November (3).
Lydia wakes up with someone's arm thrown over her hips and warm breath tickling the back of her neck. With a groan, Lydia rolls over to find Malia looking up at her with tired, glittering eyes in the darkness.
"'W'at time 's't?" Lydia asks, sleep making her tongue heavy in her mouth.
"Four…ish," Malia whispers back.
"Didn't stay with Isaac?" Lydia yawns.
"Fun to play with, not to eat," Malia grins. Lydia laughs softly and nuzzles her head against Malia's shoulder. Malia presses a kiss against Lydia's forehead.
"Stiles is really great," Malia says into Lydia's hair, running a hand up Lydia's back. Lydia groans.
"What the hell is a Stiles?" She scoffs.
"I can see why he's your Match," Malia continues, resting her hand on the dip in Lydia's waist and squeezing slightly.
Lydia mutters something back, but she's already falling asleep and the consonants all run together. She slips into sleep with her cheek against Malia's collarbone and Malia's shirt curled in her fist.
She dreams about Allison, smiling ghoulishly at her with cracked skin and blood on her hands.
Lydia does not eat at all the next day.
Thursday is one of those beautiful autumn days where the sun sits high and cheery, bathing everything in warm golden light. The air tastes crisp and the cool breeze that blows brings the smell of trees and dew and life with it.
Lydia hates it. She wants heavy clouds and sheets of rain. She wants a cacophony of sound. She wants chaos. Instead, she puts on flawless make up and crowns her head with braids.
She slips out of the apartment before Malia wakes up. She mechanically takes notes through her classes, her back straight in her chair. She tries to smile when her teacher hands back their midterms and she sees her perfect score, but she can't quite manage. She ignores the two text messages from Malia and the eight from Stiles (three of which are just series of random emojis) before sending each of them an identical text promising that she'll still come watch Triskelion practice. Malia responds with a single heart. Stiles tells her that it would have strengthened the novels as a whole if the Golden Trio had been in different houses. Lydia types a two-paragraph response, but deletes it.
She returns to the apartment after her classes and trades in her heels for a pair of sensible flats. Malia walks through the door soon after and drops her bag heavily by the door, immediately pulling Lydia into a bear hug. She holds on tight, squeezing so hard that Lydia hears her back crack.
"You okay?" Malia asks, finally letting go. Lydia gives her a small smile and a nod.
"We should go," Lydia says, her voice small.
"Are you sure you still want to go?" Malia says, her hands firmly planted on Lydia's shoulders and her dark brown eyes earnest. "Say the word and we'll curl up on the couch and eat Phish Food and watch Glee until we fall asleep."
"You don't even like Glee," Lydia responds, letting out a short laugh.
"And I would take that hit for you," Malia nods solemnly.
Lydia thinks of the first time she saw Malia: the new girl striding down the hallway of their high school with her long blond hair wild around her face like a lion's mane and her eyes raging like fire.
"Who is she?" Allison whispered to Lydia, as Malia passed. Allison only had 17 days to live. Lydia curled her fingers in her hair, eyes sweeping over Malia's loose movements and knee-high boots.
"No idea," Lydia responded, turning to smile at Allison. "Let's go found out."
Allison had smiled back—that beautiful, wide smile framed with deep dimples that made Lydia's heart lurch every time—and they had set off after Malia hand-in-hand.
Lydia shakes her head, Allison's smile still dancing in her memory.
"No, let's go," She says, trying to smile as she slowly shrugs out of Malia's grasp and grabs her purse from the dining room table. "It'll be good to do something, you know?"
Malia smiles supportively, picking her bag up from the floor and slinging it over her shoulder. She takes Lydia by the hand as they leave the apartment and, though Lydia appreciates Malia's warm hand, she can't help but remember Allison's cold, calloused fingers and they way they fit so neatly between her own.
The practice space they use is in the storage basement of an old warehouse. They slip the owner $200 every month and he lets them fill the space with ratty couches and old gear. He even lets them tap into the power for free. Stiles suspects it might have something to do with the way Derek smiles at him when he casually slides the envelope of cash over. He really hopes they get to keep the space when Derek leaves.
Stiles has already been there for an hour, trying to make the place presentable. He's already swept (three times) and rearranged the couches (twice) and he's just itching to organize the instruments but he knows that Scott has an ironclad rule against anyone touching his guitar (he moves Isaac's bass two feet to the left just for laughs anyway). By the time Isaac and Scott finally show up, Stiles is too excited to play anything on the right rhythm. The sticks keep skittering out of his hands and tumbling to the floor.
"Okay, you seriously need to get your shit together," Isaac says after the fifth time Stiles drops the beat.
"He's just nervous because Lydia's coming," Scott says before Stiles can respond. "But yeah, Stiles, you need to get your shit together."
Stiles throws his hands up.
"I'm not nervous," He scoffs with a pout.
"Nervous is your resting state," Scott responds casually, reaching into his pocket to pull out his phone. "Also, the girls are here."
Stiles stands up so suddenly that he knocks over his stool.
Kira walks in first, her guitar case slung over her shoulder. When Scott opens the door for her with a goofy grin across his face, she immediately stumbles and smacks into the doorframe. She walks past Scott with a red face, her head down. As Lydia steps into view, Stiles is struck by how small she looks. He doesn't think he's ever seen her in flats and the five-inch difference is jarring. Malia trails behind her, tall and bronze. They're holding hands, but Lydia lets go once they step into the room. Stiles bounds out from behind his drum set and stops short of Lydia, searching her face. She gazes up at him, looking everywhere but his eyes.
"Are you okay?" He asks her, his voice low. He thinks about putting his hands on her shoulders, but crosses them tightly over his chest instead.
"I'm fine," She says, too quickly. Stiles squints, but doesn't respond.
"So we're supposed to sit on those?" Lydia asks, staring at the couches with a wrinkled nose.
Stiles sticks a lip out in fake indignation.
"These are the best couches in the land, Lydia," He says, smacking the arm of the couch for emphasis. He ignores the plume of dust that rises when he does so. "The best couches in the land."
"How much area does this 'land' cover?" Lydia asks, the ghost of a smile on her lips. "Because it doesn't even seem to stretch as far as this room."
Malia flops down on the couch, grinning up at Lydia as the worn cushions creak beneath her. She pats the spot next to her with a raised eyebrow. Lydia rolls her eyes, but perches herself on the edge of the seat. Stiles spends a moment too long looking at Lydia's profile before he walks back to his drum set.
Isaac saunters over to the couch and sits on the arm, leaning towards Malia with a smile while plucking out the bass riff from Final Fantasy 7. Scott and Kira have their guitars out, both kneeling on the ground while Scott directs her on how to play their most popular song, "Why Are We Yelling Again?" Stiles starts beating out a steady rhythm to help, keeping his eyes on Lydia. She's smiling thinly at Malia and Isaac's conversation, but when she looks away her smile slowly fades. Stiles feels his heart stutter in his chest at the look on her face. She looks up at him and he winks at her, stumbling momentarily on the beat. She offers a small smile in return and shakes her head, averting her gaze.
They jam for twenty minutes while Scott teaches Kira the basics of their songs. Stiles steals glances at Lydia when he can and makes a few snide comments at Isaac to try and make her laugh. Finally, Scott and Kira stand and together, the four of them play the song from the beginning. Kira shreds like a master on the guitar, her fingers flying over the strings. She keeps pace perfectly, her eyes on Scott's fingers, her lips pressed together in concentration. She fumbles near the end, struggling to catch up as the rhythm gets more erratic.
"I'm sorry," She says with a grimace when the song ends.
"No, no you were great!" Scott responds, nodding enthusiastically. "The end is hard! You'll get there, don't worry."
Kira smiles shyly, ducking her head to hide her blush.
Stiles almost misses what happens next.
Scott puts his pick between his teeth and shrugs out of his jacket, turning to toss it onto the free spot on the couch. As he turns back around to Kira, Lydia stands and lets out a choked scream. Her hand slaps over her mouth, her wide eyes staring directly at the red Mark on his bicep. Everyone freezes, their eyes on Scott. Scott looks confused, his mouth hanging slightly open. Malia rises slowly, her gaze flitting worriedly between Lydia and Scott.
"What's going on?" Isaac finally asks.
Scott looks down at his Mark, comprehension dawning on his face. He reaches a hand up, his thumb touching the arrowhead gently.
"Did you know—?" He manages.
Malia tilts her head in his direction, focusing on Lydia as she breathes out a single word:
"Allison."
Lydia turns on her heel and runs out the door, slamming it shut behind her. She feels like she's going to be sick. She runs until she's outside, gulping in deep breaths of chill air. Her face is red, her chest tight from the sobs threatening to spill out. She slams her back into the brick face of the building, squeezing her eyes shut and trying to steady her breathing. She remembers, vividly, kissing Allison's Mark the day she left for the hunting trip that would take her life.
"It'll just be for the weekend, Lydia," She had laughed, brown eyes shining, leaning out the passenger side of her father's car.
But it wasn't, it was forever, and Lydia thought she would never see that arrowhead again until Scott McCall had turned around and there it was on his fucking arm.
Beside her, the door opens. Lydia's head shoots up, expecting Malia or even Stiles. Instead, Scott emerges, his jacket back around his shoulders and Lydia's coat in his hands. He walks up to her and stands uncomfortably on the pavement for a silent moment before he holds her coat out to her.
"Do you want to go for a walk?" He asks.
Lydia stares up at him. She tries to image Allison blushing when she looks up at Scott's crooked jaw, her fingers bunched in the fabric of his shirt. Allison holding hands with Scott as they walk down the street, their shoulders knocking affectionately together. She tries to imagine Allison Argent loving Scott McCall.
She nods and takes her coat.
Scott leads the way, his hands shoved deep in the pockets of his jacket. Lydia falls into step next to him, gaze towards the pavement. After four blocks she glances up at him. He's clenching his jaw as he walks, his eyebrows drawn together. After two more blocks, Scott gently touches her arm and leads her into a small deli on the corner. Lydia takes a seat in a worn green chair next to the window while Scott goes to get them each something to drink. Lydia pulls out her phone and scrolls to her pictures, opening the folder that she never opens. When he returns holding two lattes with identical heart patterns sitting neatly in the foam, Lydia slides the phone across the table to him. He looks down at Allison's face for the first time, his eyes glowing in the light of the screen.
Lydia watches Scott as he sees his Match for the first time, curling her hands tightly around the ceramic mug to keep them from shaking. Scott's expression melts as he scans the small, blurry photo of Allison Lydia took one lazy Saturday they spent together. Allison is flooded in early morning sunlight, her sleep-tousled hair elegantly framing her face. Scott drinks her in, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth as he lets out a deep sigh. Finally, he shakes his head and pushes the phone back across the table to Lydia.
"I know this is hard," He says, his voice low. "But…but what was she like?"
Lydia's heart swells and aches inside of her chest. She takes a deep breath. The foam in her latte is melting, the heart distorting. Lydia clears her throat, trying to swallow the lump there. It's been so long since Lydia has actually talked about Allison. She's spent so much time talking around Allison, tiptoeing the edges of her ghost because the weight of her name was too much to bear. But Scott McCall was Allison's Match and he would never see the light in her eyes when she laughed and it just wasn't fair.
"She was brave," Lydia starts. "And kind. And she could be stubborn when she wanted to be. She liked green candy the best, she hummed when she cooked, and she made the worst spaghetti I've ever tasted but she was so proud of it that I told her it was the best spaghetti in the world."
Lydia smiles sadly, remembering the chewy, undercooked pasta Allison had put in front of her. Tears form at the corners of her eyes.
"She loved her parents and her aunt and she loved dogs, but she never got to own one because her family moved a lot. She was terrible at Chemistry. She liked listening to folk music from the 70s when she was sad because she said it made her think of rain. She was so beautiful. Just…just so beautiful. She was…she was…"
She remembers Stiles at the park, his face open with old hurt in the yellow glow of the street lights.
"She was the sun."
Lydia swallows hard. Tears have overflowed onto her cheeks. She reaches up to wipe them away with her sleeve. Scott immediately reaches over and wraps his hand around hers. He radiates heat, his palm pleasantly warm against her skin. He squeezes slightly and she squeezes back, grateful for the contact.
"You loved her a lot," He says. Lydia nods, sniffing loudly as she tries to slow her crying.
"You would have loved her, too," She replies, scrubbing her face again. Scott drops his gaze to his untouched latte, the heart melted away into an undecipherable blob.
"I know," He mutters. With his free hand, he reaches up and rubs the spot on his arm where his Mark sits under the fabric, faded and red.
They sit like that, hands together, until their untouched lattes turn cold. Finally, prompted by three texts from Malia, Lydia suggests they head back to the practice space. Scott casually puts an arm around Lydia's shoulders as they walk.
"You know," Scott says, smirking down at Lydia. "Stiles will only be more adamant about fate now."
Lydia rolls her eyes, but finds herself smiling anyway.
"There's no such thing as fate."
