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sometimes stiles is okay. that's all he can ask for. after everything it's all he needs. sometimes, though, he’s not so okay. at all really. can’t-get-out-of-bed okay. can't-brush-his-fucking-teeth-okay. his entire apartment becomes filled with a thick, dusty air that’s really hard to breathe and a deep, throbbing headache that grips his head until it crumbles under the pressure. and for whatever reason, he won't leave his apartment for days. can't stand the idea of being outside. his heart thrums and tremors at the thought.
but he’s not so bad today, right, ‘cause at least he’s out of bed and standing in his kitchen. (his dull eyes stare off into the desolate fridge). mustard, a little too old chinese leftovers, and three jars of pickles because why not. the ice machine hums relentlessly. an uncomfortable feeling clings to him like wet paper, even when he turns his tv all the way up to drown it out until the neighbor pounds on the wall. it's as if something rotten and scratchy is crawling beneath his skin, and nothing can distract him from it long enough. he constantly thinks about it. his whole body aches.
actually, the neighbor’s knocking right now. stiles glances over his shoulder to make sure he didn’t leave the television on. the black screen reflects the closed blinds and the thin, white strips of light that peek through. dust lies everywhere.
“stiles?”
a muffled, familiar voice reaches through the wooden door, and bugs naturally scatter down his back. an internal cringe racks him. he really does not want to see anybody right now. stiles has ignored every text scott or his dad (scarcely) sent over the last five days. sometimes stiles is okay but sometimes he’s not and he just wants to be alone for a very long time. there’s a comfort in being alone that stiles often can’t resist.
“stiles, hey, are you there? we’re worried, y’know. i’m worried.” scott doesn’t knock again but his honey rich voice seeps through the silence clinging to stiles. there’s a comfort in being alone but damn if it isn’t so fucking lonely.
“you are home, right? am i talking to myself?”
the front door swings open with a rusty creak and stiles forces a smile, raising his arms in a half-hearted gesture to greet scott. “it’s ya boy!”
scott lights up and dormant guilt creeps up on stiles again. he’s gotta be the world’s shittiest friend.
“hey! it’s good to see you!” scott’s eyes trail up and down stiles’ thin, slouched frame with unmistakable concern. “i missed you, dude.”
scott doesn't waste any time to nudge his way in, (not without eyeing the three day old pile of research papers, torn and crumpled because stiles threw it apart in a fit of rage and neglected to clean it up) and he sets a small grocery bag on the kitchen counter.
“well, you know me.” stiles is still trying to play it cool. “i like to stay off the grid. the internet is everywhere these days, you can't escape it. it kills your brain cells.”
“isn't that your laptop over there?”
he follows scott gesturing to the laptop propped open on two couch cushions. he turns back around. “obviously not.”
“obviously.” scott tries to smile and they both pretend he hasn't noticed the darkened eye bags hanging under stiles’ eyes with the unbearable weight of permanent exhaustion. “how are you?”
“staying on that grind.” it's getting harder to hold the casual expression he's practiced so many times in the mirror. a lot of things are getting harder these days. “i think i solved the jonbenét ramsey case. for real this time.”
“stiles,” scott urges softly. he almost looks sad. they should have moved on by now. stiles should have moved on by now. “is it bad?”
how does he have so much patience to talk stiles out of bed at least once a month, bring him food when he hasn't eaten in too long, or play music and help him do his laundry. why hasn't he just given up on stiles by now? why is stiles worth that?
the world may never know. “pfft. whatever.”
his voice is kind and understanding and lord knows stiles is entirely undeserving. “that's not an answer.”
“jesus, scott. what do you think?” (please don't give up me.) “bonus points if you feign concern.”
“i think you’re having nightmares again.” oh, that scott and his puppy dog eyes. how many times have they had this conversation?
vulnerability floods the cracks in stiles, fractured and achingly permanent. the monster are trying to get him again, their faces of white cloth and rotten teeth way too close for stiles' comfort. at night, they hiss and they growl relentlessly. ss tt ii ll ee ss, they say. stiiiles, i'm going to rip you apart and e a t y o u r f u c k i n g g u t s.
stiles is tired and today he is not okay.
“you’re allowed to feel like this.” kindly, scott spoke after a heavy beat of silence and he inches closer. “we all do. i don’t expect you to forget about everything, and i won’t anytime either, stiles. i think about them every day.”
even in death,
stiles does not believe he could escape the deformity of his bones. the sins he swallowed will dig his grave and they will lie there with him.
but he is sorry to scott, lydia, and allison, and everyone that was dragged into what formed from stiles’ naive curiosity about the dead body in the woods. he is very fucking regretful the lives he ruined, ended, destroyed because stiles is curious and obsessive. it haunts him. the guilt has made a home in his heart.
“i don’t know how to be okay,” he admits, shame laced in the words he buried under his throat and behind his face. he looks at his hands, trembling and wringing each other out like a wet cloth, and it’s been getting harder to ignore the phantom blood trailing down the curves of his knuckles. he may not be guilty of pure evil but stiles knows he will never be innocent.
“i’m tired of.. being here, scott. i-i don't know why i’m still alive. what for? why am i here and they're not?”
like the words themselves leave a bitter aftertaste, or perhaps his wrongdoings, stiles forces it out and shakily breathes in the thick, dusty air slowly suffocating him. no, stiles does not know how to be okay wholly and entirely. it honestly terrifies him: the idea he could live without desiring the empty warmth death provides. to stop looking for it as a way out, a permanent backup plan. to live like he doesn't want to die. but a lot of things have terrified him and he did it anyway.
“i know it seems impossible but you can be happy,” scott says. his pecan brown eyes are filled with a true empathy few possess. they look at stiles with love. like he can see past stiles’ stupid jokes, his i'm-okay-i-swear facade, his sarcasm, everything stiles pretends to be when he cannot bear to be himself. he sees past it all and, god knows why, scott doesn't mind what's underneath.
“you can begin to heal from this. i won't say it'll be easy, it hasn't been for anyone, but you deserve to recover. like, actually recover. and you can. i know you can, stiles. you're the strongest person i know.”
stiles lifts his arms. they are without much muscle and clearly malnourished. “this is the strongest you've ever seen?”
“yeah,” scott reaffirms. “muscle can only do so much, anyway. you survived hell and worse, and you're still standing. you’re still here despite it all.”
stiles chuckles uncomfortably. he wants to brush it off, send scott off on his way, and hide from the world. but scott's words ring awake a little something in his chest. almost, kind of, sorta like hope. yeah. hope.
“i.. i guess so. i’m still standing, aren't i? that has to count for something.”
“it does. it counts for a lot.”
a smile somewhere inside stiles is born. a genuine, honest to god smile. huh. who would have thought? stiles never thought he’d see the day again. (he thinks that every time.)
“scott, i…” he even blushes a little. emotional comfort is not something he’s used to. the ground sure looks interesting right now. “thanks. i really appreciate you.”
“anytime, man.” he can hear the bright beam in scott’s voice before he looks up. “well, we better dig in.”
“dig into what?”
scott holds the grocery bag. his joy is damn near contagious. “the ice cream!”
yeah. very contagious.