Chapter Three

Finally, the sound of Scott's mom's car pulling into the driveway came through the open window. Stiles's entire body tensed and he forced himself to remain still as Isaac and Scott got out of the car, their voices muffled as they made their way up to the front door. There was movement out of the corner of his eye and Stiles looked to see Derek standing from where he'd taken a seat at Stiles's desk. Derek met Stiles's eyes and Stiles had to look away, throat closing.

The front door shut, and there was a beat of silence from downstairs. Stiles could only assume that Scott and Isaac had heard the stuttering beat of his heart and were unsure about how to proceed.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" Derek asked, voice low and quiet even though it didn't matter. The two werewolves downstairs could hear everything.

Stiles stood up, facing Derek with whiskey-coloured eyes that were dark with anger. "Have you changed your mind?"

"No." The finality in his voice made Stiles's fingers clench, hands closing into fists that he wanted to slam into Derek's face.

"Scott," not looking away from Derek, Stiles directed his voice to the open door, "Could you please come upstairs."

There was a brief murmur of voices and then Stiles could hear the sound of Scott's footsteps on the stairs. A moment later he was at the door, eyes moving between Derek and Stiles.

"What's going on?" He asked hesitantly.

Stiles ignored the cold edge of panic that was making his chest tight, focused instead on how angry he was that Derek was putting him through this. Anger that bubbled hot and bright in his throat and made his words harsh and ugly when he spoke. "Derek is trying to break up with me."

Scott's eyes flew to Derek, who met Scott's gaze impassively.

"He says he's done, but he's lying," Stiles continued, venomously. "He's trying to keep me safe so he's lying. You can't let him lie to me."

"Stiles, I—"

"He loves me, Scott." Stiles interrupted his best friend, turning to him with his jaw clenched and stubborn. "He loves me, so he doesn't mean it. He loves me. So he's lying."

Scott blew out a slow breath, taking a step into the room. "What do you want me to do?"

"I want you," Stiles turned to Derek. "To say it. Say you don't love me. And then Scott can tell me you're lying and then we'll be done with this fucking charade. Got it?" He raised an eyebrow at Scott.

Scott nodded, his eyes locked with Derek's. There was a long stretch of silence, Stiles standing rigid and furious between them, until Derek's gaze broke away and rested gently on Stiles.

"I don't love you."

Stiles's fingers flinched at his sides, his only reaction to the words that he hadn't actually thought Derek would say. Numb, he turned to Scott, expectantly.

"I'm sorry, Stiles, I'm so sorry." Scott looked stricken and Stiles stared at him, uncomprehending.

"You're—" He couldn't breathe. "You're sure?"

"He's not lying to you," Scott said softly, moving to place a hand on Stiles's shoulder. He squeezed but Stiles couldn't really feel it, couldn't register the touch. He felt like his body had ceased to exist.

"You should go," Isaac said to Derek from the doorway. Stiles hadn't even heard him come up.

Derek nodded, once, eyes meeting Scott's for a beat before he crossed the room. Isaac passed him the car keys and then his footsteps were heavy on the stairs. The front door opened, closed. Scott's mom's car started up, and he was gone.

"I don't understand." Stiles was shaking his head over and over. "I don't—"

Scott tried to lead him to the bed, but Stiles jerked back out of his grip.

"Don't touch me." His eyes were wide, wild, and his breath was coming short and shallow. This couldn't be real. This couldn't be happening. But Scott wouldn't lie. Scott would never lie about something like this.

Which meant that Derek didn't love him.

Stiles doubled over, hand gripping the back of the desk chair so tight that the wood bit into the palm of his hand, the pain nothing compared to the raw, gaping hole inside of him.

"Stiles," Scott stepped towards him again and Stiles's eyes snapped up.

"Get out."

"Man, look, I'm sorry I—"

"Get out!" Stiles screamed, face contorted.

Scott backed away, hesitating with Isaac in the doorway. "We'll just be downstairs. If you need us."

Stiles waited until he heard them go down the stairs and then he straightened, crossing the room with legs that felt like rubber to close the door. Not that it mattered. Not that they couldn't hear the ragged sound of his breathing as he fought to control it. They could probably even smell the tears that blurred his vision. But he needed the illusion of privacy, if nothing else.

His legs finally gave out and he slid down the door, burying his face in his hands as his entire body shook with sobs that he fought to keep silent.

Stiles dropped into his desk at the back of the classroom with a groan, fingers groping pathetically for the extra large coffee Danny held out for him from the next desk over.

"Thanks," he said gratefully, bringing the cup to his lips and taking a long swallow, not caring that he burned his tongue in the process.

"You gotta get your shit together, man," Danny commented, as Stiles put the coffee down and fumbled in his backpack for a notebook.

"My shit is together," Stiles muttered, dropping the notebook on his desk and going back for a pen.

"Really? Cause it's the second week of college and I don't think you even know what class we're in right now."

"Sure I do." Stiles looked up at the front of the classroom where the professor was fiddling with the projector. Projector. So PowerPoint notes. PowerPoint notes plus Danny meant… okay one of his electives for sure cause Danny wasn't taking journalism, and they only had one class together and that class was—"Astronomy."

"Nope." When Stiles just looked at him blankly, Danny sighed. "It's Intro to Philosophy. Every Tuesday and Thursday at nine."

Right. Stiles knew that. He just didn't sleep well last night and he'd forgot to turn on his alarm so it was Danny's text—asking if Stiles wanted coffee—that woke him up twenty minutes ago. He'd jumped out of bed, dressed in five seconds flat, and raced out of the house. He'd made it to the classroom at 9:00 exactly and was grateful that the professor was having projector problems because he was pretty sure he'd already been in trouble for being late before.

"I'm fine," he said, flipping his notebook open to a fresh page as the professor finally got the computer and the projector working in sync.

"I didn't ask," Danny said pointedly.

Stiles pretended he didn't hear and began jotting down the points on the screen. He was fine. So what if he couldn't sleep until exhaustion hit at four or five in the morning? He had plenty of reading to do for school, so he did it then. And yeah, okay, maybe his retention wasn't great at three am but he still did the reading so that had to count.

And he'd at least made it to the right classroom this morning, so he didn't know why Danny was bitching. He didn't know why any of them were bitching. Last night he'd been about to head downstairs when he'd heard Isaac Skyping with Allison. He'd been ready to tune it out and continue on his quest for a late night snack when he'd caught his name. He'd frozen, head tilted in the direction of Isaac's door and listened with all of his focus, trying to keep the sound of his breathing down to a minimum.

He knew if Isaac paid any attention he'd be able to tell Stiles was practically pressed up against his door, but he was betting that Allison's presence (even over Skype) would be enough of a distraction. And he was right, because Isaac continued without hesitation.

"He's hardly sleeping, and Danny said he was late for class again yesterday."

"That's not exactly cause for concern—college is hard enough to get used to without having been dumped the weekend before it starts," Allison replied.

"Yeah, but that's the thing…" Isaac had lowered his voice and Stiles held his breath, wondering if he'd been found out. "Other than that, he seems fine."

There was a pause, and then Stiles could practically hear Allison raise her eyebrow. "So you're worried because he's not a complete wreck?"

"Yeah."

"You realize how that sounds, right?"

"I know. But you weren't there when it happened—he lost it."

"You said."

Thanks a lot, gossip girl, Stiles thought irritably. Was Isaac telling everyone about screaming, sobbing, brokenhearted Stiles?

"That was it, though. He came out the next day and it was normal Stiles. Like nothing had happened."

"Maybe that's a good thing?" Allison suggested. "He could just be trying to put it behind him."

"We're talking about Stiles here. He's not exactly the sort of person who lets things go."

"You might be right. I was chatting with Lydia last night and I think she said she'd talked to him the other day. Maybe he said something to her? I'll ask."

"Thanks. I don't mean to pry or anything,"

Oh great job you're doing there, buddy.

"But you saw him and Derek together, you know what they were like—this isn't some minor high school breakup," Isaac insisted. "This is a lot worse and I think he's just shut down."

Stiles straightened at that, jaw clenching, and had walked back to his room without bothering with the snack.

So between Isaac and Allison—and apparently Lydia, and probably Scott—and now Danny, Stiles was getting pretty pissed at people monitoring his mental state.

The professor was droning on at the front of the classroom and out of the corner of his eye Stiles could see Danny shooting him what were probably meant to be discreet looks of concern. Irritation prickled over his skin. He wasn't some sort of basket case that needed to be watched 24/7 in case he broke down in the middle of class. He was handling this.

Stiles reached into his bag and pulled out an old tin made for gum. He flicked it open, dropping a small, white pill into the palm of his hand before tossing it into his mouth and swallowing it with a generous mouthful of coffee. Beside him, Danny's brow creased with worry.

"I have a headache," Stiles said flatly, and Danny looked away, guilty.

Stiles felt his own twinge of guilt but he ignored it, settling back in his chair and waiting for the effects of the pill to kick in. He knew what he was doing wasn't exactly the best idea.

He'd been standing in his bathroom the morning after Derek had… well, his brain skittered away from the thought… but he'd been staring at his pale, hollow-eyed reflection in the mirror trying to convince himself to brush his teeth and go downstairs to help Isaac and Scott unpack. But there was a horrible, lurching hurt in his chest that made breathing hard. And he couldn't stop replaying Derek's last words, over and over and over again until they became a litany.

Idon'tloveyouIdon'tloveyouIdon'tloveyouIdon'tloveyouIdon'tloveyou.

Forcing himself to move, he'd reached up and swung the medicine cabinet open to get his toothpaste, and there, sitting innocuous and half-forgotten on the top shelf, was an orange bottle of painkillers. He'd gotten a prescription for them last year after the disaster that had been Ray, and he'd only used a couple of them. He'd packed them anyway, figuring that when you ran with werewolves some prescription-strength painkillers were bound to come in handy.

And looking at them, his heart a shredded, bleeding, open wound in his chest, Stiles had thought, hey, they couldn't hurt. He was in pain, and they might kill it. So he reached up, unscrewed the cap, and took one.

After about twenty minutes the screaming agony that he felt with every movement abated. It was there, he could still feel a dull ache running through his limbs and constricting his chest, but instead of the bright and vicious immediacy of the earlier pain it was distanced. Quieter. Even his brain had slowed down—no mean feat—and he'd been able to help Isaac set up the TV and even joke with Scott about the fridge full of nothing but leftover pizza and beer without feeling the prick of tears in his eyes.

So the next morning he took another one.

And that was how Stiles was handling it. Not the best plan, and if anyone found out he knew he'd be in trouble. But it wasn't like he was some kind of pill-popping addict. He'd stop as soon as he could take a breath without thinking about Derek. When he didn't stare unblinking at his phone waiting for a text that never came. When picking up an unfolded t-shirt didn't bring him to his knees, muffling his sobbing in the wrinkled fabric. He just needed something, for now, to keep himself numb.

The bell rang and Stiles closed his notebook. He'd filled three pages with notes, and had no idea what any of them said.

"See you on Tuesday," he said to Danny and, picking up his backpack, headed for the door.

On his way home that evening Stiles stopped at the grocery store. They'd been eating nothing but take-out for the last two weeks, and apparently Isaac was getting sick of it because he'd texted Stiles a grocery list. Stiles had responded asking why Isaac couldn't drag his sorry werewolf ass to the store, but Isaac had said that he would be in class until 5 and if Stiles wanted dinner before 7 he should pick up what Isaac had asked for, or else he'd be stuck eating the leftover ginger beef in the fridge. Stiles conceded the point.

As he wandered down the cool, air-conditioned aisles of the store, Stiles turned up the volume on his ipod. He'd taken the mindless techno off of Jackson's macbook last weekend when he'd been over playing video games with Danny in their dorm room. He found that if he played it loud enough it kept his brain from forming thoughts any more complex than feta is in the dairy section and Isaac wants fresh tomatoes, not canned. He'd spent so much time in grocery stores with Derek that initially he'd balked at the idea of going into one again. But since he couldn't survive on cold take-out alone he'd forced himself to get over it.

His movements were mechanical, though, and twice he'd found himself staring, spaced out, at a shelf in front of him with no idea of how long he'd been standing there. When that happened he just shook himself out of it, turned the volume up again, and kept going. Eventually he'd picked up everything on Isaac's list and, lugging the heavy basket, made his way to the front of the store. He avoided the cashier and went straight to the self-checkout. If he went to a cashier he'd have to take his headphones out. And make small talk. There was no way he was doing that.

Fifteen minutes later, and having only overcharged himself by $7, Stiles heaved his now considerably heavier backpack onto his back and headed towards the house. The sun was beginning to set and he wished he'd brought a pair of sunglasses, the glare making him squint. Once he'd left the supermarket he'd turned his music down so that he could hear the noise of the traffic over the thud of the bass. He didn't want to get hit by a car—or have another run in with Marcus and co.—because his music was too loud.

The neighbourhood they were in was quiet, mostly residential. It was nice. You could always count on nice in California. The weather was always pleasant, sunshine a given. Generally these were things Stiles was easily appreciative of—glad for the bare minimum of seasons, happy he rarely had to wear more than a hoodie or a light jacket even on the coolest of days. But this past week he was thinking longingly of biting cold. Of frigid wind that would chap his skin, the dead crunch of leaves under his sneakers, frozen rain, and hail.

He wanted to feel something that wasn't warm sun on his skin or a gentle breeze that smelled of salt from the ocean. He wanted the epic fury of nature flinging itself headlong into winter. Yeah, okay, he knew it was only September so even if he was somewhere other than California he wouldn't be experiencing fall for another month or two. But that didn't mean he wanted it any less.

Sullenly, Stiles scuffed his feet against the curb as he waited for the light to change so he could cross the street. He should have gone out of state for school. Chicago, maybe. Or Canada. Somewhere cold and gloomy.

From his front pocket his phone began to ring and Stiles groaned, yanking his headphones out of his ears. It was probably Isaac calling to bitch at him for taking too long at the store. He pulled his phone out of his pocket, glancing absently at the display, and then froze. A wild, leaping hope in his chest.

Derek was calling him. Oh god, Derek was calling him to say he was sorry to say it was a misunderstanding, to say he hadn't lied, to say it wasn't real, it didn't happen, to say he loved Stiles—except, no. His brain, sluggish, caught up a beat too late and he realized it wasn't Derek's name on the display, but 'Dad'.

His dad was calling him. Not Derek. Derek wouldn't be calling him because Derek didn't love him. It was his dad on the phone. And Stiles should answer. Because he hadn't spoken to his dad since it happened. He'd been purposefully calling when he knew his dad would be busy at work, leaving careful, vacantly cheerful voicemail messages and then ignoring his phone when his dad tried to return his calls. So he should really get this.

By the time Stiles came to that conclusion the call had already gone to voicemail, and the light had changed. Stuffing his phone back into his pocket he crossed the street, limbs leaden with despair.

Stupid, fucking stupid, to think that it had been Derek. Of course Derek wouldn't call him. A wave of self-loathing at his own, naively hopeful idiocy rose bitterly in his throat. Derek was done; he'd made that clear.

Ignoring the hollow ache inside of him, Stiles jogged up the front steps of their house and pushed open the unlocked door. When Isaac or Scott was home they rarely bothered to lock it because, after all, what burglar stood a chance against a werewolf or two?

"About time," Isaac called from the kitchen. "What did you do, go out and pick the olives yourself?"

"Sorry," Stiles said, tonelessly. He walked into the kitchen and slid his backpack off, resting it on the table as he began to pull out the groceries.

Isaac took one look at Stiles and the smile fell from his face. "I was just kidding."

"Okay," Stiles pulled the last bag from his backpack, avoiding Isaac's worried gaze. "I'm going to go call my dad."

"I'll let you know when it's ready," Isaac offered to Stiles's retreating back. Stiles lifted a hand in acknowledgement and made his way up the stairs.

There was a moment of silence and then Stiles heard Isaac cross the kitchen and turn on the iPod dock, Arctic Monkeys flooding the first floor of the house. Stiles rested his forehead against his door for a moment, grateful. He knew Isaac would be able to hear his conversation with his dad anyway, but he appreciated Isaac giving him the illusion of privacy.

Opening the door, he walked into his room, dumping his backpack beside his dresser and reaching into his pocket for his phone. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath, trying to steady his jittering nerves. He didn't know why he was so tense, didn't know why he'd been putting off talking to his dad for so long. But he knew his dad was probably feeling like Stiles had forgot about him, and so with one last, long exhale he hit the call button and held the phone up to his ear.

"Stiles!" He could hear how pleased his father was. "I just left you a message."

"Yeah, I know. Sorry, I missed your call."

"School keeping you busy?"

"Fairly, yeah. A lot of reading," Stiles walked across the room and sat down on his bed, leaning his back against the wall and feeling himself relax for the first time since he'd woken up this morning. He'd missed hearing his dad's voice. He hadn't realized how much until now. "How about you? How's Beacon Hills?"

They talked for half an hour. About the town, about Stiles's classes, about how the Sheriff had gone over to Melissa's house for dinner the night before and how they hadn't talked about their kids once—this made Stiles grin wide enough that his face hurt, because he and Scott had been trying to fix their parents up ever since Scott had declared that his old father was dead to him and Stiles had offered to share his. They'd talked about it before they left for college, both of them coming to the conclusion that maybe all the Sheriff and Melissa needed was some time with neither of their boys around. Looks like they'd been on to something.

"How about you, kiddo?" His father's voice broke through Stiles's smug reminiscing. "Is Derek coming up this weekend?"

All at once the warm glow of happiness that had been growing in his chest since they'd started talking broke apart and fled, Stiles's fingers going numb where they clutched tightly at the phone next to his ear. He pressed his lips together, free hand clenching in the bedspread. He knew this was coming, had known it would come since he'd first lifted the phone to his ear. But he'd let himself ignore it, let himself fall into the rhythm of him and his dad and dinner at Melissa's and now—

"Stiles? Did I lose you?"

"I'm here," Stiles could hear the odd hollowness in his voice. "I think Derek's coming up. They're having a pack meeting. But—" he pressed his lips together, unable to believe how something as small as saying Derek's name caused tears to burn hot in the corners of his eyes. "But we broke up. He broke up with me," he said, his voice catching on a sob.

There was a beat of stunned silence and then, "Oh, Stiles. I'm so sorry." He could hear his father twist open the bottle of whiskey that Stiles knew would be sitting on the counter beside him, hear the sound of his father pouring himself another glass. Stiles felt the lump in his throat grow. "Are you okay?"

No, Dad. No. I don't think I'm ever going to be okay again. I didn't know anything could hurt this much. Why didn't you tell me I could be destroyed so easily? Why didn't you warn me that love isn't gentle or kind but a snarling, ravenous beast that will eat you alive and spit you out with pieces missing?

"Yeah, Dad. I'm okay. I'll be okay."

"Are you sure? I could come—"

"No, I'm fine. Thanks, though." Stiles forced himself to smile, knew his dad would be able to hear it in his voice. "I've got Scott."

"Well, let me know if you change your mind."

"I will." Stiles promised. "Listen, Isaac's got dinner ready so I'd better go."

"It was good to hear from you. Call me back when you can. And Stiles—"

"I know. Thanks. Love you."

"Love you, too."

Stiles pulled the phone away from his ear, hung up, and dropped it to the bed beside him. A tear slid down his cheek, hot and wet. Then another, and another, until they spilled unchecked and he couldn't muster the energy to lift his hand up and wipe them away.

There was a soft tap on his door. Before Stiles could tell whoever it was to go away, the door opened, and Scott walked into the room. He held two open bottles of beer and, crossing the floor, he passed one wordlessly to Stiles before climbing up on the bed, sitting close enough that their shoulders touched.

Stiles felt the tears fall faster, salt mingling with the taste of the beer as he lifted the bottle to his lips. Scott said nothing, just sat a warm, solid presence beside him, and let Stiles cry.