Work Text:
Stiles wasn't okay.
He was aware of many things, like the fact that Scott had dinner with Isaac and Chris Argent every Wednesday night. He knew that Lydia had recently begun wearing more makeup to cover the dark circles embedded in an apparently permanent state under her eyes. He knew about Aiden and Danny visiting the monument in Beacon Hills cemetery that lay just beyond the Oak tree in the corner of the patch of grass. He knew that his father had forgotten for the first time in nine years to buy flowers for his mother on her birthday. He knew Derek still ran the length of Beacon Hills every night, just in case. Stiles knew all of these things.
And he knew he wasn't okay.
It was a seemingly insignificant realization that came about when he turned down a night out with Scott without thinking, feigning a biology project before he actually knew what his mouth was doing. Scott had accepted it nonetheless, saying he needed to catch up on some reading for English.
But Stiles stayed up all night thinking about it.
He used to jump at any opportunity to hang out with Scott, whether it was egging the coach's car or catching a new action movie at the theater or throwing around a ball on the lacrosse field at midnight. But it wasn't until tonight that he realized just how reclusive he'd become.
He recalled turning down a study date with Malia and rejecting Lydia’s request for him to help her find a book for her Chemistry essay. He'd even said no to a weekend fishing trip with his dad with the excuse of a mountain of math homework.
He didn't know what was wrong with him.
Why didn't he want to be around these people, the people he loved and cherished and feared for every day? He was in a constant state of panic, waiting for a call saying someone was dead, someone wasn't coming home. And yet, here he was, huddled in his room with the curtains drawn and his bedroom door shut.
He didn't understand.
Perhaps it was his mother dying. Was that really it? Stiles remembered the days after his mom passed, how he'd clung to his father like a lifeline as he was thrown and tossed about in a sea of pain and confusion and blame and why couldn't you cave her. He'd grasped at any opportunity to hang out in his dad's office at the station or ride around in the passenger side of his patrol car. He'd stayed at Scott's house every weekend once they'd become friends, finding any and every excuse to make their parents agree, because how were they supposed to finish the Lego Star Wars special edition R2-D2 model before the sheriff got here and you can't just watch one Lord of the Rings at and time, dad, just call Ms. McCall.
Stiles had craved the time and attention of those around him and now, now he was just empty. Hollow.
Broken.
And he didn't understand.