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Stiles is alone. Not physically alone. He ticks off the names of those closest to him on his fingers: Dad. Scott. Mrs. McCall. Lydia. Derek. Boyd. Isaac. Allison. Eight people who are constantly around him and interacting with him, reminding him that he's alive and loved...at least in some capacity.
Stiles sighs and runs his fingers through his hair before sliding them down his face and grinding the heels of his palms into his eyes. Life just feels empty, and he's not sure what to do about it. He swings his legs off his bed, allowing them to dangle for a second before sitting up right and planting his feet firmly on the ground.
His bedside clock reads 7:17am, and Stiles knows that he should get up, get showered, and suffer through the 8-hour school day, but maybe he can have this day for himself. Maybe he can just play sick and skip. It's been a while since he's done that, and honestly, he's tired of pretending that he's okay, that he's fine, that he's just the regular sarcastic Stiles.
Grabbing the blankets, he swings his legs back onto his bed and covers himself up, rejoicing in the dark.
Yeah, this is the right choice.
"Stiles!" his dad screams from the doorway. He bangs his hands on the door. "Gotta get up, kid. Only a couple of weeks left. Make 'em count."
Stiles groans internally and rolls around in bed, mumbling a response to his dad.
"I'll stop back by before I head off to work to make sure you're outta here. You got 30 minutes."
He hears his dad's footsteps make their way down the hall, so he presses his eyes closed more tightly, hoping and praying that if he tries hard enough, he'll fall into a deep enough slumber to where even his dad can't wake him. But life is never that easy.
He gives himself five more minutes under his blankets, in that space between being actively awake and almost asleep, before he tosses them off and trudges to the shower. He feels so heavy. Most mornings don't hit him this much. They don't leave him wishing he could be doing anything else except getting ready for school. They don't leave him wishing that he were dead rather than going to face a group of friends that he can't relate to anymore.
The coldness of the shower helps, as it always does. It drags him from his stupor and reminds him just how much he can actually feel--the iciness seeping into his skin and striking bone. He swears he can hear it, that sound the water makes against his bones like it's bouncing off the top of his jeep, but of course that's just his imagination.
It's not like I'm a fucking werewolf after all. He's surprised by how much bitterness is in the thought, but really, he's felt this way for a while. Why should he start being surprised now?
"15 minutes, Stiles!" his dad yells, and he hurriedly rushes through the rest of his shower. At least he's entirely awake now. And he smells like strawberries--the fruit that he and Scott used to gorge themselves on when they were kids--so he counts his blessings.
He's dressed in his typical black tee and green plaid button-down shirt when he finally stumbles downstairs to find his dad pouring out the last remnants of his morning coffee. He forces a quick smile and grabs his book bag from where it's been sitting by the door, untouched all night with a week's worth of homework sitting untouched inside.
"So...what's the latest, Dad? Did you finally figure out who's been breaking into the garages around town, or does this require help from a certain Detective Stiles?"
His dad gives him the same tired look, yet he can see the amusement in his father's eyes. The garage break-ins had been the biggest thing on his radar since the Alphas had simmered down, and he couldn't be happier about the break in the murder spree. "Just get to school."
Stiles gives him another wide smile and heads out the door. As it swings back into place, he allows himself a quick minute to break down and freak out about being back in school, a minute that he surely won't have once he's around Scott who can sense any change in his demeanor.
"Wolfy powers save the day again," he thinks drily. He tosses his bag into the back of his jeep and speeds off towards school determined to have this day be over with.
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He's in the parking lot, slowly driving around, searching for an empty spot when he catches sight of that bike--that hideous green bike that Scott saved up for all last summer. He hated the color the moment that Scott showed up at his house, huge smile plastered to his face, and he still hates the bike now, even more so if it's possible to hate a bike so much. His throat begins to tighten, and he runs a hand through his hair, trying to scour the parking lot for a space that he can park and compose himself. But he can't take his eyes off that bike.
"Fuck it," he says aloud.
He gives the car a bit more gas and swings back around toward the exit, hoping that no one was paying attention to him as he sat for so long in one spot. The clock blares 8:15 am, and he knows that his dad is long gone by now. His ever-punctual father is pouring his second cup of coffee of the day already, and he's sure that he's just about to sit down at his desk and start reading the reports from last night's call-ins.
Stiles makes it to the entrance and swings the car a bit wide in his haste, trying to beat the yellow light that is quickly turning red. Because of the unusual angle of the jeep, he catches a glimpse of a figure standing at the edge of the trees lining the exit to the school's parking lot. He swears that it looks like Scott, but a look back into the parking lot shows that Scott's bike is still parked in front of the school. He shakes his head a bit to clear his thoughts and accelerates, heading back home to avoid reality.
He fumbles a bit trying to turn his car off in the driveway, but there's no one around to catch his mistake, so he laughs at it himself. That's the normal course of human action--to laugh at someone's mistakes, and more than anything, he wants that normality back in his life.
He rubs his eyes and exhales deeply before finally pulling the keys from the ignition and leaving his car. He has no use for his book bag or lacrosse gear, so he leaves them forgotten in the backseat, hoping to leave all traces of the people in his life back there with them.
The key sticks in the lock as he twists, and he curses under his breath, frustrated with the world. He pushes hard and trips into the house, almost falling onto his ass. A laugh hits him, and he quickly straightens looking for its source, his first thought being Derek and his constant ability to creepily turn up anywhere.
"Dude, it's me," the voice chuckles from somewhere in the living room. Stiles scans the darkened space and makes out the dark waves, tan skin, and brilliant white smile. Scott. Always fucking Scott.
"What the fuck, Scott?" he replies, fixing his shirt and checking that his jeans aren't ripped, now caring about the way that he's being read. He closes the front door, making sure to lock it, before turning to face Scott, who's now standing in the doorway of the living room.
"I-uh...I saw you leaving school, so I though I'd see what was up with you."
"So you just walk into my house and casually wait in the dark?"
"Sorry. I actually just barely made it here before you did. Your window was unlocked, so I just took that way in," he says, punctuating the sentence with the same sheepish grin that he wears most times that he's around Stiles.
Stiles doesn't offer anything in return. His mouth a straight line, he walks past Scott and up to his bedroom, tripping yet again at the top of the stairs.
"Fuck!" he screams, aware that his father is nowhere near their home and taking joy in the the exclamation of his anger towards the universe. He gathers himself and continues towards his bedroom, only looking back once to see Scott following him, silent with a look of gravity to match Stiles's countenance.
He falls onto his unmade bed, his face staring up at his ceiling and his legs brushing against the carpet in his room. His desk chair squeaks as Scott takes a seat.
He hates that sound. Not the specific squeak of the chair, but the fact that it's squeaking because Scott is sitting in it. He hates that he's here, intruding on his time away from people, specifically away from him. He hates how he can feel Scott's eyes boring into him, drilling into his flesh and to the very core of him, as if Scott can see what's going on inside of his head. But mostly, he hates how much he finds comfort in the fact that Scott is here with him.
"Speak," he says, dragging out the syllables until he can barely recognize the word. "Why are you here, Scotty Boy?"
"Like I said, I saw you skipping school, and--"
"Oh, is that a crime now? Skipping school every once in a while? I guess you better call my father and have him arrest me," he says, a bit too sarcastic for even his own taste. He wants to bite off his tongue, to stop his mouth from sputtering what it is that his brain is thinking, before he drives Scott away.
He can see the way that Scott's brows are knitting in reaction to his sarcasm and slight hostility. He knows what his face looks like at that very instance just like he knows that Scott wants to get up and come over to him, but he won't. They've been playing this game for too long, and Stiles knows Scott's every move. As if on cue, the chair squeaks as Scott redistributes his weight, yet he doesn't show up beside Stiles.
"No. I'm just worried about you. You're not one to skip classes, and...you've just generally seemed bummed out lately."
If only it were just 'bummed out.'
He begins counting the tiny little bumps on his ceiling. "Popcorn pieces," he and Scott used to call them. They would lie on his bed at least twice a week and just stare at them, counting as many as they possibly could before one of them would drift off to sleep. Normally, Scott would go first, and Stiles would always cheer silently in his head at the sound of Scott's light snoring. He would keep counting, though, determined to count them all before he would pass out. He rarely made it past 200 before he turned over onto his side and snuggled into Scott's body, wrapping his arm around his friend's chest and waiting for the slight adjustment of Scott's own body as it curled into his.
"Stiles?" He can hear the worry in Scott's voice, but he keeps counting. He lost track at 29, so he moves his eyes back over to the corner and starts counting again.
Each dot soon becomes a moment of silence between the two of them, and Stiles knows that he's hurting Scott. He wants to help him, but Stiles isn't sure that he can be helped at this point. He's spent too many days, weeks, months feeling alone, and Scott confronting him about it now is like trying to rebuild a broken dam after the water has finally broken through and has been pouring out for hours.
138. He loses count again. Back to the corner.
This time he promises himself that each dot will be a word that he will force himself to communicate to Scott. Each dot will be a thought that he has to get out of his mind before he implodes.
"I'm not like you," he starts. Four dots in, and he's already losing track, feeling the world become a bit less manageable. He raises his hand, using his index finger to point at each dot as he gets out his next few chunks of thought.
"I'm not like you, and it's killing me. Like, actually killing me, Scott. But it's not just you. It's everyone that we hang out with." 25 dots. 25 points of truth that he had never admitted to anyone else before.
"Like, this was cool for the first year or so. You and the whole werewolf thing. I mean, who doesn't want a badass friend who grows fangs and claws and hair every full moon. It's straight out of a movie. Not to mention your ex-girlfriend being a werewolf hunter. I mean, c'mon, who writes this shit?" He loses track of the amount of dots now, but he doesn't care. He pushes himself up off the bed and sits upright, his arms resting on his elbows and his head between his legs. He's still afraid to look at Scott, not knowing if he can keep spilling his emotions if he's looking directly at his best friend.
"A-and then Derek and the wolf pack showed up, which while they're still kinda really major assholes, we've been through a lot. I still wouldn't trust Mr. Sour Wolf with my life per se, but I know that I can fucking call him if something weird is happening in this town. And even not-ever-gonna-fucking-happen Lydia Martin is someone that I trust enough to confide in and want to protect. All of these people are here, and I never thought that would be a problem. Y'know, us being kinda wanted and trusted." He takes a deep breath and realizes that he's been rambling for a bit, but Scott hasn't said a word. He catches sight of his shoes, lightly tapping against the carpet, a sign that Scott is actually listening and restraining himself. He knows that he wants to be over here, next to him, but Scott isn't being his usual rush-right-in self, and Stiles focuses on that.
"It's just that, through all of this, it keeps hitting me that I'm not like you all. I'm not a fucking supernatural whatever!" And his voice is rising, which is surprising to even himself. "Yeah, Lydia and Allison aren't werewolves, but they're not exactly human either Scott, and you have to admit that. Allison comes from a family of fucking werewolf hunters, and Lydia magically appears places, knowing when someone is about to die? They're swimming in it, Scott. You all are. I don't know how I have survived in this group of non-human people--" He regrets his choice of words as he hears the chair squeak and knows that Scott is uncomfortable and shifting around. "--but it's wearing me down--the surviving and being okay with it all. A-and, I didn't mean 'non-human' as in weird or anything, but just...more than human." The last part came out as a mumbled rush, but he's sure that Scott picked up on it with his wolfy hearing.
"S-Stiles, that's not--"
"Don't you say that, Scott. Don't say it's not true. I've been drowning in my own shit for so long, and this, this conversation is me finally trying to get out of it, and I don't want you telling me that this isn't true."
Scott's urge to be physical with him finally overcomes his restraint, and he's sitting beside Stiles now. His hand lightly rests on his knee, and the physical contact eases them both.
"I'm just really alone, and I'm terrified of that. I'm terrified of how alone I feel, and how it doesn't seem like anyone can relate to me anymore. I'm tired of trying to just keep it controlled and hidden."
"You shouldn't have to, Stiles. Not something like this, and not while I'm still here. Dude, I've been wanting to talk to you about it for so long, but I've been afraid that you'd get upset with me about spying on your emotions. The smell of sadness has been clinging to you for so long, and it's been killing me too." Stiles hears Scott's voice catch in his throat, and he looks up, finally ready to meet the eyes of his friend. He's surprised to see them filled with tears, threatening to spill over at any moment.
"And like, even being here, is killing me because I can feel how much hurt is in this room. I never want you to feel like this."
Stiles feels his own eyes begin to sting. He wants to tell him everything, to confess it all while he has Scott right here, but he's still afraid. He's trembling, and his heart is racing more than he would have anticipated. He can't--no, he won't--do this to Scott. Not right now at least.
He's about to stand and try to shake off some of the feelings, when he feels the weight of Scott's hand on his. Scott's skin is burning, and Stiles almost pulls away from the touch, until Scott's fingers begin to interlace with his. His long fingers look even paler locked between the brown of Scott's fingers. He feels him squeeze a bit, and Stiles knows that he has to just get it out.
"S-Scott, you h-have to stop crying, dude. I-I can't take it," he almost nervous-laughs between his irregular breathing. "N-not if y-you want to hear it a-all."
Scott wipes at his eyes with his free hand and squeezes Stiles tighter with his other, rubbing his thumb over Stile's thumb.
"I-I've been feeling alone b-because of the werewolf thing," he starts, getting his breathing and speech a bit more under control. "But, I've never felt this alone in m-my life partly because of how I feel about you."
He feels Scott stop stroking and almost stops. But it's too late, and the words are already tumbling out of his mouth.
"I've seen you as more than a friend for a while, but it's never been this bad. I never really felt like I should act on it because it was always just you and me. Lately, though, it's been you and Allison or you and Derek or even you and Isaac, and I can't compete. I can't be a part of that supernatural life that they all give you, and it's been driving me insane. I never want to see people or get out of this fucking room because I have to face you and see you with these other people, and it's just a fucking reminder that I'm not what you are. I'm not something special. And it hurts, Scott. It hurts that I'm fucking in love with my best friend and the only fucking thing that I can seem to do about it is it here and bawl like a fucking baby." The tears are finally falling from his eyes, and he hates that "fuck" seems to be the only word that can appropriately convey his emotions, but there are no other words that he can grab onto.
He uses his free hand to wipe away some of the tears that have managed to find their way to his chin. He's itching to get up or to have Scott say something or to do anything that isn't just sitting here in silence, holding his best friend's hand, but he's too afraid to move and face Scott. He starts counting the 'popcorn pieces' again.
1. 2. 3. 4.
"I love you too...."
5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10.
"....in a way that's more than just a 'friend'...."
11. 12. 13.
".....or a best friend."
14. 15. 16. 17. 18.
"Stiles, I'm in love with you too."
19. 20. 21. And they're running together. All of the fucking 'popcorn pieces' are nothing but a blurred watery mess, and Stiles doesn't even realize why he's crying anymore. It just feels ridiculous at this point.
Scott's thumb starts stroking his again, and the gentle motion is enough to coax Stiles back into the moment. He turns to look at Scott, and he's smiling that great high-inducing world-shattering fucking smile. His eyes still hold their tears captive, but Stiles doesn't care that he's the only one crying right now. For the first time in a long time, he doesn't feel so alone.
Scott uses his other hand to wipe away some of Stiles's runaway tears, brushing them off his face. His thumb lingers around his mouth, lightly touching the soft pink flesh of Stiles's lips. He leans in and places a tentative kiss there. There's no force behind it. Just a gentle touch of his lips to Stiles's to wipe away the tears that have slipped into the cracked flesh. He rests his forehead against his best friend's, staring intensely at Stiles.
"So did you hear me well enough? Through those tears and sniffles, dude?" His smile grows even more, taking up the entirety of his face, and Stiles can feel the small laugh reverberate through Scott's body and his own.
Shut up is all that he can seem to think of for an appropriate response, but he settles on, "I don't know. Maybe not. I don't have those same wolfy powers, y'know? Just one big mouth that can never seem to shut up."
He falls back onto his bed, facing up at the ceiling. The 'popcorn pieces' are back in focus, and he just wants to count them until he passes out. He wants to see if Scott will still be there when he wakes up like he always was when they were kids.
"Hey, Scott. Remember the 'popcorn pieces'?"
He hears another low laugh. "How could I forget. I've been counting them for almost a decade now."
Scott falls back onto the bed beside Stiles, their hands still interlocked. Stiles is at 27, when he glances over and sees Scott staring at him.
"Does it still feel so bad?" The serious look on his face shoots straight through to Stiles's core.
He's silent for a moment, truly thinking about it. There's no point in lying to Scott. Not anymore. He doesn't even know if what happened between them is real enough yet, but he doesn't care. Maybe Scott kissed him because Stiles's emotions were too demanding; they required too much attention from a werewolf who was drowning in the same ocean of loneliness. Maybe Scott does have feelings for him beyond mere best friends. Or maybe they're both just fucking emotional teenage boys who have to deal with far too much shit so early on.
"Nah," he decides. "It doesn't feel so bad."
He feels Scott lean up, and his lips are pressing against Stiles's again for another brief moment. Scott relaxes back onto the bed, nudging Stiles over onto his side so that he can curl around Stiles like he did in their childhood. Stiles complies, pulling their hands tight around his waist.
"I'm still so fucking alone," he thinks to himself, but he's genuinely smiling. He continues counting the 'popcorn pieces' until Scott's snores reach his ears, and he decides to close his eyes.
"Yeah, alone, but I guess not so alone. Not if I mean something to him."