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There was a shiver, crawling down a figure, making a sound, like it was pulling the skin away from the flush. Derek thought of the cold nights he spent with his family, building tents and making fires, that didn’t make them anywhere near as warm as their company had. He wondered if those had sounded like that too, to someone out there, wishing they could do anything about it.
There was a scent in the air, that he knew, that he couldn't smell past, for weeks, after finding his sister's body, torn in half. It smelled like something rotting, like decay, and he looked down upon his own body, trying to find what was dying. He didn't turn to the body laying on the couch, withering away, like time was running out, like it was coming apart. So motionless, in the way it fell apart.
He thought of a heartbeat, so loud and free and more alive than any of them could ever feel. He wondered how it could now sound so faded, like it was beating out its goodbye, screaming about the looming end, aching with a sense of loss that he tried not to think about, or choke on, or feel, really. Because he didn't think he could handle the familiarity he found in grief, didn't think he could make it through this time.
He turned away from the window, tripping on the tremble in his limbs, and the carpet that felt too much like rough, unkind, bandages, and he fell somewhere near the couch, willing the air moving past the paling lips to go back in there, and pour life into what had always been the embodiment of that to Derek. The thing that held sunshine in its smile and safety in its laugh and home in its voice. The thing that touched Derek with such care, like it knew how barely together he really was, beneath all the façade authority and the grip he was losing on control.
His hand stood somewhere around the face that was so white, it didn't look like anything. Derek thought if he came close, if he tried to touch, his hands would go right through it. So, he brought his other hand to the arm near him, latching on. Black veins invaded his palms, crawling up his arm, so black, there was barely any skin left for him to see. Then the breath was shaking, and the face was moving away, then turning, and then eyes peeled open, and Derek almost cried, because the brown was still the same, but everything around it, wasn't.
Derek couldn't really pull away, couldn't put any distance where he didn't want it, because Stiles beat him to it, taking his arm away, and putting it against his chest, sitting up, and sinking so deeply into the couch, Derek wondered if he wanted it to swallow him whole, if he wanted to disappear. It probably wouldn't be so hard, with how translucent he seemed to be.
" Where's Scott?" Stiles didn't sound like Stiles. Didn't feel like him either. And Derek had to close his eyes around all he held of him. All he'd probably never be again.
" With Lydia and Isaac, still. Finishing things up at the station." Stiles' face looked like it was crumpling, his head moving into a jerky nod, teeth colliding against one another, sounding too much like something breaking. Derek didn't know if it was him, or Stiles, or something else completely.
" Can I," Derek lifted his hand in the air, keeping them away from Stiles, until he wanted them. Wanted him.
" I don't want to hurt you again." Stiles' voice cracked. Derek thought of thunder hitting against the ground the first night Stiles spent with him in the loft, and Kali's claws circling around them, wanting Cora or Stiles, or just anyone that Derek couldn't lose, and the fox wearing Stiles' face, twisting his arm so fiercely, so carelessly, he felt a few other things inside him, make that same cracking sound.
Derek tried to carry the weight of his own body, moving so quickly, he swore the world tilted around him. Maybe it had always been like that. He held Stiles' arm, pulled him close, till his body gave, and he crashed, into his chest. Derek's other arm circled around his diminishing waist, trying not to flinch, as he let his warmth seep through Stiles' shivering skin. And let Stiles, pour something else completely, into him.
" You didn't hurt me. You'd never hurt anyone, Stiles. This wasn't on you. None of it was." Stiles wasn't holding Derek, wasn't touching him, and Derek could smell the bitter fear, the guilt, that he'd smelled before on Stiles, had smelled around him, but it was always coated with something else, something to ease the sourness of the scent. But now, Derek could barely find Stiles beneath all that. He didn't even know if he was there at all.
" Allison is dead. She's dead." Fell past Stiles' lips, breathless and whispered, like he had no air to spare. Derek heard the it should have been me that Stiles choked on.
" That was the nogitsune. No one blames you for it."
" If Chris had just taken his shot that day, none of this would have happened. But I guess, he didn't have to. I'm dying anyway." Stiles pulled away, shaking his head, his fingers tightening around the piece of paper they held there, and Derek wondered if it had been the sound of it crumpling he had heard, and not Stiles.
" What is that?" Stiles looked down to the fingers he no longer bothered counting, as if only now realizing, they were holding onto something. Something that was folded upon itself, tearing at the edges, crumbled, like it could never be whole again, would never feel quite right. Stiles thought of Derek's hands around him, and wondered if he felt like that too. If it felt like that, to touch him.
" Can you get that jacket for me?" Stiles directed a shaky finger to where he'd seen his jacket last, his hand then falling somewhere beside him, hollowed out of all that was meant to be holding it together. Derek pushed himself away from the couch, finding the jacket, and helping Stiles ease into all its holes, looking past the spaces around his shrinking figure, trying not to think of how he was supposed to fit.
" Give me your hands." Derek wanted to come close, wanted to latch on. He thought of Cora's training, and the deer she'd accidentally shot one of her arrows into. The deer had started running, and Cora had chased after it, wanting to help, to take away its pain, and just, make it better. But Cora had gotten too close, and the deer had overflowed with terror, and there was a speeding car somewhere, that had hit into it, throwing it away, and throwing Cora's arrow out. Derek still didn't know, which of them had killed it. He didn't want to think about him killing Stiles, or killing something in him, without ever meaning to.
" I'm fine." Stiles said, his lips moving into something that was meant to be a smile, closing around a cry, falling into the saddest thing Derek had ever seen.
" Yeah. Just let me help warm you up. I'm not going to do anything, you don't want me to." There was a promise layered there somewhere, as Stiles moved his arms, letting them fall into Derek's awaiting grasp. He held Stiles' hands between his, trying not to wince, at the stiffening fingers, trembling so harshly, it felt like icebergs, piercing through his skin. Stiles sighed, his eyes closing, eyelashes faltering, like there was something there, in the darkness, that they didn't want to keep in, didn't want to have to see.
" Dad gave me that letter. Said mum left it with him, told him to give it to me when I turned 18. And he did." Stiles always looked like he was devolving, every time he spoke of his mother. He would sound so small, so innocent, bewildered by the grief and how it clung to his soul, and tore him to shreds.
" Did you read it?" Derek didn't know why he was still asking about this, when misery was falling on them in waves, and he didn't know if Stiles could swim. Derek didn't want him to drown.
" No," Something like a humorless chuckle tumbled past Stiles' mouth, his hands finding one more reason to tremble, despite Derek's hold on them, " People were dying, and they wouldn't stop. Then, dad was taken, and- Erica and Boyd, and Cora was almost dying too. There was just, so much death, and I didn't want to find more of it in those pages. Didn't want to re-open a wound that never healed properly, when, everything still felt like it was bleeding right out of me. Then, there was the whole ancient fox possession thing, and I kind of lost my ability to read. Don't really want to try this one out again." Stiles shrugged, his shoulders almost coming loose. Derek thought that everything about him, kind of was.
" Are you warm enough? Feeling better?" Derek tried to speak, past the lump in his throat, that was the size of that letter, crumpled into a ball, or Stiles' fist, that had went through his stomach, pulling something out along with it.
" It doesn't matter, Derek. It's not that bad." Stiles' fingers went slack in Derek's grip, like they were awaiting the departure, the release. Derek didn't know how Stiles still expected him to ever let go.
" Would you- do you want me to read it to you?" Air faltered, as it pushed past Stiles' lips, standing, like it didn't know, if he'd be able to breathe it in again. His eyes filled up with something, and Derek thought of his body, in the pool, sinking and falling and floating. And the sound he made, when he hit his rock bottom. And the sound that Stiles didn't make, when he hit his. So delicate, so gracious, even in his crash.
" You would do that?"
" If you want me to. I'd do anything." So Stiles swallowed, and willed it to not taste of tears or blood or metal. He fell back, breathed, and wondered why it suddenly smelled of disinfectant and hospital and death. It probably always had.
" Dear Stiles,
I'm writing you this, when you're right outside my bedroom door, never wanting to stray too far, or leave me alone for too long. I know this, because I've had my door left ajar, to hear your voice, savor it, because time is running out, sweetheart, and I want to remember how you sounded. I want to remember you, remember it all, although, I know I can't."
There was salt in the air, things hailing, pouring, falling, as Stiles moved one of his arms, laid it across his face, like he was trying to choke the cries, instead of his breath. Stiles thought of doors, left only slightly opened, and wondered if his mother was scared too, of something dark ever coming in, instead of him, or his dad, or all she'd once loved. Derek thought of thunderstorms and how they kind of sounded like Stiles' heartbeat. Derek used to spend those stormy nights in his parents' bed, hiding away from the thunder beating against their windows, and the lighting tearing right through the night. He couldn't hide from this, though. Couldn't find arms that would hold him against hearts that would sound nothing like Stiles' collapse. Couldn't seek out the sun that had set in Stiles' eyes, taking away all that had once sparkled and glowed and lit up with so much life, so much hope.
" I was mean to you, yesterday. You went to bed, crying, and your dad, told me to write you this, because they're putting me in a room, where you can't visit me for a while, and I don't know, if you will ever get the chance to see me, see how sorry I am, kiddo. I know I haven't been myself for a while. I know this illness, is making me tired and angry and bitter. And you don't deserve that. You never did, baby. And I need you to know that I'm sorry. I'm sorry I can't be there, when you start high school, or have your first crush. I hope you tell me all about her. Or him. I don't really care. Your dad doesn't either, although, he might give you a hard time about it. About everything. He just cares a lot. You should know that's his way of showing it, of protecting you. I hope he always does that for you. And you, for him."
Stiles thought of the red of Lydia's hair, that he'd spent days upon days, trying to get right, for his drawing of her. He thought of the nights he spent, telling his father about the most beautiful girl in the world, and how she was totally in love with him, but was enjoying the chase nevertheless. He thought of his drunken dad, throwing up all the love he held for his wife, trying to stop the ache in his heart, or throw it right out along with everything else. Stiles had told him then, that maybe Lydia was just a crush. Maybe he should never get married. Should never end up like that. Like him.
" I'm sorry I won't be there, for the first big fight you have with your best friend. Scott is a good kid, though. I hope you two always stay in each others' lives. Or if someone ever bullies you. You better tell your dad, Stiles. Tell someone. Don't let them hurt you, kid. Don't let them scare you. Stand up for yourself, and for what you believe in. Your dad will probably be something big in the force by then, he'll help you out, if you need it. God. I really hope he makes it big, one day. He loves this job so much, Stiles. I hope at least, that doesn't change."
Derek thought of his hands on Stiles' chest, his back colliding into the lockers, or his head colliding into his steering wheel, or. Something of his, colliding into something that Derek had pushed him into. Derek wondered if he was the one his mother had warned him about. But Stiles' lips curved upwards, falling right before they formed an actual smile. And Derek remembered that he'd never meant any real harm by it. That he'd never do anything to Stiles, but would do everything for him. He hoped Stiles knew that. He had a feeling he did. Stiles knew almost everything.
" I'm sorry I can't be there for your graduation. Or college. Or your wedding. I'm sorry I couldn't get to know you, Stiles. Couldn't get to see who you'd grow up into. I'm sure it's going to be great, though. I'm sure you're one incredible young man. You were always so kind, Stiles. So caring and forgiving. You weren't even mad at me, when I said those things, about you, trying to kill me. I never meant it, kiddo. I never meant any of it. My mind is sick, and sometimes, it overpowers me. But I love you. And I know you. And having you, has been the best thing that's ever happened to me. I'm leaving the world with that. Leaving your dad, with that. It doesn't get any better than this. Sickness or not, I had a good life. A great life, because of you, Stiles."
Stiles thought of the hospital's roof and his dad looking so close to tears and his mum so close to jumping. He thought of doors to rooms closing, almost falling away around their hinges, with all the rage they had to contain, all the cruel words that perforated holes through them, and then some more, through him. He thought of the night he'd cried out his apologies, told her he'd stop, he'd go away and let her rest, but she'd been wild and loose and more undone than anything he'd ever seen before, as she'd shoved him so haphazardly, so desperately, she hadn't cared that he was so close to the stairs. He'd fallen down a few of them, had landed into his father's chest, and they'd stumbled down a few more. He'd broken his arm then, his nose too, and she hadn't cared enough to sign his cast. He had been too scared to ask. Too scared to even tell her, that he'd chosen it in green, the color of her eyes. Stiles didn't think he'd ever hated her. Didn't think he ever could. But that night, he hated how he looked at her, and feared her. How unsafe he felt around her. How he thought, it was all she felt around him too. It kind of broke his heart. It probably broke his father's too.
" Stiles, do you want me to stop?" There was something staling Stiles' scent. Like something else had broken off him, had died away. Derek tried not to pull his hands out, and catch it in its fall, in its fading.
" This is… so weird. It's, it's been years. It shouldn't still feel like this. I- it feels like I'm grieving something that I've never even had. I don't know who that is. I- I don't remember this version of her. So, why," His chest faltered, breath sounding agonized, forced, as he let his arm fall away from his face, his eyes seeing something carved into the ceiling, engraved in how his mother wrote all the letters that she remembered of his name, every time, missing one of them, till it looked like something that wasn't his, till she forgot all about him. " Why does it make me so angry? So fucking miserable, like, I'm losing her, all over again." Stiles' head angled towards Derek, his eyes filled with all those things that he couldn't understand, could barely handle looking at, without wanting to poke them right out of his eyes.
" I don't know, Stiles. But, you'll probably keep losing her, every single day. Every time you see something that she would have loved, or smell something that is so like her, that you can't help but look around, like maybe, you'd find her there. Find her somewhere. Those things, don't really go away. Don't get easier, with time, or with, anything, really. They just, never get easier at all. I just.. don't know what else to tell you." Stiles bit down on his lip, something like a whimper sounding, when he tried to breathe. He nodded, turning away from Derek again. And he wished he could take it all for him. Could take him away from it all.
" Keep reading." Stiles whispered, closing his eyes, his fingers falling around each other, his bones colliding with the tremble that wouldn't steady. The shake that wouldn't let up.
" I don't know if you remember any of this. If you even remember me at all. I don't know if you'd want to. I understand if you don't. But I'll remember all those nights, when your father and I danced in the kitchen, to No More Cloudy Days by Eagles, and you always laughed, clapped your hands, got on the table and sang along at the top of your lungs. I'm pretty sure that's how you learned your first words; from that song."
" Oh my God, I remember that song. It was playing on the radio, when dad pulled mum over, during his first week on the force. He was still trying too hard to seem in control, all tough and authoritative. But when his favorite bit started playing, he whispered the words under his breath, and she started laughing. They went on a date a week later. Danced to that song on their wedding; three years from then. I haven't heard this song in, in years." Stiles was laughing, all wet and breathless and strangled. It kind of sounded like he was crying. Derek could almost taste his misery at the back of his throat, and he tried not to compare it to the taste of his own.
" I'll remember the time we went for a swim, and you tried imitating the ducks in the lake, and almost drove your father mad, telling him to feed you bites of bread, but wet them first. I'll remember the night you woke me up, crying, because you had a nightmare, and you hugged me so tight, it felt like you were the one protecting me, keeping me safe. I'll remember you for who you still are to me, Stiles. So young and beautiful, aware beyond your years, kind of all over the place, in the best way possible. I used to look in your eyes, and the reflection of me in there, never changed. Even when I did. I can't tell you how much this means to me, kiddo. I used to tell your dad that I'd never fall any more in love than I was with him. I'd never love anything or anyone more. And he always told me, that it would change, once we had a baby. And as always, he was right. Because I loved you just a little bit more. My capacity to love, expanded, the first time the nurse let me carry you. You opened your eyes, and I just fell. I never stopped falling in love with you, Stiles. I want you to know that. For however much time I have left with you, I promise, even when I can't say it, when you think I don't feel it, I'll fall a little bit more in love with you, every day. I hope you're doing well, kiddo. I hope life is everything you want it to be. I hope you're making sure your dad is okay, because he's a good man. The best man I've ever known, next to you, of course. God. I love you both so much. You're my always. My forever. Happy 18th birthday, Stiles.
All the love that's ever been loved, mum."
Something almost inhuman fell past Stiles' lips. It sounded like someone was being unmade. Like he was unraveling, coming apart. Derek thought of that deer again, and tried to remember if it sounded like that too. Or if his mum had made a similar sound, right before she'd fallen away from the window, next to his father's body. Or maybe, it was one of his younger siblings'. He couldn't remember their order anymore. They were all lifeless bodies, burned and unrecognizable. A pile of all things he'd ever lost. And what difference would it make, if his mother was closer to his father than his brother? What difference would it really make, to remember how exactly they'd laid, if they'd ended up dead anyway?
Stiles was pushing himself away from the couch, away from Derek, standing and falling and tripping on all the pieces of himself. His arms were moving like they were tearing through waves, pushing against all the fluid grief around, the sea of loss that he couldn't really touch, but he could feel, choking life right out of him, filling his lungs up with things he didn't want to feel. He didn't deserve to feel. Not like this. Derek tried to hold onto him, tried to ease his arms around him, but there was suddenly so much of Stiles, that was dispersing away, and he couldn't contain it all.
Then the sheriff was there, stopping somewhere in the middle of the room, hands around his keys and badge, eyes wide and horrified. It sounded like something was breaking behind his eyelids, every time he blinked, waiting for his son to break through the surface, to breathe, and not sound like a fish out of water. Not sound like he was dying. Or already dead.
The sheriff pulled his arms out, when Stiles started collapsing, body loose and boneless even in its rigidness. He pulled him in so aggressively, Derek wondered if it'd break him into smaller pieces. It sounded like it had. And Stiles just kept breaking. His father's voice was molding into his mother's, clouding all the memories of her screaming and yelling and dying, so loudly, it left a ringing in his ears, the sound of her voice, silencing.
Stiles' body left so much trembling in its wake. After his cries faded to occasional falters in his breathing, and his eyes closed around how different his mother's handwriting was, how shaky the letters were, and how his name was spelled wrong, every time, like she was struggling to remember how to spell his name, struggling to remember him. But the sheriff sat there, his knees aching beneath the weight of him, and all the wreckage around him, all the remains in his arms, that he desperately wanted to piece together, to stitch back into something that would feel like his son, and not just look like him.
" Sheriff?" Derek was slowly falling to his knees, trying not to stir the glass-like silence around them, as the sheriff's eyes squeezed shut, his arms painfully tightening around Stiles' sagged figure.
" I didn't think I'd ever get to hold him again. I- I thought he was gone. And. I'm trying to remember how this feels. How he feels. That's kind of hard to do, when he's so.. broken up. So unlike himself." Derek didn't know what to say to that. Didn't know what would come out, if he left his mouth agape. So he didn't. He put his arms around Stiles, detangled him from the sheriff's limbs, laying him back down on the couch. And he let his hands linger, taking in how his features still felt, where they rose and caved. He could always find him there; in the folds of his skin, in the slow, desperate, touches.
The sheriff tried to stand up, to move away from the ground, but he was a bit shaky, a bit weak, slightly overwhelmed. Derek was careful, as he helped him to his feet, leaving his hands on his shoulders, when he felt him tilting. But then, the sheriff's arms were around him, and his heart was beating so loudly against Derek's chest, that he had trouble listening in, for anything else. It took him a while, to take in the feeling of the weight against him, that didn't want anything in return, didn't mean to heavy him, but to ground him, to keep him present and steady. His arms circled around the sheriff, his head falling in the space between his neck and his head and when he breathed in, he swore he found home.
They moved, until they were beside Stiles, the sheriff sitting by his head, and Derek by his feet. He put his hand beneath his knee, leeching some of the pain, willing some of the warmth to seep through his bones, and just, stay there. The sheriff took the letter and read it. His features crumbled and he cried into his hands, speaking of love and life and death and all that laid in between. Derek listened, nodded, tried not to feel the tug at his heart, that felt like it was chipping away at it.
It took Stiles 3 hours to startle awake, eyes searching, terrified. He sank into his father's arm, so deeply, he could barely be seen, could barely be set apart from his father's figure. The sheriff clung on, finding all the places where Stiles fit in his arms, and all the places, that went deeper than just that. And when Scott came by, 2 hours after that, wanting to send Derek home, because it was his shift with Stiles next, Derek didn't leave. Saying something about cleaning up, or helping, or not having a car, or enough energy to run home, and Scott was a werewolf, Derek knew that, he just didn't want to tell Scott that Stiles was still too cold and his heartbeat was beating in a way that wasn't his own, and his eyes were still tearful and so sad looking and he just- he didn't want to leave him like that. Didn't want to leave and have that haunt him, like that empty smile he gave him, before breaking his arm, or the sound of his body, getting flung away, like it didn't matter to anyone. Not even to Stiles.
So Scott ended up howling through the night, after being quiet for so long, they'd thought he'd forgotten how to speak. Scott crashed into Stiles' arms, that were still too weak, too weary, but never when it came to Scott. Stiles cried too, but it was a lot quieter, a lot more restrained, than the last time he did. And Derek moved away, and let them be, till Scott fell asleep, and Stiles didn't, and he held onto him, till he did. And every time his heartbeat slowed, Derek waited, listened in, almost expecting the next beat to never come, with how overwhelmingly Stiles still smelt of death and decay. But his heartbeat still came, reassuring despite its hesitancy, its unwillingness. And Derek wondered, if years from now, Scott would find a letter from Allison, and try to remember if her handwriting had always been like that. He wondered if Stiles would have him read that one for him too. He probably would do it. He probably would do anything that Stiles asked him to.