Chapter Text
The five hour drive to Beacon Hills left Stiles in a static feeling of stress and anxiety. In the cup holder on his right laid his old stress ball from high school that he’d used to hold onto in class. This morning when he’d slept past his alarm and was rush-packing everything on his list it had rolled out from under his cluttered dresser and he’d stared at it for a couple seconds before bending over and tossing it into his bag.
He had only drove twenty tightly wound minutes before pulling over to the side of the road and digging it out of the bottom of his suitcase and holding it in his right hand as he resumed the drive.
The ball was worn, now, and had served its purpose in letting out some of the anxiety he had had before. But now he was about a half an hour to twenty minutes away from Beacon Hills and he could feel his heart almost jack-rabbiting through his chest.
It oddly reminded him of himself in high school. Most of the time he was a hyperactive mess with flailing limbs that flew everywhere (when he was thirteen he’d been hit with a growth spurt that left him unsure of how to really control his then too long limbs) and only when he was solitary or still would his anxiety come to catch up with him. Of course, that was also the time where he thought he had a support system to fall back on, but that was a different story.
Often times he would lay in bed for hours running over the day’s events and stressors in his head before he would fall into a fitful sleep. It took a prescription of a night time sedative from his physician before he could quit having solitary moments of extreme stress. He would have liked to take one of those pills now, but it had been a long time since he had to break one of those out.
Of course, he had made sure to refill his prescription before coming out here. Just in case.
It wasn’t that he wanted to block out his trip to Beacon Hills . . . it’s just that he did. He had been dreading this trip since he’d gotten the wedding invitation from Scott and the request to be his Best Man. It was an offer he couldn’t turn down, no matter how much he felt physically sick at the prospect of returning back to Beacon Hills.
He’d tried to convince himself that the odds of . . . him living there were slim to none, but it was still a frightening prospect. That was one part of his past he’d been trying to completely shove away from his mind for eight years. He was twenty five now, and a mostly mature adult. If there happened to be ex . . . whatevers, then he’d be perfectly fine dealing (of course there was a small part of his brain that said you were never even considered his ex anything.)
So he’d sucked it up and called back Scott to tell him he’d be able to come and do the whole shindig before he could lose his nerve. After the phone call had ended he’d had to sit in his kitchen for half an hour trying to quell the impending anxiety attack he was bound to have.
Scott had sounded over the moon, almost not believing it when he’d confirmed he would also be his Best Man. It made sense; he hadn’t stepped foot into that godforsaken town since he’d left for NYU. He moved back to California after he finished his track in an English degree and from there on he had published two decent-selling fictional books. He had been working on an idea for another one, but had currently been uninspired and unmotivated due to the impending distress over his imminent return back to his hometown.
Not only was he going to be there for the pre-wedding and post-wedding details, but was also spending a couple more weeks there to help his dad out around the house ( this was not his idea; it was the result of constant guilt-tripping and unabashed begging by his dad.)
So he packed up most of his closet and had set off to the place he had spent almost every fiber of his being avoiding. It wasn’t an easy feat, but he had managed it for years without fail. His only downfall now was his inability to resist the thought of Scott’s puppy-dog eyes and the constant self-reproach by his father.
And now he was pulling into the town that never seemed to change.
***********
It was almost odd how everything was still in place at Beacon Hills. There was still that crappy old Dairy Queen, and the mostly abandoned warehouse near Fifth Street. There was the old ice skating rink he and Scott and Allison used to spend their Friday nights, there was also the small vet clinic that Scott now owned and ran.
Luckily, Beacon Hills High wasn’t on the way to his house; he was sure if he’d seen it he’d have to stop the car due to the memories it would bring up.
He was sure that the school looked the same as it always had, no doubt. The outside wasn’t what bothered him about it, rather what happened inside when he’d been there. Aside from the biggest reason why he hated it (see: complete and unapologetic public humiliation and embarrassment) another contributing factor was the memory of how unpopular he’d been.
Since he and Scott were a bit more on the nerdy side ( due to Scott’s asthmatic wheezing and Stiles propensity to be hyperactive because of his ADHD) they’d quickly became subjects of ridicule, prone to attract the attention of bullies and jocks everywhere. So yeah, he wasn’t too pumped to see his old “stomping ground.”
In fact; he’d be trying his hardest to avoid that school altogether, no need to visit the only place that caused him the most pain in the world. Well, except for . . . that other place.
He’d only just pulled into his dad’s driveway before his dad was already out on the porch; arms crossed and a smile already spreading on his weathered face.
Stiles immediately felt grateful that he’d acquiesced to his father’s request; the familiar sight of him left Stiles with an immediate spread of warmth to his heart. He dropped his bags and walked over to his dad to give him a hug right away. The memorable fit of his dad’s arms around him combined with the old cologne he’d been wearing that Stiles gave him every Christmas was all the signal he needed to stay home.
They stood like that, hugging fiercely, for a couple minutes before his dad cleared his throat and Stiles pulled back to see him hurriedly wiping away tears with the back of his cuff. Stiles gave a watery chuckle and slugged him on the shoulder while wiping away his own tears and saying, “Jesus, us Stilinski men need to toughen up.”
His dad laughed in response good-naturedly and walked pat him to pick up the bags still on the ground. “That’s what happens when you don’t visit in years, kiddo. You got any more bags?”
Stiles ignored the first part of his comment and instead nodded his head. “Yeah, I’ve got one more in the back. You can put those two up while I get it; it’s pretty heavy.”
His dad just nodded and turned to go back into the house, whistling a random tune as he bounded up the porch steps and disappearing into Stiles’ childhood home.
Stiles walked around to the back of the car and popped it open, readying himself for the last bag. He’d had it all the way in his hands and had just gotten it all the way out of the car when he felt someone put their hands on his shoulders from behind.
His heart nearly stopped and he immediately dropped the bag, which landed on his feet hard. “Fuck!” he cursed, pulling his feet out from under, only to lose his balance and fall over backwards onto his butt in the gravel of the driveway.
When he looked up to see who had put their hands around him he was immediately greeted by the unmistakable flop of brown curls and a warm tanned face grinning back down at him.
“Scotty!” he yelled before bounding back up and using Scott as an anchor as he threw his arms around him in some semblance of a sloppy hug. Scott just laughed right back and wrapped his arms around Stiles in response.
“Dude, you haven’t changed a bit, still falling all over your ass when you see me,” the mischievous twinkle in Scott’s eyes as he said this when they pulled back reminded Stiles of the Scott he knew in high school, the one who would stay up until five in the morning playing video games together, chugging Mountain Dew by the liter. It also reminded him of how long he truly hadn’t seen Scott, aside from Skype calls and FaceTime.
“Bro, you look exactly the same!” Stiles said honestly; Scott still had his trademark teenage haircut and the ever present boyish expression on his face.
Scott shook his head, “Man, you should see Allison, she still looks so good.” And there was the true sign Scott hadn’t changed; the fact that he couldn’t go two minutes without mentioning something about Allison.
Stiles just grinned back in response. “And where is the bride to be? She trying to avoid me?” he joked.
Scott just rolled his eyes and shoved his shoulder. “Nam man, she’s still at the Preserve. She’s got the night shift so you probably won’t see her until tomorrow.”
While Scott had stuck to his desire of being a veterinarian, Allison had done a complete 180 by becoming a park ranger for the Beacon Hills Preserve instead of an arms dealer like her parents had planned for her to be. Stiles had been surprised by the information when Scott had told him in one of the emails they’d sent back and forth to each other, but he ultimately felt happier that she was doing something like that instead of an intimidating job like her father had made it seem.
She regularly guided tours for those who wanted to see the plants and wildlife in the Preserve, but she also had to do the night shift which meant guarding the Preserve from teenage “hooligans” at night.
Which was ironic, because when they were all in high school they regularly snuck into the Preserve to explore or drink at night. When he’d told her this over the phone she had only laughed and said back, “Well now I know where all the good hiding spots are to find them!”
He was happy that his friends were doing well, but he knew he had to ask now before his trip progressed any further. “So,” he tried making his voice casual, “How’s everyone else doing?”
Scott looked away before saying, “Well, Danny got a degree in Computer Science so he’s in SoCal for some big technical company. Lydia went to MIT to get a degree for something I don’t understand in Math; Jackson went to a State college near her for a business degree. Isaac actually teaches an English class and BHHS, Erica and Boyd tied the knot . . .” he trailed off at the flat look Stiles gave him.
“Come on, man,” he sighed, “I already know all that. You know who I’m asking about.” He fought to keep his voice steady and give off an unaffected impression. It only vaguely disguised his racing heart.
Scott just sighed and shrugged. “He took over the family business, man, he’s a landscaper now. He’s got a place still in Beacon Hills, a loft not too far from here.”
Stiles nodded and dropped it at that. He didn’t want to put Scott in the awkward place of asking him whether he had been invited to the wedding; seeing as they all used to be friends in high school and because Beacon Hills was such a small town there was no doubt he’d been invited to the wedding.
When Scott saw that he’d no longer be interrogated he just smiled and hefted Stiles’ huge bag off the ground without any effort. “Shit, man,” Stiles’ said surprised. “You been hittin’ the gym lately?” which was strange, because Scott’s biceps didn’t look any bigger or firmer than they had before.
Scott shrugged uncomfortably and said, “Nah, it’s all those dog food bags I have to lug around the office.” He’d turned before Stiles could ask him about his weird behavior. Stiles just brushed it off as leftover tension/awkwardness from their conversation minutes earlier.
Scott beat him to the house and when Stiles caught up his dad was waiting for him downstairs while Scott was already back from dropping off his bag into his room. “You seen the muscles on this guy?” he joked to his dad, pointing at Scott, “Maybe if he was this strong in high school we would have pulled more ladies.”
His dad gave him an odd smile before looking back at Scott and saying, “Yep, seems like Scott’s been a bit more . . . powerful in the past few years.” To which Scott blushed and looked away to avoid his dad’s gaze. It was almost like Scott was abashed; maybe something his dad referenced it frequently to him?
Stiles couldn’t help but feel as if he was missing something.
It wasn’t that he hadn’t kept in contact with Scott, or any of the others for that matter. They were all friends on Facebook and regularly emailed and called each other with updates and stupid stuff they found in their everyday lives, but for some reason it felt like Stiles had missed an important event, apparently only happening in Beacon Hills. He decided to drop it though; he didn’t want to be that nosy friend who questioned his friend every five minutes.
“Anyway,” Scott said, interrupting his running thoughts, “Now we’re just waiting on Jackson and Lydia, they’re due to come in town in two days. Everyone else is here already; I’m sure we can set up a hangout or something so you can see all the old faces!”
Stiles nodded. “Sounds good, man!” and it didn’t feel like a lie. Scott stared at him for a moment before letting a huge smile spread across his face and clapping his hands. “Well, I’ve got to head back to the clinic. I’ll text you when my shift is over, dude!” and waved them goodbye as he left
Stiles stared at the door shut behind him. “Did Scott seem a bit off to you?” he asked his dad, still staring at where Scott had left.
His dad just clapped a hand on his back and said, “Good to have you back, son.”
**********
When he finally unpacked all his bags into his childhood room he was struck by the destructive desire to look around his old room. He hadn’t been there in years, and he was always the type of person to try to avoid the past, but sick curiosity got the better of him in no time.
He knew he’d left it mostly the same before he left and conceivably knew that his dad probably didn’t do upkeep for it on the regular. It was tidy, but that was only the outside surface.
He tried the bedside table first. Opening the single drawer on the bottom had him finding inane, everyday objects; an old Kleenex here and there, an empty water bottle, journals that had his chicken scratch handwriting scrawled in them. Upon further inspection of those he found what was mostly trigonometry and physics, something he definitely wasn’t willing to relive.
He felt a little let down that he didn’t have anything positive to remind him of high school, so he made his way over to his desk in hopes of a better prospect.
It was still the same as it was in high school, only this time with a thin layer of dust on the top. He wiped it away fondly so he could get a better look at all the stickers plastered over the top of it, covering most of the surface. Every time Stiles had discovered a new band he liked he had ordered about a dozen of their stickers online so he could stick them to his desk, one of the only places that got his full attention when he was in school.
As he ran his hands over the stickers he was struck with the memories of most of them; concerts that he had attended with Scott or with his friend group. Some of the bands reminded him of how much he loved them in high school, the people he’d shared them with. Of course, thinking of some of those people left him with a sour taste in his mouth, but that would be a bitter rehash if he’d ever heard one.
Come to think of it, this was the most he’d ever thought about him in years. Except, that would probably be a lie if he said it out loud. In fact, he thought about him almost every day, just a dull undercurrent thought that almost always kept buzzing at the back of his skull. The only difference between now and then was the fact that Beacon Hills forced him to bring all of his ugly, resentful thoughts brimming to the surface.
He went to open the top desk drawer and had to clap his hand over his mouth to keep from laughing out loud. Yeah, that was all the confirmation he needed to know that his dad definitely hadn’t gone into his room: stuffed haphazardly into the top drawer was a bottle of lube and three magazines with half-naked men on the cover.
He almost stared in awe at the bravery of his younger self to keep these in such an easily accessible location. He picked up one of them and flipped through the well-worn pages to try to remember any of the men. After five minutes of the same burly men he finally put the magazine back with the others, making sure this time to shove them to the back so they weren’t as seen easily.
He pulled open the next drawer to the right, finding old school supplies. It was mostly worn-down folders with dicks drawn on them (courtesy of Scott) a couple tattered notebooks here and there, and a collection of extremely dried out highlighters. He was disappointed that it didn’t reveal anything more than his bedside drawer had.
He was almost feeling discouraged before he opened the last drawer.
Immediately his heart ached. In the drawer were dozens of mix-CD’s, something he’d almost forgotten about. Without delay he was reminded of what exactly was in this drawer, and before he could think he dug his hand into the pile to pull out the photo album he knew was at the bottom.
He knew the contents of the album; there were rare photos of him mom in there, a couple of full family portraits along with some after her death, and a conglomeration of pictures of him with his friends. He didn’t feel like flipping through the well-known photographs anymore.
He shoved it back into the bottom of the drawer and decided that he needed to fold his t-shirts.
**********
A few hours later left Stiles driving to the nearest Tom Thumb to pick up actual food instead of the fatty crap his dad had stocked in the fridge. Stiles had taken one look at the contents inside before raiding the pantry only to find the same type of items brazenly stood there: unhealthy almost junk food quality snacks that would make his dad’s cardiologist shake his head in disgust.
So his father sourly handed him his own membership card and grumbled that Stiles was, “taking this way too far,” and, “being an ass,” but after one threat of making a doctor’s appointment had shoved him out of the house.
So Stiles had the radio turned onto the alternative rock one he’d favored in high school, nervously drumming along to the beat of one of the songs playing.
In all honesty, he was a bit nervous. He’d completely forgotten that this was the first time he’d really been in Beacon Hills in eight years. In a town as small as Beacon Hills that meant that he was bound
to get apprehended a minimum of fifty times in places such as the local Tom Thumb about what he’d been doing all these years, why he was back, what was going on in his life currently, etc.
It made him more nervous than he’d like to admit; if only for the fact that there were certain . . . people he was trying to avoid. Well, more like a person, but that was semantics. Suddenly he didn’t feel so motivated to buy produce.
He half-heartedly reached for his stress ball before clutching it in his hand and feeling some of his stress leech out of him. He parked the car in the parking lot and headed out, with only his wallet in his pocket and his stress ball still squeezed between his fingers.
The Tom Thumb of Beacon Hills was still the same as he’d left it. It looked like everything was still in remotely in the same place; only a couple new advertisements were at the front of the store.
He picked up a shopping cart and started in the general direction of the produce before he heard a voice squeal behind him. “Stiles!” Called the voice of the Ms. Summers, the lady he used to mow lawns for. When he turned around he was engulfed in a bone crushing hug. “Hey Ms. Summers,” he wheezed out.
She let him go and leaned back to get a good look at him. She tsked whiled saying, “You’re still skin and bones, young man! How many times have I told you start eating more?” Ms. Summers looked the same as when he’d left her, too. She was still average height with a curly poof of white hair and coke bottle glasses that only seemed to emphasize the bug-like quality of her already slightly larger than average eyes. She was dressed in a flowery summer dress with a knit cardigan over that he had no doubt about her crocheting herself.
He rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly while laughing and saying, “Yeah, I know, I’m working on it.” So many a time had he come inside from mowing her lawn and she had about five sandwiches waiting for him on the counter, insisting he tell her if he wanted seconds.
\She just smiled and shook her head. “You must be in town for Scott’s wedding! Should I expect to see a date with you?” while she had only the best intentions as she asked her question, he couldn’t help but bristle up the slightest at the mention of a “date.”
“Um, no.” he gave, lamely, “Just a single pringle ready to mingle,” he tried to give her an easygoing grin but he could tell she saw right through it. “Well, that’s nice.” She gave awkwardly before stepping back and looking a bit flustered. Stiles suddenly felt like a dick for obviously making her feel bad about just a slip up.
“No biggie! I’ll catch you later!” he gave an actual genuine grin this time and Ms. Summers seemed to understand, giving back her own small grin and walking away.
Immediately Stiles felt drained. If this was what he was supposed to expect every time he saw old acquaintances in public places he was going to have to work on his people skills, or at least the skills that prevented him from bringing up old painful events.
He made his way back over to the produce section, trying to subtly hide his face every time he heard someone walk past him. He chose a bunch of fruits and vegetables he knew would only make his dad scrunch up his nose when he got home.
He had been making his way over to the meat aisle to get a pick of the cuts with the least fat on them when he heard a voice clear behind him. He braced himself for another excited old lady before he turned around.
And then promptly dropped the steak in his hands.
Standing there in a clingy leather jacket was none other than Laura Hale. Her eyebrows almost reached her hairline, how much she raised them up. “Stiles Stilinski?” She asked, sounding as shocked as he felt. “So the rumors are true, you came back in town for Scott’s wedding.” She still sounded surprised, as if he would have skipped his own best friend’s wedding.
He couldn’t muster anything to say. Somehow he’d completely forgotten that he would probably see the rest of the Hales when he spent his time back up in Beacon Hills. He was at a complete loss of what to say, something he never usually had an issue with.
She looked the same; she had the trademark Hale looks with the dark hair and light eyes. She looked different than the last moment he’d seen her, though, her mouth not twisted into an ugly frown and her eyes not as angry and stormy as their last confrontation. She’d been one of the last people he’d seen before he high-tailed in out of there; she’d been one of the last to try to erase the events of what had just happened.
She’d come making excuses for him, pleading Stiles to understand “what he didn’t know” maybe if she had done it more than a couple days afterwards he would have listened, but she hadn’t waited. After she had said her spiel he had blown up right back; angry, fat tears rolling down his face as he shouted back ugly things.
He had still been in a fragile place, then. Everything he did felt like some sort of out-of-body experience, the way he either would completely shut down everyone or he violently explode; tearing them down within minutes. Of course, most of the Beacon Hills population had known what happened, so they either let him cool off or didn’t get offended when he responded badly to them.
But here Laura was again, trying to start some semblance of a conversation with him. He longed to have the first word so he could steer and control the conversation in the direction he wanted it to go; short and simple. He was just gearing up to say false pleasantries.
But Laura beat him to the punch, asking him, “So how are you doing?” immediately he narrowed his eyes. Even if she didn’t mean it as a hurtful question it still put him completely on edge, unsure of how to gauge the situation. Aside from that, he also felt a stab in his heart and a lump in his throat. She had no right to treat him as a fragile object, when she had been one of the one’s to put him in that position. He immediately rose to his defensive position.
“Perfectly fine,” he almost spat, surprised at the venom in his own tone, “You can tell the rest of your family that.” He knew he didn’t have to clarify what specific members she should tell it to, but he was past having a long, civil conversation. Not with the girl who had stood by and let him get humiliated all those years ago.
Laura, in her defense, did look a bit ashamed at that and was about to open her mouth again (probably to ask another unintentional hurtful question) before he cut her off and said, “Sorry, but I’m in kind of a hurry.” And with that he brushed past her and pulled his cart away, forgetting about the steak on the floor. He didn’t have to look back to know that she probably had a disappointed look on her face. Or, maybe she didn’t, he didn’t truly know her like he thought he used to.
He walked all the way across the store before turning down into a random aisle and sitting down on the floor with his head between his arms, perched on his drawn up knees.
“Fuck.” He swore miserably, he could feel the beginnings of tears at his eyes. He felt even worse that he was having such a fierce physical reaction to it, and in such a public place. He also felt a bit embarrassed to have snapped so viscously at Laura; partly because it was extremely rude, and another part because he was truly showing her how not okay he was. It just felt wrong thinking how much of their history together had to be forgotten.
And now he was having an anxiety attack in the middle of the frozen meals section; something he hadn’t had since he’d left for college. Beacon Hills just had this way of bringing back painful things that he’d rather not explore. It was his first day in town and he had already had a nervous breakdown in the grocery store. Great.
Not only that, but it had been caused by someone who used to be one of his good friends. It was no doubt who Laura had sided with during that period of time, but the sad part was that Stiles still had good, unforgettable memories of her. She had always been that older, cooler girl who made him feel invincible. She was also the older sister of the guy he had been in love with, and she always stood up for him. Except for when it really counted. Then, she was just another face he tried to forget.
And throughout all of his efforts to erase certain people from his life, she was one of the ones he’s had the most trouble with. She was one of the only people who could effectively counter his sarcasm (along with Lydia, of course) and she was also one of the only people who could really see past him. Past his walls.
So that was where his true fear came in: no doubt when Laura would get home and tell her family that Stiles was back in town she could easily tell them how not-together he was, a nervous wreck who had a breakdown after a mere conversation (a small part of him hoped that they’d maybe feel responsible, maybe a bit ashamed, but he wasn’t going to kid himself.)
Word would get out to his dad by the time that he’d get home that he was seen talking to Laura Hale; whenever Beacon Hills got a hold of even barely decent gossip it spread like wildfire across town with almost every citizen in touch with the current events of it. And with something as juicy as Stiles talking to a Hale . . . well that would just be too good to pass on, loyalties be damned.
So before he could start any more gossip (being caught freaking out after said conversation would be even juicier) he took in a big breath and stood up, steadying his hands on the cart. In his peripheral he caught sight of a dark jacket, but when he snapped his head to look it was gone. Now he was imagining things, just making it harder for himself.
He pushed the cart to the checkout and grunted a hello to the cashier, not in the mood to start conversation. She scanned his items quickly and the second he was able to go he bolted out of there; only carrying the two plastic bags filled with the fruits he’d purchased.
It was dark by the time he got outside, and he’d forgotten where he’d parked his jeep, another new low for him today. He had to search for it for a couple minutes, feeling uneasy.
For some reason he felt that he was wrong to have written off Beacon Hills earlier. It had changed. There was this . . . electricity in the air that he didn’t know how to explain. It looked all the same, but it felt so much more different than what he remembered. It felt more dangerous. He wondered how long after he left had it changed, whether anyone else had noticed.
It was almost like Beacon Hills felt intimidating, almost dangerous. While he was searching for his jeep he felt nervous, and not the nerves he had been feeling before. The parking lot was almost empty, but it felt like someone was watching him. Knowing Beacon Hills it was probably some old granny who was trying to remember if she had seen him before, but when he told himself that it felt like a lie.
He had left his phone at home to charge, so he knew in case of an emergency he wouldn’t be able to call anyone, which unnerved him further.
When he finally located his jeep he threw open the doors of the backseat, throwing the food in quickly but gently (so as not to bruise anything.) The whole time he was doing it he felt eyes on his back, and so he did it as fast as he could so he could finally leave there and go back home where his dad was the Sheriff and had at least three guns at their house.
He turned the key into the ignition and started the car, tying to get out the place as quick as he could. He still couldn’t shake that feeling of being watched, though, and kept the radio on full blast the
whole ride home so he wouldn’t have to stew in silence where he knew he would only psyche himself out further.
That experience combined with the weird one with his dad and Scott made him feel troubled, it just felt like there was some undercurrent of something huge going on and he wasn’t invited in on the information.
But that couldn’t make any sense, right? There was no way that Scott and his dad were hiding some big secret for him, and there was no way that he’d gained a stalker in Beacon Hills in the short four hours he’d been back. The conversation with Laura had just left him off kilter; he was just blowing things out of proportion.
He got ready to go to sleep in his childhood room that night, still feeling a little bit crazed, he tried to lay down facing the window, but found that to be too eerie and made to move.
After he’d flipped over with his back to the window he still felt a bit of discomfort, something in his gut was forcing him to keep his eyes open, and his ears picked up every and any little noise and creak within the house. He could feel beads of sweat perspire at the crown of his head, and he angrily sat up in the middle of his sheets to wipe them away.
He got out of the bed and tried pacing around the room to wear him out, but had to quit quickly because of the recollection of how much he did it in high school, when he had too much energy to burn. He sat on the edge of his bed and tried to take deep breaths in and out to expel some of the liveliness that still reached beyond his bones. His mind felt like it was thrumming.
He pushed himself off the plush of his sheets and walked back to his desk. The lights were still off, and while it put him on edge he just couldn’t bring himself to turn them back on. It was like his body was moving against his own will.
He sat down in the desk chair and immediately put his hand on the smooth metal of the second drawer on the right, already knowing what he was looking for. He yanked open the drawer and sifted through the CD’s, looking for a specific one.
At last he found it; it was one of the only ones in an actual case. It had a blank face, except for the untidy scrawl on the cover reading, “This is the first song for your mix tape, and its short just like your temper.”
The title of the CD was an inside joke between him and the person who made it for him. It was lyrics from one of his favorite Brand New songs, one of the bands whose stickers were plastered to his desk. He just wanted to see if it was still in the drawer.
It had been one of his favorite mix-CD’s, one that he would pop into his stereo and lay back on his bed to listen to it for hours. He was pretty sure that his stereo nowadays was either thrown out or collecting dust in the garage, but it’s not like he had the intention of listening to it anyways. He was just wondering if it still looked the same, having done a drastic change of being always played to
never being played again.
He flipped it over to the reflective side, staring at his face in the multicolored surface. He tilted it a little bit, if he looked just right he could see the back of his room . . . he jumped, his heart racing.
He spun around in his chair and had his mouth open to scream as he wheeled around to see his window.
All he saw was the oak tree outside, a sight that immensely calmed him and caused him to clutch his heart to slow down the heart palpitations he was having. He was still in shock at what he thought he saw, his mind was still whirring all over the place.
When he’d held up the CD he had seen someone in his window.
Not in the way that they were sneaking in (because he obviously would have heard that) but just someone sitting on the tree and staring at him.
It had scared the hell out of him, such a freaky sight. He half didn’t want to go check under his window to see if there was actually someone there, but he knew if he didn’t it would bug him the rest of the night.
So he timidly walked his way over, when he reached the window he creaked it open all the way until he could fit his torso through it. He leaned over and peered out the window, letting the cool air refresh his face.
As far as he could tell there wasn’t anyone near his house and even if there was someone there was no way they would be able to survive a fall from that tree.
He shut the window, feeling oddly put out still. He drew the blinds and crawled back into his bed, trying to leech warmth from the sheets.
The last thing he thought of was the old CD on his desk, and whose face he’d seen in the window.