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There’s a boy waiting for his dad to pick him up from the park.
He doesn’t remember when he got to the park, just that he’s there.
He knows he has a best friend with a crooked smile and floofy curls who plays with him at the park but his friend isn’t there with him.
Why isn’t his friend with him?
Why would he be at the park if his friend isn’t there with him?
When he goes down the slide, his legs don’t fit right. The sides of the slide press against his thighs in a way that’s not right. It’s not right. Why is it not right?
He sits on the swings but his feet touch the ground. They’re not supposed to touch the ground. Why do they touch the ground?
He slides down to the wood chips that don’t feel right either, too squishy, too much like the turf on the fields for… for… for something.
He pulls his too big legs up to his too big chest and wraps his too big arms around them and he cries.
A car rolls up at the entrance of the park and the door opens and slams closed as a familiar voice calls his name.
His dad! His dad is here to come pick him up from the park! His dad didn’t forget about him!
What the boy doesn’t know is that it isn’t his dad who forgot about him, it was him who has forgotten.
.-~*~-.
It starts slow.
Stiles was never known for having a good memory.
The ADHD made his thoughts scattered, the priorities of his memory focused more on whatever hyperfixation had taken his attention, not where he placed his keys or if he had breakfast or if he took his meds.
He was used to being forgetful.
So when the holes in his day grew bigger — forgetting he got a soda from the vending machine and having three half drank bottles in his backpack, forgetting his phone in the fridge when he’s grabbing a snack, forgetting the word for his ankle and calling it his foot wrist — he just laughs it off. Why wouldn’t he? They’re just silly mistakes.
But it isn’t Stiles who notices the change. It’s everyone around him.
When Stiles, who has always been the light in their group, meets their enthusiasm with a general apathy, the alarm bells immediately rang in their minds. Because Stiles is many things, but uncaring isn’t one of them.
Stiles cares so much, so deeply, so passionately, that it is his detriment.
So to see him not care about lacrosse or Scott or whatever thing of the week that is happening to the pack, they’re worried.
They’re scared.
Because that isn’t Stiles. That isn’t the Stiles they know.
So who is it?
It says a lot about them and what they’ve had to live through that their first thought is possession.
What else would explain the way that Stiles no longer rambles excitedly when prompted about his favorite things? What else would explain the way that Stiles, who had once been a spastic wreck about anything to do with romance was suddenly sleeping his way through their grade? Hell! Scott’s pretty sure he’s seen Stiles start smoking. Stiles hates smoking! He’s vehemently kept his dad from doing it and knows each and every health risk because of it.
So, obviously Stiles has been possessed. By… possibly a stereotypical cool guy from the 80s.
But what makes them doubt it is when Stiles is so unabashedly himself. Where the odd pod person that has taken over Stiles disappears and Stiles grins and gesticulates wildly while excitedly telling Scott about ants that turn into zombies because of mushrooms or fumbles awkwardly when talking to Lydia, even though they’ve been friends for years.
They do whatever magical tests they can without Stiles realizing and they all come back negative.
But what they need to test Stiles for isn’t magical and they don’t realize until it’s too late.
.-~*~-.
Stiles keeps forgetting.
Stiles keeps forgetting and he keeps forgetting that he’s forgotten.
Forgetting that he’d done his homework and finding he’s written the essay eight different times, forgetting he’s shampooed and finds the quarter filled bottle suddenly empty and his hair extra squeaky clean, forgetting that he doesn’t have lacrosse practice that day after he’s already shown up in the locker room and gotten changed even though no one else is there, forgetting he had already eaten and toasting waffles four times until he’s suddenly sick and full.
But he doesn’t think much of it. He doesn’t think much of a lot nowadays. Thinking about things just doesn’t seem to matter as much.
He chases the high of a good fuck and he savors the way nicotine settles deep in his lungs. He scoffs at the giddy enthusiasm that his friends have about whatever it is that makes them like that.
And he just… Doesn’t. Care.
His father hasn’t missed the stink of cigarette that clings to Stiles in the clothes he doesn’t care to wipe the stench from. He doesn’t miss the way that Stiles’ already sporadic eating habits get even more unpredictable. He doesn’t miss the way that Stiles doesn’t say anything when he orders bacon with his breakfast, doesn’t lecture him about his heart health, doesn’t even steal a piece from his plate. Just eats the sugary disaster of pancakes stacked on his plate with an odd detachment. His eyes are bright yet so, so empty.
There are days that Stiles seems younger than he is. Pulling his half asleep dad in his room and demanding to be tucked in. Sitting crisscross at the dinner table and sipping on a glass of juice with both hands around the glass, even though it fits in one. Sucking on the crook of his elbow enough to make a mark.
It didn’t hit Noah until he saw the telltale sign of fingernails scraping the top of the butter.
Stiles is acting like a kid.
Stiles was an odd kid. With the undiagnosed ADHD and, well, everything going on when he was a kid, he was bound to be a little odd.
He had his quirks, but they were lovable quirks.
He grew out of some, he kept some, and he still remained an odd boy as he grew up, just in different way.
But it’s as if the oddities he’d grown out of had suddenly come back.
Dread pools in Noah’s stomach.
No.
No, it can’t be.
They checked. They looked. They said it wasn’t—
But if it is…
He doesn’t know how he’ll survive it if it is.
.-~*~-.
There’s a boy who is taken to the doctor.
They put him in a machine where he has bad, bad memories in.
He throws a tantrum. He screams and he kicks, thrashing against the familiar hands with a familiar voice that tries to calm him down.
He doesn’t want to go into the bad, bad machine where the bad, bad memories are!
“You have to go into the bad, bad machine,” the familiar voice says in their own different words. “The bad, bad machine is going to see if you need help.”
He doesn’t need help from the bad, bad machine! He needs help because of the bad, bad machine!
“Bad! Bad! Bad!” the boy shouts.
“You have to stop being bad,” the familiar voices says in their own different words. “You have to calm down,” he really says and the boy doesn’t hear. “You’re being bad, bad, bad! Just like the bad, bad machine! Worse! Worse than bad!”
“I’m not bad!” the boy shouts. “Please! I’m not bad.”
“You are! Bad! Bad! Bad!” the familiar voice says. “No, you’re not bad,” he really says, teary and snotty and sad. “You could never be bad.”
The boy cries and cries and cries and the familiar hands keep trying to touch him but the familiar hands are bad, as bad as the machine, as bad as him, and he cries and cries and cries.
.-~*~-.
Frontotemporal dementia.
A diagnosis he had almost come to terms with once before. A diagnosis he almost doesn’t trust.
But deep down, he knows it’s true. And his dad knows. He knows it even though he doesn’t want to believe it, doesn’t want it to be true.
It only gets worse from here.
.-~*~-.
Stiles’ thoughts only become more disjointed going forward. The most they can do is be there to support him and keep him safe from himself.
Scott steps in when Stiles tries to sleep around. Stiles doesn’t get it. Doesn’t understand why Scott is keeping him from having a good fuck.
But it’s because Stiles doesn’t know he mentally regressed back to a child while in the middle of a hookup and it left him catatonic for days following with no one knowing what caused it until it burst out of him in a violent meltdown.
They try to ween him off of the cigarettes, but his body is too addicted, and making him quit cold turkey will do more damage than letting him continue.
They don’t say it, but it’s not like the smoking can make him die any faster than the frontotemporal dementia will.
They push through Stiles apathetic spurts and cling onto the good days where his smile is back, present and not the innocent gaze of the child he thinks he is, and he’s rambling excitedly. And though it hurts when the rambling becomes nonsensical, his words mashing together into something incomprehensible, only understood to him himself, at least he’s happy.
The most they can do is let Stiles be happy.
.-~*~-.
They find him in the bath often.
Sometimes he’s actually taking a bath, bubbles and duckies filling it to the brim.
Sometimes the bath is full or overflowing, with Stiles sitting there fully clothed and shivering or skin raw to hot water soaking into his clothes and burning his skin.
And sometimes it’s empty, and he sits there, naked and playing with the duckies like there’s water in it.
They don’t know which one is worse. They don’t think that any of them are better. Because they all mean that Stiles isn’t really there with them.
.-~*~-.
His energy begins to dwindle.
They’ve had to start spoon feeding him at some meals because Stiles doesn’t have it in him to feed himself. (And his hands, they shake too much to hold the utensils and when he eats with his fingers, he just starts to play with his food.)
They try to keep as much routine in his life as possible, pulling Stiles out of bed to at least move him to the kitchen to eat, to the couch to sit, to the front yard to bask in the sun on the grass. But sometimes it’s that. Pulling Stiles to do it. Sometimes even carrying him.
They try to occupy his mind, keep it as sharp as it can be. Documentaries that can almost keep his attention. Puzzles and video games if his coordination allows it. Music that brings him back to connected memories. But there’s only so much they can do.
They try to make sure Stiles does the most he can himself without their help. He deserves autonomy and independence.
But it gets harder and harder to get Stiles out from his mind.
.-~*~-.
There’s a boy and he’s in the hospital.
He remembers being in the hospital before.
He’s been in the hospital before a lot of times.
When his mom was in the hospital, it was an unhappy time.
The boy would never tell anyone, but it was scary. It was one of the scariest things he’s ever faced.
And the boy has faced lots of scary things! Things that people would never believe.
Lots of people come see the boy in the hospital.
His mom who isn’t really his mom but is his mom in his heart comes a lot. She smiles but it’s wrong because she’s sad and smiles shouldn’t be sad.
His best friend with the crooked smile and floofy curls comes and he looks different and all the same. He smiles sad too and he’s not supposed to be sad. So the boy tries to make him not sad! But even when his best friend laughs, it’s wrong too because it’s sad and laughs aren’t supposed to be sad.
He doesn’t know why everyone is so sad. He doesn’t want them to be sad.
He thinks it should make him sad, but it doesn’t. He doesn’t know what he feels most days these days. He thinks maybe he should be feeling more than he does but he doesn’t. He just doesn’t.
There’s the prettiest girl in the whole wide world that Stiles knows is the prettiest, smartest girl in the whole wide world. She’s been the prettiest, smartest girl for a long, long time. Stiles may not remember much about her, but he knows that he’s in love with her. He doesn’t know if she loves him too, but he knows that it doesn’t matter if she does because he’d love her anyways.
There’s the new ones. They’re not new but they’re not old. He thinks he should know them better but he doesn’t. His best friend seems to know them so they’re probably his friends too because the boy knows his best friend wouldn’t replace him, especially with these new ones who aren’t nearly as cool or awesome or… or….
His dad comes the most. He loves his dad. His dad is the best. His dad is sad too, though. Everyone is so sad. He’s sick of it! He’s sick of people being sad! He’s sick of making people sad! He’s sick of sad.
But he can’t do anything about the sad because it isn’t him that’s making him sad.
It’s the thing that’s killing him.
.-~*~-.
It’s a good day when they come in.
But there’s something in them that just knows.
His dad, his mom who isn’t his mom, his best friend, the prettiest smartest girl, and the rest of the pack he doesn’t know is his second family are all there.
And he’s there. He’s there and he’s completely himself.
He was the one with the dementia, but they had forgotten what he was like when he was unabashedly, unforgottenly him.
He jokes. He rambles. He’s kind and loyal and passionate.
“I love you all so much,” he says, the grin still on his face, so wide that it’s starting to hurt his cheeks. “Don’t miss me too much, alright? Stop being sad. I hate when you’re sad.” He doesn’t realize he’s crying until the tears slip down his cheek and onto his lips that are split in a smile. “Don’t be sad. Be happy. Because we got to do so much awesome stuff and my life… my life was awesome too. And it was awesome because you were in it. I don’t know who I’d be without you. Probably not as awesome. So… don't be sad it's over be happy it happened.” He snaps fingers into a finger gun. “Dr. Seuss.” He chuckles. “It’s funny that I remember that and not the other stuff. The important stuff. The stuff I’m supposed to remember.”
And they laugh, not because it was funny, but because there’s relief in the despair. They laugh until they cry and the boy hates seeing the people he loves cry.
And they’ll keep crying when he’s gone.
And they’ll keep being sad when he’s gone.
But they’ll also keep being awesome. Just for him. Because of him.
Because he made them awesome and they made him awesome and they’ll keep being awesome forever.
Or, at least, that’s what he hopes will happen.
The boy doesn’t know.
The boy goes away before he can find out.
He’s not in pain when he goes away. They won’t know that, but he isn’t.
And he’s not sad when he goes away.
No.
He goes away happy knowing he’s loved and his life was awesome and they’ll keep being awesome after he’s gone.