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Stiles has never really liked Isaac much.
It's not a personal thing, really; he's melded himself nicely into Scott's life without taking up all of his time, so Stiles always had some bro-time with Scott sans soulmates. Stiles' problem with Isaac isn't even that big either. They're pack; they'd die for each other in an instant. They just don't particularly like each other. Yeah, that doesn't make sense even to him, but it's the way it is. His problem with Isaac... He doesn't even know. There really isn't one. They just don't talk much. And Isaac is kind of a sassy little shit. So when he really thinks about it, what's going on kind of... makes sense. In a way.
See, it's usually Scott or Derek coming through his window at night. Occassionally, it'll be Erica if there's some kind of emergency. It's never Boyd or Isaac or Lydia or Jackson; if they come over at all (and it's a big if), they use the front door.
Suffice to say that it's a huge surprise to see Isaac tapping on his window one night, when he's avoiding sleep.
"It's open," he says quietly. He knows Isaac will hear him.
The boy opens his window and slides into the room silently. His curls are tousled and tangled on one side, and he isn't wearing a shirt, so he must have been sleeping. "Doesn't Derek say anything about keeping that closed?"
"Nah. A window lock won't do jack shit against anyone I actually have to be afraid of." Stiles spins in his chair to face Isaac, noting the time. 1:28. "So what's going on?"
Isaac scratches the back of his head sheepishly. "I, uh... Scott's out of town and I figured you'd be awake..."
Ah. I see. "It's cool. Sleep or Netflix? Cuddles optional either way."
It's a pack thing, he's noticed. They're all pretty tactile, even the humans. There's a lot of casual touching on a regular basis, and cuddling is the go-to when someone is upset.
"Can we... not sleep?"
Stiles shrugs. "Okay, Netflix then."
Isaac cocks his head. The curls that aren't mashed by sleep bounce comically and Stiles has to fight the urge to laugh. "You aren't gonna... I don't know, ask me?"
"Why should I?" Stiles grabs his laptop and pulls up Netflix. "Nightmares, right? I know you well enough to know that you don't really want to talk about it."
"It's just... different. Derek and Scott usually ask questions." The boy sits down gingerly, as though he's expecting Stiles to kick him out.
"Derek and Scott don't know what it's like to wake up screaming at one AM, or they wouldn't," Stiles says, slightly bitter. He knows what Derek and Scott do, because they do it to him. Usually, though, he just ignores them and goes on with whatever he's doing that night. "Have you ever seen Sherlock, pup?"
~oOo~
By the end of the month, it's a regular thing: Isaac will be in Stiles' room at some point in the middle of the night at least twice a week. He never skips out on the cuddling after the second visit. Most of the time, Stiles is awake when he gets there and they'll either try to sleep or educate Isaac in the art of finding good television. They've finished Sherlock ("Are you fucking serious? It doesn't come back for how long?" "I know." ) and are watching Arrow when Isaac asks the question.
"What did you mean, that time?"
Stiles pauses the episode and raises an eyebrow at him. "You're gonna have to be a little more specific, pup."
Isaac smirks and throws an M&M at him. Then he sobers. "When you said that Derek and Scott don't know what it's like to wake up from a nightmare."
Oh. That. "I have them too."
"About... the Nogistune?"
Even the word is enough to make his breath quicken. It's enough to have him questioning whether he is alone in his own body. It's enough to make Stiles wish that Derek were here as a security blanket. Isaac hears the steady thump, thump, thump in his chest speed up, becoming a rapid thumpthumpthump reminiscent of a panic attack, and backs off. "Hey, it's cool. You don't have to tell me."
It's not actually a panic attack, though, so he manages to come down relatively easily. "Let's just..."
"Yeah."
Stiles presses play, infinitely glad to be sucked back into Oliver Queen's angst and avoid his own. They don't talk much, aside from the occasional comment on the fight scenes or Olicity's obliviousness, but that's normal. Contrary to popular belief, Stiles is capable of respecting boundaries and luckily Isaac is willing to return the favor. They just don't talk about it. They both know they're fucked up, each of them is aware of the other's awareness. They just don't talk about it. They drown their sorrows in the mutual unsolved sexual tension that accompanies fictional characters they both adore.
Isaac knocks out around their third episode of the night, about two AM, but sleep doesn't find Stiles for a long time.
~oOo~
Their boyfriends notice that they've been spending time together; how could they not? They're both fucking werewolves (pun totally intended ). They can smell Stiles and Isaac's intermingled scents. But it doesn't cause any of the problems Stiles expects it to. In fact, when Derek asks about it, it's almost too easy.
"So what have you two been watching?"
If it was in any other tone of voice-- any other --Stiles would have panicked; he's not doing anything wrong, he knows, but he's lost enough, fucked up enough, and he can't afford to lose or fuck up what he and Derek have. But it's just a question. It's a question of curiosity, not interrogation. Derek honestly just wants to know what he and Isaac are watching.
He knows Derek can hear the spike of fear in his heartbeat, but he fakes nonchalance anyway and shrugs. "We're on season three of Arrow right now. I've already introduced him to the wonders of Sherlock."
Amusement sparkles in Derek's eyes, almost concealing his concern at Stiles' fear. "How'd he take the hiatus?"
"There's a new dent in my wall," Stiles responds wryly. It's true, he had to explain it to Dad and that had been an interesting conversation.
Why is he asking now? he wonders despite himself. There were so many other opportunities. He should ask the question, he knows, but he's not sure how Derek will answer and duh, that's the point of asking the question, but maybe he shouldn't ask it? He might not want to know. Stiles has always been good at keeping things to himself, at covering important information up with mindless chatter. They've always been good at keeping things to Themself.
If you have me, you don't share me. If you share me, you don't have me. What am I?
The words slide through Stiles' mind, viscous and slimy, pouring over every thought, every flicker of coherence, dampening every other part of his brain suffocating him until he's fighting every breath, darkening his vision and his mind until nothing but blackness and pain and words remain.
Everyone has it, but no one can lose it. If you have me, you don't share me. If you share me, you don't have me. What is it? What am I? Who am I? Who are you? Who are We? We are Us. Secrets. Shadows. Void. Us.
"--iles? Stiles, sweetheart, come back to me." It's Derek's voice. Quiet. Coaxing. Pulling Them back to him back to Derek back to the world. "I've got you, Stiles. Take as long as you need, but come back to me."
Secrets. Shadows. Void. We are Us. No, We are me. I am me. I am me.
"We're he-- I'm here," Stiles corrects himself. "I'm here."
Derek looks relieved, but Stiles is trying to convince himself more than he's trying to convince his soulmate. Derek has faith in him. Stiles is just afraid of Themself. I am me. I am Us. No, I am me. I am me.
"I'm sorry," he murmurs. Derek has his arms around him and from this position, he can hear Derek's heartbeat too; it's faster than it should be, quickened by anxiety. Anxiety that They-- that Stiles caused. "I'm sorry."
He knows what comes next, and Derek doesn't disappoint, with his well-meant but impractical "Not your fault, it's okay. It's okay."
It's very much not okay. Stiles stressed himself out over fucking things up with Derek only to induce a panic attack and fuck things up with Derek. He can't even freak out correctly. What's wrong with me? No, I know what's wrong with me. Everything about Us is wrong with me.
And fuck if that made any sense or even helped in any way, because knowing the problem rarely means knowing a solution in Stiles' world.
"Still with me?" Stiles nods, brought back to attention by Derek's voice. The man smiles. "Good. Now, you wanna tell me what triggered you or what you have planned for Isaac next?"
Derek is giving him a choice. There's no one in the loft right now, and no big bad to worry about for the moment. They have all the time in the world. Stiles almost wishes for a candle so that he could have something to focus on, but he realizes what a terrible idea that would be. An open, orange flame in the same room as the man whose family burned and the boy whose orange eyes flared as he ravaged innocents.
Instead he focuses on the table. The grain in the wood. The tiny scar in it from where Erica wolfed out over something stupid Scott said. The ring in the corner from the one time Isaac forgot to use a coaster and left a soda there for an hour. Derek is still waiting for an answer.
"I was confused," Stiles admits after an eternity of silence. Derek waits patiently for him to continue and when he finally does, it's like a dam breaks: it's all rambling and run-on sentences. "I didn't really expect you to ask about Isaac-- I mean I did, and it's great that you did and I expected you to ask about it at some point just not like right that second and I didn't know why you brought it up and I wanted to ask why but I didn't know how you would respond so I thought I would just keep it to myself and bring it up later but that seemed like a secret ya know? And then We got started thinking and then just... I just..."
Stiles isn't aware that he's crying until Derek is thumbing the tears away. Isn't aware that he needs to breathe until Derek is shushing him softly. Isn't able to breathe until Derek does it for him, slotting their lips together tenderly and exhaling into Stiles' mouth. For a moment, it's just them. Just two people screwed over by the world, breathing each other's air. Then it's over.
"It's okay," Derek whispers, rubbing soothing circles into Stiles' back once he's calmed down. "It's okay, sweetheart. You can't hurt anyone. No one's going to hurt you. I'm here."
Stiles is still sobbing, ruining Derek's shirt with saltwater stains and snot, but he doesn't seem to mind in the slightest, just keeps murmuring to Stiles. "You know why I got this table? It's exactly the color of your eyes. It's brown, but it's the most gorgeous shade of brown I've ever seen. Like chocolate gold. And Lydia pitched such a fit when I was so picky about wood color. She wanted me to get this weird fancy thing that just didn't work, and it was such a rancid color. You know when dead leaves get wet and smashed up after a storm? God it was nasty looking. It took so long to find this one--"
Derek keeps murmuring under his breath until Stiles cries himself out entirely. Distantly, Stiles hears the door unlock and someone-- Isaac, no doubt --enter the loft quietly. Derek doesn't even stop then, keeping up the Stiles-style rambling: enough to be white noise. Stiles doesn't know where Isaac is, but he's not coherent enough to care. He's barely recovering enough to breathe for himself. Barely okay enough to stop crying for now.
But stop crying he does. And when he does, Derek kisses him gently; it's a gesture full of love and acceptance and comfort, and it serves its purpose. Inadequacy and darkness threatens to take over, but he beats it back. Maybe Derek loves him too much, and maybe Stiles doesn't deserve him, but right now he's happy to be selfish.
When Isaac shows up that night they don't talk about it. Maybe they should. Maybe not talking about it is a little unhealthy. But for now, it works.