A/N: This is the end :D Thanks to all of you who read it, don't ever hesitate to leave a review, they are always appreciated, no matter how long or short they are...
All the poem I used, including the one here are written by Tyler Knott Gregson. If you like them, I can only recommend to check his Instagram page, they are all amazing.
I still have a lot of Stydia stories in mind, so I'll see you soon!
Enjoy...
There are four, Alan told Lydia a week ago.
Four.
She is only realizing now what it means. Four individuals with four different stories. Four different traumas that will all sound familiar… Four different souls who are desperate for a solace, someone to help them, someone to hoist them up and lead them to the light.
Four… Liz, Rose, Melanie, Donna.
And Lydia only has two arms, two hands.
She arranged a small cocoon next to the fireplace in their living room, away from the noises of the hammers and electric saws. Spring is whirling and swelling through the curtains of the glazed door and despite the agitated wind outside, the atmosphere inside is cozy and welcoming.
At least, she hopes so.
They should be here any minute now, and she checks once again that everything is there. Enough space to sit, cushions, blankets, tea, and cookies… She tries to tame her beating heart, mumbling to herself that she has already done this and that everything went well. The memory of Andrea, barely three days earlier comes to her mind. She dissolved into tears of gratitude in Lydia's arms when she finally found the courage to call her mom and go back home.
Lydia can do it again. She is not alone. Stiles is there too. He is affixing shelves behind the bar in what will become the restaurant room, and she senses him in her mind, tucked in her heart. She can even feel the warmth of his palm over her fingers when she starts fidgeting with her necklace. She stops, laying her hand flat over the wolf pendant that reminds her of Allison. Both she and Stiles surround Lydia. She is not alone.
At this moment, Hope walks in, adding her merry presence to the list and drawing Lydia's attention outside. The four girls are approaching. Lydia winces when the excited ball of fur launches at them, and they cling to each other in apprehension. But the girl with the long, dark hair is extending a timid hand towards the dog who immediately rolls on her back for some strokes.
By the time they reach the living room, the girls are already laughing together, and Lydia can't help winking discreetly at Hope, scratching behind her ears as she sits at her feet. She is not alone.
The first one to tell her story is Melanie, the youngest. It's impossible to not notice the way her eyes roam over every single detail in the room like she is making an inventory of everything, just in case. There is something heart-wrenching about her, about the pain she is wearing like a scarf around her throat. Like a rope. Lydia resists the urge to touch her neck, she can feel an invisible hand winding around it, gripping it tighter with each of Melanie's words. Each of them opening the gateway to panic a little more until she feels overwhelmed, brought back to before.
The same happened with Andrea the first time but… Andrea was just one person.
Today, there are four, and each of their presence is filling the small room, as if all they have been waiting for was the opportunity to be heard, to be allowed to burst out, and Lydia doesn't know how to deal with it.
The girl named Liz is laying a reassuring hand over Melanie's forearm when someone faintly knocks on the door leading to the hallway. It's Stiles. Lydia doesn't need to see him to know because the pressure around her throat already feels like a mirage.
She excuses herself and crosses the room to get to him. Her feet barely touch the ground, her whole body being carried by the beating of her heart.
She opens the door just a little and finds him leaning against the frame, his face a few inches away from hers. A smile from him is enough to make her feel sheltered.
"Stiles…"
"I have something to show you, can you come with me? It won't be long."
"I…" Peeking over her shoulder, she sees Liz still talking to Melanie, their hands clutched together. The two others, nodding along and wiping their tears. "I don't know…"
"Look..." Stiles resumes softly, "you made them feel comfortable already. I bet they can handle this by themselves for a little while." Lydia feels the graze of his finger against her hand, still wrapped around the door handle. "Come get some fresh air, my love. You need it."
She stares at him and only realizes that Hope has joined them when her wet muzzle brushes her knee. Lydia quickly runs her fingers through the dog's fur, smiling down at her, then averting her attention back to Stiles.
"See, she agrees with me." The wink he uses as a punctation mark goes straight to Lydia's stomach and she can feel some of the tension in her shoulders giving in.
Stiles felt everything.
At first, it was just a slight anxiety, a normal reaction to a situation like this one. But then… Then, it turned into something darker, something that wasn't hers.
It baffled him at first. Never in the years they spent together since they came back to Beacon Hills and learned how to meld their souls and consciousness had it happened. Nothing and no one had ever broken into their space, even her parents, even that time he tried to accompany her in one of her fugue states. It was always just them.
When he tried to reach her and couldn't find her, he understood what was happening. The realization sank like a rock in the pit of his stomach, and he had to prop himself against the wall to keep his balance on the ladder he stood on. Lydia was lost and didn't know what to do. To him, it felt as if she was trying to invite these girls into their circle, and the fragile balance they had managed to create was flickering under the weight of their torment.
Some unknown force was drawing her to the darkness. Like what Peter used to do to her. Except this time, she was an unlucky casualty, a small piece of cardboard floating in the sea and being carried away by the current, buffeted by the storm…
Stiles couldn't leave her alone. His heart itself seemed to be pulling at his muscles, calling him forward, answering to her own pull at the other end of the tether between them. Running through the busy hallways, he could almost hear her feebly exhale his name, answering her however he could, knowing she wouldn't hear him. He still had no idea what he would tell her, what he would do, but as ever, the answer appeared the second she opened the door, peering at him like he was her salvation.
He wasn't. He has never been her salvation. He could have never saved her if she hadn't been there to save him. What they have built, what they will keep building for the centuries to come. That's their salvation. She knows it, she just needs to be reminded of it.
He doesn't hear what she says to the girls inside, all he hears is her faint approval. She repeats a weak "okay" twice and each time, it sounds like the tiny word is trying to clear a path for air through her lungs.
The second he closes the door behind her, she lunges into his arms. He is covered is paint and dust, he is sweating and probably smelling, but it doesn't stop her from clinging tightly to him until he feels the familiar curves of her stomach and chest against him. She clutches at his shirt harder as her whole body is trembling from silent sobs, her skin almost shaking.
"Lyds… I'm here, I'm here, baby. It's alright."
Her head is in the crook of his neck, nodding, and he cradles her cheek, coaxing her to meet his gaze with soft brushes from the tip of his thumb. One glance from her is all his heart needs to sigh in relief. Her smile is a little too wet from unshed tears, her eyes shimmering a little too much in the light pouring from a window behind him, but she seems to be breathing better.
That's what he always wants to be for her. A place where she can rest, a place that makes her feel safe, loved and understood. There is no alleviation for him until he can sense her melt against him, all her muscles and nerves finally finding some solace. His grip around her waist tightens a little, just enough so she knows he is there, that he could find her anywhere. He did find her, after all. Over and over again. Across an ocean, through countless countries, years that never seemed to end and dreams that always ended too soon.
There is something in the way her stare stretches across his face, in the way one of her hands seems to waver on his hip and travel to brush his chin like it has been hypnotized… Like she is seeing a lot more in him than what he thinks of himself and as usual, it renders him speechless, weakening his knees.
"I… I'm not ready Stiles… I don't know how to do this," she whispers in a tone that breaks his heart. She says it like it's a shameful secret, like she should know how to do this, like she thinks he could think less of her and he hates it.
His fingers find hers on his chest and he squeezes them, hoping his warmth could find a way through her unshed tears, a way to help her wonderful soul and heart to bloom into endless fields of wildflowers.
"Yes, yes you are… Come with me. There's something you need to see."
With her hand secured in his, he leads her through the hallways until they reach the room he has in mind. There is rubble scattered all over the floor. Bricks from a collapsed wall, wooden planks, old copper wires and probably a few insect nests under the piles of fabric in the corners.
Stiles crosses the room in a few strides to open the window, brushing away the cobwebs and clouds of dust. The glazed door opens with one sharp pull and spring surges in with all its scents and lights. Lydia almost seems mesmerized, walking in a haze towards the square of sunshine that suddenly brightened the dusty wooden floor. For a moment, Stiles loses himself in her contemplation. She seems so much calmer, so much more like her divine self. But she isn't paying attention to her steps, and Stiles has to break himself from his trance to lunge at her when she trips over a nail in the ground.
"Careful, my little sunflower."
He catches her forearms, her fingers clutching at his as she stumbles and lands against him. For less than a blink, he saw the fleeting grin the nickname created on her lips, but the tiny fright she just had must have tensed her again, and she sobs in his arms, her heart racing close against his chest.
He can't do anything but envelop her his arms. The dust sticking to the beads of sweat on his skin is staining the collar of her orange and blue plaid shirt. It's her favorite one, the one she bought because it reminded her of one of his.
"You'll need to change, or they'll think I just wanted you to come with me to have steamy sex in the attic…"
A burst of laughter warms his skin and his soul. She lifts her head, and he sees the smile attached to that cherished sound. Soot and tears have mingled on her cheeks, but she is shining.
"Because that won't be suspicious?"
"Would it?"
He knows he must be wearing the silliest wide grin, but he can't help it, and she doesn't seem to mind. There aren't a lot of things that make him feel better than knowing how easily he can relieve her. Quickly scanning the room, he spots the bucket of paint and the brush he saw the other day.
"Lyds…" He takes both her hands in his. "How did we save each other?" Her pupils are roaming over his face. He knows she has a hard time focusing, so he leans his forehead against hers and lays one of her hands over his heart. "How are we still saving each other?"
"I… I don't know…" her eyelids flutter close when she repeats her words.
She is on the verge of collapsing in his embrace again, and he wants nothing more than offer her his arms until the end of eternity, keep her safe with him. Only him… But he can't, she needs to remember. So, he leads her to the paint and the wall beside the glazed door. He settles behind her, covering her left hand to guide it to the brush and dip the tip into the black paint. Words leave his mouth without him having to think of them, like the combination of their two souls is enough to create them out of thin air.
"We saved each other because we're made of the same stuff," he reminds her, "because we recognize something in each other… You know, I once pictured you as my north. I would draw compasses everywhere with your initials inside. You were always pointing north."
Together, they draw a circle on the wall. Her left hand and his right one on top of it, perfect combination of two opposites.
"But that was wrong. That was unfair. You were never my north. You're this…this other cardinal point that I've always carried in me. And you always carried me inside of you too, remember, my little sunflower?"
They draw their initials right in the middle, each brushstroke longer than the previous one to mirror the abating quivers in Lydia's body. One stroke, one inhale.
She starts weighing heavier against him. It makes him feel her warmth, her life, and he breathes her in, encircling her waist a little tighter with his left arm, her right one immediately covering it.
"We were always together, always. Remember? That's what saved us, what still is."
"We're our own cardinal point."
"Yeah, our own anchors. And these girls, they have each other too. Show them. You can be their north, show them the direction so they can find their own cardinal point. Their own circle with their four initials in the middle. Don't invite them in ours. Help them find their own, and stay with me… Please."
He brings his right hand above her right one on her stomach as she continues drawing the pack's symbol on the wall.
"Take a walk with them, let them talk to each other, answer their questions if they have some, but mostly, just… be there. I'll set up this room for next time. There's a sink over there and an access to the park… I think it could be a nice place, and maybe they could draw their own circles on the wall. In a few years, it could be covered in circles. All the little packs you'll have helped form. All the little families."
She nods, inhaling deeply. He loosens his embrace around her to give her the space she needs to expend and welcomes the back of her head on his shoulder.
"Thank you, Stiles…" She shifts to lay a kiss on his neck and the electric imprint of her lips remains on his skin. "I needed this."
"I'm here for you. Always."
"I know."
He can feel her hesitate in his arms. After a few seconds of silence, she dips the brush in the paint again and adds the outside circle with three sets of initials pointing up, pointing north. It doesn't take him long to understand what she is doing. Forgetting about the dirt on his skin, he plants a series of lingering kisses on the side of her head. The very subtle scent of her rose perfume behind her ear tickles his nostrils, awakening memories of long empty roads, scorching heat, and the first hours of a love story he never thought he deserved. An endless conversation between their two souls.
"There," she resumes, sounding far more appeased. "You parents and Allison. They were a good north to follow."
Stiles clears his throat before uttering a hoarse, "Yeah… Yes, they were."
"And they still are."
She gives him the brush, and he adds all the other initials. Scott, Kira, Grace, Melissa, Deaton, Hope… When he is done, she turns in his arms, and there is no trace of her sadness anymore, no weight under her eyes. Only certainty and gratitude.
They don't try to find any other words. There is no need. Stiles can sense Lydia in his mind, tucked into his heart even after he walks her back to their living room and closes the door behind her.
They are together. It's not the first time he had to do something like this, he knows it won't be the last, and he will be there next time.
As always.
The warmth of Stiles's body hasn't left Lydia, the weight of his love still sticking to her skin as he is closing the door behind her. She finds the girls talking, hugging, drying each other's tears, and Lydia already knows Stiles was right because the instant Melanie glances at her, a sensation of comfort envelops her.
And right in its center, a fierce glimmer of hope.
It feels like yesterday and yet, it can't be.
Today, the wall is covered in compasses.
There are so many of them, so many colors, handwritings, and shapes. All different, all beautiful and full of hope, all of them witnessing the miracle of healing, of belonging… And all the empty space that remains in the room, a blank canvas for stories that are still to be written, invented, lived.
Lydia's stare is drawn to their own circles. Joy gently creeps on her mouth as calm surges inside of her. Her mind wanders, visiting ancient memories and new ones with the same reverence and admiration she has every time they go back to the Stilinskis' house in Beacon Hills. She loves to think that someday, they will be able to watch that circle on the wall and retrace their entire journey from the day Claudia and Noah met, to the present. Realize how exactly all these initials are connected, how all of them, all of their stories are interlaced. One day, they will all sit here and tell their stories. All of them, together.
Her phone buzzes on the countertop with a message and Lydia rinses the soap off her hands to dry them on her apron.
It's Stiles.
The last clients are gone!
She can hear his enthusiasm in the exclamation mark, and she pictures his face… It's 3 p.m. and their day is already over. The museum is closed for yearly renovations, there are no reservations tonight at the restaurant, no clients renting the bedrooms for a few days. They have the whole afternoon and evening for themselves.
Eagerness rushes inside of her like it always does, leaving only tingles in its wake. Even the leftover cake next to the sink makes her happy. Stiles baked it for her support group this morning and there is enough left for their breakfast in bed tomorrow. She can't help nibbling at her lips, almost feeling his body materializing behind her to wrap her in his arms and drop a kiss in her hair. His skin on hers, the velvet of his voice, the softness of his touch, of his love… They just came back from a month in Norway and it still feels like it wasn't enough, like she'll never have enough of him.
Just need to finish the dishes, and I'm on my way, she swiftly texts back.
Norway… Her mind keeps bringing her there, and it does it again as she hurries to wash the mugs and plates left in the sink. A lot of memories play in her mind, but for some reason, the day they crossed the Arctic circle on a small motorboat comes back the most. The trip was short, but still long enough for the humid cold to soak through their multiple layers of clothes and freeze them to the core.
After her quick shower, Lydia made some coffee and waited for Stiles. She sat at the table in front of a window with a steaming cup in her hand and her eyes locked on the horizon. The warmth of the shower was still holding her tight, wrapping her up in an invisible blanket.
She remembers the silence… A silence that had never been so pleasant, so mellifluous. The indolent rumbling of a few waves licking the shore, the occasional bird, majestic giant gliding in the air and diving headfirst into the frozen sea to catch a tiny fish. The sound of the shower, sharper, more familiar.
She could recognize the moment Stiles was washing his hair, when he was leaning under the stream letting water massage his shoulder blades and run down his back or splashing water over his face. She remembers how this voluptuous melody was slowly rocking her, lulling her into a sense of cozy routine. A routine from the edge of the world. It was only the beginning of the afternoon, but the Sun was already low on the horizon, its grazing light creating an undeniable impression of warmth. Somehow, it felt like home.
Once warmed up, they would set their tent outside and snuggle up under the thickest covers to wait for the northern lights. A discreet smile took shape under her fingers, hot from the contact with the stainless-steel cup. It would remind them of their first nights at home in front of the fireplace.
Lydia only realized the shower had stopped when two arms encircled her shoulders to draw her into a soft embrace. She lay her cheek against Stiles's. He had used the hair dryer and the scent of warmth was calling her closer and closer.
"You smell good," she whispered in a kiss against the hot skin of his neck.
Like a magnet, Stiles's nose buried itself in her locks. "You too."
He dropped a kiss there and sat next to her, breaking their embrace just long enough to pour himself a cup of coffee. With their sides glued to each other, they were facing the window, the boreal Sun. For a moment, Lydia watched Stiles, wondering how many times he had gazed at this Sun, looking for answers, questions he would have never thought of…absorbing a little of its light.
Maybe that's the Sun Lydia has always seen in his eyes. Maybe in feverish dreams, Stiles begged for those answers so many times that out of compassion for this kindred loving soul, the Artic Sun mixed with the brown of his irises, giving them their hypnotizing amber hue. Maybe Stiles has something from the edge of the world in him. A curse, a blessing…a miracle, no matter what.
Beside her, Stiles took a careful sip. The steam enveloped his face in a backlit halo that nothing on Earth could have replicated, and Lydia remained mesmerized in front of this masterpiece. She saw his smile forming, digging these dimples around his lips whenever he senses her stare on him. He eventually averted his eyes from the horizon to look at her, and she felt her heart smile at him.
Without a word, he laid his palm above her hand on the table, interlacing their fingers. His lips found the side of her head, and she pressed herself against him. Warmth. As odd as it sounds, that's what she remembers the most from their month there. Warmth… The warmth of her own Sun.
It hasn't left her.
She smiles absently at the plate she is rinsing, daydreaming of the campfire that night and of their two bodies snuggled up against each other under the fluorescent lights of the night.
She thinks of the way her words seemed to have affected him… Even during the darkest nights, the Sun always finds the Earth… That's how it felt when you found me, when we ran away together.
Only his eyes were visible between his scarf and woolen hat. They were bright, kindled by an internal fire that warmed her up and made her think that maybe she wasn't that far from truth.
The kiss they shared loops in her head. Stiles's words do too. I'd find you anywhere…
She doesn't know if she is a child of the Earth, but he is her Sun. Of that, she is sure. She remembers the way her heart was beating later that night, reacting to every one of his touch, every one of his strokes, like everything he did was calling her closer because it would never be enough.
Heat rushes to her veins. As soon as the last plate is in the drainer, Lydia discards her apron, locks every door behind her, and hurries to get to Stiles.
She finds him in the restaurant kitchen, hears him rummaging through the broom closet. All the chairs are perched on the tables. On the terrace outside, Hope is lying in the sun, her ears flailing about to chase a few flies without much success. Lydia doesn't repress her smile. Everything is so quiet… The yellow garden hose, neatly coiled around itself next to the tomatoes, seems to be taking a nap too.
Even the light has something to say, something to add. It's funny how things change. She used to find harmony by escaping in her own mind and now, her reality itself carries it to bring it to her without her never having to ask. Peace is overwhelming her, and she savors it with a smile. Slowly. Each inhale an invitation, each exhale an anchor for her soul.
She takes a few steps closer to the kitchen, putting away a few glasses behind the bar out of habit when finally, a familiar arm winds itself around her waist and cherished lips drop a kiss in her hair.
"Can I interest you in a brunch of desserts with me outside?" he inquires as she spins around to face him, taking the mop from his hand.
In his eyes, she finds the same light that is pouring into the room, and she lets it trickle down to her soul. She nods, lifting her head like those actresses in the old movies they like to watch at the end of long days, waiting for the kiss she knows he wants to give her.
His knowing grin is the definition of everything perfect in this world, his lips taste sweet and his hair is soft under her fingers. She nods again in his kiss, telling him softly between two honeyed pecks that she'll mop the floor while he prepares everything.
Stiles eventually heads back to the kitchen while Lydia goes back to the sink behind the bar, like they have done a thousand times. She is still smiling through the sweet promises he left on her lips as she fills a bucket with water, adding a few measures of the special product they use for the old wooden floor of this room. The scent of lavender almost lazily spreads in the atmosphere. Through the ajar, full-length window, the sound of the water splashing in the bucket wakes up Hope. With an indignant whine, she rises her head before stirring and leaving to lie on a flat rock a little further away.
Shaking her head, Lydia chuckles and focuses her attention back to the bucket. There is something about taking care of this wooden floor that feels special to her, almost like a ritual. It's the original one. This floor isn't just a valuable asset, it's a witness to entire generations. Taking care of this floor is her way to bring them all back to life by imitating their gestures, and she likes to think that it helps give this room its special atmosphere. Everything here fills her with joy. The scent, the creaks, the humid sensation of the wood under her bare feet. Even the light always enters through the windows in a very special way that almost seems to caress the floor and the walls with love. With the passage of each year, she can sense the way Stiles imprinted his presence in the room. It's subtle, and she isn't even sure she could explain it, but it's everywhere. Walking in that room is like being wrapped up in his love, in his light, in his essence. It feels good.
She never hesitates to help him whenever she has the time, whether it's to clean up or even to lend a hand in the kitchen on busy days. She makes coffee, hot cocoa, and waffles, serves ice-cream, stirs pots, and tastes everything for him if he is too exhausted to tell. She soothes him however she can by memorizing each compliment clients tell her to pass on to The Chef, making sure to convey the admiration and gratitude he deserves. Kisses help too, especially when they take him by surprise and make him smile shyly because he is so engrossed in what he is doing that he forgets he is married to the cute waitress.
A smile tickles the corner of her lips, and she knows Stiles is there. She feels his stare on her. It's like a pulsating presence in the atmosphere, something so strong that she is sure it could materialize in handrails around her. She stops moving to feel his embrace around her even more. It radiates, and she isn't even sure anymore if the warmth she feels on her forearm comes from a ray of sunshine, or his own fingers.
She turns around, and he is there, propped on his elbows on the bar with a tray filled with pastries and pies next to him. Pretty as ever. Gaping at her like she is this wondrous being.
"I'm gonna go set everything up," he says with the same softness shining through his eyes. "Meet me there?"
"I will."
She watches him regarding her, watches his smile mirror the one she feels creeping on her lips. If a cloud hadn't darkened the sky for a few seconds, she wonders if they would still be lost in each other's stare days from now.
Stiles takes the tray in one hand and opens the window, giving a treat to Hope who is already sniffing the air.
The serenity of this scene washes over Lydia, and she dives into it without realizing that her arms are quickening, hastening for her the moment she would be able to join them.
After hesitating for a few seconds, Stiles decides to head towards the lime trees. It's a winding path that runs through the entire park and leads to an old pond. Halfway through, there is a clearing with century-old lime trees.
He waits until Lydia sees him to point in that direction from his chin. From the distance, he makes out her smile and a sign from her hand.
"Hope, soon you'll be the only one without glasses here…" he declares with a falsely serious tone.
She barks her reply, hopping along.
Stiles can't help smiling, "Whose side are you on?"
She might not be able to speak, but her amusement never goes unnoticed.
Lydia had seemed to like the idea too. One morning, he tried her glasses on because he was realizing that from their window in bed, he couldn't see the leaves of the trees as clearly as he used to. The twinge in his heart was quickly absorbed by the softness of Lydia's skin brushing against him as she was stirring herself awake and the burning hue of green that he spotted in her eyes.
"So, what d'you think? You like the glasses?"
She nodded, nipping the top of her thumb in a smile he could only describe as teasing. "It will go well with your grey hairs spreading everywhere."
Pretending to hold back a scoff, he stretched his arm to casually place the glasses back on her nightstand. "You didn't just say that my grey hairs are spreading, did you?"
"I don't know, did I?"
She giggled in anticipation of his touch, telling him she couldn't wait for his first wrinkle too and extending her hands in a feigned attempt to keep his fingers away from her ribs and waist. It only made him smile more. Soon, she was wriggling under his tickles and kisses. This laugh is his favorite, loud and chiming, arching her neck and offering it to his lips until tears of joy come rolling down her cheeks and she starts retaliating.
It is constantly echoing somewhere in his mind, etched in his brain. Maybe wearing glasses wouldn't be so bad after all.
The sweet scent of the lime trees makes him come back to reality. There is no way to know there is a clearing here unless you stand right in the middle of it. Around him, the five giants are soughing, the wind in their leaves scattering their thoughts and dreams, showering them above anyone willing to listen. Lydia told him to concentrate once, and he could swear he heard their voices. They all speak with a different one.
Stiles heads towards their favorite one. Its lowest branches almost touch the ground, creating the perfect sanctuary for their love. It's the oldest one, even older than the mansion, the owners told them. The mystery around that tree is what drew Stiles and Lydia to it and what made them build a picnic table under it.
The sun is beating down today, and the leaves seem to have infused in the heat. The subtle scent melds with a light softened by the cupola of greenery above him. Not for the first time, Stiles senses the attention of the world in this quietude. It surges inside of him and engulfs him until he feels part of it. The shimmering lime green around him, the wind quieting down, the birds chirping somewhere outside… outside of this world of perfumed light and green oxygen. It feels like a gift, a nest that was theirs to find since the beginning of time.
He sits astride one of the benches and sets the tray on the table. In front of him, Hope lays her muzzle on his knee and looks up at him with her big black eyes. Absently, he runs his hand behind her ears and grins, "So, you still think it's a good idea?"
His heart pounds eagerly in his in chest, and he slips two fingers in his back pocket to retrieve the folded paper. Hope whines at the loss of his hand on her skull, making Stiles chuckle. He unfolds what appears to be an old shopping list while he rakes his fingers through the long white hairs of Hope's neck. She whines more softly and closes her eyes under his strokes.
"I'll take that as a yes."
He smiles and reads the poem that is written on the other side. The piece of paper was crumpled into a ball when he found it on a table. Stiles almost threw it away with the rest at the end of his shift, but something had compelled him to stop and keep it.
The poem is only a few verses, but each word was like a brushstroke an artist had used to paint the most beautiful landscape, each stanza a world in its own. It was impossible for him to not make out Lydia's figure in the colors, the scents and the memories each word was summoning. It was her. If someone were to invent a language to speak about her, that poem was the alphabet.
No wonder it was invented in their restaurant room. Lydia's presence is everywhere, grounding…
Everything changes the moment she walks into that room, like she is giving a purpose to all the elements around her. The light pouring in finally has a reason to caress the walls with love, her presence is even giving all the previous generations a reason to take care of that wooden floor. It has always been meant to creak under her lovely feet. She is the only one who knows how to play that instrument and he can hear the difference when he is the one making the floor sing. He feels her absence, and that's what this poem is all about. Summoning her presence, make her aura vibrate in the room again, give the life around him a purpose.
While tidying up the room, he tried to memorize the poem, one verse after the other with more diligence and seriousness he ever had in school. He turned the coffee machine off and wiped it to the rhythm of the poem, rinsing the sponge after each strophe, doing it all over again, setting the chairs on the table at every comma. The Japanese kanji and the arrow on his forearm brought back the memory of Allison teaching him this "memorization method", and he grinned.
Stiles had spent twenty minutes with her and Scott, cleaning up her kitchen while declaiming each verse, each strophe of a poem they had to learn, shouting it, even singing it. Stiles doesn't remember what poem it was, but their laughter apparently never left this part of his memory…
Another laugh brings him back to the present. Lydia's…
Hope is bouncing around her until a butterfly catches the dog's attention, and she chases after the tiny flying orange dot back to the mansion.
Lydia approaches, ducking under the curtain of leaves, and it's impossible to look at anything but her. Stiles loses himself in her beauty, in the delicious peacefulness sipping through his veins. He is so far gone that he doesn't realize that the poem is still in his hands.
Lydia points at it with her index finger. "What's that?"
He looks down and feels his heart lazily leap up to the corner of his lips. Catching Lydia's hand, he folds the paper and places it back in his pocket.
"A poem." He guides her, helping her sit astride in front of him. "I found it earlier on a table."
"Can you read it to me?" Her hands come forward to rest on his thighs, and she props herself on them to raise her head to him.
All he sees are her eyes. A green as sheer and mesmerizing as the cupola above their heads. He isn't sure if the leaves are reflecting in her eyes, or if it's the opposite. Probably the latter. He barely dares touching her, only allowing his hand to run down her cheeks until he can delicately seize her chin between his fingers and pick the softest red fruit on her lips. A smile shivers between them, and her body glides closer to his.
"I can even do better," he replies, catching her precious hands and laying them between them. "I tried to memorize it…" Something is fluttering in his stomach and he pauses for a few seconds to listen to it, chuckling. "I feel like I'm picking you up for prom or something."
"Am I still making you nervous?"
"You never stopped making me nervous."
There is nothing smug about the way his reply makes her smirk, and to prove it, she nestles his hand over her heart. Under his palm, he feels her chest regularly rising and underneath, her fairy heart racing. Love blossoms on his lips, and he bows to coat the sweet instrument with it. His kiss blooms into a delighted chiming sound, a vibration through her rib cage, one that makes her breasts swell.
Following her delicate and warm curves, he languorously straightens up, taking her in. She is holding her breath, bearing the grace of nature in her eyes. Through her, the Earth is watching him, waiting for him to utter the first word and finally be able to release a sigh. He doesn't know what he did to deserve such attention… such love, but he feels it deep into the marrow of his bones. It's beaming on him from the emerald depths of her stare, from everywhere around them.
As he pronounces the first words of the poem, he wonders if he hasn't dreamt this piece of paper found crumpled beside a cup of tea. Maybe if he looks at the shopping list again, that's all he will find. A shopping list. Because it feels in this instant as if the words are magically materializing between them, each of them an answer to a question that was asked back when nothing made sense, back when they had no idea an answer existed.
"You are cardinal direction
to me," Stiles begins softly.
He runs his thumb under her parted mouth and tenderly envelops her exhale in a kiss before continuing...
"lips as North
the anchor I seek,
the reminder of home
no matter how lost I
become.
East..."
He pauses to catch his breath, then carries her left hand to his mouth in another tender kiss.
"as left hand,
responsible for every word
you've ever written
to me, the ten percent
you belong to
that sets you apart
from so many others.
West..."
His other hand grazes along her right arm, and he plays an indolent rhythm for his words, using his mouth like a bow against the delicate strings of her collarbone and neck.
"as right hand, right arm
that wraps around
the rest of me,
the hold with strength
unappreciated,
the promise I will
be alright."
Her cheeks have flushed in a flawless pink hue, and she is faintly nibling at her lips. Stiles can tell she is trying to stay as still as possible to not fluster him more, and he is almost left speechless.
She gives him his words back in a sigh, a faint breeze rising at this moment to carry them closer to his heart. "What's south?"
He grins, getting as close to her as possible. His hands brush down along her ribs and hips to settle on her thighs and play with the fabric of her white dress. Her whole body seems to gasp, to tense and tense a bit more when he drops a kiss against her ear to whisper the rest.
"South
is unspeakable,
the gift, intimate and
holy, that I will
never stop trying
to deserve
receiving."
He wonders if she can hear his heart flailing about against his rib cage, if she can sense its need to nestle against hers, under the warmth of her breasts. Against his palms, her body relaxes, exhaling his name in that way she only holds the secret. That way that gives Stiles a beauty he didn't know it could have. He keeps his eyes closed, the warmth of her skin guiding him along the curves of her face until he reaches her precious mouth, which he kisses like he has been lacking her oxygen his whole life. Everything melds, her hot breath, the fullness of her lips, the softness of her tongue, and the whirlwind of the lime tree scent around them, crowning them with small yellow flowers.
"It's beautiful."
"It is, and you're in every word, in every verse."
"So are you," her ardent eyes flutter open, swallowing all his words.
"I… I'm not left-handed," he tries with a crooked grin.
"You're still precious…" Her hand against his cheek coaxes his mouth closer to hers with caresses, and she kisses him again, wholly, with her entire body swelling to get closer to him. Always closer. Gasping, she continues, "You… You are cardinal direction to me too. My only cardinal point."
Her eyes are shining, welling up with emotion, and Stiles understands that it's not just him who feels the strength behind these words. Tucking his head in the warm crook of her neck, he hugs her. Lydia hugs him back, so firmly that he tears up too, and they cry. They cry without restraint, trusting that the waves of emotions surging inside of them will carry them safely through this ocean, where love mingles with nostalgia, where two become one and one is infinite.
Calm leisurely settles in them, and they wipe each other's cheeks, coating them with kisses like there isn't a more valuable treasure in the whole universe.
"Stiles…" Lydia says softly, chuckling as she glances at the table, "we should eat before we have nothing left."
From the corner of his eye, he catches two bees flying lower and lower above the pies. He chuckles with her and chases them away. Lydia shifts to face the table, but he doesn't move, coaxing her closer into the cradle of his body.
They talk, shake their heads, and laugh at each other's jokes. They share pies and kisses that taste like strawberries, coffee, and chocolate. On her serene face, Lydia wears the same happiness that is stirring inside of him.
It's their secret. This place, this brunch made up of desserts, these stolen moments where time doesn't exist. There is only the pulse of the Earth, the course of the Sun.
And them.
Without them noticing, the light changes, dims as the afternoon comes to an end. Stiles feels a pang in his heart when he realizes that the carefree intensity in Lydia's eyes as been replaced by a nostalgic expression.
He brushes his index against her knuckles. "Should we go home? It will be dark soon anyway."
She sneaks his finger between hers and shakes her head. "No, let's go to the pond."
With her hand squeezed tightly in his, he stands up, and together, they find their way back to the path as the setting Sun splashes its colors low on the horizon. They don't talk much. They have been talking the entire afternoon, and they've reached that point where shared silence is just as meaningful as any other word.
The same nostalgia Stiles read in Lydia's eyes surges inside of him. It's nothing bad, but he understands immediately because it happens once in a while. Maybe thinking of Allison earlier summoned her ghost somehow. He can feel her presence, holding Lydia's hand. He could almost hear both of them laughing in a busy hallway in high school. He lets himself get engulfed a little by that feeling, trying to be as discreet as possible to not disturb the two girls, maybe even wait until he can feel the presence of his parents…
Lydia must sense it because she squeezes his hand, anchoring him back to her, back to a warm Earth with her soothing voice. "Stay with me, my love."
She has her head against his arm, and he lays a kiss in her hair, quietly apologizing.
"You don't need to apologize for that, ever," she murmurs against his shoulder, her breath a warm summer breeze filtering through his skin.
He hadn't realized how cold he had suddenly gotten, and guilt crawls beneath his flesh.
"But you know you can't do that alone," she continues. "Stay with me."
"I am. I am with you. Always, Lyds."
She flashes him a smile containing all the mornings they welcomed together, under cloudless sheets or crisp skies. "I know."
She squeezes his hand again. They continue towards the sun until they reach the pond, where they sit side by side on the pier, bare feet dangling a few inches above the water lilies. With his hands gripping the edge of the wooden plank, Stiles observes small fish gathering in front of them to draw ephemeral shapes on the surface of the water. From the corner of his eye, he catches Lydia's toes wiggling to tickle the sole of his foot.
He leans against her, already feeling a crooked grin on his lips, "You and I both know who is going to lose at this game." He hasn't finished his sentence that he is already passing his arm around her waist to teasingly run his nail up until her ribs. It makes her giggle in that charming way he loves so much, so he does it again and again, thinking he could get drunk in the way her body responds to him.
"Depends on what you call losing," she tries, squirming in delight as he suddenly decides to change tactics by attacking her stomach until she does the same and they are both panting and laughing.
The look of sheer happiness on her face makes him stop, and he relishes in the buzzing hush that comes in the silence of the afterglow. He closes his eyes, breathing her in with his nose buried in her hair. She smells like summer closing in. Maybe the lime tree shared a few notes of its perfume with her. It wouldn't surprise him. Trees love her, the Earth loves her. He loves her.
Without a word, he lies down, his hand absently following her spine while he watches her. The light of the setting sun behind her forms a halo around her precious hair, a crown for his Venetian goddess. It makes his chest swell with an air he knows well.
Lydia is a force of nature. It's a certainty he always knew. Even before everything, even in their childhood. It simply became clearer as they came to understand how her powers work.
Now, it's not just a certainty. It's a truth. She is this strength sculpted out of the Earth herself, this strength that draws its energy from the rocks, the fields and the stretches of lakes, from the mountains and the trees. She is a child of the Earth.
Eventually, her eyes fall on him. She has that expression again. The one he noticed in Norway as the boreal Sun was setting. One she must have worn a thousand times over their years together. How did he never realize?
She watches him like she watches the Sun. The realization creates a lump of packed emotions in his throat.
Even during the darkest nights, the Sun always finds the Earth… That's how it felt when you found me, when we ran away together, she told him.
Maybe that's really how she sees him, a child of a faraway star, a child of the Sun...
As he gazes at her, bathing in the setting sunlight, he understands why. There isn't a better frame for her than this light. It only exists for her, a sort of projection cast by every dream he ever had for her, every wish. A mere extension of himself. It holds all the love he still has to express until there is nothing left to add. Until each of her cells have been replaced by this light, their bodies and souls finally one – made immortal.
She smiles at him, and in this smile, he sees the ones from the past as well as the ones yet to come. Everything contained in the word memories. The sadness and the happiness… always shared. The memories anchored in a reality that is nothing but theirs. It doesn't exist in a wheat field or on a distant planet, but right here, with her, in the middle of lime trees and wildflowers, on a ground that generations of footsteps blessed for them before they even knew it was there, a reality where Hope is always somewhere, chasing butterflies or taking naps in the sun or in the shadow of old trees.
When Lydia reclines to drop a lingering kiss on his lips, he wonders if the boreal sky kindles in green and pink with each of their kisses, and each of their smiles and wiped tears.
He buries his hand in her hair as she rests her head against his chest, autumn field spreading on his torso, rising and falling.
"Will you tell me your poem again?"
Her voice vibrates through his heartbeat as she speaks, and he his sure that in in the sky, the Sun is blushing.
He recites it. Slower this time, in a hushed voice, one that hugs the wind tighter. He idles on each of the words, all of them taking shape in the orange of the clouds and blue of the sky. It's all there. All the words, their significance, the images attached to them… Vibrating in the colors auguring dusk, melting against Lydia's warm skin.
Her left hand squeezes his right on her stomach, and Stiles doesn't remember why he once thought that the world was mad at them. He thinks maybe he has been delusional for years, believing that it was conspiring to hurt them, believing that their troubles appeared the day it turned its attention on them.
It's the opposite. Their love is painted everywhere around them.
Maybe that's the curse of every tragic hero – of all the people who wear their emotions like a banner in their eyes and in their voice every time it breaks.
Maybe they can't see that they are the beloved children of a world that has no idea how to protect them and can only show them the way. A way fraught with pitfalls, sometimes going through endless wheat fields, crows hovering over… watching over.
He remembers a time when they drove together towards the sun, thinking they had found their way, had found a bannister in that spiral of violence, a way to fight against the world.
He also sees another version of them. Just them, bare in a river under the moonlight, vulnerable and at the center of everything, every sound carrying something frightening, any tiny animal in the night becoming a monster ready to jump at their throat…
But with her, he never felt stronger, safer.
The precious weight of her head leaves his chest; Lydia leans on her elbow, canopy of her golden red hair hiding them from view, isolating them in their cocoon.
"Where are you, my dazzling Sun?" she asks in a whisper, bringing his hand to her lips, "Are you with me?"
She must have sensed him drifting away. It's endearing how she still doesn't know that he never thinks of anything other than her. So, before straightening up to coat her in a tight embrace, he offers her one of the most beautiful words he knows. One that will forever be attached to her name.
"Always."