Stiles snaps the book closed as he breathes out a long sigh, looking at Isaac on the other side of the bed. "I think you're ready," he states confidently. "Do you have any questions about anything else?" They've been studying for the last six hours, Stiles teaching Isaac everything that the chemistry book contained. They started out all snuggled up against each other on the bed, but, when Sheriff Stilinski came home, he had a not very well concealed minor internal freak-out walking past his son's bedroom door. Walking in, he had noted Scott's presence and been pretty well calmed down, but Stiles didn't want to make his father uncomfortable with Isaac's presence, so he separated their bodies without being asked. Isaac wasn't super happy about it, but his brain has been busy trying to absorb the science of substance.
"Nope," he sighs, actually feeling quite confident after having Stiles explain everything to him. He closes his own book and crawls seductively across the bed toward Stiles.
The smaller teen has nowhere to go, his back pressed against the headboard, so he just jerks his head to the right a couple times, "We still have company. Don't get crazy."
Isaac looks over at Scott who looks back with a shoulder shrug and the look that says 'don't-look-at-me.' "You can leave if you want," he says nonchalantly. "Either way, I'm going to make out with my boyfriend."
Scott stands, grabs his things, and walks to the door with a little salute as he heads down the stairs. "Oh, hold on," the tan werewolf hears as he reaches for the front door. "Scott, are you leaving?" the sheriff asks walking toward the entryway.
"Yeah," he says, not really sure why the man is so interested. He comes and goes from the Stilinski household without any real hellos or goodbyes all the time.
"Well," the sheriff says, not wanting to sound overly uncomfortable. "Would you mind giving Isaac a ride home? I let him stay last night, but I don't want it to become an all the time thing." His countenance switches to defensive for a moment as he spits out, "Not because they're both boys. Just because that's not the sort of thing I want to have going on next door to my bedroom at night, regardless of who's in there."
Scott smiles dorkily at the older man's discomfort at thinking people might be down on him for kicking Isaac out at night. Scott knows full well that if it were Lydia up there, she'd be getting the boot as well. "Sure thing, Sheriff," Scott says, walking back up the stairs with his laughter still lingering. He knocks on the door, and, when there's no response, he opens the door. "Guys," he says, trying not to look at the intertwined pair on the bed. They still don't acknowledge his presence. "Guys," he says a little louder, prompting a set of glares. "Your dad asked me to give Isaac a ride home."
Stiles throws his head back on the pillow and Isaac rolls off of him, pulling his shirt back on and not looking at all pleased. Stiles stands up and gives him a quick goodbye kiss before pulling his own shirt back on. Scott pats the other werewolf on the back as they head out the door toward the stairs, "You'll be back through the window in like an hour. Buck up."
Isaac looks over, surprised a little. "Yeah, I forgot," he admits, feeling more than a little stupid. "When did you become the observant one?"
Scott shrugs as he waves to the sheriff and they walk out the door, "I don't know. Probably when you and Stiles decided to be distracted by each other's mouths."
Stiles flops down on his bed, bored, waiting for his dad to go to bed. He doesn't need to study for finals; he'll kill them in his sleep. It's funny, when he was in elementary school, all the teachers told his parents that he had ADHD and they really needed to give him medication and put him in special classes. He remembers when it happened in the first grade:
His teacher is talking to his parents at her desk while he played with some toys on the other side of the room. He's not supposed to be listening, but he is. When she tells them about the excess energy and difficulty focusing that their son has in class, his mother calmly crosses her arms and said, "Thank you so much for your concern. But, our son does not have a disorder. In fact," she points out, "I think you'd agree, looking at his grades, that he is actually quite gifted."
The teacher's face grows defensive, "Well, he certainly grasps the material faster than the other students. But, he's always looking around the room when we take tests and he's disruptive in class."
Stiles' mother donned an interested expression. "Disruptive? In what way, may I ask?" Mr. Stilinski, still just a deputy, smirks, knowing his wife and knowing that this young teacher is in for it.
"He's always interrupting my lectures and distracting the other students," the teacher deadpans, feeling quite confident in her assessment of the child's behavior.
"Hmm…" Mrs. Stilinski hums, not actually having to think about what she's going to say, just doing it for the aesthetics of the conversation. "So, by 'interrupts' you mean he asks questions and points out when you contradict yourself. And, by 'distracting' the other students, you mean helping them understand the material by explaining it like a child would understand it. So, really, you're complaining because my son, who is five years old, understands and can teach first grade level subjects better than you. Am I right?" The woman opens her mouth and shakes her head trying to come up with some sort of retort, but in the minute it takes her to try to find something, Mrs. Stilinski starts again. "I'll take that as a yes," she stands and her husband follows suit, giving an apologetic but 'it's-your-own-fault' look to the flustered teacher. "It was very nice talking to you," Mrs. Stilinski says as she reaches out a hand. The teacher shakes it, standing awkwardly. "Come on, Stiles," she beckons to her son and he puts down the toys, bouncing over happily to hold his mother's hand as they walk out of the classroom.
Stiles breathes heavily at the memory. It was only two years after that that his mother started to become ill. She was constantly tired and weak and then, one day, she was gone. The doctors said it was "spontaneous systemic autoimmune organ failure." Stiles had nagged at Scott's mom until she explained that it was the doctors' fancy way of saying her body just turned off. Stiles never liked that description. It makes you realize that, really, any moment could be your last because you might just turn off. Like, someone walks over, flips a switch and your done. Your gone. Lights out. There's nothing to fight, there's nothing you can do. It just happens, and then it's over. Everything's over.
Stiles can feel the tears welling in his eyes. He doesn't let himself do this very often. Think about his mom. At least, not the end. He thinks about the good things all the time. But he doesn't linger on the memories, because they always lead him to the memories of the end, which leads him to tears.
"Stiles," his dad says as he walks up the stairs. "I'm going to bed," he stops by the door when he hears a choked out breath. "Son?" he says gently, stepping around the corner to look at the boy on the bed. "What's the matter?" he asks consolingly as he sits on the foot of the bed. Stiles just looks at his father with the tears filling his eyes. The sheriff understands. They both reserve these tears for only one reason. Stiles sits up and hugs his father. The man wraps his arms around his son and rubs the back of his head. "I know… I know… I miss her, too," he consoles. He pulls away, dipping his head and looking his son in the eyes. "But, you know, she's watching over us. And she's proud of you. I know she is, because I am, too." Stiles sniffs, knowing that his dad is right and that he needs to calm down. Besides, Stiles knows he's already made it a night of poor sleep for his father, he doesn't want to make it any worse.
Stiles nods to his father and sniffs again, rubbing a hand across his face. "I'm fine," he states, shaking off the sadness and pulling a smile back onto his face. "You should go to bed. You're still dealing with that big case, and I've been enough trouble already this week." His father gives him a glare, stating with his eyes that Stiles being in the hospital does not constitute being "trouble" for his father. Stiles just smiles weakly, willing his father off to bed. The sheriff pats his son on the shoulder before standing and moving over to the door. He checks back on his son over his shoulder before closing the door and heading to bed. Stiles hears his father's door close and someone is immediately crushing him in a bear hug. "Can't…" he chokes out, "breathe!"
His assailant pulls back and looks him in the eyes. "Are you okay? Do you need to talk about it?" Scott asks, giving him that look that he always does when Stiles has a breakdown around him. It happened a lot more when they were little.
"No, Scott," he pushes the other boy off of him, waving him away."I'm fine. Really," he looks over to the window. Only Isaac has come in behind Scott. "Where're Derek and Peter?"
"Oh," Scott answers, "Derek said since you went all black and horny today, he's not as worried about you as he is about Lydia, so he permanently traded groups with me and Peter's permanently traded with Isaac, since… you know, you guys. Yeah."
Isaac is still standing in the corner, watching the best friends interact. He has the right to be next to his boyfriend, but, it seems weird with Scott right there. It's like the pair has some crazy deep connection that Isaac and Stiles bond doesn't really stack up against. He knows that it's different. Scott doesn't want to be Stiles' boyfriend or anything. But, if it came down to it, like, life or death, which one of them would Stiles choose? He's known Scott since kindergarten. They're closer than brothers. It makes Isaac… jealous. He's cut off by Stiles looking at him, a little concerned. "What?" he shakes his head, having clearly missed something the other teen said.
"Are you going to come over here?" he asks, head dipped, trying to figure out if the wiry werewolf has gone completely insane.
"Oh," Isaac shakes his head at himself and pulls off his jacket as he heads over to the bed. "Yeah," he sits on the other side of Stiles and the smaller teen tousles his curly hair. Isaac still feels a little awkward having Scott right on the bed with them. He's also not sure how he should react to having heard Stiles crying. Isaac himself prefers to move on from the sad thoughts of his own mother as fast as possible, but maybe Stiles is different. "Are you sure you're okay?" he asks quietly, not wanting to be too forceful about it.
"Yeah," Stiles says softly back. "But, you know," he starts, "I wouldn't mind if you used your little touchy feely thing." Isaac smiles and wraps his arm around Stiles' shoulders and nuzzles his face into Stiles' neck. Thank god, Scott finally gets off the bed, leaving Isaac feeling more comfortable.
The tan werewolf yawns loudly from his spot standing next to the bed. "Can sleep now, please?" he asks, pitifully wiping at his eyes.
Stiles chuckles and kisses Isaac on the forehead before pulling away and standing up. "I'm going to brush my teeth and get ready," he says, walking towards the door. Isaac smiles after him as he closes the door behind him.
"So," Scott says, plopping down on the bed. "What's with you zoning out and being all uncomfortable?" he asks pointedly.
Isaac looks at him confusedly, trying to brush it off, "I don't know what you're talking about."
Scott pulls a 'seriously?' look and retorts, "Dude. I could smell it on you like you were wearing 'I'm uncomfortable' aftershave or something. What's up?"
Isaac breathes out a long sigh. "I just… I felt like a third wheel with you being all best friend like with Stiles," he explains, greatly embarrassed with his ridiculousness.
"That's stupid," Scott deadpans. Isaac tilts his head to the side with his own 'seriously?' glare shooting out of his eyes. "I mean, sure," Scott concedes, "if we were both trapped in a burning building, he'd probably save me first." The expression on Isaac's face isn't looking any better. "But," Scott draws out, "he would definitely feel really conflicted about it. Plus, it's Stiles. He'd probably still save you, too." Isaac huffs indignantly. "Don't feel bad about it," Scott comforts. "We've been inseparable since kindergarten. You've been dating for like a day."
Isaac smiles over at the other werewolf. "'Inseparable?' Big words, Scott."
Scott shrugs one shoulder nonchalantly, "I know things."
Stiles walks in, wearing a pair of pajama bottoms and a thin grey cotton v-neck. "Ready for bed?" he asks, seeing the other boys are still wearing their day clothes.
"Yeah," Scott says, standing and kicking off his shoes before stripping off everything but his boxers. Stiles rolls his eyes, "You werewolves and your need to sleep in as little clothes as possible."
Isaac gives the smaller teen a look of confusion, having just pulled his own shirt off. "Sorry," he starts to pull the shirt back on.
"No!" Stiles bursts, grabbing Isaac's arm to stop the shirt from getting back on his bare torso. "I mean…" he tries to backpedal. "I don't really have a problem with it, per say. Just an observation." Isaac smirks at him, tossing the shirt to the ground before squirming out of his pants and socks.
They all climb in the bed - Stiles in the middle, as usual - and Stiles is about as comfortable as he thinks he's ever been in his entire life. His boyfriend snuggled tightly against his side and nuzzling into his neck and his best friend curled against his other side, he's comfortably warm and he falls asleep quickly.
Really, could life be better?