I was NOT expecting to update this quickly, but then I got stranded in an airport, so I figured it was as good of time as ever to write a bit! I know I left everything all nice and fuzzy with Stiles and Lydia in the last chapter, but that was mainly because I realized I had an exponential amount of angst and was only planning on piling more – one of which I think I'm going to do in this chapter and I'm sorry for that, but the plot much go on!

Let's get started!

Chapter 8

It's Terrible to Have Hope

"Do you not want me here?"

Nathan's question startles Stiles, who is perfectly enjoying the quiet game of catch the two are indulging in. They're laughably close because Stiles ribs are giving him more trouble than he cares to admit, but he doesn't want anyone fussing over his injuries. So when Nathan revealed he had a soft spot for baseball, he wasted no breath asking him if he'd want to play catch.

He instantly regretted this decision when his ribs scream at him after the first throw.

It's a good thing Nathan isn't particularly perceptive. He's perfectly comfortable ignoring Stiles' wincing as he throws the baseball. Stiles can already tell he's calmed down a bit, that carefree smile back on his face. It's worth the pain to see the ten-year-old actually acting like a ten-year-old.

Stiles contemplates his answer for a moment, but then he realizes there's really no point in lying to kid like Nathan. "Yeah, but not for the reasons I'm sure you're tormenting yourself over." Stiles says, tossing the ball back to him. "I want you to be safe, that's all. It's not safe here in Beacon Hills."

"Maybe I don't want to be protected," Nathan mutters. "Ever think of that, Stiles?"

"Well, congratulations, you're an idiot." But Stiles knows exactly what to say because it'd be what he'd say to himself (if he ever listened). "But if you're entirely unmoved by your own safety, you should think about your mother. If you died, she'd probably have a hard time losing her husband and her son in the same few months."

"You don't know that. Seeing as her son killed her husband." Nathan murmurs, weakly throwing the ball back at Stiles.

Ay, there's the rub.

"I think you need to give your mother a little more credit. I think she can figure out that it wasn't you, it was the Nogitsune."

"Do you believe that about your Dad?" Nathan asks. "Scott?"

Stiles clenches his jaw. Nathan always knows what to say to make Stiles' insides squirm.

"That's what I thought."

Stiles sighs. "I just think you need to put a little more stock in your life. Because I do. And like you said, we're a team. And teams stick together otherwise, there's no team, right?"

"You sound like an idiot." Nathan says, but he laughs.

Nathan peers at the ball in his hand and looks at Stiles, all humor gone from his eyes. "I hated my mom so much for dragging me around the country, finding all these dead people. I hated her so much. But I'm so happy she did because I found you." Nathan says. "And I don't know what I would do without you, Stiles." The small kid says softly. "You make surviving everything not as bad, maybe even a little better. A lot better, even. I've never had a brother before, but I think I love you enough for me to pretend."

Stiles doesn't know what to say. His heart aches with the words that he desperately wants to hear over and over again. His chest warms and he tosses the ball. "Right back at ya, kid."

XXX

Scott's changing from lacrosse practice and for the first time, Stiles joins him after a lengthy run around the track. Coach yelled at him throughout the whole thing, usually taking about how much wasted potential he was. But it was relatively painless and it was nice to stretch his legs like he used to. After putting his headphones and he was able to tune most things out. He didn't hear the thuds of the lacrosse practice, so he didn't hear the dead body of the werewolf he killed.

But in the locker room is a different story. He didn't think much of it, to be honest. He took his shirt off like he always used to, maneuvering around some of the team to get to Scott. Scott's gaze is a little hesitant, but Stiles doesn't think much of it. Scott's acted weird around him all the time these days.

Then, he noticed it wasn't quite as loud as he remembered the locker room being. As he peers around the locker room, he notices that everyone's indiscreetly staring at him as he rummages in his locker for some deodorant. "Look, I know I'm pretty, but what's with all the staring?" Stiles asks with a chuckle.

Scott returns the laugh nervously, his eyes flitting around everyone in the locker room, pleading. That only confused Stiles more.

Except Danny saves him from his confusion, and sends Scott into a panic. "Dude. You have more ink than skin."

Instinctually, Stiles reaches for his back, his fingers tracing over the lines, stopping at where the whipping scars are. His mind travels back to The Haven and all the abuse his back took while it was there. And then the month it took him to find someone to seal his soul in his body, unable for the taking again. The moment of fear he felt before the tattoo artist gave him the sedative, his mind travelling to when the Nogitsune first came over.

So many different marks of pain, all visible from his back.

Stiles finds it hard to look at Danny, but he manages to maintain eye contact. "I never got a confirmation on whether I was attractive to gay guys," he says with a shrug. "I took your lack of proper response as a no, so obviously had to improve."

But as he tries to talk his way out of it, he hastily pulls a wife beater over his head. But the damage is done. No one's looking at him the way they used to. They aren't looking at him like he's the annoying, silly, ADHD kid who talks too much and gets out of hand too quickly. They're looking at him like he's a broken, terrible thing – a product of a cruel world. Something that needs to be pitied.

Stiles hates that look, mainly because he doesn't deserve it.

He quickly pulls a flannel over his head, grabs his book bag and rushes out of the locker room.

"Stiles, Stiles wait up!"

Stiles knows he should wait for Scott, but he plows further ahead. He needs to put as much space between him and the locker room as possible. "Stiles! Stiles, wait up, please man, just talk to me! We'll just talk about it. Like we used to."

"I'm sick of talking, I'm sick of everyone thinking I need a therapy session at all times! I am not broken! Why does everyone insist that I am? It only makes me feel like it's true!" He shouts, stalking down the hall.

"I know, man! Let's just talk. We'll go somewhere and talk about it. Like we used to."

"No!" Stiles shouts. Really shouts. It's filled with frustration and pain and anger and hurt and sorrow and it echoes in the hallway. "No, I don't want to talk! I don't want another therapy session, I don't want any more heart-to-hearts! I want to break things! I want to yell and scream and lose my fuckingmind and have that be okay and have people not freak out that I'm gonna die or whatever. I want to lose it!"

Scott peers at him curiously, a thoughtful look spreading on his face. "Alright then. Let's go lose it." He says simply.

That, apparently, is what it took for Stiles to whirl back around. "What?" He snaps.

"Let's go. Let's go yell and break things. Let's lose our minds."

Which is how the two teenage boys from Beacon Hills found themselves at the bottom of the reserve with an assortment of weapons, booze, and other things littering their feet.

"Are you sure about this, Scotty?" Stiles asks, lifting what appeared to be a sword up to his eyelevel, brandishing to his side. "This has 'bad idea' literally written all over it."

Scott's almost vibrating with excitement. He places a few more weapons at the base of the reserve, leaping back from them. "Do whatever you want! Derek owns this property, so we won't be disturbed. Do whatever you'd like!"

Stiles frowns at the weapons at his feet – deepening when he eyes the Jack Daniels. He's reminded far too much of The Haven. Sure, Scott's not feral, it's not the full moon, and he isn't bleeding out, but it still feels eerily similar. "I dunno. It doesn't seem like a good idea…"

"Which is perfect!" Scott cries. "Because all of our good ideas usually go to shit!"

"Hey!" Stiles snaps. "I'm the one who usually comes up with those."

"It's not your fault Beacon Hills is literally a beacon for the supernatural. Even your obsessive planning couldn't have prepared for half the shit we've dealt with."

"That's true," Stiles mutters. "but it doesn't mean I'm any less offended."

"Then… let it out."

Stiles hesitantly takes in the scene before him. Sure, this is what he wanted, but he isn't sure how to react now that he has it.

But then something rages in his chest. Everything – everything that has happened over the past year or so plays before his eyes, every heartbreaking, frustrating, and soul-crushing moment. And it occurs to him. It's not fair.

He's almost surprised at himself for the thought. It never struck him before this moment. He never really pondered the fairness of the situation because there was always a million things to worry about. But it simply was that: not fair.

Picking up one of the knives on the ground, Stiles twirled it in his fingers a few times before chucking it as hard has he c=possibly could at a tree. It connects with a solid thunk, the blade wedged in the bark. The anger builds up in him and he's seeing red again. "It's not fair." He murmurs to himself, the words even worse when he says them outloud. "It's not fair."

Scott doesn't hear him – or simply doesn't respond, which makes more sense if he thinks about it for a moment. But Stiles grabs another knife and throws it at another tree, the blade imbedding in the trunk as well. "It's not fair!" He screams, reaching down for a few more.

"It's not fair that—" Thunk! "—something used my body to do terrible things! And make me watch!" Thunk! "And then leave me with all the memories! So I have to see my hands doing it every single night!" Thunk! "It's not fair that I can't even look in the mirror anymore with seeing… him!" Thunk, thunk! "And it's definitely not fair that Allison died and I didn't!"

Stiles can feel Scott still, even though he's behind him. He knows it's happening. He knows that he's holding his breath and maybe he hurt him by bringing Allison into it, but he simply can't stop himself.

"It's not fair that I have to keep this kid from killing himself!" Thunk! "I'm barely keeping myself together – who in the hell ever thought this was a good idea?" Thunk! "It's not fair that people like Peter Hale and Kate Argent come back from the dead and important people don't!" Thunk! "It's not fair that I can't sleep anymore! It's not… fuck!"

Stiles yells, reaching down, but realizing all the knives and daggers are embedded in the trees surrounding him. "Fuck," he whispers, feeling the familiar burning of tears demanding their presence to be known. He runs his hands down his face. He's not angry anymore. No, it's much worse than that.

Instead, he feels empty.

Turning around, he looks at Scott, who's staring back at him with wide eyes. "I ran out."

Scott peers at the barren ground. "All that's left is the booze."

"Maybe another time."

"Yeah."

Stiles blinks, a few of the tears falling down his cheeks. "I'm so mad, Scotty. So mad, like, all of the time. But I don't think I deserve to be mad. I don't."

"Stop thinking your feelings aren't valid!" Scott shouts, his eyes blazing a fiery red. "You had your piss-fest, now let me have mine! You matter, fucker!" He bellows, and even the branches quiver a bit. "You matter and I've stayed back, telling myself that you needed time to figure things out yourself, but it's my turn. You matter and you deserve life and all the awesome things and I just can't see why you can't see that!"

"Because it's different!" Stiles shouts, feeling nothing more than the urge to walk over and punch his best friend. "Because you can say all these nice things and all that, but it's different because my hands killed Allison!"

Scott's eyes flashed red. "Shut the fuck up! Don't you dare day thatever again!"

The reserve rattled with the sound of his voice, shaking Stiles to his bones. He isn't sure why everything made him so angry and murderous, but he glares at Scott with a fire Scott hadn't seen in a while. "I'll say it as many times as I fucking want, because it's fucking true!"

Stiles isn't sure what he expected, but having Scott sprint at him at full speed and tackle him definitely wasn't it.

"Shut up!" He growls, pinning Stiles to the ground, holding his wrists in a vice Stiles knows he'll never break.

"No!" Stiles bellows, trying desperately to get out of Scott's grasp, but nothing is helping. He takes a deep breath, calming his obvious trembling. Count to three, Stiles. He says to himself. Remember your training. Werewolves have weakness right in the…

Stiles swings his knee up, slamming into Scott's shin. Scott yelps out in pain, letting go of his wrists and jumping to his feet. But Stiles takes the hesitation to grab his shoulder, pinching hard. Scott makes a noise and Stiles knows he hit the right nerve and Scott's shoulder was tingling. With a calculated swing, Stiles swipes his leg under Scott's and he falls to the ground.

It doesn't go unnoticed that Scott isn't even trying. That he falls with the grace that Stiles used to have. And that pisses Stiles off more than anything. "Fucking fight back!" Stiles shouts, looming over Scott with a fire that rages bright enough to set the sky aflame. "Fight back you stupid son of a bitch!"

Stiles grabs him by the collar of his shirt and slams him against a tree. "Fight back!" He screams in Scott's face, but Scott does nothing but stare intensely back at Stiles, as if daring him to go further. "Why don't you fight back?"

The last part comes out as a half-sob, the last few words catching and breaking. Stiles raises his hand to strike Scott, but can't bring himself to do it, hitting the truck of the tree instead. Tears well in his eyes in a way that he hasn't allowed himself to in a long time and the world around him feels a little blurry. "Fight back," he can only manage a whisper, soon destroyed by a sob that escapes from his throat.

Instead of following Stiles' orders, Scott wraps his arms around his best friend instead. Stiles goes limp in the embrace, sobs pouring from his mouth like he just busted a dam. In a way, he supposes he had. Everything that he ignored – all the pain and suffering from the past months grab him and weigh him down.

For a moment, he allows himself to be lifted up slightly.

Stiles clings to his best friend like he's drowning. Maybe he isn't. Can you drown above water? Stiles isn't sure, but it feels like it sometimes.

"It's okay to be mad," Scott says softly in his ear. "It's even okay to blame yourself and feel guilty. I'd never say your feelings aren't valid. But please let me be here for you. Stiles, please. I can't lose you too. I just can't."

Stiles doesn't know why the words – the words he's hear so many times and ignored – finally get to him. He clutches his best friend's shirt and for a moment everything feels held together. Stiles knows that he won't feel this way in a second – or maybe even two, but he doesn't now and that's what's important. He holds onto that.

Scott peers at his best friend carefully. "Do you…" he stops wincing. But then whatever's stopping him must vanish because he blurts out. "Do you want to go visit her?"

Stiles pulls away from him, unable to formulate a coherent response. "W-What?"

"Would you like to see her? You didn't make it to the funeral and you've been gone for a while," Scott responds sheepishly. "She'd probably kick your ass for not visiting her if she was here."

Stiles can't help but think that's true, but the idea of standing in front of Allison Argent's grave terrifies him to his core.

But when both parties think he's going to say 'no,' another answer slides past his lips.

"Yeah. Yeah, I do."

XXX

Too young.

Stiles stares at the engraving of the girl who stole his best friend's heart and he feels like he's on the verge of breaking. Scott nudges his shoulder, as if to say 'go on – say something,' but the words are caught in his throat.

"I-I can't, Scotty," Stiles says, taking a few steps backwards and shutting his eyes. "I-I thought I was ready, b-but I can't."

His chest tightens. Everything is becoming just a little darker and he feels a stillness in his bones that he he's grown far too accustomed to. "Stiles, Stiles buddy, it's okay. You don't have to be ready. Take your time." Scott's voice is distant and worried. "Are you having a panic attack? Oh shit – should we count fingers again? Stiles, you gotta breathe, just calm down. I'm sorry, I'm sorry I suggested it."

But Scott's terrified ramblings did nothing to make his chest feel loose. Everything's growing dark and before he knows what's going on, he finds himself on the ground. "Stiles, Stiles, stay with me man! Come on!" Scott cries.

But he isn't staying. One could say Stiles was leaving, leaving this mess of death and destruction behind him. Even Scott couldn't bring him out of his panic now.

"Isn't this a touching scene?"

But that sure as hell could.

Stiles sits straight up, waiting for his eyes to readjust to the surroundings, but all he needs to hear is Scott's growling to know it's bad. As the world slowly falls back into place and Kate Argent's voice resounds in his ears., Stiles curses every part of his life at the moment.

Her voice is echoing in the cemetery, but neither of them know where it's coming from. Next to him Scott has shifted, his eyes darting in the area. "Having a panic attack at the burial site of my dead niece. Real classy Stilinski."

"Come out!" Stiles bellows. "Come out, you coward!"

"Coward?" Kate repeats, a throaty chuckle resounding from all areas. "You should really look in the mirror before calling me that."

But she does come out and when she does, Stiles ices over.

She approaches them, fearsome and transformed, with one claw wrapped around someone's throat.

"Stiles," Nathan squeaks, tears streaming down his face. "Stiles, please—"

Nathan stops when Kate squeezes, her claws digging further into his skin enough to draw blood.

"Let him go!" Stiles shouts, a new wave of panic striking him.

Except this one is different.

This one doesn't affect his senses or cloud his world. If anything, it heightens everything, makes everything seem brighter and more frantic and more real. Like he could feel Nathan's terror and Scott's deliberation with the beating of his heart.

"Did you listen to anyone when you ordered the Oni to murder Allison?" Kate asks, a wicked smile curling on her lips.

"Please, just let him go!" Stiles shouts, so not above begging at this point. "Just take me or whatever, but please – he's just a kid!"

"And Allison was just a teenager!" Kate snarls back and Stiles feels the weight of her words and wants to crumble beneath them.

But Kate doesn't allow him anytime to process before plowing ahead. "How does it feel, Stiles? To be so helpless again?" Stiles' heart quickens and he clenches his fists.

Terrible. It feels fucking terrible.

But he simply stares ahead.

"Stiles, I always liked you – murdering of my niece aside." Kate continues, tightening her grip. "But I couldn't help myself when I saw you had a little shadow – probably tricked him with your fast talking that you love so much. Now, I didn't want it to come to this, but when you finally 'figure this one out,' like you always do Stilinski, I know you'll do the right thing."

Stiles can barely get out, "What the—" when she swipes fiercely across Nathan's neck, his limp body collapsing to the ground.

"NO!" Stiles screams as blood spills all over a tombstone, Nathan's terrified eyes forever stilled in that look of mounting horror.

Stiles barely notes Scott sprinting after Kate, the woman fleeing after her deed was finished. He barely registers anything.

The only thing he knows, in a space filled with bodies, there's only one heartbeat.

And unfortunately, it's his.

A/N: … … I know! I'm the absolute WORST. But this was all according to the original plan! It's about to get a little… supernatural (?) up in here.

Please leave a note if you have time! They make me feel all fuzzy.