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A cigarette. The last one. And there's one more empty pack in his life.
He shakes that transient ugly thought off his mind and takes 5 to just appreciate how bright the stars are tonight, miles away from Toronto. The moon is resting and that’s one of the rare nights he can fully enjoy. He’d like to raise his nails to his mouth, but he’s already bitten them to the clip and he puffs harder.
He thinks about him and how time as gone by, wonders what he would look like now. He tries to imagine him with a beard, or even a goatee, but the only picture he gets is that one time his friend put on a plastic moustache for a Mexican evening they did back when they were 8. He passes a hand on his own stubble with a sly grin as he stands against the tree that holds his bike up.
He slowly exhales the smoke, and his memory soon blurs until it’s replaced by the last one he’s got of him. The sadness and resignation in his friend’s voice, the pasty light of the MRI, the tears they both barely hid, the warmth and tender scent of that pale skin between his arms. He can still hear the few comforting words he managed to stringed. But the face nodding back at him has lost its features. That hurts.
Would he recognize him if he’d run into him tomorrow? He could distinguish his smell in a crowd; he knows its patterns so well that he could probably draw it. He remembers how the sun made his lips glitter; he knows by heart the sound his friend’s hand made when it shook his hair, the balmy fuzzy feeling calmly spreading when it brushed off his arm. But years have passed, and memories have turned into scattered recollections. Now he wishes they’d taken more photos. He wonders how the nogitsune may have changed all this for the worst, and what will be left of his friend when he’ll find him. Silently, he checks upon the stars, asking them whether they’ve taken good care of him.
“Where are you Stiles?”
How many times did he whisper this question in the breeze the past 6 years? Possibly the same amount of cigarettes he has smoked. And he has stopped counting them a long time ago.
His phone beeps. How are you doing? Where are you? Please call soon, if only for a minute. We love you. Mum. Later. He feels a bit guilty thinking of how little he calls her when she and John are providing for his gas and food, even though it’s mostly just coffee, fast food and snacks from vending machines. But he doesn’t feel like talking. He never does anymore.
They all gave up at some point, his friends, even Stile’s father. They all eventually came to the conclusion that there was nothing left of him; that he couldn’t be found, and that even if he could there would be no saving him. He can’t come down to it. He never will. Even if he never finds him, he can’t go back to Beacon Hills without him. So hearing about everybody else’s life isn’t really tempting. And the hole in his gut never seems to be filled. And he reaches for a second cigarette pack in his saddlebag.
He lights it and takes his bike back on the road, keeping is head down as a car approaches. It would likely cause an accident if that driver saw two red-gleaming eyes on the side of the highway. He sits back on the saddle and blows a faint smoke ring. Stiles always said how stylish he thought it was, that he’d like to do it someday. Scott can’t wait to teach him. He turns the engine on and heads up west.