I won't give up on us
Even if the skies get rough
I'm giving you all my love
I'm still looking up
- I Won't Give Up by Jason Mraz
Lydia and Stiles have spent most of Friday afternoon and evening with Scott and the rest of their friends. They are at a Fourth of July party at Mason's house, and the backyard looks like a resort. There is a spacious patio, shaded by a massive pergola, fully decorated with strands of red, white, and blue twinkle lights. The structure houses a large outdoor banquet table that is flanked by two sprawling benches. From there, a flagstone pathway cuts directly through the meticulously landscaped gardens, where it leads to an in-ground swimming pool, rows of padded lounge chairs bordering either side.
That is where Lydia is now. She is sitting with Hayden and Mason, the three of them at the shallow end with their calves and feet submerged in the water. At the opposite end, several of their classmates are splashing around while music booms from the surround sound. The bass resonates in the wide-open space, blending with the din of conversation, laughter, and activity.
Every so often, Lydia's thoughts begin to stray. The yard is jam-packed with people, half of whom she doesn't know. Although she is having a good time in a stress-free atmosphere, she is getting restless. To be honest, Lydia is currently skirting beyond her comfort zone, and she can't help but laugh internally when she contemplates the noteworthy change.
A few years ago, she would have been the one throwing the party. She would have planned for weeks, organizing every last detail. She would have invited everyone she knew...and even a bunch of people she didn't: the more guests, the greater the success. She would have scoured every boutique and department store in search of the perfect outfit and deliberated over how to style her hair. Then, she would have counted down the days to the big event...insisting that the quiver in her stomach was an indicator of anticipation, rather than a mounting sense of dread, and that the disquiet was in no way correlated to the emptiness she would inevitably experience when she was smothered by loneliness in a house filled with people. On the day of the party, she would have gone through all the motions, been the epitome of a congenial hostess, and ensured that everyone had the best time so that hers was the party to be talked about for weeks to come, the benchmark for all that followed. Even if it meant plastering on a smile to hide her unhappiness. Even if it meant wearing herself out with the burden of pretending to be someone she wasn't. Exhaustion did have its advantages. Usually, after one of her parties, Lydia was too tired to cry herself to sleep.
But things change. She changed.
She certainly isn't going to turn her nose up at the opportunity to have some fun, but in light of everything she has been through, being known as "the girl who throws the best parties in Beacon Hills" is no longer high on Lydia's list of priorities. It doesn't even make the final cut. Not since she connected with a genuine group of friends – people who rely on and would do anything for each other. Definitely not since she fell for someone who truly loves her, someone who saw through the carefully curated image she presented to the world, right down to the very heart of her.
So tonight, Lydia is more than content to sit back and be one of the many guests, to blend in, let the music set the tempo, and wait for the clear onyx sky to sizzle with fireworks.
And, if she really had her way...she would be spending the rest of the evening at a party for two.
She searches for Stiles in the crowd. He is standing by the house with Scott and Liam, arms folded across his chest, fingers repetitively drumming on his bicep. She watches him throw his head back, laughing at something Scott said, and it makes her go all warm and gooey inside. She loves seeing him like this – relaxed and happy. It's worth every minute of heartache that she endured when he was gone and every second of longing she feels for him now.
Although her desire to be alone with him is only increasing, she is trying to be patient, to share him. She knows the others missed him too...almost as much as she did.
She takes a breath and remembers that they will be together. Soon.
Excusing herself from the discussion with Hayden and Mason, she pulls her legs from the water and quickly dries off. After unraveling her hair from her topknot, she combs her fingers through her strawberry-blonde mane until it cascades down her back in loose waves. Then, she slides into her sandals, smooths her hands over her white shorts, and crosses the yard to get a drink.
As she passes through the garden, summer heat steeping the fragrance of roses and gillyflower into the air, she can feel Stiles's eyes on her. When she meets his adoring gaze, he gives her a wink that inspires a fluttering in her chest. She wants him to know it, so she smiles and places her palm at the center of her rib cage, patting her fingers above her heart, two times. He cinches up his eyebrows and presses a closed fist to his mouth, and she knows he feels it too.
With restored lightness, Lydia maneuvers past another band of people and steps onto the patio. She is pouring herself some iced tea when she feels his loving arms wind around her waist and the firmness of his chest against her back.
The wait is over.
"I've got a confession to make," Stiles admits as he kisses her cheek.
"Fire away," she replies before taking a sip of tea.
He drops his chin to her shoulder. "There's this girl – not just a girl – one so beautiful, I'm convinced she is actually an angel... I've been admiring her all night, and I'm dying to be alone with her."
"Is that so?"
"Uh-huh."
She puts her cup on the table and reaches behind to glide her fingers through his hair. "Well, I have it on good authority that she's dying to be alone with you too."
"Do you uh..." he hums, grazing his lips against her neck...which consequently incites a chain reaction of blissful tingling throughout her body. "Do you think she'd run away with me?"
"She might...if you ask her nicely," she flirts.
As if on cue, a new song begins, something slower that matches the beat of her heart with its intense, recurrent pulse. Lydia turns, so that she and Stiles are facing each other. He is smiling, and his eyes hold more beauty than the sky speckled with stars. Drawing her in, he ducks down to kiss her, and she can feel the magnitude of his love washing over her in fluid surges. She instinctively grips the side of his tee shirt, mindful of nothing but the need to encourage him closer. Then, they sway to the music, both of them inching nearer until their cheeks are pressed together. One of his hands slips beneath her curtain of hair, mingling with the skin that is exposed by her backless swimsuit. The other is joined with her right, tucking their linked digits into the cozy nook between their ribs. They are dancing, and he is holding her so close, and stroking the length of her spine in random patterns, aimlessly but completely invested in his endeavor.
Lydia gets swept up in the sensation of it all. It's heaven on earth. Stiles is with her, and there is no better feeling than being in his arms.
By the second verse, he resumes, "I bet no one will notice if we leave early."
She can hear that he is serious, but she leans back to observe him, nonetheless. He has that look on his face. The one which informs her that he already has a plan.
"I'm inclined to agree," she shrugs. "The fireworks will be starting soon...and everyone's going to be preoccupied."
"Is that a yes then?" he questions with a hopeful half-grin.
"Technically...you didn't ask me yet," she points out.
His grin broadens to a full smile as he lifts her hand and marks her knuckles with his lips. "Will you run away with me, angel?"
"Yes," she answers with unabashed certainty before nuzzling into the crook of his neck and adding, "just as soon as this song ends."
They slow dance through the bridge and chorus. Everything else fades into a backdrop of colored lights and languid motion. After the last note sounds, Lydia rises to the tips of her toes to kiss Stiles. He fully commits to returning her affection, his body absorbing her gravity and sweeping her off her feet. They kiss, oblivious to everyone and everything around them. They kiss until their lungs are desperate for a breath. Then gently setting her down, he takes her hand and guides her towards the house, making sure to stop and say good night to Scott, so he doesn't worry.
With an understanding nod, he tells them to have a good time. "You deserve it," Scott remarks with earnest warmth, giving them both a hug.
They make their exit without any interference, cutting through the house, then down the lengthy flight of stairs that leads from the front porch to the sidewalk, noise of the party becoming more muffled by the second. Hand in hand, they sprint to the Jeep; scuffle of their soles rushing across the pavement and an outburst of giddy laughter uplifting through the atmosphere like a prayer of gratitude.
Once inside the truck, they decide to head to Lookout Point, where they will be able to witness every display of fireworks in Beacon Hills without anything hindering their view. The engine roars to a start, powerful shudder of enthusiasm reverberating all the way to their bones.
As if by magic, a drive they have taken countless times, feels new and exciting – an adventure. The roads are practically empty, so they roll down the windows and crank up the stereo. It enchants them with a sweetly familiar tune. One reminiscent of late nights in each other's rooms, desire to be together all the purpose they need. One about discovering the awakening power of love and the freedom of getting lost in each other's eyes. One they have listened to, beginning to end, in the comfort of a reassuring embrace, their bodies fitting together like they were always meant to, moonbeams and stardust keeping the shadows at bay.
They both know the lyrics, so they shamelessly sing along, hitting every inflection and every oooh and la la la in between. The headlights are shining brightly ahead. Every sound and trace of movement somehow attuned to their song – from the bobble of the Jeep as it treads over the tarmac...to the turn signal ticking in tandem with the acoustic guitar. The trees and tall grasses shimmy in graceful unison. Even the curves in the road appear to have been mapped out to flow with the melody.
It's the kind of moment when everything in the universe seems to have aligned, just so Lydia and Stiles could enjoy it together. He glances at her, pure love in his eyes when he reaches out to caress her face. And she knows he feels it too.
At the Point, Stiles stows the rear seat, and Lydia lines the trunk with blankets so they can sit in the back of the Jeep. Fireworks only minutes away, they quickly huddle up together; she drapes her legs across his lap, and he envelops her in his arms. The air is dense and muggy, but the additional warmth he provides is not the least bit unwelcome.
They kiss...again and again. Lydia's heart is thumping at a rapid pace, but she is completely at peace. Stiles is too. She can feel it. It's in the way he is circling the nape of her neck with his fingertips and in each and every soft sigh he moans into her mouth. He is strong underneath her and tenderness all around her, and he tastes like the chocolate-covered strawberries they nabbed on the way out of the party and Stiles.
When he aims his attention at her neck, Lydia relishes in the tickle of his breath against her ear and the silkiness of his lips and tongue at her pulse point. It feels good. So good that he is making her lightheaded, but she opens her eyes, wanting to capture and memorize every detail about this moment, so she can revisit it anytime.
His crop of dark hair is pliable between her fingers, skin of his back hot where her other hand has wandered beneath his shirt. He smells like chlorine, and sunscreen, and pine needles...always pine needles. Like the ones on the trees that jut out over the bluff, their branches outstretched towards the moon. A moon that hangs low at half-size, but which is also luminous and haloed with an ethereal amber corona. There are stars – too many to count – one for each thing she loves about Stiles, the rest for the infinite number of days she wants to share with him. It's only when their light begins to expand, streaming outwards in every direction, that Lydia realizes her eyes are tearing.
She can't help it. This is all she wanted – just to be with him. Stiles and the heat and the moon and the stars and their love. It's perfect.
He nudges her nose with his, then takes her hand and weaves their fingers together. "So...the party was fun..." he comments.
"Yeah."
"But this..." he pauses to delicately and deliberately kiss her temple, next words echoing her thoughts, "This is all I really wanted tonight – just to be with you. It's perfect."
"It really is," she smiles, tilting her head up, seeking another kiss.
That's when she sees it.
A shooting star.
It's falling slowly through the night sky, crimson glow blazing behind it.
"Stiles, look..." she breathes.
His eyes follow hers, looking up, then widening with wistful elation. "Lyds, do you remember?"
And much to her delight, she effortlessly does.
"Yes, I remember."
She remembers the night she and Stiles took a leap of faith together...
Lydia remembers not being able to concentrate on anything other than the static trill of a record player. She remembers a blur of light and color, indiscernible shapes obscured from her view, like squinting through a pane of foggy glass. She was numb, save for the ache in her chest. The one that reminded her – Allison was gone...and she wasn't coming back.
She remembers that pain, compounded by the longing she felt for someone else – someone who had touched her heart in an equally important but profoundly different way. Stiles. He wasn't there. Worse than that, every day he drifted further...and it was her own fault. She still hadn't told him, and now she feared it was too late.
She wondered if she was doomed to lose everyone she loved.
But then she heard him say her name.
"Lydia... Lydia..." he called softly.
The numbness began to wear off, and the pain began to subside.
"How long has she been like this?" she heard him ask.
She recognized Kira's familiar low tone answering, "It's nearly an hour now. Stiles, she's not responding at all. She keeps staring ahead, like she can't hear me. I'm sorry. I didn't know what else to do...except to call you."
"Don't apologize. You did the right thing."
"Has this ever happened before?" Kira questioned anxiously.
"Uh...never like this," he coughed to clear his throat, "but I think if I... I need some time with her."
"Okay. I'll go downstairs...start cleaning up."
"Nah, it's late. We'll deal with it in the morning. You can take the guest bedroom across the hall."
"Are you sure?"
"Yeah."
"If you need anything..."
"I know. Thanks, Kira."
Lydia remembers their two voices, waning and waxing as they competed with the befuddling drone of noise that swarmed in her head. She remembers the arm around her, squeezing slightly, and a small hand smoothing her hair back. Her vision was still fuzzy, but she knew it was Kira.
"It will be alright, Lydia. Stiles is here," she soothed.
Her friend hesitantly let go, the warmth of her embrace departing with her when she got up from the chair they had been sharing. There was a series of barely perceptible footsteps, followed by the faint click of the door closing.
Then, Lydia remembers the touch she could distinguish from any other – Stiles's gentle hands cradling her face.
"Lyds... It's you and me now."
She knew what that meant. It meant: We'll get through this together.
"Come on... Look at me. I need you to look at me," he pleaded.
She willed herself to blink, and his face came into clarity before anything else.
He was kneeling in front of her with a worried expression, his eyes watery and his bottom lip trembling as he continued to coax, "Just focus on my voice... Okay? I'm right here. I need you to be here too."
She hated seeing him so distressed. There had been far too much of that, more than she could bear, especially in recent months. She tried to respond, but there were so many things she wanted to say, all of it getting stuck in an infinite loop...somewhere between her heart, mind, and vocal cords.
Stiles kept talking to her; his words hurried but unmistakably coherent, "Don't disappear... You can't. Not when we still— You promised you wouldn't leave. Remember? Lydia, you promised," he quivered.
She remembered. She had promised, and she had never broken a promise to Stiles. Never. She wasn't about to do so that night, so she broke through the final barrier, for him.
"Stiles," she whispered, reaching between them to trace his crinkled brows with her index finger.
"Oh, Lydia..."
A single tear slid down his face and landed on her thigh.
"Stiles," she repeated.
"Yeah, I'm here." He moved to sit beside her, pulling her into a hug.
"Allison..."
"I know. I know."
She quaked in his arms, and he strengthened his grip. For a while, neither of them spoke; it was quiet, save for the sound of their shallow inhales and erratic exhales. She doesn't remember how much time passed as they clung to each other, only that she would have given anything to remain wedged in that uncomfortable, bright orange chair with Stiles.
But the next thing she knew, he was helping her up, his arm hooking her waist as he led her across the room.
"That's right. Hold on to me. I've got you," he coached.
Lydia put one unsteady foot in front of the other, certain that he was the only reason she was capable of standing.
He had held her like that at the funeral too, his support keeping her upright when she thought she would crumble. After the service, Stiles stood by her while everyone's well-intentioned platitudes and sympathetic looks were making her skin crawl with disgust and her blood boil with anger. She knew it infuriated him just as much, but he never let it show to anyone but her. When it all got to be too much for them both, he drove her home. In her bedroom, she finally broke down. Stiles didn't lie to her by saying everything would be okay, he cried right along with her. Then, he dried her tears, and got into bed with her, and held her so tight she could scarcely breathe – just like she needed him to. He stayed with her all night. He was there when she woke in the morning. In the days after, when she dragged herself to school, grappling to regain some sense of normalcy, he was there too. But nothing felt normal anymore.
Lydia wanted to be better for him, to get back to where they were before the supernatural realm delivered two devastating blows – one that made Stiles doubt everything about himself, and another which took Allison away forever. It was the cruelest kind of tragedy. They had come so close, but things seemed determined to change...in all of the wrong ways. Lydia didn't know how to handle losing one of her best friends, her first real friend. She didn't know how to help Stiles piece together what he said had broken inside of him. Most of all, she didn't know how to face the awful possibility that she was losing him too.
They were halfway to the door, and she remembers thinking that she shouldn't be leaning on him so much. It wasn't fair to either of them. She planted her feet next to the gory, red wine stains that marred the formerly pristine, white carpet.
"Lydia?"
"I can't. I have to listen. She's trying to tell me something."
"You need a break."
"But—"
"It's no use when you're this exhausted."
Her eyes shifted from Stiles, to the record player, and back to him.
"It's alright. You can try again in the morning. Come on..."
She let him lead her to her room at the end of the hallway, both of them stilling when they groped for the light switch at the same time.
Struggling not to think about how much that extra bit of contact affected her, Lydia coerced herself to keep moving. She kicked off her heels and slipped into a pair of chenille booties that she left by the bed, the loss of height making her hyperaware of how much smaller she was than Stiles. He was standing behind her, his figure protectively hovering. Although they were no longer touching, her body flushed with heat; after all, one didn't have to touch the sun to experience its warmth. Tether between them ever-present, she rotated towards him – this beautiful, kindhearted, brave, intelligent, sarcastic, yet unassuming boy whom she loved with her whole heart.
She loved Stiles. She loved him, and she hated herself. For every tangled thread of logic she permitted to constrain her heart's desire. For every instance when she let Fear extend its far-reaching hand to cover her mouth. For every time she didn't say I want to be with you.
Stiles was watching her carefully, his eyes searching...but for what, she couldn't guess. She thought she had at least showed him how much he meant to her. Did he really not know? Maybe it was simpler than that. Maybe he just didn't feel the same...
Lydia might have been convinced of it, but his touch indicated otherwise. Stiles touched her like she was the most precious thing in the world to him.
His fingers gingerly connected with the side of her neck, then he grazed her cheek with his thumb. "You must be so tired. Why don't you lie down?"
She remembers the way he folded back the covers and waited for her to get underneath. But she couldn't do it. She knew, this time, he wouldn't be climbing in next to her. This time, he wouldn't hold her all night, and he wouldn't be there in the morning either.
Suddenly, there wasn't enough oxygen; she couldn't breathe. Lydia shook her head and walked away, crossing to the opposite side of the room. Then, she swung open the French doors and stepped onto the balcony.
Stiles immediately followed, his larger stride easily catching up with her. "Lyds, what are you doing? Come away from there. It's not safe."
The guard rail was old and weather-beaten. A section of it, which had been damaged in the storm two months prior, had yet to be replaced.
She scoffed, shooting him an incredulous glare. What difference did it make? There was nothing safe about their lives.
Ignoring his warning, she sat down, letting her legs hang over the edge. As she adjusted her skirt, a black one with a ditsy floral print, she realized that she was wearing the clothes she had on the day before. For a split second, she was embarrassed; Lydia Martin did not wear the same outfit two days in a row. The discomfort quickly passed when she considered her current situation. She had more important things to worry about.
She heard Stiles huff with frustration. Nevertheless, he sat next to her. She expected him to toss out a sardonic quip to break the ice, but he was quiet. Lydia remembers glancing at him over her shoulder, just in time to see the softness in his expression as he took her hand. It made her relearn everything she thought she knew about patience, and when he intertwined their fingers, like always...it almost broke her in two.
She averted her eyes but chose the wrong focal point, her stomach churning as she peered at the ground below. Lydia wasn't afraid of heights, but the sloping, damp, black earth seemed more like a bottomless pit. She could almost see her grief lurking within it, waiting to swallow her whole.
She felt like she was spiraling into the depths...until Stiles began stroking her index with his thumb, the familiar contact – a lifeline at the edge of the abyss.
Gripping his hand, she defiantly stared down, battling the impulse to pull her legs back onto the balcony, to shrink into a ball, and cry until she had nothing left.
"I know you miss her," he acknowledged with the same quality of compassion and care he offered in the weeks following their friend's death.
Lydia nodded.
She did. She missed Allison – so much.
I miss you too, she thought.
"And you're probably pretty annoyed at me...but you've gotta believe me – I didn't mean for things to get so out of control last night."
He put their joined hands on his knee, then curled his other hand around her forearm; a silent plea for forgiveness he need not seek.
"Stiles, I know."
"But they still did, and now...this place is a mess."
"It's not that. It's...everything." The admission made her shiver with cold, and she attempted to discreetly close her rust-colored cardigan with her empty hand.
He noticed, of course, and let go of her so he could remove his purple hoodie.
"Stiles, don't. You only have a tee shirt—"
Before she could protest any further, Stiles had draped it over her shoulders. "Don't worry about it. I'm fine."
I'm fine. He had been saying that a bit too frequently for it to come across as credible.
She rolled her eyes.
Above, the full moon was compellingly bright. Its beams shone like a spotlight on the lake that stretched in front of them. It filtered through the fortress of trees that encircled them, highlighting every branch and every lacey cluster of lichen, and defining every budding leaf with the precision of an artist's brush. The surrounding area was hushed, save for the occasional song of a nearby nightingale and the murmur of the breeze stirring the midnight waters.
What should have been a perfect setting, was not because neither one of them were at peace. Stiles was just as troubled as Lydia. She could feel it, and she was pretty sure it ran deeper than his guilt over the impromptu party that had been dumped in her lap when a hoard of their classmates appeared on her doorstep.
"No, you're not," she contested as she worked her arms into his sleeves, eventually freeing her hands from the cuffs and zipping the hoodie closed.
There was a lengthy pause and an audible exhale, but he conceded, "You're right. I'm not fine," while despondently staring ahead. "How did we get here? After everything that's happened, everything we've been through..." he trailed off, clutching his jaw. He only did that when he was trying to contain his emotions.
Actively persuading him to finish his thought, Lydia gently pried his hand from his face. "Stiles?"
"I hate this. I hate that I remind you of everything that went wrong."
She never imagined that was the reason he was becoming so distant.
"That's not true. You don't—"
He went on, raspy tension in his voice. "I feel like I'm hurting you...just by being around you...but, Lydia, I can't keep this up. I don't know how to stay away from you. I love...what we have too much to let it go."
She remembers what it felt like to hear those words. Words that implied so much more. Words that sent her mind and heart reeling with a whirlwind of emotion because they meant: Stiles wanted to be with her too. She remembers him, lowering his head and nervously scratching at the nape of his neck while his cheeks reddened.
"Stiles, stop. Look at me." She set her palm firmly between his shoulders, waiting until he timidly lifted his eyes to meet hers. "You always read me so well, but you're wrong about this. I don't want you to stay away. Ever since Allison... I don't know how to..." she struggled to explain. "I've never lost someone so close to me. I hurt all the time..." she paused, swallowing thickly, "but it fades when you're with me."
He seemed perplexed by her response...like he figured something out a moment too late. She tried not to let that divert her attention.
"You always know what to say to me," she resumed, reaching across with her left to clasp his hand, "even if that means...just holding my hand and saying nothing at all. I never have to pretend when I'm with you because I know I can trust you. You are the person I trust most in the world. Being with you reminds me of what is right in my life," she affirmed, touching the side of his face. "And, you know...when we're not bickering, you actually make me laugh."
Lydia remembers his smile – slow to take shape but raw, and real, and beautiful. She remembers his cheek rising under her palm and the beat of his lashes against her thumb. Relief flooded through her as she realized she was getting through to him. She remembers wanting to make sure he would never doubt how important he was to her. So, she ignored the annoying inner discourse which told her that she had already said too much, and she kept going.
"I need you. I need my best friend. That's what we were before all of it. That's what we still are." She inhaled a shaky breath. "I need you," she repeated. "I can't do this without you, Stiles. I don't want to."
"I need you too, Lydia," he asserted, carefully reaching for her upper arms. "I'm sorry. I should have talked to you about this sooner. I'm so messed up right now. I'm in way over my head with...everything. It's like I'm...trapped...by the mistakes I've made, and I'm just trying to get through the day without losing it. You know?"
"Yeah, I do. That's how I felt last year...but I had this amazing person in my life, someone who helped me get past it."
"Allison," he assumed.
She smiled affectionately. "I meant you."
He glanced down, brows pinched together, lips slightly parted as he gasped for a small intake of air.
"Of course, Allison helped me. She helped me a lot but...last summer, when I was learning about this whole crazy supernatural world, she was in France. She needed to cope with losing her mom and her breakup with Scott. She supported me as much as she could from six thousand miles away, but you were here...with me, explaining everything and helping me make as much sense of it as I could. You were so patient, and you never once treated me like I was some sort of a project or an obligation."
"I could never see you like that," he assured her, adjusting his grasp on her arms and looking into her eyes. "I wanted to help you."
"And you did. I don't think I tell you enough how much that's meant to me."
"Yeah, you do." He pushed her hair behind her shoulder, his hand finding a comfortable position at the curve of her spine. "I want to help you now, too. I want to be better for you, but I don't know how."
"You don't need to be better. You just need to be you."
She invited him closer, both arms winding around his torso as he balanced them where they sat on rough wooden planks.
"I'm not sure I know who that is anymore. I used to be able to trust my instincts but...lately, half of what I do and say doesn't even feel or sound like me. Hardly anything feels right anymore."
She hugged him tighter. "This still feels right though... Doesn't it?"
"Yes," he confirmed. "It always has, Lyds."
"So then...maybe we build...on this."
He released a protracted exhale, nodding in agreement before he leaned back. One of his hands moved to cup the base of her skull, then he pressed his lips to her forehead in a tender, lingering kiss. She remembers the impression of his smile forming against her skin.
"Could we maybe build on it from over there...so we don't fall off the balcony?" he inquired, motioning towards the house.
His request liberated an ember of happiness inside of her. One that ignited and flourished whenever he was with her. One that perforated the darkness and splattered it with light.
She giggled, "See, I told you, you know how to get me to laugh."
He pulled her back from the edge with solid arms and a crooked grin, then held her so tight she could scarcely breathe – just like she wanted him to.
"Wait here," he instructed. "I have an idea."
She watched him step into her room, gather some old blankets from the teal blue storage trunk at the foot of her bed, and return to her side. He spread the blankets over the floorboards and gestured for her to come closer. She willingly joined him, and together, they sat with their backs propped against the exterior wall of the house, subtle scent of cedar shiplap perfuming the air. Within seconds, their bodies reacclimated; Stiles put his arm around her, and Lydia nestled her head on his shoulder. It felt just like she remembered. It felt perfect.
After a few minutes of stillness, Lydia spoke. "So, how'd things go with your dad?"
"Uh...okay I guess," he replied. "There was a lot to explain obviously...with the code you transcribed and...everything."
"Right."
She nervously fiddled with the hem of her skirt. Clearly by "everything", Stiles was referring to the list she decrypted with Allison's name, the one that was more accurately termed a dead pool. Even clearer, he had selectively avoided those words because he understood how much they terrified her. He wanted to protect her...like always, and that was one of the many things that made him the one person in the world with whom she could share her true feelings.
"Stiles..."
"Hmm..."
"My name is on that list...along with Scott and Kira."
"I know."
"And half the people on that list are already..."
"I know...and whoever killed Demarco was in this house last night," he gritted through his teeth, shudder of fury punctuating his statement.
"Yeah, there's that too."
"Lydia, listen to me..." He gave her a reassuring squeeze, and she lifted her head to make eye contact. "I screwed up last night, but there is no way anyone is getting near you. I'm not gonna let that happen."
She knew he meant it, and that consoled her beyond measure.
Blinking back the tears that swiftly invaded her eyes, she pursed her lips and nodded. "We need those other two keys, so we know what we're really up against. There has to be something I'm missing...some clue. If I could just—"
"Hey, don't be so hard on yourself," he interrupted. "I know you're trying."
She had tried to save Allison, tried to tell Stiles she loves him, but she failed and now...
"It's not enough."
Pensively, he sucked in his lower lip and released it. "Well, you don't have to do it on your own... Maybe that's our next step. Let me help you with the cipher keys. We could figure it out together...like we always do. What do you think?"
She missed that so much – hours upon hours, working closely with Stiles – the natural rapport between them, brainstorming and bouncing ideas off each other, finishing each other's sentences, supporting each other when they were about to give up, but also knowing when to take breaks and how to put each other at ease. There was no learning curve when it came to those interactions, their connection – uniquely effortless, completely unparalleled, and unmistakably...right. How could she refuse?
"I'd like that."
"Good. Me too," he said sincerely before his voice modified to a lighter, teasing tone. "I should warn you though...it might take a while."
She was unaware of what he was hinting at until he added, "You sure you can uh...tolerate spending so much time with a teenage boy?"
Then, she remembered the previous afternoon, the pang of jealousy that caused her to blurt out that she was done with teenage boys. Heat rose in her cheeks and she knew she was blushing, but the embarrassment was quickly offset by the satisfaction of knowing her comment had bothered Stiles enough to mention it.
"Oh, that."
"Did you mean it?"
"Yeah, I did," she answered truthfully.
"Oh."
She remembers the volumes of unconcealed disappointment he conveyed in a single syllable, and the glimmer of hope that it sent rushing through her veins.
Bringing her knees up to her chest and tucking into him a bit more, she nudged him with her elbow. "It's a good thing you're not just a teenage boy," she clarified.
He playfully narrowed his eyes – a challenge. "What exactly am I then?"
"You're a Stiles."
"And that means?"
"You're the exception."
He bit his lip to minimize a smile. "Good to know," he remarked while tugging at the drawstring on the hoodie she wore. His hoodie.
A familiar wave of shyness, one that only Stiles could inspire, struck Lydia as she watched him. She lowered her head a little, but their eyes remained locked. She remembers the way her heart leapt when he took her chin between his thumb and index, tilting her head up an inch or so.
That's when she saw it.
Her eyes widened. "Stiles, look..."
His gaze followed hers, looking up to where a shooting star was falling slowly through the night sky.
Their eyes met with astonished fascination.
"Should we make a wish?" he suggested.
An eager Yes was forming on the tip of her tongue when the cynic in her sought control, skeptically quirking her mouth to withhold it.
Shooting stars were really just meteors, tiny particles of dust and debris, burning as they enter Earth's atmosphere. This one happened to have a red glow, which meant it most likely consisted of nitrogen. Sure, it was pretty, but it didn't possess any magical powers. It couldn't give her what she wanted most. And anyway, wishes, they didn't really come true... Did they?
Lydia remembers thinking that if anyone could get her to believe in the power of wishes, it would be Stiles.
He seemed to know it. "Come on... Things won't always be as dark as they have been. We can still wish for things... Can't we?"
There was such an optimistic cadence to his voice, such excitement in his eyes. She couldn't resist the energy they emitted; it was utterly and irrevocably contagious.
"Yeah," she smiled. "We can."
"Okay. Close your eyes."
"You first," she insisted. She wanted to admire him unreservedly...even just for a moment.
Corners of his mouth twitching higher, he obliged.
It nipped at her heart to see him like that – violet shadows beneath his eyes diminished, sharp angles of his cheekbones softened. He was healthy again and hopeful too. His mutual trust in her was as apparent as the relaxed expression on his face...and her love for him grew.
She remembers touching her forehead to his, tips of their noses inadvertently bumping. She remembers her chest swelling with a deep, fulfilling inhale.
"Ready?" she exhaled.
"Uh-huh."
"On the count of three... One..."
"Two," Stiles chimed in, whisper of his breath kissing her lips.
"Three."
Lydia made her wish, reverently and wholeheartedly.
She marveled at the clandestine serenity that came from being so close to him, then reluctantly pulled away. Her lids fluttered open, and she found that his eyes were already fixed on hers. In them, dwelled the same mix of wonder and recognition she had seen on the day she kissed him.
"Do you really think our wishes will come true?" she asked over the tightness in her throat.
"I think..." he said, taking her hand, "when it comes to you and me...anything is possible."
For the first time in months, she smiled an honest, unburdened, and vibrant smile.
If Stiles believed, she could do the same. Their bond was the best thing in her life. No matter what, she wouldn't give up on him, on what they shared, on what they could be together. However long the wait, being with him would be worth it. Of that, she was certain.
With both arms encompassing her, he encouraged her to lean on him again. She put her head back on his shoulder, and that was how they remained for the rest of the night.
Despite everything she was going through, Lydia was relaxed and happy...because of Stiles.
Because somehow, even in the darkest of times, they always found the light. Together.
Because everything she felt for him, and everything she felt from him, was the same as it ever was.
And what she felt was love.
She remembers thinking that maybe he felt it too.
Present Day
"Should we make a wish?" Stiles asks, drawing Lydia closer.
This time, there is no hesitancy in her when she responds, "Yes, definitely."
He touches his forehead to hers, shows her that he remembers everything too. "On the count of three... One..." he begins.
"Two," she continues.
"Three," they say together.
Lydia makes her wish. The very same one she made on the night in her memory.
Then years of loving and longing, of patience and faith, years of an unbreakable emotional tether and an extraordinary unspoken connection, years of being there – no matter what, of never giving up, and of finding their way back to each other...all of it collides in a passionate kiss.
The fireworks have yet to start, but Lydia sees a spectrum of light, radiant in every hue of the rainbow, flashing before her eyes. Stiles whispers to her in between kisses, tells her he loves her, always has, always will.
When they part, bond between them ever intensifying, the spirited crackle of fireworks calls their attention to the sky. Together they watch as it blooms into a garden of light, every shape and pattern from dahlias and peony, to chrysanthemum and willow. There are snowflakes and waterfalls raining down too, even butterfly wings that morph into shimmering leaves. Every season of their love reflected in a captivating display that glistens and shines almost as brilliantly as the spark that blazes in their hearts – one that will never burn out.
Lydia turns to Stiles, his beautiful face alight with colors that match the fireworks in his eyes.
"I read somewhere that if two people wish for the same thing on the same star, it's more likely to come true," she says, sudden shy timbre of her own voice almost unrecognizable.
He smiles, and she knows he understands the curiosity and vulnerability in her statement.
"What did you wish for that night, Lyds?"
She kisses him softly, then puts her head on his shoulder. "I wished for you...for us."
"I wished for the same, angel," he confides, resting his cheek on her temple.
His words fill her with irrepressible joy and gratitude. They've come so far from where they were on the night in her memory. Wishing and hoping is one thing; it's wonderful and special in its own right. But being with Stiles is her reality now...and nothing could ever compare to the contentment of getting to share her life with him, knowing that they belong to each other and always will.
She hugs him, holds him close, giving him all her love in every kiss and caress that comes after. And Stiles, he gives his right back, lets her know he is with her and is never letting go.
Lydia pictures them, years into the future – still holding on to each other, still finding a light in the dark. Just the two of them...always and always, and still looking up.
There is nothing she wants more.
