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Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside,
you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing.
You must wake up with sorrow.
You must speak to it till your voice
catches the thread of all sorrows
and you see the size of the cloth.
Then it is only kindness that makes sense anymore,
only kindness that ties your shoes
and sends you out into the day to gaze at bread,
only kindness that raises its head
from the crowd of the world to say
It is I you have been looking for,
and then goes with you everywhere
like a shadow or a friend.
-Naomi Shihab Nye, 1952
Lydia's perception of everything since she and Stiles arrived at the cemetery is best described as an out-of-body experience. She has no concept of how much time has passed since they neared Allison's grave site. She felt Melissa McCall's embrace – warm, and strong, and inherently maternal. She knows she spoke to several people – Scott, Chris Argent, Kira Yukimura, Isaac Lahey, and a few of Allison's relatives who introduced themselves. She doesn't recall any of the conversations, but she knows she was straining to hear each of them over the sound of the wind rushing through her ears.
Phrases that complete strangers have casually tossed at her for one week such as in a better place, part of a bigger plan, and forever young…reverberate in her head. Those words provide no comfort. They merely incite fire in her chest.
What better place is there for Allison than alongside her friends and family? Lydia wants Allison with her, with Scott, with their tight-knit pack, with her dad, who has already lost far too much in his life.
What bigger plan could there have been for Allison than for her to spend as many days on this earth as possible? She made the world better simply by being in it.
What is the good in being forever young? Allison's life was cut short. She should have been able to live a long life; to save people, to change the world with her grace, kindness, and determination. What could have been better than that?
Lydia feels herself spiraling into despair. Tears that she refuses to let escape sting her eyes.
In a blur of grey and unrelenting gloom, what she remembers most clearly is Stiles. Stiles standing as close to her as possible. Stiles holding her hand and squeezing it tighter, precisely when she needs reassurance.
She remembers the moment she moved away from him to recite the poem she chose for Allison, the same moment when her mind went completely blank...
She remembers looking at Stiles, and him looking back at her, energy of his focused eyes lifting the words from her throat and drawing them across her lips as he silently mouthed them along with her. Stiles saved her – his beautiful soul, anchoring her heart to his with every syllable of that poem. He had paid attention when she was studying the lines, he listened, he remembered. She loves him more in this moment than she ever imagined she could love someone.
Now, Lydia watches as a sea of faces depart from Allison's gravesite. All that are left are six: Chris, Isaac, Melissa, Scott, Stiles, and herself. She stands between Scott and Stiles. Scott is on her left; he holds her hand firmly in his. From time to time, he lifts their joined hands to wipe tears from his eyes. She can't look at him. He has lost his first love…the girl he will always love. Ever since Stiles showed her what real love is, Lydia finally understands the gravity of such a loss. She knows that Scott's heart is broken in a way that can never be mended, and her own sympathetically breaks along with his. She is grateful to him for being so good to Allison. He made her happy, made her feel loved, didn't shy away from her strength or independence. He understood when she needed time apart from him and accepted it, even though it hurt him immensely. Lydia's throat tightens at the thought, but she does not cry. She can't. Not now.
Instead, she thinks of every good thing about Allison and their friendship to keep herself from crumbling. She remembers the instant connection she felt on the day they met. She remembers study sessions that turned into sleepovers, and fits of giggles that gradually morphed into hushed secrets and shared confidences. She remembers her first day back to school after she was bitten, when Allison walked beside her despite everyone's stares. She remembers her friend holding her hand as she confronted Peter Hale with questions about her banshee abilities. She remembers feeling like her childhood wish of having a sister had actually come true. She remembers when Allison told her that Stiles was going to be her date to the Winter Formal, and how his words and actions that night left a lasting impression on her heart.
Don't frown Lydia, she hears Allison say, someone could be falling in love with your smile.
Stiles stands to Lydia's right. He has his arm securely wrapped around her waist. Intermittently, the pressure of his fingertips wanes and waxes against the curve of her hip, pulsing like a heartbeat. The quiet communication links her to the present – to him. It prompts her to keep breathing, if for no other reason than to stay with him. Her arm is tucked inside his jacket, where she grips a handful of his shirt so tightly that her fingers have gone numb. She leans into the crook of his shoulder drawing strength from his unwavering support.
Lydia can hardly fathom how she would have made it through the last seven days without Stiles. She is so immensely grateful to have him close. His limitless patience and constant willingness to see the best in her have given meaning to the last year of her life – a time when everything she thought she knew was flipped upside-down, a time when she departed from the ordered world of the explainable and entered into the chaotic world of the supernatural. Stiles has made all of that worth going through. He drowned out the madness with his unconditional kindness and pure heart, and in doing so, he made countless good things possible – things she never thought she would experience – like learning to put her trust into the hands of a boy who actually respects her, having someone fully understand her mind without being intimidated by it, sharing a kiss that opened her eyes and filled her atmosphere with light as bright as the sun, and falling irrevocably in love with a best friend.
Stiles feels Lydia lean into his side. The contact thaws the ice that has been crystalizing around his heart and constricting its rhythm. The effect she has on him is fiercely powerful. He has known this for years but has never been as supremely aware of it as he is in this moment.
He thinks of how long he has loved her. In truth, he can't recall a time when he didn't love Lydia – his understanding of love so inextricably linked with her that his mind implants her presence into memories that formed before he ever heard the name Lydia Martin. In all that time, no one else could even come close to evoking the affection he has for her. For him, it has always been Lydia...and it will always be Lydia.
His love for her expands with every breath she takes. It strengthens with each of her words, expressions, and movements. He can feel it growing inside of him, saturating his heart with warmth, teaching the muscle to stretch and transform, until it braces against ribs which feel too weak to contain the battered sinew within his chest. Stiles loves Lydia so much that it hurts, but he wouldn't have it any other way. Even within the pain, he is never more alive than when she is with him.
When he turns his head to glance at Lydia, the figure beside her comes into view. Stiles stomach twists as he recognizes all of the pain he caused Scott, both physically and emotionally. He can feel a heavy blade in his hands, slick with his best friend – his brother's blood. He remembers the rush of power that flowed through his veins and the agonizing guilt that was trapped behind it as his own hands yielded to the Nogitsune's will. Though he wasn't with Scott when it happened, he can see him cradling Allison's crumpled form on the ground in the middle of the night. He can hear him crying, then and now.
He suddenly remembers how brave Scott was when Allison broke up with him. He was able to give her the time she needed to heal. Stiles doesn't know how he could survive the same when the mere thought of being without Lydia is about to bring him to his knees. The notion gives him a deeper appreciation for the inner strength Scott possesses. It's more, he thinks, than he can ever hope to equal. Scott has lost Allison, his first love…the girl he will always love, yet somehow, he is still holding on, still keeping his pack together, still standing.
Another swell of guilt hits Stiles. He thinks if he had been stronger, Scott would never be suffering as he is right now. He believes that his own weakness has hurt two of the people he loves most in the world. There is no way to undo the harm and no way he can possibly be worthy of their forgiveness. There is so much activity in his mind, it takes Stiles several minutes to observe that almost everyone has left.
After a long silence, Chris moves towards the coffin. He bends down and kisses it, letting his hand linger over the place where Allison's heart would be. When he stands in front of Lydia, she observes that the firm resolve in his expression has begun to break. He sets his hands on her shoulders to steady himself. Such a rare display of vulnerability from Chris is inconceivably profound to her. Her lips begin to tremble, but she focuses on Stiles's hand contracting against her hip and maintains her composure.
"Take as long as you need," Chris says, as he kisses the top of her head.
Lydia watches him move over to Scott, Melissa, and Isaac. The four are leaving together. She feels Scott tighten his grip on her hand one more time before releasing it. Then he moves around to give her a hug. Her sadness multiplies when she notices how much softer it is than his typical bear-hug type of embrace; the sentiment is still there, but a great deal of energy has been drained from it. She squeezes him with her free arm, never letting go of Stiles in the process. Scott shifts over to his best friend. They hug for a long time. All the while, Stiles maintains his hold on Lydia, his arm solid as steel against her back. When the boys separate, Scott takes a prolonged look at the coffin, then steps away with his head down and shoulders low, sandwiched between Chris and Melissa for support.
Without Scott next to her, Lydia's right side is alarmingly cold. The air temperature has dropped considerably, and she begins to shiver. Stiles protectively reaches across to capture her other hand and pull her towards him. She has been staring at the ground, but she misses his face, so she lifts her head to look at him. His expression is stricken with all the upset of the past few weeks. It mirrors the pain that is already threatening to devour her and amplifies it, because there is nothing worse for Lydia than to see Stiles hurting. His brows are gathered, and his soulful brown eyes have darkened – trademark golden flecks appear to have vanished. His clothing is too neat, too pristine. She wants to loosen his tie and undo the top button of his shirt, so he looks more like her Stiles. He is handsome as ever…but changed – and it scares her.
Don't you leave me too, she almost says.
She thinks he must have read her mind because in a split-second flash, he is her Stiles again. His tired eyes soften and glint with gold as he gingerly uses his palms to push past fly-away strands that the wind has been whipping across her face.
"It's just us now," he tells her.
He traces Lydia's freckles with his fingertips, warmth from his hands melting the ice from her cheeks and emancipating her frozen expression. She knows he is telling her it's okay to let the grief escape, and she trusts him – so she does. The sob that has been clinging to the back of her throat finally crawls out.
Stiles wants Lydia to release the sorrow she has been bottling up. He knows she needs to, but he is not prepared for the sheer agony when it comes. The sound she makes is raw and unguarded in a way he has never heard, and it makes him cry too. He draws her nearer, knowing full well that her flight instinct could awaken at any time. He is relieved when she doesn't attempt to turn away from him.
Lydia doesn't want to run. It's okay for Stiles to see her cry. With Stiles, she doesn't have to hide; she wants to see him, and she wants him to see her. She knows they can help each other. When he pulls her into a hug, she melts into it…reshapes herself around him, wishing never to let go of him or the love he nurtured inside her when the light from his eyes pierced through the shadowed corners of her heart and encouraged it to blossom. A kind of love she didn't believe existed, until he showed her it was right in front of her.
Lydia lifts her head from Stiles's shoulder. His eyes meet hers with such unrestricted intensity that she quite literally feels their souls connect. She parts her lips in a gasp. The words are hanging at the tip of her tongue. She is mindful of the weight of them – nearly ready to spill over. I love you. I love you. I love you.
"Stiles…I…"
He thinks he perceives something other than fear in Lydia's eyes, which are glowing with the purest light and dripping with adoration that shines through her tears. It looks like love. Stiles is so hungry for it to be real that he doesn't trust his own judgement. He is so conflicted – caught between need and want, hope and despair – that he convinces himself it is a mirage; he sees what he wants to see…nothing more. Maybe, he thinks, what he is detecting is actually his own love for her, reflecting back. He realizes anything she says will sound like good-bye and he is not ready yet.
"Shh…I've got you."
Stiles lets the words fall out, and it feels like a promise – one he knows he can't keep. He tries to tell himself that it's not the same as a lie, but he fails. He is reminded of another lie of omission he is guilty of keeping from Lydia, and it haunts him. He doesn't think he is worthy of looking at her, let alone holding her so intimately, but he needs the illusion that he is somehow able to help her just a bit longer, so he clutches her tighter.
Lydia thinks maybe he understands what she was about to say. Stiles has always understood her better than anyone. She believes that even if he hasn't figured it out yet, he must be close. It is comforting and terrifying at the same time. She convinces herself that declaring her love at the wrong time will be the beginning of the end, so she remains silent and grips him more forcefully.
Exhausted from weeks of never-ending hardship, they both sink to the ground, wielding what remains of their strength to cling to each other…for as long as possible.
Afternoon fades to evening, with the inevitability of the darkening grey sky above and the unforgiving cold earth below. The rest of the world fades away. All that remains is a bleak and pallid backdrop, sliced sharply by a spray of red roses. Red – just like Allison's nails, just like the blood she shed for her friends.
Lydia cries. She cries until the front of Stiles's shirt is soaked through with her tears. Stiles massages her back and coils the ends of her hair around his fingertips, all the while whispering tender words in her ear. Together they hold fast, entangled in a mound of grief and unspoken love, until they are burned out, listless, and aching for bed.