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There’s a heavy weight in the air, coating them both in sour melancholy; Isaac’s tongue darts out to wet his lips for the tenth time in the last five minutes. They’re both staring at the floor,cold eyes glazed with grief. He pulls at a dry patch between his teeth, a temporary sting before his healing takes over. Scott swallows a lump in his throat.
“You’re really leaving?” Scott’s voice rings out. It makes Isaac jump; the way his words come out raw and thick, the way he’s been crying himself dry.
“Yeah.” Isaac nods shortly, blinking for what seems like the first time since that night at Oak Creek, because closing his eyes means reliving the memory, closing his eyes means that the tight feeling buried in his chest that twists into knots will come back, closing his eyes means he’ll see Allison again; sword through her stomach on display for the whole world to see, to say this is what happens to kids in Beacon Hills.
“Tonight.” He says, his mouth bitter.
“Right.” Scott nods. He remembers the first time Isaac told him he was leaving. That day at Deaton’s office with flickering gazes at one another. The weight of trusting and being trusted teetering like a see-saw. He hopes that this’ll be like last time, an unexpected friendly face reaching out to him. A bright smile glowing through a dreadful fog. Scott knows that this might be the last time he’ll see Isaac.
Isaac breathes in.
The scent of Scott’s room is second on the list of things from Beacon Hills Isaac will miss. Something warm and sweet like honey, like the dark color of Scott’s eyes. His room felt so lived in. Like every mess was planned, orchestrated, even; piles of clothes, unfinished school work, clutter and trinkets all strewn about. At the back of Isaac’s head he can hear a voice prick and pinch him, snapping at him to clean, to tidy up, to stop being a damn disappointment for once in his life. He feels himself physically shake out of it, looking at his unmade bed that smelled like them.
Scott was first on his list of things from Beacon Hills he’ll miss.
Scott who he’d barely known just a year ago, simply existing as someone who he’d see in class at a passing glance. Who he’d tried hurting before he knew any better about the twists and turns of the supernatural world. Who he had found trust and comfort in when he had no one else to turn to.
The boy who welcomed him with open arms and no questions as his feet soaked into the carpet and the sound of shattering glass echoed in his ears.
Everything felt alright with Scott.
The closeness of their bodies, warm and sweaty inside the warehouse, the cool metal of the syringe in his hand. A heavy beat thumps through his head and he looks down at the floor, avoiding the strobe lights. Scott’s hand is on his. Be careful. Isaac laughs, because of course he does. Scott the all-too caring boy. Who’ll do anything to ensure everyone stays safe, stays alive. Even if it was a murderous lizard-boy on the loose. I doubt it'll even slightly hurt him. Scott’s hand suddenly grips his, squeezing. Isaac meets his gaze; his eyes are intense, almost drowning in the pressure. No, I mean you. I don’t want you to get hurt. His heart skips a beat and a breath rattles out of his closing throat.
The line between Scott and Isaac and ScottAndIsaac started to blur. He doesn’t remember the time between feeling like an outsider to the tight knit pack and feeling like there was no way to get any closer, crawling and burrowing himself in the word, settling in the spot right next to their makeshift alpha. The spot where Scott’s hand and his slot together, fingers clasping together with a wordless display of protection. The spot on Isaac’s hand, across should-be bruised and bloody knuckles, where Scott brings his lips down to press a kiss over pale skin.
Isaac doesn’t remember a time where he’s felt so warm.
He remembers shivering under ice cold glares from his father dripping with degrading spits and scowls, but it was nothing compared to the quiet, lonely nights in his old dreaded basement; trapped in a prison too cruel for a fifteen year old boy. Hands pushing and shoving, trembling with despair that made his stomach churn, nails scraping at every surface he could, eyes screwed shut and begging . Walls coming in on him, closing, closing, closing as he gasped for every breath, choking on his own voice. Back then he would’ve wished that the walls finished their job, compacting him into nothingness.
Scott knows, remembers what happened to him. Offers him an extra blanket that he takes graciously, keeps the heat running higher in his room, sits close to him and lets the warmth from their bodies weave into one another. Isaac takes his hand sometimes; under the table at dinner, in the hallway at school, under the covers laying in bed. Your hands are cold. Scott would always say, squeezing their fingers together. You need to start wearing gloves. Maybe get a scarf.
Scott says it as a joke, playful and teasing. He doesn’t expect it when Isaac walks in with the thick blue fabric wrapped around his neck. A smile tugs at his lips. You look warm. Isaac smiles back, ducking his chin down to tuck his nose into the garment. Very.
The thing becomes something of comfort to Isaac. A constant in the forever turning wheel of living in Beacon Hills. Something to keep him protected from the California breeze; something to keep him grounded. The memory of Scott wrapping the fabric around himself plays in his head, the memory of wearing the scarf the next day and the scent of Scott invading his nose. The scent of warmth. Of safety.
Scott was always safe.
Isaac thumbs at the fabric draped around his neck, he was always cold— but with Scott, his skin seemed to never stop burning. Scott was always warm, radiating a bright wave of heat and citrusy joy. Always warm leaning into Isaac’s touch, their limbs tangling together and their fingers slotting together. Always warm even if his scent reeks of rotting grief; sour and scratchy at the back of his throat.
He takes it off himself and pushes it towards Scott. For the first time since he walked in they looked at each other, and Isaac wants to rip his gaze away, nearly cracking under soft brown eyes that once comforted him. He feels like he’s suffocating. Scott looks at him like he’s a breath of fresh air, a sliver of relief in the rubble of damaging chaos. The tired lines traced into his skin were nothing compared to the jagged pressure he suffocated in underneath the surface. The expectations of the supernatural world weighed on to one single teenager. Isaac hoped he would get the break he deserved, the normal life he deserved; because a long time ago Isaac decided that Scott had deserved everything good in the world, because Scott himself was everything good in the world.
Scott takes the scarf from him, holding it like it would break any second; a precious and fragile object in the hands of someone who could rip it to shreds with one motion. Scott would never think of doing such a thing. He looks up at Isaac with wide, brown eyes, brows furrowing. Isaac can’t help but let a smile twitch at his lips. Scott’s eyes were always so full and radiant, shining with hopeful optimism. This time they shone like wet rain on the pavement, like dripping gasoline in the middle of a dingy motel parking lot. Isaac feels himself swallow underneath the eye contact.
“What’s this for?” Scott asks, his voice softer now. He squeezes the cloth in his hands, soft and fuzzy underneath dry skin. His head clouds with the scent of Isaac. Something like orange peels and stupid fancy cologne he probably got from Argent. Something that’s on the verge of a burning sting through his nose, but something he never wants to lose.
“So you don’t forget me.” It’s barely above a whisper, spoken like a secret, like a hopeful wish. Isaac’s eyes dart across Scott’s face, his breath wavering. There’s something that sparks, a bittersweet comfort in dull blue eyes. Isaac looks at him full of hope. He’d open himself up to the other boy, letting him into his life and rebuilding what had frosted over and broke; letting him scrape away leftover icicles dangling from his pride, letting it melt away with his presence, his gaze that carves into him with a hot blade— a warm hand.
Beacon Hills used to be a home to Isaac. Years ago when his mother was still alive. Years ago when his brother was still alive. Now it seems to be more fittingly described as a jail, a bear trap around his life. He’s stuck, slowly bleeding out and waiting to die in this shithole of a town. Maybe at some point along the way it became a home again. It’s the closest to home he’d get now that he’s with Scott. That he’d been with Scott. Because Scott was his one last shimmering gleam of home. Taking refuge in the McCall household felt more like coming home than any day he had trudged through his own front door, waiting for his father’s command. But this was Beacon Hills. A never ending cycle of pain, grief, rinse, and repeat.
Scott holds the scarf close to his chest and Isaac goes back to chewing on his bottom lip. The room floods with a syrupy sweetness. He feels like he might drown in it, trudging in honey colored eyes. Scott’s gaze never leaves his, lips turning up in a smile that all but makes Isaac sink into his spot on the mattress. The heavy thud, thud, thud of Scott’s heart rings in Isaac’s ears; a sound he wants to remember forever, a sound that he wants to take all for himself and lock it away for him and only him. His own heart thunders along, a heady silence between them, waiting and waiting.
A fleeting second goes by and Isaac’s brain short-circuits as Scott crashes into him, reaching up and kissing him. His hand goes to the back of Scott’s neck, kissing back and inhaling the honey-sweetness that Scott radiated, immersing himself in all his warmth and homeliness. It was clumsy; dry, cracked lips against one another, noses bumping and the strain in Isaac’s neck from leaning down.
It was perfect.
Isaac is the one who pulls away first, betrayed by the human need to breathe, but all he wanted to do now was to breathe in— to inhale — all of Scott. Scott and his amber-shining eyes, squinting as he smiles from ear to ear. Scott and his should-be calloused fingers and scarred skin, but all Isaac feels when he holds his hand is smooth, warm, comfort. Scott and his ever-growing heart and his need to save and protect. Scott and his stupid uneven jawline that Isaac wanted to kiss all day.
“What was that for?”
“So you don’t forget me.” Scott echoes, smiling. The warm glint in his eyes returns. Shines into his eyes like the sun filtering through the blinds; he lets himself be blinded.
“I don’t think I could ever forget you.”