fucking perfect - p!nk

People think they know what Stiles takes all those pills for. They think they're for ADHD and Stiles hasn't told them anything different. He just lets them assume what they like. Maybe he does play it up a bit, acting like he actually does had ADHD, so they don't question their assumptions. He doesn't want them to know what he actually takes them for. Only his dad knows. And that's how it will remain.

The pills keep the monster in check. They mean he can get up in the morning, he can make it through the day. They keep it at bay, under control, though this control is tenuous: sometimes he thinks he's going to fall apart and the pills do little to alleviate that feeling. Once or twice he's tried to overdose on them, it that just makes him feel drowsy and doesn't do much else. He counts himself lucky that these bad days don't seem to happen all that often on a school day. Those days where he's been 'ill' and he's taken a day off school? That's just the monster taking over for a bit. That's when the pills don't work and he can't get up. Those are the days when he hates his existence so unbelievably much that it's almost worth taking a blade to his wrists and making two deep cuts and letting all the blood in his body spill out and drain away. But then he remembers how he's all his dad has left. How if he died, his dad would be distraught. So he lives, for his dad. No one else cares enough to check whether he is physically ill when he says he is. No one. Not even his so-called best friend.

He wakes up one morning, feeling completely fine. He glances at the clock. It's 7:30 and he's going to be late. He rushes showering and eating and getting dressed and he's out the house by 8, but he's still not going to be on time. He drives his Jeep as fast as it will go (which, frankly, is still pretty slow) and is at school by 8:15. It's only then that he realises he's forgotten to take his pills. He swears under his breath, but he can't do anything about it now. He just has to hope that today won't be a bad day. Somehow, though, he doubts that that'll be the case.

He's late for chemistry and Mr Harris is on his back about it immediately. "Late, Mr Stilinski," he says, as Stiles sits down, not in his customary place, but instead next to Jackson, which is just his luck. "One more demonstration of tardiness will result in a detention." Stiles doesn't say anything, for once, which seems to surprise Harris. Heck, it seems to surprise everyone one. "You feeling okay, Stilinski?" Jackson asks. Stiles almost says 'no' because his 'completely fine' is quickly deteriorating. But he just nods tersely. Jackson looks away, and Stiles hopes that he's got him off his back.

By the end of chemistry, Stiles doesn't know how he's going to survive the rest of the day. He feels absolutely fucking awful. And he's sinking lower. And he can't help himself. He wants to die.

Scott catches up with him after he leaves the classroom. "Dude," he says. "Why were you late?" Stiles shrugs. He doesn't feel like talking. "Did you see Allison?" Scott continues, ignoring, or perhaps not noticing, Stiles' silence. "She's wearing that necklace I bought her." Stiles smothers a sudden, inexplicable burst of anger. Scott doesn't notice; even with his werewolf senses he's painfully oblivious. Scott blabbers on, unaware of Stiles' lack of words, where he would normally have a sarcastic comment or witty remark to interject with.

Allison joins them at their lockers. Stiles doesn't think they mean to, he hopes they don't mean to, block him out, but, what with their urge to make out all the time, they tend to ignore him. He's feeling worse and worse. He doesn't know how he's still standing up. It seems to be more by force of will than anything else.

He stumbles to his next class. He ends up sat next to Jackson again, which is just his luck. After five minutes sat down, he can't hear the teacher for the rushing, roaring noise which is pounding through his head. He buries his head in his arms and squeezes his eyes shut. He concentrates on breathing: in, out, in, out. He counts to fifty, under his breath; he recites the alphabet backwards. It doesn't help. He's drowning. There's an enormous weight pressing on him. He can just about hear the teacher saying his name, but he can't respond. He doesn't have the energy. He feels someone lift him up from his chair and take his weight on them. He stumbles as they walk out of the classroom, but the person helping him keeps him upright.

A few minutes later, they're sat at a table in the cafeteria. Stiles at last looks at the face of the person who took him from the classroom. He's surprised to see it's Jackson. The surprise must register on his face because Jackson gives him a wry smile. Stiles' heart - which was previously beating regularly, it might be said - skips a beat. This smile looks ten times nicer, and makes Jackson look ten times friendlier (and hotter), than his customary smirk. The smile slips off Jackson's face. "So, I suppose I have the answer to my question. You're not feeling okay, are you?" Stiles shakes his head because, fuck it, there's no point denying it and he's so fucking tired of claiming he's alright when, goddamnit, he's not. "What's wrong?" Jackson asks, softly.

"Everything." Stiles murmurs, unable to do anything but. "I didn't take my pills this morning," he says. "I forgot. I was in a hurry and I completely forgot and now I feel like absolute shit." He chokes back a sob at the end of this speech.

"I take it your pills aren't Adderall, then," Jackson says.

"They're for depression," Stiles replies. Jackson nods, like it explains a lot, and maybe it does. He reaches a hand out and cups Stiles' face. Stiles sighs involuntarily and relaxes into Jackson's touch. "I just want to die," he admits, quietly, to Jackson.

"I don't want you to die," Jackson admits, just as quietly, back.

"Why not? I thought you hate me." Stiles says, confused.

"I don't hate you. I could never hate you," Jackson says. "You mean too much to me. I know I'm a complete douche around you, but please believe me. I like you. A lot. I think you're perfect."

"Me? Perfect?" Stiles laughs, sourly. "I'm depressed and I pop pills to keep myself sane. I'm nowhere near perfect."

"You're perfect to me." Jackson admits. Stiles raises his head from where he had been staring. He looks at Jackson. Jackson's hand is still cupping his chin. He rubs his thumb over Stiles' cheek and leans forward. He allows their lips to brush, then pulls back to gauge Stiles's reaction. There's a small smile pulling at Stiles' lips. His eyes are closed and, slowly, he opens them. "If you're going to kiss me, you might as well do it properly," he says. Jackson smiles back at him, genuinely, and kisses him again. When he pulls back, Stiles is smiling. "Thank you," he says.

"For what?" Jackson asks, brow furrowing in confusion. Stiles lifts a hand and smoothes out the crease.

"For making me feel better," he explains. Jackson kisses him, lightly, on the lips.

"Anytime."