"There is a sacredness in tears. They are the messengers of overwhelming grief, of deep contrition, and of unspeakable love." - Washington Irving
March 24
Lydia stands at her bedroom window. It's late morning, but the sky is dark – cloaked by a mass of grey clouds that appropriately hide the sun from curious onlookers. The maple tree that camps outside her window is bare of any buds, bark tinted to black from the ever-present moisture in the air. The surrounding grounds are absent from movement; not a single person, nor a car, not even a bird or squirrel are anywhere in sight.
This has been her view for seven days.
It's as if the world is waiting for the end.
Although the fog is so dense that Lydia can barely see across the street, she continues to stare into the void. She finds herself doing this a lot lately, but today feels different. Today, the grey seems duller, her vision more obstructed by the fog, the glass she leans her forehead against…colder.
Today is the day she has been dreading for one week.
She sighs, and her warm exhale mists the window, revealing words she traced on the pane with her fingertips three days ago. I miss you.
She wonders if the intended recipient has received her message.
Stiles removes the keys from the ignition of his Jeep and takes a breath. The driver's side door slowly creaks open, and his black shoes crunch roughly against the pavement as he steps into the street. These are the only sounds to be heard. The world is still and grey, and the air feels even colder than it should. A blanket of dampness has been lingering over Beacon Hills for days now. Seven days to be exact.
He pushes the door shut and moves around to the sidewalk, staring up at a great brick building he has visited many times before. Today feels different. The dimensions of the Martin household seem even more imposing than usual.
He empties the air from his lungs with a sigh and shakes his head as he approaches the front door. Then, he searches through his ever-growing collection of keys for the correct one and lets himself into the foyer.
Inside, it's so quiet he can hear the ticking of Prada's paws against the shiny wood floors as the black and white Papillon trots over to greet him. Stiles gently acknowledges the pup, who follows him as he ascends the long winding staircase. He follows the hallway to the second room on the right – Lydia's room.
There, he sees Lydia standing by the window, arms wrapped around herself as she stares outwards with a vacant expression. He has caught her doing this at least a dozen times in the past week. He doesn't have to guess what she is thinking about. He knows.
He hesitates in the doorway, taking in the sight of her. She is wearing a plain, black cotton dress that hugs her waist and flows into a full skirt which extends just past her knees. As always, she is poised in heels, but these are lower than she normally wears. A few strands of her long strawberry-blonde hair are loosely pinned away from either side of her face, while the rest of her silky main cascades in waves down her back. She is motionless with heartbreak, but still breathtakingly beautiful. The tugging in his chest that he always feels when he sees her is stronger than usual. It helps him find his voice as he makes his way over to her.
"Hi."
She turns to look at Stiles before the word even passes his lips. She didn't hear him approach, but she knew he would be there. She feels the same pulling sensation around her heart that she always does when he is near. It frees her from the rigid posture that has imprisoned her for a third of an hour and allows her to take a few steps towards him.
They meet in the middle of her room, where their arms instinctively wrap around each other. His hands gather at the small of her back while hers slide under his jacket to grasp his shirt, near his shoulder blades. He pulls her so tightly to him that her heels lift off the ground, and she nuzzles her nose into his neck, letting out a breath that tickles his skin as it breezes over the base of his throat. As Stiles kisses her forehead, the scents of her freshly shampooed hair and floral perfume waft up to greet him, making his stomach flutter. Despite the pain Lydia is in, the feeling of his soft lips against her skin and his warm hands splayed across her back gives her butterflies.
After a long moment, they release each other. Lydia passes her eyes over Stiles and tilts her head at him questioningly.
"Where's your tie?" she asks softly.
"Oh…uh…" he reaches into the outer pocket of his jacket and retrieves a burgundy-colored tie with a thin, silver diamond pattern running across it, "it's…here."
"That's my favorite," she comments, quirking one side of her mouth and glancing down at his hand.
He gives her a half-smile in response. He knew that.
"How come you're not wearing it?"
"It was getting late…" he explains with a slight pout.
"And it always takes you at least three tries," she finishes for him.
He tilts his head down, bashfully scratching at the base of his skull with his fingertips. "Yeah…I didn't want to keep you waiting."
She purses her lips quickly. "Here, let me."
When Lydia inches closer to him, Stiles notices that her porcelain complexion is completely bare, leaving her freckles on full display. He admires them while she sets to work on his tie, but when he considers the reason she chose not to wear any makeup, it causes his brows to furrow. He looks into her deep green eyes, which are fixed on his. He reads the sadness in them…the loss…the anguish – things she has consciously hidden from the rest of the world for an entire week, but which she has slowly revealed to him in quiet dark moments, when the two of them were alone. The idea both builds him up and breaks him down. The extent to which she has confided in him makes Stiles feel closer to Lydia than he ever has, but he also knows there is much more she is still withholding. He wonders when the dam will finally breach and worries whether he will be able to help her when it does.
She eases his black jacket over his shoulders, fastens the top button of his crisp white shirt and lifts the collar. Keeping her eyes on his, she reaches down to take the tie from his hand. After sliding it around his neck, she adeptly forms a perfect Windsor knot in less than thirty seconds, only glancing away from his eyes for a second at a time to check her progress. Then she folds his collar down, adjusts his jacket, and smooths the front of his shirt with her palms, letting them linger over his heart.
That's when she begins to study Stiles's face. The redness that formerly surrounded his eyes has faded, and she can focus on the familiar warmth of his brown irises. She tries to ignore the undercurrent of guilt that emanates from them and the shadows below. His brows are pinched with sadness and concern, and she knows why. His normal coloring has started to return, but his cheeks haven't flushed to pink for her in a long while and she misses that. His dark, silky hair is parted on the left and neatly combed down, but she longs for its usual unkempt flair and she wants to upset it with her fingertips. He may look tired and burdened, but he is beautiful.
She closes her eyes for a second, concentrating on the rhythm beneath her hands. It's strong and steady…not like it was a week ago. She silently wishes she could stay hidden in her room with Stiles, spend the time just looking at him and feeling his heartbeat…rather than facing what is in front of them – the day she has been dreading – Allison's funeral.
"There… Done," Lydia announces, offering him a smile and trying to make her voice sound lighter than she feels.
She can't fool Stiles. Though he melts at the contact she initiates and the tender way she is looking at him, he can tell that her smile is forced. It holds not even a glimmer of a genuine Lydia Martin smile. The kind that makes his heart ignite and that makes him glad to be alive, just so he can witness its magic. The kind he would do anything to see again. She is making an effort to be strong for him…and he loves her for it, but he doesn't think he deserves it. It hurts him to see her like this. There is so much pain in her eyes. Pain that he feels responsible for inflicting. He can sense how fraught she is from working to hold herself together. He recognizes her need to seem in control, and he knows where it comes from. She is afraid that if she merely cracks open the doorway to her grief, she may never be able to shut it.
When Stiles feels her hands over his heart, his own automatically encircle her wrists, and he massages the smooth skin there with his thumbs. He wishes soothing her pain were as easy as this. He knows it could never be that simple, that he could never have that kind of influence over her, and it makes him ache for her…even worse than he already aches with his own sense of culpability and remorse.
"Thanks," he replies.
"You're welcome."
The sensation of Stiles's warm hands on her bare wrists has a twofold effect on Lydia. His hands both ease her suffering and fill her with trepidation. His gentle touch stirs something so inherently deep inside her that she can hardly comprehend it. He awakens a part of herself that she never knew existed. She wishes she could tell him what he means to her – that she loves him, but she fears the cost of such a declaration. She has learned her lesson in the most painful way possible – through losing her best friend. Stiles is her entire world now, and she can't lose him too. She hopes she can somehow make him understand this without having to risk the utterance of those words.
Though he is right in front of her, she shivers with longing for him. She gets lost in his honey-colored eyes and drifts deeper into thought, which in turn, incites a bombardment of memories. The flash of images and sound begin their unrelenting attack every time she allows her mind to wander, but with Stiles near, every element is more vivid, more intense, more like the here and now…not just a distant recollection.
She hears Allison's voice pleading with her as clearly as if she were standing right beside her.
Just for one second, please, try and remember… Remember what it feels like. All of those times in school when you see him standing down the hall, and you cannot breathe until you're with him.
Lydia didn't understand then, but she does now. Her eyes start to sting with tears. She hesitates for a second longer before abruptly stepping back and walking over to her dresser.
"Lydia?"
"I forgot something," she deflects.
Stiles has been watching her intently. He sees something that unsettles him – fear. If he is honest, he has seen glimpses of it all week, certainly not just this once. At first, he connected it to the trauma she has suffered, but now he thinks it might be something else. He felt her shudder at his touch, and when he contemplates it more carefully, he can't overlook the fact that Lydia has had the same reaction several times before. It perplexes him because she seems to want…or at least not to mind being physically close with him, but as soon as he returns the contact, her body trembles. He wonders if he is doing something wrong, if he is making her uncomfortable. The unpleasant thought loiters heavily in his mind as he follows her across the room with his eyes.
She picks up a dainty silver bracelet from her jewelry box and sits next to Prada on the window seat. She attempts once…twice…three times to attach it around her wrist, fumbling each time with shaking fingers while she is swiftly gripped with emotion. Tears that increase in both volume and frequency blur her eyes as she attempts, with growing frustration, to secure the clasp to its mate.
"Damn it!"
"Lydia, hang on a sec. Let me help you."
He quickly moves towards her. He sees what is happening. She is changing shape right before his eyes, and he is helpless to stop it.
Just as Stiles reaches her side, the bracelet comes apart and a stream of shining silver beads scatters to the floor.
"Oh no! No!" she cries out, dropping to her knees, working in a panic to gather the metallic droplets as they bounce and roll across the carpet.
There is a solitary force propelling her forward – the frantic need to catch each of them before they are lost to her forever…like Allison. She is beside herself with anger for ruining the bracelet, for letting her emotions diminish her control, for not being careful, for not being strong enough…for letting Allison down.
Stiles knows what this is. For seven days, Lydia has been unfalteringly and worryingly stoic. For seven days she has stepped into her role – the devoted best friend.
When she learned that the funeral would be delayed for one week, to allow Allison's relatives time to arrive from Europe, Lydia insisted on returning to school in the meantime. She ignored the whispers and impolite stares of fellow students as she walked the halls, and politely listened to the barrage of complete strangers who stopped her to offer condolences and share stories about Allison. As much as Stiles knew it had to be hurting her, Lydia nodded and smiled, consciously making an effort to let each person feel as though their words made a difference – even though they barely knew Allison and had probably never spoken to Lydia before. She made phone calls to Allison's relatives in Paris and Lozère because she is fluent in French and because she wanted to help her best friend's dad – a man who has been more like a father to her than her own. She selected the flowers, laid out Allison's clothes, and made arrangements for the service – all so that Chris Argent wouldn't have to face those choices alone. She agonized over just the right poem to recite and studied it until she was murmuring the verses in her sleep – the little sleep she allowed herself to get, that is. She planned and organized to the point of exhaustion, until every decision was finalized, down to the very last detail.
All the while, Lydia consistently watched over Stiles to ensure he was being taken care of and that he was recovering from the ordeal he had been through. He did his best to keep up with her, to be attentive to her needs, while still giving her the space she needed. He had to remind her to eat most days, and it was an effort every night to coax her to sleep. He is convinced that the only reason she did sleep was because he refused to rest unless she at least tried to do the same. They spent each of the last seven nights clinging to each other. The first night, Stiles was required to stay in the hospital for observation. Lydia slept in the chair next to him, with her head resting on his bed and her hand set firmly in his. The next two nights, they dozed off while seated on the couch in the Stilinski living room, her head on his shoulder and their hands intertwined. The one after that, they settled down on the floor of Allison's room, Lydia's head in his lap and his hands woven into her hair. On the fifth and sixth nights, they found respite in the comfort of Stiles's bed, with her head pressed to his chest and his arms locked around her waist. Last night, they rested in Lydia's bedroom, in the very same position. Every one of those nights, she woke from vivid nightmares. He held her in the darkness until she calmed – and that was how they remained, whispering secrets and waiting for morning to arrive.
The pair have spent nearly every minute of every day together, and in that time, it has become abundantly clear to Stiles that anything more than an arm's-length of distance between Lydia and himself now causes him physical pain. Leaving her this morning was especially difficult. He went home to shower and change into his suit as quickly as possible. If he could have skipped that, he would have, just so he wouldn't have to be separated from her. While he is aware their current sleeping arrangement can't last, and that it's an inappropriate time to be considering it, Stiles also can't deny that he has slept better in the last seven nights than he ever has. What's more, now that he has experienced what it's like to sleep next to Lydia, he doesn't ever want to let her go.
In the past week, he has witnessed the unparalleled beauty of her inner strength. She has cared for everyone but herself, without giving it a second thought, because that is who the real Lydia is, and he knows it better than anyone. All of the sweetness and softness that she tries to conceal from the rest of the world, has been unreservedly directed at him. It crashes over him like a powerful ocean wave, and he wants to lose himself in it, in her…just drift away with Lydia.
During the long nights, he has beheld parts of her soul that she shows to no one – the insecurities and doubts, her innermost thoughts, hopes, and dreams. He is so unbelievably grateful that she has chosen to trust him this way, and he can't help feeling more in love with her with every passing second.
Even so, he hasn't been able to stop worrying about her, because for seven days, Lydia hasn't allowed herself to grieve – not really. Sure, she has shed a few tears and has gone through the motions of preparing for the funeral itself, but he can tell that she has been actively working to deny the reality of Allison's death.
The funeral gave her a purpose, something to focus on. Distracting herself with details and redirecting her focus away from the loss, away from the missing link in their lives, has been keeping the deepest parts of Lydia's pain at bay. The parts that cause those left behind to weep at the sight of a sunset that will never be perceived, ache at the trace of a scent one couldn't possibly be detecting, or crumble at the sound of a song that will never again be heard.
But now, all the planning and organizing is done. The funeral is today, and there is nothing to distract her any longer.
The beads are slipping through Lydia's fingers. She feels broken. The fragmented bracelet feels like her heart, and the beads are the shattered pieces of it, which she can't reassemble on her own. She feels lost. She knows she isn't prepared for what comes after today – the unsettling quiet, the empty chair beside her at every moment that she and Allison should be experiencing together (both the significant and the mundane), the memory of a sweet smile, framed by two distinct dimples, that will never grace her presence again. She isn't ready for life after today – when all is said and done, and there will be no denying that Allison is gone.
Stiles kneels beside Lydia and wraps his arms around her as she despairingly fights to collect the remains of her bracelet. He holds her until she stills, then rotates her petite frame until they are facing each other.
Keeping his hands firmly set on her shoulders, he tries to reassure her, "Lyds, it's alright."
"No, it's not," she weeps, holding up her forearms, furiously clutching two fists-full of beads, squeezing so tightly that her hands have gone white. "Stiles, look what I've done! I've ruined it. I can't go without— She gave it to me…and I destroyed it. It's the last thing she gave me, and now it's gone! What am I going to do?" Her eyes are wide and impressed with panic, her cheeks are turning pink, and she is pursing her lips so tightly that they drain of their natural rosy tone.
Stiles realizes she is holding her breath and actively works to calm her, cupping her face as a flood of tears slip through her eyelashes and dampen his hands.
"Lydia, look at me. Shh, look at me. Shh, Lydia…it's going to be alright. I can fix it… I'll fix it for you, I promise. Just breathe… I need you to breathe for me."
She finally exhales, body tremoring with sobs she can't withhold.
"That's it… Again… Breathe in…and out with me," he coaches.
Her face seems to be pleading with him, and the tugging in his chest sharpens. He would kiss her right now if he thought it would help. He is sure it won't.
Lydia stares at him hoping he will read her mind the way he has a million times before. She wishes he would kiss her right now and breathe the life back into her. She feels like the only way to fill her lungs with air, is if Stiles breathes it into her.
He releases her face and gently takes hold of her hands with his own. "Let me see," he says.
She reluctantly opens her violently vibrating hands to reveal dozens of beads. The glossy particles rattle around in her palms, dancing over eight crescent-shaped cuts in her skin, which have inadvertently been carved by her fingernails.
"Oh…Lydia."
She turns away from him, seemingly embarrassed at the unguarded show of emotion she has unleashed. He doesn't want her to drift any further, so he touches her chin to bring her back.
"It's okay. Here, let me take those."
She immediately closes her hands and pulls them away, while vigorously shaking her head. "No, they're all I have."
"Hey, you can trust me. You know that. I'll keep them safe. I promise. I'll keep them safe, and I'll fix your bracelet.
"But… But there's no time, and I need to have them with me. I can't go without…"
"Okay…okay…um…" He quickly scans the room. "What about…" When his eyes pass over her, he spots a delicate silver chain around her neck, and it gives him an idea. "Can I have your necklace for a minute?"
She looks at him curiously but nods. He leans close, gently gathering her hair in his hands and draping the mass of auburn waves over her right shoulder. He slowly reaches to the nape of her neck, where his fingertips hesitantly graze along the skin there as he locates and unhooks the clasp.
"Hold out your hands," he instructs her.
Lydia complies, shuddering as his breath passes over her ear and the soothing heat of his hands leaves her skin.
Stiles takes the largest bead from her palm, slides it onto her necklace, and holds the newly minted jewel before her. "Here, now you have part of it at least."
She looks at him with awe and smiles a genuine smile through the steady stream of tears that has been escaping the corners of her eyes. His thoughtfulness touches her heart and sends its pace quickening. As he moves forward to fasten the necklace in place, she is once again aware of the tugging sensation in her chest. She lets it bring her closer until her head is resting on his shoulder.
Stiles is the best thing in her life, the only one holding her together. He is the pure light she so desperately wants to embrace. Her heart swells with love for him.
"Stiles… I…" she starts and stops.
She wants to tell him what he means to her, but fear holds the words hostage, confining them as they struggle to rise up from the base of her throat. She knows it will be the end if she tells him, and she can't let him go. Not when she just got him back – not ever.
"Shh...it's alright," he coos, pressing his cheek into her temple. Then he shifts underneath her, reaching into his jacket pocket for the small plastic case that should have Adderall inside, but is currently empty. "Look… We can put the rest in here 'til later."
Once all of the silver gems are safely inside, he snaps the case shut and replaces it in his jacket.
When Lydia reluctantly lifts her head from his shoulder, Stiles stands and offers his hands. She accepts them, and he helps her up, bringing her into him and cradling her in his arms. As he massages along her spine with his palms, Lydia squeezes his torso. She inhales a deep shaky breath, taking in the familiar comforting scent of him. She thinks of how his arms have been around her nearly every night for the past week. It makes her ache for the transient hours before dawn. Those were the hours when time slowed down, gifting her the illusion that she and Stiles were the only two people in the world; the hours that held whispered confidences, tender touches, silent lingering gazes, the warmth of Stiles surrounding her, and the solace of his heartbeat strumming against her ear.
"Stiles, I'm sorry," she confesses into his neck.
Her apology sounds foreign to him, especially when he is the one who is sorry – the only one who should be. If he had just been stronger, none of this would have happened. Allison would still be alive. She and Lydia would be in this room laughing together, and Lydia wouldn't be hurting right now.
He takes hold of her upper arms and arches back to look at her. "Don't you do that. You have nothing to be sorry for. Nothing… Alright?" he says earnestly.
She nods and blinks away a few stray tears. But she is sorry. Sorry that she couldn't protect her friend. Sorry that she will never see her again. Sorry that she can't tell Stiles that he has captured her heart and that she wants him to keep it. Sorry that they may never have a chance.
"Okay, now let me see your hands."
"They're fine."
"Lydia, please let me see."
She self-consciously complies, but as Stiles surveys the damage, wincing at the angry cuts and gliding his thumbs across the backs of her hands, she changes again. She is softer than she was a minute ago. She is looking into his eyes instead of trying to hide from him. It offers Stiles a sense of tranquility because in that moment, he feels like Lydia is anchored to him…and if that is the case, maybe she won't drift very far.
He drops a quick kiss on her forehead. "Come on. Let's get you cleaned up."
Placing his hands on Lydia's waist, Stiles walks her to the adjoining bathroom. He stands behind her and reaches around her body to turn on the faucet, leaning his cheek against hers as he waits for the tap water to warm slightly. For the first time in months, he is nervous being this close to her, but he craves the proximity, nonetheless. He takes her hands and gingerly rinses them clean, working to keep his attention on the task, rather than the feeling of her skin against his.
She watches his face in the mirror. He is worrying his lower lip while he intently focuses on her hands. When her skin is free of all traces of blood, he encourages her to turn and face him.
Lydia is now locked between Stiles and the sink. The porcelain is cool against her back, and he is warm in front of her. In the small space, he appears to be towering over her, and it makes her feel safe. He is so close. She starts staring up at his lips. She wants them on her – wants him to kiss all the hurt away. It can't be as easy as that, but she wishes for it all the same.
She wishes for it, but she waits... Waits as he pulls a towel from the rack and tenderly pats her hands dry. Waits as he puts that same towel aside and laces their fingers together. Waits...closing her eyes as her heart thumps wildly against her ribs, fully aware that her response is the result of escalating anxiety about the funeral, as well as the uncontrollable desire that Stiles kindles with even the lightest contact. Lydia doesn't understand how she can be beside herself with grief and besotted with love at the same time. She thinks she must be wrong on the inside, the poorest excuse for a friend, and it makes her shiver with guilt.
Stiles can feel her inching closer. He can't quite interpret the way she is looking at him. It feels like she is saying more, but he fights the urge to seek the contact he desires – to secure his hands around her waist and squeeze until she is pressed against him, to tilt his head down until their faces are millimeters apart, to glide his lips over hers until she parts for him, to mold his mouth with hers until his lungs are tight from a lack of oxygen, to pause for a breath…then begin all over again.
He quickly disregards the possibility that Lydia would want that from him, privately scolding himself for even considering it at such a time. Even if she let him hold her like that, he would feel like he was taking advantage of her…and he would hate himself more than he already does, if that is even possible. He thinks he must be evil inside, that maybe the Nogitsune changed him permanently.
He reigns himself in, decides to show his affection by kissing her hands instead. It seems safer, more acceptable, but then he feels her quiver another time and realizes that even such a reserved offering is a mistake.
"Stiles..." she sighs.
"Yeah?" he whispers as his lips remain frozen against her left hand.
"I can't do this. I can't."
He looks down at her through his long, dark lashes. He assumes she means she wants him to let go, but she elaborates before he acquires the willpower to move.
"I can't say good-bye to her."
He feels a momentary reprieve; perhaps he hasn't overstepped. He steadies himself, hunching down, so they are face to face.
"You don't have to. I know it seems like…not enough, but she will always be part of you. Today is about honoring what she means to all of us but…Lydia, you don't ever have to say good-bye to her… She's right here…" he says, running his index finger across her temple, "and she's right here too," he gestures between their two hearts.
She looks at him with such admiration that he can almost believe she feels something beyond friendship for him. As quickly as the thought enters his mind, it departs. He knows that can't be true. It's too much to hope for, especially after everything…everything he has done.
"I'm scared," she confides.
Stiles recognizes that on the surface, she is referring to the funeral and of facing tomorrow without Allison – stepping back into a world that keeps moving forward, while they are stranded in time and worn down with sorrow. But there is a nagging voice in his mind. One which tells him that Lydia is scared of something else.
"I know. So am I, but…it'll be alright. We can do this one last thing together…for her."
As soon as the words pass his lips, he questions why he said one last thing. He doesn't consciously remember choosing the phrase, but those three short syllables echo in his mind and amplify the twinge in his heart.
The way he lingers over the words one last thing makes Lydia uneasy, but the concern quickly slips from her consciousness when Stiles touches her face. She nods at him, astonished at the influence he has over her – not to control her, but to soothe her. If anyone understands the pain of loss, it's him. Even though she can't imagine anything being alright again, she loves Stiles so much that he could tell her the Sun revolves around the Earth, and she would wholeheartedly believe him. As afraid as she is, she trusts him when he says it will be alright.
As his fingertips travel from her cheekbone to her jaw, she unsuccessfully tries to stifle the reaction he triggers. Every second they spend together makes it more difficult for her to keep her feelings to herself. Every cell in her body is calling for her to give in, but there is one much louder voice in the forefront of her mind that drowns out the hope and keeps her silent. The tug of war that is being fought inside of her is unrelenting, and the rope is being pulled so tightly that its tension causes her body to quake every time Stiles touches her.
The closer they get, the more she tenses, and her response leads Stiles to an awful, heart-wrenching conclusion – Lydia is afraid of him.
For a week he has deluded himself into believing he could help her, but the fear in her eyes has only grown. Instead of lightening her burdens and easing her pain, the way he so desperately wants to, he is actually making everything more difficult for her. He grasps that not only is he unable to help Lydia, his very presence hurts her.
The notion inflicts crushing pain in his chest. Of course, he understands why she would be frightened of him. He doesn't blame her. How could he…after the things he did, the damage he caused? But worst of all, he knows she won't admit it to him. Rather, she'll suffer in silence. She has made a habit of doing so, not just for the past week, but for as long as he has known her. If he confronts her, she will deny it to spare his feelings, but he can't let this continue. He can't be the reason she is suffering. He will do anything…anything to make this right for her.
He knows what he has to do, and now he fully comprehends the unfathomable depths of heartbreak in a way he never has before. His eyes brim with tears while both his mind and heart grapple with the significance of his own words – one last thing.
"Stiles, what is it?" she asks, tone so tender it makes him ache.
"Huh? Uh…nothing."
"You can tell me."
He nervously pokes at his lip with his tongue. "I was just realizing something. It's nothing for you to worry about. We better get going."
"Okay," Lydia concedes, but with the troubling suspicion that something has shifted between the two of them.
Unsure if it's the tears in her eyes or something else, for the first time, she feels like she can't see Stiles clearly. She blinks to restore her vision, but the fog is too dense and he is turning away from her…fading from view.
As he leads her back into the bedroom, she grips his hand tighter, wishing that her love for him could be enough to keep him close to her and protected from harm.
Aware that their time together is short, Stiles squeezes back. It may be selfish and weak, but he wants – he needs to grasp for every last second of closeness he can experience…before Lydia drifts away.
He helps her with her coat, wishing that his love for her could be enough to erase the damage he caused.
When she takes his hand again, he accepts it with a heavy heart.
He feels like he has just reached the end of the dream within the nightmare he has been living.