Stiles pulled into the empty driveway, feeling his spirits drain as he turned off the engine. The silence of the night was comforting, but he couldn't help feeling empty. Why had he run away from Scott like that? Clearly his friend was trying to be nice and supportive, but Stiles felt the need to push him away. He sometimes wondered if he was sabotaging himself. Perhaps he really just didn't want to be happy.

He fumbled with his keys as he made his way from the car to the door, grateful that his dad had left the air conditioning on as his sweaty skin raised with goosebumps. The clock on the wall informed him that Scott had been quite generous by telling Stiles that he'd only been asleep for a few minutes. It had actually been hours. With the thought of Scott's warm embrace still in his head, Stiles stomped up the stairs and into the bathroom, tossing his tank top on the stairs along the way. Brushing his teeth, he looked at his face, trying to figure out why he was pushing away his best friend. Few people were nice to Stiles, and he wished he'd had the wherewithal to express gratitude to the one person who went above and beyond. Yet he hadn't even thought to offer him a ride. After rinsing out his mouth, he continued to stare at his reflection in the bathroom mirror for a few long moments.

Satisfied that nothing on the outside showed how cruel he could be on the inside in his constant running from pain, Stiles went to his bedroom. He didn't bother turning on the light, instead just unbuttoning his pants and letting them fall to the floor on his way to the bed. Before he hit the mattress, he opened his window to let some air into the room, since the air conditioning hadn't been working on the second floor. He reached under his bed in the dark, pulling out one of the lighter sheets from the area under his bed as he flopped down onto the comforter. The cool sheets felt soothing on his warm, sticky skin.

He thought about Scott, sighing contentedly. His best friend had managed to do exactly what he needed, doing everything exactly right. He was there for Stiles, being understanding but not pushy, and never making Stiles ask for what he needed. Yet all he'd gotten in return was a rebuff. Stiles thought of Scott showing up in his room, once again anticipating his needs before Stiles even knew them. He imagined the boy crawling through the window, his feet bare since shoes only ever got in the way of his running. His tank top clung to his sweaty torso, and his shorts were splattered with mud from the forest floor through which he'd run. Even his familiar, albeit sweaty, smell was comforting.

A sudden depression in the bed made Stiles' eyes flicker open, awakening from his pleasant dream. Somehow, this dream had become a reality. As if conjured from his imagination, Scott was crawling onto the bed next to Stiles. His expression was somber and understanding as he lay face-to-face with his best friend. His head still half convinced that he was dreaming, Stiles smiled peacefully, his friend's presence putting a rest to the turmoil over his angsty denial in the graveyard. Scott smiled back, one hand slipping to Stiles' ribcage and letting his thumb rub back and forth across his skin. The touch of his hot skin and the soft touch of his breath on Stiles' neck lulled the boy back to sleep, feeling as if he had everything he needed right in his bedroom.

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

"...and they lived happily ever after," Mrs. Stilinski finished, closing the book and setting it next to her on the bed. She paused for a moment. "Stiles?"

Her eight year old son looked up at her through half-opened lids. "Hmm?"

"I've been meaning to tell you something," she said, resolute but also clearly nervous. "It's about our family. I... can't tell you much. Not now. But we're kind of special. We aren't like other families."

"Because Dad's a sheriff?" Stiles asked sleepily, surprised at how much more tired he was tonight than usual.

"No, not because of that," she said, having had to explain several times why his father had to work long hours. "Actually, your father doesn't even know how special we are. I don't want to worry him with it. But...we have a special history."

"I don't get it," Stiles replied, his head swimming on the verge of sleep.

"You can read all about it, when you're older," his mother responded, looking at her hands. "But the point is... well, we're different. I want you to go into the attic, and look in the cupboard with the big jar of rosemary. Under a little false bottom under the jar, there's a book. I want you to read it."

"Can I do it in the morning, mommy?" Stiles asked, too tired to move.

"No, honey," she said, looking sad. "You can't look at it for a long time. Not until you find your love. I don't want you to read it until your soul mate needs you."

"What?" Stiles asked, confused and tired.

"One day, your soul mate is going to need you. A lot. And you're going to have to save them. I want you to read the book then, and use it to help your loved one," she looked into his eyes as she spoke, a certain sadness in them. "It may mean much more than you think."

Stiles was quiet for a minute, trying to take it all in. "What if I forget?" he asked, wondering how long it would be before he fell in love.

His mother smiled. "You won't forget. But you also won't remember," she said cryptically, earning a confused frown from her son. "Not until you need to. You should live a normal life until then. So you won't remember any of this until the day you need it. I'm going to... wrap you up, sort of. It's called binding. You'll be safe and snug until then." She leaned down, kissing his furrowed brow with a smile. Then, she waved her hand over his eyes. Before the darkness closed in, he saw a clear rock nestled in the palm of her hand as she waved it over his eyes.

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

Stiles woke up with a start. He felt hot and a bit sweaty, though not unpleasantly so. His sheet was wrapped around his feet, tangled. Another pair of feet were tangled in the white linen, with hairy, tanned toes poking out of the bottom. Stiles arched his neck to look back at Scott, who was pressed up against his back. In their sleep, they had somehow managed to kick off the sheets and arrange themselves in a spooning position. Scott's heavy arm was draped across Stiles' chest, his bare torso hot and sticking to Stiles' back; their combined body heat without any air conditioning had made quite a warm situation. He enjoyed the sensation, though, feeling protected and close to his best friend.

However, something seemed amiss. It took Stiles' sleep-addled mind a moment to figure it out. His entire chest and face turned red as he realized that Scott's morning wood was pressing through his shorts, into Stiles' ass. The boy was suddenly very aware of the fact that he was completely exposed except for a woefully small and tight pair of black briefs. Scott's arm hugged the boy close, pressing their pelvises closer together.

"Uhhhh, Scott?" Stiles said, his head turned around. The tanned boy took a few moments to regain consciousness, his head bleary with tiredness.

"Mmmm, yeah?" he asked, his voice soft and confused.

"You're, uh, a little close," Stiles said frankly.

Scott looked up and down Stiles' pale form for a moment, taking stock of their position. All at once, he realized that his boner was grinding into Stiles' ass. He wrenched his body backwards, away from the boy, and fell on the ground with the sheets tangled around his ankles. Stiles flipped over to look at the boy, lying on the floor, his tanned muscles covered in now-cooling sweat, his hair a wild mess, his hard on very obviously tenting his cargo shorts. The pale boy laughed, both realizing the humor in the situation and wanting to break the awkward silence. Scott laughed too, covering his face with both hands as his taut stomach muscles rippled with laughter.

Stiles got off the bed, helping his friend to his feet. The two of them slept at each other's houses a lot, so it wasn't an uncommon occurrence as they aged. Stiles rifled through his wardrobe, picking out some clothes. Scott went through the backpack of clothes he'd come to leave at Stiles', since it was easier than transporting clothes every few nights. As he picked out an outfit, Stiles' mind wandered to his strange dream. If this really were some sort of repressed memory (which Stiles seriously doubted, but the idea wouldn't stop creeping into his mind), then why would he remember it now? Who was his soul mate? This was coming at a time when he felt pretty certain that it was not Lydia, and he couldn't think of anyone else he was close enough to be in love with.

Opening his mouth, Stiles turned around to tell him about the dream, hoping his friend would just tell him that he was being crazy. The words never passed his lips, however. In front of him, Scott stood, stark naked and hard as he sniffed a pair of red briefs to determine their cleanliness. His hard body still glistened with sweat, and his hair in disarray and his face contorted from the discovery that the underwear in his hand had been worn to lacrosse practice before.

"No," Stiles whispered to himself.

"Huh?" Scott asked, dropping the underwear. Stiles trained his eyes away from the form in front of him. Suddenly, inexplicably, it was clear. There was only one person other than his dad who he could rely on. For all these years, only one person had been there for him. The possibility of love hadn't even occurred to him, but since his mom had suggested the possibility, Stiles now realized that the friendship he'd been harboring all these years was something more.

"Er- nothing," Stiles said, keeping his eyes away from the naked boy in front of him. He'd seen Scott naked plenty of times before, but suddenly everything about the boy seemed different. The comfortable, easy relationship now included an element of sexual tension. "I'm just gonna go change...in the bathroom."

Before Scott could question him, he darted out of the door and into the bathroom. Locking the door behind him, he willed his heart to slow down. Surely Scott would be able to hear it. How was he going to keep this new secret from a werewolf? How had his life gotten infinitely more complicated in the last five seconds?

Setting the clothes down, Stiles looked into the mirror. He expected to see a tired, drawn face, haggard from the difficult anniversary the day before. However, his cheeks were pink and his eyes lively with the excitement of a love. How had he never realized before? Stiles just assumed that's how friendship felt. He figured that the element of attraction was just admiration of the way Scott's physique had developed. Had one weird dream really manage to change this much of his life?

His vision blurred, causing his image in the mirror to warp. Stiles furrowed his brow. His vision wasn't blurring. The mirror was. The mirror was melting! He jumped back several feet, staring at the substance oozing down the wall where his mirror had once hung. Gingerly reaching a hand out, Stiles found that there was heat emanating from the liquid mirror. He looked around, trying to figure out what to do. Now that his mind was distracted, he could feel the heat leaving his face, and similarly leaving the mirror. The sticky substance slowed its crawl toward the sink, returning to room temperature. Stiles stepped closer, looking at his now wavy reflection. In reality, the mirror had only sagged a bit before returning to a normal state. Touching it, Stiles felt that it was hard again.

He dressed quickly, leaving the bathroom as quickly as possible. Running down the stairs, he made a beeline for the kitchen. He took a moment, letting his breathing return to normal as he leaned over the sink, trying not to vomit. What the hell had just happened? Possibilities scrolled through Stiles mind, moving faster than he could keep up with. Maybe the sun had just gotten too hot through the window. Maybe it was some sort of freak astronomical moment in which poles switched and weird stuff started happening. Maybe he was seeing things, and nothing had actually happened. He couldn't grasp hold of one thought long enough to make it stick.

Scott cautiously entered the kitchen. Stiles looked up, his eyes desperately seeking some kind of sense in his best friend's face. His heart broke as he suddenly remembered the fact that he was in love with Scott. The boy seemed so perfect, coming through the kitchen with worry on his face. Worry and concern for his friend.

"What's that weird smell?" Scott asked. "It's like... Christmas cookies."

Stiles sniffed the air, still confused. "I don't know. I don't smell anything. But I... something happened..." Rather than try to explain, Stiles took Scott by the hand and led him to the bathroom.

"Oh God, Stiles, I really don't wanna see whatever-" Scott started, stopping when he saw the warped mirror. "What happened to it?"

"I have no idea," Stiles replied. "I was just looking in it and suddenly it started to... melt."

Scott reached out and touched the reflective surface. It looked similar to how magma looks after it cools; a liquid shape but solid to the touch. "It reeks of that weird cookie smell," Scott muttered, almost to himself.

"Dude, get over your cravings, my mirror just went all Dali for no good reason," Stiles said, staring at it.

"I mean, it doesn't make any sense, but... doesn't weird stuff just happen sometimes?" Scott asked, his face taking on the dense look that Stiles had come to know over the years. Somehow, the dimwitted expression made Stiles feel a bit better about being in love with him. It was still the same Scott, and he still felt the same way toward him, he just had a more accurate name for it now.

"I... guess," Stiles responded, ready to just let the situation go. He knew, at least, that he wasn't crazy.

"Well, just tell your Dad when he gets home, I guess," Scott said, still looking at the mirror with disbelief. He smirked. "I mean, it isn't any weirder than having a werewolf sleep over."