A/N: This one has not been proofread because I am a lazy asshat. I apologize immensely in advance. :P
Isaac
You can't go back out there.
You know that he's waiting, just on the other side of the door, most likely with a smile that's too sweet, eyes that are too understanding, arms that are welcoming when they shouldn't be. You heard him get up to make coffee and immediately fled to the bathroom, cranking on the shower while staring yourself down in the mirror and trying your college best to not hyperventilate.
This isn't how these are supposed to go. He's supposed to pretend to sleep until it's inappropriate for you to stay and so you 'sneak' around gathering your clothes and once out the door, spend twenty minutes trying to figure out where the hell you are so you can figure out how the hell to get to Stiles' and make sure he made it through the night too. You're not this kind of guy. You don't hook-up with these kinds of boys. Nice isn't your thing.
How did you manage to end up here? You're usually so careful. No one with pets (able to commit long term, caring), no one with a drink limit (controlled, self-conscious, determined), and most definitely no one with a crooked jaw, dopey smile, and big brown eyes (a somewhat devastating combo as it turns out). You remember seeing him from across the room, lounging on a hideous green sofa, drinking something electric blue, and either not noticing or caring that it had similarly stained his lips. You'd thought he was cute, of course, but not so much as to find him hard to sling over the arm of said couch and fuck into oblivion… which can sometimes be a problem.
But he'd been surrounded by a gaggle of brightly dressed girls which meant he was either taken, about to be, or most definitely the kind of boy that you should be avoiding, the kind writes thank you cards and brushes his teeth before going to bed and has a stable job and sends flowers to your not-so-stable one. In short, a boyfriend.
You can't have a boyfriend.
You aren't good for them and they're not good for you. You're not… capable of being what they want or need, and the vast majority of them simply can't keep up with the contradictions that dictate your own. You take deep breaths, shake off the nausea, step into the water, and muffle a scream. It's much too hot, a raw red spreading across your shoulders and chest, but you grit your teeth and take it.
You're going to have to go out there and tell him, have to watch his face fall and his eyes shutter and his smile fade. You'll have to stand there awkwardly as you watch him review the past night in his head, try and find out what he did wrong, when it was absolutely nothing. You're going to have to watch him be infected with doubt, made sick with it, and know that it was you that did it. You are going to be personally responsible for dimming his light, at least for a little while.
You slowly crumple to the floor and press your forehead to the cool tile, closing your eyes and trying to swallow past the panic in your throat. You wish you hadn't drunk as much, wish you could remember what else had happened last night, wish Stiles was here to make it all better—even if that was just by reminding you that things could be much worse. He's your prime example for why you don't date, your main piece of evidence in the case against relationships.
The nicest, most deserving man you know, stuck in a loveless relationship, too afraid to break it off, too unhappy to function, too far gone to really help. All you can do is watch and listen and hope that when it all implodes, he'll survive the fallout. You wouldn't wish it on anyone, and refuse to condemn yourself to the same thing.
Because you know that you don't have the strength to make it out alive.
