens himself up and runs a tired hand through blonde curls, "what's next?"
Stiles suppresses a grin and shakes his head, "Don't worry, we're done for now," then his expression turns serious as he folds his arms. "But I have to tell you something because I don't think you've noticed yet, and I think it might be pretty important."
Isaac quirks an eyebrow and rests his elbows on the sink, curious.
"Your eyes glow silver when you wolf out. It's been happening for awhile now - steady mysterious blue and then," Stiles makes a quick flashing gesture with his hands, "spark of silver. Now they're just silver."
Isaac tries to process the information. which is news to him by the way. He searches Stiles' face, dark lashes, the curve of his eyebrows and the constellation of freckles adorning his flushed cheeks. Unwavering. Even before Stiles jerks his head toward the mirror, Isaac is already staring himself down. He looks as tired as he feels, but not quite as shitty. Through knit brows, Isaac leans forward, as if he might miss it.
And there they are, shining. Brightly.
Stiles settles beside him, shoulder to shoulder, and leans into his space. Mercurial orbs meet amber. Isaac hears the stutter, though Stiles' face doesn't show it. Slow and blinking, chewing his cheek as Stiles gathers his thoughts.
"They're beautiful. They almost remind me of -"